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Blood.
For Jason Urquhart, blood was the first thing he registered in that moment. Although, strictly speaking, it wasn't the very first thing he saw, it was undoubtedly the most significant detail that seized his attention. He didn't even attempt to determine the source of the blood—his focus was solely on the sight of the crimson liquid, dripping steadily and pooling on the table adorned in green and silver. The abundance of blood was overwhelming; it was all Jason could process. In that instant, the reality struck him: Oh Merlin, there was blood. And not just a little—it was a
substantial amount.
The question lingered: how had they arrived at this point?
The evening itself had begun in an unremarkable fashion. Over the previous two days, every student aged over seventeen who wished to participate had made their way through the Great Hall, each depositing a slip of parchment bearing their name into the Goblet of Fire. This was the process established for potentially being selected as their school’s champion.
The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang had approached the task methodically. They had chosen a particular moment to submit their entries, and all had presented their names together. However, despite each group consisting of around fifteen students, only three or four from each had actually opted to place their names in the Cup.
Jason’s interest in the Tournament was limited. He was not old enough to enter, but even if he had been, he would not have participated. Unlike many of his peers, Jason possessed the maturity to recognise what the organisers were not openly admitting specifically, that the Tournament had been prohibited in the past due to the significant number of fatalities among previous champions. Moreover, Jason was not so arrogant as to ignore his own limitations and vulnerabilities, understanding that the risks far outweighed any potential glory.
Jason looked around the Great Hall. It was dinner time and the atmosphere was lively, with students and visiting delegations chatting animatedly. Beside him sat his best friend, Adar Vaisey, who was in the same year as Jason. Like the rest of the school and the guests, both boys were waiting for the meal to end, eager to finally discover who would be chosen as champions for the upcoming Triwizard Tournament.
Despite the buzz of excitement, Jason felt a distinct discomfort. Halloween at Hogwarts had a reputation for the unexpected and, at times, terrifying events. For the past three years, something noteworthy had occurred on this very night.
In 1991, a troll had somehow found its way into the castle’s corridors. The students later discovered that Professor Quirrell had been responsible for the troll’s appearance. Although Quirrell’s body was found dead around May of that year, no official explanation was ever given. The incident had been serious one Muggle-born Gryffindor had been badly injured. Fortunately, she recovered and was able to return to classes by January, managing to keep up with her peers and advance to the second year alongside her classmates.
The following year, 1992, brought the first case of petrification. It was only much later that everyone learned the incident was caused by a possessed student Ginny Weasley. In the end, things resolved themselves, more or less, but Jason found it perplexing that Ginny was not offered any therapy after such an ordeal. He couldn’t understand how she was simply expected to carry on as if nothing had happened.
Then, in 1993, the infamous Sirius Black managed to break into the Gryffindor Common Room. Although he didn’t remain there for long, his whereabouts remained unknown to this day, casting a lingering sense of unease over the school each Halloween.
All these events contributed to Jason’s discomfort as he sat through the Halloween feast, never quite able to shake the feeling that something unexpected might happen once again.
Jason found himself uneasy as the evening of 31 October wore on. The memories of past Halloweens at Hogwarts, each marked by unexpected and sometimes frightening events, lingered in his mind, making it difficult to relax despite the festive atmosphere.
Adar’s voice broke through Jason’s reverie. “Ne, ne, ne, Jay, do you think Cassius is going to be chosen?” he asked, curiosity evident in his tone. Jason shifted his attention to his friend, taking a moment to process the question.
It was common knowledge among the Slytherins and even among students from other houses that Cassius Warrington had submitted his name to the Goblet of Fire. While several Slytherins had entered, Cassius stood out as one of the best students in their house. His reputation extended beyond Slytherin; reserved yet approachable, Cassius managed to get along well with almost everyone. If he were selected as Hogwarts’ champion, Jason had no doubt that the entire house would rally behind him, united in their support.
“Your attention, please.”
At the sound of the headmaster’s voice, the two Slytherins rose to their feet alongside the rest of the students. It was not admiration or respect for Albus Dumbledore that prompted their actions, but rather an acknowledgement of his authority. Despite their personal disdain for him a sentiment shared by many Dumbledore possessed a presence that demanded attention. Though aged, he remained a formidable figure within the walls of Hogwarts.
Over recent years, Dumbledore’s influence had waned, particularly in the public sphere. The loss of trust was tied to revelations concerning his handling of the so-called Survivor. Public opinion soured when it became clear that Dumbledore had failed to monitor the child after placing him with his relatives. He had assured everyone that young Potter was both safe and loved, but these reassurances were brought into question when the boy’s aunt, Petunia Dursley, rebuffed a reporter from the Prophet and labelled him abnormal. This incident confirmed to many that Potter was no longer living with his blood family, raising concerns about possible mistreatment during his time with the Dursleys.
Despite suspicions, nothing could be proven. Dumbledore had ensured the Dursleys’ whereabouts remained secret following their departure, refusing to disclose their location. With no evidence against the Muggle family, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE) was powerless to compel the headmaster to cooperate, as doing so would violate established protocol something Dumbledore was quick to remind them. It was clear to many that the headmaster was concealing information. However, without testimony from the Survivor himself, there seemed little hope of uncovering the full truth.
Jason’s awareness of the situation stemmed from his father’s position at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His father frequently voiced his frustrations at home, lamenting how Dumbledore consistently hindered their investigations. The Dursley case, in particular, was often cited as a prime example. Despite its notoriety, it could scarcely be considered an active case any longer. The supposed victim had shown no signs of life for years, and those suspected of involvement had seemingly vanished, shielded from scrutiny by Dumbledore’s deliberate obstruction. This protective barrier erected by the headmaster ensured that the truth remained elusive, much to the ongoing dismay of Jason’s father and his colleagues.
Jason was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he barely registered a portion of Dumbledore’s speech. He reasoned that it couldn’t have been anything particularly captivating just the usual preamble and formalities. In Jason’s mind, it was nothing more than unremarkable “blah blah”, not worth making a fuss over. He mentally credited the Weasley twins for introducing him to that particular turn of phrase.
His attention snapped back to the present as Dumbledore announced, “Honour to the ladies... the Champion of Beauxbatons is... Miss Fleur Delacour.”
Polite applause reverberated across the Great Hall as the newly announced Beauxbatons Champion rose from her seat. Fleur Delacour, dazzling in appearance and exuding a natural grace, made her way towards the head table with an effortless elegance that commanded attention. The applause swelled in enthusiasm, particularly from the Gryffindor table, where students seemed especially taken by her presence.
Jason could not suppress a roll of his eyes at the reaction from his peers. Noticing Adar’s captivated expression, he discreetly pinched his friend’s thigh to snap him out of it. Jason was determined not to let Adar be swept away by the allure of the part-Veela girl. He harboured no particular prejudice against Veela or their descendants, understanding that their enchanting effect on men was rarely intentional. Nevertheless, Jason’s opinion of Fleur Delacour had been firmly shaped by her conduct in recent days. He found her behaviour deeply off-putting, even if he chose to phrase his judgement as politely as possible.
“The Durmstrang Champion is... Viktor Krum.”
As Viktor Krum’s name was announced as the Durmstrang Champion, Jason found himself unsurprised. With only three students having submitted their names from Durmstrang, it would have been far more unexpected had the Cup chosen anyone else. A wave of applause swept through the Great Hall in recognition of Krum’s selection, the noise punctuated by cheers and scattered exclamations from the excited crowd. Krum himself remained composed and detached, his expression betraying little as he made his way towards the assembled school heads.
Jason joined in the applause, matching the polite enthusiasm of his fellow Slytherins. Alongside them, the young Urquhart maintained a reserved and measured response, clapping in time with his housemates rather than displaying any overt excitement. For Jason, it was an obligatory gesture, echoing the collective response of his peers rather than genuine delight.
Dumbledore’s voice rang out once more, announcing, “Finally, the Hogwarts Champion is... Mr Cédric Diggory.” The declaration was met with applause, and Cedric rose to join the other Champions, his composure reflecting the dignified spirit of his house.
As Jason observed the proceedings, he couldn’t help but notice a subtle inconsistency in the headmaster’s announcements. When Viktor Krum was named Durmstrang’s Champion, Dumbledore had neglected to address him with the formal ‘Mr’, instead referring to him simply as “Viktor Krum”. Jason mused that perhaps Krum’s status as a celebrity allowed others to treat him less as a student and more as public property, stripping away some of the usual courtesies extended to his peers.
Jason joined in the applause for the Hogwarts Champion, mimicking the enthusiastic response of his peers. Despite his outward display, he felt a twinge of disappointment that the title had not gone to a member of Slytherin. If it had, it would have provided a sense of accomplishment and perhaps put the other Houses in their place, even if only slightly.
As the applause settled, Dumbledore resumed his speech, preparing to continue with the proceedings.
Dumbledore was abruptly interrupted by a most unusual event at least, Jason assumed it was unusual, judging by the bewildered glances exchanged among the adults present. The previously blue flames of the Goblet of Fire suddenly shifted, morphing into an ominous blood-red hue that erupted violently around the artefact. The startling transformation sent a wave of shock throughout the Great Hall, and cries of surprise erupted from both sides of the room as students and staff alike reacted to the spectacle.
Once the commotion subsided and the air cleared, a solitary piece of parchment was expelled from the Goblet. The headmaster, quick to react, deftly caught the parchment as it floated towards him. With a measured composure, he adjusted his half-moon spectacles perched at the end of his nose, preparing to reveal the contents of this unexpected message to the assembled crowd.
Jason did not fail to notice the old man's expression of genuine surprise and pleasure, and this caused him to frown in suspicion.
Dumbledore's next words rang out through the Great Hall: “Harry Potter.”
Jason was left utterly stunned. He had not anticipated this outcome in the slightest. The shock of the announcement rendered him momentarily speechless, and he could only stare in disbelief.
Beside him, on his left, Adar choked on his sip of pumpkin juice, equally caught off guard by what he had just heard. Jason glanced at him in confusion. Had they heard correctly?
He repeated the name, almost to himself, as if trying to make sense of it: “Harry Potter?”
Jason felt a growing discomfort as he listened to the old man's voice, which now carried an unmistakable note of satisfaction and hopefulness. He instinctively turned his head, his sharp eyes scanning the crowded hall, observing the reactions of those around him. The entire Great Hall was alive with an undercurrent of disbelief a low, incredulous murmur rippled from table to table as the news sank in.
It was common knowledge, even beyond the borders of Britain, that the Survivor had always been absent. Everyone, whether in Hogwarts or overseas, was aware that the Survivor had never set foot in the school, and truthfully, no one really knew his fate. His very existence had become the subject of rumours and speculation, with no one certain whether he was still alive at all.
An uneasy, almost oppressive sensation twisted in Jason’s stomach as he processed the implications of the announcement. Instinctively, he shrank back a little, careful to conceal his unease from those nearby. After all, it would hardly do for a Slytherin to be seen exposing his vulnerabilities so openly, especially in the midst of such a public spectacle.
The tension in the Great Hall reached its peak as Dumbledore revealed the name from the parchment: “HARRY POTTER!” His declaration reverberated through the hall, leaving the crowd in stunned silence. Adar Vaisey, seated amongst the Slytherins, grunted darkly in response. He wondered why the other student had shouted the name so loudly, as if such theatrics might somehow lend him more authority or significance.
As the Cup flared even more brightly, Adar swallowed a torrent of insults he had prepared, those reserved for situations only Salazar Slytherin himself could comprehend. The spectacle left emotions running high, and Adar struggled to keep his composure amidst the escalating drama.
The flames erupted with sudden ferocity, bursting into a dazzling display that sent a streak of light shooting across the Great Hall. The reaction from the young witches and wizards was immediate a chorus of startled cries, laced more with terror than surprise, rippled through the assembled students as they recoiled from the spectacle.
An enormous sound akin to an explosion echoed throughout the space, causing the very ground to tremble beneath their feet. Instinctively, Jason gripped the edge of the table, bracing himself against the violent shaking. Gradually, the flames began to subside, the room settling back into an uneasy calm. Yet, as the last embers flickered out, it became clear that not everything had returned to normal.
There, standing atop the table, was a boy his sudden presence marking him as the singular exception to the restored order.
~•~
Blood.
That was the first thing he experienced or so it felt. In truth, it was not technically the first thing he saw, but it was undeniably the most significant, the detail that dominated his senses at that moment. He hadn't even paused to consider the source of the blood. Instead, his attention was wholly absorbed by the sight of crimson liquid, vivid and unmistakable, dripping and splattering across the Slytherin table adorned in green and silver. Oh Merlin, there was blood. And not just a little, but a great quantity of it, pouring out and making itself impossible to ignore.
Slowly, he allowed his gaze to trace the path marked by the blood, following its direction until his eyes settled upon the newcomer. The figure before him was unmistakably a boy, appearing only marginally younger than himself. His hair was jet black, falling in soft strands down the nape of his neck. Despite the circumstances, the hair seemed to possess a gentle quality, ending in delicate spikes that gave his appearance an unexpectedly tender aspect.
It was not the unusual way the boy’s hair defied gravity that drew Jason’s attention. Instead, his gaze was captivated by the boy’s striking emerald green eyes, which stood out vividly amidst the chaos. Even more prominent, however, was the sizeable wound on the boy’s shoulder. The relentless flow of blood, originating from this injury, had created a scene that was both alarming and unforgettable.
The wound continued to bleed profusely, signalling a seriousness that could not be ignored. The young man appeared to be on the verge of collapse, his breathing laboured and his forehead glistening with sweat. His expression, marked by visible pain, was etched onto his pale face, revealing the tremendous effort it took simply to remain upright.
Despite bearing numerous injuries not just the grievous wound on his shoulder the boy remained upright, determined not to betray any further signs of vulnerability. His posture was resolute, as though sheer willpower alone was holding him together, refusing to let his suffering become apparent to those around him. The raw determination in his stance made it clear that, no matter how battered he appeared, he would not allow himself to show weakness.
His gaze was cold and determined. Jason could respect that.
And ooh! Was that a piercing on his lower lip? Jason’s eyes flickered momentarily to the glint of metal, surprised to notice such an unexpected detail amidst the chaos. The piercing stood out as a sign of individuality, a small but striking marker of the boy’s distinct character even in the midst of blood and confusion. It was an odd thing to notice, perhaps, but in that instant, it anchored the surreal scene with an oddly personal touch, contrasting sharply with the severity of the situation.
The boy, his breathing still ragged, forced himself upright with considerable effort. Determined not to remain vulnerable atop the Slytherin table, he edged away from his previous position and, despite his evident pain, managed to lower himself to the floor. Though his movements were unsteady and he wavered slightly, he refused to allow himself to collapse. Only once he had both feet firmly on the ground did he survey the Great Hall, his gaze unwavering. He methodically scanned the room, his eyes finally coming to rest on the assembled adults. Throughout, he pressed his right hand tightly against the wound on his left shoulder, stemming the flow of blood as best he could, all the while maintaining a posture that demanded attention and respect.
Harry’s voice cut through the tense atmosphere, his tone brisk and unyielding as he addressed those gathered before him. “I have three questions for you, and you should answer them quickly. First, where am I? Secondly, how and why did you summon me? And, finally, who the devil are you?” Each question rang out with clear urgency, leaving no room for evasion or delay.
The directness of his approach was unmistakable. Harry wasted no words, choosing instead to confront the situation head-on. His manner spoke of someone who valued efficiency and was not inclined to tolerate unnecessary preamble or confusion.
The headmaster of Hogwarts, still reeling from the shock of Harry’s appearance and the events unfolding in the Great Hall, finally managed to speak. “Harry Potter?” he said, his voice carrying both disbelief and concern as he sought confirmation of the boy’s identity.
The moment the truth dawned on him, Urquhart’s features tightened, his expression becoming rigid with shock. Recognition swept through him as the pieces fell into place: the battered, bloodied boy standing defiantly before them was none other than Harry Potter. The revelation sent a jolt through Urquhart’s mind; this was the legendary Survivor, the very person whose name had been whispered with awe and curiosity for years. Yet the reality of the figure before them was worlds apart from the tales of a cherished hero. Here stood a young man, visibly wounded and barely managing to remain upright, yet projecting a sense of menace and determination that silenced the room. Urquhart could only wonder in disbelief what unimaginable ordeals had Harry Potter endured to leave him in such a state?
"It's been years since I've gone by this name," the teenager said in a dry voice. His words, spoken without a trace of warmth, resonated across the hall, carrying the weight of old wounds and a life lived in the shadows. It was clear to all present that the name 'Harry Potter' belonged to a past that felt distant and perhaps even foreign to him now. The way he uttered those words detached, almost dismissive suggested that the identity so many had come to revere was little more than a burdensome memory to the boy who stood before them. The tension in the room grew, as those gathered grappled with the realisation that the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived had long since given way to a much harder truth.
A single, resounding crack echoed through Jason’s mind and, he suspected, through the minds of others present. It was the sound of all the assumptions and comforting tales they had harboured about the Boy-Who-Lived being broken beyond repair. Years of stories and whispered legends, woven around Harry’s supposed triumphs and his epic stand against the Dark Lord, had created an image that was now utterly destroyed.
The reality before them was starkly different. The boy who stood in the Great Hall was no innocent, beloved child who had grown up in the safety of a castle or been showered with affection by a doting family. For so long, many Jason included had clung to Dumbledore’s reassurances. They had chosen to believe in the comforting fiction, even when a reporter from the Prophet had recounted a troubling encounter with Harry’s so-called guardians, and even after it became clear that the Survivor was not living with his Muggle relatives.
Now, faced with the battered, defiant figure before them, all those cherished narratives crumbled. The real Harry Potter was nothing like the hero of their collective imagination; his presence was a harsh reminder of the truths they had refused to see.
This was no ordinary boy; he had vanished from sight for years, forced to fend for himself in a world that offered little in the way of comfort or care. In that time, he had learned the hard lessons of survival, developing a resilience and self-reliance that set him apart from those who had remained behind. The experiences he endured during his absence had shaped him into someone who relied on his own instincts and strength, rather than the protection or guidance of others. It was clear from the way he held himself steady despite his injuries, defiant in the face of uncertainty that this was someone who had weathered considerable hardship and emerged hardened by it. His presence now, battered but unbowed, was a testament to the endurance and determination he had cultivated while alone and missing from the world he once knew.
“I asked you three fairly simple questions. If you don't answer me in the next few seconds, I will consider you kidnappers and react accordingly."
Jason was far from alone in picking up on the implied threat hanging in the air. He glanced uneasily at his fellow students, finding his own apprehension reflected in their faces. Even those amongst his darker-leaning friends, who might have ordinarily scoffed at the idea that the Boy-Who-Lived the supposed hero of the wizarding world would dare to threaten anyone, were not inclined to laugh now.
It was clear to all present that the boy confronting them was not just relying on reputation or bravado. The hardened, battered figure before them had clearly endured more than most of them could imagine, and there was little doubt that he possessed both the resolve and ability to make good on any warning he issued, whatever form it might take. The gravity of the situation was unmistakable, and the sense of unease spread quickly through the group, stifling any hint of mockery.
As Dumbledore attempted to address Harry, uttering, “Harry, my boy –”, the atmosphere in the Great Hall shifted instantly. Jason, watching closely, observed the stranger Potter, or whatever name he now claimed narrow his eyes in response. Before anyone could fully process the moment, Harry acted decisively, his movements swift and purposeful.
Jason caught sight of something swinging through the air a flash of silver gleaming in the light. Turning his attention towards the teachers’ table, he found the staff frozen in shock. Karkaroff’s expression revealed a mix of fear and approval, while Flitwick and Vector, curiously, appeared almost amused by the unfolding drama. Dumbledore, however, had grown pale, his eyes fixed behind him.
The reason for Dumbledore’s alarm became clear to Jason as he followed the headmaster’s gaze. Embedded in the wall, mere centimetres from Dumbledore’s head, was a knife the same knife that had been placed on the Slytherin table moments earlier. Jason marvelled at the fact that a Hogwarts knife could be sharp enough to pierce the wall and remain lodged there, underscoring the intensity and skill behind Harry’s actions.
A frightened murmur, tinged with horror, rippled through the assembled students. Jason noted that those who held little affection for Dumbledore looked on with a mixture of admiration and envy. Even those who regarded the headmaster with reverence could not help but be impressed by the remarkable accuracy of Harry’s throw.
"You should be happy," the boy remarked with biting sarcasm. "Given my current condition, I was almost certain to miss and injure you." His tone made it clear he rejected any claim of belonging he was not their boy.
Without hesitation, he reached for another knife.
With a cold, unwavering gaze, the boy addressed those before him, voice edged with warning. “Now, my questions. I want answers. Where, how, why, and your identity by the way frankly, that would be not bad.” His demand hung in the air, impossible to ignore, every word underscored by a steely resolve that brooked no delay or evasion.
The atmosphere in the Great Hall grew even more tense as Ludo Bagman, trembling visibly, hurried to respond before Dumbledore could speak and risk further provoking the already volatile newcomer. For perhaps the first time, Bagman was too unsettled to even attempt his usual bluster or self-congratulation at the dramatic reappearance of the Boy-Who-Survived-To-Disappear. Instead, he seemed wholly focused on preventing the situation from escalating further, his nerves laid bare for all to see.
Ludo Bagman, still visibly unsettled, struggled to compose himself as he addressed the formidable boy before him. “Vo - Your name is out of the Cup, Mr. Pot - Monseigneur,” he finally managed, though it was obvious that several Slytherins were barely restraining themselves from mocking his nervousness.
Harry’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing as he pressed for clarification. “What cut?” he demanded, his tone cold and direct.
“The - The Cup of the Triwizard Tournament,” Bagman stammered, his anxiety palpable as he tried to explain.
A grimace flickered across the boy’s face, signalling an immediate understanding of the situation. Without losing his composure, he asked, “May I know how my name was taken from the Cup?”
It was impressive, how he managed to maintain an almost normal tone despite his condition. Honestly, Jason was almost worried about the little brunette. The large gash he had on his shoulder and the others on his body continued to bleed. Jason was amazed that the other wizard hadn't collapsed yet. He noticed the pale face and slightly trembling body of young Potter and rolled his eyes when he saw that none of the adults were going to do anything to ease the newcomer's pain. Couldn't they recover from their damn shock?
“Uh, we – we don't know, Mr. Po – “
Bagman came to an abrupt halt, his eyes widening in alarm as he noticed Potter reach for another knife this time, one of his own rather than those on the Slytherin table. The blade gleamed, noticeably sharper and more dangerous. Beads of sweat began to form on Bagman’s brow, his fear unmistakable.
A satisfied smile curled across the lips of the dark-haired boy, growing even wider as he observed the director of the Sports Games turning increasingly pale and beginning to tremble.
"I haven't really kept up to date lately, but I've heard about the tournament. I guess I'm not wrong in assuming to be at Hogwarts."
His voice, though low and laced with danger, carried an unexpectedly alluring sweetness that seemed to captivate several members of the audience. Jason, keenly aware of his own reaction, discreetly pinched his thigh to remind himself that the boy before them was only fourteen years old, despite appearing somewhat older. As Potter scanned the room with an anxious glance, Jason noted that he was not alone in his response; many others, regardless of gender or year, appeared similarly affected. With so many older students sharing the experience, Jason felt less inclined to blame himself for his own reaction.
The boy’s gaze swept the hall with a calculated neutrality, pausing briefly on each face before settling on one of the Slytherin students though, truth be told, the term ‘kid’ seemed a misnomer, as this Slytherin appeared older than him. Potter’s brow rose in silent query, a gesture loaded with expectation and subtle challenge.
Jason’s breath caught in his throat the instant Potter’s eyes met his. He was momentarily at a loss, internally questioning the reason for such focused attention. Then, clarity struck Potter had just posed a question to the room, and Jason, caught in the intensity of the moment, had nearly forgotten. Gathering his composure, he inclined his head in response, striving desperately to appear calm and collected rather than like an over-eager puppy seeking approval. His effort was rewarded with the faintest shadow of a smile from Potter, a subtle acknowledgement that nevertheless sent a jolt of satisfaction through Jason.
A sudden jab to his ribs snapped Jason abruptly back to reality. The momentary haze that had enveloped him following Potter’s unexpected acknowledgement vanished, leaving him acutely aware of his surroundings once more. The physical nudge served as a reminder that he was still seated at the Slytherin table, surrounded by his peers and the ongoing drama that unfolded in the Great Hall. Jason blinked, attempting to compose himself and suppress the lingering embarrassment from his earlier reaction. The gesture was subtle but effective, grounding him amidst the tension and uncertainty that filled the room.
Adar Vaisey leaned in, his tone laced with amusement as he whispered, “I don’t mean to disturb your post-orgasmic haze, Jay, but you might want to wipe that ridiculous grin off your face.” Jason’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, caught off guard by the comment. It wasn’t typical for him to react in such a manner; he prided himself on his quiet demeanour, usually as impassive as Nott, who was two years younger. This sort of response was decidedly out of character for Jason, and he shot Adar a murderous look, only for his friend’s smile to grow even wider. Adar seemed particularly delighted when he noticed Jason’s blush intensify after Potter nodded approvingly in Jason’s direction.
Jason's face deepened in colour, his blush becoming even more pronounced. This sort of reaction was completely foreign to him; he had never been one to display his emotions so openly, certainly not like this. Typically, Jason maintained a calm and quiet presence, nearly as unreadable as Nott, who, despite being two years younger, was renowned for his impassive nature. This outburst of feeling was entirely unlike him, and he was acutely aware of how out of character it was.
With a glare, Jason directed a murderous look towards his friend, silently expressing his irritation at being singled out. His friend's amusement, however, only grew, the smile on his face widening as he savoured Jason's discomfort. The situation was made even more embarrassing for Jason when, following a small nod of approval from Potter, his cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red, much to the evident delight of his companion.
Potter's voice cut through the tension in the hall, drawing attention as he addressed the question that lingered in the minds of many. He hesitated briefly before speaking, a half-bitter, half-wistful smile appearing on his lips. With a hint of irony, he asked, “How did my name come about... miraculously found in the Cup?”
The words hung in the air, laden with unspoken accusation and doubt. His tone suggested a scepticism felt not only by himself but by others present, as if the very fact of his selection held an undercurrent of mystery and unease. The audience, already captivated by the events unfolding, seemed to lean in further, eager for any clue that might explain the extraordinary circumstances surrounding Potter's involvement in the tournament.
Adar shuddered, his response mirroring the palpable tension that had swept through the hall. He fully understood the reactions of Jason and the many others who had been affected. Even Adar, who did not typically consider himself particularly sensitive to the magical energies that permeated their surroundings, found himself electrified with pleasure. The atmosphere was so charged that he could only imagine how overwhelming it must have been for Urquhart, known for his heightened sensitivity to such magical currents. For someone like Urquhart, the experience must have been nothing short of intoxicating.
Ludo Bagman visibly shuddered, fear flickering across his features as he realised that his previous reply a vague "We don't know" had thoroughly failed to satisfy the young Potter. Bagman's anxiety was unmistakable; he nervously licked his lower lip, clearly unsettled by the intense scrutiny directed his way. Determined to regain some composure, he forced himself to address the situation.
"We - us... We will investigate that, sir," Bagman managed to stammer, his voice betraying his discomfort. The effort it took was apparent, but the answer still felt lacklustre.
Potter, unimpressed, raised an eyebrow in response, his expression openly sceptical. The gesture spoke volumes, as if he were silently questioning Bagman's sincerity. Nevertheless, after a brief pause, Potter nodded in acknowledgement though his face revealed lingering doubt and disbelief regarding the promised investigation.
“I hope so. After all... Didn't you put in place exemplary security measures this year?” Jason’s words rang out across the hall, their edge sharpened by the underlying accusation woven into his tone. The implications were clear: if the security had truly been as stringent as proclaimed, how could such an anomaly have occurred in the first place?
Before the question could settle, Karkaroff’s voice sliced through the murmurs, his tone almost scathing with suspicion. “And how do you know that, boy?” he demanded, his narrowed eyes fixed squarely on Jason. The insinuation lingered in the air, as if Karkaroff believed Jason might possess knowledge he shouldn’t, or worse, that he had somehow played a part in the unfolding events. The tension in the Great Hall thickened, with several students and staff members turning to gauge Jason’s response, their curiosity and scepticism mirroring Karkaroff’s own.
The exchange underscored the pervasive atmosphere of distrust and uncertainty, making it abundantly clear that no one was above suspicion not even those seated at the Slytherin table.
Potter still known to all simply by his surname, as he had offered no alternative regarded the situation with a trace of amusement on his face. The curious glint in his eyes suggested that he was studying those around him, weighing their reactions with interest.
He spoke at last, his tone casual yet carrying an undercurrent of significance. “Mammon is a very good informant,” he said, allowing the words to sink in before continuing, “Although now, he calls himself Viper.”
The simple statement seemed to resonate throughout the hall, hinting at deeper connections and shared knowledge that only a select few might fully grasp. Potter’s use of the name ‘Viper’ in reference to Mammon suggested familiarity with the shifting identities and secrets that threaded through their world, further fuelling the atmosphere of suspicion and intrigue that had settled over the gathering.
Raven’s smile broadened as he caught sight of Karkaroff’s sudden pallor. Years ago, Raven had abandoned his birth name, reserving it solely for correspondence and dealings with the goblins. Still, he was certain he had encountered Karkaroff’s name on more than one occasion. By introducing the name ‘Viper’ into the conversation, Raven was bluffing to some extent, but it proved effective; he was confident that Karkaroff was among those indebted to Mammon now known as Viper and fancied themselves able to outmanoeuvre him. Raven, who typically used male pronouns when referring to the arcobaleno of the mist, watched as a devastating smile spread across his face.
A visible ripple of fear swept through the green and silver table, where several students garbed in red and fur sat the unmistakable delegation from Durmstrang. The effect on the group was immediate, and Raven could sense the tension mounting among the students of the Green and Silver Championships.
"So, old man," Potter said, his tone casual but edged with challenge. More than one person in the hall choked at the audacity of the young man addressing Dumbledore in such a familiar, even disrespectful, manner. The words seemed to hang in the air, a ripple of shock passing through students and staff alike. Potter’s eyes remained fixed on the headmaster, unflinching, as he pressed on, "What do you intend to do?"
Before Dumbledore could respond, Professor McGonagall’s voice cut sharply across the hall, laden with disapproval. "Who do you think you are addressing, young man?" she demanded, her Scottish brogue more pronounced in her indignation.
Potter met her gaze evenly, raising an eyebrow in clear, unimpressed defiance. His expression conveyed neither apology nor retreat, making it obvious that he had no intention of backing down in the face of authority.
Jason regarded the headmaster with a critical eye, noting the man's demeanour, physical appearance, and the distinctive aura that surrounded him. These traits, Jason mused, aligned closely with the goblins' detailed accounts of Albus Dumbledore. Despite this apparent correspondence, Jason remained cautious in his judgement. He recalled how Dumbledore had repeatedly evaded even the simplest of his questions, refusing to provide straightforward answers. This evasiveness left Jason uncertain, unable to confirm the headmaster's true identity beyond reasonable doubt.
Jason let out a quiet snort, his scepticism barely concealed. From his observations, it was evident that the headmaster of Hogwarts had a penchant for evasion, deftly sidestepping direct answers and prolonging discussions unnecessarily. Jason’s patience wore thin as he noted the headmaster’s tendency to avoid straightforward responses, often leading conversations in circles and, in the process, wasting the time of everyone present.
At the Gryffindor table, Jason’s attention was drawn to Hermione Granger, whom he instantly recognised as particularly exasperating. Without hesitation, Hermione began to lecture the group, her voice rising above the general chatter as she insisted on the importance of showing proper respect to elders, especially figures like Albus Dumbledore.
Young Potter, however, was clearly unimpressed by Hermione’s admonishments. He interrupted her with a dismissive snort, his response cutting through her tirade: “Respect is earned and not given for free, snotty.” His words were direct and unyielding, making it clear that he was not inclined to grant respect blindly, regardless of the traditions Hermione championed.
The girl, stung by being referred to as a 'brat' by someone her own age, let out an indignant cry. The remark had clearly hit a nerve, highlighting the difference in maturity between the two. Jay observed the scene, unsurprised by the boy's composure and maturity, which set him apart from his peers. Watching the exchange, a satisfied grin spread across Jay's lips. It was a rare sight; never before had she witnessed someone outside of Slytherin stand up to the girl in such a manner.
"Given what you have done to me and my parents, I would prefer our interactions to be minimal."
The words hung heavily in the air, casting a silence across the hall. For a heartbeat, no one spoke; then, as if released from a spell, murmurs erupted throughout the assembled students and staff. The impact of Potter's statement was immediate and profound, leaving many to exchange uneasy glances and hushed speculations.
Dumbledore, attempting to maintain his composure, spoke up, his tone both gentle and defensive. "Harry, I don't know what the people who took you in told you but - "
Potter cut him off abruptly, his voice steady and clear. "I was not taken in by sorcerers," he replied, his words emphasising his independence and refuting any assumptions about his guardianship or upbringing.
Raven spoke with conviction, leaving no doubt about the truth of his words. His acquaintance with the goblins predated his encounter with the Vongola Assassination Squad, and it was clear that the goblins themselves could not be categorised as wizards. This distinction underscored the unique relationship Raven had forged with them, separate from the world of sorcery and wizarding families.
He went on to note, “But goblins are surprisingly helpful in the face of a common enemy.” This observation highlighted the pragmatic nature of goblin alliances. While their motivations might not align with those of wizards, Raven recognised their willingness to offer support when mutual interests were at stake, particularly when confronted by shared adversaries.
Adar Vaisey exchanged a glance with Jason Urquhart, both boys momentarily frozen in disbelief. The reality of the situation slowly settled over them: they had not imagined it Potter had, without hesitation or ambiguity, openly declared that Dumbledore was an enemy of House Potter. It was a moment of monumental significance, one that would be remembered for years to come. The weight of Potter's declaration, echoing through the hall, left the two Slytherins in stunned silence, their thoughts racing as they tried to comprehend the implications of such a bold and unprecedented statement. Oh Salazar, it was real.
Jason found himself pondering a particular revelation: had Potter truly said that the goblins had known him for years? The implication was startling. If the goblins had maintained a longstanding relationship with Potter, it raised the question of whether they might have been aware of his whereabouts all along, perhaps even possessing knowledge of his location that others in the wizarding world lacked. The thought alone was enough to unsettle the careful balance of power and information at Hogwarts.
Dumbledore, for his part, seemed momentarily at a loss, unable to mask his surprise at this unexpected disclosure. His composure faltered just as Madam Pomfrey made her way towards young Potter, intent on tending to him. Seizing the opportunity, Dumbledore attempted to assert some measure of control over the rapidly evolving situation, adding his own comment to the charged atmosphere.
Dumbledore turned to Madam Pomfrey, his voice gentle but authoritative as he addressed her. "Poppy, will you take care of him, young Mr. Pott - "
Before he could finish, Potter cut in sharply, his tone brooking no argument. "Don't call me that," he stated, interrupting the headmaster. "Raven. That's my name. And your employee was already on her way."
The exchange left no room for misunderstanding. Potter's insistence on being called Raven, rather than by the name everyone knew, was a clear rejection of Dumbledore's attempt at familiarity and control. Moreover, by pointing out that Madam Pomfrey was already approaching, Raven emphasised his awareness of the situation and his preference for minimal interference from the headmaster.
He paused momentarily, his eyes briefly assessing Mrs. Pomfrey as she continued towards him, her expression betraying a sense of duty mingled with concern. With measured politeness, he addressed her, "Thank you, but it won't be necessary."
Mrs. Pomfrey, clearly unsettled by his refusal, began to protest. "But - "
Raven cut across her hesitation without harshness, yet his tone left no room for negotiation. "Your help is appreciated, but your employer is obviously the headmaster of Hogwarts, and I do not intend to be approached by people affiliated with this man."
Jason understood the full meaning behind Raven’s actions and words, even those left unspoken. He recognised the significance of Raven choosing not to trust anyone associated with Dumbledore. This lack of trust stemmed from the knowledge that individuals tied to Dumbledore could exploit Raven’s vulnerable condition, using it to their advantage or possibly inflicting harm.
Furthermore, Raven’s explicit opposition to Dumbledore and his insistence that he had not been sheltered by wizards played a crucial role in dispelling rumours. By making it clear that he had not been taken in by wizarding families particularly those rumoured to be Death Eaters Raven effectively diminished the credibility of such gossip within the Hogwarts community.
Mrs Pomfrey acknowledged Raven’s decision with a stiff nod, though it was evident to Jason that she was far from content. The constraints of her position under Dumbledore’s authority clearly troubled her, as they now prevented her from tending to a student in need of care. The conflict between her professional duty and the limitations placed upon her by her employer was plain to see.
Any further debate was promptly settled when Raven conjured a yellow flame in his palm. He calmly guided the flame to his own shoulder, directing it over a large cut. The sudden and unusual display of magic provoked a startled exclamation from somewhere along the Slytherin table. Jason’s attention was drawn to Blaise Zabini, who had leapt to his feet in shock. It was highly uncharacteristic for Zabini, typically so composed and distinguished in his demeanour as a half-Italian pure-blood, to react so openly. The sight compelled Jason to sit up straighter, instinctively bracing himself for what might follow.
Zabini regarded Raven with a calm and calculating expression, clearly reassessing everything he knew about the so-called Survivor. His gaze lingered, as if weighing the revelations and piecing together the implications of Raven's chosen identity. After a measured pause, Zabini released a quiet breath, the sound standing out against the hush that had fallen over the room.
Breaking the silence, Zabini spoke, his voice carrying across the space, "Vindex?" The single word hung in the air, hinting at the layers of meaning and the new understanding that Zabini was striving to reach as he processed this unexpected turn of events.
Raven’s eyes narrowed, his mind automatically reaching for the word ‘Omerta’ in response to Zabini’s question. Yet he caught himself before speaking. The notion that a Hogwarts resident could be involved with the Mafia was unexpected, but Raven was not particularly shocked by the possibility it seemed likely to be a matter of family heritage. Nevertheless, he recognised that responding with ‘Omerta’ would be far too revealing, and so he chose a different approach. Instead, Raven inclined his head slightly towards the young man in a gesture of gratitude, acknowledging the unspoken understanding between them.
“Varia,” he replied simply, allowing the single word to convey all the necessary meaning without disclosing more than was prudent.
Zabini’s eyes widened in clear astonishment, leaving Jason to quietly speculate about the cause behind his reaction. As Jason’s gaze drifted beyond Zabini, he noticed that one or two of the older students those in their final years as well as several pupils from Durmstrang and their headmaster, Karkaroff, had all turned noticeably pale. The change was striking; not only had their faces lost colour, but there was also a subtle shift in their expressions, which now carried an undercurrent of admiration. The entire scene struck Jason as distinctly odd, the collective response of surprise and respect hanging in the air, as though some unspoken revelation had passed between them all.
Jason found himself genuinely confused, struggling to grasp the significance of the brief exchange between Raven and Zabini. The meaning behind the two words 'Vindex' and 'Varia' eluded him entirely, leaving him uncertain about what had just transpired between the two Slytherins.
Meanwhile, their classmate, Blaise Zabini, inclined his head with a marked air of respect, acknowledging the gravity of the moment. The gesture was subtle yet unmistakable, carrying the weight of understanding that Jason lacked.
“Blaise Zabini,” he introduced himself formally, his voice steady and composed.
“Raven,” the Survivor responded, echoing the formality with a nod that shimmered with quiet self-assurance, sealing the mutual recognition between them.
Blaise swallowed hard, the realisation slowly dawning upon him. At first, he had failed to make the connection when Raven had introduced his new name, a move clearly intended to avoid being addressed as 'Mr Potter' or, worse still, 'my boy'. The notion that the infamous Survivor and the renowned assassin whispered about in the Underground could be one and the same had seemed preposterous at the time.
Yet now, faced with mounting evidence, Blaise could no longer deny the truth. He had heard tales of 'Raven' circulating through the shadowy corners of the Underground—a figure known for exceptional skill and a reputation that had drawn the attention of the Vongola, and more specifically, the Varia Quality. Raven had begun to establish a formidable reputation a few years prior, and although Blaise was aware that Raven was young, he had not expected him to be this young. Surely, when Raven first started making a name for himself, it could not have been more than ten years ago.
Blaise's gaze flickered to the teenager's attire, his attention caught by the distinctive emblem stitched onto the jacket. The mark was unmistakable: the symbol of the Varia. A sense of unease crept over him, and he swallowed hard, the realisation settling in.
Choosing his words with care, Blaise ventured, "I didn't know they were recruiting so young." His tone was cautious, betraying the mixture of astonishment and uncertainty he felt at the revelation.
Raven, however, appeared perfectly composed. His expression remained serene, undisturbed by Blaise's uncertainty or the weight of the moment.
In a calm voice, Raven replied, "This is a recent change." With that, he conveyed not only the factual answer but also an assurance that left little room for further questioning.
Blaise nodded. Raven did not mean that the age of the recruits varied over time, but that his association with the Varia and the Vongola by extension was a recent event.
Blaise’s curiosity compelled him to ask, “I thought they already had a sun.” It was a reasonable question, given the reputation of Lussuria, whose name seemed impossible to avoid in any conversation about the Varia’s members.
The mention of Lussuria brought a faint, almost imperceptible smile to Raven’s lips, as if, for a moment, the rest of the world faded away and only they remained.
Raven answered with quiet certainty, “I am their Cloud. The sun is only my second affinity.”
Blaise blinked in surprise at this revelation. It was clear now; he would never have guessed the truth on his own.
Slowly, a smile stretched across the half-Italian's lips, and a rich, genuine laugh escaped him. Adar blinked in surprise, his expression mirroring the disbelief he felt. He could not recall ever having heard Zabini laugh before; the sound was an unfamiliar and almost alien presence in the room, adding an unexpected layer to the tense atmosphere.
Their brief moment of introduction, however, was brought to an abrupt halt. Bagman, having finally overcome his earlier shock and terror, joined Dumbledore in calling Harry to follow them. They directed him towards the anteroom, where the other Champions having grown weary of waiting and returned were gathered. The interruption shifted the focus away from the peculiar laughter, steering the group’s attention back to the pressing matters at hand.
Raven's Defiance
Raven cast an unimpressed glance at the assembled adults, his expression betraying his clear lack of enthusiasm for the proceedings. He spoke with a tone edged in sarcasm, remarking, "Excuse me? You're messing around, I hope."
Professor McGonagall, ever vigilant regarding proper conduct, quickly interjected, "Language!" Her admonition, however, was ignored, much to her evident displeasure.
Raven continued, undeterred by McGonagall's warning. "I'm not going to participate," he declared firmly. "It's not my fault that you lot failed to put up a barrier strong enough to stop all cheating." His words were resolute, making it clear he had no intention of complying with their expectations.
Karkaroff appeared to have grasped Raven’s innocence in the matter either that, or he was paralysed by the revelations he had uncovered earlier. In any case, he kept his counsel, offering no further comment or challenge to the proceedings.
Bagman, on the other hand, was quick to interject, attempting to move the conversation forward. "But Mr. Pott - " he began, his tone betraying a mixture of urgency and unease as he sought to address Harry directly and steer the situation back under official control.
He interrupted himself when he saw Raven start playing with one of her own knives. The glint of the blade caught the light, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Raven’s movements were calm and deliberate, handling the weapon with a casual familiarity that unsettled several of the adults present. The display served as both a silent warning and a clear sign of his indifference to the tension around him. Conversation faltered for a brief moment as those nearby watched, unsure whether to intervene or simply observe the unusual spectacle unfolding before them.
"You know, I still have two dozen with me," the young man remarked casually, his tone light and almost dismissive. The words hung in the air, delivered with such an air of nonchalance that it was difficult to tell whether he was boasting, warning, or simply stating a fact.
The reaction was immediate and unmistakable. The assembled group, already on edge from the tension in the room, turned their attention fully towards Raven. More than a hundred incredulous eyes fixed on him, disbelief and astonishment etched across countless faces. The sheer audacity of his statement seemed to defy all expectations, leaving the adults momentarily speechless.
Amidst the stunned silence, Zabini couldn't help himself. Another laugh escaped him; this one filled with both amusement and surprise at Raven's irrepressible bravado. The sound, so rare and out of place, did nothing to ease the tension, but it did serve to highlight the absurdity of the moment. Raven, for his part, remained utterly unbothered, his calm demeanour only adding to the uncertainty rippling through the room.
Ludo Bagman trembled visibly, his nerves betraying the inner turmoil brought on by the charged atmosphere. Swallowing hard, he mustered what could only be described as either a fleeting burst of courage or a moment of weakness, as he pressed on, unwilling to accept the Survivor’s defiant stance.
“But surely, you’ve been selected – your… your name has been drawn and –” he began, his voice wavering as he tried to maintain a semblance of authority in the face of Raven’s unyielding composure.
Raven, unperturbed, interrupted him with a curt question, “Can I see that?”
“Pa – Excuse me?” Raven interjected, his voice cutting crisply through the lingering tension in the air. The abruptness of his question caught several people off guard, but he maintained his composure, his expression unreadable as he fixed his gaze on the teachers’ table.
“My name? Can I see it?” he pressed, directing his request towards the assembled officials. The clarity and directness of his demand left little room for argument, and for a moment, silence hung heavily over the room as everyone processed his words.
Ludo Bagman, visibly flustered, wasted no time in responding. He nodded frantically, his anxiety apparent as he hurriedly reached out and snatched the piece of parchment from Dumbledore’s hands. Meanwhile, Raven approached the mini platform where the teachers’ table stood his movements unhurried, almost lazy, but betraying a quiet confidence that drew the attention of all present. His eyes never left the parchment, anticipation mingling with a subtle hint of challenge in his demeanour as he prepared to inspect the evidence for himself.
Raven took the scroll from Bagman, her movements precise and considered. She examined the parchment closely, scrutinising every detail as the room watched in tense anticipation. After a moment, she gave a dismissive sniff and nodded, a look of satisfaction crossing her features.
“That’s not my name,” she stated flatly, her tone leaving no room for doubt.
One of the officials, attempting to maintain control of the situation, responded with restraint, “I understand that you have changed your name, but the fact remains that you are -”
Raven fixed his gaze on the official, his expression calm but clearly resolute. “No, you’ve misunderstood me,” he began, his voice carrying a gentle but unwavering authority. “You may know me as Harry Potter, but ‘Harry’ is only a diminutive. My parents gave me three names, precisely to avoid the risk of becoming entangled in an illegal magical contract,” he explained, his tone smooth and deliberate. “The first name on my birth certificate is ‘Hadrian’, by the way.” The room listened, rapt, as Raven clarified the distinction between his commonly used name and the legal one, leaving no doubt about his identity and the careful precautions taken by his parents.
Dumbledore was left utterly stunned. He had been so certain of his assumptions, staking everything on them, only to find his confidence shattered in an instant. The revelation gnawed at him: Lily and James had always introduced their child as 'Harry', never once mentioning his true name. How could such a crucial detail have been omitted? Dumbledore felt the weight of its importance pressing upon him, realising now how pivotal it truly was.
If only he had known the boy’s real name, things might have unfolded differently. The need to uncover the other names given to the child by his parents became paramount in Dumbledore’s mind. Yet, unbeknownst to him, the secret was closely guarded; James and Lily, along with a certain goblin, were the sole keepers of their son's full name, ensuring that no one else was privy to it.
Raven looked at the piece of parchment again, her gaze lingering as she gently stroked its surface with her fingertips. The action was deliberate, almost meditative, as she considered the implications of what she saw or rather, what she did not see.
“Moreover, there is no magic signature,” she stated, her voice calm yet firm. “You may have managed to summon me, but you cannot force me to participate.” The significance of her words resonated throughout the room; the absence of a magical signature on the parchment underscored the lack of binding power, making it clear that Raven’s involvement was by circumstance, not compulsion.
He turned sharply, and with a deft flick of his hand, conjured a small purple flame. The flame danced briefly in the air before it touched the piece of parchment, instantly reducing it to ash as it floated away in the opposite direction. The action was swift and decisive, leaving no trace of the parchment or its contents.
“But – but anyway!” someone began, their protest faltering in the wake of the parchment’s sudden destruction. The words hung in the air, a feeble attempt to regain control or object to what had just transpired, but the irrevocable nature of the act left little room for further argument.
Crouch's explanation was abruptly halted by the sudden sound of a ringing telephone. Hermione, startled, began to protest, her instinct telling her that such technology could not possibly operate within Hogwarts' magical boundaries. However, before she could voice her objection, the young, dark-haired man calmly retrieved a mobile phone from his trouser pocket. Without hesitation, he answered the call and greeted the person on the other end in a language unfamiliar to most present. Hermione recognised the language as Italian, though she could not decipher the conversation, leaving her and the others in the room momentarily bewildered by the incongruity of the scene.
The young man answered his phone with a composed air, speaking quietly into the receiver. “Boss? Yes… No, I was kidnapped by English wizards. No, everything is fine. I was going to go back. Oh… Yes… Of course. If it pays well, no problem. Sure. See you later.” His words were matter of fact, betraying no hint of distress about his unusual circumstances.
After ending the call, he blinked and gazed absently at his camera, his demeanour untouched by the events that had unfolded. “Meh,” he murmured slowly, eyes still fixed on his phone. There was a subtle acknowledgement in his tone, as if to concede that, despite everything, the English wizards had ultimately proven useful to him.
It appeared he had no intention of returning to Italy immediately. With a casual “Ciao” and a wave of his hand over his shoulder, he took his leave. He did not pause for a response, nor did he look back as he exited the room. In that moment, it was as though he had never been present at all, his departure quiet and unceremonious, leaving no trace behind.
All that remained were the traces of the boy's blood, visible on the floor, the table, and the wall undeniable testament to Harry Potter's brief presence. Yet this would not be the final occasion when the Magical Community of Great Britain would bear witness to the dark-haired teenager. The evidence marked only a moment in a series of events, foreshadowing future glimpses and encounters that would continue to shape the community's perceptions and experiences of Harry Potter.
3 days later
Three days had passed since the highly anticipated draw for the names of the Tournament Champions, yet the excitement and speculation had been abruptly overshadowed by shocking news. The front-page article of the Daily Prophet reverberated through the halls of Hogwarts, leaving students and visiting delegations alike in a state of stunned disbelief. The revelation was especially significant in light of recent events concerning the Malfoy family.
Just two days earlier, Draco Malfoy had been forcibly removed from the courtroom by Lady Malfoy and the family's lawyer. Since that dramatic exit, he had not been seen by anyone at Hogwarts. The sudden and unexplained absence of the notorious Slytherin had fuelled a whirlwind of wild rumours. Students whispered in corridors and at mealtimes, their imaginations running riot with theories about Draco's fate, particularly as his characteristic arrogance had been notably absent from daily life.
Now, with the publication of the article, the student body and guests finally received an official explanation. The mystery that had gripped their attention for days was, at last, addressed, though it did little to quell the general sense of unease that lingered throughout the castle.
"LUCIUS MALFOY, FOUND DEAD IN HIS LIVING ROOM." was the headline on the front page of Britain's most widely read wizarding newspaper. The announcement sent shockwaves through Hogwarts and the wider magical community, coming just days after the mysterious disappearance of Draco Malfoy from the castle. The news was met with disbelief and an immediate sense of unease, as the circumstances surrounding Lucius Malfoy's death were anything but ordinary.
Speculation and rumour spread rapidly among students and visiting delegations alike, fuelled not only by the suddenness of the event but also by the Malfoy family's notorious reputation. The official explanation, delivered via the Daily Prophet, did little to quell the swirling conjecture. Instead, it marked the beginning of a period of uncertainty, with many left questioning both the nature of the incident and what it might mean for the future of the Malfoy family and the wizarding world at large.
At first glance, all evidence seemed to point towards the incident being a mere accident. Yet there were several anomalies that cast doubt on this straightforward explanation. The first and most striking was the appearance of an enormous kanji symbol, painted in red upon the wall of the living room. According to Narcissa Malfoy, the symbol was certainly not part of the original decor. Her assertion left little room for doubt, particularly as she had overseen the design of the room herself. The presence of this foreign character stood out as a deliberate addition, suggesting that the incident might not have been as accidental as it initially appeared.
Secondly, the cause of Lucius Malfoy's death was both unexpected and deeply ironic: it originated from the Muggle world. Reports indicated that Lord Malfoy had been struck on the head with a toaster, resulting in his near-instantaneous death. Such an unremarkable end stood in stark contrast to the reputation of the Malfoy family, who were known for their strong anti-Muggle sentiments. The notion that Lucius Malfoy indeed, any member of the Malfoy family would possess a Muggle object in his home was almost unthinkable.
Initially, no one recognised the nature of the weapon. The investigation only identified the object as a common household appliance after the arrival of an Auror, who happened to be a Muggle-born intern. It was this intern's familiarity with everyday items from the non-magical world that led to the crucial realisation: the murder weapon was a simple toaster; an item found in countless Muggle homes.
The evidence suggested that the perpetrator had returned to the scene, bringing with them the very object later used as a weapon. The bitter twist of fate could not be ignored: a Muggle appliance, so out of place in the Malfoy household, had become the instrument of Lord Malfoy's demise. The irony was not lost on those who knew the family's long-standing views on the non-magical world.
Given the Malfoys' reputation for ruthlessness and control, it seemed conceivable that, after years of tension and dominance, someone in Lord Malfoy's inner circle might have finally reached breaking point. Perhaps, after seeing those around them pushed to the edge, an individual had snapped and taken drastic action. This possibility stood out among the swirling theories.
Yet one vexing question remained: how had the assailant managed to penetrate the formidable protective enchantments surrounding Malfoy Manor? The manor was renowned for its security, with powerful magical wards in place to prevent any unwanted intrusion. The method by which the murderer overcame these barriers remained shrouded in mystery, leaving investigators and the wizarding community alike searching for answers.
Blaise Zabini had risen a little later than his peers that morning and made his way to the Great Hall for breakfast after most of the others had already begun eating. His fellow Slytherins were well into both their meals and their perusal of the morning papers by the time the half-Italian student joined them at the table. Naturally, when Bletchley handed him the latest issue of the Daily Prophet, Zabini had no excuse to avoid reading it, as his companions were eager to see his reaction.
The moment he scanned the headline, Zabini’s expression shifted dramatically: his lips parted and his eyes widened in an expression that was, at best, comical. The rest of the Slytherins, having already processed the news and regained their composure, watched his reactions with open amusement, enjoying the spectacle he provided.
Yet the real surprise came when, partway through reading, Zabini suddenly broke out into laughter. The group had to admit that they themselves had found it amusing to discover that a Muggle household appliance was implicated in Lord Malfoy’s demise. However, they doubted this was the true cause of Zabini’s laughter especially since this was the second time in less than a week that any of them had heard him laugh, an event rare enough among their number to be considered almost miraculous.
Hestia Carrow broke the silence at the table, directing her question towards Blaise Zabini, whose unusual outburst of laughter had captured the group's attention. "What's happening to you, Zabini?" she asked, prompting the Italian halfback to regain his composure. With a light sniff of amusement, Zabini set the newspaper down, his mirth lingering in his expression.
He spoke with quiet confidence, "They will never find the culprit. And if by some miracle they succeed, they will never stop him."
This statement hung in the air, leaving his companions to wonder whether Zabini possessed some hidden knowledge about the identity of Malfoy Sr.'s killer. The implication was subtle, yet powerful, adding another layer of intrigue to the already mysterious circumstances surrounding the incident.
Sixtain Rosier decided to break the tension and pose the question lingering in the minds of many. His prompt was met with an amused grin from Blaise Zabini, who now had the undivided attention of most of the table. Blaise paused, finished his mouthful of pancakes, and then responded with a calm assurance.
Evidence and Speculation: The Crow Connection
"They said that they found crow feathers near the body."
The disclosure of this detail brought an abrupt hush to the group, as each member paused to reflect on its possible meaning. The presence of crow feathers at the scene raised questions: was this evidence intended to shed light on the circumstances of Lord Malfoy's death, or did it merely add another layer of complexity to an already perplexing case? The uncertainty lingered, prompting further speculation among the assembled Slytherins.
Zabini cast an amused glance around the table, his expression tinged with mockery as he arched an eyebrow.
"Didn't we recently receive a visit from a crow?"
Blaise Zabini’s actions were marked by a deliberate restraint; he had not violated the Omerta. Instead, he used subtlety and suggestion to prompt his companions to think deeply about the circumstances surrounding Lord Malfoy’s demise. Rather than encouraging them to approach a professor or the authorities with their suspicions, Zabini silently persuaded the group to keep their discoveries to themselves.
It was unlikely any of them would have reported the matter, but the possibility of confiding in their parents was not entirely out of the question. In fact, the prospect of sharing such news at home could inadvertently generate more connections for the young assassin, whose reputation was already well established. This discretion, coupled with the intrigue surrounding the incident, served only to enhance the mystique and notoriety of the figure at the centre of the unfolding drama.
A satisfied grin stretched across Blaise's lips when he heard Jason Urquhart choke on his saliva; it was clear that his elder brother had grasped the implication of his words. The subtle exchange did not go unnoticed by those present, adding an undercurrent of unspoken understanding to the already charged atmosphere around the table. Blaise’s expression betrayed a sense of triumph, his amusement evident as he observed the effect his suggestion had produced. The silent communication between the brothers further heightened the intrigue, reinforcing the notion that much remained unsaid amongst the group, and that Zabini’s provocations were as effective as they were calculated.
Blaise wondered if Jason’s recent distraction might be explained by his apparent fascination with raven-coloured hair. The thought amused him, and he quietly resolved to tease his friend about it at a later opportunity. However, Blaise was also aware that Adar Vaisey had already taken it upon himself to needle Jason about the matter. Vaisey, for all his enthusiasm, remained oblivious to Raven’s true profession. In Blaise’s view, this ignorance was no reason for Jason to be put off; if anything, Blaise mused, the air of mystery surrounding Raven’s occupation should only serve to intrigue Jason even more.
Blaise placed the newspaper squarely on the table before him, the headlines catching the morning light. The banner story detailed the peculiar demise of Malfoy Senior killed, as it proclaimed, by a toaster. The absurdity of the method lingered in Blaise’s mind, prompting a wry tilt of his lips. He was well aware that Raven, the assassin in question, typically favoured more conventional weapons: knives, and on occasion, revolvers. The notion of a toaster being used as an instrument of murder had caught even him by surprise.
This unexpected twist, however, was not entirely out of character. Raven’s reputation for possessing a dark, irreverent sense of humour was well established; word of such eccentricities had long circulated among those in the know. The use of a household appliance in such a grim context seemed to Blaise a perfect example of Raven’s unique style deadly efficiency laced with a touch of the absurd.
Blaise allowed himself an amused laugh, the sound echoing the sense of irony and intrigue that continued to swirl around the table. He was well aware that this would not be the last time he heard whispers about the infamous assassin known as 'Raven'. The legend and notoriety of Raven seemed destined to grow with each retelling of the events, ensuring that her name remained a fixture in their conversations and speculations.
Meanwhile, at the teachers' table, Barty Crouch Jr., concealed beneath the guise of Mad-Eye Moody, could not suppress a surge of anxiety. He contemplated whether it was already too late for him to vanish into exile in some remote corner of Lapland, praying that the Dark Lord might never track him down there. The notorious reputation of the Varia a group he had no desire to cross weighed heavily on his mind. The last thing he wanted was to earn their enmity, and he silently reaffirmed his commitment to steering well clear of any involvement with them.
In a brief departure from the tension, a playful challenge was issued to the house tables: five points would be awarded to the house of the student who could correctly identify the song containing the lyrics "Blood on a marble wall". This diversion, small as it was, offered a momentary respite from the charged atmosphere and gave the students something light-hearted to focus on amidst the intrigue.