The Black Lake
February, 4th Year, 2nd Task Triwizard Tournament
The lake never froze, no matter how bitter the winter grew.
Hermione knew this—had read it in Magical Properties of Natural Environments her second year—but it still unsettled her. The rest of the world was white and brittle, locked in the hush of mid-February snow, but the Black Lake remained dark and pulsing. A mirror with no reflection. A surface that never stills.
Viktor stood at the edge of the stone path near the water, his boots damp, cloak swirling slightly in the breeze coming off the lake. He was muttering to himself in Bulgarian, his brows drawn as he glanced down at the page of notes she’d helped him translate just three days ago.
He didn’t look at her. Not really.
“I think the bubble-head charm vill hold,” he said finally, his voice distant, distracted. “But if the grindylows are territorial…”
She nodded. “The pressure at depth could make the charm unstable. Have you tested a grounding rune in tandem?”
“Da,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.
Hermione shifted her weight. The wind picked up, sharp and wet with lake spray. She pulled her scarf higher.
“Ron and Harry have been trying to work out the clues too,” she offered, a little too lightly. “They’ve been surprisingly helpful.”
“They’re not champions,” Viktor replied absently, eyes never leaving his page.
The words weren’t unkind. Factual. Empty.
Something in her chest twisted—not quite anger, not quite sadness. A quiet folding inward, like parchment pressed too hard. She looked away, toward the lake.
It rippled gently under the weight of sky, secrets churning below the surface and suddenly she felt very small.
Very alone.
They stood in silence for a while longer. Then Viktor turned and walked back toward the castle without waiting for her.
Hermione stayed.
She watched the lake shimmer with dark, endless motion, and wondered—
Was she seeing it clearly for the first time? Or just no longer pretending it was something else?
The corridors were quieter in winter.
The air held a weight to it—heavy with cold, with tension, with the slow drag of term pressing down around everyone’s shoulders. Snow clung to the edges of the castle’s high windows, and the occasional hiss of melting ice echoed faintly down the long stone halls.
Hermione walked briskly, Arithmancy binder hugged to her chest, trying not to think about Viktor’s silence or the way the lake had rippled at her back that morning like it knew something she didn’t.
She turned the corner near the Arithmancy wing—and almost didn’t notice them until it was too late.
Draco. Pansy. Blaise.
Leaning against the wall, talking in the low, drawling tones of people who wanted to be overheard.
“She’s always trailing after Krum like a good little trophy,” Pansy said, her voice syrupy-sweet and laced with venom.
Hermione didn’t break stride, but she heard the next line—calm, clinical, and unmistakably Draco:
“He does like clever girls. Makes him look smarter than he is.”
He didn’t look at her – didn’t need to.
The words slid past her like ice—sharp, polished, and calculated to hit a target while pretending it wasn’t aiming at all. Hermione kept walking. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Her footsteps never stuttered. But her knuckles whitened around the edge of her binder, and her heart—already sore—thudded once, hard.
By the time Hermione saw Draco again, the sun had already begun to dip beyond the towers.
He stood alone outside the library, leaning against the cold stone archway like he owned the air around him. A soft wind tugged at the hem of his robes, and his hair—usually immaculate—was tousled, like he’d run his hand through it more than once.
He didn’t see her at first, but she didn’t give him the chance to pretend otherwise. She walked straight toward him, her boots echoing on the flagstones. Her jaw was set. Her scarf hung loosely around her neck, forgotten in her grip. She didn’t stop until she was standing close enough that he had to acknowledge her.
He looked up and waited.
Hermione’s voice was low. Controlled.
“I thought you were done pretending you were better than everyone else.”
Draco blinked once, slowly. His expression didn’t change.
But something in his posture shifted—his shoulders straightened, not defensively, but as if bracing against a gust of wind.
His reply was quiet. Flat.
“I never stopped. I just got better at hiding it.”
The words landed like stone. Not cruel. Not kind. Just true, the way only truth can sting.
Hermione’s breath caught—not because she was surprised, but because some part of her had hoped… what , exactly?
That he wouldn’t mean it? That he’d take it back?
She opened her mouth. Then closed it again. The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable.
Then—
“Maybe you should read something other than what I annotate next time.”
It wasn’t venomous, but it cut all the same.
She turned and walked away before he could answer.
He didn’t follow but he couldn’t look away either.
The stands overlooking the Black Lake were loud and chaotic, but Draco moved through the crowd with practiced ease—like he wasn’t really part of it.
He ignored the Slytherin section, sidestepped Crabbe and Goyle without a word, and climbed two rows above the Gryffindors, just far enough to keep his choice justifiable if anyone asked. He dropped onto the bench, adjusted his gloves, and scanned the crowd—first out of habit, then more deliberately.
No Granger.
His brow furrowed. She was always there —in every academic competition, every duel, every school event worth noting. Especially now, when her beloved champion boyfriend was about to plunge headfirst into a lake full of Merlin-knew-what.
He expected her to be at the front—clipboard in hand, jaw tight with nerves, whispering strategy to Potter like she couldn’t help herself.
But she wasn’t.
Where is she?
“Looking for someone?”
Draco didn’t have to turn to recognize the voice.
Pansy slid into the seat beside him without waiting for an invitation, her green scarf looped perfectly at her throat, hair immaculately curled despite the wind. She tilted her head toward him with a too-knowing smile.
“Don’t tell me you came all the way up here to sit with the lions.”
He didn’t answer. Just returned his gaze to the lake.
Pansy followed his line of sight.
“She’s not here, you know. Must be polishing Krum’s wand or whatever it is they do.”
Draco’s jaw clenched.
He didn’t respond.
Pansy smirked, satisfied. She bumped his shoulder once with hers—light, teasing, just enough to provoke—and then drifted away again, too bored to linger if she didn’t get the rise she wanted.
Draco exhaled slowly, the breath fogging in the cold.
Below, Bagman’s voice rang out, announcing the champions.
Krum stood at the edge of the water, wand in hand, face impassive. The other champions flanked him, all tense, all waiting.
The whistle blew.
They dove.
And still—no Hermione.
The task stretched on. Snow drifted lazily through the air. The lake remained undisturbed except for the occasional flicker of movement below the surface.
The crowd buzzed with theories and speculation, but Draco barely heard them.
His eyes were fixed on the water.
And then—
A splash. Cedric surfaced, dragging a girl behind him—Cho Chang, by the looks of her. The crowd roared. More splashes. More movement.
And finally—
Krum.
Wand clenched. Clothes torn. Dragging someone to the shore.
Not an object.
A person . Her. Hermione.
Draco just stared as Krum pulled her, half-conscious and shivering, from the water. She was wrapped immediately in a thick towel, her curls plastered flat, her mouth pale and trembling. She just sat there, letting Krum fuss over her.
And something in Draco’s chest twisted—not with jealousy. Not exactly.
He chose her. She was the thing worth diving for.
The crowd around him clapped, cheered, called her name.
Draco stayed still.
And for the first time since the courtyard, he didn’t know what he was looking at—only that he wasn’t finished looking .
The crowd began to thin as the champions were led away, towels draped over shoulders, cheers still echoing behind them. Students pushed back from the stands in pairs and clusters, trudging through packed snow toward the castle. Chatter rose around the task—who had retrieved who, what had been taken, how long each champion had taken underwater.
Hermione walked slower than the rest.
She was dry now, warmed by charms and blankets, but the chill from the lake hadn’t quite left her. The path along the edge of the lawn curved past a frozen hedge, quiet and undisturbed.
Up ahead, a tall figure stood waiting just off the path.
Professor Dumbledore leaned on his cane—not because he needed it, but as if it gave him an excuse to linger.
As Hermione passed, he fell into step beside her.
They didn’t speak at first.
The wind tugged gently at their cloaks, and the lake rippled behind them, reflecting pale afternoon light.
Dumbledore adjusted the brim of his hat.
“You handled yourself well today, Miss Granger.”
Hermione nodded once, eyes ahead.
He walked quietly for a moment longer, his pace unhurried.
“You will be a leader,” he said at last, his tone almost casual. “Not because you are loud—but because you listen.”
Hermione turned her head slightly, eyebrows raised.
“Even to people you don’t want to?”
Dumbledore smiled, not looking at her.
“Especially those.”
They reached the stone stairs leading up toward the main entrance hall. Dumbledore paused at the bottom step, smoothing one gloved hand over the silver cap of his cane.
“The world changes, Miss Granger. Not all at once. But in moments like these.”
Then he tipped his head and walked up the stairs, leaving a trail of melted snow in his wake.
Hermione watched him go.
Behind her, the lake lapped quietly at the shore.
By evening, the castle had warmed. The fireplaces were lit again, sending golden light flickering against the high ceilings of the Great Hall. Platters of roast and winter vegetables filled the tables, and enchanted lanterns floating just above their usual heights, casting a soft glow over the students’ faces.
The Gryffindor noticeboard had a new announcement pinned neatly to the center. The parchment was fresh, corners perfectly squared, ink still crisp.
New Elective Pilot — Now Available for Spring Term
Magical Culture & Perspective
A Muggle Studies Expansion Initiative
Hermione read it in the time it took for her pulse to skip.
She leaned closer, scanning the words again. Students could opt in. Coursework would include comparative magical theory, cultural rituals, and Muggle integration studies. It was real. No longer a theoretical argument or some idea she had to defend without precedent.
She smiled—just slightly—and turned toward the Great Hall with a new sense of purpose in her stride.
Dinner was already in full swing by the time she entered. Platters clinked, and conversation buzzed from every corner of the hall. Hermione made her way to the Gryffindor table, sliding into the seat beside Ginny and reaching automatically for the potatoes.
Across the room, laughter rose from the Slytherin table.
“Waste of a class,” someone said.
“Next we’ll be learning how to use toasters,” another added, setting off more snickers.
“It’s just for them anyway,” Pansy said, her voice a perfect mix of disdain and theatrical pity.
At the Ravenclaw table, someone rolled their eyes. A few fourth-years nearby exchanged exaggerated groans.
Ron, chewing on a chicken leg, muttered, “Ministry overreach. Probably full of propaganda.”
Hermione’s hand stilled over her fork. She looked up—but didn’t speak.
The air around the comment had already settled. The moment passed before she could even reach it. Anything she said now would sound like overcorrection, like defensiveness. She’d been here before—arguing into the void. So she didn’t argue.
Her gaze drifted across the room. Draco. He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t even speaking. His chin rested on his hand, elbow propped on the edge of the Slytherin table, eyes fixed somewhere ahead. He wasn’t part of the joke. But he wasn’t stopping it either. His silence wasn’t passive—it was watchful.
A few seats down, a cluster of third-years whispered over mashed potatoes.
“Granger’s still pushing that House Unity thing?”
“She’s mad if she thinks Slytherins will sign.”
“Didn’t Luna Lovegood already sign?”
“So it’s a club for weirdos, then.”
Hermione’s fingers tightened around the parchment, then turned back to her plate.
Later that night, in the quiet of the common room, she reopened the draft she’d been working on since the leaflet.
The parchment was half-filled with proposed language for a student-led letter of support: tone, rationale, suggested impact on inter-house education. She added one more line. Then scratched it out.
The fire crackled behind her, casting light across the worn rug.
She leaned back in her chair, fingers brushing the edge of the leaflet tucked into the back of her folder. She didn’t know exactly what she wanted to say yet, but she knew who she was thinking about when she tried.