Author's Note: Apologies for the delay in me getting this out. I got distracted with watching The Reduced Shakespeare Company's The Complete Works of Shakespeare Abridged. XD From this point on, however, Paradise Lost will be updated on Saturdays and Jörmungandr on Wednesdays. Also, before I get this next chapter started, I wish to put the pimpin' hat on once more, this time for Elective Affinities, by Caecelia. It's been an absolutely amazing story thus far, and the writer's Snape is… so incredibly Snape-y. Probably the most IC Snape I've ever read. It's an utterly wonderful read, and I hope that you all will take the chance to give it a try. I promise that you won't be disappointed. *hearts* And, finally, because I've gotten so many questions asking about this particular issue within PL: No, we haven't seen the last of Diary!Tom. (And he's rather miffed that some of you are worried that Dumbledore of all people offed him. *laughs*)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cause and effect.
The world weighed itself through each element, one circling to the other, forever intertwined, forever linked: a circular pattern that could never truly be broken because one aspect could not exist without the other: a butterfly takes off from the very edge of a flower's petal in Nepal and Atlantis crumbles, and gasps its last breath before sinking beneath the greedily hungry waves of the sea.
Cause and effect.
One connected to the other, twisted into the impossibly complex Celtic knot of infinity.
Draco ended up leaving Harry be for several hours, but the boy's boredom—per usual—got the better of him in the end. It was an hour before supper that the blonde teen went adventuring through his own home to look for his friend and, to his lack of surprise, the boy found the dark-haired Slytherin in the library. However, while Harry's location did not come as a shock, the book that was in his hands did.
"Where did you find that? How did you find that? It should have been impossible for you to read it!" Draco said, stumbling slightly when he caught sight of the tome's title. The Grimoire had been in his family for generations—ever since the first Malfoy had left Brittany behind to make a new home within the magic-saturated isle. The tome had been his family's best-kept secret, the one book that the Aurors never managed to find despite the sporadic raids that the Ministry still occasionally conducted upon the estate.
Thinking that Draco was acting perhaps a little bit overdramatic, Harry quirked an eyebrow and glanced up from his reading, gaze slightly hazy from the magic that seeped out from each and every page; he didn't bother moving too fast, knowing that the suddenness would just make him dizzy—would probably, with his luck, cause him to pass out.
"The book was easy to find," Harry informed the blonde, tone frank. "It told me where it was, after all."
Draco stared. "…it's a book."
Harry stared back and slowly let his brow quirk just a bit higher. "A book that has been steeped in magic for nearly two thousand years. It's fed off of your family's lineage for generations—haven't you ever paid attention to how it feels? It's practically sentient."
While Harry's argument might have been logical and concise—and perhaps it did have a point—there was still one flaw in it, and Draco was more than happy to point it out. "Maybe. But that's the Malfoy family's grimoire. You shouldn't be able to open it, let alone read it." Knowing that his father wouldn't be pleased with knowing that an outsider was learning about the Dark Arts that the Malfoys had kept close to their chests for years upon years, Draco reached out so that he might take the ancient tome from his friend's hands.
And then was immediately stung by the book's bindings.
Yelping, Draco jumped back in surprise and horror, fingers childishly coming up to his mouth so that he could suck away the sting. It… it had bit him! The bloody book had attacked him! Him, of all people! Amused by his friend's antics, Harry snorted and shrugged a shoulder. "I did tell you that it liked me."
"Yeah, well. It can bugger off," Draco said with a scowl, to which Harry laughed and the tome spat a fat green spark at its family's heir. The blonde jumped slightly in surprise at the almost intelligent—though silent—remark upon his comment, and promptly edged away.
It was… strange. He had studied from the book several times before, typically during the summer holidays and when his father had had time to sit down with the boy next to him; Draco had never been allowed to turn the pages—always, always, it had been the Malfoy patriarch. It had forever remained tame beneath his father's touch, and the fact that it was lively in Harry's hold—that it actually responded, and negatively at that!, to a Malfoy…
It frightened Draco.
Concerned him, too, most definitely.
As Harry watched the thoughts fly over Draco's face, the fear that settled deep in the back of his gaze, the raven-haired Slytherin just smiled slightly. Gesture nonchalant, he placed the grimoire down upon one of the pillows scattered about the alcove that he had claimed for his own, and the book almost seemed to sigh longingly as he took his touch away from it. The sound—the sound—made Draco shiver slightly, and he met Harry's gaze as the boy, his friend, unfolded himself from his lanky sprawl.
The pureblooded wizard stared at the other, and a thought swam to the forefront of his mind, lingering as the moment stretched on and Harry continued to meet his gaze with his own verdant green one.
What are you?
Draco knew that Harry was special, but…
But.
"Come, Draco. Supper will be held soon, and it would be rude of us to keep your parents waiting," Harry said suddenly as he broke the terse silence that settled between the two boys. Not knowing what he should say in reply except an agreement—what else was one to do, after all?—Draco nodded and followed closely at Harry's heels as the dark-haired Slytherin led them both out of the library.
Draco followed after Harry Potter, and the heir could not understand what had changed within the other boy that made a small frisson of fear trickle down Draco's spine as the green-eyed Slytherin glanced over his shoulder to give the other teen a small smile. No, Draco didn't know what had changed—
But he was intelligent enough to realize that something had.
The dreams hadn't come in such a long time, and Harry had begun to wonder if any of it had truly been real. The dark silhouette that draped itself over him, a phantasm-sleek gauze that veiled the world from his eyes. The whispers had remained, yes—but oftentimes so soft that the Slytherin thought them aspects of his imagination.
Lies, he knew instinctively, but lies told to make himself feel better.
But, oh, this night the dreams returned—the primordial forest left behind, spinning gracelessly beneath Harry as the boy flew and fell, falling falling and falling further much like Lucifer had when he had been exiled from Heaven: tossed out and tumbling recklessly down, down, down. The stars above pinwheeled and the lights of towns and villages and cities below spun dizzily until earth merged with heaven and heaven with earth, eternity stretching out into one breathless moment.
Haaarry…
Come, Haaarry…
Heed my call, Haaarry, before it is too late for you…
Before it is too late for me.
Haaarry…
The tumbling, twirling, spinning chaos stopped—and the universe held its breath in bated anticipation—and Harry met quietly glowing hellfire eyes, eyes the color of the blood that beat within his breast. Red, those eyes, scarlet as heart's blood… his scar throbbed, stinging for less than a second before delicious heat spread through his body. There was a call, an urge that the boy knew that he should resist... and yet couldn't bring himself to care: it was dancing with fire, this danger, and it was a dance that Harry craved to indulge himself in.
It was just a single, curious thought, but Harry reached out to caress his mind against the stranger's.
There was a trembling from the other at the sensation, and the fact that Harry was reaching out—there was a muted gasp, the echoing of an arched body, and a sibilant hiss threaded through Harry's consciousness to draw the boy in closer.
Come to me, Haaarry…
The touch of fingertips against his throat, a barest glide of skin against skin that came up to trace along the sleeping boy's jawline: a brush against the cupid's bow of Harry's bottom lip—and it was that last touch that caused the Slytherin to draw away, lashes finally lifting so that he might open his eyes to look upon a midnight-kissed bedroom.
Not all was as Harry had expected, however:
The dark silhouette, the one that Harry had thought that he had seen before—truly had, what with this evidence before him—hovered over his prone body, what would have been the thing's hands braced on either side of his head. The boy stilled, a frisson of fear sliding up his spine, but the phantasm leaned in closer still. A velveteen chuckle purred its way through the shadowed corners of the room, lingering temptingly, and the ebon-dark silhouette settled lower.
A brief touch of lips against the lightning shape of Harry's scar—
His name, whispered in a voice that filled the boy with the scent of darkest chocolate—
And the first faint stirring of interest, subdued in the beginning, from the green-eyed Slytherin as the briefest hint of a solid weight pinned his body to the mattress beneath him before the night-visiting creature finally faded from view. He felt the warmth of another person, felt how the bed dipped from the weight at his side, felt the masculine chest pressed snugly against his own…
When he knew himself completely alone once more, Harry rolled onto his side and brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms snugly about the knobby bones as the teen wiggled his body beneath the warmth of the comforter. That… that had not been a dream. He had been awake, had his eyes open through it all. The touch had been real, and the touch—that seemingly innocent kiss—had caught his interest in a way that Harry had never before experienced.
Shifting beneath the covers and bringing one hand up from its clasp at his knees, Harry smoothed his fingertips over his mouth, imitating the touch that had lingered there for just a moment. Curious now, the boy increased the pressure just a bit more, but…
It didn't feel the same. And Harry didn't like the difference.
Haaarry…
Shivering, Harry closed his eyes tight and burrowed further beneath the covers, pulling them up and over his head so that he could go back to sleep in the warm, heavy cocoon that the blankets provided. The not-dream offered much food for thought, but… not was not necessarily the time to think about such things—or to remember how they felt, the more dangerous of the two options.
Haaarry… You will come to me. Soon.
The rest of Harry's visit with the Malfoys passed by comfortably enough; Harry alternated his time in a variety of ways: he spent plenty of time in the purebloods' library, drinking in his fill of knowledge that the Hogwarts library refused to offer its students—Harry learned much from the grimoire, and Lucius Malfoy had taken to watching Harry read from it; the blonde man never announced his presence when he did so, but Harry knew that he was there all the same.
Harry could feel him, remaining—lingering—there in the shadows, hidden from view as the patriarch watched his guest turn page after page, learning his family's secrets, ones that no one else had ever been gifted with learning. The very fact that the grimoire had allowed Harry's touch—had somehow called the boy to it—was a frightening aspect of Harry's research. It made the aristocrat wonder how it was even possible, for this had truly been a thing of impossibilities.
Draco's thought was often echoed in the mind of his father:
What are you?
But no answers were forthcoming.
Thus, Harry spent his time reading and learning during the moments that he claimed for himself away from Draco; they were never for very long because, if nothing else, the Slytherin boy had learned how to be a perfect houseguest. At other times, too, Harry spent his time outdoors with the blonde heir. They played a Seeker's game, one boy against the other in countless not-so-friendly matches (Slytherin House, after all, prided itself on ambition and neither boy was willing to give in to the other; losing was not an option either contemplated or considered), and Draco also took the time to teach Harry how to ride a Winged horse.
Loki had been a beautiful, thoughtful gift, and the moment when Harry had spurred the stallion into a flat-out gallop before squeezing his knees in the signal for the horse to unfurl his wings—the muscles stretching and bunching beneath his thighs, working powerfully as those wings spread further still before suddenly beating down and lifting them both into the air… That moment had been frozen in time for Harry, and it was one of those very few moments that he could purposefully look back on and think "that was perfection."
Many of his days at Malfoy Manor were lazy, most of them spent in the company of Draco or his mother or father. Besides Draco himself, Harry found early on that he loved spending time with "Aunt Narcissa": the woman was always quietly composed, effortlessly graceful as she walked arm in arm with him through the gardens, voice a murmuring lilt as she spoke lightly of pureblood manners and history, the traditions that had been lost to so many. She told him stories—the origins for many of the traditions that only the oldest, purest wizarding families still celebrated.
She whispered stories of Midsummer, and Harry spent that night beneath a full moon, spread out upon the grass as the constellations traipsed across the sky, frolicking in thoughtless contentment until dawn blushed upon the horizon.
It was an idyll visit, one filled with knowledge and activity and surrounded by the comfort of a pseudo-family: one that didn't completely comprehend him, but one that still saw value in and appreciated his company in many different ways.
The Minister visited, too, blustering and proud and pompous, so enamoured with Harry Potter and the Malfoy family's patriarch in his role within the pureblood community—a community that Minister Fudge so desperately wanted to be part of but could never fit into.
Political and ambitious, he craved the reputation that came with "old money," and hoped that, one day, that reputation and perception would eventually rub off on him through his association with Lucius Malfoy—and that, with his proximity to Harry Potter, his fame and popularity as Minister would rise exponentially once word got out about their "connections."
Harry thought him a fool and a blind one at that.
But the Minister's visits aside, the summer visit with the Malfoys had gone wonderfully, and Harry returned to Hogwarts and Professor Snape's direct guardianship much more relaxed than he had been in ages. Unfortunately, however, the Potions Master decided that proper thanks in allowing Harry his small vacation could only be truly repaid through more assistant work in the lab.
…which meant preparing more Potions ingredients, both for Professor Snape's personal stores, but also for the upcoming classes. Harry, on the other hand, had decided that his Head of House just preferred the chance to get free labor during the summer—free labor that couldn't complain about being used since the Potions Master was the free labor's guardian (and thus, under his thumb).
Still:
Things could have been a lot worse.
With the discovery of the abuse that Harry had been given at the hands of his relatives, Professor Snape had… gentled… in his handling of Harry. Not to say that the man was careful and coddling and forever asking about Harry's feelings, but the bullying had ceased (though the shameless exploitation of Harry's helping in the lab had not). When the two of them were alone and companionable silence had stretched between the two for long periods of time, it wasn't at all awkward to break that silence with idle conversation—occasionally just a question or two before Harry returned to silently cutting or chopping or whatever else the Slytherin Head of House wanted from him.
It was during such a period, not long before school was supposed to start, that Harry glanced at his professor from the corner of his eyes and finally asked what had been on his mind since the Quidditch World Cup.
"Sir, why hasn't there been any official announcement regarding the upcoming Tournament?"
Professor Snape's hands stilled for just a moment, and the hawk-nosed man glanced sidelong at his young charge. "Did Lucius tell you of it while you were staying with the Malfoys?"
Harry snorted at that, shaking his head. "No, 'Uncle Lucius' didn't tell either me or Draco of the Tournament directly. But there were hints—mostly with the new horses that he just had imported from France—and I'm smart enough, sir, to realize that our meeting with the Bulgarian Quidditch team, particularly Viktor Krum, went exactly as he had expected. But, anyway: why hasn't the Headmaster made an official announcement regarding the Tournament?"
The Slytherin Head of House sneered at that, his estimation of his ward falling in his eyes. He thought that James Potter's brat would have at least grown a brain in all of his time in Slytherin—but, perhaps Mr. Potter wasn't that different from his father in that he mewled unhappily when he didn't get the things that he wanted.
With the ease of too many hours of association with one another, Harry sensed the shift in Professor Snape's thoughts, and the teenage boy scowled angrily up at his professor and guardian. "I meant, sir, that it doesn't seem very fair that the other two schools know of the tournament—and, thus, have time to train their students into becoming champions. We're the hosting school and yet most of the student body doesn't have a clue as to what's going to happen. It not only doesn't seem very fair, but it also seems like a rather… foolish… choice on the Headmaster's part. How will Hogwarts otherwise prepare for the upcoming tasks?"
Professor Snape snorted quietly at that. "Apparently sheer talent and tenacity will be enough to win the Tournament in Hogwarts' favor—or so the Headmaster believes, I think."
Harry considered that for a moment, head tilted to the side as he mulled over his professor's words. Finally, though, he nodded and returned back to the potions ingredients before him. "Ah, so the Headmaster thinks that we don't have a chance at winning at all."
"Precisely," came the low reply from the tall man at his side.
The boy didn't bother to hide his amused snort, and soon enough returned to the project before him. Silence again fell between the two Slytherins, each immersing himself in his own task, and Harry couldn't help but be highly entertained at the irony presented to him: just how far had Hogwarts' curriculum fallen in that its own Headmaster had no faith in his student population?
How the mighty have fallen, Harry thought to himself as he chopped off the top part of the wriggling Bubotuber, listening to the satisfying thunk as the blade connected to the wood of the table beneath the plant. It wasn't that hard after that to place all thoughts of the Triwizard Tournament behind him since it was readily apparent that no one honestly thought that Hogwarts stood a chance. How the mighty have fallen, indeed.
Five hours later, with a back that ached dully from constantly being hunched over, Harry was finally dismissed from the potions lab; the boy headed down several corridors until he finally got to the Slytherin living quarters. The password for the summer had remained the same—unchanged since not only was Harry the only one living in the dorms, but he and the portrait of Salazar Slytherin had agreed to make the password in Parseltongue.
»Grendel,« Harry hissed with a roll of his eyes when Salazar just smirked in answer. Still, however, the Founder allowed his portrait to swing forward, opening the House's quarters for Harry.
It was such a grand joke to the Slytherin Founder now, after months of hearing Harry speak Parseltongue, but that hadn't always been the case—not originally, when Harry had first suggested the password.
"Let it be Grendel," the boy had said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, body language nonchalant—but Salazar Slytherin knew better than to take things at face value, especially from his Snakes: he saw the furtive glance that Harry had darted at him when the boy thought that the Founder was adequately surprised.
Instead, the green-eyed man just slowly smiled, inclining his head at the boy as his Quetzalcoatl twined its way about the ancient wizard's shoulders. »You have been in the Chamber of Secrets.« It had been a statement, not a question.
The feathered serpent stilled at that, turning its colorful head to look upon the child that was the second one who had stumbled upon its Master's Chamber. »You do not look as if you're from the Slytherin line,« it hissed dubiously, head tilting to the side so that it could better inspect Harry with one strikingly pink eye. »The other boy most definitely showed the Blood Traits. You, however...«
Glaring at the creature and just daring it to continue on with that particular thought, Harry crossed his arms over his chest. »Blood Traits or not, I'm still a Parselmouth and I have been down in the Chamber of Secrets.« He paused for a moment at that and, surprisingly enough, the raven-haired boy turned his disapproving gaze to the original Head of his House. »It wasn't kind of you to leave the basilisk behind. It's been terribly lonely.«
The Founder shrugged absently at that. »I had no choice.«
»There's always a choice,« Harry snapped, irritated, and brushed past the portrait so that he might head up to his bedroom. Salazar Slytherin, surprisingly, allowed Harry to go without attempting to stop the boy—the portrait, did, though, stare after the child until the Slytherin was no longer in sight.
»The child is intriguing,« the Quetzacoatl commented before allowing its coils to tighten briefly about its Master, curious about this not-heir, the child who so fluently spoke its language.
»He is, at that,« Salazar Slytherin murmured absently, reaching up to gently scratch at the base of the serpent's bright plumage. The creature seemed to purr at that, though the sound eventually shifted to a low chuckle.
»He is not at all like the other child, the one that came before, either.«
The Founder laughed at that. »No, he isn't,« the wizard agreed, letting his fingers linger idly in a caress at the base of the Quetzacoatl's head. »But, then again, dear one, perhaps that is a good thing.«
»Perhaps,« came the agreement, and the two old acquaintances stepped out of their portrait to make their way elsewhere, leaving behind an empty painting for the current Head of House to find, frustrated at the fact that he was now barred from his Snake's living quarters—or, well, until Salazar returned, anyway.
Weeks had passed since that first incident, however: the day that the students had left en masse from Hogwarts, though they would soon enough be returning once more in just several more days: the summer holidays had passed so much more quickly than ever before, and Harry knew that he would miss the solitude that he had been granted, the privilege of keeping to himself unless he wanted Professor Snape's company.
But—no more.
Soon, the halls would be filled with the bustle and chatter of students from all years, and the ancient corridors of Hogwarts would be filled to the brim with the incoming students from the two foreign schools: so many children, so many students, so much life that Harry knew he would be claustrophobic for at least the first week of classes.
Annoying, true, but the boy knew that it wouldn't take long to once more get used to being surrounded by life, by lively talk and sidelong glances as he made his way from class to class or from his dormitory to the Great Hall. They were glances, furtive sneak peeks that had plagued him for all three previous years—and Harry hoped that fourth year would be time enough for the population to have gotten tired of him.
But the Slytherin knew better, especially with how each incoming first year classes always made sure to stare at him with dunce-like, overly impressed awe. "It's Harry Potter!" the little idiots would hiss to one another. "It's the Boy-Who-Lived! He really does exist! I definitely have to write home to Mum about this!"
If only hexing eleven year-olds wasn't seen as bad form.
Thus, knowing that the upcoming week would have him in a foul mood, Harry did his best to prepare himself, hoping that being braced would at least make the affects not quite as strong—as irritating—as years previous, but from the amused glances that Professor Snape kept shooting his way, the boy knew that he was far from successful.
And so the last remaining days of Harry's summer holidays were spent with the boy wound as tense and as tight as a tight, muscles locked tight in irritated anticipation as the start of the fall term began to inch its way closer. Perhaps the only thing that happened to be his saving grace (and thus, Professor Snape protected his own sanity from the moody teenager, as well as continued to stock up on his own personal stores) was that the last couple of days were spent in the potions lab, whacking at things with a dangerously heavy mallet.
Whack whack whack went the weapon over the hours of the last hours, the last days.
And crunch crunch crunch went the hapless potions ingredients, pulverized into satisfyingly tiny smithereens.
Gloat gloat gloat went Professor Snape on the night before the students' arrival as he stood in the entrance of his personal potions ingredients collection, his "private stash" used for his own experiments and brewing: never before had his stock been so thoroughly full.
It was already shaping up to be an excellent start of a new school year, even with the looming threat of returning dunderheads.
There was an assessing coolness in Draco's gaze when he and Harry met up once again that brought an unanticipated stinging kind of hurt to the green-eyed boy's chest when the other glanced at it, only gave a brief nod, and made his way past to head to the Slytherin Table.
The subtle distancing, the snub that came with it—what with Harry's time with the Malfoys, the boy didn't understand the reason why. In earlier years, the exchange would have been considered normal for the both of them—but that hadn't been true for a while now.
Feeling at a loss and wondering what had changed between "Good-bye" and "Hello," Harry stared after Draco. He was… confused. At a loss, a feeling that he hadn't had to feel in ages, and Harry couldn't stop the way that his fingers curled in towards his palms as he fought to get himself under control.
The exchange took less than a minute, and no one noticed the slight flicker of unreadable emotion that made its way over Harry's face for a moment only before was abruptly banished and gone. No one noticed, no one saw—and no one would have cared, anyway, except for the two people that Harry considered friends.
"Harry!" a bushy-haired, blushing bundle of girl cried out as the Gryffindor launched herself through the air to tumble happily into Harry's arms. "I've missed you so incredibly much this summer and you really do need to write more—everything that you have told me in letters seem so drab as to what I've read in the newspapers about you and your activities and why didn't you tell me that you had been invited to the Quidditch World Cup? I bet that the game went spectacularly well, though I really do think that you shouldn't attempt that Wonky-Faint thing during matches this coming year—it doesn't seem very safe, after all, and—"
Hermione was abruptly cut off as Harry put his hand over his mouth, temporarily silencing his best friend. Amused at the fact that Hermione was always able to say so much without ever really needing to breathe, the dark-haired boy leaned down and pressed an affectionate kiss to the girl's cheek. Immediately, Hermione's blush deepened to epic proportions, her entire face aflame.
"I'm missed you, too, 'Mione," Harry said simply before his arm came around and his hand settled at the small of her back. "We can catch up a bit more later on—for now, it's been a long day and it's time to watch the new Sorting Ceremony."
In a surprisingly submissive gesture, Hermione allowed Harry to lead her to the Great Hall—but the Gryffindor was still very much herself, shown by how she tucked herself against her best friend's side, glancing up at Harry with a sly expression that she had adopted completely from him.
"I heard that you met the Minister this summer, Harry…"
The boy stared down at his friend for a moment, bemused, and finally shook his head—fully aware of where Hermione was going to try to lead this to. "You're smart enough to get your own Ministry internships," he informed her, smirking slightly.
Hermione sighed, to which Harry just laughed. "Why, Hermione—using a friend's connections to try and further your own," he teased the girl, reaching over and gently tugging on the red and gold tie that was neatly knotted at the hollow of her throat. "If I didn't know any better, these colors don't show your true inner nature~"
The girl sniffed at that, flouncing off playfully. "Yes, well, but green doesn't flatter my complexion at all." And Harry just laughed, knowing that this side of the girl was one that only he ever had the privilege, the right, in seeing this silly, relaxed side of the otherwise overly serious, bookish girl.
To thank her for trusting him, Harry once more leaned forward and pressed another kiss to her cheek. "You shouldn't lie, 'Mione," he chided her. "You look beautiful in any color."
Upon hearing those words, Hermione's face immediately flamed with color, and the girl scurried off towards the Gryffindor Table so that he could hide amongst fellow yearmates, utterly embarrassed that Harry had said something so… so… like that to her! Her palms came up to cover her burning cheeks, hoping to cool them before anyone noticed the bright color and attempted to quiz her on what the Famous Harry Potter must have said to her to have made Hermione blush so harshly.
Huddled amongst the other Gryffindors, Hermione tried her best to put Harry's teasing comment out of mind; instead, she happily embraced the distraction that the Sorting Ceremony offered up, clapping politely no matter the first year's House—though the girl did tend to clap a bit louder when a first year was sent to Gryffindor.
Everything seemed normal: the start of a new school year, classes with her best friend, new things to learn (though, of course, the girl had greedily read everything in her textbooks already, fully looking forward to answering as many questions as possible).
It wasn't until the Welcoming Feast was coming to a close that things changed from the norm. Albus Dumbledore stood, making his way around the Head Table so that he might stand before his favorite podium. The candles that were lit on either side of the carved griffon's spread wings deepened the creases of his face, bringing an air of mystery to the Hogwarts Headmaster: making, somehow, the twinkle in his eyes that much stronger as he looked out over the collected student body.
"This year, children," the man began, voice cutting through all noise and encouraging the students to slowly quiet and once more direct their attention to him, "Hogwarts has been privileged to lay host to a legendary event. For many years now, this event has not been in practice—but this year, oh, this year, children, we will once more be able to bring back the Triwizard Tournament." If anything, Dumbledore's twinkle became unbearable to look at, and Harry grimaced slightly and looked down at the plate before him, tracing the golden edge with his eyes. "Eternal glory awaits the winner of this Tournament—fame, fortune, and wealth. The winner's name will go down in history, a Champion for others to emulate forever more."
Whispers began then, students and friends hissing curiously to one another: together, all of the sound became so much like a den of snakes that Harry had to silence his derisive snort, though Zambia felt the stifled sound. Curious, the snake tightened her body around her "familiar," questioning Harry as to what he found so funny. »Later,« he murmured to her, promising to explain what was going on that evening—not now, however, since the Headmaster was speaking again.
"Because of this Tournament, Hogwarts will be the home of the two other participating schools for this upcoming school year. Now, I all expect you to treat them like family: welcome them to our hallowed halls, help them if they are in need of it. Make this a home away from home for them. While the Champion will gain eternal glory, you all will have the chance to gain something even more precious, one that will last your entire lifetime: true friendship. Now, before I let you all run off to bed to gossip about this news amongst yourselves like the dear little magpies that I know you all capable of being, I would like to make several very important announcements about this Tournament: Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving here to make themselves comfortable in one month's time. Champions from each school will be picked impartially from the Goblet of Fire; all those who wish to enter must do so before Halloween Night, for that is the evening that the names will be selected. And, finally, with the danger that this Tournament represents, a new rule has been put in place: No one under the age of sixteen will be allowed to compete."
This announcement brought about a fair amount of booing from a large part of the student population, and Dumbledore willingly put up with the reaction for a moment or two before roaring out a firm, "Silence!" Abruptly, all sound ceased and many of the students stared up at their elderly Headmaster with wide, surprised eyes. Most had never, ever heard him raise his voice before.
When he was certain that he had the students' attention, Dumbledore smiled softly and gestured towards a pedestal. "Behold," the man said, simply, and a thick velvet fabric fell away to reveal the silver, coolly gleaming Triwizard Cup. Gasps were heard, and even Harry had to admit himself intrigued.
Magic vibrated off of the chalice in waves, so thick that Harry found himself momentarily dizzy—surprised, too, that no one else had a similar reaction. Everyone was too caught up by the thought of "eternal glory," the image of them holding up the chalice for everyone else to cheer at. Already, vainglory sickness seemed to be taking root in many of the males—despite being nearly across the entire length of the Hall from him, Harry could distinctively hear Ronald Weasley bragging to Finnigan and Thomas over how he would bribe his brothers into helping him cheat the Age Line so that he could compete.
Probably buy enough chocolate frogs to rot his teeth out if he won, Harry thought with a quiet sneer as he finally managed to draw his gaze away from the Triwizard Cup, swallowing roughly to keep himself from sicking up as his vision swam. How could no one else notice the sheer amount of magic that radiated off from the Cup? It was enough to make Harry feel rather faint, especially with the Dark magic that curled 'round the Cup's edges, lingering with a caress that Harry could almost follow with this eyes.
The fact that the Cup was made with at least a bit of Dark magic…
Ah, Harry had to admit himself intrigued (or, at least would be intrigued once he got his stomach under control). When Dumbledore replaced the velvet cloth, the Slytherin boy breathed an almost audible sigh of relief, glad that the magic was finally masked enough for him to once more be able to concentrate.
…not that he much wanted to, considering the fact that the Headmaster was still continuing on about international magical cooperation, bonds that would be forever firmly forged through the foundation of friendship, and a general outline of how the Tournament would be conducted: three tasks that the Champions would be made to compete in, and each task would be graded accordingly out of one hundred points. The person with the highest number of points at the end of the Tournament would, obviously, be the winner.
None of the tasks were to be announced until the day that they would be participated in—yet another rule added in to ensure that cheating had very little chance of happening if none of the Champions knew ahead of time what each task would be.
Each Headmaster (or Headmistress, in the case of Madame Maxime) would be a judge for each task, as well as a Minister-appointed representative for the British Ministry of Magic. Bored at the proceedings, Harry paid very little attention—thinking that, perhaps, the Ministry representative would be Dolores Umbridge. Or maybe Amelia Bones (for general overall strategy and defense demonstrated) or maybe one of the wizards or witches from the N.E.W.T.s committee (to evaluate the spells used during each task).
It wasn't any of these people, however.
With a mouth that was just slightly tight, Headmaster Dumbledore gestured towards the wing that connected to the Great Hall, and Lucius Malfoy stepped out into the open space, pale blonde hair gleaming beneath the hundreds of lit candles. The Malfoy patriarch gave a small, thin-lipped smile to the staring students, inclining his head briefly at Harry and Draco both.
Out of all of the people that the Minister could have picked to represent him—and, thus, the Ministry of Magic that he in turn represented—would be Lucius Malfoy… Harry almost wanted to giggle in amusement, it was that funny, but the thought of why soon enough sobered him up. Why had "Uncle Lucius" agreed in the first place?
It was with a thoughtful frown upon his face that Harry followed after his House mates when the students were finally dismissed from the Great Hall. There was much to think about—and much to anticipate, too, with the knowledge that Durmstrang and Beauxbatons would be swooping down to join Hogwarts in exactly a month's time.
This year was shaping up already to be a rather full, interesting one—lively enough to keep Harry distracted with upcoming celebrations (as well as this Tournament, for which Harry was only relieved that he was too young for anyone to try and pressure him into entering—mostly because his reply would have earned him several different detentions for the hexes and curses he'd cast).
…first, though.
Harry had to find out what it was that had changed with Draco to have made the blonde boy so coolly dismiss him.
