James wasn't the type to get stage fright much, but as he stepped out of the pavilion and was swallowed in the wall of sound, the thousands of pairs of eyes on him were ever more keenly felt. The crowd was far bigger than he'd thought it would be, with not only the students from the three participating schools present but thousands more from other schools, including many from out of the country. It was only yesterday, with the exhaustive photo-shoot and interviews (no Rita Skeeter, thank god) with reporters from three different countries, that James had realized that the Ministry of Magic was gearing to make the Triwizard Tournament a massive international festival of the likes of the Quidditch World Cup.

He was glad that there wasn't nearly as much interest among people for watching schoolkids almost die in various ways as there was for Quidditch, but that still left a multinational audience of thousands of people sitting at the stands watching his face on an enchanted mirror, and many tens of thousands more who had not come to the event itself but would likely be following the scores on the Prophet and their French and Scandinavian equivalents. He patted down his pockets and belt, checking one last time that everything he'd prepared was there.

"And here comes our third competitor, last but not least," said Bagman's magically enhanced voice, "a round of applause for our Hogwarts champion, James Stark!"

The sound was like a physical force, threatening to bowl him over. Even through his Occlumency, he could feel his nerves, the subtle twitches of his body. He was straddling the line between being in control and losing it all. He dared to glance across the crowd; his friends had promised to be at the front row, but he couldn't find them, and he couldn't keep his attention on the crowd long enough to search for them before he began to feel nauseous. He focused instead on the path beyond the little arch that served as his starting point, and he took a deep breath.

"And… begin!"

Victoria had promised she and the others would be sitting near the front, cheering him on, but they'd underestimated just how much of a crowd it would be. Even coming to the viewing grounds a good hour before the event even started, they'd ended up about a quarter of the way back. Dumbledore's offhand mention that tickets were being sold to the general public, if students ever wished to attend with their parents, did not do this scene justice. Thousands of people packed into a semicircular theater, and at the center a massive mirror, connected to a modified Snitch that followed the competitors, observing their every move.

"What is he wearing?" Lyra muttered.

Victoria frowned a little at that, though she had been wondering herself. Compared to the other competitors, particularly Fleur who had looked like a Greek heroine of old, James appeared a little… underdressed. She knew he'd been working on the boots, even if she didn't know what they did; but the large, unwieldly-looking coat? She supposed there was some purpose to it, if only to hold the potions she could see bouncing around on his hip, but it didn't appear particularly impressive.

"James Stark is widely known as one of the highest-achieving students in Hogwarts, having completed five N.E.W.T.s already with distinction, and now studying for a sixth in Alchemy," said Bagman. "He finished his N.E.W.T.s when everyone else would be finishing up their O.W.L.s! And now he comes round to face his first challenge —"

James seemed to slow down for a moment as he beheld the Devil's Snare maze; he dug into his pockets, and pulled out something she couldn't make out, and when he pointed it at the shuffling hedgerow, an inferno spewed forth. The Snare shrunk back in terror, almost fleeing; and James ran right on through the holes he'd made, even as they closed almost immediately behind him, snatching at his ankles but never capturing him.

"Look at him go! It seems the Devil's Snare is no match for James Stark — the only other student that matches up to him is Professor Lyra Malfoy, yes you heard that right, his only true peer academically is a young lady who became a Professor of Hogwarts before most students even graduate —"

"What was that?" Larissa said.

"It was an enchanted Zippo," said Lyra. "A Muggle fire-maker," she clarified, at the look on Larissa's face.

"Zippo?" Larissa giggled, and Lyra gave a reluctant smile.

"It's a brand name."

"And into the Red Cap's den!" Bagman cried.

Victoria couldn't shake the worry in her heart as James surveyed the dirt arena he'd walked into, with foxholes littering the earth like craters. He froze completely when a single, dark-red skullcap emerged from a hole, followed by malevolent yellow eyes and green teeth, framed in tangled, dirt-covered hair. A rusty iron pike it carried in one hand, and ill-fitting iron boots; it crawled from the hole and sneered. To a wizard or witch of any competency, a Red Cap could be Banished with impunity; to a Muggle, they were predators of opportunity, either stoning, beating, or clawing and biting the unfortunate victim to their death, soaking their caps in their blood. Removing those same caps could disorient the creature, but without a wand he needed to get within reach of that pike, claws, and teeth to do it. She also knew that displays of pure love could drive them off, often inspiring severe disgust in profane creatures that dwelt in filth; Muggles and sometimes Muggle-borns had a misconception that holy symbols or reciting scripture could drive them off, but it was more about the love and faith rather than the symbols themselves.

James' hand reached towards his pocket again, but the Red Cap noticed, and charged with a shriek, leveling their ugly pike at him; he drew his lighter again, forcing the Red Cap to retreat from the flame. James kept the barrier of fire between them as he circled around it; eventually, the Red Cap snarled and retreated back into its den. He began to run, weaving between the craters, but there were many, densely packed together, and the creatures began to crawl out of them. James blasted one point-blank in the face with fire, forcing it to dive away with a blood-curdling screech.

Victoria, like everyone else, straightened and began to stand from her seat as another Red Cap snuck up to him, raised its pike, and charged; James was turning too slow, too late —

The crowd gasped as the pike struck firmly at his gut. He grunted, taking a step back to steady himself, but when Victoria warily looked back at the mirror, he was unharmed. The pike had not pierced the coat, a fact which clearly surprised the creature as well, and James grasped the haft with his free hand, yanked the pike, making the goblin-like creature stumble. While it was unbalanced, he raised a single foot and slammed it down on its head. To the crowd's shock, he imparted enough force that the Red Cap was buried halfway into the ground, sinking down to its waist.

He began to run across the field, and the crowd roared in approval, applause shattering the nervous silence. He deftly avoided the Red Caps, and when they were in his path, he kicked them away with far more force than he should be able to deliver. The last Red Cap, a particularly large and ugly specimen, charged at James; but he only wound up his leg, and kicked it so hard that it flew over the arena walls, wailing all the way.

"Go James!" Larissa cheered, as he left the pockmarked arena onto the next challenge.

"Looks like he's got some sort of enchanted boots, by my reckoning!" Bagman crowed. "Hah! Reminds me of my Beater days — there's no problem that cannot be solved with sufficient violence!" After a brief pause, during which shuffling and low murmuring could be heard from the microphone, he added in a far less enthusiastic voice, "I do not, in fact, condone violence, to be clear."

"He's doing better than I thought he would," said Lyra, lounging back in her seat.

"He's faster than Fleur," said Larissa. "She took twice as long to clear that space."

"He might lose points on the style section, though."

"Why? He's doing well. He hasn't even been scratched."

"He's dressed like a vagrant," Victoria admitted grudgingly, and Larissa gave her a dirty look.

"And Fleur looks and moves like a veela," said Lyra.

Larissa narrowed her eyes at them. "Are you on his side or Fleur's?"

Lyra shrugged. "I haven't decided."

Larissa stared for a moment, before she rolled her eyes hard enough that she tipped over and crashed into Lyra. "Sometimes I feel like the only person who gives my friends the support they deserve," she mused aloud, her finger on her chin. "Gosh, it's hard being the responsible one sometimes."

"You're not responsible, sweetie," Lyra said absently. "You've missed two homework assignments now."

Larissa groaned.

The crowd cheered and clapped appreciatively, although Draco certainly wouldn't have minded seeing Stark get bitten by a swarm of doxies. It seemed like that duster he was wearing was designed precisely to protect him from smaller pests like these. Draco shouldn't have been surprised that doxies would be part of the challenge — they were bloody everywhere in Britain these days, and even Mother had to constantly brew doxycide to keep the bedsheets free of them. He was doing surprisingly well for himself, something that Draco was of two minds about; on one hand, James Stark was his sister's annoying best friend who had been more than dismissive of Draco on many past occasions, but on the other, he was representing Hogwarts, and Draco did have some school pride as well, despite what some might think.

"Cassius could do better than that," Pansy sniffed.

Draco almost rolled his eyes at that. Pansy probably liked her cousin more than she did even her own brother, but he always had a feeling that faith was somewhat misplaced.

"Perhaps, but I'm disinclined to agree." Apparently Greengrass didn't have Draco's tact. "Warrington is hardly a model Slytherin. He's blustering and unsubtle. Pucey, though… I think he would have done well, had he chosen to nominate himself. He's crafty and composes himself well."

Pansy glared over Draco. "As though you would know anything. You spent the past three years shut inside our room drawing in your textbooks."

At that, Tracey Davis glared back over Daphne and Draco. "Of course she'd know, we all know, you spent the past three years constantly moaning about this person and that person like the jealous twit you are!"

"Let's be civil, please," Draco said, before a fight erupted on his lap, doing his best to channel some of his Father's silent pressure.

"If it means anything, I think Adrian would do well, too," said Nott, from the row behind them, his arms crossed over the backrest of Draco's seat.

"Thank you, Theo," said Greengrass, shooting a triumphant look in Pansy's direction.

"Cassius is a better duelist," said Pansy.

"But Adrian's better at Potions," chirped Tracey. "He tutors me sometimes. Professor Snape loves him."

"She's right," said Nott. "For a task like this? Adrian is perfect."

"Although I can't deny that Stark is also doing well for himself. Pucey would be hard-matched."

"You really think so?" said Davis.

"He's faster than Delacour by a considerable margin," said Greengrass, clapping politely along with the crowd as Stark rushed through the Grindylow swamps. The enchanted boots of his allowed him to bound over the water-filled craters, slowing his landing so he could safely aim at the dry spots and accelerating his takeoffs. An enchantment to alter his mass, perhaps? It would make sense, given the things he'd done with them so far.

"And he seems well-prepared," said Nott. "I mean, I'd have completely forgotten about the Devil's Snare. We studied that back in, what, first year?"

"He does have the homefield advantage," said Draco, adding some thoughts of his own. "The challenge involves British magical fauna and flora."

"It's not much of an advantage, though, if most of these creatures are continent-wide anyways."

"Yeah," said Davis. "Red Caps and doxies aren't unique to Britain, I'm pretty sure."

"But the only truly unique specimen was the Devil's Snare," argued Draco, "and that was where Delacour struggled most."

"Oh, yeah."

"But as Theo said, how many of us could've predicted that?" said Greengrass. "The Devil's Snare is an endangered species at this point. We're more likely to encounter unicorn herds than the Snare."

"That would've been a sight," Davis sighed. "Imagine if they'd gotten unicorns for the task!"

"You're awfully supportive of the mudblood today, aren't you, Daphne?" Pansy said, affecting a tone of concern. "Are you feeling alright, dear?"

Greengrass raised a singular eyebrow. "I've never spoken to him, Pansy," she said. "I'm merely giving him credit where due. Do you not wish for Hogwarts to win?"

Pansy gave a dainty shrug, though her expression of mild disgust marred the grace of her movements. "He shouldn't be in Hogwarts in the first place," she said. "Not sure why my family is subsidizing his education when he could've gone to Longwich or some other school more fitting for his prestige."

"For one, your family does not subsidize the education of anyone but orphaned students," Greengrass said, and Pansy rolled her eyes. "For two, the most powerful witches and wizards of the past century are all Half-Blood."

Draco, Nott, Davis, and Pansy all looked at her. "Are you sure?" said Nott. "Because, you know, you know who…"

Greengrass stared back, honest confusion on her features for a brief moment, before she shook her head. "Never mind."

"No, do go on," Pansy said sweetly.

"You know nothing," Greengrass said with an impressive sneer. "When was the last time the Parkinsons produced a witch or wizard of quality? Since they were an afterthought among the Twenty-Eight — ?"

"Any family is an afterthought compared to the House of Malfoy," Draco drawled, and both immediately fell silent. While the plan was to defuse the fight brewing on his lap, it was certainly a good feeling to remind them both of whose star was rising. Father would tell him not to be so brash to throw about the family name, something he'd been stressing to him since First Year where, admittedly, Draco may have relied on it more often than he should have, but when Greengrass had provided him with an opening like that? It was simply impossible to resist.

"Well, we shall see if you're a success or a disappointment in that regard," said Greengrass, a small smirk telling him that it wasn't meant to be taken seriously. Then she tilted her head. "Unless your sister is the scion?"

Draco pulled a face. "I can't be certain, but it's likely me. Ever since Sirius Black was released, he's been speaking of splitting his estate between Lyra, Nymphadora. and," he rolled his eyes, "Harry Potter upon his death. But the primary title would pass over Bellatrix, who is dead and childless, and Aunt Andromeda, who has no desire to inherit, and to the next eldest candidate, my mother. Who would probably just pass it on to my sister. Lyra would be inheriting a considerable amount already, so Father will likely make me the heir for his estate."

"Foolish woman," Pansy sniffed. "Who would turn down the fortune of House of Black?"

"It's a shame you won't get both," said Nott. "Can you imagine the combined power of the two richest Houses in Britain?"

Draco snorted. "Might as well just crown myself King of Great Britain."

"You really have no humility, do you?" said Davis. "Is your entire family like this?"

"More or less."

"Although Professor Malfoy has been surprisingly restrained," said Daphne, tapping her cheek. "Given all we know of her, I was expecting something more… chaotic, perhaps?"

"She's good!" Davis said, and Draco smiled a little to hear someone defend Lyra that way.

"I'm not saying she's not."

"She's been this way for a few months now," Draco grunted. "Not sure what happened. Might've stumbled across something that gave her a bad reaction in the library."

"Oh?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't know the details, I never asked. Not that she'd tell me if I did."

Greengrass frowned prettily. "Your sister had something happen to her, and you didn't even ask?"

"I — no," said Draco, his stomach churning uncomfortably. "I asked if she was doing okay. She said she was fine."

"Nobody says they're fine and means it," said Nott. "You can't possibly be that stupid, can you?"

"I'll hex you, Nott, you know I will."

Davis shook her head in disappointment. "I can't believe you. I wish Professor Lyra was my sister instead of yours."

"You said she takes you to theatres," said Nott, tutting. "Muggle ones, but still. My sister would never take me to a theatre. No places high enough to push me off of."

Draco turned away, trying to ignore the uncomfortably warm glow of his cheeks. "Whatever."

"I would kill anyone who dared hurt Astoria," said Greengrass. "In spite of the annoyance she might present much of the time. I know you care about her, even if you pretend you don't. Deep down. Deep, deep, deep down."

"Very deep," Nott agreed. "Practically a bottomless pit."

"Alright, I get it," said Draco, exasperation leaking into his voice. "Can we just watch the show?"

"You must look out for her," said Greengrass.

"Ungrateful brat," Davis sniffed.

"Fine, I'll speak to her," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure she'll just tell me she's fine again, since she never tells me anything, but if that will satisfy you…"

Greengrass and Davis glanced at each other. "Then keep going, god," said Nott, from behind. "When someone says they're fine and they're clearly not fine, you're supposed to remind them that you're supporting them, and that you're willing to listen. Well, I'm not sure how much you're willing to listen, because it sounds like you don't much care, but you get the point."

"Perhaps… we can figure something out." Greengrass nodded to herself, as though deciding on something. "We won't speak to dear Draco until he speaks to his sister and finds out exactly what's ailing her. And once we know the issue, we can attempt to solve it, or at the very least cheer her up. Even if only a box of Honeydukes." She turned to Davis, who clapped her hands together, and then to Nott.

"That sounds lovely," said Nott.

"Let's do it!" Davis cheered.

"Oh, come on," said Draco. "You're overreacting."

They didn't respond, instead staring straight ahead at the enchanted mirror, clapping politely at appropriate intervals.

"Seriously?"

"Oh, that must be a Confusing Concoction," said Greengrass, nudging Davis. "What an elegant solution to facing a troll."

"Why's that?" she said.

"From what I've read, trolls are already so amazingly stupid that even a mild Confusing Concoction becomes exceptionally effective."

Nott laughed. "Look at that! The troll forgot how to walk!"

"You can't be serious about that," said Draco, but none of them paid him any heed. He sighed, crossing his arms.

"It's stupid," Pansy agreed. "Don't worry, I'll speak to you."

Draco only sighed again.

James slowed to a quick walk. The sandy outdoor path had led him to the eastern wing of Hogwarts. He held his enchanted lighter in one hand, his eyes darting from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. Suits of armor flanked him, like an honor guard, their hands folded upon the pommel of their sword. His steps light and quick, he pressed himself against a corner and peered around the edge of it.

There was nothing. Nothing except a single, worn cabinet.

He warily stepped out from the shadow, his free hand hovering around his belt, where his few potions remained; the doxy antidote he hadn't had to use, a half-full vial of Confusing Concoction he'd used on the troll, and a Fire Protection Potion that he'd made in case they brought out a Welsh Green or Hebridean Black. Thankfully, it seemed even Bagman had the sense not to force an unarmed teen to tackle a creature that took eight to twelve trained sorcerers to handle.

The cabinet stood awkwardly on mismatched legs, top-heavy like a child's drawing. It looked as though it came right out of a picture book, with coarse, obvious grains in the wood and red flecks of paint present along the edges. The chamber felt so empty, all of a sudden, and yet James knew that he'd have to get past this obstacle if he wished to complete the first task.

The cabinet began to shake gently, rocking back and forth, its uneven legs clattering harshly against the smooth stone floor. The rattling stopped and, after a dramatic pause, the doors of the cabinet blew open with a bang; James stood in his spot, knowing he shouldn't linger; and yet something compelled him to stay.

The boggart took its time.

The first thing to appear was a hand curling around the edge of the doorway, and then a foot, then the shadows receded as it stepped into the light. James faltered. The figure was alien yet familiar. It wore a face he'd not seen in seventeen years, similar to his own, yet different enough that he'd almost forgotten it. What stood out most to him, though, was the subtle disgust upon its features, the hardened edge, as though James was an enemy to be faced rather than an old friend to be welcomed.

"Hello, James," said his previous self. "If you're done playing around, I think it's time for you to wake up."

Victoria frowned. James' boggart didn't look particularly threatening at all. It was dressed like a Muggle, with sneakers and jeans and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. They looked… normal. She noted the resemblance, though — the features, like the shape of the nose and maybe the chin, were similar to James' own. Perhaps a cousin, or some other extended family? But the real mystery were the words it had offered.

"Who…?" said Larissa, turning to Lyra, but trailed off into her thoughts when she saw her thinned lips. Victoria felt a pang of worry in her heart.

James' mouth was dry and his tongue numb. A heavy silence deafened him as he stood rooted in his place, flapping his mouth with no noise coming forth. This… was just a fear, his greatest fear. It was a false horror borne of his hyperactive imagination and his insecurities, crystallized into being by the boggart. It was no different from a nightmare. Terrible, undoubtedly, but fake. Just an illusion.

And yet, he couldn't help but wonder, if everything would come unraveling at this very moment, if the dream would be over.

"Wake up?" said James, with far less confidence than he wished he had. "I don't need to wake up, as you say. You think I haven't thought long and hard about my circumstances? This is my life now, whether I — and you — like it or not."

The boggart glanced at its fingernails, before speaking again, its voice dispassionate. "You're very different," it said, "yet so similar. Even now you continue to make excuses for your inaction. You haven't changed at all, have you?"

"Excuses?" snapped James. A small spark of anger and frustration kindled in his gut, and he desperately reached for it, wanting to feel anything other than fear. I didn't ask for this. I never asked for any of this.

The boggart merely stared, unblinking, its face stripped of any emotion, devoid of any humanity, and as the moments ticked by, James' rage died again, replaced by dread.

"As you say," it said mildly, and began cracking its knuckles, one by one. "But you've thought about it, I'm sure, given you're the self-flagellating sort."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, regretting the words before he even finished speaking them.

The boggart stopped in its movements, tilting its head a little to examine him. The tics were all his. The body language all his. Behaviors that he'd exhibited in front of people, people who already knew him well, people who were watching this whole byplay.

"How much pain you've left your family in," it said. "How much you've left behind unfinished. But you'll never find out, will you? You're not brave enough to try to find out. You'd run from who you truly are in favor of playing pretend with dolls. I'm impressed, really. I thought to ask if any of them have realized by now that you're here only under false pretenses, but you've deluded even yourself into thinking you belong."

The footsteps of its approach punctuated each point, until it stopped in front of him, staring into his eyes. "All this power at your fingertips," it said, "and you squander it on yourself. You always have been, and still remain, a waste of potential, James Stark." It leaned in, close enough that James could feel its breath, smelling of rot and dust, on his cheek. "Perhaps I should be asking instead if you think they'd noticed your absence at all?"

James stared at the creature wearing his skin, the words echoing in his mind. Of course he'd thought about all of that, often enough in the beginning when he had nothing to ground himself with. Eleven full years until he'd gotten that letter and things finally started to make sense. Eleven years of wondering what his purpose was, where his place in the universe was meant to be, if he was even supposed to have a reason to exist or if he had simply just slipped through the cosmic cracks.

In the end, it didn't much matter, did it? Especially since now, he actually had a few clues about why and how he might be here… God, imagine if the boggart had taken the form of that talking archway. He'd probably get a midnight visit from those Watchmen and have a burlap sack thrown over his head. He snorted at the mental image of it. The boggart faltered.

"You're not as frightening as you used to be," he said, softly, almost to himself. James stepped around the boggart, which made no move to follow, only turning its head. He ignored his past, and continued towards the double doors at the far end of the room. "Thank you for not leaking top secret information, at least."

"You're welcome," said the boggart drily, before James shut the doors on it.

He sighed, and turned back around. It was just a short stretch of corridor to the finish line, leading back outside to where he'd begun. He knew there was a time trial element to this first task as well, but he walked the rest of the way, trying to bring his heart rate down to something more resembling normalcy. He ignored the growing cheers and Bagman shouting into his wand as he stepped over the marked line, and reverently retrieved his wand from the pedestal. Warmth spread through his fingertips as the wand crooned to him, and James could feel the magic thrumming through him. He looked back up, saw the crowd's uncountable faces and heard their deafening applause.

He was done. It was over.