A/N: There have been a few reviews coming in lately, a few DMs and a few more follows/favourites. Your continued support is much appreciated, and helps keep the excitement of writing this story alive.

I held good to my promise and spoke to Moody the following week. Doing the exact opposite of what Daphne wanted seemed like it should go pretty high up on my list of priorities, so it felt pretty good to linger back after double-Defence with the Slytherins, with my feet up on the desk, and catch her eye as she stalked from the room.

If looks could kill.

The chat went about the same way every chat with Mad-Eye Moody goes. Very gruff, very weird, and a few borderline conspiracies theories were bandied about. But he did say one thing that wound up and kicked me square in the sack of Galleons. I believe his exact words were: 'How could you three troll-brains not miss the fact that they've more than likely brought in a brand new portrait for this clue, and not used one that has been sitting here for years - which would give a distinct advantage to the Hogwarts contestants?'

I just sat there with a gaping mouth like a great stupid goldfish for a full minute. Moody muttered something about catching flies, and told me I'd best be on my way, as I had a lot of the castle still to cover. My sole consolation was that Hermione was even more mortified than I to have missed that possibility. Ron just shrugged. 'You don't pay me to do the thinking, mate. I'm just a shopping cart when it comes to this kind of stuff. I'll go where I'm pushed.'

You'd be surprised how quickly time flies when you've got nine-tenths of a gigantic bloody castle to search through in every waking moment. The rest of the term disappeared in the blink of an eye. Holidays rolled around with all the horrible wintry weather that one could expect. Few people left for home this year; the damned Yule Ball was gathering a veritable Hogwarts Express sized train of excitement as the day approached.

In fact, there was rather an odd occurrence on the first day of holidays that pertains to that thrice-damned ball. Viktor Krum asked Hermione to the Yule ball. As a date. A date, date. I wasn't offended, as we hadn't broadcast to anybody that we were an item. This was the first the school heard of it, as of course some loudmouthed gossip managed to overhear Hermione's rejection of Krum - including the part where she mentioned me – another Champion – specifically by name.

This led to a strange phenomenon over the following week whereby the female herd within the school decided that Hermione Granger - formerly of societal doldrums - must have been doing something right to have been asked to the ball by not one, but two Champions of the Tournament. And so, there was a massive flurry of unruly hair, oversized book bags, loitering about the library, and - my favourite of all - tight black trousers.

I'm not sure if it helped any of them get dates. It certainly didn't help any of the Hogwarts crowd to go with Krum, as he ended up asking some Beauxbatons Belle from what I heard. Though it was all the same to me, really.

Towards the end of that first week of holidays – just as the clone-a-Hermione craze was dying down, Ron and I were doing some quality mooching in the Gryffindor common room, exhausted from scrambling up and down the Grand Staircase all morning, trying to find this accursed portrait. I was starting to think that it was Dumbledore's idea of a joke, and that there was no clue. I was partway through mumbling some very unkind things about our Headmaster, when a burst of girlish laughter from across the room interrupted my dreary thoughts.

'Bloody girls,' mumbled Ron, somehow even moodier than I.

'What gives?' I stretched out languidly on my couch and propped my head up with my hands. Ron lay sprawled across both arms of a faded chintz armchair.

'Why can't you ever catch one alone? Why do they always have to hang around in packs?'

I craned my neck to follow Ron's line of sight. 'Strength in the herd, and all of that. Say, what do you reckon the collective noun for a bunch of teenage girls would be?'

'A nuisance,' Ron grumbled.

'Hah. Don't let Hermione hear you say that.'

A pair of new voices arrive. 'Hermione?'

'Nuisance?'

'Now this sounds like a conversation we can really sink our teeth into.'

Fred and George Weasley appeared on the scene, helping themselves to the two other spots on my three-man sofa. I was forced to cede the positions, or risk smothering death by Weasley backside. I gave the pair of them an incredibly mature one-fingered gesture for their troubles.

'Careful, Harry,' Fred warned with mock severity. 'The wind will change. And you'll be stuck with that pout for eternity.'

'I think the girls would go for it,' George added, studying my ever-growing irate expression closely. 'That sort of brooding hero look.'

'Speaking of–' Fred started, but Ron cut him off with an exaggerated groan.

'So that's zero dates for Ron Weasley, then?' George smirked.

'I can't get one alone,' Ron mumbled at his shoes, suddenly bashful.

'Which one did you have in mind?' Fred asked, turning a blatant stare at the nuisance of girls gathered in the far corner of the room. A few furtive glances away told me that they had been just doing the very same to us. Were probably having an almost identical conversation.

'I dunno,' Ron shrugged. 'Any of them.'

'A man with class!' Fred roared, leaning over to slap his brother on the back. 'Now there is a sentiment I can get behind. Me? I'm torn between Alicia Spinnet – I've never been able to say no to blondes – and Angelina Johnson. Of all our year, she's got the biggest–'

'Heart, Fred. The biggest heart. Merlin, not in front of the kids.' George was shaking his head and tutting audibly. An almost perfect picture of a disappointed Mrs. Weasley.

'Why, that's precisely what I was about to say, George.'

'It doesn't matter, anyway. I've solved the problem for you. I'm going to go with Angelina. I've been working on her for the past week.'

There was a half-second pause, and then both twins spun with eery precision in the direction of the girls.

'Angelina, do you want to go the ball with me?' Their twin voices stilled all conversation in the room.

Angelina's mouth dropped open. A smile stole across her face, and a dusting of colour flared high upon her cheeks. 'I, well… I can only go with one of you, can't I?'

'Obviously,' Fred offered.

'Not him,' George said.

'Well, in that case… I think I'd like to go with you, George,' she said, staring directly at Fred.

Uh oh.

'George?' Said George, looking at Fred.

'Fred?' said Fred, looking at George.

Angelina's mortified expression told me she had suddenly grasped the gravity of her mistake. The twins put on a considerable bluster of outrage.

'How long have you–'

'All this time, you didn't say–'

'How are we going to break it to Mum?'

'Quick, my boxers have your name on them. We need to swap!'

Fred started fumbling at his belt buckle.

'I'm sorry!' Angelina squealed, waving her arms desperately. Her nuisance of girlfriends were beside themselves in the background. 'George, I'm sorry. Please stop him!'

Thankfully, Fred was stopped before he exposed himself to the room at large, but George was shaking his head sombrely in Angelina's direction.

'I'm sorry, love. The wedding's off.'

'W-what?'

'Well, I can't go with you now. Not after such an egregious betrayal of our trust.'

'I-oh.' Angelina's face fell.

George turned back to the group. 'Dodged a bullet there,' he said with wide eyes.

Over in the far corner, all dozen of the girls had their heads huddled together in some sort of secret conspiratorial meeting. It was bound to be bad news for the twins.

'So that'll be zero dates for you two as well, then?' Ron shot with a smirk.

'Not a problem at all, Baby Weasley,' Fred replied. 'I still have Alicia and her gorgeous golden locks up my sleeve. Unless old Iago over here is going to try steal her as well.'

'Not a chance, good brother. For I am a man of culture and taste, who realises that there are, in fact - now hold on to your knitting - girls in our year outside of the Quidditch team. I'm going to ask Tansy McKendrick. She's got a smile that could melt even Snape's cold heart.'

'Ah, a good choice. And that tattoo of a Unicorn on her left–'

'Not in front of the kids, Fred! Hey, wait a minute, how do you know about that?'

'Well, let's just say that I'm not the only twin to have sampled the produce outside of the Quidditch aisle.'

'You little–!'

Ron and I scarpered as the twins got into it. Knowing them, there was probably something highly flammable in one or both of their pockets that could combust at any moment. The more floors of the castle between us and them, the safer I would feel.

On the way up to the dormitory I was struck by an idea, upon seeing how casually Fred and George had managed it, I pulled up next to the nuisance of girls, who were doing a very poor job of hiding the fact that they were staring at us.

'Oi, you lot,' I barked, master of diplomacy that I am. 'Show of hands: how many still need a date for the Ball?'

Of the dozen or so that were gathered, maybe seven put their hands up, including a resigned Angelina Johnson. She cast a wistful glance in the direction of the twins, who were busily strangling one another within dangerous proximity of the roaring fire.

'How many would want to go with Ron?' This really was a lot easier now that I had no skin in the game.

Three kept their hands up. I grabbed Ron by the upper arm and shoved him in the direction of the group. They swallowed him up within their ranks and he was lost from sight in a heartbeat, before he could even finish saying, 'Screw you.'

I practically skipped all the way up to the dormitory, and absolute picture of smugness, certain that I was Lord Ruler of making things right in the world.

I slept like a log that night.

Which was a good thing, as sleep was becoming more and more elusive as the days wore on and I still got no closer to finding that damned portrait. There was still no rumour that any of the other champions had had any luck – surely, they would not have been able to keep it under wraps – but that didn't make me feel any better. At two years their junior and sixty points in the red, I needed every little advantage I could eke out.

I pushed deeper and deeper into the evenings on my hunts. I wore the Cloak at all times when venturing out of the common room. I had Ron or Hermione cover for me, so the Fat Lady didn't get suspicious. I barely peeked a pinky toe out of those obfuscating confines for fear of a repeat of the night Fleur and I were attacked. I wished about a jillion times that I still had the Map. At the very least I could have stalked the other Champions to see which areas they were covering.

But I had nothing, and so the nightly grind continued. The desperation that began to creep in was feeling eerily familiar to that which assailed me prior to the First Task. Thankfully, I hadn't had any further encounters with Daphne to antagonise it.

Christmas Eve arrived with the subtlety of a moderate-scale landslide. The common room was all a-dither with preparations for the Yule Ball the following evening. Christmas festivities had all but been forgotten. Even the surreptitious bunches of mistletoe that Fred and George had hung in awkward spots above our heads were largely ignored, as girls talked silk and lace and fairy tales, while boys grumbled over the painful necessity of dress robes, dancing, and whatever the hell a corsage was.

Ron had chosen to ask Lavender Brown to the dance with him. A move I believed that he was currently deeply regretting, as Lavender, along with Parvati Patil, had him cornered at the far end of the room while he cycled through a series of dress robes that she had express-ordered for him at the last minute upon laying eyes upon the ghastly monstrosity that his mother had provided at the beginning of term. Every so often he was shooting pleading looks off in the direction of Hermione and myself. We would routinely suffer spells of sudden selective blindness every time it happened.

For our part, we were the eye of the storm, sitting peacefully on our couch near the fireplace, watching the maelstrom unfold. We wore identical smug smiles and sat resplendent in the knowledge that our arrangement to attend as friends somehow made us vastly superior beings to all of these squabbling, fussing, frantic souls who dared do something so daft as follow their heart.

I turned to Hermione and grinned. 'I'm so glad–'

'Oh, I know,' she said, leaning over and grabbing my upper arm. 'Imagine, all of this.'

I just shook my head in disbelief. If the mournful wailing coming from the sixth-year dormitories was to be believed, then somebody had just found themselves date-less at the eleventh hour.

'I'm going to go for a stroll,' I announced, levering myself up from the comfy confines with an audible groan.

Hermione chuckled. 'Getting old? Be safe out there, Harry.'

'Always. I'll have the Cloak. Come let me out?'

We strolled in the direction of the portrait hole. A strangled cry of anguish in the background might have been Ron. This was too much fun.

Before we exited, Hermione turned to me and her face became a mask of seriousness. 'Watch your back out there, Harry. Curfew isn't far away, and who knows who is lurking in the castle these days.'

I knew what she meant. Without the Map, we had no way of knowing. I nodded, and all but my head vanished as I donned the Cloak.

'I mean it. You had better not be showing up tomorrow evening with a black eye. I won't have people going around whispering that I'm beating you up.'

'Pah, as if you– oof!'

The swift rabbit punch she dealt me landed right in the solar plexus. Cloak or no, her aim was impeccable.

'Damn you Hermione Granger,' I spluttered and wheezed.

She said nothing, only kicked me out the portrait hole ahead of her with about as much grace as a sack of spuds. I stumbled my way off the landing, turning only to poke out my tongue, unseen, like the mature adult that I am. Hermione made a big show of stretching and getting fresh air and making idle chat with the Fat Lady whilst I disappeared down the staircase and made in the direction of the Eastern Parapet, one of the last remaining places on our list.

I worked my way up from the bottom, traipsing around the small, circular stair, studying every single portrait as I went. For good measure, I pushed on tapestries, and peeked behind suits of armour, searching for any hidden passage or secret nook, though from memory, I was fairly certain none were marked here on the Map.

Darkness gathered all around me. Curfew came and went. Sporadic candles sputtered to life, barely enough to keep the tight stair illuminated. Few had reason to use this part of the castle once darkness fell. Once I had to press myself up against the wall beneath the Cloak as a sleepwalking Hufflepuff – a long way from home – shambled past mumbling about buttercups. But, as I neared the upper reaches, I was perfectly alone.

Or so I thought.

'Halt there, ye floating head! What foul sorcery is this? Be armed, I say, and be legged as well!'

I am not too proud to admit that I jumped nearly clean out of my skin. I do believe a small bit of wee came out. I spun to face the portrait of Sir Cadogan, trying to get a handle on my thundering heart.

'S-Sir Cadogan, it's me. Harry Potter. We met last year.'

'It lies! I've not once met a floating head in my life! Prepare to defend yourself, fell creature!'

'Ugh, it's just an Invisibility Cloak.'

'The floating head has stolen a human body! Despair! Fear not, inhabitants of this fine castle, Sir Cadogan will protect you! Now fight!'

'Just a regular head, on a regular body.' I showed him how the Cloak worked again. Which didn't seem to calm him down at all.

'Subterfuge, hah! The tool of a coward. Prove your bravery to me, in a duel!'

The idiot knight lunged around his portrait wielding wand and sword together, until he stumbled backwards and collided with an enormously fat pony that also shared his frame. The pony looked none too pleased about this development.

I tried to use the moment of confusion as an escape, but the old codger was having none of it.

'Back! Get back here you coward! You craven cur! I'll have your guts for garters!'

A particularly angry looking wolfhound in the next portrait over halted Sir Cadogan's advance any further, and he actually tried to saddle up the pony and charge through. This resulted in a lot of cursing, grunting and clattering, but very little forward progress. I'm not even sure the pony noticed anything untoward.

'Always a pleasure, Sir Cadogan,' I muttered, flashing him a wave before I disappeared into the embrace of the Cloak once more.

'A pox on thee! I was set to guard this passage against the very likes of you! I shall not fail! The secret shall remain safe! En garde, ho!'

I pulled up halfway down the corridor and did a slow about face.

'Secret, you say?'

'Oho, you'll not fool me so easily, boy!' The pony gave a snort and lumbered over to a more lush patch of grass. Sir Cadogan, hitherto mounted, toppled off the back end at the shock of actual movement.

'But how are you going to defend the secret, if you can't even get past the wolfhound stalking the portrait next door?'

'Nonsense, boy! No mutt scared the great Sir Cadogan! Watch, and be humbled!'

He charged into the adjoining portrait, looked around at the sudden absence of dog, and then charged right back out when the great lumbering beast appeared from the shadows and hounded him all the way back to his pony.

'It looks to me like you could use a little help.'

'Accursed hound. Trod on his tail once. Once! And he never forgets it. Must have happened about a hundred dog years ago. Damned thing must be half elephant.'

Judging by the size of the beast prowling the frame, he might not have been far wrong.

'Well, how about I patrol the far end of yon corridor for you?'

Sir Cadogan grumbled and mumbled and twiddled with his moustache. He conversed with his pony in hushed tones. I wasn't sure which was the more intelligent half of that particular conversation. Eventually he returned to the fore of his frame.

'Very well, but be warned, there are a handful of rapscallions that I am tasked to guard against specifically. There names are…' I waited, while he fumbled around with a bit of parchment tucked into a leather pouch on his belt. 'Henry Porter… Phlegm Décor… Rector Vrum… and Cedric Diggory.'

Of course, he gets bloody Cedric Mister-Perfect Diggory's name right.

'Well I solemnly swear that I am none of those, good knight.'

Sir Cadogan leaned towards me, increasing his scrutiny as if he expected to see "Henry Porter" tattooed in small writing across my forehead. I reminded myself to look up just who had knighted this idiot in the first place.

'Very well squire, I shall accept your offer. But make haste, plenty stalk these corridors at night, we must remain vigilant at all times!'

'Very good. Er… there aren't any areas in particular that I should be guarding extra closely, are there?'

'Ah, a clever young thing you are! Near the end of this corridor lies a trap door in the ceiling. Beyond that, a small sconce shrouded in shadows. Make sure none enter, and all will be well.'

I tapped my nose and tried to hide what I'm sure would have come across as an evil smile as I vanished beneath the Cloak.

Onwards, to Destiny.

The spot was easy enough to find. It was just past the entrance to the Divination classroom. In fact, for as long as I'd been coming up here, I'd just taken it for granted that the ladder up to Divination just sort of was the end of the corridor. Sure, it ran on for another twenty feet or so, but it had always looked to me - and, in fact, still did - to be just an ordinary dead-end. A large, stained-glass window depicted a scene of a weeping troll with a broken club, complete with magically-flowing tears, but thankfully no sound effects. I must have walked past this spot about a hundred times, and passed it off as nothing more than ugly artwork.

I took a step past the ladder with something approaching reverence. A small echo of sound reached me from back down the corridor, in the direction of Sir Cadogan. I threw the Cloak back over my head and inched forward in short, shuffling steps. Not wanting to give my position away with wandlight, I was forced to creep up to within inches of each portrait on either side of the wall, holding my scrap of canvas up to check against the scenery.

I had no luck on any of them.

But wait… right at the end of the corridor, where the shadows gathered in the corner where the walls met. To the naked eye it appeared as nothing, though upon approach I discovered it hid a small, concealed walkway. Barely wide enough to shuffle through, I turned sideways and crab-walked in. The Cloak scraped off as I did so, revealing my head and torso. For a heart-stopping moment I thought I saw movement in the corridor, but it must have just been moonlight dancing through the stained glass. Then I popped through and found myself in a well-lit little cubby, with a handful of torches illuminating just the painting I had been searching for.

Relief rushed over me in a palpable wave. Four grey smears marked patches taken from the scene - which was every bit as garish as my little corner indicated. Not knowing what else to do, I knelt to affix mine to the spot where it seemed to originate from. The canvas knitted over the wound in the blink of an eye, and I felt a rush of cool air from behind the portrait. Instinctively, I pushed against it, and felt it give way, revealing yet another secret room, hidden behind it.

Torches blossomed to life as my footfalls echoed through the colonnaded space. Fluted pillars marched down the room on either side of me, spanning up to an intricately worked ceiling cast with witches and wizards in various states of repose. The space felt more like a chapel than a part of the castle. Black-and-white chequered tiles denoted the arrow-straight walkway up to a dais at the far end of the room, illuminated now by no fewer than a dozen torches in brackets. As I approached, a great crystalline chandelier sprung to life, and brought daytime to the evening scene.

Atop the dais stood four pedestals, each bearing a bust of one of the Champions. I approached and scrutinised them more closely - Fleur, gorgeous; Krum, stoic; Cedric, handsome; and myself, looking like it was made by somebody who had only ever seen a child's drawing of me. Honestly, my nose wasn't anywhere near that big.

Unsure of what exactly I was supposed to do, I stepped up a little closer and looked stone-Harry in the eyes.

'Er… Hello? Open sesame?'

Nothing.

'Speak.'

Zip. I got out my wand and tapped him on the noggin. 'Alohomora?'

Silence.

'Oi, do something, damnit.' I poked him between the eyes.

The eyes moved.

I just about dribbled down my leg. The damned thing came to life - or some form of it - and gazed upwards to meet my eyes. Then he started speaking.

'Storied indeed, is the Merfolks' ire

But there's a foe we've found who's much more dire.

Above the waves the air is great

Beneath them is where Hell doth wait.

Step light, step sure, there'll be no trouble

Fail, you'll need some kind of bubble.

Who is this foe? We hear you ask

I bid thee, find a looking glass.'

Shit. I didn't have a quill or ink. Shit. I tried desperately to recall the spoken words. Above the waves… Some kind of bubble… Something about a looking glass?

My concentration snapped as Stone-Harry opened his mouth and vomited out a little crystal phial. On instinct, I reached for it, and a Seeker's reflexes stopped it from hitting the floor and shattering. Something vaguely green was inside, though the smoky exterior to the tube was opaque. I tugged on the stopper but could not get it off. A faint purplish glow suggested that magic was at play. Alohomora didn't work, either. I pocketed it, figuring it was one for Hermione, Ron and I to nut out another day.

A foe we've found… much more dire. Shit. I needed to scarper. I needed to get this down before it all got away. It felt like holding water in cupped hands. I threw the Cloak over my head and bolted, trying to recite the refrain over and over in my head as I scurried back towards safety.

A commotion grabbed my attention, only a few seconds from the hidden room. I could definitely hear Sir Cadogan's voice this time, blustering and yelling loud enough to wake up half the castle. I hunkered down and took a shortcut in the opposite direction, in my singular focus on the clue, I did not pay the insane knight or his woes any mind.

I reached the common room - now deserted - and found some spare parchment and a quill. I jotted down the limerick more or less verbatim and scrunched it up into my pocket along with the crystal vial.

I went to sleep that night with a smile on my face. But you know what they say: ignorance is bliss.