Chapter Eighty-Five: A Typical Hallowe'en
He did not give Ron a chance to even make the attempt, which must have been his first success in keeping Thor out of trouble in…well, ever. He had, perhaps, shamed him into sense. Thor was never long angry, swift to forgive, it was not long after their latest quarrel before Thor sought him out, seeming contrite.
"I shall not enter my name, even had I a means," Thor told him, head bowed. "You have quite enough to worry about as it is, and the age line gives me pause. I would not wish to reveal myself. Even chosen what I risk is greater than I would gain. That is what you meant to say, is it not? You need not watch me, little brother."
His words, as they generally did, fairly rang with sincerity. Polar opposites, as Harry had once judged for simpler reasons, in his dreams. But he just gave Thor a level stare in return.
"Be that as it may, I promised Ginny that I would watch you to ensure that you didn't even have the chance to. I have gone far longer than a single night without sleep."
He did not mention that he fully expected to be chosen for the Tournament, somehow or other, against all possibility, probability, and logic. Did the universe bend over backwards to thrust him into danger, or did it only seem that way?
"Then I shall keep vigil with you," Thor declared. Harry considered suggesting that they watch the Goblet together, but his name might even already be entered. How would he know?
"You're not thinking of keeping a constant eye on the Goblet, are you?" Hermione asked, eyes narrowed, and arms folded, as she stared them down. She was somewhat alarming, sometimes. Harry froze.
"No," Harry said, even as Ron said, "yes". He glanced over in Ron's direction.
"I think it's one of those things—people find it harder to work up their nerve to enter, if they know people are watching. You'd better stay away. Just because you aren't old enough to enter doesn't mean you should scare everyone else off," Hermione said, looking back and forth between them, as if astonished that Harry should be the one who understood. He wasn't stupid.
Nevertheless, he mused, "Well, all the school, plus the students of Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, and all the judges will be watching the Tournament. If having people watch you enter would scare you off, perhaps you don't belong in the Tournament. It seems a right spectator sport."
Hermione huffed, and tightened her arms across her chest. Then she sighed, and tried to run a hand through her hair, but it swiftly became entangled in her hair-bush. She scowled, yanking her hand free with a wince, and lost track of what she was going to say.
She sat down on the sofa across from them, on the other side of one of the corner worktables of the room. Fred and George were often to be found here, poring over some parchment or other—not the Map, some sort of top-secret project that Harry kept intending to ask them about.
"How do you suppose the Goblet chooses the champions? I mean, it's just an inanimate object. At least the Sorting Hat can read minds, but none of the champions would ever even touch the Goblet."
Harry clasped his hands under his chin, leaning on them, thinking. It was a fair question, especially if he wanted to figure out how not to be entered.
"Perhaps it analyses your handwriting," he said. "Even muggles believe that a person's handwriting tells a lot about their character."
Hermione shook her head. "But think about it, Harry: if that's true, there's bound to be a lot of people with very similar handwriting styles entering at the same time—Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will have carefully chosen the students they brought, to ensure as many good candidates for the Hat to choose from as possible. It would mean that a lot of people with very similar handwriting would all be entering…I'm not sure I believe in handwriting analysis, however."
Perhaps too similar to palmistry, hmm? He cast about for another theory.
"Sympathetic magic," he said, at last. Hermione frowned, a slight twitch in her left eye at the thought of there being an entire form of magic she'd never heard of. He pretended he didn't see. "Sympathetic magic combined with nominal magic—the magic of names, you know? We already know the power of names, I'm sure. 'What's in a name?', indeed?" he glanced at Thor to see if he took the unspoken message. He seemed to, and Harry shrugged, and continued, "Names carry quite a bit of power on their own, and they're directly connected to their bearers.
"That magic of names…and this is a hypothesis, mind you… it would create a sort of entryway into the mind and soul of the one who bore that name. A connection strengthened by the fact that that person touched the piece of paper that they threw into the Goblet—whatever sweat, or blood, or maybe even dead skin, remained left behind on that paper. That's sympathetic magic. Like voodoo dolls. You need a piece of a person as a conduit—that's how Polyjuice works too, remember? That bond would give the Goblet a way of reading the past thoughts and actions of its candidates. I can't imagine how that would work."
He resisted the sudden urge to return to the Great Hall, and study the Goblet of Fire with his seventh sense opened. Like the Room of Requirement, perhaps such a singular object deserved his full respect.
"That sounds really complicated…and difficult," Hermione said, biting her lip. Harry stared straight ahead, deep in thought, hands crossed, now, in his lap. It was only a hypothesis. His best guess, working with very little information. He wished he knew better.
"Entering constitutes making a magically binding contract," Hermione murmured. "I wonder what that means. I do wish Dumbledore had told us more."
Harry glanced down at the soft carpet underfoot. "I suppose it doesn't matter how it works, does it? Isn't it inevitable that I'll end up chosen?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes, again, staring him down. "Harry," she began, and he knew that she was about to scold him. He glanced at Ron again, wondering if Ron had understood even part of his complicated explanation. Did even Hermione understand?
Maybe he was safe. Maybe, between the age line preventing him from being (he shuddered again at the thought) mind-controlled and forced to enter himself, and that bond being necessary for his entrance, he was, for once in his life, exempt from the danger. He fully intended to stay as far away from the cup as he could until the champions were chosen tomorrow night, however. Not that it mattered: he had told Ginny he would watch Ron, and he intended to make good on that promise. It also gave him something of an alibi, which was a bonus. But…suppose he was wrong? Tomorrow, after all, was Hallowe'en, the holiday of doom.
Fred and George were having trouble finding a way to enter themselves. Harry helped with this by cheerfully insinuating himself into their conversation early the next morning. There were benefits to staying up all night, but cheer was not one of them: his was false cheer, the kind reserved for difficult situations to distribute the load they brought with them somewhat. Professor Lupin did the same thing.
"Hello, Greg, Ford," he said, nodding to one of them, and then the other. He didn't much care which was which. Like Crabbe and Goyle, they weren't individuals. They were a package lot.
"That's a new one, don't you think, Gred?" asked the first one he nodded to.
"It certainly is, Forge, " said the second one. They both turned to face him at the same time, which would have been disconcerting had they been two different people. "What can we do for you, little bro.?"
Harry glanced around the room. Ron had set himself the task of sentry duty, but didn't seem to be eavesdropping. He sat down in a third chair, twisting it inconspicuously so as to keep Ron in sight even as he spoke with the Twins. He gave them a pleasant smile.
"I was looking for a distraction from tonight's exciting news. I see that you haven't managed to fix that aging potion."
Forge scowled. "Yeah, well, we've given up on entering. We're rooting for Angelina."
Harry blinked. "You mean she entered?"
"A few hours ago. Weren't you paying attention?" Gred asked. He sounded scandalised. She was a fellow quidditch team member. But Harry hadn't realised that she was over seventeen. Just how many such students were there in Hogwarts, anyway? Everything about this Tournament struck him as unfair.
"Huh. Alright. I'll support her nomination," he said, nodding. "Would you care to tell me what Ludo Bagman has done to incur your wrath?"
Forge gave a nervous little laugh. "Now whatever makes you think that we don't like our good chum Ludo, little bro.?"
Harry folded his arms. "I have eyes? You glare at him and mutter under your breaths whenever he's around. You were all smiles at the World Cup—whatever happened?"
Gred tapped his finger against the table, a fast-tempoed little rhythm. "Oh, alright. Just because we think so highly of you. He didn't hold up his end of the deal. We bet that Ireland would win, but Krum would catch the snitch."
"Exactly what happened," Forge interjected. Gred nodded.
"And that's exactly what happened," he echoed. The tapping was getting more frantic. It was becoming distracting. "You see, he never paid us our winnings."
"More than that, the git never even returned our money. Turns out, he's already deep in gambling debts with goblins."
Ah, so that was Bagman's dark secret. It could have been worse. Cross him off the list, he supposed. He leant back.
"So, you're blackmailing him? Is Wizarding Britain so backwards that you feel you have to resort to fighting crime with crime?" No, he was not preaching. At all.
"What choice do we have?" Forge snapped. "We can't let Mum know that we're saving our funds for a joke shop, and without an adult in our corner, we can't really take any legal course of action—"
"Sirius would help you," he said. "He might be able even to contribute some funds to your project. He loves pranks. Dunno if he'd fight Bagman for you, but you could ask him for help. He told me he was going to go to muggle law school, although he never got even his undergraduate degree. Still, he might have some advice."
They turned and stared at him. Why did everyone act as if he couldn't think?
"Sirius Black was going to go to a muggle university?" one of them at last asked. Was it that surprising? What better way to snub his parents' pureblood beliefs than to get a respectable muggle profession, the hard way?
"He was going to study law before they threw him in jail? That's kind of ironic…."
That was a good point, at least.
"Shall I send him a letter from the two of you?" he asked, with a smile that suggested he quite deliberately had somehow missed what they'd just said. They were smart enough to know better than to repeat themselves.
"I do believe we owe you again, for this favour. Don't think we've forgotten first year."
Harry frowned at the reminder. "Don't think I've forgotten first year. You two are too brilliant at the pranking business not to get your chance."
He stood up before they could say any more stupid things, returning over to Ron, who was still keeping watch, and not that much worse the wear for lack of sleep. Go figure.
Still, at least he'd forgotten about the choosing of the champions, for a few minutes.
Hallowe'en was not considered a day off at Hogwarts, although you would expect it to be, especially this year. That it fell on a Monday meant that people were even more resentful: it would have been easy to extend the weekend. Harry was even more distracted than the rest of them. Short of ditching his classes, he realised that he would never have been able to keep a constant eye on the Goblet of Fire. He could only keep a watchful eye on his brother because they had all the same classes.
Hardly anyone was concentrating on school—by lunchtime, most of the professors had got the metaphorical memo, and were allowing the students to do what they would have done anyway—gossip about who would turn out to be the champions for each school, particularly Hogwarts, whose students they knew best.
"Krum is the obvious choice," said Seamus, "and then…I dunno."
"How about Angelina?" Harry asked, and Seamus started. Was it that incredible that Harry would address someone on his own?
"Angelina Johnson?" he asked. "Did she enter? I thought she was…I dunno, sixteen?"
"The Twins said that she entered," Harry said, with a shrug.
Dean and Seamus both turned to shoot him disbelieving stares. That was getting really old, really fast.
"You believed them?"
Harry smiled. Was that all? "I have a knack for knowing when people are pulling my leg," he said, glancing sidelong at Ron, the only person who would be expected to make more of his statement than was readily apparent.
Hermione huffed, but ignored the conversation. Indeed, she stayed out of the speculation entirely. She was, true to form, studying up on historical protests and reform in wizarding society. Operation Spew was entering its second phase. Almost the only good thing about being volunteered for a death gauntlet was that he could legitimately say that he had more pressing concerns than Hermione's civil rights movement. How could he even discover how house-elves felt, or to what extent their natures corresponded to human ones? Was Dobby an anomaly, or precocious, ahead of his time?
Perhaps he should leave the moral battles to Hermione and Ron, and stick to trying to keep himself alive and to keep madmen from killing huge swathes of people. When did his life become this?
Unfortunately, he could pretty much pinpoint the answer to that question.
-l-
Night fell soon enough, far too soon, after a surprisingly long time for the shortening autumnal days. Time rushed in fits and stops. It picked up speed after classes let out for the day, and then crawled again for the Hallowe'en Feast. Harry was relieved to see that Sir Nick was spending this deathday at the Gryffindor Table. As far as he was concerned, the last Hallowe'en he truly remembered was the one on which Mrs. Norris had been petrified.
Without him realising it, his gaze drifted to Ginny. She'd recovered from those events much better than he. All he had gotten from the experience was Riddle's true name, a basilisk fang, and the Sword of Gryffindor. And the time was coming that he'd have to ask to borrow the Sword of Gryffindor. Such a contingency was inevitable, but it was rather vexing that the need should arise less than two years after he'd acquired the sword.
Of course there was always a chance, however slim, that it wouldn't be needed.
Ha. As if.
His intuition had been warning him for over a month, and it was generally right about these things. He didn't need further warning.
The Goblet of Fire must have some manner of keeping track of time, because it waited until after dinner to start spitting blue sparks. It even waited until after Dumbledore's dramatic introductory speech (or he knew that it was about to react, in whatever way he seemed to know everything). Harry didn't know whether it was Dumbledore and the Heads of the school who set a prearranged time for the Goblet of Fire to make its decisions, or whether it had always been set to the same date and time, which was also a possibility, and suggested that Hallowe'en had been an unlucky date for plenty of others—perhaps those slain in previous tournaments.
Whatever the case, the Goblet started sparking soon after Dumbledore completed his speech. He didn't seem surprised, but then he had said that he estimated that it required about one more minute to complete its analyses, in pretty much those exact words. Regardless of who had chosen the time, he had some way of judging when it was about to react.
Blue sparks. Life wasn't just laughing at Harry. Of course, Ron was carefully looking at the tablecloth whilst fiddling with a fork, so….
Hermione, by contrast, seemed to have forgot to breathe, again, staring, unblinking, at the sparking cup. Harry wanted to remind her of the importance of breathing, but didn't quite dare. Any noise made sounded twenty times louder in this utter quiet.
"The Champion for Durmstrang…is Viktor Krum."
No one clapped harder than Karkaroff at this news, although many tried. There were quite a few cries of how obvious a choice he was for the Tournament, and Harry had the sudden suspicion that all those other Durmstrang boys had just been brought for show…or worse, as nothing but a bodyguard or support for Krum. Certainly, Karkaroff didn't seem to hold any of them in any sort of regard.
Krum did not seem to hear the wolf whistles and cheers from his adoring fans, but his strut might have been slightly stiffer than usual as he walked out of the hall. Of course, that could just be realisation sinking in as to just what he'd signed up for.
But, before they could discuss the matter, or the hall could quieten again after this first round of excitement, the Goblet spat out another small piece of paper. Dumbledore looked down at it, announcing: "The Champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour."
"Ah…the other girls all look so disappointed," Hermione said. Harry glanced over them, to ignore the much louder wolf whistles and catcalls that accompanied and tailed the French Champion. Dejected was an understatement: many of the girls were in tears. As were some of the boys.
Quite a few gryffindors glared at Hermione for breaking the tension. She squirmed, and fidgeted, and fell silent.
"And the Hogwarts Champion…is Cedric Diggory," Dumbledore finished.
Even Harry felt inclined to cheer. Cedric Diggory…yes, he was a good choice. He had a great deal of honour and chivalry, and was a genuinely good person. Harry smiled and applauded, and Fred and George glared at him, but clapped politely all the same. Harry bit his lip to keep from saying that he'd been a better friend to Harry than they had, which was only true in some respects.
"Well, now the Champions have been chosen. I hope that you will support all three of them in this tournament, and that you make those who were not chosen feel welcome and wanted here in Hogwarts, regardless. I needn't stress that I expect everyone in this school to respect all of the Champions, and—"
He paused, cutting himself off for the first time that Harry could remember, and an unpleasant shiver stole up his spine. It could not have been clearer why he had stopped, for the Goblet was spitting fire again. Another paper erupted from the flames, and Dumbledore caught it, his hand movements jerky, almost involuntary, as if automatic. Harry closed his eyes, and bowed his head.
"Harry Potter," Dumbledore said, in a voice quite different from his usual pleasant one. It was cold, and rang against the Hogwarts stones. Harry didn't move. How could he?
He'd known it was coming, sort of, but, as he had so often, he'd tried to talk himself out of that knowledge. As it was, he was less than prepared.
"But I didn't enter," he protested, suddenly able to move. He sprang to his feet, anger at the injustice of it all already beginning to kindle.
"Professor, there must be something—" Hermione began, eyes filling with tears. Ron glanced over at Harry, hands in fists on the table, until he remembered the fire hazard, moving his hands to under the table, where fewer people would see them shoot sparks, if that was what it came to.
"I'm afraid there is no choice," Dumbledore said. "We will discuss this more in the other room."
Dumbledore stood, along with Crouch and Bagman. Harry stood where he was, determined to fight this thing, until Dumbledore said. "Your cooperation and presence in our discussion would be most informative and helpful, Harry."
Harry's shoulders slumped, because Dumbledore had a point. He'd need to be there to defend himself, and going to the Champions debriefing room wasn't agreeing any more than being volunteered was. He shot Ron a significant glance, turned to Hermione, glanced at Ginny, who looked as if she had folded in on herself, and might have forgotten to breathe, sitting still as a statue with her hands in fists, just like Ron, and then trudged out of the room, following Dumbledore. Of course this would happen. It was Hallowe'en, after all. He couldn't expect a different outcome.
