The stands around the Great Lake were packed, shivering students huddling together under the pale winter sun. What was supposed to be an exciting second task quickly became little more than watching the black, frozen surface of the water.
"They call this a tournament?" Seamus Finnegan muttered, his breath fogging in the air. "We're staring at a lake."
Dean Thomas chuckled. "Maybe the fish'll come out and wave at us."
A ripple of laughter spread through the younger years, but the older ones weren't amused. Many had wrapped their arms tight, warming charms fizzing faintly on their sleeves. Some of the seventh years moved up and down the benches, demonstrating to second and third years how to cast the basic charm. "No point freezing to death waiting for champions you can't even see," one of the Hufflepuffs grumbled.
Fred and George Weasley, however, looked delighted. They prowled through the crowd with parchment and quills in hand, collecting bets with sly grins.
"Two galleons on Krum, anyone?" Fred shouted. "Man swims like a shark. Literally!"
"Half a sickle on Fleur," George added, his voice carrying. "Don't miss your chance!"
"Oi, shut it, you two," Angelina Johnson hissed, though she looked half-amused. "This isn't a Quidditch match."
Fred winked. "Course it is, Angie. The prize is just bigger than the Cup."
The chatter hushed as the lake surface suddenly rippled. A splash, then a figure emerged—Fleur Delacour, gasping for breath, her silvery hair plastered to her face. But she was alone. No hostage in her arms.
Gasps rang through the stands. Fleur staggered to the platform, shivering violently. A group of Beauxbatons girls rushed forward, casting drying charms and wrapping her in a thick blanket. Her face was pale, her lips trembling.
"They attacked me," she murmured between sobs, her voice breaking. "Grindylows. So many… I couldn't…" She shook her head in despair. "My sister… my Gabrielle…"
The crowd fell silent, many whispering in sympathy, though others looked disappointed.
Harry sat motionless in the stands, his heart hammering. Gabrielle? They put Fleur's little sister under the lake? What sort of madness is this?
His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. Electricity crackled faintly across his fingertips, the Dark Side whispering in his ears: Unleash it. Show them what happens when they gamble with innocent lives.
He looked up at the platform where the ministry officials lounged beside the headmasters, casually chatting as though nothing mattered. Their laughter and relaxed posture made Harry's anger boil hotter.
"How can they sit there?" he muttered under his breath. "As if children aren't drowning below them…"
Neville glanced nervously at him. "Harry? You… you alright, mate?"
Harry stood abruptly, his cloak swirling. "No, Neville. I'm not." His voice was sharp, almost dangerous.
"Where are you going?" Neville asked quickly, grabbing at his sleeve.
"Bathroom," Harry lied curtly. "Better than wasting time staring at a frozen lake."
He strode down the steps of the stand, his movements tense. Professor McGonagall intercepted him near the edge, her tartan robes fluttering in the icy breeze.
"Mr. Potter," she said firmly, arching an eyebrow. "Where do you think you're going?"
Harry met her gaze coolly. "Professor, I'm not mad enough to waste hours watching ripples on water. If the Ministry wanted a spectacle, they should have thought about the audience. I'll come back when there's something worth seeing."
His words cut sharper than he intended, but he didn't stop. McGonagall's stern expression flickered—part disapproval, part something else, perhaps understanding. But she didn't press further.
"Very well, Mr. Potter," she said tightly. "But do not wander too far."
Harry gave her a curt nod and walked away, every step echoing with the rage still simmering in his veins.
The Room of Requirement shimmered to life as Harry pushed open the door, its walls reshaping into a training hall filled with practice dummies, wide stone floors, and faintly glowing runes that absorbed stray blasts of magic. Inside, he found Dobby and Winky.
The little elf was waving her fingers awkwardly, trying to summon a ball of light, but all she managed was a few sparks. Her big eyes were damp with frustration.
"You can do it, Winky," Dobby encouraged softly, his ears twitching with determination. "Magic is in you. Feel it, not fight it."
Harry leaned against the doorway for a moment, watching with a faint smile. Dobby had grown so much. Not just as a fighter, but as a teacher. When the elves noticed him, Dobby's face split into a wide grin.
"Master Haraldin, sir!" Dobby squeaked happily. "You are coming to train, yes?"
Harry nodded, his expression serious. "Yes. I need to spar. If I don't burn through the Force regularly, it feels like it might overwhelm me."
Winky looked up nervously. "But… fighting so hard, Master Harry… doesn't it make you tired?"
Harry shook his head. "Not tired, Winky. Peaceful. That's the only way to keep balance."
The two faced each other in the center of the room, robes whipping in the conjured wind as the magic and Force stirred around them.
"You ready, Dobby?" Harry asked, a dangerous spark already dancing across his fingertips.
Dobby bared his teeth in a grin. "Always, Master."
With a sudden crackle, blue Force lightning erupted from Dobby's hands, lancing toward Harry. Harry raised his palm and deflected it with a shimmering Force shield. The room sizzled with energy as the clash echoed off the walls.
Harry countered with a sharp push of telekinetic Force, sending several training dummies flying toward Dobby. The elf blurred aside, faster than human eyes could follow, and hurled them back with a snap of his magic.
Illusions followed—Harry conjured phantom doubles of himself, darting left and right. Dobby snarled, his eyes glowing faintly, and unleashed another bolt of lightning. This time, the air grew darker. His magic struck true, ripping through an illusion and forcing Harry to twist aside.
"Good, Dobby!" Harry shouted. "But not good enough."
The clash grew fiercer. Harry wove wandless spells seamlessly with the Force—barriers of flame, shields of stone, and chains of pure energy snapping across the floor. Dobby responded with a storm of blue lightning, his small frame moving like a blur of fury and discipline.
But then it happened.
Harry felt the storm inside him crest. Rage, focus, and power mingled. His fingertips tingled—not with blue sparks, but with a deep, unnatural black. Lightning hissed out of his palms, darker than night, tearing across the floor.
The impact shook the entire Room of Requirement. Dobby's blue lightning met Harry's black in a violent collision, filling the hall with blinding flashes and deafening cracks.
For a moment, neither gave ground. Then Harry pushed harder, his voice low and commanding:
"Yield, Dobby."
The elf skidded back, his power breaking. The black lightning swallowed the blue, shattering against the far wall in a thunderclap.
The room smelled of smoke and ozone. Both Harry and Dobby were panting, their clothes singed, hair standing on end. Winky squealed from the sidelines, wringing her hands in terror.
Harry dropped to his knees, chest heaving. Yet instead of exhaustion, a strange calm washed over him. The storm inside had been emptied, leaving only peace.
Dobby stumbled forward, his little body trembling. "Master Haraldin… sir… that was… that was terrifying."
Harry gave a weak smile, extending a hand to help him up. "And that's why we train. If I don't control it, it'll control me."
Dobby hesitated, then nodded. "But Master is the strongest. Stronger than anyone."
Harry didn't reply. He only looked at the fading traces of black lightning etched across the stone floor, and he wondered how much longer he could walk the fine line between mastery and destruction.
The air shimmered, and the ancient Holocron of Salazar Slytherin floated into view, its emerald light casting eerie shadows. The spectral figure of the founder appeared, eyes sharp, lips curved in a knowing smile.
"So," Salazar drawled, his voice echoing across the chamber, "the boy has finally touched the true depth of the Dark Side."
Harry clenched his fists. "It felt… unstoppable."
"It is unstoppable," Salazar said. "That lightning is not mere Force energy—it is destruction incarnate. Sith legends called it the storm of death. Few have ever wielded it, and fewer still survived long enough to master it."
Dobby shuddered. "It almost killed Dobby."
Salazar smirked. "And yet you live. Consider yourself fortunate. That boy—" he pointed at Harry "—has stepped onto the path of greatness."
Harry looked up, voice firm. "Greatness… or damnation?"
Salazar's image flickered, but his smile never faded. "The difference, child, lies in control. You may fear what you have done, but others will fear you. And fear, Harry… is the first step toward power."
Harry pushed open the massive doors of the Great Hall, the sound of laughter and chatter spilling out to greet him. The place was packed—students from all three schools had returned after the completion of the second task, buzzing with excitement and gossip. Banners of the competing schools hung proudly from the enchanted ceiling, and the tables groaned with food.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry spotted Hermione seated beside Neville. He walked over, ignoring the sideways glances and whispers that still followed him everywhere. Hermione's arms were crossed tightly, her lips pursed in a thin line.
"Where were you?" Hermione demanded the moment Harry slid onto the bench beside her.
Harry reached for a goblet of pumpkin juice, his tone casual. "I left. It was boring watching a lake for over an hour."
Hermione's eyes flashed. "Boring? Harry, it was the Triwizard Tournament! People nearly died!"
Harry shrugged, taking a sip. "People nearly die every year at this school. It's nothing new."
Neville chuckled nervously, trying to ease the tension. "He's not wrong, Hermione." He leaned closer to Harry, excitement radiating from his face. "You should've stayed, though. Cedric came up first with his hostage—it was Cho. Everyone cheered so loudly you could've sworn Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup."
Harry quirked a brow. "And the others?"
Neville grinned, clearly enjoying the retelling. "Krum was second. He had Hermione, of course." Neville shot her a knowing look, which made Hermione blush slightly. "And Fleur… you already know what happened to her."
Hermione softened at that, murmuring, "It wasn't her fault. Grindylows are vicious in groups."
Neville nodded quickly, then went back to the results. "The judges gave out the scores right after. Cedric got forty points—everyone thought he deserved it. Krum got thirty-eight, though Karkaroff gave him full marks even though he nearly drowned you, Hermione."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Typical of him."
Neville smirked. "And Fleur only got twenty. Karkaroff didn't even try to hide his bias—he gave Cedric and Fleur terrible points while giving Krum a perfect ten. I swear the man doesn't even pretend anymore."
Harry snorted. "That's politics for you."
Neville suddenly pulled a pouch from his robes, shaking it with delight. "Oh, and guess what? I won ten Galleons! Bet with Fred and George that Cedric would win the task. They're sore losers, but they paid up."
Harry couldn't help but smile at Neville's wide grin. "Well done, Nev. Don't let the twins trick you into betting it all away on some ridiculous scheme."
Neville chuckled, pocketing his winnings. "I won't. Gran would hex me into next year if she found out I gambled it away."
Hermione huffed, clearly still upset with Harry. "You should've been there, Harry. Even if you thought it was boring, you could've supported your friends. You left without even telling us."
Harry turned to her, his expression calm but unreadable. "Hermione, you were underwater as Krum's hostage. Neville was watching with the rest. Who exactly was I supposed to support?"
That silenced her for a moment. Neville shifted awkwardly, sensing the tension rising again.
Harry leaned back, scanning the buzzing hall. Students wore cloaks, scarves, and even enchanted t-shirts bearing the faces of their favorite champions. Hufflepuff pride blazed with Cedric's face on nearly every surface, while Ravenclaws and even some Gryffindors showed Fleur or Krum. Fred and George were walking between tables, loudly calling for bets on who would win the final task, their pockets jingling with coins.
Harry smirked to himself. At least someone's making a profit out of all this chaos.
Author's Note:
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Beuwulf