AN: Hey everyone. This chapter is quite long, hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


Chapter Twenty-One

It was several days before Harry made his way back to the marauders room. He'd been ordered to rest, and rest he did, keen to get into no more trouble than he already had. He spent time with Blaise; neither of them mentioning the heavy topics that had dominated the last months and merely did normal schoolboy things. Perhaps on some level they were hiding from the gravity of the world around them, but even if they were, it still seemed the best thing. Everyone needed a break from reality now and then. Harry healed well; the grey stain across his chest clearing up quickly. He played quidditch with Blaise, Ron and Terry against some seventh years and lost good-naturedly, then the four of them had gone to the Gryffindor common room for some butterbeers. Terry was interested in a girl, Ron was obviously interested in the same girl but in vehement denial about it. All in all, it was a good few days.

He'd avoided Tom especially because he was sure the boy would know of the events of the last couple of weeks. He was surely connected with the Dark Lord also - somehow? The half-remembered dream when he had 'taken ill' still made him confused and uncomfortable. Waking up in bed with Voldemort had been even more disturbing. Harry had avoided thinking about it, but it was time to face the music. Or at least, some younger, ethereal version of said music. Besides, Harry needed his help.

If Tom was surprised when Harry forced himself into the diary unannounced after a fortnight of absence, he didn't show it. He'd expected the boy to question him, or at least mention what had happened, but Tom merely regarded him from his eternal reading spot by the fireplace.

"Good evening, Harry," the boy said, mildly.

Harry blinked dumbly. "Oh. Hi Tom."

Tom snorted, a small and unexpected smile on his face. "Did you not expect to find me here? Were you looking for someone else?"

Harry merely rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. It seemed Tom was feeling playful today. "Of course I came to see you. I was sure you'd be missing me by now."

Tom scoffed, and as if to prove a point, his eyes drifted back to his book. "I see. Had you gone somewhere?"

Harry threw a cushion from the sofa at him, but it dissolved before it hit it's target.

"What have you been doing?" Tom enquired softly, eyes not leaving the page.

"Oh, just… this and that. The next found of the IDC is in less than a week," he announced, changing the topic as if it were an answer to the question. 'Sleeping with your older self' didn't sound great after all.

"I see," Tom answered, bored.

"I was wondering," Harry began, taking a seat on the sofa and putting his feet up. It wasn't as though he could ruin the furniture in a preserved memory. "If you could help me."

Tom paused, and set the book down in his lap. "Help you?"

He was obviously trying to sound mild in tone, but his eyes had lit up with something resembling interest. That was good, Harry had assumed he'd have to beg. Tom seemed the type to enjoy that kind of thing.

"Well, I just thought – what with you being a future Dark Lord and all – you might know a bit about duelling."

Tom laughed, and for just a moment the expression stilled Harry inside. It wasn't his usual laughter, full of cold cynicism. No, there was something a bit wild about the edges of this boy when he laughed like that. Something that knew joy. It was beautiful, really.

"A bit? I could wipe the floor with your arse like a rag-doll, Potter," Tom announced with all the arrogant self confidence of the young lordling he was.

"I don't think that'd be hygienic, and I'm not sure you understand what a rag-doll is," Harry replied, an eyebrow raised and a bemused smile on his face. "I hope your duelling is better than your trash talk, Riddle."

Tom smirked, wickedly. "What makes you think I'd help you, Potter? What do I gain?"

Harry didn't even pause. "Because you so clearly want to show off, Tom."

Tom flashed an irritated look his way, but seemed to think for a moment and developed a serious expression. "I'll do it, on the condition that you refer to me as 'my Lord' from now on."

Harry snorted. "If it helped me get into the Internationals, I'd even call you 'Daddy'."

At Tom's thoroughly scandalised look, Harry laughed so hard and for so long that he fell from his seat. He kept laughing until a stinging hex hit his thigh, and even then it took a few moments longer. He hadn't even noticed the room around him shift, becoming a large open space; a memory of Hogwarts grounds.

"On your feet, Potter. I suppose I'll have to wipe that smile off your face by force," Tom said with a malicious grin.
"But I have such a pretty smile, my Lord!" Harry shouted, rising to his feet with a wild smile of his own. "Do you really want to?"

He barely had time to get a shield charm up.


Harry spent most of the next days in the lead up to the tournament in the diary. There seemed no limit to what Tom could accomplish within it's confines, and Harry often wondered if the boy had truly been this brilliant in real life, he supposed the young man had gone on to...world domination...but it stilled seemed excessive. Nevertheless, Tom was a surprisingly good teacher. Rigorous, yes. Over zealous, certainly. Cruel, on a point of principle. Still, Harry couldn't help feel that he'd learned more from Tom in less than a week than he had all year. Harry had been surprised with the devotion the young man had shown to developing his skills, flattered even. Tom had merely assured him that he did nothing he committed to half-arsed and that Harry would do better if he adopted the same mind set. He threw himself into the training. At the end of each day he would emerge from the diary as exhausted as he would be if he'd done all the duelling in the real world, and not merely a memory, which made him question exactly what sort of magic fuelled the magical artefact that had become a sort of friend. He didn't have time to look into it, however, and his tired and sluggish brain pushed it aside for another day.

Each night he'd drop into bed half-dead with exhaustion, and once he had actually fallen asleep in the diary itself. Harry hadn't even been sure that was possible, but he woke up in a bed in the Slytherin dormitories feeling deeply confused as to why Tom hadn't merely woken him or ejected him. Harry decided with a satisfied smile that Tom enjoyed having him here, and had fallen back to sleep peacefully. The next morning however, Tom literally upended the bed and forced Harry into an early morning duel to 'test his reflexes' which had Harry reconsidering Tom's kind intentions.

On the eve of the competition, Tom told Harry to rest and let his magic reach maximum once more. The boy had only looked mildly surprised when Harry decided to spend said rest time here and only put on a mild show of irritation. They even chatted a little, though Tom would forever be more succinct than him.

"So, what does the 'M' stand for?" Harry asked in the early evening. Much to the disbelief of Tom, Harry had managed to conjure marshmallows into the memory and was presently roasting them over the fire. The boy's silence following the action informed Harry he didn't think such a thing should be possible.

"Excuse me?" Tom drawled.

"Tom M Riddle. What's the M?" Harry asked lightly, blowing on the marshmallow as it began to catch fire.

Tom studied him for a moment before responding off-handly, having seemingly deciding the question was innocent enough. "Marvolo, after my uncle."

"Huh," Harry noted, and bit into the marshmallow.

A comfortable silence developed between them, until minutes later Harry's eyes widened and he almost choked on his snack when he began to laugh uncontrollably, tears pooling in his eyes. "Oh," he swallowed "Oh my God."

Tom frowned. "What?"

Harry said nothing, continuing to laugh, clutching his sides and swallowing quickly.

Tom glared, irritated to be out of the loop. "What?" he demanded, voice rising.

"It's-" Harry struggled, gasping for air through his giggling. "It's an anagram!"

Tom looked puzzled for a moment, before his expression darkened. "So what?" he hissed.

"Your name – the name the whole wizarding world fears-" he wiped the tears from his eyes. "And it's a fucking anagram! Did you sit there for ages trying to figure out what to make out of the rest of the letters when you'd made 'I am Lord'?" he questioned, expression full of mischievous amusement.

Tom silently seethed, his expression would have been terrifying if Harry wasn't already so tickled.

"I am Lord Tromvelod!" Harry said, before collapsing into laughter once more.

"Stop it," Tom hissed, rising to his feet and towering over Harry's form, who was shaking with laughter on the floor, face plastered with melted marshmallow.

"Yes, Lord Mordevolt!" Harry grinned, rising to his knees and bowing mockingly.

"I said – Stop," Tom bit out. His aura was as black as night, and Harry was unsurprised to find Tom did not take mocking lightly.

Harry was silent for a moment, though the impish grin didn't leave his face. "I have one."

Tom looked incense, his hand was forming a tight grip around his wand and his expression seemed to be trying to seer a hole through Harry's head.

"Don't," he ground out.

"Don't worry, it's for me this time."

Tom's eyes narrowed, his fingers twitching as though only a thread of restraint was preventing him cursing Harry.

"From now on, refer to me as The Majesty Arporor," he said with a straight face. He was prepared to be cursed. Perhaps maimed. He was entirely unprepared for when Tom threw his wand aside and leapt at Harry.

They wrestled; Harry always knew Tom was a powerful wizard, but he was surprised that a boy who rejected all things muggle knew how to fight like one. Harry was strong enough; years of quidditch and duelling had honed his muscles into a lithe strength, but within minutes his strength had failed and Tom was atop of him, pinning his hands above his head with a single hand of his own and the other hand balled into a fist in his hair. His dark eyes alight with a fierce expression; feral almost.

"Ah!" Harry cried out in pain as Tom tightened his grip on his hair. It was the first time his smile had dropped, which seemed to please the other boy somewhat.

"Don't. Mock. Me."

Harry held his gaze for a long moment. The intensity radiating from the boy was startling, but not surprising. Sometimes Harry forgot what Tom would become, of who's memory he was. It was hard to forget that now, yet it inspired no fear in him. There was a sort of trust Harry was developing towards the young man, a trust he hadn't been aware of and was likely ill-advised given Tom would go on to be a ruthless leader, personally slaying thousands of his enemies. He also noticed with a dawning horror that the physical nature of this particular fray was having a stirring effect upon him. He wasn't sure if he found Tom attractive in that way, he certainly didn't have the mix of awe and arousal that Voldemort's intoxicating presence brought about in him in is weaker moments. However in moments like this there was undeniably something there. He acknowledged on some level that they were in fact the same person, that being attracted to both of them shouldn't be a surprise, but it wasn't the same. Tom was a memory, frozen forever as a teenager, where as Voldemort was very much alive and very much grown. Still, being thrown to the ground and… dominated… sparked something inside him that he tried desperately to ignore. He couldn't fuck a diary after all.

"How did you learn to do that?" Harry asked mildly.

Tom raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "Do what?"
"Fight like that," Harry added. "Physically I mean."

Tom kept his hold for a moment longer before releasing Harry. He didn't move from his position on top of him however, he merely regarded him. After a moment he answered.

"I told you, muggles are horrible creatures. I grew up amongst them, the very worst of them. Before I learned I was the most powerful wizard in a millenia, I vowed never to-" Tom paused, and his eyes flashed. "Are you-?"

Tom leapt up, and Harry cheeks flushed with colour as he too scrambled to stand and readjust himself. Tom was looking at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

"Look, I'm sorry alright! It's a natural reaction, you were- you know – pinning me to the floor by my hair and all," Harry snapped defensively, as thankfully the 'problem' dissipated in the face of his embarrassment.

For the first time since they'd met, Tom seemed at a loss for words. "That- you think 'that' is a natural reaction to being beaten?"

Harry burned with embarrassment and defensiveness. If Tom Riddle did have any way of communicating with the Dark Lord, then he'd never live this down. The two had shared a bed, after all.

"Well, yes. I mean, it was obviously exciting! Power plays and all, and there was a lot of… friction. I don't know, you don't have to take it so personally, Riddle."

Tom raised an eyebrow, his shock fading as he watched Harry. Slowly a smirk appeared, that made Harry's stomach tighten with a feeling both strange and familiar. Like fear with something about the edges.

"Power play indeed. And I told you, it's 'my Lord' to you, Potter," Tom added with a malicious grin.

Harry scowled. "Tomorrow is the IDC, therefore our agreement is at an end."

"Oh really?" said Tom with a vicious, mocking quirk of his lips. "So you won't need my help for the internationals?"

Harry faltered, and his shoulders, once squared, sagged. "Fine, my Lord."

"That's better," Tom said briskly, sitting back down. "Now get out. You're going to need your sleep for this."

Harry nodded, head still whirling and wondering how he'd ever sleep now.

"Oh and Potter?" Harry looked back. "Win."


The night before the second round of the International Duelling Competition, Hermione Black had tried to find Harry. She had wanted to wish her best friend luck, and make sure he had been sensible enough to eat and sleep in her prolonged research absence. Perhaps even ask a few prying questions about what he had experienced in the past few weeks. Yet, after almost an hour of searching, he was nowhere to be found. She'd be concerned, but such absences weren't uncommon for Harry. She expected he had a secret boyfriend or some such, and wasn't about to go searching empty classrooms to find him, her almost brother, in the throes of something she'd rather not see.

On her way back through the castle, she'd ran into Blaise. It appeared he was also trying to find Harry, and after informing him he was likely 'busy', Blaise had accompanied her on the walk back to the dungeons. They talked, of small things at first, though when the topic reached Draco and his life in America, she grew quiet. Blaise seemed to notice this, falling quiet for a long moment himself, before he let out a frustrated sigh and stopped, grabbing her by the crook of her elbow and making her pause in the empty hallway.

"Look, Hermione. This isn't really my place, but I can't stand to see you two make each other miserable any longer," the serious boy announced, a troubled expression on his face.

"I don't know what-" she began, but Blaise held up a hand to stop her.

"Just listen. I don't know everything that's gone on between you and Draco, but I think you two are being ridiculous. If either of you would just admit how you feel-"

At her indignant expression, he paused, before growing intense. "He loves you Hermione. He has for years, he's just too much of a bloody wuss to admit it."

Hermione's eyes widened, but she shook her head quickly. No, this couldn't be true. "Blaise, I appreciate-"

He cut her off. "He didn't tell you about the engagement because he wanted a chance to win you over himself. He didn't want his chance with you ruined by you feeling forced into it. If you weren't so bloody stubborn, you'd see it too."

Hermione shook her head, heart pounding. "No. He left, Blaise. He left because he couldn't stand the thought of-"

Blaise grew angry, his expression conveying extreme frustration. "He left because he thought you wanted him to. He thought you were sickened at the idea of being tied to him against your will and wanted to give you time. I'm also pretty sure he didn't feel good enough for you – wanted to go somewhere where he could be worthy of you."

"Worthy of me?" Hermione demanded, half-hysterical. "Worthy of a frizzy-haired mudblood orphan? You're ridiculous!"

Blaise's eyes grew dark, though not with anger this time. This was something dangerously approaching pity. "Christ, Black. You have some issues to work on if you really see yourself that way. You're the brightest witch of your age - can run rings around everyone except Harry and even he can't match you in pure knowledge. You're a Black; what's more, you were so brilliant that Bellatrix Lestrange – renowned blood purist – made you her daughter. And please don't take this the wrong way, but anyone with eyes can see that you're beautiful. You aren't an awkward first year anymore."

Hermione grew silent at his, flustered and surprised. If Harry had said it, she'd have assumed it was just to comfort her, but she and Blaise weren't all that close and she had never known him be anything but honest.

"Draco… Draco really has feelings for me?" she questioned in a small voice.

"Feelings? Hermione he left his whole world behind to make you happy. I'd say it's a damned sight more than feelings."

"Oh," Hermione muttered. Her stomach was tied in knots at the revelation. Something deep inside her was blooming with hope.

"Yeah," Blaise said simply, and shrugged. "So maybe go easy on the guy. You're only making both of you unhappy."

Hermione nodded, and after thanking Blaise she left him behind in the hallway, her mind racing. For the first time in weeks she forgot all about lockets and curses and felt something other than misery. She raced to her bedroom, ignoring everyone who tried to speak to her and picked up some parchment. She had to write to him.


The crowd was smaller than last time, the tickets to the event more expensive and with less people with friends and family competing, but to Harry they seemed no less loud. From his seated position at the edges of a smaller stadium ground – this one built for the exclusive purpose of the competition – it seemed that every member of the crowd must be shouting.

He was dressed comfortably and expensively in duelling robes. The Malfoy's had spared no expense in making sure he was properly outfitted; they were tailored to his figure, dark and airy, allowing complete movement of his limbs. Across his chest the Malfoy crest was emblazoned, with their family motto 'purity will always conquer' beneath it. It had made The irony of it amused Harry whilst he was dressing that morning, given also adorning his robes were the legally required silver line around the cuffs of his sleeves, marking him as a half-blood. The Malfoy's had also had him 'groomed' for the event, and his wild hair was staying mostly in place. He doubted that would continue long into the matches to follow.

For what seemed like the hundredth utterance to Harry, but would be the first time for the crowd, a ministry official came to the centre of the floor – what Harry was privately thinking of as the 'stage' and began to speak, his voice magically booming across the large space.

"Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentleman. Welcome to the National Championships of the International Duelling competition!"

The man, a short and stout wizard, had obviously had some experience with crowds as his inflection was met with thunderous applause, the crowds eager for the duelling to commence.

"Today fifty wizards and witches will become five; those lucky and talented few will go on to represent their country on the world stage!" he paused, waiting for the noise to die down. "The competition will work as follows. The first stage, otherwise known as the 'battle formulation' will have every witch and wizard for themselves. Our champions may knock out, incapacitate or disarm their opponents – the last twenty five left standing will move onto the second stage," he paused, letting the crowd take it in. Of course the formulation of the competition had not changed in decades, so most present would already know this. The battle formulation was one of the most visually exciting parts of the match, and the one Bellatrix had famously dominated. "During the first stage, our champions will be ranked by our team of judges-" here he gestured to a panel, seated high up in a private box visible through a glass wall. "Between one and five, depending on the skill shown during the battle. The most remarkable receiving a five, and the least receiving a one, with five champions falling into each category," he paused again. The points system of this round was somewhat complex, but after so many years of following the competition, Harry would have to be rather dense not to understand it. "In the second stage, our twenty-five remaining will be split into five teams, with one person from each rank represented in each team. These teams will then battle each other. For every witch or wizard the team loses, they lose their corresponding number of points. For every witch or wizard they incapacitate, they gain the corresponding number of points. Remember here that incapacitate includes disarming, so keep your wands close." Harry heard a nearby man grumble at this, presumably he had some skill in wandless magic and resented such a rule. "The two teams with the highest number of points will move into the third stage. These ten witches and wizards will complete three duels, one on one. Those five that have won the most matches by the end of this will become our British Champions in the internationals, with any draws being settled by additional duels."

Now if the competition wasn't perfectly fair, that didn't surprise Harry. No competition of this kind could ever be fully fair, though he did think the system was innovative in it's own way. By testing the combatants ability to participate in a battle, to work as a team and to duel alone, they were testing the full breadth of their talents. He just hoped that he could measure up.

An intermission followed the statement, although for Harry's nerves it didn't seem to last long enough. He searched the crowd, finding many familiar face. Lucius, Bellatrix and Hermione sat in another grand box, similar to that of the judges but less central and more regal in appearance. At his look, Bellatrix gave him a little wave and blew him a kiss. She then gestured to the other competitors as a whole and made a strange strangling motion, which he could only assume was her way of giving support. In the crowds, he found Blaise sitting with a few other friends from Hogwarts; Neville, Dean, Theodore and even little Luna, they all smiled at him with Neville doing a confident thumbs up motion in a way that only made Harry feel more nervous. He even saw Ron Weasley in the crowd, flanked by his twin brothers, which surprised him given he didn't think the family would be able to afford it, though it was possible that the twins were the ones to pay for it. Since they left Hogwarts last year, they had been enlisted into the ministry as inventors at the alleged insistence of the Dark Lord. By the looks of things, they were being paid well for it. He was sure the three couldn't be here merely to see him, and he vaguely remembered Ron telling him that one of his uncles was thinking of entering last year. He didn't see the Dark Lord anywhere, and he tried not to let that disappoint him, as if the man cared anything for what Harry did.

No sooner had he finished scanning the crowd than it was time for the first stage to begin. At the announcement, they were all to get to their feet, draw their wands and wait. Their chairs were vanished, leaving only the large empty space. An adjudicator walked around forcing people to stand further apart, leaving them all an even distance from each other. After a few minutes of this, and just when Harry was beginning to feel antsy, the officious witch left the area and a dome like structure spread across the stadium, separating them from the crowd. Without further pretence, a voice boomed through the stadium. "Begin!"


Three Daily Prophet writers occupied the desks in the press box, their screens rapidly switching between different moments of the battle as they furiously took notes. Around them, four others representing different publications, all controlled by the same central agency in the ministry were doing the same. Not one looked up from their scribbling, their eyes glued to their screens. The only noise beside the scratching of several quills was the shrill, excited voice of Brieana Fowl. She was speaking into a small, black object without seeming to pause even a moment for breath.

"Welcome back to WBC One! I'm your host, Brieana Fowl and we are currently broadcasting to the entire Wizarding Federation, bringing you all the latest action on the British Championship round of the International Duelling Competition! Lots of excitement happening this year with a lot of big names, so stay tuned everyone."

She paused, setting her screen to 'quick flick' as different scenes from the ongoing battle played in short twenty second clips.

"A crowd favourite, Velaria Nott is absolutely destroying it out there. Her renowned use of fiend-fyre has already taken out two competitors in the last few minutes alone! It looks like it's about to take a third – wait, no everyone, he's gotten away. In fact, that's another familiar face, Davinicus Diggle has narrowly escaped defeat there!"

The screen switches.

"Another big name here, Verona Selwyn is locked in a rather vicious battle with another Death Eater, looks like… Renwick Jugson. This is a pretty spectacular show, with both seeming pretty determined to take the other out. Anyone expecting solidarity in the DE ranks are bound to be disappointed by this show- Oh, and there we go, Selwyn has just cut down Jugson and is moving onto her next target."

Another switch.

"This is an interesting one, folks. Harry Potter, the youngest to enter the competition in recent history and the youngest to get to this stage of the competition ever is still standing, looks relatively unscathed. Can't say anything impressive is happening so far and he's yet to take anyone out of the competition. He does appear to have a pretty impressive shield charm, however and looks to be avoiding the worst of the fray."

Another.

"And who is this locked into a battle with two others and seeming to hold his ground with ease? Oh yes, that's Fabian Prewett, known to be a pretty impressive wizard with this year being his first entrance into the competition. Oh, it looks like he's losing ground as a third enters the fray – it seems Mr. Prewett has some enemies on the field. One's just gone down to a hex from Prewett, and another. The last, I believe that's Travia Rowle has fled to save her skin, it seems."

Another.

"Back to Mr Potter, and it appears he's run afoul of another Rowle – forgive the pun, guys! - Potter is backed into a corner and Death Eater, Thorfinn Rowle, seems to be laying into him. That shield appears to be holding strong though, is Potter ever going to attack? Oh that was clever – it seems Potter has pulled the rug from under Rowle, literally. The floor around him just rose to push Rowle off his feet and Potter – runs away. Amazingly, not taking the final blow."

Another.

"A relative unknown by the name of Nymphadora Mckinley is doing well. I've seen her take down two others in what seems to be a rage – I suppose smiling too much to ask in this environment – Oh dear. She's just ran into Selwyn, I don't think this will last long… Well everyone, call me a seer, Mckinley is out."

A loud siren noise echoes around the stadium, bringing the duellists to a halt.

"Well everyone, that's it. Twelve minutes and we're down to twenty-five. Let's hear from our judges panel!"


Whilst those around him sat down in exhaustion as healers rushed onto the stadium floor, levitating unconscious bodies and treating wounds, Harry found himself barely in a sweat. It had been easier than expected, save a few hairy parts in the last few minutes. It had irked him to run away, to spend the entire round shielding. He was almost glad Voldemort wasn't there to witness the match, given his less than impressive performance. Which was funny, when he considered that he had done so on the advice of the Dark Lord's younger self.

A few others remained standing instead of giving into weariness. Selwyn, some other Death Eaters and a witch he suspected was using a similar tactic to himself, if she wasn't merely a coward. As the judges deliberated and the healers handed out water and medical attention, he watched the crowd once more. He tried not to look too pleased, didn't want his friends and their disappointed expressions cottoning on too quickly to his plan. Not that he imagined they would – it was a rather Slytherin move after all.

He noticed his breath catch in his throat before he fully processed what he was seeing. In one of the top boxes, sitting by Bellatrix, was the Dark Lord. He was not watching Harry, but as Harry stared he caught his eye and raised an eyebrow before looking away. Harry fought down the tension that coiled tight in his stomach, and focused as the judges announced the rankings.

There was no perfect logic to the rankings. Some of the higher ranks were just flashier, after all. However it was really just there to balance the teams. When Harry's name was read in the first five, declaring him a one pointer, he suppressed a smile. It seemed he had been thoroughly unnoticeable, as intended.


"A little disappointing for Potter," remarked Bellatrix idly, playing with a dagger. The witch always needed something to do with her hands. "Funny, I've never known him be afraid of anything."

Bellatrix's daughter, a puzzled expression playing over her intelligent features, nodded absently. "The odd thing is, I don't think he really seemed afraid at all."

The Dark Lord, unable to suppress a soft, cruel smile, spoke. "Have you considered, Bella, that perhaps he was not afraid at all."

Bellatrix frowned, and opened her mouth before shutting it again. "Well son of a mudblood," she swore. "I didn't think he had it in him to be that sly."

The move had piqued Voldemort's interest, and he watched the boy as he was lead to a team. Not only was it what he would have done. It's what he had done.


Harry was assigned to team three, and it was with more than a little relief that he noted that two of the remaining six death eaters were on his team, including Verona Selwyn. As he approached, she smiled at him broadly and put an arm about his shoulders in a familiar manner, causing the others to look at him with a puzzled expression. As far they were concerned he was a no-name half-blood still in Hogwarts, and Selwyn was a renowned Death Eater and member of the sacred twenty-eight. Only the other Death Eater, who's name he didn't know seemed nonplussed. Either Selwyn had mentioned him, or he was merely used to the eccentricities of the witch. The ministry official who had just been engaged in rousing the crowd, getting them excited for the next match, announced the teams would have five minutes to familiarise themselves with each other before time began.

"I'm Verona Selwyn, pleasure," she said, with a gracious smile to the others. Even if Harry had not been paying attention to her rank – it would have been indicated to him when moments later their clothes began to shift. Each team's clothes were shifting in colour, with theirs become a vibrant green. Emblazoned on the opposite side of their chest to where crests were standardly worn, a number appeared. A five appeared across Selwyn's.

The other Death Eater, a relaxed looking man with the appearance of Arabic descent and features that could be called handsome, spoke next; "Ahmed Shafiq," he said simply, a four donning his robes.

"Jennifer Simmons," commented a girl with bright blonde hair and blue eyes. He noted with interest her cuffs, indicating that she was a muggleborn. There were few muggleborns in the tournament, and even fewer who made it this far. She had a grave expression on her face and recently dried blood staining her robes. Muggleborns didn't enter often because they were more of a target. Still, the witch kept her chin high and made direct eye contact with Selwyn and Shafiq. Brave, then. She must only have been a few years older than himself, perhaps twenty. Harry realised she'd likely been at the orphanage when he had, though too old to pay any attention to him. She had a three across her chest.
The last of the others to speak was a gruff looking man in his early thirties. He was bulky, with a sour expression and distrustful eyes. His face had appeared particularly poisonous as he noted Simmons' blood status. "Fallow," he said, quickly and then looked away as though sick of the interaction.

"Harry Potter," he said with a wry smile.

He'd always thought the team round was the most interesting, and certainly the most complex of rounds. If one of your team were incapacitated, the corresponding number of points would be taken from your score. If one of your team incapacitated someone from another team, they would gain the corresponding number of points. At the end of precisely twenty minutes, the two teams with the highest points would pass into stage three – the final round. Now generally speaking, rank fives were the most powerful and would also be the greatest benefit to take out – so it was a risk to take them on, but a potentially fruitful one. Ranks one's like himself were useful ways of packing in numbers, as they were usually easy targets and eliminated quickly. However, the highest ranks tended not to bother with rank one's as they wouldn't add much to the score of their teams or take much from the other team. In keeping low in the rankings he was essentially staying under the radar. If it seemed unfair that the lower ranks would move up into the next round on the tails of their superiors, as was sometimes the case, then they would be thoroughly decimated in stage three anyway. Although Harry had no intention of playing himself down now.

"There's no real strategy to this," began Shafiq, calmly. "I would just say try to avoid clusters of teams where you might get taken on by more than one at a time. Try to have your comrades backs and if you see any opportunities to take easy points, do it and don't worry about honour."

They nodded, and Simmons in particular looked like she was ready to battle. He wondered why he hadn't noticed her on the field before, with her particular brand of tenacity. As a rank three at this level she was still a formidable witch, but to do it as a muggleborn with half the arena gunning for her, he was sure she had more than a few tricks up her sleeve.

The ministry official was back at his podium, ordering them to prepare themselves. There was a countdown from twenty and Selwyn had gripped Harry's hand for a moment, comfortingly. When the countdown reached one, she grinned at him.

"Give 'em hell!" she said, and raced off in the opposite direction.

Harry raced to the edges of the floor and began a slow prowl away from the centre where the flashiest of the action was happening. The first minute was always a blood bath and his intention was to be a little more stealthy than to show his hand in front of so many eyes. Instead, he would spend the first few minutes impersonating a vulture, picking off the weak that had cause to believe him one of them. He felt a new confidence now; not only did he have Tom's ruthless training on his side, his body was also pumped full of adrenaline, filling him with a sort of ecstatic joy. He never knew he took such pleasure in what was essentially 'war games'.

Above, their team numbers showed on a large board with each team beginning with fifteen points. As he watched, his own team shifted from fifteen to eighteen as another dropped to twelve, and he grinned, couldn't let the others have all the fun.

The first person he came across was a rank two. He was a skittish looking wizard in his early forties, who had half startled in coming face to face with Harry only to be relieved at the sight of his rank. He had raised his wand to deliver what appeared to be a simple hex, but Harry had delivered a strong, non-verbal bombarda before he had the chance. The wizard was thrown against the opposite wall, and immediately knocked unconscious. Harry moved on.

Mainly, he avoided the offhand spells of the higher ranks, knowing himself to be too small a reward for many of them to bother stopping. Instead, he'd pick off the weak at a rapid pace, leaving the larger prey to Selwyn. Harry saw no reason to fully demonstrate his skills if he didn't have to, when he gained so much from being underestimated.

Harry stumbled upon Simmons who was holding her own with ease against a rank four; she was using a wide retinue of curses at a rapid rate. He'd thought her someone to shy away from the dark from her blood-status and demeanour, but she certainly seemed capable. Her luck began to change when a witch joined the duel, face full of malicious intent that went above and beyond this match alone. Still she held her own, but she was back into a corner and floundering. Moving quickly, Harry approached. Before either of them could react, he cast a strong imperio onto the rank four. The four turned on her comrade and downed him with a single curse that he had been unprepared for and then turned her wand on herself, stupifying her.

"Thanks!" Simmons exclaimed, catching her breath. Moments later, however, a particularly nasty cutting hex hit her about the legs, and a moment later she was stunned. Harry whirled around, casting two complex shield charms about himself just as another curse hit the barrier. A rank five, a Death Eater with greying hair grinned wickedly at him.

With nowhere to run, Harry was forced to hold his ground. The Death Eater had back him into a corner, and the outer shield, the protego was about to fall. The Death Eater threw a curse, something nasty and flesh based by the colour and Harry grinned as he let his outer shield drop and the wicked spell hit the inner; the reflectus sheild. It was a simple shield really, rarely used for it had a commonly known spell that could tear it down in a heartbeat, but the man had already cast his spell and the dawning comprehension as he hit the reflectus had him diving aside as his own curse bounced back at him. As he was off balance, Harry leapt forward and cast a little known curse called pulmonem eicio and the man began to choke, desperately trying to draw in air though his chest would feel like an elephant was sitting on it. He fell to the ground, dropping his wand and gasping. Harry released the spell, running away before the man could decide revenge was worth disqualification.

Foolishly, he ended up at the centre of a fray happening at the east side of the floor. He saw Selwyn's fiend fyre eat through the shield of a fellow rank five, and noted that Shafiq was still standing, though haggered looking in a battle with three others. Fallow was nowhere to be seen, so presumably the man was out. With no way of exiting the battle zone, as a wizard blocked his path and began firing stunners at him, he was forced into an all out battle. He saw Shafiq downed out of the corner of his eye and Selwyn take revenge on two of his opponents. Harry caught the last remaining rank one with a simple tripping spell as he fired curse after curse at all who drew near him. He realised after some moments that he was outnumbered three to one himself now, but the sudden memory that Voldemort was watching forced him on.

Thinking quickly, he cast in rapid succession fiendfyre and aqua eructo he kept the scale small, not wanting to completely exhaust his magic but combined them to create a wall of boiling water that he used to encircle his opponents like a haze. One of them screamed, falling to the spell. Another successfully shielded and one simply fled.

His luck came to an end however, when so focused on breaking the shield of his remaining opponent, he missed the stunner that hit him square in the back. He blacked out.


Harry was awoken only minutes later to the ministrations of a healer. His eyes opened instantly as he was ennervated to find much of the battlefield, as he now thought of it, filled with healers. He noted with grim satisfaction that the man he had boiled seemed to require two healers with a third hovering nearby.

Water was pressed into his hand, along with a pepper-up potion and the healer ran his wand along the remaining wounds, closing them and removing bruises before they had even fully formed. It took him only a minute before he was back on his feet, eager to know the scores, but of course the board was blank. They always blanked it in the last two minutes of the duel to add to the excitement of the announcement. He found Selwyn quickly, and Simmons who had already been healed and looked rather more grave than before. At the sight of him however, she flashed a smile.

"How did we do?" he asked, instantly.

Selwyn frowned. "Hard to say, given we have no idea how much any of us did. By the end I was one of only three left standing, but that means nothing in the team stage."

Harry nodded, filled with trepidation. He looked up to the top box hopefully, but Voldemort was no longer watching. He pretended, mainly to himself, that this didn't bother him. He was cheered by the amazed expressions of Hermione, Blaise and his other friends. At least he had not completely disappointed, it seems.

"Did you really cast fiendfyre and aquaeructo simultaneously?" asked Simmons, with interest. Selwyn too regarded him curiously, an expression he had not seen on the face of the knowing witch before.

Harry merely shrugged. "Only for a minute, and not that much."

"If anything," Selwyn commented. "That's more impressive. It requires a lot of control to keep fiendfyre at bay, nevermind to do it with another class five spell simultaneously."

Harry smiled. "Well I was hardly going to let myself be taken down by a few people without even a Dark Mark," he said, mischievously.
Selwyn smirked. "Need I remind you that you also don't have a Dark Mark?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "A technicality, my dear Verona," he laughed.

Selwyn grew thoughtful. "You were hit by a rank two, you know. Not even a secretly impressive one," she added knowingly. "You need to learn to watch your back as well as you guard your front. Still, a rough diamond if ever there was one."

Harry fought down a blush. That was high praise coming from one such as her, "Thanks."

"And you," Selwyn regarded Simmons, who was busily repairing where her robes were torn. "Weren't too bad yourself. What do you do? I've never seen you before."

The witch responded with a deadpan tone, a flash of something crossing her face. "I work at the leaky cauldron as a barmaid," she said, quickly.

"A barmaid?" Selwyn asked, perplexed. "Why ever would someone with your skill work as a barmaid?"

Simmons tone became heated. "There aren't exactly many who'd hire a witch like me," she said, gesturing to her cuffs.

Selwyn paused, then nodded solemnly. "I see. Well, if you're interested, come talk to me afterwards. It'd be a shame to waste your talents just because your parents were unworthy.

Simmons stiffened at this, then nodded tensely. They said nothing more, as the official got to the podium.

"Witches and Wizards, I am proud to announce that the final ten – those few entering the final stage of the British Championships has been decided," he paused, and Harry vaguely wondered if the man had requested a drumroll.

"With twenty-eight and twenty-four points respectively, the teams proceeding to the next stage will be team three and team four!"

The crowd erupted into applause.

This was it then. Harry was through to the final stage. Just one more stage, and he'd be through to the Internationals.


Thanks for reading!