Harry Potter and the Triwizard Gambit - Chapter - 17

The winter air was brisk and chilly near the lake, where the faint mist from Victor Krum's breath blended with the low fog rising from the Great Lake. He sat by himself on a smooth, frost-covered rock, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze drifting between the shadowy outline of the Durmstrang ship and the still waters. The area was peaceful, removed from the noise of the castle grounds—an ideal place for reflection, contemplation, and mentally preparing for whatever the second Triwizard task might entail.

Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps crunching on frozen grass shattered his solitude. He turned, frowning, just in time to see Harry Potter racing toward him, wand already drawn and his green eyes blazing with intensity.

"Her–mione is mine! You can’t have her!" Harry yelled, his voice strained with emotion.

Victor barely had time to react before a burst of red light shot past his ear, hissing into the lake with a sharp steam.

“Potter, vhat—?!” Victor began, but another curse rushed toward him.

He instinctively rolled off the boulder, drawing his wand in a smooth motion. A shield charm appeared just in time to deflect a jinx that might have hit him in the ribs.

“Potter! Stop!” Victor shouted, his heavy accent becoming more pronounced under the pressure. “Vhat is wrong with you?”

Harry didn't respond, his face contorted in determination. Spells continued to fly—such as a Stunner, a Disarming Charm, and even a trip jinx—forcing Victor to counter or evade each one. The air between them buzzed with magic, sparks flickering over the frosted ground.

Taking cover behind a low outcrop, Victor cast a harmless knockback jinx in return, more to create distance than to hurt Harry. “Potter! Listen to me! I don’t vant to fight you!”

“You’re after Hermione!” Harry retorted sharply. “I won’t let you use her!”

Victor's eyes widened at the accusation. “Use her? I—no! This is madness!”

Still, Harry continued launching spells. A blast of blue light grazed Victor's shoulder, sending a numbing chill through his arm. He gritted his teeth and countered another curse. Something was off—Harry wasn’t usually like this. The last time they spoke, he had been calm, even encouraging Victor to pursue Hermione if she was willing.

“Potter, think! Last time ve talked, you said it vas fine!” Victor shouted over the sound of a spell striking stone.

Harry responded with another furious hex.

Victor's mind raced. This wasn’t a typical dispute—the frantic look in Harry’s eyes and his irrational accusations seemed as if he were under a spell. Imperius? Confundus? He didn’t know, but he had to resolve this before someone got seriously hurt.

Blocking one more curse, Victor raised his voice. “If you truly care about her, you vill stop! You are not yourself!”

For a brief moment, Harry seemed to hesitate—his wand lowering slightly—but then he clenched his jaw and sent another hex their way.

At that moment, Victor realized he would have to disarm him forcibly. With a quick flick and a loud “Expelliarmus!”, he sent Harry’s wand flying into the air, where it landed with a dull thud several feet away on the frozen ground.

Victor remained in his defensive position, wand raised and heart racing from the unexpected confrontation. However, Harry was no longer focused on him or the wand Victor had just lost. Instead, his attention was locked on something beyond Victor’s shoulder, as if he was observing something unseen by Victor.

“Did you get her?” Harry suddenly asked, his tone now calm and almost nonchalant.

Victor frowned, lowering his wand slightly. “I don’t know vhat you—”

He stopped abruptly as he noticed movement. From the space where Harry had been looking, a figure appeared, the folds of a shimmering silvery cloak parting to reveal Hermione Granger. She wore a triumphant grin and her eyes sparkled with excitement.

“I got her,” Hermione declared proudly, holding up a glass jar. Inside, something small and agitated buzzed against the enchanted glass.

Harry’s face lit up with a smile. “Perfect.”

Victor’s confusion deepened as he glanced between them. “Vhat… is happening?”

Harry retrieved his wand from the snow with a flick of his fingers, brushing it off casually. “Sorry about that, Victor,” he said, still grinning. “Hermione wanted a pet beetle.”

Victor blinked in disbelief. “A… pet beetle?”

Neither Harry nor Hermione elaborated. Instead, they exchanged a look of shared amusement and turned away, heading toward the castle. Their laughter and conversation blended into the crisp winter air, leaving Victor Krum standing by the lake, wand still in hand, gazing after them in utter confusion.

He shook his head slowly. “British wizards…” he murmured quietly, still uncertain whether he had been involved in a duel or a strange inside joke.


Hermione was seated cross-legged in one of the comfortable armchairs of the Star club room, where the gentle winter sunlight seeped through the enchanted ceiling. In her lap rested a small glass jar with a tightly sealed enchanted lid, inside of which a beetle scurried irritably, its tiny legs scratching against the glass.

Fred Weasley leaned over the chair's arm, visibly intrigued. “So, that’s her? The terror of the Prophet? The quill-wielding menace of Britain?”

Hermione smirked and tilted the jar, causing the beetle to somersault before righting itself. “That’s her.”

George plopped down in the chair opposite, a playful grin on his face. “I thought she would look… bigger. More intimidating.”

“Don’t underestimate her,” Hermione cautioned, glancing at the jar. “She’s harmed more reputations than you both have with a year’s worth of pranking.”

Neville moved closer, lowering his voice as he peered inside the jar. “So, Rita Skeeter really is an unregistered Animagus. Harry was right to keep this secret… but—” He looked between them. “—why not inform the rest of the Stars Club?”

“Because it’s better if fewer people know,” Hermione answered. “If it gets out and someone slips up, she’ll escape and resume ruining lives in the Prophet. Harry wants to keep her… contained.” She tapped the jar lightly, making a soft sound.

Fred laughed. “Contained, but what’s she eating? Leftovers from breakfast?”

Hermione grinned mischievously. “I’ve been giving her a proper beetle diet—stale bread crumbs, bits of lettuce, and a few drops of water. No fancy meals. And I’m careful not to give her any ink or paper.”

George snorted. “Heaven forbid she starts writing scandalous articles from inside that jar.”

Neville chuckled but quickly grew serious. “Have you noticed? The Prophet has gone… quiet. No jabs at Hagrid, no gossip about the Ministry’s mishaps. Nothing on the Champions.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly. Without Rita’s sensationalism, the Prophet is just… boring. Their circulation has plummeted. Quibbler and the our magazine are taking their readers. People prefer our interviews and genuine reporting over the Prophet’s constant falsehoods.”

Fred’s grin became mischievous. “And here I thought we were just selling magazines for kicks.”

“It’s more than just fun,” Hermione asserted. “It’s about justice.”

They all looked back at the jar, where the beetle seemed to sense their scrutiny and paused, its wings tightly tucked away.

George leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So, how long will you keep her in there?”

“As long as it takes,” Hermione replied decisively. “Until she understands she can’t ruin lives for profit.”

Neville nodded, still gazing at the jar. “It’s strange, though… knowing that half the wizarding world's gossip died because of such a tiny creature.”

Fred chuckled, putting an arm around George's shoulders. “Not died, Neville. Just… went extinct.”

With that, the four of them exchanged a secretive smile. Outside, snow continued to fall over Hogwarts, while inside the cozy warmth of the Stars Club common room, Rita Skeeter’s noisy reign had been abruptly silenced.


Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum were now, officially, a couple.

For most students, it was unexpected. For Viktor’s fan club—composed mostly of starry-eyed girls from Beauxbatons and a surprising number from Hogwarts—it was devastating. His fangirls would cluster in the courtyard or outside the Great Hall, sighing dramatically and casting Hermione glances that could freeze a phoenix mid-flight.

Hermione, for her part, seemed completely unaffected by the attention—or the jealousy. If anything, she looked… freer. Her hair had returned to its natural bushy state, and the sleek taming potion she’d once used daily sat untouched in her dormitory trunk.

When Harry teased her about it one morning, she gave him a small, warm smile.

“Viktor doesn’t care about any of that, Harry. He likes me for… me.” She pushed a stray curl behind her ear, her eyes distant for a moment. “It’s strange, not having to feel… polished.”

Harry grinned. “Honestly? I think it suits you. The Hermione I know has always been the one with the big hair and the bigger brain.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, but before she could reply, Viktor himself appeared at the end of the Gryffindor table, still in his Quidditch robes. He greeted Harry with a nod before offering his arm to Hermione, who took it without hesitation. Together, they left the Hall under the watchful—and in some cases, resentful—eyes of their peers.

Harry was genuinely happy for her. Seeing Hermione so content made him feel lighter somehow.

It was later that same week when Fleur Delacour approached him in the courtyard. The late afternoon sun caught her silvery hair, making it glow like spun moonlight.

“‘Arry,” she began, her French accent curling around his name, “I ‘ave been thinking… perhaps we could go to the Hoks made village together?”

Harry blinked. “The what now?”

She laughed softly, as if she’d expected that. “ The village?” She pointed toward Hogsmead.

Harry hesitated only a second before grinning. “Sure. Sounds like fun. Actually—” His grin widened. “—maybe we could go as a group. Viktor and Hermione will be there, so it’ll be… less formal.”

Fleur’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Less like a date, more like… friends enjoying themselves?”

Harry shrugged playfully. “Exactly. That way no one gets the wrong idea.”

She tilted her head, amusement glinting in her blue eyes. “We will see if they get ze ‘right idea’ or not.”


On the day of the Hogsmeade trip, the winter air was crisp, and the snow crunched underfoot. Harry met Fleur just outside the gates. She was wrapped in a deep blue cloak, her hair tucked into a matching scarf. Hermione and Viktor arrived shortly after, Hermione’s cheeks already rosy from the cold.

The four of them set off down the path toward the village, their breath forming white clouds in the air. The shops were bustling, with students darting in and out of Honeydukes and Zonko’s. Fleur insisted they try the “trick chocolates” she’d brought from France, which exploded into harmless puffs of glitter when bitten.

Even Viktor cracked a rare smile when Hermione ended up with her face dusted in sparkling gold.

Harry couldn’t help but think—between the laughter, the shared sweets, and the ridiculous hats Fleur made them all wear—that this might have been the most relaxed day he’d had since the Tournament began.