Chapter 62: Chapter 62: Farewells

Sunlight splashed across the hospital wing floor in golden rectangles. The room smelled of antiseptic potions and fresh linen—that particular blend unique to magical healing spaces. Harry sat propped against pillows, idly flipping through a dog-eared Quidditch magazine. Despite a day of recovery, shadows still lingered under his eyes.

He looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Arthur.” Harry straightened, setting aside the magazine. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Arthur pulled up a chair, its wooden legs scraping against stone. “Thought I’d check on the Triwizard Champion before the adoring masses descend.”

“That’s not—” Harry fidgeted with the edge of his blanket. “You should’ve been holding that cup. Not me.”

“Would’ve been nice,” Arthur admitted with a half-smile. “First competition I’ve lost at Hogwarts. Seven years of being first at everything, and I fumble at the finish line.”

“You only lost because you were fighting a Death Eater,” Harry protested. “Everyone’s talking about how you took down the fake Moody without magic.”

“Are they now?” Arthur leaned back, chair creaking slightly. “Good to know my reputation will continue to terrify purebloods and Death Eaters for years to come.”

Harry smiled “That it will. But you should at least keep the prize money.”

“Keep it.” Arthur waved dismissively. “I have plenty. Besides, something tells me you’ll need those galleons more than I do.”

Harry studied him, head tilted slightly. “You really don’t care about winning, do you?”

“Glory evaporates like morning dew. Skills are forever.” Arthur leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Speaking of which, what exactly happened after you touched the cup?”

Harry hesitated. His fingers gripped the blanket tighter. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel real yet. One minute I was grabbing the cup, the next…” His voice trailed off.

“Tell me what happened,” Arthur said quietly. “If you’re comfortable. I know it can’t be easy to revisit.”

For a moment, Harry seemed ready to refuse. Then something in Arthur’s expression changed his mind.

“The cup took me to a graveyard,” Harry began, voice dropping. “Old place, overgrown. There was this massive cauldron, and Wormtail—Peter Pettigrew—was there. He was carrying something that looked like… like a deformed baby, but it wasn’t.”

Arthur listened without interruption as Harry described the ritual—the bone from the grave, Wormtail cutting off his own hand, the blood taken from Harry’s arm, and finally, Voldemort rising from the cauldron.

“The Death Eaters appeared almost immediately,” Harry continued, each word emerging with visible effort. “They formed a circle around him. He called them by name—Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott… others.”

Harry fell silent after describing his escape—the bizarre connection between the wands, the echoes of Voldemort’s victims, his desperate dash to the cup.

“You did well to survive,” Arthur said finally. “Most wouldn’t have.”

Harry shook his head. “It was luck. The wands connecting—Dumbledore called it Priori Incantatem. I didn’t do anything special.”

“Survival isn’t about doing something special,” Arthur countered. “It’s about using whatever advantage presents itself. Had you not maintained that connection long enough to reach the cup, you’d be dead.”

“Yeah.” Harry looked up. “Thanks for that hint about the cup. Did you know something was going to happen?”

“I overthink things.” Arthur shrugged. “The only logical reason for someone to help you win was if something was wrong with the cup. Sorry I didn’t stop you. With fake Moody there, you leaving was actually the safest option. I couldn’t have fought him while protecting you.”

“I don’t blame you. Everything happened so fast.” Harry shifted against his pillows. “How did you beat Crouch without magic? The real Moody is supposed to be one of the best Aurors ever, and Crouch managed to overpower him.”

“Magic isn’t everything.” Arthur tapped his temple. “Reflexes, strategy, physical conditioning—they matter just as much in a fight.”

“Is that how you beat Crouch? Dodging?”

“Partly. He was also arrogant, emotional, and easily provoked.” Arthur’s eyes hardened momentarily. “Fatal flaws in any fight.”

“No one teaches that here.”

“No,” Arthur agreed. “That’s why you should add physical training to your magical studies. Running, strength exercises, defensive techniques. Even an hour daily would make a difference.”

Harry looked skeptical. “Against Death Eaters?”

“Against anyone.” Arthur leaned closer. “Being faster, stronger, and more aware of your surroundings isn’t just for Muggles. Magic is a tool, not a replacement for physical capability.”

“I’ll think about it,” Harry said, clearly unconvinced.

Arthur stood, preparing to leave, then paused. “One more thing. Things won’t be easy for you now.”

“Because of Voldemort?”

“Him and the Ministry both.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “What’s the Ministry got to do with it?”

“Look at it from Fudge’s perspective,” Arthur said, lowering his voice. “Admitting Voldemort has returned would cause panic and likely end his career. Why would he risk that?”

“Because it’s true!” Harry’s voice rose before he caught himself. “Fudge was right here. He heard everything I told Dumbledore.”

“And he made sure Crouch got Kissed before he could confirm your story.” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

Harry’s expression darkened. “You think he did that deliberately?”

“Fudge will do whatever it takes to maintain the status quo,” Arthur replied. “That includes discrediting anyone who threatens it—even the famous Harry Potter.”

“They’ll make me look like I’m lying?” Harry’s hands clenched the blanket.

“They’ll paint you as unstable. Attention-seeking. Possibly delusional.” Arthur’s tone remained matter-of-fact. “The Prophet will lead the charge. They take their editorial direction straight from the Ministry.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because no one else will, at least not directly.” Arthur shrugged. “Dumbledore has too much on his plate with Voldemort’s return. You’ll be mostly on your own, and you should prepare for the worst.”

Harry sat silent for a long moment. “I appreciate the warning,” he said finally. “Even if I hope you’re wrong.”

“So do I.” Arthur moved toward the door. “Oh, and don’t be surprised if Dobby approaches you this summer. He might have a proposition for you.”

Before Harry could ask what he meant, Arthur was gone.

—

The final week of term unfolded exactly as Arthur had predicted. Skepticism spread through the student body like spilled ink.

“Attention-seeking,” whispered a Ravenclaw in the library.

“Probably just wanted more fame,” came a Hufflepuff’s response.

“Potter’s gone round the bend,” suggested a group of Slytherins.

Many found it easier to dismiss Harry’s claims as delusion than believe the feared Dark Lord had somehow returned. Thankfully with no Cedric Diggory dying in this world, he was spared the accusation of being a murderer.

And the absence of a student death meant the castle retained its colorful banners rather than being draped in mourning black. The mood might be subdued, but the visual reminder of loss was mercifully absent.

The Durmstrang ship departed three days before term’s end, sinking gracefully into the lake’s depths. Karkaroff was conspicuously missing—undoubtedly having fled the moment his Dark Mark burned. The Beauxbatons carriage followed the next day, its massive winged horses thundering into the clouds.

On his last evening at Hogwarts, Arthur stood at the edge of the lake, watching the giant squid lazily wave its tentacles in the fading light.

“Seven years,” he murmured to the creature. “Not all of it pleasant, but educational nonetheless.”

The squid slapped the water’s surface, sending ripples toward the shore.

“Yes, I’ll miss our conversations too.” Arthur smiled faintly. “Though I suspect they were rather one-sided.”

He turned to face the castle, its windows glowing warmly against the twilight sky. For all its flaws and the prejudice he’d endured within its walls, Hogwarts had given him knowledge, sanctuary, and a foundation for his future plans.

The professors, at least some of them, had been fair. The elves had shown him kindness. Even in isolation, he’d found ways to thrive.

“Farewell, Hogwarts,” Arthur whispered. “May your future students find more acceptance than I did.”

—

July 3rd arrived with unexpected sunshine. Golden light bathed Hogsmeade station as students boarded the Hogwarts Express for the final journey of the year.

Arthur claimed an empty compartment. No tearful goodbyes or promises to write awaited him. Just the end of one Chapter and the beginning of another.

When the train finally reached King’s Cross, he disembarked calmly. Families reunited around him—embraces, laughter, trunks scraping against the platform.

Arthur moved through the crowd unnoticed. Seven years had yielded knowledge and power, but few connections. It seemed fitting that he should leave as he had arrived—alone.

He paused before the barrier to the Muggle world, taking one final look at the scarlet engine that had carried him between two lives for so long. Somewhere in the crowd, Harry stood with his friends, unaware of how the coming months would test him. Elsewhere, Dumbledore marshaled his forces for a war most refused to acknowledge.

Their paths were set. Now Arthur would forge his own.

With a deep breath, he stepped through the brick wall, leaving the wizarding world behind for what may surely be the final time.

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