Peter Pettigrew was alive. He had been the true betrayer of the Potters, and Sirius Black was innocent.
That truth was never made widely known.
The Ministry of Magic had no desire to admit it had imprisoned the wrong man for twelve years. Even if the misunderstanding had been unavoidable—the result of a Fidelius Charm—wrongly incarcerating an innocent man and then failing to recapture him for nearly a year was not the sort of thing that reflected well on the Ministry's standing.
Instead, they recalled the Dementors and summoned the Aurors who had been conducting the search. The pursuit of Sirius Black was indefinitely suspended, and those sharp enough to notice recognized Dumbledore's hand in the affair.
The Malfoy family, with its many threads running through the Ministry, received the news faster than most.
Lucius Malfoy wrote to Carina the moment he heard.
[My dear Carina.
It appears the hunt for Sirius Black has come to an end. Something about it doesn't sit quite right with me, but the Ministry seems to have concluded he poses no threat.
It seems he met with Dumbledore and reached some manner of agreement.
Clever as you are, I expect you had already stepped back and were watching from a distance—but I thought I'd inform you in advance, in case you were curious.
Oh, and I've sent along a gift. A little late, but consider it your Christmas present.
There is no need to be downcast over the Quidditch loss. Simply set your mind to crushing them utterly next time.]
Along with the letter came a broomstick.
A Firebolt.
The international standard broomstick. The undisputed finest instrument in existence—the very one chosen by the Irish national team. It reached two hundred and fifty kilometres per hour in ten seconds flat, and came fitted with an automatic braking system that never failed. A masterpiece among masterpieces.
It was expensive enough that the price had to be enquired about separately—expensive enough that even a Malfoy would not part with the sum lightly.
And this was the same family that had outfitted the entire Slytherin team with Nimbus 2001s the previous year. Purchasing a single broomstick worth more than all of those combined was no trivial matter.
It seemed her father had attributed her gloom over the Christmas holidays to the Quidditch defeat at the hands of Hufflepuff's Cedric Diggory, and had decided a superior broomstick was the appropriate remedy.
'It was actually because of Harry Potter and Sirius Black—and that's all been sorted.'
Still. A Firebolt was precisely the sort of thing befitting Carina Malfoy. She was quietly pleased, and wrote her father a letter of thanks.
When Carina Malfoy descended into the Great Hall with the Firebolt in hand, the room erupted into commotion at once. Slytherin students began drifting toward her one by one, as though drawn by a spell.
"Good lord. A Firebolt.... Parkinson! Don't touch it!"
Marcus Flint shouted. He planted himself beside the broomstick like a dragon guarding treasure, batting away reaching hands.
Pansy Parkinson, her hand smarting, stared at the Firebolt in a daze and murmured, "With this, we'll demolish Ravenclaw without breaking a sweat! Cho Chang's broomstick is a Comet 260!"
"Carina. May I touch it?"
The others crowded in with requests, as though laying a single hand on the Firebolt was the dearest wish of their hearts. Under ordinary circumstances she would never have permitted it—but today she was in an exceptionally good mood, and so she granted the favour with magnanimous grace.
Marcus Flint glowered and managed the crowd with increasing ferocity.
"Everyone! Wash your hands before you touch it, and be careful not to knock anything! You! You just picked up a piece of meat! Don't even think about coming near it with those hands!"
Each time the others gasped and marvelled at the Firebolt's beauty, Carina's shoulders rose a little higher.
A broomstick does not guarantee skill. But a broomstick like the Firebolt allows every ounce of skill one possesses to be put on full display.
Someone might grumble that she was buying her way to victory—the sour complaint of the defeated. Carina would only scoff. As far as she was concerned, wealth was simply another form of ability.
And so she was basking in the admiring looks of her housemates when—
"Oh, is that a Firebolt?"
Harry Potter vaulted over two desks and made his way toward her. Marcus Flint's expression curdled the instant he laid eyes on him.
"Potter. You don't touch it. You don't even look at it."
"Come off it, Flint. We've already played each other, haven't we? Stop being so territorial and let me have a look."
"Knowing you, you'll pull some kind of—"
Marcus shot a glance at Carina as he moved to block Harry's path.
He didn't know exactly what had passed between Harry and Carina, but he knew well enough that it had affected her form. With the match against Ravenclaw approaching, he had no intention of allowing anything to compromise his Seeker's state of mind.
"Leave it, Flint. If he wants to look, let him look."
But Carina spoke with the easy confidence of someone in an exceptionally fine mood.
Carina enjoyed displaying her power and wealth before her rivals. Knowing this, Marcus stepped aside without further argument—though he kept both eyes fixed on Harry, watching for any sign of mischief.
With permission granted, Harry navigated through the cluster of Slytherin students with practised ease. Pansy made a subtle effort to block his path with her body, but Harry hooked a foot around her ankle, sent her stumbling, and slipped through to Carina's side.
"It really is a Firebolt. Impressive. The performance speaks for itself, but the design's not bad either, is it?"
Even his perpetually languid eyes lit with something genuine. Then again, that was only natural for anyone encountering a Firebolt for the first time. Rival or not, a work of art deserved its due reverence.
Carina was, at that moment, the most self-assured person in the Great Hall. She lifted her chin and said,
"What a shame. I should have had the Firebolt when we played. I'd have won so decisively there'd have been nothing left to argue about."
"You're right. I always thought a Nimbus 2001 wasn't quite enough for you—too common. But a Firebolt?" Harry considered it. "Yes. That's the best there is."
Even Harry Potter conceded the point without hesitation. Then again, any Quidditch player would be envious—the Firebolt's reputation was that formidable.
Perhaps it was the confluence of so many pleasant things lately, but Carina felt genuinely buoyant. She smiled with unhurried confidence and said,
"If you ask very nicely, I might let you ride it once."
"How gracious. I'm honoured by the offer. But there's no need."
Harry withdrew as abruptly as he had appeared. He gave Pansy a light pat on the shoulder, waved a hand directly in front of Marcus's glowering face, and then slipped through the crowd and sauntered away as though he'd never been there at all.
Before he reached the Gryffindor table, he turned and gave Carina a small wave.
"Practise hard, Carina."
"You're the one who should be practising. Unless you want to look completely outclassed by this broomstick."
Harry smirked and turned away. Carina answered with a derisive sniff.
Goyle, seated a little apart from the others, sensed the shift in atmosphere and leaned toward Crabbe.
"When did those two make up?"
"...Hard to say exactly when. But one thing's certain."
Crabbe allowed herself a quiet note of pride.
"I played the bluebird rather well, didn't I?"
"What are you on about."
Goyle stabbed a drumstick with her fork and brought it to her mouth.
In any case, they were no longer going to be subjected to Carina's hysteria—and so Goyle and Crabbe began edging their way toward her, intent on prying out every detail of whatever had happened between the two of them.
The match against Ravenclaw was close.
More than close, in truth—Slytherin had nearly lost. They had been trailing twenty to ninety at the halfway point. Had the game dragged on much longer, catching the Snitch might not have been enough to win.
Ravenclaw had come prepared with a deliberate strategy, and Slytherin had been pulled in every direction by it. Carina, waiting for her teammates to close the gap, eventually had no choice but to go for the Snitch and secure at least a victory.
Ravenclaw's chronic weakness was their Seeker. They had climbed into the ranks of the stronger teams through disciplined practice and sophisticated tactics, but their Seeker remained the weakest position on the pitch.
With the Firebolt beneath her, Carina overtook Cho Chang without effort and seized the Snitch.
Cho Chang, who had failed to catch the Snitch a single time all year, buried her face between her knees and wept when the match ended. Several Ravenclaw players moved to comfort her, though their own expressions were far from cheerful.
It was, in truth, a harsh situation for Cho. She was a fourth-year, and her broomstick was a Comet 260. By any fair measure, she was not a poor Seeker. Only—
"Her opponent happened to be me."
Against Carina Malfoy at the peak of her form, with a Firebolt under her, no one could have done better.
The score left something to be desired, but to Carina, even her teammates were little more than backdrop—ornaments to set her off to advantage. Having rescued the team from the brink of defeat, she carried herself like the hero she was.
Carina dismounted the Firebolt to the roar of the crowd. She kept her expression composed, but inwardly she was in extraordinarily high spirits.
In a mood like this, she thought, she could probably conjure a Patronus on her own.
Then came the long-awaited match: Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff.
The final game of the season, with the Quidditch Cup on the line.
Slytherin stood at two wins and one loss; Ravenclaw had lost all three. The match between Hufflepuff—two wins—and Gryffindor—one win, one loss—had the attention of the entire school.
If Gryffindor won by more than two hundred and ten points, Gryffindor would take the Cup.
If Gryffindor won by between eighty and two hundred points, Slytherin would win.
If Gryffindor won by seventy points or fewer—or if Hufflepuff won outright—Hufflepuff would take the Cup.
Slytherin found itself in the absurd position of having to cheer for Gryffindor. And even then, if Gryffindor pulled too far ahead, they would have to switch allegiances to Hufflepuff on the spot.
So Slytherin distributed double-sided pennants—red and gold on one face, yellow and black on the other. The plan was to start cheering for Gryffindor and flip them over the moment it looked like Gryffindor might win by too much.
"Honestly. If things hadn't come to this, nothing in the world would have made me cheer for Harry Potter."
Carina muttered this as she dropped into her seat.
Crabbe and Goyle engaged in a lengthy internal debate over how much of that was genuine and how much was performance.
After considerable deliberation, Goyle conceded to Crabbe's theory: something good must have happened between the two of them.
Meanwhile, the two Seekers stood facing each other on the pitch.
"Hello, Cedric."
"Good luck, Harry. Let's both give it everything we've got."
Cedric, standing beside Harry, smiled with easy warmth. Harry did not smile at all.
"Interesting tactic, that. I wouldn't have thought to open with psychological warfare on the opposing Seeker. Seems like a decent enough strategy—I thought I'd try it myself."
He was referring to the previous match between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. The off-pitch mind games Cedric had used to unsettle Slytherin.
A flicker of discomfort crossed Cedric's face.
"...You mean Malfoy?"
"You know exactly what I mean. We've both got things to say. Shall we take a walk before the match starts?"
"Right then—everyone up!"
Madam Hooch's whistle cut through the air and the players rose into the sky. The two Seekers, however, did not fly. They walked side by side along the edge of the pitch, broomsticks held loosely in one hand.
The rest of their respective teams stared in disbelief.
"Harry! What are you doing!"
"Cedric?"
There was a moment of stunned silence—but a Seeker's position is a free one. There was no rule against remaining on the ground.
Madam Hooch threw the Quaffle, and the match consumed everyone's attention. The two Seekers were entirely forgotten.
Cedric and Harry walked slowly along the pitch.
"I thought honesty and integrity were your great virtues. Clever of you to come up with a scheme like that."
Cedric exhaled slowly.
"...You're right. It was something to be ashamed of. But we had no other choice."
"No other choice?"
"You know as well as I do. I don't know whether you'd had a falling-out with her or not, but Malfoy was unhinged at that point. She was picking fights with anyone who crossed her path—it was like first year all over again."
Hufflepuff students had borne the worst of it, Cedric told him, his tone edged with grievance.
"She went too far. More than a few of our students came back in tears because of her. When someone who's been imperious since birth tears into you over your looks, your marks, your manners, your house—sometimes even your family—what chance does an ordinary person have? It takes someone like you to hold your own against her."
In first and second year, Harry Potter had been Carina Malfoy's designated opponent. Every time she set about humiliating someone or making their life miserable, he had stepped in and faced her down.
That was why Harry Potter's reputation extended well beyond Gryffindor—into Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw alike. Word had spread that a true Gryffindor had appeared: handsome, decisive, principled, and constitutionally incapable of tolerating injustice.
But very few people knew what lay beneath that reputation. The only ones who understood why Harry had fought Carina were Ron and Hermione.
Everyone else simply assumed that two people who argued that much must have eventually grown fond of each other.
"I won't argue with that. Carina does have a talent for making enemies."
"I'm glad you understand. In any case, if that's how our opponent was going to behave, there was no reason for us to be gracious about it. I'm Hufflepuff's prefect and Quidditch captain. Hufflepuff doesn't just take what's handed to it."
Cedric said it with quiet conviction. Harry didn't hesitate before pushing back.
"But the method was wrong. If you wanted to defend your pride, you should have beaten her on the pitch. Before you thought about winning through underhanded means, you should have lifted your head and faced her directly."
Harry mounted his broomstick. Cedric mounted his at the same moment.
"You were wrong. And because of it, Hufflepuff came out looking worse."
"...Watch your words, Potter. Hufflepuff is not pathetic."
"Then prove it with your flying."
They kicked off the ground simultaneously.
After two hours of brutal, unrelenting play, Harry Potter snatched the Snitch, and the match was decided.
The final score: three hundred and seventy to one hundred and sixty. Gryffindor's victory.
The Slytherin students who had been flipping their pennants back and forth and jeering at Gryffindor were left staring blankly into the middle distance.
The match's MVP was Harry Potter, and no one could argue otherwise.
He had been the engine of the entire game.
He flew in formation with the two Weasleys, disrupting Hufflepuff's Chasers and harassing their Beaters. He feinted toward the Snitch to draw the Beaters and Cedric out of position, tangled their formation, and slipped away unscathed. Whenever Cedric seemed close to spotting the Snitch, Fred Weasley—on Harry's signal—sent a Bludger his way. Cedric lost the Snitch five times because of precisely timed interference.
Hufflepuff's path to victory with two wins was simple: the Snitch. The moment Cedric caught it, the game was theirs.
So Hufflepuff's Beaters had moved to protect Cedric, and in doing so had neglected the Quaffle.
Harry, meanwhile, applied minimal pressure as a Seeker and instead worked to drive the score down. He was an exceptional Seeker—but he was also an exceptional Beater, Chaser, and Keeper. Without ever taking direct possession of the Quaffle, he penetrated deep into the opposing formation, created openings, and when necessary let the Quaffle strike his body to intercept a pass.
Before long the point gap was approaching one hundred and fifty, and only then did Cedric change his approach. The match became, in effect, one in which each side had an extra attacker.
After a prolonged and punishing exchange, Harry caught the Snitch at the precise moment the gap stood at sixty points.
"And there it is—Gryffindor wins! Gryffindor takes the Cup!"
The Quidditch season ended with Gryffindor's victory.
It would be a lie to say Carina felt nothing about Slytherin missing the Cup.
But somewhere deep inside her, something warm and restless was quietly bubbling up.
Harry had been furious with Cedric. The reason was obvious enough—the psychological tactics Cedric had used in the previous match. Carina herself considered such manoeuvres a legitimate part of competition, but that didn't make them any less irritating. Watching Cedric squirm under Harry's attention, she found her mood improving by degrees.
When the match ended, Harry Potter descended to the pitch, drenched in sweat.
Carina's fingers found the handkerchief in her pocket.
The exhausted players came down and collapsed onto the grass—Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs alike. The Gryffindors simply wore brighter expressions.
Cedric sat on the ground, soaked through. Harry walked toward him. Cedric looked up, then let out a long, rueful laugh.
"...A complete defeat. I see. That's how it should have been done."
"Better late than never."
Harry extended his hand. Cedric reached up and took it. Just as Cedric was hauling himself to his feet—
Harry let go.
Cedric, carried forward by his own momentum, toppled over and landed hard on the ground.
As a humiliation inflicted on a defeated opponent, it was far too childish to be taken seriously. Everyone nearby stared in bewildered silence. Harry leaned down and said quietly,
"That one's for Carina. Keep your hands off her."
"...Ha. You're something else. I had you pegged as reckless, but you're more thorough than I gave you credit for."
Cedric pushed himself up with a grunt. This time he offered his hand first, and Harry took it.
At that moment, Carina was walking toward Harry.
She had no intention of congratulating him on the victory—that much was obvious. If Gryffindor had scored ten fewer points, Slytherin would have taken the Cup; by rights, Slytherin ought to be furious right now.
She simply intended to hand him a handkerchief—he looked a complete wreck—and inform him that she would not be surrendering the Cup so easily next time.
She was making her way over, fingers turning the freshly laundered handkerchief over in her pocket, when she caught their voices by chance.
"I think you may be under a misapprehension, Cedric."
Harry was saying something to him.
"Unlike you and Cho Chang, Carina and I are not together."
"Sorry?"
"Exactly what I said. We're not."
"But the way you act—"
Carina stopped dead.
Strictly speaking, it was accurate. There had been no conversation between Carina and Harry that carried any binding weight. If someone asked whether they were together or not, the answer leaned toward not.
And yet Carina felt something hollow and quietly wronged settle in her chest.
It was the feeling of someone whose expectations had been betrayed—but who had no one to blame but herself for having expected anything at all. The feeling of a heart that had swelled in private, with nothing left to show for it.
She had never said it aloud. She had never shaped it into words, never forged it into any kind of agreement.
But there had been an atmosphere. Hadn't there?
The warmth of that conversation in the Forbidden Forest—what had that been? The Patronus conjured from the tip of her wand—hadn't that been something more unambiguous than words?
'Fine. Think whatever you like.'
She felt foolish for having let herself feel anything at all.
Carina turned and walked away. She thought she heard Harry's voice behind her. She kept walking as though she hadn't.
Her footsteps were swallowed by the wave of Gryffindor cheers surging toward her from the other direction.
Carina was making her way back toward the castle, walking with long, purposeful strides, when Harry appeared from behind a pillar ahead of her, breathing hard.
"What are you doing out here? Shouldn't the hero of the hour be celebrating?"
"Carina."
"What."
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
She didn't look at him. Harry caught his breath and spoke.
"I'm involved in something dangerous. You already know what it is. Something connected to preventing his return."
The thing Dumbledore had spoken of—something far beyond that. At the centre of a plan that made the Dementor incident and Sirius's escape look like minor footnotes—a plan that might genuinely reshape the world—stood Harry Potter.
Carina had known this for some time. She had respected it enough to step back and ask no further questions.
"And?"
"...Letting others know where my feelings lie is dangerous. Not just for me—it could put all of us at risk. It's better, at least officially, to keep it hidden. Especially with students from other schools arriving next year."
It was the same thing he had said before. The same cowardly deflection dressed up as consideration—pushing her away under the guise of protecting her.
Something cold settled over her. She was tired of this pattern repeating itself.
Carina Malfoy was not someone who got turned down. She would sooner die than be pushed away twice in the same fashion. She was drawing breath to deliver a sharp and final rebuke to Harry Potter—who apparently believed he could move her about as he pleased—
when a small ring swallowed everything.
"But every evening at nine o'clock, I'll put this ring on with a smile. I'll tuck one hand under the covers and steal glances at it. And even if I don't feel like smiling just then, I think I will anyway."
In the silence that had fallen around them, Harry took Carina's hand. The ring opened carefully and settled around her fourth finger with a gentle, deliberate pressure.
A pleasant, close warmth bloomed at her finger.
"I hope you'll feel the same way."
What a thoroughly unimpressive confession. Slipping a ring onto someone's finger? Stale, predictable, not an original thought in it.
Carina Malfoy had no interest in romance. If anyone had tried this on her, she would have refused without a second's hesitation.
Even if that anyone happened to be Harry Potter.
"Hmph. Did you think I'd go weak at the knees over a ring? A man who comes dragging all that baggage behind him—I want nothing to do with it."
She refused. Carina Malfoy refused on her own terms. She knocked Harry's hand aside and shot back at him—
all while holding the ring in plain view, tossing her platinum-blonde hair over her shoulder, and fighting to keep the corners of her mouth from curling upward.
"I won't wait forever. I'm not the sort of person who has time to spare. Sort yourself out quickly."
Carina swept past him with her chin held high. The ring still on her finger.