"The champion for Durmstrang," says Dumbledore, "will be Viktor Krum."

I join in with the rest of the Hall in smiling and applauding him. It's so nice when my gut reaction to things is what a nice, normal, well-adjusted fourteen-year-old's should be. It's probably more convincing, too.

Krum gets up and waddles over to the antechamber where the champions were supposed to go. I don't care what anyone else says, it's a waddle. I don't see why so many girls are after him. He's hardly the cutest guy available. He's not even the best-looking of the champions, and while I grant that not too many girls would agree with my first pick, Diggory's still handsomer.

I think it's Fleur next, then Diggory, then Potter. After all, even he couldn't have screwed this up in only twenty-four hours. Although, who knows. He's exceeded all expectations before.

The Goblet turns red again and fire spurts out, catapulting a second strip of paper into Dumbledore's hand. He reads it: "The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!"

I clap even harder for her, and barely suppress a wolf whistle, just like the first time. I love watching her walk. It's a good thing she never showed any interest in me – or Chang, who I guess is a proxy and nearer her age – because those hips are maybe the only things I'd deviate from the scenario for. Well, maybe not just the hips.

Damn, these hormones are even worse than I remembered.

On the other hand, she eats at our table for the entire year. That's enough time to strike up a friendship, and – oh, maybe – more. I'm sure she'd want to keep it a secret, and if it did come out, it'd just about be believable that the same had happened last time, and we just hadn't been caught. Hmm. My French is probably a little rusty, and I still look too young for her, and I can't act my real age without getting caught. Maybe I could show up to the Yule Ball without a date and cut in for a dance, then impress her with my maturity and intelligence?

Much like the first time, I'm so busy fantasising that I barely even notice the Goblet turning red again. It doesn't really matter, anyway; no-one can see me, and I know what's going to happen. Cedric, Harry, blah blah, Cedric dies except not this time because that's when we – by which I mean I, being the smart one – will spring our ambush and save the world. Could I maybe revise and take my NEWTs at the end of the year? Hmm, probably too risky. I could do that for next year, and risking my skin isn't worth merely one extra year with a job.

Dumbledore's eyebrows rise as he reads the parchment. "The champion for Hogwarts is Su Li."

It takes me a moment. Everyone begins clapping, but a wave of confusion sweeps the Hall, as people's gazes begin with the seventh-years at the front of the tables, scan through them for some overachiever they're never met, and then try the sixth-years with identical results, before a friend tells them and their gazes finally lock on me. And then the whispers begin.

Crap. Crap crap crappity crap. Well played, Snape and/or Fake Moody. Well played.

Kevin, one of currently only two people from my House-year with whom I'm on speaking terms – it's a long story – turns and raises his eyebrows slightly. He's a reserved boy; this is equivalent to a full-on gape from anyone else. I can only shrug at him now and hope he doesn't question too many of the lies I'm going to have to tell him later.

I edge out of my seat, stand and walk the length of the Hall. The applause tapers away when I'm less than halfway there, and I can hear the muttered remarks.

"Who on Earth is that?"

"There's no way she's seventeen. Twelve, maybe."

"Decent legs, though. For a kid."

"Well, that's it for us."

"Seriously?"

"Is it bad taste to bet on another school?"

"We got a Chinese champion?"

"Who is she?"

If I have any complaints about Ravenclaw, it's that we're calculating, manipulative, hypercompetitive sycophants. Other than that, we're good. The Hufflepuffs screamed themselves hoarse for Diggory; I haven't got a third of that. Of course, he did look the part rather more than I do.

The hum of people discussing me, nowhere near as quiet as they think they are, only gets louder, as the last of the applause dies down. Yes, as it so happens I do realise I'm not as pretty as Fleur is, thank you for reminding me, and if you had the guts to say it to my face I'd remind you that you just got outdone by a fourteen-year-old.

I finally reach level with the teachers' table. Dumbledore gives me a questioning look; I glance away. Flitwick gives me the same what the hell look he gave me in sixth year when I abused Polyjuice to turn myself into a catgirl for Halloween. Snape tries to lock eyes with me; I keep mine sharply averted, thank you very much, and head on to the chamber.

So, Snape's done this to try and smoke me out, or maybe Fake Moody got orders from above, although that's less likely. How can I deny everything now? The same actions should yield the same results.

Well, technically the same actions haven't occurred. One of them changed one thing, probably Snape; he threw my name in. So he must have changed his route, so someone might have seen him, and they might have been reminded of something he once said …

I enter the champions' room. There are paintings all over the walls, and a roaring fire. Fleur is in pride of place before the fire; Krum is off to one side, glaring at her. Either he's wishing she'd move over and let him get more of it or, likelier, he wishes he had the courage to talk to someone so pretty. They look up at me, their brows rising in surprise.

"Is zere a problem?" Fleur asks.

"Um, heh," I say with a weak, forced chuckle. "I guess, sort of? I, I didn't think it was possible, but I'm the Hogwarts champion."

I'm not entirely forcing this nervousness. My plans to outsmart You-Know-Who may need some improvisation. That sentence is never a good one to have to think.

Fleur gives a superior little laugh. "You cannot possibly be old enough, ma petite."

This physically hurts in my chest. I am old enough. You don't know everything, but you're cool, and I respect your opinion. I almost think of you as a big sister. Well, while I'm not thinking things from which one usually excludes one's siblings.

"I'm pretty grown-up for my age?" I try, and internally wince. That sounded like something a first-year would say.

Fleur and Krum exchange sceptical glances.

"Zis competition is supposed to be an elite tournament," Fleur presses. "I don't want to win because I'm competing against little girls."

"Well," I say. "Maybe I'll surprise you?" No. Too self-assured. I give another self-deprecating laugh. "Yeah, um, I don't exactly want to be here either. Well, at least you have one old champion to fight against?" No. That was just pathetic. "J'aime tes cheveux?"

Last time, I scored a few points with her by speaking French, which only a few people in the entire castle can do at all. Complimenting a girl on her hair always works.

Instead, though, she just gives me this look of sheer noncomprehension. "Quoi?"

I blink. Was my pronunciation off? I don't think so; I've always had a good accent.

"Do you mean, mes chevaux?"

Oh, Nimue. The French words for hair and horses are only one letter apart. I wilt. Krum is just staring, like he can't believe what's happening, and Fleur is … I can't even look at her.

Fortunately, this is where Potter walks in. Thank Nimue for that. No matter how stupid I feel, I'm still a Ravenclaw, and he's only a Gryffindor, and, more importantly, he's got their attention. He's staring at me, though; obviously he knows I'm not supposed to be here. I suppose he'll be a good litmus test for how convincing I can act.

"'As she been recalled?" Fleur asks, and wow but the rose has thorns. If I were physically capable of hating her, I think I would.

"Er, not exactly," Potter says. "I'm here because I'm … also the Hogwarts champion."

Fleur and Krum exchange another, even more incredulous, look.

There comes the pitter-patter of overgrown feet, and Ludo Bagman appears, looking exhilarated. He takes Potter and me by our arms and leads us forward. Despite what anyone might say, I generally try to minimise my body contact with old men, and deftly twist my arm out of his grip.

"This is extraordinary!" he exclaims, pretending not to notice. "No, incredible. Ladies, gentlemen, may I present – believe it or not! – the fourth Triwizard champion?"

Harry is looking at me curiously. He doesn't know I made it back too, although he must at least suspect now. He can't possibly be thick enough not to, touchwood. I only wish he'd stop openly displaying curiosity about something that only merits it if you know how it happened last time.

"But now zere are two from 'Ogwarts, and both are far too young."

"Li, wasn't it?" Potter asks. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?"

I'd better tone it down. This is the first time, now or in the previous timeline for that matter, that I've ever spoken to him; I can't justify hating him too much yet, and I'm not the sort to hate someone without serious provocation. Maybe I can hate him for stealing my glory?

"Well," he says. "Weird things happen to me a lot, you know? But I've never noticed them happening to you."

What an idiot.

The door swings open, and in sweep the two Headmasters and one Headmistress, along with Crouch, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Snape. I keep my eyes firmly away from Snape's.

"Madame Maxime!" says Fleur. "Is it true, zat zese children are competing also?"

I may be in a child's body, but I could still use it like an adult.

I shake my head. That really isn't what I should be thinking about right now.

Although, it would be fairly in character …

Maxime and Karkaroff take turns, alternately raging and taking sly potshots at Dumbledore. I try to repress my libido and wait for an opening. I'm going to need to do this perfectly.

"You needn't blame Dumbledore for Potter's misbehaviour, Karkaroff," Snape interrupts. "He's persisted at it for the past three years; if anything, we should have foreseen this latest –"

"That will do, Severus," Dumbledore says quietly, and Snape falls silent. Now or never. I clear my throat, and all eyes fix on me.

"Um," I say. I don't know why I'm terrified now, and of people other than Snape, but there you are. Ravenclaws just aren't used to being glared at by teachers, I guess. "This might have sort of been my fault, actually."

McGonagall gives me her Look, the one she only needs to give anyone once for their entire life. "What exactly do you mean, Ms Li?"

"Yes, go on," says Karkaroff, seizing on the opportunity to blame Dumbledore by proxy.

"Well, how much do you know about Ravenclaw Bets?"

Flitwick drops his head into his hands, and I could kiss him. That's the exact sort of genuine acting that might just save my butt this year. McGonagall's eyes widen; Crouch makes a 'go on' gesture.

"It's a House tradition we have," I say. This is one of those lies that's strong because it's mostly the truth; we've had repeated run-ins with teachers because of the Bets, and every Ravenclaw will testify about them. "It's how a lot of our social standings work. Person A will say 'I bet you couldn't do X' to Person B, where X is something difficult but not impossible, and then B tries to do it. If they pull it off, they get credit for it, and if they don't, they lose some for failing; and A gets credit for posing good challenges –"

"Get to it," Flitwick says, his eyes scrunched shut, like a man on the gallows. Since he's Head of my House and therefore responsible for me, he sort of is.

"– right, well, anyway, when Professor Dumbledore described the Age Line, our year collectively Bet each other that we couldn't get our names into the Goblet anyway." This is also true, and I have at least nine people who'll corroborate; we brainstormed dozens of ways, almost all of them completely unworkable. "The fifth- and some of the sixth-years did too, I think."

"You – you did?" Potter asks. Gullible twerp.

"How did you get past the Age Line?" McGonagall asks.

"Well, actually, it was Professor Snape who gave me the idea," I say, and chance a look at him. He's staring; I instantly turn back to McGonagall. "In class on Thursday, he said that one Gryffindor boy had been acting like he was Confunded, and then something in how he was walking last night reminded me of that –"

Flitwick clears his throat again.

"– and anyway, I Confunded one of the older students into putting my name in instead of his." I wish I'd been able to think up a better story on such short notice. You know. One that won't get me a year's worth of detentions. "But I don't know why the Goblet chose me, rather than one of the other seventh-years."

I can take an educated guess at that, too. I don't think Snape or any of the others saw my face when the ritual completed; he would only have known it was a girl of my rough age with black hair, and that's only if I made it back at all. So he would have dropped the names of every girl who fit that description into the Goblet. I'm mentally older than any of the other students, and if the Goblet likes derring-do so much, it probably likes what I had to do to get back; if any of us made it back, of course the Goblet would select us.

"Maybe it gave me credit for that," I ramble on, "you know, for creativity? I mean, no-one else put as much work into putting their name in, so maybe –"

McGonagall gives me a glare twenty times worse than the last one, and I stare at my feet. Probably a good idea anyway, on second thoughts. Snape surely isn't the only one who can read minds.

"Who was it," she orders.

"Um." I hesitate. "Cedric Diggory."

On the one hand, it's slightly more justification for the benefit of Snape and the other ones who made it back. If I knocked out the winner, even unwittingly, that would explain why the Goblet favoured me, right? But on the other, that's exactly what I would say if I knew how it went last time; it might have been more organic to pick someone else at random. I'm not good at thinking this fast on this many levels at once.

I think this checks out, and it's actually pretty plausible. I know for a fact that Terry and Padma both got their names in somehow, as part of that weird hypercompetitive dance of oneupmanship they have in lieu of a healthy relationship, and with a little digging Snape could probably find other people my age who did the same. I daren't hope he actually believes my story, but if I can act convincingly enough – and if Potter doesn't ruin everything again – he might fall for it long enough for my strategy to pan out.

"I didn't mean to pick on him," I babble on. Oh Nimue, I'm babbling. "I mean, he was just the first person who went by who I caught alone. I'm really sorry, I didn't think –"

"No," says McGonagall. "You didn't think." Her expression promises heavy punishment later.

It suddenly strikes me what a cow she's being, and how adults so often do that. I am, to all appearances, half a step away from bursting into tears, and her first thought is to kick me in the ribs. I feel a rush of gratitude toward Flitwick, who never does that. Fleur comes in to save the day, and I could kiss her, too, even more than usual.

"Well, zat is zat," she says, "but what about 'im?" She speaks with her hands, as all French people do, and indicates Potter without doing anything so vulgar as pointing at him.

"I didn't do anything like that," says Harry. "I didn't put my name in at all. Someone else must have put mine in."

"Well, of course 'e is lying," Maxime says impatiently. "'Oo would put someone else's name into ze Goblet?"

"It hardly matters, does it?" Karkaroff said. "These children should be disqualified and expelled, and Hogwarts should choose a real champion. Or, better yet, we should relight the Goblet and give myself and Beauxbatons an extra champion apiece, to keep the contest fair."

"Um, could I just forfeit?" I ask. Everyone glares at me, and I shrink again. "I mean – I never expected to actually be picked, and then there would …"

I trail off, seeing Crouch shaking his head. "Impossible," he says. "Your name, like the other three's, came out of the Goblet; there is a binding magical contract in place. You must compete."

"A contract? What are the penalties for reneging?" I ask.

The room suddenly falls silent, icy cold, and completely airless. I've known fear of torture before, of course, and intellectually I know that my life is in mortal danger because of what I know; but this is the first time I've actually felt viscerally terrified of death. Maxime clenches a fist unconsciously by her side; Karkaroff runs his tongue over his teeth. Bagman turns grey.

"That," Crouch says, "is not a viable option."

My throat is too dry to speak. I nod and shrink back against the wall. I don't know what that's all about, but somehow I don't want to find out.

"The rules demand that both Potter and the girl compete," he repeats, "and there is no possibility to add further champions at this point. Durmstrang must console itself with the fact that both of Hogwarts' champions are significantly less experienced than her own."

Krum rolls his shoulders, rather than shrugging per se. "Two or tventy," he says indifferently.

Fleur snorts. "Twenty or two 'undred," she says, "but zat is not ze point. Ze point is zat zere is no glory in triumphing over children, no matter 'ow many chances zey might have."

"We can't simply ignore this," says Karkaroff. "Is no-one else curious about why Hogwarts alone has an additional contestant, in spite of the agreements, no matter their age?"

"I'm very curious," says Fake Moody, stumping in.

That idiot Potter tenses like a pit bull. I'll have my work cut out for me, keeping him from turning in and/or murdering the man before the third task, on top of not obviously showing off his future knowledge.

"Is that so," says Karkaroff. There's obviously a lot of history there. I think Karkaroff, or at least some of his friends were arrested by Real Moody, during the last war. And Fake Moody hates him because … he didn't go to Azkaban like he was supposed to? I don't really get Death Eater politics, but that sounds like plain common sense to me.

"The Goblet obviously wasn't working properly," says Fake Moody. "Why d'you suppose that is?"

"Why don't you tell us why that is?" Karkaroff replies with feigned courtesy.

"Because it's been tampered with, obviously," Fake Moody replies, glaring at Karkaroff. "Because someone wanted Potter in the Tournament. They wanted him to have to compete."

"You're not suggesting Dark involvement, are you?" Flitwick asks, disbelieving.

"Surely not. Not when zere's such a simpler explanation," says Maxime. "Ze two undisciplined students who wanted to be selected."

My gaze happened to be on Fleur while she said this. There's a certain kind of mind which becomes distracted by the conjunction of Fleur Delacour and the word 'discipline'; it's not until Flitwick gently nudges me that I can meaningfully focus on the discussion again.

"Are you alright?" he asks kindly.

"Ah?" I say. "No, no, I was listening. Mr Crouch was talking about the tasks."

Flitwick gives me a sceptical look, but Crouch definitely isn't going to repeat himself for my benefit. Frankly, at this point, I just want to go to bed. I already know more about the rules than Fleur or Krum do, and the longer I stay here, the likelier I am to give myself away, or worse, make myself look even stupider in front of Fleur. I glance from Flitwick to McGonagall to Dumbledore and beg my leave, then hurry off.

A moment later, Potter is beside me, trotting to keep up. Damn it. Think happy thoughts.

"So, er," he says.

"Hm?" I say as dismissively as I can, vainly hoping he'll get the hint and go away before I kick him.

"Do you, er. Do you remember, before?" he asks.

That idiot. For all he knows, Snape or Fake Moody could be eavesdropping on us right now. Or Snape might try to read my mind. In fact, he probably will. Hmm. I'll have to do something about that.

"You mean, just now?" I say as blandly as I can.

He gives me a long look, then shakes his head. "Right. Yeah. Crouch said the first task was on the twenty-fourth, right?"

"Right," I say, although honestly I'm not sure. "Say … we're both out of our depth, here. What do you say we help each other out? I mean, nothing overt, I'm not saying we should cheat. Just, you know, we'd both prefer a Hogwarts victory, right?"

I seriously doubt my ability to put up with him for more than five minutes at a time without staving his useless face in, and he won't tell me anything helpful because I already know what all the tasks are, but if I really were fourteen, there's no way I'd go three rounds with cockatrice-level threats without asking for as much assistance as I could get.

"That sounds fair," says Potter. He offers me a hand to shake; I shut my eyes and take it. "I mean, we're just fourteen, right? I'll let you know if I hear anything about the tasks."

"Thanks, Potter," I say.

"I'm Harry to my friends," he says with a smile.

I'm sorely tempted to point out that that makes us conspirators, not friends, but that would be just a bit too rude. "Well, this is the turn-off for Ravenclaw Tower, so … I'll see you around, I guess," I say instead. It's actually not the shortest route, but I'm about to say something I'll regret.

"Oh, okay," he says. "Well. Good night, then, Su."

…

AN: Most do-over fics are terminally short on dramatic tension, being basically canon except duller; the only reason I gave this idea a second thought was that in it, there are five time travellers, and while they are nominally divided into two opposing teams, in reality, each of them is a greater threat to their 'allies' than their enemies are. I figure this is enough to guarantee tension, one way or another.

This is a pilot chapter; I'm trying to get over my Milk block as much as anything else, but if it's terribly unpopular I may drop the remaining story and cannibalise it to write something else. I'm also sitting on an original sci-fi inspired by a binge on Rebuild of Evangelion, and the embryonic love child of Worm and Sailor Moon.