Now that Snape had modified the charm and it was no longer ringing whenever Harry shifted his position, Harry, Ron and Hermione focused their research on a way to help Harry breathe underwater in the second task. Harry counted himself lucky that he’d already worked out the clue in the egg, because if he’d been trying to sneak into the Prefect’s Bathroom now he would absolutely have been caught.

In History of Magic, which had been Harry’s first class of the day, the bell had lain quiet. Harry and Ron had spent the entire period playing tic-tac-toe. When, at recess, Hermione had wondered why the bell hadn’t been ringing, because he hadn’t been listening, Harry had mumbled something about how no-one but her actually thought that History was anything other than a glorified hour to sleep in. How could Harry have thought he was doing anything wrong?

She had rolled her eyes at him disgustedly and turned away with a sniff. 

If they had also been considering the possibility that Snape had made a mistake with the charming somehow, this was soon debunked. Asked a question by McGonagall in Transfiguration, Harry had snuck a look at Hermione’s notes– and the bell had made a merry little peal. Both the professor and Hermione had whipped their heads round to look at him, both knowing what that meant, and Harry slunk himself further down in his seat. Ashamed, he said, “I don’t know,” and weathered Hermione’s frosty stare.

“I knew you really knew you ought to do your own work,” she said smugly when they were filing out of the classroom.

He’d been making an effort for the rest of that day, and by some miracle managed to get through to dinnertime without any more ringing. But then Dean asked him about the collar.

“Managed to get it to shut up, did you?”

“It’s stuck on,” Harry said. Then he made a mistake. “It’s still ringing sometimes, but it's kind of rando–”

Ting-a-ling went the bell.

“Oh, shut up,” he hissed at it. It had clearly picked up that he was telling a lie. “I hate this,” he said miserably; Ron, beside him, was laughing at his predicament. 

But that evening, and the ones that followed, they did manage to research their way through a good chunk of the library's books. Harry knew, for sure, that if he’d still been jingling every time he moved, Madam Pince would never have allowed him into the library in the first place. He supposed he ought to be grateful that Snape had changed the enchantment, but could never really manage it.

And so Harry found that his days all blurred into one, aside from the moments of mortification when the bell caught him daydreaming– or nearly falling asleep– in class. Perhaps if he’d been less busy frantically reading through piles and piles of books trying to hunt down a way to breathe underwater, the bell would have been more of an issue… As each day passed by, Harry grew more and more worried that there wasn’t a way for him to breathe underwater. 

By the day before the second task he was heartily sick of reading, and wished he’d never seen a golden egg.

“It’s impossible,” he said to Hermione as he pushed yet another book across the table to join those that had already been skimmed and found to be lacking any relevant information. “I don’t think there is a way to breathe underwater.”

Hermione’s eyes had been whizzing across the page so fast that they blurred together, but at this she lifted them from her book. “There is,” she insisted. “There has to be. They wouldn’t have set the task if it was impossible… if the only way was to become a– a fish animagus or–”

“Wouldn’t put it past them,” grumbled Ron, who had been flicking pages of a book with a scowl. “That’s just the sort of thing that the ministry might do.”

“We’ll just have to keep looking,” Hermione said. 

But Harry never made his intended retort, which would have said something about how even if they found something he’d never be able to master it before the next day. A head of blond hair had popped up beside their table. 

“Scuse me,” the kid said. “Scuse me, but Professor McGonagall wants to see you.”

“Really?” groaned Harry. “Now?”

The student, who looked to be either a first year or very small second-year, said, “Err, no. I mean, yes, she wants to see you in her office now. But not you.” The blond head whipped around, hair flying, and then Harry was staring at the back of it, noticing that the trim on the back of the robes was fraying. “The professor wants to see Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. So,” twisting back to Harry, “not you.”

As the kid darted away, nearly tripping on the edge of their robes, Hermione sighed, starting to pack up the ramshackle tower of books beside her. “I wonder what that’s about,” she said. “We’ll meet you back in the common room as soon as we can to help– take as many books as you can.”

Harry watched them walk away (Ron going with perhaps more speed that he usually would use when going to see a teacher) and then forced his attention back to the book in his hands.

At eight, he was thrown out of the library by Madam Pince, who watched beadily as he carted away as many books as he could carry (and perhaps a few more). In the Gryffindor common room the other students gave him a wide berth, some of them muttering vague encouraging phrases at him but all making sure to keep away from his rapid page-turning.

With Ron and Hermione gone, Harry found that his fatigue was catching up with him. Occasionally he would read a word, then read it again, and again, his brain unable to process any further information— but he would jerk himself out of it, telling himself just this next page then and this one…

On the last book, he only realised that he’d fallen asleep for a few minutes when he came awake with a massive jerk, absolutely terrified. He made it through the rest of the book by pinching himself harshly on the arm each time his eyes drifted shut.

Nothing.

He knew, in a rush of the awakeness that comes when you are so tired that you’ve gone past exhausted and into a half-hallucinatory state, where he must go.

And so, at eight minutes past twelve, Harry walked up the stairs to his dormitory. He could hear Seamus, Dean, and Neville sleeping, the soft whuffling and deep breathing reverberating strangely in his head, louder and slightly warped— but he could hear none of Ron’s creaky snores.

Dean rolled over as Harry pulled out his invisibility cloak; Harry froze then relaxed, knowing that even if they were to wake up, probably none of them would try to stop him. They would be more likely to just roll over and mumble out something that would sound unintelligible but might mean just hurry up and get on with it so we can get back to sleep already.

Harry swung his cloak over his shoulders then set off.

Back down the dormitory stairs, avoiding the creaky one by stepping two at a time; through the common room, leaving all the useless books piled haphazardly on the table; out the portrait hole. The fat lady yawned a sleepy “whozzat?” as he moved off, unable to see Harry under the cloak.

The common room had been dimly lit by the banked fire, but without that it was very dark. A whispered “lumos,” lit Harry’s way through the corridors, and he strained his tired senses as he crept to the library. Any sound he heard might be a teacher on patrol— or Filch with Mrs Norris— and he had no desire to encounter them.

Pushing the library door open just enough to slip through, Harry froze at the creak it made. Waiting, he listened, but there was no indication that anyone had heard, so he closed it again carefully behind him.

Harry made his way over to the restricted section. Somehow, the gloom of the library seemed darker behind the iron bars that housed the forbidden books. 

He reached a hand out and pulled the barred gate open. It didn’t make a sound, but suddenly butterflies filled his stomach. 

Careful, careful, he thought. Remember that screaming book in first year… and if someone catches you, you’ll be in it deep, you really shouldn’t be here–

It was only then that the bell on his collar pealed out. It was a high, clear noise.

“No,” Harry muttered. “No, no no!”

He’d forgotten about the enchanted collar, probably because it had lain dormant for a while as he researched. Of course it was now that his conscience decided to remind him that he really was breaking the rules…

“Okay,” he said to himself. “You can do this. In, then out. Quickly, quietly, then back to the tower.” And even though the bell was chiming now, growing louder and more urgent as he grew more worried it would attract teachers, he stepped inside the restricted section.

His wand-light didn’t reach as far in there, almost as if the darkness were somehow denser. Harry peered at the spines, looking for titles that might have even a vague connection to his desired subject. He didn’t have long— the bell was getting louder, and faster, as his sense of urgency compounded itself.

Nothing, nothing– Mermaid! Okay, and… yes, that one… and that…

He gathered books into his arms quickly, awkwardly balancing them and trying to keep his wand up to see. Four books, then five— were there any more here?

The bell was jangling faster as he stepped across to look at the next shelf— if anyone was anywhere near the library, they would be able to hear it—

There didn’t seem to be any on that shelf. Damn the bell— he knew that if anyone came in, he wouldn’t be able to hear them, it was so loud now—

And then the lights snapped on.

Harry, blinking wildly, tried to shield his eyes with his arm. Someone had magicked the all the lanterns on, and though the library was usually dimly lit, it was still more than Harry had been expecting— and someone was here, now— and his bell was still ringing…

Harry ducked down, and tried to keep his books secure against his chest while he fumbled in his pocket for the invisibility cloak.

“Come here, Potter.”

He froze, cloak half on. The loud voice had cut through the ringing— no, the ringing had stopped! It had stopped!

“I know you’re here, Potter,” said the voice. It was Snape, of course it was Snape. “I have locked the door. Come here at once. You would not wish to tarry.”

But if Harry pulled the cloak over him, now that the bell had stopped…

“Now, Potter,” Snape said, voice chillingly cold. “Or I will come and get you. Do not forget it was I who placed that charm on you— I have halted it, for now, but it can be used to hunt you out if you persist in playing hide-and-seek. Here, now.”

Harry peeked through a gap in the shelves. Sure enough, it was Snape, and the outer library door was closed. There was no other way out, and if Snape was telling the truth about the charm— and he would be…

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. Then he stuffed the invisibility cloak back into his pocket as fast as he could, and stepped out from the shelter of the shelves.

It was a very miserable Harry Potter that shuffled over to meet Snape. The man was standing straight and tall before the library door, the very picture of expectancy.

“Out for a midnight stroll,” Snape said lightly, “Again?” He held out his hands; Harry reluctantly placed the books he’d frantically found in them.

“And in the restricted section, too,” Snape added, rather dangerously. Harry toed at the carpet, unable to look at his teacher. Why was it that the man could make him feel this way? Harry shouldn’t feel guilty, he needed those books…

“Alright, Potter,” Snape barked out sharply, suddenly. He pointed to a chair at the nearby table. Harry, confused, sat down, wishing he’d never heard of the tournament in the first place. “Let’s see what you have got.”

The first book was Mermaid Hunting for Pleasure and Profit.

“Useless,” Snape decreed, pushing it to the side. “Slaughtering mermaids is both illegal and inhumane. The myth about the usefulness of tail fluke was debunked in 1894. Reading this book would only make you sick— and if it did not I would be worried about having a sociopath on my hands.”

Harry was indeed feeling rather sick— and the thought of killing mermaids was not helping that.

“The Kraken Sleepeth,” Snape read from the cover of the next book. He drew out his wand and performed several quick motions, his face hardening at the results. “Tell me, Potter, are you really so interested in killing yourself and everyone around you, or are you just stupid? Each line you read of this poem feeds power to a spell which would conjure one! A kraken, Potter— do you know how destructive they are?”

Harry shook his head weakly and watched as Snape placed it atop the book on mermaid hunting.

“Next one— hmm, Fish, Fins, and Fun.” Snape flicked through it, then actually slid it across the table to Harry. “Harmless. This has been put back in completely the wrong spot. I don’t suppose you actually want to read an outdated children’s story about a dolphin animagus? Published 1923? Go on, have a read.”

 As Snape watched him, Harry picked it up and opened it. “What ripping fun,” Harry read out loud, sliding himself down into his chair and wishing he could disappear. “Splash! Dorothy loved swimming. It was the best— and she had lots of fun with all her sea-creature friends too.”

“Sounds like it’s right at your level,” Snape said, mercilessly. Harry closed the book and shoved it across the table, trying to get it as far away from him as possible.

The next book was entitled A Witch’s Travels in the South Seas. Harry eyed it, wondering if this one might actually have been useful if not for its confiscation. But Snape soon put paid to any thoughts of that.

“This, Potter” he said, lip curling, “You are entirely too young for. Any fumbling adolescent… stirrings… you may have do not need encouragement from inappropriate content.”

The very buxom witch on the back cover waved cheekily at Harry then made a suggestive movement. Harry flushed bright red and sank further into his chair. He could not look at Snape, he couldn’t—

His potions professor was picking up the last book, one that simply read Fishbourne on the spine.

“Hmm,” he said. Then, opening it to the first page, he read, “‘A treatise on socio-political tensions within the colonies of America, by R. P. Fishbourne’. I presume this was not what you intended to be reading, Potter.”

It sounded like something Hermione might find interesting, but Harry had picked it up because he’d seen the word fish— though evidently that had been part of the author’s name rather than a title.

“No,” Harry said, feeling small, when it was clear that the professor was waiting for a response. “Not, not really.”

“I hope not,” Snape said crisply, closing the book with a snap. “Fishbourne was a famous advocate for enslaving all muggles and instituting wizarding dominion.”

“Oh,” Harry said softly. He could feel pressure welling up behind his eyes— this had been his last chance, his last opportunity to find something so that he didn’t look like an utter fool in front of everyone. But now the other three champions would dive neatly into the lake, and Harry would have to just stand there, shivering, and admit that he hadn’t figured out a way to complete the task… he was so tired…

A flick of Snape’s wand sent the books flying over to Madam Pomfrey’s office, to be reshelved in the morning.

“Honestly, Potter,” Snape said, rather scathingly. “Do you truly believe that you would manage to find— and master— something to assist you in the middle of the night, only hours before the second task?

“No,” said Harry  quietly, his voice cracking. “No, I didn’t.” 

Snape didn’t understand— how could he? He probably thought that Harry hadn’t realised he’d need some way to breathe underwater until the day before the task!

Harry wished he could be angry at that, but all he just felt utterly small at the scolding— and he was so, so tired… tired… it was all awful, really, so stupid, and he was so tired…

“Just like you, Potter, always slapdash in your preparation. I could never be called an optimist towards the quality of your work ethic, but it seems I was mistaken in the belief that an international event might prompt something more—”

Harry’s head was aching now— had it been before?— and he reached up a hand to wipe grit from his eyes, bumping his glasses. The fingers came away wet, but he wasn’t crying, was he? No, everything was a bit spinny, and was he really there, or was he standing near the lake admitting he’d failed… that wasn’t right, he was asleep, wasn’t he? But Snape was talking, so he must be in potions class— The library, the library, he’d been caught—

“—The curfew is in place for a reason, Potter. Roaming a magical castle in the dead of night… Are you listening to me? Potter!” 

Harry blinked himself back to shrink at the look of utter disgust on Snape’s face.

“You’re swaying, Potter.”

“I’m not,” he heard himself say from far away.

“Yes, you are,” Snape retorted. “Stand up. I’ll see you to bed if I have to put you there myself.”

Then there was a tight grip, high on Harry’s arm, and he was stumbling through the corridors, wrenching his eyes open when he noticed they were closed. And then, somehow, Harry was in bed, the smooth weave of the sheets over him comforting in their heaviness….

Harry slept.