"What you and everyone else needs to understand is that we didn't set out to win, or to change the world, or anything like that. What we were trying to do – what we fought to accomplish – was the survival of the people we loved. We wanted to wake up in the morning with them in our arms and not worry that it would be for the last time."

Harry wished he had a cotton swab to clean out his ears. Because of what could only be a buildup of earwax he thought he'd heard his brother say something crazy. He had to make do with shaking his head vigorously and saying to his panicked sibling, "Sorry, I thought you said you have to give an interview."

"Because I do!" Ben howled and made him wish it was hysterical deafness instead of earwax proliferation. His brother's leather-lungs made Harry glad Ben had found him in a courtyard instead of say, the Transfiguration classroom or the library. Madame Pince or Professor McGonagall would not have been happy about that.

And when they weren't happy, nobody was happy. "So you have to give an interview?" He asked one more time, for clarification's sake. Ben threw up his hands and nodded, huffing angrily. Harry could only think of one thing to ask. "Why?"

Ben crossed his arms and looked away, every inch the brooding teen. "Tradition, apparently. All champions must have their wands weighed by an acknowledged smith for...some reason, after which they all give an interview to a member of their country's press." he fixed Harry with a thoroughly unhappy look. "I don't want to give an interview. I don't want to have my wand weighed and – what exactly is wand weighing anyway?"

Harry held up his hands for peace. Or quiet. Either way, it didn't work. Ben ranted on.

"Ben."

" – let's not forget; I'm not a legal competitor in the first place and should naturally be excused from something like this – "

"Ben!"

"– I'm the fourth champion! Four! In a tournament meant for three champions! I shouldn't have to do anything but show up and be disqualified because I'm not a legitimate competitor and – "

"Ben!"

" – you'd think the Committee, in all their infinite wisdom, would excuse me from this thing, but noo, they can't do that, it's not traditional. 'Mister Potter, you are a champion and you will comport yourself accordingly!' Who even uses that word –"

"BEN!"

Ben stopped, red-faced and panting. Harry stood bemused. How long, he wondered, has he been holding that in? His brother, like himself, was usually a lot harder to get an explosion like that out of. It didn't take much thinking to figure out at least one of the reasons Ben's stoicism was shaken. Ron was another subject for another time, though. He sent his brother a level look. "Feel better?"

Ben took several deep breaths. "Yeah," he sounded surprised. "Yeah, I kind of do."

"Good!" Harry clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder, spun him around, and gave him a little push back towards the castle. "Your public awaits. Go get 'em."

He got a look of pure loathing in response, to which he grinned widely and pointed. In the Entrance Hall stood all six members of the Committee and the other three champions. Surrounding them were a good number of vulture-faced reporters who looked positively giddy at the prospect of getting their hands on the Boy Who Lived.

"I hate you, Harry!" Ben called.

Harry waved. "Have fun!"

It was with a growing sense of dread that Ben allowed himself to be corralled into an empty classroom. That his fellow champions were also there did little to make him feel better. It wasn't that the room was gloomy, it wasn't; the sun shone shone brightly through large windows and breathed fire into the warm colors of the tapestries and furniture. It wasn't the small cupboard door on the opposite wall, either.

Then it clicked. It clicked just as something else did, accompanied by a blinding white flash of light. A camera. Ben had finally figured out why his neck hairs were standing on end. But by then it was far, far too late to run and hide.

The press were here.

And they had seen him.

Harry's cheerful farewell echoed in his mind as the media vultures prepared to swoop down upon him. If I make it out alive, he thought, I am going to kill my brother.

Then something surprising happened. That isn't to say it was an unwelcome happening, after all the sight of half the world's press suddenly diverting into thirds halfway across the room – each headed towards a different champion – could only be seen as a good thing.

"What did you think of my coverage of the latest meeting of the ICW?" a woman's voice asked. A chuckle followed, masculine and familiar.

"Enchantingly nasty," the man said, and Ben's stomach fell. "I particularly enjoyed your portrayal of me as a senile half-wit, more suited to a primary school than a courtroom."

"Well," the woman's voice was not in the least bit apologetic. "the public deserves to know the truth about their leaders with the...fog of their positions stripped away."

Two thick-set Bulgarians moved, chattering away at each other, maybe about when lunch was, and Ben saw the talking pair. The man was Dumbledore. He'd heard that laugh too many times to mistake it for anyone else. It was the woman who caused his innards to shift uncomfortably. She had a handsome (not pretty) face and large hands bedazzled with gaudy rings. An alligator skin handbag hung in the crook of her arm. She wore enormous false spectacles and bright red lipstick.

She was two things. To Ben, she was a demon. A devil dragged up from the fiery hells to torment innocent Boys Who Lived. To the public, she disguised her true nature and went by the moniker Rita Skeeter, an average – if rather vicious – reporter for the Daily Prophet. But he knew better.

A primal instinct to flee in the face of Hell rose as she caught sight of him. To his lack of surprise and growing fear she made a beeline for him, leaving Dumbledore with half a sentence and a bemused look on his wrinkled face. Ben envied him.

"Ben!" she called, as if they were old friends reunited after a long absence. "How absolutely lovely to see you again!"

She then swooped down on him and placed two exaggerated kisses on the air around his cheeks before straightening back to her bird-of-prey height. He wondered where she'd learned that. It hadn't been part of her disguise the last time they'd run into each other. "Rita." he nodded, then cast a look around her to Dumbledore, hoping the Jesus God, help me look on his face was as evident as it felt.

Rita either ignored his silent plea or missed it. Given that she had been rooting through her massive handbag at the time, he was leaning toward the latter. He felt a chill when he saw what she produced a quill and pad of parchment. "Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?"

"Yes, actually, I – "

But she wasn't listening. She'd dug her fingers into his shoulder and was steering him painfully towards the cupboard door he'd seen and not been afraid of earlier. He took it back. The little wooden door scared the hair off him now.

"Rita," Dumbledore's voice made Ben's knees go weak with relief. "do stop manhandling my student. My appreciation for your causticity notwithstanding, I would much prefer it directed towards targets with more...legality. Am I understood?"

The old wizard's voice was all polite, that armored smile had never left his face. His eyes were still twinkling. But there was something about him, in the air around him, that made Rita blanch, nod, and release Ben so quickly he was tempted to check and see if he was on fire.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore's smile grew a few more teeth. "Now, the ceremony is about to begin, so...Mr. Potter, if you would come with me."

Gratefully, Ben did. But not before giving Rita a thoroughly dirty look. Which was returned. With interest.

He was going to pay for this. Somehow. And soon.

And knowing Rita, it wouldn't be subtle.

So he had that to look forward to. And the Weighing of the Wands. Which began with a very familiar old man with piercing, cloudy-day eyes shuffling into the room.

"Ahh..." Ollivander sounded genuinely pleased to be there. Ben was pretty sure he was one of the only ones. "Now that everyone is here," he croaked, "let's begin."

There were a select few things that made Fleur anxious. Not the good kind; the kind she got around Harry, where her heart and stomach felt so light they might burst free and fly away at any moment. No, these circumstances brought around in her a different sort of anxiety. The hard, crushing kind. A stone fist around her heart. Tangling vines around her lungs. It was one of the many downsides to growing up with an aura of irresistible attraction draped around her like a cloud.

This Wand Weighing ceremony managed to combine two of the circumstances on her list. The first was to put her in a room with unknown men. She could feel their eyes pressing against her skin. They were not eyes she wanted on her. She knew the difference now and she could use that knowledge to insulate herself from them. The sensation that slid through her veins when Harry's eyes were on her; a sinful, warm-cookie feeling that she wrapped around herself like armor and suddenly...it wasn't so bad. She could handle it. With the memory of jade stone eyes on her skin, their gazes couldn't touch her.

They wanted her to hand over her wand. Yes, it was to an accredited wand-smith and yes, he was only checking to make sure it was functioning properly but...the whole idea of handing over something intrinsically a part of herself, her link to the magic inside and around her, just felt wrong.

She wanted to do this. She remembered the fact that she had chosen to step up, and was further chosen to be a part of this tournament. She quelled the shaking in her hand and firmed her resolve as an old man with intense gray eyes shuffled into the room. "Ahh..."he said, "Now that everyone is here, let's begin." Then he seated himself at a table at the head of the room, under the windows, and looked expectantly at the room. "Well?" the old man asked. "Am I weighing wands or not?"

Fleur felt her lips twitch. The man's cloudy gray eyes swept over the room again, settling briefly on certain people; Ben, Cedric, herself, Professor Dumbledore, random faces in the crowd. A tall, thin man in a Muggle suit stepped to the center of the room.

"May I present Mr. Ollivander," the man's voice was dry and professional. "the most reputable wand-smith in Britain since the third century BC. His work has rested in the hands of some of the most accomplished witches and wizards; The Comte de Laurent, famed for his revision of the standards of dueling. William Blake, noted poet and alchemical researcher, many of whose potions are still in widespread use. If you were to name a famed figure of the last six centuries, the odds were good he would have an Ollivander wand up his sleeve. Ladies, Gentlemen, and champions, I present to you: Mr. Ollivander."

Fleur clapped politely but her mind was elsewhere. There was something about Ollivander that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Something just slightly off that wasn't readily apparent yet bothered her all the same. The stooped wizard took the seat behind the table and looked out at them with an eager expression lifting the lines of his wizened face. "Well, are there any volunteers?" he asked.

A silence fell. Every eye in the room fell on the four champions, each looking as if they would rather eat each other's toenail clippings than willingly surrender their wand. She could understand the feeling. Anxiety was thrumming through her. It prickled the hairs on her arms and made her heart race.

Then, just as the silence was reaching the unbearably awkward level, a voice said, "I will."

Fleur wondered who it was before the realization, along with every eye in the room, hit her. That was me, she thought. Her face burned and she fought the urge to duck her head. I said that.

"Ah, excellent!" Ollivander said, clapping his hands together, though out of eagerness or applause she didn't know. She wanted to back out, wanted to run back to her room – or back to Harry's, a lusty voice in her head whispered – and hide for the next six months. No, she reminded herself for the second time, I chose this. Fleur stood and threw her shoulders back. She would let no one see how anxious she was.

Fleur watched with an awakening curiosity as he ran his fingertips over the wood, murmuring softly to himself. She wondered what he was looking for, what he was trying to see. Did he want to see if she was a fake? Just an...improbably good looking girl with a fancy stick? It didn't seem likely. His question, when it came, caused her to start so violently she almost fell over.

"This is a Launcet creation, is it not?" he asked. She recovered in time to regain her composure and nod. He hummed. "I thought so. The man's custom work has always been recognizably different from his more... common creations. I always wondered if he sacrificed the function of a wand to magnify its form but...no...no, it isn't likely." He sighted down it as one would a rifle before asking, "Eleven inches, and...rosewood? I've not seen many rosewood wands, and – is that...it can't be!"

"What?" Fleur was on edge. Had something gone wrong with her wand? She forgot where she was and what she was doing, every fiber of her was focused on the wand in the stooped wizard's hands."What is it?"

"Is the core of this," Ollivander twirled her wand between his fingers, "a Veela hair?"

Relief shot through her. "Oh, that." she said. "Yes, one of my grandmother's."

"Astounding!" Gray eyes shone with excitement. "Absolutely astounding, mademoiselle! I've been in this business for longer than I care to remember, and not once have I come across this. I must owl Launcet! He has such explaining to do! And as for you, my dear, dear girl, thank you for giving this old man the shock of his life!"

With a swoop of her wand he conjured a bouquet of flowers, which he gave to her along with her wand. It could have been her imagination, but she could have sworn that as the smooth rosewood touched her palm it warmed, as if happy to be back where it belonged.

Which is good, she thought as she took her seat. Ice broken, Cedric stood and volunteered to go next. Because I'm glad to have it back.

Harry was enjoying the nothing he had to do. Between being a prefect – not anymore, he thought – the general nastiness of NEWTS, and being Ben's brother, there was precious little downtime in his life, and because of this each moment of sweet, sweet idleness was to be cherished. Because he knew, that sooner or later, something would –

"Harry? Can I talk to you?"

...perfect. Sometimes he hated being right. He opened his eyes to see the upside down face of a very contrite Ron. With another sigh he sat up and enjoyed the momentary vertigo of the motion. "That depends." Harry said. "Do you still have your head up your arse or have you finally had it removed?

Ron flushed red, ears flaming to match his hair but to Harry's surprise, he didn't anger. "I deserved that." he murmured, looking down.

"You deserve a lot more than that, mate, but it's not me that's going to give it to you." Harry stood and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. I fancy a walk. You can tell me what finally brought you around on the way." He steered the shorter boy through the courtyard and down the approach to the lake. He knew what this was about, Ben hadn't told him everything but he wasn't stupid. It was going to take at least one turn around the grounds to get everything approaching settled.

Harry limped along, taking his time, giving Ron the silence the younger boy would need to piece his thoughts together. The gravel path crunched underfoot as they made their way down to the lake's shoreline. Along it in pairs or trios or by themselves other students were enjoying the combined delight of a sunny day and three feet of snow.

Finally, after they rounded the lake's southeastern corner and started towards the footbridge, Ron found the words he needed. "How bad is it?"

"How bad is what?"

"My screw up."

Harry took his time to answer, mulling over how much he could say to someone he wasn't sure could be trusted. Yes, Ron had risked his life several times over and confronted his greatest fear for Ben, and that said a lot. He'd also turned on him as soon as the hat dropped in a direction he didn't like. Harry didn't know how to answer, and for a while he didn't. They reached the footbridge over an oxbow curve in the lake before he shrugged and said, "Pretty bad."

"How do I fix it?" Ron asked, desperation putting an edge to his words. Harry shrugged again.

"I don't know that you can, to be honest. If you pulled this at any other time then yes, odds were good Ben would eventually forgive you. Would he forget? Probably not, but you'd be friends again. But this time is different. More is going on than you were aware of when you made an arse of yourself."

He watched the beginnings of understanding sink in to the younger boy. The color started to drain from his face as he finally, finally understood. His voice, when it came back, was no louder than the sound of their feet on the sodden footbridge boards. "It's...Him again, isn't it?"

"Yes." Harry said bluntly. "So you see, at a time when Ben needs his friends more than ever, one of them up and changes his mind on him. Suddenly, his best mate, the guy he stood back to back with against Acromantulas, decides to forget everything he knew about him and become a jealous, hateful pillock." he scratched the back of his head. "And honestly, I don't know how you can make that right. I don't even know if you can."

"I have to!" Ron shouted. "I have to fix this! Ben's my friend, all right?! He...he needs me."

Harry's mind flashed through a series of images. Ben in the Entrance Hall, hands clasped with Hermione. A story told to him by Neville, of his brother napping on her shoulder in the Gryffindor common room. The two of them in the Great Hall at meals, closer than the thickest of thieves. Ron may have been right two weeks ago, but now...now Harry wasn't so sure.

Draco Malfoy would kiss a Muggle before he'd tell Ron that, though. "An apology would be a good start." Harry offered. "But I'm the wrong Potter to give it to." He checked his watch. "Ben should be getting out of that wand...weighing...thing about now, so you could catch him if you ran."

Ron nodded, spun and thundered across the bridge back onto the gravel path. Suddenly he slid to a halt, spraying small rocks everywhere to turn back and face Harry. "Thanks and, for what it's worth...I'm sorry I was such a git to your brother."

Harry nodded. "Run."

Ron ran. Harry turned and leaned against the handrail, folding his hands under his arms to bring some feeling back to them. Over the semi-frozen lake an owl was flapping steadily in his direction. The sight caused a well of exasperation to surge within him. "What now?" he groaned.

The owl looked a lot like Hagrid, Harry thought. What with its immense size – easily the biggest owl he'd ever seen – and the flyaway nature of its feathers it could easily be assumed that if the big man were to be an Animagus, this would be his form. The Hagrid Owl swooped down, wings flaring, to land on the footbridge handrail. Thick, stubby talons dug into the wood and scored deep divots.

It looked up at him and quirked its head in the boneless way only owls seemed capable of; first left, then right, as if to say, 'what?'.

"What?" he asked, after the study had gone on for more than a minute.

Hagrid Owl blinked slowly, as if in despair, before sticking out its leg. Buried in a mass of short, stiff feathers was a grubby oily scrap of what Harry thought looked like sackcloth. He untied it and unrolled it, deciphering the untidy scrawl(far, far worse than his own) with a practiced eye.

Harry,

Bin meanin' to ask yeh down fer tea since term started back up. What say you come down fer a cuppa round six?

Hagrid

P.S. Bring yer cloak.

Well, he thought, that's curious. As much as he loved Hagrid, the man couldn't be sneaky to save his life. Knowing that he was on about something raised about every red flag Harry had, plus a few he hadn't known about. That being said, he started back to Hogwarts to get an early dinner and dig James' Invisibility Cloak out of the depths of his trunk.

Whatever Hagrid wanted to show him, it was pretty clear that he couldn't afford to let it be. No matter how much his first instinct told him to. If it had just been him, he would've listened. Written back that he couldn't go, that he was sorry, but maybe they could catch up next weekend? But this wasn't about him. It was about Ben. Which meant it was about the Tournament, and anything he could find out would help keep his brother alive.

So he was going. But he would be invisible the whole time. The notion wasn't as comforting as he wanted it to be.

Well, that was...different.

Ben led the pack out of the converted classroom, ducking out and making his getaway before Rita could pin him down and torture an interview out of him. Or something. He didn't know exactly what had been accomplished with the whole ceremony, and he wasn't anxious to stick around and see if he could find out. He ducked around a random corner and took a second to orient himself.

Right. Down the hall was the suit of armor that hid a passage to the Entrance Hall behind it. Only on alternate Thursdays, though, and Ben couldn't remember the last time he'd used it, so that was out. The stairs past that would get him on the way to the Hufflepuff dormitory, and he could head unmolested to Gryffindor's from there. It was one of the longer routes but never changed its mind about where it was going.

His mind was made up by strident laughter coming from behind. It was the sort of nails-on-chalkboard sound a disguised demon might make when trying to blend in. It was the sound of Rita Skeeter, and she was coming his way.

He didn't run. But he did walk very, very quickly. He made the top of the stairs and jumped the first flight, skipping the five steps to the landing and wincing at the loud thwap his trainers made on the stone.

"Did you hear something?" Rita's voice carried easily. Ben blanched and hurried down the stairs, skirting the edge of stealth to move as fast as he could. Halfway down he spotted the door that sometimes – when it felt like it – would open onto a hallway near the Gryffindor common room. He stopped, weighed his looked back up the staircase and then down to where it fed into the second floor corridor.

Too far, he thought. Just going to have to risk it. Having wasted entirely too much time he wrenched the door open, felt his knees go weak in relief, and darted through, slamming it shut behind him.

Safe. The crowd goes wild.

Up another flight of stairs – Ben had never regretted going to school in a castle more – sat the Fat Lady's portrait. The welcome sight was marred by one considerably...less so. See, pacing in front of it, muttering to himself, was someone that he'd once called friend. The notion of having to deal with Ron now was very unappealing. He didn't need another fight.

And even though he didn't want to admit it, even to himself, there was a part of Ben that wanted to forgive. To move on and let things be the way they used to. Even though the rest of him was howling in rage at that forgiving part, it refused to budge because damn it, he missed Ron. His friendship had been part of the foundation that kept Ben sane, and to have it collapse again, just now as it was starting to rebuild...

He didn't know if he wanted to open himself up to that kind of pain again.

He didn't even know if he could.

Then Ron spotted him. He skipped down the stairs to clatter to a halt in front of him. "Ben," he said breathlessly, anxiously. "I need to tell you something."

Hurt, malignant and lasting, made itself known. It drew his brows down and ran sandpaper over his voice. "So its Ben again, is it?" he snarled. Ron winced, and Ben's heart twinged, but he squashed it. "What is it that you could possibly have to say to me, Weasley? You made yourself perfectly clear last time we talked."

Ron's head bowed under the strength of Ben's quiet anger. "I deserved that," he told the floor. Somehow, in some way, seeing him penitent made Ben even angrier.

"Yes you bloody well did!" He shouted. His voice bounced off the walls and startled a squawk out of the snoozing Fat Lady. "That, and so much more, Ron! You forgot everything you knew about me, EVERYTHING, and...goddamn it do you have any idea how much that hurt?!"

Tears shone in Ron's eyes. "I'm sorry! I was stupid and I didn't think and by the time my stupid brain turned back on it was too late and I'm sorry!"

Ben laughed, a cold, dead sound. "You're sorry? Sorry won't make me trust you again. Sorry won't take back what you said about me and my family. Sorry won't make Lord Fucking Voldemort stop trying to kill me. Sorry won't..." he hissed out a long breath. "Sorry won't bring my parents back. Apology not accepted. Now get out of my way."

Ron's throat worked, his tears spilled over, but he refused to move. "No. Not until you hear me out."

"Like you heard me out?" Ben growled. Ron winced. "Like you listened to me when I tried to get my own best mate to believe me? Why should I listen to you – why should I hear anything you say – when you won't even do the same for me?"

"Listen, Ben I –"

"No. I don't care." Ben shouldered past Ron, ignoring his attempts to hold him back, and took the stairs up to the portrait hole. The Fat Lady looked at him with pale, wide eyes. It sunk in then, how loud he'd been. "That ship has sailed. Weasley. Widget."

"J-just so." the Fat Lady stammered, swinging wide and closing on Ron's face. Ben felt a vicious satisfaction at the stricken look he wore. He ruthlessly squashed the guilty thorns in his heart that sank deeper with each vicious word or thought about his former friend.

You can't lie to yourself, old boy, a voice that sounded a lot like Sirius' whispered. He's still your friend. It wouldn't hurt so much if he weren't.

"B-Ben?"

His head snapped up and three things occurred to him in rapid succession. First, that he'd stopped moving just inside the common room. Second, said common room was packed. Third, they'd heard every word he'd said. And, as a bonus fourth, they were now looking at him with expressions ranging from worry to fear.

Great...

It was Ginny who'd spoken. She took tentative steps in his direction, as if expecting him to run away or bite her head off at any second. She offered him an equally tentative smile before asking, "Are you – no, wait, stupid question. Of course you're not okay. Will you be, though?"

Ben shrugged, suddenly feeling drained and empty. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Hermione was looking for you." Ginny said, blatantly changing the subject but he didn't mind. He didn't want to see Hermione or really anyone right now, and said as much.

"If you see her, could you tell her..." he waved a hand as he tried to express what had just happened. Ginny nodded.

"Yeah, I'll tell her. Where are you going?"

"Bed." he said, moving past her and towards the stairs to his dorm.

"Bed? But it's only half six, why would you be going to – Ben?"

Fleur was dangerously close to breaking her promise to Madame Maxime and storming over to demand an explanation. Her Headmistress had come to her a half hour ago and told her to come with her, she had something that she needed to see. It had to do with the Tournament, the olive-skinned woman had explained. All too eager to gain insight of any kind, Fleur had readily agreed. She had promised to stay quiet, remain unseen, and not interrupt until they returned to the carriage.

However odd the request, she'd been fine with following it. For a little while. She'd been hoping to gain insight into the nature of the beastie she'd be up against in – oh, dear Lord, it was only a week away. Instead, she'd gained insight into the mating habits of absurdly tall people.

While interesting, it wasn't exactly helpful. Still, she kept her peace as she followed Madam Maxime and the gamekeeper Hagrid into the woods. The shadow cast by the massive trees sent a cold touch down her spine. She shivered involuntarily and had a sudden, fierce urge to draw her wand. Hagrid and Madam Maxime stretched their lead on her and she hurried to catch up. She closed the distance quickly, cat-stepping over and around piles of loose leaves or fallen twigs..

She lost track of how long they walked. To her it seemed like miles, but to the strides of the people she was following, the journey must have felt a lot shorter. Her journey wasn't made any better by the slowly growing suspicion that she wasn't alone. It wasn't any one thing she could point to and shout, ah ha! Intruder! It was a rustle of movement out of the corner of her eye, or a weird refraction of light between trees. The sound of someone crunching through leaves. And –

A twig snapped and her wand dropped into her hand. Faster than she'd given herself credit for it was up and sweeping a circle around her. Fleur pivoted on her heel and narrowed her eyes. "If anyone is there," she hissed quietly, "you had best show yourself."

For a half-minute there was nothing. She barely dared breathe. Just when she was beginning to think she'd finally lost it, she heard a voice sigh and murmur, "Ruddy leg."

Fleur's eyes widened. She knew that voice. Not yet well enough to say intimately, but enough for her to whisper, "Harry?" into the trees.

"Yes," Harry's voice said, "it's me."

This declaration was followed by his disembodied head appearing from thin air, at which point she – quite understandably, in her opinion – screamed.

Sort of.

She was going to scream. Was all for it, in fact. Harry's hand appeared and he put a finger across his lips and in the same moment her rational mind reminded her that she was supposed to be sneaking. Screaming loud enough to scare up a flock of birds, while satisfying, wasn't the epitome of stealth. What came out instead was a gargled half-shriek that wasn't as loud but still effectively communicated how pissed off she was.

"You scared me half to death!" Fleur hissed, storming over to his head, taking a vindictive pleasure in the way his eyes widened at her furious approach. "What on earth were you thinking, following me like that?"

Harry's eyes narrowed, a flash of temper in their depths. The air around him shimmered and fell, revealing the rest of him. Her anger stuttered at the sight of an Invisibility Cloak. "I wasn't following you," he rasped. "I'm here because Hagrid asked me to be, because he said he had something to show me. I didn't know he was asking me to chaperone a date, or that his date would have the same idea!"

Fleur's anger died. Her eyes flicked from his face, handsome even annoyed and in the dark, to the pool of silvery cloth at his feet. "When did you get an invisibility cloak?"

"I've always had it. You didn't answer my question."

"You didn't ask one!" she protested. Harry blinked, before giving her a sheepish look.

"Oh. Right, sorry. What are you doing out here?"

Her lips twitched upwards. "Madame Maxime told me she had something to show me. She said it would help me win the first task."

Harry nodded. "Okay. So apart from the mating habits of half-giants, have you seen anything?"

The smile that had been threatening to appear made its entrance and she giggled. Oh, she was going to give herself Hell for that later. "Not yet, but...I don't think they've reached their destination yet."

Harry's smile mirrored her own and she felt a rush of warmth at the sight of it. She liked the way it canted his eyes and tugged at the dimple on his chin. "Hagrid, you sly dog. A moonlit walk in the woods? I didn't think he had it in him!"

Fleur rode the wave of warmth inside her and bolstered her courage. "It would be a shame to let it go to waste."

She watched his smile fade and the light in his eyes change. It turned to glowing coals in a bedroom fireplace. Suddenly there wasn't enough air and she wondered who'd closed the distance between them or when her hands had started shaking. For a moment, as his eyes flicked down to her lips, she thought he was going to kiss her and a thrill shot through her body, followed by a wave of uncertainty.

Was she ready for that? Was he? Were they?

Spirits, when did this get so infuriating?

He didn't kiss her. His burning eyes never left hers and he murmured, "Yes, I suppose it would." before offering her his hand. She willed the tremor in her fingers to go away and tangled them with his.

He forgot that Fleur was standing next to him. He forgot that, until this moment, he'd been mustering the courage to either ask her out or kiss her. Or probably both. He even forgot that they were at least a mile into the Forbidden Forest entirely on their own, shadowing a pair of half-giants, one of whom might be insane.

"Aren'. They. Beautiful?" Hagrid crooned, removing the doubt from Harry's mind. The object of the insane man's affections was not the equally fascinated(though for different reasons) woman by his side but what lay in a bowl shaped valley in the forest. In there Harry saw that which made him forget everything but what he was looking at.

Dragons.

Four of them.

Harry could taste the ozone of heavy magic and guessed it to be a perimeter of silencing spells and various enchantments. He was proven partially right moments later when a dragon colored like the night sky opened its maw and roared. The physicality of the sound, its sheer power, washed over them and fluttered their robes. But they didn't hear a sound. The dragon's gaze swung their way, zeroing on a quartet of handlers shooting spells at its resilient hide. He watched a sun bloom in the back of its throat and felt a strange rumble build underfoot.

The dragon's eyes rolled back in its head and a corona of pure fire, the fury of an enraged sun, spilled out. Harry's heart leaped into his throat. There was no way the handlers could survive that. He was at least a football field away and he still its heat. Beside him Fleur shivered and squeezed his hand tighter. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, giving the only comfort he dared. The fire washed over a runic array that glowed as it fought to contain the dragon's fury.

The cold, analytical part of his mind took over and inscribed every draconic detail it could find into his mind. Ben's survival hinged on everything he could find. He could not afford to fail. And so, starting from the left; ladies and gentlemen, the dragons:

The darkest was also the largest. It stood head and shoulders above the other three and, from the attention paid by the handlers, it was also the most vicious. The dragon's wings folded against its back and draped down over its sides, the tips tucking behind the shoulder joints. Its body was completely smooth of spike or horn until the tail. Starting small and growing to the size of a small tree, spines grew out of its tail and dug furrows in the ground as it lashed agitatedly.

The next dragon was a slate gray and big. It didn't have the sheer height and length of the black one, but the breadth of its chest was larger by far. Its four legs were stumpy and widely set. Harry wagered that when it walked it would be like an alligator; awkward, but deceptively fast. It had a row of ridges starting at the crown of its head and going down to the base of its spine, above which its wings rested, parallel to its body. In contrast to its neighbor it did not roar or breathe fire, but instead hurled itself around like a battering ram.

The third dragon was the smallest yet and a venomous green. It moved in short, jerky movements that covered ground quickly and unpredictably. Its wings were the smallest, and also served as its forearms. Harry supposed it was more like a wyvern than a dragon, but he wasn't going to split scales. Its most distinguishing characteristic were the claws on its rear legs. Massive, curling up and puncturing the ground, they shone in the light as if coated in some sort of fluid.

The fourth dragon was the quietest. It lay there looking for all the world like the Great Sphinx if the Sphinx had wings. And was also a dragon. Harry couldn't get a good grasp of its size because its mottled colors blended into the surroundings surprisingly well. It didn't matter, though, because its defining trait was easy enough to spot. With the other dragons their fangs were long and lethal, yes, but they at least fit in the beast's mouth. This one's didn't, protruding out below its chin with a lethal serration to its back curve.

All told, they were four apex predators. That his brother, his fourteen year old brother, was going to have to fight. Hands curling around his arm reminded him of someone else who'd be facing them. Someone else he was coming to care for a great deal.

"What were they thinking?" she whispered. "We can't beat those beasts, they'll kill us!"

"They won't. We won't let them."

Fleur wasn't reassured. "What can we going to do against that?"

"I don't know yet." Harry admitted. "But we'll figure something out."

Ben's gut churned with anxiety as he paced in front of where the Room of Requirement would soon appear. He'd gotten the note from Harry – a note almost carved into the parchment from the quill's pressure. It took a great deal to shake his brother enough to cause that kind of a physical reaction. That Harry was scared caused his own fear to react, and as the door appeared to let him in, he realized his hands were shaking.

Inside the Room had created a place of comfort. Squashy armchairs and a loveseat arrayed around a brazier full of merry, glowing coals. The walls were adorned with tapestries of warm, soothing colors and his shoes sunk into the thickness of the rug underfoot. The tremble in his hands lessened. The racing of his heart didn't.

Sirius looked like he'd been punched in the gut. His godfather and guardian was hunched over in the armchair furthest from the brazier and staring sightlessly into it. His hands were wound together so tightly Ben could see the whiteness of his knuckles. By contrast Harry looked marginally better, thought Ben suspected it was more to do with the girl pressed into his side than anything else. Likewise Fleur seemed to draw strength from him and apart from their physical closeness and a slight green tinge to their faces they looked...not fine, precisely, but better than Sirius.

"What's going on?" Ben asked. No one answered, though Harry managed a wavering smile. That smile scared him more than their silence could. It was the same smile he'd gotten before Quirrelmort had almost killed his brother three years ago, and the same one he'd gotten with basilisk venom running through his brother's veins. It was a smile meant to reassure and one that failed in its task. "You're scaring me," he sat across from Harry. "tell me what's going on!"

It was Sirius who spoke, "We've found what you'll be facing in the first task."

Ben perked up, some of his anxiety replaced by eagerness. "Well, that's good right? At least now we know what we're up against, right?"

"That's the good news." Harry said, taking over. Ben frowned.

"So...what's the bad news?"

"Dragons." Fleur murmured, her throaty voice putting an edge to the word. Ben's heart skipped a beat.

"What?"

"Dragons, Ben," Harry's eyes transfixed him over the brazier's light, taking in the glow and shining like demon jewels. "the first task – you'll be facing a dragon."

Note: I'M BACK, BITCHES!

Ahem. Sorry. What with school back in session and my free time going from 'all of it' to 'you'd better use it to sleep' my opportunities for writing have taken a nosedive. You'll still get chapters, but until about May or so, they'll be intermittent in their arrivals. Which I'd be sorry for, but I can't, 'cuz I'm too busy. Anyway, I hope you lot continue to enjoy, review, and read this, because otherwise...I'd be sad.