Kakashi woke slowly, as though surfacing from deep water. Every muscle in his body ached. His skin burned beneath tight layers of bandages, and the dull hum of pain made it hard to tell where one injury ended and another began. The last thing he remembered was the graveyard—the ropes biting into his arms, the agony of the Cruciatus Curse tearing through every nerve, and the sound of Harry screaming his name.
He turned his head slightly, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. The faint morning light filtered through the tall windows of the Hospital Wing. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of glass vials and the soft rustle of Madam Pomfrey moving about.
“Awake, are you?” she said briskly, though her tone softened when she saw his eyes open. “You’re lucky, young man. I’ve done what I can for the curse residue, but your body will need time. You’ve got more cuts and burns than anyone I’ve treated this year—and that’s saying something.”
Kakashi gave a faint, sheepish smile behind his mask. “I’ll try not to set a new record, then.”
Pomfrey huffed, tucking her wand away. “See that you don’t. Rest. No getting up, no jutsu, no wandering off. Understood?”
He gave a small nod, too tired to argue.
When she turned away, Kakashi finally noticed the other bed across from him. Harry lay there, pale and still, his right arm wrapped in thick bandages. Even from here, Kakashi could see the angry swelling beneath the dressings—where Wormtail’s knife had cut deep.
Pomfrey had told him earlier, in her clipped, matter-of-fact way, that she’d decided to keep the boy secluded for a while. “He needs peace and quiet,” she’d said. “Time to breathe. The poor thing’s been through enough.”
Kakashi couldn’t disagree.
He shifted slightly, wincing, and watched the boy’s sleeping face. Even unconscious, Harry looked exhausted—his brow furrowed, lips tight as if caught in some silent argument with himself.
Kakashi let his head sink back against the pillow. His body was still trembling faintly, nerves twitching from phantom shocks of the curse. He’d faced a lot of pain in his life, but that kind of torture—raw, invasive, magical—was unlike anything he’d ever endured.
He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting back to Harry.
We survived, he thought. But it’s not over yet.
---
Harry woke to the low hum of voices — familiar ones. It took him a moment to realize where he was. The smell of potions and the crisp hospital linens gave it away before his eyes even opened. His arm ached, wrapped tightly in clean white bandages, and his throat felt dry.
“—told you he’d wake up soon,” Ron was saying.
“Well, Madam Pomfrey said not to disturb him,” Hermione replied softly, but her voice trembled — with relief more than scolding.
Harry blinked, his vision clearing, and the first thing he saw was Kakashi sitting upright in the next bed, a little pale but conscious. His silver hair was slightly disheveled, and he looked half-mummified under all the bandages, but he was awake and — incredibly — managing a small smile as Ron offered him a handful of sweets.
“We brought these for you,” Ron was saying. “Figured you might want something better than potion goo.”
Kakashi chuckled behind his mask, his voice raspy. “Thanks. I’ll… treasure them.”
That was when Hermione turned and gasped. “Harry!”
Ron whirled around, a grin breaking through the worry on his face. “Mate — you’re awake!”
Harry tried to sit up, groaning as his arm throbbed. “Hey… you two,” he rasped. “What time is it?”
“It’s nearly noon,” Hermione said, her expression dimming a little. “Harry… Cedric’s funeral is this afternoon.”
The words hit like a weight in his chest. The memory of Cedric’s lifeless eyes — the flash of green light — came rushing back, and for a moment, Harry couldn’t breathe.
“I see…” he murmured, looking down at his hands. “Thanks for telling me.”
The door to the hospital wing opened then, and the air seemed to shift.
Minato stepped inside, his blond hair catching the light, his expression calm but shadowed. Behind him came Jiraiya, broad-shouldered and quietly intense despite the faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“Good,” Minato said gently as he approached. “You’re awake.”
Harry looked up at him, uncertain if he should speak, but Minato gave a small nod — reassuring, steady.
Jiraiya, meanwhile, let out a low whistle as he surveyed the room. “You all look like you’ve been through hell,” he said, not unkindly. “But it’s good to see you in one piece, kid.”
He clapped a hand to Kakashi’s shoulder, careful of the bandages. “And you, too, Kakashi. You gave us a scare.”
Kakashi sighed through his nose, his visible eye half-lidded. “I’m getting tired of waking up in hospital beds.”
Minato’s expression sobered, and he crossed his arms. “Barty Crouch Jr. is on his way to Azkaban,” he said quietly. “The prison envoy just arrived. Dumbledore made sure Veritaserum was used — there’s no question now. He confessed to everything.”
Kakashi’s brow furrowed beneath his silver hair. “Polyjuice… infiltration, manipulation of the tasks. He was good. Too good.”
“He was mad,” Hermione said bitterly from Harry’s bedside. Her eyes were still red. “All this time, we thought Professor Moody was helping Harry, protecting him — and it was him. That… that man.”
Harry didn’t say anything. His stomach twisted as the memory of Barty Jr.’s crazed expression flashed through his mind — the real Moody locked away in a trunk for nearly a year.
“Madam Pomfrey said the real Moody’s being treated at St. Mungo’s,” Ron said. “Guess he’s lucky to be alive.”
“Lucky,” Harry echoed softly, the word hollow in his throat. His gaze drifted across the room to Kakashi, who sat propped up in his bed, half his body wrapped in white. Lucky. He wasn’t so sure anyone in this story was.
Minato gave a slow nod. “The Aurors are handling it now. Dumbledore’s with the Minister, explaining what really happened in the maze — about the Portkey, and Cedric…” He trailed off, voice lowering respectfully. “They’ll want to speak with you later, Harry.”
Harry swallowed, his throat tight. “Right.”
Kakashi glanced toward him, his voice low but firm. “You don’t have to go through that alone.”
Harry blinked at him, meeting his gaze — the eye half-hidden by his mask and the other, softer one filled with quiet resolve. “I know,” Harry said finally, his voice steady, if only just.
For a moment, the room was still. Outside the windows, the sunlight shifted across the castle lawns — bright and cold. The world was moving on. But for those in that hospital wing, the war that had just been reborn was only beginning.
---
Cedric’s funeral had been quiet and heavy, held beneath the oak trees near the lake. The weather, as if in mourning itself, had dimmed the sun behind a pale gray haze. Students, professors, and Ministry officials stood together in silence — a sea of black robes and bowed heads.
Harry had stood beside Hermione and Ron, barely hearing Dumbledore’s eulogy. His mind kept drifting back to the graveyard — to Cedric’s easy smile, his steady hand reaching for the Cup, and that flash of green light that stole everything away.
Afterward, when most had begun to disperse, Harry approached Mr. Diggory. Amos’s eyes were hollow, his grief like a shadow made flesh. Harry could barely meet them. He held out the heavy pouch of gold — his Triwizard winnings — his hand shaking slightly.
“Please, Mr. Diggory,” he said hoarsely. “It’s… it’s yours. Cedric won too. He should have it.”
Amos looked down at the pouch, then at the boy offering it. His lip trembled, but he shook his head. “No, lad,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “You keep it. You’ll need it more than my boy will. He’s gone… but you’ve still got a future. Use it for something good.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He wanted to argue — to insist — but the way Amos said it, soft but final, made his throat close up.
“Then take the Cup,” Harry said quietly. “Please. He deserves that much.”
Amos hesitated… then reached for the Quasiwizard Cup, his hand lingering on its gleaming surface. “Aye,” he murmured. “That much, at least.”
As Amos walked away, clutching the trophy, Harry stood rooted to the spot — the empty weight of the gold still heavy in his palm.
Behind him, Kakashi and Minato stood at a respectful distance, watching in silence. When Harry turned toward them, neither said a word. Minato gave a small nod — quiet acknowledgment. Kakashi only met his eyes, the faintest look of pride and sadness mixed in one.
Harry didn’t feel like a champion.
He felt like someone who’d survived something he shouldn’t have.
---
Kakashi stood outside the carved stone gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore’s office, his bandaged hands tucked in his pockets. Madam Pomfrey had only just cleared him to walk the halls, but the summons from the Headmaster couldn’t be ignored.
He sighed. He probably wants my report. Makes sense… The events of the Third Task were still a blur of curses, chaos, and death. There was plenty to go over.
“Password?” the gargoyle asked.
“Er… I wasn’t given one,” Kakashi muttered.
The statue gave him a knowing look and stepped aside anyway.
When the spiraling staircase carried him up to the office, Kakashi was already mentally assembling a summary — Voldemort’s return, the Death Eaters, Harry’s condition, Cedric’s death. He could almost hear Tsunade’s voice reminding him to keep it concise.
“Professor Dumbledore,” he greeted with a nod as the door swung open.
“Kakashi,” Dumbledore said warmly, standing from behind his cluttered desk. Professor McGonagall was there too, looking unusually composed but with a certain tightness around her mouth.
Kakashi inclined his head. “If this is about the report, I can—”
Dumbledore raised a hand, eyes twinkling. “Ah, no, my dear boy. That can wait. This meeting is for something rather… different.”
Kakashi blinked once, then glanced between them. McGonagall’s expression softened as she stepped forward, a thick scroll cradled in her arms.
“Different?” he echoed, brow furrowing beneath his hitai-ate.
“Yes,” Dumbledore said, gesturing to the parchment as McGonagall held it out. “Something most unexpected appeared last night. We thought it best that you see for yourself.”
Kakashi accepted the scroll, the weight of it heavier than he’d expected. “What’s this?”
“Read it,” Dumbledore instructed gently, settling back into his chair with that maddeningly serene smile.
Kakashi unrolled the parchment — and blinked. Line after line of names flowed in elegant emerald ink, each accompanied by a date of birth and an address that shimmered faintly as if alive. He scanned the page, recognizing a few names of students, and then—
He froze.
There it was, clear as day. Hatake Kakashi.
Kakashi’s visible eye widened slightly. “…Is this some kind of worker’s contract? Do you need me to sign by my name to confirm the mission’s completion?”
Dumbledore chuckled, eyes twinkling brighter. “No, no. This is no contract, Kakashi. It’s the registry of every underaged witch and wizard across the world — a list enchanted by the Founders themselves. It updates when a new magical soul is recognized.”
He paused, watching the man’s stunned silence.
“And last night,” Dumbledore continued softly, “your name appeared.”
Kakashi blinked. “That must be a mistake. I’m not a wizard.”
McGonagall’s lips quirked ever so slightly.
Dumbledore only smiled wider. “It seems, my boy, that you are.”