The Goblet of Fire spit out Harry Potter's name.
Blaise stared at it in horror, then over at Astoria Greengrass, who smirked at him with a look that would probably drive men to madness when she was older, but which now just reminded him of someone stealing cookies. He couldn't believe it. He was going to have to go to the Yule Ball with someone's little sister. She was cute enough, but she was a baby. He could already hear Pansy laughing that Blaisey-Blaisey-rhymes-with-Daisy couldn't get a real date so had to rob the primary school.
His animosity towards Harry Potter, which had been somewhat waning, returned full force. The stupid prick had made him have to go to the ball with a girl who was twirling a pony tail around her finger as she poked at one of the endless other girls whose names he'd never bothered to learn and pointed at him.
Trapped. He was trapped.
He slouched down in his seat, already composing the letter he'd write to Sirius complaining about this latest injustice in his head.
. . . . . . . . . .
Harry gaped when the Goblet called out his name, then danced to his feet, elated. This was the best prank ever. This was brilliant. This was awesome. He hadn't put his name in, though based on the look on Ron's face not everyone would believe that, but it didn't matter because he'd been chosen anyway. The best sporting even in, oh, in forever, and he got to do it. This was great. He couldn't wait to write Sirius and tell him all about this. He and Remus would be thrilled.
. . . . . . . . .
Draco started to cheer when the Goblet yelled out Harry's name then, looking at Hermione, thought better of it. She'd gone as grey as he'd ever seen her, and as Harry whooped in delight she stared at him as if he'd lost his mind and she couldn't believe anyone could be that stupid.
Draco admitted, though he'd never, ever say it out loud to Harry, that she was probably right. The contest was supposed to be for fully trained wizards, and was often deadly even to them. There was no way Harry could win; he might not even survive. He reached a hand out to pull Harry back, to hiss in his ear that there had to be a mistake, he hadn't even put his name in, for Merlin's sake, but it was too late because Harry had already run up to join the other Champions.
He'd have to write his mother. She'd know what to do. And Sirius. He'd write to Sirius. If anyone could pull Harry back from the brink of this disaster, it would be Sirius.
. . . . . . . . . .
Hermione couldn't believe it when the Goblet said, "Harry Potter." She knew he hadn't put his name in. Oh, he and Draco had talked about it often enough. Lots of underage students had. The magical line preventing them from going near the Goblet, however, had worked. Fred and George Weasley had tried an aging potion to no avail. A girl in Ravenclaw had asked a seventh year to test it and carry her name across the line. The parchment had burst into flame as soon as it passed the magical barrier. There just hadn't been a way and Harry had eventually shrugged and moved on to other things.
She looked up at Minerva McGonagall. The professor looked furious and had leaned over at the High Table to hiss in Pomona Spout's ear. The Herbology professor looked equally upset and she was nodding at everything McGonagall said.
Hermione decided to trust they would take care of it, but decided she'd write to Sirius too, just in case. Harry was sure to be horribly disappointed when he wasn't allowed to participate and maybe Sirius could find a way to cheer him up with a new broom or something.
. . . . . . . . . .
Neville Longbottom felt his brain itch when the Goblet called out Harry's name. He shook himself and tried to focus. Everyone around him was gasping and looking at Harry who, of course, was bounding up to the front of the room. Even Headmaster Dumbledore looked baffled, and Hermione looked like she wanted to scream. Ginny glanced over at him and Neville shrugged at her but took her hand in his and squeezed it. "I'm sure it will be fine," he whispered into her ear, feeling her hair brush against his cheek. "I bet Hermione is already planning a long letter to Sirius explaining why he has to come up here right away and take care of this."
. . . . . . . . . .
Alastor Moody, newest in the long line of Defense Against the Dark Arts professors, pulled his flask from his pocket and took a sip. His tongue revolted at the taste but some things had to be borne, so he just screwed the lid back on and tucked the flask away again. He kept his face appropriately serious and concerned when the Goblet spit out the Potter boy's name.
Constant Vigilance, he said to himself, capitalizing the words in his mind.
That vigilance kept him from frowning when he overheard that self-righteous cow, Minerva McGonagall, sat she'd write to the boy's foster father, that the very idea of an underage child in the Triwizard Tournament turned her stomach. She didn't approve of the whole mess to begin with and she certainly didn't approve of including a boy whose voice still cracked when he was excited about something.
Harpy, he thought. He could see Potter himself was thrilled to be in the Tournament and there the old witch had to go, trying to ruin everything. Still, he doubted any letter home would be likely to spoil the boy's fun. Everyone knew Sirius Black's reputation. He'd be up for this kind of thing, think it a lark, he would.
No, Moody thought to himself, he didn't need to worry about Black throwing a spanner in the works.
. . . . . . . . . .
"Absolutely not," Sirius said. He handed the note from Minerva to Remus who read it and went pale. The morning had brought them an entire parliament of owls. Harry was excited, Draco and Hermione worried, Blaise put out and ranting about some girl named Astoria, and Minerva succinct.
Sirius,
The Goblet of Fire produced Harry's name last night as a competitor for the Triwizard Tournament. Obviously, this cannot be allowed to stand. Albus, however, as well as that Barty Couch, have been insisting this is a binding magical contract. Please obtain the services of a solicitor and let me know when you will be arriving to sort this mess out.
Fondly,
Minerva
"What do you plan to do?" Remus asked.
"Write Cissa, of course," Sirius said. "She'll already have the best legal mind in London on retainer."
. . . . . . . . . .
Lucius Malfoy enjoyed breakfast. He liked to sit down over a plate of croissants and maybe a little marmalade and some fresh figs and read the paper. The Daily Prophet was rubbish, of course, but that didn't stop him from spreading it out each day as part of his morning ritual so he could see what pap the masses would be believing that day. The ridiculous Triwizard Tournament had been filling the pages since it had been announced. Barty Couch, Sr., a man Lucius despised on principle because he had sent his only child to prison, had reveled in the attention. His little, warty face glistened out from photograph after photograph as he gave interview after interview about international cooperation and the value of sport.
Lucius found the man's gluttonous appetite for fame distasteful.
Some articles speculated whether Hogwarts could handle the crush of other students. Others reproduced Hogwarts recipes with the headline, Serve Your Family What Sporting Ambassadors from Abroad Eat. Pundits compared the education that could be had at Hogwarts for free with what more affluent families could buy if they were willing to pay foreign tuition fees at Beauxbatons or Durmstrang.
"Still think we should have sent the boy to Durmstrang," Lucius said, his face safely behind the newsprint so he wouldn't have to see the expression on Narcissa's face.
"I don't suppose they've published the Champions," Narcissa said. Her voice was too sweet and Lucius lowered the pages, already worried.
"Why?" he asked. They hadn't. He'd assumed there would be a special edition later that day, complete with dear Barty sweating and smiling as he waved to the readers one more time, probably standing next to whichever Champion was prettiest. However, if Narcissa was asking, that meant she knew something, and that tone of voice meant it wasn't good. "What?"
"Didn't you wonder why I got quite so much mail this morning?"
Lucius glanced at her pile of correspondence. He honestly hadn't. Narcissa got a lot of mail, mostly invitations to things she turned down, occasionally an incoherent missive from her sister in Azkaban, even more rarely a scrawled note from Harry or Draco telling her they loved her and could she maybe send them money? "No," he said cautiously.
"Sirius wrote me," she said. Lucius straightened at that. Sirius wasn't one for letter writing. Showing up unannounced, that werewolf in tow, yes. Writing a note as if he were a civilized person, no.
"Oh," he said. "I was unaware he owned quills."
"Very funny," Narcissa said, though her smile suggested she wasn't nearly as annoyed as the words would have suggested. That smile faltered and disappeared after a moment though. "The Goblet of Fire, their handy little magical device, spit out Harry's name."
"I know what the Goblet of Fire is," Lucius said automatically. If he hadn't before this year, he certainly would have now, thanks to the Prophet. Annoying, really, all the coverage of this silliness. "How did the boy get his name in? I though there was supposed to be an age line." He tsked. "Is Dumbledore getting senile? Not like him to bungle a simple spell like that."
"Sirius doesn't think Harry put his name in." She picked up the note and looked it over again as if confirming she was correct. Lucius wasn't fooled; Narcissa never forgot a single thing she read. Not ever.
He huffed a moment then said, "Well, I'm sure you'll get that straightened out. Called Selwyn yet?"
Narcissa smiled at him. "He'll be meeting me in Dumbledore's office, along with Sirius and Minerva, this very afternoon."
. . . . . . . . . .
Sirius had yelled at the beginning of the meeting. He'd yelled that Dumbledore was in his dotage if he thought for one moment either he or Narcissa would allow Harry to participate in this farce of a death trap of a contest. He would have gone on if Narcissa hadn't looked at him. It was a look Lucius knew well, and one Draco knew was followed by some kind of unpleasant chore. Sirius wasn't as familiar with the expression but he knew it well enough to stop talking and he slouched down into a chair and began just glowering.
"It's just," Barty Couch said, fussing with his jacket lapels in a way that made Sirius want to slap him, "it's just that it's a binding magical contract. I know that it's dangerous, I do, but the boy has no choice now. He has to participate."
Albus Dumbledore spread his hands as if to say what could he do. That was when Earnest Selwyn, a dumpy man in cheap robes with a battered briefcase that looked as if he'd stolen it from a homeless man, spoke.
"Well," he said, "I'm afraid that's the issue here."
"I don't see how it's an issue," Couch said. "Binding magical contract."
"Yes," Selwyn said. "But, you see, there's a problem." He pushed his spectacles up and reached down into his briefcase to pull out a stack of parchment murmuring that he needed to see and, oh yes. "How old did you say the boy was, Mrs. Malfoy?"
"He is fourteen," she said. Her hands were folded on her lap and her spine was unbent and her poise unflustered.
Sirius began to glower less and enjoy the scene more. "And a young fourteen," he said.
"Well," Earnest Selwyn said, peering at Sirius, "his maturity isn't quite relevant, Mr. Black. His birth date, however, well, is. If we look at, oh, well, any number of cases, we see that minors are, well, simply not permitted to enter into contacts. The entire thing is null and… well, you see, it's quite voidable, really, if a thing that doesn't quite exist can be said to be, well, let me start with the cradle betrothal of one Marileise Abbott to one Cepheus Black in 1632…"
Sirius leaned back in his chair and listened to the man mumble his way through three hours of ruthlessly laid out historical precedent that explained that Harry Potter was no more bound by a magical contract than Marileise Abbott had been. At the one hour mark he looked up at his cousin. Narcissa hadn't so much as twitched during the monologue. Her smile remained calm and she seemed politely interested. Dumbledore had begun to look strained by the two hour mark. At two and half hours, Couch was squirming like a toddler with a full bladder.
At three hours, Selwyn concluded with, "So, well, umm, as you see - "
"Yes," Minerva McGonagall said, stopping him. "Mr. Potter is not bound by the magical contact, and he is not a fourth Triwizard Champion. Cedric Diggory shall represent Hogwarts, and I'm sure he'll do a marvelous job."
"We can go?" Barty Couch asked in a small voice.
"It's down the corridor and to the left," Dumbledore said.
"Thank you for clearing this up, Narcissa," Professor McGonagall said. She turned to the solicitor. "Mr. Selwyn, a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"And yours." He bobbed over her hand. "I remember reading about your work on - ." McGonagall led him from the office as he began to talk about research she'd published on transfiguration theory twenty years earlier.
"Well," Narcissa said, rising from her seat, "Now that that is settled, Albus, I do hope you'll let us use your Floo to get home."
"Of course," he said. "Please be my guest."
She stood for a moment on the threshold of the fireplace after Sirius had already departed. "I would, and will, do anything to protect my boys. Try to remember that and you'll be spared more meetings with Earnest."
"Spared?" Dumbledore said as she took the handful of Floo powder and prepared to leave. "I quite enjoyed seeing such a brilliant mind at work. Good day, Mrs. Malfoy."
. . . . . . . . . .
"What do you mean I can't do it?" Harry demanded. He flung his body down onto a couch in the Gryffindor common room. "That's so not fair."
"Harry," Hermione began.
"Harry," Draco said.
"Oh, it would have been so much fun," he said, glaring at both of them. "And now Mum had to go and ruin it." He crossed his arms and found a way to get his body even lower against the couch. "I bet I would have won, too."
Hermione and Draco exchanged looks.
"Right," Hermione said. She was about to go off on how there was no way an underage wizard could possibly manage such a thing, but Draco kicked her and she stopped. "Well, too late now," she said instead. "But you can sit with us."
"Oh, goody," Harry said. He kicked at the leg of a table. "I can watch. Yay."
Hermione huffed at him and stomped off to work on an essay and Draco was left to cheer up his best friend.
"Stop worrying about the contest you can't do," he said, "and think about this Yule Ball thing. We have to ask girls out. To a fancy party. With flowers."
"Merlin," Harry muttered. He sank even lower into the couch. "This day just gets worse and worse."
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A/N - Much love to Shayalonnie, who alpha reads this for me. No one beta reads it, so all the typos belong to me.