The Hogwats Gaijin

Only an hour ago the hospital wing had stood in silence, smelling of potions and fear. Here, on the Quidditch pitch, the air vibrated with shouts, whistles and the thunder of magical fireworks. The stands roared, merging into one many-headed, multicoloured monster.

Harry stood on the wooden platform feeling like a mannequin someone had forgotten to remove from the display.

Ludo Bagman, shining like a freshly polished Galleon, bounced beside him, his voice magnified by a Sonorus charm. His face glistened with sweat and delight.

‘…the youngest champion! Incredible speed! A sensational victory for Hogwarts!’

Harry blinked. The flashes from the Daily Prophet cameras blinded him, leaving bright spots on his retinas. He watched everything as though through thick, murky glass.

He glanced down at his robes. Madam Pomfrey had managed to remove the blood and graveyard dirt and heal the cuts, but the right sleeve remained torn to shreds, exposing pale skin and a fresh pink scar. That ragged sleeve seemed the only real thing in this whole farce.

The other champions stood nearby.

Viktor Krum frowned, hunching his powerful shoulders. He stared at the ground, clearly upset by his defeat. Fleur Delacour nervously twisted the hem of her robes, shooting Harry quick, displeased glances — she had been eliminated first and considered it unfair.

And Cedric… Cedric Diggory was smiling. He looked tired, his uniform singed, but he himself was alive, energetic, and shook Harry’s hand warmly.

‘You were faster, Harry,’ he said, shouting over the noise of the crowd. ‘Honestly. I got held up by the Sphinx, while you went through cleanly. Congratulations.’

Harry looked at his open, honest face and felt a cold wave of nausea rising inside him.

You don’t know, he thought, and the idea made him want to howl. You don’t know anything, Cedric. If you had touched the Cup with me… you might not be standing here now.

Harry tried to smile back. He stretched his lips, but the muscles in his face cramped. The smile came out not friendly, but pathetic, crooked and angry — like the snarl of a cornered animal.

‘Thanks,’ his own voice sounded alien and rasping to him. ‘Just lucky.’

‘Lucky?!’ Bagman roared, clapping Harry on the shoulder so hard he nearly lost his balance. ‘That’s talent! Pure talent! And now — the grand prize! A thousand Galleons!’

A heavy bag of gold landed in Harry’s hands. He nearly dropped it. The gold pulled downwards like a stone around a drowning man’s neck.

The people in the stands were going mad with delight. They saw the Tournament winner, a hero, the school star.

But Harry saw red eyes.

They stood before him, overlaying the faces of the spectators. Two vertical pupils burning with hellfire in the sockets of a pale, snake-like face. The creature that had crawled out of the cauldron. The creature that had promised death.

It had returned.

The thing he had feared since he was eleven. The thing that lived in his nightmares and his scar. Voldemort had returned, gained a body, and now this stadium, these flags, these smiles, these ridiculous cups — all of it was cheap cardboard scenery. A sham. A paper toy world that still did not know it had been set on fire.

Harry shifted his gaze to Dumbledore. The Headmaster stood slightly behind Bagman. He was not smiling. He clapped politely, but his gaze above his half-moon spectacles was fixed on Harry — serious, attentive, understanding.

Harry could bear it no longer. The feeling of falseness was choking him like a noose.

‘Sir,’ he turned to Bagman, interrupting his latest enthusiastic speech. ‘I need to go.’

‘What? Go?’ Bagman faltered, blinking. ‘But, Harry, what about the banquet! Interviews! The Minister wants to shake your hand!’

‘I’m tired,’ Harry said. It was true, but not the whole truth. He was not simply tired. He was empty. ‘I… I’m injured. Madam Pomfrey said I need rest.’

He did not wait for permission. Clutching the bag of gold until his fingers turned white, he turned and began descending from the platform.

The crowd quietened a little, watching him with puzzled looks. Why wasn’t the hero celebrating? Why was he leaving?

Harry felt those gazes on his back. Hundreds of eyes clung to him like cobwebs. Curiosity, envy, admiration. They would not let him go now. He had once again become the Boy Who… The crowd parted reluctantly, and Harry Potter walked slowly towards the castle, wanting to find shelter, if only for a little while.

The boys’ dormitory remained the only place in Gryffindor Tower that the wave of unrestrained merriment had not yet reached. Through the thick walls came the faint sound of joyful shouts, but here, behind the closed door and the curtain of silence, a completely different atmosphere reigned.

They sat on Harry’s and Ron’s beds, which had been pushed closer together. In the middle, on the crumpled blanket, lay a pile of sweets from Honeydukes — Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Liquorice Wands. But they ate mechanically, without pleasure, simply to occupy their hands and drown the bitter aftertaste of horror with sugar.

Harry sat leaning back against the headboard, turning an unopened Frog in his hands. The tension that had held him all evening began to ease, giving way to cold, crystalline clarity.

‘Dumbledore will sort it out,’ Ron broke the silence. He sat cross-legged, gnawing a Cauldron Cake with fierce determination. ‘He’s… well, he’s Dumbledore. The greatest wizard of the century. Fudge can dislike him all he wants, but the Headmaster knows what to do.’

Ron spoke confidently, but Harry heard notes of desperate hope in his voice. Ron needed to believe that the adults would come and fix everything.

‘Sort it out?’ Harry asked quietly, not raising his eyes. ‘Ron, all year long, right under his nose, in his school, a Death Eater was teaching. Drinking Polyjuice from a hip flask every hour. And Dumbledore — the greatest wizard with a century of experience — noticed nothing.’

Ron choked on his Cauldron Cake. Hermione, sitting on the edge of the bed and nervously breaking a chocolate bar into neat squares, froze.

‘Harry’s right,’ Kieran’s voice came from the shadows by the window. He sat sideways on the windowsill, thoughtfully swinging one leg. His face, treated with ointment, looked like a mask in the half-light. ‘We got out of that graveyard alive not thanks to Dumbledore. And not thanks to the Aurors.’

Ginny, settled on the rug beside the bed, nodded silently, looking at Harry with grim determination.

Hermione frowned. For her, accustomed to believing in the unshakeable authority of adults, this conversation was difficult.

‘But… it’s Dumbledore,’ she objected uncertainly, setting the chocolate aside. ‘He’s not all-powerful, of course, but to question his competence… That’s dangerous. Without him we have no chance at all.’

‘I’m not saying we should go against him,’ Kieran countered, jumping down from the windowsill and stepping closer to the light. ‘I’m saying we can’t rely on him alone. Blind trust nearly cost us our lives today.’

He looked round at them all.

‘That monster has returned. He won’t stop. And while the Ministry writes reports and Dumbledore plays his political games… we could simply be killed.’

‘And what do you suggest?’ Hermione asked. There was no challenge in her voice, only a desperate desire to hear something practical, a ready solution.

‘Continue what we’ve been doing,’ Kieran replied. ‘Train. Only harder. Study combat magic, not the school curriculum. We need to be ready for war, Hermione. That creature must be destroyed before it destroys us.’

A heavy silence fell over the room. The word ‘war’ had been spoken here for the first time, but no one flinched. It simply hung in the air.

‘There are only five of us,’ Hermione said at last, sceptically surveying their small group. ‘Five teenagers against Death Eaters and the darkest wizard in history. That’s not a number that changes the course of history.’

Harry crushed the Frog packaging in his fist. The cardboard crackled.

‘Then we need an army,’ he said firmly.

Everyone turned to him.

‘An army?’ Hermione repeated.

‘Yes. Our own, personal one,’ Harry raised his head, and a green fire flashed in his eyes. ‘Made of those who trust us. And whom we trust. People who are ready to understand what is happening and look danger in the eye.’

‘Where are we going to find an army at our age?’ Hermione bit her lip thoughtfully, but Harry could see the gears already turning in her head, calculating options.

‘Remember,’ Ron said suddenly, looking at Kieran, ‘you once told me something. That the Weasley family is a ready-made fighting unit.’

Kieran smirked.

‘That I did. Seven children, all red-haired. But also seven wands.’

‘Fred and George,’ Ron began counting on his fingers. ‘They’re just waiting for a chance to test their “jokes” on someone more serious than first-years. Bill and Charlie — they’re not students anymore. But if it comes to it, they’ll back us up.’

Ron looked at Harry and added seriously:

‘And don’t forget who you are now, mate. You’re not just Harry. You’re the Triwizard Champion. The winner. You’ve been through a dragon, a lake and a maze. People will follow you. If you choose the right words… many will want to stand beside you. Neville, Dean, Seamus… Cho Chang.’

‘So…’ Ginny raised her head, and her eyes gleamed predatorily in the half-light, reflecting the light of a single candle. ‘We’re really building an army? An illegal resistance group right under the noses of the teachers and the Headmaster?’

‘Exactly,’ Harry nodded.

He felt a strange, deep sense of rightness spreading inside him. As though all the previous years — all those secrets, fears, solitary expeditions — had been leading precisely to this moment. No more being a victim of circumstances. No more waiting to be saved.

‘We’ll call it…’ Hermione began, but stopped when she saw the expression on Harry’s face.

‘It doesn’t matter what we call it,’ he said. ‘The main thing is that we won’t just sit and wait for them to knock on our door. We’ll open it ourselves. With wands in our hands.’

Kieran silently extended his hand into the centre of the circle. Ron, without hesitation, covered it with his own. Then came Ginny’s small hand. Hermione sighed, as if bidding farewell to the last remnants of her law-abiding life, and placed hers on top.

Harry covered their hands with his own.