Breaking
The wind howled against the castle walls, rattling the windows as the afternoon deepened into an overcast haze. It was Friday - the end of a long, draining week - and exhaustion clung to Harry Potter like a second skin. With a quiet sigh, he gathered his quills and parchments, slipping them into his satchel as the other students did the same. His mind drifted, weighed down by thoughts he barely registered, flickering in and out like whispers on the wind.
‘Potions class went on faster than usual.’ Harry stretched, exhaling. The students’ rush out of the classroom - an unidentified Slytherin that had sat in front of him deliberately walking in between the tables, purposely bumping into Harry’s shoulder. The effort pushes him back down onto the seat.
A gust of wind from a finally opened window blows his papers off the table. He scrambles, attempting to collect the papers, cleaning up the mess atop the table that was trying to write an essay in class.
“Argh. What the hell,” Harry grumbles.
He winces slightly at a glimpse of his own atrocious handwriting, rolling up the parchment.
A sigh blows out of Harry’s mouth. His mind kept straying to Voldemort’s attack last week during the Cup. School has started, and he can’t stop thinking about what happened - nor can anybody else, if the murmured whispers of his return (the pseudonym, always the pseudonym, never his true name) said anything.
He remembered the way the sudden crowd of people had been clutching their hearts as they rushed to flee, trampling other people in the process - so driven by instinct. Like a herd of buffalos. How selfish, he had bitterly thought, how humanity could be in the face of death - merely animals, with made-up morals, counting on promises. And they had been so happy, so boisterous mere seconds before.
Harry blinked. Why did he feel so sombre? Especially on such a satisfying afternoon, the end of the long, dragging weekdays - he had the urge to feel immutably melancholic, out of nowhere, as if the feelings were not of his own.
Though the afternoon was satisfying, it was not a pleasant one. The weariness that comes alongside grey, cloudy afternoons tickled shivers along his ribs, and a familiar premonition claws into his stomach. A dreadful feeling had been piling since dawn. A harbinger had latched onto him like a parasite.
Following a bustling group of Gryffindors quietly after failing to find any of his friends (‘Did they leave early?’ Harry thought absentmindedly), he walks through the darkening hallways, the sun no longer getting its way. A storm system brews, overshadowing the setting sun.
The satchel, filled with weight, digs into his shoulder.
He shifts it around his neck, and the weight somewhat strangles him. The anxious conscience, brewing in the cauldron of his mind, lodged in his throat swells, rather blinding him as he forgets how to breathe. He shifts it once more.
He arrives at the.. Entrance Hall, where sudden peering eyes were on him. It was a bit overwhelming. He resists the urge to cover his ears. He steels his face, appearing golden.
He looks around the unorganised gaggle of red and gold that is Gryffindor. He finds Ron and Hermione.
“Hey guys,” he says, a weary, tired smile on his face. Not that he hoped anyone noticed.
“Oh, hey Harry!” replies Ron, looking in his direction, and pulls him closer.
Hermione looks at him. “Where were you? We were waiting for you outside the classroom,” she asked worriedly.
He shrugs, looking away dismissively. “I didn’t see you guys anywhere.”
Ron and Hermione exchanged glances at his unintended tone. It was something they had picked up over the years the two had together with Harry - sometimes, he would unconsciously act upon his emotions, almost always never meaning anything. It was something they had learned about him and his behaviour, something they discussed without Harry.
Harry looks around, wondering why they were all crowded here, unknowing of the silent conversation the other two had with one another, debating on how to approach him. All the while, Harry’s mind strays. He glumly thinks about his overdue essays, his lost books, his awful handwriting. He rembmeres bitterly of Professor McGonagall's disappointed face when she finally realises he is nothing like his parents.
He heaves a sigh, only to sigh once more when realising the everlasting foreboding feeling does not fade after sighing so. He frowns, his dour mood evident in the face of others. He remembers he has not eaten yet, possibly being the reason for this sickness. He was never careful (‘not enough,’ Hermione often mentions,) about his eating. Maybe it was trauma from when he did eat, a memory engraved deep into his mind. It was his first year, his first night, where he couldn’t sleep, stuffed full as if he might blow - he had panic eaten, too excited and scared the food might go away. He remembered the way he felt the ceaseless sickness (‘unlike his current one,’ Harry notes,) like his very soul was rejecting to abate the awful queasiness by throwing up.
He snaps back when he hears Dumbledore call out, “Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!”
‘Oh-! That’s right,’ Harry thought, humming. Potions were probably cut short for this. He looked around the terrain around them for any sort of light to indicate their presence - before immediately scolding himself for thinking so muggle, and looked up to find a gigantic, powder-blue, horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring towards them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses each the size of an elephant.
Madam Maxime, as he now knows of her name, walks out of the carriage, along with a few dozen shivering Beauxbatons students (‘Wearing silk? In this weather?’ Harry snorts,) greeting Headmaster Dumbledore before going inside to warm up.
After the Beauxbatons’ graceful entrance from amongst the cloudy clouds like angels descending heaven, the crowd of students of every house looked up expectantly towards the sky, as if the Durmstrang school would do the same.
“Can you hear something?” said Ron suddenly, the crowd around them quieting (though it didn’t do much at the bustling students’ noises). A growling, rumbling noise..
“The lake!” yelled Lee Jordan, a 6th year, while pointing down - a contrast in comparison with the other hundreds of expectant eyes looking up, “Look at the lake!”
Bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now washing over the muddy banks - and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake’s floor. A long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool. Harry, standing at the forefront of the Gryffindor crowd, took a step back, his gut feeling pushing him to do so.
“A mast?” Harry asked, blinking confusedly.
“A what-?” Ron asked, but before Harry or Hermione could answer, a large, body of.. something, rose out of the water. With a sloshing noise, a grand ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the now turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank.
“Woah,” Harry breathed out, stunned. “A ship. A magical one, at that,”
The foreign students seemed to exit the rooms onto the decks, their silhouettes clearing up as they came closer. There was man leading them down the ship, their own headmaster perhaps. They walked towards the Hogwarts crowd, their tall stature immediately noticeable (Harry did not huff in jealousy).
The Durmstrang students seem to have started to socialize with the Hogwarts students, the Slytherins specifically. ‘Not that I wanted to talk to them anyway,’ Harry shrugged. ‘Still, that ship is beautiful. I’ve never seen a muggle one up close, really, but a magical one is surely much better,’
Harry notices that the Durmstrang’s Headmaster starts shaking hands with Dumbledore while introducing a clearly uncomfortable student - immediately noticed by Ron, who whispered in excitement to him, “Harry - it’s Krum!”
Harry, still bewitched by the strangely skeletal ship that looks like a resurrected wreck with its misty lights shimmering at its portholes like ghostly eyes, asked passively. “Who?”
Ron sighs, huffing at his lack of response. “Mate, I’m gunna go talk to Dean, alright? Don’t die,” Harry hums distractedly.
A Durmstrang student walks toward him, finds Harry’s expression - chuckling at his awed gaze towards their ship. “You like our ship?” He asks, glancing back at the grand ship. The student’s foreign accent is obvious. Harry blinks away from the hypnotizing ship, looking up at the student. “Um, yeah. It’s pretty brilliant,” Harry smiles slightly, scruffing the back of his neck.
“Her name is Svyatogor.” The tall boy said proudly. He then looks at Harry curiously. “You are Mr. Harry Potter, correct?”
“Yes.” Harry nodded, glancing back at him. “Yours?”
“My name is Viktor.” The boy responded.
“Nice to meet you, Viktor.” Harry replied, looking back at the beautiful ship. Viktor laughs.
Harry blinks, looking at the tall student. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, nothing. You’re nothing like I expected, Harry Potter.”
“Don’t expect much,” Harry huffs, stuffing his cold hands into his robe pockets. I should have brought mittens. Both students gaze at the glowing, floating ship.
A loud voice calls in their direction. Viktor turns to Harry. “They are calling me. Have a good day, Potter.”
Harry glances at him for a moment, before looking back at the huge ship. Harry’s eyes are still looking at the ship before being forcefully pulled away as the crowd bustles back, straining to get warm.
“Harry - you just talked to the Viktor Krum!”
“Uh, who?”
“Only the best Quidditch seeker there is!” Ron explains excitedly.
“Oh yeah. He was playing at the Quidditch Cup, wasn’t he?” Harry hums. Harry remembered how his eyes could barely follow the body of the seeker - Krum, he now knew. Being a seeker himself, he could appreciate his subtle feigns and narrow turns.
Well, it didn’t matter in the end - the attack would be the only thing in the audience’s minds for a while. Harry’s stomach starts to grumble in protest. Was his consciousness unwilling to think of the destruction or was he just hungry? He shrugs, heading towards the Great Hall.
He quickly found his seat, finding Ron and Hermione once more. He slides between them. He saw Ron’s dazed face, and Hermione’s annoyed face, and he really didn’t want to deal with any of it.
Argh. Why does this terrible premonition remain? It was affecting his mood. Harry groans silently, running a hand through his messy hair.
“Where d’you reckon they’re going to sleep? We could offer him a space in our dormitory, Harry- I wouldn’t mind giving him my bed, I could kip on a camp bed..” Ron said admiringly.
Hermione snorted.
Harry sighed, following Ron’s gaze. The Durmstrang students had chosen to sit with the Slytherins. A bit typical, but who was he to talk about belonging in houses? Harry huffs ironically.
While he glanced at the Slytherin table, he accidentally caught the gaze of the Durmstrang student who had told him about Svyatogor, Viktor - Viktor Krum, apparently. The student had grinned at him, and he gives a small smile in return as well - before silence fell over the crowd. Harry looked up to see Professor Dumbledore standing, ready to say his speech. Really, he couldn’t care less - Harry had deafened the entire thing out.
“The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast,” said Professor Dumbledore pleasantly. He opens his arms wide, a benevolent smile upon his face. “I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!”
Harry hummed at the selection, looking at what Hogwarts were serving today - they had gone a bit overboard, he mused, with the food almost overflowing atop the table. Ignoring Ron and Hermione’s bickering, Harry had digged into some of the foreign, more interesting foods.
“Anyway, see who just arrived,” Hermione huffed.
He looked up curiously. Ludo Bagman and Mr. Crouch had taken a spot on the teacher’s table, loading their own plates up with food. “Why are they here?” Harry asked incredulously. He had remembered that they had been bafflingly stupid and dumbstruck during the attack at the Cup. So quick to accuse.
“I s’ppose they wanted to see the Tournam’nt start, I mean, they org’nized it, ‘fter all,” Ron shrugged, his mouth filled with food. Hermione looked at him disgustedly. Harry sighed tiredly, looking up towards the cloudy sky. The stars seem invisible - He knows they’re there, though. He knows it. He feels terrible for no feasible reason.
Dessert quickly came and left, and Harry hadn’t been able to stomach anything else after the main course. Hermione had pushed a plate of some french pudding towards him. Harry shook his head. Hermione tsked.
Once the plates of food had been licked off, Professor Dumbledore stood up again. Tension began to fill the Hall now. Harry felt even worse.
“The moment has come,” said Dumbledore, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket —”
“The what?” Ron blinked.
All of a sudden, the feelings of dread and discomfort felt all too apparent. Harry had felt like this before. This feeling of being lost to everything, of everything being out of his control - not whispers, no said words or expression, just a feeling, and a sudden feverish heat in his head.
“Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore continued serenely, “and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions’ efforts.”
At the mention of the word “champions,” the students seemed to sit up. Harry stared down at the table. Professor Dumbledore had beamed, “The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch.”
“There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways. Their magical prowess, their daring, their powers of deduction - and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.”
The Hall was filled with silence. The students' imaginations were so loud - it had filled the room with excitement. Harry scoffed silently. Why the heck would anyone go through that willingly? Harry frowns, listening to the rest of the speech. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross the line. His brow doesn’t soften fully, but he did sigh - that was a reasonable choice, to set an age line - he’s just glad its a choice.
“Woah. Could you just imagine the glory?” Ron said dreamily. He extends his arms, lamenting dramatically, “Ron Weasley, winner of the Triwizard Tournament-”
Harry shakes his head, laughing slightly, “Don’t force it, Ron.”
“No, think about it!” Ron gushes, “We go through life-threatening danger troubles every year, Harry. Might as well get an award for it-”
“I don’t willingto go through such troubles, y’know” Harry huffs, “Trouble finds me.”
As the last few students eagerly tossed their names into the Goblet of Fire, the Great Hall buzzed with anticipation. The flickering flames cast long, twisting shadows on the walls, their eerie glow reflecting in the excited eyes of the gathered students.
Harry exhaled, watching as the final hopefuls stepped back from the Goblet, their faces alight with ambition. He still couldn’t understand it - this desire to throw oneself into danger for the sake of a title. His fingers drummed absently against the table as he considered the risk, the weight of the decision. If he had nothing to lose, maybe he would do it too. But he did have something to lose. He had Ron. He had Hermione. And he had barely recovered from the last time fate had twisted its cruel fingers around his life.
The cold weight finally settled in his stomach, creeping up his spine like ice. It was irrational. The Hall was warm with bodies and candlelight, but Harry felt a chill in his bones. That quiet part of him whispered that something was about to go wrong.
Dumbledore rose, and the Hall gradually fell silent. The Goblet of Fire flared higher, the blue-white flames burning unnaturally bright. The moment stretched thin, the quiet humming with tension. Then, with a sudden burst of embers, the first name was expelled from the fire.
And so it began.
The Hall roared with applause as the first champion was called. A Beauxbatons student, her silk robes shimmering as she stepped forward. Then, another burst of fire, and another name—Cedric Diggory, greeted with thunderous cheers from Hufflepuff.
Harry clapped along with the rest, pushing down the unease rising in his chest.
Then came the third name. The Durmstrang champion. Viktor Krum.
It was expected, yet the Hall still vibrated with excitement. The Goblet had chosen its champions. It was done.
Harry let out a slow breath, willing the tension in his shoulders to dissipate. Nothing had happened. He was safe.
Then the flames turned red once more.
A hush fell over the Hall, the moment stretching taut. A single scrap of parchment fluttered out, caught in the air before drifting down into Dumbledore’s waiting hand.
Harry barely heard the words.
But he felt them.
A heavy, sinking dread twisted deep in his gut. It was an awful, all-consuming thing, clawing at the edges of his ribs, wrapping around his lungs.
A dark feeling settled deep in his gut. The cheers around him turned into muffled echoes, distant and warped. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a frantic, unsteady rhythm that drowned out everything else. He tried to focus, to ground himself, but the weight in his chest only grew heavier.
His name had been called.
Harry Potter.
The moment stretched, distorting time, stretching it thin like an overused elastic band ready to snap.
For a fleeting second, he had dared to believe he was safe. That, for once, he could watch from the sidelines, that he could just be another student in the crowd. That fate, cruel and relentless, would spare him - just this once.
But of course, it hadn't.
A cold sweat broke out along his spine. He felt his limbs lock up, rooted to the floor as if he had been Petrified. A roaring filled his head, but his ears picked up the sharp, collective intake of breath from hundreds of students around him. Then, outrage.
Whispers grew into murmurs. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as people stood, craning their necks to see him. Faces blurred together, but he could feel their eyes - piercing, judging, condemning.
He could hear Ron's voice, sharp and incredulous. Hermione’s, softer but laced with unease.
He forced himself to move, his legs stiff, heavy as if wading through molasses. When he finally stood, the wooden chair scraped loudly behind him, its sound unnatural in the vast, echoing Hall. The silence before the storm.
And then-
The hall erupted, the weight of accusations, the fury of betrayal crashing down like an avalanche.
The words clawed at him, dragging up old wounds, old fears. The sneers, the whispers behind his back, the skepticism, the doubt. He had seen this before. He had lived this before.
The walls he had built, the ones that had barely held after second year, after Parseltongue, after Sirius and the Dementors - crumbled like sandcastles against a rising tide.
His breath hitched. His stomach twisted into knots so tight they made him nauseous. He wanted to scream, to protest, to deny - to demand why it always had to be him.
The weight of expectations, of resentment, of being the unwilling puppet in someone else's game pressed against his ribs until he thought they might break. His vision tunneled, black spots at the edges. He had no control. He never did.
His feet carried him forward, though he had no recollection of making them move. He barely registered, reaching the back room, barely acknowledging the adults, the questions, the absolute absurdity of it all. Words were exchanged, but they meant nothing.
"I didn't put my name in."
He said it. He wasn't sure if anyone believed him.
Time blurred. He found himself outside the Great Hall again, past the waves of people parting like he was diseased.
His hands clenched into fists. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.
He looked around for Ron and Hermione. He couldn't see them. Didn't know if he even wanted to. Would they believe him? Would they trust him?
He didn’t reach the common room, standing listlessly in some random corridor. He couldn’t.
And at that moment, that second, every piece of self-preservation left in his body flew. Every string that carefully hangs his body on each limb from the overarching void snaps - and he cries.
A choked sob forced its way from his throat before he could stop it. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, clutching at his own arms as if that would hold him together. But nothing could. Not anymore.
The tears came, violent and unstoppable. He pressed his hand to his mouth, trying to silence the gasping cries, but it only made it worse. The sobs wracked his frame, shaking him, dragging him under.
Memories surged like floodwaters through a broken dam.
You're a freak, Harry.
A courtroom, a gavel, Lies, lies, all lies!
Then suddenly, the surge of a different feeling. It sort of reminded him of the one time Aunt Petunia dragged him to the church - He saw a graveyard. Blood, a wand, a voice.
Kill the spare.
He couldn't breathe. His chest burned. He felt like he was drowning. He gripped his hair, his nails digging into his scalp as if he could claw the memories out. What was that? The last one-
But it didn't stop there.
It just kept going, and going, and going - the deaths! Dumbledore and Snape and Remus and Tonks and-
And Tom Riddle.
He shattered, silently, alone in the darkness of the unknown, as the storm outside finally broke, and the rain began to fall.