He had spent years constructing them not as people, but as silhouettes burned into the walls of stories other people told. They had become a kind of myth in his mind, embalmed in secondhand adjectives and mournful looks across dinner tables. Brave. Beautiful. Gone. But myths, when confronted with fact, collapse in ways that feel like betrayal. There was no grandeur in the stone. No revelation in the dates. Only arithmetic. A beginning. An end. Nothing in between. It struck him with the quiet cruelty of a delayed blow, that the world had not only taken them from him, it had also stolen their right to be ordinary. He would never know their bad habits, their private jokes, the quiet ways they failed each other and forgave it. He would never get to hate them a little, and love them more for it. What he had instead was legacy. And legacy, he was beginning to understand, was just another name for expectation dressed in mourning clothes. He did not know if he was angry at the world, or at the stories it had handed him in place of parents. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. What he knew; what had crystallized with the absolute clarity of grief metabolized into architecture was; that he no longer trusted the narratives others gave him. Not about his parents. Not about himself. And that realization created questions that started to slowly ascend, showing above the surface. Who is Harry Potter? Who were his parents? He simply didn't know.
Harry took the long route back. Past the Transfiguration corridor, through the second-floor antechamber where the stone always smelled faintly of ash, then up the spiraling stairs that had a habit of shifting when they grew bored. He walked without thinking, but not without feeling; the quiet repetition of footsteps on cold stone gave his mind the room it needed to loop back to the grave.
When the tears ran out, they didn't speak. Sirius nudged Harry gently with his shoulder and nodded toward the gate. They left the grave behind and took the long way through the village, past the old war memorial.
"We came up with the map idea in fourth year, actually. But we didn't make it until fifth. Took us three tries just to get the ink to stop vanishing. James wanted it to talk. I wanted it to swear. I won." Sirius smiled. "But, beetwen you and me.. Moony did all the real work."
Harry looked up at Sirius with a smile. "You lot were idiots." Sirius gave a soft grunt. "Yeah. We were."
"Did you ever think someone else would use it?"
Sirius shook his head. "No. We thought we'd outlive everything we made."
They found a bench near the big oak tree, and Sirius sat with a groan. Harry dropped beside him without a word. His sleeves were damp with mist, and he only noticed the cold when Sirius muttered something and warmth spread through the fabric.
For a minute they sat there, neither sure what to say. Harry looked over, and Sirius glanced down just in time to meet his eyes. Sirius cleared his throat. "I know it's hard, kid. But it loosens up. Bit by bit. Your mum and dad would hex me for sulking like this. I'm your dogfather, I'm supposed to be funny. And handsome. And vaguely irresponsible. So here it is: I want to spend Christmas with you. At Grimmauld Place. And if you want, bring Hermione and Ron. I don't know how the Weasleys feel about me after last year, but… we'll make it work."
Harry nodded.
"Yeah. I'd like that. Thank you."
He hadn't noticed it until now how Hogwarts had stopped feeling like a home and started feeling like a school and nothing more. He really wanted to go to Grimmauld Place.
Sirius leaned back, hands tucked into his sleeves.
"While we're at it," he said, "we should go see the Potter vault. Properly. There might be something in there your parents left behind something that matters. Or something that helps. Whatever that means."
"Yeah," Harry said after a moment. "I don't even know what they kept in there… but if there's anything, I want to see it." He rubbed his hands together, not really for warmth. "I should head back. It's getting late."
Sirius looked at him again but this time Harry knew he was judging him.
"You are awfully quiet, Harry."
Harry knew. He stared up at the dark sky, grateful for the big tree shielding them from the wind.
"It's not just today," he said. "I don't know… everything's been a bit off. Even when it's normal. I feel like I'm running to catch up, but I'm not sure what with."
Sirius didn't answer right away. He just watched Harry for a moment, his expression thoughtful. He thought about what Andromeda had said weeks ago over tea, her voice even and clinical: "He's good at mirroring people. Picks up what they want and gives it back, just enough to pass. But I'm not sure if that's who he is, or just who he learned to be. Maybe he doesn't know either."
He nodded once, like that made sense.
"Well," he said, "maybe that's why Christmas exists. Bit of quiet. Bit of food. Bit of a reset."
Harry huffed a laugh, but it didn't quite reach his chest.
"Yeah. Sounds good."
By the time he reached the seventh floor, the warmth was gone. He stopped in front of the Fat Lady's portrait. She was already watching him. "Oh, you are in trouble, Mr. Potter," she said, almost cheerfully.
He stepped through the portrait hole and froze.
The entire common room was full. Packed. Wall to wall with Gryffindors, every single one of them turned toward the door as if on cue. McGonagall stood in the center, robes drawn tight, delivering what looked very much like the tail end of a speech no one wanted to be caught interrupting.
"…if anyone has any information," McGonagall was saying, "about the whereabouts of Mr. Potter, I suggest you speak now, because.."
McGonagall's eyes swept the crowd, trying to understand what had stolen their attention until she saw the way they were all looking past her. She followed their look, turned fully toward the portrait hole, and her mouth pulled into a thin, unreadable line.
"Well. Look who's decided to rejoin us."
They were halfway to Dumbledore's office before either of them said a word. McGonagall moved fast, her stride clipped and unforgiving, and Harry followed two steps behind.
"You have brought shame to your House, Mr. Potter," she said finally, not looking back. Her voice was quiet, but there was nothing soft in it. "Shame, and concern. I haven't seen a disruption like this since your father turned the Grand Staircase into a slide during OWL week.."
Harry said nothing.
"Do you have any idea the chaos you caused?" Her voice was tight now, pulled thin by exhaustion more than anger. "The Headmaster was forced to apologize to two foreign schools in front of the entire staff. He was worried sick. We all were."
The stairs creaked under her pace as they reached the corridor. She stopped only when they were in front of the stone gargoyle, her hands folded behind her back.
"You will report to Professor Snape every Saturday morning for the next month for your detention. And you will write a letter of apology to the Headmaster."
She gave the password without another word.
The spiral staircase moved on its own. McGonagall stepped onto it without pause, and Harry followed. They rode up in silence, the grinding of stone the only sound between them.
At the landing, just before the door, she turned to face him.
"You will speak only when addressed," she said. "You will keep your temper, and you will not embarrass this school further. Am I understood?"
Harry gave a small nod. He didn't trust himself to say anything else.
McGonagall knocked once, briskly. The door opened.
The room was full, and every face turned to him. Dumbledore stood behind his desk, looking tired but relieved. Moody leaned against a shelf, arms folded, his magical eye moving fast. Crouch stood by the fire, rigid, eyes sharp. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime watched him without speaking. In one of the chairs sat a man Harry recognized but couldn't name, smiling like he just won big lottery.
Dumbledore stepped forward, hands clasped, his eyes fixed on Harry with something halfway between concern and caution.
"Harry," he said, not loudly, but clearly. "Please, come in."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Harry didn't look at anyone else. Just at Dumbledore.
"Good evening. I take it something happened."
Dumbledore gave a small nod, like he'd expected no less.
"You were not at the feast," he said. "Your absence caused considerable concern. Professors searched the castle. You were nowhere to be found."
Harry didn't move. "I went to visit my parents' graves."
Madame Maxime made a noise of disbelief. "This is unacceptable," she said, stepping forward.
"He disappears during the most important night of the tournament, he breaks your school's protections, and we are all expected to sit quietly while he shrugs it off?"
Dumbledore raised a hand. He did not look away from Harry.
"It is not a small thing," he said. "But nor is grief. Today is Halloween. For most, a night of celebration. For Harry, it is the anniversary of his parents' murder."
Madame Maxime didn't back down. "And yet grief does not excuse a breach in protocol," she said. "This was not a common school event. It was a binding magical process. If Hogwarts cannot account for its own champion, what are the rest of us supposed to think?"
Karkaroff's voice came rough and clipped, like he'd been holding it back just long enough to make it sound measured. But the heat underneath was obvious. "So, he vanishes without a word, reappears hours later, and we're all meant to pretend that's normal?" He turned fully toward Dumbledore, lips curled in something too sharp to be a smile. "If Hogwarts cannot keep its own champions in check, perhaps it should reconsider hosting international events at all."
Dumbledore turned slightly. "It would be unwise," he said, "to confuse grief with defiance. Mr. Potter's absence, while troubling, was not without cause. And I would remind us all that this tournament rests upon mutual understanding, not suspicion." His words moved like chess pieces, patient, polite, but positioned with care.
Before they could land, Crouch let out a faint sigh and straightened his cuffs, as though he'd already heard where Dumbledore was going and found it tiresome. "And mutual understanding, depends on clear boundaries, Headmaster. Not just sentiment."
Harry crossed his arms, not to look defiant, just to keep his hands still. "Professor McGonagall already handled it," he said. "I've got detention. Every Saturday. With Snape." He let that last part hang, didn't bother hiding how he felt about it. Across the room, Karkaroff looked like someone had handed him a wrapped gift. Maxime's mouth twitched like she'd won a bet. "So if this is about punishment," Harry said, "we can check that box."
McGonagall stepped forward, her arms folded tight. "That is correct," she said. "Mr. Potter will serve a month's detention under Professor Snape's supervision. I judged it appropriate, and I stand by that judgment."
"We do not ignore rule-breaking at Hogwarts. But neither do we humiliate grieving children for sport." She glanced toward Maxime and Karkaroff, daring either to push further. Neither did.
Dumbledore nodded once.
"Thank you, Minerva." He turned back to the others.
"Mr. Potter has already received punishment. The matter is not being ignored."
Then Crouch stepped forward, brushing his sleeve.
"Then let us proceed," he said. "Mr. Potter, your name came out of the Goblet of Fire. That makes you one of the Triwizard Champions. The Goblet's binding. It doesn't matter who entered your name, only that it was accepted. You are required to compete in all three tasks and carry the responsibilities that come with it. You represent your school now, whether you planned to or not."
Harry didn't bother pretending to be surprised. He looked at Crouch, then over at the others, and shrugged like it barely mattered. "Alright," he said. "If I have to compete, I will. But let's just be clear. I don't care about the tournament. I didn't want to be in it. I still don't." His voice was flat."So whatever comes next, I'll deal with it. But don't expect me to play along like this means something to me."
Moody scratched his chin.
"You know what I don't get?" he said. "Half this castle would kill for a shot at that cup. Fame, gold, glory. It's everything most boys your age dream about. And yet here you are, acting like this is below you."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I just wanted one normal year," he said. "That's it. One year without something trying to kill me or turn me into a headline."
Moody studied him for a second longer, then gave a slow nod and stepped back. "Alright. Let's say I believe you. That means someone else put your name in. And the Goblet accepted it." He looked around the room like the answer might be hiding in plain sight. "That's not a simple prank. The Goblet's old magic. Strong. You'd need to fool it and bind the name with a fourth school that doesn't exist on the list. That's not student work."
He glanced back at Harry. "So the question is… who benefits from you being in this tournament?"
Dumbledore let out a low hum, not quite agreement, not quite protest. His hands folded in front of him as he looked at Harry. "That is the question," he said quietly. "Who had the skill, the motive, and the opportunity? Entering a fourth school would require intent, a clear understanding of the Goblet's protections, and a reason to circumvent them. That list is not long."
He glanced toward the fire where Crouch stood, then back at Moody. "And if it wasn't meant as a joke or a stunt, then it was meant as something worse."
He turned to Harry again. "Have you noticed anything strange in the last few weeks? Anything out of place? People you didn't expect to see?"
Crouch cut in without looking at Dumbledore. "Intentions don't matter anymore," he said. "The Goblet chose. It's done. We don't have time to waste chasing shadows." He turned to Harry. "You are a Triwizard Champion. That means three tasks across the year. First one's in November. You'll be briefed in detail the morning of. Until then, no help from professors, no outside assistance, and no quitting." He paused. "There'll be a contract for you to sign, but it's symbolic at this point. The magic's already bound."
Crouch reached into his coat and pulled out a folded pamphlet, the edges already crumpled from use. He handed it to Harry without ceremony. "This outlines the basic structure of the tournament, task intervals, safety protocols, and expected conduct. You'll want to read it." His voice was flat, like someone reciting a script he'd already said too many times. Harry took the paper but didn't open it.
"Who are the other champions?"
Crouch let out a slow breath, like he was already done with the conversation but knew it couldn't end yet. "Viktor Krum, representing Durmstrang. Fleur Delacour, for Beauxbatons. Cedric Diggory, for Hogwarts."
Harry blinked once. "Cedric?"
Crouch gave a curt nod, then turned toward the fireplace. "That's all you need to know for now."
Crouch stepped into the fire. He threw in a pinch of Floo powder and disappeared in a flash of green. The man who had been sitting by the wall stood and stretched his back. He gave Harry a smile that looked polite but meant nothing. "Good luck, lad," he said, and his voice was too cheerful for the hour. Then he stepped into the fireplace and was gone.
Karkaroff turned first, sweeping toward the door with Madame Maxime close behind. Her expression was stiff, unreadable, but his shoulders were too squared for someone satisfied. He reached the threshold, hand on the handle then stopped. Slowly, he turned, eyes fixed on Harry. In three long strides he crossed the room again, stopping just in front of him. He leaned down, close enough for Harry to see the yellow in his teeth and the cold in his stare.
"You think this is all some accident?" he whispered. "If your little school plays tricks, if my student is made to look a fool, you'll find out just how short my temper really is.."
Harry exhaled slowly. His chest tightened like it used to when Uncle Vernon raised his voice. For a second, everything slowed, what the hell was this? A headmaster, inches from his face, smiling like he wanted to see him bleed…
"YOU WHAT?!" McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip.
Her wand was up in a flash, aimed square at Karkaroff's face, eyes blazing with a fury Harry had never seen before.
"You dare threaten a student?! In my presence?! You spineless dog! You were Voldemort's servant once, and I see you haven't changed! Barking when the leash is off! Try that again and I'll hex you so hard you'll forget your own name!"
Moody's wand was already halfway out. Even Dumbledore looked ready.
Karkaroff stepped back fast, hands up, sneering like it was all some misunderstanding. "Control your staff, Dumbledore," he said "If this is how Hogwarts handles diplomacy, it's no wonder your students act like they're untouchable."
Dumbledore didn't respond. He gave McGonagall a subtle glance, a quiet signal to lower her wand, to let it go. She didn't move. She stepped in front of Harry instead, shoulders squared, wand still raised like she hadn't even noticed him.
"Out," she said to Karkaroff. "You will not come into this school and speak to my student like that. Leave."
Karkaroff didn't move. He stared at McGonagall, lips twisted in something that wasn't quite a smile. Then Madame Maxime stepped forward, putting a hand on his arm.
"I think we've had enough for one night," she said. Her voice wasn't warm.
Karkaroff didn't reply, but his eyes stayed locked on Harry for a second longer than they should have. Then he turned, muttering something under his breath in a language Harry didn't know, and swept toward the door. Maxime followed without another word.
The door slammed behind them.
"That's enough," Dumbledore said looking firmly at Transmutation Proffesor. McGonagall gave one last glare before lowering her wand. She didn't move from Harry's side.
Headmaster let out a long breath and turned away. He paced a few steps, muttering under his breath. "What a day, what a day…"
Fawkes stirred from his perch and flew down, landing gently on Dumbledore's forearm. The phoenix let out a soft, clear note, one that echoed faintly around the room like it had been waiting there all along. Only after a few moments Dumbledore stirred.
He looked at Harry and exhaled through his nose, tired. "Before you go get some sleep, because it is late, and this day has taken more than its share, I want to say I'm glad you went. To see your parents grave." He paused, just for a second. "The timing… it wasn't ideal. None of us expected your name to come out. But I believe you, Harry. I believe you didn't put your name in."
Harry didn't know what to say. He just gave a short nod and looked down at his shoes. The floor was scuffed near the desk, a scratch in the wood he hadn't noticed before. He stared at it for a long time.
McGonagall rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Potter."
He followed her out without a word.
They walked in silence through the quiet halls. Near the top of the staircase, just before the common room, McGonagall stopped and turned slightly toward him. "I owe you an apology, Mr. Potter," she said softly. "I was too harsh earlier. I let my worry get the better of me, and that wasn't fair to you." Harry didn't say anything, just watched her. She looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. It really was a long day for everyone, Harry realized. "You remind me of your mother sometimes," she went on. "Lily was brilliant at Transfiguration. Sharp, steady, and stubborn when she thought something was wrong. But she cared more than most people ever realized." Harry looked up, surprised. "I care about my students, Potter," she said. "I care about you. Even when I don't say it the right way." He gave a small nod. "Good night, Professor." She nodded back. "Good night, Pott… Harry."