Harry Potter stood on the platform in the middle of the Black Lake, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared down at the dark, rippling water below. The second task of the Triwizard Tournament loomed before him, and the gravity of what he was about to do weighed heavily on his mind. Dumbledore's words echoed in his ears—he had to save the person who was most important to him. The thought both thrilled and terrified him.
Ron, standing beside him, gave Harry a hearty clap on the back, trying to offer some comfort. "You've got this, mate," Ron said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He was worried too, though he was doing his best to hide it.
Neville, looking more serious than Harry had ever seen him, approached with the Gillyweed in hand. "Just swallow it, Harry," he instructed, his voice trembling slightly. "It'll help you breathe underwater. You'll be okay."
Harry nodded, trying to steel himself. The platform beneath his feet seemed to sway, or maybe it was just his nerves getting the better of him. He glanced around at the other champions, each preparing in their own way. But Harry's thoughts were consumed by one thing: the task ahead.
Suddenly, the sharp crack of the starting shot rang through the air. It was time. Harry didn't hesitate—he grabbed the Gillyweed from Neville and swallowed it in one gulp. The slimy texture slid down his throat, and almost instantly, he felt a strange sensation spreading through his body, as if invisible hands were pulling him down towards the water.
He took one last breath of the chilly morning air and then jumped. The cold water engulfed him immediately, and he felt his body transforming—gills slitted open on his neck, and his hands and feet webbed together. He could breathe, just like Neville had said.
But there was no time to marvel at the magic. Harry kicked his legs and swam deeper into the lake, the murky darkness swallowing him whole. He didn't know what awaited him at the bottom, but he knew one thing: he had to hurry. He had to save the person who mattered most to him.
The lake grew colder and darker as he descended, strange creatures flitting around him, but Harry pressed on, determined. The pressure built in his ears, and the silence was almost suffocating, broken only by the occasional echo of water against rock. Finally, through the gloom, he saw them—several figures bound by ropes, floating eerily in the water.
His breath caught in his throat as he swam closer. Among the figures, he saw familiar faces: Hermione, a young girl who looked a lot like Fleur, Cho Chang. But it was the last figure that made his heart lurch. There, floating at the edge of the group, was Draco Malfoy.
The usually sharp and haughty face of Draco was pale, his eyes closed, and his silver-blonde hair fanned out like a halo around him. For a moment, Harry panicked. Draco looked dead—his body unnaturally still, his skin as white as the snow above.
But something deep inside Harry told him Draco wasn't gone. He couldn't be. And as that realization hit, Harry understood something else too—Draco was here for him. Of all the people in Harry's life, it was Draco Malfoy who had been taken, bound, and placed here for him to save.
Harry's mind raced. How could this be? Why would the tournament choose Draco, of all people? But the answers didn't matter now. All that mattered was getting him out of here. He knew what he had to do.
Without hesitation, Harry swam to Draco's side and began to untie the ropes that held him. The knots were tight, the coarse ropes biting into Draco's wrists, but Harry's fingers worked frantically, fueled by a mix of fear and determination. His mind flashed through all the memories of their past, the rivalry, the fights, the unspoken tension that had always existed between them.
