Truck to the plane to the truck.
Thirteen
Shinrin-Yoku
Harry spent Sunday devising a syllabus alone in a dark corner of the library where Hermione could not stare at him as though he had willingly walked to the gallows and left her a widow.
The girl still wasn't talking to him, though he knew Daisy hadn't mentioned anything about their encounter with Fleur Delacour or what they had done with the cats. If Hermione was waiting for Harry to admit to any wrongdoing, however—for entering the Triwizard Tournament or for being mildly interested in a veela—she would be sorely disappointed.
He missed the days when the girl had just been a bothersome know-it-all and not some lovestruck bucktoothed maiden whose feelings he'd somehow become responsible for managing.
It was all Daisy's fault, he figured, but he couldn't bring himself to be angry with his sister. She liked to help people, even when her help ended in their distinct disadvantage. It was a noble quality.
Viktor Krum had also made his way into the library, but he did not approach Harry's alcove and instead sat facing the bookstacks with a terrible look of sadness sagging his hawkish face. Harry was certain that after last night Professor Karkaroff had forbidden him to fraternize with the Hogwarts champions. Professor Karkaroff who, if Professor Dumbledore was correct, had nothing at all to do with Daisy's entry into the tournament.
But then who could have done it?
The headmaster had advised him to leave that aside for the moment, to focus on readying himself for the first task, that he and Professor Moody and the Ministry wizards would find the culprit. But it was difficult to forget, and Harry's insides itched where his new teeth were growing. He paused in scribbling down spells, pooling black ink on the parchment with his quill.
The corner of his borrowed storybook peeked out from under the flap of his satchel. He reached for it, recalling Oter Haldingsson's journey. It couldn't be the same... there would not be any winter zombies or drow in the Triwizard Tournament. But that first test in the saga had also been one of courage. But at least Oter had known what he would face. There was no way for Harry to prepare his sister for everything.
He threw the flap over the book and pushed his bag off into a shadowy corner of the alcove, looking ahead through the nearly empty library.
Perhaps it would be good for Harry to approach Krum and sit at his table. The older boy might have some idea of what they were about to face... but that would bring him directly in line with Hermione. And he didn't particularly want to snap at her this morning. So he gave the Bulgarian his best apologetic look and redoubled his focus on figuring out what he might be able to teach his sister about magic in twenty-three days.
Daisy was at least adequate at performing most of the spells they had learned through the end of third year, and many of the spells they had learned since the start of term. She was woefully illiterate, however, when it came to offensive magic—aside from the silly jinxes and insipid hexes she used in her corridor skirmishes with Malfoy. She was middling at Charms and Transfiguration but had always done well for Defense, at least. He should start there—with Deflection Spells and Shield Charms and Stunning Spells. If Daisy could manage to get those down reasonably well, she would be able to hold her own until Harry could find an opportunity to help. He frowned. And he should probably add something more offensive, something she might be interested in, as a treat. Maybe a blasting spell or something conjured….
By lunchtime on Monday, he had managed to get a reasonable schedule in place, though finding the time or a space to practice in had proved more difficult than he'd imagined. They were excused from examinations but were still expected to attend all of their classes and complete all of their assignments.
"We could go down to visit Apollonius," offered Daisy, chewing on the end of her quill while she looked through her new syllabus. "I'm sure he'd let us use his chamber for practice—why does it say here that I've got to wait until my twelfth lesson to learn this Blasting Curse?"
"How can you practice making things explode if you can't deflect the shrapnel?" explained Harry. He rubbed at his eyes. "We're losing time. Apollonius… he might, though. And he might be able to tell us something about the first task. He's been through that one at least."
"It can't be the same?" said Ron, looking up from his star chart—he'd put off his Divination homework again and was hurriedly throwing together his horoscopes for Professor Trelawney. "They'll have a different task than that one from a hundred years ago, and it's got to be safer. They've promised that much. It can't be anything like dueling basilisks or battling dementors."
Ron had taken the shock of their entry into the tournament well, once Harry had explained that someone entered Daisy in order to get her killed and that he had joined in order to prevent that from happening. Harry had not explained the bit about the Death Eaters, Lord Voldemort, and Peter Pettigrew, though. And Ron was more than happy to suspect rather than be told outright. He was a good friend, and brave when it counted, but Harry couldn't involve him in something like this. The boy was right. They weren't facing basilisks or dementors anymore. They were up against real dark wizards, and they were much worse than any creature with poison teeth could ever hope to be.
The rest of the school—aside from Gryffindor House—did not seem as accepting of the Potter twins being their champions. The older students were particularly cross. The Ravenclaw girl, Fawcett, was scowling at them through her breakfast, clearly upset that two fourth years had figured out how to get past the Age Line where she had not. The sixth and seventh year Hufflepuffs were staring incredulously, as though Harry had robbed them of their jewels in broad daylight on the high street and no policemen had come to arrest him. The Slytherins looked much the same. The thick fellow, Warrington, was cracking his knuckles over his eggs as he glowered. Montague was snarling. When Harry caught Lyra Malfoy's eye, however, the blonde girl gave him an odd smug look, as though she had expected nothing less. Beside her, Tracey Davis was nodding, her lips pursed.
Harry dropped his gaze and poked at his pumpkin soup.
"I could help you practice," said Ron. "You won't have to teach me any spells, but I could at least help. Daisy and I have got the same schedule anyhow." He dipped his quill but left it sitting in the inkpot. "I could help."
"We can't ask you to do that, Ron," said Daisy. "Look—you haven't even finished Trelawney's homework, and you've just got to make it all up."
Ron's ears went pink. "I just put it off. It's not the same without Harry to talk with," he said. "I reckon I should've just done away with it and picked something else. Bill says Runes is all right." He sighed. "Or I could have taken up Muggle Studies. Dad was upset that I hadn't. He's done too many Memory Charms on the fellow that comes to service the fellytone and doesn't want to cause permanent damage." He grimaced. "He was hoping I could help him fix it."
"Telephone, Ron," said Daisy with a snort. "And I only took up Divination because I thought it would be a real class. You lot didn't have to follow." She pointed at Ron's star chart. "Those aren't even the right constellations in the sky. I'll bet Trelawney made it all up so I'd have a miserable horoscope. Go have a look at the Astronomy one. Sinistra's is entirely different."
Ron stared at his chart. "Bloody hell, that barmy old bat."
Daisy giggled.
"You can help, Ron," said Harry. He drained the soup from his bowl in one too hot gulp and set it aside. "If you want. Though it'll probably take a long time, and you've still got exams at the end of the year—we haven't."
"That's all right by me," said Ron, brightening up. "I'll just do what I can, and what I can't, I won't. Owls aren't until next year, anyhow."
"Don't let Hermione hear you," said Daisy seriously. "She's gotten us all enormous O.W.L. textbooks for Christmas. I saw them wrapped up in her trunk."
"She's been sitting with Lavender and Parvati ever since we met Krum," said Ron, wrinkling his long nose. "Told her that the house-elves all live in spiked cages down in the dungeons, did you?"
"I didn't do anything," said Daisy. "I'm just guilty by association." She pointed to Harry. "He's the one that did it."
"I didn't do anything," said Harry, squinting at his sister. "And if she doesn't want to speak with me that's just all right. We're busy anyhow."
"Yes, yes, busy," said Daisy, bouncing in her seat. She snatched up her syllabus again. "Why can't we start on Stunning Spells, at least? What if we've got to fight one of those winged baboons you were gushing over—you said it yourself, the only way to get them out of the air is to stun them."
"Papiolatus," corrected Harry. "But they're from the Serengeti, so I don't think Mr. Bagman will be able to get them to come and chase you about." He tapped the parchment. "I've done it in this order for a reason. You just follow along."
Daisy stuck her tongue out. "Fine, Professor. Let's go have a chat with Apollonius."
"Erm," said Ron, folding up his star chart, "can I come as well?"
Daisy set her hands on her hips. "Would you like to be the first student expelled because they didn't finish their Divination homework?"
Ron unfolded his chart and dropped back onto the bench, muttering.
"Barmy old bat."
It seemed that during the day, Apollonius Carrow was a touch more subdued than he was at night. They could hardly hear his chains rattling through the door to his chamber. The handle was still ice cold, but Harry grabbed it and pushed the door open. The chamber was still dark, lit only by the twin torches high on the walls, but the light from the dungeon corridor slipped in through the opening and painted the ghost in yellow. He was hung high and writhing.
"Noooooo!" moaned Apollonius Carrow. "How can I be so witless? Four-hundred-and-ninety-two attempts! I should be hanged! My entrails expelled through my rect—ah, hello, children!"
"You aren't that much older than us, Apollonius," said Daisy, striding forth with her wand lit. "Stop calling us children."
"You've been away a good long while," said the ghost, dropping to the ground in a storm of chains. "Has it happened then? Have the champions been selected? Have our prayers been answered, sweet child—Daisy?" He approached them, a ravenous look twisting his bloody face. "Have we our chance at redemption?"
"Not... exactly," said Daisy. She dropped her gaze and kicked at some dust piled up on the floor. "Harry is the champion—"
"Splendid!" cried Apollonius, leaping into the air. "What fortune! Precisely what we needed!"
Daisy shuffled her feet. "Apollonius—"
"Now, come here, my boy," continued Apollonius, floating forward; his manacles gleamed blue-white as he rubbed his hands together. "Let's have it. How did you best the old saddle-goose? Your sister has been telling no end of tales—"
"Apollonius!" shouted Daisy, interrupting the ghost's feverish approach. "I'm the champion, too. The Goblet of Fire chose me as well."
"I beg your pardon?" Apollonius hung in the air, bewildered. "You are the champion for Hogwarts? How can you be the champion as well as your brother?" He backed up a touch as Daisy nodded her head. "What manner of dark sorcery caused this?" Then the ghost fell to the ground, howling, "That damnable cup! Another innocent lost! I can't bear it—not again, not another death for that infernal Goblet! Such a bright girl!"
"Will you shut up!" cried Daisy, stomping through the debris to face the ghost. "It's done already!" She lowered her voice and put a hand on his spectral arm. "And we need your help. We need a place to practice. Harry is going to teach me spells." Daisy looked up at the bloodstained ceiling and the walls dotted with rusty hooks. "No one is going to die this year."
As the week progressed, Harry saw a side of his sister that he'd only witnessed when they were close to an untimely demise.
She was intent.
Sitting at the small writing desk he'd conjured in Apollonius's chamber, Daisy devoured the notes he'd taken for her on the Shield Charm, and could almost recite them from memory. She'd even started taking his books into bed with her, and he'd been woken several times by her Patronus asking him to practice the charm in the common room in the dead of night.
Harry was proud, of course, but also perplexed. Daisy had spent three years at Hogwarts and the only real passion she'd shown in all that time had been for Quidditch. Now that she'd been drafted into a magical tournament and might be killed, there was a fever-wild excitement in her eyes.
"It's fun," said Daisy, when he asked her why she had suddenly become so interested in studying and practicing magic and ruining what little time for sleep he'd managed to scrounge together. "It's just like before with the Patronus Charm." She grinned wide enough for Harry to see her eye teeth. "It's fun when you teach me things. Just the two of us preparing for battle."
Harry shook his head. Preparing for battle... against what, though?
"What about Ron?" he said. "And Apollonius? Don't they factor into your battle plans?"
"What about me what?" grumbled Ron. "Have I really got to strap the cushions round my head? She can't really knock me unconscious?"
They were again in Apollonius's chamber, now brightly lit by a dozen of Harry's conjured torches and furnished with heaps of conjured cushions and pillows. Daisy's desk had been pushed into one corner, leaving a clear open space for them to practice Shield Charms and Stunning Spells.
"I'd bet I can!" said Daisy. She chucked one of the orange cushions at the redhead. "Strap that one round your bollocks." She grinned. "It'll hurt if you get them caught on one of the hooks when I've knocked you over."
Ron gave her a disgruntled look, but gathered up the assortment of belts and straps from the floor and set to wrapping himself with cushions. By the end, he needed Harry to help him cinch the last one around his neck. He tottered over to the far wall of the chamber looking like a dressed-up Orangutan with a leather fetish.
"All right then," said Harry; he crossed to where Apollonius was crouched beside Daisy, correcting her wand movements. "Have a go."
"I fear she may confuse the snap for a flick, Mr. Potter," said Apollonius. "Perhaps we should allow her to recite the theory once more?"
"She reckons she's got it," said Harry. "And we've got class soon. There's no time to dally." He scratched at his head. They had already skipped breakfast to get down into the ghost's chamber unbothered. Daisy had practically sprinted through the dungeons hoping to get as much practice time as she could, now that he'd allowed her to move on from shields. "Worst case she knocks herself over trying."
"You think so, do you?" said Daisy, scowling. "I got the Shield Charm done faster than you thought I would. I'm ahead by four lessons!"
"But you're rushing," said Harry. "This one's not just for blocking spells, you have to concentrate, you've got to—"
"Yes, yes," said Daisy, cutting him off, "I've read your whole pamphlet—I can do it."
"Daisy."
"You don't think I'm as clever as your little French éclair?" growled Daisy, yanking her hair up into a ponytail. "She can do it, but I can't?"
"I didn't say that." Harry frowned. "And calling an éclair French is putting a hat on a hat, I think." He moved to straighten his sister's wand arm. "And Fleur is older than us. She's had more time to practice." His frown deepened. "And will you let it go? She only prances about like that because she can see you fuming. She hardly talks with me unless you're around."
"She's just so smug," said Daisy, facing the wrapped up Weasley boy. "She's almost as bad as Malfoy. I hope there's a dueling portion to this bloody tournament. I'll blast her silly blue eyeballs right out of her stupid French head—stay still, Ron." She took a deep breath, practicing her wand motion again. "All right, here I go—Stupefy!"
A dart of crackling red light burst from the tip of Daisy's wand and struck Ron across the nose. He blinked, coughed, then fell onto his bottom, rubbing his face. "Ack."
"Nearly," muttered Harry, crossing the chamber to pull Ron upright; he'd been slightly stunned, just enough to lose his balance, but not enough to lose consciousness. "Nearly." Harry nodded back at Daisy, smiling. "Good work."
Daisy let off a growl of frustration. "That wasn't it, though."
"An excellent first attempt, nonetheless," said Apollonius. "Why don't you try once more, Daisy?" The ghost floated around her, stroking his chin, chains tinkling lightly. "There is no obvious error in your form."
"So a subtle one then?" said Daisy, rolling her eyes. She squinted over at Ron. "Maybe he was just too far away?"
"I think I was just far enough, thank you," said Ron; he struggled to turn his head. "Harry, can I try and block it? I might be able to do that charm now."
"Sorry," said Harry, patting the boy on his padded shoulder. "You can't—we've got to see if she can knock you out."
"Oh, all right." Ron forced himself straight and squared up in front of Daisy. "Go on then."
"Stupefy!" cried Daisy. Another dart of red light shot from her wand to strike Ron in his unprotected middle.
"Oof!" he hissed, stumbling back into the wall. He grabbed at one of the rusted iron pegs embedded in the stone to keep from falling. "Blimey, that smarts."
"I've got to get it," said Daisy. "There are only eighteen days left, and we've got Professor Moody tomorrow. What if it's like what Apollonius said—what if the first task is Quintapeds, and they haven't got any bagpipes for us to calm them down? I'll need to stun them."
"They wouldn't," said Ron, shocked. "They wouldn't send you out to wrangle a Quintaped all alone. Professor Dumbledore wouldn't allow it." He waddled around to face Harry. "Right?"
"I don't know," said Harry, pulling his glasses off. He went to sit atop Daisy's desk and ran a hand through his hair. "They've been very plain in saying that it's a test of courage in the face of the unknown." He shot a glance at the ghost of Apollonius Carrow. "But it's essentially a test of our resourcefulness, too." He pulled his wand from his pocket and held it in his palm. "This is all we're allowed to bring. There'll be nothing else."
"Yes," said Apollonius, coming to hover before him. "The rules for this first task have not changed, it seems. A test of courage and resourcefulness."
"I'd think the courage part is the main event," muttered Ron. He toddled forward. "If they pulled old Aragog out of the forest and sent me out to face him alone, I'd soil my drawers." He swatted at the strap to the cushion tied around his leg. "If I managed not to faint, then I'd worry about how I could beat him—can you get this one, Harry?"
"I'm not finished yet," said Daisy.
"Oh, come on, Daisy," said Ron. "We've got Hagrid soon."
"Bloody hell," whispered Harry. "It's dragons. The first task." He leapt from the table and faced Ron. "When does Charlie go back to Romania?"
"He's already left, I think," said Ron, furrowing his brow. "Mum mentioned something about him needing new trousers before he went back. You didn't think he was really going to bring dragons to Hogwarts? And why would they need dragons from Romania? They've got plenty in Wales and Scotland."
"Wild ones, maybe," said Daisy. She put her wand in her teeth and moved to help Harry undo the redhead's straps. "The ones tha' Charlie's go' migh' be tame."
"You can't tame a dragon," said Harry. "Charlie just puts them all together in a safe place so people won't bother them. It's a preservation."
"But you can't fight a dragon!" croaked Ron. "That's just as bad as a basilisk! Charlie says it takes two and three wizards just to get them to take their scale-rot cure." He stared at Daisy. "You may as well stop practicing Stunning Spells, then. You won't be able to stun a dragon all by yourself." He poked at her forearm with a finger. "They've got really thick skin."
"We don't know that it's dragons for sure," said Daisy, undoing the final strap near Ron's neck. "It could as easily be the Quintapeds." But she looked unsure. "We'd have to change my lessons, then. I can't conjure bagpipes."
"Hagrid's all but admitted that it's dragons," said Harry. "Remember? And Charlie, too. He said he'd be seeing us. And what's a better test of courage than battling a dragon?"
"Battling dementors?" said Daisy.
"One dementor can't compare to a full-grown dragon," said Ron, shuddering as he shifted out of his cushions. "And Dumbledore definitely isn't allowing any dementors back after last year."
"So how do we kill a dragon?" asked Daisy. "Do you think Hagrid will know?" She bit her lip. "But that's cheating. We're not supposed to get any help from professors."
"I'll tell you this," said Harry, staunching the sudden surge of fury that rose in him at Daisy's comment. "I won't be hurting any dragons." He stared at her hard. "And neither will you."
Daisy matched his look, before finally softening her gaze. "So what are we to do then, Harry? Get eaten up?"
"Hagrid's still got the books from when Norbert was a baby," said Harry. "I've seen them on his bookshelf. Let's start there."
"Fine," said Daisy with a sigh. "But we're not quitting my lessons. I was just starting to have fun."
"Speak for yourself," carped Ron, rubbing at his stomach.
They set the chamber back in order, bid farewell to the ghost, then hurried up from the dungeons and down the lawn to Hagrid's cabin, a few minutes earlier than usual. The November sky was clouded and gray, but it didn't smell like rain, yet.
The Beauxbatons carriage was lit up with small magical fairy lights that ran along the frame and hung over the door and down on the golden steps. Harry could see shadowy figures moving behind the periwinkle curtains as they approached the paddock.
Fleur had said that Madame Maxime was holding abbreviated lessons inside, during the day—though the veela-girl had claimed not to need any more lessons. She only had one year left at Beauxbatons and had been studying for the French equivalent of N.E.W.T.s for quite some time.
"Quit staring," sniped Daisy. "You were so keen on how we're busy, remember? You can't stop by to goggle at her feathers when there's work to be done."
"She hasn't got feathers," said Harry, flicking at his sister's forehead. "Unfortunately."
"Or fortunately." Daisy looped her arm through his and pulled him up Hagrid's steps. "I'd never see you again, otherwise. She'd keep you tucked away in her nest like a little chick."
The giant man met them at his door, blocking their entry with his thick arms and voluminous moleskin coat.
"Nearly time fer class," said Hagrid loudly, shooing them back down the steps. "And I've just done a bit o' tidying. Can't have yeh tracking mud, now."
"Tidying?" said Ron, his eyes going wide. "Hagrid what's the matter with you these days? You've never tidied before. Is it that Madame—"
"Codswallop—never tidied!" boomed Hagrid, flushing behind his great beard; he tilted his head back to stare at the blue carriage. "Memory's gone foggy hasn't it, eh, Ron?" He patted the youngest Weasley boy on the back just hard enough to send him stumbling for the pumpkin patch with a squeak.
"Hagrid, we know about the dragons," said Daisy. "We'll be needing to borrow your books." She wriggled away as he attempted to corral her towards the paddock. "Will you just let us in!"
"Blimey," hissed Hagrid, flustered. "Daisy, yer not s'posed ter know! Yer a champion! If they think I've told yeh... yeh'll be docked points!"
"Points?" asked Harry. "Is that how they score us?" But it didn't matter what they were scored. He just had to keep Daisy alive and in one piece. Hopefully they were bringing the smaller sort of dragon, a Welsh Green or a Swedish Short Snout. He lowered his voice. "Do you know what sort they've got—"
"Yer a champion as well, Harry," said Hagrid with a grimace. "I can't be telling yeh anything now." He sighed. "Gallopin' Gorgons, you two are always in the thick of it, aren't yeh?" He clapped Harry on the back, a tad more gently than he had Ron, and bent to whisper, "Come round after class."
By this time the rest of the Gryffindors and Slytherins had appeared up the lawn, looking as though they'd rather be anywhere else.
Hagrid had started to experiment with skrewt training, hoping to calm their bloodlust, and had asked the students to take the creatures on leashed walks during class-time, as though they were domesticated animals and not ravenous predators.
Harry didn't mind. He was the only one in the class who could manage his skrewt alone, and was more than happy to take the thing with him on a stroll through the forest. There was something nice about the green darkness there, something calming.
Daisy and Hermione were paired up, and Ron went with Neville at Harry's recommendation. He approached his usual skrewt, tied down to its post safely away from its brood-mates, and looped his length of rope around its middle. He made sure to stay clear of its sting.
The skrewts had grown to an enormous size by this time—nearly five feet in length—and had lost their day-old shellfish scent. They now emanated a rotten cologne of sulfur. Harry suspected that whatever fuel they used to blast off was housed within their bowels near the blasting end.
The skrewts' skin had changed as well. They were no longer soft and slimy and pink. Each one was now covered in hard gray sheets of chitinous armor. Harry had found that his leash could fit neatly in-between the plates near the front of the creature, and eliminated any risk of it breaking loose to wreak terror over the grounds.
The skrewt bounded off for Hagrid's backyard pathway into the Forbidden Forest as soon as Harry let it off its hitching post. It was only their fourth walk, and he was shocked that it remembered where to go—especially because the thing had no discernable eyes.
Daisy cried out for him to wait for them, but too late. Harry and his skrewt were already past the fringe of the forest, and the skrewt would not be held in abeyance. Its sting was curled over its back and ready; its legs speared through the leaves and loam like skewers for lukewarm cheese fondue.
Harry cast a glance back over his shoulder. The girls wouldn't follow after him into the forest alone, and neither would Ron. He would have to circle around and meet them by the lake once his skrewt had tired itself out.
Oddly, Hagrid might have actually been on to something when he'd asked them to exercise the creatures. The deeper they progressed into the forest, the more the skrewt seemed to calm down. Harry let it decide which ways to go when they reached forks in the trail and lengthened the lead with a quiet spell so that it wasn't tugging him as it went.
Here and there it lashed into the underbrush with its sting or dove forward with a blast from its blasting hole, but it was behaving more as an excitable puppy than a vicious killing machine. Harry was content to let it frolic, and breathed the scent of pine, and oak, and wet mossy things as they went.
It was nice in here, alone, without his sister chattering, and Hermione glowering, and Ron grumbling.
He let his mind clear itself, as he'd practiced during his lessons with Professor Moody.
His Occulumency was improving—when he remembered to practice. It was difficult to do that in the castle, with plots to murder his sister, and girls behaving strangely, and the first task looming grimly from November. All of it made his mind into an angry, anxious soup.
But here... it was all right.
His trainers crushed twigs and softly pressed them into the dried needles shed from pine and hemlock. Tree trunks scratched at his robes leaving small brown fingers on the black wool. There was the burbling sound of water nearby—a brook—but it blended so well with the swaying of branches and the rustling of woodland creatures in the high treetops that after a moment he could not distinguish it from the rest.
And that was all right, too.
His footsteps on the worn-out path were all that there was in the world, just one foot following the other. He could not remember his other thoughts, though he knew they were there, within reach, should he need them. The left shoe. The right shoe. One small branch off a thorny bush. He should step over it. The skrewt blasted off. It was searching in the green-brown murk. The trunk of a tree with bark so thick that it peeled and jutted into his path sprang up ahead of him. He ran his fingers on the moss. The left shoe. The right.
And Harry paused.
He thought that this is what Mad-Eye Moody must have meant about focus. Clarity. He turned, facing the direction he thought the brook might have been in. His skrewt had led him deep into the forest now. They'd covered more ground than he'd expected and the trees had closed in around them like black fence posts in a green cage. There was a space ahead, though, a gap where the wide sprawling body of a yew had shoved its pushy neighbors aside. Its branches were thick and bowed. They spread out, touching the ground like the ribcage of a gnarled wooden umbrella. And a sweet scent was in the air here, the fragrance of large flowers mixed with wet leaves and candied fruit. He'd smelled it before, but where?
"Good afternoon, Harry Potter," said a gruff voice from behind him. "What manner of creature have you brought into this wood today?"
Slowly, Harry turned away from the yew to regard the centaur at his back. He was large, and dark; his well-muscled torso sprouted from where a horse's neck would have grown, and his narrow face was several feet above Harry's own. The centaur had a quiver full of gray fletched arrows slung over his shoulder. One arrow was pressed against the string of his longbow. The muscles in his forearm were taut, but his face held no anger for Harry.
"Hello, Bane," said Harry. He tugged on his leash, reeling the slack away from the skrewt. "It's a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Hagrid wanted us to take them on a walk."
"Into the forest?" asked Bane, the merest hint of amusement made his nose twitch. "Or was that your improvisation?"
"Er," said Harry. He shrugged. "Improvisation?" He took a step towards the skrewt, pulling in more leash, and watched as Bane's arrow snapped to focus on the creature. "They're not so bad," he told the centaur quickly. "It's harmless, really."
"It smells of manticore, Harry Potter," said Bane. "And there are few creatures more deadly than the manticore." He frowned. "Or as unrepentant."
Harry glanced at the skrewt; it had mostly exhausted itself by this point and didn't even fight against his grip on the leash as it trundled in circles. "Manticore…" Harry itched his nose, thinking. "And fire crab?" He looked up at Bane. "How would Hagrid even have done it?"
"Hagrid made these creatures?" asked the centaur; his serene features crinkled with distaste. "He goes too far."
"He's just curious is all," said Harry defensively. "And look, it's nothing as bad as a manticore."
"You follow him too closely, Harry Potter," said Bane, shaking his head. "You may not move farther into this forest armed with such a creature." He indicated with his bow. "Turn around. Return to your castle."
And Harry realized that the yew and the sweet scent in the air must have been markers of the centaur colony's hollow. He nodded up at Bane and started to pull the skrewt back down the path.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude," he said. "I was just practicing… meditation—clearing my mind—and got carried away."
"Wizards cannot meditate," said Bane with a snort. He leaned forward to look at Harry, then lowered his bow. "It was that mind magic, Occlumency, you were practicing."
Harry blinked. "You know about Occlumency?"
Bane smiled with his square horse teeth. "We have forgotten more of mind magic than wizards have ever known, Harry Potter. Come, I will walk with you for a time. Send that creature ahead."
Bane led him back through the forest.
"Is there anything you can tell me about it?" asked Harry. "About Occlumency? My professor says that it takes a long time to really understand it, to organize your mind enough to be able to shield your thoughts. He hasn't been wrong." Harry stared out at the black tree trunks. "The closest I've come was just now, here... in the forest." He let the skrewt out a little, just as it started to pull at him. "I'm almost there, I think. But something is missing. It's not like normal magic."
Bane waved one dark hand and said, "You are young, Harry Potter. There is time left for you to come to know yourself."
"What does that mean?" said Harry.
The centaurs were inscrutable folk. He hadn't had many interactions with them, but everything they said, be it Bane, Ronan, or Firenze, was always half a riddle. They were more interested in looking up at the stars and reading the future than with anything happening in the present.
Bane looked at him sideways. "Why would you like to shield your thoughts, Harry Potter?"
Harry blinked up the centaur. He thought that would be obvious. "So that I can keep other people from reading my mind."
Bane paused; a fleeting look of disgust rippled across his face. "I had forgotten," he said, "the uncivilized nature of wizards. Tumbling through the minds of your kin without regard." He shook himself, from torso to croup, and started forward again. "The age where wizards could benefit from our help has long passed."
"Er, if you're offering," said Harry, "I'd like your help."
"I am not," said Bane curtly.
Harry kept himself from muttering about the nature of horse people and turned to other matters as they walked. "Bane," he said. "How would you defeat a dragon if you didn't want to hurt it?"
"I would let it alone," said Bane with a soft chuckle. "Isn't that the epigram on your school crest? 'Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus?' Never tickle a sleeping dragon?"
"I don't think it'll be asleep when we find it," said Harry. He kicked at a knotty bit of root in the trail. "There's a tournament at Hogwarts this year. I've entered it, and so has my sister. And we'll likely have to defeat a dragon to get by. But I don't want to her injure it. It's not their fault that they'll be forced to participate."
"Then withdraw," said Bane, nodding. "It is wise to know when to keep your blade sheathed."
"We can't withdraw," said Harry. "There's a magical contract."
Bane made a sound deep in his throat but did not offer further counsel.
Soon they had passed through enough of the forest for Harry to see the castle grounds beyond the clutter of branches and leaves. The chatter of students on the lawn rose. His skrewt blasted forward, suddenly excited. Beside him, the centaur came to halt, pawing at the packed dirt of the forest path with his hooves.
"See you, then," said Harry, tilting his head back to meet Bane's eyes. "And, er, thanks for the walk."
"You would do well to regard the heavens this evening or the next," said Bane. "Mars burns like a fresh weal in the night sky." He gestured towards the castle. "But we do not interfere." He stared a Harry for a long moment, his dark eyes glittering almost sadly. "Jupiter swells, Harry Potter. There will be more wolves to come, before the last."
Then the centaur turned and cantered back into the dark of the Forbidden Forest, leaving Harry alone with his Blast-Ended Skrewt.
"Bloody horse," mumbled Harry after a moment.
Outside the forest, the first drops of rain had started to drip down from the clouds. The Gryffindors and Slytherins were scattered throughout the lawn with their skrewts, hurriedly trying to corral them back towards Hagrid's hut.
Harry spied Daisy and Hermione jogging up from the shore of the Black Lake, their robes a tangle of mud and grass. Evidently, their skrewt had gotten the better of them at some point.
"Why'd you run off alone?" said Daisy as he met them near the hill. "This blasted lizard's been dragging us all over."
"It's not a lizard," said Harry. He pulled his wand from his pocket and cleaned their clothes of mud and debris. "I ran into Bane in the forest. He said it might be part manticore, that mine smelled like one."
"That's silly, how would Bane know what a manticore smells like?" asked Daisy, setting her robes in order. Her skrewt blasted forward, but Harry stamped down on the leash to keep it from assaulting his own. Theirs was female, at least, and had no stinger.
"It's a rather large forest," said Harry, "and Bane's a fairly old horse. He very well might have come across a manticore at some point."
Hermione let out a little squawk at the mention of manticores in the forest, but when Harry raised an eyebrow at her, she just huffed and turned away.
"Will you knock it off?" said Daisy, rounding on her friend. "You're well past the attractive stage of being difficult now, I imagine."
"Am not," said Hermione. She glared at Daisy, then thrust her chin out and ran up the lawn for Hagrid's cabin.
"This is all part of some plan she's got?" asked Harry, caught between amusement and discomfort.
"Er, I suppose," said Daisy, leaning back as her skrewt struggled to get at Harry's. "I can't really puzzle it out, myself, though she's starting to grate on my nerves as well."
"Of course," muttered Harry. He stuck his hand out. "Come on, give your leash here. Let's get them back to Hagrid."
"Do you need him to do everything for you?" came Lyra Malfoy's drawl as they climbed towards the cabin. "You've inserted yourself into the Triwizard Tournament, but you can't even handle this overgrown insect."
Harry frowned over the top of Daisy's head. Malfoy and Goyle were stumping up the lawn with their skrewt. The Slytherin girl's robes were pristine and she had her hood up against the intermittent rain, quite the contrast with her companion whose robes were unbuttoned and covered in dirt with large streaky grass stains down his trousers.
Harry pointed at Goyle. "You've got no problem having him do your dirty work. What does it matter if I help my sister?"
Goyle scowled but looked too weary to protest.
"I don't want to handle these things at all," said Malfoy. "It's such a dreadful class, but at least I'm not full of bluster like—"
"Oh, piss off, you sow," snarled Daisy. "No one here was talking to you, and no one wants to talk to you." She snatched her leash out of Harry's hand. "Let's go, Harry."
"I started the conversation, Potter," said Malfoy, throwing her head back to adjust her hood. "That's how it works. One party says something and then the other responds. Or do those muggle apes just grunt and point at things to communicate?"
"Is it really a conversation if you're just insulting us?" asked Harry, looping the end of his skrewt lead around his fist.
"It was just an observation, not an insult," said Malfoy, smiling nastily. "And what were you doing in the forest? Students aren't allowed in there." Her smile widened. "It's forbidden."
"I was taking my skrewt on a walk," said Harry, nudging his sister aside to stand squarely in front of the girl. "And it wanted to walk in the forest. What's it to you?"
"Nothing," said Malfoy. "I just thought you'd rather be spending your time strolling along the lakeside with that frizzy haired…" She looked Harry up and down. "…muggle."
"Hermione's a witch," said Harry, gritting his teeth. "And for your information, she isn't talking to me at the—"
"Yes, she isn't," said Daisy, tossing her leash back to her brother and stepping up to face Malfoy. "She's upset that Harry's found love in the arms of the French veela maiden from Beauxbatons."
Harry's eyes went wide. "Daisy—"
"That Delacour girl—the champion?" said Malfoy, going stiff. "That's preposterous. She's not a veela."
"Daisy," said Harry warningly. He did not want the Slytherins to start vulgar rumors about him and Fleur Delacour. Especially because he wasn't sure how the girl would react. The entire adolescent male population of Hogwarts school seemed to be intoxicated by the veela girl's presence, and she seemed to find no end of amusement in it. Fleur playing games while the Slytherins cackled and drew attention to him was very nearly the last thing Harry needed before the first task.
"Shush," said Daisy. "Take the skrewts back to Hagrid."
"Daisy."
"Will you just go!" said Daisy, whirling to face him.
"And leave you here with them?" said Harry.
"Yes," grunted Daisy, her jaw stiff.
"Oh," said Harry. "I've got it." He shook his head. "You've finally lost your marbles." He reeled in his skrewt as it blasted towards Daisy's. "I'm not going anywhere. If you break out into curses and hexes you'll be in detention before we reach Madam Pomfrey."
"Stop worrying about me! Can't you tell she fancies you!" cried Daisy. "How can you be so thick!"
"You—what?" said Harry, his mind going utterly blank. "She what?"
At Daisy's outburst, the Slytherin girl went starkly red and tore the skrewt leash from Goyle's hand.
"Let's go," said Malfoy, grabbing her companion by the sleeve.
Harry watched as they sped down the hillock past the Beauxbatons carriage. He pulled at his hair, facing his sister. The urge to laugh like a madman was waging war with a sudden compulsion to drown himself in the lake. "She… what?"
"I told you," said Daisy. Her face scrunched with disgust. "She likes you."
"But why?"
Daisy sighed, visibly cooling. "Don't ask me." She patted his cheek. "Perhaps you shouldn't have slugged her so hard on the train. Some girls are stimulated by the oddest things, Harry." She snorted. "Wasn't that something, though—the way she ran?"
They were on their way to Potions with Hermione and Ron when they came across Mr. Ollivander in the entrance hall. He was being led by the elbow by Mr. Bagman, who seemed in very high spirits.
"And here is where I held the Inter-House Cup," he was saying to the old wandmaker. "Four years in a row." He winked. "I might have shattered several dozen broomsticks by my seventh year. I think old Flitwick was glad to be shot of me. Poor Ravenclaw couldn't win a single match." He smiled broadly when he caught sight of the Potter twins approaching the entrance to the dungeons. "Daisy! Harry! What timing! I was just showing Mr. Ollivander here around the castle before the wand weighing ceremony."
"The wand what?" said Daisy, trotting forward to stand at Mr. Bagman's side. "Hello, Mr. Bagman."
"The Weighing of the Wands, Miss Potter," said Mr. Ollivander; his voice was like two sheets of dusty parchment rubbing together. "It is a tradition in wizarding competitions." He blinked his wide, pale eyes at them. "Mr. Weasley, ah yes, a recent acquisition. Fourteen inches. Willow. The hair off a particularly sturdy unicorn's rump." He smiled at Ron. "Tell me, how is it treating you?"
"Oh, er, it's all right," said Ron; he pulled his wand from within his robes and swished it. "Took a bit of getting used to after having Charlie's for so long…."
"Yes. There is a period of adjustment," said Mr. Ollivander, his eyes gleaming. "But for the wizard, never the wand." He nodded. "Keep it up, Mr. Weasley."
"Er, thank you," said Ron, confused.
"Well, we should be off," said Mr. Bagman, putting an arm around the old wandmaker. "You come along, too, Daisy. Harry. It'll save us sending for you later. Rita's likely waiting already. Always punctual, Rita Skeeter."
Harry blinked. "We've got Potions—"
"Nonsense," said Mr. Bagman, waving a hand. "Tournament business comes first. We'll have you back in short order. Just some photographs and the weighing." He turned, ushering Mr. Ollivander up the staircase. Daisy went skipping after him. Harry gave Ron a shrug, and followed.
"Hurry back," hissed Ron, as Hermione shot off for the dungeons. "It's antidote day."
Mr. Bagman chuckled as they climbed up to the second floor landing. "Blimey, sour old Snape is poisoning you today, is he?"
"Yes," said Daisy. "He had a terrible glow about him at breakfast—Mr. Bagman, how old were you when you started professional Quidditch?"
"Eighteen years old," said Mr. Bagman, beaming. "Right out of Hogwarts. Don't you worry, I've heard all about you, my dear—youngest Hogwarts Seeker in a century, and from what I hear, the best, too."
"Could you get me in touch with someone from your old team, then?" asked Daisy. "Krum's been a professional ever since he was sixteen. His dad was a professional, that's how come he was scouted."
"Mr. Krum has just been playing for the Bulgarian national team intermittently," said Mr. Bagman gently. "I'm afraid there's just too much time spent training and practicing for a student to play in the English league." He paused, seeing Daisy's face fall. "I'll tell you what, though, Miss Potter, I'll floo a pal from the Wasps—he owes old Ludo a favor still. Saved him from many a rogue bludger in his day."
"You will?" said Daisy.
Harry held himself from commenting and walked silently beside Mr. Ollivander.
When they reached the classroom that had been selected for the Weighing of the Wands, they found the other champions and their heads already waiting. Professor Karkaroff was lounging in a chair behind a row of desks that had been covered by a white tablecloth and a blue velvet runner. Madame Maxime sat beside him, idly chatting. The three remaining chairs were empty.
Karkaroff gave Harry and Daisy a sour look as they entered with Mr. Bagman and turned up his nose at Mr. Ollivander.
Even if he had not been responsible for Daisy's entry, Harry couldn't help but feel that the Durmstrang headmaster was not to be trusted.
At the back of the classroom, near the windows, Viktor Krum had his back to the wall, speaking stiffly to a blonde woman in scarlet robes. She had a roll of parchment stretched out on a floating clipboard. Her quill, bottle green, hovered over it and seemed to be scribbling down notes as she dictated. Krum was flushed, and tried to slip by when he saw Harry and Daisy, but the woman stuck an arm out to block his escape.
At her back was a plumpish man wielding a large, square wizarding camera. He was not facing Viktor Krum and the blonde reporter, however. He was snapping portraits of the blonde Fleur Delacour.
The veela girl smiled like sunshine and greeted them with a cry of, "'Arry! 'Ow wonderful! We 'ave been waiting for you." She winked indulgently at Daisy. "Miss Potter, 'ow nice to see you."
"Yes, hello, Fleur," grumbled Daisy. "Absolutely fantastic to see you again. Marvelous. What a treat."
Fleur laughed her silvery laugh and tossed her platinum hair over her shoulder. "You 'ave a most splendid sense of humor, Daisy."
Daisy snorted. "Yeah, thanks. Come on, Harry, let's sit over here." She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him for a set of four chairs lined up across from the judges' table.
Fleur didn't miss a beat. She slid liquidly from her seat on the window ledge as Daisy dropped into the chair at the end of the row. Before Harry could seat himself, the French girl had fluttered by and claimed the chair next to his sister. It left him no option except to sit next to her or at the other end of the row. He pinched his nose, muttering curses.
Daisy frowned as he slipped past them and off towards the Bulgarian boy still being cornered by the blonde reporter. Her photographer had quietly slipped away as well, inching along the wall in an attempt to take more photographs of Fleur.
"Hello, Krum," said Harry.
"Very good afternoon," said Krum, craning his neck around the lady reporter. "Is time, yes?"
"Erm, I don't think so," said Harry. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Mr. Crouch and Professor Dumbledore haven't arrived yet."
Krum frowned. "Is not good."
"Why hello there, Mr. Potter," said the reporter, leaning forward to block Krum's grief stricken countenance. She stuck a crimson-clawed hand out for Harry to shake. "Rita Skeeter, correspondent for the Daily Prophet, part-time biographer, and positively enchanted to finally meet the brother of the Girl Who Lived... and our youngest champion for Hogwarts." She smiled, showing off a few gold teeth. "Some might say the true champion for Hogwarts. Care to comment?"
Harry stared at Rita Skeeter, part-time biographer, for a moment. She seemed like a very well-put-together crocodile who was masquerading as a witch. Her clothing was quite loud, bright crimson robes with silver trim, and she wore matching bejeweled spectacles with very thin lenses. Behind them, her eyes were liquid dark, and sharp, just like her fingernails. Her jaw was square and heavy, and Harry thought that if she were to lean forward and bite his nose, he would not be able to pry her loose without losing a good chunk of it.
"Er, hello," he said, taking her hand. "I'm not really sure, but I might have been older than Daisy by a few minutes. She's the youngest champion, I reckon."
"Not really sure," repeated Rita Skeeter thoughtfully. "Poor dears, no family history, no relatives," she simpered. "Tell me, Harry, how does that make you feel, especially now that you've been entered in a dangerous tournament at the tender age of… fourteen, is it?"
"Yeah," said Harry, attempting to pull his hand away from the woman. "Fourteen." Rita held on doggedly, until he twisted at the wrist and stepped away. "We'll be fine, though. The Goblet of Fire chose me."
"How fascinating," said Rita, smiling widely. "I'd heard, you know—we've all heard, down at the Prophet—that an underage boy was chosen, despite every measure taken by the committee. Though was this achieved through your own ingenuity, or perhaps the woeful incompetence of your headmaster?" Harry saw the tip of one gold canine peek out from under her lip. "Some flaw in Headmaster Dumbledore's spell, perhaps? Would you like to comment on how you managed to enter the Triwizard Tournament?"
Harry stared at her. "There was nothing wrong with the headmaster's spell, Miss Skeeter," he said. "I'd be more concerned about how my sister got in. That's the real mys—"
"Harry! Harry!" said Mr. Bagman loudly, suddenly appearing at his shoulder. "I wouldn't flummox sweet Rita with such details…" He winked at the reporter. "He's got a sharp wit, this one. I reckon that's how he managed to get by Dumbledore's Age Line." He indicated to Rita's rapidly scribbling quill. "Write that down, will you? A sharp wit. Got past the Age Line. Now come along, boys—Barty and Professor Dumbledore have finally arrived."
Rita Skeeter only grinned more broadly as Mr. Bagman led the two champions away.
Professor Dumbledore had indeed arrived, dressed for the occasion in deep blue robes with little wands embroidered at the sleeves and hem. Mr. Crouch had not dressed for the occasion. He was the same as always, stern, dressed in his simple black Ministry of Magic robes with his neat mustache and parted hair.
The photographer's camera let off a blinding flash as Harry and Krum took their seats in front of the now full judge's table. Harry had not managed to avoid Fleur, however, and the girl instantly grabbed his arm as Mr. Bagman pressed him into his chair.
"'Arry," she said. "I was telling your sister 'ow beautiful Paris is in ze summertime. I zought per'aps you would like to visit after I win ze tournament." She smiled. "My muzzer is 'alf-veela, I imagine zat she 'as some qualities you may find… curious."
Despite Daisy's poisonous glare, Harry perked up at the French girl's offer. If Fleur couldn't manage to transform, perhaps her mother could. And wouldn't that be something to behold? And perhaps the girl's grandmother was still around, as well….
"Zee, I knew 'e would be interested," said Fleur brightly, flashing another smile, but this time at his sister. "And we will find you some new garments, somezing more flattering. Zair is no need for you to wear zose 'orrid trousers."
"I like my trousers just fine, Fleur," said Daisy. "And we're not going to France and especially not to Paree."
"Per'aps you 'ave ze skinny legs of a stork?" said Fleur, she shifted her robes to show one flawless cream calf. "Look, 'Arry, 'as your sister—"
Above them, the camera flashed again.
A look of fury crackled across the French girl's face, so stark that Harry's breath caught in his throat and he feared she might actually have started to transform into an eagle. Fleur's wand was suddenly in her hand, and she was standing.
"Meez Skeeter!" boomed Madame Maxime, throwing her chair back from the judges' table with a crash. "Kindly remove your man from zis room! 'E has gone too far. My champion is still a child, madam."
Madame Maxime was so tremendous reared back to her full height that her head was less than a foot from the classroom's ceiling. The glare she had fixed the cameraman could have melted stone. Rita Skeeter looked like she might faint. Skittering like an ant, she grabbed her companion by the front of his robes and hauled him bodily for the door.
"You bumbling, incompetent, drooling—"
"Madame," said Professor Dumbledore, standing from his seat. "Miss Delacour, I am truly sorry. Please, sit. I will have a word with Ms. Skeeter."
"Zair is no need, Dumblydorr," snarled Madame Maxime. "We are more zan capable of looking after ourzelves." She waved her wand, repairing her shattered chair. "Zis entire endeavour 'as not gone as we were promised. International magical cooperation clearly means nuzzing to ze English." She faced Fleur. "Be seated, child."
"Madame!" said Fleur, her face twisting with anger. "I am not—"
And then Madame Maxime said something in French which Harry could not understand, and Fleur's face went shockingly pink and she threw herself into her chair with a huff.
"Ah," said Mr. Bagman. "Ah." He, too, stood, and looked around at the assembled judges, and at Mr. Ollivander (who didn't look bothered in the least, absorbed with inspecting Professor Karkaroff's wand) and ran a hand through his short blonde hair.
"Sit down, Ludo," said Mr. Crouch crisply. He looked up at Madame Maxime and let off a stream of rapid French with such skill that Harry might have believed he'd been speaking the language all his life.
Madame Maxime seemed to calm at his words, and stiffly took her seat.
Professor Dumbledore smiled at Mr. Crouch. "Thank you, Barty."
Mr. Crouch made a dismissive motion with his hand. "What's a few thousand galleons between friends," he muttered. "Let's be on with it, if you don't mind, Mr. Ollivander."
"Indeed," said Mr. Ollivander. He shuffled forward to stand before Krum. "Let us start with you, Mr. Krum. Ah, a Gregorovitch—"
Harry turned to Fleur, who had resumed her grip on his forearm, but now painfully tight, as though she wanted to wrench it from his elbow socket. She seemed more angry at Madame Maxime than the photographer, though, and was glaring at her headmistress like he'd seen children do when they were upset with their parents.
"Are you all right, then?" said Harry quietly.
"I am fine," snapped Fleur.
"Can you let go, then?" asked Harry.
"Does eet 'urt?" said Fleur, her voice sharply French.
"A little," said Harry.
"Zen you will live." She sniffed, then swung her neck to look straight ahead and fell silent.
Daisy had her mouth open slightly, watching, but before she could comment, Mr. Ollivander came to stoop before Harry and blinked rapidly with his large pale eyes.
"Wand, please, Mr. Potter," he said.
"Oh, er, right." Harry shifted awkwardly in his seat, with Fleur still attached to him, and wrestled his wand out from his pocket.
Mr. Ollivander nodded solemnly as he took it. "Yes… I remember. I remember. Elder. Twelve inches. Hair from the mane of a particularly disgruntled kelpie." He peered closely at Harry. "Has there been any confusion? Any temperamentality, Mr. Potter?"
"Erm, no?" said Harry. "Though, I'm not sure what you mean, Mr. Ollivander. With my wand or with Eloise?"
"Yes, yes," muttered Mr. Ollivander, backing up a step. "The wand, Mr. Potter."
"Oh, no," said Harry. "It's been all right. No problems."
"Spectacular," whispered Mr. Ollivander. "I remember, of course, when you found it, and… how you found it. How did he find it?"
"Er, the wand chooses the wizard, doesn't it?" asked Harry; from the corner of his eye, he saw Krum staring at his wand. If he had been stricken before, when faced with Rita Skeeter's pestering, he now looked positively sick. He was staring at Harry's wand like it was about to assault him.
Glancing up, Harry saw that Professor Karkaroff had leaned away in his chair, his lip curled. Madame Maxime didn't seem shaken, though—nor did Mr. Crouch or Mr. Bagman. But Professor Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling behind his spectacles and he had a small smile on his face.
Harry didn't know what they had found so odd in what Mr. Ollivander had said. Was it the Kelpie hair? Plenty of old wands had Kelpie hair. And his wand was old, but it was nothing like his sister's—the sibling to the Dark Lord Voldemort's. It was a normal, average wand.
"It does indeed choose," murmured Mr. Ollivander. "Imagine that—a perfect fit."
Harry remembered how he'd found it, just behind the counter of the little shop in Diagon Alley—Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Mr. Ollivander had been peppering Daisy with different wands to try—maple, cherry, beechwood, ebony—muttering and snatching each one out of her hands as his enchanted tape measure had measured Harry: under his arms, and between his nostrils, and down his inseam.
But the tape measure had concluded its work before the wandmaker had found Daisy's match. And Hagrid had fallen asleep in one of the chairs in the waiting area. And so Harry had picked up a few of the discarded wands that had not fit his sister and tried them out.
But they hadn't felt right, and Mr. Ollivander had absently nodded him on as he feverishly emptied his shelves searching out new prospects for Daisy.
Eventually, Harry gave up picking ones from the pile on the chair. He figured if they hadn't worked for Daisy, his obvious blood relative—his first blood relative—they wouldn't work for him.
He left them and started to wander through the shop, idly looking through the back shelves, peering into any of the slim, open-topped wand boxes that caught his eye. None of those did anything, either, when he tried them.
Feeling slightly dejected, and wondering if he had enough magic to even have a wand, he circled around the shop and came to stand near the dusty counter with its old brass till set on a thin wooden base. He'd never seen one so old before, and Mr. Ollivander was still shoving wands at Daisy, so Harry sidled up behind the counter to look at all the thing's little levers.
And there they were. Just below the countertop, a set of wands in boxes covered in dust. Harry had squinted at Mr. Ollivander, wondering why he hadn't offered any of these to Daisy, wondering whether he was saving them for last, and crouched to inspect the boxes.
They were really quite old, and the boxes were bent, and some had stains like they'd fallen into puddles of oil and been pulled out again, but hadn't quite dried off.
But along the sides was the same print, 'Ollivander's.'
Harry sorted through a few, wiping the thick layers of dust away with his sleeve. The first one just felt like a stick. The second like a twig. But the third… burned him like he'd grabbed a hot pan off the stove. He held on, though. And suddenly the heat turned to warmth. And a dribble of water leaked from the tip, like the spigot in the garden hadn't been turned off all the way. He raised it… and the water stopped. He gathered the dripping box from beneath the counter and approached his sister.
"I think I've got one," said Harry to Mr. Ollivander's back. "It just sprayed some water when I held it." He did not mention the fact that at first it had burned him—just in case Mr. Ollivander decided that was not a good thing for wands to do to their wizards.
"Have you, now," said Mr. Ollivander absently. "Very good, very good. Why don't you have a seat near Mr. Hagrid and we'll have a look once I've gotten Miss Potter sorted—a tricky customer! But perhaps…"
Harry sat with his wet box across his knees and waited beside the softly snoozing giant until Daisy had finally been fitted for her wand.
When they came to the counter to pay, however, Mr. Ollivander's already wide eyes went absolutely circular.
"And you've found this on your own, have you?" said Mr. Ollivander softly. "And it fits, does it?"
And Harry nodded rapidly. "Yes, it's the only one that even did anything. The others just felt like sticks, Mr. Ollivander, sir."
"Isn't that—" Mr. Ollivander shook his head. "Not for nearly seventy years!" He waved at Harry to come around. "Let's see—give it a wave."
Another fountain of water.
"Oh, very good!" cried Mr. Ollivander, before sobering. He took the wand and box from him. "We haven't made these in a long while," he said. He nodded at Daisy. "Their cores aren't quite the same as the ones that I use presently, some might say that they are indelicate…" He shook his head again. "But they are wands of excellent quality, nonetheless. Every Ollivander wand has the same guarantee." He smiled and offered the boxed-up wand back to Harry. "Elder, a more curious wood you could not find. And a hair from a Kelpie. The Hogwarts Kelpie, as luck would have it."
"What's a Kelpie?" asked Harry.
"Water demon," said Mr. Ollivander. "Shape-changer." He gestured at Harry's new wand. "Quite vicious if it isn't handled properly."
"Er, the wand or the demon?" asked Harry, feeling as though maybe he shouldn't have gone looking through the man's old wand collection. A water demon? None of the other wand cores were like that. There was unicorn hair, and dragon heartstring, and phoenix tail feather—like Daisy's. Did his have to be a Kelpie's?
"Well… both," said Mr. Ollivander. He stood straight to look over Harry's head. "Come now, Miss Potter, no more sparks, if you please!"
Daisy squawked a hasty apology and came to stand at his side.
"Have you got yours, then?" she asked. "Is it like mine, since we're twins?" She grinned at him. "Is it holly?"
"No, Miss Potter," said Mr. Ollivander. "Not at all." He looked between the two of them, smiling. "Why an odder pair I couldn't have imagined."
"Aguamenti!" Mr. Ollivander gave Harry's wand a sinuous wave, and winced as a small stream of water dribbled from its tip and splashed against Fleur's shoes.
"Aha," he muttered. "My apologies, Miss Delacour. Let us not press our luck, then." He offered Harry's wand back to him. "In perfect working order, Mr. Potter. Very good."
The wandmaker inspected Fleur's next, announcing his surprise at it's curious core—one of her Veela grandmother's hairs—and conjured a bouquet of flowers for her.
Then Mr. Ollivander passed on to Daisy.
"Finally," he said, smiling. "One of mine."
Harry looked on, baffled. Mr. Ollivander paid him no mind, however, and began to murmur about how curious his sister's wand was, and how curious it was that it had picked her out.
Daisy started to shift in her seat and bent forward to catch Harry's eye. He knew the history of her wand's core, and so did Hagrid, and Mr. Ollivander, but no one else. And he was certain that she didn't want that information rabbited through every magic school in Europe.
But Mr. Ollivander did not mention anything about Lord Voldemort or Tom Riddle, and instead conjured a wheel of bright gold sparks before handing her wand back.
And the ceremony was over.
As they filed out of the room, leaving the judges to argue within, Harry paused at the door, near Mr. Ollivander.
"Mr. Ollivander?" he said quietly. "What did you mean when you said that about Daisy's wand? Isn't mine one of yours as well?" He raised his wand to remind him, thinking that the man's advanced age had made his brain go spotty.
"Yours?" said Mr. Ollivander, his wispy eyebrows rising. "Heavens, no." He gripped Harry's arm just where Fleur had dug her fingers into it. "No, Mr. Potter—my father crafted your wand."
"Your father?" said Harry.
"Oh yes," said Mr. Ollivander. "In fact, that wand belonged to him for a time. A woefully short time."
Harry felt a sudden rush. An indescribable feeling. Half-way jealous. Covetous. His wand had belonged to someone else?
"But how is that possible?" said Harry gruffly. "It's mine."
"Do not be alarmed, Mr. Potter," said Mr. Ollivander with a dusty chuckle. "My father had very many wands." They stepped out into the corridor. "He was a wandmaker, after all. Very nearly the best there was, excepting myself. It is a pity that one had to be his last."
"His last?" asked Harry.
"A wand crafted from elder is a tricky thing, Mr. Potter," said Mr. Ollivander softly. "Very temperamental and often disloyal. Some look at them as cursed. They are thought to bring ill luck. "
"Ill luck?" said Harry, shocked. "Disloyal? How can a wand be disloyal?"
"Hmm," said Mr. Ollivander. "I don't believe everything I've heard about elder wands, Mr. Potter, but there is a spark of truth hiding somewhere deep in those stories." He frowned, an odd look on his normally placid face. "I would not worry, however—my father did not have your wand for nearly as long as you have had it. Only a short while. A few months, perhaps."
There was something off about the way the old fellow was speaking, Harry thought. He was leaving something out.
"Is there something else, sir?" said Harry. "Something you aren't telling me?" Daisy was waiting for him, just ahead, down the corridor, rolling her eyes at something Fleur was saying, but Harry couldn't go. He stood rooted just outside the door to the chamber as Mr. Ollivander watched him with eyes like twin moons.
"It betrayed him," said the wandmaker, finally. "To his death."
