Disclaimer: I own nothing.
This story is better viewed in the 3/4 format.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

"You better not even contemplate the thought of entering yourself into this blasted thing Albus cooked with these foreign schools, do you hear me, young man? I swear to every god under the sky and beyond, if I catch even a sniff about you being close to the Triwizard Tournament, you'll be sorry. Very sorry, indeed!"

— Madam Pomfrey to Harry Potter at the Hospital Wing, next to the plaque "Propriety of Harry Potter".

No one would ever call The Hog's Head anything even close to a respectable environment, but by the magic, credit needs to be given where it's due—the place is always interesting.

I put down my Daily Prophet ("Who ditched who at the Quidditch World Cup" and "Black is back, and looks whiter than we thought") on the counter and cast a look around.

Two hags are lurking on a corner, busying themselves over plates of raw liver; their magic looks untamed, the symbols of power twisting like welts and gaping maws around them as blood drip from their chins.

There's a tall wizard on the table next to the window, sorting through a bag of Newt's eyes and mumbling under his breath. His magic is coiled as a string and spasms with the slightest noise; a contrast is offered by the innate magic of his wand, which expresses itself in clear, hermetic sigils.

Probably second-handed, it seems.

What could be the story behind this? Did he lose his wand recently and is using a poor replacement, or maybe he stole one? There isn't the slightest resonance between his magic the wand's own and, to my experience, it only happens with truly horrible matches.

With only one exception.

A grunt by my side alerts me to Aberforth's presence as he puts a mug behind me, the smell of steamy coffee wafting pleasantly from it. His magic is familiar, rigid and unyielding. Solid as an ancient, gnarled tree during a thunderstorm; it churns around him like a cloud made of raw iron.

My thank you to him comes in the form of an elbow to the ribs.

"Abe, Abe," my voice descends to a whisper. "Abe."

"The hell you're doing that for?" he elbows me right back. If his mood isn't clue enough, it's obvious to anyone with functional eyes that Aberforth isn't an early riser. His hair is more disheveled than ever and his eyes, almost completely hidden behind dirty spectacles, look bleak.

"Would you look at this, that Hag's been bitten by a Flobberworm."

"And I should care, why?"

"Abe," the corners of my mouth twitch, "Flobberworms don't have teeth."

The look that Aberforth gives me is very akin to one of distaste.

I raise my hands in defeat. "Gee, just a joke from Professor Dumbledore."

"Figures. You and Albus are both cuts of the same underwear lad," Aberforth says, "you two aren't all there by a long, long way. Maybe that's why he likes you so much, Merlin knows I don't."

His own magic contradicts his words as it extends to me, forming an almost solid wall of between myself and the world; my smile at this, though, remains safely hidden behind my mug of coffee.

There's a familiar sense of belonging as Hedwig comes through the window, startling that Newts' fellow in the process. Her magic is connected to mine by many strands of gold, like heavy chains we gladly took upon ourselves.

She perches on my shoulder and, by the virtue of long-conditioned reaction, I offer her some owl treats from my pocket. She takes one and gives me a nip on the ear by the way of thanks.

"No need to thank me, girl."

Aberforth looks at me like I've finally lost my marbles. "I didn't."

"And you ain't no girl either, I was talking to Hedwig."

"Right, the owl," Aberforth shakes his head, "because talking to an owl is a perfectly normal thing to do, why you," he then glances at his watch. "Did Albus at least have the decency to tell you when he's coming?"

"Haven't the foggiest. Professor Dumbledore said he'll come after the rest of the people arrive on the Express, so maybe seven, seven-thirty?"

"Good, so there's enough time for you to get off your lazy ass up and stash the Butterbeers from that crate," he points a thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

"You joking."

"Am I? If you think I'll let you slack off just because you are leaving, you have another thing coming," his lips then twist into a terrifying smirk. "The owl can even accompany you, as I'm now on the known about how she makes for a good conversation."

Will the wonders never cease, Aberforth Dumbledore has a sense of humor.

I grin back at him, "I'm so going to get you back for this."

Aberforth hand inches toward his wand, but he freezes as Hedwig fix him with a stern glare.

I let out an impressed whistle, "taking lessons from Professor McGonagall now, aren't we?"

She cuffs my head with her wing, still looking at Aberforth.

"For the first time on your life lad, just obey and go," the old man is the first to look away from the staring contest with the bird, "and seriously, take the blasted pidgeon with you. She makes the people 'round here nervous."

"No need to get shirty," Hedwig hoots in disapproval just as my empty mug clinks back on the table, the coffee now nothing more than a soothing warmth within my stomach. "Back me up here, Hedwig, Abe's being grumpy."

Hedwig then turns to me and a very real shiver crawl up my spine as I see the look on her eyes. Maybe the true path of less resistance here is for me to keep my mouth shut and do as Aberforth asked—and she ordered.

Yeah, definitely taking lessons from McGonagall, this one sure is.

A knock on the door startles me, making me drop A Numerous Numerology Compendium right on my feet. The book has some two thousand pages and a steel binding, so it's not a nice feeling.

"Shite! Of all the damn—"

My complaint dies as the Wards swirl in a familiar way, sampling the magic of the visitor and running it through its enchantments. The process is done in less than a second and they lift back to their quiet state, but it gives me time enough to recognize the newcomer's magic.

"Come in, Professor!"

The door opens and, true to my thoughts, the Headmaster is here. He waits by the door frame, clad in garish, purple robes dotted with golden sphinxes and pyramids, and his ever-present half-moon glasses are precariously balanced on his crooked nose.

"Good night, Harry," he steps inside. "I hope I am not intruding?"

"No way, Professor. How're you?"

"I am well," his eyes light up with amusement as he looks to me, "however, am I to understand that you decided to follow my personal opinion about fashion statements?"

Heat creeps up my cheeks as his words sink in, I'd forgotten to take off my Puddlemere United sombrero after annoying Abe enough with it. The Headmaster raises an eyebrow.

"Though, if I can offer some advice, the hat lacks a certain je ne sais quoi if you don't have a full grown beard. Maybe in some years?"

"Gah," my face positively glows with embarrassment as I take the hat off as fast as humanly possible and throw it over my shoulder. "Huh, sure. Thank you?"

His chuckles make me feel very lame.

"I see you haven't finished packing," Dumbledore says, surreptitiously peeking around the bedroom to the books and clothes strewn on every surface. "May I be of help?"

"Sure, and sorry for the hassle. I would've had finished earlier, but I was caught up writing to Sirius and—"

"It's quite alright," he says and, with a practiced wave of his wand, everything I owned went neatly into my trunk, which closes with a snap.

Professor Dumbledore's magic looks like the ocean to me—deep and full of mysteries, every layer shadowing more and more intricate designs that glitter around him, at the same time being delicate as fractals made of glass and full of sheer, raw strength, that none could stand up against.

His wand, though? It's the exception of the rule about resonance.

Where his magic looks calm and collected, the wand's magic is savage and combative, its inner clockworks of light smaller and more numerous than anything else, so complex that my eyes hurt just from looking. The very air trembles around the wand, the shapes within it twisting and ready to unleash overwhelming, primal magic, with all the sense of inevitability of a gravestone.

Finesse and power weaved seamlessly together and even greater than the sum of their parts for it.

It takes a while for me to wrench my eyes from that sight and motion to and pick the trunk, but Professor Dumbledore's raised hand stop me.

"A House-Elf will be sent to bring your belongings to the Gryffindor Tower," he then peers at me over his spectacles. "Do you have your Portkey necklace on you?"

"There" I finger the thin, delicate chain hidden under my shirt, it looks unassuming and light, but its magic is strong. "I reckon I'll still need to use it while in Hogwarts, then?"

"Alas, I think so, especially in the wake of the Quidditch World Cup and the pain in your scar. After all, one does best when a precaution already taken is found to be unneeded, than if it's absent on the time of necessity."

"Eh, sure, and talking about that, did they catch someone?"

"I don't think so," Dumbledore runs a hand through his beard. "Cornelius seems to have divined, by methods unknown, that it was only a ruse to demoralize his Ministry to the foreign attendants."

I affect a surprised look. "He thinks? That's news for you."

"It does sound far-fetched sometimes, doesn't it? But your very well-known grievances with Cornelius aside, there's anything else you want to get? That marvelous cloak of yours, perhaps?"

"Already in my pocket."

"Excellent," he smiles and beckons for me to follow, "so off we go."

Just as we go down the stairs, though, I stop dead at the sight that greets me there.

Aberforth has already closed for the night, so he's almost alone behind the bar with a glass of Firewhisky at hand. The strange thing is, there's someone else lounging on a stool next to him.

Professor Dumbledore motion for me to go and his eyes are alight with amusement as I practically run down the steps and pull the man here into a one-armed hug.

"I wasn't told you had picked up a stray in the way, Professor!"

"Oi!" Sirius playfully shoves me away, his smile big as my own. "Stray? Stray? I'll have you know that, as my dear mother put it, I am of finest breeding!"

"You say your mother has dragon-dung for brains too, so there's that."

"Dragon dung for brains and a black hole for a heart, more likely," he nods and motions for me to sit down. "The Butterbeer is for you, by the way."

"Gee, thanks," but my smile falters slightly as, next to me, Professor Dumbledore exchanges a rather cool greeting with Aberforth, "and thank you too for bringing him, Professor."

A bit of Dumbledore's tenseness bleeds away just then. "It was nothing, my boy. Young Sirius isn't fully discharged yet, but his Healers happen to agree with me that he could take a moment or two to see your off. Perhaps—" he hesitates, looking back to Aberforth, "perhaps he can take residence here in the future, after he is well?"

Aberforth frowns. "I'm not running a resort here, Albus."

Seeing how a rat has just come squirreling from a corner, I certainly hope not.

"Why, Aberforth, it's like you don't like me anymore," Sirius interjects.

Aberforth scoffs. "I never did, lad. You and your little gang made too much trouble here for that," he then takes another sip of his Firewhisky. "I thought the Blacks had a house somewhere in London?"

"They do, but it's no more home to me than Azkaban," Sirius' eyes harden and, for a second, the shadow of the man in these wanted posters pass through his face.

The silence after that is uncomfortable.

Finally, Aberforth eyes meet Professor Dumbledore's own and he grumbles something under his breath that could pass for agreement. "D'you know how to mix drinks, lad?"

Sirius seems to regain some of his humor as he smiles. "The best."

"I will be the judge of that," Aberforth states, "no one lazes about under my roof, as the boy here very well knows. So you better put in the work if you are to live here—and stop with the damned twinkle, Albus!"

Professor Dumbledore looks away, his beard twitching, and Sirius barks a laugh. We shot the breeze for some time while Dumbledore talks with Aberforth in rushed tones until a sharp whistle from the outside interrupt us.

"Excuse me, it's time for us to go," Professor Dumbledore announced, finishing his talk to his brother with a sharp nod and turning to Sirius. "After the feast, I'll come back to accompany you to St. Mungus, if it's agreeable."

"Sweet, gives Abe and I time to catch up then."

"What now?" Aberforth answers, looking startled.

"Harry," Sirius ignores him as he turns to me, fondness and undercurrents of uncharacteristic seriousness clear in his voice, "think about what we talked yesterday, and well—just try to enjoy yourself a little here, yeah? Merlin knows you deserve it.

"Maybe I should tell Voldemort this?" I snort. "Dear Tom, my pumpkin juice isn't agreeing with my complexion today. Maybe you can call off on trying to kill me until next week? Love, Harry."

Sirius slaps my head. "That's not funny."

"Why? As much as this one," I point over my shoulder to Professor Dumbledore, "says that love is the greatest magic there is, I've half a mind to go and try to hug Voldemort into submission."

"This information shall please Severus greatly," Dumbledore says and, at my look of sheer incredulity, he rapidly amends, "you see, he has been voicing his opinions concerning this matter for quite some time."

"Snape—"

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore interrupts.

"This one, yes," I wave him off, "he talks about hugs and Voldemort?"

"No," he looks fully amused now, "but he indeed agrees that you only possess half of a mind."

There's a beat of silence as I stare at him, open-mouthed. Then Sirius doubles down with laughter and even I can't help but follow him in doing that.

It takes a few seconds and a pointed cough from Dumbledore for Sirius to calm down enough to talk. Even then, he's still snickering as he turns to me.

"Sorry, sorry," he says "let's get back on track. You have the map?"

"Yes, mom." Sirius makes a face at my answer.

"Good, very good, and just remember—"

"—to solemnly swear I am up to no good," I complete, smiling back at him.

He grabs my shoulder again, this time smiling widely, before making an idiotic excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. Classic strategic exit technique from these emotional talks, so I don't comment on that.

Instead, I turn to Aberforth.

"What you want now?"

"Just to thank you," I answer, shutting him up for the first time as he looks at me like he's seeing me for the first time. "Seriously, the time I spent here was the best."

Aberforth snorts. "So it was. Maybe I can get some peace now."

"Wouldn't bet on that," I grin as Professor Dumbledore ushers me in direction of the door, "after all, Sirius here is anything but boring—then there are the Hogsmeade weekends."

Poor Aberforth, he looks like someone has just canceled Christmas.

I wave cheerily back to him. "See you, Abe, Sirius!"

As I went after Dumbledore, though, I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Then I promptly laugh again at Aberforth's expression of utter horror as Sirius yells from the bathroom about the whereabouts of Madam Rosmerta, all my worries are forgotten for these few, precious seconds.

Even soaked to the bone as I am, I can't hope to keep the smile off my face.

Hogwarts still looks beautiful.

The castle is just as made of magic as it is of stone and masonry. In these walls, an infinite number of spells glows, interwoven together at every single inch, entrancing as ever. The ambient magic of generations upon generations of wizards that made their mark here—every jinx, every hex the students ever did, all of it compound like whispers of light upon the magic of the castle, until there's nothing to describe it but alive.

One of Professor Dumbledore favorite quotes is how Hogwarts will always be home to those who come back to it—and as the enchantments of that stronghold of ancient magic wash over me, I have to agree with him.

The castle echoes—echoes with laughter and tears, of magic to either help or harm, with the footsteps of everyone who dedicated part of their lives to these halls. It beckons me, welcomes me back, and misses me. Like it was a piece of myself which had finally returned to the whole.

"Are you ready?" Professor Dumbledore says, nonchalantly waving his wand at me. I feel warmth rushing through my body, drying my clothes instantly—and wiping the look of childlike glee from my face with it.

"No," I answer with honesty, "not really, no."

"Excellent!" he then beams, startling me and gesturing for me to follow him. "In my experience, when one feels like being fully prepared for an occasion, it tends to backfire extraordinarily."

"And if one isn't prepared?"

"That, Harry, is when things get interesting," Dumbledore then waves in the direction of the Great Hall. "Indeed, we could think about your next steps—and I risk being preposterous, mine—as the foray into a new adventure. One that I find myself quite curious to see how it goes."

Despite my own growing anxiety as we approach the Great Hall and the sound of people talking gets louder, I smile. "Not the next great adventure, I hope."

Professor Dumbledore pauses for a second at my remark, then comes closer to me and his voice sunks to a conspiratorial whisper. "No, not the next great adventure—the next medium-sized adventure, perhaps, or even a bit less. In any case, I suspect it will be interesting. Doesn't you agree?"

The fact he looked completely serious saying that is too much and I laugh again, shaking my head with incredulity. I will never meet someone stranger or amazing as Professor Dumbledore, but I am alright with that—the one I know is already quite enough.

"I think the Sorting is underway," he says. "Come with me."

The laughter dies instantly in my throat as he opens the doors.

Silence. Silence everywhere as every single person on the Great Hall turns to stare at me. Only the steady hand of Professor Dumbledore in my shoulder as we walk make me feel slightly confident as I turn a searching look to the Gryffindor table.

I stop dead as I see them.

Ron and Hermione are sitting together and, when our eyes met, they turn away at once. I feel a jolt of regret as I remember, clear as it had been just yesterday, the occasion our relationship began to sour.

The first thing I saw in the Hospital Wing was Hermione lying down in a bed—immobile, paralyzed, her arm still held up as she was made of stone. I ran to her, trying to catch her hand and comfort her somehow, but she felt cold. She felt wrong.

When I looked to Ron, he's pale and I saw that his blue eyes were rimmed with red.

"What—what happened with her? Ron?!"

He scowled. "Now you want to know, don't you?"

I jerked back with surprise. "Ron, I couldn't—"

"You couldn't?!"

He rounded on me. "How can you say that? You go away for a whole year while everything goes to absolute hell and you just come here, looking concerned as you please, then you try to get off with excuses like that? Of course, you couldn't, Harry! Because you weren't there to help her!" he was screaming now, his face inches to mine. "Together we could've had this thing solved! We did it last year and we could do that again, but you weren't there for her! We, we trusted you—I trusted you!"

He shoved me, his voice growing hoarse and quiet as he slumped at Hermione's side and took her hand for himself, looking like the picture of defeat itself. "Just, just go away. Go back to the Headmaster and let us be. That's all you know how to do, these days."

Ron didn't look back to me.

That old guilt makes a reappearance as they don't bother to make way for me to sit here. I try to ignore that and Dumbledore glances at me, giving an encouraging nod.

"Harry! Come here!"

I turn in the direction of the voice and the twins catch my eyes, exuberantly—too exuberant to not have an understanding about what'd just happened—and gesticulating for me to sit with them. I embrace the offer with both hands.

"Oi, Lee! Budge away," Fred says, opening a space for me to sit there. "Here he comes!"

"Fred, George Lee," I thank them warmly, then turn to look at the other people next to me and my smile isn't forced in the slightest. "Katie, Angelina, Alicia! How are you, girls?"

Katie, the nearer one, gives a peck in my cheek as they return my greeting, her strawberry-blonde hair tickling my skin as she does. Alicia and Angelina are more reserved but still greets me warmly.

"So," George wiggles his eyebrows at me, "back for good, this time?"

"Don't be daft George, he's probably here to get rid of another Defence Professor," Fred completes, his voice getting low as McGonagall glares at him from next to the Sorting Hat. "You're out of luck though, the new one isn't here yet."

I shake my head. "No way, I've had my fill with Lockhart."

"What was the deal with him, actually?" Angelina butted in, her eyes glinting with barely restrained curiosity. "All we know is that Dumbledore sent the ponce packing before the feast with a tea strainer up his-"

"Long, long story," I wave her off and look around, feeling the weight of half of the entire Great Hall staring me. "Care to tell me why they're looking at me like that? It's kinda stranger than the norm."

"You see, Harry, there are all kinds of rumors floating around. About where you ended up and all," Angelina pauses to cast a disgusted look at the gawking students. "Honestly, some are completely absurd."

I turn to the twins. "What did you two arses do?"

"Not our fault, old boy," Fred gives me a winning smile. "Wanna to field this one, George?"

"Don't mind if I do," George gestures for us to come closer. "So, best one I've ever heard. There's this Hufflepuff second-year telling his friends that you somehow went into Atlantis and is busy cooking up an army of trained killer whales to take over the Ministry."

Lee gives a sagely nod. "The Ministry, ya know, the one smack-dab in the middle of London."

"What?" I lose my voice for a second or two. "They... they're thinking I've become The Boy Who Lived To Be a Fisherman or something like that? That's bollocks."

Fred looks me up and down. "To be honest, first time I saw your hair I thought a sea urchin had somehow gotten into King's Cross..."

"After your first Quidditch match, though, we agreed you were most likely to be a rather clever octopus," George completes.

"Now I think about it, little Katie here would like that," Fred says pleasantly. "All these tentacle-"

"Fred!" Alicia punches him in the shoulder, her face red as they come. "Stop taking the mickey of her and shut it. Dumbledore is going to speak!"

I turn to the Staff Table and, true as she says, Dumbledore has gotten up and silence falls on the Great Hall.

"Welcome, for a new year in Hogwarts! Now, if you let me deprive you of sampling the gorgeous cooking of the House-Elves for a small moment, I would like for you all to give a round of applause to a student that, at long last, returns to our midst! I'm talking, of course, about Harry Potter."

That did it. There's a boom of applause, mainly coming from the people around me and none louder than Fred and George, who are yelling again that familiar chorus of"we got Potter, we got Potter!" at the top of their lungs.

I wrench my sight of them as Angelina nudges me.

"And good thing we do," Angelina's still watching their antics with an appreciative smile. "You know, you're lucky Oliver isn't there, he kind of lost it last year."

"Why?"

"You," Kate answers flatly. "He went on and on about how you're the greatest Seeker, even the best thing since sliced bread really. Almost reduced poor Demelza to tears every time she missed the Snitch," she adds, shaking her head despondently. "Mind you, she wasn't all that great at it, either."

"That little twit Malfoy didn't do any better though," Lee points out as he finally comes down back to his seat, "what about the match lasting six hours because none of these two caught the blasted thing. My throat was sore for a week."

"Pay attention," Alicia hushed us, "the Headmaster's going to speak again."

We turn as one when Professor Dumbledore raises a hand for silence. At the changing of subject, I proceed to make a double take at the sights in the Great Hall. Magic is coming from everywhere and I know, just know, that a year or two ago all of that would give me a migraine at best.

It's a study in contrasts, everyone's signature looking quite different to me.

I probably am the only soul who can tell the difference between the twins with only a passing glance; Fred's magic being just a bit more stable and hard-edged than George's, which tries to drink and transform everything around him.

Angelina's magic looks solid and heavy as it wraps her body. Alicia's had a note of rationality that I relate, most of the times, to the Ravenclaws, ever-changing into equations made of light and logic. Katie, the youngest of the team except myself, is all fire and curiosity and passion, redder than blood and focused like a battering ram as she concentrates on Professor Dumbledore's speech.

Ron is talking to Hermione in hushed tones, his magic coiled, turbulent as a storm spitting sparks so fiery I feared would burn someone. Hermione's magic, though, is both reaching to him and trying to sort the whole world at the same time, otherwise condensed into a bubble of clarity through which she observed everything.

Idly, I appreciate the peculiarity of Neville's magic as Dumbledore tells us that Throwable Pimples were now forbidden—it's mostly static; like his magic is trying to push the world and to hold him up at the same time, but seems vast nonetheless. He has potential.

I look at the Professors. The new chap teaching Defence Against the Dark arts still hasn't made his presence known, which was surprising by itself, but the rest of them are very interesting.

Snape, I see, looks most unpleasant—kind of like the look he's giving me—his magic guarded and full of vicious barbs and sharp edges, forming a cage around himself and ready to lash out; it has a single mote of green light deep at its center and a foulness in his arm.

McGonagall's magic is uncluttered and well-ordered, but morphs constantly as it's being blown by the winds of change, mutating and yet remaining the same. Flitwick, a delight of colors and shapes that one couldn't help but smile at, and—

"What?!" I surge to my feet, yelling at the top of my lungs with Fred and George as Professor Dumbledore says there won't be any Quidditch this year. Every Quidditch nut in the Great Hall rises up as one and make their disagreement about it clear in loud tones.

Dumbledore raises his hand to silence us again and keep going.

"This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts— "

But what would happen in Hogwarts, we weren't to know. The doors bang open and I recoil at the sight of who are just coming through them.

Darkness. Terrible, all-encompassing, darkness—a void within a chorus of voices hissing with pain wand stabbing viciously around him with knives of fire, seemingly searching for an outlet. I narrow my eyes and fight back the urge to vomit as bile surge up my throat.

"Harry," George shakes my shoulder, "d'you know who's he?"

"It's Mad-Eye Moody!" Fred says, his eyes wide with surprise. "He's an old friend of Dad's, a legend in the Ministry—the best Auror they ever had!"

"Nutty as a fruitcake though," George adds, giving him an appreciating look. "Dad had to bail him out just this morning, something about brawling dustbins."

Dumbledore's declaration repeats what they had told me, as he shakes the man's hand and announces him as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. I force myself to look at Moody—not at his magic, but the person underneath. He's a mass of scars and disfigurements, there's even a wooden leg poking from under his robes, but that isn't the most singular thing about him.

That honor belongs to his eyes.

One is beady and has a shrewd glint in it, but the other is a vivid blue, bulging and swerving around without any care for the movements of the black eye, at times looking at the back of his owner's own head.

"Creepy fellow," I mutter under my breath, but no one takes notice because Dumbledore decides just then to drop a veritable bomb on us—about the Triwizard Tournament.

"You're joking!" Fred yells and the Headmaster reassures him he isn't. I turn to Lee and poke him to catch his attention, as the twins seem to be lost in their own world at the news.

"What's with that?" I ask him. "Never heard about that before."

It was Dumbledore, though, that answered the question. "The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities—until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

I whistle and nudge Katie's shoulder. "Very friendly, that thing sure is."

She muffles a giggle under her hand. "Too true."

"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Dumbledore continues, "none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.

"The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, eternal glory, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."

The world goes still.

Eternal glory.

Dumbledore's words are an echo in my mind. Eternal, undying glory. I catch his eyes for a second or two and there's a gleam I can't very well identify in them. My heart pounds in my chest as I give him all my focus.

He had my interest, but now he gets my attention.

"I am going for it," Fred declares fervently, which is an opinion that seems to be shared by the school as a whole. "A thousand galleons George! A thousand, I never smelled that much money."

"Mortal danger, Fred," Alicia points out.

"Still going for it," he answers, stubbornly, and rub his hands together.

It takes all of me to not rise up my feet and yell as Dumbledore adds that only people older than seventeen years could enter the tournament, which excluded me from it, and there's a feeling in my gut like I just had lost something.

"Who must be that impartial judge?" George asks after the outrage about the age limit washes off, scratching his chin in thought. "What d'you reckon, Fred?"

"Dunno," Fred shrugs, "but we'll need to find how to bamboozle him."

"Seriously, boys?" Alicia pipes up, a fond smile twisting her lips even as she tries to look stern. "It is Dumbledore we are talking about, I can't even imagine he letting it happen—I bet the judge isn't even a person."

"An enchantment, perhaps?" Angelina asks, looking every bit as she is thinking about entering. I have the realization she's just of right age and has all the right to, and I bite my lip to try and not show the envy I feel.

"If it is, Harry can help us," Fred and George turn to me as one.

I reel back, feeling frankly alarmed, as their question mirror my thoughts. I turn to Katie, giving a pleading look, and she comes to the rescue by slapping George's head. "Down, boy, there's no need of talking about it tonight—and Harry has already enough in his plate."

"Actually, I am still waiting for Lee to pass me the treacle tart."

Katie gives me a withering glare. "Metaphorical plate, Harry."

Looking not a bit ashamed after that berating, the twins shared a look.

"Sure," Fred said, mouthing later under his breath to George, who nodded.

An enchantment, perhaps? I try to catch Dumbledore's eyes again and decipher what he meant by that, but he turned to speak to Moody, who I had no desire to see again this soon.

The discussions around me are just white noise as I busy myself by eating, my mind's a mess of probabilities about the future and possible methods to mask my age. Dumbledore's words about mortal peril feature prominently in my thoughts, but there's a little voice drowning them.

That's exactly what you wanted, innit? the voice says, a chance to show what you're made of, to prove yourself to the world? To him?

I almost don't catch up in the fact that the feast had just ended.

"Still, money isn't everything," Alicia says as we get up.

"Bully to everything then, we need that money," Fred disagrees vehemently.

"What for?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

"Well, you see," George begins, "there's this idea about a joke shop called Weasley Wizard Wheezes that we were working into during all the summer on. You wouldn't believe the things we did for that—my ear's still half bitten by a Carking Crumpet, but I digress—"

They keep talking to me about their future plans all the way up to the Gryffindor Tower. The little part of me that's paying attention can't help but be impressed and ask for more information, as it sounds like quite the wonderful thing.

When I come back to my senses, sitting by the fire in the Common Room, I find myself being already conscripted into helping them with the enchantments in his products.

With a last argument extolling the virtues of turning someone into a gyrating porcupine at will, the twins and Lee say their goodbyes and get up. The girls doing the same in the direction of their own dormitories, except Katie, who decided wait for a bit.

She stretches languidly in the chair at my side, but there's a knowing glint in her eyes.

"So," Katie begins conversationally, "that Triwizard thing. Seems to be a bit insane, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," I smile at her a bit too quickly, "something like that."

She hums to herself, the comfortable silence between us extending until she decides to break it.

"But you still want to."

I almost choke in my own spit.

"Uh? What?"

"The Tournament," Katie giver me an exasperated look. "I saw the look in your eyes, Harry—the same look you have when you just've spotted the Snitch, and I saw how uncomfortable you were as they talked about it. You want to enter, don't you?"

"I don't-" I try to search for an appropriate answer, but Katie isn't to be deterred.

"Harry," her hand brushes my arm as she comes closer, "I am not here to tell you what to do. I'm not sure I don't even want to know all you're up to, but really? It's obvious."

"Right," I mull the words for a second before giving a sigh of defeat. "I'll admit, the thought has crossed my mind."

"I'll bet," she shakes her head. "Maybe there's a boyish appeal in entering, what about wizards comparing their wand-sizes," Katie then let out a laugh at my roll of eyes, "I don't really get it, myself. But then, I'm not a wizard like you, am I?"

I look her up and down, "I sure as hell hope not."

She slaps my arm but laughs nonetheless. "You know what I mean."

I don't answer and run my fingers through my hair, trying to find the right words to say.

"Katie?" I finally ask and she turns to me. "You think I can do that?"

Katie fixes me with a glare and I have the weirdest feeling that I said something very stupid.

"Of course you can, you're Harry Potter. Though, to be honest," she pauses for a moment and it's fascinating how her blue eyes reflect the light from the flames, "I kinda don't want you to. We've just got you back and none of us want to lose you. Hell, I don't want to lose you, so even if you enter... be careful? Please?"

I look mutely at her and nod in agreement, don't trusting myself with words after how vulnerable she sounded by asking that. Regaining some of her cheerful nature then, Katie gives me another lingering kiss on my jaw and get up to go to her dormitory, but stops at the foot of the staircase.

"Don't worry, Harry," she shots back over her shoulder with a lazy smile. "I'll keep your secrets."

There's no power in Earth capable of making me feel ashamed for looking as she goes. Damn girl.

A haze of contentedness settles in and I drag my chair closer to the fire, just as that persistent little thought crosses my mind again. What if I really entered the Tournament? What if I proved myself as not being just the Boy-Who-Lived or Dumbledore's Golden Boy to them and, more importantly, to myself? What if I tasted triumph with the whole Wizarding World standing as my witness?

My eyelids feel like made of lead and the first hints of sleep begin to envelop me. Even as I close my eyes, though, all I can see are images of myself raising a silver cup as the entirety of Hogwarts screams my name and of the success of winning. Of a smiling face with twinkling eyes saying he's proud of my victory.

Eternal glory, huh?

All I can see is greatness.