Note: Insert Author's Note here. Seriously, though, this chapter covers the Selection of Champions and Other Things of Varying Importance. Thought not necessarily in that order. So enjoy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: TOURNAMENTS AFLAME, II
Harry, in the moments since the Goblet of Fire lit, had started having difficulty breathing. It felt like a very large dog was sitting on his sternum. That strange extra sense for magic he had was overloading. Dumbledore was finishing up his announcing the official beginning of the Tournament. Not that Harry heard. He stared, gasping for breath, and came to an inescapable conclusion:
The Goblet was alive.
Maybe not like him or a dragon but it lived nonetheless. He wondered if anyone could hear its heart like he could; thrum...thrum...thrum. It was a physical presence that no one but him could feel. At first he felt awed. Then worried as his senses swam. Then finally, nauseous as the sheer power exuded by the simple looking cup overwhelmed him.
He dropped his head to the table and took slow, deep breaths- as deep as he could with the Saint Bernard on his chest.
"Harry?" Hermione had, bless her soul, noticed that something may be wrong with him. Her hand soothed its way across his back. "Are you okay?"
"Unnhh." he managed, shaking his head and wondering how on Earth he was going to get out of here without vomiting.
"Mate?" Neville wasn't as touchy-feely as Hermione. Concern tinged his voice. "What's going on?"
More than once he considered just puking everywhere and having done with it. Only the notion that it probably wouldn't help in the end prevented him. Instead he marshaled his willpower, focused on the cool wood on his forehead and mumbled "Goblet.", hoping that Hermione's keen mind would put the dots together.
His hope was well-founded. It didn't take her more than thirty seconds. She gasped. "The Goblet! Of course!"
"Eh?" Neville blinked. Hermione huffed. Harry was convinced that the only thing keeping her from going full on lecture was her worry for him. He appreciated this.
"The Goblet of Fire," she recited quickly, "is an enchanted object of immense magical power. Now, who do we know that has a unique connection to magic and might- just might- be sensitive to that sort of thing?"
Neville paled. "Ah, hell."
"Mmh." Harry groaned, trying to convey his agreement without opening his mouth.
Thankfully for him and everyone around them, they were finally- no, gloriously dismissed for bed.
He may have had to be supported out between his friends, but the important thing was that he got out of there. Each step away from the Goblet helped, and by the time he reached Gryffindor tower its presence registered like a mosquito bite; present, but only irritating if he focused on it.
What he would do in the morning was a different question. One he was decidedly not thinking about.
Thankfully Harry was able to get a decent night's sleep. As he woke to the devious faces of his housemates, he saw he was going to need it. If he'd been paying attention- or capable of doing so- on the way up last night, he would have heard them grousing about not being able to enter the Tournament. Since he wasn't paying attention, he had to be told by Neville.
"You're kidding."
Neville shrugged. "Wish I was, mate. Overheard Ron and Dean planning to get hold of some Aging Potion and trying to trick Dumbledore's Age Line." Harry laughed at this. "I know, it's not the cleverest idea, but they're dead set on trying. You hungry?"
"Starving," he replied, still chortling, before he remembered something. "On second, I might not eat today."
"Eh?" Neville blinked. "Why?"
"Because the Goblet is in the Entrance Hall. It doesn't like me."
His friend had the facial expression of one having just realized he missed the obvious, which made Harry laugh again. "Right," Neville's ears were slightly pink. "forgot. Sorry."
"It's okay, really. Just... you have any ideas about how I can get food without going to the Great Hall?"
Neville frowned thoughtfully before shaking his head. "Sorry, no. I'll ask around, though. You do realize you're going to have to go near it tonight, right? Selection ceremony and all that?"
Harry waved his hand in absentminded-not dismissive- manner. "I'll worry about that when I get there. I'll see you in class."
"Right." Neville looked reluctant to leave Harry behind. "I'll bring you a bacon sandwich or something, yeah?"
Harry grinned. "Yeah. Thanks, mate."
They split ways outside the portrait. Harry went to entertain himself for the free hour he had before class, and Neville to find both food for himself and a way to get access to said food without going near the Great Hall.
"Good morning class."
"Good morning, Professor McGonagall!"
"Now, as you're all aware, last night the Goblet of Fire was revealed. Since our illustrious headmaster did not give you a comprehensive history of the Tournament last night, the beginning of this class period has been set aside for that purpose. If you have questions after this, direct them to Madam Pince in the library."
This is the history of the Triwizard Tournament.
Wizards, being capable of bending reality to their will, were and are not very trusting of other people with this ability. This has made them, over the years, rather xenophobic. This ideal of insularity was carried over into the school systems. Each magical school is different to the other and very proud of this fact. Their locations are a guarded secret by the country's government.
For centuries they operated in isolation and ignorance of each other. But as the world grew smaller they would inevitably clash. On a cold November morning in 1099, this exact thing happened. Students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang ran into each other in a forest. Nobody survived the confrontation, and the forest was burnt to the ground.
This pattern continued for two decades, and was encouraged by some of the more bloodthirsty heads of school and state. In the halls of government thoughts of war fermented in the shadows. To prevent this, a representative from the three largest- and therefore strongest- schools in Europe met in secret and came up with a plan.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't ideal. They weren't even sure it would work. But after six months of escalating tension, the Triwizard Tournament was born. Every fifty years one the three schools would host the other two for six months. From each school a champion was chosen, and three tasks were devised by the heads of the schools.
And, as the Tournament's creators watched and hoped, the first one took place in 1126. Every single champion was killed before the second task was completed. The second Tournament saw a single champion die. As the years passed and more rules fell into place the death toll dropped. It never vanished, and as time passed death became as much a part of the Tournament's story as it purpose to prevent it.
This year was the fiftieth since the last Triwizard Tournament. This time it was Hogwarts' turn to host.
Harry watched the faces of his classmates as Professor McGonagall finished her brief history lesson. To his relief, most of them looked like they had just abandoned their plans of becoming the youngest Triwizard Champion in history. However, to his dismay the others- the ones who still wanted to enter and win presumed eternal glory- looked more determined than ever. He groaned softly and glared at Neville, who had just elbowed him. "What?" he hissed.
"I think you might have a point."
"About the Tournament?"
"Yeah."
"Thanks."
Someone cleared their throat. He and Neville paled. A Scottish voice said, "Excuse me."
Harry turned bright red and looked sheepishly at a stern-faced Professor McGonagall. "Sorry, Professor."
His ears were still burning when he picked up his pen. Maybe now people would let go of this stupid idea they had of entering. He doubted it, but class was starting and he was for once grateful for it.
Anything not to do with the Tournament at this point would be a welcome distraction. In the corner of his parchment he scribbled a note to himself to speak with McGonagall after class about his unique reaction to the Goblet. Maybe he could be excused from dinner or something.
"And now that I've sufficiently explained the Tournament none of you are able to enter, let's begin today's material. If you remember from your readings last night, which I certainly hope you did- Mr. Weasley- you'll know that the purpose of Switching Spells was originally a practical joke. It's more dangerous use was discovered when an irate shopkeeper Switched a thief's heart with a stone..."
Harry waited until his classmates had filed out of the room before approaching McGonagall's desk. She seemed unaware of his presence and was doing something officious looking with papers on her desk. He fidgeted nervously with his backpack strap and made his way to her desk. When he was a few feet away she said without looking up, "Yes, Mr. Potter?"
Instead of saying what he meant to, he asked, "How'd you know it was me?"
McGonagall tapped the side of her nose. "Animagus, Mr. Potter. Cats have an excellent sense of smell. Now, what is it you need?"
"I was er, hoping..." Why was he having so much trouble with this? Spit it out, Harry. "Could I be excused from the selection ceremony tonight?"
Professor McGonagall set her pen down, removed her glasses, and looked up at him. Instead of the doubtful frown he'd been expecting, she wore only a look of curiosity and slight worry. "Why would you want to?"
"Well," his fingers tapped a rhythm free beat on his backpack strap. "it's not that I want to, so much, it's more that I can't get anywhere near the Goblet of Fire without feeling like I want to vomit everywhere. Professor."
McGonagall blinked. "Oh. I- oh. Do you have any idea why such a thing is occurring?"
Harry shrugged helplessly. "Not a one. Wish I did so I could do something about it, but...no such luck, professor."
She deliberated. He could see it happening. He could even, if he tilted his head and squinted, see the evidence she was using in her argument. Against him was the fact that he was a teenager in a school of the same, who would do anything to get out of a mandatory event. Including faking sick. Supporting his case was the fact that he was Harry Potter, and things that shouldn't/couldn't happen often did around him.
That, and the last time she didn't have his best interest in mind, he almost died.
So it was to be expected that Harry had no idea at all what she would say. Though he hoped it would be something along the lines of 'You don't have to go, Mr. Potter.'.
"I'll speak to the Headmaster on your latest peculiarity, Mr. Potter. You're excused from the selection ceremony tonight. I'll have a house-elf bring your dinner to the common room. Is there anything else?"
"No, professor. Thank you."
There was something approximating a smile on the stern witch's features. "You're quite welcome. Now, you're going to be late for Charms, so I suggest you hurry."
Harry checked the wall clock behind Mcgonagall's desk to see that she was, lamentably, right. "Rats." he swore, and tore out of the room. He left behind him a woman yet again with a Harry Potter Problem on her mind. She went to the fireplace and threw a fistful of powder into it. The flames roared and turned emerald green.
"Headmaster? It's Minerva. Mr. Potter just left my class after informing me of an odd effect the Goblet seemed to be having on him."
Harry made his way through the rest of the day's classes feeling lighter. A burden had been lifted from his shoulders, one that, despite his easy dismissal early with Neville he had been rather worried about. Now, though, he didn't have to go near the Goblet. He didn't have to feel that wretched again. He grinned happily all the way up to the common room, barely noticing the air of excitement that seemed to permeate the school.
He gave the password to get in("Palindrome"), and ducked into the common room. It was packed, more people than he'd seen in it since second year were taking up every available surface and some were seated on the floor. Now, had his been very good and saved him a seat, or would they be getting coal for Christmas?
"Harry!" Hermione waved to get his attention. She and Neville had commandeered a trio of armchairs by the window. He waved back and excuse-me'd his way through the packed room, flopping into a chair with a grateful sigh.
"For the record," he said, leaning his head back. "sprinting from Transfiguration to Charms? Not fun."
Hermione looked perplexed, which was rare. "Why on Earth would you do that in the first place?"
Harry kicked his backpack in an idle sort of way. "I stayed behind to ask McGonagall if I could be excused tonight."
"And? Did she say yes?"
He smiled. "She most certainly did. I am looking at a puke-free evening tonight!"
Neville held out a hand, which Harry shook. "Congratulations."
"Thanks, mate." Harry said, grinning. Hermione huffed.
"Honestly. It's good that you'll be excused, but at the same time you're missing an important cultural event."
Harry shrugged. "I'll watch the movie version."
"Eh?" Neville then required an explanation from Hermione about what exactly a movie was. It was long and in-depth like everything she did, which led Harry to stop listening. Instead he made plans for what he would be doing instead of feeling like the Goblet of Fire was trying to smother him to death. It had been a long time since he'd been to the owlrey. He was due for a visit.
So that's what he'd do. While everyone else was oohing and aahing over the Tournament, he'd spend a quiet evening not doing that.
He could hardly wait.
Harry had noticed last night that the farther he got from the Goblet, the less he felt its effect. Just now he found- finally- a place where he couldn't feel its presence at all. The little mosquito bite it had become had faded into the back of his mind, so its final absence felt wonderful. Up here with the owls and the cold, Scottish wind, he was free.
Cold. But free. He warmed the air around him with a thought and watched the sun set with no other objective in mind than to do just that. He'd never been the most patient of people- just ask Petunia- but something about this place; height, wind, view, company, or maybe all of those just set him at ease and slowed him down.
The sun had set, and the stars were coming out. He wondered if the selection ceremony had begun yet, and if anyone had noticed that he wasn't there. There was so much pomp and circumstance going on that he doubted anyone had. One person would be hard to find out of everyone in the Great Hall, even if they were Harry Potter. The stars continued to rise and the owls took wing six or eight at a time, presumably to hunt, when Harry began to feel something odd.
The hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end. The wind had died, but he felt something brushing at the very edges of his skin. The wall nearest him was lit by the glow the runes on his face suddenly took on. His hands clenched of their own volition, and then it got worse. With a sound like a cracking whip an angry, invasive something rammed into Harry and wormed its way into him.
It was a matter of moments to figure out why this...presence was so familiar. It was like the Goblet, only pissed off, and it was immense. It tore through his first, feeble attempts at defending his mind and dug deeper into him, searching for something- he didn't know what. Blessed instinct snapped walls of golden power in front of the Goblet's battering ram. So focused was Harry on his internal battle that he didn't notice the air around him shimmering or the crackling amber electricity around him. The first set of walls collapsed and he drew more power, this time to counter the Goblet's ram head on with one of his own.
The owlrey shook. Harry ground his teeth and dug his nails into his palms. He considered himself an even-tempered man, but this wooden cup was doing its absolute best to piss him off. And now, as he deadlocked the Goblet inches from its goal, it had finally succeeded. A feral growl rumbled in his throat as he drew more and more power. The runes on his face burned- he could feel them spreading down his neck and up into his hair.
This thing will not have me.
He called on everything he had. Behind him every perch in the owlrey shattered. The splinters turned to sawdust, burst into flame, and then vanished. The struggle between him and the Goblet lit the area around him with a brilliant amber glow. The owls circled outside, hooting and barking and screeching.
In Harry's mind, the battle was intensifying. Had he been able to notice, he would have seen the stones of the owlrey beginning to crack and crumble. The entirety of him was focused on halting the inexorable progress of the Goblet's terrible power. Mortar broke, stones fell hundreds of feet, hitting the earth like meteors. Harry fought on.
The owlrey door exploded inwards towards him. The debris stilled in the air, freezing as if in ice. Blood dripped from Harry's palms, his nails had broken skin and still he dug them in. "Harry!" he heard as if from underwater. He cracked his eyes open and saw through shimmering air Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Moody.
He couldn't spare a moment for them. The Goblet's assault had intensified, its force hunching him over. His deadlock was failing. It was too strong. For all of his power, the Goblet had more. For all of his determination, it had a single-minded relentlessness he couldn't shake. He dug deep, deeper than he'd ever searched for power and threw at it all he had left. Thunder cracked, lightning tore stones free from the walls and Harry howled as the Goblet finally broke through. It hammered down his defenses and wrapped its presence around him- binding him in phantasmal chains.
Then he could feel it in his mind.
Thrum...thrum...thrum...
It was deafening. It was agonizing.
It had him.
He blacked out.
Harry woke to an empty hospital, which was a first. He blinked the gummy feeling out of his eyes and tried to sit up. This proved to be a mistake, as every bone in his body ached. His muscles felt like he'd started training for the Olympics and he had a vicious migraine. Worst of all, he could still feel the Goblet's presence in his mind. Its heart still beat. Muted, lesser, not as painful, but it was still beating.
He licked his lips and tried to speak, managing to croak, "H-hello?" he swallowed, working a dry throat, and tried again. "Hello?"
No response. Which was weird. Madam Pomfrey seemed to have a mystical sixth sense for her patients, one that alerted her to any change in their condition. So when he first woke she should have been all over him. The fact was that she wasn't, and that was worrying.
He had just decided to groan and gasp his way into standing when the hospital doors swung open and in stormed three people(two of which he was familiar with) in the middle of a massive argument. Their voices blended together in a tumultuous roar, leaving a beleaguered Harry to catch snippets of what they were saying.
"...compete, his name came out of the Goblet! By law, he a competitor!" This was from the person he didn't recognize. McGonagall actually stumbled at the suggestion.
"Are you out of your mind?" she demanded. "He's only..."
"...must insist you take this argument elsewhere." Madam Pomfrey demanded. "He's resting, for God's sake..."
"...Dumbledore would not allow-"
"Then where is he?" the unknown figure sounded triumphant. "Why hasn't he come to see young Mr. Potter here?"
"Because, you insisted he stay and repair the damage to the Goblet, Minister." McGonagall snarled.
It was at this point that the three arguers noticed that Harry was awake and completely bewildered. Feeling the pressure of three sets of eyes on him, their voices still ringing in his ears, he could only give a tiny wave- which hurt- and say, "Hi."
"Mr. Potter," the unknown man and supposed Minister said, smiling and making his way towards Harry's bed with a hand outstretched. He was blonde, sort of tawny colored, with strong, leonine features and pale green eyes. "my name is Rufus Scrimgeour, and I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Harry sighed in defeat and slumped back into his pillows. McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey came to his bedside, the former glaring openly at Minister Scrimgeour. "What's happened this time?" he asked, wishing he didn't ache so much.
"Well, your name came out of the Goblet of Fire," Minister Scrimgeour began. Harry groaned.
"So I'm a competitor."
"Yes, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said gravely, clearly blaming Scrimgeour for the whole thing. "I'm afraid that you are now the fourth champion of the Triwizard Tournament."
Oh, is that all?
"Well, that's just great."
While he was digesting this new, latest piece of 'Harry is Luck's Footstool/Chamberpot' , Dumbledore showed up. He looked as angry as Harry felt. Electric blue eyes burned as the old wizard appeared at Harry's bedside as if he'd always been there. "How are you feeling, Harry?"
"Hurt, sir." Harry grunted. Dumbledore's eyes crinkled, just a little.
"I can imagine. Fighting the Binding would be a strain."
He sat up as much as he could. Memories of the feeling of the Goblet crawling into his mind turned his stomach and flared his runes. "It was. I hear my name came out of the Goblet. I didn't enter myself. Does that mean I have to compete anyway?"
Dumbledore produced his wand from somewhere and conjured a comfortable looking chair, into which he sank with a grateful sigh. "Ah. Much better. Forgive an old man, Harry. What you want to know will take time to explain. Professor, will you please escort the Minister to my office? I'll swing by after I've finished speaking with Mr. Potter."
McGonagall frowned, but did as asked. Minister Scrimgeour, it must be said, did not go quietly. But he did leave, and after Madam Pomfrey excused herself back to her office, they were alone. Once they were, any appearance of vitality or youth left Dumbledore, leaving only the tired, old strength behind. "I am sorry, Harry. Once again I have failed you."
Harry's jaw flexed. "Yes. But you haven't answered my question."
Dumbledore sighed and rubbed his nose where the bridge had sat. "The Goblet Bound you to it until you have completed the terms of its contract. In other words, you either compete in the Tournament, or it takes your magic. And if I am correct about the relationship between yourself and magic, this will be fatal. That being said, there is good news."
Deep breaths, Harry. Deep breaths. "And what is that?"
The old headmaster managed to look both terribly proud and sad at once. "Because you fought the Binding and were more successful than would otherwise be possible, it is incomplete. I believe that refusing to compete would not kill you."
Relief flooded Harry and his tired, sore body relaxed. "I'll do that, then." Dumbledore held up a cautionary hand.
"There is a problem, however. While incomplete the Binding will still attempt to exact a cost for your noncompliance. It won't be lethal, but it will be incredibly painful."
Harry flinched. He remembered Carrow and the pain she brought. "How incredibly painful?"
"If I'm correct, Harry, something akin to the Cruciatus."
Harry was quiet for a long minute. "So I either compete, risking my life and inviting pain, or I don't and have to deal with unbearable pain?"
"Succinctly put, and also true."
"Okay." Harry said, voice strained and eyes shining. "I want to talk to my parents now."
Dumbledore's smile was sad and soft. "Of course, Harry. I'll contact them immediately."
Harry had retreated to the owlrey after being released from hospital. Twenty minutes after he settled in, his parents found him. He stood across from them, staring out the window. He didn't respond to their voices until he felt Petunia's warm hand on his shoulder. He turned and threw herself into his arms- his tears had finally spilled over. Now that they had come there was no stopping. Curled into his mother's arms, he had no desire to.
It was a long time before he calmed enough to tell them anything. It was a longer time before he wanted to. It he had looked up he would have seen Vernon try several times to talk and then falter, unsure of what to say. The safety of Petunia's shoulder was more important. When he had cried himself out and pulled himself together- as much as he could- he looked up. The first thing he saw was Vernon's concerned face.
"Are you all right, son?"
Harry snorted halfheartedly. "Not remotely. I mean, this is just the latest screwed up thing to happen to me."
His father's eyes foretold the gentle reminder he was about to receive. "We talked about this before you came back. What changed?"
A surge of emotion, too strong and fast to be identified, surged within him. He snapped, "What changed is that I was forced into something that could kill me against my will! What's different is that I don't want to be here anymore! I- I love this place, and the people in it, but...I can't pay the price anymore."
Over his head, he could feel Petunia's reproving look at her husband and took a sort of vengeful satisfaction from that, about which he immediately felt guilty. "Sweetie," she said gently, brushing her fingers through his hair. "Professor Dumbledore told us what happened."
"So you know I either compete or feel like I'm being tortured?" Harry mumbled into her shirt. "And if I compete I might be killed?"
"...yes." her reply was soft, worried. She hated this as much as he did, but she didn't have to feel...like this. Like something had been taken from him. He swallowed the most recent lump in his throat and blinked back the tears.
"So what do I do?" he asked, taking the hand his dad offered and squeezing hard. "It's not like I have good choices, here."
"No, you don't." Vernon said, returning Harry's pressure on his hand gently. "Do you want my opinion?"
"God, yes."
"Compete."
Harry whipped his head up and said- in time with Petunia, "What?"
Vernon bore his wife's furious glare stoically. "Either you take certain, nearly unbearable pain or you go and you do everything you can to win this thing. I know you, son. You can play this game, and you can win."
"How can you say that, Vernon?" Petunia demanded, clutching Harry to her tightly. He grunted at the pressure, but paid it no other mind. He was turning his dad's words over in his head. Vernon had a point. Even if the other champions were three years older than him. Even if the tasks were designed to test the abilities of the best of his peers. Even if there was an astronomic death toll.
He could do things others couldn't. The Tournament was a test of magic, and that he had in spades.
Could he do it? Could he play the game and win?
Maybe.
His parent's were arguing over his head. Well, it was more like Petunia was berating Vernon for being careless enough to risk their son in a tournament that had claimed lives, for God's sake! "Mom." he tried to say, but his hoarse throat made it more a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"Mom."
"- and I truly don't understand why you think he can do this! You heard what Albus said! This..thing, this stupid little game kills people! Did you ask how many champions died? Thirty! Thirty people, older than Harry, have died trying to win!"
"Mom!"
"-I don't like the options any more than you or he does, Vernon, but we have to think about what we know he can handle! I-"
"Mom!"
Petunia gasped. Harry took her surprise as an opportunity to scramble free of her arms and stand. His feet stung pins-and-needles as feeling returned. His parents were looking up at him with a mixture of fear, worry, shock, and expectation. "I'm doing it." he declared, voice shaky.
"What?" Petunia said, rising and grasping his shoulders. "What are you saying, sweetie?"
Harry took a breath and felt something approaching courage firming his nerves. "I'm doing it. I'm going to compete. Dad's right. Whoever's designing this Tournament didn't count on me, or what I can do. I don't like. In fact, I fucking hate it-" it was a mark of Petunia's shock that he wasn't fined a pound "- but I'm going to do it. I'm going to play the game, and I'm going to win."
His parent's faces were completely different with each other. Vernon was proud- proud and worried. Petunia was fearful, fueled by worry and concern, but Harry could see embers of the same pride his dad carried kindling inside her. "Are you sure?"
Harry smiled, a humorless gesture. "No. But this is how it's got to be."
"I'm proud of you, son." Vernon said huskily, eyes mysteriously shiny. He allowed his parents to hug him, wishing for the days that their pride would be enough to see him through what was to come.
It would help, but it wouldn't be enough. The rest was up to him.
Harry returned to Gryffindor tower fully expecting the Hogwarts Rumor Mill to have spread the story of his selection and gotten every single thing wrong. Unsurprisingly, the main contributor to the Mill; a pretty, Indian looking girl whose name escaped him, was giving him a rather vicious look. So were, to his continued lack of surprise, those who were plotting to enter the Tournament.
It was as if they were angry with him for having done to him what they planned to do to themselves. Even with the turmoil of emotions surrounding him, he knew that was idiotic and paid their looks no mind.
Was wasn't surprising was the reaction of the rest of his house. The older students were looking at him with sympathy and pride, the younger ones with awe. He would have preferred they leave him be entirely, but absent that, this would do just fine. He made his way through the silent common room to the three armchairs he, Neville, and Hermione had long since claimed as theirs. They were occupied, thankfully, and he fell into the open one with a grateful sigh.
"Professor McGonagall told us what happened, Harry." Hermione said quietly, concern evident on her face and in the fact she had Neville's hand in a death grip. "How are you feeling?"
Harry shrugged. "Like I don't know which way is up. I mean, I'm dealing, and I have to compete, but I'm not happy. Not by a long shot." he sat up as something occurred to him. "Hang on, I don't even know what the first...thing is. Task. Quest. Whatever."
"You're feeling like your freedom was taken from you." Neville said in a moment of insight that left Hermione gaping.
"Yeah. Pretty much."
"I know what that feels like." Neville said, and Harry believed he did. Maybe it was the eyes or the way he sat, but he knew that he had a friend who knew exactly how it felt to have choice taken away from him.
"How's everyone else going to handle this?" he asked, wanting to change the subject but not knowing what else to discuss. Hermione winced, but answered.
"They either support you, hate you, or don't care. Luckily, the 'hate you' camp is small; most of the hardcore Potter Haters and people who listen to or read Skeeter's articles. Your supporters are just about everyone else. And," she blushed. " and I don't know anything about the people who don't care because they didn't say anything."
Harry smiled. "Well, they wouldn't, would they?"
"No, I suppose not." she conceded, then started giggling. Neville joined them soon after. It was a catharsis, a moment where he could shake off the remnants of an emotional storm. It was good enough to get him through the night.
Tomorrow...
Well, he'd deal with tomorrow when it came.
END CHAPTER ELEVEN
Note:I chose to end the chapter here because after this I plan to get wordy and pedantic. Well, wordy, anyways. I don't think I've ever been pedantic. Next chapter, more plot happens and Harry goes up against...stuff. I can't tell you, because it's stupid when you spoil the next chapter in the Author's Notes. I say this, like I haven't done that exact thing before. Anyway, until then.