The Hidden Hero

Harry’s bravery in trying to save all the hostages won him acceptance from most of the students. They grudgingly forgave him for having submitted his name into the Goblet and became generally cordial to the young boy.

The next few months seemed to promise a welcome lull for Harry. He intended to spend a lot of time practicing new jinxes and hexes in case they would come in handy for the next task. But, he wasn’t particularly worried. The third task seemed far away and, best of all, it was the last one. He just had to get through that one more day, and this tournament would finally be over.

Unfortunately, Harry’s piece of mind was disturbed by an unexpected revival in the public’s interest in the home life of the missing Harry Potter. It started with an article published in the Daily Prophet, written by Harry’s least-favorite journalist, Rita Skeeter. Harry had been eating breakfast when the owls had arrived with the morning mail, carrying copies of the Daily Prophet to those students who had a subscription. Hermione, who liked to know what was going on in the wizarding world, received her copy as always.

As she opened the paper, Ron looked over her shoulder and, seeing the headline, said loudly, “Hey! What’s that about Harry Potter?” Students nearby looked up and Harry, who was sitting next to Ron, almost choked on his pumpkin juice.

Seeing the interest of everyone near her, Hermione obligingly started to read the article aloud:

Harry Potter’s Tragic Childhood Revealed
By Rita Skeeter

The Boy-Who-Lived may be lost but he is not forgotten. Ministry officials claim that they continue to search diligently for Harry Potter, who has been missing for close to four years. The trail has grown cold with the passage of time.

This reporter has done what any competent investigator should have done ages ago: I returned to the scene of the crime to search for clues. “What crime?” you ask. This reporter can now exclusively report that a foul crime was indeed committed. A crime that the Ministry hoped to conceal. A crime against the boy hailed by so many as the beacon who brought light to the world of darkness created by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. For, this reporter has learned that Harry Potter was the victim of foul child abuse.

“What!” yelled Ron.

“Shhh!” said Dean. “Keep reading, Hermione!”

I spoke with Harry’s Aunt Petunia, sister of Lilly Potter. I wanted to know why a young boy would run away from home and whether his family had any ideas as to where he would have gone. What I learned was shocking indeed. In her own words, Petunia Dursley admitted, “I have no idea where that unnatural spawn went. And, I don’t want to know. I told him when I demanded he leave this house to just keep away from my family. I told him I wanted to forget he ever existed.”

Yes, everyone, Harry Potter did not run away, as has previously been assumed. Instead, he was kicked out of his home at the age of 10. As shocking as this is, the reason will be even more so. Why did Petunia Dursley, the natural protector of her orphaned nephew, turn her back on young Harry? Because, Petunia admitted, she had finally realized that Harry possessed magical ability. “When the boy apparated onto the school roof, I couldn’t hide from the truth any longer. We tried to beat it out of him for years, but it didn’t work. He was one of those foul creatures– a wizard!”

Fury filled in the air. “Stupid git!” “Evil b-tch!” were among the curses thrown about by the students. As Hermione read, more and more students clustered around to hear. Harry saw that similar pockets of students were grouped every few feet along the Gryffinder and other dining tables around the other Daily Prophet subscribers, who were also reading the article aloud. Harry, using a napkin to mop up the spilled pumpkin juice, tried to hide his expression. He felt sick and wasn’t sure why.

“Keep reading, Hermione,” urged Ginny.

What did she mean that they had tried to ‘beat it out of him for years’? Readers, be prepared for news that will upset all but the most cold-hearted. If you are reading this article to young children, you might wish to cover their ears at this point.

Petunia introduced me to her husband, Vernon -- a large, ugly man, with the same anti-wizard hatred as Harry’s aunt. Vernon bragged to me how he had beaten Harry for years. “At least once a week, often more, I would have to show that boy his place. I wouldn’t stop until my hand was aching. I did my duty by that child – no one can say I didn’t try. And, how many times did we lock him in his cupboard without food, Petunia? Countless. But none of that helped. He still turned the teacher’s hair blue.”

Lock him in his cupboard? Yes, that is what he said and that is what he meant. Harry Potter lived his childhood in a closet, readers. In this quaint muggle house, spotlessly clean, the Dursley’s own son has two rooms – one just for his broken toys. But, Harry was forced to live in a coat closet not fit for a house elf. (See sidebar for a picture of Harry’s bedroom.)

Why was this hater of all things magical raising the wizarding world’s golden boy? How could no one have known that Harry was being abused for almost ten years? Years during which he must have wondered why no one came to save him, as he had saved us from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The Ministry should be ashamed of itself!

Unfortunately, the Dursleys could not shed any light on where young Harry may have gone after he was so unconscionably thrown out of his home by his abusers. Wherever he is, we can only hope and pray that he is safer now than he was with his relatives.

Hermione laid down the paper. For a brief moment, there was silence and then all of her listeners spoke at once, except for Harry who kept silent.

“Can you believe that?” demanded Ron.

“What was the Ministry thinking in not checking up on him?” asked Hermione.

“I hope he’s okay, wherever he is,” said Ginny.

“My father gets a little shirty sometimes,” said Seamus, “but he’s a pussycat next to that Vernon Dursley fellow.”

“Makes me glad I don’t have a father,” said Dean.

Harry wanted to join in, so that his silence didn’t attract attention. But, he wasn’t sure he could trust his voice.

The memories of his years with the Dursleys were flooding back. He recalled, with a sick sensation, how he would wait anxiously each night to see if Vernon returned from work in a good mood or not. If the day had gone poorly, Harry knew that Vernon was likely to find some excuse to beat him. He hated the memory of how little control he had had over his life. It didn’t matter what he did; if Vernon wanted to find fault with him, he would. If Harry was in the room, why wasn’t he in the cupboard hiding his face away from decent people? If Harry tried to stay quietly in his cupboard, he was behaving unnaturally and needed to be punished for that as well.

Harry avoided looking at the photograph of the cupboard that had been his room at Number 4 Privet Drive. Ron was staring at it avidly. “I thought my room was small,” the redhead breathed in wonder. “I’m never complaining about the Burrow again!”

“This news is going to be devastating to the Ministry,” said Fred.

“What do you mean?” asked Dean.

“When everyone first learned that Harry Potter was missing, the Ministry was flooded by howlers and people demanding that heads roll. The news that Harry was abused for years without anyone finding out about it …” began George.

“Add that to the fiasco with Andrew Danirson posing as Harry Potter for almost a year before people caught on.” Fred shook his head in disgust.

“The whole reason they wanted to hold the Triwizard Tournament this year was to distract everyone from the Danirson disaster,” continued Ron.

“What?!” Finally, Harry was jolted from his stupor.

Ron nodded. “Yup. Dad told us when we were home at Christmas break. The Ministry was getting such flak over not realizing that Danirson was an imposter, and letting almost a year go by without continuing to look for Potter, that they decided they needed some good public relations move. They hired a PR firm and the firm suggested that they bring back the Triwizard Tournament.”

Hermione said wisely, “I thought the timing was oddly suspicious. After all, the Triwizard Tournament hasn’t been held in centuries.”

Harry glanced up toward the staff table. Dumbledore was not there, but a number of the other teachers were sitting, breakfasts forgotten, with the Daily Prophet spread in front of them. All around, Harry saw people with serious expressions and pursed mouths. Where was Dumbledore? In his office, speaking with the Ministry about damage control?

Fred continued, “This news is coming at a very bad time for the Ministry. They are already facing a lot of heat for failing to find Bertha Jorkins.”

“Who’s Bertha Jorkins?” asked Harry and Hermione together.

“She’s a witch who works at the Ministry. She went off to Albania during the summer holidays and she hasn’t been heard from since.”

George said, snidely, “Let’s hope that the Ministry has more luck finding her than it has had in finding Harry Potter.”

Fred nodded. “It does seem that the Ministry is inept, doesn’t it?”

Harry gave a weak smile. “Don’t let Percy hear you say that!”

“Percy is a prat,” said George, matter-of-factly.

“What do you think will happen now?” asked Hermione, giving the paper in her hand a little shake.

“It’s bound to fuel a lot of anti-muggle sentiment,” warned Ron.

“What do you mean?” asked Harry.

“People are going to be furious about what happened to Harry. They’ll want to take it out on someone. They’ll want to go after the Dursleys but I’m guessing that the Ministry will realize that and put them somewhere for their own safety. Next, they’ll blame all muggles for what the Dursleys did.”

“That’s crazy,” said Harry. “Not all muggles are like the Dursleys.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” said Ron. “I’m just saying that there are plenty of witches and wizards out there that will want to take revenge against the muggles as a group for what the Dursleys did to Potter.”

Hermione nodded and said musingly, “You Know Who’s supporters are going to exploit this.”

“It’s nuts!” burst out Harry. “You Know Who’s supporters are probably jumping up and down with glee to know that Harry Potter was abused by his relatives.”

Fred smirked cynically. “Yes. But, they’ll pretend that they’re appalled and use this,” he tapped one finger on the Daily Prophet article, “to rile up everyone against muggles.”

“What will happen to the Dursleys?” asked Hermione. “After all, they shouldn’t be able to get away with what they did to Harry Potter.”

“My guess is that they’ll be held for trial,” said George. “But, it’ll be kept quiet, or the Ministry will wait awhile.”

“What about Dumbledore?” asked Harry.

“What do you mean?” asked Ron.

“Er…” Harry cleared his throat. “I remember you saying that Dumbledore had placed Harry Potter with the Dursleys.”

Lee Jordan joined the conversation. “I’m sure that he’ll have some people angry at him, thinking that he should have done more to keep an eye on Harry. Actually, when he faced that inquiry a few years ago, I remember that the Daily Prophet reported that Dumbledore had asked a squib living in the neighborhood to keep an eye on Potter. No one realized that she had become batty and didn’t even know her own name, much less what was going on in Potter’s home.”

Harry was surprised to hear this. A squib had lived near him? He wondered who it was.

Lee went on. “Anyway, it wasn’t really Dumbledore’s place to keep an eye on Potter, was it? There was no will, so Harry naturally went to his closest living relatives. It’s really for the Ministry to make sure that no magical child, wizard or muggleborn, is being abused.”

Ron turned the subject, admiring his absent hero. “Can you believe that Harry was able to apparate at the age of 10? Cool, huh?”

“It was just accidental magic,” thought Harry. He didn’t realize he had spoken aloud until Fred answered.

“Accidental magic is one thing, Mark. Apparition is another. It takes tremendous focus and magical power to apparate. Harry Potter must be pretty special,” Fred agreed with Ron.

Harry burst out bitterly, “That didn’t stop him from being abused.”

Ron looked at him in surprise. “Mark, what do you think he could have done? He was just a kid.”

“Yes,” said Hermione, in disapproval. “Don’t blame the victim, Mark.”

Harry felt himself blush and muttered an apology. He wasn’t quite sure who he was apologizing to. Himself? He left breakfast as soon as he could without attracting attention. He hoped that the furor over Harry Potter would die down soon.

*

True to Ron’s prediction, the next weeks saw an upsurge in anti-muggle sentiment across the wizarding world. Fred said that his father had told him that it hadn’t been as bad since You Know Who was at the height of his powers, riling up everyone with his pureblood rhetoric. The Ministry was stretched thin, looking for Harry Potter, responding to furious constituents, and trying to protect muggles throughout Great Britain who were being randomly attacked by angry wizards.

Harry found the renewed interest in Harry Potter disconcerting. He hated to be in the middle of a conversation, or reading a book, and hear the name Harry Potter. It always gave him an unpleasant swooping feeling in his stomach. He wondered constantly whether he should reveal his identity. He didn’t want any muggles harmed in his name. But, every time he came close to deciding that he would give up his disguise, he reconsidered. His scar prickled almost every day and, at times, gave a painful throb, reminding him that Voldemort was lurking in the horizon.

One day, at Divination, Harry fell into a semi-trance, lulled by the heat and perfumed air. While in this state, he had a vision of Voldemort disciplining Wormtail, using his favorite: the cruciatus curse. “You’re in luck, Wormtail. You are very fortunate indeed. Your blunder has not ruined everything. He is dead.”

Harry had woken up to find himself lying on the floor, clutching his head, where his hidden scar felt as if a hot wire was pressing into it. “Are you okay, Mr. Twist?” asked Professor Trewlaney in concern.

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry gasped. “Just a migraine. I…I get them from time-to-time. Can I go to the hospital wing?”

“Of course, dear.”

Harry muttered a goodbye to Ron and left the classroom. Curious eyes followed him. Instead of going to the hospital wing, though, Harry returned to his dormitory and laid down on his bed. He took deep, soothing breathes. Eventually, his headache subsided and he pondered the vision he had seen. He didn’t think there could be any doubt. Voldemort was definitely planning something. What? And, who was dead?

Harry had no answers. But, the vision of Voldemort and the occasional sharp pain in his scar kept him from revealing that he was Harry Potter. Instinctively, he felt that his best protection was remaining hidden. However, he spent endless hours practicing spell after spell. Ron and his other friends assumed that he was doing this to prepare for the last task. But, Harry spent his days and nights worrying about the rise of the Dark Lord.

*

On the day of the third task, Harry again skipped lunch, feeling vaguely ill from nerves. He found his familiar quiet corner of the library to try to relax. He knew that the other champions were spending time with their families, who were invited to watch the final task. Harry had explained that his parents were visiting his mother’s sick sister, and would not be able to attend.

He was actually a bit relieved when it was time to join the other champions in front of the topiary maze that had been cultivated in preparation for this final task. He couldn’t wait to start the task so that he would stop being nervous. He had already learned from the previous two tasks that the waiting for the task to begin was the most difficult part. Once he was actually facing whatever danger lay in store, he was too focused on just survival to have any time to worry. Besides, the sooner he got through the task, the better. The tournament would finally be over.

The champions each entered the maze at staggered times. Cedric and Harry entered together, as they were tied for first place. When Harry stepped inside the maze, the huge hedge closed behind him, sealing off the watching crowds. It was eerie how the noise of the hundreds of students and teachers watching could be drowned out so completely by the magical hedge. Harry and Cedric soon split up and the young boy proceeded cautiously down the paths formed by the hedges, with his wand held out in front of him. He had learned a clever compass spell that helped keep him heading north, toward the center of the maze and the Triwizard Cup that had been placed there.

Harry was surprised that the dangers in the maze weren’t worse. He came across a boggart pretending to be a dementor and a strange mist that turned him upside down until he forced himself to unstick his foot. But, the path was oddly clear of obstacles. Just then, Harry heard Fleur scream. “Fleur!” he called and ran in her direction. Turning a corner, he found himself facing a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Swearing, he backed away but the creature started crawling toward him, clicking its pincers menacing. Harry aimed for its underbelly, which he knew was one of the few spots where the creature’s protective plating did not reach. “Impedimenta!” he yelled and the creature froze. Harry continued running in the direction where he had last heard Fleur.

Suddenly, parallel to his path, he heard Cedric yelling, “What are you doing? What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”

And, then, Harry heard Krum’s voice. “Crucio!”

Harry forced his way through the hedge separating him from Viktor and Cedric. Viktor saw Harry but, strangely, didn’t try to curse the younger boy. Instead, he turned to run and Harry shouted, “Stupefy!”

Viktor fell and lay still on the ground. Harry hurried over to Cedric and helped him get up. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he said weakly. “I can’t believe Viktor did that. I bet he got Fleur too. I heard her scream earlier.”

“I thought he was an okay guy, too. I hope Fleur’s okay.” Once again, Harry thought, you can’t trust anyone. Shaking his head in disbelief and disgust, he pointed his wand to the sky and shot up sparks for the teachers to find Viktor’s prone body.

“Well…I s’pose we’d better go on…” said Cedric, and the two boys split again.

Harry continued on, meeting a sphinx who posed a riddle before letting the boy pass. This was ridiculously easy, thought Harry. Up ahead, he saw the Triwizard Cup sitting on a raised platform. He started hurrying toward it but, coming out of the path in front of him, was Cedric. Cedric was going to reach it first.

Wait! There to his left, moving fast, was an enormous spider bearing down on Cedric. “Cedric! On your left!” warned Harry.

Cedric looked around and saw the spider. Jerking out of the way, he tripped and lost his wand. Harry tried to stop the spider, yelling “Stupefy” and “Impedimenta”. None of the spells had any effect other than to attract the spider’s attention and, turning from Cedric, the creature started to advance on the younger boy. He was lifted into the air and the spider opened its pincers. Harry was vaguely aware that Cedric was shouting “Stupefy” too but his spells had no more effect than Harry’s had had. “Expelliarmus,” he shouted in desperation. It worked – the spider dropped him and Harry fell twelve feet, one leg crumbling under him.

Together, he and Cedric yelled “Stupefy” and the combined spells finally stopped the spider. It keeled over and was still.

“Mark, are you alright?” asked Cedric.

Harry struggled to stand, using a hedge for support. His leg was in excruciating pain. He nodded toward the Triwizard Cup, gleaming on its supporting column. “Go on, Cedric. Take the Cup. It’s yours.”

Cedric looked toward the Cup, yearning in his eyes. “No. You deserve it. You were the one who told me about the dragons. You should have gotten more points for trying to save all of the hostages. I should have done that. You warned me about the spider just now.”

Harry was becoming irritated. His leg hurt as if it were on fire and Cedric was standing here arguing about who should take the Cup. “Just take it, Cedric. You deserve it. I really don’t want it anyway.”

Cedric looked at Harry, confused. “What do you mean, you don’t want it? If you didn’t want it, why did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?”

“As I’ve told everyone again and again, I didn’t put my name into the Goblet. I never wanted to compete in this Tournament in the first place. It’s been nothing but stress and it has not made me popular in the school, I can tell you.”

Cedric smiled and shook his head in amazement. “I can’t believe it. You really didn’t put your name in the Goblet?”

“No. I really didn’t,” said Harry, as if speaking to a child.

Cedric didn’t take offense. “I wonder who did put your name in then.”

“I wonder that, too,” said Harry sarcastically.
Cedric laughed. “Well, anyway, you made it here and you deserve to take the Cup.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry finally said, “Let’s take it together. We’ll tie for it.”

“Are you sure?” asked Cedric, longing entering his voice again.

“Yeah. We’ve helped each other out, haven’t we? We both got here. Let’s take it together.”

A wide grin split Cedric’s face. “You’re on,” he said. “Come here.”

And, propping Harry up, Cedric helped him hop toward the platform where the Triwizard Cup was waiting. Each let a hand hover over one of the Cup’s handles and Harry said, “One – two – three –”

The boys both grasped a handle. Instantly, Harry felt a jerk in his stomach and an irresistible pull into a swirl of wind and color. His hand felt as if it were glued to the Cup. What was this? Some unexpected part of the tournament? It felt like an amusement park ride, where the riders were spun around until they felt dizzy and disoriented. The trip ended abruptly, when his feet slammed into the ground. He was able to unclench his hand from around the Cup handle. He was in agony over his leg and now his head felt dizzy too.

He looked up at Cedric and asked, groggily. “What was that?”

“A portkey,” said Cedric, looking in surprise at the Cup. “Did anyone tell you the Cup was a portkey?”

“What is a portkey?” asked Harry.

Looking around, Cedric explained quickly. “It’s an ordinary object that’s transformed to act as a transportation device. It will take you to wherever you want to go, if you cast the spell correctly. All portkeys must be registered with the Ministry. But, why send us here? Where are we?”

Harry looked around as well. They were standing in a graveyard. There was a hill to their left, with a beautiful manor house perched on top. Harry had his wand gripped tightly in his hand. He felt as if eyes were watching them. “Someone’s coming,” he warned Cedric.

A hooded figure approached carrying what looked like a bundle of rags. It stopped about six feet from them, in front of a marble headstone. Suddenly, Harry felt as if his head were being split in two. Agony drove him to his knees. In the distance, he heard a cold, high voice say, “Kill the spare.”

“Avada Kedvra!”

A glow of green light lit the night and Harry heard a thud. Harry retched from the pain in his head, which peaked and then slowly started to subside. Opening his streaming eyes, Harry saw Cedric, lying spread-eagled on the ground. He was dead.

Harry stared in shock into Cedric’s dead eyes. No!

He barely realized that he was being pulled away and forced to stand against the headstone. Harry saw the name “Tom Riddle” in the wand-light, before he was pushed back against the headstone and ropes bound him to the cold marble, and a gag silenced him. As the hooded figure turned away from having secured him, Harry recognized Wormtail.

His mind clouded with terror. Wormtail! If Wormtail was here, was Voldemort nearby? Had he, Harry, been captured by Voldemort after all his careful planning to hide his identity? Panting with fear, Harry forced himself to focus and tried to see what was happening. As Wormtail came in and out of Harry’s limited field of vision, he tried to see what the older man was doing. The traitor appeared to be preparing a cauldron, filling it with water and lighting a fire under it. The bundle of rags squirmed on the ground.

Voldemort’s cold voice demanded, “Hurry!” Harry’s heart pounded. Voldemort was here! But where? Where was the voice coming from?

Wormtail opened the rags and uncovered a scaly-looking snakelike creature that was worse than any nightmare monster Harry’s imagination had ever conjured. Small and vaguely humanoid, its red eyes glowed in the darkness. Wormtail lifted the creature and placed it into the bubbling cauldron.

Harry’s head was throbbing and it was difficult to think. Cedric’s dead body lay in the distance and, in the cauldron bubbling away merrily, Voldemort was in the process of being reborn. It was as if he were in a nightmare but there was no way to wake up.

As if in a fog, Harry heard Wormtail perform the magical incantation. “Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!” Dust from the grave at Harry’s feet rose in a little swirl, like a miniature tornado, and floated through the air until it settled into the cauldron.

“Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master.” And, with a flash of a silver dagger, and a scream of anguish, Wormtail cut off his own right hand, which fell with a sick plop into the cauldron. Harry closed his eyes tightly and lay his head back against the headstone. He moaned into his gag from the horror of what was happening in front of him.

Feeling someone near him, Harry opened his eyes. Wormtail was right in front of him, panting with pain. Voice shaking, Voldemort’s servant completed the incantation. “Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.” And, taking the dagger he held in his left hand, he cut through Harry’s sleeve and deep into his right arm. Harry’s cry of shock and pain was muffled by his gag. Wormtail bottled some of the blood flowing from the boy’s wound and shuffled over to pour it into the cauldron. With this last ingredient, the liquid turned white.

At first sparks issued from the cauldron, and then all was silent. Suddenly, thick steam erupted from the cauldron, swelling over its edges and spilling onto the grounds nearby. As the steam dissipated, a shadowy figure took shape. Tall and thin, the creature rose to its full height and stepped proudly from the cauldron. Lord Voldemort had risen again.