That Was Part of the Plan

by LysandraLeigh

One year has passed since Lyra (formerly Bellatrix) Black traveled thirty years into an alternate future. Unfortunately, this means she's expected to go back to boring Hogwarts for more boring normal people stuff. Except, there is that Tournament thing. And Angel Black. And her muggleborn girlfriend. And maybe an international incident or two... Never mind, should be fun.

28. Samhain — Worst Hallowe'en Ever

"Mister Potter!" Dumbledore called out again, firmly disabusing Harry of any notion that he might– might have misheard, or...

The rest of the hall had gone "silent". Not like last night, when the Miskatonites had shown up, but in that way that any room with five-hundred people in it did naturally — the noise level falling dramatically to repressed whispering and titters that were, he thought, more ominous in some ways than actual silence, people staring and pointing him out to their friends who hadn't noticed where he was sitting.

Hermione, well down the table on the other side — away from Gabbie, per Lyra's advice to keep them apart for the sake of Gabbie's plan — caught his eye with a narrow who do I need to set on fire glare. (It still baffled him how many people didn't realise how scary she could be.) Harry gave her a tiny shrug. He hadn't the foggiest.

"I didn't put my name in," he heard himself call back, distantly. "I didn't—" He didn't want to have anything to do with the Tournament, aside from watching, and maybe trying out for the school-wide quidditch team he'd heard about at lunch. He— This was exactly like murdering the undead Tom Riddle, okay — Lyra had decided that it was hers, and Harry was fine with that, she could have it! Well, like he'd just been telling Blaise, he kind of wished it had gone to Angie, or maybe the Hufflepuffs' Quidditch Captain, Diggory, but not him! He didn't want to be back in the spotlight, everyone talking about him even more than they already were with him (still) not being fucking dead. And he definitely didn't want to have this to worry about alongside Dumbledore's awkward trips down memory lane and— Hadn't he just been thinking, earlier today, that it was nice getting to relax for once?!

Having to face some difficult, probably dangerous task or other every three weeks for the rest of the year was not relaxing.

"I don't think the universe cares," Blaise murmured past Gabbie's ridiculous Press Hat. She looked very conflicted and slightly concerned, now that Harry was going to have to compete against her sister. Now that someone was trying to make him, whatever. He wouldn't be, if he had any say in it.

"There has to be some mistake!" he insisted, desperate words falling into a resolute and unforgiving void that he had very much hoped to hear filled with of course there has been, there can only be three Triwizard Champions, it's in the bloody name! (But of course, Lyra had already left the room, and she would be the one to say such a thing, so.)

"If so, it is not one which will be addressed here and now. Please join the other Champions in the annex," Dumbledore said, more or less calmly. Harry could hear the tension in his voice, see it in the lines around his eyes, but he suspected he knew the Headmaster a bit better than most students, by now.

This was, Harry thought, rising numbly to his feet, quickly shaping up to be the worst Hallowe'en he'd ever had.

"It is okay," Gabbie said, reaching out to grip his wrist briefly, support and reassurance echoing between them. He gave her a weak smile. "It will be good."

Go on, Blaise added silently. I'll call Sirius for you.

Good idea — if anyone could get Harry out of this, it would be Sirius, wouldn't it? He did have all that noble power and privilege going for him, and it seemed like he and Lyra always got what they wanted, even from Dumbledore. And yeah, Sirius might think Harry was completely mad not to want to be involved in this ridiculously dangerous tournament that would completely monopolise his time all year, but if Harry told him he wanted out Sirius would move heaven and earth to get him the fuck out. Yes, do that, please.

Blaise grinned, whispering something to Gabbie, who nodded enthusiastically. In the meanwhile, tell Lyra what happened. Don't sign anything, don't even agree to anything, just to be on the safe side.

Right. Okay. Harry could do that. He started making his way up to the High Table and the annex off to one end, where the other Champions — no, where the Champions (he refused to think of himself as one of them, abso-fucking-lutely refused!) — were waiting for the judges to join them, explain the rules and tasks and whatever. Every eye in the Great Hall followed him, whispering growing louder as he passed between the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, as Blaise and Gabbie slipped away, presumably making for the nearest fireplace that hadn't been locked down for added security — one of the professors', maybe?

Snape caught his eye as he rounded the end of the High Table, flitting through his surface thoughts so quickly that Harry couldn't have stopped him if he'd wanted to. Which he didn't, for once. As far as he was concerned, the more people who believed he hadn't put his name in and didn't want anything to do with this bloody Tournament, the better! Hogwarts had already become even more than a madhouse than usual, what with the extra judges and the bloody Queen, and—

And a horrible, all-too-plausible thought occurred to him as he slipped into the room where the Champions awaited further instructions. "Lyra," he said, trying his very best to keep his voice level, and failing miserably. "What did you do?!"

"What is it? Do they want us back in the Hall?" Gabbie's sister asked.

"NO! They pulled my bloody name out of the bloody flaming cup, and I sure as hell didn't put it there, so—"

"What do you mean they pulled your name out of the Goblet?" Lyra demanded, sounding slightly annoyed.

"You know very well what I—"

"No I don't! What the fuck are you talking about?"

Harry felt himself begin to deflate, the idea that Lyra hadn't entered him somehow even more disturbing than that she had. "You mean, you didn't enter me in this stupid Tournament?"

She gave him a flat stare. "Someone entered you in the Tournament? How would you even kn— ...No. You— No! If I were going to try to get more players involved, I wouldn't have picked you! People die in this thing! And anyway, I didn't. I invited the bloody Queen, Saoirse Ghaelach, and four extra judges. Extra champions would be overkill, which— Angel!" she shouted at thin air. "Did you do this?!"

The witch from Miskatonic stepped out of a shadow behind Lyra, draping herself over her shoulders to whisper in her ear and giggling when Lyra turned to glare at her from two inches away. Her fury was met with a sunny grin. "Hi." As funny as it was to watch someone treat Lyra the way she pretty much always treated everyone else, it wasn't funny enough to appreciably lighten Harry's mood. Especially since all she had to say was, "No. And if I had, I wouldn't admit to it anyway. That would be telling," which was singularly unhelpful.

"What has happened, Madam Black?" Krum asked, his voice thick with confusion as well as his accent. "Miss Black said— But there can only be three Champions!"

"Yes!" Harry agreed. "Thank you! Exactly! There has to have been some mistake!"

"Madame Maxime!" Fleur exclaimed, as her Headmistress entered the room, along with all the other judges, and the Ministry representatives, and people from the Queen's and Michael Cavan's security teams, and Professors McGonagall and Snape, and Babbling and that professor from Durmstrang who had turned Malfoy into a ferret for nearly breaking Harry's nose, earlier — bloody hell, was everyone just going to pile in here?! They even brought the now-dark Goblet, setting it on a side table, out of the way. "They are saying that this little boy—" ("I'm the same age as Lyra!" Harry objected, though no one noticed.) "—is to be a Fourth Champion! How is this— Where is my father? The Confédération would, I think, be interested to know that Britain has awarded itself two Champions in this contest they have proposed!"

Oh. Harry hadn't realised Delacour wasn't with the other judges. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen him at dinner, either. Gabbie had said something way back at the beginning of the Feast, but Harry had kind of just assumed he'd shown up at some point...

"Monsieur Régis is addressing an urgent message from home," she said, her low voice slow and careful, thoughts guarded, yet somehow Harry still got the impression that they knew Gabbie was missing.

Fleur broke into a worried babble of French, her sudden anxiety washing over them, only for Snape to snap, "Get a hold of yourself, Miss Delacour. If the situation were any of your concern, I am sure Régis would have alerted you."

Fleur glared at him, hot fury lashing out at this interloper who had no business— But then, taking a deep breath, nostrils flaring, she mastered herself, pulling her magic back. "Of course you are correct, Maître," she said, stiff and precise and trying too hard to sound calm and dignified. "I apologise for my lack of self-control just then."

That, apparently, was offered to the room at large, and it was Salazar Slytherin — or Shirazi, Flamel, whoever — who said, "Quite understandable, my dear. Think nothing of it. Though, if it will settle your mind, I can assure you both your mother and your sister are safe and well."

Everyone else seemed to be thoroughly distracted debating whether Harry could possibly be required to participate in the Tournament (no, if anyone cared what Harry thought), and whether he ought to be allowed to (definitely not), and how his name had gotten in the bloody Goblet in the first place (which, Harry still had no idea).

"Are you certain? How do you know?" Fleur demanded, turning wide, desperate blue eyes on Slytherin.

"I have my ways, but yes, I am certain. Now. If I might have your attention?" He turned to the squabbling mob, magically enforced silence falling over the lot of them. Lyra, Harry noticed, looked furious, bloody hypocrite. "Thank you, Sir William. Unfortunately, your rules and regulations do not matter. Magic does not care whether there is a legal requirement for Mister Potter to participate or not. If his token legitimately represents him, he is bound to do so, under the geas of the Goblet."

"But—" he objected reflexively, so surprised that the word actually came out he paused when it did. "But I didn't put my name in! I don't want to compete! And how can there be a fourth Champion, anyway?!"

Slytherin gave him a sympathetic grimace. "I'm afraid your desire to abstain from the competition is equally irrelevant. The Goblet was created in a very different time. It was never meant to choose children to play games. It was intended to find a champion to defend the people of its tribe in times of turmoil, for the good of all, regardless of their feelings on the matter. And you need not enter your name yourself, or even by your own will — though that had, perhaps, been willfully forgotten even in the last centuries before the Hiatus. In the earliest days of its use to choose the Champions for the Tournament, the Lord of each school provided tokens imbued with the essence of those they considered their most talented students, oftentimes without their knowledge. It was considered a great honour to be chosen, especially when it was a surprise. I think it was...Fifteen Sixty-Four before anyone was selected who wished not to participate, and we realised the power of the geas on the Goblet."

"But you kept using it anyway?!" Harry asked, appalled, after waiting several seconds to see whether anyone else would. Either they wouldn't or couldn't. (He couldn't tell if they were still silenced.)

The man who claimed to be one of the Founders (which was still surreal) shrugged. "I didn't — I was simply an observer, no longer affiliated with any of the schools for centuries by then. But yes, with the rule in place that students must choose to enter themselves. But that is not written into the magic, which functions as it was always intended to do, drawing the competitors to the challenges set as though by fate, and demanding of them their best effort."

Still no one else spoke up. "So. So you're saying that I have to do it. That I don't have a choice."

"Oh, you do have a choice, if not one to be envied. Over the course of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, the tasks proposed for the Tournament became increasingly dangerous as various Heads tried to one-up each other. It was not unusual for students to decide after one or two events that they wished to withdraw, even when they had initially chosen to enter themselves. The Goblet enacts upon those who refuse to represent their people a range of punishments, which is, I think, one of the reasons its use was continued — though of course none of the Lords of the schools would admit it, hiding behind the excuse of tradition." The ancient wizard scowled, tired and disillusioned, looking for the first time since he'd appeared as though he might actually have seen eleven centuries.

Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he had to ask... "What kind of punishments?"

Maybe it wouldn't be that bad, maybe he could just...sit it out. Not even participate, and—

Slytherin's scowl only deepened. "It depends on the reason for the Champion's withdrawal. Some, most often those injured too badly to continue, suffer no further penalties. Those who might continue, but are afraid to risk their lives on behalf of their people, the Goblet has been known to disqualify itself, either by ageing them to extremes or taking their magic or by some other means making them unfit to match their cowardice." Right, so, no. "One's best effort must be made. The Hogwarts Champion in Sixteen-Twelve was a fifteen-year-old who tried simply showing up to make a token effort before conceding. He was disfigured with a Mark of Dishonour and his body regressed to that of a five-year-old."

"Doesn't sound like much of a choice to me," Harry grumbled.

"What I would like to know..." Snape drawled, in that overly-calm way that normally meant he was about ten seconds from eviscerating someone (usually Neville) for endangering everyone in the Potions lab. Heads snapped around to stare (or glare) at him, as others (Dumbledore included) realised that Snape wasn't silenced. Langley didn't look surprised, though, so Harry thought he must have left Snape out, like he had Harry. "...is how Mister Potter's name was returned after the three Champions were already selected."

"Well, it's not very smart, is it?" Lyra's...cousin sounded as though she was on the verge of laughter. Langley did look surprised that she was speaking, though Harry was less surprised than he was about Snape. Snape might look and generally act more intimidating and powerful, but he hadn't forgotten how it had felt when the Miskatonic witches had made their entrance, even if the power that had surrounded them last night was all but completely hidden now. Angel smirked at the Queen's bodyguard, twiddling her fingers mockingly at him. "The Goblet, I mean. It might've been something impressive once, but by now it's just one of those slow, simple, has-been gods. I'm sure it took a lot of effort for whoever to convince it to choose Champions for three groups at once instead of just one, getting it to understand what they wanted from it. But I wouldn't be surprised if someone just walked up and told it that they were submitting a candidate for a fourth group, and that worked."

Hey, Blaise thought at Harry, Gabbie and I got Sirius. We're outside. What's going on in there?

Langley's got everyone silenced except Slytherin, me, Snape, and Angel Black. It sounds like I'm going to have to do it, Blaise... Oh, and Delacour's not here because he's dealing with something urgent at home, I think they might know Gabbie's missing already, he added, trying not to let his fear and anger at the thought that he was going to be forced into this thing overwhelm him.

"You said it wasn't you!" Lyra said, glaring at Angel.

And Lyra, apparently. He might've just let everyone go, I don't even know.

Professor Lovegood had obviously realised the same thing. "Dumbledore, there has to be something we can do — you can't make him compete!"

So, should we come in?

"It wasn't me. Though I'm hardly complaining. Adding another level to the game? Should be entertaining. Assuming you manage to keep him alive through the third task." Wait, what?!

Why not? Half the bloody castle's already in here. He let Blaise see through his eyes for a moment, take in the spectacle of two-dozen supposedly qualified adults, silenced or not, standing around with their thumbs up their arses while Harry got completely fucked by a stupid fucking cup.

Sirius yanked open the door just as Lyra said, "Fuck that, I'll make sure he wins the fucking thing just to rub it in the face of whatever dickhead thought this was a good idea."

"Is that allowed? I thought you had to play to win, or the Goblet turns you into a squib. Also, what've I missed?" he demanded, striding barefoot (What the hell, Blaise, we could've waited long enough for him to find shoes!) into the centre of the room in his usual jeans and tee-shirt, his slightly-too-long hair almost as messy as Harry's and a hint of stubble along his jaw. Somehow he managed to look dramatic and imposing despite the casual muggle clothes and the fact that he clearly hadn't been planning on going out. Might've had something to do with the feeling of magic on the air that accompanied him, sparking and crackling with agitated fury.

Harry found himself...slightly shocked, really. He'd never doubted that Sirius was a powerful wizard, just, he'd never really seen him make a show of it, he guessed. Not like this. Even when he was dueling with Lyra, or when the riot started at the World Cup — he'd been intense, but... This felt...genuinely unhinged, like...almost like Lyra, when Harry had tried to stop her running off to join in the riot (which he still thought had been bloody stupid). Except where Lyra's magic had felt like a storm about to break, Sirius's was like being surrounded by a fucking forest fire — the difference between dark and light, Harry guessed. And he didn't quite get the impression that Sirius was losing control of his temper and his magic, so much as that he was so very furious that letting it go on purpose seemed completely reasonable.

That's why he's not wearing shoes, you see, it's more intimidating.

While on the one hand, Harry would like to say Blaise was full of shite, that actually seemed like something Sirius would do. And he couldn't say it wasn't working. The overall effect was...kind of terrifying, really, and putting everyone else on edge, too, Harry could tell.

Blaise and Gabbie, still wearing Luna's Press Hat of Unobtrusiveness, snuck in behind him, edging discretely to a spot just inside the door. Gabbie might not have needed the hat, because every eye was on Sirius, who was turning a slightly demented-looking grin, teeth bared as though it was more a challenge than an expression of amusement, from Lyra and Angel to Dumbledore to Slytherin and finally to Harry.

"Er...pretty much just that," Harry managed to say. "The bit about the Goblet, and how I don't really have a choice."

"Right. Okay, so— Wait. First, why is everyone and their mum in here?"

"We do all have some interest in the matter, Lord Black," Dumbledore said coolly. "Whether due to concerns over the security of the school, or the fairness of the Tournament."

Sirius nodded sagely. "I see, yes... Well, the security around here has been utter shite for years, you're not going to fix it tonight. So Síomha, lovely as ever, say hi to Mike for me, and have a good night." He waved the Irish witch dismissively toward the door. "You—" He nodded at Langley. "—give Her Majesty my best, you'll do more good with her than down here. Fudge, Crouch, if there's any discussions to be had tonight about fairness or diplomacy, you'll do more good in London." A quick thumb back over the shoulder underlined the heavily implied get out. Both wizards looked mildly outraged, but Sirius spoke over any objections they might've tried to make. "Minnie, haven't aged a day, don't you have students to give detentions to or something? Same to you, Snape. Farewell, I hope to see you again never."

"The feeling is entirely mutual," Snape said, so calmly Harry almost didn't believe he actually saw him flip Sirius off as he strode out the door — the signal the others Sirius had dismissed had been waiting for, apparently, as they all followed, throwing various glares and barbed (or amused) comments at him as they went.

Sirius ignored them all. "Who are you two?" A finger flicked from Professor Babbling to He Who Turns Pricks Into Ferrets.

"He turned Malfoy into a ferret," Harry offered. If anyone heard him, they didn't react. He figured they probably hadn't, because that was hilarious, even he thought so, and he wasn't at all in a laughing mood.

"They assisted in preventing underaged students from introducing their names for consideration," Slytherin said, sounding vaguely amused by Sirius...apparently taking charge of this bloody conversation, sending off everyone who really didn't need to be in here.

"Bang-up job," Sirius said, giving them the most unimpressed stare Harry had ever seen on him. "With all due respect, get out. That goes for you Champions, too. Congratulations on being selected to represent your schools, I'm sure your classmates are just itching to celebrate with you, go get smashed or something. Where is— Are we missing a judge? Where's Delacour?"

"He has been called home to address a family emergency," Madam Maxime answered, obviously somewhat taken aback by Sirius's no-holds-barred brusqueness.

Sirius snorted. "Ten galleons he's looking for her." He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and after half a second of confused silence, turned to make sure Gabbie was still there. "Take off the stupid hat."

She did.

"Gabrielle!" Fleur shouted. She practically flew across the room to pull Gabbie into a hug, relief warring with outrage and worry, a torrent of words in an entirely foreign-sounding language (not French, maybe some veela language) following as her younger sister flinched under the weight of it all. After a solid twenty seconds or so of non-stop lecturing, she said, "Please excuse us, I must contact our father," and dragged Gabbie out of the room by an arm, ignoring her very sorry sounding pleas for forgiveness.

Harry winced. He really, really hoped he'd see her again. They'd had such a good day, just sitting up on the roof talking and getting to know each other...

With, of course, the exception of the part where he'd gone in to get Blaise and food and got dragged into a conversation about a school-wide quidditch team, and Malfoy overheard him saying that there was no way in hell he'd beat Harry out for seeker and hit him with some hex that felt like getting punched right in the face — from behind. Cowardly prick. But at the moment, that whole incident didn't really seem all that important given, well, this. Fucking train-wreck.

Krum followed the two veela back into the Great Hall without a word, as did Blaise when Sirius told him to find somewhere else to be. Lyra, though, never did anything anyone told her to without complaint.

"But, Siri! I need to be here!"

He really didn't like that answer, hot, furious magic turning to focus on his cousin. "No, you don't. Go tell Cissy her son's currently a ferret—" (Oh, apparently Sirius had heard that. "He's not now, McGonagall changed him back.") "—or slaughter fucking acromantulae or tell Snivels there's a fledgling veela somewhere around here, I understand that's partially your fault. I don't really care what you do, but you have nothing to contribute to this discussion beyond being a nosey, sarcastic source of general frustration and I assure you, I have that covered, so fuck. Off."

Lyra hesitated, glaring at him for a tense second or two before she snapped, "Fine. But only because you outed my veela. I'll be back!" and vanished into the nearest shadow.

Sirius rolled his eyes, surveying the people left in the room. "So...you...are all judges, yes? You can stay, and Mira, also okay. Who are you?" he asked Sarah Selwyn.

"The representative from Miskatonic." She, like Slytherin — and Angel, and almost everyone who was left, really — seemed more amused by Sirius than intimidated or shocked into quiet obedience. The only ones who still looked slightly shell-shocked were Maxime and Karkaroff, and Dumbledore just looked annoyed.

"The rep-buh—" Sirius stuttered in confusion, losing just a bit of momentum. "Then what is Angel doing here?"

It was Angel herself who answered, smirking. "Technically, I'm here to represent the school as a judge in your little contest. Sarah's here to represent the Cooperative in your under-the-table summit thingy, and make sure I don't have too much fun."

Sirius hesitated, but apparently decided that he did dare to ask, "Would you smite me if I told you to go away?"

Angel matched his mad grin, tooth for tooth. "Do you really want to risk finding out?"

"...No." He dropped the subject, duplicating the pair of armchairs by the fire several times over and directing them into a circle with a casual wave of his wand Harry couldn't help but envy. "Please, everyone, have a seat," Sirius offered, mockingly formal, "and let us discuss how and why my godson has been entered in your bloody Tournament, and what is to be done about ensuring his safety, given that he is most assuredly not prepared to perform tasks designed with the abilities of fully-qualified mages in mind."

Ordinarily, Harry might've objected to such a characterisation of his own abilities, but given that this fucking thing had been cancelled in the past because the death toll was too high — not just because someone had died, but scores of people, over the years — he found he couldn't really complain.

"Generally," Dumbledore remarked pointedly, to no one in particular, "it is the host's prerogative to offer his guests chairs or not."

"Then be a good host and order drinks." Sirius threw himself into an armchair, almost defiantly, if it was possible to casually lounge defiantly. "If you're not going to fulfil your duties to Harry in loco parentis and address situations like this with all the decisiveness and authority you profess to possess — which, may I remind you, I have no reason to think you have any inclination to, given your track record and the fact that you failed to prevent his being entered in the first place — then I sure as fuck will. Sit," he demanded, doubling down on his rudeness by offering a chair to the 'host' himself.

"Do give us some credit, Sirius," Mira said, lowering herself onto the chair to his left. "We have taken precautions in designing the tasks to prevent potential fatalities. I am certain that no one will object to providing you with a list of tasks and the safety precautions we have designed for your review."

"I think we very well might!" Professor Karkaroff objected immediately. "What is to stop him revealing to his godson and his niece every detail which might help them to win the Tournament?"

"The fact that I don't give a shite who wins your fucking Tournament, maybe? I just want to make sure Harry gets through the fucking thing alive and in one piece!"

"I second that!" Professor Lovegood jumped in. "I didn't sign up to judge children being forced to fight dragons and do underwater cursebreaking, okay!" Fighting dragons?! Harry was so fucked! "Especially when they don't want to do it! I'm honestly not certain I can sit by and just watch that sort of thing, so—"

"Please, Miss Lovegood," Selwyn said. "Relax. I'm certain we can develop some sort of emergency extraction protocol — for all of the students, not just Mister Potter. No children will be harmed in the making of this Tournament, you have my word."

"Oh, yes, because I'm definitely going to take the word of a Miskatonic Researcher favoured by the thrice-cursed Dark Itself."

"Are you not equally concerned about the safety of Miss Black? She is at the same level as Mister Potter, is she not?" Madam Maxime asked, her eyes flicking from Sirius to Professor Lovegood, apparently unaware how ridiculous that statement was.

Sirius clearly was, but for once in his entire life wasn't in a laughing mood. His face twisted into a pained sort of grimace as he said, "No. Not even a little bit." Which would have been insulting if it wasn't blatantly obvious.

"Hogwarts levels are divided by age, not skill," Slytherin reminded the Headmistress of Beauxbatons.

"Is freedom of religion not a thing over here?" Angel's show of innocence was shockingly convincing — Harry could almost believe that the surprise and confusion, the slight edge of offence and hint of hurt in her voice were real.

Professor Lovegood blinked, shocked briefly into silence. Harry didn't even think she'd heard Maxime's question. "Being possessed by the forces of evil is not a religion, Black!"

Lyra's creepy cousin smirked. "Well, no, it's more like being a god, really, than following one, but I think the same concept applies?"

Selwyn glared at her. "Freedom of religion is only a thing on the muggle side, and only then because they think you're delusional." ("Is she not?" Dumbledore interjected, clearly more concerned with that conversation than the one about Harry and Lyra and whether they were going to be completely flattened in the Tournament.) "Did you even read the briefing I prepared for you?"

Angel burst into giggles, plopping down on the other side of Mira. Dumbledore, who had settled directly across from Sirius, glared at her, as though she'd sat so close to him as a deliberate offence. "No, my dear boy." Did Harry detect a hint of mockery in that particular form of address? He thought he did... "I think you'll find it's your insistence that the Powers don't exist that's actually delusional. Of course I didn't read the briefing, Sarah. Homework is for students. And Little Sister can take care of herself, Ollie."

Professor Karkaroff gave her a rather sideways look, but apparently decided (as did everyone else) that changing the subject back to Lyra and her suitability as a Champion was preferable to getting into a pointless (and probably annoyingly circular) argument about metaphysical philosophy. "Yes, I presume that this fourteen-year-old Bellatrix is as terrifyingly competent as the original fourteen-year-old Bellatrix."

("In somewhat different arenas, but yes," Mira confirmed.)

Not that Harry disagreed about the relative importance of these topics, it just wasn't quite the part of the whole problem he was concerned about. "Lyra entered herself, she wants to be a Champion. I don't."

"Much as I hate to agree with a Death Eater—" Sirius scowled at Karkaroff — was he really? "—what he said. Little Bella will be fine. And Harry's right: if Bella gets herself maimed or killed doing something stupid, that's her own fucking fault and she knows it. The rules don't change just because she's decided to show off for you lot whilst seeking out near-death experiences for kicks. Harry, on the other hand, isn't completely insane, and didn't choose to enter this contest. So. What are you going to do about it?"

"I think that emergency extraction idea Magistra Selwyn suggested sounded promising. Is that actually possible?" Mirabella asked the room at large.

"It...may be," Dumbledore said, clearly mulling over the problem.

"All of the potentially hazardous events will take place on the Hogwarts grounds, yes?" Slytherin asked. Mira nodded. "In that case, yes, the wards can be altered to transport Champions out of genuine mortal peril," he said calmly. A large chunk of Harry's anxiety simply vanished — he might not trust the professors or judges to save him from almost certain death, but the Castle somehow seemed...more reliable. It cared about its people, it wouldn't let him get eaten by a dragon. "Though of course that would have to be taken into account in the scoring..."

"Yes, it would! And I am concerned about Hogwarts having two Champions, regardless of whether the boy was technically chosen as a Champion of some hypothetical fourth school!" Maxime said.

"Seconded!" Karkaroff agreed. "We must put our remaining students' names back into the Fire, make it choose additional champions for Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, too!"

"You can't," Slytherin informed them. "The Goblet cannot be re-lit for another three years. If you want additional Champions, you'll have to do it the old-fashioned way and choose them yourselves."

The enormous headmistress seemed rather shocked by that suggestion. "We... Can we do that, so simply?"

"Yes," Slytherin said, as though this was patently obvious — in the same moment Dumbledore said, "No," and Mirabella, "I don't see why not?" It was she who continued, ignoring the powerful wizards glaring daggers at each other a few feet away — Harry could have guessed Dumbledore and Salazar bloody Slytherin wouldn't get along, no matter how weirdly nice the Founder had turned out to be. (But...wasn't 'Slytherin' actually Shirazi, who was also actually both of the Flamels? Hadn't Dumbledore learned alchemy from the Flamels? ...Did he know who 'Slytherin' really was? Or had Lyra actually just made that up?)

Anyway, Mirabella was talking. "The rules of any given Tournament must be agreed upon by the Heads of the three schools, of course, and it may be politic, I think, to include the other judges in the decision?" Slytherin, whom Harry suspected everyone was starting to see as the authority on how the Triwizard Tournament was supposed to go, broke off glaring at Dumbledore to nod. "And we must not forget that the laws of the International Confederation currently hold sway within Hogwarts' grounds. But otherwise, there are no real limitations on the way the Tournament is conducted. Officially speaking. And logistically, most of the events can easily be scaled up to include more Champions. And we were already intending to allow additional candidates to win places in those which are not so easily adjusted, were we not? Since that has not yet been announced, it would be a simple matter to eliminate that feature and revise the line-up."

"Fine. Then you and I, Igor, must simply pick a second champion for ourselves, agreed?"

"We did not choose our delegations with the thought of forming two quidditch teams in mind," the Durmstranger pointed out.

"So? Send for more students," Angel said. "If you run out of beds in your little boat, I have it on good authority that Hogwarts has more than enough space to house them."

Karkaroff, to his credit, looked to Dumbledore, rather than accepting her offer of hospitality on his behalf. "Albus?"

"Certainly we have enough space to welcome any number of additional Durmstrangers, Igor. It does not, however, seem entirely fair to choose additional champions for your schools when Harry... Forgive me, my dear boy, but you were not chosen for your skills, as such additional champions surely would be."

"No offence taken," Harry lied. "I know I'm out of my league." That was absolutely true, there was just something about the way Dumbledore had put it that rubbed him the wrong way. It might've been the forgive me, my dear boy. "I don't want to be a champion at all — I still don't know how it's possible that I actually am, just— You can just write any bloody person's name on a bit of parchment and tell the Goblet of Fire they're representing a new school, and they have to participate? Like, I could put in my cousin Dudley's name for Smeltings Academy, and he'd be aged to ninety years old if he didn't show up to fight a bloody dragon? How is that even possible?"

"Well, no, you'd have to have something of his," Sirius explained, suppressed laughter making his voice a little shaky. Dumbledore, of course, was the only other person in the room who knew anything about Dudley, and obviously didn't think the suggestion sounded as funny as Harry did, now that he was actually picturing Dudders pissing himself coming face to face with an actual dragon. "A token representing them, a personal ornament, something like that, so the Goblet can get a taste of them and their magic, a sense of who they are and what they're capable of. Pretty sure that's the focus for the binding. It wasn't always names written down. Actually, I don't know if they even had writing back when that thing was first carved, that's just how they do it now. So, they must've had something of yours."

"I don't think so, it was just a piece of parchment with my name on...wasn't it?" he asked Dumbledore.

The Headmaster spoke slowly, as though turning over the idea that perhaps the token wasn't legitimate. "It...appeared to be, yes."

"So, I might not be bound to compete in this—"

"Oh, no, you definitely are." Angel hopped up and floated over to the Goblet — apparently, Lyra's creepy cousin could just temporarily ignore gravity. (Had he mentioned she was creepy? Because he felt that could not possibly be overstated.) "Watch."

She reached out two fingers and carefully plucked at something invisible — Harry shivered as he felt a spark of very dark magic vibrate through him, the invisible thing suddenly no longer invisible, but a sickly, impossible, purplish-green thread connecting him to the Goblet.

"So...I am bound to..." Harry said, watching the thread fade slowly back into invisibility. God, that felt weird.

Sirius growled under his breath. "Apparently, yes. Which means that wasn't just your name on a slip of parchment. Where is it?" he demanded, the hot, furious magic that had largely faded since they'd sat down flaring back to life.

Dumbledore pulled it from a sleeve with a soft sigh. "Sirius..."

The parchment fluttered to him with a twitch of his wand. He peered at it from a very low angle and sniffed at it (making a face), and finally cast a couple of charms at it, one of which caused it to glow red. An air of seriousness settled over the circle, in the midst of which Lyra appeared — abruptly out of nowhere, as she so often did these days — and slapped Harry sharply across the face.

He pressed his cold fingers to his now-stinging cheek. "What the— Lyra!"

She snatched the charred scrap of parchment out of Sirius's hand, brandishing it at Harry's nose. Oddly, she was actually emoting, her face twisted with almost desperate anger, her voice almost screeching a little. "What did I tell you about letting people get samples of your blood, Harry?!"

"I..." At the moment, he couldn't recall her saying anything about— Wait, she didn't mean that completely paranoid list of rules and vows and spells to check for poisons and shite she'd made him memorise over the summer, did she?

"Don't! I said DON'T let anyone take your blood, under any circumstances!"

He slid out of his seat, scrambling to his feet so she couldn't loom over him. "Were you spying on—"

"You do NOT get to change the subject, Henry James!" Fuck, Lyra never called him Henry, and the only time he'd ever heard her call someone by two names was Lady Malfoy, at the World Cup. He swallowed hard. Apparently this was serious. "Blood magic is powerful and dangerous and— It's not common, but that doesn't mean you don't have to defend yourself against it! I was not exaggerating when I told you to clean up after yourself even if your arm's just been half ripped off by a fucking hippogriff, or at the very least tell me so I can take care of it!" She stalked forward, glaring up at him — when had he gotten taller than her? — dark magic flooding the room as it tended to do when she forgot to consciously hold it back, spinning into little storm vortexes of wild magic where it ran into Sirius's forest-fire lightness, invisible lightning crackling between the two forces.

Harry tried to step away on pure instinct and very nearly tripped back into his chair. "But— I wasn't! It was just a bloody nose!" He'd maybe gotten a few drops of blood on his napkin, he hadn't even thought about it, why the hell would he have? Aside from Lyra being fucking psychotic, no one at all, ever, in the three years and counting he'd been in Magical Britain, had ever mentioned any of her ridiculous, paranoid rules — he'd thought she was just being insane, as per usual!

"This is why Severus hates you! You're going to get yourself killed because you're an ignorant little shite and can't be arsed to care about your own safety even when people do teach you how to look out for yourself! You have no idea what kind of shite they could've done to you, with just one drop — your blood is your life, it is you! And you are a fucking moron, I— If the wrong person gets their hands on your blood, killing you is the shallow end of the shite they can do, the shite you can be made to do! If someone makes you bleed, you tell me, full stop!" It really should not be possible for an offer to help him to sound so very much like a threat.

He still thought she was overreacting, but, "Okay, okay, Jesus fuck! I'm sorry, I didn't— It was just Malfoy!"

She froze, going uncannily still in a way that reminded Harry of Miss Stacey, but only for the briefest second. "...Malfoy?"

"Well, I mean, it might not've even been him, I don't know, he just gave me a bloody nose at lunch, I—"

"Ooh... That little— He is so lucky I'm not allowed to kill him! Fucking with me is one thing, but— No, not getting off track! I'll deal with him later. Draco didn't enter you in this Tournament, not without help, and whoever did mixed your blood into ink, which means there's more of it out there, which means I have shite to take care of, but this conversation is not. Over." She punctuated the last two words with sharp jabs to his chest.

She vanished, Sirius calling after her, "Don't kill anyone else, either!"

He didn't really sound like he meant it, and he didn't look the least bit upset when Angel informed him, "She definitely didn't hear you."

"Where is she— What the hell was that, Sirius?" Harry asked, falling back into his chair and taking a deep breath — he hadn't realised how difficult it had become until the weight of her magic was gone, no longer closing in around him.

His godfather ran his one hand through his hair, tugging at it slightly — a sure sign of anxiety and frustration. "She's going to track down any other samples of your blood that may be out there and destroy them so whoever got to you can't turn you into a fucking puppet, or burn you alive from the inside out, or set a bloodline curse on you, or impersonate you down to the magical signature and frame you for murder, or make a fucking clone of you — and those are just things I actually saw done when I was an Auror! I mean, it's not really likely that we're dealing with someone who has that much knowledge of blood magic, since all they'd've had to do to make that token was mix blood into ink and write your fucking name, but — and I cannot emphasise this enough — that was not an overreaction."

"You realise you sound just as paranoid as she does, right now?"

"Oh, did you forget there's an undead Dark Lord who wants to kill you somewhere on this island?" Harry flushed. He hadn't forgotten, it was just, he hadn't... He wasn't always thinking about Riddle! He couldn't think about that all the time, he'd go insane inside a week! "Look, pup. I know you hate it when Bella treats you like a kid who needs to be taken care of, but you are, and in some ways, you do. It's going to take years to teach you everything you need to know about the ways magic can be turned against you by wizards who want to hurt you, and you have enemies right now. Bella's mad, yes, but she knows what she's talking about, okay? She is the First Daughter of the House of Black, and she's really fucking good at it."

Sirius was, Harry thought, unfairly good at exploiting legilimency for someone who wasn't a legilimens. He pushed his need for Harry to take this seriously at him, emotions and memories flooding the space between them — he would fucking drown Harry in this shite if that was what it took for him to get it. Flashes of memories of himself and James when they were kids, Harry's age, thinking themselves grown wizards, and later realising (terrified) they hadn't had any idea what it meant, being adults, being responsible for each other and their friends, and being thrown into life or death situations; Lyr– no, Bellatrix, when she was Lyra's age or just a little older, laughing, explaining that the maleficia, real Dark Arts, were limited only by the imagination and the cruelty of the mages who practiced them; Sirius, very small at the time, thinking this was so neat, he could think of hundreds of ways to hurt people, even kill them, thousands, maybe, ideas flashing through his mind with disturbingly innocent, childish enthusiasm, most of them starring a five or six year old Narcissa Malfoy in the role of victim, because they'd apparently hated each other even then—

You were such a fucked up kid I don't even have words, Harry thought at him.

Sirius didn't dignify that with a response, just kept pushing memories on him. Fighting Bellatrix in the war; her torturing him in front of their family at what looked like a holiday of some sort — confusion, betrayal — which contrasted sharply with her dueling his father to protect him and doing some kind of magic that felt almost like legilimency — it felt like Sirius was dying, and she was showing him how, and he was begging her to save him, not even for himself, just to spite his father, and her amusement and pride and never let them break you — and telling the aged Lord Black that if he wasn't going to do his job, she would (with very much the same attitude Sirius had just pulled on Dumbledore) and afterward, a moment of softness, her letting him sleep on her lap, feeling safe; a hundred flashes of her teaching him, everything from runes to military strategy games to Greek to curses that weren't dark dark even if they could still be used darkly — I never told you the maleficia are polarised by definition, Siri — directing duels between himself and his brother and Narcissa to teaching them how to fly; her giving him his first glass of firewhisky when he was twelve, just home from his first year at school, sitting in a library and talking about what the Family was, what it meant, to be the heir to it; a few years later, a conversation devolving into an argument, Sirius throwing a curse at her only for her to somehow absorb it and critique his casting with an absolutely maddening smirk; much younger again, huddled in a bed with Narcissa and Andromeda (maybe twelve or thirteen and nursing a black eye), telling them shh, be quiet, it's fine, Bella will take care of it over furious screaming in the corridor — Bella and her father, Sirius knew — and Sirius, who couldn't even imagine standing up to his uncle, terrified for her, asking why: Because it's her job, Sirius. It's her job to protect us from them, to teach us and take care of us until we can take care of ourselves; and Dorea, Harry's grandmother, when her fifteen-year-old godson showed up for Christmas dinner three days early, still shaking from the Cruciatus, giving him that wry smirk that always reminded him she was a Black first, she understood, feeding him chocolate and asking, Did you think being recognised as an adult would make it easier to hold dissenting opinions within the House? and Sirius telling her, they don't think I'm an adult, and Dorea sighing, Bella obviously does, and a terrifying feeling that he'd just been pushed out of the nest, to fly or fall—

"I really don't give a shite if you like her looking out for you or not — it is her job, you are her responsibility, until she decides you can take care of yourself — and if she tells you to do something for your own safety, you do it. Do you understand?"

Harry didn't even think about objecting. He nodded, falling back into his chair. Somehow, it was a lot harder to brush off the this is her job explanation of Lyra's behaviour — harder to think, okay, yeah, that's what she thinks, whatever — when his blood was being used to enter him in a Tournament that could turn him into a squib if he refused to play the game than when she was, he didn't know, nagging him to learn how to fucking waltz or whatever. Especially with Sirius's understanding of what Bella — or Lyra, they were practically interchangeable to Sirius in some ways — being the First Daughter of their House meant still echoing in his thoughts.

"Brill. So, we're done with the Family business shite, then?" Angel said, drawing Harry's attention away from Sirius (and the now-absent Lyra) for the first time in several minutes. Everyone else was...frozen. What the hell? The witch broke into giggles. "The look on your face. They're just paused. Well, technically, we're slightly outside of time as you all perceive it at the moment, but, you know, perspective. But you're done talking about blood magic now? Because this meeting gets about ten times more tedious from five minutes ago out in the timelines where they hear you spouting off about that shite, all laws and Sylvi — Sarah, that is — trying to be diplomatic without just tweaking that douchebag who doesn't believe I exist and Artemis's little pet into line, because Flamel would definitely notice — er, Slytherin, I mean. Bloody metamorphs switching names on me... So, unpause?" she added, when it became clear that neither Sirius nor Harry had anything to say to— What the fuck were you supposed to say to something like that? To someone who could just– just pause the fucking universe?

Actually, no, Harry did have a question, he realised — the same question he'd asked Lyra so many times without ever getting a satisfying answer. "What are you?"

She smiled sweetly at him, looking for all the world like a seventh-year Hufflepuff lab assistant offering to help him with his Herbology practical. "I can show you, if you like."

"No! No, no, no!" Sirius objected, sounding just as, well, serious, as he had telling Harry off about not listening to Lyra a second ago. "Harry, do not ask questions you don't want to know the answers to!"

"But— What? I do want to—"

"No, you don't! Cassie had it right, earlier, she's possessed by the Dark. She's evil, and you don't want her to show you anything because she will fucking eat you."

The freckle-faced girl grinned at him. "For your information, I hardly ever eat raw souls. They're like raw cookie dough. Delicious, but really not good for you, you know?"

The illusion of sweet innocence shattered as Harry was suddenly reminded of the sense of barely-restrained magic that had accompanied her last night. He shook his head trying to clear it — what the actual fuck?! How had he forgotten that, even for a minute?

"I'd probably just hold onto him for a while, since someone wouldn't let me keep Lily Evans. Whether his fragile little human mind would survive the experience... Well, finding out is half the fun." Her grin stretched even wider, showing altogether too many teeth for comfort.

Sirius couldn't seem to help himself muttering, "Creepy fucking... Just, yes, fuck, unpause this shit-show so we can get it over with, please."

"Oh, right, little Harry has a date with Persephone, doesn't he? Well, we wouldn't want to get in the way of that."

There was a lurching feeling like the Hogwarts Express pulling away from the platform, the world re-starting around them even as Sirius groaned, "Right, it's Samhain."

"Sirius, my boy? What does Samhain have to do with...?"

"What? Nothing, just, I'm pretty sure Harry's cursed." Harry was pretty sure that was improvisation, but he also wasn't sure it wasn't true.

"Don't be daft, Sirius, he's not cursed," Professor Lovegood snapped. "Samhain was always shite because Potter was a dick about Lily being one of the Powers' favourites, and you know it — even if you won't admit the sun never did shine out of Jamie's precious arsehole."

"Piss off, Cass, that was why Yule was shite. Samhain was and shall forever be shite because They never decided if They liked Evans or Old Snakeface better, and we all know where that got both of them."

"Generally speaking, everyone likes Evans," Angel said, to general bafflement. "We liked Tom better. He was never quite Tam, but he did make lovely art for us."

"And people wonder why I left the Dark," Sirius muttered.

Mira leaned over on his other side to pat his hand, but Harry thought she might've been the only other one who heard him over Dumbledore saying, very precisely and even more coldly, "Might I ask how you knew Tom Riddle, Miss Black?"

She grinned. "A, I haven't been Miss Black for about five hundred years, now, and B, intimately... The first time we met it was Nineteen Forty-One, and bombs were falling on London. Lovely night. And just think, if you hadn't sent him back to hell on earth, he wouldn't have been praying for someone to save him, and then where might we be?"

"Angie?"

"Yes, Sarah?"

"Be a doll and stop fucking with poor Albus. Riddle belonged to the Dark long before Forty-One," the more serious Miskatonite assured him. Angel pouted at her. "I believe before we were...side-tracked, we were discussing who might have entered Mister Potter into the Tournament."

"Yes," Madam Maxime said, sounding grateful for the change of subject. "Lord Black, what did you do with that token?"

"Er..." Sirius hesitated, obviously unwilling to explain that Lyra had shown up and taken it while they were all momentarily frozen in time.

"It's irrelevant," Slytherin sighed. "The fire of the Goblet would have burned away any potential traces, and unfortunately all I can tell you is that no one entered the Goblet Room who was not permitted to enter the castle in general. Because someone decided they wanted to isolate and disassociate the space — and also fold it into a duck."

Angel stuck her tongue out at the Founder. "It was a swan. And I regret nothing."

"So you're pants at origami, and also we have nothing?" Selwyn sounded very unimpressed.

"Basically...yes. It's not my fault origami is such a fiddly, patient art. And it's not like any of you objected at the time."

"Well, who had an opportunity to get your blood, Harry?" Mira asked. "That was what that last charm was, wasn't it, Sirius?"

Sirius nodded as Harry admitted, rather reluctantly, that it could've been practically anyone in the Great Hall around one o'clock. Which didn't exactly narrow down the list, since everyone who'd gone anywhere near the Goblet had been in and out of the Great Hall several times over the course of the afternoon.

"Well," Karkaroff said, as a frustrated silence settled over the room. "It is too bad that we cannot identify the one who entered the boy, but we have established that he must compete, yes? Which leaves the question of what to do about the unfairness of Hogwarts having a second champion!"

The argument and negotiations which followed were long and repetitive. Harry found himself yawning more than once as they chased each other in circles. Monsieur Delacour arrived around ten-thirty, Harry thought, very out of sorts with Gabbie, and quite unable to hide his pride in Fleur, which of course led to an even more furious argument about the propriety of having judges whose daughters or nieces — or fine, sister, whatever, Angel! — were Champions, or who were employed by one of the schools in some capacity other than their Headteacher, or who had been associated with one school or another in the past — which Slytherin quashed firmly by noting that he had at one point or another taught at all three of their institutions, and they would kindly leave the question of his impartiality out of this debate.

When Lyra rejoined them at eleven-thirty, nodding conspiratorially at Sirius, she was obviously astounded that they were all still in the room trying to work out a mutually acceptable solution.

"Are you like, close to an agreement? Because some of us have places to be in about half an hour," she pointed out — interrupting Professor Lovegood making the argument that, since she didn't want to be forced to just sit and watch children endangering their lives, if they decided to cut down the judges' panel they should start with her. (Because Professor Lovegood was really...not very good at this group organisation thing. She was clearly actively trying to get out of it.) "And Cassie, you can't leave," she added, taking a seat on the arm of Sirius's chair. "You agreed to teach Defense all year, remember?"

"But I don't have to watch underage children risking their lives—"

"Oh, come on, how many tasks are even remotely dangerous? Two? Three?"

"They've decided to pick more Champions, by lottery, as young as fifteen, Lyra! Children!"

"...You do know I'm only fourteen, right?"

Lovegood blinked, looking slightly dumbfounded. "I try not to think about that."

"I'm sure they're not going to put helpless fifteen-year-olds' names in. They do actually want to win this thing, you know. And I did invite all of you for a reason. It'd be kind of hard to get replacements now."

"Yes," Mira said firmly, "and there would be political difficulties as well. So, here is what we're going to do. Any judge who has a conflict of interest will recuse themselves from the scoring of any Champion they may be biased toward — for example, no Headmaster of any school may score their own Champion; Miss Lovegood may not score any underaged Champion, with the exception of Miss Black; Monsieur Delacour may not score his daughter; Madam Black may not score her sister; and so on, if any more complications arise. The points for each Champion, or each team, for events which were intended to be ranked by adding together your scores out of seven will instead be on a seven point scale, averaging the scores assigned by the judges who are qualified to judge each respective Champion. Can we all agree to this?"

Several judges exchanged narrow-eyed looks with each other, as though trying to divine whether there was any way they might be able to screw each other over (or be screwed over themselves), but eventually they agreed, beginning with Dumbledore's, "I...believe that sounds like a reasonable solution," and ending with Angel's, "I don't care whether you count it, but I'm definitely still going to give Lyra a score. You get a five for putting your name in, by the way. I took off three points for wrecking my swan, but gave back one for general cheek."

"I'm pretty sure I should get another point back because your swan started out looking like a duck. That wasn't my fault."

"It did not look like a duck!"

"Did so. Nyberg said so, too."

"Lyra?"

"Yes, Zee?"

"Stop antagonising your sister," Mira said, yawning behind her hand.

"I second that, Angel," Selwyn said, cutting off the self-described god even as she opened her mouth — probably to antagonise Lyra, now that she couldn't respond. (Or, well, she could, and probably would, since it wasn't like Mira could actually make her shut up, but since she'd been asked to stop, at least.)

Angel pouted at her...friend? minder? Harry kind of felt like maybe the latter was more accurate...which had all sorts of terrifying implications — because if Angel was a dark god who ate souls and could bloody well stop time, what the fuck did that make Selwyn? "I was just going to say fine, six. She can have her stupid point."

Selwyn gave her a look, which practically screamed uh-huh, right, but didn't say anything. Everyone else looked at the four of them as though they'd collectively lost their bloody minds.

Mira, being as generally unflappable as Blaise, moved on as though Lyra had never interrupted to demand an extra point for a task that didn't exist. "If that's settled, I propose we draw the names of the additional Champions tomorrow at dinner, and meet with them all afterward to explain the tasks."

The judges nodded and murmured their agreements — variously resentful and reluctant, but agreements nevertheless — rising and shaking hands and finally, finally, the meeting was over.

Though of course, the night wasn't. Even as they all filtered out into the Great Hall, he heard Angel saying, "So, Albus, are you coming to the party? You really should, Ariana misses her big brothers, she's always so disappointed when you don't show up."

And worse, they were still no closer to getting Harry out of the Tournament — which admittedly seemed impossibly unlikely at this point — or (as a consolation) figuring out who put him in and why.

When everyone else was finally out of earshot, Sirius asked Lyra, "Did you take care of it?"

She nodded. "Whoever did it, they were thorough. Must've known we would try to trace them through the token. They either destroyed the rest of their sample themselves, or they were keeping it somewhere my tracking charms couldn't find it."

"Bella, are you telling me you didn't—"

"No, of course not! I'm not a fucking idiot, Siri! I used Violetta's annihilation ritual to destroy any and all remnants of the sample we had and any blood spilled with it — threw enough power into it, it should've gotten anything hidden away in pocket dimensions, even. I just couldn't find them first. If they actually existed."

Sirius nodded. "Good. So. Who can we think of who would want Harry to be entered in a potentially life-threatening Tournament, but wouldn't just use the blood they had to kill or enthrall him outright? Because to be honest, I've got nothing."

And to be honest, neither did Harry. That was just fucking weird.

---

Sirius is definitely putting on a show here, a bit. He is still fucking furious, but this whole 'taking over the meeting' show is carefully calculated to offend Dumbledore without offending the other dignitaries in the room.

I decided that since Karkaroff is silver-haired in the books, he could reasonably have been approached by the Death Eaters and at least met Bella when she was in her young teens, even if he didn't join up then. Otherwise the character is pretty much Sandra's, I've never developed him at all. —Leigha

And my Karkaroff has to be modified slightly because of what Leigha's version of what the early Death Eaters were actually like, but it's mostly the same. Basically, he would have been a Scandinavian politician at the time, when he was approached by what was basically a British private army recruiting in Europe. Odd. So, he told the government about it, and was tapped as the Scandinavians' spy in the Death Eaters. (Which he was not qualified or prepared for, especially the darker turn it took at the end, hence his terror talking to Snape about it.) The British Ministry didn't believe him when he said he'd been a spy from the beginning, when Crouch threw him back in Azkaban after he voluntarily turned state's evidence the Scandinavians threw a major diplomatic pressure campaign to get him back. His career actually sort of dead-ended, due to the damage British media did to his reputation and psychological issues post-war and post-Azkaban, being headmaster of Drumstrang is not at all what he'd been on track for before. —Lysandra

So, Angel's scoring of Lyra is definitely going to be very "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" because how else would that go? And it still amuses me that Harry catches the implication that Selwyn must be terrifying to keep Angel in check, but not that Lyra walked in and out of a space that was slightly outside of time, what the fuck. (Though to be fair, Lyra didn't realise that that has weird implications, either. She might not even have noticed the time freeze.) —Leigha