They had watched the memories of the Chosen Champions. As the name of the Chosen emerged from the Goblet of Fire, the Goblet played a memory for all to see, magically projecting it into the air.
Viktor Krum, Champion of Durmstrang, flew above their heads. It was him at the top of the world, The Word Quidditch Cup. He flew to the sound of screaming fans, both in memory and the ones in the Great Hall, showing his skills. He looked up at his memory self, confident and proud.
Cedric Diggory, Champion of Hogwarts, was also flying when his name was called. Everyone at the school, save for the first years and visitors, recognized the game. A raging storm, rolling thunder, flashing lightning, and Cedric braving it and catching the Snitch. The Hall was full of applause once more.
Fleur Delacour, Champion of Beauxbatons, beamed down at them as she showed her mettle at an international dueling tournament. She took the prize with dazzling skill and she looked over at the admiring crowd, also confident.
No memory played, however, when the fourth Champion was called: Harry Potter. Utter silence filled the empty air as people gaped when Albus Dumbledore read his name. Harry, pale and shaken, tried to refuse to approach. Already there were cries of anger and indignation, shouts of him cheating by the incensed gathering. Eventually he was forced to approach the Goblet.
"You must show them," Dumbledore said slowly, looking down at the boy.
Harry stood there, unable to escape the judging eyes and furious expressions. He finally reached out and touched the Goblet, forced to act out of desperation.
The air shimmered, and memory took hold.
The Forbidden Meeting
The flickering candlelight of the dungeons filled the space above them, revealing a young, scrawny Harry Potter standing before a monstrous sight—a wasted, corpse-like figure fused onto the back of a turbaned man. Gasps echoed throughout the Great Hall.
"That's… that's Professor Quirrell!" a Hufflepuff whispered in horror.
The memory showed Quirrell pulling off his turban, revealing the grotesque face of Lord Voldemort staring back at them. Students shrieked. A few first years started crying. Even the teachers tensed. Dumbledore's face remained unreadable, but his fingers curled against the staff in his hand.
"I see you, boy," the eerie, high-pitched voice of Voldemort rang through the air. The memory-Harry stumbled back, clutching the Philosopher's Stone in his pocket.
"Voldemort was at Hogwarts in his first year?" someone in the crowd whispered in disbelief.
"HE FOUGHT HIM?" another voice rose.
The scene played out, showing Quirrell lunging for Harry, only to recoil in agony as his hands blistered and burned upon contact. Memory-Harry, tears in his eyes, grabbed onto Quirrell's face despite the pain. Smoke rose as the man screamed and thrashed—until he collapsed.
And then, everything faded to black.
A charged silence followed. Students looked to the teachers for an explanation, but most of them were as pale as the students.
"He killed a man." The words came from a Slytherin, spoken in awe and fear.
Harry, the real Harry, trembled. His fists clenched at his sides. But the Goblet was relentless. The Great Hall was deathly silent, yet the magic of the Goblet of Fire surged onward, refusing to let its audience look away. The air shimmered once more, and they were pulled back into the depths of another memory—one that would forever shatter the way they saw Harry Potter.
Tom Riddle's Revelation
They were in the Chamber of Secrets.
The cavernous lair loomed overhead, dripping with ancient menace. At its center stood young Harry, panting, bruised, and covered in dust. Opposite him stood Tom Riddle—elegant, calm, and terrible.
The memory played out: Harry demanding answers, Riddle smiling that cold, knowing smile. The moment came when Riddle raised his wand and traced his name in the air:
TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE
The letters twisted and rearranged themselves into something else.
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT
A collective gasp rippled through the Great Hall. The realization struck many like a physical blow.
"He… he was a student here," a Ravenclaw whispered in horror.
Draco Malfoy had gone completely rigid. His mouth was slightly open, his face drained of all color. He had always heard stories about the Dark Lord's past, but seeing it unfold before his eyes—seeing how eerily similar Riddle looked to Harry—made something cold and uncertain settle deep in his stomach.
The memory-Harry stood his ground, defiant despite the terror in his young face.
"I bet Dumbledore saw right through you," he spat.
Riddle's smirk twitched. "He certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me."
Those words—casual, almost amused—felt like ice to those watching. How close had the school come to raising the greatest Dark Lord in history without realizing it?
And yet, there was something else, something far more unnerving.
Tom Riddle watched Harry with an intense fascination. He spoke of their similarities—both orphans, both raised away from their kind, both able to speak to serpents.
"Harry Potter is a Parselmouth," someone whispered, the weight of the revelation sending ripples through the crowd.
But Riddle's most damning words came next.
"We are not so different, you and I."
Draco Malfoy let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. For years, he had prided himself on his bloodline, his heritage, his house. But here was Harry Potter, standing as an equal to the Heir of Slytherin, the boy he had always dismissed as beneath him. And yet…
Draco didn't know who he wanted to win.
Riddle called forth the Basilisk.
The air in the Great Hall turned suffocating as the monstrous serpent uncoiled from Slytherin's statue. The students barely had time to react before Fawkes descended in a flash of golden fire, gouging out the Basilisk's eyes. The audience gasped in awe, some clutching their chests as Harry sprinted across the cavern, dodging blindly as the beast thrashed in agony.
And then came the hat.
The Sorting Hat landed at Harry's feet, seemingly useless. But when he plunged his hand inside—
A gleaming silver sword emerged.
Gasps filled the Hall. A few students actually stood, straining to see if their eyes were deceiving them.
"Godric Gryffindor's sword," a Gryffindor Prefect whispered in awe.
No one had ever seen it before. No one had imagined that a mere second-year could be worthy of summoning it.
Then came the fight.
Harry scaled the statue, gripping the sword with both hands. His young face was tight with determination, his small frame a mere shadow against the Basilisk's monstrous size.
He leapt.
A collective scream echoed through the Hall as the Basilisk's fang impaled Harry's arm at the exact moment the sword plunged through the serpent's mouth.
The beast let out a deafening shriek before crashing lifelessly to the floor.
It was done.
But at what cost?
Memory-Harry collapsed, clutching his arm as venom seeped through his veins. His breaths grew shallow. His face paled.
He was dying.
The Great Hall was utterly still.
"He accepted it," Fred Weasley murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "He knew he was dying and didn't even flinch."
Ron Weasley looked like he might be sick. He had always known his best friend was reckless, but this…
Beside him, Professor McGonagall pressed a hand to her mouth. She had seen students risk themselves for others before, but never had she seen a child walk so willingly to his own death just to save another.
And then, from the shadows—Ginny Weasley.
Pale, lifeless, small.
The memory-Harry dragged himself forward, his vision swimming, his body giving out. He reached for Ginny, trying with the last of his strength to wake her.
Hagrid sniffled loudly.
"That's Harry, alright," he muttered. "Boy's got a heart bigger than 'imself."
Just as the last of the strength left Harry's body—
Fawkes landed beside him.
Golden tears dripped onto his wound, healing the flesh, purging the poison. The Hall watched, stunned, as Harry's strength returned, as Ginny awoke, as the impossible became reality.
Draco Malfoy looked away, jaw clenched.
He didn't know why it bothered him so much.
The scene shifted.
They were back at Hogwarts. Lucius Malfoy loomed over Dumbledore's desk, sneering, furious, but Harry wasn't afraid.
Then came the moment no one expected.
Harry tricked Lucius into freeing Dobby.
There was a beat of silence—then a loud whoop from Fred and George as they pumped their fists.
"Smart as hell, that one," George said.
Lucius turned on Harry, wand raised. Students flinched—some even gasped—
Then Dobby stepped in front of him.
Gasps turned into cheers. The little elf sent Lucius Malfoy flying back with a snap of his fingers, and Dobby turned to Harry, eyes full of gratitude.
"Harry Potter is Dobby's friend."
Several students wiped at their eyes. Even McGonagall looked misty.
Ron clapped Harry on the back. "Bloody hell, mate."
Betrayal and Bravery
The next memory hit hard.
The truth of Peter Pettigrew's betrayal sent ripples of shock through the Great Hall. The reveal of Sirius Black's innocence, the way Harry stood between his godfather and vengeance—it was almost too much to process.
Then came the Time-Turner.
They saw Harry and Hermione daring to tamper with time itself. They saw Harry's shocking realization:
"I saw my dad."
They saw him standing alone at the lake's edge, raising his wand as Dementors swarmed.
And then, the Patronus.
The great silver stag erupted forth, scattering the darkness.
There was silence.
A single clap.
Then another.
Then the Great Hall erupted, not in applause, but in something greater—understanding.
For years, they had spoken of Harry Potter as if they knew him. As if he were just another student. As if he were a normal boy.
But he wasn't.
He had never been.