The Chamber of Secrets was silent, save for the faint dripping of water from somewhere deep within its walls. The oppressive stillness that had once unnerved Harry now felt almost comforting. Here, the wizarding world couldn't reach him. No whispers of whispered insults, no outward judgments.
Just silence.
He sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, his wand resting loosely in his lap. The flickering light from the enchanted torches cast shifting shadows across the serpentine carvings on the walls. Above him, Salazar Slytherin's painted eyes watched, unblinking and calculating.
"You're unusually quiet," Salazar remarked, his voice breaking the stillness. The portrait's velvety-black eyes narrowed as they studied Harry.
Harry didn't look up. "I'm just thinking."
"About surviving, I hope," Salazar said piercingly. "This isn't a time for doubt or sentiment, Potter. This is a time for strategy."
Harry sighed, running a hand through his already untidy hair, the warmth of the scalp underneath the hair providing little comfort, "I know that. It's all I've been thinking about."
"Good," Salazar replied, his tone softening ever so slightly. "The world outside these walls has already judged you, Harry. Today, you decide if they were right."
Harry's grip on his wand tightened, his jaw clenching. He wasn't sure if he wanted to prove them wrong—or if he even cared anymore. What mattered now was surviving the task ahead. The rest could wait.
Salazar's voice broke through his thoughts again, firm and commanding. "You've prepared as much as you can for this moment. You've trained your mind, honed your spells, learned the importance of adaptability. But dragons…" The portrait smirked faintly. "Dragons are chaos incarnate."
Harry finally looked up, his brows furrowed, creating deep lines on his forehead, meeting Salazar's gaze. "I've faced chaos before."
"Not like this," Salazar countered, his expression unreadable. "Dragons do not yield, Harry. They do not play by rules, and they do not care for your plans. Remember: your goal is not to tame it. Your goal is to survive it."
The morning air was sharp as Harry stepped out of the tunnel leading to the arena grounds. The distant roar of the crowd sent a shiver down his spine, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the uneven ground beneath his feet. His footsteps echoed faintly, the sound swallowed by the noise from above.
As he approached the tent where the champions were gathered, the din of the crowd grew louder. The Pensivae Orbs were already floating overhead, their runes glowing faintly as they captured every moment, every movement.
Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping inside the tent. The air within was tense, heavy with unspoken competition. Gabrielle Delacour sat near the corner, her silvery-blonde hair falling like a curtain over her face as she adjusted her gloves. Cedric Diggory was pacing near the center, his brows furrowed in concentration. And Cassiopeia Rosier…
Cassiopeia stood near the entrance, her arms crossed, silver irises locking onto Harry the moment he entered. A slow, deliberate smirk spread across her face. "Potter," she drawled, her voice low and amused. "I was starting to think you'd decided not to show."
Harry didn't respond, brushing past her as he made his way to an empty seat near the far wall. He could feel her gaze lingering on him, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of reacting.
Cedric paused in his pacing, glancing at Harry. "Alright there, Harry?" he asked cautiously.
"Fine," Harry said curtly, his tone making it clear that he wasn't in the mood for small talk.
Gabrielle glanced up from her gloves, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. "You do not seem nervous," she said, her voice soft but edged with suspicion.
Harry met her gaze, his green eyes unreadable. "What would be the point?" he replied simply.
Gabrielle blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his bluntness, but she didn't press further.
Ludo Bagman burst into the tent, his grin as wide as ever. "Right, champions!" he announced, clapping his hands together. "It's time for the draw! This little bag here will determine which dragon you'll be facing today. Exciting, isn't it?"
No one answered.
Bagman cleared his throat awkwardly before holding out the velvet bag. "Ladies first! Miss Delacour?"
Gabrielle stepped forward, her movements graceful and deliberate. Her hand disappeared into the bag for a moment before emerging with a tiny, animated figure of a Common Welsh Green. The miniature dragon flapped its wings, letting out a tiny puff of smoke.
Gabrielle nodded, her expression carefully neutral, and stepped back.
"Mr. Diggory?" Bagman said, his voice bright.
Cedric stepped forward, his jaw tight. He reached into the bag and pulled out a Swedish Short-Snout, the model's silvery-blue scales gleaming faintly.
He gave a curt nod and returned to his spot, his face unreadable.
"Miss Rosier?"
Cassiopeia sauntered forward, her smirk firmly in place. She dipped her hand into the bag and pulled out a Chinese Fireball, the model's ruby-red scales shimmering as it snapped its tiny jaws.
"Perfect," she murmured, her tone dripping with satisfaction as she returned to her place.
Finally, Bagman turned to Harry. "And last but not least, Mr. Potter!"
Harry stepped forward, his expression calm but his grip on his wand tightening. He reached into the bag, his fingers brushing against something sharp and solid.
When he pulled it out, the crowd outside let out a collective gasp.
A Hungarian Horntail.
The tiny dragon let out a high-pitched roar, flapping its spiked wings as it glared up at Harry with golden eyes.
"Ah, the Hungarian Horntail," Bagman said, his voice wavering slightly. "A real… uh… challenge, that one. Best of luck, Harry."
Harry didn't respond. He returned to his seat, the miniature dragon perched in his hand.
Harry's chest tightened, each breath feeling heavier than the last. His mind, unwilling to let him forget the weight of the moment, conjured the incessant ticking of a clock—each tick reverberating through his body, each second like a countdown to his impending doom. He forced his breath to steady, focusing on his Occlumency, pushing the panic away as best he could.. Harry could hear the muffled roar of the crowd outside as Gabrielle stepped into the arena. The Pensivae Orbs floated lazily near the tent's ceiling, their runes flickering as they captured every tense moment.
He wasn't nervous, not exactly. But the weight of the moment pressed heavily on him, a constant reminder of what was at stake.
"Feeling confident?" Cassiopeia's voice broke through his thoughts.
Harry opened his eyes to find her standing nearby, her arms crossed, her smirk as sharp as ever.
"Confident enough," Harry said evenly, meeting her gaze.
Cassiopeia tilted her head. "We'll see."
Gabrielle Delacour stood at the edge of the arena , twin pools of frost reflected the dragon before her, a Common Welsh Green. The beast loomed over its clutch of eggs, its massive tail curling protectively around the golden prize.
Gabrielle's expression was unreadable, her wand held tightly in her hand as if it were an extension of her body. She didn't tremble, didn't hesitate.
She simply waited.
Harry leaned against the wooden support beam of the tent, his eyes fixed on the enchanted screen. Gabrielle's figure was small compared to the Welsh Green, but she didn't look intimidated.
"She's not afraid," Harry murmured.
"Why would she be?" Cassiopeia Rosier said lazily, her eyes flicking toward the screen. "The Delacours practically bathe their children in resources. France practically worships their champions."
Harry ignored her, watching as Gabrielle finally raised her wand. Her movements were fluid, precise, and her posture radiated calm confidence.
Gabrielle took a slow, deliberate step forward, her boots crunching softly against the scorched earth. She raised her wand, her voice soft but carrying through the arena with the help of the magical microphones.
"Umbracincta".
Dark tendrils of shadow erupted from her wand, snaking toward the dragon's legs. The Welsh Green snarled, thrashing its tail as the shadows coiled around its claws like binding chains.
Gabrielle flicked her wrist, and the shadows tightened, forcing the dragon to shift its weight uncomfortably. The beast growled, its golden eyes narrowing as it struggled against the restraints.
She took another step forward, her wand moving in a graceful arc. "Sonus Vinctum."
A deep, resonant hum filled the air, vibrating through the arena. The sound seemed to disorient the dragon, its movements growing sluggish as its head swayed slightly.
Gabrielle allowed herself a small smile. Charm magic was her specialty, but the dark undertones of her spellwork—magic rooted in control and domination—were what truly set her apart. This wasn't brute force. This was precision.
From the judges' table, Dumbledore's pale blue eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Gabrielle work.
"Interesting technique," he murmured to himself.
"French ingenuity," Madame Maxime said proudly, her booming voice quiet for once. "She is disciplined, no?"
"Disciplined, yes," Dumbledore replied, his tone neutral. But there was a flicker of unease in his gaze as he watched the shadows binding the dragon, the faint hum of dark magic lingering in the air.
The Welsh Green snarled again, its tail thrashing violently against the ground as it fought against the shadows. Gabrielle didn't flinch.
"Lumos Mortem!"
Her wand flared with light, a burst of silvery magic erupting from its tip. The dragon recoiled, its golden eyes narrowing as the light intensified, forcing it to turn its massive head away.
Gabrielle seized the opportunity. With a swift flick of her wand, she released the shadows binding the dragon's claws. Instead, the shadows shot forward, curling around the dragon's head and tightening like a noose.
The Welsh Green bellowed in frustration, its movements frantic and uncoordinated. Gabrielle darted forward, her steps nimble, and reached for the golden egg.
Her fingers closed around the egg's smooth surface, and with another flick of her wand, the shadows dissolved into the air.
Harry's brow furrowed, he watched Gabrielle retreat from the arena, the golden egg clutched tightly to her chest. She didn't look shaken or relieved. She looked… composed. Controlled.
"She's good," Cedric muttered, his voice low.
"She's precise," Harry corrected. "There's a difference."
Cassiopeia smirked, leaning back against the wooden post. "And there's the Boy Who Lived, giving commentary on the competition. How generous of you."
Harry ignored her, his focus remaining on Gabrielle's figure as she passed the judges' table.
Cassiopeia's slate-coloured eyes glinted with amusement as she watched Gabrielle exit the arena.
"She knows how to make an impression," she murmured, her tone low and almost admiring.
But her smile turned sharp as her gaze flicked toward Harry. "Of course, we'll see how long she keeps that composure when it's your turn, won't we?"
Gabrielle held the golden egg to the judges with a faint, polite smile. The Pensivae Orbs hovered around her, capturing her every movement.
Madame Maxime clapped enthusiastically, her pride evident. "Magnifique!" she exclaimed, her voice booming.
Karkaroff's expression remained neutral, though his lips twitched faintly. "Controlled," he said simply. "Efficient. But not… bold."
"Boldness is not everything," Maxime snapped.
"Perhaps not," Karkaroff replied smoothly. "But it does win tournaments."
Madame Maxime, her chest puffed with pride, waved her wand with a flourish. A golden number burst into the air, glittering brightly.
"nine," she declared, her booming voice carrying across the arena.
Karkaroff was slower with a sharp flick of his wrist, he conjured his score.
6
Gabrielle's smile didn't falter, though the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth hinted at her restrained reaction.
Finally, Dumbledore raised his wand. He paused for a moment, his kind yet piercing eyes fixed on Gabrielle. With a subtle, deliberate motion, he conjured a shimmering number in the air.
7
"And a stunning performance earns Miss Delacour 22 points!" Ludo Bagman announced, his voice buzzing with excitement.
The crowd cheered as Cedric Diggory stepped into the arena. The Swedish Short-Snout perched at the far end of the field, its silvery-blue scales glinting like molten steel under the harsh sunlight. Smoke curled lazily from its nostrils, but its eyes burned with sharp intelligence, tracking Cedric's every move.
Cedric raised his wand, his jaw tight but his expression calm. He didn't have Gabrielle's grace or Cassiopeia's confidence, but there was a steady resolve in the way he moved—a sense of quiet determination that made the Hufflepuff section of the stands roar with approval.
He hesitated for a heartbeat, the weight of the dragon's gaze pressing down on him, as if wanting him to kneel and worship. But then the Hufflepuff section of the stands hollered, their chants like a steady drumbeat in his chest. The noise didn't just reach his ears; it surged through him, igniting a quiet flame of courage that grew brighter with every shout of his name.
Cedric's mind was a whirlwind of calculations as he circled the dragon. .It was smaller than the Hungarian Horntail and the Common Welsh Green, but its speed and unnerving intelligence made it arguably the most dangerous opponent in the tournament. Unlike the brute force of the larger dragons, the Swedish Short-Snout moved like water, always changing. Formless.
If he were to do this it needed to be quick. Horribly quick that there wouldn't be any time to think if something went wrong. The play would depend on pure instinct nothing else.
"Lapides Murus!"
A wall of stone erupted from the ground, separating Cedric from the dragon. The beast snarled, its claws raking against the barrier as Cedric moved to the side, keeping his movements quiet and deliberate.
"Aero Volatus!"
A burst of wind shot from Cedric's wand, carrying a handful of loose rocks into the dragon's face. The Short-Snout roared, shaking its head violently as the debris temporarily blinded it.
Cedric seized the opportunity, darting toward the nest. His fingers brushed the golden egg just as the dragon recovered, its sharp eyes locking onto him.
Daphne Greengrass watched with wide eyes as the Short-Snout lunged, its jaws snapping shut inches from Cedric's back. He dove to the side, the egg clutched tightly in his hands, and rolled to his feet in one smooth motion.
"He's quick," Tracey muttered beside her, her tone grudgingly impressed.
"Quick won't save him if he's not careful," Daphne murmured, her gaze flicking to the dragon's thrashing tail.
The dragon roared, its spiked tail crashing into the ground as Cedric sprinted toward the exit. The crowd cheered loudly as he crossed the boundary, holding the egg aloft.
Cassiopeia smirked faintly as she watched Cedric hand the egg to the judges. His performance had been efficient, but there was nothing remarkable about it.
"Straightforward," she said lazily, glancing towards Harry. "Not much flair, but effective enough. Do you think they'll score him higher than Delacour?"
Harry didn't answer. His focus remained on Cedric as the judges announced his score.
Maxime hesitated before lifting her wand, summoning an "7."
Karkaroff's expression was neutral as he conjured a "5," his lips curling faintly at the boos of discontent from the Hufflepuff section of the stands.
Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled faintly as he lifted his wand and conjured a "8."
"20 points for Mr. Diggory!" Ludo Bagman announced cheerfully, his voice booming over the arena.
The Hufflepuffs erupted into cheers, their voices drowning out the murmurs from the other sections.
Cassiopeia Rosier stepped into the arena with the confidence of someone who had never known failure. Grey as ash, her eyes glinted with a quiet intensity, she surveyed the Chinese Fireball, its ruby-red scales gleaming in the sunlight. The dragon's golden eyes locked onto her, and it let out a low growl, its spiked tail twitching ominously as if daring her to step forward.
Cassiopeia snickered, her wand held loosely in her hand. She prowled across the stone floor with the precision of a predator, each step deliberate.
Harry's gaze darkened as he watched Cassiopeia on the enchanted screen. She radiated control, each movement screaming its purpose, her wand flicking with a practiced ease that bordered on effortless. Every spell she cast seemed to flow from her fingers as naturally as breathing, the air around her humming with raw energy.
His jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Show-off," he scoffed, though his voice lacked conviction. Beneath the irritation, something else flickered—a grudging admiration he refused to voice.
She moved like she owned the battlefield. The duel wasn't just about power; it was a performance and she was dancing it.
Harry leaned closer, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. The flicker of green light on the screen reflected in his eyes as he muttered again, "How does she make it look so easy?"
The enchanted screen shifted, zooming in as Cassiopeia deflected a fireball with a casual twist of her wrist. Harry's knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrest tighter.
"Control like that… it's not just talent," he thought aloud, his voice a mixture of frustration and determination. "It's fucking obsession." His mind raced, dissecting her every movement, searching for the flaw, the crack in her armour.
Cassiopeia raised her wand, her voice calm and steady as she cast. "Ignis Funis."
A rope of fire erupted from her wand, coiling through the air like a serpent. The Fireball roared, its wings flaring as the fiery rope struck its legs, wrapping tightly around them.
"Tenebris Lancem!"
A spear of shadow shot from her wand, aimed directly at the dragon's snout. The beast reared back, roaring in frustration as the shadow exploded into smoke, obscuring its vision.
Cassiopeia didn't stop. She moved forward, her wand flicking sharply as she sent another spell toward the dragon's wings, forcing it to the ground.
The Fireball thrashed violently, its golden eyes burning with rage, but Cassiopeia was already at the nest. She grabbed the golden egg, her smirk widening as the dragon's tail slammed into the ground inches from her feet.
Harry exhaled slowly, a mix of irritation and awe warring within him. His fingers stopped drumming, now curling into a fist.
"Next round," he whispered, his voice low but filled with resolve. "Next round, it'll be me standing there. And I'll make sure she knows it."
Daphne Greengrass sat perfectly still as she watched Cassiopeia retreat from the arena, the golden egg held tightly in her hands.
"She didn't even hesitate," Daphne murmured, her voice tinged with unease.
"She didn't need to," Tracey replied, her tone flat.
Cassiopeia handed the egg to the judges with a faint, smug bow, her steel eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Maxime gave a "10," her pride evident in the small nod she gave Cassiopeia.
Karkaroff's smirk widened as he lifted his wand and conjured a "10."
Dumbledore's lifted his wand and conjured an "8."
"28 points for Miss Rosier!" Ludo Bagman announced, his voice booming over the arena.
The Durmstrang students erupted into cheers, their voices drowning out the faint boos from other sections of the stands.
The tent was silent, save for the faint rustle of the canvas and the distant roar of the crowd. Harry sat alone now, his back against the wooden support beam, his wand resting in his palm. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat amplified by the stillness around him.
The cheers outside felt miles away, a distorted hum that rose and fell with every passing moment. Gabrielle's and Cedric's turns had come and gone, followed by Cassiopeia's. The faint echoes of Ludo Bagman's commentary drifted through the air, but Harry didn't register the words.
Instead, he stared at his hands. They trembled faintly, though whether from adrenaline or exhaustion, he couldn't tell. The golden egg wasn't even in the arena yet, but the weight of the task pressed heavily on him.
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Bind, blind, distract. Stick to the plan. Salazar's voice echoed in his mind but no plan could erase the fear that coiled in his chest, tightening with every passing second.
From the judges' table, Albus Dumbledore watched the tent where Harry waited. His sharp blue eyes flicked toward the Pensivae Orbs as they hovered around the entrance, capturing every nuance of the champions' performances.
But his thoughts lingered on Harry.
The boy had become increasingly unreadable in the past weeks, his behaviour shifting in ways that Dumbledore couldn't quite pin down. He had withdrawn from his peers, retreated into isolation, and now carried an air of quiet defiance that unsettled the headmaster.
What have you been doing, Harry?
He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. The crowd roared again as Cassiopeia exited the arena, her golden egg held high. But Dumbledore barely noticed. His attention remained fixed on the tent, waiting for Harry to emerge.
Daphne sat in the stands, her arms crossed as her gaze flicked between the arena and the enchanted screens showing the champions in the waiting tent.
Harry's chair was empty.
When the screens finally shifted to him, her eyes narrowed slightly. He sat in the corner of the tent, his head tilted back against the wooden post, his wand balanced loosely in his hand. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his posture—a tension, a weight—that made her pause.
He didn't look like someone about to bask in glory. He looked like someone preparing for war.
The crowd roared again, snapping her out of her thoughts. Cassiopeia had finished, her performance as ruthless and polished as expected. Daphne barely paid attention to the scores.
Her gaze returned to Harry's image on the screen.
"Good luck, Potter," she murmured, though she wasn't sure if she meant it.
The tent was unnervingly quiet now. Harry watched as Madam Pomfrey moved swiftly around Cedric, who was already seated on one of the beds, his face pale, breathing shallow but steady. He had entered the tent just moments ago, looking like he'd been fine yet his clothes singed in places. Cedric's eyes were still wide, his jaw clenched, but Madam Pomfrey's hands were cool and efficient as she checked him over, her muttered spells filling the air.
Harry's gaze flicked over to the other bed, where Gabrielle sat, perched on the edge as if the world was still revolving around her- thought it wasn't wrong to say it wasn't with those bloody orbs floating everywhere. Her hands rested neatly in her lap, her gaze distant but focused. She didn't look like someone who had just faced a dragon—she looked composed, almost still. Her eyes met Harry's briefly, and she gave a faint nod, as though acknowledging his presence,
And Rosier? Rosier sat with perfect poise near the entrance, her stormy grey eyes fixed on Harry.
The tension in the tent was suffocating, and Harry felt their gazes like weight pressing against his shoulders. The roar of the crowd outside grew louder, and Ludo Bagman's amplified voice echoed faintly through the canvas walls.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Bagman's voice rang out, louder now, rich with anticipation. "Our final champion for today—The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter!"
The title hung in the air, a gilded cage around his name. A crown being placed upon his head, its heavy weight nestling into place. Harry's breath caught in his throat. It wasn't just a title anymore; it was a mantle. One he couldn't escape. But if he had to wear it, he would wear it with pride.
Harry exhaled slowly, rising from his seat. He adjusted his wand in his grip, his expression unreadable.
Cassiopeia smirked, her sharp features illuminated faintly by the light spilling into the tent. "Try not to die, Potter," she said smoothly, her tone almost mocking. "It would be such a waste of all that… potential."
Harry paused, glancing at her. For a moment, their gazes locked, her grey eyes gleaming with something between amusement and challenge.
"Don't worry about me, Rosier," Harry said evenly, his voice quiet but firm. "Worry about yourself."
Cassiopeia's smirk widened, but she said nothing more, her gaze lingering on him as he turned away.
"Harry!" Cedric called out. Harry moved toward the exit, his expression conflicted, before stopping.
He glanced at him.
"Be careful," Cedric said after a moment. "That dragon… it's not like the others."
Harry gave him a faint nod, not trusting himself to speak.
Gabrielle's voice broke through the quiet, soft but cutting. "They'll be watching you closely," she said from her corner. "Every spell, every movement. Try not to embarrass yourself, hm?"
Harry didn't look at her. "I'll do my best," he said dryly, stepping past the tent's threshold and into the glaring sunlight.
The roar of the crowd was deafening as Harry stepped out of the tunnel and into the blazing sunlight. The heat hit him immediately, oppressive and suffocating, mingling with the acrid scent of smoke and scorched stone.
The Hungarian Horntail was already waiting.
It stood at the far end of the arena, its massive body coiled like a spring. Its black scales shimmered like molten obsidian, and its golden eyes burned with a predator's intensity.
Harry's grip on his wand tightened as he forced himself forward. The Pensivae Orbs buzzed excitedly around him, their runes glowing faintly as they captured every detail: the set of his jaw, the beads of sweat on his forehead, the way his fingers flexed against the polished wood of his wand.
The Horntail growled low in its throat, its spiked tail twitching as it tracked his movements.
Bind, blind, distract. Salazar's voice echoed in his mind, steady and unyielding. And don't stop moving.
The arena was deathly quiet as Harry stepped onto the scorched pit, the heat of the day pressing against his skin like a smothering blanket. The crowd erupted into cheers and murmurs, their voices indistinguishable under the oppressive roar of the Pensivae Orbs hovering above.
The Hungarian Horntail crouched on the far side of the arena, a hulking mass of muscle, scales, and rage. Its golden eyes locked onto Harry, unblinking and predatory. Smoke curled from its nostrils, its spiked tail twitching as it could smell the vapours of his boiling blood.
Harry tightened his grip on his wand, his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear Salazar's voice in his mind: "Dragons are chaos incarnate. They do not yield; they only destroy. Outlast it, Potter. That is your only chance."
The judges' table loomed in his peripheral vision, and Harry knew the magical microphones attached to each champion had been activated. A small, innocuous-looking artifact clipped to his robe amplified every sound he made, ensuring the entire world would hear his every word, his every breath.
"Ready, Mr. Potter?" Ludo Bagman's voice boomed over the enchanted arena.
Harry gave a curt nod, his jaw tightening as his gaze remained fixed on the Horntail.
The judge's whistle shrieked, and the beast exploded into motion.
The Horntail roared, its massive wings unfurling as it lunged forward. Harry dove to the side, the sheer force of its movement sending tremors through the ground.
"Vincula Aeterna!" Harry shouted, his voice ringing out as steaming white chains erupted from his wand, lashing toward the dragon's legs.
The chains wrapped around the Horntail's claws, glowing red-hot as the beast thrashed against them. Harry didn't pause, aiming his wand higher.
"Lumen Caecum!" A blinding flash of white light burst from his wand, hitting the dragon square in the eyes. The Horntail roared in fury, shaking its massive head as it clawed at the ground.
For a moment, Harry thought he had bought himself time. He sprinted toward the golden egg, its gleaming surface tantalizingly close.
The crack of breaking chains shattered that hope.
The Horntail let out a roar that shook the arena, its claws slashing through the remnants of Harry's spell as if they were paper. Its tail whipped forward, sending a shower of rocks in his direction. Harry ducked, throwing up a shield spell just in time to avoid being crushed.
"Think, Harry, think!" he muttered to himself, his mind racing. There was no time to waste—no time for hesitation. He had to act: now. The fiery breath of the beast was only moments away.
The Horntail's massive tail lashed toward him, the tip a blur of scales and venomous fury. Harry barely managed to dodge, the tail grazing the edge of his robes as he rolled to the side. His heart hammered in his chest as the ground beneath him trembled with the dragon's next thunderous step.
"Accio!" Harry shouted, his wand raised as he attempted to summon a large rock from the edge of the arena, hoping to use it as a shield. The stone rumbled toward him, but it wasn't fast enough. The dragon's clawed foot came down with a deafening thud, sending a shockwave through the ground that knocked the rock aside and threw Harry off balance.
He stumbled, his legs barely catching him as he sprinted to the side, dodging another strike from the tail. The Horntail's head snapped around with terrifying speed, its eyes locking onto him like a predator sensing its prey. The fire in its belly seemed to grow, and Harry could almost feel the heat rise in the air as the dragon prepared to unleash its inferno.
"Not yet," Harry muttered, desperation creeping into his voice as he threw up another shield charm. The dragon's roar shook the arena, its fiery breath billowing toward him, but the shield held. Barely.
The momentary reprieve didn't last long. The dragon's wings beat the air with a force that sent gusts of wind whipping through the arena, forcing Harry to brace himself. He had to get to the egg. It was his only chance. But the dragon wasn't giving him any room to breathe.
His mind raced for an answer, his heart pounding in his throat. He couldn't keep dodging forever. He couldn't just wait for the dragon's next move. He had to do something, now.
With a flash of inspiration, he flicked his wand, casting "Impedius!" A burst of magical force shot out, hitting the dragon's leg. It staggered for a moment, its footing slipping, and Harry seized the opportunity. He sprinted toward the egg, his muscles screaming in protest as he pushed himself harder, faster.
But the dragon was quicker. With a snarl, the Horntail's tail lashed forward once more, faster than Harry could react. He barely had time to react before the impact sent him hurtling toward the stone wall. His body slammed into it with sickening force, his vision bursting with black spots as the air was knocked from his lungs. A taste of blood filled his mouth, and he coughed hard, struggling to get back on his feet.
No time left.
The Horntail inhaled sharply, its massive chest expanding, and Harry's blood ran cold.
Harry tightened his grip on his wand, his heartbeat a deafening drumbeat in his ears. The enchanted golden egg sat at the centre of the arena, glimmering like a beacon of false hope.
Focus, Potter he thought, Salazar's voice echoing faintly in the back of his mind. This isn't about glory. It's about survival.
From the judges' table, Dumbledore leaned forward, his sharp gaze fixed on Harry with an intensity that felt like a weight. The boy's expression was calm—eerily calm for someone facing a creature that would incinerate him in seconds. He was about to step in, some leeway around the goblet's rules would allow him to save the boy yet there was a weight to Harry's steps, a sense of quiet determination that sent a ripple of unease through the headmaster.
He glanced at the other judges. Karkaroff was sneering, clearly unimpressed. Maxime's face was lined with worry. Dumbledore's gaze returned to the arena, his fingers steepled as he watched the boy
Cassiopeia Rosier stood near the edge of the arena as she observed Harry's movements. The roar of the crowd barely registered in her mind.
Despite being battered and bloodied, Harry still stood—his posture defiant, as if he were ready to pull some miracle from thin air. There was something interesting about Potter.
Something dangerous.
"He looks like he's walking to his own funeral," Gabrielle muttered beside her.
Cassiopeia's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Perhaps. Or perhaps he's walking to everyone else's."
Her gaze flicked to the dragon, a slow-burning curiosity stirring in her chest. She wanted to see what Potter would do when cornered, when there was no escape. She wanted to see if he'd burn—or rise from the flames.
From the stands, Daphne Greengrass watched with wide eyes as the dragon reared back, its chest expanding. She clutched the edge of her seat, her nails digging into the wood as the dragon unleashed a torrent of fire.
For a moment, she thought Potter would run.
But he didn't.
"He's… walking into it," she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief.
Beside her, Tracey Davis leaned forward, her dark eyes narrowing. "The hell is he doing?"
The fire consumed Harry, and Daphne's breath caught in her throat.
Gabrielle Delacour's elegant composure cracked as the fire roared to life. Her hands gripped her robes tightly, her pale irises fixed on the inferno.
"He's mad," she whispered, her French accent thick with disbelief. "He's going to die."
She felt her sister's absence keenly in that moment, Fleur's voice echoing in her mind: Magic bends to the will of those who dare.
Gabrielle shivered, unsure if Harry's actions were bravery—or madness.
The fire surrounded him, its heat suffocating, its roar drowning out all sound. The world outside the flames didn't exist.
Harry raised his wand, his voice barely above a whisper. "Serpens Ardor."
The words slithered from his lips in Parseltongue, the language twisting in the air like a living thing. The magical microphones picked up the whisper, amplifying it across the arena. But to the crowd, it was nothing more than a guttural hiss.
As Harry walks into the fire, the crowd falls into a stunned silence. The roar of the Hungarian Horntail's flames drowns out everything, and for a brief, harrowing moment, nothing is visible.
The fire engulfs Harry completely, his figure disappearing into the inferno. The Pensivae Orbs hover uncertainly, their runes flickering as if trying to decide whether to zoom closer or pull away.
The silence in the arena stretches unbearably long, broken only by the crackling of flames.
"He's gone…" someone whispers from the stands.
Gabrielle Delacour's hands fly to her mouth, her usually cold expression giving way to horror. Cedric Diggory pales, his fingers curling into fists. Even Cassiopeia Rosier stiffens, her smirk fading as she narrows her eyes at the firestorm.
Daphne Greengrass can barely breathe, her nails digging into the wooden edge of her seat. "He's dead," she whispers, the words hollow and uncertain.
From the judges' table, Madame Maxime murmurs something in French, her face pale. Karkaroff sneers but doesn't speak, his unease betraying his usual bravado.
And Dumbledore… Dumbledore leans forward slightly, his blue eyes darkening with something that could be sorrow—or suspicion.
But just as the crowd begins to accept what they've witnessed, the fire starts to shift.
They didn't die down—they grew brighter, hotter, until the fire itself began to take shape.
The flames twist violently, pulling inward like a storm collapsing upon itself. For several long seconds, there's nothing but blinding green light.
They didn't die down—they grew brighter, hotter, until the fire itself began to take shape.
The green fire builds and coils, rising higher and higher until the figure of a basilisk becomes clear. Its massive head rears back, its blazing fangs bared, and its body coils protectively around the center of the inferno.
The crowd freezes.
Gasps echo through the stands, followed by a sharp intake of breath that seems to ripple across the entire arena.
"What… is that?" Cedric mutters, his voice trembling as his wide eyes take in the blazing serpent.
Gabrielle stares, her breath hitching as she whispers, "He's alive."
The Pensivae Orbs zoom closer, capturing every flicker of flame, every ripple of the basilisk's fiery scales. The crowd watches in stunned silence, the tension thick enough to suffocate.
The basilisk coiled around Harry like a living shield, its body a writhing mass of emerald flames that hissed and crackled as they absorbed the intense heat from the Hungarian Horntail's fire. Its fiery coils surrounded Harry, the heat from its burning form searing the air yet offering protection from the dragon's fiery onslaught.
Harry felt the heat crawl atop his skin, but it was muted, buffered by the basilisk's fiery embrace. The basilisk's molten body was an inferno unto itself, its flame-powered essence flickering with energy as it coiled tighter around him, forming a wall of fire that shielded him from the worst of the Horntail's fury.
But the basilisk wasn't done.
As the Horntail's flames finally sputtered out, the emerald serpent seemed to pause, as if sensing the dragon's moment of weakness. Then, without warning, the basilisk uncoiled from around Harry, moving with terrifying speed. Its body—a living mass of emerald fire—slithered forward, leaving trails of molten light in its wake. It was no longer merely protecting; now, it was on the attack.
When the basilisk lets out a silent hiss, its glowing emerald eyes locking onto the Hungarian Horntail, the soundless warning is enough to make the dragon rear back slightly.
It's not until the basilisk lunges that the crowd erupts into chaos.
The Hungarian Horntail let out a guttural growl, but it was too slow, too unwieldy in its massive size. The basilisk slithered silently in front of Harry, its body an undulating mass of emerald fire that crackled and hissed with every movement. There was no flesh beneath the flames—no scales, no muscle, just pure fire, burning with a green intensity that distorted the very air around it. It was a creature born of pure magic, a being that existed only to burn, to devour.
Harry's breath caught in his throat as the basilisk's fire swallowed the dragon whole. The air shimmered with the intense heat, every breath in his lungs feeling like he was inhaling molten lava. He stood there. Frozen. The weight of the scene pressing down on him, demanding his attention. His past 3 years of dangers, triumph and gallivanting through Hogwarts couldn't even compare to what his eyes were seeing right now. This was raw, primal... all consuming. A Song of Fire and Flesh. A clash between emerald and obsidian. His heart raced as he watched the spectacle unfold, the golden egg he had picked up during the inferno felt like a cold paperweight in his palms. An empty prize compared to the view he was witnessing.
The fire hissed as it met flesh, scales melting under the basilisk's touch. The Horntail's roar was cut short, its body jerking violently as the flames lapped at it. It's previous arrogance turned to desperation. The stench of scorched meat permeated the air, acrid and suffocating, but Harry barely noticed.
For a fleeting moment, he was a child again seated in a vast shadowed opera house, the ceiling arching high above like a cathedral. The Dursleys had taken him there for Dudley's birthday, though not out of kindness—they simply hadn't wanted to leave him home alone. He had been shoved into the farthest corner of the plush red seats, had been too young to understand the occasion. In his mind, the haunting strains of Lacrimosa from Mozart's Requiem echoed, the mournful dirge for the dying and the damned.
It was beautiful and devastating, so much bigger than him, and it had left him feeling hollow and small, like a forgotten shadow amidst the grandeur.
Now, standing in the arena, watching the emerald basilisk coil and writhe around the Horntail, the memory came rushing back. The flaming serpent's strikes were sharp and deliberate, each movement like a chord hammered into existence. The dragon thrashed and spewed, its scales cracking beneath the relentless heat, its defiance fading as the basilisk pressed tighter, hotter, fiercer. The arena seemed to shrink under the weight of their conflict, a storm of fire and flesh that echoed the music. It was as if the Lacrimosa itself had come alive, a mournful, vengeful crescendo dragging both beast and witness into its haunting finality.
The scene felt apocalyptic, a performance staged for gods rather than men. Harry tightened his grip on the golden egg, the cold paperweight in his hands an anchor against the sheer enormity of what he was witnessing. Chopin's music echoed in his mind—not as a memory, but as a haunting prophecy, a prelude to destruction that seemed composed for this very moment.
His eyes were locked on the scene, the symphony of destruction unfolding with a horrifying, almost hypnotic beauty. The dragon's massive wings beat once, twice, and then stilled. Its massive form, once full of life and fury, collapsed onto the ground like a dying star—its fire dimming, its strength fading with the last echoes of its breath.
And as the dragon's dying roar cracked through the arena, Harry found himself frozen, unable to breathe, as though he were once again sitting in that opera house, a broken, neglected child overwhelmed by something far too grand and terrible for him to comprehend.
The last of the basilisk's fire faded into embers, green sparks scattering across the arena like dying stars. The Hungarian Horntail let out a final, tortured groan as its massive body toppled backward, its legs twitching weakly before it crashed onto its back.
Harry stumbled, the earth beneath him shaking with the impact. Somehow, as if willed by an unseen force, he found himself stepping forward, until he stood atop the dragon's exposed stomach. Its charred scales glowing warm, the rise and fall of its chest growing slower, weaker.
The world tilted.
Harry felt the rough texture of the dragon's scales beneath him, the uneven rise and fall of its chest as it took its final, labored breaths. The golden egg in his hand felt heavier than anything he'd ever held.
The golden egg's coldness anchored him, pulling him to this moment. Smoke and ash swirled around him like a veil, obscuring the faces of the crowd, but he didn't need to see them to know he had all their attention.
His knees pressed into the dragon's belly, his legs trembling with the effort of holding him upright. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back as he exhaled softly, the breath escaping his lips in a visible puff of heat.
For a moment, everything was silent. The crowd, the judges, the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
'It's done' Harry thought distantly.
He wasn't sure why he climbed, why he stood there now, perched atop his fallen foe, but some primal instinct had driven him—something old and unyielding, demanding that the world witness what he had conquered. His breath came in ragged gasps, realising the sheer volume of magic that had ripped out of him, as he stared down at the Horntail.
For the briefest of moments, Harry felt the weight of the crown: the one placed upon him by the world... The Boy Who Lived, twice over now, and yet it felt hollow, like a name he never truly asked for. This wasn't victory—it was survival, the kind that had engraved itself upon his nature. They would never know this though. He stood atop a monster, and that was all they would remember.
The Pensivae Orbs hovered closer, capturing the scene in perfect detail: the boy kneeling atop the beast, his wand loose in his hand, his robes scorched and tattered. The light caught the streaks of soot on his face, the faint glow of green light still flickering in his half-lidded eyes.
He looked like something out of a dream—or a nightmare.
He wasn't sure how long he knelt there, his body in tatters yet still unwilling to shake hands with Morpheus . His senses faded in and out, but he could feel it—the heat of the fire, the weight of the moment, the eyes of the world watching him.
Daphne Greengrass sat frozen, her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the boy in the arena.
Harry Potter looked... otherworldly. The dragon lay defeated beneath him, its massive body still smoldering from the fight. The smoke framed him like a halo of ash and fire, the embers casting a faint green glow that clung to his skin.
"He doesn't look real," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Beside her, Tracey Davis let out a low, shaky laugh. "He doesn't look human."
But Daphne wasn't sure. There was something sacred about the scene—something untouchable. Harry Potter looked like a boy who had walked into hell and come back with fire in his veins.
Cassiopeia Rosier's lips curved into a smirk as she watched Harry slowly rise to his feet.
The boy was trembling, barely able to stand, but the image he painted was undeniable: a predator standing atop its kill. The dragon beneath him was still, its golden eyes dim, its massive wings splayed lifelessly across the scorched earth.
He didn't acknowledge the crowd. He didn't bask in their cheers. He just... stood, his golden egg clutched tightly in his hand.
Cassiopeia's smirk widened. 'You're more interesting than I thought, Potter.'
The roar of the crowd was deafening as Harry's vision slowly came into focus. His body ached with every movement, his legs threatening to buckle as he forced himself upright. Smoke still lingered in the air, curling around him like it was preventing him from any critiquing remarks
The dragon lay beneath him, utterly still, its massive chest rising and falling in laboured breaths. The golden egg was heavy in Harry's hand, its smooth surface warm against his palm. He tightened his grip on it, steadying himself as he took a halting step forward.
Each of his limbs moving felt like wading through quicksand, his muscles screaming in protest. Harry bit the inside of his cheek, hard, feeling the sharp pain before the taste of blood flooded his mouth.
No. Not here. Not now, he thought, forcing his limbs to obey. Not with thousands of eyes fixed on him.
'One step at a time' he thought.
The Pensivae Orbs vibrated around him, their glowing runes capturing every detail of his smoke-streaked face, his tattered robes, the faint tremble in his wand hand.
He didn't stop.
The tunnel leading back to the champions' tent felt impossibly long. Harry's breaths came shallow and uneven, but he kept his shoulders squared and his head high. The cheers of the crowd faded into a dull roar behind him, replaced by the muted whispers of the judges seated near the entrance.
He slowed as he approached the judges' table, his steps faltering for the briefest moment as their voices reached his ears.
"Well, here he is," Karkaroff said, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade. "The boy who lived… and the boy who summons that."
He gestured dramatically toward the dying embers of the fire basilisk, his lips curling into a sneer.
Harry climbed onto the stage, his expression impassive despite the pounding in his chest. He didn't respond, but his grip on the golden egg tightened, his knuckles whitening.
Karkaroff leaned back in his chair, his eyes darkening. "Tell me, Dumbledore," he said, "is this what your protégé has become? Whispering incantations in Parseltongue, summoning beasts of destruction… Is this the sort of magic you encourage at Hogwarts these days?"
The murmurs in the crowd swelled, fragments of conversation floating through the air.
"Did he just say Parseltongue?"
"Dark magic… it looked like dark magic, didn't it?"
"That was no ordinary spell…"
Dumbledore's expression didn't falter, but his eyes grew colder. "Mr. Potter's use of magic during the task was… unorthodox," he said carefully, his tone measured. "But he completed the task with ingenuity and skill."
"Unorthodox?" Karkaroff repeated, his voice rising with incredulity. "Dumbledore, this—this was reckless! Dangerous! Do you think the protections on this arena would have stopped that… thing if it had turned on the crowd? Or do you simply not care?".
Each word spewing from Karkaroff's mouth was heightened by the microphone attached to the collar of his shirt.
"The flames could have killed many if it weren't for the protections on the arena!" Karkaroff stressed, his voice sharp with anger. His pale face twisted into a sneer as he gestured to the scorched field. "A basilisk of fire! And he cast it in Parseltongue! Do you realize what this means?"
Madame Maxime frowned slightly but remained calm. "Ze spell was effective, Igor. Ze dragon was subdued, and no one was harmed. Is zat not ze point of ze task?"
"You think this is about effectiveness?" Karkaroff snapped, turning on her. "The boy spoke a spell no one could understand. Do you know how dangerous that is? Parseltongue is not meant for casting magic! It twists spells, amplifies them, makes them uncontrollable!"
Ludo Bagman, standing slightly off to the side, laughed nervously and clapped his hands. "Now, now, Igor, let's not get too carried away. The boy clearly had things under control. The crowd loved it, didn't they? Quite the spectacle, if you ask me!"
Karkaroff rounded on him, his sneer deepening. "Spectacle? Is that what you think this is about? You're blind if you can't see the danger here. No human wizard should be able to use Parseltongue to channel spells!"
Harry's exhaustion burned away, replaced by a growing fire that stiffened his spine and tightened his jaw. He took a step closer to the table, emerald sparks seemed to crackle in his eyes locking onto Karkaroff.
"Funny," he said, his voice cutting through the rising whispers. "You're so concerned about dangerous magic now, Karkaroff. You didn't seem to mind it much when you were following your Master, did you?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Karkaroff's sneer faltered, the lines of his face hardening into something darker. His fingers curled tightly around the armrest of his chair, the knuckles blanching.
"You'd do well to watch your tongue, Potter," he hissed.
Harry tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a faint, cruel smile. "Why? Did I hit a nerve?"
Karkaroff's jaw tightened, but he didn't reply.
"Enough," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable authority. He turned to Karkaroff, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding. "Igor, we are here to judge the champions' performance—not to dredge up the past."
"The past?" Karkaroff snapped, his composure cracking as his thin lips curled into a sneer. He jabbed a finger in Harry's direction, "This isn't about the past, Dumbledore. This is about the present. What we saw out there—what we all saw—was not bravery. It was recklessness! That magic could have leveled the entire arena!"
Harry tensed where he stood, his grip tightening on the golden egg. His body was screaming at him to sit, to rest, but the sharpness of Karkaroff's voice cut through his exhaustion like a knife.
"Recklessness," Dumbledore repeated, his tone measured but carrying a faint edge. "And yet, Harry cast his spell in desperation. He was cornered—like a rat backed into a trap—forced to use whatever he had at his disposal to survive. Tell me, Igor, would you not expect the same from any of your students in such a situation?"
Karkaroff's eyes flashed, his sneer widening. "Desperation is no excuse, Dumbledore. That spell—that creature—was no ordinary magic. It was ancient, dangerous magic. He doesn't even understand what he's playing with!"
"Perhaps not," Dumbledore conceded, inclining his head slightly. "But tell me this, Igor: did you see the flames spill beyond the arena? Did you see them strike the crowd or consume the judges' table? Did they harm anyone other than the dragon?" He gestured toward the smoldering remains of the Horntail, "Because I did not."
Karkaroff's mouth opened, but no words came out.
"Control," Dumbledore said softly, answering his own question. "That is what I saw. Desperation, yes, but also intent. The basilisk struck only its target. Its flames were contained. No one else was harmed."
"Control?" Karkaroff barked out a sharp, bitter laugh. "You call that control? He's fourteen, Dumbledore! A boy barely out of childhood, wielding magic he shouldn't even know—magic that belongs to the shadows of history!"
The tension in the air was palpable as silence fell between the judges. The crowd in the stands buzzed with hushed whispers, the question hanging heavily over them all.
"Perhaps," Dumbledore said after a beat, his tone softening but his gaze locked on Karkaroff, "we should also discuss what students at Durmstrang are taught about such magic."
Karkaroff stiffened "What are you implying, Dumbledore?" he said
"Nothing more than what we already know," Dumbledore said lightly, though his eyes remained sharp. "Durmstrang, as we all understand, does not shy away from teaching the darker arts. In fact, it has long prided itself on its willingness to embrace knowledge others might find… questionable."
Karkaroff's jaw looked as if it would implode from its egregious bulging. "We teach control. Discipline. Our students do not summon ancient monstrosities out of desperation like an untrained child flailing in the dark!"
Dumbledore's brows lifted slightly, his expression faintly amused. "Control and discipline? From a school whose graduates often find themselves in the service of individuals like—"
"Careful," Karkaroff interrupted sharply, his grey eyes flashed, a faint tremor in his sneer betraying his anger.
Dumbledore didn't falter, his calm demeanour unshaken. "My point, Igor," he said evenly, "is that if you are so concerned with Harry's understanding of the magic he used, then perhaps we should examine what your own students are taught about such spells."
Madame Maxime cleared her throat, her deep voice cutting through the tension. "It was reckless," she admitted, her expression still unreadable. "But ze boy did retrieve ze egg." She raised her wand, and the number 8 shimmered in the air above her head in bold gold.
Karkaroff's sneer returned as he flicked his wand lazily. The number 6 appeared above him, drawing scattered boos from the crowd.
"And that is generous," he muttered, loud enough for Harry to hear.
Finally, Dumbledore raised his wand, the number 10 glowing silver in the air. He didn't look at Karkaroff or Maxime, his eyes fixed instead on Harry.
"A remarkable display of courage and ingenuity," Dumbledore said simply.
"An astounding 24 points ladies and gentleman! A remarkable battle to remember for our boy who lived!" Bagman cried out, his voice practically vibrating with glee.
As Harry turned to leave, Karkaroff's voice followed through.
"Mark my words, Dumbledore," he said, his tone dripping with disdain. "The boy's path is already set. He's a shadow waiting to grow."
Harry's chapped lips tightened into a thin, dark, line as he weaved through the arena. The crowd's eyes followed him, their whispers swirling in a whirlwind of mixed emotions. Yet there was a gentle tug of scepticism thrumming in his mind. Karkaroff's outrage didn't feel entirely genuine—it felt more like a performance, as if he was putting on a show for the crowd, for the other judges.
Harry caught it then—a glint in Karkaroff's eyes, faint but unmistakable. It wasn't anger; it was something closer to smug satisfaction. He wasn't just condemning Harry—he was making a point. Marking a line in the sand.
'Bloody politics,' Harry thought bitterly, his teeth clenching as he pushed through the arena gates and out of sight.
The tent fell into a heavy silence as Harry stepped inside, the golden egg cradled in his arms. His robes hung in tatters, scorched at the edges, and his face was streaked with soot. Yet, the faint green glow that clung to him—the lingering remnants of the fire basilisk—made him look almost ethereal. His dark hair was wild, his green eyes sharp, and his presence filled the small space like a storm waiting to break.
No one spoke at first.
Cedric Diggory sat on the edge of one of the cots, his usually bright expression dulled by fatigue. His left arm was wrapped tightly in bandages soaked with a greenish-blue potion, the faint scent of dittany wafting from the wound. He glanced up as Harry entered, his brows furrowing in concern.
"Merlin, Potter," Cedric said, his voice hoarse. "You look like you just fought the Horntail all over again."
Harry managed a faint, bitter smile. "Feels like it too," he muttered, dragging himself to the nearest cot.
Gabrielle Delacour sat cross-legged on her own bed, her silver-blonde hair pulled back into a loose braid. She looked unscathed, though her pale skin had an unnatural flush, as if she'd pushed herself to her limits. Her sharp blue eyes followed Harry's every movement, calculating and cold in a way that reminded him of her sister.
"You didn't die," she said simply, her voice clipped and neutral. "I thought you might, for a moment."
Harry dropped the egg onto the bed beside him with a soft thud, letting out a long exhale as he sank onto the mattress. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said dryly, wincing as he adjusted his position.
In the far corner of the tent, Cassiopeia Rosier reclined lazily in a chair, her ankle crossed over her knee. Her wand rested loosely in her hand, the polished wood catching the faint glow of the Pensivae Orbs hovering near the ceiling. Her cloudy eyes studied Harry, half-lidded but sharp, and a faint sheen of sweat clung to her forehead.
"Well," Rosier drawled, her voice low and smooth, "that was certainly… dramatic."
Harry shot her a sidelong glance, too tired to bite back a proper retort. "Didn't realize I'd signed up for theater criticism," he muttered.
Rosier's lips curved into a faint smirk. "Oh, don't get me wrong, Potter. It was impressive—suicidal, perhaps, but impressive nonetheless." She leaned forward slightly, her piercing gaze locking onto his. "But you do realize you just gave the whole world a front-row seat to some very… interesting magic, don't you?"
Harry frowned, his exhaustion warring with irritation. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Rosier said, her voice softening into something almost conspiratorial, "that you've painted a very large target on your back. People saw what you did out there, and they'll want to know how you did it. And when they can't figure it out, they'll start to wonder…" She tilted her head, her smirk widening. "And then they'll start to fear."
Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Gabrielle cut in, "She's right. Fear can be a powerful thing—sometimes even more dangerous than the spell itself."
Cedric shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking between the three of them. "Come on," he said earnestly. "He won, didn't he? We all knew what we were signing up for when we put our names in. It's just part of the tournament."
Harry snorted, leaning back against the headboard. "Yeah, well, I didn't exactly sign up for this, did I?"
Cedric's brow furrowed in confusion, but before he could press further, the flap of the tent opened sharply, and Madam Pomfrey strode in, her expression a mix of exasperation and worry. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, landing immediately on Harry.
"Merlin's beard, Potter," she snapped, marching toward him. "What on earth have you done to yourself this time?"
Harry blinked up at her, momentarily caught off guard. "Won the task," he said dryly.
Pomfrey huffed, muttering something about recklessly silly boys and blasted tournaments under her breath. She waved her wand over him, her lips pursed tightly as a soft, golden light swept over his body.
"Magical depletion," she muttered to herself, her tone brisk. "And you're lucky you didn't burn your lungs with all that smoke. Honestly, Potter, do you have any sense of self-preservation?"
Harry shrugged weakly. "Not really."
Pomfrey let out an exasperated sigh, pulling a small vial out from her apron. She thrust it toward him, her expression brooking no argument. "Drink. Now."
Harry grimaced but obeyed, the potion's bitter taste making his stomach churn.
"You've made them afraid," Gabrielle said softly, restarting the conversation.
Harry looked up at her, frowning slightly. "Afraid of what?"
"Of you," Gabrielle replied simply. "What you did out there… it wasn't just magic. It was power. Real power. People fear what they can't understand."
Harry's stomach tightened, but before he could respond, Cassiopeia's low, drawling voice cut in.
"She's right, you know," Rosier said, twirling her wand idly between her fingers. "You don't look real... You look like a painting come to life— The Boy Who Lived, standing atop his kill, bathed in fire and shadow. Do you enjoy looking like a storybook character, Potter?"
A chuckle slipped from Cedric, throaty and reluctant, breaking the tension for only a moment. "She's got a point," he murmured, leaning back on his cot. His brown eyes glinted faintly with a mix of amusement and something unreadable. "You didn't just win, Potter. You announced yourself. Loudly. And now everyone—every country, every school—is going to be watching you. Waiting to see what you'll do next."
"But don't get too big a head, Potter. I'm still leading. Twenty-eight to twenty-four, if you've already forgotten. Mythical hero or not, I'm still ahead of you." Cassiopeia said letting loose a collection of pearly whites.
He ignored her, turning his head toward the enchanted screen hanging near the edge of the tent, where the Pensivae Orbs were replaying the aftermath of his task in stark, unflinching detail. The charred remains of the dragon's body were still displayed, its massive form sprawled across the scorched stone of the arena. Wisps of smoke rose from its lifeless wings, and the faint cries of Lacrimosa still hummed in his mind.
To the side of the screen, a leaderboard glowed softly, the scores written in elegant, velvety script:
28 Cassiepoeia Rosier
24 Harry Potter
22 Gabrielle Delacour
20 Cedric Diggory
His name stood out, lacquered in deep gold, second only to Rosier's.
"Second place," Harry muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.
The words tasted bitter. His eyes lingered on his name, the realization settling heavily in his chest.
Survive? He repeated the word in his mind, the idea twisting uncomfortably. Was that all it was? Just getting through this alive?
The crowd had roared for him. They'd screamed his name, awed by the fire and chaos he'd conjured, by the sheer audacity of summoning the basilisk in flames. Yet it wasn't about them, their adoration was meaningless —cheap. It was about something deeper. About the present, proving to the world of who he was now
Not just the Boy Who Lived. He gritted his teeth, his fingers curling tightly around the golden egg's smooth surface. I'm more than that. I have to be more than that.
His eyes drifted back to the leaderboard. Second place.
The words reverberated in his mind, leaving an aftertaste of dissatisfaction he hadn't anticipated. He'd never cared about the scores before—not really. But now, as he stared at the numbers Rosier's voice drifted back to him, sharp and deliberate: "Don't get too big a head, Potter. I'm still leading."
It wasn't the taunt itself that got under his skin—it was the truth buried within it. She was still leading. She had a plan, a calm confidence in her steps, while he had been a cornered animal, desperate and wild, pulling magic from the depths of instinct. He knew that his battle would be the most memorable, the one that captured the peoples hearts, the one that would be talked about for the next few weeks. But it was also careless.
Control
That was where he had faltered. It would be humiliating to admit that his first plan had failed embarrassingly, that the magical chains he'd summoned were too unstable, too weak to hold the Horntail for long. He hadn't controlled the chaos; he had let it sweep him along, reacting to it instead of mastering it.
Harry tightened his grip on the golden egg, its smooth surface grounding him. He didn't hate the chaos—it was his biome at this point with the amount of situations he found himself placed in. But this? Stumbling, desperate? It wasn't enough..
Do I want to win?
For the first time, the question lingered, unanswered.
Harry awoke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the faint hum of magical wards flickering in the air. The Hospital Wing was dimly lit, the enchanted lanterns casting soft pools of golden light across the room. He blinked against the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, his muscles aching, his very magic feeling wrung dry.
"Magical depletion, physical strain, and Merlin knows what else," Madam Pomfrey's sharp voice broke the silence as she swept toward him. "Honestly, Potter, do you try to make my job harder?"
Harry managed a weak smile. "Keeps things interesting, doesn't it?"
Pomfrey huffed, muttering under her breath as she waved her wand over his chest. A faint, greenish glow radiated from the tip, flickering as it scanned him. Her frown deepened, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"What is it?" Harry asked, his voice hoarse.
She didn't answer immediately, instead performing the diagnostic spell again. This time, the glow shifted to a deeper green, casting strange shadows over Harry's face.
"This isn't right," Pomfrey muttered. She straightened abruptly, her gaze sharp and concerned as she conjured shimmering privacy wards around Harry's bed. "I'm calling the Headmaster."
"What's wrong with me?" Harry demanded, his unease spiking.
Pomfrey's expression softened, though her worry didn't fade. "I don't know, Potter," she said carefully. "And that's the problem."
The sound of soft footsteps broke the stillness of the ward a few minutes later. Dumbledore entered, his blue robes flowing behind him and his usual calm smile absent. His piercing eyes flicked to the privacy wards, then to Madam Pomfrey, who stood at the foot of Harry's bed, her face set in grim determination.
"Poppy?" he asked, his voice gentle but laced with concern.
Madam Pomfrey straightened. "Albus, I've run every diagnostic spell I know, and the results are… unusual, to say the least."
Oh, great," Harry muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Another thing no one's going to explain until it nearly kills me."
Dumbledore's lips twitched, though his expression remained serious. "Let us see," he said softly, stepping closer. His wand appeared with a flick of his hand. "May I?"
Harry nodded reluctantly, leaning back against the pillows.
Dumbledore waved his wand in a series of intricate, looping patterns, murmuring softly under his breath. Golden threads of light extended from the wand, weaving themselves around Harry like a cocoon. For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint hum of magic.
Dumbledore lowered his wand, the threads of golden light fading into the still air.
"Harry," he began, his voice calm but deliberate, "what I am about to explain may seem… complex. But I assure you, it is vital that you understand the significance of what has happened."
Harry nodded cautiously.
Dumbledore glanced briefly at Madam Pomfrey, who stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed and her lips pressed into a tight line. "Poppy, if you would allow me to continue privately with Harry, I shall update you once we have reached an understanding."
Pomfrey hesitated, her eyes flicking to Harry with a hint of reluctance, but after a moment, she nodded and stepped back beyond the privacy wards, leaving the two alone.
Dumbledore conjured a chair with a flick of his wand and sat down beside Harry's bed, his expression softening slightly.
"Harry," he said gently, "your magical core—the wellspring of magic that resides within every witch and wizard—is shifting. It is rare, but not unheard of, for a core to change as a person grows. What concerns me, however, is the nature of this change."
Harry frowned. "What kind of change?"
"Your core is no longer entirely yours. It has been… influenced. The traces of this influence are ancient, powerful, and distinctly tied to what i can only assume would be Salazar Slytherin's lineage."
"Because of Parseltongue?" Harry guessed.
Dumbledore inclined his head. "Partly. Parseltongue is more than just a language—it is a magical trait, a conduit through which spells can be channeled with greater intensity and instinct. When you cast in Parseltongue, Harry, your intent becomes amplified. The magic does not merely respond to you; it aligns with your very being. But this is where it becomes complicated."
He paused, his fingers steepling as he continued. "Your connection to Slytherin—through both Parseltongue and the fragment of Voldemort's scar " His eyes flicking up to his forehead—"has left a lasting mark. Magic, particularly ancient magic, is not static. It evolves, adapts, and responds to the wielder's experiences and emotions. When you cast the fire basilisk, you tapped into a reservoir of magic tied to Slytherin's legacy, magic that has now begun to awaken within you."
Harry's stomach twisted. "Awaken? What does that mean?"
"It means," Dumbledore said carefully, "that your magic is no longer bound by the limits it once had. However, it also means that your core is adapting to something far older and more dangerous than ordinary wizarding magic."
Harry frowned, trying to make sense of the explanation. "So, this magic… it's just because I'm connected to Slytherin?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "Not entirely. Salazar Slytherin was a master of magic that we would now consider forgotten—spells and rituals rooted in instinct, emotion, and the primal forces of nature. When you cast the basilisk you did not simply perform a spell. You awakened a form of magic tied to Slytherin's bloodline, magic that responds to intention rather than incantation."
Harry blinked. "You're saying the spell worked because I wanted it to?"
"Precisely," Dumbledore replied. "The Parseltongue channelled your intent, and the dormant legacy of Slytherin within you gave it form. But this magic is not without consequence. It is forcing your very magical core to shift, reshaping itself to accommodate Slytherin's power. Your heritage is unlocking something ancient—something that risks turning you into a vessel for his magic."
Harry frowned. "But why now? Why didn't this happen before?"
Dumbledore hesitated, his expression turning thoughtful. "It is possible that the spell you cast acted as a catalyst, unlocking potential that had lain dormant within you. However…" He paused, his gaze narrowing slightly. "There is another possibility."
Harry's heart skipped a beat. "What?"
"The name Emily Riddle," Dumbledore said quietly, "is not unfamiliar to me. She was a figure of immense magical talent, someone who delved deeply into the kinds of magic you are now beginning to experience. If my suspicions are correct, her influence—or perhaps her legacy—may still linger in ways we do not fully understand."
Harry frowned, confusion flickering in his tired gaze. "Emily Riddle," he repeated slowly. "You mean Voldemort."
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. "Yes, Harry. Emily Riddle was—is—the same person. But I do not use the name Voldemort here, and it is not out of fear or reverence. It is because Emily Riddle was someone… different."
"Different?" Harry asked, his brows furrowing. "How? She's the same person, isn't she? The same one who—"
"Not entirely," Dumbledore interrupted gently. "You see, Harry, there was a time when Emily Riddle was not the dark force you know her to be. She was not the fractured being who styled herself as Lord Voldemort, consumed by hatred and power. Emily Riddle, as I remember her, was brilliant, ambitious, and undeniably gifted. But she was also deeply flawed—angry, proud, and distrustful. She sought power not for chaos but for control, a control she believed could protect her from the cruelties of the world."
Harry's frown deepened, his fingers curling around the edge of his blanket. "So… why call her Emily now? Why not just Voldemort? Why separate them at all?"
Dumbledore sighed, leaning back in his chair as if the weight of the question pressed on him. "Because to understand the full scope of who she became, we must first acknowledge who she was. Voldemort is a title, Harry—a mask she created to strip herself of vulnerability, to sever any ties to the girl she once was. But Emily Riddle? She was human. She felt, she feared, she longed for something more than power, even if she would never admit it. By calling her Emily, I remind myself—and perhaps even you—that she was not born a monster."
The words hung in the air, and Harry felt a strange mix of unease and curiosity.
"So… what's this got to do with me?" he asked slowly. "Why does her 'legacy' matter here?"
Dumbledore's expression grew more sombre. "Because, Harry, the magic you tapped into—the magic tied to Slytherin—is the same magic she pursued relentlessly. Emily Riddle did not inherit her power from Slytherin, as you have. She sought it out, mastered it, and wielded it with precision. What you cast with instinct and intent, she learned through will and sacrifice. If her legacy lingers within the magic of Slytherin's bloodline, it may be influencing your core as well."
Harry leaned back against the pillows, his mind racing. "So what do I do now? Let me guess. Sit tight, play along, and hope I don't explode?"
Dumbledore's gaze softened. "For now, rest. Your body and magic have been through a great deal. We will continue to monitor these changes, and I will do everything in my power to help you understand and control them."
Harry nodded slowly, though unease still churned in his chest. "And if I can't control it?"
Dumbledore's expression turned serious. "Then we must hope you never reach a point where control is no longer an option."
As Dumbledore stood to leave, Harry sank deeper into the hospital bed, exhaustion finally pulling at him like a tide. His mind churned with fragments of Dumbledore's words, the weight of their implications heavier than anything he'd carried before.
My magic is evolving. Slytherin's magic, her magic…
The Hospital Wing faded around him, the soft hum of magic dimming into nothingness. And as Harry drifted into a fitful sleep, a single thought clung to him:
What if this is just the beginning?