The lake still trembled beneath the thin veil of mist, the surface churning in slow, angry pulses. The second task had just ended—but not cleanly. Not triumphantly.
Fleur Delacour had failed to complete the challenge.
James stood silently near the outer cordon of the crowd, just far enough to avoid drawing attention but close enough to see everything. His black school robes flapped in the brisk wind sweeping off the lake, hands folded loosely behind his back as his sharp gaze cut through the confusion.
He watched her—Fleur—sitting by the edge, soaked, shivering, and defeated. Her silver-blonde hair clung to her face like dying strands of silk, and her eyes were wide with horror, flicking repeatedly toward her little sister, Gabrielle.
The younger girl was being tended to by a medi-witch, her lips pale, her chest rising only faintly. The cheering had stopped long ago; now there was only murmuring—uneasy, nervous murmuring—as professors and tournament officials crowded around the scene.
James' jaw tightened. Gabrielle hadn't been rescued in time. Harry wasn't in the task this round—sent off on some Dumbledore mission, no doubt—and that left only the champions.
No one had reached her before the deadline. The officials had intervened. She was alive, but barely.
It wasn't supposed to get this close.
A flash of memory stirred in his mind—Professor McGonagall's stern face from earlier, lips pressed into a disapproving line as she tried to persuade him to volunteer for the Triwizard Tournament.
" Mr Dawson, you'd be an excellent ."
He'd refused. Of course he had. No matter how many times she'd tried—logic, appeals to house pride, appeals to his sympathy for little girl —it hadn't worked. He knew how to say no, and he knew how to mean it. Her formidable presence had nothing on him.
Risking his life for what? For camaraderie?
Not a chance.
He didn't fight for banners. He fought for himself. Maybe—a rare exception—for people he chose. And even that came with careful weighing of risks and rewards.
He glanced down again.
The medi-witch now transfigure a stretcher. Gabrielle would be taken to St. Mungo's looks like it . Her condition must've worsened. Fleur was still sitting, unmoving—like a statue cracked from the inside, barely holding together.
James' eyes narrowed.
"Dumbledore wouldn't let her die," he muttered under his breath.
No. The old man had too much to lose. A student dying during his watch would fracture the fragile faith the wizarding world still had in him. He wouldn't make that mistake.
Still… someone had nearly died.
He turned his gaze away. There was nothing he could do for Fleur. No gain in comforting her. Her grief wasn't his to soothe.
But there was something else that needed his attention.
His eyes scanned the crowd until they fell on her.
Daphne Greengrass, composed, lips drawn tight, arms folded. Her expression was unreadable, but her knuckles were white from how tightly she was gripping her robes.
Time to keep my promise.
James began walking, each step calm and unhurried. As he moved, thoughts stirred in the back of his mind like smoke curling through glass.
Why am I helping her again?
He answered himself almost immediately.
the Greengrasses led the neutral faction—quietly, discreetly. They weren't loud like the Malfoys or brash like the Weasleys. But among the old bloodlines, they carried weight. Influence. Political subtlety. And Daphne was their heir.
It would be beneficial to have her owe him something. A debt of merit.
He smirked to himself.
I haven't decided how I'll use her yet... but I will. In time.
He'd need to be clever about it, though. Daphne isn't easily fooled. She is intelligent—she'd notice if she were being played.
Still… she's inexperienced. I can play the long game. Let her believe I'm doing this out of altruism. Build trust. Then leverage it.
Helping her academically would be easy enough. Her theoretical knowledge wasn't far off. What she lacked was application—practical magic. Spellcasting. . The instincts born of hours spent throwing yourself into practice.
Draco's my only real concern, he thought.
The boy was ambitious, persistent, and had resources. It wasn't just him—James was willing to bet Lucius had someone maybe his assistance have Draco private spell demonstrations at home . Or his mother, Narcissa—known to be fiercely protective and involved in Draco's development.
It's not that Daphne's dumb. She's just behind. I can close that gap.
He considered it.
Should I look into Draco's mind? See how is he developing ?
His fingers twitched subconsciously. The temptation was always there—just a whisper away. One glance, one dive into memory, and he could know exactly what he needed.
But then his jaw clenched.
No.
That's how it starts. One peek becomes a habit. Then it becomes paranoia.
He looked to the stage, eyes narrowing with focus.
Dumbledore's way. Only when it's absolutely necessary. Never get caught. Never lose control.
He exhaled through his nose, then refocused.
Draco might be winning , but Daphne could close the gap , it isn't like she lack resources.
She's losing in the practicals. That's where I step in.
His thoughts were interrupted by a flare of movement below. The medi-witches were levitating Gabrielle onto a stretcher now, wrapping her in warming charms as they takeout for a Portkey to St. Mungo's.
James watched for a moment longer.
Then, without a word, he turned away.