Strange Potter

The dungeons were silent except for the occasional drip of water from the cold stone walls. Snape sat at his desk, a candle flickering beside him as he reviewed his lesson plans for the next day. His black eyes skimmed the parchment, but his mind was elsewhere—on Potter, Blacks spawn, on Lupin’s sudden of age children, and on Wanda lurking within the castle walls. He scowled, rubbing his temple.

Then, a faint scuttling noise echoed through the room.

Snape’s head snapped up.

Nothing.

He narrowed his eyes and returned to his work, but a moment later, his inkwell tipped over, spilling black ink across his parchment. Snape shot to his feet, wand in hand.

"Who's there?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence.

No response.

His eyes darted around the dimly lit chamber. He cast a detection spell—nothing.

With a deep breath, he dismissed it as a trick of the air and sat back down. But then, his quill lifted from the desk and flicked him on the nose.

Snape bolted upright.

Something unseen knocked over a stack of books, sending them crashing to the floor. The candle blew out, leaving him in darkness.

He spun, wand raised, his pulse quickening. “Show yourself!”

Silence.

Then, the faintest sound—almost like a snicker.

Snape whipped around, but the room remained empty. He cast several revealing spells, but they showed nothing. His breath came in sharp, angry exhales as the candle reignited itself—its flame flickering as if mocking him.

Somewhere, hidden from sight, Motto clung to the ceiling, eyes gleaming with mischief. He blinked, then gracefully glided across the room, flicking Snape’s ear as he passed.

Snape whirled again, his patience evaporating. With a furious growl, he stormed out of his quarters, determined to check the wards for any intrusions.

Motto, still invisible, landed softly on Snape’s desk and twitched his whiskers in amusement.

It was going to be a long night for Severus Snape.

In the cozy living room of Potter Manor, Winky sat on a cushion beside the fireplace, her large eyes looking up at Natasha, who sat across from her, carefully cleaning her gun.

Natasha paused, setting down her gun as she studied Winky for a moment. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Natasha said, her tone gentle. “Why did Crouch free you, Winky? I mean, he seemed to hold such power over you before, and then... just like that, he set you free at the World Cup. Something doesn’t add up.”

Winky’s ears drooped, her fingers twisting together nervously in her lap. “Winky cannot say,” she replied softly, her voice tinged with a sadness that Natasha couldn’t ignore. “Winky promised Master Crouch she would never tell.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly, not out of suspicion but out of concern. She leaned forward, her gaze softening. “Winky, you don’t have to keep those promises if they hurt you. If something’s going on—something dangerous for Harry or anyone else—I need to know.”

Winky’s eyes widened, and she shook her head quickly, as if the very thought of breaking her promise was too painful to even consider. “Winky is bound to her word, Mistress Natasha,” she whispered. “Even though Winky serves Harry now, she gave her word to Master Crouch. Winky can’t tell.”

Natasha sat back, a small frown on her face. She didn’t like the secrecy, the way Crouch still seemed to have control over the elf even after his own downfall. “I understand,” she said slowly. “But if ever you feel that it’s not worth holding on to that promise, Winky, you know where to find me. You don’t have to carry that burden alone.”

Winky’s eyes softened, and for a brief moment, she seemed comforted by Natasha’s words. “Thank you, Mistress Natasha. Winky will do her best to serve Harry and be of help to this family.” She paused, her eyes glancing over to the fire. “Winky is glad Harry took her in. He is a kind master, not like Master Crouch...”

Natasha gave her a small smile, nodding. “Harry’s lucky to have you, Winky. And you’re lucky to have him, too.”

Winky’s face lit up with a small, grateful smile. “Winky is happy here.”

The conversation faded into a comfortable silence, but Natasha’s thoughts lingered on the cryptic words Winky had said. Why had Crouch freed her, and what kind of promise was so powerful that not even Crouch’s fall from grace could break it?

It was something she would keep in mind, but for now, she simply enjoyed the quiet company of the house and the family she was fiercely protecting.

The morning buzz in the Great Hall was the usual mix of clinking cutlery, murmured conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter as students dug into breakfast and awaited the morning post. Owls swooped in from the rafters, carrying letters, newspapers, and the occasional small package. Among them was a familiar snowy owl, gliding gracefully toward the Gryffindor table.

Harry barely had time to lift his hand before Hedwig landed neatly beside his plate, an envelope clutched in her beak. But what caught everyone’s attention wasn’t just her delivery—it was the tiny, furred creature gripping onto her back.

A collective gasp and scattered chuckles filled the hall as a sugar glider dramatically launched itself from Hedwig’s back, spreading its delicate membrane-like wings and gliding in a small arc before landing squarely on Regulus’s shoulder. Motto chittered triumphantly, tiny paws gripping onto Regulus’s robes as if he had just accomplished some great feat.

“Oh, come on,” Blaise muttered, watching the spectacle with a smirk. “Even your sugar glider is showing off.”

Regulus grinned, reaching up to scratch Motto behind the ear. “He’s a very special sugar glider,” he said smoothly, causing Harry to smirk and Hermione to roll her eyes.

“Yes, we know,” Hermione said knowingly, folding her arms. “A very special sugar glider.”

Motto, as if understanding the remark, gave her an innocent blink before curling his tail around Regulus’s collar, looking entirely pleased with himself.

"You've been up to something." Harry accused Motto.

He got no response other than the gliders face seemed to smirk.

Hedwig, meanwhile, gave Harry an unimpressed nip on the fingers before fluffing up indignantly.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Next time, I’ll make sure he doesn’t hitch a ride,” Harry said with a chuckle, stroking her feathers.

Across the table, Ron—who had been watching the scene unfold with a piece of toast halfway to his mouth—shook his head. “Your family's pets are just as weird as the rest of you.”

Regulus only smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

And with that, the morning post continued, but not without several students continuing to sneak glances at Motto, now cozily perched on Regulus’s shoulder, entirely unaware of—or perhaps enjoying—the attention.

"Hey, Regulus?"

Regulus blinked and turned to see a younger boy standing in front of him. The kid had a wide, excited grin and looked vaguely familiar. It only took him a second to realize why.

Dennis Creevey.  From the opening feast.

"Yeah," Regulus said slowly, narrowing his eyes a little.

Dennis beamed. "Cool! I was hoping to talk to you. Your mom is Natasha Romanoff, right? The Black Widow?"

Regulus tensed. Of course. Another fanboy. He had enough of those just because he was Harry Potter’s little brother. He didn’t need another one pestering him about his mum, too. "You knew that already or did you forget?"

Dennis must have noticed his hesitation because he quickly added, "I mean, yeah, that's cool and all, but I actually wanted to say I like your sugar glider."

Regulus blinked. That was…unexpected. "You mean Motto?" He reached into his pocket, and the little creature peeked out, its large eyes blinking curiously at Dennis.

Dennis grinned. "Yeah! He’s wicked. He looks really smart, too. Colin was telling me about him, but I didn’t believe an animal could be that clever."

Regulus smirked. "Motto’s a different sugar glider."

Dennis nodded enthusiastically. "I can tell! Can I pet him?"

Regulus hesitated for a second but then relented, shifting Motto onto his hand. The small creature sniffed at Dennis’s fingers before allowing him to stroke his fur.

"Soft," Dennis said with awe.

Regulus couldn’t help but chuckle. "Yeah, he is."

Dennis looked up at him, his expression sincere. "I know Colin can be a little much sometimes, but I just wanted to be friends. I mean, you're in Gryffindor too, and it’s nice knowing someone else with a cool pet."

Regulus studied him for a moment, then finally nodded. "Alright, Dennis. Friends, then."

Dennis grinned. "Brilliant!"

As Motto nuzzled into Dennis’s hand, Regulus felt a bit of the tension he had been carrying ease. Maybe he won't be as bad as Harrys said Colin is.

Between classes Harry had some projects to finish as he stood before a workbench covered in various magical materials—enchanted metals, rare woods, and shimmering gemstones pulsing with latent energy. Across from him, Blaise, Luna, and Susan watched curiously, anticipation thick in the air.

He had portaled them to Potter Manor where he had his bench set up.

"This isn't just about giving you all weapons," Harry said, his fingers carefully tracing runes into a dagger blade. "It's about making sure you have something uniquely yours. Something that responds to you, something that protects you." He glanced up, eyes sharp yet fond. "Something that will never fail you."

Blaise folded his arms, intrigued but skeptical. "And you suddenly decided to play magical blacksmith because…?"

Harry smirked. "Because I can. And because I trust you all to have my back, so it's only fair I help you have yours."

Luna hummed dreamily, rocking on her heels. "Oh, this feels special. Like the start of a legend." Her eyes twinkled as she watched Harry work.

Susan, always the practical one, leaned forward. "Alright, so what are we looking at?"

Harry lifted the first completed weapon—twin obsidian daggers with silver edges, the hilts wrapped in charmed dragonhide. He handed them to Blaise. "Daggers that will always return to your hands when thrown. No need to worry about retrieval."

Blaise whistled, spinning one experimentally before tossing it across the room. It vanished midair and reappeared instantly in his grip. He grinned. "Oh, I'm going to have fun with these."

Next, Harry turned to Luna, holding out an elegantly carved arrow made from yew, its tip glowing faintly with runes. "This arrow responds to your whistle. Guide it through the air however you want."

Luna took it delicately, holding it close as if it were alive. She gave a soft, melodic whistle, and the arrow lifted from her palm, twirling in the air before coming to rest against her shoulder. "Oh, this is lovely," she murmured. "Like a dance partner."

Finally, Harry presented Susan with a long, gleaming spear, its shaft forged from reinforced ironwood and its razor-sharp tip imbued with a piercing enchantment. "This will cut through almost anything. If you will it, it can extend or retract, making it as small as a dagger or as long as a pike."

Susan tested the weight, gave it an experimental swing, and grinned fiercely when it sliced cleanly through a summoned shield spell. "Oh, Harry, this is perfect."

He exhaled, satisfied. "Good. Now you all have something extra in case things go sideways."

Blaise clapped him on the shoulder. "I knew there was a reason we kept you around."

Luna beamed. "You're wonderful, Harry."

Susan smirked. "I'm assuming this means we're training together now?"

Harry nodded. "Absolutely."

As they left the, their new weapons secured at their sides, there was an unspoken agreement—whatever the tournament, Hogwarts, or the war ahead threw at them, they would be ready.

The crisp air filled the Hogwarts grounds as Lyall Lupin eagerly made his way to Care of Magical Creatures. His sharp eyes scanned the open space near Hagrid’s hut, his enhanced senses already picking up the scent of the various creatures nearby. Though he was still adjusting to being eleven, one thing that hadn’t changed was his love for magical creatures.

Hagrid stood waiting for the students, a wide grin on his bearded face. "Alright, gather 'round, everyone! Got somethin’ special for yeh today," he announced, eyes twinkling as he noticed Lyall approaching. “Ah, and who do we have here? One o’ Professor Lupin’s boys, eh?”

Lyall grinned, showing just a hint of his sharp teeth. “That’s me, sir! Lyall Lupin.”

“Sir?” Hagrid let out a booming laugh. “Jus’ call me Hagrid! Any friend o’ creatures is a friend o’ mine.” He gave Lyall a hearty pat on the back, which nearly sent him stumbling forward.

As the class gathered, Hagrid led them toward a large enclosure. Inside, several small, cat-sized creatures with thick golden fur and large, bright eyes watched them curiously.

“These here are Kneazles,” Hagrid explained. “Clever little things, real good at tellin’ when someone’s up to no good.”

Lyall crouched down near the fence, instantly fascinated. One of the Kneazles padded over and sniffed at him before letting out a soft purring sound. Carefully, Lyall reached a hand through the gap in the wooden planks and scratched behind its ears. The creature immediately pressed into his touch, tail flicking contentedly.

“Well, would ya look at that!” Hagrid beamed. “Kneazles don’ usually take to people so fast.”

Lyall grinned. “I just understand them, I guess. It's an animal thing."

One of his dorm mates, who was standing beside him, chuckled. “That’s an understatement. The second we got near, all the creatures started looking straight at you.”

The rest of the class cautiously approached the Kneazles, but none of the creatures reacted as warmly as they did to Lyall. Even when some of the students offered bits of food, the Kneazles eyed them warily but remained close to Lyall, rubbing up against the fence where he knelt.

Hagrid let out a knowing chuckle. “You’ve got a gift, Lyall. They can tell when someone’s got a kind heart fer creatures.”

Lyall felt warmth spread through his chest. He’d always loved magical beasts, but hearing someone like Hagrid—who was famous for his bond with them—say it out loud made him feel proud.

“I think I like this class,” Lyall said, scratching another Kneazle behind the ears.

Hagrid’s grin widened. “I reckon you an’ I are gonna get along jus’ fine.”

The Great Hall was alive with excitement as students gathered around the Goblet of Fire, eager to see if anyone could bypass Dumbledore’s age line. The Weasley twins stood at the front of the crowd, grinning with mischief as they prepared to put their plan into action.

“All right, everyone, stand back and watch greatness in motion,” Fred declared, holding up a vial of Aging Potion.

George smirked. “If this works, we’ll be champions! If not—well, we’ll still be legends.”

Regulus, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, looked intrigued. “You do realize Dumbledore is probably ten steps ahead of you?” he pointed out.

Fred wagged a finger. “Ah, young Regulus, that’s where you underestimate us.”

Regulus rolled his eyes as the twins each took a swig of the potion and stepped confidently over the age line.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a flash of blue light, both twins were thrown backward, landing unceremoniously on the floor with long, white beards sprouting from their faces. The hall erupted into laughter.

Regulus snorted. “Well, that was underwhelming.”

Undeterred, George picked himself up and rubbed his chin. “Dignified, isn’t it?”

Fred admired his own new beard. “Quite. I feel rather wise.”

Pietro leaned over to Regulus, his mouth running a mile a minute. “They should’ve seen that coming. I mean, come on, Dumbledore’s too clever for something that simple. They needed a distraction, maybe a diversion—ooh, or transfigure something to look like their name! Or just, you know, throw their names in from a distance.”

Regulus perked up at that. “Throwing them in like I said before."

The twins immediately latched onto the idea. They retrieved parchment with their names and, after some careful folding, attempted to toss them over the age line.

The moment the papers crossed into the boundary, they burst into flames and vanished.

Fred sighed. “Well, there goes Plan B.”

George patted his twin’s back. “At least we have majestic beards to console us.”

Regulus shook his head. “You two are lucky you don’t blow up half the castle.”

Pietro grinned. “I think we should be impressed they only grew beards.”

Still chuckling, the group turned their attention back to the Goblet, where others were still lining up to enter their names—legitimately. The Weasley twins, however, now bore the mark of their failed attempt, much to the delight of the watching students.

After the failure of the twin the other twins were chuckling, Lyall and Pietro sat next to each other, laughing as Pietro animatedly recounted the latest prank the Weasley twins had pulled on some unsuspecting Slytherins he saw the previous day. Their giggles filled the air as other students chatted and read, but the peace didn’t last long.

A group of older Slytherins, mostly from the fifth year, had been sitting nearby. They exchanged glances, rolling their eyes at Pietro’s never-ending chatter. Pietro hadn’t noticed, but Lyall, ever aware of his surroundings, could sense the growing annoyance.

"Will you just shut up for five seconds?" one of the boys snapped, his voice dripping with irritation. "We get it, you're talking—but, Merlin, can you keep it down?"

Pietro, unfazed, grinned. "What’s wrong? You scared you’ll miss out on something? I’ve got stories for days!"

Lyall, who had been quietly nibbling on a piece of chocolate, shot a look at the older boy. He hadn’t yet spoken, but the tension was thick in the air. The older student smirked, clearly enjoying the rising frustration.

"Maybe you should just go back to your little playpen in your own dorm," the same boy taunted, his friends chuckling along with him. "We don’t need your annoying motor mouth interrupting everyone."

That was enough to make Lyall snap. His normally calm demeanor faltered, his hands gripping the edge of his chair, knuckles turning white. He leaned forward, locking eyes with the Slytherin instigator.

“You might wanna watch what you say, bub,” Lyall said, his voice low but laced with a quiet threat. “Not everyone’s as patient as I am.”

The older student sneered. “Oh, what? You gonna cry to your mummy?”

Before he could even finish, Lyall stood up so quickly it startled everyone around him. His height was a shorter than them, but he still managed to carry a lot of weight with his demeanor and eyes. He took a step toward the Slytherin, his face set in a hard glare.

"Don’t ever talk to him like that again," Lyall warned, his voice cold. "If you’ve got a problem, we can settle it somewhere else. But I’m not gonna let you run your mouth at my twin."

Pietro, still sitting, leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “That’s right. He’s my brother and if you’ve got a problem with him, you’ve got a problem with me. And vice versa!”

Lyall’s hand clenched into a fist, his muscles rippling slightly with the tension as his temper flared. The older Slytherin seemed to realize that Lyall was serious, but instead of backing down, he sneered again.

“You think you’re tough, little pup?” he said, mocking Lyall’s stature.

“That’s enough,” another voice interjected, and Pietro, who hadn’t been expecting it, turned to see Harry standing with Hermione and Neville, having come over after sensing the tension. “You’ve got a problem with Lyall, you’ve got a problem with us.”

The Slytherin’s smile faltered when he saw the support from the others. With a scoff, he turned to his friends, muttering something under his breath.

Lyall stood his ground, his eyes still locked on the older boy, but Pietro reached over and placed a hand on his arm. “Relax, L. They’re not worth it. Let’s go hang out with the others.”

After a tense moment, Lyall exhaled, his fists relaxing. His eyes softened as he looked at Pietro, but the frustration still simmered beneath the surface.

“Next time, don’t let anyone talk like that about you,” Lyall said quietly, as the group made their way back to the table.

Pietro grinned. “You know I don’t mind, but I did enjoy that. Maybe we’ll be a little more careful next time, huh?”

Lyall smirked, but he didn’t say another word. He knew he had his twin’s back, and that was enough.

Minerva McGonagall sat in her office, fingers lightly pressed together as she gazed out over the Hogwarts grounds. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows on the walls, but her mind was elsewhere—trapped in the haze of memories from the night of the Hogsmeade attack.

She remembered chaos. Screams. Spells flashing through the air. And then—nothing.

She had stunned herself. That much, she knew. The alternative had been unthinkable. Under Mordo’s control, she could have turned her wand against her own students, her own colleagues. But the details of what happened afterward were frustratingly unclear, slipping through her mind like smoke.

There were pieces, however, that she could still grasp. A glimpse of Harry standing firm amidst the battle. Power thrumming around him, unnatural and raw. And his eyes—

Red.

That was the clearest thing of all. A brief, sharp flash of crimson burning where his green eyes should have been. The memory sent a chill down her spine.

She shook her head, exhaling slowly. It must have been a trick of the light. A side effect of the spells flying through the air. And yet… something about it unsettled her.

She had taught Harry for years. She had seen him grow from a first-year into a capable confident young wizard. She knew the limits of magic, what was possible and what wasn’t.

This—whatever it was—felt impossible.

Minerva reached for a quill but hesitated. What would she even ask him? Harry, did your eyes glow red during the battle? It sounded absurd.

With a sigh, she leaned back in her chair. Perhaps she was overthinking things. Perhaps she was simply tired.

But still, the image of those burning red eyes lingered in the back of her mind, refusing to fade.

The next day the Great Hall buzzed with anticipation as the doors swung open, revealing the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. The Hogwarts students craned their necks to get a better look at the arriving students, but it was the stunning, ethereal figures at the front of the Beauxbatons procession that truly stole their attention. The Veela, leading the way with an almost unnatural grace, sent a ripple of awe through the crowd.

Almost immediately, the boys around the hall seemed to collectively lose their minds. A dreamy, dazed look crossed their faces, some attempting to smooth their hair or puff out their chests. Others simply stared, enraptured. Even some of the older professors appeared momentarily affected, their expressions briefly slackening before regaining composure.

But for Lyall, the effect was even worse. His enhanced senses went haywire. The scent—intoxicating, overwhelming—rushed into his nose, triggering something primal in him. His pupils dilated, and his breath hitched as he staggered slightly, his claws threatening to extend from his knuckles.

Pietro, standing beside him, recognized the signs immediately. His brother was about to lose control.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Pietro hissed, grabbing Lyall’s shoulders firmly and giving him a small shake. “Breathe, big guy. Don’t go all ‘grr’ in the middle of the feast.”

Lyall growled under his breath, his muscles trembling, but Pietro didn’t let go, whispering quickly, “Focus on something else. Think about Mum. Think about Dad. Think about how much trouble you’ll get in if you accidentally slash the table.”

Lyall exhaled sharply, forcing himself to turn his head away from the Veela, his claws retracting. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “That was awful.”

Meanwhile, Regulus, who had been practically drooling, suddenly found himself snapped out of his daze when Hermione’s hand smacked the back of his head—not hard, but enough to jolt him.

“Pull yourself together,” she scolded, crossing her arms.

Regulus blinked, his cheeks reddening slightly as he shook off the effect. “Right. Yeah. I was… uh…” He cleared his throat. “What was I doing again?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Making an idiot of yourself like the rest of them.”

Harry, standing beside them, simply observed the chaos with his arms crossed, unfazed by the Veela’s presence.

Hermione, catching his expression, narrowed her eyes. “Alright, Potter,” she said, leaning closer. “Why aren’t you affected? You’re standing here like it’s just another day.”

Harry smirked slightly. “I’ve dealt with worse magic before.”

Regulus huffed. “That’s not an answer.”

Harry’s smirk widened. “It is if you think about it.”

Before they could press further, Dumbledore stood to greet the new arrivals, his voice cutting through the lingering daze in the hall. As the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang took their seats, the Hogwarts students slowly recovered—though a few still seemed to be stealing starry-eyed glances at the Veela.

Pietro gave Lyall one last pat on the back. “You survived, brother. Barely.”

Lyall groaned. “Next time, warn me if we’re going to be around magical supermodels.”

Harry chuckled. “Welcome to the Triwizard Tournament.”

The door to the Stark estate opened with a quiet hum, revealing Steve Rogers standing on the threshold. He hesitated for only a second before stepping inside. Friday had already announced his arrival, but he still wasn’t sure how welcome he truly was.

Tony stood near the kitchen, arms crossed, watching him with that unreadable expression of his. It wasn’t the usual Stark bravado, but something quieter, more restrained. They were working past everything—Hydra andBucky,—but the wounds weren’t completely healed. Still, Steve was here. And Tony had let him in.

Before either of them could speak, there was the sound of small, quick footsteps.

"Uncle Steve!"

A blur of brown curls and pink pajamas launched into him at full force. Steve barely had time to react before Morgan wrapped herself around his leg like a stubborn koala.

"I missed you!" she declared, looking up at him with bright, unfiltered joy.

Steve let out a genuine chuckle, bending down to scoop her up. "I missed you too, kiddo." He tapped the tip of her nose. "You been taking care of your old man?"

Morgan giggled. "Daddy takes care of me, silly! And mom takes care of him."

Steve shifted her in his arms and looked back at Tony, who was watching the scene with a guarded expression.

"You gonna stand there and glare, or are you gonna offer me a drink?" Steve asked, keeping his voice light.

Tony rolled his eyes but motioned toward the living room. "Fine. But if you scratch my kid's shield with your super soldier hands, you're out."

Steve raised a brow. "Her shield?"

Morgan gasped. "Daddy! You told him?!"

Tony smirked, leading them into the living room. "Oh, please. You think I wouldn’t brag about my genius kid designing her own mini shield? It’s practically a family tradition."

Steve sat down with Morgan still in his lap, chuckling as she excitedly explained her latest "Iron Cap" designs. Tony watched them for a moment, his expression softening.

They weren’t fully there yet. But they were trying. And for now, that was enough.

Harry barely had time to sit down at his table with his friends before a shadow loomed over him. He looked up to see the unmistakable figure of Krum standing there, arms crossed, his usual brooding expression replaced with curiosity.

"You are Harry Potter, yes?" Krum's thick accent cut through the noise, and immediately, the table quieted as people leaned in to hear.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, that's me."

Krum smirked slightly. "I hear you are best Seeker at this school."

Harry raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on his own lips. "I’d like to think so."

A few of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team members—Angelina, Fred, and George—perked up at that, exchanging knowing grins.

"I vould like to see this," Krum continued, tilting his head. "A match. You and me. Seeker against Seeker."

Excited gasps spread through the students nearby, and the twins immediately voiced their support.

"Oh, this I gotta see," Fred said, elbowing George.

George nodded. "The famous Viktor Krum against our very own Harry 'Never Falls Off His Broom' Potter."

Harry chuckled, his competitive side already flaring to life. "I’m game if you are," he said, leaning back in his seat. "We’ll have to set up a time."

Krum nodded approvingly, his smirk widening. "Good. Ve vill make it happen."

Just then, Krum’s gaze flickered to Hermione, who was sitting beside Harry. He seemed to take a moment to assess her before offering a small nod of acknowledgment. "And you are?"

"Hermione Granger," she said politely, though she could already see where this was going.

Krum looked genuinely intrigued. "You are… how do you say… very clever, yes?"

Before Hermione could respond, Harry—without hesitation—reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers in an unmistakable gesture of claim. "She’s the brightest witch of our age," he said smoothly, though his green eyes were locked onto Krum’s in warning.

Krum’s gaze flickered down to their hands, then back to Harry’s face. A slow, understanding smirk crept onto the Quidditch star’s lips. "Ah. I see."

Fred and George, catching onto the moment, immediately burst into laughter.

"Nice save, Potter," George whispered under his breath.

Krum merely nodded again, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Then I vill see you on the pitch, Harry Potter." With that, he turned and strode off, his Durmstrang companions following behind him.

Hermione sighed but didn’t pull her hand away. "Really, Harry?" she muttered, though her cheeks were slightly pink.

Harry just grinned. "What? Just making sure no one's confused."

Fred whistled. "Well, that was a statement if I ever saw one."

George nudged Harry. "Think you scared off the competition?"

Harry squeezed Hermione’s hand gently. "I don’t care about the competition."

Hermione, despite herself, smiled. "You’re impossible."

Harry just smirked. "And yet, you still sit next to me."

The office of the Minister for Magic was a chaotic place—on the surface. Papers were stacked haphazardly, quills floated in midair scribbling onto forms, and the fireplace crackled as owls swooped in and out with urgent messages.

Cornelius Fudge—at least, the man everyone believed to be Cornelius Fudge—sat at his desk, flipping through a report while appearing thoroughly confused. He adjusted his bowler hat, his expression one of mild bewilderment as he sighed dramatically.

"Ah, paperwork, paperwork... Such a dreadful thing, don't you think, Arthur?" Loki, in disguise, drawled as he leaned back in his chair.

Arthur Weasley, his newly appointed undersecretary, pinched the bridge of his nose, looking over a stack of documents. He had been hesitant to take the job, but somehow, Fudge—Loki—had convinced him that the Ministry needed honest, hardworking people to counteract its corruption. And, to Arthur’s own surprise, things had been running… shockingly well.

"Minister, we need to go over the budget allocation for magical creature protection," Arthur said, adjusting his glasses. "And we still need to finalize the updated security protocols for Azkaban after—well, after the World Cup incident."

"Ah, yes. Dreadful business, that," Loki said, waving a hand vaguely. "Death Eaters, Mark in the sky, all terribly dramatic. But, my dear Arthur, surely the Aurors can handle such things without me personally dotting every 'i' and crossing every 't'?" He smiled, a little too sharp, before sighing. "But alas, duty calls."

Arthur squinted at him. He had noticed, over the months, that Fudge had become oddly… competent. Not in a direct way—no, he still acted like the bumbling politician everyone knew—but policies that had been delayed for years were suddenly being pushed through. Corrupt officials were quietly being investigated. Departments were being reorganized, wasteful spending was being trimmed, and somehow, without anyone really noticing, the Ministry was actually working better.

It was baffling.

"Right, well, if we're done with that," Loki continued, stretching exaggeratedly, "do remind me—what’s next on the agenda?"

Arthur glanced down at the schedule. "You're supposed to meet with Madam Bones about the new international security agreements."

Loki groaned. "Bones. So serious all the time. No appreciation for the finer aspects of negotiation, like a good glass of wine or a well-placed illusion."

Arthur blinked. "Illusion?"

"Ah, slip of the tongue," Loki said smoothly, standing up and adjusting his robes. "Very well, Arthur, lead the way. Let’s continue making this Ministry look as inefficient as ever while actually getting things done."

As they left the office, Arthur couldn't shake the feeling that something was… off. Fudge had never been this effective before. And yet, he couldn’t argue with the results.

Maybe, just maybe, things were finally changing for the better.

The halls of Hogwarts were quiet in the late evening, the usual murmur of students long since replaced by the crackling of torches and the occasional hoot of an owl outside. In the shadows near the dungeons, Harry’s astral form drifted weightlessly through the stone corridors, his real body safely tucked away in bed. 

He had noticed Karkaroff acting strangely after the Triwizard announcement and had decided to investigate. Now, he hovered unseen outside an alcove near Snape’s office, where two figures stood deep in conversation.

"You cannot tell me you haven’t noticed," Karkaroff hissed in a low, urgent whisper. "It is growing stronger. I can feel it burning again."

Snape, arms crossed, looked unimpressed. "You are overreacting."

"Overreacting? You saw what happened at the World Cup! The Mark has not flared in years, and now—now it darkens, Severus! You may not care, but I will not go back to serving him."

Harry narrowed his eyes. The Dark Mark? His mind flashed back to what he had learned from Sirius and Strange about Voldemort’s followers. The Dark Mark was burned into the arms of Death Eaters, a connection to the Dark Lord himself. If it was growing stronger, that meant—

Snape let out a slow exhale, his face unreadable. "Do you think running will help you? You knew this would happen eventually. The Dark Lord does not forgive. He does not forget."

Karkaroff’s expression twisted in frustration. "And what will you do, Severus? You have been skulking around this castle, playing the trusted professor, but when he returns—because we both know he will—you will have to choose."

Snape’s gaze flickered, something dark flashing in his eyes before he schooled his expression. "I have made my choices, Karkaroff. You should worry about your own."

Karkaroff let out a breath, his hands twitching as if he wanted to grab Snape and shake him. "If I find a way out of this, I am taking it. I won’t wait for him to come calling."

Harry absorbed every word, his mind racing. This wasn’t just paranoia—these were men who had worn the Dark Mark, men who knew something was coming. If Voldemort’s influence was growing, then the tournament might be more dangerous than any of them realized.

As Karkaroff stormed off down the corridor, Snape stood in place for a moment, his gaze lingering where the Durmstrang Headmaster had disappeared. Then, with a barely perceptible flex of his left arm, he turned and stalked back to his office.

Harry drifted back through the walls, heading toward Gryffindor Tower. He had a lot to think about—and even more to prepare for.

The excitement was in the air as the selection for the Triwizard Tournament began. The Goblet of Fire burned bright, its blue flames flickering ominously. Every eye in the room was locked on it, waiting for the names of the champions.

Dumbledore stepped forward, his expression calm but expectant. The flames roared, and the first slip of parchment shot out. He caught it smoothly and read aloud, “The champion for Durmstrang is… Viktor Krum!”

The Durmstrang students erupted in cheers as Krum stood, his expression unreadable as he walked to the front.

The Goblet flared again, releasing another name. Dumbledore caught it and announced, “The champion for Beauxbatons is… Fleur Delacour!”

Applause echoed through the hall as Fleur stood gracefully and made her way forward, chin held high.

Finally, the flames surged once more before expelling the last expected name.

“The champion for Hogwarts is… Cedric Diggory!”

The Hufflepuff table exploded with cheers. Cedric, looking pleasantly surprised, rose from his seat, clapped on the back by his housemates as he made his way up.

Just as Dumbledore was about to speak again, the Goblet’s flames flared violently. The blue fire turned a deep, angry red, crackling wildly before spitting out a fourth slip of parchment.

A hush fell over the Great Hall.

Dumbledore caught the parchment, his sharp eyes scanning the name. Then, in a clear, firm voice, he announced:

“Harry Potter.”

The silence was deafening.

Harry froze. His hands clenched into fists as he felt the weight of hundreds of eyes land on him.

Murmurs rippled through the hall, students whispering in disbelief.

“He can’t have entered,” Hermione said firmly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“We know,” Neville added, his expression dark.

Regulus sat beside Harry, his gaze steady. “This is a setup,” he muttered. “You would never do this.”

Blaise exhaled sharply. “Someone’s trying to put you in the tournament, but why?”

Susan frowned, glancing toward the teachers’ table. “They have to know you didn’t enter yourself. Right?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He had no idea how this had happened, but as Dumbledore’s piercing gaze met his, he knew one thing for certain—whoever had done this had just made him a target.

The Great Hall was deathly silent. The Goblet of Fire’s blue flames had long since dimmed, yet its betrayal lingered in the air like a curse.

Dumbledore, standing at the center of the hall, tried to control the situation. “Harry, if you would step outside—”

“No.”

Harry’s voice, though quiet, rang with finality.

Murmurs rippled through the hall, but Harry stood firm. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not to be questioned, not to be accused, and certainly not to let Dumbledore sweep this under the rug.

Before Dumbledore could insist, Wanda stepped forward. “He said no.” Her voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable steel in it. “And he’s not going anywhere unless he wants to.”

Remus moved beside her, his arms crossed as he gave the headmaster a hard stare. “If you think we’re letting you take him somewhere private to interrogate him, think again. I already called his parents the moment his name came out."

Dumbledore’s gaze flickered between them, his jaw tightening. “This is not the time or place—”

The doors to the Great Hall slammed open with a thunderous boom.

All heads snapped toward the entrance as Stephen Strange strode in, eyes blazing with barely restrained fury. Flanking him were Sirius and Natasha, both seething.

Regulus, standing near the Gryffindor table, immediately moved to Harry’s side, his expression determined. “We’re with you, Harry,” he said firmly.

Hermione followed, her sharp eyes daring anyone to challenge them.

Neville, his axe-shaped pendant gleaming against his robes, stepped beside Harry without hesitation. Blaise and Susan exchanged a glance before joining as well.

Then, with a smirk, the Weasley twins sauntered over, arms crossed. “Well, can’t let our favorite little champion stand alone now, can we?”

Lyall and Peitro hurried over next, despite their different personalities, both now were a matching demeanor that said they were ready to fight.

Dumbledore raised his hands, attempting to regain control of the situation. “This is a delicate matter—”

Strange cut him off, his voice a cold blade. “The only delicate matter here is how someone manipulated that Goblet under your nose, Albus.” His gaze swept across the assembled professors, sharp and unyielding. “How was this even allowed to happen?”

Sirius, barely holding himself back, sneered at the staff. “You expect us to believe this was an accident? That my son’s name just magically appeared in that Goblet?” His wand was already in his hand, but Natasha’s calm, lethal presence beside him made him look almost restrained.

McGonagall, looking flustered, turned to Harry. “Potter, did you—”

“No,” Harry said, jaw clenched. “I didn’t put my name in that Goblet. And I don’t appreciate being treated like I did.”

Snape sneered. “Perhaps the boy—”

Natasha’s gun was holstered, but the way her fingers hovered near it sent a clear message. “Careful how you finish that sentence, Snape.”

Silence hung thick in the air.

Strange exhaled sharply and turned to the Goblet. His fingers moved in complex gestures, golden runes flickering to life. He studied them, his expression darkening. “This wasn’t just an ordinary submission. This was layered, powerful magic.” His sharp gaze flicked to Dumbledore. “Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. And you let it happen.”

Dumbledore’s face was unreadable, but his silence spoke volumes.

Harry, standing firm with his family and friends beside him, met the headmaster’s gaze. “I am not your champion,” he said, voice unwavering. “Find out who did this and fix it. Because I’m not playing their game."

The Great Hall was filled with murmurs after Harry's name had emerged from the Goblet of Fire. The students who had been celebrating the idea of a thrilling Triwizard Tournament fell silent, now staring at Harry with confusion, disbelief, and concern.

"Well Albus?" Strange glared.

Dumbledore’s face hardened, but he stayed calm. “Doctor Strange, I assure you that the Goblet is a magical artifact with an extensive history, and it has its protections. I have no explanation as of yet.”

“No explanation?” Natasha snapped, stepping forward. “You’ve been too focused on keeping secrets for far too long. The Goblet didn’t just pick Harry for no reason.”

Wanda, standing a few steps behind the others, watched the scene unfold, her eyes narrowed. She could feel her magic swirling within her, threatening to surge out of control. “Who did this to him?” she asked, her voice cold as ice.

“That’s what we intend to find out,” Strange said firmly, his eyes still fixed on Dumbledore. “But this is bigger than just Harry. The person who did this is trying to drag him into something far more dangerous.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Harry thought he could see something akin to hesitation in his expression. It was fleeting, but it was enough to raise alarm bells in Harry’s mind.

"You're suggesting someone manipulated the Goblet for a reason?" Dumbledore asked cautiously.

“Not just anyone,” Strange replied sharply. “We’re talking about a force far darker than you realize.”

The room was tense, and as the words hung in the air, Harry couldn’t stand the uncertainty any longer. He took a step forward, his fists clenched, his voice tight with anger. “I don’t care what games you’re playing, Dumbledore. I didn’t ask for this. And I don’t want to be part of it.”

“I understand your frustration, Harry,” Dumbledore said softly, but Harry was done with gentle words.

“No,” Harry spat. “You don’t understand. You’ve been keeping secrets from me, from everyone. And I’m not going to be the one who gets dragged into your messes anymore.”

Wanda’s eyes flashed, her emotions roiling as she took a step toward the Goblet of Fire, clearly ready to end this madness once and for all. She raised her hand, ready to destroy the Goblet with a burst of her chaotic power. But before she could act, Strange quickly moved to stop her, grabbing her arm gently but firmly.

“Wanda, wait,” Strange said, his voice low but insistent. “We can’t destroy the Goblet just yet. There are other contestants who entered fairly. We can’t risk hurting them.”

Wanda's eyes softened, the tension in her body slightly easing, but the anger still burned behind her gaze. She let out a sharp breath, clearly frustrated, but she nodded, her magic simmering down.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them use Harry like this,” she muttered under her breath.

Harry’s eyes darted between the adults in the room. He could feel the heat of the situation, the pressure building, and for once, he wanted to scream, to let the anger take over. But he held it in. He had to, at least for now.

“Whoever did this,” Harry said, his voice ice cold, “will regret it.”

Strange nodded, his face set in determination. “That’s why we’re going to make sure this doesn’t go any further. We’ll find out who did this, Harry. I promise you.”

Sirius, standing beside Natasha, glared at Dumbledore. “You’d better start talking, Albus. Whatever’s been going on, it stops now. Or you’ll have more to answer for than just this tournament.”

Dumbledore said nothing, but his gaze was hard, his silence speaking volumes.

And for Harry, the weight of what was to come was finally starting to sink in. They were in this together, and he wasn’t going to back down until he found out the truth.

The tension in the hall thickened as students exchanged wary glances. Dumbledore looked around, his usual calm faltering as his fingers tapped lightly on his wand. He opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by Karkaroff, who stood from the Durmstrang table, his face contorted in anger.

"This is preposterous!" Karkaroff shouted, his voice thick with disdain. "The boy lied. He is not supposed to be in the tournament. He is a fraud, and you—" He pointed accusingly at Harry, "—should be expelled for this."

Before anyone could react, Sirius was upon him, his hand snapping out to grab Karkaroff by the collar, lifting him slightly off his feet. The room fell into an uneasy silence as Sirius’s voice came out like a growl. "You dare call my son a liar, Karkaroff? You’re nothing but a cowardly Death Eater, hiding behind your position. You’ll not speak of him in such a manner."

"Enough, Black," Karkaroff spat, struggling against Sirius’s hold, but he was met with a cold glare that silenced him.

Fleur Delacour, from the Beauxbatons table, stood up next, her expression filled with disdain. "A little boy, who doesn’t belong here," she sneered, her French accent thick. "What makes you think you can compete with us, hmm?"

Harry locked eyes with Fleur, his voice cool and collected as he replied in perfect French. "J'ai reçu l'Ordre de Merlin, première classe, ce qui est plus que ce que tu peux dire, je crois. Qu'as-tu accompli?"

Fleur’s expression faltered for a moment, clearly caught off guard by Harry’s fluency and confident retort, but she quickly masked her surprise with a forced smirk. The students around the room were watching intently, waiting for the next exchange.

Strange’s eyes scanned the head table, sharp and assessing. His fingers twisted, and suddenly, a golden, rune-covered chair materialized in the middle of the hall. The moment it appeared, the tension thickened, the weight of its purpose unmistakable.

“I know the Goblet is a powerful artifact,” Strange said coolly, “but magic leaves a trail. And I have two prime suspects who would benefit from Potter being forced into this tournament.” His gaze landed on two figures—Snape and Karkaroff.

Snape stiffened, his black eyes narrowing dangerously. Karkaroff looked outright panicked.

Strange flicked his wrist. “Take a seat.”

Karkaroff sneered. “You think I will submit to this? Dumbledore, surely you—”

“You have two choices,” Strange interrupted, stepping closer. “Sit in the chair, let it pull the truth from your mind—or…” He gestured, and Wanda emerged from behind him, her red magic flickering ominously around her hands. “She tears the truth from you.”

A heavy silence fell over the hall. The color drained from Karkaroff’s face. Snape, though outwardly composed, had gone rigid, his fingers clenched at his sides.

“I have done nothing!” Karkaroff spat, stepping back.

“Then prove it,” Strange said, his voice like steel.

Karkaroff hesitated, then turned to Dumbledore. “Surely, you won’t allow this? It’s barbaric!”

Dumbledore's face was unreadable. "What would you have me do? If your are innocent you have nothing to fear.”

Grinding his teeth, Karkaroff shot a glare at Snape, who remained silent. With an air of forced calm, he moved forward and lowered himself into the chair.

The moment he sat, golden runes flared to life around him. The chair’s magic twisted through his mind, exposing his secrets. His breaths came in quick pants as the magic dug in. Strange watched impassively.

“Did you put Harry Potter’s name in the Goblet of Fire?”

“No!” Karkaroff gasped, his voice strained. “I-I swear it!”

The runes remained steady—truth. Strange hummed in thought and turned to Snape. “Your turn.”

Snape’s lips curled into a sneer. “You expect me to sit in that?”

“You have the same two choices,” Wanda said, stepping forward. The red glow in her hands intensified. “And you won’t like mine.”

Snape’s eye twitched, but after a long, heated moment, he swept forward and dropped into the chair. The runes flared again.

“Did you put Harry Potter’s name in the Goblet?”

“No,” Snape said flatly. The runes held. Truth.

Strange let out a slow breath through his nose. “Very well. You're cleared. Of this. But this conversation is far from over, Dumbledore," Strange muttered, his voice a low rumble that carried across the room. "But we’ve made our point. Now, let’s see how you handle it."

Harry glanced around the room, his gaze sweeping over the other champions. He could feel the weight of the eyes on him, but for once, he didn't care. The tournament had just become something much bigger. And Harry Potter wasn’t going to back down.

"Harry," Strange said, his voice gentler now. "Sit."

Harry nodded and took his seat, the runes flaring to life around him. The enchantments wove through him, ensuring he could speak nothing but the truth.

"Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?" Strange asked.

"No," Harry answered firmly. The magic of the chair accepted his answer without resistance.

"Did you ask someone to enter it for you?"

"No." Again, no sign of a lie.

Strange turned to the Great Hall. "There. That should be enough."

Satisfied, Strange dismissed the chair with a flick of his hand. "There. The boy didn't do it, Snape didn’t do it. That leaves us with an infiltrator. Now, are you going to do something about it, or do I need to?"

Harry stood from the now-vanished chair, looking at the stunned faces around him. His innocence was proven beyond doubt

"I say we risk it's destruction." Wanda moved to the goblet.

"Wanda no!"

Dumbledore barely had time to open his mouth before Wanda strode straight toward the Goblet, magic crackling at her fingertips.

"I’ll destroy it," she declared, her voice like steel. "No one forces Harry into anything."

Gasps rang out among the students and staff as the air in the Great Hall thickened with her power. The Goblet trembled on its pedestal, the flames inside flickering wildly as though sensing its impending doom.

Strange quickly stepped in front of her, raising a hand. "Wait." His voice was calm but firm, his eyes locked onto hers. "Wanda I know you're furious but doing this will cause harm to the others. Don't let your need to protect Harry blind you to the damage you will cause."

Wanda’s hands clenched into fists, and for a moment, it looked like she might not care. But then, she glanced at Harry. He stood tall, defiant, but there was something in his expression—concern. Not for himself, but for the others.

"If it could hurt them," Harry said slowly, stepping forward, "then I won’t risk it." He turned to the gathered crowd, eyes blazing with determination. "I didn’t put my name in. I don’t want to be in this tournament. But if this magic is forcing me… then I will only compete on one condition."

The hall fell silent, everyone waiting.

"You will all acknowledge that this is against my will. I am being made to do this." His voice was steady and unwavering. "I refuse to be part of anyone’s game."

Sirius looked ready to argue, but Natasha placed a hand on his arm, nodding at Harry. She hated this, but she saw what he was doing.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, stepping forward. "Harry—"

"You will all acknowledge it," Strange cut in, his voice dangerous, as if daring anyone to argue. "This is not voluntary."

The other heads of schools exchanged glances, Karkaroff looking particularly displeased, but none spoke against it. Even Dumbledore nodded gravely.

Harry let out a slow breath. "Then I’ll do it."

Wanda’s magic slowly faded, but her gaze stayed locked onto the Goblet. "If anything happens to him," she warned, "there will be no stopping me next time. And I will turn this castle into ashes."

No one doubted her.

The atmosphere in the Sanctum was tense, filled with the hushed murmurs of concern and frustration. Harry sat on one of the conjured couches, his arms crossed as his family and friends surrounded him. Regulus, sitting beside him, was scowling, his hands clenched into fists. Lyall and Pietro sat nearby, their young faces twisted with unease, while Hermione, Neville, Blaise, and Susan stood in a semi-circle, all sharing varying expressions of worry.

Sirius paced the room, his movements sharp with agitation. “Alright, let’s go over this again. We all know Harry didn’t put his name in that bloody goblet.” His voice was tight, his jaw clenched.

“We do,” Natasha confirmed, her arms crossed. She was unusually still, her sharp eyes scanning the room as if assessing threats. “But that doesn’t mean everyone else will believe him. This could be an attempt to discredit him, paint him as an attention-seeker.”

Hermione nodded. “And even if it isn’t, the fact remains that someone powerful enough to manipulate the Goblet did this. That’s not something just anyone could do.”

Strange leaned against a bookshelf, his expression unreadable. “The goblet is a powerful magical artifact, but not infallible. If someone tampered with it, they did so with a precise knowledge of how to bypass its protections. That narrows down our list of suspects.”

Blaise scoffed. “Then it’s either an inside job, or someone outside Hogwarts with more knowledge of ancient magic than most of the professors.”

“That doesn’t leave many suspects,” Susan added. “Dumbledore wouldn’t have done it, and I doubt McGonagall would, either. That means someone else—someone who wants Harry involved in this tournament.”

Regulus huffed, shaking his head. “I’d bet anything this has something to do with the Death Eaters. They’ve been quiet since the World Cup, but that doesn’t mean they’ve disappeared.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, glancing at Strange. “Could Voldemort have done this himself?”

Strange’s eyes darkened slightly. “Not in his current state. He’d need someone to act for him.”

“Someone like Peter,” Sirius muttered, his expression twisting into one of fury.

Pietro, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke up. “But why? Why force Harry into this? If they wanted him dead, there are easier ways.”

“Because this is part of something bigger,” Wanda said, having been silently observing. Her voice was calm, but there was a dangerous undertone to it. “This isn’t just about killing Harry—it’s about using him. Maybe even for a ritual.”

That thought sent a chill through the room.

“So what do we do?” Lyall asked, looking between his parents and Harry.

Harry set his jaw. “I don’t have a choice but to compete. If I don’t, the magic of the goblet could do something worse. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be ready for whatever they’re planning.”

Natasha placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then we train. You’re not going into this alone.”

Sirius smirked, though his eyes still burned with anger. “If they think they can throw you into this tournament without consequences, they don’t know what’s coming.”

Harry exchanged a look with Regulus, then his friends. They would figure this out—together.

Albus Dumbledore sat alone in his office, fingers steepled as he stared into the flickering light of the candles. The events of the last few months swirled in his mind like a Pensieve memory he couldn’t quite grasp. Harry’s name had emerged from the Goblet of Fire—a mystery in itself—but it was what lay beneath that troubled him most.

The pieces were scattered, yet they refused to stay separate.

Mordo’s attack in Hogsmeade. The way the boy had been targeted so specifically. The unnatural silence that had followed.

The basilisk incident, where Wanda Maximoff—no, Wanda Lupin now—had intervened with a magic that should have been foreign to this world. And Harry had been there, watching, learning.

Then there was the Boggart.

A simple lesson, a simple fear—or so it had seemed. But the image the Boggart had taken when Harry faced it… it had been himself, wreathed in crimson mist, magic pulsing unnaturally around him. That was no ordinary fear. That was a reflection of something deeper, something Harry knew about himself but had not spoken of.

And now, the Goblet of Fire had chosen him.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, staring at Fawkes as the phoenix trilled softly, watching him with knowing eyes. He had long believed Harry Potter was special, but not in this way. Not in a way that defied the very rules of magic as he knew them.

Did Harry even know what he was? Or had he been guided in secret, shielded from the truth?

Dumbledore sighed, rubbing his temples. If this was what he suspected—if Harry Potter was wielding a kind of magic that should have been beyond him—then the time for subtlety was over. He would need answers. And for that, he would have to watch. Carefully. Closely.

Perhaps even more closely than before.

Harry sat in a quiet corner of the Hogwarts courtyard with Hermione, Neville, Blaise, and Susan, away from the excited chatter and whispers that had filled the castle since his name had come out of the Goblet of Fire. The Great Hall had erupted in chaos, with his parents storming in, demanding answers, and Strange practically tearing through the school’s wards in his fury. Now that things had settled—at least for the night—his friends wanted answers, and he didn’t blame them.

“You didn’t put your name in,” Neville stated, arms crossed, standing firm in his belief. “We know that.”

Hermione nodded sharply. “Obviously. But the Goblet is supposed to be a binding magical contract. There has to be some way to break it.”

Blaise leaned back against the stone wall, arms folded, his sharp eyes watching Harry carefully. “Could your magic burn it away?” he asked quietly. “Not that I’m saying you should expose your Chaos magic to the whole school, but... if anyone could break a contract like this, it’d be you.”

Susan, ever level-headed, hummed in agreement. “You do have an advantage. Not just your magic, but you’ve trained with Strange for years. The tournament’s dangerous, sure, but we all know you’re not some helpless fourth year.”

Harry exhaled, rubbing his temple. “I don’t want to be in this stupid tournament. I didn’t sign up, and I sure as hell don’t want to play along with whatever game someone’s trying to force me into.” His green eyes darkened slightly. “But if I can’t get out of it, I’m not going to just sit back and let myself be someone’s pawn.”

Hermione frowned. “Dumbledore and the others are still investigating. We don’t know how your name got in.”

Harry scoffed. “Yeah, and I’m sure Dumbledore will be really keen on helping me break the contract. It’s ‘for the greater good’ and all that.”

Neville gave him a sympathetic look. “Well, we’re with you, whatever happens.”

Blaise smirked slightly. “Besides, you being a champion only makes Hogwarts’ odds of winning better. Even the Gryffindors are treating you like a hero right now.”

Harry groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

Back in the Gryffindor common room, the energy was electric. The moment Harry had stepped through the portrait hole, he was greeted with cheers and claps on the back. Someone had summoned butterbeer from who-knows-where, and a group of older students had already started placing bets on how far Harry would go in the tournament.

Fred and George Weasley were the first to reach him, identical grins stretched across their faces. “Our very own champion,” Fred declared.

“Gryffindor’s got this in the bag,” George added. “The others don’t stand a chance.”

Harry scowled. “I don’t want to be in this tournament.”

Fred waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, but you are. And mate, you’ve got an Order of Merlin. You’ve fought trolls, survived You-Know-Who more times than we can count—"

“—killed a the dark wizard—” George added cheerfully.

“—trained with Doctor Bloody Strange himself!” Fred finished.

Harry gave them both an unimpressed look. “You lot sound like a hype squad.”

George clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That’s because we are. Face it, mate, you’re practically Hogwarts’ best bet.”

Harry sighed, feeling the weight of their expectations. The tournament was shaping up to be a nightmare, but at least he wasn’t facing it alone.

The atmosphere in the Hogwarts staff room was tense as the gathered professors, the remaining tournament officials, and select Ministry representatives discussed the shocking turn of events—Harry Potter’s unexpected selection as a fourth Triwizard Champion.

Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled as his sharp blue eyes surveyed the room. McGonagall sat to his right, lips pressed into a firm line. Snape, arms crossed, sneered but remained silent for the moment. Crouch Sr. (or so he appeared) sat stiffly, his expression neutral, though his eyes gleamed with something unreadable.

Remus sat beside Wanda, who had her arms crossed, a subtle yet potent energy simmering beneath her composed exterior. She had promised to protect her family, and this situation had put her instantly on guard.

Strange leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed. He had been scanning for traces of the Dark Mark, but to his frustration, he had found none. His idea that someone had snuck in was still likely but his usual methods were needing reevaluated.

“This is madness,” McGonagall finally broke the silence, her Scottish brogue sharp with frustration. “Potter is a child. He is not of age, and we all know he would not have placed his own name in that goblet.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore agreed, his voice grave. “Yet the Goblet of Fire has accepted him as a Champion. The question we must answer is: how?”

“All the wards on the Goblet were intact,” Filius Flitwick chimed in, frowning. “Whoever did this was powerful, meticulous.”

“If it was Potter himself, I’d almost be impressed,” Snape sneered.

Strange turned his sharp gaze on him. “It wasn’t him.” His tone brooked no argument.

“And if it were?” Crouch Sr. spoke for the first time. His voice was measured, though there was a careful calculation behind his gaze. “It is a magically binding contract. If he does not compete, the consequences could be severe.”

“That is unacceptable,” Wanda said, her voice soft but firm. “This is not just some accident. Someone put his name in that goblet deliberately. Until we know who and why, I will not allow my family to be put at risk.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Dumbledore said grimly. “The contract must be upheld.”

Wanda exhaled through her nose, a dangerous glint in her eyes, but Remus placed a hand on her arm. “We’ll find a way to protect him.”

Strange’s fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair, deep in thought. His instincts screamed that there was more at play here. He had spent years dismantling Voldemort’s old networks, purging his spies, and tracking down the remnants of his dark magic. That someone had gone through so much effort to bind Harry to this tournament meant one thing—it was a trap.

And they needed to find out who had set it before it was too late.

Wong moved carefully through the vast, ever-shifting Room of Requirement, his sharp eyes scanning the towering piles of discarded objects, forgotten treasures, and centuries-old artifacts. Beside him, Dobby darted about, his large, green eyes wide with determination.

"The room has no magical signature of the Horcrux," Wong muttered, his fingers skimming the spines of old books stacked haphazardly on a nearby shelf. "Dormant, just as Strange suspected."

Dobby nodded furiously. "Dark magic sleeps, Mister Wong. It hides, waiting, but Dobby will help find it!"

Wong sighed, adjusting his stance as he looked over the endless maze of lost things. "Then we do this the hard way. Brick by brick."

With a flick of his hand, Wong summoned a lantern of soft golden light, illuminating a narrow path between towering collections of trinkets and old school supplies. Dobby scrambled ahead, his small hands rifling through piles of objects with surprising efficiency.

"Many secrets in this room," Dobby whispered. "Many bad things too. Hogwarts keeps them hidden."

Wong frowned. "That’s exactly what worries me."

Hours passed as they searched, shifting through stacks of rusted cauldrons, broken wands, and long-forgotten spellbooks. Dobby squeaked excitedly when he found an old, tattered wizard’s cloak that still sparked faintly with ancient charms, but nothing reeked of dark magic.

At one point, Wong paused before an old suit of armor, his hand hovering over its dented chestplate. "A piece of Voldemort’s soul is here somewhere," he murmured. "Hidden, silent, but not gone."

Dobby, crouching atop a leaning bookshelf, gave a firm nod. "Then Dobby and Mister Wong will find it. No matter how long it takes."

With that, they pressed on, unaware that somewhere within the room, buried beneath decades of forgotten memories, the Horcrux lay still, waiting.

Candlelights in the Sanctum cast eerie shadows across the vast library, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment and incense. Harry sat across from Strange, hands clenched together on the polished wooden table. A steaming cup of tea rested beside him, untouched.

Strange leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Tell me exactly what you heard.”

Harry took a breath. “Snape and Karkaroff were in the dungeons. Karkaroff was panicking, asking Snape if his Mark had grown darker. Snape didn’t deny it. He just told him to ‘handle himself accordingly.’” He exhaled. “That means Voldemort is coming back, doesn’t it?”

Strange closed his eyes for a moment. “It was only a matter of time.” His voice was calm, but Harry could hear the weight behind it. “The Dark Lord has been in hiding, regaining strength. If the Mark is returning, he’s calling them.”

Harry frowned. “And the tournament?”

Strange sighed. “It’s no coincidence your name came out of that Goblet. Someone wants you in the middle of this.” He studied Harry closely. “It’s dangerous, but I know you. You’re already planning to see this through.”

Harry looked down at his hand, flexing it. He didn’t look up as he spoke. “My Chaos Magic… I’ve kept it hidden. But if Voldemort comes back—”

“It won’t stay a secret,” Strange finished for him. “Not forever.”

Harry finally met his eyes. “Then what do I do?”

Strange leaned back, considering his answer carefully. “For now, you play along. Keep your magic contained. The moment you expose it, you become a target not just for Voldemort but for everyone else who fears what they don’t understand.”

Harry huffed. “So I keep pretending to be normal?”

Strange gave a rare smirk. “You were never normal, Harry. But there’s a difference between picking the right moment and throwing yourself into the fire.”

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. But when the time comes—”

Strange nodded. “When the time comes, Ill be right beside you.”

The words settled between them like an unspoken promise. In the dim light of the Sanctum, with the weight of an inevitable war pressing down, Harry knew one thing for certain—his days of hiding were numbered.