Try as Harry might, there was simply no patching things up with Neville in the days after the First Task. He continued to avoid Harry in the halls and at meals, and was continuously flanked by a group of loyal supporters, led naturally by Ron. Once again, any time he tried to approach the other boy, it was like a wall of students materialized in between them to keep them apart.

Why do I even bother trying? Harry wondered to himself. At times he felt like he was beating his head against a brick wall, dealing with these immature teenagers. But those immature teenagers would grow out of that phase eventually, and Harry would need to stay on good terms with them to fight the war that he knew was coming. He'd been young and stupid like them once – still was, in many ways – and knew he had to remain patient and be graceful when they eventually realized they were in the wrong.

Harry did notice that Neville's posse was far smaller than it was during their initial confrontation earlier that month, and they didn't all regard Harry with the same suspicion and dislike as before. In fact, a great many number of people seemed more cordial towards him in the aftermath of the task. He received kind words of support from students of all grades and Houses in the halls, and his year mates no longer shied away from him at meals and in classes. Harry wasn't overly concerned with his reputation among his peers, but it was at least nice to not be treated like a leper anymore.

His stress levels were also far lower than they had been in the lead-up to the dragon, now that he had nearly three months of freedom before the Second Task. He'd taken his egg to an empty classroom and submerged it in a conjured basin of water, confirming that he would once again have to retrieve something (someone) from the merfolk in the Great Lake. He would have plenty of time to research breathing methods and anything else he'd need later. For now, he wanted to enjoy the end of the fall semester while he had the chance.

But that was easier said than done, as one final 'task' remained before the holidays. The Monday after the First Task, Professor McGonagall announced the Yule Ball during her Transfiguration lesson, open to any fourth-year and above on Christmas evening.

"I expect everyone to be on their best behavior, and represent their school well!" McGonagall addressed her students sternly. "All Champions will be expected to bring a date and open the night with a dance." The entire class giggled and stole glances at both Harry and Neville on opposite sides of the room. Harry was morbidly glad to see Neville looking just as uneasy as he felt about that prospect.

Harry planned to be more proactive in finding a date this time around. He wanted to make sure he attended the Ball with someone he actually liked, even as just a friend, and didn't want to stress about it. He was approached by a few girls of various grade levels, even a couple seventh-years, but politely declined them all, deciding to try his luck with people he was already on good terms with.

But before focusing on that, he had his first training session with his new Quidditch squad later that week. He borrowed a school broom from the shed and approached the Gryffindors stretching on the pitch, already smiling at the prospect of flying alongside his old teammates again.

"Afternoon, Potter," said Angelina Johnson brusquely, offering him a handshake. "Welcome aboard." She didn't act outwardly warm towards him, which was understandable given her desire to be the Hogwarts champion, but nor was she cold and standoffish, which Harry counted as a win.

"Congrats on beating that dragon," Katie Bell greeted him with a kind smile. "It was quite impressive, with all those illusions."

"Thanks," Harry grinned. "It was nothing, really, just good luck."

"Modest as ever, just like I told you ladies!" Fred grinned, clapping Harry on the back. "No need to hide the fact that you're a beast, Potter; the whole school knows it by now."

"This is Volkov, by the way," said George, motioning to a burly seventh-year Durmstrang boy behind him. "Our new Keeper. He comes highly recommended." Harry nodded to the boy, who nodded stoically in return.

"We don't actually know if he's any good," Fred muttered to Harry in an undertone. "But he said he started for his House at Durmstrang, so he probably isn't complete rubbish."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Harry shrugged, kicking off his school broom into the air. The team followed, forming in a semi-circle around center field.

For a long moment, nobody spoke, as everyone expectantly looked for somebody else to take the lead. "Blimey, I forgot Oliver's gone," Fred chuckled. "He was always the taskmaster telling us what to do out here."

"Why don't you take over, Angie?" George suggested. "You understand the offense better than anyone here."

"Alright, if everyone's okay with that," Angelina muttered, drawing nods of assent from all the others. "I reckon we should just start with warm-up drills. Potter, Volkov, just do your best and respond to our formations, deal?"

Harry and Volkov nodded. The Chasers began flying warm-up laps, already in perfect sync after three years of playing together. Fred and George playfully batted a Bludger back and forth between the two – their usual warm-up routine. Harry excitedly zipped around, wishing he had his Firebolt but still excited to be in the air again after a long absence.

A makeshift scrimmage began, with the Chasers alternating between offense and defense and practicing their moves. Harry wove between them effortlessly, already able to predict their tendencies and movements, searching for the Snitch while also interfering with plays whenever possible, as any good Seeker should do. He felt like part of a well-oiled machine, something he'd never felt with the Ravenclaws. As good of a Chaser that Roger Davies was, he had no grasp of building strategies to involve the other positions, something that the Gryffindors seemed to understand intuitively.

It also turned out that Volkov was an excellent addition to the squad. He blocked well over half the shots sent his way, including a couple spectacular saves that Harry was certain he'd never seen Oliver Wood perform. He could go pro, Harry thought as he marveled at Volkov's poise and confidence on the posts, pointing and barking orders in a language none of them understood but nevertheless made perfect sense within each play.

After an hour of tough flying, the team landed in high spirits, all looking excited and satisfied. "Bloody hell, Volkov, you're a superstar!" Fred laughed, clapping the Keeper on the back.

"Yeah, why the bloody hell didn't Krum ask you to join his team?" George added.

"I am not from Krum's House," Volkov said simply with a shrug. That made sense to Harry: Krum likely wanted to play with his own school teammates, even if the Keeper from a different House was a better player.

"You're not bad yourself, Potter," Alicia Spinnet appraised him. "How did you not crash into any of us during those scrimmages?"

"Yeah, it's like you could predict where we would all be!" Katie agreed.

"Just good instincts, I guess," Harry shrugged modestly. "I enjoy flying with you guys."

"Alright, let's not get too soft on each other just yet," said Angelina, doing her best to keep them all on task. "We have our first match in two weeks, the Saturday after our first Hogsmeade weekend, so we need to stay sharp."

"Who are we playing?" asked George. "Did McGonagall publish the schedule?"

"Ginny's team," Angelina grimaced. "A bunch of second- and third-years, by the looks of it. Including Potter's cousin." That surprised Harry: he hadn't expected Damian to play, but it seemed his interest in the sport was more than a way to pass the time with Cedric.

"Should be a cakewalk, then!" Fred grinned. "Mum will kill us for beating up our little sister, but it serves her right for abandoning ship."

"Don't underestimate the opponent!" Angelina said sharply. "It'll be snowing hard, so it won't be a fun time either way. And from what I've heard, that Dursley kid can hit a mean Bludger – heads on a swivel at all times!"

That was an understatement. Harry remembered his difficulties in dodging Damian's ball hits the previous year, resulting in a broken arm. How much better had he gotten in the past year of growth and practice?

Harry headed back up to the castle in high spirits, already looking forward to their first match in two weeks' time. As soon as he arrived in the Great Hall, however, he was approached by Cedric Diggory, looking rather concerned.

"Are you playing Quidditch this year, Harry?" asked Cedric.

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "With the Gryffindors, plus a Durmstrang bloke. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, blimey," Cedric muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Harry, I'm so sorry, I didn't know. I'm playing with the Ravenclaws. They invited me two weeks ago, and I just assumed you weren't playing because of the Tournament—"

"It's alright," Harry grinned, cutting Cedric off from his apologetic rambling. "It was a mutual decision, trust me. I don't mind you playing with them."

"You sure?" Cedric asked. "It might complicate things when you return to the team next year."

"Yeah, maybe," Harry shrugged. "They'll have to reckon with the fact that I single-handedly kicked their asses."

That drew a grin and an eye-roll from Cedric. "Alright, game on, then," he smirked. "Hope we meet in the finals."

"Unlikely, with Krum playing," Harry smiled sadly. "But best of luck to whoever of us has to go against him."

"Yeah, that'll be the quickest 0-3 in Seeker history," Cedric agreed.

"See you round, Ced," said Harry, turning towards the Ravenclaw table to grab some dinner.

"Oh, and Harry?" Cedric called out after him. "I'm taking Cho Chang to the Yule Ball. Is that alright with you?"

"Of course," Harry shrugged. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well...I'd heard rumors that you two had a history last year," Cedric said awkwardly. "I didn't want to presume—"

"Those rumors are bollocks," said Harry. "No hard feelings, really. Have a good time with her."

"Oh. Alright, thanks mate," said Cedric, looking relieved. "You too."

Harry chuckled to himself at this interaction. Cedric was too kindhearted for his own good – of course he wouldn't want to steal Harry's girlfriend or his Quidditch team from him! But truthfully, Harry was glad to be rid of Cho for a while and all her drama. Perhaps Cedric would be a good influence on her, mellow her out a little. Or, worst case scenario, Cedric would realize her true nature and leave her be. He wasn't too hard-pressed about either outcome.

It was a reminder that he still needed to secure a date for himself, which he decided to rectify that very evening. He scanned the Great Hall, spotting his target seated at a table nearby with her friends. He waited until she excused herself and gathered her things to exit the Hall, and followed her.

"Hermione? Hey, Hermione!" he called out after her.

Hermione turned to face him. "Evening, Harry," she said.

"Evening," he replied breathlessly. "Hermione, would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me? And before you say anything," he added hastily, seeing her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, "you're the first person I asked and I'm not asking as a last resort. I would really like to go with you."

Hermione considered this for a moment, then smiled sadly at him. "Thank you for saying that, Harry, it means a lot," she said sincerely. "I'm flattered, but you see, I've already been asked."

"Really?" said Harry, surprised. "That was quick." He had noticed Krum lurking in the library in this timeline, watching Hermione from afar, but hadn't expected him to make his move so soon after the Ball was announced.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione said sincerely. "I would have said yes, it's just...well, you know…"

"Don't worry about it," Harry smiled easily. "Have a nice time." And he meant it – he still felt terribly about how he and Ron had ruined her experience at the Ball the first time around, and hoped things would go better for her now. He didn't know what Ron's intentions were, but prayed a silent prayer that he would have better tact this time.

"I can ask around and see if anyone else needs a date!" Hermione perked up, trying to seem helpful. "I think Marietta Edgecombe is single—"

"I'd rather take Moaning Myrtle," Harry scoffed. He froze at the horrified look on Hermione's face; he'd forgotten she didn't know about Marietta's betrayal of Dumbledore's Army in his last timeline. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. It's just, she's best friends with Cho Chang, and…"

"Oh, right, of course; I'd forgotten you and her were on bad terms," Hermione said (somewhat bitterly, Harry noticed). "Well, I can ask Sue Li, or Padma Patil—"

"I appreciate it, 'Mione, but I'll manage," he said. He wasn't yet so desperate as to beg friends to find him a date. Half the castle was still wary about him thanks to Rita Skeeter's smear campaign, but enough people seemed to have warmed up to him that he was certain he could find a willing date in time.

But he quickly found that his options weren't as broad as he imagined in his head. His next attempt came the very next day, as he joined Luna in the library to work on Divination assignments together. "Excited for the Yule Ball, Luna?" he asked conversationally as he proofread her essay on lucid dreaming.

"Oh, I think not," Luna said firmly. "The tea leaves forecast misery on Christmas Day; did you know? I can't imagine it will be a very good time."

"Maybe that just means you need a better partner," Harry quipped. "Has anyone asked you yet?"

"No," Luna shook her head, sounding thoroughly ambivalent about this fact. "I'm a third-year, after all, and very few students fourth-year and above take much notice of me. Aside from you, of course."

"Well...I'd like to take you, if you're interested," Harry said as nonchalantly as possible.

Luna looked up at him, studying him with her pale blue eyes. "No, thank you," she said matter-of-factly, before returning her attention to her paper.

Harry knew she meant no offense by the blunt response, but it still felt like being doused in cold water. "N-no?" he repeated. "You don't want to go with me?"

"Oh, that isn't it at all, Harry," Luna said, still sounding casual and unaffected. "You're quite handsome and would be a perfect gentleman, I am sure. But I think I would not have a good time. I do not enjoy large crowds or being the center of attention."

"I see," Harry said, feeling a bit disappointed. "Well, I respect your decision. I'll find somebody else to go with."

"I think you will find a more fitting partner soon enough," Luna mused. "Someone better-suited to your interests than I am."

Harry was puzzled by this remark. Did she not think he was interested in her? Truthfully, though, she wasn't wrong – Harry was fond of Luna, but more in a sibling sort of way, similar to the way he felt about Dahlia. Did Luna foresee him with someone he had better romantic prospects with? Or was it just an innocuous remark with no deeper meaning? It was always hard to tell with Luna.

It wasn't as if Harry was romantically interested in anyone at the moment, anyway. Since his ill-fated crush on Cho Chang the year before, he hadn't really been looking at his classmates in that way. Was it even worth devoting time to, with a Dark Lord on the rise? Or was he doing himself a disservice by ignoring that part of himself, the part capable of love and craving that special connection with a special somebody?

He waited until the following week to take his next shot. There was still one person in the castle he had formed a meaningful connection with, someone he knew he could bring to the Ball and have a good time. He spotted her exiting the Ancient Runes classroom alone one morning and made his move.

"Morning, Daphne," he greeted the blonde. "Got a minute?"

Daphne Greengrass gave him an appraising sort of look, as she so often did, as if judging if the person she was talking to was worthy of her attention. "Need another favor, Potter?" she asked.

"No, not at all," Harry shook his head. "I was wondering if you'd like to go to the Yule Ball with me."

Daphne's eyebrows shot up. "Why?" she demanded.

"What d'you mean, why?" Harry laughed. "Because it could be fun. You don't think so?"

"Your father didn't put you up to this?" Daphne pressed.

"What? Of course not!" Harry denied. "Why would you think that?"

"Oh, never mind," Daphne sighed. "My father's always wary about James Potter using him to push through some legislation or another."

"My dad would never use me as a political tool like that," Harry said flatly. "And I would never have asked you for that reason."

"Right, sorry," said Daphne. "Hermione Granger's been pestering me to ask my dad about introducing house-elf legislation to the Wizengamot, so it's been on mind lately. But to answer your question, I already have a date, so no. But thanks for asking."

"I see," Harry sighed. "Who are you going with?"

"Ron Weasley," Daphne grimaced. "Hadn't planned on it, really, but he bet me that if he won three straight games with the black pieces, he got to take me."

"Sounds like you got hustled," Harry chuckled. "Well, I hope you have a good time. Don't let that git disrespect you too much."

"Oh, I won't be accepting such treatment," Daphne said haughtily. "I've already told him I expect proper pure-blood courting manners from him. He'll be a perfect gentleman and show me a good time, or he'll regret it for the rest of his lonely days."

"Well played," Harry whistled appreciatively. He wondered if Ron realized what he'd signed himself up for...he wouldn't be getting the same casual, care-free evening as in the last timeline. He took no pleasure in seeing his once-friends miserable, regardless of their childish behavior this term, but still had to chuckle internally at the thought.

Still, it left Harry without a date for the Ball yet again, and his options seemed to be drying up fast. He was mentally preparing himself to say yes to the next reasonably attractive witch who asked him, but even that became a distant non-priority just a day later.

He received a letter via Bandit the following morning, glancing at it briefly before returning to his meal, only to do a double-take when he realized it was the person he was dying to hear from most: Saul Croaker. Harry tore open the letter and read:

Dear Harry,

Congratulations on completing the First Task. I heard you performed some impressive illusory magic to trick the dragon. Well done! I knew you could do it.

Sorry to hear that your classmates do not believe your story. Just keep a positive attitude and things will work out for the best!

The Department is under investigation at the moment so I cannot promise that we will meet again soon, but I will let you know if that changes.

If I do not see you, good luck on the Second Task!

Regards,

Saul Croaker

Harry knew that this was not the true message from Saul, and waited until later that afternoon when he could retreat to a quiet corner of the library and decode it. After finding a secluded spot and muttering the pass phrase, the letter re-scrambled itself and now read:

Harry,

Mrs. Cole died in her sleep two weeks ago. I only know this because I keep tabs on Muggle news, and she appeared in the obituaries. Police have no reason to suspect foul play, but it's very unlikely to be accidental. Whoever is now doing Voldemort's bidding likely killed her to cover up his tracks. That tells me that we are on the right track. Do not delay with your research into Riddle's past! If the Dark Lord is in the process of eliminating anyone with possible damaging information on him, we have to reach them before he can.

I have indeed been contacted by both Dumbledore and the Minister about possible tampering with the Goblet prior to its arrival at Hogwarts. I have no reason to believe a fellow Unspeakable was involved, but I cannot be certain. Due to my vows, I cannot reveal the identity of any of my coworkers. But if you would be so kind as to provide a list of as many known Death Eaters from your previous timeline that you can remember, I may be able to determine if there is a mole in our midst.

I looked into Marvolo and Morfin Gaunt per your request. The bad news is that Morfin is indeed a male. The good news – if we can call it that – is he died in Azkaban many decades ago. His crime? Murdering a Muggle family. That family being Tom Riddle, his mother and his father, in Little Hangleton. I cannot imagine that this is coincidental. I am unable to look into this connection myself due to scrutiny on my Department, but I urge you to dig deeper into the relationship between these two families, as it is clearly pivotal to our efforts.

I would also make a greater effort to bond with your fellow Champions, or anyone else you feel can be trusted from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. If we are indeed on the cusp of another wizarding war, we will need as much international support as we can get. Krum is an international celebrity people will listen to, and the Delacour family has ties to higher-up officials in the French Ministry. Those are powerful allies you may need one day in the near future.

Do what you need to do in the Second Task, but do try not to draw too much attention to yourself. It is possible, if not probable, that your name was entered into the Tournament to gauge your strength after the World Cup fiasco. Your performance in the First Task may have drawn too much attention to yourself. Keep a low profile and stay out of the spotlight! The first people to be targeted in the last war were the ones that posed the greatest threat to the Dark Lord, after all.

Keep me updated on any further unusual occurrences at the school.

-Saul Croaker

Harry burned the letter shortly after reading, frowning at its implications. Saul was right: he needed to stay proactive and keep up with his investigations into Tom Riddle's past. He had a somewhat outrageous idea to do so, and as crazy as it sounded in his head, it seemed to be the best way to accomplish this goal. So he spent the rest of the week preparing, with plans to enact his bold strategy at his next Hogsmeade visit in a few days' time.

Harry accompanied Luna to the village via carriage, listening to her excitedly ramble about what she wanted to do during her first-ever visit. He mostly tuned her out, concocting some excuse to ditch her as soon as they arrived. But that would prove more difficult than he planned.

"This is all after our meeting at the Three Broomsticks, of course," Luna concluded after rattling off her extensive to-do list. "You haven't forgotten about it, have you?"

"Erm...forgotten about what?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"My father's joining us for drinks!" Luna sighed. "I told you two days ago, remember?"

"Oh...yes, of course," Harry muttered. She had probably done so during their latest library study session, but Harry was quite adept at tuning out her wild ramblings on a broad range of topics and probably missed it. It wasn't completely bad news, of course – it would cut short some of his plans, but he did still hope to convince Xenophilius Lovegood to publish something that challenged Rita Skeeter's vitriol in the Daily Prophet.

Luna squealed with delight and ran to give her father a hug when she spotted him across the Three Broomsticks. "Hello, my darling!" Xenophilius greeted his daughter. "And Harry, so glad you could make it! Please, sit, sit!"

They joined him at a nearby booth, where three glasses of Butterbeer already sat waiting for them. Luna barely touched hers, talking ten miles a minute as she told her father everything she'd been up to since leaving home some three months prior. Harry realized he wasn't the only expert in tuning Luna out, as her father too seemed to say "uh huh" and "how fascinating" a bit too quickly after every pause for breath.

"But enough about me," Luna finally said, turning to Harry. "Father, did you know that Harry's been made a Triwizard Champion? He was brilliant in tricking the dragon in the First Task!"

"Yes, I read all about it in the Prophet," Xenophilius chuckled. "Though that Skeeter woman seems hell-bent on downplaying your accomplishments and blaming your father for your poor upbringing. It was quite surprising to hear, as you struck me as a rather humble and well-adjusted young man when you visited last summer."

"I appreciate that, sir," said Harry. "And I hate to ask, but...considering you have a publication yourself, would you consider writing something of your own about the situation? Something in your own words?"

"Something a bit more flattering to you and your father, you mean?" Xenophilius said with a knowing grin.

"Erm...I didn't mean that necessarily, but—" Harry said awkwardly.

"Not to fret, Harry," Xenophilius chuckled. "I am well-aware of the power of the press, believe you me. Imagine the sorry state that research into billywigs might be in today if I hadn't exposed the Ministry's secret cross-breeding program with pixies last spring!"

"Yes, indeed," Harry said, stifling a laugh. "So would you consider it? I could give a quote, and you could maybe even interview my father—"

"Of course I will, Harry, don't you worry about a thing," Xenophilius smiled. "It's the least I can do for such a good friend to my dear Luna. What would you like the readers of the Quibbler to know?"

Harry spent the next hour or so talking with Mr. Lovegood about the true circumstances behind not only the Goblet of Fire, but also his past involvement with Pettigrew and with the Chamber of Secrets. He didn't expect half of it to wind up in the eventual article, but it still felt good to get it all off his chest and have somebody reaffirm that he wasn't, in fact, at fault for all the ridiculous situations he'd found himself in over the past three and a half years.

Eventually he ran out of things to tell Xenophilius, and his mind began wandering once more towards his intended plans for the day. Luna, perceptive as ever, seemed to pick up on this at once. "Thank you very much for the Butterbeers, Daddy," she said. "Harry wishes to leave us now; he is just too polite to say so out loud."

"Of course, of course!" Xenophilius beamed. "I wouldn't want to monopolize your entire field trip! A pleasure to see you as always, Harry."

"Likewise, sir," Harry nodded, standing to leave. His mind was already miles away, traveling step by step through the meticulous plan he'd crafted over the past few days. He headed for the exit, preparing to set his plan in motion, before yet another familiar voice called out after him.

"Hey, idiot!"

Harry turned to see Dahlia and Ginny sipping drinks at a corner table, smirking at him. He strolled over to join them. "Ladies," he greeted them casually. "First time in the village?"

"Sadly, yes," Ginny sighed. "My brothers have talked up Madam Rosmerta's Butterbeer for so long, I had to stop here first. So far it hasn't lived up to the hype."

"Better than the Hog's Head," Harry muttered, remembering his visit to the dingy establishment in his original fifth year, dusty glasses and all.

"Meeting the parents already?" Dahlia remarked, eyes flitting over to Xenophilius as he departed the pub. "I didn't realize you and Luna Lovegood were that serious."

"It's not like that," Harry grumbled. "We're just friends."

"You asked her to the Yule Ball," Ginny pointed out. "She told me in Herbology yesterday."

"Yeah, so what?" Harry shrugged. "I thought it would be fun. Doesn't mean we fancy each other."

"You're one to talk, Ginevra," Dahlia said mockingly to her friend. "You only said yes to Blaise Zabini so you could attend."

"Hmph," Ginny grunted in annoyance, taking another dip swill of her Butterbeer.

"Why don't you take Granger?" Dahlia suggested to her brother. "If she doesn't still hate you, of course."

"She does not hate me!" Harry protested. "Besides, I already asked, and she has a date."

"You've been rejected twice already?" Dahlia snickered.

"Three times," Ginny corrected, suppressing a giggle of her own. "Tori said he asked Daphne a few days ago."

"I asked my friends first; so what?" Harry groaned as Dahlia burst out into cackles of glee. "What do you even care? You're not old enough to attend yourself!"

"True," Dahlia shrugged. "Luckily, a fourth-year has already asked me, so I'll be there to witness your misery."

"What? Who asked you?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Neville Longbottom," Dahlia said nonchalantly. "C'mon, Gin, let's head to Honeydukes." And before Harry could say a word, his sister had grabbed her friend's hand and departed the pub, leaving him dumbfounded in their wake.

Dahlia was going to the Yule Ball with Neville? He had asked her?When?And what the hell was he thinking, asking the sister of a fellow Champion? Was he trying to get under Harry's skin? The thought made his blood boil.

Using my sister as a ploy to get to me, are you? Harry thought furiously. I'm done taking the high road. This will not stand. And he stormed out of the Three Broomsticks, all plans for the day discarded in favor of a new, singular focus.

He didn't have to search the village for long. A flash of red hair caught his attention outside Zonko's, as Ron, Hermione and Neville departed the joke shop, laughing and heading down the cobblestone main road. Harry stalked after them.

"Longbottom!" he bellowed. Neville turned along with several others in the vicinity; the boy froze in fear at the sight of Harry bearing down on him.

"W-what?" Neville stammered.

"Beat it, Potter—" Ron began, but Harry swiftly hit him with a Silencing Spell.

"You asked my sister to the Yule Ball?" Harry demanded.

Neville reddened furiously at this. "Y-yeah, I did," he said.

"You realize what people will say?" Harry demanded. "That you're messing with the sibling of a rival Champion? Not a good look, Longbottom."

"But you said we weren't rivals!" Neville insisted. "That you were just trying to get through the tournament alive!"

"That's not the point!" Harry said sharply. "What's your angle, huh? Trying to get under my skin? Throw me off before the Second Task?"

"Harry, no, I swear it!" Neville said, eyes widening. "I just...it's only…"

"Out with it!"

"I like Dahlia, alright?" Neville said, face beet red by this point. "She's clever, and pretty, and fun to be around. Ever since the Quidditch World Cup this summer, I've kinda had a...a c-crush on her."

"Oh, Merlin," Harry muttered. This was an even worse answer than the nefarious one he'd expected: Neville actually fancied his sister. "Look, you'd better not try anything funny, you hear? She's thirteen!"

"I would never!" Neville swore fervently. "I wasn't even gonna try to k-kiss her...I mean, not unless she wanted—"

"Bloody hell!" Harry swore, massaging his temple. "I don't need that mental image, alright? Just don't be a prat to her, or...or touch her, or even look at her—"

"Harry, you're not making much sense," Neville said cautiously. "Can we talk about this later?"

Harry realized that he'd drawn quite a crowd with his bluster; dozens of students had frozen on the street to watch the tense stand-off between two school Champions. "Right," he huffed. "Just...okay. Later, then." And he stormed off, his anger slowly being replaced by bewilderment.

He hadn't even processed the fact that his sister was entering dating age. Neville was an appropriate enough choice, and Harry believed the boy when he said he had no intentions of taking advantage. But his over-protective nature, along with his pride and the complications of the Tournament, clouded his reason and made his head spin at the idea.

This isn't the time to dwell on it, Harry decided, shaking his head to clear it. He already regretted the very public confrontation with Neville, knowing his hot head had prevailed over cool reason. He would have to calm down and consider this another time. Besides, the afternoon was drawing on, and he still had a big day planned ahead of him. He hurried down the street towards his next destination.

Harry popped into the pet supplies shop to purchase some treats for his owl, Bandit. But that was only his secondary objective in entering the shop. He also surreptitiously obtained a hair sample from the shop's owner, a nondescript middle-aged wizard, and carefully stowed it in a small conjured vial in his robes. He had decided that today was the day he would use the Auror's Toolkit for the first time.

He next ducked into a quiet alley and found a secluded spot, far from any prying eyes and ears. This would be the riskiest part of his plan: Apparating out of the village to somewhere he'd never been before. He'd considered picking a more visible spot to depart from, in case something went wrong and he needed rescue, but privacy was of the utmost importance for this particular mission, so he would have to take the chance and hope the Ritual of Ontogenesis had done its job.

Destination. Deliberation. Determination. Harry closed his eyes and visualized the spot he wanted to appear in. He turned on the spot, stepping sideways into the tight compression and vanishing from Hogsmeade.

He felt his feet touch down a split second later on solid ground, standing quite still for a moment to make sure everything was okay. All of his limbs still felt intact, and upon wiggling his toes, he determined that they were all accounted for. Harry opened his eyes and found himself at the outskirts of a different village, a quaint yet distinctly Muggle one, complete with paved roads and cars passing through the quiet downtown area. Harry steadied his nerves and strolled confidently into Little Hangleton.

He planned to scout the area first before enacting the next part of his plan. He'd studied a map of the village over the summer in a Muggle library, and knew vaguely where the key points of interest were. To the west he could see the cemetery, where the body of Tom Riddle Sr. lay – he would certainly have to take care of that before the Third Task began. Above it atop the hillside sat the Riddle estate, where Voldemort and Wormtail had briefly taken refuge – whether they were currently residing there was another mystery to be solved.

But those were not on the immediate agenda for today. Harry walked deeper into town, passing uncaring Muggles, searching for any kind of gathering place – somewhere he could fish for information. He found it in the downtown area: The Hanged Man, a small hole-in-the-wall pub, where middle-aged patrons sat drinking and conversing tiredly with one another. A sensible enough place to start.

Harry backed into an alleyway and crouched behind a dumpster, withdrawing his vial of acquired hair and the Auror's Toolkit. He unscrewed the compartment that contained the Polyjuice Potion and dropped the hair in, hearing it sizzle on contact with the potion as a vaguely stale odor emitted from it. Here goes nothing, Harry thought as he tossed his head back, dumping the Polyjuice down his throat and swallowing it before he could change his mind.

Within seconds, his body began rippling and morphing uncomfortably. Harry felt his hairline recede, his body shrink a couple of inches, his clothes grow a size too big for him. When the transformation was complete, Harry conjured a mirror, and found himself staring at a reflection of the pet shop owner back at Hogsmeade. After casting a quick glamour on his clothes to make them appear like nondescript Muggle attire, he strode purposefully out of the alley and into the pub.

Harry sat casually at the bar, stealing glances around the room, not trying to draw too much attention to himself. He couldn't yet gauge how friendly the local townsfolk were, how suspicious they might be of outsiders, and didn't want to overstay his welcome. He waited patiently until the bartender finished closing out the tab of another patron and sauntered over.

"What'll ya have, mate?" the bartender asked.

"Erm—" Harry said, realizing he didn't know how to order alcohol. "What would you recommend?"

"We've got house ale on tap," the bartender grunted.

"Sure, I'll take that," Harry agreed. The bartender poured him a glass and slid it to him; Harry took a sip, struggling to mask his grimace at the strong, bitter flavor. He set the glass back down, intending to quietly Vanish the rest of it with his wand later to avoid drinking any more.

"You're not from around here," the bartender said. It was not a question nor an accusation; just a statement of fact.

"Nope," Harry shook his head. "Just passing through."

"Hmph," the bartender said. "On business?"

"Something like that," Harry shrugged. Then, sensing that the bartender expected more of an answer, he said, "I used to work near here, matter of fact. For a bloke named Riddle."

"Riddle?" said the bartender, raising his eyebrows. "Now, that's a name I haven't heard in quite some time."

"Why? He move away or something?" asked Harry, feigning ignorance.

"You ain't heard?" another elderly patron chimed in from a few seats away. "Got 'imself and 'is family murdered. Must'a been decades ago now."

"Bit before my time," the bartender admitted. "Though they named a street and some other shite after him as a memorial. Left his house up on that hill...some still swear it's haunted to this day."

"That's awful," Harry sighed. "Did they catch the fellow who did it?"

"Some lowlife townie from across the river," the bar patron chimed in. "Name o' Gaunt...that whole family was fucked, I tell you. Ain't nobody liked 'em, and ain't nobody were surprised when 'e did it."

"Did they figure out why he killed the Riddles?" Harry asked. "I mean, did they know each other?"

"Way my father explained things, it came out of the blue," the bartender sighed. "Bloke just snapped and broke into their house unprovoked. Horrible, horrible stuff."

"That ain't the way I remember it!" the elderly patron said, sounding gleeful at the opportunity to recount the tale. He slid over a few seats to sit beside Harry. "What's your name, friend?"

"Dursley," Harry lied quickly. "Vernon Dursley."

"Owen Blakely, pleased to meet ya, Vernon," the old man said, eagerly shaking Harry's hand. He looked at least seventy or eighty years old – certainly old enough to remember such an event. "I'll be happy to tell ya what I know, if you wanna buy my next round."

"You've got a deal, Owen," said Harry, trying not to seem too eager about the forthcoming information.

"Right-o!" said Owen, clapping his hands together triumphantly and signaling to the bartender for a refill. "It weren't no random act o' violence, you see. 'Twas an act of revenge."

"Revenge?" Harry repeated, quirking an eyebrow. "Did this Gaunt fellow have grievances with Riddle?"

"Yer damn right he did!" Owen cackled. "Who wouldn't, after all? Considering Riddle's son ran off and knocked up Gaunt's sister!"

It took all of Harry's strength not to whip his head around and stare at the man in shock for this statement. "Did he, now?" he said mildly, taking another pretend sip of his beer.

"Me mum talked about it all the time when I was growin' up!" Owen said gleefully. "The trampy Gaunt girl down the lane, seducing the rich and handsome heir to the Riddle fortune? It was quite the story!"

"What happened to the girl?" Harry asked. "Why didn't Riddle take her in, keep the child?"

"Claimed that he never wanted nothin' to do with her!" said Owen. "Kept goin' on about bein' 'bewitched' or some nonsense. Load o' crock, if ya ask me...he probably got cold feet when she got knocked up and ran back to Daddy. The lass disappeared soon after that, never came back...no wonder the brother was bent outta shape about the whole thing."

"But that was years, many years later!" the bartender protested, having been listening in and doing a poor job of disguising it. "That business with the Gaunt girl happened two decades before the murders. Why would the brother wait so long if it was revenge?"

"Beats me," Owen shrugged. "I weren't there, were I?"

Why, indeed? Harry wondered. It made vague sense to Harry that Morfin Gaunt might despise Tom Riddle for what he'd done to his sister (or, from the sound of it, the other way around). But twenty-odd years after the fact? Harry had to wonder if Voldemort was involved somehow. He would have been a young adult around the time of the murders – perhaps he'd researched his heritage and traveled to Little Hangleton after graduation, only to discover the awful truth for himself…

"The Gaunts lived nearby too, then?" Harry asked.

"Oh, sure," said Owen, flinging his arm in the vague direction of the south. "Some crumbling shack down Country Lane. Ain't nobody's bothered to fix up the place after the last of 'em died, neither."

"How awful," Harry muttered, taking another fake sip of his drink. He set it back on the bar and feigned looking at his watch. "Oh dear, I must be going. But I appreciate the drink, and the story."

"A pleasure, Dursley," said Owen, shaking Harry's hand again. "Will we be seeing you again?"

"Perhaps I'll stop by tomorrow," Harry said vaguely, standing to go.

"Wait, sir! How will you be paying today?" the bartender interrupted him.

"But I've already paid, haven't I?" said Harry, casting a silent Confundus Charm with his wand tucked in his sleeve.

The bartender's eyes briefly went glassy and out of focus before he blinked and shook his head. "Right, of course," he muttered. "Safe travels, Mr. Dursley."

Harry nodded politely to both men and exited the pub. The sun was already getting low in the sky, and he wanted to scout out the Gaunt shack before leaving. It was the final piece of the Little Hangleton puzzle, aside from the graveyard and the Riddle house, and he wondered what clues might await him there about Voldemort's past, present and future.

Harry walked purposefully down the road in the direction Owen had indicated, not really knowing where he was going, but the quality of homes got progressively shabbier as he went along so he figured it was the right way. He eventually stopped to ask a kindly old lady sitting on her porch where Country Lane was, and she pointed him in the right direction.

The Polyjuice Potion had worn off by the time Harry reached the outskirts of town. This didn't concern him too much, as all the houses here appeared to be abandoned and in severe disrepair, telling him he was on the right track. He had no way of knowing which house, if any, belonged to the Gaunts, and wondered if he should pop his head into any of them and look around. But he had a feeling he wasn't in the right place yet, so he kept walking, fully aware of the late hour and planning to turn back soon if his search proved fruitless.

Then, he felt it. A strong sense of unease; an overwhelming feeling that he should turn back and leave this place forever. He instinctively flinched, drawing his wand and scanning the horizon, but sensed no movement. There's powerful magic nearby, he realized, and despite every fiber of his being begging him not to, he crept forward, keeping his eyes open for any sign of danger.

Following that uneasy feeling led him to the right place, and he knew it as soon as he laid eyes upon it: a house in ruins, falling apart and shrouded in the darkness of the old trees growing around it. The yard around it was overgrown and ensnared in weeds, and it was about as unwelcoming a sight as Harry could remember. Then again, that could be due to the powerful magic radiating in waves from the house – a slew of unseen enchantments warning any passers-by to stay well away. It was no wonder the Muggles had left this place alone.

Why would Voldemort bother to ward his old family home? Harry wondered. He very much doubted the man held any kind of sentimental feelings towards it – if he did, surely he would have fixed the place up a little. And yet, he seemed determined to keep people away from the site, as though it held some other significance to him. Unless Morfin or Marvolo Gaunt had done so themselves, to dissuade visitors…?

Without thinking, Harry took a step forward, over the threshold of the open gate and into the yard. At once he knew he'd made a mistake: the front door slammed open, and an ominous hissing sound voiced its disapproval of his presence. Harry's heart jumped to his throat as a literal wave of snakes poured out of the house, a writhing mass pulsing towards him, fangs bared to strike.

Harry turned and ran as fast as he could. He didn't look back, sprinting back up the lane until he could no longer feel the waves of cold and uninviting magic crashing over him. He skidded to a halt and turned around, panting heavily; the snakes no longer appeared to be following him.

Probably just an illusion, he told himself, forcing himself to pause and catch his breath. Nobody had given chase, so it was unlikely anybody had been alerted to his presence. But it was almost definitive proof that Voldemort was behind this, and that he really did not want people entering the shack.

Once Harry's breathing returned to normal, he turned and Apparated on the spot, reappearing in the dark alleyway in Hogsmeade. He checked to make sure he was fully back to normal before re-entering the main road, rejoining his classmates trickling back towards the station to catch a carriage back up to the castle.

Harry hastily scribbled a letter to Saul Croaker and sent it off with Bandit that evening. He spent the rest of the night in the common room by the fire, silently pondering what he had learned. Morfin Gaunt did have a sister, who apparently had not attended Hogwarts, but who seemed to have some magical prowess of her own. After all, how else would she have 'bewitched' Tom Riddle into impregnating her against his will? And had Morfin really killed the Riddles, or was it somebody else – somebody Harry now had definitive proof had visited the village for himself upon reaching adulthood?

He knew only two things for certain now. Voldemort had things he wished to hide, and had a heavily-warded location ideal for hiding something. It didn't take much of a stretch to put two and two together and have a decent idea of what might be concealed within the Gaunt shack…

A/N: I know that technically in canon the Muggles of Little Hangleton didn't know the Gaunts were involved in the Riddles' murders (blaming Frank Bryce instead). But some of them DID know about the Merope affair, so it seems likely that the older population would have been gossipy about the two families anyway, and I liked this method of Harry finding his way to the Gaunt shack on his own, rather than let Dumbledore solve all the horcruxes for him.

Up next: The Yule Ball! Let's hear those last-minute theories on who Harry's date will be...it's a pairing I don't see too often in fan fiction but one I'm excited to write about!