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Gryffindor Tower
The portrait hole swung shut behind Harry with a finality that seemed ominous. The Gryffindor common room, usually a warm haven of red and gold, felt more like a courtroom tonight. Every face turned toward him, and the expressions ranged from awe to suspicion to outright accusation.
Wonderful, Harry thought, surveying the sea of staring faces. Nothing quite like coming home to your own house thinking you're a lying cheat.
"Well, well," came a voice from near the fireplace. Cormac McLaggen stood with his arms crossed, wearing the kind of smug expression that made Harry want to introduce his fist to Cormac's face. "If it isn't our famous champion. Tell me, Potter, how exactly did you manage to fool the Goblet of Fire?"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Harry noticed that while some students looked genuinely curious, others had already made up their minds. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan sat on the fence, literally and figuratively—perched on the back of a sofa, watching the proceedings with interest but no clear allegiance.
"I didn't," Harry said simply, moving toward the stairs to the dormitory. He was tired, frustrated, and in no mood for an inquisition from his own housemates.
"Oh, come off it," McLaggen continued, clearly enjoying having an audience. "You expect us to believe that someone else put your name in? Why would anyone want to force Harry Potter into a competition he could win? It's not like you need more fame."
Because obviously, everyone who's tried to kill me over the years was just trying to help with my career prospects.
"Maybe because they want me dead?" Harry suggested dryly. "It's been a popular hobby among dark wizards lately."
"Right," McLaggen scoffed. "Pull the other one, Potter. You figured out how to get past Dumbledore's Age Line because you couldn't stand the thought of someone else being Hogwarts champion."
That did it. Harry turned slowly, his green eyes flashing with irritation. He was half convinced to use a holy spell on him; perhaps ten seconds without oxygen could clear his mind. But before he could do something he might regret, Ron stepped forward from where he'd been sitting with Hermione.
"Are you having a laugh, McLaggen?" Ron's voice carried clearly across the room, and something in his tone made everyone pay attention. "You think Harry wanted this?"
"Well, obviously—" McLaggen began.
"No, shut up and listen for once," Ron interrupted, his ears turning red—always a dangerous sign. "Because I'm about to explain something to all of you, and I'll use small words so even you can understand."
Hermione had moved to stand beside Ron, her arms crossed and her expression thunderous. Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward his two best friends.
"Harry Potter," Ron began, his voice carrying the kind of authority Harry had never heard from him before, "has spent the last three years having his life threatened on an annual basis. First year, he nearly died stopping someone from stealing the Philosopher's Stone. Second year, he killed a sixty-foot basilisk to save my sister's life and nearly died from basilisk venom in the process. Third year, he found out that the man everyone thought wanted to kill him was actually innocent, while the real traitor had been sleeping in my bed for years."
The room had gone completely silent. Even McLaggen looked uncomfortable.
"And now," Ron continued, his voice rising slightly, "you think that after all that, Harry woke up one morning and thought, 'You know what my life needs? More mortal peril. Better find a way into a tournament where people have actually died in previous years.'"
"But the fame—" someone protested weakly.
"The fame?" Hermione stepped forward, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "You mean the fame that he got because his par...? The fame that means he can't go anywhere without people staring and whispering? The fame that puts a target on his back for every dark wizard in Britain?"
"She's got a point," Dean Thomas said quietly. "Harry's never seemed to enjoy the attention."
"Exactly," Ron said, nodding at Dean gratefully. "And there's something else you lot seem to be forgetting. Harry told us months ago that he was looking forward to a normal year. He said it probably twenty times over the summer. Does that sound like someone planning to enter a deadly tournament?"
"And," Hermione added, her voice carrying that tone that meant she was about to deliver a killing blow, "if Harry had found a way around the Age Line, don't you think he would have told Ron and me? We're his best friends. Why would he keep it secret from us and then act surprised when his name came out?"
The logic was undeniable, and Harry could see it hitting home with several students. The suspicious expressions were giving way to thoughtful ones.
Ron wasn't finished. "Look, I know Harry Potter's got his faults—Merlin knows I've heard about them often enough from him. But lying isn't one of them. And neither is putting himself in danger for fun. He saves that for when he's protecting other people."
"Like when he saved Susan Bones at the World Cup," Neville added quietly from his corner. "Even though he could have been killed."
"Exactly like that," Ron said, shooting Neville a grateful look. "So before you start accusing our housemate of being a lying glory-seeker, maybe think about what you actually know about Harry Potter."
The room was quiet for a long moment. Finally, Katie Bell spoke up from near the portrait hole.
"You're right," she said simply. "I'm sorry, Harry. I should have known better."
A chorus of similar apologies followed, though Harry noticed that McLaggen remained conspicuously silent, his face red with embarrassment.
"Thanks," Harry said, his voice slightly hoarse. "All of you. It... it means a lot."
"Right then," Ron said, clapping his hands together. "Now that we've established that Harry isn't a cheating glory-hound, who wants to help us figure out how to keep him alive through this tournament?"
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The next morning brought a fresh wave of challenges, though these ones wore Hufflepuff yellow and Slytherin green. Harry had barely made it halfway to breakfast when the first group of Hufflepuffs intercepted him in the corridor.
"Well, if it isn't the Hogwarts champion," Zacharias Smith said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Tell me, Potter, how does it feel to steal Cedric's rightful place?"
Harry paused, considering his options. He could get angry, he could ignore them, or he could do what felt infinitely more satisfying.
"Steal?" Harry repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that anyone had a 'rightful place' in a magical selection process. Did Cedric register a trademark on being chosen? Should I be expecting a cease and desist letter from his solicitor?"
Smith's face flushed. "You know what I mean. You cheated to get your name in the Goblet."
"Right, because obviously the best way to cheat in a deadly tournament is to do it so publicly that everyone knows about it," Harry replied dryly. "Brilliant strategy, that. Really shows my criminal mastermind credentials."
"You—" Smith began, but Harry wasn't finished.
"Although I have to ask," Harry continued conversationally, "if you're so convinced I cheated, why aren't you reporting me to the Ministry? I mean, if there's actual evidence of magical fraud, surely that would be the responsible thing to do? Unless, of course, you're just looking for someone to blame because your champion has to face actual competition now."
Several Hufflepuffs shuffled uncomfortably. Susan Bones, who had been standing slightly apart from the group, stepped forward.
"Zacharias, that's enough," she said firmly. "Harry saved my life at the World Cup. He's not a cheater."
"Thank you, Susan," Harry said sincerely. "Though I have to say, even if I were a cheater, at least I'd be an efficient one. Unlike some people's study habits."
Smith's face went an interesting shade of purple, but before he could respond, a new voice cut through the tension.
"Well, well, what do we have here?"
Harry turned to see Draco Malfoy approaching, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. All three Slytherins were wearing badges that read "POTTER STINKS" in flashing letters.
Oh, wonderful. Because my day wasn't complete without Malfoy's contribution to the discourse.
"Malfoy," Harry said pleasantly. "I see you've found a new way to advertise your obsession with me. Should I be flattered that you spent time and money making merchandise about me?"
Draco's smirk faltered slightly. "These aren't about obsession, Potter. They're about truth. Everyone knows you cheated your way into the tournament."
"Everyone?" Harry repeated, glancing around at the gathering crowd. "That's interesting. Because last I checked, 'everyone' included the judges, who seem to think I have to compete regardless. But please, don't let facts interfere with your opinion."
"The judges were obviously fooled—" Draco began.
"By a fourteen-year-old?" Harry interrupted. "Wow, Draco, that's either a stunning compliment to my abilities or a damning indictment of their competence. Are you suggesting that I'm more magically skilled than Dumbledore, Madame Maxime, and Karkaroff combined? Because if so, I should probably be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts instead of taking it."
Crabbe and Goyle looked confused, as usual. Draco's face was turning an unattractive shade of red.
"You think you're so clever," Draco snarled.
"Well, compared to present company, it's not exactly a high bar," Harry replied cheerfully. "I mean, you're wearing a badge that says 'Potter Stinks' like that's some kind of devastating political commentary. What's next, 'Harry is a Meanie-Head'? Really showcasing that Malfoy wit."
Several students snickered, and Harry noticed that even some of the Hufflepuffs looked amused despite themselves.
"At least I didn't cheat my way into a tournament where I might die," Draco shot back.
Harry's expression grew more serious. "You're right, Draco. You didn't cheat your way into mortal peril. You just inherited it from your father. Tell me, how is dear old Lucius these days? Still pretending he was under the Imperius Curse, or has he come up with a new excuse for his Death Eater activities?"
The crowd began to disperse, sensing that the entertainment was over and the conversation had taken a genuinely dark turn. Draco and his cronies slunk away, though Harry noticed they kept their badges on.
Susan approached as the corridor cleared. "That was brilliant," she said admiringly. "The way you turned their words around on them."
"It's a useful skill," Harry replied. "Though I probably shouldn't have mentioned Draco's father like that. It was a bit below the belt."
"After three years of him tormenting you? I'd say you've shown remarkable restraint," Susan said with a smile. "Besides, maybe if he spent less time making badges about you, he'd have more time to worry about his own problems."
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One week later, Harry found himself walking the grounds with Fleur, taking advantage of one of the last warm days before winter set in properly. The lake reflected the stars like scattered diamonds, and the gentle lapping of water against the shore provided a soothing counterpoint to their conversation.
"The other students from Beauxbatons, they 'ave been talking," Fleur said without preamble. She had a way of getting straight to the point that Harry appreciated. "About ze first task."
Harry looked at her sharply. "They know something?"
"Not exactly," Fleur replied, her accent thickening slightly the way it did when she was worried. "But Madame Maxime, she 'as been... 'ow do you say... dropping 'ints. She told me to study fear-based creatures. To practice my mental defenses."
Fear-based creatures. That's interesting. Harry filed the information away.
"Any idea what kind of fear-based creatures?" he asked.
Fleur shook her head. "Non. But she also told us to remember zat sometimes ze greatest enemy is ze one inside our own minds." She glanced at him sideways. "You do not seem worried."
"Should I be?"
"Most people would be terrified," Fleur pointed out. "But you... zere is somezing different about your magic, 'Arry. I can sense it. Somezing... older. Stronger."
Perceptive as always. Harry tried to keep his expression neutral. He knew a Veela could feel the magic of a wizard and witch, so he wondered if his Holy Magic was something Fleur could feel, but she might not know what exactly she is feeling. "I've faced dark creatures before. Dementors, boggarts, that sort of thing. I suppose I've built up a tolerance."
"Per'aps," Fleur said, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "But be careful, oui? Ze first task, it will not be like anything you 'ave faced before. I can feel it."
Their conversation was interrupted by Ron jogging up to them, slightly out of breath.
"There you are," he panted. "I've been looking all over for you. You need to hear this."
"What's wrong?" Harry asked, immediately alert.
"It's Hagrid," Ron said, still catching his breath. "I saw him coming back from the Forbidden Forest again—that's the fourth time this week. And he looked..." Ron paused, searching for the right word. "Haunted. Like he'd seen something that really disturbed him."
"Hagrid's seen plenty of disturbing things," Harry pointed out. "He keeps a pet spider the size of a small house."
"This was different," Ron insisted with a shudder. "I've never seen him look genuinely scared before. And when I called out to him, he jumped about three feet in the air and started babbling about 'things that shouldn't exist' and 'hoping the students would be ready.'"
Fleur and Harry exchanged glances. "Students, or champions?" Fleur asked carefully.
"That's just it—he said students. Like whatever's in there might affect more than just the four of you." Ron ran a hand through his hair. "And there's something else. I saw Professor McGonagall coming out of Dumbledore's office earlier, and she looked like she'd been arguing with someone. Her lips were so thin they'd practically disappeared."
That's never a good sign. McGonagall only gets that expression when she's either furious or deeply worried.
"Did you hear anything?" Harry asked.
"I'm afraid not. I couldn't hear anything, but Professor McGonagall with that expression is never a good sign."
One Week Later
The abandoned classroom on the seventh floor had become Harry's sanctuary of sorts—though calling it abandoned was generous. It looked more like someone had detonated a Dungbomb factory inside a library. Broken desks lay scattered about like the skeletal remains of some great beast, and the windows were so grimy they barely let in enough light to see by. Perfect, really. The last thing he needed was someone wandering by and wondering why golden light kept flashing from inside.
Harry surveyed the three Magical Dummies he'd managed to drag up here earlier. The name really was rubbish—whoever had come up with "Magical Dummies" clearly hadn't been paid enough to be creative. They looked like scarecrows that had been through a particularly nasty divorce: burlap bodies stuffed with something that smelled suspiciously like old socks, topped with wooden heads that bore the kind of painted-on expressions that suggested they'd rather be anywhere else.
"Right then," Harry muttered, rolling up his sleeves. "Time to see what horrors you can throw at me."
The beauty of Magical Dummies was that they could simulate various magical creatures and attacks based on the caster's intent. They weren't particularly bright—about as intelligent as a particularly dim flobberworm, really—but they were excellent for testing spells that might otherwise reduce half of Hogwarts to smoking rubble.
Harry pointed his wand at the first dummy. "Simulate a Dementor attack," he commanded.
The dummy's painted face twisted into something far more sinister, its burlap body seeming to grow taller and more imposing. A chill swept through the room, and Harry felt the familiar tug of despair at the edges of his mind. Not a real Dementor, of course, but close enough to make his skin crawl.
"Penumbra Lux!" Harry shouted, tracing a horizontal figure-eight with his wand.
Silvery fire erupted from the tip, but this wasn't like any flame he'd ever seen. It cast no shadow despite its brilliant glow, and seemed to pulse with an inner light that hurt to look at directly. The flame streaked toward the dummy, and the moment it made contact, the creature's simulated Dementor aura simply... dissolved. Like smoke in a strong wind.
The dummy returned to its normal, rather dopey expression, looking as confused as a scarecrow could manage.
"Bloody hell," Harry breathed, staring at his wand. The silvery fire had felt different from his usual Holy Magic—hungrier, somehow. As if it was actively seeking out the darkness to devour it.
The flame feeds on fear and despair, he realized with growing excitement. It doesn't just repel dark creatures—it actually consumes what makes them powerful.
He was so caught up in his discovery that he almost missed the way the flame seemed to flicker slightly, as if tasting something else in the air. Something that made his stomach twist with unease.
What if it starts feeding on my own fears? The thought was distinctly uncomfortable. Every powerful spell had a price, and Holy Magic was no exception. He'd learned that the hard way over the summer.
"Next test," he said aloud, pushing the worry aside. Time to explore the binding properties he'd been theorizing about.
He pointed his wand at the second dummy. "Simulate a cursed creature—something with magical corruption."
The dummy's burlap skin took on a sickly green tinge, and dark veins seemed to pulse beneath its surface. It let out a low moan that sounded like a dying animal.
Harry raised his wand again, this time making a downward arc as if he were sowing seeds. "Lux Vinea!"
Tendrils of glowing silver erupted from the stone floor around the dummy's feet, writhing upward like living things. They were beautiful in their own way—like watching vines grow in fast motion, if vines were made of pure starlight. The tendrils wrapped around the dummy's corrupted form, and wherever they touched, the sickly green color faded back to normal burlap.
"Outstanding," Harry murmured, watching the silver vines continue their work. They seemed almost intelligent, seeking out every trace of the simulated corruption and methodically purging it.
But as he watched, something nagged at him. The vines were being awfully thorough—almost too thorough. What if they decided that some of his own memories were corrupted? What if they started purging things he actually wanted to keep?
Note to self: don't use this one unless absolutely necessary. And definitely don't use it on myself.
He banished the vines with a flick of his wand and turned to the third dummy. This one would be different. Darker. He'd been developing something during his late-night reading sessions—a hex that went beyond simple offensive magic into something far more disturbing.
"Simulate an enemy wizard," Harry commanded.
The dummy straightened, its painted face taking on a more human-like appearance. It even managed to conjure a crude wooden wand from somewhere.
Harry stared at it for a long moment, his jaw set. What he was about to attempt wasn't just dark magic—it was something that could genuinely traumatize someone. But if the tournament was going to throw difficult challenges at him, he needed every weapon in his arsenal.
"Memoriorum Scalpello!" The words felt like ice on his tongue as he traced a complex pattern with his wand.
A glowing symbol—an open eye—appeared briefly above his wand tip before the spell shot forward. The dummy jerked as if struck by lightning, then began to scream. It was a sound no dummy should have been able to make, raw and full of genuine terror.
Harry watched, transfixed and horrified, as the dummy's eyes rolled back and it began to convulse. Even though he knew it was just a simulation, the effect was deeply unsettling. The hex was designed to rip out a specific memory and force the target to experience it in reverse, over and over, until they couldn't tell what was real anymore.
Truth is a weapon, he thought grimly, remembering the words that had come to him when he'd first conceived the spell. But so is madness.
The dummy collapsed, twitching sporadically. Harry quickly ended the simulation, and it returned to its normal state, though something in its painted expression seemed permanently unsettled.
"Right," Harry said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Maybe save that one for truly desperate situations."
He spent the next hour experimenting with combinations—using standard spells enhanced with Holy Magic. A simple Protego became a shimmering barrier that actively repelled dark magic rather than just deflecting it. Stupefy took on a golden glow that seemed to stun not just the body but whatever malevolent spirit might be possessing it.
The most interesting discovery came when he tried to enhance a Patronus charm. The silver stag that emerged was shot through with veins of gold, and its presence seemed to make the very air feel cleaner somehow. More than that, when he directed it toward the Dementor-simulating dummy, the creature didn't just retreat—it seemed to be actively purified, as if the Patronus was burning away whatever darkness had created it in the first place.
That could be useful, Harry mused, watching his enhanced Patronus pace around the room.
As he practiced, Harry began to feel something he'd experienced before during intense Holy Magic sessions—a sense of connection to something larger than himself. It was like hearing distant voices, whispers of encouragement and guidance from Potter ancestors who had wielded this power before him.
You're stronger than you know, seemed to echo in his mind, though he knew this was not Venefecia. But strength without wisdom is destruction. Remember that power serves purpose, not the other way around.
"Easy for you to say," Harry muttered to the empty air. "You're not the ones who have to figure out how to use this responsibly while keeping it secret from everyone."
The whispers seemed to carry a note of amusement, as if his ancestors found his complaints rather endearing. Which was irritating, really. Being patronized by dead relatives wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when he'd started this training session.
Still, as the afternoon wore on, Harry felt his confidence growing. Whatever the tournament threw at him, he was as ready as he could be. His Holy Magic was stronger than ever, and he was developing new applications faster than he'd thought possible.
The only problem was keeping it all secret. Every time he used these spells, he risked someone noticing the distinctive golden glow or the unusual effects. He'd have to be careful during the tournament—use just enough to survive and win, but not so much that people started asking uncomfortable questions.
As he packed up his things and prepared to leave the abandoned classroom, Harry caught his reflection in one of the grimy windows. For just a moment, his eyes seemed to hold flecks of gold, like tiny stars in a green sky. Then he blinked, and they were normal again.
Whatever you're planning to throw at me, he thought, directing the mental challenge toward whoever had entered him in this tournament, I'll be ready. And if you threaten the other champions...
He didn't finish the thought, but the abandoned classroom seemed to grow a few degrees colder. The Magical Dummies, mercifully, had no comment.
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The Hogwarts library had never been Harry's favorite place—too many memories of Hermione dragging him there to study for exams he'd rather forget—but today it felt different. More like a war room than a study hall. Books lay scattered across their usual table in the back corner, creating what looked like a literary explosion had gone off. Hermione sat in the center of it all like some sort of academic general, her hair even more disheveled than usual from running her hands through it in frustration.
"This is absolutely maddening," she muttered, flipping through yet another dusty tome. "It's like they deliberately wrote these tournament records to be as vague as possible."
Harry looked up from his own book—Dangerous Creatures and Where to Avoid Them—and had to suppress a grin. Hermione's idea of "vague" usually meant anything that didn't include detailed footnotes, cross-references, and preferably a comprehensive index.
"Find anything useful?" he asked, closing the book with relief. Reading about creatures that could kill you in seventeen different ways wasn't exactly light entertainment.
"Bits and pieces," Hermione replied, not looking up from her reading. "There are references to something called 'trials of terror' in some of the older tournaments, but the descriptions are..." She paused, frowning. "Well, they're either deliberately cryptic or the writers were too traumatized to be coherent."
Ron looked up from where he'd been attempting to read A History of Magical Creatures That Probably Want to Eat You. "Traumatized how?"
"Listen to this," Hermione said, pulling a particularly ancient-looking book closer. "From the 1792 tournament: 'The champions emerged from the trial changed, speaking of shadows that wore familiar faces and voices that called from within their own minds. Two required extended treatment at St. Mungo's. The third refused to speak of what he had seen, claiming only that some doors, once opened, should never be closed again.'"
A chill ran down Harry's spine. "Cheerful. Any mention of what actually caused all that?"
"That's just it," Hermione said, her voice tinged with frustration. "Every account is like this—all about the effects, nothing about the actual creatures or challenges involved. It's like there's a conspiracy to keep the details secret."
Fleur, who had been quietly reading a French text she'd brought from Beauxbatons, finally looked up. "Perhaps because some things are better left undescribed," she said softly. "In France, we 'ave stories of ze Tournoi des Cauchemars—the Tournament of Nightmares. Zey say zat to name ze creatures involved is to give zem power."
"Right, because that's not ominous at all," Ron said dryly. "What's next, a task involving creatures whose names shall not be spoken? Oh wait—we already have one of those."
Harry snorted despite himself. Trust Ron to find the humor in their impending doom. "Speaking of which, did you ever find out why Hagrid is going to the Forbidden Forest so often?"
Ron's expression brightened—he loved having information the others didn't. "Actually, yes. Caught him coming back from the Forbidden Forest this morning, and he looked like he'd seen a ghost. A particularly unpleasant ghost."
"And?" Hermione prompted, setting down her book to give Ron her full attention.
"Well, he was talking to himself—you know how he does when he's worried—and I heard him say something about 'things that shouldn't exist' and 'hoping the champions are ready for nightmares.'"
"You know," Hermione said thoughtfully, "if these are fear-based creatures, there might be specific counter-measures we could research. Protective charms, mental shields, that sort of thing."
"Beauxbatons 'as been preparing me for zis," Fleur admitted reluctantly. "Madame Maxime told me to study fear-based creatures and psychological defenses, though she would not say why. I practiced ze Patronus charm extensively, and learned meditation techniques to strengthen my mental barriers."
"That's more than Hogwarts has done for us," Ron said with a hint of irritation. "Unless you count Moody's constant 'CONSTANT VIGILANCE' speeches as preparation."
"To be fair," Harry said, "constant vigilance probably isn't bad advice for what we're about to face."
"True," Ron agreed. "Though I still think his idea of teaching involves too much shouting and not enough actual instruction."
Hermione had returned to her books, but Harry noticed she kept glancing at him with a puzzled expression. Finally, she set down her reading and turned to face him directly.
"Harry," she said carefully, "you seem remarkably calm about all this. I mean, we're talking about potentially facing creatures specifically designed to traumatize people, and you look like you're planning a Quidditch match."
Observant as always, Hermione. Harry tried to keep his expression neutral. "I suppose I'm just getting used to having my life threatened on a regular basis. Builds up a tolerance."
"It seems like you know something we do not."
"I don't know anything specific," he said, which was technically true. "I just... I've faced dark creatures before. Dementors, a basilisk, that sort of thing. I know I can handle whatever they throw at me."
Ron snorted. "Mate, you say that like fighting a basilisk is just another Tuesday for you."
"Isn't it?" Harry asked with mock innocence. "I mean, what's next week—manticores?"
"Don't even joke about that," Hermione said quickly. "With our luck, someone will take it as a suggestion."
Their conversation was interrupted by Susan Bones approaching their table, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Harry noticed she'd made an effort with her appearance—her hair was styled differently, and she was wearing what looked like her best casual robes.
"Hello, Harry," she said, her cheeks slightly pink. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
"Not at all," Harry replied, gesturing to the chaos of books around them. "Just trying to figure out how not to die horribly in the first task."
Susan's laugh was a bit forced. "Right, well... I was wondering if you'd found out anything useful? I mean, I know I'm not a champion, but after what happened at the World Cup..." She trailed off, her meaning clear.
Harry felt a familiar pang of guilt. Susan's gratitude for his rescue had been obvious ever since the start of term, but he'd been too focused on his relationships with Hermione and Fleur to really notice how it might have affected her.
"We're still researching," he said gently. "But if we find anything that might help protect people in general—audience members and such—I'll let you know."
Susan's smile was radiant. "Thank you, Harry. That's very kind of you."
After she left, Ron leaned over with a knowing grin. "Mate, you do realize she's completely smitten with you, right?"
"Ron," Harry warned.
"I'm just saying," Ron continued, clearly enjoying himself, "between Hermione, Fleur, and now Susan, you're collecting admirers faster than I collect Chocolate Frog cards. Though significantly more attractive ones."
Fleur raised an eyebrow. "I am not an admirer to be collected," she said with dangerous sweetness. "I am a... what is ze word... a conquest?"
"Oh no," Ron said quickly, recognizing the warning signs. "I didn't mean—"
"She's teasing you, Ron," Harry said, noting the mischievous glint in Fleur's eyes. "I think."
"Perhaps," Fleur said with a mysterious smile. "Or perhaps I am planning 'ow to turn you into a slug."
"That's Hermione's specialty," Ron protested. "And technically, it was just tentacles."
Ron's eyes lit up with the kind of dangerous enthusiasm that usually preceded their most spectacular near-death experiences. "Right then," he said, clapping his hands together with the decisive air of someone who had just solved a particularly challenging chess problem. "We need to follow Hagrid tonight. See what he's been up to in the forest."
Hermione's reaction was immediate and predictable. "Absolutely not," she said, her voice reaching that pitch that meant she was gearing up for a full lecture. "Ron, that's the Forbidden Forest. It's called 'forbidden' for a reason, not as a suggestion or a mild deterrent."
"Come on, Hermione," Ron protested. "We've been in there before and survived. Besides, we need to know what we're up against. Would you rather Harry walk into the first task completely blind?"
Harry had to admit Ron had a point, though he suspected Hermione's objections were more about the principle of the thing than actual safety concerns.
"I could bring the Invisibility Cloak," Harry offered, trying to keep his tone casual. "We'd be practically undetectable."
Hermione fixed him with the kind of look that suggested she was questioning his intelligence. "Harry, you do realize that Dementors and other magical creatures can see right through invisibility cloaks? They don't rely on normal sight. And given what we suspect is in that forest..."
Fair point. But Harry had been thinking about this ever since Ron mentioned Hagrid's behavior, and he'd come to a conclusion that surprised even him. "Hermione, I'm not the same person I was last year. I spent the entire summer training with Sirius and Tonks. Real combat training, not just theory and wand movements."
It was mostly true, though he couldn't exactly mention the Holy Magic aspects of his training. Still, those months with Sirius had genuinely transformed his magical abilities and confidence.
"I know you've improved," Hermione said, her tone softening slightly. "But this isn't about dueling or even fighting dark wizards. This is about creatures that might be specifically designed to terrorize people."
"All ze more reason to know what we are facing," Fleur interjected, her voice carrying that tone of finality that brooked no argument. "But zis is not safe for 'Arry to do alone."
Harry turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting...?"
"I am saying zat I will come with you," Fleur said simply. "We make a good team, oui? Ze World Cup proved zat."
She's not wrong. Harry's mind flashed back to the chaos of the Death Eater attack, the way they'd moved together almost instinctively, covering each other's weaknesses and amplifying each other's strengths.
"That's... actually not a terrible idea," Harry admitted. "If we're going to do this, having backup would be smart."
Ron's face had taken on a slightly glazed expression that Harry recognized as the early stages of Veela influence. It was subtle—just a slight unfocusing of his eyes and a tendency to agree with whatever Fleur suggested—but noticeable if you knew what to look for.
"Yeah," Ron said, his voice slightly dreamy. "Whatever Fleur thinks is best."
Fleur noticed immediately, and Harry saw her expression shift to one of genuine concern. She took a small step back from Ron, clearly trying to minimize the effect of her allure.
"I am sorry," she said quietly to Ron. "I did not mean to... influence you. Are you alright?"
Ron blinked rapidly, the glazed look clearing from his eyes. "I'm fine," he said quickly, his ears turning red with embarrassment. "Just... you know. Still getting used to being around... er..." He trailed off, clearly not wanting to make things more awkward.
"Around someone with Veela heritage who occasionally forgets to keep her emotions in check?" Fleur finished with a slight smile. "It 'appens. I will be more careful."
"It's not your fault," Ron said earnestly. "And it's getting easier. Thinking about Lavender helps."
"Right then," Harry said, wanting to move past the awkward moment. "Tonight, after everyone's asleep. We'll meet by Hagrid's hut and follow him when he makes his next forest expedition."
"This is still a terrible idea," Hermione said. "Just... promise me you'll be careful. Both of you."
"Always am," Harry replied with a grin that fooled absolutely no one.
Night
The night air was crisp enough to make Harry's breath visible as he crouched behind a large boulder near Hagrid's hut, the Invisibility Cloak bundled in his hands. Ron stood beside him, shifting nervously from foot to foot and occasionally glancing toward the Forbidden Forest's dark treeline.
"You sure about this, mate?" Ron whispered for the third time in ten minutes. "Because I have to say, the forest looks particularly ominous tonight."
Harry followed Ron's gaze. The forest did indeed look ominous—more so than usual, if such a thing were possible. The trees seemed to loom higher and darker, their branches creating twisted shadows that suggested unpleasant shapes. Even the normal night sounds seemed muted, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
"Too late for second thoughts now," Harry murmured back. "Besides, when has the Forbidden Forest ever not looked ominous?"
"Fair point," Ron conceded. "Though I think tonight it's achieved a new level of 'absolutely do not go in there under any circumstances.'"
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of light footsteps approaching. Fleur materialized out of the darkness, moving with the kind of grace that made it seem like she was floating rather than walking.
"I am sorry I am late," she said quietly, slightly out of breath. "Madame Maxime wanted to speak with me about ze tournament preparations."
"Anything useful?" Harry asked, though he kept his voice low.
"She told me to be careful, and zat ze first task would test more than just magical ability." Fleur's expression was troubled. "She seemed... worried. More worried than I 'ave ever seen 'er."
That's not exactly reassuring. Harry had met Madame Maxime only twice, and she'd struck him as unflappable. If she was genuinely worried, then whatever they were planning for the first task was probably worse than they'd imagined.
"Right," Ron said, eyeing the Invisibility Cloak in Harry's hands. "I think I'll wait here, actually. That cloak works better for two people than three, and if something goes wrong, you'll need someone who can run for help."
Harry suspected Ron's sudden desire to stay behind had more to do with his very reasonable fear of the Forbidden Forest than any tactical considerations, but he appreciated the practical justification.
"Good thinking," Harry said, not calling attention to Ron's obvious relief. "We'll try not to be gone too long."
"And if you're not back by ten minutes, I'm getting Dumbledore," Ron added firmly. "I don't care how much trouble we get in."
Harry was about to respond when they heard the familiar sound of Hagrid's door opening. The half-giant emerged from his hut, carrying what looked like a large lantern and moving with unusual stealth for someone of his size.
"Showtime," Harry whispered, quickly throwing the Invisibility Cloak over himself and Fleur.
The cloak was definitely more cramped with two people, especially when one of them was Fleur, who seemed to radiate warmth in a way that was distinctly distracting. Harry tried to focus on the task at hand as they began following Hagrid toward the forest edge.
Don't think about how close she is. Don't think about how she smells like summer flowers. Definitely don't think about how her hand keeps brushing against yours under the cloak.
As they approached the forest, Harry noticed something that made him pause. Dark figures stood stationed along the tree line—Aurors, by the look of their robes.
"Security detail," Fleur breathed in his ear, so quietly he barely heard her.
Harry nodded, then realized she couldn't see the gesture under the cloak. Among the Aurors, he caught sight of a familiar figure with bright purple hair that seemed to glow in the moonlight.
Tonks. She was standing with her back to them, scanning the forest with the kind of intense focus that meant she was taking her job seriously. Harry felt a pang of guilt at the thought of sneaking past her, but he pushed it aside. This was too important.
Hagrid approached one of the Aurors—not Tonks, unfortunately—and showed some kind of identification. After a brief conversation, the Auror stepped aside, allowing Hagrid to enter the forest. The half-giant disappeared into the dark trees, his lantern creating a bobbing circle of light that gradually faded from view.
"Now," Harry whispered, and they began moving carefully along the forest edge, looking for a gap in the Auror perimeter.
It took several tense minutes, but they finally found a spot where the guards were spaced far enough apart to slip through unnoticed. Harry held his breath as they crept past the last Auror, expecting at any moment to hear a shout of alarm.
None came. They were in the Forbidden Forest.
Well, that was easier than expected. Which probably means everything else is about to go horribly wrong.
The forest at night was a different creature entirely from the daytime version Harry remembered from previous visits. Every shadow seemed to hide potential threats, and the normal sounds of nocturnal wildlife were eerily absent. Even their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud despite their efforts to move quietly.
They followed the faint traces of Hagrid's passage—broken twigs, disturbed leaves, the occasional footprint in soft earth. Harry had to admit that tracking had never been his strong suit, but Fleur seemed to have better instincts for it.
"Zis way," she whispered, pointing toward a barely visible path that led deeper into the forest.
They had been walking for perhaps twenty minutes when something changed. The air grew noticeably thicker, and a strange mist began to creep between the trees. It wasn't natural fog.
"Where did this come from?" Harry whispered, but when he turned to look at Fleur, she wasn't there.
The space beside him under the cloak was empty.
What the hell?
"Fleur?" he called out softly, then more urgently when there was no response. "Fleur!"
The mist seemed to thicken in response to his voice, and the temperature dropped several degrees. Harry's breath began to fog, and he could feel his heart rate increasing.
This is definitely not normal mist.
"Fleur, where are you?" he called again, louder this time.
That's when he heard it. A voice he somehow recognized. A voice that should have been impossible.
"My sweet Harry."
The words sent ice water through his veins. He turned slowly, already knowing what he would see but desperately hoping he was wrong.
His mother stood before him in the swirling mist, exactly as she had looked in the photographs Sirius had shown him. Red hair, green eyes that matched his own, and the same warm smile he remembered from the Mirror of Erised.
Except the smile was wrong. It was too wide, too knowing, and it didn't reach her eyes. Those familiar green eyes held something cold and hungry that made every instinct Harry possessed scream warnings.
"Hello, darling," Lily Potter said, and her voice was exactly as he had always imagined it would be. Warm, loving, maternal. "I've been waiting so long to see you again."
Harry stood frozen, his hand still gripping his wand beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Every rational part of his mind knew this couldn't be real—his mother was dead, had been dead for fourteen years, and whatever was standing in front of him was some kind of magical construct or illusion.
But she looked so real. Sounded so real. And the part of him that had always yearned to hear his mother's voice was screaming at him to step forward, to embrace her, to finally have the reunion he'd dreamed about for years.
The cold smile on Lily Potter's face widened, as if she could sense his internal struggle.
"Come to me, Harry," she said, extending her arms in invitation. "Come to your mother."
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