Disclaimer: I own nothing.
This story is better viewed in the 3/4 format.
Rebel Rebel
"Sometimes, Harry, if you are committed to a plan, there are situations when the lack of decisive action is worse than being reasonable and thinking it through. Let's pick the time I confronted Wormtail as an example. Of course, I regret going after him, but if I hadn't tried to reason with the sniveling rodent and just roasted him on the spot, I wouldn't have lost twelve years in Azkaban. The lesson here is, if you, against all logic, decides to fight fire with fire, be sure that you are the one casting Fiendfyre."
— Sirius Black to Harry Potter, before a session with the Mind Healers of St. Mungos.
I wake up as someone yells "time to go potty, Potty!" in my ear.
My hand reaches for my wand as I jump from my seat, furiously blinking to discern the intruder fluttering in and out my fiend of vision, a spell already on my lips to counteract the threat with extreme prejudice.
That's when I recognize his shrill laughter.
"What? Peeves! What are you doing there?" I ask, tenseness bleeding off me as I rub my ears. The Poltergeist just smiles and throws a stack of notes into the fireplace before zooming out, laughing like a madman all the while. Cursing under my breath, I ran my hand through my hair and look at the clock, deciding against going back to sleep again.
Still disgruntled, I venture into the dorm to take a bath and put the robes for today, taking care to not wake up any of my still sleeping dorm-mates, and then go down for breakfast. Some paintings see me and begin whispering between themselves, their magic well-worn and part of them as much as the paint is.
Weird. This last step which sprouts raunchy limericks if you stomp on it is new.
Breakfast is a subdued affair and I take my time to look at the other students coming in, doing my damnedest to try and remember their names from my first year. There's that very well-endowed girl in the Hufflepuff table with red hair and a sharp, steely glint to herim magic; and one with black hair and violet eyes in the Slytherin's whose magic is a scalpel that dissects all around her, one step at a time.
A blonde girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, comes skipping into the Great Hall and her magic is simply—unique. Have you ever seen these mirrors in a fun-house? It's like her magic is made of these, folding upon themselves and reflecting shapes I don't understand.
Wait, is she coming here? Yes. Yes, she is.
"You're Harry Potter," she states in an airy tone of voice.
I look at her in silence for some seconds, taking note of how her blue eyes seem to bulge slightly and of her radish earrings. "Someone has to be. And you're...?"
"Luna Lovegood."
"A pleasure." My smile comes easily. "There's something you want?"
"Oh, right. I wanted to ask if it's true that you have spent the last year in an assignment deep inside Gringotts to establish an interspecies fight club between the Office of Goblin Liaisons and their commander-in-chief."
I blink, astonished. Then I blink again.
"Are you serious?" I ask and she nods, looking mighty pleased with herself. "Erm, I don't think so? Last time I saw the goblins, they were trying to skin Sirius alive because he kept calling everyone here Griphook, but no fight club, no."
"Really? Oh, dad will be sad," her mood seems to go down a few pegs, but abruptly changes as she beams at me. "It was nice to meet you anyway, Harry Potter, and tell me if you change your mind, okay?"
My muted nod is all the agreement she needs and she goes back to the Ravenclaw table. Fred and George then appear, sitting by my side, and I turn to them, still eyeballing her. "Guys, guys, who're that girl? The little blonde sitting next to whatshisface there in Ravenclaw."
"Who?" Fred stretches on his seat to look at her without a shame in the world. "Oh boy, the one who looks like she has bollocks hanging off her ears?"
What a nice mental image. "This one, yes."
George snickers. "I see you've had the pleasure of meeting Loony Lovegood."
"Loony?"
"Yeah, she's a friend of Ginny. Nice enough, but a few Leviosas off from a Levitation Charm, if you catch my drift." Fred smiles and shakes his head. "Good for breaking the ice though."
"We should call her back then." George frowns. "Look who's coming."
There's no power in the Wizarding World capable of suppressing my groan as I look to where George's pointing. A pale, blonde kid with a pointed face is practically strutting in our direction, flanked by what appears to be an overgrown, shaved bonobo, and that begonia from Sirius' bedside.
"What you want?" I ask Malfoy before he can say anything.
"So rude, Potter," he answers in a nasal, too-much affected voice. "I was just wondering why you're not with your pet weasel and the beaver. Changed your payroll after these years hidden behind Dumbledore's robes, did you?"
The magic of Crabbe and Goyle is very similar, static and very faint around him, not reacting in the slightest. Malfoy's, though, flares at us like it's baring its fangs, the symbols embedded in it distorting like our very presence made his magic churn with disgust.
"Look, Malfoy, you-" my voice dies in my throat as George picks up a sugar bowl and holds it to Malfoy. His expression is inscrutable, even as the corner of Fred's mouth twitches. "George?"
"Weasley, what are you doing? If you want to sell this to me..."
"Can't you see it's sugar, little git?" Fred says, looking very serious. "You need it."
Malfoy narrows his eyes and Crabbe and Goyle flex their muscles. "Why?"
"Because you're salty," George answers brightly and I groan, putting my face between my hands.
"Cool, are we seasoning Malfoy now?" Lee says as he comes up to the table.
Malfoy's lips curl into a sneer. "If you think I-"
"Hello, Professor McGonagall!" Fred yells and then adds in a more subdued tone. "You better run along now, Malfoy. You don't want to get in trouble, do you?"
Malfoy takes notice of McGonagall coming down from the Staff Table, her hand full of papers and a steely glint in her eyes as she looks to us. Then, showing he has a surprising measure of common sense, he just glares venomously to me and motions for Crabbe and Goyle to follow him.
"That was nice," I say, smiling at the twins.
"It's like with mother." Fred waves me off. "You can't let her pick up steam."
"Is that so, Mr. Weasley?" McGonagall cuts in. "Your schedules, here and here."
"Professor McGonagall," I greet her as she turns her attention to me, the stern lines of her face relaxing somehow.
"Mr. Potter, it's good to have you back," she says and looks to my schedule. "I'll admit I'm surprised, though, Ancient Runes and Arithmancy? I hadn't thought you would be interested in such classes."
Fred and George look at me like they were witnessing a brutal betrayal and Hermione, a few seats from us, seems to be paying close attention to our discussion.
"People change, I think."
"Seems to be the case." McGonagall then gives me the schedule. "Mind you, the Headmaster had to speak personally with professor Vector and Babbling for them to permit you to attend their classes. Therefore, I expect nothing less than excellence from you in both of them, am I understood?"
"Crystal clear."
"One more thing," McGonagall says, shuffling her papers, "the Headmaster wants you to come by his office after the classes end." Her voice then lowers to a whisper. "The password is Mars Bars, don't you be late."
The first lesson is tonight, then. "Sure thing, that."
She gives me a brisk nod and busies herself by giving the schedules to the freshly-arrived girls. I take my time studying my schedule, noting how the first class would be Herbology just after breakfast. Could be worse.
Up in the Staff Table, Dumbledore arrives with extravagant, acid-yellow robes, and I catch his twinkling eyes for a second as he seats himself. My smile then turns mischievous as I look back at Professor McGonagall.
"Hey, Professor?"
"Yes, Mr. Potter?"
My tone is ever-so pleasant. "Would you like a sherbet lemon?"
"What?" McGonagall's mouth widens with barely hidden horror as she fixes me with an incredulous stare, her composure forgotten for a moment as she eyes the Staff Table. "What in the world did Albus do to you?"
"Just a joke, Professor!" I say as Fred, George and the rest of the team looks at me with a mix of surprise and amusement.
McGonagall keeps looking at me in silence and I bit my lower lip to not laugh. It's an accepted fact that McGonagall rarely smiles, but as she shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose, I swear I can see the corners of her mouth twitching.
"A joke, indeed. I hope your newly-acquired sense of humor translates as ability in my classroom then, as I, for one, will be expecting great things from you." Professor McGonagall says, now looking proper and stern again as she gives me this thinly-disguised ultimatum. "And Mr. Potter?"
"Yes?"
"Jokes aside, it's nice to see you up and about around here again," McGonagall adds in an almost conspiratorial tone of voice. Her expression relaxes as, this time, she really gives me a hard-earned little smile. "Make our house proud, will you?"
"Thanks, Professor." I smile back at her. "I really intend to."
The only one in the greenhouse as I arrive at the Herbology Class with the Hufflepuffs is Professor Sprout, who is occupied by tending to a strange plant that's puffing purple smoke in the air. The rest of the class isn't far behind, though, as they began to fill the Greenhouse. I let out a sigh as Neville, Ron and Hermione pick a table from themselves.
"Excuse me," someone calls behind me. "Can we work with you?"
"Huh?" I turn to look at the person who called me and, to my surprise, the redheaded Hufflepuff I saw in the breakfast, now accompanied by a blonde girl with pigtails and a somewhat round face.
"You're without partners, aren't you?"
"Oh, of course." My mind fails to supply a name for her, so I extend a hand and do my best to not look like a jackass. "I'm Harry Potter, by the way."
The blonde girl giggle and the redhead fix me with a no-nonsense kind of stare.
"I don't think there is any person alive who doesn't know who you are." She then smiles and grabs my hand. "I am Susan Bones and this is Hannah Abbott."
"Pleased to meet you," Hannah adds and I greet her too.
"Bones, Bones," I repeat, the name being familiar. "Relative of Amelia Bones?"
"Yes, she's my auntie." Susan then raises an eyebrow. "You know her?"
"Eh, more or less. Met her when Sirius got to the ministry to be officially pardoned—Sirius Black, you know." I snort. "She's not someone I would mess with, that's for sure. Practically bit Sirius' head off after he revealed he's an Animagus."
Susan looks very pleased with my opinion of her aunt.
"I've read the news about Black, it was a complete madness in the Ministry," Hannah says, her voice lower and lighter than Susan's confident tones. Seeing my look of interest, she amends. "Mom works in the Committee of Experimental Charms, but told me everything was in an uproar with the Black debacle."
"I'll say." Susan laughs. "Auntie said the Minister was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, all hot and bothered."
"That's… not an image I want in my mind." I wrinkle my nose with disgust.
Professor Sprout claps to call for attention and, looking every bit like a proud brood mother, show us what we're going to be working with—an assortment of what looks like black, distended slugs with a bad case of necrotic acne.
"Bubotubers!" The Professor declares. "They aren't nice to look at, but extremely useful in acne treatments—if that girl Eloise Midgen had paid attention in my class, she wouldn't resort to cursing hers off, but nevermind. To make use of them, you need to collect the pus-"
"Pus?" I mutter under my breath. The Bubotubers squirm. Pus.
Susan and Hannah take notice and turn to me.
Hannah gives me a sly look. "Not a fan of Herbology, I reckon?"
"Bloody plants have no business having pus."
"Agreed-" Susan says and the corner of her mouth turns upwards, "but look at the bright side. You've got two strong, hard-working Hufflepuffs to protect you from the bad plants, you poor Gryffindor, you."
"Susan? You do know I haven't practiced Herbology in two years, don't you?"
Her smile falters, but mine is bigger than ever.
"So," I say theatrically, eyeing Seamus' Bubotuber repeated attempts to invade his right nostril. "Ladies first?"
The Ancient Runes class is nowhere near as crowded as Herbology, so much that each student sat in their own table and worked individually. I drop my bag by the side of my desk and prop my head on my hand, waiting for Professor Babbling to arrive and begin the class.
The class is with the Slytherins, but I don't know any of them well enough to remember their names. Hermione is already here, sitting in the first chair by the Professor's desk, quill, and parchment close at hand.
"Hey," I call the black-skinned dude near me. "You know what's the Professor is beginning with?"
He looks at me with suspicion. "Why are you asking me? I'm a Slytherin, Potter."
Thank Merlin I can talk with snakes, yeah?
"Good for you. So?"
The guy keeps his silence for some seconds, exchanging a look with the girl near him before he turns back to me. "Professor Babbling said at the end of last year she would do some sort of test, so as to review what we've learned. Again, why are you asking me of all people?"
"You're the nearer one?" I raise my eyebrows. "So, you know my name, but-"
"Blaise Zabini," he says, but doesn't extend his hand to me.
I look expectantly to the girl next to him, but she appears to be ignoring the entire world as she organizes her notes and whatnot. Baby steps, then, but—Merlin above and below, is that our Professor?
Professor Babbling looks, to be quite honest, young and nice. She has long, braided blonde hair and her face has a vague shadow of Slavic heritage, with bright, blue eyes that look sharp and clear. Her magic looks like snowflakes around her, the shapes crystal clear and expressing itself into complicated and elegant runic fractals.
"For those who were with us yesteryear, welcome back," then she fixes her stare on me, "and for those who are new, just welcome. Last year, we completed our overview of Old Futhark, so we will be beginning this term with a written test. Before the test, however, I would like to ask our new student some questions. Mr. Potter?"
"Yes, Professor?"
"Can you tell me the importance of the study of Ancient Runes in the modern age?"
"Of course," I say promptly. "There's, first and foremost, the fact that Runes are symbols in which Magic can express itself, an alphabet of magic, more or less. But the most common use of Ancient Runes is, for a lack of better word, to turn magic permanent, anchored. To engrave a spell and make it sustain itself with the ambient magic, making it durable, especially if you want to do long-term Protective Enchantments."
"Exactly, Mr. Potter, take five points to Gryffindor," Professor Babbling says with a thin smile. "If one is to inscribe the runes relative to the idea of flying in a rock and cast the appropriate enchantments to anchor it, the wizard could come back in a thousand years and the rock would still be in the air. Ms. Greengrass, can you tell me another use of Ancient Runes?"
"Spells," the black haired girl with alluring, violet eyes, answers at once. "Arithmancy and Ancient Runes are essential to the creation and improvement of spells, as one is a form of predicting the comportment of magic, and the other is how to form the spell, even the movements and the words."
Greengrass, huh? She was more right than she thought.
Sometimes, I forget most of the people can't see what I see. How magic turns and changes, how intent, will, the wand movements and even the words that form the spells are. How the runes in their core look and act.
"Well reasoned," Professor Babbling says. "Five points to Slytherin. Now, there," she makes a flick with her wand and the papers in her desk float to each one of us, "are your tests and you must complete them in forty minutes at maximum; there will be no talking. You shall begin."
I look down at the paper.
1. Explain the reason for the differences between the types of Runic Alphabets and why each one of them is equally important. Elaborate your argument with a basis on how the runes came to be.
My smile almost split my face in two. Piece of cake.
Professor Vector has the same air about her as McGonagall, capable of silencing a class without even trying. Not that it takes all that much effort—the Ravenclaws are a rather quiet and attentive bunch, at least while dealing with academics.
"Last year, I presented the principles of Arithmancy in broad strokes. During this year, however, our work will be more specific." Professor Vector voice sounds calm and measured, as much as her magic is. There isn't any overt expression of power from her, instead, her magic presents itself in subtle tones of silver, close to her skin and unfolding into complicated patterns that simplified themselves constantly.
"Spell-creation; a subtle and most complicated art, and one which I expect my class to have at least some understanding at the end of this year. Can someone tell me what's the main conundrum in using Arithmancy to do just that?"
Surprising absolutely no one, Hermione's hand is right up.
"Miss Granger?"
"Arithmancy, being the study of numbers and their meaning in the tessiture of our world and magic, presents a fundamental paradox when utilized to create spells—mainly, the fact that cold logic and magic can't mix together perfectly," Hermione says without pausing to breath. "Therefore, a wizard or with must take the illogical into account, as intent and power of will play a great part about executing and creating magic."
Logical, but… lacking?
Not every spell can be translated into a bunch of numbers and equations, sometimes, you just need to have a feel for it. Completely disagreeable with rational behavior, obviously, but it's magic—it needs to be, well, magical. Professor Dumbledore always says to look at the caster as much as to what he's casting.
"Perfect explanation, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor," Professor Vector says and waves at the blackboard, white lines forming complicated operations here as if written by an invisible hand. "For today, I want you to find the principles why the number three, seven and forty are magically significant." She then turns to me, "Mr. Potter?"
"Yes, Professor?"
"I have elaborated a quiz for you, so as to ascertain where you knowledge ranks in my subject," she says, walking briskly to my desk and putting the aforementioned quiz here. "You must answer the questions to the best of your abilities. It will take until the end of the class and your score will be given in the next one—not that it will excuse you for doing homework. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly, Professor."
The twins ambushed me after the class, wanting to ask for my opinion about the enchantments in a candy they're developing. Something called Stumbling Skittles—the spells on it having the little side-effect of making whoever ate the candy to do spontaneous pirouettes. Simple enough to fix.
My getaway from them brought me to the lake. The Giant Squid is stretching her tentacles lazily through the surface of the water, looking for all intent and purposes perfectly satisfied with herself. I throw her some bread crumbs and plop back in the grass, pausing to look at my watch as I savor the smell of the lake.
Seems I still have an hour until my lesson with Professor Dumbledore.
Arithmancy and Ancient Runes are unforgiving with homework, as both Professors Vector and Babbling decided that we needed to read a book each until the next class. I'm beginning to see that maybe, just maybe, I have committed an error when I decided to take these classes.
And thinking about books, I probably should search for a book about the Triwizard Tournament. I absolutely refuse to ask Professor Dumbledore about it—how would I prove to him that my entrance in the Tournament is deserved if I need for him to hold my hand? No way. I have a sense of pride, after all.
"Gallopin' gorgons! Harry!"
I raise my head from the ground as I recognize Hagrid's voice. He's coming to my direction, his bulk very distinctive even at a distance, and his magic looking very peculiar.
It takes the form of a myriad of blue symbols written in his skin, looking like a living picture of a Celtic Warrior of old, which goes nicely with his overall visual—the moleskin coat and the wild, fierce, beard and hair.
"Hey, Hagrid," I say and wave at him.
"I've got a bone to pick with ye," he says as I get on a sitting position. "How comes ye didn' came to visit me yet?"
"Bloody hell, I am sorry, just had Arithmancy and Ancient Runes just today and still need to meet Professor Dumbledore later." I shake my head and gives him a self-deprecating smile. "What's about your class today?"
"Thrivin'," Hagrid says proudly, hooking his fingers in his belt, "took it slow and nicely this year, jus' today I began to show 'em the Skrewts."
"Skrewts?"
"Ye, Blast-Ended Skrewts, interestin' little buggers they are. Some of 'em go pickin' steam until they kinda blast from their back ends, like bam," he scratches his beard with a ginormous hand. "Still am trying to make sense of the bloodsuckers on some of 'em, meself, maybe they're the females?"
"They seem…" Completely horrible. "Interesting alright, Hagrid."
"I'll show ye the buggers when you come for some tea-" he says, pausing as something neighs from the Forbidden Forest. "Rampagin' Hippogriffs, I forgot to feed the Thestrals! See ye around, Harry!"
Hagrid turns away with a wave and goes to the Forbidden Forest, whistling a tune I don't know. Good man, but these Skrewts sounds like nightmares incarnated—thank Merlin I didn't take Care of Magical Creatures.
Something then nudges my foot.
"Speaker!"
I look around to see if someone else is watching as a little, acid-green snake begins talking to me.
"Hello," I answer and wave my hand, casting a wandless Quietus, "you alright?"
"Oh you don't know the beginning of it," the snake's tongue flicks out as she moves her head to left and right. "That scaled Flobberworm, Amaris, is telling everyone around the forest I was lying about a Speaker being there!"
"Have we met before?"
"Of course! I'm Ananke!"
"Ananke, Ananke…" I run a hand through my hair, smiling at the little snake as it coils around my arm. "Oh! That Ananke! Yeah, you're that hatchling I helped with that barn owl last year, aren't you? How's tricks?"
"Everything's fine, I even began producing venom during the last moon." Ananke sounds very excited as she opens her maw and I can see a droplet of viscous liquid trailing down her fangs. "Did'ya see this? Venom!"
"Nice!" I give the snake a thumbs up. "So, who're this Amaris?"
"Oh Speaker, she's just the worst! You see, there's this big python with such a strong tail-wave, Vasuki, so Amaris and her bunch of vermin are saying to him I'm not killy enough for him! They're horrible! Worse yet, there's this time she caught a rabbit and…"
"Please enter, Harry," Dumbledore greets me.
Breathing heavily, I step inside his office, clutching a stitch at my side. "Sorry for being late sir. You see, I was talking with this snake, Ananke." I pause to take another breath. "She thinks her fangs aren't long enough to court this other snake, Vasuki, so she kinda had a breakdown and-"
"Did she, now?" Professor Dumbledore runs a hand through his beard, his eyes shining with mirth. "So tell me, just for curiosity's sake, what have you said to her then?"
"Well-" I give him a wry grin, "she calmed down after I said that it doesn't matter the size of the fangs, but the potency of her venom." I scratch my chin, thoughtfully. "It sounds better in Parseltongue though."
Dumbledore chuckles and beckons for me to come closer. "Your endeavors at counseling snakes aside, please come here. It's time for a final test before we can set ourselves into into a new course."
He picks up a cube from the drawer and puts it on the desk, the cube being ordinary by itself. I focus on it instantly, recognizing the multiple Protective Enchantments—wards—orbiting it, like the rings of Saturn, extending and spinning around the little cube.
"You shall take down all these enchantments in under thirty minutes, my boy," Professor Dumbledore says and get up from his chair, coming to stand by my side. "Do you need any time to prepare your Occlumency?"
"Just a minute," I say and take a deep breath. Occlumency, the art of organizing your mind enough to hide, certain information for outside intrusion, isn't a discipline to be taken lightly. I am certainly no master at it, despite the fact that Dumbledore himself has taught me.
It is, however, the foundation of my method of breaching these protections.
A ward is composed of three parts, but the one I focus on is the intent. The ward needs to know who you are, what you think, and what you want to let you pass; and these characteristics show into your magic. After that, it's simpler—there's a certain modulation of magic to serve as a key to change or disable the ward.
Every magic has a signature, and every ward has a key.
The trick is making it let you use the key.
"I am ready," I say and lean over the cube, identifying the first obstacle—a mere Attention Repelling Charm, modulated as to let only people who have no intention of trespassing it to go through.
How Occlumency helps with that? Well. When you employ the art, you are hiding your thoughts, personality and the raw composition of your mind from an invader, also known as a Legilimens.
The fun happens when you turn it against yourself.
Magic has a resonance with the caster, his intentions, his mind, and personality. If Professor Dumbledore has made this little ward in a way that only people whose magic shows no intention of trespassing can get through, the answer is very simple.
You turn Occlumency inwards and occlude your thoughts and personality from your own mind, turning into the person allowed inside the ward. You make your magic resonate with what the ward wants, changing your own intent enough to trick your magic into being different.
To my eyes, every ward, every enchantment for protection, is an exposed lock, and I just need to gain access through it so I can craft the key. Taking control and then taking it down.
My method is kind of like manufactured schizophrenia if you think about that.
I take another deep breath as I submerge myself into an Occlumency trance, turning it on myself. My mind becomes hazy—incomplete—but my intention is clear. Why would I want to trespass this enchantment? What a silly thought. I just want to study it, to appreciate this magic as the symbols dance around me.
I flick and swish my wand, modulating my magic as the key of the ward—the same symbols, same hues and shapes it's expecting.
The ward tastes my magic as it extends to me, searching through my power until it reaches my own personality. Funny, why should it impede my progress? Only a madman would dare to interfere with the inner workings of such a magnificent spell.
With a rustle of wind, the magic unfolds in the right way.
The ward has let me in.
Pressure builds up behind my eyes as I drop the Occlumency and, with a flash of blue, I dispel the ward. The only way to deceive the magic is to deceive yourself, and it comes with the cost of migraines and pain. Bright spots that have nothing to do with my Sight dance in my field of vision.
"Excellent, my boy," Dumbledore says over my shoulder as sweat trails down my face. "Under five minutes, even? Simply amazing. How are you feeling, now?"
"I am fine," I say, shaking my read to dispel the dizziness. I go back into work, the other wards are as simple as the first one. There's one booby-trapped, ready to go off if whoever wants to pass has the intention of picking up the cube, and one that only lets you pass if you have no aggressive intentions. Easy enough.
Until the last one.
"Professor," I call him, scrunching my eyes shut for a second or two, then looking back to the ward. "This one… I can't change it, no matter what I try. I can deceive it into letting me pass, but.. there's something lacking. A kind of magic I don't understand…"
"What can you tell me about it then, Harry?"
"It's weird," I answer, looking at the ward again. "I can see what you need for me to pass through, a desire to find the cube, but to make the key and change it, it demands something more. Something I don't have."
"Something you don't have, indeed," says Professor Dumbledore with a knowing glint in his eyes. "You have been using the concept of modulating your intentions, then applying your own special gift to unlock and change the wards; yet, you can only modulate your magic in what you already have. You can't become, let's say, a Quintaped, because it's a physical change. Aren't you, therefore, forgetting a quintessential piece?"
I look at him in silence.
"Anchoring." It suddenly clicks. "You anchored this ward in something that demands more of me."
"Exactly, Harry. To make a ward permanent, you need to anchor it—not for these pesky protective enchantments I used earlier on the cube, but a real, solid ward. Like those of Hogwarts." Dumbledore then waves his wand and the ward uncoils before me like a clockwork, four runes I don't understand at each meridian. "Can you see what anchors this one?"
"I… I never encountered these exactly runes before, sir."
"Not even once?"
I ransack my mind, trying to remember. One of the runes glows with a green sheen to it, the tendrils of magic connected to it shifting restlessly as if trying to mislead an intruder; a discrete magic, full of subterfuge. Like...
"Slytherin," I say and my eyes widen with amazement. "The Chamber of Secrets?"
"The Chamber of Secrets. These runes, Harry, are connected to Hogwarts—to the founders magic, anchored in this castle as the very stones of it are," Dumbledore says with a bright smile. "Don't you see? Runes come into being when one makes an impression in the world's magic. When there's a physical effect of one's actions in the very essence of magic-"
"Like creating a school that kept soaking in ambient magic for millennia."
"Perfect, my boy. You can't change this magic, because as much as you occlude, you haven't the authority to do so—nor do you have the power to supplant the entire Hogwarts by yourself, even prodigious as you are," Dumbledore explains, dispelling the ward with a wave of his wand. "Magic is a fickle, demanding mistress, who delights at our attempts to understand it. Intent matters, yes, but it's not everything."
My smile fades as I look at him, eyebrows raised. "So, that's why did you show me this ward? To demonstrate that there are things I still need to understand?"
"More specifically, for you to learn that no matters how developed your methods are, nothing is foolproof, especially when talking about magic. A good lesson for life, if I can say so myself."
I can't help but smile as he says that—learning from Dumbledore is as much about divining his intentions as it is to find the solutions for the problems he proposes. More important than the finish line, it is about the journey to reach there.
He picks an old tome from behind his desk, shuffling the pages until reach the topic of Ward Anchoring, and explains to me more about the principles he has just outlined. I almost don't feel the time passing, until the grandfather clock chimes.
"Oh my, I think it's time to cut our lesson short." He closes the book with a snap. "Sadly, there is no time left for us to delve into your memories with the Pensieve, fascinating as your Sight is; shall we do it again in, say, two days time?"
Seeing my nod, he continues with a tired sigh. "I'm truly sorry, my boy, but the foreigners want for a detailed explanation about the protections I'll bestow on the Goblet of Fire, and it's not polite to be late."
I try my best to mask the interest behind my question. "Goblet of Fire?"
"An ancient artifact, full of mysteries, but now mainly used to pick up the Champions from each school," Dumbledore explains with a small smile. "It seems that, even in the old times, no Wizard confided enough in human nature to be fully impartial about the competition. Tell us something dreadful about us as a species, doesn't it?"
"Sure it does." My laugh comes weak as my mind is already running with possibilities and methods to infract into this Goblet of Fire. "So, this Goblet-"
"Never you mind. Here-" Dumbledore pauses to give me a slip of parchment, "are some books I want you to read before our next lessons—if you can pardon me for compounding into your growing list of homework assignments."
I take a look at the list. Fundamentals About Pragmatism, from one S. Vimes, and How Far Should You Go For Life and Limb, from a dude called Cohen. Dueling practice will begin shortly, it seems.
"These books—these are in the library?"
"Of course they are, my boy, even if they dwell into the Restricted Section. You have nothing to fear, though, as I've had a word with Madam Pince already," he gives me a conspiratorial wink, then glances again to his clock. "There's anything more you want?"
The Restricted Section. Maybe there's something about that Goblet here…
"No sir, I'm alright."
"Excellent, then you're free to go. But before you leave-"
Professor Dumbledore then picks the cube from his desk and opens it. I crane my neck to see whatever is inside, but the action is unneeded—he offers it to me, theatrically. His amusement making his eyes twinkle as a smile appears on his face.
"Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"
I stop for a second to watch as Hedwig soars in the morning sky with my letter to Sirius tied to her leg. I rub my eyes as she becomes a little dot in the horizon, muffling a yawn with the back of my hand. Maybe I should have a lie-in before Moody's lesson. Just as I exit the Owlery, though, I slam onto someone.
"Oh, sorry—"
My voice dies in my throat as I recognize who it is.
"Harry," Hermione says, recovering awfully quickly from the collision.
We stand into an uncomfortable silence before Ron comes running behind her, muttering something about crazy people just taking off on the middle of the Great Hall. He stops dead at the sight of me.
"Oh," he says. "Hello, mate."
"Ron," I say, eyeing the two of them. "Well, that was nice and—"
"Honestly!" Hermione's voice brokers no disagreement, her cheeks looking distinctly flushed as she looks at me with a gleam in her eyes. "Harry, Ron, we need to talk, and we need to talk now."
It's an endorsement to the seriousness of her tone that neither I or Ron objected to the lack of breakfast. The small talk came rather unnaturally and clunky between us as Hermione tied a letter in a school owl's leg, a big, mean-looking bird, and send it.
It doesn't get better as we make the way to an almost unoccupied classroom. Hermione almost negligently freezes the suit of armor that's tap-dancing there with a clever Charm, then she turns to me.
"So," Hermione says imperiously and crosses her arms. "I know you've been avoiding us, Harry—no, I don't want to hear any excuses. What I want to know is why?"
"Why?" I splutter. "Hermione, we barely exchanged letters from the first year onward. Hell, the last time we met, you just had been petrified and Ron—"
"Yeah, that." Ron's ears are getting alarmingly red. "I never said I was sorry about the thing in the Hospital Wing, did I?"
I scoff. "Why would you? I was in the wrong there."
"Wait." Hermione looks at us with a raised eyebrow. "That's the reason? A silly fight while both of you had your tempers running high? I can't believe it! You two," she round on us, and I feel no shame in taking a step back at her intensity. "You two will talk it out. And we're not getting out until you do."
The glare she sent us was enough to show she wouldn't be denied.
"Well." I look at Ron. "You first?"
"What? No!" Ron looks frankly horrified. "Are you mad?"
"Probably, yes," I sigh, taking a second to reconvene my thoughts as I take a deep breath. Then I begin. "It's like… Ron. Hermione. You were my first friends, my best friends, but… I don't know. After the trapdoor, nothing was the same, was it? I got off the school, and you two still were there, then Professor Dumbledore started teaching me and—I mean, it just escalated too quickly."
Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose. "To be fair, I can't say we are free of blame. But Harry, just try to see this from our point of view. Our best friend had just been taken off Hogwarts for something he couldn't even tell us, then he begins talking about magic and a pub of all things! The letters were growing more and more scarce… until the Chamber of Secrets."
I wince. "I am sorry for that, by the way."
"That's not the problem, Harry," Hermione waves my apology off. "The point is, we wanted to learn about you. To talk to you. Not with Dumbledore's apprentice or any rubbish like that, but you, Harry Potter. Our friend."
My throat feels dry. Before I can answer, though, Ron takes the lead.
"Also, you haven't to-" he says, his eyes fixed at a point just above my shoulder. "To be sorry about our discussion, I mean. I shouldn't have had shoved you and yelled at you that night. It's just… mate, Hermione was there, lying petrified, then you come in and act like—"
"Like I had any right to be here."
"That's… yeah. That's what I thought that day, yes." Ron fidgets as he looks at me, the redness of the tips of his ears reaching nuclear levels. "So—Merlin bollocks." He gesticulates furiously. "Look. I am rubbish at this kind of talks, but I was wrong."
"So was I," I say, feeling emboldened by his words. "I understand you. I know I should have been more present, insisted more with our friendship, and for that, I am sorry, Ron." I then turn to Hermione. "And I am even more sorry for not doing more to help you, too."
"I'll repeat, Harry, it wasn't your fault." Hermione huffs, but there's an unmistakable fondness on her expression now. "You haven't changed a bit, did you? Always trying to shoulder the blame for everyone."
"I'll have you know I've changed. Look! I don't wear glasses anymore," I say, affecting an offended look, then smile at Ron. "We're good, then? No hard feelings?"
"I reckon so."
We share a look and, just as the absurdity of the situation settles in, all three of us break into laughter. I keep guffawing, leaning on Ron's shoulder, for almost a minute until the need of breath makes itself know.
Hermione then gives me a smile that doesn't quite reach for her eyes.
"Things will not be the same, will they?"
The truth of her statement manages to wipe every bit of humor from my face. "I don't think so, to be honest." I give her a small smile. "But I reckon that doesn't mean we can't do something new."
"Yes." Hermione's eyes look suspiciously moist. "I can work with that."
Ron, who apparently had enough of that talk, gives a big grin. "I mean, it's not like we haven't anything in common anymore, is it? We still hate Malfoy and Snape, yeah?" He then pauses, as if having a sudden brainwave. "Mate, you didn't begin liking Malfoy or anything like that, do you?"
"Whoa." I raise my hands in surrender. "No. Still hating the little git, here."
"Excellent." Ron nods, looking every bit as I had just reassured him the sky wasn't turned purple. "See, Hermione? Even with crazy eyes and all that rubbish, it's still Harry. I'm good with that."
Hermione just gives us a look of incredulity.
"Boys—" she says and, pausing for a second, she suddenly takes off and slams on Ron and me, pulling us into a bone-crushing hug. Neither I nor Ron comment on the fact that we can feel her shaking.
When she finally let us go, her eyes are red-rimmed and there are vestiges of tears running down her face. Politely, I pick up my wand and flick it in the air, making a handkerchief appear that I then hand to her.
It shows how much she's being emotional that even my show of magic didn't attract a thousand, rapid-fire questions. She just accepts the handkerchief with a thank you.
"I think we should get going," Hermione finally says, still sniffing, but clearly sensing the discomfort that every hot-blooded male feels at the sight of a woman crying. "We'll be late to Professor Moody's class."
"Now you say that! I didn't even have breakfast," Ron whines.
"Hey, maybe we can go to the kitchens?" I suggest as we get out from the classroom. "We can pick a snack or two there. I mean, the House-Elves do—"
"House-Elves!" Hermione snarls and rounds on me. Her eyes are full of an unholy light and, for the second time today, she makes me take a step back from her. "You know about the House-Elves! And where the kitchen is!" Hermione then shoves me ahead of them. "That's it, you're going to show us, now! And on the way, we can talk about this idea I've been formulating. It's called S.P.E.W., and—"
As she rants, I look over my shoulder and my eyes met Ron's for a second. He's making a circular movement with his finger around his ear and mouthing mad without a sound. For a second, just for a second, that old spark from the first year is back between us.
Just for that bittersweet second, it's like I never had gone away from Hogwarts.
The next month after that blurs together in my mind. All the lessons with Dumbledore, the other Professors and my research about the Triwizard Tournament took all the free time I had, to the point I was practically camped into the library. Even the time Moody showed us the Unforgivable Curses, with the cold, finality of the Killing Curse still-
"Potter, are you paying attention?" Snape's voice brings me back to my senses.
I blink. "Yes."
"Then, by all means, dazzle us with your knowledge; what are the ingredients of the Wit-Sharpening Potion?"
"There's ginger root, armadillo bile and…" the name of the last component escapes my mind, and Snape's look of contempt at me doubles in intensity. "I don't remember, sir."
"Five points from Gryffindor for the lacking answer, Potter," he says. "For all of you who have paid attention at your homework, the last ingredient is ground scarab beetles. Now, Mr. Nott, can you tell me a common misconception about this potion?"
Nott, a gangly, pale guy who reminds me of a scarecrow, answers. "Most of the wizards think it'll make them smarter."
"Correct, take five points for Slytherin for that. The ordinary wizard thinks that, as the name of the potion seems to allude, it'll make them smarter. It does not. All the potion can do is to give a clearer, sharper focus of mind, for those who are under its effects," Snape then raises an eyebrow. "Otherwise, I would make it obligatory for some in this class to take it."
The pointed look he's giving to Neville escapes no one's notice.
Snape then waves to his blackboard. "The instructions, there. You can begin."
The rest of the lesson dissolves into a myriad of strange fumes and smells. It's hard for me to keep my concentration—I see how the ingredients' magic mingle and change the potion as a whole, all these little things happening in the blink of an eye.
Snape's look at my potion, as the class finishes, assures me he isn't impressed.
Putting his reaction in the back of my mind, I get up to freshen myself for the arrival of the foreign schools. As I pick up my clothes from the trunk, my new alarm clock, which takes the form of an Animated knight I Animated myself, yells a challenge while brandishing his blunt sword.
Cute.
Some minutes after that, I catch up with the Weasley twins and Lee as we go outside the Great Hall, who are talking in hushed tones about their plans to enter the tournament. McGonagall is near, but otherwise occupied by marshaling the students into the closest Hogwarts' pupils can reach to a semblance of order.
The air is cool outside, the smell of grass pleasantly to me as we march to a point near the lake. Seeing as every student was out there, it was very crowded, but even the close contact between this many people can't ward off the coldness of the night.
I turn to Fred, my own breath condensing as I ask. "An aging potion?"
"Yeah," Fred says with a smile. "We're already brewing it."
"Better you than me." I shake my head. "Snape isn't happy with me in the class."
"Just in the class?" George laughs. "He can't be happy, period. Almost cursed Fred's arse today."
"That's the reason?" Lee laughs. "Didn't you and Fred drop a pack of Dungbombs inside the dungeons and then charmed it to look like little versions of Snape that tried to spit oil at the passersby?"
"Lies, I assure you," George says, shaking his head. "Filthy, greasy lies."
"Changing the subject," Fred turns to me. "You're not looking all that good."
I run my hand over my face, knowing exactly how tired I look. Even in comparison to my usual paleness, I have reached new heights during my sort-of obsession with the Triwizard Tournament and the demanding dueling practice Professor Dumbledore was subjecting me to. "Pulled some all-nighters or two in the library, the Professors aren't taking it easy with us."
"All-nighters, you say?" Fred raises his eyebrow. "I think there's something you aren't telling us, old boy. Maybe he's trying to run a little side-plot about the Tournament, huh, George?"
"You do have a point here," George narrow his eyes.
My smile is fake as it comes. "I have no clue of what are you talking about."
"No clue, of course," Katie says as she elbows her way to our side. It doesn't escape from my eyes, though, how much she's shivering, so I surreptitiously cast a non-verbal Warming Charm around us. A tweak from my own making is implemented in the Charm to expand the area of effect, for which she gives me a thankful look.
"Hush it, you." I put my arm around her shoulders, now with a real smile in my face, and decide that's it time for a distraction. As I catch the sight of a familiar red-haired Hufflepuff coming by, it looks like the perfect opportunity. "Hey, Susan! Susan! Here!"
"Hello, Harry." Susan rubs her arms as comes near us, relaxing more and more as she comes inside the Warming Charm's radius. "I was searching for Hannah, but it's so cold. Excited about the Tournament?"
"A bit, yes," I say and poke Katie's side as she scoffs. "Say, Sue, d'you know how the foreigners are arriving?"
Susan shakes her head, inching closer to me. "Auntie wouldn't tell me, all I got is something about the French wanting licenses for some creatures they're bringing."
"The French, you say?" Fred turns to George, who groans.
"There's some story here?" I ask him.
"Oh yeah. Our pal Georgie here was writing to some French chick during… a year or so?" Fred says in a too-satisfied tone. "Sadly, that marvelous and clearly undying relationship sunk because she thought his pranks were juvenile and moronic."
"Yeah, sent me a letter charmed to spit slugs, to see how I liked that."
"Hey," Katie calls as Susan giggles. "There's something up here."
We turn to look and, true as she said, there's something up in the clouds. An enormous shape, approaching the school with vertiginous speed. I make a double take as it turns to be a carriage pulled by enormous, brutish-looking horses, that slams heavily on the ground. Flecks of mud stain its otherwise immaculate coat of paint, some of it reaching the symbol of two wands crossed with stars coming off them in the door, and the giant horses neigh imperiously, steam coming from their flared nostrils and their red eyes shining in the night.
"Well," George says as one boy jumps off the carriage and pulls out some sort of collapsible, little ladder. "Those just need to suck blood and I think we'll lose Hagrid."
"Don't be daft." Fred's lips split into a smile. "They can't beat the Skrewts and-"
I almost choke with my own spit, trying to not laugh, as a woman steps down the carriage. She's gigantic, at least of Hagrid's size, and Dumbledore doesn't need to double down to kiss her knuckles. There are symbols of magic written all over her skin in a manner uncannily similar to Hagrid's—probably some common heritage.
Fred raises his eyebrow as the woman presents herself ad Madam Maxime. "Huh. It was nice to meet him?"
George's voice is barely a whisper. "If you ask me, it's not blood he'll want this Madam Maxime to suck-"
"George!" Katie says as Susan looks scandalized.
"Would you look at this, Hogwarts' almost losing me too," George says, waving in the direction of the French students as they follow their headmistress on the grounds, all of them wearing shawls and light clothing. One of the girls, a blonde, blue-eyed beauty, has something about her that demands attention—an aura of sorts, her magic reaching for us without conscious input.
I pull Katie closer to me. "I like Hogwarts' better."
Katie doesn't say anything in answer, but her smile widens and she snuggles deeper on my chest.
"How do you think Durmstrang will be coming?" Susan then asks, putting a finger under her lower lip. "They didn't fill anything about creatures, so it'll be probably-"
"The lake!" Lee points out.
"Don't be stupid, they can't bring an entire lake," Katie says, rolling her eyes.
"No, he's right!" Susan interjects. "Look at the lake."
Just as I turn to look, the water churns and a mast emerges from the dark recesses of the lake, followed by the rest of a gigantic, decrepit ship, which makes me think of the legend of Flying Dutchman. It doesn't take much time for the entire ship emerge and anchor itself at the coast, a plank extending to the grass as the ship sways gently with the waters.
From the ship, comes a bunch of solid-bodied, serious-looking students. They are led by an unctuous man, clad in rich robes of fine silk and with a little beard, his appearance all but screaming slyness. His magic just adds to that idea, tendrils of light shuffling and disappearing around him, masking his reactions—but there's no disguise capable of hiding the foul magic entrenched in his arm.
Even this Karkaroff's voice sounds greasy and well-practiced as he greets Dumbledore as an old friend. The Headmaster is perfectly polite, but there's no mistaking about the tightness around his eyes; he knows as good as I do, maybe better, that the foreigner is not to be trusted.
"Hey!" Lee calls to us. "Is this one who I think he is?"
Fred tiptoes to look over the other students. "Merlin's balls, it's Krum!"
The reaction his words receive is instant as Katie and Susan begin giggling and start casting glances at him. I, myself, don't feel all that impressed at the sight of him. That fellow must be famous because, from where I am looking, he looks a bit like a sulking duckling, fresh from waddling to the shore.
"Who?" I ask Fred, still looking at the girls as if they are diseased.
"The youngest seeker alive! We saw him playing in the World Cup!"
"He's like your version in the professional circuit, Harry," George adds.
"What a dude." I begin pulling my arm from around Katie. "I don't like him."
"Stop it you." Katie slaps my hand and pulls my arm back to the previous position with a vice-like grip. "You're still our beloved resident celebrity, Harry, there's no need to feel threatened by that bad, menacing Krum. It's just news to us, y'know."
Susan manages to control herself enough to add. "She's right, you even look better than him."
I still look at them with narrowed eyes as the twins and Lee laughs. As we follow McGonagall back into the Great Hall and I dispel the warming charm, though, I can't help with the smile spreading in my face as the girls come close to me. Say what you want, but it's nice to have your ego stroked by a pair of beautiful women.
Gods, I am turning into Sirius.
"Time to go to my table," Susan says with a wave. "See you later, Harry!"
"See ya," I say as I find my seat at the table.
"So, Susan Bones," Fred says as he sits by my side. "Branching out now, are we?"
"Never mind that," I answer and watch as the foreigners get up to their tables—Beauxbatons in Ravenclaw and Durmstrang in Slytherin. The headmasters take seats at the Staff Table, talking politely with Dumbledore, but there still are two empty chairs there. "Do you know who else will be coming?"
"Ministry people, probably," Fred shrugs. "Maybe that tool Bagman and Crouch?"
George makes an expression of distaste. "Seems like it, I would love for Bagman to appear."
"Wait, Crouch?" I narrow my eyes. "That arse? Sirius hates the man."
Katie is startled by my vehemence. "Really?"
"Yeah, he's the piece of shite who put Sirius in Azkaban without trial." My jaw is now clenched strongly enough that it hurts. "Personally, I can only hope he's there so I can shove a curse or two up his-"
"I think we got that," Katie says. "Look, here's the food."
As always, the food just appears before us, but strangely, now there are unfamiliar courses peppered here and there. An appeal to the foreigners, if I understand it right. Still, as I pile the food in my plate, I try to err on the safe side and not eat anything that can possibly have snails in it.
The second course of meals is more of the same, but now with desserts.
"Hey, look there," George calls us. "Ronniekins seems to be near apoplexy."
I turn to the direction Ron is and, true as George said, he looks very embarrassed. The tips of his ears are of a startling, almost apocalyptic red, as he offers something to one of the foreigners. I narrow my eyes as I recognize her as that blonde girl, and her magic looks like it's entrancing Ron's own.
"Excusez moi?"
"Yeah?" I answer as a beautiful, french witch comes up to us. Her hair is black as the night and is held up in an elaborate, complicated bun, while her eyes look almost grey in their paleness, hidden behind thinly-framed, elegant glasses.
"I wanted to ask if-" she pauses mid-sentence, her gaze flickering to my forehead. "C'est incroyable! Are you Le Survivant?"
"Who? No, I'm Harry Potter," I answer, bewildered, as Alicia muffles a giggle near me.
"It's the name the French have for you, Harry," Alicia says.
"Oh, sure." I smile at the French girl, who's still looking at me with wide eyes. "El Survivante, that's me alright. There's anything you want?"
She blinks a time or two and seems to regain her composure, even if her cheeks still have a faint dusting of pink. "Mon Dieu! I just wanted to ask if you 'ave finished the confit de canard."
I look again at Alicia and she points to a plate near us, one I haven't touched.
"Yeah, you can take it," I pick up the plate and give it to her.
"Merci beaucoup. I'm Amélie, by the way," she says and George looks like he has just been stabbed, his mouth open and eyes unblinking as she goes away, muttering. "Wait until I tell Fleur I just talked with Le Survivant!"
I poke George as he makes a funny noise. "George? You alright here?"
Fred looks like he's near a fit of hysterical laughter. "Remember the French girl he wrote to?"
"I think it's her." George's voice sounds strangled. "Bollocks."
"Small world," I mutter to myself, watching as Amélie goes back to the Ravenclaw's table and points to me, talking in hushed tones. The blonde girl gives me a sharp, analyzing glance for a second or two, her magic looking turbulent. "Heh. Eat your heart out, Krum."
Katie pokes my side. "Not petty in the slightest, are you?"
My retort, though, dies in my throat as Dumbledore gets up and the Hall goes silent. His bright robes flutter around him with an unseen breeze as the candlelight dims, giving the idea of an ancient, wise sorcerer of old.
"The moment to begin the Triwizard Tournament has come," Dumbledore says, smiling at us. "Before we can start, though, I would like to say a few words of explanation, just to clarify the procedure we will be following this year. First, though, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Pius Thicknesse, Head of the Department of the Department of International Magical Cooperation-"
Looks like the turmoil behind Sirius' innocence has blown Crouch away, then. My smile is almost feral in nature. Couldn't have happened to a nicer person. This Thicknesse, though, is thin and has a wispy look to his features; even if impeccably dressed, he doesn't exude all that much strength of character as he gives us a thin smile.
"-and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."
More people cheer, now. This Mr. Bagman must've had made himself very popular and is Thicknesse's contrast, as he looks jovial and smiles broadly at us, using a faded Quidditch uniform and greedily drinking the applause.
"Mr. Thicknesse and Mr. Bagman have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements from the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore continues, "and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime on the panel which will judge the champions' efforts."
Tension begins building inside me at these words. Champions. All the plans I've made, all I've learned about this Tournament and the Goblet of Fire—scarce information as it was—are finally coming to a climactic high.
"The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch."
Filch, grumbling under his breath, approaches Dumbledore carrying a great, wooden chest. The chest is encrusted with jewels and it's magic, old as it looks, is still vibrant as if dotted by little flames of different colors.
The students are holding their breath as one.
"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined at length by the involved," Dumbledore explains, "and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school years, and they will test the champions in different ways. Their magical prowess—their daring—their powers of deduction—and, of course, their ability to cope with danger."
I can feel my lips splitting into a smile, reflecting my feelings. Their magical prowess, their daring? Ability to cope with danger? These words are an allure in itself, appealing to me. It's the perfect opportunity to show how worthy of being his apprentice I am. For me to rise above them, show my mettle.
"As you know, three champions compete in the Tournament," Dumbledore goes on calmly, "one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector ... the Goblet of Fire."
Dumbledore closes the casket and puts the Goblet on top of it. The Goblet, for all its casket looked finely crafted, is crude—a chalice of wood, carved archaic runes, but full of incredible magic.
As the goblet overflows with fire, so it does with power. Ancient sigils in a tongue I do not know fluttering through his lid, the energy seemingly drinking on the world around it and dissecting it in their quintessential parts. A judge, through and through, who couldn't be assailed or shanghaied into the exercise of its function.
Do you dare to prove your might, Harry?
Dumbledore looks grave as he surveys us. "Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment, and drop it into the Goblet," he says. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the Goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The Goblet will be placed in the Entrance Hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.
"To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation," said Dumbledore, "I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the Entrance Hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line."
For the second time that night, my world seems to stop. I've read about Age Lines—wards tailored to only accept people from a predetermined age through. Advanced and hard to drawn, I have no doubt about the fact that it will talk all of me to even think about breaking them.
Do you dare to step into the grounds of legend?
That's the mettle I'll have to surpass, the first obstacle in my way.
"Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this Tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the Tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the Goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play, before you drop your name into the Goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Goodnight to you all."
His eyes catch mine for a split-second as everyone gets up, chattering endlessly about what they've just learned. I avert my eyes from his and finger my cloak, hidden in my pocket, as I begin to trace the plan of action to take tonight.
"Harry." Katie tugs my sleeve, looking worried. "It's time to go. Come."
My body follows her almost on its own, my mind far elsewhere as the Goblet of Fire belches flames endlessly; the blue light of those being less eye-catching to me than its magic. That judgmental magic, which seemed to expect greatness and suffered no weaknesses.
That alluring, maddening call for the worthy, for the strong.
Do you dare, Harry, to reach for greatness?
My smile is all teeth.