The 24th of November, 1994, dawned with an overcast sky, as was typical in northern Scotland this time of year. The temperature was in the low forties, and even in the afternoon wouldn't peak much higher than forty-five degrees. Although it was a Thursday, the usual classes were cancelled due to the First Task being held that morning, and the staff decided to cancel Friday's classes as well. The students were not likely to be in any shape to attend class, let alone function well enough for them, so the decision was made to let the students enjoy a rare four-day weekend.
The three champions, the unwilling contender, and their three companions met as planned at the foot of the Grand Staircase before entering the Great Hall. They were met with resounding applause as they stepped through the doors, though a careful observer would have noticed a certain Ravenclaw of Asian descent looking particularly disgruntled.
Cho Chang was upset. The confrontation with Looney and that strange house elf (she'd never admit that the elf absolutely terrified her) notwithstanding, she'd actually had a decent start to the year. After several flirtatious looks and smiles at Cedric Diggory, the handsome Hufflepuff asked her to Hogsmeade and didn't object at all when she directed him to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. She was well on her way to training him up to proper boyfriend standards when disaster struck and his name was selected for the Triwizard Tournament.
At first she'd been quite pleased. Being the girlfriend of the Hogwarts champion boosted her social status to unprecedented levels. Everything would have been fine at that point except that Potter brought the champions together and they started working together. It was bad enough that he was spending so much time with that French tart, but when she learned that Looney of all people was also helping out, she practically went round the twist.
In hindsight, perhaps ordering him to stay away from the other champions and their entourage was a mistake. He had given her an inscrutable look before shrugging, making some inane comment about her not really caring whether he lived or died, and telling her he didn't think they should go out anymore. And after all that time and effort she'd poured into him so far! Wasn't it obvious that she cared? Very few people were worth the effort of training properly, but Cedric certainly was. By the time she'd be done with him there wouldn't be anywhere he wouldn't be able to simply walk into a room and instantly take command.
At least that had been her plan. A plan which now lay shattered into pieces at her feet. She wasn't sure at this point whether she should try to salvage her relationship with Cedric so she could finish the work of art she sensed within him, or instead try to find another worthy soul and begin her work anew.
She had no idea where to begin with Cedric, though. Every time he looked at her his eyes were filled with cold disdain – and now that he was closer to Looney, who knew what that wretched cow was telling him! Yet every time she saw the little bint she was draped all over Har- Lord Potter, she mentally corrected herself. It was unseemly, yet Lord Potter didn't seem to care, and what's more that bucktoothed chit Granger didn't seem to care either! (It hadn't yet registered that the new Lady Potter's teeth were immaculate.)
Lord Potter would certainly be worth the effort, even if he was a bit young for her taste (she preferred older boys), except for the fact that Granger had her claws buried so deep in him that he was pretty well wrapped up as far as anyone else was concerned. Cho was honestly not sure if it would be worse for Lord Potter to stay with the muggleborn – the Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter certainly did not need that stigma for two generations in a row – or to focus instead on Looney. The blonde girl had to be insane. How the hell she ever found herself in Ravenclaw of all houses was quite beyond Cho and all her friends. The Sorting Hat was definitely malfunctioning that day.
The Longbottom scion was a possibility, though he suffered the same age issue that Lord Potter did. However, he was shy and reserved, therefore malleable, and from an Ancient and Most Noble House almost as prestigious as the Potters. Although… she shook her head in disgust. It looked as if that French bitch had her claws as deep into him as Granger had hers into Lord Potter.
Who else was worth the effort? Roger Davies? Oliver Wood? Fred and/or George Weasley? She shuddered at the very idea.
While a despairing Cho Chang wallowed in her misery, lamenting the lack of decent, worthwhile boys at this school, the seven friends broke their fast as they usually did at the far end of the Gryffindor table. They spoke quietly amongst each other and ate well without gorging. None appeared nervous in the slightest.
At the end of breakfast, the Great Hall quietened as Dumbledore arose and raised his hands in front of him like the conductor of an orchestra. "Good morning," he intoned. (Harry and Hermione just looked at each other and shook their heads in resignation.) "The First Task of the Triwizard Tournament is upon us. It is to be a test of bravery and daring, and so the… participants…" (Dumbledore's scowl was incredible) "…will not learn what they are facing until they are about to enter the arena. I will now ask them to make their way down to the arena where they will find a tent set up for them. There, they are to await their final instructions."
The three champions stood, resplendent in their black leather armour commissioned for the tournament. Each champion's last name was emblazoned on their back across the shoulders, and each set of armour was trimmed with a different colour. Victor's armour was trimmed in dark crimson just a few shades away from black. Fleur's was trimmed in sky-blue, while Cedric's was trimmed in yellow. Harry had found a similar set of armour in a box outside their quarters that very morning, this one with his name across the back and trimmed in scarlet bright enough to rival the Hogwarts Express. As he had no intention of pretending to be anything other than the unwilling contender he was, he elected instead to ignore the armour and don his normal school uniform in its place.
He couldn't miss Dumbledore's baleful glare at this latest ace of defiance.
Not that he cared, of course. He took his wife's hand and offered his arm to Luna while Fleur took Neville's. Viktor and Cedric led the way out of the hall, the other five following close behind.
"The headmaster's wrackspurt infestation has grown much worse this month," Luna observed as they stepped outdoors. "They're breeding like mad at this point, and I shouldn't wonder if he snuffs it within the year."
Harry thought about it for a moment before shrugging. "I can't really find it in my heart to give a shit about him or when he kicks it," he said. "The sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned."
Once inside the tent, Hermione conjured a sofa for Harry, Luna, and herself; a loveseat for Fleur and Neville; and armchairs for Cedric and Viktor. There they waited quietly for the tournament officials to arrive.
Just less than half an hour later, the tent's entrance flap was flung open and the officials filed in, led by Bartemius Crouch Senior. Percy Weasley, the everlasting bootlicker, followed close behind and was in turn followed by a flushed and perspiring Ludo Bagman. Evidently walking from the castle to the dragon arena in the brisk November air was too much physical exertion for the overweight and washed-up quidditch star. Or maybe the small bag he carried was too heavy. Harry really didn't particularly care about Bagman's health any more than he cared about Dumbledore's. And speaking of, the old goatfucker himself followed Bagman into the tent, along with Barty Crouch Junior disguised as Mad-Eye Moody. When Karkaroff and Madame Maxime came inside as well, the tent started to feel crowded.
Dumbledore, apparently, just couldn't help himself. As soon as he saw Harry sitting on the comfortable sofa with an arm around Hermione and the other around Luna, he immediately started in on him. "Har- I'm sorry, Lord Potter," he began. The correction was as transparent as the "mistake" itself. Harry just managed to refrain from rolling his eyes. "Could you tell me why you're not wearing the armour we had made for you?"
Harry sighed and leaned back into the sofa, pulling the two girls close as he rested his ankle on the other knee. "Two reasons, Albus, old man," he said, carefully schooling his voice to somewhere between insolence and boredom. "First, I refuse to be portrayed as anything other than an unwilling contender. That armour is for a champion. I am not a champion; ergo, that armour is not for me. Second, and no less relevant, that armour came from you. And given that I trust you far less than I can throw this entire castle, I wouldn't wear that armour if my life depended on it. There's no telling what kind of compulsions and charms would find their way onto me. Not that they'd actually work," he added under his breath.
Dumbledore put on his Hurt Grandfather expression. "Harry, do you honestly believe I would do such a thing?"
"In a fucking heartbeat," the young man snapped. "Can we get this thing started sometime this month, Albus? Or do you have any other inanities we have to suffer through before we can get to the point of why we're here?"
The angry glint that seemed ever-present in the old man's eyes these days sparkled once more. "Your companions…"
"…are fine where they are," Harry interrupted. "Goddamn it, Albus! Give it up already with these fucking games of yours!" He turned to the Ministry officials, who had been looking back and forth between Harry and Dumbledore as they argued. "Well?" he demanded. "What does the Moronistry – sorry, the Ministry – have in store for us today?"
Crouch's lips narrowed into a thin line as his face paled in anger, while in typical Prewett fashion the tips of Percy's ears turned bright red, signifying an impending meltdown. In spite of the claims of the Weasley children, a foul temper did not seem to be a Weasley trait. Arthur Weasley was one of the most laid-back people the Potters had ever met. Molly Weasley née Prewett, on the other hand, had the volatile temper that Ron and Percy both seemed to pride themselves for having, which led Hermione to believe and Harry to agree that the short fuses they exhibited were a Prewett trait instead of a Weasley trait.
Bagman, surprisingly, answered the question, though not without a nervous laugh. "Well!" he exclaimed, holding up the bag. "The four, ah, contestants will draw from the bag a model of what they will be facing. Ah, ladies first," he stammered, nervously rushing over to Fleur.
The veela reached a delicate hand into the bag and drew forth a four-inch model of a sleek green dragon with the number two painted on its chest. Her expression didn't change as she stroked the model's head with her finger, watching it stretch its neck and wings in enjoyment.
"The Welsh Green," Bagman said. "You'll be going second, my dear." His poor attempt at chivalry came across as lecherous instead, and Fleur responded with a glare fierce enough to petrify a gorgon. The former quidditch player, obviously beyond his prime but apparently unaware of that fact, hurriedly backed away from the offended veela before rushing over to Cedric as if nothing had happened.
The Hufflepuff champion drew a similar-sized model of a blue-grey dragon, this one broader and stockier than the Welsh Green. Its wings were wider as well to better support its mass. The number one was painted on its chest.
"Ah, the Swedish Short Snout," Bagman effused. "Careful with that one, young man! She may be smaller than the others, but her fire burns hotter than fiendfyre!" Chuckling to himself, he walked over to Viktor, completely missing the look of disgust thrown him by the Hogwarts champion.
A stoic Viktor Krum reached in and pulled out a sinuous gold and scarlet wingless serpent, as fierce-looking as it was beautiful. This one had the number three painted on its chest.
"The Chinese Fireball," Bagman whispered reverently. "A truly amazing specimen. You, my friend, will be competing third." Viktor dipped his head in acknowledgement but otherwise said nothing.
"Yes, well." The portly department head cleared his throat and chuckled nervously. "Yes. Now for our youngest cha- sorry, contestant. Mr – ah, Lord Potter?"
Harry reached inside the proffered bag and removed the remaining model. Whereas the other three models were three and a half inches (the Swedish Short Snout) to five inches (the Chinese Fireball) in length, this model was a full seven and a half inches long from nose to tip of the tail. It was proportionally as massive as the Swedish Short Snout, and like the Short Snout its wingspan was twice its length, with the wing membranes reaching midway down its tail instead of just to the hip, as grew the membranes of the Welsh Green. Bony spikes grew from its chin, jaw, and head, as well as a double row marching down its back, each spike curving inward at the base from where it grew out the side of the vertebra. All down the tail the spikes protruded, shortening as they neared the tip, until a half-inch from the tip two spikes, one on either side, jutted straight out, perpendicular to the vertebrae and parallel to the ground when the tail was fully extended. The number four was painted on its chest.
"Hungarian Horntail," Harry said with bored indifference before Bagman could say anything. "Fabulous. You mind hanging onto this for me, love?" He offered the model to his wife, who let it perch on her arm as she rubbed it under the jaw with her finger. Luna took the opportunity to reach across Harry and do the same.
Nonplussed, Bagman stared at the young man and his seeming lack of concern for several long moments. "Yes, well," he said again. "Ah, your objective is to get past the, ah, nesting mother dragon, collect the golden egg that's been added to her clutch, and safely exit the arena. You will go in the order indicated on your dragon, just wait for the cannon blast to sound. Do any of you have any questions at this time?"
No one said anything, though there was a glint in Fleur's eye that suggested that she might like to eviscerate him on the spot.
"Well, ah. Oh yes! The golden egg will contain a clue for the Second Task. Anything else? No? Then I suggest that my fellow judges join me on the platform so that we can get this task underway! Best of luck to you all!" With that, he beat a hasty retreat from the tent. By Merlin, the champions were unnerving, but not even they could touch the intensity of the Boy-Who-Lived.
The other judges and officials filed out in stony silence, except for Madame Maxime, who hugged Fleur and wished all four contestants luck before following the others.
Cedric shook his head as he watched the disgruntled adults leave the tent. "You really know how to push their buttons, Harry," he observed. "They're not likely to forget it, either. Is it really worth it to antagonise them so much?"
Harry shrugged. "If I cooperate with them, especially with Dumbledore, then Hermione is most likely going to be a widow within two years. I'm not willing to let that happen. If it means that there are people who will hate me, well, nothing's new on that front either. The only thing that matters is that they get the message loud and clear that I am not to be fucked with, and neither are those designated as family." He gave the other three contenders a warm smile. "For the record, that includes everyone in this tent right now."
Before Cedric could reply, the first cannon blast sounded. Harry stood and shook the older boy's hand. "You've got this," he said. Fleur stood as well and kissed both of his cheeks before offering her well-wishes, and Viktor offered his own with a hearty handshake.
The Hufflepuff champion exited the tent and stepped into the arena to the sound of hundreds of excited voices cheering. The cynical part of his mind wondered if they were cheering for him or for the dragon.
In the centre of the rocky floor of the arena, curled protectively around the nest containing her clutch of eggs, the mother Short Snout blew steam from her nose and growled a warning as she caught sight of the Champion.
Cedric ducked behind a massive boulder and put his plan into action. Using one of the specialised spells they'd found in the Room of Requirement, he gated in a herd of half a dozen aurochs. They immediately smelled the dragon and began lowing in fear as they attempted to flee. The dragon's eyes immediately zeroed in on the shaggy cattle and began shining with a hungry gleam.
As the dragon began to stare more intently at the terrified aurochs, Cedric disillusioned himself, and for good measure muted any sounds and smells that might give him away. No one in the stadium or arena noticed as he slipped around the rock and carefully made his way to the nest. Even if he had been visible, the entire stadium's collective attention was on the dragon and its bloody feast as it pounced on the first aurochs and devoured it. Meanwhile, Cedric picked up the golden egg, careful to not touch any of the others, disillusioned it as well, and quickly retreated to the nearest of the four exit gates, one of which was located at each of the cardinal points of the arena.
The Hogwarts Champion did not drop his disillusionments until he stood before the judges with his egg, startling them all with his sudden appearance.
Dumbledore was the first to recover. "Well done, my boy!" he exclaimed. "You've certainly done Hogwarts proud. Hufflepuff as well!"
"Splendid, I say!" Bagman enthused. "Absolutely spiffing performance, lad!"
Crouch and Maxime were more subdued in their praise but no less sincere. Karkaroff, though, scowled, and after an insincere, "Congratulations for surviving," didn't say anything else.
"Go check in at the hospital tent with Madam Pomfrey, my boy," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "We will announce the scores after all the champions have competed."
"What about the unwilling contender?" Cedric couldn't help asking.
"I'm sorry?"
"You just said the champions. Will you wait until the unwilling contender, Harry Potter, is finished as well?"
There was an uncomfortable pause.
"Well, er, yes," Dumbledore said. "I believe that was implied, Mr Diggory."
The Hogwarts champion sighed. "With all due respect, Headmaster, I believe Lord Potter has made things quite clear in regard to how he feels about this tournament. I have no doubt of his reaction if you were to refer to him as a champion to his face, so the fact that you do so behind his back is… quite disappointing. Sir."
A brief flash of annoyance flickered across the headmaster's face before it was replaced with calm serenity. "You are, of course, correct, Mr Diggory," the old man placated. "Five points to Hufflepuff for your concern for a fellow student. Now, if you please, move along so we may continue the task."
Cedric shook his head but otherwise held his tongue. As he turned away, he caught the disapproving glance Madame Maxime shot at his headmaster. He realised that Lord Potter appeared to be correct in not trusting Professor Dumbledore. He may possibly have a sympathiser if not an actual ally in the person of the Beauxbatons headmistress. That may be something to discuss amongst their group later on. Putting the conjecture from his mind for the moment, he made his way to the hospital tent.
After the Short Snout had eaten her fill, the dragon handlers were able to guide her out of the arena and back to her cage. While they were doing so, another team of handlers quickly secured the nest and levitated it out of the arena, returning it to the Swedish dragon's cage by means of a shorter, quicker route so that her eggs would be safely waiting for her when the handlers brought her back to the cage.
A few minutes later, another nest was levitated in, another golden egg was added, and the Welsh Green was brought in. As soon as the dragon handlers left the arena, the next cannon blast echoed through the stadium.
Fleur slowly got to her feet and drew a shaky breath. Neville stood beside her, and before she could say or do anything else, he moved in front of her, cupped her face in his hands, and gave her a firm, loving kiss. After catching her breath, she smiled at her beaux. "Thank you, mon coeur," she said. "I really needed that."
The rest of her friends gathered around her as well, offering quick but heartfelt words of encouragement. When she turned and left the tent, Neville walked beside her holding her hand. "I can't go into the arena with you," he said, "but I'll go with you as far as I can and wait for you there."
"Thank you," she said again. "That's sweet of you."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "You know, I hope they let you keep your armour," he said. "It looks really good on you."
Her cheeks pinked a little but she looked pleased. "It is custom-made," she said. "I'm sure they'll let me keep it."
By that time they'd made it to the nearest entry gate. "I'll be right here," Neville promised. Fleur stood on her toes and gave him a quick kiss before stepping through the gate.
The veela assessed the situation as she ran into the arena and took cover behind a boulder. The sleek green dragon was curled around her eggs, keeping a wary eye on the blonde girl but making no aggressive moves. Once behind the boulder, she cast several fireproofing spells on her armour and herself, then stowed her wand in its holster and stepped out from behind the boulder. Holding her arms wide in a non-threatening position, she simply stood there before beginning to sing.
Afterwards, no one could quite remember any details about her song other than it was heart-wrenchingly beautiful. Though no one else knew it, Fleur's song was in the secret magical tongue of the veela. None but veela could speak it, understand it, or even remember it. The language itself was beautiful, but when sung it transcended earthly experience. Even the nonmagical world had legends of the music of the veela.
Thousands of years before, a small veela conclave used their song as a defensive measure against outsiders. The conclave was established on the Sirenum Scopuli, three small islands just off Italy's Amalfi Coast, and while the conclave remained hidden behind notice-me-not charms it was much more difficult at that time to hide the islands themselves. Fortunately, the shoals around the islands were some of the most treacherous in the Mediterranean, allowing only one twisting course through the rocks, and then only if the tide was right and the boat small enough. When the veela lookouts saw an unauthorised ship approach, several of them would go to the shoals and begin singing, mesmerising the sailors and causing the ships to run upon the jagged rocks and sink. No survivors were allowed to live long.
Harsh measures, to be sure, but the alternative in those harsh times was to be hunted, captured, and sold into sexual bondage. Veela could not depend on kings or governments to protect them, as they were usually the ones responsible for attempts to capture them, and so they had to protect themselves. The fearsome (and admittedly exaggerated, though not by much) reputation of the sirens, as they were known in the nonmagical world, was encouraged and enhanced, with the end result being that they were largely left alone.
Fleur could have easily used her allure to entrance most all of the males (and even some of the females), causing them to throw themselves into the arena and attempt to collect the golden egg for her, but that would surely have resulted in many people dying, and likely losing most if not all of the dragon eggs as well. So it was that she kept a firm grasp on her allure and used nothing more than her voice to mesmerise and effectively paralyse everyone within earshot. Not a sound was made by anyone for fear of disrupting her song as she slowly glided forward, her voice not faltering once.
She stopped directly in front of the sleek dragon's head and raised her arms as the song crescendoed. She reached out and gently lay her hand on the dragon's nose, caressing the warm pebbled skin of her snout as the song neared its end. As she sang the final note, she leaned forward and kissed the giant reptile on the nose, her hand still softly moving across the dragon's face.
No one dared make a sound.
The dragon extended her tongue from behind her sharp teeth and slowly drew it up Fleur's cheek, looking for all the world like a giant puppy. She in turn nuzzled the dragon's cheek, slipping an arm around her massive neck in a warm embrace. Then, backing away a step or two, she gently guided the dragon's head around to look at her clutch and pointed to the golden egg without touching it. The dragon leaned closer to the egg, took a deep sniff, then touched it gingerly with her tongue.
Fleur had never before imagined seeing a look of distaste upon a dragon's face, but there was no mistaking it. Careful not to damage any of her own eggs, the Welsh Green nudged the fake egg out of her nest with her snout. The veela leaned over and kissed the top of her head before backing up and picking up the golden egg. Her prize in hand, she exited out the nearest gate and presented herself before the judges with Neville at her side. "Excellente," Maxime said, gazing at her student with warm, almost parental pride.
"Simply amazing!" Bagman gushed, oblivious to the frown that flickered across the Beauxbatons champion's face.
Crouch nodded in approval, Karkaroff sneered, and Dumbledore offered her restrained congratulations. She had an instinctive feeling that the old man really didn't like her that much, and it was a toss-up as to whether it was because of her friendship with the Potters, her status as a so-called "magical creature," or simply the fact that she was a female. Possibly – or even probably – it was a combination of all three.
She too was directed towards the hospital tent, and after the dragons were swapped out in the same manner, the cannon blast sounded once more.
Just as the two previous champions had, Viktor Krum entered the arena and immediately took shelter behind a boulder. As soon as he was safely out of the Chinese Fireball's line of sight, he began conjuring.
The creature that began to take shape might have been a tiger, albeit one of immense proportions. A half-dozen curving horns grew from its head, and its front forelegs were textured like the legs and talons of a raptor, although the pads of its feet and retractable claws were every bit those of a tiger. Jagged fins sprouted from the elbow joints of its forelegs and the calves of its hind legs. Enormous wings grew from its shoulders and were covered with black and orange feathers that disappeared into grey smoke or mist at the outer edges. Its ridged reptilian tail ended in tendrils of flame.
"Dear Merlin," Bagman whispered. "What is that… thing?"
Few in the stadium knew, but many would see the fearsome creature again in their more unpleasant dreams. Cho Chang and Su Li, both of Ravenclaw and both of Oriental descent, recognised it immediately. The qiongqi was a XXXXX-rated magical creature and a known wizard-killer, every bit as deadly as a manticore, basilisk, or nundu. Native to China, the qiongqi lived deep inside the Zhangjiajie National Forest, a nature preserve of mysterious primordial woodlands and breathtaking stone spires towering hundreds and even thousands of feet through the dense foliage. Bordered on the north by the Yangtze River and on the south by the Yuanjiang River, the eerie forest was home to several magical and mythical beasts, but none so terrible as the qiongqi. The fearsome creature was even known in the nonmagical mythology of China, though according to those stories it was a man-eating demon.
The Chinese Fireball recognised it the moment it leapt out from behind the boulder and dashed to the next one. While a single qiongqi had no hope of bringing down a dragon, small groups of as little as three or four had been known to bring down an adult dragon. The dragon, though, was not the one in danger.
As clever as they were vicious, qiongqi were especially devious when it came to robbing dragon clutches of their eggs. The Fireball stood protectively over her nest, every muscle tensed as she watched for the creature to make its move while it circled around.
Meanwhile, Viktor peered around the boulder and cast the levitation charm onto the golden egg. When he tried to lift it, though, nothing happened. It appeared that the egg had been charmed against such attempts. Undaunted, he took a flat rock from the ground that was slightly larger than his outspread palm. He transfigured it into an almost identical rock, although this one had a bowl-shaped depression hollowed out of one side. As it was practically the same as the original, the transfiguration should hold for hours if not days, more than enough time for Viktor's purposes.
He cast a powerful sticking charm on the concave surface and then levitated the rock, careful to not let it touch anything. Using deft, precise movements he guided it to the clutch, and while the Fireball was distracted by the conjured qiongqi, lowered it to the top of the golden egg in the centre of the clutch. Still using the levitation spell, he carefully lifted the rock back up, bringing the egg along with it. This time his attempt was successful.
Speed was now of the essence. Maintaining his silence, he brought the levitated stone back to him and ended the charms. His seeker-honed reflexes caught the egg in one hand and the rock in the other, the latter of which he placed on the ground.
The conjured qiongqi still moved around the outer edges of the boulders, so while the dragon's attention was focused on the winged tiger-like creature on the other side of the arena, Viktor took advantage of the situation and ran through the same gate that he'd entered, ending the conjuration as he left.
With the disappearance of the conjured predator, the dragon settled down again and returned to her nest. As the dragon handlers entered the arena to swap out the dragons for the fourth contestant, Viktor Krum presented himself before the judges.
This time, to no one's surprise, Headmaster Karkaroff actually smiled at a Champion's performance. "Dobre, dobre," he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. Viktor inwardly cringed but did not let his stoic expression slip.
"What in Merlin's name was that?" a still-shaken Ludo Bagman demanded.
"That was a qiongqi," Viktor explained. "It can't truly be considered a natural predator of a dragon, but it has been known to cause them lots of trouble. As they're native to China, I suspected that a Chinese Fireball would be quite familiar with them."
"And so it was, Mr Krum," Dumbledore observed. "A most brilliant strategy, if I do say so myself." He dismissed the Durmstrang Champion to the hospital tent and settled in to await the last event.
Gasps and shocked silence swept through the crowd as the dragon handlers brought out the fourth and final dragon. The Hungarian Horntail was far and away the largest and most vicious-looking of all the dragons so far, and almost everyone in the stadium wondered how a fourth-year student could possibly face such a beast.
Upon seeing her clutch, the Horntail reared back upon her hind legs, stretched wide her massive wings, and bellowed her rage to the sky – accompanied by a tremendous gout of flame that swept back and forth across the stadium, only for it to harmlessly splash off the shields erected to protect the spectators.
Even so, shrieks and cries of dismay echoed throughout the stadium. Bagman himself shrieked in terror and fainted when the flame passed in front of the judges' box. Even Dumbledore nearly shat himself when it happened. From the look and smell of things, Bagman had actually done so when he lost consciousness. Giving the former quidditch star a disgusted look, Crouch fired of the cannon-blast charm to summon the final competitor.
While they waited for Lord Potter to make his appearance, Dumbledore hurriedly cast a cleaning charm on Bagman, followed by an enervating charm. "Dear Merlin!" the former beater whimpered as his eyelids flew open.
"Up you go, Ludo," Dumbledore said cordially, helping the man back up to his seat. "Mr Potter is about to compete."
Indeed, Harry appeared at the flap of the Champions' tent with Hermione and Luna at his side. The trio walked to the nearest entry gate where he hugged both girls, giving his wife a passionate kiss in the process. Then, left hand casually shoved into his pants pocket and right hand loosely holding his wand, he strolled into the arena.
Harry's appearance was in stark contrast to that of the actual Champions. The three Champions in their glossy leather armour looked like professional athletes and warriors, while Harry in his school clothes, robe open, tie loosened, and shirt collar unbuttoned, looked like the embodiment of sloppiness if not slovenliness. Dumbledore fumed at his student's disrespect, too embarrassed to meet the eyes of his fellow school heads and especially the British Ministry officials.
Just inside the entry, Harry stopped and lazily raised his wand. "Accio golden egg," he said, his voice dripping with boredom.
Nothing happened.
After a few moments he shrugged, turned around, and exited to where his girls awaited.
"Do you want to hear your scores?" Hermione asked as she took his arm.
"Not really," he said. "I've participated, for what it's worth. Beyond that, I don't really give a fuck." Taking Luna's hand, he began walking towards the castle.
A disbelieving Albus Dumbledore looked between the retreating figure of Harry Potter and the terrifying visage of the dragon crouched protectively over her nest. Damnation, was the brat not even going to try to get the egg?
Bagman was the first to break the stunned silence. "Can he do that? He can't do that, can he?"
Crouch was not at all amused. "What's the meaning of this, Dumbledore?" he growled. "Your… student does not appear to be cooperating as he should be."
"My apologies, sirs, madam," he said, his inward fury belying his outward calm. "If you will excuse me for a moment, I will go speak with our recalcitrant lord." Turning in place, he apparated to a point ahead of Harry's path.
"Mr – Lord Potter," the headmaster said as the trio approached, "would you mind telling me what in Merlin's name you think you were doing back there?"
"Sure!" Harry replied brightly. "I was participating!"
Dumbledore sadly shook his head. "I'm sorry, my… Lord," he corrected himself at the last second. "Your actions – or more appropriately lack of actions – can hardly be expressed as participating."
Harry shrugged. "It was enough to safeguard my magic," he retorted. "That is literally all that matters."
"So embarrassing yourself and your school doesn't matter?"
"Nope. I wasn't supposed to be in this bloody spectacle to begin with," he said. "Cedric is here for the honour of Hogwarts. I'm just the poor bastard that got roped into this thing against my will, and if you'd done your fucking job properly from the beginning, none of this would've ever happened. Besides, why should I care about the opinions of those who love me or hate me based on what the latest Daily Prophet says?"
"But how do you plan to win?"
Harry gave him an incredulous look. "I don't," he said. "Didn't you fucking listen to me at the drawing? Or did you think I was lying?"
The headmaster's mouth resembled that of a goldfish for a few moments before he shook his head again. "Nevertheless, you should join the Champions to receive your scores," he tried again.
"Don't worry about it, old bean," Harry rejoined. "Straight zeros is fine. I've got other places to be."
"And just where might that be?"
"Anyplace but here." With that, Harry stepped around the headmaster and guided the girls away. Not a one of them so much as glanced behind, leaving a flummoxed Albus Dumbledore in their wake.
***FTR***
The Hogwarts headmaster apparated back to the judges' box empty-handed.
"Well?" Crouch demanded.
"Young Lord Potter is adamant that he participate as little as possible," Dumbledore said, his frustration evident in his voice. "He does not care about the tournament, he does not care about reputations – magical Britain's, the Ministry's, Hogwarts', or even his own – and he does not care about points. He told me, in fact that straight zeros is acceptable."
While Bagman gaped at his words, Crouch frowned. "He really does not intend to win, does he?"
"So it would seem," Dumbledore said, deflating.
"Well." Madame Maxime's voice was more than a little smug. "I should think that it has been made more than obvious that Lord Potter should have been immediately released from the tournament," she said. "I for one do not understand why you lot insisted on his participation, but it is equally obvious that you do not have that young man's best interests in mind. I, of course, will be happy to comply with his wishes and issue him zero points."
"As will I," Karkaroff sneered. "The whelp should have been disqualified as soon as his name was drawn."
"Enough," Dumbledore rejoined. "He is the Boy-Who-Lived. We couldn't risk his magic like that. There are also other things at play here, things that go much deeper than Lord Potter's participation in this tournament. Now, shall we all agree that his performance was lacklustre at best, and given that he did not retrieve the egg, award him zero points?"
Bagman was the only one who seemed reluctant to agree. The Ministry Department Head kept looking at the golden egg in the middle of the Horntail's clutch, a mournful expression on his face. Dumbledore inwardly rolled his eyes. It was well-known that Bagman was fond of gambling. It was also well-known that he was a sucker for an underdog and would often take long-shot bets in the belief that his support in that regard would help them beat the odds. Of course, it rarely worked. Dumbledore was positive that the former beater had taken at least one such bet regarding Harry Potter's likelihood of winning. He just hoped for Bagman's sake that he hadn't been foolish enough to place his bet with Gringotts. The goblins were known to deal harshly with those unable to pay their debts. Bagman actually looked like he was about to cry as he gave Lord Potter a zero for his performance.
The three champions were summoned and given their scores. Recognising that each of the three had completed the task with no injury to themselves, the dragons, or the eggs, Dumbledore, Maxime, Crouch, and Bagman gave them each the full ten points. Karkaroff, on the other hand, deducted a few points from Cedric because, as he said, he came to see magical prowess, not a dragon eating lunch. He deducted even more from Fleur for similar reasons, citing that he didn't come to see a concert. At that point Viktor gave his headmaster a disgusted look and demanded that the judges drop the lowest score of each champion. The other four judges agreed, much to Karkaroff's outrage, and the three champions left the First Task in a three-way tie for first place.
The performances of the champions were stellar, ensuring that the tournament got off to an auspicious start. However, Potter's disrespectful attitude during his performance, especially as his was the last, cast a disappointing pall over the hype and excitement. Dumbledore and the Ministry representatives were not at all looking forward to seeing the writeup in the Daily Prophet.
***FTR***
Minerva McGonagall knocked on the suite door of the Potters' residence. In her other hand was the golden egg that Lord Potter had declined to collect, ensuring that he failed the task rather than interfere with what he believed was the true focal point of the tournament. Dumbledore had petulantly been disinclined to allow her to give him the egg, but relented after she threatened to tear his beard out by the roots and strangle him with it. As she was in a high dudgeon and resembled nothing so much as a Highland shield-maiden in full battle mode, the headmaster believed that she may very well give a whole-hearted attempt to do exactly that. Scowling, he relented and told her to go ahead and give him the bloody egg.
The door opened to reveal Harry standing there in blue jeans and black t-shirt, a quart-sized tankard of Guinness in his left hand. "Evening, Professor," he greeted, opening the door wide. "Won't you come in?"
McGonagall was not at all surprised to see Miss Lovegood curled up on the sofa next to Lady Potter, tankards equal to the one Lord Potter carried clutched in the hands of each girl. She was somewhat taken aback to see the three champions there, especially when she saw Mademoiselle Delacour perched elegantly on Mr Longbottom's knee. They all held their own tankards of beer and looked like they were in the middle of light-hearted conversation.
"Good evening, Mr Potter," she said as she stepped inside.
"Care for a Guinness?" he offered.
"Mr Potter!" she said in a playfully scandalised tone. "It is not appropriate for a professor to consume alcohol with students in the school."
"Does that mean you'll be able to join us at the Three Broomsticks next Hogsmeade weekend?" he asked in his cheekiest tone.
Laughing, McGonagall shook her head. "You are incorrigible, Mr Potter," she said. "We'll see. In the meantime, here is your golden egg holding the clue for the Second Task on February 24." Her face turned serious. "You should know that the headmaster initially objected to me giving you the egg. Knowing what I do about the Second Task, ignorance will almost certainly result in a fatality."
"Indeed," Harry replied, a stony glare directed at the large egg now resting on the palm of his hand. "You know, I'm getting bloody sick and tired of that old man's games, Professor. One of these days I'm afraid he's going to push me just a little too far. And when that happens…" He shook his head in irritation.
"I understand," McGonagall said. "I would encourage you to use a measure of restraint, though. I would hate to see you get in trouble because of his infernal schemes."
"No worries. I promise that anything I do will be legal. With my rank and station, though, he should probably take that as a warning. Either way, he's not worth going to Azkaban for."
The professor nodded her agreement. "I'm glad to hear that," she said. Looking at the Potters' guests, she made a snap decision. "The formal announcement isn't to be for a couple of weeks," she said, "but since you're all here, I might as well inform you that part of the festivities surrounding the Triwizard Tournament is the Yule Ball. It is traditionally opened by the three Champions and may be attended by fourth years and up. Third years may also attend if invited by an older student," she finished, looking at Luna.
"That's okay," the blonde Ravenclaw answered. "I'll be in Sweden with Daddy during the holidays. He found an excellent lead on where we might find a colony of crumple-horned snorkacks."
Harry gave McGonagall a concerned look. "Professor, I have no doubt that our esteemed headmaster will try to force me to open the ball along with the real champions. I would love to escort the Lady Potter and dance away the evening with her, but the only way we will be able to attend is if we have Dumbledore's oath, verbal and in writing, with you as witness to both, that we will be left alone that night and that we may attend as regular students. And we must have that oath no later than the day after the formal announcement. Otherwise, I think we will join Luna and Mr Lovegood in Sweden, even if we get the oath later."
Hermione nodded her agreement with her husband's statement.
McGonagall nodded as well, not at all surprised. "Very well," she said. "I personally have no issue with your intent, though I predict that the headmaster will likely be… difficult."
Harry shrugged. "He can be as difficult as he wants, I'm not playing any of his goddamn games."
***FTR***
Later that night, after walking their friends back to their quarters, the Potters took the golden egg to their bathroom and opened it in the tub to confirm the message was the same as the one they both remembered. Once confirmed, Harry closed the egg and tossed it out of the tub before relaxing with his arm around Hermione's shoulders.
"When do you want to tell the others?" Hermione asked.
"Let's give them the weekend to sort it out," he said. "We can share a hint Monday."
She didn't say anything in response but instead climbed into his lap, wrapped her arms around him, and began kissing him to within an inch of his life.
***Author's Note***
Just in case anyone was wondering, the story is finished! I don't start posting until it's all done. So while it may be months or even a couple of years between stories, they will never take a long time to post, and they will not be left unfinished like so many otherwise excellent tales. If anything does get left incomplete, you may safely assume that it is because I have embarked upon my own "next great adventure."