Monday came.
The castle didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like a staged cage.
Harry moved through it like he wasn't real. Just another piece of scenery. Something to be looked past. Conversations died the moment he entered a room. Laughter cut off too quickly. Eyes stayed on him for a beat too long.
At breakfast, the Great Hall was filled with light and feathers. Owls streamed through the rafters. Not one landed in front of him.
Hermione sat across from him. Her toast had gone cold. Ron wasn't there. He had taken a seat farther down the table with Dean and Seamus, his back turned, like that had always been his place.
Harry didn't eat. He stared at his plate, glancing every few seconds at the high windows above the staff table as owls streamed past him.
Herbology offered no relief.
The greenhouse was warm, the air damp with the smell of moss and magic. But none of it touched him.
Harry worked beside Hermione in silence while the Hufflepuffs whispered behind the trays. Justin didn't look at him. Ernie laughed when Harry lost control of his Bouncing Bulb and took a hit to the face.
Professor Sprout gave instructions with care, but there was no warmth in her voice anymore when it came to him. She didn't look at him unless she had to.
No one moved to help. Even Hermione's hand, when it reached for his, was met with silence. He pulled away.
Charms was quieter, but worse.
The classroom was cool. Dust hung in the beams of morning light. His ink smudged where his hand trembled on the page.
The Ravenclaws didn't talk to him. They just made room. Chairs shifted. Groups rebalanced.
Padma moved closer to Parvati. Michael Corner watched him for a few seconds longer than necessary and turned to whisper behind a rolled-up scroll.
Harry caught half a word. Or maybe he imagined it.
He didn't trust what he heard anymore. Even silence seemed aimed at him. Every whisper felt sharpened. Every glance meant more than it should have.
He was tired of trying to tell the difference. He didn't bother to copy the notes. There was no point pretending he was still part of the class.
By lunchtime, the badges had come out.
Black and green, pinned to robes, enchanted so the flashing letters pulsed in bright rhythm:
POTTER STINKS
The badges were everywhere, flashing on robes, tapped for emphasis, glowing as Slytherins passed. Some wore them like medals. Others just waited for him to look.
Some Gryffindors glanced away. A few Ravenclaws snickered quietly. Even some Hufflepuffs looked on without expression.
The worst part wasn't the insult. It was how normal it all seemed. Like mocking him was just another game to play between classes.
Hermione noticed. Of course she did. Her mouth tightened, but she said nothing.
Outside, the wind stirred across the grass. The paddock sloped unevenly behind Hagrid's hut, the air thick with damp straw and scorched wood.
Malfoy was waiting near the fence.
Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, stiff as ever, their badges flashing green across their chests. Pansy leaned against a crate nearby, acting like she wasn't listening, though her eyes never left Harry. She jabbed Draco lightly and tilted her head just enough to say, he's here.
Malfoy's voice carried the second Harry stepped outside.
"Training for the tournament, Potter?" he called, voice full of mock cheer. "That's pathetic. Oh, by the way, Father and I have a bet, you see. I don't think you're going to last ten minutes."
Harry stopped.
The wind tugged at his sleeves, but he didn't move.
"Didn't know you were Daddy's little princess," Harry said, voice low and clear. "Should've guessed it sooner. You love him more than Pansy does. Though to be fair, your future sugar daddy already has a daddy. And you do look the part."
Crabbe glanced at Goyle, unsure whether to laugh. Pansy flushed and looked away.
Malfoy didn't know how to respond.
Harry didn't wait for a reply. He walked past them without breaking stride. He didn't care if they thought he had won. He only needed the sound of their snobbish voices to stop.
The paddock smelled like smoke and wet dirt. Wooden crates lined the fence, each one shaking at uneven intervals. Something inside hissed against the walls.
Students gathered at a distance, their half-circle loose and wary. No one stood too close. Even the Slytherins hesitated.
Harry found a spot at the edge. His hands stayed in his pockets. His mind was somewhere else.
The door to Hagrid's hut banged open.
Wood groaned on its hinges, and Hagrid stepped outside, arms wrapped around a crate twice the size of the others.
"Alright then," he called. "Got somethin' new for yeh today. Grew faster than expected. Been attackin' each other all morning. Time to stretch their legs a bit."
The crate Hagrid was carrying rattled so hard he nearly lost his grip.
The rattle of the crates felt familiar. Contained, violent, misunderstood. Just like him.
Harry didn't flinch. He barely even blinked.
The Blast-Ended Skrewts were worse than before.
They hissed from inside their crates, armored bodies clanging against wooden walls. One released a spray of sparks from beneath its shell, singeing the grass.
Malfoy drew back, disgust written plain across his face. "You expect us to touch that?"
"Round the middle," Hagrid said, breathless. "Gloves on. Watch your fingers."
He looked around the group. "Harry, come help with the big one."
Harry moved forward without speaking. The crate Hagrid led him to shuddered with every impact from within. A line of scorch marks burned across the lid.
When they reached it, Hagrid lowered his voice.
"I told Dumbledore I believed you," he said. "He didn't say much, but I could tell. He knows you didn't enter."
Harry kept his eyes on the crate. Sparks spat from a crack between the slats.
"He's just got a lot on his mind," Hagrid added, more carefully.
Harry's voice didn't rise, but something inside him did. "So much he can't say it out loud."
Hagrid looked at him then, concern creasing his forehead.
"He's watching out for you," he said. "Just not always the way you think."
Harry gave a nod, but it was mechanical.
Dumbledore had not defended him. Had not said, I believe you. He had weighed Harry like a puzzle piece. Like part of a plan already in motion. One he didn't seem to think Harry needed to understand.
Hagrid meant well. But belief only mattered when someone said it when it cost them something.
"You alright?" Hagrid asked.
Harry wanted to ask why that question had come from Hagrid, and not the headmaster. He wanted to ask why it always came after the silence.
"I'm fine," he said instead.
The crate exploded outward. The skrewt shot forward, half fire, half armor. Hagrid barked a command, and Harry caught the leash.
He didn't fight it. Let it drag him across the field like something already half-claimed.
Behind him, someone yelped. Sparks lit the air in sudden bursts. Mud smeared across robes and boots.
Voices called out. He didn't catch what they said.
The leash burned in his palm, but he didn't let go.
The skrewt lunged, dragging him through churned mud and dying grass. Sparks spat from its tail, hissing through the air. Around him, students scrambled to stay upright, their shouts rising in scattered bursts. One skrewt broke loose and crashed into a crate. Someone screamed. Hagrid barked orders.
Harry barely heard.
Each step blurred into the next. The world narrowed to heat and movement, the pull of the leash, the sting in his hand. He didn't look at anyone. Didn't see Hermione flinch when another skrewt snapped its stinger. Didn't see Ron step back with the others.
He thought of the second year.
The stares. The whispers. The way even silence could accuse. But back then, Ron had stood beside him. Back then, he hadn't felt so entirely replaceable.
Now, he was just a name pulled from fire.
A figure moving between rumors. A shadow people stared through.
No owl had come.
No word from Sirius.
No answer. Not even silence wrapped in reassurance.
Just nothing.
And that nothing carved itself into him with every step. A weight behind the ribs. A question that never softened.
He didn't know if the message had reached him.
He didn't know if Sirius could reply.
And worst of all, he wasn't sure he wanted him to.
So he kept walking, hand bleeding into the leash, mud thick on his boots, while the skrewt hissed and flared ahead of him. The sky had gone grey.
And Harry didn't look up.
…
Morning came, but Harry barely noticed. Sleep had come in scraps. He hadn't changed out of his uniform the night before. Mud still clung to the hem of his trousers. No owl waited. Just the clatter of cutlery and the kind of silence that always settled when he sat alone.
He was alone, away from the others, and picked at toast he didn't remember reaching for. The sky above the enchanted ceiling had turned an indifferent grey.
Snape's glare followed him into the dungeon.
The air in the Potions classroom always felt heavier, like it held a grudge. Harry took his usual seat near the back, keeping his head down while Snape stalked the aisles, robes whispering behind him like warnings.
He had barely uncorked his ingredients when the classroom door opened.
Colin Creevey stood in the doorway, too breathless to knock properly. His camera hung around his neck, bouncing against his chest.
"Professor Snape," he said, voice too loud in the quiet. "Mr. Bagman wants Harry for the champions' photoshoot. It's urgent."
Colin had barely finished asking before Snape spoke.
"Of course," he said, voice dripping disdain. "Mr. Potter is needed elsewhere. It would be unfair to deprive the world of another photograph."
He didn't look up from his cauldron as he spoke. The sarcasm hung thick in the dungeon air.
Harry didn't answer. He packed his things in silence and followed Colin from the room, ignoring the murmurs that followed them out.
Colin chattered the whole way to the Trophy Room. Harry heard none of it. His focus had collapsed inward. The weight in his stomach was heavier than hunger, and every step felt like it led deeper into something staged.
The door was open when they arrived. Ludo Bagman stood inside, broad and beaming, dressed like he'd just come from a Quidditch match.
"There he is! Harry, my boy. Looking sharp. Well.." he paused, taking in the faint mud stains on Harry's robes, "…ish."
Before Harry could answer, another voice sliced through the air.
"There he is. Hogwarts' golden boy."
A woman in loud, acid-green robes entered the room behind Bagman, a notepad floating beside her head and a Quick-Quotes Quill twitching in midair. Her glasses glittered under the enchanted torchlight. Her brooch, a jewelled beetle the size of a sickle, glinted against the collar of her fur-lined jacket.
Harry caught a whiff of something floral and synthetic, like crushed petals and old perfume.
"Rita Skeeter," she said, thrusting a hand at him. "Daily Prophet."
Harry looked at the hand, then at her, then back at Bagman.
"I didn't know the Prophet sent mothballs to cover school events."
Bagman coughed awkwardly.
Skeeter's smile didn't falter. "So clever. And modest, too. A rare combination."
She turned without waiting for his reply and opened a door in the corner. "Let's talk somewhere private, shall we?"
The walls pressed in, steeped in stale air and something flowery trying too hard to be clean. Harry stepped in only because she blocked the doorway behind him.
"You do interviews in a broom cupboard?" he asked, blinking at the cramped walls and stale air. "Or is this just where they keep the cheap perfume?"
Skeeter didn't blink. "That's the cupboard, dear. Old wood always smells like that."
The door shut behind them with a soft click. Her quill was already scratching.
"Now, let's talk about what it felt like, standing alone in that Hall as your name came out of the Goblet. Betrayed? Heroic? A mix of both, perhaps?"
Harry crossed his arms. "I didn't put my name in."
The quill wrote on. Rita smiled wider.
"Oh, I'm sure you didn't. But it must be difficult, shouldering all that attention. Lonely, even. I can write lonely, if you prefer it to brave."
"I can't imagine you writing anything that doesn't smell like soap and lies."
"Now, now," she said sweetly. "You'll want the public on your side, Harry. They like a tragic figure. Stoic. Quietly suffering."
He didn't answer. The cupboard felt too warm.
Her quill kept going, skimming across the parchment like it had a mind of its own.
"I heard there was tension between you and your friends. Very sad. Very human. Would you say that Arnold Weasley's youngest son is ba…"
The door opened.
Light poured in from the corridor. Dumbledore stood in the doorway. His eyes, usually mild, were iron. "That's enough, Rita."
Dumbledore didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
Rita blinked up at him, still smiling, though her quill had stopped mid-scratch.
"Of course," she said, slipping the parchment into her bag. "No need to be prickly, Albus. The public's curious. That's all."
She swept past him and out the door without another word. The scent of crushed petals lingered behind her, thin and cloying.
Dumbledore watched her go, then turned to Harry. His expression was unreadable. Not angry or amused but distant. But something behind his eyes had shifted a flicker of displeasure, carefully buried. As if he hadn't liked seeing Harry alone with her.
As if Rita Skeeter's presence had left a taste in the air he didn't care for. Harry agreed, though he'd never admit it to Dumbledore.
"Come along, Harry," he said. "They're ready for the wand weighing."
He didn't ask how Harry was doing. He didn't mention the cupboard. He simply turned and walked ahead.
Harry followed.
The next room had been dressed like a wizard's drawing room, but it still smelled faintly of polish and dust. Velvet curtains muffled the daylight from all sides, casting everything in a muted gold haze. A long table sat at the center, draped in deep burgundy, lined with soft cushions and a set of tarnished brass scales.
The other champions were already there. Cedric stood with the ease of someone used to being looked at, hands clasped behind his back. Fleur was perched beside the window, examining her nails like they were more interesting than the rest of the room. Krum stood slightly apart, arms crossed tight. Harry recognized the posture. Even world-famous champions knew how it felt to stand alone
Bagman brightened the moment Harry stepped in.
"Excellent, excellent! Now that we're all here—"
A pale figure stepped forward from behind the table. Mr. Ollivander's silvery hair was combed neatly back, and his robes were soft, ash-colored wool. He looked as if he had walked out of the past and belonged there. His eyes were distant, but keen.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore said.
Ollivander gave a shallow bow. "My pleasure, Headmaster. Wand safety is paramount. Especially in a tournament of this... nature."
He moved with unhurried precision as he opened a long velvet-lined case filled with wands. His fingers barely made a sound, but everything about him demanded silence.
He turned first to Fleur.
"Your wand, mademoiselle."
Fleur passed the wand with a slow, deliberate motion. Her chin lifted a fraction, but her eyes flicked sideways, watching how the others listened.
"Nine and a half inches," Ollivander murmured. "Oak. Inflexible. And yes… veela hair core." His pale eyes lifted briefly to hers. "A rare choice, but fitting."
He weighed it in his hand, then gave a delicate flick. A stream of silvery-blue sparks swirled into the air before fading gently.
"Still temperamental," he noted. "But elegant."
Fleur nodded, saying nothing.
Cedric came next.
"Twelve and a quarter inches. Ash. Unicorn hair. A pleasant wand. Loyal."
He tested the weight, nodding slightly. A small, neat ring of golden light burst outward. He returned it with a quiet, "Well cared for."
Then he turned to Krum.
Viktor handed his wand over without hesitation, though there was something almost reluctant in the way his fingers released it.
Ollivander tilted his head.
"Hornbeam. Dragon heartstring. Just over ten and a quarter inches. A Gregorovitch make."
He turned it slowly, frowning at the chipped base.
"Powerful, yes," he said. "But brittle. Demands precision. And… obedience."
Krum didn't blink. He took the wand back without a word.
Finally, Ollivander turned to Harry.
Harry held out his wand, and his fingers hesitated just a breath before letting go.
"Holly and phoenix feather," Ollivander said softly. "Eleven inches. Supple."
He turned it in his hands like he was holding a memory. His gaze lifted to Harry, and something old passed through it. Not recognition. Not surprise. Just a quiet, inward nod.
"I remember every wand I've ever sold," he said. "This one… I remember more clearly than most."
Harry said nothing.
Ollivander raised the wand, gave it a flick. A bright shimmer of gold shot toward the ceiling and disappeared.
"Still in excellent condition," he murmured. "This wand has always been… curious. Loyal, but with a mind of its own."
He held it out carefully, both hands flat beneath the length of wood, as if returning something sacred.
Harry took it without a word.
Bagman clapped his hands. "Wonderful! That's all for now. Time for photos!"
A short wizard with a levitating lens hovered into place. Rita Skeeter had reappeared, standing just beyond the group, pretending to be unobtrusive. She smiled when Harry glanced her way, all lip gloss and poisoned sweetness.
Harry was placed near Krum, just ahead of Fleur, slightly to Cedric's side. He didn't care where. Each shift made him feel more like a pawn.
The camera flashed again and again. His cheeks ached from holding still, but he didn't smile. Not once.
Rita tried to speak to him between shots. Harry didn't respond. Bagman waved her off with practiced cheer.
When it was over, Harry stepped away from the group before anyone else could speak to him. The velvet curtains still dimmed the room, but the sky beyond them had darkened. Dinner had likely begun already.
He didn't wait for permission. He slipped out the door and didn't look back. No one called after him either. They'd gotten their photograph. He wasn't sure what else they'd wanted or what he had left to give.
The walk back to dinner. He wasn't sure if he took the long way or just moved slowly enough for it to feel that way. Either way, he arrived late.
The Great Hall buzzed with conversation, but none of it reached Harry.
He sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table, alone. A few first-years gave him wide-eyed glances before whispering behind their hands. Plates clinked. Laughter rang from somewhere near the Hufflepuff table. None of it touched him.
Hermione was back. She sat further up, near Parvati and Neville. Her plate was half full, but her fork moved without purpose. Every now and then she looked toward him, then toward Ron, who didn't meet her eyes either.
Harry didn't expect her to sit with him. He wasn't sure what he would have done if she had.
He picked at a roast potato until it crumbled under his fork. His appetite had gone again. His mind kept circling the same empty thought: Still no owl.
He left early, slipping out while the others were still on pudding. He didn't head for the common room. His legs moved without direction, only the need to be somewhere else.
Up one flight of stairs, then another. Across the third floor, then back again. The castle had gone still. Even the portraits had gone quiet, their frames dim. He passed two locked classrooms and a shadowed corridor near the Charms wing, but kept walking.
Eventually, he reached the seventh floor. His feet slowed just past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, the one where the wizard tried to teach trolls ballet. Across from it was a stretch of wall he didn't remember deciding to approach.
But now, a door stood there. One he hadn't seen before. Slightly ajar as if there just for him.
He stepped inside.
Dust curled in the air, catching the glow from his wand. The space looked like it had once been a Defense classroom. Desks leaned like tired soldiers. A few chairs were overturned. Shelves sagged beneath cracked glass jars. The blackboard still bore the ghost of a hex diagram, drawn and half-erased by time.
It felt like the kind of room someone forgot or hidden so they don't have to clean it.
He closed the door behind him and cast a Silencing Charm, then a quick Locking Charm. The click of the latch sounded final.
For a moment he just stood there, fingers tight around his wand. Then his stillness or something else cracked.
He fired a Blasting Curse at the chalkboard. Dust exploded. A desk splintered with a sharp crack. He didn't stop.
Expelliarmus slammed a chair against the wall. Red sparks lit the corners of the room. One of the shelves burst into pieces. He cast again, and again, until the room felt unrecognizable. Until the pounding in his chest eased enough to think.
Then he repaired it all.
Reparo. Reparo. Reparo.
Wood knits back together. Stone reformed. The scorch marks faded. One by one, the room returned to what it had been. Untouched and scattered. Like nothing had ever happened.
When it was done, Harry stood in the middle of the floor, wand at his side, breath slowing.
He felt lighter as if something had drained out of him that needed to go.
Only then did he turn and leave, silent and unseen, the spells still holding behind him.
No one stopped him. He didn't see another student. That was the point.
Eventually, he reached the Fat Lady's portrait. She gave him a look but didn't speak. He murmured the password, barely audible, and stepped inside.
The common room was dark. The fire had died down to coals. Someone had left a blanket folded on the edge of the sofa. The only sound was the faint tick of the mantel clock. Everyone had already gone to bed.
He was glad.
The dormitory was colder than he remembered. Curtains hung closed around the other beds, still and silent. The air felt thinner here, but less weighted. Like even the building had grown tired of pretending.
Ron sat on his trunk, peeling back the corner of an envelope. His eyes flicked up when Harry entered, then quickly away.
"You've got post," Ron said, nodding toward Harry's pillow.
Harry followed his gaze. A letter lay there, folded but not sealed. He didn't move to take it.
Ron stood, tucking his own letter into his pocket. "Also, McGonagall said you've got detention. Friday night."
He didn't wait for a reply. He grabbed his robes from the back of his chair and left.
Harry sat down on the edge of the bed. The envelope still waited, still untouched. Like it had been expecting him.
He picked it up.
The handwriting was hurried. Slanted but familiar.
Harry —
I can't say much in a letter. Not safe. Just know I'm watching everything. You're not imagining it. Someone put your name in that Goblet on purpose, and it wasn't as a joke.
Be careful. Watch who you trust.
I'll be in touch through the fire on November 22nd, one in the morning. That's the only time I can manage it. Make sure you're alone.
Don't ignore anything strange.
You're not crazy.
— Snuffles
Harry read it twice. Then a third time.
The parchment crackled faintly as he folded it again, slower this time, like the sound mattered.
There was no comfort in the words, but there was something close. Not safety. Not warmth.
Just the feeling that someone believed him. Even if it had to be from very far away.
He tucked the letter into the pocket of his trunk and lay back on the bed, staring at the canopy above.
He didn't fall asleep. But he stopped moving. And for now, that was enough.