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