The Room of Requirement had once again shaped itself into an expansive dueling hall—walls lined with burn marks from previous battles, the air faintly crackling with magic and the hum of the Force.
Harry adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders as he tightened his grip on his training lightsaber. Across from him, Dobby stood with both hands raised, his large green eyes narrowed with an intensity that would have made even an experienced duelist wary.
The little elf moved first.
A bolt of jagged blue lightning erupted from his fingertips, arcing across the polished stone floor toward Harry with lethal speed.
Harry's hand flicked upward. "Protego!"
A shimmering shield of magic flared before him, absorbing the first strike—but the second came almost instantly, forcing him to sidestep and counter with a sudden burst of telekinetic force.
Dobby was ready. He spun, letting the push slide past him, and retaliated with a barrage of spells Harry himself had taught him—sharp, precise hexes, followed by another savage streak of Force lightning.
Harry deflected two, dodged one, and smirked despite himself. "You've been practicing."
"Yes Master Harry," Dobby said, his voice steady despite the ferocity in his movements. "Dobby is not going easy today."
Harry chuckled. "Good. If you did, I'd be bored."
They circled each other, the light from the floating torches catching the beads of sweat on Harry's brow. Normally, Harry's style relied on illusions, misdirection, and carefully placed feints—a few sparks of magic here, a twist of perception there—leaving his opponent guessing while he conserved both magic and stamina. But today…
Dobby wasn't falling for any of it.
The elf's eyes remained locked on Harry's real position, not the illusions. His counters were sharper, more deliberate, and—most impressive of all—his bursts of rage no longer made him reckless.
Harry realized why.
It had to be her.
A week earlier, Dobby had come to him in the kitchens with a timid, worried expression. Behind him stood a small, trembling figure—Winky, the house-elf Harry remembered from the Quidditch World Cup, her eyes red and her hands twisted in the hem of her ragged tea-towel.
Dobby had explained in halting words how she'd been dismissed from the Crouch family and had spiraled into despair.
"Harry Potter, sir… Winky is… very lost. She needs someone. Not just work. A… family."
Harry had glanced at Winky, who didn't meet his eyes but whose shaking told him more than words could.
"If you want a bond with a wizard, Winky," Harry said gently, "then I'll accept. But only if you agree you'll have your freedom, and I'll never order you to do something you don't want."
Her head snapped up at that, tears welling in her eyes. "Winky… would like that very much, Master Harry."
With Dobby's permission—after all, she had come to him first—Harry took her in as part of his household. She had moved to Black Manor soon after.
Now, Winky wore fine dresses tailored for her size, soft leather shoes, and a ribbon in her hair that matched her brown eyes. She still visited Hogwarts often, spending time with Dobby and sharing quiet conversations with Harry in the common room when the castle slept.
And it was clear she had given Dobby something new—a reason to fight without losing himself.
Harry ducked under another whip of lightning and countered with a sharp mental push through the Force. Nothing. Dobby dug in his heels, refusing to budge, his magic crackling in the air like an approaching storm.
"Trying to knock me over, Master Harry?" the elf grinned fiercely. "Not today."
Harry grinned back. "Don't get cocky."
He feinted left, weaving an illusion of himself darting to the side, while in truth he moved right—yet Dobby's hand was already tracking the real Harry, unleashing a rapid combination of a Stunning Spell and a horizontal lightning sweep.
The electricity crackled so close Harry could feel the hairs on his arms rise.
"Not bad," Harry admitted, dropping into a crouch and sending a blinding flash toward Dobby's eyes.
Dobby's free hand came up instantly, shielding himself as if he'd anticipated it. "Winky told Dobby that Master will try tricking Dobby. Dobby listened."
Harry straightened, panting slightly—not from exhaustion, but from the exhilarating challenge. "You're learning too fast."
The elf's gaze softened for just a moment. "Dobby is learning… because Dobby must protect Winky now. Protect Master Harry, sir. Protect everyone Dobby cares for."
There was no boast in his tone, only fierce conviction.
Harry gave a small nod, understanding completely. "Then let's make sure you can."
He raised his wand—and this time, the fight truly began.
Harry's grin widened as he shifted his stance, grounding himself both in the Force and in his magic.
"All right, Dobby," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "no more games."
The elf's eyes lit with challenge. "Dobby is ready."
Harry moved first this time. Not a single flashy spell or attack—just a ripple in the air, an almost imperceptible disturbance that slid into Dobby's mind like a whisper.
The elf stiffened, his focus faltering for the briefest moment.
Harry's voice echoed inside his head—not from his mouth, but directly into his thoughts. Look left.
Instinctively, Dobby's eyes flicked left—and Harry was already on the right, sending a sharp telekinetic shove that knocked the elf off balance.
"Trickery!" Dobby exclaimed, catching himself mid-stumble.
"That's what I'm best at."
Dobby retaliated with another fierce arc of Force lightning, his small hands trembling with the effort. But Harry stepped forward, hand raised, and channeled his own energy into the Force—compressing the lightning between his palms until it fizzled into nothing.
"Too slow," Harry murmured, and this time he unleashed a wave of illusions. Half a dozen Harrys surrounded Dobby, each moving in different directions, their footsteps echoing in perfect unison.
The elf spun, firing off hexes and bursts of lightning at the phantoms, but each one vanished into smoke.
Then came the real attack.
Harry blurred forward, his actual form weaving between the illusions. A sudden disarming spell leapt from his hand—Expelliarmus!—but instead of sending Dobby flying backwards, Harry twisted the magic mid-cast, letting it wrap around the elf's arm like a snake, pulling it down while his other hand flicked forward, binding Dobby's legs with a silent conjured rope.
Before Dobby could react, Harry's Force grip closed around him, lifting him half an inch off the floor.
The elf's eyes widened, struggling against both the magical bindings and the invisible pressure holding him in place. "Dobby… cannot… move…"
Harry stepped closer, meeting his gaze. "Because I don't want you to."
A moment passed. Then Harry released the grip, and Dobby landed lightly on his feet, panting but smiling.
"You win, Master Harry."
Harry offered his hand, and Dobby took it without hesitation. "You pushed me harder than anyone has in weeks," Harry admitted. "And you're still improving."
Dobby's chest swelled with pride. "Dobby will keep training. For Winky. For Master. For everyone."
Harry nodded, already picturing their next session. "Good. But next time, Dobby… I'm not going to hold back at all."
The elf grinned. "Neither will Dobby."
They left the Room of Requirement together, their steps echoing in the quiet corridor, both knowing that today's battle had strengthened more than just their skills—it had strengthened the bond between them.
The Gryffindor common room was bustling with noise that afternoon, the air buzzing with excitement over the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. Students were gathered in small groups, reenacting what they had seen from the stands, their voices rising in bursts of laughter or gasps of awe.
Harry sat in his usual armchair near the fire, one leg stretched out, a book resting open in his lap. Neville was seated beside him, polishing his wand, while Hermione was across from them, leafing through Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean.
The moment the portrait hole swung open, the atmosphere shifted for Harry. Ron Weasley stepped inside, grinning like the past few months had never happened. His eyes swept the room until they landed on Harry.
"Harry!" Ron said, walking over quickly. "Mate, you should have participated. Anyway, you've got to hear—"
He stopped mid-sentence as his gaze flicked to Neville. Ron's smile faltered only for a second before he forced it back on. "Hey, uh, Neville, could you shift over? I'll sit there."
Neville hesitated, glancing at Harry.
Harry didn't look up from his book. His voice was calm, but cold. "No."
Ron blinked. "What?"
"You heard me," Harry said, finally lifting his eyes. "Neville's not moving. You're not sitting here."
The chatter in the common room dimmed.
Ron laughed awkwardly. "Come on, mate. Don't be like that. I was just—"
"You were just what?" Harry's voice cut through the space, sharp and direct. "Ignoring me? Treating me like I was some cheat who forced my way into this tournament? You didn't even ask me if it was true. You didn't care. You just turned your back the moment things looked bad."
Ron's smile vanished entirely. "I—look, it was—"
"It was exactly what it was," Harry interrupted, his tone low and hard. "You showed me the kind of friend you are. And I'm not interested in pretending it never happened just because it's convenient for you now."
Ron's face reddened, his hands clenching. "You're overreacting—"
"No," Harry said, leaning forward slightly, his green eyes locked on Ron's. "We're not friends anymore. Not now. Not ever."
A ripple of silence spread across the room.
Ron's jaw tightened, but he didn't reply. With a muttered curse under his breath, he turned and headed for the boys' dormitory.
Hermione's voice broke the quiet, calm but firm. "He deserved that."
Harry glanced at her. "I know."
"I stopped considering him a friend last year," Hermione said, her eyes still on her book. "After the Scabbers incident, I realised he'd never change."
Neville didn't say anything, but he sat a little taller, and Harry knew without a doubt that Neville wasn't going anywhere.
The fallout from Harry's blunt dismissal of Ron was immediate. By the next morning, whispers trailed Harry down every corridor. Some students looked at him with disapproval, others with a hint of satisfaction, as if glad someone had finally told Ron Weasley off.
At breakfast in the Great Hall, Harry sat with Neville and Hermione at the far end of the Gryffindor table.
Ron was three seats away, glaring into his porridge as though it had personally offended him.
Seamus and Dean kept exchanging awkward glances between them, clearly debating whether they should risk talking to Harry.
They didn't.
Halfway through his toast, Harry heard the unmistakable click of Professor McGonagall's heels.
"Mr. Potter," she said briskly, her lips pressed in a thin line. "A word, please."
Harry rose without comment, following her into an empty classroom off the corridor.
She turned to face him, her hands clasped tightly before her. "I have been informed that there is… tension between you and Mr. Weasley."
Harry didn't answer, waiting.
"It is not my business to involve myself in the personal matters of my students," McGonagall continued, "but the unity of Gryffindor House is important. I would like you to at least speak to him. Make an effort to—"
"No," Harry said flatly.
McGonagall's brows rose. "Mr. Potter—"
"I'm not interested in pretending things are fine," Harry said, his tone calm but unyielding. "When almost the entire House turned on me after my name came out of the Goblet, Ron was leading the charge. He never asked if it was true. He didn't care. He's not my friend, and nothing you say is going to change that."
For a moment, McGonagall's stern expression faltered, replaced by something that looked almost like regret.
She adjusted her glasses. "Very well. But I hope you will reconsider, for the sake of the House."
Harry didn't reply.
Later that evening, the summons came from Dumbledore. Harry entered the Headmaster's office to find the old wizard standing by the window, the dying sunlight glinting off his half-moon spectacles.
"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said warmly. "Lemon drop?"
"No, thank you," Harry replied, taking a seat.
"I hear," Dumbledore began, "that relations between you and your Housemates have been… strained. I also hear you were quite direct with young Mr. Weasley yesterday."
Harry gave a short, humourless laugh. "That's one way to put it."
Dumbledore leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. "You have been through much, Harry. More than most your age. But I must tell you—holding on to bitterness will only harm you in the long run. People make mistakes. Sometimes terrible ones. But forgiveness—"
"Forgiveness is earned," Harry cut in. "Not handed out because someone suddenly feels like being friendly again. The moment things went bad, they all turned their backs on me. You included."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled less than usual. "I assure you, I have always been on your side."
Harry met his gaze evenly. "Then you should have said so. Out loud. In front of everyone."
For the first time, Dumbledore didn't have a quick answer.
Harry stood. "I'm not going to make peace just so everyone can feel better about themselves. They showed me who they are. I believe them."
Without waiting for permission to leave, Harry walked out, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.