Chapter 2 - Breeze

The Great Hall buzzed with an electric atmosphere, its enchanted ceiling reflecting the gathering dusk outside. Hundreds of floating candles cast a warm, golden glow over the sea of black-robed students interspersed with the powder-blue uniforms of Beauxbatons and the blood-red cloaks of Durmstrang. The excited chatter of multiple languages filled the air, creating a melodious cacophony that echoed off the ancient stone walls.

At the Gryffindor table, Harry sat between Ron and Hermione, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the wooden surface. Across from him, Neville's face was a carefully constructed mask of calm, though Harry could see the tension in his friend's shoulders. They both knew what was coming.

Professor McGonagall surveyed the gathering from her place at the staff table, her sharp eyes lingering on what she had begun to think of as her "problem quartet" - Potter, Granger, Weasley, and now, surprisingly, Longbottom. The morning's Potions lesson had clearly been eventful, judging by both the House points and Severus's thunderous expression.

The staff table was more crowded than usual, with Madame Maxime's impressive figure towering over everyone else, while Igor Karkaroff sat with his usual dour expression, occasionally casting furtive glances around the hall. Dumbledore occupied his ornate chair at the center, his blue eyes twinkling as they swept across the gathered students.

"Reckon Krum's got it in the bag for Durmstrang," Ron whispered excitedly, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the surly Quidditch star. "Did you see him practicing by the lake yesterday? Brilliant, he was!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There's more to being a champion than Quidditch skills, Ronald."

"But it helps, doesn't it?" Ron argued. "Quick reflexes, good on a broom-"

Their bickering was cut short as Dumbledore rose from his chair, making his way to the ornate podium. The chatter in the Hall died down to excited whispers, then silence. With a subtle wave of his wand, the Headmaster cast a Sonorus charm.

"Good afternoon to all!" Dumbledore's amplified voice rang through the Hall. "We gather here today to select the champions who will represent their schools in the Triwizard Tournament. Three students will be chosen to compete across three challenging tasks, testing their magical prowess, their courage, and their wit. The victor will not only win eternal glory for their school but also a prize of one thousand Galleons."

A wave of appreciative murmurs swept through the Hall. Harry noticed several students straightening in their seats, eyes fixed on the Goblet of Fire, which stood on its pedestal in front of the staff table, its blue-white flames dancing hypnotically.

Madame Maxime and Karkaroff rose from their seats, joining Dumbledore near the Goblet. The flame suddenly flared bright red, sparks flying as it ejected a charred piece of parchment. The Hall held its collective breath as Karkaroff snatched it from the air.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he announced, his accent thick with pride, "is Viktor Krum!"

The Hall erupted in thunderous applause. Ron nearly jumped out of his seat in excitement, only Hermione's firm grip on his robes keeping him seated. Krum rose from the Slytherin table, his walk confident but his expression unchanged as he made his way to the front of the Hall. He gave a short bow to the assembled headmasters before disappearing through a side door.

The Goblet suddenly glowed brightly again, as another slip of paper shot out toward Olympe Maxime, who secured it with a swift movement. A small smile played on her lips, reading the name.

"Ze champion for Beauxbatons," she proclaimed, "is Fleur Delacour!"

A similar reaction followed, with Beauxbatons congratulating their suddenly nervous champion as she took her place beside her headmaster. Several of her schoolmates burst into tears, while others wore expressions of barely concealed disappointment.

Harry grinned with mirth seeing the unusual nervousness in his former sister-in-law's eyes. Even though Fleur's face was one of determination, he knew she was nervous. She had confessed her own experience to Harry in the future, when they had both caught each other visiting Cedric on his death anniversary. She had been one of the last resistance members fighting against Obscura. They hadn't met for nearly a year and there was no way to know about her condition as communication had been difficult.

Like previously, the Goblet shot a parchment towards Dumbledore, the old wizard catching it deftly out of the air. His eyes crinkled with mirth, though his mind was already racing with calculations and possibilities. The boy would make an excellent champion - popular, capable, and most importantly, not Harry Potter. Yes, this could work perfectly with his plans.

"The Hogwarts champion," he announced, "is Cedric Diggory!"

The entire Hall erupted in cheers, the Hufflepuff table being the loudest. Cedric had been a well-respected student even among other Houses. No, Cedric still is. Not was. He's alive, and he'll stay that way this time, Harry thought with a small grimace. He watched with amusement as a few girls gave each other glares for cheering more loudly than themselves.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore called out as Cedric disappeared through the same door as the other champions. Dumbledore gave a relieved sigh, seeing that Harry's name hadn't come out of the Goblet. Yes, he could still follow the original plan without any impedance from the unknown individual working for Voldemort. The boy still had more moulding to undergo before he would be ready to face his destiny. "We now have our three champions! I trust every student will give their full support-"

But his hopes crashed when an additional parchment shot out from the Goblet, the old wizard's stomach sinking as he realized whose name the parchment would inevitably contain. His carefully laid plans would need significant adjustment now.

"Harry Potter."

The words fell like stones in the silent Hall. Harry didn't move, his hands gripping the edge of the table. Beside him, he heard Hermione's sharp intake of breath.

"Harry Potter!" Dumbledore called again, his voice harder.

"But he's not of age!" someone shouted from the Hufflepuff table.

"He's a cheat!" came another voice from Slytherin.

Ron turned to stare at Harry, his face draining of color. "Did you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Did you put your name in?"

"No," Harry replied firmly, meeting his friend's eyes. "I didn't."

"Harry Potter!" Dumbledore called for the third time. "Up here, if you please!"

Harry rose slowly, feeling hundreds of eyes burning into him. As he walked between the tables, the whispers started, growing louder with each step.

"He's always trying to be special-"

"How'd he do it?"

"Typical Potter-"

Hermione's voice cut through the whispers. "This isn't right," she muttered, her brow furrowed in concentration. "The age line... it shouldn't have been possible..."

Harry approached the staff table, meeting Dumbledore's piercing gaze. McGonagall's lips were pressed into the thinnest line he'd ever seen, while Snape's face was twisted in a mixture of suspicion and barely suppressed rage.

"Through the door, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, gesturing to where the other champions had gone.

As Harry walked past, he caught Neville's eye across the Hall. His friend's face was grim, but he gave a slight nod. They both knew this was coming, had prepared for it. But knowing didn't make it any easier.

Behind him, the Great Hall erupted into chaos as Harry stepped through the door, closing it quietly behind him. The other champions looked up in surprise - Krum brooding by the fire, Cedric leaning against a wall, and Fleur sitting primly in an armchair. Their confused expressions would soon turn to disbelief and anger, Harry knew. But for now, he simply stood there, waiting for the storm that was about to break.

Through the thick wooden door, he could hear the growing commotion in the Great Hall, hundreds of voices rising in confusion, protest, and speculation. The Triwizard Tournament had begun, but not as anyone had expected. And in the back of his mind, Harry couldn't help but wonder if they could really change things this time around, or if some events were simply meant to happen, no matter what.

The champions' chamber filled quickly as the heads of schools burst through the door, followed by Barty Crouch Sr. and Ludo Bagman. Harry watched the controlled chaos unfold with detached amusement, noting how different everyone looked compared to their final moments in his original timeline. Madame Maxime hadn't yet acquired the burn scars from defending Beauxbatons. Karkaroff's face wasn't frozen in the permanent terror it had worn before the Obscura Order had finally caught up to him. And Dumbledore... Harry's jaw clenched. The manipulative old wizard still maintained his grandfatherly facade, though Harry could see the calculated gleam in those blue eyes.

"Harry," Dumbledore spoke softly, yet his voice carried clearly through the chamber. "Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?"

The familiar question brought a wave of déjà vu. Harry met Dumbledore's gaze steadily, allowing just enough confusion and fear to show on his face. "No, sir."

"Did you ask an older student to do it for you?" Dumbledore pressed, his voice gentle but his eyes sharp.

"No, sir," Harry repeated firmly.

"Ah, but of course 'e is lying!" Madame Maxime exclaimed, her massive form casting shadows in the firelight.

Snape's lip curled. "The boy has been crossing lines since he arrived at this school-"

"I didn't put my name in," Harry interrupted, injecting a note of frustration into his voice. "I don't want eternal glory. I've got enough fame as it is, thanks."

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall began, but Harry cut her off too.

"Professor, I've spent the past three years dealing with Voldemort trying to kill me." Several people flinched at the name. "Why would I want to add a deadly tournament to my plate?"

Dumbledore studied Harry carefully, his expression thoughtful. Harry knew the old wizard was weighing options, considering how to best utilize this unexpected development. Finally, he turned to Barty Crouch. "I believe we must follow the rules, Barty. The Goblet of Fire represents a binding magical contract."

"The rules are absolute," Crouch confirmed stiffly. "Mr. Potter has no choice. He must compete."

As the adults continued debating, Harry's thoughts drifted to the Gryffindor common room, where he knew another drama was unfolding.

The Gryffindor common room crackled with tension. Students huddled in corners, whispering theories about how Harry Potter had managed to fool Dumbledore's age line. In one secluded corner, Ron Weasley sat with his arms crossed, his face a storm of emotions.

"He must have found a way," Ron muttered, more to himself than to Hermione, who sat across from him with a worried expression. "Probably used that invisibility cloak..."

"The age line doesn't care about visibility, Ron," Hermione replied, her voice strained. "It cares about age. And Harry's underage - there's no way he could have crossed it."

"Then he got an older student to do it," Ron insisted. "You heard him this morning in Potions - all that stuff about Voldemort attacking him every year. He probably wanted to get ahead of it this time."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "That's actually what makes me think he didn't do it. Harry was acting... different today. More mature. Like he was preparing for something."

"Yeah, preparing to enter the tournament!" Ron's voice rose slightly, drawing curious glances from nearby students.

"No," Hermione shook her head. "It was something else. Did you notice how he and Neville were acting at breakfast? And that thing with Malfoy at the Slytherin table? Something's not right."

Ron's scowl deepened. "Of course something's not right. My best mate found a way into the tournament and didn't tell me how he did it!"

"Ronald!" Hermione snapped, her patience wearing thin. "Use your brain! Harry hates his fame. He hates being in the spotlight. Why would he want more of it?"

"Because he always gets everything!" Ron exploded, standing up. "The Boy-Who-Lived, youngest Seeker in a century, saved the Philosopher's Stone, killed a basilisk, drove off a hundred dementors - and now Triwizard Champion! And what am I? His sidekick?"

Hermione stared at him, her eyes wide. "Do you even hear yourself? Those weren't adventures, Ron. Those were life-or-death situations that Harry never asked for!"

"Well, he asked for this one," Ron said stubbornly. "And he didn't trust me enough to tell me how he did it."

"Or maybe," Hermione's voice was quiet but intense, "just maybe, he's telling the truth. Maybe someone else put his name in. Someone who wants to hurt him."

Ron laughed bitterly. "Right, because everything's always a plot against Harry Potter."

"Yes, actually, it usually is!" Hermione stood up too, her hands balled into fists. "And right now, when he needs his best friend, you're too busy being jealous to see what's right in front of you!"

She stormed off toward the girls' dormitory, leaving Ron standing alone by the fire. His anger warred with the small voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Hermione, pointing out the holes in his logic. But admitting he was wrong would mean facing his own insecurities, and Ron wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

Meanwhile, in a quiet corner of the common room, Neville Longbottom watched the exchange with knowing eyes. He remembered this rift from the original timeline, how it had damaged Harry and Ron's friendship. But there were bigger concerns now. The tournament was just beginning, and with it, the first real test of their attempt to change the future.

The portrait hole swung open, and Harry stepped through. The common room fell silent, all eyes turning to their unexpected champion. Ron took one look at his best friend, then turned and stalked up to the boys' dormitory without a word. Harry watched him go, his face unreadable, though Neville could see the pain in his old friend's eyes.

Hermione emerged from the girls' staircase, took one look at Harry's expression, and rushed forward to hug him. "I believe you," she whispered fiercely. "We'll figure this out together."

Harry hugged her back, fighting the urge to break down as he held one of his oldest friends - alive, whole, and still believing in him after all these years. Or rather, all these years that hadn't happened yet.

After the champions were dismissed, four figures remained in Dumbledore's office, the tension palpable in the air. The imposter Moody's magical eye whirred constantly, while Minerva McGonagall stood rigid by the fireplace, her lips pressed into a thin line. Severus Snape lurked in the shadows, his dark eyes fixed on the Headmaster.

"Well, Albus?" Minerva finally broke the silence. "What do we do about this situation?"

"The boy's obviously been entered by someone with considerable skill," Moody growled, his magical eye spinning wildly as he took a calculated swig from his flask. His tongue darted out briefly, a gesture too quick for the others to notice. "Tournament's had a death toll before. Perfect way to dispose of Potter without raising suspicion."

Severus stepped forward, his robes rustling. "For once, I find myself agreeing with Moody. Potter's participation reeks of dark magic. The Goblet itself is an incredibly powerful magical artifact - it would take an exceptionally skilled witch or wizard to hoodwink it."

The disguised Barty Crouch Jr. felt a surge of pride at Snape's unwitting praise of his handiwork, though his scarred face remained impassive. "Probably someone with intimate knowledge of the Goblet's workings," he added, watching their reactions carefully. "Someone who had time to study it."

"Indeed," Dumbledore mused, stroking his beard. "The question is not whether Harry was entered by someone else - that much is clear. The question is who, and to what purpose?"

"You can't possibly still intend to let him compete, Albus!" Minerva exclaimed. "He's just a boy!"

"A boy who has faced Lord Voldemort three times and survived," Dumbledore reminded her gently. "But more importantly, we have no choice. The Goblet's magic is binding."

"Then we prepare him," Moody declared, barely containing his eagerness. Here was his chance to guide Potter toward his master's trap while appearing to help. "Train him. Give him every advantage we can. After all..." his magical eye fixed on Snape, "we wouldn't want the boy to die before his time, would we?"

Severus's lip curled. "Surely you're not suggesting we help Potter cheat, Alastor?"

"It's not cheating if someone's trying to murder the boy," Moody retorted, relishing the irony of his words. "It's survival."

"Enough," Dumbledore raised his hand. "We will observe the rules of the Tournament. However..." his blue eyes twinkled, "there is nothing in the rules against teachers being particularly thorough in their regular lessons on topics that might prove useful to champions."

Minerva caught his meaning immediately. "My fourth-years might benefit from some advanced Transfiguration practice."

"And I suppose some additional defensive spells wouldn't go amiss in my classes," Moody added with a grotesque grin, already planning which spells would make Potter most vulnerable during the final task. "Got to make sure the boy can handle himself."

Severus remained silent, but gave an almost imperceptible nod. Even he couldn't deny the boy would need every advantage.

"Then we are agreed," Dumbledore concluded. "We protect Harry as best we can within the rules. And we watch. Whoever entered him will reveal themselves eventually."

Barty Crouch Jr. turned away to hide the gleam of triumph in his human eye. Everything was proceeding exactly as his master had planned.

The next morning found the champions gathered in a small classroom, where Rita Skeeter's acid-green quill danced across parchment of its own accord. Her jeweled spectacles glittered as she sized up her prey.

"Well, well! The Triwizard champions!" she exclaimed, her gaze lingering on Harry. "But before we begin properly - Harry, dear, might I have a private word?"

"No," Harry replied firmly, staying seated. "Whatever you want to ask, you can ask here."

Rita's smile tightened slightly. "But surely our readers want to know the personal story of the Boy Who Lived-"

"Your readers can know that I didn't enter myself, I don't want to be in this tournament, and I'd rather focus on supporting Cedric as Hogwarts' proper champion," Harry interrupted.

Beside him, Cedric shifted uncomfortably. "Harry, you don't have to-"

"Yes, I do," Harry insisted. "You earned your place here, Cedric. I didn't."

Rita's quill was practically smoking as it raced across the parchment. Fleur was watching Harry with newfound interest, while Krum's perpetual scowl had softened slightly.

"'Ow noble," Fleur remarked, though her tone held less mockery than Harry remembered from last time. "But per'aps we should focus on ze tournament itself?"

"Excellent idea!" Rita pounced. "Tell me, champions, how do your families feel about you competing in this dangerous-"

"I believe the first task is meant to test our courage," Harry cut in. "So perhaps we should discuss our preparations instead?"

Rita's smile became predatory. "Avoiding family questions, Harry? Painful memories of your parents-"

"Ms. Skeeter," Cedric interrupted, his prefect authority showing. "I believe we all agreed to discuss the tournament itself. My father is very proud, thank you for asking. Now, about those preparations..."

The interview continued, with Harry carefully deflecting Rita's attempts at sensationalism while building rapport with his fellow champions. It wasn't much, but it was a start at changing things.

Long after midnight, Harry sat alone in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the dying embers of the fire. Suddenly, Sirius's face appeared in the flames, gaunt but concerned.

"Harry! Are you alone?"

"Yes," Harry moved closer to the fire. "Ron's not speaking to me, and everyone else is asleep."

Sirius's fiery features creased with worry. "Tell me everything that happened with the Goblet."

Harry explained the evening's events, watching his godfather's expression grow increasingly troubled.

"And you're absolutely certain you didn't enter yourself?"

"Sirius, I swear. I didn't want this."

"I believe you," Sirius said firmly. "This is serious, Harry. The Tournament has killed people before. Someone's trying to get to you. That brings me to the second point, what was your dream?"

Harry paused for a few moments, raking his brain to answer the second question. This entire thing had been three decades in the past, and it certainly didn't help that he had deliberately tried to forget everything about the Triwizard tournament.

" I know," Harry replied quietly. "But I'm better prepared than they think I am. As for you second question, it was Voldemort, Wormtail and some man, and Voldemort told him to bring me to him, for what, I don't have a clue", he lied through his teeth. He exactly knew what Voldemort was cooking.

Sirius's eyes narrowed at Harry's tone. "What do you mean?"

"Just that... I've faced worse before. The basilisk, the dementors... I'm not completely helpless."

"Still," Sirius looked uncertain. "Be careful, Harry. Keep your friends close. Watch your back. And... keep me informed about everything. The smallest detail could be important. The attack on the Quidditch World Cup and your name coming out of the Goblet, they aren't just coincidences."

"I will," Harry promised. "And Sirius? Thank you... for believing me."

"Always, kiddo," Sirius's face softened. "I have to go - someone's coming. Remember what I said. Constant vigilance!"

As Sirius's face disappeared from the flames, Harry couldn't help but smile. Some things never changed - including his godfather's unwavering support. He only hoped that this time around, he could save everyone who mattered to him, starting with Cedric Diggory.

"What are you doing? I heard voices", Harry snaped his head around catching Ron at the base of the stairs. Harry voice caught in his throat, not knowing how to reply. Without giving a chance for a reply, Ron continued, "Probably preparing for your next interview!", he snarked before making his way upstairs.

Harry rubbed his face ruggedly as Ron closed the door to their dormitory. He had forgotten the treatment he had received from Ron during this time, and even Hermione had treated him the same till before the Yule. Damn, this is going to be hard.

"Who was it?", a voice asked softly causing Harry to look at the source. Neville stood there bleary-eyed, tried to fight off the reclaiming sleep. "Ron can't keep his voice down for the love of his life"

"Sirius", Harry answered. "Just asking the usual, you know. Did you put your name, and the tournament has killed people before… He believed in me", he added the last part softly after a pause. Neville nodded.

"Still assuming the first task to be dragons, how are planning to deal with them this time?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know, maybe I'll just transfigure my wand or some stone into a broom", Harry replied with a smirk which faltered seeing Neville's unimpressed expression. "All right, please don't give me that look Nev!", the dark-haired boy pleaded. Pointing to a paper which contained his interview, he smiled devilishly. "Skeeter wants sensationalism, and I have a feeling she'll try something underhanded. I have a plan which will gives her sensationalism and us some cover".

The weeks leading up to the First Task flowed like a familiar river, though Harry carefully redirected certain currents this time around. When "Moody" established the communication chain to inform him about Hagrid's dragons, Harry played his part perfectly - showing just enough anxiety to be believable, but not enough to worry Hermione unnecessarily. Her support, unhampered by additional stress, had proved invaluable during his preparation.

The "Potter Stinks" badges that bloomed across the school like poisonous flowers barely registered in Harry's mind this time. More interesting was their conspicuous absence on Draco Malfoy's robes. The Slytherin's refusal to participate had raised eyebrows throughout Hogwarts, from the dungeons to the towers.

"It is a childish way to insult and put pressure on Potter," Draco had declared in the Slytherin common room, his voice carrying that particular Malfoy blend of disdain and superiority. "I have something bigger in cooking, so I won't fall to your standards."

The statement had served its purpose perfectly - maintaining the facade of animosity while explaining away any perceived softening in their relationship. It had the added benefit of sparing Draco from a rather undignified transformation into a ferret, though Harry occasionally caught himself missing that particular memory with a slight smirk.

The most challenging moment came during his visit to "Moody's" quarters. The rattling briefcase in the corner might as well have been screaming at Harry, each shake representing the real Alastor Moody's imprisonment. His fingers had itched for his wand, muscle memory from years of combat urging him to end Barty Crouch Jr.'s charade then and there. But he had forced himself still, listening to the imposter's familiar suggestion about using his broom - a strategy he had no intention of repeating this time.

On the morning of the First Task, the champions' tent thrummed with nervous energy. Hermione's visit, her concern written plainly across her face, provided a moment of genuine comfort amidst the calculated performance. When Rita Skeeter attempted to intrude, her acid-green quill poised for scandal, it was Viktor Krum who intervened.

"You do not belong here," the Bulgarian stated flatly, his accent thick but his meaning clear. "This place is for champions and friends only. You are neither."

As the reporter retreated, Harry secretly slipped a piece of parchment into her ever-present notepad - a small seed planted for future harvest.

The selection of dragons proceeded as before, the miniature Hungarian Horntail snapping at Harry's fingers as he drew it from the bag. He listened to the roars of the crowd as each of the "legitimate" champions completed their tasks, allowing himself a small smile at what was to come.

Up in the stands, various eyes watched with very different expectations:

Draco Malfoy sat rigid among his fellow Slytherins, his face carefully neutral even as his mind raced. Whatever Potter was planning, it would have to be spectacular to justify the risk they were taking.

Ron Weasley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his anger at Harry warring with genuine concern. "He'll be fine," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "He's always fine..."

From his position near the judges' table, Barty Crouch Jr. maintained Moody's gruff exterior while inwardly seething with anticipation. The first real test of the Dark Lord's plan was about to begin.

Dumbledore's blue eyes had lost their usual twinkle, replaced by careful calculation as he observed every detail. The boy had been acting differently lately - more assured, more precise in his actions. This task would reveal much.

Professor McGonagall's hands gripped her robes tightly, her usual composure cracking slightly as she watched her young lion approach what looked increasingly like a suicide mission.

"And next up is the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter!" Ludo Bagman's voice boomed across the arena. "And he will be facing off against the most ferocious dragon of all... the Hungarian Horntail!"

Harry emerged into the sunlight, rolling his shoulders in a practiced motion that spoke of far more combat experience than a fourth-year should possess. The sun broke through the clouds at that moment, its glare momentarily blinding as he faced the Horntail. The dragon's eyes fixed on him with ancient malevolence, daring him to approach her clutch of eggs.

In the stands, Hermione's knuckles were white as she gripped her seat. The book she'd read about Hungarian Horntails haunted her thoughts: If its fire ever hits a human, not even the bones remain. She hadn't had the courage to read further.

Beside her, Neville watched with narrowed eyes, recognizing the slight smirk on his friend's face. Whatever Harry had slipped to Rita Skeeter, combined with what was about to happen, would certainly throw the wizarding world into chaos - providing perfect cover for their true mission against both Voldemort and Obscura.

The arena fell silent as Harry stepped forward, his voice carrying clearly across the grounds:

"I don't want to fight!"