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Harry Potter stood frozen in the antechamber, his emerald eyes wide with disbelief as the reality of his situation crashed down upon him like a rogue Bludger to the chest. The ornate room, with its flickering candlelight and ancient stone walls, felt more like a tomb than a place of celebration. A year of peace, he thought bitterly, was that really too much to ask for?
First year had brought the Philosopher's Stone and a face-to-face encounter with Voldemort. Second year had unleashed a Basilisk that had nearly killed five students of the school, and Hermione killed one, Myrtle, fifty-two years ago. Third year had introduced him to Sirius Black, who had turned out to be his godfather rather than a deranged murderer, which should have been a good thing if not for the small matter of Dementors trying to suck out his soul. And now this—a tournament that had been cancelled in 1792 because too many champions had died horrible deaths.
Brilliant, Harry thought sarcastically, absolutely brilliant. What's next year going to bring? Dragons?
The worst part wasn't even the mortal peril, though that was certainly up there on his list of complaints. No, the worst part was how everyone in the room was looking at him as if he'd been handed some magnificent gift. The representatives from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were acting as if this Tournament was not dangerous, and that Harry had done this to earn himself even more fame, as if being selected for a tournament designed to kill teenagers was the highest honor imaginable.
Right, because nothing says 'congratulations' like a potential death sentence.
A gentle hand settled on his shoulder, and Harry looked up to see Professor McGonagall's concerned face peering down at him through her square spectacles. Her usually stern expression had softened with genuine worry.
"Potter, are you quite alright?" she asked quietly, her Scottish accent more pronounced than usual—a sure sign she was distressed.
Harry opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. What was he supposed to say? That he was perfectly fine with being entered into a deadly competition against his will? That he was thrilled at the prospect of facing unknown dangers for the entertainment of others? Instead, he simply stared at her, unable to find words that wouldn't come out as either a scream or a string of curses that would make Mrs. Weasley faint.
The silence stretched uncomfortably until Mr. Bartemius Crouch cleared his throat and began explaining the rules in his crisp, official tone. Harry tried to focus on the words, but they seemed to blur together in a meaningless drone. Something about dates, and regulations, and the proud traditions of the tournament.
Proud traditions of getting teenagers killed, more like.
"Excuse me," Harry interrupted, his voice cutting through Crouch's monologue like a knife. Every head in the room turned toward him, and he felt heat creep up his neck. "Is there any way I can just... not participate? I mean, I didn't enter myself, so surely there's some kind of mistake that can be corrected?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Harry could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears as he waited for someone—anyone—to tell him that yes, of course he could withdraw, what a silly question.
Instead, Dumbledore sighed deeply, the sound seeming to echo off the stone walls. "I'm afraid that's impossible now, Harry. Not just for you, but for any of the champions. Even if Mr. Diggory, Miss Delacour, or Mr. Krum wished to withdraw, they could not do so without severe consequences."
Cedric Diggory, who had been standing quietly near the window, stepped forward with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean, Professor? What kind of consequences?"
Oh good, Harry thought grimly, it gets worse. Of course it gets worse.
Dumbledore's blue eyes, usually twinkling with some hidden amusement, were unusually grave. "The Goblet of Fire is not merely a selection device. It is, in essence, a magical contract. When it accepts a name and spits forth the parchment, that person enters into a binding agreement. They must complete all three tasks of the tournament. Should they fail to participate in even a single task..." He paused, his gaze moving between the four champions. "Their magic would be lost forever."
Harry felt as though all the air had been punched from his lungs. The room seemed to tilt sideways, and he had to grip the back of a nearby chair to keep from swaying. Lost forever. The words echoed in his mind, each repetition making them more terrifying. Magic wasn't just what he could do—it was who he was. It was the world he belonged to, the only place he'd ever felt at home. Without it, he'd be nothing more than a freak living with the Dursleys for the rest of his life.
Why? he thought desperately. Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?
"Well, well," came a cold, sneering voice from the corner. "Potter finally getting what he deserves. Just like his father—too arrogant to know when he's in over his head."
Harry's head snapped up, his green eyes blazing with fury as they locked onto Professor Snape's dark, malicious gaze. The Potions Master stood with his arms crossed, his lips curved into that familiar, hateful smirk that never failed to make Harry's blood boil.
Just like his father. The words hit Harry again, and for a moment, he saw red. His hand instinctively moved toward his wand, his entire body trembling with the urge to hex Snape into the next century.
"Severus, shut up!" Professor McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip across the room, her Scottish burr thick with outrage. "How dare you speak to a student that way, especially under these circumstances!"
Even Dumbledore, usually so patient with his colleagues, turned a sharp look toward the Potions Master. "Severus, please. This is neither the time nor the place for such comments."
Harry found his voice, though it came out rougher than he'd intended. "Why are you even here, Professor?" The title dripped with sarcasm. "You're not my Head of House. Professor McGonagall is here to support me. So why don't you do us all a favor and go back to whatever dungeon you crawled out of?"
Snape's black eyes flashed dangerously, and he took a step forward, his robes billowing dramatically. "You insolent little—"
"Careful, Snivellus," Mad-Eye Moody's gruff voice cut through the tension like a rusty blade. The ex-Auror stumped forward, his magical eye whirring as it fixed on Snape. "I never forgave you the first time. You think you can save your skin a second time?"
The first time? Harry frowned, filing that cryptic comment away for later consideration. There was clearly history between Moody and Snape, history that involved forgiveness and saving skin. But right now, Harry had bigger problems to worry about.
Crouch, apparently eager to regain control of the situation, cleared his throat loudly. "Yes, well, if we could return to the matter at hand..." He launched into another explanation of dates and procedures. The first task would take place on November 24th, just over a month away. The champions would face an unknown challenge designed to test their daring, and they would be judged by a panel of five judges.
Unknown challenge, Harry thought. That's comforting. 'Hey, here's something that might kill you, but we're not going to tell you what it is.' Fantastic.
When Crouch finished his spiel and wished them all good luck before departing with the other officials, Harry assumed he was free to return to Gryffindor Tower. He wasn't looking forward to explaining this to Ron and Hermione—assuming they'd even believe him. Ron's face in the Great Hall had been a picture of hurt and betrayal, while Hermione had looked more confused than anything else.
"Potter," McGonagall said gently, "you should return to your tower. It's been a long evening, and you'll need your rest."
Harry nodded gratefully, already mentally preparing for the interrogation that awaited him in the common room. But as he moved toward the door, Dumbledore's voice stopped him.
"Actually, Harry, I need to speak with you before you retire for the evening."
Of course you do, Harry thought wearily. Because this night clearly hasn't been traumatic enough yet.
As the others filed out of the room, Harry caught sight of Fleur Delacour gliding past with her headmistress. The beautiful French witch glanced at him with those silvery-blue eyes, and he could practically hear her thinking 'little boy' again. The memory of her dismissive words in the Great Hall made his jaw clench.
Little boy. Harry's green eyes narrowed as he watched her leave. I'd like to see how you'd handle a Basilisk, princess. Let's see how 'little' you think I am after you've stared down a sixty-foot serpent that can kill with a glance.
The thought was petty, and he knew it, but it made him feel marginally better. At least until he turned back to face Dumbledore's penetrating blue gaze.
"Follow me, Harry," the headmaster said quietly. "We have much to discuss."
Harry followed Dumbledore through the corridors of Hogwarts without uttering a single word, his footsteps echoing hollowly against the stone floors. The silence between them felt heavy. It didn't take long for Harry to realize they were heading toward Dumbledore's office, though the headmaster offered no explanation for their destination.
Of course, we're going to his office, Harry thought grimly. Where else would we go for a nice, cozy chat about how I'm probably going to die in a few weeks?
As they walked, Harry's mind raced with the enormity of his situation. The first priority had to be contacting Sirius—his godfather needed to hear about this from Harry himself before the Daily Prophet got wind of it and published some sensationalized version that would send Sirius into a panic. The last thing Harry needed was for Sirius to do something reckless like showing up at Hogwarts in his Animagus form, risking capture by the Ministry.
Knowing Sirius, he'd probably try to break into the castle and demand to take my place in the tournament, Harry mused. Which would be noble and completely mental, even by his standards.
The second pressing concern was survival. Harry had no idea what the first task would entail, only that it was designed to test the champions' courage. Well, that's something, at least, he thought with dark humor. Being a Gryffindor, I've got courage in spades. Shame they don't have a task for 'most likely to stumble into mortal peril by accident.'
But courage alone wouldn't be enough. Cedric was a seventh-year student, well-versed in advanced magic and battle-tested by years of Quidditch training. Viktor Krum was an international Quidditch star and had attended Durmstrang, a school notorious for teaching the Dark Arts. And Fleur Delacour... well, she was part Veela, which probably gave her magical abilities Harry couldn't even begin to comprehend.
The Princess, Harry thought with irritation. She certainly acts like royalty, looking down on everyone else like we're peasants. I wonder if she's ever faced anything more dangerous than a broken nail.
The thought of Hermione crossed his mind, and he felt a pang of uncertainty. If she believed him—and Harry desperately hoped she would—then her help would be invaluable. Hermione's encyclopedic knowledge of magic and her talent for research could make the difference between life and death. But if she didn't believe him, if she thought he'd somehow entered himself for glory or attention...
No, Harry told himself firmly. Hermione will believe me. She has to. And if she doesn't initially, I'll make her understand. I need her.
Harry had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed they'd reached the stone gargoyles guarding Dumbledore's office until the headmaster spoke the password.
"Fizzing Whizzbees," Dumbledore said clearly, and the gargoyles sprang aside to reveal the spiral staircase.
Even his passwords are about sweets, Harry observed wryly. The man has an unhealthy obsession with candy. Though I suppose when you're a hundred and thirteen years old, you need something to keep life interesting.
They ascended the moving staircase in continued silence, and Harry found himself in the familiar circular office with its portraits of former headmasters and the magnificent phoenix perch where Fawkes sat preening his brilliant red and gold feathers. The bird trilled softly when Harry entered, a sound that somehow managed to be both beautiful and mournful.
"Please, Harry, take a seat," Dumbledore said, gesturing to one of the comfortable chairs positioned in front of his desk. As Harry settled himself, Dumbledore moved to a small cabinet. "Would you care for something sweet to drink? Perhaps some pumpkin juice with honey, or Dragon Tea?"
"No, thank you," Harry replied, his voice flat and tired.
Dumbledore paused in his preparation of what appeared to be tea for himself, glancing at Harry with those penetrating blue eyes. "I find that sweets and pleasant drinks often bring a small measure of joy to even the darkest of situations."
Harry stared at him, unimpressed by the platitude. "Professor, with all due respect, I can't see much joy in being forced into a tournament that was cancelled because too many people died."
Joy, Harry thought sarcastically. Right. Maybe I should ask the Goblet of Fire if it has any chocolate frogs to spare. I'm sure that would make everything better.
Dumbledore sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly as he settled into his own chair with his steaming cup. "In my considerable experience, Harry, it is often better to try and see things in a positive light, even when circumstances seem dire."
"A positive light?" Harry's voice rose slightly, and he couldn't keep the incredulity out of his tone. "Professor, we're talking about a deadly tournament. The 'positive light' here might literally be the last thing I see."
Unless the positive light is the flash of whatever spell kills me, Harry added silently. That would certainly be ironic.
Dumbledore nodded gravely, acknowledging the point. "You're quite right, of course. Things have become considerably more complicated than any of us anticipated. I'm afraid that both Madame Maxime and Professor Karkaroff are convinced that you entered yourself, seeking fame and glory."
Harry felt a spark of hope. "But you don't believe that, do you?"
Without hesitation, Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry. I do not believe for a moment that you placed your name in the Goblet of Fire."
Relief flooded through Harry's chest, loosening a knot of tension he hadn't realized was there. "Thank you," he said quietly. "That... that means a lot."
"Professor McGonagall shares my conviction," Dumbledore continued. "And I have every confidence that your friends will believe you as well, once they've had time to process what has happened."
Harry snorted, a sound caught between amusement and bitterness. "Should believe me and will believe me are two very different things, Professor. But I'm absolutely certain that Ron and Hermione will come around, even if everyone else in the castle thinks I'm a lying attention-seeker."
They have to believe me, Harry thought desperately. Ron saw how shocked I was when my name came out. And Hermione knows I'm not stupid enough to enter a tournament like this voluntarily. They'll figure it out.
"Is there any way to prove I didn't enter my name?" Harry asked. "Some kind of magical test or spell that could show I'm telling the truth?"
Dumbledore considered this, stroking his long silver beard thoughtfully. "I will attempt several diagnostic enchantments on the Goblet itself, and I intend to contact someone at the Ministry who specializes in magical contracts. However, I must caution you not to be too hopeful. The Goblet's magic is ancient and powerful—if someone was skilled enough to confound it into accepting a fourth champion, they likely covered their tracks well."
Harry nodded, having expected as much. Nothing in his life was ever simple. "So why did you bring me here, Professor? Just to tell me that everyone thinks I'm a fraud and there's probably no way to prove otherwise?"
Well, that's cheerful, Harry thought. Right up there with 'you're going to die' and 'your relatives hate you' on the list of things I love hearing.
"You're here because you need help, Harry, and because I believe I can provide some measure of assistance," Dumbledore replied seriously. "Tell me, why do you think your name emerged from the Goblet?"
The answer came without hesitation. "Someone wants me dead. Again." Harry's voice was matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather rather than murder attempts. "It's not exactly a new experience."
Let's see, Harry mentally tallied. First year, Voldemort wanted to use the Stone to get his body back and kill me. Second year, the diary wanted to drain Ginny's life force and kill me. Third year, everyone thought Sirius wanted to kill me, though that turned out to be wrong. Now this. I'm starting to see a pattern.
"I agree that someone wishes you harm," Dumbledore said carefully, "but I suspect there may be a larger motive at work here. Something beyond simple murder."
"What do you mean?"
"I have theories, but they are only theories at this point. Nothing I can share with certainty." Dumbledore leaned forward, his expression intense. "What I can ask is this: what will you do to prepare for the challenges ahead?"
Harry ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, considering. "I haven't had much time to think about it, honestly. But I'll need Hermione's help—assuming she believes me. I'll start reading everything I can get my hands on about defensive magic, battle spells, hexes, whatever might be useful. I'll practice until my wand arm falls off if I have to."
"Perhaps I could contact Sirius?" Harry suggested. "He was good at magic when he was at school, wasn't he? Maybe he could give me some advice, teach me some spells by letter?"
Dumbledore's expression grew troubled. "Harry, you must remember that Sirius is still a fugitive. He spent thirteen years in Azkaban, which is hardly conducive to maintaining one's magical abilities. More importantly, any contact with you puts him at tremendous risk of capture. The Ministry is still actively hunting him."
Right, Harry thought with frustration.
"What is your current knowledge of magic?" Dumbledore asked, changing the subject. "What spells do you feel confident using?"
Harry considered the question, mentally cataloging his abilities. "Well, I know most of the standard first and second-year spells. Lumos, Alohomora, basic Transfiguration, simple healing charms. I know some hexes—Stupefy, that sort of thing." He paused, feeling inadequate as he listed his meager arsenal. "If I'm being honest, my two best spells are probably Expelliarmus and the Patronus Charm. But unless the first task involves Dementors, I'm not sure how useful a Patronus will be."
Dumbledore listened carefully, nodding occasionally. When Harry finished, the old wizard's expression was grave. "I must be frank with you, Harry. Based on what you've told me, you are not nearly prepared for what lies ahead."
"Well, that's encouraging," Harry said dryly. "Here I was thinking I might actually survive this thing. Silly me."
At least he's honest, Harry thought. I'd rather know exactly how screwed I am than have false hope.
To Harry's surprise, Dumbledore chuckled at his sarcasm. "Your sense of humor in dire circumstances is admirable, Harry. It will serve you well."
The brief moment of levity gave Harry a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, Dumbledore could help him after all. "Professor, I know this is probably against the rules, but could you help me prepare? Teach me some spells, give me some guidance?"
Dumbledore shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you what the first task will be, nor can I provide direct assistance in your preparation."
Harry caught the emphasis on the word 'directly' and felt his attention sharpen. Dumbledore was choosing his words very carefully.
Without explanation, Dumbledore drew his wand and tapped a piece of parchment on his desk. Golden letters appeared across its surface, and he handed it to Harry. "This is a special permission slip that will grant you access to the Restricted Section of the library. It will remain valid until the conclusion of the third task."
Harry accepted the parchment, reading the official-looking script. It was something, at least, though he wasn't sure how much help dusty old books would be against whatever horrors awaited him. "Is there anything else you can do to help? Maybe recommend some specific books?"
"I find that sometimes, Harry, a clever witch or wizard can triumph over a more powerful opponent through intelligence and creativity rather than raw magical strength." Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled with something that might have been a hint. "Knowledge, as they say, is power."
"Is that all, Professor?" Harry asked, rising from his chair.
"For now, yes. I wish you the best of luck, Harry."
Harry tucked the permission slip into his robes and headed for the door, feeling a mixture of gratitude and disappointment. The access to the Restricted Section was valuable, certainly, but he'd hoped for more concrete help. As he reached the door, he paused and looked back.
"Thank you for believing me, Professor. It means more than you know."
Dumbledore smiled sadly. "You're welcome, my boy. Remember—sometimes the greatest victories come not from strength, but from understanding."
As Harry made his way back down the spiral staircase, he fingered the parchment in his pocket. Well, he thought, time to find out who really trusts me and who doesn't. And then it's off to the library to learn how not to die horribly.
At least the Restricted Section should have some interesting reading material. Assuming I live long enough to finish any of it.
Harry climbed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, steeling himself for what he knew would be an unpleasant confrontation. The moment he appeared, a roar of cheers and applause erupted from the assembled students. Red and gold banners had been hastily conjured, and someone had managed to procure a considerable amount of Butterbeer from somewhere.
"Harry!" Seamus Finnigan called out, raising a bottle of Butterbeer in salute. "You absolute legend! How did you get past the Age Line?"
"Come on, Harry," Dean Thomas chimed in, grinning widely. "You've got to tell us how you did it. Was it an Aging Potion? Some kind of Confundus Charm?"
"I didn't enter my name," Harry said firmly, his voice carrying across the common room despite the noise. "I had nothing to do with this."
The response was a mixture of knowing chuckles and skeptical looks. Even Fred and George Weasley, who had approached with identical grins, exchanged a glance that suggested they weren't entirely convinced.
"Right, Harry," Fred said with a wink. "Very mysterious, very secretive. We respect that."
"Though we are a bit miffed you didn't share the secret," George added, though his tone was more curious than accusatory. "We tried everything to get past that Age Line."
"Look," Harry said, raising his voice to address the room. "I know you all think this is some grand joke or clever trick, but I'm telling you the truth. I did not put my name in the Goblet of Fire. I don't want to be in this tournament, and I certainly don't want to celebrate it."
The room fell silent for a moment, students exchanging uncertain glances. Then Lavender Brown spoke up from her position near the fireplace.
"But Harry, if you didn't enter, then who did? And why would they use your name?"
Because someone wants me dead, obviously, Harry thought. But somehow I don't think that explanation is something they will believe; they have already made up their minds on the matter, so why bother?
"I don't know," Harry admitted. "But I intend to find out."
Without waiting for further questions or congratulations, Harry pushed through the crowd toward the stairs leading to the dormitories. The celebration resumed behind him, though somewhat more subdued than before. As he climbed the spiral staircase, he could hear whispers and speculation following in his wake.
Let them talk, Harry thought grimly. At least in my dormitory, I won't have to pretend to be grateful for being entered into a death tournament.
When Harry pushed open the door to the fourth-year boys' dormitory, he found Ron sitting on his bed, conspicuously not participating in the celebration downstairs. His best friend looked up as Harry entered, his expression a careful mask of neutrality that didn't quite hide the hurt and suspicion in his blue eyes.
"So," Ron said without preamble, "how'd you do it then?"
Harry felt his temper flare immediately. "I didn't do anything, Ron. I didn't enter my name."
"Right." Ron's voice was flat, disbelieving. "So you're saying your name just magically appeared in the Goblet all by itself? That you had absolutely nothing to do with becoming the fourth champion in a tournament that's supposed to have three participants?"
This is Ron, Harry reminded himself, trying to keep his voice level. My best friend. He should know me better than this.
"That's exactly what I'm saying," Harry replied, moving to his own bed and starting to change out of his dress robes. "I was as shocked as everyone else when my name came out."
Ron snorted derisively. "Come off it, Harry. You expect me to believe that someone else put your name in the Goblet? Who would do that? And how would they even manage it?"
"I don't know!" Harry's voice rose despite his efforts to stay calm. "Maybe the same person who's been trying to kill me every year since I got to Hogwarts! Did that possibility not occur to you?"
"Oh, please," Ron rolled his eyes. "Not everything that happens to you is some grand conspiracy, Harry. Sometimes things just happen because you make them happen."
"You think I wanted this?" Harry demanded, spinning to face Ron fully. "You think I asked to be entered in a tournament where the previous version was cancelled because too many people died?"
"I think you saw an opportunity for more fame and attention, and you took it," Ron said bluntly. "Just like always."
The words hit Harry harder than the bludger from his second year. He stared at his best friend—former best friend?—in shock and growing anger.
"More fame?" Harry's voice was dangerously quiet. "You think I enjoy being famous, Ron? You think I like having people point and stare at me everywhere I go? You think I asked for any of this?"
"You certainly don't seem to mind it most of the time," Ron shot back. "And now you get to be the famous Harry Potter, Triwizard Champion. The youngest competitor in centuries. Must be nice."
Must be nice, Harry repeated silently, his anger building to a boiling point.
Before Harry could formulate a response that wouldn't involve hexing his roommate, the dormitory door opened and Neville Longbottom entered, looking uncomfortable and uncertain. He took one look at Harry and Ron's angry faces and immediately began backing toward the door.
"Sorry," Neville mumbled. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll just—"
"It's fine, Neville," Harry said quickly, grateful for the interruption before he said something he might regret. "Ron and I were just having a disagreement."
Neville hesitated, glancing between his two roommates. Then, to Harry's surprise, he straightened his shoulders and looked directly at Harry.
"I believe you," Neville said simply. "I don't think you entered your name."
Neville believes me, Harry thought, feeling a rush of gratitude so intense it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Quiet, often-overlooked Neville believes me when my supposed best friend doesn't.
"Thank you, Neville," Harry said quietly. "That... that means a lot."
Ron snorted dismissively. "Oh, brilliant. Neville believes you. Well, that settles it then, doesn't it?"
Neville flushed but didn't back down. "At least I know Harry well enough to know he wouldn't lie about something this serious."
Ron's face reddened, but before he could respond, Harry held up a hand.
"Enough," Harry said tiredly. "I'm not going to argue about this anymore tonight. Believe what you want, Ron. But when this tournament tries to kill me, don't expect me to be grateful for your support."
Without another word, Harry climbed into his bed and drew the curtains, effectively ending the conversation. He lay awake for a long time, staring at the canopy above him and trying to process the events of the evening.
So much for having friends to help me through this, Harry thought bitterly. Ron thinks I'm a lying glory-seeker, and even the twins aren't sure about me. At least Neville is on my side, but what about Hermione? Only now did Harry remember that he had not seen her in the Common Room.
Tomorrow
Harry woke early the next morning, well before his usual time. The dormitory was still dark, his roommates breathing deeply in sleep. Unable to return to sleep himself, Harry dressed quietly and made his way down to the common room, hoping to find some peace and quiet to think.
To his surprise, he found Hermione already there, curled up in one of the armchairs near the fireplace with a thick book open in her lap. She looked up as he descended the stairs, her expression immediately concerned.
"Harry," she said softly, closing her book and setting it aside. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," Harry admitted, settling into the chair across from her. "Too much on my mind, I suppose."
Hermione studied his face for a moment, then stood up. "Would you like to take a walk? I think we need to talk, and the common room isn't exactly private."
Harry nodded gratefully, and they made their way out of the tower and down to the grounds. The morning air was crisp and cool, with a hint of the approaching winter in the wind. They walked in comfortable silence for several minutes before Hermione finally spoke.
"I want you to know that I believe you," she said without preamble. "I don't think you entered your name in the Goblet of Fire."
Thank Merlin, Harry thought, feeling another wave of relief. At least Hermione hasn't completely lost her mind.
"Thank you," Harry said quietly. "That means more than you know. Ron doesn't believe me."
Hermione's expression darkened. "Ron is being an idiot," she said bluntly. "He's not thinking clearly because he's jealous."
"Jealous?" Harry stopped walking and stared at her. "Jealous of what? Of me being entered in a potentially deadly tournament?"
"Not of the tournament itself," Hermione explained. "But of the attention, the recognition. Ron's always felt like he's living in everyone's shadow—his brothers' shadows, your shadow. When something like this happens, he doesn't see the danger. He just sees another way that Harry Potter gets to be special and famous while he remains ordinary."
Ordinary, Harry thought with growing anger.
"You know what?" Harry's voice was tight with fury. "I would gladly trade places with him. Let's see how much Ron enjoys being 'special' when his parents are dead, his only relatives treat him like a freak, and his godfather is on the run for something he didn't do. Let's see how much he likes the attention when people are constantly trying to kill him."
Maybe then he'd appreciate having a loving family and a normal life, Harry added silently. Maybe then he'd realize that being ordinary isn't the worst thing in the world.
Hermione held up a hand placatingly. "I'm not trying to defend him, Harry. I'm just trying to explain his perspective. That doesn't make it right."
Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Hermione was right—she wasn't defending Ron, just explaining his motivations. And Harry needed all the friends he could get right now.
"What happened last night?" Hermione asked gently. "After you left the Main Hall?"
Harry filled her in on everything—the binding nature of the Goblet's contract, Snape's cruel comments, Moody's cryptic remarks, and finally his conversation with Dumbledore. When he mentioned the permission slip for the Restricted Section, Hermione's eyes lit up with excitement.
"Harry, that's wonderful!" she exclaimed. "The Restricted Section has books on advanced magic that could be incredibly helpful. Defensive spells, battle magic, ancient charms—there's so much we could learn!"
We, Harry noted with gratitude. She said 'we,' not 'you.'
"You'll help me then?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Of course I'll help you," Hermione said firmly. "We'll research everything we can find about tournament strategies, defensive magic, anything that might give you an advantage. We'll make sure you're as prepared as possible."
As they walked back toward the castle, Harry noticed several figures in dark robes approaching the main gates. Their clothing was official-looking, and they moved with the purposeful stride of people on important business.
"Hermione," Harry said, pointing toward the gates. "Do you see those people?"
Hermione followed his gaze and nodded. "Based on their robes and the way they're walking, I'd say they're Aurors. Ministry officials, at any rate."
Aurors, Harry thought, remembering Dumbledore's promise to have the Goblet examined. He said he'd contact someone from the Ministry, but I didn't expect them to show up this quickly.
"Dumbledore mentioned he was going to have someone from the Ministry examine the Goblet," Harry explained. "I'm surprised he's working so fast on it."
"That's good," Hermione said. "The sooner they can prove you didn't enter yourself, the better."
Assuming they can prove it, Harry thought. Dumbledore didn't sound very optimistic about the chances.
As they reached the castle steps, Harry turned to Hermione with renewed determination. "Come on," he said. "We need to get to the Restricted Section. I have a feeling we're going to need all the help we can get."
Time to see what secrets the library's been hiding, Harry thought. And hopefully find something that will keep me alive long enough to graduate.
Dumbledore
Albus Dumbledore stood behind his desk, watching through the tall windows of his office as the group of Ministry officials approached the castle gates. The morning sun cast long shadows across the grounds, and he could see the distinctive robes of the Auror department moving with purpose toward the main entrance. He had expected them to arrive quickly—Amelia Bones was nothing if not efficient—but their swift response still impressed him.
Perhaps there is hope yet, he thought, adjusting his half-moon spectacles. Though I suspect the results of their investigation will only confirm what we already know: that someone with considerable skill has orchestrated this entire situation.
Five minutes later, a soft knock at his office door interrupted his musings. "Enter," he called, and Professor McGonagall stepped inside, her expression tense with concern.
"Albus, the Aurors have arrived. Madam Bones herself is leading them, along with several others I don't recognize."
"Excellent," Dumbledore replied, though his tone suggested the situation was anything but excellent. "Please escort them up, Minerva. And perhaps you could arrange for some tea? I suspect this will be a lengthy discussion."
McGonagall nodded curtly and departed, leaving Dumbledore alone with his thoughts once more. The portraits of former headmasters watched him with varying degrees of interest and concern, but he paid them little attention. His mind was focused on the delicate balance he needed to maintain—providing enough information to satisfy the Ministry's investigation while protecting the larger picture that was slowly coming into focus.
Harry needs help, Dumbledore reflected, more help than I can provide directly without compromising the investigation or violating the tournament's rules. But perhaps...
The sound of footsteps on the spiral staircase announced the arrival of his visitors. Dumbledore moved to greet them as they entered, his long robes rustling softly in the quiet office.
"Amelia," he said warmly, extending his hand to the stern-faced witch who led the group. "Thank you for coming so quickly."
Amelia Bones stepped forward, her auburn hair pulled back in a severe bun and her expression reflecting both professional courtesy and barely contained irritation. She was a formidable woman, known throughout the Ministry for her unwavering commitment to justice and her intolerance for bureaucratic nonsense.
"Albus," she replied, shaking his hand firmly. "I wish we were meeting under better circumstances."
Behind her stood four Aurors. Dumbledore recognized Kingsley Shacklebolt immediately—the tall, dignified wizard stood with the quiet confidence of someone completely comfortable with his abilities. The other three were less familiar, though their bearing marked them as experienced professionals.
The fifth member of the group, however, caught Dumbledore's particular attention. She was young, perhaps eighteen years old, with bright pink hair that seemed to shift and change even as he watched. Her stance was less polished than her companions', suggesting recent graduation from training, but her eyes held an alertness that spoke of natural talent.
Nymphadora Tonks, Dumbledore thought with interest. Moody mentioned her in his last report. Said she was one of the most promising recruits he'd ever trained, despite her tendency toward clumsiness.
"Dumbledore," Amelia said, her voice cutting through his observations, "I want you to know that I'm not entirely pleased with this situation. A fourteen-year-old boy should not be competing in the Triwizard Tournament, regardless of how his name ended up in that Goblet."
And there it is, Dumbledore thought. The heart of the matter.
"I share your concerns completely, Amelia," he replied gravely. "This is not a situation any of us would have chosen."
One of the Aurors, a middle-aged wizard with graying hair and suspicious eyes, stepped forward slightly. "Madam Bones, surely the boy must have found some way to enter himself. The fame, the glory—it would be quite tempting for someone his age."
Dumbledore felt a flash of irritation at the casual dismissal of Harry's character, but before he could respond, Amelia's sharp voice cut through the air.
"It doesn't matter whether he wanted to enter or someone else put his name in without his permission," she said firmly. "The fact remains that this should never have happened. The Age Line was supposed to prevent exactly this kind of situation."
Precisely, Dumbledore thought with approval. Amelia understands the real issue here.
"I couldn't agree more," Dumbledore said aloud. "Which is why I asked you to come. We need to examine both the Goblet of Fire and the parchment bearing Harry's name. If there's any evidence of tampering or external influence, we must find it."
Amelia nodded, her expression softening slightly. "Of course. My team is prepared to conduct a thorough investigation." She paused, glancing around the office. "I expected Alastor to be here to greet us. Where is he?"
"Ah, Alastor is currently occupied with other duties," Dumbledore replied carefully. "I believe he's in his office, reviewing lesson plans for his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes."
Amelia's eyebrows rose slightly. "Lesson plans? That seems... unlike him."
"Yes, well, teaching has required certain adjustments to his usual routine," Dumbledore said with what he hoped was a convincing smile. "But I'm sure he'll be available later if you need to speak with him."
Amelia studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes suggesting she sensed there was more to the story. However, she didn't press the issue. Instead, she turned to her team.
"Right then. Shacklebolt, I want you to examine the Goblet itself. Look for any signs of tampering, foreign magic, anything that might indicate how a fourth name was accepted. The rest of you, spread out and examine the area around where the Goblet was placed. Check for residual magic, hidden charms, anything unusual."
"Actually, Amelia," Dumbledore interjected gently, "before you begin, might I request that Auror Tonks remain here for a moment? There's a matter I'd like to discuss with her."
The request clearly surprised Amelia, who glanced between Dumbledore and the young Auror with evident curiosity. Tonks herself looked startled, her hair briefly shifting from pink to a nervous brown before settling back to its original color.
"Of course," Amelia said slowly. "Tonks, you'll join us when you're finished here."
"Yes, ma'am," Tonks replied, her voice betraying her nervousness.
As the other Aurors filed out of the office, Dumbledore moved to his desk and settled into his chair, gesturing for Tonks to take a seat across from him. The young witch perched on the edge of the chair, her posture suggesting she was ready to leap into action at a moment's notice.
She's eager, Dumbledore observed with barely concealed mischief. And probably imagining all sorts of dangerous missions I might have in mind. How delightfully entertaining.
"Auror Tonks," he began, his tone deliberately grave and mysterious, "I've heard from Alastor that you are one of the most promising new Aurors he has ever had the privilege to train."
Tonks's face flushed bright red, and her hair followed suit, turning a vibrant crimson that clashed spectacularly with her pink cheeks.
"He... he said that?" she stammered, clearly overwhelmed by the praise. "But I knocked over three cauldrons just last week during a raid simulation, and I accidentally hexed my own partner during combat training, and—"
"And yet," Dumbledore interrupted gently, his eyes twinkling with hidden amusement as he watched her growing flustered, "Alastor specifically mentioned your quick thinking, your natural instincts, and your ability to adapt to unexpected situations. He doesn't praise lightly, as I'm sure you've learned."
Tonks ducked her head, her hair gradually returning to its normal pink as she struggled to process the compliment. "Thank you, Professor. That... that means a lot."
"Which brings me to why I asked you to stay," Dumbledore continued, leaning forward slightly and adopting his most serious expression. "I have a request to make of you, one that will require a significant commitment of your time and energy. But I believe it's of the utmost importance to the safety of the wizarding world."
Tonks straightened in her chair, her eyes brightening with anticipation. Her hair took on a more confident purple hue, and she leaned forward slightly.
"Whatever you need, Professor," she said eagerly. "I'm ready for any mission, no matter how dangerous or complicated. Just tell me what needs to be done."
She thinks I'm about to send her on some grand adventure to infiltrate Death Eater strongholds or pursue dark wizards across continents.
"I'm pleased to hear of your willingness to help," Dumbledore said, pausing dramatically and allowing himself a small, knowing smile. "The task I have in mind will indeed require considerable skill, dedication, and nerves of steel. You see, I need you to train Harry Potter."
The words seemed to hang in the air like a poorly cast charm. Tonks blinked once, twice, her hair cycling rapidly through several colors as her brain tried to process what she'd just heard. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air.
Absolutely perfect, Dumbledore thought, thoroughly enjoying himself. The look on her face is worth a thousand galleons. She was expecting international espionage and instead gets babysitting duty.
"What?" Tonks finally managed to croak, her voice rising to a near-squeak. Her hair had settled on a shocked white-blonde that made her look even younger than her eighteen years.
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