Written in the Stars - Champions

Champions

Once more, Cassiopeia found herself assaulted by dozens of childhood memories when she arrived at Grimmauld Place to begin her vigil over Harry whilst he would be visiting Britain.

Having stepped through the fireplace, she immediately noticed that the smell of decay was prevalent, and the kitchen table was as polished to a smooth finish, just as it was when she had been a little.

Running her fingers across it as she passed, she remembered the many meals here she had shared with her mother, father, and siblings.

They were the better times of her life, but then, her mother had fallen suddenly ill and perished quickly.

The Black household had never been the same since.

Her father had always been a rather abrasive man who seldom showed any warmth to his children, and with the passing of his wife, he had only become colder and bitter until he too had died.

Cassie had not been around to witness his decline.

Shortly after the death of her mother, she had taken her leave of Britain, and what happened next was well documented in the annals of history.

Still, there was still an echo of fondness she held onto here; watching Arcturus and Dorea grow, the smile of her sweet mother, and those few precious moments of them being a whole when she had not understood how cruel the world could be.

“Mistress Black has returned,” a voice croaked from the door.

“I have,” Cassiopeia replied stiffly. “The house seems to be in a much more acceptable order since I last visited.”

“Kreacher has been busy,” the elf explained.

Cassiopeia hummed.

The elf had indeed followed her orders.

“And has Walburga’s portrait remained silent?”

“Mistress has not spoken a word,” Kreacher said sadly.

“Good,” Cassiopeia declared as she stepped into the hallway and made her way towards where the portrait of the woman hung.

She was torn between destroying the painting and keeping it.

Despite how vile, uncouth, and unpleasant Walburga was, her knowledge on the pureblood families could prove to be useful in the future, even if Cassiopeia had to endure the baleful glare of the woman whenever she looked at her.

With a flick of her wand, the curtains around the portrait were closed and Cassie turned back towards the waiting elf.

“I would like for you to prepare my room for me, third floor, second on the left.”

“That room was given to Master Regulus,” Kreacher replied, unable to hide the dejected edge to his voice.

“What happened to Master Regulus?”

Cassiopeia knew little of the boy.

As the second son of Orion and Walburga, he had been rather insignificant in the grand scheme of the family standing.

Kreacher became visibly upset by the question.

“Master Regulus was k-killed, Mistress.”

“Killed?”

“M-murdered… by him.”

“Him?”

Kreacher looked around the hallway, seemingly checking that they could not be overheard.

“The Dark Lord,” he whispered.

Cassiopeia was taken aback by the answer.

“Why would the Dark Lord kill him?”

From what Cassiopeia had learned, Regulus had been proud to serve Voldemort, and had been recruited the moment he had left Hogwarts.

What could have transpired that had seen him killed by the very man he had chosen?

Kreacher’s eyes darted around the hallway once more before he leaned in closer.

“Because Master Regulus discovered his secret,” he informed her quietly, wincing at his own words.

“His secret?”

Kreacher nodded.

“A dark secret, darker than anything any Black has done that Kreacher has served, so dark that even Master Regulus was appalled.”

“What is the secret, Kreacher?”

The elf swallowed deeply before reaching within his soiled apron.

From it, he produced a gold locket, one bearing the letter ‘S’ that was made up of small emeralds.

Immediately, Cassie felt a shudder run through her spine.

The magic oozing from the locket was heavy, oppressive, but as enticing as anything she had ever experienced.

“What is it?” she asked.

“He lives in here,” Kreacher croaked. “The Dark Lord lives inside.”

Cassiopeia released a deep breath, her eyes not leaving the locket.

“He lives in there?”

Kreacher nodded.

“A part of him,” he answered. “I hear him whispering sometimes, telling Kreacher that he should give the locket to a powerful wizard so that he might live again, but he is not Kreacher’s master.”

“No, he is not,” Cassiopeia agreed.

“Master Regulus told Kreacher he must destroy it, but Kreacher does not know how.”

The elf began to sob, and fell to his knees, declaring his sorrow for failing to follow what was likely the final wish of his master.

“Would you like me to help destroy it?” Cassiopeia asked.

After a few moments of composing himself, Kreacher looked up and met her gaze.

“Could you destroy it?”

Cassiopeia nodded.

“I will find a way,” she assured the elf. “The future Lord Black is going to kill the Dark Lord, and Master Regulus will be remembered as the brave man he was.”

“He was very brave,” Kreacher echoed as he stood. “Even when Kreacher begged him not to go to that cave, Master Regulus went to get this,” he added, holding up the locket.

“Could you show me where the cave is?” Cassiopeia requested.

Kreacher shook his head.

“Kreacher cannot go back there,” he choked. “There are terrible things in the cave; the men that don’t breathe but still move.”

“Men that don’t breathe?”

“The ones that can only be killed with fire.”

Cassiopeia frowned.

“Killed by fire,” she mused aloud, her eyes widening at the implications. “Inferi?”

“Yes,” Kreacher confirmed, “hundreds of them, and the nasty potion. No one must ever drink that.”

The elf began to shake uncontrollably.

Cassiopeia nodded her understanding.

She was not foolish enough to put herself in such danger needlessly, especially when the object the inferi and other protections had been put there to guard was already in her possession.

“No one is going to the cave, Kreacher.”

The elf deflated, evidently relieved by her decision.

“I will take the locket, and I have a job for you, if you think you can manage it.”

“Kreacher serves the House of Black,” the elf replied firmly.

“Do you think you can find Sirius?”

The grimace she received in return spoke volumes of how little Kreacher thought of the man. Nonetheless, he nodded, albeit reluctantly.

“Kreacher might find him.”

“Then do it, and bring him to me,” Cassiopeia instructed.

“And you will destroy this?” the elf asked.

Cassie nodded and levitated it from his grip, encasing it in a glowing white ball.

Immediately, the oppressive magic vanished, and with only a nod of gratitude, Kreacher vanished.

Left alone with her thoughts, Cassiopeia eyed the locket warily.

She had no doubt as to what it was, but where to begin with destroying it, she knew not.

However, if there was one person who had the knowledge, it would be the very one she could rely on in her most trying moments of need.

Gellert would know what to do, and with that in mind, she took her leave once more of Grimmauld Place to pay him a much-needed visit.

(Break)

“Come on you lazy clods!” Olaffson encouraged in his typical, impatient way.

Having learned that both Harry and Viktor would be away from Durmstrang for the school year, the man had taken it upon himself to volunteer to come along.

It seemed as though he too did not relish the prospect of his two favourite victims escaping his grasp for so long.

“One day, I’ll swing for him,” Eden, one of the Dutch seventh years vowed.

Harry chuckled as he continued rowing, both he and Viktor having grown accustomed to hard labour long ago.

“This is abuse,” Bielert grumbled.

“Shut up and get on with it,” Viktor sighed irritably.

It was like this whenever they were tasked with rowing the ship.

There was no need for it as the vessel moved through the depths with ease under the power of magic, but this being Durmstrang, Olaffson and Karkaroff agreed the physical activity would serve the students well.

They certainly couldn’t be allowed to be idle for so long whilst aboard.

Harry couldn’t be certain, but he believed this was the fifth or sixth day they were experiencing since they’d departed.

Without seeing the sun rise or set, it was difficult to tell.

“Alright, that will do,” Karkaroff announced, nodding approvingly at the sweating teens. “Get yourselves cleaned up. We will be arriving at Hogwarts within the hour. MOVE!”

The students didn’t need telling twice, and Harry gratefully headed towards the galley where the communal showers were, gasping in utter bliss as the hot water ran over him.

“What do you think Hogwarts will be like?” Bielert asked excitedly.

“Like Durmstrang, just without Olaffson, Karkaroff, and the cold.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Eden snorted. “I bet they have their own miserable bastards there to make people’s lives unbearable.”

The others laughed, though Harry expected the boys’ words were not far from the truth.

“Who do you think will be chosen as champion?” Bielert questioned the others.

“Krum,” Brandt, a German prospect answered. “I can’t see how he won’t be chosen. He’s just better than us at most things.”

Most of the others nodded their agreement.

“Imagine if Potter was picked,” Eden guffawed.

“Piss off,” Harry returned. “I’ve got no interest in it. If it wasn’t for this tosser, I wouldn’t even be here,” he added, jerking a thumb towards the grinning Viktor.

“If Harry was chosen, I bet he’d win,” the Bulgarian declared thoughtfully.

“Probably,” Eden muttered, rubbing the back of his head, which was still swollen from when he had duelled Harry a few days prior.

The seventh years had known of his prowess in the art, but that didn’t stop them challenging him, though Harry suspected they had no understanding of his magical ability outside of duelling.

He suspected that he would surprise them all considerably.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Karkaroff’s voice sounded from the doorway. “Dress in your smart attire. The ship will be surfacing soon enough.”

Despite having his reservations of making the voyage here, Harry found that he had been caught up in the excitement of experiencing a new school, and though he had his reasons for not attending Hogwarts, a part of him felt that his parents would be pleased that he had decided to come now.

His time here would be interesting to say the least.

(Break)

Albus could only smile as the students of Hogwarts gathered in front of the castle, eagerly excited to greet their guests for the year.

He too was excited, not merely for the commencement of the tournament, but that he would get to experience something that no headmaster had in several centuries.

For the first time in living memory, perhaps other than Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel’s, Hogwarts would host their counterparts from two other premier schools of magic.

“Straighten your tie, Weasley, and if I get a whiff of anything from the two of you, you will spend the remainder of the year in detention with Mr Filch,” Minerva warned the redheaded twins.

“We will be on our best behaviour, Professor.”

“We promise,” the other twin added.

Minerva shook her head as she approached Albus, who offered her an amused smirk.

“Trouble with some of your students, Minerva?”

The woman bristled slightly.

“Honestly, I do not see how the two of them have not found themselves expelled for all of their exploits.”

“Because most of them are rather harmless,” Albus pointed out. “I find them to be quite fascinating young men.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you had to deal with their escapades as often as I do,” Minerva muttered.

“Perhaps not,” Albus acknowledged.

The two fell silent for a moment before Minerva spoke once more.

“Is he truly coming?”

Albus did not need to question whom the woman was referring to, and he nodded sagely.

“Igor made the request himself,” he explained. “Harry is here to assist Viktor Krum with his Quidditch training, and to attend lessons that he chooses to.”

“That only makes me wish he had come here more,” Minerva sighed. “If he is able to assist Krum, he must be rather gifted at Quidditch. If he was here, maybe we would stand a chance at winning the cup.”

“According to Igor, he has even beaten Mr Krum in training,” Albus revealed. “Apparently, Mr Potter has very much followed in his father’s footsteps.”

“Merlin help us all,” Severus grumbled from Albus’s left.

The headmaster shot him a pointed look.

He had already discussed Harry’s imminent arrival with the man and had warned him that any grudge he harboured towards James Potter was not to be transferred to Harry.

“I do believe the delegation from Beauxbatons has arrived,” Albus murmured, nodding towards the approaching speck in the sky. “And so it begins.”

(Break)

Pansy shared a look with Daphne, and the other girl rolled her eyes as she elbowed Blaise sharply in the ribs, jerking him from his stupor.

The boys in her house, much like the others, were gawping dumbly at the blonde who was being escorted into the castle by the giant Madame Maxime.

“What did you do that for?” Blaise groaned.

“Because you were making a prat of yourself,” Daphne replied.

Blaise scowled and rubbed his ribs, his eyes widening as he pointed towards the lake.

“Bloody hell, why don’t we have anything like that?” he asked as an enormous ship broke the surface.

It was impressive, but Pansy preferred the horse drawn carriage the Beauxbatons students had arrived in.

“They look like a surly lot,” Theo commented as the Durmstrang delegation, garbed in red military dress, made their way off the ship.

Pansy nodded her agreement, though her mouth fell agape as the students drew closer.

Amongst them was a familiar face, and it didn’t belong to Viktor Krum as Draco and the others were whispering about.

No, it belonged to another, and in her frozen state of shock and awe, she expected that she perfectly mimicked the expression the boys wore when they had been affected by the French, blonde girl.

“What is wrong with you, Pansy?” Daphne huffed.

Pansy said nothing, her feet carrying her without thought towards Harry until she was sprinting.

“MISS PARKINSON!” the voice of Professor McGonagall cut across the grounds, but Pansy ignored the deputy headmistress and flung herself into Harry’s arms.

“Do you know this girl, Harry?” an amused voice questioned.

“Well, if I didn’t, you’d make a terrible bodyguard, Viktor,” Harry huffed. “She could have killed me already.”

The other boy snorted.

“Not you, Potter,” he sighed. “Even the devil himself wouldn’t take you.”

“No, but he’d take you, you git.”

Pansy heard the spoken words, but she wasn’t taking them in.

She was too wrapped up in the surprise of seeing Harry again after so long.

“Pansy, everyone is staring at us,” Harry murmured.

Extracting herself from his arms, she slapped him on the chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” she growled.

“I thought it was better if you found out this way.”

“Idiot,” Pansy huffed. “I can’t really play that off as anything else, can I?”

“You could pretend you recognised me and that you were starstruck by my enormous fame,” Harry suggested. “Or you could say you mistook me for Krum, but then again, I’d be insulted if I was mistaken for that ugly sod.”

“Ugly, am I?” Viktor asked. “We’ll see how pretty you are when I pound your face in.”

“Empty words, Krum,” Harry said dismissively.

“For now,” Viktor returned with a frown, “but I won’t need you one day.”

Harry chuckled, and the group continued on their way towards the waiting Hogwarts students, the presence of both Harry and Viktor having been noticed by now.

“Whoever that woman is, she doesn’t seem happy with you,” Harry whispered.

“That’s Professor McGonagall,” Pansy muttered. “She’ll give me a detention or two. I’m more concerned about my housemates,” she added, nodding towards the students in black robes trimmed in green and silver who were looking at them in a mixture of confusion and interest.

“The blonde is Malfoy?”

Pansy nodded.

“Well, it looks like you have some explaining to do to them,” Harry said with a shrug. “Maybe they’ll be too distracted by Viktor’s presence.”

“Oh, so we are resorting to using each other, are we?” the Bulgarian questioned.

“You’ve been using me since we met.”

“True,” Krum conceded. “I always thought you were too stupid to notice.”

“I always thought you should trim your eyebrows.”

Viktor offered Harry a smirk, before replacing it with the scowl he was known for.

“Looking unfriendly keeps some people away,” he explained to Pansy. “It works, sometimes.”

Pansy could only nod and look on as Dumbledore shared a brief conversation with the Durmstrang headmaster, the gaze of the former shifting towards Harry as they approached, though her own focus remained on her housemates.

She deflated as the students were ushered inside the castle, and much to her relief and equally trepidation, the Durmstrang students chose to sit with the Slytherins.

Pansy found herself beside Harry on one side, and Daphne on the other who had elbowed her way through to reach her.

“Well, someone has some explaining to do,” the blonde said airily. “You never mentioned you knew Harry Potter.”

It seemed as though the entire table was focused on her, as was every other pair of eyes in the hall, but it was Harry who spoke before Pansy could answer.

“Pansy and I met over the summer,” he lied brazenly, a grin tugging at his lips. “We had quite the pleasant and often sordid fling.”

Daphne choked on her pumpkin juice, and the rest of her housemates were no less shocked by the revelation.

“That is not true,” Pansy sighed, “and you can stop laughing,” she added to Harry and the Durmstrang students who were rather amused by the reactions.

“Then how did you meet?” Draco broke in, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“We met around ten years ago,” Harry answered honestly. “Lord Parkinson has business with my guardian, and Pansy has been sworn to secrecy ever since. You know how family business can be.”

The Slytherin students nodded their understanding, but Draco did not seem to be appeased by the explanation.

Before he could speak, however, he was cut off by Harry.

“You must be Lucius’s son, Draco,” he acknowledged.

“How do you know my father, Potter?”

“I had the pleasure of his and your mother’s company in the Minister’s box during the final,” Harry explained. “You look just like him. Do pass on my gratitude to him, will you?”

“Gratitude for what?”

“Oh, did he not tell you of our wager?” Harry asked, feigning surprise. “I must say, your father was a good sport and paid his debt with all the haste one would expect from a man of his station.”

Malfoy frowned in confusion, but Harry’s intervention served to distract him from whatever questions he had.

“So, you have been friends all this time?” Daphne questioned.

“Friends, lovers, all of the above,” Harry answered, and Pansy kicked him under the table.

“We have not been lovers,” she huffed, ignoring the blush forming on her cheeks.

“Ah, I must be better at Divination than I thought,” Harry mused aloud. “I must be seeing into the future.”

“Oh, shut up, Harry,” Pansy grumbled as the others laughed.

“No offense, Potter, but why are you sitting here?” Blaise broke in.

“I’m with my schoolmates.”

“But haven’t all of your family members been Gryffindors?”

Harry nodded thoughtfully.

“For the most part,” he agreed, “but that’s only the Potter side.”

“You only have the Potter side,” Draco snorted. “Your mother was a…”

“I would choose very carefully how you finish that sentence,” Harry cut in. “I will not have a bad word said against my mother. If it wasn’t for her, most of you would probably not be sitting here.”

Pansy reached under the table and squeezed Harry’s knee comfortingly, but he seemingly wasn’t finished saying what he wanted to.

“Now, I expect there may be some of you here that bears a grudge against me, and I would advise you to forget it,” he urged. “I can assure you that any attempt against me will be met with more violence and pain than you could hope to cause me. For now, I am willing to leave the past where it is, but if anyone wishes to drag it back up, then do so at your own peril. I will not repeat myself.”

Pansy swallowed deeply, she alone garbed in Hogwarts robes knowing that this was Harry at his most diplomatic when it came to dealing with potential enemies.

“Ah, Draco, could you pass me the potatoes, please?” Harry requested with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

It was around an hour later that Pansy found herself in the common room with her housemates, many of whom seemed to want to ask questions of her.

“How dare he!” Draco cursed. “The filthy half-blood thinks he can come here and threaten us? Who does he think he is?”

“He’s Harry Potter,” Daphne pointed out. “If you think that he hasn’t had extensive training, then you are a fool. He has no bodyguards here. That should tell you all you need to know about him, right Pansy?”

Pansy nodded.

“I can’t say who his guardian is, but they are one of the most dangerous and gifted people of the last century. Harry knows his stuff, and it’s not a good idea to get on the wrong side of him.”

Draco snorted and began ranting once more, evidently not heeding the warning, and Pansy shook her head.

Perhaps the only way he would learn was by making such a foolish error, though there was no guarantee that Harry would be so forgiving to all of it.

“He’s here helping Krum with his Quidditch training.” Draco chuckled. “How lacking must Durmstrang be if they have Potter as his training partner?”

Once more, Pansy shook her head.

“I would be very careful of Potter, Draco,” Blaise broke in.

The usually quieter boy of the group had always been content to watch Draco make his blunders, but his expression was deathly serious.

“What are you talking about, Zabini?” Draco snapped.

“My sister is at Durmstrang,” he revealed, much to the surprise of the others, “and she may have mentioned that Potter was there.”

“And you thought it not relevant to mention it to us?”

Blaise shrugged indifferently.

“Potter is of no concern to me or my family,” he replied. “Where he goes to school is hardly important.”

“Your sister mentioned him?” Daphne questioned before Draco could speak.

Blaise nodded; his next words being chosen very carefully.

“It would be foolish to make an enemy of him,” he declared. “My sister is an exceedingly gifted duellist, and even she speaks very highly of Potter. She says that he does things that she has never seen; that he has never been beaten.”

Draco snorted derisively.

“All the Durmstrang students probably lose to him on purpose,” he declared, and Blaise shook his head.

“If you wish to believe that, then that’s your choice,” he returned uncaringly. “I’m giving you fair warning of what I know. I just wouldn’t want to see you embarrass our house or yourself for that matter.”

Draco laughed uproariously.

“The only one who will be embarrassed will be Potter!” he declared.

Pansy raised an eyebrow at Blaise who only offered a final shrug in response.

Draco always had an ego, an edge of cruelty also, but compared to Harry, he was nothing, and if he carried on the way he had started where Harry was concerned, it would likely end terribly for the Malfoy heir.

(Break)

“Dumbledore wasn’t joking about the age restriction, was he?” Neville chuckled.

“Don’t worry your sweet little head, Longbottom, we will find a way around it,” one of the twins declared.

The Gryffindor common room was abuzz with the excitement of the tournament, the lighting of the Goblet of Fire having been fascinating to witness, but it was their guests that had piqued their curiosity most of all.

“Forget that, who knew that Harry Potter was at Durmstrang?” Ron interjected, “and he’s friends with Viktor Krum!”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully.

She too was pondering why Harry Potter had attended Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts. She had taken it upon herself to learn his story when such a fuss had been made about his absence during first year, and if half of what she read was indeed true, he was quite the fascinating boy.

“I expect everything about him has been kept a secret,” Neville mused aloud. “If you think about it, it’s not surprising that he’s not here. He wouldn’t get a moment of peace.”

“But doesn’t Durmstrang study dark magic?” Ron asked.

“No one really knows what they study,” Neville replied. “It’s widely accepted that they are more relaxed about what they are allowed to pursue, but only a student can tell you, and I doubt they’d do that. Durmstrang protects its secrets very closely.”

Hermione hummed.

She had read what information was available about both Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and the former was much less forthcoming than the latter about what went on behind closed doors.

“I think the question we should be asking is why Harry Potter is here?” Dean broke in. “He’s not a seventh year, so he can’t enter the tournament.”

“Maybe he’s transferring,” Neville suggested.

“No, we asked one of the Durmstrang lot,” one of the twins informed them. “They reckon he’s only here to help Krum keep up with his training.”

“He trains with Krum?” Ron groaned wistfully.

“If he’s half as good as his father, it makes sense,” Fred, or George, pointed out. “The trophy room is full of awards for James Potter. Even McGonagall says he was the best she’s seen pass through since she has been here, and that’s a long time.”

“Do you think they’d let us train with them?” Ron asked excitedly.

“If you fancy having your face caved into the ground, I don’t see why not,” one of the twins snorted. “You saw Krum play at the World Cup. He’s lunatic on that broom, and I bet Potter is too.”

“It would still be cool.”

“It would,” the other twin agreed. “Maybe we can convince them to train with us.”

“If the Slytherins don’t beat you to it,” Seamus muttered.

“Great, that’s all we need,” Ron despaired, throwing his arms up. “Malfoy is already a git, and he’ll just be even more smarmy.”

“Well, they did sit with the Slytherins first,” Dean sighed.

Hermione was quickly losing interest in the conversation.

Quidditch was not something she had any interest in, but from what little had happened thus far, she couldn’t deny that she was looking forward to the rest of the school year.

(Break)

Having arrived on a Friday evening, there had been no lessons to attend the following morning, and having been rudely awakened by Olaffson, who evidently was not willing to give Harry and Viktor a respite, the two had completed their training with the man.

Upon doing so, Harry had decided to begin familiarising himself with Hogwarts. However, with all the attention he had received the night before, he decided that he would wear his father’s cloak.

It was strange roaming the grounds and the castle.

Much of it already felt familiar to him, though he knew he had never been here, other than during the brief visions he’d experienced up until a couple of years ago.

Still, it was like he had already tread through the corridors, and even beyond the first line of trees of the forest they had been warned not to enter.

As familiar as it felt, it was still a strange place, and though Hogwarts was larger than Durmstrang, Harry seemed to already know many of its secrets.

“There you are,” Viktor sighed in relief as he entered Harry’s cabin on the ship. “Where have you been?”

“I watched people submitting their names for the tournament for a while,” Harry answered with a shrug, “and just went for a wander.”

“Well, you’re not going to like this,” Viktor murmured as he placed a newspaper in front of Harry.

Harry Potter Returns!

By Rita Skeeter

“They were bound to find out about it,” Harry said dismissively. “She must be keen to have gotten this out so soon. I didn’t think journalists were allowed on school grounds.”

“They’re not,” Viktor confirmed, “not without the permission of the headmaster.”

Harry merely shrugged in response.

“It doesn’t matter,” he assured the older boy. “I’m not getting hung up on an article. It’s not like she’s said anything untruthful.”

“I suppose not,” Viktor conceded. “Anyway, we need to head into the Great Hall. The goblet should be ready soon.”

“Nervous?”

Viktor shook his head.

“No, if it is meant to be, my name will be the one chosen.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then it looks as though my final year of teaching will be spent mostly with Karkaroff,” Viktor chuckled.

Harry shook his head amusedly.

“He’s not that bad,” he assured him. “At least with the Dark Arts, he knows his stuff, and it’s not like the other professors haven’t prepared everything else for us.”

“I know,” Viktor replied, “but being taught by him will be strange. He’s just not the teaching type.”

“True,” Harry agreed, “but you do have the option to attend the lessons here too, but it’s not like you will need to. If your name doesn’t come out of the Goblet, I’ll eat the caretaker’s cat.”

Viktor chuckled as they joined the others who were eagerly anticipating the announcement of the champions.

“Remember,” Karkaroff barked, silencing them, “that it truly could be any one of you that is chosen to represent us for the tournament, and regardless of who it is, you will have our full support. I do not see a face among you that is not worthy of being called champion, but there can only be one. We are Durmstrang! Now, let us show the other schools why we are the best!”

After the unexpectedly impassioned speech from the headmaster, the delegation left the ship and made their way towards the castle, arriving shortly after the Beauxbatons students.

As excited as everyone undoubtedly was, there was a tension that had settled over the castle since the other schools had arrived the previous night, one not so dissimilar to the any Quidditch match Harry had attended.

Competition.

As incredible as this would be to experience, the three schools attending were competing with one another, and who was chosen to represent them would be the first look at each champion whom the honour of their schools would rest upon.

The meal provided by Hogwarts was eaten in silence for the most part, and the tension only grew when the plates were cleared and Dumbledore stood to address the room.

“If I am not mistaken, the Goblet will soon be ready to name its chosen champions.”

With a wave of his hand, the candles and chandeliers dimmed, and he peered at the wooden cup interestedly until a sudden gout of blue flame erupted from the opening, spewing out a piece of parchment.

“The Champion representing Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour,” Dumbledore announced.

A round of applause sounded for the French girl who approached the head table where she was ushered through a side door.

Once more, the hall fell silent and the Goblet produced another piece of parchment only a moment later.

“The Champion for Durmstrang is Viktor Krum,” Dumbledore informed them.

The Durmstrang students, and most others within the hall cheered uproariously for Viktor, and Harry clapped him firmly on the shoulder as he stood, his scowl firmly in place as he followed in the footsteps of the French champion.

When he was gone, the attention of the room shifted towards the Goblet for a final time, and Dumbledore nimbly snatched the last piece of parchment form the air as it was expelled.

“Representing Hogwarts is Cedric Diggory!”

The applause for the boy garbed in black robes trimmed with yellow was deafening.

Evidently, Diggory was a popular boy at the school, and there seemed to be little disappointment from any that he had been chosen.

When the final champion had been shown into the room beyond the head table, Dumbledore turned his attention towards the Goblet, nodding satisfactorily as the flame extinguished itself.

“Our champions have been selected, and more information regarding the first task they will face will be made known only to them,” he explained. “It truly is my honour to declare that the Tri-Wizard Tournament has officially begun!”

Harry clapped along with the rest of the students as the three respective leaders of their schools left via the same door as the champions, followed by two others that Harry did not recognise, and as he fell in with the other Durmstrang students, he too found himself anticipating just what was to come.

His time here would be interesting to say the least, and he found himself looking forward to what entertainment the Tri-Wizard Tournament would provide in the months to come.

(Break)

Lucius could only look on in shock at the man who was seated before him. He had aged terribly in the past thirteen years, but there was no denying who he was.

“How?” he asked simply.

“My father switched me out with my mother as a final mercy to her when she was dying,” Barty explained. “I have been under the Imperius Curse since. I managed to break free eventually.”

Lucius shook his head in disbelief.

Barty Crouch was nothing if not a stickler for the rules. For him to do such a thing, he must truly have had a soft spot for his wife.

“And your father?”

“Is now under my curse,” Barty replied with a grin.

“That is very risky,” Lucius sighed. “What will you do now?”

“Well, I had considered killing you and the others for your lack of loyalty to our master,” Barty said airily as though he was merely discussing the weather, “but I am not like the rest of you. I remain loyal to the cause, and maybe there is a part of me that believes you and the others do too.”

Lucius leaned forward in his chair.

“There is no longer a cause,” he murmured. “The Dark Lord is gone, and we have none that can lead us like him.”

“Is he gone, Lucius?” Barty replied with a grin.

Lucius frowned.

“What do you know, Barty?”

“Many things,” the man replied, tapping the tip of his nose with a finger. “My father is currently investigating the disappearance of one of his workers.”

“Bertha Jorkins.”

Barty nodded.

“She was sent on a trip to Albania and has not been since. Very suspicious, is it not?”

“What is your point, Barty?” Lucius sighed impatiently.

“My point is that my father, whilst investigating, made the acquaintance of an old friend of ours who was looking for someone. Pettigrew’s attempt at placing my father under the Imperius Curse was rather pathetic, but I had him play along. Who do you think he was taken to?”

Lucius frowned at the other man, wondering if he had become delusional from his exposure to the Dementors.

“Well?” he questioned.

“I don’t know,” Lucius huffed.

“The Dark Lord,” Barty announced excitedly. “He lives, Lucius, but he is weak, and with only Pettigrew to assist him, he will not grow stronger.”

It felt as though his heart had stopped in his chest, and Lucius was now convinced the man before him was indeed insane.

“No,” he denied, “it cannot be.”

“It is true!” Barty replied firmly. “I came to you for help, Lucius. We must find a way to bring him back. You cannot deny it, the mark is growing stronger. Surely, you have noticed it.”

Barty’s eyes had become wild, and Lucius felt a trickle of fear run down his spine.

The mark had indeed grown darker over the past few months, but he had chosen to ignore it.

If the Dark Lord was indeed returning as he claimed would happen if he was somehow robbed of life, then things would change, and Britain would once more be plunged into war.

For Lucius, there was no positive outcome to this.

Undoubtedly, he would be welcomed back into the fold of the Dark Lord’s inner circle, and he would have no choice but to obey.

The mark was for life, and service to the Dark Lord was in perpetuity.

For the first time since he and Macnair had done so, Lucius regretted setting Pettigrew free in his panic at finding him alive instead of simply having him murdered before he could stand trial.

How the rat had found their master was irrelevant, but Lucius should have known that if the man heard even a whisper of a rumour of him, he would seek out the protection the Dark Lord afforded him.

Thinking quickly, he realised he had two choices, one being to ignore what he had learned and dispatch of Barty or accept what was seemingly the inevitable and perhaps not find himself the victim of the Dark Lord’s ire when he returned.

Neither were desirable, but with no other option available to him, and being the consummate survivalist, he nodded.

“What do you need from me, Barty?”