Chapter Text
Harry didn’t sleep well that night, tossing and turning as thoughts of Ron and Hermione plagued his mind. Should he confront them? Turn them in? Ignore them? What could have possibly possessed them to return to Britain, let alone Hogwarts? Even if they had solicited protected status in France, that protection didn’t extend to them coming back into Britain. It didn’t make sense. It was suicidal.
Ultimately, Harry decided to confront them. He wouldn’t make a spectacle out of it; perhaps the French minister and the Beauxbatons delegation didn’t know their true identities. He sincerely doubted it, but making unfounded accusations against the French minister could jeopardize everything they were trying to achieve. Caution was essential so that he didn’t inadvertently undermine everything the Dark Lord was trying to achieve.
Harry left his bed well before dawn, his decision made, but his mind was still racing. Sipping his coffee throughout the morning, he kept a vigilant eye on the Marauder’s Map, noting that Ron and Hermione never left the Beauxbatons carriage. Had they come here as spies, willing to take action against Hogwarts, the students, even Harry? If the worst case occurred, would they betray everyone and fight against him and those in the school if a war broke out? These were questions Harry never thought he’d be asking himself, especially about the two people who used to be his best friends.
As he prepared for the day, Harry’s thoughts remained troubled. The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he knew he had to act. He couldn’t allow their presence to disrupt everything he had worked so hard to build. His mind kept replaying memories of their last encounter—the betrayal he felt. He would never let himself be an unwilling pawn or sacrifice again, but the thought of standing against them, of having to protect his new life at their expense, filled him with dread. He didn’t want to know what he would decide if it came to that, and the very uncertainty made everything all the more painful.
Feeling restless, he decided to take a walk. The castle was quiet in the early morning hours, the students still asleep. It was his favorite time to walk the halls. It was as if he could feel the castle’s magic—her gentle pulse of power filled with protection and dedication. It was unlike any magical building he’d ever encountered. Harry found a strange solace in the solitude as he made his way through the corridors. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a soft glow through the windows, but it did little to ease the unrest within him over the looming encounter he knew must occur.
By the time breakfast was served in the Great Hall, Harry had formulated his plan. He would approach Ron and Hermione discreetly during their scheduled tour of the castle the next day. Each school delegation had a personalized guided tour, McGonagall was responsible for taking the French one around. With the champions soon to be selected at the end of the week, he needed to confront them and get answers. It was better to address the situation directly now than to risk them doing something truly horrific that he could have prevented.
Resolved, Harry made his way to his first lesson. By the time he reached his classroom, the unease within him had settled somewhat, replaced by a calm detachment. He often used the mind arts when he needed to compartmentalize, and he was certain he would need that today so that he could focus on his teaching duties. He ran through one of the meditative techniques and immediately felt better. Tomorrow, he would get the answers he needed.
As Harry quickly reviewed his lesson plan, students began to pile into the classroom, laughing and chatting excitedly. Some eyed each other curiously, observing who had made it into their NEWT course while also taking note of the new students who might soon become competition during the Triwizard Cup. The mix of old and new faces added a layer of anticipation to the usual classroom dynamic.
It was his first lesson with his seventh-year Slytherin and Gryffindor students, and he already anticipated them to be his most challenging class of the year. Seventh years were always difficult because he began introducing truly powerful dark and light magic. This year, the presence of foreign students made it even harder. Harry took a deep breath, stood up, and walked around his desk, leaning against it casually as he usually did to signify he was ready to start.
"Hello," he greeted. The students quieted down. His Hogwarts students mostly smiled, looking comfortable and familiar with him, while the foreign students stared unabashedly, their keen interest evident in their wide eyes and attentive expressions.
"Many of you already know me, but for our foreign guests, I’m Professor Potter," he introduced himself.
Immediately, a student in Durmstrang uniform raised her hand. She was a tall, lean girl with piercing blue eyes and a mane of dark red hair. He nodded at her. "You’re the Dark Lord’s heir?" she asked.
Harry suppressed a sigh. Each visiting school had brought fifteen students, splitting them between the houses: Durmstrang students had been divided between Slytherin and Hufflepuff, while the Beauxbatons students were split between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. The addition of fifteen new students in the two seventh-year classes was challenging, but since it was a NEWT year group, not all seventh-year years took every class, which should have made it more manageable. Unsurprisingly, the visiting students had all elected to take Dueling and Defensive Spell Casting. As had most of the seventh-year Hogwarts students. After all, who wouldn’t want to take a class taught by the heir of the Minister, who also happened to be the resident Dark Lord?
"I'm Lord Slytherin's heir," he corrected, feeling foolish for emphasizing the semantic distinction. But he wasn’t a Dark Lord in the making—or at least that’s what he told himself. To him, the distinction truly mattered. It wasn’t the title of Dark Lord that was passed on, but the house name and legacy.
The Durmstrang girl who had asked arched an eyebrow, her face twisting into a skeptical scowl. “What’s the difference? He’s a Dark Lord. Everyone knows it.”
“Your name, please?” Harry asked, taking a moment to sort through his thoughts. He really shouldn’t blame them for being curious.
“Ekaterina Ivanova,” she announced.
Harry met the girl's gaze steadily. "Well, Miss Ivanova, the difference matters," he said calmly. "Being Lord Slytherin's heir means upholding the values and legacy of Salazar Slytherin. I'm not aspiring to become a Dark Lord, hence my profession as a professor. My role is to teach you how to defend yourselves and to understand the complexities of magic, both dark and light. So, while he may be a Dark Lord, I am not."
The girl's scowl deepened, but she remained silent, apparently unsatisfied yet unwilling to press further.
Harry continued, turning back to the entire class, hopeful he would be able to stay on lesson. They had a lot to cover with so many new students whose baseline knowledge, strengths, and weaknesses were unknown to him. "This year, you’ll be learning advanced dueling techniques and defensive spells that delve into both strong light and dark casting. It’s fundamental that you understand the responsibility that comes with wielding powerful magic. Whether you come from Hogwarts, Durmstrang, or Beauxbatons, the principles are the same: use your magic wisely and with purpose."
He scanned the room, seeing a mix of expressions—curiosity, skepticism, and determination.
"Now," he said, "I’d like to start with a quick review of last year’s lessons to refresh where necessary. We’ll spend the last half of class introducing our first two new spells, which I think you will all find pretty interesting.
"A hand shot into the air, another Durmstrang student. “Yes, Mr…?”
The boy turned to face him, his light green eyes locking onto Harry’s. "Mikhaila Petrovna," he replied, his voice low and gruff, almost hard to understand because of his accent. “Vye am confused. If you are de Dark Lord’s ‘eir, vhy not claim that?”
Harry took a moment to observe him. Mikhail was tall and broad-shouldered, with a rugged appearance that suggested he had seen his own fair share of tough situations. His dark hair was cropped short, and a faint scar ran down the side of his jaw, adding to his formidable look. The challenge in his posture was unmistakable; he sat with his chest slightly forward, his stance rigid and confrontational.
This question came up almost every year in some fashion or another, though usually students were a bit more discreet with their curiosity about his and Voldemort’s relationship. He usually gave them some grace, since it mostly came from younger, naive students whose poor manners he could excuse. Harry sighed. Hadn’t he just explained this? “As I just said, to claim to be a Dark Lord’s heir would imply I intend to take his place someday, which is not my intent.”
Another hand went up, this time from a Beauxbatons student. His straight black hair framed his face, with a few loose strands covering his almond-shaped sharp eyes. There was a knowing glint as he stared up at Harry. “Yes, Mr…?” Harry asked, trying to keep the long- suffering tone out of his voice.
“Nakamura. I heard you have the power levels of a magical Lord,” Nakamura challenged.
All the students shifted eagerly in their seats, their focus intently on Harry. He shifted from one foot to the other awkwardly. “We truly aren’t here to discuss me,” he deflected. “We have a full lesson ahead, and trust me, you’ll want to finish the review because the second half involves Lethifolds. While I’m sure you’ve studied the creatures before, I doubt you’ve covered the Patronus Charm or Fiendfyre.” These were the first two truly powerful spells he would be introducing. Most students would be unable to cast either, and he had been incredibly skeptical about teaching Fiendfyre. But as usual, Voldemort had convinced him, stating that it was notoriously difficult to control and it was better for them to learn they couldn’t handle it in a controlled environment.
The students' eyes lit up with excitement. Harry smirked. “So, I assume you’d rather get to those spells and begin learning some powerful dark and light magic, right?”
“Honestly, I’d be curious to know more about you, Professor.” Harry glared at the Gryffindor, Elena Thomas, a cousin of Dean Thomas. They had discovered they shared the same great- grandparent, a Squib, who had been forced to flee into the Muggle world a few generations back. “You’re always so secretive.” A few students nodded in agreement. Harry’s glare deepened, but Elena looked unrepentant. He had taught them for four years; what did she mean by secretive?
“If ve are to learn from vu, zen ve should know who you are better, oui?” one of the Beauxbatons girls chimed in. More students nodded.
“My life has been paraded through the news since I was one,” Harry argued.
“Most of that is garbage,” said Lucian Selwyn. Yes, he was related to the Selwyn Harry had seen murdered at Slytherin Manor. Lucian was a second cousin and didn’t seem to care in the slightest that his relative had been killed by the Dark Lord for attacking his heir. In fact, Harry had heard whispers of Lucian bragging about how cool it was that Harry had taken down his uncle at seventeen. He would truly never understand Voldemort’s followers.
Harry glanced around at the eager faces, feeling a sense of defeat. He didn’t want to seem like he was hiding anything. “If I answer a few questions, can we all promise to focus on the lesson for the rest of the time? And I’m adding ten inches to your homework as the cost.” A collective groan filled the room.
“Knowledge isn’t free,” Harry smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. The students, who were more young adults than children, glanced at each other as if coming to a consensus.
“You’ll answer all our questions?” Elena confirmed skeptically.
Harry laughed. “Not a chance, but I’ll answer some, and I promise not to lie. But you will respect it if I decide not to answer something, and when I say we’re done, you will all accept that. Do we have a deal?”
They nodded eagerly. Letting out a breath, Harry hopped onto his desk, letting his feet dangle. “Who’s first?”
“So, are you the Dark Lord’s heir?” A new Durmstrang boy asked. A Slytherin girl hissed in distaste.
“He already answered that. He’s the Lord Slytherin’s heir,” she said knowingly. “Then why does he go by Professor Potter?” the same boy asked dourly.
“Because that’s my last name,” Harry corrected, cutting the Slytherin off before she could answer for him. “I was born Harry James Potter. That was my identity before I became Lord Slytherin’s heir.”
“So, he’s not your father?” another student asked. Harry shook his head.
“Why do you claim to be his heir then? I thought blood adoptions were forbidden here.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Harry said, understanding the misconception. “Blood adoptions are allowed, but they’re closely monitored. They’re illegal to conduct without ministry approval.” Which Voldemort had not changed, not wanting families to band together to try and create a power vortex that could challenge him. “My situation didn’t involve a blood adoption, though. It was through a Rite of Succession.” He saw a mix of curiosity, recognition, and confusion on the students’ faces.
“Most of you know the Dark Lord and I have a bit of history,” he continued, which felt like the understatement of the century. Even after years at his side, Harry despised discussing it. “I don’t care to go into all the details, but suffice it to say, his actions during the first year of my life resulted in magic designating me as his heir. This was confirmed through both magical and blood testing.”
“I thought you were going to answer our questions,” a rather thick blonde girl, Valeria Burke, whined.
Harry’s tone softened, though his words were pointed. “My parents both died that night, Miss Burke. Would you expect me to ask you questions so crassly about your own family history?” He knew it was cruel; the Burkes had a dark and tragic history, especially during the first war against Grindelwald. They hadn’t chosen to support the rise of the first Dark Lord despite their dark leanings, and it had not gone well for them. Valeria had been almost as distraught by Grindelwald’s escape as Harry, fearful of revenge for grandparents who had once stood against him and had been imprisoned, only rescued by Dumbledore’s victory.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, blushing but looking equally angry at the chastisem*nt. Some Slytherins could truly be brats.
“To the new students, I’ll give you the same background the other students know. I became Lord Voldemort’s apprentice when I was sixteen. It was mutually beneficial despite our previous opposition. We formed an alliance. Later that year, I discovered that I had become his heir due to the Rite of Succession.”
“He taught you magic?” the same Durmstrang student asked, skepticism evident in his tone. Harry was starting to decide he didn’t like him much.
“That is typically what an apprenticeship entails,” Harry responded, arching a brow at the challenging tone.
“That’s not an answer; that’s implying,” the Durmstrang student said co*ckily as if he’d caught Harry in a lie.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes, he taught me magic,” he said firmly. “What type of magic?” the boy pressed.
“The type that Dark Lords like to teach,” Harry replied, feeling tired of this game. It felt almost like an interrogation, and he didn’t care what this kid thought of his background.
“Have you cast the Unforgivables?” a Beauxbatons student asked, eyes wide.
Harry smiled thinly, not overly proud of what he was about to say. “I teach a workshop on Unforgivables.” The Durmstrang students looked intrigued, while the Beauxbatons students appeared frightened. It was only one year old; he’d started it last year after losing a duel to the Dark Lord, and that had been the price.
“Do you really?” the same Beauxbatons student murmured thoughtfully.
“Yes, that’s not to say we allow you to cast the spells,” he clarified. “Certainly not on another person. Only those who go into the Auror department are formally trained to cast them. But understanding the full range of magic, from dark to light, is important. Each has its benefits and costs. You won’t leave this year ignorant. I won’t have you going out into the world naive about how such magic feels when you cast it or becoming ensnared by it.” He gave the Durmstrang students a pointed look, especially the bratty boy.
“Is the Dark Lord a pureblood?” a Gryffindor girl, Madison Price, asked, catching Harry off guard.
“Lord Slytherin or Grindelwald?” Harry asked, trying to cover his lapse. The Dark Lord would be furious if a rumor started because of Harry.
Madison frowned. “Slytherin,” she said, as if Harry were daft.
Harry forced himself to laugh it off. “Well, you’d have to ask him, but I have it on good authority that his ancestry includes Gaunt, Slytherin, and Peverell.” Truth to cover deceit— his master would be so proud.
“I heard a rumor once that he grew up in the Muggle world,” the Gryffindor continued, her voice sincere. She seemed to want it to be true, as if it would make her, a half-blood, feel better. Harry wanted to tell her that blood status truly had no influence on magical power, as evidenced by his and the Dark Lord’s bloodlines, but it wasn’t his secret to share. They all knew the truth about his parents, but the Dark Lord had firmly maintained his desire to never reveal his humble Riddle origins.
“I promised to answer questions about me, not the Dark Lord. Feel free to ask him when he visits at the end of the week.” She immediately paled, and murmurs spread through the students. The Dark Lord’s visits always caused a stir. He was infamously famous in these halls, the yin to Harry’s yang.
“Is it true you can speak to snakes?” another Beauxbatons asked, his eyes comically wide with curiosity.
Harry smirked. This was safer ground. “Nagini,” he hissed. The students shifted, the Slytherins and Gryffindors knowing what to expect, while the foreign students watched suspiciously as Nagini slithered out from under his desk.
The room fell silent as Nagini made her way toward Harry, her scales glinting in the classroom light. The sight of the enormous serpent drew mixed reactions—fascination from some, fear from others. Harry reached out to gently stroke her head, a gesture of familiarity that she eagerly indulged in.
“You taste agitated,” she hissed, flicking her tongue.
“My students are being particularly annoying,” he murmured, shifting his fingers to stroke the soft underside of her neck.
“Can I eat one?” she asked, her tone almost hopeful. Harry snorted, pulling his hand back.
“No,” he chided. She hissed in distaste.
Harry glanced back up. "Yes, I speak to snakes," Harry said, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
The students watched in awe as Nagini coiled around the legs of Harry's desk. Harry took a moment to let the tension ease, then continued, "Now, if there are no more questions about my personal life, let's get back to the lesson.” There was a collective groan, but he pushed on.
“I want to review the spells we learned last year. You’ll each get a chance to practice them, and once everyone has knocked off the rust, we’ll shift to Lethifolds, the Patronus Charm, and Fiendfyre. It goes without saying that you are not allowed to practice any of these spells without a professor present. If I catch you attempting them, not only will you be kicked out of my class, but I will also be writing to your parents for the Hogwarts students and notifying your Headmaster for our guests. Trust me, this is not an area where you want to test my patience."
He glanced around at them seriously, pleased to see that most seemed to take his words to heart. The students, still buzzing with curiosity, gradually settled down, their focus shifting back to the lesson. Although their eyes occasionally flickered to Nagini’s resting form, they mostly paid attention to Harry's instructions.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
The next evening, Harry finally got his chance to confront Ron and Hermione. They had mostly kept to the Beauxbatons carriage, carefully avoiding any area where Harry might be expected. However, the tour of Hogwarts was an event all adults in the delegations were required to attend. Declining the host’s offer to showcase the pride of Britain, Hogwarts, would have been seen as poor form—insulting, even.
Harry observed from a distance as the group made their way through the corridors. Their disguises were impressive, intricate… flawless. Hermione’s transformation was particularly striking. Her hair was now a sleek, dark blonde, styled in a sophisticated chignon. She wore elegant, tailored robes in deep navy, adorned with delicate silver embroidery that highlighted her graceful figure. Her eyes, a shade of hazel, sparkled with intelligence.
Ron had equally taken on a completely opposite persona. His hair was a rich chestnut brown, styled to the side, and his usually freckled skin was smooth and unblemished. He wore simple, dark green robes. His blue eyes were a shade darker than Harry remembered.
Harry watched as they interacted with McGonagall and the other members of the delegation. Without the Marauder’s Map, he never would have guessed these two were his old friends. He sensed no deceptive magic emanating from their disguises, suggesting it wasn’t a spell. Perhaps it really was Polyjuice? They certainly knew from experience how effective that was.
As the group approached the courtyard, Harry took a deep breath and made his move. Stepping out from behind a statue, he caught Ron and Hermione's eyes with a meaningful glance. McGonagall noticed him and raised an eyebrow in surprise, but her expression quickly returned to its usual sternness.
“Professor Potter,” she greeted. “Is there something you need?”
“Just a moment with a few from the French delegation,” Harry replied smoothly, his gaze fixed on Ron and Hermione. “There are some matters I need to discuss with them that were brought up by their students earlier. It shouldn’t take much time.”
McGonagall nodded, though with a slight frown. “Very well. I trust it’s important.” “Very,” Harry assured her.
He stepped closer to Ron and Hermione, who exchanged nervous glances but maintained their composed façades. “Shall we take a walk?” he suggested, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Madame Maxime stepped forward. “If students are involved, perhaps I should come?”
Harry glanced pointedly at Hermione, subtly pushing his magic against hers. “Oh no, Madame Maxime, this shouldn’t take but a moment,” she stammered. “I think we know exactly what this is about.” Her French accent was perfect.
Maxime glanced between them, then shrugged. “Très bien. I was looking forward to seeing the grounds,” she said, blushing faintly. Harry knew there was someone else on the grounds equally excited for the delegation to make their way near the forest.
As Maxime turned away, Harry gestured for Ron and Hermione to follow him. The pair silently obliged, the rest of the delegation continuing their tour with McGonagall. Harry led them to a secluded classroom, away from prying eyes and ears.
Once they were alone, Harry turned to face them, his expression hard. “Drop the act,” he said coldly. “I know it’s you.”
They exchanged glances, their tension palpable. Now that Harry knew what to look for, he could feel the distinct signatures of their magic. They were masked, but he would recognize them anywhere.
“What do you mean?” asked the disguised Ron, his voice unsteady.
“Are you really going to lie to my face?” Hurt crept into Harry’s voice, his eyes narrowing as he watched their reactions.
Again, they glanced at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. “Oh, Harry,” whispered the disguised Hermione, stepping forward as if to embrace him.
Harry took a step back, his posture rigid. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Do you have a death wish?”
“No, of course not,” Ron said, looking between Hermione and Harry as Harry took another step back.
“Then why are you here? In Hogwarts of all places, with the Dark Lord essentially making this his second home during the tournament?” Harry knew he sounded hurt, confused, and angry—all three emotions competing within him for control. He forced himself to calm his magic, which was reflecting the same.
“Well, we didn’t think he’d be here all that often, to be honest,” Ron replied hotly. “Seems like running a country and plotting to take over others should be a full-time job.”
Harry frowned, glancing around to ensure no one was within earshot. “We shouldn’t have this conversation here,” he muttered more to himself than to them. He’d been impulsive in grabbing them, but now that he had them, he needed to be smart, or they would all get in trouble. “Follow me…”
“Where are you taking us?” Hermione asked, her voice tinged with both hope and fear. “You’re not going to turn us in, are you?” Ron added, his voice shaky.
Harry glared at them. “I should, after the stunt you pulled,” he said, his voice dropping as his anger surged. “I almost died because of you.” He actually had…
“We never wanted that to happen,” Hermione whispered, tears forming in her light blue eyes. Seeing her in disguise, knowing who she actually was, made this conversation even more difficult for Harry. He didn’t want to have it at all, let alone under these circ*mstances.
“Follow me to the Room of Requirement,” he said instead, turning on his heel. He didn’t look back. They would either follow or face the consequences. If they chose not to, his mind would be made up, and the next time he saw them, he would report them as trespassers. He should do that anyway. That would be the sane choice instead of going anywhere with them, giving them a chance to manipulate him, even use him again.
The walk to the Room of Requirement was silent, filled with unspoken tension. Harry’s mind raced with memories of their last encounter, bitterness and anger threatening to overwhelm him. The terror he’d felt, truly unsure if he was walking to his own death, swarmed him again as if it were yesterday. It was one of the worst nights of his life. It had nearly cost him everything. He still couldn’t believe he and Voldemort had managed to move past it, growing even stronger and closer as a result.
Once they reached the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, Harry walked past the opposite wall, pacing it three times, concentrating on the room he needed.
The door materialized, and Harry pushed it open, stepping into a large, somber room. The air inside was heavy, and the dim lighting cast long shadows across the space. Instead of cozy furniture, the room was furnished with rigid, unyielding chairs placed at stiff angles. A fireplace dominated one wall, but the fire within burned low and offered little warmth, its flames casting a cold, flickering light that only accentuated the room's starkness.
The walls were lined with dark, aged wood, and the high ceiling made the space feel vast and unwelcoming. Sparse, functional decorations added to the utilitarian atmosphere, with no hint of personal touch or comfort. The few pieces of artwork lacked any warmth or familiarity.
The room's overall austerity and formality were clearly designed to serve a purpose, not to invite or comfort. It reflected Harry’s desires perfectly.
Ron and Hermione followed, their footsteps echoing in the silent room as they closed the door behind them. They glanced around the room cautiously. The room's severe ambiance seemed to mirror Harry's current mood, a place where solace was absent and the weight of their reality pressed down upon them.
The three sat down, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Harry looked at them, his eyes narrowed. “Why are you here? How did you even become a part of the French team?”
Hermione shifted uncomfortably before replying. “Fleur was able to get us positions within the Minister’s delegation.”
That actually made some sense; he knew she was still a prominent figure in her nation, and her sister had married a European prince or something of the sort, adding to their notoriety. Harry had received an invite but hadn’t attended, cautious of the perception since the minister and Voldemort were clearly at odds. Having Voldemort's heir attend such a prestigious event might send a contradictory message. Plus, he hadn’t wanted to see the Weasleys, who he knew would be there in force.
“Have you become spies?” Harry asked, his tone sharp.
Ron and Hermione exchanged glances as if debating how much to reveal.
Harry’s patience snapped. “Don’t lie to me,” he warned, his voice hard. His mind arts were approaching the Dark Lord's level in skill, though not as powerful. He could usually tell when he was being lied to or misled. The students hated it.
Hermione sighed, her decision apparently made. “We’re not spies. They don’t know who we truly are. But they know we’re British citizens who fled when the Dark Lord began to take power. As you very well know, they are afraid of his ultimate objectives, what he intends to do to France if there is a treaty or alliance signed. I offered to provide my perspective. Fleur vouched for us, which helped quite a bit. We were invited to join the delegation because we know the school and the key players. We’re only here to help advise.”
Harry felt like there was more to it, but at least as a baseline, it seemed true. He glanced between them. “You and Ron are both political delegates?” he asked skeptically. He could see that for Hermione, but for Ron…?
Ron snorted. “Hardly,” he muttered. “I’m helping the twins expand their joke shop. I just refused to let her come here alone.” He paused as if realizing who he was speaking to: the number two in Britain. There were rules preventing trade between the two nations, one of the reasons the French had agreed to the tournament, hoping to get that rescinded.
Harry looked at them, absorbing this new information. It could have been worse. It also could have been better. Regardless of their positions in France, Hermione was a wanted criminal by the Dark Lord, and now Ron had admitted to essentially facilitating illegal sales. Not that Harry cared about that; it was the ministry’s job to crack down, not his. But if they were caught, both would end up in prison or worse.
“You stay in disguise all the time now?” That had to be challenging. If it were Polyjuice, that would be expensive and difficult to ensure the ingredients were always on hand.
“It’s actually the twins' invention; they truly are brilliant,” Ron said, perking up, his smile turning genuine. “They made these candies that change your appearance; only taking the antidote changes you back, or it takes about a week to be fully digested and out of your system. No magic is involved. They made us special ones, keyed to our genetics, so we will always change the same way.”
Harry arched a brow despite himself. That was impressive. Also, very dangerous. Anyone could impersonate someone else. He wondered if they could control how they looked. Could Ron have chosen a real person to impersonate? Was this bloke before him based off someone the twins actually knew? Harry would need to ask them about it when he got some free time. While his interactions with the Weasley parents were still strained, Harry and the twins had reconciled enough that if he stopped by their shop or ran into them in the street, it wasn’t contentious. If anything, they liked him even more in his new role because he had recommended a few of their items to be standard purchases for the ministry.
One invention that had been a huge hit last year was a teleportation box that allegedly mimicked two magical cabinets that were the original inspiration. When something was placed in one, it appeared in the other once the door was closed. The twins said it was rumored that one half of the original cabinet pair was in Hogwarts, the other half lost, but they’d found the instructions to recreate them and had even improved upon the magic. Now, different ministry heads had the boxes all interconnected outside their offices so they could send memos directly to each other, significantly cutting back on the paper airplane memo traffic. Even the Dark Lord had been impressed by it.
In the silence, Ron shifted in his seat, glancing around the room. “What about some snacks or a drink?” he asked hopefully, attempting to lighten the mood.
Before Harry could respond, Dobby appeared with a pop, a tray laden with refreshments in his hands. “No, Dobby,” Harry said sharply, glaring at the house elf. “Don’t serve them.” Ron’s face fell, and Hermione’s eyes darkened at the harshness in Harry’s tone.
Dobby cowered under Harry’s stern gaze but obeyed, vanishing with a forlorn look. Harry felt a pang of guilt, but he’d make it up to the elf later. One of the Puffs had taken to knitting and had made a hat for Nagini, which she absolutely refused to wear. Harry would give it to Dobby that night as an apology.
“No,” Harry repeated, turning back to his once friends. Standing up, he began to pace. “You don’t get to look at me like that, to judge me. You both made the absolute worst decision possible and then left me to clean up all the pieces by myself. This isn’t a friendly reunion; you’re not welcome here. You almost ruined everything.”
“Looks like you’ve been doing pretty well, mate,” Ron said, trying to smile but failing miserably.
Harry could barely believe it. He glared at them both. “I still don’t understand why you did it. That night, when I left to get rid of the Horcruxes… Had you stopped believing in me? Did you think I was lost and would no longer protect everyone? It’s the only reason I can think of for why you would hide such a huge plan from me; one filled with more holes than you could possibly comprehend.”
That had bothered him the most with how everything went down. He’d compromised so much, given so much of himself to the Dark Lord to protect the Light, to protect the world, to make sure a war never broke out. And they had gone behind his back, targeting the very thing that would ensure the Dark Lord never forgave them, that he would hunt them down and slaughter them all.
“No,” Hermione mouthed, shaking her head. “We never doubted you. You never stopped trying to help. And that’s why you swore that oath to Neville to protect us.”
“Exactly,” Harry thundered, his anger intense. They both leaned back. “I did everything for you... I always did everything for you. But you made that impossibly foolish plan and left me completely in the dark. I was used to the Order not trusting me, to Dumbledore not trusting me. But I never thought you two wouldn’t.”
Hermione looked like she’d been slapped. Harry could feel his magic pulsing with anger and frustration, barely contained.
“Of course we trusted you, mate,” Ron argued, desperation creeping into his voice.
The tension in the Room of Requirement was thick enough to cut with a knife. Harry stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, staring at the two people who had once been his closest friends. Hermione’s disguised face had gone pale and tear-streaked. Ron’s expression was a mix of guilt and insolence.
Harry lowered his voice, bitterness creeping in. “No, you didn’t. Because if you trusted me, you never would have hidden the reason Hermione took the mark. You never would have hidden your plan to break into Slytherin Manor to steal Nagini.”
Ron glanced at Hermione, an unspoken “I told you so” in his look. She frowned, her lips quivering.
“We didn’t want to put you in a position where you had to hide that from him. We knew you wouldn’t be able to know that and still stand beside him,” Hermione said, her voice beginning to tremble, tears falling from her light blue eyes. She hugged herself tightly, turning away for a moment before looking back up at Harry. “We thought if we got rid of them, you’d be freed. I didn’t think you would ever voluntarily stay by his side. I still don’t even know what you did. All we know is Neville said the oath was complete, the bond was no longer intact. So, we assumed you were free too. But you stayed at his side.” She stared at him intently, her voice lowered. “What happened?”
Harry swiped his hands through his hair, exasperation, and anger clear in his movements. “Those five objects weren’t his only way to be immortal. If you had told me the truth, I could have told you that before you got so deep that the only solution was a death sentence for both of you!” He paced back and forth, his frustration palpable, every gesture sharp and intense.
“Then why promise to get rid of them?” Hermione pressed.
Harry shook his head. He would not tell them about his oaths; that might make them doubt what had happened to the five. They believed them destroyed when, in reality, they had just been returned, effectively making the Dark Lord even more sane and stable. At first, it had been difficult to discern, but over the years, Harry could detect an even greater lucidity in the already brilliant mind. They had thought to take the Dark Lord down, but in reality, their plan had resulted in him being stronger and Harry even more securely at his side.
“Is life under his rule so bad? Is life under my rule that bad?” he asked instead, his voice dropping to a whisper. He stopped pacing and looked at them, his eyes searching for an answer. The truth was, over the past seven years, the Dark Lord had taken much of what Harry said into consideration. Harry knew his limitations, what the Dark Lord absolutely would not budge on, but in most things, they had found a compromise Harry could live with.
“We thought it would be worse,” Hermione breathed.
“It would have been worse if you’d gone through with your plan. He would have only wanted vengeance.” Harry shook his head, frustration mounting. They would have unleashed the true fury of the Dark Lord on the world. It still made Harry shudder, thinking about what might have been. “You’re just as bad as Dumbledore, making decisions without caring who gets hit in the crossfire.”
“Mate…” Ron began, but Harry cut him off.
“I’m not your mate. You gave up that right the same night you were willing to sacrifice me for your goals.”
“We thought it would free you,” Hermione said softly, her eyes pleading for understanding.
Harry glanced between the two, his expression hardening. “It did free me. It freed me from the chains I’d allowed the Light to put on me.”
“So that’s it? You’re Dark now? You don’t care?” Ron accused, his voice rising in anger.
Harry exhaled in disgust. “Yes, this is me not caring. Spending all my time making sure children enter this world with a chance to succeed, making sure Muggleborns get to see their parents once a year and have a relationship with them. Making sure there aren’t any laws that segregate status by blood or magic. Well done, you two. You unveiled it. The real me was hiding in plain sight all this time.”
They glanced at each other, uncertainty in their eyes. “Can you forgive us?” Hermione asked, her voice small.
Harry shook his head, taking a step back. “I don’t think you deserve it,” he said softly. He turned to make his way to the door. He’d had enough. He got what he needed, but it brought no satisfaction.
“Will you turn us in?” Ron asked, his voice tinged with fear.
Harry froze, his hand on the door. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, steadying himself. “I will get you both a Portkey back to France. I don’t care where you go from there. If you choose not to use it, then yes, I will turn you in, and you can face a trial. I doubt it will end in your favor.” It hurt to say, but he had to stick with his decision. He’d made hard choices before to preserve what he had, and he would do so now. “You made your choice. I’ve made mine. I won’t let you destroy the life I’ve made. I’ve fought too hard for it.”
He turned, looking back at them one last time. “Just like Dumbledore, you were all wrong about him... and me.” With that, he turned and left, not looking back.
The door closed behind him with a finality that echoed through the silent room. Ron and Hermione sat there, stunned.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
Harry found himself swamped over the rest of the week. Between teaching his classes and preparing for the Goblet ceremony, he barely had a moment to himself. Every spare second was consumed by something. The task of obtaining a Portkey from the Ministry, though pressing, had to be pushed aside until after the champions were chosen. He doubted Ron and Hermione would do anything too foolish, so he resigned himself to going to the Ministry over the weekend to get it.
Despite his busy schedule, Ron and Hermione's presence at Hogwarts weighed heavily on his mind. They attempted to corner him several times, hoping for a chance to talk. Each time, Harry managed to slip away, using his obligations as a shield against their determined efforts.
After their third attempt, Harry’s patience finally snapped. They caught him in a corridor near the Great Hall, their faces filled with the same desperation and regret he’d seen when they parted ways in the Room of Requirement.
“If you approach me again before the champions are selected, I’ll turn you into the Aurors myself,” Harry hissed, his voice low and deadly serious.
The hurt in their eyes was palpable. Hermione’s face crumpled, and Ron looked like he had been punched in the gut. Without another word, they retreated, leaving Harry standing alone, his heart aching with the familiar sting of betrayal. For the most part, they stayed in the Beauxbatons carriage or mingled with the official party, carefully avoiding any appearance when Voldemort was present, as was the case that very evening.
It was the night the Goblet of Fire would reveal the champions. Calling the castle excited would be the understatement of the century.
The flickering candlelight cast shadows on the stone walls of Snape’s headmasters office. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and potions, a testament to the room’s new dual purpose. Unsurprisingly, Snape had transformed it into a makeshift lab, not wanting to trek all the way to the dungeons to brew.
Harry sat in a high-backed chair, his eyes fixed on the crimson-eyed figure across from him. Snape had vacated his own office to give them space to catch up. Or at least that was the excuse he claimed; Harry knew the wizard was all too eager to fling Dark Lord hosting duties onto the Slytherin Heir so he could oversee the final preparations for the evening ceremony.
“How’s the Ministry?” Harry asked, keeping his tone casual.
Voldemort’s eyes focused on him, narrowing slightly. He knew the real question behind Harry’s words. “There are whispers in Eastern Europe,” Voldemort revealed, his voice calm but resonant. “Rumors that in the shadows there is a new power emerging. One that seeks followers, making promises of strength and dominance.”
Harry had heard whispers of the same over the last few days. Children were remarkably informed. “Grindelwald?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing.
“We haven’t confirmed it yet,” Voldemort nodded. “But it is likely.” Harry’s mind raced. “What does that mean for us?”
Voldemort’s lips curled into a faint, almost amused smile. “For now, we wait. I have tasked some of my lesser-known Death Eaters to infiltrate these circles and gather information.”
Harry’s frown deepened. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
Voldemort shrugged, the gesture dismissive. “That is inconsequential.”
Harry’s frown turned into a scowl, unable to hide his distaste for Voldemort’s flippant view on life, which the Dark Lord immediately took note of.
“Since when do you care so much about my followers?” Voldemort asked, his tone more curious than scolding. “I doubt you’ve even met the ones I tasked with the mission.”
“It’s not necessarily about caring for them,” Harry said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “But they have chosen to serve you. That should mean something.” How was it that Voldemort could never understand that valuing human life was something any sane person, let alone a ruler, should care about?
Voldemort’s eyes glittered with something between amusem*nt and wonder. “You never cease to surprise me,” he murmured almost fondly. “They must earn such consideration. They have not proven their use. This is a chance for them to do so.”
Harry leaned back, frustration gnawing at him. “And if they are captured or worse, killed?” he asked, his voice tinged with exasperation.
Voldemort tilted his head, arching a brow, his posture clearly indifferent. “Then they clearly were not of much use. It is better to discover that now,” he replied, his tone cold and dismissive.
Harry sighed, feeling the weight of futility. Arguing with the Dark Lord on topics such as these was pointless; he should have known better than to expect anything different.
The Dark Lord seemed to sense Harry’s surrender on the matter and smirked. “You can put your fears to rest, my bleeding-heart heir. The followers I sent are all proficient in the mind arts; there should be minimal risk. They were instructed to gather information and return, not to put themselves in true danger. We will see the results soon enough. For now, focus on the Triwizard Tournament. The champions will be chosen tonight, and we must ensure everything goes as planned.”
Harry nodded, brushing off the gentle scolding and taking the words in the spirit they were intended. This was an important night. “I know, you’re right. I’ll be relieved once we have the champions selected,” he admitted, and it was the truth. But it wasn’t the only reason he wanted the night to be over. He also didn’t want the Dark Lord in the same castle as Ron and Hermione, now that he knew they were present. He glanced at the torches lining the wall pensively, not enjoying how complicated everything seemed to be becoming. Between the tournament, Grindelwald, and now the return of Ron and Hermione, this year wasn’t panning out how he’d hoped in the slightest.
“You seem preoccupied,” Voldemort observed.
Harry glanced up, immediately occluding his mind to hide any thoughts of Ron and Hermione, internally scolding himself for the minor lapse. Despite his perfected mask, he knew Voldemort was exceptionally perceptive. Plus, the soul shard between them made it nearly impossible to conceal baseline emotions, granting them both greater insight into each other if they were actively searching, regardless of any occlumency attempts. Although they kept the soul link closed, masking most thoughts and feelings, close proximity allowed their magic to sense each other more intensely. It was both a blessing and a curse. Harry rarely had to guess at the Dark Lord’s mood, but the opposite was also true. Given Voldemort’s controlling and possessive nature, it had become second nature for him to check up on his heir anytime they were together.
In the first few years, while they were still navigating the complexities of Harry being the Master of Death and Voldemort’s main link to immortality, Harry had understood that the Dark Lord’s soul and magical probes were driven by fear and a need for control, with Voldemort ever resistant to truly trusting anyone. Over time, as Harry proved his sincerity and loyalty, the probing became less about security and more instinctual, almost as if the Dark Lord genuinely cared about his heir’s mood and health. It would have been comforting, even endearing, if Voldemort didn’t also use it to manipulate Harry, prying into feelings Harry preferred to keep hidden and using that knowledge to pry, as was the case now.
Withholding a sigh, Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to deny that something was bothering him, which meant he needed to present a believable explanation to prevent the Dark Lord from probing further. It frustrated him that he was rarely successful in keeping any truly powerful emotions hidden from Voldemort. While their connection worked both ways, Harry couldn't demand answers from the Dark Lord as freely as Voldemort did from him. The imbalance gnawed at him, often leaving him feeling exposed and even vulnerable.
Voldemort’s lack of hesitation in invading Harry’s solitude only added to his frustration, even if the Dark Lord had become somewhat better at restraining his curiosity when he sensed Harry was in a particularly petulant mood.
“You know this tournament brings up bad memories for me.” Harry settled on; it was certainly true. “I know nothing will happen, that the Goblet has been adjusted, so what happened to me will never happen again, but it still leaves me anxious.” He met the crimson eyes. “The last time this tournament occurred, a student died, a Dark Lord returned, and my own blood was sacrificed against my will to bring my then-enemy back to even greater power. This is beyond challenging not only for me to witness but also to, in part, lead the reinstatement of this tournament. I feel responsible for the students' safety.” And all that was the truth. Just not the only reason Harry felt more uncomfortable tonight than any other night.
He felt a push of magic against his, the Dark Lord’s familiar power reaching out. “None of that will ever happen to you again, my heir.” The irony was not lost on Harry that the one making that promise had the most power to turn all his fears back into reality. So much had changed over the last seven years, and yet reminders like this forced him to remember what was, what might have been. He met the crimson eyes, contemplating what still might be if the stability he’d come to find at the Dark Lord’s side was ever toppled. He needed to get rid of Ron and Hermione immediately.
“I know,” he nodded. “I trust you.” It no longer surprised him that he truly did.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
The Great Hall buzzed with excitement, the air electric with anticipation. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the starry night sky, and the Goblet of Fire stood prominently in the center, its blue flames dancing hypnotically. Students from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang filled the tables, their laughter and happiness creating a lively atmosphere.
At the high table, Harry sat alongside the other professor, his eyes fixed on the Goblet. Harry's heartbeat matched the frantic pace of the students' chatter, his own excitement tempered by the weight of his fervent prayers that nothing would actually go wrong. Beside him, Voldemort's presence loomed, his carefully controlled features betraying nothing of the anticipation that filled the hall.
The Goblet of Fire's flames licked the copper rim, bathing it in an eerie blue light. Throughout the week, seventh-year students had approached it, dropping their names into the goblet in hopes of being chosen. The foreign students marked the event early in the week with grand ceremonies on the first day, each school showcasing its unique traditions and traits.
The Beauxbatons students, dressed impeccably in their elegant blue uniforms, had moved with synchronized grace. At breakfast, they formed an organized line, their house banner raised on poles that each of them held as they walked as one to the goblet. Each student approached the Goblet with a sense of pride, their movements smooth and refined. One by one, they bowed slightly before the Goblet, a gesture of respect and reverence, before carefully dropping their parchment inside. The entire process was conducted with an air of sophistication, reflecting the school's emphasis on poise and elegance.
The Durmstrang students, in stark contrast, displayed a disciplined and almost militaristic precision when they approached the flames that evening. Clad in their striking red and black robes, they moved with a sense of purpose and determination. Their formation was rigid, their steps in perfect unison, creating a formidable presence as they approached the Goblet. Headmaster Friedrich Adler watched closely; his stern expression unyielding as he scrutinized his student's actions as if there was no room for error. One after the other, the Durmstrang students added their names to the flames.
The atmosphere during the unexpected foreign ceremonies was electric. The Great Hall, usually filled with the lively chatter of students, fell silent as the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students performed their rituals. The Hogwarts students watched in awe, their curiosity piqued by the foreign traditions.
In contrast, the Hogwarts students took a more varied approach throughout the week. On the first day, a handful of brave souls immediately threw their names into the Goblet amidst cheers, heckling, and sometimes shock from their classmates. The Great Hall would erupt with laughter and applause, or occasionally gasps, depending on who dared to step forward.
Some Hogwarts students approached the Goblet alone, their faces set with determination, while others were encouraged by groups of friends who clapped them on the back and offered words of support. One Gryffindor boy dramatically declared his intentions to the entire hall before tossing his name into the flames, earning himself a mix of applause and laughter. A Ravenclaw girl carefully reviewed her parchment three times before finally committing it to the Goblet, her friends offering supportive smiles. Unsurprisingly, most of the Slytherins had kept their submissions secret, not wanting the school to know if they failed to be selected.
As the week progressed, more Hogwarts students worked up the courage to submit their names. By the end of the week, the atmosphere around the Goblet had become a blend of excitement and anxiety, with last-minute hopefuls making their way to the front amidst a chorus of support from their peers.
Now, the students had gathered at their respective tables, the dinner cleared away, and their eyes fixed on the ancient artifact. The room held its breath as the flames flared, signaling the beginning of the selection process.
"It is time," Voldemort's voice echoed through the hall, commanding everyone's immediate attention. The students stilled, eyes wide and breaths shallow, as the Goblet's flames turned a brilliant red.
Voldemort rose from his seat, his refined features bathed in the eerie light of the Goblet. His eyes, the same color as the flames hissing upward, cast an unsettling glow. His gaze swept over the assembled students, a cold yet magnetic presence that demanded their complete focus.
"Tonight," Voldemort began, his voice smooth and commanding, "we witness the continuation of a time-honored tradition, one that has shaped the very legacy of our magical world. The Triwizard Tournament is not merely a competition; it is a rite of passage that will test the mettle of those chosen, challenging their courage, wisdom, and resolve."
He paused, allowing his words to sink in, his eyes locking with those of the students. "The champions who are selected will carry the honor of their respective schools. They will face trials that will forge their character and showcase their strengths. It is a path paved with the valor of those who came before them, and one that demands the utmost dedication and excellence."
Voldemort's gaze lingered on the Hogwarts table, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I have no doubt," he continued, his tone dropping to a more menacing pitch, "that each champion will do their school proud. Never forget the weight of expectation that lies upon you. I applaud your bravery in submitting your names. Now it is time to see who will succeed by rising to meet this challenge." There was almost a hint of "or else" in his words, clearly meant for the Hogwarts champion-to-be.
Harry glanced at Voldemort, noting the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips as he returned to his seat next to Harry. Despite the lingering fear surrounding his presence, there was an even greater palpable sense of excitement in the air, a testament to the power of the Triwizard Tournament that even the Dark Lord seemed unable to diminish.
The flames seemed to shudder, shrinking momentarily before surging with renewed vigor. With a dramatic burst, the Goblet of Fire spat out a single piece of parchment, which floated gently down into the waiting hands of Professor McGonagall. She caught it deftly, unfolding it with deliberate slowness, her eyes scanning the name written upon it. The entire hall held its breath, the tension spiking as she raised her head to announce the first champion.
"The Durmstrang champion," she said, her voice clear and strong, "is Ekaterina Ivanova."
A cheer erupted from the Durmstrang table. Ekaterina, the same tall girl with piercing blue eyes and a mane of dark red hair who had first interrupted Harry’s class, stood up, her expression a mix of pride and shock. Her classmates surrounded her, high-fiving and clapping her on the back with hearty enthusiasm. She made her way to the front, her head held high, exuding confidence with every step. The Hogwarts and Beauxbatons students watched with a mixture of admiration and envy, their eyes following her as she walked toward McGonagall.
As Ekaterina reached the front of the hall, the applause still thunderous, Headmaster Adler of Durmstrang leaned down and whispered something in her ear. His rugged face, stern and imposing, softened slightly as he spoke, his voice low and confident. Whatever he said made Ekaterina's smile widen, her expression turning hungry with determination.
The hall fell silent again, the air thick with anticipation. The Goblet of Fire began to pulse, its flames shifting through a spectrum of brilliant red and vibrant orange, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The colors swirled and danced in a mesmerizing display before another piece of parchment shot out with a burst of sparks. Professor McGonagall caught it once more as every eye in the hall watched with bated breath.
"The Beauxbatons champion," she announced, "is Jacques Delacroix."
The Beauxbatons table erupted in applause. Jacques, a handsome boy with tousled black hair and a confident smile, stood up, his friends pulling him into a celebratory hug. He waved to his classmates as he walked to the front, the light from the Goblet casting a warm glow on his face. The girls from Beauxbatons squealed in delight, while some of the boys gave him playful punches on the arm, their faces beaming with pride.
As Jacques joined Ekaterina, Harry could feel the tension mounting. Only one name remained to be called, and the Hogwarts students seemed to be holding their collective breath. The Goblet's flames turned a deep, fiery red for the third time, casting an ominous glow over the hall. The final piece of parchment shot out with a burst of sparks. Professor McGonagall caught it with practiced ease, unfolding it slowly, her expression solemn, filled with the weight of the moment.
“The Hogwarts champion,” McGonagall announced, her voice ringing through the hall with a blend of authority and pride, “is Anthony Goldstraw.”
A moment of stunned silence fell over the Ravenclaw table before it erupted into a cacophony of cheers and applause. Anthony, a lanky boy with curly brown hair and glasses, sat frozen for a heartbeat, his mouth slightly agape in disbelief. His housemates quickly surrounded him, lifting him to his feet with jubilant shouts and excited chatter.
“Anthony! You did it!” one of his friends exclaimed, slapping him on the back with enthusiasm. Another ruffled his hair playfully, and a third offered a high-five, which Anthony returned with a shaky but grateful smile.
Harry gazed fondly at the Ravenclaw table at the boy surrounded by his jubilant housemates. He saw the shock and awe on the young champion’s face and felt a surge of pride. Harry had known Anthony for the last three years, watching him grow from a timid fourth-year into a sharp-minded and determined young wizard.
Harry recalled their first encounter in the library, where Anthony had been struggling with a particularly challenging Charms assignment, almost to the point of tears, fearful his housemates would hate him if he didn’t master it. Taking pity, Harry had broken down the steps and helped him work through it. It was then that Harry recognized the boy’s exceptional potential. Though Anthony had started out shy and reserved, his keen intellect and relentless drive quickly became apparent. His mind often worked in unique patterns but once he figured things out in his own way, he was unstoppable.
Harry gave Anthony a subtle nod of encouragement, hoping to convey his belief in the boy’s capabilities. Nearby, Voldemort’s cold eyes were fixed on the newly minted champion with a different kind of expectation. The weight of crimson gaze seemed to make Anthony pale, his earlier determination quivering.
“You’re scaring him,” Harry hissed.
“I am now the least of his worries,” Voldemort hissed back. However, Harry’s comment had the intended effect, distracting the Dark Lord, who was now staring at his heir instead of the Ravenclaw.
Harry watched as Anthony made his way to the front, his steps hesitant but growing more confident. The young wizard glanced around the hall, taking in the cheering faces. Anthony’s initial shock seemed to melt away, replaced by a sense of resolve. With each stride, he straightened his back, his determination hardening.
The entire hall watched, a collective sense of anticipation hanging in the air as Anthony joined Ekaterina and Jacques. The three champions stood before the Goblet of Fire, representing the best of their respective schools.
“Our three champions,” McGonagall announced. The hall erupted into applause, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
Beside him, Voldemort leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the champions. Harry could feel the intensity of the moment radiating from the Dark Lord, a reminder of the tournament's high stakes.
"Congratulations to all,” Snape said, standing, his expression not looking particularly joyful. “The champions will now proceed to the chamber for further instructions," his voice cut through the applause, leaving no room for argument. “Headmasters and ministry delegations are invited as well, so that all hear the rules provided to the champions. The rest of you are dismissed for the evening. I’m sure you all have homework that needs to be accomplished.” The students frowned and moaned in response.
The champions nodded and began to follow their headmasters out of the hall. Harry took a moment to lean back in his chair, relieved that the first part had gone smoothly. He exchanged a glance with Voldemort, who gave him a barely perceptible nod. The Dark Lord's approval made it clear that he, too, was satisfied with the night thus far.
“Goldstraw?” Voldemort inquired softly.
“He’s a good kid,” Harry responded. The Dark Lord grimaced at his heir, clearly expecting more.
Harry sighed. “He’s smart, has strong magic, and he’s resourceful. However, he tends to overthink things, coming up with so many solutions that he hesitates to choose the best one. In reality, any of his solutions would work.”
The Dark Lord frowned, clearly not thinking as highly of the boy as Harry did. Harry refrained from rolling his eyes. “He’s a good pick; he’ll do fine,” Harry reaffirmed.
“Make sure of it,” the Dark Lord ordered.
Harry had already planned to, but he smirked anyway, a teasing tone entering his voice. “I thought they were supposed to do this on their own.”
The Dark Lord’s scowl deepened, picking up on Harry’s mocking. He pushed his chair back and stood. “If you don’t want Mr. Goldstraw’s future to be irreversibly tarnished, see that he does well.”
Harry stood as well and began following the Dark Lord to the side room where the champions were gathering. “I’m sure you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” he promised as they entered the room.
Ludo Bagman stood at the front, shuffling a stack of parchment. His normally jovial demeanor was tempered by the imposing presence of Voldemort, whose aura perpetually commanded wary respect. Bagman’s eyes flicked nervously toward Dark Lord, who stood silently beside Harry, his expression inscrutable. Snape’s stern, dark gaze swept over the room, and with a subtle clearing of his throat, he prompted Bagman to start.
“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests, and our brave champions,” Bagman began, his voice regaining some of its usual enthusiasm, “welcome to the official commencement of the Triwizard Tournament! We are honored to have you all here for this grand tradition. The journey ahead will certainly be thrilling for all. Now, let’s get down to the important details.”
He held up a piece of parchment, glancing at it briefly before continuing. “There will be three challenges spread throughout the year. Each challenge is designed to test you in multiple ways—magically, psychologically, and mentally. These challenges will not only measure your magical prowess but also your ability to think on your feet, your resilience under pressure, and your capacity to adapt.”
The room was silent, the champions hanging on to Bagman’s every word. Jacques stood with his arms crossed, his confident smile replaced by a look of focused determination.
Ekaterina’s blue eyes were fixed on Bagman, her expression a mix of curiosity and growing apprehension that she clearly tried to conceal. Anthony, still looking somewhat dazed from the announcement, was paying rapt attention, his impressive intellect likely already whirring with thoughts and strategies.
Bagman continued, “You will receive clues and hints for each challenge along the way. These will be crucial in your preparation, so I advise you to take them seriously. I’ll remind you all of the rules, some new while others are longstanding: even if a champion fails to complete a challenge fully, they can still receive partial points based on their progress, so try your best and don’t give up prematurely. However, if a champion fails even to attempt a challenge, they will be disqualified from the tournament, and their school will be out of the running.”
The champions nodded, the weight of Bagman’s words sinking in. Beside them, the headmasters and dignitaries listened intently. Madame Maxime stood tall and regal, her demeanor betraying nothing of her thoughts. Headmaster Adler of Durmstrang, his face set in a stern expression, occasionally glanced at Voldemort, his guarded look equally unreadable. Minister Leclair, sharp and astute, was keenly observant of the entire room, her eyes flicking between Harry and the other champions.
Bagman paused for a moment before addressing the room again. “We have made one significant change to the rules,” he said, his tone turning serious. “Champions cannot be forced to compete against their will. We recognize this was a flaw in the previous tournament.”
As he said this, Bagman glanced pointedly at Harry. A ripple of tension spread through the room as many of the occupants looked at both him and Voldemort speculatively, their curiosity palpable. Harry had insisted on changing the rule, making participation no longer magically binding. The Dark Lord had acquiesced, even if he didn’t share Harry’s enthusiasm for the change.
Clearing his throat again, Bagman moved on quickly, clearly eager to avoid any discussion of why such a rule was now necessary. Normally, students volunteered to be champions rather than being forced into it by a vengeful Dark Lord plotting to have their names entered as part of a scheme for power and murderous revenge…
“The first challenge will take place in a month’s time. You will receive your first clue at the end of next week. Use your time wisely, prepare well, and remember—this tournament is as much about your journey as it is about the destination. Good luck to all of you!”
With that, Bagman concluded his briefing, and the room was released from the heavy silence. The champions hovered near their headmasters, their faces a mix of excitement, resolve, and apprehension. Anthony, in particular, looked like he wished he didn't have to stand next to Snape but was equally reluctant to leave, fearing Voldemort might approach him.
Harry glanced at the Dark Lord. “So it begins,” he murmured.
Voldemort's crimson eyes turned to him, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. “So it does,” he echoed, his voice carrying an ominous weight.
AN: Voila! As always, thanks for the reviews, kudos, and comments. They make writing so much fun. Let me know what you think!
