24th February 1995, the Tournament viewing pavilion, 9:47 AM
The bronze recovery-box had risen, drawn upward by the Department's careful surface-side recovery charms, and broken the surface of the Black Lake in a steady controlled rise that delivered it to the wooden pier at the eastern shore in the soft cold morning sunlight. Madam Pomfrey was there at the foot of the pier with a team of three medi-witches, four warm thick towels per Champion, two Pepper-Up potions ready in their dispensing cups, and the warmth of a woman who had been treating students for emergencies for thirty years and had no intention of permitting any of them to leave her tent until they had thoroughly warmed up, dried off, and changed into the proper warm cloth she had personally laid out.
By a quarter to ten, six Champions—dry, rested, in the clean dry Tournament robes of their respective schools—had emerged from the medical tent and assembled in front of the pavilion in their opening procession line.
Harry stood at the centre of the line.
He was, by every measurable signal, tired. His holly wand was tucked safely in its sleeve at his side. His feet, in the warm wool socks Madam Pomfrey had insisted on, were back to their normal shape. His hair was still slightly damp at the temples. The cold of the lake had not entirely left his bones; he could feel a small persistent shiver at the base of his spine that the Pepper-Up had only partly dispersed.
But he had made it.
He glanced sideways down the line. Cedric was beside him, also dry, with the dark dragon-venom-mark from the First Task still faintly visible along his cheekbone and a small bandage at the side of his neck where a Grindylow's nail had caught him on his arrival. Fleur, beside Cedric, was holding her sister's hand. Robert, beside Harry on his other side, had a small bandage at his temple and the exhausted-but-composed grin of an Ilvermorny boy who had been pulled out of considerably worse trouble by someone who had been under no obligation to do so. Adaeze was at the far end, composed and quiet. Viktor stood beside her with a relieved grin of a young man who had survived a kelpie.
Ludo Bagman stepped forward.
"Witches, wizards, magical creatures of all magical sorts—" his voice rolled across the grandstand with the full Bagman theatrical relish, "—the scoring of the Second Task!"
The audience, which had not yet left its seats since the box surfaced, settled into attentive silence.
Bagman raised his wand. The golden smoke began to form numerals in the air.
"Mademoiselle Fleur Delacour, Beauxbatons! For her elegant initial approach and her courageous recovery from the Squid-incident, a score of—" the smoke resolved, "—forty-three points."
A polite cheer from the Beauxbatons delegation.
"Miss Adaeze Okonkwo, Uagadou! For her bold attempt at Mer-communication, which the judges note was ahead of its time by approximately three centuries, and for her sustained excellent swim-form under pursuit, a score of forty-five points!"
The Uagadou ululation rose, warm and bright.
"Mr Viktor Krum, Durmstrang! For his sustained battle with the half-tamed kelpie and his composed arrival at the box, a score of forty-six points!"
The Durmstrang cheer was steady. Hermione, in the central tier, was clapping with her gloves clenched together.
"Mr Robert Thornwood, Ilvermorny! For his courageous breakthrough at the box and his honest tactical recognition that the solution was to clear the perimeter by force—a score of forty-eight points!"
Robert grinned. The Ilvermorny section roared.
"Mr Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts! For his Hufflepuff-typical instinct to assist Mademoiselle Delacour when she was in difficulty, despite the considerable cost of attracting the Giant Squid's attention—the judges note this with explicit warmth—a score of fifty-two points!"
A cheer from Hufflepuff. Cho was visible in the front row of the central tier, both hands at her mouth.
"And finally," Bagman announced, his voice rising, "Mr Harry Potter, Hogwarts."
The audience leaned forward.
"For his composed approach along the wayfinding trail, his efficient dispatch of the Grindylow swarm, his pragmatic decision regarding the Runic puzzle-lock," Bagman's voice rose another fraction, "and—above all—for his decision to assist Mr Thornwood even when no rule of the Tournament required him to do so, putting his own progress at risk in order to ensure another Champion reached safety—"
Bagman paused.
"The judges have unanimously elected to award an additional five points for what they have agreed to call—" his wand traced the smoke-numerals, "—moral fibre. A score of fifty-five points!"
The cheer from the Hogwarts section was the largest of the morning by some considerable margin.
Harry, in the line, did the small composed inclination of his head Ethan had taught him for moments of this register. He did not, exactly, smile. He was too tired to smile. But his eyes did the small steady warm thing as he looked across the audience and found, in the central tier, Luna's grey eyes—soft and bright, with the small contained pleased smile that was meant entirely for him.
"And so, ladies and gentlemen," Bagman concluded with the precise theatrical satisfaction of a Tournament announcer who had been hoping for exactly this scoring distribution, "the cumulative standings entering the Third Task are as follows. First place, tied: Mr Potter and Mr Diggory, at one hundred and fourteen and ninety-eight respectively, banded." A small precise pause for the audience to take this in. "Second place: Mr Krum, one hundred and two. Third place, tied: Miss Okonkwo and Mr Thornwood, ninety-nine and ninety-six. Fourth place: Mademoiselle Delacour, ninety-three."
The various delegations cheered. The Slytherin section was, by Hermione's precise observation across the crowd, almost entirely silent—save for a scattered hiss from the corner where Theodore Nott and his goons were sitting, which was, by every observable signal, not affecting the broader cheer.
"And finally!" Bagman boomed. "The Third and Final Task will take place on the twenty-fourth of June. The Champions will receive precise details one month beforehand. There will be no riddle this time. The Task will be revealed to the Champions in plain language."
Harry registered this with an unknown origin of ominous feeling or perhaps it was just the aftermath of surviving the Second Task.
'No riddle.'
The phrase, on Bagman's lips, ought to have been reassuring, was the opposite. No riddle meant that the precise Tournament had decided the Third Task did not require concealment. No riddle meant the organisers thought the Champions could not, by any reasonable preparation, advantage themselves over the Task. No riddle meant the Task was, by every Tournament-tradition implication Harry had read in Hermione's research-binder, something the Champions would have no way of preparing against.
A chill that had nothing to do with the Black Lake settled clawed along his spine.
He filed it.
The walk back to the castle, twenty minutes later, was conducted by two boys serving as Harry's escort party for Luna had gone ahead with Daphne as they promised to told Astoria about the details of the Second Task the moments it'd finished and she had repeatedly stressed not to let her die in boredom.
Ron, on Harry's left, had Harry's right arm slung over his shoulder. Draco, on Harry's right, in his Healer-apprentice mode with the brisk efficient attention he had been deploying with regularity over the term, had Harry's left arm slung over his own. Between them, Harry walked at the precise pace Draco's medical instinct had calibrated as the pace at which Harry's body could sustain the walk without risking magical exhaustion.
Ron was bursting.
"Mate, what was it like."
"It's cold, Ron."
"I mean Underwater. With Grindylows. With the Giant Squid. With a dome. Mate. What was it like."
"It was very cold, Ron."
"Mate, I need details. Did the Grindylows have teeth? How fast did they move? Was the box really an air-pocket? How did the Bombarda Maxima feel underwater? Did you—"
"Ronald."
Hermione's voice, from two paces ahead of them.
She was walking with Viktor's right arm slung over her shoulder. Viktor, with a quiet exhaustion of a young man who had been fighting a kelpie for longest he'd known and was now, by every visible signal, completely spent, did not say anything but his gentle, grateful glance never left Hermione.
Viktor caught Ron's question. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"The kelpie," Viktor began with a proud register of a boy who had been preparing his kelpie-story for approximately the last twenty minutes, "was a difficult opponent. I would estimate its magical resistance to be approximately—"
Hermione, with the gentle steady warm efficiency of a girl who had clearly registered that her boyfriend's exhaustion was deeper than his pride permitted him to admit, tugged his arm down.
"Viktor. Rest."
"But—"
"Rest, Viktor. Tell Ron about the kelpie tomorrow. When you have slept."
Viktor only smile at Hermione's stern face before letting his head settle against her shoulder.
Ron, registering the dismissal, pursed his lips and slid back behind Lavender, who—walking just to Ron's left with the steady warmth of a girl who had decided that her project of the morning would be making sure her boyfriend's nervous energy did not get him in trouble—reached up and patted his cheek as they share a giggle.
Draco, having concluded his medical check of Harry's pulse and pupils at the interval, spoke quietly.
"Uncle Sam, Sirius, and Professor Lupin send their regards. They had to leave before the scoring announcement. Uncle Sam was needed back at the Department for a meeting. Sirius and Lupin had a prior engagement at Diagon Alley this afternoon.
Sirius asked me to tell you that the five of us—Luna, Hermione, Ron, you, and me—are to meet him at the Three Broomsticks during the next Hogsmeade weekend. He said he wanted to talk through some things with us before the Third Task."
Harry simply nodded.
"Yes."
"He said he'd send the date by owl. Two weeks, I think."
"Right."
The castle's silhouette had now resolved against the cold pale sky ahead of them. The main doors stood open. A warm light from inside spilled out onto the snow-banked path.
27th February 1995, the Potions corridor outside the dungeons, 1:54 PM
Three days had passed.
The cold had largely left Harry's bones. The Pepper-Up had completed its work. Madam Pomfrey had pronounced him recovered.
The Hogwarts and Daily Prophet coverage of the Second Task had, by the reading of the morning papers, been the most positive Harry-coverage of the year so far—even the Daily Prophet, normally Skeeter's domain, had run a composed front-page photograph of the bronze box surfacing and a neutral article under the headline POTTER'S MORAL FIBRE WINS SECOND TASK.
Harry, walking down to the Potions classroom with Hermione, Ron, and Draco, had been registering the unaccustomed pleasure of three consecutive days during which no one had attempted to belittle him.
However, the pleasure ended at the entrance to the Potions corridor.
Pansy Parkinson, in her composed sharp-featured Slytherin register, was standing at the classroom door holding a folded magazine in her hand.
She had clearly been waiting for the specific arrival of them, and the predatory pleasure on her face as they approached was unmistakable.
"Granger."
Hermione, registering Pansy with a cold efficiency of a girl who had been ignoring her for four years, looked up.
"Parkinson."
"This is for you."
Pansy held out the folded magazine.
Hermione kept her fierce eyes on the Pansy, took the precise small magazine without unfolding it.
She glanced at the cover.
It was Witch Weekly.
The cover photograph showed, in the full-colour magical-rendering of the magazine's photographic department, Harry Potter at the Yule Ball with Luna Lovegood on his arm, alongside a cropped image of Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum at the library, beside a even smaller cropped image of Hermione Granger and Harry Potter laughing at dinner in the Great Hall the previous September. The headline read, in ornate magical script:
HARRY POTTER'S SECRET HEARTACHE
The Bushy-Haired Bookworm Toying With Two Champions' Affections — Plus: Is She Brewing Illegal Love Potions? Exclusive by RITA SKEETER.
Hermione's face, in the instant of reading the headline, went red of fuming.
Pansy's predatory smile widened.
"The Slytherin common room has been very entertained, Granger~ The full article, beginning on page seventeen, is especially interesting. It quotes a reliable Slytherin source on the matter of your potions-brewing habits."
"Parkinson," Hermione gritted her teeth, "you were the source."
"I am sure I have no idea what you mean, Granger."
"Drop your sloppy act. You were the source. It is the only sentence in any Skeeter article that has ever been correctly attributed."
Pansy's smile never faded in face of a fuming Granger.
"The wizarding press," Pansy said sweetly, "has its ways, Granger. Anyhow, I wish you a very pleasant Potions class."
She turned and walked into the classroom with a swaying confident.
The Potions classroom had, by Snape's careful Potions-classroom tradition, the cold of a dungeon room with a master who did not, by any measurement, allow student commentary to occur in his presence without severe consequence.
Severus Snape entered the classroom in his dark robes with a sweeping efficiency of a man who had been waiting at his desk for the arrival of his fourth-year afternoon class for the lasttwelve minutes.
His black eyes flicked, in the first second of his entry, to the folded Witch Weekly now visible on Hermione's open desk.
His thin mouth pulled into a feint, creepy smile.
He crossed to her desk at a glacial pace and picked up the magazine with precise hand-motion that permitted no resistance.
He turned, in the front of the classroom, with the folded magazine in his long fingers.
"Class," he said, with the dry tone he used for moments of maximum student humiliation, "today we have, in addition to our scheduled lesson on the Strengthening Solution, the pleasure of an additional piece of reading material. I shall, in the interest of contemporary education, share it with you."
He opened the magazine and cleared his throat.
"Page seventeen. Witch Weekly. By Rita Skeeter."
He began to read.
Harry and his friend could only stay still, begging the moments to pass by as quick as possible. Ron had to use every ounce of his strength to keep Hermione in place, soothing the fuming bull inside her—Ron later implied.
Pansy was cackling. Theodore was doing the Slytherin-snigger of a boy whose morning had now been made for him by the Head of his House. Crabbe and Goyle were laughing approximately three seconds behind everyone else.
Snape finished the article with a sneer.
He looked up.
"Granger," he said softly. "Potter. Weasley. I find that the three of you have been working in entirely too close... say, a proximity for the last four years, and that the consequence of this has been the unfortunate... distraction visible in today's reading material. Granger, you will move to the back left desk. Potter, the back right. Weasley, the middle row."
He swept his wand.
The chairs and cauldron-setups rearranged themselves in an obedient way Snape's wand-motions always achieved in his classroom.
"Sit. Begin your Strengthening Solution. You have ninety minutes."
The class moved.
Snape moved through the class for the first thirty minutes, ostensibly inspecting the students' initial Solution-preparations. At the thirty-first minute, he stopped at Harry's desk.
"Potter."
"Sir."
Snape's black eyes were the precise small steady cold register of a man who had been preparing his precise small line for the precise small entire morning.
"A quantity of boomslang skin and a quantity of gillyweed have, in the last ten days, been removed from the private stores of my precise small office."
"Sir—"
"The boomslang skin, Mr Potter, is a primary ingredient in the brewing of Polyjuice Potion. The gillyweed is a primary ingredient in the Tournament Task you completed on the Saturday past."
Harry, entirely innocent, drew a breath.
"S-sir. I have not stolen anything from your office."
"Indeed."
"Sir, the gillyweed in my Task came from a private source. You may verify it with Headmaster. I have not entered your office."
Snape's precise small black eyes did the precise small thing.
"Potter. If I were to administer a dose of Veritaserum to you, in the immediate context of this accusation, you would tell me the truth. Would you submit to such an administration."
Harry, with Esther-household instinct of if you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear from the precise small truth, met Snape's black eyes.
"If that were to prove my innocent, then right away, sir."
Snape's black eyes did not flicker. "We shall see, Potter. We shall see."
He moved on.
...
As the class ended. Harry, gathering his bag with the composed efficiency of a boy who had decided to leave the Potions classroom immediately, made his way to the door.
A swish of fur at the corridor entrance.
Igor Karkaroff.
"Severus."
Snape, from the front of the classroom, did not look up.
"Igor."
"A word."
"Not now."
"Severus, this is urgent."
Snape, with the composed dismissive efficiency of a man whose classroom had not yet emptied and whose fourth-year Champion was, visibly, still in the doorway, raised his black eyes.
Harry, with the composed instinct of a boy who had decided to not depart the classroom at the pace Snape clearly preferred, bent to the floor as though tying his shoelace.
He did not have shoelaces.
He registered that Karkaroff had pushed his left sleeve up.
Karkaroff was showing Snape his left forearm.
The Dark Mark, even in the distant angle of Harry's peripheral vision, was darker than it had been on the Yule Ball promenade. It was now, by every visible signal, almost black.
"Severus. It is almost complete. You must speak with me. We must—"
"Igor. Leave my classroom."
"Severus—"
"Out."
Hearing this Harry walked quickly out of the place.
11th March 1995, the Three Broomsticks, 1:34 PM
The private corner booth at the back of the Three Broomsticks had been reserved by Madam Rosmerta for Sirius's Hogsmeade visits since November. The large round table now held, in the careful arrangement of a lunch celebration, steaming bowls of beef-and-Stilton pie, mugs of warm butterbeer, a basket of fresh bread, and a bottle of Madam Rosmerta house red that Sirius had cheerfully insisted on, for the adults only.
Harry, in the booth with Luna at his elbow and Sirius opposite him, was smiling brightly and that the lunch had been one of the better afternoons of the term so far.
Sirius, on his third butterbeer with Madam Rosmerta wine still untouched at his elbow, raised his mug.
"To Harry, who has survived two Tasks."
"To Harry," everyone echoed.
"To Hermione, whose bathymetric chart did not, in the actual underwater register, prove relevant—"
"Sirius—"
"—but whose bathymetric chart did, in the honourable opinion of one Padfoot Black, register considerable scholarly intent."
Hermione, with the composed wry warmth, raised her mug. "To bathymetric charts."
The toast went round.
The conversation, after the toasts, drifted in the unhurried Saturday-afternoon way of a lunch among friends.
Ron told the story of the Strengthening Solution he had managed to produce in Snape humiliation-class without it exploding, which was, by Ron's registration, a miracle. Draco described the new Italian Mind-Healing journal article he had been reading. Luna mentioned, with the composed serene register, that she had been writing a Quibbler article on the underwater architecture of the Black Lake that the Department of Mysteries had been very kind about answering her questions for.
Harry, after the main course, lowered his mug.
"Sirius."
"Yes, Pup."
"Crouch. He did not show up at the World Cup either. I have been thinking. The absence is—" he paused, "—is now considerably longer than a ordinary illness."
Sirius's eyes flashed with contemplation.
He set butterbeer down.
"Right. Yes. We should talk about this."
The booth's atmosphere shifted by the fraction that Sirius's now we're talking tone always produced.
"Crouch," Sirius said quietly, "is the man who sent me to Azkaban. Without a trial. In 1981. He was, at the time, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He was, by every political signal, poised to become the next Minister for Magic."
"..." The four's eyes drilled on him hearing this as Sirius mention the grand history of Crouch.
"And then," Sirius continued, "two months after the fall of Voldemort, his own son was caught with a group of Death Eaters who had been torturing the Longbottoms."
The booth went very still.
Neville was not present, but the mention of his parents settled over the table with the quiet weight it always did.
"Crouch held his son's trial himself. Publicly. Refused to recuse. Refused to permit witnesses for the defence. Sent his own son to Azkaban for full sentence. The son died approximately a year later. Crouch's wife died a few months after that, of what the Ministry called natural causes, though by Sam's reading the natural causes were grief.""
There was further silence.
"The wizarding public, registering all of this," Sirius continued quietly, "concluded that Crouch had been a monster of a father. His popularity collapsed. The Minister-for-Magic position went to Cornelius Fudge instead. And Crouch was demoted—from Head of Magical Law Enforcement to Head of International Magical Cooperation, which is, by Ministry standards, a purgatory department for officials who have been quietly disgraced."
Harry registered this.
"And now he has been—" Harry paused, "—not at his desk. For three months. Sending instructions to Percy by owl."
"And Ron has just told me," Sirius said, glancing at Ron, "that you saw him on the Marauder's Map in Snape's office in January."
"Yes."
Sirius was puzzle.
"That doesn't make sense, Harry."
"Why not?"
"Because Crouch is a judge of the Tournament. Crouch is one of the five senior officials with full inspection authority over every Hogwarts staff member during the Tournament season. If Crouch wanted to examine Snape's office, he had full Ministry authority to do so during ordinary daytime hours. He would not have needed to break in on a Sunday evening. Which means—"
"—the visit was not official," Hermione finished quietly.
"Exactly. He was there as a private actor. With a reason he did not want recorded."
"Looking for something," Draco said.
"Looking for something," Sirius agreed.
Ron raised his mug.
"Igor Karkaroff. He came up to Snape last week. At the end of Potions. Showed him the precise small Dark Mark. Said it was almost complete. Harry saw it."
Sirius's face went very still.
"Harry. You saw the Mark."
"Yes. The second time. The first was at the Yule Ball promenade."
"And Karkaroff said—"
"Almost complete."
Following Harry's words there was a heavy silence.
Sirius drew a long breath.
"Right. Right. We do have so far: Bertha Jorkins missing in Albania. Crouch absent and behaving suspiciously. Karkaroff watching his Mark darken. Moody attacked the night before term. Snape's office breached. Skeeter publishing information she should not have. The Potter Stinks campaign. Bagman trying to help Harry win for reasons that—" he turned to Hermione, "—you, Hermione, have correctly identified as financial."
"Yes," Hermione confirmed.
"And someone we still don't know put Harry's name in the Goblet." Ron added as he put another pie into his mouth.
"The problem," Sirius said, "is that I cannot see the pattern. There are too many moving pieces. Your dad would have had—" he looked at Harry, "—may be able to. Right, I'll talk about this with him as soon as I get back."
Harry nodded.
"Oh and Ron."
"Yes?" Ron quickly swallow the rest of the meat.
"Write to Percy. Ask him if there is any news of Mr Crouch. Whether the instructions-by-owl arrangement is still continuing and if anyone at the Ministry has actually seen Crouch in the last month. Anything Percy will tell you."
"Will do."
Afterward the atmosphere brighten up as Sirius's raised his mug.
"One more thing. Before the Third Task. Ethan, Sam, Remus, and I will be at Hogwarts for the full week leading up to the Task. Verrona too. Your dad has insisted. We will be in the castle. Visible to you. Whenever you needed."
Harry's raised small mug. "To the the Final Task."
"To the the Final Task." everyone echoed.