turbinicarpus
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Patron (Harry Potter AU) (Complete)
- Thread starter Starfox5
- Start date
Chapter 8: The Third Task: Air
Starfox5
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Chapter 8: The Third Task: Air
While the audience roared and applauded at his exit, Harry was moved to the healer's area and checked by a wizard. His cuts, bruises and broken ribs were quickly fixed. He didn't bother fixing his transfigured robe. Instead he discarded it, vanished it, and slipped his school robes on. The familiar feeling of the numerous enchantments wrapping around him, adjusting the temperature, the robe lifting a bit to float above his skin, and the knowledge that he was now much better protected again, was a great relief. As much as spotting Hermione safe and sound near the judges was. Remembering the illusion of her struggling, drowning, still made him shudder.
When he returned to the spot he would be waiting for the others to arrive on, Viktor had yet to reach the centre. The Bulgarian champion had been forced to revert his transfiguration to deal with what looked like a small plesiosaurus, and judging by the blood leaking from his wounds, he'd be attracting sharks soon. Fleur was decimating grindylows with area-effect spells above a kelp field. Harry checked his watch - he had a mechanical wristwatch, but Sirius had told him repeatedly that he'd get a 'real watch' for his 17th birthday, like every wizard - and was pleased to find that even if Viktor managed to reach the clam right away and get the golden pearl, he'd still get less points than Harry.
Five minutes and an encounter with a familiar-looking school of bloodthirsty sharks later, Viktor was facing the marid. They talked for several minutes, with the genie's smile widening and Viktor scowling, but Harry didn't hear what they were talking about. Finally, the genie nodded and with a flash, the golden pearl appeared in her hand. She offered it to Viktor, who snatched it up and dove to the exit, followed by what looked like booming laughter. The star seeker arrived next to Harry, grinning wrily at his dry and robed appearance. Both exchanged brief nods before the Bulgarian was moved to the healers. Fleur arrived a few minutes later, and skipped the marid, going straight for the exit. Judging by the snarl on the genie's face, that seemed to have been a wise decision.
Finally the points were awarded. Harry got the full 50 points for finishing first, bringing him to 100 total. Viktor got 35 for finishing a quarter of an hour after Harry, but 10 bonus points for the golden pearl, which meant he tied Harry overall. Fleur received 30 points, which meant she was now 10 points behind the two wizards. The veela didn't seem to be disappointed. Not that Harry was paying that much attention to his fellow champions' reactions, he was busy collecting his retainer.
*****
Barty Crouch Junior, polyjuiced to look like a disreputable wizard currently sleeping in his room after he had overindulged on fire whiskey last night, folded the Daily Prophet and dropped it on the table in the Leaky Cauldron together with a few sickles. His parasites had been discovered. He had expected that - Hagrid was one of the foremost experts for magical creatures in Britain after all. But not only had it kept his master's enemies busy and focused on the tournament, he had also gained valuable information about how the aurors and Dumbledore handled his sabotage attempts. They were clever, but were they clever enough to anticipate his plans? He'd find out.
*****
Hermione was in hell. Quidditch hell, to be precise. February was the month of the Triwizard Tournament's Quidditch competition, and Hogwarts seemed to have gone mad. Or madder than the school normally got about that infernal game when matches took place. Hermione had managed to ignore the tryouts and training sessions while helping Harry prepare for the tournament tasks and getting ready for the dueling competition, but that was not possible now. Harry, who really should be preparing for the next task, was training the seeker of the Hogwarts team. He claimed it was training for the third task, which would be a broom race of sorts, but Hermione knew better. Ron of course was spending more time on watching the trainings, watching the training sessions of the other teams, and discussing Quidditch with whoever would listen - which were far too many in her opinion - than on studying.
One match would be held each Saturday, pitting all the teams of the three schools against each other, and the fourth match, on the 26th, would pit the two best teams against each other. The two best teams out of three seemed a bit less than impressive to Hermione, but she knew better than to voice that opinion. Or to criticize Quidditch at all, even though the rules made no sense! They may have made sense when the game was created, but with the modern high-performance brooms, the rules should really be adjusted. Seeker bias was fact, not an invention by jealous chasers!
At least Harry had invited Fleur and Viktor again this week. Hopefully they'd not talk about Quidditch, or not too much. A slim hope, she knew, with Ron and Harry present, even though Viktor seemed to prefer not to talk about Quidditch. Maybe they'd focus more on the second task. It was certainly, in her admittedly biased opinion, noteworthy how Harry had won against the two older champions. The Daily Prophet too had been full of praise for Harry's performance, with many pictures of him shooting through the water, but also of his fights. Hermione had winced each time she had seen the first page, which featured Harry getting hit into a coral reef and sliding along it, trailing blood. Harry, the stupid boy, had wanted to get it framed.
She was alone in the training room, since both Ron and Harry were still at the Quidditch practise. The young witch hoped they'd remember the event - she had reminded them twice, each, today. Sighing, she sat down on the couch. She would rather be at the pitch herself, near her friends, even if Harry would be off on his broom, but somebody had to prepare the room, and the refreshments. She touched her torc and wished it would grow warm soon.
*****
Harry enjoyed the evening with his fellow champions. And with Hermione. He hadn't seen her outside classes as much as usual this week, due to Quidditch, he realized. That might have explained the slight surprise, quickly covered by a wide smile, she had shown when he had arrived earlier than expected, dragging Ron with him. He suddenly felt more than a bit guilty, and covered it up with taking a long sip from his drink. Hermione had done so much for him, her spell had allowed him to win the second task, and he was all but ignoring her in favor of Quidditch as a reward?
"That was a surprising tactic in the second task, Harry. I didn't recognize the spells you were using. Where did you find them?" Viktor leaned a bit forward, curiosity evident on his face.
"It was all Hermione's idea. She created the spells and taught them to me." Harry gestured to the witch sitting at his side, who blushed at the appraising looks she got from the two champions.
"I only modified the spells. The bubble-head charm and aguamenti. And I knew the aguamenti could be modified to serve as a propulsion since I saw a classmate of us knock a teacher over with it by mistake." Hermione's embarrassment at the attention had vanished with the start of her explanation - her lecture, Ron would call it. Harry loved to see her like this, showing just how smart she was. She usually hid her talents too much, in his opinion. He could understand that - she already got some grief for being the best student of her year, mostly from Slytherins and Ravenclaws - but he didn't have to like it. She deserved better.
"But 'ow did the bubble-'ead charm make 'arry swim faster?" Fleur sounded a bit confused, even after Hermione's had detailed her work. Harry refilled his glass while Hermione started to explain of the Supercavitation effect. He already had heard it after all, and he was sure the two other champions and Ron would not get it. Wizards rarely understood science. Hermione said that was because magic not only didn't rely on it, but often disproved it. Or, as the witch was fond to say, 'seemed to disprove science'. She was determined to unite scientific and magical theory, one day. Harry was sure that if anyone could manage it, it was his best friend.
As expected neither Fleur nor Viktor had understood Hermione's explanation. Ron, Harry noticed, had not even listened, but seemed amused by the two champions' reaction. Taking pity on them, Harry changed the topic - somewhat. "I noticed you ignored the marid as I had done, Fleur, while Viktor engaged it. Why did you skip it?"
"The marid would 'ave attacked me; I would never 'ave gotten an acceptable deal out of 'er. 'er kind 'ates my kind." The veela smiled at her two rivals. "The water is not my element. I did better than I expected, and the next task will take place in the air, where I am at 'ome."
Harry narrowed his eyes at her implied confidence of victory in the next task. "We shall see that. Viktor is a star seeker, after all, and I am a fair flyer, if I do say so myself."
"Youngest seeker in a century!" Ron mentioned with a grin.
"Oh, yes. But you are quidditch players. This will be a race." The veela's smile widened. Harry connected the dots.
"And you are a broom racer."
"I am not looking to race professionally, but I am a fair racer, if I do say so myself." If Fleur's grin was any wider it would have split her face. Harry was about to answer with a rather feeble promise to do his best to prove her wrong when he noticed Hermione's expression. His retainer was frowning, and then trying to hide a smirk. He knew she had thought of something. "We shall see", he answered, with what he hoped was a confident smile that did not give away anything. Viktor just grumbled something about even odds.
"You are very lucky to 'ave 'ermione, 'arry." Apparently, Fleur had noticed Hermione's reaction as well.
"Yes, I am." Harry slipped his arm around the witch in question, and pulled her closer, ignoring her surprised sound at his possessive gesture. "She's the brightest witch of her generation and my best friend."
*****
"I should be the seeker." Pansy had stopped counting how often Draco had said that sentence in a voice that was growing more petulant with each repetition. "Not Diggory. Everyone knows seekers have to be lithe, like me, not a brute like him." Pansy had to struggle to keep her face from showing her reaction. No one sane would call one of the most handsome wizards at Hogwarts a 'brute'. Cedric was a witch's dream - muscular, but not overly so, with a charming smile that rivaled Lockhart's, perfect manners and skilled with a wand. He had gone the farthest of all Hogwarts students in the dueling competition, after all. She longed to hex Draco for his insult, but forced herself to simply smile, pat his arm, and make an agreeing sound. She did not even mention that Viktor Krum, thought by many to be the best seeker of those currently active, was anything but lithe.
They were in the arena, reshaped to form a Quidditch pitch that conformed to international regulations. The enchantments on the arena allowed them, for the first time for many enthusiasts who had not been able to attend the World Cup, to really follow the action on the pitch. It was a unique experience, and Pansy wouldn't miss it for the world. She could not think of any decent wizard or witch who would want to miss this - according to rumor a 7th year Gryffindor had broken down crying when Snape had given him detention for this afternoon, but Dumbledore had overruled the detention. Even Granger was present, and everyone knew the mudblood hated Quidditch and wouldn't be found within a mile around the pitch if her Patron was not playing. Or, as was the case today, watching. Pansy had to smile at the thought of Granger forced to attend, unable to even read a book, as she was usually doing when she watched Potter train, to avoid a faux-pas. And the mudblood couldn't cozy up to Potter either, since they were in public. She must be squirming in her seat, hoping for a quick catch!
Hogwarts was playing Beauxbatons today, in the opening match of the Quidditch competition. Although it was more like Gryffindor's Quidditch team with a Hufflepuff seeker and a Slytherin keeper were meeting Beauxbatons' finest today. Pansy had expected more Slytherins to protest the line up, but apart from Draco and half the team most of the Quidditch enthusiasts and players had agreed that it was smarter to send players who were used to playing together. Apart from the seeker and keeper, of course. Miles Bletchley was the keeper of the Slytherin team, and the best keeper in Hogwarts after Wood had graduated - he certainly had had enough practise against the Gryffindor chasers. Cedric was simply too good to let the red headed little girl that had replaced Potter for this year fly. It wasn't as if the seeker was much of a team player to begin with: only a few seekers were as crazy as Potter and tried to disrupt the opponent's formations and plays.
Draco was still complaining. Briefly rolling her eyes, Pansy distracted him with a quick rules question. She knew the answer already, of course, but Draco loved it when he could show off 'superior' knowledge and experience. While he was explaining, and telling her an anecdote from one of his matches, she watched the Hogwarts chasers score again. It felt weird to cheer for the "Flying Foxes", but it was Hogwarts against their rival school from France. And Hogwarts was doing well - they were in the lead by a comfortable margin of 120 to 60. Not that that would matter much if the French seeker caught the snitch first.
"And Diggory has spotted the snitch! There he dives!" The announcer - not Jordan, every teacher had vetoed that idea of Dumbledore's, or so rumor claimed - drew everyone's attention to Cedric, who was flying almost straight down. For a moment Pansy's breath caught in her throat. If he couldn't pull up in time… that was how players got hurt or even died on the pitch. From the side the French seeker was closing in, but unless the snitch moved far faster than before, he'd not reach it before Cedric. There! The handsome Hufflepuff - and hadn't that a ring to it? - pulled up, almost as close to the ground as Potter at his craziest, fist held high. "And Diggory caught the snitch! He caught the snitch! Hogwarts wins 270 to 60!" The announcer's voice almost broke with excitement.
Draco was trying to say something, probably claiming he'd have found the snitch quicker, had he flown, but the crowd's roar was drowning his words out. Pansy didn't even notice, she was shouting as loud as any Hufflepuff student just to make sure she could not hear what he was saying.
*****
Harry was proud the Hogwarts Quidditch team had made such a good showing, even though Diggory had not wanted to use Harry's tactics. He didn't know why the wizard refused - with his greater mass, he'd have had an easier time at disrupting chaser formations. Harry had even offered to let the Hufflepuff use his Firebolt, but that too had been refused as 'not fair'. As if Durmstrang would not use Viktor's broom, if it was not a tournament stake!
Hermione had buried herself in research again, first studying the tournament and broom race rules, to check if her idea was even legal, then starting spellcrafting. He worried about the witch, she was overdoing it again. At least it meant he did not have to feel guilty for training with the Quidditch team since she would be busy anyway.
He spotted Susan in the stands. The witch had been watching him practise often lately, claiming she was showing that there were no hard feelings to counteract what rumors were still making the rounds. It made sense to Harry. After what the Hufflepuffs had done to Patil and Brown, he'd hate to have anyone target him for an imagined insult. Or, much worse, Hermione.
He dove towards the ground as if he was pulling a Wronski Feint, then pulled up in time to come to a stop in front of the girl, who had shrieked in surprise. Easily startled, he thought.
"Hi Susan!"
"H-hi Harry. That was some move you pulled." She looked still a bit shaken.
"Just a normal dive. I can go far faster and closer to the ground." He made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. "I have to get used to this broom anyway, I can't use my Firebolt in the next task."
"Why not?" Susan pouted.
"Everyone's using the same broom. Makes the field even."
"I guess that's true." The witch reached over to him and brushed some grass from his sleeve. Probably from the roll he had practised earlier, when he had been flying low to the ground.
"Hermione was impressed by the spells on Patil and Brown, by the way. She said it was a very exotic and interesting selection." Harry grinned at the thought.
"Really? … I mean, I am sure the unknown wizards and witches who cast those hexes would be glad to hear that." Susan had frowned a bit at first, Harry noticed. Was she feeling a bit guilty at the 'prank', or had she hoped the spells would last longer?
"Yes. She probably would have reverse-engineered a number of them, if she was not busy preparing for the next task."
"Reverse-what?"
"Recreated." He reminded himself to choose his words more carefully. Muggle technical terms tended to not just go over the head of wizards, but wouldn't fit his carefully crafted public image, as Hermione had said. Even though she was where he got those terms from for the most part.
"Ah. That's why she is not here, supporting you?"
"Yes." Harry felt a bit of an annoyance at the suggestion Hermione would not support him, but let it go. They chatted a bit more, or gossiped, as some would say. Harry enjoyed the break, but also felt a bit guilty when he took to air again, though he didn't know why.
*****
Ron was jumping up from his seat, whooping. That had been a beautiful combination by the Gryffindor chasers! He sat back down again, and turned to Padma. "Did you see that? A triple pass with a corkscrew shot at the end! The keeper stood no chance!"
"Ah, yes." Padma smiled and nodded, but she looked slightly annoyed. Not as much as Hermione usually did though. He glanced over at Harry and Hermione, which were sitting next to him. His best female friend was smiling, but slightly forced. Harry was clueless, as usual.
"If they keep that up, then it won't matter who catches the snitch." He said. He understood that Padma was not as interested in Quidditch as he was - the Ravenclaws rarely had a good enough team to matter. They weren't quite the Chudley Cannons of Hogwarts, but came close. And he felt that they were the least enthusiastic of the Houses, even if Hermione was still calling them fanatical. She didn't see the nuances he saw.
Padma leaned against him again, and he realized he had shoved her by accident when he had jumped up. "I am sorry for shoving you." He apologized, it a bit late.
"It was nothing. I know you're passionate about Quidditch", the Indian witch answered him with a smile. Ron was wondering, again, if she fancied him. He had asked for Harry's opinion on the matter, but his friend had had no idea either. Ron had not wanted to ask Hermione, but Harry had brought the question up before he could stop him. The witch had not been able to help either - she certainly understood his concern that this was just a way for Padma to one-up her sister, but she hadn't been able to tell either way. Parvati was claiming that, but Hermione had said the Gryffindor twin would be doing that even if Padma fancied Ron. And asking Luna about her fellow Ravenclaw was asking for trouble. The blonde witch was likely to loudly ask in the Great Hall if Padma fancied Ron or was just trying to needle her twin.
Ron still remembered that dinner at the Burrow when Luna had asked about his mum's brothers, which had led to the Lovegoods not being invited again for more than half a year, even though his family was not exactly overflowing with opportunities to exchange invitations. Ron almost sighed, thinking about the Weasleys' finances and social status. Most of his dad's colleagues were richer and therefore expected better, meaning more expensive, entertainment at a dinner party than the Weasleys could provide, despite the twin's talents, and even while his mum's cooking was the rival of restaurants, that alone was not enough to compensate for that.
Another goal made him jump up again, and shout with glee. He quickly glanced at Padma, but she didn't show any sign of annoyance, even though she had almost slid off her chair. That had to mean something, right?
Ron still had not gotten any closer to unravel the mystery of witches in general, and one Ravenclaw witch in particular by the time the Durmstrang seeker had caught the snitch, deciding the match. At least they had a better point spread than Beauxbatons. If only Cedric had not been so far away when the snitch had appeared… though Harry might have made the catch anyway. Even if Hermione would have torn strips off him afterwards - she had a weird view of what risks were acceptable in Quidditch.
*****
Luna was distracting, Hermione found. And not just because instead of sitting on a chair, the blonde was sitting on her desk, with her legs dangling right next to Hermione, shoes hanging from one toe each. Nor was she distracting because she was craning her neck to peer at the book Hermione was currently reading, and her long hair was almost, but never quite, brushing over the dictaquill that was taking down the notes the Gryffindor witch was taking. Her comments were even helpful - apparently, the Ravenclaw had picked up more than a bit from her late mother's work. But she was, well, one couldn't call it grabby, but she had a far different view of personal space than anyone else Hermione knew, outside 6th year students at the start of their first term. And that wasn't an association she needed to make.
"Are you sure this is safe? If the spell's not anchored enough, it'll push the caster off the broom. Or he goes splat."
"It's anchored to the caster. I thought about anchoring it to the broom, but in a crash, that would be dangerous to the rider; he'd slam into the barrier." No need to say who would be suffering such a fate. Both witches knew this was a spell for Harry. Even though Hermione hoped some broom racers might pick it up. It would be a feather in her cap - though it was more likely that the rules for broom racing would be changed to ban her spell, and similar ones. Wizard sports were conservative. They only had changed to an artificial snitch when they had started to run out of the birds because they were going extinct. Quidditch maniacs! But until then, her spell was not against any rules.
"Ah." Luna steadied herself with a hand on Hermione's shoulder while she twisted her body to look at the notes sideways. "And will he fly well with only one hand?"
Hermione winced. "That's the thing I still need to work on. If one needs to sustain the spell with one's wand, it won't be of much use since you need both hands to fly competitively. It could still be useful on straight parts of a course, but they would need to be quite long to offset the time lost drawing and later storing the wand."
"Chasers often fly one-handed while carrying the quaffle. Seekers too, while grasping for the snitch." Almost absent-mindedly, Luna picked up a strand of Hermione's hair that had escaped her hairstyling charm. The older witch was tempted to slap her hand away, but told herself that Luna was just being Luna.
"I know, but broom racers do not. I wish I could do an enchantment, but that's not allowed. I thought about transfiguring water into a transparent shield, but that would be too heavy for a race."
Luna patted her shoulder in a comforting, if again quite touchy-feely gesture. "You'll manage, Hermione. Just be very careful. You're too cute to risk yourself by taking hasty steps."
"Thanks…" Hermione trailed off, unsure how to react, when the Ravenclaw ruffled her hair again, and then jumped off the desk and skipped towards the exit of the library. Sighing, she fixed her hair, again, and tried to concentrate on her work, again.
*****
Draco was bored. No, not bored, restless. The Slytherin common room was filled with students discussing the recent Beauxbatons-Durmstrang match. Durmstrang had won, of course - a team that had defeated Hogwarts would not be beaten by the French. And yet his so-called peers were rehashing the match as if there was anything to be gained by it. Hogwarts had lost because of an inept seeker. If he had been flying, his school had won. But they had made their bed when they had picked Diggory over him, now they could sleep in it. There was a quip in that, he thought.
Sighing, he faked paying attention to his girlfriend, who was supportive as usual. As she should be. And yet even her fawning did little to soothe him. At first, the knowledge that he was no mere student anymore, that he had been blooded, had fought for the sacred cause, had helped him tolerate the filth in Hogwarts, the insults from the rabble beneath him. But the longer he had to endure this, the more he felt the urge to cross wands in battle, not mere duels. To fight, to kill. To feel that rush again, to see his enemies cry out in pain, to see them beg, to see them die…
His father had told him to wear a mask at school, to play the rule-abiding student, until he was called upon again, and yet Draco felt he could do so much for the cause here. Those students were sheep, not veterans such as him, ripe for some culling. He was a Slytherin. He was cunning. He could do something without anyone knowing who had done it.
But his father had told him not to do anything without his say. And his figurative mask here did not offer him the freedom to act as he wished, unlike the real mask he had left at home. Sighing, he summoned another butterbeer. The things one had to endure for the cause...
*****
The final match of the Quidditch competition saw Hogwarts facing Durmstrang again. As Harry had expected, to be honest - Beauxbatons simply was not that good at Quidditch. Hopefully, that wouldn't mean Fleur was as good at broom racing as she claimed to be. He didn't think the veela had been boasting too much though. Well, she would not be facing just him, but his best friend as well. He glanced over to the witch in question, sitting on his left side, and frowned. His retainer was scribbling notes down still. Spellcrafting, he'd bet his broom on it. She was overdoing it again, stressing, wearing herself out, all for him. And he couldn't do anything about it, she had every right to it, with her at stake. Even though he'd only lose the gold to ransom her back. Luna, sitting on Hermione's other side, wasn't helping there - the blonde witch was craning her head so much to read whatever Hermione was writing, Harry expected her to fall over and into Hermione's lap any minute.
A poke from Susan Bones, sitting on his right side, brought him back to the game. The teams were making their entrance. He mouthed 'thanks' to the redheaded witch while the crowd roared and applauded in response to the Hogwarts team flying a quick lap around the arena. Harry cheered as well, even though he still felt he should be flying with them up there, not watching down here. He was the best seeker in the school. He knew it, and everyone else but maybe Malfoy knew it.
Sighing, he pushed back his envy. At least Viktor was not flying either. It would have really galled him to miss out on facing the probably best seeker in Europe. And the game was on! Gryffindor managed to get the quaffle, and the chasers flew in a V-formation. Harry glanced at Cedric, who was already flying laps around the arena, high above the goal rings. Just what seekers should be doing, according to standard doctrine. Harry frowned. He'd be diving at the Durmstrang chasers in his place, and disrupting their formation so Hogwarts could score. Cedric could do the same, Harry knew that - he had trained him, after all. But the Hufflepuff simply didn't want to. Harry didn't know why - it was neither unfair nor foolhardy, no matter what Cedric claimed. Anyone else he had asked from the team had agreed, as had Ron. Hermione hadn't of course, but she didn't count when it came to Quidditch.
"What's Cedric doing?" Susan's question confused him a bit. Shouldn't she know that? nevertheless, he explained it.
"The other seeker is shadowing him, and he'd have the advantage in a dive, so Cedric went lower to negate that. Now the other seeker can either follow him, but lose his advantage, or stay up high, and gain a slight advantage in spotting the snitch." He saw Susan smile, and added. "It's a bit riskier as a tactic that I would have expected Cedric to try. He's usually far more cautious."
That drew a giggle from Susan, and a snort from Hermione, She couldn't voice whatever sarcastic comment just had to have gone through her mind though, not in public. Small mercies, Harry thought, something he'd never mention to her, of course.
The game quickly settled - if that was the right word for it - into a fierce, almost brutal back and forth between the chasers, with the beaters nailing a few on either side, but not hard enough to take anyone struck out of the game, fortunately. Harry studied the maneuvers. He would have to pull some similar moves in the air task, there would certainly be bludgers flying around as well, but no beaters to keep them away. On the other, he was allowed to use his wand. The thought of blowing up a bludger or two was very satisfying after what he had suffered through in his matches.
He hoped Hermione would finish her spell soon, so he could train with it. If she took too long he wouldn't be able to get the most out of it, and all her work would have been for nothing. Glancing at her, he saw she was studying the chasers too, and taking notes. If only she showed so much interest when it was just Quidditch!
Again Susan distracted him from his thoughts with a brief touch from her hand to his knee and a question. "Harry, have you spotted the snitch yet?"
"No, I haven't yet. So, Cedric hasn't had a chance to miss it so far." He grinned, to take the sting out of his jibe - Hufflepuffs took House solidarity seriously. Susan still stuck her tongue out at him, but she was laughing. Good.
The chasers of both teams were scoring quite evenly, with a slight advantage for Hogwarts. Angelina was using Harry's Firebolt for the occasion, so that was not a real surprise. Still, the advantage was so slight, and the lead building up so slowly, Harry thought, the seekers would have to miss catching the snitch for hours for that to decide the match. It would be coming down to the seekers, as usual. Hermione would take that as more 'proof' that Quidditch needed rules changes, but she was no seeker, she'd not understand! She was barely pretending to watch the game by now, instead she was talking to Luna. About the spell she was working on, Harry thought. Hoped.
Then his attention was caught by a small golden glint across the arena - the snitch was circling around a side stand. Harry hated it when he spotted the snitch before anyone else, but wasn't playing. It was annoying, having to wait for the others to catch on. He did try not to look too obviously at the ball - he'd not put it past some of the players to keep an eye out for him, and take their clues from that. But it was still annoying. He wanted to catch the snitch, not watch it!
A hand patting his thigh distracted him. His left thigh. Hermione. He didn't know how she had noticed his state, focused on her work, but he appreciated the gesture. Before he could thank her though, even if it was just with a glance, the announcer started shouting and the crowd went wild.
"Diggory's cutting across the field, has he spotted the snitch? He has spotted the snitch! And Ivanov is diving, he has caught on! Who will reach the snitch first? Diggory's rolling to avoid a bludger, losing some speed, but it still looks like… no, the snitch darted away in the last second! Diggory's giving chase, and so is Ivanov, who almost plowed into the ground! It's a neck to neck race!"
No one was paying any attention to the chaser's anymore, or the other players. Harry saw Cedric roll again, bumping the other seeker to the side without being too obvious about it, and made a mental note of the move. That could be useful in the upcoming task. He was standing, like everyone else, even Hermione and Luna, and watched while Cedric battled the other seeker. If only he had taken the Firebolt Harry had offered! The snitch would be turning any second now, Harry knew. But in which direction? Down! And Cedric rolled with his broom again, managing an upside down catch! Harry cheered as loud as every other Hogwarts student. Hogwarts had won! Due to his excitement, he didn't even notice at first that Susan was hugging him, not Hermione.
*****
Hermione was having some trouble focusing on her work. The memory of that scene yesterday, Susan Bones hugging Harry, kept distracting her. She didn't know why. Susan was a safe friend for Harry. Friendly, pretty, loyal - she was not a Hufflepuff for nothing - and while a pureblood, she was in line to becoming head of her family, and therefore very unlikely to ever marry Harry. She also did not seem to be someone who'd try to exploit Harry's fame. Safe to be around. So why did Hermione feel the need to elbow her out of the way and hug Harry herself yesterday, if Harry wasn't in danger?
Sighing, she focused on her notes again. Thanks in part to Luna's help - and she didn't want to think about that blonde witch right now either, thank you very much - she was very close to finishing her spell. She might have even finished it already, if not for the whole school celebrating their victory at Quidditch over Durmstrang last night. Loudly, enthusiastically, and for a long, long time. Harry had dragged her with him, not heeding her protests, citing that she needed a break, and she had spent several hours in the company of crazy Quidditch fans going wild. And in the company of Harry, of course.
Smiling, the muggleborn witch took a look at the book on aerodynamics her parents had sent her, checking the shape she needed again. It should work. It wouldn't last too long as the equations to extend the effect were still beyond her. Well, she could manage them, if only she had more time. Or a calculator.
Looking at the slide and the abacus on the table she sighed again, hunching her shoulders a bit. She longed to work on "hardening" electronics. If she had a calculator here, or a computer, the things she could do… And she was sure she was on the right track, this time. Wards had to be the key. But Harry needed her spell now. It would help him a lot in the tournament, and would add some protection against whatever attempt at sabotage that assassin after him might try in the third task. And, if she was honest with herself, she wanted Harry to not just survive the tournament, but win it. She'd rather not get ransomed back. It would not only set back their, or rather, Harry's finances by a lot, but it would feel far too close to getting traded and sold like property. Like muggleborns were treated, back when that cursed goblet was created.
She leaned back, all pretense of working on her spell gone. To be fair, Wizarding Britain's society had moved past that. Centuries ago, even. But the laws had not kept pace with that development, and precedents only went that far, since they were built on tradition and custom. Either of which could change - for the worse as well.
The young witch straightened her pose. She couldn't depend on tradition and custom. But she could depend on power. Harry's, and, even if she had to use it through him, at least for now, her own. She glared at her notes, as if daring them to defy her for much longer. They'd win this Tournament, and use this opportunity to win more fame, more gold, more power.
*****
"I have to thank you again, Harry. If not for your tutoring and training, Cedric might not have caught the snitch. That last move, that roll… you taught him that, right?" Susan was smiling widely, and leaning forward, towards Harry. He idly noted that she had changed her hairstyling spell somewhat. Her red mane was longer, and a bit … wilder was a good description. Strands were flowing gently in a breeze that seemed to only touch the hair, and nothing else.
"Oh, no. I haven't taught him that, to be honest. I was trying to teach him how to disrupt chaser formations." They were sitting with Luna and Aicha in the Great Hall, at the Hufflepuff table this time. Not for the first time Harry was wondering why there was no common room for the school so one could sit with friends from other Houses. They made do with the house tables, but even with a lot of privacy and other spells, it was not as cozy or convenient as a dedicated common room. Too spacious, too open, and too many doors and entrances a teacher could come in from, and see things best not seen by the staff.
"My Patron." He hadn't seen Hermione approach until she had addressed him.
"My Wand." Another drawback of using the Great Hall: Even with privacy spells, and surrounded by friends, it was still public, and therefore forms had to be adhered to.
"I've finished my project." Hermione was looking tired, but she was beaming with pride. Harry knew that expression well. Resistance was futile, as the Borg would say. He stood up and turned to Susan.
"Susan, I am afraid, but I am being called away." Close to be dragged away, he knew, if they were not in public and maybe a year younger. Hurricane Hermione, Ron had called it once, in their second year.
"Of course. Duty comes first." Susan smiled politely, and nodded while he bowed slightly. Hermione was falling in behind him as he strode out of the hall. His friend cast a privacy spell as they entered a corridor.
"You have finished the spell then."
"Yes! It turned out well - better than I expected, if a bit less than I hoped." Hermione sounded excited. Harry mentally rescheduled his evening. Evenings. He'd not get a free minute until he had learned the spell, he knew that from experience. "The wandwork is a bit complicated, but you'll have no trouble mastering it I'd say. It's sort of derived from a Protego." 'A bit complicated' she said? Oh, yes. Harry's next few evenings were definitely spoken for. On the other hand, he was looking forward to some time spent with Hermione, just the two of them. He had been missing that lately, he suddenly realized.
*****
"No, no. It's 'Ae-ro-ar-ma-gut-tis'. Emphasize the 'ro', Harry." Harry definitely had not been missing this. Hermione was a gifted spellcrafter, a genius, a prodigy at magic, the smartest witch he knew, but she wasn't the kindest teacher. 'Taskmaster from hell', Ron had once called her, behind her back. Harry hadn't disagreed.
"AeROarmaguttis." Harry repeated it a few times until his friend was satisfied.
"Perfect! Now, the wandwork goes like this…" Harry lost her half a dozen swishes or flicks into the demonstration. And that was not even halfway to the finish.
"I thought it was a derivate from a normal shield spell?"
"I had to modify the spell a lot more than I wanted." Hermione looked so defensive, Harry at once felt bad. She had done so much for him, and he criticized her?
"I am sorry, it's just a bit daunting. But I am sure it'll help me a lot." If I ever manage to learn it, and then learn to cast it on a broom, he added in his head.
Beaming, Hermione nodded several times. "Exactly! And you have almost a whole month left to learn it!" Harry realized that his friend was far more exhausted than he had suspected, and probably was running on Pepper-Up potions. Or sheer manic excitement at having finished another spell.
"Hermione, how long did you sleep last night?" The way she looked away was not a good sign. But a familiar sign. He sighed. "You need sleep. We'll continue tomorrow."
"But…"
"Bed. Now."
She caved, and followed him to the Gryffindor dorm, even though she was mumbling protests under her breath. Harry didn't listen. Hermione needed her rest, and as her Patron, it was his duty to provide for her.
*****
The day of the third task was, appropriately, sunny and warm - for the end of March in Scotland. Hermione, sitting at her by now customary place next to the judges, was still grateful for the warming charms on her robe. The arena had been expanded, and filled with floating rings, each of them just about wide enough to let a flyer through with some space to spare. The champions would have to pass through them in a set order. The ring a champion had to fly through next would light up in the colors chosen for him or her - Blue for Fleur, Red for Viktor, Green, no doubt to the delight of the Slytherins, for Harry. Hermione told herself it was also the color of his eyes.
The three champions were currently slowly flying through the course, to familiarize both themselves and the spectators with it. It was, in Hermione's opinion, insane. She might be a bit biased, seeing as she was no fan of Quidditch, but the race had sharp turns aplenty, as well as dives and climbs, even a loop. And a long dive where the champions had to follow a corkscrew pattern. The rings were just wide enough for one flyer, meaning they'd serve as a bottleneck, and Harry would only be able to overtake his competitors between two rings - and even Hermione was able to see that there were not too many parts of the course long enough between two rings to allow that. It was, she realized with a sinking feeling, a bit like the Formula One course in Monaco. Just three laps, not 78 though. She hoped the racing robes the champions were wearing would offer enough protection in the crashes she feared would happen.
And that was just the course. There were the obstacles too. Not only would artificial winds, unpredictable, hinder the flyers, but bludgers would roam the airspace. She could spot half a dozen of them being contained inside a magical barrier, the enchanted iron balls bouncing off the invisible walls as if they were mad with rage and fury. There were thunderbirds circling overhead, magical animals from America who were able to discharge lightning at their foes. And there would be fog too, reducing visibility to dangerously short distances in some parts. Not for the first time Hermione felt a strong desire, almost a primal need, to hurt whoever forced Harry into this tournament. If she ever got her wand pointed at them… And Merlin help Harry should he plan to re-enter that tournament in their 7th year! Even if the rules might let a former champion compete again, this witch would blow up the goblet and then Harry before she would allow that!
*****
Harry gripped the handle of his broom with one hand and recast a sticking charm on his robes with his wand. While Hermione's spell would shield him from bludgers - at least to some degree - it would not protect him from lightning, and if he was knocked off his broom he would lose enough time to be out of the race, unless Fleur and Viktor suffered the same fate. His racing robes felt unfamiliar to him, but at least he was not stripped of protective enchantments. Crashing into a ring would still hurt, at least if the aerodynamic shield ended at the wrong moment.
He hadn't told Hermione so, but the spell was not as effective as she imagined it. It had a rather short duration, and while Harry had learned - after great efforts - to cast it while flying, recasting it would still mean he'd lose speed. And whenever the spell ended, or started, the aerodynamics of him and his broom would change too. That was the idea, of course, but it meant that he had to be very careful with his timing, or he might suddenly find the spell ending in the middle of a slightly dangerous maneuver. And compensating for sudden, drastic changes in how his broom flew and steered were not the thing he wanted to do in tight turns at the speeds he would be flying at. No matter what some of his friends thought when talking about his flying, he was not fond of taking crazy risks - he simply had a stricter definition of what counted as a crazy risk.
Not for the first time he wished he could fly his Firebolt. He simply knew that broom as he knew his own body. Spell or not, he could be sure to handle it perfectly. But the rules were the rules- everyone would be using the same broom, a racing model, a Cleansweep Marathon. Next to him Viktor was sitting astride his broom, eyes on the starting line. The Bulgarian champion was so focused, Harry wasn't sure if he could even hear the crowd's murmuring in his state. Next to Viktor, Fleur was sitting on her broom - side saddle style. The French veela was the picture of careless elegance, a witch out for a pleasant joyride, not a champion about to enter a race. Harry knew the casual, almost lounging manner she displayed was just a ploy to unnerve him, but it was working anyway.
He knew how Viktor flew, had seen him at the World Cup, and sometimes in Quidditch training. More importantly though, Harry was a seeker himself. He knew how seekers flew, and thought. But he knew nothing about racers, such as Fleur. And he knew Hermione's new spell would not give him as big an advantage as her other spell had given him in the second task. He could only hope that whatever help it would provide would be enough.
The tournament official on the broom next to them checked his watch, and raised his wand. A red light shot up.The crowd grew silent as the three champions steered their brooms to the starting line. Even Fleur was now astride her broom.
"Ready." The man's voice carried through the arena thanks to a sonorus spell. Harry leaned forward, wand in hand, ready to cast at once.
"Go!" And the race was on!
"Aeroarmaguttis!" Harry urged his broom forward while his wand went through the motions, then followed up with a sticking charm. He was falling behind a bit, but not too much. His spell finished and a shield, almost invisible, formed around him. No longer was the wind hitting him in the face, tearing at his robes. No longer did he hear the noise from the airflow and the shouts from the crowd of spectators dimmed. And he shot forward!
Grinning, he slid the wand back into his holster with a well-practised flick and gripped his broom's handle with both hands. As he passed Viktor he barely noticed the Bulgarian's surprised expression since he was already counting down in his head. 'One. Two. Three…'
The spell would last thirty-one seconds, more or less, as he and Hermione had found out. He almost caught up to Fleur, but the veela was already passing through the first ring, and Harry had to fly after her. A steep climb followed - almost like the start of an invisible rollercoaster.
'Five. Six. Seven...' With the spell forming a bubble around him, Harry wasn't able to use the slipstream behind Fleur as much as he would like, and so he veered to the side, and tried to overtake her in the climb.
'Nine. Ten. Eleven...' It did not work. The veela started to match his movements, glancing back at him under her shoulders, even flashing him a grin. A seeker wouldn't have been able to do that, they had to keep their eyes on the snitch. Glance back too long, or too often, and you'd end up losing sight of the golden ball. A racer though could, and was used to do so.
'Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen...' Fleur passed through the next ring, still ahead of him. Even worse - their veering back and forth had allowed Viktor to catch up. Fleur was already in the steep dive when Harry shot through the ring. He was grinning though - he had done Wronski feints from higher up than this.
'Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty...' He changed his course just a bit, going down almost vertically, and as fast as he could. He saw the ground rush up at him. Almost.
'Twenty-three. Twenty-Four. Twenty-Five…" He pulled up, as hard as he could. If the ground had been covered in grass he would have had green stains on his boots now. As it was, his shield hit the ground and shattered. A bit too close. But he had overtaken Fleur, even if he was a bit lower than the next ring. Heedless of the still diving veela he steered straight ahead, forcing her to veer off or slow down to avoid a collision. She chose to slow down a bit, and he thought he heard French curses. Something about 'Folie'. No matter - he was first through this ring, and had taken the lead. And probably given Hermione a heart attack.
As soon as he was through that ring, he recast his spell. Again he slowed down a bit - Fleur had almost caught up - but he finished in time to preserve his lead. A series of turns followed, each forced by a well-placed ring. Harry kept his lead, but couldn't gain any distance - the bubble surrounding him was just large enough so he couldn't cut corners as well as Fleur. And Viktor was not falling back much, he had gained some in the dive as well.
'Eightteen. Nineteen. Twenty...' Now for the looping. Harry pulled up, grinning. Ten seconds was plenty enough to complete the loop. Would have been, but for the thunderbirds who dove at him, screeching. He would have cast a Protego, but his Aeroarmaguttis was still going on. Cursing, he turned to the right, then dove, avoiding a lightning strike. Fleur and Viktor, both protected by a protego, shot past him, through the hoop. At least they had caught the attention of the thunderbirds and Harry was able to pass through the ring without getting hit with lightning.
'Thirty, Thirty-one.' His spell faded during another dive. The air hit his face hard. If not for his glasses he would have had a hard time keeping his eyes open, at his current speed. But he managed - and grinned. From his position he spotted half a dozen bludgers flying straight at his two competitors.
He slowed down a bit and recast Aeroarmaguttis. It really needed a better name, but Hermione's proposals had been as awful as usual. That witch simply could not be trusted to name anything. While Fleur was having trouble dodging the bludgers, using her wand to blow two of them up, which caused her to fall back, and Viktor was rolling and twisting to avoid them, Harry came from above both of them, and simply barrelled through, the iron balls bouncing off his shield. He was in the lead again!
'Ten. Eleven. Twelve...' Another long, horizontal stretch, but very close to the ground. A slight mistake, and he'd bounce and shatter his shield again. Harry loved it! He would be able to distance the other champions here! Then fog rose from the ground, and visibility shrunk. For a moment he was tempted to simply fly straight on, at the ring, but caution won out - a small mistake, a gust of wind pushing him a bit to the side, and he'd smash into the ring instead of passing through.
By the time he rose up from the fog, Fleur and behind her Viktor had caught up some, and his spell had ended again. Another climb followed. He started to recast his spell, but was interrupted by a bludger that came at him from the sun. If not for his quick reflexive dodge the iron ball would have smashed into him or his broom. Even so it passed so close he could feel the air flow change. When the thing started to turn around he shot a reducto at it, blowing it up.
That had allowed Fleur to overtake him again though, and he was jockeying with Viktor for the position behind the French witch. Without the help of his aerodynamic shield, the Bulgarian's greater mass easily won him that contest, and Harry passed through the ring in last place.
The corkscrew dive followed. He wouldn't have a chance to overtake anyone in there, Harry knew, and so he simply flew after the other champions. Then he saw them getting battered by sudden gusts of wind, almost driven off course, and he cursed - if he had recast his shield, he would have been able to exploit that opportunity. As it was, it was all he could do to not get pushed off course himself, or driven into a ring - or, at the end, the ground. He had to constantly react to changing winds, compensate for what felt like a randomly moving whirlwind. It was horrible. Crazy. Confusing. Exciting. He was panting when he flew through the last ring, but grinning widely.
When they passed the finishing line for the first time, he was still in last place. And now Fleur and Viktor were wise to his new spell's capabilities. Somewhat, at least. He still cast it, to reduce the distance to them at least. By the time the first climb finished, he was right behind Viktor. And the Bulgarian was not an experienced racer, he couldn't pull the same tricks as Fleur could to prevent Harry from overtaking him. He was as good in a dive though, but this time Harry knew how far he could go. He shot past Viktor, and came up in front of him, shield still holding, right behind Fleur. She managed to keep him in second place in the turns that followed, but only barely, and due to him having to recast his spell again.
'Twenty' They reached the looping again, but the thunderbirds were not present. Instead, the 'ceiling' of the arena, very close from here, seemed to shake, and he spotted what looked like owls impacting on it, some of them exploding, others dropping off packages that released liquids or gases. It did not seem to pass through the arena's border, so he ignored it.
'Thirty-one'. He had to recast his shield after the looping. No bludgers around this time, though, and he was able to distance Viktor while sticking close to Fleur, until they entered the fog again. This time Harry trusted in the shield, and simply flew by instinct, passing the veela with barely enough space to avoid hitting her, causing her to curse again. Then it was straight to the next ring, or what he felt was straight. He almost didn't see the ring in time to correct his course, and shattered his shield when he hit the hoop off-center, sending him spiraling out of the ideal route. He managed to regain control of his broom in time to keep the lead up to the corkscrew part.
This time he was ready, and with the shield on he managed to pass through the storm, as he dubbed it, without too much of a problem. Only to run into a pack of bludgers right when his spell went out. He did a barrel roll, avoiding most of them with as much luck as skill, but the last clipped his side and would have thrown him off the broom if not for his sticking charm. He heard a sickening crack, then the pain hit him, and he screamed.
Harry reached the finishing line in first place, but lost that when he had to numb his side. Fleur shot past him, but he managed to block Viktor from passing him while he recast his shield, then started the last lap. Fleur kept him at bay until the dive, and this time she did not veer off when he pulled up from his dive - she was flying straight at him. For a second Harry was tempted to fly on, let her crash into his shield, then he veered off, letting the veela pass. "You are crazy!" he shouted, following her.
The turns didn't allow him an opportunity to overtake the veela. But the looping, maybe… no, the thunderbirds were back. He had his wand in hand - he hadn't stashed it since the first lap, he realized - then shook his head and pressed on. He wouldn't win this race by playing it safe. Neither was Fleur, it seemed. Both of them wove around the thunderbirds, lighting strikes passing close to either of them. Fleur kept her lead, but Harry was so close now, his shield was almost bumping into her broom.
They dove towards the next ring, side by side. Harry's shield went out. He couldn't recast it in the dive, not without losing all speed. He did it anyway, Fleur was too skilled to let him overtake her without its help, and he needed it in the fog. His side being numbed affected his ability to shift his weight on the broom, and with it his flying, but the spell allowed him to compensate, some at least. This time Fleur too was going full-speed into the fog, and he was able to follow her, staying in her slipstream. He needed a chance to overtake her though, and soon.
The dive that followed the fogged stretch did provide that - more bludgers came at them, and Fleur was forced to dodge while he barreled through again, bouncing another off his shield. He kept her at a distance until the corkscrew dive, but it was close - she was gaining on him, hampered by his cracked or broken ribs. But he had his shield, and it would allow him to pass through the storm zone with much greater ease.
He lost his spell in the middle of the corkscrew turns, unexpectedly - it should have lasted longer than that - and cried in pain when the wind pushed his elbow into his side a few times. He couldn't re-numb it either, he needed his hands to keep control of his broom. Gritting his teeth, he finished the corkscrew turns behind Fleur. He recast the shield, but knew it would not be enough to catch up to the veela until the finishing line. He still tried his best though. To no avail.
He managed to beat Viktor, at least, he told himself while Fleur flew a victory lap around the arena. That was something. When the healers on standby pulled him off the broom and started treating his side, and he saw his best friend rushing towards him, concern - and were those tears? - obvious on her face - he could only hope it was enough.
Chapter 9: Curses
While the audience roared and applauded at his exit, Harry was moved to the healer's area and checked by a wizard. His cuts, bruises and broken ribs were quickly fixed. He didn't bother fixing his transfigured robe. Instead he discarded it, vanished it, and slipped his school robes on. The familiar feeling of the numerous enchantments wrapping around him, adjusting the temperature, the robe lifting a bit to float above his skin, and the knowledge that he was now much better protected again, was a great relief. As much as spotting Hermione safe and sound near the judges was. Remembering the illusion of her struggling, drowning, still made him shudder.
When he returned to the spot he would be waiting for the others to arrive on, Viktor had yet to reach the centre. The Bulgarian champion had been forced to revert his transfiguration to deal with what looked like a small plesiosaurus, and judging by the blood leaking from his wounds, he'd be attracting sharks soon. Fleur was decimating grindylows with area-effect spells above a kelp field. Harry checked his watch - he had a mechanical wristwatch, but Sirius had told him repeatedly that he'd get a 'real watch' for his 17th birthday, like every wizard - and was pleased to find that even if Viktor managed to reach the clam right away and get the golden pearl, he'd still get less points than Harry.
Five minutes and an encounter with a familiar-looking school of bloodthirsty sharks later, Viktor was facing the marid. They talked for several minutes, with the genie's smile widening and Viktor scowling, but Harry didn't hear what they were talking about. Finally, the genie nodded and with a flash, the golden pearl appeared in her hand. She offered it to Viktor, who snatched it up and dove to the exit, followed by what looked like booming laughter. The star seeker arrived next to Harry, grinning wrily at his dry and robed appearance. Both exchanged brief nods before the Bulgarian was moved to the healers. Fleur arrived a few minutes later, and skipped the marid, going straight for the exit. Judging by the snarl on the genie's face, that seemed to have been a wise decision.
Finally the points were awarded. Harry got the full 50 points for finishing first, bringing him to 100 total. Viktor got 35 for finishing a quarter of an hour after Harry, but 10 bonus points for the golden pearl, which meant he tied Harry overall. Fleur received 30 points, which meant she was now 10 points behind the two wizards. The veela didn't seem to be disappointed. Not that Harry was paying that much attention to his fellow champions' reactions, he was busy collecting his retainer.
*****
Barty Crouch Junior, polyjuiced to look like a disreputable wizard currently sleeping in his room after he had overindulged on fire whiskey last night, folded the Daily Prophet and dropped it on the table in the Leaky Cauldron together with a few sickles. His parasites had been discovered. He had expected that - Hagrid was one of the foremost experts for magical creatures in Britain after all. But not only had it kept his master's enemies busy and focused on the tournament, he had also gained valuable information about how the aurors and Dumbledore handled his sabotage attempts. They were clever, but were they clever enough to anticipate his plans? He'd find out.
*****
Hermione was in hell. Quidditch hell, to be precise. February was the month of the Triwizard Tournament's Quidditch competition, and Hogwarts seemed to have gone mad. Or madder than the school normally got about that infernal game when matches took place. Hermione had managed to ignore the tryouts and training sessions while helping Harry prepare for the tournament tasks and getting ready for the dueling competition, but that was not possible now. Harry, who really should be preparing for the next task, was training the seeker of the Hogwarts team. He claimed it was training for the third task, which would be a broom race of sorts, but Hermione knew better. Ron of course was spending more time on watching the trainings, watching the training sessions of the other teams, and discussing Quidditch with whoever would listen - which were far too many in her opinion - than on studying.
One match would be held each Saturday, pitting all the teams of the three schools against each other, and the fourth match, on the 26th, would pit the two best teams against each other. The two best teams out of three seemed a bit less than impressive to Hermione, but she knew better than to voice that opinion. Or to criticize Quidditch at all, even though the rules made no sense! They may have made sense when the game was created, but with the modern high-performance brooms, the rules should really be adjusted. Seeker bias was fact, not an invention by jealous chasers!
At least Harry had invited Fleur and Viktor again this week. Hopefully they'd not talk about Quidditch, or not too much. A slim hope, she knew, with Ron and Harry present, even though Viktor seemed to prefer not to talk about Quidditch. Maybe they'd focus more on the second task. It was certainly, in her admittedly biased opinion, noteworthy how Harry had won against the two older champions. The Daily Prophet too had been full of praise for Harry's performance, with many pictures of him shooting through the water, but also of his fights. Hermione had winced each time she had seen the first page, which featured Harry getting hit into a coral reef and sliding along it, trailing blood. Harry, the stupid boy, had wanted to get it framed.
She was alone in the training room, since both Ron and Harry were still at the Quidditch practise. The young witch hoped they'd remember the event - she had reminded them twice, each, today. Sighing, she sat down on the couch. She would rather be at the pitch herself, near her friends, even if Harry would be off on his broom, but somebody had to prepare the room, and the refreshments. She touched her torc and wished it would grow warm soon.
*****
Harry enjoyed the evening with his fellow champions. And with Hermione. He hadn't seen her outside classes as much as usual this week, due to Quidditch, he realized. That might have explained the slight surprise, quickly covered by a wide smile, she had shown when he had arrived earlier than expected, dragging Ron with him. He suddenly felt more than a bit guilty, and covered it up with taking a long sip from his drink. Hermione had done so much for him, her spell had allowed him to win the second task, and he was all but ignoring her in favor of Quidditch as a reward?
"That was a surprising tactic in the second task, Harry. I didn't recognize the spells you were using. Where did you find them?" Viktor leaned a bit forward, curiosity evident on his face.
"It was all Hermione's idea. She created the spells and taught them to me." Harry gestured to the witch sitting at his side, who blushed at the appraising looks she got from the two champions.
"I only modified the spells. The bubble-head charm and aguamenti. And I knew the aguamenti could be modified to serve as a propulsion since I saw a classmate of us knock a teacher over with it by mistake." Hermione's embarrassment at the attention had vanished with the start of her explanation - her lecture, Ron would call it. Harry loved to see her like this, showing just how smart she was. She usually hid her talents too much, in his opinion. He could understand that - she already got some grief for being the best student of her year, mostly from Slytherins and Ravenclaws - but he didn't have to like it. She deserved better.
"But 'ow did the bubble-'ead charm make 'arry swim faster?" Fleur sounded a bit confused, even after Hermione's had detailed her work. Harry refilled his glass while Hermione started to explain of the Supercavitation effect. He already had heard it after all, and he was sure the two other champions and Ron would not get it. Wizards rarely understood science. Hermione said that was because magic not only didn't rely on it, but often disproved it. Or, as the witch was fond to say, 'seemed to disprove science'. She was determined to unite scientific and magical theory, one day. Harry was sure that if anyone could manage it, it was his best friend.
As expected neither Fleur nor Viktor had understood Hermione's explanation. Ron, Harry noticed, had not even listened, but seemed amused by the two champions' reaction. Taking pity on them, Harry changed the topic - somewhat. "I noticed you ignored the marid as I had done, Fleur, while Viktor engaged it. Why did you skip it?"
"The marid would 'ave attacked me; I would never 'ave gotten an acceptable deal out of 'er. 'er kind 'ates my kind." The veela smiled at her two rivals. "The water is not my element. I did better than I expected, and the next task will take place in the air, where I am at 'ome."
Harry narrowed his eyes at her implied confidence of victory in the next task. "We shall see that. Viktor is a star seeker, after all, and I am a fair flyer, if I do say so myself."
"Youngest seeker in a century!" Ron mentioned with a grin.
"Oh, yes. But you are quidditch players. This will be a race." The veela's smile widened. Harry connected the dots.
"And you are a broom racer."
"I am not looking to race professionally, but I am a fair racer, if I do say so myself." If Fleur's grin was any wider it would have split her face. Harry was about to answer with a rather feeble promise to do his best to prove her wrong when he noticed Hermione's expression. His retainer was frowning, and then trying to hide a smirk. He knew she had thought of something. "We shall see", he answered, with what he hoped was a confident smile that did not give away anything. Viktor just grumbled something about even odds.
"You are very lucky to 'ave 'ermione, 'arry." Apparently, Fleur had noticed Hermione's reaction as well.
"Yes, I am." Harry slipped his arm around the witch in question, and pulled her closer, ignoring her surprised sound at his possessive gesture. "She's the brightest witch of her generation and my best friend."
*****
"I should be the seeker." Pansy had stopped counting how often Draco had said that sentence in a voice that was growing more petulant with each repetition. "Not Diggory. Everyone knows seekers have to be lithe, like me, not a brute like him." Pansy had to struggle to keep her face from showing her reaction. No one sane would call one of the most handsome wizards at Hogwarts a 'brute'. Cedric was a witch's dream - muscular, but not overly so, with a charming smile that rivaled Lockhart's, perfect manners and skilled with a wand. He had gone the farthest of all Hogwarts students in the dueling competition, after all. She longed to hex Draco for his insult, but forced herself to simply smile, pat his arm, and make an agreeing sound. She did not even mention that Viktor Krum, thought by many to be the best seeker of those currently active, was anything but lithe.
They were in the arena, reshaped to form a Quidditch pitch that conformed to international regulations. The enchantments on the arena allowed them, for the first time for many enthusiasts who had not been able to attend the World Cup, to really follow the action on the pitch. It was a unique experience, and Pansy wouldn't miss it for the world. She could not think of any decent wizard or witch who would want to miss this - according to rumor a 7th year Gryffindor had broken down crying when Snape had given him detention for this afternoon, but Dumbledore had overruled the detention. Even Granger was present, and everyone knew the mudblood hated Quidditch and wouldn't be found within a mile around the pitch if her Patron was not playing. Or, as was the case today, watching. Pansy had to smile at the thought of Granger forced to attend, unable to even read a book, as she was usually doing when she watched Potter train, to avoid a faux-pas. And the mudblood couldn't cozy up to Potter either, since they were in public. She must be squirming in her seat, hoping for a quick catch!
Hogwarts was playing Beauxbatons today, in the opening match of the Quidditch competition. Although it was more like Gryffindor's Quidditch team with a Hufflepuff seeker and a Slytherin keeper were meeting Beauxbatons' finest today. Pansy had expected more Slytherins to protest the line up, but apart from Draco and half the team most of the Quidditch enthusiasts and players had agreed that it was smarter to send players who were used to playing together. Apart from the seeker and keeper, of course. Miles Bletchley was the keeper of the Slytherin team, and the best keeper in Hogwarts after Wood had graduated - he certainly had had enough practise against the Gryffindor chasers. Cedric was simply too good to let the red headed little girl that had replaced Potter for this year fly. It wasn't as if the seeker was much of a team player to begin with: only a few seekers were as crazy as Potter and tried to disrupt the opponent's formations and plays.
Draco was still complaining. Briefly rolling her eyes, Pansy distracted him with a quick rules question. She knew the answer already, of course, but Draco loved it when he could show off 'superior' knowledge and experience. While he was explaining, and telling her an anecdote from one of his matches, she watched the Hogwarts chasers score again. It felt weird to cheer for the "Flying Foxes", but it was Hogwarts against their rival school from France. And Hogwarts was doing well - they were in the lead by a comfortable margin of 120 to 60. Not that that would matter much if the French seeker caught the snitch first.
"And Diggory has spotted the snitch! There he dives!" The announcer - not Jordan, every teacher had vetoed that idea of Dumbledore's, or so rumor claimed - drew everyone's attention to Cedric, who was flying almost straight down. For a moment Pansy's breath caught in her throat. If he couldn't pull up in time… that was how players got hurt or even died on the pitch. From the side the French seeker was closing in, but unless the snitch moved far faster than before, he'd not reach it before Cedric. There! The handsome Hufflepuff - and hadn't that a ring to it? - pulled up, almost as close to the ground as Potter at his craziest, fist held high. "And Diggory caught the snitch! He caught the snitch! Hogwarts wins 270 to 60!" The announcer's voice almost broke with excitement.
Draco was trying to say something, probably claiming he'd have found the snitch quicker, had he flown, but the crowd's roar was drowning his words out. Pansy didn't even notice, she was shouting as loud as any Hufflepuff student just to make sure she could not hear what he was saying.
*****
Harry was proud the Hogwarts Quidditch team had made such a good showing, even though Diggory had not wanted to use Harry's tactics. He didn't know why the wizard refused - with his greater mass, he'd have had an easier time at disrupting chaser formations. Harry had even offered to let the Hufflepuff use his Firebolt, but that too had been refused as 'not fair'. As if Durmstrang would not use Viktor's broom, if it was not a tournament stake!
Hermione had buried herself in research again, first studying the tournament and broom race rules, to check if her idea was even legal, then starting spellcrafting. He worried about the witch, she was overdoing it again. At least it meant he did not have to feel guilty for training with the Quidditch team since she would be busy anyway.
He spotted Susan in the stands. The witch had been watching him practise often lately, claiming she was showing that there were no hard feelings to counteract what rumors were still making the rounds. It made sense to Harry. After what the Hufflepuffs had done to Patil and Brown, he'd hate to have anyone target him for an imagined insult. Or, much worse, Hermione.
He dove towards the ground as if he was pulling a Wronski Feint, then pulled up in time to come to a stop in front of the girl, who had shrieked in surprise. Easily startled, he thought.
"Hi Susan!"
"H-hi Harry. That was some move you pulled." She looked still a bit shaken.
"Just a normal dive. I can go far faster and closer to the ground." He made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. "I have to get used to this broom anyway, I can't use my Firebolt in the next task."
"Why not?" Susan pouted.
"Everyone's using the same broom. Makes the field even."
"I guess that's true." The witch reached over to him and brushed some grass from his sleeve. Probably from the roll he had practised earlier, when he had been flying low to the ground.
"Hermione was impressed by the spells on Patil and Brown, by the way. She said it was a very exotic and interesting selection." Harry grinned at the thought.
"Really? … I mean, I am sure the unknown wizards and witches who cast those hexes would be glad to hear that." Susan had frowned a bit at first, Harry noticed. Was she feeling a bit guilty at the 'prank', or had she hoped the spells would last longer?
"Yes. She probably would have reverse-engineered a number of them, if she was not busy preparing for the next task."
"Reverse-what?"
"Recreated." He reminded himself to choose his words more carefully. Muggle technical terms tended to not just go over the head of wizards, but wouldn't fit his carefully crafted public image, as Hermione had said. Even though she was where he got those terms from for the most part.
"Ah. That's why she is not here, supporting you?"
"Yes." Harry felt a bit of an annoyance at the suggestion Hermione would not support him, but let it go. They chatted a bit more, or gossiped, as some would say. Harry enjoyed the break, but also felt a bit guilty when he took to air again, though he didn't know why.
*****
Ron was jumping up from his seat, whooping. That had been a beautiful combination by the Gryffindor chasers! He sat back down again, and turned to Padma. "Did you see that? A triple pass with a corkscrew shot at the end! The keeper stood no chance!"
"Ah, yes." Padma smiled and nodded, but she looked slightly annoyed. Not as much as Hermione usually did though. He glanced over at Harry and Hermione, which were sitting next to him. His best female friend was smiling, but slightly forced. Harry was clueless, as usual.
"If they keep that up, then it won't matter who catches the snitch." He said. He understood that Padma was not as interested in Quidditch as he was - the Ravenclaws rarely had a good enough team to matter. They weren't quite the Chudley Cannons of Hogwarts, but came close. And he felt that they were the least enthusiastic of the Houses, even if Hermione was still calling them fanatical. She didn't see the nuances he saw.
Padma leaned against him again, and he realized he had shoved her by accident when he had jumped up. "I am sorry for shoving you." He apologized, it a bit late.
"It was nothing. I know you're passionate about Quidditch", the Indian witch answered him with a smile. Ron was wondering, again, if she fancied him. He had asked for Harry's opinion on the matter, but his friend had had no idea either. Ron had not wanted to ask Hermione, but Harry had brought the question up before he could stop him. The witch had not been able to help either - she certainly understood his concern that this was just a way for Padma to one-up her sister, but she hadn't been able to tell either way. Parvati was claiming that, but Hermione had said the Gryffindor twin would be doing that even if Padma fancied Ron. And asking Luna about her fellow Ravenclaw was asking for trouble. The blonde witch was likely to loudly ask in the Great Hall if Padma fancied Ron or was just trying to needle her twin.
Ron still remembered that dinner at the Burrow when Luna had asked about his mum's brothers, which had led to the Lovegoods not being invited again for more than half a year, even though his family was not exactly overflowing with opportunities to exchange invitations. Ron almost sighed, thinking about the Weasleys' finances and social status. Most of his dad's colleagues were richer and therefore expected better, meaning more expensive, entertainment at a dinner party than the Weasleys could provide, despite the twin's talents, and even while his mum's cooking was the rival of restaurants, that alone was not enough to compensate for that.
Another goal made him jump up again, and shout with glee. He quickly glanced at Padma, but she didn't show any sign of annoyance, even though she had almost slid off her chair. That had to mean something, right?
Ron still had not gotten any closer to unravel the mystery of witches in general, and one Ravenclaw witch in particular by the time the Durmstrang seeker had caught the snitch, deciding the match. At least they had a better point spread than Beauxbatons. If only Cedric had not been so far away when the snitch had appeared… though Harry might have made the catch anyway. Even if Hermione would have torn strips off him afterwards - she had a weird view of what risks were acceptable in Quidditch.
*****
Luna was distracting, Hermione found. And not just because instead of sitting on a chair, the blonde was sitting on her desk, with her legs dangling right next to Hermione, shoes hanging from one toe each. Nor was she distracting because she was craning her neck to peer at the book Hermione was currently reading, and her long hair was almost, but never quite, brushing over the dictaquill that was taking down the notes the Gryffindor witch was taking. Her comments were even helpful - apparently, the Ravenclaw had picked up more than a bit from her late mother's work. But she was, well, one couldn't call it grabby, but she had a far different view of personal space than anyone else Hermione knew, outside 6th year students at the start of their first term. And that wasn't an association she needed to make.
"Are you sure this is safe? If the spell's not anchored enough, it'll push the caster off the broom. Or he goes splat."
"It's anchored to the caster. I thought about anchoring it to the broom, but in a crash, that would be dangerous to the rider; he'd slam into the barrier." No need to say who would be suffering such a fate. Both witches knew this was a spell for Harry. Even though Hermione hoped some broom racers might pick it up. It would be a feather in her cap - though it was more likely that the rules for broom racing would be changed to ban her spell, and similar ones. Wizard sports were conservative. They only had changed to an artificial snitch when they had started to run out of the birds because they were going extinct. Quidditch maniacs! But until then, her spell was not against any rules.
"Ah." Luna steadied herself with a hand on Hermione's shoulder while she twisted her body to look at the notes sideways. "And will he fly well with only one hand?"
Hermione winced. "That's the thing I still need to work on. If one needs to sustain the spell with one's wand, it won't be of much use since you need both hands to fly competitively. It could still be useful on straight parts of a course, but they would need to be quite long to offset the time lost drawing and later storing the wand."
"Chasers often fly one-handed while carrying the quaffle. Seekers too, while grasping for the snitch." Almost absent-mindedly, Luna picked up a strand of Hermione's hair that had escaped her hairstyling charm. The older witch was tempted to slap her hand away, but told herself that Luna was just being Luna.
"I know, but broom racers do not. I wish I could do an enchantment, but that's not allowed. I thought about transfiguring water into a transparent shield, but that would be too heavy for a race."
Luna patted her shoulder in a comforting, if again quite touchy-feely gesture. "You'll manage, Hermione. Just be very careful. You're too cute to risk yourself by taking hasty steps."
"Thanks…" Hermione trailed off, unsure how to react, when the Ravenclaw ruffled her hair again, and then jumped off the desk and skipped towards the exit of the library. Sighing, she fixed her hair, again, and tried to concentrate on her work, again.
*****
Draco was bored. No, not bored, restless. The Slytherin common room was filled with students discussing the recent Beauxbatons-Durmstrang match. Durmstrang had won, of course - a team that had defeated Hogwarts would not be beaten by the French. And yet his so-called peers were rehashing the match as if there was anything to be gained by it. Hogwarts had lost because of an inept seeker. If he had been flying, his school had won. But they had made their bed when they had picked Diggory over him, now they could sleep in it. There was a quip in that, he thought.
Sighing, he faked paying attention to his girlfriend, who was supportive as usual. As she should be. And yet even her fawning did little to soothe him. At first, the knowledge that he was no mere student anymore, that he had been blooded, had fought for the sacred cause, had helped him tolerate the filth in Hogwarts, the insults from the rabble beneath him. But the longer he had to endure this, the more he felt the urge to cross wands in battle, not mere duels. To fight, to kill. To feel that rush again, to see his enemies cry out in pain, to see them beg, to see them die…
His father had told him to wear a mask at school, to play the rule-abiding student, until he was called upon again, and yet Draco felt he could do so much for the cause here. Those students were sheep, not veterans such as him, ripe for some culling. He was a Slytherin. He was cunning. He could do something without anyone knowing who had done it.
But his father had told him not to do anything without his say. And his figurative mask here did not offer him the freedom to act as he wished, unlike the real mask he had left at home. Sighing, he summoned another butterbeer. The things one had to endure for the cause...
*****
The final match of the Quidditch competition saw Hogwarts facing Durmstrang again. As Harry had expected, to be honest - Beauxbatons simply was not that good at Quidditch. Hopefully, that wouldn't mean Fleur was as good at broom racing as she claimed to be. He didn't think the veela had been boasting too much though. Well, she would not be facing just him, but his best friend as well. He glanced over to the witch in question, sitting on his left side, and frowned. His retainer was scribbling notes down still. Spellcrafting, he'd bet his broom on it. She was overdoing it again, stressing, wearing herself out, all for him. And he couldn't do anything about it, she had every right to it, with her at stake. Even though he'd only lose the gold to ransom her back. Luna, sitting on Hermione's other side, wasn't helping there - the blonde witch was craning her head so much to read whatever Hermione was writing, Harry expected her to fall over and into Hermione's lap any minute.
A poke from Susan Bones, sitting on his right side, brought him back to the game. The teams were making their entrance. He mouthed 'thanks' to the redheaded witch while the crowd roared and applauded in response to the Hogwarts team flying a quick lap around the arena. Harry cheered as well, even though he still felt he should be flying with them up there, not watching down here. He was the best seeker in the school. He knew it, and everyone else but maybe Malfoy knew it.
Sighing, he pushed back his envy. At least Viktor was not flying either. It would have really galled him to miss out on facing the probably best seeker in Europe. And the game was on! Gryffindor managed to get the quaffle, and the chasers flew in a V-formation. Harry glanced at Cedric, who was already flying laps around the arena, high above the goal rings. Just what seekers should be doing, according to standard doctrine. Harry frowned. He'd be diving at the Durmstrang chasers in his place, and disrupting their formation so Hogwarts could score. Cedric could do the same, Harry knew that - he had trained him, after all. But the Hufflepuff simply didn't want to. Harry didn't know why - it was neither unfair nor foolhardy, no matter what Cedric claimed. Anyone else he had asked from the team had agreed, as had Ron. Hermione hadn't of course, but she didn't count when it came to Quidditch.
"What's Cedric doing?" Susan's question confused him a bit. Shouldn't she know that? nevertheless, he explained it.
"The other seeker is shadowing him, and he'd have the advantage in a dive, so Cedric went lower to negate that. Now the other seeker can either follow him, but lose his advantage, or stay up high, and gain a slight advantage in spotting the snitch." He saw Susan smile, and added. "It's a bit riskier as a tactic that I would have expected Cedric to try. He's usually far more cautious."
That drew a giggle from Susan, and a snort from Hermione, She couldn't voice whatever sarcastic comment just had to have gone through her mind though, not in public. Small mercies, Harry thought, something he'd never mention to her, of course.
The game quickly settled - if that was the right word for it - into a fierce, almost brutal back and forth between the chasers, with the beaters nailing a few on either side, but not hard enough to take anyone struck out of the game, fortunately. Harry studied the maneuvers. He would have to pull some similar moves in the air task, there would certainly be bludgers flying around as well, but no beaters to keep them away. On the other, he was allowed to use his wand. The thought of blowing up a bludger or two was very satisfying after what he had suffered through in his matches.
He hoped Hermione would finish her spell soon, so he could train with it. If she took too long he wouldn't be able to get the most out of it, and all her work would have been for nothing. Glancing at her, he saw she was studying the chasers too, and taking notes. If only she showed so much interest when it was just Quidditch!
Again Susan distracted him from his thoughts with a brief touch from her hand to his knee and a question. "Harry, have you spotted the snitch yet?"
"No, I haven't yet. So, Cedric hasn't had a chance to miss it so far." He grinned, to take the sting out of his jibe - Hufflepuffs took House solidarity seriously. Susan still stuck her tongue out at him, but she was laughing. Good.
The chasers of both teams were scoring quite evenly, with a slight advantage for Hogwarts. Angelina was using Harry's Firebolt for the occasion, so that was not a real surprise. Still, the advantage was so slight, and the lead building up so slowly, Harry thought, the seekers would have to miss catching the snitch for hours for that to decide the match. It would be coming down to the seekers, as usual. Hermione would take that as more 'proof' that Quidditch needed rules changes, but she was no seeker, she'd not understand! She was barely pretending to watch the game by now, instead she was talking to Luna. About the spell she was working on, Harry thought. Hoped.
Then his attention was caught by a small golden glint across the arena - the snitch was circling around a side stand. Harry hated it when he spotted the snitch before anyone else, but wasn't playing. It was annoying, having to wait for the others to catch on. He did try not to look too obviously at the ball - he'd not put it past some of the players to keep an eye out for him, and take their clues from that. But it was still annoying. He wanted to catch the snitch, not watch it!
A hand patting his thigh distracted him. His left thigh. Hermione. He didn't know how she had noticed his state, focused on her work, but he appreciated the gesture. Before he could thank her though, even if it was just with a glance, the announcer started shouting and the crowd went wild.
"Diggory's cutting across the field, has he spotted the snitch? He has spotted the snitch! And Ivanov is diving, he has caught on! Who will reach the snitch first? Diggory's rolling to avoid a bludger, losing some speed, but it still looks like… no, the snitch darted away in the last second! Diggory's giving chase, and so is Ivanov, who almost plowed into the ground! It's a neck to neck race!"
No one was paying any attention to the chaser's anymore, or the other players. Harry saw Cedric roll again, bumping the other seeker to the side without being too obvious about it, and made a mental note of the move. That could be useful in the upcoming task. He was standing, like everyone else, even Hermione and Luna, and watched while Cedric battled the other seeker. If only he had taken the Firebolt Harry had offered! The snitch would be turning any second now, Harry knew. But in which direction? Down! And Cedric rolled with his broom again, managing an upside down catch! Harry cheered as loud as every other Hogwarts student. Hogwarts had won! Due to his excitement, he didn't even notice at first that Susan was hugging him, not Hermione.
*****
Hermione was having some trouble focusing on her work. The memory of that scene yesterday, Susan Bones hugging Harry, kept distracting her. She didn't know why. Susan was a safe friend for Harry. Friendly, pretty, loyal - she was not a Hufflepuff for nothing - and while a pureblood, she was in line to becoming head of her family, and therefore very unlikely to ever marry Harry. She also did not seem to be someone who'd try to exploit Harry's fame. Safe to be around. So why did Hermione feel the need to elbow her out of the way and hug Harry herself yesterday, if Harry wasn't in danger?
Sighing, she focused on her notes again. Thanks in part to Luna's help - and she didn't want to think about that blonde witch right now either, thank you very much - she was very close to finishing her spell. She might have even finished it already, if not for the whole school celebrating their victory at Quidditch over Durmstrang last night. Loudly, enthusiastically, and for a long, long time. Harry had dragged her with him, not heeding her protests, citing that she needed a break, and she had spent several hours in the company of crazy Quidditch fans going wild. And in the company of Harry, of course.
Smiling, the muggleborn witch took a look at the book on aerodynamics her parents had sent her, checking the shape she needed again. It should work. It wouldn't last too long as the equations to extend the effect were still beyond her. Well, she could manage them, if only she had more time. Or a calculator.
Looking at the slide and the abacus on the table she sighed again, hunching her shoulders a bit. She longed to work on "hardening" electronics. If she had a calculator here, or a computer, the things she could do… And she was sure she was on the right track, this time. Wards had to be the key. But Harry needed her spell now. It would help him a lot in the tournament, and would add some protection against whatever attempt at sabotage that assassin after him might try in the third task. And, if she was honest with herself, she wanted Harry to not just survive the tournament, but win it. She'd rather not get ransomed back. It would not only set back their, or rather, Harry's finances by a lot, but it would feel far too close to getting traded and sold like property. Like muggleborns were treated, back when that cursed goblet was created.
She leaned back, all pretense of working on her spell gone. To be fair, Wizarding Britain's society had moved past that. Centuries ago, even. But the laws had not kept pace with that development, and precedents only went that far, since they were built on tradition and custom. Either of which could change - for the worse as well.
The young witch straightened her pose. She couldn't depend on tradition and custom. But she could depend on power. Harry's, and, even if she had to use it through him, at least for now, her own. She glared at her notes, as if daring them to defy her for much longer. They'd win this Tournament, and use this opportunity to win more fame, more gold, more power.
*****
"I have to thank you again, Harry. If not for your tutoring and training, Cedric might not have caught the snitch. That last move, that roll… you taught him that, right?" Susan was smiling widely, and leaning forward, towards Harry. He idly noted that she had changed her hairstyling spell somewhat. Her red mane was longer, and a bit … wilder was a good description. Strands were flowing gently in a breeze that seemed to only touch the hair, and nothing else.
"Oh, no. I haven't taught him that, to be honest. I was trying to teach him how to disrupt chaser formations." They were sitting with Luna and Aicha in the Great Hall, at the Hufflepuff table this time. Not for the first time Harry was wondering why there was no common room for the school so one could sit with friends from other Houses. They made do with the house tables, but even with a lot of privacy and other spells, it was not as cozy or convenient as a dedicated common room. Too spacious, too open, and too many doors and entrances a teacher could come in from, and see things best not seen by the staff.
"My Patron." He hadn't seen Hermione approach until she had addressed him.
"My Wand." Another drawback of using the Great Hall: Even with privacy spells, and surrounded by friends, it was still public, and therefore forms had to be adhered to.
"I've finished my project." Hermione was looking tired, but she was beaming with pride. Harry knew that expression well. Resistance was futile, as the Borg would say. He stood up and turned to Susan.
"Susan, I am afraid, but I am being called away." Close to be dragged away, he knew, if they were not in public and maybe a year younger. Hurricane Hermione, Ron had called it once, in their second year.
"Of course. Duty comes first." Susan smiled politely, and nodded while he bowed slightly. Hermione was falling in behind him as he strode out of the hall. His friend cast a privacy spell as they entered a corridor.
"You have finished the spell then."
"Yes! It turned out well - better than I expected, if a bit less than I hoped." Hermione sounded excited. Harry mentally rescheduled his evening. Evenings. He'd not get a free minute until he had learned the spell, he knew that from experience. "The wandwork is a bit complicated, but you'll have no trouble mastering it I'd say. It's sort of derived from a Protego." 'A bit complicated' she said? Oh, yes. Harry's next few evenings were definitely spoken for. On the other hand, he was looking forward to some time spent with Hermione, just the two of them. He had been missing that lately, he suddenly realized.
*****
"No, no. It's 'Ae-ro-ar-ma-gut-tis'. Emphasize the 'ro', Harry." Harry definitely had not been missing this. Hermione was a gifted spellcrafter, a genius, a prodigy at magic, the smartest witch he knew, but she wasn't the kindest teacher. 'Taskmaster from hell', Ron had once called her, behind her back. Harry hadn't disagreed.
"AeROarmaguttis." Harry repeated it a few times until his friend was satisfied.
"Perfect! Now, the wandwork goes like this…" Harry lost her half a dozen swishes or flicks into the demonstration. And that was not even halfway to the finish.
"I thought it was a derivate from a normal shield spell?"
"I had to modify the spell a lot more than I wanted." Hermione looked so defensive, Harry at once felt bad. She had done so much for him, and he criticized her?
"I am sorry, it's just a bit daunting. But I am sure it'll help me a lot." If I ever manage to learn it, and then learn to cast it on a broom, he added in his head.
Beaming, Hermione nodded several times. "Exactly! And you have almost a whole month left to learn it!" Harry realized that his friend was far more exhausted than he had suspected, and probably was running on Pepper-Up potions. Or sheer manic excitement at having finished another spell.
"Hermione, how long did you sleep last night?" The way she looked away was not a good sign. But a familiar sign. He sighed. "You need sleep. We'll continue tomorrow."
"But…"
"Bed. Now."
She caved, and followed him to the Gryffindor dorm, even though she was mumbling protests under her breath. Harry didn't listen. Hermione needed her rest, and as her Patron, it was his duty to provide for her.
*****
The day of the third task was, appropriately, sunny and warm - for the end of March in Scotland. Hermione, sitting at her by now customary place next to the judges, was still grateful for the warming charms on her robe. The arena had been expanded, and filled with floating rings, each of them just about wide enough to let a flyer through with some space to spare. The champions would have to pass through them in a set order. The ring a champion had to fly through next would light up in the colors chosen for him or her - Blue for Fleur, Red for Viktor, Green, no doubt to the delight of the Slytherins, for Harry. Hermione told herself it was also the color of his eyes.
The three champions were currently slowly flying through the course, to familiarize both themselves and the spectators with it. It was, in Hermione's opinion, insane. She might be a bit biased, seeing as she was no fan of Quidditch, but the race had sharp turns aplenty, as well as dives and climbs, even a loop. And a long dive where the champions had to follow a corkscrew pattern. The rings were just wide enough for one flyer, meaning they'd serve as a bottleneck, and Harry would only be able to overtake his competitors between two rings - and even Hermione was able to see that there were not too many parts of the course long enough between two rings to allow that. It was, she realized with a sinking feeling, a bit like the Formula One course in Monaco. Just three laps, not 78 though. She hoped the racing robes the champions were wearing would offer enough protection in the crashes she feared would happen.
And that was just the course. There were the obstacles too. Not only would artificial winds, unpredictable, hinder the flyers, but bludgers would roam the airspace. She could spot half a dozen of them being contained inside a magical barrier, the enchanted iron balls bouncing off the invisible walls as if they were mad with rage and fury. There were thunderbirds circling overhead, magical animals from America who were able to discharge lightning at their foes. And there would be fog too, reducing visibility to dangerously short distances in some parts. Not for the first time Hermione felt a strong desire, almost a primal need, to hurt whoever forced Harry into this tournament. If she ever got her wand pointed at them… And Merlin help Harry should he plan to re-enter that tournament in their 7th year! Even if the rules might let a former champion compete again, this witch would blow up the goblet and then Harry before she would allow that!
*****
Harry gripped the handle of his broom with one hand and recast a sticking charm on his robes with his wand. While Hermione's spell would shield him from bludgers - at least to some degree - it would not protect him from lightning, and if he was knocked off his broom he would lose enough time to be out of the race, unless Fleur and Viktor suffered the same fate. His racing robes felt unfamiliar to him, but at least he was not stripped of protective enchantments. Crashing into a ring would still hurt, at least if the aerodynamic shield ended at the wrong moment.
He hadn't told Hermione so, but the spell was not as effective as she imagined it. It had a rather short duration, and while Harry had learned - after great efforts - to cast it while flying, recasting it would still mean he'd lose speed. And whenever the spell ended, or started, the aerodynamics of him and his broom would change too. That was the idea, of course, but it meant that he had to be very careful with his timing, or he might suddenly find the spell ending in the middle of a slightly dangerous maneuver. And compensating for sudden, drastic changes in how his broom flew and steered were not the thing he wanted to do in tight turns at the speeds he would be flying at. No matter what some of his friends thought when talking about his flying, he was not fond of taking crazy risks - he simply had a stricter definition of what counted as a crazy risk.
Not for the first time he wished he could fly his Firebolt. He simply knew that broom as he knew his own body. Spell or not, he could be sure to handle it perfectly. But the rules were the rules- everyone would be using the same broom, a racing model, a Cleansweep Marathon. Next to him Viktor was sitting astride his broom, eyes on the starting line. The Bulgarian champion was so focused, Harry wasn't sure if he could even hear the crowd's murmuring in his state. Next to Viktor, Fleur was sitting on her broom - side saddle style. The French veela was the picture of careless elegance, a witch out for a pleasant joyride, not a champion about to enter a race. Harry knew the casual, almost lounging manner she displayed was just a ploy to unnerve him, but it was working anyway.
He knew how Viktor flew, had seen him at the World Cup, and sometimes in Quidditch training. More importantly though, Harry was a seeker himself. He knew how seekers flew, and thought. But he knew nothing about racers, such as Fleur. And he knew Hermione's new spell would not give him as big an advantage as her other spell had given him in the second task. He could only hope that whatever help it would provide would be enough.
The tournament official on the broom next to them checked his watch, and raised his wand. A red light shot up.The crowd grew silent as the three champions steered their brooms to the starting line. Even Fleur was now astride her broom.
"Ready." The man's voice carried through the arena thanks to a sonorus spell. Harry leaned forward, wand in hand, ready to cast at once.
"Go!" And the race was on!
"Aeroarmaguttis!" Harry urged his broom forward while his wand went through the motions, then followed up with a sticking charm. He was falling behind a bit, but not too much. His spell finished and a shield, almost invisible, formed around him. No longer was the wind hitting him in the face, tearing at his robes. No longer did he hear the noise from the airflow and the shouts from the crowd of spectators dimmed. And he shot forward!
Grinning, he slid the wand back into his holster with a well-practised flick and gripped his broom's handle with both hands. As he passed Viktor he barely noticed the Bulgarian's surprised expression since he was already counting down in his head. 'One. Two. Three…'
The spell would last thirty-one seconds, more or less, as he and Hermione had found out. He almost caught up to Fleur, but the veela was already passing through the first ring, and Harry had to fly after her. A steep climb followed - almost like the start of an invisible rollercoaster.
'Five. Six. Seven...' With the spell forming a bubble around him, Harry wasn't able to use the slipstream behind Fleur as much as he would like, and so he veered to the side, and tried to overtake her in the climb.
'Nine. Ten. Eleven...' It did not work. The veela started to match his movements, glancing back at him under her shoulders, even flashing him a grin. A seeker wouldn't have been able to do that, they had to keep their eyes on the snitch. Glance back too long, or too often, and you'd end up losing sight of the golden ball. A racer though could, and was used to do so.
'Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen...' Fleur passed through the next ring, still ahead of him. Even worse - their veering back and forth had allowed Viktor to catch up. Fleur was already in the steep dive when Harry shot through the ring. He was grinning though - he had done Wronski feints from higher up than this.
'Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty...' He changed his course just a bit, going down almost vertically, and as fast as he could. He saw the ground rush up at him. Almost.
'Twenty-three. Twenty-Four. Twenty-Five…" He pulled up, as hard as he could. If the ground had been covered in grass he would have had green stains on his boots now. As it was, his shield hit the ground and shattered. A bit too close. But he had overtaken Fleur, even if he was a bit lower than the next ring. Heedless of the still diving veela he steered straight ahead, forcing her to veer off or slow down to avoid a collision. She chose to slow down a bit, and he thought he heard French curses. Something about 'Folie'. No matter - he was first through this ring, and had taken the lead. And probably given Hermione a heart attack.
As soon as he was through that ring, he recast his spell. Again he slowed down a bit - Fleur had almost caught up - but he finished in time to preserve his lead. A series of turns followed, each forced by a well-placed ring. Harry kept his lead, but couldn't gain any distance - the bubble surrounding him was just large enough so he couldn't cut corners as well as Fleur. And Viktor was not falling back much, he had gained some in the dive as well.
'Eightteen. Nineteen. Twenty...' Now for the looping. Harry pulled up, grinning. Ten seconds was plenty enough to complete the loop. Would have been, but for the thunderbirds who dove at him, screeching. He would have cast a Protego, but his Aeroarmaguttis was still going on. Cursing, he turned to the right, then dove, avoiding a lightning strike. Fleur and Viktor, both protected by a protego, shot past him, through the hoop. At least they had caught the attention of the thunderbirds and Harry was able to pass through the ring without getting hit with lightning.
'Thirty, Thirty-one.' His spell faded during another dive. The air hit his face hard. If not for his glasses he would have had a hard time keeping his eyes open, at his current speed. But he managed - and grinned. From his position he spotted half a dozen bludgers flying straight at his two competitors.
He slowed down a bit and recast Aeroarmaguttis. It really needed a better name, but Hermione's proposals had been as awful as usual. That witch simply could not be trusted to name anything. While Fleur was having trouble dodging the bludgers, using her wand to blow two of them up, which caused her to fall back, and Viktor was rolling and twisting to avoid them, Harry came from above both of them, and simply barrelled through, the iron balls bouncing off his shield. He was in the lead again!
'Ten. Eleven. Twelve...' Another long, horizontal stretch, but very close to the ground. A slight mistake, and he'd bounce and shatter his shield again. Harry loved it! He would be able to distance the other champions here! Then fog rose from the ground, and visibility shrunk. For a moment he was tempted to simply fly straight on, at the ring, but caution won out - a small mistake, a gust of wind pushing him a bit to the side, and he'd smash into the ring instead of passing through.
By the time he rose up from the fog, Fleur and behind her Viktor had caught up some, and his spell had ended again. Another climb followed. He started to recast his spell, but was interrupted by a bludger that came at him from the sun. If not for his quick reflexive dodge the iron ball would have smashed into him or his broom. Even so it passed so close he could feel the air flow change. When the thing started to turn around he shot a reducto at it, blowing it up.
That had allowed Fleur to overtake him again though, and he was jockeying with Viktor for the position behind the French witch. Without the help of his aerodynamic shield, the Bulgarian's greater mass easily won him that contest, and Harry passed through the ring in last place.
The corkscrew dive followed. He wouldn't have a chance to overtake anyone in there, Harry knew, and so he simply flew after the other champions. Then he saw them getting battered by sudden gusts of wind, almost driven off course, and he cursed - if he had recast his shield, he would have been able to exploit that opportunity. As it was, it was all he could do to not get pushed off course himself, or driven into a ring - or, at the end, the ground. He had to constantly react to changing winds, compensate for what felt like a randomly moving whirlwind. It was horrible. Crazy. Confusing. Exciting. He was panting when he flew through the last ring, but grinning widely.
When they passed the finishing line for the first time, he was still in last place. And now Fleur and Viktor were wise to his new spell's capabilities. Somewhat, at least. He still cast it, to reduce the distance to them at least. By the time the first climb finished, he was right behind Viktor. And the Bulgarian was not an experienced racer, he couldn't pull the same tricks as Fleur could to prevent Harry from overtaking him. He was as good in a dive though, but this time Harry knew how far he could go. He shot past Viktor, and came up in front of him, shield still holding, right behind Fleur. She managed to keep him in second place in the turns that followed, but only barely, and due to him having to recast his spell again.
'Twenty' They reached the looping again, but the thunderbirds were not present. Instead, the 'ceiling' of the arena, very close from here, seemed to shake, and he spotted what looked like owls impacting on it, some of them exploding, others dropping off packages that released liquids or gases. It did not seem to pass through the arena's border, so he ignored it.
'Thirty-one'. He had to recast his shield after the looping. No bludgers around this time, though, and he was able to distance Viktor while sticking close to Fleur, until they entered the fog again. This time Harry trusted in the shield, and simply flew by instinct, passing the veela with barely enough space to avoid hitting her, causing her to curse again. Then it was straight to the next ring, or what he felt was straight. He almost didn't see the ring in time to correct his course, and shattered his shield when he hit the hoop off-center, sending him spiraling out of the ideal route. He managed to regain control of his broom in time to keep the lead up to the corkscrew part.
This time he was ready, and with the shield on he managed to pass through the storm, as he dubbed it, without too much of a problem. Only to run into a pack of bludgers right when his spell went out. He did a barrel roll, avoiding most of them with as much luck as skill, but the last clipped his side and would have thrown him off the broom if not for his sticking charm. He heard a sickening crack, then the pain hit him, and he screamed.
Harry reached the finishing line in first place, but lost that when he had to numb his side. Fleur shot past him, but he managed to block Viktor from passing him while he recast his shield, then started the last lap. Fleur kept him at bay until the dive, and this time she did not veer off when he pulled up from his dive - she was flying straight at him. For a second Harry was tempted to fly on, let her crash into his shield, then he veered off, letting the veela pass. "You are crazy!" he shouted, following her.
The turns didn't allow him an opportunity to overtake the veela. But the looping, maybe… no, the thunderbirds were back. He had his wand in hand - he hadn't stashed it since the first lap, he realized - then shook his head and pressed on. He wouldn't win this race by playing it safe. Neither was Fleur, it seemed. Both of them wove around the thunderbirds, lighting strikes passing close to either of them. Fleur kept her lead, but Harry was so close now, his shield was almost bumping into her broom.
They dove towards the next ring, side by side. Harry's shield went out. He couldn't recast it in the dive, not without losing all speed. He did it anyway, Fleur was too skilled to let him overtake her without its help, and he needed it in the fog. His side being numbed affected his ability to shift his weight on the broom, and with it his flying, but the spell allowed him to compensate, some at least. This time Fleur too was going full-speed into the fog, and he was able to follow her, staying in her slipstream. He needed a chance to overtake her though, and soon.
The dive that followed the fogged stretch did provide that - more bludgers came at them, and Fleur was forced to dodge while he barreled through again, bouncing another off his shield. He kept her at a distance until the corkscrew dive, but it was close - she was gaining on him, hampered by his cracked or broken ribs. But he had his shield, and it would allow him to pass through the storm zone with much greater ease.
He lost his spell in the middle of the corkscrew turns, unexpectedly - it should have lasted longer than that - and cried in pain when the wind pushed his elbow into his side a few times. He couldn't re-numb it either, he needed his hands to keep control of his broom. Gritting his teeth, he finished the corkscrew turns behind Fleur. He recast the shield, but knew it would not be enough to catch up to the veela until the finishing line. He still tried his best though. To no avail.
He managed to beat Viktor, at least, he told himself while Fleur flew a victory lap around the arena. That was something. When the healers on standby pulled him off the broom and started treating his side, and he saw his best friend rushing towards him, concern - and were those tears? - obvious on her face - he could only hope it was enough.
Chapter 9: Curses
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turbinicarpus
Formerly 'Pahan'
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Starfox5
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Wow, that's one action-packed chapter
Thank you! Though the action's mostly in the last part.
Thanks! Edited.
Chapter 9: Curses
Starfox5
Experienced.
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Chapter 9: Curses
Hermione had been in all but agony, watching her best friend, her Patron, take such insane risks in the task. It had been worse than watching him play Quidditch. When that bludger hit him she almost lost it. Even though the entire race hadn't taken longer than 15 minutes, almost the same amount of time that had been spent familiarizing the champions with the course, they had felt like hours for her. It hadn't helped at all that the drawbacks - failings - of her spell that she had been aware of had been revealed in a drastic manner - in her opinion - through the race. If she had managed to craft a spell with a longer duration, maybe Harry wouldn't have been hurt…
She didn't cheer when Harry finished in second place. Not because she had expected him to win, or felt he had failed her, or whatever lies Malfoy, or others might come up with later. No, she didn't cheer because she was already off her seat and on her way to Harry, protocoll be damned.
She didn't yell, but she ran. She didn't quite bowl over a wizard in her way who was too slow for her, but she pushed him to the side and made him stumble in her haste to reach Harry. Her Patron greeting her with a weak smile didn't reassure her in the slightest. She had enough self-control though not to hinder the healer treating him, even though she had drawn her wand and would be checking their work as soon as they were done. As she so often did, she cursed whoever had invented flying brooms, and sports using flying brooms. At least she did it in her head, and not out loud - it would not do to embarrass Harry like that.
When the healer finished, patting his shoulder, and Harry got up with the all too familiar relieved smile that told her that he had been in more pain than he had wanted to admit, she longed to hug him, run her hands over him to reassure herself he was fine. Instead she had to settle for running her wand over him.
"My Patron." She had her wand out already.
"My Wand." He nodded at her, and she started to cast a diagnosis charm. It wasn't one healers used - too old, not enough details - but it was the best she could do, and she needed to do something, anything for her Patron. Slowly she moved her wand around, over his ribs, then his limbs. He didn't comment, but his smile, when she finished and met his eyes again, held the slight amusement and embarrassment she knew so well. She bowed, and took a step back, then moved to his side. The judges would award the points soon.
Fleur had won, earning 50 points. Harry received 45, for second place and his rather close time. Viktor's 40 surprised Harry, as Hermione noticed. He probably had not realized just how close Viktor had come to overtaking him. Harry stayed in the lead with 145 total, followed by Fleur and Viktor, with 140 each. Quite the close match, Hermione realized. Even if Harry's participation was the result of a manipulation, it seemed the Headmaster was correct in his assumption that the goblet would not have picked Harry if he truly would be out of his depth. She felt a brief, warm burst of pride for him. Then she started to fret about her own faults and mistakes again. If she had been faster, then Harry would have had more time to train with her spell…
*****
"I've checked the remains. The owls were purchased from the Owl Emporium. On the day before the task." Alastor entered Dumbledore's office without much of a greeting other than a nod. Sometimes, the headmaster thought, his old friend was a bit too gruff.
"I assume the description of the buyer was of no use?" Dumbledore didn't think the assassin, whoever he or she was, would have made such a mistake. But one still had to check, and his friend would have done so, and would not have missed anything
"Polyjuice or Glamour - the description fit a regular of the Leaky Cauldron, Stepan Brockturtle. He was sleeping most of that day, after a night of heavy drinking." Alastor sat down with a grunt, and stretched his artificial leg out, rubbing his knee.
"Imperius?" Again, unlikely, but he had to ask.
"No trace of it in his memories. No sign of them being tampered with either. Whoever is doing this is careful, or very good." Grudging respect shone through his friend's words.
"Or both." One had to prepare for the worst, after all."
"Or both." Alastor agreed. "What were the owls carrying?"
"Poison, acid, a cursed item or two, and a peruvian chameleon viper." Rubeus had been quite angry at such a rare animal being killed by this attack, no matter that this particular snake could turn close to invisible and had some of the deadliest poisons known to wizardkind. Dumbledore was sure having skin the fangs of most snakes could not penetrate was a factor there.
Alastor whistled. His artificial eye kept spinning, of course, looking every which way, even behind the retired auror. "That's a rare snake. Not many have seen one, fewer still would know how to get one."
"Yes."
"Which means it's a false trail." Alastor stated with conviction, then gestured, and Dumbledore's enchanted fire whiskey bottle floated over to his friend. The headmaster's eyebrows rose in mild surprise, then settled again when Alastor made no move to pour himself a drink, but ran a series of spells over the bottle before sending it back.
"It could be overconfidence. Those animals are so rare, it has to have left a trail." Dumbledore didn't comment on his friend's eccentricities. They might save the life of his students, or himself, one day.
"Yes. But our foe doesn't strike me as the overconfident type who'd make such a blunder. Maybe he wants us to investigate, as a diversion. Hagrid would be the expert for such animals, and he has discovered one attack already."
"Rubeus is also not an expert for such an investigation." Dumbledore flicked his right index finger, and a lemon drop appeared in his hand, then was deposited in his mouth. Fawkes trilled, and another flick summoned some grapes which floated around the phoenix, who took delight in snapping them up one after the other.
"But our enemy might hope he'd get called in as a consultant, or cover, for the investigation."
"You do not really believe that though."
"No." Alastor took a sip from his ever-present flask before continuing. "Owls are easily stopped by wards and other spells, even more easily if they are carrying enchanted items. Everyone knows that. Otherwise they would be the weapon of choice for assassins. Our enemy would have known they'd not be able to enter the arena and get to Potter. And what they were carrying, again, couldn't have been powerful enough to get through the arena wards even when dropped right on them."
Or splattered against them, together with the innards of the animals carrying them, Dumbledore thought. He nodded, silently inviting his friend to go on.
"So, this smells like a distraction. A distraction with another distraction. Or as a distraction. We are missing something." Alastor scowled, a quite fearsome sight with his maimed nose. Most wizards would cover up with a glamour in his place, but Dumbledore knew his friend took some warped pleasure in the effect his appearance had on the young and inexperienced, like students or fresh aurors.
"I agree. I am quite sure this is a distraction, but for what?" Dumbledore sighed.
"Maybe the whole attack on the tournament is a distraction."
Dumbledore nodded. That was what he feared as well. For someone to go to such lengths, just to distract - him, who else? - meant there was something very important, very dangerous going on. "But if it is, I am still ignorant what it could be a distraction for. But even if it is there is not much we can do - we cannot risk lowering our guard, or neglecting the security of the tournament." They had to remain ever vigilant. And as warped as it sounded, they had to hope that young Harry's death was the goal of their mysterious foe, and not a distraction.
"You've called the others though." A statement, not a question. Alastor knew him well.
"I did." Alerting the Ministry would do more harm than good, Dumbledore knew. If nothing happened, his reputation and influence would be reduced. But his old friends would not think less of him for a warning that might turn out to be too hasty, or some task that might turn out to be unneeded. They would think less of him if he did not alert them in circumstances such as those they presently found themselves in.
"Good. Should recruit some fresh blood too."
"I've got a few people in mind already. But I think it might be better to wait until we know more, before approaching people we have not worked with already." People who had not worked with them already, fought at their side, and had bled with them. The old Headmaster truly hoped this was just an attempt on Harry's life, and not something worse.
*****
Harry enjoyed the week after the third task. And not just because he was leading the tournament before the last task, no matter how narrow a lead it might be, or because he was often approached by students wishing him well. Less than after his victory in the second task, but noticeably more than after the first task. Some of them even might be honest, Hermione had commented in private. She was not being fair, of course - Hogwarts students wanted their school to win. But she was a bit on edge, and Harry didn't know why. He was safe, no longer hurt, and he didn't blame her for her spells shortcomings. And he had told her not to blame herself. Not that she'd listen, much. But it seemed to be more than that.
Briefly he considered asking Susan, who was walking with them to dinner after an afternoon spent in the library, doing homework, for advice, but decided against it. This was between him and his retainer. A private matter. Besides, he'd have ample opportunities to find out what was bothering Hermione, since he no longer needed to spend so much time in the air, training. The next and last task would be taking place on the ground. Or in the ground.
Hermione's laughter made him glance over his shoulder at her. Judging from the smile on Luna's face, she was the source of the sudden improvement of his retainer's mood. Harry didn't know why that didn't make him as happy as it should.
*****
"I 'ave to 'and it to you, 'arry, and to you, Viktor, that was some very nice flying. For someone not used to racing, you and Viktor acquitted yourself well." Fleur's smile took the sting out of the backhanded compliment, well, mostly. She was still smirking. "Though I am curious about the new spell of yours, 'ermione. It didn't seem to be as effective as your spell for the second task."
Hermione masked her frown by taking another sip from her glass. Harry had told her she should not blame herself, but she knew she could have done better, with just a bit more effort. "It was simply a spell that provided a more aerodynamically shaped shield for the caster and his broom." It also reduced friction further, but apparently not enough. "What worked in the water wouldn't have worked in the air." Hermione didn't even try to explain the differences. She wasn't sure Harry had fully understood the principles involved, and he had studied anything related to flying ever since he first got on a broom, back in their first year. Well, after she had pointed him towards such books, and hinted at it helping him with Quidditch. She suppressed the brief spark of anger thinking of that stupid sport created.
"Ah!" Fleur nodded, as if she understood physics. The veela probably thought it was related to the elements. Well, she wouldn't be that wrong, simply not correct.
"It certainly worked well enough to allow him to beat me." Viktor threw in, raising his butterbeer bottle at her with a nod. Hermione nodded back, oddly proud of the recognition - Viktor was a world-class seeker after all.
"That, and 'arry's crazy stunts. I've known racers like that, but they tend to crash a lot. And sometimes crash others." Fleur's smile had stayed, but her tone had shifted towards more serious. Hermione nodded in agreement, and under their twin glares, even Harry seemed to cave. A bit. But that probably was just his dislike of hurting others - he seemed fine with risking his own health, the idiot.
Hermione waved her wand and summoned the snack tray to her, busying herself with checking the selection in case some food needed to be restocked to hide her exasperation. Judging by the hand on her shoulder and the brief apologetic smile when she sat back down again next to Harry, he had noticed anyway.
After that the group finally switched from discussing suicidal flying and racing to more comfortable - at least for her - topics.
"It is a bit vexing that whenever I think I 'ave adapted to the British culture, I quickly find out I 'aven't." Fleur commented with a slight pout.
"Oh?" Ron, who had been a bit nervous at the start - Hermione wasn't sure why he'd be nervous - cocked his head sideways. As the only one present who was raised in Wizarding Britain, he probably was curious to see if Fleur's experiences paralleled Hermione and Harry's, years ago. Hermione herself surely was. Curious, that is.
"Yes. I know that in Britain, there's only one 'ead of family per family. Unlike France, where the duties are split between the parents. It might explain why you 'ave far more smaller families than we 'ave. But at the same time, you do have sub-'eads of families as well, though, or so I understand, they are informal."
"Sub-heads?" Hermione hadn't heard that expression yet.
"Yes. Those who are not the 'eads, I mean 'ead of a family, but govern their own children."
"Ah." Hermione understood now. "It's informal, yes." It wasn't as if the head of a pureblood family commonly took over raising children not his or her own. That was generally left to the parents, though she had heard of exceptions, where a head raised a child chosen to become the next head.
"If they 'ave that possibility, why are so many leaving their families?" Fleur sounded honestly puzzled. Ron looked confused, as if he didn't see the problem. Hermione was slightly lost as well.
"Being emancipated in Britain doesn't mean you're cast out of the family in anger." Harry started to explain. "It's rather normal for the children of a family without a big fortune to start their own families, but they still consider themselves related to their parents and siblings. Generally only the heads of the richest families, those with a seat in the Wizengamot, have power over more family members than their own children."
"Ah." Hermione understood now, as did Fleur, Viktor and Ron. Apparently, French families were more like clans, and leaving it to strike out on their own was a rather harsh decision, akin to cutting all ties.
"I assume this is a sign of a more individualistic bent of British wizards and witches." Fleur summed up. Hermione, who felt that British wizards were anything but individualistic outside their choice of wardrobe, wasn't sure what that said about the French.
"Yes." Ron agreed with the veela.
"I assume we'd have the same difficulties when in Magical France." Hermione threw in. To make the fishing for an invitation less obvious, she added "I experienced some of that this summer, when I was with my parents in Burgundy."
Fleur didn't take the bait right then, but Hermione hadn't expected that. To extend an invitation needed a bit more formality anyway, and would likely be done by her parents. Probably after the last task, to avoid the appearance of improperly influencing a fellow champion.
"I for one am looking forward to the last task." Viktor changed the topic again. "With the standings so close, it will come down to who's getting through the task best there." It was left unsaid that the Bulgarian wizard expected himself to be the victor. Judging by the smiles on the faces of Fleur and Harry when they agreed with him, each champion thought the same - of her- or himself. Hermione almost sighed.
*****
Harry was back at Grimmauld Place for the holiday in the middle of April. Like with other holidays, as Hermione had explained in detail to him, the wizards had gone back to the pagan roots after the Statute of Secrecy had gone into effect, and what had been Easter break was now named after Eostra, an old goddess of the dawn. He still thought of it as "Easter break", and Hermione probably did the same.
His retainer wasn't there though, but had gone to her parents. Harry didn't like that. It was selfish, but he wanted her to be with him. He was her Patron, she was his retainer. He sighed, blaming the Patron Oath for it. She'd visit, at least.
Hermione wouldn't be the only visitor. Ron would swing by - anything to escape the Burrow, his friend would claim, though both would know he wasn't serious. And Susan had arranged for a visit with her aunt, later.
And Nymphadora was visiting right now. Wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt she had been badgering him with questions about muggle culture for an hour. Not that he minded talking to her, or about muggle culture, but… the metamorphmagus was as bad as Hermione on a roll when she got enthusiastic. Harry really wished Hermione was here, to take the brunt of the questions. She would know the differences between those rather obscure works Nymphadora was mentioning. Harry could handle Star Wars and Star Trek, and Dr. Who, but who had ever heard of 'Raumpatrouille Orion'? Or 'Valérian'? Or 'Le Vagabond des Limbes'?
"You don't know really anything about muggle culture, do you? It seems I know more than you do!" Nymphadora was frowning at him, pouting with disappointment.
"I do know muggle culture! I was raised by muggles! You're simply asking about the most obscure things! French even!" Harry was indignant. He had been raised in the muggle world, he knew what it was. The idea that a pureblood witch would know more than him about it was ludicrous.
"Those are not obscure. They're mainstream. Hermione would know what I am asking about." Nymphadora huffed at him.
"Yeah, but I am not… wait a minute." Harry narrowed his eyes. Where could Nymphadora, completely new to muggle culture, have heard of so many foreign works? There was one source, but why would she… "You talked to her already!"
Loud laughter was his answer, and he groaned, letting his head drop on the kitchen table they were sitting at. At least Sirius had not … more laughter coming from the door ended that hope. "What have I done to deserve this?"
"It might be more what you haven't done, Harry." Sirius clapped him on the back while he summoned a scone for himself from the tray Kreacher had provided for "the Metamorphmagus and Master's Godson".
"Don't start about that again, Sirius. I am not even 15 yet."
"Well, I started at…" whatever tale Sirius had been about to tell, or spin, was silenced by a the scone in his hand suddenly filling his mouth, effectively gagging him.
"Now, now… no corrupting the youth when I am around. You can do that when I am not here." Nymphadora was laughing while wagging her finger at Harry's godfather.
"Besides, I have another question. I bought a few muggle devices since I visited Hermione, and I need an expert to explain them to me."
Harry leaped at the distraction. Anything but another lecture why shagging was good for you. "Of course. What did you buy?"
Nymphadora reached into one of the enchanted pockets on her robe, and handed him a small bag. "Can you show me how to use these?"
"Of course." Harry opened the bag, and stared at a pack of rubbers, then at the earnest eyes of the metamorphmagus, until she and Sirius broke down laughing again. Bouncing the bag off her face only resulted in her laughing louder.
Harry retreated to the library. Blacks were all maniacs, he had decided long ago. Hopefully his own Black blood was diluted enough to keep him sane. Then he started plotting his vengeance.
*****
The week dedicated to Eostra was the perfect time to choose the sacrifice needed for his master's plans, Barty Crouch thought. A new dawn for Britain would be heralded by it, after all. Things were progressing according to schedule. He had all the ingredients needed for the ritual as well as the tools prepared. But he needed a sacrifice. A powerful one.
He was sitting in Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream parlor, appearing to read the Daily Prophet, which incidentally had not covered the attack by the owls on the third task at all, but in reality looking for a family with young children. A child would be the perfect sacrifice to restore his master. Innocent, and young, teeming with life and magic.
Dabblers in the Dark Arts, ignorant fools, assumed innocence meant a virgin. That wasn't true. One could be a virgin and yet far from being innocent. Barty had been proof of that himself, if not for long. He had enjoyed his Year of Discovery, after all. No, innocent meant untainted. A soul that had never used magic with ill intent. And given the leanings of young people, and the practises at Hogwarts, Barty was sure only a child that had not yet received their wand was likely to fit the bill. Given accidental magic, a baby would be best. Just to be sure. Though sacrificing a toddler to restore what a toddler had robbed his master of, would provide a large symbolic boost to the ritual as well.
It had to be a pureblood child, of course. To have the Dark Lord restored with tainted blood… he shuddered at the thought and ordered another bowl of Fortescue's Famous Selection, which quickly floated towards his table. He sighed with delight at the taste - that wizard really was as good as his reputation claimed. While he was enjoying the second scoop, he noticed that a family fitting all his needs had just entered the ice cream parlor. Young wizard, young witch, a baby in her arms, a toddler next to them in a floater. A flick of his wand had him listen in to Fortescue's greeting. So those were the Cattermole-Brandons. Not rich, judging by the quality of their robes, or the lack of it, but solid incomes. So, likely freshly emancipated. Their house wouldn't be secured by the powerful wards on the homes of older families. Perfect.
As luck - or providence - had it, the family chose the table next to his. Still in the guise of a jovial if slightly rotund wizard, he smiled at them. "Ah… showing the kids where they'll spend most of their allowance once they're a bit older?"
The Cattermole-Brandons laughed at his weak joke. "Oh, we're here for us, we just love ice cream. Though I am sure our children inherited the taste for it from us as well." The man explained while using his wand to pull out the chair for his wife.
She smiled while she sat down and adjusted the baby on her arm. "We met here for the first time, as kids. And it was where we had our first date as well. And where he proposed. Its tied to so many happy moments in our lives…"
"And Fortescue's does make the best ice cream." Barty nodded with a broad smile while he silently tagged them with tracking charms. "What are their names?"
"Mykew and Delia." The proud mother answered.
"Beautiful names." Barty nodded, and returned his attention to his newspaper. Once he had finished his own bowl, sent a galleon over to Fortescue, and left the parlor. He'd check the home of the Cattermole-Brandons and the wards protecting it later. He had a few shops to visit as well, and runes to prepare. After all, the last task was coming up soon, and he had a surprise to prepare. It was a long shot, but given what he knew about the security of the tournament, and the work ethics - or lack thereof - of the Ministry department in charge of organizing it, it was entirely possible the Dark Lord would be restored to a country that had just lost their boy hero.
*****
Hermione snickered, reading Nymphadora's letter. Her mother, sitting across from her on the couch and reading the Times, looked up.
"Harry fell for the prank, mum." Hermione explained.
"The one you and Miss Black-Tonks planned?"
"Exactly. She had him going for an hour until he wised up." Hermione giggled at the thought.
"And you had her prepare for it for hours. And made her buy those obscure novels and comics you had her ask Harry about." There was a slight, tiny hint of disapproval in her mother's voice.
"She wanted to know about more than just mainstream culture." Hermione defended herself.
"After you had explained what mainstream was. In a slightly biased way, if I may remark."
"Well… I like to think of it as getting back at her for a prank of hers." Hermione smiled. It hadn't actually been a prank, but a remark about Sirius' prank at Yuletide. The young witch didn't want to explain the details to her parents though. She didn't want them picturing Harry having their daughter literally leashed. They didn't know exactly how much power Harry had over her. Back when he had become her Patron, she had not explained the magical oath, nor all of the legal consequences. They still had no idea that as far the Wizarding World was concerned, the Grangers had lost custody of their daughter years ago.
Her parents had remarked a few times that Hermione was ready to drop anything when Harry called. Fortunately they attributed it to a crush, or maybe a fancy, and not to magical compulsion. But it was a can of worms best avoided. Explaining the Year of Discovery, even without going into details, would be bad enough. Sirius' fondness of sexual innuendo, especially aimed at her and Harry, would not help at all.
Fortunately, the exonerated wizard was wary of spending too much time with the Grangers, or pushing the boundaries of decency in his usual way, after Hermione had explained - sort of - what exactly her parents did for a living. If she had emphasized and illustrated the drilling part, and neglected to mention the pain killers, well… she counted it as a prank as well.
She briefly closed her eyes. Sirius was really corrupting her. In more ways than that, judging by some dreams she had had. She pushed the thoughts away. She wanted to enjoy her time with her family. Today, and especially tomorrow, when she'd visit Harry.
*****
"My aunt almost didn't want to let me visit you, Harry."
Harry stopped walking, and turned towards Susan Bones, whom he was presently giving a tour through Grimmauld Place 12. He couldn't fathom the reasons for that. Did Amelia Bones still suspect Sirius had been guilty? Or did she not trust Harry with her niece? Did she think he was following in Sirius' footsteps? She knew him from their time at Hogwarts, after all. "Ah, why?" he managed to ask.
"She was worried about the amount of cursed items your godfather had handed over to the DMLE for safe disposal after he moved in." Susan grinned. "She seemed to suspect that was only half of all the cursed items Mister Black had found."
Harry smiled, if a bit weakly - he knew Sirius had not handed over even close to everything they had found, even if the truly dangerous but potentially useful items, as Sirius had called them, were now stored in a vault in the cellar. "It's safe now. I'd never invite guests otherwise, trust me." Hermione had been there with him, he thought with a small amount of guilt, at the start even, but he told himself that he'd never have managed to keep her away.
"That's what I told auntie, Harry." Susan smiled at him, then hooked her arm around his. "Now, lead on - I am curious how the famous Harry Potter lives!" She grinned, making it clear that she was joking. Susan didn't act as if she was overly impressed with his reputation, or fame, something he was very happy about. As much as Hermione and he had been working on building up his reputation, fame and money over the years, Harry wasn't happy with the effect that had on many of his supposed peers. Dealing with sycophants and what Hermione had dubbed "fawning fangirls" was often tiresome, especially since he had to remain polite, to avoid giving offense or hurting someone's feelings.
Susan though was different. And, even better, given her situation as the chosen successor of her aunt as head of the family, the possibility of a future marriage was not present. Unlike in the case of say, Ginny, Ron's baby sister. Ron had made jokes about becoming his brother in law, but Harry hadn't found them that funny. He didn't want to think about marriage when he wasn't even 15 years old! Hermione had agreed with him when they had discussed that in private. That was why she had proposed he ask Susan to the Yule Ball, of course.
And she had been right. With Susan Harry didn't feel tense, or even awkward. Unless of course her aunt was present - Madam Bones was a very impressive witch. Sirius called her scary.
"And this is my room." Harry opened the door to his room with an exaggerated gesture, as if presenting a treasure vault. Susan giggled, and made a show of carefully stepping inside, as if she was suspecting a trap.
"Hm… where's Hermione's bed?" the redhead was looking around, then cocked her head at Harry's admittedly oversized canopy bed. "Hmmm."
"She doesn't sleep with me! I mean, she doesn't sleep in my room." He would not want her to sleep in his room either, some - disturbing - dreams notwithstanding.
Susan giggled, then patted his shoulder. "I know, Harry. But I had to ask, or Hannah would never forgive me." She stepped over to his desk, looking at the muggle writing utensils laid out there with unveiled curiosity. "Besides, as traditional as you two are, even I wasn't sure you'd not have chosen the traditional sleeping arrangements for a Patron and their retainer."
Harry stared at her. He was quite aware of what those arrangements were, Sirius had taken pleasure in telling him all about them. And their deranged elf had even asked if he wanted his room rearranged "to keep Master's Godson's Slave". Harry hadn't wanted to know what Kreacher had meant with that, and still didn't want to know. Susan giggled again. The witch had a sense of humor that would serve her well with Sirius and Tonks, though hers was quite a bit more refined in comparison to those two. And, well, more gentle too.
He was still quite relieved when Susan stopped the teasing and asked about the pen and paper he had on his desk. He picked up the fountain pen and showed it to her. She reacted like most wizards - impressed in that patronizing way at what muggles managed to create without magic. But she did seem genuinely interested. He wished he could show her a computer. Maybe next time he visited the Grangers, he could ask to bring her along? She and Hermione got along well, after all.
*****
Draco Malfoy was lounging in the Slytherin common room, feeling restless. His vacation hadn't met his expectations. He had hoped to help his father fight mudbloods and blood traitors, but nothing of the sort had happened. Instead, his father had spent the vacation at the mansion, questioning Draco about the unimportant happenings at school. Like he had done over Yuletide. back then Draco had assumed this was a punishment for using a family curse in the dueling competition, but surely that was in the past now, forgotten?
And yet his father had not even mentioned any further plans, had even told him to be silent when he had asked about the cause. And his mother had not helped him either! Draco didn't understand why his father had become so… cautious. Not after his bold, magnificent actions at the World Cup. It was as if the head of the Malfoy family regretted those events.
Draco had scorned that thought. His father was powerful and cunning, he'd not feel remorse for doing what needed to be done to further the Dark Lord's cause. And his mother hadn't found any trace of a confundus spell or compulsion charm on either of them. Who'd dare to hex his father anyway? Sighing loudly, he pushed the thoughts away. It didn't do any good to dwell on past problems, Pansy had told him that many times. 'Look forward, forget the past' was sound advice indeed!
Thinking of Pansy, shouldn't she be back already from her errand, whatever it was? Just as he was about to get up and look for his wayward girlfriend, the door to the common room opened and she stepped inside - then turned to say something to a Durmstrang student who apparently had walked her to the dorm. Draco frowned - Pansy was his girlfriend. Not that he thought anything untoward had happened, she was far too loyal for such.
"Doesn't it look like Malfoy's been replaced? Parkinson might have finally grown some taste." Draco stiffened, then turned to the table next to him. The insult was spoken just loud enough to be overheard, but low enough so that to take offense, as any wizard worth his wand would, might be seen as listening to a private conversation.
Draco wasn't just any wizard though. He addressed the speaker, a 6th year student, Wilkins, ignoring the two others with him for now. "Did you mention my name, Wilkins?" he asked, his face and tone portraying the disdain he felt for the childish insult clearly.
"Just wondering why Parkinson dumped you." Most would have claimed to have been misheard, avoiding to give offense, it not apologizing, but apparently Wilkins was made of dumber stuff - or had forgotten his place. His family had some influence, true, and they were of the right sort. But still below the Malfoys in standing, and their coffers could not rival his father's.
"Ah, I was wondering if I had misheard. After all, it would take a quite remarkable lack of intellect to mistake a chivalrous gesture from one our guests as a sign of a dalliance. I wouldn't have thought it possible that such a person could be a member of our house, but apparently you just proved me wrong." He stared haughtily at Wilkins, slightly sneering even. And with perfect timing, Pansy arrived, greeting him with a one-armed hug that, while chaste, left no doubt about their relationship.
"Draco dear, is something wrong?"
"Nothing of the sort. A simpleton letting his own base nature color his perceptions." That hit home, and Wilkins stiffened. In any other house, wands would have been drawn and a brawl would have ensued, Draco knew, but Slytherins held themselves to a higher standard.
"I feel the need for some dueling practise. Would you care to help me with that, Mister Malfoy." Wilkins stated in a clipped tone.
"Certainly. I am always willing to help those who have not learned their lessons." His quip made Pansy and a few more chuckle, as it should.
They stepped in the middle of the common room, into a hastily cleared ring. The 7th year prefect sighed, but activated the wards that would keep spells from hitting anyone outside the ring. Pansy was hugging him, even placed a kiss on his cheek, for luck. Not that Draco would need luck, but it was the thought that counted.
Confidently, he stepped into the ring, flashing his wand. His robes swirled around him, the enchantments picking up on his intent to fight, or so the tailor had explained. Draco hadn't cared that much for the explanation. More important than such cosmetic spells were the protective enchantments woven into the robe - the best gold could buy, his father had assured him.
"You're quite confident for someone who was schooled by Granger." Wilkins sneered at him, no doubt trying to mask his deserved nervousness.
"This is not a mere competition, but a lesson in dire need of being learned." Draco scoffed at his foe, then glanced at the prefect. The older student sighed again, but stepped up.
"Bow!" Draco merely inclined his head.
"Wands ready!"
Draco's wand rose, until he was standing in a perfect guard position.
"Start!"
"Protego." Draco's first spell was a shield, and just in time to stop a hex from Wilkins. Grinning, he started to send some hexes and jinxes back. Wilkins had a shield up himself now, but Draco was confident it would not last long.
The two exchanged spells while neither even tried to dodge. Draco approved - running, or even rolling around was for mudbloods and muggles, not for true wizards who could trust their magic to protect them. Wilkins' shield spell proved to be stronger than Draco had anticipated, but he was confident he'd get through in time. He hardly noticed when his own shield shattered. But the look on his opponent's face when the hex he had cast, confident of his victory, was simply stopped by his protective enchantments as if it had fizzled out - Draco would treasure that for some time to come.
Then Wilkin's own shield was overcome by Draco's magic, after he had toyed with him long enough of course, and a body-binding curse took the student down. Draco was halfway into casting a flaying curse on his helpless opponent before he could stop himself. This was no real combat, just a duel. He was with fellow wizards, not mudbloods and blood traitors too. So he simply cast the traditional humiliating spells for such a situation - and added a bowel-loosening hex if only so he could make some barbs later about Wilkins wetting himself. Then he looked at the referee, signaling it was over.
"Winner by Incapacitation: Malfoy."
Draco bowed, if with less than his usual grace, and stepped out of the ring, into the arms of his adoring girlfriend while the frowning prefect told Wilkins' two friends to transport him to the Infirmary. He was filled with pride - he had just demonstrated that he was a wizard to be reckoned with, when he was not shackled by foreign competition rules and facing cheating mudbloods. That should cow those who had been nipping at his heels.
*****
Harry was watching Hermione getting ready for the curse-breaking competition in their training room. His friend had complained that she had not been able to prepare properly for the competition - she had wanted to train with a few of the cursed items still locked up in Grimmauld Place. But after he had heard about the accident a Ravenclaw student had over the break, when he botched breaking a curse on an item he had apparently bought cheaply in Knockturn Alley, Harry was glad that Sirius had refused the young witch. The student was still in St. Mungos, after all, two weeks after the break had ended. 'The only minor curses are those others deal with', his godfather had said, 'and as a Black, I would know that.'
In the competition they'd deal with harmless curses, prepared by experienced curse-breakers from Gringotts. Flashy but harmless. Though, seeing as Ron's oldest brother, Bill Weasley, was among those contributing, the results of a failure to break the curse would surely be humiliating as well, if what the twins talking about Bill was to be believed. Harry might even drop his planned revenge for Hermione's and Nymphadora's prank if his retainer was too badly affected.
Though for that to happen she'd have to fail first, and then the protective enchantments on her robe would have to fail as well. Harry didn't think that was too likely to happen - Hermione had been preparing as obsessively as usual in such situation. Even now, so close to the start of the event, she was reading a book from a French cursebreaker who had worked in Egypt in the 18th Century. Harry thought finding out just how exactly that had come to pass, given the relations between Magical France and the Ottoman Empire at the time, would be more interesting than the accounts of his work, but obviously his friend disagreed.
48 students, 16 from each school, would be competing. They started with the same item and curse. The 24 fastest would reach the next round, the 12 fastest of those would enter the final round, where the fastest would win. Should the curse get triggered the student was out. Literally out, Harry had heard from older students, in the final round. He worried about his retainer. Magic was not as predictable as it should be, she had said so several times herself. And there was an unknown assassin trying to sabotage the tournament. A wizard or witch able to manipulate the Goblet of Fire surely would be able to manipulate a few cursed items.
Hermione trusted the security provided by the Headmaster, or so she claimed. The wards would prevent any items with serious curses from being smuggled inside. Harry knew that as well, but knowing, and trusting one's knowledge, were two different things, as he was finding out. He checked his wristwatch. It was almost time to go. Acting on an impulse he stepped over and hugged his friend, who let out a surprised sound before relaxing in his arms.
"Good luck, Hermione." he whispered near her ear.
"Thank you, Harry." She patted his back. For a second Harry had to fight the urge to simply keep holding her until the competition was over. It would be hypocritical, given that he played Quidditch, or so Hermione would say. So she actually had said when the point was raised during their break. So he released her, took a step back, and smiled encouragingly. Then the two left the room and made their way over to the tournament arena.
*****
The arena was a flat surface this time, with marked and warded - lightly, Hermione knew, more to keep competitors from being disturbed by the efforts of their neighbors than to contain the minor curses on the items - spaces for the students measuring their skills in curse-breaking. She felt a bit outclassed, if she was honest with herself. While curse-breaking was an exciting intellectual exercise, and fascinating field to study, she had been interested in it mainly because of the synergy with spell crafting, her true passion. Not that she was not good at it, or she'd not be here.
She told herself to shelve the defeatist talk and calm down. She was here to compete, not to worry. Instead she looked at the item for the first round, still behind a barrier so no one could get a headstart. It was an inkwell. Probably cursed to splatter the handler with ink, maybe indelible ink too. That would mean either a variant of aguamenti, or a banishment charm, and some transfiguration, unless it simply used the ink in the well. Hermione shook her head. She was making too many assumptions, which could blind her to traps. Just because that was how she would curse didn't mean it was cursed that way.
Then the signal to start was given, and the barriers disappeared. Hermione cast a detection spell, a curse breaker's bread and butter. It allowed her to see magical effects and spells, but only a rather close range. And it made spotting anything further away, magical or not, nigh impossible. Those limitations had certainly cost many a curse breaker his or her life. She could think of traps that would use those limits, maybe combine a curse with a more classic mechanical trap… Pushing those thoughts away, the young witch started to study the item. She barely heard the roar of the crowd, dimmed by the arena wards. Apparently, one of her competitors had been too hasty, and now was out already. Instead she focused on the spells she could see on the well. It was not too complicated, but overlapping spells on a small object were always a bit tricky, so she studied it with extra care. There was the everfull charm, and a banishment charm, as expected, coupled with a color charm. All entwined with each other. To remove the trap and leave the everfull charm would require her to… suddenly she blinked. Why would they enchant the ink with an everfull charm? For security reasons, all items were cursed here, on location and under supervision. They wouldn't have used an everfull charm… she studied the charm again, recasting her spell to make sure she got it right. Ah! Another trap! That was an everfull charm, but with a twist that would affect not the well, but the one touching it, or rather, their mouth. They'd be spewing ink out as a result - for quite some time.
Shaking her head, she thought about her course of action. Canceling one curse would trigger the other. She had to either remove both at the same time, or remove the links without triggering the curses. That would take time, which she might not have. Taking a deep breath, she aimed her wand at the center of the entwined spells, visible only to her enhanced sight. "Finite!" she shouted, stabbing her wand forward. For a moment, it looked as if the spells were resisting, absorbing her own spell, then they broke, and she saw the magic dissipate, leaving just a normal, mundane inkwell. Above her a number - 14 - flared up and started to shine. She had made it to the next round. Looking around, she saw half a dozen students being led away, most of them either covered by ink, or spitting out ink. One though was both covered and spewing ink, and another had the inkwell stuck in his mouth. She didn't know how anyone could have managed that. She waved at the Champion's lounge, and Harry. He was too far away from her to see his smile, but she knew he could see her as well as if was sitting next to her, so she beamed at him, before turning back to her area.
The next item was placed behind a barrier again, a robe this time. A robe moving by itself, even. She smiled - this would be interesting. She would have to restrain the thing, to be able to study it. But using immobilizing spells on it would likely trigger the curse. She could, of course, cast a shield spell, and then study it from behind that, but that would make observation very, very difficult. A decoy might also work, but she hadn't learned how to conjure or transfigure something that would work as a decoy for her. Yet. The protective spells on her robes were good against hexes and jinxes, probably curses as well, but they would not do much about attacks by animated cloth, or transfigured or conjured animals. She needed to upgrade them, and Harry's, but she hadn't had time so far.
The signal to start came as a surprise for some, judging by the muffled screams and the dimmed laughter from the audience she could hear. Hermione herself was ready, and when the robe charged at her, she met it with an aguamenti that both stopped it for a short time and thoroughly soaked it - Harry hadn't been the only one learning to overpower that particular spell, after all. Before the cursed garment could recover, she froze the water, and with it the robe. A simple spell, and, as she was slightly relieved to find out, not one to trigger a trap.
She cast her detection spell again and started to study the robe. While the ice would not last that long, she could recast the freezing charm, but her competitors would not be wasting time either. An interesting, and more complicated mix of spells was revealed to her eyes. A dancing feet charm, as she had expected. A modified body-binder - she was wondering how many would recognize that one, she only did because she had experience in modifying spells - a tickling hex and a transfiguration on the robe. Too easy, she thought. There would be another trap.
"Wingardium leviosa." The young witch levitated the still frozen robe up, and started to slowly rotate it. Ah! That spark at the collar was not part of the transfiguration, but almost covered by it. It was a separate effect. A gag, she realized with a smirk. She knew that one - she had used it on Sirius herself, after all. But that left her with a cascading set of trapped spells. Triggering one would set the others off, and break the ice. It couldn't be helped, she'd have to do this the hard way.
Hermione refroze the water, just to be sure, and started to note down the sequences she could make out with the help of a dictaquill - a curse-breaker's best friend, she had heard people call it, and sometimes its records were the only clue to what had happened to him or her. There was a reason curse-breakers were so well-paid.
When she finally had the sequence down - hopefully - she wiped sweat from her brows, recast the freezing charm again, and started to finite, using her wand with as much precision as she could muster. One single sloppy flick or swish, and the spells would blow up in her face, leaving her dancing while wearing a potato bag and giggling into a gag. After the third finite she had to take a quick rest, her hand was trembling. She finished the last finite right before her ice had melted, and sank down to her knees with relief when the robe flopped to the ground, all magic gone. Over her head shone a bright "11" - she had made it into the final round, if barely.
She didn't turn towards the champion's lounge. Harry would be fretting, she knew that, and simply waited for the last round to start while resting. She did spot a number of dancing students in sackcloths, though. And a few wearing gags, and a furious expression.
The last item to be placed behind the barrier was a box. An ornate box, large enough to hold a head, she added, morbidly remembering some tales she had read in preparation for this competition. Not that that would mean anything, she could certainly expect expansion charms on any box. Maybe if triggered it would release a guardian creature? Or maybe it would suck the curse-breaker into the box? A shield was a good precaution, but not enough.
When the signal to start came and the barrier disappeared, she quickly cast a shield, then a detection spell. She followed up with a conjured rock which she transfigured into a cat, which she ordered to touch the box. As soon as the cat was about to put a paw on it, a flash went off, briefly blinding Hermione, and when she managed to see more or less clearly again, the cat had lost most of its pelt. She frowned. She might not like her bushy hair, before cosmetic charms, but she'd rather keep it than go bald. The cat had lost most of its pelt, not all - so it was not a hair-removal spell disguised in the flash, but something that really burned hair off, but weak enough not to do further harm. Almost a prank spell. She had the cat touch it again, this time squinting her eyes. Again she was blinded, but she had caught a glimpse of the spell. Another touch did not reveal any more information, so she dismissed the cat and cast a finite. Before her eyes, the box fell apart, revealing… another box, slightly smaller, and with a different design on the sides.
Another transfigured cat did not trigger any defenses, leaving her stumped for a moment. She couldn't see any spell at work either, but… walking around the box, she couldn't find any mechanism to open it. That would not make any sense though, a curse without the means to trigger it. Especially not for a competition. She had checked all sides but the underside… for a moment she thought about levitating it. That might trigger whatever curse it held though. Though she ordered the cat to topple it on a side.
As soon as the box started to topple, green liquid shot out from it, covering the cat and part of her shield before hardening into what looked like glue. That was some nasty little trap there. And the symbols on the box had changed, rearranging the sides so she still didn't see the underside.
Two minutes later she had another cat ready, and constructed a grid from conjured rulers, then had the cat push the box onto the grid, which she then levitated up so she could study the underside. She was grinning - it was a challenge. And contrary to real curse-breaking work, she'd not die if she made a mistake!
On the underside she discovered a keyhole. Or rather, a wandhole, it seemed. And inside the hole she spotted a detection spell, no two. One of them would check if a wand was inserted, the other would check if it was the right wand. If that was the standard wand-lock she read about, of course. But to find out which did what… she had a feeling that canceling both would trigger a curse, and canceling the wrong one would stop her, and trigger a curse.
She narrowed her eyes, but the spells were just too entwined, and she couldn't see enough details. It was a coin-toss, in other words. Hermione didn't like such odds. But then, it was just a competition. Taking a deep breath, she started to finite the right one, hoping it was the right one. She almost ruined her casting, giggling nervously at her own joke. No curse went off, so she stuck her and into the hole, and - to her considerate relief this time - the box fell apart, revealing another box. Shiny, golden, and ornate this time.
Just as she was about to send in another testing cat, she heard an excited announcement. "And Anton Iliev broke the last curse! Anton Iliev won!" She had not expected to win, but she was still disappointed. She was more disappointed that she would not get to solve the box curse puzzle though, and glared at the box while getting up, applauding a beaming Bulgarian student who made his way to the judges' area. She also saw there were just about half the of the original dozen finalists left, and a number of blackened spots where competitors had been working indicated they had not gone quietly, so to speak.
This time she did turn towards the champion's lounge again, waving. She had given her best, and hadn't gotten hurt. In this tournament, that counted for something.
Chapter 10: The Fourth Task: Earth
Hermione had been in all but agony, watching her best friend, her Patron, take such insane risks in the task. It had been worse than watching him play Quidditch. When that bludger hit him she almost lost it. Even though the entire race hadn't taken longer than 15 minutes, almost the same amount of time that had been spent familiarizing the champions with the course, they had felt like hours for her. It hadn't helped at all that the drawbacks - failings - of her spell that she had been aware of had been revealed in a drastic manner - in her opinion - through the race. If she had managed to craft a spell with a longer duration, maybe Harry wouldn't have been hurt…
She didn't cheer when Harry finished in second place. Not because she had expected him to win, or felt he had failed her, or whatever lies Malfoy, or others might come up with later. No, she didn't cheer because she was already off her seat and on her way to Harry, protocoll be damned.
She didn't yell, but she ran. She didn't quite bowl over a wizard in her way who was too slow for her, but she pushed him to the side and made him stumble in her haste to reach Harry. Her Patron greeting her with a weak smile didn't reassure her in the slightest. She had enough self-control though not to hinder the healer treating him, even though she had drawn her wand and would be checking their work as soon as they were done. As she so often did, she cursed whoever had invented flying brooms, and sports using flying brooms. At least she did it in her head, and not out loud - it would not do to embarrass Harry like that.
When the healer finished, patting his shoulder, and Harry got up with the all too familiar relieved smile that told her that he had been in more pain than he had wanted to admit, she longed to hug him, run her hands over him to reassure herself he was fine. Instead she had to settle for running her wand over him.
"My Patron." She had her wand out already.
"My Wand." He nodded at her, and she started to cast a diagnosis charm. It wasn't one healers used - too old, not enough details - but it was the best she could do, and she needed to do something, anything for her Patron. Slowly she moved her wand around, over his ribs, then his limbs. He didn't comment, but his smile, when she finished and met his eyes again, held the slight amusement and embarrassment she knew so well. She bowed, and took a step back, then moved to his side. The judges would award the points soon.
Fleur had won, earning 50 points. Harry received 45, for second place and his rather close time. Viktor's 40 surprised Harry, as Hermione noticed. He probably had not realized just how close Viktor had come to overtaking him. Harry stayed in the lead with 145 total, followed by Fleur and Viktor, with 140 each. Quite the close match, Hermione realized. Even if Harry's participation was the result of a manipulation, it seemed the Headmaster was correct in his assumption that the goblet would not have picked Harry if he truly would be out of his depth. She felt a brief, warm burst of pride for him. Then she started to fret about her own faults and mistakes again. If she had been faster, then Harry would have had more time to train with her spell…
*****
"I've checked the remains. The owls were purchased from the Owl Emporium. On the day before the task." Alastor entered Dumbledore's office without much of a greeting other than a nod. Sometimes, the headmaster thought, his old friend was a bit too gruff.
"I assume the description of the buyer was of no use?" Dumbledore didn't think the assassin, whoever he or she was, would have made such a mistake. But one still had to check, and his friend would have done so, and would not have missed anything
"Polyjuice or Glamour - the description fit a regular of the Leaky Cauldron, Stepan Brockturtle. He was sleeping most of that day, after a night of heavy drinking." Alastor sat down with a grunt, and stretched his artificial leg out, rubbing his knee.
"Imperius?" Again, unlikely, but he had to ask.
"No trace of it in his memories. No sign of them being tampered with either. Whoever is doing this is careful, or very good." Grudging respect shone through his friend's words.
"Or both." One had to prepare for the worst, after all."
"Or both." Alastor agreed. "What were the owls carrying?"
"Poison, acid, a cursed item or two, and a peruvian chameleon viper." Rubeus had been quite angry at such a rare animal being killed by this attack, no matter that this particular snake could turn close to invisible and had some of the deadliest poisons known to wizardkind. Dumbledore was sure having skin the fangs of most snakes could not penetrate was a factor there.
Alastor whistled. His artificial eye kept spinning, of course, looking every which way, even behind the retired auror. "That's a rare snake. Not many have seen one, fewer still would know how to get one."
"Yes."
"Which means it's a false trail." Alastor stated with conviction, then gestured, and Dumbledore's enchanted fire whiskey bottle floated over to his friend. The headmaster's eyebrows rose in mild surprise, then settled again when Alastor made no move to pour himself a drink, but ran a series of spells over the bottle before sending it back.
"It could be overconfidence. Those animals are so rare, it has to have left a trail." Dumbledore didn't comment on his friend's eccentricities. They might save the life of his students, or himself, one day.
"Yes. But our foe doesn't strike me as the overconfident type who'd make such a blunder. Maybe he wants us to investigate, as a diversion. Hagrid would be the expert for such animals, and he has discovered one attack already."
"Rubeus is also not an expert for such an investigation." Dumbledore flicked his right index finger, and a lemon drop appeared in his hand, then was deposited in his mouth. Fawkes trilled, and another flick summoned some grapes which floated around the phoenix, who took delight in snapping them up one after the other.
"But our enemy might hope he'd get called in as a consultant, or cover, for the investigation."
"You do not really believe that though."
"No." Alastor took a sip from his ever-present flask before continuing. "Owls are easily stopped by wards and other spells, even more easily if they are carrying enchanted items. Everyone knows that. Otherwise they would be the weapon of choice for assassins. Our enemy would have known they'd not be able to enter the arena and get to Potter. And what they were carrying, again, couldn't have been powerful enough to get through the arena wards even when dropped right on them."
Or splattered against them, together with the innards of the animals carrying them, Dumbledore thought. He nodded, silently inviting his friend to go on.
"So, this smells like a distraction. A distraction with another distraction. Or as a distraction. We are missing something." Alastor scowled, a quite fearsome sight with his maimed nose. Most wizards would cover up with a glamour in his place, but Dumbledore knew his friend took some warped pleasure in the effect his appearance had on the young and inexperienced, like students or fresh aurors.
"I agree. I am quite sure this is a distraction, but for what?" Dumbledore sighed.
"Maybe the whole attack on the tournament is a distraction."
Dumbledore nodded. That was what he feared as well. For someone to go to such lengths, just to distract - him, who else? - meant there was something very important, very dangerous going on. "But if it is, I am still ignorant what it could be a distraction for. But even if it is there is not much we can do - we cannot risk lowering our guard, or neglecting the security of the tournament." They had to remain ever vigilant. And as warped as it sounded, they had to hope that young Harry's death was the goal of their mysterious foe, and not a distraction.
"You've called the others though." A statement, not a question. Alastor knew him well.
"I did." Alerting the Ministry would do more harm than good, Dumbledore knew. If nothing happened, his reputation and influence would be reduced. But his old friends would not think less of him for a warning that might turn out to be too hasty, or some task that might turn out to be unneeded. They would think less of him if he did not alert them in circumstances such as those they presently found themselves in.
"Good. Should recruit some fresh blood too."
"I've got a few people in mind already. But I think it might be better to wait until we know more, before approaching people we have not worked with already." People who had not worked with them already, fought at their side, and had bled with them. The old Headmaster truly hoped this was just an attempt on Harry's life, and not something worse.
*****
Harry enjoyed the week after the third task. And not just because he was leading the tournament before the last task, no matter how narrow a lead it might be, or because he was often approached by students wishing him well. Less than after his victory in the second task, but noticeably more than after the first task. Some of them even might be honest, Hermione had commented in private. She was not being fair, of course - Hogwarts students wanted their school to win. But she was a bit on edge, and Harry didn't know why. He was safe, no longer hurt, and he didn't blame her for her spells shortcomings. And he had told her not to blame herself. Not that she'd listen, much. But it seemed to be more than that.
Briefly he considered asking Susan, who was walking with them to dinner after an afternoon spent in the library, doing homework, for advice, but decided against it. This was between him and his retainer. A private matter. Besides, he'd have ample opportunities to find out what was bothering Hermione, since he no longer needed to spend so much time in the air, training. The next and last task would be taking place on the ground. Or in the ground.
Hermione's laughter made him glance over his shoulder at her. Judging from the smile on Luna's face, she was the source of the sudden improvement of his retainer's mood. Harry didn't know why that didn't make him as happy as it should.
*****
"I 'ave to 'and it to you, 'arry, and to you, Viktor, that was some very nice flying. For someone not used to racing, you and Viktor acquitted yourself well." Fleur's smile took the sting out of the backhanded compliment, well, mostly. She was still smirking. "Though I am curious about the new spell of yours, 'ermione. It didn't seem to be as effective as your spell for the second task."
Hermione masked her frown by taking another sip from her glass. Harry had told her she should not blame herself, but she knew she could have done better, with just a bit more effort. "It was simply a spell that provided a more aerodynamically shaped shield for the caster and his broom." It also reduced friction further, but apparently not enough. "What worked in the water wouldn't have worked in the air." Hermione didn't even try to explain the differences. She wasn't sure Harry had fully understood the principles involved, and he had studied anything related to flying ever since he first got on a broom, back in their first year. Well, after she had pointed him towards such books, and hinted at it helping him with Quidditch. She suppressed the brief spark of anger thinking of that stupid sport created.
"Ah!" Fleur nodded, as if she understood physics. The veela probably thought it was related to the elements. Well, she wouldn't be that wrong, simply not correct.
"It certainly worked well enough to allow him to beat me." Viktor threw in, raising his butterbeer bottle at her with a nod. Hermione nodded back, oddly proud of the recognition - Viktor was a world-class seeker after all.
"That, and 'arry's crazy stunts. I've known racers like that, but they tend to crash a lot. And sometimes crash others." Fleur's smile had stayed, but her tone had shifted towards more serious. Hermione nodded in agreement, and under their twin glares, even Harry seemed to cave. A bit. But that probably was just his dislike of hurting others - he seemed fine with risking his own health, the idiot.
Hermione waved her wand and summoned the snack tray to her, busying herself with checking the selection in case some food needed to be restocked to hide her exasperation. Judging by the hand on her shoulder and the brief apologetic smile when she sat back down again next to Harry, he had noticed anyway.
After that the group finally switched from discussing suicidal flying and racing to more comfortable - at least for her - topics.
"It is a bit vexing that whenever I think I 'ave adapted to the British culture, I quickly find out I 'aven't." Fleur commented with a slight pout.
"Oh?" Ron, who had been a bit nervous at the start - Hermione wasn't sure why he'd be nervous - cocked his head sideways. As the only one present who was raised in Wizarding Britain, he probably was curious to see if Fleur's experiences paralleled Hermione and Harry's, years ago. Hermione herself surely was. Curious, that is.
"Yes. I know that in Britain, there's only one 'ead of family per family. Unlike France, where the duties are split between the parents. It might explain why you 'ave far more smaller families than we 'ave. But at the same time, you do have sub-'eads of families as well, though, or so I understand, they are informal."
"Sub-heads?" Hermione hadn't heard that expression yet.
"Yes. Those who are not the 'eads, I mean 'ead of a family, but govern their own children."
"Ah." Hermione understood now. "It's informal, yes." It wasn't as if the head of a pureblood family commonly took over raising children not his or her own. That was generally left to the parents, though she had heard of exceptions, where a head raised a child chosen to become the next head.
"If they 'ave that possibility, why are so many leaving their families?" Fleur sounded honestly puzzled. Ron looked confused, as if he didn't see the problem. Hermione was slightly lost as well.
"Being emancipated in Britain doesn't mean you're cast out of the family in anger." Harry started to explain. "It's rather normal for the children of a family without a big fortune to start their own families, but they still consider themselves related to their parents and siblings. Generally only the heads of the richest families, those with a seat in the Wizengamot, have power over more family members than their own children."
"Ah." Hermione understood now, as did Fleur, Viktor and Ron. Apparently, French families were more like clans, and leaving it to strike out on their own was a rather harsh decision, akin to cutting all ties.
"I assume this is a sign of a more individualistic bent of British wizards and witches." Fleur summed up. Hermione, who felt that British wizards were anything but individualistic outside their choice of wardrobe, wasn't sure what that said about the French.
"Yes." Ron agreed with the veela.
"I assume we'd have the same difficulties when in Magical France." Hermione threw in. To make the fishing for an invitation less obvious, she added "I experienced some of that this summer, when I was with my parents in Burgundy."
Fleur didn't take the bait right then, but Hermione hadn't expected that. To extend an invitation needed a bit more formality anyway, and would likely be done by her parents. Probably after the last task, to avoid the appearance of improperly influencing a fellow champion.
"I for one am looking forward to the last task." Viktor changed the topic again. "With the standings so close, it will come down to who's getting through the task best there." It was left unsaid that the Bulgarian wizard expected himself to be the victor. Judging by the smiles on the faces of Fleur and Harry when they agreed with him, each champion thought the same - of her- or himself. Hermione almost sighed.
*****
Harry was back at Grimmauld Place for the holiday in the middle of April. Like with other holidays, as Hermione had explained in detail to him, the wizards had gone back to the pagan roots after the Statute of Secrecy had gone into effect, and what had been Easter break was now named after Eostra, an old goddess of the dawn. He still thought of it as "Easter break", and Hermione probably did the same.
His retainer wasn't there though, but had gone to her parents. Harry didn't like that. It was selfish, but he wanted her to be with him. He was her Patron, she was his retainer. He sighed, blaming the Patron Oath for it. She'd visit, at least.
Hermione wouldn't be the only visitor. Ron would swing by - anything to escape the Burrow, his friend would claim, though both would know he wasn't serious. And Susan had arranged for a visit with her aunt, later.
And Nymphadora was visiting right now. Wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt she had been badgering him with questions about muggle culture for an hour. Not that he minded talking to her, or about muggle culture, but… the metamorphmagus was as bad as Hermione on a roll when she got enthusiastic. Harry really wished Hermione was here, to take the brunt of the questions. She would know the differences between those rather obscure works Nymphadora was mentioning. Harry could handle Star Wars and Star Trek, and Dr. Who, but who had ever heard of 'Raumpatrouille Orion'? Or 'Valérian'? Or 'Le Vagabond des Limbes'?
"You don't know really anything about muggle culture, do you? It seems I know more than you do!" Nymphadora was frowning at him, pouting with disappointment.
"I do know muggle culture! I was raised by muggles! You're simply asking about the most obscure things! French even!" Harry was indignant. He had been raised in the muggle world, he knew what it was. The idea that a pureblood witch would know more than him about it was ludicrous.
"Those are not obscure. They're mainstream. Hermione would know what I am asking about." Nymphadora huffed at him.
"Yeah, but I am not… wait a minute." Harry narrowed his eyes. Where could Nymphadora, completely new to muggle culture, have heard of so many foreign works? There was one source, but why would she… "You talked to her already!"
Loud laughter was his answer, and he groaned, letting his head drop on the kitchen table they were sitting at. At least Sirius had not … more laughter coming from the door ended that hope. "What have I done to deserve this?"
"It might be more what you haven't done, Harry." Sirius clapped him on the back while he summoned a scone for himself from the tray Kreacher had provided for "the Metamorphmagus and Master's Godson".
"Don't start about that again, Sirius. I am not even 15 yet."
"Well, I started at…" whatever tale Sirius had been about to tell, or spin, was silenced by a the scone in his hand suddenly filling his mouth, effectively gagging him.
"Now, now… no corrupting the youth when I am around. You can do that when I am not here." Nymphadora was laughing while wagging her finger at Harry's godfather.
"Besides, I have another question. I bought a few muggle devices since I visited Hermione, and I need an expert to explain them to me."
Harry leaped at the distraction. Anything but another lecture why shagging was good for you. "Of course. What did you buy?"
Nymphadora reached into one of the enchanted pockets on her robe, and handed him a small bag. "Can you show me how to use these?"
"Of course." Harry opened the bag, and stared at a pack of rubbers, then at the earnest eyes of the metamorphmagus, until she and Sirius broke down laughing again. Bouncing the bag off her face only resulted in her laughing louder.
Harry retreated to the library. Blacks were all maniacs, he had decided long ago. Hopefully his own Black blood was diluted enough to keep him sane. Then he started plotting his vengeance.
*****
The week dedicated to Eostra was the perfect time to choose the sacrifice needed for his master's plans, Barty Crouch thought. A new dawn for Britain would be heralded by it, after all. Things were progressing according to schedule. He had all the ingredients needed for the ritual as well as the tools prepared. But he needed a sacrifice. A powerful one.
He was sitting in Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream parlor, appearing to read the Daily Prophet, which incidentally had not covered the attack by the owls on the third task at all, but in reality looking for a family with young children. A child would be the perfect sacrifice to restore his master. Innocent, and young, teeming with life and magic.
Dabblers in the Dark Arts, ignorant fools, assumed innocence meant a virgin. That wasn't true. One could be a virgin and yet far from being innocent. Barty had been proof of that himself, if not for long. He had enjoyed his Year of Discovery, after all. No, innocent meant untainted. A soul that had never used magic with ill intent. And given the leanings of young people, and the practises at Hogwarts, Barty was sure only a child that had not yet received their wand was likely to fit the bill. Given accidental magic, a baby would be best. Just to be sure. Though sacrificing a toddler to restore what a toddler had robbed his master of, would provide a large symbolic boost to the ritual as well.
It had to be a pureblood child, of course. To have the Dark Lord restored with tainted blood… he shuddered at the thought and ordered another bowl of Fortescue's Famous Selection, which quickly floated towards his table. He sighed with delight at the taste - that wizard really was as good as his reputation claimed. While he was enjoying the second scoop, he noticed that a family fitting all his needs had just entered the ice cream parlor. Young wizard, young witch, a baby in her arms, a toddler next to them in a floater. A flick of his wand had him listen in to Fortescue's greeting. So those were the Cattermole-Brandons. Not rich, judging by the quality of their robes, or the lack of it, but solid incomes. So, likely freshly emancipated. Their house wouldn't be secured by the powerful wards on the homes of older families. Perfect.
As luck - or providence - had it, the family chose the table next to his. Still in the guise of a jovial if slightly rotund wizard, he smiled at them. "Ah… showing the kids where they'll spend most of their allowance once they're a bit older?"
The Cattermole-Brandons laughed at his weak joke. "Oh, we're here for us, we just love ice cream. Though I am sure our children inherited the taste for it from us as well." The man explained while using his wand to pull out the chair for his wife.
She smiled while she sat down and adjusted the baby on her arm. "We met here for the first time, as kids. And it was where we had our first date as well. And where he proposed. Its tied to so many happy moments in our lives…"
"And Fortescue's does make the best ice cream." Barty nodded with a broad smile while he silently tagged them with tracking charms. "What are their names?"
"Mykew and Delia." The proud mother answered.
"Beautiful names." Barty nodded, and returned his attention to his newspaper. Once he had finished his own bowl, sent a galleon over to Fortescue, and left the parlor. He'd check the home of the Cattermole-Brandons and the wards protecting it later. He had a few shops to visit as well, and runes to prepare. After all, the last task was coming up soon, and he had a surprise to prepare. It was a long shot, but given what he knew about the security of the tournament, and the work ethics - or lack thereof - of the Ministry department in charge of organizing it, it was entirely possible the Dark Lord would be restored to a country that had just lost their boy hero.
*****
Hermione snickered, reading Nymphadora's letter. Her mother, sitting across from her on the couch and reading the Times, looked up.
"Harry fell for the prank, mum." Hermione explained.
"The one you and Miss Black-Tonks planned?"
"Exactly. She had him going for an hour until he wised up." Hermione giggled at the thought.
"And you had her prepare for it for hours. And made her buy those obscure novels and comics you had her ask Harry about." There was a slight, tiny hint of disapproval in her mother's voice.
"She wanted to know about more than just mainstream culture." Hermione defended herself.
"After you had explained what mainstream was. In a slightly biased way, if I may remark."
"Well… I like to think of it as getting back at her for a prank of hers." Hermione smiled. It hadn't actually been a prank, but a remark about Sirius' prank at Yuletide. The young witch didn't want to explain the details to her parents though. She didn't want them picturing Harry having their daughter literally leashed. They didn't know exactly how much power Harry had over her. Back when he had become her Patron, she had not explained the magical oath, nor all of the legal consequences. They still had no idea that as far the Wizarding World was concerned, the Grangers had lost custody of their daughter years ago.
Her parents had remarked a few times that Hermione was ready to drop anything when Harry called. Fortunately they attributed it to a crush, or maybe a fancy, and not to magical compulsion. But it was a can of worms best avoided. Explaining the Year of Discovery, even without going into details, would be bad enough. Sirius' fondness of sexual innuendo, especially aimed at her and Harry, would not help at all.
Fortunately, the exonerated wizard was wary of spending too much time with the Grangers, or pushing the boundaries of decency in his usual way, after Hermione had explained - sort of - what exactly her parents did for a living. If she had emphasized and illustrated the drilling part, and neglected to mention the pain killers, well… she counted it as a prank as well.
She briefly closed her eyes. Sirius was really corrupting her. In more ways than that, judging by some dreams she had had. She pushed the thoughts away. She wanted to enjoy her time with her family. Today, and especially tomorrow, when she'd visit Harry.
*****
"My aunt almost didn't want to let me visit you, Harry."
Harry stopped walking, and turned towards Susan Bones, whom he was presently giving a tour through Grimmauld Place 12. He couldn't fathom the reasons for that. Did Amelia Bones still suspect Sirius had been guilty? Or did she not trust Harry with her niece? Did she think he was following in Sirius' footsteps? She knew him from their time at Hogwarts, after all. "Ah, why?" he managed to ask.
"She was worried about the amount of cursed items your godfather had handed over to the DMLE for safe disposal after he moved in." Susan grinned. "She seemed to suspect that was only half of all the cursed items Mister Black had found."
Harry smiled, if a bit weakly - he knew Sirius had not handed over even close to everything they had found, even if the truly dangerous but potentially useful items, as Sirius had called them, were now stored in a vault in the cellar. "It's safe now. I'd never invite guests otherwise, trust me." Hermione had been there with him, he thought with a small amount of guilt, at the start even, but he told himself that he'd never have managed to keep her away.
"That's what I told auntie, Harry." Susan smiled at him, then hooked her arm around his. "Now, lead on - I am curious how the famous Harry Potter lives!" She grinned, making it clear that she was joking. Susan didn't act as if she was overly impressed with his reputation, or fame, something he was very happy about. As much as Hermione and he had been working on building up his reputation, fame and money over the years, Harry wasn't happy with the effect that had on many of his supposed peers. Dealing with sycophants and what Hermione had dubbed "fawning fangirls" was often tiresome, especially since he had to remain polite, to avoid giving offense or hurting someone's feelings.
Susan though was different. And, even better, given her situation as the chosen successor of her aunt as head of the family, the possibility of a future marriage was not present. Unlike in the case of say, Ginny, Ron's baby sister. Ron had made jokes about becoming his brother in law, but Harry hadn't found them that funny. He didn't want to think about marriage when he wasn't even 15 years old! Hermione had agreed with him when they had discussed that in private. That was why she had proposed he ask Susan to the Yule Ball, of course.
And she had been right. With Susan Harry didn't feel tense, or even awkward. Unless of course her aunt was present - Madam Bones was a very impressive witch. Sirius called her scary.
"And this is my room." Harry opened the door to his room with an exaggerated gesture, as if presenting a treasure vault. Susan giggled, and made a show of carefully stepping inside, as if she was suspecting a trap.
"Hm… where's Hermione's bed?" the redhead was looking around, then cocked her head at Harry's admittedly oversized canopy bed. "Hmmm."
"She doesn't sleep with me! I mean, she doesn't sleep in my room." He would not want her to sleep in his room either, some - disturbing - dreams notwithstanding.
Susan giggled, then patted his shoulder. "I know, Harry. But I had to ask, or Hannah would never forgive me." She stepped over to his desk, looking at the muggle writing utensils laid out there with unveiled curiosity. "Besides, as traditional as you two are, even I wasn't sure you'd not have chosen the traditional sleeping arrangements for a Patron and their retainer."
Harry stared at her. He was quite aware of what those arrangements were, Sirius had taken pleasure in telling him all about them. And their deranged elf had even asked if he wanted his room rearranged "to keep Master's Godson's Slave". Harry hadn't wanted to know what Kreacher had meant with that, and still didn't want to know. Susan giggled again. The witch had a sense of humor that would serve her well with Sirius and Tonks, though hers was quite a bit more refined in comparison to those two. And, well, more gentle too.
He was still quite relieved when Susan stopped the teasing and asked about the pen and paper he had on his desk. He picked up the fountain pen and showed it to her. She reacted like most wizards - impressed in that patronizing way at what muggles managed to create without magic. But she did seem genuinely interested. He wished he could show her a computer. Maybe next time he visited the Grangers, he could ask to bring her along? She and Hermione got along well, after all.
*****
Draco Malfoy was lounging in the Slytherin common room, feeling restless. His vacation hadn't met his expectations. He had hoped to help his father fight mudbloods and blood traitors, but nothing of the sort had happened. Instead, his father had spent the vacation at the mansion, questioning Draco about the unimportant happenings at school. Like he had done over Yuletide. back then Draco had assumed this was a punishment for using a family curse in the dueling competition, but surely that was in the past now, forgotten?
And yet his father had not even mentioned any further plans, had even told him to be silent when he had asked about the cause. And his mother had not helped him either! Draco didn't understand why his father had become so… cautious. Not after his bold, magnificent actions at the World Cup. It was as if the head of the Malfoy family regretted those events.
Draco had scorned that thought. His father was powerful and cunning, he'd not feel remorse for doing what needed to be done to further the Dark Lord's cause. And his mother hadn't found any trace of a confundus spell or compulsion charm on either of them. Who'd dare to hex his father anyway? Sighing loudly, he pushed the thoughts away. It didn't do any good to dwell on past problems, Pansy had told him that many times. 'Look forward, forget the past' was sound advice indeed!
Thinking of Pansy, shouldn't she be back already from her errand, whatever it was? Just as he was about to get up and look for his wayward girlfriend, the door to the common room opened and she stepped inside - then turned to say something to a Durmstrang student who apparently had walked her to the dorm. Draco frowned - Pansy was his girlfriend. Not that he thought anything untoward had happened, she was far too loyal for such.
"Doesn't it look like Malfoy's been replaced? Parkinson might have finally grown some taste." Draco stiffened, then turned to the table next to him. The insult was spoken just loud enough to be overheard, but low enough so that to take offense, as any wizard worth his wand would, might be seen as listening to a private conversation.
Draco wasn't just any wizard though. He addressed the speaker, a 6th year student, Wilkins, ignoring the two others with him for now. "Did you mention my name, Wilkins?" he asked, his face and tone portraying the disdain he felt for the childish insult clearly.
"Just wondering why Parkinson dumped you." Most would have claimed to have been misheard, avoiding to give offense, it not apologizing, but apparently Wilkins was made of dumber stuff - or had forgotten his place. His family had some influence, true, and they were of the right sort. But still below the Malfoys in standing, and their coffers could not rival his father's.
"Ah, I was wondering if I had misheard. After all, it would take a quite remarkable lack of intellect to mistake a chivalrous gesture from one our guests as a sign of a dalliance. I wouldn't have thought it possible that such a person could be a member of our house, but apparently you just proved me wrong." He stared haughtily at Wilkins, slightly sneering even. And with perfect timing, Pansy arrived, greeting him with a one-armed hug that, while chaste, left no doubt about their relationship.
"Draco dear, is something wrong?"
"Nothing of the sort. A simpleton letting his own base nature color his perceptions." That hit home, and Wilkins stiffened. In any other house, wands would have been drawn and a brawl would have ensued, Draco knew, but Slytherins held themselves to a higher standard.
"I feel the need for some dueling practise. Would you care to help me with that, Mister Malfoy." Wilkins stated in a clipped tone.
"Certainly. I am always willing to help those who have not learned their lessons." His quip made Pansy and a few more chuckle, as it should.
They stepped in the middle of the common room, into a hastily cleared ring. The 7th year prefect sighed, but activated the wards that would keep spells from hitting anyone outside the ring. Pansy was hugging him, even placed a kiss on his cheek, for luck. Not that Draco would need luck, but it was the thought that counted.
Confidently, he stepped into the ring, flashing his wand. His robes swirled around him, the enchantments picking up on his intent to fight, or so the tailor had explained. Draco hadn't cared that much for the explanation. More important than such cosmetic spells were the protective enchantments woven into the robe - the best gold could buy, his father had assured him.
"You're quite confident for someone who was schooled by Granger." Wilkins sneered at him, no doubt trying to mask his deserved nervousness.
"This is not a mere competition, but a lesson in dire need of being learned." Draco scoffed at his foe, then glanced at the prefect. The older student sighed again, but stepped up.
"Bow!" Draco merely inclined his head.
"Wands ready!"
Draco's wand rose, until he was standing in a perfect guard position.
"Start!"
"Protego." Draco's first spell was a shield, and just in time to stop a hex from Wilkins. Grinning, he started to send some hexes and jinxes back. Wilkins had a shield up himself now, but Draco was confident it would not last long.
The two exchanged spells while neither even tried to dodge. Draco approved - running, or even rolling around was for mudbloods and muggles, not for true wizards who could trust their magic to protect them. Wilkins' shield spell proved to be stronger than Draco had anticipated, but he was confident he'd get through in time. He hardly noticed when his own shield shattered. But the look on his opponent's face when the hex he had cast, confident of his victory, was simply stopped by his protective enchantments as if it had fizzled out - Draco would treasure that for some time to come.
Then Wilkin's own shield was overcome by Draco's magic, after he had toyed with him long enough of course, and a body-binding curse took the student down. Draco was halfway into casting a flaying curse on his helpless opponent before he could stop himself. This was no real combat, just a duel. He was with fellow wizards, not mudbloods and blood traitors too. So he simply cast the traditional humiliating spells for such a situation - and added a bowel-loosening hex if only so he could make some barbs later about Wilkins wetting himself. Then he looked at the referee, signaling it was over.
"Winner by Incapacitation: Malfoy."
Draco bowed, if with less than his usual grace, and stepped out of the ring, into the arms of his adoring girlfriend while the frowning prefect told Wilkins' two friends to transport him to the Infirmary. He was filled with pride - he had just demonstrated that he was a wizard to be reckoned with, when he was not shackled by foreign competition rules and facing cheating mudbloods. That should cow those who had been nipping at his heels.
*****
Harry was watching Hermione getting ready for the curse-breaking competition in their training room. His friend had complained that she had not been able to prepare properly for the competition - she had wanted to train with a few of the cursed items still locked up in Grimmauld Place. But after he had heard about the accident a Ravenclaw student had over the break, when he botched breaking a curse on an item he had apparently bought cheaply in Knockturn Alley, Harry was glad that Sirius had refused the young witch. The student was still in St. Mungos, after all, two weeks after the break had ended. 'The only minor curses are those others deal with', his godfather had said, 'and as a Black, I would know that.'
In the competition they'd deal with harmless curses, prepared by experienced curse-breakers from Gringotts. Flashy but harmless. Though, seeing as Ron's oldest brother, Bill Weasley, was among those contributing, the results of a failure to break the curse would surely be humiliating as well, if what the twins talking about Bill was to be believed. Harry might even drop his planned revenge for Hermione's and Nymphadora's prank if his retainer was too badly affected.
Though for that to happen she'd have to fail first, and then the protective enchantments on her robe would have to fail as well. Harry didn't think that was too likely to happen - Hermione had been preparing as obsessively as usual in such situation. Even now, so close to the start of the event, she was reading a book from a French cursebreaker who had worked in Egypt in the 18th Century. Harry thought finding out just how exactly that had come to pass, given the relations between Magical France and the Ottoman Empire at the time, would be more interesting than the accounts of his work, but obviously his friend disagreed.
48 students, 16 from each school, would be competing. They started with the same item and curse. The 24 fastest would reach the next round, the 12 fastest of those would enter the final round, where the fastest would win. Should the curse get triggered the student was out. Literally out, Harry had heard from older students, in the final round. He worried about his retainer. Magic was not as predictable as it should be, she had said so several times herself. And there was an unknown assassin trying to sabotage the tournament. A wizard or witch able to manipulate the Goblet of Fire surely would be able to manipulate a few cursed items.
Hermione trusted the security provided by the Headmaster, or so she claimed. The wards would prevent any items with serious curses from being smuggled inside. Harry knew that as well, but knowing, and trusting one's knowledge, were two different things, as he was finding out. He checked his wristwatch. It was almost time to go. Acting on an impulse he stepped over and hugged his friend, who let out a surprised sound before relaxing in his arms.
"Good luck, Hermione." he whispered near her ear.
"Thank you, Harry." She patted his back. For a second Harry had to fight the urge to simply keep holding her until the competition was over. It would be hypocritical, given that he played Quidditch, or so Hermione would say. So she actually had said when the point was raised during their break. So he released her, took a step back, and smiled encouragingly. Then the two left the room and made their way over to the tournament arena.
*****
The arena was a flat surface this time, with marked and warded - lightly, Hermione knew, more to keep competitors from being disturbed by the efforts of their neighbors than to contain the minor curses on the items - spaces for the students measuring their skills in curse-breaking. She felt a bit outclassed, if she was honest with herself. While curse-breaking was an exciting intellectual exercise, and fascinating field to study, she had been interested in it mainly because of the synergy with spell crafting, her true passion. Not that she was not good at it, or she'd not be here.
She told herself to shelve the defeatist talk and calm down. She was here to compete, not to worry. Instead she looked at the item for the first round, still behind a barrier so no one could get a headstart. It was an inkwell. Probably cursed to splatter the handler with ink, maybe indelible ink too. That would mean either a variant of aguamenti, or a banishment charm, and some transfiguration, unless it simply used the ink in the well. Hermione shook her head. She was making too many assumptions, which could blind her to traps. Just because that was how she would curse didn't mean it was cursed that way.
Then the signal to start was given, and the barriers disappeared. Hermione cast a detection spell, a curse breaker's bread and butter. It allowed her to see magical effects and spells, but only a rather close range. And it made spotting anything further away, magical or not, nigh impossible. Those limitations had certainly cost many a curse breaker his or her life. She could think of traps that would use those limits, maybe combine a curse with a more classic mechanical trap… Pushing those thoughts away, the young witch started to study the item. She barely heard the roar of the crowd, dimmed by the arena wards. Apparently, one of her competitors had been too hasty, and now was out already. Instead she focused on the spells she could see on the well. It was not too complicated, but overlapping spells on a small object were always a bit tricky, so she studied it with extra care. There was the everfull charm, and a banishment charm, as expected, coupled with a color charm. All entwined with each other. To remove the trap and leave the everfull charm would require her to… suddenly she blinked. Why would they enchant the ink with an everfull charm? For security reasons, all items were cursed here, on location and under supervision. They wouldn't have used an everfull charm… she studied the charm again, recasting her spell to make sure she got it right. Ah! Another trap! That was an everfull charm, but with a twist that would affect not the well, but the one touching it, or rather, their mouth. They'd be spewing ink out as a result - for quite some time.
Shaking her head, she thought about her course of action. Canceling one curse would trigger the other. She had to either remove both at the same time, or remove the links without triggering the curses. That would take time, which she might not have. Taking a deep breath, she aimed her wand at the center of the entwined spells, visible only to her enhanced sight. "Finite!" she shouted, stabbing her wand forward. For a moment, it looked as if the spells were resisting, absorbing her own spell, then they broke, and she saw the magic dissipate, leaving just a normal, mundane inkwell. Above her a number - 14 - flared up and started to shine. She had made it to the next round. Looking around, she saw half a dozen students being led away, most of them either covered by ink, or spitting out ink. One though was both covered and spewing ink, and another had the inkwell stuck in his mouth. She didn't know how anyone could have managed that. She waved at the Champion's lounge, and Harry. He was too far away from her to see his smile, but she knew he could see her as well as if was sitting next to her, so she beamed at him, before turning back to her area.
The next item was placed behind a barrier again, a robe this time. A robe moving by itself, even. She smiled - this would be interesting. She would have to restrain the thing, to be able to study it. But using immobilizing spells on it would likely trigger the curse. She could, of course, cast a shield spell, and then study it from behind that, but that would make observation very, very difficult. A decoy might also work, but she hadn't learned how to conjure or transfigure something that would work as a decoy for her. Yet. The protective spells on her robes were good against hexes and jinxes, probably curses as well, but they would not do much about attacks by animated cloth, or transfigured or conjured animals. She needed to upgrade them, and Harry's, but she hadn't had time so far.
The signal to start came as a surprise for some, judging by the muffled screams and the dimmed laughter from the audience she could hear. Hermione herself was ready, and when the robe charged at her, she met it with an aguamenti that both stopped it for a short time and thoroughly soaked it - Harry hadn't been the only one learning to overpower that particular spell, after all. Before the cursed garment could recover, she froze the water, and with it the robe. A simple spell, and, as she was slightly relieved to find out, not one to trigger a trap.
She cast her detection spell again and started to study the robe. While the ice would not last that long, she could recast the freezing charm, but her competitors would not be wasting time either. An interesting, and more complicated mix of spells was revealed to her eyes. A dancing feet charm, as she had expected. A modified body-binder - she was wondering how many would recognize that one, she only did because she had experience in modifying spells - a tickling hex and a transfiguration on the robe. Too easy, she thought. There would be another trap.
"Wingardium leviosa." The young witch levitated the still frozen robe up, and started to slowly rotate it. Ah! That spark at the collar was not part of the transfiguration, but almost covered by it. It was a separate effect. A gag, she realized with a smirk. She knew that one - she had used it on Sirius herself, after all. But that left her with a cascading set of trapped spells. Triggering one would set the others off, and break the ice. It couldn't be helped, she'd have to do this the hard way.
Hermione refroze the water, just to be sure, and started to note down the sequences she could make out with the help of a dictaquill - a curse-breaker's best friend, she had heard people call it, and sometimes its records were the only clue to what had happened to him or her. There was a reason curse-breakers were so well-paid.
When she finally had the sequence down - hopefully - she wiped sweat from her brows, recast the freezing charm again, and started to finite, using her wand with as much precision as she could muster. One single sloppy flick or swish, and the spells would blow up in her face, leaving her dancing while wearing a potato bag and giggling into a gag. After the third finite she had to take a quick rest, her hand was trembling. She finished the last finite right before her ice had melted, and sank down to her knees with relief when the robe flopped to the ground, all magic gone. Over her head shone a bright "11" - she had made it into the final round, if barely.
She didn't turn towards the champion's lounge. Harry would be fretting, she knew that, and simply waited for the last round to start while resting. She did spot a number of dancing students in sackcloths, though. And a few wearing gags, and a furious expression.
The last item to be placed behind the barrier was a box. An ornate box, large enough to hold a head, she added, morbidly remembering some tales she had read in preparation for this competition. Not that that would mean anything, she could certainly expect expansion charms on any box. Maybe if triggered it would release a guardian creature? Or maybe it would suck the curse-breaker into the box? A shield was a good precaution, but not enough.
When the signal to start came and the barrier disappeared, she quickly cast a shield, then a detection spell. She followed up with a conjured rock which she transfigured into a cat, which she ordered to touch the box. As soon as the cat was about to put a paw on it, a flash went off, briefly blinding Hermione, and when she managed to see more or less clearly again, the cat had lost most of its pelt. She frowned. She might not like her bushy hair, before cosmetic charms, but she'd rather keep it than go bald. The cat had lost most of its pelt, not all - so it was not a hair-removal spell disguised in the flash, but something that really burned hair off, but weak enough not to do further harm. Almost a prank spell. She had the cat touch it again, this time squinting her eyes. Again she was blinded, but she had caught a glimpse of the spell. Another touch did not reveal any more information, so she dismissed the cat and cast a finite. Before her eyes, the box fell apart, revealing… another box, slightly smaller, and with a different design on the sides.
Another transfigured cat did not trigger any defenses, leaving her stumped for a moment. She couldn't see any spell at work either, but… walking around the box, she couldn't find any mechanism to open it. That would not make any sense though, a curse without the means to trigger it. Especially not for a competition. She had checked all sides but the underside… for a moment she thought about levitating it. That might trigger whatever curse it held though. Though she ordered the cat to topple it on a side.
As soon as the box started to topple, green liquid shot out from it, covering the cat and part of her shield before hardening into what looked like glue. That was some nasty little trap there. And the symbols on the box had changed, rearranging the sides so she still didn't see the underside.
Two minutes later she had another cat ready, and constructed a grid from conjured rulers, then had the cat push the box onto the grid, which she then levitated up so she could study the underside. She was grinning - it was a challenge. And contrary to real curse-breaking work, she'd not die if she made a mistake!
On the underside she discovered a keyhole. Or rather, a wandhole, it seemed. And inside the hole she spotted a detection spell, no two. One of them would check if a wand was inserted, the other would check if it was the right wand. If that was the standard wand-lock she read about, of course. But to find out which did what… she had a feeling that canceling both would trigger a curse, and canceling the wrong one would stop her, and trigger a curse.
She narrowed her eyes, but the spells were just too entwined, and she couldn't see enough details. It was a coin-toss, in other words. Hermione didn't like such odds. But then, it was just a competition. Taking a deep breath, she started to finite the right one, hoping it was the right one. She almost ruined her casting, giggling nervously at her own joke. No curse went off, so she stuck her and into the hole, and - to her considerate relief this time - the box fell apart, revealing another box. Shiny, golden, and ornate this time.
Just as she was about to send in another testing cat, she heard an excited announcement. "And Anton Iliev broke the last curse! Anton Iliev won!" She had not expected to win, but she was still disappointed. She was more disappointed that she would not get to solve the box curse puzzle though, and glared at the box while getting up, applauding a beaming Bulgarian student who made his way to the judges' area. She also saw there were just about half the of the original dozen finalists left, and a number of blackened spots where competitors had been working indicated they had not gone quietly, so to speak.
This time she did turn towards the champion's lounge again, waving. She had given her best, and hadn't gotten hurt. In this tournament, that counted for something.
Chapter 10: The Fourth Task: Earth
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macdjord
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"I'll need a model. Can you transform all the way, or shall I ask Sirius to drop trou?" The laughter stopped.
Seems odd that they would terminate the competition as soon as a single contestant won, rather than waiting until everyone - or at least second and third place - had completed it (or failed, of course).
turbinicarpus
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Seconding this, the Dueling tournament produced a ranking of sorts. It's odd that this competition gets cut off like that.
Prince Charon
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Y'know, I could see some pureblood girl using that to blatantly flirt with Harry.
Ack
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Perhaps the speed of passing the first and second trials counts toward placing in the third?
But I do agree. If Hermione had heard the announcement of the winner, it could go down to the wire to see who places.
Starfox5
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This is Tonks, raised in a society that's far more liberal than modern Britain when it comes to sex, and during a prank aimed at embarrassing Harry. She'd do that in a heartbeat.
I thought of that, but then, I decided against it. It would be more logical to have a ranking at the end, but even those Wizards are not too logical - they still play Quidditch, after all, even though it's often just a seeker duel. In this case, the competition traditionally only has one winner, owning to the view that "second place means you still die when curse-breaking". Which of course doesn't make sense since professional curse-breakers do not rush unless there is no other choice, and that saying means "It's you or the curse, you either beat it or die".
Hermione would not have placed anyway, she's not that good at curse-breaking. It was quite lucky that she even reached the last round - she was 14th in round 1, and 11th in round 2 after all.
It would (or will) be more like "Can you help me with those spells here?"
macdjord
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This comes up a lot, but I note that we see a grand total of one actual professional-level Quidditch match - and it ends with the team who caught the snitch losing. It's entirely plausible that, at the pro-level, teams routinely gain and lose 150+ point leads, meaning that the winner is not purely determined by the seekers. Plus, of course, we already know that point totals affect tournament rankings.
Starfox5
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I said Quidditich is often just a seeker's duel. Which most of the games we saw in canon show.
macdjord
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Quidditich at the school level is often just a seekers' duel. We don't have enough information to know whether that holds at the pro level.
Starfox5
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In order for the seeker not to matter as much as in the games we see, the various chaser/beater/keeper line ups of the teams would have to be far more unequal in pro sports than those of the Hogwarts Teams. That would be very unusual, in my opinion.
But that aside, there's more. To make the seeker matter less, one team has to be able to rack up a lead of more than 15 goals. Given what we know about the game, that means they would need to dominate the other team almost completely. And that means that the other team's only chance is for their seeker to catch the snitch before they are 16 goals behind. Which means the seeker duel decides the match again.
Logic dictates that Quidditch is a seeker's duel no matter how pro teams are matched up against each other.
macdjord
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It doesn't have to be unequal, just faster. If scores routinely top 1000, then it would be quite possible for one team to get a 150 point lead over the other despite being more or less equal in skill.
That's not a seekers' duel any more.
The final game-winning decision would be the seekers, yes - though I should point out that, even in the race for the snitch, the seekers are not totally independent of the rest of the game, since the beaters can interfere with them by sending bludgers their way - but the other players would still be able to affect their chances of victory by controlling when victory is or is not possible. Thus, it would no longer be a matter of 'the team with the better seeker wins; everybody else is irrelevant' the way it is in Hogwarts Quidditich. It would still be an odd game, by muggle standards, but it wouldn't be illogical.
Starfox5
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I think you're assuming a bit much in favor of Quidditch not being the mess we see. Especially the idea that professional Quidditch is so much faster than Hogwarts Quidditch hasn't much if any Canon Facts supporting it.
In any case, in this story, Quidditch is as illogical as it is in canon at Hogwarts, meaning, the better seeker wins the game most of the time.
In any case, in this story, Quidditch is as illogical as it is in canon at Hogwarts, meaning, the better seeker wins the game most of the time.
macdjord
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I'm not assuming this is so. I'm saying that it is possible it is so, and that it is just as much an assumption to say it isn't.
On the one hand, Hogwarts Quidditich is clearly, ridiculously biased in favour of seekers, and it seems reasonable to expect that pro Quidditich would be similar. On the other hand, 0% of observed professional Quidditich games were decided by the seeker.
In the end, we just don't have enough data to conclusively determine how professional Quidditich actually works in practice.
If you wish, for the purposes of this fic, to say that pro Quidditich is as broken as Hogwarts Quidditich, that's fine; nothing wrong with that; perfectly consistent with canon. It just bugs me when people cite Quidditich as proof of the canon wizarding world's illogical nature, based on the assumption that pro-level Quidditich plays the same as school-yard games.
Starfox5
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It is possible, yes. But I think it's rather unlikely. The canon facts point more at ogwarts Quidditch being close to professional Quidditch - there's no sign at all, no fan mentioning it, that professional games would be very different.
I'd not say "School Yard games". That's more like the Weasley's grabbing brooms and going for a few rounds of Quidditch in their backyard.
I see Hogwarts as (US) college-level at least. It's where pro players get recruited, after all. It's rough, fast, and dangerous.
macdjord
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My point is there aren't really enough 'canon facts' to make a decision either way. We see one game, and never get much commentary on how typical or atypical that game was, nor on how school and pro games compare.
It's still amateur players, selected from a very limited pool of candidates, fitting their practice around their study requirements, and using self-owned brooms of wildly varying quality. The pros get to recruit from all of Europe, practice full-time, and ride sponsored top-quality brooms. There's plenty of reason for school- and pro-play to be majorly different.
Indeed, consider that the seeker is the most independent player, and thus the most affected by personal skill and least on practice and coordination. Consider also that of the 4 house seekers, 2 are known to have excellent brooms (Harry with his Nimbus 2000 and Firebolt, Draco with his Nimbus 2001), and another has a quite well-off, Quidditch-obsessed father, and thus very likely also has a good one. This suggests an environment that heavily favours seekers, compared to pro-level.
Starfox5
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That limited pool is the same in every country in Europe. It's not as if pro level sports is only played in England, with the best Europeans playing there. Also, the whole Slytherin Team has Nimbus 2001 brooms.
We have no reason at all to assume Quidditch, who features prominently in almost every book, has such a difference between Hogwarts and professional matches. Sure, ist possible, but it's straying very far into "I don't like what this canon fact implies, so I am assuming there's a reason that it's not actually as bad as it is" territory. Which is a pet peeve of mine.
Godwinson
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One thing to note, about 0% of the professional games we see in canon being decided by the Snitch?
That was an outside bet. It was specifically called out as being highly unexpected IN THE FUCKING BOOKS.
That is all. Thank you.
That was an outside bet. It was specifically called out as being highly unexpected IN THE FUCKING BOOKS.
That is all. Thank you.
turbinicarpus
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Fair enough, but in this fic, you were changing the setting as needed to make more sense, no?
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Godwinson
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While still preserving the "strangeness" of the setting. There are real-world games that are just as poorly balanced, so it's not unreasonable.
Starfox5
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Yes. But that doesn't mean everything has to be logical or perfect. I am no expert for US sports, but Football (FIFA) was struggling for decades over simple rules changes. People even argued that blatant referee mistakes were part of its appeal, when arguing against electronic goal detection gear, until Blattner finally relented. Quidditch here is in need of reforms, but it makes sense that the traditionalist fans will defend it with wand and teeth. Or in other words: Quidditch rules do not make that much sense. But this Britain still loving the game, canon rules and all, makes enough sense to keep it.
Indeed.
macdjord
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Each house is picking a team of 7 out of, at most, a few dozen, half of whom are under 15. And that's not applicants, it's total talent pool, including the ineligible, incompetent, and uninterested. And, unlike US college sports, there are no 'Quidditch scholarships'. The student body does not contain a significant number of students specifically scouted and attracted because of their Quidditch potential. Nor is Hogwarts a 'Quidditch school', which students apply for specifically because they are interested in the sport.
The proper comparison isn't a US college team, it's a highschool team. A small, rural highschool, with ancient equipment, a fixed attendance district, no professional coaches, and nobody to play against except each other.
Yes, and it gave them a noticeable advantage. They also have at least one player who outright bought his way onto the team, and very likely a general recruitment strategy that is heavily influenced by blood purity, nepotism, and social connections, rather than actual ability.
And 'The books never give a good explanation for this, so I'm going to assume there isn't one' is one of mine.
Look, if you want to go with the interpretation that pro Quidditch is just as broken as school Quidditch, that's fine; it's totally consistent with canon. That raises a number of implications that you have to deal with. For one, it implies that arithmancy never developed anything congruent to game theory. It also implies, given the number of supposedly rational and intelligent adults who follow the game without complaint, a disturbing level of societal stupidity and institutional irrationality. (Or maybe it's something else. Maybe Quidditch is a 'bread and circuses' tool of societal control by the ministry/the noble houses/the muggle government/the Elucidated Brethren of the Ebon Night; they use clever social engineering to incubate and unthinking and irrational Quidditch obsession in wizards from a young age, and anyone who gets too noisy about the game's obvious flaws is quietly suppressed. Or maybe there's a strong undercurrent of traditionalism in the wizarding world, even among the 'progressive' types who don't care about blood purity; most adults realize that the only part of Quidditch that really matters is the seekers, but they just don't care; they continue to support and approve of and care about the rest of the rigmarole because That's How The Game Is Played.)
But don't try to tell me that it has to be that way - that the resultant stupidity 'is canon' - when there are other interpretations, also consistent with canon, which avoid that problem.
There are lots of other points where this sort of thing comes up:
- Harry's treatment by the Dursleys: Was he beaten, starved, and abused, and what we see in the books was the least of it? Or was he neglected, ignored, and tolerated, and what we see is the worst of it?
- James Potter vs. Snape: Was James an unredeemed bully, whose cruel and unprovoked torment of Severus eventually drove him to the Dark side? Or was Snape a nasty little bugger who responded to harmless but embarrassing pranks with dark curses fired from ambush and vicious rumours spread with malice, then held on to his petty little feud long after the other boy had grown up?
- The status of squibs and non-magicals in magical society: Are they shunned and cast out, to the point where even the clearly Light-side Weasley family 'don't talk about' their non-magical relative, the accountant? Or maybe they just don't talk about him much because he lives in Toronto and none of them have figured out how to dial an international number, so the only contact they have is exchanging postcards at Christmas?
- The Privet Drive blood wards: Were they powerful, effective, and necessary, protecting Harry from dozens of cursed items, amoral paparazzi, and outright ex-DE strike teams before his 11th birthday? Or were they worthless things, trivially bypassed (if anyone had tried) by attacking him at public school, and a totally insufficient reason to subject Harry to the Dursleys' care (either because Dumbledore's evil and was using the wards as an excuse to keep Harry downtrodden and under his control, or because Dumbledore's incompetent and didn't see the obvious flaws)?
And I have no problem when someone picks one interpretation to go with for a fic; indeed I expect it, since it is the nature of fic to go beyond what is shown in canon, which means you have to answer questions that canon did not. I also have no problem when someone espouses a preferred interpretation, one they feel is the most likely or the one they prefer to believe is actually the case in the books. But it really bugs me when someone starts claiming that their preferred interpretation is the only or true one. (I also dislike people who use interpretations that are not consistent with canon without acknowledging that they are AU. But that's a different argument.)
And yes, I tend to look for and prefer interpretations which give canon the benefit of the doubt. Which don't require the wizarding world to be massively stupid or irredeemably corrupt. Which don't require nominally good characters to be evil or foolish, nor require the enemy to be incompetent and puerile.
But I can and do read and enjoy fics which make other assumptions. (Though there are limits; I bemoan the paucity, these days, of fics which allow Dumbledore to be actually Good: flawed, imperfect, and human, but not ill-intentioned, incompetent, blinkered, or stupid. A man who, if not doing the right things, is at least doing the wrong things for good and understandable reasons.)
I also enjoy rational debate - point and counterpoint, objection and retraction, flaw and correction, arguing over what is or is not consistent with canon. So please don't take my arguments that things could work a certain way as claims that they must work that way, or that your fic is bad for assuming a different answer. All I'm saying is 'You have failed to demonstrate that this can't work, so my interpretation remains valid'.
The bet in question was that the losing team would get the snitch. In the interpretation I'm proposing, games would still almost always end with one team catching the snitch and winning. However, unlike school Quidditch, where the better seeker catches the snitch and thus wins the game regardless of how everybody else performs, pro games would often be determined by which team held a 150 point lead, when, and how long. If the other team has the better seeker, you do an early blitz to try to get a 150 point lead before he can make a catch, then switch to playing very defensively to hold your lead while your seeker catches the snitch at leisure. If the enemy seeker is very aggressive, you might try to get a 130 or 140 point lead then hold it there, in the hopes of tempting him into doing something reckless and injuring himself. If you're 140 points up or 160 down when the seekers spot the snitch and start racing for it, the captain has to choose between pressing for a quick goal to cross the critical 150 point boundary before the catch is made or focusing on interference (both body and bludger) against the seekers. And if your seeker exhausts himself in an unsuccessful chase, you might decide to go all out in order to claim a 150 point lead for a while so your seeker can rest - at the cost of tiring out everybody else and compromising your performance later on.
A seeker whose team is currently down by 150 would generally not catch the snitch, in the expectation that the scores change quickly enough that they'll have probably a chance to catch it and win if they wait.
Note also that this was a winner-take-all championship game. Krum had to make the decision to grab that snitch, knowing that it would end the game in a loss for his team, rather than holding off in the hopes of later victory. There was no points spread to reduce, no league standings to worry about. By catching the snitch then, Krum was conceding the game and the cup, because he felt their chances of catching up again and winning were small enough that the point of pride was worth it.
In order for that outcome to occur, a very specific set of events had to occur. If Krum had caught the snitch earlier, before Ireland had time to build their lead to 150? The twins would have lost. If the Irish seeker had caught the snitch (entirely possible; Krum was better but there is a lot of luck in when and where the snitch shows up)? The twins would have lost. If Krum had been slightly more focused on winning rather than salvaging his teams pride? The twins might have lost. If Bulgaria had managed a couple goals shortly before the moment the snitch showed up, giving Krum reason to think his team was rallying and had a good shot of closing the gap? The twins might have lost.
So, no, the fact that bet was a long-shot does not prove that pro games are often decided by the snitch.
I can't think of any major professional sport that is anywhere near as broken, in game terms, as Hogwarts-style Quidditch. The entire team except the seeker and, to a lesser extent, the beaters could get lost on the way to the pitch and the outcome of the games would be unchanged. :-/
Starfox5
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You forget that there are not many magicals to start with. That small pool is all there is for Quidditch players in England. They'll play their future teammates and opponents for 7 years.
I have given up on that, since the canon plot does not work with competent characters. Dumbledore is the best example of that - his plans and actions are just too damn stupid, and the plot rails are the reason for it. In his testament he gives cryptic hints to the trio that they may decypher and some weird items that the Ministry might not confiscate - although none of that would have been needed if he had given them the gear and explanation before he died, no Ministry meddling that way since it was a gift, not an inheritance, and they'd not even know about it. Also, his last year was wasted "teaching" Harry about Voldemort's pat - the grand sum of information he could have learned in one afternoon. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
Canon Harry Potter suffers from the fact that the plot decides the characters' actions, instead of the characters deciding their actions, which in turn shapes the plot. So you have smart characters on both sides acting stupid all of the time just so the plot doesn't fall off the rails.
Sure it remains valid - though it needs more assumptions to be explained than other interpretations.
If you can get a lead of 150 points, you have decided the match already, and you've completely outclassed the other team. That's the main issue with the rules: To score so much more, you need to have unbalanced teams to start with. And if you're so outclassed from the start, your seeker making the catch before you fall behind by more than 15 goals is your only hope.
That's not correct. The team has to be good enough to keep the other team from getting a lead larger than 15 goals.
Godwinson
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For a good example, look at Basketball or American Football, and now imagine that in order for one team to be sure of a win, they needed to score sixteen goals more than the other team. That is well outside the typical point-spread in professional sports.
And then, the Doylist reason? JK Rowling deliberately set out to make Quidditch as silly and stupid as possible, as a jab at people who obsess over sports.
And then, the Doylist reason? JK Rowling deliberately set out to make Quidditch as silly and stupid as possible, as a jab at people who obsess over sports.
Ack
(Verified Ratbag) (Unverified Great Old One)
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You want silly and stupid? Look at the exchange rates between the different coin sizes.
Prince Charon
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It's odd, if slightly amusing, that someone who is admittedly bad at math would choose prime numbers like that. OTOH, you can justify it as having some magical reason, though I think it was mainly done as a joke about the way British money worked before the change over to the decimal system in 1971 (predicted by the first episode of Doctor Who, in 1963).