HP & The Goblet of Fire

Charles

Charles sat there, aware that every head in the Great Hall had turned to look at him. He was stunned. He felt numb. He was surely dreaming. He had not heard correctly.

There was no applause. A buzzing, as though of angry bees, was starting to fill the Hall; some students were standing up to get a better look at Charles as he sat, frozen, in his seat.

Up at the top table, McGonagall had got to her feet and swept past Ludo Bagman and Professor Karkaroff to whisper urgently to Professor Dumbledore, who bent his ear toward her, frowning slightly.

Charles turned to Ron, Bianca, and Hermione; beyond them, he saw the long Gryffindor table all watching him, openmouthed.

“I didn’t put my name in,” Charles said blankly. “You know I didn’t.”

All three of them stared just as blankly back.

At the top table, Professor Dumbledore had straightened up, nodding to Professor McGonagall.

“Charles Potter!” he called again. “Charles! Up here, if you please!”

“Go on,” Bianca whispered, and Hermione gave Charles a slight push. He got to his feet, trod on the hem of his robes, and stumbled slightly. He set off up the gap between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. It felt like an immensely long walk; the top table didn’t seem to be getting any nearer at all, and he could feel hundreds and hundreds of eyes upon him, as though each were a searchlight. The buzzing grew louder and louder. After what seemed like an hour, he was right in front of Dumbledore, feeling the stares of all the teachers upon him.

“Well . . . through the door, Charles,” said Dumbledore. He wasn’t smiling.

Charles moved off along the teachers’ table. Hagrid was seated right at the end. He did not wink at Charles, or wave, or give any of his usual signs of greeting. He looked completely astonished and stared at Charles as he passed like everyone else. Sirius was staring at Charles in sympathy and anticipation - but not anger - as Charles went through the door out of the Great Hall and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and wizards. A handsome fire was roaring in the fireplace opposite him.

The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered. He saw a wizened witch flit out of the frame of her picture and into the one next to it, which contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The wizened witch started whispering in his ear.

Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, and Harry were grouped around the fire. They looked strangely impressive, silhouetted against the flames. Krum, hunched up and brooding, was leaning against the mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. Harry was leaning against the fireplace with his arms crossed, staring into the fire. Fleur Delacour looked around when Charles walked in and threw back her sheet of long, silvery hair.

“What is it?” she said. “Do zey want us back in ze Hall?”

She thought he had come to deliver a message. Charles didn’t know how to explain what had just happened. He just stood there, looking at the three champions. It struck him how very tall all of them were.

There was a sound of scurrying feet behind him, and Ludo Bagman entered the room. He took Charles by the arm and led him forward.

“Extraordinary!” he muttered, squeezing Charles’ arm. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen... lady,” he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three. “May I introduce - incredible though it may seem - the fourth Triwizard champion?”

Viktor Krum straightened up. His surly face darkened as he surveyed Charles. Harry looked nonplussed. He looked from Bagman to Charles and back again as though sure he must have misheard what Bagman had said. Fleur Delacour, however, tossed her hair, smiling, and said, “Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman.”

“Joke?” Bagman repeated, bewildered. “No, no, not at all! Charles’ name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!”

Krum’s thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Harry seemed utterly bewildered. Fleur frowned.

“But evidently zair ’as been a mistake,” she said contemptuously to Bagman. “ ’E cannot compete. ’E is too young.”

“Well... it is amazing,” said Bagman, rubbing his smooth chin and smiling down at Charles. “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... Charles will just have to do the best he-”

"You must be joking!" Harry managed to splutter, indignant. "He can't actually compete-"

The door behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore, followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, Sirius, and Professor Snape. Charles heard the buzzing of the hundreds of students on the other side of the wall before Professor McGonagall closed the door.

“Madame Maxime!” Fleur jumped up at once, striding over to her headmistress. “Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!”

Somewhere under Charles’ numb disbelief, he felt a ripple of anger. Little boy?

Madame Maxime had drawn herself up to her full, and considerable, height. The top of her handsome head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her gigantic black-satin bosom swelled.

“What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?” she demanded imperiously.

“I’d rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore,” said Professor Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. “Two Hogwarts champions? I don’t remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions — or have I not read the rules carefully enough?” He gave a short and nasty laugh.

“C’est impossible,” Madame Maxime agreed, whose enormous hand with its many superb opals was resting upon Fleur’s shoulder. “’Ogwarts cannot ’ave two champions. It is most injust.”

“We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore,” said Karkaroff, his steely smile still in place, though his eyes were colder than ever. “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,” Snape said softly. His black eyes were alight with malice. “Don’t go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here-”

"Shut up, you greasy-" Sirius snarled.

“Thank you, Professors,” said Dumbledore firmly, and Snape and Sirius both went quiet, glaring at each other.

Professor Dumbledore was now looking down at Charles, who looked right back at him, trying to discern the expression of the eyes behind the half-moon spectacles.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Charles?” he asked calmly.

“No,” Charles answered. He was very aware of everybody watching him closely. Snape made a soft noise of impatient disbelief in the shadows.

“Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?” said Professor Dumbledore, ignoring Snape.

“No,” Charles denied vehemently.

“Ah, but of course ’e is lying!” cried Madame Maxime. Snape was now shaking his head, his lip curling.

“He could not have crossed the Age Line,” said Professor McGonagall sharply. "I am sure we are all agreed on that-"

“Dumbly-dorr must ’ave made a mistake wiz ze line,” said Madame Maxime, shrugging.

“It is possible, of course,” said Dumbledore politely

“Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!” said Professor McGonagall angrily. “Really, what nonsense! Charles could not have crossed the 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 shot a very angry look at Professor Snape.

“Mr. Crouch... Mr. Bagman,” said Karkaroff, his voice unctuous once more, “you are our — er — objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?”

Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half-darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in his usual curt voice.

“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,” said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed.

"You're speaking utter nonsense!" Harry growled. Charles flinched back in surprise. Harry rarely lost his cool, but right now he was looking murderous. "He cannot compete, he's too young-!"

"Harry," Sirius cautioned. He then dragged Harry to the side and muttered something, which instantly made Harry calm down a bit, and he came back to stand in place with a sheepish - though no less angry - apology.

“I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students,” Karkaroff said after a small pause. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. “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,” said Bagman. “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!” exploded Karkaroff. “After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!”

“Empty threat, Karkaroff,” growled a voice from near the door. “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?”

Moody had just entered the room. He limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a loud clunk.

“Convenient?” said Karkaroff. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Moody.”

Charles could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as though what Moody was saying was barely worth his notice, but his hands gave him away; they had balled themselves into fists.

“Don’t you?” said Moody quietly. “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!” said Madame Maxime.

“I quite agree, Madame Maxime,” said Karkaroff, bowing to her. “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,” growled Moody, “but... funny thing... I don’t hear him saying a word..."

“Why should ’e complain?” burst out Fleur Delacour, stamping her foot. “’E ’as ze chance to compete, ’asn’t ’e? We ’ave all been ’oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money — zis is a chance many would die for!”

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl.

An extremely tense silence followed these words. Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, “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,” said Karkaroff loudly. “Apparently, he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons.”

“Imagining things, am I?” growled Moody. “Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy’s name in that goblet..."

“Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?” said Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands.

“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!” Sirius said in a soft, deadly voice, following Moody's train of thought. “It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament..."

Moody nodded. "I’m guessing they submitted Charles' name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category...”

“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody,” said Karkaroff coldly, “and a very ingenious theory it is - though of course, I heard you recently got it into 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...”

“There are those who’ll turn innocent occasions to their advantage,” Moody retorted in a menacing voice. “It’s my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff — as you ought to remember...”

“Alastor!” said Dumbledore warningly. Moody fell silent, though still surveying Karkaroff with satisfaction — Karkaroff’s face was burning. Sirius was smirking coldly.

“How this situation arose, we do not know,” Dumbledore said, speaking to everyone gathered in the room. “It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Harry and Charles have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do..."

“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr —”

“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it.”

Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared. She wasn’t the only one either. Snape looked furious; Karkaroff livid; Bagman, however, looked rather excited.

“Well, shall we crack on, then?” he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. “Got to give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? Barty, want to do the honors?”

Mr. Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. “Yes,” he said, “instructions. Yes... the first task...”

He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Charles thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that had not been there at the Quidditch World Cup.

“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he told Harry, Charles, Fleur, and Viktor, “so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard... very important... The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges. The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. 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, if, of course, they wish it."

Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore. “I think that’s all, is it, Albus?”

“I think so,” said Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr. Crouch with mild concern. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?”

“No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry,” said Mr. Crouch. “It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment... I’ve left young Weatherby in charge... Very enthusiastic . . . a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told...”

“You’ll come and have a drink before you go, at least?” said Dumbledore.

“Come on, Barty, I’m staying!” said Bagman brightly. “It’s all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!”

“I think not, Ludo,” said Crouch with a touch of his old impatience.

“Professor Karkaroff — Madame Maxime — a nightcap?” said Dumbledore.

But Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Fleur’s shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. Charles could hear them both talking very fast in French that he couldn't catch as they went off into the Great Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too, exited, though in silence.

“Harry, Charles, I suggest you go up to bed,” said Dumbledore, smiling at both of them. “I am sure Gryffindor and is waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise.”

Charles glanced at Harry, who didn't meet his gaze but stared at Sirius and said, "Goodnight, Padfoot. Make sure to tell mum and dad, won't you?"

Then Charles and Harry left together.

The Great Hall was deserted now; the candles had burned low, giving the jagged smiles of the pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality.

“So,” said Harry, with a forced smile that didn't reach his eyes. “We’re playing against each other, eh?”

“I s’pose,” Charles mumbled. He really couldn’t think of anything to say. The inside of his head seemed to be incomplete. disarray, as though his brain had been ransacked.

“So... tell me..." Harry said as they reached the entrance hall, which was now lit only by torches in the absence of the Goblet of Fire. “How did you get your name in?”

“I didn’t,” Charles insisted, staring up at his brother. “I didn’t put it in. I'm telling the truth, Harry! Don't you trust me?”

Harry hesitates, his smile dropping. “I don't know, do I, brother?”

Charles just stared at Harry in desperation as the older boy started forward. After some minutes of just standing there, he forced his feet and moved slowly after Harry. 

Was anyone except going to believe him, or would they all think he’d put himself in for the tournament? If Harry - Charles' own brother - didn't believe him, how could he expect anyone else to? How could anyone think that, when he was facing competitors who’d had three years’ more magical education than he had? When he was now facing tasks that not only sounded very dangerous but which were to be performed in front of hundreds of people? Yes, Charles had thought about it... fantasized about it... but it had been a joke, really, an idle sort of dream... he’d never really, seriously considered entering...

But someone else had considered it... someone else had wanted him in the tournament and had made sure he was entered. Why? To give him a treat? He didn’t think so, somehow...

To see him make a fool of himself? Well, they were likely to get their wish...

But to get him killed?

Was Moody just being his usual paranoid self? Couldn’t someone have put Charles' name in the goblet as a trick, a practical joke? Did anyone really want him dead?

Charles was able to answer that at once. Yes, someone wanted him dead, someone had wanted him dead ever since he had been a year old... Lord Voldemort. But how could Voldemort have ensured that Charles' name got into the Goblet of Fire? Voldemort was supposed to be far away, in some distant country, in hiding, alone... feeble and powerless...

Yet in that dream he had had, just before he had awoken with his scar hurting, Voldemort had not been alone... he had been talking to Barty... plotting Charles' murder...

Charles was shocked to find himself facing the Fat Lady already, with Harry already gone through. He had barely noticed where his feet were carrying him. It was also a surprise to see that she was not alone in her frame. The wizened witch who had flitted into her neighbor’s painting when he had joined the champions downstairs was now sitting smugly beside the Fat Lady. She must have dashed through every picture lining seven staircases to reach here before him. Both she and the Fat Lady were looking down at him with the keenest interest.

“Well, well, well,” said the Fat Lady, “Violet’s just told me everything. Who’s just been chosen as school champion, then?”

“Balderdash,” Charles said dully.

“It most certainly isn’t!” said the pale witch indignantly.

“No, no, Vi, it’s the password,” said the Fat Lady soothingly, and she swung forward on her hinges to let Charles into the common room.

The blast of noise that met his ears when the portrait opened almost knocked him backward. Next thing he knew, he was being wrenched inside the common room by about a dozen pairs of hands and was facing the whole of Gryffindor House, all of whom were screaming, applauding, and whistling.

“You should’ve told us you’d entered!” bellowed Fred; he looked half annoyed, half deeply impressed.

“How did you do it without getting a beard? Brilliant!” roared George.

“I didn’t,” Harry said. “I don’t know how-”

But Angelina had now swooped down upon him; “Oh if it couldn’t be me, at least it’s two Gryffindors-”

“Congratulations, Potters!” shrieked Katie Bell, the reserve Gryffindor Chaser.

“We’ve got food, Charles, come and have some —”

“I’m not hungry, I had enough at the feast —”

But nobody wanted to hear that he wasn’t hungry; nobody wanted to hear that he hadn’t put his name in the goblet; not one single person seemed to have noticed that he wasn’t at all in the mood to celebrate... Lee Jordan had unearthed a Gryffindor banner from somewhere, and he insisted on draping it around Charles like a cloak, like Harry.

Charles couldn’t get away; whenever he tried to sidle over to the staircase up to the dormitories, the crowd around him closed ranks, forcing another butterbeer on him, stuffing crisps and peanuts into his hands... Everyone wanted to know how he had done it, how he had tricked Dumbledore’s Age Line and managed to get his name into the goblet...

“I didn’t,” he said, over and over again, “I don’t know how it happened.”

But for all the notice anyone took, he might just as well not have answered at all.

“Can't you see he's tired, you morons?!” Harry bellowed finally, after nearly half an hour. “Let his go to bed, for Merlin's sake!”

Charles shot Harry a grateful look, which went promptly unnoticed, as his brother had gone back to partying with Alicia and Lee. Charles sighed; he wanted more than anything to find Ron and Hermione - even Bianca - to find a bit of sanity, but neither of them seemed to be in the common room. Insisting that he needed to sleep, and almost flattening the little Creevey brothers as they attempted to waylay him at the foot of the stairs, Charles managed to shake everyone off and climb up to the dormitory as fast as he could.

To his great relief, he found Ron lying on his bed in the otherwise empty dormitory, still fully dressed. He looked up when Charles slammed the door behind him.

“Where’ve you been?” Charles asked.

“Oh hello,” said Ron. He was grinning, but it was a very odd, strained sort of grin.

Charles suddenly became aware that he was still wearing the scarlet Gryffindor banner that Lee had tied around him. He hastened to take it off, but it was knotted very tightly. Ron lay on the bed without moving, watching Charles struggle to remove it.

“So,” he said when Charles had finally removed the banner and thrown it into a corner. “Congratulations.”

“What d’you mean, congratulations?” Charles said, staring at Ron. There was definitely something wrong with the way Ron was smiling: It was more like a grimace.

“Well... no one else got across the Age Line,” Ron said. “Not even Fred and George. What did you use — the Invisibility Cloak?”

“The Invisibility Cloak wouldn’t have got me over that line,” Charles said slowly.

“Oh right,” Ron nodded. “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, did you?”

“Listen,” Charles said, “I didn’t put my name in that goblet. Someone else must’ve done it.”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “What would they do that for?”

“I dunno,” Charles shrugged. He felt it would sound very melodramatic to say, “To kill me.”

Ron’s eyebrows rose so high that they were in danger of disappearing into his hair.

“It’s okay, you know, you can tell me the truth,” he said. “If you don’t want everyone else to know, fine, but I don’t know = why you’re bothering to lie, you didn’t get into trouble for it, did you? That friend of the Fat Lady’s, that Violet, she’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 that goblet!” Charles cried, starting to feel angry.

“Yeah, okay,” said Ron, in exactly the same skeptical tone as Harry. “Only you said this morning you’d have done it last night, and no one would’ve seen you... I’m not stupid, you know.”

“You’re doing a really good impression of it,” Charles snapped.

“Yeah?” said Ron, and there was no trace of a grin, forced or otherwise, on his face now. “You want to get to bed, Charles. I expect you’ll need to be up early tomorrow for a photo call or something.”

He wrenched the hangings shut around his four-poster, leaving Charles standing there by the door, staring at the dark red velvet curtains, now hiding one of the few people he had been sure would believe him.

Lyra

Lyra couldn't believe her ears as she heard the Headmaster call Charles' name. 

She knew Charles like the back of her hand, and she instantly knew he hadn't put his in by looking at his shocked and pale face. 

As he disappeared behind the door behind the staff table, chaos ensued. Most were just angry; Gryffindors seemed impressed and happy for the most part, but Lyra noticed how Ronald didn't join in with them, and neither did Bianca or Hermione. 

Before leaving with most of the teachers, Dumbledore announced that the children go back to their dorms. Professor Babbling, the cool Runes professor, was required to lead the Slytherins away, while Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, took charge of Gryffindor.

The Slytherins maintained their decorum and walked properly without much noise or problems. That was till they reached the common room. The moment they crossed the threshold, leaving Babbling out, noise erupted all around. People were frantically grouping up and shouting and discussing what had happened.

Blaise cried, "What the hell was that?!"

Lyra led the way to a seat near the fireplace, where she gathered around with Blaise, Daphne, Theo, Aurora Moon, Draco, Ginny, Amy, and Josephine. Daphne was the first to comment, "That was interesting."

Lyra rolled her eyes. "He didn't enter. I know him better than I know myself; I could tell he didn't mean for any of this to happen."

Draco raised an eyebrow but didn't contradict Lyra, to her surprise. "I'll take your word for it."  

"But why would someone else do it?" Amy pressed. "To give Hogwarts a winning chance?"

Ginny pursed her lips and shook her head. "Unlikely. There's a death toll on the competition, isn't there? If someone had wanted that, they wouldn't've put in a fourteen-year-old boy's name in."

"This is a death sentence for him," Daphne nodded. "It would be easy to kill him and make it look like an accident."

Draco smirked, "Paranoid much? Who'd wanna kill scarhead?"

Lyra narrowed her eyes sharply. "You know Voldemort's still alive, Draco, don't pretend otherwise. You know as much as the rest of us that something is going on. The Death Eaters at the cup, the Dark Mark?"

Draco sighed. "I suppose, Lyra. But it's all speculations and rumors-"

"-that may well be true," Blaise said.

"What do we do now?" Josephine mused.

"Show our support?" Moon offered.

"Or at least, let it be known that we believe in Charles, without being extremely vocal about it," Ginny compromised. 

Charles

When Charles woke up on Sunday morning, it took him a moment to remember why he felt so miserable and worried. Then the memory of the previous night rolled over him. He sat up and ripped back the curtains of his four-poster, and realized how early it was. He wanted to talk to Ron, to force Ron to believe him - but dismissed the idea. If Ron wanted to be petty, then it was his own problem.

Charles dressed and went down the spiral staircase into the common room. The moment he appeared, the few people who had woken early broke into applause again. The prospect of going down into the Great Hall and facing the rest of the Gryffindors, all treating him like some sort of hero, was not inviting; it was that, however, or stay here and allow himself to be cornered by the Creevey brothers, who were both beckoning frantically to him to join them. He walked resolutely over to the portrait hole, pushed it open, climbed out of it, and found himself face-to-face with Hermione.

“Hello,” she said. “Want to go for a walk? Bianca would be getting some breakfast soon, I s'pect.”

“Good idea,” Charles said gratefully.

They went downstairs, crossed the entrance hall quickly without looking in at the Great Hall, and were soon striding across the lawn toward the lake, where the Durmstrang ship was moored, reflected blackly in the water. It was a chilly morning. Bianca arrived after a minute or two, holding up a stack of toast, which she was carrying in a napkin.

They kept moving, munching their toast, as Charles told Hermione and Bianca exactly what had happened after he had left the Gryffindor table the night before. To his immense relief, they accepted his story without question.

“Well, of course, I knew you hadn’t entered yourself,” Hermione said when he’d finished telling her about the scene in the chamber off the Hall. “The look on your face when Dumbledore read out your name!"

"But the question is, who did put it in?" Bianca wondered out loud. "Because Moody’s right, Charles... I don’t think any student could have done it... they’d never be able to fool the Goblet, or get over Dumbledore’s-”

"It's a relief that you believe me,” Charles interrupted. "Thanks."

Bianca frowned. "Why would you think otherwise?"

Charles shrugged. "Dunno, maybe because my brother and best mate both don't?"

Bianca scoffed. "Isn't it fairly obvious? I don't think Harry suspects you of lying for even a second. It's just... well, you're the boy-who-lived, Charles. Look at it from his point of view. It must be difficult for him, being the shadowed and less known brother of a celebrity, eh? He has created a reputation for himself at Hogwarts. Done everything so that he could be recognized as Harry Potter. And then, when he got chosen as the Champion, his brother once again stole the spotlight from him. He has a right to be angry."

Charles winced as if stung. He knew that Bianca was right. Even though it wasn't his fault, Harry did have a right to be mad...

"What about Ron?" Charles demanded. 

Hermione sighed despairingly. “He’s jealous!”

“Jealous?” Charles repeated incredulously. “Jealous of what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school, does he?”

“Look,” said Hermione patiently, “it’s always you who gets all the attention, you know it is. Not your fault, but it's true, which is why Harry is currently upset, too. You know, Ron’s got all those brothers to compete against at home, three of them having very successful jobs. Ron's just another Weasley; nothing special. And you’re his best friend, and you’re a famous celebrity - he’s always shunted to one side whenever people see you, and he puts up with it - never mentions it - but I suppose this is just one time too many and he had enough.”

“Great,” Charles sniped bitterly. “Just great. Tell him from me-”

“I’m not telling him anything,” Hermione said shortly. “Tell him yourself. It’s the only way to sort this out.”

“I’m not running around after him trying to make him grow up!” Charles said, so loudly that several owls in a nearby tree took flight in alarm. “Maybe he’ll believe I’m not enjoying myself once I’ve got my neck broken or-”

“That’s not funny,” Bianca said quietly. “That’s not funny at all.”

Hermione sighed. "You’re parents must know by now, right? Maybe we should just head back to the castle right now - they might show up..."

As they walked back, Charles said, "You reckon this is already in the prophet?"

Bianca huffed. “Yes, it is. Not worth reading, though."

Harry

There was a standing ovation for Harry as he entered the hall for dinner that night. 

Harry hadn't attended breakfast or lunch, being in a very foul mood due to last night's events, and had instead had food in the kitchens with the rest of the Prowlers. He'd shown up for dinner, though. He knew he had to show himself at some point...

Harry grinned broadly and waved at the students, like he was some sort of international celebrity and the students were his fans. That seemed to do the trick as people cheered and clapped and hands pulled him onto the Gryffindor table to sit with his housemates surrounding him, and it was all Harry could do as he laughed and played along, not daring to glance towards the end of the table, where his brother was sitting alone with Hermione, Bianca, and Neville. 

Harry knew he was being an ass. He knew that Charles was innocent. He knew that Ron had abandoned Charles - even if temporarily - and he knew he ought to be on his brother's side. But Harry couldn't just bring himself to do it. He'd talked to Sirius and his friends, who knew how he was feeling.

After working so hard and being chosen as a Champion, when Charles swooped in to steal the spotlight from Harry again, he felt petty and bitter. While the school believed Harry to be their real Champion, and only the Gryffindors were supporting Charles with the whole school deigning the boy-who-lived to be a liar, the prophet was still favoring Charles more. Just due to his international fame. While Harry had been mentioned frequently too, it still sounded like Charles was the actual Champion!

Sirius had informed the Potter brothers that their parents would be meeting them in Sirius' quarters after dinner to talk about everything. Harry was sort of dreading it. He was sure that James and Lily would obviously support them, and Harry would be berated for daring to doubt his little brother...

Well, nothing of that sort happened.

When Harry and Charles entered the quarters - not exchanging a single word the whole trip - their parents were quick to engulf them both in ferocious hugs. Then, they had all heard Charles' side of the story. Charles didn't mention the brothers' argument, but Harry got the sense that - judging from the tension - they already knew. Still, neither of them said anything about it, and after giving their love and advice, left.

Charles

If Charles had thought that matters would improve once everyone got used to the idea of him being champion, the following day showed him how mistaken he was. He could no longer avoid the rest of the school once he was back at lessons - and it was clear that the rest of the school, just like the Gryffindors, thought Charles had entered himself for the tournament. Unlike the Gryffindors, however, they did not seem impressed.

The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had turned remarkably cold toward the whole lot of them. Ron wasn’t talking to Charles either, and had, hence, stopped conversing with Bianca as well. Hermione was the go-between, trying to stay with both sides at the same time.

Ron made a point to not sit with them during classes or meals, and his places were replaced by Bianca and Neville, who trusted Charles as well. While they were now getting along a lot better and were getting closer by the day, Ron was still missed.

Care of Magical Creatures meant seeing the Slytherins too — the first time he would come face-to-face with them since becoming champion. 

Shockingly, Malfoy’s familiar sneer wasn't in place. In fact, he stayed cordial all the time, along with Lyra, Blaise, Daphne, Theo, and Moon, who all expressed their support for him and told him that they believed him when he said he didn't put his name in. What was the world coming to?

Naturally, Malfoy's place was filled by Pansy Parkinson.

“Ah, look, boys, it’s the champion,” she said to Crabbe and Goyle the moment she got within earshot of Charles. “Got your autograph books? Better get a 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.”

Crabbe and Goyle guffawed sycophantically, but Parkinson had to stop there, because Professor Grubby-Plank emerged then.

Charles and Bianca went to Hagrid’s later, he was very serious. “So - yer competin’, Charles. In the tournament. School champion.”

“One of the champions,” Charles corrected him.

Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes looked very anxious under his wild eyebrows. “No idea who put yeh in fer it?”

“You believe I didn’t do it, then?” Charles asked, concealing with difficulty the rush of gratitude he felt at Hagrid’s words.

“’Course I do,” Hagrid grunted. “Yeh say it wasn’ you, an’ I be- lieve yeh — an’ Dumbledore believes yer, an’ all.”

“Wish I knew who did do it,” Charles said bitterly.

“Ah, I don’ know, Charles,” Hagrid sighed, looking back down at him with a worried expression on his face. “School champion... everythin’ seems ter happen ter you, doesn’ it?”

Charles didn’t answer. Yes, everything did seem to happen to him... Harry, too, but he wasn't often known or appreciated for it... that was more or less what Hermione and Bianca had said as they had walked around the lake, and that was the reason, according to them, that Harry and Ron were no longer talking to him.

The next few days were some of Charles’ worst at Hogwarts. He wondered if this was how Harry had felt when a large part of the school had suspected him of attacking his fellow students. Charles thought he could have coped with the rest of the school’s behavior if he could just have had Ron back as a friend, but he wasn’t going to try and persuade Ron to talk to him if Ron didn’t want to. Nevertheless, it was lonely with dislike pouring in on him from all sides.

Then there was the fact that Harry looked the part of a champion so much more than Charles did. Exceptionally handsome, with his straight nose, perfect black hair, and brilliant green eyes, it was hard to say who was receiving more admiration these days, Harry or Viktor Krum. Charles actually saw the same sixth-year girls who had been so keen to get Krum’s autograph begging Harry to sign their school bags one lunchtime.

Meanwhile, Charles did so badly at Summoning Charms in Professor Flitwick’s class that he was given extra homework — the only person to get any, apart from Neville.

“It’s really not that difficult, Charles,” Hermione tried to reassure him as they left Flitwick’s class — she had been making objects zoom across the room to her all lesson, as though she were some sort of weird magnet for board dusters, wastepaper baskets, and lunascopes. “You just weren’t concentrating properly-”

“Wonder why that was,” Charles scowled darkly as Harry walked past, surrounded by a large group of simpering girls, all of whom looked at Charles as though he were a particularly large slimy slug. “Still, never mind, eh? Double Potions to look forward to this afternoon...”

Double Potions was always a horrible experience, but these days it was nothing short of torture. Being shut in a dungeon for an hour and a half with Snap, who seemed determined to punish Charles as much as possible for daring to become school champion, was about the most unpleasant thing one could imagine. He had already struggled through one Friday’s worth, with Hermione sitting next to him intoning “ignore them, ignore them, ignore them” under her breath, and Bianca glaring at anyone who looked at Charles wrong, he couldn’t see why today should be any better.

When Charles, Hermione, Bianca, and Neville arrived at Snape’s dungeon after lunch, they found the Slytherins waiting outside, with Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulstrode wearing a large badge on the front of their robes. For one wild moment, Charles thought they were S.P.E.W. badges — then he saw that they all bore the same message, in luminous red letters that burnt brightly in the dimly lit underground passage:

Support HARRY POTTER
The REAL Hogwarts Champion!

“Like them, Potter?” Parkinson screeched loudly as Charles approached. “And this isn’t all they do — look!”

She pressed her badge into her chest, and the message upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one, which glowed green:

'LITTLE' POTTER STINKS!

Crabbe and Goyle howled with laughter. Both of them - along with Bulstrode, who seemed to just be going along - pressed their badges too, until the message 'LITTLE' POTTER STINKS was shining brightly. Charles felt the heat rise in his face and neck.

“Oh very funny,” Hermione said sarcastically to Parkinson, who was laughing harder than anyone, “really witty.”

Ron was standing against the wall with Dean and Seamus. He wasn’t laughing, but he wasn’t sticking up for Charles either.

“Want one, Granger?” Parkinson goaded, holding out a badge to Hermione. “I’ve got loads. But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see; don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.”

Some of the anger Charles had been feeling for days and days seemed to burst through a dam in his chest. He had reached for his wand before he’d thought what he was doing. People all around them scrambled out of the way, backing down the corridor.

“Charles!” Hermione said warningly.

Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles, and Parkinson narrowed her eyes, drawing out her own wand. “Go on, then, Potter. Do it, if you’ve got the guts-”

For a split second, they looked into each other’s eyes, then, at exactly the same time, both acted.

“Furnunculus!” Charles yelled.

“Densaugeo!” Parkinson screeched.

Jets of light shot from both wands hit each other in midair, and ricocheted off at angles — Charles' hit Bulstrode in the face, and Parkinson’s hit Hermione. Bulstrode bellowed and put her hands to her nose, where great ugly boils were springing up — Hermione, whimpering in panic, was clutching her mouth.

“Hermione!”

Ron had hurried forward to see what was wrong with her; Charles turned and saw Ron dragging Hermione’s hand away from her face. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Hermione’s front teeth — already larger than average — were now growing at an alarming rate; she was looking more and more like a beaver as her teeth elongated, past her bottom lip, toward her chin — panic-stricken, she felt them and let out a terrified cry.

“And what is all this noise about?” said a soft, deadly voice.

Snape had arrived. People clamored to give their explanations; Snape pointed a long yellow finger at Parkinson, who was almost jumping to have a say, and said, “Explain.”

“Potter attacked me, sir —”

“We attacked each other at the same time!” Charles shouted.

“— and he hit Millicent — look —”

Snape examined Bulstrode, whose face now resembled something that would have been at home in a book on poisonous fungi. “Hospital wing, Miss Bulstrode,” Snape said calmly.

“Pancy got Hermione! Look!” Lyra stepped towards Hermione and forced her to show Snape her teeth — she was doing her best to hide them with her hands, though this was difficult as they had now grown down past her collar. 

Snape looked coldly at Hermione, then said, “I'd say the Hospital Wing, then, Miss Granger. Escort her, Miss Black.”

Hermione let out a whimper as she was led away by Lyra, her eyes filled with tears.

“Let’s see,” Snape said, in his silkiest voice. “Thirty points from Gryffindor and Slytherin, and a detention each for Potter and Miss Parkinson. Now get inside, or it’ll be a week’s worth of detentions.”

Charles stormed into the room, barely noticing that Bianca was following him through the ringing in his ears. Malfoy had, for the first time, been cordial enough, but then Parkinson had to take his place! He passed Snape, walked with Bianca and Ron to the back of the dungeon, and slammed his bag down onto the table. Ron was shaking with anger too — for a moment, it felt as though everything was back to normal between them, but then Ron turned and sat down with Dean and Seamus instead, leaving Charles with Bianca at his table. On the other side of the dungeon, Parkinson turned her back on Snape and pressed her badge, smirking. 'LITTLE' POTTER STINKS flashed once more across the room.

“Antidotes!” said Snape, looking around at them all, his cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. “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 met Charles', who knew what was coming. Snape was going to poison him. Charles imagined picking up his cauldron, sprinting to the front of the class, and bringing it down on Snape’s greasy head —

And then a knock on the dungeon door burst in on Charles' thoughts.

It was Colin Creevey; he edged into the room, beaming at Charles, and walked up to Snape’s desk at the front of the room.

“Yes?” said Snape curtly.

“Please, sir, I’m supposed to take Charles Potter upstairs.”

Snape stared down his hooked nose at Colin, whose smile faded from his eager face.

“Potter has another hour of Potions to complete,” said Snape coldly. “He will come upstairs when this class is finished.”

Colin went pink. “Sir - sir, Mr. Bagman wants him,” he said nervously. “All the champions have got to go, I think they want to take photographs...”

Charles would have given anything he owned to have stopped Colin from saying those last few words. He chanced half a glance at Ron, but Ron was staring determinedly at the ceiling.

“Very well, very well,” Snape snapped. “Potter, leave your things here, I want you back down here later to test your antidote.”

“Please, sir — he’s got to take his things with him,” squeaked Colin. “All the champions —”

“Very well!” Snape growled. “Potter — take your bag and get out of my sight!”

Charles swung his bag over his shoulder, got up, and headed for the door. As he walked through the Slytherin desks, 'LITTLE' POTTER STINKS flashed at him from every direction.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it, Charles?” Colin asked, starting to speak the moment Charles had closed the dungeon door behind him. “Isn’t it, though? You being champion?”

“Yeah, really amazing,” Charles sighed heavily as they set off toward the steps into the entrance hall. “What do they want photos for, Colin?”

“The Daily Prophet, I think!”

“Great,” Charles said dully. “Exactly what I need. More publicity.”

“Good luck!” Colin squeaked when they had reached the right room. Charles knocked on the door and entered.

He was in a fairly small classroom; most of the desks had been pushed away to the back of the room, leaving a large space in the middle; three of them, however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and covered with a long length of velvet. Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them, talking to a witch in magenta robes.

Great!

Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as usual and not talking to anybody. Harry and Fleur were having a conversation in French. Fleur looked a good deal happier than Charles had seen her so far; she kept throwing back her head so that her long silvery hair caught the light. A paunchy man, holding a large black camera that was smoking slightly, was watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye.

Bagman suddenly spotted Charles, got up quickly, and bounded forward.

“Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Charles, in you come... nothing to worry about, it’s just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment-”

“Wand weighing?” Charles repeated nervously.

“We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they’re your most important tools in the tasks ahead,” Bagman explained. “The expert’s upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there’s going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter,” he added, gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. “She’s doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet...”

“Maybe not that small, Ludo,” Rita Skeeter said, her eyes on Charles.

Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She wore jeweled spectacles. The thick fingers clutching her crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails, painted crimson.

“I wonder if I could have a little word with Charles before we start?” she said to Bagman, but still gazing fixedly at Charles. “The youngest champion, you know... to add a bit of color?”

"No, actually, that is not acceptable at all," Harry interrupted coldly, staring down at Skeeter. "I do not need to remind you that a parent or guardian must be available with a minor to be interviewed."

"But maybe with your approval, Harry-" Skeeter tried.

"Heir Potter to you, Miss Skeeter. And while I may be of age, I am certainly not Charles' guardian... even if I could grant approval, I would not."

An awkward silence followed as both Skeeter and Bagman faltered, unnerved by Harry's glare. Charles was thankful for his brother; Skeeter was not someone whom he'd like to be left alone with. Besides, she was famous for her Quick-Quotes Quill.

Thankfully, they were saved.

“Dumbledore!” cried Rita Skeeter, with every appearance of delight. It was obviously faked, though. Albus Dumbledore had arrived. “How are you?” Skeeter asked, holding out one of her large, mannish hands to Dumbledore. “I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards’ Conference?”

“Enchantingly nasty,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. “I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat.”

Rita Skeeter didn’t look remotely abashed. “I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many wizards in the street —”

“I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita,” said Dumbledore, with a courteous bow and a smile, “but I’m afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if our champions are held back.”

Very glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, Charles and Harry hurried back to other champions, who were now sitting in chairs near the door, and sat down quickly next to each other, looking up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five judges sat — Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner; Charles saw her slip a parchment out of her bag, spread it on her knee, suck the end of a Quick-Quotes Quill, and place it once more on the parchment.

“May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?” said Dumbledore, taking his place at the judges’ table and talking to the champions. “He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament.”

Charles looked around, and with a jolt of surprise saw an old wizard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by the window. He had met Mr. Ollivander before — he was the wand-maker from whom Charles - and most wizards - bought their wands.

“Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?” said Mr. Ollivander, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room.

Fleur Delacour swept over to Mr. Ollivander and handed him her wand.

“Hmmm . . .” he said.

He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks. Then he held it close to his eyes and examined it carefully.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “nine and a half inches... inflexible... rosewood... and containing... dear me...”

“An ’air from ze ’ead of a veela,” said Fleur. “One of my grandmuzzer’s.”

So Fleur was part veela, Charles thought, making a mental note to tell Ron... then he remembered that Ron wasn’t speaking to him.

“Yes,” said Mr. Ollivander, “yes, I’ve never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands... however, to each his own, and if this suits you...”

Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches or bumps; then he muttered, “Orchideous!” and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip.

“Very well, very well, it’s in fine working order,” said Mr. Ollivander, scooping up the flowers and handing them to Fleur with her wand. “Mr. Krum, if you please.”

Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duck-footed, toward Mr. Ollivander. He thrust out his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the pockets of his robes.

Mr. Ollivander hummed. “This is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I’m much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I... however...”

He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes.

“Yes... hornbeam and dragon heartstring?” he shot at Krum, who nodded. “Rather thicker than one usually sees... quite rigid... ten and a quarter inches... Avis!”

The hornbeam wand let off a blast like a gun, and a number of small, twittering birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery sunlight.

“Good,” said Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. “Mr. Harry Potter, you next.”

Harry walked confidently over to Mr. Ollivander and handed his wand.

“Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn’t it?” Mr. Ollivander said, with much more enthusiasm. “Yes, I remember it well... Dragon Heartstring... Twelve and a quarter inches... walnut... It’s in fine condition. You treat it regularly?”

“Polished it last night,” Harry said, grinning.

Charles looked down at his own wand. He could see finger marks all over it. He gathered a fistful of robe from his knee and tried to rub it clean surreptitiously. Several gold sparks shot out of the end of it. Fleur Delacour gave him a very patronizing look, and he desisted.

Harry's wand had been the cause of pride in their house. According to Sirius, Harry's wand was very powerful and perceptive, and astonishingly adaptable. Often found in the hands of magical innovators and inventors, it would do whatever the yielder desired. 

Mr. Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke rings across the room from the tip of Cedric’s wand, pronounced himself satisfied, and then said, “Which leaves... Mr. Charles Potter.”

Charles got to his feet and walked past Harry to Mr. Ollivander. He handed over his wand.

“Aaaah, yes,” said Mr. Ollivander, his pale eyes suddenly gleaming. “Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember.”

Charles could remember too. He could remember it as though it had happened yesterday. . . .

Four summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had entered Mr. Ollivander’s shop with his father, Lyra, and Frank and Neville Longbottom, to buy a wand. Ollivander had taken his measurements and then started handing him wands to try. Charles had waved what felt like every wand in the shop, until at last he had found the one that suited him — this one, which was made of holly, eleven inches long, and contained a single feather from the tail of a phoenix. Ollivander had been very surprised that Charles had been so compatible with this wand. “Curious,” he had said, “curious,” and not until asked what was curious, had Ollivander explained that the phoenix feather in Charles' wand had come from the same bird that had supplied the core of Lord Voldemort’s.

Mr. Ollivander spent much longer examining Charles’ wand than anyone else’s. Eventually, however, he made a fountain of wine shoot out of it, and handed it back, announcing that it was still in perfect condition.

“Thank you all,” said Dumbledore, standing up at the judges’ table. “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 —”

Feeling that at last something had gone right today, Charles got up to leave, but the man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat.

“Photos, Dumbledore, photos!” cried Bagman excitedly. “All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?”

“Er — yes, let’s do those first,” said Rita Skeeter, whose eyes were upon Harry now, probably figuring that she wouldn't get her hands on Charles. “And then perhaps some individual shots.”

The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn’t stand far enough back to get her into the frame; eventually, she had to sit while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl; Krum, whom Charles would have thought would have been used to this sort of thing, skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group. The photographer seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Harry and Charles into greater prominence. Then she insisted on separate shots of all the champions. At last, they were free to go.

Harry

Harry didn't know what to feel; fear or excitement. Maybe both. The glory of finding himself school champion had worn off slightly now, and the fear of what was facing him had started to sink in. The first task was drawing steadily nearer; he felt as though it were crouching ahead of him like some horrific monster, barring his path. He had never suffered nerves like these; they were way beyond anything he had experienced before a Quidditch match, or any dangerous activity he'd ever done in his life. Harry was finding it hard to think about anything else at all; he didn't feel ready, no matter how much he worked. 

His friends all had different means of distracting him; Jéricho and Cedric were encouraging, Sera was fussy and trying to make him sleep in the library to be prepared, Adrian was constantly talking his ear off about random things, Celeste just snogged him in cupboards all over the school, and Fred and George made him take part in pranks.

In the meantime, Harry, for the first time, was being praised all over Wizarding Britain, while Charles' name was being dragged in the mud for being an attention-seeker celebrity who was after his brother's 'hard-earned fame'. Rita Skeeter - and the Prophet at a large - had been given a warning from both the Houses of Potter and Black, but it didn't make a big difference, because now the damage had been done. Life had become terrible for Charles within the confines of the castle, for Rita Skeeter's last piece about the Triwizard Tournament had been published before the warning had been dished out, and it had turned out to be not so much a report on the tournament as a highly colored life story of Harry and especially Charles. Much of the front page had been given over to a picture of the elder Potter brother; the article (continuing on pages two, six, and seven) had been all about Charles and Harry, and the names of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions (misspelled) had been squashed into the last line of the article.

The article had appeared ten days ago, and Harry still got a sick, burning feeling of shame in his stomach every time he thought about it. Rita Skeeter had reported him saying an awful lot of things that he couldn’t remember ever saying in his life.

I suppose I've always been a bit lonely. I mean, of course my family loves me. But due to my younger brother, Charles', fame, I haven't really gotten much attention at home. Charles has always been the one to seek glory. And now I don't know what to do; even after achieving something this big, he always just has to have the last word... get a mention... 

Harry has found many friends at school. Reports are that he's hardly ever seen alone, and is always in the company of people from different houses. He's even good friends with people from Beauxbatons, where her girlfriend Celeste Stacey studies.

Meanwhile, Charles Potter has decided to start manipulating girls with false stories about his innocence. After his estrangement from his cousin Lyra Black, he's now always seen with the stunningly pretty transfer student Bianca Joule, and Hermione Granger, a beautiful Muggle-born girl who is one of the top students in the school. We can only hope the two girls come to their senses soon.

From the moment the article had appeared, Harry really felt himself get beyond irritated on behalf of his brother. As if Charles wasn't going through enough isolation. This just made it worse, and Harry felt awful because he knew that Charles was telling the truth and was desperate for people to believe him. Harry did, but had been an arse to him. Now Charles was having to endure people making sneering comments as he passed.

Charles

“Going off to find more girls for yourself, Potter?”

“Maybe you're looking to steal your brother's spotlight again!"

"Merlin knows how he handles you!"

“Hey — Charles!”

“Yeah, that’s right!” Charles found himself shouting as he wheeled around in the corridor, having had just about enough. “I’ve just realized Bianca and Hermione have gotten old, and I’m just off to find more girls to manipulate..."

“No — it was just — you dropped your quill.”

It was Cho. Charles felt the color rising in his face.

“Oh — right — sorry,” he muttered, taking the quill back.

“Er... good luck on Tuesday,” she said. “I really hope you do well.”

Which left Charles feeling extremely stupid.

While Hermione and Bianca had come in for their fair share of unpleasantness too, and Bianca had taken to getting detention for hexing students nowadays, Hermione hadn’t yet started yelling at innocent bystanders or jinxing them; in fact, Charles was full of admiration for the way she was handling the situation.

“Beautiful? Her?” Parkinson had shrieked the first time she had come face-to-face with Hermione after Rita’s article had appeared. “What was she judging against — a chipmunk?”

“Ignore it,” Hermione said in a dignified voice, holding her head in the air and stalking past the sniggering girls as though she couldn’t hear them. “Just ignore it, guys.”

But Charles couldn’t ignore it. Ron hadn’t spoken to him at all since that fateful night. Rita’s article seemed to have confirmed Ron’s belief that Charles was really enjoying all the attention.

Hermione was furious with the pair of them; she went from one to the other, trying to force them to talk to each other, but Charles was adamant: He would talk to Ron again only if Ron admitted that Charles hadn’t put his name in the Goblet of Fire and apologized for calling him a liar.

“I didn’t start this,” Charles said stubbornly. “It’s his problem.”

“You miss him!” Hermione said impatiently. “And I know he misses you-”

“Miss him?” Charles scoffed. “I don’t miss him. . . .”

But this was a downright lie. Charles liked Hermione very much, and Bianca was cool, but they just weren’t the same as Ron. Bianca seemed to find this whole situation disdainful, and because she was usually aloof and on Charles' side in the argument, maintained that if Ron was this stupid, then Charles shouldn't go begging him for his friendship. She said that Charles had his self-respect and that Ron wasn't such a good friend if he abandoned his best mate when support is needed most.

Meanwhile, Charles still hadn’t mastered Summoning Charms. He seemed to have developed something of a block about them, and Hermione insisted that learning the theory would help. They consequently spent a lot of time poring over books during their lunchtimes.

Viktor Krum was in the library an awful lot too, and Charles wondered what he was up to. Was he studying, or was he looking for things to help him through the first task? Hermione often complained about Krum being there — not that he ever bothered them — but because groups of giggling girls often turned up to spy on him from behind bookshelves, and Hermione found the noise distracting.

“He’s not even good-looking!” she muttered angrily, glaring at Krum’s sharp profile. “They only like him because he’s famous! They wouldn’t look twice at him if he couldn’t do that Wonky-Faint thing —”

“Wronski Feint,” Charles corrected through gritted teeth. Quite apart from liking to get Quidditch terms correct, it caused him another pang to imagine Ron’s expression if he could have heard Hermione talking about Wonky-Faints.

It is a strange thing, but when you are dreading something and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up. The days until the first task seemed to slip by as though someone had fixed the clocks to work at double speed. Charles' feeling of barely controlled panic was with him wherever he went, as ever present were the snide comments about the Daily Prophet article.

On the Saturday before the first task, all students in the third year and above were permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade. Hermione told Charles that it would do him good to get away from the castle for a bit, and Charles didn’t need much persuasion.

“What about Ron, though?” he said. “Don’t you want to go with him?”

“Oh... well...” Hermione went slightly pink. “I thought we might meet up with him in the Three Broomsticks...”

“No,” Charles replied flatly.

“Oh Charles, this is so stupid-”

“I’ll come, but I’m not meeting Ron,” Charles insisted.

"Maybe," Bianca said, "if you want, Hermione, you could meet with Ron. I'd stay with Charles and keep him company."

“Oh all right then,” Hermione snapped.

So, together, Charles, Bianca, and Hermione set off for Hogsmeade.

Charles felt wonderfully free as he finally got some fresh air; he watched other students walking past them as they entered the village, most of them sporting Support Harry Potter! badges, but, caught up in the excitement of visiting Hogsmeade, no horrible remarks came his way for a change, and nobody was quoting that stupid article.

“Oh no,” Bianca suddenly groaned. “Look.”

Rita Skeeter and her photographer friend had just emerged from the Three Broomsticks pub. Talking in low voices, they passed right by Hermione and Bianca without looking at them, busy at the moment. Charles had hidden his face and turned towards the wall of Honeydukes to stop Rita Skeeter from viewing him. When they were gone, Bianca said, “She’s staying in the village. I bet she’s coming to watch the first task.”

As she said it, Charles' stomach flooded with a wave of molten panic. He didn’t mention this; he hadn’t discussed what was coming in the first task much with Hermione and Bianca; he had the feeling the girls didn’t want to think about it.

"Why don’t we go and have a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks, it’s a bit cold, isn’t it?" Hermione suggested. "You don’t have to talk to Ron!” she added irritably, correctly interpreting his silence.

The Three Broomsticks was packed, mainly with Hogwarts students enjoying their free afternoon, but also with a variety of magical people Charles rarely saw anywhere else. Charles supposed that as Hogsmeade was the only all-wizard village in Britain, it was a bit of a haven for creatures like hags, who were not as adept as wizards at disguising themselves.

Charles edged slowly toward a spare table in the corner while Bianca and Hermione went to buy drinks. On his way through the pub, Charles spotted Ron, who was sitting with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Resisting the urge to give Ron a good hard poke in the back of the head, he finally reached the table and sat down at it.

Bianca joined him a moment later. “Hermione's decided to go sit with Ron for a while,” she explained. 

They lapsed into compassionate silence, sipping on their butterbeers, and watching the people in the pub. All of them looked cheerful and relaxed. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot were swapping Chocolate Frog cards at a nearby table; both of them were sporting Support Harry Potter! badges on their cloaks. Right over by the door, he saw Cho and a large group of her Ravenclaw friends. She wasn’t wearing a Harry badge though... This cheered up Charles very slightly...

What wouldn’t he have given to be one of these people, sitting around laughing and talking, with nothing to worry about but homework? He imagined how it would have felt to be here if his name hadn’t come out of the Goblet of Fire. He wouldn’t be wearing the Invisibility Cloak, for one thing. Ron would be sitting with him. The four of them would probably be happily imagining what deadly dangerous task the school champions would be facing on Tuesday. He’d have been really looking forward to it, watching them do whatever it was... cheering on Cedric with everyone else, safe in a seat at the back of the stands...

He wondered how the other champions were feeling. Every time he had seen Harry lately, he had been surrounded by admirers, looking nervous but excited. Charles glimpsed Fleur Delacour from time to time in the corridors; she looked exactly as she always did, haughty and unruffled. And Krum just sat in the library, poring over books.

“Look, it’s Hagrid!” Bianca said.

The back of Hagrid’s enormous shaggy head — he had mercifully abandoned his bunches — emerged over the crowd. Charles wondered why he hadn’t spotted him at once, as Hagrid was so large, but standing up carefully, he saw that Hagrid had been leaning low, talking to Professor Moody. Hagrid had his usual enormous tankard in front of him, but Moody was drinking from his hip flask. Madam Rosmerta, the pretty landlady, didn’t seem to think much of this; she was looking askance at Moody as she collected glasses from tables around them.

Perhaps she thought it was an insult to her mulled mead, but Charles knew better. Moody had told them all during their last Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that he preferred to prepare his own food and drink at all times, as it was so easy for Dark wizards to poison an unattended cup.

As Charles watched, he saw Hagrid and Moody get up to leave. However, the pair of them made their way back across the pub toward Charles and Bianca's table.

“All right, Charles? Bianca?” said Hagrid.

“Hello,” Bianca smiled back.

Moody suddenly dropped his cup, and Hagrid bent down on the pretext of picking it up the fallen cup, whispering so low that only Charles could hear him, “Charles, meet me tonight at midnight at me cabin. Wear that cloak.”

Straightening up, Hagrid bid them goodbye, winked, and departed. Moody followed him.

“Why does Hagrid want me to meet him at midnight?” Charles mused, very surprised.

“Does he?” Bianca asked. “I wonder what he’s up to?"

Harry

At half past eleven that evening, Harry was relaxing in his dorm room when Charles entered. Startled, Harry sat up. "What is it?"

Charles hesitated. "I... want your cloak, for tonight."

Harry sighed. "For meeting with Hagrid?"

Charles' eyes widened in surprise and Harry smiled. "I need to go, as well. We can share."

"Thanks," Charles smiled back tentatively. "Bianca'd be waiting to open the portrait outside. C'mon."

Under the cloak, they crept past the remaining students to the portrait hole and, on cue, Bianca opened the Fat Lady for them from outside. Charles slipped past her with Harry, whispering “Thanks!” and set off through the castle.

The grounds were very dark. They walked down the lawn toward the lights shining in Hagrid’s cabin. The inside of the enormous Beauxbatons carriage was also lit up; Harry could hear Madame Maxime talking inside it as he knocked on Hagrid’s front door.

“You there, Harry? Charles?” Hagrid whispered, opening the door and looking around.

“Yeah,” said Harry, slipping inside the cabin and pulling the cloak down off their heads. “What’s up?”

“Got summat ter show yeh,” said Hagrid.

There was an air of enormous excitement about Hagrid. He was wearing a flower that resembled an oversized artichoke in his buttonhole. It looked as though he had abandoned the use of axle grease, but he had certainly attempted to comb his hair — Harry could see the comb’s broken teeth tangled in it.

“What’re you showing us?” Harry asked warily, wondering if the Hagrid had managed to buy another giant three-headed dog off a stranger in a pub, or gotten another dragon's egg.

“Come with me, keep quiet, an’ keep yerself covered with that cloak,” said Hagrid. “We won’ take Fang, he won’ like it...”

Hagrid opened the cabin door and strode off into the night. Harry and Charles hurried to follow and found, to their great surprise, that Hagrid was leading them to the Beauxbatons carriage.

“Hagrid, what-?”

“Shhh!” said Hagrid, and he knocked three times on the door bearing the crossed golden wands.

Madame Maxime opened it. She was wearing a silk shawl wrapped around her massive shoulders. She smiled when she saw Hagrid.

“Ah, ’Agrid... it is time?”

“Bong-sewer,” said Hagrid, beaming at her, and holding out a hand to help her down the golden steps.

Madame Maxime closed the door behind her, Hagrid offered her his arm, and they set off around the edge of the paddock containing Madame Maxime’s giant winged horses, with Harry and Charles, totally bewildered, running to keep up with them. Had Hagrid wanted to show them Madame Maxime? That was a bit stupid.

But it seemed that Madame Maxime was in for the same treat as the boys, because after a while she said playfully, “Wair is it you are taking me, ’Agrid?”

“Yeh’ll enjoy this,” Hagrid answered gruffly, “worth seein’, trust me. On’y — don’ go tellin’ anyone I showed yeh, right? Yeh’re not s’posed ter know.”

“Of course not,” said Madame Maxime, fluttering her long black eyelashes.

And they walked deeper, Harry getting more and more irritated as he jogged along in their wake. Hagrid had some harebrained scheme in hand and Harry had half a mind to turn around, go straight back to the castle, and leave Hagrid to enjoy his moonlit stroll with Madame Maxime...

But then — when they had walked so far around the perimeter of the forest that the castle and the lake were out of sight — Harry heard something. Men were shouting up ahead... then came a deafening, earsplitting roar...

Hagrid led Madame Maxime around a clump of trees and came to a halt. Harry and Charles hurried up alongside them — for a split second, he thought he was seeing bonfires, and men darting around them — and then his mouth fell open.

Dragons.

Four fully grown, enormous, vicious-looking dragons were rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and snorting — torrents of fire were shooting into the dark sky from their open, fanged mouths, fifty feet above the ground on their outstretched necks. There was a silvery-blue one with long, pointed horns, snapping and snarling at the wizards on the ground; a smooth-scaled green one, which was writhing and stamping with all its might; a red one with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes around its face, which was shooting mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air; and a gigantic black one, more lizard-like than the others, which was nearest to them.

At least thirty wizards, seven or eight to each dragon, were attempting to control them, pulling on the chains connected to heavy leather straps around their necks and legs. Mesmerized, Harry looked up, high above him, and saw the eyes of the black dragon, with vertical pupils like a cat’s, bulging with either fear or rage, he couldn’t tell which... It was making a horrible noise, a yowling, screeching scream...

“Keep back there, Hagrid!” yelled a wizard near the fence, straining on the chain he was holding. “They can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet, you know! I’ve seen this Horntail do forty!”

“Is’n’ it beautiful?” said Hagrid softly.

“It’s no good!” yelled another wizard. “Stunning Spells, on the count of three!”

Harry saw each of the dragon keepers pull out his wand.

“Stupefy!” they shouted in unison, and the Stunning Spells shot into the darkness like fiery rockets, bursting in showers of stars on the dragons’ scaly hides —

Harry watched the dragon nearest to them teeter dangerously on its back legs; its jaws stretched wide in a silent howl; its nostrils were suddenly devoid of flame, though still smoking — then, very slowly, it fell. Several tons of sinewy, scaly-black dragon hit the ground with a thud that Harry could have sworn made the trees behind him quake.

The dragon keepers lowered their wands and walked forward to their fallen charges, each of which was the size of a small hill. They hurried to tighten the chains and fasten them securely to iron pegs, which they forced deep into the ground with their wands.

“Wan’ a closer look?” Hagrid asked Madame Maxime excitedly. The pair of them moved right up to the fence, and Harry and Charles followed. The wizard who had warned Hagrid not to come any closer turned, and Harry realized who it was: Charlie Weasley.

“All right, Hagrid?” he panted, coming over to talk. “They should be okay now — we put them out with a Sleeping Draft on the way here, thought it might be better for them to wake up in the dark and the quiet — but, like you saw, they weren’t happy, not happy at all —”

“What breeds you got here, Charlie?” Hagrid asked, gazing at the closest dragon, the black one, with something close to reverence. Its eyes were still just open. Harry could see a strip of gleaming yellow beneath its wrinkled black eyelid.

“This is a Hungarian Horntail,” said Charlie. “There’s a Common Welsh Green over there, the smaller one — a Swedish Short-Snout, that blue-gray — and a Chinese Fireball, that’s the red.”

Charlie looked around; Madame Maxime was strolling away around the edge of the enclosure, gazing at the stunned dragons.

“I didn’t know you were bringing her, Hagrid,” Charlie frowned. “The champions aren’t supposed to know what’s coming — she’s bound to tell her student, isn’t she?”

“Jus’ thought she’d like ter see ’em,” shrugged Hagrid, still gazing, enraptured, at the dragons.

“Really romantic date, Hagrid,” Charlie shook his head.

“Four...” said Hagrid, “so it’s one fer each o’ the champions, is it? What’ve they gotta do — fight ’em?”

“Just get past them, I think,” Charlie said. “We’ll be on hand if it gets nasty, Extinguishing Spells at the ready. They wanted nesting mothers, I don’t know why... but I tell you this, I don’t envy the one who gets the Horntail. Vicious thing. Its back end’s as dangerous as its front, look.”

Charlie pointed toward the Horntail’s tail, and Harry saw long, bronze-colored spikes protruding along it every few inches.

Five of Charlie’s fellow keepers staggered up to the Horntail at that moment, carrying a clutch of huge granite-gray eggs between them in a blanket. They placed them carefully at the Horntail’s side. Hagrid let out a moan of longing.

“I’ve got them counted, Hagrid,” said Charlie sternly. Then he said, “How’re Harry and Charles?”

“Fine,” Hagrid replied. He was still gazing at the eggs.

“Just hope they're still fine after they've faced this lot,” Charlie commented grimly, looking out over the dragons’ enclosure. “I didn’t dare tell Mum what they've got to do for the first task; she's already having kittens about them, especially Charles...” Charlie imitated his mother’s anxious voice. “‘How could they let him enter that tournament, he’s much too young! I thought they were all safe, I thought there was going to be an age limit!’ She was in floods after that Daily Prophet article about him. ‘Oh, poor Charles! With all the dirt going about him!’”

Harry had had enough, and a nudge from Charles confirmed that the younger boy shared his sentiments. Trusting the fact that Hagrid wouldn’t miss them, with the attractions of four dragons and Madame Maxime to occupy him, they turned silently and began to walk away, back to the castle.