The thing Harry liked least about Hogwarts, he thought, might be how short the days got up here in the winter. It was only four o'clock, and the sun was already setting, casting the valley into twilight. And it was cold, now, when the sun went down. Lyra had flat informed him that he would be coming with her (and Hermione, and probably Blaise and Theo, maybe a couple of others) to some Slytherin Hallowe'en ritual thing out in the forest tomorrow night, after the champions were selected, probably around midnight or something. Standing out here watching the sun go down, Harry really wasn't looking forward to that.
Even if it wasn't bloody freezing — there was supposed to be a bonfire, so that might not be that bad — the idea of doing another ritual thing with Lyra was just...slightly terrifying? especially now that he knew she actually was basically a god of absurdity.
Her insistence that he had to come because Persephone would want to meet Lily's kid did not make the idea less terrifying.
"So about this Hallowe'en thing..."
"Samhain, and you're definitely coming," Lyra said absently, scribbling away at a stiffened scroll of parchment hovering in the air before her as though on an invisible lectern, "consolidating boredom" while they waited by writing the extra essay "Her Royal Bitchiness" (Catherine Parr, their Charms instructor this term) had assigned in retaliation for Lyra derailing their last lesson with a series of theory questions (that Ms. Parr hadn't known the answers to off the top of her head).
"What time are they supposed to be getting here?" Hermione asked, sounding just as ready to go back inside as Harry was. The entire school had turned out to greet the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang almost an hour ago.
"Minnie didn't say. Wouldn't be surprised if she told everyone to be here early on purpose so no one would be late. Meda does that sometimes."
"Well that's just—" Hermione glowered. She'd insisted they leave even earlier than McGonagall had ordered, just to be on the safe side. "If I'd known we were going to be out here so long, I'd've brought a bloody scarf!"
Harry probably would've just waited inside. "Me too," he said sympathetically.
"Do you not know a Warming Charm? That was a first year charm in Sixty-One."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course we do, but not one to use on people."
"People are, what? sixty per cent water? You can use the same one as for tea. Just don't over-do it and accidentally boil yourself from the inside out. I need a more pretentious synonym for allegedly."
"Purportedly? Ostensibly? What's the context?" She snatched Lyra's essay out of the air, while Harry focused on casting a warming charm on himself without straying into Blood-Boiling Curse territory. "Lyra, you cannot turn this in."
There, got it. Ah, so much better.
"Why not? Anyone who has a NEWT in Charms should know that, and the worst she can do is give me detention."
Which Lyra obviously didn't care about. She hadn't gotten quite so many as last year, Harry didn't think (yet), but she still ended up mouthing off enough to spend at least a couple of hours a week writing lines, or whatever professors made her do in detention. (Probably not actually lines — she'd refuse on the grounds that writing lines was too boring, and what were they going to do? give her detention?)
Hermione's response was cut off by someone — maybe Lee Jordan — shouting over the crowd, "What's that, up in the sky?"
Dumbledore's voice, even more unmistakable than the school quidditch commentator, floated up to them from where he was standing with the rest of the professors, and Mira, Crouch, and Fudge, and the judges who were already here (no one from Miskatonic had shown up, yet, or "Slytherin" — he'd seen Professor Shirazi making her way out here with Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey a few minutes ago), and that Michael Cavan bloke and his party (yes, Harry knew he was the Deputy Prime Minister of Ireland, but he was pretty sure anyone who'd seen him celebrating with Sirius and that Irish Nationalist witch at the World Cup victory party would also call him a fairly regular bloke) and the bloody Queen. "Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"
The small, dark smudge on the horizon slowly grew larger...and larger. And larger yet.
Harry distinctly heard a girl's voice scream, "It's a dragon!" followed by a boy, "Don't be stupid, it's a flying house!" as though that was less ridiculous. Well, maybe it was, people couldn't ride dragons as far as he knew, let alone dozens of them, or however many the Aquitanian academy was sending, all riding a single dragon. But still, he'd never seen a flying house, either.
"It's a flying carriage?" he asked no one in particular as it entered the valley, skimming over the trees of the Forbidden Forest and circling around to approach the flat-ish area between the castle and the lake. It definitely was, but he had to rub at his eyes to be sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing as it landed with an almighty thundering of hooves and creaking of springs. It was powder-blue and enormous, pulled by a dozen winged horses which were also mind-bogglingly large — he hadn't known flying horses could get that big!
Lyra whistled softly. "A dozen matched blond abraxans? Guess Mira wasn't kidding when she said Maxime and Karkaroff were planning on making an entrance." Hermione made a little eh? sound, prompting her to explain. "Those horses? They're a cross-breed between aithonians, the species of winged horse closest to dragons — or, well, I guess thestrals are more similar in some ways, and aithonians in others, but that's not important, they're these huge, fire-breathing things, even bigger than those — and phatheons, which are tiny and super delicate, like unicorns with wings. Pony-sized, with that palomino colouring. They're really fucking rare, and notoriously difficult to handle. Cissy was obsessed with them when she was three. Either Beauxbatons has money to burn, or they have a hell of a blood alchemist on staff, to have a whole team of abraxans. Especially all blond like that, normally they're sort of a blood-red chestnut or black. And it's a good thing Hagrid's half giant, because can you imagine a human trying to stable those things?"
Harry couldn't, which he thought must suggest that the enormous woman just stepping out of the carriage ("That's the Headmistress, Olympe Maxime," Hermione muttered, as Dumbledore led a round of welcoming applause.) had been planning on taking care of them herself. She, like Hagrid, had to be half giant, though given how shocked and uncomfortable Ron had been to find that out about Hagrid, Harry was kind of surprised. He meant, he'd gotten the impression most people wouldn't like their kids going to a school run by a half-giant, no matter how...statuesque, she might look, standing beside her enormous carriage, students emerging now to form lines behind her. Their uniforms matched the soft blue and white of the carriage, he noticed — muggle-ish skirts, trousers, and blazers, kind of like Smeltings, but with much less stupid-looking hats — though they were wearing what had to be non-uniform cloaks and scarves and such over them, all different colours.
"Do we even have stables on the grounds?" Because Harry didn't think he'd ever seen any.
"Nope. I presume Maxime knows that, though— Ooh, Durmstrang has a boat!"
Boat was a bit of an understatement — a massive whirlpool had formed on the surface of the lake, a mast rising out of it, followed by the rigging and hull of a ship at least as large as the carriage. Its port-holes were lit, making the whole thing seem just...eerie, somehow, all skeletal and dripping. Even more than the way it turned and sailed toward the docks with no apparent sails.
"How did they do that?"
"I have no idea, but it was awesome. Maybe something like shadow-magic, but with water? I'm definitely going to have to check it out later."
The fascination that had been on Hermione's voice vanished at that suggestion. "Check it out? You can't just go poking around their ship in the middle of the night!"
"I can if they don't put up wards that can keep me out. And, let's be realistic — they're not going to be able to keep me out."
"That is not what I meant and you know it!"
Lyra and Hermione's whispered bickering lasted all the way through the formal greetings between the headmasters and judges and heads of state and halfway through the everyone-proceed-back-into-the-castle part of the whole welcoming thing. That was the point at which Harry realised that the Durmstrang delegation, who had lined up behind their own Headmaster to march past the Hogwarts students (they were letting the guests go first) and looked as bored as any of the other students with the polite nonsense, included Victor Krum.
"Hey! Lyra! Hermione! Shut up! Did you just see— Was that Victor Krum?!"
He thought it was, he could hear other people muttering up and down the line as they realised it, too.
"Er, yeah?"
"Victor Krum is going to be at Hogwarts all year, and—" He'd been going to complain that no one had mentioned it to him, but realised half-way through his sentence that there was a much more important problem to address. "—and we're not playing quidditch?!"
Because it had been announced at the beginning of the term that they weren't going to have time for a proper school quidditch season, what with a tournament event going on roughly every three weeks beginning at Hallowe'en. Harry (and pretty much all of the other quidditch players) had objected to the tune of, there was only one Hogwarts Champion, if they were on the quidditch team their team could replace them, why couldn't they still have regular matches?! But they had been overruled by McGonagall, to the tune of because I said so now bug off. And now Victor Krum, the best seeker in the world, was here, and he wasn't going to see Harry play! Not that Harry was anywhere near as amazing a flier as Krum, but he...still kind of wanted him to see Harry win a match, because... He didn't really know why, okay, he just did.
Both Lyra and Hermione gave him an odd look. Neither of them really even liked quidditch, though of course Lyra could talk about it, and Hermione generally humoured Harry when he wanted to. "You know, the quidditch pitch still exists. Just because everyone's not coming out to watch doesn't mean you can't play."
"Yeah, bet you could even ask Krum to do Seeker drills with you. He didn't retire after the Cup, did he?"
"What? No, of course he didn't, but what?" What planet did Lyra live on, where people could just ask Victor Krum to go flying with them? Maybe a silly thing to think, given the fact that she'd just walked up and introduced herself and Hermione to the bloody Queen yesterday, but Harry wasn't Lyra, okay, he couldn't just—
"Well, he's still a professional quidditch player, then, right? So he'll probably be practising himself at some point. Might as well race you while he's chasing that silly little ball around, make it more challenging. I mean, that's probably why you're not having matches, so he can use the pitch whenever he wants to, but I'm pretty sure he's not actually a big enough prick to insist on reserving it all the time. Maïa's right, you probably could work something out to have actual matches between House teams, unofficially, if you didn't want to practice with him."
"Of course I want to—" Harry cut himself off as he realised the last of the Ravenclaws had started heading toward the doors, Gryffindor was moving, now. Which meant they were leaving the privacy spells Lyra had cast around them while they waited. People were staring, the weight of their curiosity pressing in on him. "Of course I want to practice with him!" he said more quietly. "Who wouldn't! It's just— You can't— I can't, just, walk up to Krum like he's a normal bloke and ask him if he minds me joining him to do seeker drills!"
"Why not? You asked him for his autograph."
"Exactly!"
"Er...what?"
"I think Harry doesn't want Krum to think he's some sort of...fan boy, or something," Hermione helpfully explained.
"But, he is. Aren't you?"
"Yes!"
"So what?"
"So, I don't want to annoy him, he's famous, he probably gets that all the time." Harry hated people making a big deal about him being famous, it was just...
"So...don't be annoying about it? Besides, he's just a quidditch player, and—"
"He's not just a quidditch player, he's the best seeker in the bloody world!"
"Yeah, but it's not like he's Tricia Mullet, and he's not even in the top ten most important people here, in the school, right now. I can introduce you if you want. Though that would be kind of silly, seeing as you've already met."
"You can't just introduce me to Victor Krum, Lyra!"
"That's what Maïa said before I introduced her to Vicky, and she doesn't know me in this universe, either. Not that she's likely to remember me at home, anyway, it's been years."
Somehow, Harry wasn't even surprised that someone had thought it a good idea to introduce Bellatrix fucking Black to the bloody Queen of England. Or, well, princess? Probably princess. He kept forgetting Lyra was from decades in the past as well as a slightly alternate universe. He also didn't want to be introduced to "Vicky" himself, so he (wisely, in his own opinion) said nothing on the topic.
"Er...maybe don't talk about the alternate universe thing?" he suggested, given that they weren't under privacy charms anymore. Honestly, he had no idea how she had managed to hide the alternate universe thing from him for a whole year, because now that he knew he kept noticing little clues — or giant glaring clues, as they more often tended to be — all the fucking time.
"I still don't see what the big deal is. I invited her. It would be rude if I hadn't been part of the welcoming party."
The big deal was that she'd completely embarrassed Hermione, mostly. The Queen, like practically everyone else, had just sort of accepted Lyra being insane in her general vicinity, quite possibly because not even she knew what to do when faced with that level of absurdity.
"I was wearing pyjamas, Lyra!"
"So? I was wearing an Extreme Noise Terror tee-shirt." Harry presumed that Hermione had no more idea than he did which of her terrible metal bands that was. "It was a Saturday, no one expects students to be in uniform on a Saturday. Especially since they were early."
"That is so incredibly not the point! She's the Queen! You can't just skip up to the bloody Queen and— I'm still surprised her guards didn't stop you, honestly."
"Well, I didn't just skip up to her, I gave them the signal, first." There was a signal? Why was there— How was there a signal? "Besides, I'm a duchess, kind of. Pretty sure that makes me entitled to speak to the Queen if I want to."
"You are not a duchess," Hermione said, in much the same tone she tended to use for there's no such thing as a fourth-year prefect.
"Well, no, technically I'm a countess again, since Sirius is officially Lord Black, now. And it's just a courtesy title since the Statute became a thing, but still. It's not like being the Queen means much anymore, either."
"Are you— You're serious? You—! I can't believe I've been dating a bloody countess, and I didn't even know it! I am not talking about this anymore."
"So then, I shouldn't mention that I'm also the Princess of Brittany?"
Hermione's only answer was a frustrated groan. "I'm going to sit with Neville!"
"He's a king, you know. His kingdom just doesn't officially exist anymore."
"GAH!"
Lyra giggled as her girlfriend stomped away to bully the king of a defunct kingdom into budging over on his bench, just in time for Dumbledore to stand and make his welcoming speech to the students of the foreign schools. Apparently he hadn't done that before they'd come inside, Harry hadn't really been able to hear, with all the Ravenclaws and most of the Gryffindors between him and Dumbledore, outside.
He kept it short — basically just welcome to Hogwarts, we'll open the Tournament after the feast — and when he sat down, food appeared in the serving dishes, as it always did. It was kind of early to eat, but apparently they were...just going with it? No one seemed to be objecting, even though it was only, what? not even five? Kind of made it look like Dumbledore wanted to get this whole opening ceremony thing over with as soon as possible, but then, that was probably true — Harry wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to get Mira and Crouch (and the Minister, though the Headmaster didn't seem as put out with him as he clearly was with the others) out of his school as quickly as he could.
"You really shouldn't tease Hermione like that," Harry couldn't stop himself saying, on the topic of the conversation Dumbledore had interrupted. Though... "Are you really a princess?"
She shrugged. "Not really, as in no one owes me a coronet. We did have ancestors who were kings, and by the laws of succession at the time Sirius could claim to be High King of Armorica — a kingdom that also doesn't exist anymore, more or less contemporary Brittany. And also Cornwall and Devon, technically. We don't actually administer those lands these days, we just have an outsized influence on their economy because we still own a lot of property and businesses in the region. Dorea was your grandmother, you could probably claim to be an earl if you wanted." Which was...a really, really weird thought. "The highest title I arguably hold in a muggle aristocracy that still exists, is Countess. Unless I'm Lady Black, in which case, Duchess. Therefore I am a duchess, sort of, and entitled to call the Queen Vicky." She grinned.
"I...don't think that's how that works." By which Harry meant, he was positive that wasn't how anything worked.
"Of course that's how that works, because who's going to stop me? Well, I mean, Langley might, if I were to say it to her face, but. Ooh, pass the bouillabaisse!"
"The what?"
"It is that dish, there," a low, musical voice said, a graceful hand waving over his shoulder, indicating a platter of fish. Harry turned, following it back to a tall, blonde witch in Beauxbatons colours — not surprising, given her accent. What was surprising was the silvery sheen of her hair and the inexplicably avian feeling of her mind. He couldn't really even explain it, he was distracted by her magic, hot and sort of...silky almost, not quite like anyone else's he'd ever felt, and kind of overwhelming, and, well...sexy, really. Which was...kind of weird? He didn't think he'd ever really thought that about magic before. What the hell? "If you do not mind, I would like to take it to our table when you have finished with it."
Er...what? Oh, the fish.
"Harry, aren't you supposed to be good at mind magic?" Lyra said, poking him sharply in the upper arm.
"Huh?"
"Stop molesting the veela, Potter," she said, jabbing him in the arm again. "Please excuse my cousin, he hasn't quite mastered his talent for mind magic, yet. Though I did think he'd been getting somewhere with the occlumency." That she said almost as pointedly as the poking. Right. Occlumency. He could do that.
The veela — now that Lyra mentioned it, her magic did feel kind of like the veela at the World Cup, Harry just hadn't put it together because that had been kind of...compulsion-y, whereas Delacour was just minding her own business while he was the one being an invasive twat — cocked her head to one side, just slightly, a soft smile gracing her lips. "Of course. These things happen. My sister is about the same age, I think. She too has yet to entirely master her magic."
"Er...what?" he said, pulling back into his own 'space' — it wasn't so much, he realised, that her magic was leaking all over like Lyra's did lately, or not nearly enough to be overwhelmingly distracting, he'd just kind of walked into it, mentally speaking. "Ah, sorry about that."
"Harry, this is..."
"Fleur Delacour," the girl provided, her tone rather bemused. Harry could sympathise. Lyra had that effect on a lot of people.
"...presumably a prospective Triwizard Champion. Fleur, meet His Grace Lord Harry Potter, Earl of Kernev."
Harry felt himself go very red. "Ignore her, I'm not— She's insane."
"Does kind of go with the territory. Lyra Black, Hogwarts Champion. Well met." She snagged a fish for herself before levitating the platter to the older girl.
"You know, you're going to have to stop calling yourself that when they actually choose a Hogwarts Champion," Harry pointed out. It was happening tomorrow, she should start getting used to the idea.
"Who do you think is going to beat me out for it? Johnson? Really, I'm just giving everyone time to get used to the idea. Er...did you want the broth, too?" she asked the older girl, still hovering behind them with the fish.
"No, no. Ah...it is only, we were told that we must be of age to enter our names for consideration as Champion. Is it not the same for Hogwarts?"
Lyra sighed. "I swear I've told people this a million times by now. Yes, Champions are supposed to be legal adults. No, I'm not seventeen — pretty fucking obvious, I think. I'm going to enter anyway because that rule is bloody stupid, and once I've been chosen they can't exactly make the Goblet of Fire pick someone else."
The beautiful girl frowned down at her, a tiny furrow marring her brow. "You are but a child, younger than my baby sister. You cannot believe you would stand a chance against any of us in our final year of schooling."
"Oh, but I do. The fact that you consider me but a child will only make it all the more embarrassing for you when I win," Lyra shot back, grinning.
Fleur's confusion shifted quickly to active, condescending annoyance. Harry was fairly certain she didn't realise Lyra was taking the piss. (Obviously she was planning on winning, but the picking a fight part was just her having fun with the older girl.) "Are all British mages so arrogant and foolishly overconfident? If so, I pity your Champion — whoever that may be. They will not even see their downfall approaching."
"It's only overconfidence if you don't have the skill to back up your claims, little bird. I assure you, I'm exactly as good as—"
Harry, watching the veela grow more and more furious at Lyra's smug provocation, decided that a change of subject was in order. "Are you related to the I.C.W. judge?" He was pretty sure the diplomat from the Continent was also a Delacour, which could have just been a coincidence, but Mira had said he was usually an ambassador from the ICW to a veela colony, so... He didn't look like a veela, but then, all the veela Harry had seen so far were women. Maybe the men looked different?
"Quoi?" Fleur said, distraction clearly warring with her annoyance. After a second or two, she seemed to realise that she was on the verge of making a scene and embarrassing her entire school in front of everyone. "Yes," she answered, sounding grateful for the change of subject. "He is my father. I have been debating whether I should enter the competition because of this, in fact."
"Why?"
Fleur hesitated. Harry wasn't sure whether she was at a loss to explain something so obvious as the fact that Mr. Delacour shouldn't be judging a tournament his daughter was in, or trying to decide whether Lyra was serious. (She was.) "Because it would be a conflict of interest?" he suggested.
The veela nodded. "Yes, I would not want to put him in such a position."
Lyra rolled her eyes. "If you're chosen, I think I can guarantee the other judges will be racist enough to make up for any favouritism, intentional or not. Well, Dumbledore and Karkaroff, at least. I'm still going to enter, even though Miskatonic decided to send Angel. Actually, she kind of told me I had to represent the House, so."
"Er. Pardon, I must have misheard... Miskatonic?" Fleur repeated, her eyes going wide.
"No, you heard correctly. They're sending a delegation because, well, it would be rude to disinvite them. Wouldn't want to precipitate an international incident, or anything." Lyra grinned, then offered, "If you're going to keep talking, you might as well sit down," scooting over a bit.
"Oh, no, I should take this to my friends," she said, raising the platter an inch or two, sounding rather too terrified to be thinking about the fish. "Please, excuse me."
She hurried away. Lyra managed to keep a straight face until she was back at her own table, but only just.
"Lyra..."
"Yes?" she asked, still giggling.
"Do the other schools know that Miskatonic is sending a judge?"
Her eyes tracked the veela, who, after a quick detour to drop off the fish, edged around the room until she reached her Headmistress at the high table. "They will soon."
The high table erupted into a flurry of discreet motion a moment later, as pretty much everyone who hadn't been here when Miskatonic's participation was announced — Maxime and Karkaroff and Fleur's father in the lead — grew obviously agitated, while others — Dumbledore and the British Ministry representatives — obviously tried to smooth over the situation. The Queen and the Tánaiste were notably calm, managing to look a lot more dignified than the other dignitaries...probably by virtue of not really understanding Miskatonic's reputation, Harry thought. Though, most people probably weren't paying the high table much attention. They had wards up so the rest of the Hall couldn't hear their conversation, and it wasn't like they'd all leapt out of their seats or something like the professors had when Mira first mentioned it. If Lyra hadn't pointed it out, Harry might not even have noticed.
After about two minutes, when the gesticulating had mostly settled into dark glares sent down the table at Dumbledore and Crouch, a wave of dark magic and unnatural quiet fell over the entire Hall — like one of those moments where (generally speaking) there was a lull in conversation just in time for someone to say something embarrassing, loudly enough to be heard over a (suddenly silent) crowd. Except this one just stretched on, conversations petering out entirely and, rather than someone shouting at their neighbor that they were going to take a piss, he could hear two girls at the end of the guest table saying, "Well, that was entertaining," and "Was that really necessary?"
And instead of everyone staring at someone for yelling that they were going to take a piss, Harry — and everyone else, as far as he could tell — was just staring at the two girls because...because he didn't know what that was. Not a compulsion, or even a suggestion, but...like there was some sort of something making them just fascinating. He could look away — he did, even, turning to see Lyra beside him looking equally enthralled (so it couldn't be mind magic) — but his eyes kept drifting back toward the girls.
The closest thing he could compare it to was the way he tended to find himself staring at Blaise whenever they were in the same room — not like it was conscious, and it wasn't a weirdly invasive sexual thing like the veela magic at the World Cup (no one was doing anything outrageous or stupid trying to get their attention like pretty much every straight man at the World Cup had with the veela, either), it was just... They were suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. Not in a way that Harry felt any real desire to actually talk to them, but... He just found himself watching them.
Whatever the hell it was, it was a weird fucking effect.
One of them stood, her light blue Beauxbatons uniform transforming as she did into a bright green sundress, exposing freckled shoulders and highlighting the red in her loose, dark hair. She wouldn't have looked out of place in California, but definitely did here, especially since it was October. "You told me we could make an entrance! Anyway, they know we're here, now, we might as well go say hello. Come on!"
The other girl sighed, rising to her feet as well. She was taller than the one who'd apparently cast whatever weird spell that was, and looked a bit older, but not much — still young enough she hadn't looked out of place with the seventeen- and eighteen-year-old students. Her light hair was cut short, and her robes, when she dropped whatever illusion was hiding them, were much more professional-looking. Kind of like what Hermione's mum wore in those pictures of her going to the Wizengamot, but somehow more formal. Definitely more sedate, a soft sort of black trimmed with grey, a silver badge pinned on her left shoulder, Harry couldn't make out what it was from here. Emma had kind of looked like an old-fashioned navy officer; this witch looked more like she was the head of MI6 or something — understated, official, and vaguely bureaucratic, but also unmistakably powerful and probably very dangerous. "Fine, fine. Let's go be diplomats."
"Yay! I love being diplomats!" Okay, Harry was going to call it right now, that one was Lyra's cousin, relative, whatever. He hadn't met her when she'd apparently stopped by over the summer, but that was such a Lyra thing to say.
There was a strange twisting sensation in the magic around them, rippling through the hall, a moment of just... It kind of felt like whatever Lyra and whoever else had done to make the top box larger at the World Cup, but nothing was moving or stretching as far as Harry could tell, just weirdness...and when it stopped it felt like there was a fucking basilisk in front of him. Not like, in the sense of an actual snake, but metaphorically — a terrifyingly powerful magical presence not quite washing over him like Lyra's did sometimes, still restrained, but undeniably there, waiting, giving off a horrifying sense of wanting to eat him alive, and a mental presence that seemed to fill the entire Hall, coiling around and past him without actually invading his mind, but he still knew it could crush his defences with a thought. It withdrew relatively quickly, but left the overall impression of something enormous and dangerous that he couldn't look at directly because it might kill him — looking in this case meaning straying even the tiniest bit from his own mind-space to check it out.
Until about two seconds ago, Harry would have said that the two witches now making their way toward the high table had looked pretty harmless — unusually interesting, but certainly not like they might actually be terrifyingly powerful, potentially evil Miskatonic researchers. Now they somehow seemed more sinister than Snape (even at his most dungeon-bat-like) or Karkaroff (who had seemed a lot more intimidating leading his fur-clad students into the castle than he did now, looking around desperately as though there might be somewhere he could run off to and hide). A chill crept down his spine, hairs on the back of his neck standing up.
Lyra beside him made a pleased little sighing sound, reminding him that he was sitting right next to someone arguably as creepy, and making him feel even more uncomfortably surrounded.
"You know," the serious one — what had Mira said her name was? something with an S... — said conversationally as they strolled past Harry, "I was about to congratulate you for being subtle for once in your eternally cursed life, but never mind."
"Subtlety is overrated. And it doesn't seem right to introduce ourselves from the doorway. Wouldn't want them to think Leslie and Lindsay sent a couple of students and insult them before we say a single word."
The serious one rolled her eyes at her companion. "As though you care about insulting people."
A moment later, someone dropped the wards at the high table, allowing them to hear Crouch saying very clearly to Maxime, "I suggest you ask them, as they're already here."
Angel (probably) laughed. "Don't sound so pleased to see us, Your Excellency!" she called out toward the high table.
"We are simply...surprised, Magistra," Dumbledore said, rising to address them. "We were under the impression that the University would not be sending a representative to the Tournament."
"You know, we did get a letter from someone purporting to be with the British Ministry telling us not to come, but we decided it was probably some sort of mistake or prank or something, because otherwise we would have had to be very offended about being disinvited, especially after Mira there — hi, Mira!" She twiddled her fingers at Mirabella, who seemed to be trying very hard not to notice the glares Delacour, Maxime, and Karkaroff were now aiming at her. "—assured me that the original invitation was legitimate. While I'm perfectly happy to be very offended, both the Dean and the Mayor said our allies in the Federation would be very put out with us if I were to wipe this boring little island off the map — like, cut our funding put out — and they never agree on anything, so deliberate misinterpretation it is."
"I would also be very put out if you were to destroy this boring little island, Angelos. Especially after accepting my hospitality as you have."
Harry did a double-take at the unfamiliar voice, amplified just enough to be heard without being uncomfortably loud, and he wasn't the only one — pretty much everyone at the high table glanced at the left end, then turned to stare again at the person sitting there. A man on the younger side of middle-aged, like late twenties or so (though probably older, mages aged weird), wearing what looked very much like a muggle suit, sleek black with a waist-coat a glimmering green — though without the top layer, there was a long suit coat and a matching hat hanging on the back of his chair — like the kind ordinary businessmen or politicians (who weren't Michael) wore...but somewhat old-fashioned looking, like an ordinary businessman or politician had stepped into Hogwarts right out of the 20s or 30s. His hair was a little old-fashioned, as Gin had called Harry's at the World Cup, in much the same way his had been then, but longer than Harry could ever tolerate his being, black curls tumbling over his shoulders, thin plaits framing his face. Harry couldn't make out his feature much from this distance, but he did notice the complete lack of facial hair, which seemed weird if this person was going for old-fashioned, everyone back then had mustaches.
He did look slightly weird, yes, but the weirdest thing was that he was there at all — and that he looked like he'd always been there, and somehow nobody had noticed him. He had a plate, his fork set over the rim suggested he'd been eating a moment ago, a glass of wine (there was wine at the staff table sometimes, but not usually down here) cradled in one hand, and he was lounging back in his chair, looking at ease and, just, relaxed. Looking for anything like he'd been there the whole time.
But he hadn't been. There hadn't even been a chair there, a moment ago! Had he just... That must have been one hell of an unobtrusive charm, for nobody to notice, especially with all the powerful mages up there...
There was a bit of bickering at the high table, and muttering among the rest of the tables, as yet another unannounced guest appeared out of nowhere. At some point, Harry thought he heard Dumbledore ask this new bloke who he was and what the hell he was doing here (though more politely than that) — it was that the man responded to. "I don't need any particular reason to have dinner in my own damn house, Albus." The man took a sip of his wine, lightly set the glass back down on the table. "Besides, I was invited."
Harry didn't need to hear people hissing the name all around him to get who this was supposed to be: Salazar bloody Slytherin.
Except he wasn't...supposedly. Harry looked a bit down the table, found Shirazi still sitting there — though, not quite looking how she was "supposed" to, her ears looking a bit longer and her eyes slightly larger, an odd pink tint to her hair, her human disguise "slipping". Supposedly, according to Lyra, their new Professor of Divination was actually Perenelle Flamel pretending to be a peri (a kind of elf from old Persia) pretending to be a human witch, and not doing a very good job of it. Harry had absolutely no idea why someone would do that, or if he should believe Lyra's claim that she was Perenelle Flamel, who was supposed to be dead. (Harry was very aware of this fact, what with the incident with the Stone he was sort of indirectly partially responsible for the Flamels' deaths.) But Lyra sounded very, very confident about that, so he, just, went along with it, he guessed, there never really seemed to be any point in arguing over it.
But, see, Lyra also said she'd invited Perenelle Flamel to be one of the judges, but since she was supposed to be dead, she was going to come as Salazar bloody Slytherin instead — apparently metamorphs could just pretend to be other people if they wanted to, which was kind of terrifying when he thought about it. But, well, Harry had pointed out that, sure, even if she could pull off pretending to be Salazar bloody Slytherin — and nobody alive remembered him, so who was going to say she wasn't who she said she was? — people would notice if Shirazi, just, disappeared whenever Slytherin was around.
Lyra had said, obviously, Flamel would just cast an illusion of Shirazi whenever she had to be Slytherin. She had a lot of practice at it, after all, nobody had noticed for centuries that there was only one Flamel, she'd been being one while casting an illusion of the other (switching off which was which depending on what was appropriate for each situation), and that had worked perfectly fine. She could do it again for a few months, no problem.
Harry had wanted to ask if she was being serious about that, because that was completely fucking insane. Like, Flamel had just...invented a fake husband for herself...and made up a fictional story about a rock that made them immortal...and ran with it, for centuries?! Okay, while that sounded like the sort of thing Lyra would do, or would think was even possible, things like that just...didn't happen in the real world. But he hadn't said anything because, well, of course Lyra was being serious, that was exactly the sort of thing she would do and think was hilarious, there was no point questioning her about it.
So...either that was the real Salazar Slytherin (which, fucking hell, scary thought), or that was Perenelle Flamel pretending to be Slytherin, while simultaneously keeping up an illusion of their Divination professor (which, that was just fucking insane). Harry had absolutely no idea which one he should believe, this whole thing was, just, insane and bloody confusing.
Harry wished he could blame Lyra for these things — sometimes it felt like his life had gotten a lot weirder since she'd shown up — but he knew that wasn't really fair. The magical world was just completely absurd sometimes.
Whatever was going on at the high table, with the Miskatonites and Slytherin(?), it was, he decided, Not Harry's Problem. He resolutely turned away from the building argument between the supposedly competent adults and back to his own table. "So about them Tornadoes."
(Sitting to Lyra's other side, Seamus burst into breathless laughter.)