author's note: And, after what I said about adding scenes of Ginny, all I've done is add one segment of her in chapter 89, and an unrelated segment involving Stephen in this chapter? What?
Chapter Eighty-Six: Accidental Secrets Revealed
It would end up being determined that Harry would have to compete. He knew that, of course. He knew the inevitability of it. It was probably also reasonable to predict that Snape would follow him into the debriefing room to defame him before the judges, and make it seem that this was all according to some plan of Harry's. He had to see about sitting Snape and his Mum down for a nice, long chat, one of these days.
McGonagall was a less understandable choice, but perhaps she was at last ready to jump to Harry's defence instead of his condemnation. Harry could hope, although it didn't matter, one way or the other. This time, she had no power to save him. Maybe that was why she was bothering to be here, or maybe that was unfair to her.
Moody, despite also not being invited, was also a fairly predictable choice. He'd have to be there, as unofficial sentry of the Tournament. Perhaps he also had sinister designs for Harry that were coming into fruition. Was his speech about whoever had entered Harry into the Tournament hoping he would die from it a hint? Where was Moody yesterday? Perhaps he and Ron should have tailed the man…funny how sometimes the best of ideas only occur after the fact. It would have meant ditching classes, but of what concern was that to him?
"Potter has been crossing lines ever since he first arrived at this school," Snape said. Did he honestly believe that Harry had entered himself? For what? The attention? People stared and whispered enough as it was, and Harry needed space alone to think and plan for the future—the defeat of Voldemort, the war against…well, a certain purple giant.
"Someone who wants to give Hogwarts two bites at the apple," said Madame Maxime, as if this were a game at a fair, instead of a life-or-death tournament.
"Binding magical contract," Moody said. "He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Convenient, eh?"
Convenient for whom? Harry wanted to know. Convenient for Moody, perhaps?
That night, instead of a quick glance, he stared into the Foe-Glass beside his bed, studying it carefully. There had been three vague figures there since the beginning of the year, but they were only now opaque enough that he could see that they were three individuals, and not one. One of them was probably Riddle, another Wormtail…but that remained to be seen. The manual said that as the threat level increased, and as the time of their impending confrontation came closer, the figures grew more distinct. It was possible, if rare, for the figures to diminish, fading away entirely. But that was rare, the sort of thing that only happened to owners who went out of their way to cut deals and placate the unhappy. Such people rarely purchased Foe-Glasses.
Despite the injustice of it all, and despite that he was only fourteen, he was bound into the same rules as the other, official Champions. He could neither ask for nor receive help from any adults, and he must remain ignorant of the coming challenge coming sometime in the middle of November. The whole thing was so galling that it took him some time, even after he marched off to bed without wishing anyone good night, to get to sleep.
Now that the threat of the year had truly revealed itself, Mother was more inclined to take charge, amongst her fretting. She reminded him of all the healing and defensive magic she had ever taught him—seriously, all of it that she'd ever taught him—and then they'd had a discussion concerning the tasks. He'd insisted that her protective armour would do more harm than good in these sorts of situations—the last thing he wanted was to call attention to his special circumstances, which is what the armour would do.
By contrast, it would confer very little benefit that couldn't be approximated by a strong shield of some sort, combined with the same energy that was in the armour staying just under his skin, as they'd tested out in Moody's class. The problem with that, one of them, anyway, was the fact that his mother's protection remaining in that interstitial state of potentiality meant that the burning that usually faded as the armour solidified would stay as that constant, hand-on-a-hot-stove sensation from Moody's class. But Harry could work through pain. He would do whatever it took to ensure that his connection to Mother remained strong; he wasn't risking her for anything.
The next morning, the thought occurred to him to use Sirius's gift to keep him informed of the situation. He might not have given them the forewarning about the Tournament, but he was still new to all of this, which meant that Harry was willing to overlook that oversight, this once. Sirius was more than a bit alarmed to hear that Harry had been chosen (and this despite not entering himself), and said that he would confer with Professor Lupin, and comb through the nasty Black archives, in search of useful information. Harry had to be grateful for that.
He stepped up his practice with Thor, and spent much time in the library researching wizarding spells, and trying to find equivalents to useful tactics he knew from the other sort of magic. Neither complained about the extra work he was making for them. Ron was, if possible, more concerned about the Tournament than Harry was.
Stephen arrived, as usual, three days later. Harry wished that he'd asked Stephen to return halfway through his usually allotted week, just so that they could monitor the Goblet of Fire.
"You're still in the future," Stephen said. "The tournament didn't kill you, then. As long as you take it seriously and stay on top of things, you'll be fine."
Somehow, this was more of a relief to Thor than Loki.
Stephen now committed himself to discussing what he'd learnt of self-defence at Kamar-Taj, and discussing healing spells with him.
This was how Thor learnt that Harry had access to Lily Evans on a monthly basis.
"Did I forget to mention that?" Loki asked, cocking his head. They'd discussed quite a few things since the big reveal last year.
"Yes," Thor said.
"Did it perhaps also slip my mind to inform you that Lily Evans, my Mum, is also Mother?" he asked. Thor stared.
"I assume that that is a 'yes'."
Something unfamiliar crossed Thor's features, an old shadow, perhaps, a lurking threat he'd once thought vanquished. Thor had rarely had cause to be jealous of him.
"You speak to Mother," he said. "Mother, who died, whom I have not seen nor spoken to in fifteen years. And you neglect to mention this to me, your only brother, even after I told you the truth—"
"I had other thoughts in my mind," Loki said, with a deliberate, flippant carelessness. A part of him wanted Thor to be jealous, to be bitter, to be hurt at being left out, to feel even a bit of what had driven Loki away from his family, but….
"I'll just… wait over here," Stephen said, backing away from the confrontation. He could hardly be blamed for not wanting to get involved. This was the politest way of bowing out.
"Brother," said Thor, his voice pitched lower in warning. Loki sighed.
"I honestly forgot," he said. "There were many other things to think and speak of. I assumed that I had said something, until you seemed surprised by Stephen's comment about healing. Mother has been teaching me. If you are about to die, I now know how to heal you, instead of hoping to channel enough lifeforce into you to keep you alive."
Thor's eyes widened, and his jealousy, such as it was, was defeated by the direct reference.
"You ought to visit home…. It hardly seems right that the doors to home should be barred to you. You are the Crown Prince, after all, and have fully proven your worth, unlike me. But Stephen has already said that he will help us to save as many as possible. And did you not travel back in time to save Mother? You shall see her again. I will see to that. However, in the meantime—"
"Loki, don't—" Stephen began.
"—I once managed to bring her into the physical world. I used the Mirror of Desire as a channel. I know that I can do that again. If you wish to speak to Mother, you need only ask."
The drain would be enormous, but he had deeper reserves, now; he could afford it. Clearly, however, those reserves weren't as deep as he might like. It was clear that Stephen's outburst was due to his awareness of the high cost of using so much magic as that would.
Thor stared at him, for a very long time. He turned to Stephen, as if sensing that he was missing something. Because he knew Loki too well to think that he would share what that was, he addressed Stephen, instead.
"Doctor Strange," he said, his voice ringing with that undercurrent of command that had people listening to what he ordered without even realising that they were. Stephen was not immune. Were he not full of arrogance tempered into mere self-confidence, he would probably have shifted uncomfortably. Instead, he looked as if he'd been backed into a corner, but was still ready to put up a fight…
…to the extent that a pacifist ever did, that was.
"Using that much magic is highly draining. Sustaining it for any length of time is the reason he was out cold that one day after Christmas of first year. Even now, it would drain a huge chunk of his energy, even for a brief conversation. Something happened in '98 that made it a bit safer for him to try stupid shit like that. Wait for that."
"Brother?" Thor asked.
"The offer stands," Loki insisted, leaning back against a wall, as if for an extended conversation. Thor seemed troubled.
"I will not endanger you for such selfish cause—"
"How noble of you," Loki said, as if he couldn't resist baiting him. Stephen looked as if he were considering wandering off back to Gryffindor Tower—or just appearing there via Sling Ring. (Those things were highly unfair: apparently they had no unfortunate side effects, like dizziness or the feeling of being compressed and pulled along by a bungee cord attached to your belly.) Hermione and Ginny would probably be much better companions at such a time.
Thor walked over to clap Loki, hard, on the shoulder, in a moment that tried to remind him of something, what wouldn't come clear, which was suspicious, as that probably meant that it dated from that period of time that was muzziest in his mind. He didn't pursue the memory.
"Save your energy, Brother. You will need it for the months ahead. I shall attempt to be more grateful that I have my brother back. I have much to be thankful for. We will fix the future, together."
"Yeah. Count me in on that. Since I came up with that idea, and all," Stephen said.
"And Hermione," Loki said.
"Naturally," Thor said, seeming perplexed.
"And Sirius, I think," Loki continued, more thoughtful, now.
"As you think best," Thor said, and Loki glared at him.
"None of that. What I said to Malfoy on the train is true: you are the leader. You are the Crown Prince—"
"You are my brother," Thor protested, bringing up that same argument from three hundred years ago, or whatever. There was plenty of cause for them both to keep returning to that night, including the fact that it was one of the few events that they both knew they both remembered.
"You will be our master strategist and leader, and I will make corrections as necessary—"
"This is your quest," Thor insisted, in full earnestness mode. He was particularly insufferable at those times, because you couldn't even accuse him of superciliousness or hypocrisy. "You must lead."
"I think I would work better as the royal advisor," Loki protested.
"Well, all this sibling bonding stuff is very sweet, and kind of sappy, but can we get back to the point, now?" Stephen asked. He'd come away from the corner to approach the sofas in the middle of the Room. Next time, it would probably give them a battle strategy table—one of those with a map scrolled across the top and little markers. He didn't know what use they'd make of it, but he was confident that the Room would do an impressive job. It never did things by halves.
"Warrior cultures have some of the dumbest ideas I've ever heard of," Stephen muttered. "And I'm not just saying that because I'm a doctor."
"Your lack of comprehension makes complete sense," Loki said. "You were not raised as we were."
"That 'show no weakness' thing is shit," Stephen insisted. "Studies have shown—"
"It's a battle chant," Loki said, waving a hand. "It is intended to maintain morale and group coherence."
"And you two always bring it up as if it's a motto to live by," Stephen said. "That's what I'm talking about. We humans have made a lot of progress over the past twenty years, as far as getting men to have emotions, and show them. You should research it, in twenty years. Your machismo isn't useful."
He leant forwards towards the table, and a sheet of parchment appeared there. And a quill. And a bottle of ink.
"Would a fountain pen be asking too much?" he asked the Room.
"Thor is the quintessential Asgardian youth; Mother told me that—"
"When was this?" asked Thor, with an almost sort of polite indifference.
Loki paused. "About five hundred years ago, I believe." Thor seemed to find this acceptable enough not to interrupt again, so Loki rounded on Stephen. "I am human, you know."
Stephen paused. "Your Mom's a goddess in human form—an avatar, as I told Thor three years ago—and you're the reincarnation of a god, yourself, complete with memories and some of your old abilities. Hate to break it to you, but you're not entirely human. I can't do half the shit you can do right now, because I'm not the right species. I can do even less of the shit you can do twenty years from now, because you're always learning and creating new things. Don't give me that nonsense about just being a human teenager."
That was not the last time that argument arose; indeed, many of these same quarrels would recur in varying forms at regular intervals for the next twenty years. They became something like cornerstones, constants, almost reassuring in their formulaic nature. This ended up confusing both Director Fury and the Avengers quite a bit. For now, however, they were sources of discord and friction, to be ironed out. No progress could be made in their evil plans to save the universe until everyone's feathers were smoothed down, and they were back on the same page.
First priority: what to do about the Tournament.
Stephen, for his part, was a bit at a loss, still trying to gain his footing in an ever-shifting reality. He was realising that there was a very good reason that time travel should be used sparingly. He found it was impossible to keep track of what he had and hadn't told his…"friends", as what he thought he remembered telling them changed with every visit. What, for instance, was the location known as "Woodfield Palace", which he had, allegedly, told them about in that first meeting during fourth year, but had no memory of having done? He remembered speaking to them about "Patchwork Palace", instead.
It took three journeys back in time before he realised that the difference between the conversations that he remembered having with them, and the ones they remembered—the "real" conversations, were mostly in small details, different words, different names, whilst the essences of the conversations remained as he remembered. Or, thought he remembered. Apparently, they had never happened at all, even though he remembered them—had not even happened in an overwritten timeline. Still, he could almost keep up.
He was free to come and go from Kamar-Taj as he pleased, but he always had to figure out what to do about the Cloak of Levitation in the meantime. It didn't like being left alone. He'd sometimes roped in one of his friends (usually Wong), to babysit it.
He tried his best to keep the essence of the conversations with Thor and Loki well away from the Time Stone and sorcerous relics, but he couldn't be sure of what he had told them in any given conversation, what they knew. He could not risk them discovering that he had the Time Stone.
Indeed, such thoughts occupied a great deal of his mental focus that he would prefer to be fixed elsewhere. The good thing about interacting with his friends' future selves was that he could change those conversations. He was building up a list of the most ridiculous "tells" that had given away his secret to (usually) Loki, in this conversation or that. As long as that conversation lay on his side of time, his knowledge of how the conversation had truly gone meant that he could backtrack, if he made a mistake, and detour the conversation. It sometimes made for awkward conversation—and being told the same stories, and hearing the same arguments, told in the same words, more often than he would like. And, he knew that one of the mistakes that always piqued Loki's suspicion was when he failed to hide that he'd heard these stories before. He always knew.
He affected a sort of mystical air, and said, early on: "There's some things that you mustn't know about, for your own good."
Loki sometimes seemed to have a lie-detecting sense. It was how he knew when Stephen was hiding his own boredom with familiar conversations. The "for your own good" defence passed muster enough, until Loki inevitably figured things out some other way, and Stephen had to backtrack, and endure the same conversations again. It still limited Stephen's efficiency somewhat, especially in the past, where, for whatever reason, he couldn't overwrite previous conversations. If he'd been there in the past, he knew was part of the reason, then a future version of himself was already there. It must be that the Time Stone couldn't be in more than two places at the same time.
Which made some sense, but made Stephen wary and Loki-level of cautious.
***
The first stage of the Tournament was, apparently, a quasi-ceremonial function known as "The Weighing of the Wands", which was there to ensure that their wands were in fully-functioning order, which was rather silly, considering that they still had a couple of weeks until the mysterious First Task. And would this be repeated before each of the Tasks? No, apparently not. That idea would make too much sense.
Still, he was grateful to be called out of Potions before Snape could threaten him anymore, or make him drink poison, or some such. For all that he claimed to be looking out for Harry (or rather, for all that others made that claim for him), he seemed still to be doing his best to do away with Harry, instead.
Of course, The Weighing was not exactly relaxing, either. For one thing, this was where and how he at last made the acquaintance of the Wizarding World's première libeler, one Rita Skeeter. His previous knowledge of her let him know that he'd best be wary of her, even had she not been oozing false charm, and actual confidence.
Cedric Diggory barely had time to ask Harry whether he had, in fact, entered himself, before Skeeter was dragging Harry away. He was in something of a daze, still, from being unexpectedly called away to be photographed. The reprieve from Potions was nice, the paparazzi, less. At least Rita Skeeter didn't bring her pet photographer with her.
She set them down in a "cosy" broom closet, closing the door behind them, and sitting on an upturned bucket. Harry had to wonder if she were quite sane, and that was saying something, coming from him.
"I don't suppose you'd mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? Just to take notes; it frees up my attention so that I can focus on the interview. No? Great!" she said, in a rush, before Harry could even ask what a "Quick-Quotes Quill" was.
It was a bright green feathered monstrosity of some sort, covered in interwoven spells, which Harry skimmed over when he first sat down, out of sheer spite. Then, he saw what it was writing—some nonsense about him crying about parents he'd never known, and he opened his seventh sense, to better examine the spells.
Good thing he could multitask—not that he'd open his seventh sense more than he had to: it was too distracting, and he would have a great deal of trouble splitting his attention three ways. How to concentrate on the interview, and dismantling or rearranging the quill, and what Skeeter was writing?
He made as if he were looking down at the ground, instead of at her paper, as she began to ask him all sorts of rather biased and inaccurate leading questions. You'd think she wanted him to be the juvenile delinquent that Uncle Vernon claimed he was, or the supervillain he had been.
That hit a bit too close to home, and he redoubled his efforts, reattaching the threads of magic that connected the quill to Skeeter's mind to her superficial thoughts—a sort of stream of consciousness meandering tale was the goal, here, ideally one in which she confessed something nasty about herself, or otherwise damned herself before her readers. Best case scenario: she was published without having the chance to edit, and thereby showed the public her true colours. Worst case scenario, however, was still good enough: this interview would be ruined. What could she make of it?
And meanwhile, maybe he could give her something else, something to make her useful to him.
"Worried?" he repeated, tilting his head. "No, not really. I've some experience in these matters, you know. The school's turned against me, again, but that's normal, too. They've done that every year except last year, which was atypical, anyway. I do usually have a bit more time before they turn on me like vultures, but hey!, that's the price of fame. By now, I'm resigned to it. But don't get me wrong—while I'll do my best, on account of that 'unbreakable magic contract' thing, I'm rooting for Cedric Diggory, too. I owe him, after all. He was one of the few people who defended me when the Chamber of Secrets was opened a couple of years ago."
Rita Skeeter looked positively giddy, rapturous with happiness at the prospect of this story.
"'The Chamber of Secrets'?" she repeated, leaning in. "Then, it isn't just a legend?"
He cocked his head. Had that not been in the news? How had they covered it up?
"It's quite real," he assured her. "In my second year, a bunch of students were petrified, including one of my best friends. A message first appeared on Hallowe'en—that's usually when things start going wrong for me—saying that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. 'Enemies of the Heir, beware'."
Rita Skeeter gave an exaggerated shiver, and he nodded. She was fixated upon this new story, and had quite forgotten the libel she'd wanted to write about Harry.
"I've been down to the Chamber, myself. The entrance is difficult to find, but my other best friend and I went down into the Chamber with a professor, who turned out to be evil. He tried to obliviate us…it was awful. And I had to fight a basilisk after he died in a rockfall, and I got separated from the rest of my group. The basilisk was Slytherin's monster, who was being controlled by a piece of You-Know-Who's soul that had split off from the rest. That's how I know what You-Know-Who's real name is. I don't think it's common knowledge. He's ashamed of it, so he tries to pretend that he never had a name. That's because he's a half-blood. Did you know that?"
Skeeter's eyes widened. "I had no idea. How exciting! A basilisk? You must have only been about twelve years old. However did you survive?"
Harry beamed at her. "With some help from Dumbledore's pet phoenix, the Sorting Hat, and a lot of luck."
"And what's You-Know-Who's real name?" asked Skeeter. Inwardly, Harry smiled. This was what he'd been hoping for.
"His name's Tom M. Riddle. That 'M.' stands for 'Marvolo', his maternal grandfather. He was the Heir of Slytherin, but his dad was an ordinary muggle. He got special awards from the school for framing Hagrid, which was why he was expelled—you will keep that to yourself, won't you?"
"Oh, yes, of course. I believe one hundred percent in source confidentiality," said Skeeter, in her breeziest voice. "To think, the most feared wizard in the world has such a common name…why I find it positively incredible. I don't suppose you have any proof?"
Harry shrugged. "Hogwarts keeps old records in the library, but he was also given a trophy as reward for his 'Special Services'. He was quite popular in his day—Head Boy, Prefect, the works. Not Captain of Quidditch, but he had quite a fan club."
"I see," said Skeeter, pausing to digest this new information. That was when Dumbledore appeared, twinkling, to fetch Harry. Again, the persistent, nagging suspicion that Dumbledore knew everything that happened at this school, and that if he had allowed that interview, he'd wanted Harry to do just as he did.
Skeeter made some protests about her prey being snatched out of her claws, but she had to acquiesce—official Tournament business came first, after all.
And Harry had not told her much about himself at all. He wondered when she would realise that.
The rest of the time was rather boring. Ollivander had been called in to test the functionality of their wands. Harry learnt thereby that Fleur Delacour was part veela—she had a veela grandmother. Cedric kept his wand diligently polished and shining, which Harry had never troubled with. Indeed, he explained as much when Ollivander eyed it, noting the smudge marks and signs of wear.
"That just means that I use it," he said, shrugging. "Such wear is a sign of all that we've been through together. I respect those experiences too much to wipe away all trace of their occurrence. Although I did clean it after the dementor attack last school year. It was covered in mud; it had to be done."
"Yes, yes, you're quite right," said Ollivander. "A little wear or imperfection never decreased the beauty of a piece of art. No, not at all. Yes."
"Are you willing to tell me more about its component parts, now?" Harry asked, leaning forwards.
"Perhaps later, Mr. Potter. Yes, you have taken excellent care of it, despite superficial wear. Clearly a strong bond remains between the two of you—"
"Will you at least stay behind so that I can ask you more about wandlore?" he interjected, and Ollivander looked much harried and put-upon.
