Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 13 Grim Meetings in Firelight
🕑 Added 2025-07-09 12:37:52 +0000 UTCLate at night in Gryffindor Tower
There was no noise in the common room. Not loud enough.
The sounds of laughter, chess pieces hitting each other, and whispered dares under the sheets at midnight were all gone. The fire crackled now, as if it were trying to break the silence. The flames cast moving shadows on the stone walls. Harry sat by himself, elbows on his knees, staring into the fire as if it held answers. The mirror was already warm from use and lay flat on the table in front of him.
A face came into focus.
First, Sirius. Then Remus.
And with them, the weight of war and memory came back like ghosts called up from the fire.
Sirius looked as crazy as ever, with his jaw tight and his dark hair falling into his empty eyes.
"Harry," Remus said softly. "Are you okay?"
Harry said "No" in a very clear way.
He didn't look at them. Not yet. He leaned back with his hands clasped and told the whole story: the revelation in Dumbledore's office, Peter revealed in fur and sweat, Barty Crouch's stolen face, and the mark that grew like a curse on Snape's arm.
He didn't leave anything out.
The fire had burned down by the time he was done. But the room was still getting hotter.
Remus was shocked and stared. He whispered, "Snape," and his voice shook with a mix of disbelief and rage. "If I were alive and standing in front of him right now, I swear I'd—"
His voice broke. "We left you alone there, Harry. We abandoned you."
Harry still didn't look them in the eye.
Sirius, on the other hand, was pacing on the other side of the mirror. His fists were white and tight. "Snape." It was Snape, of course. Right in front of their noses! And what about me? I sat in a cell and let the world go to hell because no one believed me. Not even Dumbledore—
He hit the stone next to him with a loud crack, but Remus didn't even flinch.
Harry finally spoke, and his voice was flat. "It's over."
Sirius stopped walking around. "Finished? "Harry—"
Harry cut in and said, "This school isn't safe." The words hit hard, but his voice didn't get louder. "It never was. Not for me. But now, it's not just about me, is it?
There was a long pause after that. The fire made a hissing sound.
"What's next?" Remus asked in a quiet voice.
Harry looked up, his eyes hard. More mature than his age. It looked older than Sirius did now.
"Now?" he asked. "The Tournament goes on now."
Sirius's mouth dropped open. "You're not still—Harry, after all this? You can't be serious—
Harry said, "It's not up to me," his voice still too calm. "I'm a champion. The Goblet made sure of that. Whoever put my name in it, has done his job very well."
Remus leaned back slowly, his eyes dark with thought. But when he spoke, his voice was steady. "Then we'll be here."
Harry blinked once.
"Every step of the way," Remus said at the end.
Sirius let out a breath, as if the fire had finally reached his lungs. "We sure will."
Harry let the silence last for a second. Let their promise fill the room.
Then he nodded once, not with hope or thanks, but with something simpler.
Have faith.
And the last Marauder nodded back across the fire and the mirror.
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The Next Morning – Great Hall, Transfigured for the Ceremony
The summons came with breakfast, just like a house-elf offering tea.
"Champions must come to the Wand Weighing Ceremony right away."
Harry blinked at the note with sleepy eyes. "Brilliant," he said under his breath.
"Nothing says getting over trauma like looking at wands and having a live audience."
He gave Hermione a sharp look. "You still haven't gotten enough sleep. Have a bite."
Hermione held up a piece of toast and poked it with her finger. "Yes, I am. In a spiritual way."
By the time Harry got to the Great Hall,
The other champions were already there. Cedric looked like he had just come from a meeting of the Cedric Diggory Appreciation Society. He was perfectly put together and very humble. Fleur moved with grace, while Viktor stood still as a glacier, looking around the room as if he might hex the velvet.
Then there was her.
Rita Skeeter.
Green robes that sparkle. Nails that are bright red. Quill was already floating in the air like it was stalking something.
"Mr. Potter!" she yelled, as if they were old friends. "It's so nice to see you again.
"Can we step aside for a minute?"
Harry looked over at the table where the wands were being weighed. "Can I say no?"
"You could," she said with a purr. "But I'll just quote you on that."
He sighed and followed her behind a pretty screen, where a small table, two chairs, and what looked like a bowl of peppermints were waiting for him. The quill hovered next to her like a mosquito on caffeine.
"So!" she said. "Harry, how are you doing after all the drama lately? People are going crazy with rumors of stunners, secret traitors, and emotional fireworks.
Harry blinked. "Explain what 'dither' means."
She waved her hand, not caring. "Don't worry!" Let's talk about love. Have you and Miss Granger really been in love since you were twelve? Maybe a couple that ran away?
Harry, with a straight face: "Of course. We ran away to a werewolf's cave and now we raise magical goats.
The quill wrote with a lot of energy.
"Is your relationship with young Ellie Potter tense now that she knows you're her secret long-lost brother?"
Harry looked at her. "Do you write news or fiction?"
"Both!" she said with a smile.
"Mr. Potter?" a voice cut through the noise.
Ollivander was there. Skinny, reed-like, and always polite. Harry got away from Skeeter's claws like a man running away from a boggart.
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Every champion showed off their wand. Ollivander whispered about dragon heartstrings and wood grains, tested flexibility, and praised the quality of the work.
Harry stepped forward and held out his wand when it was his turn.
"Holly and Phoenix feathers. Eleven inches. "Soft."
Ollivander carefully turned it in his hands. "This wand... interesting." Still loyal after all these years. Still picking you, even with all the stress.
Harry didn't say anything. The wand made a low humming noise. Maybe as a sign of respect. Maybe as a warning.
"Very good condition," Ollivander said softly. "But full of history."
He gave it back with care. "May it always serve you well, Mr. Potter."
Harry smiled a little. "I'll do my best not to drop it in the middle of a trauma."
There were a few uncomfortable laughs. Even Fleur seemed to find it funny.
— —--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bagman bounced forward with a smile that didn't match the tension in the air after the last wand was weighed and the velvet was admired enough.
"Champions!" he yelled with joy. "You've all done a great job this morning."
Now, let me tell you what your first challenge is.
Harry let out a sigh. Let's do this.
Bagman went on to say, "The First Task will take place on November 24th in the Forbidden Arena, a safe, magically enhanced area near the edge of the Forest.
You will have to face a challenge that will test how brave you are when you don't know what will happen.
The champions looked at each other. Fleur raised an eyebrow. Cedric had a hard time swallowing. Krum nodded once.
"You will each have to face the challenge on your own." Only bring your wand.
That was all there was to it.
Harry ran his hand through his hair, which was already hopeless. "Great. Unclear doom. That's my favorite kind.
Late at night, near the Fat Lady's portrait in the Gryffindor corridor
Harry was halfway to the standard room when he almost ran into Ginny. With her arms crossed and her face unreadable, she was waiting in the hallway.
"She's in the Hospital Wing," she said in a low voice. "Been there since the afternoon."
Harry stopped moving. "What?"
Ginny gave him a look. "Hermione. She collapsed on the floor."
"What? Why didn't anyone—?
"She made Pomfrey promise not to tell you," Ginny said as she stepped aside. "She didn't want to make you worry."
But Harry was already on the move. Down the stairs. Beyond the tapestries. Through a castle that seemed too big and too cold.
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The doors creaked open, and everything was still. No Quidditch players got hurt. No second years who sneeze. There was only one bed, and it was lit by the soft, pale light of enchanted lanterns.
Hermione was curled up under the blanket, and her cheeks were too pale. Her hair was in messy loops on the pillow. There was a book next to her that was closed for once.
Madam Pomfrey came out of her office with her arms crossed and a kind look in her eyes.
"She's stable," she said before Harry could say anything. "She fell apart from magical burnout and not getting enough sleep. Her body has been taking energy from her core for months, maybe even longer."
Harry's voice was barely a whisper. "She didn't tell me."
Pomfrey looked at him with less anger now. "She thought you needed her more than she needed to sleep."
Harry turned his head.
"Mr. Potter, you're not the only one who carries burdens quietly," she said softly.
He got closer and pulled a chair up to her bed. He sat there, not sure if he should talk or not. But before he could make a choice, her eyes opened.
"Hey," Hermione said in a low, rough voice.
"Hey," Harry said.
A beat went by.
"Why didn't you say anything?" he asked, not accusingly, but with an empty tone.
Even though she was tired, she smiled a little. "Didn't want to make us go slower."
Harry shook his head. "Hermione, you are not a liability."
His voice cracked a little.
"You're... you're everything."
Hermione blinked once, slowly. Then she took his hand.
After that, they didn't say much. They didn't have to. Not after all that. Not tonight.
He stayed with her until she fell back asleep, her thumb still loosely wrapped around his fingers.
And before he left, he did something he hadn't done in a long time.
He walked up to Madam Pomfrey, cleared his throat, and said, "What potions do you need to restock?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I'll bring them tomorrow." Just let me know what to get. Please.
The nurse smiled, but not out of pity. She was proud.
"I will."
Gryffindor Dormitory – Just Before Midnight
Harry went back to his dorm without saying a word. The fire had gone out a long time ago, and the room was lit by a soft, silver moonlight.
He set his bag down at the foot of the bed and started to pull back the sheets.
That's when he saw something under his pillow.
A letter.
He knew too well that his name was written in soft, slanted ink.
Lily.
He looked at it.
He didn't move for a long time.
He then carefully set it down on his nightstand without opening it.
Not yet.
But maybe soon.
