Whispers in the Dark-Fred Weasley

Harry and Ron haven't spoken in weeks, and at this point, the silence is deafening. It's not just awkward anymore—it's exhausting. Hermione and I have been doing everything short of waving our wands to glue them back together, but nothing works. She spends most of her time with Ron, trying to placate his stubbornness, while I've been sticking with Harry, who's equally inflexible. The division is brutal, and it's starting to wear on all of us.

I sit under a tree by the Black Lake with Harry, the coarse bark pressing into my back as I flip through Neville's textbook—an ominous-looking gift from Mad-Eye. He wades in the knee-deep water nearby, muttering to himself as he searches for some magical plant Herbology inspired him to hunt down. The afternoon is unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hyperaware of every crunch of leaves or distant rustle of wind.

Neville's head snaps up suddenly, his gaze shifting behind us. He stiffens, giving a hesitant wave to someone approaching. I glance over my shoulder and immediately hear the familiar crunch of leaves. Multiple footsteps.

Hermione's hushed, exasperated voice drifts toward us, unmistakably scolding. Harry looks up, his jaw tightening when Ron comes into view, trailing awkwardly behind her. Ginny lingers a step behind them, her face unreadable.

"Great," Harry mutters under his breath, his tone clipped with sarcasm. He closes his book with more force than necessary and stands, brushing off his robes. I follow suit, crossing my arms over my chest. I give Harry a look that's part apologetic, part warning.

Personally, I don't have an issue with Ron—well, aside from the fact that he's been a complete ass recently. But we're still friends. Tensions are just high, especially with the Triwizard Tournament looming over everything like a storm cloud.

Hermione says something about Parvati or Hagrid looking for Harry, her words rushing together in an effort to diffuse the tension. To be honest, I tune it out. The air is thick with unspoken accusations and years of friendship straining under the weight of pride. Harry's stony silence doesn't help.

...

It's nearing ten o'clock when I find myself curled up in the Gryffindor common room, the fire casting long shadows across the walls. The room is mostly empty, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards or the soft crackle of the flames. A book rests in my lap, its pages open but unread as my mind drifts.

The portrait hole swings open suddenly, and Harry stumbles in. His shoulders are stiff, his steps faltering like his body is moving on autopilot. His face looks pale, his usual defiance replaced with something much heavier. I set my book down immediately, sitting up straighter.

"What happened to you?" I ask, my voice careful. Normally, I'd crack a joke, but there's something about the way he looks—haunted, almost—that stops me.

"Dragons," he blurts out, his voice barely above a whisper. He shakes his head, as if the word alone is too much to process.

I blink, frowning. "Dragons?" I echo, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn't, I stand, crossing the room to him. "What about dragons, Harry?"

He exhales sharply, his hand raking through his already messy hair. "That's the first task," he mutters, his words coming out in fragments. "They're throwing me in front of a dragon, Serena. I have to survive a bloody dragon."

My stomach drops like a stone. I stare at him, unable to form words for a moment. "You're serious?" I finally manage. He doesn't need to respond; the look in his eyes is enough.

Without thinking, I step closer and wrap my arms around him. Physical touch isn't something I'm usually comfortable with, but something about the way Harry looks—so vulnerable, so weighed down—tells me he needs it. He doesn't move at first, but then his arms slowly come up, holding on like he's afraid to let go.