"Hi, Harry!" the Patil sisters greeted him warmly.
This surprised him. Ever since the Daily Prophet had publicly questioned the legitimacy of his and Cedric's victory, they had been eyeing him with a strange expression — but that seemed to have shifted.
Harry gave them a surprised nod, then turned and settled beside Ron, taking a long sip of chilled pumpkin juice.
Ron was working enthusiastically through his meal.
"How did your chat with Sirius go?" he asked, gnawing on a large chicken leg with great enthusiasm.
"It's hard to describe," Harry said, taking another sip. "It's very complicated."
His head still burned from the scorching sun by the Black Lake, and he was still feeling dizzy from Sirius's revelations about the events at the cemetery. Each cool mouthful of pumpkin juice brought him slowly back to himself.
"How complicated?" Ron asked, puzzled, glancing up briefly between mouthfuls. "You look a little downcast."
Harry knew he ought to find a quieter place, but his heart was so unsettled that he could not bear to delay another second, nor could he carry these secrets alone any longer.
He glanced warily along the table.
There was no one to their left or right. Facing them was Ginny, thoroughly absorbed in a newspaper, with an empty seat beside her — almost certainly Hermione's.
Harry swallowed, cast the Muffliato that Draco had taught him, and leaned close to whisper. He told Ron everything Sirius had told him by the Black Lake:
That he and Cedric had indeed briefly confronted Voldemort in the cemetery.
That Dumbledore had spoken with Voldemort afterward (see Chapter 175) and ultimately used the Sword of Gryffindor to destroy the infant form that had been prepared for him.
He recounted the roles Ludo Bagman, Walton McNeil, and Bertha Jorkins had played in Voldemort's plan, and how Barty Crouch had been so cleverly killed.
Dumbledore believed that Voldemort's soul might have simply vanished — or that it might still be lingering somewhere, though it no longer posed a threat. (This was a deliberate misdirection that Sirius and Dumbledore fed Harry, intended to lull Voldemort into a false sense of security; see Chapter 190.)
And then there was the truth from thirteen years ago: that his mother had shielded him with an ancient, sacrificial magic, which caused Voldemort's body to collapse and left only his soul to wander the world.
"Perhaps because of the ancient magic your mother used, Voldemort could not kill you — but he left that scar on your head. Perhaps that same magic forged a connection between your minds." Harry could still hear his godfather's voice at the lake, low and unusually serious. "This is extremely dangerous. When you can see what he is doing, he may also be able to see what you are doing. Whether he is still alive or not, we must take measures to sever this eerie mental link."
"How do we block it?" By now, Ron had set down his chicken leg entirely and was listening intently. Not that there were any left to pick up — the platter was bare, and a respectable mountain of bones had accumulated on his plate.
"Occlumency," Harry whispered. "Sirius said he'd teach me over the summer. He thinks it might prove very useful."
"Brilliant — that sounds incredibly advanced," Ron said admiringly. He patted Harry on the shoulder with his greasy hand — oblivious to the fact that he was using his best friend's robes as a napkin. "What are you worried about, then? Sirius has a plan, hasn't he? Just practice, and you'll be alright. You mastered that whole string of spells before the finals. Although — I suspect this kind isn't going to be easy —"
"It definitely won't be." Harry, equally oblivious to the state of his robes, wore a worried expression. "And besides all of that, Sirius said the Daily Prophet may keep questioning mine and Cedric's championship in the coming weeks. He told me to be prepared for it."
"Oh, about that..." Ron shrugged. "That last article wasn't very kind. But I'm not so worried now, honestly."
He chuckled. "At least here at Hogwarts, no one believes that rubbish — especially not now that the Hogwarts Gazette has started making its rounds."
"The Hogwarts Gazette?" Harry asked in surprise.
Ron picked up a newspaper still smelling of fresh ink and pushed it across the table with a cheerful expression. "There's an interview with you in it! You explained everything that happened that day so clearly and plainly. It's all over the school today!" He nodded toward the other House tables.
Harry noticed then that the students at every table seemed to be holding the same paper, leaning close and whispering intently to one another.
It was clearly not the Daily Prophet. The layout was different, and it was smaller in size.
He picked it up — already slightly greasy from Ron's handling — and looked it over. Across the top of the front page, in large letters: HOGWARTS GAZETTE, Issue No. 2.
Below that, in smaller print: Editor-in-Chief: Colin Creevey. Associate Editor: Dennis Creevey. And beneath that, in a scrolling advertisement of medium print:
"Sincerely recruiting reporters, editors, and anyone with a passion for writing — unpaid work that will consume your evenings and may well cost you both your sleep and your hair. What are you waiting for?"
The paper had only four simple pages, each dedicated to one of the four Triwizard champions. Harry skimmed through quickly. His section was the interview the Creevey brothers had cornered him into giving the day after the tournament, and he was relieved to find they hadn't embellished or twisted a single word.
He then read Cedric, Krum, and Fleur's sections, and was surprised to find that each champion had recounted the events of the final day from their own perspective — whether it was the eerie situation in the cemetery that Cedric had witnessed, or the Death Eater attack that Krum and Fleur had encountered in the maze.
In Fleur's section, he was surprised to find genuine praise for Hogwarts — its teaching quality, the richness of its magical creatures and grounds, and its hospitality — rather than the blunt criticism she usually offered so freely.
As for Krum, he had explained that his absence from the Black Lake task had been due to health reasons, and expressed his appreciation for "the Hogwarts students' gentlemanly conduct in rescuing Miss Granger."
Every champion's views had been fully and faithfully represented — not reduced to vague generalisations.
Harry flipped back to his own section and read it carefully. The accounts of the maze and the cemetery had been recorded in full, and they corroborated Cedric's section precisely.
Harry felt a wave of relief wash over him.
He was no longer as dazed and preoccupied as he had been the previous two days. For the first time, he dared to raise his head and look properly around.
His Gryffindor classmates were showering him with unmistakeable warmth. Seamus Finnigan was walking over from the far end of the table with a kind smile; the Weasley twins had settled on either side of him and Ron, saying in unison, "Harry, we liked that article —"; and Gryffindors from all years were offering friendly nods and grins, giving Harry the clear impression that they trusted their classmates and their school newspaper far more than the Daily Prophet.
At the Hufflepuff table, Ernie Macmillan caught his gaze, raised his pumpkin juice, and toasted him from afar. He wasn't the only one making a gesture toward Harry — Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, and a number of students Harry didn't recognise were all sending friendly glances his way. Harry suspected it was thanks to Cedric, who was smiling at him from nearby.
Ron studied Harry's face, and seeing the tension slowly dissolve from his expression, he grinned.
"See? They believe you. Most people here know the champions were attacked by Death Eaters on the day of the tournament. You and Cedric didn't attack Fleur and Krum — you fell into a dangerous trap and barely made it back. When everyone gets home, they'll tell their families the truth." His tone was warm and certain. "Gradually, people will understand that you and Cedric won the championship fair and square, and that the dangers you faced were no less than — perhaps even greater than — those of the other two champions. Everyone will understand that you did nothing wrong."
Harry smiled at his best friend.
Then, taking a breath, he looked toward the more distant tables. At Ravenclaw, he spotted Fleur Delacour, whose gaze was always kind to him — though he still wondered how much of that kindness came from his having saved her sister, and how much was simple respect for his godfather. Beside her was the wonderfully eccentric Luna Lovegood, wearing her wide, dreamy smile, which suddenly reminded Harry of those shoes hanging from the ceiling and the small, indignant girl with orange-red hair jumping around beside her. And there was Cho Chang, whom Harry found, to his own surprise, he could now meet with a genuine smile.
As for the Slytherin table, Viktor Krum was looking his way with a serious expression. He exchanged a brief glance with Harry, gave a reserved nod, and then turned his steady gaze back toward Ginny.
What? He'd already shifted focus — and to Ginny? Harry blinked, glancing at the girl with orange-red hair seated across from him.
She didn't appear to notice Krum. For a moment, Harry had the strange impression she was secretly watching him — but the instant he looked at her, she hid her face behind her newspaper.
Harry recalled, suddenly, that Ginny had asked Krum for autographs quite a few times this term. Ron had bragged about it more than once: "Ginny got another one from Krum for me."
Could Ginny be interested in Krum as well? Harry felt something give an odd flutter in his chest. Then he remembered that Ginny seemed to be on good terms with the Krum family — hadn't she been standing and talking with them when he received his award at the finals?
A flicker of annoyance rose in him.
Why did Krum always seem to get entangled with the people around him? And it was getting more and more outrageous—
If Viktor Krum had known what Harry was thinking, he would most likely have said: "I'm innocent."
The person he was truly searching for had always been Hermione Granger.
Ginny Weasley — Hermione Granger's closest friend — was simply the most reliable beacon; a flash of orange-red hair that helped him locate Hermione in any crowd.
Unfortunately, Hermione had not been near that beacon on the day he needed her most.
It wasn't until Durmstrang's students were about to board their ship and leave Hogwarts that Viktor finally saw the girl he had longed for.
She stood with the rest of the Hogwarts students at the gates of the castle, watching Durmstrang and Beauxbatons depart.
She was smiling broadly — her hand clasped in the hand of the Slytherin boy, Draco Malfoy, who was usually rude to everyone — holding it as though he were the most precious thing in the world.
Ah, precious.
Krum sighed.
He walked toward them, ignoring the eye-roll Draco gave him, and fixed his gaze on Hermione, as though trying to etch her image and her smile permanently into his heart.
Then he glanced at Draco, hesitated, and finally asked, "May I speak with you in private?"
Draco stared at him.
That wicked Krum — about to leave Hogwarts, and he was still refusing to let Hermione alone!
Did he intend to invite her to Bulgaria for the summer? Draco's grip on her hand tightened.
For a moment, he wanted to refuse on her behalf — but he remembered his previous mistakes well enough. This was a question Hermione should answer for herself. He had no desire to be called a control freak again — though he did, admittedly, have something of that nature about him.
So Draco could only open his mouth, let out a heavy breath, and swallow back every cutting word for Krum that had surged up inside him, suppressing his displeasure with some difficulty.
"Is there something you need?" Hermione squeezed Draco's hand gently in reassurance, and said softly to Krum, "You can speak in front of him. I have no reason to keep secrets from him."
"Actually, the person I was looking for is him —" Krum nodded toward Draco and gave Hermione a faint smile. "I would like to speak with him privately, if you don't mind."
"Oh —" Hermione said in surprise. "Of course. No problem."
She gave Krum a kind smile, then raised an eyebrow curiously at her boyfriend before turning and walking away.
Draco stood there, his expression flickering with confusion.
He stared at Krum's steady, serious face, utterly bewildered. Throughout the year, they had never once had a proper conversation — most of their time had been spent in mutual wariness. In the moments when they had clashed over Hermione, the international Quidditch star had typically ignored him, showing something that bordered on disdain.
What could Viktor Krum possibly want to say to him now — bid farewell? Invite him to Bulgaria? Had the man lost his mind?
Krum spoke to him in a calm, even voice.
"I heard from Harry Potter that you are an excellent Seeker. Here —"
A Golden Snitch rested in his open palm.
Draco's eyes went wide. Surprise practically radiated from every strand of his hair.
"A good Seeker always knows how to use his full strength to catch his Golden Snitch," Krum said steadily, gesturing for Draco to reach out and take it. "This is the Golden Snitch I caught with everything I had in the Quidditch World Cup Final."
He looked at it and smiled — the smile was bitter. "But I have found that no matter how hard I try, I always lose this particular match. Perhaps this Snitch was never truly meant for me. Perhaps it is better suited to stay in England."
Draco stared, dumbfounded, as Krum placed the small, fluttering object into his outstretched palm.
Krum's expression was entirely serious.
"Hold on tight. Cherish it. Protect it." There was a quiet edge of warning in his tone. "If the day ever comes when you cannot hold onto it — if you let it slip through your fingers — I will come to England myself, take it back, and never let it go again."
Draco, still holding the Golden Snitch in a kind of stunned silence, slowly came back to himself.
"I will never give you that chance, Viktor Krum," he said firmly.
They exchanged a brief glance — a flicker of competitive fire passed between them — and then Draco watched the other turn and walk away, his stride clean and decisive.
He gripped the struggling Snitch with a sudden, fierce sense of resolve.
He would never let go of it. Not ever.
And strangely, in that very moment — as he watched Krum's retreating figure, determined as he had never been — a memory surfaced, something Hermione had said to him only two days before: "I believe my soul is always free, whether I am with you or not."
"Wait — I need to make something clear!" Without fully thinking it through, Draco called out after him. "She was never a Golden Snitch to be caught at will. Her soul is free!"
Krum stopped in his tracks.
He stood there, very still, for three or four seconds without turning around.
Then he let out a long, heavy breath — the sound of a man waking from a dream — and spoke.
His voice was deep, but it cut clearly through the surrounding noise.
"Draco Malfoy," he said. "Now I understand a little better why she chose you. I — did not lose unjustly."
He raised a hand in a casual, unhurried farewell and continued walking toward Durmstrang's ship, which was ready to depart.
---
On that same day, the Hogwarts students departed from Hogsmeade Station and boarded the Hogwarts Express bound for London.
It was a warm, pleasant summer afternoon, and Ginny Weasley was hurrying through the train's narrow corridor with a long face.
She had no interest in the scenery sliding past the windows. Instead, she was peering through the gaps in open doorways and half-drawn curtains, searching every compartment for the person she needed.
She was looking for Hermione — that infuriating girl!
She'd said she'd only be ten minutes, and then vanished all morning, leaving Ginny stuck in Harry and Ron's compartment playing Muggle card games — a dozen rounds, at least — Ginny thought furiously as she sped down the aisle.
To be honest, sitting across from Harry all morning — looking into those friendly, gentle green eyes over the top of her playing cards — was simply too much to bear.
For a few moments, he had seemed to look at her with a kind of quiet curiosity — which was absolutely just her imagination! He was probably deciding which card to play!
But Ginny had been so thoroughly distracted by her own daydreams that she'd lost miserably several times while holding a winning hand, and Ron had swept up every last chocolate cauldron she and Harry had wagered.
This is unbearable, Ginny thought, pulling a face. She desperately needed some moral support. Some sisterly solidarity. Right now.
Merlin above! Where on earth was this treacherous girl, who had gone and defected to the Slytherin side?
What was so special about Draco Malfoy, anyway? Always so arrogant, always wearing that cold, world-weary expression. She walked on, grumbling to herself.
Hermione always said he was quite "enthusiastic" in private — and admittedly, Ginny had witnessed a few moments when he was gentle and considerate with Hermione — but "enthusiastic" was hardly the right word.
Why would she believe it?
Being willing to be disarmed by your girlfriend didn't make you "enthusiastic."
These were entirely different concepts.
Hermione was probably just too naive, too kind, and too easily satisfied.
Had she ever had the chance to experience real passion?
How much enthusiasm could a little Slytherin snake actually muster? "Indifferent" was far more fitting.
"Experience the passion of the Gryffindor lions before you judge, Hermione Granger!" Ginny thought darkly.
No matter how many angles she approached it from, or how many times she'd turned it over in her mind, Ginny's thoughts always circled back to the same conclusion: Hermione's use of "enthusiastic" was mostly polite talk — a way of giving her sister a more charitable impression of her disagreeable Slytherin boyfriend.
She'd reached the last few compartments of the carriage when she finally heard Hermione's faint voice drifting through a crack in one of the doors — it sounded distinctly annoyed.
Just as she'd expected.
When a Gryffindor and a Slytherin were forcibly thrown together, the situation rarely had anything to do with "passion." It usually meant open warfare.
So Hermione hadn't gone back to her compartment because she was busy arguing with her insufferable boyfriend! Ginny shook her head, then pressed her cheek carefully against the door crack, ready to eavesdrop.
"What are you doing — why did you steal my ice cream?" It was Hermione.
See? Ginny thought smugly. Malfoy can't even manage to be a gentleman in private. He's bullying Hermione — stealing her ice cream — the selfish—
"You shouldn't be eating cold food," the boy said, in a tone that was annoyingly arrogant and thoroughly unhurried.
"Draco, you are far too controlling. You are absolutely meddling," Hermione said, her voice edged with displeasure.
Who would dare try to control Hermione Granger? Ginny thought. It was already something of a miracle that Hermione wasn't trying to control everyone around her.
Malfoy was really in for a surprise — were they actually about to argue? Ginny rubbed her hands together, ready to burst in if things turned heated.
After a pause, the boy said, "Hermione — have you forgotten that your monthly is coming soon?"
Ginny's jaw dropped.
His tone, at that moment, was surprisingly... gentle.
"Oh — I suppose it is — how did you know?" The girl's cross voice softened at once, and she even sounded a little embarrassed.
Ginny rolled her eyes on the spot.
She would bet anything that Hermione was going pink.
"I remember everything," the boy said — and he seemed to be smiling.
He actually cared enough to keep track of that, and mentioned it with a smile? Ginny pouted. She genuinely hadn't expected that.
The girl was silent for a good while.
Ginny imagined Hermione's face turning steadily redder. Honestly, who wouldn't be mortified — your boyfriend remembering your monthly cycle better than you did yourself?
"Do you know you were wrong?" the boy said, drawing out each syllable, with a faint note of amusement. "I think we need to add another rule to our list: no cold foods during your monthly. Ice cream included."
"But it's so hot today... I think just a tiny bit would probably be all right, honestly..." the girl said quickly, her voice going almost pleading.
"No." The boy refused without hesitation, but there was a smile in his voice.
Ginny shifted to peer through the crack. She could see the two of them sitting side by side — the boy holding the ice cream cone high, well out of the girl's reach, while she stretched for it with an expression of profound displeasure.
"Just a little bit —" the girl said, in a much softer tone than Ginny had ever heard from her.
Merlin above. Was this how Hermione Granger normally spoke to Draco Malfoy?
She was even tugging at his arm. She actually knew how to be... adorable? Ginny's eyes nearly fell out of her head.
Was this still the same Hermione Granger who was always so calm, so composed, so full of lofty wisdom, the girl Ginny had admired and occasionally found intimidating? She felt a sudden and deep sense of disillusionment.
Hermione's pleading was clearly having some effect.
Draco hesitated, visibly caught off-guard by this unexpected behaviour. He gave her a long look. "You're really that greedy?"
"Just one bite... just to taste it..." Hermione continued to wheedle, her eyes shining like a cat watching a particularly interesting moth.
Merlin, Ginny got goosebumps all over.
"Want to try some?" The boy smirked.
Ginny had a bad feeling about this.
She watched through the crack — and sure enough, she knew it. That wicked Malfoy, after asking that question, did not let Hermione taste it at all.
Instead, he slowly, deliberately raised the cone to his own lips and took a long, satisfied bite.
Hermione pouted fiercely, her brows drawing together in outrage.
"Draco Malfoy, you—" Hermione was just winding up to explode when her mouth was covered.
It was his lips.
Cool lips, flavoured faintly of strawberry ice cream, pressing gently against hers.
"If you want to taste it, you can only taste my lips." He pulled back, took another unhurried bite of the ice cream, and laughed with entirely too much satisfaction.
Hermione, apparently blinded by indignation, grabbed his collar, kissed him again, and licked his lips quite deliberately.
The flavour of the ice cream — and all his smugness along with it — was thoroughly erased by her efforts.
The boy's easy, lazy mask dissolved the moment her lips touched his, revealing the focused and earnest nature beneath. His competitive spirit, it seemed, would not allow him to lose this particular contest.
He licked her lips with the tip of his tongue — strawberry-sweet — and then deepened the kiss, transferring the flavour into her mouth.
Merlin's beard! Ginny slapped both hands over her mouth to stop herself from letting out a hysterical shriek.
It was just a bit of eavesdropping — did it really have to be this dramatic?
This was absolute torture.
What a sight — platinum-blond and chestnut-brown mingling in the afternoon light, reflecting something complex and sweet.
The boy had one arm around the girl, the other still holding the ice cream cone. The girl lay back in his arms, her hands around his neck, tilting her head up — receiving his kisses, or perhaps it was more accurate to say, his rather indulgent feeding.
Light kisses had been firmly retired. Deep kisses were very much the fashion in this compartment.
Both of them were thoroughly breathless.
Ginny covered her face and peered through her fingers for a moment, then solemnly reached a conclusion:
These two insufferable overachievers had clearly applied the same diligence to kissing as they had to everything else — the results were frankly unfair.
Every Gryffindor who had ever assumed that Slytherins were cold and rigid ought to come and witness this.
What a revelation.
The ice cream, at this point, had ceased to matter. The boy set the cup down without a thought, pulled the girl closer, and gave the matter his full attention.
It was difficult to say who was tasting whom at this point. His hands worked through her hair, thoroughly destroying the order that a certain Slytherin heir would never normally permit anyone to disturb, until she had reduced him to something very like a contented, docile cat.
His hand slid from her hair, past her collar, slipping open a button or two as it moved; she arched toward him without a moment's hesitation, a soft, happy sound escaping her, pressing closer in a haze of warmth.
Merlin's lace bra! Ginny swallowed very hard.
With trembling hands, she quietly pulled the compartment door all the way shut for them, covered her very red face, and fled.
I cannot watch any more of this. It's far too much.
Yes — the supposedly "cold" Malfoy was very enthusiastic toward Hermione. So enthusiastic that ice cream had barely registered as a distraction. And Hermione, for her part, had not required any encouragement whatsoever.
Ginny Weasley's verdict was hereby officially and permanently revised.
Why did she always stumble into scenes like this? she wailed inwardly as she made her way back.
She'd caught Percy — who considered himself the model of propriety — on more than one occasion, though he and his girlfriend had been considerably more restrained.
And then there was Hermione Granger: brilliant, principled Hermione, with "model student" practically inscribed on her face —
She dreaded to think which overachiever she'd stumble upon next.
Hold on — last time, when Hermione hadn't come back to the dormitory all night... had they really been—?
That explained it. Hermione had probably tousled Malfoy's precious hair just like that, and maybe a strand of it had somehow ended up on her robes.
She had known they were being scandalous — somewhat less so than she'd anticipated — but the sheer heat of what she'd witnessed was more than enough to make anyone's face go scarlet.
Had they really been at it all night last time? Surely that couldn't be good for one's lips.
And that bra — had he managed the clasps? Ginny's mind drifted to unfathomable depths.
She fanned her burning face as she wandered aimlessly back to Harry and Ron's compartment.
"Ginny, where's Hermione?" Ron asked, glancing up from unwrapping a chocolate cauldron. "Didn't you go to find her?"
"Oh, she's busy..." Ginny said vaguely, picking up Crookshanks, who was dozing on the seat, and stroking his fur so frantically that the cat looked deeply unsure of his existence.
"What is she busy with?" Ron looked at her suspiciously. Was it really that hot in the corridor? Ginny's face was about as red as a tomato.
"She and Malfoy — they're talking... it seems important..." Ginny mumbled, avoiding Ron's gaze.
Harry glanced at her. "What are they talking about?"
"Something about ice cream flavours, I think..." Ginny said, staring fixedly at the scattered playing cards on the table.
Ron looked baffled. "Just eat it. What's there to discuss?"
"By the way, Ginny —" Harry said suddenly. "What did Krum's parents talk to you about this morning, when you came to see Durmstrang and Beauxbatons off? They looked awfully grim the whole time."
"Oh —" Ginny blushed and became immediately flustered. "It was nothing serious."
"They came specifically to thank Ginny," Ron cut in, grinning. "Because she went to them right in the middle of the tournament and told them Krum might be in danger. Did they invite you to Bulgaria for the summer? As a little reward for being his number-one fan?"
"Ah, yes —" At that, Ginny regained some of her usual composure.
She said quietly, "Actually, once you get to know them, they're not gloomy at all. They're quite warm."
"Warm?" Harry repeated, sounding mildly doubtful.
"Are you going to go?" Ron asked, leaning forward with interest. "They were really keen on it — said they'd cover everything. Though I can't imagine Mum agreeing."
Ginny opened her mouth to answer, but her attention was drawn away by a knock at the compartment door.
"Come in!" Harry called.
A tall, good-looking young man leaned partway in — Cedric Diggory.
"Harry — could I talk to you alone for a moment?" he asked.
"Oh, sure." Harry glanced back at Ginny, who had ducked her face behind her newspaper again, and followed Cedric with a slightly preoccupied air into the empty corridor outside.
They stopped in front of a carriage door with a small, round window.
Harry looked at Cedric curiously, unsure what he meant to say.
"Harry — perhaps you know what happened that night?" Cedric said, meeting his gaze directly. His tone was unusually serious — a departure from his usual easy manner. "And what happened after we left the cemetery?"
Harry stared at him, momentarily thrown for words.
He hesitated.
Such secrets were not things to be shared lightly. Sirius had suggested he might confide in close friends like Ron and Hermione, but Cedric... it felt like a different matter.
Cedric noticed the hesitation.
He understood at once that Harry's uncertain expression meant that Dumbledore's favourite really did know more than had been made public.
"I understand that we are not lifelong friends," Cedric said, his tone frank and sincere. "And you are under no obligation to tell me anything. But we have shared information, kept each other's secrets, faced danger side by side — we've helped and saved one another. After all of that, surely there is some trust between us?"
Harry was tempted.
Cedric was, undeniably, a loyal, fair-minded, and honourable person. Having endured the full ordeal of the Triwizard Tournament together — and having finally made peace with his feelings about Cho Chang — Harry found he could see Cedric's character more clearly than before. Perhaps he always had, and had simply refused to admit it. He no longer saw Cedric as merely a handsome face with nothing behind it.
"Listen, Harry — I'm being questioned just as you are." A look of genuine sincerity settled on Cedric's face. "But I won't lie. I intend to keep telling everyone who asks me the truth about that day."
"You'll stand by it?" Harry looked him over carefully. "I heard from Ron that your father is under considerable pressure. He's been having a difficult time at the Ministry."
"Yes, even so, I will persevere. I believe it is the right thing to do — and so does my father." Cedric's voice was steady. "But I need to know more to strengthen my conviction. I need to understand what lies behind these events beyond the Death Eaters' scheme. Who is truly pulling the strings?"
From Dumbledore's speech at the farewell dinner, Cedric had reaffirmed what he already suspected:
Death Eaters had caused the trouble in the maze — and possibly in the cemetery as well.
There was also the matter of the Death Eater who had impersonated Mr. Bagman and entered the labyrinth, and the real Mr. Bagman's suspicious death the following day.
Why had the Death Eaters chosen this particular moment to act? After the Dark Mark incident at last year's Quidditch World Cup, it seemed likely there was a far larger conspiracy at work.
Cedric was not foolish.
He had noticed that the Ministry of Magic and the Daily Prophet had fallen into an almost uncanny alignment. They had not mentioned any Death Eater plot. They had glossed over the tournament results and spent their energy questioning the validity of the outcome — as though afraid of drawing attention to anything else.
It was obvious the Ministry wanted to suppress something. And a single, rogue Death Eater would not prompt the Ministry to be so secretive. There had to be something behind this that frightened them far more.
Something capable of commanding Death Eaters who had spent years maintaining the pretence of being reformed, law-abiding citizens.
The Diggory family, for all their optimism in public, remained vigilant in private.
Amos Diggory had always told Cedric that the Ministry was inclined to manufacture an atmosphere of peace and prosperity — as though the Dark Lord had never existed.
"That tendency is dangerous," Mr. Diggory had said, frowning. "Instead of learning from what happened, they try to smooth it all over."
For over a decade, the Ministry had insisted the Dark Lord had completely vanished. They had struggled even to accept the idea that he might have simply lost his power and become too weak to pose a threat.
Now, the Diggory family's vigilance seemed to have some foundation — though Cedric desperately hoped what they feared would not come to pass.
"Just tell me this, Harry." Cedric's gaze was direct and unwavering. "Is there a dark force behind all of this?"
He looked at Harry intently and said, "I won't tell anyone. I know how to keep a secret — my father works at the Ministry, I know how these things work, and I know what matters. But I need you to warn me, as someone who has fought alongside me."
Harry was persuaded.
"There is one thing I must tell you," he said quietly, studying Cedric's healthy, bright face. "His soul may still be alive — lingering somewhere in this world."
He glanced warily behind Cedric, just to be certain no one had appeared.
"We did confront the Dark Lord and his followers in the cemetery that day, and Dumbledore later destroyed him. We don't know whether anything of him remains, or how much, or where it might be hiding. But —" Harry's voice was honest and clear. "I have a feeling this isn't over."
Cedric's face gradually turned pale.
For many people, a reasonable suspicion is one thing. Having it confirmed is something else entirely.
He clearly could not accept this all at once.
"I believe you, Harry," he said, his voice slightly unsteady. "I believe you're telling the truth. I'm a little lost, to be honest — I don't quite understand how this is possible..."
"Yes..." Harry said, with a grim expression. "Believe me, I'm just as bewildered."
For a long time, Harry had never truly forgotten the pain in his scar. He had simply chosen not to dwell on it.
The pain in the Divination classroom. The pain in the cemetery. The increasingly frequent and severe flares of his scar — and those dreams. How could all of that not fill him with dread?
Sirius had eventually shared Dumbledore's theory: the scar likely ached when Harry came into direct conflict with Voldemort, or when Voldemort was in a state of particularly heightened emotion. The pain at the tombstone had been because he had faced Voldemort directly.
It had made Harry realise, belatedly, how close they had come to disaster. He and Cedric had faced Voldemort — in whatever form he currently existed — and had narrowly avoided the Killing Curse. Only through a measure of luck and Cedric's swift, courageous action had they escaped. Even the slightest misstep could have plunged either of them into something far worse.
"Thank you again, Cedric," Harry said.
"For what?" Cedric managed a strained smile, still reeling from the news.
Harry looked out at the pastoral scenery flashing past the window. "If you hadn't acted so decisively — if you hadn't risked your life to bring me back — I might not have made it."
"Anyone would have done the same in that situation." Cedric's smile became a little more genuine. "I believe you would too. If you had been able to Apparate, you would have come back for me — wouldn't you?"
"I would," Harry said quietly. "Together, remember?"
"That's right." Cedric looked at him — this boy who was not yet an adult, but who was no less capable than any grown wizard Harry had ever known. "We navigated the maze together. Retrieved the Triwizard Cup together. Faced danger together. Came back alive together —"
"We shared the glory, and we share the doubt," Harry said.
"— And now we're standing here again, sharing secrets and talking about the past and the future." Cedric was quiet for a moment, and then he smiled — a full, genuine smile. "Harry, I feel as though I have never had the chance to say this to you properly. You are a true Hogwarts champion. Noble, brave, and entirely deserving of the title. I had my doubts once. I don't anymore."
Harry glanced at him, and finally smiled back.
"Thank you. I wasn't sure I'd ever hear that from another champion. I never particularly enjoyed being one, to be honest — look at the endless trouble it brings."
"Yes, the trouble continues," Cedric agreed. "I don't think I'm enjoying the role of 'champion' much either, just at the moment. So — shall we simply try being friends?"
He smiled and extended his hand.
"That's a good idea," Harry muttered, going slightly pink, and shook it. "Friends."
"Friends," Cedric said happily.
The two of them exchanged a smile, then turned together to watch the rapidly changing scenery beyond the window. For a long time, neither spoke.
As time wore on, the light outside the windows began to dim. The warm amber glow of the carriage lights came up around them.
Then the train slowed and pulled into London.
"We're here, Cedric," Harry murmured. "We've stopped."
"No, we haven't." Cedric looked out at the platform — the sea of students, the crowds of waiting families, the eager, searching faces of parents. He said it quietly, but with certainty: "It's not the end. It's only just the beginning. A new beginning. New challenges. A new life."