Blurred dates
The days that followed blurred together.
Harry trudged back to the Gryffindor dormitory, exhaustion weighing him down. It had been two weeks since Snape had confiscated his Dreamless Sleep and replaced it with what Ron had (not so) fondly dubbed Nameless Sludge #4—a potion that looked suspiciously like one of their past brewing disasters.
As much as Harry hated to admit it, the stuff actually worked. He felt sharper when he woke up, less fogged over.
The third task was looming closer. Hermione insisted he study, piling book after book in front of him, and he tried—he really did—but it was all too much. His stomach had been aching more often lately.
~
Then, all at once, the wait was over.
The hedges of the maze loomed before him, towering and impenetrable in the dim evening light. The crowd’s cheers faded into the background as he tightened his grip on his wand. This was it—the final task. One way or another, it would all end tonight. He stood at the edge of the pitch, wand in hand, heart thudding as the whistle blew.
And then he ran in.
~
Harry didn’t fear for his life.
He feared for Cedric’s. Unconscious Cedric on the graveyard ground. Kind and strong Cedric, who seemed the only person who didn’t hate his guts at the beginning of all this. Cedric who was leaking blood from a gash on his forehead.
Harry feared for him being unconscious, but it might be the only thing saving the boy’s life from the cloaked figure paces away.
Harry couldn’t breathe in the graveyard smog.
And then he really couldn’t breathe. His lungs seized as the nasty figure of his parent’s murderer pressed a searing, clawed, twisted finger to his forehead. It burned. The touch sure, but more so, the burning ache starting in his chest. In his soul.
The pain is scorching. He gasps for air as the hunched figure of Voldemort begins to steam. His head throbbed hard. He could only shut his eyes and gasp. When he opened his eyes he found himself gazing at a younger figure. Very obviously Tom Riddle, but older than diary Riddle, maybe early twenties.
A blast hit his chest, and the last thing he remembered was seeing mad-eye fill his vision and rush at Voldemort. He blacked out.
~
Cheers erupted the moment Harry staggered out of the maze.
Dragging a limp figure behind him.
He stood hunched at the edge of the hedges, mud and blood streaked across his torn robes, the Triwizard Cup dangling from one shaking hand.
Hermione was the first to move. She shoved past officials and volunteers, barely aware of the tears on her face. Ron was right behind her.
“Harry!” she called, breathless. “You—are you all right?”
He looked up slowly. His face was pale, smeared with dirt and blood, but the eyes- the same green she’d known since they were eleven- empty now. Distant. Haunted.
“I’m fine,” he said, voice low and flat.
Hermione slowed, worry furrowing her brow. “What happened in there?”
He didn’t answer right away. Ron reached him and grabbed his arm, grinning despite the blood. “You bloody legend! That was mental—we thought you were gone!”
Harry flinched at the contact, barely a twitch.
“I’m okay,” he said again. “It’s... over.”
His voice cracked on the last word. Hermione’s expression softened immediately.
“Of course you’re not okay,” she whispered. “Come on. Let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey.”
He let them guide him, the Cup still clutched tightly in his hand, knuckles white around it. They walked slowly across the field, past cheering students and oblivious professors. The stadium lights gleamed off his glasses, hiding his eyes.
Dumbledore met them halfway. He looked Harry over once, his expression unreadable.
“Where did the Cup take you, Harry?” he asked gently.
“A graveyard,” the boy said. “He—he was there. Voldemort. He came back.”
Gasps rippled through the officials nearby. Dumbledore’s face grew grave.
But all he said was, “You’re safe now.”
And Harry nodded. “Yeah.”
They looked at his trembling hands and pale face and saw trauma. Shock. A boy barely alive.
They looked at Cedric’s unconscious body.
“Cedric- is he-?”
“Alive.”
Harry wobbled and fell forward into the trusting arms of his friends.
~