That night, Harry's name came out of the goblet.
The Hall was hot and filled with noise. Just like breakfast that morning, the room was full of voices that sounded intense. The junior students bubbled and frothed in sheer exuberance: who do you thinks…? and If only I was old enough…echoed off the walls and bounced between the long wooden tables that filled the room.
In contrast, the older students whispered and mumbled.
What about Perks, you reckon?
–Better than Prendergast, I'd say.
But did you consider Derrick? I think he's got a decent chance…
–I'd rather have a girl, to be honest. Have you considered Jones?
Which one?
–Ravenclaw's Macy Jones, I reckon. She's got a mean wand for Charms.
What about Gryffindor's Angie Johnson? Have you seen how cut-throat she gets when she wants to win?
Harry stifled a smirk.
The Hall, although of course he couldn't see it, would be lit up brightly, candlelight catching the school banners that decorated the huge room. From memory, Harry guessed that the foreign schools were once again wearing their full uniforms, neverminding the temperature. The French would have their hats set jauntily, sitting upright and formal at the Ravenclaw table like the Hogwarts student body never bothered with. The Durmstrang students would be layered up in their furs and their high boots, overheating in the room but hunching together out of solidarity nonetheless.
Colin would have his camera, of course, and the thought had Harry force his shoulders down into a more relaxed posture. Any remaining evidence of the evening must have him looking innocent, after all.
Which was why Harry led his friends to remain sitting in relative silence, letting the voices of the Great Hall wash over them. When the mutters passed into a lull, he could hear snatches of German that he could pretty much piece together: there was a low but passionate argument about Krum – Karkaroff's Golden Boy – and some other student: a Dark Arts prodigy, Harry thought he understood.
Closer to Harry, less indistinct at the Gryffindor table, there was also a lot of discussion: about how people were feeling – one of the older students couldn't stop her hands shaking, the Weasley twins were trying to tease a seventh-year out of needing to throw up, someone had started a betting pool...but Harry pretended mild disinterest, and sat quietly in his seat.
His hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, hidden by his long robe sleeves. Crow was with him this evening, and he preened on Harry's shoulder and occasionally nipped at Harry's ear.
When the food came out, the conversation muted just a little, but between the clinks of cutlery on the gold plates and the hubbub of, "Pass the peas, thanks," voices still seemed to mutter and mumble excitedly.
And then finally Dumbledore silenced the crowd, and the lights – presumably – dimmed, letting the magic fire of the goblet draw every eye in the room except Harry's.
The quietness of the room, in contrast to the energised noise of earlier, made Harry's ears ring a little in shock. The very air seemed to hang heavily around him as Harry caught Professor Dumbledore's voice introducing the Goblet, explaining the process and then, with a great ringing voice that was very definitely playing to the crowd, announced the first name to be drawn out of the Cup.
It was Viktor Krum, same as last year. Harry felt a mild shock of interest as the familiar name came out of the goblet. The crowd clapped politely, Slytherin voices seemed to swell proudly, as if Krum was representing Slytherin themselves, and Karkaroff's delighted voice bellowed proudly over the applause.
"Knew it would be you, Krum! Bravo! Well done indeed!" Other voices muttered a little in disappointment, shuffled in their seats and commiseration subtly, but Professor Dumbledore merely waited a few moments before Harry heard the Goblet's fire flare again, and the Headmaster read out the second name.
"Fleur Delacour," he announced to Harry's keen interest, and immediately a few voices seemed to eep and then break down into tears – from disappointment or envy, Harry didn't know.
While the crowd fussed, Harry realised his lips were stretched into a pleased smile. Now he knew that the Goblet really was – somehow – picking the best candidates for the Tournament, and not drawing names out randomly. He didn't know why that seemed to matter to him right now, but it did, and he was pleased.
A long moment passed, enough time for both Victor Krum and Fleur to stand and make their way to the little meeting room off to the side of the Hall. Harry groped for a cup - anything to wet his throat - and it seemed a long time before the crowd settled eagerly, and Dumbledore spoke again.
His theory, of the best witches and wizards, was proven when Cedric Diggory was named as the third Tri-wizard Champion, and Hufflepuff roared their approvable. The other schools' applause simply paled in comparison, and people were stomping loudly, bellowing in triumph, someone started a Hufflepuff chant.
Harry clapped and cheered along with the best of them, hiding his nerves, ignoring his rising tension, the thrumming of anxiety rising in his stomach, tightening his muscles, clenching in his jaw…
"Marvellous," Headmaster Dumbledore was saying. "Well done and congratulations to all our Triwizard Champions. Now, as young Mister Diggory heads directly into the side chamber, I am sure that I can count on you, our audience to contribute to your school…"
He stopped.
The excitement of the Hall died down into confused silence.
Harry swallowed loudly.
Then.
In a voice that was uncomfortably off-balance – had it been the same last timeline? Was Dumbledore really so surprised and discomforted? – the Headmaster spoke a final and fourth time.
"…Harry Potter."
His voice dropped into the Great Hall like rock into a still pool.
There was silence. Nobody moved. Not even Harry.
Indeed, as he heard his name read out surprising everyone in the room, a wave of warm relief rushed through his body. His head drooped a little, in relief, in relaxation, as the very neck muscles that usually held him upright softened with the sudden loss of tension. He huffed out a tiny, tiny breath, a sigh.
Behind his blindfold, behind which no one could see – except Moody, but he didn't think that mattered at this stage – Harry closed his eyes for a long moment.
Things were on track.
He was in the Tournament.
His year-plan would work out. Or, rather, it hadn't failed yet, at any rate.
And then on either side, Harry felt his friends whip around to stare at him in horror. There began a rustling of fabric shifting and heads turning and whispers beginning to build. Draco Malfoy of all people screeched, "Whaaat?" in a voice that rang around the huge Hall, and then there was a riot of noise.
Someone – Neville? – reached out to grasp Harry's shoulder in solidarity, Crow flapped into the air in surprise at the noise and the movement; Katie and Alicia switched from commiserating with Angelina to shooting questions to anyone who would listen to them—
"Did he say, Harry?"
"Our Harry?"
"Harry Potter? But he's too young!"
"Did he mean another Harry?"
"He wouldn't have been able to get over the Age Line!"
"Is a fourth Champion even possible?"
"But the kid's currently blind! This isn't right. Harry? Do you know what's going on?"
Fred and George slipped out of their seats to mutter rapidly into Harry's ears.
"Did you do this?"
"Do you know what's going on?"
"It wasn't you, right?"
"We know you're something special, kiddo, but you're far too young for this…"
"Have you even seen the Age Line?"
"If it's got your magic, Harry, you'll be compelled to compete."
On his left, Hermione was hissing violently towards Ron. Seamus and Dean had forgotten how to speak softly.
Crow was screaming defiance from above, circling over Harry's head like some kind of protective Dark deity.
There was a huge chaotic noise, as all sorts of people rose out of their seats. The huge wooden benches that lined the long tables screeched loudly against the stone floor as people stood, regardless of their seatmates, and clamoured with confusion and worry and demanding defiance.
Harry reminded himself to stay seated. He cocked his head a little, pointed his blind face in Dumbledore's vague direction and then let Fred and George, still hovering over his shoulders, grab his attention.
"Sorry, what?" Harry mumbled their general direction. "I thought I heard…I thought I was developing keen hearing to make up for my lack of…y'know…ah…did the Headmaster really just say…?"
George laid a heavy hand on Harry's right shoulder and shook him just a little. "That was your name, kiddo! Just popped out of the goblet like a boggart from a closet! Were you, ah, expecting that?"
Fred leaned really close to Harry's ear, so close that his warm puffs of breath tingled the tiny hairs on Harry's skin. "Is this something you were planning, Harry? Is that all part of your grand…y'know?"
"I didn't do it," Harry informed them immediately, and was amused and relieved to feel them both sag a little in relief. Then, audience in mind, Harry acted a little more persuasively. "Uh…sorry, I'm not quite sure what…you just said, it did say my name, right? I didn't…Is it possible there's been some kind of mistake?"
"Thank Merlin, because I was going to have to ask how you got through the Age Line when not even we could!" Fred's voice grinned.
Harry spared a mad moment to wonder if Rita Skeeter was currently perched, unnoticed, somewhere in his hair.
"This…this is weird, right?" he asked the twins instead. "I mean, there's supposed to be three champions, right? Isn't the Goblet supposed to be really old and powerful? I mean, someone must have cursed it or something, right? To make it pull out four names?"
George swore under his breath.
"So…if it wasn't you, Harry," George's voice was solemn, "then…do you know who wants you in the Tournament?"
Then someone up on the teacher's dais set off fireworks to quieten the Hall, and Professor Dumbledore called out Harry's name again in a stern and sombre voice. "The fourth Champion is…Harry Potter. Er…" Unusually, the old wizard's voice stuttered to a pause. "Harry, could you have someone walk you up to the antechamber, please? There's a good lad."
Harry reached out a blind hand in Neville's general direction, and let his loyal friend grasp it firmly before Nev helped hauled Harry to his feet.
It was entirely unintentional, but a good piece of performance nevertheless, as Harry tried to clamber out of the long wooden benches with all eyes on him and caught his ankle on Hermione's leg.
He swore. Pitched over sideways towards Hermione's undignified squeak. From the soft impact at the end of his elbow, he may have jabbed her in the ribs as he tilted, but then a raft of hands caught him by the shoulders and arms and robes and hauled Harry upright again, finally standing tall enough for the whole of the Great Hall to see his short, fourth-year body. Someone kindly patted him down and straigthened his robes. George, probably, and Harry mumbled his thanks.
And finally, even the low mutterings of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students stuttered to a halt as Harry's blindfolded form and comparatively tiny body was revealed to even the strangers.
"But 'ee iz tiny!" a boy's voice muttered from the direction of the Ravenclaw contingent.
"Can 'ee not zee?"
"I do not get it," a Russian burr rumbled from the other direction. "Krum vill flatten the child."
"…Zis eez simply impozzible," someone else added.
His right hand grasping Harry's firmly, his left resting steadily on Harry's right shoulder to guide him up between the tables and towards the small door in the far corner, Neville said nothing but led Harry on.
His palms were damp and clammy. As were Harry's, he suspected.
This was good, his plan was working, but the uncertainly…being the center of attention…his nerves started playing up anyway, Harry realised.
He tried to avoid biting his lip, and then remembered that it was important for his audience to see his unease. He nibbled his lower lip worriedly as Neville walked him onwards.
Unseeing, Harry could nevertheless feel all the eyes resting on him: his silk blindfold, the rumpled school robes with bits of grass from the afternoon that he hadn't quite shaken off, Crow still circling and cawing in distress just above Harry's head.
Had the Great Hall always been so long?
They reached the teacher's dais.
"Just this way, Mr Longbottom, Mr Potter," Professor McGonagall muttered quietly, and Neville led Harry up to the door, and through it, leaving the staring eyes behind him.
In the huge hall over his shoulders, as Harry let himself be led towards the small room off to one side, disquiet rustled.
Neville led Harry into a room that was much smaller and warmer than the Great Hall.
The sound that bounced off the antechamber's walls was muted, the walls obviously closer than the Great Hall's huge size that allowed space and echoes.
A warm fire was the first thing that Harry identified, as Neville led him straight towards the dry warmth that basked his bare face and hands.
The fire smelled like woodsmoke and – a little bit – like salamander flame, and Harry's mind went straight back in time to the last time he found himself in this position, when he'd been an unwitting fourth champion and unwanted in the room.
This time, he found a surprising amount of comfort in the steadiness of Neville's hand that guided him towards the fire's warmth.
There was the sound of movement as they stepped closer, within a few feet of the fireplace, and the robes and furs of the other competitors rustled as they looked up and shuffled in surprise and confusion.
"Harry Potter?" Cedric Diggory exclaimed first, and Harry could just imagine his openly confused face as he glanced between Neville the guide and Harry the temporarily-blind. "Uh…what are you doing here, Harry?"
Harry shrugged. After a pause, Neville's nervous voice stuttered out.
"Uh…there seems to be…um, I'm not…Harry's name's been pulled out of the Goblet. As a fourth champion."
A pause.
"I didn't put my name in!" Harry burst out – again: for the benefit of any ladybugs currently hiding around the room.
There was a heartbeat of surprised silence, until Cedric spoke. "Well, of course you didn't."
At the same time, Fleur exclaimed, "C'est impossible!"
Krum stayed silent and stern.
It was with relief and fondness that Harry heard Cedric speak again. "But Ha-Longbottom…it's the Tri-wizard Tournament. There are only three schools!"
Harry shrugged again and pointed his unseeing face in Cedric's general direction. "I…I don't know what's going on," he lied. "I…Surely someone will come through soon to say it's all some kind of mistake, right?"
From a corner a tad away from Fleur and Cedric, Krum seemed to scoff.
Harry ignored him. "I mean…" With a gentle jerk, he freed his hand from Neville's and gestured to himself, from top to toe. "I'm fourteen! I'm currently bleeding-well blind. I don't…Professor Dumbledore will soon sort it all out…right?" He remembered to add a bit of a wobble to his voice, to stay in character.
Still standing close, Neville's voice seemed to frown. "Harry, I'm not sure…I mean, your name came out of the Goblet of Fire, you know?"
From the soft, sweet scent that Harry associated with the Veela, Fleur appeared to step closer to the group. "Zee Goblet eez an old an' powerful artevact. I do not zink…"
Cedric spoke up, his voice troubled. "Like what Miss, uh, Delacour said, I don't think we can get out of the Tournament if the Goblet actually drew out our names. Any of us: me, them…you. The professors specifically warned against that."
Neville burst out. "But there should only be three schools!"
Cedric clicked his tongue. "Yeah, that's true. But, if the Goblet called you up anyway…there might not be anything Headmaster Dumbledore can do. We were told a whole bunch about it in our Runes class…the Goblet of Fire is governed by some very powerful runic laws."
Harry raised his eyebrows: he hadn't looked into the Goblet much himself. "Uh," he said instead, and tried to wet his lips with his dry tongue.
The little group fell into a thoughtful pause which was broken by the silent swinging open of the heavy antechamber door and the rapid footsteps of Ludo Bagman, approaching excitedly. Noise from the Great Hall fell into the quiet room and was then cut off again as the door swung, equally silently, shut.
"Well, well, well, Mr Potter. How extraordinary! I'm sure you've heard by now," Bagman's buoyant chatter filled the room, "but congratulations to all four of our Triwizard Champions."
Harry could just imagine the students in the room exchanging baffled glances at Bagman's inappropriate excitement.
"Ve vere hearing a rumour," the inimitable voice of Viktor Krum interrupted all of a sudden. "That there has been a – vat do you call it? – an error, vith the Goblet."
Bagman spluttered. Unsurprisingly, Harry thought rudely. "Ah, well…yes. Although…an error, you say? I'm not sure an 'error' is the best word…but you're right, of course, Mr Krum. The Goblet has behaved most unusually. Four school champions are quite a surprise, I'd say. Quite the excitement, don't you think, eh, Potter?"
"Not really, sir." Harry spoke blandly.
Bagman laughed thinly. "Haha. Oh, well…I suppose, at your age…But the game must go on, eh?"
"Must eet?" and Harry could practically hear Fleur's eyebrows rising in scepticism. "Zee new rules, I am theenking, should not let leetle boys run towards danger."
Beside Harry, radiating a peaceful and supportive warmth, Harry heard Neville stifle a snort. Then the taller boy shuffled closer to him to bump shoulders companionably. "Well, Harry could totally do this thing," Neville seemed surprised to hear himself speak, "but…I mean, he shouldn't have to."
Bagman spluttered a little more before clapping his hands together, trying to get control of the room. "Ah, well…but moving on…"
Harry frowned. "I don't think I want to be moving on just yet, actually," he interrupted. "I want to know how this happened. Is there any way I can get out of the Tournament?" He knew there wasn't. But appearances, appearances... "How did my name get into the Goblet anyway? And what does this mean for all of the other safety features that people have been advertising for this Tournament?"
The room was filled with only the crackling pops of the fire dancing in the fireplace for a long moment, before Bagman's feet shuffled on the stone floor. "Ah, well…I'm not sure—"
"I theenk the same," Fleur spoke up seriously. "We entered zis Tournament because we were assured…"
"Ve vere assured that safety features had been put in place," Krum continued smoothly. "Must I be contacting, mayhap my coach, my legal team, at this moment? I have contractual obligations that must take…ah, predimstvo...to a school competition."
Harry caught the moment. "Ah, Neville…could you do me a favour, do you think? Do you have a parchment and quill? I'd like you to help me write to my lawyer, too. Uh, Mister Lloyd-Elliot of Lloyd-Elliot associates. Do you think you could…?"
"Hrm? Ah! Right…hang on a mo, Harry!" There was the sound of Nev's robes rustling, crinkled parchment being pulled out of a pocket, and Cedric, Fleur and Viktor seemed to be willing to wait for Harry to speak.
"Ah…right. What did you want me to say?"
Harry cleared his throat. "So quick? Ah…right, lemme think:
Dear Mister Lloyd-Elliot, Harry began to dictate slowly, even over the spluttering sounds coming from Bagman's direction,
I appreciate your open correspondence and find myself rather urgently needing to avail myself – spelt a-v-a-i-l, Nev. Ah, but you probably know that – of your services owing to a matter of some concern.
Due to no actions of my own – is this slow enough? Okay, I'll pause a bit – Due to no actions of my own, I find myself apparently entered into the Triwizard Tournament as an unanticipated fourth entrant.
Harry paused for a minute while Neville's quill scratched madly and Bagman continued to splutter ineffectually.
"Er, Mister Krum…Viktor, may I call you that?"
"…Da…?"
"Would you be willing to share with me the contact details of your legal representatives? I'll have my lawyer talk to yours…"
"That can be done," Krum seemed to be nodding.
"Oh, thanks," Harry breathed out, his plan progressing apace. "Right, I'll send that on as soon as you get the details to me then…maybe as a second page of this letter, if you could…?"
Bagman, off to one side and excluded by the little group, seemed to be growing more and more concerned. "Oh, I say, Harry—"
"Mister Potter, please."
"Mister Potter? Of course, Harry. Right. But, I say…isn't this a bit too much, eh?"
Harry ignored him and continued dictating.
"Could you please find some time to visit me at Hogwarts at your earliest convenience? I wish to take all possible legal recourse that I can – got that Nev? Oh, brilliant, thanks – in order to keep myself safe. Mr Viktor Krum, of international Quidditch fame, is the legitimate Durmstrang champion and is willing to share the details of his legal team…"
Cedric's voice, so young, interrupted Harry's dictation. "You can talk to my dad, too, Harry. No idea if it will help, but he does work at the Ministry…"
"Oh, thanks. Fantastic. Ah… Hogwarts' legitimate champion, Cedric Diggory of Hufflepuff, also offers the services of his father, ah…"
"Hrm? Oh, Amos Diggory, Ministry of Magic, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."
"Right. That. Are you getting all this, Neville?"
Harry's good friend mumbled, his quill not even pausing. "Yup, yup…Department for the…Control of…Creatures…Yes?"
"Hrm? Oh right," Harry picked up. "Ah…if he can be of any service in this endeavour. New line:
I await your reply with all eagerness. Comma, new line.
Yours faithfully. Comma, new line again.
Harry J.J.A.C. Potter." Harry took in a deep breath. "You reckon that'll do?"
The door swung open again suddenly, letting the chattering clamour of the Great Hall flood in for a long moment, and Harry tried to count how many pairs of footsteps, how many teachers, had just entered the little room.
"Oh," Bagman seemed to have perked up at the appearance of people who might be able to control Harry's actions. "You're all here. How marvellous. Er…?"
Professor Dumbledore spoke mildly. "It appears that the four of you have met, I see, and Young Mister Potter here has begun to…make defences against his future involvement in the Tournament, I take it?"
"Oh surely not, Headmaster," Bagman spoke up smarmily. "Who wouldn't want to be involved in a Tournament like this one, eh? Eternal fame and glory up for grabs, and all? Surely you can convince Harry—"
"Mister Potter."
"—Mister Potter here to…cease and desist this little scene he's making. Why, there's no good reason to get the lawyers involved in this Tournament, is there?"
"On the contrary," Harry growled out, and he felt a jolt as all adult eyes in the room seemed to fix themselves on him.
Someone – a man, not Snape surprisingly – sniffed. Karkaroff, Harry identified with a grimace. Then the Durmstrang headmaster spoke. "You are…insisting," the unctuous man queried, "that you did not, in fact, enter yourself in this tournament? You are not, theoretically, jealous of my Viktor Krum's fame and insisting on inserting yourself in the Tournament out of some kind of misdirected sense of…vainglory?"
Harry couldn't help it. He snorted. "Merlin, no. I've got more than I want of that, thanks. Have you even read the Potter Spotter column? They make news out of my wardrobe choices. The less of that kind of publicity, the better, I say. I'd like to formally reiterate: I did not enter myself into this tournament, and will be taking all the recourse I can to disentangle myself."
There was the small movement in the air of four teenage wizards nodding in silence, backing Harry's statement up, apparently, and Harry felt a small glow of pride and pleasure. Also, surprise: what had made this change?
Then Dumbledore seemed to step closer to him and Harry tilted his face up to look in the general direction of his headmaster's face.
"Mister Potter," the old wizard spoke. "Would you do me the honour of reiterating, for the record, what kind of involvement you have had in your entry to the tournament?"
Behind his blindfold, Harry blinked. "Certainly, sir. I had nothing to do with my name being put in the Goblet, and nothing to do with my name coming out. I—" He couldn't say he knew nothing, Harry remembered, because he had, in fact, known…" I had no input whatever in any part of the process. I…do you have the slip with my name on it, Professor? Is it really my handwriting? Can it not just be some kind of big mistake? Maybe somebody's idea of a joke?"
Dumbledore sighed. "I'm afraid not, Mister Potter. It would take a witch or wizard of uncommon cleverness to get past my Age Line, although I do not mean to brag. And it would take a witch or wizard of uncommon power to overwhelm the usual rules of the Tournament and convince the Goblet that there are four schools requiring champions, instead of the traditional three."
This time, it was obvious that it was Snape who snorted sceptically, but a clamour of voices began to speak up and Harry was content to let his mind drift around while Madam Maxine comforted Fleur, and Karkaroff and Krum argued, and Mister Crouch and Ludo Bagman had a quiet and intense discussion in the corner.
"But I should be able to get out of it, then?" Harry finally spoke up and quietened the room. "Right? Since it's some kind of…fraudulent entry? I mean, I know the goblins don't take fake signatures when dealing with Gringotts bank…they can tell, somehow, and therefore they don't count…?"
"An astute observation," Dumbledore noted proudly. "But, in this case, unfortunately unrelated to your precise problem. Your name has been accepted by the Goblet of Fire, Mister Potter. It is too late to argue fraud or identity theft. Indeed, the paper in my hand appears to show your genuine signature and," there was a pause while he muttered under his breath and the room bit their comments back from sheer interest, "it appears that your name has been stolen from what appears to be an old History of Magic assignment. Does an essay on the fame and fortune of Urg the Unclean seem familiar? Poor Cuthbert will not be able to help us identify who had access to his records, so I'm afraid your unwilling entry stands."
Various adult voices protested against the entry of two Hogwarts champions. The noise washed over Harry for a moment, and he busied himself by passing the letter off to Crow and instructing him to fly to the lawyer as soon as he could.
Finally the hubbub calmed down.
"Mister Crouch?" Dumbledore inquired calmly. "You are our Tournament expert. What say you to this state of affairs?"
"Well," Bartimaeus Crouch's weak voice vacillated into being. "Young Mister Potter here has had his name come out of the Cup, and the fire has gone out. While there were fail-safes in place to stop this happening, they were – unfortunately for young Mister Potter here – extraneous to the Goblet itself. Mere modern additions to the ritual Goblet, not part of its true nature, one might say. Now that Mister Potter's name has come out – whether due to Dark Magic, or cursed spellwork or so forth and so on – Mister Potter is as much obliged to compete as the other Champions. For the same rewards and punishments."
Bless Neville for speaking up. "And, er, what might those be, sir?"
"The Cup has tasted the magic of all four champions," Mr Crouch Sr continued in his pale-sounding voice. "As imbued into their magical signatures. And they remain bound to the Cup until such time as one of them is revealed to be Champion. Their magic is what strengthens the function of the Cup, and the Cup is what binds them to compete to the best of their ability. This is, after all, an age-old example of a Run of the Gauntlet to stimulate growth of magical strength and abilities."
Harry blinked. "Eh? I never heard that?"
Fake-Moody's voice broke in. "Ah…well, Mister Potter, you've been stuck in the hospital wing for far too long, after all, although I suppose none of your teachers ever bothered mentioning it to non-N.E.W.T students anyway. The Triwizard Tournament is one of the only legal rituals still allowed in Britain. It's a Trial by Fire. A Rite of Passage. A Hero's Ordeal."
"…What does that mean?"
Madam Maxine spoke, her voice less accusing than Harry had actually expected. Probably due to how blind he currently looked, he assumed. "Eet means," her expansive, alto voice pronounced, "that your magic 'as been taken 'ostage until such time as one of your triumphs over ze rest and," she continued, "ze point at wheech your magic eez released from zee Goblet and given back, purified, you could zay."
"So that's why we can't just 'pull out'," Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Because the Goblet's holding my magic hostage?"
"An' eet will keep it," Fleur added softly. She was probably trying to be nice, but Harry didn't like the sense of pity that bled through her voice. "To ensure our best be'aviour zroughout ze Tournament."
Viktor's voice rumbled. "Ve vill gain back our magic in accordance to how much effort ve vill put in."
Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Eh?"
"And in the end, the vitch or the vizard who has been the most heroic will gain the greatest condensing of pover."
"You might think of this end-product," Professor McGonagall's voice broke in, and Harry realised with a small jump that she was present in the room, "as a 'boon' or 'benediction', if you will."
"Huh," Harry mumbled. So that was why Voldemort had entered him into the Tournament, at any rate. All the better to vampire Harry's magical power and blood away, right? "But…I can just take the Tournament easy, right?" Harry reached out to confirm, the better to know, after all. "I mean, I just have to survive the tasks…I don't have to be aiming to win…right? Just to my magic back unchanged?"
"Ach," McGonagall's accent bled through just a little. "Mister Potter, you see…if the Goblet is not pleased with your effort, it has retained the taste of your magic, after all."
"…So I could get punished by it!?"
"In a matter of speaking, it is…possible," his stern Transfiguration teacher spoke like she'd just announced his death knell.
"Right," Harry sighed, and licked his dry lips. "I'll, uh, do my best then. Aiming to win and all that. Er, I guess I'll...hrm, the sight thing is going to be a problem. I'm so sorry for intruding on your competition, folks. I mean, I knew it was high stakes, but still..." He ran a hand through his hair again, before deciding to twitch his robe collar as straight as he could. "Ah…here's to a good challenge then, guys. Sorry about this, but I'm not gonna risk my magic, I'm afraid."
Indistinct voices murmured back.
Harry swallowed a little louder than he'd meant to. "May the best mage win."