Chapter 3 - Summoning Courage
Some potential Champions took pleasure in publicly announcing their addition to the flaming wooden charred goblet. They would waltz up to the front of the Great Hall during mealtime with their friends hooting and cheering behind them as they put their names into the flames. The small scroll of folded-up parchment would immediately blacken and curl, and blue sparks would shoot up from the unknown depths to congratulate the brave (or foolish, depending on your opinion) volunteer.
Others were pushed into the ring by well-meaning companions and through peer pressure would hurriedly scribble down their name and toss it into the fire before they could change their minds. Perhaps, they were the brightest of their year with the most potential in Charms or Defence Against the Dark Arts. Whatever they excelled in, they weren't the flashy ones to immediately put themselves in the Tournament without reservation. Maybe it was the long history of death in the Tournament that put them off. Or it could've been their own insecurities about if they were skilled enough witches or wizards to enter in the first place. These were the sort of students who would get a howler from their parents in the following days to ground them for the rest of their lives.
The final sort of wannabee Triwizard Tournament Champions were the ones who did so secretly. They would tell none of their friends or family due to embarrassment that they didn't think they were good enough for the competition, or because no one else believed in them. These were the volunteers that intrigued Armando Dippet the most. He watched an imperceptible shadow approach the cup and stood just outside the magical ring decorating the ground below the pedestal. The shadow hesitated and Dippet thought they would lose their nerve and return to wherever they came from, be it Hogwarts, Beauxbatons or Durmstrang accommodations. They be not the first, nor shall they be the last.
He watched a foot enter the inside of the magical ward and then a small, pale hand extended his wand to touch the lip of the cup. Dippet was confused, what did the witch or wizard intend to do with their wand? They clearly were old enough to enter the Tournament since they passed through the barrier. They didn't have to bewitch the cup or the tens of other things that he'd seen the jealous underage cohort attempt to skirt the requirements. He found it amusing when he saw two redheaded twins use an Aging potion to fool the protections. The cup rattled on the Grecian stone pillar that it was seated on, shooting aggressive dark blue and icy-coloured sparks into the air of the empty Great Hall.
Dippet's bushy eyebrows knitted together in suspicion, "Hark! What dost thou think thou art about?" The cup calmed but the shadow did not, tossing their name into settled flames before they broke out into a sprint away from it as if the fire would follow them. Dippet considered rousing the attention of the headmaster, but he was trapped in the Great Hall with no other portrait nearby to carry the message. By the time it was the morning, Armando Dippet had forgotten all about the strangeness from the night before.
Fleur Delacour was a slight witch with an ethereal appearance that she despised to possess. Her grandmother, on her mother's side, the side of the family from which she inherited her looks, always praised her beauty. She used to like how her grandmother would brush her gold-spun hair and pinch her naturally blushed cheeks. She used to like her appearance until she started noticing the stares, the lingering looks, the envy-green eyes. And the older she grew, the worse the judgement became. She could withstand the jealousy from the women. She could understand the desire to be beautiful without work. It was only natural to desire beauty without work. But Fleur found it harder to bear the men.
At first, she was kind and would let herself be inconvenienced by their flirtation. She would listen to them make impossible promises and fools out of themselves. But there was always a point where she needed to excuse herself and that's when the fools turned on her. The worst had followed her home during the summer break she turned fifteen and remained waiting outside until her father chased him away. She stayed up that night, thinking about what it would've been like to point a wand at that Muggle man and see the realisation on his face that he was harassing a witch and not a normal woman. She recounted every single curse and hex she would've liked to put on the man. There were a few that were only available to her kind, ones that her grandmother once showed her. A curse that would cripple a man's use of his genitalia until he learned to control his lust.
Experiences like those made her the guarded person she is today. Smiles were reserved for family and trusted friends, not the public. After arriving at Hogwarts, she was grateful that Madame Maxime had insisted on private lessons for the Beaxbatons instead of joining their year group at Hogwarts. She understood that some of her classmates despised the preferential treatment that their big-boned headmistress had given her, but the Madame had fiercely dismissed that sort of talk. Her classmates had grown immune to her and her younger sister, Gabriel's, natural radiance, but the students of Hogwarts have not.
She expected her name to be pulled out from the Goblet, and with otherworldly grace rose from her dining chair at Ravenclaw house. She held her breath for the entire short walk that was to the front of the Great Hall, which helped her ignore the wolf whistles and rampant applause from the people she was supposed to call her hosts. One blue slipper in front of the other, until she reached Madame Maxime who was standing next to Dumbledore. A large warm hand wrapped around her waist, "Congratulations, Fleur. You will make Beaxbatons proud," she praised in French.
She thanked her headmistress for her kind words and vowed to end the competition with people respecting more than just her looks. If it wasn't purely for her, it would be for Gabriel.
"She's a bit of a looker," Draco Malfoy asserted sleazily to his group of mates as he took in the newly appointed Beaxbatons' Champion. Crabbe and Goyle sniggered like all good henchmen do and Blaise Zabini gave a cursory glance from his plate to the front of the hall.
"You're disgusting, Dray," Blaise drawled in boredom. "And you just like witches who look like you." Draco glared at his best friend's assessment. No matter how much Draco complained, he did appreciate his friend's earnestness. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle weren't the most intellectual companions, but he kept them around since their families were close to him. Zabini wasn't always a friend, he was a second choice when Draco found out that Theodore Nott Jr. was as disinterested as Potter when it came to his friendship. He approached Zabini the very next morning and he wore down the handsome Italian boy until he agreed to be his friend. Now they were close enough to alternate summer and winter holidays between their homes. Draco preferred to spend Christmases at Zabini's seaside mansion, and summers at his own humble home.
"I do not," Draco argued reflexively. "Don't tell me that you aren't affected by it." His pale cheeks were tinged a light pink until he saw other Slytherins apart from Blaise being affected by Fleur's magnetic presence. Clearly, his friend didn't share the same impeccable taste he had, but he understood not everyone grew up with his eye for curation. He was sure that his father would agree with his taste in witches. He knew he would considering how beautiful his mother was.
"Some of us can practise self-restraint," Blaise cut into his piece of flaky white fish. He knew that Draco was seconds away from throwing another not-so-witty one-liner about being the best at self-restraint. Blaise always wondered how Draco didn't possess even a crumb of self-reflection when he spent hours in front of the bathroom mirror. "Veelas aren't that that special." Blaise rolled his austere brown eyes.
Unlike Fleur, Victor Krum did not expect his name to be called from the goblet. He almost fell out of his chair due to his clumsiness when his dinner was interrupted by his Durmstrang counterparts began their metrical banging on the wooden table – bang, bang, bang, bang – to give him courage for his walk up. It was a custom from Durmstrang that he didn't think would ever happen to him. He shuffled awkwardly to the beat to the front of the hall, his fur-lined boots dragging against the stones until he met Igor's glacial blue eyes as his smile never quite reached them. "Don't disappoint me again, Krum." His headmaster placed a hand on his coat jacket shoulder and squeezed rougher than was friendly.
"Yes, sir." Victor tried to keep his face frozen into a focused look to keep his real emotions from surfacing. He had always feared failure – failing his country, failing his family and right now, failing his school. He couldn't bear to meet the eyes of his fellows on the Slytherin table and looked towards the opposite direction of the hall.
Inquisitive doe-like brown eyes that flicked between him and the red-headed boy sitting next to her. She was small, but most people were small in comparison to him. She spoke quickly and he wished she could hear what she sounded like. She had a dark complexion, and her frizzy hair was darker than that. The messy curls shook with each one of her animated movements as she talked with her hands. Krum could understand that they were discussing him, but he wasn't anxious that they were speaking critically. The boy was smiling, in the way he's seen fans do so. They all wear this awkward toothy grin like their tongue is too heavy for their mouth. He liked the way she looked at him. An exasperated look came from Quidditch watchers who had been forced to come along.
Hermione had finally noticed that the youngest world-class seeker in history had noticed her stares and looked away in embarrassment. Krum decided in that moment that he'd win the Tournament for her which was a thought that was more nerve-wracking than playing Ireland in the finals. He'd never promised a win to a witch before, but he felt in a chivalrous mood due to the Tournament.
Only a dozen people from Hogwarts had put their names into the goblet, but it felt like the entire school had held its breath for the announcement of their Champion. A scroll of neatly folded white parchment was spat out by the cup into Dumbledore's outstretched hand. He nimbly unfolded the paper that had been folded three times over to read Cedric Diggory's name. The entirety of Hufflepuff clambered onto their feet, and some onto their benches and tables to congratulate the Hogwarts Champion. There was a silent but unanimous agreement that it was high time for Hufflepuff to be acknowledged. Even before Harry Potter's arrival at the school, Hufflepuff had always been the house that was forgotten about or ignored. Many half-blood or pure-blood students would hope for any house but Hufflepuff when they sat underneath the omniscient sorting hat.
Cedric Diggory was not one of those pure-bloods. The Diggorys had a long family history in Hufflepuff House, with his father and mother both being students of the honey badger House when they attended. He was proud to be another Diggory clothed in gold and black. And now he was the first to be in the Triwizard Tournament! He shook Dumbledore's hand in a firm grip and gave the Great Hall his best-winning smile. He knew that this would be the memory he'd use for casting the Patronus Charm in the foreseeable future (eventually he wanted to replace it with graduation, becoming the seeker on the national quidditch team or his marriage to Cho Chang) and wanted to memorise every single detail. The honey badger printed on Dumbledore's robes had woven itself from the other three house representatives, and now sat lazily upon his shoulder, licking at its sharp claws. Cedric thought that the Hufflepuff banners in the hall looked larger and more animated than usual, but it could be the light-headedness he was feeling from being chosen to represent his entire school.
He could already imagine the look on his dad's face tomorrow morning when he would look at the headline on the Prophet to see his son plastered on the front-page photograph. He searched for the same proud smiles across the faces in front of him and was only greeted with the looks of horrification and confusion. He turned to his right to see what had taken everyone's attention away from him to saw that another scroll had been thrown from the mouth of the cup and floated lackadaisically down to land just in front of Dumbledore's feet. "Don't worry sir, I'll get it," he offered helpfully, and then he bent down to retrieve the scroll.
"Thank you, Cedric," Dumbledore beamed at the young boy. Dumbledore was just as shocked at the sight of the fourth scroll like everyone else in the hall, and hesitantly unfurled it. He wasn't ready to read out the name he already knew would be printed there. He held back from reading it out loud to see if the note was forged in some way, but it was written in the same chicken-scratch handwriting style that Harry Potter was known for. It even had the signature drops of inks soaking the bottom-right edge of the strip that had been smudged by his hand.
He was temporarily enticed to lie to the entire school, to the gathered Ministry officials, and to his honoured foreign guests and to tear the paper up before anyone else could see what was written. However, the Goblet of Fire is bound by ancient magic and once a name is pulled from it, the competitor must participate in the Tournament until the end or their death. This was magic that was even unknown to the Grand Sorcerer decorated with the Order of Merlin, First Class, and possibly only studied by the enigmatic Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries.
He pushed his glasses up his nose and wiped the sweat collecting on it with the sleeve of his robes before reading out the name on the slip of paper with a put-on calm voice.
Operation: Donator Sanguinis had just successfully launched with every step that Harry Potter took towards the front. The terrible name was provided by Barty Crouch Jr. and it had stuck that way as no one else cared to rename it. The Polyjuiced Barty Crouch ignored the presence of his decade-long kidnapper who was standing frowning next to Albus Dumbledore as he clunked speedily towards the boy. He needed to play his part well as a paranoid ex-auror who would intervene in this situation and advise Dumbledore that the Tournament is being used as a method to target the Boy Who Lived.
And just like the books he had spent the entire day reading (he had transfigured the cover to be an old edition of the Quibbler), his voice is washed away as the two other headteachers argued that it was unfair to have a second Hogwarts Champion in the Tournament and demanded that the cup pick one from each of their schools to even the playing field. Either it was age or shock that made Dumbledore stammer an apology, and his father, Barty Crouch Snr. Interfere with an explanation as to why the Tournament couldn't be altered now. Harry Potter was now magically bound to participate whether the boy wanted to and the cup would bear no other names.
He would've felt bad for the boy if it wasn't in his interest to have him participate in the Tournament. His magical prosthetic eye was firmly glued on his Weasley friend who was turning a bright shade of scarlet. He could see the way his fists were balled underneath the table as his witch friend was nattering on about something with a worried look on her face. It would be only a matter of time before jealousy drove a wedge between them, which would allow him to sweep in and mentor Harry into winning the Tournament.
"Miss Patel," Barty Crouch Jr. addressed her at the end of class, signalling that he wanted her to stay behind. A week had passed since the choosing of the Champions and all everyone could talk about was how Harry Potter had gotten himself into the Tournament. Apparently, Ron Weasley wasn't the only person at the school who thought that he had done so for attention. Ernie Macmillan had spent the entire period telling anyone who would listen that Potter couldn't stand the spotlight being on someone who wasn't him, and that the Hufflepuffs should rally behind the true Hogwarts Champion, Cedric Diggory. He hadn't seemed to have learned from his experience with prematurely jumping on the Heir of Slytherin bandwagon.
Hannah and Susan looked apologetically at Shruthi. First, it was Severus Snape, and now it was Professor Moody that she was in trouble with. As much as they were empathetic to the new Hufflepuff girl, they were just as glad that she was drawing attention from everyone else. Shruthi quietly grumbled as she packed away her things from her Defence Against the Dark Arts revision lesson on Red Caps. Barty had spent the lesson regaling a particularly brutal battle from the previous wizarding war in which a few of his colleagues (not sure if he was talking about the Death Eaters or the Order) that had both sides using blood curses. The soil had been soaked for days, providing the perfect habitat for these dwarf-like beasts to mate in. Most students left the classroom that day feeling queasy since it was the story of how 'Mad Eye' Moody had lost his leg. Their appetite was lost for lunch.
He waited till every other student had left the classroom with him shouting out a reminder about 'Constant Vigilance!' before he closed to the door behind the trailing Ravenclaw. "Don't you have a class after this?" Shruthi asked as she fidgeted with her wand.
"Seventh years. I've told them to head to the forbidden forest to go hide. If I can't find them by the end of the period, they pass the class." Shruthi was never quite sure if Barty was joking or being serious, and his face being obscured by the potion made it worse since anything that came out of his torn mouth sounded genuine. His good brown eye narrowed, "If they can't survive in the forbidden forest for an hour or two by themselves, they aren't cut out for being an auror anyway."
"Right… what do you want with me then?"
"Always to the point, Patel. Maybe I just wanted to spend time with you?" Shruthi stared down her professor until he broke a wide smile and laughed freely. His laugh – Moody's laugh, had a barking quality that carried around the classroom. The gravelly nature of his voice had its edges smoothened during laughter. She imagined it would've been the sort of laughter that lit up the serious nature of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and even better heard at the pub after a long day or dangerous mission. "Fine… I need your help." Another moment passed until Shruthi realised he wasn't pulling her leg and wanted her opinion on something.
He needs my help - why? She looked behind her to make sure the door was closed and leaned over her desk with her palms backward and her fingers curling over the edge of it. "Is this about operation: sanguinis?" Barty smirked since his name had stuck.
"Potentially. And you might as well say the full name if you're going to use it," He walked around the desk and pulled out Shruthi's chair taking a seat in it. He found it very hard to stand and walk for long periods of time. When he had asked the real Moody behind the choice of prosthetic, the man said the pain would keep him alert but all it made Barty was miserable. "I've gotten in contact with some of my old friends in the Auror Office, and they said they could bend some rules with opening the Lestrange family vaults."
Shruthi nodded along politely to Barty's rant about the archaic bureaucracy at the Ministry, and how hard it was to arrange anything at Gringotts due to the goblins. He blamed his father would increasing these red lines when he was the head of the auror office during the war. There was a great public fear that the Death Eaters had infiltrated high levels of the Ministry, and it forced every department to change their security systems to become as convoluted as possible.
"As soon they get back with an affirmative, I'll be going to get the ring and the locket too. I just need to arrange an excuse to head down to London. I was thinking about telling Dumbledore that I needed to get a few things from Moody's house for some demonstrations."
Shruthi had zoned out at some point during Barty's explanation about how opening the Gringotts vault by the auror office required a worker from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures who could speak Gobbledegook to translate between the two institutions. Goblins are very clever magical creatures, and the ones that work at Gringotts are all very much capable of speaking English however, they are also extremely prideful. Wherever they can get away with it, they will force a wizard to go through as much trouble as possible to access their own money.
"Uh, yeah, sounds good," Shruthi stammered. "You've always been a 'going beyond the call of duty' sort of teacher, I'm sure he'd believe it. Maybe say you're extra worried about Harry Potter and the Tournament. Maybe you think Durmstrang is behind it or something like that."
Barty hummed which came out as a grumble from his chest. "I like that. For a second, I was worried you weren't listening to a word I was saying."
Shruthi felt her cheeks grow warm and her head bobbled as she spoke, "No, no, I was listening. I would love to know more about the difference in the cadence of formal and casual Gobbledegook. I think you described it as 'beating a lump of hot iron' verses 'an uncoordinated jig.'"
"I'll hold you to that, Shruthi. I think I'll have to steal you and his tea set away from Severus for a day. I'm a little rusty on my Gobbledegook, it would be a good refresher for me to teach it to someone."
Shruthi's face fell a little in the realisation that she had just trapped herself with Barty Crouch Jr. for an afternoon on a language that she was not interested in learning. "Oh," she said in a small voice. "I didn't know that Moody spoke it."
"He doesn't but my father spoke over two hundred languages, and I inherited his skill," Barty winked with his enchanted eye. "Did you know that historically, wizards thought that house elves used to speak a dialect of Gobbledegook, but it was actually it was a simplified version of the elvish tongue? However, over time and domestication, it has been lost and they speak whatever language their owners do."
"That's great… But, I really should be going since I have class soon…"
"Ah, yes," Barty rolled up one of his sleeves to read the time. He had kept her here longer than necessary, but he was starved for human company after his imprisonment. Especially company that knew his real identity. The only being that spoke to him regularly was Winky the house elf, but house elves make poor conversational partners. Winky was a sweet elf who would accept anything that Barty spoke to her about with the subservient phrase, 'Oh, Master Crouch is so clever!' She'd say it with such enthusiasm that Barty couldn't even punish her for being disingenuous or condescending. "I called you here because I needed help opening up the Chamber of Secrets."
"Why do you want to go there?" Shruthi's head jerked to the left in confusion.
"For the diary, I know it was destroyed but I want to have a look at it regardless." Barty was more knowledgeable than most on Dark objects and artifacts due to his own curiosities and his father's work history. Barty Crouch Snr. would always bring work back to the dining table, and before he knew of his son's allegiances talk in great lengths about the process of properly disposing and destroying said objects. Barty had never heard of Horcruxes until recently and spent every free minute he had investigating them. Inspecting a destroyed one would give him greater insight on how to protect the other ones from the same fate.
"Can't you just hiss at the tap? Surely, you've heard baby Voldemort speak to Nagini." Barty's left nostril (the one remaining) flared at the sound of his Dark Lord's name, but it was more in amusement at the description of the man rather than anger at the casualness of his name.
"I tried that. It didn't work." He first assumed that he had spoken the language incorrectly as parseltongue was a secretive language that was passed down orally in the Gaunt family line. Barty scoured the school library for any written sources, but he couldn't find any, forcing him to approach Severus Snape for help. Together they rewatched a few memories of meetings from when the Death Eaters were at their height until they got the inflections correct. Still, the faucet mechanism didn't move which led him to believe it could only be opened by an heir. "I need you to convince Harry to take you down to the chamber and retrieve the diary for me."
Shruthi reluctantly agreed since her friend's life was on the line, though she wasn't sure how she could go about what she signed up for. "You'll figure it out," Barty jested cheerfully as he ushered her out of the classroom and escorted her down to greenhouses.
Hermione Granger awoke one morning with the worst headache she had experienced in her entire life. It was worse than the migraines she experienced during the Hogwarts exam season. It was worse than the emotional turmoil she had when she was forced to leave Ron behind after he was injured playing chess and Harry had asked her to solve the riddle in her first year at Hogwarts. The pain had wrapped around her entire head crawled down her spine and curled around her lower back and legs. Her entire face felt raw and sensitive when she had forced her sleep crusted eyes open. She carefully brought a finger to her face and felt several swellings along her usually smooth cheek. She never suffered from acne, that was always something that Ron monopolised between the three of them.
She heard coughing from the bed beside her. She rolled to her side to see her dormmate, Lavender Brown weakly open her bed curtains. Her entire face was covered with purple pustules. "Oh my gosh, Lavender! Are you okay?" Parvati Patil screamed in horror. Her own face had a few of the same symptoms dotting her vertically dimpled chin.
Lavender tried to reply which sent her into a coughing fit. Hermione reached over to the decanter on her bedside table and poured the pale, shaking girl a glass. She drank it in small agonising swallows as tears formed on the outside corners of her milky-coloured eyes. "What are these?" Parvati's sharp voice had woken the last of the sleeping girls in the room. Parvati was engrossed by her appearance in the floor-length mirror in the corner of the dorm room that had the edges decorated by magical photographs of the girls in the room. She pressed on the throbbing, grape-like projection on her face and winced.
"I wouldn't recommend you do that, it might irritate the pustules," Hermione advised.
Parvati made a disgusted face, "Ew, what are they? Hermione?"
"I… don't know," Hermione admitted in a quiet voice, her hands balling the fabric of her nightgown. She was disappointed in herself for not being able to answer a question. She felt doubly so since her own parents were dentists, she ought to be knowledgeable on diseases. "Whatever it is, it's very contagious." She deduced it from the fact that everyone in the room had at least one pimple somewhere on their face today when all of them were fine the day before.
"It's Spattergroit," Faye announced with her wispy voice being even more frail than usual. "Hermione is right, it's super contagious. We can't leave the room, or we'll give it to the rest of the school." Hermione suddenly recalled hearing about it when Ron was telling Harry cool facts of the Quidditch World Cup history over the summer. Ron said that there was this mystery around the cup that had taken place in 1877 since no one could remember it even though tickets were sold, and photos were taken. Ron said that a strange brain fungus had caused all the attendees and even the players to forget about the matches called Cerebrumous Spattergroit.
The girls remained in the room until it was almost breakfast time and a prefect knocked to inquire why they had not left yet. Through the door, Hermione explained with a hoarse voice what the current situation was inside, and the prefect immediately summoned the Gryffindor Head of House, Professor McGonagall and the school Mediwitch Poppy Pomfrey for help. The situation developed quickly, and the fourth-year Gryffindor girls were arranged breakfast in their rooms which came with a list of homework including the class readings for the day.
Outside of the castle, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were both put into a two-week quarantine since Spattergroit was a disease more commonly found in Europe than in Britain. Poppy had theorised that one of visiting students must have had a latent strand of it from childhood exposure that had a minor flare-up. They were themselves immune but contagious, and only time would tell just how many students at Hogwarts were going to be affected by it. Igor Karkaroff disagreed that it was one of his and Madame Olympe was equally appalled at the request for isolation. Both said it was a ploy for Hogwarts to gain an advantage in training their Champions and this was blatant British fearmongering that the foreigners were dirty compared to them.
What no one had known is that Severus Snape had taken advantage of the fact that Hermione Granger had recently travelled to France over the summer, and he acquired a vial of the French variety of Spattergroit from a member of the British Potions Council. Now, both Ron and Hermione were disposed of, crumbling Harry Potter's support system. Without his Muggle-born friend's ability to subdue his hormonal hotheadedness, Potter had just landed himself a detention tonight with Snape's regulars.
The air was tense with anticipation as the door of the potion's classroom swung open and a small black-haired boy entered with hunched shoulders. He had just spent the entire walk from the Gryffindor tower to the Slytherin dungeons evading students from all houses. When he heard Diggory's name pulled from the cup, he sagged in relief even though he had never entered the cup in the first place. Finally, a year where his name wasn't going to be the one that was discussed at dinner or in the classes when the teachers weren't looking. Fate was never on his side, and like always neither were the opinions of the residents of Hogwarts.
He thought with the arrival of Durmstrang and Beaxbatons that the students of Hogwarts would finally have an external drive to band together as a community. All it had done was grow the number of people he had to watch out for in hallways. Even 'Nearly Headless' Nick had spoken to him, telling him how disappointed he was at Harry's supposed dishonourable conduct. I DIDN'T DO IT! I DON'T WANT TO BE IN THIS BLOODY TOURNAMENT, he wanted to shout out loud, but he knew that it wouldn't change a thing.
All throughout these years, Harry knew at least one person's opinion at this school never wavered. "Here comes Potter, finally gracing us with his presence," Snape drawled as Harry dumped his schoolbag against the furthest wall from the teacher's desk. This was a new record for how long he had gone without earning a detention from Severus Snape. "You have dawdled enough, get on with it."
Harry shuffled over to pick up a scrubbing brush to join the two other students who were unlucky to be in detention with him today. Over the years he's experienced detention in the dungeons, only a few he had with others present. Of those times, Snape had always been less torturous than if he was serving his sentence in solitary. He hoped that this would be like those experiences since he didn't know if he could take the usual mental beating he received from the man.
He drove the rough bristled brush repeatedly over an ink stain working out his anger that had culminated recently. Ron's betrayal had come out of nowhere to him. He knew that his best friend had feelings of being the least remembered brother in his family, but he never expected that to manifest in the way it had. Ron had been with him in every moment that Voldemort had targeted him in the past couple of years, and Harry expected him to understand best that his fame only brought him misfortune. If anyone had the right to be jealous, it was himself. Ron had a loving family, cool and awesome older brothers, and he grew up knowing he was a wizard. Harry beat himself up mentally, he should've known about Ron's feelings when he had brought him to the Mirror of Erised. His best friend had been so captivated by what he saw inside the mirror that he practically ignored the way that the reflection had made Harry feel. It was the first time that Harry had seen his parents. He remembered the warm bubbly feeling of hope it filled him up with before it came crashing down that they were dead.
Harry was jealous that Ron had such a great family. He remembered the first time he ate with the Weasleys, and it made him feel like Dudley. His aunt Petunia always insisted that Dudley ate seconds and thirds – "he's a growing boy, Vernon." Sometimes, Dudley would be so hungry that Harry had to forgo eating so his cousin could be satisfied. Harry remembered how quickly he had finished his plate at the Weasleys, afraid that was all he would get for the day. Molly had turned crimson when Harry had praised her cooking. She didn't recall the last time she heard such nice compliments about it. The rest of the Weasleys had been spoiled by her home-cooked meals daily that it was an expectation. She readily served Ron's friend whom she saw as an adopted son as much food as he asked for which he scoffed down just as quickly as his first plate. And for the first time in his life, Harry felt full in his stomach and his heart.
He didn't understand when Ron complained about his bedroom being small when Harry had spent most of his life sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs. He didn't understand when Ron had grumbled about the ragging he got from his older brothers. Harry would've preferred to just be teased and pranked instead of the antics of his bully cousin, Dudley Dursley. He hated being chased, beaten to a pulp and laughed at by Dudley and later his friends. He wished he had brothers like Fred and George who would make him laugh. Hell, he would even take Percy Weasley as a brother.
Hermione had told him in her fourteen-year-old sage-like wisdom that Ron would eventually come around. Harry knew that was no longer possible. Hermione is the only person who had the ability to reason with Ron when he is aggrieved with Harry. He heard the news this morning from Professor McGonagall and had gone to visit her straight away. He sat with his back against the door with his knees to his chest, and he could hear a myriad of coughs and sneezes from the other side. Hermione warned him that she wouldn't be able to speak in a few weeks time when the disease had spread to her uvula, but she would try to do everything in her power to get better soon.
He knew it was an unachievable promise. He asked Pomfrey about the illness, and she said the only cure for it was time. Depending on the individual it could be a couple of months to an entire year. When his name was pulled out of the cup, he was at least confident that Hermione would be able to help him through the challenges. Now he had no one. He knew he could be a good student if he applied himself to his studies, but he still liked Hermione's help. He liked it when she made him coloured-coded revision timetables and corrected his essays. She always did more for him than he did for her. She worried about him like Molly worried about the twins. And he knew that she would be stressed for him while she recovered from Spattergroit, which probably wasn't a good thing when you're sick. But he had no idea how to lie to his brilliant friend that he could handle the Tournament by himself.
He considered asking Hagrid for help, but he hadn't seen the half-giant anywhere these days. He found that incredibly odd since it's pretty damn hard to miss Hagrid. He felt utterly alone. Harry's passionate scrubbing had caused the top layer of varnish to be stripped. Bollocks, Snape is going to make me repaint the entire bench now.
He felt someone stare at the back of his head and put down the brush to find out if it was the jerk himself. He turned slowly and blinked slowly. He was being stared at by the two girls with him. He was used to being ogled and stared at. Even before he received his first Hogwarts letter and found out he was a wizard. Oddly dressed people would stop and look at him across the roads, some even brave enough to approach him. Petunia would always harshly yank him away from them and he would punished back at 4 Privet Drive. When Hagrid had brought him to the Leaky Cauldron, Harry spent almost an hour being greeted by well-wishers and photographed. At first, he adored the attention. He liked how important it made him feel, like he mattered. People would gift him things with their condolences and thanks. He kept each one in a compartment in his school trunk.
Now he couldn't visit Diagon Alley without creating enough chaos that the magical law enforcement was called for crowd control. Once he tried telling an overly forward witch that he couldn't take a picture with her which caused her to openly bawl. People around him immediately blamed him for upsetting the young woman. Fame was a double-edged sword that Harry didn't know how to wield. No matter how much he disliked Gildory Lockheart, he did appreciate the advice the man gave him. Harry Potter plastered a phoney grin and waited for the two witches to speak first.
"Are you okay?" asked the shorter one. For a moment, his smile slipped since he wasn't expecting an inquiry into his mental wellbeing, but he recovered.
"Thank you for asking," Lockheart taught him to be grateful for each interaction. People may have come a long way to meet him, and since Harry was a war hero the baggage that came with them may be heavy. "I'm well. How are you?"
"No, you're not. You've been huffing and puffing for the last half an hour."
"I've just had a lot on my mind recently. Would you like a picture?" He tried to evade answering. Lockheart said to always bring the conversation back to the fan. They're not here to hear about you, Harry. They know all about you. They've read your books and interviews. They've seen your pictures. No, when they finally meet you, they'll only remember how you made them feel. You've got to make them feel special. Remember that, Harry.
"Uh, no thanks. Can you do the blackboard, and we'll take the floors?"
"Oh, r-right…" It felt like the winds in those massive black sails he saw weeks ago were suddenly smothered by her not following the usual pattern of fan interactions he was used to. He half expected the cruel cackle from Snape to sound but the man wasn't in the room anywhere. "Where's Snape?"
"He's gone out, he told us that he wants this room cleaned up before he gets back." The taller girl answered loudly over the sound of gushing water from the tap. She was filling up a bucket of soapy water as the other girl filled up one without soap. He watched as they worked in practiced tandem to clean the floors starting from the edge of the classroom so they wouldn't walk over wet floors. As they made progress, he realised that one of them was wearing Slytherin robes. He's never seen a Slytherin in Snape's detention, and Harry's been in a fair number of detentions with him.
They were there the next time Harry was in detention again. Snape once again left the room soon after Harry entered leaving him alone with them again. Without a word, he adapted to the routine that they had established. He realised he liked their presence whilst they cleaned. They chattered endlessly but never pulled him into the conversation. He could almost treat them as pleasant background noise whilst he worked out his frustration through manual labour.
He discovered that both were in his year group when he heard them discuss homework. It was the same essay that Flitwick assigned to his class regarding the Summoning Charm. Flitwick liked his students to research and learn about the enchantment before he officially lectured about it in his class, and well before they had a chance to practice it themselves. He said that it would help them become independent and capable witches and wizards in the future. They were deep in a discussion about the Latin roots of the incantation.
"Accerso," the Hufflepuff read from her Latin-English dictionary. Stupidly, it wasn't on the booklist but it was her most used supplementary textbook since most of Flitwick's questions were surrounding the origins and making of charms. "Ah-ke-rso or ass-cer-so?"
"The word 'accessories' is similar. And that uses the hard 'ck' sound." The other reasoned. She repeated the 'ck' sound a couple of times, rolling it around in her mouth.
"Access…" Shruthi came up with another word that sounded like the etymological root they were discussing. "I mean in order to summon something, you need to have ownership over it, right?" Her friend read on in her open textbook, and so did Harry on his own. He read that the spell can be performed on any non-living being that isn't actively protected by a ward. A caveat on Wards is if the ward was created by the caster, the Summoning Charm can override its protections. He found it interesting that the charm was used in duelling on the opponent's clothes before that was considered bad sportsmanship.
They all scribbled a paragraph on what they had just studied. Just as Harry was penning down his last sentence the girls picked up their conversation again. "We should write something about the range of the spell," Jane instructed, wiping the ink off the side of her palm on her school robes.
"And the rune," Harry mumbled out loud.
"What was that?" Jane asked the boy sitting on the other end of the long desk. Harry peered up sheepishly. He hadn't meant to say it aloud.
"Erm, the rune. The direction of the spellcast affects how the charm behaves…" The Summoning Charm was cast by moving your wand in an upright semicircle. If movement was towards yourself the object that was summoned should be delivered into your hand. If the spell was cast in the opposite direction, it would land in front of the caster. Lastly, if cast leftward or rightward, it would land on the cast direction.
"Do you want to join us?" The Hufflepuff asked cheerfully. She looked at him as if he were a stray cat that she was enticing with a dried meat. Harry felt every bit of a lost animal now and couldn't afford to reject generosity. He gathered his things in a bundle as he moved to sit next to the Hufflepuff. The pity in her eyes melted away into excitement, "My name is Shruthi, and this is Jane."
"I'm Harry Potter," he introduced, kicking himself with his left foot at the awkward delivery. He hadn't needed to introduce himself since everyone already knew who he was. His legs swung back and forth without reaching the ground.
"You're a lot shorter than we imagined," Shruthi teased with a friendly smile. "Jane mentioned that when she saw you in Charms." The girl he learned was Jane shook her head at her friend before returning to her essay. Harry straightened out his spine and sat up straight on the stool. He grinned when Shruthi giggled at him.
He knew he wouldn't ever grow as tall as Ron Weasley, but he felt slighted that he wouldn't even reach the height of his cousin. He blamed it on his periods of starvation as a child and made up for it by gorging himself at Hogwarts. It was only when he looked at pictures of his father and mother from the scrapbook that Hagrid gave him after his first year, he knew that he would never be a tall person. Harry thought he would rather be known as short than for his scar or having his dead mother's eyes.
"Come in," Barty called with a rough rumble. To his surprise, his designated daily office hours were well attended by all year groups. His N.E.W.T.-level students would come in with half-written essays to ask for direction. The younger ones would come on dares which led to timid conversations about auror missions. The ones he disliked the most were the children of dead Order of the Phoenix members who would come in asking stories about their parents. Those would always leave him the most drained since he would have to look at their solemn faces while walking the fine line between telling them that his old colleagues in Azkaban were the ones that ended their parents' lives and what Moody would know about them.
The door creaked open and in walked Shruthi Patel. Barty jumped to his good foot, almost losing balance. He recovered by placing a steadying hand on the edge of his messy desk. "Shruthi! Come in, come in." He waved his hand in an ushering moment as he rounded his table. Shruthi took in his office room. Weird trinkets were scattered about the room, some of which burred and spun as he moved about. A mirror sat behind him which didn't show her reflection, but she knew what it was – foe-glass. She tried to look to see if there were any figures on the silver screen, but Moody was blocking her way. He dug through a disorganised shelf, dumping books and thumb-sized round balls with an unknown function onto the ground with a clatter. "I have it here somewhere," he muttered.
He pulled out a dusty and chipped tea set and gave her a grin. "Sit down, I've been waiting for you to come." She brushed off the dirt and grime from the chair that like Moody also had a bad leg. Barty had compensated by stuffing old Daily Prophet articles underneath it which Shruthi left carefully undisturbed. His hands shook as he poured her and himself a cup, and he dropped down onto his cushioned armchair in the manner of an old, grizzled war veteran.
He grabbed his flask and dumped its contents into the cup before taking a drawn-out sip of it. "So, you finally decided to take up my offer to learn Goobledegook?"
"Nope," Shruthi smiled into her tea. She smiled because she saw the way Moody's face tightened along his jaw in disappointment. She already spoke several languages being an immigrant child to Australia, she didn't want to speak a made-up magical one that she wasn't ever going to use again. Surely the goblins themselves didn't name their own language Goobledegook?, she thought. It would be incredibly demeaning to name the language you speak a nonsensical word from another language. If the wizards did that, no wonder the goblins had like seven wars against them.
"I wanted to ask you something that you did." Barty nodded for her to continue. He warded his office so strongly, that he suspected the only stronger wards were present for the Headmaster's office and the Chamber of Secrets. "Why did you teach Harry Accio when you would've known that the Conjunctivitis Curse would work for dragons?" She reasoned that a nationally awarded auror like Moody would know how to protect himself against magical creatures considering that is most of the Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum. She couldn't imagine much has changed since he himself attended Hogwarts, how many ever centuries ago that was.
"It wasn't only so he could pass the task. It was good that it worked out that way, but it was in the case he didn't reach the cup first in the maze during the third task. I wanted him to know it so he could summon it from a distance before whoever did."
"How did you know you could summon the goblet?" She queried. She put down her cup onto the desk that was already stained with heat rings from previous cups. She studied the set that Barty owned. It was embossed with the Hogwarts emblem but was heavily damaged from years of use.
"It's from the kitchens," Barty held the cup next to his misshapen head. "The elves were going to toss it out and I asked for it. Moody's a hoarder." His cup had a chip near the handle and sat unevenly when placed onto its saucer. He went down the kitchens to see if Winky was employed there. She was sitting by one of the many fires burning down in the Hogwarts kitchen with a bottle of Firewhisky in her hand sobbing that she was a good elf. "I knew you could summon the cup, the same way that I knew you could Confundus it. Father brought home recounts of previous Triwizard Tournaments and I read through them. It's made of ancient magic from the founders, but it isn't almighty."
Barty Crouch Jr. was imprisoned without his wand for a decade. After making a dashing escape, he spent a couple of months nursing the infant Voldemort. During these months, he had recovered mentally enough to imprison one of the most famous aurors in the British Isles and learn to impersonate him well enough to fool one of his best friends, the headmaster of Hogwarts. After all of that, he cast one of the most powerful Confunding Charm ever seen in the book to override ancient magic that came from the time that Hogwarts was founded. The point is that Shruthi could believe that if simultaneously she didn't have the image of Barty grovelling on his feet in front of his father during his trial as a Death Eater.
"You think too much," Barty snorted, leaning back against his moth-worn chair. "Both of those facts can be true. I can be both an idiotic boy roped into torturing a pure-blood family and an accomplished wizard. And Merlin, did that Rowling make me out to be pathetic." He was ashamed that one of the lowest points in his life was documented to scalding accuracy. He remembered being dragged in, his knees skidding along the cold marble floor of the Wizengamot. His father's disappointed eyes kept him awake when he tried to close his own at night. However, those didn't haunt him as much as his mother's scream and denial of his involvement with the Death Eaters. She had a holdfast belief he was completely innocent to her final breath, and a part of Barty Crouch Jr. also died that day.
"You read my mind!" Shruthi blurted instead of listening fully to what he had to say. If she had she would've asked him why he became a Death Eater.
"If you don't want me to then don't stare directly into my eyes." He liked that someone would meet his eyes. His father had stopped looking into his after Azkaban. Shruthi Patel and Jane Becker made him feel like he was a human and not a mistake.
"Making eye contact is important to having a conversation with someone," Shruthi corrected him. Something, something, active listening techniques, she recalled from primary school. She did have to force herself at times to look people in the eyes, especially Barty's since his mismatched ones unnerved her so much.
"That sounds like Muggle rubbish. You're inviting me to read your unprotected mind," Barty insulted. "If you want to stare into people's eyes at least learn some Occlumency first. Oh, wait, you can't, can you?"
"Fuck you." She tried pushing out her chair with more force than necessary and found out that she couldn't. Barty just let out a barking laugh as he knew that he had stuck down the chair leg to the pile of newspapers that were propping it up. He was waiting for an opportunity like this one to see his prank in action. She settled with sliding out of the side of the chair before she embarrassed herself further.
Barty's hand shot out to grab her wrist, "Hey, I'm sorry." His apology came out insincere when his face was split with what looked like an attempt at a mischievous smile. "Sit back down, Miss Patel."
"Let me go," she snarled futilely tugging her wrist from its prison. It was no use; his grip only tightened the more she struggled. She would feel even worse if she tugged too hard and toppled her disabled teacher from his chair.
"Muggles are just so fun to rile up," Barty cooed at her like she was a small prey animal. "Sit down, you haven't finished your tea yet." He knew he couldn't brew a good cup, he always had Winky do it for him. He appreciated that Severus could serve a good cup of tea, maybe one of these days he'll ask for some tips from his school friend. "Shruthi, please, take a seat."
"I haven't come here to be insulted." Still, she obediently took her seat again and Barty let go of her wrist before wiping his dirtied hand with a plaid kerchief he carried in upper robe pocket. "Should I be worried about other people reading my mind?"
"No, the vow will protect your and Jane's mind from another reading your thoughts about the books. But your other thoughts are still up for grabs," Barty commented casually. "If I were you, I would be looking at people's feet while talking to them." He thought that all Muggle-borns shouldn't be making direct eye contact with true wizards and witches. Muggles should be grovelling at our feet. Ugly thoughts about Muggle subjugation clouded the front of his mind. "Don't worry, you're not interesting enough for wizards to be looking into your mind in the first place." Leglimency was a difficult branch of magic to master. Leglimency without a wand or incantation was impossible for the layperson magician. Barty had only time for the past couple of years, and it was one of the skills he focused on so he could eavesdrop on his father's colleagues.
Shruthi gritted her teeth in frustration. "Are you going to teach Harry Accio?"
"Severus said that you and Jane were doing a stellar job yourself." It was worded like a compliment, but it also sounded like a dig at them. "I might if the boy doesn't think of anything on his own."
"Cool," Shruthi agreed with the same level of certainty that Barty had in his last statement. She stood up carefully and turned towards the door.
"You're not going yet," Barty crossed his arms and looked at her expectantly. Shruthi hesitated for a second before downing her cup of lukewarm tea. "It wasn't the tea. You still have something else to ask me. You're nervous about something."
"I'm always nervous about something," Shruthi thought out loud. Barty said nothing to her comment. "It's really nothing, it was just a stupid thing that I thought of."
"If were that stupid you wouldn't have drawn it on a piece of parchment," Barty looked at the white corner peeking out from the pocket of her black robes. Shruthi grabbed it out and unfolded it so only she could see what was written on it. "I'll tell you if it's stupid."
I'm sure you will, she thought bitterly. "Before I explain, I wanted to ask something. Do you get to design your classrooms?"
"I was asked but when Dumbledore showed me the classroom I was satisfied with the design." Remus Lupin was the last professor to occupy Barty's classrooms. He had forgone the teacher's desk and the line of desks that his predecessor, Gilderoy Lockheart had implemented. He had plastered posters and diagrams all over the walls. Miniature replica creatures hung on wire from the ceiling and were enchanted to act like their origins. The windows had stained glass designs of famous wizarding duels of the past, with the seventh-year classroom showcasing the duel between Albus Dumbledore and the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald. Barty came in and thought there was nothing he could improve on Remus' design and requested to just give him a larger classroom so students could practice their duelling in a safe setting.
"Then it's nothing…" Barty stood up with great effort and snatched the parchment from her. It was a diagram of Snape's potion classroom with a few modifications. She had drawn out biased floors that were sloping towards the centre where a central drain ran. On the walls, she'd put in small rectangular ventilation windows, and hooks to hang cleaning supplies. "It just to make mine and Jane's lives a little easier when we clean the rooms."
"I can see that," Barty mused aloud. "Why didn't you go to Severus directly with this?"
"Oh, um…" Shruthi stalled. Shruthi could only think of the word that she had called him to Jane earlier.
"He won't agree to the ventilation windows. Potions are taught in the dungeons because the ingredients must be kept in cool dark conditions. And the hooks for cleaning supplies would be useless to any witch who knew Scourgify, however, it may be useful for the younger years." Barty watched as Shruthi slightly shrunk into herself with each word he spoke. "But I'll show him anyway, he's a hard man to predict."
Shruthi was torn between thanking Barty for passing on the message and being worried that Snape would punish her harshly for critiquing his classrooms. "It will be fine, Patel." Guided her non-physically to the door of his office. "Come back anytime and bring your friend."
This time it was Snape who asked Shruthi to stay behind after her Friday afternoon potions class. He walked away silently from the classroom they were just into the one to first in the hall. He just expected her to follow silently, which he knew she was by the sound of a second pair of footsteps out of time with his own. For some insipid reason, he imagined her as a yellow feathered duckling dutifully waddling behind her guardian.
He held the door open and let her enter first so he could gauge her reaction. He watched her face closely as her earth-coloured eyes darted around to inspect how her suggestions had come to fruition. He expected her to speak but she surprised him by ducking down to the floor and running her hand along the stone. He saw her look in the opposite direction to what she expected and found drainage that ran flush with the bottom of the cabinetry. If someone was to drop a liquid, it would immediately disappear underneath their bench rather than travel to a central collection point.
When she got back to her feet, she noticed at the ends of the brewing benches there were a small supply of buckets, rags, and mops. The holes in the handles allowed the mops and hard-bristle brooms to be hung to dry and there was a small clothesline for the rags. She knew that the buckets could be poured into the new drains dotted around the room and could be filled up from the brass taps built for the cauldrons. "The rags are from ruined uniforms," Snape couldn't help adding when he saw her pick one up. Many students have destroyed their robes in his classrooms from their own stupidity or hubris (and at this age, a good combination of both), he thought it would be a good way to recycle them instead of disposing of them.
"Smart," she murmured quietly. She couldn't believe that her half-formed ideas had been taken seriously by the man and then improved upon. He came up to her with her parchment in his wide hand.
"Why have you struck this out?" He pointed to a part of the parchment where she was doodling her design for ventilation. Fume hood. "And this?" Soft close cabinets.
"Well, I didn't think they were relevant to everything else on the page. I wanted to focus on the stuff that would make a difference in cleaning the classrooms." He pointed at the crossed-out words again and asked her to explain what they were to him. "A fume hood is, well… It's like those exhaust fans you see over stoves but on a more industrial scale. And soft close cabinets, I'm actually not sure if that's the technical word for it but that's what I call them. They're those doors or drawers that you can press with your hand, foot, or elbow it opens so you don't have to get the handle dirty." She spoke with insecurity colouring her words since she was afraid that he would ridicule her ideas or shout at her for her audacity.
Snape hummed and put the parchment into his pocket. He brought his hand up to run his fingers through his hair and stilled when he saw the Hufflepuff flinch away from him. She was afraid that he would hit her again, and he watched her try to inch away from him with millimetre shuffles of her shoes. He was annoyed by her reaction and fear. If I'm the scariest thing she's seen, she's had a cherished life. "Next time, I want you to come to me instead of using Barty as a messenger. It will raise unnecessary questions to why Moody has become uncharacteristically familiar with me considering my history."
"Yes, Professor," Shruthi squeaked as she wrung her clammy hands behind her back.
"And clearly you have too much time on your hands if your mind is occupied with critiquing the architectural choices for the dungeons. The essays I assign to the class from now on, I expect double the length from you with references." He wanted to see just how far he could push her before she would break. He remembered his father's preachings. Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope. (English Standard Version, Romans 5:3-4). He's challenged every student that passes through these halls and some of them have become diamonds due to his teachings. The others, he doesn't care about the failures. They weren't going to survive the wizarding world with the attitudes they carried. He tested Potter with the same in the book, and he became the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Snape didn't feel an ounce of regret since his methods work on the strong. He found it amusing when he read that Dumbledore once told Potter that Hogwarts would always help those who ask for it. No, Hogwarts helps those who are strong enough to take it themselves. He gave her a cruel smile as she left the classroom with anger flushed on her face.
Tobias Snape always omitted the last refrain when he preached to his son.
