Chapter Eighty-Four: This Is Not the Olympics
Stephen was twenty-five hours early on the next week, appearing when Harry had been on his way to the Owlery for his weekly check on Hedwig, and into a thankfully empty corridor. He made up for it by arriving twenty-three hours late on the one after that. The first meeting proved what he had said before—Stephen now didn't even remember mentioning that he'd previously mentioned showing up during third year. He told them that this was the fifth time they'd met, when Loki asked, but insisted that he'd always shown up in the beginning of fourth year—to the extent of his knowledge.
It was on his third visit—their sixth meeting, by Stephen's count, that Loki, determined to keep Stephen from revealing himself by accidentally appearing during the middle of a class, or something, confronted him about how he had come to be in Hogwarts to begin with. This led to a brief discussion on the nature of Sling-Rings, which were very interesting, rather alarming devices. Apparently only highly moral people became sorcerers. Or, perhaps, this explained every unsolved crime where the perpetrator seemed to have vanished into thin air.
From here, Loki came up with a makeshift solution. Regardless of whether or not Stephen eventually mastered time travel, arriving at just the right time (quite literally), it would not do for him to keep appearing in the castle.
"The Gryffindor Common Room is always empty at about this time," he announced. "If you appear there when it is empty, you will better be able to wait for us unnoticed if you arrive early or late. But you will need to acquaint yourself with the Common Room, first. I will show you a wizarding spell that should be useful for this purpose: similis videor!"
Stephen had no time to react before the wand hit him on the head, and a creeping coldness spread from the point of impact.
"The Disillusionment Charm?" asked Thor, at a loss. "Would true invisibility not be better?"
Loki narrowed his eyes in what was almost a glare. Stephen was not trustworthy enough to know about the invisibility cloak, or the Map, yet, even if they were going to show him the Gryffindor dorms.
"No," he said, but didn't explain. He turned to Stephen. "This is a spell you should be able to replicate, providing that you paid any attention to how it works."
"It causes light to bend around an object, for the most part, but it leaves a distortion in the air, as if the spell is incomplete."
He was not going to press them for a more complete spell. Stephen didn't ask any questions about any of this, instead following them in silence through the halls of Hogwarts, jumping at every noise and hoping that people just overlooked Stephen. At last, they arrived at the portrait hole. Its guardian had never revealed them before, but allowing a strange man access to the dorms might be the exception to the rule.
"Will you let us through?" he asked, acting as if Stephen weren't even there. He'd had Stephen lag behind, to ensure that the fat Lady didn't see him. She sighed, and swung the door outwards. The door, once opened, remained in that position until it was closed. She'd complained about people leaving it open before,
Now was the most opportune moment for Stephen to enter the mostly-deserted Common Room, unnoticed. Loki had to turn back to find him, and lead him back to the open door.
"There is no need for you to acquaint yourself with the guardian of this door," he said, eyes narrowed, once they were all three safely back inside the Common Room.
"This is your dorm?" asked Stephen, who clearly wasn't listening. "I know this is a castle, but most of the people here aren't actual royalty of any kind. Why—"
"You will never convince Malfoy of that fact," said Loki. "And the Tower is not as lavish or opulent as befits royalty. These furnishings have been here for a thousand years, since the school was founded."
"They've kept well," Stephen said, clearly at a loss as to what else could possibly be said in response. "Why is everything in Ironman's colours?"
Loki scowled. "Very well, then, a summary of the houses. As you are not to meet Hermione or Ginny yet, Thor will need to summarise them for you,"
"I?" repeated Thor, taken aback by suddenly being drawn into their conversation. His brother had already wandered off, however, and could not hear him.
He couldn't remember ever having had quite as much to speak with Mother about in the cottage, before, unless it was back when he'd had those nightly dreams (memories) of the past. He wasn't even sure where to begin. This year was certainly complicated, wasn't it?
Mother had a tendency to appear, as if out of nowhere, no matter where in the house he was wandering. He did not quite dare to go to the basement, suspecting, as he did, that it was somehow connected to Riddle. Of course…it was also possible that the basement contained Mother's dark side, if she could possibly have one. Her regrets, perhaps? After all, this was her house, and it was a reflection of her personality, and not his. Was it, perhaps, connected to the forbidden underbelly of the castle? Sometimes, even now, he wondered what lay beneath. No one had ever given him further information or instruction concerning that lower level of the palace, and Mother had never brought up the basement again.
He knew that she still wouldn't be in the living room with the fireplace—she'd had quite enough of that room to last her for a while, despite being responsible for the layout of the house. She deserved a change of scene.
As he was considering going upstairs, instead of down, she came around a corner onto the landing, and walked down to meet him.
"Is it September Thirtieth then, my son?" she asked, with an almost-vague smile, hands outstretched in welcome. Being part of any sort of nobility seemed to carry with it the inevitability of being raised at a distance, with no physical contact between family members (except in a duel, or practice duel; those were acceptable). She had, however, been known to defy tradition and stereotype before.
She was all in pastel blue and lilac, today, light and airy, or perhaps preparing for winter early. He was wearing exactly what he'd been wearing for the last several months—Dudley's castoffs, now ensorcelled to fit him, and the boots of unknown origin. It was possible that he had quite as much flexibility as Mother in what he wore, here, where, as she had told him herself, nothing was quite real.
Swamped by layers of tapestry, it was difficult to see whether or not Mother had bothered changing her clothes during that long stretch of time spent recovering from the dementors. Did it require an expenditure of energy? Did it make good practice? He had many other ways to practice his magic, regardless—more important ones: healing and battle magic (Thor was helping with this), Hogwarts magic, mind magic….
He doubted that it took any great expenditure of energy, though. It was almost tempting to experiment, just for the sake of the experience. But he only had so long here, and he needed to speak with his mother.
Really, though, how to even begin to tell her all he'd learnt and all that had happened since last they'd spoken?
"Mother," he said, walking up the stairs to meet her. "A pleasure to see you again, always. Is there somewhere we might talk? I have much I wish to consult with you about."
"Outside," she said, with a sigh like the wind through the trees, which was fitting. "There is little time left to enjoy it before winter. We will speak outside."
There was a brief glance in the direction of the living room. He was not going to oblige her to speak with him, there.
It had been years since they'd spoken outside concerning important matters, anyway—everything had been set aside in the interest of preserving as much as could be of his mind and soul, last year,
In first and second year, particularly after his encounter with the Mirror of Desire, particularly after he'd drawn her out of this world into the waking one, he'd sought to learn how to replicate the process. He'd not given much thought to outside, but he remembered that Mother had brought him there on their very first meeting, as he'd explained to her all about his life up to that moment—before it became entangled with the Dursleys. Before the dreams had begun. Perhaps it was telling that this was the location chosen for their discussion of this pivotal year in Harry's schooling. It was the first discussion of the year since Harry had any notion as to what lay before him (other than Professor Trelawney's prophecy, which he'd been turning over for months).
"What ails you, my son?" asked his mother, sitting on a bench of stone, cold, unwarmed by the sun, which did not exist in this mimicry of the outside world. That fact did not seem to trouble her, as it did him.
He sat there for a moment, gathering his thoughts. News at Hogwarts came in fits and starts, but this was ridiculous.
"Tell me, then, have you ever heard of a competition amongst Europe's greatest three magic schools that they call the "Triwizard Tournament'?" he at last began. Her soft sigh filtered through the non-existent breeze of her garden.
"That name is unfamiliar to me. It is not an event that ever was mentioned during my own time at Hogwarts. What manner of tournament is this, my son?"
"They say that it is much safer this year. Dumbledore has told us little else, besides. The three schools: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, choose a champion, somehow, to compete in this Tournament. I am told that entering constitutes a magically-binding contract, and that we should take great care before we choose to enter ourselves. No one younger than seventeen will be permitted to enter himself, Dumbledore says."
She noted the way in which he spoke those words, his incredulity, and took his meaning.
"An ideal way to be rid of me!" he exclaimed, quite abruptly. "And it is 'after the Quidditch World Cup', as Riddle said in that dream. I suppose that was a true dream I had on account of our connection…that was why Sirius thought it so important. But the Tournament…without knowledge as to how the Champion is chosen, I have no way of preventing my name being entered. I had hoped that you might know, Mum."
He shivered, and tried to move on, while he'd just invoked Lily Evans, before the discussion could turn to other matters which might incline him to invoke the other version of her.
"Everyone knows Alastor Moody, whom they call 'Mad-Eye'. Did you know that he is our Defence professor this year? I suppose that Dumbledore, too, fears that others will use the Tournament to their own ends…but I do not have the best history with Defence professors. Quirrell, and then Lockhart…I would not have minded if Tonks had returned.
"Professor Snape, and Headmaster Karkaroff are both wary of him. But there is something to him…even if he is Dumbledore's friend, I find him difficult to trust."
"I know him from the war, Harry," Lily Evans said. "He is a good man, if a bit rough around the edges. He fought the Dark as hard as any of us, and helped train many, even non-aurors, like your dad. No one has a bad word to say about him. He is the best in his field."
"Did you hear me, when I sought to invoke your protection, on our second day of class?" he demanded, his voice sharp and taut as a harpstring: it could cut.
Again she sighed, tilting her head back to face the non-existent sky. "I remember," she said, voice quiet and sad. "It does seem the sort of exercise he'd put trainees—or even students—through. But I don't think Dumbledore knows that he did. He would not approve."
She frowned her own disapproval, turning back to him. "He might be a bit of a maverick, but his heart is in the right place. I think he sometimes forgets that not everyone around him is a dark wizard out to get him. I suppose he reminds me of someone, that way."
He did not like being compared to Moody, but he realised that she was not likely to listen to his suspicions.
"There is more besides, other than the Tournament, and how to keep Thor from entering, and a professor, he who you would have me believe harbours no ill intent towards me."
She wisely did not interrupt his highly-biased summary of the conversation to this point, nor point out that he had not mentioned any potential threat to her other son when speaking of the Tournament—it went without saying.
"Have you heard of sorcerers, Mother?" he asked, not facing her. "Thor made friends with the doctor who saved my life at the end of first year. He is a practitioner of a magic of which I have never heard. Do you know it?"
Something sparked in her eyes. "Then, they are not all lost. What auspicious news, although I have heard nothing concerning them in decades…or was it centuries?"
This was either that same problem with trying to fit human conceptions of time into the much longer lifespans of home, or the same vagueness of memory that Harry himself suffered. It didn't matter.
"You know of them?" he asked, leaning forwards to hear what she had to say.
"I have little information to offer you," she said, with a gentle laugh at the way he briefly slumped. "But I know that they are the keepers of many secrets, some of which your father was never able to unravel—that should tell you something on its own."
The guardians of a secret, old magic, older than wizardry, a mysterious force of guardians who kept to themselves. Mother had little more to contribute to his understanding of Stephen than further questions. But he did not much mind, despite this.
Stephen was initially of little conceivable use for them. Even the arrival of the delegations from the other two great magical schools of Europe did not change this fact. By that point, however, Stephen had somehow managed to always arrive at about the same time every week—he was a quick learner, to an alarming degree. Prodigious, indeed! He was a quick study on just about any minor magic Loki could think of to throw at him to learn, which was somewhat galling. At the same time, he had to admit it was…nice to have someone to confer with with such an intuitive and advanced knowledge of magic.
They were still far from being friends, at least to Loki's mind. But Stephen, at least after the first three trips, started up a habit of checking on their future selves at least once a month. This set the count of how many times they had met awry. But their future selves seemed to trust him, and Stephen seemed to have some sort of fondness for those future selves, at least, which was almost the same as having a friendship built on no foundation at all. It was a castle in the sky, like Morgana's—an illusion, some books said of the phenomenon. But those were muggle books, and Loki was a master of illusions, anyway.
Plans for how to defeat either Riddle, or Thanos, did not make any progress in these brief stretches of time. Quite sensibly, Stephen was giving them time to acclimate themselves to his presence.
With Stephen's periodic stays in the Common Room to consider, it was doubtless just as well that Gryffindor House was not hosting the students of Beauxbatons. This did not stop disappointment running rampant through the boys' dorms, at least. The Beauxbatons students were mostly women, and very pretty girls at that. Fleur Delacour, in particular, attracted a lot of attention. Some people thought that she was a veela, which was absurd. She did have long, silvery-blonde hair, however, and she was stunningly, inhumanly beautiful. There might be some merit in the theory of her having veela blood in her, but Harry had never heard tell of any "non-human" being allowed to attend a school—there were some rumours that Hagrid and Flitwick were not entirely human, but the emphasis, here, fell on the word "entirely".
Dumbledore welcomed the two schools with his true gryffindor chivalry and good manners. Harry took more note of the fact that Madame Maxime was, indeed, not the sort of person you would mistake, being taller even than Hagrid, and quite handsome, she cut an imposing figure for the Hogwarts students, and kept her own in line with ease. Igor Karkaroff, too, was worth noticing, if only for the fact that he and Snape seemed to know each other. However, both of them seemed a bit wary of Moody who, despite being inherently suspicious, was nonetheless something of a marker for other suspicious people. Snape's suspicions were one thing, as Snape was above question. Karkaroff, on the other hand, was a wizard about whom Harry knew very little, except that he was the Headmaster of Durmstrang, and he seemed scared of Moody.
Oh, and also, apparently Krum was one of Karkaroff's students. Maybe he and Harry would have a contest of skill at some point. For now, Harry would prefer to slink through the shadows and avoid notice as much as possible.
With the delegations came the other Tournament judges, neither of whom Harry was particularly fond of. Bartemius Crouch was one, which made Hermione bristle. He foresaw much renewed talk of House-Elf Rights in the future, and wasn't her formation of S.P.E.W. enough? He'd spent an entire afternoon mocking her choice of names for the group, insisting that he could never join a group with such an absurd name (and that no one could possibly take it seriously), which had prompted Hermione to demand that he give her some examples of what else she could have called it. He had given her ten, off the top of his head, and she'd seethed, and dropped the issue, for the past couple of weeks. Now, inevitably, it would resurge.
And here was Ludo Bagman, beaming around at everyone, still very personable and popular, which was not the sort of person Harry ordinarily got on with. Sirius, perhaps, but there was an air of insincerity that clung to Ludo Bagman. He had a darker side, one he tried to cover up with his great, absurd degrees of affability. That was Harry's real problem with him.
That, and the Twins seemed to have decided to dislike him. Although they wouldn't answer when asked, they were often to be found glaring at Bagman's back, and trying to corner him. They'd seemed friendly enough with him at the World Cup. What had changed? Did they know something Harry didn't? Of course, they'd shunned Harry, too, first year….
There were too many potential threats to keep an easy eye on. There were twenty new students each from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and Madame Maxime and Igor Karkaroff, and Ludo Bagman and Bartemius Crouch, and Moody. Harry could not have been jumpier. It was just as well that Stephen had appeared at the beginning of term, rather than after all the new arrivals had infiltrated Hogwarts. While Durmstrang stayed in their boat in the lake, the students of Beauxbatons were lodging in the Hufflepuff dorms. There was no escape from them, until they finally retreated for the night.
He and Hagrid had become somewhat estranged during the mess that was third year, when he'd been notably absent, but Harry still considered him a friend, and not just one of his professors. But he couldn't be trusted with secrets, which somewhat limited what the Trio could speak about with him. And Hagrid, further, seemed to have forgotten their existence, with the arrival of Madame Maxime. Apparently, love was in the air. Just spare Harry, already.
The professors, for the most part, gave them a week to adjust to the new arrivals, which was hardly enough time to "build bridges of cultural interconnectedness" or whatever Dumbledore had said in his speech on the night the delegations had arrived. Presumably, the students spent most of their time in their respective lodgings, practicing for the upcoming Tournament (in case they be chosen by the magical thinking cup).
The introduction of the Goblet of Fire was done with much fanfare, but Harry was less than impressed with its rather over-the-top appearance. A silver chalice, from which blue flames rose, forever burning, an eternal torch. It just put him even more in mind of the Olympics, and the Tournament, with Dumbledore's excessive talk of building bridges, and securing and sustaining peaceful relations, already did that well enough on its own.
He was a mite curious about how he was going to end up entered in this Tournament, however, when Fred and George couldn't get past. Even if someone (he shuddered at the thought) used mind-control to make him enter his name, they'd be foiled by Dumbledore's age line.
Unless, of course, he didn't count as too young. But that set off an avalanche of questions. He'd already known that this was what Malfoy had been talking about on the train, when he'd asked if Harry were going to enter. But now, with a much greater knowledge of what the Tournament entailed (because why would Dumbledore have informed them before the night the Goblet was introduced; that would just give them plenty of time to forget his warnings?). Harry had to consider everything anew.
The Tournament would (so they claimed) be much safer this year. Harry wasn't sure that he believed that, but even if it were…he had no great desire to enter.
Thor, on the other hand…this was a challenge, and therefore right up his alley. He wanted to ask Stephen to tail Ron, to ensure that he didn't enter himself. Because he would, and he might even be able to.
"You are not going to enter," he said, folding his arms and staring his brother down. "No one doubts that you are worthy of being the Hogwarts Champion—or at least, no one who understands. I suppose Ginny and Hermione might be among those who should know better, and yet still underestimate you, however I—"
"Of course they'd choose Ron," Ginny said, sounding offended that he'd doubted her loyalty. "He came to rescue me in the Chamber of Secrets, and he went into the Forest to try to find out more about the monster, and how to beat it, even though he's terrified of spiders. That's got to be good enough."
Harry paused. He should have realised that people might be listening; it was a silly oversight, but the need to watch out for Thor was an old, engrained habit, and he'd needed to give the speech as soon as possible, before Thor could give him the slip.
"Alright. Then maybe Hermione doesn't realise that you're the living embodiment of heroic valour," he said, with what most people would mistake for sarcasm. "The point is that you shouldn't try to enter. There is no need for you to prove your worth."
The word, deliberately chosen. He could see Thor's jaw tighten, as common sense warred against that impulsivity that had doomed them so many times before. He needed to say something more.
"Please. Remember why you are here. I am begging you not to risk your life senselessly. They say the Tournament is safer this year than ever before, but when has that ever been accurate for us? Think of first and second year. Hogwarts is said to be the safest place in Britain! Ha! Please, Big Brother. True courage is—"
"I know what true courage is," Thor insisted, and stormed off.
How typical.
"What did you expect?" asked Ginny, which was a fair point, all on its own. But he hadn't forgotten, either, how it had felt, to have to watch him die, over and over.
Not to mention that if, by some miracle (could he use that word?) the Tournament passed him over, he did not want to be drawn in, as he once had, into the role of his brother's bodyguard.
"He listened to me, right?" he asked Ginny. She buried her head in her hands, and wouldn't look at him, so he sat down beside her, and put a hand gently on her back.
"I shall see to it that no harm befalls him," he promised her. "If I watch him constantly, there'll be no chance for him to even try."
Ginny looked up at him through a face streaked with tears. "You—you'll really do that? But when will you sleep?"
"Who needs sleep?" he asked with a tired smile. He'd gone more than a single day without sleep before. He knew that he could do it. "What significance is sleep, if Ron dies? You are not the only one to care what happens to him, you know."
She wrapped her arms round him in a crushing hug, saying, "Thank you. thank you. I know he probably wouldn't get past the age line, but—"
He didn't dare to move, even to speak. He had to wait until Ginny pulled away, still sniffling.
"Sorry. I may have got snot all over your robes…"
"It's fine, Ginny," he said. "I'm fine. Really."
Which may or may not have been true. The more relevant question was whether or not Ron would be fine.
