Archive of Our Own

— Albus Dumbledore to Harry Potter during their first lesson together.

There's magic everywhere to those who can see it.

Sirius' magic behaves a great deal like him—it looks wild and restless around his body, the sigils and runes of its make fluttering on an unseen breeze and blossoming into colors and possibilities. Even if frayed at the edges, his magic fills the little St. Mungo's room and remains unbroken as it howls and screams and burns with defiance. Sirius' voice is nothing but background noise to me as he tells a story about some prank he pulled in the seventies because, at the same time, his magic shows me everything else.

"The moral of the story is, you never use a yak as a flotation device," he says with a smile that falters slightly as no one laughs. "Harry, are you paying attention? Harry? You alright?"

"Sorry, just worried."

These simple words managed to freeze the very essence of his magic.

Startled into silence, Sirius props himself on his elbows and looks me up and down as if he'd never seen me before. One of his feet dangles from under the old, threadbare blanket and, for a second or two, the intensity of his stare gives the impression that he owns the room.

Even as his expression is tight with concern, it's impossible to ignore how much of Sirius' appearance has changed in just two months. Now, after putting on some much-needed weight and with his hair combed and luxurious, his face bears a close resemblance to that smiling man from my parents' wedding photo.

"Well," Sirius finally finds his voice again, "are you, now?"

"Nevermind." My gaze darts around, trying find something to distract him with, and I catch the sight of one of the flowers on his nightstand. It looks like a tumorous begonia, big, yellow, and ugly, a bit too much on the Crabbe side of things. "Remus' gift?"

"Afraid so," Sirius' nose wrinkles with distaste, "bugger told me it reminded him of my mother."

I laugh. "Really? What's the story behind-"

"Harry? Stop bullshitting and tell me what you're worried about."

I blame this turn of luck on the fact that Sirius is smart, not Hermione smart, but like, street smart. There's no alternative on sight other than to get on with it already, clean and easy, like taking off a band-aid. From an oozing pustule.

"Remember earlier, when Professor Dumbledore brought me here?"

"Yeah," he stretches the word like it's a savory treat, "your face was priceless. I thought you'd had a stroke or something."

My very mature reaction is to throw a pillow at him. "Shut it."

"Ouch. What's that about?"

"Reasons." I promptly ignore his noise of protest. "You see, before Professor Dumbledore Apparated me here, he told me I'll be back to Hogwarts tomorrow."

"So why the bloody hell are you worried?" Sirius spreads his arms open and his eyes go wide. "C'mon, it's Hogwarts! I thought you'd feel thrilled about that. I know I would."

"Trust me, I do. I seriously—oh, shut up—do, but-" I pause, allowing the silence to carry on for a second while my mind searches everywhere for the right words. "I haven't been there with them for two years, Sirius."

There's a beat of silence.

"I see," he says with a shrewd glint on his eyes that makes me feel uncomfortable. "You fear they won't accept you back."

"Just hit the nail on the head, wouldn't you?" I say, trying to hide my very real wince. "That, and the times I went back weren't the best, either."

Well done saying the wrong thing here, Potter. Sirius' magic, which looked relaxed and at ease a second earlier, lashes around and turns to the deep red of blood. Its long-forgotten symbols of power now whipping in the air like inflamed wounds.

"Crap, I am sorry-" he cuts my apologies short with a raised hand.

"Not your fault," Sirius sucks in a breath, cold fury flashing in his eyes for a split-second, "so you better can it. We'll have our reckoning with him in time."

The lines of his face look even deeper in the candlelight and he doesn't meet my eyes. To Sirius, Hogwarts had been the last place he saw Pettigrew only a few months ago, as he, once more, managed to escape under the eyes of Professor Dumbledore and the Minister. The rat of a man who had betrayed him. Betrayed my parents.

Who had betrayed me.

The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek. I avert my eyes from Sirius, focusing instead on the faint glowing stains on the sheets of his bed; remains of shed magical lifeblood that no spell could ever wash clean.

As the silence gets more and more unbearable, I risk a look back at him. The carefree smile has disappeared from his face and Sirius is stiff as a cadaver, with one muscle spasming on his jaw and his eyes narrowed into slits.

"I see where you're coming from," he says through gritted teeth, "that bastard of a rat didn't exactly endear the place to me, either."

My laugh sounds hollow and too high-pitched in the somber mood of the room. "Hermione would've given you a piece of her mind about tact, she would."

But saying Hermione's name doesn't help. To me, she still looks like she did on the Hospital Wing, pale and clammy as made of marble. It brings back images of petrified bodies and yellow eyes and damp caves deep inside the earth.

The Basilisk uncoils, enormous, its acid green scales glittering under the dim lights of the Chamber of Secrets. Next to it, Ginny Weasley—no, not Ginny, this can only be Tom Riddle—laughs with a cold, cruel voice that has no business coming from a little girl's mouth.

The serpent's magic is terrible to behold as it unfolds, made for ruin and for death. It's ingrained deep into flesh and sinew. A sharp, bitter cold, a thousand voices chorusing for me to just lie down. To let it taste warm blood again.

"Behind me, Harry!"

Professor Dumbledore shoves me back. He stands tall between the beast and me, his wand at ready. Magic erupts around him like a newborn sun as the old sorcerer rises to meet this new challenger.

"Kill them," Tom Riddle hisses.

"—Harry? Harry?"

Goosebumps run up my spine and my arm aches with phantom pain. That had been close—too close. Sirius' frantic voice is tinged with worry as he shakes my shoulder.

"I'm fine." Has my voice always been this raspy? "Peachy, even."

I press the palms of my hands on my eyes hard enough for bright spots to crop up on my vision. Sometimes, that gift is more like a curse, because seeing magic is seeing intent and the Basilisk reeked of murder.

Sirius is frowning as I look up to him. "Bad memories?"

"You could say that," Merlin, my smile even sounds weak. "Say, what were you talking about?"

His jaw sets up into a grimace, but he doesn't pry. "I said I understand your situation."

"Come on now?"

"When Remus came to visit, I felt almost the same way," he says and the skin around his eyes tighten. "Twelve years, Harry, he'd spent twelve years hating me for something I didn't do. I resented him as you can't believe.

"I had all these ideas. How I wanted to scream at him, even throw a hex or two in the mix," Sirius then shakes his head and his lips twist into a wry grin. "I couldn't. Even after all this time, he's still Moony, my brother in all that matters. I couldn't."

The clear fondness he put in his words almost made me smile.

"Cute."

"Watch it," Sirius words lack any real heat though, "so, getting to the point. I reckon your friends will do the same, if they feel that about you, no matter how much time has passed. If they don't, well."

He trails off, his stare now fixed on a point of the ceiling. Sirius goes into these moods a lot less now, but it's still clear that twelve years of Azkaban had exacted its toll from him. Especially when talking of the past and his friends.

"If they don't?" Alarm bells go off in my head when he doesn't answer. "Sirius? Come off it already! Padfoot!"

"What?" he jerks back as he'd just been burned. "Oh. Righto. Then they can bugger off, I say."

A sigh of relief escapes from my lips as I get up and busy myself by picking a glass of water for him.

"Cheers, Padfoot, you have such a way with words."

"You bet I do." Sirius accepts the glass with a thankful nod. "Boy, you should've seen how I rolled in Hogwarts. The ladies couldn't help but love this animal magnetism."

"Until you piss on her shoes, yeah?" My chair clatters on the ground as I jump out from his reach. "Temper, temper, old man."

"I'll show you temper," he grumbles, "and don't joke about that. If your new year there is anything like the others, I will end up grey soon enough, and it'll be your own damn fault."

That's a bit rich coming from him, that sure is.

"Hey, I don't go searching for trouble-"

"Trouble finds you, I know," Sirius doesn't look too convinced though. "Care to tell me how you keep getting into trouble in the school while being out of the damned school, then?"

"Well, you see." My lips split into a grin that wouldn't look out of place on Sirius' face. "I did solemnly swear that I'm up to no good."

My timing is just right. Water comes spraying from Sirius' mouth as he howls with laughter.

There are few things that can rival the beauty of Hogsmeade at night.

When Professor Dumbledore brought me to London, I remember being dazzled by the sheer amount of different, unique people in just one place. Hogsmeade has the same feeling in a different flavor; instead of faces, I see magic in a thousand ways there.

The Dervixes and Banges' showcase glows like a Christmas tree even as the owner closes the shop's doors, the enchantments of all these objects put together mixing into a single kaleidoscope of colors. Near that, I catch a trace of a Self-Stirring enchantment on the window of the Three Broomsticks. The spell remains unique for barely a second before a wave of different symbols and runes and people engulfs it back into the whole.

On a street that still has faded echoes of unidentifiable old spells, a wizard gives his dog a biscuit. Even this unassuming gesture evokes an answer from magic, as the primitive shapes that express the animal's raw existence glimmer and extend to caress the man's hand; every bit as real as the licks the dog is giving him.

I will repeat. Magic is everywhere to those who can see it.

And from my vantage point on the second floor of the Hog's Head, I see it all.

Adjusting my position on my old, well-used chair, I cross my arms behind my head and try to burn the sigh of the village in my mind for posterity.

Hey, is that the Gladrags' witch with a—

The sound of something crashing downstairs makes me jump.

Cursing under my breath, it takes only three steps for me to cross the entire breadth of my room and wrench the door open, wand in hand as I yell. "You okay here, Aberforth?!"

"Mind your own business!" he shouts back.

Well, good enough for me. He's clearly alright if he's still capable of these dulcet tones, must've been some reluctant patron keeping on his hair.

The door clicks as I close it and cast a look around for a distraction. A golden glint catches my eye, halfway hidden behind a stack of notes on my nightstand. There, behind all these papers, is a little, winged ball of gold.

The first Snitch I'd ever caught.

Arithmanthic circles of red and gold move like clockworks around the Snitch, its magic fading with age. I grab it and my own magic courses through my wand as I charge two of the arrays—flying and hidden—and the Snitch begins to swerve on the air once more.

The crowd roars as I held the Snitch up in my clenched fist and yell in both triumph and happiness at my catch. My eyes turn to the sight of Ron and Hermione running down the stands, the two of them with enormous smiles.

I snatch the Snitch from the air as my gut twists with guilt. Except for some stolen moments in the two past years, Ron and Hermione hadn't been a constant in my life at all, especially not smiling.

Especially after the Chamber of Secrets.

It's funny when you think about it. The day when we went through the trapdoor had been both the culmination and the end of our friendship, like a piece of music going into a final crescendo. We were ready to die for each other right there and to be together until the end.

But then Voldemort exercised his own special way of turning gold into shit.

Quirrell screams as my hands burn his skin while a voice—Voldemort's—orders him to do me in. Even as a stench of charred meat that's sickening exudes from him, he obliges, picking up his wand and pointing it to my face.

Call it instinct or anything, but I charge and grab his face, the Philosopher's Stone falling from my pocket in the process. I have to turn my nose at the sickly sweet smell of burned meat as his skin fizzle under my hands and flake away, an unknown liquid seeping through my fingers. I fight the impulse to retch.

His curse misses me by inches—but it didn't miss the Stone.

It explodes.

Pain. Pain different, but not lesser, than the agony in my scar that is almost splitting my head open. Pain more visceral than anything my body has experienced before, stabbing pain right in my eyes that ate burning and twisting and pulsating.

My world turns pure black and it hurts to blink. Something hot drips from my face and all it remains for me to do is to keep holding Quirrell. Even as everything goes down, and down, and down and I lose the battle against the impulse to not vomit.

Someone calls my name just as unconsciousness takes hold of me.

Merlin, my everything hurt like hell for days after that. Even now, my throat feels a bit parched at the mere thought. A cup of water downstairs sounds perfect, maybe a word or two with Aberforth.

The chair groans in protest as I get up and out of my bedroom.

True to the norm, Aberforth's down there pushing the doors closed.

If you want to find how Aberforth looks, go and pick Professor Dumbledore. Then you throw him on the Forbidden Forest for a decade or so, mix and stir, then you'll have your own Aberforth Dumbledore.

He's tall and thin, his beard and hair are as long as his brother's but look far wilder and untamed. If you squint and turn sideways, you can even see some familiar resemblance, but that's it.

The picture is finished by the trustworthy rag he has over his shoulder, dirty and frayed, looking every bit like Godric Gryffindor's own used loincloth. How he manages to clean anything with that, no one can ever understand.

Thinking about it, nor do I really want to.

"You should wash this thing, y'know," I say, sitting on a stool that sports the crimson traces of a Scorching Hex. "It's dirty, Abe."

"I reckon you should mind your own business," Aberforth says as he bends down to pick something from under the counter. "Merlin's breeches, boy, what're you doing up and about at this ungodly hour?"

He throws one Butterbeer to me and I catch it almost by reflex, flicking the cap off with the ease of experience. "Thinking."

"Dangerous thing, you doing that is."

"Funny." I roll my eyes and take a swig from the bottle."If you want to know, I was thinking about tomorrow. Sirius helped a bit, but—well, he's Sirius. He thinks it'll be a swell old prank."

Aberforth gives me a look that's eerily reminiscent of his brother.

"Understandable, the man spent twelve years inside that hellhole. You go and try to buddy up with Dementors for that long and tell me how it goes."

My nose wrinkles in disgust at his mention of these things. I have no intention of coming anywhere a mile close to a Dementor again. Their magic was like a vacuum, a hole in the reality; full of hungry tendrils of nothingness and always twisting into shapes that hurt to look at.

"Hey." Now, to change the subject. "D'you remember when I moved here?"

"Worst day of my life," he promptly answers. "Here I am, tending to my clients, and from the horizon comes Albus bloody Dumbledore with his new apprentice. Not on a white horse, oh no, but with a bandaged midget who happens to be blind as a Cannons' fan."

"I'm sorry if the bits of Philosopher's Stone in my eyes inconvenienced you, so very sorry," my breath comes out in a long-suffering sigh. "At least it saved me from the hassle of glasses though."

"Don't you take this tone with me, lad," Aberforth grumbles as he begins to clean some glasses with the rag. The rag, you know, the one which is many, many times dirtier than anything on this side of a dump.

We stand there in companionable silence until he turns to me again.

"If you ask me, this teenage woe-be-me you're fancying? It's a load of Hippogriff dung," he says, making me almost spit the Butterbeer in shock. Aberforth talking about feelings?

"What?" My voice comes strangled between coughs. "Why?"

"I see it all over your face." Aberforth points to me. "Oh yes, right there. You've lived here for two years and I got your measure alright. Stiff as dragon scales while facing mortal peril, a complete wreck when given stern talking-to."

My lips twitch at that, but he doesn't stop.

"You want advice? Here's some. Go and deal with it as it comes. Merlin knows that, as much as my brother tries to do just that, no one can predict the future or change the past. What happened, happened, and it does no good to anyone to dwell on these things."

Even if the "as much as I want it to be different" he says under his breath isn't my imagination, there's no point to ask him about that. Everybody deserves his own secrets and I would be a bloody hypocrite to go bugging him about his.

Catching up on the finality of the mood, I bid him goodbye and went back up to my room. On the way, I pause to catch the sight of my reflection in an old, smudged mirror.

To be honest, it would be a lie to say that my eyes, still green but now twinkling with hidden stars—Katie's definition, not mine—don't look pleasant to me. The rest of my face, though, tired and too much on the pale side is a completely different matter. Then I look a little upwards and see it.

There's a foulness in my forehead, right on the scar, a stench of the blackest magic that I suppose to be the remains of the Killing Curse. It's shackled by strands of gold and white which echoes with an ancient magic that I can't hope to understand, but I like to think of as being the protection evoked by my mother's sacrifice; a mark of her love that only I can see.

Rubbing my scar absently-minded, I stop on the doorstep of my room, pick my wand and cast Tempus.

To anyone else, the spell Tempus only shows the time it has been cast. Yet, there's more to it—much, much more. I look deeper into the inner workings of the spell, appreciating how my own magic comes out of my wand in a nimbus of particles and catches the ambient energy, charging it through two Numerologic Matrixes, which, then, put the result through Kaunaz—the rune of understanding—to make the numbers visible.

A simple piece of magic, so full of secrets to those who could see. These things unraveled before me in what seemed like an eternity but, in reality, couldn't be more than a split second.

With a nonchalant wave of my wand inside the spell, I change the color of the numbers to purple.

Two after midnight—I should catch some sleep.

My fingers run along the walls of my bedroom and the carpet muffles my steps inside. Not an enormous room in any way, mind you, but it looks cozy and well lived. There's a Quidditch poster on the wall, this one being a gift from the twins, and a stand for my broom, a desk, and a comfortable bed. There were even some pictures, the biggest of them being of my penultimate birthday here, with the team and even Abe lurking on a corner.

The best thing about living above the Hog's Head, though, is absent. The hubbub of people downstairs, shouting and arguing and laughing, all of them unique and interesting.

The sound of life.

The wards glimmer as Aberforth stomps up the stairs to his bedroom and the soothing light of the enchantments circle around me like a cage made of stardust.

I never managed to grow up from my Muggleish fascination with magic and, as my finger touch a blue mote in the shape of the rune Algiz, it seems impossible for me to ever do. The rune dissolves in sparkles on the air, going back to the whole.

"Potter!" Aberforth shouts from his bedroom. "Stop messing with magic here! My cabinet just caught on fire, damn you!"

"Sorry Abe!" my answer is drowned out by his string of curses.

He curses even more as he hears my laughter. Living with Aberforth is fun, he's a good bloke—a bit rough around the edges, but nothing I can't deal with. He's earned my loyalty easily as he helped me during the time that, for all intents and purposes, my eyes were useless.

There are downsides, obviously, as living in the Hog's Head makes it hard for me to interact with people from around my age. I had almost no contact with other students, except for the Hogsmeade weekends when my Quidditch mates came to visit—and to risk a guess, Fred and George probably shanghaied them into adopting me or something after the Chamber.

My eyes fall back to the portraits on my nightstand.

These were the days. Just flying with them without a care in the world.

The memories came, unbidden, scenes of me and the twins just talking about everything and nothing. Wood breaking down in hysterical tears as I said I wouldn't be coming back but was still game to help them train. Katie blushing when she said that about my eyes for the first time, while Angelina and Alicia giggled—

My alarm clock went off.

Merlin, it's already three past midnight.

Muffling a yawn with the back of my hand, I lean on the windowsill and take a last look at the village. Even as the need for sleep wrestled my mind to the ground, the sight of the castle on the horizon makes my breath hitch in my throat.

Hogwarts.

I still remember the sound of the castle doors closing behind me; the pain from seeing the enormous amount of magic from the castle and the students almost searing my eyes just two years before. Now, though? After Professor Dumbledore took me under his wing and taught me control?

It is a damn nice sight to behold.

Few things are beautiful as Hogsmeade at night, but Hogwarts gives it a good run for its money. The castle looks magnificent, its towers cutting through the sky, majestic and alluring as ever. The magic surrounding the school, visible even from distance, feels warm and welcoming. Like the best things in the world—full of life and enthusiasm. It's almost like an old friend greeting me back, knowing I couldn't be gone for long.

It feels like home.

My eyelids flutter closed, apparently deciding by their own that enough was enough. Still too caught up in thinking about Hogwarts, though, my mind drifts back to that night before the Mirror of Erised. The night I finally met Albus Dumbledore one-on-one and he gave me the tools to fight and win against Voldemort.

He'd asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement—back again, Harry?

Yes, Professor, my smile is full of promises, at long last, I am back.

No one would ever call The Hog's Head a respectable establishment, but Merlin, credit needs to be given where it's due—the place sure could attract an interesting crowd.

I rest my Daily Prophet on the counter, averting my eyes from an inane recounting of the Quidditch World Cup. My gaze catches the next headline and I muffle a laugh with my fist, thinking about how Sirius would react to this extensive proclamation of his various virtues. As if the man's ego isn't big enough already.

My eyes roam the bar before me and I spot two hags in a corner, wolfing down some raw liver. More interesting than them, though, is their magic. It's untamed, symbols of power twisting, welts taught on scabbed flesh as blood drips from their mouths.

Another wizard is across the room, hunched over a bag of Newt's eyes he's counting under his breath. I can hardly hear him, but his smell is practically a physical entity by itself. His magic is coiled like a spring, and jumps at every noise around him; in contrast, the wand resting on his table is calm, the clear hermetic sigils of its make lying bare before me.

Second-hand. I dismiss him and let my eyes roam the room further.

I can only wonder what his story is. If I wanted to be rude and presume, I would say he's an ex-convict, or he's on the run. That ill-suited wand before him must be either stolen or given to him with great reluctance, as they are an absolutely terrible match.

A grunt by my side alerts me to Aberforth's presence as he puts a mug before me. I barely register the smell of coffee wafting pleasantly from it and, instead, I look at Aberforth's magic. It's familiar, rigid and unyielding. Solid as an ancient, gnarled tree during a thunderstorm; it churns around him like a cloud made of raw iron.

I thank him with an elbow to the ribs.

"Abe, Abe." My voice descends to a whisper even as he curses at me. "Abe."

"The hell you're doing that for?" he says and elbows me right back. His hair is more disheveled than normal and his eyes, hidden behind dirty spectacles, are bloodshot and bleak-looking. Clearly, he isn't a morning person.

"Would you look at this, that Hag's been bitten by a Flobberworm," I say, gesturing discretely across the room.

"And I should care, why?"

"Abe-" the corners of my mouth twitch, "Flobberworms don't have teeth."

Aberforth stares at me, blankly, and I sigh.

"It's just a joke. Professor Dumbledore told it to me."

"Figures. You and Albus are both cuts of the same cloth lad," Aberforth says, "you two aren't all there by a long, long way. Maybe that's why he likes you so much, Merlin knows I don't."

His own magic contradicts his words as it extends to me, forming an almost solid wall of between myself and the world; my smile at this, though, remains safely hidden behind my mug of coffee.

There's a familiar sense of belonging as Hedwig comes through the window, startling that Newt fellow in the process. Her magic is connected to mine by many strands of gold, like heavy chains we gladly took upon ourselves.

She perches on my shoulder and, by the virtue of long-conditioned reaction, I offer her some owl treats from my pocket. She takes one and gives me a nip on the ear by the way of thanks.

"No need to thank me, girl."

Aberforth looks at me like I've finally lost my marbles. "I didn't."

"And you ain't no girl either, I was talking to Hedwig."

"Right, the owl," Aberforth shakes his head, "because talking to an owl is a perfectly normal thing to do, says you." He then glances at his watch. "Did Albus at least have the decency to tell you when he's coming?"

"Haven't the foggiest. Professor Dumbledore said he'll come after the rest of the people arrive on the Express, so maybe seven, seven-thirty?"

"Good, so there's enough time for you to get off your lazy ass up and stash the Butterbeers from that crate," he points a thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

"You're joking."

"Am I? If you think I'll let you slack off just because you are leaving, you have another thing coming," his lips then twist into a smirk. "The owl can even go with you, as it seems that she makes for a good conversation."

I finish my coffee in a gulp and fix him with a stare. "That's revenge for the Flobberworm thing, isn't it?"

"Glad to see you're paying attention, lad."

A knock on the door startles me, making me drop A Numerous Numerology Compendium right on my feet. The book has some two thousand pages and a steel binding, so it's not a nice feeling.

"Shite! Of all the damn—"

My complaint dies as the Wards swirl in a familiar way, sampling the magic of the visitor and running it through its enchantments. The process is done in less than a second and they lift back to their quiet state, but it gives me time enough to recognize the newcomer's magic.

"Come in, Professor!"

The door opens and, true to my thoughts, the Headmaster is here. He waits by the door frame, clad in garish, purple robes dotted with golden sphinxes and pyramids, and his ever-present half-moon glasses are precariously balanced on his crooked nose.

"Good night, Harry," he says as he steps inside. "I hope I am not intruding?"

"No way, Professor. How're you?"

"I am well." His eyes light up with amusement as he looks to me. "However, am I to understand that you decided to follow my personal opinion about fashion statements?"

Heat creeps up my cheeks as his words sink in, I'd forgotten to take off my Puddlemere United sombrero after annoying Abe enough with it. The Headmaster raises an eyebrow.

"Though, if I can offer some advice, the hat lacks a certain je ne sais quoi if you don't have a full grown beard. Maybe in some years?"

"Gah." My face positively glows with embarrassment as I take the hat off as fast as humanly possible and throw it over my shoulder. "Huh, sure. Thank you?"

His chuckles make me feel very lame.

"I see you haven't finished packing," Dumbledore says, surreptitiously peeking around the bedroom to the books and clothes strewn on every surface. "May I be of help?"

"Sure, and sorry for the hassle. I would've had finished earlier, but I was caught up writing to Sirius and—"

"It's quite alright," he says and, with a practiced wave of his wand, everything I owned went neatly into my trunk, which closes with a snap.

Professor Dumbledore's magic looks like the ocean to me—deep and full of mysteries, every layer shadowing more and more intricate designs that glitter around him, at the same time being delicate as fractals made of glass and full of sheer, raw strength, that none could stand up against.

His wand, though? It's the exception of the rule about resonance.

Where his magic looks calm and collected, the wand's magic is savage and combative, its inner clockworks of light smaller and more numerous than anything else, so complex that my eyes hurt just from looking. The very air trembles around the wand, the shapes within it twisting and ready to unleash overwhelming, primal magic, with all the sense of inevitability of a gravestone.

Finesse and power weaved seamlessly together and even greater than the sum of their parts for it.

It takes a while for me to wrench my eyes from that sight and motion to and pick the trunk, but Professor Dumbledore's raised hand stop me.

"A House-Elf will be sent to bring your belongings to the Gryffindor Tower." He then peers at me over his spectacles. "Do you have your Portkey necklace on you?"

"There." I finger the thin, delicate chain hidden under my shirt, it looks unassuming and light, but its magic is strong. "I reckon I'll still need to use it while in Hogwarts, then?"

"Alas, I think so, especially in the wake of the Quidditch World Cup and the pain in your scar. After all, being cautious when it is not necessary is always better than not being cautious when it is."

"Eh, sure. And talking about that, did they catch someone?"

"They haven't." Dumbledore then runs a hand through his beard. "Cornelius seems to have divined, by methods unknown, that it was only a ruse to demoralize his Ministry to the foreign attendants."

I affect a surprised look. "He thinks? That's new."

"It does sound far-fetched sometimes, doesn't it? But your very well-known grievances with Cornelius aside, there's anything else you want to get? That marvelous cloak of yours, perhaps?"

"Already in my pocket."

"Excellent." He smiles and beckons for me to follow. "So off we go."

Just as we go down the stairs, though, I stop dead at the sight that greets me there.

Aberforth has already closed for the night, so he's almost alone behind the bar with a glass of Firewhisky at hand. The strange thing is, there's someone else lounging on a stool next to him.

Professor Dumbledore motion for me to go and his eyes are alight with amusement as I practically run down the steps and pull the man here into a one-armed hug.

"I wasn't told you had picked up a stray in the way, Professor!"

"Oi!" Sirius playfully shoves me away, his smile big as my own. "Stray? Stray? I'll have you know that, as my dear mother put it, I am of finest breeding!"

"You say your mother has dragon-dung for brains too, so there's that."

"Dragon dung for brains and a black hole for a heart, more likely," he says and motions for me to sit down. "The Butterbeer is for you, by the way."

"Gee, thanks." My smile falters slightly as, next to me, Professor Dumbledore exchanges a rather cool greeting with Aberforth. "And thank you too for bringing him, Professor."

A bit of Dumbledore's tenseness bleeds away just then. "It was nothing, my boy. Young Sirius isn't fully discharged yet, but his Healers happen to agree with me that he could take a moment or two to see your off. Perhaps—" he hesitates, looking back to Aberforth, "perhaps he can take residence here in the future, after he is well?"

Aberforth frowns. "I'm not running a resort here, Albus."

Seeing how a rat has just come squirreling from a corner, I certainly hope not.

"Why, Aberforth, it's like you don't like me anymore," Sirius interjects.

Aberforth scoffs. "I never did, lad. You and your little gang made too much trouble here for that," he then takes another sip of his Firewhisky. "I thought the Blacks had a house somewhere in London?"

"They do, but it's no more home to me than Azkaban." Sirius' eyes harden and, for a second, the shadow of the man in these wanted posters pass through his face.

The silence after that is uncomfortable.

Finally, Aberforth eyes meet Professor Dumbledore's own and he grumbles something under his breath that could pass for agreement. "D'you know how to mix drinks, lad?"

Sirius seems to regain some of his humor as he smiles. "The best."

"I will be the judge of that." Aberforth states. "No one lazes about under my roof, as the boy here very well knows. So you better put in the work if you are to live here—and stop with the damned twinkle, Albus!"

Professor Dumbledore looks away, his beard twitching, and Sirius barks a laugh. We shoot the breeze for some time while Dumbledore talks with Aberforth in hushed tones until a sharp whistle from the outside interrupt us.

"Excuse me, it's time for us to go," Professor Dumbledore announced, ending his conversation with a sharp nod and turning to Sirius. "After the feast, I'll come back to accompany you to St. Mungus, if it's agreeable."

"Sweet, gives Abe and I time to catch up then."

"What now?" Aberforth answers, looking startled.

"Harry," Sirius says, ignoring him as he turns to me, fondness and undercurrents of uncharacteristic seriousness clear in his voice. "Think about what we talked yesterday, and well—just try to enjoy yourself a little here, yeah? Merlin knows you deserve it."

"Maybe I should tell Voldemort this?" I snort. "Dear Tom, my pumpkin juice isn't agreeing with my complexion today. Maybe you can call off on trying to kill me until next week? Love, Harry."

Sirius slaps my head. "That's not funny."

"Why? As much as this one-" I point over my shoulder to Professor Dumbledore, "says that love is the greatest magic there is, I've half a mind to go and try to hug Voldemort into submission."

"This information shall please Severus greatly," Dumbledore says and, seeing my look of sheer incredulity, he rapidly amends, "you see, he has been voicing his opinions concerning this matter for quite some time."

"Snape—"

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore interrupts.

"This one, yes." I wave him off. "He talks about hugs and Voldemort?"

"No-" he looks fully amused now, "but he indeed agrees that you only possess half of a mind."

There's a beat of silence as I stare at him, open-mouthed. Then Sirius doubles down with laughter and even I can't help but follow him in doing that.

It takes a few seconds and a pointed cough from Dumbledore for Sirius to calm down enough to talk. Even then, he's still snickering as he turns to me.

"Sorry, sorry," he says "let's get back on track. You have the map?"

"Yes, mom." Sirius makes a face at my answer.

"Good, very good, and just remember—"

"—to solemnly swear I am up to no good," I complete, smiling back at him.

He grabs my shoulder again, this time smiling widely, before making an idiotic excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. Classic strategic exit technique from these emotional talks, so I don't comment on that.

Instead, I turn to Aberforth.

"What you want now?"

"Just to thank you," I answer, shutting him up for the first time as he looks at me like he's seeing me for the first time. "Seriously, the time I spent here was the best."

Aberforth snorts. "So it was. Maybe I can get some peace now."

"Wouldn't bet on that." I grin as Professor Dumbledore ushers me in direction of the door. "After all, Sirius here is anything but boring—then there are the Hogsmeade weekends."

Poor Aberforth, he looks like someone has just canceled Christmas.

I wave cheerily back to him. "See you, Abe, Sirius!"

As I went after Dumbledore, though, I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Then I promptly laugh again at Aberforth's expression of utter horror as Sirius yells from the bathroom about the whereabouts of Madam Rosmerta, all my worries are forgotten for these few, precious seconds.

Even soaked to the bone as I am, I can't hope to keep the smile off my face.

Hogwarts still looks beautiful.

The castle is just as made of magic as it is of stone and masonry. In these walls, an infinite number of spells glows, interwoven together at every single inch, entrancing as ever. The ambient magic of generations upon generations of wizards that made their mark here—every jinx, every hex the students ever did, all of it compound like whispers of light upon the magic of the castle, until there's nothing to describe it but alive.

One of Professor Dumbledore favorite quotes is how Hogwarts will always be home to those who come back to it—and as the enchantments of that stronghold of ancient magic wash over me, I have to agree with him.

The castle echoes—echoes with laughter and tears, of magic to either help or harm, with the footsteps of everyone who dedicated part of their lives to these halls. It beckons me, welcomes me back, and misses me. Like it's a piece of myself which has finally returned to the whole.

"Are you ready?" Professor Dumbledore asks, nonchalantly waving his wand at me. I feel warmth rushing through my body, drying my clothes instantly—and wiping the look of childlike glee from my face with it.

"No," I answer with honesty, "not really, no."

"Excellent!" he then beams, startling me and gesturing for me to follow him. "In my experience, when one feels like being fully prepared for an occasion, it tends to backfire extraordinarily."

"And if one isn't prepared?"

"That, Harry, is when things get interesting." Dumbledore then waves in the direction of the Great Hall. "Indeed, we could think about your next steps—and I risk being preposterous, mine, as the foray into a new adventure. One that I find myself quite curious to see how it goes."

Despite my own growing anxiety as we approach the Great Hall and the sound of people talking gets louder, I smile. "Not the next great adventure, I hope."

Professor Dumbledore pauses for a second at my remark, then comes closer to me and his voice sinks to a conspiratorial whisper. "No, not the next great adventure—the next medium-sized adventure, perhaps, or even a bit less. In any case, I suspect it will be interesting. Don't you agree?"

The fact he looked completely serious saying that is too much and I laugh again, shaking my head with incredulity. I will never meet someone stranger or amazing as Professor Dumbledore, but I am alright with that; the one I know is already quite enough.

"I think the Sorting is underway," he says. "Come with me."

The laughter dies instantly in my throat as he opens the doors.

Silence. Silence everywhere as every single person on the Great Hall turns to stare at me. Only the steady hand of Professor Dumbledore in my shoulder as we walk make me feel slightly confident as I turn a searching look to the Gryffindor table.

I stop dead as I see them.

Ron and Hermione are sitting together and, when our eyes met, they turn away at once. I feel a jolt of regret as I remember, clear as it had been just yesterday, the occasion our relationship began to sour.

The first thing I see in the Hospital Wing is Hermione lying down in a bed—immobile, paralyzed, her arm still held up as she was made of stone. I run to her, trying to catch her hand and comfort her somehow, but she feel cold. She feel wrong.

When I look to Ron, he's pale and I note that his blue eyes are rimmed with red.

"What—what happened with her? Ron?!"

He scowls. "Now you want to know, don't you?"

I jerk back with surprise. "Ron, I couldn't—"

"You couldn't?!"

He rounds on me. "How can you say that? You go away for a whole year while everything goes to absolute hell and you just come here, looking concerned as you please, then you try to get off with excuses like that? Of course, you couldn't, Harry! Because you weren't there to help her!" he's screaming now, his face inches from mine. "Together we could've had this thing solved! We did it last year and we could do that again, but you weren't there for her! We, we trusted you—I trusted you!"

He shoves me, his voice growing hoarse and quiet as he slumps at Hermione's bedside and takes her hand, looking like the picture of defeat itself. "Just, just go away. Go back to the Headmaster and let us be. That's all you know how to do, these days."

Ron didn't look back to me.

That old guilt makes a reappearance as they don't bother to make way for me to sit here. I try to ignore that and Dumbledore glances at me, giving an encouraging nod.

"Harry! Come here!"

I turn in the direction of the voice and the twins catch my eyes, exuberantly—too exuberant to not have an understanding about what'd just happened—and gesticulating for me to sit with them. I embrace the offer with both hands.

"Oi, Lee! Budge away," Fred says, opening a space for me to sit there. "Here he comes!"

"Fred, George Lee." I thank them warmly, then as I turn to look at the other people next to me, my smile isn't forced in the slightest. "Katie, Angelina, Alicia! How are you, girls?"

Katie, the nearer one, gives a peck in my cheek as they return my greeting, her strawberry-blonde hair tickling my skin as she does. Alicia and Angelina are more reserved but still greets me warmly.

"So." George wiggles his eyebrows at me. "Back for good, this time?"

"Don't be daft George, he's probably here to get rid of another Defence Professor," Fred completes, his voice getting low as McGonagall glares at him from next to the Sorting Hat. "You're out of luck though, the new one isn't here yet."

I shake my head. "No way, I've had my fill with Lockhart."

"What was the deal with him, actually?" Angelina butted in, her eyes glinting with barely restrained curiosity. "All we know is that Dumbledore sent the ponce packing before the feast with a tea strainer up his-"

"Long, long story." I wave her off and look around, feeling the weight of half of the entire Great Hall staring me. "Care to tell me why they're looking at me like that? It's kinda stranger than the norm."

"You see, Harry, there are all kinds of rumors floating around. About where you ended up and all." Angelina pauses to cast a disgusted look at the gawking students. "Honestly, some are completely absurd."

I turn to the twins. "What did you two arses do?"

"Not our fault, old boy," Fred says and gives me a winning smile. "Wanna to field this one, George?"

"Don't mind if I do." George then gestures for us to come closer. "So, best one I've ever heard. There's this Hufflepuff second-year telling his friends that you somehow went into Atlantis and are busy cooking up an army of trained killer whales to take over the Ministry."

Lee gives a sagely nod. "The Ministry, ya know, the one smack-dab in the middle of London."

"What?" I lose my voice for a second or two. "They... they're thinking I've become The Boy Who Lived To Be a Fisherman or something like that? That's bollocks."

Fred looks me up and down. "To be honest, first time I saw your hair I thought a sea urchin had somehow gotten into King's Cross..."

"After your first Quidditch match, though, we agreed you were most likely to be a rather clever octopus," George completes.

"Now I think about it, little Katie here would like that," Fred says pleasantly. "All these tentacle-"

"Fred!" Alicia punches him in the shoulder, her face red as they come. "Stop taking the mickey and shut it. Dumbledore is going to speak!"

I turn to the Staff Table and, true as she says, Dumbledore has gotten up and silence falls on the Great Hall.

"Welcome, for a new year in Hogwarts! Now, if you let me deprive you of sampling the gorgeous cooking of the House-Elves for a small moment, I would like for you all to give a round of applause to a student that, at long last, returns to our midst! I'm talking, of course, about Harry Potter."

That did it. There's a boom of applause, mainly coming from the people around me and none louder than Fred and George, who are yelling again that familiar chorus of "we got Potter, we got Potter!" at the top of their lungs.

I wrench my sight of them as Angelina nudges me.

"And good thing we do," Angelina says, still watching their antics with an appreciative smile. "You know, you're lucky Oliver isn't there, he kind of lost it last year."

"Why?"

"You," Kate answers flatly. "He went on and on about how you're the greatest Seeker, even the best thing since sliced bread really. Almost reduced poor Demelza to tears every time she missed the Snitch," she adds, shaking her head despondently. "Mind you, she wasn't all that great at it, either."

"That little twit Malfoy didn't do any better though," Lee points out as he finally comes down back to his seat. "What about the match lasting six hours because none of these two caught the blasted thing. My throat was sore for a week."

"Pay attention," Alicia hush us, "the Headmaster's going to speak again."

We turn as one when Professor Dumbledore raises a hand for silence and I make a double take at the sights in the Great Hall. Magic is coming from everywhere and I know, just know, that a year or two ago all of that would give me a migraine at best.

It's a study in contrasts, everyone's signature looking quite different to me.

I probably am the only soul who can tell the difference between the twins with a passing glance; Fred's magic being just a bit more stable and hard-edged than George's, which tries to understand and transform everything around him.

Angelina's magic looks solid and heavy as it wraps her body. Alicia's has a note of rationality that I relate, most of the times, to the Ravenclaws, ever-changing into expressions made of light and logic. Katie, the youngest of the team except myself, is all fire and curiosity and passion, redder than blood and focused as a battering ram as she concentrates on Professor Dumbledore's speech.

Ron is talking to Hermione in hushed tones, his magic coiled, a turbulent storm spitting sparks so fiery I fear would burn someone. Hermione's magic, though, tries to reach for him and sort the whole world at the same time; condensing into a bubble of clarity through which she observes everything.

Idly, I appreciate the peculiarity of Neville's magic as Dumbledore tells us that Throwable Pimples were now forbidden—it's mostly static; like it's trying to push and hold him up at the same time, but seems vast nonetheless. He has potential.

I look at the Professors. The new chap teaching Defence Against the Dark arts still hasn't made his presence known, which was surprising by itself, but the rest of them are very interesting.

Snape, I see, looks most unpleasant—kind of like the look he's giving me—it's guarded and full of vicious barbs and sharp edges, forming a cage around himself and ready to lash out; it has a single mote of green light deep at its center and a foulness in his arm.

McGonagall's magic is uncluttered and well-ordered, but morphs constantly as it's being blown by the winds of change, mutating and yet still remaining the same. Flitwick, a delight of colors and shapes that one couldn't help but smile at, and—

"What?!" I surge to my feet, yelling at the top of my lungs with Fred and George as Professor Dumbledore says there won't be any Quidditch this year. Every Quidditch nut in the Great Hall rises up as one and make their disagreement about it clear in loud tones.

Dumbledore raises his hand to silence us again and keep going.

"This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts— "

But what would happen in Hogwarts, we weren't to know. The doors bang open and I recoil at the sight of who are just coming through them.

Darkness. Terrible, all-encompassing, darkness—a void from within a chorus of voices hisses with pain, stabbing viciously around him with knives of fire. I narrow my eyes and fight back the urge to vomit as bile surge up my throat.

"Harry-" George shakes my shoulder, "d'you know who's he?"

"It's Mad-Eye Moody!" Fred says, his eyes wide with surprise. "He's an old friend of Dad's, a legend in the Ministry—the best Auror they ever had!"

"Nutty as a fruitcake though," George adds, giving him an appreciating look. "Dad had to bail him out just this morning, something about brawling dustbins."

Dumbledore's declaration repeats what they had told me, as he shakes the man's hand and announces him as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. I force myself to look at Moody—not at his magic, but the person underneath. He's a mass of scars and disfigurements, there's even a wooden leg poking from under his robes, but that isn't the most singular thing about him.

That honor belongs to his eyes.

One is beady and has a shrewd glint in it, but the other is a vivid blue, bulging and swerving around without any care for the movements of the black eye, at times looking at the back of his owner's own head.

"Creepy fellow," I mutter under my breath, but no one takes notice because Dumbledore decides just then to drop a veritable bomb on us—about the Triwizard Tournament.

"You're joking!" Fred yells and the Headmaster reassures him he isn't. I turn to Lee and poke him to catch his attention, as the twins seem to be lost in their own world at the news.

"What's with that?" I ask him. "Never heard about that before."

It was Dumbledore, though, that answered the question. "The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities—until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

I whistle and nudge Katie's shoulder. "Very friendly, that thing sure is."

She muffles a giggle under her hand. "Too true."

"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Dumbledore continues, "none of which have been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.

"The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, eternal glory, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."

The world goes still.

Eternal glory.

Dumbledore's words are an echo in my mind. Eternal, undying glory. I catch his eyes for a second or two and there's a gleam I can't very well identify in them. My heart pounds in my chest as I give him all my focus.

He had my interest, but now he gets my attention.

"I'm going for it," Fred declares fervently, which is an opinion that seems to be shared by the school as a whole. "A thousand galleons George! A thousand, I never have seen that much money."

"Mortal danger, Fred," Alicia points out.

"Still going for it," he answers, stubbornly, and rubs his hands together.

It takes all of me to not rise up my feet and yell as Dumbledore adds that only people older than seventeen years could enter the tournament, which excluded me from it, and there's a feeling in my gut like I just had lost something.

"Who must be that impartial judge?" George asks after the outrage about the age limit washes off, scratching his chin in thought. "What d'you reckon, Fred?"

"Dunno," Fred shrugs, "but we'll need to find how to bamboozle him."

"Seriously, boys?" Alicia pipes up, a fond smile twisting her lips even as she tries to look stern. "It is Dumbledore we are talking about, I can't even imagine he letting it happen—I bet the judge isn't even a person."

"An enchantment, perhaps?" Angelina asks, looking every bit as she is thinking about entering. I have the realization she's of age and has all the right to, and I bite my lip to try and not show the envy I feel.

"If it is, Harry can help us," Fred and George say, turning to me as one.

I reel back, feeling frankly alarmed, as their question mirror my thoughts. I turn to Katie, giving a pleading look, and she comes to the rescue by slapping George's head. "Down, boy, there's no need of talking about it tonight—and Harry has already enough in his plate."

"Actually, I am still waiting for Lee to pass me the treacle tart."

Katie gives me a withering glare. "Metaphorical plate, Harry."

Looking not a bit ashamed after that berating, the twins shared a look.

"Sure," Fred says, mouthing later under his breath to George, who nods.

An enchantment, perhaps? I try to catch Dumbledore's eyes again and decipher what he meant by that, but he turned to speak to Moody, who I had no desire to see again this soon.

The discussions around me are just white noise as I busy myself by eating, my mind's a mess of probabilities about the future and possible methods to mask my age. Dumbledore's words about mortal peril feature prominently in my thoughts, but there's a little voice drowning them.

That's exactly what you wanted, innit? the voice says, a chance to show what you're made of, to prove yourself to the world? To him?

I almost don't catch up in the fact that the feast had just ended.

"Still, money isn't everything," Alicia points out as we get up.

"Bully to everything then, we need that money," Fred disagrees vehemently.

"What for?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

"Well, you see-" George begins, "there's this idea about a joke shop called Weasley Wizard Wheezes that we were working into during all the summer on. You wouldn't believe the things we did for that—my ear's still half bitten by a Carking Crumpet, but I digress—"

They keep talking to me about their future plans all the way up to the Gryffindor Tower. The little part of me that's paying attention can't help but be impressed and ask for more information, as it sounds like quite the wonderful thing.

When I come back to my senses, sitting by the fire in the Common Room, I find myself being already conscripted into helping with the enchantments in their products.

With a last speech extolling the virtues of turning someone into a gyrating porcupine at will, the twins and Lee say their goodbyes and get up. The girls doing the same in the direction of their own dormitories, except Katie, who decided wait for a bit.

She stretches languidly in the chair at my side, but there's a knowing glint in her eyes.

"So," Katie begins conversationally, "that Triwizard thing. Seems to be a bit insane, doesn't it?"

"Yeah." I smile at her a bit too quickly. "Something like that."

She hums to herself, the comfortable silence between us extending until she decides to break it.

"But you still want to enter."

I almost choke in my own spit.

"Uh? What?"

"The Tournament." Katie gives me an exasperated look. "I saw the look in your eyes, Harry—the same look you have when you spot the Snitch, and I saw how uncomfortable you were as they talked about it. You want to enter, don't you?"

"I don't-" I try to search for an appropriate answer, but Katie isn't to be deterred.

"Harry-" her hand brushes my arm as she comes closer, "I am not here to tell you what to do. I'm not sure I don't even want to know all you're up to, but really? It's obvious."

"Right," I mull the words for a second before giving a sigh of defeat. "I'll admit, the thought has crossed my mind."

"I'll bet," she says and shakes her head. "Maybe there's a boyish appeal in entering, what about wizards comparing their wand-sizes," Katie then let out a laugh at the roll of my eyes, "I don't really get it, myself. But then, I'm not a wizard like you, am I?"

I look her up and down. "I sure as hell hope not."

She slaps my arm but laughs nonetheless. "You know what I mean."

I don't answer and run my fingers through my hair, trying to find the right words to say.

"Katie?" I finally ask and she turns to me. "You think I can do that?"

Katie fixes me with a glare and I have the weirdest feeling that I said something very stupid.

"Of course you can, you're Harry Potter. Though, to be honest-" she pauses for a moment and it's fascinating how her blue eyes reflect the light from the flames, "I kinda don't want you to. We've just got you back and none of us want to lose you, hell, I don't want to lose you. So, even if you enter... be careful? Please?"

I look mutely at her and nod in agreement, not trusting myself with words after how vulnerable she sounded by asking that. Regaining some of her cheerful nature then, Katie gives me another lingering kiss on my jaw and get up to go to her dormitory, but stops at the foot of the staircase.

"Don't worry, Harry," she shots back over her shoulder with a lazy smile. "I'll keep your secrets."

There's no power in Earth capable of making me feel ashamed for looking as she goes. Damn girl.

A haze of contentedness settles in and I drag my chair closer to the fire, just as that persistent little thought crosses my mind again. What if I really entered the Tournament? What if I proved myself as not being just the Boy-Who-Lived or Dumbledore's Golden Boy to them and, more importantly, to myself? What if I tasted triumph with the whole Wizarding World standing as my witness?

My eyelids feel like made of lead and the first hints of sleep begin to envelop me. Even as I close my eyes, though, all I can see are images of myself raising a silver cup as the entirety of Hogwarts screams my name and of the success of winning. Of a smiling face with twinkling eyes saying he's proud of my victory.

Eternal glory, huh?

All I can see is greatness.