Chapter Text
The Halloween Feast was always a boisterous occasion at Hogwarts, but this year surpassed Harry’s expectations. Giant pumpkins from Hagrid’s garden dominated the space along the Head table honouring the visiting schools: depictions of Durmstrang’s ship, sails billowing on an invisible breeze, and Beauxbaton’s winged horses flicking their manes as they pulled the massive carriage across the sky. Smaller pumpkins hovered along the room featuring scenes of skeletal thestrals, flying bats, and cloaked figures making traditional Samhain offerings around a roaring bonfire.
The tables groaned under the weight of a variety of dishes, including regional fare for their foreign guests. Blini and caviar, duck à l’Orange and gougères stood out amongst the less ostentatious shepherd's pie and Yorkshire pudding. Sharing an eager look, Harry and Ron wasted no time piling their plates with delicacies.
The atmosphere of the Great Hall crackled in anticipation of the revelation of the Tri-Wizard Champions after the feast. Yet even through the noise Fred and George could be heard recounting a rather embellished tale of passing the age line. Though their beards had disappeared, they transfigured cloth napkins into new ones for the enraptured first years.
Chuckling to himself, Harry glanced around the room, noting the usual House rivalries seemed to have waned. From the moment of their arrival, Durmstrang made themselves at home with the Slytherins, while the Beauxbaton delegation favoured the Ravenclaws, but the random pops of scarlet or yellow scattered amongst the other Hogwarts tables didn’t go unnoticed. Whether it was to keep up appearances for their guests or because whoever the Goblet chose as Hogwarts Champion would represent the entire school, Harry didn’t care.
It was just nice to see everyone getting along, for once.
As though reading his mind, silver eyes met his across the hall and Harry’s grin slipped. A mixture of uncertainty and hope bubbled in his chest as Malfoy’s laugh trailed off when their gazes locked.
Memories of the Quidditch World Cup months earlier flashed through his mind. The Malfoy’s in their private box, spines straight and aristocratic masks firmly in place. The raucous celebration of the Irish fans after their win, interrupted by screams and the chilling laughter of Death Eaters as they tormented the campers. Getting caught by his school rival in the trees with an emergency portkey in his hands, demanding he take his friends and flee.
“Go, Potter,” he hissed, slapping an opal button in his palm. “Get Granger and Weasley out of here. You can’t be seen.”
“Malfoy,” he stammered in confusion, shocked by the panic written on his face and the fear warbling his drawl.
Shoving him lightly, he clenched his jaw. “Thank me later, Potter. Just get the fuck out of here. Please, for Merlin’s sake, don’t be a bloody martyr.”
Nodding dumbly, Harry ran to his friends and told them to touch the portkey. Neither of them questioned where it came from in the wake of their terror, but his eyes remained riveted on the boy watching intently from the shadows as the sounds of fighting drew closer.
It wasn’t until they were spat outside the wards of the Burrow that Harry realized the button in his hand matched the one missing from the collar of Malfoy’s shirt.
Blinking out of the haze of memories, Malfoy’s expression turned contemplative and Harry realized he’d been fiddling with a button of his uniform under his loose tie. Instead of sneering, the corner of Malfoy’s mouth curled in a faint smile, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement. Harry returned it with a lopsided grin before ducking his head to hide his flushed cheeks and rejoined the conversation taking place around him.
As the feast wound down, everyone’s attention turned to the Goblet as the flames flared blue. The sconces along the wall immediately dimmed and Dumbledore strode forward as the first singed piece of paper flew out of the magical fire.
“The Beauxbaton’s champion is Fleur Delacour!”
A stunning blonde girl in powder blue stood with a smile to loud applause. Hermione rolled her eyes as most of the male population watched her cross the hall to stand in front of Madam Maxime.
“Honestly,” she snapped, cuffing Ron upside the head, much to Ginny’s amusement.
The cup flared again and absolutely no one was surprised by Viktor Krum’s appointment as Durmstrang’s champion. An electric hum of magic buzzed in Harry’s ears as the crowd waited on tenterhooks for the last announcement.
“The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory!”
The hall erupted with cheers as the Hufflepuff Seeker’s shock gave way to determination. Hopping off the bench, he took his spot next to the Headmaster with a broad grin.
“Now that the Champions have been chosen —” His statement cut off abruptly as the Goblet flared a fourth time.
Silence reigned as another piece of smouldering parchment floated from the goblet and Dumbledore’s fingers deftly caught it. Dread coiled in Harry’s gut as the Headmaster squinted through his spectacles before reading the name.
“Harry Potter.”
He shook his head frantically and glanced at his friends, only to find them all either glaring at him or the table. Swallowing hard, Harry stumbled off the bench at Hermione’s furious shove. Keeping his head down, he avoided the angry glowers of the other champions and their headteachers, completely blocking out the rest of Dumbledore’s speech in his stupor.
He wanted to argue he hadn’t put his name in the Goblet. How could he? Not even Fred and George bypassed Dumbledore’s spellwork, and they were devilishly brilliant. But the words stuck in his throat, leaving him mute and trembling under hundreds of judgemental eyes, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.
It was only as the group passed through the hall to the Headmaster’s office that he chanced peeking at the Slytherin table. Malfoy’s jaw was tight, and he wore an expression Harry couldn’t name, his normally cold eyes burning with rage. Harry cowered under his wrath, but before he could drop his gaze, the blond nodded again and he breathed a sigh of relief.
Count on a Slytherin to recognize when someone had been set up.
“Uncle Sev,” Draco called as he marched into Snape’s private chambers. Arching an imperious brow at his godson, he invited him to take a seat across from him in the chair by the fire. Sipping his brandy, Severus waved his wand at the liquor cabinet, but Draco held up a hand.
“Not tonight. Thank you, Uncle.”
“Skipping the Samhain festivities, I see? This must be about Potter then.” He harrumphed when the boy nodded curtly. “I can’t do anything about it. It’s a magically binding contract. He’ll have to compete or forfeit his magic, though I can’t figure out how he managed to get his name in or trick the Goblet into a fourth champion.”
Draco sniffed. “Be reasonable, Severus. We both know the level of charm work required to manipulate such an ancient artefact and bypass Dumbledore’s safeguards is quite beyond Potter’s skill. Not even the demon Weasleys managed such a feat.”
Leaning forward, he shook his head. “This is strategic. Someone in Hogwarts has an agenda.”
Severus paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. Oh, his godson was clever and devious and rarely wrong. The more he considered the possibility, the more obvious it became someone was acting on orders.
Draco was right—Potter could not have engineered this. He was targeted.
Closing his eyes wearily, he said, “You suspect an agent of the Dark Lord.”
“Yes. We know things are moving, have been for some time. The revel at the World Cup was just the beginning. This could be the next phase.”
Tossing back the last of his drink, Severus sighed, “What do you want to do about it? You know what’s expected of you.”
“No,” Draco snarled. “I do not uphold the fascist ideologies of my father, as you well know. How could I when you’re my godfather? Do you really believe I see you as inferior? Or Granger?”
The man startled, but Draco rolled his eyes and waved a hand dismissively as he leaned back in his chair.
“I don’t like the girl simply because she’s a pompous know-it-all, but even I can admit her blood doesn’t make her less than me when we’re constantly neck and neck in marks. Besides, Potter is a half-blood and the sole person responsible for ending the Dark Lord’s reign the first time around.”
Fixing his godfather with a hard stare, Draco stated, “We can’t lose the Boy Who Lived; he’s too important.”
Draco prayed the man didn’t question his motives too deeply, since they weren’t quite as advertised. It seemed an eternity passed as Severus mulled things over before he inclined his head in grudging agreement and Draco could breathe again.
“What would you suggest?”
“We keep him alive. By any means necessary.”
“I’m listening, Draco. Don’t keep me in suspense,” Severus warned.
Flashing him a smirk, Draco stretched out his legs and crossed them genteelly at the ankle. “We ally with him, of course. Well, the Slytherins and myself, anyway. You can maintain your disdain for him to keep up appearances if you prefer.”
Both of Severus’ eyebrows rose at that, but Draco’s expression hardened and he launched out of his chair, pacing the room while gesturing wildly.
“Everyone in that bloody hall wanted to rip him to shreds when his name appeared. I can understand the Champions’ anger, assuming he cheated his way in, but if anyone had just looked at him cowering beside Dumbledore, they would’ve seen his terror. He didn’t ask for this, yet the entire school and our lovely guests from abroad will be out for his blood.”
Spinning to his godfather with a snarl, he said, “He has literally no support. No one is going to ensure his safety in class or the hallways, much less during the tournament. A tournament that carries a high risk of maiming and death and none of those self-righteous arseholes gave a single damn. He’s the youngest in our year! The other champions are of age, yet he’s been thrust into a competition he can’t escape and could very likely die in.
“Where was the Gryffindor honour they’re renowned for when one of their own nearly collapsed in fright? There was no false bravado in Potter tonight; there was only fear. And we know a thing or two about that, don’t we, Uncle?”
His knuckles blanched on the back of the settee as he stared down his nose at his godfather.
“Yes, we do,” Severus answered gravely.
The fierceness etched on Draco’s features crumbled Severus’ resolve. His godson wasn’t wrong about any of it. The tournament was dangerous and someone entered Potter’s name for reasons unknown, though they certainly weren’t benign. And yes, they needed to keep the blasted boy alive if they were to have a hope and a prayer of surviving the coming war.
“You realize if you do this you will, in effect, be declaring your allegiance with Potter,” he cautioned. Draco swallowed hard but nodded firmly and Severus admired his courage.
He wasn’t as weak-willed as him or his father.
Good.
“Very well. You have my support—secretly, of course.”
Draco exhaled in relief and Severus bit back a smile.
“Approach Potter and make it known you don’t believe he put his name in the Goblet and that you intend to help him with the tasks. I’m sure I needn’t tell you to do so quietly, in case the fool tries to make a scene.”
“He won’t,” Draco replied confidently, rolling his eyes at Severus’ disbelieving expression. He wasn’t about to divulge how he stuck his neck out for the boy over the summer while Death Eaters ran amok. “But I will extend my offer of protection away from witnesses.”
Rising from his chair, Severus drawled, “See that you do and do it quickly. If you want him to cooperate, you must act swiftly.”
“Of course,” he said. “I plan to speak to him tomorrow after breakfast.”
“Good. Now, return to the dormitory. Find me after you’ve spoken to Potter. Good night, Draco.”
Nodding formally, Draco wished him good evening and exited the chambers with far less flair than earlier, leaving the man to his thoughts.
Choking on the tears lodged in his throat, Harry weaved his way to Gryffindor tower on shaky legs. None of the champions or the foreign dignitaries believed him when he pleaded his innocence in the Headmaster’s office. Which, to be fair, their scorn was expected. If the roles were reversed, he wouldn’t take the word of some snot-nosed kid with a propensity for causing trouble, either.
But Dumbledore’s warnings rang through Harry’s head like a broken record. He was contractually obligated to compete through the magic of the Goblet, or he would lose his magic. Not to mention the tasks themselves were designed to test the champions’ mettle in brutal and daring ways, famed for ending in death for many of the tournament’s previous contenders.
“It’s kill or be killed, Harry,” Dumbledore informed him sadly once they were alone. “The other champions are of age and they will be more prepared than you. I suggest studying additional spells and working on your duelling in your spare time. This is not a game, my boy.”
With a weary sigh, he climbed the final stair and stumbled to the entrance of the tower.
“Flibbertigibbet,” Harry mumbled to the portrait. He grimaced when the Fat Lady sniffed disapprovingly at him but said nothing in his defence as it swung open.
The silence that welcomed him was deafening, and he knew without lifting his eyes from the floor he was the topic of conversation. Crossing the room, he took the stairs to the boy’s dorms two at a time with a chorus of jeers behind him. Stepping into his dorm room, he looked up and gulped as the four boys he roomed with pinned him under a unified glare.
“How’d you do it?” Ron demanded, fists clenching reflexively at his side.
“I-I didn’t,” Harry argued. “It wasn’t me.”
The redhead charged forward, and Harry instinctively shrank against the door, but Dean caught his shoulder before he reached him.
”Don’t lie to me! Fred and George couldn’t get through, but you did.”
“I bet Dumbledore let him,” spat Seamus. “Always been the Headmaster’s favourite. Wonder why that is?”
Harry blanched at the insinuation, and he waved his hands frantically. “Merlin, no! I don’t know how it happened. It wasn’t me. Why would I want to sign up for a suicidal tournament, anyway?”
Neville clicked his tongue in aggravation, and Dean rolled his eyes.
“Because you’re Harry bloody Potter and rules apparently don’t apply to you,” Dean snapped. “We’ve been here from day one. Always taking a backseat to your adventures and watching the Headmaster make one excuse after another for you whenever you skive off to do whatever the fuck you’re on about.”
“TELL ME HOW YOU DID IT!” Ron roared.
Harry opened and closed his mouth in shock as Ron stalked toward him. His knees gave out, and he sank to the floor with an aborted whimper, heart flying into his throat as his best friend stared coldly down at him.
“We have a Champion. We don’t need you,” he hissed.
Spinning on his heel, Ron climbed on his bed and spelled his curtains closed. The others followed suit and noxed the light, leaving Harry curled in a ball with his terrified panting the only sound in the darkness.
His friends never lost their temper like that around him. Not since learning about the Dursleys and realizing he instinctively recoiled from taller, bigger men yelling at him. He never thought Ron or any of the other Gryffindors would treat him the same way his magic-hating uncle did. It shook him to the core.
When he was sure his roommates were asleep, he crawled on shaky limbs to his trunk, pulling out his invisibility cloak and the Marauder’s Map. Muffling his footsteps, he crept out of the dorm and wandered the halls of the castle, ignoring the sniffles that accompanied his constant tears.
His feet dragged as the hours passed until he nearly collapsed from exhaustion. He realized belatedly that he was in an unfamiliar part of the castle. Pulling out the map, he discovered he was near the basement, which meant he was close to the Hufflepuff common room. He definitely couldn’t be found there.
No sooner had he turned to leave than the Fat Friar glided through a nearby wall. He paused at the sound of Harry’s muffled cries.
Tutting kindly in the empty hallway, the ghost said, “If someone happened to be up and about, lonely and peckish, I would recommend a visit to the kitchen for a spot of tea in front of a warm fire. Look for the fruit basket on the wall and tickle the pear. Tell them the friar sent you and they’ll take care of you.”
“Thank you,” he croaked, grateful his voice was too raspy to be recognizable.
The ghost smiled. “Of course, lad. Turn left at the top of the corridor.”
Ducking through the wall opposite, the friar disappeared and Harry wasted no time following his directions.
About halfway down the indicated hallway, he found a massive painting of a fruit basket and grinned at the irony of the entrance to the kitchens hiding behind a still life of food. Double-checking the hall for Mrs. Norris, he reached out and tickled the pear, marvelling when a doorknob appeared under his hand.
“I love magic,” he whispered wondrously.
Entering the kitchen, he was met with a room that mimicked the Great Hall in size and layout. House elves rushed to and fro as silverware polished itself and dishes travelled in an orchestrated dance of wash, rinse, dry, put away. Removing the cloak with wide eyes, Harry stared in fascination at the behind-the-scenes hustle and bustle of the castle.
A loud crash interrupted the well-oiled mechanics, and he twirled at the sound, wand at the ready, but lowered it instantly when he saw a small creature wearing mismatched socks and a clean pillowcase.
“Dobby?”
“Harry Potter!”
The elf’s saucer-sized eyes were even larger as he stared, and Harry couldn’t help laughing when he kneeled on the ground and opened his arms in invitation. Dobby squealed through his excited tears and launched himself into the offered embrace.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, pulling out of the hug. “I set you free, didn’t I?”
His giant ears flopped when he nodded. “Yes, Harry Potter is a good friend to Dobby. Dobby is a free elf, but I is liking to work. The Headmaster is taking me in and giving me a job.”
Harry smiled. “That’s brilliant, Dobby. So Dumbledore pays you, does he?”
“Yes. Dobby is paid for his service.”
“How long have you been here? If I’d known sooner, I’d have come and said hello,” he said.
“Harry Potter is too good for the likes of Dobby! Dobby is not deserving of his kindness!” The elf wailed, and Harry soothed him with a wince. He forgot how a simple show of compassion overwhelmed the poor thing.
“It’s alright, Dobby. Calm down. You’re my friend and I say hi to all my friends. No need to cry about it.”
His throat closed when he recalled his friend’s reactions and those of his other housemates. Plopping on the floor, he sighed heavily and curled his arms around his knees, burying his face in the little hollow as tears spilled across his cheeks.
Cautiously, the elf reached out a hand and patted his shoulder.
“Dobby is sad that Harry Potter is crying,” he whispered. “Is Harry Potter needing anything?”
Lifting his head with a weak smile, he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have any chocolate biscuits and tea, would you, Dobby?”
Snapping his fingers with a broad grin, a perfectly laid out tea tray appeared with his favourite biscuits.
“Thanks. I know you have things to do. I should be okay now.”
Nodding happily, Dobby popped out of existence, granting Harry peace to drink his tea and polish off the plate of biscuits undisturbed. Casting a quick tempus, he grimaced to find it was half three in the morning, but he was too tired to make the sojourn to the tower. Scurrying to an out-of-the-way hearth, he wrapped himself in his cloak, mindful to keep his head exposed so he wouldn’t frighten any elves, and quickly descended into sleep.