The Tenth Weasley - CH - 126

Hermione was buried in parchment when Harry found her in the library. Ink blotted her fingers, her curls frizzed from where she’d pulled at them in frustration, and a stack of books on magical beasts and tournament history surrounded her like fortress walls.

“You’re going to burn yourself out before the first task even arrives,” Harry said, leaning casually on the table.

Hermione didn’t look up. “ You will be facing Griffins, manticores, things nobody our age should be facing. I have to know what they’ll use this time.”

Harry pulled the quill from her fingers and set it aside. “Hermione, I do understand. That’s why I’m telling you—we need to breathe. You, especially.”

She finally met his eyes, her expression caught somewhere between indignation and weariness. “And what do you suggest?”

“A date,” Harry said simply. “Hogsmeade.”

Hermione blinked. “A date? Now?”

“Now,” he repeated, smirking. “Durmstrang students are allowed out whenever they want. And it’s not like I’m bound by Hogwarts rules anymore.”

Her brow furrowed. “That’s easy for you to say. I’ll get in trouble if I’m caught sneaking out.”

Harry lowered his voice. “Leave that to me. You think I survived Durmstrang and broke into a hundred locked rooms without learning a few tricks?”

Hermione hesitated, glancing at her notes. The sight of her tired eyes made Harry push gently. “You want to help me survive this tournament? Then help me stay sane. Just one afternoon. No books, no parchment. Just you and me.”

A small smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Harry said, offering his hand.


Getting out of the castle was almost laughably easy for Harry. He borrowed the trick passages Fred and George had taught him years ago, slipped them both under his invisibility cloak, and before long they were stepping out into the brisk autumn air of Hogsmeade.

Hermione gasped, tugging the cloak off once they were clear. “You could’ve at least warned me before dragging me through a hidden passage!”

Harry chuckled. “What, and miss the look on your face? Priceless.”

The village was alive with life. Wizards bustled between shops, enchanted carriages rattled down cobblestone streets, and the smell of butterbeer drifted warmly from the Three Broomsticks. Dumstrag students in scarves of scarlet and silver clustered in groups, laughing, shopping, and enjoying their rare freedom.

Harry felt lighter just being there, and when he glanced at Hermione, the tension in her shoulders had already softened.

“Where to first?” he asked.

She pursed her lips, then nodded toward Honeydukes. “Sweets. If we’re doing this properly, we start with chocolate.”

Harry grinned. “Now you’re talking.”


Inside Honeydukes, the air was thick with sugar. Shelves overflowed with chocolate frogs, fizzing whizbees, and boxes of sugar quills that Hermione eyed disapprovingly until Harry slipped one into her basket.

“You’re not seriously—”

“It’s a quill and a snack,” Harry interrupted. “Efficiency.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t put it back. By the time they left, she was laughing as Harry tried to juggle three exploding bonbons, only to end up with a mouthful of smoke.

From there, they strolled past Zonko’s, where Fred and George had already set up an impromptu “Weasley special” display, and Harry had to drag Hermione away before they spotted them.

“They’ll never let us hear the end of it if they catch us together out here,” Harry muttered.

Hermione giggled, clinging to his arm. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”


As they passed toward the far edge of the village, a familiar voice called out.

“Harry!”

It was Viktor Krum, stepping out of a grand, rune-etched cottage that stood taller than most of the village inns. He waved them over, his heavy accent thick as ever. “Come, you must see. I rent this place for year. Big enough for whole team, ja?”

Harry chuckled. “Only you would rent a mansion for practice.”

Viktor shrugged. “Is necessary. Privacy, space. Good for parties too. You bring girl, ja?” He gave Hermione a polite bow.

Hermione blushed furiously.

“Harry's girlfriend,” Viktor said. “You are clever one. Keep him alive, yes?”

Harry laughed, steering Hermione away before she melted completely. “We’ll come by later, Viktor.”

Hermione punched his arm lightly once they were out of earshot. “You didn’t tell me he was renting a cottage! That’s—well, that’s absurd.”

“That’s Viktor,” Harry said simply.

They ended their afternoon at the Three Broomsticks. Rosmerta herself brought them two steaming mugs of butterbeer, the froth spilling over the rims.

“To surviving the first task,” Harry toasted.

Hermione tapped her mug to his, eyes serious despite her smile. “To surviving all of them.”

They drank in silence for a moment, savoring the warmth. Around them, chatter filled the tavern, but it felt like they were in their own little world.

Finally, Hermione sighed. “Thank you, Harry. I needed this more than I realized.”

He reached across the table, threading his fingers through hers. “Anytime. And Hermione… no matter what happens in that arena, I’ll come back to you. Always.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, but she didn’t look away. “You’d better. Because I’m not letting Rita Skeeter write my story as the girl who lost her boyfriend to a tournament.”

Harry laughed, squeezing her hand. “Deal.”


Victor’s cottage was lit up like a beacon on the edge of Hogsmeade. Music spilled out of the open windows, a deep rhythmic beat mixed with laughter and the crack of glasses. The air smelled of roasted meat, spiced wine, and something faintly smoky. Durmstrang students crowded the front steps, passing bottles of firewhisky and singing in thick accents that made Hermione blush as Harry led her inside.

The moment they entered, cheers rose.
“Harry! Harry Weasley!” someone shouted, lifting a goblet.
“And his girl!” another added, earning a chorus of whistles.

Hermione turned scarlet, but Harry only grinned and pulled her closer.

Inside, the main room had been transformed. Tables groaned under trays of enchanted dishes that refilled themselves the moment they emptied. A fire roared in the stone hearth, casting flickering light across the wooden beams. Above, enchanted lanterns drifted lazily, glowing red and gold. Viktor, already surrounded by admirers, waved them over.

“Harry! Come, drink, dance!” he boomed, pressing a goblet into Harry’s hand.

Harry caught Hermione’s glance—half scandalized, half intrigued—and raised his brow. “When in Durmstrang…”

She huffed, but didn’t refuse when he offered the goblet.

The music shifted to something faster. Couples filled the space, spinning and laughing, skirts flaring as boots stamped the floor in rhythm. Harry tugged Hermione onto the floor before she could protest.

“Harry, I can’t dance like this—”

“Neither can I,” he said cheerfully, “so we’ll look terrible together.”

That broke her composure. Hermione laughed, a real laugh, and soon they were whirling clumsily among the others. Harry’s mismatched eyes caught the firelight, and more than one student gave them approving nods.

After several songs, flushed and breathless, Hermione let Harry lead her upstairs. The noise of the party dimmed behind them, replaced by the quiet creak of wooden floors. Harry opened a door at the end of the hall, flicked his wand to lock it, and sealed it with a ward strong enough that not even Karkaroff could have forced his way in without effort.

“Harry…” Hermione whispered, nerves clear in her voice.

But Harry didn’t give her time to worry. He kissed her, hard, and she responded with equal urgency. They had snogged before, countless times in corridors and gardens, but never like this. There was fire in it now, the taste of firewhisky on their lips, the heat of weeks of tension.

His cloak fell to the floor, her hands tangled in his hair. Shirts were pulled away in hurried motions, and soon his skin burned against hers. The world beyond the door disappeared.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound shattered the moment. Hermione froze, her eyes wide, her cheeks flaming red.

“Harry,” she whispered, panicked. “We—we can’t—”

Her words tumbled out, rushed and desperate. “We’re not ready for that, not yet, not now. Please.”

Harry closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. It took every bit of control not to push further, but slowly, he pulled back. He kissed her forehead softly instead of her lips, then whispered, “Alright. We stop here.”

She exhaled shakily, relief and gratitude mingling with embarrassment. Together, they dressed again, smoothing hair and straightening robes. Harry erased the ward with a flick, and when they stepped back into the corridor, the noise of the party washed over them once more.

Downstairs, conversation faltered as they reappeared. Heads turned, eyes gleaming with speculation. Laughter rippled, low and teasing.

Harry ignored it. He kept his arm around Hermione, his face calm, even smug. But inside, he felt something shift. They hadn’t gone all the way, but what they’d shared meant more than that. Hermione trusted him to stop, and he had. It felt like the real beginning of something deeper, stronger than whispered kisses in corridors.

As the music rose again and Hermione leaned against his shoulder, Harry knew he’d gained something more important than fleeting passion. He’d gained her trust.

And to him, that was worth more than all the prestige he could bring to Durmstrang.


It was nearly midnight when Harry and Hermione slipped back through the darkened grounds of Hogwarts. The invisibility cloak cocooned them in silence, but not in calm—their breaths were uneven, shallow, filled with something far more dangerous than the fear of being caught. Every kiss they had shared that night, every stolen moment of heat and closeness, seemed to linger on their lips still.

Hermione clutched his hand tightly under the cloak, her face flushed, her eyes darting nervously at every sound of shifting stone or distant hoot of an owl. Harry, however, felt different. He wasn’t just nervous. He was dazed—overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of what they had almost allowed to happen in Hogsmeade.

“Careful,” Harry whispered, guiding her as they moved past a set of armor.

“I know,” Hermione murmured back, her voice softer than usual. There was a tremor there—not fear of discovery, but something else.

When they reached the moving staircases, the cloak brushed against the banister as they climbed. Hermione leaned close, her breath warm against his ear. “We’ll get caught if we keep standing like this.”

Harry smirked, though his pulse was racing. “Worth it.”

By the time they reached the seventh floor, the castle was utterly silent. The Fat Lady’s portrait loomed ahead, torchlight flickering faintly across her painted face. Hermione stepped out from under the cloak, smoothing her robes with trembling hands. She leaned toward the portrait and whispered the password.

The door swung open to reveal the golden glow of the Gryffindor common room. Hermione turned back, her eyes meeting Harry’s mismatched ones—hazel and silver, burning faintly in the darkness. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she said softly, though her voice betrayed her reluctance.

Harry reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

She hesitated, then leaned up and pressed a final kiss against his lips—a gentle promise, less fire than before, but deeper somehow. When she pulled back, her cheeks glowed crimson. Without another word, she slipped into the common room, and the door swung shut behind her.

Harry stood there, dazed, staring at the closed portrait. His heart still thundered in his chest. He had faced dragons, poachers, and even Grindelwald’s legacy without flinching, but this—this was entirely new.

Victor’s stories came back to him—about passion, about control, about knowing when to stop. Harry finally understood them. He wasn’t ashamed of what happened, but he was grateful he had stopped. Hermione wasn’t ready, and he respected that.

Still, as he pulled the cloak over his shoulders and headed down the quiet corridor back toward the Durmstrang ship, Harry felt a strange sense of triumph. Their relationship had shifted, deepened. What they shared now was more than kisses in secret corners or nervous glances in the library.

It was real.