Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
(Somewhere Between Smoke and Secrets)
Draco Malfoy had never felt so abandoned.
The World Cup celebrations had been all light and noise, banners snapping in the wind, but now the air tasted like copper and ash. He stood in the dim edge of the clearing that led towards an embankment. They had found him, as if attracted towards the guilt and desperation.
The first scream reached him like a warning bell.
Hermione swallowed. “There’s still people out there—”
Draco turned away, voice flat. “Go on then. Save them. Be brilliant. Just don’t pretend you’re not playing the same game.”
What finally broke him, he thought as she finally turned at Harry’s shout, was seeing Hermione Granger—someone he once mocked for her blood—being admired by Viktor Krum in front of the entire wizarding world. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
The rest—the accusations, the anger—was projection. He didn’t really hate them.
He just didn’t know how to keep standing while everything he understood was upended. He stood still as they left. And no one even looked back.
Then came the second scream—closer.
The air shifted. Lanterns toppled. Someone shouted in Bulgarian, another in French, and then a hot crack of spellfire split the sky. He stumbled backward, his hand hovering near his wand.
Figures in black cloaks emerged from between the tents, their masks glinting in the erratic firelight. One of them turned its head toward him. Draco froze, throat dry.
Then the figure inclined its head—acknowledgment, recognition. They knew his name.
The rioters swept past him, their boots churning dirt and trampled grass, sparks rising behind them. They didn’t touch him. Didn’t even slow.
He followed.
Through the chaos, the noise shifted: roars from drunk wizards had turned to something sharper, something real . Spells whined and cracked. A wagon ignited in emerald fire. Draco’s stomach twisted, but he kept moving, following the cloaked backs deeper into the fringe of the camp.
Then—
The rioters stopped abruptly, some faltering mid-step. A dozen cloaked figures faced something unseen in the shadows between the trees.
A voice cut through the smoke. Cold, measured, female: “You go no further.”
Draco slipped behind an overturned cart and peered out.
A woman in deep indigo robes stood with her wand drawn, backlit by the faint silver light of a protective ward. Lady Bones. He recognized her voice from Ministry functions, from his father’s grumbling stories, from her wedding .
Beside her, Augusta Longbottom strode into view, bearing no wand but radiating a terrifying authority. Her presence alone seemed to force the masked figures to hesitate.
And flanking them—two more adults in dark cloaks. Draco squinted through the smoke and almost choked.
Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.
The masked rioters hesitated. Their bravado faltered. Spellfire hissed across the dirt as the first curse arced—green and sharp—toward Amelia Bones.
She batted it aside with a snarl. “Aurors, now! ”
From the shadows, half a dozen Ministry wizards erupted, wards flaring around them in tight formation.
The battle ignited.
Draco couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.
Spells tore the night into jagged light—streaks of green, gold, and violet. A tent erupted into splinters. Smoke rolled across the clearing. The rioters weren’t laughing now; some broke formation, running, while two fell hard to the dirt, wands kicked aside by precise jinxes.
One of the fallen masks tilted, and Draco saw a sliver of pale cheek, young and sweaty. Not his father. Someone else’s son.
Draco swallowed hard, frozen in the crook of the overturned cart. His wand shook slightly in his hand. A crunch of leaves behind him made him whirl, heart in his throat—
“Draco! ” Harry Potter’s face appeared through the smoke, Neville right behind him, both crouching low. Harry’s eyes were wide, darting between the chaos and Draco. “ What are you doing out here? ”
“I—” Draco’s voice cracked. “I wasn’t… I just— ”
Neville grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down just as a jinx sizzled overhead. They huddled behind the cart together, three boys pressed into the mud while the night exploded around them.
Then Harry went still. His gaze cut through the smoke toward the duel in the clearing. “Draco,” he said quietly, “your father’s here.”
Draco stiffened. His head whipped toward the fight, pulse roaring in his ears.
And there—masked but unmistakable in his height, his stance, the cut of his dueling posture—Lucius Malfoy. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t striding forward like the others. He wasn’t chasing fleeing Muggles or hurling curses at tents. He was holding the line. Spells from other rioters arced past him, and his wand moved with precise elegance—not to strike but to deflect. Shielding, not killing. Twice, he turned his wand to block jinxes that would have hit other masked wizards in the back.
“He’s… ” Neville whispered. “… He’s not attacking them. He’s protecting his own. ”
“And the leaders know it,” Harry muttered. His eyes flicked to Amelia Bones, Augusta Longbottom, Sirius, and Remus. They were all facing the rioters, holding formation—but not one of them angled a spell toward Lucius.
For a breath, it felt like the world had gone silent except for the clash of sparks and the thud of distant boots. Then Harry grabbed Draco’s wrist. “Come on. We’re leaving. ”
Draco hesitated—half in pride, half in disbelief—but the pressure of Harry’s grip and Neville’s urgent nod left no room for argument.
They scrambled from cover, crouching low as they darted toward the tree line. And then—
High above the treeline, something twisted in the sky. A single green bolt soared upward and burst into the shape of a skull with a serpent tongue.
The Dark Mark.
The battle froze.
Riots turned to gasps and screams. Spells sputtered out. Even the masked wizards staggered back. Draco’s lungs seized. He had never seen it in person. Only in books. Only in whispered memory. Harry and Neville yanked him toward the forest edge.
That’s when a small shape stumbled out of the underbrush, muttering in high-pitched panic. An elf—trembling, wide-eyed, clutching a wand almost as long as its arm.
“Master Barty—no, mustn’t see, mustn’t see—! ” it squeaked.
They froze, three boys staring down at the quivering figure.
None of them knew her name. None of them knew what this meant.
But in the distance, the screams had started again, and the Mark bled across the night sky like a wound that would never close. And as the Mark loomed over the camp, the thought that hit him hardest was simple: They didn’t leave me behind. Not all of them.
By the time they reached the edge of the main camp, the world had dissolved into smoke and frantic shouting. The air reeked of burned canvas and ozone; glowing embers drifted like fireflies as the Ministry shouted orders over the panicked crowd.
Draco, Harry, and Neville slipped between abandoned trunks and overturned chairs, their shoes slick with trampled mud. None of them spoke. Behind them, the echo of the battle still clung to their bones. The image of Lucius Malfoy—mask on, wand raised defensively—wouldn’t leave Draco’s mind. His father’s spellwork had been flawless, restrained. Not the cruelty the world expected from a Death Eater’s hand.
And none of the leaders had aimed at him. Not one.
They ducked behind a toppled table as a pair of Aurors sprinted past, dragging a stunned wizard by his collar. In the distance, the Dark Mark loomed—its serpent tongue coiling in a sky too bright for any natural night.
“Do we—” Neville started, then stopped to catch his breath. His face was pale under the dirt and smoke. “Do we tell anyone?”
Harry tilted his head. “About the elf?” He glanced toward the smoke curling over the tents, toward the distant glint of Amelia Bones’ duel-worn robes. He thought of Sirius and Remus somewhere in that mess, of Augusta’s thunderous gaze. “No,” he said finally. “We keep this between us.”
They sank into a silence that was thicker than the smoke.
Somewhere deeper in the camp, the Aurors were corralling wizards for questioning. Orders flew in clipped voices. A baby wailed. And from behind a half-burnt tent, a small voice whispered again, panicked and high-pitched: “ Mustn’t tell… mustn’t tell Master Barty… ”
The elf had fled into the chaos before any of them could move.
Harry rubbed the heel of his hand against his brow. “If the Ministry finds her with that wand—”
“They’ll believe whatever they want,” Draco cut in, sharper than intended.
Neville exhaled slowly. “Then it’s decided. No one hears it from us.”
A distant voice called Harry’s name—familiar, frantic. Aunt Petunia.
The three boys exchanged a single look. Not friendship, not yet. But something bound them all the same. A night of smoke and jagged light, a father’s shadow, and the truth none of them could ever say aloud.
They rose without a word and walked toward the shouts and lanterns, leaving the mud, the elf’s footprints, and the fading Mark behind them.
(Somewhere Between Salt and Soulfire)
The sea was unnaturally still.
No waves lapped the boat’s edges. No gulls cried above. The silence was thick, reverent, the kind that pressed into your chest and whispered that something ancient was watching.
Harry stood at the prow, wind slicing through his damp hair, wand clenched tight. Beside him, Hermione held the leather-bound journal—Flamel’s—its corners worn, its ink salt-stained. She was whispering again. Repeating the Protocol. Just in case.
Sirius paced near the stern, restless, muttering under his breath. “This is mad. There’s nothing here. Just water. We should have seen—”
“It’s not here,” Remus said, voice calm but taut. “It’s beneath. ” His eyes flicked to Harry. “Isn’t it?”
Harry gave a small nod. “I can feel it. Like… like the Map when it wakes. It’s calling.”
Neville stirred beside Ginny. “That’s not comforting, mate.”
“It’s not meant to be,” Amelia Bones said crisply, drawing her Ministry-issued cloak tighter. She had agreed to come against her better judgment. But the coordinates checked out. And more importantly—Dumbledore hadn’t objected. Which meant he knew . “The journal says the entrance is keyed to blood and will.”
“Two things we’re not short on,” Ginny muttered.
Hermione stepped forward, flipping her journal to a marked page. “Phoenix Protocol 17. Line four. ‘When seven walk the sea, the vault shall stir. Three bloods Flame-bound, three truth-seekers, and the one who carries both.’”
Her eyes flicked to Harry. The one who carried both.
He exhaled slowly. Then raised his wand. “Ignis Veritas. Aperio. ”
The air rippled. The sea beneath them began to churn, not violently, but as if something huge and sleeping were turning in its bed. Then—a hiss. A circle of light appeared on the ocean’s surface, pale gold, pulsing. Symbols shimmered within it—ancient runes none of them recognized except Hermione. And she gasped.
“It’s the Veritas Crucible. It’s here .”
Suddenly, the boat began to sink—not downward, but through the light. There was no resistance. Just a soft pull, like falling asleep. And then they were beneath.
The sea fell away. They stood on solid stone in a cavern that hummed with magic so old it hurt to breathe. Columns of salt-white rock stretched to a vaulted ceiling. Suspended in the air were glass orbs, hundreds—memories drifting like starlight. A basin at the center glowed softly. The Veritas Crucible.
But what stopped them all cold was the wall behind it. Scorched across black stone, in runes pulsing faint red:
THE FLAME DOES NOT FORGET WHO TRIED TO STEAL IT.
Below it was a handprint. Human. Burnt into the wall.
Hermione swallowed. “Someone was here.”
Sirius stepped forward, brow furrowed. “That… that’s his signature. Riddle. I saw it once—in a book he wrote at school.”
Remus looked grim. “Then he found it. Or tried to.”
Neville was staring at the Crucible. “Why didn’t he take it?”
Harry stepped up to the basin. Within it, fire danced—but it was silent. Coiled. Waiting. “He couldn’t,” Harry said quietly. “It wasn’t his .”
Hermione moved beside him. “Then maybe it’s ours now.”
The flame flared in the basin—just once. As if in answer.
The sea churned beneath them, but the rock they stood on remained still — too still, as if anchored in something beyond gravity. The coordinates had brought them here: to an obsidian-black outcrop just barely breaking the surface of the waves. Cold wind howled around them, but no tide touched their boots.
The Crucible shimmered in a circle ahead, ancient runes glowing on the ground. Not Flamel's work — older. The kind of magic that judged, not welcomed. And still, one by one, they stepped inside.
Harry stepped first. The moment his foot touched the runes, light snapped shut around him.
He stood in the Forbidden Forest—but not as he remembered it. The trees breathed, and above them loomed the stars of a sky he couldn’t name. From the shadows emerged two figures: one with James Potter’s voice, the other with Lily’s eyes. But they didn’t speak. A mirror formed between them. Harry saw not himself—but all the selves he could have been. Slytherin Harry. Ilvermorny Harry. Head of House Harry. Dead Boy Who Lived. One by one, they stepped forward, until the real Harry — this Harry — whispered, “Enough.” The mirror cracked. The path opened. He walked on.
Hermione expected logic. Instead, she found silence.
A library stretched before her, infinite, but every book had its title scraped off, its language wrong. She ran her fingers over the spines and wept—not because she couldn’t read them, but because she could feel them thinking back. One book floated into her hands. It whispered her name in three tongues—one of which she had never learned. One of which wasn't human. When she opened it, her own handwriting stared back at her. A journal she hadn't written. Yet. And on the last page: “What is known must be protected. But what is hidden must be loved.” Her crucible was trust.
Remus stood in a meadow. Moonless. Wandless. Helpless. But the transformation still came. Bones cracking. Fur bursting from skin. The monster, bare and burning in his veins. Except this time, he didn’t lose himself. He heard Sirius's voice in the distance, and then James’s laugh, and Harry’s name—shouted in anger, whispered in love. He stayed conscious. Felt every muscle. Felt every choice. And then the Crucible offered him a gift: control. It was the first time he howled without fear.
Sirius stepped into a prison. Azkaban. Again. But there were no bars. Just mirrors.Each one showed a different face: Regulus. Bellatrix. His mother. Harry. James. Himself. And behind every face — the choice he didn’t make. One mirror showed a version of him who’d stayed behind. Raised Harry himself. Taught him to ride a broom at five. Held Remus's hand before the full moon. Another showed a Sirius who died at sixteen, choking on the Black name. He smashed each mirror with his fists, bleeding. And then the Crucible asked, “Which one are you ?” He answered.
“The one who’s still choosing. ”
Neville expected shame. He found a battlefield.
No one else stood with him. Just wands, broken and strewn across ash. The sky was red with war. And from the smoke came Tom Riddle—not a boy, not a man. Something else. Neville was terrified. But he did not run. He held his grandmother’s voice in his bones and lifted a sword he had never seen before—silver and old and pulsing. When he swung it, the world cracked in two. And from that wound, a new root began to grow.
The Chamber returned for Ginny. It always did.
But this time, she wasn’t a girl. She wasn’t possessed. She stood in the center of it, Agatha’s voice whispering through her blood. Tom was there. Young. Pale. Charming. Dead. But when he stepped forward, so did another — herself. Older. Wiser. Wearing flame-colored robes and with a snake coiled at her wrist. They merged. Ginny didn’t even blink. And then she said to Tom, “I carried you once. Never again.” The basilisk rose. And she did not run.
Amelia Bones didn’t enter the Crucible. It entered her.
For her, the visions were all paper and ink. Lives reduced to case files. Deaths tabulated. The law speaking louder than the truth. She stood at a desk as parchment bled ink, flowing over her hands. A thousand names she hadn’t saved. The Crucible whispered, “Will you serve what is written —or what is right ?” She set down her wand. Picked up a quill. And rewrote the first name.
Harry Potter.
They emerged one by one, changed.
None of them spoke. Not at first. The sun was setting. The tide was gone.
The Crucible was gone.
But its weight was still in their bones. And in the distance — perhaps miles, perhaps centuries — a phoenix cried once. Then went still.
(Somewhere Between Law and Legacy)
The study at the Bones estate was heavy with the smell of ink and fire. Scrolls lay in ordered chaos across the polished table, a map of the world as only the Circle could see it—bloodlines, accords, ghosts. The room’s single enchanted lantern flickered, throwing long shadows that seemed to lean closer to listen.
Amelia Bones stood at the head of the table, hands braced against the wood. Her robes were still travel-stained from the Crucible, the hem darkened by seawater that wasn’t there anymore.
“Never,” she said finally, voice low and rough, “have I seen the law bend like that.”
Augusta Longbottom inclined her head, her eyes sharp. “The law bends every day, Amelia. It just doesn’t usually speak while it does it.”
Andromeda Tonks leaned back in her chair, arms folded, the Black family rings glinting in the lantern light. “The Crucible didn’t ask for laws. It asked for oaths . And it took them all the same.”
“Even Harry,” Sirius muttered from near the window. His voice was tight, half pride, half worry. “He saw it. He answered it. He’s fourteen.”
Petunia’s hands tightened around her teacup. “Harry’s older than fourteen. He had to be.” Her gaze flicked to Amelia. “What he saw in this world… would’ve broken a lesser man.”
“Or a lesser child,” Remus murmured, quiet as always.
The room fell silent. They had all felt it—the pull of the Crucible. The way it had peeled away their justifications and masks, leaving only what they had sworn to protect, or failed to.
“Then it’s decided,” Amelia said finally, squaring her shoulders. “We accept the ICW’s proposal. The Triwizard Tournament will be hosted at Hogwarts. We need the eyes of the magical world here—not abroad. Let them see the alliances we forge.”
“You mean,” Andromeda said dryly, “let them see Harry Potter stand in the center of it all.”
Sirius bristled, but it was Petunia who answered. “He will. He always was going to. But now… he understands why .”
A quiet knock interrupted them.
The door opened. Harry stood there, face pale but resolute. He’d changed into clean robes, but there was still a stiffness in his movements, a quiet gravity in his green eyes that none of the adults could meet without a twinge of guilt.
“I heard,” he said simply. “About the Tournament.” Sirius opened his mouth, but Harry held up a hand. “They don’t have to convince me anymore. I’ll allow it.”
“Harry—” Remus began.
“We’ll host it,” he said again, firmer this time. “If it’s here, I can watch it. I can… stop it. If it goes wrong.”
“You’re a child,” Andromeda said quietly, though without mockery.
Harry met her gaze and didn’t flinch. “I was a child before the Crucible, too. That didn’t stop it from showing me what it did.”
The room was very still.
Amelia finally nodded. “Then it’s done. Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament.”
Augusta raised her teacup. “And the world will remember this year, one way or another.”
No one cheered. No one smiled.
Because in the back of all their minds was the same unspoken truth: the Crucible had marked them, and whatever game they had agreed to play now, it would not end with a trophy.
Chapter 2: They Called it Change
Chapter Text
(It’s All About Grades)
There was something wrong with the air.
It shimmered—not like heat, not quite. More like the way an old memory stings when it resurfaces unexpectedly. It caught at the edge of Draco Malfoy’s robes as he stepped through the barrier and onto the platform, dragging behind him like a thread he hadn’t meant to pull loose.
He paused. Everyone else kept walking.
Parents hugged their children. Trunks levitated clumsily. Owls shrieked at each other like they’d been caged too long. And through it all, the Hogwarts Express hissed steadily at the platform, waiting.
It was all the same as always. Only… it wasn’t.
There were more Aurors than usual—two near the ticket booth, three stationed near the barrier, one moving along the length of the train, wand held low but ready. There was a look to them—tightly wound, like the world had exhaled wrong and they were trying to shove the breath back in.
Draco stood still, clutching his trunk handle, but not moving forward.
Across the platform, he saw them. Neville Longbottom, now taller, steadier, like someone had ironed the uncertainty out of his spine. Susan Bones, in Ravenclaw blue— same calculating eyes. And Potter, surrounded by noise but oddly still, like the whole train moved around him.
Everyone had changed.
He hadn’t.
He looked down at his own hands—pale, smooth, clenched just a little too tight around the handle. His sleeves were pressed crisp, his robes flawless, but he could feel something boiling underneath, quiet and ugly. Like the platform air had seeped into his blood and made it buzz.
Even Granger walked differently now. He saw her step onto the train, her hair pinned back, her expression distant—tighter than he remembered. There was no fight in her posture. Just… focus. Like she was listening to something no one else could hear.
She didn’t even look back.
For one reckless second, Draco thought of turning around and walking back through the barrier. Let them go on without him. Let the world split and spiral and carry on in their new shapes while he stayed the same. At least he’d know who he was.
But then the air shimmered again—this time across the platform, golden and strange. Not magic in the usual sense. Older. Wilder. It slid through the smoke above the train like something alive. No one else seemed to notice. Except Longbottom.
The boy turned, eyes narrowing. And Potter—he looked directly at the shimmer and flinched.
Draco’s mouth went dry. Something had woken.
The train gave a great hiss and the whistle blew—louder than it should have, echoing through the station like a warning bell, like a summons . It rattled the air around Draco, and for a moment, the gold in the smoke lit up—just faintly.
The castle was calling.
His feet moved before he decided. One step. Then another. He boarded the train without a word.
The train lurched, and Draco let the motion carry him forward, deeper into the corridor. He passed doors already shut and silenced with charms, friends laughing inside compartments that didn’t look like they had space for him this year. He could’ve opened one anyway. Claimed the seat. Played the role. But the old mask itched now, and he wasn’t sure if the face underneath was finished forming yet.
So he walked.
Past Gregory and Vincent, already snorting over something in a bag of sweets. Past Daphne and Tracey, who paused mid-conversation to glance up—assessing, calculating, like he was a rumor they'd already heard too many versions of.
He finally stopped near the center of the train. The carriage was quieter here.
And then he saw her.
Granger. Sitting alone. A thick brown book lay open on her lap, her quill scratching absently in the margins, though she wasn’t reading. Not really. Her eyes kept flicking to the window, then away. Her posture was like the window might speak if she stared at it long enough.
He didn’t knock. Just opened the door.
She didn’t look surprised. “Malfoy.”
He slid the door shut behind him and sat across from her without asking. The compartment felt too quiet, like the air between them had learned to brace itself. She capped her ink.
Neither of them spoke. Outside, the trees blurred into green streaks. The sun flashed through the window bars, casting gold slats across the floor. The train had truly left now—no turning back.
“You topped Charms,” Draco said finally, voice flat.
Hermione’s brow arched. “I thought you did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
A pause.
“I thought it would be Harry,” she added, tone light, but her gaze was sharp.
Draco smirked faintly. “He was distracted. One might say… Acceptably so.”
Hermione snorted. “Acceptable. Right. That sounds generous.”
He leaned back, arms folding. “And yet you barely got Exceeds Expectations in Potions. What happened? Your cauldron revolt again?”
“I was provoked.”
“You blew a hole in the ceiling.”
“I was right ,” she said crisply, a spark of old fire in her voice.
Draco almost smiled. It felt unfamiliar. Like muscle memory dredged up from a different timeline.
She was watching him. Not with suspicion, for once, but something closer to curiosity. He looked different this year—he knew that. Less gel. Less performance. More shadow.
“You didn’t board the train until the last minute,” she said.
He shrugged. “Wasn’t sure I belonged.”
“None of us are,” she murmured.
There it was again—that strange shimmer in her tone. Like she knew something he didn’t. Like she’d walked through some hidden door and left part of herself behind.
“You topped Transfiguration,” he said abruptly. “By a landslide.”
She tilted her head. “Why do you care?”
He met her gaze.
“I just wanted to know who I lost to.” She finally admitted to her own question of the past summer.
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp, or uncomfortable. It just… was . Like a truce too old to remember its origin.
Outside, the train cut through a shadowed grove. The light dimmed.
Inside, Hermione closed her book. “I didn’t win,” she said.
Draco blinked. “What?”
She looked down at her hands. “Even with the grades. Even with the glory. It didn’t feel like winning.”
And he understood.
Not the words, exactly. But the hollow they came from.
(It’s Not All About Perspective)
Hermione didn’t turn around until the door clicked shut behind her. Draco was still sitting where she’d left him, though he hadn’t looked back once. Good. That made it easier.
She inhaled through her nose and made her way down the corridor, her shoes steady on the floor despite the train’s movement.
It had been a civil conversation. Sharp around the edges, maybe. But civil. That in itself felt unusual. Draco Malfoy didn’t ask about grades unless he was trying to rub something in. Except he hadn’t been smug. He’d been... measured.
“You didn’t say how you did in Arithmancy.”
“I don’t recall you taking that class.”
“No, but I recall you storming out of Flitwick’s in May.”
She hadn't answered him, not really. She didn’t need to. He already knew. Just like she knew he had probably tied with her for the top mark in Defense—again.
Not that it mattered. Not today.
The carriage ahead was only half-full. She slid the door open and stepped inside.
Ron gave her a once-over. “You all right?”
“Fine,” she said, taking the last seat beside Neville. “I was just... catching up with someone.”
Ron gave her a look, the kind he usually reserved for when she said something suspiciously vague. “Catching up with who?”
Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just... someone I hadn’t spoken to in a while.”
Harry shifted slightly, eyes still on the window. “Malfoy,” he said, not asking.
Ron looked between them, eyebrows climbing. “You’re joking. What does he want?”
“Nothing,” Hermione said a little too fast. “He didn’t say anything awful. Just—grades. Last term. That’s all.”
Neville looked up from a folded copy of the Daily Prophet on his lap. “He’s been strange since last year,” he said quietly. “Quieter. Like he’s got something stuck in his throat all the time.”
“Conscience,” Ron muttered. “Choking on it, maybe.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “He’s not the only one who went through... things. Everyone did. We can’t expect people to come back exactly the same.”
“We’re not talking to people who tried to curse us into trees last year,” Ron countered. “Difference.”
Harry finally looked away from the window, his voice quiet. “Did he say anything about what happened over the summer?”
Hermione shook her head. “Nothing personal. Just school. Just... normal.”
That, somehow, felt stranger than if he’d said something cruel.
The landscape blurred past in long swathes of green and gold. The wheels hummed beneath them.
Neville cleared his throat. “Professor Sprout sent me a letter,” he offered. “She said I’ve been made Herbology assistant for the second years.”
Hermione brightened. “Neville, that’s wonderful!”
He flushed slightly, smiling. “She said it was for reliability. Which I think means I show up and don’t break things.”
“Well, that’s more than can be said for some,” Ron said with a lopsided grin. “Congrats, mate.”
Neville nodded, pleased.
Hermione leaned back slightly, letting the voices drift around her. The conversation veered into speculations about the new Defense professor—some Auror from the continent, maybe, or someone from inside the Ministry—but her thoughts lingered on that earlier moment. Malfoy, sitting perfectly still as the train started to move, eyes trained on the glass.
Not smug. Not cold. Not like the boy who used to flick her quills off the table for fun.
Different.
She folded her hands in her lap.
Everyone came back changed.
(It’s All About Timing)
The train was already humming like a giant steel bee when Ginny tugged her out of the compartment with the Patil twins. “We should find Harry and them before they disappear behind some weird magical curtain again,” Ginny said, already weaving through the narrow corridor.
Luna didn’t mind. The Patil girls had been whispering and raving over an Indian fashion magazine article about the latest Miss Universe. She was curious, but not committed. “Do you think they’ve changed compartments?” she asked as Ginny paused at another closed door.
“I think Ron just doesn’t like being found,” Ginny muttered. “Especially if Mum’s letter made it through before he could burn it.”
Luna smiled dreamily. “Letters from mothers are rarely avoidable. They use guilt-based enchantments, you know.”
Ginny snorted. “That actually tracks.”
At the next carriage, Ginny knocked once and slid the door open without waiting for an answer.
Hermione looked up from a pile of folded parchment. Neville was tucking something back into his satchel. Ron had his feet propped up. And Harry—Harry had leaned into the window like he could walk through it if he tried hard enough.
“There you are,” Ginny said, collapsing beside Hermione. “The Patil twins were testing out runaway impressions. I needed rescue.”
“Aren’t they over that yet?” Harry muttered. “Sen won in May.”
Luna floated in behind her and sat next to Ron, who immediately pulled his feet off the seat like she was a visiting professor.
Harry gave a polite nod. “Hey, Luna.”
She smiled. “Hello, Harry. I like your energy today. Sort of murky blue around the edges but pulsing bright in the middle. Like a pond with a secret.”
Ron coughed, failing to hide his laugh. Neville blinked. Hermione didn’t look up. Harry, however, turned fully toward her. His jaw was tight. “I don’t need anyone reading my energy, Luna.”
“I wasn’t reading it,” she said, surprised. “It was just... very loud. You’re usually quieter than that.”
“I’m not loud,” he said, standing suddenly. His shoulder knocked against the window. “And I don’t need to be followed around like I’m about to explode.”
Hermione looked up sharply. “Harry—”
But he was already sliding the door open.
Luna stood. “I’ll go with him.”
“You sure?” Ginny asked under her breath.
Luna nodded. “He needs air. Or maybe silence. I’m good at both.”
She followed him out. His boots were already thudding down the corridor. She didn’t hurry, just matched his pace a few steps behind, letting him know she was there without being there.
Not speaking. Just walking. Like ghosts with names.
After a while, Harry slowed.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he muttered, still not looking at her.
“I know,” she said gently. “You’re just loud today.”
He exhaled like it hurt.
They didn’t speak as the train shuddered through a curve. The rhythm of the tracks filled the space where apologies might have gone.
Harry slowed near the last carriage, where the windowed doors opened to a tiny platform at the rear of the train. No one else had wandered this far. He pushed through and stepped outside. The wind slapped his fringe against his forehead, pulling at his sleeves like a restless hand.
Luna followed, carefully closing the door behind her.
They stood side by side, backs to the train, eyes on the tracks unwinding behind them like a spool of memory. The world blurred past—fields, trees, a scattering of rooftops. Somewhere far ahead, Hogwarts was waiting. But here, it was just two silhouettes in the wind.
Harry’s fingers gripped the railing, white-knuckled.
Luna didn’t look at him. Just breathed in the green smell of countryside and coal and sky. Let the silence be a balm instead of a question.
Eventually, Harry's shoulders dropped half an inch. The tension in the air shifted, like a bowstring loosening after a long aim.
Still, she said nothing.
Some people needed words. Some people needed quiet.
Harry Potter—today—needed quiet.
So she stood with him.
And the train kept going.
(It’s Not All About Nargles)
Ron wasn’t sure when he’d become the designated guardian of emotionally complicated train compartments, but here he was—again—wedged between his sister and Hermione, pretending the Chocolate Frog in his lap was riveting.
Hermione was fidgeting. Not in the usual “I-should-be-reading” way, but the kind that made Ron feel like he was supposed to ask. “Why Malfoy?”
Hermione blinked slowly. “It’s not illegal to have a conversation, Ron.”
“With him it should be,” he muttered, crossing his arms.
“You mean like how you talked to Pansy Parkinson for most of May?” she snapped back, voice brittle.
“That was because of Transfiguration —”
Ginny held up a hand. “Both of you, stop. Honestly, it’s too early in the year for this.”
Hermione exhaled, arms folded, then sank into silence.
Ron rubbed the back of his neck. “Just… be careful, all right? Malfoy’s not the kind of bloke who—he’s not safe , Hermione.”
She didn’t answer. Not in words, anyway. But Ron caught the ghost of doubt flicker across her face before she looked away again.
Ginny nudged his foot with hers. A silent don’t push.
He didn’t. Not because he wasn’t angry—he was—but because Ginny was right.
They had no idea what this year was going to be. And maybe—just maybe—there were bigger things ahead than who sat with who on the train.
Ginny pressed her forehead lightly against the cool glass, letting the muted sounds of the train blur out behind her. The countryside whipped by—a green so familiar it could lull you into thinking nothing ever changed.
You should say something, Agatha murmured, the voice soft inside Ginny’s thoughts, more presence than sound. About Hermione. About the boy. She’s standing at the edge of a crack and pretending it’s not there.
Ginny’s lips pressed together. She wouldn’t listen. Not to me. And especially not if she knew it was you, too.
But she suspects.
Ginny nodded minutely. They all do. Ron’s polite about it. Neville’s quiet. Hermione? She catalogues the silences.
Agatha didn’t deny it. Good. It’ll be better once she knows he knows.
They fell silent together, watching the sky shift as the train curved through a valley.
Then Ginny whispered aloud, “He looked sad.”
Hermione turned slightly. “What?”
Ginny gestured to the corridor. “Neville. When he left. He didn’t say it, but… he looked like he was leaving something behind.”
Hermione looked down at her hands.
Agatha stirred again. The boy grows. The earth in him is deepening. There is grief in that. And power.
Do you think he knows what he’s becoming? Ginny asked.
No, Agatha answered, not unkindly. But he will. Sooner than he wants.
Ginny blinked slowly, letting that settle.
Then, from the other side of the compartment, Hermione said softly, “Gin… if I ever—if something ever seems off with me… you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
Ginny looked over, their eyes meeting. For a moment, she almost let Agatha rise fully to answer.
But she didn’t. Instead, she said, simply, “Of course.”
And felt Agatha’s quiet approval, like a hand on her shoulder in a storm.
Ginny’s “Of course” lingered in the air longer than it should’ve.
Hermione didn’t push. She didn’t press. She knew the shape of that kind of answer—it was the kind meant to close a door politely.
So she folded it into her chest like a note she’d read too many times. One more mystery, stacked neatly on top of all the others Ginny wasn’t talking about.
Ron was watching her. She felt it, even though he hadn’t said a polite word since Neville left. His knee bounced a little, then stopped. He was waiting to be told what to feel, Hermione realized—and hated that a part of her wanted to do it. That old, brittle ache rose in her again, the one that came from knowing too much and still not enough.
She turned her face back to the window. The landscape was shifting now—slower, familiar. They’d be at the station soon. She saw the river that twisted near Hogsmeade, the tiny flicker of lanterns in the distant village.
“Why are we always like this?” she murmured.
Ron blinked. “Like what?”
“Fractured. Stretched thin.” Her reflection looked tired. “It feels like we’re always pretending not to notice the cracks.”
To her surprise, Ron didn’t scoff. Didn’t deflect. He just nodded once, lips pressed tight.
“I miss when it was just homework and sneaking into the library,” she admitted, her voice low.
Ginny looked over sharply. “You miss Lockhart?”
Hermione smiled wryly. “Fair point. But even fear was simpler then, somehow.”
Ron ran a hand through his hair. “We’ll get through this year. We always do.”
Hermione almost asked what this was—because it felt different. Because Harry was different. Because nothing about the start of this term fit the old rhythm of their trio. Instead, she sighed. “They’re still not back, are they?”
Ginny glanced toward the corridor. “Harry and Luna? No.”
“Of course not,” Hermione muttered. “Why would they be?”
Ron shifted in his seat. “Maybe they’re just off having a conversation with the Nargles or whatever.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed faintly. “Luna wouldn’t waste time on Nargles. Not with what she knows now.”
Hermione caught that.
She caught a lot of things lately.
And she didn’t say any of them.
(It’s All About Communication)
Neville stepped through the corridor of the Hogwarts Express, carriage by carriage, not really looking. Except he was.
There were compartments filled with laughter, some already dark with drawn curtains and long naps. But he wasn’t looking for just anyone.
He found her three carriages from the back, sitting alone with her feet pulled up on the seat, a copy of Witch Weekly unopened in her lap. Her head rested against the window, eyes on the blurring countryside.
Lavender Brown.
Neville didn’t hesitate. The door slid open with a soft click. She turned only slightly, enough to see it was him — and that was all it took. No smile, no wide-eyed surprise, just a quiet lifting of her gaze that settled something in him.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“I figured you’d find me,” she said, like it had been scheduled.
“I hoped I would,” he replied.
He didn’t sit across from her. He sat beside her. Careful, but sure. She shifted slightly, letting her knee bump his without apology.
The train rattled on, and for a while, they didn’t speak.
They hadn’t meant to write to each other over the summer.
It had started with a thank you — she’d sent it after he’d helped her recover a charmed mirror lost in the Greenhouses. He’d replied with a pressed flower and a half-joking note about her “chaotic aura.”
One letter turned into two. Two into something more regular. By the end of July, he knew what her dreams looked like. She knew what made him angry — really angry, not just flustered — for the first time.
They hadn’t put a name to it. Not then. Not now.
Lavender let out a soft breath and leaned her head toward his shoulder but didn’t rest on it. Not yet. Neville felt the weight of her almost-touch and stilled the twitch in his fingers not to move too soon. “I missed this,” she said finally. Quiet. Like she was admitting it to herself.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He let his hand fall near hers on the seat. Their pinkies touched.
It was her who laced them.
The whistle blew as the train passed the last bend before Hogsmeade.
Students were rustling in other carriages — collecting cloaks, repacking sweets, yelling for lost shoes — but in their small corner of the train, everything stayed still.
“I don't want this to be different at school,” Lavender said. There was no plea in her voice. Just clarity.
“It won’t be,” Neville promised. Then, after a beat, “Not unless you want it to be.”
She finally turned her head. Looked straight at him. “I don’t.”
The whistle screamed again — louder this time, nearer — and the train began to slow.
Neville stood and pulled down her trunk without asking. Lavender watched him, arms folded, lips tugged into a smirk that wasn’t flirtatious but familiar.
“I missed you,” she said again.
This time, Neville smiled.
The platform had the familiar scent of mist and old iron. Neville stepped off the train with Lavender beside him, her hand brushing his once again. He didn’t let go this time. He wasn’t hiding it either.
The crowd was a blur of voices, cloaks, house scarves, Prefect instructions shouted over first-year wonder. But he wasn’t looking for anyone. Not really.
And then Susan appeared.
Of course she did. She always had a way of showing up when he least wanted her to, or most needed her—it was hard to tell which this was.
She wasn’t alone. Ernie Macmillan trailed behind her with the strained look of someone trying to be diplomatic and failing. Susan, by contrast, looked like she’d been waiting all summer to get a word in with him.
“Neville,” she said, voice crisp. “Two minutes?”
Lavender’s hand tensed in his. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. Her eyes said everything: Don’t leave again.
He hesitated.
Susan noticed.
“It’s about the Heirs,” she added, her voice lowered. “It can’t wait.”
She didn’t say, You owe us . She didn’t have to.
Lavender looked between them. “Is this your war club or your secret society?”
Neville winced. “Both.”
Susan’s brow arched, but she didn’t comment. “You coming?”
“I—” Neville stopped. Looked back at Lavender.
He thought of her letters. The way she wrote without needing to impress him, without trying to be anything except herself. How she laughed at the awkward bits of him others ignored. And how, right now, she was looking at him not with jealousy, but with something dangerously close to fear.
Not of Susan. Of being left behind again.
“I’ll meet you later,” he said to Susan. “I know we have to talk.”
Her lips pressed into a line—not annoyed, just... measuring. “The castle gates, before the Sorting. Don’t be late.”
Then she was gone, her braid flashing behind her like a judge’s verdict.
Neville turned to Lavender.
Her look softened. “I’m not going to say thank you,” she said.
“Good,” he murmured. “I’d rather you say ‘let’s walk.’”
She did.
They did.
And just behind them, through the thinning mist, the castle loomed like a question neither of them were ready to answer just yet.
(It’s Not All About Silence)
His hand curled tight around the railing at the tail end of the last carriage, wind raking through his hair like it meant to undo him.
Luna stood a careful distance away, close enough to be with him, far enough not to crowd the silence. She tilted her head back, letting the sky paint her face with light.
“Do you remember your second year?” she asked suddenly, voice like mist. “Near the greenhouses?”
Harry flinched. “Yeah.”
“I said something odd.”
“You usually do,” he tried. It came out brittle.
She didn’t laugh. “I said you were the second coming of Merlin.”
“I remember.”
A beat.
“I didn’t mean it as pressure,” Luna said, looking out at the thinning crowd on the platform. “I meant it as recognition.”
Harry blew out a slow breath. “Neville said it first.”
“And you’ve been carrying it since then.”
“Like a bloody curse,” he muttered. “What does that even mean, second coming of Merlin? Is it meant to comfort me? Terrify me? Make me disappear into someone else’s shadow—or someone else’s legend?”
Luna stepped closer. “It’s meant to remind you that magic remembers.”
He turned sharply. “That doesn’t help, Luna.”
“I know,” she said simply.
They stood side by side now, shoulders brushing.
“I don't want to be Merlin,” Harry said. “I don't want to be someone magic chose before I could say no.”
“You don’t have to be.” She leaned in just a little. “Magic might have chosen you. But you still get to choose what kind of story you become.”
Harry let the words settle. They didn’t undo the knot in his chest, but they loosened it. A fraction.
“For what it’s worth,” Luna added, voice softer now, “I didn’t say it to make you a prophecy. I said it because I saw something waking in you that hadn’t woken in anyone else for a very long time. I think… it frightened me too.”
That stopped him.
“You?” Harry asked, glancing sideways. “Frightened?”
Her eyes stayed on the horizon. “Only when something matters.”
They were nearing the end of the platform now, the hum of chatter and trolley wheels fading behind them. The world ahead was soft with mist, the road to the carriages barely visible beyond the thestrals shifting at their posts.
“I’m letting it happen,” Harry said suddenly.
Luna looked at him, but didn’t stop walking.
“The Triwizard Tournament,” he clarified. “Even though it’s dangerous. That’s what was in the letter at the Feast last year. That’s why I stormed off. But I gave in to the Ministry on it.”
“I thought you didn’t care about the Ministry.”
“I don’t,” Harry said. “But I don’t want them asking about me either. About the… overlap.”
He still wouldn’t say it aloud. Not directly. Not the word time .
Luna was quiet a moment longer, then offered, “They’ve already noticed. They’re just pretending not to. For now.”
Harry didn’t reply.
“You didn’t tell me,” she said. Not hurt, not accusatory. Just a simple statement.
“No.”
Another silence. Not strained, this time. Just still.
He didn’t thank her. She didn’t expect him to.
The mist had thickened by the time they stepped down from the train, curling like breath around the wheels of the carriages. Harry stayed beside Luna, though he hadn’t meant to. She didn’t speak again, and neither did he, but her quietness wasn’t a weight. It was a companion to his own. Somewhere behind them, Ron’s voice rose and faded. Hermione's. The rustle of Ginny's footsteps trying to catch up. He heard them, registered them, but didn’t turn. The path ahead was drawing him forward.
The carriages waited as always, the thestrals invisible to most. Luna paused beside one and brushed her fingers against the air. Harry watched her, the small ritual she performed each year, and said nothing.
It was Susan who broke the spell.
She was standing just beyond the carriages, a little removed from the Prefects gathering the second-years, her arms crossed tight over her Ravenclaw robes. Neville stood beside her, hands in his pockets, not meeting either of their eyes.
They’d clearly been speaking.
Susan saw Harry first. “Potter.”
Harry blinked. The use of his surname was deliberate—curt, clipped. Like a summons. He’d been Harry for so long, they were godsiblings now, technically.
Neville turned too, his expression unreadable.
“Come here for a moment?”
Luna glanced sideways at Harry, but didn’t follow when he stepped away.
Susan waited until he was close before saying anything. “We’re meeting tonight. After the Feast. Same corridor as last time.”
“I wasn’t at the last one,” Harry said quietly.
Susan didn’t blink. “You will be now.”
Neville glanced at Harry then, something like apology in the twitch of his brow—but he didn’t speak either.
“You can’t bring Granger, even if you trust her,” Susan added. “No one else.”
Harry hesitated. “What is this?”
She smiled without warmth. “The part of the war no one wants to talk about. Yet.”
Harry looked between them—Susan, already turning away; Neville, lingering just long enough to nod; Luna, as if she’d known all along where this night would lead.
He felt something shift beneath his ribs. Not fear. Not yet.
Just inevitability.
The castle gates opened to let them in.
(Its All About Them)
The enchanted ceiling gleamed above them, awash in a velvet dusk pierced with unfamiliar constellations. Candles floated. Platters gleamed. Laughter filled the high arches with echoes of normalcy.
But nothing about the Hall felt normal.
Hermione sat rigid beside Ron, hands folded too neatly in her lap. The Sorting was long over, and the food had appeared, but she’d barely touched anything. Across the table, Seamus was chattering about some new broom he’d spotted on the platform, and Ron kept elbowing Dean for the butter dish, but Hermione heard none of it. She was watching Harry.
He wasn’t with them.
He had sat with Luna, just beyond the cluster of Hufflepuffs. No fanfare. No dramatic entrance. Just quiet arrival, as if trying to outrun attention by not acknowledging it.
It didn’t work. The room noticed anyway. They always noticed him now.
And Luna—Luna sat beside him like she’d always been there.
Hermione didn’t know how to feel about that.
At the Ravenclaw table, Susan Bones had barely eaten a bite either. Not because she was watching Harry—though she had clocked him the moment he entered—but because Neville wasn’t here.
She scanned the Gryffindor table again. No Neville.
Not with Lavender either, who had slunk in late and taken the end seat near the first-years, as though she belonged to a different century entirely.
Susan sighed softly. She couldn’t blame him. Not entirely. Lavender had been his first heartbreak and maybe still his favorite wound. And the Feast wasn’t a safe place for vulnerability. Not this year. Still, they needed to talk. The four of them. Before the Ministry got bolder. Before the Tournament began in earnest. Before the old bloodlines started making their quiet moves again.
Her eyes flicked back to Harry.
The quiet had started to shift around him. Like the room had decided it would pretend for just one more night.
Neville actually sat beside Lavender.
Not close enough to touch. Just near enough to mean something.
He hadn’t meant to find her carriage on the train, but he had. He hadn’t meant to sit with her, hadn’t meant to smile at the way her hair curled over one shoulder, hadn’t meant to fall silent and let her lean into his arm for just a minute. But it happened. And for a little while, it had been okay.
Now, he could feel the space between them stretching again.
Lavender hadn’t said a word since the Sorting. Her fork moved, but nothing on her plate was eaten. She watched the new first-years with a look he didn’t understand—half nostalgia, half warning.
Neville wanted to reach for her hand. But Susan was watching.
He didn’t know who he was supposed to be yet.
At the end of the Gryffindor table, Ginny sat with perfect posture, her fingers wrapped around a goblet of pumpkin juice she hadn’t tasted. The ghost of Agatha hovered just behind her eyes, silent for now, but not absent.
Across the Hall, Draco sat with Blaise and Theo, lounging like the room owed him something. He hadn’t looked at her once.
He hadn’t needed to.
Ginny could feel the tension between them like a thread pulled taut across the Hall, glimmering invisible.
She had saved him once. He remembered. She knew he did. But he hadn’t spoken to her since last year. Hadn’t thanked her for their study sessions.
Agatha stirred. Let him come to us.
Ginny set down the goblet. She could taste iron on her tongue.
Luna sipped her juice. Her fingers curled loosely around the goblet like she was listening for a pulse. She hadn’t asked again about the Tournament. About what Harry hadn’t told her. She already knew the shape of the thing. She just didn’t know its name.
The Ministry had made a deal. That much was clear. And Harry had agreed to play by their rules—for now. She didn’t blame him. Not really. But he hadn’t told her. That part did matter. Not because she was hurt. But because it meant he was scared.
Luna was used to being feared. She’d just never expected it from him.
Still, she didn’t move.
When Harry didn’t eat, neither did she.
And Harry—
Harry sat still as stone.
He felt the eyes. Not just of classmates. Of professors. Of ghosts. Of magic itself. He could feel the castle testing him again, like it had in the Chamber, like it had that night in the Room of Requirement when the timelines tangled.
No one had said anything.
But they all knew.
Even the air felt charged. As if Hogwarts itself was holding its breath.
He hadn’t told Luna about the time jump. Not fully. Not about the blood oath he’d been offered in place of an interrogation. Not about the way the Ministry had smiled while they signed him into the Tournament under a forged alias.
Not yet.
He hadn’t told her that the Flame had flared the moment his quill hit parchment.
Harry looked up.
Susan caught his gaze.
And just like that, the Feast ended.
(It's Not All About Them)
The dining hall still smelled of roast beef and treacle pudding, though the prefects had already cleared out, leaving only the hum of muted conversations and the occasional clink of silver against china. Dudley pushed his chair back and stretched, careful to keep his blazer buttoned; Mr. Price, their housemaster, had hawk eyes for “casual posture.”
Samantha was waiting just outside the hall, leaning against the wall in her navy skirt and blazer. Her brown hair was tucked behind one ear, and she had that look—half amusement, half challenge—that she always reserved for him.
“You didn’t eat dessert,” she said as he stepped into the corridor.
“I’m full,” Dudley muttered, though it wasn’t true. He just hadn’t had much appetite lately. Treacle pudding wasn’t the same after you’d seen magic swallow the world whole.
Samantha tilted her head. “Since when does Dudley Dursley say no to sugar?”
He gave a small huff of laughter. “Since… I dunno. Summer, I guess.”
They walked side by side down the polished corridor, their footsteps soft against the old carpets. The evening light slanted through the high windows, painting the walls in muted amber.
“You’re different,” she said suddenly.
Dudley glanced at her. “Different how?”
“You’re quieter. Like you’re thinking about something no one else can see.”
The last prefects had drifted out. Dudley walked beside Samantha, the echo of their shoes muted against the worn carpets. The sky had gone violet, a heavy autumn dusk settling over the gardens.
“You’re walking quieter these days,” Samantha said, nudging him with her shoulder. “I almost miss the old stomp.”
“I still stomp,” Dudley muttered. “Just… less, I guess.”
They pushed open the side door to the garden path, letting the cool evening air spill over them. Samantha leaned against the stone archway, arms folded, looking at him like she was piecing a puzzle.
“You’ve been different since last year,” she said. “And Tonks is acting like I’m carrying a state secret just being here. She’s never dropped me off before. Is this related to why you needed to get to the Floo last year?”
Dudley froze a fraction, but he forced his face into something casual.
“That was a… family emergency,” he said slowly. “Complicated. But not dangerous for you.”
“Hmm.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Because I remember standing in Tonks’ kitchen. And I remember you disappearing into the fireplace with zero instructions. Then I remember landing face-first in a flowerpot in the medical wing.”
Dudley winced. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Longbottoms, right?” Samantha said.
He hesitated. “Yeah. That’s them.”
She watched him for a long moment. “You can’t tell me what really happened, can you?”
“Not… all of it,” Dudley said, careful with each word. “It’s not just my secret to tell. But I can tell you this—Tonks is only scary because she cares. And because she knows there are things out there… bigger than we ever thought.”
Samantha leaned back against the wall, her expression softening. “And you’re part of that now.”
“Kind of.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Enough to know which end of the portkey to step out of, anyway.”
She laughed at that, the tension breaking. “Well, next time, you’re teaching me to land on my feet. I’ve got dignity to maintain.”
“Deal,” Dudley said, and for the first time that evening, he grinned.
The autumn air bit his cheeks, but he felt lighter. Tact was getting easier. And Samantha… Samantha made it feel almost normal again, this life balanced between two worlds.
They fell quiet, listening to the distant echo of students inside. The garden smelled of damp stone and fading summer.
After a long pause, Samantha said softly, “Your cousin… Harry. I used to think the stories about him were just that—stories. A boy with a scar and a wand, saving the world, like a comic book that got out of hand.” She turned to him fully now, her voice lower. “But the way Tonks looks at you. The way you talk about… all this. It’s like my story grew up. Like it’s real now. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
Dudley looked out at the darkening sky, where no one else could see the hidden world moving behind it. “Neither am I,” he admitted.
Chapter 3: They called it Politics
Chapter Text
(Candles and Coronation)
The Great Hall glowed like a cathedral of warmth against the September chill, every floating candle reflecting in the newly polished House tables. Minerva McGonagall sat in her usual high-backed chair, hands folded tightly, the silver of her hair catching the torchlight.
Her gaze swept the students as the Sorting concluded—a ritual she had always loved, a reminder that tradition endured even as the world shifted. Yet tonight, she felt the tension beneath the charm. The older students whispered about the World Cup, about the Dark Mark, about Aurors patrolling Hogsmeade.
Her eyes found Harry at the Gryffindor table immediately.
Lily’s boy.
She had watched him since his first Sorting, the little scrap of a child who had walked into the castle carrying both fame and an orphan’s loneliness. But tonight… Tonight his shoulders were different. Straighter. Heavy. And there was a stillness in his green eyes that she recognized with a pang: the same steel she had seen in his parents during the war.
Dumbledore rose at last, and the Hall fell silent.
“Welcome to another year at Hogwarts,” he said, his voice gentle but edged with something she hadn’t heard in years: preparation. “Before the feast ends, I have an announcement that will shape our school year in ways… quite unlike any other.”
A ripple passed through the students. Even the youngest sensed it.
Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed. “Hogwarts has been chosen to host the Triwizard Tournament .”
The Hall erupted into a cacophony of cheers and gasps. The older students leaned in toward one another, shouting about glory and gold; the younger ones craned their necks, some fearful, some thrilled.
McGonagall’s lips thinned. She remembered the Tournament. She remembered the funerals. Beside her, Professor Flitwick clapped politely, though his knuckles were pale on the table. Severus Snape said nothing, his dark eyes darting toward Harry almost immediately.
Dumbledore raised a hand for quiet. “We will discuss details in time. But know this: the Tournament is not a game, nor a trifle. It is a test of skill, courage, and judgment. Participation is voluntary and will be strictly limited by magical contract and age.”
McGonagall’s gaze flicked back to Harry, almost involuntarily. He wasn’t cheering like the rest of his yearmates. He was… watching. Calculating.
He looked older than he had any right to. Then, as though he felt her watching, his eyes rose to meet hers across the Hall. A silent acknowledgment passed between them, an unspoken echo of family and trust.
Great Merlin, she thought, her chest tight. Lily, James… you’d hardly know him. He’s a child in name, and already the world is asking him to carry it.
She forced herself to focus as Dumbledore continued, outlining rules and hinting at future announcements, but her mind remained with the boy who had already endured far too much.
And when the Hall filled with the joyous chaos of the Welcome Feast, Minerva McGonagall stayed silent, her eyes never leaving Harry.
Because in that moment, she knew two things: Hogwarts had just stepped onto a chessboard with stakes older than any of these children understood. And her great-godson would, somehow, be at the center of it all.
“And now,” Dumbledore continued, a small twinkle in his eye, “I am pleased to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—”
The doors of the Great Hall slammed open with a boom that rattled the cutlery.
Students shrieked.
A figure stomped down the aisle, heavy wooden leg thudding against the stone with each step. His long coat swirled around him, and his face was a patchwork of scars and magical mishaps. A bright, spinning blue eye whirled independently of the other, scanning the room, while the normal eye narrowed with sharp, almost predatory awareness.
Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody stopped in the middle of the Hall, slammed the butt of his staff to the stone, and growled, “Where’s the food?”
The silence cracked like a bubble. Whispers raced through the room.
Dumbledore’s smile didn’t falter. “Alastor Moody, who has kindly agreed to take up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts. He comes to us after many years of distinguished service as an Auror. I trust you will extend to him the respect due his experience… and perhaps forgive his flair for dramatic entrances.”
The spinning eye paused on Harry. Then on Draco Malfoy. Then on Neville Longbottom. Minerva felt her spine stiffen.
“Constant vigilance,” Moody barked, then stomped toward the staff table without another word.
The feast resumed, but the Great Hall no longer hummed with the same carefree excitement. For Minerva McGonagall, watching her great-godson sit very, very still beneath the floating candles, the feeling was unmistakable: Hogwarts had just declared it was ready for war.
(Heritage and Hostility)
The meeting chamber wasn’t on the Hogwarts map. It never had been. It was a round room deep beneath the castle, where walls of dark stone bore the sigils of old Houses: some gilded, some faded, some with hairline cracks from centuries of magical tension.
The chamber hummed faintly, as though the stones themselves were aware of who had gathered.
Neville Longbottom stood at the center, shoulders squared, voice calm as he addressed the cluster of students in their House colors. Beside him, Susan Bones leaned against the table, arms crossed, her Ravenclaw tie neat, eyes sharp.
“As of tonight,” Neville said, “we welcome a new member to the Heirs Club. Harry Potter—Gryffindor, legacy of the Houses Potter and Smith.”
A few murmurs rippled around the circle.
The students assembled were a mosaic of bloodlines and ambitions. Draco Malfoy, standing near the edge, arms folded, face carefully blank. Daphne Greengrass, watchful and silent. Ernie Macmillan, trying too hard to look like he belonged. Susan, perfectly composed, letting Neville speak for the moment.
Harry stepped forward. His footsteps felt loud on the cold stone. He was aware of the weight of every eye on him. “Thank you,” he said simply. His voice didn’t waver. “I’m not here to change your traditions. I’m here because I was asked. And because I understand the responsibility that comes with these names.”
It wasn’t rehearsed, but it carried a quiet gravity that even Draco couldn’t sneer at.
“Responsibilities,” Susan said finally, breaking the silence, “include discretion. This club exists because our families need unity—even when our Houses don’t. The world outside is… shifting.” Her gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward Draco.
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Neville moved on, his voice steady. “We all know why. The Dark Mark was cast this summer. The Ministry called it an isolated act. We all know better.”
Harry felt the familiar coil of anger in his stomach. He didn’t speak.
Susan nodded. “Which means this year will not be normal. The Triwizard Tournament is already making Hogwarts a political stage. If something goes wrong, the Heirs must be prepared to act—or to stay silent. Either choice will cost us.”
A ripple of unease went through the circle.
“Potter,” Daphne Greengrass said at last, her voice like silk over glass, “do you understand what silence can cost?”
Harry met her gaze. “I’ve been keeping secrets my whole life.”
There was no arrogance in it. Just truth.
Draco’s lips twitched—something between irritation and respect.
When the meeting ended, the Heirs filed out in pairs, murmuring about alliances and rumors.
Neville lingered, waiting for the last footsteps to fade. Then he clasped Harry’s shoulder.
“You handled that well,” he said. “They’ll test you, though. They always test the new ones.”
“I know,” Harry said, exhaling.
Susan’s voice drifted from the doorway, sharp and certain. “And when they do, make them remember why your name is carved on those walls.”
Harry glanced up. The Potter stag gleamed faintly in the torchlight. And across the circle, the Malfoy dragon flickered in green.
For the first time, he felt the walls were listening. Tangibly.
(Stone and Step)
The corridor beyond the Heirs chamber was cold and dim, lit only by a scattering of floating witchlights. The staircases had long since stopped shifting for the night, leaving the stone path steady under their feet.
The four of them walked together without speaking at first: Harry, Neville, Susan, and Draco.
Harry could still feel the echo of the chamber in his chest—the way the carved sigils seemed to weigh every word he’d spoken.
“They didn’t bite,” Neville said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was low, steady, almost amused. “That’s a good start.”
“They stared,” Harry muttered.
Susan gave him a sidelong glance. “They stare at all of us. You’ll get used to it. The first time someone said ‘Bones’ in that chamber, I thought I’d choke on my own name.”
Draco snorted softly. “Try being a Malfoy. Half the room expects me to hex them. The other half hopes I will.”
Neville smirked at that. “You’re not wrong.”
They walked on, their footfalls muffled by centuries-old stone. For a few breaths, the castle’s quiet pressed in around them.
“Does it always feel like that?” Harry asked at last.
Susan tilted her head. “Like the walls are listening?”
“Yeah.”
“It never stops feeling that way,” Draco said before she could answer. His voice was dry, but not cruel. “You’re carrying names that older magic cares about. It remembers things. It remembers us .”
Neville nodded, though his eyes flicked to Harry with a hint of unspoken concern. “Names have weight. This year, more than ever.”
They reached the junction where the path split—one way toward Gryffindor Tower, one toward Slytherin, and a staircase up to the Ravenclaw corridor where Susan would turn.
For a moment, none of them moved.
Susan broke the silence first. “Foreign students will be here in weeks. Beauxbatons. Durmstrang. The Tournament is more than a game. It’s a stage.”
“And a trap,” Draco added under his breath.
“Only if we stumble into it blind,” Neville said, his voice calm, but his jaw tight. “And we won’t.”
Harry looked between the three of them—his godbrother, the Bones heir, and the Malfoy who had once publicly sworn he’d make Harry’s life miserable.
He realized, suddenly, that they were all thinking the same thing.
Whatever came next, they wouldn’t face it alone. Not really.
They parted without ceremony, footsteps echoing down three different corridors, carrying the quiet of an unspoken alliance into the sleeping castle.
(Secrets and Sleep)
The Gryffindor common room was half-lit by the fire, the embers casting the shadows of armchairs like long fingers on the walls. Students were scattered in clusters, yawning after the feast, already speculating about the Triwizard Tournament in low, excited voices.
Harry and Neville pushed through the portrait hole together. They didn’t speak. Their shoulders were a little straighter than usual, their steps measured in the way of boys trying not to look guilty.
Up in the boys’ dormitory, Ron Weasley was already pacing.
“ Where have you two been?! ” he hissed the moment the door swung shut. His hair was sticking up in tufts from running his hands through it.
“Walking,” Harry said, too flatly to sound honest.
“Walking? Walking? ” Ron’s ears went red. “You vanished right after the feast, and when I went to find you, Seamus said he saw you go downstairs . Downstairs, Harry! As in, creepy-underground-secret-passageway downstairs!”
Neville sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, starting to unlace his shoes. “We didn’t get eaten by the castle, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Ron flung his arms wide. “That’s not the point! Everyone’s talking about the Tournament, about Beauxbatons and Durmstrang and how this year’s going to be mad , and my best mates vanish into Merlin-knows-where?!”
Harry tossed his robes onto his trunk and finally met Ron’s wide-eyed glare.
“I can’t tell you where we were,” he said evenly.
Ron froze. “ Can’t tell me? ”
“I’m not lying to you,” Harry said, his voice low and calm in the way that always made Ron nervous. “But it’s… private. Important. You’re going to have to trust me on this.”
Ron opened and closed his mouth twice. He looked at Neville, who only shrugged with infuriating composure, then back to Harry.
“Fine,” he muttered at last, flopping into his own bed with a scowl. “But if you two come back with secret snake tattoos or something, I’m telling Mum.”
Neville chuckled under his breath. “No tattoos, I promise.”
Harry pulled his curtains shut, the weight of the day finally settling over him. The echo of the Heirs chamber was still in his chest, the feel of old stone and older eyes.
From across the room, Ron grumbled something into his pillow, but Harry couldn’t make it out.
Neville’s voice drifted quietly through the dim light. “He’ll forgive us.”
Harry stared up at the canopy. “I know. But it doesn’t make it easier.”
The common room below had gone silent, save for the crackle of the fire. And somewhere deep in the castle, a clock chimed midnight.
(Gossip and Ghosts)
The Gryffindor girls’ dormitory was warm and perfumed faintly with lavender oil, someone’s charm drifting over the beds to keep the smoke from the common room below at bay. Outside the tall windows, the night was deep and still, and the faint echo of the Sorting Feast still hummed in Hermione’s bones.
She sat on her bed with a book open, though she hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes.
Across the room, Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown were perched together on Lavender’s bed, hairbrushes in hand, voices low and conspiratorial.
“I’m telling you,” Parvati whispered, “the Beauxbatons girls are supposed to be gorgeous . They’ll make everyone else look like flobberworms.”
“Please,” Lavender said, twirling a strand of her hair. “I heard from an owl in Diagon Alley that Durmstrang’s sending boys. Big, scary, Quidditch-playing boys. Viktor Krum is still a student, you know.”
Hermione turned a page she hadn’t read. “You two might want to remember this is a tournament , not a beauty pageant.”
Lavender gave her a sly look. “Says the girl who spent the whole feast looking like she was about to hex the Sorting Hat.”
“I wasn’t—” Hermione began, then shut her book with a little snap. “I was thinking about how dangerous the Tournament is. People have died , you know.”
Parvati sighed dreamily. “Yes, but what a way to be remembered. A hero.”
Hermione’s stomach tightened. She thought of Harry at the table below, his shoulders heavy, his smile absent, the weight of the Great Hall pressing on him as Dumbledore had announced the Triwizard Tournament. He doesn’t need more glory. He needs to survive the year.
Lavender flopped back against her pillow, hair spilling over the coverlet. “You know what else I heard? The Malfoys were at the World Cup. And some people think they were involved .”
Parvati leaned closer. “Do you believe that?”
Hermione hesitated. She’d seen Draco at the station today, a shadow at the edge of the platform. He hadn’t looked like a boy who wanted trouble. He’d looked like someone left behind.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “But I do know people are going to point fingers at whoever it suits. And this year… everyone will be watching.”
Lavender and Parvati shared a look—half giddy, half nervous—and the room fell into a soft, expectant quiet.
Hermione opened her book again, though the words swam on the page. She could hear the castle breathing, settling, and somewhere deep in its bones, she swore it felt like the year was already awake and waiting.
The dormitory door creaked, and Fay Dunbar breezed in with her hair wind-tousled and a faint flush on her cheeks, followed closely by Sally-Anne, who immediately moved to straighten the shoes lined by the door.
“Did I miss anything?” Fay asked, tossing her scarf onto her trunk.
“Just Parvati deciding which foreign student she wants to marry first,” Lavender said, smirking.
“Rude,” Parvati sniffed, though she didn’t deny it.
Hermione watched as Sally-Anne crouched to align her boots perfectly with the bedpost, adjusting the laces twice before standing. She scanned the room like she was checking for something out of place.
“Are you all just… talking?” Sally-Anne asked cautiously.
“Yes,” Hermione said, a bit gentler than usual. She could feel Sally-Anne’s need for structure radiating like a second heat in the room. “We were discussing the Triwizard Tournament.”
“Discussing,” Fay repeated with a grin, flopping onto the rug. “It’s a polite word for panicking, speculating, or plotting romances, depending on the person.”
Parvati threw a pillow at her.
Sally-Anne perched on the edge of her own bed, twisting her fingers together. “The Tournament is coming here. To our school. That means… that means people will be moving things. Changing things.” Her voice hitched slightly. “Do you think they’ll move the beds?”
“They won’t touch the dorms,” Hermione assured her, voice softening. “It’s only the Great Hall and the grounds they’ll modify. I’m sure of it.”
Sally-Anne exhaled slowly, visibly relieved.
Lavender leaned toward Fay, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “You know what Hermione said earlier? That it’s dangerous . She’s right. People have died in this thing.”
“And yet,” Fay said, stretching her legs toward the firelight, “I bet at least half the boys in this Tower are already practicing their heroic stares in the mirror.”
Hermione allowed herself a small smile despite the weight in her chest. The dormitory was alive with warmth and chatter, a sharp contrast to the cold politics and secrets swirling just beneath the castle.
Then Sally-Anne said quietly, almost to herself, “I wish they’d just leave things the same.”
Hermione closed her book, this time for good. “So do I.”
(Dawn and Disruption)
Hermione woke to the soft hiss of enchanted curtains parting, sunlight pooling across the dormitory like warm silk. A moment of stillness, a breath of ordinary Hogwarts life, and then—
“ Hermione! ” Lavender’s voice was already bright, laced with the thrill of gossip. “Come look!”
Groggy but curious, Hermione slipped from her bed and padded to the window.
Hogwarts’ grounds, usually serene in the morning mist, were changed .
Banners snapped in the breeze over the Quidditch Pitch—bright azure for Beauxbatons, crimson-and-black for Durmstrang, and the familiar gold of Hogwarts. Down by the Black Lake, she could see enchanted platforms rising and sinking as if testing their own stability, each sending faint ripples across the water.
She heard the patter of feet behind her as Fay and Sally-Anne joined her at the window.
“Everything’s moving,” Sally-Anne whispered, pressing a knuckle to her lip. “They’re moving the world around.”
Fay grinned. “And it’s gorgeous.”
Hermione folded her arms, watching a flock of enchanted quills fly out over the lake, inscribing runes across the platforms. Part of her itched to go down there, to read the wards, to understand . But another part—the part that had spent the night remembering the Crucible and the echo of Harry’s face in torchlight—felt a prickle of unease.
By the time they reached the Great Hall for breakfast, the changes had followed them inside.
The ceiling had shifted subtly: no longer just sky, but a mirror of foreign constellations drifting alongside Scotland’s own. House banners shared space with the blue silk of Beauxbatons and the blood-red pennants of Durmstrang. A single long table had appeared at the far end, empty now but clearly meant for their guests.
“Feels like we’re not the only school anymore,” Fay murmured as she slid onto the bench.
Across the table, Ron gawked openly at the banners. “Do you think Krum’s coming? I bet he’s coming.”
Neville and Harry entered together, voices low, the weight of last night’s Heirs meeting still on their shoulders. They both glanced up at the shifting ceiling, and Hermione caught the flicker of recognition in Harry’s eyes.
The castle was already rearranging itself for a year that wouldn’t leave any of them the same.
The smell of pumpkin juice, fried eggs, and fresh scones filled the Great Hall. The Gryffindor table buzzed like a beehive as students craned their necks to gawk at the new banners and floating notices listing Triwizard Tournament safety rules.
“ Safety rules? ” Seamus Finnigan said around a mouthful of toast. “What’s the point of a deadly tournament if you’re not allowed to almost die a bit?”
Dean Thomas groaned. “You’ve blown up enough cauldrons. You’re not allowed within twenty feet of the Goblet when it shows up.”
Parvati Patil leaned over the table, eyes sparkling. “I heard Beauxbatons is sending a carriage pulled by flying horses . Gigantic ones. You can only ride them if you drink a bucket of brandy first.”
“That,” Ron said, pointing his fork for emphasis, “is the best rule Hogwarts has ever had.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “They’re Abraxan winged horses . They require brandy for stamina. It’s not a—oh, honestly.”
Ginny leaned in from a few seats down, her plate untouched, her voice low. “I heard Durmstrang arrives by ship. Through the lake.”
Neville blinked. “Through the lake?”
“Yep,” Ginny said, almost idly. “Imagine what else could come through the lake if the wards are tampered with.”
The conversation stalled for a moment, the flicker of unease running under the table like a shadow. Harry felt it but didn’t comment, choosing instead to butter his toast with studied care.
Across from him, Ron shifted topics quickly. “Bet the tournament tasks are mental. Dragons. Sphinxes. Maybe dueling!”
“Or logic puzzles,” Hermione said primly. “If the organizers have any sense, they’ll test intelligence as much as courage.”
Seamus smirked. “I dunno, Granger, I think the Beauxbatons boys would rather flex than solve riddles.”
“Girls,” Lavender corrected, wagging a spoon. “Beauxbatons is all girls . Durmstrang’s all boys . That’s how it works.”
“That is not how it works,” Hermione said automatically, and launched into an explanation of international schooling policies that only Dean pretended to follow.
Through it all, Harry stayed quiet, only half-listening, the noise of his friends a comforting hum over the knot in his chest. His eyes drifted toward the staff table, where Professor McGonagall was speaking in low tones to Dumbledore, her expression caught between pride and worry.
And as laughter rose from the Gryffindor table over Seamus miming a swan dive into the Black Lake, Harry felt the first cold ripple of the year to come: Change was already here.
(Fear and Focus)
Harry had survived a lot of first classes at Hogwarts—Quirrell’s twitching stutter, Lockhart’s vanity and blunders, Lupin’s quiet, steady competence—but nothing prepared him for Mad-Eye Moody.
The door to the Defense classroom slammed open before the bell had finished ringing.
“ In your seats! ” Moody barked, wooden leg thudding against the floor as he stomped to the front. “Eyes up! Wands away! You’ll need your hands free if something tries to kill you.”
No one moved. No one even breathed.
The spinning blue eye swept across the room, fixing on Neville Longbottom first. The boy stiffened, but Moody only grunted. “Good. Alert. Nervous. That’s how you live to my age.”
Then the eye locked on Harry. For a moment, Harry felt like Moody was seeing straight through his skin, past his bones, into every memory he didn’t want to relive.
“ Potter. ” The voice was gravel and thunder. “Heard about you.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Yes, sir.”
“Hmm.” Moody snorted. “We’ll see if it’s true.”
He didn’t waste time with introductions. Moody slammed a heavy, scarred case onto the desk and flipped it open with a flick of his gnarled fingers. Inside, caged dark detectors whirred and clicked: Sneakoscopes, Secrecy Sensors, and one ugly artifact that let out a faint hiss.
“Lesson one: the world doesn’t care if you’re children. ”
A ripple of unease passed through the class. Even Hermione hesitated with her quill, unsure whether to take notes or just keep her hands where he could see them.
Moody stalked the aisles, leg thumping, cloak dragging.
“Danger comes when you’re soft. It comes when you’re laughing. It comes when your wand is in your pocket because you thought a castle wall would protect you. There’s a Tournament coming, and every fool out there will think it’s all glory and games. Well, I’ve dug enough graves to tell you—”
He stopped by Ron, who swallowed hard.
“—it’s blood, if you’re not ready.”
The lesson that followed wasn’t casting. It was vigilance .
Moody had them pair off, moving in tight formations while scanning the room for hexed objects he had hidden—shards of cursed mirrors, charmed marbles that tried to roll underfoot, a fake wand that stung whoever touched it.
“Defense isn’t about looking heroic,” Moody growled, pacing. “It’s about surviving long enough to spit in the face of whoever wants you dead.”
Harry and Neville moved together, instincts sharp from the summer and the Heirs Club. Neville’s eyes darted like a hawk’s, and Harry’s hand hovered near his wand, though Moody had told them not to draw unless attacked.
When Harry spotted a flicker of movement—a rolling ink bottle glimmering faintly purple—he nudged Neville and kicked it away without touching it.
“ Good! ” Moody roared. “Live long enough and you’ll start thinking like a survivor instead of a victim!”
By the end of the hour, the students were pale and wide-eyed, their nerves crackling. Moody stomped back to the front, the spinning eye whirring like a storm.
“Constant vigilance,” he said again, quieter this time. “That’s the only rule that matters.”
His gaze landed on Harry one last time.
“And Potter—” He almost smiled, or maybe that was just a twitch. “You’ve already learned that once. Let’s see if the rest of them can keep up.”
The bell rang. The class fled.
Harry stayed still a moment longer, the echo of the Crucible and the World Cup pressing in on his chest. Moody didn’t have to say it—he already knew this year wouldn’t be about lessons.
It would be about surviving what came next.
(Routine and Rumor)
The corridors of Hogwarts were wrong .
Not broken—Hogwarts would never allow that—but altered, and every student felt it. Runes shimmered on doorframes, staircases paused mid-swing as if sniffing the air, and new enchanted sconces flickered with the faint blue light of foreign warding charms.
Harry noticed it first thing that morning on the way to Transfiguration. A faint humming beneath his shoes, like the castle was thrumming with anticipation.
“Feels like it’s watching us,” Neville murmured beside him.
Hermione walked between them, her bag clutched tight against her shoulder. “It is watching us. They’ve reawakened half the observational wards for security. And those”—she gestured to the glowing sconces—“are keyed to alert the staff if any sabotage happens before the delegations arrive.”
Neville tilted his head. “You just… know that?”
“I read, Neville,” Hermione said, a touch defensive. “Unlike some people.”
Harry half-smiled, but it faded as they turned the corner toward the classroom. A cluster of Ravenclaws was whispering near the windows, their eyes flicking toward Harry and Neville with quick, assessing glances.
“Word’s out,” Neville muttered.
“What word?” Harry asked, already suspecting the answer.
“That you’re in the Heirs Club now.” Neville’s voice was soft but firm. “Half the school’s watching. Some are impressed. Some are scared. Some are waiting for you to trip.”
Hermione stiffened, glancing at him. “So that’s where you two were last night.”
Harry hesitated. They had planned to tell her. The Heirs Club was hers too, her Ravenclaw bloodline ensured it, but secrecy was part of their pact.
Neville answered carefully. “We were… where we needed to be.”
Hermione’s lips pressed into a line. She didn’t ask further, but Harry could feel the question hanging between them like a ghost.
Transfiguration was a blur of half-focused spellwork. Professor McGonagall had the class practicing Animated Knotwork, which normally would’ve fascinated Harry, but his attention kept flicking to the window.
Below, the Black Lake shimmered unnaturally, ripples spiraling without wind. On the far shore, scaffolding rose near the forest edge, glittering with foreign sigils.
Ron leaned over at the next table and whispered, “Bet that’s Durmstrang. Lake monsters and all. Reckon they’ll try to feed one to us first task?”
Hermione muttered, “That’s not how the Tournament works,” but her voice lacked conviction.
After class, the trio slipped into a quieter hallway to avoid the morning crush of students. The air smelled faintly of parchment and candle wax, the only sound the echo of their footsteps.
“Everything feels different,” Harry said at last.
Neville nodded. “Because it is. This year isn’t about lessons. It’s about what happens between them.”
Hermione glanced at Harry, her eyes serious. “Then we’d better start paying attention. If the Tournament is coming here, Hogwarts isn’t just a school anymore. It’s a stage.”
And though none of them said it, Harry knew what she meant: Stages attract performers. And predators.
(Soup and Speculation)
By mid-week, the Great Hall was alive with restless energy. Lunch should have been a quiet affair—pumpkin soup steaming in silver bowls, the smell of roast chicken and fresh bread rolling through the air—but instead it was a storm of rumor and excitement.
Harry slid onto the Gryffindor bench with Neville and Ron, trying to keep his head down.
“Did you hear?” Seamus leaned over immediately, voice pitched low in the way that meant it wasn’t low at all. “Hagrid saw the Beauxbatons carriage flying over Bristol this morning. Massive . Like a house with wings.”
“That’s not even the best part,” Dean added, eyes bright. “I heard from a Ravenclaw that Durmstrang’s sending a ship—and it comes up through the Black Lake .”
“Ship?” Ron echoed, delighted. “Like a pirate ship?”
Hermione sighed as she sat down across from them. “Durmstrang doesn’t have pirates. It’s a magically-propelled vessel. It’s very advanced enchantment work. And probably dangerous if they misalign the wards—”
“They’re going to sink the squid,” Seamus interrupted with glee.
Neville shot him a dark look. “He’ll likely sink them.”
Ginny slid into the spot beside Hermione, dropping her bag with a thump. “If they do mess up the wards, we’ll all know it. I saw Professor Flitwick this morning drawing detection runes around the lake.”
Across the Hall, Susan passed with a small group of Ravenclaws, nodding politely toward the Gryffindor table but saying nothing. Harry caught her eye for a fraction of a second, and she gave the tiniest, most measured nod before sitting with her own House.
“You see that?” Neville murmured, leaning toward him. “They’re watching how you act in public now.”
“I noticed,” Harry muttered, spearing a piece of chicken.
The Hall rippled with more gossip: A Hufflepuff swore they’d seen a trio of foreign Aurors in the Entrance Hall, conferring with Filch about security charms. Parvati was sure the Beauxbatons uniforms were “all silk and silver thread,” and Lavender clutched her sleeve in theatrical despair. Fay muttered to Ginny that she hoped Durmstrang didn’t bring any “actual Death Eaters” by accident.
The chatter was half excitement, half unease.
Hermione finally set down her goblet with a quiet clink. “Everyone’s treating this like a game.”
“Isn’t it?” Ron said around a mouthful of bread.
“No,” she said firmly. “It’s politics dressed as a game. Every spell cast, every student chosen—there’ll be someone watching and judging. And the last thing this school needs is more eyes on it when we’re…” She glanced at Harry, hesitating. “…already under scrutiny.”
Ginny, who had been silent, finally spoke, her voice soft but cutting. “Maybe that’s exactly what the school needs. Sometimes being watched is the only way to survive.”
The words landed heavier than the chatter around them, but before anyone could reply, a ripple of sound swept the Hall.
The doors had opened.
Professor McGonagall entered first, followed by Hagrid and Professor Flitwick, each levitating a long, gilded banner pole—Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang sigils gleaming in perfect alignment. The message was clear: the world was already here, even if the delegations hadn’t arrived yet.
(Bells and Breathing)
The first full week of classes passed in a blur of ink, footsteps, and whispered rumors.
The castle felt alive, but not in the usual comforting way. Staircases paused in midair, doors opened only at a second knock, and enchanted banners shimmered faintly with the sigils of three schools, reminding everyone that Hogwarts was no longer its own world.
Classes were relentless. Professors seemed to sense the year’s weight and pressed the students harder than usual: Transfiguration demanded knotwork that danced in three dimensions. Charms had them levitating multiple objects in synchronized motion—a new spell pattern meant to “enhance coordination under duress,” as Flitwick put it. Defense Against the Dark Arts, under the sharp gaze of Professor Moody, started the year with shield charms and a practical test on defensive footwork.
By Friday, most of the Gryffindors were dragging themselves to meals with ink-stained fingers and the glassy-eyed look of survivors. Even Ron, usually chatty after class, fell asleep face-first into his shepherd’s pie one evening, earning a round of laughter from the table.
Amid the quiet exhaustion, Susan Bones moved with purpose.
Luna Lovegood had drifted through the first week as she always did—serene, distracted, and untouched by social currents—but Susan noticed the looks . Ravenclaws whispering behind books, a few Slytherins smirking as Luna passed with her star-speckled quill.
On Wednesday, Susan wordlessly slid into the seat beside her in the library.
“You’re in my House,” she said lightly, “but you don’t sit with us.”
Luna blinked at her over the rim of Magical Flora for Lost Minds. “Ravenclaws are very loud.”
Susan smiled faintly. “So are Gryffindors.” She hesitated, then added, “Some of them are loud in ways that get people hurt. You don’t have to float through that alone.”
Luna tilted her head, considering her with that calm, piercing gaze. “You want me to sit with you because I make people uncomfortable.”
Susan didn’t flinch. “Because you see things they don’t. That makes you valuable. And if you’re with me, they will think twice before laughing.”
Luna considered this for a long moment, then nodded. “I would like that.”
By Friday, Luna’s presence at the Ravenclaw table was no longer a change. Susan anchored her there with quiet conversation and a protective air that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. The whispers dulled.
From the Gryffindor table, Hermione noticed, her quill pausing mid-sentence. Across from her, Harry followed her gaze to Luna and Susan, and a faint, knowing smile tugged at his mouth.
Neville only said, softly, “Good. She needs that.”
And for one strange, fleeting evening, Hogwarts felt like it might balance itself again—even as the world beyond its stone walls waited to push harder.
(Firelight and Familiarity)
By the time the sun slid down behind the Forbidden Forest, the Gryffindor common room had settled into a rare, contented hush.
The fire popped softly in the grate. Fatigue hung over the room like a blanket: first-years nodding off over half-finished assignments, older students curled in armchairs with books or whispered card games. Outside, the wind carried the faintest scent of the lake, stirred by enchantments the professors swore were “perfectly safe.”
Harry sat cross-legged on the rug by the fire, a chessboard spread between him and Ron. The pieces muttered under their breath, restless but not defiant—no one had the energy for dramatic battles tonight.
Neville sat on the couch behind them, a Herbology text open in his lap, but he wasn’t really reading. He’d been trimming a tiny sprig of mimbulus that he insisted “needed companionship” in the Tower. Its leaves quivered with each crackle of the fire.
Hermione, perched sideways in the armchair nearest the hearth, had abandoned her book entirely. She was just watching, quill still in her fingers, as if soaking in the rare stillness.
“Oi,” Ron muttered, moving his knight forward. “You’re thinking too hard.”
Harry leaned back on his hands, squinting at the board. “I’m trying to picture what’s coming this year.”
Neville hummed in quiet agreement. “Feels like the castle’s holding its breath.”
Hermione’s voice was soft, almost fond. “That’s because it is. And so are all of you.”
Ron frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, tilting her head toward him, “you’re all waiting for something to start. The Tournament. The delegations. Whatever comes next. You haven’t even breathed since the Welcome Feast.”
Ron made a face. “I’ve breathed. I just… maybe want to hold it till the dragons show up.”
Harry and Neville laughed under their breath.
Hermione smiled faintly, then tucked her feet beneath her. For a moment, it felt like they were children again, like the world hadn’t already stretched them taller, sharper, older than they were.
The fire popped, and the sound of the wind outside filled the quiet. Somewhere deep in the castle, a bell tolled curfew.
After a while, Parvati and Lavender drifted in from the girls’ stairwell, giggling over some whispered rumor about Beauxbatons uniforms. Fay trailed behind, hair loose from its ribbon, and Sally-Anne slipped in last, straightening every cushion she passed.
The firelight reflected in all their faces, softening the edges of the week’s strain.
“Feels like we’ve been here a month already,” Ron muttered, flopping onto the rug.
“You just want an excuse to sleep in tomorrow,” Hermione teased.
“Yes,” Ron said without hesitation. “If I have to memorize another spell pattern before breakfast, I’m going to hex my own ears off.”
Neville chuckled. “I’ll water your plant if that happens.”
Harry leaned back fully, letting the warmth of the fire seep into his bones. Above them, the old windows rattled softly in the evening wind. The castle’s heart seemed to beat in time with the fire’s crackle, patient and watchful.
For one night, at least, they weren’t heirs or heroes or pieces on a political board. They were just children in a tower, chasing the last scraps of summer warmth before the year truly began.
And though none of them said it aloud, they all felt it in the quiet between words: this was the last easy night for a long time.
Chapter 4: The called it The Cup
Chapter Text
(Morning and Movement)
Sunlight spilled through the Gryffindor windows the next morning, soft and golden, scattering across the worn red carpets and the sleeping forms of students who hadn’t yet stumbled down to breakfast.
Harry woke first. Habit, maybe. Or nerves.
The common room was almost silent except for the low snore of a fifth-year in an armchair and the quiet rustle of parchment where Hermione had fallen asleep over a half-finished essay.
He let her sleep. She’d earned it.
By the time he and Neville made their way down the spiral stairs to the Great Hall, Hogwarts had already changed again. The entrance courtyard glimmered with warding runes etched into the flagstones, faint blue in the morning light. The Black Lake rippled unnaturally, its surface reflecting the sky and something else—an enchantment shifting just beneath the water.
And from the far edge of the Quidditch Pitch, faintly glowing scaffolding rose like the bones of a stage, moving with a will of its own.
The castle was alive. Preparing.
“Feels like it’s holding its breath,” Neville muttered, echoing the thought Harry had been carrying all week.
In the Great Hall, the change was even sharper House banners now shared space with the grand sigils of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, silk catching the sunlight. At the high table, Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall were conferring with Hagrid, who was enthusiastically miming the wingspan of something clearly enormous.
“You think they’re coming today?” Ron whispered through a mouthful of toast.
“Not today,” Hermione murmured, sliding into her seat, hair a little mussed from sleeping in the chair upstairs. “The wards are still adjusting. But soon.”
Lavender leaned over the table, eyes wide. “I heard the Beauxbatons carriage can land on water if it needs to.”
“And Durmstrang’s ship will rise from the lake,” Ginny added from down the bench, her voice steady but watchful.
Sally-Anne Perks paled. “The lake? But what if the squid—”
“It’ll be fine,” Hermione said quickly, though her eyes flicked toward Neville. They all felt it: the castle was bracing itself for something bigger than any of them.
After breakfast, they wandered out into the courtyard, drawn by the murmur of activity. Foreign Aurors were already pacing the grounds since a week, wands sweeping for weaknesses in the wards. Stone gargoyles had blinked awake and turned their heads to follow the movement.
Harry paused in the sunlight, breathing in the crisp weekend air. The castle seemed to hum under his feet, a reminder that it was awake, aware, and waiting.
Neville glanced around, shoulders tight. “We should enjoy this while we can.”
“Enjoy what?” Ron asked.
“The quiet,” Neville said simply. “It won’t last.”
(Broomsticks and Broken Hearts)
Dinner started like any other September feast: the Great Hall awash in candlelight, plates filling themselves, and the buzz of students comparing first-week catastrophes.
Fred and George Weasley were three-quarters of the way through a shared plate of roasted potatoes and a whispered plan involving Filch’s office when Dumbledore stood.
The Hall quieted instantly.
“Before you return to your studies this evening,” the Headmaster said, “there is one more matter of importance. This year, as you know, Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament.”
Excited murmurs rippled through the room, even though most students had already spent the week talking about nothing else.
“Due to the extensive preparations, security measures, and the unique demands of this historic event,” Dumbledore continued, his voice warm but unyielding, “the Hogwarts Quidditch season will be cancelled for the duration of the school year.”
The silence was deafening. Then came the explosion.
“What?!”
“You can’t!”
“You’ve got to be joking!”
From the Gryffindor table, Angelina Johnson shot to her feet so fast her goblet tipped over, pumpkin juice cascading across the bench.
“Cancelled?!” she shouted. “You can’t just—”
Across the Hall, the Hufflepuff captain, Cedric Digggory, bellowed something about fairness, while a Ravenclaw voice shrieked, “But we’ve been training since August!”
The Slytherin table erupted in outrage too, though Marcus Flint’s absence was still keenly felt—they lacked his bellowing authority.
Fred and George exchanged a look over the din.
“This is tragic,” Fred said solemnly.
“A travesty,” George agreed. “A historical injustice.”
They watched Angelina argue with Professor McGonagall, who looked two seconds away from either comforting or hexing her. The captains from every House were converging near the staff table, creating a storm of outraged voices.
“On the other hand,” Fred added thoughtfully, “this gives us the entire year to perfect—”
“—every single product in the Wheezes catalogue,” George finished, grinning.
“And with the Tournament here,” Fred continued, lowering his voice as the room’s chaos rose, “that’s an international market, Georgie. French galleons. Durmstrang rubles. We could retire by next summer.”
“Tragedy,” George said again, now smiling. “Absolute tragedy.”
They both glanced toward Harry at the far end of the table. He wasn’t shouting. Wasn’t even eating. Just staring into his goblet like he could already feel the weight of the year settling in.
Fred elbowed George lightly. “Reckon he’s already thinking about the Tournament?”
“Reckon he knows,” George said, voice low, “that this year’s going to be fireworks—one way or another.”
The Gryffindor common room buzzed with leftover outrage long after the feast ended. Students clustered in the corners, muttering about unfairness and imagining elaborate revenge on Dumbledore himself.
Angelina Johnson stormed in first, the portrait hole swinging wildly behind her. Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet trailed after, both trying and failing to calm her down.
“Cancelled!” Angelina threw her arms in the air. “A whole year! No practices, no matches, no Cup! Do they even realize what they’re asking us to endure?”
“Breathing?” Katie said carefully.
“Sanity?” offered Alicia, grinning.
Angelina rounded on them. “This isn’t funny. I worked for years for this. I finally get captaincy, and Dumbledore decides, ‘Oh, let’s ruin Angelina Johnson’s life for the sake of a French horse show!’”
Fred and George, sprawled on the rug like satisfied cats, exchanged a look.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Fred announced loudly, “I present to you… Oliver 2.0.”
“Improved model,” George said gravely. “Now with extra shouting and seventy percent more righteous fury.”
Several younger Gryffindors giggled. Even Ron, sprawled in an armchair, snorted.
“I am nothing like Oliver,” Angelina said, hands on hips.
“Of course not,” Fred said. “You haven’t tried to schedule practice at two in the morning yet.”
“Or in a thunderstorm,” George added. “Or while sobbing about Snitch trajectories.”
“Give her time,” Katie teased.
Angelina threw a cushion at Fred, who caught it and bowed. “Thank you, Captain,” he said solemnly.
On the couch, Neville leaned toward Harry and whispered, “Are they always like this?”
Harry smirked. “You should’ve seen Oliver. He made it a religion.”
Hermione, curled in an armchair with a book she wasn’t reading, shook her head fondly. “I almost miss him now. Almost.”
Angelina flopped into a chair, muttering, “If I see Dumbledore tomorrow, I swear…”
“Careful,” Fred said. “That’s how Oliver started talking to goalposts.”
The room erupted into laughter, and for a brief moment, the sting of cancellation gave way to firelight and camaraderie.
The following Saturday morning broke crisp and clear, sunlight spilling over the turrets of Hogwarts like warm honey. From the Gryffindor Tower, the Quidditch Pitch gleamed below—empty, silent, its goal hoops catching the light like abandoned sentinels.
Harry had just settled into the common room with toast and a half-hearted chess game against Ron when Angelina Johnson burst in, broom in hand and determination blazing.
“Up,” she said.
Harry blinked. “Up…?”
“Up. Get your broom. If Dumbledore thinks canceling Quidditch means we’re not flying, he’s wrong.”
Behind her, Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet appeared, grinning, brooms over their shoulders. Fred and George trailed behind, smirking like accomplices in a minor rebellion.
“We’re holding a memorial fly,” Fred said solemnly, “for the late, great 1994 Quidditch season, taken from us too soon.”
“Tragic accident,” George added, “caused by an old man and a shiny cup.”
Ron perked up. “I’m coming.”
“You’d have been Keeper this year.” Angelina asked sharply.
“Thanks,” Ron said, already grabbing his broom, “and I’m emotionally invested.”
They trooped down to the pitch together, laughter echoing against the stands.
The field felt enormous without the roar of the crowd, the familiar lines of play somehow lonely against the dew-slick grass. Even the goal hoops seemed to droop in sympathy.
Fred and George Weasley were grinning like devils, broomsticks slung over their shoulders.
“I may have,” Fred said, drawing out the words with mock innocence, “told a few people we were holding a proper farewell flight.”
George smirked. “All the people, technically.”
Harry gave them a suspicious look. “Define all.”
He didn’t have to wait long for the answer. By the time Angelina kicked off from the grass with a triumphant whoop, students from every House were streaming down the hill toward the pitch: Hufflepuffs with old brooms and easy grins, Cedric Diggory leading the way like it was all perfectly reasonable. Ravenclaws with carefully polished Cleansweeps, muttering about “aerodynamic studies” as Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw seeker, eyed the hoops. Even a few Slytherins, led by a smirking Adrian Pucey, sauntered in like they had stumbled onto the wrong field and decided to own it anyway.
Within minutes, the pitch was alive again—dozens of students launching into the sky, laughter and wind tangling together, house colors blurring in the sun.
It wasn’t organized Quidditch, not really.
Fred and George announced “open season”, and chaos became the rule: Ravenclaws tried an impromptu race around the hoops. Hufflepuffs invented a game of “Snitch Tag”, pelting each other with conjured golden sparks. A Slytherin Chaser lobbed an old Quaffle toward Katie, who caught it one-handed and spun midair to score through the left hoop.
Angelina hovered above them all, wind whipping her braids, laughing despite herself. “I can’t believe this is working!”
“Memorial Fly, Johnson!” Fred yelled from below. “Not even Dumbledore can ban joy!”
Harry soared higher, letting the wind rush against his face.
For a little while, it didn’t matter that the season was cancelled or that the Tournament was looming. In the sky, with friends and rivals alike laughing and racing beneath him, Hogwarts felt like Hogwarts again.
When they finally landed, muddy and breathless, the four Houses were tangled together in shared rebellion.
Cedric clapped Harry on the shoulder, still grinning. “If they’re going to take the Cup away, we might as well remind them whose field this is.”
And for the first time since the announcement, even Angelina admitted, “Oliver would’ve approved.”
(Banners and Bans)
By Monday evening, the story of the Great Memorial Fly had spread across the castle like Fiendfyre—except with more laughter and fewer property damages.
Students were still trading stories in the Great Hall: How a Hufflepuff had accidentally invented looping broom tag. How Fred and George nearly collided mid-barrel-roll but “recovered with unmatched style.” How Harry Potter had allegedly raced Cedric Diggory backwards, though Harry flatly denied it.
At the staff table, Professor McGonagall’s lips were pressed into a line so thin it could have cut glass.
“An unsanctioned, multi-House, skyborne free-for-all,” she said, her voice like ice as she addressed the Gryffindor table. “In direct contradiction to the Headmaster’s decree regarding the Quidditch season.”
Fred raised his hand politely. “Technically, Professor, we weren’t playing Quidditch. There were no teams, no scores, and no Snitch.”
George nodded. “Purely a morale-building exercise. Inter-House unity. You’d be proud.”
A soft wheeze from the staff table suggested that Professor Flitwick was, in fact, proud.
Dumbledore rose, his eyes twinkling far too brightly for anyone to believe he was truly upset. “While I must admire your… creative interpretation of the rules,” he said, his voice carrying with that effortless authority, “I must also remind you that our preparations for the Triwizard Tournament include complex warding work. Unauthorized flights may interfere with the enchantments.”
Several students, particularly Slytherins and Ravenclaws, shuffled guiltily.
“That said,” Dumbledore continued, “I have spoken with Professor McGonagall, and she has convinced me that a formal reprimand is appropriate.”
McGonagall straightened, clearly ready to deliver the sentence.
Fred and George exchanged a glance and mouthed, Here it comes.
“The following is your warning,” McGonagall said, voice ringing through the Hall. “Any further… spontaneous air shows… will result in the confiscation of your broomsticks until the departure of the foreign delegations. Consider this your one and only act of leniency.”
Groans rippled through every House table.
Then, quietly but audibly, Michael Corner muttered, “Worth it.”
The Gryffindor table dissolved into muffled laughter. Even Cedric couldn’t quite hide a grin from the Hufflepuff table.
Later, as the students filed out under the floating candles, Harry caught Neville’s eye and saw the same thought mirrored there: For one weekend, Hogwarts had remembered how to be fun—and even McGonagall’s sternest voice couldn’t erase it.
(Trumpets and Timetables)
By the final week of September, Hogwarts was bristling with expectation.
The banners of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang still fluttered alongside the House colors in the Great Hall, but the novelty had worn thin. Students were restless, homework neglected in favor of gossip.
When would they arrive?
What would they look like?
Would the castle feel even stranger than it already did?
That night, the smell of roast lamb and treacle tart filled the Hall when Dumbledore rose, tapping his goblet gently. The sound carried over the chattering tables like a soft bell, and the room fell still.
“My dear students,” he began, “I am pleased to inform you that the foreign delegations for the Triwizard Tournament will arrive on the evening of September 30th.”
Gasps and murmurs spread instantly.
“They will be greeted on the grounds and formally escorted to the castle. You will treat our guests with courtesy and restraint”—his eyes twinkled as they swept over the Gryffindor table, pausing just long enough on Fred and George—“and remember that Hogwarts is not only your home, but the face we show to the world.”
Gryffindor erupted with cheers and speculation, Seamus betting on dragons as part of the reception.
Hufflepuff buzzed with excitement but also visible nerves—Susan Bones whispering to Ernie that “international judges” meant no room for mistakes.
Ravenclaw took the news in quieter murmurs, already trying to recall every article ever published about Beauxbatons and Durmstrang.
Slytherin kept mostly composed, though Draco Malfoy leaned toward Blaise and muttered something smug about “proper wizarding bloodlines finally seeing Hogwarts for what it is.”
Hermione set down her fork, heart thudding with a mix of excitement and unease. She could see Harry a few seats down, unusually still, as though the announcement carried more weight for him than anyone else.
Across the table, Ron was already leaning toward Neville. “Do you think they’ll do a show? Like… fly in on dragons? Or giant squid rides?”
Neville chuckled. “I think the point is not to terrify the hosts.”
Fred grinned from down the bench. “Speak for yourself. A little terror would spice up dinner.”
At the staff table, Professor McGonagall’s sharp gaze swept the room, measuring every reaction. When her eyes met Harry’s, she saw that same quiet readiness that reminded her far too much of the last war.
Dumbledore lifted his goblet for the closing words. “Prepare yourselves, my students. The world is coming to Hogwarts, and with it, a year of history—and challenge—that none of us will soon forget.”
(Banners and Breathless Skies)
The last evening of September smelled like autumn and anticipation. The grounds of Hogwarts were alive—torches lining the path to the lake, students in their House best, professors forming a loose perimeter like a silent honor guard.
Harry shifted on his feet, hands in his pockets, his eyes never still. He could feel the castle humming through the soles of his shoes, an energy that had been building all week. The wards thrummed like a heartbeat, whispering, They’re coming.
Beside him, Hermione craned her neck, eyes darting from the glowing sky to the rippling lake. She’d memorized every line of A History of Magical Competitions in Western Europe, and yet this felt nothing like a book. The air tasted like a storm, like the start of a story she couldn’t predict.
Neville stood a little behind them, hands folded in his cloak, trying not to fidget. He didn’t need to be told the stakes—he could feel them in the earth beneath his boots. Even the soil seemed to tighten with each heartbeat. A Hufflepuff by blood, a Gryffindor by House, and somehow an Heir by responsibility—this moment was heavier than the banners suggested.
Draco Malfoy leaned against a nearby torch post, chin tilted just enough to suggest nonchalance. But his pale fingers betrayed him, twitching once as he caught sight of the officials clustered near Dumbledore. Too many eyes, too many names to remember, and all of them would remember mine.
“Do you think they’ll make a show of it?” Neville murmured, breaking the silence.
Harry glanced up at the sky. “If they’re anything like the book says, Beauxbatons will. Durmstrang… I don’t know.”
“Durmstrang will want to impress,” Draco said lightly, his voice carrying just enough for them all to hear. “They thrive on intimidation. If they arrive quietly, it’s only so they can remind you they’re already in control.”
Hermione huffed. “That’s not in any of the historical accounts I’ve read.”
Draco’s smirk flickered. “Some things don’t make it into books, Granger. You have to know the people.”
Neville’s lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Funny. You sound nervous for someone who ‘knows the people.’”
“I’m not nervous,” Draco said at once, though his hand twitched again before tucking into his sleeve. “I’m… aware. There’s a difference.”
The wind picked up, carrying the faint smell of rain and smoke. Hermione’s hair whipped around her face as she murmured, “It’s starting.”
And above them, the sky darkened unnaturally– the first shadow broke the clouds—a glint of blue wings and a carriage as big as a house descending through the evening sky.
Gasps rose across the gathered students as a massive, powder-blue carriage, drawn by winged Abraxans the size of small elephants, descended in slow, graceful spirals. The torches flickered in the downdraft of their wings.
“Beauxbatons,” Hermione whispered, though no one needed telling. Her voice still carried awe.
“Is that—” Neville started.
“The Beauxbatons carriage,” Hermione breathed. “It’s bigger than the book described!”
The carriage descended in slow spirals, each rotation sending gusts across the lawn. Winged Abraxans, the size of small elephants, pawed the air and snorted white vapor into the chill.
“They’re magnificent,” Neville said softly, his awe pushing past any nerves.
“Loud,” Draco muttered, wincing as the downdraft tousled his perfect hair. But his eyes tracked every movement, calculating, like he was memorizing the entire foreign delegation before they even landed.
The carriage landed with a heavy thud that rippled through the earth. Doors opened, and large emerged first, towering and regal. Behind her flowed a stream of students in silk-lined cloaks, every step perfectly in time, their school crest glinting on their chests.
Hermione clutched Harry’s sleeve unconsciously. “Look—they move like a procession.”
Harry said nothing. His eyes found the girl in the middle of the line, torchlight catching in her silver-blond hair. He could feel the castle hum differently, almost like the Flame in the Great Hall had leaned toward her.
“Veela,” Draco murmured under his breath, just loud enough for Neville and Harry to hear. “Half-blood at least. You can tell by the way everyone’s staring.”
Hermione’s jaw tightened, though she kept her eyes forward.
Then, the lake stirred.
Bubbles broke the surface. Ripples spread to the far shore, and a low creak of timber echoed like a whale song.
“Oh,” Neville whispered. “That’s…”
“The Durmstrang ship,” Draco finished, his voice softer than usual. He sounded almost reverent.
From the dark water, a long black ship rose, shedding droplets like diamonds under torchlight. Its carved prow resembled a serpent’s head, and lanterns flared to life along the mast as it slid silently to shore.
Harry’s heart thumped with each groan of water and wood. He couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched, not by the students, but by the castle itself, as though the wards were breathing with anticipation.
The gangplank hit the bank, and their Headmaster– Karkaroff, Harry remembered from the letters– led his students onto the bank, fur cloaks billowing. Viktor Krum was easy to spot, solid and quiet at the center of his group. His dark eyes scanned the crowd, pausing briefly on Harry, then Hermione, before flicking away.
“They’re all so…” Neville began, trailing off.
“Prepared?” Hermione offered.
“Dangerous,” Draco corrected, his tone sharper now. “Every one of them knows they’re being measured tonight.”
Harry didn’t answer. He was staring at the way the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students positioned themselves, careful not to mingle. The Triwizard Tournament hadn’t started yet, and the air was already charged like the moment before a storm.
Neville pressed his heel into the grass, grounding himself, silently marking the foreign Heirs in his mental map of alliances. Draco, for all his poise, couldn’t quite stop himself from murmuring, “Finally. The world comes to us.”
And somewhere deep under his feet, Hogwarts hummed, the wards whispering to its heir: The world has arrived. The game has begun.
(Guests and Goblet)
The Great Hall had never felt smaller.
By the time the Hogwarts students were seated, the air was thick with whispers and candlelight. The four long tables were lined with curious faces, and the enchanted ceiling mirrored the night sky outside, streaked with fading storm clouds.
Draco Malfoy slipped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table, posture perfect, eyes half-lidded in what he hoped read as confidence. Around him, murmurs rose and fell like waves.
“Bet they take the guest table first,” Blaise whispered.
“They always do in the records,” Pansy added, her fingers drumming against the table edge.
Draco didn’t answer. His eyes were on the doors, and the faint weight of expectation pressed between his shoulder blades.
The doors swung open.
The Beauxbatons delegation glided in first, led by the Headmistress, Madame Maxime. Silk cloaks caught the candlelight like spilled moonlight. Draco’s gaze slid instinctively toward the Veela, watching the subtle ripple she caused—half the Hall unconsciously straightening in their seats.
Then came Durmstrang, and with them, the Hall felt heavier. Boots echoed on stone, fur-lined cloaks shifting with every step. Karkaroff strode with the assurance of someone claiming a stage, his students fanning behind him like dark water.
And then Viktor Krum broke formation.
Draco blinked as the famous Seeker veered directly toward the Slytherin table, bypassing the expected seating pattern. A ripple of startled murmurs ran through the hall.
Krum stopped at the empty space beside Draco and, without asking, sat down.
For a moment, the world went quiet.
Blaise’s eyebrows shot up. Pansy’s fork clattered onto her plate. Even Crabbe and Goyle froze mid-breath.
Krum gave a single nod, the barest hint of a greeting, and began serving himself potatoes as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
“…Uh,” Blaise started, but Draco shot him a sharp look.
Draco recovered quickly, spine straight, voice smooth. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Krum,” he said, quiet enough for only their end of the table to hear.
Krum’s dark eyes flicked to him, unreadable, then back to his food. “Good pitch. Fast air,” he said simply, in his low, accented voice.
Draco allowed the faintest smile. He didn’t know whether Krum was talking about Quidditch or the tournament, and maybe that was the point.
Up at the staff table, Dumbledore rose, his voice cutting through the whispering tension.
“My dear students and honored guests,” he said warmly, “it is with great pride that I welcome Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and Durmstrang Institute to Hogwarts for this historic Triwizard Tournament.”
The words rolled over the hall, and all the while, Draco was acutely aware of Krum’s presence beside him. He could feel the stares from across the room—Hufflepuffs craning to see, Gryffindors whispering behind their hands, Ravenclaws calculating what this meant.
At the far table, Harry’s gaze met his, sharp and curious. Draco tilted his chin in the barest acknowledgement, thinking, The games haven’t even started, and the board is already moving.
Ron Weasley was trying—really trying—to enjoy the feast, but the Great Hall felt like someone had tightened a Snitch-string around his chest.
First, the Beauxbatons carriage had landed like some royal parade, making half the Hall sit up straighter. Then the Durmstrang ship had climbed out of the Black Lake like a sea monster, and Ron had nearly choked on his own excitement.
But now? Now Viktor Krum was sitting at the Slytherin table, and Ron couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Of all the seats…” he muttered to Hermione, who was already watching Krum like a hawk.
“He wants to make a statement,” she said under her breath, voice brisk with analysis. “He’s not afraid to align himself with the politically strongest House here.”
“Or the slimiest,” Ron said, glaring as Pansy Parkinson leaned forward, giggling, while Krum calmly helped himself to roasted chicken. Draco Malfoy was playing it cool, of course—Ron could see it in the way his shoulders were set—but the smirk on his pale face was infuriating.
“Quiet,” Harry murmured, voice low enough that Ron almost didn’t hear him. “Dumbledore’s about to speak.”
Dumbledore rose, and the Hall fell silent.
“My dear students and honored guests,” he said, his voice warm but resonant. “It is with great pride that I present to you the heart of this year’s Triwizard Tournament—the Goblet of Fire.”
Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall wheeled in a tall, ornate cup on a pedestal. Blue-white flames flickered inside, casting eerie shadows across the tables.
A wave of hushed awe passed through the room, but Ron’s attention snagged on Harry.
His best mate had gone still. Not frozen, exactly—but alert in that strange, instinctive way that made Ron’s skin prickle. Across the hall, the flame in the Goblet pulsed once, barely perceptible, as if recognizing him.
“Blimey,” Ron muttered, leaning toward him. “It… it’s looking at you.”
Harry didn’t answer, his eyes locked on the flickering blue. For a second, Ron thought he saw a hint of gold spark deep in the fire, there and gone.
Around them, the House whispers rose like buzzing bees:
“Did you see that?”
“Krum’s sitting with Slytherin—what does that mean?”
“Potter looks spooked—think the Goblet doesn’t like him?”
Ron’s ears burned. He hated the way all the attention was already tilting toward Harry—even before the Tournament had begun.
“Alright there, mate?” he asked under his breath.
Harry nodded slowly, though his eyes didn’t leave the Goblet. “Yeah. Just… feels like it knows me.”
Ron shivered and looked away, muttering to himself. “Brilliant. Just what we need. A magic cup making eyes at you while Krum flirts with Slytherin.”
Dumbledore’s voice carried effortlessly through the Great Hall, warm yet firm. “The Goblet of Fire,” he said, “is an impartial judge. When you wish to enter the Triwizard Tournament, you will write your name and your school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the Goblet.
“Overnight, the Goblet will consider all candidates. On Halloween night, the Goblet will select one champion for each school. Its decision is final.” He paced slowly along the staff table, his gaze sweeping the room. “Anyone wishing to submit themselves for the tournament must be seventeen or older. This is not a test of skill alone, but of age, experience, and judgment.
“I will personally be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet to prevent underage students from submitting their names. If you are chosen, you are bound to compete. There is no withdrawing from the tournament once the Goblet selects you. The tasks will test your daring, your skill, and your ability to face danger in ways Hogwarts has not seen for over a century.”
A ripple of whispers traveled through the students. At the far end of the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy sat a little straighter; at Gryffindor, Ron elbowed Harry in the ribs, eyes wide.
Dumbledore gestured gracefully toward the blue-white fire of the Goblet, which flickered higher for just a moment, as if sensing the attention.
“Remember this: the Goblet is a binding magical contract. If your name comes out, there is no turning back. Consider your choice carefully before you submit your name.”
The Gryffindor fourth-year dormitory was alive with noise that night, even though the torches had been dimmed. Robes and cloaks were scattered over trunks, the fire snapped in the grate, and the echo of the feast seemed to have followed them upstairs.
Neville Longbottom sat on the edge of his bed, unlacing his boots slowly, feeling the faint hum of Hogwarts beneath his soles even up here. The castle had been thrumming all evening, restless in a way he didn’t like.
Ron Weasley was pacing between the beds, arms waving. “I’m telling you,” Ron said for the third—or was it fourth?—time, “Krum sitting with the Slytherins is bad news. Went straight for Malfoy, like they were already plotting, and all his people followed!”
Dean Thomas flopped back onto his bed, hands behind his head. “Or maybe,” he said dryly, “he just wanted a seat where people wouldn’t stare at him like he’s a dragon in trousers.”
Seamus snorted. “Mate, he’s Viktor Krum. He could’ve sat on the staff table if he wanted. Sitting with Slytherin means he likes snakes—or he’s making a move. Political, like Hermione said.”
Neville kept quiet, fingers working at a stubborn knot in his laces. He didn’t need Hermione’s book knowledge or Ron’s paranoia to feel it—the air was off tonight.
Harry lay on his bed, silent, hands tucked behind his head. His eyes were open, but unfocused, fixed on the canopy like he was watching something only he could see.
“You saw it too, didn’t you?” Ron said, spinning toward him. “The Goblet. It… it pulsed. Right at you.”
Harry didn’t immediately answer. He blinked, then murmured, “Felt more than saw. Like it… knew me.”
That earned a low whistle from Seamus. “Brilliant. Magic cup’s got favorites. Bet it’s thinking, ‘Ah, here comes trouble.’”
“Don’t joke,” Ron muttered, flopping down on his bed. “I can already see Malfoy’s smirk if something weird happens. Krum and Slytherin, the Goblet acting like Harry’s its long-lost friend—this year’s gonna be mental.”
Neville stayed quiet, but his stomach churned with that heavy Heir-sense he didn’t dare mention. He could feel the castle’s pulse in his bones, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like home. It felt like an expectation.
“Night, then,” Dean said finally, rolling onto his side.
Seamus snorted. “If we sleep at all. I’m dreaming of dragons and exploding cups.”
Neville blew out the lantern by his bed, but sleep didn’t come quickly. Beneath the chatter, beneath the settling of the castle’s old timbers, he could almost hear the whisper of roots and stone, waiting for the first move of the game none of them fully understood.
(Whispers and Watchers)
By the time Hermione made it down to breakfast, the Great Hall was already buzzing.
Golden morning light streamed across the enchanted ceiling, highlighting the Goblet of Fire’s cold blue flame on its pedestal near the staff table. It flickered like an unblinking eye, casting watery light over silverware and House banners.
But the tables—oh, the tables had changed. Durmstrang’s entire delegation had followed Krum to the Slytherin table last night. It was now a solid block of dark cloaks and fur that made the emerald-and-silver side of the Hall feel heavier, more fortified.
Beauxbatons, all silk and sky blue, had gravitated to Ravenclaws, like the tables themselves were aligning by color and temperament.
Hufflepuff and Gryffindor were left as the noisy, warm side of the room, whispering and pointing.
The guest table was littered with an undecided few.
Hermione slid onto the bench beside Harry and Neville, scanning the new seating arrangements with a sharp, disbelieving eye. “Do you see this?” she muttered. “The entire Durmstrang delegation defected to Slytherin. And look—Ravenclaws have practically turned their table Beauxbatons blue.”
Neville followed her gaze, nodding slowly. “Feels like the Hall’s… sorting itself.”
Ron leaned over his plate, glaring toward Slytherin. “Sorting itself into trouble. Malfoy’s acting like he owns Krum already.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed.
Draco Malfoy was at the heart of it all, seated just left of Krum with that perfectly measured poise of someone who thought he had the upper hand. Pansy flanked Krum’s right, laughing at something he’d barely said. Crabbe and Goyle loomed like furniture, and the rest of Durmstrang filled in around them, creating a single, imposing block of dark-clad confidence.
Next to them, Ravenclaws and Beauxbatons were engaged in something quieter but no less intentional—a court of clever smiles and polite conversation, silver and blue blending in candlelight. Hermione caught a glimpse of the Veela girl leaning toward Cho Chang as if sharing a secret, and a ripple of laughter passed down the table.
“You’d think the Tournament already started,” Ron muttered.
Hermione didn’t answer, her eyes fixed on the Goblet. Its blue fire flared for a heartbeat, and she noticed Harry go still, a subtle tension in his shoulders that made her stomach flip.
“Harry?” she asked softly.
He shook his head once, as if shaking off a stray thought. “Just… thought I felt it again.”
Neville’s hand tightened on his goblet. Hermione didn’t miss it. He feels it too, she realized.
All around them, the whisper network thrived:
“Krum and Malfoy—did you see them leave together last night?”
“Ravenclaw’s practically hosting Beauxbatons—figures, they’d love the glamour.”
“Hufflepuffs are saying Diggory’s already practicing for the first task.”
Hermione buttered her toast mechanically, the Hall a living chessboard before her eyes. Alliances were already forming in color-coded clusters, and no one had even dropped a name into the Goblet yet.
She caught Harry watching the flames again, his expression unreadable. She didn’t need a book to know it: the real tournament had already begun.
(Ashes and Advice)
The library smelled of dust and candlewax, a smell Hermione had always loved, but tonight it felt sharper, almost electric. Every creak of the shelves, every whisper of turning pages seemed tuned to the same tension she’d felt since the Goblet flared for Harry.
They had taken their usual spot in the far corner, under the watchful gaze of an old brass-lined window where evening light still clung to the glass. A half-unrolled parchment lay between them, ink smudged where Harry’s restless fingers had drummed across it.
Hermione tapped her quill against the margin. “It isn’t just seating politics. It’s… strategic. Durmstrang locking with Slytherin means Karkaroff’s hedging his bet on influence. Ravenclaws with Beauxbatons—flattery and curiosity. And Gryffindor and Hufflepuff? We’re loud but unaligned.”
Harry didn’t answer immediately. He was staring at a patch of light on the tabletop like it might open into memory. She recognized the look; she had seen it back in 1944, when time felt like it folded in on itself.
“Flamel would tell us not to look at the students,” he said quietly, as if quoting something. “He’d tell us to watch the currents, not the boats.”
Hermione’s chest tightened with recognition. “Rivers carry more than they show. He said that in Paris—right before he let us see the Crucible for the first time.”
Harry nodded. “The Goblet is the current now. And it… it knew me. Like the Flame in the Crucible did.”
Hermione’s quill stilled. “Then it’s not just a selection ritual. It’s listening. Watching for something deeper than a name on a piece of parchment.”
“Yeah,” Harry murmured. “It’s waiting for someone to move the way the river moves. Or the way fire eats what it needs.”
A soft scuff of shoes pulled them both from their thoughts. Neville Longbottom approached, hands in his cloak pockets, his expression pinched like he’d just come from a duel with his own conscience.
“You felt it too,” he said simply, looking at Harry.
Harry nodded. “The Goblet?”
“No,” Neville said, lowering his voice. “The castle. It’s… unsettled. Like the roots are holding their breath.”
Hermione’s eyes flicked to the parchment between them, where she’d been sketching rough table patterns and House alignments. Suddenly, it all seemed too small.
“We’ve been watching people,” she said slowly. “But Hogwarts is watching us. All of us. And the Goblet is just… the eye it chose to open.”
For a moment, none of them spoke. Only the faint rustle of the castle through the window and the echo of Flamel’s voice in memory: “The Flame doesn’t test courage, children. It tests truth. It asks who you are when the world moves beneath your feet.”
Hermione shivered. She had the sudden, vivid feeling that the first move had already been made, and they were three steps behind the board. She traced the rim of her goblet absentmindedly, the cool metal grounding her as the conversation wound itself into a knot.
“Do you remember,” she began slowly, her voice almost a whisper, “how Flamel said the Flame would never call us if we weren’t ready to listen?”
Harry leaned back in his chair, arms folded tight. The library’s flickering candlelight painted long shadows under his eyes. “Yeah. He made it sound like… like a promise. Or a warning.”
Neville pulled out a chair and dropped into it with a quiet sigh. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, looking like he carried half the castle’s weight in his shoulders.
“Well, the Flame called,” Neville said. “The Crucible. The Time-Turner mess. All of it. And now this Goblet feels like the… I don’t know. Like the castle’s echoing it.”
Hermione’s quill scratched a few idle lines on the parchment—currents and circles, paths crossing—and she realized her hands were shaking.
“Flamel would know what it meant,” she murmured. “He’d tell us if this is just a tournament, or… something else. He’d explain why the castle feels—”
“—like it’s holding its breath,” Harry finished for her. His voice was soft but certain.
Neville glanced between them, the faintest frown forming. “It hasn’t stopped since the Quidditch World Cup. I can feel it under my feet, even in the dorms. Like the roots want to move.”
“Roots don’t move,” Hermione said automatically, then caught herself. “…Not unless they want to.”
The three of them fell silent for a moment, the sound of distant footsteps and turning pages filling the space between thoughts.
Hermione’s chest felt tight with a mix of fear and longing. “Where the hell is Flamel?” she whispered, the sharp word echoing in the quiet.
Harry’s jaw tightened. He didn’t swear often, but when he did, it felt like the truth was slipping through his guard. “I’ve been writing to him all summer. Nothing. Not one owl’s come back. Not even a deflection from Perenelle.”
Neville’s fingers tapped on the tabletop, restless. “Do you think… Do you think he’s gone? Like, really gone this time?”
Hermione shook her head firmly, though her heart wasn’t as certain. “No. He’s too… deliberate. If he’s silent, it’s because he wants to be. He’s waiting for something. Or hiding from something bigger than we can see.”
Harry stared at the parchment between them, where Hermione’s idle sketches of currents and circles seemed almost alive in the candlelight. “Then he’d better show up soon,” he muttered. “Because whatever’s coming… we’re the ones standing in its way.”
Hermione didn’t answer. She just listened to the faint creak of the castle’s bones, wondering if Flamel was listening too—and if the Flame that once guided them was already moving the next piece on the board.
Chapter Text
(Embers Between Dreams)
Harry lay in the dark, staring at the underside of his bed canopy, wide awake long after the dorm had settled into soft snores.
The fire in the common room below had burned low, leaving only the faintest amber glow seeping under the door. It cast the room in a half-light that wavered with the wind, and in that wavering, his thoughts drifted to the Goblet, the Flame, and Flamel.
He could still feel it—the pulse from earlier. When the Goblet’s flame had flickered toward him, it hadn’t felt like just a magical artifact. It had felt… alive. Like the Crucible had. Like the Flame knew his name without reading it.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and let the memory take him: A hall of fire and stone, somewhere beyond time. Flamel’s soft French accent, steady as a heartbeat: “The Flame does not care for glory. It does not seek champions. It seeks truth, and it burns away all that lies.”
He rolled onto his side, fists balled in the sheets. Where are you, Flamel?
No owl. No answer. Not even a hint through the wards that he was listening.
The castle seemed to answer instead. Harry felt a vibration through the bedframe, like the very timbers of Gryffindor Tower were humming under the weight of the Triwizard Tournament. Or maybe it was just in his chest, the way nerves sometimes pretended to be something bigger.
Sleep came in fractured pieces, and with it, dreams like smoke: Roots writhing under stone, twisting to form a spiral he almost recognized. A blue flame that shifted suddenly to gold, whispering his name in a voice that was and wasn’t his.
Flamel’s hand on his shoulder in a memory, murmuring: “When the world moves beneath you, child, will you burn or bear the light?”
Harry jerked awake, heart hammering, the faintest taste of smoke in his mouth. The dorm was still dark, but the Goblet’s light flickered faintly through the window from the Hall below, like an eye that never closed.
He rolled onto his back and whispered into the quiet: “First trial’s air. I get it. I just hope I’m ready to breathe.”
He lay awake, the taste of smoke still faint on his tongue from the dream, when the journal at his bedside gave a soft rustle. He sat up, fumbling for his wand. “Lumos.”
The pale light revealed the familiar scuffed leather cover of Dudley’s enchanted journal. The last time he’d written, it had been about football scores and Muggle sweets, but tonight he hesitated only a second before flipping it open.
Are you awake?
There was a pause. Then, a blot of ink, and Dudley’s messy scrawl appeared. You know it’s like… midnight, right? Something wrong?
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t sure how much to say—but the words spilled anyway. The Goblet of Fire looked at me.
That’s not normal, I’m guessing.
Not normal at all. It felt like it knew me. Like the castle is waiting for me to do something.
I don’t like that. Waiting for you to do what?
I wish I knew. Feels like the Flame in the Crucible… but Flamel’s silent. Haven’t heard from him since we’ve been back.
There was a longer pause this time, and Harry imagined his cousin sitting in his bed at Smeltings, chewing his pen like he did when thinking.
If the old guy isn’t answering, then you do what you always do. Breathe. Think. Don’t run headfirst into it.
Also… don’t get eaten by a cup. I don’t know how to explain that to Mum.
Despite himself, Harry grinned in the half-dark, tension easing a fraction. I’ll try. Night, Big D.
Night, Wizard Boy. Try not to set the bed on fire with your magic dreams.
Harry closed the journal, feeling a little steadier. The castle still hummed beneath him, the Goblet’s flicker still pulsed in his bones, but the weight of it didn’t feel quite so lonely anymore.
(Stillness Between Storms)
By the time Neville made it down to breakfast, the Great Hall felt like a cauldron ready to boil over.
The Goblet of Fire flickered in its alcove, blue light licking the stone, and the whole room hummed with low, tense excitement. It wasn’t the usual Hogwarts chatter—every voice seemed angled toward one topic.
“I’m entering.”
“No, you’re mad, it’s lethal—didn’t you hear about 1792?”
“Bet Malfoy already has Durmstrang backing him.”
Neville slid onto the bench beside Lavender Brown, who beamed at him in that sunny, slightly theatrical way he secretly loved. Her scarf smelled faintly of rosewater and quills.
“You’re late,” she teased, scooting closer. “I was starting to think you were hiding in the greenhouses again.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Just… thinking. The castle's been loud.”
Lavender tilted her head, catching his meaning even if she didn’t know the full truth. “Loud how? Creepy loud? Or the ‘something’s-about-to-explode’ loud?”
“Both,” Neville said honestly, reaching for toast. “Feels like everyone’s watching, even the stones.”
Across the table, Seamus and Dean were bickering over who could theoretically sneak past Dumbledore’s Age Line—Seamus swore he could “borrow a hair from one of the seventh-years and polyjuice for five minutes.”
Lavender rolled her eyes. “Boys,” she muttered, then leaned her head against Neville’s shoulder for a brief second. He went warm all over but didn’t move away.
Hermione, Ron, and Harry arrived a moment later, sliding into their usual spots. Hermione’s eyes immediately went to Durmstrang’s block at the Slytherin table.
“They’ve completely entrenched,” she said under her breath. “It’s practically a fortress.”
Neville followed her gaze. Malfoy and Krum sat shoulder-to-shoulder, Durmstrang cloaks fanning out like a dark wing along the bench. Next to them, Ravenclaw and Beauxbatons shared a quieter elegance, a ripple of soft laughter rising like silver bells.
Lavender wrinkled her nose. “The color balance is wrong. Look at that. It’s like some big fancy painting, and we’re just… the messy side.”
Neville didn’t say it aloud, but she wasn’t wrong. Hufflepuff and Gryffindor were the warm, noisy heart of the Hall, unaligned, open—but vulnerable.
Then Errol crash-landed into the milk jug. Ron had almost stuffed the Howler back into his pocket when it ripped itself open with a sound like tearing parchment.
“RONALD WEASLEY!”
Half the Hall jumped.
Ron winced, face going red as the magically amplified voice of Molly Weasley thundered across the breakfast tables. “IF YOU THINK FOR ONE SECOND YOU ARE PUTTING YOUR NAME IN THAT GOBLET I WILL MARCH TO HOGWARTS AND HEX YOUR EARS OFF!”
The Slytherin table erupted into laughter—Pansy Parkinson actually snorted—and Ron wanted to sink under the table.
“DO NOT THINK I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOUR POLYJUICE PLAN!” the Howler continued, steam curling off the edges. “YOUR BROTHERS ARE BAD ENOUGH! AND IF FRED OR GEORGE ENCOURAGE YOU ONE MORE TIME, I WILL—”
The Howler exploded into smoke before it could finish.
All around him, laughter broke the Hall’s tension like a dropped Quaffle. Dean and Seamus were practically crying into their porridge. Even Hermione bit her lip, trying and failing to look sympathetic.
“Polyjuice?” she hissed, clearly scandalized but also suppressing a grin.
Ron muttered, “I didn’t even have the ingredients yet,” and ducked lower over his plate.
Across the Hall, Ron caught sight of the Slytherin table. Malfoy was smirking with quiet delight, Krum murmuring something to him that made Pansy laugh all over again. He nodded a thanks to Harry to set the Howler on fire.
The laughter in Gryffindor might have been warm, but the pulse beneath the room—Ron felt it too now—wasn’t gone. The Goblet’s blue flame flickered, like it was enjoying the show.
He jabbed his fork into his eggs, muttering under his breath, “Brilliant. First the Slytherins get Krum, now I’m the morning entertainment.”
From across the table, Fred and George raised their goblets in a silent toast to him, grinning like devils.
(Shadows Between Stones)
By late afternoon, the castle was holding its breath.
The courtyard outside the Great Hall had become the unofficial viewing arena for the Goblet of Fire. Students milled in clusters, standing on benches, craning over one another’s shoulders for a glimpse of the blue-white flame through the open doors. The air was cool but charged, the kind of weather that promised either rain—or trouble.
Ron slouched against the stone balustrade, hands in his pockets. Beside him, Harry’s gaze was fixed on the Goblet’s flickering light, and Neville leaned forward like he could feel the hum of magic in the flagstones under his boots.
The first slips had gone in that morning, but this was the real show.
“Here we go,” Seamus whispered from behind them as a pair of Durmstrang boys strode up the steps. Their fur-lined cloaks brushed the stone like wolf tails, and one of them tossed his parchment into the flame without breaking stride. The Goblet flared blue, accepting it, and a murmur ran through the courtyard.
“Show-offs,” Ron muttered. “They didn’t even stop to see if it worked.”
“They don’t need to,” Neville said softly. “They’re sure the magic will take them.”
Next came a Ravenclaw seventh-year, her parchment folded into an ornate paper bird. She held it up to the light dramatically before letting it flutter into the fire, where it burned in a swirl of gold and blue sparks.
“Points for style,” Harry murmured, lips twitching.
Ron snorted. “Bet she practiced that all night.”
Behind them, Lavender and Parvati giggled, while Seamus began loudly debating whether he could outdo the paper-bird trick with enchanted fireworks.
Then came the moment everyone was waiting for: Cedric Diggory, tall and calm, with Hufflepuff trailing him like a comet tail. He didn’t make a show of it—just walked up, dropped his name, and the flame leapt high and true.
The courtyard erupted into cheers from Hufflepuff and polite applause from Ravenclaw. Even some Gryffindors clapped before realizing it and stuffing their hands back into their pockets.
Ron folded his arms, trying to look unimpressed. “Brilliant. Now the rest of us look like amateurs.”
Harry said nothing. He was still watching the Goblet, but Ron didn’t miss the way his best mate’s fingers flexed slightly, like he felt the pull of the flame even from the courtyard.
Neville’s voice broke the quiet between them. “You feel it too, don’t you?”
Harry hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. Like it’s waiting for me to… breathe.”
Ron’s stomach turned. He tried for humor, but it came out uneasy. “Well, just… don’t breathe too hard. I like you with all your limbs intact.”
A burst of laughter drew their attention back to the doors—a group of Slytherins were approaching, led by Draco Malfoy and Viktor Krum. The courtyard fell into a hush, tension snapping tight as the new alliance moved with slow, deliberate confidence toward the Goblet.
Ron muttered under his breath, “And here comes the storm.”
(Flame Between Names)
The Great Hall was quiet in a way Harry rarely heard it. No clatter of plates, no chatter. Just the crackle of the Goblet’s blue fire and the soft scuff of boots on the stone floor.
Viktor Krum walked ahead, his fur-lined cloak swinging, every step measured and heavy. Behind him, Draco Malfoy followed with hands in his pockets, posture radiating smug proximity to glory he couldn’t yet touch. A small wave of Durmstrang students and Slytherins formed a trailing wake.
No one else moved. Even the portraits were holding their breath.
Krum reached the Goblet, his expression as stony as the floor. He slid his parchment in with no flourish—no bow, no dramatic gesture—and stepped back as the flame roared blue and white, then settled to its usual flicker.
A faint hum ran through the air, like the castle itself approved.
“Clean,” Neville murmured from Harry’s side.
Harry didn’t answer. His eyes were on the flame, which suddenly flickered gold at the edges, so faint he might have imagined it. His heartbeat synced with the pulse in his ears.
For a second, he could have sworn he heard a whisper.
He froze.
“Look at it,” Draco muttered just loud enough for Harry to catch, leaning toward Krum as they turned back toward the Slytherin table. “They might as well give you the cup already.”
Krum didn’t reply, his dark eyes passing over Harry as he walked by. It wasn’t hostile—it was measuring, like he was taking the weight of a future opponent.
Behind them, whispers rose like wind through trees.
“Krum’s in. Official now.”
“Did you see Potter staring at the flame again?”
“Bet the Slytherins think they’ve already won.”
Harry exhaled slowly and forced himself to step back, resisting the strange pull of the Goblet. His palms were damp. The flame licked high once, then went calm, as if it knew he wasn’t ready to answer.
Ron elbowed him gently as they returned to the Gryffindor table. “You okay, mate?”
Harry nodded, but his voice was low. “Yeah. Just… feels like the Goblet’s listening.”
Ron muttered, “Brilliant. A cup that eavesdrops. Next thing you know, it’s going to start talking back.”
One day, maybe.
(Tea Between Worlds)
Hermione was curled in the window seat of the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackling low. Most of the Tower was still buzzing about the Goblet, but she had carved out this quiet moment with a familiar friend—one who lived a whole world away.
She opened the scuffed leather journal, tapping the corner with her quill. Evening, Dudley. Please tell me the Muggle world hasn’t caught fire.
The ink shimmered for a second before Dudley’s blocky handwriting appeared.
No fire. Just Samantha trying to convince Piers she can actually skateboard down the big hill without dying. She nearly took out the postbox.
Hermione bit her lip, trying not to laugh. That sounds like her. But tell me, how exactly does that compare to a dragon? Because apparently, dragons are now… on the table this year.
Dragons? What did I say about setting things on fire, Granger?
She laughed quietly, glancing around the emptying common room. Lavender and Parvati were still at the far table, giggling over some notes, but no one was paying attention.
I haven’t set anything on fire. Yet. But the tournament has everyone on edge. Harry most of all. He’s… quieter lately. I think he feels something about that Goblet the rest of us can’t.
There was a long pause. She imagined Dudley frowning at his desk, pen tapping. Then watch him. He’s got a habit of running into danger like it owes him money.
Also, Samantha says hi. And that she’s still winning our “most normal term ever” contest.
Hermione smirked. Tell her I’m disqualified. The moment a dragon shows up, “normal” goes out the window.
Figures. Keep him alive, Hermione. And yourself. We like you both in one piece.
Hermione’s chest warmed at the simple, ordinary concern. She signed off with a quick doodle of a teacup—their code for “safe and calm”—and snapped the journal shut.
For a moment, the tournament and the Goblet and the politics faded away. Somewhere in South London, life was normal and silly and safe. She clung to that warmth like a charm against the cold.
(Pranks Between Worlds)
Fred and George Weasley had never seen such a golden opportunity in their lives.
“Three schools,” Fred whispered as he peeked around the corner into the Great Hall.
“Two foreign delegations,” George finished, his grin sharp as a Bludger midair.
“And one brand-new shipment of Wheezes.”
Between them sat a battered crate marked WWW – Experimental Batch #14, filled with Ton-Tongue Toffees, Canary Creams, and a few prototypes they hadn’t exactly tested on humans yet.
The Beauxbatons students were clustered elegantly near the Ravenclaw table, delicately sipping cocoa and speaking French. The Veela was in the middle, looking vaguely bored while Cho translated something about Hogwarts’ moving staircases.
“Watch and learn,” Fred murmured, and he strolled forward with a bow that would’ve made a court jester proud.
“Bon… matin?” he attempted.
The French boy closest to him blinked. “Bonjour.”
“Right, that,” George said, swooping in behind him. He produced a box of pale blue sweets with a flourish. “Exclusive British delicacy. Sample for our esteemed guests.”
The Beauxbatons boy accepted one, eyebrows lifting, and popped it into his mouth.
There was a beat of silence—then poof! The boy sprouted canary feathers from his ears and let out a tiny chirp.
A chorus of “Mon dieu!” and gasping laughter followed, and Fred swept a theatrical bow.
Across the Hall, Durmstrang students noticed and began muttering among themselves. One particularly broad boy scowled and stomped over.
“You make fools of French,” he said in a thick accent.
“Not fools,” George corrected cheerfully. “Charming canaries. Very dignified.”
The boy hesitated, then grabbed a toffee defiantly and bit down. Five seconds later, his tongue stretched a foot long, flopping onto the table.
The Great Hall erupted in laughter, even some professors failing to hide their smiles.
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ten points from Gryffindor… each,” she said sternly.
“Worth it,” Fred whispered as the Durmstrang boy waved his long tongue like a flag of reluctant surrender.
Harry and Ron were wheezing with laughter at the Gryffindor table. Even Hermione was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. For a brief moment, the political tension and Goblet whispers melted into pure Hogwarts mischief.
But it wasn’t the end.
The autumn courtyard was buzzing with foreign voices a few days later. Durmstrang boys were carving runes into the flagstones to show off; Beauxbatons girls were sketching the castle towers in floating ink that shimmered like water.
It was the perfect stage.
“Target-rich environment,” Fred said, leaning against a sun-warmed pillar.
“International demonstration,” George agreed, palming a handful of Skiving Snackboxes.
They didn’t start with food this time. Oh no—innovation demanded spectacle.
George flicked his wrist, and a Decoy Detonator scuttled across the flagstones like a smug little beetle. It gave a delicate pop—more polite than explosive—and suddenly a cloud of glittering smoke puffed into the air.
When the smoke cleared, all the Durmstrang boots were stuck to the stone floor.
The broadest boy—Krum’s unofficial shadow—grunted and yanked his foot, only to have the stone groan in protest and lift slightly with it.
“This castle,” George said conversationally, strolling past, “has opinions about visitors.”
On the other side of the courtyard, Beauxbatons girls started giggling behind their hands. One brave Ravenclaw, Terry Boot, decided to impress them by trying the spinning top from Weasleys’ new trick line.
The top hit the stone, spun—and suddenly hovered three feet in the air, showering golden sparks. The girls gasped in delight.
Fred leaned back, smug. “You see, George? Magic is a universal language.”
George deadpanned, “Yes, and ours usually says ‘Duck.’”
Right on cue, the top spun out of control, zipping toward the fountain before exploding in a harmless puff of marigold petals. Beauxbatons broke into applause, and even a few Durmstrang boys stomped in approval once their boots unstuck.
McGonagall arrived half a second later, robes flaring.
“WEASLEYS.”
Fred and George snapped to attention, identical angelic smiles plastered on. “Would you call that an unprovoked incident,” she asked coldly, “or… diplomacy?”
“International goodwill,” they chorused.
Behind them, a Beauxbatons girl clapped politely and said in careful English, “Encore.”
The castle itself seemed to hum in approval, a rare, light-hearted moment before the Tournament truly began.
By the time the courtyard emptied of foreign laughter and Wheezes smoke, Harry stayed behind, leaning against the fountain. Fred and George were still grinning like they owned the sun.
“That was the first act,” Fred said, stuffing the last of the trick tops into his bag.
“The second act involves poltergeist-level imagination,” George said, nudging Harry. “You in?”
Harry hesitated. He wasn’t the prankster type—not in the Weasley sense—but the castle had been whispering to him all week, restless and humming, like it wanted to stretch its legs.
He ran a hand along the fountain’s stone lip, and the pulse of Hogwarts answered, faint but steady. “Want to play?” the castle seemed to murmur in the back of his mind, a vibration more than words.
A slow smile crept across his face. “Yeah,” Harry whispered. “I’ve got an idea.”
He closed his eyes and pictured the Great Hall—the way it would look at dinner tonight, full of students and foreign guests. He focused on the torches, on the enchanted ceiling, on the flags above each House table.
“Can you… swap them?” he thought, not in words but intent. “Make them… funny?”
The castle warmed under his palm, a pulse of glee shivering up his arm. He saw, in his mind’s eye, banners twisting like ribbons in a breeze.
Dinner that night was perfect chaos.
Slytherin’s emerald banners unfurled… with bright yellow badgers doing a victory dance.
Hufflepuff’s black-and-gold banners snapped open to reveal roaring lions in full Gryffindor red.
Ravenclaw’s blues shimmered into stormy waves with tiny silver boats bobbing along.
And Gryffindor’s scarlet banners? A full chorus of tiny Weasley twins appeared on repeat, blowing kisses and winking at the Hall.
The room erupted in laughter, foreign students included.
Fred and George whipped toward Harry immediately, eyes wide.
“You—” Fred whispered.
“—did that?” George finished.
Harry shrugged, hiding his grin behind a goblet of pumpkin juice.
The castle thrummed happily in his bones, like it had laughed with him.
For the first time all week, the weight of the Goblet and the Flame’s whispers eased. He might not have Flamel, or answers, or certainty—but he had Hogwarts, and the castle liked to play.
(Threads Between Fire)
The Great Hall blazed with floating candles and restless whispers. For all the laughter and mischief at dinner, the warmth had thinned, leaving a nervous excitement hanging over the tables. The Goblet of Fire flickered in its alcove, throwing long shadows that crawled up the walls like living things.
Harry sat between Ron and Neville, shoulders tight. He could feel Hogwarts humming in his bones, a steady thrum that made him restless. Every flicker of the Goblet’s flame felt like a glance in his direction, like the castle itself was watching.
Dumbledore rose. The murmurs died at once. “The time has come,” he said, voice carrying clear and warm. “The Goblet of Fire has made its choices.”
A blue-white spark leapt from the Goblet,
Harry sat still as the flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red again. The castle came alive around him, singing its talents and pouring magic from every Durmstrang student towards the teacher's table. No, not all Durmstrang students.
He blinked discreetly to scan the room with his newly discovered mage sight. A huge portion of Durmstrang population were tied to the goblet now with a magical thread, the ones who'd put their names in, Harry deduced. And then, the aura around the Bulgarian Seeker spiked.
Simultaneously, sparks began to fly from the goblet. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room gasped.
Harry leaned towards Neville with a conspiratory smile.
Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm’s length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white. “The champion for Durmstrang will be,” he read, in a strong, clear voice.
Neville smiled back and leaned towards Harry. Harry mouthed. “Viktor Krum.” Dumbledore’s voice echoed the same.
“No surprises there!” yelled Ron as a storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall. Harry saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber, as had been instructed for the champions.
Neville looked at Harry, thunderstruck.
“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. “Knew you had it in you!”
Harry rolled his eyes. Karkaroff would never shut up now. Maybe Harry could plant a few vanishing archways for the Durmstrang’s Headmaster's ego. He certainly had the time to plan another castle level prank with all the free time due to Quidditch being cancelled for the season.
The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone’s attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. Harry scanned the Great Hall, this time excited. All of Beauxbatons’ residents had put their names in. Nearly thirty students were competing for the spot!
A second piece of parchment shot out of the goblet, propelled by the flames. Neville gritted his teeth when Harry turned to him. He raised an eyebrow.
“The champion for Beauxbatons is,” said Dumbledore, “Fleur Delacour!” Harry smiled as he mouthed.
“It’s her, Ron!” Ginny shouted as the girl who so resembled a Veela got gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables.
“Oh look, they’re all disappointed,” Parvati said over the noise, nodding toward the remainder of the Beauxbatons party.
“Disappointed” was a bit of an understatement, Harry thought. Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms. The Hogwarts candidate would have a full on brawl in their wake of being chosen, at this rate.
When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next…
Harry felt cross eyed as nearly all of the Seventh Years glowed, and some lucky Sixth Years who had reached majority by that day. He closed his eyes to rub them once at the sudden jolt.
Which is why he missed when the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment. “The Hogwarts champion,” he called, “is Cedric Diggory!”
Harry pulled open his tired eyes.
“Sounds about right!” said Neville loudly, but nobody heard him except Harry; the uproar from the next table was too great. Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning broadly, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers’ table. Indeed, the applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.
“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —”
But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him. The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it.
Harry stared at the single thread tied to the Goblet, perpendicular in his sight, aiming straight into the heart of Gryffindor Table.
A long flame shot suddenly into the air, golden, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.
The thread glowed red, piercing through his best mate sitting across from him.
Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment.
Harry traced the red thread, a single horrifying realisation dawning when Ginny's facial features changed drastically and her eyes stared at his chest.
Dumbledore held out and stared at the name written upon the parchment. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room- except Harry, Ginny, Neville, and now Hermione- stared at Dumbledore. And then he cleared his throat and read out — “Harry Potter.”
The small hope that this was a hallucination shattered in Harry's mind.
“Harry!”
The castle exhaled.
“Harry!”
The castle was finally breathing again.
“Harry James Potter!” Agatha’s unnerving voice tore him out of starting his revenge plans against the unknown enemy.
His magic slipped into the walls as if it had always belonged there, the castle’s sigh settling into his lungs before he realized it was no longer his own.
“Look up!” Agatha pointed sharply.
He turned up to see dark clouds forming, clapping in delight at his misplaced emotions. He took a deep breath to dissuade them. Then, he stood up. “I swear on my magic that I, Harry James Potter, did not put my name in the Goblet of Fire. So mote it be.” He raised his wand towards the still population of the Great Hall, because it was necessary now more than ever, and deadpanned. “Crinus Muto.”
Puzzled, students began to look at each other and for the first time since the goblet turned red last- laughed at the black streak running over the yellow haired Hogwarts peers.
Albus Dumbledore looked to be wanting to murder him for his casual fanfare. Harry ducked his piercing gaze before nodding towards his friends and rushing into the chamber where the three champions had disappeared into.
Someone had found out about his crucial, and critical status, and used it for a plot he had yet to uncover. What a way to challenge the last Halloween when he'd been scourging a hallowed, centuries old wand that had ended up choosing him.
“Potter?” Cedric was surprised at his arrival. “Do they need us outside?”
Harry calculated the odds for Cedric. “How do you feel about winning this thing?”
“Umm, prematurely positive.” Cedric smirked. “What's going on outside?” So, he'd heard the ruckus.
“I might have given our peers a lesson about unity.” Harry grinned.
Victor Krum looked intrigued. Fleur Delacour didn't. Dumbledore chose that moment to slam the door open. Within seconds, he'd grabbed Harry by the shoulders. “Why did you do that?”
Harry blinked. “I was raised by Sirius? Aunt Petunia actually. If Dudley's tame, it's because-”
“Why did you swear?”
Harry flashed his eyes and Dumbledore softened his grip. “I was raised, albeit a bit late, traditionally.” He slowly grasped the Headmaster's hands and removed them from his body. “I have no other proof.”
“What eez going on?” Fleur whispered to Madam Maxime.
Ludo Bagman chose to answer her, grinning. “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the fourth Triwizard Champion, Harry Potter.”
Fleur's eyes turned narrow. Her hair started to rise. “There must be a mistake. He eez not seventeen…”
“And yet, here I am.” Harry grunted at the sudden increase of ozone around Fleur, willing it to die down. “Headmaster, may I choose to elaborate?”
Behind Dumbledore, Severus rolled his eyes in the darkness of the corners of the chamber. It wasn't a huge room, but perfectly capable to sit two dozen comfortably. There were no chairs today. McGonagall seemed to have come to the same conclusion and retreated to Severus' corner as well.
Dumbledore looked at Barty Crouch. Barty Crouch looked at Mad-Eye Moody. The ex-Auror grunted his approval. Harry didn't wait for Dumbledore’s nod.
“Someone knows a very important, very personal, very high profile status about me.” He turned to Cedric. “Hogwarts School chose you as its Champion. Hogwarts Castle chose me.”
Cedric turned white as a sheet. “But… but you're fourteen.”
Fifteen, due to the time-mishap technicality. On top of the last of the line clause. Any rational person who knew would say- “He's not a minor anymore, we can't exempt him on that basis, Albus.” Barty Crouch was a rational person then. Good to know his head had come out of its arse since Sirius’ return to society.
“I'm sure this was extremely deliberate on my enemy's part. The contract with the Goblet cannot be broken. A champion competes, and I shall.” Harry sighed. “It's sad my enemy forgets the other important, personal and high profile status I will always hold. Or, my magical guardian does.” He grinned and turned to Dumbledore. “Who gets to tell Lady Smith and Lord Black that I'm a wildcard entry?”
Albus Dumbledore had never looked so annoyed about the prospect of a future conversation. “Barty, if we could begin with the instructions.”
“Excuse me? That's it? Mr. Crouch… Mr. Bagman,” said Karkaroff, his voice unctuous, “you are our — er — objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?”
Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in his usual curt voice.
“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”
“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,” said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff, as though the matter was now closed.
“I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students,” said Karkaroff. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. “You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It’s only fair, Dumbledore.”
“But Karkaroff, it doesn’t work like that,” said Bagman. “The Goblet of Fire’s just gone out — it won’t reignite until the start of the next tournament —”
“— in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!” exploded Karkaroff. “After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!”
“Empty threat, Karkaroff,” growled Mad-Eye’s voice from near the door. “You can’t leave your champion now. He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Potter said.”
“Very convenient." Karkaroff spat.
Harry opened his mouth but Severus' hard look closed it immediately.
“If anyone’s got reason to complain, it’s Potter,” growled Moody, “but- funny thing- I don’t hear him saying a word.”
“Why should ’e complain?” burst out Fleur Delacour, stamping her foot. The smell of ozone hit Harry once more. “ ’E ’as ze chance to compete, ’asn’t ’e? We ’ave all been ’oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools!” Harry willed his magics to not run free too much. “A thousand Galleons in prize money — zis is a chance many would die for!” Okay, maybe not at all.
“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl.
An extremely tense silence followed these words. Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, “Moody, old man. What a thing to say!”
“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime,” said Karkaroff loudly. “Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons.”
“Imagining things, am I?” growled Moody. “Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy’s name in that goblet.”
“Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?” said Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands.
“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!” said Moody. “It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet.”
“And what, submit him under a fourth school?” Karkaroff tore at him. “Potter himself said that Hogwarts chose them both.”
Harry was done shutting up. “Do you know who I am, Igor Karkaroff?” The unfamiliar, personal tone caught him off guard. “The important high profile status I refer to allows me to evict every being standing on these grounds, this castle. I am a Heir, choosing to abide by an ancient magical contract lest it blast every single person here today into smithereens.” Severus' face told him they'd be having a long conversation.
“Who are you?” Victor Krum spoke for the first time, curiosity brimming in his eyes.
“Heir Gryffindor.” Dumbledore answered before Harry could put a wild spin on the fact.
“Lord Gryffindor.” Harry corrected.
Igor Karkaroff looked shaken.
“The goblet wasn't bamboozled to accept a fourth school. It doesn't understand the concept of school.” Harry explained politely to the remaining audience. “A champion for each challenging tribe or community. Whoever bamboozled the goblet, did it to accept me as the only challenger from Hogwarts Castle. For those of you who don't know, the castle and the school are two separate entities.”
He let it settle in everyone's head. Bagman, however, looked rather excited. “Well, shall we crack on, then?” he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. “Got to give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? Barty, want to do the honors?”
Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. “Yes,” he said, “instructions.” He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Harry thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that had not been there at the Quidditch World Cup.
“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he told Harry, Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor, “so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard, very important.”
Fantastic.
“The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges.”
Three weeks to doomsday.
“The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time- consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests.” Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore. “I think that’s all, is it Albus?”
“I think so,” said Dumbledore, who was looking at Crouch with mild concern. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?”
“No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry,” said Crouch. “It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment. I’ve left young Weatherby in charge. Very enthusiastic, a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told.”
“You’ll come and have a drink before you go, at least?” said Dumbledore.
“Come on, Barty, I’m staying!” said Bagman brightly. “It’s all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!”
The adults started to leave one by one, and suddenly Harry stood eye to eye with Minerva McGonagall.
Oh, hell!
“Detention. My office, tomorrow after dinner.”
Harry mentally groaned. “Well, okay. At least let me earn it completely." Cedric didn't get even a chance to duck. "Crinus Muto!”
Professor McGonagall looked ready to burst her forehead nerve.
“You're welcome to hand him off to me.” Severus offered, sneering as always.
“Thank you, Severus. I think I will.” She stalked off.
“My office during dinner tomorrow.” Severus sneered and left, too.
“What did you do?” Cedric asked as they closed the chamber doors. They were the last to leave, so Cedric must have seen Harry's hair.
“A lesson in unity.” Harry grinned.
“Harry Potter, you're madder than the twins from hell.”
“But now you know why I am this way.” Harry wriggled his eyebrows.
“You're the Head of Hogwarts Castle, aren't you?” Cedric whispered once they reached their parting landing by the kitchens.
Harry tsk-ed. “I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
Notes:
Back to back updates? Well, you know me! I'm feeling generous 😀
Also, I'll be busy the next few weeks so updates can be erratic. I've got a workshop to start preparing for, and I'm now regretting taking the full 12 credit course this term, too! Merlin knows what I was thinking when I did that.
Anyway, hope this delivers true to your hearts! ❤️For updates on my Original Work, follow @the_lovelysharma. The cover release is next week!!!!
Sadly, so are my career fairs 😐#muchlove #yourlove
Chapter 6: They called it Concern
Chapter Text
(Stone Between Heartbeats)
The moment Harry sat down in the common room, the castle shivered.
Not in a way anyone else could see—no torches fell, no stones cracked—but Harry felt it. Through the soles of his shoes, through the bench, through his own chest: Thrum… thrum… thrum.
Hogwarts was listening, and now it was answering.
Mage-sight flared behind his eyelids without warning. Threads of blue-white light unfurled from the Goblet, weaving through the Great Hall like ribbons in water. Some curled toward the low windows towards the Hufflepuff dorms, some went out towards the Black Lake where the Durmstrang ship was anchored, some further towards the Beauxbatons carriages, and some—too bright—coiled toward him.
It brushed his shoulder like a touch, and in the hollow of his chest he thought he heard. “Breathe. The fire sees you.”
Then, like a heartbeat skipped, the threads vanished, leaving only the crackle of torches and the press of a dozen eyes.
The noise came back all at once. The room erupted—shouting over itself.
“He didn’t even enter!” Dean bellowed, as if sheer volume could defend Harry’s innocence.
“Did you see the Goblet flare gold?” Lavender gasped, clinging to Neville’s arm. “That wasn’t normal! Was it supposed to do that?”
Seamus was already on a bench, waving his arms. “I told you, didn’t I? I told you! The castle loves him! He probably sneezed and the Goblet thought it was heroic!”
Across the table, Parvati leaned toward Hermione, eyes huge. “Is he cursed or blessed?”
Hermione opened her mouth, shut it, and settled for, “Yes.”
Harry sat through it all in a strange, still bubble. The laughter and accusations, the disbelief and excitement—it all blurred at the edges. The castle was still humming in his bones, a low, steady reminder that this wasn’t just a school anymore. It was a living, waiting thing.
Neville’s voice finally cut through the din. Calm. Grounding.
“Everyone shut it for one second,” he said, more leader than classmate. “He didn’t cheat. I’d know if he did.”
The room stilled just long enough for Harry to meet Neville’s eyes and nod once, a silent thanks. Then the chaos rose again, but softer now, threads of awe and fear tangled together. Harry leaned back against the couch, letting the castle’s pulse settle inside him.
Whatever game the Flame and the Goblet had started, Hogwarts had just taken his side.
(Quiet Between Storms)
The common room had finally thinned to embers and whispers. Fred and George had wandered off plotting, Ron had fallen asleep in an armchair with one shoe missing, and Lavender’s last “I still think it’s fate!” had faded up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory.
Harry and Neville lingered by the window seat, knees drawn up, watching the lanterns of the Black Lake flicker in the dark. The night air carried a soft chill, the kind that felt like a warning and a comfort all at once.
Neither spoke for a long moment. Hogwarts itself seemed to hum softly under the stone.
“You okay?” Neville finally asked. His voice was quiet, steady—the way you spoke to a wounded animal or a friend you knew too well.
Harry exhaled, fogging the glass. “…I don’t know. I feel like I got chosen for something I didn’t sign up for. Again.”
Neville nodded slowly. “Feels big. Not like a Quidditch match. Like the castle’s finally breathing.”
Harry turned his head. “You felt it too?”
“Yeah.” Neville hesitated, then gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “Perks of being a godbrother, I guess. Or a Hufflepuff by blood. The ground talks to me sometimes.”
Harry huffed a soft laugh. “Lucky you. The fire talks to me. Not exactly peaceful.”
For a while, they sat in the half-light of the dying fire, two boys who had already seen more than they should, leaning against each other in quiet understanding.
Later, in the soft dark of his dorm, Harry pulled his enchanted journal onto his lap. The familiar scuffed leather felt grounding. He tapped the page with his quill. Are you awake?
The ink shimmered. Dudley’s messy scrawl appeared after a pause. It’s the middle of the night. I was asleep. Did the cup eat you?
Harry let out a startled laugh, earning a sleepy grumble from Seamus across the room.
Didn’t eat me. Chose me. I’m a Champion now. Don’t ask me how.
Of course you are. Only you could make a magic cup break the rules. Do you at least get a trophy?
No trophy yet. Just dread.
Brilliant. Try not to get eaten by anything. And if the castle starts talking back too loudly, maybe… don’t listen to it all the time.
Harry grinned, tension easing a fraction. I’ll try. Night, Big D.
Night, Wizard Boy. You owe me a story next summer.
Harry closed the journal and lay back, the castle’s faint hum still in his bones, but less like a threat and more like a lullaby.
(Whispers Between Pillows)
By the time Hermione reached the fourth-year girls’ dormitory, the room was already a storm of satin and speculation.
Parvati Patil was cross-legged on her bed, hairbrush in hand like a wand, conducting an imaginary orchestra of rumors. “I told you he’d get dragged into it. Harry Potter cannot have a quiet year.”
Lavender Brown was sprawled upside down on her bed, feet in the air, giggling. “Dragged in? Please. The Goblet is in love with him. It went all sparkly and gold, and then—poof!—Harry. He’s the main character of Hogwarts.”
Hermione rolled her eyes as she slipped into her bed. “He didn’t even enter. The Goblet chose him on its own. You saw it.”
“That’s what makes it romantic!” Lavender said, flipping over dramatically. “The Cup of Destiny wanted him. No quill or ink could stop it!”
From the corner, Fay peered over her book, always the level voice. “Or, you know… maybe it’s cursed. Maybe the magic wants him for something awful.”
Sally-Anne, perched by the window and fidgeting with the latch, squeaked. “Awful how? Like… explodey awful? Or disappear-forever awful? Because I can make a checklist.”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. This is my life now. Goblets, gossip, and hypothetical explosions.
She was saved by the soft rustle of her enchanted journal, glowing faintly on the bedside table. She flipped it open to see Dudley’s blunt handwriting scrawling across the page.
Hermione? I need someone to explain. Harry sent “I’m a Champion now, don’t ask me how” and then went to sleep. What does that mean?
Hermione chewed her lip, glancing at the chattering girls before leaning over the journal.
It means he’s been chosen by a magical artifact to compete in a very old, very dangerous competition. He shouldn’t have been able to enter at all. And no one knows why the Goblet picked him.
A blot appeared before the next line. So basically, magic said “tag, you’re it,” and now he might die?
Hermione grimaced. Trust Dudley to skip the fluff. That is a crude summary, but… yes.
Across the room, Lavender’s voice rose again. “I’m telling you, if he wins, there’s going to be a statue. Or at least a chocolate frog card. Maybe both.”
“Lavender, not everything ends in a chocolate frog card,” Hermione said automatically, then froze as she realized Dudley was still writing.
Is there anything I can do? Or do I just… wait and worry?
Hermione hesitated, feeling the room spin with laughter, paranoia, and gossip.
Be there when he writes to you. He listens to you more than he listens to anyone, even me.
A pause. Then: Got it. I’ll keep the line open. And if the Cup tries to eat him, write “send help.”
Hermione allowed herself a small laugh. For all the chaos in the castle, some threads still felt steady.
The girls’ laughter carried into the night, a mix of romance, fear, and absurdity, while Hermione kept one hand on the journal that was her lifeline between worlds.
(Eyes Between Shadows)
Breakfast in the Great Hall felt like stepping into a storm with no wind.
Every conversation stopped when Harry walked in with Ron and Neville. Forks hovered, porridge dripped, and a hundred pairs of eyes followed him to the Gryffindor table. Even the foreign delegations seemed to tilt toward him like compass needles.
Durmstrang, clustered with Slytherin, all fur and steel, stared with flat curiosity. And Beauxbatons, haloed in blue light from the enchanted ceiling, watched him like a rare creature in a storybook.
Harry sat between Ron and Neville, pretending his hands weren’t clammy.
A soft voice floated across the table.
“Morning, Harry.”
He looked up to see Susan Bones sliding onto the bench beside Neville, with Luna Lovegood trailing behind, dreamlike as always.
Susan’s red hair gleamed in the light; her expression was careful but calm. She leaned closer, voice low. “I imagine you haven’t written to Sirius yet.”
Harry blinked. “And Ameila.”
Susan’s brow arched slightly. “She’ll hear through the Ministry soon, but I’d rather she hear it from us. Sirius too. You know how they both are about surprises.”
Harry winced. “I was going to—”
“You weren’t,” Susan said kindly, cutting him off. “Don’t worry. I’ll write.”
Across the table, Ron muttered into his toast, “I like her. Efficient.”
Luna perched delicately on the other side of Harry, tucking her long hair behind one ear. “You’re glowing, you know,” she said serenely.
Harry almost dropped his spoon. “I’m what?”
“Not literally. Not yet. But the castle likes you. It hums differently when you walk in.”
Susan gave her a sidelong glance, but didn’t contradict her. Instead, she tore a piece of toast and said simply, “She’s not wrong. Every House is whispering about it.”
The whispers rose and fell around the Hall, threads of disbelief and suspicion.
“He cheated—he must have—”
“The Goblet doesn’t lie. It chose him.”
“Hogwarts wanted him. Maybe… maybe the castle picked him.”
A few Hufflepuffs gave Harry apologetic smiles, while Ravenclaws leaned closer to Beauxbatons, murmuring theories like chess players mapping moves.
At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy didn’t smirk. He just watched, chin resting on one pale hand, as if weighing a question Harry couldn’t hear.
Susan wiped her fingers neatly. “I’ll write to my aunt and Sirius this morning,” she said, voice practical as ever. “By the time the Ministry moves to panic, they’ll already know the truth from us.”
Harry exhaled, a knot in his chest loosening just a little.
Across the table, Luna was humming under her breath, a tune that matched the castle’s faint vibration in Harry’s bones.
He thought, not for the first time, that Hogwarts itself was on his side—but that didn’t make the stares feel any lighter.
(Shadow Between Candles)
The castle felt quieter at night, but it wasn’t restful.
Harry’s footsteps echoed against the stone as he followed the familiar spiral to the dungeons, his mage-sight pricking faintly. Threads of faint blue light wound along the walls like cobwebs now, the castle’s heartbeat slow and watchful.
The door to Snape’s office was already ajar, lamplight spilling into the corridor. “Enter, Potter,” Snape’s voice called, smooth and knowing, as if he’d felt Harry coming through the stone.
Harry slipped inside. The office smelled of basil, old wood, and something sharp—like new-cut nettles. Snape sat behind his desk, robes neatly folded, quill paused over a sheet of parchment. His dark eyes scanned Harry’s face first, then the faint tension in his shoulders.
“You ate dinner,” Snape said finally, as if that were the first test to pass.
“Yeah,” Harry muttered, shifting his weight. “Didn’t taste like much.”
A soft hmm. “You are aware,” Snape said, voice even, “that you’ve just inherited the scrutiny of every Ministry official, foreign diplomat, and ambitious fool on this continent.”
Harry grimaced. “Yeah. Figured that out at breakfast.”
For a moment, the only sound was the soft bubble of a cauldron in the corner.
Then Snape leaned back, studying him in the lamplight. “If you had tampered with the Goblet, Potter, I would have known.”
Harry blinked. “Thanks?”
Severus’ mouth curved in the faintest, driest smile. “It was not a compliment. It is… an acknowledgment of fact. Whatever has bound you to this Tournament is older than my reach, and likely older than the Ministry’s comprehension.”
That landed like a stone in Harry’s stomach, heavy but almost comforting in its honesty.
Severus steepled his fingers. “You are not alone in this castle. Do not attempt to shoulder it as if you were.”
It was as close to reassurance as Severus ever came. Harry nodded once, wordless, and the tension in his chest eased by a thread.
As he turned to leave, Severus’ voice followed, softer than the stone corridors would expect: “Eat. Sleep. And… be ready when the castle calls again.”
Harry didn’t answer aloud, but Hogwarts hummed under his feet all the way back to the Tower.
(Lessons Between Shadows)
The first week after his name came out of the Goblet felt less like school and more like a spotlight he couldn’t step out of.
Even in class, whispers followed him like gnats in sunlight. Every move he made drew glances. Durmstrang students loitered in the doorways, muttering in Russian or Bulgarian as they watched him like a puzzle to solve. Beauxbatons took notes in perfect cursive, their eyes flicking up whenever he answered a question. Hogwarts classmates were split between awe and suspicion, the air thick with House politics and gossip.
It was in Defense Against the Dark Arts that the shift truly landed.
Professor Moody stomped into the classroom like a storm with a limp. His magical eye whirred once, locking on Harry immediately, before sweeping across the room.
“Wands out,” he barked. “If you think this Tournament is about glamour, you’re already dead. Curse comes faster than applause.”
No one moved fast enough for his liking. He slammed a desk with his gnarled hand, and sparks jumped from the wood. “This year, you’ll learn to survive,” he growled. “Not to win House points. Not to look clever. Survive.”
Lavender squeaked quietly. Ron’s jaw tightened. Neville straightened in his seat.
Moody spent the entire lesson demonstrating counters to hexes none of them had practiced before, forcing them to pair up and defend themselves under pressure.
By the end of class, Harry’s wand arm ached and his robes smelled faintly of singed parchment.
Moody clomped to his desk and barked one final order. “Potter. Stay behind.”
Harry braced for the question he’d been dreading all week.
Moody’s magical eye spun, locking onto him. “Don’t let the stares rattle you. And don’t flinch from the magic. The castle likes you. Use it.”
It wasn’t comfort exactly—but it was the closest thing to strategy he’d gotten since the Goblet flared. Across the hall, he caught Hermione, Susan, and Luna waiting outside like a quiet guard of honor. Their presence steadied his steps, even as the corridors whispered.
Hogwarts felt alive and restless, as if every lesson now had threads tugging toward the first Task.
(Allies Between Shelves)
The library smelled of parchment and polish, a quiet pocket of the castle where the gossip of the Great Hall couldn’t quite reach.
Hermione had staked out a corner table under the tall arched windows, spreading out quills, parchment, and a small pile of books labeled Triwizard: Historical Accounts.
Harry sat across from her, shoulders tight, pretending to read while really tracing invisible patterns on the table with his finger. Susan Bones slid a neat stack of notes toward him.
“These are Ministry-approved safety protocols from the last Tournament,” Susan said quietly. “Dry reading, but if my aunt found me here, she’d approve.”
Harry snorted softly. “I’m sure Amelia Bones is thrilled about all this.”
“She isn’t,” Susan said. “Which is why she’s already sending owls. Sirius too.”
Hermione nodded approvingly, even as she jotted down a detail about 1742’s kelpie debacle.
A soft hum announced Luna’s arrival. She slid into the chair beside Harry, placing a small sketch on the table: a rough drawing of a wyvern with spiraling winds around it.
“Thought you might need this,” she said dreamily.
Harry blinked. “Why?”
“They like being flattered,” Luna said simply. “Wind-creatures always do. If the first Task is air, I’d make friends before it starts.”
Hermione, who had been hunched over historical accounts of the Triwizard Tasks, squinted at the paper.
“Wyverns don’t need to be flattered,” she said briskly. “They’re territorial, semi-sapient draconids with vestigial forelimbs and a venomous tail spike. The only way to stay alive around them is to keep your distance.”
Luna tilted her head. “That’s the way you stay alive,” she said serenely. “I said friends. They’re very proud. They like to be admired. My mum used to say if you whistle the shape of the wind through your teeth, some will even bow back.”
Hermione opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head.
Susan leaned in, studying the sketch with a frown. “I’ve read Ministry field notes. They can climb vertical stones faster than a broom can dodge. Their wings cut crosswinds sharp enough to unseat riders. And if the Tournament lets them near students, someone in the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures has lost their mind.”
“Lost their mind?” Harry muttered. “Or just decided to watch us risk ours.”
Luna, unbothered, traced the wyvern’s wingtip with her fingertip. “They’ve been here before, you know. Not in the Tournament—but in the sky above it. They like to watch things unfold. Like the castle.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
Susan’s expression mirrored Hermione’s doubt, but she nudged the sketch closer to Harry. “Keep it,” she said quietly. “If nothing else, maybe she’s right about… admiration. Or at least, preparation.”
Susan and Hermione shared a look over the parchment, torn between amusement and uneasy belief. The soft rhythm of quills and page-flips was broken by footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
Hermione didn’t need to look up to know who they belonged to.
Viktor Krum moved through the library like he owned the quiet, his heavy boots thudding softly. He paused near their table, his shadow cutting across Harry’s books.
“You study,” Krum said simply, his accent flattening the words into stone.
Harry looked up, cautious but polite. “Yeah. Thought I might try not dying.”
Krum’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. He glanced at Susan’s parchment, at Luna’s sketch, at Hermione’s fortress of books, and then back to Harry. “Good,” he said. “Library is… smarter than Great Hall.”
Then, with a nod that felt half like acknowledgment, half like challenge, he moved on between the shelves, leaving a faint draft of tension and curiosity behind him.
Hermione exhaled only when his footsteps faded. “Well,” she muttered, tucking a curl behind her ear, “that’s encouraging. In a terrifying way.”
Harry leaned back, some of the stiffness leaving his shoulders. “At least he didn’t try to hex me.”
Susan dipped her quill in ink. “Give it time. Or better yet, don’t.”
The library seemed to hum softly around them, Hogwarts itself holding its breath as the first Trial inched closer.
(Whispers Between Arches)
Hogwarts was never truly silent, but at night it breathed differently.
Harry moved along the corridor by wandlight, socked feet whispering over cold stone. The castle hummed in his bones, that low pulse he’d come to know since the Goblet chose him. It wasn’t words, exactly—more like a tug under his ribs, leading him toward the north tower corridors.
Mage-sight prickled behind his eyes, faint threads of light winding along the arches. They glowed pale-blue, spiraling upward like invisible gusts. Air.
“Not yet,” the castle seemed to murmur, the same as that first night. “But soon.”
He turned a corner—and stopped.
Draco Malfoy leaned against a window alcove, moonlight silvering his hair, arms crossed. He looked like he’d been waiting for something, or maybe just caught wandering with the same restless pull.
“Potter,” Draco said quietly. “Figures it’d be you the castle drags out of bed.”
Harry hesitated. “How’d you know?”
Draco tapped the stone beneath his hand. “When the old magic stirs, you feel it if you’ve got the blood for it. Dobby taught me to listen.”
Harry blinked. He wasn’t used to this version of Draco—quiet, almost reflective—but the castle’s hum made honesty easier. “It’s showing me something,” Harry said finally. “Or… promising to.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed, pale and calculating. “Then listen. But don’t trust it to play fair. Old magic never does. My father says Hogwarts is loyal to itself first, and to bloodlines second.”
The words hung in the cold moonlight, a rare sliver of truth between them.
A sudden rush of wind whipped through the corridor, ruffling their hair and snuffing Harry’s wandlight for a heartbeat. Mage-sight flared—a spiral of luminous air twisting up the stairwell, then vanishing.
Draco shivered but didn’t move. “Whatever that was… it’s coming for you.”
Harry swallowed, pulse quickening. “I know.”
For a moment, the castle felt like it was holding its breath with them, stone and wind and history waiting for the next move.
(Comfort Between Courses)
The kitchen at Number Four was too quiet without Dudley’s and Harry’s heavy footsteps and the scrape of their chairs against the tile.
Petunia set the gravy boat down carefully, watching Vernon spear a roast potato with methodical precision. He always ate like the world was solid and safe, as though sheer habit could keep it that way.
“Dudley called this morning,” Petunia said, breaking the quiet. “He says boarding isn’t the same without… well, without all of us.”
Vernon grunted in approval. “Good. Builds character. No son of mine will go soft just because the house is quiet.”
The house was quiet. Almost unnervingly so. Petunia found herself listening for footsteps that wouldn’t come—Dudley’s or Harry’s—and instead heard only the tick of the kitchen clock.
Her eyes slid to the envelope on the counter, Harry’s handwriting across the front.
She’d read it twice already. I’m fine. Don’t worry. Tournament’s starting soon.
She could still feel the weight between the lines, the way Lily used to write home before an exam she wasn’t sure she’d pass, trying not to let the fear leak through.
“You’re frowning,” Vernon said, reaching for another slice of beef.
Petunia folded her hands. “He’s… so far from all this.” She gestured to the kitchen, the sun on the tiles, the hum of the fridge. “Dragons and spells and… that castle breathing down his neck.”
Vernon’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed steady. “The boy’s tougher than he looks. He’s got us. Even if it’s just letters and parcels. He knows where home is.”
Petunia let the warmth of the tea in her hands steady her.
Home.
She glanced at Harry’s letter again, heart twisting with a mixture of worry and pride.
If the castle whispered to him and fire chose him, then this quiet kitchen would have to be his anchor, the thread that pulled him back to himself. Like it had once before.
(Runes Between Whispers)
The Ancient Runes classroom was tucked high in the east wing, where the wind liked to slip through the narrow stone windows and rattle the hanging charts. The room smelled of chalk, old parchment, and a hint of rain. Sunlight slanted across rows of runic diagrams etched into slate: spirals for water, jagged angles for fire, and at the far end of the room—
A single tri-line rune, sharp and upward-pointing, carved above the lintel.
Harry felt it before he saw it, a prickle under his skin like the way Hogwarts hummed when it wanted his attention. His mage-sight stirred, unspooling faint threads of pale-blue light that wrapped the symbol like a slow heartbeat.
Hermione’s quill scratched softly as she copied the lesson from the board.
“That one,” Harry said under his breath, nodding toward the arch.
She followed his gaze. “Air rune,” she said automatically, before realizing his expression. “Oh… You feel it, don’t you?”
Harry nodded, throat dry. The threads of light twisted lazily, like miniature wind currents visible only to him.
Professor Babbling clapped her hands at the front. “The Air rune, or Gebo Aér, is often associated with tests of truth and perception in old magical trials. It appears on ceremonial arches in sites aligned with—”
Her voice faded into a distant hum as Harry’s attention tunnelled on the rune. For just a moment, memory bled in— 1944, running with Hermione through a corridor that smelled of dust and magic. 1979, tumbling forward in a half-controlled time slip, the air choked with echoes. The Chamber walls, etched with runes like this one, whispering promises of choices he didn’t yet understand.
The rune flared softly in mage-sight, and Harry almost heard a thread of wind laugh in the back of his mind. “Soon.”
He blinked hard, heart skipping.
Hermione’s hand brushed his under the desk, grounding him. She leaned close enough to whisper. “Air’s first, isn’t it?”
He nodded once.
The castle hummed faintly through the walls, and for a moment, he swore the rune turned to face him, like a gate waiting to open.
(Letters Between Owls)
By the time Harry climbed into the fourth-year dorm, he nearly tripped over the stack of envelopes on his trunk.
“Blimey,” Seamus said from his bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “You running for Minister or something?”
Harry picked up the top letter and recognized Petunia’s tidy handwriting. Again. “She’s… very thorough,” Harry muttered, riffling through the pile.
“How thorough?” Ron asked, suspiciously.
Harry opened one:
Harry,
Remember to drink water, and if anyone sets you on fire, write immediately.
Love, Aunt Petunia.
Neville leaned over, blinking. “She… wrote that? About fire?”
Harry pulled another at random:
Harry,
Vernon thinks your posture will decide if you survive dragons. Sit up straight.
Love, Aunt Petunia.
The dorm exploded in laughter. Dean nearly fell off his bed.
Ron grabbed a third envelope and read it aloud in his best imitation of Mrs. Weasley:
Harry,
If your castle keeps humming at you, hum back. It’s only polite.
Harry covered his face with a pillow. “I’m never living this down, am I?”
Seamus wheezed. “Mate, if I get a letter about you doing breathing exercises for dragon fire, I’m framing it.”
A knock on the door preceded Lavender Brown’s head poking in. “Is that another batch of love letters from your aunt? Because Parvati wants to know if she can get adoption papers.”
Ron groaned. “Get out, Lavender.”
Instead, Lavender waltzed right in, hips swaying like she owned the place. She perched on the edge of Neville’s bed, grinning at the chaos of letters strewn across the floor.
“Oh, this is better than the common room gossip,” she declared, plucking one envelope and holding it up. “Harry Potter: Chosen by Fire, Loved by Aunt.”
Neville flushed faintly, shifting to make room. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“I’m clearly providing moral support,” Lavender said sweetly, leaning against his shoulder.
Neville stiffened like a board, which only made Seamus snort into his blanket. Dean gave him two thumbs up behind Lavender’s back.
Harry groaned as Lavender rifled through the letters with far too much interest.
“Oh, listen to this one,” she cooed, adopting an exaggerated posh accent: Harry, remember to write daily. Dragons may be fearsome, but so is your Aunt if you forget your vegetables.
Ron actually slid off his bed laughing.
“Lavender,” Harry said, burying his face in his hands, “I swear I will feed you to the next dragon if you keep reading those.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she teased. “Neville would never forgive you. Right, Neville?”
Neville muttered something incomprehensible, but his ears were pink.
Eventually, Lavender stretched out beside him on the blanket, gossiping about Parvati’s theory that Harry’s letters would soon become collectors’ items. “I mean, honestly,” she said, kicking her heels idly in the air. “When you save the world again, some of us will want receipts.”
Harry laughed despite himself, and even Neville’s shy smile broke through.
For a few blissful minutes, the dormitory felt like home, letters and laughter spilling over the floor, the weight of the Goblet and the castle far away.
She blew a kiss before vanishing, giggles trailing down the hall.
Harry fell back against his pillow, cheeks red but chest warm.
If surviving dragons and Goblets and a whispering castle meant getting roasted nightly by his dormmates, he supposed he could live with that.
By breakfast, Harry had resigned himself to his fate. The morning post swept through the enchanted ceiling like a feathery storm, and Hedwig made her usual elegant dive… followed by two school owls and a small tawny stranger.
All carrying letters from Aunt Petunia.
They landed in front of him in a flurry of envelopes and toast crumbs, drawing immediate attention from the Gryffindor table.
“Merlin’s pants,” Seamus muttered. “She’s escalating.”
Before Harry could collect them, Lavender and Parvati swooped in like professional gossip hunters.
“Oh, we have international audience today,” Parvati whispered gleefully, nodding toward the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons tables. “Let’s give them a show.”
Harry made a desperate grab. “Don’t you—”
Lavender snatched the top letter and, in her best Aunt Petunia voice, read aloud:
Harry,
I saw an article in the paper about falling off brooms. If you must fly, wear proper socks.
Love, Aunt Petunia.
The Gryffindor table exploded in laughter, and even a few Hufflepuffs clapped.
Across the hall, Durmstrang students exchanged confused whispers, their brows furrowed in perfect Slavic disbelief. Viktor Krum tilted his head like he wasn’t sure if he’d misheard.
Beauxbatons’ Fleur Delacour, meanwhile, gave a delicate, amused sniff. “He ees… very protected,” she murmured to her table.
Harry dragged a hand down his face.
Ron, cackling, waved the second envelope. “What’s this one say, mate? ‘Remember to drink your pumpkin juice and overthrow evil responsibly?’”
Neville rescued the third letter with a sigh, sliding it back to Harry. “Leave him be,” Neville said gently. “At least someone’s thinking about his socks.”
Harry finally stuffed the letters in his bag, ears red but heart warm despite the humiliation.
From the Slytherin table, Draco’s dry voice drifted over. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Potter. My mother will never write to me about socks.”
“You’d look good in them,” Harry shot back without thinking.
The tables roared, and for a moment, even under the weight of the Tournament, Hogwarts felt like a home full of laughter.
(Debate Between Flames)
The Wizengamot chamber hummed like an enclosed storm, the violet robes of the elders casting rippling shadows under the enchanted skylight.
Petunia Dursley—Lady Smith to this room—sat perfectly straight in her appointed seat, fingers clasped to keep from tapping against the stone armrest. She had learned long ago that in wizarding politics, silence was armor.
The murmurs coiled around her like smoke.
“A fourth champion—unprecedented—”
“Illegal! Unless…”
“It’s Potter. It’s always Potter.”
At the central dais, Cornelius Fudge dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, blustering more than speaking.
“We are, ah, facing a minor complication, nothing more! The boy will compete, of course, and the Ministry will—er—ensure full safety measures are in place”
Across the circle, Amelia Bones rose with the kind of calm that cut sharper than a shout. “Full safety measures?” she repeated, each word crisp. “Minister, the last Triwizard Tournament resulted in three casualties and one permanent curse. Now a minor has been chosen against all written law. Who signed the waiver for that?”
The chamber rippled with uneasy laughter.
Petunia let her eyes drift, catching Dumbledore’s profile in the Chief Warlock’s chair. He looked old today. Not frail, but carved out of patience and calculation. His gaze swept the chamber once before he spoke.
“The Goblet has spoken,” he said, voice quiet but carrying. “And Hogwarts has accepted its choice. The castle’s magic recognized Mr. Potter. I doubt any Ministry edict could undo that without consequence.”
That last word hung heavy.
Fudge blanched. “Consequences aside, the international delegations are already… aware. We must project confidence.”
Petunia leaned forward, letting her voice cut through the hum. “Then project responsibility with it.”
Dozens of heads turned. She felt the weight of old names brush against her skin—Smith, murmured in recognition and skepticism. “If the Ministry insists my child competes,” she continued, “then it had better ensure it can protect him. Or I assure you, the Muggle press will hear of its failures long before your excuses reach these walls.”
A sharp intake of breath followed. Even Amelia’s lips twitched in something like approval.
The Chief Warlock’s gavel rang once. “So noted,” Dumbledore said. “The boy will compete. And the first Task shall be announced… in due course.”
Petunia sat back, her heartbeat steady. Politics was a subtler battlefield than any dragon pit, but she had just reminded them all: Harry Potter was not alone.
“We are just making some minor adjustments to allow integrating a fourth Champion.”
Ludo Bagman’s booming voice broke the strained silence like a bludger through glass. He grinned, all Quidditch charm and misplaced cheer, as though they were discussing a friendly exhibition match rather than a political nightmare.
“It’s actually rather exciting, don’t you think?” Bagman continued, turning in a slow circle to address the chamber. “A historic first! Imagine the press—four Champions instead of three, Hogwarts shining brighter than ever!”
A few Wizengamot members muttered in approval. More glared. Madam Marchbanks snorted audibly. “Historic firsts get children killed, Bagman. Or do you only remember the score, not the casualties?”
A ripple of uneasy laughter ran through the room. Bagman’s grin faltered, but only for a moment. Across the circle, Amelia Bones rose again, steel in her voice.
“Let the record show,” she said, her monocle catching the light, “that the Ministry has not yet detailed the new safety protocols for this unprecedented adjustment. Four Champions mean four sets of risks, four sets of liabilities, and four sets of grieving families if this goes wrong.”
“I—ah—well, yes, we’re working on that,” Bagman said, tugging at his collar. “Mad-Eye Moody’s already putting together, er, very rigorous training for Hogwarts’ Champion. And as for Mr. Potter—”
Petunia leaned forward, her voice calm but carrying across the chamber. “Mr. Potter is my ward. And your liability.”
The chamber went silent again. Even Bagman’s hands froze mid-gesture.
“You want to add him to your spectacle?” she continued, each word precise. “Then ensure this Wizengamot votes to hold the Ministry personally responsible for his safety. Or I promise you, the Muggle world will learn your ‘historic first’ ended with a funeral.”
Fudge’s face went pink; Umbridge coughed behind her ridiculous bow. “Yes, yes, of course—safeguards, oversight—perfectly understood!” Fudge said, his voice rising with forced cheer. “The Ministry will handle this delicately.”
From the high seat, Dumbledore’s voice cut through, soft but iron-bound. “See that it does. Hogwarts may accept the Goblet’s choice, but it will not tolerate negligence. Nor will I.”
The gavel rang.
But as Petunia watched Bagman’s relieved grin and Fudge’s trembling hands, she thought, They have no idea what they’ve invited in.
(Quills Between Sparks)
Colin Creevey burst into the dungeon like a Cleansweep through soup.
“Harry! Professor Snape—sir—he has to go! The Champions are being called—wand ceremony!”
Half the class turned to watch, quills hovering. Snape’s dark eyes lifted from the cauldron, slow and deliberate. “Is that so?” he drawled, as if Colin had announced that Harry was leaving to model robes for Madam Malkin.
Harry snapped his book shut with a smirk he didn’t bother hiding. “Sorry, sir. Tournament business.”
Snape’s eyebrow twitched. “Try not to hex anyone unintentionally, Potter. Or intentionally, for that matter.”
The Trophy Room gleamed under polished sunlight, the air buzzing with quills and camera flashes. Rita Skeeter was already prowling, acid-green quill poised like a vulture’s beak.
“Harry Potter,” she purred the moment he stepped in. “The boy who defies expectation. And rules. And, it seems, basic tournament eligibility.”
Harry grinned, leaning just far enough into frame to throw her off balance. “I just sit where the castle tells me to. It’s very bossy.”
Rita blinked. “Castle…?”
Before she could recover, a chandelier above her flickered. A faint, mischievous hum vibrated through the stone floor—Hogwarts itself, listening.
When the first flash went off, the chandelier sputtered and dropped a single glob of wax straight onto Rita’s elaborate hat.
Colin snorted into his camera. Cedric choked down a laugh. Fleur raised one perfect brow.
Ollivander’s voice saved Rita from more embarrassment. “Ah, Mr. Potter. Your wand, please.”
Harry handed it over with practiced confidence, Mage-sight flickering faintly. The yew and phoenix feather glowed soft gold under Ollivander’s inspection.
“Hmm. Excellent balance. Loyal. And it seems to like you even more than it did last year.”
Harry caught Krum watching him, curiosity flickering behind the Quidditch-star aloofness.
Another flash—and this time, Rita’s quill leapt out of her hand, scribbling furiously on the wall instead of the parchment.
“Hogwarts Backs Its Boy!”
Harry left the ceremony whistling, fully aware the castle had just taken his side in front of the international press. Behind him, Rita tried to peel wax from her hat as her rogue quill scrawled an unflattering sketch of her profile on the wall.
The owls swooped into the Great Hall like a paper storm the next morning, the lead bird clutching a thick copy of the Daily Prophet. It hit Harry’s plate with a wet slap of marmalade.
Dean snorted. “Bet you’re front page again.”
Harry groaned, already spotting the blazing headline in Rita Skeeter’s acid-green ink.
THE BOY WHO JOKES WITH DANGER
Exclusive by Rita Skeeter
Hogwarts Castle itself seems to favor fourth-year phenomenon Harry Potter, who was chosen as a fourth Champion in the historic Triwizard Tournament.
At yesterday’s Wand Weighing Ceremony, witnesses report the castle took an active role, dropping wax from chandeliers and seizing quills in playful rebellion. One wayward quill scrawled the now-infamous phrase: HOGWARTS BACKS ITS BOY!
International observers were “baffled but amused,” with Durmstrang’s Viktor Krum reportedly “deeply intrigued” by the school’s display of loyalty.
“I just sit where the castle tells me to,” young Potter said with a grin, seemingly unfazed by the life-threatening tasks ahead.
Meanwhile, Ministry officials assure the public that safety measures are sufficient—despite the unprecedented number of Champions and Hogwarts’ unpredictable… sense of humor. Rita Skeeter will continue to provide exclusive coverage of this year’s historic Tournament.
By the time Harry lowered the paper, half of Gryffindor Tower was laughing, and Hufflepuffs were passing the issue down the table like a rare trading card.
“You’re a headline and a punchline now,” Seamus said cheerfully.
Even Professor McGonagall’s lips twitched as she approached with her morning tea.
“Mr. Potter,” she said dryly. “Do try not to encourage the castle to give interviews without supervision.”
Harry buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t ask the chandelier to do that.”
Across the hall, Slytherin table murmured in low, amused voices. Draco Malfoy was pretending not to laugh, but his shoulders shook once. Fleur Delacour read the article delicately, then offered Harry a tiny, knowing smirk.
Somewhere in the distance, Filch shouted about wax on the stone floor.
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