Chapter 34 – Champions: Reluctant and Eager

The early morning glow painted a tranquil scene in the suite. Daphne's blonde hair splayed like a halo around her, contrasting with the deep green of the sheets. Beside her, Rigel's dark hair blended into the shadows, but his piercing blue eyes shone vividly.

"How did you sleep?" she inquired, her voice still soft with remnants of sleep.

"Quite comfortably," Rigel replied. "Though, knowing Kreacher, he'd probably insist the beds at the Castle are far superior."

Daphne chuckled. "He'd be scandalised at the mere suggestion of Hogwarts beds being better."

There was a beat of comfortable silence as the two of them slowly roused themselves, stretching and beginning their morning routines. The symphony of their daily rituals, honed over months of cohabitation, echoed around the room.

Daphne and Rigel stood side by side in front of a large ornate mirror, finishing their last-minute touches as they prepared for another day at Hogwarts. The green and silver of their Slytherin robes looked pristine against their figures.

Pausing for a moment, Daphne turned towards Rigel. "We should tell Sirius about you being sorted into Slytherin. He'd want to know."

Rigel nodded, and with a flick of her wand, Daphne summoned the mirror Sirius had gifted them. She uttered the name "Sirius Black," and soon enough, his face came into view. As they talked, the usual joviality in his eyes shifted to surprise, then to contemplation.

"Rigel, in Slytherin? Well, that's not a complete shocker, is it?" Sirius said, smiling warmly at his son.

"You're not upset?" Rigel asked cautiously.

"Why would I be?" Sirius responded. "Your mother and I were both Gryffindors, but we never thought it was the only path to tread. And besides, I always suspected you might be cunning enough for Slytherin, even with Marlene's and my Gryffindor lineage. It's a part of who you are, and I'm proud of you, son. Remember, it's not about the House; it's about what you make of it."

Rigel's face relaxed into a relieved grin. For a second, the weight of the emblem on his robe felt a little lighter. Daphne squeezed his hand subtly, her face mirroring Sirius's accepting smile.

The mirror flickered out, and Daphne carefully stored it away.

Daphne turned to Rigel, curiosity evident in her blue eyes. "After your... impressive display yesterday, what's your next move?"

Rigel met her gaze, determination flickering in his own. "Quidditch," he stated simply. "It's a beloved sport and signals a visible change within our house to the others. The current Slytherin team's dismal performance is due to a lack of talent, which is inevitable because players are selected for their family name and connections."

Daphne nodded, recalling the team's last few matches. "That, and Flint's ridiculous 'no girl' rule. Who knows how many gifted witches were turned away?"

"Exactly," Rigel agreed, his voice filled with passion. "We need a team based on merit, skill, and devoid of any gender bias." He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Any idea who's taken up the mantle of Captain now that Flint's gone?"

After pondering for a moment, Daphne replied, "Montague, most likely. He was the most senior after Flint."

Rigel's lips curled into a determined smile. "Then, let's have a 'chat' with him before breakfast."

Daphne's eyes sparkled with shared determination. "Lead the way."

The pair, united in purpose, made their way out of the suite, the dimly lit dungeon corridors leading them swiftly towards the Slytherin common room.

~~~o~~~

The heavy oak door of the Slytherin common room swung open, revealing Rigel and Daphne's determined figures. As they stepped in, conversations ceased, and all eyes focused on them. The chilling silence was palpable, a testament to Rigel's duel the previous day.

Rigel looked around, a playful smile forming on his lips. "Come now, don't be so nervous. I promise, I don't bite," he cheekily remarked, drawing a few uncertain chuckles from the crowd.

From the corner of the room, Astoria and Ginny, both looking vibrant and cheerful, approached them. "Morning, you two," Ginny greeted, her brown eyes dancing with amusement.

Astoria smiled warmly, "Quite the entrance you made."

Daphne chuckled, "Morning, Tori, Ginny. We'll catch up at breakfast. Just have a bit of business to attend to first."

"We'll save you some seats then," Ginny promised with a wink. With a wave, the pair departed, heading towards the great hall.

As the sounds of Astoria and Ginny's departing footsteps faded, Rigel's sharp eyes scanned the room, landing on Montague, who was engrossed in a conversation with a group of 6th year boys. With Daphne in tow, he approached the group.

"Montague," Rigel greeted, voice smooth yet firm, "Might we have a word? In private?"

Montague glanced up, his eyes betraying a hint of nervousness as he acknowledged Rigel. "Of course," he responded, nodding slightly.

Rigel gestured to a secluded seating area in a shadowy corner of the common room, complete with a plush couch and an armchair. The three of them made their way there and settled down. Montague sat stiffly, uncertainty evident in his posture.

"If there's anything you need, any help around the castle," Montague began cautiously, "I'm happy to assist."

Rigel chuckled softly, his fingers intertwining with Daphne's. "I appreciate the offer, but I have an excellent guide already," he said, giving Daphne's hand a gentle squeeze.

Changing the topic swiftly, Daphne inquired, "Are you the Quidditch Captain this year, Montague?"

Straightening up a tad, Montague replied with a hint of pride in his voice, "Yes, I am."

Rigel's chilling gaze met Montague's eyes as they sat in the dimly lit corner of the Slytherin common room. "Montague," he said in a hushed but firm tone, "we need to have a chat about the Quidditch team this year."

Montague, noticeably jittery, replied, "Black, only Flint's spot is up for grabs. If you and Greengrass both want in, it's going to be tight."

Rigel smirked, a hint of menace underlying his words. "You misunderstand, Montague. The past three years' performance has been nothing short of abysmal. The current team simply doesn't measure up. Flint selected players based on the wrong values," Rigel's voice darkened, "Strength, skill, and merit are what truly matter. Not bloodline, wealth, or political power."

Clearing his throat, Montague protested, "I understand you have different views, Black. But these values, these traditions, have been our way for years. They aren't easily broken."

"Tradition?" Rigel's voice rose slightly, filled with a mocking tone. "A tradition of mediocrity? Losing? Being, what... sheep? Tell me, Montague," he continued, leaning forward, his voice dripping with venom, "how does a sheep like you find himself in the House of Snakes?" He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. "This is your chance. Your chance to show the world you truly belong in Slytherin."

Montague gulped, his voice shaky. "What... what would you have me do?"

Rigel took a moment, his expression stern. "It's simple," he began, his voice firm yet controlled, "announce a proper tryout. Every position. No favours. No legacies. Just talent." Rigel's eyes locked onto Montague's, ensuring the gravity of his words sunk in. "Spread the word. Let it be known that skill is the only currency that will earn a spot on the team. Boy or girl. Doesn't matter."

"That's... that's insane!" Montague stammered, his eyes darting around, anxiety evident. "What will people like Malfoy say if they lose their spot on the team?"

Rigel paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. "This is your chance, Montague. A chance to be a captain to be remembered. The captain who saw past old traditions and brought change. The captain who broke Slytherin's losing streak. Think about it," Rigel urged, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Montague hesitated, clearly torn. He took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for an upcoming storm.

Rigel leaned in closer, the air between them heavy. His voice dropped to a threatening whisper. "Tell me, Montague, who do you fear more? Me or my dear cousin Draco? A hint for you – only one of us truly holds power."

With a fluid motion, Rigel rose from the couch, Daphne mirroring his actions. "I'm looking forward to the tryouts. I'll be there, alongside my betrothed." He paused, looking down at Montague, "Have a good day."

The atmosphere in the common room remained thick with tension as Rigel and Daphne, side by side, confidently made their exit towards the Great Hall.

~~~o~~~

The warm morning light streamed through the grand enchanted windows of the Great Hall, casting vibrant glows of gold and red across the Gryffindor table. Harry sat there, flanked by his close friends, Neville and Hermione, all of them immersed in their breakfast.

The beginning of this school year felt different for Harry. There was no looming menace of Voldemort, no shadowy threats that often marred the start of previous years. This year, Harry was even more excited, primarily because Rigel, his godbrother — his chosen brother — was at Hogwarts with him. Rigel's ambition to reshape the school and potentially the wizarding world itself was something Harry deeply respected and supported.

As he chewed on a piece of toast, a newfound realisation dawned upon Harry. Now, free from the Dursleys and with no imminent threat, he felt an openness to the possibilities of the school year. Would he only support Rigel, or did he want more? Perhaps it was time for him to forge his own path, leverage his unwanted fame, and drive positive change. But how? His brow furrowed in thought. He'd seek counsel from Daphne, Rigel, and his other friends.

Harry's chain of thoughts was interrupted when the grand doors of the Great Hall creaked open, and in walked Daphne and Rigel. Their faces shone with triumph, suggesting a mission already accomplished. Harry's curiosity piqued, but he knew they'd share their morning's escapade later. They settled at the Slytherin table, next to Tracey, Astoria, and Ginny.

Catching Harry's eye, Daphne and Rigel shared a heartwarming smile with him — a gesture overflowing with familial love and camaraderie. They were more than just friends to Harry; they were family. The bond they shared was a beacon of hope and strength in a world filled with uncertainties.

The air in the Great Hall was abuzz with the start of a new school year, punctuated by the comforting noises of students chatting and the soft clink of cutlery on plates. As the four Heads of Houses began their rounds, students eagerly snatched up their timetables, eagerly scanning to see the layout of their year.

Harry's emerald eyes darted over his schedule, a smile breaking out on his face when he saw the "Duelling with Moody" slot. While they had been informed about the new subject and its famed instructor, seeing the specifics still made him eager. His eyebrows raised slightly at the unusual location: the Great Hall. Furthermore, it specified that all four houses would be participating simultaneously. That would certainly make for an interesting lesson.

Breakfast was wrapping up when Harry, Hermione, Neville, Tracey, Daphne, and Rigel met briefly outside the Great Hall. The topic of their after-school meet-up arose. "We could use the Room of Requirement?" Harry suggested.

Daphne, brushing a strand of her blond hair behind her ear, countered, "How about our suite? For discussions and homework, the sitting room should suffice. If we aim for more intensive spellwork, we can always opt for the Room of Requirement later on."

Tracey's eyes brightened, "That sounds great! I've been curious to see your new place."

Rigel nodded, looking pleased, "It's settled then."

The chime of the bell interrupted their discussion, signalling the imminent start of classes. The trio of Gryffindors - Harry, Hermione, and Neville - bid their farewells and headed in one direction, their first class calling. Daphne and Tracey exchanged cheerful waves as they moved towards their class, while Rigel, being two years ahead, made his way down a separate corridor, disappearing from view.

With schedules in hand and the promise of an eventful year ahead, they ventured into the day.

~~~o~~~

The vibrant tapestry of Hogwarts wrapped around Harry like a comforting cloak. The day unfurled, each moment gleaming with the allure of lessons, friendship, and the familiar cadence of school life. The beauty of Black Castle and its surroundings was unparalleled, but the lure of Hogwarts was different—more enticing, more invigorating.

As the day transitioned, a growing undercurrent of anticipation built in Harry. It wasn't every year they got a subject as exciting as duelling added to the curriculum. When the clock chimed indicating their last lesson, Harry, along with Hermione, Neville, Tracey, and Daphne, made their way to the Great Hall.

Entering the space, it felt almost unrecognisable. The elongated dining tables, synonymous with the hall, were now absent. In their place, rows of chairs formed a neat semi-circle, framing the elevated teachers' platform. Moody sat there, unmistakable with his mismatched eyes and weather-beaten face. The dark board behind him bore no inscriptions, but chalk pieces lay in wait, indicating that theory would play a role, at least to some extent.

Moody's gaze was unwavering—his regular eye fixed ahead, scanning students, while his magical eye flitted around, almost eerily omniscient. Harry shivered slightly at the dichotomy, recognising the unnerving effectiveness of it.

The murmurs ceased and the hall grew silent as the last student took their seat. Moody, without preamble, began. "I'm Alastor Moody," his gravelly voice echoed, demanding attention, "Many of you have heard of me. Now you'll learn from me."

He continued, outlining the structure of their lessons. "Duelling isn't just about flinging spells; it's about strategy, reading your opponent, and outthinking them. We will be practising a lot, mostly mock duels. Theory will be minimal, but it's crucial. Today is just a primer, so don't get too jumpy thinking you'll be throwing hexes straight away."

Harry could sense the medley of reactions from his peers. Some looked disappointed, others intrigued. As for him, every word Moody spoke stoked the flames of his anticipation. He could hardly wait to begin.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall grew palpable as Moody's voice cut through the room, "First things first, we need to understand what we're up against. Can anyone tell me what the deadliest spell is?"

Harry didn't hesitate. The cold chill of that particular incantation clung to him, a shadow he couldn't shake. He raised his hand. Moody's piercing eyes shifted to him, a glint of something Harry couldn't quite place flickering in them. "Potter," he almost sang out, his voice dripping with an odd anticipation.

"The Killing Curse," Harry began, a lump in his throat, "Avada Kedavra."

Moody looked like he had won some sort of macabre lottery, his face contorted into an unsettling grin. "Ah, of course you'd know that one, Potter," he remarked as he hastily scribbled 'Killing Curse' onto the blackboard. The chalk scratching sounded louder than it should've.

Facing Harry directly, with an almost challenging tone, Moody asked, "Can you explain to the class why it is considered the deadliest, Potter?"

"It's unblockable by magical means," Harry replied, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, "No one who has been directly hit by the spell has lived to tell the tale." The haunting image of his mother's sacrifice momentarily clouded his vision.

Moody's voice snapped him back. "No one, except you, Potter." He paused, letting the words hang heavy in the air. "So, what do you say, class? Should I just teach you this spell and be done with it? We'd all be master duellists then, right?"

Before anyone could react, Harry interjected, his voice firm, "No, the Killing Curse might be powerful, but it's not without its drawbacks."

A flurry of memories rushed Harry—flashes of his first-year confrontation with Voldemort in the mirror chamber, and then the chilling episode during his second year when he battled Ginny, who had been puppeteered by Voldemort. The Killing Curse might be deadly, but Harry had witnessed its limitations firsthand.

Moody's piercing blue eye was fixed on Harry, challenging him, "Go on then, Potter. Enlighten the class about these so-called drawbacks."

Harry hesitated for a moment, his mind racing back to the encounter in the mirror chamber. He remembered the chilling green glow of the Killing Curse, hurtling toward him. He recalled the moment when Tonks had swiftly shattered a stone pillar, causing debris to rain down, intercepting the lethal spell just in time.

"The Killing Curse," Harry started, drawing in a deep breath, "is unblockable by magical means, but physical objects can intercept it. It can be blocked with just about anything tangible."

Moody tilted his head, his magical eye spinning wildly. "That's true," he admitted, "but wouldn't you agree that's a rather basic observation? Anything else, Potter?"

The memory of Voldemort's frustrated snarl when he attempted and failed to cast the Killing Curse again played vividly in Harry's mind. "The spell requires immense amounts of magical power," Harry elaborated. "Only an exceptionally skilled witch or wizard could even hope to cast it. Casting it multiple times in quick succession? Almost impossible."

Moody's lips stretched into an unsettling grin. "Impossible for most, perhaps. But titans like the Dark Lord or Dumbledore? That's a different story altogether." He took a brief pause, then declared, "Twenty points to Gryffindor for Potter's insights."

The class murmured in awe. Harry felt a swell of pride but also an uncomfortable pang knowing the price he'd paid for such knowledge.

Clearing his throat, Moody continued, "Using the Killing Curse is a gamble. Land it, and you've ended the duel. Miss, or have your target dodge or block it, and you've likely spent your magical reserve, leaving you vulnerable for the rest of the encounter. Against multiple adversaries, it's a recipe for disaster."

Feeling somewhat sad, having to relive those memories, Harry was grateful when a gentle hand landed on his shoulder. He didn't need to look to know whose it was. Turning slightly, he met Daphne's blue eyes filled with empathy and pride. Her touch, warm and steady, offered a silent reassurance that he wasn't alone.

Without missing a beat, Moody redirected the class's attention. "Alright, moving on. Who can tell me under what classification the Killing Curse belongs?"

Hermione's hand shot up almost immediately. Her deep-set determination to always have the answer was evident in her raised posture. With a nod, Moody beckoned her to speak.

"It's one of the Unforgivable Curses," Hermione said crisply, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"And why are they named as such?" Moody's voice held a challenge.

Hermione's voice took on the tone of someone reciting from a textbook, "The Ministry of Magic has outlawed them because of their dire and malicious effects."

"Spot on," Moody acknowledged, his magical eye roving around the room while the other remained fixed on Hermione. "Use one, and you'll find yourself in Azkaban before you can say 'Snitch'. Five points to Gryffindor."

Moody then surveyed the room as he asked "Who can tell me of another Unforgivable Curse?"

As he spoke, another hand rose, belonging to Tracey. "Sir, there's also the Imperius Curse," she stated confidently, "It gives the caster complete control over another's actions."

Moody's face broke into a rare smile of approval. "Five points to Slytherin." He scribbled "Imperius" on the blackboard. "Many wizards and witches," he began, his tone darkening, "claimed to be under the Imperius Curse during the last war, arguing that their support for You-Know-Who was not of their own will. The catch? There's no surefire way to tell the truth from the lies as the curse leaves no residual effects."

The room was thick with tension, each student hanging onto Moody's every word, absorbing the grave realities of dark magic.

Moody leaned against the teacher's table, his intense blue eye fixed on the class. "Now, while the Imperius Curse can be a powerful tool, it's not overly practical in a duel. An opponent, ready to face you in combat, will be mentally fortified. If you're hoping to place them under the Imperius, you'll be entering a battle of wills." He raised his brows in emphasis. "It's more effective when the enemy is caught off-guard, or when they're already defeated."

The Great Hall remained quiet, the gravity of Moody's words echoing throughout. Breaking the silence, he continued, "So, who can name the third Unforgivable Curse?"

Several students hesitated for a moment before raising their hands, but Moody's gaze settled on Neville. Neville, whose hand hadn't moved an inch, now looked like a deer caught in wandlight. Moody, with a somewhat mocking grin, announced, "I've heard that Mr. Longbottom can be a tad shy. Lacks confidence, some say. But I'm willing to bet that he's got potential." The grin widened, "Surely you know this one, Mr. Longbottom?"

Neville's eyes darted around nervously. With a deep breath, he steadied his voice, "The... the Cruciatus Curse, sir."

Moody clapped, a single, echoing sound that reverberated through the Great Hall. "Bravo, Longbottom! Correct answer." He chalked "Cruciatus" onto the board. "Five points to Gryffindor."

Harry's gaze intently followed Neville, who seemed to retreat further into himself with each passing second. The very mention of the Cruciatus Curse had ignited a fire of memories within the young Gryffindor, memories that Harry suspected were eerily parallel to his own with the Killing Curse. There was a story there, an untold narrative, that was tied to the very essence of Neville's being.

A part of Harry wanted to reach out, to ask, to share in that burden of knowledge and pain. But the questions that pestered his mind seemed invasive, too probing. How much did he really know about Neville's past? The absence of his parents, his life with his Grandmother - they were just puzzle pieces that Harry had never bothered to fit together until now. But, with the weight of Moody's words hanging in the air, it was hard not to draw lines, to connect dots. However, a nagging voice in the back of his mind persisted: was it even his place to ask?

Breaking the thread of his musings, Moody's voice, rife with experience and knowledge, resounded through the room. "The Cruciatus Curse," he began, each word heavy with intent, "is unique in its own right. Unlike the Killing Curse which demands an exorbitant amount of magical energy, the Cruciatus requires a decent but manageable amount. Any ordinary witch or wizard can cast it, but not abundantly."

He paused, letting his words sink in, before continuing, "Known infamously as the torture curse, it doesn't aim to kill, but rather to torment. Its cruelty lies in the sheer agony it inflicts. Those with a low threshold for pain, they'll be incapacitated. Imagine being caught in a storm of pain, each nerve aflame, every thought consumed by torment. Unable to fight, unable to even think - that's the power of the Cruciatus."

As Moody painted this grim picture, a familiar ache throbbed within Harry. Memories of the Dursleys emerged from the depths of his subconscious, vivid and cruel. The countless beatings, the derisive comments, the raw sting of a welt forming after one of Uncle Vernon's 'lessons'. If there was one grim lesson they had unwittingly imparted, it was a tolerance for pain. As these memories consumed him, Harry clamped down on his emotions, refusing to let them bubble to the surface. He'd already been in the limelight once today; he didn't need another round of that. But, the Dursleys and their lessons, they remained, forever etched into his soul.

Moody, taking a deep breath, scanned the room. His magical eye darted around, catching the glint of curiosity in the eyes of some, and the suppressed dread in others. "Now that you lot know about the Unforgivable Curses," he began, his tone deliberate, "understand this: knowledge can mean the difference between life and death in a duel. I won't, for obvious reasons, teach you to use them. But knowing what they are, what they can do, that's half the battle."

He paused, taking a moment to allow his words to sink in, before continuing. "At your age, your bodies are changing, and not just physically." He pointed his wand at the blackboard behind him, where words began to scribble themselves. "Magically, too. Your magical cores, the heart of your power, are maturing. Growing. It means you're capable of holding more magical power."

A murmur ran through the class at this revelation.

"The more power you have, the stronger the spells you can cast," Moody continued, pacing back and forth. "Or, you could cast spells for longer without tiring. Train your cores right, and you're setting yourselves up for life." He smirked, "Of course, it's not all about training. Just like not everyone can be a star Quidditch player, no matter how hard they practise, not everyone can become the next Dark Lord or Dumbledore."

The classroom buzzed with whispered conversations, but Moody's voice cut through it all. "Over the next few lessons, we'll be focusing on exercises to strengthen your cores. And agility. Because a spell dodged," he emphasised, "is a spell you don't waste power on defending against. Once I've got a sense of where you all stand, we'll be pairing off for duels. I want to match you with someone on your level. It won't be permanent, but for most of the year, you'll be with your partner. And if someone starts to shine a bit brighter than their partner, well, we might shuffle things around a bit."

There was a weight to his words, an importance that wasn't lost on any of the students. They all understood: this year was crucial. Moody's teachings would shape them, prepare them, for the real world outside Hogwarts' walls.

With a curt nod, Moody concluded, "That's it for today. Off you go!" And with a collective shuffling of feet, bags being slung over shoulders, and the buzz of excited conversation, the class dispersed, their minds alight with the promises and challenges of the year ahead.

~~~o~~~

The cobblestone floors of the dungeons were cold, the torchlight dim, painting the walls with orange and yellow hues. The group, comprising Harry, Hermione, Neville, Tracey, and Daphne, made their way to Daphne's and Rigel's suite. Daphne, with an air of authority and familiarity, led them to a portrait Harry had never noticed before: Aetheric the Mysterious, a tall man in deep blue robes, his face hidden beneath a cowl.

Daphne leaned close, whispering, "Veritas Arcanum."

The portrait swung open with a muted creak, revealing a cosy room, warm and inviting. Rigel sat on a lush couch, reading a book. He looked up, his eyes lighting up at the sight of his friends.

The group settled in, sharing tales of their first day back at Hogwarts. Amidst all the recounting of amusing incidents and new lessons, the topic of duelling with Moody became the highlight. Rigel's interest piqued noticeably when Harry narrated Moody's explanation of the three Unforgivable Curses.

There was a curious intensity in Rigel's eyes, an eagerness that Harry found slightly unsettling. Rigel had always been fascinated by duelling, but his reaction seemed... deeper. Yet, Harry refrained from pushing the matter further.

Hermione, ever the diligent one, shifted the topic to the Triwizard Tournament. "It's age-restricted this year. Rigel, you won't be seventeen when they pick the champions on Halloween."

Rigel waved her off nonchalantly. "If they're using the Goblet of Fire, they wouldn't have changed its enchantments so quickly. We'll figure out a workaround."

Harry's thoughts swirled around the Goblet of Fire. Walburga had mentioned its magic, a binding contract ensuring no participant could back out. The gravity of entering such a competition wasn't lost on him.

He recalled breakfast, when both Daphne and Rigel had seemed... chirpier. "Something happened this morning, didn't it?" Harry inquired, arching an eyebrow.

Rigel smirked, recounting his duel against Lucian Bole last evening and the ease with which he'd defeated him. "I 'persuaded' Montague this morning to form a team based on skill, not heritage. Hope you won't mind a slightly stronger Slytherin side," he teased.

Harry laughed. "The fiercer the competition, the better."

Rigel's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Speaking of which, Daphne and I are trying out as Chasers for the team."

The room erupted with cheers and words of encouragement. Among them, Harry's voice was the loudest, his pride for his brother evident. "Go get them!" he exclaimed. The warmth of the room, filled with laughter and camaraderie, was the perfect end to a day filled with surprises.

The first evening back at Hogwarts soon turned into a blur of parchment, quills, and ink. The group delved into their assignments with fervour. By the time the dinner bell rang, their minds were buzzing with freshly memorised spells and detailed potions recipes. Yet, the weariness of the first day back reminded them of the challenges and adventures awaiting them throughout the year. They opted for an early night, each retiring to their respective common rooms with promises of reconvening the next day.

~~~o~~~

As the days slipped by, the group found themselves preparing for Hermione's birthday in the Room of Requirement. After pooling their thoughts together, they decided to transform the room into an expansive library for Hermione. The high, vaulted ceilings and bookshelves towering with ancient texts and manuscripts created an atmosphere of serene scholarship. Soft lanterns dotted the area, casting a gentle, amber glow. While they didn't spend much time reading, the ambiance itself was a gift to Hermione, who roamed the aisles with a look of pure joy.

Deciding upon Tracey's birthday setting proved to be a more challenging task. They pondered and debated, trying to capture the essence of what she might like. After much discussion, they eventually settled on a picturesque mountainous landscape. The room became a vast open area, surrounded by towering peaks with a perfect spot for a picnic. As they celebrated, Harry noticed subtle signs from Tracey: a lingering look, a playful nudge, or a seemingly casual touch on his arm. It seemed she was trying to convey something to him, but the message sailed right over his head, unnoticed.

As September neared its close, Slytherins congregated in the common room. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation. Montague, looking every bit the confident captain, cleared his throat. "This year, we're changing things up. All spots on the Quidditch team will be open for tryouts. Your skills and performance will decide your position," he announced, projecting the decision as his brainchild. "Tryouts will be held next week, at the start of October."

The room buzzed with whispers and murmurs. But not everyone was pleased with the announcement. Malfoy, face contorted with indignation, shot up from his seat. "This is outrageous! We've already got our positions!" he snapped, pointing at the current team members. "Why should we have to try out again?" Several others from the current team nodded in agreement, their faces etched with frustration and disbelief.

Montague stepped forward, his posture firm. "The performance of the team," he began, his voice unwavering, "has been abysmal for some time now. I need to re-evaluate our strengths and weaknesses. If that means someone from the current team gets replaced by someone more talented - so be it."

A stunned silence followed Montague's words, but it was quickly broken by Draco's haughty laughter. "You think this will improve the team's performance? It's a foolish gamble, Montague. One you'll regret, if the wrong people get replaced."

Rigel, ever composed, shot a smug smile in Malfoy's direction before rising from his seat, his voice low yet chillingly firm. "You'd do well, Draco, to remember that it's talent and skill that'll secure a position, not just your surname. Perhaps it's time for the Malfoys to truly earn their keep?"

Malfoy's face flushed with anger at Rigel's comment. His fingers clenched into fists, and his eyes darted towards Rigel, filled with rage. But there was something else in those grey eyes—perhaps a tinge of fear. For a moment, it seemed he might retaliate, but instead, he pressed his lips into a thin line, choosing to remain silent.

The silent exchange between the two cousins spoke volumes, a tense and heated dance of wits and challenge.

~~~o~~~

The soft humming of the Great Hall ceased the moment Moody entered, his magical blue eye scanning the students in rapid motions. "Today," Moody began, his voice echoing in the hall, "I've seen enough over these past weeks to pair you all up. These are the pairs for the upcoming lessons."

He began listing names, a rhythmic cadence that held everyone's attention. "Crabbe and Goyle. Abbott and Bones. Malfoy and Nott. Boot and Longbottom. Davis and Granger. Greengrass and Potter." Each announcement was met with varying reactions, from surprise to satisfaction, from the students.

When Harry's pair was announced, he turned his gaze to Daphne, their eyes locking briefly. Harry realised that, though they had trained together many times, they rarely squared off in a full one-on-one duel. He couldn't help but acknowledge that, of his classmates, Daphne probably was the only one skilled enough to keep up with him. A sense of arrogance swelled in him momentarily as he pondered their advantage, cultivated through rigorous training sessions.

The gruff voice of Moody brought him back to the present, "Alright, enough dilly-dallying." With a swift wave of his wand, a raised duelling platform manifested in the centre of the hall. The wooden platform had a polished shine, an enticing stage set for the showdowns to come. "Remember, no harmful spells. Disarming, stunning, or knocking your opponent off the platform is the objective."

"Boot, Longbottom," Moody called out, "you're up first."

Harry's gaze followed Neville as he climbed onto the platform, facing Terry Boot. He could sense Neville's unease from afar. The two young wizards bowed, an old tradition observed even in these mock duels. On Moody's command, they began.

Every swish and flick, every uttered incantation was met with oohs and aahs from the audience. But Harry could tell that Neville wasn't performing at his best. His friend's movements were hesitant, spells delayed by a fraction of a second, the byproduct of his nervousness. In their private training, Neville was far more agile and decisive. Yet now, in the public arena, he seemed to be faltering.

The duel reached its climax when Terry, seizing an opportunity, cast a swift disarming spell. Neville's wand flew from his hand, spiralling through the air before clattering on the floor. Moody's voice rang out, "Boot is the victor!"

While applause filled the room, Harry's thoughts raced. The duel was over, but his curiosity about Moody's pronounced interest in Neville remained, nagging at the back of his mind. The year, it seemed, was only beginning to unveil its mysteries.

Moody eyed Neville, his magical eye never blinking. "Longbottom," he began, his tone gravelly, "I expected more. Your skill's there, but your confidence needs bolstering. We'll work on that in the coming sessions." Neville nodded, his face a mixture of disappointment and determination.

Turning to the class, Moody clapped his hands. "Who's next?!"

Tracey's hand shot up instantly, her fingers wiggling, her voice bubbling with excitement. "Oh, me! Me, me, me!" Her eyes sparkled, clearly eager for the challenge.

Beside her, Hermione didn't share the same zest. Her face was composed, maybe even a tad apprehensive. But there was a steeliness in her eyes that hinted at her inner resolve.

"Alright, Davis, Granger, step up!" Moody's voice cut through the air.

With contrasting eagerness, the two young witches made their way onto the platform. They bowed, their postures contrasting — Tracey's lively and spirited, Hermione's more restrained and formal.

"Duel!" Moody's command echoed in the Great Hall.

Immediately, the duel became a whirlwind of action. Tracey was a dynamo, her wand movements swift and aggressive, casting spells in rapid succession and ducking away from Hermione's counter-attacks. It was like watching a bird darting in and out of reach, elusive and unpredictable.

Hermione, on the other hand, showcased a starkly different approach. Each of her spells was precise, carrying a weight behind them. Instead of dodging, she often raised powerful shields, absorbing or deflecting Tracey's spells. She aimed to control the pace, trying to back Tracey into a corner, leveraging the environment to her advantage.

The Great Hall was a mix of gasps, murmurs, and loud cheers. The duel was both entertaining and educational. For many, it was astonishing to witness such prowess from two of their peers.

Minutes stretched on, with neither showing signs of relenting. Then, in a split second, Tracey saw an opening, diving low and casting a spell that caught Hermione off guard. Hermione's wand flew from her grip, signalling Tracey's victory.

"Well done, both of you!" Moody exclaimed, clapping his hands with genuine approval. "Class, this," he pointed between Tracey and Hermione, "is the level you should all aspire to. Duelling isn't just about flashy spells; it's about strategy, understanding your opponent, and making every spell count."

As Tracey and Hermione descended from the platform, their chests swelled with pride, their faces glowing with the recognition they had earned.

The Great Hall became a flurry of activity as the subsequent pairs duelled. Sparks flew, shouts echoed, and wands flashed, but none matched the intensity of Hermione and Tracey's earlier display.

The class was reaching its climax, the atmosphere buzzing with energy when Moody's voice rang out, "Greengrass, Potter, you're up next."

Harry's heart raced a little. He remembered Moody from that Order of Merlin ceremony and yet, now there was something... different about the man. A gleam in his eyes, perhaps a touch more eagerness? Maybe it was the difference between standing in a ceremonial hall and teaching in a classroom. Still, Harry brushed the thought aside, focusing on Daphne instead.

There she stood, flashing a confident, almost cheeky smile. It was out of character for her. Yes, she was a formidable duellist in her own right, but Harry was fairly certain he held the upper hand. So what was behind that confident smirk?

They bowed, a formal gesture to start the duel. But once Moody gave the signal, the formalities evaporated. Daphne launched an assault, her wand spitting out spells with a ferocity Harry had rarely seen from her. He dodged and weaved, but when a bright red stunner came his way, he raised a shield. It was a reflex more than a conscious decision. He hadn't poured much of his power into it, expecting it to suffice. To his shock, the stunner collided with his shield and shattered it, sending Harry sprawling on the ground.

He could hear the gasps from the crowd. Daphne looked down at him, that playful smirk still present. "Come now, Potter," she teased. "Is the mighty Boy-Who-Lived really about to lose to a girl?"

Though her words were light, they lit a fire in Harry. He pushed himself up, eyes fixed on her. No more underestimating. No more holding back.

Their duel escalated. Spells crisscrossed between them, a vibrant dance of magic. Even the ever-stoic Moody looked thoroughly impressed by the spectacle unfolding before him.

But Harry felt it—something was off. Daphne was clearly pushing him, making him doubt his capabilities. He had always felt he was stronger, so what was happening?

With newfound determination, Harry let go of his restraints. The power that surged through him was unmistakable. His spells became more forceful, his movements sharper. Daphne was skilled, but Harry's onslaught pushed her back. Each spell she blocked or dodged wore her down bit by bit. And then, spotting a gap in her defences, Harry cast a powerful banishing spell. Daphne's hastily formed shield shattered upon impact, and she found herself flying off the platform.

The Great Hall erupted in applause, and even though Daphne was defeated, the smile she wore was proud and genuine. Both had proven their mettle, reminding everyone that while strength was important, strategy could be a game-changer.

Moody looked at the two exhausted duelists, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Now that's what I call a duel," he rasped, his magical eye spinning. "A perfect end to today's lesson." With a nod of finality, he bellowed, "Class dismissed!"

As the students streamed out of the Great Hall, Harry, Hermione, Neville, Tracey, and Daphne regrouped. Still catching her breath, Tracey beamed at Daphne. "Blimey, Daph! You were on fire out there. For a moment, I truly thought you had him."

Daphne raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk on her face. "I gave it my best shot," she replied with feigned innocence.

Harry, still processing the duel, turned to Daphne. "Not to take anything away from your skill," he began, "but since when can you channel that much power? I knew you were powerful, but that was... extraordinary."

Before Daphne could respond, a familiar voice rang out. "Impressive duel, you two!" Rigel approached them, a broad smile on his face. At the sight of him, the pieces clicked into place for Harry.

"You two were pulling a fast one, weren't you?" Harry chuckled, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "Daphne, were you... borrowing some of Rigel's magic?"

Daphne's playful smirk returned, but she said nothing. Instead, it was Rigel who responded. Slipping an arm around Daphne's shoulder, he said, "Our bond has grown stronger over time, Harry. But even with that extra push, you still bested her. Impressive."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Cheaters, the both of you," he joked, feigning a scandalised expression.

Rigel ruffled Harry's already messy hair affectionately. "Hey, you still came out on top. Be proud of that."

The group shared a moment of light-hearted laughter, their bonds of friendship evident. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they knew they could count on each other.

~~~o~~~

The cool breeze of the early October afternoon ruffled the robes of students as they made their way around the Hogwarts grounds. Today was not just any day; it was the day of the Slytherin Quidditch tryouts.

Harry, Hermione, and Neville were conversing amongst themselves when Rigel approached them. "Coming to watch the tryouts?" he asked, hope evident in his eyes.

Hermione exchanged a glance with Harry and Neville before shaking her head. "I think it might not be the best idea for us to be there, Rigel," she explained gently. "Slytherins might not appreciate Gryffindors watching their tryouts."

Rigel smirked. "Maybe one day, when we've torn down these barriers."

"Hopefully," Harry replied, clasping Rigel's shoulder in a show of support. "Good luck, mate." Turning to Ginny, he raised an eyebrow. "Remember our deal, Ginny."

Ginny beamed at him. "I remember, Harry. I won't let you down."

With a wave and a grin, Rigel, Daphne, and Ginny made their way toward the Quidditch pitch. Astoria and Tracey followed close behind, ready to cheer on their friends.

As they approached the stadium, the sheer number of Slytherins present was staggering. Nearly everyone from their house had turned out. The hopefuls were nervously adjusting their brooms and protective gear, while the spectators eagerly discussed who might make the team.

With a sharp whistle, Montague, the Slytherin captain, called for silence. "We'll begin with the Keeper tryouts!" he bellowed. Aspiring Keepers lined up, determination etched on their faces.

One by one, Montague, flanked by Pucey and Warrington, hurled Quaffles at the goal posts. Some were easily batted away, while others sailed past the hopefuls. But as the tryouts progressed, it became clear that Miles Bletchley, the current Keeper, was a force to be reckoned with. His swift moves and sharp reflexes ensured that very few Quaffles got past him.

After the last shot was deflected with a spectacular dive, Montague nodded appreciatively. "Well done, Bletchley," he grunted, signalling the Keeper's retention.

Next up was the chaotic round of the Beater tryouts. Bludgers whizzed around, creating a scene of sheer pandemonium. Lucian Bole and Peregrine Derrick, however, stood out with their impeccable aim and coordination. Their synchronised movements and decisive strikes ensured the bludgers found their mark time and time again.

As the last bludger was sent soaring into the distance, Montague blew his whistle again. "Bole! Derrick! You're our Beaters!" he announced, satisfaction evident in his voice.

The crowd cheered, the excitement palpable as the tryouts moved forward, the Slytherin team slowly taking shape.

As the roar of approval died down after the Beater selections, Montague cleared his throat. "Chasers, get ready!" he called.

Daphne and Rigel exchanged a confident glance, the connection between them palpable even from a distance. Together with Ginny and the other hopefuls, they kicked off into the air.

The sky was awash with a tangle of robes, brooms and Quaffles. Montague, safe in his captaincy, played with the fervour of someone trying out for the first time. But as the game wore on, it became clear that Daphne, Rigel, and Ginny were in a league of their own. The synchronicity between Rigel and Daphne was almost magical, their passes seamless and their shots precise. They danced around the other hopefuls like they were mere obstacles, not opponents.

After a series of gruelling rounds, Montague reluctantly nodded. "Black, Greengrass, welcome to the team," he announced, the admiration in his voice evident. Ginny grinned at them, both proud and slightly disappointed she wouldn't be joining them as a Chaser.

It was time for the Seeker tryouts. The lack of competition was glaring, with only a handful of students, including Ginny, rising into the air. The sparse participation was surely a testament to Malfoy's iron grip on the position.

Ginny's prowess, however, was immediately evident. With fierce determination, she pursued the Golden Snitch, her eyes never leaving the tiny, fluttering ball. Out of seven attempts, Ginny's fingers closed around the elusive Snitch five times.

Montague could hardly hide his smile. "Weasley, you're our Seeker!" he declared, making Malfoy's face turn an even deeper shade of green.

Montague turned to Malfoy, a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "Draco, you can stay on as a reserve," he offered, but the blonde-haired boy spat out a slew of insults as he stormed off the pitch.

The air was thick with excitement as the newly formed team convened on the ground. Rigel, Daphne, and Ginny, grinning from ear to ear, were immediately enveloped in hugs by Tracey and Astoria, who had been cheering from the stands.

Together, their laughter echoing in the evening air, the group made their way back to the castle, eager to share the fantastic news with Harry and the rest.

~~~o~~~

The winds of October howled outside the castle windows, heralding the nearing arrival of the other schools. Within the confines of Hogwarts, the anticipation was palpable. The Triwizard Tournament was on everyone's lips, and the prospect of champions being chosen was an exciting one.

One such evening, the Room of Requirement was alive with the muted sounds of quills scratching parchment and the faint hum of concentrated spellwork. Harry had surprised Ginny earlier that day, presenting her with the Nimbus 2001 they had previously spoken about. The redhead's cheeks were still tinged pink from her gratitude, even though she was conflicted about accepting such a lavish gift. Harry had simply winked and reminded her, "A deal's a deal."

The group was deeply engrossed in their respective tasks when a faint voice echoed through the room, causing everyone to look up. "Hello? Anyone there?"

The voice seemed to be emanating from Rigel's bag. With a puzzled frown, he rummaged through his belongings and pulled out a mirror. As its surface cleared, the unmistakable features of Sirius Black came into view. The mischievous twinkle in his eyes was undiminished, despite the grainy image.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything too important," Sirius greeted, grinning. "Got some exciting news for you lot."

He held up the first device, a small crystal embedded with a lens. "This," he began with a flourish, "is the MystiLens. At a simple command, it records or broadcasts whatever it the command demands. It's been imbued with a memory charm, so it can store footage too. And the best part? It can make itself nearly invisible. That way, it won't be a distraction."

He then held up a cluster of four shimmering crystals. "And this, my clever lot, is the MystiFrame. You can arrange these crystals into any rectangular shape. They can either display the contents of a memory charm or be attuned to a magical frequency to display what the MystiLens captures directly."

A collective gasp went around the room. Hermione's eyes sparkled with curiosity, "That's truly innovative, Sirius!"

He chuckled, "Thank you, Hermione. We're pretty proud of them. Johnson Innovations truly lived up to their reputation."

Sirius' expression turned more serious. "I'm planning to approach the Ministry tomorrow. With these gadgets, we can broadcast the Triwizard Tournament far and wide. Imagine, every magical home being able to witness the grandeur of the event!"

"That's brilliant," Harry exclaimed. "It'll be like having the entire magical community right there with us."

Sirius smiled, clearly pleased with their reactions. "Exactly! And that's what I'm hoping the Ministry will see too."

He took a deep breath, "Well, I should probably get going. Need to prepare for tomorrow's meeting." He flashed them a toothy grin, ready to end the call.

But Rigel intervened, "Wait, Dad. Let's talk for a bit." With that, books were closed, and wands were set aside. The young wizards and witches clustered around the small mirror, eager to share the happenings of Hogwarts with Sirius.

Sirius listened intently, his eyebrows shooting up when they mentioned Moody's unorthodox teaching methods. His laughter was infectious, and the room was soon filled with the warmth of shared memories and familial bonds.

The castle's clock chimed, marking the approach of curfew. With lingering words of love and assurances of another call soon, the group parted ways, the corridors echoing with the whispered plans and dreams of young minds.

~~~o~~~

The crisp October air buzzed with excitement as the day the other schools were set to arrive finally dawned. From above, a grand carriage gracefully made its descent, bringing with it the French students of Beauxbatons. Meanwhile, the waters of the Black Lake rippled and churned as a ship emerged, carrying students from all over Europe representing Durmstrang. Hogwarts students watched in awe, their eager faces painted with wonder.

Inside the Great Hall, the shimmering glow of floating candles painted an enchanting picture. Among the familiar faces, two strangers stood with Professor Dumbledore, both emanating an aura of authority.

Dumbledore's voice cut through the bustling noise. "Dear students, please welcome Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman."

Bagman, with his confident demeanour, took a step forward. "The Triwizard Tournament is a challenge only for the most daring. For the bravest of the brave," he proclaimed, eyes surveying the room. "Eternal glory awaits the victor."

Crouch continued, his voice gravely serious, "However, this is not a venture to be taken lightly. The past tournaments have witnessed tragedies. Hence, the Ministry has reintroduced a crucial rule: only those 17 and above may participate."

The crowd murmured amongst themselves, some with disappointment, others with relief. Sensing the unrest, Dumbledore gracefully pulled away a cloth, revealing the magnificent Goblet of Fire beneath. "This is the Goblet of Fire." With a flourish of his wand, he deftly drew a shimmering age line around the Goblet. "On the 31st of October, after dinner, our champions will be chosen. If you believe you're ready, write your name on a piece of parchment and place it inside." He paused, his eyes piercing. "But remember, the tournament can be lethal. Think wisely before you act."

Before moving on, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with another piece of news. "An additional note of excitement, each of our visiting schools will be contributing a Quidditch team to join this year's Quidditch Cup here at Hogwarts." Whispers of excitement spread amongst the students, the prospect of international Quidditch matches clearly sparking their interest.

After the dinner concluded and the other students had dispersed, Harry, Hermione, Neville, Tracey, Daphne, and Rigel retreated to Daphne's and Rigel's suite. Seated comfortably, they reflected on Dumbledore's presentation and the shimmering line he'd drawn around the Goblet.

"That must have been an age line," Hermione mused, "meant to stop students under 17 from entering."

Neville nodded, "It's a smart move, considering the tournament's dangerous history."

Daphne, looking contemplative, said, "Our challenge now is figuring out how to get Rigel's name into that Goblet without crossing the line."

Tracey, ever the creative thinker, chimed in, "What about an ageing potion?"

Hermione quickly dismissed the suggestion, "Too unpredictable. Besides, who's to say the age line wouldn't see right through it?"

Daphne, her fingers tracing patterns on the table, speculated, "Could we find a way to dispel it, even momentarily, or at least interfere with its magic?"

They continued to throw ideas around, each more outlandish than the last, when suddenly, Harry's face lit up with realisation. "Kreacher!" he exclaimed. "He's definitely older than 17. Could he put Rigel's name into the Goblet?"

The room went silent as everyone processed the proposition. Rigel, an amused grin stretching across his face, whispered, "It's so ridiculous... but it might be our best shot."

Without hesitation, Rigel reached for a quill and parchment that lay nearby. With swift, confident strokes, he wrote his name. He then took a deep breath and called, "Kreacher!"

The familiar pop sounded, and the old house-elf appeared, his eyes flicking immediately to Rigel. "Young master called?"

Rigel handed Kreacher the piece of parchment, instructing, "I need you to place this into the Goblet of Fire. But you must be absolutely certain no one sees you. When it's done, come back and let us know."

Kreacher bowed deeply, parchment clutched in his tiny hand. He hesitated, a troubled look in his bulbous eyes. "Master Rigel, Kreacher will do as told, but the mistress won't be pleased."

Rigel's eyes hardened slightly. "I'll handle Grandmother. Just ensure it's done discreetly."

With a nod and a quiet pop, Kreacher disappeared.

The group, the tension palpable, turned their attention back to their studies. Quills scratched and pages turned as they went over assignments, discussed topics from their classes, and occasionally exchanged knowing glances, anticipation thick in the air.

Hours seemed to slip away, and just as the heavy silence of the castle indicated that curfew was nearing, there was another pop. Kreacher reappeared, looking satisfied. "Kreacher has done as young master asked. The parchment is in the Goblet."

Rigel raised an eyebrow. "Anything unusual occur?"

Kreacher shook his head. "No one saw Kreacher. The parchment did not burn but vanished into the Goblet."

A smile, bright and hopeful, lit Rigel's face. "Thank you, Kreacher. You've been invaluable."

Kreacher nodded, then with another pop, disappeared from the room.

Suddenly, Harry, overwhelmed by a mix of brotherly love and anxiety, wrapped Rigel in a tight hug. "Good luck, Rigel. If anyone deserves to be a champion, it's you."

Pulling away, Rigel chuckled. "Maybe you should get Kreacher to throw in your name too."

Harry laughed, shaking his head with a hint of ruefulness. "I think I've had my share of 'eternal glory', and I'm not really a fan."

Rigel ruffled Harry's messy hair playfully, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Sweet dreams, brother."

And with that, the night drew to a close, the suite awash in the golden glow of camaraderie and shared hopes.

~~~o~~~

The day had dawned with a blend of solemnity and exhilaration. October 31st, a date that had left an indelible scar on Harry's heart due to the events of 1981. But this year, he endeavoured to sideline his personal grief, choosing instead to focus on the vibrant energy of Hogwarts and the hope that Rigel would be named its champion. He clung to a deep-seated conviction, perhaps spurred by fraternal love, that his brother was destined for this honour.

The Great Hall sparkled under a ceiling mirroring the twilight of the evening, the floating candles casting a gentle glow over the long tables laden with post-dinner remnants. The students whispered animatedly, the hum of their anticipation palpable, nearly tangible. Dumbledore, standing at the forefront with the Goblet of Fire beside him, raised his hand for silence.

With bated breath, they watched as a parchment emerged from the Goblet's blue flames. Dumbledore caught it and read aloud, "The champion for Beauxbatons - Fleur Delacour!" Cheers erupted, particularly from the Ravenclaw table where she had been seated, as Fleur gracefully stood, acknowledging her peers with a nod before gliding towards the trophy room.

The Goblet didn't keep them waiting for long. Another piece of parchment burst forth, which Dumbledore announced with a flourish, "From Durmstrang - Viktor Krum!" The Hall erupted again, this time the foreign students from Durmstrang leading the applause. Krum, with his characteristic stoic expression, acknowledged the cheers and then followed Fleur's path.

Then, the moment that felt almost sacred in its anticipation. The Hogwarts champion. The Goblet of Fire flared up once more, a parchment soaring out. Dumbledore's fingers caught it deftly, a brief moment of surprise flickering across his wise eyes. "The Hogwarts Champion," he began, pausing for effect, "is Rigel Black."

An enthusiastic cheer erupted from their close-knit group of friends. Harry, Hermione, Neville, Tracey, and Daphne clapped and cheered, pride evident in their eyes. But as Rigel made his way past the tables, the reception he received from the larger student body was more muted than the ones accorded to the other champions. Polite applause and half-hearted cheers punctuated his path. After all, Rigel was still a mystery to many, having joined the school just two months prior. It was indeed a challenge to represent a school when most of its students were still strangers.

Yet, as Harry scanned the room, he noticed some unexpected sources of genuine elation. Certain Slytherins, perhaps recognising the prowess of one of their own, cheered with fervour. But what caught Harry off guard was the reaction of Professor Snape. The usually inscrutable Potions Master, often a harbinger of cold disdain, was observing Rigel with something akin to pride. In the dim light of the Great Hall, for a fleeting moment, Snape looked genuinely pleased.

Dumbledore's clear voice filled the Great Hall once more, cutting through the lingering murmurs of surprise and wonderment from the student body. "Dear students and staff, I'd like you to extend your heartfelt congratulations and support to our chosen champions. They will face three harrowing tasks, each one a test of their skill, courage, and intelligence, all in the pursuit of eternal glory - the honour of holding the Triwizard Cup."

However, just as the applause began to swell, the Goblet flared up again, its blue flames shooting high into the air. Out of the depths, another piece of parchment rocketed forth, spiralling in the air before settling into Dumbledore's outstretched hand. The hall went deathly silent, every eye riveted on the Headmaster.

Dumbledore's face registered genuine shock as he read the name on the parchment. "Harry Potter," he said, his voice echoing eerily in the silent hall.

Harry felt as if he had been petrified. His heart raced, cold dread spreading through his veins like a poison. Thoughts swirled chaotically in his mind. He hadn't entered the tournament, and there were already three champions. Panic threatened to consume him, making it hard to breathe.

The Great Hall, a moment ago filled with tense anticipation, now erupted in a cacophony of shock. Dumbledore's announcement had clearly blindsided everyone. Gasps, murmurs, and indistinct whispers filled the air, creating a palpable sense of disbelief. It was as if time had frozen, the collective shock rendering the room in a standstill.

Even amongst his close friends, the reaction was no different. Hermione's mouth hung open, her usually quick mind seemingly unable to process the unexpected twist of events. Neville's eyes were wide as saucers, his face paling a shade, too stunned to even offer words of comfort.

From the Slytherin table, a figure dashed forward, her silver and green robes billowing behind her. Daphne Greengrass, usually so composed, let urgency dictate her actions. The other Slytherins watched, equally stunned, as she sped towards the Gryffindor table.

Harry's muddled thoughts, filled with dread and confusion, were momentarily stilled as he saw Daphne rushing towards him. Before he could react, she was there, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him into a comforting embrace. The warmth of her hug grounded him, pulling him away from the edge of panic.

Pulling back slightly, Daphne's azure eyes locked onto Harry's, her expression a complex blend of shock, concern, and fierce determination. "Go to Rigel, Harry," she whispered, her voice strong despite its softness, tinged with palpable worry. "We'll figure this out. We always do."

Giving him a gentle push towards Dumbledore, Daphne reached into her bag, drawing out a mirror as she watched Harry's retreating back. With urgency, she called out, "Sirius Black!"

The mirror shimmered and Sirius' face appeared, eyes widening in alarm as Daphne quickly recounted the evening's events. "We need you here, Sirius. Now."

Without hesitation, Sirius' voice came through, firm and resolute, "I'll be there in a minute. Hold on."

~~~o~~~

The trophy room was bathed in dim light, the polished trophies gleaming softly in the darkness. Harry's entrance was met with confusion. Fleur Delacour's eyes widened, and Viktor Krum's dark gaze turned quizzical. But it was Rigel who responded first. With a quick stride, he reached Harry, pulling him into a comforting embrace. "I know," Rigel murmured, pressing his forehead against Harry's, the bond he shared with Daphne alerting him of the unexpected twist.

Their moment of solace was brief. The door swung open to admit a flurry of people. Dumbledore entered first, his expression grave, followed closely by Karkaroff, Maxime, and a slew of Hogwarts professors - Lupin, Snape, Moody, and McGonagall. Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman trailed behind, their expressions a mix of confusion and concern.

Without preamble, the questions began, flying at Harry from all sides. "How did you put your name in, Potter?" "Did you have an older student help you?" "Why would you want to compete, young man?"

Each word felt like a blow, and Harry's skin paled, his voice barely a whisper as he tried to fend off the accusations. "I didn't... I never..."

Rigel's eyes flashed with a fire that cut through the cacophony. "Enough!" he boomed, silencing the room. All eyes snapped to him. "Harry did not enter this tournament willingly. It's clear someone wanted him in it. This isn't a mere prank; someone is trying to harm my brother."

Lupin and Snape exchanged a brief glance, a rare mutual understanding passing between them. Both looked impressed with Rigel's assertiveness, but others were less pleased. Crouch's eyebrows knitted together, and he replied curtly, "This doesn't concern you, young man."

However, before Rigel could respond, the door was thrown open once more. The imposing figure of Sirius Black descended the steps, his face etched with anger and concern. "Get away from my son and godson," he ordered, his voice thunderous.

Harry's eyes welled with relief at the sight of his godfather. Sirius' gaze darted to the two boys. "Harry, Rigel, go I will handle this."

But as they made their way to the door, Ludo Bagman, ever the showman, cleared his throat. "Ah, before you go," he said with an unnerving cheerfulness, "The first task, champions, will test your courage. Prepare yourselves!"

Rigel, his patience clearly waning, snapped, "That's hardly a hint, Bagman."

Tightening his grip around Harry, who still looked thoroughly shaken, Rigel shot Sirius a look of determination. "I'm taking Harry to our suite. He needs rest."

With one last protective glance towards his brother, Rigel navigated them out of the room, leaving the adults behind in a tense silence.

~~~o~~~

The suite's ambiance was warm and inviting, with Kreacher having lit the fireplace that cast dancing shadows on the walls. As the door closed behind Rigel and Harry, Daphne immediately took care of them. She settled them down on the plush sofa, handing each of them a steaming mug of hot chocolate. The sweet aroma filled the room, providing a stark contrast to the chaos outside.

Daphne brushed a stray lock of hair away from Harry's forehead, her touch gentle. "It's going to be okay, Harry," she whispered.

Before they could dwell on the events further, the door opened again, admitting Sirius and Remus. The weariness on their faces was evident. Sirius's eyes were hard with anger, but also shimmered with concern. "The Goblet's decision is binding, Harry," Sirius began, his voice grave. "There's no way out of it."

Harry's expression turned sombre. The weight of the situation pressing down on him. "What am I going to do now?"

Rigel, sensing his brother's despair, mustered a reassuring smile. "We're in this together, Harry. We'll train, prepare, and you'll breeze through those tasks. You're strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for."

Sirius's gaze shifted to Rigel, a hint of amusement evident. "Speaking of entering the tournament, how did you manage it, Rigel? You're not seventeen either."

A mischievous grin spread across Rigel's face. "I simply had Kreacher help me."

Sirius and Remus both burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the room. Harry felt a bubble of happiness rise within him, the infectious laughter proving to be a balm to his troubled heart. "Merlin, Rigel," Sirius chuckled, wiping a tear away, "My mother is going to kill you when she finds out!"

Rigel's smile never wavered. "I can handle Grandma."

The room was filled with light-hearted banter, a stark difference from the tension that had prevailed earlier. They spoke well into the night, laughter and warmth enveloping them. Sirius was the first to glance at the clock, announcing it was way past their bedtime.

Harry hesitated. "Can I... can I stay here tonight?"

Rigel clapped his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Of course." With a snap of his fingers, he summoned Kreacher. "Get Harry's pyjamas, would you?"

After the house-elf had disappeared, Sirius and Remus bid their goodbyes. Harry, feeling drained from the day's events, settled on the sofa. The soft cushions seemed to hug him, lulling him to sleep.

As the embers in the fireplace flickered, casting a warm glow in the room, Harry felt a profound sense of gratitude. With Rigel, Daphne, and his friends by his side, he was confident they'd navigate the challenges of the Triwizard Tournament together.