The scarlet Hogwarts Express puffed across the countryside, its rhythmic chugging echoing like a heartbeat of old magic and excitement. But this time, for Harry Potter, everything felt different.
He wasn't hunched in a corner seat, dreading the end of summer. He wasn't drained from months of silent suffering under the Dursleys. No—this time he returned to Hogwarts with peace in his chest, strength in his step, and confidence in his magic. The summer with Sirius and Remus had given him something precious: freedom, mentorship, and the feeling of belonging.
As the carriages rolled up to the castle and the great doors opened with their usual magical creak, Harry took a deep breath of the fresh, pine-scented air of the Highlands. He was home.
But peace, as always in his life, didn't last long.
Two days after the Welcoming Feast, Harry was summoned to the Headmaster's office. The note was polite, written in Albus Dumbledore's flowing hand, but it had the weight of command beneath its gentility.
"He's already sniffing around," Harry muttered to himself as he walked through the spiraling staircase leading to the office.
The griffin statue had barely slid aside before Harry stepped into the circular room, filled with ticking devices, softly glowing orbs, and the faint scent of lemon drops.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, Fawkes perched silently nearby.
"Harry," the Headmaster said with his usual warm tone. "Do come in. Lemon drop?"
"No, thank you," Harry replied politely, standing tall and alert.
Dumbledore gestured for him to sit, folding his hands on the desk. "I wanted to ask how your summer went. Where did you stay?"
Harry blinked once. "With a friend of my parents," he said simply.
Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled, but there was a sharpness beneath the surface.
"Yes, I suspected as much. But where exactly, Harry?"
Harry smiled faintly. "I'd rather not say."
A pause followed, long and deep. Then, ever so subtly, Harry felt a pressure—an invisible hand nudging at the edges of his thoughts, trying to sneak past his mental defenses.
He didn't flinch.
Instead, his magical shields—carefully built through months of practice with Remus's book on mind arts—held firm. The pressure rebounded like light against a mirror, and Dumbledore's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
"Legilimency?" Harry said coolly. "That's illegal. Especially on a minor."
The headmaster leaned back in his chair, the twinkle in his eyes momentarily extinguished. "You've been practicing Occlumency."
"And you've been testing your students without consent," Harry replied, voice calm but firm. "Why not just ask? Or do you not trust me to tell the truth?"
Dumbledore gave a small sigh. "It was not my intent to violate your mind, Harry. Merely to understand your safety. The protection at your relatives' home—"
"—was never protection," Harry interrupted. "It was a prison. And I'm not going back there."
The tone in the room shifted. Dumbledore's expression grew heavy, perhaps a touch sad.
"Harry, you must understand, the blood wards—"
"I also know that raising blood wards is illegal in Magical Britain," Harry said. "I'm not your pawn. I stayed with Remus Lupin. Someone who care about me."
There was a long silence. Dumbledore studied him, his eyes thoughtful, but Harry didn't flinch. His stare was unwavering, his shoulders squared.
"And who gave you the book on Occlumency?"
"Remus," Harry answered honestly. "And I've read a dozen more. I know the law. I know my rights. And I know when someone's trying to manipulate me."
The air in the office felt colder now. Fawkes gave a low trill, as if in warning or sadness.
Dumbledore finally spoke again. "I had hoped… you might find peace with your relatives. But it seems you have chosen another path."
Harry nodded. "I have. And I suggest you let me walk it."
He stood, brushing invisible dust from his robes. "Thank you for your concern, Headmaster. But I'll take care of myself from now on."
He turned for the door.
"Harry."
He stopped but didn't turn back.
"If you ever need guidance… you can always come to me."
"Of course," Harry said over his shoulder. "If I need anything… I'll come to someone I trust."
And with that, he exited the office, leaving behind a headmaster who, for the first time in years, was at a loss for words.
The morning sky was overcast, a soft blanket of mist rolling through the hills around Hogwarts. Autumn had begun to dye the leaves in burnt hues, and the castle grounds buzzed with anticipation. Excitement rippled through every corridor like a fresh spell cast over the students. The day had finally arrived—the day the visiting schools would come to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament.
For most, it was all anyone could talk about.
But not for Harry.
He sat at the end of the Gryffindor table, poking at a piece of toast while Ron rattled on excitedly about dragons and death-defying tasks.
"I heard one of the tasks involves fighting a giant!" Ron said, eyes gleaming with both fear and awe. "Charlie said the organizers always pick something mental for the first challenge."
"It's just a rumor," Hermione cut in, primly sipping her pumpkin juice. "There's no evidence any of the tasks have been revealed to anyone, least of all your brother in Romania."
"You always ruin the fun," Ron muttered, scowling into his bacon.
Harry remained quiet.
Truthfully, he found it hard to care. The thought of no Quidditch this year irked many students more than anything, and despite the grand buzz, he had more important things occupying his mind.
Black Manor had been cleaned from top to bottom, thanks to Dobby—who had returned to Hogwarts with a brand-new patchwork cloak stitched from dragon hide scraps, given to him by Sirius. The little elf had become Harry's partner in their secret nighttime training. Between wandless magic, force control, and advanced force practices, Harry's mind was sharper and more disciplined than it had ever been.
No Triwizard distraction could pull him from his goal.
But Hermione had other ideas.
That afternoon, as the entire school lined up in the courtyard, waiting to greet the arriving students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, Harry stood near the edge of the group, his arms crossed.
"This is ridiculous," he mumbled to himself. "Parading like we're in a royal welcome party."
Hermione nudged him. "Stop sulking. I didn't come here to watch flying carriages and ships alone."
"You've got Ron," Harry replied dryly, glancing toward where Ron was hopping up and down, trying to peek over the heads of taller students.
"I don't want Ron. I want someone who won't start fight everytime when lose an argument."
Harry sighed. "Fine. But I'm only doing this because you dragged me here."
She smiled.
"Obviously."
Moments later, the sky darkened briefly as an enormous powder-blue carriage, pulled by a dozen winged horses the size of elephants, soared through the clouds. The students gasped as it gracefully descended onto the lawn near the Forbidden Forest.
From inside emerged the Beauxbatons students—tall, graceful, clad in pale uniforms, their steps almost choreographed. At the front walked a towering woman who seemed half-giant at least, her blue robes flowing like water.
"Madame Maxime," Hermione whispered. "Headmistress of Beauxbatons. She's rumored to have trained in France and the Alps."
"She's also rumored to be taller than Hagrid," Harry muttered, earning a quick elbow from Hermione.
Soon after, the Black Lake rippled unnaturally. A whirlpool appeared near the center and from its depths rose a massive, masted ship, barnacle-covered and glistening like an old pirate ghost vessel. With groaning wood and clanking chains, it pulled up to the shore.
"Durmstrang," Hermione said, more wary now. "They're known for emphasizing combative magic... and they allow certain Dark Arts studies."
From the ship emerged rugged students, thickly dressed in fur-lined cloaks. They moved with the discipline of a military unit. Behind them, a tall man with a goatee and sharp features walked like a general inspecting his army.
And next to him, walking with quiet confidence, was someone who made the entire crowd stir.
"That's Viktor Krum!" Ron practically shrieked, grabbing Seamus by the shoulder. "That's Krum! The Seeker!"
Harry turned and looked at Hermione. Her eyes had widened too, but she whispered, more academically than gushingly:
"He's still in school? I thought he already graduated!"
Harry remained unfazed.
He had no interest in celebrities. He'd faced a basilisk. He'd fought off death eaters. He had no time for broomstick-waving fanboys.
Still, he watched.
There was something different about these schools. The students moved like trained duelists. It wasn't just ceremony—it was confidence.
He'd have to keep an eye on them.
As the crowds began to disperse and the visiting schools were escorted into the Great Hall, Hermione turned to him.
"See? Wasn't that worth watching?"
"Not really," Harry said. "But I'm glad you're happy."
She looked at him carefully. "You're changing."
He met her eyes. "Is that a problem?"
"No," she said softly. "It's just... you're quieter now. Sharper. It's like… you're not just Harry Potter anymore."
He looked toward the lake, then back at the castle.
"Maybe I'm not."
To Harry's quiet relief, the influx of new students didn't disturb the balance at the Gryffindor table. The Beauxbatons delegation was guided to sit with the Ravenclaws, their refined airs and graceful manner more at home among the academic house. Durmstrang, with their thick furs and colder expressions, were seated alongside the Slytherins, whose dark green robes did little to mask their eager curiosity about the foreign school's take on combat magic.
Harry tucked back into his food, savoring the excellent changes to the feast. Hogwarts' kitchens had clearly outdone themselves tonight. There were dishes from all across Europe—cured meats, warm stews, delicate pastries, and even an unexpected but delicious serving of Bouillabaisse, a French delicacy he hadn't tasted before. The moment was peaceful, until Hermione jabbed her elbow into his side.
"Look at Ron," she whispered, eyes narrowed.
Harry turned.
Ron was practically sliding out of his seat, his jaw slack and his spoon forgotten in his hand. He wasn't alone. Most of the Gryffindor boys—and a number of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students—were openly staring toward the Ravenclaw table.
"What are they staring—"
And then he saw her.
The Beauxbatons girl sitting near Madame Maxime was radiant. Silvery-blonde hair flowed like liquid moonlight down her back, her features striking and delicate, and an invisible aura shimmered around her like sunlight on water. Even Harry felt it—something subtle, something that stirred an instinct to look twice, to lean forward, to be enchanted.
But Harry had been training in the mind arts for months now.
The moment he felt the magical pull, he activated his mental defenses like clockwork, the shields snapping into place. The pull dissolved into nothingness. He blinked, chewed his food, and turned back toward his plate as though she were any other guest.
That was when the girl noticed.
Fleur Delacour had lived her life surrounded by admiration. Whispers, longing glances, open flattery—it was her norm. Being part-Veela meant she inspired such reactions without even trying. But now she noticed the strange boy with messy hair and emerald green eyes shake her aura off like it were dust on his sleeve.
He didn't even look back.
The sudden rejection stung. Her pride bristled. Who was this boy, who dared ignore her beauty, her Veela charm? Was he enchanted by someone else? Blind? Or simply arrogant?
No, she would not let this go.
Fleur rose gracefully from her seat, ignoring the surprised glances of her fellow Beauxbatons students. She walked toward the Gryffindor table, every movement calculated, every flick of her hair charged with deliberate allure. The enchanted part of her aura pulsed stronger—enough to draw a gasp from Seamus Finnigan, who nearly choked on his drink.
Harry, still chewing his last mouthful of potatoes, noticed the silence that followed. He glanced up, then immediately back down, unimpressed. The girl had come to stand right in front of him. Her magic crashed against his mental shields like a tide hitting a cliff. Useless.
She looked down and saw the dish in front of him.
"Ballubassie," she said softly, her accent flowing like honey.
Harry didn't answer. He simply picked up the silver platter, held it out to her, and without looking at her twice, said:
"You can have it if you want. I'm full."
Fleur blinked. She took the plate almost mechanically.
The boy—this boy—was the first she'd met who didn't so much as glance twice at her.
She stood there for another second longer, as if expecting him to look back up. He didn't.
He was already cutting into a buttered roll, completely unfazed.
Fleur turned, carrying the Ballubassie with her, and returned to the Ravenclaw table in complete silence.
Behind her, Ron finally blinked and muttered:
"Blimey. Did Harry just… ignore her?"
Seamus leaned toward him.
"She could've asked me to dance on the table and I'd have said yes."
Hermione grinned from ear to ear.
Harry, finally swallowing his bite, shrugged and muttered:
"Don't see the big deal."