Dumbledore stood at the golden podium at the head of the Great Hall, his expression serene but unmistakably weary. His long, silver beard hung over richly embroidered robes, and the light from the floating candles reflected off his half-moon glasses. The Headmaster scanned the faces of the gathered students, hundreds of them, seated under their respective banners—red and gold, yellow and black, blue and bronze, green and silver.
Despite the lively atmosphere of the End-of-Year Feast, despite the warmth of full bellies and chatter about summer plans, a certain tension lingered in the air. Everyone knew what was coming.
The House Cup results.
Every year, Dumbledore's announcement was met with breathless anticipation, and sometimes, a fair bit of drama. This year, that drama was expected tenfold—because everyone knew who had changed the landscape of Hogwarts.
Harry Potter. Or rather, the version of him they had come to know this year.
Dumbledore raised his hands. Instantly, silence fell over the Hall like a thick blanket. Forks and knives clinked once more before being put down, conversations ceased mid-sentence, and hundreds of eyes locked on the man who had guided generations through war, peace, and everything in between.
"Well done," he began, his voice calm, measured. "You've all completed another remarkable year at Hogwarts. You've faced challenge, change, and for many of you—true growth. And now, as tradition demands, it is time to recognize the House that has best upheld the values of our school."
He paused, scanning the Hall again. His eyes briefly touched on several of the tables—on the tired but proud faces of seventh-years, on the excited chatter of first-years whispering predictions to one another.
Then his gaze landed on the Slytherin table.
On Harry.
The pause was brief—just a second—but noticeable.
It wasn't the look of suspicion. Nor was it admiration.
It was acknowledgment.
Turning back to the Hall, Dumbledore continued, "The final tally for House points has been calculated and verified by all four Heads of House."
He raised his hand as small slips of parchment fluttered down onto his lectern.
"The scores are as follows," he read. "Gryffindor—three hundred and twelve points."
A few polite claps from the Gryffindor table, but many of the younger lions looked crestfallen. They knew they hadn't done enough. A couple of them threw glances at Ron Weasley, whose ears had turned scarlet. He didn't clap.
"Hufflepuff—three hundred and forty-eight points."
Some cheers rose up from their end of the Hall. Hufflepuffs were rarely in contention to win, so simply beating Gryffindor earned them a sense of pride.
"Ravenclaw—three hundred and seventy-one points."
The Ravenclaw table was louder, more spirited. Flitwick stood up briefly to nod at his students, many of whom were wearing smug expressions—until Dumbledore held up a hand again.
"And finally…" he paused.
The Hall was completely still.
"Slytherin—four hundred and seven points."
The effect was immediate.
Gasps spread like wildfire. Whispers followed a beat later, running down the length of the long tables like a wave. Four hundred and seven. Not just the highest total—but the highest by far.
Dumbledore's hand still rested on the lectern. He didn't move. He looked down at the parchment as if expecting the numbers to change.
They didn't.
He looked up, once again toward the Slytherin table—toward Harry.
Harry sat calmly, his posture relaxed, his arms crossed casually. On either side of him, Hermione and Daphne looked equally composed, but their eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. There was no cheering yet. Just a low, boiling hum of realization.
They had done it.
Dumbledore opened his mouth again.
Perhaps he meant to say something else. Perhaps he meant to throw in a few last-minute points, to balance the scales like he had in the past. Maybe he even searched, in the brief pause, for a justification—some small moment of Gryffindor courage or Ravenclaw intellect he could stretch into a meaningful award.
But there was nothing.
Nothing he could give that would not look forced.
His fingers flexed slightly on the lectern.
And then, with a sigh, he gave a small nod.
"Well earned," he said at last, his voice low but clear. "Slytherin wins the House Cup."
The enchantments on the walls shifted instantly.
And the Hall exploded.
Not with collective celebration—but with the full-throated roar of the Slytherin table, rising in a wall of sound. Cheers, claps, and laughter thundered across the stone walls. Some students stood, slapping one another on the back. Others simply chanted a single name.
"Harry! Harry! Harry!"
They weren't subtle.
The first-year had become their icon.
Harry didn't speak. He didn't wave.
He simply sat, calm as ever, as if this were exactly how the year was always meant to end.
He had done what no first-year in recent memory had done—defeated a teacher possessed by the darkest wizard of their age, taken control of his House, turned rivals into allies, and captured the attention of professors, Ministry officials, and foreign dignitaries alike.
And now, with the House Cup gleaming in the hands of Professor Snape, he had the only proof he needed that power—true power—was its own reward.
Across the hall, Dumbledore finally took his seat. His hands folded neatly on the table, and his face betrayed nothing.
But Harry could see it in his eyes.
Defeat.
There were no fireworks. No phoenix song. No dazzling twist of fate to shift the ending.
This time, Slytherin won.
Fairly. Unequivocally. Absolutely.
The clinking of goblets and the rustle of conversation slowly returned to the Great Hall, but the energy at the Slytherin table never dipped. Students were laughing, reminiscing, already planning their summer meetups. Some even joked about next year's strategy—as if anyone would dare challenge them.
Lavender Brown passed by their table once, her steps slowing just a little when she reached Harry. She didn't say anything. Just looked at him—eyes wide, flushed cheeks, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her robes.
He gave her a small, amused smile.
She flushed deeper and kept walking.
Hermione followed the interaction with cool detachment, though the way her spoon jabbed into her dessert said plenty. Daphne, of course, noticed it all, and smirked without a word.
----------------------------------------------
Students had received their final grades, and conversations buzzed around the tables as they compared marks, bragged, or sulked quietly.
Harry sat at the Slytherin table, his exam parchment neatly folded in front of him. He opened it once more, glancing down at the bold lettering.
Transfiguration – O (Outstanding)
Charms – O (Outstanding)
Defense Against the Dark Arts – O (Outstanding)
Potions – O (Outstanding)
Herbology – O (Outstanding)Astronomy – O (Outstanding)
History of Magic – O (Outstanding)
Flying – A (Acceptable)
You can't be perfect at everything.
He tucked the parchment away as a burst of laughter erupted from further down the table. Nearby, Hermione was engaged in conversation with Daphne and a few other Slytherin girls. Her own transcript, which she had quietly shown him earlier, was near-flawless—only a single E (Exceeds Expectations) in History of Magic marred an otherwise perfect list of O's.
Harry wasn't surprised. If anyone could rival him in raw intelligence and ambition, it was her.
—
By the next morning, the castle had already begun emptying out. Wardrobes were cleared, trunks packed by the tireless house-elves, and even Neville's perpetually lost toad, Trevor, was found hiding in a bathroom corner. Students gathered in groups, exchanging addresses, making vague promises to write, and some—like Ron—grumbling about how short the summer always felt.
As usual, Hagrid was the one to guide the first-years down to the Black Lake. The same fleet of small boats that had carried them across on their first night now waited to return them.
The sky was clear, the breeze light. The water sparkled as the boats glided effortlessly to the other side. For many, the moment was bittersweet. Hogwarts had changed them. Some were leaving with new confidence, new friendships, or—like Harry—with growing influence and subtle power.
Soon, they boarded the Hogwarts Express. The train whistle blew, and the scarlet steam engine rolled out of Hogsmeade Station, picking up speed as it carved its familiar path through the rolling green countryside.
Inside, the compartments were lively. Robes were swapped for Muggle clothes—jackets, short tops, sneakers, and backpacks. Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans were passed around, along with Chocolate Frogs and Cauldron Cakes. Laughter and chatter filled the aisles.
Hermione sat beside Harry, leafing through a book but not really reading. Her foot rested lightly against his under the table, their closeness a silent conversation. Daphne lounged opposite them, her head tilted back against the seat, watching the sky through the window, though she occasionally stole glances at Harry.
The landscape rolled by, the sun dipping lower as the train sped toward London. After a comfortable silence, Hermione closed her book halfway and glanced at Harry.
"It's going to feel strange," she said softly, "getting off the train and going our separate ways again."
Harry turned to her, eyebrows raised. "You think so?"
She nodded. "Yeah. I don't know… After everything, I've gotten used to this—us, being close, being around each other all the time. Maybe next time, we shouldn't go separate ways."
Harry tilted his head, smiling slightly. "You mean, like—?"
"We could stay together, maybe. At least for the summer?" she said quickly, her eyes flicking toward the window as if to downplay it. "It just… feels right."
Harry's smile deepened. "We're going to be staying together anyway," he said, voice casual but sure, eyes back on the countryside rushing past.
Hermione flushed, lowering the book slightly. "I still don't think that's alright, Harry. I feel like I'm taking undue advantage of you."
"Oh, you are. You definitely are," Harry smirked, kicking off his boots and stretching out with exaggerated ease. "Maybe I should start charging rent."
She chuckled, the pink in her cheeks deepening. "I don't have a job."
"Nor should you, filthy beast that you are," sneered a voice from the doorway.
Ron Weasley stood there, arms crossed, red-faced and clearly eavesdropping. Evidently, he'd heard enough of their conversation through the slightly ajar compartment door.
"I don't remember asking you to join us, Ron," Hermione replied coolly, her voice razor-sharp.
"What was that? Mudblood?" Ron spat, his eyes gleaming with something more poisonous than mischief.
Harry looked at him silently.
"First Slytherins, and now Mudbloods," Ron sneered, eyes darting between Hermione and Harry. "Every time I think you can't sink any lower, you prove me wrong, Potter."
Harry Potter—the one from the past—might've gotten angry.
Trouble was, he wasn't that Harry anymore.
And frankly, it was pathetic how they kept trying to push his buttons.
"What happened?" Ron challenged. "Kneazle got your tongue, Potter?"
"Good," Harry said flatly, looking away. "Is that all? I really want a nap before we reach King's Cross."
Ron's face twisted in rage as he stepped fully into the compartment. "You think you're so great, don't you, Potter?"
Harry blinked. "Uh, no?"
Ron ignored him. "You bloody snake. You cost Gryffindor the House Cup! You and your creepy little dungeon mates!"
Harry sat up slightly. "Wait—this is about the House Cup?"
"Of course it is!" Ron exploded.
"Oh, right," Harry cut in coolly, his tone suddenly cold. "Gryffindor loyalty, is it?"
Ron's face turned a furious shade of red, like a kettle about to blow.
"Also," Harry added, fluffing the pillow against the window, "and this is getting repetitive—but are you done? I'd really like a nap before we reach King's Cross."
He had just started to recline when Ron, still fuming, pulled out his wand.
"I never said I was done with you yet."
Harry put the train-issued pillow on one side and prepared to lie down, when—with a flick of his wand—Ron sent it tumbling to the ground.
Harry looked at the now soiled pillow, then back at Ron, who grinned smugly.
"That," Harry exhaled, "was a mistake. I'm willing to forgive that one if you leave right now."
Ron's eyes bulged. "You fool! You have no right to speak to me like that!"
Before he could blink, he was on the floor.
His cheek slammed against the dusty wood, his knee twisting painfully beneath him. He howled, clutching at it and pounding the floor with his fist.
Harry slipped his wand back into his robes and crouched just inches from Ron's face.
"That was just an example of what I do to people who annoy me," he said politely.
Then, with another flick, a second curse struck Ron's hands.
They turned rubbery and slick, mutating into smooth, leathery gloves. Ron roared silently, flailing in panic.
"Silencio," Harry whispered.
The compartment fell eerily quiet.
After a thoughtful pause—and a glance toward Hermione, who looked somewhere between frozen and horrified—Harry calmly cast another spell at Ron's elbow.
A muted scream erupted from Ron—but no sound came.
"That was the Confringo spell," Harry explained conversationally. "A very weak version. The real one would've shattered your knee or elbow. This one just... separates the bones a bit. No blood. No breakage. A Muggle physiotherapist could pop it back in—though I doubt you'd go to one."
Even Hermione winced at his clinical, emotionless tone.
Harry flexed his wrist. Ron mouthed a scream, his eyes now wide with unfiltered fear.
Good.
With a final flick, Harry sent all three of Ron's hangers-on—Dean, Seamus, and Ron himself—flying backwards through the door. They slammed against the corridor wall, crumpling with soundless groans.
Then, with precise indifference, Harry closed the compartment door in their faces.
He turned back to Hermione, who looked like she'd just survived an earthquake.
"So," he said, settling back into his seat, "about that rent?"
--------------------
The train slowed as it pulled into King's Cross Station.
Platform 9¾ was a bustle of activity. Parents stood on the other side of the barrier, waving and calling out names. Trunks were being dragged, owls hooted from their cages, and the occasional toad made a break for it, pursued by a panicking student.
Harry stepped off the train, dragging his trunk behind him. He turned just in time to see Hermione being enveloped in a tight hug by her mother. Dr. Granger looked proud; Mr. Granger looked... suspicious.
A moment later, Hermione pulled away and hurried over to Harry, smiling brightly. She wore jeans and a fitted hoodie, her bushy hair pulled back into a loose ponytail.
"Well," Harry said, smiling, "I guess this is it for now."
Hermione nodded, her smile soft. "Until next year."
She hesitated.
Then, just as Harry began to turn away, she reached out and grabbed his sleeve. "Wait…"
He blinked. "Hmm?"
Before he could say anything more, Hermione stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, lingering just long enough for it to feel more than friendly.
Behind her, Dr. Granger's jaw dropped. Mr. Granger's eyes narrowed dangerously.
Harry wasn't entirely sure, but he could almost hear the mental equivalent of someone whispering "Avada Kedavra" through clenched teeth.
Hermione clearly noticed too—because she grinned at her father's expression, waved dramatically, and said cheerfully, "Bye, Harry! Have a great summer!"
Then she turned and skipped over to her parents like nothing had happened.
Harry chuckled and waved back, casually brushing a hand over his cheek where she'd kissed him.
Behind him, someone muttered, "Lucky git…"
He turned and found Daphne giving him a very dry look. "Next time, tell her to kiss you when your competition isn't watching."
Harry smirked. "Jealous?"
"Not at all." She flipped her hair. "But now I'll have to find a more memorable way to say goodbye."
And with that, she too turned, her parents already beckoning from a distance.
Harry stood for a moment longer, watching as the crowd thinned. Students reunited with their families, some running, some dragging their trunks behind them like anchors.
He took a breath.
This year—his first year—had been chaos. And victory.
He turned away from the platform, tugging his trunk behind him, and disappeared into the crowd.