Chapter Text
****
"In the tumult of battle, find the wisdom to choose your battles."
Harry woke gently, bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, he lay still, letting the reality of waking unfold around him. A soft, regular, and reassuring snoring indicated that he hadn’t awakened the dormitory by screaming this time.
He turned his head slightly. The sound came from Ron, deeply asleep a few steps away, his arm hanging out of bed like an anchor in the calm air of the room. Harry blinked, struggling to gather his thoughts. This wasn’t Hogwarts. Not the oppressive warmth of his canopy bed. No, he was at the Burrow, in the chaotic yet strangely soothing atmosphere of the Weasley household.
An almost instinctual reflex pushed him to slip a hand into his pajama pocket. His fingers met the small glass vial, and a mix of relief and disgust knotted his throat. It was still there. That damned potion.
But as he was about to withdraw his hand, another detail caught his attention. His underwear… A moist, sticky sensation. Harry felt his cheeks flush with a wave of embarrassment. He didn’t need to look to know what it meant.
He took a deep breath, emptying his lungs, then slowly let the fresh air come back in. It was nothing. He could face this again…
With the utmost discretion, he grabbed his robe laid at the foot of his bed, wrapped himself in it, and headed to the bathroom. The old floorboards creaked under his steps, but nobody seemed to awaken.
Once inside, he closed the door behind him and quickly locked the latch. He looked up at the mirror and froze seeing his reflection.
A bird's nest. That’s what his hair looked like, disheveled, untamable, as always. But it wasn’t that which troubled him the most. That face staring back at him, with its youthful features, his cheeks still rounded by childhood… It wasn’t really his anymore.
His heart did a strange pirouette, as if struggling to adapt to this body he was inhabiting again. His hands trembled slightly as he placed them on the edge of the sink.
He looked down and absent-mindedly tugged at his pajama fabric, his thoughts tangling. The smell of sweat, amplified by raging hormones, rose to his nostrils, eliciting a grimace. He cautiously sniffed under his arm, then recoiled with a look of disgust.
"Disgusting," he muttered to himself, passing a hand over his face.
But it wasn’t just the sweat or his messy hair that bothered him. It was what all this symbolized. This constant going back, this impossibility to escape those years where everything seemed both simple and unbearably complicated.
With a resigned sigh, Harry turned away from the mirror and turned the tap. Maybe a bit of cold water could at least chase away the feeling of being trapped in a body that was no longer his.
The icy water on his face made him shiver, but it did not lift the weight pressing on his chest.
And as he straightened up, his eyes once again fixed on that face.
Fourteen years old.
That was the age he was now.
Harry stepped into the shower like an automaton, his movements mechanical, his thoughts muddled. The hot water cascading over his skin was supposed to bring some relief, but he knew it would be insufficient.
He scrubbed his body, scrubbed so hard that his skin turned red, almost painfully. He wanted to rid himself of this feeling of impurity. But maybe the evil was inside, not on the surface.
He sighed, his thoughts returning, over and over, to the potion. This was the third time he had resorted to it. Three times, three failures. The first? Pure cowardice. He hadn't been able to face the feelings he had for Draco, so he had fled.
He scrubbed harder, each gesture more brutal, as if to engrave in his flesh a lesson he kept forgetting.
The second time? Out of selfishness. He had thought he could control everything with his memories of the future, convinced that his power would suffice. He still remembered the searing pain when he had found Draco lifeless, fallen under an army of Death Eaters he hadn't been able to stop.
Harry closed his eyes, letting the water cascade over his face. The shampoo stung his eyelids, but he didn’t attempt to wipe it away. His eyes cried out in pain, but deep down, it was mostly sadness, wasn’t it?
And this third time… The one that haunted him even more. He had thought that by maneuvering the Slytherins, by leading them to the side of the light, he could change them. But he had been wrong. Manipulate. The word burned in his mind. He had been manipulated all his life: by adults, by Voldemort, even by Dumbledore. He should have known better than anyone: nothing good comes from this kind of control.
His hands slid through his hair, massaging his scalp with almost desperate fervor. He thought of Draco, that bright boy who had sacrificed his life, and that other Draco, darker, ready to kill, still for him…
His breathing was irregular, and he felt a resolution forming within him, cold and hard as stone. This fourth sip would be the last. This time, he would avoid Draco. He would ensure their relationship remained nemesic until adulthood. It would be painful, but necessary.
He would do nothing to change the classic timeline. No interferences, no arrogance. One day, with patience, he would find his Draco. Not the one ready to die for him, nor the one ready to kill for him. But the one he truly loved, in all his complexity.
It was a simple, honest plan. For Draco, he could relive all the trials of the war.
He nodded to himself, as if to seal this decision, and turned off the water. The steam rose around him as he stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel to dry off.
The fogged mirror reflected a blurry, foreign silhouette. He approached, wiping the fog away with a sweep of his hand.
The length of his hair surprised him. He remembered waiting for the Quidditch World Cup to cut it, hoping to look presentable.
Taking a towel, he carefully dried his hair, then brushed it until the curls were more or less tamed. Finding a black ribbon on the edge of the sink—probably Ginny’s—he tied his hair in a small low ponytail, the ribbon gently tightening around his tamed locks.
A discreet smile appeared on his face. A ghost of Draco would accompany him, one way or another.
Wrapped in steam, Harry exited the bathroom. Ron was still deep in sleep, his mouth wide open, emitting snores. Harry crossed the room on tiptoe and rummaged through his suitcase.
He considered for a moment the old, oversized T-shirt from Dudley and a frayed pair of jeans. For years, he had believed that wearing these clothes would be a way to blend into the Weasley family, to show that he was a simple and modest person. But it was a ridiculous thought, even insulting towards his adoptive family. They already loved him, unconditionally. Whether he was rich or poor wouldn’t change the fact that he had his place among them.
At the bottom of the suitcase, he found a pair of black pants and a dark sweater he had bought in Hogsmeade. The outfit was simple, but comfortable, and above all, it represented him better.
Looking at himself in the bedroom mirror, he nodded. This wasn’t the 20-year-old Harry he had left behind. Nor was it the 14-year-old, carefree and naive. It was a changed Harry, matured by his failures.
Would this new style have an impact on his resolutions? He doubted it. How could simple clothes or a hairstyle change the course of time?
For the first time in a long time, he felt ready.
****
It was early, and none of the Weasley children were up yet. The Burrow was bathed in a soft light, the kind that heralds a peaceful day, even though Harry knew that tranquility was never more than an illusion in this house. However, the parents were awake.
Arthur was settled at the large oak table in the kitchen, absorbed in his bowl of coffee, while Molly, true to herself, busied herself preparing breakfast. A delicious smell of bacon floated in the air, filling the room with warmth and comfort.
Harry’s stomach rumbled, breaking the morning calm. The sound immediately caught Arthur’s attention, who looked up, his eyebrows slightly furrowing in surprise.
"Ha... Harry?" he asked, looking astonished.
Harry managed a shy smile. "Good morning, Mr. Weasley."
"What are you doing up already, dear?" Molly chimed in, turning towards him, her face marked with maternal concern.
"I couldn’t sleep anymore," Harry replied, almost embarrassed, as another stomach rumble betrayed his hunger.
Molly smiled softly, her features relaxing at the sight of the boy. "Breakfast is almost ready. Sit down, I’ll serve you something."
But Harry, who never liked to stay idle, raised his hand slightly. "May I help? I'm not too bad with eggs and bacon."
This statement drew a genuine smile from Molly, and she nodded with amused indulgence. "Well... A little help wouldn't hurt. With everyone staying in this house these days, there’s always so much to do. And it's not as if my children had the delicacy to offer a hand... let alone my husband," she added, casting a pointed look at Arthur.
"Mmm," Arthur mumbled, pretending not to hear, as he buried his nose in his coffee bowl. "I’m going to be very busy this weekend. I have some Muggle objects to categorize for the Ministry."
Harry, feeling enveloped by the warmth of this almost mundane exchange, felt a glimmer of hope shine within him. "Maybe I can help?" he offered spontaneously, his eyes lighting up at the thought of finding a distraction, a semblance of normalcy...
Arthur looked up, intrigued by the offer. He carefully placed his cup down, his eyes twinkling with curiosity behind his glasses. "Help, you say? Harry, you just said the magic words."
Molly rolled her eyes, but her smile did not waver. "By Merlin, Arthur, don’t make him sort through your old stuff when he’s still half asleep. Harry, dear, focus on the bacon."
Harry chuckled softly, grabbing the skillet Molly handed him. This simple, almost insignificant moment warmed something in him, as if these mundane actions were a way to reconnect with a life he could have had—perhaps deserved, one day.
He focused on flipping the bacon slices, enjoying their sizzle and the comforting smell that filled the kitchen, when something pulled him from his thoughts. He felt a pointed gaze on him.
Glancing over his shoulder, he caught Molly watching him.
"You seem different today, dear..." she murmured, as if hesitant to break the moment.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, suddenly conscious of his recent decision to change his appearance. Before he had time to respond, two laughing whirlwinds burst into the kitchen.
"What she means," Fred and George declared in unison, bright smiles on their faces, "is that she’s thrilled you’ve finally discovered what a brush is for."
Harry rolled his eyes, amused despite himself.
"She's always trying to cut Bill’s hair, watch out, Harry," Fred continued, leaning casually against the table edge.
"She might cut yours while you’re sleeping if you're not careful," George added, feigning seriousness, as he snatched a slice of bacon from the skillet under his mother's disapproving gaze.
Molly shook her head, exasperated, but an amused smile lingered on her lips.
"Bill has always had his hair too long for my taste," she replied with a shrug. Then, turning back to Harry, she added, "But you, it suits you well. It makes you look... mature."
Harry blushed slightly under the compliment but didn’t have time to respond before Fred spoke up.
"Mature, huh? Don’t tell him that, Mum, he might start acting like an aristocrat."
George burst out laughing, and Harry, despite himself, was swept up in their light-heartedness.
"What’s going on here?" Ron asked in a hoarse voice, blinking towards Harry.
He stopped short, scrutinizing him with a mix of astonishment and incredulity.
"Wait a second... What have you done to your hair?" he asked, frowning, visibly confused.
Fred and George exchanged a complicit look before answering for him.
"Well, Ronniekins, it seems our dear Harry has decided to join the high society of well-coiffed wizards," Fred said with a teasing smile.
"In other words, he's discovered the existence of a comb," George added, bursting into laughter.
Ron, still perplexed, merely shrugged before heavily sitting at the table and serving himself a bowl of cereal.
"Yeah, well, as long as he doesn't spend more time getting ready than you, Fred, it should be fine," he muttered before plunging his spoon into the bowl.
Harry, unable to suppress a smile, removed the skillet from the heat and placed the bacon on a plate. Molly was already preparing scrambled eggs to complete the breakfast.
Once the meal was devoured in a joyful cacophony—mainly caused by Fred and George, who always found an excuse to bicker—the young Weasleys suggested a game of Quidditch in the field behind the house.
"Come on, Harry, are you in?" Ron asked eagerly, already half-turned towards the door, ready to run outside.
Harry hesitated, his gaze sliding to Ginny, who, standing near the table, stared at an imaginary point on the floor, her cheeks already slightly flushed. He knew that at this time, the young girl secretly dreamed of playing Quidditch with her brothers but never dared impose herself.
Taking a breath, he declared in a resolved tone, "I think I'll let Ginny take my place this morning."
The silence that followed was almost deafening. Ginny abruptly raised her head, her eyes widening in surprise. Her cheeks immediately took on a vivid hue, redder even than her hair, and she stammered something unintelligible, her nervousness palpable.
Ron, for his part, froze, his enthusiasm suddenly replaced by perplexity. He turned to stare at Harry, his eyebrows knitted in an incredulous expression.
"What? But why?" he asked, both puzzled and slightly vexed.
Harry shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Because Ginny deserves a chance to play."
Ginny emitted a strangled noise, a mix of panic and restrained pride.
"Ginny?" Ron repeated, his skeptical gaze shifting from Harry to his sister. "She's never played on a real team! She doesn't even have a decent broom!"
Ginny opened her mouth, ready to protest, but Harry cut her off with a sly smile.
"I'll lend her my Firebolt," he declared, his tone calm but resolute.
Ron seemed about to protest, but something in Harry's attitude—a mixture of certainty and challenge—made him hesitate.
"Alright," he grumbled finally, giving his sister a look that was half approving, half exasperated. "But if she drops the Quaffle, it's you who comes to replace her."
Ginny blushed even more deeply, but this time, she raised her chin proudly, a spark of determination shining in her eyes.
"I won't drop the Quaffle," she stated firmly, almost defiantly.
Harry couldn't help but smile. That was exactly what he had hoped for: a Ginny who was gaining confidence, even if timidly.
"Perfect," he said, standing up. "I'll take the opportunity to help Mr. Weasley this morning."
Ron raised an eyebrow, even more perplexed. "Seriously? Help my dad? What’s gotten into you today?"
"Nothing," Harry replied with a mysterious smile. "I just feel like changing things up a bit."
Ron shook his head, visibly baffled, but eventually shrugged, following his brothers and sister towards the Quidditch field.
Harry, for his part, headed towards Arthur’s workshop. The inside was exactly as he had imagined: an organized chaos of wires, tools, and improbable Muggle objects—some half-dismantled, others being enchanted with apparently dubious results.
Arthur, standing amidst this mess, turned to him with an enthusiastic smile.
"You know, Harry," he began, pointing at an old vacuum cleaner in a corner. "Magic is fascinating, but sometimes, Muggles create things that defy the imagination just as much. This one, for example, I’m sure it has incredible potential if I can figure out how it works."
Harry observed the vacuum cleaner with distracted curiosity, but his gaze was quickly drawn to an incongruous object on the table: a slightly dirty and worn yellow rubber duck. He picked it up, turning it over with a mix of amusement and perplexity.
"I warn you, Mr. Weasley," he said with a corner smile. "Sometimes, it’s better to remain ignorant of the... fantasies of Muggles."
****
This time, there was no question of being rudely awakened by Hermione or arriving at the Quidditch World Cup at the last minute, out of breath. Today, Harry was taking the lead.
With a mischievous smile, he leaped onto Ron’s bed, bouncing with jubilant energy. “Wake up, Ron!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the room like a cannon blast.
Ron groaned and burrowed deeper under his covers, desperately trying to prolong his night. “You're mad,” he mumbled, his words muffled by the pillow. “Yesterday, you didn’t want to play Quidditch, and now you're panicking about missing a second of the Cup? Are you alright, Harry?” he asked, half grumpy, half amused.
The redhead, though still groggy, grabbed his shirt and began dressing hurriedly. Excitement was beginning to pierce through his fatigue. However, his gaze was drawn to Harry, who, standing in front of the mirror, was tying his hair with a black ribbon retrieved from the bathroom.
“Since when did you become so vain?” he asked. “Trying to impress someone or what?”
“Not as much as you,” Harry retorted with feigned innocence. “Everyone knows how much you drool over Krum.”
Ron’s face instantly turned bright red. “What?! That’s... not true! I... I just respect his game, that’s all!” he stammered, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.
Harry burst out laughing, and it was in this light-hearted atmosphere that Hermione appeared in the doorway, observing them with astonishment. Her eyes widened when her gaze met Harry’s.
“You... You’re already ready?” she asked, her tone a mix of astonishment and suspicion.
“Of course we're ready. It's the Quidditch final, mother fuuu—”
“Language, Ron,” Hermione cut him off sternly, her hands on her hips in a familiar posture. “Good. Arthur is already waiting downstairs. You better hurry.”
Harry followed the others out of the house, enjoying the fresh morning air. The sun was rising on the horizon, flooding the landscape with golden light. Unlike last time, where they had to run breathlessly to not miss the Portkey, this time, they walked at a leisurely pace. It was a pleasant change.
The path wound through fields and meadows, and Harry found himself admiring the shades of nature at the end of summer. The blades of grass rustled softly under their feet, and the air carried that earthy and reassuring scent that reminded him of walks in the countryside around Hogwarts.
Behind him, muffled bursts of laughter brought him back to reality. Ginny and Hermione were whispering together, their murmurs punctuated by quiet giggles. Harry rolled his eyes. He had forgotten how exasperating girls' conversations at this age could be.
Ron, walking beside him, seemed lost in his thoughts, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. Fred and George, on the other hand, trotted ahead, exchanging jokes that Harry only half understood.
When they finally reached a solitary weeping willow, Harry felt a familiar shiver run through him. He immediately recognized the tree, its drooping branches rustling softly in the wind. At its feet, hidden among the gnarled roots, lay an old, decrepit boot – their Portkey.
He smiled, amused to see this detail he had almost forgotten. The skeptical looks of his friends made him smile even more. Arthur and the twins had probably taken the opportunity to amplify the mystery surrounding this strange object.
But before he could share this thought, a shadow passed over him. Something—or rather someone—had jumped nimbly from the branches of the willow.
The figure landed smoothly right in front of him, straightening up slowly. Under the bright sunlight, Harry could see gleaming golden eyes and light chestnut hair that seemed to capture every ray.
His heart skipped a beat.
“Hello, Harry,” said a warm voice, imbued with disconcerting familiarity.
Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out. It was only after a few seconds that he managed to stammer: “Hello, Cedric.”
The timid voice that escaped his lips seemed foreign, almost distant, as his mind was overwhelmed by a wave of memories.
Cedric Diggory. Alive. Standing. Smiling.
How strange—and unsettling—it was to see that face again. It had been years since he had last seen this boy. Not since that terrible night when everything had changed.
Images flashed through his mind with a brutality he couldn't control: the maze, the trophy, then the relentless green flash. Cedric's life had been snatched away in an instant, without warning, without mercy.
But now, the Hufflepuff was there, in front of him, vibrant with life, unaware of his own fate.
Harry felt his throat tighten. How was he supposed to act? What could he say to someone who knew nothing of what awaited him?
Cedric gave him a radiant smile, apparently carefree, as if nothing had ever changed between them.
“Ready for the World Cup?” asked Cedric, his tone full of contagious enthusiasm.
Harry nodded, even though his heart was pounding furiously in his chest. He wanted to say something simple, natural, but his thoughts were in complete chaos. Finally, he managed to articulate: “I’m betting on Ireland.”
Cedric gave him a dazzling smile, and Harry felt an unusual warmth rise in his throat.
The moment was interrupted by Amos Diggory, who emerged from behind his son with the energy of a man too proud of his offspring.
“Ah, Harry Potter!” he exclaimed, his voice loud, breaking the relative tranquility of the small group. “So, you know this boy here, my Cedric, beat your Gryffindor team last year, eh? An exceptional match, truly!”
Cedric, visibly mortified, rolled his eyes and murmured an exasperated “Dad...” but Amos continued to praise his son's exploits without stopping.
Harry turned slightly to see Hermione and Ginny, apparently deep in one of their murmurs.
Of course, he thought. Cedric Diggory, the idol of all the girls at Hogwarts, could not go unnoticed.
The moment finally came when the entire group gathered around the old, decrepit boot. Mr. Weasley explained the rules of the Portkey, although everyone already knew what to do. “On three!” exclaimed Arthur Weasley authoritatively. “One... two... three!”
The world tilted. Harry should have been better prepared, he knew. Yet, he was taken by surprise, his mind still muddled. He lost his balance and swung from side to side before crashing heavily to the ground, sorely lacking grace.
The fall was brutal. The impact of his body against the ground knocked the breath out of him, and he bit the dust, sprawled like a disarticulated puppet. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that no one had really noticed his debacle.
“Harry!”
He opened his eyes to see Cedric running towards him, his face serious, almost panicked.
“Did you hurt yourself?” asked the Hufflepuff, bending down to help him up.
Before Harry could respond, Cedric grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet with surprising gentleness. Then, without waiting, he dusted off his jeans, his hands brushing the fabric carefully, before reaching out to wipe a trace of dirt from his cheek.
“I’m fine, really,” stammered the brunet, embarrassed by all the attention.
But Cedric seemed unconvinced. “Are you sure? That fall was quite spectacular,” he remarked, his tone half-serious, half-teasing.
Harry felt his cheeks flush and quickly turned his eyes away, hoping no one else had witnessed the scene.
“Thanks,” he finally murmured, unable to meet Cedric’s gaze again.
“No problem,” replied the latter with a warm smile.
As he rejoined the others, Harry couldn’t help but glance at Cedric, who was already joking with his father. Part of him was overtaken by a strange melancholy.
For things to proceed as they must, Cedric would have to die.
The realization made him nauseous. And not just Cedric. Sirius, Fred, Tonks, Lupin... a litany of loved and lost faces scrolled through his mind. Was he really ready to relive this, to remain passive in the face of their fate, all to preserve the fragile continuity of his own time?
In just two days, he had already disrupted so many details in this timeline. Ginny playing Quidditch. Cedric rescuing him after a ridiculous fall. These simple, almost insignificant moments, but which, he knew, resonated like disturbances in the precarious balance of destiny.
It’s already too late, he realized with a shudder.
He turned his eyes away from Cedric, as if that could lessen the weight of his guilt. Sticking to his plan meant letting events follow their natural course, whatever the cost. But this time, the mere idea of standing idly by as those he loved died was unbearable.
He bit his lip, his resolution wavering. No. He was not going to let everything collapse as before. He would save as many lives as he could, even if it meant facing the consequences.
But one thing was certain: he had to keep Draco away from him. That was the only way to ensure his safety. If Draco continued to hate him, if he remained that elusive and distant nemesis, he would have no reason to get close to the darkness or to put himself in danger.
That was the only way to preserve his lover from the future—even if it meant breaking his own heart with every avoided glance, every restrained word.
Harry clenched his fists, his jaw tight as he struggled to swallow the whirlwind of emotions within him. This time travel was not a return to the roots, not a chance to relive his youth. It was a war, a silent and solitary fight against fate itself.
So he would hold on to his promise: to save as many lives as he could, even if it meant letting others perish.
He looked up, briefly meeting Cedric’s gaze, who gave him another carefree smile. Harry responded weakly, his own smile tinged with a pain he hoped was imperceptible.
I’ll do my best for you too, Cedric. Even if it means changing everything.
****
Harry climbed the stands two at a time, the noise of lively conversations and excited laughter rising around him. Each step brought him closer to the match's fervor, but his mind was elsewhere. He had no idea how much Arthur had spent on the tickets and tent, but one thing was clear: it must have been a considerable expense for the Weasley family.
It wasn't new to Harry that the Weasleys weren't wealthy. But today, as he witnessed their unconditional generosity once again, the reality felt more tangible, almost overwhelming.
"Are you okay, Harry?"
Cedric's warm voice interrupted his thoughts. The Hufflepuff was climbing the steps beside him, his expression open and kind.
"You've seemed very thoughtful since we arrived," he added, his golden gaze fixing Harry with disarming sincerity.
Harry opened his mouth, ready to dismiss the question with a polite lie—an evasive answer that would mask his inner turmoil. But something held him back.
Cedric was 17, more mature, more attentive than Ron or Hermione. Perhaps he could afford a moment of honesty.
Harry slightly lowered his eyes, his voice tinged with shame as he replied:
"I was wondering how much the tickets for the match cost. Mr. Weasley paid for my ticket, even though I could have easily afforded it myself..." Harry continued, his tone hesitant. "I thought about reimbursing him, but I don't want to offend him."
Harry's confession was met with silence, but Cedric slowed slightly, adjusting his pace to match the Gryffindor's, his expression softening.
"Harry, the tickets were provided by the ministry for low-income employees and large families. Neither my father nor Arthur spent a single galleon to be here."
Harry's eyes widened, taken aback by this revelation.
"But Hermione and I... we were also given tickets," he stammered, trying to make sense of this information.
Cedric offered him a reassuring smile. "Yes, it includes up to three guests in addition to immediate family. Arthur probably registered your names."
The tension in Harry's chest suddenly lightened.
"Oh," he murmured, almost to himself. "So you and your father also benefited from this help?"
Cedric nodded, his smile taking on an almost proud tint.
"Yes. My father works at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. It’s not the highest-paying position at the ministry, but he’s excellent at what he does. His last mission in Cambridge, where he captured two rampaging Erumpents, earned him two tickets."
Harry slowly nodded, absorbing this new information. "Don't other members of your family like Quidditch?" he asked, more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.
Cedric looked away slightly, and his smile suddenly faded, as if a cloud had passed over his face.
"It’s just him and me," he said simply.
Harry, surprised by this admission, felt a weight settle in the air between them. He realized he had never seen Cedric's mother, even during the Triwizard Tournament. He wanted to say something, anything to fill the heavy silence, but they reached their assigned spot in the stands, and the roar of the crowd around them seemed to swallow his words.
Despite the deafening noise, Harry felt an unusual tension. Finally, he whispered:
"I'm sorry."
And in a moment of sincerity, he gently took Cedric's hand in his own.
Cedric abruptly looked up, his eyebrows raising in surprise. Harry didn't know exactly what had driven him to this gesture—perhaps a mix of compassion and the strange tenderness he felt for the boy. He noticed then a flush rise to Cedric's cheeks, and he couldn't help but think, yes, it was warm at this height in the stands.
"It's been a while," Cedric finally murmured, his voice slightly hesitant, as if weighing each word. "She died of Mermaid's Scrofula."
Harry turned his head toward him, shocked.
"You have mermaid ancestors?" he exclaimed without thinking.
A brief laugh escaped Cedric, who shrugged.
"Melusines, not mermaids," he corrected with a half-smile.
"Oh, I see," Harry replied, a bit embarrassed. He focused on the field below, where players were entering the stadium to warm up. "That explains a lot, though."
Cedric's smile slightly faded, and he turned an intrigued look toward Harry.
"What does it explain, exactly?" he asked, visibly piqued.
Harry felt a flush rise to his own face and tried to play it cool.
"Well, you must take a lot after your mother. You are... so beautiful," he blurted out, his eyes fixed on the players soaring over the field, hoping Cedric wouldn't take his remark the wrong way.
A heavy silence fell, so profound that Harry finally turned to check Cedric's reaction.
The Hufflepuff seemed frozen, his golden eyes wide, his face caught between astonishment and poorly masked discomfort.
Harry sighed and rolled his eyes, annoyed by his own clumsiness.
"Oh, come on! You know you're the heartthrob of all the girls at school. Hermione and Ginny practically faint every time you walk past them."
Cedric burst into incredulous laughter, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard.
"You're not serious?"
"I am," Harry insisted, crossing his arms, feigning dramatic seriousness. "You're going to break hearts with those golden eyes, I tell you."
Cedric, still smiling, lowered his voice, a nearly provocative glint in his gaze.
"Yours aren't bad either."
The low tone and sincerity of the compliment sparked a strange thrill in Harry's lower abdomen. Caught off guard, he turned his eyes away, hoping to conceal the flush inevitably rising to his cheeks.
"Thank you," he replied, his voice a bit hoarse. Then, in a clumsy attempt to lighten the atmosphere, he added: "I got that from my mother too."
Cedric said nothing, but a slight smile lingered on his lips. And as the crowd erupted in cheers around them, Harry felt a strange mix of embarrassment and contentment. A peaceful, almost suspended moment, where the hustle of the stadium seemed far away.
At least, until a grating voice brutally broke the moment.
"Hey, Weasleys, you should know that my father and I were personally invited to Cornelius Fudge’s box."
Harry's heart did a loop in his chest upon hearing that voice he would recognize among a thousand.
Draco Malfoy.
He looked up to see the blond standing proudly above them, chin high and a superior smile on his lips. But that smile, Harry knew too well. It was nothing amused, nothing genuine—just an arrogant facade, a shell he had learned to read over the years.
And yet, despite this understanding, an intense anger welled up within him. An anger he struggled to contain. It wasn't just directed at Draco, but at everything he represented. A Draco who, in this timeline, was still his rival—haughty, elusive, unpredictable. But in his mind, it was also a Draco he had loved, lost, and desperately tried to save, over and over.
Before he even thought about it, words burst from his mouth:
"One in front and one behind, I suppose!"
An astounded silence fell over their section of the stands.
Draco's already pale complexion turned even paler. His lips opened and closed, but no sound came out. He resembled a fish out of water, unable to find a retort to such an unexpected and irreverent attack.
A deep and scornful voice then intervened behind him.
"Don't boast, Draco. With these people, it's not worth it."
Lucius Malfoy had come down an adjacent staircase, his impeccable demeanor and piercing gaze fixed on Harry, betraying his disgust.
The reactions around Harry were immediate and varied. The Weasley twins burst into uncontrollable laughter, holding their sides as tears came to their eyes. Arthur seemed shocked, as if he had trouble believing what he had just heard. Ron was frozen, his mouth wide open, unable to make a sound.
And Hermione...
Hermione violently hit him on the head with the support sign she still held in her hand.
"Harry!" she exclaimed, red with indignation. "You really should watch your language, it's getting worse, I swear!"
Harry simply shrugged.
"He asked for it," he murmured under his breath.
But catching Draco's gaze one last time, he saw something other than the usual mask of arrogance. Something deeper, more complex. Was it surprise? Misunderstanding? A hint of pain?
A sharp guilt invaded Harry, nearly nailing him to the spot. He had been cruel, and he knew it. This jibe, as deserved as it might have been at the moment, was not worthy of him. Not worthy of what he had felt—what he still felt—for Draco. And even though he couldn't erase the words, he felt a bitterness grow within him, an echo of regret.
Slumping in his seat, he let out a discreet sigh.
"An ex?" asked Cedric to his right.
Harry straightened up, taken aback by the question. He had almost forgotten the presence of the Hufflepuff beside him.
"No..." he murmured, his voice rougher than he would have liked. He turned away before continuing, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone. "That idiot has been harassing me for years. But it would never occur to him to ask me out, at least... officially."
"What if you were the one to make the first move?"
The question was posed with disarming simplicity, but it struck Harry squarely.
"It wouldn't lead to anything," he replied after a pause, shaking his head gently. "There's too much tension between our houses. He would become the laughingstock of Slytherin..."
Cedric raised an eyebrow. "You really care about him, to worry so much about what his peers might think."
Harry let out a bitter laugh. "I know... He's a jerk, but deep down, when you really get to know him..." He lowered his eyes, searching for his words. "...he's an angel."
Harry, realizing what he had just said, shot a panicked look at Ron, but his friend was too absorbed in the spectacle on the field to listen.
"But keep that to yourself, okay?" he added hastily. "Between you and me, alright?"
"You can count on me, Harry," Cedric replied with a wink.
Harry released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Thank you."
But Cedric wasn't done. "Can I ask you a question?"
"You just did," Harry replied with a wry smile.
Cedric rolled his eyes but persisted. "How did this guy go from being a jerk to an angel? I'm just curious."
Harry remained silent for a moment, his gaze lost on the field. Then, almost in a whisper, he answered: "I heard him sing one day."
Cedric frowned, clearly perplexed. "And how does that prove he's not so... let's say, jerky?"
Harry slightly shrugged, his smile almost imperceptible, but tinged with sweet-bitter nostalgia. "I suppose the voice represents the soul, at least in my imagination. The day I heard him sing for the first time..." He paused, his eyes lost in the void as he relived that moment. "I thought there must really be a wonderful person slumbering in that Blast-Ended Skrewt's head."
Beside him, Cedric seemed deep in thought, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as if weighing each of his words before speaking.
"It's strange that you say that," he finally murmured. "Melusines, according to what my mother told me when I was a child, find their mate through the soul's song."
Harry slowly turned his head toward him, his interest piqued. "The soul's song?"
Cedric nodded.
"Yes. Melusines, as the stories go, have a unique sensitivity to the harmony of souls. They can hear what others overlook, what words cannot convey. When two souls are aligned... compatible... they know it immediately through this melody. A bond that transcends appearances and barriers."
Cedric's words resonated within Harry, like a wave expanding in his mind. He remembered with almost painful clarity the first time he had heard Draco sing. That moment had struck him with an inexplicable intensity, as if an ancient and buried truth had been laid bare. Yet, he pushed the idea away as quickly as it had come.
Draco Malfoy, a Melusine? Impossible. The Malfoys were known for their obsessive fixation on blood purity. Mixing their lineage with a magical creature, even one as fascinating as the Melusines, would have been an unthinkable sacrilege for them. And then there was another fact: Draco had never reacted the same way to his own singing.
Harry saw himself, clumsily trying to sing one of the songs during their music club. He remembered the blond's scathing gaze, his biting comment:
"You're really not in your element, Potter."
No, clearly, Draco didn't like his voice. This thought pulled a bitter smile from him. Maybe, after all, he had idealized that moment. But a persistent little voice in a corner of his mind whispered that there was something more, something he didn't yet understand.
He then made a promise to himself: to trace his own family tree. Not to prove anything, but simply to know for sure.
"And you?" he finally asked Cedric. "Have you ever heard... the soul's song?"
Cedric shook his head gently.
"No, alas," he murmured, his voice tinged with gentle resignation. "Maybe I didn't inherit that trait from my mother... or maybe it just never manifested."
Harry observed the Hufflepuff, reading in his expression a hint of regret he hadn't expected to see. A kind of underlying sadness, as if he carried a weight he shared with no one.
"Maybe," said Harry softly, a smile floating at the corner of his lips, "you just need to wait for the right person."
Cedric turned his gaze toward him, surprised, then slowly nodded, a sincere smile lighting up his face. Harry turned his eyes away, focusing on the bustling Quidditch field. The match was starting.
****
Harry clenched his wand so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his eyes scanning the darkness around the camp. The joyful clamor of the Weasleys and their guests under the tent formed a disturbing contrast with the tense atmosphere gripping his heart. He knew what was coming. It was inevitable. Chaos, screams, danger. A scene he had already lived through and absolutely did not want to relive.
He had pretended to need some air, a moment to himself, but that was only a half-truth. The crowd, the laughter, the music—it was all background noise, a distraction he couldn’t afford. Not when the Dark Mark threatened to appear at any moment.
Suddenly, screams tore through the night.
Harry's heart leapt in his chest. He wasted no time, rushing into the tent.
"The camp is under attack!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the festivity's buzz.
Panic ensued instantly. The Weasleys reacted with impressive speed, gathering everyone to flee to safety. But Harry didn’t follow them. He knew where he needed to be. Where he had to go.
Slipping behind Amos and Arthur, he hoped to blend into their wake without drawing attention. But he hadn’t counted on Cedric.
"Harry, what are you doing?" Cedric's voice made him jump. With a firm grip, the Hufflepuff held him by the hood of his sweatshirt. "We mustn't separate from the group, you'll get lost!"
Harry gritted his teeth, frustration rising in him like a tide. The last thing he wanted was to involve Cedric in this chaos. If he lost him now, everything he had done to try to change the course of events would be in vain.
"Let me go, Cedric! Don't you see that the camp is being attacked by Death Eaters?"
Cedric did not relent, his golden eyes shining with fierce determination.
"So what?" he growled, his voice as sharp as Harry’s. "It's even more dangerous for you, Harry!"
He took a deep breath, as if to calm himself, but his tone remained firm.
"Come. Take cover with us."
Harry felt a wave of emotion sweep through him—a mix of anger, concern, and an indescribable feeling. Why did Cedric always have to be so... noble? Why did he always have to intervene, wanting to protect others, even at the cost of his own safety?
"Cedric, listen to me," Harry murmured, his tone almost pleading. "You don't understand. If I do nothing, people will die."
Cedric stared at Harry, his eyes searching his face as if trying to read into him. Then, with a resigned sigh, he released his grip.
"Fine, but I'm not letting you go alone."
"Cedric..."
"No, Harry." His voice was firm, cutting. "If you go, I'm going too."
A weight seemed to settle on Harry’s shoulders. This was not what he wanted. Not what he had planned. But time was pressing, and the screams were getting closer.
"Fine," he conceded reluctantly. "But stay close to me. And whatever happens..."
He locked eyes with Cedric, his tone becoming grave.
"Stay alive."
Cedric nodded, his expression hardening. Together, they advanced into the night, their steps guided by the screams and the unsettling glow of spells. But when they finally reached the source of the chaos, Harry's heart tightened.
They were too late.
In the center of a circle of wizards, a little house-elf sobbed on her knees. Her heartrending cries echoed in the air charged with tension, her hands clenched on the fabric of her worn robe. At her feet lay a wand, accusatory, while above them, the Dark Mark floated sinisterly in the sky, like a promise of terror.
"Winky is innocent!" the elf cried, her voice broken by dread. "Winky did nothing!"
The Minister of Magic stepped forward, his face stern and his tone implacable. "The evidence is clear. This elf conjured the Dark Mark."
Barty Crouch Sr. advanced in turn. His imposing figure was a mix of coldness and resolve. He regarded the elf with a gaze devoid of empathy.
"I see only one solution," he declared with icy solemnity.
"No! Master, I beg you!" Winky wailed, collapsing further on herself, her tiny hands raised in supplication. Her distress was palpable, but Crouch turned away.
"I grant you your freedom, Winky," he finally stated, his voice falling like an irrevocable sentence.
With determined steps, Harry entered the circle of wizards, ignoring the curious and surprised looks that fell on him. If he couldn't catch Barty Crouch Jr., he could at least repair some of the damage.
Behind him, Cedric followed, silent but vigilant.
Harry knelt before Winky, his knees touching the damp earth. The terrified elf looked up to meet his gaze. Her eyes, reddened by tears, reflected infinite distress.
In a calm but determined voice, Harry declared: "I, Harry Potter, wish to employ Winky as the chief housekeeper of the Potter household."
****
A joyful exclamation echoed through the house as the group crossed the threshold of the Burrow.
"I've always dreamed of having the help of a house elf!" exclaimed Molly, radiating happiness, her flour-covered hands fluttering with overflowing enthusiasm.
Ron, on the other hand, seemed to want to disappear into the ground. He blushed violently and muttered, visibly embarrassed: "Mum, she's Harry's elf, not ours..."
Harry smiled timidly, but he shook his head. "Actually, I don't really have a home right now." He glanced at Winky, who stood a little behind, nervously twisting her cloth. "I was hoping Winky could stay here while I finish my studies."
The house elf, who had been listening in silence until then, widened her large bright eyes before stammering, her voice trembling: "Does master not want Winky anymore?" Her mouth began to quiver, and tears threatened to spill.
Harry, feeling a twinge in his heart, crouched down to be at her level. He gently took her small trembling hands in his and waited for her to look up at him.
"Winky, listen to me," he whispered softly. "You are not my servant, and you don't have to call me 'master.' Call me Harry, okay?"
Winky shook her head frantically, her ears flapping in the air. "Winky wouldn't dare!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with fright.
Hermione, who was standing nearby, knelt down too. "And what would you say to 'sir'? That would be a good compromise, right?"
But she didn't wait for a response before turning to Harry, her tone becoming firmer: "It goes without saying that you will pay her for her work, right?"
At these words, Molly Weasley jumped as if someone had cast a spell on her. "Pay her?" she exclaimed, incredulous. "But, she's a house elf!"
A collective sigh filled the kitchen. Everyone—Harry, Hermione, Ron, and even Cedric—closed their eyes briefly, knowing full well what was about to follow. Hermione, outraged by Molly's words, took a deep breath, ready to launch into one of her famous sermons on elf rights.
To make up for her outburst earlier, Molly had decided to offer Winky a pile of old sweaters she had knitted herself. The clothes, neatly stacked in a basket, were meant to warm and dress the house elf. But as soon as Winky laid eyes on them, she burst into uncontrollable sobs, convinced she was being dismissed.
"No, no, Winky!" exclaimed Harry, crouching in front of her, trying to calm her tears. "You're not fired. These clothes are for you, that's all."
It took almost the entire evening to reassure the elf, to explain that she was not being punished and that she had the right—no, the duty—to dress decently. Finally, she accepted, and the result was simply adorable: Winky was now dressed in colorful, mismatched wool, a little pink scarf tied around her neck, giving her a look that was both comical and endearing.
Later in the evening, as everyone gathered in Ron's room to chat, Hermione gave Harry an approving look. "What you did for Winky, Harry, was really noble," she said with a proud smile.
"Absolutely," agreed Cedric, who had been invited to extend his stay at the Burrow. Lying on a cushion, he seemed as impressed as Hermione. "My father works hard to improve the conditions of house elves, but it's a tough fight. Wizarding attitudes evolve so slowly..."
Ron grimaced. "What I find crazy is that we still don't know who cast the spell. A Death Eater is walking around freely while we blame an innocent elf."
Fred and George nodded in unison, their faces unusually serious.
"As if an elf could act on her own," grumbled Fred.
"I bet Crouch is hiding something," added George, crossing his arms.
Hermione frowned. "What's obvious is that the Ministry will do nothing. Fudge would rather believe that Winky is guilty or, worse, he's pretending to divert attention."
Cedric raised his head, intrigued. "What do you mean?"
Hermione shrugged. "Think about it. A group of Death Eaters enters a high-security camp, terrorizes everyone, and the Dark Mark appears in the sky. And yet, all that comes out of it is a humiliated house elf and no serious investigation."
Around them, the discussions intensified, everyone sharing their theories. But Harry remained silent. His mind was elsewhere, annoyed by their enthusiasm to dig into a truth he already knew. He almost resented their carelessness, that energy he knew was doomed to be futile. This feeling of helplessness gnawed at him. Watching them debate, fuss, just as he himself had done at their age, only exacerbated his own feeling of isolation.
"I'm going to bed," he suddenly announced, standing up.
Before he reached the door, a pop sounded. Winky appeared in front of him, holding a tray with steaming hot chocolate.
"Does Mr. Harry Potter desire some hot chocolate? Perhaps Winky could fluff his pillow to make it more comfortable?" she asked deferentially.
Ron, ever eager, exclaimed: "Oh, I'll have some!"
But Winky gave him a cold look. "Mrs. Weasley has ordered Winky not to take care of her children. They must learn independence. Winky obeys Mr. Harry Potter only."
Harry sighed, a tired smile stretching his lips. "Winky, bring hot chocolate for everyone, please. And I'll need a quill and parchment too."
The elf let out a little cry of joy before disappearing in a new burst of sound.
Ron stood up and joined Harry near the door. "You okay, Harry? You've been distant these last few days. With your new look, then this stuff at the camp... you're freaking us out, man."
"I wasn't alone," Harry retorted defensively. "Cedric was there."
Cedric, leaning against the wall, shook his head. "I almost begged you not to go."
Hermione approached, a glint of concern in her eyes. "Is it because of your nightmares?"
Harry shook his head, annoyed. "No, I just need some space lately, that's all."
Fred crossed his arms, a sarcastic smile on his lips. "Oh, excuse us, Mr. Harry Potter. We didn't know we were so boring."
George added with a feigned outraged air. "His Majesty can rest assured that we won't bother him anymore."
Harry exploded, his voice trembling. "Guys, please... I'm not saying this to upset you! But... but I'm tired of this crap! For once, I'd like a normal year, without having to worry or be on guard all the time. I don't want to lose you..."
A chilling silence followed his words. Tears welled up in Harry's eyes, but he held them back just in time. Hermione hesitantly placed a hand on his arm. "Harry..."
He stepped back, heading for the door. "I just need a few hours to myself, okay? See you later."
In the dark, silent kitchen of the Burrow, the glowing embers of the hearth cast a flickering light on the walls. Harry sat at the large table, his elbows on the worn wood, his gaze lost in the dancing shadows. A heavy ball weighed in his chest, a mix of frustration, fatigue, and that eternal question: what was really expected of him?
A sudden pop broke the silence, and Winky appeared with a quill and parchment, as he had requested. She placed the items in front of him deferentially, her large eyes shining with a mix of concern and satisfaction. Then, with another pop, she disappeared, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further, and leaned back in the chair. He needed a distraction, to focus on something other than the threads of fate he was vainly trying to untangle.
A vivid memory imposed itself on him, sharp as a photograph: Draco, a guitar in his hands, piercing gray-blue eyes, a mocking tone but curiously patient.
"The problem, Harry," he had said calmly, "is that you're trying to imitate me. It's clearly not your style."
"And what would my style be, then?" Harry had asked, frustrated and a bit offended.
Draco had shrugged with calculated nonchalance. "That's for you to find out. It's part of your identity. It can't be taught."
At the time, Harry had responded with a simple "Oh," stunned, not really grasping the depth of what Draco was trying to say. But now, in the dim light of the kitchen, surrounded by the silence of the Burrow, those words took on new meaning.
Draco was right. It wasn't up to him to copy or imitate. He had to find what defined him, what belonged to him. But why Draco, of all styles, had chosen folk?
Folk, Harry thought as he idly tapped the quill against the edge of the ink pot, was a raw, sincere genre. A music of truth, stripped of artifice, exposing the bare soul through simple, universal stories. For Draco, trapped in oppressive traditions and an arrogant mask, folk could be an escape, a way to say everything he couldn't express otherwise. A quest for authenticity, for vulnerability.
But Harry? What music could capture his essence?
He sat up abruptly, his quill trembling slightly in his fingers. He had never tried to write anything that truly belonged to him. But that night, for the first time, he decided to put his own emotions on paper. Not those of another. Not those expected of him. Just... his own.
He dipped the quill in the ink, his mind boiling, and began to write.
I don't feel a single thing Have the potions done too much? Haven't caught up with my friends in weeks And now we're out of touch I've been flying in London…
The words flowed almost despite him, like a release. Harry paused for a moment, observing the lines on the parchment, a strange sensation lodging in his chest. It might not be perfect, but it was a start. A reflection of who he was. An attempt to exist for himself, at last.
He looked at the lines with a mix of satisfaction and melancholy. No, he didn't imagine these words floating delicately in the air like Draco's, a musical caress imbued with elegance and nostalgia. That wasn't what he wanted, nor what he needed. Harry had too much rage, too much pain, too much of that muffled anger and frustration accumulated over the years.
It wasn't a love story he wanted to share, nor even the sugar-coated tale of his life—he was tired of everyone already appropriating it. What he wanted was to scream. To throw his emotions in the world's face like a primal cry, a call for attention, or rather, a call for freedom. To be let to live. His quill resumed its frantic pace, sliding on the parchment as if he feared the words would escape him if he didn't capture them immediately.
The night stretched as he darkened the parchment, the lines becoming more and more abrupt, filled with a rage he had never been able to express otherwise. He felt a strange form of relief settle in him, as if each word torn from his heart allowed him to breathe a little more easily.
****
The next morning, Harry woke up with a firm idea: to buy a guitar. A real guitar. Not one of those enchanted creations that might turn into a harp at midnight or decide to play free jazz while you sleep. No, he wanted a perfectly Muggle instrument, a thing where magic had no say.
When he announced his plan at the breakfast table, a silence fell as if he had declared his intention to buy pink dragon skin moccasins embroidered with neon runes.
"A guitar?" Ron repeated, incredulous, with a mouth full of toast. "But... why?"
"Do you even know how to play?" asked Fred, squinting as if trying to detect a joke in Harry’s pupils.
"Has the bagpipes from the Irish got to you, Harry?" George added, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
Hermione, ever pragmatic, was more supportive. "It could be interesting, Harry. I know a few shops in London if you need a guide to choose one."
Ginny, already excited, raised her hand as if in school. "I'll come! I've never been to a Muggle shop!"
"I think I'd like to join as well," Cedric chimed in cheerfully, as if he had just been offered a visit to an underwater zoo.
Harry knew his friends felt somewhat guilty about the previous night, and that whatever he might have asked, his potential whim would have been indulged. He suddenly felt lucky to be so well-surrounded, and somewhat ashamed of his outburst the night before.
A few hours later, they disembarked in London as a loud and mismatched troop, attracting stares like trolls in tutus.
"Look at that!" exclaimed Ron, pointing at a bright advertising sign. "It moves! Without magic! How is that possible?"
"It's just a screen, Ronald," Hermione replied with exasperation.
They quickly stumbled upon a music shop, drawn by a sign in the shape of a treble clef.
Their arrival was announced by a loud "cling cling" from the door. Immediately, all the Weasleys—except Ginny—ducked as if an explosive spell had been cast.
"Calm down, it's just the bell," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes.
Inside, a mustachioed salesman greeted them with a puzzled smile, "Hello, can I help you?"
"Yes," said Ron, still a bit embarrassed from throwing himself to the floor, "We're looking for a guitar. But... a nice guitar."
The salesman blinked, clearly on unfamiliar ground. "Nice?"
"You know," interjected Fred, "a guitar with character. Maybe one that coos like a nightingale if you play it right."
"Or screams like a Howler if you miss a chord," added George.
Harry thought for a moment that the man might call the Muggle police, but finally, he let them wander. Fred and George were already fervently discussing the potential of a cursed banjo—to the salesman’s dismay. Ginny, fascinated, tapped on a drum set, perhaps expecting it to meow like an enchanted cat.
Harry stopped in front of a row of electric guitars. One in particular caught his eye: simple, elegant, with mother-of-pearl inlays on the neck. It almost seemed to call to him. Intrigued, he reached out and brushed the strings.
No sooner had he touched it than a crack sounded, followed by a bright flash. Although the guitar was unplugged, some sort of electrical overload exploded. The bright light blinded Harry for a moment, and he hastily stepped back, stumbling to the ground.
"Harry!" a familiar voice exclaimed. Cédric appeared in his field of vision, his face marked with concern.
"Are you hurt?" the Hufflepuff asked, his eyes quickly scanning Harry for any injuries.
"I... I don't think so," Harry stammered, completely disoriented. He looked around. The guitar lay on the floor, reduced to a heap of charred wood and twisted strings. "What... what happened?"
"I knew it was a bad idea to go into a Muggle store," Cédric grumbled in response.
That’s when the salesman came barreling over, furious. "What did you do to my guitar?!" he yelled, his eyes flicking between Harry and the ruined instrument.
"Cédric, Harry, let's go!" Hermione intervened, her voice carrying an authority that Harry knew not to question. She held the door open, her eyes shooting warning glares.
"Not so fast!" the salesman shouted, his face turning a bright red. "You're not leaving like this! I'm calling the police!"
But the group was already outside. Hermione led the charge, followed by Ron who tripped on the sidewalk, casting panicked looks behind him. Fred and George, never lacking in audacity, laughed like madmen, each clutching a pair of maracas they had snatched in their frantic escape.
Once they reached a quiet alley, panting but unharmed, Hermione turned a thoughtful gaze on Harry. She scratched her chin, an intellectual excitement flickering in her eyes.
"I had been told that technology and magic don’t mix well," she began in a tone that already heralded a dissertation, "but I never imagined something so... explosive. It opens fascinating perspectives! I could write a thesis on this."
Ron, still trying to catch his breath, suddenly looked up, frowning. "Wait a minute, Hermione," he exclaimed indignantly. "Are you saying you knew this might happen?"
Hermione shrugged, perfectly calm as if the general panic that had preceded was just a minor detail. "Not exactly. Let's say I had some hypotheses, but nothing concrete."
Cédric, standing beside them, crossed his arms, a disapproving frown on his face. "I had my doubts too, but I didn't imagine it would turn out this bad."
Harry, leaning against the brick wall to recover, raised an eyebrow. "And no one thought to tell me before I touched that guitar?"
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Cédric took the lead. "If you want a guitar, Harry, it'll have to be magical or acoustic. No complex Muggle technology, especially if you plan to use it regularly."
He seemed to reflect for a moment, then added, "I know a shop on Diagon Alley. They have good quality enchanted instruments. I could take you there if you want."
Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm the irritation rising in him. He should have guessed. Even his guitar project, supposed to be a simple escapade, had turned into an odyssey involving magic, explosions, and endless discussions. But meeting Cédric’s sincere gaze, he nodded.
"Alright," he said, his tone softened. "But this time, no unnecessary risks. I've had my fill of adventures for today."
Fred, ever imperturbable, shook a maraca he had managed to pilfer in the previous chaos. "Can we also see if they have enchanted tambourines? That could be fun."
****
The cobblestones of Diagon Alley echoed under the group's footsteps, still excited from their misadventure in London. Cédric led Harry and the others to a small shop nestled between an apothecary and a cauldron shop. The sign above the door read: "Enchanted Melodies – Magical Instruments for Wizarding Musicians."
Inside, the atmosphere was unlike anything Harry had experienced. The instruments seemed almost alive, softly vibrating in a harmonious musical murmur. A harp released crystal-clear notes whenever a customer passed by, and a tambourine faintly jiggled as if waiting to be played. But it was a row of electric guitars, hanging on a wall, that immediately captivated Harry.
An elderly wizard with a kind smile, dressed in a robe dotted with moving musical notes, approached.
"Welcome to Enchanted Melodies," he said in a gentle voice. "Are you looking for an instrument, young man?"
Harry nodded, slightly intimidated by the magical ambiance of the place. "Yes, I'm looking for a guitar... But I'm not really sure which one would suit me."
The old wizard smiled, his eyes twinkling behind round glasses. "Ah, in that case, the instrument will choose you. But for that, we need to know your musical soul."
Ron, intrigued, whispered to Hermione, "Is this like a musical Sorting Hat or something?"
Ignoring Ron's remark, the wizard motioned for Harry to follow him. He led him to the center of the shop, where a small pedestal surrounded by various instruments hanging in the air awaited.
"Sing something," he told Harry. "Whatever your heart dictates. The magic of the instrument that matches you will find you."
Harry felt the pressure mount. All his friends, even Fred and George, had stopped their antics to watch him attentively. Hermione gave him an encouraging look, and Cédric nodded slowly, a smirk on his face.
He took a deep breath. It wasn't the first time he had sung in front of people—he had tried singing in another timeline—but this was different. Here, he needed to be sincere, to let his emotions flow.
Closing his eyes, he thought of a song that had marked his youth, long before he discovered he was a wizard. The first notes of "Running Up That Hill" echoed in his mind, and he began to sing.
"And if I only could, Make a deal with God…"
As he sang, a strange vibration filled the air. An electric guitar hanging on the wall began to glow softly, emitting a golden light. Then, without warning, it detached itself and floated towards him. The strings began to vibrate in harmony with his voice, naturally accompanying his song.
The instrument's magic amplified each note, creating an almost mystical echo that filled the entire shop. The other customers stopped, fascinated, and even the old wizard seemed impressed.
When Harry finished his song, silence spread throughout the store. Then, as if a spell had been lifted, Ginny and Hermione let out an excited shriek.
"That was awesome, Harry! Really, I mean, incredible!"
Before he could respond, Hermione, usually more reserved, nodded vigorously.
"That was really very good. I didn't know you had that kind of talent."
"Neither did I, to be honest," Harry replied, scratching the back of his head.
The seller, who seemed to have been eagerly awaiting this moment, stepped forward, patting the guitar proudly. "Not so fast, young man. This is a Harmonia Sonora 2025, you see. It has strings of pure silver, partially enchanted to react to the magic of its owner. No need for a wand to make it stylish: it amplifies emotion and naturally harmonizes whatever you play. It's not a flashy guitar, but it has character."
Harry looked at the instrument curiously. "So... does the guitar do all the work?"
"Not at all," the seller replied, slightly offended. "It's your magic that guided the instrument. This guitar is ideal for immersive and melancholic styles. Perfect for shoegaze, if you ask me."
Ginny frowned. "Shoegaze? Is that a spell?"
"It's a style of music," Hermione answered with a sigh, ever the educator.
Ron, meanwhile, squinted at the instrument. "And how much does all this magical stuff cost?"
The seller raised an eyebrow in a superior manner. "Thirty Galleons," he declared emphatically.
"Thirty Galleons?!" exclaimed the Weasleys in unison.
"Sold!" replied Harry with a happy smile.
The seller, satisfied, carefully packaged his new acquisition. But as Harry picked up the guitar case, he caught a glimpse of Cédric leaning against a shelf out of the corner of his eye.
The Hufflepuff was pale as a ghost, his gaze fixed on Harry with a disturbing intensity.
****
They were all gathered in the same train compartment, and when I say all, I mean Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and... Cédric. Harry was eyeing his instrument, neatly wrapped in its case, as if it were his one true love. He would have happily spent the entire journey cooing over his new acquisition, savoring the soft glow of the guitar that seemed to whisper promises of future melodies.
But, of course, Draco Malfoy could not miss such an opportunity for his annual taunt. Crabbe and Goyle followed him as usual, like two soulless shadows.
"So, Potter," Draco taunted, his voice dripping with disdain. "Got a new boyfriend?"
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, Cédric stood up, his face hardening, and advanced towards Draco with icy authority.
"Leave us alone, Malfoy," Cédric growled, his voice calm but threatening, like the rumbling of an approaching storm.
Draco raised an eyebrow, a sneer twisting his delicate features.
"Pedophilia, Diggory," he drawled, his voice dripping with feigned indignation, "is punishable by imprisonment, you know? What are you, seventeen?"
Cédric took another threatening step forward, and before anyone could intervene, he was nose to nose with Draco. The atmosphere in the compartment became strangely heavy.
Harry, the first to realize the escalation of the situation, leaped up to hold back Cédric, grabbing his arm with a firm grip.
"Cédric, no, let it go," Harry murmured, hoping to defuse the situation.
Fred, George, and Ron rushed to support Harry, forming a human barrier between the Hufflepuff and the Slytherin.
Draco stood there, his cold eyes locking with Cédric's in a strange glint. And suddenly, to everyone's astonishment, Draco bared his teeth, a sneering gesture that eerily resembled an angry cat's hiss.
Cédric, unexpectedly, responded in kind, showing his teeth in a grimace that was no less menacing than Malfoy's.
Silence fell.
Harry, frozen, struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. The usually placid Hufflepuff, confronting Draco Malfoy with an... animalistic mimicry?
"What the..." Harry whispered, but no sound came out.
Then, without another word, Draco turned around and left the compartment with his cronies.
Cédric, meanwhile, sat back down without a word, crossing his arms and staring out of the compartment window as if nothing unusual had happened.
But Harry, still petrified, couldn't tear his gaze away from his friend, a million questions boiling in his mind.
There was little time after that for Harry to discuss what had happened on the train. With the introduction of the Triwizard Tournament, the general bustle of Hogwarts left him no respite. Exhausted by the day's events, he almost forgot to ask Ron what had exactly happened before falling asleep.
It was only as they were preparing for bed that Harry found the opportunity to ask. "Hey, Ron..." he began, adjusting his covers. "That weird thing between Cédric and Malfoy on the train... What was that all about?"
Ron settled cross-legged on his bed, a barely concealed smile on his face. "Oh, it was impressive, wasn't it?" He paused, as if savoring the memory. "But... it must have been a bit awkward for you, right?"
Harry frowned, puzzled. "Awkward? Why would it be?"
Ron rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated by his friend's ignorance. "Well, listen. Cédric's mother was a Mélusine, a water creature. These creatures have particular instincts, sometimes they come out. You remember, when he stepped towards Malfoy? It wasn't just annoyance. It's instinctive, almost territorial."
Harry nodded slowly, absorbing the information. He knew Cédric had special origins, but he had never considered the implications in situations like that.
"Yes, I knew about Cédric," he admitted. "But Draco, then? Why that kind of... bizarre confrontation?"
Ron burst out laughing, incredulous, and threw a pillow at Harry. "Malfoy? You mean you didn't know? Seriously?"
Harry pushed the pillow away, increasingly annoyed. "Know what, Ron?"
Ron shrugged nonchalantly. "Draco is part Veela. It's obvious, isn't it?"
Harry sat up sharply, his heart pounding. "Wait, what? Malfoy, a Veela?"
Ron gave him a look that was half amused, half exasperated. "Yeah. Explains his damn temperament, doesn't it? Veelas, you know, have this thing where they think they're better than everyone else. And then there's this old rivalry with the Mélusines. It's been going on for centuries. Apparently, they can't stand each other."
Harry blinked, his mind struggling to piece together the bits. He saw Draco again, arrogant as always, but now under a new light. Was it his Veela blood that gave him that magnetic allure, that ability to draw attention, whether one wanted to or not?
"And the Malfoys are okay with that?" he asked, still in shock.
Ron raised his eyebrows as if the answer was obvious. "Of course. The Malfoys are obsessed with their pure blood, but they also like the idea of having something that others don't. Apparently, one of Draco's great-great-grandmothers was a Veela who married a Malfoy. An arrangement, you see. They hoped to strengthen their magical lineage with a little 'extra.'"
Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. It explained so much: Draco's way of always capturing attention, his natural presence, and even his behavior sometimes bizarrely dramatic.
Ron sighed, visibly annoyed. "Listen, Harry, whether Malfoy is part Veela or not, it changes nothing. He's still the same insufferable little jerk."
But Harry was not ready to drop it. He furrowed his brows, determined. "Okay, but why were they showing their teeth earlier? What was that about?"
Ron looked up, surprised by his friend's insistence. "You mean you still don't get it?"
"No!" Harry growled, sitting up, frustrated. "If I understood, I wouldn't be asking, would I?"
Ron hesitated for a second, his eyes searching for an escape. Then, with a resigned sigh, he murmured, almost reluctantly: "They were fighting over you, Harry."
Harry blinked, taken aback. "Over... me?"