Harry stumbled back into the Gryffindor common room late that night, his mind a whirlwind of confusion, fear, and a burgeoning, hot anger. The meeting in the chamber off the Great Hall had been a nightmare. The other champions had glared at him with open hostility. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime had accused him of cheating, of making a mockery of the tournament. And Dumbledore, while not outwardly angry, had looked at him with a strange, piercing disappointment that was somehow worse.
The common room, which should have been a sanctuary, was a sea of speculative, suspicious faces. The initial shock had given way to whispers and arguments. The Gryffindors were torn between house loyalty and the undeniable fact that a fourteen-year-old had somehow bypassed a magical barrier created by Albus Dumbledore himself.
But the most painful confrontation was yet to come. As Harry made his way towards the fireplace, Ron stood up, his face pale and tight, his freckles standing out like angry spots. "So," Ron said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Go on then. Tell me how you did it."
It was not a question. It was an accusation.
"I didn't," Harry said, his voice trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief. "I don't know how it happened. I didn't put my name in."
"Yeah, right," Ron scoffed, his voice rising, laced with a bitter, raw jealousy. "You just happened to get picked, didn't you? It's always you, isn't it? Can't stand anyone else getting a bit of glory. First the Seeker, now this. It's not enough for you, is it? Being the Boy Who Lived?"
"Ron, I'm telling you, I didn't do it!" Harry yelled back, his own temper, frayed by the night's events, finally snapping. "Why would I want this? To be in a tournament where people have died? Do you think I'm that desperate for attention?"
"I'm starting to think so!" Ron roared, his face now as red as his hair. "You and your special friends," he shot a venomous look towards Ariana and Hermione, who were watching from their armchairs. "Probably cooked it up with Dumbledore's little prodigy. She can do anything, can't she? Maybe she bewitched the Goblet for you!"
The accusation was so wild, so unfair, that it stunned the room into silence. Harry stared at his best friend, his heart feeling like a cold, heavy stone in his chest. This was worse than their argument over the Invisibility Cloak. This was a fundamental breakdown of trust.
"You're a real git, you know that?" Harry said, his voice dropping to a low, furious hiss. He turned his back on Ron, the friendship between them fracturing in that single, ugly moment.
He walked over to the fireplace, slumping into the armchair opposite the girls, feeling utterly alone and betrayed. He looked at them, his eyes pleading, desperate for someone, anyone, to believe him. He didn't have to say the words. His expression screamed the question: You believe me, don't you?
Hermione, her face full of a fierce, protective loyalty, answered first. She reached out and put a comforting hand on his arm. "Harry," she said, her voice firm and unwavering. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter how your name came out of that Goblet. The fact is, it did. We're your friends.
We're with you."
Her words were a balm to his raw nerves. She didn't question, she didn't doubt. She simply offered her unconditional support.
Then, he looked at Ariana. He braced himself for a logical analysis, a breakdown of probabilities, perhaps even a quiet reprimand for landing in this mess.
Instead, he was met with an expression of profound, self-recriminating regret.
"Harry," she said, her voice quiet but laced with a steely intensity he had never heard her direct at herself. "I apologize."
Harry blinked, stunned. "Apologize? For what? You didn't do anything."
"Precisely," she said, her periwinkle eyes hard with self-criticism. "I failed. I neutralized the immediate threat—the imposter—but I failed to account for his contingency plan. The magic used to confound the Goblet was powerful and laid in advance. It was a separate protocol, designed to activate regardless of whether the caster was present or not. I focused on the agent, and I missed the lingering effects of his actions. It was a failure of strategic foresight. And for that failure, which has now placed you in this dangerous and untenable position, I am truly sorry."
It was the first time Harry had ever heard her admit to a mistake. Her apology was not emotional; it was a cold, hard admission of a tactical error. And in a strange way, it was more comforting than anything else she could have said. It meant she saw this not as his fault, but as a problem they all now shared.
She leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. "You need to understand something. The tournament is no longer a competition. For you, it is a matter of survival. The tasks will be dangerous, designed for seventeen-year-olds. The person who put your name in did not do so with the expectation that you would win. They did so with the expectation that you would die."
The blunt, cold reality of her words sent a chill down his spine.
"Therefore," she continued, her voice taking on the tone of a field commander briefing her team, "our objective for this year is no longer simply academic. My primary function, and Hermione's, will be to ensure your survival. We will analyze the tasks. We will research every possible solution. We will train you, equip you, and provide you with every advantage we can devise. Ron can have his jealousy. The rest of the school can have their suspicions. It is all irrelevant noise."
She held his gaze, her promise an unbreakable vow. "You are not in this alone, Harry. You will have the full, unconditional, and logical support of my abilities and Hermione's intellect. We will get you through this. That is no longer a plan. It is a guarantee."
In the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, with the fire crackling and his best friend's angry snores now coming from the boys' dormitory, Harry felt the fear and betrayal begin to recede, replaced by a new, powerful sense of resolve. He was a champion in a deadly tournament he hadn't entered. But he wasn't just Harry Potter, the boy who lived. He was Harry Potter, the friend of Ariana Dumbledore and Hermione Granger. And with them at his back, he felt, for the first time that night, like he might actually have a chance.