Chapter Text
The atmosphere in the Great Hall was tense. Hundreds of faces, turned towards the Goblet of Fire, were illuminated by the flickering blue flame that cast bizarre shadows on the Gothic arches. In the almost religious silence, the crackle of the burning flame sounded deafening.
The flame shuddered and shot the first charred piece of parchment into the air. It traced a graceful arc and, spinning slowly, landed in Albus Dumbledore's palm.
"The champion for Beauxbatons... Fleur Delacour!"
A murmur of admiration swept through the hall, replaced by applause. Fleur rose from her seat among the Beauxbatons students, her silvery-pale hair seeming to glow with its own light. She didn't walk, but glided towards the side chamber for the champions, her chin held proudly aloft, her gaze sweeping over the crowd, full of condescending indifference. She didn't even grant them a smile. This was her triumph.
The flame did not keep them waiting long. It surged again, hurling the next scrap with such force that Dumbledore took an almost imperceptible step back to catch it.
"From Durmstrang... Viktor Krum!"
The roar of voices grew even louder, swelling into a near-deafening din. Viktor Krum, whose fame and imposing physique spoke for themselves, stood up, his shoulders hunched as if wishing to make himself smaller. His face, usually scowling, now expressed only a desire to get this circus over with as quickly as possible. He pushed his way through the crowd of Durmstrang students, brushing off the congratulatory slaps on his back, his gaze stubbornly avoiding the adoring stares of his fans.
And then came a tense, heavy silence. All eyes – from first-years holding their breath to professors trying to maintain impartiality – were riveted on the blue fire. It pulsed, swelled, and subsided, like a living heart frozen in anticipation of the final, most important choice.
Dumbledore fished the last, trembling sheet of parchment from the flame. He unfolded it, and his lips twitched in a smile.
"The Hogwarts champion... Cedric Diggory!"
An explosion of genuine, deafening jubilation erupted from the Hufflepuff table. Students leapt from their benches, hugging, shouting. Even the Gryffindors applauded politely and sincerely – a good guy had been chosen, an honest person, a worthy opponent. Cedric's face flushed slightly with embarrassment, but his eyes held a firm resolve and pride. He exchanged a firm handshake with his neighbours, nodded to Dumbledore, and headed for the side chamber, his bearing speaking of dignity.
Dumbledore surveyed the hall with a beaming gaze, his half-moon spectacles gleaming in the torchlight. He opened his mouth to declare the ceremony over, to utter some wise and encouraging phrase…
But at that moment, the Goblet of Fire intervened.
The Goblet flared with such dazzling brightness that for a second the entire hall was plunged into blind emptiness. People cried out, instinctively covering their eyes with their hands. Hermione next to Harriet gasped sharply. Ron let out a choked sound. Even Snape frowned, his hand instinctively darting towards his sleeve where his wand was hidden.
When their vision returned, everyone saw it.
The blue flame had not gone out. It had soared to the darkest recesses of the ceiling. And it was no longer blue. Crimson streaks raced through it. The flame twisted like a tornado trapped in a cage. It gave off no heat, only a chilling cold and a smell that set teeth on edge: ozone after a thunderstorm, ash from a bonfire, and acrid metallic fumes.
From the very epicentre of this chaos, the Cup spat out not ash. It vomited a fourth piece of parchment.
The old wizard mechanically caught it. His eyes, usually twinkling with mystery and kindness, reflected something else: profound astonishment. He unfolded the parchment, and even his famous composure faltered.
The silence in the hall was absolute and oppressive. A hundred people held their breath.
Dumbledore lifted his gaze from the parchment. His eyes slowly, imperceptibly, travelled across the entire hall, across the sea of frozen faces, and came to rest on one single person.
His voice, always so warm, velvety, confident, rang out loud and clear, and one could hear a hidden anxiety in it.
"Harriet" – he made a microscopic pause, as if checking the reality of what was written – "Harriet Potter."
Like an icy wave born in the depths of northern seas, it swept through the hall from the Gryffindor table to the professors themselves. It froze smiles, cooled delight, sealed mouths. It lasted only an instant.
And then the ice cracked, replaced by the deafening roar of a hundred voices.
"What?!" burst from one of the senior Gryffindor students, his voice rising to a shrill pitch.
"That's impossible!" cried a girl from Ravenclaw, her neat eyebrows shooting up towards her hairline.
"The Age Line! Dumbledore himself drew it!" someone yelled.
"She's underage! It's against the rules!" — this was Percy Weasley shouting, his face crimson with outrage at the breach of protocol.
"Cheating!" rippled across the Slytherin table, and the word, like a spark to a powder keg, was seized by dozens of voices. — "It's her again! She always gets special treatment!"
Harriet stood up. The world around her had turned into a surreal nightmare; she saw it as if in slow motion. Sounds reached her muffled, as if through a wall of water. The blood drained from her face so rapidly that her temples pounded and her vision blurred. She felt her skin grow cold and clammy, "chalk-white," as Hermione would later say. Her fingers, acting on their own, gripped the edge of the Gryffindor table. She squeezed the wood so hard her knuckles stood out and her nails ached.
But that was nothing compared to the internal noise. A deafening, furious, panicked din swelled in her ears, drowning out the external chaos. It was her own blood, pounding madly in her temples with animal terror. She couldn't form a single coherent thought; there was only a continuous whirlwind: NoNoNoNotMeAgainWhyAndHowEverythingWasSupposedToBeGoodAtLeastThisYear…
Beside her, there were two movements, which she caught in her peripheral vision.
Ron didn't shout or gasp. He turned his head towards her slowly, as if against his will. His red hair stood out sharply in her peripheral vision. His gaze… It wasn't the look of a friend seeing his friend thrown into a cage to be torn apart. It was the look at a traitor, as if he had just received irrefutable proof of his most deeply buried suspicions. His face reddened. A thick, unhealthy mixture of shame, resentment, and fury flooded his cheeks and neck. His eyes, usually warm and a bit naive, narrowed into prickly slits. They held a silent scream: "And you didn't even tell me? You think I'm too worthless for that?" He didn't utter a word; he just stared. And in that silence was such a toxic wave of disappointment that Harriet felt physically nauseated.
Hermione, on the other hand, grabbed her. Cold, slender fingers dug into her arm with a force that left no doubt: "I'm not letting you go. Not for anything." Hermione's fingers were icy with fear and adrenaline, but her grip was steel, forged from fury and absolute determination.
"Don't do anything," Hermione hissed. Her lips barely moved, the words forced through clenched teeth. – "Sit and look straight ahead. Don't lower your head. Someone is trying to kill you again. Don't show anyone how you're trembling."
But it was too late to hide. The entire hall was already staring at her.
She felt their gazes.
Dumbledore's gaze was heavy. There was no familiar, cunning smile on his face. He looked troubled.
McGonagall's gaze was sharp, assessing, full of anxiety for her and fury at the rule-breaking.
Snape's gaze was poisonous as acid. In his eyes were disgust, contempt, and something else. Something complex, dark, painful.
Karkaroff examined Harriet like a strange, dangerous specimen.
Headmistress Maxime's gaze was haughty and distrustful, as if Harriet had personally somehow dishonored her and her school.
Dean and Seamus looked bewildered; Neville was frightened for her, his kind eyes full of panic. Parvati Patil pressed her lips together in disapproval. Fred and George, usually the first to create chaos, were serious, their gazes darting between her and the Goblet, analyzing the situation. And she saw a sea of faces. Draco Malfoy was already whispering something snidely to Crabbe and Goyle, his face twisted in a sneer.
She needed to say something. Anything.
"I didn't put my name in," she breathed out. Her voice was weak, choked, thin, it could easily get lost in the crowd's roar. – "I swear I didn't."
Somewhere to the right, from the teachers' table, came a hiss, icy and sharp:
"Silence, Potter!"
It was Snape. His voice was immediately swallowed by a new swell of general uproar, which was no longer just exclamations but targeted baiting aimed at her.
Dumbledore raised his hand, calling for silence. But even his authority, usually unwavering, had cracked. The chaos ignited by the Tournament had spiraled out of control.
And then, as if in response to this collective loss of reason, the Goblet of Fire seemed to roar back.
The sound was like a rending. The flame inside it didn't just flare; it seemed to turn itself inside out. The blueness vanished. Now, a red, almost crimson light pulsed from the cup.
The flame erupted from the Goblet, striking the stone floor of the Great Hall with such force that the heavy oak tables shook. The flame seared a perfect, deep circle into the floor. And from the center of this circle, from its very depths, which now smelled not just of ozone and ash but of fumes and blood, silhouettes began to appear.
The first emerged from the smoke. It was a man in a black, impeccable suit. The hat on his head hid the upper part of his face but couldn't hide his eyes. The eyes of an infant – huge, innocent, bottomless, but the gaze of an old, cynical killer who had seen much and was surprised by nothing. His right hand hung by his side, and in it, as if growing from the shadows, a pistol materialized soundlessly from the air. Not some intricate artifact, but a purely Muggle instrument, deadly in its simplicity and efficiency. He didn't even raise it; he simply held it.
The second seemed his complete opposite. It was a teenager with unruly chestnut hair, standing slightly hunched, as if trying to seem smaller. On his face was not just panic, but animal terror, familiar to anyone who had ever woken from a nightmare to find themselves in a strange, hostile world. His wide eyes darted around the hall, not searching for individual faces, but simply perceiving everyone as a threat. He was breathing rapidly and shallowly, and his posture conveyed one single desire: to flee. But something held him in place.
The third burst into reality like his favorite weapon. A fierce young man in ordinary clothes bearing traces of soot and recent explosions. His face was twisted in a ferocious grimace, and he had already swung his arm, from which a stick of dynamite protruded. "Stay away from Tenth!" he shouted. He was the living embodiment of uncontrolled, devoted aggression, ready to blow up everything around him to protect the one standing behind him.
The fourth appeared with a smile. Wide, friendly, almost carefree. A young man with a sword on his back. His posture was relaxed. The smile was in place, but it didn't reach his eyes. His dark, attentive eyes quickly and subtly scanned the space around him. He placed a hand on the sword hilt with such naturalness, as if he had done so many times.
The fifth was beautiful. He was like an ancient god descended to ordinary people. Black hair, perfect features. The elegant posture of a predatory cat before a leap. His cold, gray eyes were devoid of any human warmth. They slid over the crowd with such indifference, as if he saw not people, but ants. His fingers spread a pair of tonfa with a light, metallic click.
And there were still more arriving. A screaming child with a huge, absurd rocket on his back, choking on sobs. A woman in military field gear, snarling like a wounded beast. A girl with eyes of bottomless, pure compassion. And others – all in strange, Muggle clothing: torn jackets, trousers burnt in places, practical, rough boots. Some bore fresh bandages, others the fading marks of bruises.
They stood in a ring, back to back, in the very center of the charred circle. Each surveyed the hall, covering a comrade's back. Behind the teenager with chestnut hair stood the fierce youth with dynamite, covering his left flank. To his right – the man with the pistol. They were dangerous. They seemed like they had been through a real, dirty war and hadn't yet adjusted to peaceful life.
In the deathly silence of the Great Hall, broken only by Lambo's choked sobs ("Ma-ma… Where are we?"), their aura was almost tangible.
And then a voice sounded. Calm, even, with a light, mocking intonation, like that of a person observing absurdity.
It came from the man in the hat. Reborn slowly, with theatrical leisure, shifted his gaze from Dumbledore's pale but inscrutable face to the petrified Harriet. His huge eyes settled on her, and a spark of interest flickered within them.
"Interesting," he said, and his voice carried to every corner of the hall, "what kind of program awaits us?"
There was so much sarcasm in that question, so much confidence that everything around them was a cheap stage show, that several professors' eyebrows twitched. This man was challenging them.
And at that moment, before Snape's wand could slip from his sleeve, before Gokudera could light the dynamite, before Hibari could take a lightning-fast step towards the nearest herd of 'herbivores', they felt the power.
It was an intervention of a higher order. An ancient, relentless force woven into Hogwarts, into its very essence, had awakened. It gently, but with irresistible force, made any movement aimed at violence physically impossible and psychologically inconceivable.
Hands froze, triggers weren't pulled. Even Hibari flinched. He tried to take a step but felt his will to move dissolving. His gray eyes, for the first time that evening, flashed not with irritation but with pure, unrestrained curiosity and challenge. He had encountered resistance worthy of attention.
The ubiquitous murmur died down, replaced by a silence in which only Lambo's ragged breathing and one's own frantically beating heart could be heard.
The Goblet of Fire, standing at the epicenter of this silent standoff, flared one last time – with a pure, silvery light, like moonlight. A voice sounded.
"STOP. YOU MUST ALTER THE COMING COURSE OF EVENTS."
The voice did not come from a single source. It came from everywhere. It was low, devoid of gender and age, full of elusive authority. The Magic of this place itself, awakened from slumber, was speaking to them.
"I HAVE INTERVENED AND TANGLED THE THREADS OF FATE OF THE PEOPLE PRESENT HERE."
The voice seemed to address Reborn and his family. Some of them raised their eyebrows. Others, like Tsuna, involuntarily shuddered, feeling the attention.
"FOR THE CHANGE – BEHOLD THE BEGINNING. SEE THE TRUTH. BEHOLD THAT BEFORE BECOMING WILD, IT WAS A SEED. LEARN THE LIFE OF HARRIET POTTER."
With the last word, the pressure in the hall eased slightly. Not enough to launch an attack, but enough to breathe and speak freely. The magical force now gently guided everyone to seats at the tables, including the Vongola. They, still standing in a tight circle, felt their feet carrying them of their own accord towards an empty section of the Gryffindor table. The movement was not rough; resisting was pointless.
Reborn, never one to lose control, assessed the situation. He calmly put away his pistol into the folds of his clothing and, without taking his eyes off Dumbledore, spoke so that everyone could hear:
"It seems we are to be spectators. For now." His gaze swept over the professors' faces. "And since we are uninvited guests here, I suppose it would be polite to introduce ourselves first. I am Reborn. Tutor and… advisor."
He gave a slight nod.
Dumbledore slowly nodded back, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. He accepted the game.
"Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School. You find yourselves in the world of magic, gentlemen and ladies." He paused, letting his words sink in. "The circumstances of your arrival are as extraordinary as they are threatening. But, as the voice said… here, we must reach understanding before we act. And I also believe I should summon the other champions before we begin."
A tense silence fell once more. It was broken by Gokudera's furious whisper; he still hadn't let go of the dynamite:
"Tenth, this is all a trap! We can't trust them!"
"Calm down, Gokudera-kun," Tsuna said quietly but firmly. He forced himself to straighten up, feeling the stares of hundreds of people. "I… I am Tsunayoshi Sawada. I'm… very sorry for the intrusion. We don't know how we got here."
Next to him, Yamamoto smiled widely and openly, defusing the tension as much as he could.
"Takeshi Yamamoto! Nice to meet you!" He waved to a few stunned first-years sitting nearby. "Your castle is really impressive!"
Hibari ignored everything happening. His gaze was fixed on the high arches, the floating ghosts, the feeling of magic all around.
"Boring," he uttered, but his voice held not irritation, but assessment. "You are all grouping into herds."
Ryohei, finally snapping out of his daze, shouted, shaking his fists:
"RYOHEI SASAGAWA! AND THIS WILL BE THE MOST EXTREME VIEWING SESSION OF MY LIFE!"
Lambo, frightened by his shout, burst into tears again, and next to him, little I-Pin immediately assumed a fighting stance, taking Ryohei for a threat.
"Don't come near Fon-sensei, bearded stranger! I, I-Pin, will protect him!"
Fuuta, having settled in comfortably, began to mutter:
"Performance rankings: 1. The bearded old man – Dumbledore – theatrical, but confident. 2. The man in the hat – Reborn – concise and threatening. 3. Gokudera – emotional and explosive…"
McGonagall seized the initiative, her voice sounding clear and stern, cutting through the incipient chaos:
"Order! Since we are, apparently, doomed to this… viewing session, let us maintain composure. I am Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House. This is Professor Severus Snape – Head of Slytherin; Professor Filius Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw; Professor Pomona Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff."
At that moment, in the air above their heads, seven golden lights flared up like constellations torn from the night sky. They slowly descended, swirling and condensing, until they materialized into seven massive leather-bound folios, which landed with a soft thud in a stack before Dumbledore.
On the cover of the topmost one, letters were embossed in shimmering gold: "HARRIET POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE."
Several students tried to protest, to scream, to flee. But the magical force held them gently in place. There was a feeling as if Hogwarts itself had held its breath, frozen in anticipation of revelation.
The first page of the book turned over by itself with a quiet rustle.
And the same impersonal, pure voice, now devoid of its threatening tones, began to read:
"CHAPTER ONE. THE GIRL WHO LIVED…"
It continued in a more narrative tone:
"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. Yet their greatest fear was that someone would discover their shameful secret—"
Harriet's gaze, full of horror and shame, darted around the hall; she wanted the ground to swallow her up. Her eyes met those of the brown-eyed stranger – that very frightened teenager, Tsunayoshi. His shoulders were tense. There was no judgment in his eyes, no morbid curiosity. He was looking at her with recognition. As if he saw in her a kindred spirit, a person also torn from a normal life against their will and placed under public scrutiny.
Two worlds – the world of magic with its prejudices, and the world of flames with its mafia – began to listen to the same story.
The story of the girl who had no idea what awaited her.
The story of a seed that would grow wild.