The Hogwats Gaijin

The end of May at Hogwarts was muggy and uneasy. The air felt thick, as though before a storm, and even the evening coolness brought no relief.

Harry walked towards the Quidditch pitch, feeling the gravel crunch under the soles of his trainers. Ahead, cheerfully whistling and bouncing with every step, strode Ludo Bagman in his ever-present black-and-yellow striped robes, which made him look like a grossly overfed wasp.

Walking beside Harry were his rivals. Viktor Krum, hunched and gloomy, moved heavily, rolling from foot to foot as if uncomfortable when not in the air. Fleur Delacour, on the contrary, glided along barely touching the ground, chin held high, though Harry noticed how nervously she twisted a strand of her silvery hair. Cedric Diggory walked with a relaxed stride, but his gaze kept sweeping the surroundings.

Harry caught himself thinking something strange: he no longer felt like an outsider.

Half a year earlier, in autumn, when the Goblet had spat out his name, he would have trailed behind everyone, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, wishing the ground would swallow him. He would have felt like an impostor, a schoolboy among adult heroes.

But now everything had changed.

Harry glanced at his reflection in a tall greenhouse window as they passed. His robes sat differently on him. His shoulders had broadened — the result of months of gruelling physical training that Kieran had forced upon him (even though Harry had cursed those early-morning runs). His walk had changed too — springy, light, ready at any moment to dodge or sprint.

He no longer looked like the scrawny “Boy Who Lived”. Now he was a champion. And looking at Krum’s powerful back, Harry realised with surprise that he felt no fear.

‘Right, here we are!’ Bagman announced cheerfully, stopping at the entrance to the Quidditch pitch. ‘Have a look!’

Harry and Cedric stepped forward at the same time and froze.

The pitch had vanished. Instead of the smooth lawn they had flown over so many times, an endless, grim maze now rose before them. Hedges twenty feet high cut across the space, creating dark, narrow corridors. They looked ominous in the gathering twilight — solid green walls that swallowed the light.

Harry exchanged a glance with Cedric. The same panic that had stabbed at Harry was visible in the Hufflepuff’s eyes: What have they done to our pitch?!

‘Don’t look so worried!’ Bagman chuckled, noticing their stunned expressions. ‘We’ll put the pitch back in perfect condition once the Tournament is over. You won’t find a single blade of grass out of place! For now… this is your third task.’

He swept his arm in a wide gesture over the gigantic walls.

‘A maze. The goal is simple — the Triwizard Cup is at the centre. The first to touch it wins. But, of course, it won’t be that easy.’

Bagman lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though his eyes still sparkled with amusement.

‘The maze will be populated. Hagrid has supplied us with a whole collection of his… er… pets. There will also be spells, traps, and riddles that require not only magic but also quick thinking. You’ll need to use all your experience…’ Bagman paused and cast a quick, condescending glance at Harry, ‘…however limited it may be, and all your luck to get through this.’

Earlier Harry would have flushed. He would have looked away, scuffed the ground with his trainer, feeling like a schoolboy being scolded for meddling in adult games.

But now he simply looked.

Harry met Bagman’s gaze directly, calmly, without challenge but also without a trace of embarrassment. In his green eyes was the cool confidence of someone who knew his own worth. Bagman’s smile faltered slightly; he blinked first and hurriedly turned his gaze to Fleur.

‘Experience,’ Harry thought with an inner smirk.

If only Bagman knew. Memories of the past months flashed before his eyes: empty classrooms on the third floor, the smell of ozone and stone dust.

‘Stupefy!’ Ron shouted, and a red jet flashed an inch from his ear.

‘Impedimenta!’ Hermione added instantly from the other side.

Harry dived under a desk, rolled over his shoulder, feeling his muscles spring in response to his brain’s command faster than he could think.

‘Too slow, Potter!’ Kieran’s voice, calm and hard, came from somewhere above. ‘You’re only looking forward. You don’t have eyes in the back of your head, but you need to feel with your back. Again! Ginny, go!’

The air exploded with a cascade of sparks. Harry spun like a top, threw up a Protego shield that rang as it deflected three spells at once. The ricochet hit the wall, sending stone dust into his face, but he didn’t flinch. He saw the entire battlefield at once. Three hundred and sixty degrees. Control. Breath. Strike.

Those training sessions had knocked the childish clumsiness out of him. Kieran hadn’t gone easy on him, Hermione hadn’t cut him any slack, and Ron and Ginny had enthusiastically played unpredictable threats. Harry had learned not to fear noise, not to lose himself in the chaos of battle, and most importantly — to trust his own body.

He looked at Krum, who was frowning at the maze entrance. He looked at Fleur, who looked paler than usual.

‘I’m ready,’ Harry realised with surprise, squaring his shoulders and feeling the evening breeze cool his face. ‘I really am ready.’

‘Mr Bagman,’ Harry’s calm voice cut through the silence, making everyone turn. ‘Is it possible to blast straight through the walls, or are they enchanted?’

Bagman raised his eyebrows in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected the youngest champion to speak at all.

‘Er… no, Harry, the walls are impenetrable. You’ll have to find your way.’

Harry nodded. Just a task. Just another match where the Snitch was hidden in the centre and Bludgers were trying to kill you. Nothing new.

He turned and walked away from the maze, feeling the heavy, appraising gazes of his rivals on his back. But it no longer bothered him. Let them watch. He had something to show them.

The Gryffindor common room greeted Harry with the smell of burning logs, the noise of dozens of voices, and that special, enveloping cosiness he had missed so much on the windswept pitch. He stopped at the entrance, not hurrying inside, and scanned the room, looking for familiar faces.

He spotted them immediately. They had taken their usual places by the fire, occupying the corner sofa and a couple of armchairs.

Harry looked at them and realised he no longer saw them as just school friends. Before him sat… a team. His team.

On the wide sofa, in the very corner, sat Kieran. He looked unusually relaxed, his long legs stretched out towards the fire. Next to him, comfortably settled and leaning her shoulder against his side, sat Hermione. She held a thick, battered book in her hands, her lips moving silently as she read. Kieran didn’t seem to mind being used as a living bookrest at all — all his attention was on the chessboard on the low table in front of him.

Opposite, with the air of a general already anticipating the enemy’s surrender, lounged Ron in an armchair.

‘Check, mate,’ Ron drawled lazily, sending his knight on what looked like a suicidal attack. ‘And, unless I’m very much mistaken, mate in three moves.’

Kieran frowned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His black pieces were in a sorry state, trapped in the corner of the board like cornered beasts.

‘I hate this game,’ Morgan muttered, but he moved a piece, clearly trying to delay the inevitable. ‘There’s too much logic in it and far too little opportunity to just flip the table.’

Next to Ron, on the rug, sat Ginny. On her lap, sprawled like a fluffy ginger cloud, Crookshanks purred. Ginny thoughtfully stroked the cat’s thick fur, staring into the fire, and in the firelight her face looked unusually serious.

Harry stepped towards them.

The idyll shattered instantly. The moment his shadow fell across the chessboard, all four heads turned at once. Their gazes locked on him — attentive, expectant, sharp. The relaxation vanished; cats and books were forgotten.

‘Well?’ Ron was the first to crack, leaning forward. ‘What is it? Dragons? Sphinxes? Or more merpeople?’

Harry dropped onto the arm of a free chair, feeling their focused attention on him.

‘A maze,’ he said shortly. ‘A huge, overgrown hedge maze covering the entire Quidditch pitch. The walls are impenetrable, there’s mist inside, traps, and according to Bagman, “Hagrid’s pets”.’

‘A maze…’ Hermione repeated thoughtfully, closing her book. She straightened at once, and Kieran, losing his support, swayed slightly. ‘A classic challenge. Navigation, tactics, fighting magical creatures in confined spaces.’

‘Sounds horrible,’ Ron stated, but his eyes gleamed with a strategist’s excitement. ‘Still better than diving into a lake in February.’

Ginny carefully but firmly lifted Crookshanks from her lap and placed him on the sofa. The cat gave an indignant meow but didn’t argue.

‘So, close-quarters tactics and detecting hidden threats,’ she summed up briskly, standing up and brushing off her skirt. ‘Right, shall we go and train?’

‘Yes,’ Hermione nodded, already pulling out her wand and stuffing the book into her bag. ‘I’ve just found a couple of interesting spells for breaking barriers and enhanced compass charms. Kieran, are you coming?’

Morgan pushed his king off the board with relief, conceding defeat.

‘Of course,’ he said, rising and rolling his shoulders in a familiar motion. ‘Anything’s better than watching Weasley destroy my self-esteem with wooden pieces.’

They moved towards the exit from the common room as a united front. Harry walked slightly ahead, feeling his friends’ footsteps behind him, and the sensation was more reassuring than any armour.

Dean Thomas passed by with a stack of parchment under his arm. He slowed, eyeing their group — focused, purposeful, marching in step.

‘Alright, you lot,’ he chuckled. ‘You’ve been looking like some sort of special forces unit lately. It’s almost scary.’

Dean walked on, and Ron stopped, frowning.

‘Like what?’ he asked, looking at Harry. ‘Special… what? Is that an insult?’

He straightened up, squared his shoulders and put on his most serious face, just in case.

‘Special forces, Ron,’ Hermione giggled as she passed. ‘Elite troops. It’s like… well, say, elite Aurors, but for Muggles. The best trained, the toughest, and they work as a team.’

Ron’s face brightened. He nodded solemnly after Dean, though the boy had already disappeared round the corner.

‘Ah, well in that case,’ he said importantly, straightening his robes, ‘spot on. That’s us. Special forces. Sounds proper impressive.’

Kieran, bringing up the rear, only snorted and rolled his eyes, but Harry noticed the corner of his mouth twitch in a smile.

Harry pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady, letting the cool air of the castle into the room. Inside him spread a strange, ringing lightness. There was no fear of the maze. Only a goal, the path to the training room, and people ready to walk beside him shoulder to shoulder, whether in a game of chess or a battle against monsters.

‘Oi, special forces!’ Ginny called to her brother. ‘Don’t lag behind. Or the elite troops will leave without you.’

‘Coming, coming!’ Ron replied, quickening his pace. ‘Harry, do these special forces blokes have uniforms? Maybe we should get some too…’

Harry laughed, and the sound echoed off the stone walls, drowning out any worries.