Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 17: The Quiet Between Storms
🕑 Added 2025-07-25 14:30:02 +0000 UTCThe Gryffindor common room, which had been full of warmth and laughter, was now very quiet, as if everyone was holding their breath. The sound of the day was still in every worn cushion and every softened edge of furniture, even though it had faded into memory.
Some of the portraits were sleeping, with some snoring softly in their frames and others curled up like cats on oil-painted windowsills. The hearth was just soot and thin trails of smoke, like ghosts of fire. Outside, snow fell in slow, silent veils, brushing the tall windows with a hiss like a secret that didn't want to be heard.
Harry sat by himself in the biggest chair near the fire. He had his knees pulled up and his arms wrapped around them. A blanket slid down his back, but he didn't notice it. He didn't plan on coming down here. Maybe he was looking for something: silence, or the comfort of being unseen—a place where he didn't have to be brave, didn't have to fill silences with words, and didn't have to pretend he knew how to rest anymore.
Then there was the tap.
Pointy. Without a doubt. A crack in the glass that made him jump up, his heart racing. He stopped moving and stared at the window. He thought for a second that it was either a gust of wind from a storm or his own tiredness.
But then he saw it.
The owl.
Not brown like Hogwarts. Not the color of the Ministry. Dark plumage that looks like ink and has a shiny sheen, and intelligent amber eyes. It stood perfectly still on the sill, looking dignified in a way that made Harry's skin crawl, as if it had traveled halfway around the world to bring him something important.
He opened the window. The owl quietly walked in, held out its leg, and waited. No hooting, no trouble. Just a goal.
Harry untied the scroll, his fingers brushing the wax seal, which was a pressed moon that was simple and steady.
Hey Harry,
Padfoot is writing for Moony.
He didn't open it right away. Instead, he sat back in the chair and stared at the letter in his hand as the candlelight flickered weakly against the walls. For a moment—just a moment—he felt like a kid again. Not the Boy Who Lived. Not a winner. It's just a boy getting a letter from someone who knew his parents.
He finally broke the seal slowly opened it.
Hey Harry,
We heard about the first task, and Merlin's beard, you had to fight a dragon! I wish I could say I was surprised, but maybe I shouldn't be since the Ministry and Dumbledore like to "test" people. You still did a great job. I'm proud of you, but I'd like to curse the whole lot of them for putting you in such danger.
Harry, dragons are not easy to deal with. You had to be brave and think quickly to do what you did. James was always praised for these things, and you clearly got them from him. But the most important thing is that you stayed calm under pressure, which is something even experienced wizards have trouble with.
Don't let anyone make you feel any other way.
But don't forget: this tournament isn't just about being brave; it's also about being able to last. There will be more tasks, each one meant to make you uneasy and test you in new ways. Don't let them see that you're scared. Do your best to get ready, but also trust your gut. No book or spell can teach you how to think on your feet like you do.
Don't be afraid to ask for help if you need it. We might not be able to stand next to you in the arena, but you're not alone in this. We will help in any way we can.
Harry, take a break. Even if it's in private, celebrate this win. You stood up to fire and came out stronger. That's a big deal.
With love and pride,
Padfoot and Moony
P.S. If I hear of Karkaroff or that stuck-up git from Beauxbatons trying to do something sneaky, I'll do it myself. Just keep your wand close and your eyes open. And don't forget that we believe in you.
He let out a jagged breath that he hadn't known he was holding. Not a cry. Not quite. But something broke open in his chest.
Because the letter wasn't too dramatic. It didn't say he was brave, smart, or special.
It had just asked how he was.
And no one had asked him that.
Not even once.
He read it again. And again. Until the edges of the words got fuzzy. He then carefully folded the parchment, smoothed out the creases, and put it in the inside pocket of his hoodie, where it belonged, close to his heart.
Harry leaned back and let his head sink into the worn velvet cushion. His eyes stayed open, and they didn't look at anything. He wasn't ready to go after sleep yet.
The soft sound of slippers on stone brought him out of his silence. Hermione.
She came out of the stairwell with hair that was a little frizzy and a braid that was half-unraveled on one side. She quickly pulled her robe around her shoulders. She looked worn out, but not shocked. Not at all.
She didn't ask him what he was reading. She didn't ask him if he was okay or why he hadn't come to bed. She didn't ask the questions that people who didn't know how to see all of him would ask.
She just walked across the room and sat down next to him.
Through two layers of fabric, her shoulder brushed against his, warm and steady. Not leaning. Not a lot. Just enough to let you know I'm here. With you. Always.
Harry didn't look at her. He didn't have to. She had always been able to read him like an open book, and now she knew that he needed more than words to feel better. And she gave it, just like she breathed.
That night, for the first time, the weight in his chest got lighter. Not gone, but better, because she was there.
He let out a slow breath, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, he felt less tense.
They stayed that way for what seemed like forever. As the snow fell through the tall, arched windows, Hermione's eyes moved up. The only sound in the room was the soft sigh of the wind against the old castle walls.
Harry's head finally tilted to the side and rested lightly against hers. They didn't move at all. Neither had to.
And for that hour, in that quiet part of the school that was sleeping, there were no dragons, no crowds, no points, and no news. Only them.
They didn't remember when their eyes had closed, just that the world had gotten softer.
The next thing they knew, they were being nudged awake by a wide-eyed first-year. “Why are you two sleeping down here?” the boy whispered, half curious, half scandalized.
Both of them jolted upright at once, cheeks flaming as laughter rang from a group of older students passing through. With hurried, embarrassed glances at each other, Harry and Hermione dashed toward the staircases that led to their dormitories, still blushing under the echo of teasing laughs that had followed them.
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Three days later
It wasn't very loud. Not the kind of sound that broke the silence like glass, but the kind that crept into it, curling at the edges of stillness like smoke. A soft, sibilant voice came from deep inside Harry's trunk. It's cold. Power. Alive.
He stopped moving.
There was no one in the dorm. Dean had left in a hurry, Neville had said something about greenhouses, and Ron was still complaining about doom and itchy dress robes as he followed them to breakfast. The sky in the morning was gray and heavy, threatening sleet but not delivering. Harry had stayed behind because he couldn't decide if he wanted food, company, or anything else.
With a practiced slide, the false bottom came up. The small mirror inside glowed a faint blue at the edges and pulsed like a heartbeat.
Harry put his thumb on the glass.
"Sirius?""
The light got brighter. And then his godfather's face came into focus.
Messy. In the dark. Alive.
His hair was longer and darker at the temples, and his thin face showed that he hadn't slept in a long time. But his eyes, which were gray and sharp like broken glass, were locked on Harry with fierce intensity.
"Bloody hell, Harry. Are you okay?"
Harry blinked, and his throat got tight. "You... saw?"
Sirius let out a breath, more angry than relieved. "Of course I saw!" The Prophet threw it all over Europe like it was the final game of Quidditch. France sent me some clippings. "Boy Who Lived makes dragon quiet! They think it's great. I think it's a crime.
His voice broke because he was so angry. "You could have died. You shouldn't have been there."
Harry didn't say anything. He didn't have to. His lack of words spoke volumes.
Sirius took a deep breath and then, more quietly, said,
"I'm not going to act like I'm okay with this." No, I'm not. I should have attacked the castle as soon as your name came out of that Cup. Made a lot of noise. Set the damn thing on fire. But I didn't. That's my fault.
He leaned in closer, his voice rough and urgent. "But listen to me. You're not the only one going through this. You have Remus. You got me. And you have Hermione. That girl is the most steady wand you have. We don't let each other down. Do you hear me?"
Something in Harry broke. Not weak. Acknowledgment.
After the Task, he hadn't cried. Not when the crowd cheered, and not even when Ellie gave him that clumsy sketch and whispered, "You were kind, and it listened."
But now, with Sirius's voice holding him steady like a rope through storm and stone, his shoulders dropped.
The weight slipped, just enough for me to breathe.
And Sirius saw it.
His jaw moved, and his face relaxed. Not into a smile, but into something more. Grief and pride mixed together, years he should have spent with the boy on the other side of the glass.
Sirius said softly, "You don't look good."
Harry looked him in the eye. "I'm not."
Sirius nodded once. No judgment. Just the truth.
After that, his voice got sharper again. "There's more to life than dragons. You didn't just happen to be in that Tournament. You were put there. Someone wants to see you. Looked at. And I don't think it's about fame.
Harry's grip on the mirror got stronger. "You think it's Voldemort."
Sirius didn't speak for a while "They're making you nervous. Making you feel alone. Harry, that's not school. That's conditioning.'
The word echoed in his mind. Chilly. Exact. Too well-known.
Harry looked down. Not because he didn't believe it, but because a part of him already did.
"What should I do?"
Sirius thought about it for a second, then softened again. Not quite like a father, but close.
"You don't have to believe everything right now. You don't have to figure it out tonight. "But don't stop asking why." He looked away, then back again. "And don't tell the people who want to help you carry it to go away."
The mirror's light started to flicker. Time was running out.
Sirius leaned in one last time. "We're still here, Harry. Not perfect. Not always close by. But here." His voice changed to something quiet and angry.
"Not this time." You're not the only one. Not this time."
The glass turned black.
Harry sat in the quiet gray of the morning, listening to the snow hiss against the windows like fingers on old glass.
The mirror was in his lap, and the warmth from it still lingered on his palm. He didn't hold on to it. Just held it.
He was still afraid. His questions hadn't either.
But his heart wasn't beating fast. His shoulders weren't ready. That was enough for now.
By the afternoon, the storm had really come in. It wasn't just a metaphor; it was a real Highland winter squall that brought sleet and wind down through the castle turrets until even the enchanted fires hissed with annoyance.
Most of the castle's people had gone to the library or their dorms, but Ellie was curled up on the rug in her mother's common room. Around her were scraps of parchment, half-eaten Chocolate Frogs, and the quiet chaos of childhood. The firelight made her hair look like gold, as if the room itself wanted to protect her.
Harry didn't mean to stop there. After talking to Sirius on the phone, his thoughts were still all over the place, and he walked without really thinking about where he was going. He could have gone to the library. Or not at all. He had walked here, to his mother's room, where the only person who wanted anything from him was there,
He stopped right in the doorway.
Ellie was bent over a piece of parchment, her tongue sticking out as she worked hard. She was trying very hard to draw wings on what looked like a dragon made out of potato shapes.
Harry felt something in his chest. She was pretty. The kind of pure, unguarded cute that no one should have been able to touch.
And in that moment, Harry knew with bone-deep certainty: any boy who ever tried to get close to her would have to go through him first. And he wouldn’t just be protective. He’d be a dragon. A very, very angry dragon.
That, Harry Potter could promise.
At first, she didn't see him.
That was enough to make him stop.
Harry saw her as she might have been before Hogwarts for one strange, quiet heartbeat. Before dragons. Before the secrets. A little girl lost in a world of crayons and magic, drawing monsters that breathe fire with safety in her heart and wonder in her eyes.
He moved closer.
Ellie looked up and smiled.
"Harry!" She chirped. "You have a dragon face."
He blinked. "I have a what?“
She proudly held up the parchment. "Look! This one is for you. You have spiky eyebrows because you always look serious. But not like your uncle. Like... angry.
Harry huffed. "I don't look angry."
Ellie laughed. "Not all the time. When you think too much.
She patted the space next to her without saying anything, as if it were already his. "Come on." I'm trying to draw a picture of how dragons sleep. "I need help."
So he sat down. Sitting cross-legged on the rug with mismatched socks, my shoulders slowly relaxed. And for the first time all day, Harry let the stress of tournaments that could end the world and whispered prophecies fade away just enough to make room for something else.
"Do dragons snore?""Ellie asked seriously, already writing.
Harry whispered, "Loudly," as if it were a dangerous secret. "Some of them make a whistling sound. Some kind of... sputter. One of them might have farted fire.
Ellie laughed so hard she screamed. "No! That's not in the books!"
Harry smiled. "Books don't tell you everything."
After that, they fell into a comfortable rhythm: Harry drew clumsy wings while Ellie critiqued every line like a queen. They fought over whether or not dragons should wear hats, then built a fort out of books and cushions and bravely defended it against unseen dementors. Lily had made cocoa and a small wandfire for roasting marshmallows. For a short time, Harry wasn't the Champion, the Chosen One, or the boy with nightmares and a letter he hadn't opened yet.
In this case, he was just her brother.
Ellie was completely innocent and happy to have him at all. She didn't want big things to happen. She didn't ask for answers. All she wanted was someone to laugh with, someone to lean on, and someone who would listen when she sang silly songs about dragon eggs and brave boys who danced.
As the sun went down, she curled up next to him, her head rising and falling with his chest and her legs wrapped in Gryffindor socks that were two sizes too big.
Her voice became soft and thoughtful.
"Do you think dragons are afraid?"
Harry looked down at her. "Maybe. Most likely."
"But they're so big and scary. What do they do when they're scared?"
He remembered the Horntail. Of how its dark eyes locked onto his and how his own heart beat like a war drum. He took a drink.
"They don't move at all," he said quietly. His voice got lower, steady, and sure.
"And they get ready to deal with it. You should always give it a shot, Ellie. "Fear can't win as long as you keep trying."
Her eyelids drooped, and her head sank deeper into his. "I'd hug them," she said softly. "So they would know they didn't have to roar."
Harry blinked a lot. Something sharp hurt behind his eyes. He kissed her forehead without thinking after brushing a loose strand of hair away. He felt like he should have done it years ago, something he had always known how to do.
"Me too," he said softly.
Harry Potter didn't feel haunted for the first time in a long time.
He just felt at home.
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Hermione was at the door to Lily's room.
She hadn't meant to listen in or follow him, but when Harry didn't show up for dinner and Ellie was also missing, something inside her chest pulled. Not really worry. Just... gut feeling.
She couldn't move because of what she saw.
Harry and Ellie sat cross-legged on the rug in the soft glow of the fire. Parchment and sugar crumbs were scattered around them in a safe place. Ellie's laugh was like a bell, clear and light, and Harry—Harry—was smiling. Not the empty, fleeting curve of his lips that he sometimes showed the world. But a smile that was real. The kind that made his face look softer and made him look like a boy instead of a weapon for the first time.
Then he bent down, kissed Ellie's forehead softly, and whispered something that Hermione couldn't hear.
She took a deep breath. She stood still in the dark, one hand lightly resting on the doorframe. Her heart felt like melted wax in her chest.
This She stayed for this reason. Why she fought. This was the Harry she wanted: not the haunted, sleepless Champion, but the boy who could laugh, love, and make a child feel safe in a world full of monsters.
There was still someone inside the boy who had forgotten how to rest who could protect. Someone who could look at a scared child and say, "Me too."
She didn't say anything. Didn't say anything. She didn't walk up to join in on the moment.
She just looked. Watched until Ellie fell asleep, then Harry leaned back against the couch with the same look she had seen before, in the infirmary after third year when Sirius had escaped and Harry had thought, for a moment, that family might be possible.
This time, though, it wasn't a dream that went away. It was true.
Hermione turned around and walked quietly down the hall. Her heart was warm, but her eyes were stinging in the dim light of the torch.
Because of all the fire, prophecy, and darkness swirling outside the castle walls, tonight...
Harry Potter was getting better.
And maybe, just maybe, they all were.
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