The Great Hall had been transformed.
Harry paused at the threshold, the sound of music washing over him, rich, layered, alive. Ice-blue light shimmered from enchanted snowflakes drifting lazily from the ceiling, never melting, never touching the ground. Twelve towering Christmas trees lined the walls, their branches heavy with silver and crystal ornaments that chimed softly when disturbed by magic or movement.
It was beautiful.
Not the living, breathing beauty of Pandora, but something carefully crafted, deliberate and human. There was meaning in that too.
Ginny stood beside him, her hand resting lightly against his sleeve. She wore deep green robes that set her hair alight like flame, and when she smiled up at him, it was with a confidence that made several nearby students abruptly forget how to breathe.
"Ready?" she asked.
Harry nodded. "Yeah."
They stepped forward together.
The champions were announced one by one, applause rippling through the Hall as Viktor Krum entered with Hermione, who looked momentarily stunned by the attention, followed by Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies, then Cedric Diggory with Cho Chang.
And then,
"Harry Potter."
The sound swelled. Not the hysterical adoration of earlier years, nor the suspicious murmurs of recent weeks, but something steadier. Respect, edged with awe.
Harry offered Ginny his arm and led her forward.
When the music changed and the champions took the floor, Harry felt a familiar steadiness settle into him. Dance was not foreign to him, not anymore. He remembered the slow, grounded movements beneath glowing branches, the way rhythm had once been shared rather than performed.
He adjusted.
Ginny followed effortlessly.
They did not dance like children playing at adulthood, nor like performers seeking attention. They danced as two people listening, to the music, to each other. Harry guided with a gentle surety that surprised even him; Ginny matched it with quick intuition and a spark of laughter in her eyes.
Around them, the other champions moved, Fleur graceful and distant, Cedric earnest and smiling, Viktor intense and focused. Hermione flushed as she danced, caught between self-consciousness and delight.
For a while, the world narrowed to music and motion.
Harry allowed himself that much.
The meal was lavish.
Harry found himself seated between Dumbledore and Madame Maxime, Ginny just across from him, Ron and Hermione a little farther down. Conversation flowed easily at first, polite remarks, observations about the Tournament, Fleur's cool amusement at Hogwarts' decorations.
Then voices shifted.
Harry's hearing, sharpened by instincts he could not turn off, caught the low murmur from further down the table.
"…it burns again," Igor Karkaroff was saying, his voice tight with unease.
Snape did not look at him. "So you have noticed."
Harry stilled.
"The mark has been quiet for years," Karkaroff whispered. "Now it stirs. And Potter—" His gaze flicked, sharp and fearful. "That thing he becomes. He is not what the Dark Lord planned for."
Snape's expression was unreadable. When he spoke, it was almost idle. "Then perhaps," he murmured, "it would be wise to remember that wars consume more than their intended targets."
Karkaroff swallowed. "You suggest—"
"I suggest," Snape cut in softly, "that when giants awaken, smaller beasts are crushed beneath their feet. By masters and rebels alike."
There was a pause.
"You would run?" Karkaroff asked incredulously.
Snape's eyes flicked, briefly, precisely, to Harry.
"I would survive," he said.
Harry felt no anger.
Only understanding.
That frightened him.
The night ended in laughter and exhaustion, frost giving way to warmth as students drifted back to their houses, hearts light and heavy all at once.
Ginny squeezed Harry's hand before heading up the stairs. "Thank you," she said simply.
Harry watched her go, feeling the echo of the dance linger in his bones.
The next day dawned slow and grey.
Cedric found Harry by the stairs after breakfast, expression earnest and careful, as though weighing something important.
"About the egg," he said quietly. "Try… a bath. A proper one. Somewhere quiet."
Harry studied him, then nodded. "Thanks."
Cedric smiled. "Good luck."
That evening, Harry made his way to the prefects' bathroom.
Steam filled the cavernous space, scented faintly with pine and something floral he could not name. He sank into the water, letting tension seep from his muscles, and lifted the golden egg from where it rested on the tiled floor.
He opened it.
The scream that emerged was chilling, high and echoing, sharp enough to raise goosebumps along his arms. Harry grimaced and, on instinct rather than logic, slipped beneath the water.
The sound changed.
The screaming softened, reshaped itself into something almost melodic, voices layered together, mournful and distant.
"Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground.
An hour long you'll have to look,
And to recover what we took."