Chapter Text
Nothing good ever happens on Halloween. Maybe that’s why a sense of trepidation has clung to him like a thick, heavy fog settling over the earth. He watches with bated breath as the champions of the Triwizard Tournament are selected. Viktor Krum from Durmstrang, Fleur Delacour from Beauxbatons, and Cedric Diggory from Hogwarts. He breathes a sigh of relief when the final name is announced.
Logically, Harry knows that there’s no way it could’ve been him. The Age Line prevents anyone under the age of seventeen from entering the tournament, so even if he had wanted to be part of the tournament –which he doesn’t; he’s had quite enough excitement in the past three years to last himself a lifetime– he couldn’t have put his name in the goblet. He’s going to have a nice, peaceful year and–
The Goblet of Fire flares to life a fourth time. It’s glowing bright red as sparks fly out of it, and anxiety crawls up his throat until it hurts to breathe. He supposes that some part of him knew exactly what the final slip of paper would say before Dumbledore reads it aloud.
“Harry Potter."
He’s going to be sick. Distantly, he’s aware that every single person in the Great Hall has turned to stare at where he’s sitting, frozen in place. But it all feels so far away that he can’t bring himself to care about that right now. His hands are trembling. How is this happening? Why him? Why is it always him?
“I didn’t put my name in,” he whispers disbelievingly. Wide eyes stare into a sea of red and gold that stare right back, open-mouthed in shock. “You know I didn’t.”
Professor Dumbledore nods to Professor McGonagall as he repeats, “Harry Potter! Harry! Up here if you please.”
“Go on,” Hermione whispers with an encouraging nudge.
He’s surprised that his legs don’t give out as he takes one wobbly step after another. He stumbles and nearly falls several times along the way to the Head Table, and it has never felt as far away as it does in this moment. It’s like he isn’t making any progress at all, and the eyes boring down on him from every direction have him hunching his shoulders and ducking his head. Harry’s eyes don’t leave the ground beneath his feet, too afraid that he’ll well and truly fall if he doesn’t put every bit of focus he has into putting one foot in front of the other.
Dumbledore… Isn’t smiling. Harry has never seen him look more unhappy than he does in this moment. His skin crawls at the disapproval hidden in those eyes, eerily reminded of when he’d ruined one of Aunt Petunia’s prized rose bushes by over-pruning it. He was only six at the time, but he’s never been able to forget that look.
“Well… Through the door, Harry.”
He’s going to be sick. Even Hagrid is staring at him with an utterly dumbfounded expression, and he wants to cry. He wants to scream. This is so unfair, and he doesn’t understand why it keeps happening to him.
Viktor, Fleur, and Cedric are all huddled around the fire, cutting impressive silhouettes against the flickering flames that only serve to make him feel that much smaller. He shouldn’t be here. His vision blurs.
Fleur casts a glance at the door, jolting slightly at whatever expression she sees on his face. “What is it? Do zey want us back in ze hall?”
He opens his mouth, but he cannot force a single word past his lips. How can he even begin to explain the nightmare that he has suddenly found himself trapped in? A single tear streaks down his cheek.
“Are you alright?” Fleur whispers. Both Krum and Diggory look mildly alarmed and uncomfortable, but the expression on Fleur’s face is swiftly approaching a sort of protective fury that reminds him of the enraged veela during the World Quidditch Cup. Maybe Ron is onto something there. “Zey sent you to fetch us, yes? Zere is no need to be so afraid. We don’t bite.”
The sound of scurrying feet behind him nearly makes Harry jump out of his skin, and when Ludo Bagman grabs him by the arm and hauls him forward, he can’t quite repress the flinch. “Extraordinary!” Bagman’s grip on his arm tightens even further. He’s going to be sick. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen… Lady,” Bagman adds as if it’s an afterthought, dragging him toward the fireside without a car in the world for his bruising grip or how Harry is digging his heels into unforgiving stone as if it will somehow save him from this fate. “May I introduce, incredible though it may seem, the fourth Triwizard champion?”
Viktor Krum straightens up, and any lingering hints of concern are washed away by a darkly evaluating gaze as he studies Harry’s faintly trembling form. Cedric looks nonplussed, looking between Harry and Bagman as if he surely must have misheard him and is waiting for someone to tell him what was truly said. Fleur, on the other hand, tosses her hair back with a faint smile and a tinkling laugh as she says, “Oh, vairy funny joke, Mr. Bagman.”
He wishes it was a joke. He really, really wishes it was a joke. Or maybe his whole life is all one sick joke, and this is simply another inevitable chapter of it. “Joke?” Bagman sounds utterly bewildered at the very thought of it. “No, no, not at all! Harry’s name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!”
“Well, zair ‘as clearly been a mistake!” Fleur snaps with a narrow-eyed glare. “‘E cannot compete. ‘E is too young.”
“Well… It is amazing,” Bagman says as he rubs his chin, smiling down at Harry. He’s going to be sick. “But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name’s come out of the goblet… I mean, I don’t think there can be any ducking out at this stage… It’s down in the rules, you’re obliged… Harry will just have to do the best he–”
The door behind them slams open, and a crowd of people pushes through it. Dumbledore, Crouch, Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and Snape all join them, and the faint buzzing of hundreds of students can be heard through the cracked door before Professor McGonagall closes it behind them.
“Madame Maxime!” Fleur cries out as she immediately marches toward her headmistress. “Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!”
Madame Maxime draws herself up to her full height, brushing against the candlelit chandelier as she scowls down at both him and Dumbledore. “What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-door?”
“I’d rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore.” Karkaroff’s smile holds a glint of steel that sends a shiver down his spine, and his eyes are like chips of ice reflecting the sunlight in a blinding show of fury. “Two Hogwarts champions? I don’t remember anyone telling me that the host school is allowed two champions, or have I not read the rules carefully enough?” He gives a short, nasty laugh that has Harry fighting back the burning acid threatening to rise up and out of his throat.
He’s going to be sick.
“C’est impossible! ‘Ogwarts cannot ‘ave two champions. It is most unjust.”
“We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore. Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools.”
“It’s no one’s fault but Potter’s, Karkaroff.” His breath hitches. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Snape has had it out for him from the very beginning, but this… Surely his reaction alone is proof enough that he never wanted this. “Don’t go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here–”
“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore cuts Snape off abruptly, and though Snape falls silent, his eyes still glint with gleeful malice. He’s acting as if Christmas and his birthday have come all at once. Acid burns at the back of his throat as he swallows harshly around a gag. Dumbledore locks eyes with him as he murmurs, “Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?”
“No.”
Dumbledore ignores Snape’s quiet noise of disbelief to ask, “Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?”
“No…!” He hates the way his voice cracks around the word, choking on a sob that he barely bites back. Harry has never felt less like a Gryffindor than he does in this moment. This fear is too all-consuming for any amount of bravery to take root in it.
He’s going to be sick.
“Ah, but of course ‘e is lying!” Madame Maxime cries. Snape’s lips curl in a cruel sneer that he can barely make out through the tears blurring his vision, and he cannot stop the slow, constant stream of them that travel down his skin.
“He could not have crossed the Age Line,” Professor McGonagall disagrees firmly. “I’m sure we are all agreed on that–
“Dumbly-door must ‘ave made a mistake wiz ze line.”
“It is possible, of course.”
“Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!” Professor McGonagall says angrily. “Really, what nonsense! Harry could not have crossed that line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that he did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I’m sure that should be good enough for everybody else!” She shoots a very angry glare at Snape.
“Mr. Crouch… Mr. Bagman.” Karkaroff’s voice sends another shudder down his spine, though this time for the oily, greasy quality of it that reminds him of Snape’s hair. “You are our, er, objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?”
“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”
“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front!” Bagman says with a beaming smile, turning to face the foreign headmasters and nodding his head as if the matter is now closed.
“I insist upon submitting the names of the rest of my students.” Karkaroff’s face is twisted in a very ugly expression, indeed. “You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It’s only fair, Dumbledore.”
“But Karkaroff, it doesn’t work like that,” Bagman protests. “The Goblet of Fire’s just gone out. It won’t reignite until the start of the next tournament–”
“–In which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing! After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!”
“Empty threat, Karkaroff,” a voice growls from near the door. “You can’t leave your champion now. He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?”
“Convenient?” Karkaroff echoes with a scoff. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Moody.”
“Don’t you?” Moody murmurs quietly, and Harry is so relieved that at least someone understands what’s really happening here. “It’s very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter’s name in that goblet knowing he’d have to compete if it came out.”
“Evidently, someone ‘oo wished to give ‘Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!”
“I quite agree, Madame Maxime,” Karkaroff concurs with a bow. “I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards–”
“If anyone’s got reason to complain, it’s Potter,” Moody growls. “But… Funny thing, I don’t hear him saying a word.”
“‘Ow could ‘e?!” Fleur snaps with a sharp glare at the bickering adults around them, gesturing sharply in his direction. “Look at ‘im! ‘E’s terrified!!”
He doesn’t have to see his face to know that it’s a mess of tears and snot as he trembles silently. ‘I’m going into shock,’ he realizes distantly. Everything feels fuzzy around the edges, and he’s quite certain that if he takes a single step, he’s going to collapse. He can’t breathe. He’s going to be sick.
This time, the acid burns and burns until it forces its way out of his mouth with a wretched gag. A dainty hand rubs circles on his back, and though the slightly pointed tips of Fleur’s fingernails look nothing like his aunt’s, he still flinches minutely. “It is going to be okay,” she murmurs. “It is not your fault. Zere must be somezing zhat we can–”
“There isn’t,” Moody cuts off firmly with a shake of his head. “It’s what makes this plan so clever. Clearly, someone is hoping to off Potter without dirtying their hands directly. Makes it much harder to trace it back to them…”
Bagman rocks back and forth on his feet anxiously. “Moody, old man… What a thing to say!”
“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime,” Karkaroff scoffs derisively. “Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons.”
And he couldn’t help it, really. A hysterical little laugh escapes his lips, and once he starts, he cannot stop. Everyone is staring at him. He doesn’t care anymore. “L-Like someone hasn’t tried to kill me every year like bloody clockwork!” he sobs. “Ever since I got here, it’s been one thing after another after another, and now this?!” Every fire in the room flares with his outrage. Flickering candles burn down to the wick in an instant, and the fireplace roars higher and higher until the flames leave black, scorched marks on the stone ceiling. “Mr. Bagman?” Bagman startles at being addressed, looking somehow even more nervous than he did before. The sparks flickering around Harry probably have a lot to do with that. “What happens if you break a magical contract?”
Bagman isn’t the one who answers. A whirring, magical eye stares him down as the wizard attached to it murmurs, “Your magic is bound. Permanently. Meaning you’ll never cast another spell so long as you live. It is a fate worse than death for any wizard. One way or another, they’d succeed in being rid of you. You must compete, Harry. You have no choice.”
Doesn’t he, though? It’s not a good choice, not when refusing will only end with his wand snapped and being sent back to the Dursleys, but if he can find a way to avoid going back then– Is he… Really considering giving up his magic to avoid a tournament?
‘It’s not just about the tournament,’ a quiet, exhausted voice whispers in the back of his mind. ‘You know that.’
It still feels cowardly. It doesn’t feel like something a Gryffindor would do, but part of him still wants to. Just to prove a point. If only Pettigrew hadn’t escaped…
“I understand,” he whispers after several long, charged minutes of silence. The fires have died down to reasonable levels, though there’s no saving the candles that were once hanging above them. A few globs of melted wax have already fallen onto the floor, and many more are likely to join them shortly.
“As I was explaining,” Moody continues after he clears his throat. “A powerful witch or wizard put Harry’s name in that goblet. It would require an exceptionally strong Confudus charm to fool the Goblet of Fire into believing that there were four schools competing, and I reckon that Harry was the only member of this fake fourth school. No other way to make sure his name came out of the goblet.”
“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody,” Karkaroff says coldly. “And a very ingenious theory it is. Though of course, I heard you recently got it in your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock, So you’ll understand if we don’t take you entirely seriously…”
“Those are those who’ll turn innocent occasions to their advantage,” Moody retorts with a menacing voice. “It’s my job to think the way Dark Wizards do, Karkaroff. As you ought to remember…”
“Alastor!” For a moment, Harry’s confused about who Dumbledore is talking to, but he supposes that Moody’s actual name couldn’t be Mad-Eye, in hindsight. Ugh, but he feels awful. He can’t blame himself for being a bit slow on the uptake right now. It feels like the whole world is swimming in molasses. “How this situation arose, we do not know,” Dumbledore continues, turning to address the entire room. “It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in this tournament. This, therefore, they will do…”
“Ah, but Dumbly-door–”
“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it.” She does not answer, only glares at him quite crossly. Karkaroff is livid, and one look at Snape is all it takes to know that he’ll be gunning for him even worse than usual this year. Just what he needs, really.
Bagman, on the other hand, looks utterly thrilled. The fireplace burns just a touch brighter. “Well, shall we crack on, then? Got to give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? Barty, want to do the honors?”
“Yes… Instructions. The first task… The first task is designed to test your daring. So we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is a very important quality in a wizard… Very important.”
Great. Fantastic. He’s already absolutely bungling this; Harry hasn’t been this terrified since he faced down the basilisk.
“The first task will take place on November 24th, in front of the other students and a panel of judges. The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands.”
‘I’m going to die,’ he thinks. ‘I’m not going to make it out of this one, am I? I barely know enough magic to get myself through classes.’ Really, the only impressive spell in his repertoire is the Patronus charm, and he can’t see that helping him very much here.
“They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests.” Harry feels as if a feather could knock him over. He has to fight down another hysterical laugh. As if he’s even vaguely worried about tests that he likely won’t live to take anyway. Crouch turns to Dumbledore and says, “I think that’s all, is it, Albus?”
“I think so,” Dumbledore agrees, looking at Crouch with open concern despite him looking only half as sick as Harry is certain he does. Everyone seems quite content to ignore that fact, with the exception of Fleur who hasn’t stopped hovering around him. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?”
“No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry. It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment… I’ve left young Weatherby in charge… Very enthusiastic… A little overenthusiastic, if truth be told.”
“You’ll come and have a drink before you go, at least?” Dumbledore asks imploringly.
“Come on, Barty, I’m staying!” Bagman cheers brightly. “It’s all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting than at the office!”
“I think not, Ludo.”
“Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, a nightcap?”
But Madame Maxime has already wrapped her arm around Fleur as she ushers her out of the room, the two of them speaking rapid French that makes his head spin. Fleur glances back with a wobbly little smile that tells him that she at least isn’t angry with him. Probably. Karkaroff beckons for Viktor to follow him, and they, too, leave the room, though it is in dead silence.
Dumbledore clears his throat. “Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed. I am sure Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are wanting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent cause to make a great deal of mess and noise.”
That is the literal last thing that Harry wants to do right now, but the way Dumbledore says it makes it clear that this isn’t a suggestion. And as much as he might want to, he can’t avoid the others forever.
Harry glances at Cedric, and the two of them leave together. The Great Hall is utterly deserted now, and the low light from burnt-out candles gives the jack-o-lanterns a distinctly eerie quality. “So,” Cedric says with a strained smile. “We’re playing against each other again!”
“I suppose…”
“So, tell me… How did you get your name in?”
And… What? He has to be joking, right? He’s almost flattered that Cedric thinks he’s that good of an actor, but it’s overridden by a flare of irritation that has him grinding his teeth. “I didn’t,” he repeats firmly as he glares up at him. “I didn’t put it in. I was telling the truth.”
“Ah… Okay.” He doesn’t believe him. It could not be more apparent that he doesn’t believe him. Harry is getting a sickly feeling of dread that creeps up his throat like vomit, and he wonders if he’s going to be sick again. “Well… See you, then.”
He watches Cedric go with a weary sigh. Is anyone going to believe him? Ron and Hermione, surely, but beyond that… This is going to be second year all over again, isn’t it? He almost doesn’t go back to his dorm. He really doesn’t want to. But the Invisibility Cloak is currently stashed inside his trunk, and if he’s going to wander around the castle until it feels a bit less like his heart is going to beat straight out of his chest, then he’s going to do it while hidden from sight.
Harry hardly registers the stairs beneath his feet, and he finds himself quite startled to suddenly be faced with the Fat Lady’s portrait. Only, she’s not alone right now, and he has no doubt that the portraits have already spread what happened tonight across the entire castle. Both the Fat Lady and her visitor are looking down at him with keen interest.
“Well, well, well. Violet’s just told me everything. Who’s just been chosen as school champion, then?”
He is not in the mood for this. “Balderdash.”
“It most certainly isn’t!” the pale witch cries out.
“No, no, Vi, it’s the password,” the Fat Lady reassures her… Friend? Her portrait swings open to allow Harry entrance into the common room, and forcing himself to take those few final steps takes all the bravery he has left in him.
The blast of noise that assaults his ears nearly bowls him over. Next thing he knows, he’s being dragged inside the common room by about a dozen pairs of hands, and not a single one of them pays any mind to the way he flinches or how his skin crawls as he’s manhandled into the middle of the crowd. Maybe he is going to be sick again. Everyone is screaming, applauding, and whistling, and Harry wishes more than anything that he could disappear right now.
“You should’ve told us you’d entered!” Fred bellows. He looks half annoyed and half deeply impressed, and that sick feeling only grows stronger. Surely he knows that Harry would never–
“How did you do it without getting a beard? Brilliant!” George roars.
“I… I didn’t. I think someone–”
But Angelina swoops down on him before he can even begin to explain. “Oh, if it couldn’t be me, at least it’s a Gryffindor–”
“You’ll be able to pay back Diggory for that last Quidditch match, Harry!” Katie Bell shouts with a blinding grin.
“We’ve got food, Harry, come and have some–”
“I’m not hungry.” He’s going to throw up if he tries to force anything down right now. “I had enough at the feast–”
But no one is listening to him. No one wants to hear that he isn’t hungry, no one wants to hear that he didn’t put his name in the goblet, and not a single person in the room seems to notice that the very last thing he wants to do is celebrate the fact that his name came out of it.
He wonders if he made the wrong choice back then. Talking the hat out of putting him in Slytherin, that is. It’s only a fleeting thought –he dreads the thought of having to deal with Snape even more than he already does, and it isn’t as if the Slytherins like him– but… They likely would’ve seen that something is wrong here, right? Slytherins are supposed to be cunning like that. Maybe they would understand that…
Harry is absolutely surrounded by people, and he has never felt more alone in his life.
Lee Jordan manages to pull a Gryffindor banner out from somewhere, draping it over Harry’s shoulders like a cloak. It only serves to make him feel even less like he belongs. Because a Gryffindor would be happy about this, wouldn’t they? Everyone else is. But Harry is just… Horrified. Queasy. He wants to be alone. But every time he tries to leave, the crowd around him closes ranks, forces another butterbeer into his trembling hands, and starts interrogating him about how he got past Dumbledore’s Age Line all over again. They don’t even notice when he drops the mug, spilling butterbeer all over the carpet.
“I didn’t,” he repeats over and over, growing increasingly desperate by the minute. “I don’t know what happened!”
But for all the notice they took of him, he may as well have not answered at all.
He manages to last all of half an hour before he’s well and truly had it, snapping as the fireplace flares once more. The cheering is cut off by a few startled screams by those sober enough to notice it. “I’m tired!” he shouts, though it sounds far more like a sob to his own ears. “No! Seriously, George, I’m going to bed–”
Harry wants nothing more than to be with his friends right now, but neither Ron nor Hermione is anywhere to be seen. He needs a moment to get himself together, free of grabbing hands and excited yelling that makes him want to collapse and curl into a little ball in the corner. He wonders how long it would take them to even notice.
He nearly bowls over the Creevey brothers in his desperate attempt to get back to his dorm, but he manages to escape the crowd this time. They certainly try to stop him, but he just keeps walking –sprinting, really– and refuses to look back. He doesn’t want them to see him cry. It’s bad enough that the other champions did.
To his immense relief, Ron is in their otherwise empty dorm, laying on his bed and idly picking at the sheets. “Where’ve you been?” Harry asks, and he knows that he sounds more than a bit desperate as he does so. He could’ve really used the help escaping the others’ clutches…
“Oh. Hello.” Something about the weight in Ron’s voice and the strange tilt of his smile has Harry’s heart stuttering to a halt inside his chest. He’s distantly aware that the Gryffindor banner is still tied tight around his neck, and he doesn’t even bother trying to untie it, ripping the fabric until the gap was large enough for him to slip his head out. He chucks it across the room. “Congratulations.”
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Harry thinks despairingly. “What d’you mean, congratulations?” His voice is barely more than a whisper, utterly disbelieving as his best friend turns the same look on him as all the others.
“Well… No one else got across the Age Line,” Ron says with a shrug. His smile is definitely more of a grimace now. “Not even Fred and George. What did you use? The Invisibility Cloak?”
“The Invisibility Cloak wouldn’t have gotten me over that line,” he answers with a wobbly voice. This cannot be happening. Surely Ron doesn’t believe–
“Oh. Right,” Ron agrees easily enough, and for a minute, he almost deludes himself into believing that will be the end of it. “I thought you might’ve told me if it was the Cloak… Because it would’ve covered both of us, wouldn’t it? But you found another way, didn’t you?”
“Listen,” Harry begs as his vision blurs once more. “I didn’t put my name in the goblet. Someone else must have done it.”
Ron merely cocks an eyebrow. “What would they do that for?”
“To kill me, I reckon.” Ron knows how awful his luck is. He’s been right there by his side as someone tried to kill him every other year, so why does he suddenly look so disbelieving now?
“It’s okay, you know, you can tell me the truth.” Ron isn’t listening to him. Just like all the others, he’s already decided what happened tonight and refuses to be convinced otherwise. Refuses to even entertain the possibility that Harry wouldn’t enter himself into a tournament known primarily for its death toll against students three years older than him. “If you don’t want everyone else to know, fine, but I don’t know why you’re bothering to lie. You didn’t get into trouble for it, did you? That friend of the Fat Lady’s already told us all that Dumbledore’s letting you enter. A thousand Galleons prize money, eh? And you don’t have to do end-of-year tests either…”
“I didn’t put my name in the goblet!” But his shout may as well have landed on deaf ears for all that Ron believed him.
“Yeah, okay,” Ron says in the exact same skeptical tone that Cedric had earlier. “Only, you said this morning that you’d have done it last night instead of in front of everyone, and no one would’ve seen you… I’m not stupid, you know?”
That isn’t what he said. He said that they wouldn’t know everyone that entered the tournament since they could put their names in at night if they wanted to avoid a spectacle, but trying to argue that point is useless right now. Ron’s not going to listen. None of them are going to listen. “You’re doing a fine impression of it,” he mutters angrily.
“Yeah?” And there isn’t even a trace of a smile on Ron’s face anymore. It feels like the beginning of the end, of a rift growing between them that can never be closed again, and honestly, at this point, Harry is content to let it. If this is what Ron thinks of him after years of being thrown into situations that they were utterly unprepared for again and again –if he truly thinks that Harry would enter this tournament for… For fame or glory or money– then maybe they were never really friends at all. “You want to get to bed, Harry. I expect you’ll need to be up early tomorrow for a photo-call or something.”
He wrenches the curtains around his bed shut, and Harry stares in numb shock at the dark, velvet curtains that hide one of the few people in this world he had truly thought would believe him. They do not open again. There are no apologies to be heard, no promises to listen, and no indication that Ron is in there at all beyond having seen him beforehand.
Harry stumbles toward his bed in a detached, wooden manner before collapsing on top of it. Shaking hands nearly tear the curtains down as he struggles to wrestle them shut, and no sooner than he’s given himself a bit of privacy, Harry curls his fingers into the plush blanket that currently offers absolutely no comfort and cries.
He cries and cries and cries until his eyes are red and heavy with exhaustion, and it’s less that he falls asleep and more than he collapses under the weight of yet another burden that’s been forced upon his shoulders.
A small part of him hopes that he never wakes up again.