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Dumbledore watched with amusement as Tonks continued to gape at him, her hair cycling through what appeared to be every color in the visible spectrum. The poor girl looked as though she'd been hit with a Confundus Charm, which, he supposed, wasn't entirely inaccurate given the circumstances.
This is almost too entertaining, he thought, carefully maintaining his serious expression while internally chuckling at her obvious bewilderment.
"I'm sorry, Professor," Tonks finally managed, shaking her head as if to clear it. Her hair settled on a confused shade of muddy brown. "Did you just say you want me to... train Harry Potter? As in, teach him magic? Like a tutor?"
"Indeed I did," Dumbledore replied smoothly, settling back in his chair with the air of someone who had just made a perfectly reasonable request. "Though I prefer to think of it as specialized combat instruction rather than tutoring."
Tonks blinked several more times, then leaned forward in her chair. "But Professor, with all due respect, why me? I mean, you have Mad-Eye Moody right here at the school. He's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, he's probably the best Auror who ever lived, and I'm sure by now he had at least one or two lessons with him, he knows him. Wouldn't he be the obvious choice for something like this?"
Ah, there's the quick thinking Alastor mentioned, Dumbledore noted with approval. She's not just accepting this blindly.
"An excellent question," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling with what might have been mischief. "However, there are several complications with that particular suggestion. You see, professors are not permitted to provide direct assistance to tournament competitors. It would be considered cheating, and the magical contract binding the champions would likely react... poorly to such interference."
Tonks frowned, her hair shifting to a more thoughtful blue. "But Mad-Eye could still help unofficially, couldn't he? I mean, he's got the experience, the knowledge—"
"Alastor is indeed experienced," Dumbledore interrupted gently, "but he is officially a Hogwarts professor. Any training he provided would be immediately suspect. You, however, are here on Ministry business. If you were to encounter Harry during your investigation and offer some... informal guidance... well, that would be an entirely different matter."
"Right," Tonks said slowly, her expression growing more skeptical by the second. "So you're asking me to help because I'm technically not breaking the rules. That's not suspicious at all." She paused, fixing Dumbledore with a pointed look. "Aren't you breaking the rules right now by asking me to do this?"
Sharp as a tack, Dumbledore thought with genuine admiration. She'll do quite well indeed.
"An astute observation," he acknowledged with a slight smile. "However, I am merely suggesting that a young Auror might find it beneficial to her career to assist a fellow member of the magical community in distress. What you choose to do with that suggestion is entirely up to you."
Tonks snorted, a sound that was equal parts amusement and exasperation. "Oh, brilliant. So if anyone asks, this was all my idea. Very convenient for you, Professor."
"I have always found that the best plans are those that benefit everyone involved," Dumbledore replied serenely.
"Right, well, setting aside the questionable ethics of this whole arrangement," Tonks said, crossing her arms, "I still don't understand why you think I'm qualified for this. I've been an Auror for exactly six months. I trip over my own feet on a regular basis. Last week I accidentally turned my hair into actual grass during a stakeout because I was nervous. What makes you think I can train Harry Potter for a tournament that's historically killed people?"
Now comes the interesting part, Dumbledore thought, leaning forward slightly.
"Your qualifications are quite unique, Miss Tonks," he said seriously. "First, your age. You're young enough to relate to Harry in a way that older, more experienced Aurors might not. He's been surrounded by adults who either dismiss him as a child or treat him as a symbol rather than a person. You're close enough to his age that he might actually listen to you."
Tonks looked skeptical. "I'm eighteen. He's fourteen. That's not exactly close."
"Closer than one houndred and thirteen," Dumbledore pointed out with a slight smile. "Second, your recent training means that modern Auror techniques are fresh in your mind. You're not set in old patterns or outdated methods. Third, and perhaps most importantly, your Metamorphmagus abilities make you uniquely suited for stealth training. Harry will need to learn how to move unseen, how to gather information, how to adapt quickly to changing situations. Who better to teach him than someone who can literally become anyone?"
Tonks was quiet for a moment, her hair slowly shifting from blue to a more natural brown as she considered his words. "I suppose that makes some sense," she admitted reluctantly. "But Professor, I've never even met Harry Potter. I mean, I've seen him around when I was at school, but we never actually talked. For all I know, he could be a complete brat who thinks he's better than everyone else because he's famous."
Oh, my dear girl, Dumbledore thought with amusement, you are in for quite a surprise.
"I assure you, Harry is far from a brat," Dumbledore said warmly. "In fact, I believe you'll find him to be quite the opposite. He's humble to a fault, fiercely loyal to his friends, and has more courage than wizards twice his age. He's also," Dumbledore paused for effect, "far more than he appears to be."
"What do you mean by that?" Tonks asked, her curiosity clearly piqued.
"Harry Potter has faced challenges that would break most adult wizards," Dumbledore said quietly. "He's encountered Voldemort again and survived in his first year. He's fought a basilisk with nothing but a sword and a phoenix. He's produced a corporeal Patronus at the age of thirteen to drive off over a hundred Dementors. He is not a typical fourteen-year-old boy, Miss Tonks. He is a young man who has been forced to grow up far too quickly, and he has risen to every challenge placed before him."
Tonks stared at him, her hair cycling through several shades of surprised purple. "He fought a basilisk? At twelve? That's... that's not possible... So wait, the whole thing I heard in my seventh year, that Harry killed the basilisk was all true! It was not a rumor!!"
"I assure you, it is quite possible, and quite true," Dumbledore replied. "Harry Potter is remarkable, Miss Tonks. But he is also in very real danger. This tournament could kill him, and he knows it. He needs help, and I believe you are uniquely qualified to provide it."
Plus, Dumbledore added mentally, he needs allies his own age, not just adults who see him as either a weapon or a symbol.
Tonks was quiet for a long moment, processing everything he'd told her. When she finally spoke, her voice was thoughtful but still uncertain. "Assuming I agree to this—and I'm not saying I am—what exactly would you want me to do? I can't exactly march up to him and announce that I'm his new combat instructor."
"Discretion would indeed be essential," Dumbledore agreed. "I suggest you introduce yourself as part of the Ministry investigation into the Goblet incident. It would be natural for you to want to interview him, to get his perspective on what happened. From there, you could gradually offer assistance with his preparation."
"And what about the other Aurors?" Tonks asked. "Lady Bones isn't stupid. She'll notice if I start spending a lot of time with Harry Potter."
"Leave Amelia to me," Dumbledore said with a slight smile. "She has her own concerns about this situation. I believe she can be convinced to allow a junior Auror to take special interest in ensuring Mr. Potter's safety."
Tonks sighed, running a hand through her hair, which promptly turned pink again. "This is mad, you know that, right? You're asking me to secretly train a fourteen-year-old for a tournament that could kill him, all while pretending it's just coincidence that I'm helping him."
"I prefer to think of it as creative problem-solving," Dumbledore replied cheerfully.
"Right," Tonks said dryly. "Creative problem-solving. Is that what we're calling it now?" She paused, studying his face. "Professor, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Why do you really think Harry needs help? I mean, if he's as remarkable as you say, if he's survived all these things, why can't he handle this tournament on his own?"
Dumbledore's expression grew serious. "Because this time is different, Miss Tonks. Someone with considerable skill and malicious intent has orchestrated Harry's entry into this tournament. They want him dead, and they've chosen a method that gives them plausible deniability. If Harry dies in the tournament, it will appear to be a tragic accident rather than murder."
And because, he thought but didn't say, Harry needs to learn to trust again. His best friend has abandoned him, and he's more isolated than ever. You could be exactly what he needs.
Tonks was quiet for another moment, then sighed heavily. "This feels like glorified babysitting duty, you know that, right? I mean, I became an Auror to catch dark wizards and protect people, not to give magical tutoring lessons to famous teenagers."
Patience, Dumbledore told himself. She'll understand eventually.
"I understand your frustration," he said gently. "But consider this: if Harry Potter dies in this tournament, it will be a propaganda victory for Voldemort's followers that we may never recover from. The Boy Who Lived, killed in what appears to be a legitimate competition? It would be devastating to morale throughout the wizarding world. By helping Harry survive, you would be performing one of the most important services an Auror can provide."
Tonks stared at him for a long moment, her hair cycling through several colors as she weighed his words. Finally, she sighed and slumped back in her chair.
"Fine," she said, though she sounded far from enthusiastic. "I'll do it. But I want it on record that I think this is completely mental, and if it all goes horribly wrong, I'm blaming you."
Excellent, Dumbledore thought with satisfaction. Though I suspect you'll change your tune once you actually meet Harry.
"Duly noted," he said aloud, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I believe this arrangement will work out far better than you currently imagine, Miss Tonks."
"We'll see about that," Tonks muttered, her hair settling on a resigned shade of brown. "So when do I meet the famous Harry Potter?"
"Soon," Dumbledore replied. "Very soon indeed."
Harry Potter
Harry and Hermione made their way through the corridors toward the library. The morning sun streamed through the tall windows, casting long rectangles of golden light across the stone floor, but Harry barely noticed the beauty of it. His mind was entirely focused on the monumental task ahead of him.
"So what do you think I should focus on first?" Harry asked, adjusting the strap of his bag nervously. "I mean, I know I need to learn everything, but there's got to be some kind of priority, right?"
Hermione walked beside him, her bushy hair bouncing slightly with each step, her expression already taking on that focused look she got when presented with a particularly challenging academic problem. "Well, we need to approach this systematically," she said, her voice taking on the lecturing tone that Harry had come to find oddly comforting over the years. "First, we should research the history of the tournament to get an idea of what kinds of challenges you might face. Then we can focus on the specific magical skills you'll need."
"Right," Harry said, though privately he wondered if there was enough time in the world to learn everything he'd need to know. "And here I was thinking I'd just wing it and hope for the best."
Like when I wandered into the Forbidden Forest to face Aragog, or when I decided to take on a basilisk with a sword. Clearly, my improvisation skills are legendary.
Hermione shot him a look. "Harry Potter, if you even think about 'winging it' in a tournament that's killed people, I will personally hex you into next week."
"Now that's the kind of motivation I need," Harry replied with a grin. "Though I have to say, being hexed by you might be less dangerous than whatever the tournament has in store."
They reached the library doors, and Harry felt a flutter of nervousness in his stomach. He'd been in the library countless times, of course, but never to access the Restricted Section. There was something slightly surreal about having official permission to enter an area that had always been forbidden.
At least something good came out of this whole nightmare, Harry thought as he pushed open the doors. I finally get to see what all the fuss is about in the Restricted Section.
The library was quieter than usual, with only a few students scattered among the tables, bent over their books and parchments. Madam Pince stood behind her desk like a hawk guarding its nest, her sharp eyes immediately fixing on Harry and Hermione as they approached.
"Mr. Potter, Miss Granger," she said in her whispered voice that somehow managed to sound both quiet and intimidating. "What can I help you with today?"
Harry reached into his robes and pulled out the parchment Dumbledore had given him, trying to appear more confident than he felt. "I have permission to access the Restricted Section," he said, holding out the document.
Madam Pince's eyebrows rose sharply, and she snatched the parchment from his hands with the speed of a striking snake. Her eyes scanned the official-looking text, and Harry could practically see her mental gears turning as she processed what she was reading.
She looks like she's trying to figure out if this is some elaborate prank, Harry observed, watching the librarian's suspicious expression. Can't say I blame her. I'm still not entirely convinced this isn't some kind of fever dream.
"This is... highly unusual," Madam Pince said slowly, her voice even more pinched than usual. "Students are not typically granted access to the Restricted Section without specific supervision and for months."
"Well, these are unusual circumstances," Hermione said diplomatically. "I'm sure you've heard about Harry's situation with the tournament."
Madam Pince's expression softened slightly, though 'softened' was perhaps too generous a term. It was more like her glare became marginally less terrifying. "Yes, I had heard about that unfortunate business," she said, handing the parchment back to Harry with obvious reluctance. "Very well, Mr. Potter. You may access the Restricted Section. However," she added, her voice taking on a warning tone, "you will treat those books with the utmost respect. Some of them are irreplaceable, and all of them are dangerous in the wrong hands."
"Of course, Madam Pince," Harry said aloud. "I'll be very careful."
The librarian nodded curtly and gestured toward the rope barrier that separated the main library from the Restricted Section. "Miss Granger may accompany you, but I expect both of you to behave appropriately. No unnecessary noise, no rough handling of the materials, and absolutely no removal of books from the premises without proper authorization."
"Thank you," Hermione said warmly, though Harry noticed she kept her voice carefully low. "We really appreciate this."
As they made their way past the rope barrier, Harry felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with nervousness. The Restricted Section looked much the same as the rest of the library, but there was something in the air that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Finally, he thought as he surveyed the towering shelves filled with ancient, leather-bound volumes. Access to the good stuff. Let's see what secrets the wizarding world has been hiding from students.
"Oh, Harry," Hermione breathed beside him, her eyes wide with excitement as she took in the sight of hundreds of advanced magical texts. "Look at all of this! There are books here on magic I've only read about in theoretical contexts. Advanced Transfiguration, Battle Magic, Ancient Charms—this is incredible!"
Harry couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. Even in the face of his potentially deadly situation, Hermione's love of learning shone through. It was one of the things he valued most about her—her ability to find wonder and excitement in knowledge, even when that knowledge might be the difference between life and death.
At least one of us is enjoying this, he thought fondly. Leave it to Hermione to treat my survival research like Christmas morning.
"Right then," Harry said, rolling up his sleeves metaphorically. "Where do we start?"
Hermione was already moving toward one of the shelves, her eyes scanning the titles. "I think I should focus on researching the previous tournaments," she said, pulling down a thick volume titled 'A Complete History of the Triwizard Tournament.' "If I can find detailed accounts of past competitions, maybe I can figure out what kinds of tasks you might face. Not the exact challenges, obviously, but at least the general categories."
"That makes sense," Harry agreed. "The last tournament was in 1792, right? So there should be plenty of historical records to work with."
"Exactly," Hermione said, settling herself at a nearby table with the heavy book. "And if I can identify patterns in the types of challenges they used, we can focus your training on the most likely skill sets you'll need."
Harry nodded and turned his attention to the shelves, looking for books that might actually teach him useful spells and techniques: 'Advanced Dueling Techniques,' 'Defensive Magic for Dangerous Situations,' 'Hexes and Jinxes for the Serious Practitioner.'
Well, I definitely qualify as being in a dangerous situation, Harry mused as he pulled down 'Defensive Magic for Dangerous Situations.' And I suppose I'm about to become a serious practitioner, whether I want to or not.
He settled into a chair across from Hermione and opened the book, immediately confronted with a warning written in stern red letters: 'The spells contained within this volume are intended for use by qualified adult wizards only. Improper casting may result in serious injury or death to the caster or others.'
Brilliant, Harry thought dryly. Even my study materials are trying to kill me. At least they're being honest about it.
Despite the ominous warning, Harry began reading, quickly becoming absorbed in descriptions of spells he'd never heard of. The Shield Charm was apparently just the most basic form of magical protection—there were dozens of variations, each designed for specific types of attacks.
Across from him, Hermione was deep in her own research, occasionally making soft sounds of interest or concern as she read about past tournament events. The comfortable silence between them was broken only by the soft scratch of quill on parchment as Hermione took notes.
This is nice, Harry realized with some surprise. Even with everything going wrong, it feels good to have someone I can count on completely.
The contrast with Ron's betrayal was stark and painful. Here was Hermione, giving up her free time to help him research ways to stay alive, while his supposed best friend was off sulking and spreading rumors about Harry's supposed attention-seeking behavior.
"Harry," Hermione said suddenly, her voice tight with concern. "You need to see this."
Harry looked up from his book to find Hermione staring at him with wide, worried eyes. "What is it?"
"I've been reading about the deaths in previous tournaments," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Harry, it's... it's worse than I thought. In the tournament of 1792, not only did champions die, but several judges and spectators were killed as well when one of the tasks went horribly wrong."
"What happened?" he asked, though he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.
Hermione consulted her notes, her face pale. "They were trying to test the champions' courage by having them face a bloodworm. But something went wrong with the containment spells, and the bloodworm broke free. It killed two champions outright and injured dozens of spectators before they could bring it down."
Bloodworms, Harry thought, feeling his stomach drop. Of course there would be Bloodworms. Because fighting a basilisk was clearly just practice for the real fun.
"Well, that's encouraging," he said aloud, trying to keep his voice light despite the ice forming in his veins. "Any other cheerful historical tidbits I should know about?"
Hermione bit her lip, clearly debating whether to share more bad news. "There were several tournaments where champions died from spell damage, and at least three cases where the magical challenges themselves were flawed and killed people through what were essentially magical accidents."
"On the bright side," Harry said with dark humor, "at least now I know that death by bloodworm is a possibility. That should help narrow down my training focus."
Hermione didn't look amused by his attempt at levity. "Harry, this is serious. These tasks weren't just difficult—they were genuinely lethal. And that was when they had experienced adult wizards competing. You're fourteen years old."
"I know," he said more seriously. "But what choice do I have? I can't withdraw without losing my magic, and I can't just give up. So I have to learn as much as I can and hope it's enough."
Hermione reached across the table and placed her hand over his, a gesture that sent an unexpected warm feeling through his chest. "You won't be doing this alone," she said firmly. "Whatever you need to learn, we'll figure it out together."
Together, Harry thought, looking into her determined brown eyes. When did I get so lucky to have a friend like her?
"Thank you," he said quietly. "Really, Hermione. I don't know what I'd do without you."
She squeezed his hand briefly before returning to her book, but Harry noticed the slight flush that colored her cheeks. The moment felt charged with something he couldn't quite name, something that made him acutely aware of how close they were sitting, how her hair caught the light, how her presence made even this terrifying situation feel manageable.
Focus, Potter, he told himself firmly. You can figure out your complicated feelings later. Right now, you need to learn how not to die.
Harry returned to his own book, trying to concentrate on the complex wand movements described for advanced shielding spells. After a few minutes, he looked up again.
"Hermione," he said, "where am I going to practice all of this? I can't exactly test out combat spells in the dormitory."
She looked up from her research, considering the question. "There are loads of empty classrooms throughout the castle," she said. "Hogwarts is enormous, and half the rooms aren't being used for anything. We could find one that's private and soundproof it with a Muffliato charm. You could go completely mental with your spell practice and no one would be the wiser."
Go completely mental with spell practice, Harry repeated mentally. That actually sounds like exactly what I need right now.
"That's brilliant," he said. "We could set up a proper training space, maybe even use some of the old furniture as targets."
"Exactly," Hermione agreed. "And I could help you practice. I might not be as good at combat magic as you'll need to be, but I can certainly help you work through the theory and spot any mistakes in your wand work."
Harry wondered if he should start with advanced spells right away, but with a second thought, he thought it would be better if he started with more normal spells at first, then once he was able to do them, he would start advancing and using more powerful spells, so with that in mind, he opened a book about spells from the third year, and found a spell that looked particularly useful: the Descending Charm. According to the text, Descendo could force objects or creatures downward with considerable force, potentially useful for grounding flying attackers or bringing down overhead threats.
This looks promising, Harry thought, studying the wand movement diagram. And it's not so advanced that I'll kill myself trying to learn it.
"I'm going to try practicing this one," he told Hermione, showing her the page.
She glanced over and nodded approvingly. "That's a good choice. Practical applications, reasonable difficulty level for your current skill set. Just be careful with the power behind it—according to this, if you put too much force into the spell, you could bring down part of the ceiling."
Noted, Harry thought. Try not to collapse the library while practicing magic. That should probably be rule number one.
Harry stood up and moved to a clear area between the shelves, pulling out his wand. He took a deep breath and focused on the wand movement described in the book—a sharp downward slash followed by a quick spiral.
"Descendo," he said, pointing his wand at a small stack of books on a nearby table.
Nothing happened.
Right, Harry thought, not particularly surprised. Because learning new magic is never that simple.
He tried again, this time putting more intent behind the spell, really visualizing the books being forced downward. "Descendo!"
Still nothing, though he thought he might have felt a tiny flicker of magic in his wand.
Progress, he told himself optimistically. At least I'm getting some kind of magical response.
Harry spent the next two hours methodically working through the spell, adjusting his wand movement, experimenting with different levels of magical force, and occasionally consulting the book for additional guidance. Hermione worked quietly nearby, occasionally offering encouragement or suggestions, but mostly letting him focus on the repetitive process of mastering new magic.
This is harder than it looks, Harry thought after his fiftieth failed attempt. The book makes it sound so simple: 'focus your intent, perform the wand movement, speak the incantation clearly.' Right. Easy as breathing.
But Harry was nothing if not stubborn, and the stakes were too high to give up easily. He kept practicing, ignoring the growing ache in his wand arm and the frustration that built with each failed casting.
Finally, on what felt like his hundredth attempt, something clicked. Harry felt the magic flow through him properly, his wand movement was perfectly executed, and his intent was crystal clear.
"Descendo!" he said firmly, pointing his wand at the stack of books.
The books slammed downward onto the table with enough force to make both Harry and Hermione jump. The loud thwack echoed through the library, and Harry immediately looked around nervously, expecting Madam Pince to come charging over to investigate the noise.
Please don't let her ban me from the library, Harry thought desperately. I finally managed to cast the spell—it would be just my luck to get kicked out now.
But when no angry librarian appeared, Harry allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. He'd done it. He'd actually learned a new, useful spell that might help keep him alive in the tournament.
One spell down, he thought, looking back at the book full of techniques he still needed to master. Only about a thousand to go.
"Well done, Harry," Hermione said softly, her voice warm with pride. "That was excellent work."
Later
Harry was making his way back from the library, his arms loaded with what felt like half the Restricted Section, when disaster struck in the form of his own chronic clumsiness. He'd been so focused on not dropping the precariously balanced stack of books that he hadn't been watching where he was going. The result was inevitable—he walked straight into someone coming around the corner, sending books flying in every direction.
Brilliant, Potter, he thought as ancient tomes scattered across the stone floor.
"Merde!" came an elegant voice, followed by what sounded like a stream of very creative French cursing.
Harry looked up from where he'd ended up sprawled on the floor to see Fleur Delacour standing over him, her silvery hair somehow still perfect despite their collision. She looked down at him with an expression of disdain that could have frozen the lake.
Of course it's her, Harry thought, scrambling to his feet. Because my day clearly wasn't going well enough already.
"Oh, eet eez ze little boy," Fleur said, her accent thick with irritation as she brushed off her robes. "Perhaps you should watch where you are going instead of stumbling around like a first-year."
"Sorry about that," Harry said, his voice carefully neutral as he began gathering up his scattered books. "I wasn't expecting anyone to be lurking around corners."
"Lurking?" Fleur's eyebrows rose imperiously. "I was walking through ze corridor like a normal person. You were ze one charging around like a bull in a china shop."
"Right, my mistake," Harry said, standing up with his arms full of books again. "I should have known that someone of your... delicate nature would need advance warning before sharing a corridor."
Fleur's blue eyes flashed dangerously. "Delicate? I am competing in ze same tournament as you, little boy. I think I can handle walking through a castle without fainting."
"You know what?" Harry said, his voice taking on a sharp edge. "You might want to save the condescending attitude for someone who hasn't actually faced real danger. Some of us have experience with more than just looking pretty and making people swoon."
That got her attention, Harry noted with satisfaction as Fleur's perfect composure cracked slightly.
"Experience?" Fleur laughed, but there was no humor in it. "What experience could you possibly 'ave? You are fourteen years old. Ze most dangerous thing you 'ave probably faced is a difficult Potions exam."
"You're right," Harry said with mock seriousness. "A sixty-foot basilisk that can kill with a glance is definitely less dangerous than Professor Snape's pop quizzes."
Fleur stared at him for a moment, clearly trying to determine if he was being serious. "You expect me to believe zat you fought a basilisk?"
"I don't expect you to believe anything," Harry replied coolly. "I'm just pointing out that maybe you shouldn't assume you know what other people have been through based on their age. But hey, what do I know? I'm just a little boy, right?"
Two can play the condescending game, Princess.
Fleur's eyes narrowed, and Harry could practically see her reassessing him. "Even if zat were true—which I doubt—eet does not change ze fact zat you are still a child who 'as no business in zis tournament."
"At least we agree on something. I have no busniess on this bloody tournament, but someone decided otherwise, but what about you? Why did you put your name in that Goblet?"
"I chose to compete because I am confident in my abilities," Fleur said haughtily. "I 'ave trained for years, studied advanced magic, prepared myself properly. You are just... what eez ze English word... winging eet?"
She really has a high opinion of herself.
"Well, that's lovely," Harry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Really shows that famous Beauxbatons refinement and class."
"At least I did not enter myself illegally into a tournament I 'ave no 'ope of winning," Fleur snapped back. "Everyone knows and everyone says you put the name in that goblet, many in the table I stay sit say you are nothing but a troublemaker. Ze question eez why you are not brave enough to admit eet."
"Right," Harry said coldly. "Because clearly the logical explanation is that I wanted to risk my life in a tournament designed to kill people. That makes perfect sense. Why would I want to live peacefully through my fourth year when I could face mortal peril for the entertainment of others?"
Fleur studied his face for a moment, and Harry thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. But it was gone almost immediately, replaced by her usual haughty expression.
"Per'aps you did not realize 'ow dangerous eet would be," she said with a shrug that somehow managed to be both elegant and dismissive. "English wizards are not known for zeir... 'ow you say... forward thinking."
"As opposed to French wizards, who are apparently known for their humility and charm?" Harry replied sweetly.
"We are known for our skill and sophistication," Fleur said primly. "Something zat eez clearly lacking in zis conversation."
"You're absolutely right," Harry agreed with mock solemnity. "This conversation has been terribly unsophisticated. I should probably apologize for not bowing properly when I bumped into you, Your Highness."
Fleur's nostrils flared, and for a moment Harry thought she might actually hex him right there in the corridor. Instead, she drew herself up to her full height and fixed him with her iciest stare.
"I 'ope for your sake zat you 'ave been preparing properly for zis tournament," she said, her voice cold enough to freeze fire. "Because when ze first task arrives, zere will be no one zere to save ze little English boy from 'is own arrogance."
Little English boy. She really can't help herself, can she?
"Don't worry about me, Princess," Harry said with a grin that was all teeth and no warmth. "I've got plenty of experience with impossible situations. But thanks for the concern—it's touching, really."
Without another word, Fleur turned on her heel and stalked away, her silvery hair flowing behind her like a banner.
Well, that was fun, he thought, adjusting his grip on his books. Nothing like a little verbal sparring to get the blood flowing. Though I have a feeling I haven't heard the last from Princess Fleur.
As he made his way back toward Gryffindor Tower, Harry found himself thinking about the encounter. Fleur was arrogant and condescending, certainly, but there had been something else there too—a flash of real anger when he'd called her Princess, as if the word had hit closer to home than he'd intended.
Maybe there's more to the perfect French champion than meets the eye, Harry mused. Though that doesn't make her any less infuriating.
Still, he had to admit that sparring with her had been oddly... energizing.
Tomorrow
Harry made his way to the dungeons for Potions class with a familiar sense of dread settling in his stomach. The cold, damp corridors leading to Snape's domain always reminded him of descending into some medieval torture chamber, and today that feeling seemed particularly apt. He was carrying his bag loaded with the books from the Restricted Section, hoping to get some reading done if Snape decided to ignore him in favor of tormenting other students.
Fat chance of that happening, Harry thought grimly as he approached the classroom door. Snape would probably rather give up his entire collection of pickled animal parts than pass up an opportunity to make my life miserable.
When Harry entered the classroom, he automatically looked toward the spot where he usually sat with Ron and Hermione. Hermione was already there, her books neatly arranged on the desk, but Ron was conspicuously absent from the seat beside her. Instead, Harry spotted his former best friend sitting several rows back with Seamus and Dean, pointedly not making eye contact.
Right, Harry thought, feeling the familiar stab of hurt and anger. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Though it would have been nice if he could at least pretend to be civil in public.
Harry slid into the seat next to Hermione, who gave him a warm smile.
"How are you feeling?" she asked quietly, her voice full of genuine concern.
"Like I'm about to spend an hour being tortured by a man who thinks I'm exactly like my father and deserves whatever horrible things happen to me," Harry replied with dark humor. "So, you know, like every other Potions class."
The classroom filled with the usual pre-class chatter, but Harry noticed an unusual amount of snickering and whispering coming from the Slytherin side of the room. His question about what they found so amusing was answered when Draco Malfoy stood up with an exaggerated flourish, making sure everyone could see the large badge pinned to his robes.
The badge was a garish green and silver thing that flashed between two messages: "SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY—THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION" and "POTTER STINKS."
Potter Stinks badges, Harry observed with weary amusement. How delightfully original. I'm sure Draco spent at least thirty seconds coming up with that brilliant bit of wordplay.
"What do you think, Potter?" Draco called out, his voice dripping with false sweetness as he gestured to his badge. "I think it really captures the essence of the situation, don't you?"
Several other Slytherins had similar badges, and they were all grinning like they'd just invented the concept of humor itself. Harry could feel the eyes of the entire class on him, waiting to see how he'd react to this latest bit of petty harassment.
They're like children with a new toy, Harry thought, feeling more annoyed than hurt. Though I suppose that's not entirely inaccurate—Draco does have the emotional maturity of a particularly nasty five-year-old.
"You know, Malfoy," Harry said conversationally, his voice carrying clearly across the classroom, "I'm genuinely impressed. You managed to create something that's both completely unoriginal and utterly pointless. That takes real talent. Most people can only achieve one or the other."
A few Gryffindors snickered, and Harry noticed that even some of the Slytherins looked amused despite themselves. Draco's smug expression faltered slightly.
"Very funny, Potter," Draco sneered, though his voice lacked some of its earlier confidence. "We'll see how funny you think it is when you're crying for your mommy during the first task, oh right, she is dead."
"Right, because nothing says 'mature response to academic competition' quite like playground insults and craft project badges," Harry replied with a sardonic smile. "I'm sure your father will be so proud when he hears about your... creative endeavors."
Before Draco could formulate a response, the classroom door slammed open with enough force to make several students jump. Professor Snape swept into the room like a particularly malevolent storm cloud, his black robes billowing dramatically behind him.
And here comes the main event, Harry thought, automatically straightening in his seat. Let's see how creative Snape gets with his insults today.
"Today we will be brewing the Draught of Living Death," Snape announced, turning to write ingredients on the blackboard with sharp, aggressive strokes. "A potion so complex that even sixth-year students frequently fail to produce acceptable results. I expect most of you to embarrass yourselves thoroughly."
As the class began gathering ingredients, Harry noticed Ron shooting glances in his direction. At first, Harry thought his former friend might be considering an attempt at reconciliation, but it quickly became clear that Ron's attention was focused on something else entirely.
Hermione was sitting closer to Harry than usual, occasionally leaning over to quietly discuss the potion instructions or share observations about ingredient preparation. It was the kind of casual intimacy that came from long friendship and mutual trust, but Harry could see Ron's jaw tightening with each small interaction.
Oh, brilliant, Harry realized with growing irritation. He's not just angry about the tournament—he's jealous that Hermione is still talking to me.
The realization hit Harry like a slap. Ron wasn't just hurt about feeling left out; he was angry that Hermione had chosen Harry's side in their conflict. It was petty and possessive and completely unfair, but Harry could see it written clearly across Ron's face.
"Potter," Snape's voice cut through Harry's brooding like a knife through butter. "Perhaps you could favor us with your attention, since you seem to find Miss Granger's company more educational than my instruction."
Harry looked up to find Snape looming over his cauldron, dark eyes glittering with malicious anticipation. The entire class had gone silent, sensing that something unpleasant was about to happen.
"I was listening, Professor," Harry said carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral.
"Were you?" Snape's lips curved into a cold smile. "Then perhaps you can tell the class why your potion looks like something that belongs in a chamber pot rather than a cauldron."
Several students craned their necks to look at Harry's cauldron, which was indeed an unappetizing brown color rather than the pale lilac it was supposed to be. Harry felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger.
Of course my potion is wrong, he thought. I was distracted by Ron's dramatics and Draco's badges and—
"Perhaps," Snape continued, his voice growing softer and more dangerous, "Perhaps this is simply beyond your capabilities, Potter. After all, brewing potions requires precision and intelligence—qualities that seem to have skipped your generation entirely. Your father had the same arrogant assumption that rules didn't apply to him. We all know how that ended."
The classroom erupted in gasps. Harry felt something cold and murderous unfurl in his chest, and his hand instinctively moved toward his wand.
For a moment, the only sound in the classroom was Harry's rapid breathing and the soft bubbling of various potions. Every eye was fixed on him, waiting to see how he would respond to such a blatant attack.
I could hex him, Harry thought, his fingers itching for his wand. I could turn him into something appropriately slimy and unpleasant. I bet I could do it before he could block it.
But even through his rage, Harry knew that attacking a teacher would only make everything worse. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath and look directly into Snape's expectant black eyes.
"You're absolutely right, Professor," Harry said, his voice perfectly calm and polite. "I should definitely focus more on developing genuine skill. After all, some of us have to actually earn our positions through merit rather than... other methods."
The words hung in the air like a perfectly cast curse. Harry's tone was so innocent, so respectful, that anyone who hadn't been paying attention might have missed the devastating implication entirely. But Snape caught it immediately, and his face went dead white with fury.
"How dare you—" Snape began, his voice shaking with rage, but Harry was already standing up and shouldering his bag.
"Where do you think you're going, Potter?" Snape demanded, his wand hand twitching as if he was seriously considering cursing a student in front of the entire class.
Harry paused at his desk and looked back at Snape with an expression of mild confusion, as if he couldn't understand why the question was even being asked.
"I'm going to prepare for the tournament, Professor," Harry said in the same polite tone. "Mr. Crouch made it quite clear that all the champions are excused from regular lessons when we need to focus on tournament preparation. Since my Potions skills are apparently so inadequate, I thought I should probably spend my time on magic that might actually keep me alive."
Take that, you greasy git, Harry thought as he headed for the door. Let's see you argue with Ministry officials about tournament regulations.
Snape looked like he wanted to physically restrain Harry, but even he couldn't argue with official tournament rules. His face was a mottled purple with rage, and Harry could practically see him calculating whether it would be worth the professional consequences to hex a student in front of witnesses.
"This conversation is not over, Potter," Snape hissed as Harry reached the door.
Harry paused and looked back with a smile that was all sharp edges and no warmth.
"Of course not, Professor," he said pleasantly. "I'm sure you'll think of something even more creative to say next time. You're so good at... creative interpretations."
And with that parting shot, Harry walked out of the classroom, leaving behind a room full of stunned students and one absolutely livid Potions master.
Well, Harry thought as he made his way up from the dungeons, that could have gone better. But it also could have gone a lot worse.
He'd probably pay for that little exchange later, but right now Harry found that he didn't particularly care. He was tired of being everyone's favorite target, tired of being insulted and dismissed and blamed for things beyond his control.
Let them all think what they want, Harry decided as he climbed the stairs toward the library. I've got bigger problems to worry about than Snape's hurt feelings.
Harry found himself wandering the corridors of Hogwarts with no particular destination in mind, his bag of books from the Restricted Section slung over his shoulder and his mind still churning from the confrontation with Snape. The dungeon Potions classroom felt like a lifetime ago, even though he'd only left ten minutes earlier.
Well, that went spectacularly, Harry thought as he climbed another flight of stairs, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the dungeons. I'm sure Snape will find some creative way to make me pay for that little exchange. Probably detention until I graduate. Or die in the tournament, whichever comes first.
The castle corridors were mostly empty, with most students still in their afternoon classes. Harry found the quiet oddly comforting after the tension of Potions class. At least out here, no one was staring at him.
Though I suppose I can't hide in empty corridors forever, Harry mused. Eventually I'll have to face people again. The question is whether I want to deal with more stares and whispers, or find somewhere private to continue reading about ways not to die horribly.
He was leaning toward the latter option when he heard footsteps echoing from around the corner ahead of him. Harry automatically tensed, half-expecting to encounter Malfoy and his cronies looking for revenge after the badge incident, or perhaps some other students eager to share their opinions about his tournament participation.
Instead of students, however, a young woman rounded the corner, moving a little clumpsy if he had to be honest. She looked to be in her late teens, with bright pink hair that seemed to shift and change color even as Harry watched. She was wearing official-looking robes that marked her as some kind of Ministry official, and there was something about her bearing that suggested she was used to being in potentially dangerous situations.
One of the Aurors, Harry realized, remembering the group he and Hermione had spotted arriving that morning. But she looks awfully young to be an Auror. Then again, I suppose I'm awfully young to be a Triwizard Champion, so maybe age isn't as important as I thought.
The young woman noticed Harry almost immediately, and he saw her eyes widen slightly with recognition. For a moment, they simply stared at each other in the corridor.
Great, Harry thought with resignation. Another person who's going to want to discuss my famous scar or ask me how I managed to enter the tournament. Just what I needed to make this day complete.
But instead of the usual mixture of awe, suspicion, or false sympathy that Harry had come to expect, the woman's expression seemed more... nervous? She looked almost as uncomfortable with the encounter as Harry felt, which was oddly reassuring.
The woman seemed to gather herself, straightening her shoulders and taking a step forward with what appeared to be forced confidence.
"Harry Potter?" she said, her voice carrying a slight northern accent that Harry couldn't quite place. "I'm Auror Tonks. I was hoping I might have a word with you."
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