Harry wakes up feeling quite miserable the next morning. He's hardly gotten any sleep at all, and what little snatches of it that he managed were plagued with nightmares. He feels even worse when he realizes that Ron has gone to breakfast without him, clearly not inclined to be any more reasonable about this after sleeping on it. 'Fine then,' Harry thinks as gnaws on his lip, rage and anxiety welling up within him in equal measure. 'I don't need him. If he wants to throw away our friendship over this damn tournament, then let him! I'm done.'
He feels quite done with the whole lot of it, really.
That sentiment grows even stronger when he trudges out of his dorm room and into the common room, greeted by deafening applause and cheering that makes Harry want to turn around, go curl up on his bed, and never leave it again. He doesn't say a word to the others as briskly walks past them, barely dodging the enthusiastic Creevey brothers as he steps through the portrait. He nearly starts crying all over again when he nearly bumps into Hermione on his way out.
She's holding a napkin piled high with slices of toast and greets him with a wobbly smile. "Hello, Harry. I figured you wouldn't want to go to the Great Hall after... Did you want to go for a walk instead?"
"That's a wonderful idea," he whispers gratefully, trailing after Hermione with misty eyes as he nibbles on the toast that she immediately passes over to him. At least he still has one friend…
It's a brisk morning. A chilly breeze musses their hair as they walk out toward the lake, staring at the massive boat moored at the shore. There are a few Durmstrang students puttering around on it, so they walk further away until they are nearing the edge of the Forbidden Forest. They take a seat beneath one of the gnarled, twisting trees just on the outskirts of it, and Harry breaks their peaceful silence with a stammered, "I didn't do it, you know? I didn't put my name in. No one believes me...! Well, except for Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Moody, anyway… Moody seems pretty sure that someone's trying to kill me."
"Of course I know you didn't enter yourself," Hermione says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "The look on your face when Professor Dumbledore read out your name… The real question is who did do it. Because I think Professor Moody is quite right, Harry. No student could have done it. They'd never be able to fool the goblet, never mind getting past Dumbledore's Age Line!"
A flood of relief so immense that it's damn near suffocating engulfs him. It is because of this, perhaps, that Harry asks a question he really should have left well enough alone. "Have you seen Ron?"
"Erm… Yes…" Hermione confirms with a hesitant nod. "He was at breakfast."
"Does he still think I entered myself?"
"Well… No, I don't think so… Not really," Hermione stammers awkwardly, either unable or unwilling to look Harry in the eye as she says it.
A sinking feeling swells up within him, immediately threatening to suffocate the tiny spark of joy that he's found here. "Not really? What is that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, Harry, isn't it obvious?" Hermione whispers with a quiet sigh and a shake of her head. "He's jealous!"
Rage ignites in Harry's heart, stifling the lingering sense of oppressive numbness with a searing heat that now courses through him as readily as his magic does. "Jealous?! Jealous of what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school, does he? He wants to be forced to choose between participating in a tournament that got canceled because it kept killing people and losing his magic forever?!"
"Look..." Hermione murmurs with a placating smile. "It's always you who gets all the attention. You know it is." Attention that he's never wanted. Attention that he's made it clear a million times over that he hates. Hermione cuts Harry off before he can say a word, seeing the outrage that firmly settles on his face and attempting to diffuse it before it gets any worse. "I know that it's not your fault. I know you don't ask for it… But, well... You know, Ron's got all those brothers to compete against at home, and you're his best friend, and you're really famous. He's always shunted to the side whenever people see you, and he puts up with it, he never mentions it, but I suppose that this is just one time too many…"
"Great," Harry mutters with a bitter, broken laugh. Maybe he doesn't have any friends left after all. "Really great. Tell him that he's welcome to swap any time he wants. People gawping at my forehead everywhere I go, constantly fighting for my life, going home to a family that'd be cheering right alongside the Death Eaters if this was the year that finally did me in–"
"I'm not telling him anything," Hermione interrupts him, sounding quite cross as she levels him with an irritated look. "Tell him yourself. It's the only way to sort this out."
"It's not like I can bloody well force him to listen to me, is it?!" Harry snaps as the lingering remnants of his fear eagerly morph into the persistent sort of anger that cannot be escaped. It feels like it's consuming him from the inside out. "It's not my fault he refuses to listen, and I'm not gonna chase after him like a kicked dog begging for scraps!" Several nearby owls, likely those who were doing their last bit of hunting before the sun well and truly rose into the sky, take off when he starts shouting, hooting in alarm as they rush back to the Owlery. "Maybe he'll finally believe I'm not enjoying myself when I've broken my neck or–"
"That's not funny, Harry," Hermione whispers nervously, eyes darting from him to the nearby forest while still refusing to meet his own. He feels a brief pang of guilt for upsetting her, but at the same time, it feels like even Hermione isn't really taking this seriously. Why else would she care about Ron's jealousy when someone is trying to kill Harry with this stupid tournament? This isn't meant to be funny. He isn't joking. "That's not funny at all. Harry, I've been thinking… You know what we've got to do, don't you? Straight away, the moment we get back to the castle?"
"Yeah, give Ron a good kick up the–"
Hermione cuts him off with a stern look taken right out of a page of McGonagall's book. "Write to Sirius. You've got to tell him what's happened. He asked you to keep him posted on everything that's going on at Hogwarts… It's almost as if he expected something like this to happen. I brought some parchment and a quill out with me–"
"Oh, come off it," Harry scoffs derisively. He ignores the flash of hurt that dances across Hermione's face this time, too angry to truly care. "He came back to the country just because my scar twinged. He'll probably come bursting right into the castle if I tell him someone's entered me in the Triwizard Tournament–"
"He'd want you to tell him," Hermione repeats firmly. "He's going to find out anyway."
"How?" It isn't exactly like he can mingle with the people who'll be talking about it. Sure, maybe he'll overhear a conversation as Padfoot, but isn't it better to put this off for as long as possible? If Harry proves that he can manage this on his own, somehow, then Sirius will be less likely to risk his life trying to save him from something that can't be changed. He just... He can't put Sirius at risk. He's all that Harry has.
"Harry, this isn't going to be kept quiet." Hermione almost sounds pitying, now, and it only makes Harry feel even worse than he already does. "This tournament is famous, and you're famous. I'll be very surprised if there isn't anything in the Daily Prophet about you entering… You're already in half the books about You-Know-Who, you know? And Sirius would rather hear it from you. I know he would."
"Okay, okay, I'll write to him," he grumbles as he shoves the final piece of toast into his mouth. Harry isn't happy about it, but Hermione has a point. Harry still really regrets writing to Sirius about his scar in the first place. If he hadn't, then maybe they wouldn't be in this situation now... "Whose owl am I going to use?" he mutters under his breath. "He told me not to use Hedwig again."
"Ask Ron if you can borrow–"
"I'm not asking Ron for anything," he says quite flatly. He will not budge on that.
Hermione huffs out a quiet sigh before muttering, "Well, borrow one of the school owls, then. Anyone can use them." The two of them walk up to the Owlery together in awkward, tense silence, but Hermione still stays to keep a lookout while he writes his letter to Sirius. It's... something, at least.
Padfoot,
You told me to keep you posted on what's happening at Hogwarts, so here goes: I don't know if you've heard, but the Triwizard Tournament's happening this year. And on Saturday night I got picked as a fourth champion. I don't know who put my name in the Goblet of Fire because I definitely didn't. The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory, from Hufflepuff.
Harry pauses. For a moment, he considers pouring all of his anxieties out on the page, admitting just how afraid he is of this whole tournament and the fact that he's very likely to die in the process. But he doesn't know how to put it into words and really doesn't want to risk Sirius doing anything that'll get him arrested or killed, so in the end, Harry simply dips his quill back into the ink with a sigh and leaves it there.
Hope you and Buckbeak are okay,
Harry
"Finished," he murmurs quietly as he gets to his feet and brushes the straw off of his uniform. His hands are bound to itch later, but Harry doesn't really care about that right now. Hedwig comes fluttering down onto his shoulder and holds out her leg, eagerly awaiting the letter. "I can't use you," Harry whispers apologetically. "Not for this one. I'm sorry, girl, but I've got to borrow one of the school owls– Ouch!" Hedwig's talons dig into his shoulder as she takes off with an indignant hoot, and spots of blood well up in the punctured flesh, hidden only by the dark color of his school robes. She refuses to even look at Harry as he ties the letter to a barn owl's leg, and when he reaches out to stroke her, she clicks her beak furiously, snapping at his fingers and only just barely missing them before soaring into the rafters, far beyond his reach. "First Ron, and now you?" he whispers despairingly, ashamed to feel tears welling up in his eyes again. He needs to get a grip. "It's not my fault…!"
Somehow, it only manages to get worse from there. Harry is unable to avoid the rest of school once Monday lessons roll around, and it becomes abundantly clear that they, like the Gryffindors, believe he somehow cheated to enter himself into the tournament. Unlike the Gryffindors, however, none of them are very impressed by that "feat". He isn't sure whether that's better or worse.
The Hufflepuffs, who are usually on remarkably good terms with every house, are giving the entirety of Gryffindor the cold shoulder. One Herbology lesson is all it takes for Harry to be certain of this. It's very clear that the Hufflepuffs believe he is stealing their rare chance at glory and recognition, and he wants to shout from the rooftops that Cedric is more than welcome to it. But what does it matter? They've already made up their minds. Even Ernie and Justin, who he usually gets along with decently well, refuse to say a word to him during that lesson even though they were working right next to each other. The only sound he hears out of them at all is a mean laugh when one of the Bouncing Bulbs wriggles free from Harry's shaky, unsteady grip and smacks him in the face.
Ron still isn't talking to him either, but he honestly cannotbring himself to care about that anymore. Hermione sits between them and tries to make very forced conversation, but eventually, when it becomes clear that Harry isn't going to answer her while she's doing this, she huffs and directs her full attention to Ron instead. He has nothing to say to her either so long as she thinks he's the one being unreasonable here, like he owes Ron an apology for existing or something.
Harry's almost dreading Care of Magical Creatures. He's usually quite excited for this class, even when they have the Blast-Ended Skrewts to deal with, but the thought of dealing with the Slytherins after being declared champion is like lead weighing down his every step. He's practically dragging his feet through the dirt the entire way there.
He feels sick. He's not sure that he'll ever feel well again.
"Ah, look, boys, it's the champion!" Draco jeers with a smirk. He looks back to Crabbe and Goyle as he mutters, "Got your autograph books? Better get his signature now, because I doubt he's going to be around much longer… Half the Triwizard champions have died. How long d'you reckon you're going to last, Potter? Ten minutes into the first task's my bet."
Honestly, that feels like a generous estimation. He says as much. "I didn't realize you thought so highly of me, Malfoy," he murmurs quietly. Crabbe and Goyle's guffawing laughter slowly dies out as confusion flickers across their faces. "I've got my money on five minutes. If I'm lucky. And, well, I'm not really counting on getting lucky, all things considered."
Malfoy's signature sneer wavers as a hint of unease flashes in his eyes, but Harry doesn't get a chance to hear whatever he was going to say next because Hagrid walks out of his hut, carefully balancing a teetering tower of massive crates containing Blast-Ended Skrewts in his arms. The class, collectively, is horrified to hear that he believes they've started killing each other off due to pent-up energy, and they're even more so when Hagrid suggests they walk them to help them burn off some of said energy.
"Take this thing for a walk?" Malfoy echoes with clear disgust. "And where, exactly, are we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the blasting end, or the sucker?" Harry barely stifles a snicker at that. It shouldn't be funny, but honestly, it kind of is. It isn't like he's looking forward to walking them either…
"Roun' the middle," Hagrid explains while demonstrating on one of the Blast-Ended Skrewts. His beard gets a bit singed in the process of doing so. "Er, yeh might want ter put on yer dragon-hide gloves, jus' as an extra precaution like. Harry, you come here an' help me with this big one." But Hagrid is not subtle, and it's clear that isn't the real reason why he's asking Harry to step to the side. He waits until the rest of the class has walked off with their Blast-Ended Skrewts, many of them struggling and cursing under their breaths as they barely avoid getting stung or singed in the process, before saying, "So, yer competin', Harry. In the tournament. School champion."
Harry shakes his head firmly. "Just an extra. Cedric is the school champion."
Hagrid looks just as anxious about this entire thing as he does. Finally. It's nice to see that someone is reasonably cautious about this whole thing. "No idea who put yeh in fer it, Harry?"
"You believe I didn't do it, then?" he whispers with a flood of gratitude. Maybe he's not completely alone in this after all. That hope is snuffed out quite quickly when he remembers that professors aren't allowed to help the champions, but Hagrid doesn't seem to notice the slight wobble in his relieved smile.
"Yeh say it wasn' you, an' I believe yeh. An' Dumbledore believes yer an' all…"
"I just wish I knew who did do it," he mutters bitterly.
Maybe Hagrid isn't quite as oblivious as Harry thought. Because he doesn't say a word about the Blast-Ended Skrewts dragging several of his classmates along in the distance, instead looking down at him with a sympathetic smile. "Ah, I don't know, Harry… A champion… Everythin' seems ter happen ter you, doesn't it?"
Yes, not half as oblivious as he thought. At the very least, he sees what no one else seems willing to. "Yeah…" Harry whispers as he tries and fails to clear his throat. His voice sounds positively wrecked when he forces out a, "Hagrid?"
"What is it, Harry?"
"I…" He's exhausted. Harry feels worn down to his very bones and is struggling to even get out of his bed in the morning. It doesn't feel like there's much point in it. The first task is rapidly approaching, and he's quite certain that, come the end of November, the person who entered his name will get their wish. He's just not strong enough. At least in previous years, he had his friends by his side and some idea of what he was getting himself into before he was thrown into the fray. This year? He has no one and no idea what is coming next. He's afraid. Harry is so afraid that the thought of refusing to participate in this tournament at all, consequences be damned, is growing more and more tempting by the day.
"Harry?" Hagrid prods him gently, and the worry that furrows his brows makes Harry feel like the worst person on earth.
"It's nothing," he whispers with a shake of his head. His smile is a flimsy excuse of one that clearly does nothing to reassure Hagrid, but he doesn't have it in him to offer anything more. "Don't worry about it."
And because Hagrid is a good friend, the only one that Harry really has, he dips his head in a nod and leaves it alone. "... If yeh say so."
The next few days are some of the worst that Harry's ever had at Hogwarts. This is even worse than second year. At least then, there were some people who believed he was innocent, and he had his friends that he could rely on back then, too. But now, almost everyone believes that he entered himself into this stupid tournament. The hatred pouring in from all sides is threatening to drown him. Hermione has given up on getting him to talk to her, only pleading with him to make up with Ron if she bothers speaking to him at all. He refuses. Sirius hasn't responded to his letter yet, Hedwig still refuses to come anywhere near him, Trelawney is predicting his death with even more certainty than usual, and Harry does so badly in Charms that Flitwick assigns him extra homework too. He's the only person outside of Neville to get any. And he has Double Potions this afternoon to top it all off, so the day can only get worse from here.
Being trapped in the dungeons with Snape and the Slytherins, who are all determined to punish Harry as much as possible for daring to be forced into this competition against his will, is almost the worst fate he can imagine. His skin crawls with unease, leaving him jittery and tense in a class that he really cannot afford to lose focus in. He's already suffered through one Double Potions since the announcement, and he cannot see today going any better. It might go even worse.
When he arrives at Snape's classroom just after lunch, it's to a sea of Slytherins wearing a large badge on the front of each of their robes. For a moment, Harry almost thinks that Hermione has somehow badgered them into wearing S.P.E.W. badges, but then he gets close enough to read what they say: Support Cedric Diggory: The Real Hogwarts Champion!
"Like them, Potter?" Malfoy crows loudly as he approaches. "And this isn't all they do. Look!" Malfoy presses his badge into his chest, and in a flash of green, the words shift before their very eyes until they read: Potter Stinks.
The Slytherins howl with laughter as they all make their badges match. Harry can't help laughing right alongside them. It just seems so inconsequential, even downright silly, compared to everything else that's going on right now. "Yeah, I do like them, actually. Mind if I have one?" Malfoy gives him that strange look again, but in the end, he tosses a badge his way with a careless shrug. Harry proudly affixes it to his robe, though he does tap it again to make the text go back to: Support Cedric Diggory: The Real Hogwarts Champion! Maybe the Hufflepuffs will ease up a little if they see him wearing it. "Thanks, Malfoy."
"… Whatever, Potter."
The atmosphere in the classroom after that is… strange. Hermione doesn't even hesitate before sitting down with Ron this time, and Harry is left to sit at a table alone. Snape's robes fan out behind him as he stalks into the room, and he immediately levels Harry with a nasty glare. "Antidotes! You should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then, we will be selecting someone on whom to test one…" Snape's eyes glitter with a sadistic sort of satisfaction. Harry can see how this is going to go already. Snape is going to poison him, and he's going to bungle his antidote because he can't focus on anything but the looming dread of the tournament these days. His hands never quite stop shaking. Snape is going to kill him.
He wonders if it will hurt less than whatever is waiting for him in this tournament. Maybe this is a good thing…
But before he can ponder on that thought for too long, there's a hesitant knock on the door. Colin Creevey edges into the room when Snape opens the door, shooting a starstruck smile in Harry's direction that makes him squirm in discomfort. "Yes?" Snape demands impatiently.
"Please, sir, I'm supposed to take Harry Potter upstairs."
Snape stares down his hooked nose and levels Colin with a sneer that slowly wipes the eager smile off his face. Colin starts shuffling nervously too. "Potter has another hour of Potions to complete," Snape refuses curtly. "He will come upstairs when this class is finished."
Colin flushes pink, but he squares his shoulders even as he stutters out, "Sir… Sir, Mr. Bagman wants him. All the champions have got to go. I think they want to take photographs…"
Harry can physically feel his will to live slowly draining away from his body. Ron is going to be so insufferably smug about this, and the very thought of getting dragged around by some reporter or another for pictures makes him want to scream. He almost prefers getting poisoned.
"Very well. Very well!" Snape snaps with a fierce scowl. "Potter, leave your things here. I want you back down here later to test your antidote." The antidote that he hasn't even had the chance to start yet? Is Snape planning on having him miss his next class to brew it, or is he just trying to kill him outright?
"Please, sir, he's got to take his things with him!" Colin squeaks nervously. "All the champions–"
"Very well!" Snape barks, and Harry shrinks beneath the murderous glare from Snape that pins him in place. His heartbeat quickens. Snape reminds him of all the worst parts of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia combined, and that comparison feels especially apt right now. He yells and looks for any excuse possible to hurt him, just like Uncle Vernon, and he always looks down his nose at Harry like he's something disgusting that he's stepped in, berating him with cruel words just like Aunt Petunia. He's also probably gonna be pretty happy when Harry dies in this thing, just like both of them. "Potter! Take your bag and get out of my sight!"
Harry practically sprints out of the classroom. His legs wobble as soon as he escapes the room, and Colin's eyes widen in alarm when Harry has to brace himself against the wall with a shaky breath before going any further. His heart won't stop trying to beat straight out of his chest. "Are you okay?"
"Y-Yeah, just fine, Colin," he reassures him with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Thanks for the save there. Pretty sure Snape is racing to off me before the tournament can."
Colin chuckles at that, not understanding that he isn't joking in the slightest. "It's amazing, isn't it, Harry?" Colin says, a smile returning to his face as the two of them walked down the hall. "You being champion?"
"No," he says curtly. Harry hates himself a bit for the way Colin's smile falters again, but he means it and isn't going to take it back. Maybe the rest of Gryffindor will finally get it through their thick skulls that he isn't happy about this if he shuts any talk about the tournament down at every possible opportunity. All the bragging and gloating about someone trying to kill him is worse than the other houses hating him, he's decided, and he's really quite sick of it. And it's only making the other houses hate him even more, to add insult to injury.
The rest of their walk is silent, save for Colin's whispered, "Good luck," as he leaves Harry standing on the other side of the door currently separating him from the realchampions. For a moment, he seriously considers turning around and walking away. He might be trapped in this tournament, but an interview is hardly one of the tasks. It's not like they can force him to do this, can they? His magic won't be bound if he doesn't.
Nodding decisively, Harry turns around, but unfortunately for him, the door opens just before he can make his escape. "Ah, there's our fourth champion!" Bagman smiles and grabs his arm, leading him into the room without a care in the world for how tense Harry is. Once again, he wants to punch that smile right off of Bagman's face, but he refrains. Barely. "Nothing to worry about! It's just the wand-weighing ceremony, and the rest of the judges will be here in just a moment."
"Wand-weighing ceremony?" he echoes nervously. Harry's never liked letting anyone else touch his wand, and that feeling has only grown stronger after the disaster at the World Quidditch Cup. It just feels like a bad idea to let himself be that powerless for even a second. Especiallynow.
"We have to ensure that your wands are fully functional and don't have any problems, you know? They're your most important tool in the tasks ahead. The expert is upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there's going to be a little photo shoot! This is Rita Skeeter," Bagman explains as he gestures to a shrewd-looking witch in magenta robes. Harry really doesn't like the gleam in her eyes. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet."
"Maybe not that small, Ludo," Skeeter titters with a smarmy smile. Her eyes haven't left Harry's faintly trembling form for a second. "I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?" she asks Bagman as if Harry isn't standing right there. "The youngest champion, you know… to add a bit of color."
"Certainly!" Bagman agrees without hesitation, and Harry can feel his eyebrow start twitching. "That is, if Harry has no objection?"
The look on Harry's face is so cold that it could bring winter early. "No."
"Excellent!" Bagman claps his hands together with a smile, and Skeeter stalks toward Harry like a house cat about to pounce on a particularly elusive mouse, all vindicated satisfaction and malice that make him take several swift steps back just before she can sink her claws into him.
"You misunderstand me," he repeats, a bit louder this time. "No, I won't do it."
"Come along, dear. Harry." Skeeter's attempts at coaxing him into cooperation are blatantly transparent, and he bristles when she takes another step forward. "Our readers are positively dying to hear more about you."
"I guess you'll have to plan a bunch of funerals then," he snaps back with a glare. Fleur smothers a delicate laugh behind her hand, and even Viktor, who is looming in a corner by himself, snorts quietly. "I said no."
Bagman looks between Harry and Skeeter with a hopelessly confused sort of expression. Harry's estimation of the man's intelligence somehow manages to drop even lower than it already was. "Now, Harry, it's truly no big–"
"'E said no, Mr. Bagman." Fleur practically floats across the room, standing by Harry's side in an obvious show of support. She refrains from reaching out to him this time, and he is immensely grateful for it. "Zat is zat. Unless you don't want either of us to answer any questions at all…?"
"Now, now, there's no need for that," Skeeter chides them with a dismissive wave of her hand and a harried sigh. "It is tradition! You wouldn't leave our readers without an interview, would you? They want to know about their champions!"
"This isn't a task," Harry says firmly, pointing at the faintly glowing badge that is still pinned to his robes. "And Cedric is the Hogwarts champion. I'm being forced to participate in the tasks themselves, but the rest of it doesn't fall under the magical contract, right, Mr. Bagman?"
"Er… Technically not, I suppose…?"
Harry levels Skeeter with a firm look and repeats, "I said no, and if you keep pushing it, then I will just leave. I don't care what you or anyone else thinks about it."
Skeeter looks quite like she's bitten into a sour lemon, but she backs off, no matter how reluctantly. Fleur smiles proudly at him, dipping her head in a regal nod as she murmurs, "Well 'andled, Harry." She leads him over to where the champions are sitting, and he takes a seat between her and Cedric with a wobbly smile. Cedric's eyes linger on his badge as a faint grin tugs at his lips.
"... You really don't want this, do you?" Cedric whispers in quiet realization.
"What reason could I possibly have to enter this tournament?" Harry knows that he's being a bit snippy, but considering the fact that Cedric refused to believe him the first time, he kind of deserves it. "Fame? I don't want what I already have. Money? A thousand galleons is… really nothing to me. I'd probably just give it away. Glory? I have almost died every single year since I've been at Hogwarts. I would like that trend to stop, actually."
Cedric pauses, humming as he truly begins to consider it. "Huh… I guess when you put it like that…"
"You were being ridiculous," Fleur sniffs derisively. "'E looked like a stiff breeze could knock 'im over. Zat is not ze face of someone who entered willingly."
Cedric rubs at the back of his neck with a nervous laugh. "I'm sorry, Harry. I'll try to get the Hufflepuffs to back off. Where'd you get that badge, by the way? It's an interesting piece of charmswork."
Harry taps on his badge with a smile, snickering at the dumbfounded look he gets when the text shifts to: Potter Stinks. "Malfoy was passing them out earlier. I bet he'd be willing to give you one." He leaves the badge exactly like it is, crossing his arms with a defiant glare at the photographer's defeated look. Harry is being dragged into this thing kicking and screaming, and he intends to make it as difficult for everyone around him as humanly possible.
The judges slowly trickle into the room, and Dumbledore is the last of them, followed by a familiar face that Harry hopes isn't a sign of bad things to come. If Ollivander goes on that tangent about his wand again… "May I introduce Ollivander?" Dumbledore says quite cheerily, though his eyes do linger on Harry's robes for a touch longer than any of the rest of them. "He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament."
"Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" Ollivander asks politely as he steps into the center of the room. Fleur answers him with a graceful nod, sweeping across the room before passing over her wand. "Hm…" Ollivander twirls the wand between his fingers, and it emits a shower of pink and golden sparks. Harry wonders if that means Ollivander is compatible with Fleur's wand or if it's just a wandmaker thing. "Yes," he murmurs quietly. "Nine and a half inches… Inflexible… Rosewood… And containing, dear me…"
"An 'air from ze 'ead of a veela," Fleur answers with a smile. It's a touch sharp around the edges. "One of my grandmuzzer's."
"Yes… Yes, I've never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes rather temperamental wands… However, to each their own, and if this suits you…"
Fleur's smile grows even sharper, and Harry can't help thinking that it wouldn't look out of place in a shark's mouth. "You'll find I'm a razzer temperamental person. Ze veela is strong in me."
Ollivander runs his fingers up and down the wand, checking for any chips or cracks before he mutters, "Orchideous." A bunch of flowers blossom from the wand's tip, all in hues of pretty blues and purples that match Fleur's uniform quite well. "Very well, very well, it's in fine working order." Ollivander passes both her wand and the flowers to Fleur. "Mr. Diggory, you next."
Cedric stands up, sharing a brief smile with both Harry and Fleur before he walks forward. "Ah, now this is one of mine, isn't it?" Ollivander's voice has far more enthusiasm than it did while he was holding Fleur's wand. "Yes, I remember it well. Containing a single hair from the tail of a particularly fine male unicorn… Must have been seventeen hands tall; he nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked his tail. Twelve and a quarter inches… Ash… Pleasantly springy! It's in fine condition. You treat it regularly?"
"Polished it last night," Cedric confirms with a proud grin.
Harry looks down at his own wand with a faint grimace. He can see fingerprints and smudges all over it, but in his defense, it's not like he knew he was supposed to polish it… He tries to discretely wipe it clean with his robe, but he only succeeds in sending a few golden sparks fluttering to the floor. Fleur gives him a reassuring smile before whispering, "Scourgify." His shoulders sag with relief when his wand looks far better afterward, even though it still doesn't look nearly as clean as Cedric's. "Zere you are. It's not ze best, but it's better zan nothing, non? And I can show you 'ow to polish it later."
"Thanks, Fleur," he whispers with a wobbly, genuine smile. She's a lot nicer than he expected her to be.
"Of course! We champions must stick togezzer."
A stream of thin, silver rings pour out from Cedric's wand, and Ollivander nods with satisfaction before handing it back over to him. "Mr. Krum, if you please." Viktor looks almost as unhappy as Harry is to be here, though he's beginning to suspect that's just his general demeanor whenever he isn't riding around on a broom. He slouches the entire way over to Ollivander, scowling as he holds out his wand. "Hmm… This is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm mistaken? A fine wandmaker, though the styling is never quite what I would have… However…" Ollivander lifts the wand and inspects it closely, turning it this way and that in his hand. "Yes… Hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" he questions Viktor, who merely answers with a nod. "Rather thicker than one usually sees… Quite rigid… Ten and a quarter inches… Avis!"
The thundering blast that echoes from Viktor's wand as birds fly out of the tip of it and straight out of a window makes Harry startle so badly that he nearly falls out of his chair. He flushes with embarrassment when he sees the sharp, calculating gleam in Skeeter's eyes as she jots something down. Fleur makes a point of leaning forward to better shield him from her view. "Are you alright?" she murmurs quietly. "You are quite jumpy, non?"
"A bit," he mutters with a wry chuckle. "More so now than usual."
"Good," Ollivander declares decisively as he gives Viktor his wand back. "Which just leaves… Mr. Potter."
It's a bit easier to move without quite so many eyes watching him as there were when his name came out of the goblet, but Harry still feels a bit queasy as he walks up and hands over his wand. 'Don't say a word about Voldemort's wand. Don't you dare.' Maybe, just maybe, if he thinks it hard enough, he can keep a bad situation from becoming even worse.
"Ah, yes…" Ollivander's pale eyes positively gleam with interest, even more so than they did with Cedric's wand, and that queasy feeling only intensifies. "Yes, yes, yes… How well I remember." Ollivander spends much longer inspecting Harry's wand than he did with any of the others, but thankfully, that time is spent either muttering quietly to himself or not saying much of anything at all. A fountain of wine shoots out of Harry's wand before Ollivander nods, passing it back over to him as he mutters, "Expecting great things indeed…"
Harry levels him with a sharp glare before he can say anything else, and a haunted look flashes across Ollivander's face, there and gone in an instant, before he shakes his head slightly, stepping back to rejoin Dumbledore's side. "Thank you all," Dumbledore says with a smile. "You may go back to your lessons now. Or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end–"
He's so, so close to making it out of the door before they're halted by the photographer. Harry heaves out a weary sigh. Cedric laughs at the despondent look on his face, but at least it isn't a mean laugh this time. He'll take whatever he can get at this point.
"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!!" Bagman cries excitedly. "All the judges and champions! What do you think, Rita?"
"Hm… Yes, let's do those first," Skeeter says distractedly. Her eyes are focused on Harry again. "And then perhaps some individual shots."
The photographs took ages. Madame Maxime is so tall that she casts a shadow on whoever she stands behind, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her completely in frame. In the end, they all end up standing around her as she sits. Krum seems as displeased to be in the spotlight as Harry is, skulking around the back of the group with what could generously be considered a grimace plastered on his face. They keep trying to get Harry to take off the button, but the most is he willing to do is tap it again to show a message of support for Cedric. The photographer keeps dragging Fleur to the front of the photos, but Skeeter keeps doing the same with Harry. He is firmly in the scowling instead of smiling territory toward the end of the group photo session. Skeeter tries to force them to stay behind for individual pictures, but Harry does not like the calculating gleam in her eyes and ignores her shout as he storms out of the room. Fleur's tinkling laugh rings out behind him, and the photographer gapes quite dumbly as she follows him out of the room without a beat of hesitation. Both Cedric and Viktor practically sprint after them.
"I zought it would never be over," Fleur grumbles unhappily. "I am starving."
"Are you sure it was a good idea to ditch them like that?" Cedric murmurs worriedly. "They're just trying to do their jobs…"
"Vultures," Viktor grunts with a firm nod. "They are all vultures. They vould not have ever let us leave, otherwise."
"It's probably better that they only have pictures of us together," Harry mutters with a scowl. "Did you see how Skeeter was looking at me? She was practically drooling. I don't want her to make the whole article about me. I'm quite literally the last person anyone should be focusing on here."
"... Is that why you refused to take off the badge?" Cedric asks with a laugh. "She looked right pissed off about it."
"Mostly. There's also the fact that it pissed her off to consider…" Viktor snorts at that, looking quite amused by Harry's bit of petty rebellion.
The four of them enter the Great Hall together, and Harry grimaces at the sight of the Gryffindor table. He's too drained to deal with their boisterous excitement and inevitable interrogation right now. His thoughts must be plainly visible on his face because Cedric exchanges a glance with the other champions before he asks, "Did you guys want to sit with me? The Hufflepuffs won't mind, and it's a good opportunity to convince them to lay off of you, Harry…"
"That sounds great, actually." His smile is still a bit strained around the edges, but this is the lightest that Harry has felt ever since his name came out of the Goblet of Fire. "Thanks, Cedric."
"I will join you, of course," Fleur agrees with a nod. "'Ow about you, Viktor?"
"... I don't see vhy not."
This whole situation is still absolutely awful, but… Maybe Harry won't have to face these tasks quite as alone as he feared. There are no rules against the champions helping each other, after all.