1.
"... Harry Potter..."
It takes a moment to realize what I've just heard. The muttering and applause of the Great Hall died so quickly, I thought someone cast a silencing charm on the room. I can hear a slight buzzing sound, like a swarm of angry bees, growing louder in volume and intensity. All eyes turn to me and I can't help but wonder if I have something in my teeth, or hanging out of my nose. Instinctively, I rub it as I hear Dumbledore's voice again, this time louder than before.
"Harry Potter."
Even Hermione and Ron are looking at me with blank expressions on their faces. Seamus is whispering to Dean, who blinks my way. I stand up and try to move, but my legs don't obey me. All they can do is tremble, so much so I feel they're going to give way.
"Harry, up here, if you please."
Dumbledore's voice snaps me back to the here-and-now. There's nothing jovial in his tone and when I look at him, his posture is rigid and his face, stern. I don't want to go to him; I want to run back to the Tower and wait it out. Hermione gives me a gentle shove.
"Go on, Harry," she urges in a soft whisper. For the first time, emotion is sketched along every inch of her face: the patented Hermione-Worry ™. When she pushes me a second time, harder than before, I jerk my arm away, giving her an upbraiding look and a breathy 'stop'.
I'd be embarrassed over its lack of strength if I weren't so fucking afraid.
Finally, my feet begin to work properly. I walk slowly towards Dumbledore, who's standing in front of the Goblet of Fire holding the parchment that, apparently, has my name on it – my signed death warrant. I can feel everyone's eyes follow me as I walk, some glowering at me while others whisper their slaggings to the person next to them.
Even though I can't hear them, I know what their saying:
"Fucking attention-seeker."
"Shoulda' known he'd try and get in the tourney."
"I bet they'll let him compete, too – Dumbledore's favourite and all."
By the time I reach the Headmaster, I've already made note that his expression has remained stoic and unflinching. I don't even think he's blinked the entire time since he's called my name.
"Well, yes, then," he says as he hands me the parchment. I look to read it (just to make sure it was my name on there and not, say "Terry Blotter" or summat). "Through the door there, Harry." He points to the same side door that the other champions – Cedric, Viktor, and Fleur – walked through.
Cedric.
Merlin, what ever will he think of me, now?
I pass the professors' table as I make my way to the side chamber. McGonnagol looks terrified, as if she's watching a dead man, walking. I look to Hagrid; I can always count on him for a smile or a wink or a nod, anything that will make me feel a little better about my current situation.
I get nothing. He can barely meet my eyes and, for some reason, that makes me want to cry.
I go through the door, down some steps and finally make my way to the side chamber – a smaller room than I'm used to seeing at Hogwarts. A warm fire is crackling in the fireplace opposite me, setting off an eerie glow reminiscent of a bad dream. I can hear more whispering. This time it's the portraits speaking to each other, occasionally darting out of their frames and into neighbouring paintings.
The three champions are grouped around the fireplace. Krum looks so cool leaning against the mantelpiece. The light makes Fleur's long, flowing mane seem more like flames than hair. Cedric is facing the fireplace, with his hands behind his back. They all look so fucking spot on, like a splash page from one of Dudley's comic books that I used to steal when I was younger.
I trip over my own feet, stumbling a bit as I walk towards them. Fleur is the first to see me. She steps around Cedric, flipping her hair as she does so.
"Wat eez it?" she asks, with a slight holier-than-thou look on her face. "Do zey want us out in ze Hall?"
Cedric turns to face me. When he smiles, my stomach does a cartwheel. I blink once, twice – I can't seem to stop blinking, actually. "I... I..." I'm saved by Ludo Bagman's grand entrance.
"Extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinairy," he announces as he walks beside me, patting me on my shoulder and leading me closer to the other champions. I can't seem to pull my eyes from Cedric. He's still smiling.
"Gentlemen, lady," Bagman adds with a slight bow to Fleur, "may I introduce – incredible as it may seem – our fourth champion."
Viktor straightens his posture, hands clenched in a fist. Cedric manages to look nonplussed as his eyes dart back and forth between me and Bagman, unbelievingly. Fleur's surprised expression melts quickly into a half-cocked smirk.
"Oh, a very funny joke, Monsieur Bagman."
Bagman's hold on my shoulder tightens, "Joke?" He almost laughs.
"No, not at all. Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire."
Cedric's no longer smiling.
"But...he ees just a boy!" Fleur almost yells, pointing at me (as if it weren't obvious who she was talking about). Suddenly, she's not as beautiful as I once thought.
"Well, the age limit was just placed on the tourney this year," Bagman says, sounding like he's reading from a brochure, "it's far from tradition. Besides, I don't think he can back down, now... he's obliged."
At this point, I can hear everyone talking – arguing – but I can't actually distinguish what they are saying. All I hear is a booming, almost jovial, tone and a whole lot of 'v's and 'ee's. My vision becomes narrowed – tunnelled, even. I can't help but stare at Cedric, who manages to look worried, confused, and angry, all the while still looking handsome, still looking every bit a super hero.
"Fucking attention-seeker."
"Shoulda' known he'd try and get in the tourney."
"I bet they'll let him compete, too – Dumbledore's favourite and all."
I'm scared that's what Cedric is thinking. Why wouldn't he think that, after all? He doesn't really know me, only of me. He's played– and beaten– me in Quidditch, read about me in the same books that Hermione has, and probably thought, like everyone did at one point, that I was the Heir of Slytherin. But, he doesn't know me – Harry. He doesn't know that I'm scared shiteless and he probably doesn't care.
I think I realized at some point that the room had gotten significantly smaller, yet louder. Cedric's attention turns to a spot over my shoulder. It snaps me out of my thoughts. I turn to find Dumbledore, Madam Maxime, Barty Crouch, Igor Kakaroff, Mad-Eye Moody, Professor Snape, and Professor McGonagall arguing and debating. All I hear, however, is the ringing in my ears of blood rushing to my head. Still, I am vaguely aware of being called a 'little boy', of someone doubting Dumbledore's ability to cast spells, and accusations that I am to blame – undoubtedly cast by Snape. But I don't care about any of that. Cedric still isn't smiling.
"Harry, did you put your name in the Goblet?" Dumbledore asks me, his voice soft again.
"No."
"Did you ask an older student to place your name in the Goblet on your behalf?"
"No!" I'm getting angry at this point and my tone reflects that.
For some reason, I begin to think about dragons and, even more surprisingly, Charlie Weasley. Not his image, mind you, just him. It was as if someone was picking the very thought from the recesses of my mind, scooping it out as a spoon would pudding from a bowl. Thinking of Charlie wasn't a bad thing, per se. He is fit, after all. He plays with dragons on a regular basis and that kind of danger is... intoxicating. When I stayed at The Burrow before the World Cup, I had so much fun talking with him about stuff: what it meant to be Quidditch Captain; the scars and little burn marks on his body (the more decent locations, unfortunately); and his affinity for nature spells, something he says is necessary when dealing with magical beasts like dragons. I once thought I caught him watching me when no one else was around. I certainly wished that he would have come with us to the World Cup, that's for sure.
"...binding magical contract."
Crouch's high-pitched squeal of a voice snaps me back to the here-and-now.
"Part of the magical contract specifies an age restriction, too," reminds McGonagall, stepping closer to Crouch, who flinches at her advance. I realize how sickly Crouch looks, far worse than when he almost blasted me, Hermione, and Ron at the Quidditch World Cup this past summer. The light of the fire only accentuates the dark circles around his eyes and the sunken cheeks.
McGonagall continues, "Since the two are in clear conflict, unless you want to postpone the tourney until the arbitration committee can render their decision..."
Bagman waves a dismissive hand, "No, no, no. We don't have time for all of that. The champions will need every opportunity to get prepared for their tasks."
Moody almost seems nervous, anxious, "But... Harry can't not take part! The rules..."
"You seem awfully adamant on Harry's participation, Alastor," McGonagall says, with an arch of her brow.
"I... I'm just a stickler for the rules, is all."
"Since when?" Kakaroff sneers, eyes narrowed.
"Since I brought you before the Tribunal for crimes against the wizarding world, Igor."
The tension in the room reaches a deadly peak until Dumbledore, who had made his way to the window, turns on his heel to face us, commanding "Enough. Clearly this is a unique situation." His voice becomes soothing. I start to feel more relaxed as he slowly walks to me, peering into my eyes. "It demands a unique approach and, undoubtedly, a unique solution."
Dumbledore places his hands on my shoulders. Their weight is somehow comforting. With a smile and a nod, asks, "Knowing the risks, Harry, what do you want to do? Do you want to compete in the Tri-Wizard Tournament?"
Oh, bother and bullocks! I don't want to be the one to make that decision! I'd rather be told what to do in this case. I'm used to that. I've never really had much in the way of personal freedom, living with the Dursleys and then coming to a magic boarding school. I can feel all of their eyes on me: narrowed or concerned or accusatory as they wait for my answer.
And, what is my answer? Of course, part of me really wants to do it – to try and win. 'Eternal glory awaits,' isn't that what Dumbledore said? If I won, Cedric would be impressed, surely. Maybe he'd want to be my friend, even? Maybe he'd want to be more? Maybe Charlie would...
"Harry?"
I can hear a high-pitched voice in my head egging me on: 'Sod them all! You can show them!' 'You can do this!' 'You can win this tourney!' 'You're Harry bloody Potter!' I suddenly remember hearing this voice once before, when I begged the Sorting Hat to not sort me into Slytherin. When I slept that night, it told me to go to Dumbledore and ask to be resorted into Slytherin. I had forgotten about that until just this moment. Why? And why was I still thinking about dragons and Charlie Weasley?
"Harry," Dumbledore asks again, bringing me out of my daze, "What is your answer?"
I shake my head.
Tension I didn't even realise was there suddenly evaporates from Dumbledore. His hands slide from my shoulders as he turns to face the other adults.
"Then it's settled," he says, almost genially, "Harry Potter will not compete."
Cedric still isn't smiling.