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Breaking the Law
My cloak feels as if it's made of water against my skin.
The magic of the Cloak of Invisibility is all-encompassing—nothing escapes from inside it. The numerous runes and symbols of its make drink greedily the magic from the owner, in such a way that not even the faintest, dullest mote of light, extend from beyond its confines.
The Common Room is sparsely populated as I stride towards the Fat Lady's portrait. Fred and George are talking in hushed tones in a corner next to the fireplace, with multiple ingredients exchanging hands and twin shifty looks on their faces. Two third-years I don't know are playing Wizarding Chess on one of the tables and Ron is coaching one of them, while their adversary just looks disgruntled.
"Who's there?" The Fat Lady asks as the portrait swings open and I ignore her. The Marauder's Map is in my hands, the lines of ink interlacing with the ethereal glow of the many different enchantments embedded in the parchment, and the Quietus spell in my shoes muffles every footstep of mine.
The only companion I have as I stalk towards the Great Hall is the sound of my our heart beating fast, the adrenaline making me take notice of every dark cranny and nook of the corridors until I reach my destination.
I make a double take at the sight of the Goblet of Fire, still overflowing with blue flames and sitting upon its casket. The shadows its casting seems to dance on the walls, only increasing the eerie feeling of the deserted Hall.
The Age Line around it is like an impenetrable wall—old magic brought upon the world and chained by runes with a purpose, a barrier looking solid as the very Goblet. There's a glimmer of many different enchantments and protections mixing within the Age Line as I extend my hand from inside the Cloak of Invisibility, trying to get through it.
The dome of magic ripples, but feels solid as steel.
Well, my first plan has just gone through the window, then.
It seems that the Age Line wants—no, it needs to know who is passing through. It can't recognize me from inside the Cloak, ergo, it doesn't lift to allow for my passage. Time to change the approach.
I close my eyes and the familiar cold, pernicious sense of Occlumency envelops my mind. I submerge every sense and memory I have about my age in the dark recesses of my mind. The very concept of age, of being old enough, is being eaten by the Occlumency as my mind goes momentarily blank and it hurts.
I let Occlumency clamp their jaws in my mind and almost fall to the ground.
As I stumble into my feet and narrow my eyes to focus through the dizziness, the… the… why can't I remember? The — Line; the ward, it's still raised before me. Even if I have no clue about what I have just been doing and about what half of the ward means, I still feel a desire to get through it.
My fingers tremble as I try to touch the dome of light.
Then I am flung into the air as if Hagrid has just punched me in the gut.
Rolling on the ground, the best thing I can do is to hide inside my cloak and try to make sense of myself again. My grasp on the Occlumency erodes to dust and it takes every ounce of my self-control to not scream as everything comes flooding back into my mind.
"Who goes there?" I heard Filch yelling as he ambles inside the Great Hall, and I can feel the coppery taste of blood in my mouth as I bit my lower lip to not make a noise. I crouch down, mastering my dizziness, and let the tip of my wand peek from under my Cloak.
"Confundo."
Filch eyes go out of focus for a second or two, my magic looking like fingers penetrating and then shaking his cranium, confounding him. When he blinks, he comes back at his sense with a roar.
"Peeves! I will have your hide for that!" He bellows and stalks away from the Great Hall, his steps faltering as he zig-zags out of sight. "Blasted Poltergeist! Oh, I'll have your hide-"
I let out a relieved breath.
I come near the Goblet carefully and sit before it, cross-legged, my mind going through all my knowledge to try to make sense of the Age Line. Looking at it, there's a physical component I can't fake—my body's age and a mental component.
Squinting, I peer deeper inside the ward. Maybe I could change it?
As if answering my thoughts, four runes catch my sight. Crap. Dumbledore has anchored this ward with the Founder Runes.
So, if I can't get through, and I can't change the ward, the only way is…
Wand in hand, I begin to trace runes before me, the shapes and forms holding up on the empty air as if written by an unseen hand, the red and gold flames flickering on the darkness. First, there's Lagusz, the rune of water, as the beginning of an aett centered in the idea of giving passage, of a safe way. I balance it with arrays centered on balance, Raidho, and penetration, Perthro...
Sweat trails down my neck as I craft the ward, intending to try and interfere with the Age Line—disturb it enough to allow me to pass, protecting me from its magic. Every line that comes from my wand is measured and perfectly straight, the symbols chaining themselves together before me.
I take a step back, looking proudly at the result.
Then, holding my wand by the tip, I slam it on the ground and the crack of stone heralds the completion of the ward. My enchantment tries to drive itself between the pieces of the Age Line, stretching its essence and infecting it like a cancerous growth.
For a second, I dare to think it will work.
Then the Age Line flares brightly and turns the table, overpowering and devouring my ward. My own magic withers and disperse, adding to the power of it the Goblet's protection. The backlash almost makes me stumble back, and I lean on a wall to center myself again. As if prompted by my failure, Dumbledore's words come back to my mind.
You can't change this magic, because as much as you occlude, you don't have the authority to do so—nor do you have the power to supplant the entire Hogwarts by yourself.
I feel foolish. As the Age Line is anchored with the Founder Runes and has all the might of Hogwarts behind it, it's no surprise that my own ward couldn't supplant it by itself. It's like trying to hold the ocean with a piece of parchment, blatantly impossible. Pathetic, Potter.
I rub my temples. I need to think, to plan.
Getting up, I leave the Great Hall in the direction of a vacant classroom. The creaking of the door seems to echo, magnified by the silence, and my breathing only calms down after I lock the door with a Colloportus and fire every Privacy Charm I know.
I get out from the inside of the cloak and bring my wand in the direction of a battered, notched chair behind the Professor's table. The silent Reparo I cast makes the chair shudder as it meets the concept of becoming perfect, whole again. The scratches born from many students smooth out and, with a flick of my wand, a comfortable stuffing appears on the seat, as if a green, shiny liquid is pouring through the wood.
I sit down and rest my face on my hands, trying to make sense, to formulate a way to enter. There's no way I can change that ward, no way I can convince the ward to let me pass by simple Occluding my mind, and it would take more than an army to supplant the might of Hogwarts' magic. What I need is authority.
The hours pass by, a multitude of books I filched from the Restricted Section are strewn before me as I try to formulate a new plan. Cursing to myself, I slamTwelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm a Charm shut. Useless, completely useless. There's nothing I can use there, except going ass over teakettle crazy and torching the entire Great Hall with Fiendfyre.
A bystander would laugh at seeing how lost I am looking now. Books all around me, my face contorted with frustration as I try to make a cunning plan before the rest of the students get up. All stealth and subterfuge, like a damn-
Oh. Oh yes.
The smile that split my lips is positively vicious.
Like a damn Slytherin.
The chair clatters on the ground as I get up and pick my cloak.
The bathroom of the Moaning Myrtle is blessedly empty as I go inside. My feet make smacking sounds as I walk through the water puddles, reaching for the central sink. The one with a little, silver, snake engraved in the tap. There was a time when I needed to imagine it being alive to use Parseltongue.
"Open."
Not anymore.
Magic swirls around the room, cold and subtle, as the sink unfolds with a grinding sound. The porcelain shimmers and twists until it disappears, giving way to an enormous hole. I wrinkle my nose as the fetid stench of many centuries comes from inside it.
Professor Dumbledore likes to say that magic always leaves traces.
Getting from under my cloak, it takes almost no effort for me to locate what I am searching for. My plan is pure madness, clearly, but no one has ever accused me of being exactly sane.
I point my wand to the entrance of the tunnel. "Percutio."
Time to get to work.
Snape's classroom is, of course, protected by some enchantments. I let out a snicker from under my breath, really, it's almost cute to call these protections. It takes only five minutes for me to understand how to enter unnoticed and to do it.
The inside of the classroom looks even ghastlier than normal under the flickering light of my wand. Jars full of things I have no desire to see or know about are floating in the shelves, and I shiver as I catch the sight of eyeballs floating inside one of them.
As I search the classroom cabinets, it's easy to find what I am searching for. Props must be given where they're deserved, Snape is an organized dude. The label of a little crate reads "Wit-Sharpening Potion".
Inside it, there's a multitude of tubes from each student that attempted the potion, and each one is labeled with the name of the brewer the score they deserved. I search through them for anyone with the O grade, ignoring my own P, until I find a familiar name.
Hermione Granger.
"Geminio." Magic comes forth from my wand and, for a second, it looks as if the spell is sampling the target, before duplicating the test tube and the little note in perfect detail. Then I fill it with an Aguamenti, the spell changed just enough for the water to be of the exact same color of the potion, after what I put the cork back and return it to the crate.
"Thanks, Hermione," I whisper under my breath.
Clenching my jaw and wiping some sweat from my brow, I take a look at the scene before me. The pieces I have cut from the entrance of the Chamber of the Secrets are arranged in a pentacle around me, almost touching the Age Line. The stones are floating and their magic, embedded deeply into them and further magnified by my enchantments, is positively ancient and shines with a green hue.
With a flick of my wand, I cast a Privacy Charm around me, then I down the entirety of the Wit-Sharpening Potion. The potion takes hold of me almost instantly as the world gets sharper and dim around the edges, my mind getting free of clutter and stray thoughts.
Good. I'll need focus.
My wand cuts through the air once more as I make the symbols and runes of the Safe Passage Ward, the same I had tried without success earlier. Pale sunlight is already coming from the enchanted ceiling, but that can't distract me. Nothing can.
I let out a breath as I finish weaving the ward.
Now comes the hard part.
To drive my enchantment through the Age Line, as it's anchored by the Founder Runes, I need authority I don't have. Just Occluding my intent isn't enough, just trying to interfere with the Age Line isn't enough, just being Harry isn't enough. So I need to change that.
The stones I from the Chamber glow around me.
That old magic, untainted by the other three Founders, is pure Salazar Slytherin. Seeing how his magic reacts to me, how the arcane symbols twist into fractals before my eyes, I can begin to understand the principles that governed his mind. The guidelines of his actions, how he would think and act; understand him. My path becomes clear.
There's no one with more authority in this castle than a Founder.
I am Harry James Potter.
But I need to become him, to take his authority as mine.
The haze of Occlumency begins to cloud my mind again, this time further potentialized by the potion. I let the trance embrace me as I craft the foundation, the bare bones, of a second mind, just by following what I can see of Salazar's magic. Instead of me guiding the magic, I let what it represents show me the way.
Then I turn my mind against myself. My Occlumency is sharp as a scalpel, cutting from my knowledge the parts that made me, me. It feels like a physical pain as I begin to forget who I am. When I begin to forget my story and my own mind turns into emptiness, a puppet with his strings cut. Everything is dark and everything hurts and everything is nothing.
Who am I?
The unnamed one catches the sight of the magic in the stones around it, stones someone had picked from somewhere—the being craves for definition, for a name. Its mind is empty and full of echoes, so it latches on what the green-silver-old magic is singing and begins to craft its new identity. Bits and pieces come into the being's mind, putting the meat on the skeleton of its personality, coalescing like it was meant to be. A new entity mirroring the reflexes of this strange magic.
A new mind inside its head contorts and rages with its birth screams. It can hear its heart beating faster as the mind settles.
Emotions flood in, twisted as the magic it sees. Subterfuge, arrogance, cold edges and sharp barbs, everything takes form inside its new mind. The entitlement of possessing a part of the world, the raw, clear sense of deserving everything. The impetus to do whatever it wants, the perfection it finds during the pursuit of the only real might that there is. There are no chains on it anymore.
The only thing that matters is his power and desire.
I can do anythingI want.
I am Salazar Slytherin.
This ward that is carefully laid before my eyes is a work of beauty—a perfectly crafted arrowhead, full of might and intent to forge a new path through that pathetic Age Line. My lips curl with disgust. The pretender has anchored this Age Line using my own power—my own will, a magic that is mine by right. Magic I'd bestowed upon my castle. That shall not pass unchallenged.
"Settle," I hiss in the Noble Tongue and the Safe-Passage Ward obeys, drinking deeply from my own magic as it filters through the stones and then asserts itself on the Age Line. There is no fight, there is no dispute possible. My personal rune flares inside the Age Line's own magic, like it's welcoming me. My authority as a founder supersedes even the pretender that calls himself Headmaster of my school.
The Age Line is brought into disarray as my ward interferes with it, spasming madly, and a thin smile split my lips; if the Line had a voice, the magic would be screaming. Bright flares of light erupt, the enchantments mingling together as I walk towards the Goblet of Fire. The Age Line can't stop me—nothing can stop me.
I am Salazar Slytherin. My will is.
From the corner of my eyes, I catch the sight of students entering the Great Hall. They pause and look at me, bewildered—it must be such a spectacle. The Age Line is cut apart by pillars of light, as if it's a sea being split open, heralding my arrival and lashing without success at me. The air is charged with such magic it's almost solid. The students scream.
Worms being witness to a snake.
My smile is so sharp it could cut through solid bedrock as I calmly walk inside the ward and find myself standing before the Goblet of Fire. I fish a crumpled paper from my pocket and, with a casual flick of my hand, throw it inside the flames.
They flare red for a second before going back to blue.
My challenge for supremacy has been accepted at the Goblet's own peril.
As I step out of the circle, under the gawking eyes of these other students, my eyes met those of the pretender—the so-called Headmaster of Hogwarts, who dares to give orders in my castle. Sparks erupt from my wand as I narrow my eyes and scowl. That would be the last—
No!
The stones from the Chamber turn into dust as the inky blackness of Occlumency is punctured from within. His—no, no, my memories, my mind, my personality, all that is Harry Potter come back. I fall to a knee, my hand over my eyes and my breathing labored, sweat trailing down my face as my mind is cut and then reassembled by knives of fire. It burns and the other mind fights back. I feel more than see my ward collapsing behind me with an explosion of sparks…
I am Harry James Potter, I am Harry James Potter, I am Harry James…
Panting, I get back to my feet, taking notice of all my classmates and assorted students looking at me with undisguised emotions. Susan has a hand over her open mouth and Fred and George jaws are hanging open; standing, between Angelina and Alicia, Katie is shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose.
Ron and Hermione look white as a sheet.
There are even some Professors here. Dumbledore has an eyebrow raised and his eyes are shining with curiosity, Professor McGonagall looks pale and horrified. Snape, that git, giving me a glare of utmost disgust, so strong that it could set water on fire. Moody is laughing, his voice gruffly and his mismatched eyes studying the scene before him.
I am Harry James Potter.
"Hey." My smile comes back. "Good morning?"
"He must be expelled, Headmaster," Snape's voice is measured and full of malice. "He has just flaunted all the rules of the Triwizard Tournament and of the school with just one, appropriately bigheaded, act."
I would be happier if he stopped talking just now. My head is still hurting.
"Honestly, Severus!" McGonagall interjects. "Mr. Potter hardly has-"
"Minerva, Severus," Dumbledore's voice has an undercurrent of reprimand and they shut up instantly. Then the gets up and walk to a cabinet, opening it and picking a potion from the inside. "Harry, look at me."
I stop fiddling with a strange instrument on his shelf, a delicate silver teapot that belches purple steam as little figurines orbit around it, and face Professor Dumbledore. "Yes, sir?"
"This is a Headache-Relieving Draught, please take it."
I smile at him, feeling very thankful, and slam down the foul-tasting potion in just one gulp. The pain in my head lessens for a bit as it effect settles and I take notice of Professor McGonagall and Snape exchanging heated looks, while Professor Flitwick is looking at me, contemplatively. From the Heads of House, just Professor Sprout is absent, as she had some business in a Greenhouse.
"Are you feeling better?" Professor Dumbledore asks and I nod, looking right at his eyes.
There's a light pressure on the back of my mind, the hallmark of Legilimency, and I instantly understand his unasked question. I give him a discrete gesture of agreement and the past night flash before my eyes in just a second or two, showing Professor Dumbledore all that had happened.
The Headmaster runs a hand through his beard and turns to the Professors.
"Except for being out of bed, I do not think Mr. Potter has broken any rule," he says. "Alas, if we prosecute every student who tries to go against the Age Line with expulsion, then we will find ourselves without half of our pupils. Mr. Potter just happened to be more successful than most in his endeavor."
Relief floods inside me at his worlds. For a minute, I felt scared.
Snape looks ready to spit fire. "Headmaster, I must insist-"
"Truly, Severus, if Mr. Potter happens to be selected for such a dangerous competition, wouldn't this be punishment enough?"
"This brat, selected?" Snape scoffs. "Impossible."
Dumbledore smiles. "Then, clearly, there's no real harm in his actions."
Snape's face contorts into a mask of hatred for barely a moment before it smoothes out, his voice going back to his habitual silky and low tones. "Then I think that at least thirty points of Gryffindor are an appropriate penalty for being out of bounds and detention for-"
"Make no mistake, he will serve detentions," Dumbledore intervenes with a stern look, "but these will be given at my own discretion."
Snape doesn't look all that pleased about his decision but wisely stops himself from saying anything more. McGonagall, her mouth now resembling a thin, single line, nods sharply at the Headmaster's proclamation.
Flitwick is the first to talk after that. "Now that this situation is solved, Mr. Potter, care to tell us how you did it?"
I am startled by the question, possible excuses and stories without mentioning my Sight running through my mind, just to be discarded as far-fetched a split-second later. Coming with a blank and with all the attention of the room turned to me, I cast a pleading look at Professor Dumbledore.
"I fear that the fault lies within my teachings, Filius," Dumbledore says in a very jovial tone. "Mr. Potter has been studying Protective Enchantments with me for some time already, and he has put his knowledge into utmost effect to fool the Age Line."
A relieved sigh escape from my lips as they seem to buy this.
"Which begs for the question," McGonagall interrupts. "Mr. Potter, you must be honest now. Exactly how advanced are you in my subject?"
"You know, Minerva?" Flitwick taps at his chin, his eyes scanning me. "I've had this same question bugging my mind for some time. Mr. Potter looks almost absently-minded at my lessons; yet, he has executed perfectly whatever the class demands from him. Such nonchalance is only born from a deep knowledge about these matters."
"Exactly, Filius," McGonagall peers at me, her bafflement bleeding through her stern expression and her nostrils flaring. "I had supposed his distraction originated from trying to acclimatize with Hogwarts again, but it seems that, in truth, his little plot has been in preparation for a long time."
Snape makes a little noise of disgust that I ignore completely. My eyes meet Dumbledore's periwinkle stare for a second and he makes a discrete gesture of assent. A sigh escapes from my lips as I turn to look back at Professor McGonagall.
Her gaze is unwavering. "Well, Mr. Potter?"
"Sure, Professor."
Now, how to impress McGonagall and Flitwick?
I get up and my wand is in my hand with barely a conscious thought, pointing to the chair I just vacated. My magic erupts, engulfing the chair and full of a determination, of a sense of change—a order said with such clarity the very reality can't help but oblige. I see all the strands connecting what itis to what it must become.
Through magic, knowledge is power.
The chair shudders as my magic seeps through it, every particle obeying my will and flowing together to form what my magic made it be. The concept of a chair being used for sitting mutates through my perception to a dog being ordered to sit, both with four legs. The barest of the relations—but I can make it work.
All of that takes a split-second. The wood flows and twists and turns into the shape of an enormous, black dog, details appearing along its body as seemingly carved by an unseen artisan. It barks, sauntering in my direction, and open its maw. I crouch to rub its head; there's a good boy.
I smile at Flitwick and McGonagall, who is eyeing me speculatively, and puncture my finger with one of the dog's sharp teeth. The small trickle of blood is caught by my wand, floating just above the tip.
I bring it near my lips.
"Anima Vitae," I whisper and breathe on the droplet of blood. It expands in a cloud of red, engulfing the animal and entering his body through its mouth. It shudders, its eyes glimmering with an acid, bright green light, before stilling completely under my command.
"That's a golem, Potter," Snape says, his hatred of me giving way to pure academic fascination. "Rudimentary as I would expect from the likes of you, but a golem no less."
"Very interesting." McGonagall walks around the dog, muttering. "Transfiguration, Animation and a rather peculiar choice of Charms on top of it, Mr. Potter."
"Interesting use of the Breath of Life Charm. I imagine you tried to give it limited sentience?" Flitwick points in a bright voice and waves his wand around the construct, his face scrunched in concentration.
"Yes, I wanted to give Padfoot here the ability to make his own decisions, of sorts," I say, rubbing the dog's head again as he barks happily. "It would be useful as a sentry, keeping guard even without further input from the caster."
Flitwick claps his hands together. "Of course, I can see where you are coming from, Mr. Potter. Truly amazing as a choice of a guardian and even a limited, independent aide," he then turns to Dumbledore. "You were hiding this from us, Albus?"
Dumbledore chuckles. "All must come to light in good time, Filius. Indeed, Mr. Potter has quite the penchant for Transfiguration and Charms, which has made imparting my old skills onto him a great pleasure for me."
McGonagall finishes analyzing the magic to her satisfaction and turns to me with a sharp look. "You have been holding on us for some time, Mr. Potter, and I must adjust my expectations accordingly." She then gives a small, proud smile, and turns to Flitwick. "Now, Filius, I think that we could hash something out about his schedule if this is the quality of the work we can expect of him."
My mouth opens wide with shock.
"Exactly my thoughts, Minerva. What do you think, Albus?"
"This is, of course, an interesting idea," Professor Dumbledore says. "We shall wait and observe, at least for today, and come back to this point in the near future. Is this agreeable for you two?"
Professor McGonagall and Flitwick nod in agreement while Snape looks to be on the verge of an aneurysm.
"If you are finished giving Potter preferential treatment, I will take my leave," Snape says, his robes billowing behind him as he strides to the exit of the office. McGonagall's nostrils flare again with disapproval as she watches him.
"I, too, shall go back to my class," Professor McGonagall declares, his slight loss of composure now forgotten. "Care to come with me, Filius? We can talk in the way."
"Of course, Minerva. I'll see you later, Albus, Mr. Potter."
I wave in their direction, politely, as they leave the office. Professor Dumbledore lets out a breath and shakes his head. "Please sit, Harry."
I twist my wand and my dog-golem lets out a last, mournful bark, before turning back into a chair, on which I let myself fall.
"Thanks for the potion, by the way, sir. I thought my head was going to explode."
"Understandable." Dumbledore interlaces his fingers together under his chin. "What you did was very dangerous. The depth you have submerged yourself during your trance could be as well considered impossible to come back from," he says with seriousness. "If a headache is the worst that comes from it, we must consider ourselves very fortunate indeed."
"Sorry, sir." Heat creeps up my cheeks. "That was the only way I could think to pass the Age Line, but I acted recklessly and-"
"As is the folly of the youth," he says, giving me a warm smile. "But please, Harry, you must not fall into the trappings of arrogance. Delving into dangerous magic you have no experience with, as you did with this one, can spell your end."
I hang my head down with shame. "Yes, sir."
Professor Dumbledore keeps the silence while I fidget in the chair, his eyes X-raying me.
"If I can ask, my boy, why are you so adamantly about being a participant of the Tournament?"
His question catches me with my guard low. "Well, I… you see." I cough and the words begin to come out from my mouth like an avalanche. "To be honest? Glory. I am tired of being just the Boy-Who-Lived, sir, of being famous just for something I don't even remember right. I am better than that. If I am to be famous, I want to be for my own actions, for my own ability and my own magic, sir."
"I understand," Dumbledore says, "but that not all, is it?"
My voice hitches in my throat as I look back at him, noting the uncharacteristic seriousness of his expression.
"There's more, yes. The thing is, I-" my voice sounds weaker now, too vulnerable. "I wanted to show you that I am worthy of being your apprentice. I wanted to be more, sir." Seeing his silence, there's a nasty feeling in the back of my mind. "I mean, I understand if you are angry about the Age Line and my- "
"Harry," Dumbledore says and my nervous ramblings die in my throat. His voice is masterfully controlled, but still full of an unseen strength. "What gives you the impression I even disapprove of your actions?"
I gape at him, struck dumbly.
"Do you think that I am so vain as to be irritated about you using my teachings to go against my decree? Do you think that you prevailing upon the Age Line would offend me, or even shame me? Do not be naive, Harry."
Dumbledore takes off his glasses with a sigh, rubbing his eyes.
"I knew the ward was fallible, yes. Do you think, even for a moment, that if I had put forth all of my own considerable knowledge and magical abilities, couldn't I have raised enchantments of such arcane origins that you wouldn't even comprehend, less so defy? Do you imagine that I consider your abilities so lowly, that the thought of you breaking the Age Line has never crossed my mind?"
"Then sir, with all due respect, why didn't you do it?"
"And take this choice from you?" Professor Dumbledore makes a sound of derision, looking more energetic than I have seen him being in a long time. "No, a choice that you have no way available but to take isn't a choice at all."
Fawkes appear near us in a ball of flame, the Phoenix's magic ancient and looks as if made of the different arias of a song, flowing together in a deluge of red and gold that's just pleasant to see.
"You wanted me to decide if I wanted to enter or not?" I repeat, confused, and the color drains from my face. "This was a test?!"
Dumbledore chuckles. "A test? No, my boy, a test implies the existence of a right and a wrong answer. The correct term would be an opportunity," he says, spreading his hands on his desk. "Like every other student, you had the option to step away and keep pursuing a quiet, ordinary year. Instead, you decided to embrace the Tournament and put forth your name. Now, as you sit before me, after such a show of tenacity and resourcefulness, must I begrudge you? Discipline you, perhaps?"
Professor Dumbledore's peers at me over his glasses and there's a beat of silence before I find my voice again.
"You— you wanted for me to act," I say as his way of thinking is finally made clear to me. "You wanted for me to choose and learn to take upon myself the challenges coming with it. Am I right?"
"Exactly. Since the start, it has never been my intention to condemn or praise your actions, Harry, but to impart upon you the importance of choosing. Of being determined enough to even make a choice." The skin around his eyes wrinkles further as he smiles. "And in this subject, my boy, I can say you got full marks."
My mouth hangs open again. From what I can understand, it was just a learning opportunity for me. That… that was just so completely, absurdly, pure Dumbledore. I can't keep the smile off my face and begin laughing, feeling suddenly drained as the lack of sleep catches up to me.
"Now, I am sure Madam Pomfrey is eager to have you on her clutches once more." Dumbledore's tone is lighter now and his beard twitches at the sight of my horrified expression. "Before you go, however, there's still the matter of your punishment."
I freeze in the middle of getting up.
"For acts of this scope, your punishment shall be twofold," his voice brokers no disagreement, a proverbial sword of Damocles hanging above my head. "First, you will have to serve detention until further notice with me, one time a week. The exact days will be decided on a later date. For the second part of your punishment, during this school year, you shall be suspended from the Quidditch team, effective immediately."
I blink, trying to decide if I have heard him right. Then I blink again.
"But there's no Quidditch-"
"Oh my. I am very sorry, my boy, as it seems that old age is indeed catching up to me with bouts of sudden deafness," Dumbledore says airly and waves me off. "As the punishments are already given, off you go to the Hospital Wing."
My snort of amusement is answer enough and I get up to leave.
"And Harry?" He calls and I pause with my hand on the doorknob, noting how all the humor is absent from his words. "Take heed, for each choice, there are always consequences; and as one enters the realm of prominence, the consequences tend to be exponentially grander," he pauses for a second, and Fawkes begin thrilling a note that fills me with courage. "That's the next lesson for you. Good luck."
A commotion in the Hospital Wing makes me put down my book and pay attention to the noise. After two Headache-Relieving Draughts doses, there's a haze of satisfaction, a sense of contentment lurking on the edges of my mind.
"Honestly! First Potter, then you two? And beards! What was that man thinking?" Pomfrey's dulcet tones cut through the silence, berating some poor soul. "Oh, I shall have words with him—you two can go to the bed next to Potter while I go."
My laughter came unbidden as I saw who was just coming by.
"Heiya, Harry," George says with a theatrical wave. He has a luxurious white beard on his previously unblemished face, which is swaying in the air as he walks in direction.
"You called?" Fred poked him, his beard almost identical to George's own.
"No, Fred, I was greeting wonderboy here, not you. You're hairy."
Lee follows them with a smile. "Hear, hear."
"Boys," Katie rolls her eyes. "Harry, are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Katie," I smile as she comes to my bed and sits on it, her well-shaped legs dangling as she picks up my hand between her own. "Nice to see you, guys. Is Professor Dumbledore dabbling with cloning magic or something?"
Fred runs his hands through his beard, looking rather proud of it. "No, we tried to enter the Tournament too—Aging Potion and all. As you can see, it didn't work."
"Well, it's not like all of us can be Harry freaking Potter," George adds conversationally, but his curiosity all but clear in his expression. "By the way, how did you manage that? I didn't know you even wanted to enter."
"You didn't," Katie's says with a smug grin. "I, in the other hand, have known since the first day here," she says, rubbing circles in my hand with her thumb. "But even I didn't know he would try with an audience."
"That… was an accident," I run my free hand through my hair, slightly changing my position on the bed to better hide some circumstances. "It's a long, long story, guys. Seriously. Long."
"It's not like we're going anywhere," Lee comments. "There's like, five or six fellows with beards waiting for Pomfrey already. And after the last one she just took off in a warpath to Headmaster's office."
"My heart goes out to him, then," I say with a grimace. "Okay, buckle up you four. It all began with my Invisibility Cloak and…"
From here, I set upon a heavily edited version of the last night. Omitting anything related to my Sight and banking on the fact that being Dumbledore's apprentice, I have some measure of authority to talk about strange and esoteric magic.
"-Then McGonagall left the office and the Headmaster sent me to the Hospital Wing, and here I am," I finish, accepting a glass of water from Katie with a thankful nod.
"Let me get this straight," George pipes up. "First, you Confounded Filch."
"Yes."
Lee is rubbing his temples. "Then you went to the Chamber of Secrets, which is in a goddamn haunted bathroom by the way, and set upon doing some creative decorating with the liberal use of Cutting Curses."
"True."
"After that, hypothetically of course," Fred fields the next question. "You may or may have not broken into a Professor's office, stole a potion, then forged a new one. All that without even a by your leave."
"Speaking hypothetically, correct," I say, scratching my chin.
Katie's blue eyes are shining with mirth. "Then, for a climactic ending, you committed identity theft against a millennium-old, dead Founder, and proceeded to bullshit the very reality so hard that Hogwarts and magic itself believed in you."
"Right-o."
"And after that." Fred raises an eyebrow. "You somehow managed to get off the hook, losing only thirty points in the process."
"Surprised me too, yes."
The four of them look at me in silence for a moment that seems to stretch endlessly, a mixture of awe and disbelief coloring their expressions, until Katie begins snickering and then devolves in a hysterical, full-blown fit of laughter.
"That's it, I am off," Fred says, turning on the ball of his feet and striding purposefully to the exit, dragging his twin with him. "Beard or no beard, I am going to find Pomfrey and get away from him before I get infected too. George, come."
Lee waits for a second more, enough to give me a last, pitying glance, and follows them, muttering under his breath and shaking his head.
Lovely bunch, these ones.
I turn to Katie, who is almost done with her fit of laughter, and my face twists in an expression of hurt. "Are you going to run away too?"
"Well, it is a good idea to go before Pomfrey appears," Katie answers with a teasing lilt to her voice, inching towards me and with her thumb now lightly caressing the contours of my jaw. "But no."
I make a discrete gesture and the curtains draw closed around my bed. Katie keeps the silence, her finger tracing lines of fire in my skin even as we hear the faint echoes of Mount Pomfrey erupting near. I let my gaze roam her figure, pausing at the sight of her toned legs. More than her magic, it catches my attention how way her blonde hair reflects the sunlight, the relaxed carelessness she carries herself with—like Katie's completely comfortable being exactly who she is.
Katie's the first to break the silence. "Harry?"
"Yes?" I answer, not quite taking my eyes her pink, full lips.
"I was worried about you," she says. "You just collapsed to a knee and the Headmaster hauled you to his office, it was scary."
I feel like trash as I look at her expression, opening and closing my mouth without a sound. "I am sorry, Katie."
"You should be," she says, the levity back in her tone. "You know, if another person told me this story, I wouldn't believe it."
"Seriously?" My eyes widen with surprise. "Huh. Why?"
"That's what I am talking about." She huffs, waving in my direction. "You don't even know. Harry, the kind of things you do? They belong to stories and jokes, but you, somehow, make them feel normal." Katie shakes her head. "As if you just take a look at our weirdest thoughts and then go all oh yes, that seems like a jolly nice time, let's try."
"That's a way to look at it." I run a hand through my hair. "I dunno, Katie. I just—look, I see something I want and then go for it. It's not like it's a big deal or anything."
"No big deal?" Katie then laughs. "That's it, you're mad. Completely, raving mad."
"Seems to be the consensus around here," I answer, shrugging, and smile impishly at her. "What d'you think? Should I embrace the Dumbledore's way and begin to wear, say, magenta?"
She hums, not quite smiling at my joke.
"No," Katie answers slowly, her voice lowering and her breath quickening as her face comes closer to mine and she looks right at my eyes. "Magenta would clash with these beautiful-" Katie's finger runs up my cheek, "wonderful star-flecked eyes, you magnificent bastard."
I gulp. Katie's so close that—
"So Harry-" her breath feels hot against my skin as she whispers in a throaty voice, "do you see something you want now?"
Then her lips meet mine and my mind goes blank.
Katie feels warm and smells of sunflowers and her magic is full of fire as I close my eyes and return the kiss. She tastes of strawberries and sweetness and more by instinct than anything, I put a hand on the back of her neck and pull her closer to me. Katie runs her fingers roughly through my hair as she climbs up the bed, without breaking the kiss for even a second.
I can't even think of fighting my smile.
Katie tastes of victory.
Pomfrey has held me in the Hospital Wing until the night had already fallen and I barely had any time to fresh myself up and go to the Great Hall. My time with Katie, short it was before Pomfrey shooed her, still put a smile on my face on my way to the Halloween Feast.
The first thing I note as I go for my seat, between Katie and Fred, is how the atmosphere is charged with tension; tonight is when the choice of the Champions would be made, and most of the students look like they're holding their breath. Even the decoration of enormous, carved pumpkins which are lit by a fire within, just adds to the suspense of the ambient.
"Hey," Katie says, laying her head on my shoulder as I sit. Fred and George, both them clean-shaven again just take a look at us and begin sniggering conspiratorially. "Are you ready?"
"Please, I was born ready," I affect a look of superiority as I hold her hand, and, by George's side, Angelina rolls her eyes. "Hey, Angie. Did you put your name in?"
"Of course I did; nothing showy like you though, so props for that."
I give her a shifty look. "Are you… you know, mad, at me?"
"Why would I be?" Angeline looks at me like I am an idiot, throwing her hair over her shoulder. "You putting your name have nothing to do with who the Goblet will choose, Harry. After all, these two dunces have tried, too."
"It's just, you haven't visited me with those four."
"Er, Harry? That would be my fault," Alicia pipes up, a faint dusting of pink appearing on her pale cheeks. "I was helping Angie with homework and insisted for us to finish before seeing you. Then Fred came and said you were okay, except for, and I quote, being a complete lunatic, and said that Katie was with you. So-"
"Alright, alright, I got it," I say, waving her off and smiling at Angelina. "I really hope it's one of us, yeah?"
"Of course," Angelina says. "I just want for that thing to get on with it already."
"That thing?" I ask. Following her line of sight, I set my eyes on the Goblet of Fire. It's in an empty chair in front of Dumbledore, his flames bright and dancing on its lid. "Oh, the Goblet. Right."
Even as the Feast run its course, I barely touch my food—expectation and excitement are coursing through my veins like molten steel. I'm not the only one, most of the students around me are finishing their meals rapidly and exchanging looks with one another, the suspense building.
Then Dumbledore gets to his feet and every smattering of noise dies.
Every pair of eyes on the Great Hall is fixed on him, and the Professors and foreign Headmasters are no better; looking at him expectantly.
"Well, the Goblet is almost ready to make its decision," says Dumbledore. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them to please come up to the top of the Hall and go through into the next chamber-" he indicates the door behind the staff table, "where they will be receiving their first instructions."
With a discrete motion of his hand, the lights dim—except the ones inside the carved pumpkins. There's even an unseen breeze, feeding the fire, as the starry sky above us seems to get darker.
The Goblet of Fire flares up and its magic seems to shudder as if shuffling between the information stored within, judging many and finding most of them lacking. The waiting didn't help with the nerves, as I see many of the students biting their nails, especially the foreigners.
"Come on," Lee mutters, "come on."
The flames then turn red.
Sparks dance on the air as a piece of parchment erupts for within the Goblet, smoking and charred. Dumbledore grabs it out of the air, studying it carefully before he looks back to us.
"The champion for Durmstrang," he declares, "will be Viktor Krum."
A wave of applause and cheering sweeps through the Hall, but I pay no mind—a tendril of magic comes from the Goblet in the form of a chain, every link of it a fiery red, shooting across the Hall until it latches its hooks into Krum's own essence. A magical binding contract, through and through. He seems to not feel it, as he gets up and walks right through Dumbledore, under the eyes of all the Professors and compliments for Karkaroff, until he disappears inside the chamber.
The clapping and cheering die as the Goblet turns red again, repeating the same process. A second piece of parchment shots from it, and Professor Dumbledore deftly catches it.
"The champion for Beauxbatons," said Dumbledore, "is Fleur Delacour!"
The blond girl with that weird, entrancing feel to her magic, elegantly gets up to her feet. Without pausing to give even a second look to her schoolmates, she saunters in the direction of the antechamber. Two girls from Beauxbaton begin sobbing as they see her going, which makes my upper lip curl with distaste.
"Pathetic," Kate whispers next to me.
I make a noise of agreement. Strange, Amélie, who was sitting near that Fleur, looks… relieved?
As the girl disappears into the chamber, the tension begins to run much higher than ever before. This is the moment of truth—the stakes are raised and the Hogwarts champion would be chosen now. Katie's grip on my hand is strong enough it hurts and I bit my lower lip, uncaring of the students that are stealing surreptitious looks in my direction as we wait.
The Goblet of Fire erupts in red flames again, flames of the color of fresh blood.
The parchment shoots up in the air, and the magic of the Goblet is strong enough that I can't recognize the imprint of the Name. Written by the owner own hand, Names always carry some magic with them—a principle used in Transfiguration. Dumbledore picks the parchment up and, for a second, his gaze met mine.
"The Hogwarts champion," he calls, his eyes twinkling, "is Harry Potter!"
"Yes!" I shout, jumping to my feet and punching the air. "Yes!"
I laugh like a madman as the Hall explodes with the noise of people clapping and yelling and booing, but I care nothing about them as I look to my friends. Fred and George are yelling with joy and Angelina, even if she looks a bit downcast, sends a warm smile to me. Alicia is whooping with Lee madly, both smiling, and Katie—
"You did it! You really did it!" she yells, her cheeks flushed as she pulls me into a hug and then into a searing kiss. The noise of the Great Hall stops for a second as I lose myself in the sensation, just to erupt again with catcalls and whistles as we separate. Katie's eyes shining with excitement as she rests her forehead on mine. "You awesome bastard, you did it!"
"Harry Potter," Dumbledore calls again, "in the antechamber, please."
With a last look to Katie, I get up to my feet and begin to walk into his direction. The magic of the Goblet shoots up in a chain of light in a vertiginous speed, hitting me with an almost physical force. I close my eyes for a second, welcoming it and savoring the sensation of the accomplishment, and laugh again. As I pass by Dumbledore, he smiles.
"Well done, my boy," he whispers, gesturing in the direction of the antechamber. "Well done, indeed."
The fact the Goblet had just chosen me between all those students holds absolutely no candle to the sense of raw, overpowering pride, that fills me at hearing his words.
As I enter the antechamber, Bagman, Thicknesse and the foreign Headmasters follow me. Krum is leaning on the mantelpiece, a taciturn look on his eyes and Bagman is extolling my virtues to high heaven. I promptly ignore him, my gaze falling on the French girl.
She looks at me with disbelief and a hint of curiosity, her skin looking like made of marble under the lights of the hearth's fire. Madam Maxime strides to her side, purposefully, and they began to exchange words in a rapid-firing French.
"There must be an error," Karkaroff says slowly with a deep accent, his hand lying on Krum's shoulder. "There must be. The boy is... fourteen at most? How can he compete?"
I feel some savage glee as I recognize a hint of discomfort in his eyes.
Everyone turns to Thicknesse and he looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, his eyes fluttering to the door and back. "You see—hum, this change was just made because Dumbledore championed it. There's nothing in the rulebook of the Tournament itself, or on the enchantments of the Goblet of Fire, about age..." he says, then add in a lower voice. "I think."
"Come on, Karkaroff!" Bagman says cheerily, gesturing in my direction, the great lump. "It's amazing! Mr. Potter proved himself as the third champion well enough this morning, I guess you've heard?."
Karkaroff fixes me with a stare and smiles thinly, his teeth yellow and uneven. "I am just preoccupied, Mr. Bagman, about his… health," his voice is unctuous as him and makes my spine crawl with disgust. "After all, is it right to expose a child to such danger?"
"I have full confidence that Harry will perform superbly," Professor Dumbledore declares in a powerful voice as he enters the room, a small smile still on his face. "In fact, I can even risk saying that the Goblet has chosen wisely."
"Of course you would," Karkaroff says under his breath.
"But 'e ees just a boy!" the French girl interjects and I turn to her, narrowing my eyes. Her face is a mask of politeness, but her words carry through the room and rouse awaken something inside me. "Ee's cannot compete!"
There's silence after that has almost a physical quality to its thickness, everyone's eyes falling on me. Bagman looks expectant and Thicknesse fidgets in his position. Madam Maxime is haughty as ever and Karkaroff hides behind his fake smile, but Professor Dumbledore turns to me.
His eyes are hard with determination and it emboldens me.
The worst part is that there's no derision on the girl's voice. It's just a mixture of pity and surprise like she is just concerned about my well-being instead of purposefully looking down on me. As if it is for my own good.
It makes my blood boil and familiar pressure builds in my mind.
I briefly close my eyes to focus my thoughts, trying to dispel that foreign feeling with the same mantra I've used before.
My name is Harry James Potter. My name is Harry James Potter. My name is Harry James Potter-
"You're right," I say, clenching my jaw. "But you see, here's the thing-"
I master myself enough to give her a tight, strained smile. A smile is devoid of any humor, more like a show of teeth than anything, and my voice is carefully controlled. I let my gaze roam around the room, taking notice of everyone here, until I settle by looking right at her blue eyes
"I don't intend to compete-"
She raises a dainty eyebrow as Professor Dumbledore comes close to me and put a hand on my shoulder.
My name is Harry James Potter.
"I intend to win."
And this is my declaration of war.