Chapter 8
The Goblet of Fire
The looming presence of the Triwizard Tournament lingered in the minds of students and teachers alike like a perpetual headache. Preparations were in full force, and the castle was blessed by the presence of cursebreakers, pestwranglers, charmsetters, and countless other "ers" besides, all in collaboration to make Hogwarts as palatable as possible to the incoming foreign guests.
It was all wholly gratuitous, in Harry's opinion. If they couldn't appreciate Hogwarts in all its chaos and danger and mess, then, well, they shouldn't come here at all. But come here they will, and, unfortunately for him, students were not spared in the battle for the castle's habitability.
Indeed, one evening, Harry, and a handful of other seventh years hand-picked by Moody, accompanied a spunky witch from the Ministry's Pest Advisory Board to the so-called Proxy Chambers.
The two circular rooms, identical in structure, each contained a building of their own. Apparently, the outside wall and ceiling would later be enchanted to display the environmental landscape of each school, and the building would be transfigured to imitate their corresponding architectural style. Grand and spacious, each building was capable of receiving well over a hundred students.
They spent a great many hours clearing out the doxies and chizpurfles and boggarts that have called the place home in its decades of inhabitation, stopping only when the Ministry witch had to cart off Padma Patil to the Hospital Wing. Her skin had swelled so much with purple blisters and lumps from Doxy bites that she looked more grape than human; the rest of them were told to handle the less dangerous pests while waiting for their return.
It was for this reason that Harry found himself scraping off charmlichens from the outside wall, with Neville Longbottom for company. The rest were all inside, busy disposing of the mess they had made in the unexpectedly trying battle against the critters. The building itself was an edifice of monumental proportions, constructed with ornate limestone pillars and ornamented with colourful mosaics and statues, a remnant from the last time Hogwarts hosted the Triwizard Tournament.
He found the scale awe-inspiring, and, to be honest, quite baffling.
"What's all this for?" he asked, making a vague gesture with his hand towards the building.
"It's where they'll sleep, of course," said Neville, with a tone usually wielded by someone speaking to a particularly slow toddler. "What else would it be?"
"Huh, I thought they'd be sleeping in our closets. This is a bit of an upgrade, I suppose." Neville's head cocked towards him, seemingly unsure if he was joking despite his dry tone. "I was talking about the size, Neville — how many students are they gonna send? A dozen? All this space seems a bit unnecessary."
"A dozen?" Neville laughed, continuing to scrape off the goo-like fungi from the wall. "Twelve dozen, more like. Maybe even more. I doubt anyone's going to pass up an opportunity for an exchange with Hogwarts."
"Exchange?"
"Yeah, we're supposed to be world-class in wand based subjects," said Neville. "Then again, they don't use wands much in Nusantara, or so I've heard — having one isn't even mandatory apparently. Not that they need one, mind you, if the rumours are to be believed. But it's a shame we're hosting. I would've loved to visit their campus — Salem, too — and we'd probably have more elective options by going there."
"You reckon?" said Harry, feeling quite lost, and privately admonishing himself for his assumptions.
He should've known by now that the Triwizard Tournament he had experienced was far different to how it worked over here. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had sent no more than a dozen representatives, and, to his knowledge, they had used their modes of transportation as their sleeping quarters. Having two dozen new students from exotic origins roaming around had felt wild enough; he couldn't imagine what it would be like when hundreds more walked the halls.
"I asked Flitwick a few days back," said Neville. "When I was helping him and some Ministry folk set up the portkey channels to allow their professors to pop in and out — pricey, that, but all from the Minister's pockets. They'll be teaching in our spare classrooms, of course, but apparently we can only audit a select few classes. It's not finalised yet, of course, but Flitwick all but confirmed that Magizoology from Salem will be available, and from Nusantara… well, I don't know, what do they teach over there? Alchemy? Rituals? Weather control?"
"Alchemy sounds fun," said Harry.
"As a matter of intellectual curiosity, sure," said Neville haughtily. "But I don't really see the point, given the lack of practical utility."
He imagined how Greengrass would react to hearing Neville's statement and snorted.
"What? It's true," said Neville. "Weather control would be neat — the Ministry always keeps a few stormwardens handy, especially for big Quidditch games and such. Hell, they're probably going to use some for the Tournament. Can you imagine the fuss in the press if the Third Task is ruined because of a thunderstorm? It'd be a nightmare."
They continued working in silence. Harry ensured he kept his distance from the wall; charmlichens fed on fading charms the same way other plants fed on light. They were now all that remained from the enchantments that had been set on the walls, and touching them would transfer over the spell's effects as assuredly as if one were hit by the spell themselves. Draco had learned this the hard way — his skin had gleamed with an impressive display of an ancient-seeming metropolis.
His wand throbbed, squirming, but he had gotten quite good at controlling its rebellious tendencies. As long as he held with a firm grip and made precise movements when firing a spell, it tended to do what he asked. It was a far cry from what he was used to — wand movements were training wheels for the inexperienced — but it would do for now.
He glanced at Neville. Eyebrows furrowed as he focused, posture displaying austere confidence, he could almost pretend that he wasn't staring at a face that belonged to an old friend. Almost. Neville's last words rang in his mind: "We're all going to keep fighting, Harry. You know that?"
"Speaking of the Tournament," he said suddenly, if only to distract himself. He didn't like where his mind was going. "You thinking of entering?"
The answer was obvious, of course. Despite the Goblet of Fire's existence, everyone talked as if Neville being Hogwarts Champion was an absolute certainty. He was one of the top students in their year and had, apparently, won Hogwarts a fair few trophies in junior duelling circuits.
"Yep. Putting my name in as soon as the Goblet arrives. You?"
"I dunno," he said. He had deliberated over this very question for days. "Probably not, though."
"For the better, I think," said Neville, nodding. "The NEWTs are difficult enough — imagine doing it on top of Tournament training. Besides, some of us have been waiting years to compete; people would be disappointed, I'd imagine, if it's an outsider that gets chosen. No offence, though…"
"Of course," said Harry coldly, suddenly feeling a rather petty compulsion to enter.
Neville stared at him, gaze intense, before turning back to the wall. Silence hung over them until the Ministry witch returned with Padma, swollen cheeks the only remnant of her pest-induced maladies.
Frantic preparations weren't the only thing that filled his free time, however. About once a week, Lily would invite him and Liza over to her office for afternoon tea and biscuits. The room was half-greenhouse, half-laboratory, adorned by potted plants and stalking vines, littered by potions-related paraphernalia and half-marked essays.
On these occasions he felt as if he was imposing on something deeply personal, and indeed at times he listened in on conversations that should really be reserved between mother and daughter, but they seemed to appreciate his presence. Liza in particular bugged him endlessly about joining, citing their lack of interaction since he got sorted.
"It's not my fault you run off with Draco to a broom cupboard any chance you get," he had told her teasingly. She had stuck out her tongue in reply.
She was currently in the midst of another heated, though one-sided, discussion with Lily about the suspension of Quidditch. He wasn't really listening; this was the same conversation they'd had the last time they visited Lily. The announcement had hit Liza particularly hard, as she'd been excited beyond measure about being made captain. She hadn't left her dorms for days when it was first announced — Ron had to sneak Draco into the Gryffindor Common Room to persuade her to eat. It was somewhat understandable, given that she'd have to wait a year to actually enjoy the privilege of being Captain, at which time it would be her last year of school.
"…about you, Harry? Fancy entering?"
Startled from his thoughts, he was met with expectant looks from Liza and Lily.
"Of course you'll join, won't you, Harry?" said Liza. "And you'll probably get selected, too. Draco complains, you know — said he didn't need another teacher's pet to show him up."
"Teacher's pet?" He snorted. "I barely even speak in class."
"Please, I've heard about Patronus you conjured," said Liza. She looked at Lily. "He produced a corporeal one, first try. Moody even gave him twenty points for it. It's unheard of!"
"Yes, Alastor did tell me about that," said Lily, rubbing her chin. "A stag, wasn't it? Just like James. Was it actually your first time trying that spell, Harry?"
He shook his head. "Remus was the one who taught me. In my third year."
"That's perhaps even more impressive," said Lily, though her face betrayed a pained grimace. The implication of his statements was clear — if he'd learned how to use the spell, there must have been a reason why.
Liza didn't seem to notice her mother's expression, and she went on: "See! You have to enter, Harry — make the Potter name proud!"
"Aren't you entering too?" asked Lily, expression shifting to amusement.
As an underage student, Liza had to have her parents' consent to enter, which she had been given as concession for her grievances regarding Quidditch's cancellation.
"Yeah, but I have no chance," she said. "If it's not Harry, then it's probably Neville, and while I love Neville, it'd be cooler if the Hogwarts Champion was a Potter, wouldn't it?"
"I don't think everyone would share your enthusiasm," muttered Harry. "No one here knows who I am."
"Why would that matter?"
"People would rather watch who they know as Hogwarts Champion, wouldn't they?"
"Come off it!" said Liza. "We're too busy celebrating the fact that there's even gonna be a Hogwarts Champion to care. Besides, it's not like you're a complete stranger. You've made some friends, at least. You'd be received more warmly than someone like Granger, that's for sure."
"I guess," he said, wincing at that casual remark about Hermione.
"So are you entering or not?"
He took a long, drawn-out sip of his tea, so as to give himself time to think.
Ever since the announcement, an unbridled urge to enter the Tournament had colonised a part of his mind. The source of this urge was as mysterious as it was unrelenting. After all, had he not felt like he had had enough adventures for a lifetime? Did he not deserve a year of normalcy, for once, after all he had gone through? But that trip with Greengrass to the Forbidden Forest had given him more than wood for his wand — it had taught him something about himself, something fundamental: he loved danger. He thrived in it, he breathed it. He longed for a duel well fought, for the thrill of a sinister mystery solved, for the relief of a deadly threat narrowly avoided.
Sure, this proclivity had served him well when he was Harry Potter, The Chosen One — the Boy Who Lived. Were he any less inclined to matters beyond his power or abilities, he probably would have wound up dead long before he could sacrifice himself for his friends' safety. But he was no longer that man. For so long his life had revolved around the war, and now that it was beyond his grasp, he felt… lost, like a niffler in a world without gold. Disturbingly he wondered whether this urge — this desire for danger, for adventures — was a lingering residue of his old identity, a part of him that wished he was still The Chosen One.
No. He refused to belive that he wished to enter the Tournament just for the nostalgia of those horrible days of cat-and-mouse with the fucking Dark Lord. But if that wasn't it, then what?
Judging from the conversations he'd had with others, most wanted to enter simply for the glamour of it all. But he had no need for glory, nor the fame that it entailed. If he were to enter, as a part of him apparently so desperately wished, then he damn well better have a good reason for it.
His tea cup clanked on the table, and he said: "We'll see."
Liza groaned, but didn't ask further.
Several days after their initial tromp through the forest, Greengrass had approached him sheepishly to request help in finding that clearing. She had apparently gone several times without him, in search of that small pocket of wonder in a world already brimming with magic and awe. But no matter how much they retraced their steps, no matter how long they searched, from the dead of dusk to the light of dawn, the clearing remained frustratingly elusive.
After several unsuccessful sessions, they had all but given up on this endeavour, though by that point their conjoined visits to the forest had almost become a matter of habit. Now it was something they did together almost every other day. Greengrass went to collect ingredients for Pomfrey, and for her odd alchemical experiments. He himself claimed that he still needed to gather some miscellaneous materials for his wand, which was true, but if he was honest, he simply enjoyed the dangers inherent to the forest at night. To Greengrass' horror, they had endured attacks from stray acromantulas and ashwinders, as well as a rather close encounter with a pack of centaurs — closer than even he would prefer. More than that, he found himself enjoying their conversations more than he ever thought he would.
It was early morning in late September, and he and Greengrass were strolling their way through a familiar trail.
"… prefer von Voigt — he apprenticed under Shafir — but I suppose I could settle with Huang. She was the one who found an alternative to Isaac Newton's method of generating sophic mercury — an amazing discovery."
"What about Nicolas Flamel?" said Harry, referring to the only alchemist he was familiar with.
"Flamel?" Greengrass snorted. "His last student was Dumbledore, and they only began to work together after Dumbledore was well into his forties. I suspect I'd be able to earn his apprenticeship only when my hair's gone grey."
"Don't worry, at the rate you're studying, you might get there sooner than you think."
"So everyone tells me," she said glumly, rubbing her hair self-consciously. "But those papers won't write themselves. Did you know Dumbledore published in the Annals of Alchemy in his fifth year? Fifth!"
"Well, he's Dumbledore, isn't he?" said Harry, wincing as his foot caught on a log. He swivelled around it before continuing: "Can't kick yourself too hard for failing to live up to the greatest wizard of our time."
"And he didn't even go into alchemy, after all that," grumbled Greengrass, completely ignoring his assurances. "He went into transfiguration. What a waste of a brilliant mind."
"Didn't he discover — what was it — the twelve uses of dragon blood?" he asked, amused.
"He could've done so much more!" cried Greengrass indignantly. "Even outside academia — imagine if he taught alchemy here at Hogwarts... It isn't exactly the easiest subject to study for an autodidact."
"Neville reckons we'll be able to audit some classes from Nusantara and Salem once they come," he said. "Who knows? Maybe they'll offer alchemy."
Her expression brightened. "Don't get my hopes up, Potter. If you're wrong…"
"Then blame Neville, not me," said Harry. "Speaking of, fancy putting your name in the Goblet? I know you have enough on your plate, but…"
"No," said Greengrass easily. "I considered it. I must admit, the potential prestige was difficult to refuse. It still is, somewhat. But I think my time is better spent working on my paper on the Avalonian Minnows. There's so much potential for experiments — I've already discovered something new about its morphology, now if only I could have access to its ecosystem once more… I should've taken more notes while I was there, what was I thinking? You should've told me!"
"I'll remind you next time," he said wryly.
"Make sure you do," she said. "But what about you? Craving the glory of being champion?"
"Glory is overrated," he said.
"Oh?" said Greengrass, raising an eyebrow. "Is there something you're not telling me, Potter? What, were you a star Quidditch player before transferring here? Tired of the life of fame?"
"Something like that," he said, snorting. He kicked an unfortunate pebble to the side. "A part of me desperately wants to enter, and I don't even know why. Another part is… disgusted by that."
"Well, for me it is rather simple," she said. "Does entering the Triwizard Tournament, whatever the outcome, help you on your goals? If it does, enter, and if it does not, don't."
"That's a… logical way to look at it, I guess," he said. "You'd have gotten along well with a friend of mine. But I don't really have any goals, at the moment. Other than the wand."
"Ah, yes, I remember your philosophy," she said. "How is that going for you, anyway?"
"You were right," he admitted.
"I try to make a habit of it," she said, smirking. "Why the change of heart?"
"I dunno, I just feel a bit lost," he said with a shrug. "Like nothing makes sense. Have you ever felt like that?"
For a moment, Greengrass didn't answer.
"No," she said quietly. "Not since… well, not since I decided who I wanted to be."
The silence hung over them like the crooked branches swinging above.
Who did he want to be?
Harry stepped out of the Room of Requirements, only to be met with a hubbub of students, all shouts and grins and cackles, streaming through the corridor. He stumbled back, blinking. Perhaps he wasn't as early as he thought; time flew as quickly as a quaffler when his mind obsessively fixated on a task, as it usually did whenever he worked on his wand. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice his sudden appearance, gripped as they were with anticipation.
It was an exciting day indeed, for their foreign guests would arrive later that afternoon. Even if the date had not been plastered all over their Common Room, he could probably have guessed it by the ferocity of preparations they had been forced to endure the last few days. He was increasingly convinced the professors were making tasks up just for the sake of it, stirred by the stress of it all. Once, he and Theodore Nott had gotten on the wrong side of Professor McGonagall, resulting in an evening spent cleaning off dust from the clothes of the portraits in the Sixth Floor Corridor. Theo had threatened to curse Sir Cardogan's helmet off after the knight indignantly refused to stay still.
Combined with the influx of essays and assignments which still lay unfinished, it was frankly a miracle he had time to spare for wandmaking, though it was few and far between these days. He followed the crowd, shoulders bumping as they walked, letting them guide him to the site of arrival. The corridors widened to reveal the vast wonder of the Main Hall, with spiralling stairways and wide balconies and twisting hallways all trickling with students heading towards the grand oak door.
Two figures suddenly appeared by him, one on each side, as the chilly air of the outdoors wafted past. He started, head whipping incredulously from side to side. To his left was Pansy Parkinson, short, prim and pug-faced; Tracey Davis, to his right, was quite the opposite: tall and athletic, with the sleeves of her Quidditch robes rolled up.
"Potter," said Parkinson seriously. "Hard to find, are you? We need to talk."
"What's this about?" he asked, equal parts amused and concerned. While he had tried his best to mingle with his new housemates, his conversations with these two never strayed beyond small talk. Parkinson's dislike for Liza seemed to extend towards him, and he didn't really have much in common with them besides, other than… "If you're looking for Greengrass — I dunno where she's at, I was—"
"We know where she is," said Davis. "She has a shift at the Hospital Wing — she's probably heading down with Pomfrey right about now. Though it is interesting that that's where your mind went to."
"In any case, you are correct that this is related to Daphne," said Parkinson. "Listen, can you tell her to ease off on her studies? To take a break every now and then — perhaps to hang out with her friends?"
"What?" said Harry, reeling from the bizarre request.
"She never has the time anymore," added Davis, shaking her head. "Spends more time with books and quills than with us."
"And when she's not reading the words of people long dead, she's doing these terrible experiments — did you know she has a laboratory set up next to her bed? I woke up last night to an explosion, and she had the nerve to snap at me for disturbing her line of thought! And did you know she set up an aquarium in our dormitory? It's beautiful, mind you, Merlin only knows how she got her hands on Avalonian Minnows, but I dread to think what she might put next. Quite frankly, she needs a break. From everything."
"Right," said Harry, overwhelmed. "But why are you telling me this? Why haven't you told her this?"
"We have!" said Parkinson indignantly. "Over and over. We've talked with Tori, we've owled her father — none of it did anything. She just won't listen — talked our ears off about the importance of long term planning instead."
"It's not just that," said Davis. "She barely sleeps, and when she does, she tells me she needs the help of sleeping draughts. That can't be healthy; I considered telling Pomfrey, but I didn't wanna break her trust too much. She wasn't always like this, Potter, but ever since her third year…"
Her expression grew grim.
"I understand," he said delicately. "But I still don't get what this has to do with me… if her two best friends can't convince her, how can I?"
Parkinson sent him a withering look. "We're not idiots, Potter. Something is going on between the two of you. She sneaks out at odd hours, returning with robes and hair all messy. Draco said the same about you, at the same exact hours too. And you two have been partnering up more in classes too. I don't care what exactly is going on—"
"Reckon she's in need of a good lay anyway," said Davis, grinning.
"The point is," continued Parkinson, ignoring Davis. "She might listen to you where she hasn't with us. I don't know what else I could do."
"I'm not — it's not — we're not…" His face grew warm, and he took a deep breath. "Look, it's not like that, alright? We're not… All we do is visit the forest — she's searching for ingredients and things for her experiments, I'm collecting stuff for… my own projects. That's all there is to it."
"I very well know where she's been going, Potter," said Parkinson. "She managed to convince us to join her one time, and I accepted if only to actually spend time with her, but it's not worth it, look—" She brushed her collar slightly to the side to show a green, coin-sized bulge on her neck. "Tentacula sting! We barely entered the forest, and she wanted to go deeper, would you believe it?" She tapped her wand on her collar, straightening it again. "Whatever you two are doing before or after the forest, clearly it's making her happy, but the other things in her life…"
Once more, Parkinson and Davis exchanged a grim look.
"What other things…?"
"You don't know?" said Parkinson. "Merlin, you're actually being truthful, aren't you, Potter? I would've thought… the way you two look at each other…"
"We just want our friend back," said Davis sullenly.
Embarrassed though he was at their accusations, he was nonetheless touched by the vulnerability they showed. Clearly Greengrass had good friends. And if what they said was true, he couldn't help but feel concern for her. It couldn't be healthy to live like that…
"I'll try to talk to her," he promised.
Parkinson nodded, and swerved to the side to join a horde of Slytherin girls; Davis followed shortly behind.
During the conversation, his feet had brought him to the castle grounds, near the shore of the Great Lake. Here stood a sea of students, hundreds and hundreds of them. No one wanted to miss the arrivals. Fortunately, the sky was clear and the air crisp — whether it was luck or the work of a stormwarden, he wasn't certain, for the weather left much to be desired these days. Beyond the jumbled crowd of black-cloaked students were their teachers, who all looked like they could do with a bottle of butterbeer.
He was almost the last to arrive, and he scanned for a familiar face in the crowd. He found none, and decided to linger in the back instead, thankful for the growth spurt he had back in his Sixth Year which allowed him to crane his neck to see what was going on.
"Settle down!" came McGonagall's voice, magnified through magic and tone. "They are almost here!"
Almost instantaneously the crowd hushed, their excited whisperings so faint he could hear the person beside him turning a page. Frowning, he took a glance.
It was Hermione. Her arms were drawn tight to her body, a book close to her face.
He cleared his throat. "How do you think they're gonna arrive? By apparating, maybe?"
The question was carefully crafted. He could almost imagine how Hermione — his Hermione — would respond: "Of course not; you can't apparate into Hogwarts. Honestly, Harry, will you ever read Hogwarts, a History?"
This Hermione scowled at him and scooted away.
"I don't know," she said gloomily, pulling her book so close her nose was almost touching the page. "And don't disturb me."
His heart panged, but he respected her wishes, diverting his eyes back to the crowd. Thunder rumbled in the distance, despite the distinct lack of clouds. Another rumble. It was closer, this time. Murmurs began to perpetuate, louder than whispers. The murmurs of anticipation.
Crack. He could see it, this time, a jagged line of bright violet rippling down from the heavens. Without the backdrop of clouds, it looked surreal — out of place. Then it continued: a snap here, a bang there, another reverberating rumble, until the sky groaned perpetually like a waking beast. Lightning danced above like fireworks on New Year's Eve. Younger students cried in alarm, older students swore. Even Hermione dropped her book, mouth hung in awe.
With a roar that rattled his eardrums came a bolt of lightning larger than any he'd seen: a chasm of divine light that split the sky above the Great Lake in two. And through this rift swooped a bird of even greater majesty, a creature with the wings of a dragon and the body of a colossal eagle. Suddenly he understood why there had been no clouds, no rain to accompany the thunder — this bird, if it can even be called that, was the storm. Its grey feathers had an ethereal quality, shimmering with the swirling of clouds, crackling with flashes of lightning flowing through its figure like veins. With every flap of its wings, thunder boomed. The sky was an orchestra for its movements.
Harry had never seen this creature before, but he knew what it was at once: a thunderbird. Dark tendrils trailed behind it, alongside an array of large cylindrical carriages, all the size of cars. The bolt it materialised from disappeared, a portal closed. Cheers rippled as the figure grew ever closer; some shied away, others scurried closer. In the chaos that followed, he managed to swivel his way through the crowd until he was at the very front.
The thunderbird approached from the Great Lake, now gliding so low that its talons could almost touch the surface, halting its momentum with every flap. And then, with a thump that jolted the earth, causing over half of the students to lose their balance, the thunderbird landed, carriages bouncing behind it.
"Make way! Make way!" cried Flitwick, motioning at them to stand back to clear out the path.
Almost immediately the carriage doors opened, allowing a seemingly endless supply of students, all around his age, to disembark. When it became apparent that they were from Salem, the applause that echoed became somewhat more restrained. The students of Hogwarts were no doubt torn between the spectacular entrance and their animosity towards Ilvermorny; the fact that they were from the same country was enough to nourish the seeds of rivalry. If the Salem students minded this reception, they didn't show it — they were far too busy gaping at the castle before them to care.
As the last of arrivals trickled in to form a crowd of their own right beside them, a tall wizard in cream robes, presumably their headmaster, approached Dumbledore. It was quite difficult to gauge a wizard's age, but this man couldn't have been older than James and Lily. He had shaggy blonde hair and was broad-shouldered; the way he held himself, and the unkempt state of his robes, reminded him of a strange blend of Lockhart and Remus. As they embraced, there was a warmth in Dumbledore's eyes.
"Steven," said Dumbledore jovially. "It has been far too long. And to think you were no older than your students here when I saw you last… I trust Newt is well?"
"Retirement is to grandfather like a rooster is to a basilisk, I'm afraid," said the man. "But I'm sure he'll fare. It is nice to see you again, Albus, and the school… Well, I've heard of it from stories, but seeing it with my own two eyes is a different matter entirely."
"It is indeed," said Dumbledore.
The thunderbird fluttered and whipped away within an eyeblink; the next thing he knew it was well above them, the air rumbling in its wake as it flew towards the Forbidden Forest.
"Ah, I hope you don't mind Mr. Beaks," he said, scratching his head. "It wasn't easy, tying him to all these carriages — he's been in a bad mood ever since, poor fellow."
"Well, I'm sure Mr Beaks will have a grand time terrorising the centaurs," said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. He turned towards them. "Everyone, please give a warm welcome to Principal Scamander and the students of Salem Academy of Magic!"
A more enthusiastic applause followed.
"Shooting star!" cried a student, pointing.
Everyone's attention was diverted to a singular object above, barely a dot on the vast blue canvas. The meteor glowed bright and blue, almost camouflaged in the sky, but its smoky trail was unmistakable. And with every second that passed it grew larger in size, until its shape became more apparent: a figure engulfed in blazing blue fire hurtling towards them. No. It wasn't getting larger, he thought, but closer.
Bang!
He threw an arm over his eyes as a blinding flash of light erupted before him, and, with it, a gust of wind that sent all of them stumbling a few steps backwards. Grass rustled and dirt shuddered and cloaks billowed. When he opened his eyes, a woman stood between Dumbledore and Scamander, as if she had been there all along.
She was a short woman, tan of skin and grey of hair, with a frailness that did nothing to hinder the air of power that exuded off of her body. Her fashion was wholly foreign: a navy blouse of lace brocade adorned with gleaming sequins and floral embroidery, above a long brown skirt of intricate patterns. There was a cloudiness to her pupils, and the way she looked around suggested an impaired vision, but he had the strange feeling that she could see better than any of them — to see what they could not. He shivered. What had happened to her eyes?
"Madame Sri," greeted Dumbledore, bowing. Instead of shaking her hand, he brushed the back of her hand to his forehead. "How nice it is to see you. Welcome to Hogwarts!"
"Thank you, Headmaster," she said at Dumbledore, though not quite staring at his face. She turned. "And Principal Scamander. It is a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine, Madame," he said. Rather nervously, he followed Dumbledore's gesture.
Madame Sri inclined her head in appreciation. "Scamander, Scamander… Ah, I remember… Are you related to Newton, Principal?"
"Please, Madame, call me Steven," said Scamander. "And yes, he is my grandfather."
"He was a nice young man — very helpful, too. He has a way with Garudas rarely seen in bules," she said. She turned towards the crowd and waved a hand. "Ah, your students have arrived, very good."
"And if I may ask, where are your students, Madame?" said Dumbledore.
This interaction had elicited frantic whispers — just how old was she? — and even more mutters came when she smiled and unsheathed a metal dagger of a rather strange design. Its blade was curvy at the edges, rippling like waves, and both hilt and blade contained elaborate engravings for which he was too far away to appreciate. He started as she waved it the same way one would a wand. The air shifted, in what way he couldn't tell, and she sheathed the dagger back in her waist.
"They shall be here very soon, I expect," she said.
He looked up, and, sure enough, the sky was suddenly littered with a plethora of meteor-like figures plunging at magnificent speeds. Hundreds of them. Everyone stepped backwards in fear of the impact as the figures grew ever closer, but they needn't have worried. None of the students landed with the same force nor grace as Madame Sri, but the sight before them was still a majestic one indeed. Some landed on their knees and fist, sending a small shockwave of grass away like ripples in a pond. Others splayed chest-first, reminding him of his first experience with a portkey. And some, a rare few, landed on their feet, before haughtily brushing off their clothing. A tail of blue fire trailed above them as they fell.
Then there they all were, a crowd of around a hundred, standing before the unrestrained applause of Hogwarts and Salem both. Like Madame Sri, their fashion was one unseen in any muggle or wizard he'd met. The men wore intricately designed buttoned shirts, under which were a skirt-like garment wrapped around their waist. The women were dressed similarly to Madame Sri, though their blouse was of a less conservative design, with semi-transparent laces that showed off their shoulders.
"Welcome, everyone, welcome!" said Dumbledore brightly, as if he had never seen a more joyous occasion. "Now then, I suspect we are attracting the Giant Squid's attention with our presence. Let us head to the great hall, lest Hogwarts suffers a second cephalopod-related incident!"
Much later that evening, when their stomachs were full and warm, students began to retire to the dormitories and Proxy Chambers as the night wore on. The Great Hall had been expanded several days prior — he would know, for he was among those selected by Flitwick to help. It was now almost double its original size, as were the four tables. Their guests were free to sit where they saw fit, though most seemed to gravitate towards the Hufflepuff table.
He yawned silently as conversations passed around him, not really listening. Truth be told, he was tempted to call it a day and reunite with his pillows. Before that, however, he needed to do something.
He needed to make a choice.
At the front of the hall, where sortings usually took place at the beginning of the year, was the Goblet of Fire, looking much the same as he remembered. Right before it was a table, on which lay a parchment and a worn quill. The Goblet of Fire had been put into effect earlier that day after their guests' arrivals, and it had seen much use in the few hours it was active. During dinner there had been a long line behind the table — a wave of cheers would follow anytime someone put their name in. Now it was almost empty. Those who wanted to put their name in had taken the opportunity, leaving the Goblet solely for the indecisive.
The Triwizard Tournament… Just why did he feel such an urge to enter? Hadn't he entered the tournament once before? He had won, even, all at the tender age of fourteen.
But that victory wasn't his. It was Voldemort's.
And suddenly it clicked.
For all his life he was like a canoe swept by the currents designed by others, inevitably driven to the edge of the waterfall. Without Crouch's — Voldemort's — intervention, he probably would've died somewhere in the tournament. He was kept alive solely for the resurrection, and, when it did happen, only a stroke of cosmic luck had saved him from dying. Then there was the Department of Mysteries. He had been another pawn then, and it was only through Neville's clumsiness — cosmic luck, again — that the prophecy was kept from Voldemort's hand. The same prophecy which would dictate the rest of his life in his old world. And his sacrifice… It was his decision, yes, but in a way it had been ordained years in advance. Dumbledore had planned it all, knowing that when it came to the end, he would make the choice Dumbledore wanted him to make, all to save his friends.
Then he was sent here. The predicaments that led to this situation, the specific world to which he was sent — even those were out of his control.
But it didn't have to be that way anymore.
Voldemort was long dead. Yes, he was no longer Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, or Harry Potter, the Chosen One, but he could be someone better. Someone whose destiny was of his own design rather than of others. He didn't have any sweeping ambitions for the future, as Greengrass has, nor a greater purpose to fulfil, as he once had. He had something more fundamental to work on first. Himself.
It suddenly made sense, his desire to seek danger. His desire to enter the tournament. It wasn't about nostalgia — not completely, at least.
It was about control. For how better to express control over one's life than to deliberately approach the domains of death and survive the experience? Not just survive, but thrive?
The last time the Tournament happened, he didn't have a choice. Now he did.
This life was his. If he shall enter, it will be because he wanted it. If he shall be selected, it will be because he deserved it. And if he shall win, it will be because he earned it.
He felt a surreal sort of determination as he stood, as if he was locked in a particularly strange dream. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the room seemed to grow quieter as he trudged his way to the Goblet of Fire. Liza gave him a thumbs up. Draco grinned at him. Greengrass smiled proudly. He smiled back, and turned towards the table before the Goblet.
For some reason, his fingers shook as he wrote out his name. It was almost numb when he ripped the section off of the parchment. And, when without hesitation he dropped that piece towards the blazing fires of the Goblet, it — and his entire body, it seemed — shivered with both relief and anticipation.
This was it.
If the Goblet of Fire chose him, as it did once before, the Tournament would be his. He would make sure of it.
To prove to himself that he can, if for nothing else.