Harry Potter and the HQL - Chapter - 35

The last weeks of the term always brought a peculiar kind of energy to Hogwarts. The sky above the castle glowed with long, soft evenings, and the greenhouses steamed under the sun. Warm breezes blew in through the tall windows of the Great Hall, making the banners flutter and the torches dance. Everywhere you looked, students were counting days to summer holiday, comparing plans, and swapping ideas for how they’d spend the weeks ahead.

But this year, there was something else that had captured everyone’s attention: the final issue of Star Magazine.

Harry had known it would be busy, but even he hadn’t expected just how much the entire castle would look forward to the last edition. All term, the magazine had grown in popularity beyond anything the founders had imagined. By now, it had subscribers not just in Hogwarts but all across Britain and even in parts of Europe. Every month, owls came and went with parcels of copies bundled tight in twine, and orders kept piling in.

For Harry, it was exactly the distraction he needed.

He had barely slept properly since the night in the forest—the night he watched Bellatrix Lestrange kill Professor Greaves. Even now, sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could see the duel blazing between the trees. He knew he’d done the only thing he could. He knew it was likely Greaves would have turned that wand on him the moment he had the book secured. But guilt was a sticky thing. It clung to the corners of his mind no matter how many times he reminded himself of the logic.

And so, he worked. He worked until his hands cramped and his back ached and the sky outside turned from lavender to star-pierced black.

“Pass me that parchment, Neville,” Harry said one evening, his voice low as he leaned over a pile of drafts.

Neville, who was trying to sort through the accepted submissions for the Magical Creatures feature, looked up and blinked. “You’ve barely eaten today,” he said, frowning.

Harry didn’t lift his gaze from the column he was annotating. “I’ll eat later. We have to finish proofing the Quidditch League write-up before sunrise. It needs to go to the printers by morning if we want it out before the end of term.”

Hermione, sitting cross-legged on the table with her hair pinned up and ink smudged on her cheek, glanced at Neville with a look that said plainly let it be. She knew why Harry was throwing himself into the work, and though she worried, she also respected it.

Fred and George were in the far corner of the room, cross-checking subscription records. Fred had somehow charmed a quill to fill in addresses automatically, and George was tallying up how many copies they needed to ship to Diagon Alley alone.

“I still say we should have included that piece about the Chudley Cannons losing ten games in a row,” Fred said with a grin.

George snorted. “They’ve lost so many matches it’s practically a running joke. Even the Cannons’ fans don’t want to read about it anymore.”

“You lot,” Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. “Focus, please. If we don’t organize these sections properly, we’ll have to do the layout all over again.”

Nearby, Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini were bent over a stack of Quidditch photos. The final Hogwarts League match—Leviathans versus Chimeras—had been the biggest event of the year. Daphne was using her wand to adjust the captions floating above each picture, occasionally muttering corrections under her breath.

“This one should go on the center spread,” Daphne said decisively, tapping a photo of Ginny Weasley catching the Snitch. “And that one—of Marcus Flint trying to hex Cedric in midair—put it on the back cover.”

“I don’t know why you’re all so excited,” Blaise said languidly. “Quidditch is overrated. Flying around trying to bash each other’s heads in…there are better uses for a broom.”

“Spoken like someone who fell off the broom in first year,” Fred called, smirking.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “It was one time.”

Harry ignored the chatter, scanning line after line of text. The Quidditch League feature was seven pages long. He had insisted that every team get their own write-up, with photos of all the players, scores, and commentary. The Star Magazine was a club effort, but everyone knew this article was Harry’s baby.

At some point, Padma Patil brought in a tray of pumpkin juice and biscuits. She set it on the table next to Harry. “Eat,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “You’re going to pass out.”

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly, and after she walked away, he did take a biscuit, more to keep her from worrying than because he was hungry.

Hermione glanced at him as he chewed, her eyes soft. “You know…you don’t have to do all of this yourself. You could let someone else finish the Quidditch article.”

“No.” Harry’s voice was firm but not unkind. “I need to see it through. Besides, it’s almost done.”

She hesitated, clearly wanting to say more, but in the end she just nodded and went back to sorting the Herbology column.

The hours slipped by, the tower clock tolling midnight, then one, then two. But no one left. They all knew it was the last issue of the year. The last project they’d do together before everyone scattered to their families and their summer plans.

At last, when dawn was a thin streak of blue on the horizon, Neville leaned back in his chair, blinking blearily. “That’s it. We’ve got all the sections compiled. And all the subscribers’ lists are ready.”

“And the Quidditch League feature is set,” Harry said, exhaling. “Hermione—final check?”

Hermione shuffled the parchment stacks, her wand flicking as she checked margins and spelling. She looked up with a tired but satisfied smile. “Everything’s perfect.”

Fred and George shared a look, then stood. Fred stretched, groaning. “I say we dedicate this issue to the finest broom designer Hogwarts has ever seen,” he declared. “All in favor?”

The room chorused, “Aye!”

Harry felt warmth flush through his chest. It was the first time in days he’d felt something other than guilt or exhaustion.

As they began boxing up the copies to be sent to the Owlery, Neville clapped Harry on the shoulder. “You did good, mate. You did really good.”

Harry managed a small smile. “Thanks.”

The work was finally done.

They sent out the last issue of Star Magazine the following morning, and within hours, letters of thanks, praise, and even requests for autographs began arriving by owl.

It helped. It helped more than Harry wanted to admit.

By the afternoon, he was sitting with Hermione and Neville in a quiet corner of the courtyard, finally allowing himself to think of exams—and maybe, just maybe, the summer beyond.

He knew there was still darkness out there. Still unfinished business and threats that hadn’t been vanquished. But for a little while, at least, he allowed himself to feel proud.


The last days of term always felt like time was speeding up and slowing down at the same time. The castle halls were filled with the scrape of trunks being dragged over flagstones, the squawking of owls in their cages, and the low murmur of students trying to squeeze in every last conversation before the summer scattered them.

But even amid all the chaos, the mornings still began the same way.

Before dawn each day, Harry, Neville, and the Weasley twins met in their usual clearing on the far side of the greenhouses, wands in hand. They trained without fail, rain or shine, sleep or no sleep. And if anything, their focus had only deepened.

Neville’s determination was sharper than ever. He didn’t say it out loud—he didn’t need to—but everyone knew what drove him. He wanted to be ready. Ready for the day he would look Bellatrix Lestrange in the eyes and repay her for what she had done to his parents.

Harry didn’t say much either. He poured every ounce of energy into each spell, every block, every counter-hex. The hours in that clearing were the only time when the guilt and grief of Professor Greaves’s death didn’t sit heavy in his chest. The only time he felt fully present, fully alive.

“Protego!”

A golden shield erupted from Neville’s wand, shimmering as Fred’s stunner crashed against it.

“Better!” Harry called, a note of encouragement in his voice. “But you have to plant your feet—if you’re moving backwards, it’ll break.”

Neville nodded, breathing hard. He wiped sweat from his brow and reset his stance.

On the other side of the clearing, George was twirling his wand idly. “I swear, Harry, your idea of a fun morning gets more mental by the week.”

“Just wait,” Fred chimed in with a grin. “Next term he’ll have us sparring blindfolded while balancing on broomsticks.”

Harry cracked a small smile. “Maybe.”

But he was already thinking ahead. Wondering how much faster he could draw, how much more precise his disarming charms could be. He knew it was slightly mad to measure himself against the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange.

After training, Harry would often go straight to the library or to the unused classroom where the Star Club met. He made it his mission that term to help the younger members prepare for exams.

Sometimes he’d sit with a circle of first-years, patiently explaining Transfiguration theory. Other times he was helping second-years practice simple defensive spells, guiding their hands if needed.

It was exhausting, but in a good way. A clean kind of tired, the sort that left him able to sleep at night.

Hermione had noticed, of course.

“You’re going to wear yourself out,” she said one evening as he sat grading sample essays from a few second-years.

“Probably,” Harry replied with a small shrug. “But it’s better than sitting around thinking.”

She didn’t argue. She just gave him that look—equal parts exasperation and admiration—and left it at that.

When exam week finally came, it felt almost anticlimactic.

In the Great Hall, long tables were cleared, and proctors from the Ministry arrived to monitor the proceedings. As always, Harry took his seat near the end of Gryffindor’s table, dipped his quill in ink, and began to write as soon as they were told to start.

The questions weren’t difficult. He’d learned most of this material years ago, whether in the castle or in the pages of the advanced texts he kept at Highgarden.

Still, he made sure to check every answer twice before setting down his quill.

He glanced across the hall and caught Neville’s eye. Neville was hunched over his parchment, scribbling with ferocious focus. When their gazes met, Neville offered a grim smile.

On the final day of exams, Harry took a slow walk around the lake after lunch, feeling the tension drain out of his shoulders. Another year, over in a blink.

The train ride home was subdued compared to the start of the term. Everyone was tired—happy, relieved, already dreaming of summer—but tired.

Harry shared a compartment with Neville and the twins. They all sat sprawled across the seats, not even bothering to talk much. Fred had a folded copy of the latest Star Magazine propped on his chest. George was half-asleep.

At one point, Neville asked, “What do you reckon you’ll do over the summer?”

“Train,” Harry said, without hesitation. “Work on some broom designs. Maybe visit Black family island.”

Neville nodded. “Same here. I’m going to keep practicing until I can duel in my sleep.”

George cracked an eye open. “Maybe you lot can have a duel while you’re asleep. Save the rest of us the noise.”

Harry chuckled under his breath and turned his gaze to the window. Fields blurred past in waves of gold and green. He felt older, somehow. Like the past year had carved lines into him no one could see.

And he supposed, in a way, it had.

When the train at last squealed into King’s Cross Station, a low hum of excitement passed down the carriages. Trunks were heaved from racks. Owls hooted in their cages.

Harry stepped out onto the platform with Neville and the twins.

Almost instantly, he spotted Sirius waiting near the far end, tall and unmistakable with his shaggy hair and leather jacket.

As soon as Sirius caught sight of him, his face split into a grin. “Harry!”

Harry felt something unclench in his chest. He lifted a hand in greeting and began to weave through the crowd, the crush of families and luggage and farewells fading into a dull background blur.

Sirius caught him in a one-armed hug, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “Merlin, you’ve grown again. What are they feeding you at that school?”

“Nothing special,” Harry said with a tired laugh. “Just…a lot.”

Sirius’s smile softened. He seemed to read the exhaustion—and everything behind it—without Harry having to explain.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s get you home.”