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The Starlord - Chapter - 58
🕑 Added 2025-10-29 15:46:02 +0000 UTCThe following day passed in a way that felt painfully ordinary. Hogwarts bustled as usual — students chatting excitedly, house-elves preparing the end-of-term feast, professors marking exam papers with exhausted eyes.
The Daily Prophet filled its front pages with nothing but praise:
“Durmstrang Champion Triumphs!”
“Krum Kisses Victory ”
“The Triwizard Tournament Ends With All Contestants Alive!”
Not. A. Word.
About Little Hangleton.
About the explosion of magic that had ripped the night apart.
And Harry knew exactly why.
The Ministry was covering it up.
If the Ministry could detect minor magical breaches in the Muggle world… then the surge of ritual backlash would have hit their sensors like a meteor hitting a pond.
There was no way they missed it.
Harry hadn’t even taken three steps into the Gryffindor common room before Hermione was on him, arms planted firmly on her hips.
“There is no way you are brushing me off again,” she declared. “Where were you really? What happened last night?”
Behind her, Neville stood stiffly, arms crossed, jaw tight — and angrier than Harry had ever seen him.
Harry breathed out slowly. He’d planned to keep both of them out of this. But looking at their faces now — the stubborn worry in Hermione’s expression and the fierce determination burning in Neville’s — he realized he couldn’t just lie his way through this one.
He motioned toward a quiet corner.
“Sit. Both of you. I’ll tell you everything.”
Hermione’s eyes widened with anticipation as she and Neville hurried over and sat — though Neville was still glowering.
Harry sat across from them, leaning forward.
“Last night, I didn’t have a headache.”
Hermione’s mouth opened — but he raised a hand.
“And I didn’t sleep in my bed. Dobby did.”
Neville blinked. “What?”
“Dobby used magic to… well… make everyone believe I was asleep in the room. He even slept under my blankets.”
Hermione looked torn between horror and fascination.
“That’s—Harry—Dobby mind-controlled half the school?”
Harry shrugged lightly. “Only the ones who were curious.”
Neville’s frown deepened. “So where were you?”
Harry met his gaze without flinching.
“I went to Little Hangleton. There was a ritual — meant to bring Voldemort back to life.”
The air went still.
Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth in a silent gasp. Neville looked like he’d just been hit with a Bludger.
Harry continued quietly but firmly.
“I found out who put my name in the Goblet. Who tried to kill me. Barty Crouch Jr. He impersonated Moody all year.”
Neville swallowed hard. Hermione’s eyes brimmed with fear.
“Sirius and Remus helped me get the real Moody out,” Harry said. “We ambushed the Crouches, disguised ourselves, and went to the ritual site.”
Neville leaned forward. “And?”
Harry’s expression darkened — a predator’s calm settling over him.
“I sabotaged the ritual. Replaced a key ingredient,
bone with a conjured stick. When Pettigrew dropped Voldemort into the cauldron… it backfired. The magic ripped itself apart.”
Hermione shook her head slowly. “You mean… Voldemort…”
Harry nodded once. “Destroyed. Or something close to it. The Ministry is covering it up.”
Neville clenched his fists — but this time, not with anger. With determination.
“You fought the Dark Lord,” he whispered. “And you didn’t take me.”
Harry sighed.
“I know you want to help, Neville. And you will. Both of you will. But this was a ritual. One wrong move, and we all would have died before we could scream.”
Hermione wiped a tear away silently.
Harry’s voice softened — but his eyes remained sharp, dangerous.
“I needed to do this without anyone else getting caught in the blast.”
Neville stared into the fire, then nodded slowly.
“When the next battle comes,” he said, voice steady, “I’m coming.”
Hermione nodded fiercely beside him.
“So am I.”
Harry looked between them — two of the very few people he would die for.
Two of the even fewer who would die with him.
Then he allowed himself the smallest smile.
“Alright,” he said. “When the next fight comes… I’ll call you.”
Hermione finally breathed again, a shaky exhale.
Neville leaned back, calmer now that he’d been trusted with the truth.
Harry stood, the weight of his secret now shared — lightened, but not relieved.
Hermione sat nearby in the common room, flipping angrily through the Prophet.
“It’s disgraceful,” she muttered. “The biggest story of the century just happened — I can feel it — and they’re pretending everything is fine!”
Harry kept his tone neutral. “Maybe they don’t want to worry anyone.”
Hermione lowered the newspaper, eyes narrowing. “Harry. You and I both know that’s not how the Ministry works. They don’t hide things to protect people — they hide things to protect themselves.”
Harry didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.
Because she was right.
His attention snapped when a tiny envelope suddenly popped into existence in front of him — a silver seal shaped like a magical eye stamped into the wax.
Harry opened it, eyes darting over the rough handwriting:
Potter, I’m back in the Ministry.
We need to talk — in person — immediately.
Shrieking Shack. Sunday. Afternoon.
Bring no one you can’t trust with your life. – Moody
Harry’s fingers tightened slightly around the parchment.
He looked up — and spotted Dobby on the other side of the room, nodding rapidly at him, having sensed the message’s arrival before anyone else.
Hermione leaned closer. “What is it? Who’s it from?”
Harry folded the note quickly. “Nothing important. Just Moody checking up.”
Hermione frowned suspiciously. But Harry slipped the letter into his pocket and stood up.
“I’m going to take a walk,” he said casually. “Clear my head.”
He left before she could press further.
Upstairs in the dorm, the moment Harry shut the curtains around his bed, he tapped his enchanted mirror.
It shimmered — then Sirius’s face appeared.
Remus was visible behind him, anxiously pacing.
“Harry!” Sirius barked. “We also got the letter! We are already in Britain — didn’t return to Sweden. He says he has answers.”
Remus came into view. “We’ll be there. Midnight, Sunday. Don’t be late.”
Harry nodded sharply. “I won’t.”
Sirius leaned forward, his eyes darkening. “Whatever happened in that graveyard… the Ministry knows something. And something big is coming.”
Harry smirked faintly — but there was no humor in his eyes.
“Let them come.”
Sirius grinned back. “That’s my boy.”
The connection cut.
Hermione and Neville was waiting for him as soon as he stepped back into the common room. Hermoine with arms crossed, foot tapping — the official Hermione Granger “You’re Not Leaving Until I Get Answers” stance.
“So?” she demanded.
Harry froze for a fraction of a second.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t bother pretending, Harry. I saw you receive a message. And I know it wasn’t nothing.’”
Harry sighed.
He hated lying to her. Out of everyone in Hogwarts, she’d proven time and again she stayed by him when others ran. But this wasn’t about trust — this was about survival.
Hermione stepped closer, voice hushed and urgent.
“If Professor Moody wrote you a letter, I need to hear it too. You’re always in the middle of danger and I—”
“Hermione,” Harry cut in firmly. “I told you because you were worried. Not because I’m bringing you.”
She blinked, the rejection stinging.
Harry lowered his voice, serious and calm. “Moody, Remus, and Sirius are… on edge. If they find out I told anything about last night to anyone — even you — they will lose trust in me. And I need their trust right now.”
Hermione swallowed, anger and worry battling inside her.
“You’re shutting me out again.”
“I’m keeping you safe,” Harry corrected quietly.
Neville crossed his arms stubbornly. “Look, I’m the one whose parents were tortured by Death Eaters. If anyone has a right to stand against them — it’s me.”
Silence.
Hermione put a gentle hand on Neville’s arm — but that fire didn’t fade.
Harry finally spoke, softer:
“Neville… I respect you more than you know. Everything you said is true. But last night wasn’t just any fight. If something went wrong, there wouldn’t be a body to bury. There wouldn’t even be dust.”
Neville’s jaw worked, but some of the fury drained from his expression.
Harry stepped closer.
“When I need you — when we need you — I’ll call. And you’ll be there.”
He offered a small, genuine smile. “Right?”
Sundays at Hogwarts were chaos wrapped in freedom.
Students vanished into hidden towers, courtyards, secret passageways… anywhere except where anyone expected them to be. No strict schedules, no classes — just a castle full of teenagers doing whatever they pleased.
Which made escaping easy.
Harry slipped out beneath the invisibility cloak, Hermione and Neville stubbornly glued to his sides the entire walk to the Whomping Willow.
“This is still ridiculous,” Hermione whispered fiercely. “We should be part of this.”
Neville nodded with crossed arms. “It was our fight too.”
Harry sighed, checking the Marauder’s Map one last time to make sure Filch or Snape wasn’t creeping around.
“I told you,” he said quietly. “If something important comes up, I’ll share it with you. But this is a meeting with three adults I trust with my life. They’re paranoid and dangerous and—”
Neville cut in, “So are you.”
Harry paused… and smirked slightly.
Fair point.
“Just stay hidden,” he said. “If Moody sees you, he will hex first and ask questions next — maybe.”
Hermione frowned but nodded reluctantly. Neville muttered something that sounded like, “Still coming next time.”
Harry tapped the knot on the Willow’s trunk with a stick. The violent tree froze instantly — and the three crawled into the secret passage.
They arrived in the Shrieking Shack basement, footprints of dust marking the floor from where the beds had vanished that morning. Harry pushed through the creaking door to the upstairs room—
And stopped.
Sirius Black was sprawled comfortably across a broken couch, tearing open a bag of Muggle potato chips with the relish of a child opening his birthday present. Several plastic containers, packets, and takeaway boxes cluttered a makeshift table.
Remus stood beside him with a tired, amused expression — wand out, trying to cast a cleaning charm on the crumbs Sirius kept spilling.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “New hobby?”
Sirius looked up, mouth full. “Mffgg— HARRY!”
He jumped up, arms outstretched dramatically, then paused and wiped chip grease off his robes before hugging Harry.
“You’re just in time,” Sirius grinned, holding up a greasy burger. “Muggle cuisine — the greatest invention known to wizardkind!”
Harry eyed the food mountain. “You’re obsessed.”
Sirius puffed his chest out proudly. “Obsessed?”
He poked his slightly rounder stomach. “This is culinary passion, thank you very much.”
Remus shook his head. “Your ‘passion’ is showing.”
Sirius glared. “I’m bulking.”
Harry snorted. “Right. Bulking.”
Hermione and Neville peeked from behind Harry, and Remus gave them a gentle nod in greeting — he had expected them to sneak along.
Sirius blinked. “Er — did you two… come as backup?”
Hermione lifted her chin. “We’re here to listen. Even if we’re not allowed in the important bit.”
Neville crossed his arms again. “We’ll wait. But we’re not leaving.”
Sirius looked at Harry questioningly.
Harry sighed. “They won’t budge, and honestly… I wouldn’t want them to.”
Hermione smiled — proud. Neville looked like he’d been awarded an Order of Merlin.
Sirius threw his arms up. “Fine! But no sneaking behind Moody — the man’s booby-trapped everything short of the air we breathe.”
Remus finally looked up from his notes — and his voice turned serious.
“Harry,” he said calmly, “Moody will be here soon. And he’s bringing information.”
Harry stepped forward, sharp-eyed and laser-focused.
“About what happened that night,” Remus continued. “And about what… might have survived.”
A chill swept through the room.
Even Sirius set down his burger.
Hermione and Neville exchanged a nervous glance.
Harry took a seat, cloak flicking behind him like the wings of a predator settling in.
A loud thump sounded downstairs — a distinctive one-leg-metal-leg rhythm.
Hermione and Neville stiffened.
Harry stood as Mad-Eye Moody pushed into the room, his magical eye already spinning, evaluating every corner, every heartbeat.
When he spotted Hermione and Neville, his gaze lingered for a moment…
…but he didn’t raise his wand.
He simply grunted.
“If they’re here, Potter trusts them. That’s enough for me.”
Hermione let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Neville sat straighter, trying to look braver than he felt.
Moody limped forward, dropping a heavily warded folder onto the table.
The magical eye froze — and both eyes focused sharply on Harry.
“Every single witch and wizard in the Ministry felt the backlash,” he began, voice low and grave. “The entire Magical Disturbance Network lit up like a Christmas tree. The kind of blast only dark ritual magic could cause.”
He spat on the floor in disgust.
“When the Ministry’s hit squad got there — too late, of course — they found the ritual circle burned into the ground. Magic scorched into the soil itself. And tied to the tomb of an unknown Muggle… was Barty Crouch Jr.”
Sirius leaned forward, jaw tight. “Alive?”
Moody shook his head.
“Dead. Body twisted like something tore him apart from the inside.”
Harry didn’t flinch. He already suspected that.
Moody continued.
“They figured out there was a ritual performed… but nothing worked the way the caster wanted. The only conclusion the Unspeakables reached was simple: catastrophic failure.”
Hermione shivered. Neville swallowed hard.
“And since Junior was found dead,” Moody went on, “his father was arrested — properly this time — for helping a Death Eater escape Azkaban and concealing the crime for years.”
He glanced at Harry pointedly.
“Barty Crouch Senior confessed everything in front of the Wizengamot. His career is dead. He’s rotting in a cell now. Deserved it.”
Sirius gave a vicious smile. “About damn time.”
But Moody wasn’t done.
His voice dropped even lower.
“The odd part… wasn’t the bodies.”
He opened the folder.
“And it wasn’t the cauldron fragments scorched into the ground.”
He removed four photos — each showing something that made everyone’s blood turn cold.
Laid out on the grass, in evidence bags, were:
Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup
Rowena Ravenclaw’s Diadem
A cracked black ring
Salazar Slytherin’s Locket
Even Hermione’s jaw dropped. “The Founders’ artifacts?”
Moody growled. “No one knows how the hell they got there. Or whether the ritual used them… or if they appeared when it collapsed.”
Remus whispered, eyes wide, “Those are priceless… and dangerous.”
Moody scoffed. “Dangerous is an understatement. The Ministry should be terrified.”
He leaned in.
“Instead? They’re fighting each other over who gets to claim the artifacts for themselves.”
Everyone stared at him.
Hermione whispered, horrified, “They’re ignoring the ritual?”
“Completely.” Moody spat. “They’ve already sealed the case. Classified. The higher-ups are too busy trying to grab artifacts to care whether Voldemort’s ghost pops out from under their desks.”
Harry’s voice cut through the room — cold and surgical:
“What about Pettigrew?”
Moody looked right at him.
“No sign of him.”
Silence.
Even the creaking shack seemed to hold its breath.
Moody scratched his scarred chin.
“Either the rat ran before the blast hit… or he died so fast not a trace remained.”
Harry’s hand curled slowly into a fist.
So. Pettigrew was either vaporized… or out there, crawling back to whatever remained of Voldemort.
