firecracker ???

The weeks after the Yule Ball passed in a haze of snow and silence.

If the Ball had been a kind of spell—a night suspended outside of time—what followed was the hangover of its enchantment. Harry walked the castle corridors in the aftermath, drifting somewhere between dazed and distracted. The memory of her hand in his, her soft laugh, her dress like ink spun into light—it clung to him.

But so did the confusion.

They hadn't spoken much since. She was Elestara again—guarded, immaculate, distant. She moved through the castle like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't touched her waist. Like he hadn't called her Lyra. Like she hadn't let him.

And Harry, for all his newfound confidence, didn't know what to do about it.

Because the Second Task was looming.

And he was no closer to understanding it.

The egg had offered no answers—only a horrible wailing screech when opened. Hermione had theories. Ron had guesses. But none of it made sense. The longer he stared at it, the more his anxiety mounted.

It wasn't until the very end of January that Cedric caught up with him one night after dinner and muttered, "Take a bath with it."

Harry blinked. "What?"

Cedric didn't elaborate. He only offered a wry smile, then vanished down the hall like he hadn't just handed Harry the first breadcrumb of hope he'd had in weeks.

A bath, then.

The Prefects' Bathroom was empty, marble, and echoing. Myrtle floated lazily above the taps while Harry slid into the enormous pool and opened the egg underwater.

This time, he heard the voices.

"We've taken what you'll sorely miss..."

Mermaids. A time limit. Someone he would lose.

Harry surfaced with a gasp, water streaming from his face. His heart was pounding.

What would he miss?

-

The clue came late. Too late, really.

It was the night before the Second Task, and Harry still had no idea how to breathe underwater for an hour. The egg still shrieked when opened in air. He had tried nearly everything, and nothing had worked. Cedric's clue—"Take a bath"—had helped. Sure. He'd heard the song. But understanding what to do about it? That had proven more difficult.

Then came Neville.

Harry hadn't meant to ask him. He'd only been sitting in the common room after dinner, fingernails digging into the couch, pacing in his head, when Neville sat beside him and frowned.

"You alright?" Neville asked.

"Fine," Harry muttered. "Just... thinking."

"About tomorrow?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

Neville shrugged. "You've looked like you were going to throw up for a week."

Harry didn't deny it.

There was a silence. Then:

"You know," Neville said slowly, "there are ways to breathe underwater. Magical ones."

Harry turned.

"Like Gillyweed," Neville continued, a little shyly. "Professor Sprout mentioned it once. It lets you grow gills and webbed hands for a while. Good for deep dives."