Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

I wrote this chapter so long ago I barely remember writing it.

The golden goblet hissed and spat, fiery purple flames weaving their way amongst one another, fighting for dominance. The hall was silent, eerily silent in a way it had never been before. Even that night when Sirius Black came into the castle there were still the curious whispers of upper years and frightful whimpering of the first years. Today everyone's eyes were fixated on the goblet that sat on that unassuming stool at the front of the hall.

Dumbledore's beard was illuminated from the light before him, his half-moon glasses steamed up in part as the flames continued their dance. Then they stopped. All of a sudden a crumpled piece of paper spun forth, into the waiting grasp of the headmaster himself.

"From Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Fleur Delacour." The hall jumped to their feet, each student trying to be taller and bigger to get a better view of the alluring blonde from before. There was something about her which seemed to captivate everyone in the room, she was tall, a head of silky blonde hair falling to her waist, and the Beauxbatons uniform seemed to only accentuate her features.

But if you looked closely, if you talked to her without drooling and your eyes glazing over as if she were a piece of meat, you'd see a hardness in her eyes, a fierce nature between the ditzy blonde façade.

She rose from the table, calmly and coolly, aware of everyone's eyes on her... she was probably used to that anyway, eyes followed her wherever she went. The other Beauxbatons students didn't seem as enamoured by the girl, instead bemoaning their own failures. "There there," Anthony comforted, awkwardly patting the shoulder of the boy who'd sat next to him and had dramatically wept into his side. He sent a desperate look towards Harry and Terry, who couldn't fully hide their laughter.

It was curious, or at least Harry thought so, why people were so emotionally invested in a life-threatening tournament. Why would you want to be selected? It was particularly surprising the amount of seventh year students had put themselves forward, as though this year wasn't already the most important and most stressful of their entire lives.

Fleur Delacour made her way out of the hall and the flames burst back up into the air, dropping a second slip of paper. It was quicker this time than last, perhaps the choice was easier, or perhaps earlier it had just taken some warming up, but soon a note was in Dumbledore's hand and another name was being read out.

Victor Krum seemed more aware of the grave nature of the tournament, even his eyes did not betray any trace of joy or excitement at being chosen for the tournament. Or maybe that was just him - he'd never seen that excited at the World Cup. Each of his steps were heavy against the cold stone floor as he approached the small door Fleur had exited through.

The applause for him was even louder than for Fleur, everyone standing and shouting for the famous Quidditch player - including their headmaster, Karkaroff, who leapt to his feet with yells of "Bravo Viktor" and "I knew you had it into". Harry couldn't help but feel annoyed on behalf of the other Durmstrang students.

The goblet hissed again as the door closed shut behind the duo, and everyone's eyes returned to the star of the show. The goblet seemed to gleam in pride as it reclaimed everyone's attention with a flame show.

Harry scanned around the room. He knew Angelina Johnson, the new Gryffindor quidditch captain, was the most likely candidate from their house, though if he was being honest he doubted that a Gryffindor would be chosen for the prestigious competition. It wasn't that they couldn't be powerful, and though rash and reckless that didn't exclude a level of intelligence, the house just seemed to be generally less focussed on their academics than other aspects of life (sex, parties, quidditch).

Hufflepuff's primary candidate, Cedric Diggory, was the talk of the school. The sixth year was tall, handsome (objectively speaking... and well, subjectively - Harry wasn't so insecure that he couldn't admit the sixth year was attractive). He was charismatic, kind, smart, Hufflepuff's youngest quidditch captain since the early 1950s, when he was named in his fourth year. A damn good seeker as well. He was probably the most likely to win.

Ravenclaw, ironically enough, didn't have a star candidate this year. Most of the seventh years had opted out, choosing to focus on their NEWTS in the typical Ravenclaw fashion, and the few sixth years who'd entered weren't overly likely candidates.

Slytherin now was a more interesting debate. Skipping over the blonde hair of a certain someone, Harry found the face he was looking for; Cassius Warrington's face showed no expression, his eyes lazily staring at the joyous flames as he put on a mask of nonchalance.

The rumours about who had entered the competition from each house had been relatively simple, none but Slytherins hid their entries. It was a typical snake move, if no one saw you entering, then no one would know you were rejected. Though rumours of Cassius entering had circulated around the school like wildfire, apparently he'd been spotted entering the hall at the crack of dawn to throw his name in. It was unlikely that he was the only snake to have entered, though Draco and Blaise seemed pretty confident that he was their best candidate.

The flames continued to hiss and whir, this decision clearly harder than the rest. Cedric smiled, his chest pumped forwards, whilst Cassius maintained his uncaring façade and Angelina whispered excitedly in a friend's ear. The flames hissed one last time and spurred forwards, firing a crisp, uncrumpled piece of paper into Dumbledore's waiting hand. His smile wavered.

"The chosen competitor for Hogwarts, from Slytherin House, Cassius Warrington." The seventh year rose with a calculated stare on the door the other two competitors had left through, his strides clear and confident as he made his way to the door, amidst Gryffindor groans and Hufflepuff whispers of condolence towards a slightly more slumped Diggory, who's face held a strained smile as he rose to clap Cassius.

He was one of the rare few. The Slytherin table, in their usually reserved fashion, held their grins of glee behind untroubled expressions, whilst offering a polite spray of clapping. The Gryffindors and a few unhappy Hufflepuffs were louder in their complaints, the Weasley twins leading a wave of boos around the hall as a Slytherin stood to represent Hogwarts. The Ravenclaws, as usual, were divided, some following the more common annoyed views of the Gryffindors and the Puffs, and others being more Slytherin in their approach, offering polite clapping.

Cedric's attempt at good sportsmanship did not echo around the hall, the boy stood, slowly followed by a few others, as the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students watched on in confusion, clapping as they did each student but clearly perplexed as to why most Hogwarts students did not seem to support their own contestant.

Cassius entered the small door, his chin high and his back straight as he ignored the responses of the pupils, whilst whispered complaints grew into murmured noises of dissent before open approval made its way out of angered throats. Then everyone ceased, quickly and suddenly, without a word from Dumbledore telling them to support their candidate. The headmaster made no such move against the biased students. It was the goblet.

It fired itself back up, the purple flames twisting into a darker shade, growing darker and darker until it was unclear if they were purple, or black. They fought each other, contesting each other for control before they ceased, retreating into the goblet as the students of the schools looked around in confusion.

A few, deeming it the final show of the goblet before it would be surrendered back to an abandoned room to become dusty, offered applause, others began to join it but the suspicious and unsure expression on the headmaster's face seemed to lead as example, others turning to their friends, no longer to discuss the topic of Cassius, but to question what was happening. Then it happened.

Resurging into a towering pillar of flames, the dark fire burst up into the sky, receding as quickly as they came with a note, gently falling to the ground like a feather. Dumbledore, breaking through his stupor, reached out to grab the note.

His face paled as his eyes scanned the piece of paper. His head shook back and forth as he read, and reread, the small, crinkled note. Finally he spoke, lifting his eyes behind him, to Professor McGonagall, and then to Barty Crouch, a graver expression set on his face than Harry had ever seen, than he'd ever imagined Dumbledore could wear. The name was barely even whispered, yet it echoed crisply through the hall as though the weary man had shouted it, the name which had been on the tip of every wizards' tongue since that fateful Halloween. The name which headlined newspapers, who's story rocked the nation. The name of the Boy-Who-Lived. The defeated of Voldemort.

Harry's name.

"Harry Potter."

His real name.

The hall burst into a roar, from the Hogwarts' students, to the pupils from Beauxbaton and Durmstrang, who even from their foreign countries knew all about the boy-who-lived, the ghosts made more noise than they had in a century, even the teachers joined in on the confused commentary. Except Albus Dumbledore, who stood frozen. Just like Harry.

Every hair on his body rose, goose bumps running up his arm and shivers climbing up his back. He didn't even know what the rules of the tournament were. He'd heard it was a magically binding contest. That, once you were a competitor, that you had to compete, or your magic - perhaps even your life - would be lost if you refused. But did that mean he had to reveal himself now? To get up in front of the entire school - not just his school, but two others. In front of Barty Crouch, who surveyed the room in suspicious curiosity, or Mad-Eyed Moody, who couldn't fake his nonchalance towards the situation. Or could he stay sitting here?

The dilemma was irrelevant either way. Harry couldn't move. Not a finger, certainly not a foot. His body had frozen, from his heart to his brain. His lungs stopped working of their own accord. It wasn't until he started to feel genuine, throbbing pain from lack of oxygen that he remembered the need to inhale and exhale oxygen.

Harry took a deep breath in, and recalibrated. Trying to focus in on the voice of his friends, who weren't even obliging the normal courtesy of hushed whispers, but who were almost shouting over the cascade of noise which echoed around the walls of the hall. Dumbledore himself was too shocked to regain any sense of order. The teachers were too busy in their own curious ramblings.

"The goblet doesn't call out the names of dead people..." Terry's furtive eyes implored into Harry's, then Anthony's and Michael's.

"Zee Harry Potter?" Harry heard the French boy who'd previously been crying into Anthony's side.

"Well, there's not another." Anthony replied sternly, clearly weary of this over-zealous and somewhat imposing Beauxbaton student, "Which means…" he trailed off, just as Terry had done before, barely even able to say the words.

The boy-who-lived, the boy-who-was-missing, the boy who's presumed dead. The boy who's alive.

"Harry Potter's alive?" Michael all but whispered, his normally pale face seemed to have gone a shade lighter, until he was as transparent as the Grey Lady herself.

Harry's eyes stayed moved to Dumbledore who stood shell-shocked at the front of the hall. An array of emotions seemed to flicker beneath those glasses, visible from even Harry's position at the Ravenclaw table. Whispers and shouts were thrown around the hall, the echoes bouncing off of the old castle walls were the only response received. No one knew what to say, what to do. Even Albus Dumbledore, for perhaps the first time in his life, was at a loss for words.

"How did he enter his name?" Michael asked. "Does that mean he's here?" His head rose above the crowd, his feet on his tip-toes as he searched for the elusive 'Chosen One', as many other students were also doing.

"Who says he did." Terry replied. "Potter has a lot of enemies. It would make sense if he faked his death to avoid the threat of You-Know-Who's old supporters coming and... finishing the job."

"You're suggesting someone tricked the goblet." Michael sound sceptical, unaware that the proof of Terry's theory sat besides him, still struggling to breathe. "Dumbledore himself-"

"Isn't flawless."

"The Weasley Twins-"

"Are incomparable to the likes of Black, or another of You-Know-Who's supporters."

"You think this was Black." Michael paled. "He hasn't been sighted since last February. Why-"

"Regrouping. Gathering time and plotting." Terry swallowed. "This would be the... the perfect plan; put Potter in this tournament and he not only has to reveal he's alive, but he has to come to Hogwarts - where, we all know, Black can get in - and, even if Black doesn't directly go after him, the tournament itself could kill Potter." Harry's heart thudded like led in his chest.

Would he have to compete? Would he have to reveal himself? Put himself up on a platter for Black, or the likes of Lucius Malfoy. Put himself on a platter for Dumbledore... for his tricks and own power, his manipulations. Or the ministry...

There seemed to be no right response. No way to prevail from this situation. It felt like his death warrant had just been served in front of him, whilst the world gossiped about his fate like he was a story-tale character. Like he was their fictional hero from their favourite book which their mums read to them when they were a kid. Not like he was a real person. Harry Potter was a spectacle to look at and laugh at. A pawn on a chessboard, with no control of his movements. An animal at a zoo. Fated to be other people's entertainment.

"Harry?" Terry nudged his shoulder. "What do you think?"

Harry could barely move his head to face Terry, let alone form enough saliva in his mouth to actually reply. His leg was the only thing moving. Tapping furiously against the floor as though it was trying to dig a way through to the underground - death. It was where he was going anyway. Might as well get a head start and be out of this bloody hall.

"Harry?" Terry repeated. His eyes found Harry's, full of concern as he tried to keep up with Harry's ever-changing glance. "Harry." He repeated softer, drawing them into their own conversation away from the rest of the table.

"I," All of a sudden, like a tsunami crashing upon an unsuspecting beach, breath filled up Harry's lungs. He gasped for air, suddenly his lungs were too full, as if he was drowning in the oxygen he'd been deprived of mere seconds before.

"Harry." Terry reached for his arm, gently gripping it, tethering him to reality. "What's wrong?"

"I, I..." Harry closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. "Just, in shock." He finally managed to reply.

Terry's eyes narrowed suspiciously, as though he didn't quite believe Harry's excuse. "You were having a panic attack." He replied firmly but quietly, not allowing Terry or Michael or the French boy (what was his name? Frederic? François? It definitely began with an 'f'…) to hear what he was saying.

"Just... lost in my thoughts." Harry hated it (hated himself) – he was lying through his teeth, which was pointless anyway… Terry knew it was a lie, and lying to somebody who already knows you're lying is worse than just telling them the truth. But Harry couldn't tell him the truth. Not now. Not in a hall full of people questioning his own whereabouts. Not when this was all more dangerous than ever - when knowing Harry's identity could... would put him in danger.

"Right." Terry frowned.

"He has to compete right?" Harry questioned, trying to present an air of nonchalance. "If he's alive. He has to compete." Harry half-stated. He already knew the answer. He just wished he didn't.

"I, I'd need to brush up on the rule book... But yes, I think so."

"Even if it endangers him - surely the ministry wouldn't want to put their golden boy," Harry refrained from scoffing, "from being in danger, especially when they only just confirmed he was alive."

"I don't know if they have a choice." Terry paused pensively. "Maybe…" he shook his head as if that would clear whatever wayward thought he'd just imagined from his mind..

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe this was the ministry." Terry's eyes rose to meet Harry, a graver expression on his face than Harry had seen in his entire life. "Maybe they set up this entire tournament to try to prove if Harry... if Harry Potter was alive." He paused after saying Harry, narrowing his eyes as if he was examining Harry's reaction to his hesitation. He was suspicious. Harry tried to clear his face from any clear reaction.

"That's..."

"A crazy conspiracy theory." Terry replied, but he sounded more as if he was trying to convince himself of its truth then trying to laugh of his earlier statement.

Harry forced a grin. "Yeah. Crazy."

Crazy. That was the tale of Harry Potter.

The boy who Voldemort himself tried to kill personally. Whose parents he murdered in cold blood before he approached the cot of a baby boy. Everyone knew what happened next. The killing curse survived for the first time in history. You-Know-Who vanquished and the Boy-Who-Lived born. As though the name wasn't salt in the wound, because yes, Harry lived, but no his parents did not. His parents forever forgotten in the shadow of their son; the roles painfully reserved as the worst night in his life was memorialised as the equivalent to a national holiday in magical Britain. A goddamn celebration.

Then the tale continues, growing darker by the second.

Taken, on the orders of Supreme Mugwump and Hogwarts' headmaster Albus Dumbledore, to the house of his muggle relatives. A house where he would be beaten, neglected, starved, a house from which, according to the Daily Prophet (though of course Harry knew better), he'd run away from, onto the streets of cold, unforgiving, muggle London.

A journey from which he would never return. His body never discovered, but his life, almost certainly, extinguished. The Boy-Who-Lived, turned Boy-Who's-Missing, turned Boy-Who's-Dead. That moniker was just disproved. The wizarding public had tied up the dark story with a black bow as they'd said goodbye to their saviour, forgotten him as they marked his disappearance as his death. They'd wanted the story, the heartbreak, the pain, to be over, so they'd put the final sentence, an ode to their saviour, and mass-marketed the tale.

They just didn't know that that wasn't the last chapter.