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Chapter Text

Harry Potter, all of seventeen and aching heart, stands alone. It’s an empty courtyard, save for him, the ash of deadened fires, and his prophesied enemy, who is most certainly dead. It is very quiet and a quiet of the unnatural sort. He hears the thump of Voldemort’s corpse distantly, as if muffled by cotton stuffed in his ears. He hears the thump thump of his own heart, the thump thump thump of footsteps, the thump thump thump thump of beating wings, of harsh winds, of —

Time slows. The world grows fuzzy at the edges, a haziness threatening to push in, to take over. No, he thinks to himself strongly. No. Stay back. He trips over his own feet but stumbles forward. In a single step it seems he has reached Tom. He near falls to his knees. The ground is rough, and the gravel bites his skin warningly. Tom’s eyes are open. Red, wide with disbelief, with pain. Harry reaches out a hand and brings Tom’s eyelids down. His skin feels very thin, papery almost, and warm still. Very warm. Hot even, like the Killing Curse had burned its way through the now very dead and very mortal man.

The fuzziness hasn’t abated. It pulls at him, urgent. If he could close his eyes for just a minute… No. No. Stay awake. But the thought of rest is tempting. His eyes droop.

A hand appears on his shoulder, and abruptly the world spins into clarity. It is a loud reality. Come to think of it, maybe Harry did prefer the muted awareness. This is near too much. 

It’s Ron. His best friend’s hand slides off of him, and Harry finds himself missing the warmth and the clarity, so he takes Ron’s hand in his. Hermione is there too, so Harry takes hers, finding that the pair were already linking their fingers. They stand together. But still it doesn’t help.

Harry drinks them in. Dusty, gleaming with sweat, red from exertion, pale from fear, smiling with relief, Harry loves them — but he doesn’t feel the same sweet relief he craved, craves. Something is not right. A chill sets in.

The wind picks up, scattering ash into the air. In the near distance there is cheering, but soon the people leave too, perhaps seeing that the trio needed it, perhaps seeing to their dead. Perhaps they did not want to be near the body. The fires have been put out, but the sky over them remains a dampened grey. 

Harry sees Hermione speaking, but for some reason, he can’t hear her. He can hear the scruff of footsteps, the breaking stone, the laboring pants of the injured, the cries of the survivors, but he cannot hear Hermione. Ron is waving their joined hands at him, in front of his face. 

What? Harry asks. He feels his mouth move around the word, but no sound emerges. His best friends begin to look frantic. Why can’t he hear them? Ron grabs his shoulders, shakes him lightly, but that brings the fuzziness back. He wants to lay down. Harry bends his knees as if to squat, but the two hold him up with shaking limbs. They attempt to drag him forward. Towards the Great Hall, Harry thinks. But no, he is where he needs to be. He plants his feet and stays. No, he says to them again, but his mouth his dry. 

The world goes dark for a second before it’s wretched back into place. Ron and Hermione look pale and faint, blurred somehow, like figments from a dream. He reaches for them, but his hands go through them like water. He tries again and latches onto them tight. They might turn to ash in his hands otherwise.

For some reason, Harry still doesn’t feel anxious or worried. Maybe I’m dying, he thinks. 

Harry, they are saying.

Harry Harry Harry —

“Harry!”

“Harry Potter.” 

He opens his eyes. 

He’s sitting in the Great Hall, and all eyes are turned towards him. He feels sluggish and hot, like all the atoms in his body are vibrating into place. He might pass out, he might collapse on the floor. How did he get to the Great Hall? Where is Voldemort —

“Harry!” Hermione hisses, and nudges him. 

“Harry Potter,” Dumbledore repeats. Wait — Dumbledore? His head hurts terribly. 

Ron is pale next to him, and he’s looking at him with wide eyes. Hermione grips him strongly and forces him to stand, and Harry stands, confused. This feels eerily like deja-vu. Is he dreaming? Merlin, he had forgotten how young they all were. He wants to linger, to stare a little longer, and says, “I don’t understand,” but Hermione gestures with her head towards the front with a look in her eyes that promises a talking to, and unsteadily, Harry makes his way towards the dream Dumbledore, who gives him a long searching look. Something strange is going on, and Harry can’t remember if that was how Hermione and Ron acted in reality. 

“Did they need us back out there?” Cedric asks when he sees him, and boy, Harry must really be dead or in his head again. He must look crazy, just staring at Cedric. At Fleur, who looks so young? And at Krum, who looks just as grave as he did last Harry saw him about a year ago.

Mr. Crouch goes off about rules, and Madame Maxine and Professor Karkaroff are touting about the injustice of it all, but Dumbledore leans into him close. 

“Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” he asks. 

This is what this is about? Harry is looking into Dumbledore’s eyes with a startling amount of emotion piling in the back of his throat. It was not so long ago that he held a conversation with this man on the other side of the train station. Blinking, he looks away to focus. He forces himself to speak. “I —”

“Very obviously he didn’t,” Moody growls. “I say it’s a conspiracy. Too many nasty shadows lurking in the castle, wouldn’t you say, eh Igor?” 

This is startlingly real, and Harry can’t exactly remember how it all went down, but it ends the same. He is entered into the Triwizard Tournament. He is swept out of the room, a room full of unhappy faces, and if Harry didn’t feel so unhappy himself, he would laugh at all the frowning, as if this is the greatest cause of concern at present. 

“So we’re playing against each other again!” Harry gets the feeling Cedric had noticed the rather dull expression on his face and was attempting to add some cheer. 

“It seems so,” Harry says, thoughts whirring. He attempts to sear the face of the Hufflepuff seeker into his brain; the soft hair, the warm flush of life in his cheeks, the curve of his nose. The last Harry had seen of him was his cold and grey body, lifeless and stiff beneath him as he brought him back to Hogwarts grounds. Eyes open. 

“How’d you do it?” Cedric asks him as they walk away. 

“Cedric,” Harry says. “I didn’t do it.” He doesn’t know Cedric well enough to make him listen, but his gut feeling is that this here, for some reason, is important. Cedric is important. Obviously, he knows that, but there is another layer of mystery here that he can’t yet address or put a name to. “You probably don’t believe me, and I won’t overstate the point,” he continues, voice feeling odd, tongue like sandpaper in his mouth, “but I really didn’t.” There’s not much else he can say at the moment. Trying to prove that he has all the fame and attention he could ask for seems self-explanatory and unnecessary, and if Cedric is as smart as Harry remembers, then he should realize for himself that Harry has no want nor need for the prizes of the Triwizard Tournament. Either way, something in his voice makes Cedric stop walking and look at him in the face. Lips pressed together, he looks at Harry, who doesn’t say anything more. 

Cedric’s eyes are a striking grey. Like starlight, Harry knows, when the light filters through them, like rings of liquid silver. His face is very friendly, but his eyes are sharp. Cedric was not champion for his grades or handsomeness or friendliness alone. There was a wit about him that perhaps Harry was too young to catch before. The seventeen year old before him knows nothing of his future, and that makes Harry sad and relieved at once. 

“Good night,” Cedric finally says not unpleasantly, but not wholly friendly either. 

They part at the stairwell junction, and while Gryffindor common room is just on the third floor, Harry’s instincts lead him up and up to the seventh, not quite ready to face the crowd and needing answers he knows await him should he look. He runs his hands along the walls, letting the cool stone calm his head. Even if this is all a dream, a standing Hogwarts in all her quiet glory in the moonlight is able to steady the rapid thump of his heart. 

He sees their shadows first, illuminated by the flickering torches on the walls. He rounds the corner and comes face to face with Ron and Hermione, who both look equally as perplexed and unhappy as he feels. There is no anger present. Just confusion and worry and a healthy dose of fear. Before he even reaches them, Harry can tell that these are not the fourteen year olds of 1994. These are his Ron and his Hermione, from the time he is from. Perhaps this is not in his head after all. 

He takes the time to study them. Ron, without scars lacing up his arms. Hermione, without her forearm proudly bearing her scarlet letters. Both of their faces so young and not yet having lost their healthy glow of being well-fed and fearing death and failure at every step.

“Harry,” Ron says into the silence, and his voice holds just the amount of desperation to make his insides twist. “How — how are you feeling?”

Harry breathes deep and tries to pinpoint it exactly. Something led them here, to this strange dream. He wonders what kick will wake them. “Like my head’s full of butterbeer,” he says slowly. “The world’s covered in foam.” It isn’t quite right, but will do. 

Hermione cracks an exasperated smile and paces the hall — her body language enough to remind them that the walls have ears. The door that forms takes the familiar shape of the Burrow. Heart burning but slowing all the same, Ron opens the worn wood to the warmth of the sitting room. The lumpy but comfortable chairs and loveseat (even the one with the tendency to bite the arse of whomever sits on the middle cushion) are there, arranged around the fireplace, which smokes lightly. They all sit, avoiding the unfortunate loveseat, close enough that if any one of them moved their knees, they would touch. 

Glancing to check that the door firmly shut behind them, Hermione goes and adds the standard wards they used when Horcrux hunting. “So,” she begins, with a tone that belies her nervousness ever so slightly, “it’s 1994. As far as the three of us know, we are the only ones from the future. Our present.”

“It’s madness,” Ron says.

“Bonkers,” Harry adds, but neither of them are particularly enthused.

“Never heard of anything like it,” the redhead continues with a frown. “We don’t even know the cause.”

“Ron and I talked about it a bit while you went in,” Hermione explains. “We eliminated the possibility of a curse or hex hitting any of us. The only circumstances of note are two things: the first being the death of You-Know-Who, and the second being you, Harry.”

“Me? What did I do?”

Hermione rolls her eyes, but it’s fond. “Most things happen because of you, Harry. For some reason, the universe tends towards chaos around you.”

Harry grimaces, but both Ron and Hermione look as if they have long accepted this fact. “So —”

“So we’re stuck here for an unforeseeable amount of time,” Ron says. “Wherever this is.”

“Whenever, you mean.”

“Er, right.”

“Unless it is a dream or vision,” says Harry. “I’ve had weirder maybe, I think.”

Ron squints at him. “Weirder maybe, you think.”

He shrugs. “Possibly.” His companions crack a smile. “But I admit the two of you aren’t normally this present nor sentient in dreams, and while my visions are real, this feels like an odd thing to see, considering the circumstances.”

They all pause. “You-Know-Who isn’t dead,” Ron puts in, almost hesitant, a topic they haven’t wanted to breach, but a necessary one. It’s 1994, the year Voldemort becomes the very opposite of deceased. 

They take a moment to think about it. Hermione laughs, but it isn’t from any light humor. “Everything that happened…” Gone is the unspoken word. Her face morphs into one of terrible loss, but she presses on. “But if we do assume that this isn’t some dream and is, in fact, our new reality, regardless of how we got here, everything we’ve checked so far is exactly the same as when we first lived it. That means that we’ve got a chance to make things right, and we know where the Horcruxes are and how to destroy them. We can finish this before the war breaks out.”

“But if we change too many things,” Ron interjects, “we lose our advantage. We lose our foresight because then everything is different.”

Hermione looks grave, an expression that shouldn’t have been so commonplace on such a young teenager, Harry thinks, but this life has not been kind to any of them. “Yes. Which means we have to be careful about everything we do and which changes we make.”

“Cedric lives,” Harry says. “That’s the first big one, I think. Cedric’s got to live. And then Sirius. Him too.”

“Obviously,” Hermione says rather gently. “Those are definite changes we should aim for. But we also have to keep in mind that the smallest changes make differences too. For example, none of us are in the common room right now.” 

“Past curfew too, I’d wager,” Ron laughs lightly, taking a glance at the clock above the mantelpiece. “Getting in trouble is one change that’s the same as our usual.” It is, in fact, past curfew, and they know their house mates are most likely wondering where they are, exuberant or upset or jealous, but with most of what needed to be said immediately, out of the way, they lapse into quietude once more. 

“We should also look into getting back,” Hermione says. “I don’t know how or even where to begin, but… It’s worth a shot.”

“A part of me, a big part,” Ron starts hesitantly, “is glad to be here. For Merlin’s sake, we haven’t been more prepared ever, and maybe this way, we can prevent things like. Like —”

Like Fred. Like Colin. Like Tonks. Like Remus. Like so many people. Like everyone who suffered.

The pain and exhaustion finally seems to sink in. Hermione breaks first, and she begins to sob. Ron wraps an arm around her tight, and Harry circles his arms around them both as they shake. There’s some empty space in his head, Harry thinks, where all his thoughts are just rattling around with no rhyme or reason. Angry, at fate for throwing them all back here, when they had only just accomplished the impossible, angry for all the lives lost, for all the fighting, for all the unfairness in the world, for the fight they have ahead of them. 

“I’m glad it’s the three of us,” Harry confides, when he is able to blink his tears away. They separate, but only just; the sit without space between them. 

“Always gonna be us,” Ron says, and it’s both a statement and a promise. 

“Oh this would be unbearable if any of us had come alone,” Hermione says about a possibility Harry had been avoiding thinking about. Had he not grabbed them, would he be here alone? Had he not grabbed them, would they have stayed and lived out life happily? Without him? Where even are they? How can this happen? Did Harry doom them to suffering by bringing them with him? “I love you both.”

Harry and Ron both smile. His best mates, here with him. A warm feeling bursts in his chest, and he nearly feels weepy again. Ron takes Hermione’s hand, and they all sit. “We love you too, `Mione,” Ron says strongly. 

When the fire begins to die down around one in the morning, they agree to return to the common room. Rather than trek down the staircases, and with the knowledge that this room can connect to real places, Hermione requests that they be dropped off right at the Fat Lady, and the room acquiesces without complaint. The Fat Lady harrumphs at them but lets them in without trouble. The common room lights are dim, and only a few straggler students are up, and they all stare when they walk in. 

Neville is one of those awake. He snaps his book shut and goes over to them with a false cheer, thankfully before any others can accost them. “Hey guys,” he says, stumbling over his words to make it sound easy. “Out late, huh?” He looks very nervous, and more than a little curious, but he pushes cheer into his voice.

Suddenly grateful for Neville and his silent strength and endurance and friendship all these years, grateful for who he will grow to be, Harry wants to cherish all these moments with the boy who still trips over himself and has the time to carefully tend to his plants. So, he smiles with all the fondness he can muster. “Well, it’s been a bit of a shocking night,” he admits. 

Hermione shakes her head, but bids them all goodnight, a see you at breakfast, and a hug each, even one for Neville, who is a bit stunned for a bit about it. She holds Ron for just a second tighter, and Harry wonders what they will do, now that they are all of fourteen and, by all rights, children. Then, Harry wonders about Ginny, and remembers that she is now thirteen and actually thirteen. Not like Harry who is now not actually fourteen. He grimaces. He puts those thoughts away. 

“If you wanna talk about it,” Neville says, shifting uncomfortably as they make their way to their dorm. “I mean, I know you have each other but —” He struggles. 

“Thanks, Nev,” Harry says. “Really. I really mean it.”

The three boys stop before the door. “You… didn’t do it, did you?” Neville wonders, half question half answer. 

“You kidding?” Ron laughs. “Harry could live in the middle of the mountains and trouble would find him.” Neville smiles at that, and when they enter their room, it’s dark, and the curtains to Dean and Seamus’s beds are thankfully drawn, sparing them the noise of excitement and envy.

Sleep evades Harry. He dresses into pajamas and listens to the rustling of sheets that eventually still, to the deep breaths and snores of the boys who he once roomed with. He feels the soft sheets beneath his hands and regrets not appreciating it past being grateful it wasn’t Privet Drive. At that thought, he grimaces, not enjoying the reminder that he must return there when summer begins. He thinks of Dudley, who, last he saw, had offered his hand. Maybe not a lost cause. But also not his responsibility on top of all he has to do. 

Dean sniffs loudly in the dark, and Harry fingers his wand absently. The silky cloth of his invisibility cloak rests under his pillow. He’s tempted to slip it on and go out, just to sit by the fire, or maybe take a small walk. But knowing the stress he will have to face tomorrow, he resists and makes a valiant attempt to meditate and clear his mind. 

It’s clear meditation isn’t working when the images of the battle keep cropping up unbidden to his mind. One step towards the end, only to find himself back at the beginning. He sighs. 

Somewhere close to three, listening to the gentle rustling of Neville’s plants by the window, Harry drifts off to sleep, exhausted, and half wishing he’d wake up next to the cold and deceased body of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Chapter Text

The next few days are rough. Over and over, Harry is bombarded with recent memories: Fred lying prone on the floor of the Great Hall, Colin limp and grey, Lavender with her face half open, countless others whose names Harry doesn’t know but whose faces will forever remain in his memory. Even so, it cannot be as difficult for him as for Ron, who at his best remains an ashy color and trembles with the effort to resist flinging himself at Fred. Harry moves through the crowds of students with a ringing in his head as if his ears had been boxed. Ron and Hermione remain a constant presence at his side, a step behind him, and part of him marvels at how dependent he is on their warmth. A chill has set in him and makes no indication of leaving.

Harry listens through the muffled commotion of the students pushing at him to the footfalls of his friends, to the swish of Hermione’s robes against her bag, to Ron’s breath as he struggles to remain calm. Finally, they reach the final set of stairs, and Hermione holds Ron’s hand when they get down. They find some space at the end of the Gryffindor table and take their seats. Quietly, she says, “You need to write to Snuffles, Harry.”

Setting down his forkful of eggs, Harry suddenly doesn’t feel hungry. Beside him, Ron uncharacteristically doesn’t eat much at all either. He clears his throat. “Right.” It’s Sunday, so they take their time. The Great Hall is packed this morning, unlike the usual trickle of students that come before eleven. Harry ignores the stares and the whispers but does feel as if some choice few are being purposefully obnoxious. He takes a sip of his tea, letting the hot water heat him from within. He can see as much as hear how bitter the Hufflepuffs are at their overshadowing, and the Gryffindors that enter boisterously certainly don’t help matters. Mildly annoyed, Harry tunes them out completely, letting his mug prickle warmth into his fingers.

Hermione and Ron make light conversation, but mostly the three sit in silence. The overall mood is quite somber, and Harry amuses himself by watching who comes in the door. Eventually, he spots Luna drifting in through the doors languidly. Her hair is just as long and straggly as he remembers, but there is a softness to her now that had, during her time at Hogwarts, sharpened. As if sensing his eyes on her, her head slowly swings to him. Her eyes are big and blue, and it’s almost as if Harry is trapped in her gaze. A shiver works its way up his spine, and then she blinks and turns away to her table, the moment lost. 

Pensive, Harry stirs some honey into his tea. The golden tendrils wrap lazily around his teaspoon before dissolving. He drinks some more. He returns his eyes to his friends, who are poring over The Daily Prophet. At the very least, they will tell him what he needs to know from it. 

Ginny stumbles in bleary-eyed but cheery with a few of her friends and doesn’t notice him. She looks so small, and part of him finds her morning grumpiness endearing. Harry sighs quietly. He doesn’t want to think about her right now. 

Suddenly aware of all that he needs to get done today, he nudges Ron who taps Hermione’s hand, and they stand to make their way out of the dining hall. 

In the Room, Harry writes his missive. 

Dear Sirius,

Sorry for the delay. I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now. The Triwizard Tournament has been restarted, and along with Cedric Diggory, I’ve been chosen as a champion. 

He wants to say something, anything, about how he misses him, how he has anxiety balled in his chest like an untamed beast, but he doesn’t know how to put it into words.

I hope you and Buckbeak are well. Stay safe — Harry.

It’s short and not at all eloquent or what Sirius deserves, but he can’t wrangle his anxiety to form anything more coherent. He knows he shouldn’t send Hedwig, so he writes another letter to the Weasleys to update them from himself, Ron, and Hermione for her to take. He has a barn owl take the letter to Sirius, and suddenly he has the urge to go through all his memories to pick out the important bits that he may have forgotten. It’s impractical, but may very well be a precaution they need to take. How long would it take to sort through three years of memories? Too long. Far too long. 

Grimacing, he sends off the barn owl. He strokes Hedwig softly, and she nips his fingers before taking flight. 

… Î … 

After his visit to the owlery, Harry finds a moment of peace in an alcove outside the castle overlooking the Great Lake. It’s conveniently out of the general line of vision, large enough for him to fit comfortably with his bag, and yet small enough to feel safe alone. It’s surrounded by tall yellowing grass that drifts back and forth in the wind. It’s a bit breezy but nothing a simple warming charm every now and then couldn’t fix. 

Every so often, a gaggle of students walks by, chatting to themselves, light and free. Pursing his lips, he contemplates on the peace the general public believes they have. Of course they never believed him about Voldemort’s return. Shaking his head of these thoughts, he watches birds fly overhead and out across the smooth glass of the lake’s surface, disturbed only by what he thinks is a tentacle of the squid that lives in its depths. He’s glad for a few moments of silence and wishes he knew about this spot a few years ago when the barbed words of students really disturbed him.

Now, Harry has bigger problems on his mind, unanswered questions knocking into each other in his head. Not just their unexpected arrival in the past, but also the specific time they landed and how they were going to take advantage of the situation. In a way, it’s comforting to know that his best friends are here with him, but he also feels guilty for it. Maybe they‘re only here because, in that moment, he wanted them with him selfishly. In his haze, he had reached for them, and in his haze, he had grabbed them. 

He thinks about it more, thinking about the thick press of exhaustion that grasped him, as well as a pulsing anxiety that left his heart thumping madly. It was like moving through molasses. He frowns, putting his chin on his knee. His scar is starting to hurt ever so lightly, a dull sort of pain, like a bruise. He casts a tempus and too soon, it’s time for potions. He dispels the misty glow of numbers next to him with a wave of his hand, and out of the corner of his eye spots movement in the grass. 

Abruptly he is alert. He shifts to his feet, hefts his bag onto his shoulder, and steps onto the ground. The grass rustles and stills. It’s too tall to peer over enough so, suspiciously, Harry creeps closer, breathing softly through his nose. Then, as soon as he is to be upon it, the doors to the castle fling open and a commotion of sound startles him. It’s time for class. Bollocks. Forgetting about the grass, he sprints around the walls and back into the castle, taking the stairs down by threes, and finally skidding to a stop in front of a crowd of students in front of the potions classroom door. 

“Finally thought to show your face, Potter?” comes Draco Malfoy’s snide voice. Harry’s panting subsides, and he catches a glimpse of Ron and Hermione standing at odds with his Slytherin posse. The crowd splits, and Harry is allowed to move forward to join his friends. Draco looks young and small. Something like sympathy laces through him. The boy looks so much like a child. A bratty, spoilt, annoying child. A pain in the arse child. Maybe Harry can get away with not saying anything, but Ron gives him a slight nudge, and Harry understands that they should keep up appearances. 

So, he plasters a frown on his face. “Nice pins,” he ends up saying. “You do it yourself?”

The blond laughs, and a couple Slytherin’s laugh with him. “Want one?” he asks. “Not all they do. Look!” He presses the button, and the words change from Support Cedric Diggory — the REAL Hogwarts Champion to Potter Stinks!

“Do I?” he responds mildly, lifting an arm up as if to smell himself. “I had no idea. Thanks, Malfoy.”

There’s a small silence and a wave of laughter from the Gryffindors as Harry doesn’t react with anger. Draco looks like he’s clenching his teeth. He exhales sharply and smooths his hair. “Of course you do. Hang out with enough Mudbloods, you start smelling like dirt too.”

Harry tenses, and feels Ron puffing up in anger too. Hermione is shock-still. In his mind, Harry sees a bloody arm, Hermione’s slackened face, and pulls out his wand. 

“ Harry ,” Hermione hisses warningly, and Harry doesn’t know if she’s genuinely telling him to back off or just playing her part. Old Harry would’ve ignored her, so Harry does the same. Maybe he’s also driven by a new fear, and Draco is the perfect opportunity to let loose some frustrations verbally. Just a little bit maybe.

“Go on then, Potter,” Draco says quietly. He draws his wand. “Got the guts?” They lock eyes and Harry makes a move to cast a spell at the same time Draco yells, “ Densaugeo! ”

In the split second he has, he knows what happens. He could shield or let it hit. He makes a decision and steps out of the way slightly and lets it hit Hermione, who must have, on some level, expected it. 

Draco looks a bit stunned that Harry didn’t do anything, but can’t make a derogatory remark about Harry’s apparent slowness because whispers and laughter erupt at Hermione’s enlarging teeth. 

Harry directs his attention to her, and she looks calm, if a bit put out. “Conjure a mirror, would you?” she asks, and Ron does without thinking. Harry can’t remember the year they learned to conjure mirrors. Maybe fifth? It doesn’t matter. She examines herself and says the counterspell, shrinking her teeth to an acceptable size. Ron banishes the mirror. 

Harry turns back to Draco, studying him. It’s kind of funny, how poorly they all reacted in the past. They have the advantage of the knowledge of the future, and so it’s unfair to laud their coolness, but part of Harry is pleased with the turnout. 

“And what is this noise about?” says a low and menacing voice. Snape sweeps into the corridor, and a silence falls upon the group. Snape eyes Harry suspiciously, but he doesn’t say anything, and it seems as if no one can, so they all enter the classroom. 

Harry takes Hermione’s arm and squeezes in apology, and she grins back at him. After all, this was when she was able to make her front teeth more to her liking. And she knows he wouldn’t let her be in real danger if he could help it. He lets go of her arm so she can pair with Ron, who bumps his shoulder with a smile. 

Draco is squinting at them, but Snape begins class. “Antidotes! You all should have prepared your recipes by now. Brew carefully, and then we will be selecting someone on whom to test on…”

Like clockwork, and Harry is startled at the clarity of the situation coming back to him, the dungeon door bangs open, and there stands Colin Creevey who waltzes in with a smile to Snape’s desk.

“Yes?” says Snape.

“Please, sir, I’m supposed to take Harry Potter upstairs.”

Snape sneers, but after a curt and angry conversation, relents with a, “Very well! Potter — take your bag and get out of my sight! ” Harry thinks Snape could afford to tone it down, but shrugs, waves to Ron, Hermione, and Neville, and makes his way out of the room. 

Colin delivers him, bouncing excitedly, and Harry is greeted by a sorry sight. The classroom’s desks were all pushed to one wall. Viktor Krum is moodily by one corner. Fleur and Cedric are animatedly discussing something about dirigible plums, and the other adults in the room are quietly preoccupied. Worst of all, he spots Rita Skeeter and Ludo Bagman, both of whom light up at the sight of him. 

Harry forces himself into the room, and Ludo enthusiastically introduces him to Skeeter, who shakes his hand with crimson nails.
“I wonder if I could have a word with the youngest champion before we start,” she asks Bagman, eyes fixed on Harry, “to add a splash of color?”

“Certainly!” Bagman cries. “If Harry has no objection —”

“Of course,” interrupts Harry, knowing that Skeeter would’ve interrupted anyway. “I only request that my fellow champions accompany me for the interview, Miss Skeeter.”

She purses her lips. “I only ask a few moments of your time,” she simpers.

Harry finds a desk and sits. “Then I suppose it’s fine for you to ask a question or two.”

Clearly, she wishes to drag him into the broom closet, but he doesn’t wish that upon himself if not necessary, so he settles for being purposefully obtuse.

She’s very obviously displeased with him. “Of course,” she recovers, sitting next to him. The three other champions eye them, but Harry ignores them for the time being. “I hope you don’t mind me using a Quick-Quotes Quill, Harry? It lets me speak to my interviewees normally.” She smiles, all teeth. 

No, Harry is not okay with that, but unless he snatches it and snaps it in two, she will use it, so he puts on a smile and says he’s ready to begin. 

Skeeter tests the quill and then begins, “What made you decide to enter the tournament?”

Harry wishes she were more tolerable. “I’ve never wished to participate in the tournament. It’s a dangerous game that I have no wish to be a part of. I do, however, look forward to getting to know the true school champions. I’m sure I have a lot to learn from them.” It’s a bit dry but he does mean it sincerely.

He can feel the gaze of Madame Maxime and Karkaroff, Mr. Crouch, and Ollivander, whose attention burns especially hot.

Skeeter’s eyebrows raise, but she leaps onto another question. “You feel inadequate then? Unable to match the strength of your fellow contestants? Of course, you are three years younger than they are, but the Goblet did choose you for a reason, didn’t it?”

“I’ll always have more to learn,” Harry says vaguely, trying to ignore the quill skating across the parchment.

“Then you entered in the hopes to live up to your name? Past trauma, perhaps, making you keen to prove yourself? Perhaps, because you have looked death in the face before—”

“I get into all the trouble you’d expect a fourteen-year-old to,” Harry says, playing off a stilted laugh. The door to the classroom opens, revealing Dumbledore. Harry’s heart clenches. He smiles at Skeeter, whose parchment and quill disappeared in a flash. “Wonderful to make your acquaintance, Miss Skeeter. But I think we should get going.” 

Her face stays trained on him thoughtfully, then she tears her face away to greet — “ Dumbledore! How are you? I hope you saw my piece on the International Confederation of Wizards’ Conference?”

“Enchantingly nasty,” the headmaster says with a genial smile. “I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat.”

Bagman sputters, but Skeeter doesn’t look put out. She makes to speak again, but Dumbledore raises his hand and commences the ceremony. 

Harry takes a seat next to Cedric, who eyes him oddly but keeps his mouth closed with a polite smile. 

Ollivander tests their wands. Fleur and her temperamental wand, Cedric and his springy wand, and Viktor with his rigid one. When it’s his turn, he carefully puts his wand in the wandmaker’s hands, but Ollivander isn’t looking at the wand but at him. His pale blue eyes study him, but Harry doesn’t feel mental intrusions at all, so he maintains eye contact. The silence radiates, but eventually, Ollivander hums and hands Harry’s wand back to him. “In perfect condition,” he reassures, but that is all he says. He was much more vocal before and with the others, and Harry feels a little queasy. 

Once he’s finished, they take a few group photos, and Harry makes to leave. He chances a glance back at Ollivander, who is already peering at him discreetly. Harry makes a note to visit him later, and spins to leave, bumping into Cedric, who steadies him by holding his shoulders. 

They stand there for a beat, looking at each other. Harry studies Cedric’s face and his piercing eyes. A cough breaks his attention. Fleur stands before them, waiting to leave the room and then, as if remembering they are standing in the door, Cedric pulls Harry out and aside. Fleur tilts her head goodbye at them, brushes her hair over her shoulder, and leaves. Viktor steps out next, curiously giving them a glance, nods, and makes his way down the hall. The door shuts, leaving the adults in the room, and then the pair are alone in the hallway.

This hasn’t happened before, and Harry’s a little curious about what’s going on. He turns back to Cedric who turns back to him in turn and then flushes, taking his hands off of Harry’s shoulders. “Sorry,” he says. 

Harry doesn’t know exactly what he’s apologizing for, so he shrugs. “S’alright. You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” says the taller boy. “I — the badges,” he starts. “They’re not — I’m trying to tell people not to wear them. They’re not very nice.”

Harry gives him a smile. “Thanks. It’s alright though. They’re right about one thing anyway.”

Cedric frowns. “You’re just as much a champion as the rest of us. They’re bullying you. That’s not okay.”

Harry just shrugs again. “Thanks for looking out for me, but it’s alright. They can say what they want.”

Cedric loses the strained look of frustration and just looks at him again. Harry flushes under the intense scrutiny and clears his throat. 

“I should get going,” he says. “I’ll… I’ll see you around?” And then spins and leaves. Very cool. He doesn’t look back to avoid making awkward eye contact again.

Harry meets Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall for another quiet dinner and afterward, they return to the dorms, where an owl waits for Harry. 

The letter reads:

Dear Harry,

It’s too risky to say much over the post. November 22 at one in the morning, can you be alone by the fire? Be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about anything unusual. Between Dumbledore and Moody, I doubt anything will even dare to come near you. Nevertheless, this tournament business is no molehill. 

Let me know about Nov. 22 as soon as you can. 

Sirius. 

Harry writes a quick yes and sends the poor owl off again after it drinks water and eats a few treats. 

“Things are going to pick up soon,” Ron comments. 

Suddenly, Hermione curses. “How could I forget?” she exclaims. “Harry, your scar! This is more important than ever now. If You-Know-Who were to see in your head now, this will be much harder than last time.”

“Blimey,” Ron says. “How’s your scar right now, Harry?”

He grimaces but knows that it’s best to be honest right now. “It’s not not hurting. It’s not bad though, just like I got a bad knock.” Ron and Hermione lean in close to look at his scar, which, as far as he’s aware, looks normal. 

“The longer your head stays open, the more dangerous,” Hermione says, but she doesn’t seem to be telling them what they already know, just contemplating.

Occlumency is the only option, Harry knows.

“We have until the third task then. I’ll look in the library but in the meantime, Harry, you really should meditate.”

Sighing, Harry nods. He knows she’s right. It just sucks. He’s rubbish at Occlumency.

As if reading his expression, Hermione laughs lightly. “You’ll never get better with that attitude. Now come on, let’s get started.”

“Hey, you know, we should really be doing this too,” Ron says to Hermione. “We’re really no safer. Who knows who can go around reading our minds willy-nilly?”

“We’ll do it together then,” Hermione agrees. “Good point, Ron. Okay, I’ll head to the library but later we should meet in The Room. Tomorrow after classes, maybe?”

They nod, and Hermione stands to walk out the door. Ron yawns and stretches. In a sort of casual way, he reaches out to touch her hand softly before she leaves. Harry turns away, a little warm at their love for each other. Ron calls his attention back, “I’m gonna shower, mate. You doing okay?”

Harry nods, feeling tired all of a sudden. “Yeah, cheers, mate.” Ron studies him for a moment, then must come to some decision, and leaves to the bathroom.

Harry changes into sleep clothes and wanders towards the window. It’s gotten quite dark already. Looking past the lake, he can see some distant hills and the never-ending edge of the Forbidden Forest. But more directly beneath him, he watches the tall grasses sway like waves in the wind. It’s almost mesmerizing.

When his head hits the pillow, Harry dreams of the tall grass shifting around him like water, golden brown and endless.

Chapter Text

Harry’s dreaming. The sky is a shade too blue, the ground beneath him a touch too solid. This clarity that alludes him in his waking hours can find him only in sleep. 

He’s on a cliffside, feet dangling off the ledge. An ocean is before him. Has he ever actually seen an ocean like this? The water is a deep blue that pales as it approaches a rocky shore. Its waves are calm. Hardly any wind ruffles his hair. His hands pull at the grass he sits on. 

Harry knows he can’t afford too much relaxation, so he’ll take what he can get. He feels weighted in a way he hasn’t felt in a while. He feels warm in a way he hasn’t felt in a while. Strange how he didn’t realize he was living with a permanent chill until he was given warmth away from it.

He feels like he wants to walk, so he does. He stands, and walks down the dirt path that must have led him to that spot. The dirt beneath him is soft and threaded with gold. Somehow, this strikes him as interesting, but his attention is soon captivated by a noise further down the path. 

An urgency grips him. He runs, tripping over his feet, over stones and loose golden threads. The noise is so close, but the grass around him grows up and up and up, until he can’t see over it, until it casts shadows all around him. Where is the noise?

There! The grass a few meters in front of him shakes. He sneaks forward and uses both hands to shove the grass apart. In the gap he’s made, there is nothing but a gaping hole. His heart is going mad, and his feet are sinking into the earth. The grass crumbles into ash in his palms. He tips forward slowly, into the sinkhole, and just as the feeling of falling makes his stomach jump, he shoots straight up in bed, breathing hard.

He puts a hand over his heart. It’s dark, and in the silence of the dormitory, he can only hear his harsh breathing. He wipes his forehead with trembling hands, almost marveling at how they shake. Is it from fear? No. He has had much more fearsome dreams, much more fearsome realities. So why can’t he still his hands? He takes deep breaths to calm himself, and the shaking subsides. He moves the curtain of his bed away, and is captivated by the sunrise that pierces through the shadows of the room. 

The sky is a pale grey, and the sun shines a bright white. It is a colorless sunrise, but no less mesmerizing. He goes to sit by the window, dragging his blanket with him. The sweat left him cold, and now he chases the last vestiges of warmth he can. He sits with the blanket around him and watches until the sun is aligned with the dips and curves of the mountains in the distance. He watches until the pit inside of him settles from its agitation, until the dorm wakes up, until Ron pulls him up for breakfast.

… Î … 

The day moves on slowly like molasses. Classes were boring, the students gossiped, and the dreaded Prophet was released that morning like a slab of meat to hungry wolves. 

There were the usual Skeeter embellishments, but of course she couldn’t resist making jabs at Harry’s character. It would be quite the day they caught her as a bug again. Maybe sooner rather than later. He relishes the thought. As it is, the paper reads:

… and Harry Potter, youngest champion of the Triwizard Tournament, gives an exclusive interview… “Of course I’m scared. These other champions are much more qualified. At night, sometimes I cry myself to sleep with worry. Then, I remember that my parents would have supported me, but the thought of them makes me cry too.” 

At least this time there is no mention of a supposed love life. Harry folds the paper in half and makes a paper plane. He flings it down the table in the Great Hall, and it nails George right in the forehead. The redhead stands and points at him accusingly, and it’s funny enough to boost his mood for the next few hours. 

“So the tasks,” Hermione starts as they sit in The Room, and Harry just shrugs in response.

“Why meddle with Merlin?”

Ron hums. “Well, if you could avoid the Gillyweed stint, that’d be alright. And now you also know that Gabrielle would’ve been alright too, so.”

“Gillyweed has its perks,” Hermione muses, “but I agree. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but it’d be best if we had fewer run-ins with Snape.”

“I wonder if we could buy it from somewhere. Where would a potions-master buy rare items?” Harry asks, and the two muggle-raised Gryffindors look to Ron.

“Probably some apothecary off Diagon honestly,” says the freckled boy. “I can ask the twins maybe.” It was a sound plan as long as it wouldn’t arouse suspicion.

“But we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Hermione reminds them. “Got to beat the first task first. You sure you want to fly again? That wasn’t fun to watch.”

Harry grimaces. “Wasn’t fun to fly either, but I think I can do it. We’ve been through loads more since. But actually now that I think about it, it was sort of fun in a life-or-death way.”

“Don’t get cocky, Harry,” Hermione cautions. “We may have been through more danger since, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is a mothering dragon, and is just as dangerous, if not more, than traipsing around in the woods.”

Ron interjects, “That’s a fair point. I think Harry’s enough of a good flier for this though. Hell, chances are, he’ll pull the Horntail again. He knows how to win, even. A strong enough Accio outta do it.”

“Cheers, Ron.”

Hermione inhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose between her index fingers. Slowly, she releases her breath. “You’re right, Ron. Flying’s your best option unless you can become a dragon trainer in a month.”

“Speaking of dragons,” Ron says, “when do they actually get here?”

“The task is on Tuesday,” Harry says, thinking. “I knew about the dragons by the time Sirius came to the fireplace. I remember worrying that I would miss his firecall.”

“That’s the twenty-second then,” Hermione says. “They probably only just got there earlier that day. I doubt they want raging dragons on school grounds for too long.”

“That’s about two weeks from now. Guess I’d better start practicing then.”

“About that,” Hermione begins, voice already taking on a studious tone, “I was in here the other day doing some work, and had a thought. What if we asked The Room to teach us Occlumency? We’ve never tested the parameters of The Room, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try, so I reopened the room, and it had a whole shelf of helpful books. I didn’t read any yet though. I thought we’d go at it together.”

“Well, let’s give it a go then,” says Ron, getting to his feet. Wasting no time, he leads the three of them out of the Room, where then they watch Hermione pace to and fro. A new door, different from the homey and worn look of the Burrow’s, appears. It’s quite plain, but Harry knows it has what they need within. 

The room it gives them is small, with a low shelf taking up the far wall. There are armchairs surrounding a wide table. Above the shelf is a window big enough to light the room. It’s small enough to be cozy, but not too small that it becomes suffocating.

Harry hums, entering the room. It’s just big enough for the three of them. He peruses the shelf, noticing a startling lack of books. “Is this it?” he asks. 

“Mind magic is pretty taboo,” Ron answers. “I think if anywhere were to have information, it’d be in the Ministry, or in some old families' vaults.”

“Well that explains why it’s not a more common skill,” Hermione huffs. She picks up the first book on the shelf. “ Occluding for the Occultist,” she reads. It’s a fairly decent sized novel. Harry sighs and picks up the book in front of him. It says Magick of the Mind on the front in silvery letters. They twinkle mockingly.

He joins Hermione at the table. “Are we just going to read?” Hermione looks at him blankly, and Harry flushes. “I mean, right now. How much time can we spend here?”

Hermione’s lip twitches, but she seems more amused than upset, so Harry doesn’t worry. “I think we can spend a few hours in here before we have to show up for dinner,” she answers as Ron pulls out the final chair to sit with a thud and his own book in front of him. “I think we should take notes on the methodology as we read and compare. There are enough books in here that make me think there are different ways to go about this.”

“Snape’s way sucked,” Harry adds unhelpfully but soulfully. He takes a self-inking quill and parchment from his bag and hunkers down. 

… Î … 

Two hours pass before Harry blinks. His eyes are dry and tired. He stretches, feeling his shoulders crack. It starts a series of cracking joints from him and Ron before Hermione looks up with a frown. Frustration knits her brows together. Ron reaches over and pokes the space between her eyebrows until it smooths over and Hermione laughs a little. 

“Any luck?” she asks.

Ron snorts. “These were all pretentious knobs, I gotta say. Some shite about some blokes using it to resist Veritaserum, but honestly not much about actually practicing it so far.” Ron flipped the cover over, showing Protection Charm Your Mind: A Practical Guide to Counter Legilimensy by Franciscus Fieldwake. “I think this is outdated anyway. 1915 release date,” Ron grouses. 

Hermione sighs. “I think the Room gave us these books as opposed to others for a reason. I don’t think it’d hurt to keep looking while we have the time too. Maybe start skimming.” She ignores Ron’s quiet I have been and turns to Harry. “What about you?”

Harry picks up his notes. There was quite a bit of information, but mostly on legilimency. He relays as much to Hermione. “But I think it might be helpful to know how to do it.”

“Right, it’s how we’re going to test our occluding skills. I’d say keep with that then.” She flips through her parchment and pulls up her first sheet. She glances over her notes quickly. “So apparently occlumency is most easily adopted by those with good emotional control, but it isn’t the only way to master it. It’s just the most used way, and the most likely to guarantee good results. So, I know you struggled before, Harry, with this. But maybe Professor Snape’s way just wasn’t the right way. This other way is more like letting things become slippery. So instead of clearing your mind, it’s more like not letting any thoughts become tangible for the legilimens.”

“I think you were doing something like that, right?” Ron says to Harry. “When you were throwing out You-Know-Who.”

Harry frowns. “That was more like focusing on other things than purposefully trying to get him out of my head. I don’t even know if it’s comparable, since it's more like possession than anything else with him.”

“But I’d still say you’re also really good at knowing your own head,” Ron argues. “You could separate yourself from him.”

Hermione nods. “I think it’s all related. It’s mostly mental at any rate. There’s next to nothing officially researched about soul magic, but I think you were already making good attempts at redirecting your thoughts with occlumency-like techniques.”

“You can also throw off an imperio like nothing,” Ron adds. 

“Okay,” says Harry, a little overwhelmed. “Okay, so say I already know how to do some things instinctively. When you look back at what I was actually doing, it was more like just bringing up everything I’d ever felt ever. Everything good, at least. It wasn’t controlled or anything. It was more like a wave of oversharing.”

“And I’m sure it was very painful for You-Know-Who,” Ron says sagely. “But you’ve got a platform to work from at least.”

“Love, the most powerful combatant,” Harry says wryly, but Hermione looks thoughtful.

With that, the three pack up, thank the Room, and head to dinner. “Have you finished your charms problem set?” Hermione asks them, and at their mutual grumbling, says, “You really need to be on top of school work so we have time to study these other things. We’ll go to the library after dinner.”

Knowing that she’s right, but disliking it all the same, Harry helps himself to an extra serving of mashed potatoes if just to squish it around his plate with a spoon. 

… Î … 

The next two weeks go by quickly. They go to class, hole up in the Room for occlumency research and some light sparring to keep in shape and in practice, go to dinner, and then study in the library. 

Finally, it seems, they reach Saturday. It’s Hogsmeade weekend, but Harry, Hermione, and Ron find themselves overlooking Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. Between them, they share a picnic basket prepared for them by Dobby, who had tearfully acquiesced with their request. Harry had a hard time looking at him without feeling a burning behind his eyes and in his throat, so they quickly left the kitchens to go out and appreciate the good weather. 

It doesn’t take too long though before Harry starts to shiver despite the sun. It is November, though, so he isn’t too concerned about the possibility of this chill being sickness. Anyway, before long, as anticipated, Hagrid, in the company of the disguised Crouch Jr., finds them. “Meet me tonight at midnight. And bring that cloak of yers, Harry. Got summat ter show yeh.” Harry agrees and offers the pair some of their plum jam and crackers, but only Hagrid takes a handful, and quite a handful it is. 

All in all, it’s anticlimactic and expected. Harry wonders if it’s considered cheating through life to know what’s coming so well. 

Soon after their meeting, the three of them polish off the last of their drinks — lavender chamomile tea for Hermione, hot butterbeer for Ron, and some hot chocolate for Harry — and get ready to leave. It’s far too cold despite the blue skies to hang about outside. 

That night, Harry dons his cloak, sneaks out of the castle on silent feet, and knocks on Hagrid’s door. 

The night is clear, and the moon is coming down from full, waning slowly, but providing ample light beneath his feet. He silences his feet so that it doesn’t make noise on the forest floor, and follows Hagrid and Madame Maxime into the Forbidden Forest. 

It doesn’t take too long for them to reach the site. Harry makes note of the dragons. They’re still the same, but they look scarier now than in his memory. When he thinks back, everything is so much softer, but he supposes that’s just natural. The Chinese Fireball, Common Welsh Green, Swedish Short-Snout, and, of course, the Hungarian Horntail. None of the dragons were particularly friendly, but something about the climate of Hungary somehow breeded a new strain of viciousness in the Horntail. 

After getting his glimpse, Harry sneaks back to the castle, avoiding Karkaroff who was no doubt following Hagrid and Madame Maxime into the forest. On quick feet, he makes it to the common room, where Hermione and Ron are sitting by the fireplace. In the split second before they turn to look at him, Harry catches Ron’s hand over Hermione’s. Again he finds himself marveling at their patience. Harry has avoided thinking of Ginny and her firecracker personality for the past few weeks. 

They smile at him from within their translucent bubble of light warding, only visible now that Harry knows to look for it, and wave him in. He confirms with them about the dragons just in time for Sirius to turn up in the fireplace. Something about seeing his face stirs some deep longing within Harry, and all of a sudden, the air is too heavy. He struggles for a breath. Hermione notices his lack of greeting and makes up for it with an enthusiastic hello for Sirius. She and Ron link hands around Harry’s back, and it’s grounding somehow, but only manages to make him more likely to cry. He swallows it down stubbornly. 

“Sirius,” he says brightly. Maybe he overdid it. “How are you?”

Sirius eyes him, unconvinced of his positivity. He looks young. “Nevermind me,” he says. “You don’t look too hot, there.”

Unable to say the full truth, Harry settles for mostly-truth. “Stressed,” he admits. “I’m lucky Hermione and Ron are helping me. Merlin knows what I’d do otherwise.”

Sirius nods solemnly. “Good friends are invaluable,” he agrees. “But I can’t stay here to chat for long. I’ve broken into a wizarding home to use their fireplace, but they could be back any moment. I’ve come to warn you. Karkaroff — he’s a Death Eater. He was sent to Azkaban with me but was released after a deal with the Ministry.”

“We researched him a bit when we heard Durmstrang and Beauxbatons were coming,” Hermione lies smoothly. “He sold out other Death Eaters?”

“Named quite a few names. Not a popular bloke in Azkaban, that’s for sure. I’ll bet you he’s been teaching Dark Arts to every Durmstrang student that comes by him. Watch out for that champion too.” 

“We will,” Ron promises for the three of them to placate Sirius. 

“Now, I’ve been keeping an eye on the Prophet, Harry,” Sirius continues. He explains his worries about Moody being attacked in his home before the start of term and about Bertha Jorkins.

“So you reckon she walked straight into Voldemort?” Harry questions.

“Listen, Bertha was nosy and more than a little bit of an idiot. It wouldn’t have been hard to trick her.”

They listen to Sirius’s worries, but when the topic of the first task comes up, all Harry can bring himself to say is that yes he’s been practicing a variety of things to prepare, and no, he doesn’t know what he’s going up against. Really, all Harry wants to do is not talk about all these things and just catch up with his godfather, but it increasingly appears that more pressing things are ailing the man. 

They say goodnight close to two in the morning, when Sirius has to vanish quickly as the wizards in the home he had broken into make their return. 

Hermione yawns. “I think that’s enough business for today.” She makes to dispel the wards, but Ron stops her.

He scrubs at his face. “One last thing. The apothecary Fred and George get their potions ingredients from — it’s just the one in Hogsmeade. But the rarer stuff they owl-order from Diagon. Not the normal one we go to. Called Picquery’s Potion Wares. Doesn’t rhyme. What a waste.” He slouches on from his spot on the floor, leaning his head back against the armchair and throwing an arm over his face. 

Hermione perks up. “Any relation to Seraphina Picquery?”

“Wazzit?”

“She was head of the MACUSA back during the 20s, I think.”

“No idea,” Ron answers. “Didn’t look into it.”

Hermione sighs. “Okay. Bed time.” She gathers a very limp Ron into her arms and attempts to heft him up. Harry laughs at the sight, since it looks like Ron is doing his very best to imitate a ragdoll. 

Hermione laughs and collapses onto the armchair with a twisty and tired Ron in her lap. “Get up, Ronald.”

He makes a series of moans before clambering up, pulling Harry with him up the staircase as they say their goodnights.

… Î … 

The next morning, Harry and Ron blearily make their way to the Great Hall, where then Harry leaves Ron to join Hermione and Ginny at the table for breakfast. Harry makes a beeline for the Hufflepuff table that still looks upon him unfavorably. The boy he aims to find is easy to spot. Cedric is eating with his friends, a relaxed Sunday morning, and a blonde girl — Rene maybe? Renata? — jabs Cedric with her shoulder when she notices Harry awkwardly coming their way.

Cedric starts. “Rena —” Ah, it’s Rena. Well, he was close. “What?” 

Rena points to Harry, who waves. Nearly all of Hufflepuff and Gryffindor are looking at him. He tells himself he doesn’t care. He clears his throat. Says, “Cedric —”

But Cedric also begins at that moment. “Harry —”

Those nearby chitter, something about how they’re on a first-name basis or something, but Harry isn’t listening. “Er, sorry. Could I get a word with you? Alone?”

Cedric nods slowly. He grabs a few biscuits and stands from the table. “I’ll catch you up,” he tells his friends, then nods to Harry to lead the way. 

Harry glances at Hermione and Ron, but they’re looking at the staff table. They’ll tell him later, so he steps out into the gardens with Cedric at his heels. 

As they fall into step, Harry wonders why they’re so awkward. He can’t remember it being awkward, though maybe he was just too caught up in his own head to notice before, too worried. 

The pause once they’re suitably away from students. Harry takes a seat on a stone bench that faces the lake. “So —” he starts, but all of a sudden, Cedric has thrust a biscuit in his face.

“You didn’t eat yet,” Cedric says, ears a little red. He belatedly takes a seat next to him a reasonable distance away.

Harry bites back a stunned reply, but he takes the biscuit. It’s warm in his hand, or maybe his hands are just cold. He tries again, “So the first task.”

Immediately Cedric looks somber. 

“There’s no way to put this lightly. It’s dragons.”

Cedric pales rapidly, voice lowering to a hushed whisper. “You — what? Dragons. You’re sure?”

Harry nods. “I saw them. There’s four. One for each of us. Chinese Fireball, Swedish Short Snout, Common Green Welsh, and Hungarian Horntail. Apparently we don’t have to kill them, just get past them.”

“Whoa whoa slow down,” Cedric says. “I can’t remember all that right now. Um, here let me write it down —” he fumbles with his hands before realizing he didn’t bring a bag with him. It’s Sunday after all. 

Harry very viscerally cannot remember Cedric as less than perfect, as less than smooth. Maybe he wasn’t looking closely. Maybe he was jealous, and then later, consumed with grief. Either way, it’s nothing short of a little entertaining. He takes pity on Cedric. “I’ll remind you later, if you’d like.”

Cedric nods. “Right. Did — how’d you find out?”

“Dragon tamers brought them into the Forbidden Forest last night. Karkaroff and Maxime saw them too, so it’s a sure thing that Viktor and Fleur already know by now.”

“Why are you telling me?” The question isn’t laced with the suspicion Harry knows was in it last time. 

“It’s only fair,” he ends up saying. “I didn’t want you to be the only one disadvantaged by a lack of previous knowledge.”

“Even if it puts you at a disadvantage?”

This whole tournament is geared towards Harry’s win. If anyone is disadvantaged, it isn’t him. He can’t exactly say that, so he says, “I don’t care about the win. Besides, a little cheating never hurt anyone.” He grins at Cedric, who frowns slightly, but doesn’t argue.

“Well, thanks. I, uh, would you mind telling me the dragons again?”

Harry tells him, and very quickly, Cedric’s focus shifts from him to the upcoming task. His face becomes very intense, so he bades Cedric goodbye and good luck, getting a distracted farewell in return.

Finding himself peckish, he finishes up the biscuit and then lets his feet lead him up to the seventh floor. He has a letter to Picquery’s Potion Wares to pen.

… Î … 

Tuesday morning dawns bright and clear. The day casts a thin light, like a film, over the world outside Harry’s window. The castle is in a buzz. Though Harry knows he can do this, nerves grip him. A mothering dragon. He wishes he’d practiced some shielding spells. Dragon fire, while less dangerous than fiendfyre, was no less hot. 

Lessons would stop at midday, and Harry is tempted to skive off completely, but he convinces himself to go for the sake of appearances. Throughout the day, various students would whisper good luck to him, and he does his best to appear grateful, but he really doesn’t feel much at all.

At the end of his final lesson, Crouch is waiting for him. As soon as he steps out of the classroom, he’s hauled toward the false-Moody’s office. As he peers back over his shoulder, he can see the worry on Ron and Hermione’s faces, but couldn’t very well do anything, so he just nods to them. 

Crouch Jr. does a fairly sensible job of pretending to be Moody. Harry takes a look around the office, half admiring half snooping around all the objects in the room. Sneakoscopes, foe-glass, secrecy sensors, and a myriad of other dark sensors. Amorphous shapes dance in the foe-glass. 

“You’re a hard man to find,” says the Polyjuiced man. “Had to figure out your classes to get a moment with you.”

This meeting is already taking place a day later. The day of the task. Clearly this time, this Crouch believes that Harry has a plan. He does, but it’s still unnerving to hear how closely watched he is. They should start being more careful. 

“You wanted to speak with me, sir?” Harry asks as evenly as he can, tearing his eyes from the figures in the foe-glass. Hopefully the secrecy sensor won’t go mad with him here. Damn it all, Harry needs to master occlumency.

“The first task,” he begins gruffly. “You have a plan?”

“As much of a plan as is possible, sir,” Harry says blandly.

“Found out about the dragons, have you?”

“Cheating’s a traditional part of the tournament, isn’t it? Or have I gotten it wrong?”

Crouch laughs. “Have a bit of bite, do you?” 

Harry doesn’t respond, waiting.

“You’re different than I was expecting, Potter.”

“I do my best to not meet anyone's expectations. Sir.”

Crouch doesn’t laugh this time. His fake eye twirls around, spinning in its socket. His real eye burns a fierce blue in his direction. Belatedly, Harry does his best to think about the interesting cut of the stone ceiling and the way cobwebs have made their home in the cold corners. The frustrating part is not knowing if it’s working or not.

“No,” Crouch says slowly. “Well, I shan’t keep you any longer, Potter.”

He nods, but as Harry makes to pass the professor, Crouch grabs his arm strongly. A little startled, but doing his best to appear unfazed, he clears his throat. “Yes, professor?”

“It would do you well to remember who your enemy is, Potter.”

Frowning, Harry promises, “I’ll do my best with the dragon, professor.” Crouch waits for a beat, and then allows him to pass.

In the end, he doesn’t feel as if he could stomach lunch, so he decides to head towards the grounds early. 

The cold November air hits him strongly. Already the drafty walls of the castle do little to warm him, but without a barrier from the wind, he feels his fingers, ears, and nose go numb quickly. He rubs his arms and looks out. A giant stadium has replaced the Quidditch pitch. The entry tent Harry is supposed to wait in stands looming. A milky screen shields the dragons from view, as well as silencing them, it seems. 

Harry picks his way down the grassy hill from the castle to the tent. The grass has been trampled over multiple times, but remains a pure golden color of straw. It feels funny under his feet, and he finds himself wondering if the grass had always been this long. 

McGonagall is waiting by the tent with Ludo Bagman and a few other figures Harry can’t pick out from this far. Not wanting them to spot him yet, he ventures off to the side, attempting to find the alcove he had sat in a few weeks ago. It’s blessedly empty, so he pulls himself up. It blocks the wind slightly, but Harry doesn’t hesitate to cast a warming charm. It doesn’t do much, so he casts it again, until he can feel the stone warming underneath him. 

He allows himself to stew in worry and anger about how he can let a few words from Crouch disturb him so, but in the end, he can’t parse out what Crouch could possibly mean. Which enemy is he warning him of? Surely it can’t be Voldemort, not when Crouch works for him. 

Eventually, from his perch he can see the other champions being led towards the tent, and a flustered McGonagall looking for him. Harry makes a fuss of being noisy on his way down the hill so that she will notice him and stop worrying.

“Potter,” she says as he nears. “You weren’t at lunch.”

“Wasn’t hungry, professor,” he responds. “I’m sorry to make you worry.”

McGonagall’s hands flutter around him. She aborts a movement to put a hand on his shoulder and says, “Just keep a cool head. Don’t panic. We’ve got wizards on standby in case the situation gets out of hand… The main thing is to do your best. No one will think less of you. How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” Harry says. “Don’t worry yourself, professor.” He attempts a smile, but McGonagall just looks pained. 

“You’re to go in there and join the other champions and wait for your turn. Mr. Bagman is there to tell you the procedure. Good luck, Potter.” She sounds shaky, and Harry wishes to reassure her, but there isn’t really anything he can say that would assuage her fears, since he has no way to dispel his own, save for the fact that he has done this before. 

He enters the tent, greeted with the sight of a tense and clammy Fleur, a surly Viktor, and a pacing Cedric, who smiles at him when he comes. Harry smiles back as best he can before Bagman ambushes him.

“Harry! Good-o! Come in, come in! Get comfortable!” Bagman says happily. “Gather round, gather round! Well, now we’re all here — time to fill you in! When the audience has assembled, I’m going to be offering each of you this bag from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face! There are different — er — varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too . . . ah, yes . . . your task is to collect the golden egg!” 

No one reacts very strongly to Bagman, and Harry himself chooses to listen to the thunder of feet passing the tent. Joyous laughter fills the air, and it takes a considerable amount of willpower to abstain from being bitter about their willful ignorance. 

Once the chatter and flow of people slow, Harry knows it’s time. Bagman offers the bag first to Fleur, then Krum, Cedric, and finally himself. The dragons they pull are the same. It’s almost comforting to know that there are some consistencies of the universe, even if it means it’s harder for him, it is at the very least predictable. Fleur’s miniature Welsh Green has a little number two on its collar. Viktor’s Fireball has a three, Cedric’s Short Snout has a one, leaving Harry with the Horntail and as the final competitor. 

In a way, the little conjured dragon is cute. Little tendrils of smoke leave its nostrils as it putters around his hands.

Bagman says, “Well, there you are! You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I’m going to have to leave you for a moment, because I’m commentating. Mr. Diggory, you’re first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right? Now . . . Harry . . . could I have a quick word? Outside?”

Harry feels upset all over again about Bagman, about Crouch, about Cedric, about everything. He forces his anger down. “No thanks,” says Harry. “Wish us luck, sir.”

A little taken aback, Bagman does so and leaves the tent, red in the face. 

Once it’s just the four of them, Harry offers a good luck to Cedric, who nods at him hastily before exiting. 

One by one, the champions leave. Harry wishes each of them a good luck, but he feels so strangely distant from the noise and his voice. Soon enough, he’s alone in the tent. He puts the little model dragon on the floor, leaving it to its own devices as he stretches his limbs, flexes his ankles. Then the whistle sounds. 

Harry is still pissed off, to say the least. He can’t bring himself to smile when he steps out of the tent, but thinks he manages to school his expression into neutrality.

He steps into the enclosure, ignores the sea of faces before him, tunes out the roaring cheer, and fixes his gaze on the snarling Horntail at the other end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her yellow eyes staring right back at him, her spiked tail thrashing, leaving long gouge marks in the ground. 

Facing the dragon, Harry feels very small. Harry lets his wand fall into the palm of his hand. He whispers, “ Accio! ” and listens for the whistle of his Firebolt. It takes less than a minute. The Firebolt can get up to 240 kilometers per hour in ten seconds. It’s close without him even needing to wait past five. Ears pricking intently, without turning, he grabs it from the air, kicks off the ground, swings a leg over the handle, and is in flight smoothly. He zips skywards. 

If he can remember correctly, the Horntail took persuading to leave her tight coil around eggs. He does his best to resemble a pesky fly. He circles her, avoiding her tail and fire, flying just above her reach. He dips back towards her and up again. Finally, as he reaches what must be 100 meters in the air, she spreads her wings, the chain holding her down allowing enough movement for her to gain air.

Just as she is set to pursue him, Harry acts. 

He can perform the Wronski in his sleep. Even if he hasn’t been on his Firebolt for years, he knows the wood, the way the branches bend under pressure, the force of the air on his face as he pushes forward. The Horntail is far too slow to save her eggs from Harry’s attack, so without much more dallying, he lets gravity pull him downwards until he is accelerating towards the ground with a hyperfocus on the golden egg. 

For a moment, he feels suspended, falling in a never-ending sky. He even closes his eyes, relishing the rush of air. The Horntail expels fire, but it’s too late. The ground rapidly approaches, and at the very last second, Harry snatches the golden egg from its nest and pulls the handle of his broom back up and into the air. 

He flies straight past the Horntail, recklessly punches his way through the last vestiges of her fire, and holds the egg above him in front of the judges. Only then does sound come rushing back into his ears. The quick pace of the dragon keepers to subdue the angry dragon, the crowd is cheering wildly, the astonished look on the judge’s faces. Harry can taste the ash on his tongue, can feel the tenderness of the skin of his face and hands, can hear the roar of the dragon. 

“Look at that!” Bagman yells into his wand. It echoes. “Will you look at that! Harry Potter is quickest to get his egg!” 

Harry, breathing hard, but exhilarated in a way he hasn’t felt in ages, smiles. He lets his broom take him higher, tilting his head back to appreciate the yellow sun on his face, at the fire he feels as if he holds in his palms. He finds Ron and Hermione in the crowd. They’re screaming. Always his biggest fans. He blows them an exaggerated kiss. Ron pretends to catch it in his chest and tumbles over as Hermione collapses in relieved laughter. 

First task: done. 

Chapter Text

Harry is quickly ushered into the Infirmary tent after the task. Physically, he is unharmed — mostly — but his heart feels ready to burst from his chest and do a little dance. At this point, the high has worn down. The relief and joy at his win leaves him without warning, but his pulse still hops madly.

“Dragons!” touts Madame Pomfrey angrily, various potion bottles following her as she bustles about the tent. “Dementors, dragons, what’s next?” She sits Harry down on an empty cot. Three other beds are occupied with curtains pulled tight around them.

Madame Pomfrey tsks over his burns. “I saw you, Mr. Potter. You flew right into that.”

Harry can do little but smile cheekily. She dabs a thin salve over his surface burns. “How else would I get to come visit you?”

“You’re quite lucky these aren’t worse,” she continues, ignoring him. Immediately the light burns seem to absorb the salve, cooling on his skin. A small part of him misses the heat. “Don’t you go poking your nose into more unsavory business,” she orders. “I see you often enough!”

With that, she leaves to the next cot. She’s soft on him, though, he knows. Harry can hear her exclaim, “Mr. Diggory! Sit!” before the curtain around that cot falls shut. 

Harry sighs. The adrenaline slowly waning, leaving only exhaustion in its place. He’s quite glad he’s seated. Closing his eyes briefly, he exhales sharply through his mouth to get rid of the ashy feeling inside. Then, Hermione and Ron burst into the tent.

“Harry!” Hermione exclaims. “That was —”

“Brilliant? Scary, definitely scary, mate,” Ron finishes. “Your face —”

“You looked so mad!” Hermione whispered loudly. “But it was brilliant. Quite nearly gave me a heart attack. How are you feeling?”

Harry cracks a smile at them. “I think it went well. Hope I don’t have to do it again,” he jokes. “I’m really tired now, though. For some reason.”

Concern etches itself onto his friends’ faces. Ron hands him a bottle of warm water, which Harry drinks eagerly. Over the rim of the bottle, he can see them have a silent conversation, but when he moves to set the bottle down, they’re back smiling at him, and for the time being, Harry decides to let it go. Together, they go out to see his scores. 

From their gilded seats, Maxime sends up a silvery nine. Crouch, a nine. Karkaroff a six, Dumbledore a nine, and Bagman a ten. The previous scores show beneath them. Harry is in the lead with an astounding forty-two. Even last time, Harry had tied first place with Krum. This score, despite his best efforts to not care about how well he does, makes it a little more satisfying to have done this again. 

“What’d the others do?” Harry asks, taking another long drink of his water.

“Krum did conjunctivitis, Fleur made it sleep, and Diggory transfigured something.” Ron leaves off the again, but it’s implied. “It was a horse,” he says, playing it up as if it’s really interesting. “A big one.” Last time it was a dog, but it seems to be a negligible difference.

Charlie Weasley squeezes his way over to offer his congratulations. “Merlin! Harry, mate, that was nothing short of amazing. I’ve got ta run, but I’ve been told to tell you to go back to the champions’ tent.”

Harry thanks him, and Ron and Hermione agree to wait for him in the Room with food, so Harry returns to the tent. 

The other three champions are already there. Fleur is seated, nursing a hand covered in orange burn goo. Viktor appears relatively unscathed, his intense expression giving way to something milder. Cedric smiles at Harry. A considerable amount of his hair is unfortunately singed off, and the orange goo is spread over the back of his neck, but he looks happy enough, so Harry grins back. 

“That was brilliant, Harry!” Cedric bursts. “I had no idea you could fly like that. I mean, you were always good, but — Merlin.”

Harry feels himself flush under the other champions’ gazes. “You did well too, all of you,” he says. He can feel Viktor’s curiosity. He’s been meaning to talk to the other two champions. 

“Yes!” cried Ludo Bagman as he enters with a grandiose flourish, bouncing on his toes. “Well done, all of you! A spectacular show! Now, just a quick few words.” Bagman explains the eggs they all hold. The second task would take place at half-past nine on February 24th. 

Already dreading it, Harry picks up the squirrelly Horntail model from the floor of the tent. He bids the others farewell and another congratulations, which the foreign students accept and return. 

Turning to exit, Harry places the miniature Horntail atop his head, hoping it won’t expel fire and burn his hair off like Cedric’s. He knows that the conjuration will fail in a few days if not hours, but it’s cute, so he keeps it. 

He pulls on an outer cloak and finishes the last of the heated water, already missing the way it scalded down his throat. The Horntail chitters above him as he fastens his buttons. 

Bracing himself against the cold, he exits the tent with his egg and runs into Neville, who nervously brightens at the sight of him. “Harry!” he says, reaching out to him. “Merlin’s beard! That was incredible! You aren’t hurt, are you?” Then, he spots the little dragon on Harry’s head and recoils. “Uh—”

“He’s harmless,” Harry promises with a grin. “Cheers, Neville. Wanna walk with me back to the castle?”

Neville nods, and eager to avoid the crowds and wanting to spend a little time with Neville, Harry flounces forward. With the grasses so tall, they’re able to skirt past the bulk of crowds that no doubt are ready to pester the champions.

“I miss spring,” Neville says miserably into the chilly air, breath coming out in white puffs. “It’s so colorful.”

Doubtfully, Harry eyes the fields of brown-yellow dead-looking plants before him. “It was just green though, right?” He remembers rolling mounds of green grass and a few well-placed willow trees and boulders. 

Neville looks at him sideways. He reaches out a hand to touch the nearest dead stalk. “Did you know?” asks Neville. “It’s fireweed. Used in potions for pain, fevers, inflammation, and wounds. I think Professor Sprout just thought it was best if it grew wildly instead of in the greenhouse. But it’s also a poison, I think. Normally they’d be really brightly colored, like yellow and pink, but it’s too cold now.”

Neville was right. The fields, while not covered in snow, were all preparing for the harsh winter, and what Harry remembered as a sprawling field of low-rising brown in the fall was yellow, each stalk standing like a shiny wispy feather. 

“They grow in areas after a fire, typically,” Neville continues, trailing a hand through the grass as they walk by. “But that’s just because they have really resilient seeds, so it’s the first plant to recover. Hm, I guess that means Hogwarts grounds suffered a really bad burn before — unless it was before Hogwarts was built, but that’s a long time ago.”

“I don’t remember this field,” Harry says, wracking his brain with a shiver as the wind seems to blow right through him. Was there really a field here, this big and full, and he couldn’t remember at all? He tries to picture the yellow and pink fields. “You’re sure it was here before?”

Neville squints at him. “You alright, Harry? Dragon didn’t give you a knock, did it?”

Harry reaches out to brush a stem near him. They reach pretty high up around them, even dead. The wind blows the grass in a soft hiss as it dances. “What’s it mean?” he wonders, mostly to himself, but Neville’s standing near enough to catch it anyway.

“They mean rebirth, Harry,” he says softly. Then, he pats him on the shoulder and leads him back inside.

Bewildered, Harry lets Neville push him forward, holding onto his egg tightly. He truly can’t recall this field. Have they landed back in the past, or is this a new world entirely? So many things are the same, so why is this different? Rebirth, Harry thinks. The dragon on his head purrs. 

He tells Neville that he has to head to the owlery, so they part at the stairwell. Harry, however, walks slowly all the way up to the seventh floor. He knocks on the empty wall to let Ron and Hermione know that he is there, and the door to the Burrow forms. 

The fire is going strong, thankfully. Harry gives one last good shiver before his body embraces the heat. 

The pair waiting for him again give him a warm congratulations, but too soon, it’s time to talk business. Harry sets the egg on the table and the little dragon in front of the fireplace where it curls up like a cat.

He can tell Ron and Hermione have been discussing something, but he has a feeling he won’t like it, so he waits for them to start.

“We’ve been keeping something from you,” Ron says bluntly, and then winces. “Okay that sounds bad.”

Hermione tuts. She reaches out to Harry, taking a hand in between hers. Her skin is so warm compared to his it almost burns, and he can see her flinch, like she can feel his cold too. She retracts her hands and puts an extra-strong incendio into the fire. It jumps up briefly before settling. “What Ron means to say,” she explains with practiced calm, “well, I suppose it’s true. We’ve been theorizing a couple different things while you’re busy with your tasks, but Harry…” she trails off, worry creasing her features. “I don’t know if we can tell you right now.”

“But we know you don’t like being kept in the dark,” Ron clarifies. “So, we just wanted you to know that we’re, er, talking. About things. About you. Not like gossip — ow!”

Hermione, for her part, is also beginning to look a tad flustered. “Of course not, Ronald,” she says, rubbing her palm with her thumb. “It’s not that at all.”

Apparently though, he isn’t privy to it yet. He tries not to let it get to him. By now he trusts them enough to have his best interests in mind and knows there’s danger in him having too much knowledge, but he also likes to have a say in what he should or shouldn’t know. 

Regardless, he nods and can’t help but find their willingness to talk about it both very sweet and very funny. “I get it. Really! Was gonna bring it up if you guys didn’t. If you think it’s… safer… to keep me in the dark for now, that’s fine. I’d just rather be part of the conversation sooner than later, especially since it pertains to, you know, me.”

Hermione nods. “Definitely. We definitely will talk soon.”

Harry hums, lowering his eyes to watch the dragon sleep in front of the fire. There are so many things they could be talking about. He knows he should be past the point of worrying if they’ve had enough of him, but they didn’t sign up for this time-traveling business when they agreed to be his friend. He wouldn’t blame them if they thought it was too much.

“Crouch Jr. was watching you,” Ron begins on a new topic, handing Harry a plateful of chicken and rice from a picnic basket now that the hard part is done. “When you grabbed Cedric from breakfast yesterday.”

“Nearly half the dining hall was,” Harry says in return, accepting the plate. He pushes the food around with his fork, unable to eat. “But true. He said something weird earlier today. Er, a few weird things. Kind of threw me off.” At their expectant faces, Harry continues. “The first thing was he kind of said he’d been stalking me, and I think it’s bad that none of us have noticed.”

Hermione hums. “We need to be more careful, especially in the halls. The portraits love to gossip.”

“What about the dorms?” Ron asks. “Are we safe there? We talked to Sirius in front of the fire, but we were under wards, so hopefully, that should be fine.”

“We should try not to talk about anything important at all without wards,” Hermione agrees. 

“Unless it’s purposeful,” Harry adds. “But secondly, what I think is more worrying is that he said something along the lines of “ You should remember who the real enemy is, ” or some shite like that. Maybe it was your enemy. I forget exactly, but it was unprompted.”

“Your enemy,” Hermione repeats, nursing some tea. “It couldn’t possibly be You-Know-Who.”

“That’s what I thought,” says Harry.

Ron frowns, swallowing a piece of chicken. “Am I the only one more nervous about the "you should remember" part? He said that exactly?”

“Er, Merlin, why is my memory so bad,” Harry exclaims as anxiety fills his stomach. He closes his eyes to recount the memory. “It would do you well,” he recites, “it would do you well to remember who your enemy is.”

“Do you reckon we aren’t the only ones who came back?” Ron asks slowly. 

A shudder works its way down Harry’s spine. He wants the answer to be no, but he isn’t sure it’s an answer he can give. “We need to work on figuring out what happened,” Harry says, resigning himself to the extra work. “Even the tournament stuff will be on the back burner.” He puts down his plate. He’s not in the mood to eat.

Worriedly chewing her lip, Hermione makes a small noise. Both Harry and Ron turn to her, but she looks just as frustrated as Harry feels. “We need to get occlumency down. Fast. We can start tomorrow. We’re missing the party in Gryffindor Tower right now.”

Ron and Harry nod. He can’t believe that earlier in the day he had felt so victorious.

“One last thing,” he says. “Was Hogwarts always covered in these fields? I feel like I’m going mad.”

Ron and Hermione exchange yet another glance that Harry can’t decipher. “What fields?” Hermione asks.

“The ones all around the castle,” Harry explains. “You know, they stretch all the way to the Forbidden Forest, and it looks like it wraps around the lake even. I haven’t seen how far it goes near Hogsmeade though.”

Ron and Hermione are carefully blank. “I’ll keep an eye out?” Ron says. 

“It’s tall golden grass,” Harry says, frustrated. “How can you not see it? It goes up past my waist. I’ve gone through it maybe a hundred times by now.”

“You’ll have to show us later,” Hermione says. “I’m not saying you’re lying or hallucinating,” she hurries to add. “But I wouldn’t be too surprised if something wasn’t right.”

“Neville could see it,” Harry protests. “He told me what it was. Fireweed. Grows after a large fire. Bright pink — or yellow? — in the springtime. Good for medicinal potions but also apparently a poison? Anything ringing a bell?”

“I know what fireweed is,” Hermione responds with the same sort of forced calm, and Harry immediately feels bad for letting his temper get the better of him. “It’s useful for a lot of things, not just potions, but it can be a poison. It’s commonly used to keep centaurs in their reservations, which I suppose makes it convenient for Hogwarts grounds, if none too controversial. So it’s pretty political too. Ingestion is fatal for them, for us sometimes too for that matter. But if harvested right, it can help with inflammation and disinfecting.”

Harry frowns. “But it can’t be in my head, can it? Neville could see it. McGonagall walked through it to get to me just today!” He shivers violently for a moment, and, if he isn’t crazy, he thinks the fire dimmed a bit too.

“We’ll look tomorrow, Harry,” Hermione assures. “You can show us.”

A little disturbed at his own head but also distracted, Harry agrees. He picks up the dragon, and it burrows into a pocket of his robes like a little furnace on his stomach. 

“It’s not that we don’t believe you, mate,” Ron says as they make their way back to the common room. “In fact, we really really do. Things tend to go wonky around you, yeah? It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.” It’s ambiguous enough for him to say openly, and it’s also enough to settle some of Harry’s nerves, so he gives his friends a grateful smile. 

“Balderdash,” announces Hermione to the Fat Lady, who titters at them excitedly.

“Quite a party for you, Mr. Potter!” she giggles over a glass of wine, swinging open to reveal the state of the common room.

“HARRY!” yells a smattering of voices. 

“Harry!” Angelina and Alicia grab him from the entryway, shoving a cup of some steaming purple liquid into his hands. They pull him into the room and straight into the fray. Fred and George yell blindly when they see him, ducking under him to hoist him up onto their shoulders. They sway drunkenly, and Harry ends up needing to keep his balance between them. 

“Where’ve ya been, mate?” asks Seamus, laughing loudly. Harry can spot Dean, Ginny, Neville, and Parvati by the fire, Cormac McLaggen and some of his cronies in another corner, Angelia and Alicia joining Katie Bell by the drinks they snuck in, Colin Creevey with his camera dozing on an armchair, and numerous other celebrating his victory. 

Harry catches Ron and Hermione’s eyes as they sneak around the commotion to the stairwell to the boys’ dormitory. He nods to them and watches them head up. No one seems to spot them in the dimly lit room. The lights spin around him as Harry wavers atop the shoulders of Fred and George. He feels displaced and more than a little shivery. Maybe he’s still upset about the stupid grass. A chill works its way through him immediately, and it causes the twins to stumble.

“Whoa there, Harrykins —” Fred slurs. 

Harry pats their heads and hops down. It’s been long enough. He smiles at them, but his throat feels tight and his eyes sore. He’s cold. He sets his cup down untouched on a random surface and, excusing himself, takes his egg up the stairs, glad that no one asked him to open it. That really would have given him a migraine.

The dorms are mostly empty. A few rooms have music coming from them, but Harry’s thankfully only has Ron and Hermione, who have both tiredly fallen asleep on Ron’s bed. He puts the egg under his bed and the snoring dragon on his pillow. Feeling bad, but knowing that they’d get into trouble if Hermione stayed the night, he shakes Hermione awake. She opens her eyes quickly, sitting up and narrowly missing smacking right into Harry. “I’m up,” she says urgently, then breathes and calms. “I’m up. Sorry.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s okay.” Ron makes a noise in his sleep as their voices reach him, but he doesn’t wake. Well, it’s good that deep-sleep doesn’t evade Ron. Maybe once they needed to be ready at the slightest disturbance, and maybe they will need to reacclimate to those habits again, but for now, all Hermione does is run a hand through his hair softly. She sighs. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asks. 

“Tired,” she says wearily, in a manner that Harry knows means more than a lack of sleep. She looks down at Ron fondly, but almost sadly too. “I love him,” she says helplessly. “And I know he loves me. This whole thing, I — I’m tired, but we have so much to do.”

Harry sits next to her on the bed, near Ron’s feet. He picks at his knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he says again. There’s nothing else he can say.

“Oh, Harry, no,” says Hermione, putting a hand over his. “No, it’s not you. It’s never you. Ron and I, we’ve worked it out. We’re worried about you, is all. We’re worried about everything. It’s not you. This pain,” she gestures around all of them vaguely but in an all-encompassing way, “is not your fault. We’ll figure it out. It’ll be okay.”

Harry nods, unable to look up. He swallows, feeling blank, hollow, like he’s been carved out, and all that’s left behind is a shell propped up against the wind. 

“Harry,” Hermione says softly. “We love you. We’re not going anywhere. It’s hard, but we want to be here. We go where you go. Okay?”

Harry nods again. He clears his throat. “Thanks. Hermione.”

She sighs, rubs his knuckles over once with her thumb, and stands. She presses a kiss to Ron’s forehead. He turns to her, even in sleep. 

Then, she leans over, grabs Harry’s face, and kisses the crown of his head too. She slips out of the room. The noise from downstairs drifts in through the door as it opens and falls quiet again as it shuts. 

Harry fingers Ron’s bedspread, twisting the sheets. He wishes he could feel something other than cold and tired. 

He takes a long shower, washing the day off. He stands under scalding water for Merlin knows how long, staring at his toes, the way the water from the shower runs in rivets down his calves and into the drain, the way the soapy suds blink out of existence one by one. His skin wrinkles funnily in the water. He wonders what he’d look like old, face lined with the ravages of time. 

Harry towels off, pulling on soft and worn pajama trousers. “Harry?” Ron mumbles, eyes half open in drowsy sleep. His hair is mussed from the pillow, and the flush of sleep still hangs over him.

“It’s okay, Ron. Go back to sleep,” Harry whispers, and Ron grunts and slips back to sleep.

Harry carefully clambers into bed, doing his best to not disturb the sleeping dragon, and shuts the bed curtains, leaving only a sliver open so he can look out the window. He stares at the fake reptile in his bed. It’s so small. He hovers a hand over it, curling his fingers around its smoke. It snorts quietly. It seems so alive. Harry uses one finger to pet it, but it moves away from his touch, so he stops.

Someone stumbles into the room close to midnight. By the sounds of it, it’s Neville, who collapses into bed and starts snoring immediately. Dean and Seamus make a ruckus on their way back in around one, shushing each other and shoving each other around, but eventually, the dorm room quiets, and it’s just Harry with his thoughts.

He sighs to himself. He’s tired. He knows it, his body knows it, and he wants to sleep and not wake up. But even though his body sags from his exhaustion, his brain won’t turn off and he’s too cold to be relaxed. Maybe if he slept in the shower… 

Grimacing, he straightens himself on his back, palms pressed into the bed, legs outstretched. He wiggles his toes, his fingers, and even attempts his ears. He breathes deep. When thoughts come to him, he tries to let them pass.

He focuses on his breathing, feeling his chest expand, pushing into the cot, and contract. He concentrates on how he can feel his heart beating in his stomach. He can almost hear it.

A thought enters his mind. He needs to write a few letters. To Sirius, to Picquery’s Potion Wares, to the Weasleys. He huffs. He’ll do it later. He releases the thought. 

He hopes the dragon will still be on his pillow in the morning, but he knows it probably won’t. He wants to look at it again. No, focus. He can look at it after this. 

He thinks about what Hermione said. He thinks about how it made him feel. He thinks about the tenderness with which Hermione and Ron treat him. He thinks about how he’s always cold, about how he’s cold now. 

He breathes and breathes and breathes. Thoughts keep coming. Harry opens his eyes. He gave it a shot. He looks at the model dragon. It’s still sleeping. Harry times his breaths with the slow rise and fall of its body. 

The moon casts a silver glow across its black scales. It’s pretty. Harry wishes he could feel warm and pretty and safe. He wishes a lot of things. 

He breathes, and he falls into sleep thinking about the rush of wind around him as during flight.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes before the sun. It’s too early still, and the little sliver of light working its way into his bed shines across his face. He blinks in the light, then sits up. He glances down at the model dragon and finds only a smooth stone. He sighs but decides to leave it there for now, a little saddened, but also knowing it’s silly to be sad over a stone. 

He stands and starts doing some stretches quietly. He doesn’t miss the ache of being on the run. The best way to avoid the pain was to become more fit now. Thinking back on it, he was never truly in shape. He was athletic, sure, but the summer months always stripped him down, and he could never hold on to any weight. He should start running. The thought of exercising isn’t appealing, but it would give him an advantage. Most wizards didn’t seem to be very active unless they were field Aurors or professional duelers. Already their daily little dueling sessions provide more exercise than he’s ever consciously committed to. 

He finishes off some of the only stretches he knows how to do, which admittedly isn’t many, then decides to get ready for the day. He takes another shower, a long hot one, hoping the heat will stay with him, but the water steams when it hits his skin. He stays in there for a long time, but when he leaves it, he thinks he might even be colder. Neville and Dean join him in the bathroom a few moments later. The three of them brush their teeth in the mirror, which comments on the state of Harry’s hair. 

“You’d be best shaving it off or growing it out, dearie,” she says. “What could you possibly have nested up there?” 

A dragon, Harry thinks but doesn’t say. He thanks her for the advice, knowing he won’t follow it,  and goes to nudge Ron awake. 

They run into Hermione and Ginny in the common room, and a tired Colin trudges down the stairs to join them on the walk towards breakfast. 

Harry can’t remember how he’s supposed to act around Ginny. Somehow, he’s avoided being around her in situations where he needs to interact with her, but it’s sort of inevitable. Even though he’s been awake for some hours, he plays tired, rubbing his eyes and combing his hair out, to prolong the moments before he has to say something. 

Hermione and Ginny are talking about some potions essay that Ginny’s struggling with, and Colin is quietly attentive, seemingly worn out from the night before. He looks like a baby. Harry can’t believe he was ever that young, that he himself had killed a man at that age by burning him alive. With his bare hands. Ron pinches him as they sit down, eying him as if to say act normal, so Harry pours himself some hot water and helps himself to a soft-boiled egg, doing his best to listen to the conversation the girls are holding. He taps the egg with a small spoon. It makes nice little tap-tap noises.

“If Snape weren’t such a prat about it, it wouldn’t even be an issue,” Ginny says, absently waving to some other students passing by. Her freckled nose wrinkles at the pumpkin juice in front of her as she passes it up for a pitcher of fizzy gillywater. “He just likes giving us a hard time.”

“Think of it as a lesson in itself,” Hermione advises. “It sounds silly, but if you just get good enough so that he has nothing left to say, you’ll be a potions master and get to avoid Professor Snape.”

“I know,” says the redheaded girl sullenly. 

Harry admires Hermione’s ability to appear like a functioning human. Harry feels most normal when it’s just him, Ron, and Hermione in the Room, and even then. He feels least normal in moments like these, with people who are supposed to be his friends but are now children. He rubs his arms with his hands to stave off the cold that’s already settling around him again.

“You can always stop potions later,” Ron says around a sausage. 

“Mouth closed, Ron,” Ginny says. “Is that what you’re gonna do?”

Ron shrugs. “Dunno.” He swallows. “If I do well enough, might be good to keep going.”

“McGonagall says you need it for Auror applications,” Ginny says. “If you were still hoping for that. What about you, Harry?”

Harry finally cracks the egg with his spoon and clears his throat. “I, er. I don’t know exactly what I plan to do, so. Not too sure about potions. Doesn’t help that Snape hates my guts.” And besides, while Harry gets off on the thrill of a good fight, he’s not too keen on working for the Ministry or chasing down various criminals at anyone’s bidding anymore. “Maybe I’ll start a thestral farm in northern Scotland.” He picks at the eggshell, listening to it plink down onto his ceramic plate.

“Thestrals?” Ginny asks.

“They aren’t native to Scotland,” Hermione says. “British Isles or Ireland, I think.”

“He could very well bring them to Scotland,” Ron replies. “Besides, there’s a colony here.”

Hermione hums. “I suppose they’d do well enough. Hagrid takes care of them well.”

“What’s a thestral,” Ginny says loudly.

“It’s a horse thing,” Harry says. “With wings.”

“Like a bat,” Ron adds helpfully, but Ginny’s confused face doesn’t change. If anything, she looks further displeased.

“You can only see it once you’ve seen death,” Hermione explains. “It’s the shape of a skeletal horse, yes, with wings. They’re pretty rare, but they roam around Hogwarts grounds near Hagrid’s hut and pull the carriages from Hogsmeade station.”

“Sounds fake,” Ginny says suspiciously. “Are you sure they’re real? Can you touch them if you can’t see them?”

Hermione frowns. “I’m not sure. I haven’t tested it.” 

They’re thankfully interrupted by the arrival of the Prophet. A hush falls over the student body as they examine the front page. Hermione grabs a copy and distractedly gives the owl five knuts, and Harry leans over to take a look.

He is nothing short of surprised to see his own face taking up most of the page. Surely there must be more interest in the other champions too. 

The headliner reads HARRY POTTER: WINNER OF THE FIRST TRIWIZARD TASK! He frowns. Technically, they all won the task.

“Wow,” says Ginny. She flushes immediately as if she didn’t mean to say it out loud and avoids Harry’s eyes. Something bitter churns in Harry’s gut. Wow indeed. It must’ve been right after he stepped out of the tent. His expression is so serious but also lacking somehow. Harry would think he was dead if not for the way his lips moved around the words accio. The moving photo ends with his rather impressive take-off. Harry doesn’t think he looks like himself. Is that really what he looks like in the mirror?

He skims the page, the words doing nothing really other than describing the task, and sees two smaller photos of himself take up some space. There’s a photo of his vertical dive for the egg, surrounded by sky and dragon fire, and a photo of his victorious stance, holding the egg above him. Harry scans his face before flipping the page over with a huff. 

On the second page, there is a large photo of the four champions standing together, reused from Rita Skeeter’s first disaster interview. Harry searches the photo for any sign of the discomfort he had felt but can find none. The four of them, hardly moving though the photo isn’t supposed to be still, look frightening. They look intense. Cedric’s face is cut glass. Fleur is beautiful and deadly. Viktor is broodingly furrowing his features. And Harry thinks he still looks dead. He really looks so still, so greyed out, if not for the rather severe look in his eyes. It’s almost disturbing.

“You look very powerful,” Hermione comments, still on the front page. “It’s a good photo.”

A little insulted even though she meant well, Harry hunches over and crunches his eggshell pieces with his spoon. When he glances up, he sees Ron working on tearing the photos out of the paper carefully. “What are you doing,” he asks flatly.

“What?” Ron says, “It’s a good photo. Gotta frame these.” Unfortunately, he can see Colin copy him.

Harry looks back at the paper. He doesn’t feel very powerful, and he certainly doesn’t think the photos do him any favors, but when he looks out at the students trickling in and taking in the paper, he sees that many would disagree with him. Regardless, something nags at him, but he folds his copy to avoid looking at it any longer.

Soon, Ginny’s other friends come over. The melange of kids all of a sudden in his space makes him tense, so Harry stands to leave. He counts it as a successful interaction for the day. The looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces say otherwise. 

“You didn’t eat much,” Ron comments after they wave goodbye to their fellow Gryffindors who look longingly after them. “You didn’t even finish your egg.”

“Oh,” Harry says, stomach knotted a bit. “I didn’t even notice. I’ll eat a big lunch later.” He barely catches the look the other two give each other out of the corner of his eye. They’ve been doing that often lately.

When they head to transfiguration, Harry groans. “I forgot about Yule,” he bemoans.

His companions pause and grimace in memory of that trainwreck of a party. Hermione and Ron will most likely go together this time, Harry knows. Strange though, that he hasn’t made note of Viktor skulking around Hermione, though they haven’t exactly been making themselves available. 

Transfiguration passes quickly, and it’s all too soon for McGonagall’s announcement of the glamorous Yule Ball. As before, she calls him back to relay the opening dance of the ball. 

“Okay, Professor,” he says dully. “I’ll find a partner.”

“You’d do well to cheer up, Mr. Potter. It’s an honor to perform the opening dance.”

“Any idea where I could get a dance lesson, Professor?”

McGonagall gives him a dry look. “I’m sure you have many friends who would love to show you,” she says and dismisses him.

Harry’s not having a very nice day. 

As it drags on, he is asked to the ball by so many girls and even a boy who catches him coming out of the loo, but he says no each time. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, but the sour feeling in his stomach keeps creeping up on him. He sighs in relief when they’re back in the secluded mimicked Burrow during lunch break.

He throws himself onto the loveseat, eyes squeezed shut, glasses askew. The fire alights with a soft roar in his ears, but it’s as if he can’t feel it. He hears Ron and Hermione settle in the armchairs.

“We never talked about Ginny,” Hermione says quietly. “Are you okay?”

Harry sighs, muffling a groan. “Don’t really want to talk about it.” It was different when they both had shared experiences. It was like growing separately but steadily towards each other. But now Harry’s eighteen, even if in his head, and she’s a child. He misses her very strongly, or who she had grown up to be, at the very least, but thinking about it now makes him feel gross. It’s not even like they were together in the end.

Ron leans back against the couch, eyes watching the burning fire before them. “She’ll grow into herself again,” he says, “but I get that it’s not the same.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “It’s not like she’s any less now, not at all. It’s just —” he cuts off, unable to find the right words.

“You don’t have to justify anything, Harry,” Hermione replies in his silence. “We’re different now. Ron and I got lucky, I guess.”

“Or unlucky,” Harry says. “Since you’re also kids now and all.”

“Hey,” Ron says strongly. “It’s not so bad. And we’re better together than apart. You know that.”

Does Harry know that? He knows that they make him happy, that he loves them, that they love him. They’re his family. His only family, really. He knows that they make him better, but Harry can’t for the life of him imagine how he makes them any better. All he does is get them into trouble, and now, here he is causing all this mess and dragging them along for the ride. 

He turns his body into the soft cushion of the loveseat. The middle cushion swallows his arm, but he pays it no mind. He’ll get it back eventually. 

“Harry,” Ron says, his youthful face coming in close to make his point. “We want to be with you, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry repeats, feeling small with something big in his chest.

“We didn’t settle,” Ron continues, “or anything like that. I promise.”

Slowly, Harry feels the room come into place around him. He opens his eyes, avoiding looking at his friends, and puts a hand closer to the fire. It doesn’t get warm the way it should. It doesn’t even burn. “I thought we were done,” he says morosely, mostly to himself, watching the fire. “I thought that was it.”

Despondent, he lets his arm flop down, and he naps until Divination.

… Î … 

After classes for the day, Harry leads Hermione and Ron out of the courtyard. He stands before the yellow fields and watches it ripple in the wind. He gestures to it vaguely but intently.

“Blimey,” says Ron, looking bewildered. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hands. “Erm. I feel like I would remember this if I saw it.”

Hermione reaches out to touch a blade of grass. She rubs it between her fingers. “Hogwarts hasn’t had a fire, though,” she says with incredulity. “It’s not in Hogwarts: A History.”

“Well,” Ron says quietly, “maybe not in our version. But something is different now. We can check?”

“So you can see it.” Not any less disturbed, Harry plucks a piece of the dry grass and twists it in his hands. The golden strand feels vaguely warm in his hands. 

“Harry,” Hermione says, calling his attention back. “Will you walk to the other end of campus and then come back in, say, five minutes?”

“What? Why?”

“Just testing something,” she says with a critical eye on the rolling fields before her. “Won’t take too long.”

So Harry shrugs and starts to walk. She has a method to the madness. He crosses the courtyard and passes through the gardens until he comes to the other side. He sighs and casts a warming charm, but like usual, it does next to nothing. He sits on a bench overlooking a patch of blooming snowdrops. They’re quite pretty and quite simple as far as plants go. The white petals look so very delicate. 

Then, a drop of something wet lands on his nose, and when he looks up, he realizes it’s the first snowfall of the year. Unblinking, he marvels at the white falling around him. It’s reaching a level of unbearable cold, but it’s like the buzzing in his head has quieted.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

As if broken from a spell, Harry whips around, his wand pointed at the speaker, berating himself for losing his grip on his surroundings. Once he can breathe more calmly and can see that the speaker is, in fact, Luna Lovegood, he lowers his wand.

“I could’ve hurt you,” he says, irritated. 

“But you didn’t,” she says primly. She’s shoeless but takes a seat on the bench next to him. 

Realizing he should probably play dumb, he asks, “Er, who are you?”

She gives him a withering glance before turning away from him, and Harry takes that as a sign to sit. “Have you heard of the moon rabbit?” she asks him without as much as a hello.

“No,” he says a little shortly, but it’s mostly because he’s confused. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Aren’t you?” she counters, and he is, it’s true, but he conjures her some shoddy shoes anyway. She slips her socked feet into them.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” he says generally.

“It’s a bedtime story,” she resumes, letting snowflakes fall onto her palm. “You should read it.”

“A children’s book?”

“Don’t be silly,” she says frankly, clearly chastising. “Haven’t you learned that all tales have a measure of truth? You are, after all, the only one in history to have mastered all three hallows at the same time.”

Abruptly, Harry feels drenched in ice. “What. I never had all three on me at once!”

Luna turns her stare from her palm to him, and Harry finds that it isn’t quite so vacant anymore. “For a heliopath, you have a rather large wrackspurt infestation.”

“I carried the cloak and the stone with me,” Harry says, thinking fast about when he walked to his death, trying not to ask what a heliopath or a wrackspurt is, “once I got it out of the snitch. But by then…” By then, he had already won the Elder Wand by conquest. Magically, it was his wand, even if it wasn’t on his person.

“You see,” says the blonde. “How’s that for a bedtime story?”

“I don’t understand,” he says again, flummoxed. Dumbledore, in King’s Cross, had called him the true master of death, but it was just a title, just another moniker. “I — Luna?”

She looks quizzically at him. “That’s my name. It’s very nice to meet you, Harry Potter.” Then she stands, dusts the snow from her hands, and skips off in her new shoes.

Thrown off and thoroughly confused, he releases a breath harshly and shivers. Then, he casts a tempus and curses, belatedly sprinting back to Ron and Hermione.

He finds them virtually where he left them, but they are clearly in deep discussion. Alert, they turn when he approaches and let him into their little muffliato bubble and exclaim at the field again. For one horrifying moment, it’s almost as if they flicker before his eyes, but it must’ve been a trick of the light.

“Sorry,” he tells them, watching their reactions closely. “Ran into Luna?”

“Ah,” Ron nods understandingly if a bit distracted. “No worries. We were talking about the grass?”

“Yes!” Hermione says, eager to take charge of the conversation but then halts. “Wait, is she okay?”

“Er, yeah.” He doesn’t know how to explain what happened, and part of him wants to keep it to himself. Something is bothering him, but he has to give himself time to figure it out. “She’s okay. I conjured her some new shoes.”

Hermione nods, apparently satisfied, and her face takes on a disconcerted look again. “After a few minutes without you, it was so strange! It was like once you were gone, Ron and I were — unstable,” she says stiltedly. “Foggy, almost.”

“Foggy?” Harry repeats, worried. He remembers foggy… it was what got them into this mess in the first place. 

“Nothing happened,” Hermione reassures quickly. “It was just, hard, I suppose, to concentrate on it without you. It was odd.”

“Gets all white if I look at it too hard without you,” Ron explains. “Dizzy-like.”

Dizzy. White. Fog.

“Don’t do it then,” Harry says sharply. “I don’t — I don’t…” His breaths start coming quicker, and he feels all shaky even in the peaceful falling of snow. Like the insides of a shaken snowglobe, but he’s not done vibrating as everything falls into place around him. He thinks about the fog, the descent of the cold, the idea that if his friends prod too closely at the fragile confines of this new world — that they would fizzle out and leave him here alone in this strange new world. He’s off-balance. Something deep inside him is telling him he doesn’t belong here, but being here without a Hermione and Ron he knows sounds unbearable.

“Harry,” Ron says, and it’s as if his voice is coming to him from far away.

“Harry.” Hermione’s voice comes softly. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re right here.”

Harry blinks, becoming aware he’s now inside the castle walls, tucked away in a little alcove hidden from view. Ron’s scarf is around his neck, and Hermione is holding his hands. Embarrassed and not knowing what came over him, he slouches. “Sorry,” he says, but his friends are quiet. Their faces are red from the bite of winter.

“It’s alright. Hardly been even a minute,” Ron starts. “Erm, you know you can talk to us, right mate? If you need. Or want.” Harry knows Ron was never big on words, but he’s clearly trying so hard right now, and Harry feels guilt swell in him because he can’t even appreciate it properly.

“We’re not leaving you,” Hermione promises. “Even if you don’t want to talk. But please, Harry. Please talk to us.”

Harry closes his eyes and lets his head fall back onto the cold stone. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is croaky. “What, um, what happened?”

“Went all quiet,” Ron relays to him. “Breathing too hard. You couldn’t recognize us for a moment there.”

“Just a panic attack,” Hermione puts out. “It’ll be okay. We’ll finish this for good this time.”

“How do you know though?” Harry asks, almost angry, but more at himself than anyone else. “We did something wrong. Something’s not right. I don’t know. Something’s wrong with me.” He needs to do something. Needs to fix something.

“You just fought off the foulest wizard in a century and suddenly we’re children again, I think you’re well within your rights to be upset!” Hermione says shrilly before calming down with a blush. “I mean, look, we…”

“We’re all going barmy. Don’t worry, mate. It’s okay to be mad,” says Ron spiritedly. “But for now, come on. Let’s get some food. I’m starving. Aren’t you, ‘Mione?”

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, very hungry. Let’s go to the kitchens —”

“Actually, you two go on ahead,” Harry says. “I need some time alone.” He can see they’re reluctant to leave him on his own, so he tacks on, “Please. I just need some air. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, Harry,” agrees Hermione. “But you should really come to the kitchens with us, get some food —”

“Later,” he says. “I need air right now.”

Slowly, they nod. “Ron and I will be in the Room then. There are a few things I want to work on.” She dispels the muffling charms, links arms with Ron, and smiles kindly at Harry. “Come find us when you’re done.”

“I’ll grab some treacle tart for you,” Ron says with a wave, and the pair walks off. 

Harry watches them until they round a corner and he can’t see them anymore. Then, with a burst of energy fed by increasing restlessness, he runs back out, robes flying around him as he pushes through the stupid grass. He only stops when he reaches the edge of the Black Lake. He holds out his hand and waits as he summons his broom. 

When it comes to him, he swings on and soars high up, wanting to be away from all that nonsense below him. The wind bites at him, and despite the fact that the cold is bordering on painful, something content nests in his gut. He loves flying. 

He lets his broom hover and locks his knees around it, allowing his body to hang from it, before spinning back above it and dropping low. He gets close to the water, putting a hand shallowly in it, and then rockets back up. 

Eyes closed, he basks in the evening sun and the little warmth it provides. He feels a little more connected to this world this way, like he can feel how the wind breathes with him. He can sense movement somewhere behind him but waits. 

Sure enough, a gruff voice says, “May I join?” Sated on sunlight, Harry blinks open his eyes and turns to see Viktor Krum on his own broom. Beyond him, on the Durmstrang ship, Harry can see Karkaroff scowling and standing akimbo with a couple of other Durmstrang students watching them.

Turning his gaze back to the Quidditch star, he says, “Sure. Harry.” He flies a little nearer and sticks out his hand.

Viktor nods and shakes. “Viktor. I vatched your match vith the dragon,” he appraises. “You are a very good flier, I am thinking.”

Harry smiles gently, a little red. “Thanks, but it’s nothing compared to you. I saw you at the World Cup this summer. Spectacular.” Viktor shrugs, but Harry guesses it’s less from nonchalance and more from modesty and wanting to avoid compliments, so he pulls away from the topic. “I love flying. Everything else is far away up here.”

The Quidditch star nods his agreement. “Vould you fancy a fly?”

Harry doesn’t know why Viktor approached him, but he’s in a bit of a better mood anyways, so he grins. “A race?” he suggests. “Around the castle to the edge of the forest and back.”

So they take off, neck and neck, and Harry can’t help but laugh elatedly. It’s nice to let loose. Harry’s lighter on his broom, and while he logically knows it should make him faster even with the same broom model, Viktor wins by a margin narrower than Harry expected. He’s never seen anyone as graceful in the air as Viktor Krum, so it comes as a shock that Harry had kept up as well as he did.

He catches a subtle grin on Viktor’s face but doesn’t comment on it either, content to just let things exist. In silence, they watch the sun dip below the mountains from their brooms. 

“Ve have lakes and mountains also,” says the other. “Ve have grounds even larger than this, but in vinter, ve have very little daylight, so ve are not enjoying them. But in summer, ve are flying every day.”

“I wish I could fly during summer,” Harry muses. “I live with Muggles, though.”

Viktor looks at him curiously. “I vas not aware.”

Harry shrugs. “Not many people are. Flying was something I instantly fell in love with.”

“I have always known I vas a vizard,” Viktor says, “but I have also alvays loved to fly.” Then, he adds almost slyly, “It is the best vay to get avay from Karkaroff.”

Harry laughs. “Two birds with one stone.”

“Viktor!” comes a shout from a distance. Harry and Viktor both turn towards it to see an irate Karkaroff standing akimbo with a glare up at them. 

“He’ll probably think I’ve sabotaged you,” Harry comments.

Viktor shrugs. “The whole point of this, international cooperation I am thinking. I vould be very pleased to meet vith you again.”

Harry smiles. “Of course. I had fun. Maybe we could rope in the other two also.” 

Viktor bades his farewell to rejoin his headmaster, and because Harry can see many Hogwarts students in yellow and red and a few in green and blue milling about on the shores below him, probably curious, Harry leads his broom around the castle and lands in a patch of grass on the other end of the grounds. 

As soon as he dismounts, he’s reminded of how cold he is and how strange the grass is. Firebolt in hand, he lets his hand brush the snow off the grass. They sort of look like feathers sticking up from all over, that is, if he squints.

He sighs into the quiet. Something in him feels distinctly unsettled, like the warmth of his magic has gone cold, but it couldn’t possibly have. He can still perform magic, but something is missing. Something vital. In the dark, the whitened grass is still and offers him no answers.

It isn’t a calm night though — that much he can tell. Everything is on edge, teetering on a fine line, waiting for that final push. 

“Merlin, it’s cold,” Harry says to himself, and when he looks down at his hands, he can see his fingertips have taken on a peculiar purplish hue. He feels a sort of vague concern about it, but ultimately he can’t remember why he needs to be concerned about it. 

He’s magic. Why should he be cold if he’s magic? But warming charms do nothing, and though the answer feels right there on the tip of his tongue, in the back of his head, he can’t place it. Slowly, he makes his way towards the castle.

He can hear a faint rustling behind him, but he is strangely unafraid. It’s a waxing moon tonight, and when he raises his eyes to see it, as if in encouragement and affirmation, the rustling stops.

“The moon rabbit,” he says aloud, thinking of Luna and her propensity for seeing what others can’t. Surely she hasn’t returned to the past like he, Hermione, and Ron, but she can still sense what has eluded them in their research. He resolves himself to look into it, and, as a breeze seems to go right through him, finally heads into the confines of the castle and the little reprieve from the wind it gives.

Chapter Text

Harry dreams of a body in the fields, half unburied, long since decomposed and bones weathered by rain and snow. No one has been here for a long time. 

The sun settles like a warm hand on the back of his neck, and he shudders as it chases the last of the lingering chill from his bones. This is the best part about this place, Harry thinks. It’s always warm for him.

A rustle, a twitch.

Harry breathes. The body lies some paces away, face tilted into the dirt.

Harry makes to move forward but pauses, turns his eyes skyward. He isn’t alone. Something is behind him.

Does he turn to see it? Does he want to?

He takes a step to the left, eyes locked straight above him. 

A bird flaps in a lazy circle, spirals narrowly down until it reaches his eye-level, where it hovers unnaturally, wings beating lethargically.

It’s a simple bird. He doesn’t know the name. Black feathers, an elongated beak, small white eyes.

Somehow, he knows it is blind.

It waits for you to close your eyes.

Strangely, he becomes aware that it is completely silent. The feathers don’t flutter, the wind goes straight through it. There is only the grass, the body, the bird, and the growing presence behind him.

The black bird opens its beak. Its body undulates, a low ringing sounding in his ears as he sees —

A bright light. Something like fire, a piercing glow.

He can’t tear his eyes away.

It wants a taste.

The light sears his eyes, shoves its way down his throat.

Harry would gasp, but the burn on his face, in his mouth, buried in his chest won’t allow him to move or make a sound. Harry is no stranger to pain. Wait, he tells himself. It won’t last forever.

The burn blisters, ruptures, sparking red and yellow and white.

Wake up.

Would that be so bad?

The burn subsides, turns into a pit, a seed, sewn into his sternum.

He collapses to the ground, hands twisted in the grass, the grass twisted in him. There are worms in the ground, sleeping, sleeping. 

The grass wraps itself around his finger. Down, Harry thinks, it will pull him down. He isn’t quite sure if it’s something he wants to happen. The worms will eat him, slowly. Or maybe they’ll leave his body be — let it endure storm and water and scavenging animals.

The presence behind grows a little stronger.

Wake up.

Harry crawls, twisting his body in the grass that pulls at him, tugging him deep down. 

Ic sēo þone mann.

The bird lands atop his head, talons digging into his hair. It taps on his cheek like it’s stone, quick little raps, bone on bone, blood running down his face. 

Harry reaches for the body, turns its face towards him. Tap, tap, tap, tap tap tap taptaptaptap —

Se orc geseah mec.

Ron wakes up to an owl rapping on the window, talons curled around the strings of a paper-wrapped package. Blearily, he rises from bed, eying the closed-curtains of Harry’s bed, listening to the shuffling sheets coming from Neville’s, and ignoring Seamus’s groans to get that bloody owl. Dean, bless him, is a quiet, and deep, sleeper. 

He shoves open the sticky window, and the impatient owl swoops in, hooting at him reproachfully. “Sorry,” Ron tells it, relieving the bird of its package. He blindly reaches for Harry’s trunk, where he keeps owl treats, and gives one to the delivery bird, who is finally appeased. It flies out on tired wings, so Ron closes the window.

“Merlin’s balls, mate,” Seamus groans. “Close the curtains.”

Ron blinks, and belatedly, he lets the curtain fall shut, letting the early morning sun retreat.

He lets his eyes adjust to the dark and then squints at the package labeling. Picquery’s Potion Wares. Ron shakes his head. The gillyweed must’ve come. He leaves it on Harry’s bedside table and sits down on the floor by his own bed.

Ron’s been feeling — weird. A bit wonky, like his head’s been screwed on not quite right. He thunks his head back on the frame of his bed and winces.

Neville snorts in his sleep.

Perhaps he should get some more rest. It’s a marvel he got up so easily in the first place. 

Maybe he should get up. He casts a tempus. Six-oh-bloody-two. Way too early. But not so early that it’s strange. He waves a hand through it.

He doesn’t think he can go back to sleep anyway. He should check on Harry. 

That’d be creepy, wouldn’t it? Standing over his best mate’s bed. Knowing Harry, he’d be on his feet in a second, wand in his face. It’d only be an expelliarmus, but still. Not fun. 

He slips an over-robe over his nightclothes, along with his mother’s handmade woolen socks, his boots, and a snow hat, and then, with one last glance to Harry’s bed, slips out the door.

The halls are silent, but not still. Strange shapes dance along his periphery, but he’s grown used to them. They’ve been around since they’ve arrived here, and they seem… harmless enough. They only get worse the farther he is from Harry.

He’s heard of things like this before. Little colorful things that dance around heads. But where? He sighs tiredly.

The snow crunches under his feet, icy from the night. Each step feels more right. The shapes dance a little dimmer, a little farther away. Ron isn’t one for walks at all, but maybe he should try it more.

He should stop, go back inside, get something to eat. He should wait for Hermione in the common room with a cuppa. Ron stops just before he reaches the fields, the path cutting short, hidden under dead grass and piled snow.

He shifts forward slightly. 

Just then, a bright white figure whips around to him, an otter urgently swaying. “It’s Harry,” Hermione’s voice drifts in his ears, worry coloring her voice. “Get over here quick.”

Ron curses and sprints, abandoning his task, whatever it was, and the dissipating patronus. He zips around the corners of the long hallways, barely catching himself as he nearly barrels over a little Ravenclaw. By the time he makes it back to the Gryffindor common room, a lot of students have congregated, whispering chaotically as the prefects attempt to corral them. 

Ron worms his way through the crowd, positive that Hermione will be near the front. Sure enough, she hovers by the stairwell and spots him immediately, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward.

“Apparently —” she starts.

“Ice everywhere!” Seamus proclaims to Lavender and Parvati, and Ron can see several heads swivel toward him.

“Explain,” Ron whispers to Hermione, tuning out the regalled story. 

“Seamus woke up from the cold, thought the window was open, saw ice spreading from Harry’s bed. Opened the curtains, and Harry wouldn’t wake up. The commotion got everyone up. Neville’s run to get McGonagall,” she summarizes. 

“I’m going up,” Ron says. 

Hermione follows, the two of them ignoring the three prefects in perfect synchrony.

The further up the stairs they go, the colder it gets. Their dorm door has ice creeping out from under it. Ron braces himself and opens it. 

Time feels sluggish. The colorful images pulse to a rhythm he doesn’t know.

The fourth prefect is kneeling by Harry’s bed, frantically casting charms. Ron recognizes the warming charm, the heating charm, a rudimentary diagnostic spell — to no avail. 

Hermione rushes forward, none too softly pushing the girl aside, who lets her easily. Hermione lifts Harry’s eyelids, pointing a soft lumos at them. Harry’s eyes don’t even twitch.

Harry is… quite still, skin turned pale and wan. The sight of him makes panic rise to his throat. If Ron didn’t know any better… Merlin, why didn’t he check on Harry before leaving? 

He takes Harry’s hand in his. Surprisingly, he doesn’t feel that cold, not at all like he’d expected. He surreptitiously puts two fingers on Harry’s pulse. Steady, alive, but slow. Incredibly slow.

Hermione cups Harry’s face between her hands, turning it side to side gently. His eyes stay open and blank, moving with his head.

“Not responsive,” Ron says aloud unnecessarily, but he needs to voice it to understand. He feels both extraordinarily anxious and frightfully calm. Is it shock?

McGonagall chooses that moment to enter, along with Madam Pomfrey. “Step aside,” she orders briskly. Ron squeezes Harry’s hand tightly and then steps back, taking Hermione with him.

Blankly, he watches the two wave their wands, hating himself for tensing at the sight of spells cast over his best mate’s unconscious body. 

The colors dance around his vision, and he grimaces.

“Is it sabotage?” the prefect asks grimly, warily eying them all. 

“Thank you, prefect, for your help,” Madam Pomfrey says instead.

“Ten points,” their head of house awards and dismisses the girl, who frowns at them slightly before exiting, shaking her head.

“When was the last time he ate? Slept?” Madam Pomfrey asks as McGonagall works on dispelling the icy residual magic expelling from Harry.

Ron swallows. “We’ve been trying to get him to eat,” he says. “He had a bit of soup yesterday, and hot water.”

“He’s not doing well with a lot of solids,” Hermione adds worriedly. 

Madam Pomfrey pauses then prompts, “And sleep?”

Ron shakes his head. “Not much either. He keeps getting up and going for walks when he thinks we don’t notice.”

She levels the two of them with sharp eyes. “Do not neglect your own well-being for the care of someone else’s,” she says. “That being said, the next time something like this happens, you must let me know. I understand you three in particular have an… issue with asking for help, but this is more than just fasting for a short time. He is severely undernourished and his body is exhausted.

“He needs nutritional supplements and a lot of rest. As do the rest of you,” she snaps. “You all look in need of more sleep.” She narrows her gaze on McGonagall, who gazes back sternly. Madam Pomfrey sighs.

“Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger,” McGonagall continues, “if you would please explain to me clearly your activities over the last few days.”

“Minerva,” Madam Pomfrey says, and Ron watches, absently enraptured as the two butt heads. “Surely you don’t accuse them of anything nefarious.”

“Of course not,” defends the deputy headmistress brusquely. “But let it be known that these three have an affinity for trouble, and it is quite possible that they have exacerbated these issues through reckless actions.”

“I am well aware of the dangers they have faced, that the whole student body has faced under the care of negligent faculty,” Madam Pomfrey says. “While it may be true that these three students are frequently in danger, I think it is far past time to shift your gaze away from their faults and toward what may have driven them to make those decisions in the first place. They are children, Minerva.”

“Children,” she agrees, “who must learn to take responsibility —”

“You are an adult,” interrupts the matron. “An adult, who willfully ignores the struggles of your students, who are your responsibility. How can you not assist Mr. Potter? He is a child competing in a dangerous competition against adults!”

“The competition shouldn’t happen in the first place,” McGonagall snaps. “They are all too young! It is entirely too dangerous for anyone. That this has become a spectacle once more is —”

“Pardon me, Professor, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione cuts in. “Ron and I are well aware that we could have done more, and, for not reaching out and using the resources available to us, for letting a friend get to this state, we are unbelievably sorry, worried, and responsible for it. If you have any suggestions as to how we can better handle a situation like this, we’d be very appreciative.”

Diplomatic, Ron thinks. Hermione gets… clinical when she’s about to be overwhelmed. He adds, “We want to learn how. This isn’t a short-term issue. Over the past few, well, it’s a lot to keep up with the competition. Stress is definitely a factor.”

But not the only one. Ron bites down on his cheek. There’s a lot of strange magic happening. Who’s to know what precisely is inspiring this? Harry’s hurting, and he won’t say why.

And he won’t say unless Ron and Hermione push him, but that doesn’t feel like the right move either.

The two women deflate but pointedly ignore each other. 

“I will go dismiss the students,” McGonagall says. “I trust you will find your way out.”

After they make it to the infirmary, doors shut firmly, Ron and Hermione watch as Madam Pomfrey adjusts Harry in a cot, floating over a try with a myriad of potions. 

“I would still appreciate an explanation,” she says. “I hesitate to say because I believe a patient’s condition should remain confidential, however, I want to acknowledge that you wish to help and may have information that will help me figure out what is wrong.”

“So there is more that’s wrong,” Ron says. “The ice —”

“A possible backlash,” Hermione suggests. “A defense-mechanism?”

Madam Pomfrey eyes them. “Have you been messing with things you shouldn’t?”

“No,” Ron says. “Nothing like that. We’ve been practicing upper-year spells and such. Not — er. Not super dangerous things.”

“Upper year spells can be dangerous,” says the matron. “There’s a reason aside from difficulty that certain subjects are left for higher levels.” She sighs. “I can already sense that Mr. Potter is expelling a significant amount of energy on a regular basis, though for what I can’t be sure. You gain nothing by hiding from me.”

Ron swallows. He looks at Hermione, who’s frowning and worrying her lip again. 

“He’s been teaching us the patronus charm,” she blurts. “He learned it last year because — well. So he’s been doing that a lot.”

Madam Pomfrey’s gaze grows more stern. 

Ron wishes he could smack himself over the head. 

“Duelling,” he adds. “We’ve been doing a lot of physical activity. On top of not eating or sleeping, and then using powerful magic — and the stress —” An idea sparks in his mind. A cruel one, but honest, to a certain point. “He usually adjusts to Hogwarts food by now.” He sees Hermione twitch, a small movement out of Madam Pomfrey’s sight.

The matron, on her part, frowns more readily now. “You have this issue every year? Please elaborate, Mr. Weasley.”

“His relatives don’t give him a lot of food,” Ron says. “My mum sends him food packages pretty often. He stores food underneath his floorboards so he can eat. And then the stress this year...”

“Okay,” says the matron, turning away. Ron doesn’t truly think they’ve convinced her, but she seems to be letting it go for now and deeply concerned for another reason. “He needs nutrients.” She holds up a vial with a deep blue potion. “When he wakes, he will need a dose daily. Make sure he takes it. Later, I will give you a week’s supply. I want to see him every Saturday, where you can then get the next week’s dose. Keep the vials so you can return them to me.”

They nod.

“Madam,” Hermione begins. “Could you… explain the ice? Please?”

Ron glances down. Already, Harry’s bed frame is freezing over, frost patterns spreading slowly and creeping down Ron’s pants leg where it touches the tip of the bed just so.

“He’s been cold, right?” Ron adds. “He’s been feeling really cold lately.”

“But not to the point where he manifests ice,” she retorts. “I had thought maybe, from a lack of appetite, his body’s been… not regulating well.”

“I will have to look over him for a while longer,” says Madam Pomfrey, which is healer-speak for “I don’t know.”

“Thanks,” Ron says. “We’ll be back when visiting hours start. We —” The shapes twinkle in his eyes sharply.

“Yes, thank you,” says Hermione, vibrating. “We’ll be back. Really soon. Thank you —” And she pulls him out the door. 

Ron shakes himself, pressing his palms to his eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asks him, pulling his hands off of his face. “What’s going on?”

“Remember the things I told you about? The sparkles?”

Recognition dawns in her eyes. “Is it getting worse?”

“Not really, I think. Just — hurts. But it’s not me I’m worried about. What the bloody hell is going on? He was fine yesterday —”

“He looked really bad,” Hermione says clutching his hands tightly. “I’m worried that there’s something more going on than just not eating or sleeping. I think it’s a symptom rather than a catalyst of this. He wasn’t responsive at all, not even to light. That’s bad.”

Ron doesn’t know much about healing, but he knows enough that if a body doesn’t move by reflex to stimuli — that’s bad. 

“I’m going to the Room,” Hermione says. “Or the library. Maybe I’ll find some answers. Are you coming?”

“No, I’ll catch you up. I have to get something for my head. I have a compress in my trunk.”

“Stay close,” she reminds him with a nod. “I’ll see you soon,” and takes her leave with a light brush atop his shoulders. Ron resists chasing her warmth and turns back to Gryffindor tower, letting his feet guide him absent-mindedly, but when he comes back to himself, he’s not inside at all, but back outside.

Ron stands in the fireweed fields and drinks in the faint smell of citrus and overripe sweet, something on the brink of rot. The air is heavy here. The shapes dance at him more severely, faster, sharper, urgent. He thinks that maybe he’s a little too far from Harry, from the one thing that keeps the migraines at bay, but something is going to happen here any minute now. 

Something drew him here, now and this morning.

He knows it. He can feel it. The magic is thrumming with it, pulsing from the leylines that carve through the earth. If he misses it, they may never know what brought them here. If he stays, he doesn’t know what will happen. Best-case scenario, he’s witness to a singular phenomenon. 

Worst case, they all die, and thus they have failed. 

It doesn’t account for all the uncertainty in between, but somehow Ron can feel that he needs to be here. So he stays, and he waits, and with a rising swell, the magic swallows him up.