Chapter 6

The Triwizard Tournament

Harry was, quite probably, the first and only person in the history of both this world and his last to ever be sorted twice at Hogwarts.

He amused himself with this thought as he passed a granite archway into a long, rectangular alcove with a semicircular rear. High up on the back wall was a stained glass window of varying colors, blotched with mosaic patterns which coalesced into a sun-like shape in the center. Moonlight streamed through the window, its faint white glow transformed into a striking amalgamation of colours which illuminated the circular table at the rear end.

There perched the Sorting Hat, in all its patchy and wrinkly glory, set there earlier by Lily. This alcove was only several paces away from the Great Hall. Lily stood outside, and, in no desire to keep her or the rest of the student body waiting, Harry approached the table and put the hat on. It struck him that the hat was rather smaller than he had once thought. Of course, he had been a scrawny twelve-year-old when he wore it last, barely able to see under the sagging pressure of the leather. Now, it was barely large enough to cover the very top of his head.

The hat had not spoken, and the silence stretched on for several long moments before Harry cleared his throat — a polite attempt to remind the hat to do its job.

Soon after, its sharp, prickly voice boomed in his head: "You are invisible."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You are invisible," it repeated.

Harry looked down for assurance. He was very much visible, despite the darkness of the night. "I don't know what you mean."

"Not in that manner," said the hat. "My sight is of a more spiritual form, you see. I was designed to look into the soul of those who put me on. For most students, this occurs instantaneously, and I am able to sort them within a fraction of a second. But you… I cannot see you in the way I can see others. You are different. It is as if your soul is not fully present. I have never seen anything like it."

A sinking sensation crawled into his stomach, and he was reminded of his experience at Ollivanders, when every wand he waved turned out to be a disappointing dud. Was this related?

"Maybe it has something to do with my, er, origins?" said Harry. "I'm not really from around here — this world, I mean."

"A world traveller? Am I interpreting this correctly?" The hat paused. "How… unusual. That may very well be the cause. It goes without saying that the Founders did not foresee this predicament upon my conception, so I'm unable to say that with certainty."

Silence once more. Old worries from his first sorting sneaked itself back into his mind: what if he couldn't be sorted?

"Just put me back in Gryffindor," he suggested. "That's where I got sorted last time, anyway."

"It does not quite work that way, I'm afraid," said the hat. "My judgements require the backing of sound logic, and for that I need insight to your soul. To do otherwise would violate the Founders' will, regardless of your insistence."

"So, what now?"

"I do see… something," it said. "A mere sliver of your soul, perhaps, but it is there, and it seems to be scurrying further and further beyond my grasp. Hmm… I could attempt to access it, but be warned: it might hurt."

Harry sighed. "Do your worst."

The instant those words left his mouth, agony burst from every fiber of his body; the boiling pain surged from the peak of his scalp to the tip of his toes, like a wrathful wave of burning misery. Tears swelled in his eyes — he could barely see — and in a flash he was bent towards the floor, biting his lips to prevent the gasp threatening to escape from his mouth. He found himself wishing more than ever he was back to the comforts of his old world, mind flashing with thoughts of the crackling hearth at the heart of the Gryffindor Common Room; the chaotic, but charming interior of The Burrow; and, most of all, the familiar companionship of his old friends. As quickly as it began, however, the pain faded, and, as it usually did these days, the wistful thoughts subsided.

It took a minute for Harry to regain his bearings. He struggled to orient himself, vision swirling like a whirlpool, and he leaned against the table for support. A stinging ache still lingered in his bones, a vivid memory of the short-lived agony. The hat had remained firm on his head, despite his earlier flailing.

"My apologies," said the hat. For what it's worth, he did sound quite sorry. "While I have only caught but a glance of your soul, what I saw should be enough to make my judgement."

"I very well hope it is," he wheezed out, still panting somewhat.

"But what a life you've had," said the hat, oblivious to his struggle. "I daresay my alternate self did a fine job indeed in sorting you."

"Gryffindor again, then?" he said.

"Not quite," said the hat. "Understand that the Founders sought in their students not only the values they embodied, but also their potential to learn, to grow, and to excel under their tutelage. You have certainly developed into a great man indeed under the Gryffindor banner; Godric himself would be proud of all that you've achieved in his name. But this is the crux of the issue: you have learned all there is to learn in Gryffindor. No, you would be better served to grow, I would argue, in a different environment.

"So where to put you? Ravenclaw, perhaps? You certainly have a healthy amount of curiosity, and a certain tendency to put your nose where it doesn't belong, but it is reserved, I see, only to matters of personal concern; you find curiosity for curiosity's sake pointless. Rowena, I am afraid, would not care very much for you."

That was rather uncalled for, though he couldn't exactly dispute the hat's statements.

"What about Hufflepuff? Helga would value your loyalty and moral righteousness above all others… It's quite unfortunate, for were it not for your blatant disregard for the rules, or your tendency to attract trouble, or your propensity for anger and violence… Helga would have welcomed you with open arms, no doubt about that. So that leaves—"

"Slytherin," he said.

"Indeed," said the hat. "I did see a hint of cunning and a dash of resourcefulness, and an abudance of determination to boot. Not to mention a honed instinct for self-preservation, though sometimes abandoned for the preservation of others… While it has been extinguished somewhat, the seeds of ambition still lingers deep in your psyche, eager to be nourished. Why, I believe you would make a fine SLYTHERIN!"

Just as the hat sorted him, it suddenly grew limp, and he had to catch it before it slid completely off his now-sweaty head.

Slytherin. Once upon a time he would have been completely distraught over that verdict, troubled by his supposed similarities with the murderer of his parents. He remembered seeking reassurance from Dumbledore — hell, from the damn hat, even. But that time had long since passed, and the segregation of houses no longer carried the same significance as it once did. He was no Voldemort, that much he knew.

Still, he couldn't help but feel a slight tinge of dissonance as he left the alcove, with the hat on his hand. I'm a Slytherin, now. Would he ever get used to that idea?

The exit led him right to the side of the great marble staircase which stretched upwards towards the second floor. A quick turn to the right left you directly within the grasp of the great hall. To his relief, students were still flooding in from the enormous oak door of the entrance hall, chattering and chuckling amongst themselves. No doubt the first years were further away still, perched on rocky boats in the vast dominion of the Giant Squid.

Lily waited for him beside the foot of the staircase.

"There you are," she said. "I was beginning to worry. The hat took its time, didn't it?"

She took the hat from him, raising an eyebrow at his robes. Its design seemed to have changed the moment he was sorted: his collar and placket were now lined with a mesmerizing shade of dark green, and an embroidery of the Slytherin Coat of Arms had spontaneously manifested near his pocket.

"Slytherin, huh?" she asked, as they began the rather demanding climb up the stairs.

"Yeah," said Harry. "My only regret is not being able to be there when you tell James."

Lily snorted. "He'll get over it, I'm sure. Did you somehow convince the hat to sort you there just to mess with James and Liza?"

"No, though James probably would've found it hilarious," he said, chuckling. "Although… when I was..." He looked around and lowered his voice. "…first sorted, the hat wanted to put me into Slytherin, and I managed to convince it otherwise. I guess it finally got its way; it didn't want to sort me to the same house twice."

"I had a feeling that would happen, but I was thinking more of Hufflepuff, actually. I think you'd fit right in."

"The hat thought that too, but apparently I had a 'blatant disregard for the rules' and a 'tendency to attract trouble.' Those were dealbreakers for Hufflepuff, I guess."

"Well, you are a Potter, Slytherin or not," she said, smiling fondly. "It's quite unfortunate, really, since James and I put some galleons on the line. He thought you'd be right back in Gryffindor, of course."

"Like father like daughter," said Harry, chuckling. "Liza and Draco had a bet, too, for ten galleons."

"Ten!?" said Lily indignantly. "That young lady! Clearly I set her allowance too high — I ought to have a quick talk with her about the importance of responsible spending."

"Please don't," he begged. "She'll sulk and refuse to talk to me for weeks."

Finally, they reached the entryway of the vast, wondrous chamber that was the Great Hall. Arrays of candles floated in varying heights, each casting an ethereal orange glow down on the four long tables. This, and the torches of sky-blue flame which lined the stone walls, were the only sources of light in the room. The moonlight which usually streamed from the enchanted ceiling were veiled by a sea of deep grey clouds, threatening to continue the earlier downpour.

As Lily went to the teacher's tables at the far end, an idea occured to him. He folded his robes in such a way that the colour of his collar and placket were mostly hidden, the dimness of the room doing the rest of the work for him, and he put an arm over the Slytherin embroidery. Then he sauntered over to the Gryffindor table, where Liza was sitting. She was surrounded by her group of friends, and was seemingly in the midst of animatedly recalling a particularly exciting story. Upon seeing him, she jumped with excitement and motioned at him to come over.

"This," she said, pointing at him as he approached. "Is how we're gonna win the House Cup."

Surrounding her were Demelza Robins, and — his heart skipped a beat — Ginny Weasley. He avoided her eyes as they greeted him.

Liza beamed. "You'll finally get to be a Chaser again, Gin, now that we found a competent Seeker."

"I don't know about that," said Harry.

"What do you mean?" asked Liza, face falling.

"I don't think I'm gonna be playing for the team."

"But you promised!" she exclaimed. Her friends were now stifling laughter, having noticed the tinge of green in his robes. "You said if you got in Gryffindor, you'd—"

"If I get in," he said dramatically, finally releasing his hand from its awkward posture. "Anyway, I gotta head to the Slytherin table — I just came here to say hello. Nice meeting you all."

Grinning at Liza's astounded expression, he turned and walked towards the Slytherin table. Draco, who had watched the whole thing, greeted him with booming laughter.

"Brilliant! 'Knew you'd make it here," he said, motioning at Theodore Nott, still as weedy as ever, to scoot over to the side for Harry. "Come on, let me introduce you to everyone."

And so he did, with great enthusiasm that his housemates (most of them, at least) apparently found endearing.

"This is Theo — don't get roped into playing Exploding Snap with him, he's clever with his fingers…"

"…the younger years call her 'Tyrant Tracey'; I heard she rules the Quidditch team with an iron fist …"

"… just don't interrupt him when he's nose deep in a book, I learned that the hard way — here you can still see the scar in my …"

"… Vince and that's Greg, and no, they aren't twins …"

"…don't piss her off too much, or she'll call on her father, who's a big-shot in the Ministry, apparently — just joking, Pansy…"

"…Daphne's father owns half the shops in Hogsmeade, gives us discounts whenever he's feeling generous…"

On and on he went, round and round the table, even going as far as introducing him to some of the more popular lower years. Despite his unflattering statement about his fellow housemates earlier in the train, Draco seemed to be friendly with just about everyone here. Indeed, it seemed as if the only person he wasn't on good terms with was the Bloody Baron, and not for lack of trying; the intimidating ghost, presumably used to this treatment, steadfastly ignored Draco's calls to say hello to Harry, who felt about ready to curl up in embarrassment. Draco finally settled down just as the first years entered, wide-eyed and huddled together as they glimpsed around the hall, taking in the grandness of it all.

"They get smaller every year, don't they?" muttered Nott. He glanced at Harry. "Though I suppose you wouldn't know. Is there a reason you enrolled so late? I didn't even know it was possible to even get into Hogwarts after your first year…"

"I just didn't fancy studying for my NEWTs alone," he said, putting on a shrug. "Did well enough on my OWLs, but, you know… I don't wanna take any chances. It's my future."

"Fair enough," said Nott. "My aunt and uncle wanted me homeschooled too — less distractions, apparently — but I did bad enough on my exams with McGonagall drilling us on Partial Transfiguration and what not every second of the day. Can't imagine how I'd fare learning it all on my own."

They were silenced as the hat began its song, its croaky voice reverberating through the hall.

It was easier, he thought, being sorted here. Being in Gryffindor would only have given him constant reminders of what he had lost.

The faces around him were familiar, sure, but they were also distant enough that it was easy to disentangle the sneers and jeers he remembered from their current selves. Certainly no one was sneering at him now; barely anyone even spared him another glance. He was just a new student, just another Potter, just another friend of Draco's. It was a new experience altogether, though not unwelcome.

For so long he'd declared his distaste for fame, and those feelings still held true. Yet… a part of him still yearned for recognition, not for the things that happened to him nor the actions of his parents, but for the things he achieved. It was an egotistical thought to be sure, and perhaps a tad hypocritical, but it was exciting; here was his blank slate, his opportunity to start over, his chance to prove he was worthy.

Of what, he wasn't sure.

The hall burst into applause as the hat crooned its final lines, the seventh years' claps strangely being the most enthusiastic of the lot.

The night went on; the first years were sorted, Dumbledore made his speech, and the feast began. He was pleasantly surprised by the friendly chatter and easy banter around him. There were no snidely remarks of his being a half-blood, nor repulsive comments regarding Muggleborns. Indeed, one of the many differences he observed between this world and his own were its rather lax attitude towards blood-status. Whether it was the product of the Great Arrests, or the Dark Lord's premature end, or some other point of divergence far away in the past, he wasn't sure. Regardless, he enjoyed himself, far more than he ever expected in the Slytherin table.

He was quite content to listen on as a mere observer to the already established friend groups, but Draco kept finding ways to insert him into the conversation.

Crabbe, Goyle, and Davis in particular — it still felt too strange to refer to them by their first names — listened with rapt attention as he described his summer job at The Marauder's Broom, leaning in eagerly when he gave a mild hint of their future releases. Soon enough everyone began talking about their own summer activities and career plans: Millicent Bulstrode recounted her summer work at Madam Malkin's; Pansy Parkinson boasted about a top position in the Department of International Magical Co-operation, reserved by her father just for her; and Nott, apparently, didn't have a plan at all, content with the money left by his parents in his vault.

It suddenly occurred to him, as he finished his plate and went for seconds, that this was his last year at Hogwarts. Obviously he knew this already, but there was a difference between knowing and knowing; only now did it truly sink in, a chill felt deep within his bones. It was a sobering thought, as was all thoughts about finality, and he made a sudden resolve: to savor every moment, every sight, every scent and every sound, before the year is lost to the sands of time.

Of course, it wouldn't be the same as his other years at Hogwarts, filled by different priorities and surrounded by different people. But maybe… maybe it wouldn't be so bad, after all.

Classes began.

It was, admittedly, rather strange to begin the year with no big drama or mystery, but he was sure he could quickly get used to the change.

His first period for the year was Potions. By now, the expectation was that they were all skilled brewers, and class was less about following recipes and more about experimenting.

"There will be a time, depending on your line of work," Lily had said, pacing by the blackboard. "When the effects you desire cannot be found on pre-existing potions; or, perhaps, the existing potions utilizes ingredients which are, for one reason or another, unattainable. As a potioneer, you must be able to improvise, and design novel potions of your own. Moreover, as we shall see, not all the recipes you see in textbooks are perfect — quite the contrary, in fact. The analysis and optimization of potions is perhaps just as important, or even more so, than its design. Indeed, shaving off an ingredient here or there can save you a good amount of galleons! When I was working at Sluggs & Jiggers…"

The class took place on a field-sized balcony, which overlooked the greenhouses, their glass rooftops gleaming. Sweating under the searing glare of the sun as they stirred and chopped was certainly a stark contrast to the constant chill of the dungeons.

Their task that day was to predict and then try out the effects of making small modifications to the recipes of potions they were already familiar with. What happens when you add an extra second of stirring, or give just a little bit more heat to the burner? What if you replace the Bubotuber pus with Dragon blood, or chop the Bicorn horn rather than crush?

It was fun, challenging work, far from the tedious slogs he was used to with Snape and Slughorn. Having spent countless evenings at Clayfoot Cottage assisting Lily with various potions, Harry completed their assigned tasks with relative ease. It didn't help that Draco, his partner, was also a talented potioneer in his own right. Suffice to say, for the very first time, he was beginning to actually enjoy Potions. Snape would be horrified.

His other classes were mostly par for the course; the other Professors in this world were scarcely different from the ones in his own. McGonagall was just as strict, Flitwick just as cheerful, Sprout just as kind.

Their professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts, however, was Mad-Eye Moody — the real one, this time. Well used to seeing the faces of dead men walking, Harry had entered the class with nonchalance, even giving Moody a cheerful wave. Today they shared the class with the Gryffindors, though their seating arrangements were rather less stringent than he was used to in his world. Students sat amongst themselves with blatant disregard to their houses; Davis shared a table with Lavender and Parvati, and Neville sat with Greengrass and Zabini. It was almost jarring to see.

The only student in the half-empty classroom that sat alone was Hermione, as was usually the case in their other classes. So sad was he to see this that he had more than once put aside his grief and approached her, attempting to make small talk. But her responses were always clipped and cold, her face suspicious.

"Don't bother," Draco had told him cheerfully, when he had voiced his concerns. "Believe me, I've tried for a few years. I'm pretty sure she just hates people. 'Think it had something to do with what happened in her first year, I'm sure we were all little shits back then; kids can be mean…"

No matter what, he would still try to befriend her, though. She wasn't the Hermione he knew, obviously, but it still hurt him, seeing her all on her own.

"Right then," said Moody, banging his ram-like cane on the floor as the clock struck ten. "I believe I no longer need to impose on you the importance of Defence, or the dangers of the Dark Arts. You're all adults here, so I can cut the bullshit. Let's get on with it."

He turned and began scribbling on the blackboard; students rushed to get their quill and parchments out. To Harry delight, on the board, with chicken scratch handwriting, were the words:

THE PATRONUS CHARM.

"Can anyone tell me what they know about the Patronus charm? Patil?"

"It, um, drives away dementors?"

"Is that a question or an answer?" His voice was deep and rough, like a tree's bark. Parvati squirmed, mumbling something inaudible, and Moody chuckled. "You should know better by now — all of you — after years under my tutelage. Have some confidence! Now, Patil was correct, but it's not the full answer. Yes, Granger?"

"The Patronus Charm is a characteristic derivative of the Shield Charm which generates a so-called force of repulsion against animavorous creatures such as dementors, lethifolds, and wraiths," said Hermione in one breath. "It does so by channeling the caster's positive emotions, through a mechanism of emotive resonance usually involving a happy memory. Depending on the magnitude of this resonance, and the skill of the caster, the form of the Patronus can be either corporeal or incorporeal."

"Good, you've read your textbook," said Moody gruffly. "Five points to Gryffindor. Well, let me repeat what Granger just said in English, for the rest of you…"

Nott snickered, whispering something scathing about Hermione to Draco. Feeling oddly defensive, Harry shushed him.

For the following hour, Harry barely paid attention; he was beyond familiar by now with the theoretical mechanism of the Patronus Charm.

"… have a memory in mind, you can utter the incantation, as we discussed," said Moody. "I don't expect any of you to produce even a wisp, not for several weeks! Even then, an incorporeal form is enough for an Exceeds Expectations in your exams, if that's what you're after, but it won't do shit against a horde of dementors. Yes, Malfoy?"

"Is it expected for Aurors to be able to produce a corporeal Patronus, sir?"

"Think, boy, think!" said Moody, repeatedly slamming a finger to his temple. "Who's supposed to deal with a dementor if not an Auror, eh? The average Ministry officer? I think not!" His bulging magical eye fixated on Draco, who was nodding frantically. "Thinking of becoming an Auror, are you?"

"Yes, sir." He raised his chin in a show of confidence, though his voice was as frail as a frayed broomstick.

"Good," said Moody. "At least one of you has ambition. Meet me after class so I can give you additional reading; we'll make an Auror out of you yet. Now, think of a happy memory — no need to tell me what it is — and wands out!"

Harry grimaced. In the summer, he had used his wand as sparingly as possible, only when it was absolutely necessary. Even after all these months, the wand still felt wrong in his hands, and he avoided it in the same way one avoids putting on an ill-fitting boot. Except, in his case, there was no other boot that would fit. Clearly, going barefoot was his only option.

At Hogwarts, however, wandwork was inevitable. Though his skill with the wand was better than ever, it still a sluggish affair, like walking through mud. Spells that were once virtually effortless required more time and focus, even more so for spells of a more complex nature. So it was with a heavy sigh that he reached out to his pocket for his wand — Malfoy's wand, really.

But with a single touch, the wand hissed like a harrowed cat and took off towards the ceiling, before clattering back on the table. He swiftly snatched it before it could slide off on its own accord.

"Stop fooling around!" roared Moody, hobbling towards him, pointing his cane. Every head in the room whipped towards him.

"I wasn't — the wand did it on its own!"

"And I'm supposed to believe that, eh?"

"No, I saw it too, sir," said Draco quickly, giving Harry a questioning glance. "It just flew to the ceiling when he touched it."

Moody loomed by the table, keen eyes regarding them both. He settled on Harry. "Your name's Potter? The new kid?"

"Yes, sir."

"Got your memory in mind?" he asked. "Give the charm a go, then."

Harry closed his eyes.

The wand squirmed and wiggled in his hand, but he held it tight. Behave, he thought, and it conceded with a resounding sigh. With that dealt with, he searched for a memory.

From teaching the D.A., he had found that most people took the memory aspect of the Patronus Charm too literally. They would rack their brains in search of a sufficiently happy memory — entirely counterproductive to the state of mind needed for the charm to work. It was the feelings induced that were the most important, the sense of warmth and comfort and fulfillment. It didn't matter if the memory wasn't actually real, as long as the emotions itself were real.

And so his mind drifted to the overgrown orchards of The Burrow, the breeze wafting with the fragrance of ripe fruit and earthy herbs. He was sitting cross-legged, grass clasping his legs, shaking his head as Ron and Hermione bickered in the background, as they always did. A warm hand brushed his — there was a blur of long red hair — and suddenly a small figure plopped down next to him. She smelt of jasmine, and a blazing grin flashed on her pale, freckled face as she sat. She leaned her head towards his, and —

"Expecto Patronum," he muttered, almost in a trance, feeling more content than he ever had in years.

Gasps and coos rippled through the room. He opened his eyes.

Prongs stood obediently by him. With a simple flick, the giant stag hopped and galloped across the room, its form so solid that it toppled books and mugs. Harry grinned and students whooped as Prongs bounced off a table, landed on Pansy Parkinson's head, and leaped towards Hermione's table —

A buzzing hum, and the wand flew off once more, this time across the room.

His ears rung, but the room had otherwise gone silent.

"Twenty points to Slytherin," muttered Moody after a few seconds. "And sort out that wand, Potter!"

It wasn't like he needed Moody's orders. Even before that class, Harry's free time was sorely spent on the Slytherin Common Room, surrounded by a wall of books on wandlore and runes and alchemy.

His favorite spot to study was a large, downwards alcove they called The Aquarium. Shielded from the main chamber by a thick green curtain and a set of stairs, it was (unofficially) reserved for the sixth and seventh years. Tables of all shapes and sizes — some long and rectangular, others short and circular — scattered through the room. Beanbags littered the floor, and couches lined the walls. The rear wall was fully made out of glass, which revealed a spectacular view of the Great Lake. The water was green and the plants colorful: thick, orange reeds swayed and dark red eelgrass danced. An assortment of creatures made for idle entertainment during studying breaks, from regular fish and eels to merpeople riding on majestic hippocampi, its scales and fins gleaming milky white.

In one particular day, about a week after that class with Moody, he was seated with his back on the glass, head set moodily on his hand. Accompanying him on his table was one Daphne Greengrass, who was a frequent visitor of The Aquarium in her own right, perhaps even more so. Like him, she was enclosed by a hodgepodge of books, and he had a sneaking suspicion that those books had nothing to do with their NEWTs as well. His own collection of tomes was a result of days arduously searching through the surprisingly treacherous Restricted Section.

Usually he would have at least four books open at once: one on wandlore, one on alchemy (to look up strange terms), one on Latin, and another on Ancient Runes. It was also usual for him to swear loudly at a particularly confusing explanation, before sheepishly apologizing as dozens of heads snapped towards him.

All in all, it was not a fun experience, but he believed he was almost ready. Set next to Wandmaking for the Practical Wizard was a parchment with the hasty scribblings of his plan. It was partly incomplete, but he was sure he could do the first tasks fairly easily.

"Is that Finemann, I see?"

"Huh?" He looked up. For the first time, Greengrass had broken their unspoken agreement of silence.

She motioned at his book on Alchemy, which had the title On the Theory of Souls, written by Ricky Finemann. The title was somewhat of a misnomer; souls in alchemy referred to something more abstract, something that existed within all creatures and objects and concepts. It was these souls, their transformation, and their interaction with the human spirit (the conventional meaning of souls) that alchemy apparently sought to study.

"Oh, yeah, I guess."

"It's a beautiful book!" she gushed, though still in a careful whisper. She leaned in towards him. "The explanation on inner metamorphosis is particularly illuminating. May I know why you're reading it?"

"Long story," he said. "But don't tell me you've read it? I can barely understand a page!"

"I've read Finemann front to back two times now," she said. "It took me all of Year 3 to do so, but it was simply enlightening. You may borrow my annotated copy, if you want, though it's currently in my dorm room."

"There's no need," he said, slightly bemused.

Greengrass seemed to take this as an invitation to glance at the titles of the books surrounding him. She was normally so quiet, so reserved, even when among her group of friends; seeing her this excited was amusing, in a way.

"You're preparing to craft a wand," she deduced. "Why—"

He was thankfully saved from awkwardly answering this question by Blaise Zabini, the seventh year prefect, his head ducked under the curtain. "Everyone to the Great Hall!"

A hubbub of activity took over the Aquarium; students stood and scraped their chairs and chattered in a volume which would normally invite a painful hex.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Hmm?" said Greengrass as she packed away her books, reaching down for her bag. "Oh, I suppose they're about to select this year's participants for the Triwizard Tournament."

His heart raced, though he wasn't sure why.

The corridors were unusually crowded; they bumped and swiveled their way through, excited murmurs echoing around them. The babble subsided the closer they got to the Great Hall, and it soon became apparent why. McGonagall guarded the entry way, a finger to her lips.

He glanced at Greengrass with a questioning look.

"Silence is needed for the potion," she whispered.

"What potion…?"

As he entered the large chamber, his question was instantly answered. Set on the elevated platform of the teachers' tables was what seemed to be a large pensive, easily the size of an adult acromantula, behind which stood Lily with a ladle. She whisked and stirred as the hall became increasingly full, her eyes closed in concentration. Harry found a seat next to Draco, and waited.

The darkness of the evening only served to emphasize the unusual silence that gripped the hall. All around him students communicated through hand signals and arm motions; those who dared to even whisper were reprimanded with harsh glares from prefects. With the torches and candles extinguished, their only source of light were the celestial bodies in the enchanted ceiling, and the warm orange glow casting from the torches outside.

When the last students scurried in, McGonagall closed the doors with a thundering creak, and strode down the aisle. Light from the corridors gone, Harry could barely see her whispering something at Lily's ear. Dumbledore was suspiciously missing from the high table.

Suddenly, Lily thrust her arms upwards like the conductor of an orchestra. She chanted — no, sang — her voice smooth and angelic; it was an unfamiliar language, one older than perhaps Hogwarts itself, but his skin tingled and buzzed at the strength of the melody and the words all the same.

The liquid from the basin, silver and viscous, trailed upwards as if pulled by an invisible magnet. Halfway to the ceiling, it seemed to pass some invisible barrier and burst into grey smoke, before continuing its journey. As the last of the liquid disappeared, he realized with a start that it wasn't smoke he was looking at: these were clouds, deep and pregnant, completely veiling the stars and the moon. The room was in total darkness.

A drop of liquid plopped down his hair. More came. To his utter fascination, these drops seemed to glow with images, like photographs squeezed tight into a small ball of liquid. The shy drizzle turned to rain, and the rain to a shower, and the shower to a storm; as the liquid swarmed his eyes, so too did the images, invading his vision like ink splotching on a page.

His stomach lurched; he was no longer at Hogwarts.

If he closed his eyes and focused hard enough, he could still feel the oak of the Slytherin table and smell the waxy scent of the hall, but he was otherwise transported, as if he had dived head first into a pensieve.

Surrounding him was a large circular chamber, almost the size of the Great Hall, though certainly not as long. The room was tall, and windows lined the high walls and the arched roofs, displaying a sky of piercing blue.

He was seated here, too, and so were dozens of old and weathered wizards, chairs arranged in concentric arrays. Grey beards and tall witch hats seemed to be the order of the day, but it wasn't so uniform. Among others, there were a bald fellow in white, Greek-style chiton; a woman veiled in all colors of the rainbow, with only her eyes visible; and a man sporting a long-sleeved black coat, covering a silver tunic. Among the crowd was Dumbledore, wearing robes of bright purple with embroidered twinkling stars — these weren't just any old wizards, these were headmasters! Indeed he noticed Madame Maxime several rows behind him, though Karkaroff was nowhere to be found.

The chairs surrounded a circular amphitheater several steps down from where they sat. Strangely enough, dozens of gold bars were arranged haphazardly here, and standing in the midst of the mess was none other than Ludo Bagman, striped yellow-black robes and all.

"Right, everyone, settle down!" said Bagman, clearing his throat, though it was hardly necessary. "I have word that Hogwarts and Mahoutokoro have finally tuned in, and so it is my pleasure to welcome you all to the selection ceremony of the annual Triwizard Tournament!"

A squeaky whoop came from one of the other tables back in the Great Hall, and he felt the world shake, vision blurring. It took a moment to settle, and then he was back on the circular chamber. There was a resounding smack: punishment from a prefect, no doubt.

"Some of you will already be well familiar with this, of course," said Bagman. "But for all the new students and the otherwise uninitiated, I shall briefly divulge on the Tournament's History — don't worry, it won't take long! Now, the Triwizard Tournament was founded by my lovely alma mater, Hogwarts, as a way to compete with the other two biggest schools at the time, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang.

"Back then, the tournament didn't happen yearly, of course. But nonetheless they became popular, and other schools begged to join. At first it became the Quadwizard Tournament, to allow for Uagadou to participate along. Then Castelobruxo wanted in, and so it became the Pentawizard Tournament… and, well, the Heptawizard Tournament didn't quite have the same ring to it, and changes were made… So here we are, seven centuries later: we have twenty-three schools in our midst, and only three will be chosen to participate for the glory of their institution!"

Polite claps echoed around the room.

"The selection method this year," continued Bagman. "was selected by none other than Mr Newt Scamander, the great magizoologist, and author of the book everyone here has probably read. It's a bit… unorthodox — as are all our methods, of course — but Mr Scamander, along with other magizoologists and nifflers experts from all around the world, have assured us of its suitability.

"Let me explain! See the piles of gold littered on the ground? On its bottom, the Triwizard Committee has engraved the names of all twenty-three potential participants. We will shortly bring a niffler here, and here's a little known fact about nifflers, folks: when presented by so much gold, more than they can pick up at once, they will seem to pick one at random and run away with it. We've tested it, and it's true! So without further ado —" He cursed. "Hold on, folks — Ernie!"

A harassed-looking wizard — Ernie, presumably — with ruffled hair and baggy eyes squeezed through the chairs, carrying a glass box containing three nifflers down the amphitheater. They were strange, but adorable creatures: scarcely larger than a rat, with thick dark fur and a snout like a platypus. They each wore collars; two were red, and one blue.

"Keep in mind, now!" said Bagman. "The two blue fellows here will select the participant, and the red fellow will select the host. So, without further ado, release the nifflers!"

With great effort, Ernie crouched and tipped the glass box over, and the three rodents scurried out.

At first, they scrambled around, seemingly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of choices. But then they settled: one went for the farthest gold bar, another the nearest, and the last chose the one closest to Ernie.

Bagman and Ernie seemed to argue about something, before Bagman shook his head and leaned down to pry away the selected gold bar from a niffler's desperate hands, before they were taken away beyond reach.

"Our first participant," said Bagman dramatically, raising the gold bar high as the niffler climbed up his body. "is the Salem Academy of Magic!"

Groans came from the Great Hall, slightly distorting his view. Salem was no Ilvernmorny, of course, but they came from the same country. It was enough, he suspected, to anger the conspiracists.

He watched with amusement as Bagman fought over a gold bar with another niffler, before conceding and lifting it with the rodent hanging below as if it was a monkey bar.

"Our second participant, from the Southeast Isles of Asia," announced Bagman. "is the Nusantara Institute of Shamanism!"

He frowned; he wasn't familiar with the name, but judging from the nervous murmurs around him, they must be good…

Bagman looked around, head whipping side to side, for the last niffler. His eyebrows flew in alarm when he saw the creature attempt to clamber up the stairs with its gold. He dashed and slipped, body hitting the floor with a thud, though his hand grabbed the niffler by its tail. "C'mere you!"

There was a great struggle which ultimately concluded with a niffler being thrown across the room. Bagman rose to his feet, aided by a bald, dark-skinned woman who had sat nearest to him.

"Thank you, thank you… And the host for the 1997 Triwizard Tournament is…" Bagman smiled. Harry held his breath. "My very own alma mater, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

An eruption of cheers and shouts and whoops and roars deafened his ears, and he was back in the Great Hall, the effects of the potion broken. He found himself laughing and grinning as they celebrated in the dark. Draco hugged him, then the person on his other side, and he repeated this once, twice, thrice. He high-fived Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, and some lower years he didn't even know the names of.

The professors illuminated the room once more, revealing beaming faces and boisterous crowds. Students hopped and clapped — one Gryffindor had even climbed up the table, fists punching the sky. The teachers didn't mind, busy with their own celebrations.

Though he knew he probably shouldn't be as invested in this as the other students, being a newcomer, he couldn't help but smile so hard that his cheeks hurt.