In for a Penny
1. The Third Task
O
24 June 1995
The Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament had been underway for the better part of an hour when Ron began to suspect that something might have gone wrong. Red sparks had been seen in the earlier stages of the Task, but the officials who had entered the maze had returned without the fallen champion. One had hurried over to the staff box to speak with the Headmaster. Dumbledore's frown had grown increasingly dark and he'd half-risen, but a whispered word from Karkaroff had caused him to slowly take his seat. Despite having regained his composure, Ron didn't miss the pointed glance the old wizard had shot Professors Snape and McGonagall.
While none of it necessarily meant that anything untoward had happened to Harry, Ron had always had a better sense of his friend's ability to attract trouble than most. And at that moment, everything from the thunderous set of the Headmaster's brow and the suddenly alert stance of the maze's grey-robed sentinels appeared to be pointing to the conclusion that if Harry wasn't in trouble, he soon would be.
He glanced to his left, where Hermione had suddenly gone very quiet (much to the relief of an exceptionally bored-looking Ginny, who had probably heard enough on the subject of the Arithmantic basis of Concealment Charms to last her a lifetime). Much like him, the bushy-haired witch seemed to have noticed that something was amiss. She blinked when she saw him looking, biting her lip.
"Something's off," Ron muttered, fiddling with the collar of his cloak, "The atmosphere's changing. Check out the lads guarding the entrances."
"And they're all using scrying stones. They wouldn't be using them unless they thought something was off," she noted, fingers brushing the handle of her wand, "Those orbs will be useless so long as that Concealment Charm is covering the maze; it obfuscates any kind of magical communication and far-sight."
Ron ran a hand through his hair. Minor comfort though it was, if anything had gone seriously wrong then Dumbledore would have cancelled the Tournament in a heartbeat. The Hogwarts Headmaster was not the sort to let children die on his watch, ancient treaties and agreements be damned.
More comforting was the knowledge that, at least as far as Harry was concerned, there was little chance of foul play on the part of the champions. Ever since the First Task, the four of them had been getting on famously. Hermione had attributed the change to simple respect. It took a great deal of courage to face a dragon, and not one of them had managed to pass the trial completely unscathed. It was hard to regard someone who was capable of overcoming that kind of challenge with anything less than admiration.
While they never went so far as to help each other prepare for the Tasks, it had become fairly commonplace for one champion or other to join them for the occasional luncheon. Ron had found it somewhat disconcerting at first. He was happy for Harry, of course, though he'd have been lying to himself if he'd said he hadn't been a bit envious. Not so much of Harry, ironically, but of the new friends who seemed to occupy so much of his friend's attention. Harry himself made every effort to include Ron in those gatherings, and for that he was grateful.
It just stung, a bit.
He was brought back to the present by a throaty roar, rumbling out from somewhere deep within the bowels of the labyrinth. Peering through his omni-oculars, he saw Moody patrolling the edge of the stadium, his Mad-Eye fixed on the leafy green walls that wreathed the Quidditch pitch. As Ron watched, the somewhat paranoid Professor stumped to a brief halt, his gaze fixed on something that no one else could see, and then hurried further on around the hedge and out of sight.
"We might be better off waiting in the nurse's tent," Hermione said at last, an edge that couldn't quite be called humour tinging her words, "We can't see anything from up here anyway, and Harry's sure to end up with some borderline debilitating injury by the time the day's out."
"Borderline debilitating would be a bit optimistic given Harry's track record," Ron put in dryly, "Guaranteed life-threatening is more his style."
"That's not funny," Hermione said, though a small wan smile was tweaking her lips.
"You don't seem as worried about Krum as I thought you'd be. I don't mean anything by it," he added, throwing his hands up in a placating gesture at her sharp look, "It's just you haven't so much as mentioned him. And you guys have been glued together at the hip."
To his relief, she didn't fire up at the line of conversation. Even better, the little smile was back, "Having seen what he's capable of doing over the last few weeks, I'm confident Viktor can handle himself. Not that I think Harry can't – handle himself, I mean – but he's always been a magnet for the worst kinds of danger."
"You think Harry's in trouble?" Ginny asked, leaning anxiously around Hermione.
"He's beaten dragons and mermaids to get here," Ron answered, trying to sound confident, "If anyone can handle this thing, it's Harry."
If ever there were a time when Ron wished he could've been right, it was that one. For in the very next moment, a series of sickening green flashes followed by a veritable explosion of red sparks shot up from the centre of the maze, where lay the vaunted prize of the Triwizard Tournament.
The crowd, animated before, had turned suddenly silent. Dumbledore was immediately out of his box and moving down toward the pitch with a spryness that belied his advanced age, ignoring the cries of protest from Karkaroff. Snape and McGonagall followed closely behind him, and they entered the maze on the tail of the small host of medi-wizards already making their way toward the source of the signal. The rest of his family and even the better part of Gryffindor were exchanging anxious glances. None had missed the malevolent roar that had accompanied the earliest bursts of green light.
By the time Ginny had turned a frightened glance toward him, Ron was already out of his seat and moving, sensing without turning that Hermione was just a few steps behind. There was an alarmed shout from somewhere behind him, but he paid it no heed. A small and hopeful voice in the back of his mind said that it mightn't be Harry in trouble, but it was consumed in the maw of his fears. By the time they reached the verdant turf of the pitch, they were going at a run. Ron's breath was heaving, though he'd scarce run a hundred metres. They'd almost made one of the entrances when his charge was arrested by a heavy hand on his shoulder. He tried to shake it off, but his assailant's iron grip only tightened.
Spinning wildly, the stream of righteous fury borne of terror died in his throat when he saw the look on Hagrid's face. There was an inevitable disquiet in the corners of the half-Giant's eyes, but it was masked by a grim frown the likes of which Ron had not seen since Buckbeak's trial.
"I'd ask yer' to reconsider goin' in there," Hagrid said, "Bu' somethin' tells me I'd be wastin' me breath."
Ron felt a brief cloudburst of relief; for a moment he'd feared the old Gamekeeper was going to try and stop them. His elation was short-lived though, as the icy beast returned to nestle in his gut.
"You know the way through?" Ron asked, and to his ears his voice sounded hollow and faraway.
Slinging his battered pink umbrella across his shoulder, Hagrid nodded stoutly, "Spen' 'alf the autumn growin' the damn thing with Pruhfessor Sprou'; I kno' this path like the back of me 'and. Jus' keep close ter' me. There're some mean beasties inside of there, an' tha's a fact."
He set off at a brisk trot, moving with surprisingly agility for a wizard his size, disappearing through the thorny arch that marked the entrance to the Triwizard Maze. Ron and Hermione shared a fleeting glance before darting in after him.
It was like something out of a nightmare. Outside, the uproar which had been building since the flare had gone up had been close to deafening. Within the walls there was only silence. Most corridors bore the mark of the champions' passage, and down others they even caught sight of the grey-robed officials themselves, shouting orders and instructions as they fanned out and searched.
"Aren' many ways yer' can reach the middle withou' facin' a monster or two," Hagrid said as they came to a junction, taking the leftward branching path without hesitiation, "Bu' there're are a coupla roads which 'ave less dangers 'n others. The way I'm taking us is a bit lengthy, but it should take us 'round the worst this rotten garden has to offer."
"Couldn't we just burn our way through to the middle?" Ron asked, feeling his stomach lurch as he spotted a crippled acromantula hobbling away down an alley to their right.
"The hedges were enchanted to withstand all but the most powerful of destruction magicks," Hermione answered, eyes trained to the front, "Professor Dumbledore did the enchantments himself. Nothing short of fiendfyre could break through these walls."
"An' with the champions still missin', Dumbledore won' be willin' to risk usin' it 'imself," Hagrid added, "Not until 'e can be sure as there's no risk to the survivors."
The rest of that haunting journey passed in a tense silence. Hagrid swiftly dealt with the few magical creatures they encountered, with Ron and Hermione left to do their best to keep up in the big man's wake. The time felt interminable beneath the boughs. The steady agony of not-knowing was eating away at Ron. Thoughts raced around in his head, crowding and suffocating each other in their intensity. He didn't think the other champions were capable of killing for the Cup. He'd eaten with them, spoken with them, and in spite of his petty envy he'd decided he rather liked them too. He couldn't imagine any situation which could drive them to turn on each other. Yet what other explanation was there?
Rounding a final bend, Ron had to stop himself from ploughing solidly into Hagrid, who had come to an abrupt halt. Darting around the mountainous man, he stopped dead. Before them lay a broad clearing. A stranger was slumped lifelessly against the wall of the clearing nearest them, ragged hair framing a pale face frozen in a mask of vengeful hatred. A little further along were the prone forms of Fleur and Krum, attended by a swarm of medi-wizards. Both seemed groggy, badly bruised and beaten, but they otherwise appeared to be alright. Cedric, next to them, was not moving at all. But the object of Ron's attention, and that of the others who weren't attending to the fallen, was fixed on the boy crumpled against the podium at the far edge of the clearing.
Harry was a wreck. His robes were ripped and torn, his cloak a ragged mess. His left arm was clutched to his side, his hand a purple and swollen mess. His wand, to Ron's relief, was tucked safely in the waistband of his slacks. More concerning was the black blood beading at his brow, dripping from the lip of the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. Behind his taped-together spectacles his face was pale and drawn, yet Ron was somewhat relieved to see a shaky determination set in the depths of his eyes and the set of his brow.
His relief was short-lived, however, when he sensed the tension. Dumbledore's expression was kindly, but set. Snape and McGonagall were similarly stricken. The three of them were standing a little apart from Harry, the rest of the officials gathered behind them.
"He needs my blood," Harry said, his voice sounding incredibly weak and distant.
The afternoon was mild, but Ron felt a chill at his words. There was little doubt in his mind as to whom Harry had been referring. And although Ron hadn't the faintest idea what You-Know-Who could possibly want with Harry's blood, he could only imagine that it would spell doom for a great many people, starting with his friend.
Harry's eyes came upon Hermione, then Ron. His knuckles clenched, and his breathing became ever more laboured.
And then all thoughts of forbidden magic were gone from his mind, for Ron suddenly knew what was about to happen. He broke into a run at the same time as Hermione, a thousand words lodging in his throat, at the same time as Dumbledore and the others cried out in alarm.
"Harry! Don't!
The boy managed to muster a shaky smile.
"I'm sorry."
And then he shoved his hand into his pocket, and with a hungry displacement of air, vanished from their lives.
O
As one might well expect, the disappearance of the Boy-Who-Lived sparked utter pandemonium. Speculation and stories ran rampant amongst the boroughs and bars of Wizarding Britain. Many thought that it had been the end result of some plot on the part of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's remaining followers, a theory which gained a lot of traction when the news was made public that the body of the wizard found at the scene had been none other than Barty Crouch, Jr. Other, less credible theories had grown and flourished, with rumoured sightings cropping up all over. By the time a month had passed, Harry Potter had been seen everywhere from Dublin to Hamburg.
Dumbledore's own investigations had borne little fruit. By the end of the school year, he had already scoured the better part of the British Isles, discovering no trace of the errant Harry. He was in none of the likely places, nor any of the unlikely ones. Severus, who had been summoned by the weakened shade of Voldemort the very night of the Third Task, had likewise assured him that the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters had no more idea of where Harry had gone than anyone else did, much less taken him themselves. If Harry's word was to be trusted and he truly had disappeared in order to prevent the Dark Lord's inevitable return, then he had done an admirable job.
That did not stop the old Headmaster from looking, however, and his search continued long after many others had given up.
His friends took Harry's disappearance decidedly poorly. The Weasley clan was disconsolate for months, the matriarch nearly driving herself to the brink of madness in her grief. Sirius' contact with the newly reformed Order became increasingly erratic, dropping off altogether the night that marked the commencement of the civil war.
Ron and Hermione's friendship had almost been another casualty of their friend's disappearance. They followed every lead. Every rumour, every sighting; they hunted down the source in each and every case in the hopes of reclaiming their Harry. Time and again these hopes were brutally dashed, only to be fiercely renewed at the very next sign that he might yet be found. The strain of the never-ending cycle of ups and downs nearly destroyed them. It was only years later, when they finally gave up actively searching, that they realised the magnitude of the storm that they had weathered.
The weeks stretched into month, the months into years. The Death Eaters returned in full force, triggering the second magical civil war the Isles had seen within a century. Though the corruption sewn by the Dark Lord's servants was slow, it marched onward as inescapably as the tides. People's thoughts and fears turned to more immediate matters. Life became harder, but it went ever on.
And the Boy-Who-Lived began to fade from memory.
Harry Potter was gone.
O
It was onto a rocky bluff above a sun-streaked sea that Harry finally appeared, the bright blue ribbon still clutched tightly in his fist. Standing all alone on that outcrop high above the roiling waters, he cut a sore and sorry figure. An all-consuming emptiness welled up within him when he realised the enormity of what he'd done, and he fell heavily against the stone. His friends' anguish had been plain to see. They didn't know what he'd seen in the maze, and then again in the graveyard. What must they think of him?
A small voice, cool and reasonable, reminded him that it didn't really matter if they grew to hate him. As long as he couldn't be found, there was no way for Voldemort to return. His friends and all the rest would be safe from the madman's machinations.
It was something of a cold comfort.
Trying to clear his mind, he scrambled to his feet and clambered to the peak of the stony crown, wincing when he jarred his arm. He had a feeling the Bone-setting Charm wouldn't quite cut it for his present purposes. The Shattering Curse he'd blocked with his palm had done a real number on him. Not that he'd have been able to heal it even if he'd been capable; his wand was off-limits until he could figure out a way to get around the Trace.
From the crest, he could see the better part of a shaded vale laid out before him. Verdant fields and vines carpeted the valley floor, running away to meet the edge of a small settlement in the near distance. The buildings were cut in an unfamiliar style, white stone and shingled roofing, and as the shadows grew longer, the first lights began to appear in cottage windows and on the streets. The air was warm and fresh, smelling of grapes and the merriment of an encroaching summer.
He had absolutely no idea where he was.
Suppressing his initial alarm, he reminded himself that he hadn't been sent here blindly. The others would be following him soon, of that he had no doubt. They had gotten him this far, after all. Nestling himself in the forked trunk of a weary old willow, he settled down to wait.
The hours passed slowly, sitting alone on the bluff with naught but his thoughts and a growing pit in his belly for company. They passed slower still when night fell, though mercifully the skies remained open. The moon, full and cheerful, bathed the cliffs in a ghostly light. Thoughts of his friends and Voldemort and Cedric and Dumbledore chased each other around his head in ever tighter circles, until the throbbing in his head eventually eclipsed the agonising pain in his hand. The sting of his scar did little to help matters.
It was just passing midnight, and Harry was fervently wishing that he'd had the forethought to eat a heartier lunch, when a pair of twin cracks sounded from a little way down the bluff. Ever cautious, he drew his wand and poked his head over the crest.
Relief, true relief this time, coursed through him. In spite of their raised hoods, he recognised the other champions immediately. Viktor Krum had been fortunate, surviving the maze with relatively minor injuries. The only testament to his tribulations was a bandage strapped along the length of his right arm. Fleur had been somewhat less fortunate, having been grazed by one of Moody's Blasting Curses. The French witch's face was a motley black and blue. A nasty lump had risen over her right brow, but even that did nothing to dim the earnest pride that burned brightly in her eyes.
"You are sure that this was the place?" Krum asked, peering around dubiously.
"Of course," Fleur retorted, though there was a note of uncertainty, "Perhaps he made his way to town?"
"Up here," Harry called, waving with his good arm.
The others saw him and smiled wearily. Krum offered a tired salute. Swinging his legs over the ledge, Harry slid down to join them.
He came to a stop in front of them and the loneliness of the last few hours slipped away. All that was left was exhaustion, "You guys get out okay?"
Fleur crossed her arms with a shrug, "All too easily. Everyone's attention was on you. By the time you left, we were already being escorted out by the Tournament officials. Even after, most of the focus was fixed on your imposter. Once Madame Pomfrey checked us over we were free to go."
"Karkaroff asked me about what happened, when I got back to the ship," Krum put in, shifting uncomfortably, "But he didn't seem suspicious; ate up the story I fed him just like any other. The Headmaster is a powerful wizard, but weak-minded. He'll believe what I tell him."
"If only the Headmistress were so easy to fool," Fleur said wryly, "I do not look forward to tomorrow's meeting."
"And Dumbledore?" Harry asked quickly.
"Gone, almost immediately after you disappeared," she replied, "He took that sallow excuse for a man with him."
They had been lucky, then. If Dumbledore had thought to question Fleur or Krum with any degree of seriousness, Harry had little doubt that the old wizard would have been able to distil the truth from their stories. As long as he was pursuing other leads, Fleur and Krum would have plenty of opportunity to prepare a halfway believable alibi. They had, after all, been Stunned when their too-late rescuers arrived.
Then he thought of Ron and Hermione. A lump caught in his throat. His best friends and companions of so many years and adventures, left behind with next to no explanation at all. He almost asked after them, but swallowed the words before they could be born. He had chosen the path of exile for himself. He knew all too well that they'd have followed him if he said he was going, even if it had completely destroyed any chance of a peaceful life for them. It wouldn't have been fair.
"So what now?" he asked, fighting past the heavy lump. He could torment himself with his miseries later; for now there was work to be done.
"At risk of stating the obvious, we have to keep you away from You-Know-Who's followers," Krum said firmly.
"Meaning staying far away from Britain," Harry muttered. He'd thought as much.
"At the very least," Krum agreed, "To be on the safe side, you'd be best served learning a simple glamour, or even just changing your appearance outright. Anything that will stop people from immediately recognising who you are."
"Even with a glamour, you won't be able to attend any of the higher-profile magical schools," Fleur added apologetically, "There are too many eyes at Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. If even one person saw through your illusion, the game, as they say, would be up."
Harry nodded absently. Frankly speaking, his continued schooling was the least of his concerns. His pursuers were among the most astute and resourceful wizards in all the United Kingdom. It wasn't just the schools; he'd need to avoid all the major European magical districts. The chances of him running into someone who might recognise him in Paris, or even Venice, was just too high. Although the idea of disappearing into the ghettos of southern and eastern Europe didn't seem all that appealing, he couldn't see that he had much choice.
"If you have no other options, you are welcome to stay with us for the summer," Fleur said, sounding oddly hesitant for once, "I can't speak for my family, of course, but they are good people. Maman and Papa will understand the gravity of your need, and can be trusted."
"They might not take too kindly to hosting a celebrity runaway," Harry said dryly. A week ago he could hardly imagine turning down an offer to summer with one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever met, but there it was, "And in any case, I wouldn't want to impose."
"It's a little late to worry about petty impositions," Fleur said, not unkindly, "We've already breached international statute just by bringing you here. And perhaps you have forgotten, but we are Veela. The Death Eaters consider us little more than half-breeds. My family has every reason to help you."
"If you're sure it's safe," Harry said cautiously, starting to come around. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.
"At any rate, you don't have to make any major decisions tonight," Krum broke in, "First we have to deal with that arm of yours."
"I'm open to suggestions," Harry grunted, cradling it protectively. Four years' worth of trauma and life-threatening injuries had granted him a surprisingly high tolerance for pain, but even he couldn't laugh off a completely shattered arm.
"I know a little of healing," Krum said, touching his wand experimentally to Harry's swollen arm, "But not enough to fix this. We'll need a specialist."
"There's a man in Amsterdam," Fleur said firmly, "He does a lot of off-the-books work. He'd be discreet."
Neither Harry nor Krum voiced any reservations. As Fleur had said, they were well past that point now.
"When we're finished there, I'll take you to one of my family's cabins, in Austria," Krum said, "My parents won't be there until midsummer at the earliest, so there'll be no chance of your being discovered. After, Fleur and I will have to return to Hogwarts. If all goes well, the two of us will be back to sort out the rest tomorrow night."
"What could go wrong?" Harry asked, grinning wryly despite his pain.
"Only pretty much everything," Fleur agreed, a small smile tweaking at her own lips.
In spite of the agonising pain in his arm and his heart, and despite the all-consuming fear and guilt that still roiled and burned within him, for the first time in what felt like a very long time Harry felt some small spark of hope for the future. Viktor standing tall and strong, watching him intently; Fleur's hand outstretched, palm open and welcoming.
He reached out and took it.
O
AN: Please read and review.