The castle had never looked brighter.
Sunlight streamed through the enchanted windows, glimmering over banners of crimson, blue, green, and yellow. The Great Hall was alive with chatter, laughter, and the excited clatter of plates. Students ran between tables, exchanging parchment scraps filled with addresses, promises of visits, and letters they swore to send.
It was departure day.
After months of rivalry, danger, and tension, the air now buzzed with celebration.
The foreign delegations from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons were preparing to leave, and the entire school had turned the farewell into a festival.
Harry leaned against a column near the entrance of the Great Hall, watching the sea of faces. Beauxbatons girls hugged Gryffindor boys who looked like they might faint from joy; Durmstrang students clasped hands with their Slytherin dueling partners, shouting promises of duels "next summer."
Hermione sat at the end of the Gryffindor table, clearly trying not to cry.
Viktor Krum stood beside her, awkward but gentle, his deep accent rumbling softly as he spoke.
"You vill come, yes? My mother vill cook for you. Is very good food."
Hermione laughed nervously, eyes wet. "I'll think about it, Viktor. I—I might."
Harry watched them with a faint smile. Krum had become a true friend — respectful, sharp, even curious about Harry's wandless magic. There was mutual respect between them, and Harry appreciated it.
When Hermione finally hugged Viktor goodbye, the entire table clapped and whistled. She turned red as a Weasley jumper, glaring at them all.
Neville nudged Harry. "You should've seen her face, mate."
Harry chuckled. "I did."
But beneath the laughter, there was a calm sense of closure. Voldemort's disappearance — and Pettigrew's too — had left a strange silence. Even Harry, usually alert to danger, found himself strangely relaxed for the first time all year.
The Great Hall doors opened again, and Dumbledore walked to the High Table.
Behind him came Madame Maxime and Professor Karkaroff, both took their seats beside the other Hogwarts staff.
The tables filled with golden platters, fruits, roasted meats, and glittering desserts.
Laughter filled the air once more.
After everyone had eaten their fill, Dumbledore stood, raising a goblet.
"My friends," he began, voice carrying over the hall like music, "today we end not merely a tournament, but a season of shared triumph, laughter, and learning."
He smiled warmly at the gathered students. "This year has reminded us that unity is stronger than rivalry, that courage is found in every House, and that friendship is the finest magic we possess."
Applause echoed, loud and genuine. Beauxbatons students waved their wands in the air, casting shimmering lights; Durmstrang boys banged their goblets against the table in rhythm.
Dumbledore waited until the noise settled — and then, unexpectedly, his tone shifted.
"However," he said softly, "I must end this speech on a more serious note."
The air stilled. The lightness in the room seemed to fade.
Harry's eyes narrowed. He didn't like the tone.
Dumbledore looked across the hall, his gaze steady but troubled.
"There is… one thing you must all know before you leave. It concerns the safety of our world."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Dumbledore's expression hardened — ancient sadness etched into his face.
"Lord Voldemort has returned."
The silence that followed was deafening.
For several long seconds, no one breathed. Then the whispering began — uncertain, panicked, disbelieving.
"What did he say?"
"He's joking, right?"
"Voldemort? He's dead!"
Even the professors looked stunned.
Madame Maxime frowned deeply. Karkaroff looked pale, his hand tightening around his goblet.
Dumbledore raised a hand. "You may doubt me. You may think this a rumor or a trick. But I say this with certainty: evil stirs once more. Be watchful. Be brave. And remember what this year has taught us — we are strongest when we stand together."
He gave a small bow, and the feast ended in uneasy silence.
When the foreign delegations finally departed, the morning sky was bright — but the mood had changed. Beauxbatons students whispered in hushed tones; Durmstrang professors spoke in clipped sentences. Even the Hogwarts students, once joyous, now stood in small groups, uncertain whether to laugh or to worry.
Harry watched the ships and carriages fade into the horizon. He could feel the shift in the air — not fear, not quite. More like the tremor before a storm.
Hermione stepped beside him, her voice quiet. "Do you think he's right?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on the distant sky.
"I think," he said at last, "Dumbledore knows something we don't."
Neville frowned. "You think You-Know-Who's really back?"
Harry's lips curved into a grim smile.
"Not sure," he said softly. "But he's alive. And when he's strong again… he'll come."
The wind rustled through the grass, carrying away the last of the festive laughter.
The year was ending — but Harry could already feel the shadow of the next one beginning.
The day after the delegations left, Hogwarts fell into a very different kind of chaos — the quiet, nervous kind that only came with final exams.
Gone were the feasts, the laughter, and the endless chatter. The library overflowed with students clutching textbooks and parchment rolls like lifelines. Even the corridors seemed quieter, as though the castle itself respected the tension of study season.
Hermione was in her element.
Her cheerful mood from the feast had evaporated overnight. Now she moved through the common room like a general inspecting her troops, hair frizzed from lack of sleep and hands full of color-coded notes.
"Harry," she barked one morning, "you cannot skip History of Magic again! You'll fail!"
Harry, lounging on the couch with a book on advanced curse theory, didn't even look up. "I'm not skipping. I'm… strategically ignoring."
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Strategically ignoring is what lazy people call not studying."
Neville snorted from behind his Herbology notes. "She's right, you know."
Harry sighed, pretending to surrender. "Fine. I'll study."
He reached over and, with a flick of his wand, tapped the parchment Hermione had been waving. "Duplicato."
Another perfectly neat copy appeared beside her original.
Hermione blinked. "You just—copied my study plan?"
Harry grinned. "Why waste time making my own?"
Hermione groaned, exasperated. "You're impossible."
But later that evening, he was actually reading. At least, trying to. The subjects he disliked most — History of Magic, Astronomy, Divination — seemed pointless to him. What use was charting stars when he could feel the Force bending around them? Still, Hermione's glare was powerful enough to make even a Sith-in-training obey.
The days blurred together in a rhythm of classes, exams, and late-night revision. Even Harry, despite himself, felt a quiet satisfaction in doing well — though he'd never admit it out loud.
Neville was the surprise of the year. His confidence had grown immensely since his parents' recovery, and with Hermione's help, his potion-brewing was steady, his wandwork confident.
When they walked out of the final Transfiguration exam, Neville was practically glowing.
"I think I actually passed everything," he said, beaming.
Hermione grinned. "I told you so! See what proper organization does?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, Commander Granger."
But she only laughed, the stress finally starting to lift.
Then came the headlines.
By the third day of exams, the Daily Prophet began its newest circus — attacking Dumbledore.
"Dumbledore Spreads Fear: Headmaster Claims Dark Lord Has Returned!"
"Senile or Sinister? Hogwarts Headmaster Accused of Fear-Mongering!"
"No Evidence of Dark Lord's Survival, Says Ministry."
Copies of the Prophet spread through the Great Hall like wildfire. Students crowded around to read, some laughing, others whispering nervously.
Hermione slammed her copy onto the table. "This is absurd! How can they mock him like this?"
Neville frowned. "Do you think they really don't believe him?"
"They don't want to," Harry said quietly, not looking up from his plate. "It's easier that way."
Hermione stared at him. "You're not even angry?"
Harry shrugged. "Let them think what they want. As long as they're not asking me questions."
Hermione sighed. "You're infuriating sometimes."
Harry's lips curved slightly. "That's what keeps things interesting."
Outside, the summer sun poured through the windows, warm and bright. Exams were ending, the school year was nearly over, and laughter had begun to creep back into the halls.
But beneath that light, the shadow still lingered — unseen, unnoticed — as the world convinced itself that the storm had passed.
And Harry, quietly, knew better.
The final day of term came like the slow fade-out of a long song. Trunks stood open across the Gryffindor dormitory; beds were stripped bare; laughter drifted through the windows from the courtyard where students said their good-byes.
Harry knelt beside his own trunk, folding his robes with deliberate care. Each motion felt strange—too tidy, too final. But this year was different. He already knew he would be coming back to Hogwarts long before September, slipping in through shadows no one else could see.
Much of what truly mattered to him was not in the trunk. Books on advanced runes, extra potion ingredients, spare wands, and bits of technology he'd charmed for experiments—all of it now rested safely in the Chamber of Secrets. The chamber had become his secret vault, connected to the Forbidden Forest through a tunnel only he and Dobby knew about. If he needed to return, he could. Quietly. Unseen.
By the time he snapped the last buckle shut, most of his things were already gone. The rest was only for show.
He glanced around the room: Neville humming as he packed plant samples; Seamus and Dean joking about who'd forget their socks this year; Ron arguing over Chocolate Frog cards. Ordinary, noisy life. For a moment Harry envied them—their simplicity, their certainty that the world stayed still when they left.
He smiled faintly and stood. "Almost done," he said to Neville, who grinned back.
Downstairs, Hermione was giving her own dramatic farewell to the library. She'd tried to smuggle three extra books into her trunk until Madam Pince caught her and nearly fainted. "You'll survive the summer," Harry teased.
Hermione sniffed. "Barely."
Harry's destination wasn't Grimmauld Place this time. Sweden. Sirius and Remus had arranged everything—a massive mansion by a lake, hidden from Muggles and the wizards alike.
He should have been thrilled. And in a way, he was. The idea of spending the summer with the two people who had become his real family filled him with warmth.
Yet, as he looked around at his friends—Hermione debating with Parvati, Neville laughing with Seamus—he felt that faint ache again. The cost of connection.
One day, when he and Dobby finally left this world to journey among the stars, all of this—these friendships, these moments—would be left behind. That thought pierced deeper than any curse.
But he couldn't turn away from them now. Not yet. Not while they still looked at him as Harry, not the weapon, not the Sith Lord in training. Just their friend.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, gave one last look at the dormitory, and smiled to himself.
"Let's go home," he murmured.
Dobby's soft voice echoed faintly in his mind, warm and loyal as ever:
"Wherever Master goes… that is home."
The sky over Hogsmeade Station shimmered with summer brightness, and the smell of warm metal and coal smoke filled the air. The carriages rolled to a slow stop, drawn by the spectral Thestrals whose wings stirred the dust along the path. Most students still couldn't see them—only a few uneasy eyes followed their movements with silent wonder.
The station was alive with noise and movement.
Trunks levitated through the air, cats hissed from cages, owls hooted overhead. Laughter and chatter filled the space as dozens of Hogwarts students spilled out of the carriages, thrilled to be heading home.
A group of first years darted past, one of them excitedly shouting, "And then the maze tried to eat him! I swear it did! I saw it!"
His friend laughed. "Wait till Mum hears about the Triwizard Tournament!"
Harry couldn't help but smile. For all the fear, danger, and madness of the year, the children's enthusiasm somehow made it feel… lighter.
The scarlet Hogwarts Express waited at the platform, gleaming in the sun. Steam hissed gently from its sides, cloaking the scene in a dreamy haze. Students were already rushing aboard, jostling each other for compartments.
"Come on!" Hermione called, clutching her bag. "Neville, this way! That one's empty!"
Neville followed, dragging his trunk, laughing as he tripped over Trevor's cage. They managed to find a perfect compartment near the middle.
Hermione turned toward Harry. "Harry, hurry! Before someone else takes it!"
Harry nodded but didn't move.
His eyes had caught something—someone—by the far end of the platform.
Alastor Moody.
Standing apart from the crowd, cloak fluttering in the wind, his magical eye sweeping constantly, Moody looked every bit the battle-worn Auror. But the moment their gazes met, Harry could tell he wasn't there for farewell speeches.
"Keep me a seat," Harry said quickly, his tone sharp but calm.
Hermione blinked. "Harry—"
"Don't argue," he said, already walking away.
He wove through the crowd, ignoring the stares and shouts. When he reached Moody, the older man nodded slightly and jerked his head toward the far side of the station. They walked until the noise of the students faded into the hum of the train's engine.
"What's the matter?" Harry asked. "You wouldn't be here if it wasn't serious."
Moody's wooden leg struck the ground with a dull rhythm. His real eye fixed on Harry; the magical one spun restlessly. "You're right about that, boy."
Harry folded his arms. "Then talk. How does Dumbledore know Voldemort's back? Sirius, Remus, and I were there, and even we weren't sure. So where did he get it from?"
Moody's expression hardened. "The Dark Mark."
Harry frowned.
Moody tapped his arm, just above the elbow. "Voldemort branded every one of his followers with a Mark. When he fell the first time, those marks faded—barely visible, like an old scar. But now… they're back. Darker. Clearer. And burning."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "So that's how he knows."
"Aye." Moody's voice was gravel and bitterness. "Dumbledore's got contacts in the Auror Office. Every Death Eater still under surveillance reported the same thing—pain in the mark. And they're panicking. Some of the cowards have already fled the country, knowing what'll happen when the Dark Lord finds them."
Harry looked away, jaw tightening. "And the others?"
"Trying to get back in his good graces. Crawling out of whatever holes they've been hiding in." Moody spat to the side. "But there's a problem—none of them know where he is. No sightings. No word."
Harry said nothing for a moment. His eyes scanned the horizon beyond the tracks. "He's hiding. Weak. Maybe wounded."
Moody nodded. "That's Dumbledore's thought too. He's moving in the dark. Waiting. The old man thinks the real war hasn't even started yet."
A sharp whistle cut through the air, long and high.
The train was ready to leave.
Students shouted from the doors, waving at friends still on the platform.
Harry turned to Moody. "Looks like that's my cue."
Moody grunted. "Keep your eyes open, Potter. Shadows'll start moving soon. When they do, I expect you to survive them."
Harry smirked faintly. "Survive? I plan to win."
Moody's lips twitched. "You sound like Sirius."
"Good," Harry said, turning toward the train. "Then I'm learning from the best."
He jogged back through the thinning crowd as the whistle blew again.
Steam billowed across the platform, and Hermione's voice rang out through it—"Harry! Hurry up!"
He leapt aboard just as the doors closed, the train jerking into motion.
Through the window, the last thing he saw was Moody's figure standing alone on the platform, cloak flapping in the wind—watching. Always watching.
Harry leaned back in his seat, breath steady, mind sharp.
Outside, the landscape began to blur past.
And though he didn't know where Voldemort was hiding… he knew the next time they met, the Dark Lord wouldn't be the only one ready for war.
Author's Note:
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