Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.
A/N: Huge thanks to Gwendolyn, my beta of saintly patience.
Just as a heads-up, the very first scene has disturbing content. Or potentially disturbing. So, um, read at your own risk and beware of squick.
IV.
Harry sat on the cold tile floor of the Dursleys' bathroom and contemplated his life. Well, maybe not his entire life, but he did wonder whether he should embrace the toilet bowl again and attempt to expel the remains of his most recent nightmare by forcing them up his throat. Harry had had his share of freaky dreams—it tended to happen if you came into contact with basilisks, murderers and Dementors—but this one, this one took the fucking cake.
("Let the innocent blood flow… let life be exchanged for life… let the sacrifice take true hold…")
Harry heard distant chanting and his vision cleared only gradually; when it had, he found that he was looking at the world from a really strange perspective: he seemed to be small and held reverently in someone's arms. Harry knew this man. He'd done everything right; he'd done the ritual right, for Harry was here now, breathing in a corporeal body once again. He felt his body was disproportionate; the head was too large and the arms and legs were much too small, and his skin was blackened and shrivelled, and he was probably hideous. Harry gave a cold smile. Physical beauty was something that had ceased to matter to him a long time ago; power, on the other hand, was everything.
("You have done well, my faithful… Show me. Did you have to hold her under the Imperius?")
Harry was turned around in the arms of the man who was holding him, so that he could observe his surroundings. A little distance away, in a circle of rune-marked stones, lay a woman. Harry knew who she was, too; she had been foolish enough to venture too close to where he had dwelled—she had been unable to guard her secrets. And secrets she had held, some beautiful, powerful secrets. She could not have been allowed to keep them; Harry had had to know everything. Her mind was left broken, of course, but he had only needed her body. A broken mind was vulnerable to possession… She was still there somewhere, inside that thick skull of hers. How far she had come from the nosy, infuriating female she had once been! Lying there, naked, in a pool of blood, her own and sacrificial, her face locked into an expression of utmost agony.
("No, my faithful, I forbid you to kill her… She is not entirely useless. Bertha will serve me yet… someone has to tend to me while you are away on your mission...")
Harry preferred her like this, an empty-minded marionette. No doubt, if she could, she would have struggled against being a host to Harry as he'd travelled to the land where he'd once failed. She was but a vessel; Harry was not interested in her little tantrums. She had served her purpose: her womb and the seed within had been used in the darkest of magics. Unborn children had no minds to speak of; possessing, warping, twisting, owning—all a matter of a brief, nigh inexistent struggle and then death; for one that dies, another one shall live, for the one with the power to survive, to crush another's soul shall triumph. Harry would triumph; Harry would always triumph, for his power was unparalleled…
… All in all, it was not surprising that the first thing Harry did upon waking up was stagger into the bathroom and throw up. Afterwards, he collapsed on the cool tile floor and tried to catch his breath. He was covered in sweat and his scar was on fire, and he really, really wanted to forget his fucked-up nightmare and pretend that his subconscious had not come up with a bloodbath and a sacrificial altar and a horribly abused woman and the enjoyment that he'd felt from it all. When he was awake, Harry found absolutely no pleasure in the thought of other people's pain; he was not a sadist. And the idea of himself as spirit possessing a woman's womb, being born again as a hideous talking infant and tearing the woman's insides apart in the process made him want to hurl again.
Harry would not be going back to sleep that night; in fact, he'd rather not venture too far away from the bathroom.
xXxXx
A month later, Harry and Neville sat at the breakfast table in the Longbottom Manor and tried to digest the news of the violence at the Quidditch World Cup. Neville's hand trembled as he put the Daily Prophet down and Harry sighed, feeling deeply unsettled too. Over the past few years, he had got so used to viewing the wizarding dailyas a highly dubious source, that when it reported a Death Eater march at the World Cup, he'd at first thought it a mistake. Or a hoax. Or a delusion—there had to be a lot of deluded people in the government for the likes of Malfoy's dad to have them wrapped around his finger.
And yet, Harry had the odd gut feeling of something sinister stirring in the shadows; as if there was a puzzle being laid out and he was failing to decipher its design.
"Bet you're glad now that you're not at the Cup, though," Neville said in a transparent attempt at lightening the atmosphere.
Harry snorted. It did not sound particularly dignified—Nott's comments about decorum and purging your inner Muggle came to mind—but Harry didn't care. As a matter of fact, even if Dumbledore's fears did appear to be justified, he still resented the old man's interference.
He'd been really looking forward to the World Cup, and to hanging out with Blaise and Millie and Padma and the others. Except Dumbledore had sent him a letter, ever so politely urging him to decline such offers for reasons of safety. Which probably meant that Dumbledore didn't want him going about unsupervised, again.
Harry could probably have gone anyway, except then he'd have had to deal with Dumbledore's displeasure, and, well. If the confrontation with Sirius Black had taught him anything, it was to prepare for battle before you jumped into one.
"Harry?"
"Yeah?"
Neville waved his hand at the newspaper.
"I have a really bad feeling about this."
"I'm sure everyone has a bad feeling about this," Harry pointed out reasonably. "Well, except for the Death Eaters."
Neville frowned at him.
"You could be a little less flippant, you know. It's serious. If the Death Eaters are regrouping—"
"—they might start doing evil shit, yeah. Seems like they've begun already—juggling Muggles in the air? That's sick."
"Yes, it is," Neville agreed. "And just... please don't talk about Death Eaters lightly. It's not something you can joke about."
"Sorry." Harry sighed.
He supposed he and Neville had different coping mechanisms. Any mention of the Death Eaters or the war would plunge Neville into a solemn mood—which was not a surprise, considering that his parents were confined to St. Mungo's as a result of some permanent injury inflicted by Voldemort's servants. Harry was not clear on the details, but he knew that Neville went to see his parents sometimes and that their situation pained him greatly. Harry... well, he'd learnt that being open about your emotions would not necessarily bring you sympathy. Admitting to a sensitive topic in Slytherin amounted to inviting people to hit you where it hurt.
("Sirius Black was your parents' Secret Keeper, Potter. As soon as they performed the Charm, he went to the Dark Lord and spilled the beans. Then—whoops—your parents are dead. Very tragic. Don't you find?")
Of course, it helped if you could have the offender conveniently silenced by Parseltongue-activated furniture: even though the Slytherins were aware that Sirius Black was a painful subject for Harry, the man had gone unmentioned ever since that incident with Malfoy. However, Harry was still uncomfortable just thinking back to that day because, hello, he'd nearly strangled a classmate—he'd really rather never have a repeat of that. Controlling his emotions and not letting them rule him was something Harry had resolved to work on ever since his disastrous confrontation with Sirius Black. He winced just thinking of that encounter.
("One day, I'll hunt you down and kill you.")
God, just how melodramatic could he make himself sound? No wonder Sirius Black hadn't been impressed.
Either way, Harry's revengeful statements couldn't amount to much, since the man was innocent of the crimes he'd been accused of. Not that Harry felt Black was innocent. He knew it, intellectually—in retrospect, Black's behaviour all throughout the year made much more sense if he'd been trying to kill Ron Weasley's rat and not Harry. Besides, there had been Peter Pettigrew's corpse to prove Black's claims. All the same, Harry now wished he'd have requested to see that blasted corpse, because he had no image in his head to attach to the real murderer and instead only Sirius Black's deranged expression kept popping up, even three months later.
And it was a highly unpleasant memory. Harry didn't know whom he was angrier with, Black or himself, but he'd still not made his peace with the defeat at the man's hands.
And... yeah, he was probably being immature about this, but he had yet to tell any of his friends about Black's innocence. He should, really. And he would. Soon. However, telling them about it would involve bringing up Harry's inability to defend himself when confronted by Black, and he wasn't ready to talk about it until he'd worked through it in his own mind. He could already imagine Hermione going, Didn't I tell you to study more, and Blaise making fun of his failure, and Millie's disdain.
Fine, it would all be well deserved. Knowing it didn't mean he wanted to hear it from others in the immediate future.
And at least he was striving to do better now; instead of sulking, as he might have done last year, he channelled his frustration into the spells he practised in solitude for most of the day. It was great to be in a magical household: the Ministry could not detect who was performing magic, adult wizards or underage kids with the Trace on them. Harry took full advantage of that loophole to go through the book of rather nasty hexes that Blaise had sent him for his birthday. Harry had recognized straight from leafing through the book that Neville was not going to like the content—most spells seemed to be… questionable and certainly not in the Hogwarts curriculum. Therefore, he had decided that what Neville didn't know couldn't hurt him and disguised the cover as a monograph on the depiction of Animagi in Pushkin's Tale of Tsar Saltan. He'd spotted that book in the library at the Longbottom Manor and figured that, while Neville might find it strange that Harry was interested in such a title, at least he'd hardly open the book himself—so Harry's studies would fly under the radar.
Neville, in the meantime, retreated to the greenhouses. By silent agreement, they both decided to give each other some space to digest the morning's news, as to avoid taking out their moods on one another.
xXxXx
Hogwarts welcomed Harry back with the usual start-of-term bustle, the surprise announcement of the Triwizard Tournament, and the introduction of a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Two weeks later, most Slytherins still fervently wished that the post had been filled by someone, anyone else than Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody.
"Who wants to go first? You, Malfoy. We'll start with you. Your father's told you all about what it's like, hasn't he?" Moody gave a really unpleasant smile and watched with keen eyes, both normal and magical, for his target's reaction.
Malfoy was pale and almost shaking from anger; Nott wasn't in a much better state; Crabbe and Goyle were unperturbed only because they lacked the basic brain capacity to process most of Moody's insinuations. And boy, there'd been a lot of insinuations. In their first Defence class with Moody two weeks ago, Harry had been amazed as he watched Moody tear into the kids with suspected Death Eater ties. Perhaps it should have been expected—Moody's reputation for hating Dark wizards was legendary and his arrival had caused quite a stir in Slytherin—but Harry had still not believed it would be quite this bad. And now, Moody was going to cast the Imperius Curse on all of them in turn, with Dumbledore's approval, and Harry was sure he wouldn't make it easy. Moody quite revelled in seeing Malfoy, in particular, taken down a peg.
This was like—being a Gryffindor in Snape's class, or something.
"Now, stand up, boy. Imperio!"
Harry cringed inwardly, watching Malfoy impersonate a ferret. This behaviour looked even worse when juxtaposed with Malfoy's perfectly groomed hair and neatly pressed robes. Pansy was biting her lip in frustration as she watched; when her turn came, she was overcome by the urge to clean. For someone who had probably never dusted once in her life, she did a mean job cleaning the blackboard with her silken handkerchief. Blaise shot an extremely alarmed look at Harry when Moody called for Zabini and then, eyes vacant, proceeded to dance a spirited jig. Tracey Davis followed right after with an attempt to fly, using her book bag as a magic carpet. Theodore Nott did cartwheels, while Daphne Greengrass recited some wizarding nursery rhymes.
Well, at least everyone got to look like idiots together.
"Potter! Let's see how fare. Imperio!"
Immediately, Harry was filled with a nice floating feeling. All his worries seemed to sink into the background; there was no need to trouble himself with thinking. Now, if he only listened to the friendly voice in his head that told him to sing the Hogwarts school song, everything would be absolutely perfect. Harry had already opened his mouth, ready to start, when he was stopped by a vague feeling that he did not, actually, want to sing right now. The voice got more insistent: sing, it demanded. But the more Harry considered it, the less he felt like complying. The happy, careless feeling was dissipating, too; he was getting the impression that not everything was entirely right with that voice. Suddenly, the pressure increased, and the voice's commands got uncompromising; unable in equal parts to obey and to resist, Harry ended up opening his mouth and croaking against his will about hoggy warty Hogwarts for a few moments.
Then the spell lifted. The fog cleared immediately; Harry was left faintly disoriented and somewhat embarrassed.
"That's more like it!" Moody said, looking almost intrigued. "Potter fought the curse! Let's try again, then, laddie."
Moody kept casting the Imperius on Harry until Harry had finally managed to throw it off. It had not been a pleasant experience and he had a couple of bruises to prove it—aborting a movement mid-leap was never a good idea. Harry had also discovered that it was more difficult to resist the curse if it did not demand anything too outrageous from him. He'd had more trouble, for example, defying the command to simply sit down at his desk, than one to come up to Daphne Greengrass and declare his undying love for her. His subconscious knew full well that he didn't love Daphne Greengrass and did not want to confess to her; sitting down, on the other hand, didn't sound like a bad idea.
Being able to throw off the Imperius Curse was pretty damn neat, though.
Once the class ended, everyone filed out, a little subdued. Blaise and Millie exited with Harry, probing him for tips on resisting the Imperius. Daphne and Tracy smiled at Harry as they passed by; Malfoy, on the other hand, was still fuming. He walked next to Parkinson and Nott, conversing with them in hushed tones. Malfoy and Nott seemed to experience greater mutual understanding after Moody's classes then ever; normally, Nott, just like Greengrass and Davis, held back from joining either Harry or Malfoy's groups.
"Watch where you're going, Weasley!"
Harry turned from his conversation with Millie to see Malfoy snarling at Ron Weasley, who seemed nonplussed by the sudden attack. It figured—Malfoy would be looking for someone to take his anger out on, and who better than a conveniently available Weasley?
"I didn't even do anything, you sleazeball!" Ron cried, affronted.
"You exist, Weasley, that's more than enough."
They were blocking the hallway. Well, Crabbe and Goyle were doing most of the blocking; Malfoy just sort of tried to loom over Ron Weasley. Of course, none of Harry's classmates were going to intervene: Parkinson and Nott approved, Tracey and Daphne wouldn't dare try to take Malfoy's favourite chew toy away, and Blaise and Millie were clearly planning to let Harry handle it. Harry sighed.
"Does this have to happen here and now?" he interjected, coming to a stop near Malfoy. "Don't take it wrong, Weasley, I'm charmed to see you—"
"Yeah, well, I'd just rather you went and stuck your head in the toilet," Ron replied, making a disgusted face.
"Too bad no one cares what you want, Weasley," Malfoy sneered.
"Besides, you're blocking the hallway, so I can't exactly go anywhere," Harry said. "So how about everyone gets moving?"
"I didn't even start this!" Weasley sputtered indignantly. "Tell your friend Malfoy to stop being a jerk!"
With effort, Harry held back from snorting at the ridiculous suggestion that he and Malfoy were friends. They had Slytherin public unity to blame for that misconception of Weasley's part, but Harry hadn't even explained the intricacies of Slytherin politics to Neville and Hermione, so he definitely wasn't going to start reassuring Weasley. Apart from which, anyone with two eyes should have been able to see by now that Harry and Malfoy hung out with different groups of people, which was not exactly how best friends acted.
"—waste of my time," Malfoy concluded. Harry hadn't caught the beginning, but figured he wasn't missing much. "Vince, Greg, let's go."
Now that Malfoy had told his pet Neanderthals to stand down, traffic in the corridor resumed; Harry waved to Neville and Hermione as he walked past, hurrying to the next class.
"I'm so looking forward to seeing the Skrewts again, aren't you?" Blaise said brightly.
"Oh yes," Harry agreed. "They make my days worth living."
"Do you think Warrington will actually try to enter the Triwizard Tournament?" Millie asked, changing the topic.
Harry shrugged.
"He said he might. I don't speak to him much outside of Quidditch, and there's none of that this year."
"I'd rather support Warrington than Diggory," Millicent said, scowling.
"Cedric isn't bad."
"He's a Hufflepuff."
"Millie, Harry's made us hang out with a Mudblood," Blaise uttered dramatically. "What makes you think he'll draw the line at Hufflepuffs?"
What, indeed.
xXxXx
Harry was looking at the freshly arrived Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students in interest, wondering where they would sit. The Durmstrang lot seemed better adjusted to Scottish weather than the Beauxbatons students in their silk uniforms—but then again, the Durmstrang ones were wearing fur. That had to be pretty damn warm. Harry's gaze kept wandering to a really tall and beautiful Beauxbatons girl with long blonde hair—he was quite sure he'd never seen anyone so attractive. She didn't seem too thrilled to be at Hogwarts, though; while the Durmstrang lot appeared impressed by the enchanted ceiling and golden dishes, the girl kept gossiping with her friends and wrinkling her nose in distaste.
Lost in his contemplation of the beautiful French girl, Harry almost missed it when the Durmstrang students approached the Slytherin table, choosing to sit there.
"Hello. I am Draco Malfoy," Malfoy said, leaning over from his seat to extend a hand to Viktor Krum. The blond looked positively delighted to have the Durmstrang people at their table. "I hope you enjoy your stay at Hogwarts."
Harry observed in interest. From what he'd heard about Krum, he was an exceptional Seeker. He'd caught the Snitch at the Quidditch World Cup finals, too; had Harry gone, he would have seen Krum in action. Up close, the guy did not look handsome enough to justify the way girls all over the hall were sighing over him—he had a large nose, thick eyebrows and a rather awkward manner to move for someone reportedly fluid in the air.
"Hello," Krum replied, shaking Malfoy's hand. "I am Viktor Krum. It is very good to be at Hogvarts." He turned to look at Harry. "And you are Harry Potter?"
"Yes." Harry smiled at the expression on Malfoy's face—impotent fury mixed with jealousy. "It's nice to meet you too. I didn't realize you were still at school, to be honest."
Krum nodded.
"Many people do not," he answered. Everything he said came out in a rather serious, gravelly voice, but Harry was pretty sure the accent was to blame for that. "I miss a lot of classes. At Durmstrang, they make special agreement for me."
The conversation then turned to how the Durmstrang students were going to keep studying while away from school, what they thought of Hogwarts and how they expected the Tournament to go. Overall, they seemed like a somewhat reserved lot, and Krum gave the impression of being a sensible guy. The way he remained utterly unimpressed with Malfoy's fawning earned him major bonus points with Harry—and besides, much like Harry himself, he did not seem to enjoy flaunting his fame.
Once everyone had eaten, Dumbledore got up and unveiled the impartial judge that would select the future Triwizard champions—the Goblet of Fire.
"Those students who wish to enter the Tournament should write their name on a slip of paper and put it into the Goblet, which will be active from now on and until tomorrow evening." Dumbledore made a pause as excited murmurs swept through the hall. "I implore you, however, to be very sure that you wish to enter, for there can be no chance for reconsideration once your name is selected. Furthermore, I shall draw an Age Line around the Goblet, so as to prevent anyone under the age of seventeen from circumventing the age restriction."
Dumbledore seemed to be looking at the Weasley twins as he said that; Harry could see them conversing urgently at the Gryffindor table, probably thinking up ways to hoodwink the Age Line. At the Slytherin table, too, conversation became more agitated—the Durmstrang students talked to each other in a language Harry couldn't identify, while the discussion in English centred on who would put their names in and who could possibly become the Hogwarts champion. Malfoy, predictably, boasted that he could easily enter the Tournament if he wished to do so, only to be reminded of his place by Charles Warrington's supporters and Lavinia Yaxley's group of seventh years. Blaise went against popular opinion and called the Tournament an assisted suicide.
Harry wondered how on earth the Goblet would be able to determine, knowing only a person's name, whether they were good enough—never mind what it would read the names with. Magic worked in odd, odd ways, as the wizarding world never tired of reminding him.
Anyway, by this time tomorrow, the speculation would end—they'd know the names of all three champions.
xXxXx
The fourth slip of paper flew out of the Goblet amid dead silence.
"Harry Potter," Dumbledore read out, frowning—and the Hall hushed, and everyone stared at Harry, and Harry felt his smile for Cedric's success freeze on his face.
"Harry, go," Millicent hissed in his ear.
So he went. Up between the tables of gossiping students, under the scrutiny of kids, teachers and guests. Even Hagrid wasn't smiling at him. Harry walked out of the Great Hall and into the small adjacent room completely on autopilot. He knew he had to keep moving; he knew he couldn't look weak; but damn if he wasn't feeling numb with shock. How could he possibly be another champion? There were meant to be three, as in Triwizard Tournament, not—Quatriwizard or whatever. And it was dangerous—only seventeen-year-olds were allowed to enter, what chances would Harry have?
And now he stood at the entrance to the champions' room, staring at Cedric Diggory, Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum—the true champions. The ones who had volunteered for this shit.
"Harry?" Cedric asked, concerned, and Harry shook himself inwardly. He needed to keep it together, here, if he wanted to get out of this somehow.
"Hey," Harry said, trying out his voice for the first time since Dumbledore's announcement.
"What is it?" Fleur Delacour asked, flipping her hair back. For once, her beauty did not distract Harry. "Do zey want us back in ze 'All?"
"It's a bit more complicated," Harry forced out.
"Vat—" Krum started, but he was interrupted by one of the Tournament officials bursting into the room.
"Extraordinary!" the tall heavyset man cried in evident excitement, grabbing Harry's arm. "Absolutely extraordinary!"
"Not extraordinary as much as illegal," Harry hissed, freeing himself.
"Illegal?" The man's eyes widened.
"I'm fourteen, in case you didn't know—this Tournament is for those over seventeen, so I can't possibly compete!"
"Compete?" the French girl repeated, frowning.
"Harry, what's going on?" Cedric asked, in his usual conciliatory manner, although he too sounded unnerved.
"What's going on is that my name came out of the bloody Goblet," Harry snapped, eyes trained on the Tournament official who'd begun looking somewhat uncomfortable under Harry's glare. "Will you maybe explain to me how that happened, Mr… whoever you are?"
"Ludo Bagman." The man went with answering the easier question. "Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."
At that moment, the door from the Great Hall opened again to let in a new group of people: Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Durmstrang's Headmaster Karkaroff, Beauxbatons' Headmistress Madame Maxime, and a zombie-looking Ministry official. A shouting match between the adults ensued which would have been entertaining under other circumstances. Harry's input was only required once—to state that he had not put his name in the Goblet—but even that was perfunctory: none of these adults had really expected him to say yes. While Madame Maxime and Karkaroff were ranting at a serene Dumbledore, Harry exchanged glances with Cedric.
"I'd say I'm sorry about this, except that I'm mostly mad," Harry said quietly.
"I take it you didn't put your name in the Goblet?" The older boy frowned.
Harry shot him a dirty look.
"Why the hell would I want to?"
"Because being a Triwizard champion is about the hottest thing you can be this year?"
Point.
"Hate to remind you, but I'm the Boy-Who-Lived. I don't need to look for ways to make myself even more exciting. Seriously—do I look like someone who wants to compete in this stupid Tournament?"
Cedric considered Harry carefully. He seemed to be genuinely trying to figure out whether Harry had put his name in the Goblet, which made Harry feel a little sick—if Cedric, who'd known him a while, was not sure he could trust him, what would the rest of the school think?
"This is going to be the Heir of Slytherin all over again, isn't it," Harry muttered, resigned.
Cedric gave him a tight smile.
"We'll figure something out. And we'll certainly not let it get that far."
Harry glanced at Cedric—did that mean that Cedric believed him?—but their attention was diverted by Karkaroff finally posing a relevant question:
"Mr. Crouch, Mr. Bagman, as our—er—objective judges, you can tell us—surely, letting a fourth champion compete goes most grievously against the Tournament rules?"
Bagman wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and looked to the other man, Mr. Crouch, for assistance.
"The rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the Tournament," Crouch intoned.
Harry's heart plummeted.
"I didn't sign up for this," he said firmly and loudly, attracting everyone's notice for the first time. "There's no way you can force me to compete."
"Mr. Potter—"
"Look, it's not fair to me, it's not fair to Cedric, and it's not fair to Durmstrang and Beauxbatons! Everyone will be better off if you don't include me in this—"
"Ze boy is right," Madame Maxime acknowledged from her impressive height.
"I demand that the Goblet is taken out again and my students are allowed to re-submit their names," Karkaroff insisted. "If the Potter boy gets to participate, my school should get two champions as well—"
"I've just said I'm not going to compete!"
"I'm afraid you must, Harry," Dumbledore said solemnly. "From the moment your name came out of the Goblet of Fire, you have entered into a magically binding contract—"
"Oh really? Thanks, that's hugely reassuring—"
"Potter!" Snape growled. "Enough of your cheek."
Harry rolled his eyes. Dumbledore sent him a reproachful glance—but, really, what had he been expecting?
"This is ridiculous," Karkaroff hissed. "I have half a mind to leave now!"
"Empty threat, Karkaroff," Moody's voice said from the doorway.
Harry noticed the way the Durmstrang Headmaster tensed up at once. Snape, too, seemed quite uncomfortable in Moody's presence.
Moody then proceeded to unveil his accusation that someone was trying to endanger Harry by forcing him to participate in the Tournament. It was all a bit too much to process at the moment, but Harry filed the idea away for later consideration.
"Well, I say we give the champions their instructions for the first task!" Ludo Bagman cried jovially, rubbing his palms together. It was as if this situation didn't faze the guy at all. "Barty, want to do the honours?"
Harry listened as the aloof Ministry official, Barty Crouch, related the rules for the first task. Fighting the unknown didn't seem like a good idea to Harry, so he resolved to find out as much as possible about the challenge in advance. People started leaving soon after Crouch was done; Fleur Delacour departed with Madame Maxime and Krum with Karkaroff, all of them looking highly dissatisfied still. Dumbledore had only had time to say: "Harry, Cedric, I suggest that you go up to bed," before Professor Snape interrupted him:
"Actually, I want Potter to come with me."
Snape looked well and truly furious. His dark eyes glittered with anger and his lips were opened in a half-snarl, revealing an uneven row of yellowing teeth; all in all, he looked rather frightening, in a rabid-beast-out-of-control sort of way.
"Of course, Severus," Dumbledore replied. "Good night, Harry."
Harry threw a dark glance at Dumbledore—who had the nerve to smile at him in a grandfatherly fashion—and nodded to Cedric in farewell.
Bye, Cedric. It was nice knowing you. Too bad my Head of House is about to kill me dead.
Professor Snape had, however, waited until his office to start on Harry.
"Now, Potter. Do enlighten me: what on earth possessed you to put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"
Harry frowned, refusing to flinch away from the professor's heavy glare.
"I didn't put it in."
Snape's eyes bore into Harry's relentlessly, as if the man expected to dig the truth out of Harry's skull that way.
"I didn't put my name in the Goblet."
More of that accusing, penetrating stare.
"I honestly didn't! Why would I want to, I don't know enough to compete, I'm just beginning my fourth year, I know I can't do this—"
He was not having a breakdown in front of Snape. He was not doing this right now. Not here.
Harry averted his eyes and took a few deep breaths. The disgusting-looking something in jars on the shelves of Snape's office did not make him feel at all better.
When he glanced back at his Head of House, the man was surveying him with a frown.
"Very well, Potter. Perhaps you did not put your name in the Goblet."
Harry didn't think he was successful in concealing his amazement, but at least he'd managed not to gape. Did Snape, the man who'd always really disliked him, just say that he believed Harry?
"However—" And here the Potions master's look turned menacing once again. "—this means that somebody else submitted your name, probably under a fourth school, making sure that you would be selected. Now, this might be a case of hero-worship for the Boy-Who-Lived—" Snape's lip curled in a sneer. "—or that paranoid maniac Moody might be right. It is possible that someone entered your name in full awareness that you cannot be expected to compete based on your current skills. Does that bode well for you, Potter?"
Harry's mouth was dry.
"No, sir."
"Indeed. The Triwizard Tournament is not as dangerous as it used to be in the bygone days, but accidents can still happen. Especially since none of the tasks are to be conducted in a particularly controlled environment. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Potter?"
That I'm toast.
"I have to be careful, sir."
"You have to be more than careful, you imbecile. Someone in this school possibly wishes you enough harm to guarantee that you risk your life thrice before the school year is over. Be on guard at all times, Potter—or else be prepared to suffer the consequences."
Harry nodded, dully gazing at the stone floor of Snape's office. If Snape of all people was warning him, the situation had to be pretty dire indeed.
xXxXx
When Harry returned to the Slytherin common room, a jubilant atmosphere greeted him. A great many students were milling about, gossiping excitedly and drinking butterbeer; a large poster of a roaring snake swallowing a cup labelled as Triwizard adorned one of the walls. The mood and the décor left no doubt as to the fact that most of the House was quite enthusiastic about one of their own participating in the Tournament. The younger kids appeared to be particularly thrilled, while some of the older students sulked around the corners of the room, watching the celebration disapprovingly. Malfoy was, predictably, one of them, but he and Warrington were the only members of Quidditch team who did not come up to Harry once he'd entered.
("Didn't know you had it in you, Potter—good job, so how did you get past the Age Line?")
Harry tried to protest that he hadn't put his name into the Goblet, but all he got in return were winks and meaningful looks. They accepted his denial as a perfunctory attempt to maintain his innocence and avoid getting in trouble; in this regard, they hadn't really expected him to confess. Still, the Slytherins did not seem to entertain, even for a moment, the idea that Harry had not entered himself into the Tournament. Most seemed to approve; some did not. Charles Warrington was nursing his injured pride—a measly fourth year had managed to get into the Tournament where he'd failed. Popular seventh year girl Lavinia Yaxley sneered and said that Harry was bound to get crushed in the Tournament and bring disgrace to Slytherin. Malfoy sided with her, insofar as she let him, but mostly just vented his anger at anyone who would listen. On the other hand, influential sixth years Miles Bletchley, Edward Montague and a few of their friends—both from the Quidditch team and beyond—had chosen to support Harry and offered their help in making sure that he'd do well in the Tournament.
("'Cause you might have been able to get yourself into the Tournament, but there's no way you're good enough for those tasks, so don't get a big head.")
Harry could not put into words how far he was from getting a big head about this. The offer of help surprised him greatly; fair enough, the Quidditch guys had sometimes taught him a spell or two here and there, but they'd never taken a real interest in him. He'd be almost touched if he didn't know that they were only offering to make sure that the Slytherin champion wouldn't suffer a humiliating loss. Whatever their motivations, though, Harry wasn't going to refuse. Well, his initial reflex had been to say no, thanks, because he'd always tried to deal with his problems by himself—but doing so would be really stupid, here. Harry knew he wasn't skilled enough yet and hadn't he decided, last year, that he'd try his best to get better? Here was the perfect opportunity; if not for the Triwizard Tournament, the older Slytherins would never have deigned to share their knowledge with him. With their help, he might not only survive the Tournament, but also go a long way to becoming stronger.
There was the silver lining he'd been looking for.
It took Harry a while to get through the throng of curious students and make his way to his couch, where Blaise and Millie were waiting.
"And he returns!" Blaise cried, feigning a fainting fit. "The sun is shining so brightly out of your arse, I can hardly look at your brilliant self!"
"Then don't," Harry advised, wondering what this greeting meant, exactly.
It was always hard to tell with Blaise when he was genuinely angry; he had perfected passive aggression into an art form.
"Mind explaining yourself?" Millie snapped, narrowing her eyes. "I didn't think you wanted to participate in the Tournament."
"I don't," Harry said, ire rising again. "I have no idea how my name ended up in that stupid Goblet."
"Shhh," the upholstery snakes hissed comfortingly as he sat down on the couch.
"Of course you don't want to compete," Blaise agreed. "You've never seemed suicidal to me."
Harry frowned at him; he was too wound up for word games.
"Does this mean you believe that I didn't put my name in the Goblet?" he asked bluntly.
"I'll believe anything you say, Harry," Blaise said, putting a hand over his heart.
Millie whacked Blaise on the head with a pillow, disregarding indignant hisses from the snakes. Then again, she didn't know what they were calling her, exactly.
"Stop being such a clown," she demanded. "This is a serious situation. Harry, do you have to compete even if you don't want to?"
"Dumbledore said it's a magically binding contract." Harry scowled. "Whatever that means." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Wait a second, I'll be right back."
Harry walked swiftly back to the group of sixth year boys, who were now laughing together about something.
"Pucey?" he asked. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
Adrian Pucey raised his eyebrows questioningly, but assented and stepped away from the others to speak with Harry.
"What do you want, Potter?"
"Your father works in law, right?"
"Yeah, so?"
"Do you happen to know anything about binding magical contracts?"
"Getting cold feet about the Tournament already, Potter?" Pucey asked with a smirk.
"So you know it's a binding contract," Harry pressed, ignoring the gibe.
Finding out more about magical law was his primary concern right now. Maybe there was a way to get out of the Tournament or get disqualified or something? He'd research it, of course, but it would be good to get at least basic information on it as soon as possible.
Pucey shrugged.
"Magical contracts are pretty straightforward, actually. What do you already know?"
Harry shook his head, indicating his utter lack of expertise on the subject. He'd never needed to worry about magical contracts before.
"Right." Pucey sighed and sat down on an armrest of the couch they were convening by. "Long story short: there are two types of contracts. One you can choose to break, the other you can't. The toughest example of the one you can break is the Unbreakable Vow—"
"Er, isn't it called—"
"Unbreakable, yeah, but the name's ironic, because you can fail to fulfil the requirement and then you're dead. See what I mean? There are minor contracts like this—you promise to return five Galleons, or if not, you'll get warts. That sort of thing. So you have a threat hanging over you, but you can choose to back out and suffer the consequences. With me so far?"
"Yeah," Harry said.
"Now, the contracts you can't break actually influence your actions. You will not break them because it's impossible. Singing the Scroll of Secrecy, putting your name in the Goblet of Fire, stuff like that—these contracts won't let you break them and that's that."
"Not let me—how?" Harry asked. He didn't think it sounded very good at all.
Pucey waved an impatient hand.
"I don't know how it works, but their magic—the magic of the Goblet—will make you participate."
"Like the Imperius?" Harry ascertained, because it sounded a lot like mind-control to him.
"No," Pucey replied, looking scandalized. "Of course not. It's just a restriction on your actions and, remember, it's assumed that you agree to this when you put your name in the Goblet. You decide to participate—the Goblet only makes sure you don't chicken out when things get rough."
"In that case, why do I feel like not participating right now?" Harry challenged. "I don't want to compete at all—"
"Didn't you just make plans to train up for the Tournament?" Pucey asked rhetorically. "You won't get out of this, Potter—deal with it. You should have asked these questions before you put your name in the Goblet."
Harry clenched his fists angrily; for the millionth time, he did not choose this!
"Wait a second," he said, suddenly wondering. "How is a magical contract formed? I mean, imagine for a moment that I did not put my name in the Goblet—"
"You have to have written your name," Pucey stated firmly. "Your name written by your own hand is in a lot of contracts. Names are important, you know."
Harry was thinking furiously. If he hadn't written his name, and nobody else but him could have done it—
"Did my name have to be written for putting it into the Goblet?" he asked. "I mean, could it have been my name torn from a piece of homework or something?"
Pucey looked at him in interest.
"That's actually a good question," he mused. "I mean, normally, if a contract requires signing, you know what you are signing and why. With the Goblet, you're just throwing random pieces of paper with your name in… I'd have to ask my dad, but it sounds doable."
"Can you ask him, please?" Harry said. "I'd really appreciate it."
With a nod, Pucey got up and then regarded him seriously for a moment.
"I still think that you're digging for information so that you'd have an alibi, but—if someone did actually submit your name for you, then it's a pretty shitty situation you're in, Potter."
No, really? And here Harry was wondering where this strange sinking feeling was coming from.
xXxXx
Over the next couple of days, Harry had to face the fact that not everyone would be convinced that he didn't want to participate in the Tournament. A significant part of the school had turned against him—people threw insults at him in the corridors, openly expressed the hope that he would fail ignominiously, and a couple of particularly irate Gryffindors had even tried to hex him. Harry wouldn't have found it so annoying if he'd actually entered the Tournament willingly, but as it was, the unfairness rankled. However, after a couple of days of seething with rage and having had a conversation with Millicent about being so cute for expecting everyone to be fair, Harry chose to try and control open outbreaks of his anger. Oh, he was still pissed off as hell, but Millie was right at least in one thing—he was making himself an easier target by showing how people's comments got to him. He needed to cultivate a calm, unruffled facade in the face of adversity.
Well. This would be good practice for that temper control he'd been planning to exercise—although the decision to learn to control his emotions had been much easier to make when he hadn't had this shit to deal with.
Honestly, though, the situation was not as bad as he'd expected it to be. At least now, only a part of the school had turned against him, unlike the way he'd become persona non grata for most people back in second year. Seeing the way he and Cedric remained friendly, a lot of people accepted the idea of two champions rather peacefully. A good many Hufflepuffs, of course, felt resentful that Harry was stealing the glory their House so rarely received, but Cedric had enough influence—especially now—to keep the most avid Harry-haters from going on an all-out crusade. Harry had been worried about the twins' reaction, but they took it pretty much for granted that if they couldn't get into the tournament, then Harry certainly wouldn't have the skills. Besides, they seemed preoccupied with something else these days.
And currently, Harry sat at a table in the library, having just finished telling everything to the rest of his friends, and waited for their response. Neville and Padma had accepted him at his word without hesitation—he could see it written on their faces. Hermione, Terry and Anthony seemed to be mulling over his explanation still.
"Well," Hermione said, speaking in a tone that was suitably quiet for the library, "if you didn't put your name in the Goblet, who did?"
"And why?" Terry added, not bothering to keep his voice down, since Madam Pince was not there to frown at them.
"That's the question." Harry nodded darkly. He'd spent a lot of time wondering what fucked-up bastard had put his name in the Goblet. "I've looked it up. I can't get out of participating in the Tournament—" Anthony nodded at this; he must have researched it too. "—but I want to find whoever is responsible for sticking me into this position. And do something to them that will involve great amounts of pain."
"I'll help you," Neville volunteered. "I'm not sure about the pain part, but I think we should find out who put your name in the Goblet."
"Yes," Hermione said pensively, "I agree that we should try to find out who put Harry's life at such risk."
"It's going to be great!" Padma clapped her hands, beaming. "Just like our own murder mystery. I love those."
"I'd prefer if you enjoyed them at someone else's expense," Harry muttered.
"Schadenfreude," Anthony said.
"Bless you."
"Never mind." Anthony sighed. "So who could have done it?"
"Or had the motive?" Terry added.
The six of them spent the next hour going through all possible suspects in the crime. The only fact they knew for certain was that the culprit was over seventeen years of age. There were also minor requirements—being strong enough to Confund the Goblet and having access to Harry's homework—but these were really difficult to measure. Who knew how strong any average student was? And homework could be easily stolen—it's not like Harry could account for the whereabouts of each and every one of his submitted assignments. Some he retained, others he'd trashed, or lost… As it was, all teachers, all Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students present, all seventh years, some sixth years and two Ministry officials fit the culprit's profile.
"I'm glad we've narrowed it down so much," Harry said.
An exhausting debate ensued. Hermione maintained that, even apart from the fact that suspecting professors was ludicrous, they had all taught Harry for years and had had numerous opportunities to depose of him in a less convoluted way. Padma countered that it could hardly be someone from Durmstrang or Beauxbatons, because why would they give Hogwarts two champions? Anthony interrupted their squabble with the statement that the culprit could technically be absolutely anyone with a grudge against Harry—or a desire to see the Boy-Who-Lived among Hogwarts champions.
"So there are two major motives," Terry concluded, sitting up straighter in his chair. "We can see which motive fits whom."
All Hogwarts teachers and most students might have wanted Harry to be the second champion. Anyone at all might have wished to do Harry in for their personal reasons. In the end, there remained five people who seemed to have less of a motive than everyone else: Igor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor Moody, Ludo Bagman and Mr. Crouch. The latter two were impartial observers, making no profit whatsoever from Hogwarts having an extra champion—if anything, the situation had caused an international scandal for the Ministry. Moody had once mentioned that he was at Hogwarts this year as a personal favour to Dumbledore, to keep an eye on things, and Harry being put in danger ran counter to his goals. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime were negatively affected by Harry becoming an extra Hogwarts champion.
"Wonderful!" Padma said, writing their names down. "We have our suspects."
Hermione stared at her, aghast.
"We've just decided that they have no reason to put Harry's name in the Goblet!"
"Precisely," Padma agreed. "It means they must be involved."
"How is this logical?" Hermione demanded. "Life is not a murder mystery novel! The one who is least suspicious is not necessarily the one guilty—"
Harry exchanged glances with Terry and Anthony. Last time Anthony had braved breaking up their argument; who would be the next courageous soul? Terry shook his head frantically. Harry sighed.
"Well," he said loudly, "there is no harm in trying to research these people. It gives us a nice place to start, since there's only five of them."
"And six of us," Terry continued supportively.
"I'll tell the others, too," Harry said, thinking of Blaise, Millie and the twins.
By the end of the conversation, Harry was somehow more optimistic about his prospects. This was something he could do. With the help of his friends, he would find the bastard who had put his name in the Goblet and discover why they had done it. This and the training he'd arranged for with the sixth year Slytherins made Harry feel that he had wrenched some control over his life back from the thrice-damned Goblet of Fire—and that was a highly welcome development.
