To Harry's intense shock, there was no party in Gryffindor Tower when he returned.

He clambered awkwardly through the Fat Lady's portrait entrance, and heard only a few muttered voices in muted common room, where he'd been expected the twins to have a wild party rampaging.

The warmth that hit his face was quiet and still, in contrast to the energised heat of the expected crowd. Austum air drifted aimlessly, smelling more of woodsmoke than the press of people, and it washed softly over the tiny hairs on his arms and teased his fringe with almost-unseen movement. The indistinct voices cut off for an instant before picking their low murmurings up again, as if to provide him with privacy.

"Uh, Nev?" Harry stumbled to a halt and asked for a little clarification. "The common room seems rather…empty right now? No one's about to leap out to surprise me, right?"

It was an oddly powerless feeling to be without Crow or Crookshanks guiding him through the castle, although he wouldn't regret sending Crow off with the letter to his lawyer.

Neville climbed through the hole behind him. "Huh. You're right. There's barely anyone in here."

Angelina's voice approached him from the left, presumably having Katie and Alicia with her. "Harry," the older girl sounded worried. "Good to see you're back unharmed. Did it go alright? Did you get out of it?"

"Ah…" That was not what Harry had been expecting to hear. "No? I don't think? I mean, I haven't heard back from my lawyer yet, but the teachers seem to think I'm stuck."

Voices murmured rude words and then there was the rustling of fabric as if more people turned away.

"Best of luck," Alicia mumbled, and Katie echoed her. Angie patted Harry – a tad condescendingly – on the head before she left, muttering something about Harry's age that sounded mildly insulting. She meant it well, Harry assumed, even as he turned to Neville be directed in the right direction.

"So…where to? Are Hermione and Ron around anywhere?"

Neville's voice was shakier than it had been for months, Harry realised; the poor kid had lost all his newfound confidence in the moment even as he replied: "I think the Weasley twins want you, actually. I'll just, ah, leave you to them, shall I?"

"That works," Harry agreed, and waited patiently to be collected by the approaching older boys and presumably manhandled into a private corner.

Fred and George bundled Harry off slightly roughly, their large, warm hands guiding Harry right up the dormitory stairs towards their own, sixth-year dorm. It felt, most amusingly, like an inexorable march onward.

"Mind your feet," Lee's voice drifted up from a few steps behind him.

Harry almost jumped. He'd had no idea the other boy was there.

"A landing ahead," Lee reminded a few paces later, and Harry found his right foot stepping on air for a bare moment, until it came down on, not another step, but the landing to his own dormitory if he was counting right.

Lee's voice spoke again, even as Fred's hand on Harry's left arm, and George's hand on Harry's right, chivvied him onwards. "Steps now."

There was the soft pattering of their feet on stone, and the heavy breathing of four boys in Harry's ears. They were taking the steps faster than usual, pushing on. Harry let his lips fall open just a tad to get some more oxygen in.

"And this is our dorm," Lee's voice broke in, and Harry had a mere second to take the words in before he was spun left and thrust through what must be the door to the sixth-year boys' dormitory.

"On the bed, lad," Fred's voice muttered, even as the twins raced Harry across the floor faster than he thought quite rational.

"We've got great privacy charms on this," George explained as his hand dropped away from Harry's arm and Harry heard the whooshing of bed-hangings open. The smoky scent of fireworks, sulphur, and something inexpressively Weasley wafted softly up into Harry's face. "Up you get, Harry. We need a really good talk, we think."

It took a few minutes, and Harry got bounced about more than he expected on George's bed as the older boys clambered on and off its mattress for a bit – grabbing parchment, remembering a quill, tweaking the bed-hangings so that they hung just-so.

Then Harry found himself in the odd position of being certain, absolutely convinced, that he was the recipient of three unseen gazes. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood up under the weight of their stares.

There was a pause.

Then, "Well?" Fred spoke up impatiently. "What's going on? How did you get in the tournament? It wasn't you, right, who put your name in?"

"You do know, right?"

From the tiny bouncing of the mattress, at least one person was nodding.

"But you're far too low-key to want this, am I right?" George's voice added. "Unless…is this going to be your big reveal? I mean, we thought you'd keep things on the downlow, but—"

"—the other option is that this is why you've been keeping big secrets," Fred continued. "Which doesn't seem like you. So are things okay? Do you need help?"

Harry felt a blissful warm fire form in his chest, and couldn't help the grin that spread across his face, relaxing some of the tight tension he'd been carrying ever since he got proof that Voldemort was attempting to murder him in the graveyard again.

"Merlin. Thanks guys. I…it's a little complex, okay?"

Lee snorted forcefully, making the mattress jiggle a bit again. "Everything seems to be with you, kiddo. So what's new?"

Harry paused. After a long moment, where the rolled his shoulders and stretched at the muscles in his neck, Harry found himself thinking that this…might actually be a good thing for him.

"You're okay with it being a bit of a long story?"

"Yeah? Go on."

"And...you're all comfy and settled?"

"Uh huh."

"So you, ah, can we save the questions for the end?"

Fred moved abruptly - throwing his hands up in the air or something, knowing him. "We can do that too, Harry! Just get on with it, okay? Please?"

Lee's voice grinned, "Suspense isn't good for him. Sorry about that."

Harry rocked back in his seat and made himself comfy. His legs could be crossed a bit better, he straightened the hang on his robe - he'd been sitting on it - and then settled down. Huh. George's mattress was definitely softer than Harry's was. But anyway...

He opened his mouth. Frowned. Licked his lips and then just went for it.

"Well, the short version is that someone's trying to kill me."

It filled him with more gratefulness than Harry had anticipated when they just absorbed that for a moment. Believing him.

There was that warm feeling in his gut again, and some of Harry's tension in his shoulders bled away again. Support made him soft like this, it seemed.

Then: "…Right."

"Not out of the realm of possibility, now that you mention it, but – ah…what precisely would you say brought this on?"

Harry felt a small smile slip out. Always willing to take on anything, the twins. "I…do you guys have the Map around here, do you reckon?"

They paused for a beat. "Ah," Fred's voice grinned. "I keep forgetting you know about that. We can get it. Why?"

"…Do me a favour and check the map first, yeah?"

Merlin help him, but he loved these boys. They paused only for an instant before cheerfully agreeing, and then there was a bustle of movement, sound and flurry.

"Hang on a mo—"

"Ooops, lean over now…"

"Eh, kittycat! Come on up!"

Harry was only mildly surprised to learn that Crookshanks had discovered his unsupervised situation and padded into the boys' dormitory, and then pounced onto their bed, without a break in stride. While the older boys were lunging over the bed, and grabbing...things, Harry could feel the rhythm of Crookshanks' footsteps coming straight to him. He strode straight up to Harry and headbutted his knee before taking his rightful place on Harry's lap, settling down with an abundance of floofiness and majesty.

"Hey, Crookshanks," Harry murmured, while Fred and Lee set things up around them again. "Thanks for finding me. Reckon we should get Kreacher in on this?"

Crookshanks mreowed.

"Oh, yeah. I thought I'd bring these guys into the fold, as it were. But I thought the old team should be kept in the loop."

With a three-second purr from Crookshanks to encourage the thought, Harry reached into his mokeskin pouch and withdrew from it his enchanted mirror.

Sirius had had the brother-mirror for months now, but Harry had managed to persuade him that Kreacher – alone in Grimmauld Place, isolated – needed all the 'supervision' he could get. It had nothing to do with not wanting Sirius to know how bad his eyes were. Nothing at all.

"Kreacher," Harry spoke blindly into the direction of the mirror in his hand, and Kreacher's old, scratchy voice responded almost immediately.

"Kreacher," Harry beamed. "It's so good to hear your voice! I haven't seen you for ages. I'm good - things are on track actually, and um. I, ah, thought I'd get some more allies on board, if you're okay with that."

He thought he heard Kreacher take in a deep breath. "The Good Young Master is needing all the help he can get," was the response, and Harry rolled his eyes at the snigger that escaped Fred at the comment. "Kreacher is saying it before, and Kreacher will be saying it again, he is sure."

"…Fine," Harry nodded obediently. "You're probably right too. So, guys? Did you check the map? Is there anyone called Rita Skeeter buzzing around us?"

"Who?"

"Wait…that seedy reporter? Mum loathes her."

"Yeah. She around?"

Harry busied himself scratching behind Crookshanks' ears while the older boys poured over the original Marauders' Map. It was odd, he mused, while everyone kept busy for a bit. He'd not actually put his hands on his father's map this time around.

Not that he needed it, of course; Harry's map mark II was perfectly functional when he could see. It would be even better than the original once he'd finished it all up too: once he'd run around the castle once more, for example, now that his magic was more sensitive.

But he felt a bit lopsided without the heirloom, like something integral was missing from his survival kit.

Finally, George spoke up. "No Skeeter here, Harry. Or in Gryffindor Tower at all. She appears to be hanging out about in Hufflepuff, actually – how in Merlin's name she snuck in there, I don't know."

"How in Merlin's name you knew she'd be sneaking around, I'm not sure," Fred added.

Lee waited patiently.

Harry twitched. "One of the many benefits of being an unregistered animagus, I can tell you now we're allies. Uh…so. Here's the thing."

He paused to swallow, and felt at least two of his audience positively vibrating with fascination.

"Uh," Harry frowned, not meaning to draw the process out, but it was a big story, and where precisely was he supposed to start? "Let's see…so. Sometime ago, you could say I had a…dream."

"Young Master Harry's vision," Kreacher croaked from his side of the mirror.

"An out-of-body experience." Harry nodded. "You could say that it was almost like a time-travel experience, but…uh, there's no evidence of that. No Time-Turners, no aging…just me. And my memories."

He could very well imagine his audience exchanging glances before they all three seemed to lean forward, judging by the creaking of the mattress below them all. "Go on?" someone asked him.

Harry paused in scratching at Crookshanks' ears to clap his hands once. Then, he drew his hands to his face and bumped them against his lips, to help him think.

"So…" he mused. He should have thought he'd be sharing the story with more allies sooner or later. Why hadn't he planned what he should say? "I have a little bit of future knowledge. You can say. Bad things are coming. I'm trying to prepare."

George muttered a supportive, "Uh huh?" even as Fred scoffed.

"Ah, Harry? That's not news. We figured out ages ago that you didn't have secrets-upon-secrets for nothing."

Point.

"Fair," he murmured, his eyebrows furrowed. "See, the thing is – I don't know if you'll believe me at first, which is one of the reasons I've got Kreacher here, to back me up – the thing is, I'm trying to prevent a war."

"…"

Lee forgot he was exhaling, and choked on a sudden intake of breath for a moment.

"…What?"

"Right. See…there's…Oh, I also need to get past some of the best wards, created to defend against the best, smartest and most powerful wizards in existence. I - er - need to steal something. Well protected. If you have any ideas on how to do that."

Lee had barely finished coughing before he needed to start again.

Harry scratched at his neck. "Ah. And I also need to nick something from Gringotts - preferably without stealing a dragon this time."

Some coughs and splutters.

"Ah...for real, unfortunately. That was far too much publicity. If you can think of a way to break into Gringotts, lemme know, alright? But..." he hissed out a long breath. "Um...it's all a bit of a confusing story actually – do you want the generic version, or the full thing?"

Unlike the rapid responses and snarky comments that Harry thought he'd get, all three of his audience settled down into deep thought.

"That wasn't quite what I was expecting somehow. The short version first, yeah?" Lee sounded unsure, like he was checking with the twins before they confirmed.

"I...you have been hiding things from us, Harry. It is an honour to be part of your mischief and mayhem." Fred seemed to agree. "Honestly, I'm a little shocked you didn't come to us first, but–"

"–We also know why you didn't," George added.

Fred tsked a little before speaking up again. "Short story first. Then we'll ask questions. We'll need to get you back in your own bed before Longbottom marches up here to rescue you from our evil clutches." The light humour sparked brightly against the serious tone he settled back into, dying away fast.

Harry reached up an arm to scratch the back of his neck, before ruffling his hair, clasping his fists together.

George spoke up then, careful to choose his words just right. "This is...big, Harry, yeah? For reals?"

"See…I think it is, actually," he finally admitted. "I–Merlin, I've been thinking about bringing people into this for years now, but I've never known if I could risk it. It's not that I don't trust you. I do. Merlin, by now you've figured out more of my secrets than any other living Beings – except perhaps Luna, and only then because I've got no idea how she knows things and as such can't exclude her from the possibility of spontaneously realising…but that's beside the point. Only Crookshanks, Crow and Kreacher have been told the full story so far. Um…you're in a bit more danger, yourselves. More in the firing line. Wand line. Whatever."

He nibbled his lip when – still – none of the boys spoke up to respond..

"See, the way I remember things happening in the 'dream'...Things went a bit differently for me, all the way back from first year..."

After Crookshanks saw Harry back to his own bedroom, Harry spent a quiet evening with his year-mates, who didn't seem to quite know how to take things.

"You alright, mate?" Neville kept asking, the confidence that he'd been building these last few years no where in evidence. "I mean…is there anything I can do for you? More people I could write to?"

"Thanks, Nev," Harry reassured. "But I think it'll take a few days before, well, before I need to do more. If Crow returns with a letter from my lawyer though, you might have to read it out loud to me."

"Yeah," Neville's voice firmed up. "Yeah. I can do that for you."

"But for now, maybe we should rest up?" Harry suggested. "It's been a big day, lots of surprises…I think I'll have an early night."

And he did.

If, in the privacy of his bed-hangings, Harry spent more time practising his meditation, the occlumency-training and that weird mental tweak that could control his mage-sight…well, Neville didn't need to worry about that.

The next morning began as Harry had expected.

The Great Hall was full of the buzz of murmurs over breakfast, and the whole mess had apparently been broadly reported on, judging by Hermione's little huffs of indignation and frustration while she turned the pages of the Prophet.

There were more Gryffindors willing to approach him this morning to ask him questions, and uneasy murmurs ran up and down the table while Harry fumbled his way to the huge servings of breakfast choices in front of him and began to fill his plate.

"Good luck, Potter," someone muttered as they walked behind him, startling Harry as they reached out to ruffle, ruffle his hair like he was a kid!

"Got your back, kid," someone else added before they too disappeared down to the senior end of the Gryffindor table.

Colin Creevey's quavery, "I believe in you!" was at least identifiable, and also surprisingly comforting.

Harry felt buffeted by so many people reaching out to touch him while he ate and drank, but this time it wasn't some weird fame thing. It was because they knew him. He hated the feeling of surprise that came with each shock of sensation, but the rough shoulder-pats, the gentle squeezes of his arms, even the brisk ruffling of his hair were...warm. Caring.

Harry inhaled that special breakfast scent that came with Hogwarts mornings - fresh hot toast, cinnamon porridge and creamy oats, eggs and bacon and fried tomatoes and melted butter and cold, morning air - and found himself thoughtful.

Hermione reached out to bump him gently with her elbow. Neville leaned over to stack and cut his pancakes for him.

"You didn't do it, did you Harry?" Ron asked, as he came down to breakfast with Seamus and Dean half an hour after Harry himself did.

"I had nothing to do with me being entered," Harry repeated. He'd said it a lot this morning already, and supposed he should get used to saying it more.

"Right," Ron's voice firmed up. "Got it. Cheers, mate."

Harry wasn't sure what that meant, but he went back to chasing his breakfast around on his plate when the inimitable sound of Professor McGonagall's footsteps paced down the side of the Gryffindor breakfast table.

"Mister Potter," she spoke sternly in her clipped, driest voice, and Harry almost choked on a piece of pancake.

"How are you feeling this morning?" she inquired politely enough, after Harry had choked down some pumpkin juice and regained the joys of breathing.

"As well as can be, I suppose?"

She sniffed. "Indeed. It has occurred to me, Mister Potter, that as your Head of House, I should take an active interest in setting you up for success in the Tournament within the bounds of the rules."

Hermione stopped rustling the paper. "Go on? What does that mean exactly? What kind of rules are we talking about here? I tried the library last night, but mos–" She coughed. "I mean, please continue, Professor McGonagall?"

Harry was interested too. None of his legitimate professors, McGonagall included, had ever offered any help last time. "I mean with regards to your vision, Mister Potter."

Ah. That would do it.

"Whether or not your legal representation can extract you from the Goblet, and whether or not you intend to put your best foot forward, so to speak, it behoves me to suggest that your uppermost priority should be to get your eyesight back, Mister Potter, in order to better assure yourself of," unusually, Professor McGonagall hesitated, "resilience."

She meant 'survival'. Because a blind boy wouldn't last long against a dragon.

"Thank you, professor," Harry smiled in her general direction. "Yes, I understand."

He could just imagine the good Professor raising one of her very severe eyebrows. "Perhaps, I might even venture to suggest, that regaining your eyesight should take priority over…other interests?"

"Oh, I was thinking that too," Harry agreed, before pausing and wondering what interests she thought needed to be put to one side.

The tiniest of pauses caught Harry's interest. "If you were any other student, I would be requiring you to limit your un-time-ly resources and focus on what is necessary, Mister Potter. Any other student at all should be narrowing their objectives rather than continuing to challenge themselves through expansive study. Your electives."

Hermione elbowed him again. Oh. Right.

"But in your case, I am...loathe to do so. I am sure that a student of your calibre will make the best use of your time," the professor kept speaking. "I hope that you will not avail yourself of it often, but until your eyesight returns, might I suggest that you ask a friend – perhaps Miss Granger – to take notes in the classes that you cannot currently participate in, while you work to improve yourself outdoors?"

"You think so too?" Harry asked, then put his fork back on his plate with a tiny clink. "Wait…you mean for me to use 'class time' well? Or…all my 'available' time?"

The professor sniffed. "I'm sure Miss Granger can help you decide what the best use of your resources might be, Mister Potter, if the answer so eludes you. And in the meantime, I imagine classes such as History of Magic, Divination, Potions and so on are not currently of much value to you without your vision? Your teachers have been keeping me updated of your progress, but in light of last night's revelations...I shall mention your new priorities to all of your professors so that you may make use of such opportunities when they arise."

Harry perked up. "Thank you, Professor. About that, actually. I think you'll be pleased to know I've actually gotten good enough now that when I'm outside I—"

But then, even blind, and even in a conversation with Professor McGonagall whom Harry respected immensely, even he was distracted by the sound of the Entrance Hall doors opening.

Conversation nearest the doors dropped to a lull, and somehow or other even the air pressure in the room seemed to drop a bit.

The morning light and cool air flooded in from the Entrance Hall to the Great Hall through the doors that were left open for the morning flood of students, and an annoyingly familiar voice reached Harry's ears.

"Such a shame I don't come here more often. Oh, look. All the students at breakfast. Isn't it just so nostalgic, Delores? A shame I'm here on business, really. Such a pity. Why, a man of my importance simply always has a number of irons in the fire, as it were, or I would take the time to visit much more often. Such a historical building. So many fond memories. But alas, a man of my calibre finds himself with many responsibilities… Ah now, and there he is! The man of the moment!"

Harry grabbed the moment to stab and snap at a large forkful of pancake from his plate. It was drizzled in honey with a vague taste of berry compote on the side. Neville had cut the perfectly soft, spongy pancake into perfectly square pieces and they'd been stacked, four to a pile, so that he could fill himself up even without the ease of vision. The thick vanilla scent of their heat was easy to inhale while he chewed.

But now breakfast was ruined, and all Harry could do was fill himself with energy for the trial ahead.

"Ach," Professor McGonagall mumbled less quietly than she'd intended, and Harry grinned.

While the good professor wished the Minister of Magic good morning and inquired as to what brought him to Hogwarts so early on a weekend morning, Harry made quick arrangements on his end.

"Hermione, where are the twins?"

"George's about four seats down from me, actually. What do you—?"

"Can you grab him for me? I'd like him to come with me in a minute, when Fudge insists on talking to me, really soon."

"I'm not su—"

"Please?"

She sighed, but leaned away from Harry so her voice was directed down the wooden table length. There was some indistinct conversation from that direction before she turned back.

"He said he'll send Fred," Hermione sat back upright and explained curiously. "Apparently he's better at 'these sorts of things'. Harry, what's going on?"

"—Young Mister Harry Potter, here!" Fudge's voice intruded, and Harry felt like he leapt a foot in the air when a heavy hand landed on the back of his neck with far more familiarity than he was comfortable with.

"Bloody hell!" Harry exclaimed and dropped his fork, which went skittering across his breakfast plate with more force than it should have and promptly knocked over his pumpkin juice. Harry heard the tinkle of the cutlery on metal, the swish of liquid skimming across the tablecloth surface, and the dull thud of his breakfast tankard clinking heavily onto its side. Colin Creevey, on Harry's other side, squeaked and nearby Ginny swore.

Fortunately for Fudge, he removed his hand from Harry's neckline before Harry found the fork again and could stab the man with it. "I've caught you unprepared, I see. A not uncommon effect, don't you worry. Any number of people become intimidated by my presence. Not to worry, Mister Potter."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek and tasted a tinge of copper. "Indeed."

"I'd like a little chat with you actually, Harry," the unctuous Minister continued. "Mano a mano, as they say. Perhaps that little room over in the corner, Minerva?"

While Professor McGonagall spluttered, Harry brushed himself down. "Oh, I'm sure there's nothing very interested about me, er…Minister Fudge, was it? Are you here about the Tournament? Hogwarts' champion is Cedric Diggory, in Hufflepuff. I'm afraid I can't tell you where the other champions are right now. My eyes, you see."

"Never fear," Fudge continued with forced cheer. "I'm here for you today, Mister Potter. A fine, upstanding lad like yourself will no doubt want to meet the 'movers and shakers' of Britain, eh?"

"Oh, well," Harry deflected. "Not reall—"

"Hem hem."

Worse than Fudge's voice, the familiar little cough sent Harry's adrenaline into overdrive, and Harry paused for a moment of sheer horror as Umbridge reentered his world.

Pulse raced. Blood pressure rose. His jaw clenched, and if Harry had bitten the inside of his cheek a little before, now there was a strong tang of salty blood all over his tongue and teeth.

Ooh, but how he hated her. He might be blind, but for a moment Harry was convinced his world was washed in a red haze. A tiny pulse began thrumming under Harry's jaw.

"With all due respect, Minister," Harry deflected one last time, "but I really don't think—"

"Let us talk about it in the antechamber, shall we Potter?" Fudge's voice was jolly and cheerful sounding. Overly so. And when he tried again to put his hand on the back of Harry's neck, Harry stood up and turned to step over the breakfast bench to defend himself from the movement.

"Lead the way then, Minister. After you, and all that. Fred, if you could guide me?"

Fudge seemed anxious. "I'm sure there's no need for that. I…or perhaps my Underse—"

"Just as an assistant," Harry assured the man. "I am currently blind, after all. And you can't get good helpers just anywhere these days."

The good minister would deign to be anybody's 'helper', after all. He jumped back almost as if scalded.

Fred was at Harry's elbow in just three seconds, and they paced the length of the Great Hall and into the same antechamber that Harry had entered when his name came out of the Tournament, just last night. Just like last night, once the door swung closed, the sound of the Great Hall was shut out and the smaller room felt isolated and muted instead.

"Now, Mister…er." Fudge's voice was in front of Harry, and low enough that he could assume the man had sat down. "Potter, your friend has seen you here now."

"I'll stay, if it's all the same to you, actually," Fred spoke up before Harry could. "An underage wizard, alone in a room with powerful politicians: you see how it could look, of course."

Fudge spluttered. So did Harry, but he hid it better.

"Hem hem," the cursed voice tittered, and Harry hid back a scowl as Umbridge's sickly-sweet voice spoke up. "I'm sure you are not suggesting anything untoward about Minister Fudge's predilections…" she began. "Indeed, the Minister is here today to be reassured that Mister Potter himself is not making unfortunate overtures towards spheres of influence he has no business being in."

"Harry did not enter himself in the Tournament," Fred agreed immediately. "He is of the belief that this is the move of some kind of rival: personal enmity seems unlikely at his age, but a political or business faction may have moved to take advantage of the moment seems more reasonable…"

Umbridge sniffed. Fudge took over. "I think, Weasley – you are a Weasley, are you not? – that Mister Potter will find that he is playing in deep waters if he continues the way he has been."

"Ah! Yes, Harry feels very much out of his depth," Fred agreed again, positively smirking from the cheer in his voice. "It seems oddly convenient that he had been entered into a Tournament for of-age wizards when he is only fourteen, and under geas to perform to his best or suffer the consequences."

Harry stood by in amusement as Fred wilfully misunderstood everything that Fudge and Umbridge said, and made it all seem like some kind of politically motivated attack on Harry.

Finally, Fudge snorted. "I am not here about the blasted Tournament!" he snarled at Fred. "I am here to warn Mister Potter here to back off from his political aspirations and leave the politicking to the adults around here."

This time it was Harry who cleared his throat. "I don't particularly want to be a politician," he shrugged, but even as he said it, he knew paranoid Fudge would never believe him. "No worries about that."

"You refuse to admit that you have engaged in a years-long campaign to blacken my name?" Fudge demanded. Harry twitched, because he had indeed been communicating with Skeeter about that very thing. But only to prepare for the war. Only because Fudge was an imbecile. To prepare for the worst-case scenario.

"…No!" Harry managed eventually.

"And you refuse to acknowledge that you have engaged in an equally-long campaign to promote your own character to the voters of Britain?"

Well, only because he didn't want to be vilified by the media again. And for the war.

"…No!"

"And finally," Fudge spluttered, "are you refusing to acknowledge that you have set up a step-by-step plan to undermine my authority with regards to maintaining justice in the courts of law, of transparency in my communications to my constituents, and my competency with regards to Britain's allies abroad?"

"Oh, that was all you." The words snuck out before Harry could swallow the impulse.

"Well!" Fudge was wheezing like a leaky bagpipe. "Well, I say! Well!"

"Hem hem," Umbridge interrupted. "I think you'll find that what the Minister is trying to say is that you will not enjoy the consequences of your actions if you choose to move against the Ministry in this manner."

Even blind, Harry couldn't help but spread his hands out and scoff. "What have I done to move against the ministry?"

"You know what you've done!" Fudge fumed. "And I'll not sit still and take this, Potter. You may be the Golden Boy of the hour, but I'll make sure you get what's coming to you!"

"I don't know what el—" Harry began.

"Is that threat the only reason you came?" Fred spoke over him. "You have some kind of narcissistic belief that Harry's refusal to let his innocent godfather rot in Azkaban is a personal attack on you? You believe that Harry's trying to take over your seat in the ministry, and so you've begun a smear campaign against his name? I've heard about those memos in the ministry, you know. And I'm not the only one."

"Plus there was that incident with the Dementors!" Fudge protested shakily.

"You mean, the time Harry protected students against Ministry incompetence, and stopped them from killing a first-year on school grounds?" Fred checked. "If this is why you've come here to see Harry, I think now is a good time for you to show yourself out. We have nothing more to say to you."

Harry heard his footsteps move rapidly over to the door and flung it open for an influx of sound and the scent of breakfast.

There was also, however, the small sound of Fred saying, "Oh," rather softly, followed by the three-beat tap of an older wizard with a cane moving genteelly into the room.

"Mister Weasley," the reassuring voice of Mr Lloyd-Elliot washed over Harry like clear water. "Ministry Fudge. Undersecretary Umbridge. It appears you are in a meeting with my under-age client. It seems I must have missed your owl. No doubt it will find me soon enough, however, and I am here now. Perhaps my humble presence might be conducive to such a consultation?"

"Lloyd-Elliot," Umbridge bit out, almost managing to sound dignified. "We were just on our way out."

"Ah," Mr Lloyd-Elliot's voice beamed. "So I see, Madam Umbridge. I shan't keep you, in that case. Have a pleasant day, Minister Fudge, Madam Undersecretary. It is a marvellously fine day."

And then they were gone, and Fred was chuckling, and Mr Lloyd-Elliot was telling Harry all that he knew about the Tournament.

"Good morning, Mr Potter," the older wizard's baritone pronounced with clarity. "We have a lot to be talking about."