Harry walked into the Great Hall, his stomach grumbling a protest. He expected the stares, he was Harry Potter, after all; staring was practically a mandatory elective at Hogwarts, but the quality of the attention had shifted.
Yesterday, it had been suspicion and fear. Today, it was something else entirely.
As he walked past the Hufflepuff table, a fourth-year boy actually gave him a thumbs-up. Two Ravenclaws were whispering furiously, looking between him and a Arithmancy chart as if trying to calculate the odds of his survival. But it was the Gryffindor table where the reaction was most potent.
"Here he is," Seamus announced as Harry sat down, "the man, the myth, the absolute legend."
"Alright, Seamus?" Harry asked, reaching for a piece of toast.
"Alright? You're a hero, mate," Dean Thomas grinned, leaning in. "Forget the Room of Mirrors or whatever nightmare you fought yesterday. Two girls? At the same time? And they know about each other?"
"It's not a competition, Dean," Harry said, buttering his toast. "It's just... my life."
"A life the rest of us would kill for," Seamus muttered wistfully.
"Is this seat taken?"
The Great Hall seemed to dim, or perhaps it just felt that way because the source of all light in the room had just arrived. Fleur Delacour stood behind Harry, holding a plate of fruit and a goblet of pumpkin juice. She wore her powder-blue Beauxbatons robes, pristine and perfectly tailored, contrasting sharply with the slightly rumpled Hogwarts uniforms around her.
"Fleur," Harry smiled, shifting to make space on the bench. "Of course not."
Fleur sat down, and the effect was immediate. The ambient noise in the Great Hall dropped by half. At the Ravenclaw table, three boys simultaneously poured porridge into their laps. A Slytherin fifth-year student started choking on his food. But the worst affect was on the Gryffindor table, since that's where she was sitting, many boys from third year to seventh year started staring at her as if seeing a woman for the first time in their lives, only a few were able to get distracted by something else, but there were a few who were drooling like dogs, even a few girls were staring at Fleur's impressive cleavage.
Fleur ignored them all, her passive allure rolling off her in waves that felt like warm summer sunshine mixed with a sudden urge to do whatever she asked.
"Morning," Hermione said from across the table, not looking up from her Ancient Runes homework, though Harry noticed she'd made space for Fleur's juice.
"Bonjour," Fleur replied, arranging her napkin with elegant precision. She leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Harry's cheek, her hand resting casually on his thigh.
The sound of collective male heartbreak echoed through the hall.
Harry glanced at Ron, who was sitting a few seats down.His best friend was entirely focused on Lavender Brown, who was currently feeding him a grape and giggling.
"Good man, Ron," Harry muttered under his breath.
"Well, well, well," a drawling voice cut through the atmosphere.
Harry suppressed a sigh. "It's too early, Malfoy."
Draco Malfoy stood behind them, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. He wore his usual sneer, though it looked a bit strained today, perhaps because he was standing in the radius of Fleur's allure and trying very hard not to look affected.
"I heard the rumors, Potter," Draco said, his grey eyes flicking between Hermione and Fleur with a look of distaste. "Resorting to gathering a harem? I suppose when you have no family, you have to pay people to pretend to like you."
"Careful, Draco," Harry said, taking a bite of his toast. "Your jealousy is showing. It's not a good look on you. Clashes with the pale skin."
"Jealous?" Draco scoffed, though his ears turned pink. "Of you? Please. I just find it pathetic. One Mudblood and a French creature. Did you pick them up at a discount bin?"
Harry's hand tightened on his fork, but before he could respond, Fleur turned slowly on the bench. She didn't stand up. She didn't pull her wand. She simply looked at Draco, her blue eyes sweeping over him from his slicked-back hair to his polished shoes with an expression of utter, crushing boredom.
"And who is zis?" she asked Harry, though she was looking at Draco. "Is 'e a first year? 'E looks lost."
"That's Malfoy," Harry said, grinning.
"Ah," Fleur said, turning back to her breakfast as if Draco had ceased to exist. "Run along, little boy. Ze adults are eating. Go play with your... what is it you English boys play with? Your Exploding Snaps?"
"I am not a—" Draco spluttered, his face flushing a violent red.
"Shh," Fleur waved a hand dismissively over her shoulder. "You are boring me. And you are blocking ze light. Scram."
The dismissive power of it, calling a Malfoy a 'little boy' and telling him to scram like a stray cat, was absolute. Several Gryffindors snickered. Draco looked like he wanted to curse her, but he glanced up at the staff table, saw Dumbledore watching, and clearly decided that attacking a Triwizard Champion in the Great Hall was a bad career move.
"Watch your back, Potter," Draco hissed, turning on his heel and storming off, shoving a Hufflepuff out of his way.
"You enjoyed that," Harry accused Fleur.
"He is a gnat," Fleur said serenely, spearing a piece of melon. "Gnats should be swatted."
"Post's here," Hermione announced as a cloud of owls swooped through the upper windows.
A tawny owl landed in front of Hermione, clutching a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet. She paid the bird and unrolled the paper, her eyes scanning the front page.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she groaned, slamming the paper onto the table.
"What?" Harry asked, leaning over.
"Rita Skeeter," Hermione spat the name like a curse.
HARRY POTTER: TEENAGE REBEL OR TORTURED SOUL?
By Rita Skeeter
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, has always been a figure of mystery. But following his dramatic and bloody performance in the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament, new questions are being raised about the mental stability of Hogwarts' youngest champion.
Sources close to the boy reveal a disturbing pattern of behavior. Deprived of parental love from a young age, it seems Mr. Potter is seeking to fill the void in his heart through unconventional—and some might say scandalous—means.
During a rowdy Gryffindor party last night, Mr. Potter brazenly confessed to maintaining illicit romantic entanglements with multiple witches simultaneously. One of these is none other than his long-time friend, Hermione Granger, a plain but ambitious girl who seems to have latched onto the famous boy's coattails.
"She's always hanging around him," says a fourth-year student. "It's quite sad, really. She's clearly desperate for attention."
But even more shocking is Potter's involvement with rival champion Fleur Delacour. Miss Delacour, a quarter-Veela from Beauxbatons, appears to have ensnared the young, vulnerable Potter. Witnesses report seeing the two sharing a passionate, secret kiss behind the viewing stands mere moments after the First Task concluded, while Potter was still covered in blood and clearly delirious from pain.
Is this a case of young love? Or is the tragic hero falling victim to exotic creature enchantments while his plain friend watches from the sidelines, accepting scraps of affection?
One thing is certain: Harry Potter's appetite for danger extends far beyond nightmares.
Harry stared at the paper, his hands trembling with rage. "Fragile mental state? Illicit entanglements?"
"Plain?" Hermione read, her voice raising an octave. "Plain but ambitious? And she makes it sound like I'm... like I'm some sort of charity case you keep around!"
"She is making you sound like a victim, 'Arry," Fleur noted, her eyes narrowing as she read the text. "And me like a predator. 'Exotic creature enchantments'? Is zat legal to print?"
"In England? Apparently," Harry said through gritted teeth. "I don't care what she says about me, but dragging you two into it... and calling Hermione plain..."
"That's not the worst part," Fleur said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. She tapped the paragraph about the kiss. "The kiss behind the stands. We were alone. It was private. Just us."
Harry froze. She was right. "Tonks and Hermione found us, but that was after. Before that... nobody was there."
"So how does she know?" Hermione asked, looking around the Great Hall suspiciously. "Did she have an Invisibility Cloak? A Extendable Ear?"
"She is spying," Fleur said, her voice cold. "On minors. In private moments."
"I'm sorry," Harry said, looking at Fleur. He gestured with his head toward the Ravenclaw table. Several Beauxbatons students were huddled over a copy of the Prophet, casting dark looks in Fleur's direction. "I've made things difficult for you with your schoolmates and for your reputation."
Fleur glanced at them and gave a dismissive sniff. "Pah. Zey are ze same ones who 'ave always whispered. Before, zey whispered zat I only became champion because of my looks. Now, zey will use zis to say I am unworthy, zat I am distracting myself with ze competition. Zey ignore zat I am in second place. Zey ignore zat I would be first if Karkaroff was not a cheating biased pig."
She turned back to Harry, reaching out to cover his hand with hers. "Do not apologize, 'Arry. I can 'andle a few jealous girls. But zis woman... Skeeter..."
"Are you planning to burn her in her office?" Harry asked, only half-joking. "Because I'll provide the alibi."
Fleur giggled, the sound dark and lovely. "Zat is quite an idea. But non. I do not need to show my fire for a insect like 'er." She drew herself up, and for a moment, she looked every inch the daughter of a powerful politician. "I do not know what laws Magical England 'as regarding zis kind of filth, but in France, invading ze privacy of a minor—especially the daughter of a government official—is a serious crime."
"You're going to sue her?" Hermione asked, perking up.
"Non, zat would take too long, and I want to know 'ow zis little insect spied on us. We in Beauxbatons 'ave learned advanced Revelio charms, and I 'ave my ways to lure 'er."
"You will lure her into a trap," Harry quickly figured out what she meant. "How? We don't know how she spied on us, so how can we know she even stepped on this trap?"
"Trust me, 'Arry, my allure is not just to make people notice me, I 'ave ozzer ways I can use it. It does not matter if you are invincible or not, you will be forced to leave when you feel your own lungs burning up from ze air you need to live."
Harry relaxed slightly. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
"You are safe, mon coeur," Fleur winked. "You are on my very good side."
"Speaking of sides," Hermione said, shaking off her anger and returning to business mode. "Have you looked at the memory yet?"
"Not yet," Harry said, taking a bite of bacon. "Dumbledore told me to use a Pensieve. There's one in the Room of Requirement. I figure I'll go up there after the weekend. I need a few days to just... not think about death and nightmares."
"Good idea," Hermione agreed. "Besides, this weekend is the first Hogsmeade trip."
Fleur looked interested. " 'Ogsmeade? Is zat the village nearby?"
"Yeah," Harry said. "It's the only all-wizarding village in Britain. It's brilliant. Honeydukes has sweets you wouldn't believe, and there's the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer..."
"And Zonko's for pranks," Hermione added, rolling her eyes. "Though I suppose you'll want to avoid the Shrieking Shack."
As they described the village, Harry noticed Hermione glancing over his shoulder toward the Hufflepuff table.
"Harry," she whispered, nudging his foot under the table. "Don't look now, but you have a fan."
"Who?" Harry asked, immediately stiffening.
"Redhead. Hufflepuff table. She's been staring at you for ten minutes."
Fleur glanced over discreetly. "Ah. Ze girl from the World Cup. Susan Bones, oui?"
Harry sighed, resisting the urge to turn around. He remembered Susan Bones, he had healed her using his Holy Magic. "Yeah. That's her."
"She looks... very interested," Fleur noted, a teasing lilt to her voice. "She is quite pretty, 'Arry. And she has... ample assets."
"I'm happy as I am," Harry whispered fiercely, buttering another slice of toast with unnecessary force. "I have three brilliant, beautiful, dangerous witches in my life. I barely survived last night. I do not need a fourth. I would actually die. Like, physically expire from exhaustion."
Fleur and Hermione exchanged a look and burst into giggles.
"Good answer," Hermione approved.
As breakfast wound down, the atmosphere in the hall shifted again. The initial shock of the article had worn off, replaced by the reality of the situation. As Harry stood up, flanked by Fleur and Hermione, he felt the weight of the stares.
The girls in the hall were glaring at Hermione and Fleur with a mixture of judgment and envy. The boys, however, were looking at Harry with pure, unadulterated jealousy.
Harry ignored them all. He turned to the two girls who were standing by his side, disregarding the whispers and the lies and the politics.
"So," Harry said, offering an arm to each of them. "Would you two like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend? As a date?"
Hermione beamed, taking his left arm. "I'd love to."
Fleur took his right arm, resting her head briefly on his shoulder, uncaring of the scandalized gasps from the Ravenclaw table. "It would be my pleasure, 'Arry."
"Great," Harry said, leading them out of the Great Hall, head held high. "Let's give them something real to talk about."
Graveyard
The fire in the grate roared, turning from a comforting orange to a sickly, vivid emerald. In the heart of the flames, the scarred, spinning face of Alastor Moody appeared.
"My Lord," the face in the fire said, bowing as best a disembodied head could.
"Report," the high, cold voice of Voldemort rasped from the bundle of blankets cradled in Wormtail's trembling arms.
"Potter is... performing beyond expectations," Crouch reported. "He has navigated the scandal well. He has forged a strong alliance with the Beauxbatons champion, the Delacour girl. They are inseparable. A dangerous connection, My Lord; her father is the French Minister. If Potter aligns with foreign powers..."
"Let him make his friends," Voldemort hissed dismissively. "They will only be more bodies to step over. What of his power?"
Crouch hesitated, the magical eye in the fire spinning wildly. "I have tested him a few times, he is quite good with magic, way beyond the sixth and seventh year and I have a feeling that he is hiding his true power. But there was a moment... during the First Task. When he broke free of the nightmare construct."
"Go on."
"It was a burst, My Lord. A surge of energy unlike anything I have seen," Crouch admitted, his voice lowering. "My magical eye... it did not just see it. It was blinded by it. For five full seconds, I saw nothing but white fire. It bypassed the eye's enchantments entirely."
In the bundle, the ruddy, hairless infant shifted, red eyes narrowing. "Interesting."
"What of the next trials?" Voldemort demanded.
"The second task involves the sanguine," Crouch hinted. "Creatures of blood. A test of vitality. The third... it will challenge their very desire to win. To strip away their morality."
"Good," Voldemort whispered. "He will be tested. But I require something else from you, Barty. Before the third task."
"Anything, My Lord."
"I need a sample of the boy's blood. Now. Before the week is out."
The face in the fire flickered with confusion. "Blood? But... My Lord, the ritual is set for June. To take blood now is risky. Dumbledore is watching him like a hawk. Do you wish to accelerate the resurrection?"
"No," Voldemort snapped, his small, skeletal hand gripping the edge of the blanket. "The ritual proceeds as planned. This blood is not for my body. It is for my mind. Do as you are told."
Crouch's face hardened, the loyalty overriding the confusion. "As you command, My Lord. I have a Defense Against the Dark Arts class to teach. I will find a moment."
With a pop, the emerald flames died down, returning to their natural orange. The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the rat-like breathing of Pettigrew.
"M-My Lord?" Wormtail squeaked, adjusting his hold on the master he feared more than death. "If... if the ritual is not for months... why do you need the boy's blood now?"
Voldemort let out a dry, rattling sound that might have been a laugh. He looked into the fire, his red eyes gleaming with a terrifying intelligence.
"Because, Wormtail," he whispered, the truth tasting sweet on his tongue. "I believe I finally know how the boy lived that night."