บท 279: Chapter 279: "The Tournament's End"
Sirius Black, his face etched with worry, led his godson through the castle's winding passages until they reached a secluded alcove, far from curious ears and prying eyes.
"Are you alright, Harry?" Sirius asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes searched Harry's face intently, looking for any sign of trauma or distress. "Where were you last night?"
Harry looked him in the eye, his expression calm. "I was really only working on the portkey." His lips quirked into a small smile. "You don't actually think I took on Voldemort and his entire inner circle, do you?" He paused deliberately before adding, "Though I probably could handle Voldemort alone if it came to that."
Sirius's eyebrows shot up, surprise momentarily overtaking his concern. "You really think you're that strong now?"
"From what I remember of that Halloween night and the stories I've heard, yes," Harry replied thoughtfully. "My only weakness might be my limited real combat experience and knowledge of the dark arts. Most of my battles have been... controlled situations."
Sirius ran a hand through his hair, a habit Harry had noticed emerged when his godfather was processing difficult information. "That's... actually somewhat reassuring, considering recent events. But Harry, promise me you won't go looking for trouble. Going after Voldemort without proper dark arts knowledge could be suicide – he's notorious for his traps."
A small smile played at Harry's lips. "Always careful, Padfoot. Besides, Grandfather has promised to start teaching me dark magic this summer. It'll help fill that gap in my knowledge."
"Careful?" Sirius barked out a laugh. "Like taking on a lake full of inferi alone? Or that basilisk?"
"I came out unscathed every time, didn't I?"
Sirius's expression softened, and he pulled Harry into a quick, fierce hug. "Just remember you're not alone in this, pup. Whatever happens, you've got people who'll stand with you."
Harry returned the embrace, feeling a twinge of guilt at the secrets he was keeping. "I know. Thanks, Sirius."
Pulling back, Sirius fixed Harry with one last searching look. "Just to be absolutely clear – you weren't involved in last night's events? Tell me now, and I can ensure the investigation doesn't find anything compromising."
"Investigate with your full strength," Harry replied, confident in his precautions. "I was nowhere near that place. Though I would like to visit the graveyard once the Aurors are done. I want to conduct my own investigation."
Sirius ran a tired hand over his face, the events of the past twenty-four hours clearly weighing on him. "I'll let you know when it's clear." He squeezed Harry's shoulder, his expression torn between duty and concern. "Now I've got to go – with everything that's happened, there's no time for rest. Try to enjoy some time with your friends, pup. You've earned it."
Harry caught his godfather's sleeve before he could turn away. "You be careful too," he said seriously, green eyes intense. "If you find any trace of Voldemort, don't go playing the hero alone. Take me with you."
A shadow of the old Marauder's smile crossed Sirius's face. "I promise. No solo missions against Dark Lords." His expression softened. "We're in this together, right?"
"Right," Harry agreed, though the word tasted bitter with the secrets he was keeping.
As Sirius's footsteps faded into silence, Harry released a long, controlled breath. The conversation had gone better than he'd hoped. His alibi was ironclad – the Fiendfyre had consumed any physical evidence, and his methods of entering and leaving the scene had left no magical signature to trace.
Harry had been meticulous in his planning, leaving nothing to chance. Even if someone somehow connected him to the events, his newfound invisibility ability – granted by binding the Cloak of Invisibility to his very being – gave him absolute confidence in his ability to escape any situation.
---
The rest of the day passed in an atmosphere of hushed tension. The corridors of Hogwarts, usually alive with chatter and laughter, had become unnaturally quiet. Students moved in tight groups, speaking in whispers, casting furtive glances at their Slytherin classmates who walked with drawn faces and hollow eyes.
From his usual spot in the courtyard, Harry observed these changes with his friends. The morning's Daily Prophet lay discarded nearby, its headlines screaming about ministry investigations and tournament controversies.
"The younger Slytherins look like they've had their souls sucked out," Elvinia reported quietly, her usual sharp tone softened by genuine concern. "Especially Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle."
"Can you blame them?" Cedric asked, watching a group of first-year Slytherins hurry past. "Losing a parent, even... even one like that..."
"Even Death Eaters were fathers," Arabella finished softly, her words hanging heavy in the air.
Their conversation halted as Draco Malfoy passed nearby, walking alone – a stark contrast to his usual strutting with his entourage. His face was a mask of emptiness, neither registering the fear nor the pity that followed in his wake.
Professor Flitwick's arrival broke the tense moment, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced with solemnity. "Mr. Potter, the tournament officials have reached a decision. They're gathering everyone in the Great Hall in an hour."
The Great Hall had been transformed, house tables pushed aside to create a central space. Students filed in, naturally gravitating toward their school groups. Harry couldn't help but notice the Durmstrang students' lost expressions – Karkaroff's absence leaving them adrift in foreign territory.
As he took his place, Fleur appeared beside him, her presence a warm comfort that helped push away the darkness of his thoughts. Her cheerful demeanor was a balm to his conscience, helping him process the weight of his actions from the previous night.
"Ready for zis to be over?" she asked softly, her fingers brushing his arm.
"More than ready," Harry replied, allowing himself a genuine smile.
Dumbledore stood at the front with Madame Maxime, the remaining two of what had once been five judges. Bagman's absence was notable – likely fleeing his goblin creditors – while Karkaroff had vanished, no doubt fearing his former master's retribution for his previous betrayals.
"Due to the extraordinary circumstances surrounding the final task," Dumbledore began, his voice carrying clearly through the hushed hall, "several difficult decisions have had to be made."
The silence deepened as all eyes fixed on the remaining judges.
"First, regarding Mr. Viktor Krum," Dumbledore's tone was solemn. "While under the Imperius Curse, he engaged Miss Delacour in combat. Though we deeply sympathize with his ordeal, we cannot reconvene the task without all five judges present. For his performance until the curse took hold, we award twenty-five points, with an additional fifteen points in recognition of his unfortunate circumstances."
"This brings us to Miss Delacour," Madame Maxime continued, pride evident in her voice. "She demonstrated exceptional magical prowess in her duel with Mr. Krum, and later showed remarkable cooperation and skill while navigating the maze with Mr. Hadrian Potter. For this, we award her forty-five points."
"As for the cup itself," Dumbledore's voice grew grave, "Mr. Charles Potter reached it first, though through means heavily compromised by outside interference. An impostor, using Polyjuice Potion to impersonate Professor Moody, assisted his path. However, considering the ordeal he faced at the end of this path and his eventual escape, we award him fifty points."
Dumbledore's blue eyes swept across the gathered students. "Mr. Hadrian Potter has shown consistently extraordinary magical ability throughout this tournament. His performance in the maze, reaching the cup second, combined with his assistance to fellow champions and unwavering moral compass amid chaos, earns him forty-nine points."
"After calculating ze final standings," Madame Maxime announced, "and reviewing ze entire tournament performance, we 'ave a clear victor with a significant lead over ze other champions."
"It is therefore our pleasure," Dumbledore concluded, "to declare Hadrian Potter the winner of the Triwizard Tournament."
The applause that followed was subdued but genuine. Students recognized the fairness of the decision, even as recent events cast a shadow over the celebration. Harry stepped forward to accept the cup and prize money, his expression appropriately modest.
"A thousand galleons," Roger whispered as Harry returned to their group. "What are you going to do with it?"
"Donate it to St. Mungo's," Harry replied without hesitation. "They'll need the funds in the coming days, I expect. Besides," he added with a slight smile, "this tournament's glory has been somewhat tarnished by all the interference."
He caught Fleur's proud smile from across the hall, even as his friends exchanged knowing looks. It was the right move - politically, practically, and personally. In times like these, actions spoke louder than words.
The ceremony concluded quickly, lacking the usual festivities out of respect for recent events. Students dispersed in subdued groups, their whispered conversations a mix of tournament discussion and darker speculations about what the future might hold.
That evening, as the sun set over the Forbidden Forest, Harry found himself in the Astronomy Tower with Fleur. They stood in comfortable silence, watching darkness creep across the grounds.
"What happens now?" she asked finally, her voice carrying a hint of fear for the future.
Harry's smile held both warmth and steel. "You move on with your life, Fleur. This isn't your war – it's mine. And if things go according to plan, it won't last long enough to be called a war."
"Promise me you will be careful," she whispered, her hand finding his.
Below them, Hogwarts settled into another uneasy night, its halls still echoing with whispers of change and loss. The tournament was over, but Harry knew this was just the beginning. The burden of his secrets weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he would bear it gladly if it meant protecting those he loved from what was to come.
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