A/N1: Standard disclaimer. See chapter 1 for details.
The holiday proved the most pleasant in Harry's memory. He and his godfather were welcomed by the Grangers, and plans were made for Harry to live with them in their new home, at least until Sirius was legally free.
The escapee admitted to the boy that his prison experiences hadn't done him any good. "Mentally, I'm not that much more mature than you are, and my only experience with good parenting skills were the couple of years I stayed with your grandparents. You should look to Dan as a father figure and think of me as your crazy uncle; I won't be offended if you live with them when we move. Just remember that you will always have a room in my pad, no matter where I end up."
This was followed by manly hugs and a few tears, but such melancholy conversations were rare during the remainder of the break.
Thus Harry had no trouble brushing off the various annoyances upon the return to school. Caught up in preparation for his first public swim, the days passed quickly in training.
Harry's eyes slewed to where the Hogwarts professors were seated as Tekamthe escorted him to the lake. "Snape is looking way too happy," he observed. "Probably hoping that I drown and they never find my body."
The man chuckled. "He is a most disagreeable sort. However, I have warned him of an international incident if he is unable to keep his class under control while my students attend."
"Well, he has stopped the Slytherins from tossing stuff in my cauldron, but his snide remarks continue, even if he says them quietly enough that no one but me hears."
"Dear me," he sighed in faux dismay, "it would be so unfortunate if I accidentally mention such behaviour at the annual ICW educational conference."
"Yeah," Harry snickered before looking around again. "Hey, I don't see that reporter anywhere."
"And you shan't," was the calm response.
"Good, because I didn't think it was nice of her to make the tournament all about me. The wand weighing was bad enough, but her article after the first event…" He shook his head.
"Ah, yes, 'The Boy Who Speaks to Dragons'. Well," the man hummed a bit then informed him, "I believe Ms. Skeeter is a bit 'tied up' right now. Or, perhaps, 'pinned down'."
"Huh?" was all he had time to reply before the two had to separate.
Harry turned and glanced at the judges' table after reaching the platform. Dumbledore had a bowl of familiar yellow candies near his right hand. Yay, he thought, no need to use Plan B. The 'Greater Good' must be on our side. The chilly February air caused him to keep his cloak around him as he joined the other champions. Waiting for the officials and judges to stop talking among themselves and start the event, he turned to the other three teens and broke the silence.
"So, who do you think they took for you?"
"Eh, Harry?"
"Vot you say?"
"Qui?" Fleur spun around and searched the family seating area. "Où est Gabrielle? Ces bêtes! Ma soeur!"
"Um, yeah," Harry stammered, "they took hostages." Funny, when Cedric had awkwardly hinted for him to take a bath with the egg in the infamous Prefect's Bath, he thought the older student had solved the clue. I guess not, he mused.
The tension rose as Ludo Bagman did his usual pitiful impression of a stand-up comic and Mr. Crouch described the homing beacon which would guide them back to the dock. Fury covered the face of the usually mild-mannered Cedric, Viktor's perpetual scowl deepened, and Fleur continuously murmured what Harry assumed were French maledictions. Those three hit the water almost simultaneously, drenching Harry before he was able to drop the cloak to reveal his less than stylish drysuit to uncomprehending wizarding eyes.
He quietly summoned one lemon sweetie and whispered, "Portus interitus nota Hermione" before tucking it in a wristband. "Well, here goes," he muttered before cramming a handful of slimy vegetation into his mouth. Damn, I wish it didn't wiggle as if it was alive. After overcoming the gag reflex, he had but a moment before the formation of gills shot pain to his neck. Gotta go, then. He was glad that the gaudy reporter and her photographer weren't around to publicise 'The Boy Who Speaks to Fishes'; funny, he hadn't seen any articles from her since the holidays and wondered what Tekamthe knew about that. As he fell backwards into the water, he gave a quick wave toward the side of the bleachers, where a large black dog stood next to Claire. Good boy. Sit. Stay.
Once below the surface, flippers and webbed hands moved his body a number of metres from the dock. When he figured no one could see him from the shore, he used his teeth to free the lemon drop and bit down on it. He felt the world spin around him and thought, At least I don't have to worry about falling when I land!
His arrival, despite the fact that he was in the aquatic world, was in the usual graceless Potter fashion: upside-down. Flailing about, he righted himself then drifted over to what must have been the merpeople's city centre. Attached to boulders by heavy plaits of seaweed were the four hostages. Cho, Hermione, the Slytherin Greengrass (Krum's date to the Yule Ball), and a miniature blonde; Fleur's hostage, he supposed.
Propelling himself to Hermione, he carefully aimed his wanded right arm and sliced through the rope tied to her foot. As soon as the last filament separated, her unconscious form began to float upwards. Gripping her waist as best he could, he used his feet to launch them towards the surface at a faster rate. He paused once he reached the level where a light pulsed every few seconds. Aiming himself and his burden in that direction, he headed towards the dock.
"I would like to congratulate you on your performance today, Mr. Potter," Tekamthe stated, "even though my protest at Headmaster Karkaroff's bias was dismissed. As the first to return, you should have received the most points."
"It doesn't matter," the boy shrugged, "I just want to be alive at the end of the final task."
"Yes, your aim is to survive the contest, not win it."
"And if just half-arsing would satisfy the conditions, I might've done just that," he replied. "I may have been placed in Gryffindor, but too many times I used courage without common sense. Hermione speculates that after we get that thing out of my scar, I'll be able to think things through better."
"About that," he hesitated, "there has been a slight change. No, it will still happen," he reassured the suddenly slumping Harry, "but an elder bokonon contacted Mme Laveaux after consulting the Fa oracle. She recommended that the ritual take place in the States as there was a strong possibility that a conflict in magical Britain would lessen the likelihood of success. Of course, when hasn't there been some sort of conflict over here?"
"Not since before I started at Hogwarts, that's for sure. And I know Dumbledore will have a hissy fit just at the thought of me leaving during the school year," he spat.
"Remember, the Hogwarts headmaster has no say regarding your movements. Not that he won't try," he chuckled, "which means that I had better start the travel paperwork now. After the foul-up with the Goblet, that old busybody will have a tough time overturning an approved portkey application from the Ministry."
"All right, Harry," Claire vanished the second failed potion of the evening, "what burr got under your saddle?"
"Look, not only do I have this ceremony coming up, but I have to take a transAtlantic portkey. My one experience with that form of travel wasn't too pleasant."
"Yeah," Claire scratched one ear, "those take some getting used to. But you heard about that last week. Is something else bugging you?"
"This stupid competition, what else?" he snarled. "Now my best ex-friend…or is it my ex-best friend?...is spouting the same bile as Malfoy." His voice took on a falsetto tone. "'Not content with shaming Gryffindor with your piss-ant performance in the first task, but now you use a Muggle device in a wizarding tournament.' Damn!" He stomped across the room and kicked the wall and soon found himself on the floor, a black dog atop him, tail wagging enough to create a breeze. "What the–"
Alerted by the crash, Hermione arrived mere seconds later, wand at the ready. Sighing, she commanded, "Get off him, Padfoot," and attempted to drag the grim away. She herself lost her balance when the canine shifted into his primary form of Sirius Black and only his quick reflexes kept her from joining Harry.
"No one attacked," Claire informed them. "Harry was expressing his frustration–nonverbally."
"Ron or Malfoy?" Hermione asked. Seeing the hurt in his averted eyes, she had her answer.
"Stupid ginger can't remember that I'm no longer in Gryffindor, much less Hogwarts." The back of his hand swiped over his cheeks.
"Okay, enough practice for the day," Claire declared. "Since I doubt you will be able to manage even a simple swelling solution in this mood, let's meet up in the parlour and thrash this out."
"Look, forget the jealous bastard and look at the big picture, which is what Dumbledore is great at doing," he added bitterly. "I'm currently in third place, and even though I'm not interested in winning, I'm kind of stressed that I have no idea what the last task is."
"This is nothing new; you went in blind for the first one," Hermione reminded him, "or would have, if it hadn't been for Hagrid."
"Yeah, but we got a clue about the second one after solving their little riddle."
"You're just going to have to be patient," Claire advised. "I'm sure they'll give an indication soon."
"But Harry's three years younger than the others," Sirius whined. "Shouldn't he get a little bit of a break?"
"He shouldn't even be in the competition," Hermione pointed out, "and, in my opinion, that horse has not yet been sufficiently flogged. Be that as it may, from my research, the scores will not be cumulative for the Tournament. Instead, the last task will determine the winner, with the rankings giving but a slight advantage to the current leader."
"Yes, it appears that it will likely be some sort of search and retrieval mission, with challenges such as an obstacle course," Claire continued. "Hermione and I have been brainstorming possible hazards for this task, and Sirius has been suggesting spells or hexes to counter those. Until we have more of an idea, your job, Mr. Potter, is to study your butt off so you can pass the École de Magie exams, especially in History and Potions."
And so that was what Harry did for the next ten days. He passed his new school's end-of-year tests early at the urging of Claire ("You don't want those hanging over you while you're in the middle of the task, do you?"), managing to squeeze them in the first part of his week in the United States.
Dumbledore fought against this absence most stubbornly, using numerous tricks and excuses to lure Harry into his office. Tekamthe's commentary on his underhanded and unsuccessful tactics was scathing, his irritation exacerbated by the need to make 'an extremely unnecessary visit to deal with a half-senile British idiot'; Hermione took notes on his vocabulary. Only Mme Laveaux's extended and self-repeating Howler forced him to concede the match; it did not help his image when Madame Maxine's translation of the Louisiana French spread like wildfire among all the students.
A/N2: No, Rita was not chloroformed and made part of some insect collection; Tekamthe was just joking. In exchange for not returning her to Britain to face charges for being an illegal animagus (after all, her undocumented arrival in the States was inadvertant), she hung up her gossip quill and settled down to write young adult novels of the supernatural variety. Perhaps ones with sparkly vampires?