Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Sorry for the long delay, I wish I could say it's going to be smooth-running from here but I honestly have no clue how much time I'm going to have to write over the next month because I'm going to be pretty busy with exams, so apologies in advance if I have to take a break again - if I do it'll be until the start of June and then from then it should be all good until at least September - but there will definitely be a chapter next week.
Harry grinned as he caught his reflection in a puddle. Ever since he read that book practicing his metamorphmagus abilities had been his number one priority. And right now, as a new version of himself stared back at him, he felt a feeling of pride and accomplishment.
He wore a long black cloak nonetheless, he'd prefer to not get bombarded by the entire student population on his way over to the tent. He'd had a hard enough time as it was just dodging Terry, Mike and Anthony.
Harry jumped as a flicker of black crossed his peripheral. His heart pounded in his chest. It hadn't been - it couldn't be... A grim. An an omen of death.
That surely didn't bode well for this goddamn tournament.
(It wasn't a Grim, Harry reassured himself as he entered the champions' tent - it wasn't anything at all)
The entire tent fell silent instantly, every eye turning to Harry.
"Harry, Harry," Ludo Bagman, the commentator from the Quidditch World Cup, removed himself from what looked like a very intense, and very private conversation with Cassius Warrington, and began to bumble his way over to Harry.
"Ludo." A man stepped forwards, his tone a bored drawl, his message clear. "Mr Potter. I'm Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Cooperation. Along with Ludo here, and others in the ministry, I set up this tournament."
Harry surveyed the man coolly even as a growing rage bubbled up inside of him. So this was the man responsible for the mess Harry was currently in. Harry gently pulled back on his hood, and ran a hand through his - now black, but still messy - hair. "A pleasure." Harry drawled back sarcastically.
"Is he here? Potter, is he here?" A hushed voice rambled outside of the tent. A few seconds later a round man, with a violently green bowler hat walked in. "Harry Potter!" He exclaimed in an exuberant voice, a huge grin bursting across his face. One that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Alive and in the flesh. What a miraculous turn of events!" Harry turned his attention away from the bumbling minister in front of him, coolly surveying the other competitors in the tent even as he pushed down his cloak and his anxieties. Harry Reynolds was allowed to be an anxious mess. Harry Potter on the other hand...
"He looks just like his father doesn't he. Except those eyes... Those are Lily's eyes." Harry picked up on the thick Scottish brawl from across the tent, even as McGonagall whispered. Flitwick was bouncing on his tip-toes in an attempt to get a look at Harry. In fact, everyone in the tent - which was considerably fuller than when Harry first walked in - was staring at Harry.
"Oh, I did like Ms Evans. She gave most of my 'Claws a run for their money."
"And beat them." McGonagall added, her tone almost boastful.
"-Harry it is good to see you alive and well." Fudge finished and Harry turned his attention back to him. "If not a bit of a shock. We did think you were dead after all..." He added pointedly, almost as a reprimand of sorts.
"Oh. Did you?" Harry asked, feigning innocence. "How odd."
"Right, well," Fudge stammered, rubbing has hands together awkwardly. "The task then, Ludo?"
"Of course." Bagman grinned, clapping loudly to get the attention of the room. "The first task is..."
"You've got to be kidding me." Harry muttered under his breath. Dragons? Freaking Dragons?
"Well, Harry my boy," Harry tried to refrain from scowling. He was anything but Fudge's boy. "I suppose I shall see you outside. Good luck - no special treatment of course."
Harry held up the Hungarian Horntail, the number four dangling from its neck as it tried to bite Harry's wrist. "Of course." He replied sardonically. He wasn't Michael or Anthony, he didn't do Care of Magical Creatures and if not for that debacle with Hagrid in first year he wouldn't have even know dragons existed, but looking at the selection of dragons the competitors would have to face he knew with certainty that he had picked the worst of the lot.
Fudge left the tent and Harry felt like he could finally breathe. All of the ministry officials and professors had shuffled out of the room and stopped their endless discussions of Harry, stopped their endless comparisons of his likeness to his father or snide comments over his "death" and appearance, all the stupid questions about whether he entered the tournament - of course he didn't enter the fucking tournament! He wasn't even at Hogwarts (or so they thought)! - and all the faux-apologies over his life, or any last second tips from Bagman had finally left the room.
He was alone with the four other contestants, sitting in an awkward (yet peaceful) silence, as each surveyed each other warily.
The quiet didn't last long as voices emerged from outside - the tent walls weren't exactly soundproof.
"No, no Rita. No photographs until after the task." Harry had to physically restrain from groaning.
"This is the first time Harry Potter has been seen since he was a baby. I need a photo." A woman's voice begged back - Rita. Rita Skeeter Harry quickly realised. That woman who'd written multiple articles about the Heir of Slytherin during second year, and even a few about Harry Reynolds himself.
"After the task Rita." Fudge insisted back and the conversation dwindled out, once more leaving the contestants in silence.
"So, you are the Harry Potter?" Krum asked, his voice gruff and impatient.
"Ze one who all ze fuss has been about?" Fleur continued. "We have even heard tales of you in France. You are more famous than Viktor here."
"After his performance in the World Cup, I'm not quite sure that's the truth." Harry replied, hissing as the Hungarian Horntail blew fire on his finger. Couldn't they have just used stationary models which didn't try to hurt him before he'd even gotten to the task?
"That is just Quidditch." Viktor replied dismissively. "Your fame is beyond that. You killed a dark lord."
"Did I?" Harry asked pointedly, and the three contestants frowned.
"You're the boy-who-lived. You survived the Dark Lord and you survived the killing curse." Cassius piped up.
"I know." Harry sat down on the bench. "I was also a baby. And nobody else was in the room. Except my mother of course." He added, looking to his feet.
"Vell, Dumbly-dore said," Fleur began.
"I don't trust a word out of that man's mouth." Harry interrupted.
"So you have been keeping up to date on the Prophet. The headmaster's mad if you ask me." Cassius said.
"The entire ministry's mad. Why else would they be hosting a tournament where students could die? And why did any of you want to be in this tournament anyway?"
"Honour." Viktor replied. "For my family, for my school."
"You're an international Quidditch player, is that not enough honour? Enough fame, and certainly enough money. You're all suicidal if you ask me."
"And you're not?" Cassius leant forward, an odd glint in his eye.
"Well, I didn't put my name in a tournament which was previously cancelled for having a death toll. So, no."
"I can't believe you're actually the Harry Potter." Cassius' voice was full of excitement. The other two contestants had been called to participate already, and only Cassius and Harry were left in the tent.
"Well, believe it." Harry replied bluntly, his nerves overcoming his ability to be polite. Plus, he was getting tired of everyone trying to talk to him - hadn't they heard of 'peace and quiet'. Cleary they didn't know that Harry was a strong advocate for it.
"Of course." Cassius regained a semblance of Slytherin decorum, before devolving back into the persona of an infatuated schoolgirl. "I think everyone out there's supporting you. All of Hogwarts definitely is. Beauxbaton, even Durmstrang, are all allured by the famous Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived." His tone was reverent. It, frankly, amazed Harry.
This was the infamous Slytherin chaser, known for being cold, blunt, harsh. Yet here he sounded like a fangirl. It was even stranger considering the rumours… Warrington. An old pureblood family. It wasn't as clear-cut as the Lestrange family, or the Blacks, but there were those same accusations towards them... accusations that they were in allegiance with Voldemort himself.
"Except," Cassius shot Harry a wry grin. "Professor Snape that is. He seems, oddly incensed at the…" He paused, searching for the word, "commotion that surrounds you."
"Professor Snape?" Harry asked, feigning ignorance as he leant back in his seat, tapping his wand against his thigh – a nervous tick. Then again, dragons were outside the tent. Who wouldn't be nervous?
"Oh. Right, of course. He's the potions professor here at Hogwarts. Slytherin head of house as well." He added proudly, before adding with a curious lilt to his tone and an appreciative glance. "You'd do well in Slytherin I reckon."
"Why is this?" Harry replied, mainly for formalities.
"Well, I know your parents were both Gryffindors, but you seem to be a bit clever than those lot tend to be. Cunning – you did fake your own death."
"Unintentionally." Harry drawled, irritated at the unintentional insult towards his parents.
"Huh?" Cassius laughed. "How do you 'unintentionally' fake your own death?" He put the word in air-quotes, as though he thought Harry was lying. An oddly muggle habit.
"You become a celebrity when your parents are murdered and you don't die, then run away from home. Therefore, the newspapers latch onto your story, and when you aren't where you're supposed to be, they, ignorantly, presume your death." Harry tried to channel his inner-Draco with his tone.
Cassius laughed awkwardly. "They did search for you, for like a year. They only stopped when they realised you weren't on the Hogwarts' roster."
"Right." Harry scoffed scornfully. "For all they knew I was a squib. They stopped searching because Harry Potter's only useful when he has magic."
"I don't think they considered that." Cassius frowned.
"Of course, they didn't. The ministry is too obsessed with its blood purist, bigotry against squibs. Why? Because they can't wave their wands. Fuck that." Harry continued bluntly, ignoring Cassius' surprised quirk of an eyebrow. Better the wizarding world learn sooner rather than later that Harry Potter isn't a perfect paragon of innocence.
"Squibs can still make potions which can save your life, be healers at St. Mungo's, work in the shops, fly brooms. They still have a place in society, but the ministry tries to cast them out instead. Don't you ever wonder where muggleborns come from? I reckon that a fair share of them are descendants of squibs – they just don't know enough about wizarding customs to check their lineage, and instead get labelled as 'mudbloods'," Harry spat out the word vehemently. "Forced to take the worst jobs, unable to climb up in the ministry, even if they're brighter, more intelligent, more suited for the jobs.
"They get pushed to the side-lines because purebloods are too scared of them taking their place. Perhaps the real query should be into purebloods letting their standards job by reducing their competition. Unfortunately, that query would never be raised, as only purebloods are in charge, and they're too lazy to want competition in their fields, even if it produces magical advancements which could revolutionise the entire bloody world." Harry ranted, surprised at even himself for his tirade on the ministry.
If Harry was surprised at himself however, Cassius was completely gobsmacked in the most undignified manner possible. "I," He began to sputter, trying to form some sort of response, but Harry just raised a single an eyebrow and he melted back into his seat, unable to speak against the Harry Potter.
Perhaps his power wasn't entirely a burden.
Harry took a deep breath as he walked out of the tent.
Why he was even nervous? He had a plan. A solid plan. He shouldn't be nervous.
Maybe it was the hundreds - perhaps thousands - of eyes on him.
Maybe it was the dragons in front of him.
Maybe it was the commentary of the competitors before him - he didn't know what made him more nervous; hearing how Cassius passed with flying colours, or hearing how Fleur caught fire.
Maybe it was the whole hidden identity thing... with each day the secret seemed to grow heavier, more burdensome, with each day the lie seemed more serious, more severe, more of a betrayal, each day seemed a step closer to some inevitable confrontation, whether it was his identity, Vernon Dursley, Dumbledore or even You-Know-Who himself.
The crowd roared as Harry stepped out into the opening, and he ran his hands through his hair self-consciously, half-wondering whether it was still the jet-black, messy copy of James Potter, or whether it was the (still messy) blonde which matched Luke Reynolds.
Harry didn't have time to dwell on the crowd. In front of him he saw the dragon, and with it the reason for the anxiety-ridden delay between Cassius' turn and his.
A whole team, of what Harry presumed were dragon-tenders, surrounded the dragon, ducking out of the way as the enraged beast spat fire in their direction. Suddenly Harry was longing for the miniature replica of the Horntail, it was - in comparison - positively cute.
"Breathe." Harry whispered under himself. "Just breathe." He reminded himself, trying to put on a calm façade as he turned from the dragon to the judges' booth. Ludo Bagman, the eccentric commentator who kept offering Harry advice - something about him sent shivers up Harry's spine, every signal in his head screaming something was off with the celebrity (it's just nerves, Harry insisted) - stood in the far right of the booth, and put his wand to his mouth.
Seconds later his voice reverberated round the stadium, booming out Harry's name and plenty of other words Harry didn't even bother listening to. He read the book. He knew the rules. He knew his plan.
Now he just needed to remain calm.
The dragon-tenders retreated out of the stadium and all of a sudden, despite being surrounded by hundreds of Hogwarts' students Harry had seen almost every day for four years, surrounded by his professors, peers, class-mates and friends, Harry felt utterly alone. His only companion was the dragon spitting fire into the sky.
Harry snapped his head back to Bagman as he shouted his name, his wand flourished a countdown into the sky and Harry had to remind himself to keep breathing. "3," in, "2," out, "1," in, "GO!" out, Harry exhaled, his fingers tapping at his wand which sat still in his pocket as he reminded himself of the words he'd read in the rule book.
The rules were clear: his name was drawn from the Goblet and he would have to compete. He had to go to all three tasks. But nowhere in the book did it say he would have to complete any of them.
Nowhere in those dusty, old, crumbling pages did it say anything about maximum effort. As far as he gathered he didn't even have to cast a spell. All he needed to do was show up - earn his participation trophy. Winning was not his priority. Staying alive was.
Harry had gone through it with Luke in letters and phone calls - there was a rusty old red phone booth in Hogsmeade which Harry had become a close acquaintance with recently - he'd even mailed the book to Luke at one point (which was totally against Pince's library rules, not that Harry was particularly worried about Madam Pince right now... he had bigger fish to fry) to get the doctor to look it other, make sure Harry hadn't missed some clause which meant he had to put in certain magical requirements or spells.
They'd come to the same conclusion. The rule book insisted Harry had to compete. It didn't say he had to try.
It was typical wizard common-sense (or rather, lack of common-sense), not aware of the pedantic nature of the non-magical society, the legal documents that would be drawn up with a hundred amendments and clauses all written clearly and concisely to enforce each rule. For once Harry was glad that the magical curriculum was so lacking, that there was no higher education offering law (they relied far too heavily on blood pacts and unbreakable promises).
So Harry stood still, not taking a step forward or a step back. He ignored the crowd as it grew restless, ignored the confused commentary of Bagman and the fire spitting out of the angered Horntail's mouth - she was neither close enough to Harry to harm him, nor trying to, he didn't pose a threat in his passive state.
It was weird hearing everyone say your name as you sat there besides them. It was odd being both the centre of attention and a random bystander. It was also oddly amusing listening to everyone discuss Harry Potter's appearance at the first task, hearing all the theories about where he'd been the past years, about why he disappeared and faked his death ("He didn't fake his death Isobel," Padma retorted, oddly impassioned, "he just didn't correct the prophet - there's a difference!") and whether he entered himself into the tournament or whether someone was trying to get him killed.
Quite a few of the 'claws (particularly the younger ones) were complaining about how uninteresting Harry Potter had been in the first task, but the older Ravenclaws seemed to understand the situation better. They understood that Harry not actively competing was actually more interesting - and said far more - than if he had.
Harry felt almost proud as he overheard some sixth year Ravenclaws discussing Harry's inaction at the first task as a genius rebellion to the ministry's attempt at hushing up the disappearance of Bertha Jorkins and lack of success in catching Black.
In typical Ravenclaw fashion the post-first task party had turned into an avid discussion about who Harry Potter really was ("Damnit Jeremy just turn the music off!") with the dance floor turned into a carousel of different theories, each group entertaining a new idea, both about how the ministry would react to Harry Potter or how Harry Potter would even be able to cope without having an egg.
Harry was positively enjoying himself as he talked to the other fourth year 'claws, sitting back and watching the discussion unfold with hidden glee as he imagined how much chaos he could cause with just a few words, or how many questions he could answer by just standing up and yelling out his true identity, or maybe just shifting into Harry Potter.
Then Terry walked in and and brought a wave of anxiety with him as he strode over purposefully towards Harry.
"We need to talk." Terry said, a grave expression on his face. His eyes were narrowed, and maybe that's what made Harry realise, or maybe it was the furtive glances he'd been giving Harry for weeks, the frown on his face whenever he saw him, or how his lips were pursed tight, similar to when Professor McGonagall got mad at the Weasley twins, or Peeves. Maybe it was a cumulation of all of the factors. Because now, standing in the common room surrounded by gossiping 'claws all enthusing about the task, Harry realised. Terry knew.
A/N: Thanks for reading. Sorry if you were disappointed at how the first task went down but I thought even though maybe it was less "blockbuster" action it was more accurate to Harry's character; don't worry, things will evolve by the end of the tournament!