The Riddle Twins Harry and Hermione Twin Story

by The-Insane-Slytherin-Writer

July 31st is regular day, nothing special about it. Except for a few select people of course. Especially for Harry and Hermione, during their summer of their 4th year. Why? Because they get their creature inheritance. They find out many things about their family, their heritage, their powers, and the wizarding world. Most importantly, they find out they are the Riddle Twins.

16. Chapter 16

Say it with me... CANCER 💢👊

My mother is a fucking strong woman and she does not take shit from anything!

Okay cool, got that off my chest in a way of explaining why I'm so late on updating... I love my stories but I love my family more...

This one is going to be long- I'm finally getting my shit together and moving along with the plot-

This overs November 10th-ish - November 24th. A full 2 weeks.

---

Astaron leaned against the wall of the Owlery, a piece of parchment in his lap, a quill poised in his hand, and a bottle of ink next to him. Ink dripped onto the paper as he thought of what to write. He hadn't written Sirius since before the tournament and he had promised to keep him updated...

Dear Snuffles,

You told me to keep you posted on what's happening at Hogwarts and my life, so here goes — I don't know if you've heard already, you might've with how gossipy people are, but the Triwizard's Champions were chosen already. And on Saturday night I got picked as a fourth champion. The other Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory, from Hufflepuff.

I don't know who put my name in the Goblet of Fire, because I didn't. I would know. I was there. Not that anybody actually believes me, but the important people believe me so it's okay for now I think.

He paused at this, thinking. He had an urge to say something about the large weight of anxiety that seemed to have settled inside his chest since that night, but he couldn't think how to translate this into words, so he simply dipped his quill back into the ink bottle and wrote:

Hope you and Buckbeak are okay.

Your godson,

Harry

It felt wrong writing his other name, just as it always did, but he ignored the feeling. He gave a low whistle and Rico fluttered down, ruffling his long feathers. Astaron laughed as he let out a long demanding hoot, holding his leg out imperiously.

Tying the letter to his leg, the owl nipped at his fingers before soaring off with strong flaps of his wings. Hedwig hooted from her spot and soared down, rubbing her downy fluff against his cheek. He rubbed her breast feathers softly and kissed the top of her head.

"Hey girl... how are you?" She gave a soft chitter sound and he smiled. "I'm glad you're doing good. It's been a rough, with the Tournament, y'know the whole live of die thing, and the rest of the school seems to hate me... Except Dray, and Ron, and Maya... Did you know that Amaya and Theo finally sealed the bond? Well, after she stopped teasing him... Apparently, when it comes to things like this, instincts take control and its very different with a Veela... I'm glad Dray didn't try to do any of that. I would've been patient of course, but for him to dance like that, I would've hated it."

Astaron took a shuddering breath and pressed his face against her back, taking comfort in her motherly preening of his hair. He stood there for however long, rubbing his cheek against her feathers, with her ruffling his hair and nipping at him softly.

Taking control of himself, he pulled his face from her feathers. He dabbed the corner his eyes with his knuckles gently and sighed. "O-okay. I can do this." He kissed her head and pulled away. He had to get to potions.

The walk to Potions was slow, as he gripped the strap of his bag. The weight of it on his leg was comforting despite everything. Astaron surveyed the separated group of Slytherin's and Gryffindor's, feeling disconnected from the hushed whispers.

He was floating again, like he had been when the Goblet spewed out his name. Shining lights on the Slytherin robes caught his eyes but he didn't have the energy within himself to figure out what it said.

The door slammed open and everybody marched inside like they were going toward death. Astaron could only wish that they were.

Instead they entered a dark and cold classroom, with cauldrons over unlit candles. Astaron stood in his spot and waited.

"Antidotes!" Snape announced, looking around at them all, cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. "You should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then, we will be selecting someone on whom to test one. . . ." Astaron stared back coolly, knowing he had to keep up the Harry Potter appearance. So he began counting in his head to 20, all while forcing an angry look in his eyes.

A knock on the dungeon door burst in on Astaron's counting. It was Colin Creevey; he edged into the room, beaming at Harry, and walked up to Snape's desk at the front of the room. "Yes?" came Snape's curt question.

"Please, sir, I'm supposed to take Harry Potter upstairs." Snape stared down his nose at Colin, whose smile faded from his face. "Potter has another hour of Potions to complete. He will come upstairs when this class is finished."

Colin went pink. "Sir — sir, Mr. Bagman wants him. All the champions have got to go, I think they want to take photographs. . . ."

Astaron groaned inwardly at that; of fucking course. He glared at the ceiling, though it did nothing wrong, and pressed his nails against his palms.

"Very well, very well," Snape snapped. "Potter, leave your things here, I want you back down here later to test your antidote."

"Please, sir — he's got to take his things with him," squeaked Colin. "All the champions —"

"Very well !", the man glared at the tiny 3rd year. "Potter — take your bag and get out of my sight!"

Astaron swung his bag over his shoulder, got up, and headed for the door. As he walked through the Slytherin desks, the reflective things flashed at him from every direction.

"It's amazing, isn't it, Harry?" asked Colin, who started to speak the moment Astaron had closed the dungeon door behind him. "Isn't it, though? You being champion?"

"Yeah, really amazing." No, lies. His footsteps felt abnormally heavy as they set off toward the steps into the entrance hall. "What do they want photos for, Colin?"

"The Daily Prophet, I think!"

"Great," came the dull reply from his mouth. "Exactly what I need. More publicity."

"Good luck!" chirped Colin, who was bouncing on his toes, when they had reached the right room. Astaron knocked on the door and entered.

He was in a fairly small classroom; most of the desks had been pushed away to the back of the room, leaving a large space in the middle; three of them, however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and covered with a long length of velvet. Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them, talking to a witch Astaron had never seen before, who was wearing magenta robes.

Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner, as usual, and not talking to anybody. Cedric and Fleur were in conversation; Fleur looked much deal happier than Harry had seen her so far; she kept throwing back her head so that her long silvery hair caught the light.

A paunchy man, holding a large black camera that was smoking slightly, was watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye. Astaron shivered slightly at the vague resemblance of his Uncle.

Bagman spotted Astaron quickly and got up quickly, bounding forward. "Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in you come . . . nothing to worry about, it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment —"

"Wand weighing?"

"We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead. The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there's going to be a little photo shoot." He looked around and nodded. "This is Rita Skeeter," he added, gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet. . . ."

"Maybe not that small, Ludo." Rita Skeeter had her eyes on him. They were hungry.

Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She wore jeweled cat-eye spectacles. Thick fingers clutched a designer crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails, painted crimson. They were decorated with thick heavy rings and bands. "I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?" Speaking to Bagman, but still gazing fixatedly at Astaron. "The youngest champion, you know . . . to add a bit of color?"

"Certainly!" cried Bagman. "That is — if Harry has no objection?"

Astron most certainly did; not that he got to voice them. "Er —"

"Lovely," Rita Skeeter smiled greedily, and in a second, her scarlet-taloned fingers had his upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and she was steering him out of the room again and opening a nearby door. "We don't want to be in there with all that noise." She explained with a bounce of her curls and a tossed side look at him. "Let's see . . . ah, yes, this is nice and cozy."

It was a broom cupboard.

Astaron sucked in a sharp breath and pressed his knees together. His nails dug more insistently into his palm. -outlemmeoutpleasepleaselemmeout-can'tbehereshouldn'tbehere-notssafeneversafegetmeout!-

He forced his breathing to sound normal, all while counting furiously to calm his heart. The walls were squeezing him in a box.

"Come along, dear — that's right — lovely," said Rita Skeeter again, perching herself precariously upon an upturned bucket, pushing Astaron down onto a cardboard box, and closing the door, throwing them into darkness.

His mind screamed with danger- the ingrained instinct telling him to hide and make himself a lesser target. -getaway-unknownthreatandshecanhurtyou-getawaygetaway-don'tmakeasinglesound-

"Let's see now . . ." She unsnapped her crocodile-skin handbag and pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with a wave of her wand and magicked into midair, so that they could see what they were doing. "You won't mind, Harry, if I use a Quik-Quotes Quill? It leaves me free to talk to you normally. . . ."

"A what?" He'd never heard of them. Rita Skeeter's smile widened. Wasn't a good thing then, if he had to hazard a guess. Astaron counted three gold teeth from her wide grin.

She reached again into her crocodile bag and drew out a long acid-green quill and a roll of parchment, which she stretched out between them on a crate of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her mouth, sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, then placed it upright on the parchment, where it stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly. "Testing . . . my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter."

Astaron looked down quickly at the quill.

The moment Rita Skeeter had spoken, the green quill had started to scribble, skidding across the parchment: Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, whose savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations —

"Lovely," said Rita Skeeter, yet again, and she ripped the top piece of parchment off, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into her handbag.

Now she leaned toward Astaron and began speaking. "So, Harry . . . what made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?"

"Er —" He had begun, but was distracted by the rapid pace quill that was moving even though he'd said absolutely nothing. In its wake he could make out a fresh sentence: An ugly scar, souvenir of a tragic past, disfigures the otherwise charming face of Harry Potter, whose eyes —

"Ignore the quill, Harry," Rita said firmly.

Reluctantly, Astaron drew his eyes up to her. "Now — why did you decide to enter the tournament, Harry?"

"I didn't. I don't know how my name got into the Goblet of Fire. I didn't put it in there."

Rita Skeeter raised one heavily penciled eyebrow. "Come now, Harry, there's no need to be scared of getting into trouble. We all know you shouldn't really have entered at all. But don't worry about that. Our readers love a rebel."

"I don't care what people like or don't like; I didn't enter. I don't know who —"

"How do you feel about the tasks ahead?" Astaron stared at her, slowly feeling more and more agitated as every oil slicked word left her mouth. "Excited? Nervous?"

"I haven't really thought . . . yeah, nervous, I suppose," His insides squirmed uncomfortably as he spoke. There was something wrong right now, and his hand clenched and unclenched at his sides. He stared at Skeeter, trying to control himself.

"Champions have died in the past, haven't they?" asked Rita Skeeter briskly. "Have you thought about that at all?"

"They say there's more procedures and regulations in place, so it should be safer." The quill whizzed across the parchment between them, back and forward as though it were skating. It was writing a lot more than what was being said.

"Of course, you've looked death in the face before, haven't you?" Gleaming eyes stared at him, watching him closely through bejeweled frames. "How would you say that's affected you?"

"Erm-" Why was this important?

"Do you think that the trauma in your past might have made you keen to prove yourself? To live up to your name? Do you think that perhaps you were tempted to enter the Triwizard Tournament because —"

"I didn't enter." What was wrong with this witch? What did any of this have to do with the tournament?

She talked over him pointedly, gazing at him angrily. "Can you remember your parents at all?"

"No. Nothing." Lies, but why did she have to know anything?

"How do you think they'd feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud? Worried? Angry?" Astaron took a deep breath through his nose. How on earth was he to know how his parents would feel if they were alive? And they weren't even his parents! Not that they didn't matter, but honestly he didn't care right now.

Rita Skeeter watched him intently.

Frowning, he avoided her gaze and looked down at words the quill had just written: Tears fill those startling green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents he can barely remember.

Astaron growled, and faster than a snake reached out for the paper and tore it in half. The pieces set fire in his hands, and he let them flutter to the ground. The acid green quill was snapped in his hand and he hissed at her.

She shrieked and glared, before he crocodile-skin handbag crumbled to dust. He grinned ferally and walked out, feeling a storm brewing inside of him.

Rita Skeeter grabbed his arm and he looked around at her. He spoke, sounding far calmer than he felt. "Unhand me." There was an odd quality in his voice, and her eyes widened in fear. "Unhand me. I will not repeat myself." She let him go, leaving red creases on his arm.

"My boy, is all well?" Albus Dumbledore stood there, looking down at both of them, squashed into the cupboard.

"Dumbledore!" cried Rita Skeeter, with every appearance of delight — she recovered quickly from her brief lapse of judgement. "How are you?" she said, standing up and holding out one of her large, mannish hands to Dumbledore. "I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference?"

"Enchantingly nasty." Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling. "I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat." Astaron inwardly snorted at the description.

Rita Skeeter didn't look remotely abashed. "I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many wizards in the street —"

"I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita," Dumbledore interrupted, with a courteous bow and a smile, "but I'm afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard."

Astaron slunk away from them and surveyed the chairs in the front. The other champions were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat down quickly next to Cedric, looking up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five judges were now sitting — Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and Ludo Bagman.

Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner; he saw her slip the parchment out of pocket, spread it on her knee, pull out another Quik-Quotes Quill place it once more on the parchment. Astaron growled softly. "May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" Dumbledore began happily, taking his place at the judges' table and talking to the champions. "He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament."

Astaron looked around, and, with a jolt of surprise, saw an old wizard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by the window.

He had met Mr. Ollivander once before — he was the wand-maker from whom Astaron had bought his first wand over three years ago in Diagon Alley.

"Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" Ollivander smiled politely, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room. Fleur Delacour swept over to Ollivander and handed him her wand. "Hmmm . . ." He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks.

Then he held it close to his eyes and examined it carefully. "Yes," he spoke, his voice quiet, "nine and a half inches . . . inflexible . . . rosewood . . . and containing... dear me..."

"An 'air from ze 'ead of a veela." The French girl stated proudly. "One of my grandmuzzer's."

I was correct; she was part veela...

"Yes, yes, I've never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands . . . however, to each his own, and if this suits you . . ." Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches or bumps; then he muttered, "Orchideous!" and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip.

"Very well, very well, it's in fine working order." Ollivander nodded, scooping up the flowers and handing them to Fleur with her wand. "Mr. Diggory, you next."

Fleur glided back to her seat, smiling at Cedric as he passed her. "Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn't it?" Ollivander spoke with much more enthusiasm, as Cedric handed over his wand. "Yes, I remember it well. Containing a single hair from the tail of a particularly fine male unicorn . . . must have been seventeen hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked his tail. Twelve and a quarter inches . . . ash . . . pleasantly springy. It's in fine condition. . . . You treat it regularly?"

Cedric grinned. "Polished it last night."

Astaron looked down at his own wand. He could see finger marks all over it; apparently people polished their wands? Though, it they had broom cleaning kits, it was kind of easy to assume that you polish and clean your wand... He gathered a fistful of robe from his knee and tried to rub it clean surreptitiously. Several gold sparks shot out of the end of it. Fleur Delacour gave him a very patronizing look, and he desisted.

Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke rings across the room from the tip of Cedric's wand, pronounced himself satisfied, and then said, "Mr. Krum, if you please."

Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duckfooted, toward Ollivander. He thrust out his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the pockets of his robes. "Hmm." Ollivander pressed his lips together, "this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I . . . however . . ." He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes. "Yes . . . hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" he shot a look at Krum, who nodded. "Rather thicker than one usually sees . . . quite rigid . . . ten and a quarter inches . . . Avis!" The hornbeam wand let off a blast like a gun, and a number of twittering birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery sunlight.

"Good," Ollivander handed Krum back his wand.

"Which leaves . . . Mr. Potter." Astaron got to his feet and walked past Krum to Ollivander. He handed over his wand. "Aaaah, yes," said Ollivander, his pale eyes suddenly gleaming. "Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember."

Astaron could remember too. He could remember it as though it had happened yesterday. . . . Four summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had entered Ollivander's shop with Hagrid to buy a wand. Ollivander had taken his measurements and then started handing him wands to try. He had waved what felt like every wand in the shop, until at last he had found the one that suited him — this one, which was made of holly, eleven inches long, and contained a single feather from the tail of a phoenix.

Ollivander had been very surprised that he had been so compatible with this wand. "Curious," he had said, "curious," and not until Astaron asked what was curious had Ollivander explained that the phoenix feather in Harry's wand had come from the same bird that had supplied the core of Lord Voldemort's. He shared a wand core with the Dark Lord, his father.

Never had he shared this piece of information with anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as he was concerned its relation to Voldemort's wand was something it couldn't help — rather as he couldn't help being related to Aunt Petunia.

However, he really hoped that Ollivander wasn't about to tell the room about it. He had a funny feeling Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with excitement if he did.

Ollivander spent much longer examining Harry's wand than anyone else's. Eventually, however, he made a fountain of wine shoot out of it, and handed it back to Harry, announcing that it was still in perfect condition.

"Thank you all," said Dumbledore, standing up at the judges' table. "You may go back to your lessons now — or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end —" Feeling that at last something had gone right today, Astaron got up to bolt like a bullet, but the man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat.

"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" cried Bagman excitedly. "All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?"

"Er — yes, let's do those first," said Rita Skeeter, whose eyes were upon Astaron again. He glared at the blond witch. "And then perhaps some individual shots." The photographs took a long time.

Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame; eventually she had to sit while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl; Krum, whom Harry would have thought would have been used to this sort of thing, skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group.

The photographer seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Astaron into greater prominence. Well she stopped after the second time, when she got a good portion of her robe burnt to crisp in 3 seconds.

He had been sent looks for that, each one varying; Astaron paid them no mind, and smiled like the vampire that he was.

Then it was insisted that there be individual shots and those took a forever longer. At last, they were free to go and Astaron was the first one out of the room.

The disjointed feeling began to set in again, with all the anger and emotion draining stuff over. He whined and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He contemplated going to dinner but shook it off; he was too tired for that.

And, besides, nobody would notice if he missed dinner.

OoOoOoOoO

Apparently, it was noticed when one missed dinner.

Ron had stormed into the dorm room in a flurry of simultaneous mothering and scolding. A plate of food had been shoved in Astaron's lap, complete with a full goblet of red. He had blinked at that and looked at Ron, who shrugged and shoved a pink line on his arm.

Astaron wasn't sure whether to feel touched or not. It was a very odd thing to think that he was drinking Ron's blood.

It was something that had been developed by his sister, who insisted that he did not take care of himself properly sometimes, which was true he supposed. Apparently, not drinking blood for a full 18 days, counted as him starving himself. Astaron hadn't exactly known that...

After that, every morning, Ron would wait for him to come down to breakfast, sometimes dragging him out of bed by a leg. Though that stopped quickly after Astaron swiped at him and set him flying onto the wall.

The school was still as hating as it was before, and the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws still tried to hex him whenever he was in the halls. He'd finally caught sight of one of the 'lights' that the Slytherins had been wearing. Apparently they were badges that proudly said 'SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY - THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION!' Which changed also to, 'POTTER STINKS!', equally as proud as the previous message.

Astaron had yet to see Draco, Zabini, and Nott, wear one but it still sent a sting at him every time he saw one of the badges.

3 days after the weighing of the wands, the article from Rita Skeeter came out. It wasn't so much an article about the TriWizard Tournament as it was an article about Astaron. All it produced was a sense of burning anger in his stomach. There was stuff in it that he'd never said in his life, let alone in a fucking broom closet.

I suppose I get my strength from my parents. I know they'd be
very proud of me if they could see me now... Yes, sometimes
at night, I still cry about them, I'm not ashamed to admit
it... I know nothing will hurt me during the tournament, because
they're watching over me...

Not only that, but apparently Rita Skeeter had deciphered exactly what is 'er-s' meant because there were even longer sentences than what Astaron was sure that he had said.

Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close
friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen
out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a
stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry,
is one of the top students in the school.

Amaya had fake-retched and gagged at that, very loudly and dramatically, in the middle of the Great Hall. Then proceeded to look at him with the most vile look of revulsion on her face and smacked the back of his head. Astaron proceeded to stage-whisper that he was as straight as a sparkly rainbow, to which they had fell into a heap of laughter. Ron had joined them after he read the article himself, which had the entirety of the 4th year Gryffindors laughing with them. It was very much known that 'Hermione' and 'Harry' were strictly siblings which kinda made the entirety of that piece complete and utter garbage.

The rest of the school did not know that though, which also made Amaya target of lots of whispers and looks. Every class, there were taunts and shouts at both of them, which only stopped when the Professors entered the room. Even so, there were still pitying looks sent to him, which angered him to no end.

"Stunningly pretty? Her?" Pansy Parkinson had shrieked the first time she had come face-to-face with Hermione after Rita's article had appeared. "What was she being judged against — a chipmunk?" Amaya had merely held her head up with an air of dignity and stalked pass, with a throw of hair over her shoulder. Astaron couldn't help but admire the way that his sister was taking all of this.

Which was why, he was hiding in his dorm, with files open in front of him. He'd finally gotten to the Potter files and he was going through those at a painstakingly slow pace. He read through the finances of the Potter family, with slow, careful patience. He marked down suspicious activities regarding the shares they had and profits they were receiving. There were ample notes in the back section of the file, listing all business expenditures dating all the way back to 1678, of which he went off of to make sure that everything was in its rightful order. Interest being paid forward to them was counted out meticulously and all Astaron had to do was be sure that it was the same amount at the correct date.

With a happy sound, he put that folder away and pulled at another thick file, but this time listing all details about the 17 properties under the Potter name. He slid a piece of parchment next to the file and dipped his quill in ink, taking note of all the dates written down under the first property. The Potter Villa in India, where they did a good portion of business it seemed.

Wards that were even vaguely interesting, were also jotted down and Astaron scribbled on the side to give it to his sister. Rubbing his wrist, he spun it around a few times before picking up his quill again to resume his progress. If he could just get this last file down, then he would be done for at least a few days and then we would have to do his periodic check ups on the Peverell and Slytherin stuff too. It was exhausting work that. Everything actually.

Continually moving, writing in his chicken scratch handwriting, he mulled over all the different wards, the dates of visitors, and wondered if any of this could help with finding out the locating of James Potter. They had done everything that they could given their circumstances, including used the mate bond between James and Snape (Severus) with a bit of genius spellcasting from Amaya, who had been throwing herself at piles and piles of books ever since they had come to Hogwarts.

She had ordered multiple books and even snuck into the Restricted Section a few times to get what she needed to know if what she wanted was a viable idea. Which it had turned out to be, in theory, but something else was blocking it from working. It had been a locationing spell paired with a blood link, classifying it all as blood magic. Not that she had cared but it was rather eye-opening to see his sister going over books on blood magic, a magic said to be very addicting and disfiguring, without a care in the world.

Snape had proved to invaluable, with his years of knowledge that had come into play with everything. He had told them a few things about Dumbledore, but there wasn't much he could tell them if they didn't know Occlumency, a special type of magic that kept the mind from unwanted intruders. Which was really a blessing to know, since Astaron had been stupid enough to meet Dumbledore's eyes. Now he knew not too. Apparently, there was some truth to the saying, 'the eyes are the windows to the soul'.

A pecking to the side drew him out of his thoughts, stopping him from his reviewing of the second to last property, the Potter Manor. He laid his quill down and went up to the window, allowing the brown owl to fly in. It was Rico. He smiled and scratched the owl's head, using his other hand to untie the letter.

"Go and get some water, boy. You can spend the night and then I'll have a reply for Siri." Rico hooted in assent and fluttered away to the bowl of water he kept on the side for when Hedwig came up to him. The sound of owl treats being snapped up made him blink and he pulled out a few bacon treats he'd gotten from a pet store in the muggle part of London. They were supposed to be dog treats but Hedwig liked them just as much.

He sat back down and opened the letter, biting the inside of his lip distractedly.

Pup!

I can't say everything I would like in this letter; it is far too risky, with the chance that Rico might be intercepted. We need to talk face-to-face. Can you ensure that you are alone by the fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o'clock in the morning on the 22nd of November?

I know better than anyone you can look after yourself, but I need you to be extra careful of everything and anything okay? You never know how anybody could hurt you and what they will use, so I need you to be extremely cautious. Somebody is trying to have a good try at hurting you and it was a risky thing, entering you into the Tournament under everybody's noses. But they did it anyways.

Also, when is your Hogsmeade weekend? There is somebody else that wants to see you regarding some interesting stuff. Of course, it has you written all over it, with your great big heart and overwhelming need to help people. We really need to talk about spending that much money on a healthcare service. That is not your job, pup.

Be on the watch; I want to hear about anything you think is unusual.

Let me know about the meet up as quickly as you can.

I love you kiddo.

Snuffles

Astaron set the letter down and immediately began inking a reply to Sirius. He scribbled down his assent to meeting him by the fire and the date of the Hogsmeade weekend. Tying it up, he set it by his bed so that he didn't forget to give it to Rico in the morning.

Turning back to the Potter file, he dipped his quill in ink again to refresh it, and began morning down the dates. House-elf check had already been done, with 2 deaths and 5 new additions. Little elflings, Astaron supposed. Humming tiredly, he rested his eyes by closing them and counting to 20, before opening them once more.

He only had a single more page, which was just a review of visitations and wards. That was always easy because there had been no visitors inside the Potter estates for 14 years or more, unless they were renting out the property or it was a cursory review that was pre-scheduled and approved with a pre-assigned watch that was loyal to the Potter vaults and properties. Like a Goblin from the local Gringotts branch.

Sighing, he glanced over the dates with a vague disinterest, only to stop when he came to the visitation date. There had been a visitation on the 8th of November, a full 9 days previous as it was the 17th. Taking in a sharp breath, Astaron snatched up his wand and pressed it against the date like the instructions from the Goblins had said. The date glowed and light spewed from it and words looped into the name that Astaron hated most.

11/8/1994 - Albus Dumbledore

Astaron tapped on the date 2 more times and watched as dates were listed before his very eyes, continually counting down until he stopped it with a jerky flick of his wand.

11/3/1981 - Albus Dumbledore | James Potter

Astaron made a strangled sound and retracted his wand, flicking it against to go through the dates again to see if he missed anything. There was no date of James leaving, only Dumbledore entering a leaving. He swallowed convulsively and laid his wand down with a shaky hand.

So James was in the Potter Manor and hasn't left for 13 years essentially. Oh Merlin, it had been mentioned that James had been pregnant so does Snape have a 13 year old he never got to meet or did Dumbledore kill the child? A faceless baby with Dumbledore standing over it, James being forced to watch with tears and begging, pleading, like Astaron's own mother had done, appeared in his mind with a heavy horror. Astaron retched at the thought, his stomach rolling with a heavy clench.

He shook off the image with closed eyes; he couldn't think about such things until he even had a way to get to James. Some of these wards were heavily disabling and they could hurt if anybody went into the Manor uninvited. And they were not allowed into the wards, so that was a bummer. Snape had never been to any Potter property other than Gadric's Hollow, so that sucked. He'd never been keyed into the wards so he also could not enter.

Shaking his head, Astaron closed the file and gathered himself. He could still write to the Goblins, asking for a temporary override that was only allowed in the most dire of circumstances. It had to work, and with any luck, he might be able to go on the Hogsmeade weekend coming up, and then to the Potter Manor around Christmas time with how difficult life was on a permanent basis.

With a tentative hope, Astaron snatched up a pen and began writing to Gringotts.

OoOoOoOoO

It is a strange thing, but when you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up. The days until the first task seemed to slip by as though someone had fixed the clocks to work at double speed. A feeling of barely controlled panic was with Astaron wherever he went, as ever present as the snide comments about the Daily Prophet article.

On the Saturday before the first task, all students in the third year and above were permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade. Amaya had been a bit excited to see who had wanted to meet up with them, from Sirius' letter, as it could be a number of people considering everybody who been affected.

Astaron though, had been insistent on wearing the Cloak, which had seemed silly to Ron and Amaya. But he had said that he was going to wear it to Hogsmeade, until they were a good distance away from everybody else or there was a good chance that nobody was going to try and bother them. Ron and Amaya had nodded, saying nothing.

So, he donned the Invisibility Cloak in the dormitory, went back downstairs, and set off to Hogsmeade with his two best friends by his side. It was wonderfully freeing being under the cloak; he watched other students walking past them as they entered the village, most of them sporting Support Cedric Diggory! badges, but no horrible remarks came his way for a change, and nobody was quoting that stupid article.

"People keep looking at me now," Amaya grumped as they came out of Honeydukes Sweetshop later, eating large cream-filled chocolates. "They think I'm talking to myself." Ron had slipped away after they saw Blaise Zabini strolling around and ducking into more secluded part of the village. Ron had rushed off, with a hurried, "Don't wait for me; see you at the Broomstick."

"Don't move your lips so much then."

"Come on, please just take off your cloak for a bit, no one's going to bother you here."

"Oh yeah?" Astaron gave a low snort. "Look behind you."

Rita Skeeter and her photographer friend had just emerged from the Three Broomsticks pub. Talking in low voices, they passed right by Amaya without looking at her. Bit funny, considering all they had written about her.

Astaron backed into the wall of Honeydukes to stop Rita Skeeter from hitting him with her crocodile-skin handbag. She had replacements obviously, he grouched internally. When they were gone, Astaron said, "She's staying in the village. I bet she's coming to watch the first task." As he said it, his stomach flooded with a wave of molten panic. He didn't mention this; they hadn't discussed what was coming in the first task much; nobody wanted to really think about it even with the amount of library time they were accumulating. It was all pretended to be homework studying really, even though Astaron frequently got books on protections spells and more obscure ones from the Restricted Section.

"She's gone," stated his sister, who was looking right through him toward the end of the street. "Why don't we go and have a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks, it's a bit cold, isn't it? We'll get a table and wait up for the person and Ron."

The Three Broomsticks was packed, mainly with Hogwarts students enjoying their free afternoon, but also with a variety of magical people Harry rarely saw anywhere else. Harry supposed that as Hogsmeade was the only all-wizard village in Britain, it was a bit of a haven for creatures like hags, who were not as adept as wizards at disguising themselves. It was very hard to move through crowds in the Invisibility Cloak, in case you accidentally trod on someone, which tended to lead to awkward questions.

He edged slowly toward a spare table in the corner while his sister went to buy drinks. On his way through the pub, Harry spotted Draco, who was sitting with his gaggle of Slytherins. Resisting the urge to give Draco a good, firm, claiming kiss, he finally reached the table and sat down at it.

Amaya joined him a moment later with two butterbeers and he slipped the Cloak off. It was folded carefully and put into his pocket, where it nestled quite comfortably with a happy buzz of magic.

It was weird, feeling and seeing magic, which came on and off randomly. It was annoying but useful sometimes. It helped with spells and auras and enchantments, which was especially noticeable on the Flaming Sippy Cup that had regurgitated his name on a burnt piece of parchment.

Amaya took out her S.P.E.W notebook, which had the short list of her name, well her other name, Astaron's other name, and Ron. Right next to their names, were the respective titles of Founder, Secretary, and Treasurer. Astaron wasn't sure if anything more could change but she still carried it on her person apparently. "Maybe I should try and get some of the other villagers involved in S.P.E.W." Amaya said, looking around thoughtfully at the other patrons in the pub.

Astaron imagined Amaya telling Draco about S.P.E.W and privately thought to himself that it most likely would not be well-received. "Yeah, right. I don't think that they would be interested at all in it." He stated it quite bluntly before taking a quick swig of butterbeer. "Hermione, when are you going to give up on this S.P.E.W stuff?"

"When house-elves have decent wages and working conditions!" she hissed back. She rearranged herself into something more proper before anyone could really notice her brief lapse in decorum. She was getting a bit stuffy like that. "You know, I'm starting to think it's time for more direct action. I wonder how you get into the school kitchens?"

"No idea, ask Fred and George."

Amaya lapsed into thoughtful silence, while Harry drank his butterbeer, watching the people in the pub. All of them looked cheerful and relaxed. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot were swapping Chocolate Frog cards at a nearby table; both of them sporting Support Cedric Diggory! badges on their cloaks. Right over by the door he saw Cho and a large group of her Ravenclaw friends. She wasn't wearing a Cedric badge though. . . . Astaron hummed under his breath as he saw this; so apparently, not everyone thought of him as dirt. That was nice.

What wouldn't he have given to be one of these people, sitting around laughing and talking, with nothing to worry about but homework? He imagined how it would have felt to be here if his name hadn't come out of the Goblet of Fire. He wouldn't be wearing the Invisibility Cloak, just to get to Hogsmeade without being trampled for one thing.

If Ron were here right now, the three of them would probably be happily imagining what deadly dangerous task the school champions would be facing on Tuesday. He'd have been really looking forward to it, watching them do whatever it was . . . cheering on Cedric with everyone else, safe in a seat at the back of the stands. . . . He wondered how the other champions were feeling. Every time he had seen Cedric lately, he had been surrounded by admirers and looking nervous but excited. Astaron caught a glimpse of Fleur Delacour from time to time in the corridors; she looked exactly as she always did, haughty and unruffled. And Krum just sat in the library, poring over books.

Sirius wiggled his way into this mind and the tight, tense knot in his chest seemed to ease slightly. He would be speaking to him in just over twenty hours, as the coming night was when they were meeting at the common room fire — which was, of course, assuming nothing went wrong, as everything else had done lately…

"Look, it's Hagrid!" Amaya tugged at his arm and he looked in the direction she was gesturing too. The back of Hagrid's enormous shaggy head — he had mercifully abandoned his bunches — emerged over the crowd.

Astaron wondered why he hadn't spotted him at once, as Hagrid was so large, but standing up carefully, he saw that Hagrid had been leaning low, talking to Professor Moody.

Hagrid had his usual enormous tankard in front of him, but Moody was drinking from his hip flask. Madam Rosmerta, the pretty landlady, didn't seem to think much of this; she was looking askance at Moody as she collected glasses from tables around them. Perhaps she thought it was an insult to her mulled mead, but Moody had told them all during their last Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson he preferred to prepare his own food and drink at all times, as it was so easy for Dark wizards to poison an unattended cup.

As Astaron watched, he saw Hagrid and Moody get up to leave. He waved, then remembered that Hagrid had Blast-Ended Skrewts that he was taking care of as well as duties for the Tournament. It was best not to incite him and be accused of cheating. Moody, however, paused, his magical eye on the spot where he was sitting. He tapped Hagrid in the small of the back (being unable to reach his shoulder), muttered something to him, and then the pair of them made their way back across the pub toward their table.

"Hel'o 'ermione, 'arry." "Hello," said Amaya, smiling back. Astaron gave a lift of his lips and that was the extent of his saying. Moody limped around the table and bent down; Astaron thought he was reading the S.P.E.W. notebook, until he muttered, "Nice cloak, Potter." Astaron stared at him in amazement and bemusement. He'd had his cloak off the entire time, so how did Moody know about his Cloak?

The large chunk missing from Moody's nose was particularly obvious at a few inches' distance. It was scarred over grotesquely and his mouth was lopsided from thick scars marring through it. Moody grinned nastily.

Astaron stiffened. "How did you even know?"

"Tryin' to get into the Restricted Section after curfew, isn't a good idea, Potter." Astaron blinked, blinked again, then panicked at the idea of Moody being able to see through his glamour.

Stifling the panic, he gave a sheepish look to Moody, rubbing the back of his neck. "Right…" He chuckled nervously, averting his eyes.

Hagrid was beaming down at him too, from where he was talking to Amaya. He shook his head subtly, telling him that it wasn't a good idea to talk to him. Not unless Astaron had a death wish and wanted to be at the end of a few angry Hufflepuff wands.

Hagrid now bent down on the pretext of reading the S.P.E.W. notebook as well and said in a whisper so low that only Astaron could hear it, "Harry, meet me t'night at midnight at me cabin. Wear yer cloak." Astaron blinked then nodded stiffly; he hadn't known that Hagrid could talk so quietly.

Straightening up, Hagrid said loudly, "Nice ter see yeh, Hermione," winked, and departed. Moody followed him.

"Why does Hagrid want me to meet him at midnight?" he asked, very surprised and a bit suspicious.

"Does he?" Amaya looking startled. "I wonder what he's up to? I don't know whether you should go, Harry..." She looked nervously around and hissed, "It could be a trap or something; what if Dumbledore is there?" It was true that going down to Hagrid's at midnight could be very worrisome, and there was always the chance that somebody dangerous was there or something could happen.

Amaya suggested sending Hedwig down to Hagrid's to tell him he couldn't go — which Astaron shot down very quickly, telling her that Hedwig was resting from a long flight from Gringotts, and he wasn't bothering her over something so little — Astaron thought it better just to be quick at whatever Hagrid wanted him for. He was very curious to know what this might be; Hagrid never asked for a visit so late at night. Hell, he was often disapproving if they were cutting it close to curfew to visit him.

Shaking his head, Astaron sipped his butterbeer lightly, watching and waiting as patiently as he could with his stomach wringing around with nervousness. Sirius had not specified exactly who was coming, completely skipping out on that when Astaron had questioned about that in his letter, which was a very good show of not wanting to answer that question at all.

After a while, Ron slipped onto the bench with them, a butterbeer in hand and sweets stuffed in his pockets. His cheeks were flushed spectacularly, showcasing his freckles which stood out easily in brown splotches on his skin.

Amaya brought up S.P.E.W again, going on a long strung out tangent about house-elf rights; Ron shared a fondly exasperated look over her head, which she completely missed as she scribbled down the goals and missions of S.P.E.W. There was a comfortable air around them that soothed Astaron immensely, something about being with his best friends and just not having to worry about everything else. Even if only for a little while and it was just arguing about house-elf rights. It was just so… ordinary compared to everything else, that it was probably the most remarkable thing about his day when compared to everything else.

In the end, nobody had come up to them, which left him and Amya feeling rather put out. Ron had tried to cheer them up with pumpkin pasties, or a blood pop in his case, but even as he suckled on the red lolly, it didn't take away the low anger that had begun stewing in his stomach.

Later that evening, as the day passed with varying speeds depending on his activity, he slipped out of bed with the Invisibility Cloak over him. It was half past eleven, when he was creeping down the stairs and into the common room. There were still a few people in there, which didn't really surprise Astaron from all the excitement of the day.

The Creevey brother were trying to charm a stack of Support Cedric Diggory! Badges into saying Support Harry Potter! Instead. All that had managed though, so far, was to get them to say POTTER STINKS! The effort was appreciated though, as he crept past them to get to the portrait hole.

Amaya opened it from the outside as they had planned, as Astaron slipped past her with a whisper of thanks, before setting off through the castle.

The grounds were dark as he walked down the lawn toward the lights shining near Hagrid's cabin. The enormous Beauxbatons carriage was also lit up; Astaron could see Madame Maxime talking inside as he knocked on the door to the groundkeeper's hut. "Yeh there, 'arry?"

"Yeah," he responded, slipping inside the hut, and pulling the cloak off his head. "What did you need?"

"Got summat ter show yeh." There was an air of excitement around him; he was wearing a flower that resembled an oversized artichoke in his buttonhole. It looked as though he had abandoned the use of axle grease, but had definitely attempted to comb his hair – the broken teeth of a comb were tangled in it.

"What is it you want to show me?" He wondered warily if the skrewts had laid eggs, or Hagrid had managed to buy another giant three-headed dog off a stranger in a pub.

"Come with me, keep quiet, an' keep yerself covered with that cloak," said Hagrid. "We won' take Fang, he won' like it..."

"Listen, Hagrid, I can't stay long... I've got to be back up at the castle by one o'clock —"

But Hagrid wasn't listening; he was opening the cabin door and striding off into the night. Astaron hurried to follow and found, to his confused surprise, that Hagrid was leading him to the Beauxbatons carriage. "Hagrid, what — ?"

"Shhh!" hurried Hagrid, with a great swipe of one of his large hands, and he knocked three times on the door bearing the crossed golden wands. Madame Maxime opened it. She was wearing a silk shawl wrapped around her massive shoulders. She smiled when she saw Hagrid. "Ah, 'Agrid . . . it is time?"

"Bong-sewer," said Hagrid, beaming at her, and holding out a hand to help her down the golden steps. Astaron felt the barest amusement at his attempt at French, but stayed silent as Madame Maxime closed the door behind her, taking the arm Hagrid offered. They set off around the edge of the paddock containing Madame Maxime's giant winged horses, with a completely bewildered Astaron running to keep up with them. Had Hagrid wanted to show him Madame Maxime? He could see her any old time he wanted… she wasn't exactly hard to miss…

But it seemed that Madame Maxime was in for the same treat as Harry, because after a while she spoke playfully, "Wair is it you are taking me, 'Agrid?"

"Yeh'll enjoy this," said Hagrid gruffly, "worth seein', trust me. On'y — don' go tellin' anyone I showed yeh, right? Yeh're not s'posed ter know."

"Of course not," replied Madame Maxime, fluttering her long black eyelashes. Were they flirting? Astaron gave a soft noise and took a deep breath to silence himself. It would not due to get caught.

And still they walked, Astaron was getting more and more irritated as he jogged along in their wake, checking his watch every now and then. Hagrid had some harebrained scheme in hand, which might make him miss Sirius. If they didn't get there soon, he was going to turn around, go straight back to the castle, and leave Hagrid to enjoy his moonlit stroll with Madame Maxime.

But then — when they had walked so far around the perimeter of the forest that the castle and the lake were out of sight — Astaron heard something. He took a deep breath and slipped off his glamour band, which also dampened his senses as a vampire enough so that he could not be accused of being a creature. Men were shouting up ahead – then came a deafening, earsplitting roar… Astaron swallowed the sudden lump of nervousness that had come up.

Hagrid led Madame Maxime around a clump of trees and came to a halt. He hurried up alongside them — for a split second, he thought he was seeing bonfires, and men darting around them — and then his mouth fell open.

Dragons.

Four fully fucking grown, enormous, vicious as all hell looking dragons were rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and snorting; torrents of fire were shooting into the dark sky from their open, fanged mouths, fifty feet above the ground on their outstretched necks.

There was a silvery-blue one with long, pointed horns, snapping and snarling at the wizards on the ground; a smooth-scaled green one, which was writhing and stamping with all its might; a red one with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes around its face, which was shooting mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air; and a gigantic black one, more lizard-like than the others, which was nearest to them. At least thirty wizards, seven or eight to each dragon, were attempting to control them, pulling on the chains connected to heavy leather straps around their necks and legs.

Mesmerized, Astaron looked up, high above him, and saw the eyes of the black dragon, with vertical pupils like a cat's, bulging with either fear or rage, he couldn't tell which… It was making a horrible noise, a yowling, screeching scream. Astaron whimpered as the noise rang in his sensitive ears. He crept back and ducked behind a set of bushes to stare at the gorgeous creatures.

"Keep back there, Hagrid!" yelled a wizard near the fence, straining on the chain he was holding. "They can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet, you know! I've seen this Horntail do forty!"

"Is'n' it beautiful?" said Hagrid softly. Astaron flickered his eyes over to them, where Madame Maxime had a large, bejeweled hand over her chest.

"It's no good!" yelled another wizard. "Stunning Spells, on the count of three!" Astaron saw each of the dragon keepers pull out their wand in a quick, practiced form.

"Stupefy!" they shouted in unison, and the Stunning Spells shot into the darkness like fiery rockets, bursting in showers of stars on the dragons' scaly hides. He watched the dragon nearest to them teeter dangerously on its back legs; its jaws stretched wide in a silent howl; its nostrils were suddenly devoid of flame, though still smoking — then, very slowly, it fell. Several tons of sinewy, scaly-black dragon hit the ground with a thud that Harry could have sworn made the trees behind him quake. The dragon keepers lowered their wands and walked forward to their fallen charges, each of which was the size of a small hill.

They hurried to tighten the chains and fasten them securely to iron pegs, which they forced deep into the ground with their wands. "Wan' a closer look?" Hagrid asked Madame Maxime excitedly. The pair of them moved right up to the fence, and Astaron followed cautiously.

The wizard who had warned Hagrid not to come any closer turned, and he realized who it was: Charlie Weasley. "All right, Hagrid?" he panted, coming over to talk. "They should be okay now — we put them out with a Sleeping Draft on the way here, thought it might be better for them to wake up in the dark and the quiet — but, like you saw, they weren't happy, not happy at all —"

"What breeds you got here, Charlie?" said Hagrid, gazing at the closest dragon, the black one, with something close to reverence. Its eyes were still just open. Astaron could see a strip of gleaming yellow beneath its wrinkled black eyelid. "This is a Hungarian Horntail," announced Charlie.

"There's a Common Welsh Green over there, the smaller one — a Swedish Short Snout, that blue-gray one over there — and a Chinese Fireball, that's the red and yellow beauty." Charlie looked around; Madame Maxime was strolling away around the edge of the enclosure, gazing at the stunned dragons.

Charlie frowned, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "I didn't know you were bringing her, Hagrid." Astaron leaned forward slightly, though his gaze occasionally flickered to the dragons. "The champions aren't supposed to know what's coming — she's bound to tell her student, isn't she?"

"Jus' thought she'd like ter see 'em." Hagrid shrugged, still casting an enraptured gaze at the dragons.

"Really romantic date, Hagrid," said Charlie, shaking his head. "Four . . ." said Hagrid, "so it's one fer each o' the champions, is it? What've they gotta do — fight 'em?"

"Just get past them, I think," said Charlie. "We'll be on hand if it gets nasty, Extinguishing Spells at the ready. They wanted nesting mothers, I don't know why…" Astaron swayed slightly, the ground where he was kneeling, become very unsteady.

Charlie continued speaking. "-but I tell you this, I don't envy the one who gets the Horntail. Vicious thing. Its back end's as dangerous as its front, look." Charlie pointed toward the Horntail's tail, and Astaron saw long, bronze-colored spikes protruding along it every few inches. Suddenly, Astaron knew very well, that he was going to get the Horntail with his horrid luck.

Five of Charlie's fellow keepers staggered up to the Horntail at that moment, carrying a clutch of huge granite-gray eggs between them in a blanket. They placed them carefully at the Horntail's side. Hagrid let out a moan of longing. Astaron winced at the memory of Norberta, the dragon from first year. "I've got them counted, Hagrid," said Charlie sternly. Then he said, "How's Harry?"

"Fine," said Hagrid. Astaron snorted inwardly; Hagrid was still gazing at the eggs.

"Just hope he's still fine after he's faced this lot," said Charlie grimly, looking out over the dragons' enclosure. "I didn't dare tell Mum what he's got to do for the first task; she's already having kittens about him…" Charlie imitated his mother's anxious voice. "'How could they let him enter that tournament, he's much too young! I thought they were all safe, I thought there was going to be an age limit!' She was in floods after that Daily Prophet article about him. 'He still cries about his parents! Oh bless him, I never knew!'" Charlies gave a bitter snort, rolling his eyes.

Astaron had had enough. Trusting to the fact that Hagrid wouldn't miss him, with the attractions of four dragons and Madame Maxime to occupy him, he turned silently and began to walk away, back to the castle. He didn't know whether he was glad he'd seen what was coming or not. Perhaps this way was better. The first shock was over now. Maybe if he'd seen the dragons for the first time on Tuesday, he would have passed out cold in front of the whole school… but maybe he would anyway… He was going to be armed with his wand — which, just now, felt like nothing more than a narrow strip of wood — against a fifty-foot-high, scaly, spike-ridden, fire-breathing dragon. And he had to get past it. With everyone watching. How?

Astaron sped up, skirting the edge of the forest; he had just under twenty minutes to get back to the fireside and talk to Sirius, and he couldn't remember, ever, wanting to talk to someone more than he did right now — when, without warning, he ran into something very solid.

Landing on the ground with an oof sound, Astaron scrambled hurriedly to make sure his cloak was still on. He didn't have his glamour on!

"It's okay. I already know what you look like with and without it." Astaron blinked at the familiar voice and looked toward it. Hazel eyes gazed back at him, and he took a soft breath of air. Coconut with a soft freshness… wildflowers maybe? "Astaron right?"

He nodded, finally relaxing as his mind registered the familiarity. It was Ravan. "Yeah. Little Ravan Riddle, right?"

They gave a happy hum, eyes bright. "Uh huh! You remembered!" Astaron smiled at the happiness.

"Why would I forget? You are my youngest sibling after all."

Ravan giggled and twisted their fingers, a cute flush on their cheeks. "You should, um, try to speak to the dragons. It'll help."

Astaron stared, puzzled. "What?"

"Speak to the dragons; I can't tell you more but it'll work. I promise." There was no doubt or worry so Astaron nodded. Ravan gave a small smile. "Look at the relations and it'll be more noticeable." They stood and brushed the dirt from their clothes. Astaron had forgotten neither of them had gotten up.

"I have to get back to the Common Room; Professor Snape only gave me permission this once, because of the extenuating circumstances but I can't stay past one o'clock. And you have someone waiting on you, don't you?" Astaron blinked and Ravan flounced away, only to stop quickly and turning around. "Also, mum is going to send you a letter, but you might not get it right now. Just be patient. It'll be okay as long as you don't take unnecessary risks."

The eleven-year-old gave him, a person 3 years older than them, a scathing look before disappearing into the darkness of the woods. Obviously, they had to befuddle some other poor person.

Astaron raced through Hogwarts, stumbled and tripping to get up stairways and to the Gryffindor Common Room on time; he was very nearly out of breath by the time he got the right corridor but raced up the steps. "Balderdash!" he gasped out, taking deep wheezing breaths. The Fat Lady swung open with a low mumble, not even waking up. He climbed into a deserted Common Room that smelled quite normal, which meant that neither Ron or Amaya had set off any dungbombs to ensure them privacy. He stuffed the Cloak into his pocket and threw himself into an armchair in front of the fire.

The room was in darkness, with low flames the only source of light. Astaron toyed with the edge of his glamour band, wondering if he should put it on or not. Sirius should've been cleansed already, and according to his letter, he was in the Goblin run health center to help combat the effects of long-term Dementor exposure.

Looking back into the fire, he started in surprise to see Sirius' head in the fire. If he hadn't hadn't seen Mr. Diggory do exactly this back in the Weasleys' kitchen that summer, it would have scared him out of his wits. Instead, with his face breaking into the first smile he had worn for days, he scrambled out of his chair and crouched down by the hearth. "Sirius — how're you doing?"

Sirius looked different from Harry's memory of him. When they had said good-bye, Sirius's face had been gaunt and sunken, surrounded by a quantity of long, black, matted hair — but the hair was short and clean now, Sirius's face was fuller, and he looked younger, much more like the only photograph Harry had of him, which had been taken at the Potters' wedding. "Never mind me, how are you?" Sirius gazed at him with solemn grey eyes and his throat closed.

"I'm —" For a second, he tried to say "fine" — but he couldn't do it. He closed it before opening it, then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I'm tired, Siri. I'm so fucking tired of all of this." Before he could stop himself, he was talking more than he'd talked in days — about how no one believed he hadn't entered the tournament of his own free will, how Rita Skeeter had lied about him in the Daily Prophet, how he couldn't walk down a corridor without being sneered at — and about everything that had been weighing him down and he couldn't actually breathe and just worry about stupid teenager stuff because there were too many other things to worry about. "... and now Hagrid's just shown me what's coming in the first task, and its dragons, Sirius – fucking dragons and – and… I can't do this, Sirius. I can't – it's not… no…" he trailed off with wet eyes and took a deep wavering breath.

Sirius looked at him, eyes full of concern, eyes that had not yet lost the look that Azkaban had given them — that deadened, haunted look. Sirius waited patiently, letting him talk himself into silence as he let out the long spiel that he needed because nobody else seemed to understand. Astaron wrapped his arms around his midsection and leaned back on his knees. Somehow, he felt ashamed for dumping all that on his godfather, who had far bigger problems. Which led him to opening his mouth, with lowered eyes. "M'sorry- didn't mean to dump all that…"

"No pup! Don't say that! You deserve someone who will listen to you because you aren't being listened to right now. You're not really letting anyone be there for you, even if there are a few people who continue to stand beside you, and that's not fair to yourself. You continue to be there for everybody else but now, just take some time for you. Take some time to help yourself and say, 'Okay, I deserve this and I need this because my health is important.' Because you are not taking care of yourself and I want you to take care of yourself – I need you to take care of yourself. Please."

Astaron sniffled and nodded, not trusting his voice at all. He hummed, to reaffirm his statement, the only sound he knew he could make without bursting into tears.

"Good." Sirius was silent for a few beats, letting Astaron pull himself together. When he gave a nod of assent, he began speaking again. "Now, you said dragons are the first task. This we can deal with. You need to play up your strengths; they have weaknesses, everything always has a weakness. There are a few books on dragons, find one called… "The Anatomy of Reptilian Creatures and How They Live" by Anastacia Lauderhill and Dragons should be there. The breakdown will help you. Now there are a few other things I need to warn you about."

His stomach sunk and rolled at his feet. What could be worse than dragons? "What?"

"Karkaroff. Ast- Harry, he was a Death Eater. He was caught and was put in Azkaban, but he got release. That's probably why Mad-Eye is there; to keep an eye on him. Moody was actually the one to put him in Azkaban in the first place."

Astaron took a deep breath and tilted his head to the side, trying to catch up with the rush of information. "Why was he released?"

Sirius lip curled and he looked disgusted. "He did a deal with the Ministry. He said he'd seen the error of his ways, and then he named people… he put a lot of people into Azkaban in his place." Sirius snarled in pleasure as he added, "He's not very popular in there, I can tell you. And since he got out, from I what I can tell you, he's been teaching the Dark Arts to every students who passes through that school of his. You may want to watch out from the Durmstrang Champion, just to be on the safe side."

"Okay… But – are you saying that you think Karkaroff put my name in the Goblet? Because if he did, he's a very good actor. He seemed furious about it in the first place; he really didn't want me competing."

Sirius hummed mindlessly. "We know he's a good actor; the Ministry set him free because of the show he put on for them. Now, onto the next matter, I've been keeping an eye on the Daily Prophet – "

" – You and the rest of the world – " Astaron retorted, bitterly.

" – and reading between the lines of the tale that Skeeter woman wove last month; Moody was attacked the night before he started Hogwarts. Yes, I know she says it's a false alarm but I don't think so. I think someone was trying to stop him from getting to Hogwarts. I think someone knew their job would be a lot more difficult with him around. And no one's going to look into it too closely; Mad-Eye's heard intruders a bit too often. But that doesn't mean he still can't spot the real thing, in his old age. Moody was the best Auror the Ministry ever had."

Astaron's mind scrambled to read in between what Sirius said and stayed silent. 'Someone tried to stop Moody; they might've succeeded and nobody would notice because Moody was always paranoid which leaves some wiggle-room for some odd things to go unnoticed. Moody was the best Auror which means that even the people that don't believe the Ministry, think he's perfectly okay.' He nodded to Sirius, showing he understood.

"So, Karkaroff's trying to kill me? Why?"

"I've been hearing some very strange things," he began, slowly, hesitantly. "The Death Eaters seem to be a bit more active than usual lately. They showed themselves at the Quidditch World Cup, didn't they? Someone set off the Dark Mark…– " Astaron bit back the remarked that it was actually him and Amaya that set it off. "– and then – did you hear about the Ministry witch who's gone missing?"

Astaron nodded. "Bertha Jorkins?"

"Exactly… she disappeared to Albania, and that's definitely where Ri- Voldemort was rumored to be last… and she would've known the Triwizard Tournament was coming up, wouldn't she?"

"Yeah, but… it's not very likely she'd have walked straight into him, is it?"

Sirius snorted and rolled his eyes. "Listen, I knew Bertha Jorkins. She was at Hogwarts when I was, a few years above your dad and me. And she was an idiot. Very nosy, but no brains, none at all. It's not a good combination, Harry. I'd say she'd be very easy to lure into a trap."

"So . . . so Voldemort could have found out about the tournament? … Is that what you mean? You think Karkaroff might be here on his orders?" And is it possible he knows?, was the unspoken question between them.

"I don't know… I just don't know…" Sirius blew out a harsh breath. "Karkaroff doesn't strike me as the type who'd go back to Voldemort unless he knew Voldemort was powerful enough to protect him. Especially since he sold out so many of the others." Sirius was silent for a few more moments. "It might be a plan to get you to him; It could be a plan to kill you and make it look like an accident."

"The latter looks like a really good plan from where I'm standing and much more likely." Astaron grinned bleakly. "They'll just have to stand back and let the dragons do their stuff."

Sirius gave him a forlorn look but said nothing. "Did you see Moons at Hogsmeade, by the way?"

Astaron blinked and shook his head. "No. I didn't see Profe- er- Remus? at Hogsmeade. Never showed."

"That's odd." Sirius frowned and shook his head. "I'll speak to him and see what happened. Also, about the letter from Gringo –"

Astaron held a hend up to silence him, listening intently. Footsteps. "Go!" he hissed, "Go! Someone's coming!" He fumbled with his band and slipped it over his wrist, feeling the magic wash over him.

Astaron scrambled to his feet, hiding the fire — if someone saw Sirius's face within the walls of Hogwarts, they would raise an almighty uproar — the Ministry would get dragged in — he would, most definitely, be questioned about Sirius's whereabouts — A tiny pop! was picked up by his ears, from the fire behind him and knew Sirius had gone. He watched the bottom of the spiral staircase. Who had decided to go for a stroll at one o'clock in the morning, and stopped Sirius from telling him about his time at Gringotts?

It was Ron. Dressed in his maroon paisley pajamas, Ron stopped dead facing Astaron across the room, and looked around.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked, looking very confused and tired. Astaron relaxed and sighed. "Just Sirius. He wanted to talk to me about the stuff." With a vague gesture of his hand, he knew that Ron understood what 'stuff' was.

"Oh… you should probably get to bed, you're super tense and you really should be sleeping…" He stumbled over to him and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. "You need to stop being so stressed and over thinking things. It's not good for you."

Astaron sighed but said nothing. "Come on. You need sleep and tomorrow you are having a big breakfast with an extra treat. I'm sure I can get Blasie to get some of Draco's blood."

Astaron shook his head. "No. He can't. Not until I do a claiming bite with him."

"Oh… okay. Can you drink from Amaya? As your twin?"

"Um… I don't know. Never asked."

"Then we'll ask after breakfast and if not, I don't mind donating. Now come on." Fingers prodded at his ribs and Astaron began trudging up the steps, with Ron continually pushing his fingers into his side. He was shoved into their dorm room and Ron handed him a pair of pajamas.

He changed sluggishly, exhaustion having finally caught up to him, and flopped into bed.

"G'night, Ron."

" 'night Aster."

The abbreviation of his name made him smile, and Astaron slipped off feeling a bit lighter than he had since he entered Hogwarts.

OoOoOoOoO

Astaron got up on Sunday morning and dressed so inattentively that it took a full 30 seconds for him to realize that he was trying to pull his hat onto his foot instead of his sock.

Ron had been staring at him with a blank gaze while he tried to dress himself with no actually attention, before he took pity and just began guiding him through the steps to dress himself. Astaron might've been embarrassed, but the dragon were preoccupying the capacity of his brain so there was no feeling there.

Once he was finally dressed, they darted off to the Great Hall and to where Amaya was at the Gryffindor Table, reading a book like she had been basically the entirety of the term. His stomach rolled at the thought of eating so he just nibbled on some toast, despite the holes that were being burned into his head via Ron's angry mother hen glares.

After Ron had finished his breakfast and Amaya had her last spoon of porridge, he dragged then out to the library to find the book that Sirius had suggested. Ravan's warning was also on his mind, but it didn't hurt to be prepared.

He told them everything as they searched for Sirius' book and every other book on dragons that there was. They were both alarmed by the warning about Karkaroff, but Amaya was more thoughtful about what Sirius had said about Moody. They all agreed to keep track of Moody and see if he was, in fact, an imposter.

Though, no matter how they felt, Amaya still insisted that they pay more attention to the book and the more pressing matter. "Let's just try and keep you alive until Tuesday evening," she had said, rather pleadingly, "and then we can worry all about Karkaroff and our father." They went to the Black Lake and surrounded themselves with books and books, Hermione and Ron taking the other books while Astaron flipped through the suggested book.

They all tried to think of any spell to subdue a dragon, without needing the manpower of 7 other wizards, but were coming up blank. Nothing whatsoever occurred to them, so they just went back to the books, searching through for any information that could even be minute.

Dragons are reptilian creatures that are closely, and distantly related, to other creatures, that include but are not limited to Basilisks (see pg. 128) Chimeras(see pg. 157) Fire Crabs(see pg. 203) Horned Serpents(see pg.320) Mackled Malaclaws(see pg.47) Manticores(see pg.263) Mokes(see pg.341) Occamy'(see pg.93) Runespoors(see pg.359) Sea Serpents(see pg.291) Snallygasters(see pg.28) and others.

They are most known for their nearly impenetrable hides and bursts of flame. Their famed fire breath in fact, comes from a set of glands in their throat. The oxygen that they take in combines with the combustion chemical secreted from the gland which creates fire. The chemical secreted is rightly called, 'ignem factorem' or 'fire maker' due to the reaction that it has with the oxygen. It lays at the base of their neck and is almost like the flammable liquid muggles call 'gasoline'.

It contains the fluid when they are at peace and not feeling threatened, which is when the gland begins to seep with the chemical to create their main line of defence other than their sharp claws and spines.

It comes through their throat and out of their mouth, which are obviously fire-proof. The entirety of their muscles and exterior are coated in a special fluid that comes from their mothers when they were mere hatchlings. The mother licks them cleans, and as she does that, she coats them with that fluid from a gland not unlike a venom gland in snakes. Except it gathers in her spit and coats her hatchlings with it once they are hatched.

This is one reason why self-breeding of dragons are illegal because they cannot provide the same level of care that actual mothers can. Dragon keepers collect the fluid from mother dragons while they are stunned, which allows them to coat it on the hatchlings. It is mixed with pickled Murtlap and crushed Lobalug. This is a good substitute for dragon spit but it does not work as well since it forms more of a slimy, sticky paste than the smooth natural one from dragon spit…]

Astaron flipped through the book as it railed on and on about the anatomy of dragons and other reptilian creatures. It was informative and could've been classified as interesting if he wasn't so crunched for time and completely nauseated by the thought of being fried to a crisp by a dragon. This was not looking good for him and the likeliness of his survival.

Ron groaned from where he was sitting, effectively drawing Astaron from his reading. " Talon clipping by charms… treating scale rot… This book here," He waved the book in his hand, 'Men Who Love Dragons Too Much' with a scowl, "is for nutters like Hagrid who want to keep dragons." He threw the book into the ever-growing pile of books to the side.

It was a testament to how frazzled his sister was, that she didn't immediately began chewing him out for disrespecting a book like that. Instead she began quoting from her book, looking very harassed. "Dragons are extremely difficult to slay with spells, owing to the ancient magic that imbues their hides, which none but the most powerful spells can penetrate…"

"But Sirius said a simple one would do it…"

"Let's try some simple spellbooks, then."

He took out all the spellbooks that he had collected over the weeks since his name was spat out, set them down, and began to flick through each. He went through the most basic of defence spells to fucking Mastery material in all of an hour and found nothing.

His sister looked over each book after he was done, whispering nonstop as she read, which he picked up easily. "Well, there are Switching Spells . . . but what's the point of Switching it? Unless you swapped its fangs for wine-gums or something that would make it less dangerous… The trouble is, like that book said, not much is going to get through a dragon's hide…" She looked up at him after a while.

"I'd say Transfigure it, but something that big, you really haven't got a hope, I doubt even Professor McGonagall . . . unless you're supposed to put the spell on yourself? Maybe to give yourself extra powers? But they're not simple spells, I mean, we haven't done any of those in class, I only know about them because I've been doing O.W.L. practice papers..."

Astaron took in a deep breath; this was far too stressful, and he did not want to hear about OWL practice papers when he could well and truly die before Christmas. "Hermione," he said, through gritted teeth, "will you just.. be quiet for a bit, please? I'm really trying to concentrate here." But all that happened, when Amaya fell silent, was that his brain filled with a sort of blank buzzing, which didn't seem to allow room for concentration. He stared hopelessly down the index of Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed. Instant scalping . . . but dragons had no hair . . . pepper breath . . . that would probably increase a dragon's firepower . . . horn tongue . . . just what he needed, to give it an extra weapon . . .

"Oh no, he's back again, why can't he read on his stupid ship?" Hermione sighed irritably as Viktor Krum slouched by them, cast a surly look over at their group, and settled himself by a large rock and pulled out a few book.

"Come on, we'll go back to the common room... his fan club'll be here in a moment, twittering away..." And sure enough, as they left their spot, a gaggle of girls giggled and scurried past them, one of them wearing a Bulgaria scarf tied around her waist.

Astaron tried to finish the book, desperate to find a section about anything that could help him. Taking a calming breath, he flipped through it at a slower pace, giving a more thoughtful skim of each page. Maybe he could find something?

After another chunk of time, and trying to swallow the feeling that he was going to puke, he found a piece that seemed marginally better than everything else.

The weakest points of a Dragon are their eyes and underbelly, where the hide is the thinnest but no less tough than everywhere else. Causing irritation to the eyes is one of the best ways to distract a dragon but not the most advisable because they will slash their tails about and bellow fire in every which way in attempt to fry the enemy.

The best way to get away from a Dragon is to distract with another enemy, preferably one that seems to pose more of a threat than yourself. How one goes about that is their own choice but an illusion to lead them away is most likely to work better than a few other ideas…]

Astaron hummed and continued to read this over with an attentive need. Then he came across probably a single paragraph that had him bursting into tears of relief.

It is not a known fact, but Dragons can speak to other reptilian creatures, like magical snakes or otherwise. They seem to be able to understand and speak with the snakes with little problems though there is a translation problem that does arise occasionally. The experiment was conducted by Lyvia Gaunt, in 1879 where she allowed me to be a witness to her experimentation. Using her born gift of Parseltongue to understand the 14 different snakes she used and the 10 dragon litters of male, female, and hatchlings. She kept all under control using her parseltongue meaning she could easily determine what was bothering them, which was the reason she was granted allowance to keep them on her sprawling property…]

Speak to them, Ravan had said. Parseltongue. Astaron could've cried in that moment.

"Parseltongue! I can use parseltongue to speak with the Dragons and that might work… I think…" Astaron trailed off and looked at the book, a sudden nervousness in him. He'd never been able to control his parseltongue, only ever actually speaking it once really. So unless he was looking at a snake, or heard it, parseltongue didn't come to him. And while looking at a dragon, he did not think it was going to work really.

That night, after he had exhausted all his mental faculties, he stayed awake even though his mind was begging to just shut down. He went to sleep after however long but when he woke, all he could think about was how sick he was going to be.

Astaron seriously considered, for the first time ever, just running away from Hogwarts because honestly his lungs were trying to collapse under the fear he was feeling. But as he looked around the Great Hall at breakfast time, and thought about what leaving the castle would mean, he knew he couldn't do it. It was the only place he had ever been happy... well, he supposed he must have been happy with his parents too, but he couldn't remember that really.

Somehow, the knowledge that he would rather be here and facing a dragon than back on Privet Drive with Dudley was good to know; it made him feel slightly calmer. Which really, was a testament to how much he hated being at that place.

He finished his bacon with difficulty (his throat wasn't working too well), and as he got up, he saw Cedric Diggory leaving the Hufflepuff table. Cedric still didn't know about the dragons . . . the only champion who didn't, if Harry was right in thinking that Maxime and Karkaroff would have told Fleur and Krum...

"Hermione, Ron, I'll see you in the greenhouses," Astaron said distractedly, coming to his decision as he watched Cedric leaving the Hall. "Go on, I'll catch you up."

"Harry, you'll be late, the bell's about to ring —" Astaron waved away his sister's attempts. It wasn't like he would actually be in trouble anyway.

"I'll catch you up, okay?"

With that, he darted away trying to catch up to the Hufflepuff. By the time Astaron reached the bottom of the marble staircase, Cedric was at the top. He was with a load of sixth-year friends. Astaron couldn't talk to Cedric in front of them; they were among those who had been quoting Rita Skeeter's article at him every time he went near them. He followed Cedric at a distance and saw that he was heading toward the Charms corridor.

Astaron bit his lip and mulled over an idea. Pausing at a distance from them, he pulled out his wand, and took careful aim. "Diffindo!" Cedric's bag split. Parchment, quills, and books spilled out of it onto the floor. Several bottles of ink smashed.

"Don't bother," said Cedric in an exasperated voice as his friends bent down to help him. "Tell Flitwick I'm coming, go on..." This was exactly what Astaron had been hoping for. He slipped his wand back into his robes, waited until Cedric's friends had disappeared into their classroom, and hurried up the corridor, which was now empty of everyone but himself and Cedric.

"Hi," said Cedric, picking up a copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration that was now splattered with ink. "My bag just split... brand-new and all..." He sounded very annoyed.

"Cedric," spoke Astaron, hurriedly, "the first task is dragons."

"What?" Bedric looked up with wide eyes.

"Dragons," Astaron spoke quickly, in case Professor Flitwick came out to see where Cedric had got to. "They've got four, one for each of us, and we've got to get past them." Cedric stared at him. Astaron saw some of the panic he'd been feeling since Saturday night flickering in Cedric's gray eyes.

"Are you sure?" Cedric asked in a hushed voice.

"Dead sure. I've seen them."

"But how did you find out? We're not supposed to know..."

"Never mind." Astaron interrupted quickly — he knew Hagrid would be in trouble if he told the truth. "But I'm not the only one who knows. Fleur and Krum will know by now — Maxime and Karkaroff both saw the dragons too."

Cedric straightened up, his arms full of inky quills, parchment, and books, his ripped bag dangling off one shoulder. He stared at him, and there was a puzzled, almost suspicious look in his eyes. "Why are you telling me?" Astaron looked at him in disbelief. He was sure Cedric wouldn't have asked that if he had seen the dragons himself.

" What in Merlin's – It's just... fair, isn't it?" He let out a deep breath. "We all know now... we're on an even footing, aren't we?" Cedric was still looking at him in a slightly suspicious way when Astaron heard a familiar clunking noise behind him. It was a bit far off but getting closer.

"Shit – sorry gotta go." He gave a weak lift of his lips and darted off, leaving Cedric in the hallway with his arms full of stuff.

He turned the corner and saw Mad-Eye Moody walking. Astaron blinked in what could've been mistaken as surprise. "Potter, come with me." He stared apprehensively at Moody. What did he want? Maybe he was trying to shake his nerves and get him more riled up for the tournament?

"Er — Professor, I'm supposed to be in Herbology —" Weak excuse but what else could he do? His mind hadn't been working properly since he woke.

"Never mind that, Potter. In my office, please..." Astaron followed him, wondering what was going to happen to him now. What if Moody wanted to know how he'd found out about the dragons? Would Moody go to Dumbledore that he's seen under his glamour somehow (the goblins still hadn't returned his letter about that inquiry), or just turn him into a ferret? Well, it might be easier to get past a dragon if he were a ferret, he thought dully, he'd be smaller, much less easy to see from a height of fifty feet...

He followed Moody into his office. Moody closed the door behind them and turned to look at Astaron, his magical eye fixed upon him as well as the normal one. "That was a very decent thing you just did, Potter," Moody said quietly. He didn't know what to say; this wasn't the reaction he had expected at all. Nor was he sure how Moody had heard them from where he was in the hall.

"Sit down," Moody ordered more than suggested, and Astaron sat, looking around. He had visited this office under two of its previous occupants. In Professor Lockhart's day, the walls had been plastered with beaming, winking pictures of Professor Lockhart himself. When Remus had lived here, you were more likely to come across a specimen of some fascinating new Dark creature he had procured for them to study in class.

Now, however, the office was full of a number of exceptionally odd objects that he supposed Moody had used in the days when he had been an Auror. On his desk stood what looked like a large, cracked, glass spinning top; it was easily recognized at once as a Sneakoscope, because he owned one himself, though it was much smaller than Moody's. In the corner on a small table stood an object that looked something like an extra-squiggly, golden television aerial. It was humming slightly. What appeared to be a mirror hung opposite Astaron on the wall, but it was not reflecting the room. Shadowy figures were moving around inside it, none of them clearly in focus.

"Like my Dark Detectors, do you?" said Moody, who was watching him closely.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing at the squiggly golden aerial.

"Secrecy Sensor. Vibrates when it detects concealment and lies . . . no use here, of course, too much interference — students in every direction lying about why they haven't done their homework. Been humming ever since I got here. I had to disable my Sneakoscope because it wouldn't stop whistling. It's extra-sensitive, picks up stuff about a mile around. Of course, it could be picking up more than kid stuff," he added in a growl.

"And what's the mirror for?"

"Oh that's my Foe-Glass. See them out there, skulking around? I'm not really in trouble until I see the whites of their eyes. That's when I open my trunk." He let out a short, harsh laugh, and pointed to the large trunk under the window. It had seven keyholes in a row.

Astaron wondered what was in there, until Moody's next question brought him sharply back to earth. "So . . . found out about the dragons, have you?"

He hesitated. He'd been afraid of this — but he hadn't told Cedric, and he certainly wasn't going to tell Moody, that Hagrid had broken the rules. "It's all right," stated Moody, sitting down and stretching out his wooden leg with a groan. "Cheating's a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and always has been."

"I didn't cheat," he retorted sharply. "It was — a sort of accident that I found out."

Moody grinned. "I wasn't accusing you, laddie. I've been telling Dumbledore from the start, he can be as high-minded as he likes, but you can bet old Karkaroff and Maxime won't be. They'll have told their champions everything they can. They want to win. They want to beat Dumbledore. They'd like to prove he's only human." Moody gave another harsh laugh, and his magical eye swiveled around so fast it made Astaron feel a bit queasy to watch it.

"So . . . got any ideas how you're going to get past your dragon yet?" said Moody.

Astaron stared at him with narrowed eyes before nodding slowly. "Yes. A few."

Moody gave a nasty, lopsided grin and clapped his gnarled hands together. "Good, good. I don't show favoritism but you be sure to play your strengths and you might just get out alive; show that being younger doesn't have nothin' ta do with your survival. You just gotta be smart." Moody gave a decisive nod and fixed both of his eyes on him.

Astaron stared back impassively, offering no more information. Moody grunted. "Glad your confident, lad, but don't forget; anything can go wrong. Remember; play with your strengths." Astaron nodded and Moody dismissed him.

"Hermione," Astaron whispered, when he had sped into greenhouse three minutes later, uttering a hurried apology to Professor Sprout as he passed her. "Hermione — I need you to help me." His mind was fluttering with ideas, but one in particular was coming to mind.

"What d'you think I've been trying to do, Harry?" she whispered back, her eyes round with anxiety over the top of the quivering Flutterby Bush she was pruning.

"Hermione, I need to learn how to do a Summoning Charm, Engorging Charm, and Reducing Charm properly by tomorrow afternoon. And at a moving object."

And so, they practiced. They didn't have lunch, but headed for a free classroom, where Astaron tried with all his might to make various objects fly across the room toward him. The other two charms had been done easily and with no trouble at all. He was still having problems with the summoning charm however. The books and quills continued losing heart halfway across the room and dropping like stones to the floor. "Concentrate, Harry, concentrate..." Amaya laid out multiple objects while Ron stood against the wall, silently.

"What d'you think I'm trying to do?" Astaron snapped, feeling angry. "A great big dragon keeps popping up in my head for some reason... y'know imminent crispy death."

Big hands landed on his shoulders. "Okay... in... out... again..." Ron coached him calmly before his hands slipped off his shoulders. "Now, try again..."

He wanted to skip Divination to keep practicing, but Amaya refused point-blank to skive off Arithmancy, and had insisted that they go to lessons to recuperate for a bit.

He therefore had to endure over an hour of Professor Trelawney, who spent half the lesson telling everyone that the position of Mars with relation to Saturn at that moment meant that people born in July were in great danger of sudden, violent deaths.

"Well, that's good," Astaron snarled loudly, his temper getting the better of him, "just as long as it's not drawn-out. I don't want to suffer." Ron looked for a moment as though he was going to laugh; he certainly caught his eyes with amusement sparkling through them; Astaron was feeling to wound up to care.

He spent the rest of the lesson trying to attract small objects toward him under the table with his wand. He managed to make a fly zoom straight into his hand, though he wasn't entirely sure that was his prowess at Summoning Charms — perhaps the fly was just stupid.

He forced down some dinner after Divination, then returned to the empty classroom with Amaya and Ron, using the Invisibility Cloak to avoid the teachers. They kept practicing until past midnight. They would have stayed longer, but Peeves turned up and, pretending to think that he had wanted things thrown at him, started chucking chairs across the room. They had left in a hurry before the noise attracted Filch, and went back to the Gryffindor common room, which had been mercifully empty.

At two o'clock in the morning, Harry stood near the fireplace, surrounded by heaps of objects: books, quills, several upturned chairs, an old set of Gobstones, and Neville's toad, Trevor. Only in the last hour had Harry really got the hang of the Summoning Charm. "That's better, Harry, that's loads better," Ron encouraged, looking exhausted but very pleased.

"Well, now we know what to do next time I can't manage a spell," Astaron groused, throwing a rune dictionary back to Amaya, so he could try again, "threaten me with a dragon. Right..." He raised his wand once more. "Accio Dictionary!" The heavy book soared out of her hand, flew across the room, and hecaught it.

"Harry, I really think you've got it!" Amaya shouted delightedly.

"Just as long as it works tomorrow..." Harry said.

Ron gave a sleepy smile. "Just as long as you're concentrating really, really hard on it, it'll come. Harry, we'd better get some sleep . . . you're going to need it." As usual, keeping up the mother hening.

Astaron had been focusing so hard on learning the Summoning Charm that evening that some of his blind panic had left him. It returned in full measure, however, on the following morning. The atmosphere in the school was one of great tension and excitement. Lessons were to stop at midday, giving all the students time to get down to the dragons' enclosure — though of course, they didn't yet know what they would find there.

Astaron felt separate from everyone around him, throughout the entire day, whether they were wishing him good luck or hissing "We'll have a box of tissues ready, Potter " as he passed. It was an anxiety so overwhelming that he wondered whether he mightn't just lose his head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, and start trying to curse everyone in sight.

Time was behaving in a more peculiar fashion than ever, rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment he seemed to be sitting down in his first lesson, History of Magic, and the next, walking into lunch...and then (where had the morning gone? the last of the dragon-free hours?), Professor McGonagall was hurrying over to him in the Great Hall. Why did it have to move so far? Why couldn't it have just gone by slower? He wasn't fucking ready!

"Potter, the champions have to come down onto the grounds now... You have to get ready for your first task."

"Okay." Astaron whispered, standing up, his fork falling onto his plate with a clatter.

"Good luck, Harry," Amaya whispered.

Ron gave him a thumbs up and a smile, through his smile wavered and his hands were shaking. Astaron was forcefully reminded, that other people would still be affected if he died. Not just him. "You'll be fine!"

"Yeah." Astaron spoke in a voice that was most unlike his own.

People were watching her prod at him to get out of the Great Hall quicker. Astaron refused to go slower; he didn't want to see the dragons just yet. He left the Great Hall with Professor McGonagall. She didn't seem herself either; in fact, she looked nearly as anxious as his sister.

As she walked him down the stone steps and out into the cold November afternoon, she put her hand on his shoulder. "Now, don't panic," she said, "just keep a cool head... We've got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand... The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you..." She gave him a once over and looked around and spoke again. "Poppy and I are wishing you the best, Astaron; you are made of things stronger than I can comprehend..." She smiled and there was a weak flutter in his chest.

His lips twitched upward. "Thanks, Professor."

"Minnie in private young man. Now, go show them how strong you are." She smiled before giving a soft frown. "Are you sure you are well though? We could always post-pone it if you are ill?" She was definitely more worried than Amaya if she was thinking about playing the judges.

Astaron felt his head moving. "Yes," he heard himself say. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Very well... then let us go to the tent...

---

Author's Notes:

Over 17,000 words... I'm okay. I actually used some of the same facts from the books and stuff, which was really fun to me because it can be twisted exactly the same way I did and I changed nothing. Like the thing Sirius told Astaron about Moody? That's all original. So I'm kinda proud of myself... :)))

Did I make a theory on how dragons breath fire and not set themselves on fire? yes, yes i did. is it half-assed but somehow factual sounding? yes, yes it is.

Hedwig is such a mama and I live for it. Astaron is her lil baby and no, I will not change my thinking on this...

Next chapter is the the First Task and I'm kinda excited actually. It's a fucking drama show at this point.