Much to Harry's relief, Truls and the others were satisfied with a vague explanation when he told them that he wouldn't be available on Sundays.
"I got someone to train me," Harry had said, and that was really all the others had needed to hear, perhaps assuming that he had meant Sirius. Tom, for some reason, wasn't impressed.
"You could have just, oh I don't know, not said anything," the Dark Lord told him. "Did they even ask you? No? You just offered the information freely, didn't you? I don't understand what kind of codependency makes you a slave to the bizarre need to report all of your actions to your peers."
"I think you're being dramatic," Harry said, following Tom to an empty windowless room. With a flick of his wand the ceiling was suddenly alight, each stone shining dimly and illuminating the whole area. "Are we going to duel?"
"No," Tom said, and muttered something else that Harry didn't quite manage to hear. It sounded as if the Dark Lord had called him 'stupid,' but the ruler of the Wizarding World couldn't possibly be so childish. "I'd fry you on the spot if we started dueling now. You wouldn't last a minute."
"What are we going to do, then?" Harry wanted to know, scowling at the man's confidence. Then again, he didn't doubt that as they were now, Tom was far superior when it came to, well, everything.
"I've taught you a few healing spells," Tom started. "And you know many different offensive and defensive spells. The tasks – especially the last one – will require more than that." Harry listened quietly, leaning against the wall and enjoying the Dark Lord's company as he spoke. It was a little bit funny, Harry thought, how much like a teacher the man was sometimes.
"Spells are ineffective unless you use them properly," Tom continued. "Knowing how to cast the Killing Curse is useless unless you actually go ahead and cast it."
"I'm not going to do that," Harry replied, frowning. "I don't want to kill anyone."
"And let me guess," Tom said, wholeheartedly unimpressed. "You also don't want to torture or maim anyone. You'd rather have people sit down and sort out their problems by talking."
"Well—"
"No."
Tom then conjured two chairs and sat down on one of them, while gesturing for Harry to sit on the other. "I am old, Harry. I am old and I have known all kinds of people. I've met the good and the bad, the desperate and the ambitious. I've seen humility turn into wounded pride and arrogance crumble into dust and misery. And it is with this knowledge that I can tell you: you will kill someone."
Harry stared at the man in front of him, not willing to believe what he was hearing. A part of him knew that yes, in all likelihood with the life he was living he would someday have to wound another human being fatally. But to discuss it with such certainty unsettled him. "I don't want to."
"Wanting has nothing to do with it," Tom said. "That's the thing, you see? You kill when you have to, not when you want to. If you were a Hogwarts student planning on getting married and running a household while working a typical nine to five job, then sure, maybe you won't kill anyone. But that is not you, Harry."
"It could be me," Harry claimed, though he knew that Tom was right. As long as Harry aimed to uphold his end of the promise to Merope, as long as he intended on changing some of the things that were a common part of their society, there would always be someone who'd fight him until one of them collapsed.
It wasn't a pleasant realization.
"The... thing that makes Death Eaters different," Tom said, "is their own sense of when killing becomes the best option. What they all have in common is that death is always one of the options. Sometimes you kill to prove a point, sometimes to erase a problem, sometimes just to... vent a little." The Dark Lord paused, observing the skeptical expression on Harry's face. The boy was, quite clearly, not convinced.
"I knew this would be a problem," Tom sighed. "I won't duel you, and I won't even teach you any new spells yet. What we will be doing instead is something else entirely."
"Considering our topic of conversation, I'm worried."
"You'll be absolutely safe, I assure you."
'It's not my safety that I'm starting to worry about,' Harry thought. Silently he watched Tom conjure a tiny brown rabbit, and set it down on the floor. The bunny sat there for a few moments, its nose twitching as it took in its environment. Then it moved, though Harry knew that it would find no exits.
"I don't need a new pet," Harry said, dread pooling at the pit of his stomach. "Really. Thank you and all that, but I really don't want a new one. I have an owl. Could you just return this to... wherever you summoned it from?"
"I'm teaching you a valuable lesson," Tom replied. "Appreciate it, because you're the only one that I have had to teach this to. Now, stand up and pull out your wand."
"I don't like this," Harry told him, but did as told. He wanted nothing more than to leave, or change the subject, or make Tom teach him something else. He didn't, though. He couldn't. Harry thought of Merope, and thought of his difficulties with the train station, and wondered if Tom would bother with him today if he knew about how difficult being special had become.
It was stupid, and selfish, and had nothing to do with making the world a better place, but Harry really didn't want to lose Tom's attention.
"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked, holding his wand tightly in his hand. Tom stood up as well, and his hand was cold and heavy on Harry's shoulder.
"Now," the man replied, sounding far more pleased than he should. "You use a simple cutting curse to kill it."
"You look dead on your feet," Truls observed, watching Harry sit down and nearly fall face-first into his plate of syrup-covered waffles. "Was training that hard?"
"You could say that," Harry replied. Tom hadn't made him learn new spells, no. All he had focused on was making Harry use the spells he knew on whatever small animals Tom had conjured. It was exhausting and draining and upsetting, not to mention tougher than any dueling class he had had to endure.
Harry had decided, for a change, to sit with Luna at the Ravenclaw table. Much to his secret delight, Truls didn't seem to know how to behave around the eccentric girl who told them about an infestation of some unheard of magical creature while trying to share her portion of apple pie with as many people as possible.
"It's like an edible hug," Luna told Truls, smiling in response to the older boy's wide-eyed confusion. "A hug from the inside."
"Say, Luna," Harry suddenly said, remembering something either Sirius or one of his parents had told him years ago. "Does Hogwarts really have old ghosts flying around?"
"We have a few," Luna told him, pouring more vanilla cream onto her apple pie. "But sadly, they don't interact with the students often anymore. There was some sort of a conflict, you see, when Headmaster Yaxley came to work here. Many of the ghosts liked the previous headmaster better and after he left they decided to distance themselves from the people who are here now. Which is truly a pity, some of them have quite the tales to tell."
"Do you know if any of them are old enough to have witnessed a previous tournament?" Harry asked. He knew it was a long shot, but any kind of extra help would be greatly appreciated.
"I don't think so," Luna replied after a moment of contemplation. "I don't know if the Triwizard Tournament was ever held in Hogwarts before. But if there's someone in Hogwarts who'd know, it will be the Grey Lady."
"Where do you think I could find her?"
"How useful could she be, though?" Truls asked. "Let's assume she did witness a previous tournament, it's probably going to be very different from this year's tournament, right? Different tasks, different judges." Harry shrugged, though he knew that what Truls had said was very true. However, even if Harry decided to not ask about the tournament, he could ask about something else. Maybe the Grey Lady remembered his parents when they were young. Or maybe even... maybe even Tom when he was young. He had studied at Hogwarts after all.
Good Circle, Tom as a teenager. Had he been anything like Harry?
"The dead are unexpectedly useful," Luna said with a serene smile. "If nothing else, they're good listeners. The Grey Lady is often around the Ravenclaw Tower but I don't think anyone except Ravenclaws can go up there - at least, not alone. I can tell her to seek you out, Harry, but whether she really does it or not is up to her, of course."
"Thank you," Harry smiled, before turning back to his waffles. He was nearly finished when someone sat next to Luna, facing Harry, and slammed down a few books. Startled, the boy looked up to see an angry Mette moving to pile a small mountain of steamed vegetables onto her plate.
"Interesting books," Luna said, reaching to pick one. She either did not notice or didn't care about the other girl's evident bad mood. "Do you study advanced alchemy at Durmstrang?"
"It's a hobby," Mette replied sullenly, stabbing a piece of broccoli with her fork. "Potions and arithmancy were just too easy. Anyway. You. Who are you?"
"Luna Lovegood," Luna said. "Harry's friend. And you?"
"Mette Erling. Harry, could you get me some coffee, please?"
"Uhm. All right." Harry poured her some coffee into a finely decorated cup and added milk into it before handing the cup to Mette.
"What's making you breathe fire?" Truls asked curiously. "Usually you're all smiles and sunshine."
"Oh, honey, you know nothing of my smiles and sunshine," Mette replied acidly. She then took a deep breath and shook her head, putting some visible effort into not scowling anymore. To Harry, she didn't seem angry anymore, but as if she were on the verge of tears. "It's been a shit day."
"Why?" Harry asked. His day had been... not bad, despite what Tom had tried to make him do. The Dark Lord hadn't been particularly pleased, but had told Harry to be fully prepared to shed some blood next week. "Can we help with anything?"
"Oh, darling," Mette sighed, and offered him a smile that wasn't as confident as she would have liked. "The matters of the heart tend to confuse and hurt the best of us sometimes, don't they? Never you mind, just focus on your food. I do hope though that you didn't skip the actual meal and go straight to the waffles."
"He did," Luna said helpfully. "Didn't even glance at the vegetables."
"All you have been eating is apple pie!" Harry exclaimed, and scowled. "I'm just not hungry. Circe, I thought you were my friend."
"You need to start eating properly if you want to be healthy and full of energy next Saturday," Mette told him, and Harry could see Truls nod in agreement.
"I heard that Fleur is sticking to a very strict diet," Truls said. "She will definitely be in top form next week."
"She's fantastic, isn't she," Mette sighed. "If I had legs like hers I'd never wear anything that goes past my arse."
"Anyway," Truls said, "all that aside. Harry, I'm going to the library to get some assignments done. Want to join me?"
"Yeah," Harry replied immediately, thinking of the pile of homework he hadn't even touched yet. "Good idea. Let's go."
"Proper lunch first," Mette said instantly. "Or at least take something with you. Honestly, are you planning on fainting? I can tell you, that does not attract any dashing princes. Been there, done that. You don't have the tits for it."
"She's right," Luna added. "Unless you faint on Valentine's Day while holding a cactus. But then the prince charming might not be yours after all, so I wouldn't recommend doing it then either."
"Okay," Harry said, grabbing a few pastries and dead set on ignoring whatever Luna and Mette had said. How come it was a prince, anyway? Why not a princess? Then again— oh, whatever. "Cool. Truls, let's go."
The next few days passed fast, and Harry found himself always either catching up on homework or trying to deal with bouts of anxiety. He frequently battled the urge to run far, far away and distance himself from everything. Truls's presence alternated between being the best support Harry could hope for, and the most stifling nightmare he could imagine. Mette's mood swings had become worse, and the Hogwarts students that Harry knew were busy dealing with their own studies.
And despite it all, somehow, the worst was that he hadn't heard a single word from Tom since Sunday. Was the man truly planning on limiting their communication to once a week? If so, then the next time they would meet would be after the first task.
"Krum told me he's going to go flying soon," Truls said, and the smile on his face made Harry feel guilty all of a sudden. He shouldn't find Truls's constant presence a bother; many would kill to have this kind of a loyal friend. "I was thinking of joining him. You in?"
"I don't think I have the time," Harry admitted, feeling genuinely sorry. He missed flying, but wanted to focus his time on gathering as much information as he possibly could. At least for now, when the first task was but a few days away. "I've got so much to study and time is running out quickly. But please, don't hold yourself back on my account - all I'm planning on doing is simply sit here and read. You'd be bored to death and how would that make me feel?"
"Are you sure?" Truls asked, eyeing the book Harry was holding with a frown when the other boy nodded. "Well, if you change your mind, you'll find us near the Gamekeeper's cottage. They have only one pitch here and well, you know what happened to it."
"Sure," Harry replied. Truls didn't move immediately - instead he stared at Harry for a few long moments with a peculiar expression before leaning forward to touch Harry's cheek gently with his fingertips. A little smile was playing on his lips and for an instant Harry couldn't breathe.
"Don't tire yourself out," Truls said, and Harry nodded silently, unable to say a word. The other boy smiled again before grabbing his coat and a broom and leaving the room. Harry stared at the closing doorway, unsure of what had transpired, confused and sick of having more things to think about.
Perhaps this was something he could ask Tom about?
Thinking of Tom made Harry think of the ghost Luna had mentioned: the Grey Lady. Surely she would remember a remarkable student like Tom from his days as a student? Luna had said that the ghosts hadn't distanced themselves until the previous Headmaster of Hogwarts had left, which meant that during Tom's time they must have been far more present.
Was it strange that Harry couldn't help but be extremely interested in knowing what Tom's least favourite school subject had been? He didn't know many things about Tom, and most of what he knew had more to do with Tom's 'Lord Voldemort' persona rather than Tom himself.
'Then again, they're not separate entities,' Harry thought, suddenly far less amused than he had been moments before. 'It's the same man. He can act like a child and tell me silly things all he wants, but at the end of the day he's the man who can burn innocent people on stakes, torture others for information and actively permit and promote prejudice against Muggleborns.' He didn't want to make the mistake of forgetting what Tom actually did every day he spent away from Harry.
"What put you in a bad mood?" a familiar voice said, and Mette sat down next to Harry on the couch. "Surely the book isn't that awful?"
"I was just thinking," Harry sighed. "What about you? You've been pretty... stressed lately."
"Oh, I've been a terror," Mette admitted, and shook her head with a humourless smile. "It's all right."
"Is it really?" Harry took a look at the others in the room and lowered his voice as he continued: "Do you want to... talk about it?"
Mette sat silently for a few moments, before she opened her mouth to speak. A moment of speculative hesitation told Harry that she had decided to discuss a different topic. "Bellatrix Lestrange gave you a standing ovation," she said. "How come?"
"Honestly, Mette," Harry started, "who can really tell why she chooses to do whatever things she ends up doing? I couldn't begin to guess... In fact, I wouldn't even dare to guess."
"Has anyone ever told you that you ramble when you lie," Metter asked curiously, and Harry thought of Tom, before promptly shaking his head. This time the witch's smile was genuine.
"I get it," she said with a sly grin. "You want to keep your secrets. That's fine."
"It's not really a secret," Harry said. "She once complimented my eyes, but that's it. I don't know why she'd even notice me or... or be happy to see me become the Durmstrang champion. I don't know, so I don't really like talking about it." Rather, he didn't like thinking about it, in fear of coming up with theories that would distract him from studying.
"I wish I had worries like yours," Mette said, and Harry had to suddenly put quite a lot of effort into keeping his smile from disappearing. "But when you get older, Harry, you'll enter a whole new world of trouble."
"Does this have anything to do with how upset you've been lately?"
"You could say that."
"Does it have anything to do with... Anthony?" Harry whispered, leaning closer. The witch shrugged, smiling wistfully.
"That easy to guess, huh?" she said. "It's all right, though. I know how to handle heartache. You should thank your stars that you haven't got a serious crush going on anyone... Unless..."
"There isn't anyone," Harry said quickly, thinking first of Clemens, then Truls and even Tom. He fleetingly tried to come up with a single girl he had had a crush on, and came up with nothing. "No one."
"It's all right to like someone, you know," Mette told him. "You know what... why don't you just get used to that thought for now? Girls, boys, it's fine to like either or both. Just don't sabotage your own chances out of fear."
And damned Circe if that didn't bring with it an unexpected realization.
On Thursday, after Harry and his classmates were done with their lessons, an older student with a badge on his robes approached Harry and introduced himself as the Ravenclaw Prefect.
"Headmaster Yaxley wants all the champions to go to his office," the prefect told him. "I'm here to ensure that you'll do so as swiftly as possible. It's easy to get lost, you see."
"Okay," Harry replied, and handed his bag of school supplies to Truls, who was eyeing the prefect with no small amount of suspicion. "Do you know what it is that he wants?"
"I have no idea," the prefect admitted. "And it is not my business to pry."
"Blind obedience with the absence of faith is stupidity," Truls said. The prefect tensed and scowled before he turned to march away, clearly expecting Harry to follow without being told so again. Harry shook his head and sighed quietly before hurrying up after him, doubting that the other would bother waiting.
For an instant Harry nearly apologized. The words "I'm sorry, he didn't mean to insult you" were ready in his mouth to be voiced in order to mollify the boy, but instead of doing so Harry remained silent. Something in him had rebelled against the thought of apologizing, which was... strange. Saying sorry for every little thing has never really been an issue for Harry, so why now—?
"We're here," the prefect said suddenly, stopping in front of a gargoyle. "Mortui vivos docent." With great interest Harry watched the gargoyle move, step aside, revealing a spiral staircase that would doubtlessly lead to the Headmaster's office.
"Well then," the prefect huffed. "Up you go."
And up Harry went.
The Headmaster's office was... not as impressive as Harry had expected it to be. It was quite large and richly decorated, with books covering the walls and strange contraptions in various places. Headmaster Yaxley was a tall man with hard, blunt features and an unpleasant smile. Headmaster Karkaroff was sitting next to the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, who was smiling at her student - Fleur Delacour, if Harry remembered correctly. George Weasley was also there, unusually quiet and careful as he sat on one of the couches.
"Ah, mister Potter," Headmaster Yaxley said, his cheer entirely unconvincing. "Step in, son. Take a seat, er, next to young Weasley there, for example."
"Yes sir," Harry said, and it was only when he was seated that he noticed the two other individuals in the office. A witch with blonde hair set in elaborate curls and pencilled-on eyebrows was sitting while a tired-looking man with a dusty hat and a camera was standing behind her chair. The woman smiled at Harry, revealing three golden teeth amongst the pearly whites.
"Now that all of the champions are here," Headmaster Yaxley said, "we can begin. This lady here is Rita Skeeter from the Daily Prophet, and she will be writing the first group interview of the tournament."
"Feel comfortable to tell me anything, dears," Skeeter said sweetly. Her smile made Harry feel oddly anxious and not at all comfortable.
"Fleur - you don't mind if I call you that, do you - what was your family's reaction when you told them about participating in the Triwizard Tournament?"
"They were very worried in the beginning," Fleur said with a smile. "But they are also very proud of me." The feeling of dread increased, and Harry hated the thought of anyone asking about his parents' hypothetical reactions. What could he say? Oh, mum died ages ago and funny thing - dad also died recently! Oh, you didn't know that, did you? Well, neither did anybody else!
Absently Harry noticed the woman's independently moving quill write far more than what Fleur was saying, and wondered if she would truly make the girl's responses somehow more dramatic. Then again, wasn't the drama exactly what made people read?
"Mister Weasley," Skeeter then said, and unlike with Fleur, she didn't seem to have any desire to refer to George by his first name. "Victory would bring your family five thousand galleons - quite the sum, isn't it? What would you like to do with it?"
"Open a business," George said, smiling slightly. "My brother and I—"
"Charming," Skeeter interrupted, before pressing on: "Would you help your parents financially if you could?"
"What? Well, of course-"
'I really wonder what that quill is writing,' Harry thought. 'How many lines can she squeeze out of the few words she let George say? Merlin, I don't have a good feeling about this.' The reporter seemed to know where to strike with her questions, and with increasing panic Harry tried to figure out what kind of questions she would throw at him.
Whatever she'd write - and whatever Harry would say - would be printed for the world to see. Including Tom. If Harry made any stupid mistakes here, what if Tom would suddenly start thinking that Harry wasn't even worth his Sundays anymore?
"Mister Potter," Skeeter finally said, turning to him. "You're quite a bit younger than these two, hm? How are you feeling about this tournament?"
"Honoured," Harry lied. "It is an honour to be able to represent Durmstrang in such a grand event." Headmaster Karkaroff mustered up a smile, clearly pleased with Harry's response.
"When your name was called," Skeeter said next, "I couldn't help but notice that Bellatrix Lestrange stood up to clap for you. How familiar are you with Mrs. Lestrange?"
"You mean," Harry said, thinking of Mette and her thirst to prove herself, and thinking of how much Bellatrix must have worked to get to where she was now. He thought of all the women who wanted to be more than somebody's wife. "Lieutenant General Lestrange. We've met. She's someone I... truly admire." From a safe distance and with a healthy dose of fear, sure, but admired nonetheless.
The quill stopped.
"Yes," Skeeter said, her smile slightly less sugary sweet than it had been before. "Does it make you worry that people will think her biased, considering what she did despite her being a judge?"
"With all due respect," Harry said. "If you – or anyone else – would like to accuse Bellatrix Lestrange of being unfit for the role of a judge, then I invite you and dare anyone else to go and tell her so."
She didn't bother using charms for this, no. Bellatrix preferred to use her hands and special potions to polish her throw knives. It was relaxing, especially with Rodolphus nearby. The man had given up the pretence of reading some reports, and was simply watching her quietly now.
"Is it really that fascinating," Bellatrix asked, setting down a knife and picking up another. "Watching me take care of these?"
"Not what you're doing," Rodolphus admitted readily. "But you're always fascinating to me. Who are you planning on using those on?"
"Whoever allows me the opportunity," Bellatrix replied, glancing at her husband. The Dark Mark on his bare forearm made heat pool in her belly, and she wanted nothing more than to press her lips against his at that very moment. And that's what she did – dropped the knife she had been polishing, moved towards the bed and crawled into it before leaning down for a kiss.
"I like this development," Rodolphus whispered, and Bellatrix kissed the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. "How'd you like to use those knives, love? Stab someone's shoulder?"
"No," Bellatrix replied breathily, loving the hot press of his hands against her skin. "The soft belly, I'd say. Just... sink it in... Circe... yes..."
"I worship you," Rodolphus hissed, rolling them so he could lie atop of her, before kissing her neck softly. "Would you slice it all open and pull everything out?"
"Yes," Bellatrix sighed, closing her eyes. "I would... I would do exactly that. Perhaps I should sharpen my hooked knives instead. Sink one of those in, and when you pull it out... oh, yes." She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling at it slightly, when a knock came from the window.
"If that sound is not my imagination, I'm going to use my knives on whoever caused it," the witch hissed, and Rodolphus laughed before pressing a brief kiss against her cheek.
"It could be important," he said, rolling off her and moving to open the window. An unfamiliar bird swept in and dropped a small package near Bellatrix on the bed.
"Kill the bird," she said, reaching for what it had brought her. There was a small hand-written note on the package, and Bellatrix recognized the handwriting instantly. "Actually, never mind. Kill Karkaroff instead."
It wasn't often that Bellatrix received a letter of any sort from Igor Karkaroff, and she tended to be pleased with that fact. The man was a spineless coward and a fool, and she didn't hold an ounce of respect for him. Surely he wouldn't dare to try bribing her? She wasn't going to let the Dark Lord down by vouching for anyone unworthy.
"Seriously, Igor sent you something?" Rodolphus asked, allowing the bird to fly away. "What did he send you? A request to go easy on his champion? You told me you liked the brat well enough already."
"I do," Bellatrix replied. She saw potential in the little green-eyed Potter, but if he ended up not showing enough of that potential during the tournament, Bellatrix wasn't going to allow him the pleasure of victory. Annoyed, the woman unwrapped the package and saw a small tear-shaped object that looked like glass with smoke trapped inside it.
"A memory holder?" Rodolphus said, surprised. "Colour me curious." Memory holders were crude imitations of pensieves - an unsuccessful attempt at creating something more functional with a similar purpose. An ordinary holder could store only one memory at a time, often for the maximum duration of a week before whatever memory had been stored into it would dissolve.
"It could be a ploy," Bellatrix murmured, before shaking her head. "No, he wouldn't dare. Tomorrow's the first task... and if he was trying to bribe me, he would actually send me something of value and outright ask for a trade. You remember his ways, don't you?"
"Subtle that man has never been," Rodolphus agreed. "Well then, why don't you take a look at whatever memory he sent you?" His wife held the sphere in her hand before she sighed and lifted it to touch her forehead. A thin string of blue light emerged from the memory holder and wrapped itself around Bellatrix's head, much like a crown of sorts.
Rodolphus moved to where his wife had been sitting earlier and sat down to polish the rest of her throw knives while she relived whatever memory Karkaroff had sent her. He was admittedly curious about the Potter child - it wasn't often that Bellatrix paid attention to anyone who hadn't made an impression on the battlefield. Bellatrix's dislike for children had been clear since the moment he married her, and for her to take a liking to a kid was unusual.
It took a bit longer than Rodolphus had expected, but eventually the string of blue light disappeared and Bellatrix put down the memory holder. Her expression wasn't angry, but contemplative.
"Was it a memory worth viewing?" Rodolphus asked, and his wife nodded, still deep in thought.
"It's strange," the woman murmured. "Karkaroff sent me a meeting he had witnessed. Some journalist was interviewing the champions."
"And that was so important it couldn't wait? If it was a journalist doing the interview, then we'll be able to read about it tomorrow."
"I... I doubt that we'll read what happened."
At this Rodolphus looked surprised. "How come?"
"It's such a small, insignificant thing," Bellatrix said, but a smile was creeping at the corners of her mouth. "Rodolphus, I really want that Potter boy to win."
"What did he do to win your heart in such a way?" Rodolphus asked, his curiosity increasing. It seemed that for once Karkaroff has managed to play his cards right. "Merlin, should I ask him for tips on how to charm you?"
"Oh, you're doing just fine on your own," Bellatrix replied before she threw the memory holder at him. "Take a look. Potter's the kid with black hair. A scrawny little creature, but don't let that fool you."
"If you say so," he said, lifting the memory holder to press it against his forehead, before diving into the memory that had impressed his wife so.
Harry woke up before his alarm rang. For a moment he contemplated trying to continue his slumber, but he knew that he'd only end up overthinking everything and doing more harm than good to his state of mind. The first task would begin in less than four hours and Harry didn't feel ready at all.
With a heavy sigh the boy climbed out of bed, glanced at his sleeping roommates before walking towards the bathroom. After a quick shower the world seemed a little bit clearer and better organized, and somehow each layer of clothing that Harry put on made him feel more... collected. The manticore shirt that Gilderoy had bought for him so long ago still fit, and Harry felt a little bit safer knowing that he had some sort of protection under his uniform.
A few days ago Sirius had sent him not only the two-way mirror he had promised, but also James's invisibility cloak that he had mentioned. Harry left the mirror but tucked the cloak into one of his pockets before reaching for the dagger Sirius had given him for his birthday. He slid it into the sheath hidden in his right boot and made sure his wand was securely in its holster before he quietly left the room.
Much to his surprise, he found Mette in the common room, applying her make up. On the table in front of her was a breakfast for two, clearly in accordance to her tastes rather than Harry's. Regardless, the boy was grateful.
"Good morning," Harry whispered, taking a seat. The witch smiled at him, setting down her small mirror and the brush she had been holding.
"Morning," she replied. "It's good that you're awake. I had the house-elves bring something for you to eat - you won't have time for food later. How are you feeling?"
"Nervous," Harry admitted, eyeing the food. "Um, no pancakes?"
"Oatmeal is better for you," Mette said, and Harry nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words. "Quarter past eight we're going to leave here and head towards the Headmaster's office. I won't go with you all the way up, of course, but it's good to have someone with you for as long as possible."
"Thank you," Harry said, undeniably surprised. "I don't even know how to repay you for all the support you've given me."
"Win the tournament," Mette told him. "That's how you repay me and everyone else."
Win the tournament. If only winning was as easy as saying the words aloud. Harry envied Fleur Delacour for the confidence she had shown during the interview, and wished for the opportunity to read Skeeter's article before the task began. It was unlikely, however, that such an opportunity would arise.
Eventually - far too fast and yet it took a lifetime - it was time to start heading towards the Headmaster's office. The corridors were empty and cold and Harry wanted nothing more than to turn back and crawl into his bed. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely noticed when Mette suddenly stopped walking and said: "Hello, Silvia."
Harry looked at the person Mette had spoken to, and saw a young witch leaning against the window. The woman didn't look dangerous in any way, but Harry knew better than to write anyone off as harmless. She was quite short and chubby, with dark hair pulled into a bun and a small stylish hat resting on top of her head.
"Mette," the witch said pleasantly. "It has been a while, how do you do?"
"I'm quite fine," Mette replied, "in a bit of a hurry, though."
"Well," Silvia said, her smile revealing dimples on her round cheeks. "Don't let me keep you and your friend, then. Have a good day."
"Likewise," Mette murmured, walking slightly faster than before. Harry resisted the temptation to turn back and take a last glance at the witch.
"Is she a guest?" Harry asked. "How come she's here so early?"
"That was Silvia Nott," Mette whispered in response. "She's... her magic is quite average, but her mind is frightening. She currently works for Gringotts as a Runes Mistress, I believe. She's part of the vault warding team."
"How do you know her?" Harry asked, curious. Mette sighed, and offered him a faint smile. "Are you friends?"
"Anthony is in love with her," she said. "Head over heels, but she doesn't give him the time of the day. Why would she, after all, when he's four years younger than her? That's how I knew her at first – a year or so ago. But after a... an unpleasant event that I went through a while ago, she helped me and I... respect her quite a lot. I'm so excited to see you tackling the first task, Harry."
"Um," said Harry, the change of subject confusing him for a moment. "I, yeah, what?"
"You're well prepared," Mette continued, just as they reached they reached their destination. The gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office had already stepped aside, leaving the staircase behind it exposed. "So you know what to do. Just remember to not hesitate, all right? Do your worst."
"All right," Harry said, and smiled at the witch nervously. Merlin, he felt sick. He took a deep breath before he climbed up the stairs, envying Filippa and the others for being far away from this mess. Then again, knowing Filippa, she would have been far more confident than Harry about participating.
"There you are, Harry," Sirius said, and Harry was relieved beyond words to see his godfather there. The man pulled Harry towards a corner where two wizards dressed in light blue robes were preparing some vials. From the corner of his eye Harry saw Fleur Delacour with two witches decked in similar uniforms.
"What's going to happen?" Harry asked.
"We've got about an hour before we have to go to the Quidditch pitch," Sirius replied. "Give your wand to one of these gentlemen - it will be tested for any hexes or curses that could interfere with your casting today. Then, here, drink this." Sirius grabbed a vial of light pink liquid from one of the two wizards, and handed it to Harry.
"What will this do?" Harry wanted to know.
"If you have ingested any luck-enhancing potions such as felix felicis or the like, this potion will flush them out. Since you're not throwing up, you obviously haven't," Sirius said. Harry hadn't even thought about cheating, and wondered if that already made him a worse competitor than the other two.
"Come on, all three of you," Sirius then said, gesturing for Fleur and George to step closer. Everywhere around them witches and wizards were either running tests on their wands or analysing the potions and finishing any last-minute arrangements. "The first task will be explained again briefly once the tournament starts, but the explanation will be rather vague and meant for the audience, not you. So focus on what I'm telling you now and you'll have a better chance at success."
'Here goes,' Harry thought, and Sirius continued:
"Once we go out there in front of the audience, all three of you will be presented with a bag filled with different items. Pick one: that will be the portkey that will take you to a remote, closed location. Your task is not to escape those premises, but to find a small silver plaque with a number etched into it. A summoning charm will not work, so you'll need to figure out a way around that."
"Do we have a time limit?" Fleur asked, and Sirius shrugged.
"Technically no," he replied. "But you will not be alone in that building. The faster you finish, the safer you'll be. Once you have the plaque, read aloud the number on it: that will activate the portkey and bring you back here. Everything you do will be broadcasted to the audience. Use the spells you know will help you and leave an impression. Now, do you have any other questions? No? Well then, take your wands back and use the next twenty minutes wisely."
Later, when Harry walked behind Fleur towards the Quidditch pitch, he realized that what was making his skin prickle and hands shake wasn't nervousness after all.
It was anticipation.