Fleur Delacour stepped into the arena, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. The roar of the crowd was distant in her ears, her attention solely focused on the task ahead.
Sunlight poured into the rocky expanse, illuminating the jagged terrain and casting long shadows across the uneven ground. Her gaze, however, was locked onto the magnificent creature waiting for her at the center.
The Peruvian Vipertooth was smaller than all the other dragons in the tournament, but what it lacked in size, it made up for in sheer menace. Its scales gleamed a glossy bronze, and its slender frame was built for speed.
Fleur's breath hitched as she took in the beast's glaring yellow eyes, fixed on her with unblinking hostility. The dragon's long fangs glinted as it let out a low, guttural growl, smoke curling from its nostrils. Its wings twitched, claws digging into the earth as it crouched protectively over its clutch of eggs.
Fleur swallowed. This was not going to be easy.
Once she had been told about the breeds of dragons that would be involved in the task, she had studied them all, and it included the Vipertooth. It was the fastest of all dragons, known for its venomous bite and aggressive temperament. It's scales were as magically resistant as other breeds, but its speed and unpredictability made it incredibly dangerous. Fire was a certainty—Vipertooths were particularly enthusiastic about using it. A single moment of hesitation could cost her the task. It is a dragon, not a monster, she reminded herself. It is powerful, but it is not invincible.
Her plan had to be flawless. Direct confrontation would be foolish. No shield charm would last long against dragon fire, and most of the spells were unreliable against a creature as fast as this. The dragon was bound with what she believed were magic-infused chains, but they were long enough to give it enough mobility, and she believed it was sheer luck that the dragon had not pounced on her yet.
Or maybe it doesn't see me as enough of a threat to abandon its eggs, Fleur thought, keenly gazing at the eggs that included the golden one she was supposed to retrieve.
The best approach was subtlety, precision, and the magic that set her apart from her peers.
A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach. The crowd was already buzzing, their eyes glinting with anticipation. Ludo Bagman's voice, amplified by Sonorus, boomed across the stands, adding to the pressure.
"And there she is folks! The lovely Miss Delacour! Let's see how she handles this fiery little number!"
Fleur gritted her teeth when the dragon screeched. Bagman's commentary was not helping in the slightest. She took a steadying breath.
Magic-resistant scales do not matter if the mind is subdued.
She spread her arms, lifting her chin, and to the surprise of all, she began to sing.
The melody was soft at first, floating like a whisper on the wind, carrying the lilt of an old French lullaby. It was a song her mother used to sing to her as a child, one that wrapped her in warmth and safety. Now, it was a weapon.
The effect was immediate. The dragon's tense muscles quivered, its pupils dilating. Its growl softened, the aggressive stance faltering as the magic of her voice wove around it. Veela magic was not like the Imperius Curse—it did not control, but it coaxed. It did not command, but it soothed.
Fleur continued, her voice unwavering, pouring her will into every note. She stepped forward slowly, eyes never leaving the Vipertooth's. The crowd had quieted; even the commentator's voice had fallen silent. The song was not meant for them, yet it held them all captive. The enchantment of Veela magic was powerful, and its effects were undeniable. For a moment, even the world seemed to hush.
The dragon's head drooped slightly, a low rumble escaping its throat, not one of aggression, but confusion. Its claws loosened their grip on the earth. The tension in its wings eased, and it let out a breath, its head swaying slightly as though caught in a dream.
Now.
Fleur moved swiftly, her steps light as she approached the nest. The golden egg gleamed amidst the real ones. She reached out, fingers brushing the cool surface, all the while keeping a keen eye on the dragon above her as she sang. Carefully, she lifted the egg, cradling it to her chest, and slowly stepped back.
A sudden shift in the air warned her a second before it happened.
The Vipertooth's nostrils flared. Perhaps it had sensed the loss, perhaps it had shaken off enough of the spell to react, but Fleur barely had time to turn before a violent snort of flame erupted from the beast's mouth.
Instinct kicked in. With a flick of her wand, she conjured a shimmering shield, barely deflecting the fire in time. The heat was overwhelming, searing, and even through the protective magic, she felt its raw power. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she staggered back, her breath coming in sharp, quick gasps as her shield flickered to nothingness.
That had been too close. One second slower, and she would have been—
No. She did not allow the thought to form.
The dragon's wings flared, but its movements were sluggish, the last remnants of her song still clinging to its mind. It did not immediately pursue her. Fleur seized the moment, tightening her grip on the egg and sprinting toward the exit while keeping her eyes trained on the dragon. Her feet caught a jagged rock more than once and she stumbled as she sang, but she righted herself just fine. Keeping an eye on the dragon on her way out was more important right now.
The crowd was silent as she emerged from the dragon enclosure, the golden egg clutched in her arms. However, she did not miss the mutters that started—the sneers, and the whispers of dissatisfaction that permeated the audience in no time. Some faces in the stands were twisted in disapproval, the same people who had scoffed at her heritage before the tournament had even begun.
Fleur knew what was at play here. To them, she had cheated. To them, she was not a worthy competitor but a Veela who had used her magic unfairly.
Her jaw clenched. She had known they would react this way. She had been raised to expect such things. And yet, as her gaze swept the crowd, her mind returned to words spoken to her only hours before the task.
"And if by any chance, you feel that your heritage will come in handy, don't hesitate from using it. It is a part of you, and none of the dumbasses out there matter. Just keep that in mind and you'll be fine."
Harry Potter. The intriguing young man whom she'd detested since the Champion selection, without any solid reason other than her own pride. He had been the only one in this cold and decrepit place to show any faith in her, to treat her not as a veela but as a person, a fellow champion even. With his words and actions, he had conveyed the unshakable belief that she deserved to be here and that she had nothing to be disappointed about.
A slow smile curled at Fleur's lips. Yes. He was right.
She lifted her chin, her regal posture returning. With a deliberate glance at the crowd, she sneered, daring them to challenge her.
Let them whisper. Let them scorn. I have completed the task. I have brought the dragon low, and I have done so with the power that is mine by birthright. Their opinions do not matter.
With her head held high, Fleur Delacour strode out of the arena, her golden egg gleaming in her arms as the crowd behind her kept buzzing in disapproval.
As she approached the judges' table, the six figures seated before her examined her with varied expressions. The three heads of the competing schools—Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts, Olympe Maxime of Beauxbatons, and Igor Karkaroff of Durmstrang—sat in a row, their faces expectant. Alongside them were the three senior dragon handlers from the Romanian enclosure, rugged men who knew dragons better than anyone. Each held a small set of scoring paddles, and Fleur braced herself as the results came in.
Dumbledore was the first to raise his wand—10.
Fleur inclined her head slightly in gratitude.
Madame Maxime, her proud and towering headmistress, smiled warmly before lifting her own wand—10.
Fleur allowed herself a small smile. She had expected nothing less from Maxime, but it still pleased her to see her efforts acknowledged.
The first dragon handler, a grizzled man with a deep scar across his cheek, studied her for a moment before raising his wand with a 9.
The second handler followed suit—9.
The third handler, an old and stocky man with a thick mustache, surprised her with a smile as he lifted his wand to cast a solid 9.
"You handled the Vipertooth with remarkable finesse," he stated simply. "Most wouldn't have thought of that approach."
Fleur gave him a nod of appreciation. That left only one judge. She turned her gaze to Igor Karkaroff, who sneered before flipping up his wand.
4.
Fleur's eyes widened slightly and her nostrils flared, but she said nothing. She had expected as much. Karkaroff's behavior had been abominable from the start, and she doubted he would have given her a fair score no matter how well she performed.
The final tally placed her total at 51 out of 60. A strong score.
Krum's score was already displayed on the massive leaderboard suspended in the air—43. She had beaten him.
The thought sent a rush of satisfaction through her veins, but she suppressed any outward reaction. She would not gloat.
As soon as the scoring was complete, Madam Pomfrey was upon her, ushering her to the medical tent for a quick check-up. The mediwitch fussed over her, scanning her for burns, cuts, or any signs of injury. After a thorough inspection, she finally huffed.
"You're fine," Madam Pomfrey admitted, albeit begrudgingly. "No injuries. Unusual, but I won't complain."
"I was careful."
Madam Pomfrey sniffed. "Smart girl." She waved her off. "You're free to go."
Fleur gave her a graceful nod before slipping away toward the Champions' viewing area near the healing tent.
Viktor Krum was already seated there, his massive frame slouched forward as he examined the burn marks on his arms. His sleeves had been rolled up, revealing angry red welts and deep scratches that had barely begun to heal.
Fleur hesitated before sitting beside him. She had known Krum to be a formidable competitor, but seeing his injuries up close made her stomach tighten. She could have ended up the same way. If she had chosen a direct fight instead of subduing the dragon the way she had, she might have been covered in burns and claw marks, if not worse.
Her gaze flickered back to the arena, where handlers were carefully restraining the Vipertooth and preparing to transport it out of the enclosure. The creature was still sluggish from her song, but it would recover soon enough.
She watched as the creature was caged once again and taken away. Movement at the far end of the arena caught her attention. Her brows furrowed and suddenly, her breath hitched. She heard a sharp intake of breath from her left and knew Krum was seeing it as well.
The Ukrainian Ironbelly was being led into the arena, its sheer size enough to dwarf every dragon that had come before it. Fleur's stomach turned to ice. It was a monstrous creature, larger than any dragon she had seen, with shimmering silver scales and crimson eyes that glowed with raw menace. Its tail was thick and powerful, its claws sharp enough to rend steel.
And Cedric Diggory was about to face it.
Fleur's mind flickered back to the moment the champions had first been informed about dragons. Diggory had looked pale then, uneasy in a way that suggested he had not expected this at all. Now, watching him step into the arena, her suspicions solidified. He had been completely unprepared, and he looked ready to bolt.
For the next few minutes, the audience was subjected to a brutal display of carnage.
Diggory tried everything. He transfigured boulders into massive, snarling dogs, hoping they would serve as a distraction. The Ironbelly crushed them beneath its claws. He conjured birds to peck at its eyes; it snapped them up in its jaws like mere insects. He sent streams of firecrackers to confuse it, but the dragon did not waver.
It all happened within a minute, and then, the creature struck.
A single sweep of its tail sent Diggory flying, and it was only because of his sharp reflexes that he managed to conjure a shield that took the brunt of the impact. Still, a few of his ribs had cracked.
He barely managed to roll to his feet before a jet of fire engulfed the space he had been standing. His spells became desperate, his movements sluggish as he clutched at his ribs, casting a concentrated freezing charm to alleviate the pain. Blood streaked down his face from where he had been thrown, but he kept moving, trying—failing—to get past the beast.
The crowd, once raucous, had fallen silent as they watched him be tossed and turned in different directions, more bones breaking and more cuts appearing on his person. Even Bagman, whose commentary had been boisterous throughout, grew subdued.
And then, the worst happened.
Despite being chained, the dragons had enough room to move, and its size gave the Ironbelly a bigger advantage. The dragon lunged, its maw wide open and its jagged teeth gleaming with blood and bits belonging to its last meal.
Cedric's eyes widened in horror and he tried to leap aside, but he was too slow. The dragon's massive jaws snapped, and a scream tore through the arena as the audience recoiled in horror. The handlers were moving before the sound had even finished ringing through the stands, spells flying as they rushed to subdue the beast. It took six of them to restrain it, chains snapping into place as they forced its maw open, but the damage was done.
Cedric was unconscious when they lifted him from the dragon's maw. Blood soaked his robes, his left arm and leg—
Gone.
Fleur's breath hitched.
The entire arena was hushed, the sheer horror of what had just happened settling over the spectators like a thick fog. People were standing on their tiptoes, as if it would help them watch closer or hear what was going on down there.
For the first time, not only Fleur but the entire crowd felt the true gravity of the tournament—one that had been banned for centuries because of how dangerous it was.
It was not just a game. It was life and death.
Fleur exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around her own arm. She had walked away unscathed, but there was no guarantee it would happen again.
-Break-
The atmosphere in the arena was heavy and thick with tension. The crowd that had been roaring with excitement that morning was now eerily subdued. They had not expected to see such carnage, to see one of them come so close to death. Even when Harry Potter stepped into the arena, garbed in the infamous combat attire made of Basilisk scales that had become the talk of the entire school lately, they didn't respond with anything more than whispers and pointed fingers.
The dragon stood tall at the center of the enclosure, its black scales gleaming like onyx beneath the afternoon sun. Its golden eyes were narrowed into slits, its massive wings half-unfurled as if daring him to make a move. The spiked tail lashed the ground, carving deep gouges into the earth and sending dust swirling around it. Even restrained by thick enchanted chains, it radiated danger and promise for pain and death.
Harry didn't even flinch. Instead, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he regarded the creature.
He strode forward, his Basilisk-scale combat attire shimmering dark green in the sunlight, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. The suit fit him snugly, flexible but durable, its high collar guarding his neck. His black boots crunched against the rocky ground as he moved with steady confidence, his green eyes locked on his target.
Bagman's voice rang out, trying to inject energy into the silent stands.
"And here he is, ladies and gentlemen, the Boy-Who-Lived! Let's see how he handles the fiercest of them all—the Hungarian Horntail!"
The dragon let out a low, guttural growl, smoke curling from its nostrils. Its head shifted slightly, its sharp eyes tracking his movements. Crouched over its nest, it was watching him keenly, daring him to get closer.
Harry had no intention of giving it time to act first.
With a flick of his wand, he fired a Blasting Curse at a massive boulder near the dragon's nest. The explosion was precise—controlled—sending rock shards flying in all directions. The dragon screeched, sending a powerful stream of dragonfire toward Harry for his daring, but the distance was more than the fire could cover.
Before the smoke from the explosion could settle, Harry's wand was already moving.
Transfiguration was a skill he was very proficient in, and finesse was not something he lacked.
He focused, his magic latching onto the airborne chunks of stone. The bits of rock shifted, expanded, and twisted, their properties shifting as Harry manipulated them with his magic.
Thick, gelatinous orbs—each the size of a Quaffle—materialized in mid-air, dark green in color and pulsing with enchantments woven into them within seconds. They looked almost like massive globs of silly putty, except they shimmered unnaturally, imbued with powerful sticking charms and reinforced against fire.
The first orb hurtled forward.
It struck the Horntail's front leg—and stuck.
Another followed. Then another. Then five more.
Each one latched onto the dragon's limbs, binding it to the ground. The Horntail let out a furious roar, trying to wrench itself free. Its claws dug into the dirt, its powerful muscles rippling with effort, but the goo held firm.
It tried to lift its foot—but couldn't. Enraged, it let out a bloodcurdling screech and spewed out a massive jet of fire from its mouth, scorching the earth in frustration. But the enchanted goo didn't burn.
"Merlin's beard!" Bagman shouted. "Would you look at that! Harry Potter is using some truly advanced transfiguration here! That's no ordinary sticky substance—it's fire-resistant!"
The dragon hesitated. For the first time since the battle began, uncertainty flickered in its fierce, reptilian eyes. But Harry wasn't done.
With a flick of his wand, more orbs shot forward, glistening in the sunlight before slamming into the dragon's massive wings. The sticky substance stretched as the beast tried to snap them open, but it was no use. The enchanted goo clung stubbornly, binding its wings to its sides.
The Horntail roared in frustration, thrashing its tail against the rocky ground, sending cracks through the earth, but Harry kept moving. His wandwork was fluid and seamless—spell after spell weaving together as he kept the goo hurtling towards the dragon.
More. More. More.
The goo spread across the dragon's body, crawling over its legs, belly, and tail. The more it struggled, the more it found itself trapped. Its mobility was vanishing, its options were dwindling, and it was getting tired. But it wasn't beaten yet.
A deafening roar split the air as the Horntail reared back, its throat expanding. Harry knew what was coming. One last desperate blast of fire.
He was ready.
With a sharp flick, a series of non-verbal spells erupted from his wand, sending more orbs streaking toward the dragon's face.
The Horntail recoiled, attempting to evade, but it wasn't fast enough. The first orb struck its neck. Another splattered against its jaw. A third landed near its nostrils. And then—one hit its left eye.
The dragon let out an earth-shaking bellow, snapping its head wildly. It tried to shake off the goo, but the magic held firm. Its talons scraped against the ground, wings twitching, tail lashing, but nothing helped. All it did was cover it in more goo, binding it even more firmly to the ground.
Half-blind, it twisted its long neck, using its good eye to search for Harry who didn't hesitate. He sent ten more orbs. The first few splattered across its snout, coating the rough, fire-hardened scales. Another burst against its jaw. Two more struck its remaining eye, blinding it completely.
The Horntail shrieked. It thrashed about in a blind panic, its tail stuck to the ground and carving deep grooves into the rocks, its claws grasping at nothing.
The crowd fell into stunned silence, filled with disbelief at what they were seeing. Fleur and Krum were watching the spectacle with wide eyes, the former's eyes fixated on the wizard who was quite frankly toying with the most vicious dragon in existence.
Even Ludo Bagman, always the exuberant commentator, faltered. His voice, usually full of enthusiasm, was now laced with disbelief.
"M-Merlin's beard, folks, would you look at that? Potter has… er… well, it seems he's neutralized the dragon! Without a single injury!"
The Horntail roared, loud and frantic, snapping its jaws wildly, but it no longer had a target. It couldn't see. It couldn't aim.
Seeing his chance, Harry moved. He sprinted toward the golden egg, his eyes trained on the dragon, knowing it was still able to hear. As predicted, it turned its head in his direction, and Harry smirked. Even blind, it refused to go down without a fight.
It lunged, letting out a final burst of fire. However, Harry didn't stop. He aimed his wand directly at the dragon's maw.
Three more orbs shot forward, straight into the dragon's gaping mouth. The flames died instantly. The Horntail tried again. It strained, its massive body shuddering as it attempted to summon fire, but nothing came.
The goo had coated the inside of its throat, neutralizing its last weapon. Now, it was truly defenseless. Walking calmly with his eyes trained on the beast, Harry reached the nest. The golden egg sat there and he reached out, lifting it from its resting place.
Eyeing the dragon one last time, Harry stepped back and turned to leave.
The Horntail couldn't see. It couldn't move its body. It couldn't even hear. However, its nostrils were not entirely covered, and it smelt him out with ease.
On primal instincts, the Horntail lunged, moving faster than it should have as it swung its massive head toward him, snout-first.
Harry barely had time to react.
The beast slammed into him, the spiked ridges on its snout meant to tear through flesh—
The impact sent a shockwave of fear through the arena. The crowd gasped again, some even screaming in alarm. It had only been a few minutes since Cedric Diggory's mutilated body had been carried out of the arena, and now, the other Hogwarts champion was going to be impaled by a Horntail's sharp spike.
However, Harry did not move an inch. His Basilisk-scaled combat suit had absorbed the full force of the blow. The dragon's spikes, meant to impale him, had failed to pierce through his back.
With a smirk, Harry turned around, and more than one person in the stands thought he was a madman for finding amusement in a situation like this. A certain veela was certainly a part of this group as she looked on, her eyes wide and her hands gripping the edge of the barrier in front of her.
Before the dragon could recoil, Harry raised his wand. A powerful Banishing Charm blasted from its tip, striking the Horntail square in the face. The massive beast staggered backward, stumbling over its own weight. It fell over on its arse, the sticky goo on the rocky ground keeping it firmly against it.
The battle was over, and Harry gave the blind Horntail a glare as he turned and walked away toward the exit.
Behind him, the entire arena was frozen in shock. Thousands of eyes locked onto his retreating figure, their owners unable to process what they had just witnessed.
After what felt like hours but were only a few seconds, Bagman finally found his voice, and when he did, it was filled with nothing but sheer amazement.
"HE'S DONE IT! HARRY POTTER HAS DONE IT! INCREDIBLE! NEVER HAVE I SEEN—"
Harry ignored him. He walked out of the arena, not bothering to glance at the audience. He didn't need to. He already knew what he'd see.
Stunned faces. Whispered words. Silent awe.
He didn't care.
Let them whisper. Let them stare.
He had done it.
The moment he stepped out of the main arena, his eyes fell on the massive suspended leaderboard by the judges' panel, flickering as it adjusted to display the champions' final scores. Harry glanced at it briefly, his green eyes scanning the names.
Cedric Diggory – 0
His brow furrowed. Had Diggory even finished the task? Given the state he had been in before the challenge—and the situation he'd inferred when he'd arrived—it didn't seem like he had.
Further down, the other scores came into view.
Fleur Delacour – 51
Viktor Krum – 43
And then, at the very bottom, his own name remained blank, waiting for judgment.
Ludo Bagman's amplified voice boomed across the stands. "And now, folks, it's time for the judges' verdict on Mr. Potter's absolutely astounding performance! Let's see what our esteemed panel thinks!"
Harry ascended the podium, his expression calm and collected.
Dumbledore smiled ever so slightly as he stood, his bright blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses. With a flick of his wand, a shimmering silver 10 appeared in the air.
"Mr. Potter, your solution to the challenge was nothing short of brilliant. The sheer scale and speed of your transfiguration were exceptional, demonstrating remarkable raw magical talent."
The audience stirred, murmurs rippling through the stands. Dumbledore continued, his voice rich with approval. "Transfiguration of that complexity—under such extreme pressure—is no simple feat. But more than that, you displayed a rare sense of control. Magic is not just power, but precision. You wielded both today."
Harry gave a polite nod. He knew it was high praise coming from someone like Dumbledore.
Madame Maxime inclined her head slightly, even though there was no smile on her face as she raised her wand. Harry did not need to be a genius to figure out the reason behind it. He had outshined her champion, it seemed, and it must be sour to admit it. The proof was laid bare as another 10 shimmered into existence.
Her deep voice carried across the stadium. "It was not only the speed of the transfiguration that was impressive, but also the depth of its enchantments." She gestured toward the dragon enclosure, where the handlers were still struggling to remove the remaining goo from the Horntail.
"Fire-resistant properties of such an organic conjuration? That requires far more than just a simple transformation. This was advanced magical weaving, infused with layered protections."
Dumbledore nodded in agreement, eyeing Harry with keen eyes. "Indeed. This shows a deep understanding of transfiguration principles, beyond what is taught at the standard Hogwarts curriculum."
Harry said nothing, but a small smirk tugged at his lips.
The three rough-looking men with battle-scarred hands who Harry recognized as the Romanian dragon handlers exchanged brief words before turning around.
The first man gave a sharp nod before he flicked his wand—10.
"Quick thinking under pressure. That is what makes a true wizard."
The second man followed with another 10.
"You did not overpower the dragon. You outmaneuvered it. You exploited its anatomy, its natural instincts. That takes skill."
The third handler, visibly the eldest of the three, gave a long hum before raising his wand. The final 10 appeared in the air.
"A non-violent approach to a dragon is… rare. Twice we've seen it today. Most would have tried to fight. You instead used control." His lips curled into something akin to admiration. "Control over magic is far more impressive than raw force."
And finally, the resident cowardly idiot himself. Harry already knew what was coming before the man even moved.
Igor Karkaroff moved slowly, his sharp features twisted into a hateful sneer. He locked eyes with Harry and, without a single word, flicked his wand.
A glaring 0 appeared, and the crowd erupted—half in outrage, half in disbelief. Harry was highly amused by their reaction. It seemed after seeing how their original champion had fared, they were all too ready to put their stock with the only option remaining. It made him feel even more disgusted with them.
In the champions' section, Fleur felt an undercurrent of rage erupt deep inside her. Her victory tasted sour, unearned, and undeserved. She knew a robbery when she saw one, and everyone else knew that Karkaroff had just robbed Harry Potter of his deserved first place spot. It was a blow to her pride and it made her feel disgusted with the so-called integrity of this ancient tournament, or the sheer lack thereof.
However, unbeknownst to her, there was another emotion feeding this rage of hers, and it had solely to do with the fact that it was Harry who had been robbed like this. She did not realize this in the moment though as she glared at Karkaroff with utter loathing. Only the man was looking nowhere near her.
Beside her, Krum only let out a small scoff, disgusted himself.
However, Harry merely smirked. His eyes flickered back to the leaderboard where his name climbed up two spots, the final tally clear after the day's task.
Harry Potter – 50
The second highest score, one behind Fleur Delacour. Oh, how Daphne would rage at that, he thought with amusement.
His gaze dropped to the breakdown of scores. He quickly noted how Karkaroff had given Fleur a 4—while the others had given her fair marks. Krum had been handed a 10 by Karkaroff, while the rest had scored him much lower.
Harry let out a small, derisive snort before turning his gaze directly onto Karkaroff.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
His unwavering glare was enough.
Karkaroff shuffled in his seat, visibly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He looked away, making Harry's smirk widen.
Satisfied, he turned and left. However, the moment he did, Madam Pomfrey was on him.
"Sit. Now."
Harry sighed. "I'm fine."
"You'll sit or I'll make you sit," she said sternly, already brandishing her wand.
Seeing no room for argument, Harry sat on the nearest cot.
Madam Pomfrey huffed as she ran her wand over him, golden diagnostic lines swirling around his form. After a moment, her brows furrowed.
Another flick. Another diagnostic spell.
Then—
She stared.
Harry tilted his head. "Problem?"
"…You don't have a single injury."
He shrugged. "Told you."
Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips. "You, Harry Potter, have a well-documented history of near-death experiences at this school. And yet, after battling a fully-grown Hungarian Horntail, you walk in here without so much as a scratch?"
Harry chuckled. "Guess I'm learning."
She squinted at him. "Or you've finally developed common sense."
He smirked. "That too."
Madam Pomfrey let out a long sigh before muttering, "Fine. You're cleared."
As he hopped off the cot, she gave him a pointed look. "Try not to die in the next task, will you?"
Harry gave a mock salute as he grinned. "No promises."
As he walked away toward the area where the other champions were seated, his eyes met Fleur's blue orbs that he was sure sparkled the moment she looked at him. She looked like she wanted to say something but thought better of it, and with pursed lips, she turned around and walked away, leaving Harry to do nothing but stare at her swaying backside in that tight attire.
"Sorry about Karkaroff," he heard Krum mutter as he stood up as well, and Harry saw the injuries and burns the older wizard had sustained in the task.
"No need to apologize on behalf of that pillock, Krum," he replied, waving him away.
Krum sight, and clasping him firmly on the shoulder, he walked away as well, leaving Harry by himself.
He lingered there for a moment when he spotted them. Daphne and Regina were standing right near the exit of the stands, and the moment their eyes met, an unspoken conversation passed between them. Harry gave his lovely blonde lover a smirk as she turned around and walked away with Regina in tow.
It looked like there was going to be quite an afterparty for him, and frankly, he could hardly wait.