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Chapter 5 – Into Fire
Fleur slammed the door to her room within the Beauxbatons carriage behind her.
Sinking into the chair at her desk, she tried to calm her tumultuous emotions. Foul play of some sort was now without a doubt present in the tournament that she had been chosen to compete within.
It was ridiculous that a 14-year-old should be caught up in the tournament. He didn't seem like the type to flaunt the rules to get in either. Recalling the way she had spilled the bouillabaisse all over him, she cringed once again. She was so caught off guard by seeing that face, that she'd completely lost all motor control for a brief moment. It was just enough to make a fool of herself.
Worst of all, everyone else had interpreted the incident completely wrong. Fleur hadn't been deaf to the jeers levelled at him whilst making her escape. Too mortified to think straight, she'd just left as quickly as she could.
She couldn't remember ever having such a reaction to someone, let alone a boy.
Once he'd entered the smaller adjacent room after her name had been called the following day, she'd fixed her gaze firmly downwards. However, the implications slowly sank in as an argument erupted, turning her embarrassment to horror in an instant.
He seemed to sink inwards as the arguments progressed. No one openly admitted their belief of his insistence that he hadn't entered. A 14-year-old in a dangerous tournament. Should I have even entered myself? An urge to envelop him in a hug surged through her, and she was barely able to hold herself back.
Fleur still hadn't forgotten seeing him thrown back by the green spell, wondering how he could be alive. How was he, then? There had been no further word from her father on the matter. She was beyond relieved that he'd survived. She'd really just thought that her carelessness following the chaos at the Quidditch World Cup had resulted in the premature death of a teenager if not one as good-natured as him. And famous, even if he doesn't seem to like it.
It helped that he was rather handsome if a bit young. Sensing his genuine fear from across the room, she knew for a fact that he wasn't lying. There was no chance, unless he was a fantastic actor.
She resolved to ask him to meet eventually. Once she'd somewhat recovered from her shame and felt able to control herself around him, of course.
The next few weeks were excruciatingly slow. Ron had given him a disgusted look once he'd come through the portrait hole later that night, prompting Harry to go straight up to his dormitory. Hermione was nowhere to be found. Things came to a head the next morning in the fourth-year dorm.
"Why'd you find a way to enter and not tell me?"
Harry looked at Ron with a disbelieving expression. "You don't really believe I entered my own name, do you?"
"Well how else could you have gotten in?" he asked, a scowl threatening to form.
"I swear I didn't. Someone else must've done it."
"Exactly!" Ron jerked his thumb towards the ceiling. "You got one of them to put your name in, eh? Which seventh year did you convince?"
With a sinking feeling, Harry shook his head. "I didn't get anyone to put it in for me either. I don't want to be in the tournament."
With a scoff, Ron replied "Sure, sure, more glory never hurt anyone. Those thousand galleons might just be an inconvenience too."
Getting up off his bunk next to Harry's, he continued. "Always stuck in your bloody shadow, aren't I? I thought we were mates," he tossed over his shoulder as he descended the stairs.
The situation had only deteriorated from there, with Hermione sitting away from Harry at breakfast with Ron instead. She threw occasional glances his way with an unreadable expression. He hadn't spoken with her since the Goblet of Fire had spat his name out, and not of his own volition either.
It was almost as if he had a buffer zone around him, with people doing their best to steer clear. Even some of his professors seemed to be in on it. Professor Sprout was oddly aloof towards him during Herbology. Rather immature for a professor though, no? Then again, I did steal her house's opportunity to stand out.
On the bright side, Snape did his best to completely ignore his presence, bringing the slew of insults that accompanied most Potions classes to a halt. The one exception was when he'd been pulled out of Potions for the Weighing of the Wands. Snape had stared daggers at him on his exit. Harry thought that in all honesty, he would've preferred to remain in class than to be accosted by the over-eager Rita Skeeter. It was doubly tense being in a room with Fleur once again too.
Harry was also no longer obliged to attend classes on account of being a champion, and he wasn't quite sure what to do with his newfound freedom. He'd begun to move increasingly towards his private study space on the fourth floor.
Unfortunately, he was questioning his choice to switch to Ancient Runes. The subject was interesting enough but didn't seem to have a real-world application beyond curse-breaking. Another blunder. He'd thought, as a result of Hermione's continued fascination with the subject, that he'd be far better off in it than Divination.
Now Harry found his mind inundated with a mix of squiggly lines and circles that made about as much sense to him as reading tea leaves did. Deciding to stick it out anyway, he'd doubled down on his work. It was a bittersweet perk, having nought else to do nor others to speak to.
Harry had thought that at least one of his best friends would see sense after a few days, and therefore tried to give them space. That's what Hermione had done for him when she thought he needed it. Or maybe I'm a hypocrite. Either way, he didn't think he'd be welcome to approach them. Especially not with his inability to go unseen.
Cool acceptance began to settle over him in regard to his friends' betrayal. Is it betrayal, or am I just taking it too far?
A few had remained cordial with him, but they weren't exactly declaring their support for him either. International relations had perhaps taken precedence over house unity.
He was snapped out of his reflections by a barn owl swooping down towards his lonesome seat at the Gryffindor table.
His heart gave a leap at the thought of a reply from Sirius. Once the owl had flown off with a chunk of bacon, however, he noticed his name on the front spelt out in an unfamiliar loopy cursive. Harry wasn't quite sure whether to be disappointed or excited.
Abandoning the rest of his breakfast, he walked down to the lake, his curiosity nearly getting the better of him. Harry managed to hold off until he was resting with his back against a tree before finally opening it.
Hello,
I'm very sorry that I didn't talk to you sooner, and even more so about spilling the bouillabaisse all over you... I only have my shock to blame, but that's no excuse. I hope you forgive me. I still haven't thanked you for what you did in the forest, I'm certain that was you anyway.
I think we are overdue for a conversation. If you are willing, please meet me by your Quidditch pitch just before sunset. I must also show you something.
- Fleur.
His heart gave a leap, and Harry wasn't quite sure why. Not just because he'd found out that she was alive, he figured.
He waited at their agreed meeting point, fidgeting with his scarf. The long shadows of the Quidditch stands, cast by the setting sun, projected out over the dew-frozen grass.
A tall figure came into view from the direction of the Beauxbatons carriage. Silver hair blew lightly in the wind, glints of orange catching his eye occasionally.
As she neared, he met her eyes. They stared back at each other at him until they were just a few metres away.
In an attempt to break the awkwardness of the moment, Harry held out his hand.
"Hi, I'm Harry."
She jerkily raised her own to meet his.
"Fleur. I'm Fleur."
Her apparent nerves unsettled Harry. What news has she come to give me? She answered his unasked question a moment later, releasing his hand. "How are you alive? I thought you were hit by the killing curse?"
Harry was briefly stumped by her bluntness. He opted to reciprocate.
"I don't know."
"Did you leave? My father said no one else was found where you might've been," She questioned.
"No, I just woke up and felt fine, mostly. Some Aurors found me and helped me get back."
Fleur furrowed her brow, wringing her hands briefly.
"I don't understand at all. They told me you weren't even at the Quidditch Cup."
She momentarily lowered her gaze, before meeting his eyes again.
"I still haven't thanked you or apologised for spilling the stew over you. I'm sorry and very grateful that you rescued me, but how aren't you dead?"
"I don't know," he blurted.
Taken aback at her contrite expression and renewed bluntness, Harry stared blankly for a moment before continuing, attempting to fill the silence. "No worries, that's fine-I'm fine. It's okay."
Her eyes scrunched, mouth twitching up slightly before concern crept in. "You don't seem it."
"My friends just need some time, I think. Or space," he added.
"Friends like that are no friends at all."
Harry shrugged, unsure of how to continue. Fleur's mood seemed to sink further.
"I have something to show you. Come with me?" she asked.
He obliged, following behind her.
Glancing back, she quirked an eyebrow.
"Our attackers in the forest, do you remember them?"
Catching up to walk beside her, he gave a nod.
"I burnt them after you were hit. I hope you don't mind, but those bâtards are better off gone," she declared, not an ounce of remorse visible.
Surprisingly, Harry found he was rather indifferent to the idea. They had tried to kill him after was still unsure as to what had happened but felt no lingering effects. I'm not who I thought I was. Adults always seemed to be wanting to do him in anyway. He found himself wondering why she'd been told that he wasn't there.
The thought filled his conscience as they tracked in silence towards the Forbidden Forest. A groove in the cool grass behind them was dimly visible in the rapidly fading light.
Harry decided to bring it up.
"Why did they tell you I wasn't at the Quidditch Cup? British Aurors found me. They would definitely know."
"I don't know for sure, but I would guess that they don't want the public to know their 'hero' was in danger whilst they were responsible for security." Fleur appeared to think briefly. "My father was very mad when he heard how I was taken and that they hadn't done their jobs. At every point in the investigation, if it can be called that, they've tried to impede the process."
Sounds like it was just a Ministry cover-up then. Is Fudge's political position really so precarious? That may explain why he dismissed the thought of Sirius being innocent and wanted him Kissed immediately.
Cursing himself for his naivety, he begun to understand how little interest the Ministry had in them compared to maintaining their grip on power.
After a few minutes' walk, Fleur turned to him again. Surveying him with an indecipherable expression, she asked him a question that caught him off guard.
"Do you trust me?"
Harry hesitated, fumbling for an answer before he gave her a brief nod and faint smile. She turned back and led him deeper, a powerful roar echoing off the trees around them from ahead. Chills ran down his spine at the sound. Was he being too trusting?
Fleur gestured for him to duck down behind a bush she had crouched behind and beckoned him forward. Nearing her, he was struck for the first time in months with that familiar rosy scent. Harry desperately tried to clear his mind, but he found himself once again incredibly glad that she'd not been killed as a result of his incompetence.
She pointed through the leaves just as a bout of red flame spouted up, scattering a flock of birds high in the canopy. The heat washed over them in a great wave. An indiscernible mass of reflective black shifted in a large cage, its true form only revealed once it flared its wings out. At least thirty wizards skirted around it, shouted spells bouncing off its Stygian scales. One of them had bright Weasley hair. Charlie.
"A Hungarian Horntail," Fleur whispered from his right, pulling him from his bitter thoughts. Her proximity wholly unnerved him. Not in a bad way, either.
"Look, they've got one for each of us in the cages."
Spying the other three dragons, Harry clenched his hands, nerves threatening to overcome him as he refocused on the issue at hand.
"How do they expect us to fight a dragon?" he questioned incredulously. She turned to look at him, mirroring his inner thoughts in her expression.
"I guess we'll find out."
Harry paused at the final step down into the common room from his dorm, feeling as if he were on a death march. It was the morning of the first task, and one of four massive dragons awaited him somewhere beyond the cool stone walls around him. He rushed towards the portrait hole.
His wish to avoid the rest of his house was granted, making his way to the Gryffindor table in an attempt to stuff something down. The hard part was picking a dish that was likely to stay down.
Giving it up as a lost cause a few minutes later, Harry stood and threaded his way through the mass of students that were flooding out of the castle to spectate. He found he quite enjoyed feeling invisible in such a mass of people. The enjoyable sensation deserted him once he branched off towards the Champion's tent and began to run over his method for handling the dragon.
Professor Moody had hinted to him that he wouldn't have to fight it, which had lightened his mood somewhat. He'd indirectly suggested summoning his broom, and for lack of a better strategy Harry had taken up practising the charm. So far, he'd been completely undisturbed in the empty fourth-floor classroom he'd been spending his time in. It was nice to escape from the eyes of others.
"Harry! Harry!"
Walking towards the Champions' tent, he was again immediately set upon by Rita Skeeter.
"My readers absolutely adored my piece on you. What's not to love about such a character? A tragic orphan making his mark on the world in one of the most elaborate ways! Oh, so many adoring fans, but I'm sure you're used to it. Now, how is Britain's favourite teenager going to enthral us next?"
Harry's patience was stretched thin as it was with the imminent task, his nerves only compounding his annoyance. Darting out of her grip, he hurried past her.
"I'm not some weepy orphan, and I didn't enter myself either. Goodbye."
If anything he was amazed he hadn't snapped more at her. The reporter had barely gotten a word out of him at the Weighing of the Wands but had crafted a character regardless. The next week's mail proved that the masses had eaten it right up. Malfoy had looked like he was going to combust with glee upon reading that Harry reportedly still cried over his dead parents. That would've cleaned up the Slytherin table a considerable amount.
Looking up as he entered, he met Fleur's eyes, her pale face nodding towards him. Approaching her and the rest of the champions, he gave a tight smile. Ludo Bagman entered with a few other Ministry officials. Amongst them was Crouch Sr., who carried a small, purple bag.
Bagman greeted them with a wide grin whilst being handed the bag by Crouch Sr., before launching into his explanation.
"Champions, welcome! This one will test your bravery, that's for sure. Now, we have one for each of you. Whatever you withdraw from this bag, you will have to face in the arena outside. Ladies first," he finished, motioning to Fleur.
She withdrew a small miniature of a green dragon. The blood draining more than Harry thought was possible from her face, she let out a breath and stepped back. Cedric's hand found a light blue model, whilst Krum's opened to present a scarlet one.
Dread filled Harry as he stepped forward, knowing what awaited him within the silken bag. A small, reflective black miniature of the same dragon he'd first seen caged nipped his finger. Cursing, he tried to calm his nerves.
His intense focus distracted him from the movement around him until it was Fleur's turn.
"Good luck," he called, his palpitating heart concerned with more than just his own well-being, and he knew it. It was an uncomfortable realisation.
She nodded back at him and exited the tent. Judging by the cheers of the crowd a few minutes later, she'd survived at least. His racing heart slowed somewhat. Following Krum's presumably successful attempt, he heard his name called.
Screwing up whatever courage remained, Harry ceased his pacing. Upon drawing the tent flap back, he was immediately blinded by the sunlight that streamed in. He blinked the brightness away. As his eyes adjusted to the rocky environment before him, he caught a black glint at the far end.
That was all the warning he received before it became a black blur, claws scrabbling across the rough ground towards him. Harry was just able to take cover behind a large rock before blood-red fire streamed toward him. The other side of the rock sizzled, causing him to cringe. For some bizarre reason, the audience decided that was cheer-worthy. Whether it was at his or the dragon's expense, he wasn't sure.
Thrusting his wand up, he focused with every fibre of his being.
"Accio Firebolt!"
He desperately hoped the charm had worked. Dragon claws scratched at rocky ground mere metres away. Just as he thought he was entirely doomed, he heard a whistling sound. The broomstick entered the arena, only narrowly avoiding another jet of flame.
Hurtling towards Harry's rapidly deteriorating cover, it stuttered for a moment before speeding up. His thoughts matched its pace.
Harry was sure his heart was about to give out, and that he was doomed, or both together. But he did it anyway.
Jumping for the broom as it hurtled past, one hand caught the firm base and the other a handful of bristles. He only just managed to mount it in time. Pulling up with all the strength he had, he narrowly missed crashing head-on into the wall of the arena. A round of gasps followed.
Spying a golden sparkle from his elevated position, he dove, not wanting to spend any more time with the Horntail. The dragon had other plans, however, and broke free of the chains constraining it.
The Horntail careened towards him as Harry made a mad dash for the golden egg. He ducked, and flame surged over the top of him, igniting the edges of his robes. Only a few metres separated him and the egg.
Hanging from the underside of the broom, Harry reached down and scooped the pear-shaped mass of gold out of the nest. He only just avoided cracking the real eggs.
With liquid fire in his thighs, he redirected the broom upwards. Heat seared the side of his head again. He twisted mid-ascent, spiralling upwards diagonally. Finally finding the tent designated as the exit point, he levelled off and zoomed towards it, adjusting his glasses.
The tent flap whipped him in the face as he flew straight into it, being thrown from his broom as it became entangled in the loose fabric. He was caught back-first by the far wall of the tent, rough canvas scratching at his skin. Sliding down the tent wall and landing clumsily on his rear, he took in the tent from his seated position.
Three of his fellow Champions stared back at him from white cots. A few Ministry officials, Bagman included, looked on in shock. Madam Pomfrey looked quite faint.
