The Gryffindor common room had settled into its evening hush.
The fire burned low and steady, casting long amber shadows across worn rugs and familiar armchairs. Most students had drifted upstairs, voices fading into the stairwells, leaving behind only the quiet crackle of flames and the occasional turn of a page.
Harry sat cross-legged on the floor near the hearth, back against an armchair, the warmth soaking into his shoulders. Hermione occupied the seat above him, parchment spread across her knees. Ron leaned sideways on the sofa, one arm slung over the back, while Ginny and Neville sat opposite, close enough that their knees nearly touched.
A small, contained circle.
Intentional.
"The maze isn't just hedges," Hermione said softly, tapping her notes. "It's alive. Enchanted growth patterns, shifting paths, spatial distortion—"
"—and creatures," Ron added. "Lots of creatures."
Neville nodded. "Blast-Ended Skrewts. Probably Acromantulas. Maybe worse."
Harry listened more than he spoke.
They had trained for weeks, spell drills, endurance runs under Disillusionment, environmental combat. Hermione had forced him through theoretical labyrinth logic. Ron had helped him practice reaction casting under pressure. Ginny had sparred him relentlessly, forcing him to adapt to unpredictable aggression. Neville had taught him plant behavior, what reacted to light, to magic, to fear.
They had prepared him as best they could.
"The cup will be in the centre," Ginny said. "But it won't be that simple."
Harry nodded. "It never is."
He was about to add something when the fire shifted.
Not flared...bent.
Harry's breath caught.
For the briefest heartbeat, a small figure stood within the flames, not burning, not harmed. Blue-skinned. Child-sized. Eyes far too old.
A Na'vi child.
The whisper brushed his mind like ash.
War against Eywa.
Harry went very still.
"Harry?" Hermione asked immediately.
"There's… something wrong," Harry said quietly.
They all leaned in.
"I saw a child," he continued. "Na'vi. In the fire. And I heard—"
His jaw tightened.
"—a war. Not between clans. Against Eywa herself."
The silence that followed was immediate and heavy.
Ginny's face drained of colour. Ron's fingers curled into the fabric of the sofa. Neville swallowed hard.
"That's… different," Hermione said carefully.
"Yes," Harry replied. "And that worries me."
Ron leaned forward. "Protocol?"
Harry nodded. "Protocol."
They did not panic.
They did not argue.
They simply shifted, subtle, practiced. Hermione gathered her notes. Ginny squeezed Harry's shoulder once. Neville rose quietly.
"I'll go," Neville said.
Harry met his eyes, grateful. "Thank you."
Neville slipped through the portrait hole without another word.
Professor McGonagall did not interrupt him.
She listened as Neville explained, every word precise, careful, earnest. When he finished, she nodded once.
"You did well to come," she said.
Neville exhaled shakily. "Is he going to be alright?"
McGonagall's expression softened, just a fraction. "Harry Potter has survived many things," she said. "But survival does not mean solitude."
After Neville left, she did not hesitate.
Messages were sent.
Dumbledore was informed. The other Heads of House were summoned. Quiet prayers, spoken, unspoken, ancient, were offered in four different traditions.
For the boy who had already lived too many lives.
Harry lay in bed, staring at the dark canopy above him.
What will it be this time? he wondered.
War again?
Loss?
Or something worse, choice?
Sleep came without resistance.
And with it, the pull.
Morning arrived.
Harry opened his eyes to a silent dormitory.
Beds were empty. Curtains drawn back. Light filtered in through tall windows, pale and ordinary.
He felt… distant.
As though the space between thought and action had widened.
His body moved without instruction, sitting up, dressing, fastening buttons with practiced efficiency. He left the dormitory, descended the stairs, and crossed the common room without really seeing it.
Breakfast passed in fragments.
The scrape of cutlery. The murmur of voices. The clink of goblets.
Harry ate because his body required it.
Ron spoke about the weather. Hermione mentioned revision schedules. Ginny commented on a Ravenclaw rumour. Neville listened.
No one said Pandora.
When Ron finally asked, lightly, "Sleep okay?"
Harry swallowed a mouthful of toast.
"I slept," he said. "I woke. Nothing unusual occurred."
The words were correct.
The tone was not.
Across the Hall, Dumbledore watched him carefully.
So did McGonagall. Flitwick. Sprout.
Snape's gaze lingered longer than usual.
After breakfast, the summons came.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville followed Dumbledore into his office without speaking. The Heads of House were already there.
No questions were asked.
No explanations offered.
Dumbledore set the Pensieve upon his desk with deliberate care.
Silver light stilled.
Everyone braced.
Whatever awaited them next had already begun.