Blue flames roared. Sparks flew, and wizened fingers grasped a scrap of parchment. "Harry Potter."

Every head in the Hall swiveled to stare at the Gryffindor table, and Harry was nearly overwhelmed by the urge to slam his head repeatedly into said table until this turned out to be a dream. One year. Just one bloody year without some kind of bloody crisis would be nice.

"Harry." He glanced at the owner of the finger currently poking him in the ribs. Concerned brown eyes and bushy hair gazed back at him. "Professor Dumbledore asked you to follow the other champions." Other champions…?

Harry shot a glance at the Head table, and was jolted all the way to the present by what he saw there. Madame Maxime, regal and irritated. Headmaster Karkaroff, furious, but holding it back. Ludo Bagman, confused but still, somehow, smiling. Barty Crouch, annoyed but somehow...blank?

Dumbledore, though… there was resignation in Dumbledore's face. Already. Other champions. Dumbledore intended to force him to play through this garbage. His wording and expression was enough. Years of divining his often pain-filled future via Vernon's moods had rendered Harry adept at interpreting body language, though he rarely made use of the talent.

This was going to be a repeat of second year, he could tell already. Everyone was going to think he entered this bloody Tournament on purpose, no matter what he said. And thanks to the high-profile nature of the bloody thing, the press was going to be involved. He was going to have to nip some of that bullshit in the bud. Fine. Enough bloody hiding. Enough blending in. It's time to teach these arseholes not to fuck with Harry Bloody Potter. Another poke in the ribs. He shot an irritated glance at Hermione. "I get it, Hermione. I just have something to do first."

Harry got to his feet, then vaulted onto the table, accidentally kicking his goblet of pumpkin juice into Seamus' face when he got there. Oops. Pointing his wand at his Adam's apple, Harry muttered "Sonorus. While I have everyone's attention, I'd like to take this opportunity to swear upon my life and magic that I, Harry James Potter, did not enter my name into the Triwizard Tournament, I did not ask anyone to enter my name on my behalf, and I do not know who may have entered my name. So I swear, so mote it be. Expecto Patronum." As the silver stag erupted from the tip of his wand, Harry took the opportunity to sneak another glance at the Head table. Reactions now could indicate allies later.

Madame Maxime, still regal, now surprised. At his casual use of an NEWT-level charm, or his oath?

Headmaster Karkaroff, inscrutable. Harry did note a slight tightening around the corners of his mouth that could be dissatisfaction. Perhaps because he didn't have a convenient scapegoat?

Ludo Bagman, still confused. Maybe gobsmacked was a better word. He didn't seem to have a whole lot upstairs.

Barty Crouch, surprised, but somehow not as much has Harry had expected. Strange.

Dumbledore… was disappointed? He was drooping like a candle in the summer sun, that stupid bloody twinkle completely absent. Why would absolving myself of all guilt disappoint him?

Hopping down from the table, Harry continued his impromptu speech in a voice thick with sarcasm. "As much as I hate to disappoint my fans, I'm going to have to decline to acquiesce, Headmaster. I have no desire to compete in a Tournament that was discontinued because the death toll got too high. Being a Hogwarts student is lethal enough for my taste. I'm headed to bed. Quietus."

Harry had almost made it to the doors before they slammed shut with enough force to ruffle his hair. Slowing to a stop, he heaved a heavy sigh and leaned his forehead against the cool iron filigree. "Why" he said, turning slowly, "have you decided that I may not leave the Hall, Headmaster?" He gazed up at the center of the Head table, ignoring the building buzz in the Hall. The gossip mongers and press were going to have a bloody field day tomorrow.

"Harry, you must enter the room where the judges will meet with the Champions. Doing otherwise could jeopardise your magic." The twinkle was back, in full force. Merlin Harry hated that bloody twinkle.

"Let it." There. Let 'em chew on that for a while. The silence that fell in the Hall couldn't be described as anything but "stunned." Maybe "gobsmacked."

"Harry, what-"

"Headmaster, I'd rather be alive without my magic than dead with it. This tournament has claimed the lives of nearly a third of its competitors over the years. Those competitors were adults, with seven years of magical training behind them. I've had half that, and would rather like to see my fifteenth birthday.

"Adding to that, that only people who are of age are allowed to compete, am I correct Mr Crouch?" Startled at being called into a very public disagreement between two wizarding legends, Barty Crouch could do nothing more than agree.

"Er, yes, that is-" He harrumphed once, to regain his composure. "The revamped rules only allow those who have been deemed to be adults to compete. It was originally intended to make the competition less...lethal."

Switching his gaze back to the Headmaster, Harry continued. "You see Headmaster, it seems I am in somewhat of a bind. If I consent to compete, I have broken the portion of the contract Mr. Crouch has explained, and I lose my magic. If I do not consent to compete, then I break the contract in its entirety, and I lose my magic. I cannot see a way out of this without either breaking the contract or somehow becoming an adult before leaving the Hall."

"I think we can fix that!" Breaking his staring contest with Dumbledore, Harry raised an eyebrow at Ludo Bagman. Noticing his regard, Bagman went on to explain.

"Barty here and I are here as representatives of the Ministry. As such, we're empowered to make binding agreements and such. All Barty and I have to do is declare you emancipated, and you're clear to compete!"

"Ah, Ludo, I believe-" Dumbledore began, before he was overridden by Barty Crouch. "Yes, Ludo, I believe that would work nicely. Mr. Harry James Potter, you are now declared an adult in the eyes of the law of Magical Britain. As such, you may continue your education in any manner you wish, purchase property, marry, start a business, and apply for employment at the Ministry of Magic. You are now subject to the laws and penalties of Magical Britain as an adult, and do not have the protections provided to those underage. Do you understand your rights and responsibilities as they have been explained to you?"

"Now hold on just a bloody minute!" yelled Harry. "Didn't I just mention that I don't want to compete?! Un-fucking-believable!"

"ENOUGH!" A cannon blast and ringing shout later, Harry had been ushered into the antechamber where the other champions were waiting. He began pacing furiously, muttering sulphurously under his breath. "Bloody...Bagman...big mouth...Crouch...arsehole…"

"Uh, Harry?" A shaking voice nudged the fourth-year out of his dark musings. "What, Cedric?" He snapped. "You're, uh, crackling. A lot. And glowing."

Harry glanced down at himself. Sure enough, his aura was showing. Shit. Well, I did decide not to hide any more… He glanced over and was startled to see that the other three champions were huddled over by the wall, clearly terrified. He was rather amused to note that the French champion's hair apparently had issues with static electricity. "Get used to it." He said shortly. "If I'm going to be forced to compete in this bloody tournament, I'm going to blow it out of the fucking water. I'm done hiding. Those arseholes are going to rue the day they fucked with Harry Bloody Potter."

"Vait, this is vat you normally look like?" There was a poorly-disguised note of terror in Krum's voice, as if he'd leapt off his broom and just realized that yes, he did require it to fly. Perhaps Harry had misinterpreted the effect his aura would have on people.

"...Yes. Are you telling me you don't have to disguise it in order to blend in with the Muggles? I thought everyone did."

Cedric's eyes were wide, and closely echoed the terror present in Krum's voice. "Harry, not even Dumbledore or You-Know-Who had anything close to a visible aura except when they were doing astonishingly powerful magic. If you're putting that out without even putting in effort…"


Fleur Delacour was a powerful witch, and she knew it. She was head and shoulders above her classmates in terms of both skill and raw magical ability. She was at the top of nearly all of her classes. Only her Papa and Madame Maxime could match her in a duel, and she was on track to have her pick of Mastery programs after she graduated. She was, magically speaking, in the top 1%.

Harry Potter was currently making her feel like a bug. A small one. The waves of sheer power he was exuding were buffeting her physically and magically. A particularly strong one washed over her, and her eyes widened in shock. Her core, which she had an unusually strong bond with due to her Veela heritage, had fluttered. Her hands started to shake, and she moistened her lips reflexively. This is bad. A part of her mind decided. This is VERY bad.


Viktor Krum was beginning to get very worried indeed. Harry Potter was a known name worldwide, though he did not have the same celebrity status on the continent as he did in Magical Britain. Still, a fifteen-month old that somehow survived the Killing Curse and defeated a Dark Lord in the same night? Taking this blatant display of power into account, these British wizards were correct to follow his actions closely.

Victor's eyes widened as some of Potter's words hit home. Circe's tits, he was going to have to compete against this? He didn't have a chance. Too bad it was too late to bow out.


Cedric Diggory was near to filling his trousers. Harry Potter, the scrawny Seeker. Harry Potter, the unassuming Gryffindor. Harry Potter, who had been at the epicentre of every Hogwarts crisis since he'd been Sorted. Harry Potter, who was currently leaking enough magical power to make his every hair stand on end.

He'd heard the rumours of course. Potter killed a teacher and got awarded points for it. Potter killed a 60-foot basilisk with a sword. Potter cast a Patronus that drove away a hundred dementors. He'd just never thought there was any truth to them. Now, looking at what appeared to be a demi-god with glowing green eyes and lightning crackling around his fingers, Cedric found those rumours to be quite believable.


Harry was confused and irritated. This wasn't a problem for anyone else? "You're telling me that once again, I have a problem that's uniquely mine? Great. Fucking wonderful. First it's unwanted celebrity, then it's Parseltongue, then it's a mass murderer after me, now it's apparently a light show that I have to concentrate to turn off."

"Harry… None of us can do that. We're not powerful enough. No-one alive is. Merlin himself could only manifest an aura for a few minutes before he tired out." He could tell Cedric was attempting to be gentle with this news, but Harry was having a hard time with the implications.

"Are you telling me that I'm supposedly more powerful than Merlin? I'm calling bullshit. Everyone knows Dumbledore's the most powerful wizard around. I'm only fourteen for Merlin's sake. I haven't even kissed a girl yet, let alone done anything worthy of being that powerful."

"So, you did not vanquish 'e-'oo-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Harry scowled in Delacour's direction. "I don't think so. I mean, what's more likely: My parents, widely regarded as some of the greatest minds in Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions in Magical Britain, came up with a one-off protection for me, or that I was immune to Voldemort's infallible signature curse that he'd used hundreds of times before?"

This bought him a moment of silence as the three digested it. After he'd said it out loud, it did seem kind of unlikely that a 15-month old could have done what he supposedly had.

"So, all that with the basilisk, and the dementors… Didn't happen?" Cedric asked tentatively.

"Wait, you heard about that? Never mind, I forgot this bloody school doesn't have any secrets." Harry groused. "Well, depending on what you heard, I guess it did."

"Vait, basilisk? Dementors?" Krum's eyes were starting to protrude from his face in a way that looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Harry here killed a 60-foot basilisk with a sword when he was twelve, and drove away a hundred dementors with a single Patronus when he was thirteen." Cedric said dryly.

"Well, I had a lot of help with the basilisk, and there were only like two dozen dementors. But otherwise that's about right." Harry concluded, with the air that his argument was bulletproof, not realizing that no-one in living memory had managed to drive away more than ten dementors at once, and the last basilisk encountered hadn't been more than fifteen feet long.

"I wonder if it's too early to forfeit."

The voice was Fleur Delacour's but the sentiment was apparently shared amongst the other 17-year-olds in the room. Harry, eyes wide and aura now extinguished, looked among the faces of his reluctant competition, and said, "Seriously?"

The door to the antechamber opened, and the judges strode in, with the interesting additions of Snape and Moody. They arranged themselves opposite the competitors, and Ludo Bagman was the first to break the silence.

"Well, isn't this interesting!" He beamed. "Four champions! And one of them the Boy-Who-Lived! It's never been done before, but I bet the press is going to eat it up, eh Barty?"

"Yes, well, this is highly irregular Ludo. Someone interfered with the selection process. The Goblet doesn't take well to interference of that kind." Barty was once again his inscrutable self. Harry was given the impression that the man would require forms filled out in triplicate to allow his underlings to use the loo.

"It's just Potter up to his usual attention-seeking again. The Brat-Who-Lived was probably worried he wouldn't get his usual quota of fan worship this term." The Potions Master's trademark sneer was firmly in place, but he didn't get to wear it for long.

"Be silent, you greasy piece of filth." The words were whispered, but they may as well have been screamed through a megaphone. Every eye in the room turned toward the youngest champion, who was taking his refusal to hide to new levels. Harry's gaze was now casting viridian light upon the head of Slytherin house, his hair was tossing in a violent breeze, and lightning was coruscating down his arms to collect around his clenched fists. Every person in the room was frozen, instincts screaming at them to not move, because moving would attract the attention of the predator in the room. Every person except one.

"Harry my boy, there's no reason for language like that." Dumbledore's genial tones echoed in the room like a bilious fart. Harry's regard switched targets, and while Snape was silently thanking the Fates for Dumbledore's apparent lack of survival instincts, Dumbledore was cursing them for similar reasons.

"Oh, but I think there is, Headmaster." How Harry managed to pack so much disgust into three syllables was beyond them all, but Fleur made note to ask him later. Much later. Maybe through owl post. The French champion was always on the lookout for subtle or not-so-subtle ways to insult people, but she wasn't stupid enough to ask him while he was still triggering every Veela mating instinct he had. She'd end up burning his clothes off and rutting on the floor.

"That execrable excuse for a human being has made it his personal mission to make my life miserable since I was sorted." Harry spat. "I refuse to be his doormat any longer. I will no longer be attending his classes, and I refuse to acknowledge his authority as a professor. After all, professors teach, they don't belittle their students for not knowing what they went to class to learn." Harry's gaze switched back to the potions professor. "Severus Snape, this is your one warning. If you address me in a derogatory manner once more, I will remove one of your fingers. Painfully. I'm sure Madam Pomfrey will be able to reattach it easily. If you do it twice more, I will remove one of your arms, permanently. Three times, and Filch will be scrubbing what is left of you off of the walls and ceiling, after I declare a formal duel. Is there an understanding between us?"

Severus may have been blinded by his hatred of James Potter, but he wasn't stupid. Stupid spies tended to have a short shelf life. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Good. You may leave. As you are not a judge nor a possible representative of law enforcement" Harry's gaze flicked over Moody, who flinched "your presence is not required. Good evening."

Severus decided that discretion was definitely the better part of valor, and Harry's words had hardly been uttered before he was gone, without even his trademark billowing robes.

Igor Karkaroff was nobody's fool. He'd reached his current station by being vicious, canny, and aware of his own weaknesses. He knew he was a good duelist, a capable politician, and lacking in moral grounding. He was also quite aware that his strengths did not lie in pure power. The teenage archmage in front of him, however, seemed to be a living embodiment of magical puissance. Igor's eyes roved over the boy's robes, the floor beneath his feet, and the wall behind him. All were being slowly changed, simply through proximity to the vast power the boy was exhibiting. The stones of the wall and floor were flowing, taking on a smooth mirror sheen, much like obsidian. His robes, though they started as the standard Hogwarts wool, now appeared to be acromantula silk. Igor's facile mind began to wonder over how he might take advantage of such power.

Olympus Maxime was accustomed to being challenged. Most challenged her over her heritage, her gender, or her power. She was also accustomed to flattening such challengers with ease. Her heritage was a boon, in that it granted her vast magical power. But compared to the child in front of her, she could tell that her vaunted power would avail her naught. She'd never felt anything quite like it before, not even during the Grindelwald wars when such giants as Charlus Potter, Vincent Prewitt, and Albus Dumbledore took the field.

Albus Dumbledore was outwardly as inscrutable as ever, but inwardly he was bloody frantic. How had this happened? Harry was powerful, yes, that had been easily established during his third year. But he had never exhibited even a hint of guile. Certainly not enough to hide a magical core larger than anything in living history.

Ludo Bagman was confused. The lad had been chosen for one of the greatest wizarding traditions ever created. Why was he so upset? Eternal glory could be his, if he would just stop throwing this hissy fit and let them get on with it.

Barry Crouch wasn't thinking of much of anything. He was floating in a pleasant haze, readily acquiescing to the requests made of him. After all, they couldn't be that bad.

Moody was worried. Very worried. The boy was supposed to be a mediocre wizard, with the occasional flash of brilliance under pressure. The archmage in front of him threw every preconception of Potter out the window, leaving him with nothing. He had no idea what to do.

Harry's regard snapped over to the Ministry representatives. Bagman was quite pale, as was Crouch. Harry's eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze flickered between the two, flicked over to Mad-eye, and flicked back, settling on Crouch. "Hm, what do we have here…"

Every being in the room shuddered, and most for different reasons. Cedric shuddered because Harry's tone reminded him of a recurring nightmare, where he was being chased through the Forbidden Forest by a something. The something always liked to toy with him, but Cedric never got to see what it looked like. Viktor shuddered because Potter's voice reminded him of his dueling instructor. The man was infamous in Durmstrang for his enjoyment of others pain. Fleur shuddered because not only was she being turned on by Potter's sheer power, his tone had changed to something composed of chocolate, red wine, and razor blades. It beckoned with promises of excruciating pleasure edging on pain. If he does much more of that, I will go mad.

The instructors and Ministry officials in the room shuddered for a much different reason. They had all been witness to Voldemort's previous reign of terror. All of them had glimpsed him and heard him speak. And the child in front of them had just spoken in the same tones as that bygone monster. Naked menace and promises of torment coiled around his words.

Mad-eye Moody was the first to move. Faster than the eye could follow, his wand was in his hand, a stunner streaked across the room- And stopped. Harry turned, smiled, and said quietly, the menace still in his voice, "And the imposter finally shows his true colors. Why don't you take a nap." Moody slumped to the ground bonelessly, and the rest of the room took action. Spellfire raced through the air, the walls shattered to form massive golems, monsters composed of pure darkness pounced, and none of it could touch him. Harry stood calmly, his hands insolently in his pockets, his head cocked to the side, exuding an aura of amused tolerance as they attempted to subdue him. The spellfire halted in midair feet before it touched him, the golems dissolved into sand before they were fully formed, and the black creatures faded until they were nothing. Finally silence reigned in the room, until Harry spoke in an irritated tone.

"Now that you've all had your little temper tanty, maybe you'd like to listen before jumping to conclusions?"