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Chapter Text

Somewhere in Japan, in a Villa So Fancy It Probably Has a Mood Elevator

Draco Malfoy lay on a tatami mat, wearing a silk yukata that probably cost more than an entire Hogwarts dormitory. The villa was perched gracefully on a misty hillside, the view overlooking a koi pond that played ambient flute music without any speakers, thank you very much.

His mother was off enjoying an ancient tea ceremony where every movement was timed and every sip was judged with silent grace. His father was attending “business meetings” that sounded suspiciously like wizarding golf in designer robes.

Draco, meanwhile, was rereading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire under the shady sakura trees, sipping iced matcha like a posh literary critic on the verge of an emotional collapse.

“Merlin’s flat muggle sandals,” he muttered, flipping a page. “This book is dark. What sort of educational institution lets teenagers fight dragons? WHO LET THIS HAPPEN? WHERE ARE THE ADULTS?!”

He turned the page and his breath caught.

“Cedric’s going to die,” he whispered, his pale fingers tightening on the parchment. “Again.”

A koi leapt from the pond behind him in dramatic punctuation.

“No, no, no—we are not doing this,” he panicked, sprinting barefoot into the villa, his hair flying like a distressed shampoo commercial. “NOT AGAIN!”

⸻

Meanwhile, Somewhere in England: At the Quidditch World Cup Campground of Questionable Safety

Harry sat under what Sirius proudly called a “vintage” magically-reinforced tent, though to Harry, it looked more like a canvas crime scene. The stitching was questionable, the support beams audibly groaned, and the color had definitely once been white but now leaned closer to “abandoned teabag.”

Sirius, in all his post-Azkaban glory, was shirtless under a leather vest and humming Weird Sisterstunes like a tone-deaf warlock. He poked at a magically floating grill with his wand and proudly announced, “Dinner shall be charred and questionable!”

“Are you sure this tent is safe?” Harry asked, eyeing a suspicious burn mark near the roof.

“Safe? Pfft,” Sirius scoffed. “Moody cursed it during the First War. Said it was the only way to keep Death Eaters out. Now it randomly bites people who enter without permission.”

“…What.”

“Better than the other one I brought,” Sirius added cheerfully. “That one screamed if anyone snored. Woke up the entire Irish team once.”

Before Harry could decide if this was hilarious or deeply concerning, Ron barreled into the tent looking flustered, tripping over a garden gnome someone had definitely not planted there.

“Oi! Have you seen Fred and George?” Ron huffed. “Mum said if they sell one more fake wand that turns into a trout, she’s hexing them bald.”

“I already told them,” Ginny called from outside, “make the trout poisonous, THEN it’s a real product!”

“I like her,” Sirius grinned.

Before Harry could comment on anything, the sky whooshed. Not just a little “ooh magic” whoosh—a massive, terrifying, doom-from-above whoosh.

A crack of light burst across the sky, followed by screaming. Chaos ignited outside the tent.

“What the hell is that?!” Ron yelped, staring as the Dark Mark blazed green above the campground, looming like some infernal middle finger to everyone’s evening.

“Brilliant,” Sirius muttered, casually tossing aside the grill like it had personally offended him. “Nothing says ‘family outing’ like a terrorist attack.”

“MUM!” Ginny yelled, scrambling through the flap. “Someone just jinxed a Butterbeer keg into a goat and it exploded!”

Arthur Weasley stormed by holding a frying pan for some reason. “EVERYONE INTO THE EMERGENCY FORMATION!”

“What’s the emergency formation?!” yelled Harry.

“PANIC!” Sirius shouted, then turned to Harry, deadly serious. “Stay close to me, pup.”

With a dramatic swish of his wand and an even more dramatic swoop of his coat, Sirius charged out of the tent like a cross between a rock star and a vigilante dad.

Around them, tents exploded. Wizards Apparated away in a flurry of screams and spellfire. One confused tourist was trying to barter for “a Dark Mark souvenir.”

Sirius whipped around and yelled, “WEASLEYS! GROUP UP! We’re forming the Wall of Redheads!”

Fred and George appeared like chaotic twins from the mist.

“Oi Sirius!” George grinned. “Ten Galleons we survive this!”

“Make it twenty if you actually do something helpful!” Sirius shot back.

Curses lit the air like magical fireworks gone wrong. Ministry officials swooped in, barking orders and stunning anything that moved faster than a house elf. Percy was yelling about “regulation campsite response protocol” while simultaneously tripping over his own briefcase.

Harry, tucked beside Sirius, watched it all unfold with wide eyes.

He’d faced a basilisk. He’d dealt with Dementors.

But somehow, this—this utter, flaming circus of cursed tents, Weasley chaos, and Sirius shouting “NO, YOU MOVE, YOU DAMNED TWIG”—felt just as overwhelming.

Within ten minutes, the Death Eaters had vanished, the fires were put out, and an official from the Ministry stood awkwardly on a folding chair declaring everything was “under control.”

Sirius leaned on Harry’s shoulder, panting dramatically.

“Camping,” he said. “A wholesome family activity.”

Ron flopped onto the grass beside them. “I hate wholesome.”

Harry just stared up at the sky where the last trace of green smoke curled and whispered, “I need new hobbies.”

Chapter Text

Back in Japan 

Draco, now wrapped in three comfort blankets and wearing a panic facial mask made of crushed pearl, dictated a letter at top speed to his owl.

“Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,

This is your official warning. Cedric Diggory is about to be yeeted off the mortal coil by a resurrecting dark wizard who thinks noses are optional. DO SOMETHING. Please. I’m begging. Literally. On imported tatami mats. —

Draco Malfoy,

Future Time-Turner Champion & Professional Meddler”

The second letter, to Harry and Sirius, was… less coherent.

⸻

Harry’s Room 

Harry opened the scroll that had just arrived with a dramatic swan-shaped Japanese stamp. The letter was… wild.

“YOU’RE IN DANGER. DON’T TRUST MOODY. BUT ALSO TRUST HIM. IT’S COMPLICATED. WATCH OUT FOR GOBLETS. ALSO CEDRIC. SAVE HIM. OR AT LEAST TRIP HIM UP SO HE DOESN’T GRAB THE PORTKEY.

P.S. Tell Sirius I said hi.

P.P.S. Don’t die.”

“…What?” Harry stared at the scroll.

Sirius, reading over his shoulder, chuckled. “Classic Malfoy panic mode. And for the record, Moody’s an ex-Auror. Bit off his rocker, but not evil. Probably.”

“…Probably?!”

⸻

Later, in the Japanese Villa 

Draco sat cross-legged on the cedar deck of the Malfoys’ private zen garden, sipping a cup of tea so rare and expensive it might have been brewed from phoenix tears and generational guilt. Fireflies blinked lazily in the warm dusk air, the whole setting suspiciously peaceful for what Draco was about to drop.

Lucius sat beside him, disturbingly elegant in silk robes that probably cost more than the average wizard’s Gringotts account. His expression was calm, unreadable. The calm before a very elegant storm.

Draco cleared his throat. “I need to talk to you… about something very serious. Intense family business.”

Lucius didn’t look up. “Unless it’s about the cursed silverware your great-aunt tried to elope with in ‘67, I’m not interested.”

“No. Worse,” Draco said, voice low. “Dark Lord comeback tour. Horcruxes. Prophecies. Time magic. A possible apocalypse.”

Lucius blinked once. Then slowly, he set his teacup down with the careful grace of a man processing a lot of unexpected plot twists.

Draco continued, the words tumbling out: how he’d seen the future. The war. The deaths. The mistakes. How Voldemort ripped his soul apart like it was an overcooked pastry. How one of those soul fragments—the Cup—was currently napping in Aunt Bella’s vault.

When he finally paused for breath, Lucius was very still. The fireflies danced in the quiet between them.

“So…” Lucius began slowly, “…you’re saying that if I follow the Dark Lord next year—”

“You’ll end up in Azkaban. With tragic pores and no access to bespoke tailoring. They don’t allow peacocks, Father. Not even one.”

Lucius shuddered. “Burlap robes. Good god.”

“Exactly,” Draco said, leaning in, his voice sharp now. “I know I’ve always been dramatic—”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “That’s an understatement.”

“—but this isn’t about me anymore. This is about us. About not becoming… the monsters everyone thinks we are. We have a chance to change everything. But I need your help.”

Lucius looked away, eyes narrowing slightly at the koi pond as if it had personally offended him. Then, with a sigh that sounded far too weary for a man who still moisturized nightly, he leaned back.

“…You want me to steal from your Aunt Bellatrix?”

“Technically liberate a soul jar from a deranged war criminal,” Draco said.

To Draco’s complete surprise, Lucius didn’t argue. Didn’t scoff. Just… nodded.

“…All right. I’ll make arrangements.”

Draco blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

Lucius waved a hand. “Your mother’s always said I needed a redemption arc. And if it means not living through a second war—or aging in Azkaban like a haunted cheese—I suppose I’ll allow it.”

Draco exhaled, heart beating fast for the first time that day with something like hope.

Lucius picked up his tea again, voice a little quieter now. “You knew all of this.”

Draco hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

“And you just try to stop me from falling.”

Draco shrugged. “Well, you and the whole wizarding world. But mostly you, I guess.”

Lucius stared at him, eyes unusually unreadable. He sipped his tea again, then said softly, “I’m proud of you. Even if you’ve become disgustingly noble.”

Draco grinned. “Don’t get used to it.”

⸻

The Hogwarts Express whistled dramatically across the mist-veiled English countryside, a sound that felt far too theatrical for Draco Malfoy’s current emotional state.

Inside one of the more luxurious, extra-cushioned compartments—because even existential dread deserved upholstery—Draco sat hunched over his leather-bound, gold-embossed notebook titled:
“How to Survive Fourth Year Without Dying (Or Becoming a Humiliation).”

Subtitled, in pencil: Also Maybe Save Everyone?? TBD.

He furiously scribbled, then paused, chewing the end of his quill like it owed him answers. The list kept growing. The more he thought about the events of the Goblet of Fire, the more certain moments refused to budge—immutable, unchangeable, haunting.

He reached into his bag and pulled out the folded letter he’d already read a dozen times, the one that lived in the corner of his mind like a quiet curse.

⸻

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

I hope you are well. As of now, there are things that cannot be steered away from their original destination—Harry’s involvement in the Tournament, Cedric’s demise, and the Dark Lord’s return.

I cannot say whether they will happen as they once did—or if they must—but remember what I told you: you cannot erase the echo of fate. The scale must remain balanced. It will not work to favor one life without costing another… or perhaps, it might. We may not know, not truly.

I am grateful for your continued help regarding the Horcruxes. I will speak to your father soon.

A.D.

⸻

Draco exhaled slowly and let the letter fall onto his lap, unread but deeply memorized.

He didn’t know what infuriated him more—the cryptic half-answers or the idea that fate required someone to fall in order for someone else to rise. If he saved Cedric… did that mean Harry had to suffer instead?

No.

No, he refused that logic.

But then his mind reeled back through what had already changed. In second year, it hadn’t been Ginny who found the diary—it had been poor Neville, who barely escaped with his soul intact. In third year, he hadn’t been the one to insult Buckbeak; it was Umbridge.

Small changes. Unpredictable ones.

Draco began to see the pattern. See the scale shifting. Fate wasn’t resisting. It was rerouting.

And maybe, just maybe, Cedric’s death was a fixed point. Or maybe it was just the cost of shifting all the rest.

He swallowed hard and cracked open his notebook once more. This time, the list took on a new edge—half battle plan, half desperate prayer.

⸻

Draco Malfoy’s Chaos Prevention Checklist (Fourth Year: Goblet of Fire Edition):

1. DO NOT alarm Mad-Eye Moody (a.k.a. Barty Jr. in dad cosplay with trauma and zero skincare routine).

2. PREVENT Harry’s name from going into the Goblet of Fire (ideally without body-checking him into the trophy case).

3. HEX Rita Skeeter on sight. No hesitation. No mercy.

4. STALK Karkaroff. He smells like secrets and discount cologne.

5. SAVE CEDRIC. (If possible. If not… mourn hard.)

6. AVOID ferret transformations. His bone structure was not built for rodent.

7. GET a Yule Ball date. Preferably scandalous. Durmstrang? Beauxbatons? Hogwarts leftovers?

8. MATCHMAKE Granger and Weasley. Fate clearly needed a boot to the backside.

9. SOLVE the Horcrux mystery. Preferably while alive.

10. FIND Barty Crouch Sr. before his son does. (Very confusing. Very urgent.)

⸻

Chapter Text

As the train began to slow, Hogwarts Castle appearing through the mist like an ancient promise, Draco sighed and tucked his notebook away with the air of a man preparing for war—and teen angst. He straightened his robes, smoothed down his hair, and adopted his usual expression of aristocratic disdain with a hint of emotional repression.

Another year. Another tournament. Another looming disaster.

Let the chaos begin.

⸻

The train hissed to a stop, steam billowing out like a theatrical sigh. Laughter and chatter echoed through the corridors as students pulled on cloaks and collected trunks, their excitement painting the air.

Harry pushed through the crowd with purpose. He’d spotted Draco standing near the end of the corridor, alone for once, tucking that dramatic notebook into his bag. The perfect moment.

They hadn’t really talked since the start of summer—not really. The letters had fizzled out into awkward silences, and once term started, Draco had been… distant. Cool. Slippery. Like smoke Harry couldn’t grab hold of.

But Harry missed him. Worse—he worried about him.

“Draco!” Harry called, heart racing faster than it had any right to.

Draco turned, surprised. His expression flickered—somewhere between guarded and almost glad—before the wall came slamming down again.

“Hey,” Harry said, stepping closer. “Can we talk? I just… I feel like you’ve been avoiding me, and—”

And then Draco’s eyes snapped to something over Harry’s shoulder. His breath caught audibly.

Cedric Diggory had just stepped onto the platform, laughing with a few sixth years, wind-blown and obliviously radiant in the golden afternoon light. It was a completely ordinary moment.

But to Draco, it wasn’t ordinary at all. It was like watching a walking deadline.

His entire body shifted—urgency flaring in his expression like a siren Harry couldn’t hear.

“I—sorry,” Draco muttered. “I have to—”

And just like that, he brushed past Harry, almost knocking into him, and jogged toward Cedric without another word.

“Wait—what?” Harry turned after him, blinking. “Draco?!”

But Draco didn’t look back.

He was already at Cedric’s side, launching into some bizarrely cheerful greeting Harry couldn’t hear over the sound of his own gut sinking.

There was laughter, clapping of shoulders. Cedric said something, probably harmless. Draco smiled—tight and fragile, but real—and for a moment, they looked like old friends.

Harry just stood there, trunk at his side, invisible in a crowd of steam and noise. Something bitter curled in his chest.

Ron appeared a moment later, dragging his trunk. “Hey, you coming or—wait, what’s up with your face?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

He just watched Draco lean in toward Cedric, saying something urgent in that low, intense way he used when he was trying to be clever and sincere at the same time. The way he used to talk to Harry.

“I think,” Harry said finally, voice quiet and edged, “Draco’s got a new favorite person.”

Ron frowned. “You mean Diggory?”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, pulling his trunk after him as the carriages rolled in. “Guess he’s more interesting than me now.”

Ron scoffed, unhelpfully. “Well, Cedric does have that wholesome heartthrob thing going.”

Harry shot him a glare.

“…But I mean, you’ve got the brooding hero thing,” Ron added quickly, then paused. “Okay, no, you’re right. This sucks.”

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t say how much it really sucked.

Because deep down, something about the way Draco had looked at Cedric—like he already knew he was on borrowed time—gnawed at him harder than jealousy ever could.

And he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming. Something none of them were ready for.

⸻

At the Start-of-Term Feast

“Mad-Eye Moody,” Dumbledore announced, beaming with that suspiciously twinkly look that always set Draco’s nerves on edge, “has agreed to be our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor!”

The Great Hall erupted into polite applause.

Inside Draco’s head, however, it sounded more like funeral bells.

He slumped in his seat, glaring at the staff table where Moody was busy sawing into a sausage with the finesse of a drunken troll. His magical eye spun around independently, locking onto random students in a way that made several first-years nearly choke on their pumpkin juice.

“He looks… fine?” Draco muttered, doubt dripping from every syllable.

Blaise leaned over with a snort. “Fine? His face looks like a bag of broken knees.”

Draco grimaced, stabbing moodily at his pudding like it had personally insulted his bloodline. “He’s supposed to be more… suspicious. This is harder than I thought.”

“What is?” Blaise asked, but Draco just shook his head, brooding too hard to answer.

Across the table, Harry caught Draco’s eye, his expression a confused mix of concern and anger. Draco flicked his gaze away immediately, shutting Harry out like slamming a door.

Since their awkward, unfinished letters over the summer, Draco hadn’t properly spoken to Harry. It wasn’t because he wanted to ignore him—it was because every time he looked at Harry, a crushing wave of guilt and uncertainty threatened to drown him.

He liked Harry. That much he knew.

But Cedric… Cedric didn’t deserve to die. Draco knew the future once. He thought he could fix it. But now, with things shifting around him, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Every day it all felt more like grasping smoke.

So, in a weird, backwards act of penance, Draco started hanging out with Cedric Diggory.

A lot.

Painfully often.

It started small—lingering after Charms to walk out together, sitting near him and asking him innocent questions like, “So, Diggory, what’s it like being everyone’s favorite golden boy?” (which Cedric somehow took as a compliment.)

Now it had escalated into full-blown friendship territory.

One afternoon after Transfiguration, they strolled out into the courtyard together, books tucked under their arms. Cedric laughed at something stupid Draco had said, and Draco internally winced. It was so easy with Cedric. Too easy.

“You’re like… average with a broom,” Draco said, in a tone that was trying (and failing) to be insulting.

Cedric grinned and clapped Draco’s back hard enough to nearly dislocate a Slytherin shoulder. “Well, that’s a compliment coming from you, Malfoy!”

Draco stumbled slightly and shot him a scandalized look. “I was insulting you, actually.”

Cedric just laughed again—the worst kind of laugh: genuine, warm, and impossible to stay mad at.

“Cheers, Draco,” Cedric said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Draco opened his mouth to retort. To sneer. To do something to put distance between them. But the words caught somewhere between his pride and the heavy guilt sitting on his chest.

Instead, he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Yeah, whatever” and kicked a loose stone across the courtyard.

As Cedric walked ahead, chatting easily about Quidditch tryouts, Draco trailed behind, feeling like a traitor to a story only he remembered.

From his spot by the library window, Harry stared out at the courtyard where Draco and Cedric were laughing like old friends.

It wasn’t spying.

Not technically.

He just happened to be looking. And thinking very hard about punching something.

“Still brooding?” Ron asked, dropping heavily into the seat next to him and flicking a Chocolate Frog card at his forehead.

“I’m not brooding,” Harry muttered, batting it away.

“You’ve been glowering into space for fifteen minutes, mate,” Ron said. “Either you’re planning Cedric’s murder or you’re writing poetry about Malfoy.”

At Harry’s scowl, Ron grinned and popped a Chocolate Frog into his mouth.

Hermione glanced up from her essay with that infuriatingly knowing look she’d perfected over the years. “Honestly, Harry, it’s not that shocking. Cedric’s a good person. Draco could do worse.”

Harry’s stomach twisted painfully. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Since first year, it had always been the four of them: Harry, Ron, Hermione… and Draco.

Against the world, side by side, through troll attacks, duels, and Quidditch disasters.

And somewhere along the way—quietly, without words—Harry’s feelings for Draco had tangled into something complicated and terrifying.

Draco used to look at him like Harry was his favorite secret.

Now he barely looked at Harry at all.

“He’s just ditching us for Diggory,” Harry said stiffly, not looking up. “That’s weird.”

“I dunno,” Ron said, scratching his head. “Cedric’s… kinda great, isn’t he? Nice, smart, good at Quidditch. If I wasn’t me, I’d hang out with him.”

Harry made a noise like he was being strangled by his own robes.

Hermione shrugged, utterly missing the slow implosion happening next to her. “Maybe Draco’s just… growing up a bit. Making new friends. You should be happy for him.”

Harry didn’t feel happy.

He felt like he was watching something important slip through his fingers.

He felt abandoned, and worse—like it didn’t even matter to Draco.

Outside, Cedric clapped Draco on the back. Draco laughed—actually laughed—his whole face lighting up in a way Harry hadn’t seen in months.

It was a kick to the gut.

Harry shoved his books into his bag with unnecessary violence. “Whatever. Let’s just get to class.”

____

Chapter Text

It was right after Charms when Harry finally lost it.

He stormed down the corridor like a thundercloud with a wand, narrowly avoiding a group of squealing first-years and nearly tripping over someone’s toad.

“Oi! Malfoy!” Harry barked, voice echoing off the stone walls.

Draco, who had been leaning coolly against a pillar while casually scribbling into his notebook—definitely not doodling little Cedric-themed battle strategies—jumped like he’d been caught stealing from Snape’s private stash.

He snapped the notebook shut and stuffed it behind his back. “Potter,” he drawled, raising one impossibly arched eyebrow. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being yelled at in public?”

Harry stomped up to him, red in the face. “Why the hell are you always with Cedric lately?”

Draco blinked. “Why are you always in my business? It’s called having a social life. You should try it sometime.”

“Don’t give me that,” Harry snapped. “You hate people. You once called Hufflepuffs ‘the emotional support doormats of Hogwarts.’”

“Well,” Draco sniffed, “some doormats are rather plush, actually.”

Harry groaned, scrubbing a hand through his already-messy hair. “Just—just tell me why, Draco. We’ve been friends for years and now you’re suddenly glued to Cedric like he’s your emotional support Prefect.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, suddenly on guard. “You make it sound weird. It’s not weird.”

“It is weird! And you’re keeping things from me, which makes it even weirder!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I needed your permission to have other friends,” Draco shot back, sarcasm dripping off every syllable. “Maybe I should send you a calendar invite next time Cedric and I sit on the same bench.”

Harry’s expression faltered for half a second—just enough to reveal a crack underneath the anger. “You don’t get it. You’re just… shutting me out.”

Draco opened his mouth to retort—and stopped. He thought of Cedric. Of the thing he wasn’t supposed to know. Of Dumbledore’s grim warning echoing in his head: “Don’t meddle with fate, Mr. Malfoy. It bites.”

His jaw tightened.

“And why, exactly, should I tell you anything?” Draco snapped. “What I do with Cedric is none of your business.”

“Draco, we—!”

“We were nothing, Potter. Are nothing. And we’re definitely not going to be anything,” Draco spat.

It was a lie. It came out too fast, too sharp, and he felt it hit wrong the moment it left his mouth. But it was already out in the world, slicing the space between them.

Harry’s face twisted—hurt bleeding into fury. “Fine,” he said coldly. “Go hang out with your plush doormat, then.”

Draco crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “Gladly.”

They stood there, breathing hard, two inches apart and worlds away.

Harry turned on his heel and stalked off without another word.

Draco didn’t stop him. Didn’t say he hadn’t meant it. Didn’t say he was disappointed—not in Harry, but in himself.

He just leaned back against the pillar again, pulled out his notebook, and stared at it blankly for a long time without writing a word.

Ron, who had caught up and was watching from a safe five feet away, shook his head slowly. “This is worse than when Percy comes back from work and acts like he’s Minister of Magic already,” he muttered.

Hermione, passing by, sniffed. “Honestly, just snog and get it over with.”

Draco turned bright red.

Harry, who overheard that, sputtered something that sounded suspiciously like “I WOULD RATHER FIGHT A DRAGON.”

Which, hilariously enough, was going to be very relevant very soon.

Draco muttered something like “whatever” and left.

⸻

Later That Night

Draco sat in bed, staring at his now slightly crumpled checklist.

He scribbled a frantic addition:

11. Handle Harry Jealousy Crisis Before It Derails The Timeline.

He sighed, rolling over dramatically. Saving the world was exhausting. And honestly, he didn’t even get a raise.

____

Chapter Text

It was the kind of crisp autumn day Hogwarts liked to show off with: swirling golden leaves, steaming pumpkin juice in the Great Hall, and the mildest threat of an international magical death tournament. No big deal.

Students from Beauxbatons had arrived in dramatic fashion, descending from a carriage larger than Draco’s ego (barely), all wearing powdered blue robes and enough perfume to give a banshee a migraine.

The Durmstrang lot were no less subtle, stepping off a menacing ship that emerged from the Black Lake as if Poseidon himself had cast “Reveal the Goth Swimmers”. They stomped onto the grounds like they’d just walked out of an Eastern European shampoo commercial—leather, fur, scowls included.

Draco observed all of this from a windowsill in the common room, sipping tea and internally screaming.

“This is it,” he muttered to himself, notebook in hand. “The chaos has entered the building.”

Blaise leaned over the back of the chair behind him, casually munching on a Chocolate Frog. “You mean the tournament?”

“No,” Draco said darkly. “I mean fate. She’s arrived. Wearing heels and speaking French.”

⸻

Meanwhile, in the Great Hall…

Whispers about the Triwizard Tournament buzzed through Hogwarts like Cornish Pixies hopped up on espresso and poor life choices. Students were practically vibrating with excitement at the idea of eternal glory—or at least, eternal bragging rights.

Everyone was excited.

Everyone except Draco Malfoy, who knew—for a fact—that glory came pre-packaged with graveyards and trauma.

So when Cedric mentioned, casually, over lunch that he was thinking of entering, Draco nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.

Later, he yanked Cedric into an empty corridor with the intensity of someone about to confess either a murder or a crush. Possibly both.

“You’re not seriously entering the Tournament, are you?” Draco hissed, eyes wide with full dramatic flair. “Please tell me that was some kind of Hufflepuff optimism joke.”

Cedric smiled. That maddening, wholesome, endearing, glowing smile that made Draco want to both shake him and write sonnets. “I think I will. I mean—it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Draco threw his hands in the air. “Yes. Exactly. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to die horribly in front of your classmates and possibly a giant squid!”

Cedric laughed, calm as a cucumber in a meditation class. “You worry too much.”

“I don’t worry, I plan,” Draco snapped, stalking in a small circle. “And my plan involves you staying alive past page 500.”

Cedric tilted his head. “Page what?”

“Nothing! Look,” Draco grabbed Cedric’s arms, staring up at him with the desperation of a man who had seen things. “Just… trust me. Don’t put your name in. Please.”

Cedric’s expression softened. He reached up, gently removing Draco’s hands from his sleeves like he was handling a very emotional ferret.

“I appreciate it,” he said, kind as ever, “but I’m not afraid of a challenge. I want to prove myself.”

“You’re a prefect, a Seeker, a Hufflepuff heartthrob, and your hair defies gravity,” Draco snapped. “What else do you need to prove?!”

“That I can do this,” Cedric said firmly, then added with a wink, “And I’ve got lucky charm energy. I’ll be fine.”

Draco stared at him, slack-jawed, mentally rewriting his entire checklist in frustrated capital letters.

“…Fine,” he said at last, through gritted teeth. “But if you die, I swear I’m going to find a way to resurrect you just to yell at you again.”

Cedric grinned, entirely unfazed. “Then I guess I better win, huh?”

As he walked off toward the Great Hall, calm and confident, Draco leaned against the wall and groaned into his sleeves.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “He’s charming and doomed. That’s just my luck.”

⸻