Chapter Text
“Your Occlumency shields are abysmal.”
Harry’s head throbs as he scowls at the middle-aged visage of the boy from the Chamber. “You fucking kidnapped me.”
“I did nothing of the sort.” Voldemort— Riddle?— refutes. “I can’t, however, say the same for dear Bartemius. Say thank you, Harry.”
“Thank you, Harry.” He parrots sarcastically, eyeing the unfamiliar man with thinly veiled apprehension. He looks to be around the same age as Basti— and not nearly as attractive, Harry decides uncharitably, sneering. “Polyjuice?”
Bartemius’ eyes gleam as he hums. “You are indomitably clever, despite your rather… average showing.”
“He’s got such an issue with applying himself, don’t you agree?”
“Oh,” Bartemius nods, “you should hear old Minnie aft—”
“Did you seriously kidnap me to taunt me about my grades?” Harry demands, unexpectedly offended by the fucking audacity. He gestures wildly toward Voldemort— Riddle— whatever the fuck he’s calling himself now, “you’ve personally ruined my exam period twice, you fucking asshole!”
And Siri got the other.
Voldemort conjures a throne like chair at the end of the table, hooking his knee over the arm as he reclines gracefully. “By the Mother who raised you, your language is atrocious.”
Adrenalin thrums, and Harry lunges for the great dark wanker— struggling as he’s caught midair and folded again into the seat he awoke in at the careful direction of Bartemius’ wand, invisible bonds snaking tight across his thighs and chest. “Go fuck yourself with a cheese grater!” He snarls, managing an inch of movement before he’s snapped back into the uncomfortable chair.
“We’ll have to do something about that.” Voldemort says as an aside to Bartemius, who nods as he perches himself on the arm of Voldemort’s throne-like chair. “I won’t tolerate an heir without manners.”
“Rumour has it he was raised by muggles, My Lord.”
Jesus Cedric, you spread that quick, Harry thinks, sneering as Voldemort’s expression twists like he’s smelled something distinctly foul.
“And whose fault is that!” He spits, “you killed my parents!”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Hadrian,” Voldemort rolls his eyes, “you have a spare.”
Harry’s magic flares, and this time, he gets within an inch of Voldemort’s too pale skin— Ripper might have been a right little cunt, Harry reflects, thrashing against the magic holding him, but the mangey beast had the right idea. Always go for the throat.
He gnashes his teeth, and Bartemius tuts, “uh uhh, darling Harry, that is not how we act in polite company.”
Polite— Harry takes a page out of Dudley’s book and hacks a wad of spit right between Bartemius’ eyes. He’s forced to his knees in an instant, Bartemius’ wand a sharp point in his carotid— he’s pushed too far, he realises suddenly, the crazed glint in Fake Moody’s eyes turning murderous.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He attempts to fold, to protect his stomach but—
“That’s enough, Barty.”
The man simpers an apology, but his wand doesn’t waver.
“Wand away, dearest.”
Harry slumps forward, boneless as the bonds snap, breathing heavily— too close. He scrambles backwards out of reach, twisting to flick his wand into his palm.
It doesn’t come.
Horrified, his gaze falls to his wrist.
His forearm is bare, the wand holster Sirius gifted him gone.
“You didn’t think me fool enough to leave you armed, did you, my soul?”
Harry sneers. “I’m not your anything, Riddle.”
Voldemort’s laugh is mocking as he crouches before him, snaring his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Oh but my soul, that is what you are. I see the truth of it in your mind, knew the moment you returned the first and fourth. You, who shares my name.”
Harry rears backward, but Voldemort follows, his grip like iron. He’d ignored the implications of it, of the family line his mum was born of—
Let’s match the powers of Lord Voldemort, heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter, and the best weapons Dumbledore can give him.
“Yes, little heir, you are mine.”
“I am no one’s!” Harry snaps, the sibilant Parseltongue falling easily from his lips.
It’s never made him feel so sick.
“Now, my soul,” he smirks, snaring Harry’s left wrist, and yanking at his sleeve— it tears like paper, and Harry thrashes, wrenching his arm from Voldemort’s grip.
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
It feels like a violation, that the monster who murdered his parents, is close enough to trace the intricate threads that tie him to Rabastan.
“That’s not exactly true any longer, now is it.”
He cradles his arm to his chest, trying and failing to cover the golden bonding cords with the remainder of his sleeve. “Go, fuck, yourself.”
Voldemort laughs again. “Oh little soul, you are delightful. Of all the men… you chose one of mine.”
Bartemius, behind him, cocks his head like a dog, his eyes narrowing as his gaze alights on Harry’s left forearm. “He’s bonded!” He crows gleefully, stalking closer. He attempts to touch, but Voldemort stalls him, raising a hand. “Traditionally too, now how did you manage that, little Potter, when you haven’t even had the chance to leave the castle.”
They scoff in unison, and Harry’s stomach roils— he’s known of their similarities since second year, the diary revealing more than Harry knows it intended with every conversation they held. I hate you, he thinks, glaring.
Voldemort sneers. “Shield your mind child.”
“I don’t know what that means!”
“There are many ways to leave Hogwarts undetected, dearest.” Voldemort says to Bartemius, ignoring Harry’s response. “You’ll find his choice of husband most interesting.”
“Oh?” Bartemius look undeniably intrigued by the prospect. “He’s grown rather close to— no!” He gasps, his entire countenance shifting into pure delight. “Basti? Tell me, little soul,” his tongue darts across his lips, and Harry feels nausea brew, “did you enjoy it? Being taken by one of our Master’s most faithful? Did you moan beneath a murd—”
“Leave us.”
“My Lord—”
“Leave us!” Voldemort roars, and Harry can no longer force down the bile— he tips to the side, the meagre breakfast he choked down reappearing in a stream of acrid vomit.
Did you moan beneath a murderer?
A murderer .
He retches again.
He’d known, of course he’d known but—
To have it confirmed.
Stop it, he scolds himself, you knew what he was, you knew what he was.
And still, I did it.
I wanted it.
Harry swipes a hand across his mouth, disgusted.
I still want it.
I still want him.
He draws his knees to his chest, feeling impossibly small in the corner he’s forced himself into. “What do you want, Voldemort?”
Voldemort grimaces and vanishes the sick. “Tom.”
“Tom.” Harry repeats, scoffing. “What do you want? If you’re planning to kill—”
“I’m not planning to kill you, Hadrian.” Tom sighs heavily, sinking down beside him. The silliness of it— of Lord Voldemort, reclining against the dirty wall beside him— sets Harry oddly at ease.
“Again, you mean?”
Tom fixes him with a wry glare. “Do you know what it is like, to feel the return of a sanity you weren’t aware of missing?”
“No, because I’m not fucking stupid enough to—”
Tom waves a hand, and Harry realises— the wanker’s cast a wandless silencing charm. I have got to learn wandless magic.
“It is mortifying. Once the… pain passed, I was forced to… accept, my own hubris brought me to my knees. Do you know what I achieved as Lord Voldemort, Hadrian? Nothing. I intended revolution and instead— I committed genocide. We looked down on Grindelwald, we decried him, he who believed himself clever enough to rule over both worlds. He knew nothing of the atrocities of Muggles. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were toward the end of the Global Wixen War yes, but the internment camps, the chemical warfare, the Blitz— I, my Knights, we wanted full separation between us and them, and instead, I became worse.”
Harry rests his chin atop his knees.
It’s easy to imagine—
A world where he’d grown up knowing what he was, where all three of parents had lived and he hadn’t suffered the Dursleys, or Dumbledore or anything.
There was a time— well, I thought you’d be my blood nephew, instead of my blood son.
He’d be Regulus’s, likely.
Siri would be his uncle— maybe he’d have cousins who loved him, and a whole giant family who did too.
It’s a pretty dream.
Instead you slaughtered entire generations.
“I did.” Tom agrees, and before Harry can restart their earlier argument, he continues. “Yes, I am reading your mind, seeing your memories, it’s called Legilimency, yes you can stop me from doing so once you’ve learnt to Occlude your mind, which I am unsurprised to find you haven’t ever heard of, as both Dumbledore and my dear Severus use Legilimency extensively.” He waves a hand, dispelling the silencing charm. “It would hardly benefit either of them if their students could conceal a secret.”
The glittering. Harry feels ill. That’s how Snape knew about the Dursleys.
Is there anything you wish to tell me?
He knew.
His magic explodes— and the dining room, already touched by age and decay, is obliterated by the blast, the remains of Voldemort’s throne, the rickety wooden chair Harry was folded into, the once-polished dining table, pelting against the opaque shield Tom raises without a word.
How could you not be, with my dratted sister being what she was.
Harry screams.
He’d put it aside— the knowledge of the compulsions, of everything— so sure it had been a misunderstanding, that he hadn’t truly known how bad it was, that it was for his protection, that he hadn’t intended to send Sirius to Azkaban without a trial, that it was Bartemius Crouch, who’d done it in the end, that it was the reporters who took his words out of context—
And not Albus bloody Dumbledore, pulling the strings.
His magic beats against the shield, the remnants of the dining room whipped and whirling around them—
Sir, I was wondering—
It is imperative you return to your relatives this summer, my boy. They are your family, after all.
A startled yell, and Bartemius is thrown against the wall opposite the door, his wand ripped apart in a blinding flash of red—
And a hand, too gentle, too soft and wrong settles on his arm.
“Hadrian.”
Harry meets eyes of red that bleed to killing curse green. “He knew.” He sobs.
“I know.”
Tom deposits him at Hogwarts’ gates without a word.
Harry trudges back up to the castle slowly, bypassing the Great Hall and the dinner that’s still ongoing, unable to stoke the energy required to fend off Blaise’s probing concern, or Hermione’s increasingly narrowed gaze.
It doesn’t feel like a victory.
I will not intentionally cause harm, physical or otherwise, to Hadrian Lestrange, née Potter-Black nor to those with whom he shares blood, do you accept.
I do.
I will not incite another to cause harm, physical or otherwise, to Hadrian Lestrange, née Potter-Black nor to those with whom he shares blood, do you accept.
I do .
His safety, again in exchange.
Those with whom he shares blood.
It feels like a betrayal, the binding that settles under the skin of his right forearm— like he’s gone and served up everyone aside from his last remaining parent and his child on a silver platter to the monster who now shares his eyes.
We’re family after all, my soul.
Blaise, who’s become a friend.
Hermione, who, though distant, still is.
Corvus, who was kind and Basti—
Of all the men… you chose one of mine.
Who is his.
Harry tries a glamour first, and watches, as the magic slips off their bonding cords like water.
He conjures a bandage.
Twines it, first around his palm, and then, to the elbow.
Hears a voice from a memory decry; what, an, idiot, and clutches his second pillow to his chest.
An idiot indeed.
Blaise taps his wand to it as Harry reaches for the carafe full of lemon water at breakfast the next morning.
In an instant, the bandage’s gone, and Harry’s left arm is flesh-toned and unmarked beneath his sleeve.
“Thank you.” He murmurs.
Blaise’s eyes are impossibly sad. “Of course.”
He sits next to Hermione in potions.
She beams as he slips into the seat beside her, foregoing his now usual seat in the back row, as far from Ron, Neville and Seamus’ exploding cauldrons as possible.
“I missed you at dinner last night.” She murmurs and he shrugs.
“Early night.”
“And the bandage?” Hermione nods to his hand, still tucked into his pocket, and Harry’s never been more thankful for Blaise in his life. He flexes his hand— the bandage is uncomfortable to say the least, itchy and restrictive and annoyingbut he doesn’t— he doesn’t want to see. “I don’t mean to pry. I just—”
He plasters on a smile and waves. “What bandage?”
“Harry,” she starts, narrowing her eyes. “I know what I saw.”
“I’m fine, ‘Mione.”
The nickname soothes her, and they’re half-way through brewing when Colin Creevey interrupts, sun-bright, even in the face of Snape’s glare. “Potter has another hour of Potions to complete; he will come upstairs when class is finished.”
“Uh, sir, Mister Bagman wants him, all the champions have got to go, I think they want to take photographs…”
And Harry, nauseous and anxious and hankering for a nap, blurts; “tell Mister Bagman he can fuck right off, Colin.”
Someone gasps— and various others snicker.
“Uh— but… you’re a champion Harry!”
Carefully, he adds three sprigs of lavender to the calming draught he and Hermione were tasked with and jabs a thumb in Malfoy’s direction as he stirs counterclockwise. “Haven’t you seen the badges?” A wounded noise echoes. “There’s only one real Hogwarts Champion.”
“Indeed,” Snape sneers, and Colin’s smile withers further. “Mister Creevey, I suggest you go find Mister Diggory. There is no champion here.”
“But—”
“Out!”
Colin scampers, and Harry meets Snape’s glittering eyes.
Thank you.
Harry wakes the morning of the first task nauseous.
He heaves into the toilet, the concurrent nervousness and morning sickness, a combination too hard to ignore— the sympathetic look he receives from Neville doesn’t help either, guilt bubbling alongside bile.
Did you moan beneath a murderer?
“You’ll be okay, Harry.”
Harry is saved from answering by another wave, and his dinner repeating. Neville moves away, and Harry rests a hand on his stomach; your timing is impeccable little one. He wipes his mouth, brushes his teeth, and drags himself back to his four poster— a bastardisation of his Quidditch uniform rests atop his House Elf made bed, and he sneers, pulling on a pair of his woollen uniform trousers and last year’s Weasley sweater.
Probably won’t get another of these, he despairs, hooking the wonderfully soft sleeves over his hands.
Hermione’s waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. “Neville said you were sick!”
“Nausea tends to cause that.” Harry grimaces, and her eyes narrow.
“You’re not dressed.”
Harry looks pointedly at his clothes.
“Harry, you know what I mean, you can’t wear—”
“I’m dressed fine, Hermione. Let’s just go to breakfast.”
She chews on her lip, visibly distressed. “Harry… I wish you’d just tell me your plan, you completely ignored Ron when he tried to tell you about—”
“Hermione!” Harry snaps, and yanks her aside in the corridor, garnering several contemplative stares from passing Gryffindors. “Look at me, do I look worried?”
“But Neville said—”
“Hermione!”
She huffs. “No, you don’t, but—”
Harry shakes his head, dropping his hand from her elbow. I can’t do this right now. “I’ll see you after the First Task, I’ll eat with Blaise.”
“Wait—”
He ignores her, slipping into a passage that takes him instantly from the third floor to the entrance hall, and stomps toward the Slytherin table, delighting in Malfoy’s outraged “hey!” as he drops into a seat beside Blaise.
“Nice jumper.” He snorts, pushing a bowl of fruit topped porridge in Harry’s direction.
Harry smirks as he fiddles with his spoon— it was no doubt unintentional by Mrs Weasley, but the emerald yarn accompanied by the gold and silver detailing of a trio of snitches giving chase up his arm, across his shoulder and down his back is a remarkable impression of Slytherin colours. “Brings out my eyes don’t ya think?”
Blaise cackles. “Here,” he states when he calms, “I asked mamma, camomile is caffeine free. Good for na—erves, good for nerves. Too?”
Greedily, Harry sips at the proffered tea, relieved as his stomach settles. He hums. “It’s good.”
“Potter you can’t just—”
“Show me where it says I can’t, Malfoy.” Harry sighs, taking another sip. Besides, he glances at the banner above, I have more right to this table than anyone.
“But—”
“Draco, you’re embarrassing yourself, sit down.” A cool voice intones, ice chip eyes fixing Harry himself with a speculative look. “Well met, Heir Potter.”
Black, Harry adds silently, and nods, returning her greeting even as his mind wanders; how exactly am I to be greeted when I accept my Lordships? “Well met, Heir Greengrass.”
Well met, miscellaneous Lord or Heir, allow me to introduce myself, I’m Heir Black Slytherin Gaunt, Lord Potter Peverell Shafiq and for good bloody measure, Consort Lestrange, please call me Hadrian, and oh, look, you’ve died of old age somewhere around name three.
Those ice-chip eyes look to Blaise. “My my, you have been busy.”
“Please don’t allow him too much credit, Heir Greengrass,” Harry interrupts, putting that thought aside, “he’s already struggling to get through doors.”
“Oi!”
A smirk lights her lips. “Chronic head swellage is oft an issue amongst the nobility, I’ve found.”
“You don’t say.” Harry deadpans, glancing at the still spluttering form of Draco Malfoy, who blushes under their joint consideration, his mouth closing with an audible click.
Her amusement fades quickly into solemnity. “I wish you luck in the first task, Heir Potter.”
Blaise snorts, and Harry huffs, smothering the urge to smack him upside the head like Hermione’s taken to doing when he’s being particularly facetious. You couldn’t have held it together for another hour, he bemoans silently.
Unrepentant, Blaise’s amused expression says, not a chance.
“You’ll have to excuse Blaise, Heir Greengrass, he’s got an incurable case of I’m a fucking idiot disease.”
“What was it you said to me, dear Hadrian?” Blaise teases, “this is the most fun you’ve had at Hogwarts since getting here.”
“A terminal case,” Harry shakes his head sadly, “doesn’t know what he’s saying, you understand.”
A smirk tugs again at her lips. “How unfortunate, when should I expect to don my mourning blacks?”
“You got ‘em handy?”
“Oi! Rude. And here I thought it was your—”
Harry smacks a hand over Blaise’s mouth and drags him up and off the bench. “Please excuse us, Heir Greengrass.”
“Call me Daphne, Heir Potter, I have a feeling we’ll be great friends.”
Harry throws her a strained smile over his shoulder, still dragging Blaise out of the hall. “Harry then! See you later!”
Blaise licks him the moment they’re through the double doors, and Harry yelps, releasing him to scrub his hand on his trousers in disgust. Unrepentant, Blaise smirks. “That’s what you get.”
“You’re a child.” Harry huffs and Blaise raises a brow.
“Obviously,” he sneers. “What was that about, Harry? They’re going to find out anyway.”
“Yes,” Harry hisses, “after the task, when it’s already too late! When he—”
“Mister Potter.”
Harry’s teeth click, grimacing as McGonagall interrupts, his nausea returning with a vengeance. “Professor.”
“Potter, the champions have to come down into the grounds now … you have to get ready for your first task. Mister Zabini will… see you after.”
Blaise tugs him into a hug. “Dumbledore can’t stop this.” He whispers, “you’re already free.”
Am I?
Did you moan beneath a murderer?
Harry’s eyes sting.
Blaise claps him on the arm. “I’ll save you a seat.”
McGonagall’s severe expression cracks slightly as Blaise tugs him into another quick hug, before returning to the Great Hall. “Five points to Gryffindor and Slytherin, for interhouse unity. Follow me.”
She leads him out onto the grounds, toward a tent at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, anxious advice spilling from her lips as they walk. “Now, don’t panic, just keep a cool head. The… handlers are ready to control the… situation if it gets out of… The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you… are you all right?”
“Yes, fine.” Harry responds, and it’s not entirely a lie— the nausea’s still present, but he suspects it has nothing to do with the dragons he can distantly hear roaring their defiance to the air and everything to do with the babe growing in his stomach.
“You’re to go in here with the other champions, and wait for your turn, Potter. You won’t see the welcome to task, but— well. You’ll be busy. Mister Bagman is in there… he’ll be telling you the— the procedure… good luck.” She squeezes his shoulder absently, seemingly committing his features to memory.
“Professor,” Harry stalls her departure with a hand. He wants to ask her— if she knew, if she approved, if she’d ever once been on his side but she continues before he can.
“You’ll do fine, Pot— Harry. Do not underestimate your brilliance. I certainly don’t.”
Stunned and waylaid, Harry nods, right, sit through Bagman’s crap and then— she pats his hand, once, twice, thrice, and nudges him through the entrance. It’s expanded in the same way the Weasley tent was at the Quidditch world cup, bigger on the inside, and split into four distinct sections, each of their last names emblazoned on canvas in their school colours.
“Harry!” Cedric greets him loudly, darting forward— he sways as he stops closer than Harry’s entirely comfortable with, his arms dropping to his sides. “Sorry,” Cedric blushes, “just remembered, no touch.”
Harry’s face twists. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about the older boy right now—he’s kind, sure, but he’s also got incredibly loose lips, if Riddle’s lackey and the sudden shift in his fellow students’ attitudes toward him are any indication. “Yeah, thanks. You sorted?”
“Transfiguration, it’s,” Cedric answers lowly, his blush dipping beneath his collar, “my best subject, actually. You?”
“I—”
“Champions!” Bagman, still clad in his too-small professional Quidditch uniform blusters forward, delighted as he explains they’re to collect a fucking golden egg, from a nesting Mother Dragon. He brandishes the purple silk bag he’s been punctuating his sentences with, the other champions drifting forward like moths to a flame.
You’re all fucking certifiable, Harry decides, eying the assembled seventeen-year-olds with thinly veiled distaste. Whywould you choose this?
“Now you, Harry!”
The familiarity makes his skin crawl. “I’d rather not, thanks.”
Krum guffaws. “You have no choice.”
“I never do,” Harry sneers, plunging his hand into the bag— naturally, he pulls the scariest looking one, a small number four hanging round its neck. Its wings flare, and his palm is alight, a surprisingly cool burst of flame licking at his fingertips. He runs a finger down the miniature dragon’s spine, and the little beast curls up in his palm, hissing contently. Cute, he thinks sardonically. “Lucky me.”
“Well, there you are!” Bagman grins. “You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I’m going to have to leave you in a moment, because I’m commentating. Mister Diggory, you’re first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right? Now… Harry… could I have a quick word? Outside?”
“No.” Harry snaps, “and I don’t recall giving you leave to use my first name, Mister Bagman.”
Bagman flushes, “right. Uh, the welcome to task is starting I best—”
He darts out of the tent like he’s got Fluffy on his heels.
“Good riddance,” Fleur Delacour sniffs, “you did well with him, Heir Potter.”
Vividly, Harry recalls her condemnation in the Great Hall’s annex; they are saying this little boy is to compete also!
Not of me, he realises suddenly, replaying the moment.
Of the situation.
He is too young.
“Thank you,” he says genuinely, inclining a nod. “Well met Heir Delacour.”
“Well met.” For a moment, her smile is touched with nerves, before it widens brightly as Harry feels her foreign magic slip off his own, warm as it brushes his bonding cords.
She offers a hand.
Harry hesitates, feeling Cedric and Krum’s keen eyes upon them. What are you after, he wonders and slips his palm into hers. Her blue eyes gleam as his magic rises to greet her, as though some part of him, ancient and unfathomable, recognises her.
“Oh you are clever,” Fleur murmurs, grinning, “a true natural.”
Harry watches her eyes dip, fighting the urge to hide his abdomen from her searching gaze.
What are you?
“Welcome, everyone, to the Tri-Wizard Tournament!”
“You must visit us, Heir Potter.” Fleur continues quietly as the gathered crowd roars and Krum and Cedric’s attention is finally drawn away. “The Enclave will always welcome you and yours.”
“Britain’s very own Ministry of Magic has ever so graciously provided four nesting mother dragons for our viewing pleasure, and today we’ll witness our Champions’ bravery and resourcefulness firsthand, as they face off against these fearsome beasts to gain a precious clue, for their second task!”
The crowd roars their approval and Harry squeezes Fleur’s hand. “Good luck.”
“And you as well… you’ve your own arduous task ahead.” She wishes warmly, retreating to her own section of the tent.
“Minister Fudge, it is my pleasure as Hogwarts Headmaster to invite you to light the Goblet and begin the first task!”
“Incendio!”
Light, golden bright and threaded with purple bursts around the entryway, a succession of sharp gasps and warbled cries of “my eyes!” following the Minister’s spell and the fading light.
“Congratulations, Heir Potter.” Fleur laughs delightedly as the Goblet’s magic releases him in a wave that makes his knees weak with relief.
“What—”
The tent flaps fly open, Dumbledore’s genial façade nowhere to be seen, replaced instead, by a great towering rage— reflexively, Harry’s wand meets his palm, stopping the Headmaster in his tracks.
“What is the meaning of this!” Dumbledore brandishes a scrap of parchment and Harry catches a glimpse of INELI—before the Minister, still portly and wearing his lime green bowler hat barrels into the tent, Bagman, Crouch, Headmaster Karkaroff and Madame Maxine hot at his heels.
Fleur twirls her wand between her fingers, “He is protecting himself, no? Were you to come at me in the same manner, Headmaster Dumbledore, I too would have you at the end of my wand.”
“Be quiet girl,” Dumbledore snaps.
Madame Maxine’s offended gasp ricochets like a cannon, and Harry watches, silent, as the outraged sound seems to bring the elderly Headmaster back to himself.
“My apologies,” he grits, “Madame Maxine, young Miss Delacour, this is a rather… heightened situation, you must forgive my poor manners.”
Fleur’s expression could be carved from granite itself as her headmistress waves off the token apology. Harry catches her eye, leave it, he begs silently, and miraculously, she does.
“Harry, explain yourself.”
He raises his chin, “excuse me?”
“Why young Harry,” the Minister interrupts, “it appears you’ve been disqualified!”
“Oh?” Harry asks, as Cedric gapes behind the gathered officials. “How utterly unfortunate. I’ll just go find a seat out in the stands then, shall I?”
He’s blocked from leaving by Bartemius Crouch, and Harry sneers. “You’ll not be leaving this tent, boy, until you provide us with a satisfactory explanation! The Goblet is a binding magical contract, it cannot be broken!”
“This is certainly a pattern for you, isn’t it.” Harry spits, his temper rising. “Holding the innocent against their will?”
“Why you—”
“Harry Potter!” Dumbledore thunders, “apologise, this instant.”
“Of course, sir.” He sneers, bowing theatrically. “Crouch, my sincerest apologies. Certainly you’d never discriminate— innocent, guilty, neither has any bearing on your penchant for imprisonment.” How is your psychotic son? He wonders loudly, praying for the telltale glimmer of active Legilimency to appear— it doesn’t.
Harry’s honestly disappointed.
“Did none of you read the rules?”
“What rules?” Bagman demands, and Harry—
Harry fights the urge to cradle his head in his hands. “You—” You can’t be serious. “The Tournament rules, surely— surely you didn’t bring back a competition notorious for killing children without fucking reading them?”
The Minister and Bagman flush.
Crouch’s eyes narrow and Harry flinches— like father, like son.
“Aurors!” Crouch yells, visibly startling the Minister who fumbles with his bowler hat. The tent crowds further as a pair of tall, red-cloaked men respond to his call, standing at attention beside the makeshift door. “Arrest him!”
Harry laughs, a loud, harsh sound that he doesn’t quite recognise as his own as the two men gape.
“Sir?” The bald-headed one queries.
“Arrest him, for use of Dark Magic!”
The other, pale and fair-haired gapes. “But— that’s Harry Potter!”
“There is only one instance in which a Champion can be deemed ineligible,” Dumbledore states gravely, backing Crouch. “My boy… your parents would be so disappointed in you.”
I love you, Prongslet.
Harry sneers. “Considering they’re dead, I doubt they feel much of anything at all, Headmaster. Touch me,” he ducks the dark skinned Auror’s outstretched arm, “and you forfeit the use of that hand. What proof have you to arrest me other than their word? Or is that all it takes?”
“Harry…” Dumbledore begins again, his grandfatherly visage upset only by his livid narrow gaze.
That’s right you old bastard, Harry raises his chin, I know.
About the contract.
The compulsions.
Everything.
“Masculum Conceptu leaves a trace, does it not?” Krum questions, and Harry finds himself torn between annoyance at himself for not even considering the other Champions as a source of information, and appreciation for the famous seeker’s easy interruption.
“He is but a child!” Madame Maxine decries, her distress palpable. “I cannot allow this to proceed, Dumbledore. He doesn’t even have a guardian present!”
“A guardian is not required, as Headmaster, I am able to act in loco parentis.”
“Oh,” Harry scoffs, “I’m sure you are. Fortunately, you yourself declared me of age to compete on Samhain, so I’ll not have to suffer your particular brand of help. I’m Emancipated, Headmaster, and therefore, certainly of age now.” He looks to the fair-haired Auror fingering his wand. “Go on, cast your detection spell. You’ll find no trace, because I did not use it.”
“You foolish boy, you are not Emancipated, and you must compete!” Dumbledore exclaims, “it is imperative—”
“The Goblet has deemed Mister Potter ineligible!” Karkaroff shouts, “The boy does not abide your schemes for a fourth champion and nor will I!”
“He’s right,” the fair-haired Auror states, holstering his wand. “There’s no trace.”
“That’s not possible!” Crouch snaps, “In order for the brat to be deemed ineligible, he must be pregnant!”
The fair-haired Auror’s face twists, as though disgusted.
Fleur scoffs loudly. “You British are so narrow minded, it is not Dark to conceive a child through blood and ritual, nor is it the only way to do so!”
“Have care how you speak to your betters, girl!” Crouch snaps, and Harry draws his wand.
“Apologise!” He growls, even as Fleur cackles.
“You are a petty little man.” She sneers, lowering Harry’s wrist, “In France we are not so foolish as to spurn the Mother’s balance by condemning the branch instead of the practitioner.”
“Control your students!” Crouch snaps, drawing wand— his spell skitters off Harry’s hastily cast shield. “Boy!”
“Harry!” Fudge gasps.
“Detention, Mister Potter!”
Harry glares. “Ask before casting, you fucking asshole. I have a right to defend myself, as does any Wixen, or do you seek to deny me that too, as you have any counsel outside yourselves.”
The fair-haired Auror holds out a placating hand, “I’m Auror Dawlish, Heir Potter, might I cast another detection spell? Confirmare gravida, it’s used by Healers to confirm a pregnancy.”
Harry narrows his eyes. He barely deflected Crouch’s spell, and he’s got no trust left over for anyone else to test. “Not without a vow it’s the only magic you’ll cast on me.”
“I, John Dawlish, vow on my magic that confirmare gravida is the only spell, curse or jinx I will cast on Harry James Potter in the next five minutes.”
There’s another bright flash of light and Harry feels the magic take hold, settling across his shoulders like a cloak he can throw off at any moment. “Go ahead.” He concedes.
The Auror does.
Harry’s stomach glows softly, and Fleur claps delightedly. “Carriers are so rare,” she gushes, “even amongst Veela we rarely see more than three a generation. My grand-père is a Carrier.”
Veela, Harry wants to smack his forehead, of course. Fleur’s a carbon copy of the beauties from the World Cup. Merlin, what I’d give to speak to someone who knows. “If he’s ever in—”
“Well!” Fudge interrupts loudly, “that’s all sorted then. Heir Potter, congratulations, Headmasters, Madame, Bagman and Champions, I think it best we start the First Task, before the dragons take it upon themselves to fly away!” He chuckles at his joke, heedless of the thunder brewing in the Headmaster’s glare or the still seething Crouch. “Gentlemen,” he looks to the Aurors, “with me. The Minister’s box awaits!”
Harry watches the personification of an ostrich with its head in the sand leave, and inches toward the door, “right, good luck everyone.”
“This conversation isn’t over, Harry!” Dumbledore snaps, and Harry snorts, pausing in the doorway.
“You see, that’s where you’re wrong, Professor. You’re not my guardian, my grandfather or anyone but my Headmaster.” Harry shrugs, “You can ask all you want, but know this, I don’t have to tell you shit.”
Blaise smirks from the grandstands, his arm draped over an empty spot beside him. “I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.”
Harry grins, flopping beside him. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last.”
Blaise pouts.