Chapter Eighty-Seven: The Real Hogwarts Champion

The professors, for the most part, decided to cut him slack concerning his schoolwork, in light of his recent need to practise staying alive. The challenges the Champions were to face had all been decided beforehand; Harry was up against tasks intended for seventeen-year-olds, people with seven years of magical education under their belts (or at least six). Had things been different (had this not been a spectator sport), he would have been better equipped than the others. But, he couldn't use the other magic without drawing dangerous scrutiny, which he must avoid at all costs. He had to protect Mother. And Thor.

Wasn't it enough that he had two prophecies hanging over his head? He didn't dare to use the other magic in any noticeable manner, which meant that he needed to hit the library to study wizarding means of defence. Now, he had an excuse to drag Hermione in to study such spells. And, that wasn't the only thing he had an excuse to do.

He camped out in front of Dumbledore's Office a few days after the ceremony, arms crossed as he leant against the gargoyle, as if to push it over with his weight, slight as it was. He refused to stand here for fifteen minutes shouting the name of every candy he could think of. He was training with three different people in three different branches of magic (even Stephen had been dragged into this, much to his dismay), but he knew that that wasn't good enough. If he wanted to win, or even just to survive, he needed familiar tools. He had the holly-and-phoenix-father wand. He had ever-increasing reservoirs of magic. And, he had an accumulating body of experience of fighting with "muggle" weapons. What he didn't have was a "muggle" weapon with which to fight, when the Task came. Or, rather, he did not officially have one.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" snapped Snape, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Harry gave him a bright smile.

"Hello, Professor, sir. Good morning! I don't suppose you know the headmaster's password? I needed to speak with him about recent events."

Snape sneered. "The headmaster is a very busy man, Potter, and has no time for your foolish whims."

Harry cocked his head, studying him. Snape seemed rather more agitated than usual. "Is something amiss, sir?"

"Don't think I don't know who's been stealing supplies from my personal stores, Potter. That innocent act may work on your other teachers, but I—"

"Ah, Severus, Harry. I hope you haven't been waiting for very long. I thought I'd have a nice early breakfast, but it seems I got lost on the way to the Great Hall."

Dumbledore was one of those people who you rarely knew how much of what he said to believe. Most likely, he hadn't gotten lost, but who knew, with Dumbledore? He might have deliberately wandered off to some far-off, forgotten corner of the castle, and then the building had rearranged itself.

"I came here to report that Potter has stolen more ingredients from my private stores," Snape said, shooting Harry a particularly venomous look.

Harry sighed. "I swear that I have never even been inside your office. Nor have I ever felt inclined to rummage through your private stash of ingredients. I've had better things to worry about this year…sir."

It was the closest he'd come to showing overt disrespect to this particular professor, who seemed to recognize this fact. Things might have grown ugly, had Dumbledore not been right there.

"I will speak with you more on this matter later, Severus," Dumbledore said, a certain dimness in his usual twinkle. Perhaps that was what passed for brooding, with Dumbledore.

Professor Snape recognised his cue to leave, turning on his heel with a dramatic flair, and storming off.

"Someone has been stealing from Professor Snape's private stores?" Harry asked. "What's missing? How does he know?"

Any little clue might help him to piece this narrative together, but Dumbledore didn't seem to agree.

"That is a private matter," said Dumbledore. "You have told me that you did no such thing, and I believe you. But, why are we standing here, when I have an office with actual chairs? Cauldron Cakes."

Harry trudged up the stairs after him. By now, it had sunken in that the entire school had turned against him, again—bar Gryffindor, who were often to be found glaring daggers at anyone who disparaged Harry, with the occasional fight thrown in. They'd had a party to celebrate his nomination, but realised eventually that what he needed far more was to be left alone to think. Gryffindor had united with him against the rest of the school, which was both charming and alarming. Schools and their cliques, eh?

Dumbledore closed the door with a wave of his wand, once Harry was safe inside. "Are you here to discuss the Tournament?" Dumbledore said. "Sadly, despite your unfair circumstances, I am not allowed to share any details concerning the Tournament with you. I hope you understand."

"Give me the Sword," Harry said, glancing at the shining silver weapon hanging on the wall. Dumbledore's eyebrows rose: Harry was not usually this direct. Or rude.

"You said that I could borrow it again in some rather extreme circumstances. I will need some time to practice. Lend it to me for the duration of the Tournament. It is more useful wielded by me than hanging on your wall. I promise that I will return it, when all is said and done."

Dumbledore sighed, steepling his fingers through his beard. He looked very old. "Yes. You're right. I remember promising you that. I had hoped that this day would never come…but if you are the rightful wielder of Gryffindor's Sword, then, as his champion, you deserve to wield it. You are not to bring it to classes, however."

"Got it," Harry said, barely paying any attention to what Dumbledore was saying. He had approached the wall without even noticing, hand outstretched.

"I am showing you a great deal of trust in this matter, Harry," Dumbledore said, and Harry turned to him.

"I will not misuse it," he assured Dumbledore, before turning back to the wall. Dumbledore waved a hand, and the "sword" plummeted, sheath and all, towards the floor. Harry caught it in both hands, and stared at it. He'd forgot what it even looked like. Truly, a work of art. He was going to end up leaving the castle with both sword and fang, when he graduated. One way or another.

"Thank you, Headmaster," he said, with a smile. "That was all that I came here for."

Fawkes made a trill of protest, and he turned to the bird, who was watching the scene with rapt attention. "…Although I would be remiss, if I missed the opportunity to say hello to my friends, Guy and the Sorting Hat. Hello, Guy, you look well."

Fawkes gave a rather chirpy little trill, and puffed out his chest. Harry turned to the Sorting Hat. He knew that he would regret speaking to it.

"Perhaps, you might give the Sorting Hat my regards," he added, as Fawkes gave him a reproachful glare. "I should be heading to class."

He went to the door, and turned back to Dumbledore. "I do believe both prophecies are in the process of fulfilling themselves. I will not fail."

He opened the door, and left.


Hagrid might not have spoken a word to Harry since Madame Maxime's arrival, but he made up for it, somewhat, by warning Harry of the nature of the impending Task. Dragons, of all things. Well, Hagrid might be pleased by this turn of events, but Harry thought it was life laughing at him, again. Though it might also be laughing at Hagrid. Norbert was a girl? But Hagrid didn't care; he clearly missed her, going all teary-eyed at the mere mention.

Harry headed back early, and began to process the news. He knew about the First Task. Madame Maxime knew, and she would tell Fleur. Karkaroff had been noted running back to the ship moored in the Black Lake. That left only one Champion: Cedric, Hogwarts's most decent person.

He had to know. For one thing, Harry had no real interest in winning this tournament—he was trying to avoid unnecessary casualties.

And do you think that saving a few lives atones for those you have taken? Is redemption a matter of balancing out books?

And, his internal judgemental monologue was frenetic in its analysis of his actions. But, if he could save the life of this boy who had defended him even to his own housemates…. No, not even for the sake of repaying a debt. For the reminder that there were, in fact, decent people in this world worth defending, too. That fact was far too easy to forget, with news filled with stories of criminals and wars. And that, in turn, that despair, that sense of the ruined world, made it easier to think yourself above people—squabbling, greedy things that they could become, if you didn't remind yourself that not everyone behaved thus.

A selfish choice, then. But, one he would make, regardless.

-l-

"I don't know how it happened—this bag is brand-new—"

"No matter. Reparo!" Harry cried, watching as the seam sewed itself back together. "More important: the First Task is dragons. I'm not sure exactly what to do with them, but we have to face them, somehow. I don't think they expect us to slay the dragons, but be ready for that possibility, too, just in case."

Cedric stared at him, as if trying to solve a complicated puzzle. Harry got that look a lot. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Well, we're on even footing, now, aren't we? Cedric, I don't want to win, I want to make it through this year intact, preferably without encountering You-Know-Who again. Also, I sort of owe you for being such a decent person to me all the time."

"I'm sorry about all those badges. I've told them to lay off—"

Harry just shifted his weight, and smiled. "Don't worry about it. I'm used to Malfoy. Besides, you are the real Hogwarts Champion. I don't know what I am, or how I got in, but I know that yours was the third name to come out. I suppose I'm just the spare."

Cedric was perhaps a bit unnerved by the fact that Harry managed to say all this while maintaining an even smile. "I'll let you know if I learn anything else," Harry said, before Cedric could reply, picking back up his own school satchel, and walking away. Cedric turned to glance at him, but walked off in a hurry. The professors probably were showing less lenity towards him.

He was on his way to his next class when Moody singled him out, yet again, to speak with him.

"That was a decent thing you just did there, Potter," he said, once the door to his office was closed behind Harry. Harry was thrown off-balance by this. He had been expecting a reprimand, or perhaps demands as to how he knew what the First Task was.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, studying Moody.

"I heard you telling Diggory about the Task. That was mighty decent of you."

According to his lie-detecting sense, this was true. But all that meant was that Moody believed it.

"Thank you," he said, rather than destroy the man's illusions of his generosity. What else could he say? "Was that all, Professor?"

Please say "yes".

"I was wondering how you were coming along with your plans for the task. Dumbledore worries about you," Moody said, instead.

"I have some ideas, yes," Harry said, trying to sound more certain of himself than he was.

"You need to play to your strengths," Moody continued, as if he hadn't heard. "Don't forget that dragons can fly, although these ones will be tethered, so they can't fly away or attack the spectators. Basic safety precautions, you know."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why Moody was telling him this. He was hardly about to forget that fully-grown dragons were capable of flying. Even Norbert had had his moments. Her moments. Whatever.

"I have a class right now, sir," he said, trying to keep his voice light and respectful. He couldn't afford to show his suspicion of the man; that would make him close up the holes in his mask, and it would be harder to gather evidence against him. Harry didn't know why this all had to be so complicated.

"You may go, Potter," he said, sounding rather irked about something. Harry fled.


Despite the innumerable preparations to be made concerning the First Task, he took some time off to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione. They'd arranged to meet Sirius there, at the pub known as the Hog's Head. Aberforth Dumbledore was less inclined to judge them, and the clientele were more liable to overlook him than those of the Three Broomsticks. Last time anyone had taken a survey, Madam Rosmerta was still quite as flustered as Minister Fudge at the fact that she'd been wrong about Sirius Black. He was giving her her space.

Remus Lupin was staying at Sirius's childhood home, researching more about the Tournament, the repercussions of breaking the magical contract he hadn't signed (thus far, sources suggested that it would strip him of his magic, which perhaps it couldn't, but why risk that?), and the tasks of previous years. There were three tasks, spread out through the year. The second one would likely be sometime in the middle of winter, and the last one, of course, in June. It was all laid out neatly for Harry's usual perils.

Sirius's concern was touching, as was the sheer volume of hours and work put in by both Sirius and Remus on this project. He'd have to tell them the truth. At some point. Probably this year. He refused to be one of those who kept putting off sharing a big, life-shattering secret with people who deserved to know. He'd received more than enough of that in just one lifetime.

In the meantime, he and Sirius bored Ron to distraction discussing potentially useful spells. It was full of technical stuff that Ron didn't understand, or he would have appreciated the strategy behind it, instead.

Harry made sure to make plans to spend Christmas Break with Sirius, along with Ron and Hermione, before they left. He had a lot to think about, still, including what had been stolen from Snape's private stores, who had entered him into the Tournament, and how to go about surviving the First Task.

He'd also learnt quite enough about Bartemius Crouch to last a lifetime, including that he'd sent his own son to Azkaban after the boy was accused of being a Death Eater (by all accounts, he was barely out of school at the time), and that he had been responsible for sending Sirius to Azkaban without a trial.

If Harry had been suspicious of him before, he no longer was. That did nothing to curb a sudden intense antipathy towards the man. It wasn't only Sirius who had suffered for Crouch's actions, but Harry didn't have to be angry for his own sake, for that decade and then some taken from him. Sirius's staggered development and continued suffering from Azkaban were more than enough reason to hate the man.

He wondered how his poisonous influence might be negatively affecting Ron's sort-of older sort-of brother, Percy. Perhaps they should check up on him.

Harry had planned to drag Ron into shopping for robes during that trip, but there just wasn't the time. Instead, he asked Sirius to look for spares, and if none of them suited Ron, they'd have to go shopping at Diagon Alley during Christmas Break.

Which was more important: the question of how he ought to feel about Christmas, or the question of just why they needed dress robes? Well, presumably he'd find the answer to the latter this school year without searching for it, which meant that, if he ever had the time, he'd have to turn introspective. Or ask Ron; it must be just as strange for him.

That brief window of a break was enough to revitalise him enough for him to throw himself back into various studies. Stephen had little to no experience with combat, but was learning quite a bit about offensive and defensive magic from both versions of Loki, past and present. Harry, in turn, could turn about and stack this knowledge on top of itself, regardless of whatever Stephen said about paradoxes. Who cared about those?

"Haven't you ever seen Star Trek?" Stephen groaned, as he stood up from the latest lucky blow. There were fewer of them, now; they were both improving at this whole other magic versus sorcery thing. If it helped keep them both alive in the coming wars, it was worth a little sacrifice, here and there. The problem was that it was difficult to tell how much of it Stephen would retain. He came from an ever-changing future, after all.

Still, this entire Tournament was beginning to look a lot less hopeless, as were the coming wars. On a good day, at least.