"The cold hard truth will fall on stony ground, whereas your all-around trashy rumor will flourish like a weed."
—Sue Grafton
He doesn't get very far. Mad-Eye Moody snatches the back of his collar before he could even reach the end of the Gryffindor table. Moody drags Harry to stand in front of Dumbledore and the Goblet of Fire. The Headmaster shows Harry the slightly burnt piece of parchment in his hand. It reads "Harry Potter." Harry's face pales further.
"Did you put your name in the Goblet, Harry?" Dumbledore sternly inquires.
"No. I don't want to be a Champion…" Harry whispers in response.
"Did you ask someone else to—"
"No!" Harry blurts out and then takes a deep breath before continuing. "No. I don't want this."
Dumbledore sighs and looks at Harry forlornly. "I'm sorry then, my boy."
A few minutes later, Harry finds himself in some sort of trophy room with the other three Champions. Everyone seems reluctant to speak to one another, so a stifling silence fills the air. Cedric, who had been grinning in amazement when his name was called, stares at the ground and refuses to make eye contact with Harry. Viktor glares at him brazenly. When Harry looks at Fleur, she's the only one who looks back at him kindly, with a soft smile on her delicate face.
The three headmasters, plus the Minister for Magic, then stride into the room mid-argument. "Dumbledore, this simply isn't possible! You can't let him compete!" hisses Fudge.
"Something foul is afoot here. The boy either cheated or someone else cheated for him. Either way, I don't support the idea of letting him compete," adds Igor Karkaroff, Durmstrang's headmaster, insistently.
The Beauxbatons headmaster, Olympe Maxime remarks, "He is not even seventeen years old. This boy is a child who does not want to compete. People have died in this bloody tournament. I do not think it is right to force him to put his life at risk."
Harry wishes he could disappear through a hole in the floor rather than listen to these adults talk about him as if he isn't there. He notices Fleur glancing at him almost apologetically from the corner of his eye and feels even more pathetic.
Dumbledore slowly nods and says, "While I agree with you all, I am afraid that Harry has no choice but to compete." He looks pointedly at Harry, before continuing, "If he does not compete, his magic will be stripped from him. That has always been the way that the Goblet works."
The numbness Harry had been feeling earlier returns, stronger than ever. He worries that he might forget how to breathe as the numbness seeps into his throat and slowly chokes him.
The adults quiet for a moment. They all nod resignedly and mumble their consent to allowing Harry to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. If Fleur hadn't chosen that moment to squeeze Harry's hand gently, he thinks he might've either passed out or fled from the room.
I'm a Triwizard Tournament Champion, Harry thinks to himself bitterly. There goes my plan of enjoying a year of relative invisibility. He mutters the password to the Fat Lady and steps into the Gryffindor Common Room. By this hour, everyone should be—
Except he doesn't finish his thought, because he notices that not everyone is asleep, despite the late hour. Ron is sitting on the couch by the fireplace. His arms are crossed and a sour expression has taken over his normally friendly face. Ron won't think I did this on purpose, right? He's my best friend. He'll believe me…
Harry walks over to him and sits on the armchair across from the redhead. He waits for Ron to say something.
He doesn't have to wait long. Ron looks Harry in the eyes and demands, "Why'd you do it? And how'd you even manage it?"
"I didn't do anything Ron. I don't want to be competing in this tournament. I would've told you and Hermione if I was going to do something stupid like this." Harry stares at his best friend pleadingly.
"So they're actually letting you compete? Unbelievable," Ron mutters angrily. Harry doesn't know what else he can say, but he's desperate to have Ron be on his side. He needs Ron to be on his side in the face of all this adversity.
So he whispers, "Ron, today has been such a rough day for me. Between the stuff with the journals stressing me out and the Triwizard Tournament, I just really need to be able to count on you being my friend. I don't know if I can get through all this on my own…"
Ron suddenly lets loose a dark laugh that startles Harry. It fills him with a sense of dread. The Ron he knows would never react to Harry's heartfelt words that way. But this Ron just did. Harry suddenly feels scared—no, more like terrified—that he's lost Ron, and probably Hermione too, for good. And because of something that isn't even his fault. Maybe competing in the risky Triwizard Tournament shouldn't be such a big deal to him. After all, if he doesn't have friendship keeping him sane anymore, he has nothing else to lose.
"Good luck, Harry," Ron suddenly says. Harry looks up at him sharply, hopefully. But then: "I hope the fame is worth it to you. I don't think we should talk for a while. You need to focus on the Triwizard Tournament that you apparently care so much about." He stands up, and next thing Harry knows, he's left sitting alone by the fire. Harry had hoped to be alone when he first walked into the Common Room. But now, he wishes he could feel anything but the emptiness of being truly, completely alone.
The next morning, Harry walks into the Great Hall for breakfast. He sees Ron and Hermione sitting at their usual spot. His seat is empty. He could try to go sit there. He wants to. But then he remembers what Ron had said to him last night, and suddenly there's nothing he wouldn't do to avoid talking to Ron right now. So he tries to ignore Ron and Hermione's happy faces. He pretends like their laughter doesn't stir up a yearning in his heart for him to be part of the laughter. I've taken them for granted for so long.
Harry takes a seat at the end of the Gryffindor table, where there aren't many others sitting. He hopes no one tries to talk to him. But then Malfoy shows up, and Harry isn't surprised that yet another of his hopes is quickly destroyed practically as soon as he's hoped it.
"So, Potter," Malfoy drawls as Crabbe and Goyle flank him on either side. For a moment, Harry pities Malfoy for having glorified bodyguards instead of friends. But then Harry remembers the note Malfoy had written in potions class yesterday, and his pity quickly dissipates. "Rumor has it that you were eliminated from one tournament yesterday, so you decided to force your way into another. From a Slytherin sense, I'm almost proud of you! But it still disgusts me how pathetic you are."
Harry feels his face burning. Malfoy's words make him feel dirty, like he must have done something wrong if the Slytherin would approve of it. Except this rumor is a lie, even if Malfoy doesn't know it. "Where'd you hear that rumor?" Harry asks as calmly as he can.
Malfoy laughs, prompting Crabbe and Goyle to mimic him like parrots. "Your best friend Ronald Weasley. Shouldn't he be a trustworthy source?"
Harry's face pales as he realizes that Ron's anger has extended beyond just not wanting to talk to him. "Apparently not," he gasps out to Malfoy, before snatching an apple and fleeing the Great Hall.
It's as if he'd gone back to his second year, when everyone thought he was the Heir of Slytherin. Everywhere he goes, he hears his name being whispered. Pointing fingers and sneers at every turn. Nowhere does he feel free of judgment.
The library is empty, which suits Harry just fine. He steps inside tepidly and sits down by a huge window, The views of Hogwarts' breathtaking grounds help to take his mind off of recent events. As he looks outside, he thinks about all the times he's done homework while resting against huge tree trunks. He looks at the soft grass that has tickled him gently while he laid on it and stared up at the sky. He thinks about the gorgeous castle itself has been his magical shelter these past few years. He thinks about how the beauty of Hogwarts has survived no matter what horrific events have taken place inside its walls. I can be like Hogwarts. I can endure everything that's happening right now. My heart will stay the same.
Harry breathes out a sigh of relief as he feels his heart lighten slightly. He takes a bite of the apple he'd brought from the Great Hall and looks at the journal he'd forgotten he had had in his hands since he'd left the Gryffindor Common Room this morning. Everyone apparently thinks I'm out of the competition, but I'm not. In fact, I should have someone new to talk to.
He puts the journal on the table in front of him. The pages flip open and land on a page where a question awaits him: Are you a student?
That's an interesting first question. Seems like the kind of thing a teacher would ask, since I just keep assuming everyone is a student. He replies: Yes. Are you a teacher?
Harry continues munching on his apple until a reply appears: Yes. Are you male?
He picks up his quill once again and writes: Yes. Which school do you teach at?
The answer this time is, unsurprisingly, indirect: The superior magical institution. Do you attend Durmstrang or Hogwarts?
At least I'm talking to someone much smarter than Adrian. This person knows when it's actually worth giving a straight answer and when it isn't. He says: Hogwarts. Are you a teacher at Hogwarts?
When no reply is forthcoming, Harry looks at the time. Classes are about to start. He picks up his journal and runs out of the library, hoping he'll make it to charms in time.
Over the next few days, it takes all of Harry's mental strength to survive the constant whispering, rumors, and taunts that he encounters on a daily basis. He stops going to the Great Hall for food and eats by himself in the kitchens just to get away from the glares. His teachers are the only ones who speak civilly to him, and even they don't seem particularly interested in his well-being. He misses his friends constantly, especially Ron.
At one point, he runs into Hermione in the hall outside Snape's potions classroom. He guesses she was waiting for him. "Harry, I just wanted to say that Ron—"
He cuts her off. "Ron doesn't want to talk to me, I know. And if he does want to talk to me, he can do that himself."
She looks down and bites her lip. "He's being stubborn, Harry. He misses you, but he doesn't want to admit he's wrong. And I miss you, too."
Harry sighs. "Do you think I put my name in the Goblet of Fire?"
She averts her eyes and doesn't answer.
"I didn't, okay? My friends should believe me." He walks away.
Harry is, thankfully, able to find some happiness by continuing to talk to the mysterious teacher in his journal. Over the few days since they first started writing to each other, he figures out that he teaches at Hogwarts and doesn't have any kids. The rest of the information he gathers is too broad or too specific to be of much use. Luckily for Harry, he doesn't really care about winning or losing the contest. He just wants to have interesting conversations with people who don't know who he is.
He is proud of himself that this teacher still hasn't figured out his identity. Harry has, somewhat worryingly, revealed that he is at least in his fourth year and has an owl as a familiar. It seems like his partner is slowly getting closer to guessing his name. But recently, the questions have been becoming a bit . . . strange. They're asking for information that Harry doesn't think any of the teachers would be able to associate with him. So as much as he doesn't love the idea of sharing so much personal information, he finds himself unable to resist testing the limits of his newfound anonymity.
For instance, the most recent question asks What is your social life like?
Well, that's ironic. His honest answer now would be very different than it would have been even just a week ago. Yet another reason being honest won't hurt me. He responds: I don't really have friends at the moment. It's complicated. Do you like your job?
Severus Snape has never particularly enjoyed interacting with students, and he is quite certain that they have never particularly enjoyed interacting with him. It's therefore strange that he is rather invested in the conversation he is currently having with a Hogwarts student via the journal he is using to participate in the triannual identity-guessing competition. He had spoken with two students before his current challenge. The first, George Weasley, had taken him less than hour to figure out. The only challenge there had been figuring out which twin it was.
His current challenge is certainly proving much more difficult. Admittedly, Severus has also been getting distracted ever since the student admitted to a strange fact: he doesn't have anyone that he really considers his family.
Ever since then, Severus hasn't been able to resist asking questions that are of a more personal nature. While he might have a surly exterior, he does care about his students. And he currently fears that one of them is suffering. It's more important than ever that I find out who I'm talking to.
He opens up his journal and sees the most recent reply and question. He replies: Not entirely. Do you enjoy your summers?
A few moments pass, before a scribbled reply appears. I can't say that I do. What don't you like about your job?
Severus writes back quickly. I dislike political drama. Do you dislike your summers because your "family" mistreats you? He thinks he knows the answer already, but he doesn't want to think about what it would mean. About how much of the responsibility he has for this boy's continued suffering.
The word Yes appears, scribbled in what Severus guesses is anger.
He doesn't bother to look at the boy's question for him. Instead, he slams the journal closed and puts his head in his hands.