For the briefest moment, Hogwarts was joy itself.
When the blue light of the Portkey burst across the field, when two shapes came tumbling out of it and hit the grass, the air erupted in thunder. The band struck up the fanfare without waiting for confirmation; fireworks flared above the maze. Students screamed, cheered, and threw hats and scarves. The judges rose to their feet. The Cup had returned—and the last two champions with it.
The banners of every House rippled in the warm night wind, and the stadium was a sea of gold, silver, green, and blue. Molly Weasley was on her feet before anyone else, clapping through tears. Bill laughed, hands in his hair. Hagrid let out a bellow that shook the railings. Even Snape, arms crossed in the shadows of the staff stand, exhaled quietly through his nose—the smallest sound, but one born of relief.
They had done it. After everything, they'd come home.
The brass of the trumpets carried across the field as Harry stirred, pushing himself up on shaking elbows. His ears rang with cheers, the blur of torches above him too bright to make sense of. He blinked hard, dizzy, until the sound began to take shape.
"Harry Potter! Harry Potter!"
He managed a hoarse laugh, breathless and disbelieving. They're alive. He turned to his side, voice faint."Alden," he croaked, "we made it. We're back."
Around the pitch, his friends were already surging forward to the rails. Hermione was sobbing with relief into Ron's shoulder. Neville had tears in his eyes. Across the field, Draco leapt to his feet, clapping wildly, shouting to anyone who would listen, "I told you he'd win! I told you—!"
And above them all, Dumbledore rose slowly from his seat, a small, proud smile curving his mouth. The old wizard's eyes softened in the torchlight, the kind of relief that only years of fear could make.
It should have been perfect.
But then, beneath the noise, a single voice cut through. Not a cheer. A scream.
"Alden!"
Daphne Greengrass was standing now, both hands gripping the railing, knuckles white. Her voice cracked as it echoed across the pitch, slicing through the laughter and music. "Alden!"
The cheering faltered. Then stopped.
Every head turned.
The trumpets stuttered mid-note. The band fell silent. What had been a celebration turned cold in an instant.
Harry blinked, disoriented, the noise fading around him. "What—?" he started to say. And then he followed their eyes.
The boy beside him—his partner, his classmate, the Slytherin they'd whispered about for years—wasn't moving.
Alden Dreyse lay sprawled across the grass, one arm twisted beneath him, the other still loosely clutching his wand. The blood on his robes looked black in the torchlight. His shirt was burned through in places, skin seared beneath it. His silver hair, normally immaculate, was matted dark with blood and ash. One eye was closed, the other faintly open, but lifelessly still. There were cuts down his cheek, a deep gash across his ribs that hadn't stopped bleeding. He didn't look unconscious. He looked broken.
The crowd gasped as one. The silence was absolute.
Tracey Davis covered her mouth. "No—no, he can't—"Theo gripped the railing beside her, his face gray. "He said he'd be back," he whispered. "He promised."Draco just stared, pale and shaking, unable to speak.
In the family stands, Fleur's triumphant smile fell away. Viktor Krum straightened slowly, jaw tightening.
From the staff box, Snape froze mid-motion. The faint smile he'd worn a moment ago died instantly. His hands, which had been folded neatly behind his back, clenched.
On the field, Harry felt his chest tighten as the truth hit. "Alden?" he rasped, reaching out with trembling fingers. "Alden—hey—come on, open your eyes. We did it. We're home."
No response.
The air was suffocating now. Even the banners had gone still. The color and light of the field seemed to drain away until there was only the two of them—one boy alive and shaking, the other lying motionless in his own blood.
And then Dumbledore moved.
The Headmaster's chair scraped back hard against the platform. He was already halfway down the steps before the others realized he'd stood. Snape followed a heartbeat later, his cloak snapping behind him, his face carved from stone.
In the stands, students pressed forward in hushed terror, craning to see. The sound of their whispers rippled outward like wind through leaves.
Hermione clutched Ron's sleeve. "Oh, God, look at him—look at him—"Ron's face was white. "Bloody hell," he breathed.
The world seemed to tilt as Dumbledore and Snape reached the field.
The celebration was over. And the night had turned to mourning.
Dumbledore was already kneeling before the echoes of Daphne's scream had died. Snape hit the grass beside him a second later, wand out, the hem of his cloak slicing the air.
The headmaster's hand hovered over Alden's chest, fingers trembling in a way Harry had never seen before. The boy's breathing was faint—more a flutter than a rhythm, as though each inhale had to bargain its way past pain.
Harry's arms were locked around him. His face was streaked with grime and tears, his voice hoarse. "He wouldn't leave me," he choked. "I told him to run, I told him—but he—he stayed."
Snape said nothing at first. His eyes traced the wreckage before him, and his expression—the perpetual disdain, the strict, clinical cold—fractured into something tight and human. He reached out and pressed two fingers to Alden's neck. The pulse beneath was erratic, shallow.
"Merlin," he muttered.
Now that the torchlight caught him fully, the sight was unbearable. Half of Alden's uniform was gone, burned away until raw skin showed through the tears. His right arm was scorched from wrist to elbow, the flesh blistered and cracked where the fabric had melted. Fine, deep cuts ran all along his forearm, some still seeping fresh blood. His other hand—the one Harry had clutched so tightly in the graveyard—was torn and shaking, the nails broken, skin split open around the knuckles.
Dumbledore's face was a mask of terrible calm. "Severus."
"I know," Snape replied tersely. He drew his wand, whispering under his breath—diagnostic charms, stabilization wards—but every spell he cast came back weak. "He's losing blood faster than I can seal it. We have minutes."
Harry clutched Alden closer, shaking his head. "You can fix him. You can fix him, right?"
Neither man answered.
The boy's hair, normally pale silver, was matted with dirt and soot, streaked dark red at the roots. Half his face was covered in dried blood, running from a long gash above his brow, down past his eye, to the curve of his jaw. The other side was smeared with ash, the faint shimmer of burns across his cheekbone. His lips were cracked and pale. His chest—what was visible of it beneath the shredded fabric—was a landscape of ruin: deep cuts crossing old scars, bruises blooming purple, and a long, ragged wound along his ribs that refused to close.
The grass beneath him was already crimson. It spread out from beneath his shoulder, soaking the soil, creeping toward Harry's knees. The air smelled of iron.
Harry held him tighter. "He tried so hard," he whispered, voice breaking. "He—he was hurt already, but he still—he still tried to get us both out. He told me not to look back. He said—he said—" His words tangled into silence.
Dumbledore's eyes flicked briefly toward the boy, then to the stands—at the students frozen in horror, at Daphne's white-knuckled grip on the railing, at Theo's unmoving stare. His jaw clenched once, then he turned back to the field.
Snape's hands, steady even when facing death itself, were slick with blood now. His black sleeves, usually pristine, were streaked scarlet up to the elbows. "We need Pomfrey," he said through his teeth. "Now."
"I've already sent the signal," Dumbledore murmured, his tone so calm it bordered on frightening. He moved closer, pressing a hand to Alden's sternum, and whispered an old, golden spell—a pulse of light that rippled once through the boy's body before dimming again. "He's holding on. Barely."
Harry lifted his head, eyes glassy. "He's going to live," he said desperately. "He has to."
Dumbledore looked at him, at the blood that had soaked through Harry's robes, at the shaking of his hands, at the thousand-yard stare of a boy who'd seen too much. "Harry," he said quietly. "What happened?"
Harry swallowed hard. His voice came out cracked and small. "Voldemort."
The word carried like a gunshot.
Every whisper, every sob in the crowd stopped at once. Even the wind seemed to falter.
"He's back," Harry said, louder this time, forcing the words out through trembling lips. "Voldemort's back."
Dumbledore went still. His expression didn't change, but something ancient in his gaze hardened—recognition, resignation, sorrow.
Snape froze mid-motion. The blood drained from his face.
From the stands came a ripple of panic—students whispering, parents calling out, disbelief turning to dread. Theo gripped the railing so tight his fingers turned white. Daphne's hand fell from her mouth, her lips parting in mute horror. Draco shook his head as if the denial itself might change the truth.
And through it all, Harry's voice, quiet now, filled the empty night: "He came back for us. For the Tournament. He—he killed people. He—Alden—he tried to stop him. He fought him. He—"
Snape's jaw twitched, and he said sharply, "Potter, stop. He needs—"
But Harry didn't. He bowed his head over Alden's still body, whispering like a prayer. "He stayed. He didn't leave me there. He stayed."
No one moved. No one breathed.
Above them, the stars shone coldly indifferent, and below them, a fifteen-year-old boy bled out in the grass, his silver hair turned to ash and crimson.
When Madam Pomfrey appeared seconds later, the relief was immediate but fragile. Dumbledore exhaled once—barely audible—and Snape pressed harder on the wound, his own breath ragged.
The celebration had become a nightmare. And the world had just learned that the impossible was true.
No one cheered anymore. The stands that only moments ago had thundered with applause had fallen into an unnatural, suffocating silence.
Even the banners seemed to droop, the wind gone from them—as though Hogwarts itself held its breath. The only sound left was Harry's voice, fractured and small, breaking the night.
"He stayed," he kept whispering. "He—he wouldn't leave me there. He said we'd both make it back."
The crowd stared, unblinking. It didn't matter that they'd whispered about Alden Dreyse for years, called him the next Dark Lord, the boy who dabbled in things no one should. All those rumors are scattered like dust now. Because the boy on the ground wasn't a myth. He was a bleeding, burned, broken child who'd fought a monster and somehow come back alive.
And Harry Potter was holding him like he was the only proof the nightmare had really happened.
On the field, the professors moved with desperate precision. Dumbledore had conjured a perimeter ward around the pitch—gold light weaving silently between the torches to hold the crowd at bay—while Snape and Madam Pomfrey worked furiously beside the stretcher.
"Pressure here!" Pomfrey barked, voice tight. "Don't let it reopen—Severus, hold him steady!"
Snape's sleeves were drenched in blood up to the elbows, his normally impassive face drawn taut with grim focus. His hand pressed hard over Alden's ribs, blood seeping between his fingers despite the spells layered over it. "He's losing it too fast," he muttered. "He'll bleed out before we reach the castle."
"Not if I get him there first," Hagrid rumbled behind them, voice breaking on the words. His massive hands shook as he crouched down, gently sliding his arms beneath the boy. "Got him—steady, now—steady…"
Alden's head lolled against his arm, pale hair streaked with ash and blood. For a moment, it looked like the world had been drained of color.
Snape flicked his wand; the stretcher solidified beneath Hagrid's grip, shimmering silver as it rose. "Keep him level," he ordered sharply. "Don't jostle the chest—Merlin help you if you do."
Pomfrey was already running ahead, clearing the way with her wand. "Make way! Clear the path!"
The students didn't move at first. They just stared—hundreds of faces frozen in shock, some crying quietly, others gripping each other's hands.
Daphne Greengrass had both arms around Tracey, shaking uncontrollably. "He promised," she whispered through tears. "He promised he'd be back."Tracey couldn't answer. Her sobs came in silent tremors.
Theo Nott hadn't moved since the moment Harry said Voldemort's name. His hands were locked around the railing, knuckles white, eyes hollow. "No," he said under his breath, voice barely audible. "He's not gone. He can't be."
Pansy was crying openly now, mascara streaking down her face. Even Crabbe and Goyle—usually stone-faced—stood still, pale and wide-eyed.
And Draco… Draco Malfoy, who never cried for anyone, had a single tear on his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it away.
He whispered to no one in particular, "You said you'd show me how to win next time…"
The stretcher lifted. Hagrid carried it in both arms, massive and trembling, Snape walking close beside him, one hand hovering over Alden's chest, maintaining a constant charm. Dumbledore moved with them, casting ward after ward to keep the boy's life tethered to the world.
The crowd parted wordlessly.
The sound of boots and robes brushing through wet grass echoed across the empty pitch. Blood still dripped steadily from the stretcher's edge, each crimson drop painting a trail through the dew.
For everyone watching, it was no longer a tournament. It was a funeral procession waiting to happen.
High in the stands, someone whispered, "He fought You-Know-Who."Another voice, trembling, answered, "And lived."
But no one dared to believe it would last.
Harry stayed where he was, still kneeling in the grass, staring at the crimson stain that marked where Alden had lain. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. The blood on them—it was everywhere—his robes, his skin, his fingernails. He could smell it, taste it. He couldn't make it go away.
He looked up as the stretcher passed, and his voice cracked: "He saved me."Dumbledore paused just long enough to meet his eyes. "And we'll do everything to save him now," he said softly.
Then they were gone—disappearing into the archway at the far end of the pitch, their silhouettes fading in torchlight.
Harry stayed frozen until he felt a hand on his shoulder."Come on, lad," came Moody's gravelled voice.
Harry turned. The man's mismatched eyes regarded him with grim pity—or what he thought was pity. "You've done enough tonight."
"I can't—" Harry started, voice breaking. "He—he—"
Moody's grip tightened, not unkind but firm. "You can't help him now. You need to come with me."
Harry hesitated, eyes flicking one last time toward the distant doors of the castle. Then he nodded numbly, letting himself be guided away.
Behind them, the stadium remained silent.
No applause. No music. Just hundreds of students staring into the empty field where blood still glistened in the grass under the torchlight—proof that even the strongest could bleed.
And somewhere far ahead, in the depths of the castle, a boy fought for his life.