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Chapter Text

The sharp chime of the doorbell shattered the quiet of Lily’s small flat on a Friday evening. She set her book down on the side table, rose to her feet, and pressed the entry button on the intercom. Moments later, before she’d even properly turned the handle, Leo burst in with a leap, as if the hallway itself had struggled to contain his excitement.

A broad grin stretched across his face; his cheeks were flushed with heat and thrill.

“Go on, guess what happened!” he blurted out.

Lily arched a brow. “No idea… You’ve been accepted?”

As though he’d been waiting for exactly that prompt, Leo whipped a folded sheet from his jacket pocket and waved it triumphantly.

“Glasgow have invited me for a medicine interview! They said my UCAT score was even better than they’d asked for!”

Lily’s smile widened. She stepped forward to wrap him in a proud, delighted hug.

“That’s amazing! I knew it… You’re going to ace the interview too—”

But as she drew back and saw how brightly he beamed, her smile faltered.

“Except… I didn’t get into Glasgow,” she breathed.

Leo’s eyes widened a fraction. “What?”

She turned away and sank onto the couch, fingers laced tightly together.

“They rejected my conditional offer. I only have one option left. Heriot-Watt. Urban Studies.”

Leo spoke gently, almost cautiously.

“Heriot-Watt is a great university…”

“It’s not bad, I know. Just… it means we’ll be apart.”

A small silence stretched between them. Leo set the letter down and took a seat beside her. He nudged her shoulder lightly against his.

“Hey… hey! Glasgow’s only an hour away by train. Even if I get in, I’ll come back every week. Like I could survive without seeing you?”

She managed a brief smile, though sadness still clouded her eyes. She stared down at her half-cold tea, knowing well that distance—on any map—still meant distance.

Noticing the shadow in her gaze, Leo leaned forward and snatched up the cup. One sip, then a grimace.

“It’s gone cold.”

Without another word he hurried to the kitchen, set the kettle on the hob. Lily watched him from the sofa—familiar movements, that mask of playful ease he always wore, hiding the kernel of care beneath. He returned and leaned against the doorframe.

“You do realise this isn’t the end for us, right? We’ll still see each other every single night.”

“I know. It’s just…”

She paused, sighing faintly.

“It already feels like everything’s changing. Before it’s even begun.”

Leo crossed to her again, dropping closer this time, confidence in his grin.

“So what? We’re experts at finding a way—even through a disaster.”

Then, with a mischievous glint:

“You don’t want me to become a doctor?”

Lily let out a short, genuine laugh.

“As Ron would say—doctor? You mean the lot who carve people open? I’d rather you were a Healer.”

Leo snorted with laughter.

“All right, then. I’m not upset. But only if you promise you’ll actually visit every week.”

“Promise? I’ll make an Unbreakable Vow!”

“You do realise medical studies take ages and suck the life out of you, right?”

Leo straightened, putting on exaggerated seriousness.

“I’m the smartest boy you’ve ever met. I’ll manage.”

The kettle whistled. He returned with two fresh cups of tea, placing one gently before her. Lily wrapped her hands around the warm porcelain; the heat seeped through and steadied her.

Soft summer twilight filtered through sheer curtains, and for a moment, the flat felt calm again—quiet, safe, suspended.

…

Morning crept in gently through the heavy, old curtains of their room at the Leaky Cauldron. Lily blinked her eyes open; soft footsteps and sleepy chatter drifted up from the pub downstairs, along with the scent of fresh bread and butterbeer — a familiar reminder that she was, once again, in the wizarding world. On the neighbouring bed, Leo — lying on his side — broke into a grin the moment he saw her awake.

“Morning, sleepyhead. Been waiting for an hour! Up you get — we’ve got loads to do today.”

“Do…?” Lily croaked, voice still tangled in sleep. “It’s summer. What could we possibly have to do?”

Leo hopped off the bed, smoothing his shirt as he marched toward the little wardrobe in the corner.

“Oh, I’m taking you out — clothes shopping, maybe a little hair colour upgrade… Just a few minor improvements to make you absolutely irresistible.”

Propping herself up, Lily tucked some messy strands behind her ear.

“Leo… you know it won’t make a difference. There’s no way Cedric’s going to notice me.”

“Well…” — he turned, eyebrows raised —

“You’re not wrong.”

Lily glared at him. Leo burst out laughing.

“But that’s why we’ll try! Who knows — maybe the Goblet of Fire will spit my name out and we won’t even need Cedric anymore!”

He fastened his robes, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“But the World Cup is a brilliant chance for him to notice you… I want you to walk in and watch everyone — especially him — forget how to look anywhere else.”

He gestured toward Ron’s invitation lying on the vanity table — delivered yesterday by Pigwidgeon, still slightly crumpled from excitement.

Lily hugged her pillow, muttering,

“Right. A new hair colour and a few outfits… and voilà, mission accomplished.”

“We mostly need you to believe in yourself,” Leo insisted, a hint of impatience creeping in.

“Confidence is the most powerful charm a witch can have.”

“I am confident!”

“Oh, please.” He tossed her robe at her. “You have zero confidence in being attractive. Today we fix that. We’re turning this little ugly duckling into a swan. Cedric Diggory should be tripping over himself to talk to you! I mean—what’s he got that you haven’t?”

…

Half an hour later, they stepped out into Diagon Alley through the back entrance. The street was alive with morning bustle: clinking cups from the cafés, the sharp scent of fresh potions from Slug’s shop, and the occasional shower of sparks from mischievous vendors selling trick wands and toys.

Leo led the way with confident strides before halting beneath a round golden sign:

“The Enchanting Enchantress — Stunning Transformations in Under an Hour!”

Lily eyed the window uncertainly. Inside: towering mirrors, plush violet chairs, shelves lined with potions in dazzling colours and labels written in suspiciously curly fonts.

Without hesitation, Leo pushed open the door; a tiny golden bell chimed overhead. A sweet, cool fragrance — mint blended with night-blooming flowers — wrapped around them. A witch with wavy hair shifting between shades of plum drifted forward, grey eyes narrowing in a professional assessment.

“Well, aren’t you a darling! What a perfect day for a marvellous new look. What can I do for you?”

Leo flashed his most charming grin.

“Hi. We’re looking for a few improvements for— my cousin here. Something a bit more… eye-catching. Like the shop name.”

He pointed playfully to the sign outside.

The witch stepped closer, head tilted as her gaze danced over Lily — measuring, calculating.

“I think… I have several ideas.”

She whisked Lily onto a velvet chair before Lily quite knew what was happening. The girl stared at her own reflection in the ornate gold-framed mirror — heart thudding in a mix of excitement and dread.

The witch circled her, evaluating like a painter deciding where to place the first brushstroke.

“Lovely long hair — but too uniform. A warmer shade will bring your face to life. Brows… a bit bold, don’t you think? A softer shape will open up those gorgeous eyes…”

She held Lily’s chin delicately.

“Skin’s smooth, but a touch pale — I’ve potions that could give you a healthy glow, darling. And your nose and lips… a gentle charm could—”

Each observation pricked like a tiny needle. Lily gripped the armrests, knuckles whitening.

Leo noticed. He stepped in sharply.

“Okay — hold it.”

He took a breath, tone firm but polite.

“We’re not trying to rebuild her. She’s still at school, and she’s already beautiful. We just want… subtle enhancements. She needs to stay her.”

The witch smiled, nodding.

“Of course. Just the right touch — no more.”

Lily’s eyes flicked to Leo — a quiet thank-you — and he winked.

“Let’s start with her hair. Shorter, maybe. And warm tones. Definitely warm.”

“Chestnut? Mahogany?” the witch suggested, hands poised behind the chair.

Leo leaned closer to the mirror.

“Red tones are my favourite. And if we don’t like it, we can just change it back… right?”

For ten minutes they debated every possible detail. Finally the witch summoned a golden comb and scissors with a graceful wave.

The comb slid smoothly through Lily’s hair, stopping just above the ends.

“Here?”

“A bit shorter,” Leo insisted.

“Shoulder length.”

The comb obediently hopped up several centimetres.

“Are you sure, dear?” the witch asked.

Lily shrugged. “It’s just hair.”

The scissors snapped shut and snipped the first lock.

“No worries,” the witch assured. “We’ve got rapid-growth potions if needed.”

Two slender vials glided onto the counter — one shimmering like molten metal.

“This one adds shine, and the other activates red undertones. We’ll combine them — watch closely. We stop before it turns too red. Ten minutes should do it…”

The scissors kept dancing, shaping her hair into something lighter, freer. The big phoenix-feather brush swooped up, soaked itself in potion, and began circling Lily’s head. Each stroke made her strands glossier, richer in colour.

Lily watched herself change — hesitant fear melting into a curious spark. Even she could see the warm hue brightening her eyes.

Leo leaned in, whispering with a crooked grin:

“I do believe the swan is beginning to emerge.”

Lily tried not to smile. She failed.

With another flick of her wand, the witch summoned a small box to the table — neatly arranged silver tweezers and delicate eyebrow tools inside.

“Now, let’s refine those brows just a touch… then give your skin a healthy glow.”

Half an hour later, she lifted the lid off a shimmering tin and tapped a fingertip into a pearly powder. Murmuring a short charm, she touched her wand to her finger — and tiny, twinkling motes burst into the air like a cloud of glowing butterflies. They settled across Lily’s hair and skin, vanishing the moment they touched, leaving behind a refreshing scent of orange blossom.

She spun Lily’s chair to face the mirror again, stepped back with hands on hips, and declared:

“Well… there we are. What do you think?”

Lily stared.

Her skin looked somehow brighter and well-rested, as though she’d spent the day under warm sunlight rather than wandering Diagon Alley. The new depth in her hair softened her features; reshaped brows widened her already large eyes. She felt… polished. Different. Stronger. A fragile but welcome layer of confidence fluttered to life beneath her ribs.

She smiled at her reflection — small, unsure, but real. When she shook her head, the shorter hair brushed her shoulders and something inside her agreed: perhaps this hadn’t been a terrible idea after all.

Leo, who had watched the entire transformation with profound seriousness, finally spoke:

“She still looks like Lily… just the version who knows she looks good.”

Then, cheekily:

“Those skin potions… totally safe, right? Asking for a friend who may or may not be me.”

They left the shop with arms full of glossy bottles and sparkling packets the witch had “highly recommended.” Leo looked delighted.

“I’m trying these tonight! Brilliant, wasn’t it?”

Lily shrugged. “Your skin’s already perfect.”

“One should never stop improving,” he said grandly.

A few steps later, Lily slowed in front of Madam Malkin’s.

“Weren’t we going to buy new robes?”

“We are,” Leo said airily, striding on. “But we’re not shopping here anymore. Twilfitt and Tatting’s — that’s where the Malfoys go. I need a very sharp dress robe. Who knows? I might be Champion this year. Besides—Madam Malkin would never shorten your school skirt to my specifications.”

“That’s called objectifying women!” Lily called after him.

“Exactly!” Leo beamed.

…

After securing a new set of school robes and several elegant cloaks, they slipped back into the Leaky Cauldron’s cosy din. Butterbeer and Tom’s famous pea soup scented the warm air. Elderly wizards battled in a corner over exploding chess pieces, laughter erupting with each blast.

Tom spotted them dragging their bulging bags and waved them over. His tone was oddly serious.

“Oi, you two. Need a word.”

They exchanged a quick glance and approached.

“House-elf went up to tidy your room earlier,” Tom said, palms braced on the counter. “But… something outside your window gave her quite the fright.”

Leo frowned. “Something?”

Tom shrugged.

“Apparently, it brought you mail.”

Lily blinked. “Mail? You mean an owl?”

“If it had been an owl, no one would be panicking,” Tom muttered. “Listen, better go check it yourselves — and please, while you’re here, keep to ordinary post owls. We’re used to strange things, but not too strange.”

Lily and Leo hurried up the narrow stairs, wood creaking beneath them. Dusty windows filtered in slanted evening light.

Before unlocking the room, Lily pressed her ear to the door. A faint rustling inside.

They shared a look.

She turned the key.

Both stared toward the window.

A massive tropical bird was perched just outside — feathers gleaming in a riot of colours. Its beak was long and curved, eyes black and bright, and its long tail plumes — gold and turquoise velvet — drifted like silk with each breath.

They froze.

Then Lily gasped:

“That—has to be from Sirius!”

Leo, hand still on the doorframe, gawked.

“What on earth is that thing!?”

Lily dropped her shopping bags on the bed and stepped closer to the window. The creature tilted its head at her approach and shuffled with impatience — eager to deliver whatever message it carried.

“Of course it isn’t an owl,” Lily said, completely ignoring Leo’s tone.

“Sirius must be somewhere owls can’t reach. This is brilliant! Look at him — he’s gorgeous!”

As if perfectly understanding her delight, the bird hopped lightly from the sill into the room. Its landing was so soft it seemed the air itself cushioned its wings. With a swift movement, it dropped a roughly wrapped brown parcel onto Lily’s bed and stepped back, almost dignified.

Lily loosened the string. The first thing that slid out was her wand — long, dark wood, polished smooth, carved with those familiar thin runes along the handle. Her fingers traced the grain, warmth blooming gently beneath her skin like the return of a dear friend.

There was also a folded letter — the parchment sun-stained and smelling faintly of salt and sea breeze. She sat and opened it. Sirius’s slightly untidy handwriting sprawled across the page:

Dear Lily,

I imagine the first thing you’ll want to know is where I am — and why I’ve sent this in such a peculiar manner. I can’t name the place, in case this falls into the wrong hands, but I can tell you it’s the warmest spot I’ve ever been… and thankfully, one where Dementors wouldn’t last a day.

After all those years in the cold of Azkaban, I never thought I’d fall asleep to waves again, or wake up to sunlight. Sometimes, in the middle of the day, when the wind carries heat from the shore, I’m convinced it’s a dream — and that everything might vanish if I blink too long.

As for your wand — it truly saved me. Don’t ask how; just know I needed it more than I realised. It’s one of the finest I’ve ever handled: quick, clever, perfectly balanced — just like its owner. Now I can finally return it, though each time I used it, I remembered who I owed that favour to.

Thank you, for everything. Look after yourself — and Harry. I hope the next time we see each other, there’ll be no rush, no running, no danger… simply a place where I can truly see you.

Sirius

Lily folded the letter carefully upon her knee. Leo, who had been examining the vibrant creature now perched upon a wooden chair, asked,

“Well? What’s he say?”

She shrugged, trying and failing to seem casual.

“That he’s safe… and he sent my wand back.”

But the tiny smile tugging at her mouth told a deeper truth.

Leo’s eyes narrowed knowingly. He pointed at the magnificent bird preening its feathers.

“If you’re not writing a reply, we’d better send him off again before Tom comes marching up with a broom.”

Lily set the wand down and looked at the bird — the jewel-bright feathers glinting in the afternoon.

“You don’t want to at least give him a drink first?”

Leo raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I see. Just long enough for you to write a reply?”

Lily tried to hide a smile.

“Maybe.”

Leo sighed dramatically, but he fetched the little jug of water anyway.

“Fine. But only a few minutes. I’d like to avoid being escorted out alongside Tweety the Giant here.”

The bird gave a strange sound — half-whistle, half-caw — and dipped its beak gratefully into the jug.

“That’s plenty,” Lily murmured.

She crossed the room to the small writing desk, pulled out a sheet of parchment, and sat. Golden light from the open window streaked across the clean page. Ink and quill waited patiently at her elbow.

Soft rustling feathers and faint sipping noises filled the quiet room. Leo lounged on his bed, pretending boredom but watching everything out of the corner of his eye.

Lily dipped the quill into ink… but didn’t yet write. Her gaze drifted back to Sirius’s letter. She read the last line again, feeling its warmth coil beneath her skin:

A place where I can truly see you.

Her smile returned, unbidden.

Of course Sirius would try to stay formal. Of course he’d fail spectacularly. There was always something in his words — a heat that slipped through the cracks.

Minutes passed before Leo broke the spell with a drawl:

“Well? Why aren’t you writing? Just say ‘Thanks, all good, cheers for not losing my wand.’ Unless you’re planning to describe our thrilling summer in agonising detail…”

Without looking up, Lily replied,

“None of your business.”

She set the tip of her quill to the parchment and wrote — not hastily, but with the care of someone weighing every word.

Sirius,

Thank you for returning my wand in one piece. I’m glad I could help you. And I’m glad you’re somewhere where the sun outshines the shadows. I can’t imagine how strange and wonderful warm sand must feel after those cold, damp walls. It’s summer here too, but the heat you’re feeling must be different. Freedom tends to make everything warmer — especially when you’ve been denied it for so long.

Take good care of yourself. We’re doing the same. Don’t worry too much about Harry — just enjoy the days you’ve got. Write when you can, so we know you’re all right. And say hello to Crookbeak for me.

Lily

P.S. Your new delivery bird nearly scared Tom (the landlord here) out of his wits! Luckily, we’re only staying a few more days before heading to the Burrow for the World Cup — so Tom won’t have to face your ‘experimental post system’ again anytime soon!

She stared at her handwriting for a heartbeat, took a quiet breath, folded the parchment, and sealed it in an envelope. The bird instantly stretched out a leg, ready.

Lily fastened the letter to its leg and whispered,

“Take it carefully — no getting lost. Good lad…”

The creature whistled — a strange trill somewhere between flute and crow — then sprang into the open air, wings barely needing to beat before it vanished into the bright sky.

Leo, still sprawled on his bed, muttered,

“Well, wand’s back. Let’s hope that’s the last parcel Black sends us.”

Lily only shrugged — though her warm ears and pink cheeks betrayed her.

…

A week later, beneath a blazing summer sun, Lily and Leo stood among the noisy crowd gathered around the Leaky Cauldron’s Floo hearth. The air was thick with ash and the scent of half-burnt wood. When their turn came, Leo grabbed a handful of glittering green powder, tossed it into the fire, and the flames roared emerald.

He nudged her forward.

“You go first.”

“You always make me go first,” she muttered — but stepped inside anyway. No chance she’d admit, in front of this many witches and wizards, that she’d never travelled by Floo before.

The heat was gentle, more like warm wind than fire.

Leo called out, “Keep your elbows in!”

She squeezed her eyes shut, tucked her arms close, and spoke clearly:

“The Burrow!”

A split-second later, the world turned into a whirling hurricane.

She was spinning at breakneck speed, a deafening rush in her ears. Nausea lurched in her gut — so she focused hard on counting.

One… two… three… four…

At twenty-three, she was abruptly flung face-first onto wooden floorboards.

It took a few breaths to re-orient herself. The air smelled of fresh bread and jam; clattering dishes chimed from somewhere nearby. Blinking rapidly, she made out two freckled, red-haired faces grinning down at her.

“Hiiiiii!”

She squinted.

“Fred! George! Hi…”

“Welcome to the Burrow, DiNalfi!” Fred cheered.

George smirked.

“Summer’s been good to you! What did you do — get attacked by a makeover spell?”

Somewhere behind them Ron shouted,

“Are you going to help her up or are you waiting for the next person to land on her!?”

Quite right — because as soon as the twins hauled Lily to her feet and dragged her trunk aside, Leo came shooting out of the fireplace, his luggage crashing exactly where her head had been moments earlier.

He grumbled while dusting himself off,

“That old wizard behind me shoved me straight in! Git…”

Ron pushed back from the kitchen table, smiling broadly as he approached. Two other red-haired young men remained seated, but watched with interest.

Lily threw her arms around Ron before she could second-guess it.

“How are you? I missed you!”

Ron froze — startled —

“Oh— er— yeah! I— missed you too! You… look… different!”

She smiled and shrugged, letting him go. While Ron turned to shake Leo’s hand, Lily took her first proper look at the Burrow’s heart — the Weasley kitchen. Every surface was cluttered with enchanted photographs, shiny copper pans, and mismatched crockery. The beloved family clock was visible from here, and a stack of dog-eared cookery spellbooks leaned beside a wireless humming faint music.

The two young men at the table stood. The broader, shorter one — palms calloused and blistered — shook their hands firmly.

“Charlie. Dragon-keeper — Romania.”

Leo’s eyes lit up.

“You’re the one who works with dragons! Right?”

Charlie chuckled.

“Work for dragons, more like.”

Behind him, the other brother rose: tall, effortlessly handsome, red hair tied back and a fang earring catching the light. Lily almost forgot to breathe — suddenly understanding precisely how Fleur Delacour could fall hopelessly for this one.

“Welcome,” he said warmly. “I’m Bill. You must be the DiNalfis. Ron and Ginny haven’t stopped talking about you.”

“They’re very kind,” Lily replied, cheeks warming again.

Moments later, the kitchen door swung open and Mr and Mrs Weasley bustled in. Mrs Weasley wore a checked apron, her hair tied back in a practical twist. She swept forward, planting warm motherly kisses on both Lily and Leo’s cheeks.

“Welcome, dears! Welcome! Have you had a good summer? You didn’t get bored staying at the Leaky Cauldron all that time, did you?”

Lily opened her mouth to answer, but Mr Weasley straightened his glasses proudly.

“Molly, no one gets bored in the Leaky Cauldron — or Diagon Alley for that matter!”

Mrs Weasley brushed a hand lovingly over Lily’s newly styled hair.

“Don’t you look lovely! That colour suits you so well…”

Leo shook hands with Mr Weasley.

“How are you, sir?”

“Me? Splendid!” Arthur beamed. “Anyone heading off to the Quidditch World Cup should be in high spirits! And it’s in England this year — marvellous!”

“We really owe you for inviting us,” Lily added earnestly.

“It’s such a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs Weasley waved the thought away. “We’re thrilled to have you!”

Mr Weasley checked his watch.

“Goodness — past five already! I’ve got to go. I promised we’d collect Harry at five o’clock. I temporarily connected their fireplace to the Floo Network. Took a bit of wrangling — but I have my contacts!”

Ron leapt up eagerly.

“Can I come?”

“Of course! Just hurry, I don’t want to be late in front of Muggles!”

“I’m coming too!” George cried.

“And me!” Fred added.

Leo frowned.

“Do you really think it’s proper to turn up unannounced in their living room?”

Arthur hesitated.

“Leo does have a point. They might not appreciate a large magical delegation— Maybe I should go alone.”

Ron protested,

“It’s not unannounced — we told them we were coming!”

Fred put on a thoughtful face.

“We want to see a Muggle house, Dad. You’re always going on about understanding Muggle culture.”

George chimed in,

“Wouldn’t want to miss a field study opportunity, would we?”

Mrs Weasley planted her hands on her hips.

“What are you plotting? Absolutely not. You stay here.”

But Mr Weasley — already melting — sighed,

“It’s alright, Molly. They can come. Just — behave. They’re strangers to us! Manners!”

Fred saluted.

“Model citizens, that’s us.”

Within seconds, Mr Weasley vanished into the emerald flames, followed by Ron, Fred, and George one by one.

At that moment, Ginny and Hermione arrived. Lily rushed to hug them. Leo offered a casual nod.

“Hey girls — how’s summer? Hermione, when did you get here?”

“A few hours ago,” Hermione replied, returning Lily’s squeeze.

“And you’ve only just arrived?”

Ginny glanced around.

“Where is everyone?”

“They’ve gone to fetch Harry,” Mrs Weasley answered.

Ginny flushed crimson. Mrs Weasley didn’t notice — already levitating Lily’s luggage upstairs.

“You and Hermione in Ginny’s room, dear — we’ve put up two camp beds. Leo, you’re with Bill and Charlie — in Fred and George’s room. Sorry it’s a bit cramped…”

“It’s perfect,” Lily insisted.

Once the luggage floated away, everyone gathered around the table again — tea and chatter flowing easily — until Fred tumbled out of the fire, grinning wildly.

“Where’s Harry?” Lily asked at once. “Everything all right?”

George followed with Harry’s trunk.

“He’s coming. And yes — everything’s fine. Except for the part where we accidentally blew up half their fireplace.”

Ginny squeaked,

“What?!”

“Well,” George explained breezily, “the Dursleys had blocked the chimney — bought an electric fire apparently — and Dad didn’t know! We all got stuck. So he blasted it open with a Bombarda.”

Leo muttered, “Oh dear…”

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Oh no…”

Then Ron emerged from the hearth. George pounced:

“How’s the whale?”

“Who?” Ron blinked. “Dudley? What do you mean how?”

“He must’ve been in some state,” Leo pointed out.

George excitedly produced a handful of colourful wrapped sweets.

“Our latest invention! Been dying to test it. If we’re lucky, Harry will tell us whether it worked!”

Lily picked one up. Hermione glared.

“You can’t just experiment on whoever crosses your path! What if they’re dangerous?”

Fred scoffed,

“They’re fine! We test most of them on ourselves.”

Bill’s voice cut through calmly,

“Still — it wasn’t right. Dad will be furious. You know how he feels about Muggles.”

Before the twins could reply, Harry shot face-first from the fire. Fred hauled him to his feet immediately.

“So?” he asked eagerly. “Did it work?”

Harry adjusted his glasses.

“Er — yeah. What was that?”

“Ton-Tongue Toffee!” Fred announced proudly.

“We invented it! Been searching all summer for the perfect test subject!”

Laughter erupted through the tiny kitchen. Harry glanced around — Charlie shook his hand, Bill greeted him warmly, Ginny turned redder than the kettle, and before Lily or Leo could get a word in—

Pop.

Mr Weasley appeared, absolutely livid.

“That was not funny, Fred! What did you give that Muggle boy!?”

Fred put on a picture of innocence.

“I didn’t give him anything! Dropped it — he ate it of his own free will. Entirely his fault.”

“You dropped it deliberately!” Arthur thundered.

“You knew he’d eat it — on a diet and hopelessly greedy!”

George leaned forward eagerly.

“How long did his tongue get?”

Arthur’s voice shook with outrage:

“When his parents finally agreed to let me shrink it — it was over four feet long!”

Harry, Leo, and almost every Weasley collapsed in hysterics.

“IT IS NOT FUNNY!” Mr Weasley roared.

“This sort of thing damages Muggle-wizard relations! I’ve spent half my career fighting Muggle abuse and then my own sons—!”

Fred snapped,

“We didn’t do it because he’s a Muggle!”

George folded his arms.

“We did it because he’s a bully. Right, Harry?”

Harry’s face sobered.

“They’re right, Mr Weasley.”

“That’s not the point,” Arthur huffed. “Now listen — if I tell your mother—”

A voice behind him cut in sharply:

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Mrs Weasley stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed. When she spotted Harry, she brightened.

“Hullo, dear!”

Then she returned to Arthur with deadly suspicion.

“Well? What is it you weren’t telling me, Arthur?”

Arthur froze. Lily sensed he’d never intended to involve Molly in this.

He stammered, “Nothing important, Molly — the twins — I told them off—”

“I told you not to take them with you!” she snapped.

“What have they done now? This had better not involve those Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes—”

Hermione leapt into action.

“Ron — why don’t we show Harry his room?”

“He knows where he’s sleeping,” Ron mumbled.

“Same as last year—”

Hermione widened her eyes meaningfully.

“Let’s all go.”

“Oh— right. Yes. Let’s go,” Ron said quickly.

George began to follow.

“We’re coming too—!”

Mrs Weasley shot him a glare.

“You stay right where you are.”

Lily, Leo, Harry, and Ron slipped quietly out of the kitchen, Hermione and Ginny following close behind. They climbed the narrow, zigzagging staircase that seemed to twist endlessly upward through the Burrow.

As they climbed, Harry asked,

“What are Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, exactly?”

Ron and Ginny laughed; Hermione didn’t.

Ron lowered his voice.

“Mum found a pile of order forms when she was cleaning Fred and George’s room — lists of all the stuff they’d invented, with prices and everything. You know them — joke wands, trick sweets, that sort of thing. Brilliant work, really. I had no idea they’d been that busy.”

Ginny said,

“For years we’ve heard bangs coming from their room, but none of us guessed they were actually inventing things. We thought they just liked blowing stuff up.”

Ron sighed.

“Only problem is — well, every one of their inventions is a bit dodgy. They wanted to sell them at Hogwarts to make money, but Mum went spare when she found out. Burned the order forms and banned them from inventing. She’s still sore about it, especially since they didn’t get the O.W.L.s she wanted.”

Ginny added,

“And they had a huge row about careers — Mum wanted them in the Ministry, like Dad, but they said they’re opening a joke shop instead.”

Leo looked intrigued.

“What’s wrong with that? Zonko’s does great business.”

Just then a door on the second landing burst open and Percy’s bespectacled, self-important face appeared.

“Hello. Who’s making all this racket? I’m working! Trying to finish a report for the office. Can’t concentrate with you thundering about!”

Ron scowled.

“We weren’t thundering! We were walking. Sorry if our mere existence interrupts your top-secret Ministry operations.”

Harry grinned.

“What’s the report on?”

Percy puffed up proudly.

“For the Department of International Magical Cooperation. We’re drafting standards for cauldron thickness. Some foreign imports are too thin — leaks have risen three percent this year—”

“Groundbreaking,” Ron said gravely. “The Daily Prophet’ll have a field day.”

Percy flushed scarlet.

“You may laugh, Ronald, but without proper legislation the market will flood with substandard cauldrons!”

“Right you are,” Ron muttered. “Carry on, then.”

He started up the next flight. Percy slammed his door.

Three landings higher, raised voices floated from the kitchen — Mrs Weasley discovering the truth about the toffees, apparently.

Ron’s attic bedroom was the highest room in the house. Everything inside was a violent shade of orange — curtains, bedspread, and walls plastered with Chudley Cannons posters, even across the slanted ceiling. On the windowsill sat a goldfish bowl containing a massive frog. A small grey owl — the same one that had delivered Ron’s letter to the Leaky Cauldron — was flapping madly in its cage.

“Shut up, Pig,” Ron groaned.

He gestured around.

“Fred and George are sleeping here too, ’cause Bill, Charlie, and Leo are in their room. Percy doesn’t let anyone in his — work, you know.”

Harry eyed the owl.

“Why d’you call him Pig?”

Ginny answered with a grin,

“Because he acts ridiculous. His full name’s Pigwidgeon.”

Ron rolled his eyes.

“Exactly! And somehow I’m the one being ridiculous. But she named him, and by the time I tried changing it, he’d stopped answering to anything else. So now he’s Pig. Serves him right — he drives Errol and Hermes mad.”

Pig hooted gleefully and twirled in his cage.

“Where’s Crookshanks?” Harry asked Hermione.

“Out in the garden,” Hermione said. “He loves chasing gnomes — he’s never seen any before.”

Lily and Leo perched on one of the spare beds.

“So,” Leo said, “Percy likes his Ministry job?”

Ron made a face.

“Likes it? He worships it. If he weren’t scared of Dad, he’d probably move into the office. Don’t get him started on his boss — it’s ‘Mr Crouch this, Mr Crouch that’ all day long. I bet he’ll announce their engagement soon.”

Leo frowned.

“Crouch? Bartemius Crouch? Percy works for him?”

“Yup. Head of International Magical Cooperation.”

At that moment Lily pulled her wand from her robe pocket to dust off the ashes on her shoes. Ron’s eyes lit up.

“Hey, speaking of—”

Hermione shot him a sharp look. He snapped his mouth shut. Lily knew exactly what he’d been about to ask — Sirius — but discussing him in front of Ginny wasn’t safe. No one besides them and Dumbledore knew he was innocent.

Ginny’s curious gaze flicked between them, so Hermione quickly changed the subject.

“Looks like they’ve stopped shouting. Shall we go help your mum with dinner?”

Ron shrugged. “Sure.”

The six of them trooped back downstairs. Mrs Weasley, looking slightly frazzled, greeted them.

“Thirteen of us won’t fit in the kitchen — we’ll eat outside. Girls, carry the plates, please. Bill and Charlie are sorting the tables.”

Lily, Hermione, and Ginny each grabbed a stack of plates and headed for the back door.

Before they’d gone far, they spotted Crookshanks sprinting past — tail high, chasing something that looked suspiciously like a muddy potato with legs. The gnome’s stubby horns clattered as it fled. Then a loud crash echoed from the other side of the garden.

They rounded the corner to find Bill and Charlie levitating two rickety tables, which were enthusiastically duelling mid-air, slamming together with loud bangs. Fred and George were cheering them on; Ginny dissolved into laughter. Hermione lingered uncertainly by the hedge, torn between amusement and horror.

When Harry, Ron, and Leo appeared carrying handfuls of cutlery, Bill’s table landed a decisive blow — one leg of Charlie’s table splintered.

At that precise moment a furious bellow came from above. Everyone looked up to see Percy’s head poking out of a second-floor window.

“Could you please keep it down?!”

A few minutes later, both tables were groaning under the weight of Mrs Weasley’s finest cooking. The sky above was a deep, cloudless blue; everyone squeezed around the mismatched seating and tucked in. Lily helped herself to a meat pasty and salad, eating happily.

At the far end, Percy was holding forth about work again:

“I told Mr Crouch I’d have the report ready by Tuesday. There’s so much to do — with the World Cup preparations and all — the Department of Magical Games and Sports isn’t pulling its weight… and Ludo Bagman—”

Mr Weasley protested mildly,

“I like Ludo! He got us those brilliant tickets for the Final — on account of that favour I did for his brother once… nothing much, just smoothing over a little incident—”

Percy sniffed,

“Yes, Bagman’s… likeable, but I still don’t see how he ended up Head of the department. Compare him to Mr Crouch! If one of his employees went missing, he’d turn the world upside down to find them.”

Lily looked up, startled.

“One of their employees is missing? Why?”

Percy brightened — finally, an audience.

“Bertha Jorkins. She went to Albania for her holiday over a month ago and hasn’t been heard from since!”

Mr Weasley frowned.

“Yes… I asked Ludo… he claims Bertha’s gone missing before. Says she probably misread the map and went to Australia instead.”

Percy gave a despairing sigh.

“I admit Bertha isn’t the sharpest wand in the drawer — she’s been shuffled through half the Ministry — but that’s not the point. Bagman ought to be searching for her. Mr Crouch is very fond of her — she used to work for our department, you know.”

He straightened his back importantly.

“And anyway, we’ve got enough to do in our office without chasing after other departments’ missing staff. You all know what I mean, Dad… the top-secret project.”

Ron rolled his eyes and whispered to the others,

“He’s just dying for someone to ask what it is. Probably a public exhibition of thick-bottomed cauldrons.”

At the centre of the table, Mrs Weasley was lecturing Bill about his fang earring; Fred, George, and Charlie were loudly discussing the Cup.

“England were flattened by Transylvania,” Charlie grumbled. “Three hundred and ninety to ten! Wales lost to Uganda! And Luxembourg thrashed Scotland—”

By the time dessert plates were cleared away, candles floated low above their heads, hissing softly. The night air was scented with honeysuckle and freshly cut grass. Crookshanks scampered after a pack of cackling garden gnomes.

Ron glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

“So… any news about Sirius?”

Hermione leaned in. Harry whispered back,

“He’s written twice. Seems all right. I answered a couple of days ago — his reply might reach us here.”

Hermione, under her breath to Lily:

“He returned your wand, didn’t he?”

Lily nodded.

“Last week…”

Ron huffed.

“Last week? How’d you manage without a wand? When I’m seventeen I won’t go anywhere without mine.”

Leo grumbled,

“She used mine, obviously. We survived an entire summer wand-sharing, thanks to Mr Black’s beauty sleep.”

Lily added,

“He sent it back with a giant tropical bird. Said he’s somewhere warm near the sea. Dementors don’t survive heat well.”

Harry nodded,

“Yeah — he sent my birthday present that way too.”

Hermione, thoughtful,

“So he’s probably not in Britain…”

Mrs Weasley suddenly checked her watch.

“Goodness! Look at the time. Bed — all of you! You’ll need to be up before sunrise.”

She turned to Lily, Leo, and Harry.

“I’m going to Diagon Alley tomorrow for the school shopping. If you’ve got a list, give it to me — I can pick things up for you.”

Lily smiled gratefully.

“Thank you, but we already bought everything in the Leaky Cauldron. Really — no trouble.”

“No trouble at all, dear!” said Mrs Weasley. “But Harry, you give me your list — you never know how long the Final will last. Five days last time!”

Harry’s eyes shone.

“Hope it does again!”

Percy looked horrified.

“Heaven forbid. Can’t imagine how much would pile up in my in-tray.”

Fred muttered,

“Or how much dragon dung might appear in it.”

Percy snapped red-faced,

“It was a fertiliser sample from Norway! Entirely professional!”

Chairs scraped back as everyone got up. Fred whispered,

“It absolutely wasn’t professional. We sent it.”

They began clearing up. Candles flickered out one by one. The smell of damp grass drifted over the darkening garden. Lily stood beside Leo as he levitated cutlery into stacks.

Quietly, she asked,

“How many Galleons have you got?”

Leo shot her a suspicious look.

“Why?”

“I just… thought maybe we could help Mrs Weasley with match tickets or something. Then she could buy proper dress robes for the boys. You know… Ron…”

She trailed off, shrugging.

Leo narrowed his eyes.

“You’re giving her money? She’ll never accept.”

“I know — but I don’t want Ron stuck in awful dress robes at the Yule Ball again.”

Leo sighed but produced a small leather pouch. It clinked softly.

“Fine. Try. But she’ll refuse.”

A few minutes later Mrs Weasley was alone in the kitchen, a mop scrub-brush enchanted to scour a cauldron. Lily set down a stack of plates, hesitated, and drew a breath.

“Mrs Weasley… could I— just for a moment?”

Mrs Weasley turned, warm and patient.

“What is it, dear?”

Lily quietly slipped the pouch into her hand.

“This is… for the World Cup tickets. We’re so grateful — I’d feel better if you’d accept it.”

Mrs Weasley looked startled — then firm.

“No, sweetheart. We didn’t pay for those tickets. Ludo gave them to Arthur. It wouldn’t be right.”

“But if we’d had to buy them, they’d be far too expensive,” Lily urged. “And we’d never have found any! Please — we’d just like to contribute.”

Mrs Weasley gently pushed the pouch back into Lily’s palm.

“You’ll upset me if you talk like this. You’re our guests — and after what you and Leo did for Ginny last year…”

She shook her head kindly.

“There’s nothing to repay. You’re part of the family now. Off to bed — early start in the morning!”

Lily murmured an apology and slipped out. Leo was leaning against the twins’ door, arms folded.

“Well?”

“She wouldn’t take it.”

“Told you.”

Lily sighed.

“Maybe you could lend Ron one of your dress robes? You’re the same height…”

Leo snorted.

“He’s a Weasley. He’d never accept.”

With another sigh, Lily trudged the last stairs up toward Ginny’s room.

The next morning, Lily could barely tell whether she had slept at all before Mrs Weasley was shaking her awake on the camp bed squeezed into Ginny’s room.

“Girls! Come on — it’s time. The boys are already having breakfast…”

Hermione groaned as she sat up. It was still pitch-dark outside. Ginny emerged from her pillow with a snort — her fiery hair so wild Lily almost mistook it for real flames.

Mrs Weasley hurried downstairs again. Hermione muttered irritably,

“It’s still the middle of the night…”

Lily yawned, rubbing her eyes.

“Maybe it’s a long way to walk…?”

They tiptoed through the twisting corridors, pale and bleary, and entered the kitchen. Leo, Harry, Ron, Fred and George were already at the table. Ginny collapsed into a chair.

“Why so early?” she moaned.

“Because a bit of the way we’ve got to go on foot,” said Mr Weasley cheerfully.

He was dressed in something that looked like a golfing jumper and a pair of baggy jeans held up with a leather belt — clearly an attempt at Muggle clothing that hadn’t quite succeeded.

“On foot?” Harry blinked. “All the way to the Quidditch World Cup?”

Mr Weasley laughed.

“No, no — that’s far too long a walk! Just a short stretch. But gatherings of wizards attract attention — especially in times like these. A World Cup means… well, precautions!”

Lily stared into her porridge, barely awake. Leo leaned close, whispering urgently,

“What’s wrong with your face?”

“What?”

“You look awful. Pale as Nearly Headless Nick!”

“I slept terribly,” Lily hissed back. “New bed, different pillow — nothing’s wrong.”

Leo narrowed his eyes.

“Nothing!? You’re seeing Cedric today!”

Lily opened her mouth to retort — but Mrs Weasley suddenly shrieked:

“GEORGE!”

George tried to look innocent — and failed spectacularly.

“What?”

“What’s in your pocket?”

“Nothing!”

“Don’t lie to me — Accio!”

A rain of brightly wrapped sweets shot from George’s pockets. He leapt to catch them, but Mrs Weasley’s wand was faster. She rounded on Fred too, wand raised:

“Accio! Accio! Accio!”

Tongue-Extenders flew from every possible hiding spot — the lining of George’s coat, the hem of Fred’s jeans, even from inside his sock.

“We spent six months making those!” Fred shouted furiously.

“And your exam results showed it!” Mrs Weasley snapped back.

While chaos erupted, Leo hissed urgently to Lily,

“Go upstairs. Change. Fix your hair. Please don’t ruin everything!”

“I still don’t see why I have to make him like me,” Lily gritted out.

“For the millionth time — a Slytherin boy can’t just become Cedric’s best mate. You — a clever Ravenclaw girl — could be his girlfriend. If I could do it, I would! Now move!”

The leave-taking at the Burrow was… frosty. Mrs Weasley kissed Mr Weasley’s cheek — but her lips were tight, and her eyes still flashed with indignation. The twins, still furious, slung their rucksacks on without so much as a glance at their mother and marched ahead towards the gate.

“Have a lovely time!” Mrs Weasley called after everyone — then, louder,

“And mind your behaviour!”

Fred and George did not turn around.

Mr Weasley ushered Lily, Leo, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny after them. The grass was wet beneath their shoes; the moon still hung pale in the sky, and a faint blush of dawn was only just rising at the horizon.

“How on earth are that many witches and wizards getting there without Muggles noticing?” Harry asked.

Mr Weasley sighed.

“That has been a logistical nightmare. You see — nearly a hundred thousand witches and wizards descending on one place! We’ve no magical venue large enough and hidden enough. Imagine them all pouring into Diagon Alley or King’s Cross — chaos! So we’ve found a suitably remote Muggle area… and for months the Ministry’s been laying anti-Muggle enchantments over it.”

He tapped his watch, speaking faster as excitement crept in.

“Travel had to be staggered — anyone with cheaper tickets had to arrive early; some took Muggle transport (cautiously — we can’t crowd stations). Some Apparate into the forest nearby… And for the rest — we’ve placed two hundred Portkeys all over Britain. The nearest one to us is on Stoatshead Hill. Which is where we’re heading now.”

Up ahead loomed a dark rise behind Ottery St Catchpole. Harry asked,

“What’s a Portkey look like?”

“Oh, anything at all. Best if it’s something so grubby a Muggle wouldn’t dream of touching it…”

They trudged along the damp lane through the village. Dawn unfolded slowly, washing the sky to blue. Lily was overheating, breath short — the steep climb setting a hot stitch beneath her ribs. More than once she stumbled in hidden rabbit holes or skidded down clumps of tangled grass. Lily was not built for uphill marches.

By the time they reached the flatter top, her calves were throbbing miserably. Mr Weasley removed his glasses to wipe the fog from them.

“Ten minutes early. Perfect timing…”

Hermione staggered up last, gasping. Mr Weasley looked around with purpose.

“Now — just the Portkey to find. Won’t be anything grand. Let’s spread out.”

They fanned across the windy hilltop. Leo — ever the strategist — gave Lily’s hair a quick smoothing charm to tame the frizz and scanned the surroundings eagerly.

“So where are the Diggorys?”

“I’m panicking. What do I say first?” Lily whispered, heart hammering.

Leo opened his mouth — but a shout rang out across the slope:

“Here, Arthur! We’ve found it!”

Two figures stood dark against the brightening sky. Mr Weasley strode forward smiling.

“Amos!”

He shook hands with the man — ruddy-faced, with a wispy brown beard — who held up a single mud-caked boot.

“Kids — this is Amos Diggory, a colleague of mine from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And this is his son — you’ll know Cedric, surely?”

A little ripple of suppressed giggles ran through Ginny; Hermione elbowed her sharply. Cedric smiled — and Lily’s stomach dropped to her feet. He was taller than she remembered, older somehow, eyes bright grey under windswept hair.

“Hi,” he said warmly.

Everyone returned the greeting — except Fred and George, who merely nodded, still not over last year’s Quidditch defeat. Amos beamed proudly.

“Bit of a walk, eh?”

“Not too bad,” Mr Weasley puffed. “We’re just the other side of the village. And you?”

“Up since two!” Amos laughed. “Once Cedric passes his Apparition test, I’ll be a happy man. Still — worth every knut. You’d not catch me missing the World Cup — even if the ticket cost an arm and a leg! Yours must’ve weighed a bit heavy too—”

He glanced at the children with friendly curiosity.

“All yours, Arthur?”

“Oh no — only the red-haired ones are mine,” Mr Weasley grinned. “These are Leo, Lily, and Hermione — friends of the family. You must’ve seen them round Hogwarts, Cedric?”

Cedric nodded.

“Yeah — sort of… from a distance.”

His eyes passed over them — and paused just a moment too long on Lily. Her breath snagged.

“Um — hi…” she squeaked.

“And this is Harry,” Mr Weasley added casually.

Amos Diggory’s eyes bulged.

“Harry? Harry Potter?”

Harry nodded awkwardly.

“Well! Cedric’s told us all about playing against you! I said to him — son, that’s one to tell your grandchildren — imagine, beating Harry Potter!”

Harry stared at the ground, mortified. Fred and George stiffened with bristling pride. Cedric hissed,

“Dad — Harry fell off his broom. Something odd happened—”

“But you didn’t fall, did you?” Amos said cheerfully, clapping his son’s back. “Cedric here’s too modest. Proper young gentleman, my boy—”

Lily’s chest tightened painfully — a chill memory of what Cedric would never live to tell. Leo leaned in, voice low and pointed:

“Whether he gets those grandchildren or not… depends on you.”

Lily shot him a murderous glare.

Mr Weasley checked his watch again.

“Right — time’s up. Amos, anyone else we’re expecting?”

“No — Lovegoods have been camped up there a week. Fawcett couldn’t get tickets. Don’t think there’s another witch or wizard for miles.”

“Good. Then let’s get ready — any second now…”

“Right,” said Mr Diggory, looking around at them all. “All you have to do is make sure you’ve got a finger on the Portkey. Just a touch will do.”

With everyone loaded down with rucksacks, it was a struggle to crowd around the battered old boot he was holding. Lily took two careful sidesteps and neatly slipped in beside Cedric, who was reaching for the lace.

At that exact moment Leo, pretending he couldn’t quite reach, said loudly,

“Bit of room for me, yeah?”

He gave Lily such a shove that she almost fell straight into Cedric’s chest. Cedric caught her at once.

“Careful,” he said, steadying her. “It’s slippery.”

Flustered by the warmth of his hands on her arms, Lily righted herself quickly and muttered an apology. Leo, all innocence, flashed her a grin.

“Sorry! Thought I was going to miss it.”

At last they were all clustered around the boot, fingers hooked on wherever they could. A cool wind brushed their faces; no one spoke.

Mr Weasley, eyes on his watch, counted,

“One… two… three—”

The world yanked itself out from under their feet.

A hook seemed to catch Lily sharply round the stomach and haul her forward. Her trainers left the ground. Her shoulder kept thudding into Cedric’s arm — not helped by Leo wedging himself in on her other side. Wind roared in her ears; the hillside, the sky, even the people around her blurred into streaks of colour. Her forefinger felt welded to the grimy leather of the boot, as if some invisible magnet held it there.

And then, just as suddenly, they slammed back onto solid earth.

Lily landed hard on her side; Leo hit the ground face-first beside her and swore under his breath. The old boot thumped down not far away.

Dazed, Lily pushed herself up. Mr Weasley, Mr Diggory and Cedric were still on their feet — their hair windswept and ruffled, but otherwise composed. Everyone else was sprawled about looking rather less dignified.

Cedric held out his hand again. This time Lily managed a small smile as she took it and let him pull her upright.

A clear voice rang out,

“Five-oh-seven from Stoatshead Hill!”

They had arrived in a wide, misty, utterly featureless moor. Two exhausted-looking wizards were waiting for them. One held an enormous golden watch; the other was clutching a long roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed in Muggle clothes — disastrously. The man with the watch wore a tweed suit and riding boots that reached his thighs; his companion had combined a kilt with a poncho.

Mr Weasley handed the boot to the kilted wizard, who tossed it into a large box teeming with other battered objects.

“Morning, Basil,” said Mr Weasley.

“All right, Arthur,” Basil sighed. “You’re not on duty, are you? Lucky you. We’ve been here all night. Best move along — we’ve got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five fifteen… Let me see— Weasley, Weasley…”

He ran a finger down the parchment.

“First field on the left, about four hundred yards up. Your site manager’s called Mr Roberts. Diggory, you’re in the second field — chap called Payne in charge there.”

Leo muttered under his breath,

“Brilliant. Couldn’t have booked side by side, could we? There goes Cedric…”

Lily hitched her rucksack higher.

“What d’you want me to do, beg him to let me share his tent? Wouldn’t put it past you.”

Mr Weasley set off across the moor and they all trudged after him. The mist made it hard to see more than a few yards ahead. After about twenty minutes’ walk a stone cottage and a wide wooden gateway loomed out of the haze. Beyond, Harry could make out the dark line of a forest; on the sloping ground leading down to it, hundreds of tents dotted the hillside like ghostly shapes.

They parted from Mr Diggory and Cedric and headed for the cottage door.

A man was standing in the doorway, surveying the tents. One look was enough to tell he was the only true Muggle for miles. He turned at the sound of their footsteps.

“Morning!” said Mr Weasley brightly. “You must be Mr Roberts?”

“That’s right,” said the man. “Name?”

“Weasley. I booked two pitches a few days ago.”

Mr Roberts consulted a list pinned to the cottage door.

“You wanted a spot near the woods. One night… You paying now?”

“Er — yes, of course,” said Mr Weasley hastily.

He drew Harry aside, fumbling a roll of Muggle notes from his pocket and flattening them out with clammy fingers.

“Help me out, Harry. This is a… a ten? I saw the little number… so that must make this one a five, right?”

Harry murmured,

“That’s a twenty.”

“Right, right, of course… These little bits of paper baffle me…”

Leo strolled over, calm as anything, and plucked the money from his hands.

“It’s fine — let me,” he said quietly.

He returned to Mr Roberts with the sorted notes.

“Sorry about that. My uncle’s just arrived from overseas — still getting the hang of your currency.”

Mr Roberts gave Mr Weasley a long, speculative look.

“Thought as much. You wouldn’t be the first. Had two blokes here ten minutes ago trying to pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps.”

“Really?” said Mr Weasley, going slightly pink.

Mr Roberts rattled around in a tin of change, then paused, frowning out over the fields.

“Never had it this busy. Hundreds of ‘em booked in advance. Folk don’t usually bother — just turn up. People from all over. Foreign, most of ‘em. Odd lot. One chap’s walking round in a kilt and a poncho.”

“He shouldn’t be dressed like that, then?” Mr Weasley said anxiously.

Mr Roberts shook his head.

“It’s like some… some sort of gathering. Don’t know what for. Like they all know each other. As if they’ve arranged it…”

At that moment the wizard in the golfing trousers appeared right beside the cottage, Apparating with a pop. He flicked his wand at Mr Roberts.

“Obliviate.”

Mr Roberts’ eyes glazed over; the frown melted from his face, replaced by a vague cheerfulness. He handed over a folded map and a handful of coins.

“Here you go. Map of the campsite, your change. Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” said Mr Weasley.

The wizard in golfing gear fell into step with them as they walked through the great gateway. Up close he looked utterly shattered; dark circles smudged his eyes, and there was stubble on his jaw.

“Roberts is a nightmare,” he muttered once they were out of earshot. “We’re wiping him ten times a day and he still notices things. And Bagman’s no help — bounding about talking at the top of his lungs about Quaffles and Bludgers… Might as well hang up a sign. I’ll be glad when this is over. See you, Arthur.”

He Disapparated with another faint crack.

Ginny frowned.

“Isn’t Mr Bagman Head of Magical Games and Sports? Shouldn’t he know better than to shout about Bludgers in front of a Muggle?”

Mr Weasley led the way through the gate and into the campsite proper, smiling faintly.

“Yes, he should… Ludo’s not exactly the most cautious wizard when it comes to security. But he’s full of enthusiasm! Used to play for England, you know. Best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had.”

As they wound their way between rows of tents, he glanced suddenly at Leo.

“By the way… where did you learn to tell Muggle money apart?”

Leo hesitated for a second.

“Well… um… we… I mean—”

“We’ve got a few Muggle friends,” Lily cut in smoothly.

Mr Weasley lit up as though someone had cast Lumos behind his eyes.

“Really? Muggle friends? Oh, that’s wonderful! Tell me everything — how did you meet them? How do you get close enough for friendship? Do you—”

Leo snorted.

“They’re just a boring pair who worked in a little shop we used to go to. Trust me, Mr Weasley, you really wouldn’t want to hang out with them.”

“No, no! Don’t say that!” Mr Weasley protested earnestly. “Muggles are fascinating! I’d love to chat with them. Maybe we could even visit! Where did you say they lived—?”

“Edinburgh,” Lily jumped in again, smiling sweetly. “But one of them’s abandoning the other and going off to Glasgow to study — faithless creature, honestly!”

Leo shot her a murderous look, but they pressed on between tents, climbing the misty slope. The tents were all meant to look perfectly ordinary — which only made the odd additions more ridiculous: chimneys, doorbells, weathervanes… And then the blatantly magical ones: a silk pavilion guarded by strutting peacocks, a three-storey turreted monstrosity that might as well have been yelling “Look at us! We’re wizards!”

“No wonder the poor Muggle’s suspicious,” Lily murmured.

Mr Weasley chuckled.

“We do get carried away when we’re all together. Ah — here we are!”

They had reached the very top edge of the field, right beside the forest. A small sign jabbed into the turf read: Weeley — the name spelt wrong, naturally.

“Best spot in the lot!” said Mr Weasley proudly. “The stadium’s just through those trees — we’re the closest of anyone.”

He dropped his rucksack.

“And remember — no magic while we’re on the Muggle-numbered pitches. Sleeves up, hands on — we’ll do this the proper way. Harry, any ideas how to start?”

Harry muttered,

“I’ve never been camping — the Dursleys never took me. But how hard can it be…”

“Leo?” said Mr Weasley brightly. “You and your Muggle friends ever go camping?”

Leo rolled up his sleeves.

“Once or twice. Lily nearly drowned one of those times. Mind if I take a look?”

With Leo directing and Lily, Harry and Hermione hammering pegs, the tents were up within half an hour — despite Mr Weasley’s enthusiastic but utterly unhelpful attempts with the mallet.

They stepped back to admire their handiwork: two shabby little two-man tents that absolutely screamed “Muggle”. Mr Weasley dropped to his hands and knees and crawled inside.

“It’ll be a squeeze, but we’ll manage. Come and see!”

Lily ducked through the flap… and stopped. Inside was a cosy three-bedroom cottage — complete with fireplace, mismatched armchairs, and a whiff of cat.

“Borrowed from Perkins at the office,” Mr Weasley explained cheerfully. “Knackered his back — can’t camp anymore. Only the one night here anyway. Now—”

He picked up a dusty kettle and peered inside.

“We’ll need water!”

“We could just use Aguamenti,” Leo suggested hopefully.

“No magic,” Mr Weasley reminded him sternly. “We’re on Muggle ground!”

Leo threw his hands up.

“We’re inside the tent. If anyone sees this place, water will be the least surprising thing!”

Ron wandered in, unfazed by the impossible interior.

“There’s a tap marked on the map — over that way.”

“Excellent!” Mr Weasley said briskly, loading Ron, Harry and Hermione with pots and kettles. “You lot fetch water. We’ll gather wood for the campfire!”

“Wood? We’ve got a stove,” Ron pointed out.

“Ron,” said Mr Weasley, eyes shining, “Muggle authenticity!”

They inspected the girls’ tent — smaller, mercifully not smelling of cat — and then the water-carrying trio set off.

Lily stayed behind, rubbing at her aching legs. When the others disappeared among the tents, she wandered to the edge of their site, facing the campground instead of the forest.

The morning sun had burned away the mist, revealing a sea of colour. Flags from every magical nation rippled (or, in some cases, magically rippled) above tents. Little kids zoomed past on toy broomsticks. A wizard sent floating lanterns drifting skyward. Music crashed from somewhere — laughter, chatter, excitement everywhere.

Her gaze snagged on a Bulgarian flag — enchanted to wave even in still air. That was practically subtle compared to the peacocks.

The thought of peacocks led, as it always seemed to lately, to another bird entirely… the great tropical owl that had brought Sirius’s letter… and then, inevitably, to Sirius himself.

She pictured him on a warm beach somewhere far away, shirt unbuttoned, sun turning his pale skin gold while Kegbeak and bright parrots strutted in the sand nearby. Was he happy? Was he lonely? Did he think of her when he read her letter — that she’d be here, among thousands of carefree witches and wizards, celebrating — something he’d never truly been allowed to do?

“After everything he’s survived,” she thought, a hollow ache tightening in her chest, “he deserves a crowd like this… no Dementors closing in…”

For a heartbeat the festival faded — replaced by the cold twist of longing.

“Hey—why are you standing here alone?” Leo’s voice jolted her out of it.

She jumped slightly.

“What?”

“You tell me! Something wrong?”

Lily forced a breath and a faint smile.

“No… just thinking.”

Leo gave her a suspicious look.

“You coming to find firewood in the forest, or staying with Ginny?”

“I’ll stay,” she said quickly.

“Suit yourself. We’ll be back. Mr Weasley’s already found a new colleague to talk to!”

Soon she and Ginny were crouched on the grass, arranging a circle of stones and packing a little soil inside.

“Mum always does this,” Ginny mused, patting it firm. “Not sure why. And she never has to use her hands, of course…”

Lily laughed and passed her another rock.

When they were done, their little makeshift fire pit looked properly “Muggle”. They sat on folding canvas chairs and chatted about the match while watching the bustle of the campsite.

It wasn’t long before raucous laughter came through the trees. Leo, Fred and George reappeared, triumphant and breathless, with towering stacks of firewood.

“Raided half the forest!” George announced, dumping his load dramatically.

“So fast?” Ginny blinked.

Fred puffed out his chest.

“You underestimate your brothers.”

Leo dropped his pile proudly. Lily eyed him, lowering her voice:

“You did magic, didn’t you?”

His smirk was practically glowing.

“Obviously. I’m of age now. You think I’m scratching up my lovely hands for twigs?”

Lily sputtered a giggle.

“If Arthur finds out—”

“I’m not responsible for his Muggle fantasies,” Leo declared solemnly.

Fred, overhearing, stretched lazily.

“He won’t. Unless someone rats us out.”

He flicked Lily a pointed look and Ginny snorted.

Mr Weasley returned from a chat with a tall wizard in a cowboy hat.

“Oh, excellent campfire! Smashing work, all of you!”

He produced a packet of Muggle matches with reverence.

“Muggles use these! Brilliant, really — this bit here ignites when you strike it on the box and—whoosh! A flame! Their ingenuity is marvellous…”

Ten minutes later, the ground was littered with spent matchsticks and Mr Weasley was still gleefully insisting, “I can do it, I can do it!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione arrived, arms aching from lugging water. Ron groaned,

“You haven’t even got a fire yet?”

“Dad’s become a match collector,” Fred reported.

Leo deadpanned,

“Frankly, we’re fortunate he hasn’t decided to rub sticks together.”

At last, Hermione gently took the matches and demonstrated — firmly, patiently — and fire was achieved. It took another hour before it was strong enough for cooking.

But at least there was entertainment. Their pitch sat on a main thoroughfare — Ministry witches and wizards paraded past constantly, stopping to greet Arthur. And he narrated every single introduction:

“That’s Cuthbert Mockridge — Head of the Goblin Liaison Office… Gil wimple there — Experimental Charms, the antlers are a long story… Ah, Bud and Croaker — don’t bother, they won’t tell you anything…”

“What?” Harry asked.

“Department of Mysteries — top secret. I’ve no idea what they actually do.”

When the fire was finally useful, eggs and sausages were sizzling when Bill, Charlie and Percy turned up.

Then:

“Well, well, the man of the hour!” Mr Weasley cried, waving cheerfully at a bouncing figure.

Ludo Bagman bounded over — yellow-and-black Quidditch robes, giant wasp badge, huge grin, like a former schoolboy who refused to grow up. His belly strained his robes, his broken nose looked earned, and his bright blue eyes practically crackled with leftover adrenaline.

“What a day! Perfect weather! Perfect everything! There’s nothing left for me to worry about!”

He said — as purple sparks exploded behind him and exhausted Ministry staff sprinted to deal with them.

Percy was on his feet in a heartbeat, thrusting out his hand to be admired. Mr Weasley introduced everyone — including Lily and Leo — and Bagman gave Harry the traditional lightning-scar glance before beaming at the group.

Then came the betting — and Fred and George’s spectacularly reckless wager:

“Ireland to win — but Krum gets the Snitch!”

Leo hissed under his breath,

“Didn’t we agree to place bets together? Remember?”

Lily recognized his real meaning: Don’t let Bagman fleece them.

She sent the twins a silent plea — ignored instantly.

Bagman adored the fake wand, the chicken transformation sending him into delighted roars. The twins glowed.

Arthur tried weakly to intervene — too late.

And then—

“Any word on Bertha Jorkins?” Mr Weasley asked quietly.

“Nothing yet!” Bagman said blithely. “She’ll turn up — probably thinks it’s still July!”

Percy nearly dropped the kettle in outrage at Bagman’s nonchalance, but before he could lecture—

“There he is! The very man!” Bagman exclaimed.

Bartemius Crouch appeared — immaculate suit, immaculate posture, immaculate disapproval. He looked like someone who wouldn’t just run a bank — he’d audit a bank into oblivion.

“Sit, relax—” Bagman gestured cheerfully.

“No time, Ludo,” Crouch clipped. “The Bulgarians insist on twelve additional seats in the Top Box.”

Bagman blinked.

“That’s what they wanted!? I thought he was asking me for tweezers — the accent!”

“Mr Crouch!”

Percy nearly snapped in half as he bowed — like a red-haired Quasimodo — and squeaked,

“Tea, sir?”

Crouch blinked at him, thrown by the intensity.

“Yes… thank you, Weatherby.”

Fred and George exchanged wicked snorts over their teacups.

Percy flushed scarlet and fussed clumsily with the kettle.

Leo leaned towards Lily.

“What’s wrong with you?”

She startled — she hadn’t realised she was digging her nails so hard into her palm that one hand was white and the other blue.

“Nothing…”

“Nothing? You look like you’re about to duel Crouch to the death,” Leo murmured. His eyes narrowed.

“He’s the one who threw Padfoot into Azkaban without a trial. Isn’t he?”

Lily nodded.

Leo let out a slow breath.

“Back to square one. Everything with you leads back to him…”

She bit back the retort burning on her tongue — the twins were too close. Instead, she stared ahead at Bagman and Crouch.

Bagman boomed cheerfully,

“Busy as ever, eh, Barty?”

“Very, Ludo,” Crouch replied crisply. “Coordinating Portkeys from five continents is not straightforward.”

“You both must be dying for this to be over,” Arthur suggested brightly.

Bagman looked personally offended.

“What? This is the best time of my life! Besides—there’s that thing, isn’t there? Everything’s sorted, right, Barty?”

Crouch’s expression could have sliced marble.

“We agreed nothing will be announced until matters are finalised.”

“Oh, hush—it’s all done bar the shouting!” Bagman flapped a hand. “These kids will find out soon enough what’s coming. After all, it’s happening at Hogwarts—”

“Ludo.” Crouch’s voice was a guillotine. “We need to speak with the Bulgarians. Thank you for the tea, Weatherby.”

He handed back the untouched cup and waited, stiff as a lamppost, for Bagman to rise. Scoins jingled merrily in Bagman’s pockets as he jumped to his feet.

“See you lot later! Keep an eye out for me in the Top Box — I’m commentating!”

He waved; Crouch gave a curt nod. They Disapparated.

Immediately Fred pounced,

“Dad, what was that about Hogwarts? What’re they planning?”

Arthur just smiled,

“You’ll find out soon enough…”

Percy puffed himself up again,

“It is classified information until the Ministry deems otherwise. Mr Crouch was entirely correct not to divulge—”

“Oh, shut it, Weatherby,” Fred sighed.

…

From late afternoon onward, excitement rippled through the camp like magic in the air. Even the heat of summer seemed to buzz with anticipation.

As night draped itself over thousands of waiting witches and wizards, the last pretence of Muggle caution vanished. The Ministry seemed to have surrendered; enchantment shimmered openly everywhere.

Vendors appeared one after another, pushing carts piled with marvels:

enchanted badges chanting players’ names, green pointed hats sprouting shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves with lions that roared, flags playing their national anthems, tiny figures of Quidditch stars marching up and down your palm.

When they finally staggered back to the tents, their pockets were emptier — though Leo and Lily limited themselves to a pair of Omnioculars each, the others sported Ireland colours proudly. Mr Weasley had a flag, waving it like a schoolboy.

Then — a deep gong echoed through the forest. Green and scarlet lanterns ignited between the trees, marking the path to the stadium.

Mr Weasley’s eyes shone like the lanterns.

“It’s time! Come on — let’s go!”

Chapter Text

Mr Weasley was striding ahead, the rest of them trailing after him beneath the weight of their newly bought treasures, making their way deeper into the forest. Lanterns lined either side of the narrow path, bathing it in warm, flickering light. Thousands of witches and wizards were all heading in the same direction, their laughter, excited shouts and the occasional burst of song drifting through the trees. The air was thick with a kind of buoyant magic that lifted everyone’s spirits. Leo couldn’t stop laughing, and Lily wandered forward with her mouth slightly open, dazed by the spectacle.

For twenty minutes they walked beneath the vaulted canopy of the forest, talking loudly and breathlessly as they went. At last, through the thinning trees, an enormous stadium rose into sight—vast, gleaming, and impossibly tall.

Mr Weasley glanced back at their stunned faces.

“Seats a hundred thousand,” he said proudly. “Five hundred Ministry workers’ve been at it for a year. Every inch of it’s layered with Muggle-Repelling Charms. Anyone without magic gets within a mile of this place and suddenly remembers they’ve left the oven on, or they’ve got an urgent appointment… poor Muggles!”

He led them towards the nearest entrance. Crowds were gathered outside just as they were at every gate—witches and wizards shouting, jostling, comparing programmes and souvenirs.

A witch checking tickets at the door looked up as Mr Weasley handed theirs over.

“Top Box!” she said approvingly. “Best view in the whole place… Arthur, straight upstairs, dear. It’s at the very top.”

The staircase had been carpeted in deep purple. They pushed their way up with the stream of spectators, though the crowds thinned the higher they climbed, people peeling off into stands to the left and right.

At last they reached the landing: a small, separate platform perched at the very pinnacle of the stadium, directly aligned with the golden goal-hoops at either end of the pitch. Two neat rows of gilded purple chairs awaited them. The children took their places at the front—and Lily found herself staring out at a view she’d never even dreamed of.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards were settling into the endless rings of seats enclosing the vast oval pitch. A strange, shimmering radiance filled the air, as though the stadium itself were glowing from within. The grass below was a flawless sweep of emerald, soft as velvet. At either end, three tall golden goalposts rose proudly into the night. Opposite them, level with the Top Box, hung a massive black scoreboard; golden lines unfurled across it as though written by an invisible giant’s hand, then vanished moments later. Lily realised it was displaying the last of the pre-match advertisements.

Leo leaned in and murmured, “You know, I’m not really the Quidditch type. If we weren’t Mr Weasley’s guests I’d gladly have swapped my ticket with Cedric—he’d have loved sitting up here next to you. But… well… the man watches him like a hawk.”

Lily smiled. “Amos wants to watch the match with his son. You’d never get Cedric away from him.”

“Exactly… and the man never takes his eyes off the poor bloke.”

At that very moment Harry’s voice rang out behind them.

“Dobby?”

Lily and Leo turned. Other than themselves, only one other figure had arrived in the Top Box—a strange, tiny creature perched on a seat near the back row. Its bat-like ears drooped either side of a head far too large for its thin body, and its enormous eyes blinked nervously behind the hands it had clapped over its face. A grubby tea-towel had been draped around it like a Roman tunic; its feet dangled above the floor as it peered through its fingers at the stadium.

The house-elf lifted its head. Its nose was exactly the size and shape of a ripe tomato.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” it piped in a high, squeaky voice, “but did you say Dobby?”

Harry stared for a few seconds, taken aback.

“Er… sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

The elf squinted as though the dim Top Box were glaringly bright.

“Oh, but sir! Winky knows Dobby, sir! My name is Winky, sir. And what is your name, sir?”

Its gaze drifted upward—straight to Harry’s lightning-scar. The elf’s eyes grew as round as side plates.

“Oh, sir! You is Harry Potter!”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “That’s me.”

Winky lowered her hands a fraction, still awestruck.

“Dobby was always talking about you, sir.”

“How is he?” Harry asked. “Is he… enjoying being free?”

Winky shook her head sorrowfully.

“Oh sir… no offence meant… but Winky thinks you has not helped Dobby, sir. Not by setting him free.”

Harry blinked. “Why not? What’s wrong?”

Winky wrung her little hands.

“Freedom went to Dobby’s head, sir. His ideas got too big for his station. But he cannot change his station, sir. Oh no.”

“Why can’t he?” Harry said, baffled.

In a whisper, Winky confided, “He wants paying for his work, sir.”

“Paying?” Harry repeated. “Well… what’s wrong with that?”

Leo gave a simple shrug.

“What’s wrong? House-elves don’t take wages. If you pay someone, you don’t hire an elf—you hire a witch.”

Lily shot him a glare. “Oh lovely. So after house-elves, women get to do all the domestic labour. Fantastic.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Leo huffed. “I’m just saying—if someone wants to pay for housework, they hire a human. And women are… better at that stuff—aren’t they?”

Lily’s glare deepened. Winky bobbed her head eagerly.

“This young master speaks truth, sir! House-elves does not take wages! No sir! Not ever. Winky told Dobby he is lucky to find a good family and settle down… but Dobby is thinkin’ about all sorts of things no house-elf should think about! He went off by himself like a common elf and joined the Office for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!”

Harry brightened. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? He can be free and do what he wants.”

Through her fingers Winky gave a distressed squeak.

“House-elves does not want to be free, Harry Potter! House-elf does what its master tells it… Winky does not like heights at all, oh no…”

She cast a trembling glance over the edge of the Top Box and swallowed hard.

“But master sent Winky here, and Winky came.” She gestured to the empty seat beside her. “Master is busy… Winky keeps his seat. Winky wishes she could go back to the tent, Harry Potter. But Winky does as she is told. Winky is a good house-elf.”

Lily’s eyes drifted to the empty chair—then she flinched and quickly looked back out over the stadium. Leo turned too, muttering under his breath, “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” Lily whispered.

Leo’s voice was taut.

“Exactly what you’re thinking. No. We are not stopping Barty Crouch Junior tonight.”

Lily opened her mouth, but Leo cut in with a sharp, buzzing whisper:

“We’ve been over this a thousand times. If we interfere with Voldemort’s return, he might come back another way—one we know nothing about. That could mean more deaths. It could mean Harry. We can’t push the story onto a path we can’t predict. We stick to what we know and help where we can. That’s it.”

Lily let out a small breath and fell silent.

Beside them, Ron lifted his Omnioculars and pointed them toward the far stands. He twisted one of the dials.

“Blimey—look at this! I can make that bloke down there pick his nose again… and again… as many times as I want!”

Hermione was ignoring him, deeply engrossed in her tasselled velvet programme.

“Before the match,” she read aloud, “there will be a display of the teams’ mascots.”

“That’s always worth seeing!” said Mr Weasley. “National teams bring magical creatures from their own countries…”

Over the next half-hour, more guests arrived in the Top Box—all of them prominent witches and wizards, many of whom Mr Weasley greeted with eager handshakes. Percy kept leaping to his feet every time someone new entered. When Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, finally swept in, Percy bowed so low that his glasses clattered to the floor and cracked. Mortified, he repaired them with a flick of his wand and sat down again, casting longing glances at Harry, for Fudge was speaking to him like an old friend—shaking his hand warmly, asking after him, and introducing him proudly to the other dignitaries.

“This,” Fudge announced loudly to the Bulgarian Minister—who clearly understood not a word—“is Harry Potter. You must know him… Harry Potter! Surely you know who he is—the boy who survived You-Know-Who’s curse… you know who I mean!”

The Bulgarian Minister’s eyes slid to Harry’s scar. At once he jabbed a finger toward it and babbled excitedly in Bulgarian.

Fudge sighed with relief. “Knew he’d get there eventually. Languages aren’t my strong suit, you see. Crouch usually saves me in situations like this. Oh—looks like his elf’s saving his seat… good thing too! Those blasted Bulgarians tried to snap up all the best spots. Ah! Lucius, splendid!”

Everyone turned. Lucius Malfoy, followed by Draco and a tall pale woman who was presumably Draco’s mother, strode toward three empty seats in the second row, directly behind Mr Weasley.

Lily stared at Narcissa. Tall, slender, elegantly dressed, her fair hair gleaming under the stadium lights—she would’ve been strikingly beautiful had her expression not resembled someone catching a whiff of something unpleasant. Lily suspected the source of that expression was Hermione sitting directly in front of her.

Lucius extended a refined hand toward Fudge.

“Good evening, Fudge. I don’t believe you’ve met my wife, Narcissa… and my son, Draco.”

Fudge gave a little bow. “Delighted, delighted. Allow me to introduce you to Mr Obalonsk—no, Oobalonsk—Minister for Magic of Bulgaria. Can’t understand a syllable I’m saying, but never mind… And, er—Arthur Weasley you know, I believe?”

A palpable tension settled as Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy faced one another. Lucius’s cold grey eyes travelled slowly down Mr Weasley’s shabby robes before drifting to the front-row seats.

“Arthur,” he murmured. “What did you sell to get tickets for the Top Box? I’m quite sure your house isn’t worth that much.”

His gaze shifted—landing on Lily and Leo. Lily stared defiantly back.

“Or perhaps,” he drawled, “your new admirers helped foot the bill? Raided a family vault, did they?”

Mr Weasley flushed scarlet. Lily snapped, “We’re Mr Weasley’s guests!”

Lucius arched a pale eyebrow.

“Are you, indeed? His guests? And we’re to believe he could afford seats up here for more than his—what is it now—dozen children?”

Fudge hurried to intervene.

“Lucius has made a most generous donation to St Mungo’s, and he’s my guest this evening.”

Mr Weasley gave a brittle smile. “Really? How fascinating.”

Leo lifted a hand in a friendly wave.

“Er—alright, Draco? Having a good summer?”

Lily noticed Draco looked older than last term—taller, sharper-featured, and undeniably handsome in his tailored black robes. Draco shot Leo a reprimanding glare and didn’t answer. When his eyes fell on Lily, he hesitated for a brief, startled second—no doubt adjusting to her changed appearance—before turning away sharply. Lily refused to believe the faint warmth in his cheeks, but Leo’s knowing smirk confirmed he had seen it too.

Lucius’s eyes then met Hermione’s. She held his gaze steadily. Lily knew exactly how intolerable it must be for the Malfoys to have a Muggle-born sitting in the front row of the Top Box. Lucius’s jaw tightened, but with the Minister watching, he didn’t dare utter a slur. He merely sneered faintly and moved on to his seat. Draco cast a look of deep disdain at Harry, Ron and Hermione, then a regretful shake of the head at Leo before sitting between his parents.

When everyone turned back toward the pitch, Ron muttered, “They’re such gits.”

Leo whispered excitedly, “Did no one else see that? Draco was completely eyeing Lily. Oh, Lily… he’s always been weirdly touchy where you’re concerned. I think he’s actually falling for you.”

“Leo!” Lily groaned. “Stop.”

Ron wrinkled his nose. “Brilliant. Congratulations, Lily! You could have the most loathed boyfriend at Hogwarts.”

Harry and Hermione hid their laughter. Leo added, “Well, at least your odds with Cedric are looking better. I’ve never seen Draco blush at anyone before.”

Lily didn’t reply. A moment later, Ludo Bagman burst into the box, beaming.

“Everyone here? Ready to begin, Minister?”

“Whenever you are, Ludo,” said Fudge grandly.

Ludo raised his wand to his throat.

“Sonorus!”

At once his voice boomed across the entire stadium, louder even than the roaring crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

Thunderous cheers erupted. Thousands of flags waved, and clashing national anthems filled the air. The last advertisement faded from the giant scoreboard, replaced by:

BULGARIA — 0

IRELAND — 0

“Without further ado,” Bagman boomed, “please welcome the Bulgarian team mascots!”

A roar rose from the right-hand side of the stadium, where a sea of scarlet-clad supporters leapt to their feet. Mr Weasley leaned forward eagerly.

“Wonder what the Bulgarians have brought—ah.”

He snatched off his glasses and polished them frantically with his robes.

“Veela.”

Leo immediately clamped his hands over his ears.

“What? Oh no—no, I want full consciousness for the actual match!”

A hundred Veela swept onto the pitch. They were women of impossible, dazzling beauty. Lily narrowed her eyes. Whatever they were, they weren’t human—but she couldn’t yet place their nature. Faces like carved moonstone, hair like living silver drifting behind them despite the still air. Music rose from nowhere. The Veela began to dance.

A sigh rippled through the crowd like wind through grass. As their dance grew wilder, Lily heard Hermione snap,

“Harry—do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

Lily spun around. Harry was standing with one foot braced on the stone ledge of the Top Box. Beside him Ron stood stock-still, poised as if preparing to dive into a swimming pool. Laughing, Lily seized Ron’s arm and pulled him back.

“No! No, no, no—none of that!”

The music cut off. Ron and Harry blinked as though waking from a daze. Furious shouts reverberated around the stadium—chants demanding the Veela return. Ron and Harry quickly joined in.

Harry glanced down at the enormous shamrock pinned to his chest.

“What—what’s this? I’m supporting Bulgaria!”

Ron was tearing shamrocks off his hat in bewilderment when Mr Weasley plucked it gently from his hands.

“Leave it—trust me. You’ll want that once Ireland’s mascots come on.”

Leo was still holding his ears, staring skyward. The Veela had lined up along one side of the pitch. Ron gawped at them, mouth hanging open. Hermione tutted loudly, hauled Harry back into his seat and scolded,

“Honestly! What do you think you’re doing!?”

Bagman’s magically amplified voice boomed again:

“And now… wands in the air for the Irish team mascots!”

A streak of gold and green shot into the stadium—like a falling star—and circled the pitch before splitting neatly in two. Each blazing comet soared toward a different set of goalposts. A shimmering rainbow arched between them; the crowd erupted. Then the rainbow dissolved and the two fireballs collided, reforming into a gigantic, glittering shamrock. A cascade of gold coins rained from it.

Ron whooped. Lily squinted up at the gigantic shamrock and realised it was composed of hundreds of tiny bearded men, each holding a lantern of either gold or emerald green.

“Leprechauns,” said Mr Weasley.

All around them people dove beneath seats, scooping up coins with excited shouts. Ron dumped a fistful of gold into Harry’s hands.

“There you go—pays for the Omnioculars! Now you’ve got to buy me a Christmas present!”

Leo shook out his robes to rid himself of falling coins. The shamrock burst apart, scattering into a thousand gleaming sparks, and the Leprechauns floated down to the turf, settling cross-legged opposite the Veela.

Bagman roared,

“And now… please welcome the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team!”

One by one, the Bulgarian players streaked onto the pitch astride their scarlet broomsticks. A deafening wave of cheers surged around the stadium.

“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Vulkov! And… Krum!”

Ron shrieked into his Omnioculars, “It’s him! It’s really him!”

Lily and Leo raised their own in unison.

Victor Krum was a sallow-skinned, hawk-nosed young man with heavy brows and a perpetually brooding stare. Lily could hardly believe he was only eighteen.

Leo murmured, still peering through his lenses, “Bit Snape-ish, isn’t he?”

“Don’t you dare insult Krum like that!” Ron snapped.

Leo muttered something rude under his breath.

“And now… welcome the Irish National Team!” Bagman yelled.

Seven figures in emerald green streaked into the stadium. Their names gleamed in silver on the backs of their robes. A slight wizard with a bald head and a bushy moustache strode onto the pitch, a broom in one hand and a large wooden trunk in the other. Mounting his broom, he released the balls: the red Quaffle, two black Bludgers, and the delicate, winged Golden Snitch. With a shrill blast of his silver whistle, he shot into the air.

Lily had never seen Quidditch played with such blistering speed. Even with her Omnioculars she struggled to follow the Quaffle. Bagman, too, was having trouble keeping up.

For what felt like hours, the stadium moved as one living creature—roaring, gasping, cheering.

Ireland’s Chasers moved with uncanny precision, as though reading each other’s thoughts. Midway through the game, Irish Beater Quigley smashed a Bludger with all his strength straight at Krum. The Bludger slammed into Krum’s face. A collective hiss of outrage swept the crowd. Blood streamed; his nose looked broken.

It took all their strength to keep Harry and Ron from screaming for the match to be stopped.

Moments later, Lynch—the Irish Seeker—went into a steep dive. He’d seen the Snitch. Krum, bleeding freely, plummeted after him.

Lily pressed her Omnioculars to her eyes. They were hurtling toward the ground at terrifying speed.

“They’re going to crash!” Hermione shrieked.

“No they’re not!” Ron shouted.

“Lynch is!” Harry bellowed.

Harry was right. Lynch hit the ground for the second time that match, scattering furious Veela.

“But where’s the Snitch?” Charlie cried.

“HE’S GOT IT!” Harry roared. “KRUM’S GOT IT! IT’S OVER!”

Krum rose, one arm aloft, blood soaking his scarlet robes, a flickering golden speck beating its wings in his fist. The enchanted scoreboard wrote:

BULGARIA 160 — IRELAND 170

The crowd stared, stunned. Then sound began to build—slowly, steadily, rising like the engine of a plane. The Irish supporters’ roars shook the stadium.

Bagman, himself bewildered, shouted,

“Ireland wins! Krum’s caught the Snitch, but Ireland takes the Cup! No one could’ve predicted this!”

Ron leapt up and down in fury.

“Why’d he catch it? Ireland were a hundred and sixty points up! What an idiot—”

“He knew they’d never pull it back!” Harry yelled. “Their Chasers were too good—Krum just wanted to end it and go out with a bit of glory!”

Krum descended as mediwizards rushed toward him. The Irish team, drenched in golden glitter from the Leprechauns, danced wildly as their anthem blared. Flags whipped through the air.

Behind them a mournful voice spoke:

“Well, well… we fought bravely…”

The children turned. It was the Bulgarian Minister.

Fudge exploded, “You speak English?! Why’ve I been miming at you all day?!”

The Minister shrugged.

“It was funny.”

Bagman declared,

“After the honourable lap of the victorious Irish team and their mascots… the World Cup will be presented in the Top Box!”

A brilliant light filled Lily’s eyes. Magic illuminated the box so the entire stadium could see inside. Two wizards staggered forward carrying a vast golden cup, placing it in Fudge’s hands.

“Applause, please, for the valiant runners-up—Bulgaria!” Bagman bellowed.

The defeated players climbed the steps to the Top Box. The stadium thundered as each shook hands with both Ministers. When Bagman announced Krum’s name, the cheers were deafening.

Then came the Irish team, beaming as they hoisted the Cup. The crowd’s jubilation blazed anew. The light, the noise, the crush of bodies—Lily’s head throbbed. She longed for it all to end so they could leave.

At last, as the Irish team swept out again for their victory lap, Bagman lowered his wand.

“Blimey—what a match! No one expected that… shame it ended so soon… ah—yes, yes, I owe you boys. How much was it?”

Fred and George had reached him, hands outstretched and identical grins plastered across their faces.

Lily sighed and shook her head in resignation.

As they filed down the purple-carpeted steps of the stadium, Mr Weasley said sternly to Fred and George,

“Not a word to your mother about that bet.”

Fred beamed.

“Don’t worry, Dad! We’ve got plans for this money—no way we’re letting it get confiscated!”

For a moment Mr Weasley looked as though he might ask what those plans were, but clearly decided he didn’t want to know.

Soon they merged into the vast stream of people pouring out of the stadium and back toward the campsite. At the edge of the woods they were overtaken by a chorus of off-key singing. The Leprechauns swooped overhead, shaking their lanterns and cackling as they went. When at last they reached their tents, no one felt remotely sleepy; the camp was still alive with noise. Mr Weasley relented and allowed everyone a mug of hot chocolate before bed.

Conversation exploded instantly—debates, theories, re-enactments. Even Mr Weasley was drawn in, arguing heatedly with Charlie about a questionable elbowing incident. Voices were rising when Ginny nodded off at the little folding table and spilled her cocoa. Mr Weasley called time on the analysis and ushered everyone toward their tents.

Lily, Hermione and Ginny ducked into theirs to get ready for bed. Lily—of age now, and permitted to use magic—lit several candles with a discreet flick of her wand. Their warm yellow glow trembled across the canvas walls. Outside, the camp still throbbed with distant singing and odd bangs.

Ginny let down her fiery hair; it tumbled around her face. Hermione folded her tasselled velvet programme, tucked it into her rucksack, and pulled out a cotton nightdress.

“Did you see the Irish Chasers when they came into the Box?” Ginny whispered, barely suppressing a grin.

Hermione frowned. “So?”

They looked at one another for a beat—and burst out laughing.

“Fine!” Hermione huffed as she changed. “They were attractive. But only because they’re famous!”

Ginny pulled off her socks.

“Not just that. They’re tall and… well… you know. Good.”

Hermione buttoned her nightdress.

“Fame always helps. Take Krum—he could barely walk in a straight line! If he weren’t famous, would anyone look twice?”

Lily shrugged. “Don’t be so sure, Hermione. Why not?”

She perched on her camp bed, tapping her feet anxiously. Hermione gave her a curious look.

“Aren’t you getting changed?”

“I—no. I’m too tired. Might as well sleep like this.”

She loosened her shoelaces, slipped her feet out, and sat cross-legged. Ginny flopped sideways onto her own bed.

“So glad we got to come—especially to the Top Box! Did you see the Malfoys’ faces when they realised we’d be sitting next to them? Ugh—after the way Lucius Malfoy sneered at my second-hand books in Flourish and Blotts… well, tonight I was in the front row.”

She narrowed her eyes mischievously.

“And someone didn’t even get the chance to stare down his nose at us—because he was too busy staring at you, Lily.”

Lily looked up sharply. Hermione and Ginny were wearing identical smirks.

“Oh, come off it. He was staring at my hair, wondering why it looks different from last year.”

“Sure, sure,” Ginny said. “Honestly, we’d be thrilled if you gave Draco Malfoy the heartbreak he deserves.”

Hermione settled under her blanket.

“I thought he looked a bit flustered too. Just a bit.”

Lily shrugged again.

“Even if he was, it doesn’t matter.”

Hermione’s voice shifted—calm, knowing.

“It doesn’t matter because… you’ve got your eye on someone else. Haven’t you, Lily?”

Lily froze.

“No… I… I mean… it’s not—”

Ginny pounced. “Who?”

Hermione laughed.

“I saw you when he arrived with his father. You went completely red before Leo shoved you behind him.”

Lily groaned.

“No, Hermione. It’s not like that.”

Ginny giggled.

“Why not? Cedric Diggory’s gorgeous!”

Hermione corrected her crisply:

“Gorgeous, polite, hardworking, a prefect, Quidditch Captain—and kind. Remember after that match with Gryffindor? Wanted a rematch because it wasn’t fair. Not many people chase fairness when they’ve already won.”

Ginny nodded enthusiastically.

Lily lay back on her bed, pulling the blanket over herself.

“It’s not what you think. There’s no… love story. None.”

Hermione’s voice was gentle now.

“That’s alright. We’re your friends—we’re just saying he’s a sensible choice. Not just handsome. He’s trustworthy. Doesn’t abuse his popularity. He’s got a good family. No trouble, no drama, no rule-breaking. He’s a good match. And you’re seventeen now—nothing wrong with a girl making the first move. We get choices too.”

Lily smiled faintly. Shadows danced on the tent ceiling. A sensible choice. Logical. Everything Hermione listed made perfect sense.

But Cedric’s face dissolved inside her mind—replaced, abruptly and unbidden, by another.

Someone utterly unsensible.

Someone who had never been trusted at school—who had once unleashed a werewolf into a village.

Someone who almost certainly had used his charm irresponsibly, who had bullied other students, who’d been disowned by his family and had chased danger since childhood—becoming an unregistered Animagus at fifteen.

Hermione’s list turned itself inside out, and every opposite had Sirius Black’s name burned through it. The one person who shouldn’t have filled her mind was the one who always did.

“I don’t know,” Lily whispered. “Maybe I’m not as sensible as I should be…”

Ginny hugged her pillow.

“If you like him, just try. You don’t have to confess anything to us yet!”

Hermione added, laughing,

“And for Merlin’s sake, don’t let Leo meddle. He’ll humiliate you both.”

Ginny wriggled under her blanket.

“And if it doesn’t work out—well—there’s always Draco Malfoy, struck dumb by older girls.”

“Enough!” Lily groaned, rolling over and turning her back on them. “Can you stop planning my love life? I promise I’m perfectly capable of ruining it on my own.”

They dissolved into giggles. Hermione sat up, blew out the candles, and the tent fell into soft darkness. The canvas rustled in the night breeze; distant celebrations finally began to fade. A few minutes later, Ginny’s and Hermione’s breathing turned slow and even.

Lily lay trembling beneath her blanket, eyes wide open, exhaustion hovering just out of reach. She listened intently to the fading sounds of distant celebration. At last her eyelids began to droop—when the noises shifted.

Footsteps. Running.

Then—screams.

She jerked upright, already half-prepared for danger. She swung her legs off the camp bed, shoved her loosened shoes onto her feet, grabbed her jacket and wand, and dashed for the tent flap—

—only to collide straight into Mr Weasley, who had thrown a pair of jeans hastily over his pyjamas.

“What’s happening? What’s all that noise?” Lily gasped.

Ginny and Hermione sat bolt upright behind her.

“We’ve got to get out—now!” Mr Weasley barked.

“Dad—?” Ginny whispered, terrified.

Hermione was scrambling frantically through her bag.

“No time for clothes, Hermione!” Mr Weasley shouted. “Just grab a jumper and get outside—hurry!”

Lily ran out first. Seconds later Ginny and Hermione emerged, tugging jackets over their nightdresses. The boys were already gathered outside their tent, staring in shock.

In the flicker of dying campfires, people were fleeing—running toward the forest, stumbling over guy ropes, clutching children to their chests.

Lily blinked hard.

A glowing mass was moving through the campsite—blasting sparks, booming like cannon fire. Shrieks of drunken laughter and savage whoops echoed closer and closer.

Then a flash of green illuminated everything.

A cluster of wizards—hooded, masked—marched in formation, wands raised skyward. Lily’s stomach lurched. At first glance they appeared faceless; then she realised the masks hid their features. Suspended above them, four limp bodies bobbed grotesquely like puppets yanked by invisible strings. Two were small—children.

Leo, standing between Fred and George, broke from the group and rushed to Lily, throwing an arm around her.

More masked figures joined the procession, jeering and pointing upwards. Tents crumpled under their feet; others burst into flames. Lily watched, horrified, as a masked wizard flipped Mrs Roberts upside down. Her nightdress fell over her head; she writhed helplessly while laughter erupted below.

Ron stared at the spinning child overhead—turning like a top, limbs flailing.

“This makes me sick,” he muttered. “Bloody disgusting…”

“Why are they doing this?” Harry choked.

No one answered him.

Bill, Charlie and Percy burst from their tent, sleeves rolled up, wands already out.

“We’re going to help the Ministry!” Mr Weasley shouted, rolling up his own sleeves. “You lot—into the forest! Stay together! I’ll come and find you when it’s safe!”

Leo sprinted forward.

“I’m coming too! I’m of age—let me help!”

“No, Leo,” Mr Weasley said sharply. “You’re still at school. Wand out—look after the others. Fred, George—Ginny’s your responsibility!”

Bill, Charlie and Percy charged toward the masked wizards. Mr Weasley followed at their heels. Ministry officials converged from all directions, trying desperately to push through the crowd. Under the floating Roberts family, panic was swelling—people surging forward, blocking the Ministry’s path.

“Come on!” Fred shouted, dragging Ginny toward the trees.

Harry, Ron, Hermione and George ran with them. Lily watched Ministry wizards struggling to get close enough without knocking the floating family to the ground.

Leo seized Lily’s hand again.

“Come on—we’re falling behind!”

She let him pull her forward. But the coloured lanterns lining the woodland path had gone out. In the darkness, faces blurred; voices merged. People shoved past them, sobbing children over their shoulders, tripping over roots and branches.

“Lumos…” Lily whispered.

But holding her wand aloft was nearly impossible in the crush. Leo veered off the main track, drawing her into a darker patch of trees where it was momentarily quieter. He leaned against a trunk, wiping sweat from his brow.

“We’ll wait here,” he said. “No point trying to find the others.”

They stood panting in the dark.

“I wish we hadn’t lost Harry…” Lily murmured.

“It won’t matter,” Leo replied. “When the Mark goes up, we head straight back to the tents. We know what happens—the moment they see it, the Death Eaters will Disapparate. That’s when the danger ends.”

A sharp rustling snapped through the trees to their left. Both Lily and Leo raised their wands instantly, breath held.

“Hey—HEY! It’s me! Don’t hex me!”

Cedric stumbled into view, clothes grimy, hair plastered damply to his forehead, wand gripped and ready.

“I heard voices—recognised them. Where are the others? Mr Weasley—?”

Leo exhaled shakily.

“It’s you. We lost the rest. Mr Weasley ran to help the Ministry.”

Cedric nodded.

“My dad bolted as soon as he heard the screams. Told me to stay in the tent… but those masked wizards kept getting closer. I legged it—thought I could find you lot.”

Lily’s wand was still raised. Cedric gave it a glance and a crooked smile.

“You can put that down now, you know.”

She dropped it at once, flustered. Leo stared at Cedric for a beat, then a sly smile crept across his face.

“Actually… perfect timing. This spot’s safe enough. Why don’t you stay here with Lily while I go check for the others?”

Lily shot him a murderous look. Cedric, startled, said quickly,

“Er—sure. But… I doubt she needs looking after.”

Leo squeezed Lily’s arm.

“Yeah, she looks like a blasted lioness from a distance. But she’s all I’ve got left of my family. I’m not risking her.”

He leaned close and murmured in Lily’s ear,

“I’m going. Stay here. Don’t make me repeat it.”

Then—more quietly, breath tickling her ear—

“When the Mark shows up, best time to jump into his arms.”

“Leo!” Lily hissed. “Is this the time?”

He shrugged cheerfully, then pushed her—gently but deliberately—toward Cedric.

“You’ll keep an eye on her?”

“Of course,” Cedric said at once.

Leo whispered, “Don’t move from his side,” squeezed her shoulder, and vanished into the darkness.

Lily wrapped her arms around herself. The cold night air bit at her sweat-damp skin. The distant screams rose and fell; a burning tent cast flickering orange between the trees. Cedric stepped ahead and beckoned.

“Behind this tree—it’s better if we’re off the path. Less chance of being seen.”

He checked the area first, then stood aside for her. Lily leaned against the rough bark. The scent of sap and damp earth filled the air. Her heart thudded so loudly she felt it in her throat. Her eyes kept darting skyward—waiting for something she wished wouldn’t come.

Cedric glanced at her profile.

“Expecting something to swoop down on us? You keep staring at the sky.”

“What? No—just… uneasy. Bad feeling.”

Cedric opened his mouth to answer—but an explosion cracked through the forest. He stiffened.

“What the hell was that…?”

Then, more steadily—

“Hey. Don’t worry. My dad’s out there, and half the Ministry too. They’ll get those masked lunatics under control.”

A group of terrified wizards burst between the trees. One tripped full-force into the trunk Lily was leaning against; a brittle branch snapped and fell—

Cedric reacted instantly, batting it aside before it struck her.

Lily stared, wide-eyed.

He blushed faintly. “Quidditch reflex. Anything moving in mid-air—I just… go for it.”

“That’s brilliant,” Lily said, laughing weakly.

A cold wind swept down the slope. Lily shivered. Cedric immediately shrugged off his jacket and held it out.

“Here. Take it.”

“No—you’ll freeze!”

“Take it,” he insisted, pressing it into her hands. “Don’t want your cousin coming back and finding the last survivor of the DiNalfis half-frozen.”

Lily laughed despite herself and pulled the jacket on. It smelled faintly of clean soap—warm and strangely reassuring.

Cedric, still watching the trees, said quietly,

“You’re Lily DiNalfi, right?”

She nodded.

“You… look different. I didn’t recognise you at first.

I mean—you look better.”

It wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t polished. Just honest. And for Lily, the simple fact he’d noticed was victory enough.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

But her gaze went skyward again. Her heart beat faster. She knew this moment—had dreaded it all night.

Footsteps thundered behind them. They whirled, wands raised—but it was only two Bulgarian teens sprinting past, muttering anxiously, medals clinking against their chests.

Cedric lowered his wand.

“If nothing happens in the next ten minutes, we follow the others deeper into the forest. Everyone’s heading that way anyway. Sound good?”

Lily was about to answer when she realised—he was very close. Close enough for his breath to warm the cold air between them. She met his grey eyes, glowing faintly in the dimness.

Cedric noticed and frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… your eyes.”

He blinked.

“My eyes?”

“They remind me of someone,” Lily whispered. “Someone I… miss. A lot.”

Cedric’s voice softened.

“Then we’ll get out of this in one piece, and you’ll see him again. Promise.”

“I can’t,” Lily said quietly. “I don’t know where he is.”

His brow creased. She added,

“He travels. But maybe I can send a letter.”

Silence settled around them again. Lily watched a beetle crawl through the leaves at her feet—

—when the world turned green.

A sickly, blazing green.

The forest lit up like daylight.

Lily’s breath caught. She lifted her head—

—and there it was.

A colossal skull, emerald-bright, with a serpent curling from its gaping mouth. It rose higher and higher, its ghostly vapour casting neon light across the trees. Screams erupted around them.

Cedric stared, stunned.

“What… what is that? Why’s everyone screaming?”

Lily’s voice was barely a whisper.

“The Dark Mark…”

Cedric spun toward her.

“The what?”

“The sign of—of You-Know-Who,” she choked. “His followers used to—when they killed someone—they left that above the house.”

Cedric blanched.

“You-Know-Who’s followers? Those masked wizards—?”

“I don’t know,” Lily gasped.

Cedric’s eyes widened with terror.

“Do you think someone’s been killed? My dad—”

A voice cut through the trees:

“Your father’s fine, Cedric.”

Cedric spun—but Lily exhaled sharply, every muscle unclenching at the sound.

Leo’s silhouette appeared between the trunks, with Fred, George and Ginny close behind. George had Ginny wrapped protectively in his arms.

“Any sign of the others?” Fred asked breathlessly.

Lily shook her head. Leo stepped into the patch of green-lit darkness.

“The noise back at camp’s died down. Let’s head for the tents.

I’m sure Mr Diggory and Mr Weasley are dealing with… this.”

He gestured upward.

Ginny swallowed.

“But what is it? Why did it just—appear?”

Leo squeezed Lily’s hand and guided her forward.

“Your dad’ll explain when he gets back.”

As they neared the campsite, the flames had died away, leaving only the stinging scent of smoke hanging in the air. The lanterns had been rekindled, though their trembling light suggested they too were shaken by what they’d witnessed. Bill, Charlie, and Percy stood outside the tent, streaked with soot and sweat.

Bill strode forward at once.

“You’re back—thank Merlin! Where are the others?”

Fred answered breathlessly,

“We got separated. What about the masked lot? Did you catch any of them?”

Bill shook his head grimly.

“Not one. They Disapparated the moment the Mark appeared.”

Lily noticed a deep gash across Bill’s arm, still gleaming with blood. Cedric, his voice still edged with the fear he’d felt when the Dark Mark rose, asked,

“You didn’t see my dad, did you? He was all right?”

Charlie, whose shirt had been torn nearly in half, pushed his dishevelled hair back.

“He was with the Ministry crowd—heading straight for the Mark. They’re trying to find whoever cast it. But the danger’s over.”

Percy—spectacles crooked, handkerchief pressed to his bleeding nose—added stiffly,

“The Ministry is sweeping the entire area. It’ll be a dreadful scandal if they can’t arrest even one suspect. You’ve no idea what pressure Mr Crouch is under. He worked tirelessly to ensure tonight went smoothly—”

George snorted.

“Don’t fret, Weatherby. After surviving you as an assistant, he can survive anything.”

But Lily’s eyes had drifted upward again, to the vast green skull that was now fading into the height of the sky. A thin shiver travelled down her spine.

Bill said,

“Should we go after Ron, Harry, and Hermione? They’d better not have landed themselves in trouble.”

Charlie shook his head.

“We wait for Dad. If they’re not back then, we go.”

Leo placed a steadying hand on Cedric’s shoulder.

“Stay with us till your dad returns. We’ll all feel better that way.”

Cedric looked genuinely grateful, but shook his head.

“No… I ought to head back. If Dad returns and I’m not there, he’ll panic.”

He lifted his wand.

“Take care, all right? I’ll see you later—”

He’d taken only a few steps before Lily remembered the jacket wrapped around her shoulders.

“Cedric—wait!”

He turned. Lily hurried forward, tugging the jacket off and holding it out.

“Thank you.”

Cedric reached for it hesitantly.

“Could’ve waited till school. No rush.”

“I’m fine,” Lily insisted, forcing a smile.

As he disappeared into the shadows, Lily turned back—only to find the entire group staring at her.

Fred and George were wrinkling their noses in identical mockery. Ginny was practically bouncing.

“He gave you his jacket?”

Lily flushed.

“Only because Leo told him to keep an eye on me. That’s all!”

Leo smirked.

“Oh, very noble.”

George scoffed.

“You left Lily with that Hufflepuff puffball? He can’t even keep his own nose from bleeding.”

“I had limited options in the middle of a riot!” Leo shot back.

Bill cut across the bickering.

“That’s enough. Inside—all of you. We wait till Dad returns.”

They crowded into the boys’ tent and settled where they could. Minutes crawled by—thick with smoke and nerves—until Charlie suddenly called from the entrance:

“Dad! They’re here—Fred, George, Ginny, the DiNalfis—but the others—?”

Mr Weasley ducked inside.

“They’re fine. I’ve brought them.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stepped in behind him. Bill was sitting at the tiny kitchen table, pressing a cloth to the wound on his arm.

“What about whoever conjured the Mark?” Bill demanded. “Did you catch them?”

Mr Weasley sighed.

“No. All we found was Mr Crouch’s house-elf—with Harry’s wand.”

A collective shout rang out.

“Harry’s wand?” Fred exclaimed.

“Mr Crouch’s house-elf?” Percy sputtered.

Mr Weasley, with help from the trio, explained everything they’d encountered in the forest.

Percy looked scandalised.

“Mr Crouch is quite right to dismiss her! He expressly forbade her from leaving the tent—running off like that has disgraced him in front of the Ministry! If he’d had to bring her into the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures Office—do you know how that would look?”

Hermione snapped—louder than anyone expected:

“She didn’t do anything! She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

Percy reeled, genuinely startled. Hermione rarely raised her voice to him.

He straightened his glasses.

“Hermione, for a witch of Mr Crouch’s standing, erratic behaviour from a house-elf is utterly unacceptable—”

“It wasn’t erratic!” Hermione shouted. “She picked a wand up off the ground!”

Ron burst out,

“Would someone please tell me what that giant skull was? It didn’t hurt anyone! Why’s everyone making such a fuss?”

Before anyone else could speak, Hermione cut in,

“Ron! I told you—it’s the Dark Mark. I read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.”

Mr Weasley’s voice was low, distant.

“Thirteen years since it last appeared… Of course people panicked. They’re terrified He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned.”

Ron frowned.

“It was just something in the sky…”

Mr Weasley looked at him sadly.

“Ron… whenever He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or his followers murdered someone, they sent up the Dark Mark. If a neighbour saw it over a house, they knew what horror waited inside. No one ever forgot the sight. It meant the worst thing imaginable.”

A hush fell. Bill pulled back the cloth from his wound and muttered,

“I don’t know who cast it, but they didn’t help us. The moment the Mark went up, the Death Eaters lost their nerve and fled. We never reached them in time to tear their masks off. At least we caught the Roberts family before they hit the ground—the Ministry’s modifying their memories now.”

Harry blinked.

“Death Eaters? Who—?”

“That’s what You-Know-Who’s followers called themselves,” Bill explained. “We saw a fair few tonight. The ones who never ended up in Azkaban, anyway.”

Mr Weasley nodded heavily.

“We suspect it was them. But we can’t prove anything.”

Ron suddenly said,

“I bet it was them! We ran into Malfoy in the forest—he told us his dad was one of those masked idiots! Everyone knows the Malfoys were You-Know-Who’s biggest fans!”

Harry said quietly,

“But… You-Know-Who’s supporters—why bother levitating Muggles? What was the point?”

Mr Weasley gave a bleak, humourless laugh.

“Point? Harry—they enjoy it. When He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was powerful, half the Muggle killings were just for sport. Tonight they’d had a few Firewhiskies and wanted to show the world how many of them are still walking free. A little reunion, if you like.”

Disgust twisted his features.

Ron scowled.

“If they really were Death Eaters, why’d they Disapparate when they saw the Mark? Shouldn’t they have been pleased?”

Bill snapped,

“Use your head, Ron! If they are Death Eaters, they’re the very ones who lied their way out of Azkaban—swore they were innocent, claimed You-Know-Who forced them. If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ever returns, they’ll be the first he comes after. They denied him. They abandoned him.”

Hermione said quietly,

“So whoever conjured the Mark… wanted to support the Death Eaters—or…”

Leo finished the thought:

“Or scare them off. That’s interesting. But either way—the caster must’ve been a Death Eater once, right?”

Mr Weasley nodded.

“Exactly. Only Death Eaters knew how to cast the Dark Mark.”

Mr Weasley shook his head sharply, as though trying to scatter troubling thoughts like midges.

“Right… it’s far too late. If your mother’s heard even half of what’s happened tonight, she’ll be beside herself. Best get a few hours’ sleep. We’ll take the first Portkey out in the morning.”

Lily, Hermione and Ginny slipped back to their tent with knots of unease still tight in their chests. It was close to three in the morning—yet none of them felt the slightest pull of sleep. They lay beneath their thin blankets, wide-eyed and alert.

After several minutes, Ginny rolled over—an unmistakable sparkle in her voice:

“Hermione… Lily didn’t tell you she ran into Cedric in the forest? And that he gave her his jacket?”

Hermione sat bolt upright.

“What? You saw Cedric? What happened?”

Lily turned her back to them.

“Nothing happened! Honestly—nothing. Leo told him to keep an eye on me while he went looking for the others. I was shaking from cold and… fright, and Cedric just—handed over his jacket. That’s all. He was being polite.”

Hermione and Ginny exchanged knowing smiles but said nothing more.

Lily slipped a hand beneath her clothes, found her pendant, turned it twice clockwise, and tucked it away again. Staring at the stained canvas of the tent, she finally drifted into a restless sleep.

They were shaken awake only a few hours later. Mr Weasley dismantled the tents with a few flicks of his wand, anxious to clear the campsite as quickly as possible.

Outside Mr Roberts’s hut, they passed the Muggle’s dazed expression and limp wave.

“Happy Christmas!” he called vaguely.

As they walked away, Mr Weasley murmured,

“He’ll be fine… short-term disorientation’s expected after a Memory Charm. And they had a dreadful amount to wipe.”

Near the Portkey station, raised voices reached them. Dozens of witches and wizards swarmed around Basil, the harried Portkey manager, all demanding to leave at once. After a brief word with him, Mr Weasley managed to secure their place in the queue. Moments before sunrise, all of them clutched a deflated rubber tyre and vanished into a whirl of colour—landing on Stoatshead Hill under the pale wash of morning light.

They trudged through Ottery St Catchpole in weary silence. By the time the crooked outline of the Burrow rose ahead, a hoarse cry echoed down the lane:

“Oh—thank goodness! Thank goodness!”

Mrs Weasley came running, still in her bedroom slippers, yesterday’s Daily Prophet crumpled in one hand, her face chalk-white and drawn.

“Oh, Arthur—you’ve no idea—! I was sick with worry!”

The newspaper slipped from her fingers. Lily stooped, picking it up.

Panic and Pandemonium at the Quidditch World Cup, the headline blared beneath a moving photograph of the Dark Mark flickering above the treetops.

Mrs Weasley had already seized Fred and George, crushing them in a hug that made their heads knock together. The twins stared at her as though she’d gone mad.

“Ow—Mum, what—? Trying to tie us in a knot?”

But she burst into sobs.

“I scolded you before you left—oh, the last thing I said was about your exam results—and if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had taken you—!”

Mr Weasley disentangled her gently.

“That’s enough, Molly. We’re all fine.”

In the cramped kitchen, Hermione poured her a strong cup of tea. Lily and Leo devoured the newspaper. Mr Weasley held out a hand.

“May I see that?”

Lily reluctantly passed it to him. Percy hovered behind, reading over his shoulder.

Mr Weasley muttered darkly as his eyes scanned the article:

“‘Ministry blunders!’… ‘No arrests!’… ‘Lax security!’… ‘Dark wizards roaming free!’… I knew it—Rita Skeeter.”

Percy spluttered indignantly,

“She’s attacking the Ministry on every page—last week she said the cauldron-bottom thickness debate was a disgraceful misuse of resources when there were vampires to subdue—honestly—”

Leo brightened.

“Wait—are the vampires rebelling?”

Percy ignored him entirely.

“In paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Human Half-Breeds it clearly states—”

Bill yawned hugely.

“Percy, mate—please. Quiet.”

Mr Weasley stiffened suddenly.

“She even mentioned me.”

Mrs Weasley choked on her tea.

“Where?”

Mr Weasley read impatiently,

“‘One Ministry official emerged from the forest after the appearance of the Dark Mark, offering vague assurances that no one was hurt but refusing further comment. But can these claims be trusted when multiple bodies were reportedly removed from the scene?’ … Absolute rubbish!”

He threw the paper toward Percy.

“What was I meant to say? No one was hurt! ‘Multiple bodies’ indeed!”

Sighing heavily, he added,

“Molly, I’ve got to get to the office. This has to be straightened out.”

Percy puffed up with self-importance.

“I’ll come too, Father! Mr Crouch will want support—and I can deliver the cauldron report myself—”

He hurried out. Mrs Weasley called after Arthur, distressed,

“But it’s your holiday! They don’t need you for this—do they?”

“I’ve made things worse by accident—I need to sort them,” Mr Weasley said quietly. “I’ll get changed and head out.”

Harry cut across the moment.

“Mrs Weasley… Hedwig didn’t bring any letters for me, did she?”

“Hedwig? No—no, dear, we’ve had no post.”

Harry shot Ron a meaningful look.

“Mind if I take my things up to your room?”

“Sure—actually I’ll come too,” Ron said.

“I’m coming as well,” Hermione added instantly.

Leo stood.

“Mrs Weasley… we’ll skip breakfast and sleep a bit. Didn’t get any rest last night.”

“Oh, you poor things,” she murmured, wiping her eyes. “Of course—go on. I’ll call you for lunch…”

Upstairs, once the door to the attic room had shut, Ron asked,

“What’s going on, Harry?”

Harry hesitated.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you… Sunday morning… my scar was hurting again.”

The room fell silent.

Hermione inhaled sharply and unleashed a flurry of suggestions—professors, healers, books, half the library—until Ron interrupted, baffled,

“But… he wasn’t there, was he?”

Lily frowned.

“Hold on—‘my scar hurt again’ meaning what, exactly? Did it happen before? Does it mean something?”

Leo cast her a tiny smirk—appreciating how neatly she played the role of the clueless newcomer.

Harry explained everything—Professor Quirrell, the Stone, the connection to Voldemort.

Leo coughed.

“Shame we missed that year.”

Ron leaned forward anxiously.

“But last time it hurt… he was right next to you, yeah?”

Harry nodded.

“He’s not in Privet Drive, obviously. But before I woke up I was dreaming about him. Wormtail was there too. They were planning something… killing someone.”

Ron said quickly,

“Then it was just a nightmare. Loads of people have nightmares.”

Harry stared out at the bright morning sky.

“Maybe… but how do we know it wasn’t real? My scar hurt, and three days later Death Eaters show up and the Dark Mark’s back. Remember what Trelawney said at the end of last term?”

Hermione snorted, the fear draining from her face.

“Oh, Harry—don’t start trusting that fraud.”

“I’m telling you, she was different that time. In a trance. She said the Dark Lord would rise again—stronger—and that his servant would return to him. That same night, Wormtail escaped.”

Silence thickened.

Lily asked softly,

“Then why were you asking about Hedwig? You told Sirius about the scar, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Harry admitted. “He’s the only adult I could think of.”

Ron brightened.

“That was the right move! Sirius will know what to do.”

Harry sighed.

“She should’ve been back by now… I’m getting worried.”

Hermione tried to soothe him.

“She could be anywhere—Africa, maybe farther. Hedwig can’t fly across continents overnight.”

Harry didn’t look convinced.

Lily suddenly straightened.

“I need to tell your mum something—I’ll be right back.”

She hurried out. Leo caught up.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m asking Mrs Weasley to buy me an owl.”

Leo blinked.

“An owl? Since when do you want an owl?”

“It’s… useful. Just in case we need to send letters.”

“Last year you refused to get a pet because you didn’t want to attach yourself to anything here! What changed?”

“I changed my mind!”

They reached the kitchen. Mrs Weasley looked up.

“Didn’t sleep, dears? Want something to eat?”

Lily shook her head.

“No, thank you. I just… wondered if you’ve been to Diagon Alley yet for the school shopping?”

“Oh! I meant to go today—then everything that happened—well, never mind, we’ve time before September. Why, love? Need something?”

Lily set a small pouch of Galleons before her.

“I… need an owl. Would you mind getting one for me? I know it’s a bother.”

Mrs Weasley looked surprised but softened at once.

“No bother at all, dear. But are you sure? Most children like choosing their own owl. What kind would you like?”

Lily said firmly,

“A large, strong one. Long-distance flyer. Able to carry heavy loads. Price doesn’t matter—I want the best you can find.”

Mrs Weasley blinked.

“All right… I’ll ask at the shop. But you’re sure? They’re harder to look after than the smaller ones.”

Leo drawled, unable to resist,

“Doesn’t matter, Mrs Weasley—just needs to make it to Africa, right Lily?”

Both Ginny and Mrs Weasley stared.

“Africa?” Ginny asked. “Why?”

Leo grinned.

“Lily’s got a pen-pal over there.”

Lily ignored the jab completely.

“It’s for staying in touch with friends abroad. With everything happening, we need a reliable way to communicate.”

Mrs Weasley nodded gravely.

“You’re absolutely right. I’ll find you a good one, dear.”

As they climbed back upstairs, Leo muttered under his breath,

“Honestly? A fifty-Galleon owl—just so you can write to Sirius?”

Lily sighed sharply.

“It’s not coming out of your vault, is it? And our Gringotts account is full. Besides—why are you being so petty about him? Staying in touch is important. Next year… well… you know exactly what’s coming.”

Leo stared at her, incredulous.

“So you expect me to believe that if he wasn’t destined to fall through that blasted archway, you’d suddenly be this invested in him?”

“I’m exhausted, Leo. I’m going back to Ginny’s room to sleep. Please—just give it a rest.”

She left him rooted halfway up the stairs, frowning after her.

…

Over the next week, Mr Weasley and Percy were rarely home. They left before the house stirred and returned only after supper, looking worn and distracted.

On Friday, Mrs Weasley finally made her trip to Diagon Alley. By late afternoon she returned, huffing along the garden path behind a magically enlarged trolley piled high with books, potion ingredients, school robes and cauldrons.

Fred and George rushed out to help. Lily looked up from the kitchen table where she had been charming the edge of her fingernails smooth. Atop the mountain of purchases sat a long wooden crate with a sliding bar across the front—no sign of its occupant inside.

Mrs Weasley eased it onto the table in front of Lily.

“Here we are, dear—your bird.”

Lily blinked.

“My owl? Why isn’t he in a cage?”

Leo, who had been reading by the cold fireplace, stood and approached warily. The crate shuddered. A dull tap-tap of a hard beak echoed inside.

Mrs Weasley lifted the sliding bar.

“The shopkeeper said he’s the strongest, fastest owl in Diagon Alley. Rare breed, too.”

The moment the crate opened fully, darkness seemed to unfurl—and then a vast shape burst out. It took Lily a moment to understand that it was, in fact, an owl.

Its plumage was a matte charcoal black, shot through with the faintest violet sheen when the light caught the flight-feathers. Its amber eyes were sharp and unblinking, the curved beak a darker grey than steel. Its talons looked like chiselled stone.

Silent as smoke, it swooped to perch on the back of a wooden chair. The chair groaned under the weight.

Ron approached, gobsmacked.

“Blimey… that thing could swallow poor old Errol whole.”

Ginny kept her distance.

“It’s beautiful… but isn’t it… a bit terrifying?”

Leo folded his arms.

“A bit? Lily—are you planning to bring this creature on the Hogwarts Express?”

Lily threw him a cautionary glance. Hermione stepped closer, studying the owl like a magical creature examiner.

“Look at the wingspan—much longer than a tawny’s. Built for long-distance flight. And the beak shape—resilient in hot climates.”

Mrs Weasley nodded.

“They call them Nightwings. They travel vast distances in warmer regions.”

(She handed Lily a parchment packet.)

“Here’s his feed. But you’ll need to let him out to hunt each night. They hate being cooped up; they get melancholy.”

Lily watched the bird turn its head with eerily fluid grace, assessing every person in the room. She reached into the packet and offered a small piece of feed—held low, not too close.

Softly she whispered,

“Hey… hello there. Welcome.”

The owl narrowed its pupils, then relaxed them again. With a side-step, it leaned forward and picked the morsel from her fingers without touching her skin. A low note of satisfaction vibrated in its throat. It shook out its feathers, settled—and fixed its amber gaze on her.

Leo sighed.

“See if he’ll let you stroke him.”

Lily offered another morsel. This time the owl hopped silently onto the table. After taking the food, it held still long enough for her to brush her fingers gently along the feathers at the back of its neck.

She smiled.

“You and I are going to be friends. All right?”

The owl stepped closer. Hermione beamed.

“You’re fine. Owls are clever—they bond quickly. Even if you let him hunt tonight, he’ll come straight back.”

Fred leaned in.

“What a magnificent bird… he could deliver all our shop orders single-handedly—”

One glare from Mrs Weasley corrected him. He cleared his throat.

“I mean… the theoretical shop that we promised to forget about.”

Harry laughed.

“If you’d bought him earlier, he could’ve flown a cauldron of dinner to me every night at Privet Drive. Would’ve saved me eating Dudley’s workout diet.”

George added,

“Dinner? He could take a cauldron to the North Pole.”

Percy entered just then, adjusting his glasses.

“Of course, that would require an International Heavy Parcel Permit. For cross-border carriage, subsection three—”

“Can it, Weatherby!” Fred groaned.

Ginny placed her hands on the back of Lily’s chair.

“He needs a name. What’ll you call him?”

George offered timidly,

“Dungeon?”

Ron muttered,

“Just don’t let Ginny name him…”

Ginny shot him a glare.

Lily kept her eyes on the owl and stroked his cheek feathers. She considered a moment.

“How about… Romeo?”

She looked into the owl’s eyes.

“Romeo. Do you like that?”

The owl blinked—slowly, deliberately—not rejection, not threat. Acceptance.

Lily’s smile deepened.

“Then that’s settled.”

Ginny squealed softly.

“Lovely name!”

Mrs Weasley returned to the cooker.

“You can let him stretch his wings tonight in the orchard. Tell him not to wander too far at first.”

The children drifted away as she called after them,

“Everyone, take your books upstairs! We leave for King’s Cross early Monday, and I’m not having this house turned into a battlefield.”

Lily remained seated with Romeo. Leo dropped into the chair beside her.

“Romeo… fitting name for an owl who’ll be delivering half your love letters.”

She ignored the jab.

“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he? And what did you mean—‘we can’t bring him on the train’?”

Leo reached out, cautiously stroking the owl’s head.

“If he panics or batters the crate, everyone will think a dragon’s loose. Best to let him fly to Hogwarts on his own. He’ll beat the train by miles.”

…

Sunday evening—the last night before returning to school—came with that familiar heaviness that always settled over the Burrow when the holidays ended. Percy, sprawled on the sofa with a copy of the Daily Prophet, shook his head with grave self-importance.

“Honestly… what a fiasco. I’ve been putting out fires all week. People keep sending Howlers. And you know how it is—if you don’t open a Howler immediately, it explodes! My desk is scorched. My best quill’s gone up in smoke.”

Ginny, sitting cross-legged on the rug by the hearth and patching her battered copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, asked,

“But why would people send Howlers?”

“Because,” Percy said, puffing himself up, “they’re all complaining about the lack of security at the World Cup. They’re claiming damages. Mundungus Fletcher wants reimbursement for a twelve-room tent with a jacuzzi—though I know exactly what he did. I saw him string a cloak over four sticks and sleep underneath.”

Mrs Weasley glanced at the large clock in the corner. Useless if one wanted to tell the time, but invaluable for knowing where each member of the family was. No numbers, only names of places where a Weasley might be found: Home, Work, School, Lost, Hospital, Prison… and where the twelve should have been: Mortal Peril.

Eight hands rested over Home. Only Mr Weasley’s long pointer remained on Work.

She sighed.

“Your father never had to work during the holidays—not since You-Know-Who fell. They’re running him ragged… If he doesn’t get home soon, his dinner’s going to burn.”

Percy said primly,

“He made a mistake at the World Cup, Mother. Now he’s obliged to put things right. To be frank, it was terribly reckless of him to speak to the public without consulting his department head.”

Mrs Weasley rounded on him.

“Percy! How dare you criticise your father for that dreadful woman’s lies?”

Bill, who was playing Wizard Chess with Ron, didn’t even look up.

“Even if Dad hadn’t said a word, Rita would’ve written, ‘Ministry silence fuels public outrage.’ She never writes in anyone’s favour.”

Rain lashed the windows like whips. Hermione was curled up with one of her newly-bought fourth-year spellbooks. Charlie was mending a fire-proof balaclava. Harry sat polishing the handle of his Firebolt. Fred and George hunched over a scrap of parchment in the corner, whispering conspiratorially.

Lily stood by the window with Romeo perched on her forearm, watching raindrops race each other down the glass. Harry raised his head, unsettled by the sight of the huge black owl.

“Lily… can I talk to you a sec?”

She came over; Ron and Hermione followed at once. Pretending to stroke Romeo, Harry whispered,

“It’s been over a week now… Hedwig still hasn’t come back. Lily, what if they’ve caught Sirius?”

“What? No—no way,” Lily said firmly. “He hid round Hogwarts grounds for months and they never managed to catch him. He knows how to look after himself.”

Ron snorted.

“Don’t be thick, Harry! If they’d caught him, it’d be all over the Prophet. The Ministry’s desperate to pin this mess on someone. Right?”

Harry exhaled slowly.

“Yeah… suppose so.”

Hermione murmured,

“I told you—Hedwig can’t fly out of the country and back in just a few days. She’ll come back, Harry.”

Lily added,

“If we don’t hear from him in two or three days—”

But she didn’t finish; Mrs Weasley had suddenly cried out,

“Children—your father’s on his way!”

Mr Weasley’s hand had just jumped from Work to Travelling, then settled over Home. His voice floated from the kitchen and Mrs Weasley rushed out to meet him.

A few minutes later, Mr Weasley entered the sitting room carrying a tray of food. He looked utterly exhausted. Dropping wearily into an armchair, he pushed the limp cauliflower around his plate.

“We’re in trouble… Skeeter’s been snooping all week, waiting for another Ministry blunder to splash across the front page. And now she’s found out Bertha Jorkins is missing. Any day now it’ll be front-page news. I’ve told Bagnold a hundred times: send someone to look for her…”

Percy jumped in,

“Mr Crouch has been saying the same for weeks.”

Mr Weasley grimaced.

“Crouch is lucky Rita didn’t get wind of the business with Winky. If she’d discovered his house-elf was caught holding a wand that cast the Dark Mark—Merlin help us, she’d have feasted on it for a fortnight.”

Percy puffed out his chest.

“Well, at least we’re all agreed the poor creature didn’t cast it, even if she was negligent.”

Hermione burst out, furious,

“What Mr Crouch is lucky about is that none of the Prophet reporters know how he treats his house-elf!”

Percy replied loftily,

“A wizard of Mr Crouch’s standing has every right to expect complete obedience from his servant.”

“Servant?” Hermione snapped. “Call it what it is—slave! He doesn’t even pay her!”

Mrs Weasley cut in sharply,

“That’s enough! Off to bed, all of you! Make sure your trunks are fully packed—we leave for King’s Cross at dawn.”

Harry stowed his polishing kit away and followed Ron upstairs. Lily went up after Hermione and Ginny. Rain and wind rattled the old house; even the attic ghoul grumbled restlessly.

The moment they stepped into Ginny’s room, Romeo strutted straight to the window and tapped the glass impatiently.

“No,” Lily said firmly as she checked her trunk. “Not tonight. There’s a storm. If something happens to you—no!”

Romeo let out a high, offended shriek, clearly suggesting she’d underestimated him. Lily sighed and held out a piece of dried owl feed.

“Here. Eat this. Tomorrow—if the weather’s better—you can fly straight to Hogwarts. Don’t be so stubborn.”

Romeo turned away haughtily.

Frustrated, Lily scooped him up and placed him in his crate.

“Fine. Sleep, then.”

Ginny, stuffing clean robes and a heap of socks into her trunk, said,

“Don’t be cross with him, Lily! He’s not the type you can keep indoors for long.”

“He’ll survive one night,” Lily muttered. “He’ll reach the Owlery in under a day anyway.”

Hermione, still fuming, flung her new spellbook, parchment rings, quills and potion ingredients into her trunk.

“A man of high office like Mr Crouch! Honestly! I ought to write to the Prophet and expose the way he treats his elf. Once public opinion turns against him, he’ll learn he can’t always abuse his position!”

Lily sighed, lying back on her bed.

“Hermione… I don’t think anyone would care. I mean—it’s normal. Wizards treat house-elves that way all the time.”

“It is not normal!” Hermione cried. “Muggles had slavery too—didn’t make it right! Has no witch or wizard in history cared enough about enslaved magical beings to do something?”

Ginny said gently,

“Mum always wanted a house-elf to help with chores… especially when Fred and George were small. You know how they were…”

Hermione glared at her. Lily quickly intervened.

“Maybe someday you’ll get a job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and rewrite the house-elf laws. But right now—”

(she yawned, stretching out)

“there’s nothing we can do. All right?”

Hermione pressed her lips together, furious.

Lily changed the subject.

“Speaking of clothes—did you get your dress robes?”

Ginny looked up, baffled.

“Dress robes? What are those?”

Hermione explained,

“For formal occasions. It said on our supply list we’re required to have a set this year.”

“It wasn’t on mine,” Ginny frowned.

“That’s because you’re a third-year,” Lily said. “It’s probably for some event fourth-years are allowed to attend.”

Ginny squinted suspiciously.

“What kind of event?”

“In Muggle secondary schools,” Hermione said brightly, “they hold formal dances—to help boys and girls socialise more. Maybe Hogwarts is planning something similar this year?”

Ginny burst out laughing.

“Meaning the purpose is to get Lily to socialise with Cedric?”

Lily flung a pillow at her. Hermione, against her will, snorted with laughter.

And so, on the final night at the Burrow, the sound of the girls’ giggles mixed with the patter of rain on the windows—while Romeo, still unimpressed, continued tapping stubbornly at the bars of his wooden crate.

Chapter Text

The next morning, when Lily woke, the rain was still falling, heavy drops drumming hard against the windows. She dressed quickly and was halfway down the stairs when Mrs Weasley’s anxious voice rang up from below.

“Arthur—an urgent message from the Ministry!”

Mr Weasley burst out of the bedroom, his robes on back to front, and very nearly bowled Lily over. At the bottom landing, Harry, Fred, and George flattened themselves against the wall to let him rush past. Lily rubbed her shoulder and called after him, “What’s happened?”

They all shrugged. By the time they reached the kitchen, Mr Weasley was bent over the fire, already talking. Amos Diggory’s head was right in the middle of the flames, speaking rapidly and without the slightest discomfort.

“The Muggle neighbours heard shouting and banging and clattering and went off to fetch the—what do they call them?—ah yes, the police! Arthur, you’ll have to get there as fast as you can!”

Breathless, Mrs Weasley thrust a piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a broken quill into Mr Weasley’s hands.

“Here, Arthur!”

Diggory went on, “We were lucky I heard about it early. I’d come into the office to send a few owls and saw the Improper Use of Magic lot heading out already… Arthur—if Rita Skeeter gets wind of this—”

Mr Weasley uncorked the ink and dipped his quill. “What exactly did Mad-Eye say happened?”

Diggory peered sideways. “He says he heard an intruder in his garden. Claims they were sneaking up to the house when his dustbins ambushed them.”

Mr Weasley scribbled furiously. “What did the bins do?”

“As far as I can tell, they kicked up a tremendous row and started hurling rubbish everywhere. Apparently, when the police arrived, one of the bins was still making a racket!”

“And the intruder?” Mr Weasley demanded.

Diggory peered again. “Arthur, you know Mad-Eye! Who on earth would sneak into his garden in the middle of the night? More likely some poor cat was rummaging about. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot get hold of him, he’s in real trouble—you know his record. You’ve got to get there first and pin it on something minor—whatever fits your department. What’s the penalty for exploding a dustbin?”

“Probably a warning,” said Mr Weasley, still writing. “He didn’t use his wand on anyone? No attacks?”

“Oh, I expect he leapt out of bed and hexed anything that moved through the window,” said Diggory, “but they’ve got to prove it. No injuries, no real damage, by the look of things.”

“Right,” said Mr Weasley. “I’ll go.”

He folded the parchment, stuffed it into his pocket, and hurried out of the kitchen. Diggory turned to Mrs Weasley, his voice gentler now.

“Sorry to spring this on you so early, Molly… but Arthur’s the only one who can get Moody out of this mess. He’s due to start his new job today, after all.”

“Don’t mention it, Amos,” said Mrs Weasley. “Won’t you have something to eat before you go?”

“Why not?” said Diggory. “Thanks.”

Mrs Weasley took a buttered piece of toast from a dish on the table, held it in the fire tongs, and offered it to him. Diggory ate it, thanked her, and vanished with a crack.

Leo, who had just come downstairs, joined them in the middle of the kitchen. “What happened?”

Lily shook her head. “Looks like Mr Weasley’s been called away on urgent business.”

From upstairs came Mr Weasley’s hurried goodbyes to Bill, Charlie, Percy, Hermione, and Ginny. Five minutes later he was back in the kitchen, his robes properly on now, hair being smoothed with a comb.

“I hope you all have a very good term,” he said to Harry, Ron, the twins—and to Lily and Leo. “I must be off. Molly, you can take the children to King’s Cross?”

“Of course,” said Mrs Weasley briskly. “Just hurry and rescue Mad-Eye.”

Mr Weasley Disapparated at once. Bill and Charlie came into the kitchen.

“Did someone mention Mad-Eye?” Bill asked. “What’s he done this time?”

“He says someone tried to break into his house last night,” said Mrs Weasley. “Now, children—sit down and finish your breakfasts. We don’t want to be late.”

They gathered around the table. George, spreading marmalade on his toast, frowned thoughtfully.

“Mad-Eye Moody? The complete nutter?”

Mrs Weasley shot him a reproachful look. “Your father holds Moody in very high regard!”

When she’d left the room, Fred muttered, “Well, that figures. Doesn’t Dad collect plugs? Birds of a feather.”

“Moody was a great wizard in his day,” said Bill.

“He’s an old friend of Dumbledore’s, isn’t he?” Charlie added.

“Then again,” said Fred, “Dumbledore’s no ordinary wizard either. I know he’s a genius and all, but—”

Leo cut in before Harry could speak. “So who is this Moody, exactly?”

“He’s retired now,” Charlie explained. “Used to work at the Ministry. I saw him once when Dad took me along. He was an Auror—one of the best of his time. Caught Dark wizards and criminals.”

Seeing their wide-eyed expressions, Charlie went on, “Half the cells in Azkaban were filled thanks to him. That made him plenty of enemies—families of the witches and wizards he locked up. I’ve heard that now he’s older he’s gone a bit… jumpy. Trusts no one. Sees Dark wizards everywhere.”

After breakfast, they all got ready to leave for King’s Cross. Bill and Charlie decided to come along to see them off, but Percy, apologising profusely, said he had to go to work.

“I can’t take much time off just now,” he explained. “Mr Crouch is starting to trust me.”

George looked very serious. “You know what, Percy? One of these days, he might even remember your name.”

Mrs Weasley took a deep breath and, with the help of the village post office telephone, summoned three ordinary Muggle taxis to take them to London. As they stood in the wet yard, watching the drivers heave six heavy Hogwarts trunks into the cabs, she murmured anxiously, “Arthur wanted to borrow a Ministry car for us, but unfortunately there weren’t any left… children—why do they look so upset?”

Pigwidgeon was letting out ear-splitting shrieks, and nobody quite had the heart to explain that Muggle taxi drivers were not accustomed to transporting cages full of excitable owls. Fortunately, Lily had released Romeo earlier that morning, before breakfast, with strict instructions to fly straight to the Hogwarts owlery. The rain, apparently, was no obstacle to him at all.

The journey was an uncomfortable one. They were all wedged tightly together at the back of the taxis with their trunks, and it took some time before Crookshanks finally settled down—by which point their hands were scratched and aching. By the time they reached London, the rain was falling harder than ever, but they still sighed with relief when they climbed out. Lugging their heavy trunks across the crowded street and into the station, they were soaked to the skin.

At the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Harry, Ron, and Hermione went through first; with Crookshanks and Pigwidgeon, they were rather more noticeable than the others. Lily and Leo followed with Fred and George, slipping quickly through the apparently solid barrier as the platform sprang into view.

The scarlet Hogwarts Express stood waiting, clouds of steam billowing around it. Hogwarts students and their parents moved through the mist like ghosts. Owls hooted loudly overhead, and Pigwidgeon, encouraged by the noise, shrieked louder than ever. They found an empty compartment at last and stowed their luggage in one of the middle carriages, then jumped back down onto the platform to say goodbye to Mrs Weasley, Bill, and Charlie.

Charlie, grinning from ear to ear, hugged Ginny and said, “We’ll probably see each other again a lot sooner than you think.”

“Why?” Fred asked eagerly.

“You’ll find out,” said Charlie. “Just don’t tell Percy I said anything. It’s confidential until the Ministry announces it.”

Bill, hands in his pockets, looked wistfully at the train. “Yeah… I wish I were going back to Hogwarts this year.”

“Why’s that?” George demanded.

Bill’s eyes gleamed. “You’ve got an interesting year ahead of you. I might even take some time off to come and see part of it myself.”

“See what?” Ron asked—

—but the train whistle blew just then, and Mrs Weasley hurried them towards the doors. As Lily climbed aboard, she said, “Thank you so much for everything, Mrs Weasley—and sorry for all the trouble.”

They all boarded and shut the door, then leaned out of the window to talk. Harry added his thanks, too.

“Don’t mention it, dears,” said Mrs Weasley. “I was so glad you stayed with us. I was going to invite you for Christmas, but… well, I’m sure you’ll all prefer to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays. Because—well—you’ll see.”

“What do you three know that we don’t?” Ron asked, exasperated.

Mrs Weasley smiled. “You’ll find out tonight. I promise it’s very exciting. It’s just as well they changed the rules, really…”

“The rules for what?” they demanded together.

“I’m sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you this evening,” she said briskly. “Behave yourselves, all right, Fred? George?”

The pistons hissed, and the train began to move. As Mrs Weasley, Bill, and Charlie receded rapidly, Fred leaned out of the window and shouted, “Tell us what’s going on at Hogwarts! What rules did they change?”

Mrs Weasley only smiled and waved. Just before the train disappeared around the bend, she, Bill, and Charlie Disapparated.

Lily, Harry, Ron, and Hermione returned to their compartment. Leo, as usual, headed off towards the Slytherin carriage. The rain was so heavy now that it was difficult to see anything beyond the window. Ron opened his trunk, pulled out his maroon dress robes, and draped them over Pigwidgeon’s cage to muffle the noise. Then he slumped down beside Harry, muttering irritably, “Bagman was trying to tell us what was going on at Hogwarts—remember? At the World Cup. But my mum won’t say a word. I really want to know…”

“Hush,” Hermione whispered, pressing a finger to her nose and gesturing towards the next compartment.

A familiar voice drifted through the wall: “My father wanted to send me to Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts. He gave it a lot of thought—you know he knows the headmaster there. And you all know what he thinks of Dumbledore. The man’s far too fond of riff-raff. Durmstrang doesn’t tolerate that sort of rubbish. But my mother refused—said it was too far away. Father says their approach to the Dark Arts is far more sensible. The students actually learn Dark magic there, not the ridiculous Defence rubbish they teach us—”

Hermione jumped up, crept to the door, and shut it firmly. “So he thought Durmstrang suited him better, did he?” she said angrily. “I wish he’d gone. Then we wouldn’t have to put up with him.”

“Is Durmstrang another wizarding school?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” said Hermione disdainfully. “And a very disreputable one. According to An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, it places far too much emphasis on the Dark Arts.”

Lily nodded. “Grindelwald went there, too.”

“Grindelwald?” Harry repeated, startled.

“Another Dark wizard, like Voldemort,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore defeated him in a duel years ago.”

“I’ve heard that name somewhere,” Harry said slowly. “I just can’t remember where…”

“On Dumbledore’s Chocolate Frog card,” Lily reminded him. “He’s famous for that legendary duel.”

“That’s it!” Ron smacked his forehead. “The Chocolate Frog cards! I used to collect them in first year—remember, Harry?”

“You mean you don’t anymore?” Hermione said archly.

Ron rolled his eyes. Harry, suddenly alarmed, said, “So where is this Grindelwald now? He’s not working with Voldemort, is he?”

Lily laughed. “No, don’t worry. He’s in Nurmengard—the prison he built himself for his enemies. Dumbledore locked him up there after defeating him. He must be very old by now—about Dumbledore’s age, I expect.”

Ron frowned thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I’ve heard bits about Durmstrang… where is it, exactly? What country?”

“No one knows,” said Hermione, raising her eyebrows.

“Why not?” Harry asked.

“There’s always been rivalry between the wizarding schools,” Hermione said calmly. “Durmstrang and Beauxbatons have always preferred to keep their locations secret, so no one can uncover their secrets.”

“Oh, come off it,” Ron laughed. “Durmstrang’s got to be as big as Hogwarts. How do you hide a great big castle?”

“But Hogwarts is hidden,” Hermione said in surprise. “Everyone knows that—”

“Everyone who’s read Hogwarts: A History,” Lily corrected.

“So that’s just you two, then,” said Ron. “All right—how do you hide a place as big as Hogwarts?”

“With magic,” said Hermione. “If Muggles look at it, they see a tumbled-down ruin with a sign saying Danger—Keep Out.”

“So Durmstrang looks like ruins to Muggles too?” Harry asked.

“Probably,” Hermione shrugged.

“Or it might be under a Muggle-Repelling Charm,” Lily added. “Like the World Cup stadium.”

“And they’ve made it Unplottable as well,” Hermione said. “So it can’t be put on a map. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“If you say so,” said Harry. “Then it must be.”

As the train pushed further north, the rain grew heavier. The sky was so dark and mist-laden that lanterns were lit in the middle of the afternoon. The sweet trolley came rattling along the corridor. Throughout the afternoon, several Gryffindors—including Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom—dropped in to see Harry and Ron. After half an hour or more, Lily and Hermione, thoroughly weary of the boys’ endless Quidditch talk, turned instead to discussing Advanced Charms for Fourth Years, Hermione attempting to master the Summoning Charm.

While Harry and Ron enthusiastically relived every moment of the World Cup, Neville listened with longing.

“My gran didn’t want to come,” he said miserably. “Didn’t buy tickets. Sounds like it was brilliant…”

“Oh, it was,” said Ron. “Neville—look at this—”

He rummaged through the trunk on the rack above and produced a delicate Viktor Krum figurine, placing it in Neville’s broad palm. Neville stared at it enviously.

“Wow…”

“And we saw him in person,” Ron went on. “We were in the Top Box—”

“For the first and last time in your life,” drawled a voice.

Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, Crabbe and Goyle looming behind him. Both looked as though they’d grown at least a foot over the summer. They must have heard Ron through the half-open door Dean and Seamus had left behind them.

“I don’t recall inviting you into our compartment,” said Harry coldly.

Malfoy pointed at Pigwidgeon’s cage. “Oi, Weasley… what’s that?”

One sleeve of Ron’s maroon dress robes hung over the side of the cage, swaying with the movement of the train. Ron reached to pull it away, but Malfoy snatched it first, tugging it free and holding it up gleefully for Crabbe and Goyle.

“Look at this!” he crowed. “Weasley—you’re not actually planning to wear it, are you? Looks like something from the Middle Ages.”

Ron, his face now the same shade as the robes, yanked them back. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

Malfoy doubled over laughing, Crabbe and Goyle guffawing idiotically.

“So,” Malfoy said, straightening, “you signing up, Weasley? Thought you might like to bring a bit of glory to the family. There’s prize money, too—you could finally afford something respectable to wear.”

“What are you on about?” Ron snapped.

“Signing up,” Malfoy repeated. “Potter—you’ll enter, obviously. No chance you’ll pass up an opportunity to show off. Right?”

Hermione lowered Advanced Charms for Fourth Years and said coolly, “Either explain properly or leave.”

A look of delighted triumph spread across Malfoy’s pale face. “Don’t tell me—you don’t know! Weasley, honestly—your father and brother work at the Ministry. You should know. Merlin’s beard, my father told me ages ago. Cornelius Fudge told him. He knows people, you see. Or is your dad just too minor an official for anyone to bother telling?”

Lily shut her book sharply. “Why don’t you get lost, Draco?”

She stood, flung the compartment door wide open, and said firmly, “Out.”

Malfoy’s grin faded. For a few seconds he stared at Lily, the air thick with dislike, then jerked his head at Crabbe and Goyle. All three of them left.

Lily slammed the door and dropped back onto the seat.

Ron, scarlet with anger, burst out, “He’s always pretending he knows everything and we know nothing—‘My father knows people!’ If my dad wanted a promotion, he could get one—but he likes his job!”

“Of course he does,” Lily said at once.

“Ron,” Hermione said gently, “don’t let Malfoy get to you.”

“Him?” Ron said hotly. “Get to me? As if—”

At that very moment, however, he seized a piece of Harry’s Cauldron Cake and crushed it in his fist.

Ron stayed sullen for the rest of the journey. He barely spoke while they put on their robes, and when the train finally slowed and drew into the dark station of Hogsmeade, his scowl was still firmly in place.

The doors slid open to a crack of thunder. Hermione tucked Crookshanks under her cloak; Ron draped his dress robes over Pigwidgeon’s cage. Heads bowed, eyes half shut, they stumbled down onto the platform. Lily found herself wondering whether Romeo had reached the owlery yet—the rain was coming down so hard it felt like standing beneath a waterfall.

Hagrid was waiting beside the train for the first-years, waving and calling, “All right? If we don’t drown, I’ll see you at the feast!”

“Oh—boats in this weather,” Hermione shivered. “I really didn’t want that…”

They edged forward through the crowd. A hundred carriages drawn by thestrals waited beyond the station. The students climbed gratefully into one, the door slammed shut, and moments later the procession set off with a rhythmic splashing along the road to Hogwarts.

Lightning split the sky as their carriage halted before the great oak doors at the foot of the castle’s stone steps. Those ahead hurried inside. The others leapt down, raced up the steps, and only looked up once they had reached the Entrance Hall, where blazing torches illuminated the magnificent marble staircase.

Ron shook his head violently, spraying water everywhere. “If this rain keeps up, the lake’ll overflow. I’m soaked to the—ow!”

A red water balloon burst on his head. Another exploded at Hermione’s feet, soaking Lily’s shoes; icy water seeped through her socks at once. Students shrieked and shoved one another, trying to dodge the bombardment.

Lily looked up. Six feet above them hovered Peeves—the small, malicious ghost with his bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, face twisted in concentration as he took aim.

“Peeves! Peeves!” came a sharp voice. “Come down at once!”

Professor McGonagall swept into the Entrance Hall. Her foot slipped on the wet floor and she grabbed Hermione’s collar to steady herself. “Oh—sorry, Miss Granger.”

“It’s all right, Professor,” Hermione gasped.

McGonagall straightened her hat, glared at Peeves through her square spectacles, and snapped, “Peeves—down. Now.”

Peeves cackled and hurled another balloon at a group of fifth-years, who fled shrieking. “I haven’t done anything!” he jeered. “They were wet already! Little drippity-drops!”

He whistled and aimed at some newly arrived second-years.

“Peeves!” McGonagall shouted. “I warn you—do that again and I’ll call the Headmaster!”

Peeves stuck out his tongue, tossed his remaining balloons skyward, and zoomed up the marble staircase, his maniacal laughter echoing down the corridors.

McGonagall surveyed the drenched, dishevelled students. “Move along now. Into the Great Hall.”

Slipping on the wet stone floor, they entered the Great Hall. Lily bade them goodbye and headed for the Ravenclaw table. The hall had been decorated, as always, for the start-of-term feast: golden plates and goblets gleamed beneath thousands of floating candles. At the High Table, the teachers sat facing the students. Compared with the storm outside, the Great Hall felt wonderfully warm.

Lily walked along the Ravenclaw table and, as usual, found an empty seat beside Luna—no one ever seemed particularly eager to sit there. She sat down and smiled.

“Hi, Luna. Did you have a nice summer?”

Luna, her dull blond hair hanging loosely around her face, stared at Lily with wide, surprised eyes before offering a faint smile.

“Oh—hello. Is that you? I didn’t recognise you… your hair’s gone red.”

She said it quite matter-of-factly.

“Yes—well—” Lily said quickly. “I dyed it myself. Are you all right? Was your summer good?”

“Why?” Luna asked. “Did you catch a Medusa curse?”

Lily blinked. “Er—no… do people who’ve been cursed by Medusa dye their hair red?”

Luna shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Lily wasn’t quite sure what to say. Luna went on serenely.

“My summer was very good. Dad and I planted some dirigible plum bushes around the house. They’ll probably have grown quite a bit by the time I get back. Dad says they’re excellent for sharpening one’s reasoning powers, though they’re not very widely used yet. Then we went to the Quidditch World Cup. We had to camp in the forest near the stadium for a whole week beforehand—our tickets were cheap—but it was lovely. How was yours?”

“We—er—we went to see the World Cup final too,” Lily said. “Though yours sounds much more interesting.”

She glanced up at the High Table. Hagrid was still struggling to cross the river, and Professor McGonagall was overseeing the drying and tidying of the Entrance Hall. But besides their seats, there was another chair still empty—one Lily knew belonged to Alastor Moody, or rather, to Barty Crouch. Little Professor Flitwick was perched on several cushions; Professor Sprout sat beside him, her hat askew on her flyaway grey hair as she chatted with Professor Sinistra from Astronomy. Next to Sinistra sat Professor Snape. In the very centre of the table, Professor Dumbledore wore elegant emerald-green robes embroidered with moons and stars. His long fingers were steepled beneath his chin as he gazed through his half-moon spectacles at the enchanted ceiling, deep in thought. Lily suspected he was waiting for Moody.

She followed his gaze. She had never seen the ceiling look so wild—dark clouds churned across it, and when thunder rolled outside, lightning flashed above them.

Just then Padma Patil hurried over and sat down on Lily’s other side.

“Lily! Hi—sorry, I didn’t recognise you at first. You look gorgeous! That hair colour really suits you. I missed you!”

“Thanks,” Lily said warmly, squeezing her hand. “I missed you too. How was your summer?”

Padma shrugged. “All right, mostly. At first Mum and Dad wouldn’t stop going on about Sirius Black escaping again and the Ministry failing to catch him. But once the Daily Prophet stopped printing anything new, they calmed down and finally left Parvati and me alone. Honestly—we nearly spent the whole summer grounded.”

A tight feeling stirred in Lily’s chest at the sound of his name. She nodded. “Yes… I think… there probably won’t be any more news.”

She hadn’t quite finished when the doors of the Great Hall opened and silence fell. Professor McGonagall was leading the long line of first-years to the front; they were all shivering with cold and nerves.

When the Sorting Hat’s song ended, Professor McGonagall unfurled a large roll of parchment and began to read aloud.

“Stewart Ackerley!”

A trembling boy stepped forward, placed the hat on his head, and sat on the stool.

“Ravenclaw!”

Ackerley whipped off the hat and hurried to their table. Lily noticed Harry sneaking glances from the Gryffindor table at Cho Chang, who was clapping enthusiastically.

Padma continued in a whisper, “And then we went to the World Cup, and that whole business with the masked people happened. Mum and Dad were beside themselves—you know how they panic over the smallest thing…”

“Malcolm Baddock!” called Professor McGonagall.

“Slytherin!”

Cheers erupted from the Slytherin table. As Baddock sat down, Fred and George booed loudly.

Luna leaned in. “Dad says those masked people might be part of a group of vampires who’ve recently risen up. He thinks they’re trying to frighten the Ministry into—”

“Eleanor Branstone!”

“Hufflepuff!”

“Owen Cauldwell!”

“Hufflepuff!”

“Vampires?” Lily said, bewildered. “Percy Weasley mentioned something about a vampire uprising too… but why would vampires cover their faces and set things on fire? They could just bite a few people, couldn’t they?”

“Dennis Creevey!”

Dennis, wrapped in one of Hagrid’s moleskin coats and dripping wet, staggered forward just as Hagrid himself crept in behind the High Table.

“Gryffindor!”

Luna continued calmly, “Dad says the Ministry won’t give them legal permission to take blood from humans. They’ve found a new, rather radical leader and are campaigning for their rights—”

“Graham Pritchard!”

“Slytherin!”

Padma stared at Luna as though she’d lost her mind. Luna tugged a copy of The Quibbler from her bag.

“Dad published an article by a vampire in this issue. It’s called Chronic Discrimination and Social Exclusion. You see, they’re not considered wizards, but they don’t quite fit into the Being classification like elves or centaurs either—”

“Orla Quirke!”

“Ravenclaw!”

Padma’s mouth fell open. Carefully, Lily took the magazine from Luna and studied the cover—several vampires holding protest signs.

“They’re not allowed to study at Hogwarts or other magical institutions,” Luna went on. “They can’t hold official wizarding jobs. The magical community is terribly frightened of them, and even vampires who don’t kill humans are treated like monsters. Unlike werewolves, who’ve had some legal movements over the years, vampires have almost no representation at all. It’s a shame the Daily Prophet doesn’t report on it. Dad thinks it’s important they have a platform, so he lets them use his magazine—”

Padma continued to gape. Lily said gently, “You know what? This is actually fascinating. I’ll buy this copy off you and read it later. Just—do me a favour and don’t discuss vampire rights with Hermione Granger, all right?”

Luna nodded. “That’ll be four Sickles.”

Lily rummaged in her purse, found a few coins, and placed them in Luna’s palm, then tucked the magazine into her bag. At last, the Sorting came to an end with Kevin Whitby being placed in Hufflepuff. Professor McGonagall lifted the hat and stool and carried them out of the hall.

Padma murmured, “So what about that symbol? The Mark—”

“I know,” Lily said quietly. “The Dark Mark. Yes… I don’t think those masked figures were revolutionary vampires either.”

Padma shivered slightly. “Do you think it was him? I mean—he was one of You-Know-Who’s followers, and he escaped…”

Lily let out a helpless sigh. “I don’t know, Padma. We’ll just have to wait.”

After supper, when the last traces of dessert had vanished from the golden plates, Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet. The Great Hall fell almost completely silent. Smiling at all four tables, he said, “Now then… seeing as we are all comfortably full, may I ask for your attention while I pass on a few notices. Mr Filch, the school caretaker, has asked me to inform you that several new items have been added to the list of objects forbidden within the castle. These include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The complete list now comprises four hundred and thirty-seven items, and anyone wishing to familiarise themselves with it may consult Mr Filch’s office.”

The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched briefly before he went on. “As usual, I must remind you that the forest on the school grounds is out of bounds to students. Likewise, the village of Hogsmeade remains off limits to first- and second-years. And—unfortunately—it is my duty to inform you that there will be no Quidditch matches this year.”

“What?!” Padma gasped.

Lily glanced at Cho Chang and Roger Davies, both staring at Dumbledore with their mouths open, too shocked to speak.

“The reason,” Dumbledore continued, “is another event that will begin in October and continue throughout the school year. It will demand much of the staff’s time and energy—but I am confident you will all enjoy it immensely. It is my great pleasure to inform you that this year at Hogwarts—”

A deafening crack of thunder cut him off. The doors of the Great Hall burst open. A man stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on a long staff and wrapped in a black travelling cloak. Lightning flashed across the enchanted ceiling, illuminating the hall. Every head turned toward the stranger.

He pushed back his hood, sweeping a mane of grizzled hair from his face, and strode toward the High Table. With each step, a loud clunk echoed from his wooden leg. He reached the end of the table, limped around it, and approached Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning lit the hall, throwing his features into sharp relief, and Lily shuddered. His face was a mass of scars; part of his nose appeared to be missing. One eye was small, dark, and glittering—but the other was large, round, and a startlingly clear blue. That blue eye whirled ceaselessly, darting left and right, up and down, entirely out of sync with the other. Suddenly it spun around to face the back of his head, leaving only a patch of white showing in its socket.

He reached Dumbledore and shook his hand; his own was as scarred as his face. They spoke briefly, though the students could not hear them. Dumbledore appeared to ask a question; the man shook his head curtly and replied without smiling. Dumbledore nodded, gestured to the empty chair at his right, and invited him to sit.

An eerie silence had fallen over the hall. At last Dumbledore broke it, saying pleasantly, “May I introduce you to Professor Moody, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

Under normal circumstances, the arrival of a new teacher would have been greeted with applause, but apart from Dumbledore himself and Hagrid, not a single person clapped. The two of them began enthusiastically, only for the sound to echo unpleasantly around the hall; they stopped at once. Everyone else seemed frozen, staring at Moody’s extraordinary appearance. Moody—or rather, Barty Crouch—did not appear to care in the slightest. Lily found herself thinking that the real Moody was probably locked inside his own multi-compartment trunk at that very moment—and that if she told Padma the person who had conjured the Dark Mark was not Sirius Black but their new teacher, Padma would have her marched straight to the hospital wing.

Dumbledore cleared his throat again, smiled at the students still gaping at Moody, and said, “Now then… as I was saying. This year, we are honoured to host an exciting event over the coming months—an event that has not been held for over a century. I am delighted to announce that this year, the Triwizard Tournament will take place at Hogwarts.”

The tension that had gripped the Great Hall after Moody’s arrival vanished at once. Laughter and excited chatter rippled through the students. Smiling contentedly, Dumbledore continued, “Now then… some of you may not know how this tournament works, so I hope those who do will forgive me for giving a brief explanation. They may, of course, feel free not to listen. The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a contest between three of the greatest wizarding schools in Europe: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. Each school selected one student to act as its champion, and these three champions competed against one another in three magical tasks. It was widely believed that the tournament provided an excellent means of fostering ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities… until the death toll became so high that the competition was discontinued. Over the last century, many attempts have been made to revive it, all unsuccessful. However, the International Confederation of Wizards and our own Department of Magical Games and Sports have agreed that now is the ideal moment to try once more. Throughout the summer, we have worked tirelessly to ensure that this time, no champion will face mortal danger. The heads of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will arrive here in October, accompanied by a small number of selected students. The choosing of the three champions will take place on Hallowe’en. An impartial judge will select from the volunteers those deemed most worthy to compete—striving for the honour of their schools, and for the prize of one thousand Galleons.”

“Hey—I’ll definitely enter!” Roger Davies exclaimed.

He was far from alone in imagining himself as Hogwarts’ champion. Lily glanced around the four house tables; everywhere students were whispering excitedly. Dumbledore raised his hand again, and silence fell once more.

“However,” he said, “much as I know every one of you would dearly love to win the Triwizard Cup and bring glory to Hogwarts, the heads of the three participating schools and the Ministry of Magic have agreed upon an age restriction this year. Only students of the appropriate age may enter—that is, those who are seventeen or over.”

A wave of protests erupted, the furious shouts of the Weasley twins echoing loudly. Dumbledore raised his voice.

“We believe this restriction is necessary, as the tasks are both highly demanding and dangerous. Though we have taken every precaution, there remains a small risk—and we do not believe students below sixth or seventh year are likely to complete the tasks successfully. I will personally ensure that no underage student is able to deceive our impartial judge and become Hogwarts’ champion.”

His gaze lingered on Fred and George Weasley, whose faces were thunderous, and his bright blue eyes twinkled.

“So please—if you are not yet seventeen, do not waste your time. The delegations from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will arrive in October and remain our guests for much of this important school year. I trust you will extend them the utmost hospitality, and once Hogwarts’ champion has been chosen, offer them your wholehearted support. Now then—it is getting very late. I know you all wish to be bright-eyed for your lessons tomorrow. Bedtime—off you go!”

Dumbledore sat down again and began talking quietly with Moody. The students surged towards the doors like a rushing tide, footsteps thudding across the hall.

Padma asked, “You’ve turned seventeen, haven’t you? But you’re only in fourth year—what does that mean for you? Do you think Dumbledore would let you enter?”

“I don’t know,” Lily said. “But I doubt I’ll volunteer. Leo definitely will.”

As they streamed towards the Ravenclaw Tower stairs, Michael Corner called from behind, “Oi, Lil! We’d much rather you entered than have a Slytherin champion! If you’re not entering, at least stop your cousin!”

Lily smiled. Amid the noise, they reached the eagle-knocker at the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower. Lily tapped it. In a calm, measured voice, the knocker asked:

The more you take from me, the greater I grow.

I am born in silence, yet my voice can fill the world.

I am born in darkness, yet reveal the light.

What am I?

They exchanged glances. At last Lily said, “A question. The more you ask, the more questions you have. It forms in the quiet of the mind, but its answer can fill the world. It’s born of ignorance—darkness—but leads to the light of knowledge.”

“A wise answer,” said the knocker serenely,

and the door swung open.

As they entered the Ravenclaw common room, a wave of gentle warmth and blue-tinged candlelight washed over them. Flames danced in the large fireplace, casting flickering shadows over the book-lined walls and comfortable chairs. A group of older students were gathered nearby, animatedly discussing the tournament.

“They say every task used to be deadly!”

Roger Davies said, eyes shining. “But—Dumbledore’s guaranteed no one’ll die this time!”

A fifth-year girl replied seriously, “He said that—but he also admitted there’s still some risk. Personally, I don’t think anyone but seventh-years stand a chance.”

Anthony Goldstein cut in, “Except Ravenclaws, obviously! There has to be some difference between us and the other houses, right? Ravenclaws in fifth year could outperform most seventh-years. They should let younger Ravenclaws enter!”

As Lily passed, she caught fragments—“one thousand Galleons”… “Hogwarts’ honour”… “your name in the history books”—the excitement swelling with every word. She smiled faintly and headed for the spiral staircase to the girls’ dormitory.

Luna, drifting towards the third-year girls’ rooms, drawled, “Everyone seems verrry excited… what do you think? Don’t you like the tournament? You’re going to bed awfully early.”

“I do like it, Luna,” Lily smiled. “I’m just very tired. Maybe I’ll think about it tomorrow. Good night.”

When she finally reached her dormitory, the wall lamps cast a soft, soothing glow. Four-poster beds with deep blue hangings stood spaced around the circular room. Lily went to her own bed, her trunk waiting beside it. She drew back the curtain and paused. The familiar scent of old oak, the soft pillow, the sheets—likely warmed by a house-elf’s hot pan—all welcomed her like an embrace. After weeks on the uncomfortable travel bed in Ginny’s room, sleeping here again felt like heaven.

She sat down, slipped off her shoes, peeled away her damp socks, and changed into her nightclothes. Drawing the curtains, she nestled beneath the covers and realised how much she had missed this small, safe space. Murmured voices from the Ravenclaw common room drifted up from below, but she scarcely noticed. Her eyelids grew heavy, and after turning the medal twice clockwise, she fell swiftly asleep, a quiet smile on her lips.

…

Early that morning, while cold mist crept through the tall windows of Ravenclaw Tower, Lily slipped quietly out of bed. She changed out of her nightclothes, drew her robes over her shoulders, and descended the stone stairs. The spiral staircase smelled of damp stone. A restless unease stirred inside her. Since the night before, she had clung to a single thought: Had Romeo truly made it to Hogwarts?

When she finally reached the wooden door of the owlery, the morning chill made her shiver. She pushed it open; a rush of cold air, feathers, droppings, and old wood struck her face. The owlery was a vast circular chamber, filled with wooden perches and glassless windows, alive with the soft rustle of wings and the occasional hoot breaking the silence. Dozens of owls—clearly returned from a night’s hunting—dozed on their perches in the grey dawn light.

Lily scanned them quickly, and soon spotted him on one of the highest beams: the large black owl, his long, glossy flight feathers puffed out. He turned his head slowly, fixing her with those steady amber eyes, and when he sensed her expectation, he swooped down and landed on her forearm.

Her arm dipped slightly under Romeo’s sudden weight. She breathed out in relief. “So you made it… You came straight here, didn’t you? Good boy.”

She lifted her other hand and gently stroked the dense feathers at the back of his neck. Romeo, unhurried, brushed his curved beak briefly against her shoulder, as though offering a silent seal of obedience.

From her pocket, Lily drew a few pieces of the special feed Mrs Weasley had bought and held them out. Romeo took them calmly from her palm.

“When Hedwig gets back,” Lily murmured, “it’ll be your turn to take a letter. In a day or two… all right?”

Romeo dipped his head once, fluffed his long feathers again, and with a soundless leap flew back to the upper beams. Lily cast him one last glance, pulled her collar higher, and slipped out of the biting air of the owlery. On the way back she felt lighter, happier—as though she had left the weight of her night-long worry behind among the rafters. Now she could go to the Great Hall with an easy mind: breakfast, friends, and the beginning of a year that promised adventure.

That afternoon, as Lily left History of Magic and headed towards the Great Hall for lunch, she ran into Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leo in the Entrance Hall. They all looked tired and dishevelled. A white bandage was wrapped around Leo’s left hand.

Lily stared. “What happened? Why do you all look like that?”

Ron shook his head bitterly. “Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid’s brought in some new beasts. Blast-Ended—”

“Skrewts,” Hermione corrected sharply. “What’s ‘rubbish’ got to do with it?”

Leo lifted his injured hand miserably. “One of their tails exploded in my hand.”

Lily turned to Harry. “Has Hedwig come back?”

Harry shook his head regretfully. “Not yet. She wasn’t there at breakfast this morning.”

Lily sighed. “We’ve got double Divination after lunch.”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “We’d better eat quickly. I need to go to the library.”

“The library?” Ron said incredulously. “It’s the first day! We haven’t even got homework yet!”

“I’ve got loads to do,” Hermione called over her shoulder as she swept into the Great Hall.

When she was gone, Ron muttered, “What’s wrong with her? First she goes on hunger strike over house-elves last night, now this!”

After lunch, when the bell rang for afternoon lessons, Lily, Harry, and Ron made their way to the North Tower. At the top was a narrow, winding staircase that led to a silvery ladder. Above it, a round trapdoor opened into Professor Trelawney’s rooms.

As soon as they reached the top, the familiar, pungent scent of incense from the fire reached them. The curtains were drawn, as always. The only light in the dim circular room came from lamps draped in red fabric. They threaded their way between chintz-covered chairs and large, sagging cushions scattered about, and sat at their usual table.

A mysterious voice spoke from directly behind them, making them jump.

“Welcome, my children…”

Professor Trelawney’s enormous glasses magnified her eyes until they seemed far too large for her face. She stared at them mournfully, chains, beads, and bangles glittering in the firelight.

Turning to Harry, she said in a sorrowful voice, “Your mind is greatly troubled, my dear. Why do you worry so? My Inner Eye pierces beyond your brave countenance and sees your restless spirit. I regret to tell you that your anxiety is not unfounded. You face a difficult time ahead. Alas… a truly difficult time. And that which you fear will indeed come to pass—perhaps sooner than you expect.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. Harry stared at them, stunned.

Then Trelawney turned to Lily and fixed her with a long, penetrating gaze. Her face looked strange in the red half-light of the flames.

“You…” she said softly. “You are the quietest of all, my dear. But silence is not always peace. No, no… there is turmoil within you. A quiet longing…”

Lily blinked involuntarily. The sweet, heavy scent of incense caught in her throat. Other students were trickling into the room, turning to stare, but Trelawney’s eyes never left her.

“You still believe you can struggle against destiny,” she went on, her voice distant and trembling. “But destiny does not bargain with will. It always holds a sudden turning—one you never expect…”

The air seemed to thicken. Harry, Ron, and the rest stood frozen.

At last Trelawney drifted past them indifferently and sank into a high-backed armchair by the fire. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, devoted as ever, perched on cushions nearby.

“Now, my dears,” said Professor Trelawney, “it is time to study the stars—the movements of the planets, whose subtle dance reveals its warnings only to those attuned to the delicate rhythms of the heavens. Human destiny may be read in cosmic rays, which intertwine and—”

Lily sighed. The room was stiflingly warm and soporific. Harry, seated to her right, was staring dully at a hole in the tabletop, growing sleepier by the minute.

Trelawney drifted over to their table. “You, my dear,” she said to Harry, “it is perfectly clear that you were born under the baleful influence of Mars.”

Harry didn’t react.

“HARRY,” Ron whispered.

“What?” Harry snapped, looking around. The entire class was staring at him. He straightened at once.

“I was saying,” Trelawney repeated, offended, “that it is perfectly clear you were born under the influence of Mars. The planet Mars.”

“Sorry…?” Harry said blankly.

“Under Mars, my dear—Mars,” she repeated.

She seemed slightly put out that Harry had not been struck dumb by the revelation. “There can be no doubt that Mars was dominant in the heavens at the moment of your birth. Your dark hair… your average stature… the tragic loss of your parents in infancy… all confirm it. You were born in midwinter, were you not?”

“No,” said Harry. “I was born at the end of July.”

Ron, stifling laughter, turned it into an explosive cough. Lily, however, fell into thought. Tom Riddle had been born in midwinter. Had Trelawney sensed the fragment of Voldemort’s soul within Harry?

Half an hour later, everyone was clutching a complex revolving chart, struggling to determine the positions of the planets at the moment of their birth—a tedious process involving tables and angle calculations.

Harry frowned. “I’ve got two Neptunes here… that can’t be right, can it?”

Ron, in a whispery imitation of Trelawney, intoned, “Ahh… the appearance of two Neptunes foretells the birth of a bespectacled dwarf…”

“Let me see,” Lily said dryly. “That’s Pluto.”

Dean and Seamus, working nearby, snorted with laughter—though not loudly enough to drown out Lavender Brown’s excited shriek.

“Professor, look! I’ve got an uncharted planet! Which one is this?”

Trelawney peered at the chart. “That is Uranus, my dear.”

“Lavender,” Ron said, “mind if I have a look at your Uranus?”

Unfortunately, Professor Trelawney heard him. Perhaps that was why, at the end of the lesson, she set an enormous amount of homework. With a gravity wholly at odds with her usual vagueness—and uncannily reminiscent of a poor imitation of Professor McGonagall—she declared:

“You will analyse in full the influence the planetary movements of the coming month will have upon you, and write it all out in detail. I expect it by next Monday. No excuses.”

As they joined the stream of students heading down the stairs for dinner, Ron grumbled, “That miserable old bat—her homework’ll take all weekend.”

Leo and Hermione, fresh from Arithmancy, caught up with them. Hermione said cheerfully, “Loads of homework? Professor Vector didn’t give us any at all.”

“Oh—brilliant for Professor Vector,” Ron said acidly.

They reached the Entrance Hall at last. A crowd of students was bottlenecked at the doors of the Great Hall, all eager to get in for dinner. They joined the long line—when a loud voice rang out behind them.

“Weasley! Oi—Weasley!”

They turned. Draco Malfoy stood there with Crabbe and Goyle, all three looking thoroughly pleased with themselves.

“What do you want?” Ron snapped.

Malfoy waved a copy of the Daily Prophet overhead and announced loudly—loud enough for half the hall to hear, “Your dad made the paper! Listen to this—”

He cleared his throat theatrically and read:

“More Blunders at the Ministry of Magic.

A special report by Daily Prophet correspondent Rita Skeeter indicates that the Ministry’s troubles are far from over. Having recently come under heavy criticism for its failure to control the crowds at the Quidditch World Cup—and still offering no explanation for the disappearance of one of its own witches—the Ministry yesterday found itself in yet another embarrassing situation, following the bizarre actions of Arnold Weasley, an employee of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.”

Malfoy looked up, beaming. “See, Weasley? They can’t even get his name right! Shows how insignificant your dad is—no one knows who he is!”

By now, everyone in the Entrance Hall was listening. Leo said irritably, “Draco—what’s wrong with you? Knock it off.”

Malfoy ignored him and smoothed the paper again.

“‘Arnold Weasley, previously charged two years ago in connection with a flying car, was yesterday involved in an altercation with several aggressive, marauding dustbins and Muggle law enforcement—known as police. Mr Weasley appears to have been assisting Mad-Eye Moody, formerly an Auror and now retired. Mr Moody, described as elderly and somewhat confused, raised the alarm yet again by mistake. Mr Weasley was forced to modify the memories of several Muggles before making his escape. He declined to comment on the Ministry’s involvement in such a regrettable and humiliating scene.’”

Malfoy flipped the paper around and held it high. “There’s a photo too, Weasley—your mum and dad standing outside your house. If you can call it a house. Still—might help your mum lose a bit of weight from the stress.”

Ron was shaking with rage. All eyes were on him.

“Get lost, Malfoy,” Harry said quickly. “Come on, Ron.”

Malfoy sneered. “By the way, Potter—you stayed with them this summer, didn’t you? Is his mum really that fat, or is it just a bad angle?”

Lily stepped in front of Ron as he lunged. “He’s not worth it,” she said loudly. “He’s rubbish—just leave him!”

As Hermione and Harry hauled Ron back by his robes, Harry shouted, “You want to talk about mums? Yours looks like she’s constantly sniffing something foul. Tell me—does she always look like that, or was it just standing next to you?”

Malfoy’s pale face flushed scarlet. “How dare you insult my mother!”

“Shut your mouth,” Harry snapped, turning away.

Malfoy whipped out his wand and aimed it at Harry—but Lily was faster.

“Protego!”

A shimmering shield sprang up between Harry and Malfoy’s white spell, deflecting it into the wall. Several people screamed.

Before Harry could even turn, there was a louder bang and a roar that shook the hall.

“No, no, boy—you don’t do that!”

Lily clapped a hand over her mouth. In less than a second, Draco had spun on the spot and transformed into a white ferret. More screams followed. Professor Moody was limping down the marble steps, wand trained on the trembling ferret.

No one moved. Moody turned to Harry, growling, “You all right?”

“Y—yeah,” Harry said.

Moody’s magical eye swivelled toward Lily. “Perfect Shield Charm. Where’d you learn that?”

The thought of speaking to a Death Eater wearing Moody’s face made Lily’s skin prickle. “I—practised on my own.”

Moody nodded approvingly. “I like that. You know what you should be learning—and what they don’t teach you.”

Then he bellowed, “Leave it!”

Everyone jumped.

“What?” Lily blurted.

“Not you,” Moody said, jerking his thumb behind him. “Him.”

Crabbe, frozen halfway to picking up the ferret, stood stock-still. Moody limped toward Crabbe, Goyle, and the ferret. The ferret squeaked in terror and tried to scurry away.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Moody said.

The ferret shot three metres into the air and slammed back down, then bounced up again—higher this time. Each time it hit the stone floor, it squealed.

“I don’t like people who attack from behind,” Moody snarled. “Cowardly. Sneaky. Thugs.”

Up the ferret went again, limbs flailing helplessly.

Forgetting entirely that Draco was inside the animal, Lily cried out, “Professor—stop! He could be hurt!”

“He’ll live,” Moody growled.

With every impact, he punctuated his sentence:

“Don’t—ever—do—that—again.”

“Professor Moody!”

Professor McGonagall came hurrying down the marble steps, arms full of books. Moody continued bouncing the ferret calmly.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” he said pleasantly.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, eyes following the ferret’s rise and fall.

“Teaching.”

“Teaching? Professor Moody—that is a student!”

Her voice shook as she dropped the books. Moody nodded.

“No!”

She rushed forward, wand raised. A sharp crack rang out and Malfoy reappeared, sprawled on the floor, face flaming red, blond hair falling into his eyes. He scowled and scrambled up.

“Moody!” McGonagall said desperately. “We never use Transfiguration as punishment! Dumbledore must have told you!”

“Maybe he did,” Moody said casually, scratching his chin. “Thought the boy needed a good shake-up.”

“We discipline students—or we refer them to their Head of House!”

Moody shot Malfoy a look of pure dislike. “Fine. Then that’s what I’ll do.”

Malfoy, eyes bright with tears of pain and humiliation, muttered something under his breath—only the word “my father” was audible.

Moody limped closer, his wooden leg clunking loudly. “Oh, I know your father, boy. Tell him Mad-Eye Moody’s keeping a very close eye on his son. From me. Got it? Your Head of House is Snape, right?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said stiffly.

“Another old friend,” Moody grunted. “Been meaning to have a chat with Snape. Come on—move.”

He seized Malfoy by the robes and dragged him toward the dungeons. McGonagall watched them go, then flicked her wand to summon her books back into her arms.

“Go and get your dinner,” she said sharply. “Now!”

The students moved off, stunned. Ron muttered, “Don’t talk to me.”

“Why?” Hermione asked.

Ron closed his eyes, a blissful grin spreading across his face. “Because I’m committing this moment to memory. Draco Malfoy—the amazing bouncing ferret.”

They all laughed.

Harry said to Lily, “Why didn’t you tell us what the Daily Prophet said about Mr Weasley?”

“I went to the owlery before breakfast to check Romeo had arrived,” Lily said regretfully. “When I got back, the post owls had already gone. The Prophet owl probably couldn’t find me to collect the money and took the paper back. I didn’t have it today.”

“But he could’ve really hurt Malfoy,” Hermione said. “It’s good Professor McGonagall stopped him.”

Ron opened his eyes, scowling. “That’s enough—you’re ruining the best moment of my life.”

The others laughed and drifted off. As Lily and Leo headed toward the far tables, Leo asked, “Have you seen Cedric since we got back?”

“You mean since yesterday?” Lily shrugged. “No…”

He nudged her shoulder. “Well, here’s some good news—pretty much the whole school’s talking about how much prettier you look this year. So you won’t have a hard time with Cedric. Make the most of it. I want you close to him before his name comes out of the Goblet, not after. Once that happens, you’ll have competition. And besides… he’ll think you’re only interested because he’s a champion.”

Lily didn’t answer. She split from Leo and took her seat at the Ravenclaw table, with no real idea how draining the effort of trying to win someone’s affection could be. Merlin, she thought, I’m not built for this sort of thing.

…

Despite it being only the first week back, Lily quickly realised that the workload was heavier than in any previous year. She and Leo rarely found time to practise together in the Room of Requirement; most of her hours were spent either in the library or the Ravenclaw common room, buried in homework. The classes themselves felt denser and more exhausting than they had two years earlier. Wrestling with Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts, harvesting pus from Bubotubers in Herbology, charting astronomical movements, slogging through Divination essays, meeting McGonagall’s relentless expectations, and—worst of all—enduring Moody’s lessons and watching the Unforgivable Curses demonstrated on innocent creatures had worn her down within days.

Since the incident with the Shield Charm between Harry and Malfoy, Moody had taken a particular interest in her. In practice, that meant he was harder on her than on most others. She made a point of studying the next Defence lesson thoroughly before each class, just to survive the barrage of questions he threw her way. The only class she found genuinely comforting—one that didn’t exhaust her—was Flitwick’s.

On Thursday night, Lily sat with Padma by the Ravenclaw fireplace, working on their Astronomy homework. The blue-tinged firelight flickered over complicated star charts. Lily had gathered her hair back with her wand and was absently chewing the end of her quill. Wind sighed against the tall windows, mingling with the crackle of the fire and Padma’s occasional irritated tuts.

Suddenly Luna, who had been reading by the window, stared out with her usual distant focus and said, “Lily… it looks like someone wants you.”

Lily looked up. A white owl was perched just outside the window, peering into the common room.

Her mouth fell open. “Hedwig!”

She sprang to her feet and threw the window open. Hedwig fluttered in and landed tiredly on the table in front of Luna.

“Do you know her?” Luna asked.

Lily nodded. Hedwig lifted one leg, revealing a crumpled, dirty piece of parchment. Lily eagerly untied it, then dug into her robe pocket and pulled out a piece of owl treat—something she usually carried for Romeo.

“You must be exhausted,” she murmured, offering it. “Take this, then go straight to the owlery and rest.”

Hedwig hooted softly, accepted the treat, and flew back out through the tall window.

Trying to hide the tremor in her hands, Lily hurriedly gathered up the Astronomy charts and parchment from the table.

“What’s wrong with you?” Padma asked, startled. “We’re nowhere near finished! I thought we were doing all of it tonight.”

“I’ve got a terrible headache,” Lily said, clutching the rolled parchments. “I need to sleep. I’ll—um—get up early and finish them in the morning.”

She rushed up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. Inside the round room, she dropped the rolls onto her bedside table and sat on her bed. She drew the dark blue curtains closed and flicked her wand to light the small reading lamp above her, casting a gentle glow. Taking a slow breath, she unfolded the crumpled parchment that smelled faintly of smoke and damp.

The edges were grimy, stained along the folds. She stared at the hurried, impatient handwriting for a moment before she began to read.

Lily,

Harry’s written to me—his scar has started hurting again. I didn’t want to frighten him, but this is one of those things that must be taken seriously. After what happened at the World Cup, and a few other matters, I’m deeply worried. I know you understand what I mean.

I guessed you’d be back at school by the time Hedwig reached you, so I entrusted your letter to her as well. I’m returning to Britain as fast as I can to stay close to Harry, but I can’t be at Hogwarts with him. Lily, listen carefully. You’re older than Harry—and without question, more level-headed. In the short time I’ve known you, I realised you see things more clearly than most people your age; otherwise you’d never have noticed my secret last year.

I want you to keep a very close eye on him. If he’s inherited even a fraction of James, he won’t be able to stay quiet and out of trouble. Don’t let him wander the grounds or places he shouldn’t be. I’m certain there’s someone—or several someones—who mean him harm, and they may be closer than we think.

If you notice anything suspicious, go straight to Dumbledore or Moody. Don’t underestimate anything. We may see each other again soon. Take care of yourself—and of Harry. In times like these, you’re one of the very few people I trust.

Sirius

Lily read the final line slowly, then sat motionless for a few seconds. The weak warmth of the lamp cast a trembling light across the parchment. She smoothed it gently, folded it with care, slipped it between the pages of one of the books on her bedside table, and pushed it down to the bottom of her trunk.

“So it’s all Harry, then,” she whispered. “All right… I understand.”

Still behind the drawn curtains, she changed into her nightclothes and slid beneath the covers, hoping sleep might dull the edge of the quiet despair settling over her.

…

The next morning, Lily woke with a warm pressure against her chest. The ruby set into her medallion had heated up, glowing faintly. She forced herself out of the warmth of her bed and sighed, “It’s still so early…”

But she knew this could mean something urgent—Leo wouldn’t have summoned her at dawn otherwise. She ran a hand through her hair, dressed quickly, and threw her robes over her shoulders. Passing through the empty circular common room, she descended the stone stairs of Ravenclaw Tower until she reached the Entrance Hall.

Leo was there—but to her surprise, he wasn’t alone. Harry stood beside him, restless and visibly angry, shifting from foot to foot.

Lily hurried over. “What’s going on? Why did you call me this early? Harry—what are you doing here?”

Leo sighed. “I ran into him coming up from the dungeons. He was pacing around here, waiting for you. I thought I’d better fetch you.”

Lily opened her mouth to speak, but Harry cut in at once. “What did he write to you?”

She blinked. “What—?”

“Sirius,” Harry said, lowering his voice to an agitated whisper. “What did he write? When Hedwig brought his letter last night, I saw your name on the other note. But Hedwig wouldn’t let me take it—she pecked me! He must’ve told her to give yours straight to you. What was in it?”

Leo interrupted, startled. “What—Hedwig’s back? And no one told me?”

“She came last night,” Lily said impatiently. “Before curfew. And—” she turned to Harry, “there wasn’t anything special in it. I don’t have it on me, or I’d show you. He just asked me to keep a closer eye on you—that’s all. So what’s happened to get you this upset?”

Harry slapped a hand to his forehead. “That’s exactly it! Read this—!”

He pulled a grubby, badly written note from his pocket—the same kind of parchment Lily had received the night before—and shoved it into her hands.

Harry,

I’m flying north immediately. Since I arrived here, I’ve heard a great many strange rumours, and news of your scar burning is the last thing I wanted to hear. If it happens again, go straight to Dumbledore. I hear Dumbledore has drawn Mad-Eye out of his quiet retirement. Clearly he’s noticed the signs too, even if no one yet knows what they mean.

I’ll be close to you soon. Give my regards to Ron and Hermione. Harry—keep your wits about you.

Sirius

Lily looked up from the note. “Well…?”

Leo, who had been reading over her shoulder, murmured, “He’s flying north? He’s coming back?”

“That’s the problem!” Harry burst out. “He’s coming back—and it’s my fault! I shouldn’t have written about my scar hurting!”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Leo said firmly. “He’s your godfather. Of course he needs to know.”

“My letter scared him into coming back!” Harry shouted. “What if the Dementors catch him? What if they send him back to Azkaban?!”

He spun around and punched the wall hard enough to make Lily jump. “He’s coming because he thinks I’m in danger—when I’m fine!”

Lily put a hand on his shoulder. “Harry, calm down. Sirius is smarter than that. He won’t rush in blindly. I’m sure they won’t catch him.”

“I don’t want him taking the risk!” Harry snapped. “Here’s what we’re going to do—” He pulled another sheet of parchment from his pocket, hands shaking. “We’re going to the owlery. I’m sending this. I’ve written that I was half-asleep and imagined the pain. And you—you have to write too. You have to tell him you’re watching me and he doesn’t need to come. He listens to you!”

Leo sighed. “And you think he’ll believe you imagined it?”

“Maybe not,” Harry said angrily. “But he might believe you. So you have to back me up!”

“Harry,” Lily said quietly, “that’s a lie. You know it is. You’re asking me to lie to him.”

His voice dropped, shaking with rage he was barely holding back. “He’s the only family I have left. If you don’t help me and he comes back and gets caught, I’ll— I’ll never forgive you.”

Lily raised her hands in surrender. “All right—all right. You’re about to collapse. I’ll write the bloody note. Do you have parchment and a quill?”

“I brought my bag,” Leo said quickly. “Let’s go to the owlery.”

Their hurried footsteps echoed through the empty stone corridors. Cold morning air crept in through the windows; torches flickered as they passed, throwing long shadows behind them. Lily walked in silence, wrapping her robes tightly around herself. Harry strode ahead with clenched fists, while Leo kept glancing back, checking behind them.

At the owlery, Harry pushed open the old wooden door. The smell of feathers, damp, and owl droppings hit them at once. In the grey morning chill, wings rustled and a few sleepy hoots echoed.

From one of the highest perches, Romeo lifted his head. His black feathers caught a dull gleam in the dim light, and his amber eyes fixed instantly on Lily.

She raised her arm. At once, Romeo dropped from the perch, flew soundlessly, and settled on her forearm.

Leo opened his bag and handed Lily a quill, ink, and parchment. As she stroked Romeo’s head, she said softly, “Go on—onto Leo’s shoulder…”

Then she sat on a stone bench, smoothed the parchment, and began to write in the pale morning light.

Sirius,

Your letters reached us. Your concern for Harry is completely understandable—but if you truly intend to return, please reconsider.

Coming here won’t help Harry. You wouldn’t be able to enter Hogwarts or watch over him directly, and you’re still being hunted. Returning to Britain would only add another worry to all of us. I promise you I am keeping a close eye on Harry and won’t let him out of my sight.

If you want to help, stay where you are—away from the Ministry, away from Dementors, away from danger. Trust me. Harry isn’t alone. We’re with him.

Lily

She hadn’t even added the final full stop when Harry stepped forward. “Let me see.”

She handed him the parchment without a word. He read it slowly, his brows knitting, then easing. By the end, he seemed a little calmer, though the anxiety hadn’t left his face. He folded the letter carefully and gave it back.

“I didn’t lie,” Lily murmured. “I just told him the truth.”

Harry nodded.

Leo, clearly uncomfortable with Romeo’s beak so close to his face, turned away. “So… we send both letters with Romeo?”

Lily glanced at Romeo, still motionless on Leo’s shoulder. Then she said softly to Harry, “Hedwig’s just come back from a long flight—she must be exhausted. Romeo’s faster, and he’s fresh. I think he should take both.”

Harry nodded. He handed Lily his letter. She motioned for Romeo to hop down, then tied both notes carefully to his leg. Leaning close, she said firmly but gently, “Go quickly, my dear. We don’t know exactly where Sirius is—but you’ll find him, won’t you?”

Harry whispered, “Before the Dementors do…”

“Come straight back once you have his reply,” Lily added. “Go on—off you go.”

Romeo blinked once, spread his wings with confidence, and leapt into the air. The powerful rush of his feathers echoed briefly through the cold owlery before he vanished through one of the open windows, disappearing into the misty morning sky.

For a moment, all three of them stared at the empty window.

“I just hope it’s not too late,” Harry said quietly.

Lily sighed. “Harry… even if he gets our letters in time, it’s very unlikely he’ll change his mind. You know how much you mean to him. And—well—he’s stubborn. I don’t think our words will stop him.”

Harry nodded. “At least now I know we tried.”

“Come on,” Leo said. “Let’s head back to the Great Hall—it’s breakfast time. With the speed Romeo took off at, he’ll be back in a day or two. Then we’ll know whether all this was pointless… or not.”

…

A few days later, the final bell of the morning rang, and a wave of students poured out of the Charms classroom. Lily calmly gathered her books and parchment, waiting until the room thinned out a little. Professor Flitwick, small and busy stacking grade books and assignments, noticed her hesitation and smiled warmly.

“Miss DiNalfy! How can I help?”

Lily returned a brief smile, stepped closer, and said in a tone she tried to keep polite and steady, “Professor… I wanted to ask you about something, if you have a moment.”

“Of course, my dear! Do sit.”

Lily took the chair in front of his desk, hugging her notebook to her chest. Carefully—but firmly—she said, “I turned seventeen last Christmas, but I’m still a fourth-year student. I asked Professor McGonagall whether, since I’m of age, I’d be allowed to put my name in for the Triwizard Tournament. She said that… because my situation is somewhat unusual, the final decision depends on your approval.”

Flitwick fell silent. His eyebrows lifted slightly as he studied her more closely, as though replaying the past three years in his mind. At last, he said gently, “Miss DiNalfy… you’ve always been one of Ravenclaw’s strongest students. Precise, diligent—and most importantly, thoughtful. You’ve consistently worked beyond the level expected of you. I see no reason you couldn’t compete with sixth- and seventh-years.”

Lily, who had been holding her breath, nodded eagerly. “So you don’t object?”

Flitwick offered a faint smile. “The only thing I must be sure of is that you understand: despite all our precautions, this tournament will involve danger. That said, since you are of legal age, no one has the right to stop you if you choose to put yourself at risk.”

A brief silence settled between them. The flames in the classroom hearth danced softly, and the air smelled of burning wood and ink.

“You still have time to think,” Flitwick added. “I’ll speak with Professor McGonagall myself. You should give it proper consideration.”

“Yes, Professor,” Lily said.

As he returned to packing his things, Flitwick added lightly, “It would be an honour to have Hogwarts’ champion come from Ravenclaw. I welcome every advantage we can get! Now off you go—and best of luck.”

Lily bowed her head respectfully. “Thank you, Professor.”

She left the classroom gripping her book tightly, a strange knot of excitement and anxiety twisting in her stomach. She descended the stairs, crossed the bright corridors of the second floor, and slipped quietly into the library.

The calm, cool air smelled—as always—of old leather and damp parchment. A soft breeze crept through the narrow windows. A few students moved between the shelves, filling the space with the gentle sound of turning pages and hushed whispers.

Lily scanned the study tables, searching for a familiar face. It didn’t take long to spot Leo at one of the far tables. A few seats away, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were deep in conversation. Leo was leaning over a thick book, but as Lily approached, he looked up without greeting her.

“Well, look who’s here. Charms class, right? You got approval?”

She narrowed her eyes, pulled out the chair across from him, and sat. “Yeah. What about you? Did Snape allow it?”

Leo smirked, lifting his chin slightly. “Of course he did. Do you really think he wouldn’t? Snape would love a Slytherin champion—and if it’s me, even better.”

He tapped a finger against the book cover. “He warned me it’s dangerous, but he’s convinced I can handle it. Said he’d be pleased if someone from his own House had a real chance.”

Lily muttered, “Exactly what Flitwick said to me…”

Leo closed the book. “So now we know—we’re both eligible. That leaves one thing.”

“Whether we actually put our names in,” Lily finished.

Leo stared at her. “Are you mad? Of course we do! We need to reduce Cedric’s chances as much as possible! That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

Leo rolled his eyes. “Did you talk to Cedric?”

Lily looked away. “No… Leo. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

“For Merlin’s sake!” he hissed. “You’re going to face dragons and Dark magic, but this scares you? You just walk up and say, ‘Hi, Cedric—fancy a walk around the grounds this evening? Or a cigarette up the Astronomy Tower?’ He’ll say yes. That’s it.”

She sighed. “Believe me—it’s not that easy.”

At his hostile look, she added quickly, “But fine. You’re right. The first time I see him, I’ll try.”

Leo relaxed and bent back over his book. The quiet rustle of pages and Hermione’s distant murmuring filled the silence between them.

“Romeo still hasn’t come back?” he asked softly.

Lily shook her head. “Not yet.”

She pulled out her homework just as brisk footsteps approached. Hermione appeared between the shelves, arms full of folded parchment and a small box.

“Hi!” she said brightly. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve founded an organisation for the promotion and welfare of house-elves.”

She opened the box. Inside were fifty badges in various colours, each stamped with the letters S.P.E.W.

Harry and Ron nodded apologetically from their table.

Lily raised an eyebrow. Leo rested his chin on his hand.

“Our goal is to end house-elf enslavement,” Hermione continued, waving the parchment. “I’ve researched it thoroughly. This has gone on for centuries—no pay, no choice, no rights, constant threats. It’s medieval!”

She slammed a leaflet onto their table.

Leo squinted at the heading. “Spew?”

Ron snorted, quickly turning it into a cough under Hermione’s glare.

“It’s S.P.E.W., not ‘spew’,” Hermione snapped. “It’s an acronym.”

Lily smiled faintly. “So… what do we do?”

“We’re recruiting members,” Hermione said briskly. “Two Sickles for membership. You get a badge, and the rest goes toward printing pamphlets. Wear the badge—when people ask about it, you explain the movement and get them interested.”

“How many members so far?” Leo asked.

“With you two, five. Ron’s the treasurer. Harry’s the secretary.”

Hermione beamed.

Leo studied the leaflet. “And the actual goals of these meetings?”

Her face lit up. “Short-term: fair wages and proper working conditions. Long-term: reforming wand-use restrictions and securing house-elf representation in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. It’s disgraceful they don’t even have a voice. Remember what Crouch did to Winky? The system is inherently unjust!”

Leo nodded thoughtfully. “I’m in favour of anything that opposes oppression and abuse of power. I think this deserves support.”

Harry and Ron stared at him in disbelief.

“Really?” Hermione gasped. “That’s brilliant! Could you recruit people from your House?”

Lily smirked. “Hermione… he’s in Slytherin. Most of them have house-elves.”

Hermione hesitated—then brightened. “Even better! S.P.E.W. needs to reach all Houses. Maybe they’ll talk to their parents about treating their elves better!”

“Fine,” Leo said. “Where do I sign?”

“Have you lost your mind?” Ron muttered.

Hermione whipped out a ledger. Leo signed without hesitation.

“All right,” Lily said, nodding. “Sign me up too. Just—don’t expect miracles overnight.”

“I know,” Hermione said, rummaging through the box. “What colours? Blue and green, to match your Houses?”

“Sure,” Lily said, knowing full well she’d never wear it.

Ron laughed. “Why not buy one of every colour, Leo?”

Leo ignored him and handed Hermione a Galleon. “Here—for both of us.”

“I don’t have that much change—”

“Keep it,” Leo said. “For the pamphlets.”

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re… noble witches and wizards. History will remember you.”

When she left, Lily whispered, “Why did you encourage her so much?”

“I like her,” Leo shrugged. “She deserves support.”

Half an hour later, Leo suddenly looked up. A sly grin appeared.

“There he is.”

Between the Charms shelves stood Cedric Diggory, sunlight catching his brown hair. Calm, polite, immaculate in Hufflepuff yellow.

Leo nudged Lily. “Go. Now.”

Heart pounding, she stood.

“Wish me luck,” she muttered—and stepped forward.

Cedric turned. “Oh—DiNalfy, right? Hello.”

She forced a smile. “Hi… um—would you like to go for a walk later?”

He hesitated, then smiled apologetically. “Quidditch practice, I’m afraid. Perhaps another time.”

She nodded. “Of course. Good luck with practice.”

He left.

Lily returned to the table and dropped her book.

“Well?” Leo asked.

She groaned. “You’re a genius, Leo. He politely turned me down.”

Leo shrugged. “At least he noticed you.”

Silence fell again—heavy, ominous.

…

Over the following week, Lily did her best not to think about Sirius.

And yet, every morning, when the post owls arrived, she found herself scanning the rafters for Romeo.

Lessons—especially Defence Against the Dark Arts—had grown noticeably harsher than in previous years. Moody announced that he intended to cast the Imperius Curse on each of them in turn, so they could experience its power firsthand and see who was capable of resisting it. By the start of the new school year, all fourth-years had realised that the workload had increased dramatically.

When Professor McGonagall assigned an especially heavy set of Transfiguration homework, the class protested. She explained briskly, “You are entering a new phase of your magical education. Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels are approaching!”

“But O.W.L.s don’t start until fifth year!” Dean Thomas complained.

“Quite right, Thomas,” McGonagall replied. “But preparation begins long before that. In this class, Miss Granger and Miss DiNalfy are the only students who have successfully transfigured a hedgehog into a pin-cushion. Yours, Thomas, curls up in terror whenever a pin approaches!”

In Divination, Professor Trelawney informed Harry and Ron that they had received full marks. She read aloud several passages, praising their “brave acceptance of impending doom.” Professor Binns, the ghost who taught History of Magic, required weekly essays on eighteenth-century goblin rebellions. Snape assigned painstaking research on antidotes and refused to tolerate sloppy work. Flitwick demanded summaries of three additional textbooks in preparation for learning the Summoning Charm.

Even Hagrid increased their workload. Though no one yet knew what Blast-Ended Skrewts actually ate, they were growing at an alarming rate. Hagrid was delighted, insisting the class visit him every other evening to observe their “fascinatin’ behaviour” and take notes, as part of their practical work.

One evening, exhausted, Lily reached the Entrance Hall to find a large crowd blocking the way. Students were clustered around a notice pinned beneath the marble staircase. She craned her neck to read it:

THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

The champions of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will arrive at Hogwarts at six o’clock on the evening of Friday, 30 October. On that day, all classes will end half an hour early. Students are to leave their bags in their dormitories and gather in front of the castle to welcome our guests. A welcoming feast will follow their arrival.

A familiar voice muttered behind her, “What—that idiot becoming Hogwarts champion?”

Lily turned. “Which idiot are you talking about, Ron?”

“Diggory,” Harry said.

Lily frowned. Hermione spoke sharply. “He’s not an idiot. You only dislike him because he beat Gryffindor once. I’ve heard he’s a very capable student—and he’s a prefect.”

Her tone suggested that the final point settled the matter.

“And besides,” Hermione added with a faint smile, “don’t insult Cedric in front of Lily. She likes him.”

Lily shook her head quickly. “That’s not it! He’s just… nice. That’s all.”

“You only like him because he’s good-looking,” Ron snapped.

“Excuse me,” Hermione said indignantly, “I don’t like people because they’re good-looking!”

Ron coughed loudly, in a way that suspiciously resembled the word “Lockhart,” making Harry and Lily laugh.

Students streamed into the Great Hall for dinner, buzzing with excitement about the tournament. Candlelight shimmered across the enchanted ceiling, and the scent of food rose from golden platters.

Lily headed toward the Ravenclaw table—but before she could sit, Padma called from several seats away, “Lily! Your owl’s here—Romeo!”

“Romeo?” Lily quickened her pace.

Students laughed and stepped aside. There, in the middle of the Ravenclaw table, stood her magnificent black owl. His long, glossy feathers gleamed with a deep violet sheen beneath the candles, amber eyes calm and dignified.

A group of students gathered around him.

“I can’t believe how still he is,” said a fifth-year boy. “I went right up to him—he didn’t even flinch. Just looked at me like I shouldn’t dare touch the letter.”

“I’ve never seen an owl this black,” Li Su murmured.

“He’s from the northern long-winged line,” Luna said dreamily.

Lily approached with a smile. Romeo tilted his head at the sight of her, giving a soft sound—not a hoot, but something closer to a courteous greeting. He stepped toward her and lifted one talon.

“Hello, you,” Lily whispered, gently stroking him. “You finally made it back.”

Padma smiled. “He’s so proud—and so obedient.”

Carefully, Lily untied the two notes from his leg. “Come on,” she murmured. “You need feeding.”

Romeo hopped onto her shoulder. Under curious gazes, Lily grabbed a chicken leg from the table and left the hall. In the Entrance Hall, she guided Romeo from her shoulder to her forearm and met his amber gaze sternly.

“From now on,” she whispered, “bring letters with the morning post. Don’t just fly in and put on a show in the middle of dinner.”

Romeo tilted his head apologetically.

She offered the chicken leg. “This time’s all right. Go to the Owlery and rest. I might send you back tomorrow morning.”

Romeo seized the food and flew straight out through the doors. Lily returned to the Great Hall and went directly to the Gryffindor table.

Harry snatched the letter the moment she produced it. Ron stared. “That fast?”

Hermione leaned forward. “What does it say?”

Harry read aloud:

Dear Harry,

Your caution does you credit. I’ve returned to Britain and gone into hiding somewhere safe. Keep me informed of everything that happens at Hogwarts. Using a different owl was a wise decision—don’t rely on Hedwig alone. Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself. Remember what I said about your scar. Stay with your friends. Let them watch over you.

Sirius

“Why use different owls?” Ron asked.

“Hedwig draws attention,” Hermione replied at once. “A white owl isn’t local—it would make people suspicious.”

Harry folded the letter. “I don’t know whether I should feel more worried or less. At least I know he’s all right.”

“Having him closer helps,” Lily murmured. “You won’t have to wait a month for a reply anymore.”

Later, back in Ravenclaw Tower, Lily slipped into her dormitory and drew the blue curtains around her bed. She lit her lamp and unfolded the second note.

My dear Lily,

I received your letter. I read it. Several times—then a few more. And to be honest, I still haven’t decided whether I ought to thank you for it, or be annoyed.

You wrote that my coming back wouldn’t help, that my presence would only be another burden for all of you. I’ll admit—you may be right. But if you were in my place, you’d understand why I can’t stay away. I can’t go back to standing on the sidelines and watching.

More than twelve years have passed since that night, and I still can’t get the images out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, I see them again. James and Lily. I didn’t do anything for them. I should have made the right choice—but I didn’t. That mistake has stayed with me. It’s like an old wound that opens again every time I think of Harry. You wrote that my being around is just extra weight on everyone’s shoulders, but I swear to you I can’t be indifferent. It may not be sensible, but if I’m ever going to ease even a fraction of the guilt I carry, I have to stay close to James’s son. Even if it ends with me being caught.

I’m hiding somewhere I can’t name—one of those places only madmen would choose to live in. Damp air, stone walls, and my only company is a half-dead fire in the hearth. I haven’t spoken to anyone face to face in a long time, and no one has spoken to me either. I get the occasional letter from a few people who know I exist. And I’ll admit something else—I miss those afternoons when you used to read near the Whomping Willow, and I’d sit beside you, and you’d talk to me as if I were just an ordinary person. Or rather, an ordinary dog. Even so, those afternoons were the most human, the most normal moments I’ve had in the last thirteen years. Being spoken to about things like the weather, old memories, schoolwork, exams. That’s probably why I’m dragging this letter out—because since those afternoons, you’re the only one I feel I can have a truly ordinary conversation with.

You said you’d watch over Harry. That means more to me than you know. Even if my being here is pointless, knowing that you’re there does calm me somewhat. You’re sharper—and more perceptive—than I gave you credit for. And you tried very hard to make it sound as though your letter hadn’t been written under Harry’s pressure. In truth, if his letter hadn’t reached me at the same time, I might have believed you completely. I might even have thought you were writing because you were worried about me.

Harry is luckier than he realises, to have friends like you around him.

Take care of yourself.

P.S. If you have the time, write again—about the weather, about the professors being unbearable. I wouldn’t mind receiving the occasional letter that isn’t about fear, hiding, or running.

Sirius

Lily folded the letter slowly. Its warmth lingered, heavy and intimate.

She extinguished the lamp, slipped beneath the covers, and lay awake in the dark—listening to her heart beat just a little faster than usual.

Chapter Text

The following morning, when Lily woke, the sun had only just managed to climb above the heavy clouds. The pale light of dawn slid across the carpets and bedspreads, catching her face as she drew back the curtains of her four-poster. Her mind was still drifting somewhere between sleep and waking, yet a familiar weight had already settled in her chest. At once, she remembered the night before—and the parchment she had hidden beneath her pillow.

She slipped out of bed quietly so as not to wake anyone, dressed, slung her robes and bag over her shoulder, and made her way to the common room. She took a seat at the table by the window and drew out parchment and a quill. Cold, mist-laden morning light spilled across the grounds through the clouds. For several minutes she simply watched the Forbidden Forest, the lake, and the greenhouses lying under a veil of fog. She had always been grateful that Ravenclaw Tower offered the finest view of Hogwarts. Then she drew a steady breath and began to write.

Sirius,

Your letter reached me safely. I was relieved to hear that you arrived back in Britain unharmed and that you’re somewhere secure. I won’t pretend I’m not glad that I no longer have to wait weeks for a reply when I write to you.

There’s something I should clear up straightaway: you were wrong if you thought I wrote to you only because Harry insisted. It’s true that he asked me to—but I was worried about you as well. I still am.

I think you need to stop blaming yourself for what happened to James and Lily. Do you believe you made a mistake? Perhaps. But we all make mistakes sometimes, and no one has paid a higher price for theirs than you have. I understand the longing—not only for James, but for the part of yourself you lost back then. I may not understand it completely, but… I do understand.

Since you asked me to write about ordinary things, I’ll try. Last week Moody made us endure the Imperius Curse to see how long we could withstand it. I was taken almost at once and spent the lesson hopping obediently around the classroom like a kangaroo. It was deeply embarrassing. Even half an hour after class, I felt as though my mind still wasn’t entirely my own. Apparently Harry and Leo managed to resist it fairly well—both of them are better than I am at Defence Against the Dark Arts. I’m better at Transfiguration. I imagine you were, too.

Hagrid has introduced some new creatures into Care of Magical Creatures—Blast-Ended Skrewts. Since he doesn’t seem entirely sure what to do with them himself, I suspect he may have discovered the species personally. They appear to be some sort of cross between a Fire Crab and something else entirely. Hagrid is happier with his lessons than he’s ever been, though the rest of us are convinced that one of them will set half the school ablaze before long.

The whole school is buzzing with excitement over the Triwizard Tournament. We’re expecting the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions to arrive the day before Halloween. Given that you’ll be reading today’s Daily Prophet, you probably already know how it all works—but as I don’t know where you’re hiding, and you may not have had regular access to the papers, I’ve cut out the relevant pages from the last few weeks and enclosed them. I hope they’ll help pass the time. For now, it seems best not to dwell on the things we can’t change, and instead do what we can to preserve what remains.

Take care of yourself.

Lily

P.S. The owl who delivered this letter—and the last one—is mine. Romeo. I bought him before coming to Hogwarts so I could send more letters over long distances. I hope you understand what I mean.

Lily stared at the parchment for a moment longer, only realising she’d been lingering when a small blot of ink spread across the lower corner of the page. She let out a quiet sigh, half a smile tugging at her lips, folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. Then she drew out the past week’s Daily Prophets from her bag, tore out the relevant pages, and tucked them inside. Outside the window, the sun had climbed fully into the sky, and the distant calls of owls drifted through the air.

She rose, straightened her robes, and set off towards the Owlery. Most of the corridors were still empty, the only sound the wind whispering against the tall windows. When she reached the heavy wooden door, she pushed it open carefully. The familiar smell of feathers and owl droppings filled her nose. Dozens of owls—tired from a night’s hunting—dozed along the wooden beams, only the occasional one turning its head with mild disinterest.

She spotted Romeo almost at once, perched on one of the higher beams, exactly where he always sat. At the sight of her, he spread his great black wings and glided down in silence, smooth as a small aeroplane. He settled on her forearm and brushed his curved beak gently against her shoulder.

Lily smiled briefly and murmured, “Morning… ready for another trip?”

Romeo made a low sound and cocked his head. Lily set him down on the stone bench and offered him a piece of owl treat. Then she took out the envelope and fastened it securely to his leg with a thin leather strap. She waited until he’d swallowed the food and was paying attention. Her voice softened, but turned serious.

“Listen, Romeo. This is important. When you get there, you mustn’t deliver the letter straight away. You need to wait until nightfall. You’re practically invisible in the dark. Only when you’re certain it’s fully dark—and there’s no one around—do you give it to Sirius. I don’t want anyone noticing where he’s hiding… do you understand?”

The owl’s amber eyes gleamed in the morning light. He dipped his head and nudged her hand again with his beak. Lily smiled faintly.

“That’s my good boy. Fly fast, deliver the letter… and then bring me his reply, all right? I mean—” she hesitated, letting out a quiet breath, “—if he wants to send one.”

Romeo spread his wings, took two steps, and lifted silently into the air. He slipped out through the window, and Lily watched until he dwindled to a black speck against the sky.

…

It soon became apparent that the castle was undergoing a thorough and rather aggressive cleaning. Dull paintings had been scrubbed and washed until they gleamed. Suits of armour and helmets shone brightly once more and no longer squeaked when they moved. Filch, meanwhile, was dealing with students who forgot to wipe their shoes with such ferocity that he reduced two first-years to hysterical tears. The professors were equally tense. In Transfiguration, when Neville produced cactus-like ears, Professor McGonagall snapped irritably,

“Longbottom! Kindly refrain from informing the Durmstrang students that you are incapable of performing even a basic Switching Spell!”

Ron and Harry’s lack of enthusiasm did nothing to dampen Hermione’s determination to expand the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. She was resolute in pursuing the matter until social justice was achieved in every aspect of house-elf life. Apparently, Leo’s purchase of S.P.E.W. badges—and his expressed interest in learning more about the organisation—had only fuelled her fervour. After acquiring the badges, Hermione had made a habit of disturbing their peace. Every day she urged them to pin the badges to their robes and persuade others to do the same. Each evening she roamed the castle with her collecting tin in hand, and whenever she cornered someone, she shook it under their nose and said very solemnly,

“Do you realise that the beings who change your bed sheets, keep your fires lit, clean your classrooms and cook your meals are a race of magical creatures who receive no wages for their labour and are treated like slaves?”

…

On the morning of October thirtieth, as they went down to breakfast, the decorations in the Great Hall immediately drew everyone’s attention. Large silk banners had been hung along the walls, each bearing the crest of one of the schools. Behind the staff table, a banner displaying the Hogwarts coat of arms dominated the space.

Lily was in the middle of spreading a second spoonful of raspberry jam over her toast when Leo appeared through the crowd of students. His robes were slung over one shoulder, and his face—slightly tired, as it always was in the mornings—somehow still managed to look alert. He came straight over and, without invitation, dropped into the seat opposite her at the Ravenclaw table.

“Morning…” Lily murmured.

“Morning’s for people who’ve just woken up,” Leo said, snatching her toast from in front of her. “You’ve been up since dawn, haven’t you?”

Lily raised an eyebrow and reached for another slice. “How do you know?”

He chewed thoughtfully. “Your eyes. Whenever you don’t sleep properly, there’s a look you get. Are you running through scenarios in your head again? Like when we were kids?”

She laughed softly. “You pay far too much attention to the details of my life, Leo. Don’t you have something better to do?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said calmly. “I wanted to know whether you’ve finally made any progress with Hogwarts’ golden boy.”

Lily sighed. “Leo, please don’t start again. Besides—champion is the one whose name comes out of the Goblet.”

“I know,” he replied evenly. “And for what it’s worth, it probably will.”

“Leo…” she said irritably. “The last time I spoke to him, he told me he couldn’t go out with me because he had Quidditch practice.”

“So?”

“So!?” She dropped her spoon into her plate with a sharp clatter. “There is no Quidditch this year! No team’s practising! It couldn’t be more obvious if he’d said it outright. If I have even a shred of self-respect, I’m not going anywhere near him again.”

Leo let out a slow breath. “I agree. But let’s try one last time—just once. A decisive move. If it doesn’t work, we drop it and find another way. Just… break that cursed Ravenclaw pride of yours for once, will you?”

Lily opened her mouth to reply—but at that moment, the rush of air from dozens of beating wings echoed from the enchanted ceiling. Heads turned upward as owls poured in through the high windows, swirling above the tables to deliver letters and parcels. A moment later, the largest and blackest of them dove straight toward the Ravenclaw table.

Leo narrowed his eyes. “Were you expecting a letter?”

Lily rose halfway from her seat without thinking. Romeo landed with dignity on the table opposite her and folded his wings neatly. Then, with unmistakable solemnity, he lifted one leg and held it out to her, waiting for the grimy note to be removed. As usual, several students nearby watched him with admiration.

“Hello, Romeo…” Lily said quietly. “Good job. You remembered to come in with the others this time.”

Trying—and failing—to suppress a smile, she began unfastening the note from his leg.

Leo was still watching her closely, suspicion etched into his narrowed gaze. He crushed the remains of his jam-covered toast between his fingers.

“It’s him again, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Lily said, focused on the leather strap. “It’s Sirius’ reply.”

“He must be terribly bored,” Leo remarked. “Sending letters this often.”

“He’s a fugitive in hiding,” Lily muttered. “What exactly do you expect him to be doing that would stop him from answering my letters?”

Her hands trembled slightly as she slipped the note into her pocket. She stroked Romeo’s head, offered him a piece of toast, and said softly, “Go on—off to the Owlery to rest. Good boy.”

Romeo took flight at once. Leo spoke again, lightly—but pointedly.

“Well? Aren’t you going to read it? Or are you afraid that if you open it in front of me, I’ll see your face turn red and know exactly what he’s written?”

Lily looked up. “You’re hilarious. I’m just checking in on a friend, that’s all.”

“A friend who makes you lose sleep and jump out of bed before sunrise?” he shot back. “That’s some friendship. The last time you were waking up at dawn for a ‘friend,’ I had to put up with six months of your crying and depression. Remember? The footballer.”

Lily stared at him. Her smile faded.

“Leo… please don’t argue like that. That’s cruel.”

A brief silence fell between them. The sound of owl wings still echoed overhead. Leo glanced at her sideways, as though suddenly uncomfortable—at her pressed lips, her dulled eyes, the faint tremor in her hands. He dropped the mangled remains of his toast onto his plate.

“All right,” he said quietly. “I won’t say anything else. Just… be careful. Don’t let this turn into trouble for you.”

Lily sighed and nodded.

At that moment, Michael Corner appeared beside them, staring at Leo in disbelief.

“Excuse me!?” he said. “The Slytherin table’s over there!”

Leo stood at once. “Sorry. We’re finished talking. Go ahead—sit.”

And without looking back, he left the Great Hall.

After Leo left, Lily found she could no longer eat. Once the Great Hall had thinned out a little, she rose from the table and slipped out without speaking to anyone. By the time she reached the inner courtyard, the air still carried the scent of the previous night’s rain. Water murmured in the fountain at its centre, and several crows perched along the statues and the corridor windowsills.

She sat quietly on the stone bench beside the fountain, gathered her robes closer, and drew the letter from her pocket. Her finger traced the faint crease in the slightly damp parchment before she unfolded it at last.

Dear Lily,

Forgive the handwriting—it’s worse than usual. Your owl delivered your letter in the middle of the night. I meant to wait until morning to reply, but he kept pecking at my hand until I gave in and wrote back by dim light and half-asleep. I take it you trained him to fly in the dark, did you? He’s an intelligent and rather distinctive owl—much like his owner. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of his kind up close before. You chose a very fitting name for him too: dependable, and proud.

I’ll admit that what you said—that you were worried about me of your own accord, not merely because Harry urged you to write—gave me an unexpected sense of comfort. It’s a feeling I’m not used to. For a long time now, I’ve lived with the belief that the entire world despises me. Believe me, it’s a painful thing to carry.

You wrote that I ought to stop blaming myself for James and Lily’s deaths. Your reasoning is sound—but I’ve never been particularly good at reason. When you spend twelve years in a dark cell thinking about a single night, that night becomes part of you. Even if I wanted to tear myself away from it now, I wouldn’t know how.

The best part of your letter was the ordinary things you tried to write about. Reading about the Imperius Curse and the Blast-Ended Skrewts made me smile for the first time in a very long while. It reminded me of those same years, when we laughed at all the school rules and thought nothing in the world could possibly matter more than a Quidditch match. For a few seconds, it felt as though I could touch a piece of that lost world again. Perhaps when I see you, I’ll cast the Imperius Curse on you myself and make you hop about like a kangaroo—I wouldn’t want to miss the sight. Considering I’m already on the run under the highest level of magical conviction, one more Unforgivable Curse won’t exactly make matters worse.

Thank you for the newspapers. They’ve been a genuine distraction. I’ve heard a thing or two about the Triwizard Tournament. You didn’t say whether you’re planning to enter. I’d wager half the school is already imagining themselves as champion—and I’d wager that you, cleverer than all of them, don’t see yourself that way. Am I right? I think you should give it a try. If James and I had been at Hogwarts when the tournament was held, we’d never have passed up the chance to show off. Remus, of course—being the wiser of us—would probably have tried to talk us out of it.

Take care of yourself. And look after Harry.

Write to me again.

Sirius

P.S. I was unmatched at Transfiguration.

When Lily reached the final line, a faint smile curved her lips. For a brief moment, a glimmer of that vain, confident young man seemed to surface from beneath the weight of those twelve hellish years. A light breeze threaded through her hair, fluttering the edges of the parchment. She shivered as the cool air touched her skin. The sound of the fountain echoed through the empty courtyard.

Suddenly, she remembered that most of the students were already in their first lesson of the day—and that she was likely to be late. She folded the letter carefully, slipped it into her bag, and hurried off towards Potions.

…

All day long, everyone was eagerly awaiting nightfall and the arrival of the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang; as a result, no one paid much attention in lessons. When the bell for the afternoon classes rang earlier than usual, Lily and the other students hurried back to Ravenclaw Tower, dropped their bags and books in their dormitories, pulled on their cloaks, and rushed down to the Entrance Hall.

Each Head of House was busy organising their students into neat lines. Professor Flitwick swiftly arranged them by height and took up his position at the front, waving his hands excitedly.

“No pushing… mind yourselves as we head out onto the grounds. Miss Lovegood, where is your cloak!?”

They filed down the front steps and lined up before the castle. The sky was clear and cloudless, the air bitterly cold. A pale, translucent moon shone above the trees of the Forbidden Forest as dusk began to settle. Padma shivered.

“It’s freezing!”

Lily glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly six.”

She lifted her head and looked up at the star-strewn sky. Padma followed her gaze.

“Why are you looking up? Do you think they’ll arrive by broom?”

“Maybe,” Lily said, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

From behind them, Roger Davies called out, “I doubt it! If they flew all that way in this weather, they’d freeze solid!”

The students scanned the grounds eagerly, but nothing stirred. Everything lay as calm and still as ever. Lily, thoroughly chilled by now, silently hoped the guests would arrive soon so they could all retreat back into the warmth of the castle.

Suddenly, from the back of the line where he stood with the other professors, Dumbledore said, “Ah! If I’m not mistaken, the Beauxbatons delegation is approaching.”

Students craned their necks at once.

“Where?”

“Which way?”

A sixth-year pointed towards the Forbidden Forest. “Over there!”

A large shape was moving across the darkening sky, growing clearer by the second. One excitable first-year cried out in a thin voice, “It’s a dragon!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Dennis Creevey. “It’s a bird house!”

At last, as the enormous object passed over the Forbidden Forest and the light from the castle windows fell upon it, the students saw a gigantic, pale-blue, multi-horsed carriage—large as a house—flying towards them. Twelve winged palominos, each the size of an elephant, were drawing it through the air.

As the carriage descended at a terrifying speed, the three front rows of students leapt backwards. Hooves larger than dinner plates struck the ground with a thunderous crash. A moment later, the carriage landed, rocking on its enormous wheels. The horses tossed their heads, their huge, fiery-red eyes darting about.

On the carriage door was an emblem of two crossed golden wands, each emitting three stars. The door swung open, and a boy in pale blue robes jumped down, bowed, and scrambled beneath the carriage in search of something. At once, he produced a set of golden steps, unfolded them, and placed them carefully before the door. He then returned respectfully to the carriage.

A few seconds later, a gleaming black high-heeled shoe—larger than any Lily had ever seen—emerged. Immediately, a gigantic woman appeared, and several students gasped audibly at the sight of her.

“Merlin’s beard…” Padma whispered.

In her entire life, Lily had seen only one person as large as this woman—Hagrid—and she doubted there was even a centimetre between them in height. Reaching the bottom of the steps, the woman surveyed the stunned crowd awaiting her. As she stepped forward and the light from the Entrance Hall illuminated her, Lily realised that despite her immense size, she was strikingly beautiful. Her complexion was dark, her eyes large, black, and shining. Her glossy hair was drawn back, and she wore a black silk gown, with a necklace of green jade at her throat.

Dumbledore began to clap. Instantly, the students joined in, cheering loudly; some even rose onto their tiptoes to see her better. The tension on the woman’s face melted away, replaced by a warm smile. She approached Dumbledore and extended a hand heavy with rings. Though Dumbledore was a tall man, he did not need to bend to kiss it.

“Madame Maxime,” he said, “welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbledore,” Madame Maxime replied in a deep voice, “how are you?”

“Never better,” said Dumbledore.

With a grand sweep of her enormous hand, Madame Maxime gestured behind her. “These are my students.”

Only then did Lily notice the twelve boys and girls, who appeared to be seventeen or eighteen, standing behind Madame Maxime. They had descended from the carriage and now huddled together, all of them shivering—which was hardly surprising, as their robes appeared to be made of silk, and none of them wore cloaks. Standing in Madame Maxime’s shadow, their faces were hard to make out, but it was clear they were gazing anxiously at the castle.

“Has Karkaroff not arrived yet?” Madame Maxime asked.

“He should be here any moment,” said Dumbledore. “Would you like to wait here to welcome him, or would you prefer to go inside and warm up?”

“I think we shall go inside,” said Madame Maxime. “But these horses—”

“Our Care of Magical Creatures professor will be delighted to look after them,” Dumbledore replied.

Madame Maxime, who seemed doubtful that any Care of Magical Creatures teacher in the world could manage such a task, said, “My Abraxans are very strong, very powerful creatures… whoever tends them must be equally strong.”

“I assure you,” Dumbledore said with a smile, “that Hagrid is more than equal to the task.”

Madame Maxime inclined her head briefly. “Very well. Then please tell this Hagrid that the horses drink only pure malt whisky.”

“I shall inform him,” said Dumbledore, returning the bow.

Turning imperiously to her students, Madame Maxime said, “Come along, children.”

The Hogwarts students parted, forming a clear path as the Beauxbatons delegation ascended the stone steps into the castle.

Padma whispered, “I’m freezing! When are they coming?”

Lily glanced towards the surface of the lake. “Looks like the French are more punctual…”

They remained where they were, waiting for the Durmstrang delegation. By now, everyone was shivering with cold. Most of the students were still staring up at the sky. For several minutes, the only sound breaking the night’s silence was the stamping and snorting of Madame Maxime’s horses—until Roger Davies suddenly said,

“Can you hear that…?”

Lily listened closely. From the direction of the lake came a strange, ominous sound—something like a low rumble mingled with the gurgling of water.

“Over there—” Padma said fearfully.

A disturbance rippled across the lake’s smooth, dark surface, as though something unusual was stirring in its depths. Large bubbles suddenly burst to the surface, waves churning along the shore. Then, right in the centre of the lake, a whirlpool formed, and something like a tall, black mast rose up from its heart. Lily caught sight of rigging and a towering mainmast.

A great ship emerged slowly and majestically from beneath the water, gleaming under the moonlight. It looked like a storm-battered vessel that had somehow survived the sea. A pale, misty light flickered through its windows. With a final, resounding splash, it rose fully to the surface, bobbing upon the churning water before gliding steadily towards the shore. A few minutes later, the ship dropped anchor, and at once a wooden gangplank lowered onto the pebbled beach with a heavy thud.

Figures began disembarking. As they drew closer, climbing the sloping grassy bank and stepping into the light spilling from the Entrance Hall, Lily saw that they were all wearing cloaks made from some kind of animal hide, their hair rough and matted. But the cloak worn by the man striding ahead of the others was different—smooth, gleaming, and silvery, like his hair. Reaching the top of the incline, he called out warmly,

“Dumbledore! My dear friend! How are you?”

“I am very well indeed, Professor Karkaroff,” Dumbledore replied.

Karkaroff had a smooth, oily manner. As the light from the castle illuminated his face, Lily saw that, like Dumbledore, he was tall and thin—but his white hair was cut short, and his goatee, curled at the tip, exaggerated the narrowness of his chin. When he reached Dumbledore, he clasped his hands warmly in both of his own, then cast a glance up at the castle and said with a smile,

“Ah… dear old Hogwarts…”

His teeth were yellow, and the smile did nothing to soften the cold, calculating gleam in his eyes.

“I am so pleased to be here… truly delighted… Viktor, come along—over here, it’s warmer… Dumbledore, you don’t mind, do you? Viktor’s caught a bit of a chill…”

Karkaroff drew one of his students forward, and Lily caught a glimpse of a prominent, hooked nose and thick black eyebrows. A collective gasp rippled through the students behind her.

“That’s—Krum!?” Cho Chang breathed. “The Bulgarian Seeker—!?”

Roger Davies sounded as though he was on the verge of fainting. “Oh—my—God… Viktor Krum!? At Hogwarts?”

“He looks so old,” Padma whispered. “I didn’t even realise he was still at school.”

“He’s probably eighteen,” Lily said, nodding.

As the Durmstrang group ascended the stone steps into the castle, the Hogwarts students followed close behind. Lily heard Ron’s voice behind her, repeating in astonishment,

“I can’t believe it… Krum—Harry, Viktor Krum!”

As they passed through the Entrance Hall and headed towards the Great Hall, Lily noticed several sixth-year girls rummaging frantically through their pockets as they walked.

“Brilliant,” one of them muttered. “I don’t even have a quill on me…”

“Where do you reckon we could get one to ask for an autograph?” said another.

Lily said irritably, “He’s going to be here all year—what’s the rush?”

They reached the Ravenclaw table and sat down. Krum and his classmates were still standing by the doors, apparently uncertain where they were meant to sit.

The Beauxbatons students hesitated for a moment, then chose the Ravenclaw table and took their seats there. All of them glanced around with uneasy expressions. Michael Corner cast a satisfied look at the beautiful Beauxbatons girls and murmured,

“So—why do you reckon they picked us?”

Lily shrugged. “Maybe they like the colour blue?”

Michael grinned mischievously. “Or maybe the boys at this table are simply more attractive?”

Lily sighed, her face tightening. “Oh, absolutely.”

Viktor Krum and the rest of the Durmstrang students eventually settled at the Slytherin table. Lily spotted Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle looking positively beside themselves with delight. A few seats away, Leo was wrinkling his nose in distaste, eyeing the tangled, unkempt fur cloaks with clear displeasure—he didn’t look remotely pleased about sharing a table with them.

Unlike the Beauxbatons students, the Durmstrang group gazed up at the enchanted ceiling with evident interest as they removed their cloaks. A few of them even picked up the golden plates and goblets, examining them closely with open curiosity.

Lily noticed Filch dragging extra chairs up to the staff table. In honour of the guests, he had donned his old, threadbare tailcoat. Once all the students had entered the Hall and taken their seats, the professors followed and settled behind the staff table. Dumbledore was the last to enter, accompanied by Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime.

The Beauxbatons students rose to their feet the moment their Headmistress appeared. A few Hogwarts students sniggered, but the Beauxbatons delegation remained standing without the slightest embarrassment until Madame Maxime had taken her seat to Dumbledore’s left.

“They look terribly uncomfortable,” Luna said sadly from across the table.

“They’re just… very formal,” Lily replied.

Dumbledore stood, and silence fell instantly over the Great Hall. Smiling at the visiting students, he said,

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts—and most importantly, our honoured guests. It gives me great pleasure to welcome you all. I hope you will be comfortable during your stay with us and enjoy your time here.”

One of the Beauxbatons students—a blue-eyed girl who still hadn’t removed her scarf—let out a derisive little laugh. Lily’s eyes flashed and she turned sharply towards her.

“What’s your problem?”

Fleur Delacour tossed her head lightly. “Oh, nothing… it’s just a bit strange to expect anyone to enjoy themselves in a dirty stone castle after Beauxbatons.”

Lily nodded solemnly. “Quite right. You should pack up and get back into your carriage immediately. Go on—no one’s forcing you to stay.”

“Ladies—ladies!” Michael cut in hastily. “Let’s all calm down, shall we?”

Lily turned away with a look of pure disgust and refocused on Dumbledore, while Fleur’s rapid, self-satisfied French chatter drifted across the table. Dumbledore continued,

“After dinner, the Tournament will be formally opened. For now, I invite you all to enjoy the feast. Please—make yourselves at home.”

He sat down, and Lily saw Karkaroff lean forward at once to begin speaking with him. As usual, the plates filled with food in the blink of an eye; the house-elves had clearly outdone themselves.

Luna, still watching Fleur, murmured to Lily, “You were right to be upset. She does seem very pleased with herself, doesn’t she?”

Lily shoved away a dish of boiled shellfish that had been placed before her, its smell unpleasant.

“Put that rubbish in front of them,” she muttered darkly. “Maybe they’ll fancy it.”

Michael Corner immediately lifted the soup tureen from Lily’s side and politely placed it in front of the Beauxbatons girls.

Although the visiting students numbered fewer than thirty, the Great Hall felt far more crowded than usual. Now that the Durmstrang students had removed their fur cloaks, their deep red robes stood out strikingly. Lily and Padma ate their roast ribs and salad while speculating about the Tournament and the likely champions.

Before dessert appeared, Lily noticed that Fleur had finally removed her scarf. Her shining blonde hair fell to her waist, and when she laughed, her teeth were dazzlingly white.

A moment later, she announced rather loudly, “Zis roasted rib is far too greasy. I do not want to grow fat like ze girls at ’Ogwarts! Do zey not have any ozzer French food?”

Lily narrowed her eyes. Padma cautiously set down the remainder of her rib and stared at it as though expecting it to transform into a Blast-Ended Skrewt and attack her.

Roger Davies said ingratiatingly to Fleur, “Shall I fetch you some French food from the other tables? Looks like the Gryffindor food’s barely been touched.”

Fleur flicked her hair. “Sank you. I vill get it myself.”

She rose and glided towards the Gryffindor table. Watching her, Lily saw Ron turn beetroot-red as Fleur carefully took a soup bowl from him. When she carried it back to the Ravenclaw table, Ron stared after her, mouth hanging open, as though he’d never seen a human being before.

He wasn’t the only one. As Fleur crossed the Hall, many of the boys gawked openly, some of them just as stunned as Ron.

Lily sighed. “How are we supposed to put up with her for a whole year?”

Padma whispered anxiously, “Do you think I’m fat?”

Lily kept eating. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not fat, you’re nowhere near fat, and you’re not about to be. Eat your dinner.”

Before she took her next bite, Lily noticed that during Fleur’s distracting performance, both empty seats beside Dumbledore had been filled. Ludo Bagman was now seated next to Professor Karkaroff, and Mr Crouch beside Madame Maxime. When the plates were cleared and an array of desserts appeared, Padma declined both the crème caramel and the chocolate pastries. Lily sighed inwardly and silently cursed Fleur.

Once the golden dishes had vanished, polished and spotless, Dumbledore rose again. A pleasant tension could be felt spreading through the Great Hall. Smiling at the eager faces before him, he said,

“The moment has arrived. In just a few minutes, the Triwizard Tournament will officially begin. Before the Casket of Flames is brought in, I would like to explain what lies ahead this year, so that you may understand the tasks you will be facing. But first, allow me to introduce two very important figures to those of you who may not know them.”

He gestured along the staff table.

“Mr Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation…”

A small number of students applauded politely.

“And Mr Ludo Bagman,” Dumbledore continued, “Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

This time, the applause was noticeably louder. Perhaps it was Bagman’s former fame as a Quidditch Seeker that earned him the warmer reception—or perhaps he simply looked more approachable. Bagman waved cheerfully in acknowledgement of the applause. Crouch, however, neither smiled nor returned the gesture when he was introduced.

“Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch,” Dumbledore went on, “have worked tirelessly over the past months to ensure the Tournament could take place. Alongside myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime, they will serve on the panel of judges and assess the champions’ performances throughout the competition.”

At the word champions, every student seemed to lean forward at once. Dumbledore appeared to notice the sudden hush, for he smiled slightly and said,

“Mr Filch, if you would be so kind as to bring in the casket.”

Filch, who had been lurking on the fringes of the Hall, hurried forward carrying a large, jewel-encrusted wooden chest. From its appearance, it was clearly very old. An excited murmur rippled through the watching students. As Filch carefully placed the casket upon the table before Dumbledore, he continued,

“The details of the Tournament’s tasks have been examined most thoroughly by Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch. The competition will consist of three tasks, to be held at intervals throughout the school year. These tasks will test the champions’ abilities in a variety of ways—including magical skill, courage, powers of deduction, and, finally, their resourcefulness when faced with unknown dangers.”

At the end of this sentence, such a heavy silence fell over the Great Hall that it seemed no one dared even breathe. Dumbledore spoke again, more softly.

“As you know, three champions will compete in this Tournament—one from each of the participating schools. At the conclusion of the third task, the champion with the highest score will be awarded the Triwizard Cup. The selection of these three champions will be carried out by an impartial judge.”

He paused.

“That impartial judge is the Goblet of Fire.”

He drew his wand and tapped the lid of the casket three times. The lid opened slowly. Dumbledore reached inside and lifted out a large wooden goblet, its carvings ancient in appearance. What made the otherwise unremarkable cup extraordinary were the blue flames that leapt from within it, licking up over its rim.

He closed the jewel-encrusted casket and carefully placed the Goblet atop it so that everyone in the Hall could see. Then he said,

“Anyone wishing to submit their name for this Tournament must write their name and school clearly upon a piece of parchment and drop it into the Goblet of Fire. You will have twenty-four hours to do so. Tomorrow night—on Halloween—the Goblet will return the names of the three most worthy candidates, each of whom will represent one of the three schools. Tonight, the Goblet of Fire will be placed in the Entrance Hall, where it will be accessible to all those eager to compete.

“To ensure that no underage students are tempted to enter, I shall be placing an Age Line around it. No one under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this boundary. I must also remind you that you should not enter this competition lightly. Anyone chosen by the Goblet of Fire as a champion will be bound to compete until the end of the Tournament. Submitting your name constitutes a binding magical contract. Therefore, I urge you to think very carefully—and only if you are fully prepared—place your name into the Goblet.”

He paused, then added warmly, “Very well. It is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

As a wave of students rose excitedly from the tables and made their way toward the great doors of the Hall, the scraping of benches across the floor mingled with laughter and animated talk about the Goblet of Fire. Some students speculated eagerly about the possible tasks, others debated who the eventual champion might be, while a few whispered plans for circumventing the Age Line.

Lily had only just stood when a familiar voice spoke from behind her.

“Still haven’t made up your mind?”

She turned to see Leo forcing his way through the crowd, now standing directly behind her, wearing that same look of distaste towards the foreign students. The blue light of the Goblet’s flames flickered across his face from not far away.

She sighed. “You’ve decided?”

Leo tilted one corner of his mouth, his voice confident but low. “I have. Tomorrow morning—before the Entrance Hall gets crowded—I’ll put my name in.”

He met her gaze and paused for a moment before adding, “And you will too.”

Lily fell silent. The noise of the students washed around them like waves, but all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Her eyes drifted to the blue flames of the Goblet, then back to Leo’s resolute stare.

“All right,” she said at last. “Tomorrow morning. Before anyone else is awake.”

Leo nodded with quiet certainty, as though he’d known her answer all along.

The Durmstrang students were now rising from the Slytherin table and gathering in the centre of the Hall. One of them bumped into Leo unintentionally, prompting him to glare with renewed disgust at the boy’s fur cloak. At that moment, Karkaroff hurried over to his students.

“Come along now… back to the ship, all of you. Viktor, how are you feeling? Did you eat well? Shall I have some orange juice brought up from the kitchens for you?”

Lily saw Krum pull his fur coat on and shake his head in refusal. Another Durmstrang boy said eagerly, “Professor, I’d like some orange juice.”

Karkaroff’s cordial manner vanished at once. He snapped, “I didn’t ask you what you wanted, Polyakov! And you’ve spilled food all over your robes again—filthy boy!”

Turning sharply, he herded his students towards the doors. At the same moment, he reached them alongside Harry, Ron and Hermione. Harry stepped aside to let him pass first.

Karkaroff glanced briefly at him. “Thank you.”

Then he froze.

In the space of a second, he turned back and stared at Harry as though he could not believe what he was seeing. The Durmstrang students halted behind their Headmaster. Karkaroff’s gaze fixed upon the scar on Harry’s forehead. The students began staring too. The boy with the stained robes nudged the girl beside him and pointed at Harry’s brow.

Suddenly Moody came clumping up behind them, growling, “Yeah. That’s Harry Potter.”

Karkaroff spun on his heel to face him. Moody leaned heavily on his staff, his magical eye fixed unblinkingly upon Karkaroff. Lily noticed the colour drain from Karkaroff’s face, turning chalk-white. A mixture of fear and fury contorted his features, as though he could scarcely believe Moody was standing there before him.

“It’s you,” he said with revulsion.

“Yes, it is,” Moody replied flatly. “If you’ve got nothing to say to Potter, move along. You’re blocking the way.”

He was right. Half the students behind them were stuck, craning over one another’s shoulders to see what was causing the delay. Without another word, Karkaroff ushered his students out of the Hall. Moody, deep hatred etched into his scarred, twisted face, kept his magical eye trained on him until he vanished completely from sight.

…

Dawn had not yet broken over Hogwarts when a quiet, soundless shadow slipped out of the dungeons and headed for the staircase leading up to Ravenclaw Tower. As Lily was coming down the steps, the shadow spoke.

“Morning.”

Lily jumped, having failed to recognise him properly in the weak torchlight.

“Leo! What are you doing here?”

He laughed softly. “I came to get you. I was worried you might’ve changed your mind.”

Lily snorted angrily. Together, they crept down the spiral staircase and passed through the dark, empty corridors. The lamps still burned low, and the air was cold, filled with a faint mist that had seeped in overnight and hadn’t yet had time to disperse.

In heavy silence, Lily and Leo made their way towards the Entrance Hall. Leo walked ahead of her—his shoulders straight, his steps measured and resolute, his expression strangely calm and dignified. A few paces behind him, Lily glanced about uneasily. The castle’s silence at that early hour had always made her tense.

When they entered the Entrance Hall, the Goblet of Fire was glowing at its centre. It had been placed squarely in the middle of the Hall, atop the three-legged stand that usually held the Sorting Hat. Its blue flames flickered quietly, casting dancing shadows up the tall stone columns. A delicate golden circle, roughly three metres in radius, was etched upon the floor around it—the magical Age Line Dumbledore had spoken of the night before.

Leo looked from the Goblet to Lily and said, with unmistakable pride and certainty, “Well… it’s time.”

He reached inside his robes and produced a small piece of parchment. Lily saw that he had written his name and Hogwarts in neat, steady handwriting, without the slightest tremor. As he stepped over the shimmering line, he muttered,

“Time for the Goblet of Fire to meet Hogwarts’ Slytherin champion.”

Nothing happened. No sparks, no warning, not even a shiver—just a single step towards the flames, which now seemed to burn a little higher. Leo advanced calmly, raised the parchment, hesitated for a heartbeat, then dropped it into the fire.

The flames swallowed the parchment, flared briefly, then settled once more. Leo turned back, his eyes bright with hope and pride.

“Your turn. You’ve written your name?”

Lily stepped forward and nodded. Like Leo, she crossed the Age Line successfully, without incident, and stopped before the Goblet. The heat of the fire was strange—warm, steady, oddly comforting. She stared into the flames, raised her parchment, and said lightly,

“It’s highly unlikely I’ll be chosen, but… here goes.”

She dropped the parchment into the fire. Once again, the flames leapt up, consumed it, and fell quiet.

They stepped back together without speaking.

“Do you think there’s any chance one of us will be picked?” Lily asked.

Leo shrugged. “I reckon I’m far better than Diggory.”

Lily laughed. “That’s exactly why your name won’t come out. Humility’s a virtue.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Why should I be humble about my abilities?”

Lily sighed and changed the subject. “Do you think… Moody’s put Harry’s name in yet?”

Leo nodded. “I hope so. I really don’t fancy running into him this early in the morning.”

“Running into who, exactly?”

The voice behind them made both of them jump. They turned to see a hulking boy wearing a Slytherin scarf. Leo snapped,

“Warrington! You! What’s wrong with you? You scared me!”

Warrington—who struck Lily as being roughly the size of a young grizzly bear—stepped closer, clutching a crumpled piece of parchment.

“I came to do the same thing you did,” he said. “I’m putting my name in.”

Leo narrowed his eyes. “You seventeen?”

Warrington scratched his head. “Last month. You didn’t answer me—who didn’t you want to run into?”

“You,” Leo said drily. “Unfortunately, here you are. Go on—put your name in.”

Lily and Leo stepped aside to clear the way. Warrington advanced nervously and crossed the Age Line. Evidently, Dumbledore’s enchantment was flawless; it accepted him without incident. As he dropped his parchment into the Goblet, the flames flared once more.

Lily glanced at her watch. “Breakfast’s ages away. What now?”

Leo said with a grimace, “Don’t tell me you want to go back to that wretched library.”

She sighed. “It’s better than standing around.”

He shook his head. “Let’s go sit in the Great Hall.”

…

It was Saturday, and ordinarily students slept in on Saturdays—but Lily and Leo were far from the only ones awake earlier than usual that morning. The Great Hall had been redecorated. As it was Halloween, live bats swooped in clusters beneath the enchanted ceiling, and hundreds of carved pumpkins glowed from every corner of the Hall.

By the time breakfast was served, around twenty to thirty students were already gathered around the Goblet of Fire. Lily and Leo joined them once they had finished eating. When they returned to the Entrance Hall, Fred and George’s spectacle was just beginning. They were sprawled on the stone floor a good ten metres from the Goblet, both sporting long, white beards. Laughter echoed through the Hall, and even Fred and George themselves burst into guffaws once they had clambered to their feet and caught sight of one another.

Laughing, Lily asked Harry, “What on earth is going on?”

“They drank a bit of Aging Potion,” Harry said, shaking his head, “so they could put their names in the Goblet. But, well—” he gestured at them, “—as you can see, it didn’t work.”

“I did warn you—”

That was Dumbledore’s voice. He emerged from the Great Hall, chuckling, and surveyed Fred and George with his bright blue eyes.

“You’d best go and see Madam Pomfrey at once,” he said kindly. “She’s currently examining Miss Fawcett of Ravenclaw and Mr Summers of Hufflepuff. They, too, attempted to add a little to their age. Though I must say—neither of them managed beards quite as impressive as yours.”

Fred and George, still laughing, headed off toward the hospital wing with Lee Jordan. Hermione asked,

“Aren’t you two putting your names in?”

Lily said, a little sheepishly, “We already did. Very early this morning.”

Hermione stared at them. “Really…? Well—good luck, then…”

“See?” Harry said. “I knew loads of people would do it while we were asleep.”

Leo nodded. “It wasn’t just us. Warrington put his name in too.”

Ron wrinkled his nose as though he’d caught a bad smell. “Warrington? That massive Slytherin bloke built like a bear?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. He’s a Beater on the Slytherin Quidditch team.”

“Oh please,” Hermione said. “Imagine if Hogwarts’ champion turned out to be a Slytherin—”

Leo turned, perfectly composed. “Excuse me?”

Hermione faltered. “I—I meant… I meant other than you!”

Leo gave her a cool, unimpressed look. Ron turned back to the group.

“So… what do we do today?”

“We still haven’t been to see Hagrid,” Harry said. “What about going to his place?”

(He looked at Lily and Leo.) “You two should come as well.”

“All right,” Ron said cautiously, “as long as Hagrid doesn’t ask us to sacrifice a few fingers to his beloved Blast-Ended Skrewts.”

Suddenly Hermione brightened. “Oh! I’ve just remembered—I still haven’t asked Hagrid to join S.P.E.W. Could you wait a few minutes while I fetch the badges?”

As Hermione hurried up the marble staircase, Ron groaned, watching her go.

“Who is she today?”

Lily shook her head. “You lot should probably go and finish your breakfast while she’s gone.”

As they approached Hagrid’s hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, they spotted the enormous pale-blue Beauxbatons carriage standing some two hundred metres beyond it, with the gigantic winged horses that pulled it grazing within a temporary fenced enclosure nearby. The moment Harry knocked on the hut’s door, Fang’s barking erupted from inside.

Hagrid flung the door open and boomed, “Well, look at that! Lost your way, have you?”

“Hagrid, honestly, we’ve just been—” Hermione began,

but the sight of him made her stop short.

Hagrid was wearing his very best suit, made of brown fur and unspeakably ugly, paired with a yellow-and-orange tie. Lily recognised the outfit at once—she had seen him wearing it the previous year when he’d been preparing for a meeting of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. It was clear that Hagrid had made a valiant attempt to tame his wild, tangled hair, though he appeared to have used an alarming quantity of motor oil in the process. He had parted it down the middle and tied it back on either side—presumably an attempt at a ponytail—but his hair was far too thick and unruly to cooperate.

Lily, Leo, Harry and Ron stared at him, mouths hanging open. Hermione let out a snort of laughter, then thought better of it and said hurriedly,

“Er—right—so… where are the Blast-Ended Skrewts?”

“Outside!” Hagrid said enthusiastically. “Put ’em by the pumpkin patch. You wouldn’t believe how big they’ve got—must be nearly a metre by now! Shame they’ve started killing each other, though.”

“Seriously?” Hermione said weakly.

Ron, still staring at Hagrid’s hair, opened his mouth to comment, but Hermione shot him a warning look and he wisely stayed silent.

“Yeah…” Hagrid went on, sounding a little crestfallen. “But it’s not too bad—still got about twenty left. Got ’em all in separate boxes.”

“Well then,” Leo said mildly, “that’s lucky.”

Hagrid missed the sarcasm entirely.

The hut was a single large room, with Hagrid’s enormous bed and patchwork quilt tucked into one corner, and a massive wooden table and chairs beside the fire. Strings of salted meat and various bird carcasses hung from the ceiling. Hagrid set about making tea while the others took their seats.

“Feels like only yesterday you lot were sittin’ here,” Hagrid said with a chuckle, “an’ I was upset about Buckbeak’s trial. It was your birthday, Lily—remember? You told me birthday wishes never fail, an’ not long after, Buckbeak escaped!”

“I remember, Hagrid,” Lily said, smiling. “I did tell you.”

Hagrid roared with laughter. “Best make sure I invite you every year, then, so you can wish me luck! Merlin knows how much I miss Buckbeak… d’you reckon I’ll ever see him again?”

The others exchanged glances. Leo cleared his throat.

“Well… sounds like Lily’s birthday wish for this year’s sorted, then.”

Lily laughed. “Don’t worry, Hagrid. I’m sure we’ll see him again. I’ll wish that we all do.”

It wasn’t long before the conversation turned eagerly to the Triwizard Tournament. Hagrid, it seemed, was just as excited as the students. He’d prepared what he called “stew” for lunch, but once Hermione spotted a bird’s claw floating in it, all five of them lost their appetite at once.

Harry, Ron and Hermione tried enthusiastically to coax Hagrid into revealing details about the tasks, but he refused firmly. They moved on to speculating about who might be chosen as champions, eventually remembering Fred and George and wondering whether their beards had worn off yet.

By mid-afternoon, a soft rain began to fall. Lily sat perched on the windowsill with a large mug of tea, gazing out at the rain-soaked grounds. Leo, Harry and Ron lounged comfortably by the fire, listening to the soothing patter of rain against the glass, while watching Hagrid sew up his socks and argue with Hermione about house-elves.

When Hermione showed Hagrid the S.P.E.W. badges, he flatly refused—without the slightest embarrassment—to join her organisation.

At half past five, as darkness began to creep in, they decided to head back to the castle early. The Halloween feast—and more importantly, the announcement of the champions—was fast approaching.

“I’ll come with you,” Hagrid said, setting aside his sewing. “Just give me a minute.”

He lumbered over to the chest of drawers beside his bed and rummaged around. The others barely noticed—until a sharp, unpleasant smell hit them.

Ron coughed. “What is that smell?”

Hagrid turned back toward them holding a large bottle. “Didn’t like it?”

Hermione’s voice went slightly hoarse. “Is that… aftershave, Hagrid?”

Hagrid’s cheeks flushed crimson. “It’s cologne,” he muttered. “Must’ve put too much on. I’ll just wash my face—wait here.”

He stomped out of the hut. Through the window, they watched him splashing water over his face from the barrel outside.

“Hagrid?” Hermione said in disbelief. “Wearing cologne?”

“Why stop there?” Harry murmured. “Look at the suit. And the hair.”

Suddenly Ron pointed out of the window. “Look!”

Hagrid straightened at that very moment, glanced over his shoulder—and went beetroot-red. The others rose quietly and peered out after him, careful not to be seen.

Madame Maxime and the Beauxbatons students had just disembarked from their carriage and were clearly heading for the castle to attend the feast. The group couldn’t hear what Hagrid was saying, but his expression spoke volumes.

Leo said mildly, “Well… let’s hope Madame Maxime isn’t sensitive to aftershave.”

Hermione looked dismayed. “He’s going to the castle with her? I thought he was waiting for us.”

Hagrid didn’t spare his hut a backward glance as he walked up the grassy slope beside Madame Maxime. The Beauxbatons students trailing behind them had to hurry to keep up.

Ron said in awe, “Hagrid’s got a crush on Madame Maxime? If they ever get married and have kids, they’ll break records. I swear their baby would weigh over a tonne.”

They stepped outside and shut the hut door behind them. It was very dark now. Pulling their cloaks tighter around themselves, they headed up the slope towards the castle.

When they reached the Great Hall, glowing with the light of countless candles, it was clear that most of the students had arrived before them. The Goblet of Fire had been moved from the Entrance Hall and placed upon the staff table, directly in front of Dumbledore’s chair. Fred and George—now entirely free of beards—were seated at the Gryffindor table and seemed to have accepted their failure with remarkable ease.

As Lily and Leo parted ways, Lily caught the spark of excitement in Leo’s eyes. Smiling faintly, she said, “I really hope you end up being champion—then I can finally stop forcing myself to chase Cedric.”

Leo gave a crooked grin. “Or maybe you should be champion—so Cedric can properly regret blowing you off.”

Lily left him with an embarrassed smile and, casting a brief glance at the Goblet still burning steadily blue, made her way to the Ravenclaw table. Many students were still standing, but she found her usual seat beside Padma and sat down on the wooden bench.

When the food appeared in the golden dishes, Lily stared in astonishment. Halloween had always been a significant feast at Hogwarts, but this time the house-elves had truly outdone themselves. The tables were laden with the finest food she had ever seen. Still, she had no appetite. The closer they drew to the announcement of the champions, the harder her heart pounded, churning her stomach.

After ten minutes, Padma noticed that the steak and mashed potatoes on Lily’s plate had barely been touched and looked at her anxiously.

“Nervous about whether your name comes out of the Goblet?”

Lily nodded honestly. From across the table, Michael smiled and said, “I hope it’s you, Lily. I’d love Hogwarts’ champion to be a Ravenclaw.”

“Thanks, Michael,” Lily murmured.

Cho, seated beside Michael with Marietta, smiled. “It’s a good thing a few people from our house were of age. Roger put his name in too.”

Roger Davies dabbed his mouth theatrically with a napkin. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision for me. We’ll see what happens.”

And immediately glanced toward Fleur Delacour, as though checking whether she had heard him.

Lily’s attention drifted to the Beauxbatons students seated opposite them. As had been clear the previous night, they had chosen the Ravenclaw table—and now sat among them as though perfectly at home.

Fleur Delacour sat at the centre of the group, her hair neater than the night before, her glossy pink lips making her flawless teeth appear even whiter. She spoke incessantly, gesturing dramatically with delicate hands, her drawn-out voice carrying clearly over the din of the Hall.

“…and of course, at Beauxbatons we use only hand-painted china and crystal—not these coarse metal dishes! These enormous spoons cut the corner of my mouth last night!”

Several fifth-year girls—not only the boys—watched her with admiration. Lily sipped her pumpkin juice, her eyes fixed on the tiny diamond studs in Fleur’s ears. Fleur rambled on, weaving nonsense Lily barely followed. When she spoke confidently of being chosen by the Goblet, several students nodded, and a seventh-year boy murmured, “Of course you’ll be chosen…”

Padma, noticing Lily’s expression, whispered, “She seems very sure she’ll be picked… doesn’t she?”

Lily glanced at her and sighed. “I think she has every right to be.”

Padma rested a hand on her shoulder. “Lily—don’t worry. If your name comes out, it means the Goblet knows you’re capable. And if it doesn’t—well—then it doesn’t. That’s all. You’ll be relieved. We’ll enjoy the rest of the year without tournament stress. Eat something—if your name comes out and you faint beforehand, that won’t help anyone.”

Lily gave a faint smile. Padma didn’t know that whether she was chosen or not, peace was not an option. Still, Lily nodded. “You’re right… I’m worrying for nothing.”

Most of the students in the Hall were as restless as Lily. Every few minutes, someone craned their neck to see whether Dumbledore had finished eating. Lily, like the others, longed for the plates to be cleared. She glanced at the Slytherin table and saw Leo pushing his food around distractedly, barely listening to Theodore Nott.

At long last, the remnants of dessert vanished. The murmur in the Hall rose briefly—then died completely as Dumbledore stood. Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime flanked him, visibly tense. Ludo Bagman beamed and winked at a few students, while Mr Crouch looked weary and uninterested.

Dumbledore surveyed the Hall.

“Well… the Goblet is almost ready to make its decision. By my estimation, it will be fully prepared in one minute. When I read your name, please come forward and enter the adjoining chamber through the door behind the staff table.”

He gestured to the door. “There, the champions will receive their first instructions.”

He then drew his wand and made a sweeping motion through the air. Instantly, every candle went out except those inside the pumpkins, plunging the Hall into shadow. The Goblet of Fire now burned brighter than anything else, its bluish-white flames dazzling. Everyone waited. Some checked their watches. Lily feared she might lose control of her stomach at any moment.

Suddenly, the flames turned red. Sparks flew. The fire surged and spat a charred scrap of parchment into the air. Every breath was held.

Dumbledore caught the paper and raised it to read by the returning blue-white light. Clearly and loudly, he announced,

“Champion of Durmstrang: Viktor Krum.”

Cheers erupted. His fellow Durmstrang students thumped him on the shoulders. Lily watched Krum rise from the Slytherin table, shoulders hunched, and walk toward Dumbledore before turning right and disappearing through the door behind the staff table.

“Well done, Viktor!” Karkaroff shouted. “I knew you had it in you! The others don’t stand a chance!”

The noise subsided. Eyes returned to the Goblet. Once more, its flames turned red. Another parchment flew out.

“Champion of Beauxbatons,” Dumbledore read, “Fleur Delacour.”

The Ravenclaw table cheered loudest of all. Fleur rose gracefully, flicked her long hair over her shoulders, and made her way forward between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables.

“Seriously—her name actually came out!” Padma breathed.

“I told you,” Lily said, clapping half-heartedly. “She deserved it.”

Luna gestured vaguely toward the Beauxbatons students. “They seem rather distressed…”

Distressed hardly covered it. The Beauxbatons students looked utterly devastated; two girls had collapsed over the table, sobbing openly.

When Fleur vanished into the adjoining chamber, silence fell again—this time thick with anticipation. The next champion would be Hogwarts’.

The Goblet flared red once more. Sparks burst outward. Dumbledore snatched the third parchment.

Lily’s heart felt ready to tear itself free. She gripped the table edge with shaking fingers.

“Hogwarts’ champion,” Dumbledore said with a smile, “is Cedric Diggory.”

“No—”

Lily’s voice was swallowed instantly by the roar of cheers. The Hufflepuff table exploded with joy. Cedric, grinning from ear to ear, made his way forward to shake Dumbledore’s hand.

In a single second, Lily’s mind flooded with dreadful possibilities—and regret. She cursed herself for never taking Leo’s plan to get close to Cedric seriously enough. Panicked, she searched the Slytherin table for Leo. He was pale and stunned—clearly far more invested in becoming champion than he had let on. When their eyes met, Lily silently asked, What do we do now?

Leo only shook his head.

Cedric disappeared through the door amid thunderous applause. The cheering dragged on until Dumbledore finally raised his hands.

“Excellent. Our three champions have been chosen. I trust I can count on the support of every remaining student—Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts alike—to back their champion with all the spirit they possess. By strengthening your champion’s morale, you will be of immense—”

He broke off mid-sentence.

Everyone understood why.

The fire inside the Goblet turned red once more, sparks bursting from it. Suddenly, a flame leapt high and hurled another scrap of parchment into the air.

Dumbledore reached out instinctively and caught it. He held it up to the firelight and stared at the name written upon it.

For a long moment, he did not speak.

Every eye in the Great Hall was fixed on him.

At last, Dumbledore cleared his throat and read aloud,

“Harry Potter.”

For a heartbeat, the Hall was plunged into a deathly silence.

Everyone stared at Harry in disbelief. Lily craned forward, terrified, searching for him among the sea of faces. He sat frozen to his bench, pale and hollow-eyed, looking around as every head turned in his direction.

There was no cheering this time.

Instead, a low buzzing rose through the Great Hall, like the hum of angry wasps. Some students stood to get a better look at Harry. At the High Table, Professor McGonagall sprang to her feet and moved quickly past Bagman and Karkaroff to whisper urgently in Dumbledore’s ear.

Dumbledore leaned toward her, his brows drawn together. After a few moments, he gave a slight nod.

“Harry Potter,” he said again. “Harry—please come forward.”

Lily saw Hermione give Harry a small shove. Harry rose unsteadily; his robes caught beneath his feet and he stumbled. His eyes darted between Dumbledore, the Goblet, and the hundreds of staring faces around him.

Whispers broke out at once. Voices from the Slytherin table rose faster and louder than the rest.

“I knew he’d find a way to push himself in!”

“Bet he tricked the Goblet somehow—”

“Typical show-off Potter!”

Dumbledore raised his hand and silence fell.

“Harry,” he said calmly, “please proceed to the adjoining chamber. As with the other champions, you will be given further instructions there.”

Harry nodded. His shoulders sagged; his steps were heavy. As he passed through the door behind the staff table, Lily saw the fear written plainly across his face—his fists clenched, his eyes fixed on the floor. The door closed softly behind him.

A heavy silence lingered in the Hall—

—but only for a few seconds.

Then the place erupted.

Every table seemed to explode into argument at once, as though someone had struck a fuse.

“Harry…?” Padma whispered. “But he’s not even seventeen! How could he put his name in?”

Lily could only shake her head, speechless.

“Did the Goblet make a mistake?” Roger Davies asked Michael. “Is that even possible?”

“What about Diggory, then?” Michael said. “Hogwarts can’t have two champions! It’s the Triwizard Tournament—not the Fourwizard Tournament!”

The Hufflepuffs were furious, their angry shouts echoing through the Hall. At the same time, several Slytherins were yelling just as loudly.

“The rules are always different for famous Harry Potter, aren’t they?” one of them shouted.

Dumbledore raised his voice.

“Attention, please—attention, my dear students! I ask for silence—”

The noise subsided slightly.

“What has occurred must be investigated at once by the judges and the Tournament officials,” Dumbledore continued. “For now, I ask that you return to your dormitories. Prefects, please escort your Houses. Our honoured guests should also return to their quarters. Good night to you all.”

The scraping of benches echoed as students rose amid renewed protests. Prefects formed lines to usher everyone out. Whispers continued—but no one dared speak above the rest.

Lily remained slumped on the bench, stunned. Everything had happened too quickly for her to react.

Then a voice came from behind her shoulder. “You alright? Come on—we should go.”

She turned to see Leo. He was still pale, but he seemed to have steadied himself.

“I’m not okay,” Lily groaned. “I’m about to throw up. Did you see that?”

Leo nodded. “Plan A failed. But it’s not over. Not even close. A lot can still happen. We’ll make another plan.”

He motioned for her to stand. “Come on. We need to move.”

Lily gathered what strength she had left and rose to her feet—but turned to Leo, still beside her, and said urgently, “We can’t just leave Harry in there like this. He must be completely overwhelmed by now… everything’s been far too much. We should wait for him.”

Before Leo could reply, she set off against the flow of students, walking straight toward the door of the adjoining chamber and stopping in front of it. Behind her, the Goblet’s pale flames still flickered.

A firm, authoritative voice sounded behind her.

“Miss Denalfi! Didn’t you hear what Professor Dumbledore said? Please return to Ravenclaw Tower at once.”

Lily turned. Professor McGonagall stood directly behind her, rigid and stern, her mouth set in a thin line.

Quietly but resolutely, Lily said, “I—I’m waiting for Harry. I can’t go to sleep not knowing what’s going to happen to him.”

McGonagall drew a deep breath.

“This matter does not concern you, Miss Denalfi. Everything is under control. The Headmaster and the Tournament officials are speaking with Mr Potter as we speak, and he will return to his dormitory as usual. Now please, go back to Ravenclaw Tower.”

Lily did not move.

A few steps behind McGonagall, Leo shook his head in silent protest. At that moment, Professor Flitwick hurried over from behind the staff table, his short steps quick and anxious.

“Is there a problem, Professor?”

McGonagall gave a tight smile, never taking her eyes off Lily.

“Filius—will you escort your student to her Tower, or shall I exercise my disciplinary authority?”

Professor Flitwick came closer, concern etched across his face.

“Denalfi… what’s wrong? Why won’t you return to Ravenclaw?”

“I want to wait for Harry,” Lily pleaded. “I’m worried about him. Why can’t I stay here? Please, Professor—he didn’t put his name in the Goblet. I know he didn’t. He must be terrified right now…”

Flitwick spoke gently.

“Please, my dear. Come with me. We’ll go together. If anything important happens, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Lily hesitated. She cast one last look at the wooden door of the adjoining chamber, then let out a reluctant breath.

“Come on, Lily,” Leo called softly. “We’ll talk to him in the morning…”

McGonagall noticed him then and said irritably, “And you—still here? Will you return to the dungeons of your own accord, or must I summon Professor Snape as well?”

Leo blanched. “No—thank you! I’ll go. I’m going.”

He gestured to Lily, and together they left the Great Hall, side by side.

…

The moment Lily stepped into the Ravenclaw common room, she knew the atmosphere there was no better than in the Great Hall. The space buzzed with heated whispers, loud protests, and occasional angry shouts. Some students lounged on sofas, others stood in clusters, arguing openly.

“This is ridiculous,” Roger Davies said sharply. “The Goblet thinks a fourteen-year-old is more worthy than the rest of us?”

Terry Boot said bitterly, “So now that the Goblet’s picked Potter, does that mean Diggory gets kicked out? There’s only supposed to be one champion per school!”

Sue Li, perched by the fireplace with a scowl, nodded. “Poor Cedric. Potter’s ruined everything for him. If I were Cedric, I’d throw myself off the Astronomy Tower tonight.”

Marietta Edgecombe added sarcastically, “Wouldn’t surprise me if they disqualify Diggory. Potter managed to trick a sentient magical object like the Goblet of Fire—why wouldn’t he be able to con the Tournament officials too?”

Lily felt blood rush to her temples. She planted her hands on her hips in the centre of the room, staring at them in disbelief.

“Will you all stop? None of you knows what actually happened. Maybe Harry didn’t put his name in at all—”

A brief silence fell. Several people looked at her sceptically.

“Look, Lily,” Roger said. “I get that he’s your friend and you like him, but let’s be realistic. Someone put his name in. And if it wasn’t Potter himself—then who was it?”

“As you just said,” Lily shot back, “he’s a fourteen-year-old. How exactly is someone that age, with that level of magic, supposed to fool the Goblet of Fire?”

No one answered. Finally, Marietta raised her eyebrows.

“Fine. Then who do you think did it?”

“I don’t know,” Lily said firmly. “First I need to talk to Harry. And if he tells me he didn’t do it, I’ll believe him.”

She turned away from them and, without another word, pushed through the crowd toward the staircase. Her footsteps echoed heavily on the spiral stairs.

As she reached the door to the fourth-year girls’ dormitory, a voice from the adjacent third-year dorm made her jump.

“Are you upset because your name didn’t come out of the Goblet?”

Lily sighed. “No, Luna… I’m upset about Harry.”

Luna stood barefoot in her nightclothes, holding her socks.

“I think the same as you.”

“What?”

“Potter,” Luna said serenely. “I don’t think he could’ve put his name in himself. You noticed—he didn’t grow a beard.”

Lily nodded slowly. “No… he didn’t do it. He couldn’t have…”

Without another word, she entered her dormitory. Drawing the curtains tightly around her bed, she collapsed onto the mattress, her heart still racing. Thoughts exploded in her mind like relentless fireworks: not being chosen—neither she nor Leo; their plan rendered useless; the shock of Harry’s name; the fear in his eyes; Cedric’s selection; her own failed attempts to get close to him—

All of it spun together in a dizzying storm.

…

The next morning, when Lily woke, most of the castle was still asleep. She changed with little enthusiasm, crossed the common room, descended the spiral stairs of Ravenclaw Tower, and reached the Entrance Hall. There, to her surprise, she saw Hermione and Leo talking together.

She walked over. “Morning… what’s going on? Did you talk to Harry last night?”

Hermione shook her head. “Not yet. The Gryffindors were throwing him a celebration. It was absolute chaos—we couldn’t get anywhere near him. I don’t think he’s even awake yet.”

Leo frowned. “But you don’t think he put his own name in the Goblet, right?”

“Of course not,” Hermione said firmly. “Did you see his face when Dumbledore read his name? He was completely stunned. I’m sure he had no idea.”

The three of them entered the Great Hall.

“I’m going to grab some toast for Harry,” Hermione said. “I doubt he’ll feel like eating in here.”

“Fair,” Lily sighed. “Ravenclaw’s not exactly being kind about this.”

“And Slytherin would happily see him vanish off the face of the earth,” Leo added. “As for Hufflepuff—best not even go there.”

“I’ve got my flask,” Lily said to Hermione. “I’ll bring him some pumpkin juice. After breakfast, we’ll go find him.”

Hermione nodded and headed for the Gryffindor table.

The moment she was out of earshot, Leo said sharply, “Forget Harry. You should be worrying about Cedric.”

“I’ll find him today and congratulate him,” Lily said anxiously. “That’s good, right?”

“Yes,” Leo agreed. “See if you can arrange something—anything. We’re running out of time.”

And without another word, he walked off toward the Slytherin table.

Lily sat at the Ravenclaw table, poking at her eggs and ham. After ten minutes, she filled her small flask with pumpkin juice and went over to Hermione.

“Shall we head to the Gryffindor common room? He might be waking up by now…”

“Yeah,” Hermione said. “I’m done anyway.”

She picked up the buttered toast wrapped in a napkin, and they left together.

They waited in silence before the Fat Lady’s portrait, neither of them speaking, each lost in her thoughts. At last, Harry emerged from the portrait hole, landing awkwardly on the floor.

When he saw them, he looked surprised. “Morning…”

“Hi,” Hermione said, holding out the toast. “We brought you breakfast… Lily’s got pumpkin juice. Um—do you want to go for a walk outside?”

Harry’s face visibly relaxed. “Yeah. That sounds brilliant.”

They went downstairs and crossed the Entrance Hall quickly, without looking toward the Great Hall. Soon they were heading down the grassy slope toward the lake. The Durmstrang ship lay anchored on the dark water, its reflection making it look like a storm-battered vessel. The air was cold.

As Harry devoured the toast, he recounted everything that had happened the night before, step by step. Lily and Hermione accepted every word without question, and their belief seemed to steady him.

After he finished describing what had happened in the chamber behind the Great Hall, Hermione said, “Actually, I told Lily and Leo this morning—I’m sure you didn’t put your name in. I could tell from your face when Dumbledore read it. But we need to find out who did. Moody’s right—no student could’ve done it. None of them could trick the Goblet or get past the Age Line.”

“I wish we could make everyone else understand that,” Lily murmured.

“Have you seen Ron?” Harry asked Hermione.

She hesitated. “Um… yeah. At breakfast.”

“Does he still think I did it myself?”

“Well… no. I don’t think he really thinks that.”

“Then what?”

Hermione sighed. “Harry—haven’t you noticed? He’s jealous.”

“Jealous?” Harry said incredulously. “Of what? Does he want to humiliate himself in front of the entire school?”

“Harry,” Lily said gently, “Hermione’s right. You know it—you’re always the one everyone notices.”

Harry opened his mouth angrily, but Hermione hurried on. “We know it’s not your fault. We know you didn’t want this. But Ron’s grown up being compared to his brothers, and on top of that, his best friend is famous. The moment people see you, they stop seeing him. He’s always lived with that—but this time, I think it was too much.”

“How fascinating,” Harry said bitterly. “Tell him he can have my place any time he likes. Everywhere I go, people just stare at my forehead.”

“I’m not telling him anything,” Hermione said firmly. “You have to talk to him yourself.”

“I’m not going to beg!” Harry snapped. “I’m not going to force him to stop acting like a child!”

His voice echoed across the lake, sending a flock of owls bursting out of the nearby trees.

“Enough,” Lily cut in. “We’ll deal with Ron later. Right now, you’ve got a bigger problem. This isn’t a joke. You know what we need to do. When we get back to the castle, we go straight to—”

“Ron, so I can kick him—”

“No,” Lily interrupted sharply. “We write to Sirius. You need to tell him what’s happened. Didn’t he say you should write whenever anything serious happened at Hogwarts? It’s almost like he was expecting something like this.”

Hermione nodded quickly. “I’ve got parchment and a quill with me.”

“You two have lost your minds,” Harry muttered. He glanced around to make sure no one was listening—there wasn’t a soul in sight. “He crossed half the world because I wrote that my scar hurt. If I tell him someone’s forced me into a deadly tournament, he’ll show up here in seconds!”

“He’ll find out anyway,” Lily said calmly. “Better that it comes from you. He expects that.”

“If you don’t write, he won’t know,” Harry insisted.

Hermione stared at him. “Harry—do you really think this will stay secret? The Tournament’s famous. You’re famous. It’ll be in the Daily Prophet by tonight. Sirius will expect to hear it from you.”

“…Fine. Fine. I’ll write.”

Harry tossed the last bit of toast into the lake. They watched it float for a moment—until a tentacle rose from the depths and snatched it away. Then they turned back toward the castle.

As they climbed the steps, Harry asked, “Which owl should I use? Sirius said not to send Hedwig anymore.”

“Ask Ron—” Hermione began.

“I’m not asking Ron anything,” Harry said flatly.

“Okay,” Lily said. “Romeo can take it.”

“But Sirius said different owls.”

“Romeo flies at night,” Lily explained. “No need for a new owl. I doubt anyone will see him.”

They went up to the Owlery. Hermione handed Harry a quill, a piece of parchment, and a bottle of ink. While Harry sat on a bench and wrote the letter, she and Lily occupied themselves by stroking Romeo.

After about ten minutes, Harry stood up, shaking out his robes so the straw-coloured feathers clinging to them fell to the floor.

“That’s it,” he said.

Hedwig immediately swooped down and landed on his shoulder, stretching out her leg expectantly.

Harry turned toward Lily and Romeo and said to Hedwig, “I can’t send you. Romeo has to take this one.”

Hedwig let out a loud, indignant hoot and took off so suddenly that her talons scraped Harry’s shoulder. Throughout the entire time Harry tied the letter to Romeo’s leg, Hedwig stood with her back to him, rigid and affronted.

When Romeo launched himself into the sky and vanished into the grey distance, Harry went over to Hedwig to stroke her. The owl snapped her beak angrily, then fluttered off to perch somewhere well out of his reach.

Harry threw up his hands in frustration.

“Brilliant. Ron won’t speak to me, and now you too. Honestly—what do I have to say to make it clear this isn’t my fault?”