"Congratulations first-year students on your new Houses, and welcome to Hogwarts," Professor Dumbledore says. "To our familiar faces, welcome back. We have much to discuss and you won't hear a word of it until your stomachs are full, so tuck in!"

Hushed whispers fill the Great Hall. Just as they'd filled the train, and Platform 9¾, and Diagon Alley. It's more confronting, now, with the professors sitting above them looking downright grim.

Harry shovels food onto his plate by rote, and then he stares at it, trying to pick somewhere to start. He doesn't feel like eating anything. He isn't alone; even Ron is herding peas around his plate. On his other side, Hermione chews mechanically and stares into the middle distance, the way she usually only gets in exam week.

"Hey, Harry, do you think you'll be the chosen one?"

There's a shriek of a fork and a pea shoots across the table. "Shut up, Colin," Ron snaps.

Colin shuts up.

Around the table, eyes that'd darted to Harry slowly return to their plates. Silence again. Thicker, this time.

The meal drags on.

"Now, for the announcements. Your Head Girl this year is Penelope Clearwater and the Head Boy is Tom Riddle. Seek them out for guidance. This will be a difficult year for all of you. Support, leadership, and the strength we gain from one another will be essential. Be good to each other. Enjoy the moments you share; they are precious. On that note, the Quidditch cup is cancelled, for Hogwarts is to host a tournament of a different sort. This year will feature the septennial Blood Games."

It is a rare event when Dumbledore is serious, and when he is, he's calm. This is different. There's something angry flicking deep down. It's frightening. Harry only vaguely remembers the last Games. He was nine and too young to really understand what was happening, but he remembers how it upset the indomitable adults around him. It was the first time he saw Uncle Sirius cry.

"The school will be closed to all except champions, mentors and training staff from November to January. For the duration, students and staff will continue classes in our neighbouring Beauxbatons Academy. In November we will also welcome temporary members of staff to fill the roles of our esteemed Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Snape, who will once again reprise their role as mentors."

"I found the silver lining," Ron mutters.

"You're not even taking potions this year," Hermione rolls her eyes.

"Still."

"Pay attention!"

But Dumbledore's usual warnings about the caretaker's least favourite prank products don't hold the same weight, after that.

The walk to the dormitories carries the same dark cloud. The stairs don't sneak out from under their feet. The more excitable portraits don't cheer and follow along. The candles don't shine as bright. The armour doesn't stand as straight.

"It's not right," Harry scowls. "Holding the Games here. Hogwarts is–" sanctuary–freedom–wonder– "it's home."

The feeling of wrongness is so deep, Harry can't put it in words. Hermione can.

"The perversion of promoting murder under the veil of honourable sacrifice, while trivialising it for entertainment; focusing prejudice and taking power from the weak to concentrate it in the wealthy, for the Ministry, no less; in a historic school, built for learning, to welcome everyone – it's a betrayal of all Hogwarts stands for."

"Sshhh!" Neville hisses, glancing around. "Not near the portraits, for Merlin's sake. They're listening."

Neville is nervous more often than not, but in this instance, everyone else is too. It gives Harry pause, but he's too angry to accommodate their fear for long. They don't understand, they have other homes, but Harry has lost two already. Hogwarts is the only home he knows that is still going to be there year after year. As for Hermione, the muggleborn orphanages will never come close.

Harry opens his mouth, but Neville cuts him off. "Bad things happen to people who criticise the Games."

Harry's heard the rumours, but he hadn't given them much weight. He'd felt like the Ministry was a world away and nothing could touch him at Hogwarts. These Games prove they can.

After they reach the tower and mutter "good night", Harry crawls into his fourposter and squeezes his eyes shut until he sees stars. He just wants to sleep, like it will reset the day and things will be back to normal tomorrow.

…

Well, one thing is back to normal. Harry can always rely on Malfoy to be an unmitigated arse.

"Hey, Potter!"

Ron takes a deep breath. Harry slides a hand in his pocket, around his wand.

"I've been waiting for this for six years, Potter."

"What? For them to cancel Quidditch so you can finally say I didn't beat you?" Harry says.

Ron snorts.

Malfoy glares. "I don't know if I'd prefer you to get selected or not. On one hand, I get to watch you die. On the other, I get to watch your friends die, and you cry over it, while you're forced to realise that you're not the most worthy Gryffindor; not even the best of a bad bunch."

"Only planning on watching, then? All cocky because your name isn't in the running. Daddy wouldn't risk his only son unless he thought you could win, and Slytherin elects their best shot. Shows what they think of you, doesn't it?"

"Why you little –"

"Detention, Potter, Weasley. Fighting before classes start – that's early, even for you," Professor Snape strides over, looking down his nose. The aforementioned appendage must be so big it's blocking how Malfoy also has his wand out. "Go."

Harry and Ron don't waste time getting away.

Harry is slow to stow his wand. He wouldn't put it past Malfoy to hex them in the back. "Detention. Great. Snape could've at least waited until we'd jinxed the prat. Then it'd be worth it."

"Bloody Malfoy. I'll turn him into a ferret one day, just watch," Ron mutters.

"You're not the best with human transfiguration, mate."

"Exactly. Who knows how he'd turn out?" Ron grins. Harry sniggers, and encouraged, Ron carries on, "Will he have a beak? Five legs? Be permanently bald? Place your bets."

"Can they turn him back? Will he ever be the same? Will it be an improvement?"

"I screw up his vocal cords enough and I reckon that's a definite improvement," Ron says, stepping over the bench at the Gryffindor table. Luckily, there's still some lunch left. They'd both slept through breakfast.

"What are you talking about?" Hermione rises from behind a huge tome, evidently the spoils of her quick dash to 'just look something up'. Never mind that classes don't even start until tomorrow.

"Malfoy. He's turned over a new leaf this year, and Snape too. It's all kittens and cuddles from the both of them."

Hermione frowns. "Must be something in the dungeon air. Parkinson's that way, too. We had a very charming conversation about the current fashion for funeral-wear."

"Even the less smug Slytherins are ticking me off," Harry mutters. "Why shouldn't they have to fret like the rest of us?"

"They're the House of ambition; there's always someone willing to volunteer," Hermione says. "And, of course, a lot of purebloods think they're a better judge of worth than a magical artefact."

Harry says, "Well sure, since they measure worth differently. Like how much gold is in your second-best drawing room. But, artefact?"

"Bill said a magic cup selects the names. It's supposed to be impartial," Ron says.

Hermione scrunches her nose and Harry can practically hear her thinking 'magic cup, honestly Ronald'.

"The Goblet of Fire picks from the names entered into it. But the judges enter the names, and if enough students and gold back a volunteer, they'll only enter one name."

"So – rich, popular, terrifying. I think we know who the female Slytherin champion is," Harry says.

They look over at the green table and shudder. "Yeah."

"And the bloke – Nott or Selwyn?" Ron suggests.

Harry hums, "Maybe Montague? Warrington?"

"Nah, Montague is a duffer and the only magical stick Warrington can use is a broom."

"It will be Riddle," Hermione says, definitively.

Ron scoffs. "No, it won't. There's never been a muggleborn Slytherin champion, it'd take a coup to pull that off."

Harry nods. "Not rich in money or family clout or anything else. He's missing half his worthiness, right there."

"And he's well respected in Slytherin, despite that. He only needs to convince his House, not the judges," Hermione says. "Slytherin hold a vote and a duelling competition, which Riddle will win for certain. He set records in half his OWLs."

"OWLs don't necessarily mean he's a good fighter. Casting in a classroom isn't like casting in a duel," Harry says, reasonably. "Does Riddle even want to compete?"

"Oh, yes. We spoke about it over the summer break. He believes he can sway the vote," Hermione answers.

Ron shakes his head.

Harry finds himself agreeing. The Slytherins are too narrow-minded.

Ron says, "I don't buy it. Slytherin want to pick a victor. Everyone knows the Games are rigged to favour purebloods. Riddle would have to be ten times as powerful as the next best pureblood just to break even. Sure, he's Head Boy and aced his exams, but is he on Dumbledore's league in terms of intelligence and power?"

Even Hermione looks a bit sceptical now. She knows better than to bet against Ron when he talks strategy. "I guess we'll find out."

Who will the champions be? It's the question that dominates the Great Hall. And the hallways. And most of the classrooms. Only McGonagall and Snape are intimidating enough to win total silence, and even then, Harry can still feel eyes on his back.

Hermione gets even more looks. Lavender's face twists through a grateful-guilty-sad cycle every time they're in the same room, because she's sure Hermione is higher on the list and that means Lavender is safe. Hermione, Angelina Johnson and Ginny are the most capable Gryffindor girls in their respective years, but Hermione's grades put her a step above the rest, and she's not just book-smart, either; Malfoy can attest to that. Harry is worried about her. Very worried.

Katie is halfblood and Ginny is pureblood; they'd just be competing against other champions, not the gamemakers as well. Hermione is in the same boat as Tom Riddle – she'd need to be ten times as good as the other competitors just to have a chance of making it out alive.

The boys are a bit less clear-cut. Fred and George are unconventional geniuses. Ron is braver than he gives himself credit for and Neville surprised everyone in the DA last year. There's a lot of talk about Harry's chances, but he doesn't know how much of that is on his merits and how much is due to the superstition that because both his parents were selected, he must be doubly unlucky. But on the other end of the scale, they both survived. They didn't win – the first to the cup that year was Snape. And for refusing to murder each other, they're all blood traitors. Snape is respected for his power but there will always be that tarnishing mark on his reputation. Ron thinks it's why Snape hates Harry's guts.

Harry doesn't think any of it makes sense. Snape only revisits the memory of James Potter to bask in the fact that he's dead. From what Harry's heard, it doesn't sound like they were any friendlier at the time. He would've expected them to leap at the chance to kill each other.

Uncle Sirius would know what happened, but he doesn't like to talk about it. He said Harry was too young. Granted, Harry was only thirteen when they last lived together. They thought they'd have more time. Now, Harry might need to know, but Sirius is out of reach.

…

September is agonising. Harry passes people in the hallways and wonders which faces he won't see again. Some of them are going to die. It's horrible and wrong and he can't do anything to stop it.

His fuse is shorter than ever. He quickly earns several more detentions duelling with Malfoy and lackies. They're obnoxious and cruel and so, so ignorant, but he wouldn't wish the Games on them. He doesn't want them to die either. No one should.

Harry is carefully not thinking about his chances of being chosen. He doesn't want to enter the Games. He doesn't want to be paraded around, forced to fight, treated like an ingredient in a potion, to funnel power to the Ministry. But he'd rather die than watch his friends die. So if he thinks about his chances of not being chosen, he might do something that his friends would never forgive him for. He knows Ron is doing the same. But Ron doesn't have enough money for a bribe. Harry might, and that's another thing he's not thinking about. It's not fair to ask Ron to forgive him for doing the same thing he wouldn't forgive Ron for. But in the end, it is a moot point because Gryffindor doesn't start talking about volunteering a champion. They'll let bad luck decide and support whoever is picked.

Harry mopes for all of a week before he settles on something much more productive: anger.

He's staring at a potions essay. He can't focus. How could he worry about homework when his friends could be sacrificed in a sick game and he's helpless – but no, there is something he can do.

He slams his textbook closed and announces to the common room, "DA meeting in ten minutes. Anyone who wants to learn to fight, grab your wand and follow me."

There's a flurry of motion from the old DA members. Fred and George bundle up their prank products. Lee hollers for Angelina and Katie to get down from their dorm.

Harry grabs his bag and takes the stairs to this room two at a time. He's buzzing with restless energy.

"DA meeting now, if you're interested," Harry tells Neville and Seamus as he dumps his bag.

A moment later, two pairs of feet clatter down the stairs after him.

Harry pauses a few steps from the bottom. Almost all of Gryffindor is looking at him expectantly.

Alright then.

The crowd parts for him. He meets Ron and Hermione by the portrait hole and leads the way to the Room of Requirement.

Hermione flashes a coin. "Do you want me to invite the rest of the DA?"

Harry falters. They're Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Harry likes Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang but there's a good reason he doesn't invite them to Gryffindor Quidditch practice.

But they're the DA – they're his.

But they're the competition. Where do you draw the line? It's Hogwarts against the other schools. Gryffindor against the other houses. Boy against girl. Friend against friend. There's only one victor and the Ministry don't like survivors.

Harry could teach the spells that helps someone kill his friends.

"Invite them," Harry decides.

The Room serves up the regular DA meeting area, but it's much larger. It gives Harry a raised platform and the crowd is large enough that he needs it. There must be nearly two hundred people when the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs show up.

Harry takes a deep breath and tries not to talk too fast. "We formed the DA last year because our professor was useless. We were a study group. We wanted to pass our exams. This year, the stakes are a bit higher."

A few young students giggle. Harry grins ruefully. His nerves settle.

"Last year, we united against terrible teachers. This year, the Games divide us. The Ministry tells us there can only be one victor, so we look at our classmates and friends and we see rivals. Not here. We're in this shit together. We all deserve to grow old. We are stronger together. We can be many survivors instead of one victor."

Some look around nervously. He is dangerously close to contradicting the Ministry. Sedition or treason – take your pick, it's Azkaban either way.

"I'll teach you defence. Dodging. Shielding. Healing. We don't have much time. This isn't for glory, it's for survival. If you want to learn the most lethal offensive spells, teach yourself. We have less than two months. We better get started."

Harry eases into the familiar role. He separates the old DA crew and puts Hermione in charge of revising what they learnt last year. They're a bit rusty after the holidays.

Neville, bless him, volunteers to bring the youngest kids up to speed with basic shielding and disarming spells. Harry will have to set up a rotating roster so Neville can still get some practice in.

For the rest of the new students, Harry starts with last year's DA lessons. The few that can't cast a protego stronger than a soap bubble get mercilessly booted into Neville's group; he'll get them to the point where they can cover at least the full front of their body.

"When you're attacked, you need to decide how to respond. Will you defend, or will you fight back? Your tactics will depend on your opponent – if they're a better dueller than you, focus on your defence. Defending is easier than attacking, and that means you can hold off opponents that are much more skilled than you. You won't defeat them, but you might escape. It's a matter of learning various shield charms and practising to make them formidable. But let's say your opponent isn't quite that dangerous. Shield charms block incoming and outgoing spells. To counterattack, you need to drop the shield. That's when things get tricky. Technically, you only need your shield raised for the split second when the spell hits, but shield flickering is an advanced duelling technique. We'll start simple. Good shielding is about good timing. You don't want to reflect your own spell back in your face," Harry says. The Room provides them with a row of targets, each with a tally and a stopwatch. "Alternate between protego and expelliarmus. See how long it takes you to get to twenty hits."

Competitiveness over the times is all the incentive they need. Harry does a few circuits to make sure they get the basic form, then he leaves them to practice. In Hermione's group, Fred has just missed George by a mile and Harry knows he can do better than that, Fred just needs to be reminded about dropping his elbow.

The clock is chiming a warning about curfew before he knows it.

Harry hops back on the platform. There's a buzz in the air, an intensity. It's hope. The Games uprooted everything, left them waiting powerless and uncertain. Now they can do something about it.

The restless anger inside Harry settles into a steely determination. "Good work. I'll be here every day from seven until curfew. I'll start a new spell set every Monday and we'll spend the rest of the week perfecting it. Drop in and out whenever you want."

The first week of meetings is manic. It's a lot of work. He wouldn't be able to do it without his friends pitching in. Hermione organises the lesson plans. Cho looks up useful wilderness survival and healing spells. Ron figures out strategies from analysing old duelling tournaments. Neville reviews the fundamentals. Luna gives some surprisingly coherent lectures on dealing with creatures. Ginny and Cedric take turns teaching their favourite curses. Fred and George share clever area-effect tricks – flashbang spells, floor freezing charms, the works. It splits up the teaching load.

As the students settle into a routine around homework, attendance drops back. Most people show up three or four times a week, which is often enough to learn the spells. It spreads the numbers to a more manageable size, at least. The old core of the DA come every day. On the weekends, only the dedicated show up; it's usually just the experience crew, so on weekends, they have fun.

They leave the structured duels behind because, in the Games, the threats won't line up the face you one at a time. The Room turns into an obstacle course; a forest, a swamp, a giant doll house (and Ron has a new phobia now, thanks, George). They arm themselves with paint spells until the clock chimes and the least colourful person wins.

Sometimes it's a free-for-all brawl. Sometimes there are teams. Sometimes Fred and George rig traps and everyone ends up dripping paint and smelling faintly of gunpowder.

Harry is feeling better about the chances of either twin in the Games– now it's a question of whether the arena would survive them.

"Oi, Potter! What'll it take to knock you down a peg?" George says, and the playful tone sparks more dread than a threat ever could.

Harry is clean. He's survived the last two weekends unmarked. He's too quick with his shield and too good at dodging for nearby splatter to get him.

They're going to ambush him. George has caught Harry in a dodgy spot.

He's beside a stream. Smooth, loose rocks make for poor footing. The gully walls are deep; it's precisely why he chose to hide down here. Regretting that, now. If the others man both banks they can rain spells down on his head. They can surround him without hitting each other – they learnt the perils of that last week.

Harry could transform and fly out. He'd only be defenceless for a second.

Or this mistake could turn into useful practice.

George sends up sparks. The others will already be heading toward his voice – Harry has a minute at most.

Harry disillusions himself. He's not completely invisible, but a lot harder to aim at. He sets a couple of quicksand traps and casts bombarda at the opposite bank – soil blasts everywhere. He'll make his escape up that slope. Loose soil settles on stream bed; it'll slow his feet but it's much better footing than the shifting stones.

There's a flash of light and Harry snaps up a rapid shield spell. George's purple paint splashes across his field of view, but that's a problem for later because the next attack comes from behind.

They're casting silently, the sneaky bastards. He sees it at the last second, and only because he was already turning.

Time slows. The air is thick. The water is almost still. The spell is red – Ron's colour. It will hit him in the chest. Harry takes half a step back and twists and the spell hits the gully wall. The spell bursts into a glob of red paint and the droplets hang in the air. Harry shields against the splash. Good practice; if that was something like bombarda, he'd need to.

Ron's timing was perfect, Harry's got to remember to tell him later.

Seven spells are heading his way– his protego will hold for five.

The first is wide. Harry doesn't need to worry about it.

Harry raises the stream behind him to a waterfall and freezes it solid. That'll block the three from behind. More importantly, he can stop looking over his shoulder unless someone breaks the barrier. They'll probably just run around and try to pin him against it.

The remaining three spells are close. One is high – not a problem when he ducks and hunkers down behind a shield and counts two hits.

The paint drops with splat when he dispels the shield, and he can see they've got follow-up spells headed for him already.

Purple, orange – Fred and George. Pink – Cedric. Four yellows – Hermione is casting as fast as she can, trying to overwhelm his shielding and agility, or just keep him too busy to raise another ice wall. She's less accurate than usual, but in a way, the scatter is harder to counter – he can't dodge them all with one step.

Harry casts a shield to his left and holds it while George and Cedric batter away at it. …three, four, five, recast. One, two…

Ginny circles around his ice wall and walks straight into Harry's well-placed quicksand trap. She'll free herself in a second, but for that second, she can't dodge. Harry summons a branch behind her, and when she twists to shield against it, he nails her with green paint. She's got to retire from the fight.

Harry ducks and weaves around yellow spells, and after a few moments he triangulates exactly where Hermione is hiding. He spots the tell-tail shimmer of disillusionment and returns his own paint spell. It's an acid green, alarmingly similar to the Killing Curse. He fires a second to exactly follow the first, with just enough of a delay to allow time for Hermione to cancel her shield if she thinks there's only one.

He hasn't caught her with that trick for a while, but at least while she's dealing with that, she stops raining jinxes on him. He raises a second ice wall. They are less inclined to let that one survive, and it absorbs two blasts before it starts to crack. Before it crumbles, Harry scrambles up his exit ramp.

Ron has a spell heading for his face before he has even peaked over the bank. Yellow whizzes past his shoulder. So Hermione didn't fall for his trick.

Harry gets out of the gully clean and that is something he's putting down to no small amount of luck.

He's above the ice walls, now, fully exposed again. He races into the trees for cover and the chase is on.

Harry has whittled the pack down by the time Fred gets the drop on him. Literally – Fred jumped out of a tree, and that there is one of the limits of a quick shield charm.

Harry squirms, but he's winded and half the size and Fred has five brothers – this is not his first tousle. He had Harry's limbs pinned the moment he fell, and it's too late –

"Fuco!" Hermione casts. Harry and Fred are dripping yellow paint.

"Granger," Fred clutches his chest. "Am I just collateral damage, to you? You wound me."

"Sorry, Fred. But I was picking green out of my hair all week."

"I think that's a yes, Harry. I am collateral! An instrument in revenge! I cannot muster the will to go on."

Fred collapses dramatically. Harry wheezes because, somehow, Fred got even heavier. Shove as he might, Harry is stuck. "What are you, part troll?"

"Percy does make me wonder," Fred says and ruffles Harry's hair, no doubt rubbing the paint in. Harry can feel it sticking up and collecting dirt and leaves. Harry huffs indignantly.

"Oh, let him up," Hermione giggles.

Fred turns and his grin widens.

Hermione narrows her eyes. "Don't you dare."

Harry braces himself on instinct. Hermione should know better than to evoke the power of 'don't' and 'dare'.

Fred springs off Harry, embedding him another inch into the dirt. "Oof!"

Harry sucks in sweet, beautiful oxygen to a chorus of shrieks and laughter.

Another freckled face hovers over him. Ron says, "Alright, mate?"

"Ugh," he answers.

Ron hauls him upright. Harry straightens his glasses, but no, he is seeing that right – Hermione is covered in paint and a Weasley.

"You gave us a real run-around," Ron says. "You're so much faster this year!"

Harry shrugs. "I guess the practice paid off."

"No, Harry, I've never seen a human move that quickly. Professional Quidditch players don't have reflexes like that."

"Well, you follow the Cannons, so."

"Oi!" Ron gets him in a headlock.

"Cannons? Did I hear someone ask for an orange makeover?" Fred says. He's been hit with a paint spell at point-blank. He's got orange splattered all over his chest and under his chin. But orange is his colour.

Hermione, also very orange, is huffing and rolling her eyes the way she does when she's trying not to smile. She mutters something about "The spirit of the rules" – ah, Harry realises. Fred cast the spell on himself. He found another loophole in the rule of not firing at anyone once you've been tagged.

Fred and Hermione exchange a very particular look that Harry first noticed in fourth year. Harry calls it the Challenge. He's certain Hermione is already drafting another clause that Fred will be delighted to wriggle out of.

Ron elbows Harry to get his attention and eyes the two meaningfully. Harry's not sure what he's supposed to look at. He already knows Fred made it his mission to drive Prefect Hermione crazy by following her rules to the letter and still defying them every step of the way. They do this all the time.

Ron waits expectantly. Harry blinks. Ron rolls his eyes. "So quick in some ways. But in others…"

"Ron's right, Harry. You are too fast. I have a theory – I think it might be bleed-over," Hermione says.

"Oh? I did spend a lot of time in my animagus form over the summer."

"So did I," Hermione admits. "I've noticed my sense of smell and hearing dramatically improve and my hair is all but untameable. More so when there's paint in it."

Fred grins unrepentantly.

Harry crosses his eyes. "Tell me honestly – does my nose look more beak-like, to you?"

"Harry."

"Ok, seriously, I think I know what you mean. When I'm scared or excited, it's like the world slows down."

"You what?" Ron frowns.

Hermione hums thoughtfully. "Animals experience time in different ways. Generally, the faster the animal moves, the faster it needs to sense and process information so it doesn't run into anything. Insects and birds travel very quickly. A fly can see your hand moving to swat it like you're moving through honey, it has plenty of time to react."

"Oh, yeah, that's exactly what it's like in my form. Time almost stops. I thought it was part of the magic," Harry says. "But it's always happened to some degree – like in Quidditch, when a bludger comes at me or when I'm pulling out of a dive."

"That happens to me, too. But it's only for a split second and I end up with tunnel vision," Fred says.

Ron nods too. "Oh, that. Same. Seeker Weekly ran an article. The Magpies' keeper was convinced he'd been blessed by Chronos."

"It's common in sports players," Hermione says. "Increased sensory input briefly causes a perceived slowing of time."

"Right, well, today it lasted the whole fight," Harry says.

"That is unusual. It must be bleed-over," Hermione says.

"You talk fast when you're excited. It's really hard to hear you," Ron says, putting the pieces together.

"Yeah, you've looked at bit manic this year," Fred says, draping an arm over Harry's resigned, now orange shoulders. "Never mind that. All the best people are."

…

October goes the same way as September, only faster. Harry spends every spare moment in the Room, but it never feels like enough. He pays attention in classes if they're useful and writes lesson plans instead of notes if they're not. He stops attending History entirely. Binns doesn't notice. He does the bare minimum in homework, and only that much because detentions would be an even bigger waste of time. During meals, tournament strategies and statistics replaces talk of Quidditch plays. Ron is just as good at finding the patterns in tasks as he is in teams.

"It's nowhere near random," Ron says. "There's only been two muggleborn victors in forty-three editions of the Games. They're overrepresent in the champion selection and way underrepresented in survivors."

"It's a cull," Hermione says.

"Yeah. Just look at the sponsorship rates. They'll send the purebloods through with a genie up their arse and let the muggleborns starve before spending a few knuts for bread," Ron says. "But it's not that simple. The Games kill purebloods at an even higher rate – purebloods are a third of the population but fifty percent of Champions. Some of that is because almost all volunteers are purebloods, but there's not enough volunteers to make up the difference."

Ron jabs the Prophet. A picture of the smug analyst he's annoyed with skitters out the way of his finger. "But throw enough purebloods into the mix and of course most victors will be purebloods. That's the only number most people will notice. If people also consider that purebloods are less than half the population, it makes them look even better. But that's wrong. It's a biased sample. Purebloods actually underperform if you consider how the champion demographics are skewed."

"Do muggleborns perform better, all things considered?" Harry asks.

"Merlin, no. The favouritism is brutal. Halfbloods do alright, though. Not that you'd know it from this rubbish," Ron says. Some of his poached egg ends up on the paper, this time. "They don't even give the total number of pureblood, halfblood and muggleborn champions."

And the effort required to get those numbers would deter all but the most curious. Hermione had to sift through dozens of old papers and tally it by hand.

"Most people are terrible at statistics," Ron says. The analyst earns a filthy glare. "She knows better. She calculates things properly when it suits her."

"People don't know statistics because our schools don't teach it," Hermione scowls. "I'm sure the Ministry enjoys feeding people answers that no one can double check. Lies, damn lies and statistics."

"That the title of your autobiography, Granger?" A nasally voice cuts in. "You'd better get a move on if you want to publish that."

"Piss off, Malfoy," Harry says without turning around. He is so tired of dealing with this shit.

"You should mind your tongue. You wouldn't want me to pay the judges to elect Weasley and Granger, would you? It might cost extra to skip the House vote, or they may give me a discount for doing the world a favour!"

Harry doesn't reach for his wand. He doesn't even think. He probably would've cursed Malfoy, if he had. His arm snaps out and the next thing he knows, he's got the squirming boy by the collar, dragged into a stoop, nose to nose.

"Better make it three tickets and send me to represent Hufflepuff, in that case," he says quietly. Malfoy goes still at his tone. "Because I'd make you regret it."

"Mr Potter! Release him," Professor McGonagall calls. They're close to the head table, but Harry doesn't particularly care. Neither does he care if Malfoy is spouting empty words to get a reaction or to get Harry in trouble with the professors, more bark than bite as usual.

"One moment," Harry says pleasantly, not looking away from Malfoy's wide eyes. "But why stop at three? You'll need to get rid of Ron's protective siblings. And his parents. Nasty dueller, that Molly Weasley. I've got a werewolf and the head of your mother's family in my corner. They're not quite as scary as Molly, I know, but I'm sure they could make some trouble for you."

"Mr Potter!"

"Pull a stunt like that, and all your daddy's money won't save you from the consequences."

Harry lets go. Malfoy backpedals fast enough to fall over.

McGonagall sighs. "Twenty points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter. Mr Malfoy, ten points from Slytherin. Return to your table."

It is a token punishment. House points don't rank highly in anyone's priorities this year.

"He pushed me!" Malfoy protests, cradling an elbow like he's hurt. But he gets a better look at the Gryffindor table and blanches.

There isn't a student in earshot that isn't ready to breathe fire. Ginny might actually be sparking. Ron's eyes promise the same revenge if Malfoy even thinks of pulling that trick on Harry and Hermione. Fred leans into Hermione, making it clear she's part of the family, orphan or not. Harry has never seen the twins look less like laughing. It makes his hair stand on end.

Malfoy leaves at a run.

Fred watches him go, poised on the edge of his seat. George is rifling through his bookbag. "Which product did we have to rework because it interacted badly with jinxes – was it the puking pastilles?"

"That's the one," Fred says. McGonagall has returned to the head table. Fred squeezes Hermione's shoulder and murmurs, "Excuse us." He and George stand as one.

Harry doesn't see much of Malfoy, after that.