The evening sunlight bled through the high, arched windows of the Headmaster's office, bathing the room in a warm golden glow. The shelves of curious trinkets and magical instruments ticked, clicked, and whirred quietly as though holding their breath in anticipation.
Harry climbed the spiral staircase, his footsteps echoing behind him, calm and deliberate. He wasn't surprised to be summoned. In fact, he had been waiting for this ever since the first round of "Draco Snape" badges sent the Great Hall into fits of laughter and the Potions Master into a rage.
As the phoenix Fawkes chirped gently from its perch, Harry stepped into the room, his expression composed—almost amused.
Inside, seated behind his massive claw-footed desk, was Albus Dumbledore, fingers laced and twinkling eyes noticeably dimmed. To his right stood Professor Snape, arms crossed so tightly he looked about ready to explode. To the left, Professor McGonagall stood ramrod straight, though her lips were twitching like she was fighting off a smile.
Harry gave a small nod. "You wanted to see me, Professor Dumbledore?"
Dumbledore steepled his fingers and offered Harry a grandfatherly frown. "Yes, Harry. Please, have a seat."
Harry did, settling into the cushioned chair with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what was coming.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "Harry… it's not good behavior to bully fellow classmates."
From the corner of his eye, Harry caught Professor McGonagall barely suppressing a snort. She coughed lightly, feigning seriousness.
Harry tilted his head innocently. "I don't know what you're referring to, Professor."
Snape, who had been radiating silent fury, finally snapped.
"The badges, Potter," he spat. "The badges! Don't play games."
Harry's lips curled into a smile despite himself. He remembered the badge's final transformation clearly—Snape, mouth puckered, embracing Narcissa Malfoy like a lost lover. The Hall had erupted in howls. Even the Bloody Baron had drifted through a table cackling.
"I think you've got the wrong student, Professor," Harry replied with faux confusion. "I don't recall ever enchanting badges."
"I know it was you!" Snape hissed, eyes blazing. "You're just like your father—arrogant, reckless, always bullying others to inflate your ego."
Harry's expression darkened slightly, the smile fading. "It was Draco Malfoy who created and distributed the badges in the first place. In public, might I add. Badges that said 'Potter Stinks.' Doesn't that count as bullying?"
Snape sneered. "That's beside the point."
"Oh, I think it is the point," Harry said smoothly, his eyes meeting Dumbledore's. "Funny, I don't remember either of you calling Malfoy into your office when he was provoking a student body-wide campaign against me."
Dumbledore sighed softly, brushing his beard with one long finger. "Harry…"
Harry leaned back, voice cool. "And if I may add—have you ever seen me pull a prank like this before? I've broken curfew, yes. Snuck out, yes. But malicious prank spells? Can you cite one instance in three years?"
That silenced the room.
Snape's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat gently. "To be fair, Headmaster, Mr. Potter has not been known for… this sort of mischief."
Harry almost smirked.
Dumbledore held up a hand, speaking gently. "No one is accusing you formally, Harry. This is simply a… conversation. A chance to understand. Tensions are high, and your display of magic the other night has caused… some concern."
Harry met his gaze evenly. "I don't bully people, Professor. I defend myself."
There was a long silence.
Snape looked as if he might burst a vein.
"Well," Dumbledore finally said, folding his hands, "if there's nothing else to discuss, you may return to your dormitory, Harry."
Harry stood slowly, adjusting his robes.
"Thank you," he said with polite venom.
But as he turned toward the door, Harry couldn't resist.
He pulled something from his pocket and gave it a little flick.
A badge.
The same cursed badge Draco had once proudly worn.
He turned, facing Snape squarely, and held it up with a cheeky grin.
The badge blinked—
—Support Cedric Diggory!
Then flickered again—
—Snape planting a dramatic kiss on Narcissa Malfoy's lips.
McGonagall choked on her own breath.
Snape looked like he might combust on the spot.
"I believe it's a very popular design," Harry said airily. "Good evening."
He turned on his heel and exited the office, not waiting for permission. The door shut behind him with a solid click.
Inside, silence reigned.
Dumbledore let out a long sigh.
"Severus," he murmured, "perhaps next time, avoid kissing anyone's mother in public. Even magically."
"Headmaster!" Snape barked, utterly scandalized.
Professor McGonagall lost it completely. She turned away and began laughing silently into her sleeve.
"I'm going to hex that boy," Snape muttered furiously.
Dumbledore only shook his head, more weary than angry. "No, Severus. You're going to teach him."
Draco Malfoy had always prided himself on being the center of attention—strutting through the corridors of Hogwarts with his pointed smirk, his hair slicked back like he was royalty. But ever since the infamous "Snarcissa Badge Incident", the castle no longer parted before him in admiration or fear. No, now the students parted only to avoid being seen near him. And if they didn't, it was to point and snicker as they passed.
"Oi, Draco, got any autographed badges left? I want to give one to my mum!" a Ravenclaw sixth-year howled from across the hallway.
Malfoy's eyes twitched. His robes were rumpled, and he had a permanent scowl plastered to his pale face. He clutched a small velvet pouch in his hand—bribery gold. Again.
"Two Galleons if you give me that badge," he muttered, approaching a third-year Slytherin girl.
She giggled, clutching the badge like a prized possession. "You'd have to pay me twenty to give this up! This is a collectible now!"
"Fine," Malfoy growled through clenched teeth, "ten Galleons."
"No deal," she grinned, skipping away before he could say another word.
Even the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students, who once eyed Malfoy with neutral interest or even some respect as a prominent Slytherin, now struggled to keep straight faces when he passed. More than once, Viktor Krum had been seen muttering something in Bulgarian while trying to hide a grin behind his hand.
Humiliated and cornered, Malfoy had only one recourse left.
He approached Professor Snape.
The next day, during dinner, the enchanted ceiling reflected storm clouds overhead—a fitting mood for the announcement that would follow.
Professor Snape rose from his seat at the staff table. His expression was thunderous. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and cold, like a knife across glass.
"Let it be known," he began, glaring around the Great Hall, "that any student found wearing or distributing defaced badges—any version—shall be assigned detention for a full week, and house points will be deducted."
The hall fell silent, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Professor," piped up a daring second-year Hufflepuff, "what about the original badges that say 'Potter Stinks'?"
Snape's eyes narrowed to slits. "All versions."
Gasps and murmurs rose at once. Even some of the Slytherins looked confused and disappointed.
Harry, who had just sat down beside Neville and Hermione at the Gryffindor table, chuckled quietly into his goblet of pumpkin juice.
"Well," Hermione said dryly, "I suppose that's the only way they were ever going to stop."
Neville grinned, giving Harry a subtle thumbs-up. "I think they'll talk about this prank for years."
"Good," Harry murmured, lips twitching. "Let them."
The next morning in the courtyard, Harry was helping Neville with a Disarming Charm. Neville's wand had just zipped out of his hand and landed in the hedge when Cedric Diggory approached.
He looked slightly nervous, but determined.
"Hey, Harry," Cedric greeted, offering a courteous smile. "Mind if I talk to you for a minute?"
Harry straightened. "Sure. Neville, take a breather."
Neville nodded, picking up his wand and giving them space.
Cedric rubbed the back of his neck. "I just wanted to clear something up… you really didn't put your name in the Goblet, did you?"
Harry shook his head. "No. I didn't."
Cedric's eyes searched his, and after a moment, he nodded slowly. "I believe you. I told the others in Hufflepuff to cut it out—the taunts, the badges. Told them I don't want that kind of support."
Harry raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Even though they're your housemates?"
Cedric shrugged. "Being a champion doesn't mean much if you've got to step on someone else to stay there. And honestly… after what I saw you do that night—what we all saw—you've got nothing to prove."
Harry studied him for a moment. "Thanks."
Cedric offered a small smile, then hesitated. "Actually, I was hoping… maybe you could teach me something? Some of the magic you know. You're clearly ahead of everyone, and—"
Harry cut him off, his tone polite but firm. "Sorry, Cedric. I'm… busy. A lot on my plate."
Cedric didn't push. He simply nodded. "No worries. I figured it was worth asking. But if you ever change your mind…"
"I'll let you know," Harry replied.
They shook hands briefly before Cedric turned and walked away, rejoining a group of Beauxbatons students who waved him over.
As Cedric's footsteps faded, Neville returned, looking impressed. "He's not so bad."
"He's not," Harry agreed. "Probably the best of Hufflepuff."
Harry's eyes scanned the courtyard. Students were still glancing at him, whispering behind their hands. Some with awe. Some with envy. Others with distrust.
He didn't care anymore.
Let them talk.
He wasn't here to impress them. He had more important things to do. Like training, surviving the year, uncovering the truth behind the Goblet's manipulation—and finishing that starship.
But above all, Harry was watching… and waiting.
Because someone had put his name in the Goblet.
And Harry intended to find out who.
And when he did—
They'd regret it.
The autumn wind whispered through the leaves outside the castle windows as the week rolled on, but Harry's attention wasn't on the changing season.
It was on Neville Longbottom.
Ever since Harry had begun helping Neville with simple spellwork—Disarming Charms, Shield Charms, even Lumos—he had started noticing something… strange.
Neville wanted to learn. He was dedicated, stayed longer than he needed to, and practiced even when Harry wasn't looking. But despite all that… something was off.
Harry squinted, focusing.
There. Again.
He reached out through the Force, letting its current carry him—not to manipulate, but to sense. Dobby's training and Slytherin's teaching had honed his perception. And now he could see it clearly.
Neville's magical core was above average—not exceptional like Hermione's, but certainly stronger than most students. The magic was there… but when it traveled down Neville's arm and into the wand—something blocked it.
The spell fizzled out. Again.
Neville scratched the back of his head, flushing red. "Sorry, Harry. I practiced last night. I swear. It just… doesn't work when you're watching."
"It's not you, Neville," Harry muttered, narrowing his eyes. "It's the wand."
Neville blinked. "The wand?"
Harry gave a curt nod, walking forward. He placed two fingers just above Neville's wrist and closed his eyes. For a moment, he listened. Not with his ears, but with his senses—deep, deep within.
Magic trying to flow. Being funneled. Then resisted.
"It's acting like a tunnel," Harry said softly. "A pipe… not an amplifier. It doesn't resonate with your core. It's not tuned to you."
Neville's face fell. "It belonged to my dad."
That made Harry pause.
He opened his eyes slowly. "Your dad?"
Neville nodded, looking down at the wand in his palm like it was a fragile heirloom. "He was an Auror. A really good one. Gran gave me his wand before I came to Hogwarts. Said I'd live up to his name one day."
Harry was silent for a moment. He understood the weight of expectation better than most. Being the Boy Who Lived came with a mountain of invisible chains.
"I get it," Harry said quietly. "But Neville… a wand isn't just a stick of wood and core. It's a bond. Yours. It chooses you."
Neville bit his lip. "But Gran—"
"Gran isn't you," Harry interrupted gently. "I'm not saying forget your dad. I'm saying… maybe it's time you stepped out from his shadow."
Neville looked down at the wand again. His grip tightened.
Then loosened.
"You really think it's holding me back?"
"I know it is," Harry said. "Let me prove it. Let's go to Diagon Alley this Sunday. Just you and me. We'll go through a side route—use the old floo access through the Room of Requirement."
Neville hesitated. Then nodded slowly. "Alright. But only if we keep it quiet. I don't want to make a big deal of it."
Harry offered a small, approving smile. "No one will know but us. And maybe Ollivander."
Neville chuckled nervously. "You really think I'll find one that works better?"
Harry looked at him firmly. "I don't think… I know."
Later that night, after their usual training session, Harry sat cross-legged in the Room of Requirement, alone.
The room had reshaped itself into a starlit dome with soft grass beneath him, like a hilltop in the Scottish Highlands. It was quiet. Peaceful.
He held a hand out, and a small spark of lightning crackled between his fingers.
Still not strong enough to launch. Still not ready.
But close.