The swirling silver mist of the Pensieve collapsed in on itself, drawing the three observers out of the memory like divers breaking through water's surface. Dumbledore was the first to step back, his long fingers trembling slightly as he grasped the edge of his desk. His usually twinkling blue eyes were clouded, uncertain. Beside him, Minerva McGonagall looked pale and shaken, her lips drawn into a tight, bloodless line. And Severus Snape stood stiffly, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were nearly white.
The office, once bathed in warm candlelight and lined with enchanted whirring instruments, now felt heavy. Heavy with dread, with questions. With fear.
Above them, Fawkes stirred.
The Phoenix, sensing the storm within the room, let out a low, melodic trill.
It began as a soft hum—barely audible—but it flowed like warm honey into every corner of the room, easing the tightness in their chests. The tension in McGonagall's shoulders slowly dropped. Snape's clenched fists eased open. And Dumbledore… Dumbledore closed his eyes as the song washed over him, letting his breath flow freely for the first time since the memory ended.
Still, the melody could not quiet the storm within his heart.
Dumbledore opened his eyes and turned to his two colleagues. His voice, when it came, was slow and grave.
"What we witnessed… was not ordinary."
McGonagall nodded silently, her brows pinched in worry. "He threw you, Albus. Across the room. With no wand. No incantation. As if it were… nothing."
"And he immobilized half a dozen armed professors," Snape spat, his voice harsh. "And choked us like insects. We're lucky he didn't do more."
Dumbledore looked at the floor. "Indeed."
Snape's eyes blazed with fury. "I told you this would happen, Headmaster. That boy is arrogant, headstrong, always diving into trouble. You've coddled him for too long."
McGonagall turned on him sharply. "This is not about coddling, Severus! Something is wrong. That wasn't the Harry Potter I know. That power, that fury… I barely recognized him."
Dumbledore remained silent, his hand reaching out to stroke Fawkes gently.
"Perhaps," he murmured, "we never truly knew him at all."
Snape scoffed. "Oh, please. Spare me the mysticism. He's a child. A dangerous one. He humiliated me in front of foreign dignitaries. He must be punished—"
"No," Dumbledore interrupted, firmly but not unkindly. "There will be no punishment."
Snape blinked. "No punishment?"
"Harry reacted to fear," Dumbledore said softly. "To betrayal. And… to my failure."
McGonagall looked at him sharply. "Albus…"
Dumbledore raised a hand to stop her.
"I see now what I refused to acknowledge. He's angry with me. Deeply. And justly so."
He walked to the window and looked out at the moonlit grounds below. The Forbidden Forest swayed gently in the wind, casting long shadows across the grass.
"I failed him when I placed him with the Dursleys," he continued, more to himself now. "And again, when I did not push for Sirius's trial. I've hidden behind politics and timing. But in doing so, I allowed injustice to fester."
His voice broke slightly. "And that… may have cost me his trust."
There was a long silence.
Finally, McGonagall stepped forward, her voice trembling. "But that power, Albus. He's never shown anything like that before."
Snape sneered. "And where did he learn it? Who taught him to wield that kind of dark magic?"
"Was it dark?" Dumbledore asked quietly, not looking away from the window. "Or merely… ancient?"
Snape said nothing.
Fawkes let out another soft trill, and Dumbledore turned back toward them.
"I always believed the strength Harry held, the key to overcoming Voldemort, was his capacity for love. For compassion. That was what protected him as a child. That is what shielded him from the Killing Curse."
"And now?" McGonagall asked.
"I don't know," Dumbledore said, his eyes distant. "What I saw tonight… it wasn't love. It was rage. Controlled, measured, lethal."
He sat down at his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"There is something else at work within Harry. Something Voldemort does not understand. But neither do I."
"You think the Dark Lord is influencing him?" McGonagall whispered, horrified.
"I don't know," Dumbledore admitted. "The scar binds them. A link. I've long suspected it. But whether it is merely a window… or a door… I cannot say."
Snape folded his arms, eyes glinting. "Then perhaps we should start monitoring Potter more closely."
"No," Dumbledore said firmly. "That would only drive him further from us."
He looked up at McGonagall.
"You saw how he reacted. He's closed off. Hardened. He's learning things—powerful things—and not from us."
McGonagall's lips tightened. "Then who, Albus? Who is teaching him?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But he did mention a book. One Remus gave him."
Snape scoffed. "Of course. The pet werewolf."
"That will be enough, Severus," Dumbledore said, the steel returning to his voice.
McGonagall gathered her robes, her voice quieter now.
"What do we do, then?"
"We wait," Dumbledore said. "We watch. And we prepare."
"For what?" she asked.
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. He reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a small, enchanted device—spinning silver rings with floating glass spheres.
As the device whirred softly, he finally whispered:
"For the storm that is coming."
McGonagall and Snape exchanged a glance. Neither spoke further.
They turned and left, leaving the headmaster alone.
The room dimmed in their absence.
Fawkes fluttered down from his perch and landed beside Dumbledore's chair, nuzzling the old man's hand with a warm beak.
"I don't know if I was ever right," Dumbledore whispered to the bird. "I wanted to shape the future. To protect the boy. To guide him."
He looked toward the dormant Pensieve again, as if it still held answers.
"But now… I wonder if I merely delayed the inevitable."
Fawkes sang once more.
And the old man listened in silence.
Harry woke before the sun rose.
His body moved on instinct, muscles still sore from the last duel but already eager to begin another. His mind, however, was heavy—clouded by what had happened the previous night. The Goblet. The room full of wands. Dumbledore's eyes wide with alarm. The sudden, unfamiliar burst of power that had left professors gasping for breath on the floor.
But Harry didn't allow those thoughts to linger.
He pulled on a loose shirt, tightened the laces of his boots, and reached for his enchanted belt pouch where his wand, lightsaber, and the silver ring of mind arts rested quietly. Then, as if driven by muscle memory, he left Gryffindor Tower through a hidden side passage and made his way toward the seventh floor.
When he walked past the blank stretch of wall, he thought only one thing:
A room for training. With space for dueling, force training, and recovery.
A heavy door appeared with a soft rumble.
Harry stepped through—and found Dobby already inside.
The elf stood at the far end of the room, spinning lightly on his heels, his tiny hands raised in preparation. A flicker of lightning crackled between his fingers and vanished.
"Morning, Master Harry," Dobby said, his voice filled with excitement. "Dobby was waiting. You slept longer today."
Harry offered a half-smile, stretching his arms. "Didn't mean to. Guess I needed it."
"You had a long night," Dobby said, summoning two practice sabers into their hands. "People shouted. Wands were raised. But Dobby is proud. You stood strong."
Harry didn't respond. He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and let the scent of the magically conjured pine trees around the room steady his breath.
Then they began.
The clash of light and energy echoed across the chamber. Dobby darted like a shadow, fast and vicious, his strikes dancing around Harry's defense like flashes of a storm. Harry countered with a mixture of lightsaber form and wandless magic—barriers of air, bursts of kinetic force, and sharp pulses of the Force to deflect Dobby's strikes.
They moved too fast for the eye to follow, their bodies becoming blurs in motion.
The room dimmed as the lights flickered under the power they summoned. At one point, a single arc of lightning surged from Dobby's fingers, only for Harry to raise a hand, catching it mid-air and absorbing it into a glowing ward that shimmered across his arm.
He didn't even flinch.
Time melted away.
Eventually, both collapsed to the padded floor, panting.
Dobby grinned through his exhaustion. "You almost returned it, Harry Potter. The lightning. It crackled in your hands."
Harry wiped sweat from his brow, still breathless. "Not… quite there yet."
"But soon," Dobby whispered proudly.
And for a moment, Harry forgot about the Goblet. The champions. The stares. The fear. It was just him and Dobby, chasing power not for glory—but for survival.
By the time he returned to the Gryffindor common room, the warmth of the training had faded, replaced with a chill of uncertainty.
The room fell silent the moment he entered.
All heads turned.
The fireplace crackled in the awkward quiet as dozens of eyes watched him like a dangerous creature in a cage. Some looked curious. Others furious. A few confused.
But the worst were the older students—seventh-years and sixth-years who had placed their names in the Goblet and were not chosen. They looked at Harry with barely concealed loathing, as though he had stolen something from them.
"Look at him," someone muttered near the window. "He's not even fifteen."
"He must've cheated," another voice whispered.
"Yeah—probably used his fame or some charm. The bloody Boy-Who-Lived."
Harry ignored them.
He walked straight through the common room, toward the staircase, when a small voice stopped him.
"Harry?"
It was a soft, familiar tone. Steady. Not angry. Not doubting.
He turned.
Hermione Granger stood from the couch near the fireplace, a book folded on her lap. Her expression was calm, her posture relaxed. As though nothing had happened last night. As though he hadn't just thrown half the Hogwarts staff into the air.
"I saved you a seat," she said, pointing beside her. "You've probably missed breakfast."
Harry hesitated for only a moment before walking over and sinking into the seat beside her.
The silence in the common room cracked—several mutters rose again—but Hermione paid them no mind. She passed him a napkin-wrapped piece of toast and a small jug of pumpkin juice she'd saved.
"Thanks," Harry said quietly, accepting the food.
"I believe you, you know," she said, without looking up from her book.
Harry paused mid-bite.
Hermione continued, turning a page with one finger. "About the Goblet. You didn't put your name in."
He felt something loosen in his chest.
"I didn't," Harry confirmed, voice low.
Hermione nodded once. "I know."
A moment later, another voice spoke.
"I believe you too."
Neville Longbottom was standing nearby, fidgeting with the hem of his robes. His cheeks were red, and his voice shook slightly, but his eyes were steady.
"I… I don't think you'd cheat. You've never needed to. And… I saw how you handled everything last night. You were… shocked, but not guilty. I think… you've got your reasons."
Harry blinked.
Neville.
He'd never really given Neville a second thought before. But now, with sincerity in his voice and courage in his posture, Harry felt something shift. He offered the boy a nod—and the smallest smile.
"Thanks, Neville."
Later that morning, as he walked into the Great Hall for breakfast, it felt like entering an arena.
The moment Harry stepped across the threshold, conversations halted. Dozens of eyes turned. Every House table—from Gryffindor to Slytherin—looked up as though he were wearing golden armor or dragging a corpse behind him.
He wasn't wearing anything special.
Just the weight of everyone's expectations.
He walked toward the Gryffindor table and sat beside Hermione without a word. She was reading Magical Theory and Force Application: A Comparative Study. Neville hesitantly took a seat across from them.
All around them, the whispers surged.
"That's him."
"He's the fourth champion."
"He's an attention whore. Just wants attention."
Harry tried to tune it out.
Tried.
But his ears caught the muttered insults. The jealousy. The anger.
And yet…
At the head table, he noticed three pairs of eyes watching him very differently.
Viktor Krum leaned slightly forward, his gaze curious. He didn't look angry. Just… interested. Studying.
Fleur Delacour sat gracefully, her chin resting on her hand. But her eyes flicked to him often. There was no disdain there. Only intrigue. Challenge, even.
And Cedric Diggory.
Cedric looked like a man who had seen something that changed his opinion entirely. There was no resentment in his eyes. No accusation. Just quiet respect—and perhaps something more.
Fear.
Harry looked down at his plate. He didn't want their admiration. He didn't want the tournament. He wanted a quiet year.
But he had the attention of the entire magical world.
And it wasn't going away.