Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish The First Chapter of The Hearts of Two Champions
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Harry slipped out of the Ravenclaw dormitory well before dawn, the two-way mirror tucked safely in his pocket. Most mornings, he'd have been delighted to have the common room to himself, using the quiet hours to tinker with spell modifications or get ahead on reading. Today, though, he had something far more important to do: gloat.
He settled into his favorite armchair by the window, where the first hint of sunrise was just beginning to paint the distant mountains. Extracting the ornate hand mirror from his pocket, Harry tapped it twice with his wand and whispered, "Sirius Black."
The reflective surface rippled like disturbed water before clearing to reveal his godfather's face. Sirius looked as though he'd been awake for hours—or possibly hadn't slept at all. His dark hair was disheveled, and there was a manic gleam in his eyes that Harry recognized all too well.
"Well?" Sirius demanded without preamble. "How'd it go? Did they fall for it? I've been dying to know since yesterday!"
Harry allowed himself a slow, satisfied smile. "Let's just say there's going to be an epidemic of paper cuts in the castle today."
Sirius let out a bark of laughter that echoed through the empty common room, forcing Harry to quickly adjust the volume with a tap of his wand.
"Details, Harry! I need details!" Sirius insisted, leaning so close to his mirror that his nose nearly touched the glass. "How many tried it? What did McGonagall say? Please tell me Snivellus had to dodge at least one paper ball."
"I haven't even seen the main event yet," Harry explained, "but the word spread like Fiendfyre after dinner. The Weasley twins are organizing what they're calling the 'Great Paper Ball Lottery.' Five Knuts to enter, winner takes all if their ball makes it in."
"And they have no idea it won't work?" Sirius's grin widened.
"None," Harry confirmed. "Even better, Dumbledore knows and is letting it happen."
Sirius clutched his chest dramatically. "My heart! That magnificent bearded bastard!" He wiped away an imaginary tear. "Your father would be so proud. Speaking of which—" his expression shifted to something more mischievous "—how are the French girls? As beautiful as I remember from my French vacation during my student days?"
Harry rolled his eyes, though he couldn't quite suppress a smile. Of course, Sirius would ask about that. "They're all reasonably attractive, I suppose."
"Reasonably attractive?" Sirius repeated incredulously. "Harry James Potter, you did not just describe French witches as 'reasonably attractive.' I raised you better than that!"
"You didn't raise me at all until last year ago," Harry pointed out dryly.
"A technicality," Sirius waved dismissively. "Now, tell your dogfather the truth. There must be one that caught your eye."
Harry hesitated, an image of silver-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes flashing through his mind unbidden. "Well, there is one who's particularly... noticeable."
Sirius's eyes lit up like a child at Christmas. "I knew it! What's her name? What's she like? Have you worked your Potter charm on her yet?"
"Her name is Fleur Delacour," Harry admitted, trying to sound casual. "And she's part Veela."
Sirius let out a low whistle. "A Veela? Merlin's saggy—" he caught himself, coughing. "I mean, that's... impressive. When are you making your move?"
"I'm not," Harry said firmly. "She's not exactly the dating type."
"What do you mean? All women are the dating type for the right wizard." Sirius waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"Not this one," Harry insisted. "She's more like... someone I want to beat in a duel than someone I'd want to date."
Sirius stared at him for a long moment before clutching his heart again, this time with genuine distress. "I've failed as a godfather. James is spinning in his grave right now. A teenage boy turning down a chance with a Veela? Are you feeling alright? Do I need to floo Madame Pomfrey?"
"Very funny," Harry deadpanned. "She's brilliant and terrifying. Like McGonagall, if McGonagall were blonde, French, and constantly looked at you like you were something unpleasant she'd found on the bottom of her shoe."
"Sounds like your mother," Sirius muttered, then quickly added, "in the early days! Before she realized your father was God's gift to witchkind."
"I think she's more likely to hex me than kiss me," Harry pointed out. "And honestly, I'm fine with that. There's something satisfying about verbally sparring with someone who gives as good as they get."
Sirius shook his head in mock despair. "Youth is wasted on the young. Speaking of romance, though..." Harry noticed his godfather's expression shift subtly. "How are your other friends? Anyone caught your eye? Maybe that Luna girl you mentioned?"
Harry narrowed his eyes, recognizing a clumsy attempt at misdirection when he saw one. "Nice try. But actually, I'm more curious about your love life these days. Met anyone interesting lately?"
The change in Sirius was immediate and fascinating. His godfather's normally pale complexion flushed a shade of red that would make a Gryffindor banner seem faded in comparison.
"Me?" Sirius's voice cracked like a first-year trying a Sonorus charm for the first time. "Don't be ridiculous. When would I have time for that?"
"You literally have nothing but time," Harry pointed out. "You're a free man now, living in that massive house in London."
"I'm busy with... things," Sirius said vaguely. "Order business. Very secret. Very important."
"You're blushing," Harry observed, leaning closer to the mirror. This was unprecedented territory. In all their conversations, he'd never seen his godfather flustered—not even when recounting his most embarrassing school mishaps. "Who is she?"
"Nobody," Sirius said too quickly. "Just focus on your studies, Harry. And your pranks. And maybe reconsidering your stance on gorgeous French Veelas."
"Her name," Harry pressed, feeling a grin spread across his face. "Tell me or I'll ask Remus in my next letter."
"Remus doesn't know anything," Sirius said defensively, then immediately looked like he regretted it. "I mean, there's nothing to know."
"So there is someone," Harry pounced on the slip. "Come on, Sirius. I tell you everything."
"You're a kid," Sirius said, sounding somewhat desperate now. "You should be doing kid things—studying, causing magical mayhem, making out with French Veelas."
"We've established I'm not doing the last one," Harry said patiently. "So tell me who you're seeing."
Sirius glanced over his shoulder as if expecting someone to be eavesdropping, then leaned in close to the mirror. "Look, it's... complicated. And new. And I don't want to jinx it by talking about it."
"Since when are you superstitious?" Harry asked incredulously.
"Since I—" Sirius stopped abruptly, his eyes widening slightly. "Oh, would you look at the time! I have a... meeting. With important people. About important things."
"Sirius Black, don't you dare—"
"Gotta go, kiddo! Tell me how the paper ball chaos goes! Mischief managed!"
The mirror's surface rippled again, and Sirius's face was replaced by Harry's own reflection, looking thoroughly annoyed.
"Coward," Harry muttered to the empty common room, though his annoyance was already fading into amusement and curiosity. Whoever had managed to get under Sirius Black's skin must be quite something.
He tucked the mirror away and glanced out the window. The sun was properly rising now, painting the Scottish highlands in gold. Soon, the Great Hall would be filling with eager students armed with parchment projectiles and doomed hopes.
Harry grinned to himself. It was going to be a spectacular day.
Harry arrived at the Great Hall just as breakfast was hitting its stride, strategically timing his entrance for maximum effect. He paused in the doorway, savoring the scene before him like a maestro appreciating his orchestra tuning up before a performance.
The hall had transformed into what could only be described as a magical firing range. Paper projectiles of varying sophistication arced through the air toward the Goblet of Fire, which stood impassively at the center of Dumbledore's age line, its blue flames flickering with apparent indifference to the barrage.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Harry murmured to himself as he slid onto the bench at the Ravenclaw table. He helped himself to toast, spreading marmalade. Around him, his housemates were deep in conversation about trajectory calculations and the aerodynamic properties of parchment.
A third-year was demonstrating a modified Wingardium Leviosa that allowed for more precise control, while a seventh-year attempted to explain why origami cranes would have better flight stability than simple paper balls. Typical Ravenclaws, Harry thought fondly—even when breaking rules, they had to optimize the process.
"I estimate there are approximately seventy-three Wrackspurts circling the Goblet now," came Luna's dreamy voice as she settled beside him. "They're attracted to frustrated magic."
Harry grinned at her. "And frustrated students too, I'd imagine."
Luna nodded solemnly. "Filch won't be happy cleaning all this up. I suspect the Nargles have been stealing his cleaning supplies again."
As if summoned by his name, Filch lurked at the edge of the hall, clutching Mrs. Norris to his chest like a furry hot water bottle. The caretaker's face had achieved a shade of purple that Harry found genuinely concerning from a medical standpoint.
"I believe Mr. Filch has invented at least seventeen new punishments in the last hour alone," Harry observed, biting into his toast. "Most of them probably involving chains and dungeons."
"Oh, I don't think he's allowed to hang students by their thumbs anymore," Luna said matter-of-factly. "Dumbledore banned it in 1983."
Across the hall, a particularly ambitious paper airplane enchanted by a sixth-year Hufflepuff spiraled upward before dive-bombing toward the Goblet. It sailed gracefully through the air, achieving what Harry had to admit was a rather impressive flight path—only to burst into flames a foot above the Goblet's rim, its ashes drifting down like disappointed snowflakes.
"Nice try, Abbott!" someone called out, followed by groans from those who had apparently bet on the airplane's success.
At the Hufflepuff table, Cedric caught Harry's eye and raised his goblet in mock salute. Susan Bones beside him was barely containing her laughter as a second-year attempted to convince his pet rat to carry a tiny scroll across the age line. The rat, displaying more intelligence than its owner, kept turning around and scurrying back.
"They must know by now that it can't work," a French-accented voice said from behind him. "Yet they continue this... how do you say... charade?"
Harry turned to find Fleur Delacour standing there, her arms crossed but her expression less disdainful than he'd expected. There was a hint of something that might almost be amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"Oh, they all know," Harry replied cheerfully, gesturing for her to join them if she wished. To his mild surprise, she actually did, settling onto the bench across from him with the grace of a swan landing on water. "But that's not really the point anymore."
"Non?" She raised one perfect eyebrow. "Then what is the point of this mess?"
Harry considered the question as he watched the Weasley twins unveil what appeared to be a miniature catapult, crafted from spoons, rubber bands, and what suspiciously looked like components from a Zonko's Exploding Snap set.
"The love of the game," he decided. "The joy of attempting the impossible knowing it's impossible. It's rather liberating, actually."
Fleur's expression was skeptical, but her eyes followed the twins' contraption with undeniable interest. The catapult launched its payload—a paper ball that had been soaked in some potion that made it glow bright purple—with a resounding twang. The ball sailed in a perfect arc toward the Goblet, trailing sparks, only to freeze in mid-air at the boundary of the age line before rocketing back toward its origin point at twice the speed.
The twins dove for cover as their own creation boomeranged back, hitting Lee Jordan squarely in the forehead and leaving a purple mark that spelled out "NICE TRY" in luminous letters.
A wave of laughter rolled through the hall, the twins bowing dramatically to their audience despite their failure. Even some of the Beauxbatons students were chuckling now.
"You see?" Harry gestured toward the scene. "Everyone knows it's futile, but they're having fun with the failure. It's very..." he searched for the word, "...British, I suppose."
"To celebrate failure?" Fleur asked.
"To laugh at ourselves," Harry corrected. "And to keep trying ridiculous solutions to impossible problems, just to see what happens."
A tiny, puzzled frown appeared between Fleur's perfect eyebrows. It was, Harry noticed with an odd little jolt, rather endearing—like watching a cat encounter a mirror for the first time.
"At Beauxbatons," she said slowly, "when something is impossible, we accept it and move on to more productive pursuits."
"Sounds efficient," Harry acknowledged. "But you miss out on all the wonderful ways things can go wrong."
As if to illustrate his point, a Gryffindor fourth-year had enchanted paper birds to carry tiny name slips. The charm was actually quite impressive—the birds fluttered around the hall in a choreographed formation before diving toward the Goblet. Upon hitting the age line, however, they transformed into paper piranhas that turned on their creator, chasing him under the Gryffindor table while his friends howled with laughter.
"We do this with spellwork too, you know," Harry continued, watching the paper piranhas with academic interest. "Half of magical innovation comes from someone doing something incorrectly and accidentally discovering something new."
"Like what?" Fleur challenged, though she seemed genuinely curious now.
"Like..." Harry thought for a moment. "Floo powder was supposedly invented by a witch who was trying to create a cleaning solution for her fireplace. She spilled the prototype and fell in, ending up in her neighbor's kitchen."
Luna nodded sagely. "And Bertie Bott was attempting to create nutritious vegetable-flavored sweets when he accidentally included a dirty sock in his cauldron."
Fleur's nose wrinkled delicately at that, and Harry couldn't help but laugh.
"The point is," he said, "sometimes you have to let things fail spectacularly to find out what's possible."
"And what 'ave you learned from this particular failure?" Fleur asked, gesturing to the paper carnage around them.
Harry leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "That people will always prefer an entertaining failure to a boring success."
Fleur studied him for a moment, her blue eyes calculating. "You knew from the beginning that it wouldn't work, didn't you?"
Harry's innocent expression could have won awards. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I merely suggested a theoretical approach to a hypothetical problem."
"That you knew was impossible," she pressed.
Harry spread his hands. "I never claimed it would work. I just wondered aloud if it might."
"You," Fleur said with a hint of reluctant admiration, "are more devious than you appear, 'Arry Potter."
Before Harry could respond, a fifth-year Slytherin approached their table, clutching what appeared to be a very annoyed owl.
"Potter," the boy said urgently, "do you think an owl could fly over the age line and drop a name in? Fletcher's betting five Galleons it would work."
Harry maintained his carefully neutral expression. "Well, I suppose birds aren't subject to age restrictions, are they? Though I'd imagine the Goblet might have ways of determining the true source of the entry."
The Slytherin nodded seriously and retreated, already calling to his friend about their new plan.
"You're encouraging them," Fleur accused.
"I'm neither confirming nor denying the viability of any particular method," Harry corrected primly. "Just offering neutral observations."
From the head table, Professor McGonagall was watching the proceedings with an expression that suggested she was calculating exactly how many detentions she could assign before running out of calendar days. Beside her, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily as he observed the chaos over steepled fingers. Snape, predictably, looked like he was contemplating a career change to something that involved fewer teenagers and more solitude—perhaps professional hermit.
A particularly impressive explosion from the twins' direction drew Harry's attention back to the floor show. They had apparently decided that if one catapult was good, five synchronized catapults would be better. The resulting barrage of enchanted paper balls had created what looked like a miniature fireworks display as they all hit the age line simultaneously.
"I must admit," Fleur said, watching the sparks fade, "there is a certain... creativity to this approach."
"High praise indeed from Beauxbatons' finest," Harry replied with a small smile.
Fleur's eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't get used to it. Tonight the Goblet will choose ME. Then we shall see who is truly... how do you say it? Full of hot air?"
"I believe the phrase you're looking for is 'the real deal,'" Harry corrected. "And yes, I suppose we will."
As Fleur rose gracefully to rejoin her schoolmates, Luna leaned over to Harry. "She's not as cold as she pretends to be," she observed. "It's just that her fire burns differently than most people's."
Harry watched Fleur's retreating form, noting how several male heads turned to follow her progress. "Maybe," he said thoughtfully. "Or maybe she's just warming up to the idea of a proper rivalry."
Luna's smile was knowing in a way that made Harry slightly uncomfortable, as if she were reading a book several chapters ahead of him. "If that's what you want to call it," she said serenely, returning to her breakfast.
Harry shook his head and turned his attention back to the Great Hall's impromptu tournament of failure. The day was young, and if his calculations were correct, they hadn't even reached peak chaos yet. That would come around lunchtime, when desperation and hunger combined to produce truly inspired magical misfires.
He couldn't wait.
Dumbledore
Albus Dumbledore sat at the center of the staff table, hands steepled beneath his chin, watching the Great Hall's transformation into what could only be described as a magical paper warzone. His blue eyes twinkled with delight behind half-moon spectacles as he observed yet another inventive attempt, this time a first-year's enchanted paper frog that hopped valiantly toward the Goblet before bursting into confetti at the age line.
Ingenious, he thought. Absolutely ingenious. The sheer variety of approaches was impressive, from simple throws to elaborate contraptions that would have made Rube Goldberg proud. All failures, of course, but what marvelous failures they were.
"This is absurd," Severus Snape muttered from his left, dark eyes narrowed as he watched the Weasley twins recalibrate what appeared to be a miniature trebuchet. "Utterly absurd. And entirely Potter's fault."
"Indeed?" Dumbledore replied mildly, helping himself to a lemon drop from the small silver dish he kept at hand. "I don't see Mr. Potter throwing anything."
"He doesn't need to," Snape hissed. "He's sitting there like a puppet master while the rest of the student body makes fools of themselves. This proves what I've been saying for years, Headmaster. Potter is the worst thing to happen to discipline at this school since—"
"Since your own school days, perhaps?" Dumbledore suggested innocently, causing Snape to close his mouth with an audible click.
On Dumbledore's right, Minerva McGonagall watched a paper airplane spiral spectacularly into a shower of sparks, narrowly missing a Hufflepuff's eyebrows.
"Albus," she said in that particular tone that suggested she was exercising great restraint, "why exactly are we allowing this to continue? It's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt."
"Hurt?" Dumbledore echoed, feigning surprise. "From paper? My dear Professor McGonagall, I dare say our students face greater peril in their Herbology classes every day."
"That's not the point and you know it," she replied. Minerva had always been better at maintaining a stern facade than actually feeling stern. "We're encouraging chaos."
"I prefer to think of it as encouraging creativity," Dumbledore corrected gently. "Look at the spell modifications Miss Bones has developed for her paper birds. Quite remarkable for a fourth-year, wouldn't you agree?"
McGonagall's frown deepened. "Creativity would be finding original solutions. This is just variations on Potter's original bad idea."
"Ah, but isn't that how progress works?" Dumbledore's eyes sparkled. "One person suggests an approach, and others build upon it, refine it, adapt it. The history of magic is built on such collaborative efforts."
"The history of magical catastrophes, perhaps," Snape muttered darkly.
"Creativity keeps you alive when textbook approaches get you killed. Potter's got the right idea—find the unexpected angle." Moody said with a nod of agreement, looking at the students.
From further down the table, Igor Karkaroff's cold laugh drew Dumbledore's attention. The Durmstrang headmaster was watching the proceedings with contempt.
"Is this how Hogwarts typically prepares its students for international competition, Dumbledore?" he asked, his accent thickening with disdain. "By encouraging them to waste time on childish pranks?"
Beside him, Madame Maxime gave a delicate sniff of agreement. "At Beauxbatons, we would never permit such... disorder. Our students understand ze importance of decorum."
"Our students," Karkaroff continued, "are focused on their studies this morning. Preparing for the Tournament with discipline and purpose."
"Rather than throwing paper," Madame Maxime added, gesturing to where a group of Gryffindors were attempting to create a paper airplane large enough to carry a first-year.
Dumbledore smiled benignly at his fellow headmasters.
"How fortunate for you both," he said pleasantly, "to have achieved such perfect control over the natural exuberance of youth. One might almost think your students were not young people at all, but rather carefully charmed toys, trained to perform exactly as expected without a single original thought between them."
He popped another lemon drop into his mouth, expression mild as milk.
"But perhaps I misunderstand. Please, tell me more about these perfect students of yours who never step out of line, never question authority, and never—heaven forbid—have fun."
There was a beat of stunned silence. Karkaroff's face had gone rigid, while Madame Maxime's dark eyes widened in shock at the velvet-wrapped insult.
"We simply believe," Karkaroff began stiffly, "in maintaining standards—"
"Oh, I have no doubt," Dumbledore interrupted cheerfully. "And what remarkable standards they must be, to produce students so devoid of joy. Tell me, do you find it very difficult to distinguish between your seventh-years and the statues in your entrance hall? I imagine the conversation quality is quite similar."
McGonagall made a choking sound that might have been suppressed laughter, quickly disguised as a cough. Snape, despite himself, looked very slightly less murderous than usual—which for him was the equivalent of howling with glee.
"Our traditions—" Madame Maxime began with dignity.
"Are wonderful things," Dumbledore agreed. "As are ours. One of Hogwarts' finest traditions is the belief that education should not come at the expense of one's humanity. A lesson that appears to be on display this very morning." He gestured to where Harry Potter was now explaining something to Fleur Delacour, who was—remarkably—almost smiling.
"You may note," Dumbledore continued, eyes twinkling again, "that your students seem to be integrating quite well with ours. Perhaps there's something to be said for a bit of harmless chaos after all."
Karkaroff muttered something in Russian that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary before turning his attention determinedly to his breakfast. Madame Maxime likewise found her coffee suddenly fascinating.
As the headmasters retreated into frosty silence, McGonagall leaned closer to Dumbledore. "That was unkind, Albus," she murmured.
"Was it?" Dumbledore replied innocently. "I merely offered an observation."
"A particularly cutting one," she noted.
Dumbledore's eyes crinkled warmly. "My dear Professor McGonagall, what would be the point of living if we couldn't occasionally deliver a perfectly timed verbal riposte?"
She shook her head, but the fondness in her expression belied her exasperation. "You're impossible."
"I prefer to think of myself as improbable," he corrected, helping himself to another lemon drop. "A subtle but important distinction."
As another wave of laughter rolled through the Great Hall following a particularly spectacular failure involving what appeared to be enchanted paper wasps, Dumbledore felt a surge of affection for his students. Let the other schools have their perfect order and rigid discipline. He would take Hogwarts' creative chaos any day.
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