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"I believe you," Cedric said quietly, his hand gripping Harry's shoulder with firm reassurance. "Just so you know. Before you go up there."
Harry felt a knot of gratitude tighten in his chest. "Thanks, Ced. That... means a lot."
"They'll come around," Cedric offered, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced of his own words. "Eventually."
"Or they won't." Harry tried for a wry smile and almost managed it. "Either way, we've both got a tournament to survive."
Cedric's answering smile was equally strained. "Last year's Quidditch match all over again, except with significantly higher stakes."
"At least this time there won't be Dementors." Harry paused. "Probably."
"Merlin, I hope you're joking." Cedric released Harry's shoulder and stepped back. "Good luck up there. You're going to need it."
As Cedric disappeared toward the kitchens and the passage to Hufflepuff basement, Harry turned toward the familiar route to Ravenclaw Tower. Each step upward felt heavier than the last, dread settling into his bones like winter frost. The spiral staircase seemed longer than usual, giving him far too much time to imagine the reception awaiting him.
He'd been popular in Ravenclaw—not in the showy way some students courted attention, but through a combination of academic excellence, Quidditch success, and what Professor Flitwick generously called "natural brilliance tempered with genuine curiosity." His housemates respected him. Liked him, even.
The bronze eagle knocker regarded him with what might have been sympathy, though Harry suspected he was projecting.
"A man stands at a crossroads," the eagle intoned. "One path is paved with truth that no one believes. The other is paved with lies that everyone accepts. Which path leads to wisdom?"
Harry closed his eyes briefly. Even the bloody door knocker was taking shots at him tonight.
"Neither," he said flatly. "Wisdom is recognizing that belief doesn't determine truth, and that popular acceptance doesn't determine wisdom. The man should take whichever path is actually true, regardless of who believes him."
The eagle's beak curved into what might have been approval. "Well reasoned."
The door swung open, and Harry stepped through into chaos.
The Ravenclaw common room was packed—every chair filled, students clustered in tight groups, the usual quiet studious atmosphere replaced by heated debate that cut off the moment Harry appeared. Dozens of faces turned toward him, expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility.
Luna Lovegood was walking towards him before he'd taken three steps into the room, her presence as calming as a cool hand on a fevered brow.
"The Wrackspurts were never yours, Harry," she said matter-of-factly. "They've been circling the Goblet since yesterday morning. Angry little things, red instead of the usual gray."
"Thanks, Luna." Harry managed a small smile.
Terry Boot approached next, his expression conflicted.
"Did you really not enter?" Terry asked.
"No," Harry said simply. "I didn't."
"But your name came out." This from Anthony Goldstein, who'd crossed his arms and fixed Harry with a skeptical stare. "Come on, Potter. The paper ball thing was brilliant misdirection. Just admit it."
"Admit to something I didn't do?" Harry felt his jaw tighten. "Why would I do that?"
"Because the evidence is pretty damning, mate," Anthony replied.
"What evidence?" Harry's voice remained level through sheer force of will. "That my name came out of a Goblet I never touched?"
"That you spent an entire day teaching the whole school methods to bypass the age line," came a new voice. Cassandra Whitmore, a sixth-year with sharp features and sharper intellect, had risen from her seat by the fireplace. "Rather convenient, wouldn't you say? Create a spectacle, make it seem like all the methods fail, while you'd already succeeded with your real approach."
"That's actually rather clever thinking," added Marcus Bellingham, a seventh-year. "The perfect cover. Make everyone focus on the failures while hiding your success."
Harry felt something hot and angry unfurl in his chest. "I taught them how to fail and try again," he said quietly. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" Padma Patil had moved closer; she seemed deeply disappointed. "I expected better from you, Harry. If you wanted to enter, you should have just waited until you were old enough."
"I didn't want to enter," Harry insisted. How did you prove a negative? How did you convince people that you hadn't done something when the evidence—circumstantial though it was—seemed so damning?
"Can we talk about how this makes Ravenclaw look?" Roger Davies's voice carried from the stairs to the boys' dormitories. "You've made Ravenclaw look like cheaters, Potter. Like we can't win on merit, so we have to resort to tricks."
The hot thing in Harry's chest flared hotter. "I haven't made anyone look like anything. I didn't enter."
"Right." Roger's laugh was bitter. "A fourth-year who's somehow more famous than students twice your age. Who loves attention so much he's somehow involved in every major incident this school's seen for three years. Who literally spent yesterday teaching people how to cheat—sorry, how to 'fail'—and now claims he had nothing to do with his own name coming out of a magical artifact that requires direct placement."
"The Goblet was Confunded," Harry shot back. "Someone made it think there were four schools instead of three. Someone powerful enough to fool an ancient magical artifact. Does that sound like the work of a fourteen-year-old?"
"It sounds like the work of someone clever enough to make everyone think that," Roger countered. "And you are exactly that clever, aren't you? Flitwick's favorite. Top of our year in Charms and Transfiguration. The youngest Seeker in a century. Always one step ahead of everyone else."
The praise felt like accusation, each compliment twisted into evidence of guilt. Harry looked around the common room—at faces he'd studied beside, competed with, laughed with for three years—and saw that Roger's words were landing. Saw the calculations happening behind eyes that had once looked at him with friendship or at least friendly respect.
"When?" Harry demanded, frustration bleeding into his voice. "When would I have done this? I've been playing tour guide to the Beauxbatons students since they arrived. Today I was with them from breakfast until the selection ceremony. The Goblet was in the Great Hall the entire time, surrounded by students and staff. When exactly did I have the opportunity to approach it without anyone noticing?"
"During the night, obviously," Cassandra said casually as if the answer was very clear. "We all know how good you are at sneaking out, Potter. Don't think we haven't noticed the times you've disappeared from the dormitory after curfew."
"We've never claimed you were naive," Marcus added, his tone almost pitying. "We know you're smart. Smart enough to do it when no one was watching."
They had an answer for everything. Every defense he offered was reframed as more evidence of elaborate planning. Every reasonable question was met with assumptions about his character that he couldn't disprove.
"Believe whatever you want," Harry said finally, exhaustion replacing anger. "You all have already decided that I am guilty of this, so no matter what I say it won't matter. But I didn't, and we'll all just have to live with that uncertainty."
He turned toward the stairs to his dormitory, done with defending himself against immovable conviction.
"Harry." Luna's dreamy voice followed him up the first few steps. She'd drifted along in his wake like a faithful shadow. "They'll remember eventually. Truth has a way of being louder than lies, even when it whispers."
Harry paused on the landing, looking back at her. In the common room below, the conversations had already resumed, voices rising as students dissected his guilt with the same analytical precision they applied to Arithmancy problems.
"Thanks, Luna," he said softly. "For believing me."
She drifted back down the stairs, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the weight of unearned suspicion. He climbed the remaining steps to his dormitory, each one feeling like a small defeat.
Behind him, the common room buzzed with theories and accusations, none of which included the possibility that Harry Potter was simply, frustratingly, telling the truth.
The dormitory was mercifully empty when Harry climbed the final stairs, his roommates apparently still downstairs dissecting his supposed treachery with the rest of Ravenclaw House. He drew the curtains around his four-poster.
Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. They weren't shaking—that would come later, probably, when the adrenaline fully wore off and the reality of the situation settled into his bones. For now, they were just... still. Unnaturally so.
He needed to tell Sirius. His godfather would be frantic when he heard the news—probably already was, actually, if news of the fourth champion had reached the wider wizarding world. The Prophet would have a field day with this. Boy Who Lived Enters Tournament Illegally.Potter Seeks Glory Again. He could write the headlines himself.
Harry pulled his school bag onto the bed and extracted parchment, ink, and quill. Set them up on his lap. Dipped the quill. Held it poised over the blank parchment.
Nothing came.
How did you explain something like this? Where did you even start?
Dear Sirius,
You're not going to believe what happened tonight—
No. Too casual. This wasn't a funny anecdote about a Transfiguration mishap or a Quidditch near-miss.
He crumpled the parchment, tossed it aside, and started again.
Sirius,
Something's happened. Something bad. My name came out of the Goblet of—
Too dramatic. Sirius would panic before he got to the second sentence.
Another crumpled ball joined the first.
Padfoot,
That felt better. More personal. Less formal.
I need to tell you something, and I need you not to immediately floo to Hogwarts in a rage, though I know that's probably asking too much...
Harry paused, considering. Yes. That was the right tone. Sirius would appreciate the attempt at levity.
His quill began to move more steadily now, words flowing onto the parchment.
He described the moment his name emerged from the Goblet—the shock, the disbelief, the immediate assumptions. Fleur's accusations came to mind, her eyes flashing with contempt as she called him arrogant, attention-seeking.
Harry's quill paused over the parchment. He could write about that. Could tell Sirius that some French girl he barely knew had managed to wound him more effectively than his own housemates' suspicions. Could ask his godfather why a near-stranger's opinion seemed to matter so disproportionately.
But no. That was... complicated. Confusing. He didn't even understand it himself, so how could he explain it to Sirius? Better to deal with it on his own. Focus on the actual problem—the tournament, the danger, the mysterious person who'd entered his name.
He continued writing, detailing Karkaroff's fury, Madame Maxime's accusations, and Snape's predictable eagerness to assume the worst. When he reached Crouch's pronouncement about the binding magical contract, his handwriting became more cramped.
Mr. Crouch says I have to compete. The Goblet's decision is magically binding, and if I refuse or fail to complete the tasks, I'll lose my magic. Permanently. As in, become a Squib. So that's... brilliant, really. Whoever did this didn't just put me in danger—they've guaranteed I can't back out without losing everything.
The quill scratched across the parchment, the sound unnaturally loud in the enclosed space of his bed. Harry found himself writing faster now, the words tumbling out in a rush of honesty he couldn't quite manage face-to-face.
I know how this looks. I know what everyone thinks. But Sirius, I swear on my parents' memory—I didn't enter. Someone else did, and I don't know why. Moody thinks someone's trying to kill me. Again. Honestly, it's getting a bit repetitive at this point. You'd think after the basilisk and the Dementors, the universe would give me at least one quiet year.
The worst part isn't the danger. It's that even people who should know me better think I'd do this for attention. As if I don't have enough of that already.
But I didn't do it, and I can't prove I didn't, and that's apparently the same as being guilty.
Harry's hand was starting to cramp, but he pushed through, needing to get it all out..
I don't know what to do. I can't drop out. I can't prove my innocence. All I can do is compete and hope I survive long enough to figure out who did this and why.
What would Dad have done? What about Mom? How would they have handled everyone thinking they were lying about something?
I need advice. Preferably before I have to face everyone at breakfast tomorrow and pretend their doubt doesn't bother me.
Harry
He read over the letter twice, considering whether to add anything else, then decided against it. It was enough already—more so than he'd intended. But Sirius deserved the truth, not a sanitized version designed to minimize worry.
Harry rolled the parchment carefully and crossed to Hedwig's cage. His snowy owl blinked at him with knowing amber eyes, as if she'd been expecting this.
"I need you to take this to Sirius," Harry murmured, stroking her soft feathers as he tied the letter to her leg. "Fast as you can, girl. He's going to worry."
Hedwig nipped his finger affectionately—not hard enough to break skin, just a gesture of understanding—and launched herself through the open window into the night. Harry watched her white form disappear into the darkness, becoming just another star against the black sky.
The dormitory felt emptier once she was gone.
Harry returned to his bed and lay back against the pillows, staring up at the canopy overhead. He should sleep. Tomorrow would be brutal—breakfast in the Great Hall with everyone staring, classes where he'd have to pretend to concentrate, more accusations and doubt and suspicion.
But sleep felt impossible. His mind kept replaying the evening on an endless loop. The Goblet's red flames. Dumbledore's grave expression. Cedric's worried eyes. His housemates' accusations.
And Fleur.
I will not lose to a cheat, she'd said, her accent thick with disdain. Regardless of how you got in, you will regret competing against me.
The anger in her eyes had been... pure. Uncomplicated. She believed absolutely in his guilt, and that certainty had cut deeper than all of Roger Davies's careful logic or Anthony Goldstein's skepticism.
Why? Why did her opinion matter more than people he'd known for years?
Harry closed his eyes, but the question remained, unanswered and unwelcome.
Outside, an owl hooted in the distance. The castle settled around him with its familiar creaks and whispers. And Harry lay awake, waiting for a dawn that felt very far away.
Harry woke to gray morning light and the immediate, crushing memory that yesterday hadn't been a nightmare. His name was in the Goblet. He was bound to compete. And everyone thought he was a liar.
He lay still for several minutes, listening to the sounds of his dormitory mates moving about—the rustle of robes, the splash of water in the bathroom, low conversations that cut off abruptly when someone remembered he was there. No one addressed him directly. No one pulled back his curtains with the usual morning banter.
Fine. If they wanted to avoid him, that was their choice. But Harry Potter didn't hide.
He threw back his curtains, the rings scraping loudly against the rod. The room went silent. Terry Boot froze halfway through buttoning his robes. Anthony Goldstein stopped mid-stride toward the door.
"Morning," Harry said flatly, meeting their eyes without flinching.
Terry managed a weak nod. Anthony looked away. Neither spoke.
Harry dressed normally, refusing to rush, refusing to slink around like he had something to be ashamed of. When he was ready, he walked past his roommates with his head high and descended to the common room, which was still populated with early risers preparing for breakfast.
Conversations died as he passed. Students shifted away from him like he carried dragon pox. Cassandra Whitmore actually pulled her bag closer as he walked by, as if he might steal it.
Harry ignored them all and kept walking.
He arrived at the Great Hall at seven-thirty—normal breakfast time, when the hall was already half-full but not yet crowded. No hiding. No skulking in late to avoid attention. If people wanted to stare, let them stare. If they wanted to confront him, they could do it to his face.
The moment he pushed open the doors, every head in the vicinity turned toward him.
The whispers started immediately—a susurrus of speculation that followed him like a physical presence as he walked toward the Ravenclaw table. Students pointed with the subtlety of first-years. Some glares were hostile, others merely curious, all of them unrelenting.
Harry kept his chin up and his expression neutral, walking like he owned the bloody castle. Sirius's voice echoed in his memory: Never let them see you flinch, Harry. The moment you show weakness, they'll tear you apart.
Luna was already seated at the Ravenclaw table, serenely buttering toast as if this were any other morning. She looked up as Harry approached and smiled.
"Good morning, Harry. The Nargles are less agitated today. I think they're getting used to the confusion."
"That makes one of us," Harry muttered. He started to sit in his usual chair beside her—
—and stopped.
Something was wrong. Years of dodging Dudley's fists and avoiding Vernon's temper had honed Harry's instincts for danger, and every one of them was screaming at him now. The chair looked normal, but there was a shimmer around the legs, barely visible unless you knew to look for it. A charm.
Harry's jaw tightened. Really? They were resorting to this?
"Harry?" Luna tilted her head, watching him with those protuberant eyes that saw far too much. "Is something wrong with your chair?"
"Someone charmed it," Harry said loudly, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet section of table. "Probably to make me fall when I sat down."
He drew his wand and half the students nearby flinched, hands going to their own wands. As if he were the threat here.
"Finite Incantatem," Harry said coldly, pointing his wand at the chair.
The shimmer around the chair legs flared bright blue before dispersing in a shower of sparks. The spell had been a nasty piece of work, not just a simple wobbling charm, but something designed to collapse the chair entirely and send him sprawling across the floor. Public humiliation for the Hogwarts cheater.
The silence around him was absolute now. Everyone within ten feet was staring—some shocked, others guilty, a few openly smirking.
Harry turned slowly, surveying the nearby students with cold fury.
"If someone has a problem with me," he said, his voice quiet but carrying clearly in the silence, "they can say it to my face. Not act like a coward hiding behind pranks."
A few students had the grace to look ashamed. Others just stared back with hostility. No one admitted guilt.
Harry vanished the compromised chair with a flick of his wand and summoned a replacement from the end of the table, letting it settle beside Luna. He sat down, trying to ignore the anger inside him.
"That was very impressive magic," Luna said conversationally, resuming her breakfast. "Most people wouldn't have noticed the charm until it was too late."
"Most people haven't spent three years learning to be paranoid," Harry replied grimly. He reached for the pumpkin juice, his hand steadier than he felt, when Terry Boot appeared across the table. His friend's expression was unreadable as he slid a folded newspaper toward Harry without a word, then moved several seats away.
Harry's stomach dropped before he even unfolded the Daily Prophet.
The headline screamed in 72-point font: HARRY POTTER ENTERS TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT—DUMBLEDORE'S FAVORITE BREAKS THE RULES AGAIN?
Below it, a photograph of Harry looking shellshocked as Dumbledore read his name. Rita Skeeter's byline. Of course.
In a shocking turn of events, Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, now fourteen years old—has been selected as a fourth Triwizard Champion despite being underage and ineligible to compete. Sources close to Hogwarts report that Potter's selection has caused outrage among students and staff alike, with many questioning how the famous teenager managed to bypass Headmaster Albus Dumbledore's age line.
"He's always been special," one anonymous Hogwarts professor commented. "Perhaps too special. The rules that apply to others seem never to apply to Mr. Potter."
Snape. That had Snape written all over it.
Potter, who has been at the center of multiple high-profile incidents during his time at Hogwarts—including the Chamber of Secrets opening in his second year and an illegal Patronus incident involving Dementors last year—
"Illegal?" Harry said aloud, incredulous. "I was defending myself from soul-sucking demons. How is that—"
"Keep reading," Luna advised gently. "It gets worse."
It did.
—has developed a reputation for seeking the spotlight. Students report that Potter spent the day before the selection teaching his peers various methods to circumvent the age restriction, leading many to believe his own entry was planned well in advance.
"It was brilliant misdirection," said one seventh-year student who wished to remain anonymous. "He made us all think the methods wouldn't work while he'd already succeeded with his real approach."
Harry's appetite, already tenuous after the chair incident, vanished entirely. He pushed his empty plate away and forced himself to look around the Great Hall, cataloging the damage.
At the Gryffindor table, he caught glimpses of familiar faces. Hermione Granger sat with a book propped against her goblet, determinedly not looking in his direction. They'd spoken occasionally over the years—she'd been grateful after the troll incident in first year, and they'd had a few pleasant conversations about Charms theory—but they'd never become close friends. Now she seemed intent on maintaining that distance.
The Weasley twins were watching him with unreadable expressions. Fred—or was it George?—caught his eye and offered a small, almost imperceptible nod. At least that was something.
The Hufflepuff table was a study in conflicted emotions. Cedric sat near the center, and when he noticed Harry looking, he gave a small but deliberate supportive nod. Several of his housemates immediately scowled, as if Cedric's gesture of friendship was a personal betrayal. Their champion had to share his glory with an underage interloper. Harry could understand their anger, even if it wasn't directed at the right person.
The Slytherin table was predictably gleeful. Draco Malfoy held court near the center, his voice carrying across the hall: "—can't even follow the simplest rules. Typical Potter arrogance—"
Harry looked away before his temper could override his common sense. He'd already used one spell in anger this morning; he didn't need to add hexing Malfoy to his list of problems.
The Beauxbatons students clustered at the end of the Ravenclaw table, and Fleur Delacour sat among them with perfect posture, her attention apparently focused on her breakfast. She didn't glance toward Harry, but he knew she was looking at him with something similar to disgust.
The Durmstrang contingent at the Hufflepuff table was harder to read. Viktor Krum sat hunched over his porridge, his heavy brows drawn together in thought rather than anger.
"Harry."
He turned to find Cedric Diggory standing beside the table, his presence immediately drawing stares from every direction. The Hufflepuff champion crossed to the Ravenclaw table.
"Mind if I sit?" Cedric asked, though he was already sliding onto the bench across from Harry.
"Bold move," Harry said quietly. "You sure you want to be seen with the school pariah?"
"I believe you," Cedric said immediately, his voice clear and firm.
"You and Luna might be the only ones."
"Not the only one." Cedric glanced around the hall, his expression grim. "But yeah, it's bad. I won't lie to you."
Luna nodded sagely. "The Wrackspurts of doubt have infected most of the castle. They're very persistent little things once they take hold."
"The what of what?" Cedric asked, then shook his head. "Never mind. Look, Harry, I need you to understand what you're facing. The Hufflepuffs are torn—they're happy I was chosen, but they feel like our moment's been stolen. Like we have to share glory that should have been ours alone."
"I didn't—"
"I know. But they don't. The Gryffindors largely think this is one of your pranks gone too far. The Slytherins are just delighted by the drama—Malfoy's already taking bets on how long before you're expelled." Cedric's jaw tightened. "And the general student body thinks you pulled off something brilliant and they're angry you won't admit it."
Harry laughed bitterly. "How exactly do I prove I didn't do something? What's my evidence? 'Trust me, I swear'?"
"You can't prove a negative," Cedric agreed. "All you can do is ride it out and hope whoever actually did this gets found. Dumbledore's investigating, isn't he?"
"Investigating what? A magical mystery with no evidence?" Harry gestured at the Prophet. "This is perfect. I'm bound to compete in a tournament designed to kill people, everyone thinks I'm a glory-seeking liar, and my only defense is that I'm really, truly, honestly innocent. Oh, and someone just tried to humiliate me with a charmed chair at breakfast."
Cedric's expression darkened. "Someone did what?"
"Charmed my chair to collapse when I sat down," Harry said flatly. "Cowards couldn't even confront me directly."
"That's—" Cedric looked genuinely angry now. "That's not right. That's not how we handle things."
"I believe you," said a new voice.
Susan Bones had approached quietly, her calm, practical presence somehow steadying. She sat beside Cedric with the no-nonsense efficiency Harry had always associated with her aunt, Amelia Bones, who ran the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
"My aunt taught me to look at evidence, not assumptions," Susan continued, her tone measured. "And the evidence doesn't support you being guilty."
Harry blinked. "It doesn't?"
"Think about it logically." Susan ticked off points on her fingers. "You spent an entire day publicly demonstrating methods to bypass the age line—methods you knew wouldn't work. Why would you do that if you'd actually succeeded? It draws attention to the exact thing you'd want people to ignore."
"Misdirection," Harry said tiredly. "Everyone keeps saying it was misdirection."
"Terrible misdirection," Susan countered. "If you wanted to hide your success, you'd stay quiet about it entirely. Instead, you made yourself the center of the conversation about cheating. That's not clever strategy—that's someone who genuinely believed no one could enter underage."
Harry felt a flicker of hope. "You really think—"
"Also," Susan interrupted, "why would you risk it? The magical contract means if you fail to complete the tasks, you lose your magic permanently. You'd become a Squib. You don't need tournament glory, Harry—you're already famous. It makes no sense for you to risk everything for something you don't even want."
Cedric nodded slowly. "She's right. The risk-reward doesn't add up."
"Thank you," Harry said quietly, meaning it more than they could possibly know.
Around them, breakfast continued, but Harry noticed more students watching their conversation with varying degrees of interest. Some looked thoughtful, as if Susan's logic was making them reconsider. Others remained hostile, their minds already made up.
"This is going to be a long year," Harry muttered, taking a sip of pumpkin juice he didn't really want.
"Probably," Cedric agreed. "But at least you won't face it alone."
Luna smiled serenely. "The Nargles always clear eventually. Truth is patient, even when people aren't."
Harry looked at his three supporters—Luna with her unshakeable calm, Cedric with his solid reliability, Susan with her logical precision,and felt marginally less alone.
It wasn't much. But right now, it was enough.
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