Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jesper drummed his fingers on his knees, chewing his lip as his Da slowly and carefully maneuvered their small second-hand hatchback between two larger vehicles. Technically he could drive now (just like a real Muggle boy!), but Colm had insisted on dropping him off at King’s Cross Station “for old times’ sake,” whatever that was supposed to mean. Jesper was fairly certain his Da just didn’t trust him to drive on London’s busy streets yet. Which, okay, he had failed the test twice, but he was seventeen now, so he could just use a Supersensory Charm instead of checking his mirrors, once he learned it this year, and who really knew how to parallel park anyway? And this would have been his last chance to drive until Christmas.; thestral-drawn carriages just weren’t the same. Sure, Jesper liked horses—loved them actually, ever since his Ma had taught him to ride—but he generally preferred them with skin and fur, instead of the weird reptile-skeleton thing the thestrals had going on.

His Da cleared his throat and Jesper jumped. He had been staring into space, twirling his wand between his fingers in a way that drove nearly everyone he knew mad (in his defense, he had only set something on fire once, and the thing in question had been a Divination textbook, so it was really a net gain). Colm put a hand on his son’s shoulder and Jesper tried to still his fidgeting hands, anticipating one of his father’s short and infrequent but painfully genuine motivational speeches.

“So.” Colm looked his son in the eye for a moment then swallowed and returned his eyes to the far more comfortable position of staring out the car’s front window. “This is it. Your last year.” Jesper started chewing his lip again and tried to keep his mind on the moment at hand, and not the contents of the Hogwarts Express sweets trolley, or whether Wylan would be wearing that blue cardigan that brought out his eyes so well, or the itching feeling that always started in his hands and slowly moved its way up to consume his whole body, urging him to get up and run or fly or gamble or duel or—

“I know you’ve had some—struggles—at Hogwarts before.,” his Da was saying. Jesper suppressed a snort. Understatement of the century. “But this year is going to be good. I know you. You’re a good kid. A good young man. And I’m proud of you. And I know,” he said, turning back to look his son in the eye, which was a lot more eye contact than Colm Fahey usually managed, “that your mother would be proud of you too.”

Jesper blinked his suddenly damp eyes rapidly and looked away, pretending to punch his father lightly on the shoulder. “Well, I would be proud if I had a kid with such fantastic fashion sense too. Frankly, it’s a crime that they make us wear black robes. Only one more year and I can have the flamboyant yet tasteful crazy old warlock wardrobe of my dreams.”

“Old?” Colm smiled slightly, climbing out of the car and opening the boot to retrieve Jesper’s trunk and broom.

“Of course! I’m of age now, which means I’m basically twenty, so I’m a quarter of the way to being dead. I have to live life while I can, by buying sparkly purple robes and dragon leather shoes with solid gold buckles. Ooh, and one of those hats with the stars that light up and change colours.”

The station was busy, though not nearly as packed as it would be closer to eleven o’clock. Colm Fahey was nothing if not unfailingly early for everything, which was unfortunately not a trait he had passed down to his son. Jesper honestly would have preferred to wait until there were a few more kids in odd clothes carrying owls and toads in cages to distract the station security guards; he had no issue with being the centre of attention, but even he didn’t particularly want to walk through solid metal in full view of a bunch of armed and generally short-tempered Muggles. But his Da, even after six years, seemed certain that the magical entrance to Platform Nine and Three Quarters would somehow malfunction, and always wanted the two of them to have as much time to deal with this horrific eventuality as possible. Also, he didn’t like crowds much. Jesper loved his Da, but sometimes he didn’t understand how they could be related.

After a burst pipe distracted one of the guards (Colm gave Jesper a disapproving look, but hey, what did he expect?), the two were able to slip covertly through the barrier and make their way towards the shining red Hogwarts Express, where a few early birds, mostly tiny first years shadowed by their parents, were already claiming compartments. Unsurprisingly, Colm had used up all of his sentimental speech-making skills in the car, so by way of goodbye he simply nodded and gave his only son one of his best, most rib-crushing hugs and a pat on the back. He wasn’t normally one for much physical contact, but even at five feet, nine inches his hugs could rival one of Hagrid’s.

And then he was alone. Jesper clambered onto the train with his trunk and broom, trying not to think about how this would be the last time he would ride the Hogwarts Express, the last time time he would flirt with the trolley lady, the last time he would wait until the last possible moment to change out of his bright patterned shirts and jeans into his dull black school robes, the last time—

“Jesper!” Inej was waving at him from an open compartment, Kaz sitting behind her apparently sorting through a stack of Exploding Snap cards. The two of them were always even more obscenely early than Jesper, perhaps because they also hated crowds.

Jesper made as much noise as possible shoving his trunk through the compartment door, then threw himself dramatically onto the bench. “This is it, my young friends! My final journey! Cherish your youth while you can, for it shall soon pass away!”

Inej snorted, and Kaz glowered. “We’re both seventeen, we’re essentially the same age.”

“And yet you are a lowly sixth year, while I am an incredibly wise and mature seventh year.” Kaz hit Jesper on the shins with his cane, not hard enough to show he was actually angry, but hard enough for it to sting a little.

“Betrayal! Inej, aren’t you going to defend me?”

Inej smirked at him. “This naïve and immature sixth year has to go get lectured at in the prefects’ compartment,” she said, tying the knot on her Gryffindor tie and getting to her feet. “I’ll see you two at the feast.”

“Say hi to Nina and Matthias for us!” called Jesper, waving and trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. He had forgotten that half of his friend group, against all odds or reason, considering their track record when it came to following rules, had been chosen as prefects in the past two years. Judging by the tightness around his eyes as he watched Inej leave, so had Kaz, though Jesper wasn’t stupid enough to point it out. It was fine. He still had the entire school year to spend with his friends, he didn’t need to see them all on the Hogwarts Express. It was just a train ride, after all. And Wylan would be here soon, hopefully wearing that blue cardigan. Jesper still maintained that it was a gross miscarriage of justice that his favourite flirting target hadn’t been chosen as a Ravenclaw prefect, since he was clearly the smartest student in his year, and probably Jesper’s year too, but Kaz claimed, in his annoyingly blunt and practical way, that Wylan didn’t have the self-confidence or assertiveness to command a bunch of unruly second and third years, even if he could probably control the mostly timid first years.

Kaz had started shuffling his cards again, looking determinedly Not Upset that Inej had left, when someone who was sadly not Wylan Van Eck knocked on the compartment door. Kuwei Yul-Bo cracked open the door and peeked his head in before either of the occupants could answer. “Is this compartment full?”

“Yes,” said Kaz. “No!” said Jesper, louder. Each compartment could comfortably hold four people, even if one of those people had a nasty habit of breaking the bones of anyone who invaded his personal bubble. “Come on in!”

Kuwei grinned widely and sat down next to Jesper, rather impressively managing to ignore one of Kaz’s most powerful glares. The younger boy was in Gryffindor, and Jesper had always gotten along fairly well with Gryffindors, regardless of the fact that two of his best friends were in Slytherin, since their characteristic recklessness was usually a better match for his own boundless energy than the often quiet, steady dedication of his Hufflepuff housemates. Sometimes Jesper wondered if the founders really had put brains inside the Sorting Hat. Kuwei was in fifth year, or maybe sixth year, and Jesper had met him before in Hogsmeade, or at Dueling Club, or maybe that one time Wylan had dragged him along to Potions Club. At any rate, the compartment would feel less empty with four people, and Jesper always enjoyed meeting new people. It was going to be a good journey. It was going to be a good year. He was going to go to all his classes and get a reasonable number of NEWTs and keep in touch with his friends after graduating and find a career that didn’t drive him mad with boredom and it was going to be good. Everything was going to be fine.

Chapter Text

Everything was going terribly. After his first year, where he had spent the entire train ride in a state of paralyzing anxiety that the Sorting Hat would somehow discover his secret and he would be summarily thrown out of Hogwarts, Wylan had spent every following summer looking forward to the next school year with feverish anticipation. This year was no different, but even before they arrived at the train station things had started to go wrong. Of course, the esteemed merchant and Gringotts consultant Jan Van Eck was far too busy to escort his only son to the train which would take him away for the next eight months, but he was nothing if not a man who cared about appearances, so Wylan was conveyed thence by a chauffeur in one of Van Eck Industries’ sleek magically-altered BMWs. That in itself was not a bad thing; Wylan generally liked to spend as little time with his father as possible, and the car was certainly comfortable. Unfortunately, just as the driver was using some displacement magic to navigate a particularly tricky traffic jam, a pale purple memo folded in the shape of a paper airplane flew in through the open driver’s side window and hit him on the back of the head. The chauffeur read the piece of paper, refrained from swearing loudly by closing his eyes for a half-second and inhaling deeply, and turned the car around in the opposite direction. Soon, they had pulled up alongside a nondescript looking apartment and a nondescript looking man in his mid-twenties was climbing into the car. Wylan wanted to die.

“Er,” said the man, placing his messenger bag at his feet, “Hi. I’m … Roger Davies.”

“Good morning,” said Wylan, not swearing with almost as much professionalism as the driver. “Wylan Van Eck.” He didn’t recognize the chestnut-haired man or his name, but that didn’t mean much, since his father had stopped showing him off at business meetings or dinners unless absolutely necessary shortly after it became clear he would never learn to read properly, when he was about eight or nine and Mr. Davies would still have been a teenager.

“Oh! Good.” Davies looked almost as uncomfortable as Wylan felt. “You must be in … fourth year?”

Curse his stupid baby face. And his stupid blushing cheeks. Wylan could feel his face heating up as he replied. “Er, no, sixth year.”

Davies grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Sixth year was—pretty good. You get to choose more of your own classes. And I finally stopped taking Divination.”

“Divination is the worst,” Wylan agreed fervently, and the stranger snorted. Maybe this drive wouldn’t be as hellish as initially expected. But then—

“Excited for this year? Are you old enough to enter?”

And there it was. One of the reasons Jan Van Eck had stopped displaying his imbecile son at his fancy dinner parties, where admittedly not a lot of reading was required, was that he could never answer the questions guests inevitably posed him about his father’s business. Trusting an idiot with even the smallest details of a highly successful trade empire was of course impossible, so Wylan suddenly became far too busy with his studies, tutors and music lessons and summer trips to famous magical historical sites not conveniently located near or on the Hogwarts grounds to entertain the upper echelons of wizarding society. He was really just sitting in his room drawing and trying to make as little noise as possible.

“Er, um …” Was he old enough to enter? Odds were the entering age of the mysterious undisclosed event/competition was probably seventeen, so “no?” Bloody hell, it had come out like a question. He was a good liar, even according to Kaz, but he hadn’t been expecting to be reminded of his inadequacy before they even reached the train station and he hadn’t had much practice in his deception skills after spending pretty much the entire summer shut in his room playing flute and using a modified Quick Quotes Quill to dictate letters to Jesper and the rest of his friends. Equally. He wrote to all his friends just as much as he wrote to Jesper. Who was also just a friend.

Davies was giving him a very strange look. “It’s fine if you don’t know about it. It’s supposed to be a secret anyway, but some people bend the rules, and I just thought you might—”

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m sorry.” Merlin’s pants, why was he apologizing? He thought he had grown out of this. No wonder he hadn’t been chosen as a damn prefect. “I should’ve just—my father doesn’t really like bending the rules, and I’m only sixteen, so I probably can’t anyway…” he trailed off.

The other man was still staring at him intently and Wylan started fiddling with his wand in a very Jesper-ish way. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. “It really is fine. It’s not your fault, and your Dad probably had a good reason,” he seemed somewhat unsure about this fact, and Wylan felt sick to his stomach. “And this way you’ll be in the same boat as everyone else, and learn all about it tonight at the feast!” Davies grinned at him.

“Wait…” Wylan momentarily forgot about his shame and anxiety as they pulled into a parking spot at the train station. “Are you coming on the train?” The man was young, but definitely too old to be a student, and he had never heard of a teacher riding the train before. He had always assumed they just apparated into Hogsmeade, or stayed at the school year-round.

“Yeah,” the stranger slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and then for some reason walked around to to Wylan’s side of the vehicle to open his door while the chauffeur opened the boot to retrieve his trunk and his tawny owl Plumje. “I’m actually the new trolley lady. She was thrown out the window by a pair of angry Muggle-born first years who wanted Mars bars. It was pretty nasty.” Wylan choked.

Davies laughed, shaking his head. “I have business up at the castle, related to certain classified events,” he raised his eyebrows and smirked. “And one of my friends is starting his first year as a professor. Haven’t been on the train in ages, and I always liked the trip as a kid. Well, almost always.”

“Do professors normally ride the train?” Wylan took his luggage from the driver, who nodded curtly and climbed back into the car, clearly eager to be finished with babysitting duty. Plumje opened one eye, hooted softly, and went back to sleep.

“Sometimes. Neville wanted to meet some of the students outside the classroom first, and see if any of them were interested in joining a club he wants to start. A kind of … support group for Muggle-borns, or kids who don’t feel super at home in their Houses.”

“Huh.” Wylan wasn’t sure what to say to that. He had a very close group of supportive friends now, but in first year such a thing might have been really helpful, even if he was a pureblood. Ravenclaw hadn’t exactly been the house he had expected to be sorted into, if he was sorted at all, and it was quite the adjustment.

Davies shrugged and started helping Wylan load his luggage onto a trolley, ignoring the security guards who gave Plumje funny looks with more success than Wylan had ever managed. “We hope it might help some kids out, but we’ll see.”

None of this explained who Davies actually was, or why he had been important enough to receive complimentary Van Eck transportation, or why that decision had clearly been made at the last minute. Wylan wasn’t really in the mood to reveal even more of his ignorance about his father’s business though, so, as they made their way towards the platform barrier, he settled on the question which was probably most relevant to his life anyway. “Which professor is retiring? What subject will, um …”

“Professor Longbottom will be teaching Herbology. He was the top student when we were in school, you’ll be in good hands.”

Wylan frowned a little. He had always liked the patient and practical Professor Sprout, and had felt at numerous points in the last five years that he should have been sorted into her House. He also hadn’t heard any rumors that she might be retiring. It was certainly the sort of thing that Kaz and Inej would know, but of course Kaz didn’t reveal any kind of information to anyone unless there was something very concrete in it for him. Usually money, or borderline illegal favours.
The platform was already crowded, which meant Kaz and Inej would definitely be on the train, and Jesper probably would be as well, since his father was almost as unerringly punctual as Kaz. Davies scanned the crowd briefly then turned to his younger companion. “Good to meet you Wylan. I’ll see you again at the castle. Hopefully the surprise is worth the wait!” He waved and made his way over to a rather lost-looking blonde man who appeared to be clutching a toad.

Well, that could have been worse, all things considered. It wasn’t that Wylan disliked people, at least when his interactions with them were in fairly small, measure doses; he just wished he could skip the awkward first meeting step. One of the many things he admired about Jesper was the older boy’s ability to start up a conversation with any person at any time without seeming nervous or uncomfortable at all. Yet he never seemed to expect or want Wylan to do the same thing, which was always surprising and oddly touching.

As he had anticipated, Inej, Nina, and Matthias were missing from the compartment where Wylan finally found Jesper and Kaz sitting: Matthias and Inej were two of the only people capable of making Nina on time for anything, including the debriefing from the Head Boy and Girl in the prefects’ compartment. The unanticipated part was the aggravatingly extroverted young Gryffindor cozying up to Jesper. Kuwei was in Potions Club and had been completely unsubtle about his interest in Jesper the one time Wylan had been able to convince his Hufflepuff friend to come, not that it mattered. He was much more energetic and outgoing than Wylan, arguably far more compatible with Jesper’s personality, not to mention the fact that he actually looked his age and was capable of reading a page of cursive without having a panic attack, but whatever. Wylan was incredibly excited to spend the train ride listening to him flirt with his—best friend. What a fantastic start to the year.

“Oh, hey Wylan!” Jesper looked up from the sketch Kuwei had been showing him (he couldn’t even draw, his sense of proportion was terrible).

“Hi.” Wylan started shoving his things underneath the seat next to Kaz with more force than was probably strictly necessary. Jesper raised his eyebrows and picked up Plumje’s cage, stroking her feathers through the bars. “Good drive over, was it?”

“I had the time of my life.” Wylan slumped down onto the bench a safe distance from Kaz then looked over at the Slytherin. “Did you know Professor Sprout was retiring?”
The other sixth year shuffled his cards enigmatically. “I’d heard it was a possibility. How did you find out?”

Wylan tried not to be insulted at his tone of voice. “Information from another passenger on the Van Eck Express. Apparently the new professor is Neville something.”

“Longbottom,” said Kaz, because of course he knew, and now that he had said it Wylan couldn’t believe he had forgotten such a name. “He graduated in 1998.”

Even Kuwei looked up at that. The Second Wizarding War was hardly ancient history, and most of the professors currently teaching at Hogwarts had been involved in some capacity, but it was always especially sobering to be reminded that kids his age had fought alongside them.

Jesper, who had been raised mostly by his Muggle father and so had a little less reverence for the topic than the rest of them, was the first to recover. “Did he do anything cool, Mr. Encyclopedia of All Wizarding Knowledge? Duel a Death Eater? Save a room full of House Elves? Ride into battle on an Acromantula?”

“He killed Voldemort’s snake, Nagini,” said Kaz, who really did know more about wizarding history than anyone Wylan had ever met. Perks of being a pureblood who could read, he supposed. “She was his last Horcrux.”

“Second last, technically,” piped up Kuwei, the know-it-all prat. “I meant last of the ones he intended to make,” amended Kaz, sounding as annoyed as Wylan felt.

“Always nice to be taught by a former teenage war-hero,” said Jesper cheerfully. “Brings a little extra je-ne-sais-quoi to the accusations that I’m wasting my talents and my life. Anyone want anything from the trolley?” Wylan looked through the glass compartment door in surprise. Apparently a stout witch with a trolley full of sweets could sneak up on him as effectively as Inej. He hadn’t even really noticed when the train had started moving.

As Jesper and his new best friend Kuwei Yul-Bo perused the food on offer, Wylan turned back to Kaz. “I don’t suppose you know anything about a Roger Davies?”

“I’m assuming this was your friend from the ride over? The name doesn’t ring a bell, but it could be a fake.”

“Why would one of my father’s associates use a fake name?” Kaz clearly didn’t deem this question worth answering and went back to shuffling his cards and staring out the window into the foggy countryside. It was going to be a long ride.

Chapter Text

It had been a long morning. Harry had certainly not planned on being chauffeured to Kings Cross by one of Jan Van Eck’s seemingly endless unnecessary staff members; he preferred for a variety of reasons not to Apparate into Hogsmeade, but had nothing against Apparating into the train station. Unfortunately, a nasty incident with a cursed staircase and several Death Eater aspirants on his last Auror mission had left him with a concussion and a number of cracked ribs, which apparently meant he was not in sufficiently fit physical condition to be constricted by whatever extra-dimensional vice witches and wizards passed through while Apparating. Rules really were different now that he was working for a unionized branch of the government and not simply wandering off on magical quests as an unsupervised teenager. He also clearly needed to get a car. Neither he nor Ginny had been particularly keen on the idea of driving as a primary form of transportation, since flying was easier and more enjoyable in every possible way, even if it was generally less advisable in London in broad daylight, but Hermione had been expounding on the benefits of enclosed passenger travel ever since learning that Ginny was pregnant. Harry thought that perhaps these exhortations were directed more at Ron’s ears than his own, but after today he was beginning to see her point. The ride over with Wylan Van Eck hadn’t been terrible, exactly. He seemed like a perfectly nice kid, a little socially awkward, maybe, but no more so than Neville, and he was about to become a Hogwarts teacher. Teenagers in general just tended to make Harry feel slightly uncomfortable. They just seemed so young—which was a rather unpleasant reminder of how young he and his friends had been during their various near-death adventures and experiences. He certainly couldn’t imagine baby-faced Wylan fighting Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic or attempting to fend off Inferi. Trying to do so made him feel slightly ill.

There had also been something vaguely unsettling about Wylan specifically, the way he seemed embarrassed to take up space in a vehicle his family literally owned, and afraid of being unable to answer questions. He really did remind Harry of a young Neville Longbottom, a kid who froze up under pressure and was convinced throughout most of his Hogwarts career that he had been sorted into the wrong house, even though he was one of the bravest people Harry knew. Maybe Neville could become a sort of mentor for Wylan this year; Harry thought that might benefit both of them. Wylan did seem somewhat intrigued, albeit confused, by his description of the new students’ club Neville wanted to form. Harry himself had been surprised and skeptical when his friend had mentioned restarting the Slug Club after Slughorn’s second retirement several years ago, but when he explained that the club would be aimed at the least confident and successful students rather than the most, then Harry had become more interested, as had Ron and Hermione. It would be sort of like the DA, Neville said, but without the constant mortal terror. Harry certainly believed he would have enjoyed getting to know Luna, Neville, and even Cho Chang without the threat of Voldemort looming over their heads, and he was generally in favour of any club that promoted inter-House unity.

The great mind behind this idea was currently lurking uncomfortably at the edge of the crowd of students, clutching his extraordinarily long-lived toad and looking around nervously, probably searching for Harry. Polyjuice Potion made visiting public places much easier for one of the most famous and recognizable wizards in Britain, but it did make meeting up with friends more difficult. He was also still terrible at coming up with pseudonyms, a fact which Ginny teased him about relentlessly.

“Hey.” Neville looked at him blankly as Harry sidled over and winked at him, and he sighed internally. Neville was great, but not the best at picking up on hints and subtext. Ron claimed he could recognize his best friend in any disguise from the way he walked, and he was honestly probably telling the truth. He reached into his bag (a gift from Hermione which was waterproof, fireproof, and graced with an undetectable Extension Charm) and retrieved a gold Galleon, one of the fake coins members of the DA had once used to stay informed about meeting times and dates. “I think this is yours.”

“Oh. Oh!” Neville scanned Harry’s face as if trying to detect black hair and green eyes underneath the non-descript features of the Muggle who had contributed his dandruff to this particular batch of Polyjuice. They had decided on this signal beforehand, since both of them kept their DA coins as mementos and everyone, from his friends to his fellow Aurors, had been adamant that Harry not actually say anything to indicate his identity until they had at least entered the semi-private space of the train itself. Even so, he wished they could have avoided all the sneaking around. It reminded him simultaneously of the dangerous nature of his current work and the uglier parts of his school days, neither of which he very much wanted to dwell on right now, with everything going on between him and Ginny and the baby. And yes, he realized the irony of that, thank you.

“Hi Ha—er. Um. Let’s find a compartment?” Harry nodded, relieved, and helped his friend drag his luggage towards the train.

Most of the compartments were already full, another unfortunate consequence of Harry’s last minute travel plan. However, Neville, rather surprisingly, was able to pull rank and evict a couple of fourth years using their mostly-empty compartment to race the newest iteration of the Fanged Frisbee, which was a relief. He knew Neville wanted to make his rounds and visit a number of students throughout the train journey, but Harry personally did not want to pretend to be Roger Davies for the entire day.

“So!” Neville sat down and leaned forward eagerly once he had stowed away his things. “How have you been? How’s Ginny? Is everything going well?”

“Ginny’s good. Our Healer says everything seems to be going well for this stage. And so does Molly.” Ginny had had many arguments with her mother over Mrs. Weasley’s constant ministrations during the five months of her pregnancy, but Harry himself appreciated all the help they could get. He had some experience with babies because of Teddy, who was now a perfectly happy and healthy six-year-old, but none at all with the pre-baby stages.

“He’s due in December, right?”

“End of January.” Though Molly insisted that boys with Weasley blood always came late, especially if they were first sons. Ginny insisted that she had no evidence for this claim whatsoever.

“Right before the Second Task! Will that be … will you have time …?”

“All I have to do is show up. I’m not actually competing in the Tournament.” Harry tried not to snap. “Ginny and I have talked about it. It’ll be fine.” Ginny was not concerned about the Tournament. Ginny was concerned about the fact that her husband and the father-to-be of her child spent most of his days risking his life fighting dark magic, even though her own career of choice was a sport which had almost killed or maimed Harry almost as much as fighting Voldemort had. “I’ll be taking some time off work too, which will be nice for both of us. But how have you been? Do you feel ready for your first year of teaching?”

Neville winced at the question, and Harry felt a bit guilty; it was like asking if someone was ready for exams. Or fatherhood. “I guess? I’ve been writing to Professor Sprout, and I know all the material her classes have already covered, and she gave me some old exam outlines and instructions for the practical bits. It’s gotten a bit less difficult since we were in school, I think, the first years aren’t being introduced to Venomous Tentacula anymore, even on paper, but I’m thinking I might bring that back, and maybe add a unit on underwater plants in fourth or fifth year, if we could get permission to do some work in the lake …” He continued to ramble happily about the benefits of various plants for different ae groups, and Harry leaned back and watched the English countryside begin to pass by through the window.

After the trolley lady had passed by and Harry had purchased an unreasonable number of chocolate frogs—they had apparently started using a new image for Ron’s, and George assured him he needed to see it—Neville decided reluctantly to do what he had actually ridden the train to do, and left the compartment to go meet some of the students. Meanwhile, Harry took out a quill and parchment and tried to write a letter to his wife. He was only staying in Hogsmeade for a couple of nights, but Ginny was abroad covering a minor series of Quidditch championship games as her first foray into the world of sports reporting. She had wanted, naturally, to continue actually playing with the Holyhead Harpies, but rapid altitude changes and the risk of a sudden fall, or a Bludger to the stomach, were generally not considered ideal for healthy fetus development. So sports reporting it was.

The trouble was, they had been planning on having kids, just not right at this moment. They had been married a little over a year when they got the news, and everything had been going wonderfully, with Ginny and the Harpies, with Harry at the Auror Office, with little Teddy, who they visited at Andromeda’s place least once a week, twice if they could manage it. Teddy couldn’t be considered a son—Harry would never want to replace Lupin or Tonks, even in the kid’s imagination—but he was definitely part of the family, and neither Harry nor Ginny yet felt they had the need or the ability to take care of another child. So they hadn’t been trying, but Harry supposed they were a bit careless, and suddenly, after a series of routine health checks, Ginny was being asked to consider a short leave of absence from the Holyhead Harpies. It had been an accident and a surprise, but the news hadn’t exactly been unwelcome. Harry himself had pointed out that two 21-year-olds in the middle of a war probably hadn’t been planning on having kids right away either, and if his parents could make it work then so could he and Ginny. And he didn’t think either of them regretted the decision, really, but there were consequences, both long and short term, that he at least had not fully considered.

And now, in addition to everything else, he was being taken away from his Auror duties to help announce and adjudicate the Triwizard Tournament, which was, despite the dictates of tradition, once again at Hogwarts. Various reasons had been put forth for this decision, but Harry privately thought that Beauxbatons and Durmstrang simply didn’t want to receive the blame if another champion died. Objectively his workload as the most recent and only living Triwizard Champion wasn’t particularly onerous, since he didn’t have to stay at the castle all year or even help decide on or prepare for the tasks, but dredging up memories from his own dangerous childhood was not something he was incredibly eager to do just as he was about to have his own child, whom he very much hoped to protect from such danger.

After an embarrassingly long time staring at a blank piece of parchment and writing nothing on it, Harry took what was intended to be a short nap—he had barely slept a wink the night before—and awoke only when Neville returned to the compartment, looking exhausted but fairly pleased with himself. Things had gone well: Neville had been able to soothe the fears of some anxious Muggleborn first years and had had a good conversation with one of the Gryffindor prefects. As Neville said, in his typical self-effacing way, even the most arrogant and disruptive students weren’t so bold as to tease or try and make trouble in front of a professor before they got to the castle.

Speaking of which, the landscape against the darkening sky was beginning to look quite familiar. “We should be arriving soon,” said Harry, glancing out the window. Neville looked a bit sick with nerves, but Harry, somewhat to his own surprise, felt the same relief and excitement as he had during his school years. He was home again at last.

Chapter Text

The minute she stepped through the huge double doors of Hogwarts castle, Nina breathed a deep sigh of relief. She didn’t consider herself to be a particularly anxious person, even when attempting to wrangle crowds of obnoxious first and second years, but she did get short-tempered when she was hungry, and there had been far too much supervision of children and far too little eating of food from the trolley on the train journey here. She was very much looking forward to the feast, despite the fact that she would have to spend the whole thing at the Slytherin House table with only Kaz Brekker for company. They were technically friends (not that Kaz would admit such a thing), but Nina still preferred the everyday meals when professors paid very little attention to what they were doing unless somebody was actually getting hurt, and she could sit with Inej at the Gryffindor table or Jesper and Matthias at the Hufflepuff table. She honestly believed she belonged in Slytherin, with her ambition and resourcefulness and general talents for acting and deception, and she liked or at least tolerated most of her housemates, who were not, contrary to popular belief, all violently racist purebloods. But the Crows were her family, and she was fairly confident that they all, even Kaz, felt the same way about her.

Speak of the devil. As she made her way over to the table, Nina heard the familiar tap of her most reluctant friend’s cane behind her. The Great Hall was always a teeming mass of people right before the first feast of the year, but Kaz, the melodramatic prat, had built up enough of a reputation for himself that even the second years moved out of the way when he came through. And, of course, the first years weren’t here yet, still worrying themselves sick over their upcoming Sorting. She would have to deal with the usual chaos of trying to lead these exhausted, terrified, excited, and overwhelmed kids to the common room after the feat, but that was a problem for Future Nina, a Nina who had regained her energy and spirit by having at least three helpings of different kinds of puddings.

Nina sat down next to Anika and looked morosely at her empty plate. Across from her, Kaz had started glaring at the head table as if trying to intimidate the new Slytherins before they had even entered his House. "You know, it's the same every year. The Sorting isn't going to become a riveting duel to the death this time."

Kaz didn't even bother looking at her as he responded. As if any reasonable person would want to miss an opportunity to bask in the presence of this face. "Of course, Nina dear, there's nothing interesting about a new staff member and the unexplained presence of one of the most famous wizards currently living."

"Professor Longbottom is going to replace Professor Sprout in Herbology," Nina said, smirking. Reminding Kaz that he wasn't the only person in the school who could be privy to less than public knowledge was one of her favorite hobbies. "If you were a prefect and not a delinquent, you might know these things. He was a Gryffindor, apparently, so the new Head of Hufflepuff is going to be …" She trailed off as she squinted up at the head table. "I'm sorry, who else did you say was up there? Because I'm pretty sure that is the exact number of teachers who work here, and I definitely recognize all of them."

Kaz simply raised his eyebrows at her enigmatically, and before Nina could come up with a sufficiently scathing response, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and the rest of the Great Hall, for the most part, fell silent.

Since she was a prefect, Nina knew she should be paying closer attention to the Sorting, but it really was basically the same every year, and she wouldn't be able to remember all these new names and faces without eating something first anyway. Instead, she found herself once again scanning the faces of the professors at the head table, trying to figure out who on earth Kaz had referred to as "one of the most famous wizards currently living." The only new face was a round and nervous-looking one which Nina assumed belonged to Longbottom, but the seating pattern was strange. Between Longbottom and Hagrid was an odd gap, almost as if they were waiting for someone else to join them. But even as she watched, Hagrid turned towards the seemingly empty speak as if he were speaking to somebody there. An Invisibility Cloak then? But why would anyone… unless they were a famous wizard, someone who didn't want to make a scene or interrupt the Sorting with their presence… specifically someone who was very well-known for having one of the world's best Invisibility Cloaks… Kaz, what the fuck.

The table around Nina erupted in applause as the latest eleven-year-old joined their ranks, and she guiltily joined them, mind still half occupied with trying to figure out why Harry Potter was at the start of term feast. Kaz had evidently noticed when she had connected the dots, and was looking far too pleased with himself, which was almost as bad as not knowing what in Merlin's name was going on. The rest of the Sorting seemed to drag on forever, even more so than usual. Fortunately, Kaz also clearly found the process tortuous, which was some consolation. When the final name was called--Misha Agapov, Hufflepuff--Nina saw him straighten up and turn his attention back to the front of the Hall.

Professor McGonagall finished clapping along with the Hufflepuffs as she stood up and returned to the speaker's podium. The students, especially the more outgoing of the newly Sorted first years who had not yet learned how stern the Headmistress could be, were a little less prompt in responding to her gesture for silence this time. Nina shush her own charges by placing an exaggerated finger to her lips and gesturing extensively towards McGonagall, making a few of the younger students snicker quietly; unlike some people, she occasionally used tactics other than intimidation and blackmail to get people to do what she wanted.

"Thank you to all of our older students for your attentiveness during our annual Sorting Ceremony, the importance of which I am sure you all realize." Nina squirmed a little in her seat. "I am confident that each of you will welcome the new members to your Houses and our school with open arms. As some of you may be aware, Professor Sprout has retired from the Hogwarts staff in order to spend more time on her research regarding the medicinal properties of magical plants native to the Andes. Therefore, I would like you all to please welcome Professor Neville Longbottom, who will be our new Herbology professor." There was a smattering of rather half-hearted applause as the round-faced man stood up and waved awkwardly, then sat back down as quickly as possible. "Professor Sprout's duties as Head of Hufflepuff House, meanwhile, will be fulfilled by Professor Dryden."
Professor McGonagall paused, and Nina found herself holding her breath in spite of herself. "We understand that this may be a disappointment to some of you, but due to the priority given to other events taking place at Hogwarts this year, the Quidditch Cup will be canceled." The Headmistress now had to raise her voice significantly in order to be heard above the outraged cries from around the Great Hall. Nina personally thought Quidditch was a highly overrated sport, though she did like seeing the joy it brought Inej, Jesper, and Matthias. "However, I believe that our next announcement will provide sufficient compensation for any lost entertainment."

McGonagall looked pointedly at the gap between Hagrid and Longbottom and suddenly, without preamble, there was Harry Potter. "Er," he said, "hello."

The Hogwarts student body lost its collective mind. In addition to his famous name, Potter had, thanks to his scar, one of the most recognizable faces in the Wizarding World, and every student who wasn't a Muggleborn first year knew immediately who had just appeared in the Great Hall. Potter looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he was able to silence the crowd fairly effectively. "All right! I know, I'm Harry Potter, it's all very exciting, but right now I'm very hungry, and I'm sure a lot of you are too, so let's get this over with yeah? Professor McGonagall was kind enough to let me make a dramatic entrance, and I'd rather not make her regret it, because she terrifies me."

A few students laughed, and Potter kept going, looking slightly relieved. "In my fourth year, about ten years ago, Hogwarts hosted the Triwizard Tournament. As many of you know, I'm sure, that year ended in tragedy, with the murder of Cedric Diggory by Lord Voldemort."

The Great Hall was absolutely quiet now. The Second Wizarding War may have ended almost seven years ago, but people who were willing to actually say You Know Who’s name were still few and far between. And start-of-the-year announcements that included the horrible deaths of teenagers were pretty rare too, even at a school as objectively dangerous as Hogwarts.

“Cedric Diggory’s death is often forgotten in the face of all the other casualties of the war, but I think that it’s important we all remember his bravery, sense of justice, and decency. He was just as much and more of a Hogwarts champion than I ever was.” Potter took a deep breath to collect himself, and Nina could have heard a pin drop in the hall.
“However, the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Hogwarts School, Beauxbatons Academy, and Durmstrang Institute have spoken with one another and decided that, with proper safety precautions, including more careful monitoring of competitors during the three tasks and of the officials in charge of designing and judging the tasks, the time is right for the Triwizard Tournament to return to Hogwarts. Because of our loss ten years ago, our school has been given the privilege of hosting for the second time in a row. Students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving later in the fall, and they, as well as all interested Hogwarts students over the age of seventeen, will be invited to place their names in the Goblet of Fire, which will choose a champion from each school to compete in three tasks and receive a chance to win 1000 Galleons.” As he spoke, Professor McGonagall performed a complicated motion with her wand and a large, ornately carved chest began to float down the central aisle of the Great Hall. When it reached the front of the room the lid opened by itself and the Headmistress retrieved from its depths a small, somewhat underwhelming wooden goblet, whose only note-worthy feature was the fact that it contained bright blue flames.

“The Goblet of Fire is a highly dangerous and advanced magical object. It will not be fooled if , for example, you attempt to enter your name twice, or enter your name under a fourth, invented school.” Professor McGonagall looked in particular at the Hufflepuff and Slytherin tables as she said this; Jesper smiled innocently, but Kaz was already wearing his signature scheming face. That did not bode well.

“Further information about the tasks themselves will be provided to the champions once they have been chosen. Each task will be judged by myself, a representative from Durmstrang, a representative from Beauxbatons, the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and Mr. Potter, who has earned the right as the most recent and only living Triwizard champion.” Mr. Potter looked extremely uncomfortable with this title, but he could hardly object to it.

Now that the sad parts were over, and the announcement had actually turned out to be something the sports-crazed student body found more exciting than Quidditch, chatter had returned to the Great Hall, especially among the ambitious and competitive denizens of Slytherin House. However, the Headmistress was not quite finished. “And finally, both myself and Mr. Potter would like to emphasize that the purpose of this tournament is to promote inter-house and inter-school unity. It is a friendly competition, not an opportunity for sabotage or petty rivalries.” Unexpectedly, McGonagall’s stern expression morphed into one of her rare smiles. “I am sure, though, that you will all represent Hogwarts well. Good luck to all who choose to enter, and enjoy the start of term feast!” She clapped her hands and, at last, the tables filled with food.

Chapter Text

“So! Who do you bet would be chosen as champion? Me or Matthias?” As usual, Jesper didn’t bother with greetings or preliminaries before plopping himself down at the Gryffindor table and stealing a piece of toast from Inej’s plate. Matthias, scowling, sat down next to him, looking around as if expecting someone to tell him off for sitting with the wrong House. They had all gotten used to sitting fairly indiscriminately at each other’s tables in the past few years, but a prefect avoiding his House’s table was a little more conspicuous than they generally liked to be. Inej would have felt guilty for shirking her duties, and she knew Matthias, one of the most honest and hard-working men she knew, even in a House known for those qualities, felt the same way. However, Jesper could be hard to resist when he got as excited about something as he clearly was about the Tournament. And, of course, Nina would be here with them soon too.

“You’re the only one who gambles, Jesper,” said Matthias sourly, piling sausages onto a plate with more force than strictly necessary.

“Very true! How do you think I should bet? Nina, Kaz, or Matthias? Nina could flirt all the competition into submission, which is a definite advantage, but Kaz is both smart and completely lacking a moral compass, so he would be fine with cheating or murdering the other competitors. Now, Matty here—”

“Do not call me that.”

“Is the size of a small sovereign nation, and so would at least be able to intimidate his opponents, if nothing else.”

Matthias looked so offended that Inej had to suppress a laugh, trying not to choke on her pumpkin juice. Under most circumstances she was opposed to making fun of people (if someone really deserved her ire, she preferred using threats and looks of cold disdain to make her feelings known, tactics which were not at all influenced by a certain Slytherin of her acquaintance), but teasing was one of the ways Jesper demonstrated his affection; he certainly teased Wylan often enough. And anyway, Matthias was dating Nina Zenik, so if he wasn’t used to light-hearted jabs by now there really was no helping him.

“What about you?” Inej asked, stealing a bite of waffle doused in apple syrup from Jesper’s plate in retaliation for his earlier food theft. “What skills do you bring to the competition?”

“You mean aside from my dashing good looks, incredible charm, athletic prowess, sparkling wit, and scintillating intellect?”

“I see you’ve been talking about me.” Nina sat down next to Inej and gave her a side hug while taking a jar of strawberry jam out of Inej’s hand to slather her waffles with. Honestly, it was a wonder they weren’t all constantly sick with one contagious illness or another. “Please do go on. Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“You’ll note I mentioned ‘athletic prowess.’ Unfortunately, waffle-eating doesn’t count as a competitive sport. Though if it did, I would obviously beat you.”

“Just because I don’t spend all day with a stiff piece of wood between my legs doesn’t mean I have no athleticism,” sniffed Nina imperiously, earning a horrified looked from Matthias and a hoot from Jesper. “I’ll have you know that I am excellent at hiking long distances.”

“Not so much with the running, though.”

“I am built for comfort, not for speed.”

“Did you just compare yourself to a car?” asked Wylan curiously, sitting down next to Jesper and, like the honourable Matthias, actually retrieving his own food instead of taking someone else’s.

“A very sexy car,” said Jesper seriously. “Bright red and shiny, with real leather seats.”

“How about we stop comparing ourselves to weirdly sexualized inanimate objects?” suggested Inej. There was a far more important issue at hand, after all. “Are all of you seventh years going to enter the Tournament?”

“For a chance to win a thousand Galleons? I’d marry the giant squid.” He made the comment seem like a joke, as he did with almost everything else, but Inej knew there was an undercurrent of truth to his words. Jesper’s gambling problem was an open secret among the six of them, though it was possible only she and Kaz knew how badly it had affected his finances. At any rate, he was not in comfortable situation for someone who would be completing school and needing to find a way to support himself in the next year.

Nina tapped her fork against her lips thoughtfully. “I don’t really need the money, but I do like winning things. And participating in a dangerous, high-pressure magical competition would be good training for when I become an Auror.”

Matthias stabbed at his sausages, frowning. “Auror training is good training for becoming an Auror. This competition will only distract you from studying for your NEWTs.”

Inej and Jesper shared an uncomfortable glance as Nina rounded on her boyfriend. This was going to get ugly very quickly.
“I am perfectly capable of maintaining work-life balance, thank you very much. And I don’t see why my test scores, or what I choose to do with my free time, are any of your business.”

Matthias folded his arms and continued stubbornly. “You are also a prefect, and you have a responsibility to take care of your students. What will happen if you get injured?”

“With all the precautions they’ll have in place? Surely you don’t think I’m that incompetent?”

“People have died, Nina!”

“Yes, last time a student was killed by Lord Voldemort—” Jesper and Wylan both winced “—but, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but he’s actually dead, and therefore not much of a threat this time around.”

“They thought You Know Who was dead last time too,” said Matthias mulishly. “And he was not the only dark wizard in the world. Many of his followers are still at large.”

“And you would know about that best of all of us, wouldn’t you?” replied Nina coolly.

“Okay!” Jesper clapped his hands together loudly before Matthias could respond. “This conversation has been incredibly fun, but I’m sure none of you dedicated scholars wants to be late for class on the first day.” He stood up and stole a last slice of tomato off of Wylan’s plate, ignoring Nina’s loud sigh and Matthias’ angry muttering. “What class do you have first, Inej?”

“Herbology, with the Ravenclaws.” Wylan nodded and stood quickly, clearly also eager to leave before this argument got out of hand. Inej could see where both parties were coming from, but she had to agree with Nina that it was hardly her boyfriend’s choice if she wanted to participate in the Tournament. Nina Zenik, Slytherin prefect and one of the most accomplished witches in her year, was hardly some delicate flower in constant need of protection. The reference to Matthias’ murky past had been a bit of a low blow though, even if it was technically accurate. In any event, nothing productive was going to come of this conversation now, if only because Nina was not a morning person and therefore tended to be especially hot-headed and easily irritated before she had finished her first cup of coffee. Hopefully Inej would have a chance to speak to them both later.

“Oooh, you get to meet the new professor first, very exciting. I have Care of Magical Creatures, so I’ll walk with you.” Jesper practically dragged Wylan out of his seat and gestured enthusiastically at Inej to follow. He was one of her best friends, but subtlety was not his strong suit.

As the three of them exited the castle and started across the grounds towards the greenhouses, Jesper shortening his strides somewhat so that his shorter friends could keep up, the conversation naturally made its way back towards the Tournament.

“You know, Matthias isn’t wrong about the Tournament being dangerous.” Wylan stared anxiously at his shoes. “Are you sure—I mean, do you think whatever safety precautions they’ll use will be enough? They weren’t last time.”

Jesper shrugged, unperturbed. “Quidditch is dangerous too, and Inej and I have been playing for years without any permanent damage. I’ll be fine. And anyway, this all assumes that I actually get chosen.”

“You’re definitely going through with it then?”

“Planning on dropping my name in at lunch!” Jesper waved a slip of paper in the air before returning it to the pocket of his robes.

“Well, good luck! I think you have a good chance.” It wasn’t hard to see that Jesper mostly joked about his talents to cover up his insecurity, but he was a very talented wizard, and Inej sincerely believed he could win if he was chosen. The rest of Hufflepuff would also be supportive of anyone who could change their reputation as the least important and successful House.

“Yeah,” said Wylan, as they reached the door of Greenhouse Four. “Good luck!” He made a valiant effort, but his enthusiasm did not quite ring true. Inej gave him a knowing look as Jesper walked away towards the Forbidden Forest, but he ignored. Idiot boys and their inability to act on or talk about their feelings.

Inside the greenhouse a few students had already gathered, and Professor Longbottom was busy handing out pairs of dragon hide gloves. “Oh, hello! We’ll be dealing with the Snargaluff plant today, so you’ll want some of these,” he said, offering Wylan and Inej each a pair of gloves. Inej smiled up at him—he looked very nervous—then sat down next to her friend.

Wylan was looking anxiously at a group of non-threatening wooden stumps near the other end of the greenhouse, evidently still occupied with the thought of Jesper entering the Triwizard Tournament. “He’ll be fine, Wylan.” Inej placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “He knows how to handle himself in a crisis.”

“The last person who died was also a Hufflepuff,” Wylan pointed out.

Inej gave him a flat look. “I’m pretty sure it’s not contagious.”
Wylan returned her expression, raising one eyebrow. “If Kaz gets chosen—”

They were interrupted by Professor Longbottom clearing his throat and beginning the lesson. As it turned out, the gnarled wooden stumps were quite threatening, attacking with tough, thorning vines when provoked. By the end of the hour and a half, only Imogen Heap had been able to successfully retrieve a pod from her Snargaluff, but the professor still seemed pleased, and reassured everyone that they would have plenty more time to try again next class. Once he had actually started talking about plants, he had seemed much less awkward and uncomfortable, and, like Professor Sprout, he was a kind and encouraging teacher. Inej had no great interest in Herbology as a subject, but she knew Wylan liked it, if only because there wasn’t much reading or writing required and it was useful for learning about new potion ingredients. Professor Longbottom seemed like exactly the sort of teacher under whose tutelage Wylan, who was so unsure of his own abilities, would thrive.

While they were packing away their things, Longbottom coughed to get their attention, suddenly looking once more like he had no idea how he had ended up at the front of a class instead of sitting at the back. “Er. So. I know this is only your first day, and you’re all still adjusting to being back at school again, but I wanted to mention that I’ll be starting a club for students who might be having trouble fitting in at Hogwarts. A sort of—support group, for Muggleborns, or, or, anyone else, especially first years. Having some older students to help mentor the younger ones would be great, so if anyone’s interested, then just—come talk to me.”

Inej caught sight of Wylan nodding along with the professors words. “You knew about this?”

“Yeah, Mr. Davies mentioned it on the train. You’re interested?” He seemed skeptical, and he was not the only one of their friends who would be, but Inej thought it was a wonderful idea. Coming to Hogwarts in first year as a Muggleborn, and being separated from her family and her extended family for the first time in her life had been incredibly difficult, and that was even before everything that had happened in her fourth year. She would love to be able to help lost and lonely girls like the one she had been. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she waved at Wylan and made her way over to Professor Longbottom. She might not be able to enter a famous tournament, but maybe she could make a difference in some younger student’s life.

Chapter Text

From the moment he had first received his Hogwarts letter, Kaz had expended considerable effort ensuring that he was consistently and fully informed on all the past and present goings on in the Wizarding World. Not understanding what was going on, and, even worse, showing that ignorance, was too big a weakness, especially as an eleven-year-old just Sorted into Hogwarts’ ostensibly most unwelcoming and most hated House. The Triwizard Tournament, though? That, he hadn’t expected.

Sometimes he wondered if wizards had any concept at all of risk assessment. First there was the Hogwarts castle itself, with its moving, rickety, occasionally disappearing staircases and its literal dungeons, then there were the grounds, with the willow that attacked the unwary and the not-so Forbidden Forest full of man-eating spiders and God knows what else. And don’t even get him started on Quidditch. It was almost impossible to believe that he was the only current student with a cane. Wizards and their fucking SkeleGro. Kaz had experienced plenty of danger before, and most of the worst of it hadn’t been at Hogwarts, but surely it was impractical for such an institution to constantly put tuition-paying students in danger. Didn’t wizards have lawsuits? Or, for that matter, laws? The Muggle legal system had never done him any good, and he had never expected the wizarding one to be any better, but one would think the most important wizarding school in the UK might be inspected occasionally, at least to keep up appearances.

And now, suddenly, the government and school authorities had decided to bring back a magical competition with a body count, the last iteration of which had happened to include the return of the most powerful Dark wizard in recorded history. To promote inter-school unity, or multiculturalism, or something else equally pointless. It was the stupidest thing Kaz had ever heard of, and he was absolutely certain that every 17-year-old student he knew would be throwing their name in that goblet. Jesper was so in debt he would jump at any chance for a thousand Galleons, and though he was raised primarily in the Muggle world and therefore understood that normal education didn’t necessarily involve the risk of bodily harm, he was also a reckless adrenaline junkie. Nina was a pureblood in mentality if not actuality, and would certainly enter, if only to annoy Matthias, who would then enter out of his usual weird misguided chivalry and the conviction that this would somehow make Nina’s name being chosen less likely. The rest of the 17-year-old Slytherins he knew well—Anika, Big Bolliger, Rotty, Roeder, and the rest—would enter because they were all halfbloods or purebloods, and too ambitious for their own good. Wylan and Inej, like most of the other students in his year, were too young, so they would be fine. Not that he was worried, but it would be difficult to find another spider if Inej was injured or preoccupied with some ridiculous competition. And Wylan occasionally provided useful information on the culture of upper-class purebloods and the wizarding banking system and economy, so it would be inconvenient if he was incinerated by a dragon.

“Mr. Brekker, I know the upcoming tournament is a topic you and every other student would love to keep pondering until the end of October, but I assure you that a thousand Galleons will not do you much good if you fail your exams at the end of this year.” Professor Nazyalensky, whose glare could almost rival that of Kaz himself, had clearly been addressing him, looking for the answer to some question. Preoccupation, not paying attention to his surroundings; more weaknesses Kaz usually guarded himself against. Fortunately, his classmates, both the Hufflepuffs and the Slytherins, knew him and his reputation well enough not to laugh.

“Apologies Professor, it won’t happen again,” he said contritely, but Nazyalensky just rolled her eyes. She was one of the few teachers who had never once fallen for his respectful student act, which he had perfected around his third or fourth year. He spent most of his interactions with other people acting in at least some capacity, so it hadn’t been that difficult. Anika was convinced that it was because she had been a Gryffindor, but Zoya Nazyalensky seemed to hold all students in disdain, regardless of their House. It was honestly a wonder she had ever chosen to become a teacher; she inspired enough fear that even some of the older students were convinced that her Patronus was a dragon. Kaz certainly didn’t like her, but he did have a grudging respect for her ruthlessness.

“You have all now completed your OWLs. Congratulations. You have accomplished the bare minimum required to survive as an adult in wizarding Britain. However, since each of you achieved an Outstanding in your Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL in order to be admitted to this class,” here she glared again at Kaz, as if his ability to achieve this grade personally offended her, “you likely believe you have enough skill to pass your NEWTs in this and other subjects.”

Nazyalensky wordlessly Summoned a ruler from somewhere at the back of the classroom and slapped it against her desk with a sharp crack, making several of the Hufflepuffs jump. “This is a foolish assumption. Relying on skill to pass your NEWTs will result in utter failure. You will need hard work, dedication, and the ability to listen to your superiors.” One of the more courageous Hufflepuffs smirked at Kaz, but the professor rounded on them next.

“You will also need the drive to push yourself and your magic to the utmost limits, and the ability to think quickly on your feet in incredibly dangerous situations. This is Defense Against the Dark Arts, not History of Magic. You cannot get by simply from reading the textbook. Out of every member of Hufflepuff and Slytherin, you are the most promising in this subject, which means you might just have the capacity to succeed. If you feel otherwise, you are perfectly entitled to drop this class. I am sure many of you would be glad never to see me again." She paused, but nobody moved a muscle. "Very well. All I ask is that you do not waste my time. Today we begin," she gestured to the board and writing appeared in chalk, "with non-verbal spells.”

One would think that someone who as a general rule preferred silence to speech would do very well with non-verbal magic, but by the end of class Kaz had failed even to produce a simple Disarming spell non-verbally. You spend five years learning one set of rules, and then suddenly you are told that those rules don’t actually matter that much, and are basically just a crutch for people without enough skill to do magic the real way. The most annoying thing was that the ability to do non-verbal magic would be incredibly useful, adding the advantage of surprise to any duel and making unlocking doors while sneaking around the castle at night much easier, among other things. But it completely lacked the precision of verbal magic, and that frustrated Kaz to no end. At least he wasn’t the only student in class struggling. Professor Nazyalensky was thoroughly fed up with all of them by the end of the hour and a half long period. “Your homework is to read the two chapters in your textbook on non-verbal magic, and to write an essay explaining the theory and at least two concrete examples of possible applications. And practice, for Merlin’s sake.”

Anika leaned on his desk as he slipped his books into the pocket of his robes. The minute he had turned seventeen on August 27^th he had applied Undetectable Extension charms to the pockets of most of his clothing, and it was possibly the greatest benefit he had yet experienced to losing the Trace. Pick-pocketing was much easier when your own pockets never bulged.

Anika knew better than to do something stupid like tap him on the shoulder, but she did clear her throat loudly so that Kaz would look at her. “So, Dirtyhands, are you going to enter?”

“I don’t see how that information affects you,” he replied coldly, turning away and limping towards the door. He would lose her eventually; he had Muggle Studies next, an she had Divination, of all things.

“I’d just like to know if you might be dying in the next year. You know, so I can pick out my dress robes for the funeral.” Ugh, Jesper must have been rubbing off on her. “It is a lot of money.”

“I have a lot of money,” said Kaz shortly. “And there’s always a better payout taking bets than actually competing.”

Anika shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss. If you don’t compete, I definitely have a better chance. See you around!” She waved with far more cheer than the conversation warranted and finally started towards the Divination tower.

Kaz slipped behind a tapestry and took a narrow passage to one of the castle’s forward moving staircases (Jesper called them wooden escalators, and so, privately, did Kaz) down towards the Muggle Studies classroom. Taking secret passages between classes was the best way to avoid crowds and unwanted physical contact, and it added to his carefully cultivated aura of mystery to seemingly appear from nowhere at exactly the right time. One of the rumours currently circulating about him, mostly among the younger Gryffindors, was that he was some sort of ghost or Poltergeist. It made less sense than the theory that he was a partially transformed werewolf who wore gloves to disguise his clawed hands, and more sense than the idea that he was a vampire who needed to protect his hands but for some reason not his face from the sunlight. And a lot more sense than the Hufflepuff rumour from last year that he was a human-shaped Basilisk who could kill with a glance and whose hands were covered in scales. Even Matthias had laughed at that one.

The problem, he thought as he leaned against the banister of the wooden escalator, was that he didn’t actually have a lot of money. At least, not enough to put his plans into motion immediately after graduation. Pekka Rollins would pay eventually, but he had waited seven years already and he would prefer not to have to wait much longer for his revenge and Jordie’s justice. And sure, controlling a betting ring was always lucrative, but a thousand Galleons? That would change the game entirely. As well, there was always his hard-won reputation to consider. If Dirtyhands didn’t even enter his name in the Goblet, there would certainly be questions and accusations of cowardice. Nina liked to talk about how Slytherin House was maligned and most of its members were no worse than the average student in any House, and she was generally right, but she also had a much more positive view of human nature than he did. And what did she have to lose? She wore her mer-person heritage on her sleeve, while Kaz was a crippled mudblood who had been lying about his parentage since he crawled out of the Thames over the body of his dead brother. He couldn’t afford to be anything but the best.

Inej was already in the Muggle Studies classroom when he arrived, and Kaz sat in the desk next to hers. Kaz had originally signed up for the class before their third year because he couldn’t imagine why any Muggleborn would, and so he thought it would help him keep his cover as a pureblood. He had been more than a little surprised upon seeing Inej and a number of other Muggleborns there on the first day. Inej claimed that it was an interesting exercise in self-reflection to view Muggle life from the perspective of wizards, but most of the others took the class for an easy E, which Kaz had to respect a little bit. It was certainly a relief when, in fourth year, they started writing on lined paper instead of rolls of fucking parchment.

Inej silently handed him an apple, apparently aware that he had skipped breakfast in the packed Great Hall like he usually did on the first day, and also that apples were one of the only easily portable food items on the breakfast table whose texture he could stand. Being reminded that she knew him so well did not help his mood. If she asked him about the Triwizard Tournament he was going to break a bone. Not one of hers, obviously.

Kaz didn’t begin anything unprepared, and he didn’t like leaving anything to chance. Chance was for gamblers, and if he had learned anything about gambling it was that the house always wins. Unless the player cheats. If he was going to enter this competition, he was going to be sure that he could win. That he would win. And how do make sure you win a competition meant for solo competitors? He cast a glance at Inej, who raised an eyebrow as though reading his exact thoughts. Unfortunately, he would have to build a team.

Chapter Text

Quidditch matches were cancelled for the entire year, but fortunately for Jesper’s sanity the Quidditch pitch was still available for practice, at least for now. He hadn’t thought it was possible, but the beginning of his seventh and final year at Hogwarts was more stressful and full of academic pressure than his fifth year. There were plenty of jobs in magical Britain that didn’t require NEWTs, but apparently, at least according to his professors, those careers were only suitable for utter disappointments. Deep in the leather shotgun seat of the sexy car of his soul, Jesper agreed with them; he couldn’t imagine spending his life as a cashier or a shopkeeper, even at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Even so, after three weeks of NEWT-level Transfiguration, he was ready to throw in the towel, figuratively speaking, and start washing dishes at the Leaky Cauldron. It also didn’t help that his original career of choice probably wasn’t viable any more, since he was pretty confident the Auror Office wouldn’t take an applicant whose two highest NEWTs would almost certainly be in Care of Magical Creatures and Alchemy, of all things. And that was assuming he passed Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Potions, which was looking less and less likely every day, even with daily Wylan-led study sessions.

But everything was going to be fine, because after three weeks of just barely getting by he was caught up on his schoolwork (more or less), and he was finally going flying. Like when he was duelling or shooting back on the farm, when he was in the air, and especially when he was trying to hit a particularly pesky Bludger, Jesper didn’t have room in his head for anything else. No anxiety, no restlessness, no stress, no itch to start gambling—the relief was indescribable. It was also a great way to show off for certain strawberry blonde Ravenclaws, or anyone else who might happen to be watching.

Unsurprisingly, Matthias was already in the Dining Hall when Jesper arrived, stoically consuming a very well-balanced breakfast of yoghurt, muesli, berries, and a hard-boiled egg. Jesper ran to the Hufflepuff table, poured himself a cup of coffee (he would never start his mornings with boiled leaf water, he would die first), and grabbed a waffle without sitting down. “Come on Matty! The sun is shining, the birds are singing, it’s time for flying! Get up, geddup! Take your food to go!” He stole the egg from his friend’s hand and took a bite. “Man, that’s disgusting. Did you even put salt on this? Or pepper?”

“I like to taste the flavor of my food, not just salt or pepper. And walking while eating causes cramps.”

“Correctly used, salt and spices don’t overpower the flavors of foods, they enhance them. Just like fresh air! Up you get, you absurdly broad-shouldered man!”

Matthias, like most Hufflepuffs (and most of Jesper’s friends in other Houses too), could be remarkably stubborn about a lot of things, but he was clearly almost as eager to go flying as Jesper, because he swallowed a final bite of muesli and stood up, slinging his Quidditch bag over his shoulder. Jesper clapped him on the shoulder and practically sprinted towards the Entrance Hall and the waiting outdoors. Inej would most likely be at the pitch already. Or she would appear appear mysteriously and silently when they were halfway across the grounds and scare the living daylights out of them.

In fact, both Inej and Kaz were standing near the door to the change rooms when Matthias and Jesper arrived, Inej in full Quidditch gear and Kaz in his usual uninspired blacks and greys. Kaz, who claimed the sport was “moronic,” didn’t usually put much time into anything Quidditch-related, though in the past couple of years he had occasionally attended important games when Gryffindor or Hufflepuff were playing. Inej and Jesper had given him a full set of bright orange (and, thankfully, cheap) Chudley Cannons robes for Christmas last year as a gag gift, and the look on his face had been priceless.

“What are you doing out here, Mr. Brekker? Don’t you have to go threaten first years or do Arithmancy homework or something?”

Kaz glared at Jesper, but he did it affectionately. Probably. “We were discussing tactics.”

“That sounds ominous. Is this about the Tournament? Took you long enough to enter, Nina and Matthias did more than a week ago.” At which point they had promptly stopped speaking to each other, and were instead either using other members of the friend group to relay messages or simply saying passive aggressive things loudly to portraits or suits of armour while the other was in earshot. Ah, the wonders of inter-school and inter-House unity. Even now, he could here Matthias’ teeth grinding from four feet away.

Inej pursed her lips rather imperiously, looking for a moment like the scourge of first years and Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities, Zoya Nazyalensky. “I have been explaining to Kaz that I will not be helping him cheat. If he wants to risk his grades and his future to win a thousand Galleons, he can do it by himself.”

Jesper was fairly confident that “his grades and his future” were not what Inej was really worried about Kaz risking. He decided not to be offended that she had not been this upset when he himself had entered the Tournament. Though, in her defense, Kaz was taking seven NEWT level classes, and unless he miraculously acquired a Time Turner, Jesper couldn’t see how his best friend would be able to keep up with schoolwork and be prepared to compete in each of the three tasks. Then again, Kaz generally held it as a point of pride that he was able to accomplish things that any normal, sane person would consider impossible (to clarify, Jesper did usually not number himself among normal, sane people).  

Kaz didn’t roll his eyes, because Jesper was pretty sure he thought himself above such vulgar expressions of annoyance, but the gesture was implied. “Yes, I’m sure the previous champion, a fourteen-year-old halfblood raised by Muggles, completed all three tasks and beat three older and more talented wizards without any sort of outside help.”

Inej rounded on Kaz, and Jesper winced. Sure, he was probably right on a practical level—Chosen One or not, three years was a big gap when it came to magical education—but going after Harry Potter’s parentage like that, in front of Inej, the only Muggleborn in their friend group? When Kaz himself was a pureblood? Not a super great thing to do.

“That same ‘halfblood raised by Muggles’ defeated a pureblood wizard more than three times his age, who also happened to be one of the most powerful Dark wizards of all time, when he was seventeen. I’m sure that with your extensive magical education, you’ll be fine on your own.” With a final withering glance, she stalked onto the pitch, somehow managing with her special secret Inej powers to stomp her feet angrily while being graceful and virtually silent. Matthias followed after her with his own glare; dating Nina included many strongly-worded lessons against the dangers of accidental and intentional blood purism, and he also just tended to side against Kaz in any argument.

Kaz stared after them. “Lord Voldemort was a halfblood.”

Jesper shot him a quizzical look. “I think you might be missing the point, my friend. That was a pretty shitty thing to say.”

Kaz shook his head like he couldn’t believe he was surrounded by such idiots, and the burden of explaining his superior thought processes was too much to bear. “You’re missing the point,” he said, exasperatedly and exasperatingly, before turning and starting on his way back towards the castle. “Enjoy your game of broomsticks.”

By the time he had changed and mounted his broom, Inej was already zooming around the Quidditch pitch, trying to catch one of the many Snitches Kaz had stolen over the course of his career at Hogwarts. For someone who insisted Quidditch was a terrible and pointless sport, he sure did a lot to facilitate his friends’, and especially Inej’s, ability to practice it, even if it was ostensibly just to show off his ability to steal things. Matthias was still on the ground, holding a stolen (though Jesper wasn’t sure if Matty actually knew that) Quaffle under his arm. They couldn’t play a full game with only three people, so when they got together to practice like this they would normally either pass the Quaffle around or take turns shooting Bludgers at Inej while she tried to catch the Snitch. Since Matthias was a Keeper his aim with a Beater’s bat was pretty awful, but he mostly made up for it with sheer gusto and upper body strength. When Wylan and Nina eventually made their way here, which would probably happen around noon, Jesper would flirt one of them into submission and they could have a mini-match of two on two.

Inej landed gracefully beside Jesper, clutching the struggling Snitch in her hand. She may not have been the youngest Gryffindor Seeker in a century, but she certainly knew how to do her job. “We can do a few laps of the pitch, then pass the Quaffle around for a bit. I think, since there are no matches this year, that the most important thing is that we get rid of some of our excess energy and stay used to the feeling of being on a broom, rather than practicing any specific skills.”

Matthias and Jesper mounted their brooms and they began a relatively leisurely loop around the pitch. Inej was the fastest out of all of them, by virtue of her slight build and her experience as a Seeker, but she had clearly expended most of her rage-fueled energy catching her first Snitch, so she slowed her pace slightly in order to fly next to Jesper. Meanwhile Matthias, the least aerodynamic of the three of them, trailed them by several meters, though that may have been an intentional choice to give Jesper and Inej a chance to talk.

“You know, if I end up getting chosen, I would also like a little outside help. Obviously I’m talented enough to win on my own, but it’s nice to have moral support.” Jesper wasn’t usually the peacemaker of the group, though he did find himself defending Kaz the most often, both to himself and others.

“I’m not opposed to helping either of you prepare for the tasks, I’m opposed to actively seeking out information which was not provided to him or any of the other competitors.”

Jesper, in a selfless expression of uncharacteristic restraint, did not point out her unintentional pun. He did, however, point out her hypocrisy. “Not to contradict you or anything, but you have done pretty much the same thing, like, a lot over the past couple of years.”

Inej sighed. “I know. But, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d like my final two years at Hogwarts to be defined by something other than being Kaz Brekker’s lackey.”

“Excuse you, I’m Kaz Brekker’s lackey.” Jesper hit her lightly on the shoulder with his Beater’s bat. “You’re his spooky wraith sidekick. It’s a completely different role on this team of individuals self-destructively obsessed with a callous asshole.”

Inej laughed and picked up her speed a little, clearly feeling somewhat better, which was a relief. Jesper knew what it was like to have a crush on Kaz Brekker—namely, an exercise in futile hope and frequent disappointment. If he was completely honest with himself, something he didn’t like to make a habit of, he would admit that his feelings for Kaz had not entirely disappeared, even if thoughts of Wylan Van Eck were gradually beginning to occupy more of his head-space. Apparently his type was smart, sarcastic, and pessimistic sixth years.

The three of them spent a relaxing and much-needed morning flying in circles, ovals, and figure eights, tossing the Quaffle back and forth, and competing to see who could hit a Bludger farthest with Jesper’s Beater’s bat (technically Matthias won that competition, but the Bludger returned immediately afterwards and knocked him off of his broom, so the victory hardly counted). As predicted, Wylan and Nina arrived at noon with a truly impressive number of sandwiches and pastries likely obtained directly from the kitchens, and the five of them had a sort of picnic in the middle of the Quidditch pitch. Nina and Matthias still weren’t really speaking to each other, but they had both relented enough to pass the other food when they asked for it, which meant they would be back to their regularly scheduled bickering by Tuesday at the latest.

As he lay on the perfectly manicured grass, stomach full of corned beef sandwiches and eclairs, Jesper wished, not for the first time, that his days at Hogwarts could last forever, or at least that he had one more year left. Sure, their friend group had its problems, and at any given time at least one of them was arguing with somebody else, but that just made them feel even more like a family. They would all have made up by the time the Tournament competitors were chosen at the end of October, and Kaz would spend the year with the rest of them making bets on who the winner would be, making fun of the Daily Prophet’s incredibly biased coverage of events, and frantically studying for their NEWTs. But after all that, at the end of the year, Jesper, Nina, and Matthias would leave Hogwarts, while Kaz, Inej, and Wylan had to complete another year. Jesper didn’t know what career he wanted or how he was supposed to afford rent when he was up to his eyeballs in gambling debt, but his biggest fear for after graduation was being separated from some of the most important people in his life. And all he could do about it right now was drink iced pumpkin juice, watch Wylan fail spectacularly to catch a low flying Snitch, and hope desperately that, if his friends cared half as much about him as he did about them, they might be willing to stay in touch.

Chapter Text

Matthias Helvar was not concerned about his future. He knew himself enough to understand that he was not as smart as Kaz or Wylan, or as naturally talented in magic as Jesper or Nina, but, like Inej, who was probably the best of them, he was a hard worker and dedicated to his morals. They still appeared sometimes in the back of his mind, cruel thoughts about somebody’s blood status or about the inferiority of other magical beings like mer-people and centaurs, but he was working hard to get rid of them. And spending time with Nina, as infuriating and overwhelming as she could be, was certainly helping. He wanted to be an Auror, to fight against Dark magic and for justice throughout magical and non-magical Britain, and he truly believed he could achieve his goal if he kept his focus on schoolwork, training, and improving his leadership skills as a prefect. Even if he couldn’t be on the front lines, he would be happy with a minor position in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, so long as he could help make the wizarding world a better place, and change the minds of people who still had the harmful prejudices he had once held. No, Matthias was sure about his long-term future, about getting a job in the years following graduation, and getting a flat with his beautiful, outrageous, impossible girlfriend (and, just maybe, getting a ring for her as well). What worried him was the immediate future. Specifically, tomorrow, when the representatives from Durmstrang Institute would be arriving for the Triwizard Tournament.

Jesper was very excited to meet the students from the two other magical schools, just as he was excited for anything that changed up his normal, everyday routine of going to classes, studying, and practicing Quidditch. He had been talking about it non-stop for the past two weeks at least (and Matthias did not like to exaggerate), and he was currently distracting his fellow Hufflepuff from his work on a particularly difficult Potions essay about the history of the Wolfsbane Potion with theories on what their school uniforms would be. This did not seem to Matthias like the most interesting thing about meeting wizards from a different culture and educational system for (almost) the first time, but Jesper was Jesper. He had four different sets of dress robes. Four!

“I mean, obviously climate is important. Beauxbatons must be in France. Is it colder in France than in Scotland? Do you think the other schools have different uniforms for winter and summer? I always thought we should get to have knitted caps. Or muffs! Scarves are great, but nothing beats a big fluffy muff. Is it cold where Durmstrang is? Where actually is Durmstrang? Matthias?” Jesper, who was sitting upside down on the other end of one of the many soft yellow couches which filled the Hufflepuff common room, started poking Matthias with the quill he was supposed to be using to write the same Potions essay his friend was working on.

Matthias did not respond right away, but Jesper kept poking him, much like Nina would have done in the same situation. This was not surprising, as Jesper had been trying to sit still and write this essay for almost an hour, which was longer than he was usually able to focus on a task that he did not love. And Matthias did not know anyone except Wylan who loved Potions.

“It is in the north. Much colder than Hogwarts.”

Jesper moved so that he was lying on his stomach, facing Matthias with his feet hanging over the arm of the couch. Matthias did not understand how he did not have back problems. “Yes, but where? What country? Is it in Russia? Or Iceland? Do you have to take a boat to get there? Or do you take a train like at Hogwarts? Oooh, do you have to fly?”

Matthias scowled down at his parchment. He still had five more inches to write, and the essay was due on Monday. It was only Saturday, so he could, if necessary, finish the assignment tomorrow, but he felt he would have enough to deal with on Sunday without excess schoolwork hanging over his head. “I do not know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? I think you would notice if you were riding a dragon.”

Matthias had clearly lost the thread of this conversation, but that often happened when he was talking to Jesper, or, more accurately, when Jesper was talking at him. “I meant that I do not know where the school is, precisely. I don’t remember.”

Jesper stared at him. “You went there for four years. How do you not remember where it is?”

That was a bit of a sore spot for Matthias, and one of the many reasons he did not like to discuss his school career before he came to Hogwarts. He had been taught many false and harmful things at Durmstrang, by both his professors and his peers, but he had still had close friends there, almost family. The idea that he could never visit them, that he was not only expelled but banned from a place that had once been his home, was not something he liked to dwell on. Then again, neither was the fact that he might see some of those former friends again tomorrow. “The location of Durmstrang is very secret. It cannot be allowed to get out. Visitors, and students who … leave before graduation, they must be placed under a memory charm.”

“Man, that’s fucked up.” Jesper finally returned to a normal, upright sitting position. “But you still remember your time there, right? Your friends and your classes and what the school looked like inside?”

“I have talked about Durmstrang before.” He placed his parchment on a round side table of honey-coloured wood standing next to the couch, blowing carefully on the ink so that it wouldn’t smudge. This essay was clearly not going to be finished tonight.

“Not very much, though. You haven’t talked about any of your friends there. You haven’t mentioned any names, except for Brum. And you never really talk about your classes.”

Matthias wanted to point out that Jesper never really talked about his classes either, except to complain, which was a waste of time, but he stopped himself. “They did not erase four years of my life. That would be illegal, and impractical. I remember everything about Durmstrang except where the school is. I simply do not need to talk about the past all the time. What am I supposed to say?” He did not like the note of desperation which crept into his voice with that last question, but he was being as sincere as he could be. His friends at Hogwarts all knew about his expulsion, how he had been part of a group of students (Nina liked to call it a cult) that followed the beliefs about blood purity and wizard dominance promoted by the Dark wizard Grindelwald. They had been discovered when several of the older students had attacked and nearly killed a mer-person. One of the attackers, in an act of cowardice Matthias still considered despicable, gave the names of every other member of their group in order to get a lighter sentence, but because Matthias had not been involved in the incident, and because he had only been fourteen at the time, he hadn’t been charged with anything. Even so, he had of course been “asked” to leave Durmstrang. As he had been told many times since, and as he had at last come to believe himself, his acceptance into Hogwarts was both unprecedented and a very great gift. There had been talks about “rehabilitation” and “inclusive environments” which had mostly not involved Matthias himself, and, after several months of uncertainty and movement between different countries, dingy flats, and reluctant government caretakers, he started his fifth year of magical education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with a small, private Sorting Ceremony and many dire warnings about what would happen if he broke any rules or was in any way unkind to any students of less than pureblood status. Kaz had stated with his usual bluntness that he had only been given this second chance because it was the easiest way for the Ministry to monitor him without sending him to prison, and because the worst Dark wizard in recent memory had also been an orphan. Privately, Matthias agreed with him, but it had not been a welcome piece of information to hear from a scrawny fourth year during his first week at his new school.

In fact, the Crows (a name Jesper took credit for inventing but which Matthias was pretty sure had been created as an insult by the Ravenclaw Quidditch team), as of April last year, were the only people alive that Matthias had told the full truth: that their little “cult” had been started and led by Jarl Brum, the Headmaster of Durmstrang himself. Not even the slimy student who had betrayed the rest of them had given Brum’s name away. Matthias himself was still not sure whether he had done the right thing by keeping quiet. He had always believed in the importance of loyalty—he was a Hufflepuff, after all—but should that loyalty extend to someone whose actions and beliefs had hurt so many others? Should he have revealed Brum’s name to the authorities? Was it too late to do so now? He sometimes worried that the others, especially Nina and Inej, resented the fact that he had never tried to get Brum arrested, but when he had finally revealed the whole story to them all of his friends had seemed very understanding of his choices. As Kaz had pointed out, in an unexpected move to defend Matthias, who was clearly his least favorite member of their little gang, none of them could exactly put “honest” or “true” on their resumés. Maybe it was unjust of him, since he should wish the best for the people he cared about, but sometimes Matthias was very thankful that his friends had all made poor choices in the past; he didn’t know what other group would be able to accept him as he was, especially in light of who he had once been.

He did not like to talk about the past because he did not like to dwell on all the ways he had hurt others. Instead, he was trying to move forward and improve himself as much as possible. Usually his friends, even curious Jesper and inconsiderate Kaz, respected that, but tonight was different. Tomorrow his past would return in the form of many of his old classmates, and possibly even Jarl Brum himself. No matter who was chosen to compete in the Tournament, Matthias would have to confront a trial of his own which he had been trying to avoid for far too long.

Matthias had never thought that Jesper was the best of his friends at recognizing other people’s emotions, except maybe when it came to Kaz and Inej, but he had now obviously noticed that Matthias was uncomfortable. Moving back into another impractical seating position, this time with one leg over the arm of the couch, Jesper changed the track of the conversation, starting to speculate on what Beauxbatons Academy might look like. “It’s probably a palace, because that seems like something the French would do. Or maybe a villa. But villas are Italian, right? Anyway, something way too fancy for a school, definitely.”

If Matthias had been the sort of person who snorted, he would have done so now. “We live in a castle.”

“Hogwarts isn’t fancy, it’s fun. Eccentric! We have paintings that complain about the weather, and trick staircases. And a poltergeist!”

“And solid gold plates and goblets.”

“That’s for aesthetic, like all the copper and yellow in here,” Jesper replied stubbornly, gesturing expansively to the Hufflepuff common room. “Warm colours are friendly and welcoming. It’s about hospitality!”

And he was probably right. Durmstrang had not been humble or crude in any way, despite the lack of solid gold dishware, but it was not warm or inviting, not the way Hogwarts was. Hogwarts welcomed anyone, even kids as lonely, angry, and misguided as Matthias had once been. He was pretty sure, however, that this had as much or more to do with the people, the students and teachers, than with any “aesthetic” Jesper might want to talk about. All Matthias knew for sure was that, even more so than this round and cozy common room, five of his fellow students were his home now, and he didn’t see how he could get through the days and the months (and the years) to come without them.  

Chapter Text

The sun has just barely cleared the horizon when Inej climbed onto the roof of the Shrieking Shack. Like any other early morning in late October, the air was crisp, but the chill was worth it for the breathing room and the time alone. She had woken in the early hours of the morning feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of the next two days, and the fact that tomorrow one of her closest friends might very well be chosen to compete in a tournament which had previously killed multiple people. The Shack was hardly a convenient place to go and clear her head, but the air was cleaner than anywhere in the musty castle, and there was less of a chance of being spotted than anywhere on the Hogwarts grounds. As she had come to learn over the last few years, the residents of Hogsmeade, if any were awake at this hour, tended to assume any unusual activity in or around the Shack was caused by spirits, wraiths, or other supernatural entities whom it was best to leave alone. And, at this point, the trek across the grounds (sometimes while wearing a Disillusionment Charm, though for her it wasn’t really necessary), to the Whomping Willow, and through the tunnel beneath its roots felt almost as normal as walking to class.

Kaz had apparently discovered the secret passage leading to the Shack from underneath the Whomping Willow in his third year, before he and Inej had really gotten to know each other, and the six of them now used it as a sort of base of operations or meeting place. Initially, Inej hadn’t understood why someone who seemed constantly annoyed by the impracticalities of Hogwarts would want to crawl for miles through an underground tunnel with a cane when there were plenty of hidden corridors and unused classrooms in the castle itself, but she now understood that the only two things which could overcome Kaz’s pragmatism were his pride and paranoia. Certainly, despite its reputation, there was a much smaller chance of being interrupted by a ghost or poltergeist when conducting business in the Shrieking Shack than when doing so anywhere at Hogwarts. Jesper, eternally disappointed at the lack of shrieking, called it the Slat.

Inej took a deep breath and wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself, watching the sky turn pink, purple, and orange as the sun rose over the gabled roofs of Hogsmeade. She had spent the last two months trying to keep her group of friends calm, communicative, and collected in the face of the Triwizard Tournament and all its associated fear and anxiety, which was no small feat considering the temperaments of the people involved. Nina and Jesper both called her the “mom friend,” and she knew the sentiment, if not the wording, was shared at least by Wylan and Matthias: Kaz was their leader, but she was the peacemaker, the voice of wisdom, the one who held them all together (in no small part because, unlike Kaz, she actually showed affection for her friends, and they all liked her). It was an honour, really, and a role she tried to fulfill to the best of her ability. But sometimes, as now, it made her so, so tired.

The thing was, objectively, she had the least to worry about. Unlike Kaz, Jesper, Nina, and Matthias, she could not and had not entered her name in the Goblet of Fire, and so she didn’t have to be concerned about risking injury or humiliation in front of all her classmates. Matthias, additionally, was probably anxious about meeting representative from a school which had brainwashed and subsequently rejected and abandoned him, and Nina’s mer-person ancestry would certainly make her a prime target for verbal and possibly physical attacks by those same students. Jesper had the added pressure of his gambling debt, and though Inej still didn’t know much about the extent of Kaz’s issues with touch, they could become a problem, depending on what the tasks actually were. Wylan, like her, couldn’t compete, but there had been rumours that Van Eck Industries was one of the Tournament’s sponsors, and the possibility that his father might be coming to the school sometime in the near future was more than a little bit stressful for him. There was also the matter of his as yet unacted upon but painfully obvious crush on Jesper, who would of course, like the rest of them, be in incredible danger if chosen as Hogwarts champion. None of this was anything Inej could control, and if he could hear her thoughts now Kaz would mock her for her unachievable desire to save her friends from pain. Kaz, who was trying to enter a deadly competition that he considered idiotic and pointless just to save his pride and maintain his reputation, but who still had the nerve to call her principles foolish. It would serve him right if he broke his other leg.

There was a thud and a muted crash from within the Slat, and somebody swore impressively. Despite her conviction that one shouldn’t judge by appearances, and the fact that that she was often on the receiving end of quick assumptions and biases, Inej was constantly surprised at innocent-looking Wylan’s extensive vocabulary of obscenities. She climbed back through the one window that was not fully boarded up and found her friend rubbing his shins next to an overturned crate which had probably once held bottles of Butterbeer. He looked almost as tired as she felt.

“I’m guessing you couldn’t sleep either?” At the sound of her voice, Wylan squawked in alarm and nearly fell over the crate again, at the last moment steadying himself on the arm of a battered leather recliner that Jesper had brought in from who knew where. He turned and glared at her, rather unconvincingly. Wylan could do a passable imitation of Kaz’s glare when it was called for, but he never levelled it at his friends.

“No, and the heart attack sure didn’t help.” He sighed and slumped into the armchair, adopting an absurd seating position he must have learned from Jesper. “I kind of assumed you would be here though.

Inej perched herself on the arm of a dust-coloured couch which had been heavily patched with some magical version of duct tape, one of the Slat’s few remaining pieces of original furniture. “A bit odd that we’re the ones who need to clear our heads, given the circumstances.”

Wylan snorted. “Like the others would ever admit to being nervous. Jesper can’t stop talking about how excited he is to meet the students from the other two schools, and see their uniforms.” Inej was always pleasantly surprised by how much time Wylan and Jesper managed to spend with each other, considering the fact that they were in different years and different Houses. It was that kind of commitment and enjoyment of each other’s company which convinced her that a relationship between the two would work out well, if either of them ever got around to admitting their feelings to one another (or themselves).

“Did you get here easily enough? No problems with Filch?” Wylan didn’t have as much experience in breaking the rules as the rest of them, and he didn’t have Inej’s skill in moving about unseen without magical aid, but he was clever. And Inej was fairly certain Jesper had leant him the cheap Invisibility Cloak he had won in a game of cards last year.

He shrugged. “I think Mrs. Norris saw me, but I think all the other teachers and staff are too busy making preparations for the next two days to patrol the halls.”

There was a pause, and the possibilities of the next two days hung heavily between them. Inej, unlike certain other friends of hers, didn’t normally like to avoid talking about uncomfortable things by unceremoniously changing the subject, but there wasn’t much to say about the Tournament that they both didn’t already know. She could hardly offer reassurances in good faith when she herself was so worried. Wylan picked moodily at a hole in the leather of his armchair, seeming uninclined to fill the silence, and Inej sighed internally. “There’s nothing we can do except keep calm and wait to see what’s coming, and support our friends in the meantime. We meet fear. We greet the unexpected visitor and listen to what he has to tell us.”

“He’s telling me that I need friends who care more about keeping their own lives,” Wylan groaned, burying his head in his hands. “Please, let’s talk about something else.”

Inej gratefully obliged. “Learned anything interesting in Potions lately?” She had never much liked the subject and hadn’t bothered continuing on to the NEWT level, but Wylan loved it almost as much as Arithmancy, and it was a sure way to brighten up his spirits.

The Ravenclaw sat up, looking moderately more enthused. “We’ve been learning about potions that interfere with emotions and mental processes, like Essence of Insanity and, er, Amortentia.” For some reason, he turned almost as pink as he did when Jesper was flirting with him.

“What’s Amortentia?” Inej felt she could guess, but she rather hoped she was wrong.  

“It’s a love potion. Well, an infatuation potion, really. Even the scent is very, erm, attractive.” If it was possible, Wylan blushed even harder.

Meanwhile, something twisted in Inej’s gut. She could not understand the levity with which most witches and wizards, even most Muggleborns, spoke about love potions and similar enchantments. As if forcing someone to have a crush on you was just a joke instead of coercion, manipulation, and abuse. Just like when she had first learned about house elves, it made her feel slightly ill. Fortunately, Wylan seemed equally eager to keep the conversation moving, albeit for a different reason. Inej wondered what Amortentia had smelled like to him. Probably broomstick polish and smoke and the cologne Nina had gotten Jesper for his seventeenth birthday.

“So! You’ve been spending time with Professor Longbottom for his misfit students’ club thing, right? How has that been going?”

“Misfit students’ club? Are you talking about us?” As if summoned by Wylan’s love potion-related embarrassment, Jesper poked his head through the doorway leading to the foyer that contained the passageway which was the Slat’s only fully functioning entrance and exit.

“All good things, I’m sure.” Nina pushed past him, carrying a towering stack of waffles doused in apple syrup. “We brought breakfast.”

“And Matthias,” added Jesper helpfully as the burly Hufflepuff entered behind them, bringing with him, inexplicably, a roll of parchment and his copy of Advanced Potion Making.

“How did you know we would be here?” Asked Inej, gratefully taking the thermos of tea Jesper offered her. The tea at Hogwarts was just leaf-flavoured water when compared with her mother’s masala chai, but it was better than nothing.

Jesper looked mildly insulted. “Because we’re not stupid? You always go to the roof of the Slat when you’re stressed. Wylan being here is just an added bonus.”

“You’re not the only one who can read people, Inej,” said Nina loftily, settling herself on the decrepit couch. “Merlin, I always forget how uncomfortable this thing is.”

Wylan daintily used a napkin to take a waffle off of the top of Nina’s stack. “But how did all three of you get down here without being seen?”

“It’s eight o’clock. Leaving the castle this early is pretty weird, but it’s allowed. And I’m pretty sure Hagrid already knows we come down here.” This was probably true. Kaz’s semi-regular visits to feed the thestrals had made him and the groundskeeper surprisingly close, despite the fact that they had literally nothing else in common, and the latter generally turned a blind eye to their more harmless antics.

Matthias sat down in a hard wooden desk chair which had needed to have its legs magically reattached when all six of them had met here together for the first time. He looked preoccupied by something, and Inej assumed it was the imminent arrival of his former schoolmates, until he spoke. “The misfit students’ club? Were you talking about Professor Longbottom’s student group? For the first and second years?”

“Yes,” said Inej, a little bit stiffly. Only Kaz had been explicitly derisive, but she could tell that all of her friends thought her attempt to mentor younger students was a bit naïve. Personally, she didn’t see why trying to give kids the help they had all once (and arguably still) needed was such a bad thing. “There aren’t that many people participating yet, but I think there will be more support after the champions have been chosen and half the upper year students aren’t worried about preparing for the Tournament.” They had only started meeting at the beginning of October, after all.

“What about the kids? Are they as terrible as we were at that age?” Jesper had somehow managed to squeeze himself into the recliner next to Wylan, who had turned as red as a tomato but was still able to fire off a snarky reply.

“Speak for yourself. I was a perfect angel at eleven, and I’m sure Inej was too.”

“It’s a lot of terrified Muggleborn first years,” said Inej honestly. “Mostly kids from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, because the Gryffindors and the Slytherins are too proud to admit they need help.”

“Oooh, a self-burn,” said Jesper in a stage whisper to Wylan. “Those are rare.”

Inej ignored him, though he wasn’t wrong. “Mostly we’ve just been getting to know each other, and doing tours of different parts of the castle and grounds. Last week only five people showed up, so we all had tea at Hagrid’s hut.”

“Do you think it’s helping?” Coming from someone else, this question might have sounded skeptical or dismissive, but Matthias was one of the most sincere people Inej had ever met, and he was looking at her very earnestly now. Inej decided that the least she could do was match his sincerity.

“I don’t know. A lot of the kids only came for the first or second week, and some of them are still pretty shy. But some of them seem like they’re becoming friends with each other. And they all liked Hagrid.” Hannah Smeet, specifically, had spent almost an hour playing on the floor with Fang and rambling to anyone who would listen about her father’s seven dogs.

Matthias nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe … perhaps I could also join? To help mentor, after tomorrow, after everything happens.”

Nina opened her mouth to say something—whether to commend or tease her boyfriend, Inej wasn’t sure—but she was interrupted by the sound of a cane tapping against the Slat’s creaking floorboards.

Kaz entered the room, smelling faintly of raw meat, which wasn’t really surprising; Inej went to the roof of the Slat when she was stressed, and Kaz went to the edge of the Forbidden Forest to feed the thestrals.

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang are arriving in an hour,” he declared without preamble. “One of us is going to be chosen as Hogwarts champion.” Matthias looked a little bit like he wanted to protest this, but he didn’t, and neither did anyone else. They all had their issues of various kinds, but Inej at least was certain that her friends were four of the most skilled witches and wizards Hogwarts had to offer. Kaz leaned against the doorway and surveyed them all, eyes resting for a particularly long time on Inej. “So, we need to make a plan. Do we want to actually win this Tournament or not?”

The Crows looked at each other, and at Inej especially. Kaz may have been their leader, but Inej was their loadstone, and often the force behind their collective decision making. And she was the one who had voiced the most protest to Kaz’s idea that they work together to win a solo competition. But people had died in this Tournament before, and at the very core of her being, Inej would do anything to keep the people she loved safe, anything at all. “Okay, then. What did you have in mind?”

Chapter Text

Harry had never particularly liked the Floo Network, a prejudice his wife and the rest of her family mocked him relentlessly for but which he thought was pretty well justified, considering his past experiences, and the fact that it was a method of transportation that usually involved either flushing oneself down a toilet or stepping into fire. Unfortunately, the Hogwarts Express didn’t take specialty trips at the end of October just for two people, and most Healers recommended against using Portkeys or Apparition after the fifth month of pregnancy, so the Potters’ travelling options to arrive at Hogwarts by the 31^st were limited. Frankly, Harry didn’t see how spinning incredibly quickly in a fireplace while trying not to breathe in burning ash could be good for a developing fetus, but it was hardly his area of expertise, and Mrs. Weasley had seemed to think it was fine, so long as Ginny didn’t eat anything too heavy beforehand. In any event, neither of them puked afterwards, which was better than Harry had dared hope for.

Their room at the Three Broomsticks was rather tidier and more comfortable than the one he had paid for in September, which Harry thought was further evidence to support his theory that Madam Rosmerta liked Ginny better than him (a preference he couldn’t exactly disagree with). While Ginny sat down on the nearest available surface (a squashy purple armchair presumably inspired by the fashion sensibilities of Albus Dumbledore) and put her head in her hands in a vain attempt to banish some of the dizziness that had plagued her for the last two weeks, Harry started putting their clothing away in the large oak wardrobe, where he found, in addition to hangers and mothballs, a collection of enchanted hot water bottles and heartburn relief potions.

“Do you need anything? Heat? Ice? Water? Vertigo vanilla cremes?”

“Har har har,” groaned Ginny. “It’s just hilarious that I’ve been flying since I was five and now I can’t stand up without getting bloody vertigo.”

“Look on the bright side,” said Harry, sitting down on the very obviously homemade quilt covering their king-sized bed. “In a couple of weeks you’ll be in Switzerland. I’ve heard it’s really well-known for its even landscapes and low elevations.”

There was a pause, and then they were both in hysterics, laughing so hard that Ginny nearly fell out of her armchair. It was hardly the wittiest comment Harry had ever made, but they were both desperate enough for good humour and distraction to laugh at pretty much anything these days. He was reminded rather morbidly of sitting in a tent with Ron and Hermione listening to Fred and George crack jokes on Potterwatch.

Ginny was adamant about not starting her maternity leave until after Christmas, barring absolute medical necessity, so she was still active in the world of sports reporting, where she was beginning to make a bit of a name for herself, quite apart from the fact that she was still recognized as one of the best captains the Holyhead Harpies had had in years. All well and good, except she seemed intent on only choosing assignments that allowed her to travel as far away from London as possible. She was perfectly safe, of course, using the Floo Network or Muggle forms of transportation like planes and trains, but Harry still felt there were plenty of local games and matches that a woman who was six months pregnant could write about. He knew exactly the look she would give him if he ever brought it up, and even to his own ears the complaint sounded hypocritical, but in his defense these days his work at the Auror office was mostly organizing and delegating from his desk. Well, maybe half of it was. At least forty percent.

All things considered, he had been incredibly relieved when Ginny had said she would be able to come with him on his second trip to Hogwarts in as many months. The turnaround from her last excursion was tight, and he thought her dizziness was probably being exacerbated by jet lag (though, now that he thought about it, there was probably a spell for that), but they had arrived in their clean, private rooms with four hours to spare before he had to reveal the three lucky students the Goblet of Fire would be sending to their potential demise in the Triwizard Tournament of terrors. Joy of all joys.

“How nice do you think I have to look tonight? People don’t expect professional Quidditch players to have neatly combed hair, do they?”

“Just wear your Harpy robes. Then everybody will ask for your autograph instead of mine.”

Ginny threw a cushion at him. “This stupid ceremony isn’t about you, you prat.”

“Obviously not. It’s about three kids who are actually mad enough to enter this tournament on purpose.”

“I still can’t believe McGonagall of all people agreed to host again after what happened last time,” sighed Ginny, unenthusiastically searching her partially-unpacked suitcase for robes that didn’t smell like charcoal. “I know there was a lot of pressure from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but even so.”

The stupidity of reviving the Triwizard Tournament was one of the few things over the past few months that they had both found to agree on. “Probably from the other two schools too. I’m pretty sure Beauxbatons and Durmstrang don’t really think the last one counted, since there were two Hogwarts champions.” Ginny and Harry both rolled their eyes at each other. Making jokes and lighthearted complaints was certainly easier than actually thinking about “what happened last time.” When they spoke about the 1995 Tournament like this, Harry could pretend that the main issues where petty rivalries and clerical errors, not return of the most dangerous Dark wizard who ever lived and the advent of a devastating magical war. His hopes for this year were not high, but (he hoped), it could hardly be worse, at least in its outcomes, than his own fourth year at Hogwarts.

Unfortunately, though they both delayed the inevitable as long as possible, they did eventually have to make their way over to the castle for the Halloween feast. Ginny had sadly not brought her Quidditch robes, but she did have a green and gold Holyhead Harpies scarf which Harry thought looked rather fetching with her red hair. True fans tended to recognize her on sight anyway.

The look Professor McGonagall gave them when they entered the Great Hall and took their places at the staff table next to Hagrid and Ludo Bagman (whom Harry had been surprised to learn was still employed by the Ministry) indicated that they had arrived only just barely on time and she would be having words with them about it later, but Harry couldn’t find it in himself to care. His insides had started twisting with anxiety almost as soon as they had left the Three Broomsticks, and watching a lavish, multi-cultural feast appear before them was not improving his nausea. Even though the Goblet would spit out three names whether he was there or not, he still felt as if he would somehow be responsible for anything that happened to the three champions during the Tournament just by being here. He picked disconsolately at his Yorkshire pudding and wished very much that he was back at the pub getting drunk out of his mind off Firewhisky.

Hagrid watched him with concern as the main dishes were replaced by puddings and Harry failed to take his customary wedge of treacle tart. “Yeh alright Harry?”

Harry shrugged and attempted a smile, though judging by Hagrid’s return expression it was probably more of a grimace. “Just, you know, a lot going on.” He glanced at Ginny, who was happily taking a second slice of chocolate cake. Nerves had never interfered with her appetite, and pregnancy had only increased it.

Hagrid nodded knowingly and clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking Harry off his seat. “It’ll be alrigh’. Yer kid’s gonna have a great pair o’ parents lookin’ out fer him. And these kids’ll be fine too. They’ve gotta lot o’ new rules teh make sure everyone stays safe.” Harry did not point out that every professor and official had said the exact same thing last time.

And then it was time. The last of the puddings disappeared, and Professors McGonagall stood up to say something about pride and unity and overcoming adversity. Harry, feeling a bit like he was fourteen and walking into a stadium to face a fully grown Hungarian Horntail, walked over to where the Goblet of Fire was standing on a small podium in front of a hall full of students watching in silent, eager expectation. For a second the blue flames simply flickered silently, and Harry hoped wildly that nothing would come out of the Goblet and they would have to call the whole Tournament off. Then, with a crackling sound and gasps from many of the assembled teenagers, a slightly singed slip of paper flew out of the flames and Harry snatched it out of the air almost without thinking. He stared at the markings on the paper for several moments before he was able to recognize them as names and force himself to say the words aloud.

“Dunyasha Lazareva, Durmstrang.”

Aside from a couple of resentful-looking male students, all of the Durmstrang representatives, who were sitting once again at the Slytherin table, erupted in applause, and a tall girl with long red hair and a smug expression sauntered up to the front of the hall. Harry half expected her to take a bow before the assembled student body, but she allowed herself to be led by Professor Flitwick into the same side room where the champions had gathered in his fourth year.

Then the next name was flying out of the Goblet, and Harry didn’t have time to think (too much) about whether he had just been complicit in dooming a teenage girl to death.

“Adem Bajan, Beauxbatons.”

The Beauxbatons student response was moderately enthusiastic, less so than than their fellows at Durmstrang perhaps but certainly more supportive than Harry remembered the French students being during his Triwizard Tournament. Bajan himself seemed much more surprised than Lazareva to hear his name called, but nonetheless he strode to the front of the hall, smiled good-naturedly at the crowd, and disappeared into the side room with Professor Flitwick. Two down, one to go.

The final piece of paper was quite a bit more burnt than the previous two (which was probably not a good sign), and Harry had to squint to decipher the final champion’s surname.

“Kaz Brekker, Hogwarts.”

Harry wasn’t sure what reaction he had expected, since he didn’t actually know any of the current Hogwarts students, but it wasn’t the one he got. There was a crash from behind him, and he turned around to see that Hagrid, who looked suddenly quite pale, had knocked over a candle holder and was trying to put out the small fire with a napkin. Meanwhile, the hall was full of the sounds of whispering students, some of whom actually looked angry. The only people who seemed pleased with the announcement were about half of the Slytherins, a couple of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, and one very excited Hufflepuff, who actually stood up and whooped out loud.

Brekker himself seemed utterly unaffected by both the positive and the negative reactions of those around him. To Harry’s eyes, he could almost have been the poster child for Slytherin House: dark hair, sharp features, cold expression, and perfectly tailored robes with green trim and some kind of family crest on the lapel. He even had a silver-topped walking stick in the style of Lucius Malfoy. The chatter in the Great Hall only increased as the final champion disappeared through the side entrance, utterly ignoring Professor Flitwick’s attempts to lead him there. Professor McGonagall, who looked a bit like she had just swallowed something sour, had to clap her hands sharply several times to silence the assembly.

“I’m sure you will all be equally able to discuss the champions in your own dormitories. I’m also sure that you will all celebrate the successes of each of the champions throughout the coming Tournament, regardless of their school or House affiliation.” Harry thought she looked somewhat pointedly at her own House after this pronouncement. Most of the Gryffindors seemed fairly despondent that Hogwarts was going to have a Slytherin champion.

“Now, it’s late, and you should all return to your rooms. Prefects, see to your Houses.” She turned sharply and gestured to Harry and Bagman to follow and come officially meet the champions.

Seeing all three champions standing together, Harry could already picture the roles the Daily Prophet would spin for them while covering the Tournament. He clearly spent too much time with a sports reporter. Dunyasha, bedecked in silver and white (the Durmstrang uniform must have been updated since 1995), was standing straight and tall, still looking proud and self-satisfied. She would probably be the favourite to win, and certainly the most out-spoken in any interviews. Bajan still seemed slightly nervous, but he was also smiling, and would probably be cast as the likeable one, and a possible dark horse. Brekker, on the other hand, was standing apart from everyone else, looking supremely bored and playing with an old-fashioned pocket watch.

“Well! You’ve all had a chance to get to know each other a bit, I hope?” Bagman smiled, and Brekker glowered. “Excellent! After all, the Tournament is all about friendly competition and inter-school unity!” Professor Brum and Dunyasha glanced at each other and smirked.

“Now, I suppose you three are all too young to really remember the last Tournament, but, just like last time, the First Task will be a surprise, meant to test your ability to improvise and respond to new threats without preparation. I promise it won’t be dragons this time, though!” Bagman laughed. Everyone else was silent. Bajan looked slightly ill, which was how Harry felt.

After an awkward pause, Bagman continued. “For each Task, you will be judged by myself, Madame Maxime, Professor Brum, Professor McGonagall, and of course, Mr. Potter here, the previous Triwizard champion. You will all be judged impartially on your creativity, magical ability, speed at completing each task, and lack of life-threatening injuries upon completion. And the prize, as I’m sure you all know, is one thousand Galleons!”

“You ought also to remember,” interjected Professor McGonagall, looking at each of the champions in turn, “that this is intended as a solo competition. Champions are meant to complete each task without hints or assistance, and cheating or dishonesty of any kind will not be tolerated.” Her eyes rested for a particularly long time on Brekker, who blinked up at her in a deeply unconvincing parody of innocence.

“Well, Hogwarts doesn’t exactly have the cleanest record for following that particular rule,” said Brum, somewhat unfairly, in Harry’s opinion. Perhaps some of the advice and support he had gotten from friends and other outsiders during his own tournament hadn’t been technically legal, but he distinctly recalled that all four of the champions had known about the ostensibly surprise dragons before the First Task. And anyway, since the whole competition had been rigged from the start, and one of the contestants had been a minor, three years younger than his competitors, maybe a responsible adult supervisor should have had more pressing concerns than whether anyone was engaging in a little light teamwork. Maybe.

“Right you both are!” said Bagman cheerfully, as if he hadn’t spent most of the last tournament practically begging Harry to take outside help. “You all need to rely on your own guts, wits, and magical ability to complete the challenges before you. As with the previous tournament, level of education and, er, physical ability aren’t an excuse to get extra help. The Goblet has chosen you all for a reason!”

Harry thought that the gap between a Hogwarts sixth year and whatever the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons equivalents of seventh year were was not really comparable with the age and experience gap between a fourteen year old and a seventeen year old, and he was briefly tempted to say so aloud, but Brekker, still looking supremely uninterested in the proceedings, replied before he could open his mouth. “I’m sure if a fourteen-year-old can win this competition, a cripple can manage, even if my ‘physical ability’ doesn’t meet the exacting standards of my esteemed fellow champions.”

There was a moment of extremely awkward silence wherein Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes and thinned her lips at Bagman in a manner which would have sent any self-respecting Hogwarts student running for cover, and Harry realized, with maybe more surprise than was warranted, that Brekker’s walking stick actually was a functional cane.

“Er, well, yes! That’s what I was saying. Er—” Bagman was saved from further embarrassment by three Hogwarts students bursting into the room, wielding what appeared to be plastic Muggle kazoos.

“Congratulations to the new Hogwarts champion! Godspeed, good luck, no mourners, no funerals, et cetera, et cetera,” said the tall Slytherin girl good-naturedly, while the Hufflepuff boy who had clapped so enthusiastically when Brekker’s name had been called blew his kazoo with equal vigor.

McGonagall looked annoyed but unsurprised; both of the other school heads were outraged. “What eez zis? Surely your students can follow seemple rules, Minerva? A Beauxbatons student would never do such a theeng.”

“It seems as though Hogwarts is already breaking the rules about solo competition,” added Brum, eyes glinting maliciously.

McGonagall ignored them both. “Mister Fahey, stop that racket at once. Miss Ghafa, Miss Zenik, I would have expected better from both of you. You were each perfectly well aware that this meeting was private.”

The short Gryffindor girl looked slightly mollified, but the other two were unrepentant. “Apologies, Professor! I just thought, as Slytherin Head Girl, I had to congratulate my housemate as soon as possible. I also though that I should know more about the rules of the tournament, since I, as his superior, have partial responsibility for ensuring he follows them all.” Brekker flashed the girl (Zenik?) a very rude hand gesture, which made Madame Maxime gasp but which McGonagall, unfortunately, did not see.

“Also,” said Fahey cheerfully, “the door wasn’t locked.”

There were many reasonable counter-arguments which could have been made to that statement, but Professor McGonagall did not seem to think any of them were worth the effort. “I will speak with the three of you later, in my office, tomorrow morning before classes” she said sharply, and pointed towards the door. The students left without protest (though Fahey did blow his kazoo one final time).

The rest of the meeting passed fairly quickly after that, since there wasn’t much that could be said about the First Task without revealing what it actually was, and Professor Brum and Madame Maxime both seemed eager to leave, probably to start counselling their champions on possible strategies. No teamwork, ha. As soon as he was able to leave, Harry beelined for the Entrance Hall, and was relieved to see Ginny and Hagrid chatting by the great double doors. He could do with a mug of tea and an inedible rock cake right about now.

“Excuse me.” Harry just about jumped out of his skin, and his wife looked as startled as he felt. Turning, he saw the same small, dark-haired Gryffindor girl who had earlier invaded the meeting of the Triwzard champions. It was mildly alarming that he, a trained Auror, hadn’t heard her sneak up on him. “I’m sorry to intrude. My name is Inej Ghafa, and I’m the Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I was wondering …” she seemed to steel herself, straightening her posture and putting her shoulders back as though about to step onto a stage. “Captain Weasley, could I possibly have your autograph?"

Chapter Text

Of course, none of them actually went back to their dormitories after the ceremony was done. Technically Nina’s responsibilities went beyond nagging Kaz at every possible opportunity, but as she frequently liked to remind Matthias, the best part of being in a leadership position was delegating. What was the point of having two sets of prefects under her authority, if she couldn’t make them direct little lines of first and second years while she celebrated with her reluctant frenemy slash annoying adopted younger brother? Not that he seemed particularly excited about being chosen for a once-in-a-lifetime chance at glory and riches. Good things were wasted on emotionless bastards.

Matthias, the most Hufflepuff of Hufflepuffs, actually led his House all the way down to the kitchens (despite the fact that they surely all knew where their dorm rooms were by now) before returning to where his friends were waiting by the enormous hourglasses counting House points in the Entrance Hall. Gryffindor was currently winning, as usual, but if Kaz managed to survive the Triwizard Tournament there was certainly a strong chance Slytherin could make a comeback, a thought which pleased Nina’s ambitious streak. She wanted to see all her friends succeed, and she was never exactly upset when Gryffindor won, but the Sorting Hat has placed her in Slytherin for more reasons than just her incredible intellect, skills of plotting and deception, and self-confidence. She did like to win things.

“So, where to now? Back to the Slat? The Room of Requirement? Hagrid’s Hut?” Jesper was still twirling his kazoo jauntily between his fingers. Professor McGonagall’s reaction to their little gate crashing escapade had actually been less harsh than Nina had expected for some reason, the Headmistress seemed to have a soft spot for Jesper, even though he was, apart from Kaz, the least shy about breaking the rules out of all of them. He was, despite his general lack of studiousness, surprisingly good at Transfiguration, and apparently McGonagall had taught the subject before becoming Headmistress. In any event, they would probably only get a short lecture about the importance of acting mature and responsible in front of the representatives from the other schools tomorrow morning, which was hardly the end of the world. There was no reason not to be cheerful, unless you were Kaz, who was always determined to be miserable about everything.

The bastard himself was currently leaning against a pillar, wearing an expression that Inej and Jesper called scheming face but which Nina privately thought was just another flavor of angsty brooding teenager. He had re-emerged from the room where the champions had been briefed shortly after the rest of the Crows, even before Matthias had returned. “We need to discuss strategy, not celebrate. And it will be simpler to get to our separate dorms after curfew if we stay inside the castle.”

“Actually,” said Inej, appearing out of nowhere and nearly giving Wylan a heart attack (probably intentionally, though she would absolutely deny it), “We’ve all been invited to have tea with Hagrid.”

“And the Potters,” added Kaz, eyes narrowed. Nina was a bit surprised he wasn’t more excited for an up close and personal interaction with a famous Auror and celebrity; he usually jumped at the chance to learn anything he could about powerful people, mostly so he could blackmail them later. Then again, he was suspicious whenever anyone did anything nice for him or his friends. And of course, spending half an hour to enjoy themselves would irreparably reduce the amount of time available to prepare for the First Task. The First Task, which was almost a month from now, and which they wouldn’t be able to properly prepare for anyway, since it was supposed to be a secret. Not that anything ever stayed secret for long when your group of friends included Kaz Brekker and Inej Ghafa, but still.

Fortunately, Jesper and Matthias were appropriately eager to meet two celebrities, so Nina didn’t have to Confound Kaz in order to make sure they all agreed to go. “Damn, Inej! How did you swing that?”

Inej looked slightly embarrassed, which was honestly pretty rare for her. “I just asked for Captain Weasley’s autograph, and they both seemed interested in having a conversation about Quidditch somewhere we could actually sit down. And Hagrid likes Kaz.”

Judging by Kaz's facial expression, being liked was deeply insulting.

“I wish there were cool former Hufflepuff Quidditch players we could schmooze up to.”

“Cedric Diggory was on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team,” pointed out Wylan as, despite Kaz’s reluctance, they made their way out the front doors and across the castle grounds.

“Yeah, but he didn’t win, did he?”

“I don’t think being killed outside of the Tournament itself counts as losing,” said Matthias, brow furrowed as though he were trying to brew a particularly complex potion. Or a simple one, really; there was a reason he had dropped the class after his OWLs.

“It does make it hard to grant favors though, generally speaking. Hard to have politically advantageous tea with someone who didn’t come back as a ghost.” And even ghosts couldn’t eat or drink, which Nina thought was easily the most tragic part of the ordeal. She knew that several of the Hogwarts ghosts agreed with her.

“None of the cool people come back as ghosts,” sighed Jesper.

“You could all be a little bit more respectful of the dead,” admonished Inej, casting a glance ahead to where the Potters and Hagrid were walking, probably almost definitely too far away to hear them.

“After I’m torn apart by a dragon, I’ll come back as a ghost just so I can make you all wish I hadn’t,” said Kaz ominously. Inej did not look pleased with this new direction the conversation was taking.

“By clanking around in bloodstained chains like the Bloody Baron, or Jacob Marley?” asked Jesper, unperturbed.

“By making Wylan teach me to play the flute so I can annoy the bloody hell out of all of you.”

“You can’t really play the flute without picking it up, and ghosts can’t move tangible objects.”

“Ha! I’ll make Wylan teach me how to play the flute, so we’ll annoy you so much you’ll leave us alone.”

“I’ll just make Matthias kick your ass and break your flute.”

“I would not associate with your ghost,” said Matthias primly.

“You would if I threatened to drive Nina mad with my Jacob Marley-esque moaning and clanking.”

“First of all, fat chance anything you could do would impact my mental health, Brekker. Second of all, who the hell is Jacob Marley?”

“Do normal wizards not read A Christmas Carol?”

It wasn’t Inej or Jesper who had spoken. They had arrived at Hagrid’s Hut, and Harry James Potter was poking his head out the double wide door to stare at them with a mildly horrified expression. “It’s literally a classic. It even has ghosts!”

“Normal Muggles don’t read it either,” replied Jesper breezily, as though he weren’t talking to one of the most famous wizards in the modern world. “They watch the 1992 movie version, with the Muppets.”

“That sounds very American,” said Potter suspiciously as they filed into the one-room cottage, Wylan predictably pink-faced and even Matthias looking slightly flustered. “We always watched the one with Alistair Simms.”

“That’s because you’re old,” said Jesper, with the gentle air of someone reminding a dementia-addled relative to take their Pepper Up Potion.

Wylan, who was already pink, turned even pinker, and shot Jesper an accusatory look, but Mr. Potter didn’t look very offended, and Mrs. Potter (Captain Weasley?) actually snorted into her tea.

In fact, both heroes of the Second Wizarding War looked even younger up close, an unsettling reminder that they had both been close to Nina’s age at the time, and that the conflict had only ended seven years ago. And Potter had been even younger when he competed in the Triwizard Tournament. She wondered if he was thinking about the same thing, and if that was why he looked so uncomfortable as they all attempted to fit around the huge wooden table in the center of the room. Naturally, everything in the house was up-sized to accommodate the fact that it was owned by a half-giant, but it still wasn’t exactly built for nine people, and Kaz, the eternal loner, ended up sitting on Hagrid's bed next to Fang instead of around the tea and rock cakes like the rest of them. He probably would have stayed standing or gone outside into the garden if Fang hadn’t physically dragged the hem of his robes over to the bed. To this day, Nina could not understand how someone as jovial and affectionate as Hagrid had become so close to someone as, well, Kaz-like as Kaz, enough so that even his dog seemed invested in Kaz’s well-being. Obviously, Nina also cared about Kaz, but they were in the same House and had mutual friends, and they had done favors for each other in the past. All Kaz had ever done for Hagrid, as far as Nina knew, was feed the thestrals, and she was pretty certain they could and usually did hunt for themselves, so that was hardly a necessary service. It was entirely possible that Hagrid just felt bad for anyone who could see thestrals, especially since he had been able to do so at such a young age (Jesper, who had been close to Kaz for longer than Nina, despite the personality differences that usually stopped Hufflepuffs from associating with Slytherins, claimed he had been able to see them since first year). When she asked Kaz about it, he claimed that Hagrid had “a soft spot for monsters,” because he needed every statement about his personal life to be as cryptic and melodramatic as possible. He didn’t look very monstrous at the moment, leg stretched out on a brightly colored quilt and being drooled on by the least threatening Great Dane in existence. Maybe Hagrid just had a soft spot for dark-haired orphans.

It occurred to her, suddenly, that there was no good reason for Kaz to know who this Jacob Marley character was; his parents may have been gone, but he was still a pureblood raised by wizards, she was fairly certain. Then again, he was also in Muggle Studies, and he had a creepily good memory, so maybe he had picked up the name there.

Jesper was currently trying to explain the plot of the Christmas Song or whatever it was while Hagrid bustled about serving all the newcomers tea and cake. “So basically it’s about how you should be nice to people at Christmas, and ideally all the time, especially if you’re rich and have a lot of money you could give away.”

“A.K.A., don’t be like Kaz,” chimed in Nina helpfully.

Matthias looked extremely confused. “I thought ghosts were for Halloween in the Muggle world?”

“They’re not really ghosts?” Potter dunked his rock cake in his tea thoughtfully. “Well, Marley is, but the rest are sort of … Omens? Or concepts? It’s sort of a fairy tale, like, you know, the one with the stump.”

There was a pause. “Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump?” asked Wylan cautiously.

Inej, who had been listening quietly up until this point despite being the only Muggle-born in the room, looked at Wylan like he had lost his mind. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Jesper guffawed. “How do you find out someone’s blood status without asking? Just start talking about children’s fiction.”

“Or pay any attention at all to how they interact with other wizards and the rest of the magical world,” snapped Kaz. He seemed fairly sick of this topic of conversation, and Nina couldn’t exactly disagree. There were surely more interesting things to talk about with one of the most famous wizards in the world than kids’ books.

Like Quidditch, apparently. Jesper grabbed the sugar bowl and added an obscene amount to his tea while redirecting the conversation to yet another tragically non-Triwizard Tournament-related topic. “So, how does a person actually become a professional Quidditch player? Do you just, like, go to tryouts? What’s training like?”

Nina raised an eyebrow. “I thought you wanted to be an Auror?” Seemed to her, in that case, that it would be a little more practical to ask questions of the professional Auror sitting at their table. That career wasn’t something she herself would have chosen for Jesper, who generally liked risk and adrenaline more than somebody who was supposed to stop bad things from happening probably should, but who was she to dictate what another person did with their life? Unless it was Kaz, because most of his choices involved being a prick and committing crimes.

Jesper made a vague movement with his shoulders that could conceivably have been called a shrug. “Maybe I’m just curious! I like to know things. I’m a seeker of knowledge.” Wylan fixed him with a very skeptical expression.

“You play Quidditch too?” Ginny Weasley was watching their antics with entertainment rather than trepidation or concern, which was mildly encouraging.

Jesper gestured around the room to each of the Crows in turn, beginning with himself. “Hufflepuff Beater, Hufflepuff Keeper, Gryffindor Seeker, adoring fan, adoring fan, hates organized team sports of all kinds.”

Potter’s face took on a difficult to decipher expression at Jesper’s Quidditch-adjacent label for Kaz. “Arguably the Triwizard Tournament is a team sport.”

“Not very well organized though,” muttered Ginny, almost under her breath. Nina choked on her tea.

Kaz folded his hands piously in his lap, giving Potter the look he used to convince naïve new professors that he wasn’t the devil incarnate. “I was told that it was a solo competition. No teamwork allowed.”

“But it’s all about inter-school unity, ye see? Yer supposed teh make friends with the other champions, learn about them, work together. And such.”

“And also everybody cheats.” Matthias faced Mrs. Potter with an appalled expression. “But you didn’t hear that from us.”

“Cheating is a strong word.” Potter looked at the ceiling, obviously trying to decide what to say. “Asking your friends to help you practice spells and jinxes to use in the tasks, or to brainstorm ideas for what you might be up against, isn’t really cheating, it’s just smart preparation. And anyway, there’s pretty much no wizarding career, especially being an Auror, or a professional Quidditch player for that matter, that doesn’t involve some form of teamwork. The experience will be better if you try and get some skills for your future out of it, not just the prize money.” He seemed pleased with himself for delivering this speech. Ginny looked somewhat annoyed that he was making cheating into a lesson on job productivity, and so did Kaz, even though as far as Nina could tell much of his life was governed by the motto “work smarter, nor harder,” which was basically what Potter was saying.

“Do you think fighting dragons gives you a lot of marketable skills?”

“Keeping cool under pressure, thinking on your feet. Courage, obviously. All pretty good things to have for an Auror. Or any adult wizard, living in a world where Dark wizards and magical creatures can be serious threats.”

“And learning what rules you can break without consequences, the most important skill for someone who enforces the law.” Kaz pretended that he was only just now realizing that everyone was staring at him. “If I can cast a Summoning Charm on any object of my choosing, then the ‘Wands Only’ restriction doesn’t count for much, does it?”

“I do not understand how you can complain about somebody else cheating,” said Matthias, disapproving as usual, though in this case Nina thought he had a point.

“I have nothing against cheating, as long as you have the honesty to call it what it is.”

Nina rolled her eyes. “Yes, because you’re so well-known for your honesty, Kaz.”

“Considering the fact that the 1994 Tournament was rigged by Voldemort, I don’t think it really set up the champions for success and proper sportsmanship.” Wylan, Hagrid, and even Nina, to her embarrassment, all flinched a bit when Potter said You-Know-Who’s name out loud. Kaz did it all the time, but somehow it sounded worse coming from an adult. “All I know is that every competitor knew what the supposedly secret First Task was going to be before we started.”

“The point of this year is to show that the wizarding world has recovered from the war, that we’re moving on and we can have healthy relationships with other wizards again, and competitions free from fear,” Inej finally intruded, proving once again, as Nina had long suspected, that she was wiser and more mature than most adults. Really, it was a tragedy that she had been Sorted into Gryffindor and not Ravenclaw, or even Slytherin, though Nina supposed courage and chivalry and what-not were also good qualities to have.

“Yes, and we all can see how every problem in the wizarding world was solved when the Dark Lord was killed. That is, of course, why we still need Aurors, and competitions that teach teenagers to fight for their lives.”

Nina wasn’t sure why Kaz had suddenly stopped referring to You-Know-Who by his name, but she suspected strongly that it was related to him trying to be as obnoxious as possible. “Merlin’s beard, Kaz, nobody made you put your name in the Goblet.”

Kaz scratched Fang behind the ears, as though they were all having a very casual and normal conversation with no tension at all. “I never said I was opposed to the Tournament, just that everything anyone in a position of authority has to say about it is mostly bullshit.”

“Oi! Watch yer tongue,” growled Hagrid, and Kaz looked, briefly, moderately chastised.

Potter rubbed his forehead as if he was coming down with a migraine. “I literally just said the wizarding world is a dangerous place to live. There’s a forest full of giant man-eating spiders on the grounds of this school, for Christ’s sake.” Hagrid looked faintly guilty at this pronouncement, and busied himself making more tea. “At the end of the day, it’s an incredibly dangerous competition with some benefits and a lot of drawbacks. And all of this year’s champions chose to put their names in the Goblet of Fire.” The addendum ‘unlike me’ was heavily implied.

“After being essentially conned with visions of glory and money and safety.”

“But not you, apparently, since you’re so much smarter than the rest of us podges. Why did you enter, anyway?” Even Jesper was getting sick of whatever game Kaz was playing.

The bastard grinned with all his teeth, like a shark. “Glory and money and safety.” The way he said ‘safety’ made the concept sound very dangerous to everyone but him.

“If you want my advice,” said Potter, ploughing forward before Kaz could say that he didn’t, “Make sure you’ve practiced a lot of defensive spells and take any advice or help anybody offers you, unless it’s from Ludo Bagman or is very clearly a bribe. And don’t procrastinate figuring out what you’ll do for a task until the last moment.” Then he stretched as if getting ready to stand up and leave.

“Any advice on offensive spells? Like the Unforgiveable Curses? You’ve cast them before, haven’t you?”

All the air left Nina’s lungs. Wylan dropped his teacup on the floor, Jesper inhaled sharply, and Matthias and Inej both yelled “Kaz.”

Potter was momentarily frozen in shock, but he quickly recovered. “Yeah. To win a war.” And then he and his wife got up and left.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Wylan thought his life would be easier if he hated school. Obviously, in an absolutely ideal world he would simply be able to read, which he had always assumed would solve all of his problems with his education, his social anxiety, his father, etc., but barring that perfect scenario, he wished at least that he could have a pure, uncomplicated hatred for any situation that required reading or writing. Take Potions, for example. His favorite subject, much to his friends’ bafflement, and also an area he was unusually skilled in … until he had to write an essay on the moral and legal implications of using Veritaserum, or navigate the incredibly complex written instructions of a concoction like Polyjuice Potion.

Fortunately, there were ways around his affliction—Audio Enchantments and Dictation Quills and the like—and he had found as many as he could as soon as he could, beginning in his first year of Hogwarts, a hideous nine months that he had spent in near constant terror of being found out as a dunce and sent home. In fact, his father had been incredibly reluctant to send him to Hogwarts at all, certain that he couldn’t possibly keep up with the other students and would only bring public shame on the Van Eck name. However, homeschooling a magical child was so unheard of it would have surely brought on rumors that Wylan was a Squib, and the only thing worse than not being able to read was not being able to do magic, so off he went, equipped with a very rudimentary modified Quick Quotes Quill that his mother had made for him before she passed and many warnings about the dire consequences should he fail to keep up appearances (namely, being shipped off to Durmstrang or locked in his room, sans flute, for the rest of his life). And, of course, one of the Van Eck house-elves had been sent to work in the Hogwarts kitchens to spy on him. It wasn’t exactly the same as being thrown blind and unprepared into an arena with a fully grown dragon, but Wylan still felt that the constant threat of expulsion or involuntary withdrawal from school had taught him a fair amount about “keeping cool under pressure” and “thinking on his feet.” He was also an excellent liar, a fact which for some reason still surprised most of his friends.

At any rate, things had gotten much easier as the years progressed, and he learned that there was almost always at least one Ravenclaw willing to proof-read an essay, or explain in exquisite detail a concept outlined in a textbook, or sweet-talk a professor into finding a private classroom or corner of the library where one could listen to some important bit of information read aloud instead of reading it silently. Exams were tricky, but there wasn’t a lot of writing or invigilation in the first few years, and by the time he got to his OWLs, Wylan had become friends with Kaz and been introduced to a whole new world of cheating (or, as Jesper liked to say, “making life easier”) as subtly and efficiently as possible.

Despite these improvements, and despite the fact that Wylan had formed the first real friendships of his life at Hogwarts, people he would surely complete any number of deadly tasks for (if he was old enough to do so), some days were still exhausting. Finding quiet places for dictation was still difficult, especially right now, when the school was suddenly more crowded than usual and nobody would shut up about the admittedly fairly significant events occurring throughout the autumn. And dictated essays always needed someone to review them, because there was never any warning when the charm would start to wear off and the spelling would start to go wonky, and because occasionally they would pick up on background conversations or sneezes or even, according to Jesper, particularly loud glares from Madam Pince. His friends were all perfectly willing to help him with his work, just as he was willing to give advice on potion-making or critique a diagram for Herbology or Arithmancy (not that Kaz ever asked for Arithmancy help), but he still felt guilty for relying on them.

But the learning, the accumulation of knowledge about all the mysteries of the world, magical and otherwise; Wylan loved it. Finally understanding how something worked, whether it was a potion or a plant or a spell or a sequence of numbers used to predict the future, was a feeling like no other. And even better, once you had that knowledge, you could use it to create new things. Professor Longbottom had recently gone on a tangent in class about magical plant grafting, modifying useful plants like Gillyweed or Dittany to make them larger or easier to grow, like with Self-Fertilizing Shrubs. Jesper called plants like these “genetically magic-ified organisms,” and seemed immensely pleased with himself for coming up with the name.

Jesper was with him now, in a disused classroom on the fourth floor, reading aloud from the chapter on love potions in Advanced Potion Making while Wylan tried to concentrate on the small diagrams and drawings he liked to use to help him remember the most important concepts. It was odd, in fact, that today he seemed to be having more trouble paying attention than Jesper. His best friend was notorious for getting distracted in class, though he was generally pretty good at attempting or pretending to focus when Wylan talked to him about his interests, or when they were studying together. It was reassuring to have his questions taken seriously, or at least to have someone pretend to do so, even though Jesper never seemed very interested in asking any of his own. Like, why was he so good at wandless magic? Was wand use actually beneficial for wizards or were wands just a crutch? And how similar were the skills involved in wandless magic and casting non-verbal spells? If there were any answers, or any advice Jesper could give, Wylan would be all ears, and he was sure Kaz would be too, though the latter would never admit to struggling with any form of magic, or anything, ever.

“So basically, there’s no such thing as a real ‘love potion,’ they all just alter your brain chemistry to manufacture feelings of happiness, affection, or infatuation triggered by the sight or the name or the thought of a specific person, depending on the strength of the potion. None of those things are actually love. But what is love?” Jesper looked at Wylan expectantly.

“Er,” said Wylan, trying to figure out what answer he could possibly be looking for. “Wanting the best for someone else? Wishing for their good instead of your own?” If that was the case, it wasn’t something anyone who brewed a love potion was probably really feeling.

Jesper sighed dramatically. “You’re supposed to say ‘baby don’t hurt me.’” Wylan stared. “It’s a song. It’s fine. I’ll add it to the Slat Stack.” Jesper claimed that anyone could add CDs or records to the pile for playing in the Slat, but he and Wylan were the only ones who ever did. He slid off of his desk chair and came to a rest laying on his back on the classroom floor, making Wylan suppress a shiver. He deserved to be in Gryffindor for the courage it took to allow any part of his body besides his feet to touch a surface that was trampled by first-years multiple times a day. Filch could only do so much.

“But how do they define infatuation? Is that just a stronger form of affection? Or, I dunno, lust?”

“Somebody wasn’t listening,” said Jesper in a smug sing-song voice, flipping back a few pages. “Infatuation. Noun. A strong feeling of passion or admiration that is short-lived, foolish, and unreasoning. You know how they say a good romance starts with a good friendship?”

Wylan didn’t. “Sure.”

“Well, infatuation doesn’t, apparently. You see a cute person, get a crush, think you love them, then actually get to know them and think, ‘ehh, maybe not.’”

“Like Nina with Anika.” Or maybe it had been Anya. Fourth year was sort of a blur, and Nina had a history of going through crushes quickly.

“Yeah. Or me with that girl Madeline. Or Kaz.”

Wylan had a heart attack and died. After a few seconds, his spirit re-entered his prison of flesh so that he could ask the question: “Erm, er, uh. You had a crush on Kaz?”

That was not the question he had intended to ask. Well, it was, but he already knew the answer, as did probably every student at Hogwarts, since Jesper was about as subtle as the giant squid. Of course he had a crush on Kaz. The important bit was that, apparently, he no longer had a crush on Kaz. Which was news. To Wylan. Not that it mattered.

Jesper fiddled with the dust jacket of Advanced Potion Making, not looking at Wylan. “Yeah, I guess. He was mysterious and had good hair.” Wylan tended to agree with Nina on the quality of Kaz’s haircut, but whatever. “I was young and impressionable and in the middle of my bisexual awakening. You know how it is.” He slammed the textbook shut loudly and Wylan jumped. “But that’s all over and done with. When we did Amortentia at the end of last year it didn’t smell like leather or coffee, which was a bit of a relief, to be honest.”

“What does it smell like when you’re not interested in anyone?” Wylan wondered aloud. “Just things you generally like?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Jesper offhandedly. Then his eyes widened, as if suddenly realizing the words that had just come out of his mouth.

“Oh,” said Wylan, his voice several octaves higher than normal. And then he stopped, because he could not think of a single thing to say. It was totally fine that Jesper had a crush on someone. Wylan had spent the entire course of their friendship assuming he had a crush on Kaz, so this information wasn’t really new at all, just slightly different. He definitely wasn’t going to spend the rest of the year trying to figure out who it was and what classes they were taking and how easily their exams could be sabotaged. Because the Triwizard Tournament was happening, and that was a thing that was important. Way more important than some crush Jesper had on some person who was probably perfectly lovely and decent and tall and a good Quidditch player and not constantly needing help with school assignments. Unless it was an annoying Gryffindor sixth year, who was halfway decent at drawing but not actually as good at potion-making as he pretended to be, even though his father was the Bo Yul-Bayer.

“Smelled like lemon ginger tea and syrup of hellebore and key oil. You know. For flutes. The Amortentia,” he added, seeing Wylan’s visible confusion. “That’s what it smelled like.”

“Those are good smells,” said Wylan, because they were. Lemon ginger, he knew it, stupid Kuwei and his stupid citrus cologne and his stupid golden eyes and ability to flirt without turning bright red.

Jesper was looking at him now, with an expression that could best be described as mildly baffled, though Wylan wasn’t exactly sure why. He may not have been giving the most eloquent responses to his best friend’s unprompted and unasked for comments about love potions and smells and adolescent crushes, but it had only been a week since the Triwizard champions were chosen, and none of them have been sleeping well because Kaz had been tight-lipped about instigating his master plan to avoid dying before Christmas. They were all a bit pre-occupied and stressed out about the mysterious and quickly upcoming First Task, and on top of that there was classwork and NEWT preparation and the letter of mockery and symbolic humiliation that Wylan had received from his father on Tuesday (which he hadn’t told any of his friends about, but still). And they had been studying for three hours already on a Saturday morning. Plenty of reasons he wouldn’t be able to form coherent sentences about topics that were very unimportant with his very platonic friend. He had the sudden urge to rip Advanced Potion Making out of Jesper’s hands and fling it across the room.

“I know they’re good smells. Some of my favorites, in fact. Lots of great memories, like drinking tea with a podge who gets sick because he stays up too late studying and won’t go ask for ingredients to make Pepper Up Potion because he doesn’t want anyone else to know. And this same podge helping me brew Draught of Peace in the Slat because my last two attempts used too much hellebore and almost killed another student working in the Potions classroom just with their fumes. And the flute key oil is because you play the flute, you idiot.”

“Key oil doesn’t have that much of a scent. I think you might be making that one up.”

“Oh, shut it,” griped Jesper. Then he stood up, grabbed Wylan’s face with both hands, and kissed him full on the mouth.

Warmth flooded Wylan’s whole body, and for several glorious, timeless moments, nothing existed except the surprisingly chaste press of Jesper’s lips against his. The tension in his shoulders, the pricking in his thumbs, the weight that lurked ceaselessly in his stomach, all of it disappeared, replaced by a wonderfully terrifying soaring sensation in his chest and under his skin. If this was how Jesper, Matthias, and Inej felt when they were flying, then it was no wonder they loved Quidditch so much.

Unfortunately, they did, eventually, break apart. Perhaps it hadn’t even been that long; he wasn’t really sure how long kisses were supposed to last. Normal people, when they lacked personal experience (which probably wasn’t all that normal anyway by the time one was sixteen), probably read about this sort of thing in books, but obviously that wasn’t an option for him. Jesper was looking at him with an expression of expectant nervousness, and Wylan had no idea at all what his own face was doing, besides turning brilliantly pink, like always.

There was a pause, long enough that it was clear somebody had to say something, and it was not going to be Jesper. Okay, fine. “So … was that infatuation, or affection, or …?” Stupid idiot, he kissed you once and now you’re asking if he’s in love with you. Merlin’s pants. What the fuck.

“Well …,” Jesper was fiddling with the collar of Wylan’s robes, something he did not object to at all. “We started off with a good friendship, so I’d say that’s a good sign. If we were interested in getting started on the romance part, I think the tea leaves might be in our favour.”

All right, Wylan could work with that. “Then maybe we should get started, with a date at the Hogwarts kitchens Sunday evening?” It sounded ridiculous out loud, but the cancellation of all Hogsmeade visits for the year had seriously limited their options for a romantic outing. To try and make up for that, he continued: “And there’s always the Yule Ball, assuming Kaz hasn’t died violently and we’re not all in mourning by then.”

Jesper grinned widely, and his boyfriend’s chest felt like it would burst. “Sounds like a plan, Van Sunshine.”

Chapter Text

By this point in his life, Kaz was quite accustomed to the fact that personal crises and tragedies had little effect on the operation of the world at large. After his Da’s death, Kaz and Jordie had still needed to focus primarily on finding a place to stay and supporting themselves financially rather than grieving, and even after Jordie’s murder, the earth had not, unfortunately, ceased to spin. It was an important lesson: nobody cared what you were going through, and if you wanted or needed something, you had to take it for yourself. His situation as a champion of the Triwizard Tournament, Kaz was quickly realizing, was both different and exactly the same.

The Hogwarts student body was struggling somewhat to be supportive of their new champion. Good grades and a gift for unlikely escapes and not getting caught had kept Kaz, if not in the good graces, then at least out of the bad books of most of his present and former professors (excepting, of course, Nazyalensky and McGonagall). However, teenagers tended to dislike any person they felt intimidated by, which included both individuals who were smarter than them, and who actively threatened or blackmailed them; Kaz was not, therefore, the most popular kid in school. He had never wanted or needed to be friends with the majority of the student population, since fear was as good as affection at influencing people, and generally involved less prolonged physical contact. There were a few Slytherins, like Pim and Anika and Rotty, whose loyalty seemed to go beyond general self-interest, and the Crows all seemed to like him well enough for their own self-destructive reasons, but they weren’t deluded enough about his merits as a person to defend him to the rest of the school. As well, Slytherin House as a whole didn’t have the same prestige it had ostensibly had before the second wizarding war and the defeat of Voldemort, the most famous and infamous Slytherin. The other Houses equated cunning and ambition (and, on the part of most Gryffindors, intelligence) with malice, and wealth and pureblood status with being a Death Eater. Being a rich pureblood, especially from a well-known family like the Brekkers, was hardly a disadvantage in wizarding society, but it did draw suspicion from a lot of people. Like, for example, Dark wizard catcher and former child prodigy Harry Potter. The fact that Kaz was actually a penniless Muggle-born was both unknown and irrelevant.

Snide comments about how he was bound to bribe the judges or hex the other champions were not nearly as irritating or distracting as outright hostility would have been. Rumors about how his long sleeves hid a Dark Mark or his gloves hid claws and bloodstained hands, many of which were started intentionally, had accompanied most of Kaz’s Hogwarts career, so the whispers that followed him now weren’t much of a nuisance. In fact, whatever the Durmstrang students had heard was apparently enough to earn him their grudging respect, and several of them had begun nodding to him in the halls or trying to strike up conversation with him at the Slytherin table during meal times. Given what little Matthias had shared about his time there and the values of the school, it wasn’t much of a surprise that they would take to someone with a reputation for ruthlessness, though it might have been more beneficial during the tournament itself if they had continued to underestimate him due to his limp. No matter. He had plenty of other tricks up his sleeve. And Dunyasha herself, his primary concern, seemed arrogant enough not to listen to any cautionary tales about him.

However, even though the Triwizard Tournament and the pros and cons of the three competitors were all any of the students would talk about, the faculty and staff of Hogwarts were largely largely proceeding business as usual.  In the nearly two weeks since Halloween, this meant that, in addition to researching past tournaments for a clue as to what the First Task might be, Kaz had more homework than he had any hope of completing in a timely and morally upright manner.

Sixth years were, unequivocally, the most insufferable of all the students at Hogwarts. Sure, first years were naïve and whiny, with the Muggle-borns in particular complaining about everything from the lack of ballpoint pens to the ghosts that occasionally appeared in the toilets, but few things on earth were more rage-inducing than a sixth year Gryffindor taking four NEWT level courses and complaining about his workload. Eamon had spent the last ten minutes, as they waited for Professor Safin to arrive, regaling the entire Potions classroom with the tragic tale of his struggles keeping up in NEWT level Divination, when the only other classes he was taking were Herbology, Astronomy, and Charms. And anyway, everybody knew that Divination was the easiest course Hogwarts offered. All you had to do was predict a fellow student’s imminent demise and Trelawney would give you full marks. At least the seventh years, even the ones with ridiculously light course loads, had the excuse that their exams were coming up rather quickly.

Kaz refrained from hexing Eamon into next week and instead finished proofing his essay on love potions, written this morning in the library as a replacement for breakfast. The supposed most important meal of the day was also the easiest to skip, and the current over-crowding of the Slytherin table with Durmstrang students was a powerful motivator to limit the time he spent in the Dining Hall. Arguably (and many of his co-conspirators had indeed made this argument), his lack of time for eating and sleeping were his own fault; it was his own choice to take Potions, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies, and Arithmancy, after all. Seven NEWTs was hardly the norm, and it wasn’t like he was trying to become valedictorian or Head Boy. But. The main weakness with people like Eamon (besides being spoiled, self-righteous gits) was that they failed to understand that information was everything. Taking more classes meant learning more about his fellow students, about his professors, about the wizarding world, and even about Hogwarts itself, and all of that knowledge could be used in some way. Not to mention, greater breadth of knowledge meant more marketable skills, greater employability, and, ultimately, more power. He could afford to miss a few meals and a few nights’ sleep in the present if he considered the future rewards. Success, like revenge, was a dish best served cold.

Genya Safin swept into the Potions classroom precisely on time, which, for her, was a few minutes late. Kaz would have to look into that. Judging by the state of her hair, it was not unlikely that Transfiguration professor David Kostyk had something to do with it. “Good morning everyone. Essays on my desk, please.” There was a flurry of parchment and panicked looks from a good portion of the Gryffindors. Not Inej, naturally, since she was more intelligent than all the rest of her Housemates put together. It was a crime she hadn’t been Sorted into Slytherin, or at least Ravenclaw.

“I’ll have these back to you before the First Task.” Surely it wouldn’t kill the Hogwarts faculty to not mention the Triwizard Tournament at every conceivable opportunity. “Now, for review. Can anyone tell me why love potions are a banned substance at Hogwarts?”

Predictably, Inej’s hand was first in the air. “Love potions are a mind-altering substance. A person under the influence of a love potion cannot give full and informed consent. To anything.”

“That is correct. Five points to Gryffindor.” Safin was Head of Slytherin House, but she was fair with her allocation of House points. Most of the Heads of Houses were, in all honesty, though gossip among the older professors and students who had been in their final years when Kaz had first started indicated that this had not always been the case. It was hard to believe that a Headmaster as lauded as Albus Dumbledore would have employed explicitly biased professors, but the wizarding world was nothing if not entrenched in borderline nonsensical traditions. They wrote essays on rolls of parchment, for fucks sakes.

“If they’re so dangerous, why can you buy one at any half-decent joke shop?” asked Eamon smarmily. Safin and Inej both bristled.

“You can cast the Imperius Curse with any wand bought from Ollivander’s, or buy the ingredients for Veritaserum from any apothecary.” What Kaz didn’t add was that a society that still employed intelligent creatures as slaves wasn’t exactly the best role model for laws that protected free will and autonomy. Purebloods didn’t say that sort of thing about house-elves.

Inej, however, had no such qualms. She had never had any interest in maintaining illusions about her blood status. “And most of the ‘staff’ in the Hogwarts kitchens is still unpaid slave labour. Wizards aren’t exactly consistent when it comes to letting people make their own choices.”

Dirix, one of the less intelligent Slytherins, opened his mouth, probably to say something stupid about how house-elves provided their labour voluntarily, or that they weren’t technically people, but fortunately Safin cut him off. “As important as discussions about house-elf freedom are, they are not strictly relevant to potion-making. What is relevant is that each of you understands how dangerous the potion I’m about to show you is, so that you can take the proper precautions.”

With a flick of her wrist, the small cauldron on her desk filled with a pearly white liquid exuding steam in spiraling tendrils. Presumably she had Summoned it from the storerooms or one of the perpetually full cauldrons in her office; Kaz had been doing a small amount of research on Summoning Charm variations, including the Summoning of liquids, gases, and plasma. After all, Accio had been rather useful in the last Triwizard Tournament.

“Does anybody recognize this particular potion? It should be fairly easy to identify, if you finished your assigned reading.”

Kaz had, just barely, and it never hurt to ensure his House didn’t end the class with a point deficit. “It’s Amortentia, the strongest known love potion.”

“Correct. Five points to Slytherin. As I’m sure you all remember, Amortentia is most notable for it’s scent, which mimics whatever attracts an individual most. That doesn’t necessarily mean romantic or sexual attraction. Plenty of people smell their favourite foods, or old books, or new Quaffles, or whatever scents they find most pleasant.”

The entire class automatically inhaled deeply, including, to his chagrin, Kaz himself. Hot chocolate, fresh ink, and some sort of flower, possibly clover (like the clover that used to bloom in the meadow behind the farmhouse in springtime), or maybe geraniums. Or maybe roses, or rhododendrons. He didn’t know anything about flowers, nor did he care to, unless they were used as potion ingredients or functioned by themselves as poisons.

“Er, excuse me?” A slightly nauseous looking Hufflepuff fourth year was standing at the classroom door, left open so that none of them went mad with hopeless longing induced by the toxic fumes of Amortentia.

“Yes? Is everything alright?” Safin was unbothered by the interruption to her lesson. By no means a pushover, she nonetheless was considerably more patient with and kinder towards her students than many of the professors, especially when they were teaching the upper years. Likeability wasn’t Kaz’s preferred manipulation tactic for ensuring the cooperation of his inferiors, but he had to admit that she used it well.

“Er, it’s for the tournament. They need all the champions for … wand testing? So. Mr. Brekker needs to, erm, be excused.” And people wondered why Hufflepuffs had such a bad reputation for being cowards. Speak in full sentences, for Christ’s sake. It was a sixth year Potions class, not an Acromantula nest.

“The Weighing of the Wands? Of course. Mr. Brekker, you may go.”

Kaz thought he felt Inej’s eyes on him as he quickly packed up his things and followed the terrified Hufflepuff out of the classroom, but no power on earth could have made him turn to look. The two of them had been at odds since the Goblet of Fire ceremony, or, more accurately, the tea at Hagrid’s afterwards. Once again, he had engaged in behaviour she didn’t approve of, and she was refusing to speak to him until he showed evidence of the moral fiber she was convinced he kept buried deep down inside somewhere. Well, she was going to have to wait a long time. People didn’t win success in the wizarding world by being decent human beings: once again, the poor reputation of loyal, hard-working Hufflepuff House came to mind. And she was perfectly aware of his preference for terrible truths over kind lies. She should have expected that he wouldn’t be willing to sit quietly and pretend that the great Potter and Weasley were the unsullied heroes that the rest of this stupid society seemed to think they were, even if they were two of her biggest role models. She was smart enough to know better.

The Hufflepuff—Kaz had no practical reason to ask for his name, so he didn’t—led Kaz up several floors, taking perhaps the longest and least convenient route possible. It probably wasn’t intentional; Hufflepuffs weren’t exactly known for their malice, and most people, unlike Kaz, didn’t need to have an intimate knowledge of the least tiring and physically arduous ways to travel through the castle. By this point in his Hogwarts career, Kaz was good enough at hiding his discomfort that most students, especially the younger ones, assumed the cane was an affectation, and saw no need to accommodate for it. In any event, by the time they reached the small classroom on the fourth floor where the rest of the champions were gathered, his bad leg was throbbing. The fact that he had spent last night sitting up to complete his Potions reading and tournament-related research was not helping.

In addition to Bajan and Dunyasha (the former looking politely expectant, the latter arrogantly bored), Ludo Bagman, a nondescript photographer, and a woman with platinum blonde hair and scarlet nails were evidently waiting for him. “Excellent! Good to see you, Mr. Brekker. Mr. Ollivander should be here shortly, and then we can get started. He’s getting older and can be a bit, ah, slow.” So definitely somebody to trust with wand assessment for an international competition. Bloody wizards and their traditionalism.

“Getting older? Ha! Ollivander hasn’t been the same since the war, and you know it, Ludo.” Bagman looked slightly uncomfortable, like most wizards did whenever anybody acknowledged that the war might have had lasting psychological impacts on some people, but the woman ignored him and kept talking. “He’ll be a while yet, so I’m sure you won’t mind if I have a quick little chat with Mr. Brekker here.” She turned to Kaz, not waiting for a reply. “Rita Skeeter, biographer and reporter for the Daily Prophet.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Skeeter … the name was familiar. She had written a biography of Albus Dumbledore, he was fairly certain, and maybe a book about Potter as well? Nothing factual or informative enough to be worth Kaz’s attention.

“Splendid,” said Skeeter, as if anyone had actually agreed to her suggestion. “We’ll just pop over to some place a tad more private.” With brisk overconfidence, she grabbed Kaz’s arm to steer him away from the other two champions, who had, judging by their simultaneously smug and exasperated facial expressions, already been interrogated.

One of Kaz’s favourite things about Hogwarts, which he would never admit to, except perhaps upon pain of death (very, very painful and immediate death), was that the draftiness of the castle, as well as the shapeless nature of the uniform, made it very easy to wear multiple layers of clothing. At any given time, he was dressed in a shirt, a sweater, and robes, occasionally with a vest or a cloak thrown in, on particularly cold or difficult days. Physical contact through three or four layers of fabric was tolerable, if not ideal. Even one layer was usually enough, so long as the contact didn’t last long and he could see it coming and prepare himself; otherwise, what would be the point of the gloves?

But today was about as far from a good day as it was possible to be. His leg was aching, he hadn’t slept in two days, and the scents of hot cocoa and (possibly) clover were still lingering in his nose. And it was November. Kaz needed every millimeter of cloth he was currently wearing to prevent himself from bashing Skeeter’s head in with his cane. Or vomiting all over her shoes.

Instead of doing anything that would have added a new level of sensationalism to whatever exaggerated and gossip-ridden article Skeeter had already planned to write, Kaz simply pulled his arm out of her grasp and straightened his robes with an expression of mild disdain. He was thankful that real purebloods, especially the ones from old money, actually were snobbish enough to avoid touching anyone they considered to be of inferior blood status. Yet again, the irrationality of the wizarding world worked to his advantage.

“Do we really need more privacy? I’m sure the other two champions will be able to see everything I say whenever the next edition of the Prophet comes out. If they read it.” The camera man looked affronted—his dig at their declining readership hadn’t been very subtle—but Skeeter looked even more eager. He could already picture the article she would write, with himself as the villain and Dunyasha as the favourite to win. After all, everybody likes to have somebody else to root against.

“Oh, but we wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, now would we? And it might be nice to sit down somewhere a bit less drafty, where we can talk without distractions, hmm?” With that bit of condescension about his leg, she was pretty clearly trying to rile him up, bring out even more of his “bad side” before doing any sort of interview. He had to admit, she was clever, in an irritating way.

Fortunately for everyone, at that moment Ollivander arrived, accompanied by Professor McGonagall. The wandmaker looked more or less the same as he had six years ago when Kaz last saw him in Diagon Alley: frail and wispy, as if a strong breeze could blow him over. McGonagall’s lips thinned when she noticed the reporter, but she said nothing to her. “Good morning, Mr. Bajan, Mr. Brekker, Ms. Lazarena. This is Mr. Garrick Ollivander, one of the finest wandmakers in Britain.” Dunyasha sniffed imperiously, and the headmistress’ lips, improbably, thinned even more. “He will be ensuring that each of your wands is in good working condition for the tournament.”

Ollivander looked around the room, seeming to look past the champions rather than at them. His hands were shaking. “Everyone here then? Yes, yes, quite right. Let’s get started with you, miss.” Skeeter, rendered unimportant, looked decidedly put out.

Dunyasha stepped forward, brandishing her wand with a flourish. Kaz scoffed internally. He understood the value of performance, but there was a time and a place.

Ollivander turned the wand over in his hands, before producing a small eyeglass from a pocket in his robes to inspect it more closely. “Red oak, thirteen inches, a bit rigid. Dragon heart-string, naturally. Very well-maintained.” With a flick of his wrist, he produced a shower of golden stars, then handed the wand back to Dunyasha with an approving nod. She looked so pleased you might be forgiven for thinking that having a nice wand was actually a part of the competition, thought Kaz in annoyance. He was missing valuable class time for this. Amortentia wasn’t the easiest potion to brew, and Inej might not be willing to lend him her notes, considering how little they had been speaking lately.

Bajan’s wand, ten and a half inches of malleable chestnut with a unicorn hair core, performed adequately by Summoning a fountain of red wine. Another interesting fluid Summoning spell, though more difficult and much less useful than Aguamenti. Better than those stupid stars, at least. Charms was one of the classes Kaz found most tiresome; spells could be incredibly practical or completely pointless. Then again, most of what you learned in the Muggle education system was pretty useless too.

When Ollivander held out his hand to take Kaz’s wand, he felt a small frisson of anxiety that he swiftly squashed. He was hardly defenseless without it (Inej wasn’t the only one who carried a knife or two, for safety measures), but since his first year he had always had the irrational but persistent fear that if he gave up his wand he wouldn’t get it back. Somebody would discover his true ancestry and he would be expelled, ostracized from the wizarding world and unable to accomplish his revenge against Rollins. The wand was almost as necessary as his gloves or his cane. It was a stupid and dangerous crutch to have.

“You polish this regularly, don’t you? A good habit to have. Ah, yes, this is one of mine, of course. I remember. Eleven and a half inches, hornbeam, with a phoenix feather core. Unyielding. Overall, an interesting combination.” He had said the same thing when Kaz had chosen the wand at age eleven. Pardon, when the wand had “chosen him,” whatever that was supposed to mean. Wand lore was only slightly more reliable and exact a science than Divination, in Kaz’s opinion.

In Ollivander’s hands, his wand produced a flower crown of daisies, a spell it had never used before and hopefully never would again. The wandmaker turned to Professor McGonagall, who had been paying more attention to Skeeter and the acid green Quick Quotes Quill she had taken from her handbag than to the wand-related proceedings. “They seem to be in good working order. No tampering evident. I don’t think we need to linger any longer.”

The headmistress nodded sharply. “Excellent. I’m sure the champions have a great deal of work to catch up on. Each of you may return to your classes. There should still be some time before lunch hour to speak with your professors about what you missed, at least. Ms. Skeeter, I would like a word with you in private.”

Skeeter gave McGonagall an ugly look, but aloud she merely said sweetly, “No trouble at all, Minerva.”

The way back down to the Potions classroom was much quicker than the way up, since Kaz was alone and could follow a route that actually made sense, but even so there were only a few minutes left of the hour-long class when he arrived. The two hours of Double Potions was a pain to get through while wearing gloves, but the extra time would have been useful today. The air in the dungeons was filled with white steam, and, from one cauldron near the back of the class, acrid purple smoke. Some idiot had probably used mother of pearl instead of peal dust.

“Brekker, good to see you again.” That seemed improbable, but Safin was fairly adept at pretending to like people. “Since you missed most of class, you’ll have an extra week to complete your own batch of Amortentia. Please brew it in the Potions classroom, because it is a regulated substance. I recommend you borrow lecture notes from one of your classmates, but most of what we discussed was in the assigned reading.”

“He can borrow my notes.” It was Inej, coming to drop off her flask on Safin’s desk. Kaz made it a general policy not to thank anyone for anything, because acknowledging a favour meant you were indebted to someone, but sometimes circumstances were unprecedented. He needed to be in Inej’s good graces if he wanted to survive the year, after all.

“Much appreciated.”

Perhaps the almost-thanks had a real effect, because Inej waited for him to pack up his things after class officially ended, and followed him up to the Dining Hall. Or, rather, led him there, probably as a way of subtly pressuring him to eat a real meal today. It might actually have been easier to just stay in the Potions classroom and finish his extra work, and then hopefully get the chance to snag something from the stash of non-perishables he kept in his bed in the dormitory, but the First Task was approaching like a freight train and it would be wise of him to take advantage of this uneasy truce they had formed. Again. Kaz ground his teeth and tried not to think with nostalgia back on last year, when they had worked together so easily to, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, essentially rule the school. He had potentially damaging information on almost every professor and student of importance thanks to Inej. Of course, he had never really thanked her for any of it. And it wouldn’t make any sense to do so now.

This year was different. There was the tournament, obviously, and she was busy with her ridiculous club for helping the most pitiful of the new students. In Kaz’s opinion, any first year of any background who didn’t do any research or practice to prepare for navigating Hogwarts and the wizarding world deserved whatever miserable surprises they got. Annoyingly, Inej had somehow convinced Wylan to join, and he had started in on Jesper, now that the two of them had finally started acting on their feelings for each other. At the most inconvenient time possible, without a thought for the fact that Jesper would be leaving next year or that most of Wylan’s life and finances were controlled by his disgustingly rich and prejudiced pureblood father, who would probably not take kindly to his son shacking up with a blood traitor. They hadn’t considered the repercussions or done any kind of planning at all, and were making eyes and blushing and snogging every ten seconds where anyone could see. And all this because Jesper had apparently smelled some stupid tea in a batch of Amortentia. Kaz risked a glance at Inej, walking beside him silently (she always matched his pace, no matter what), and decidedly did not think about geraniums, and how he really would recognize there smell anywhere, even if the scent was mixed with clover, because they were somebody’s mother’s favourite flower. The whole idea was preposterous anyway. The smell of what attracts you most? Revenge didn’t smell like anything; neither did money, really, whether you were in the wizarding world or the Muggle world.

Inej doesn’t have a scent either. That’s one of the first things you noticed about her, isn’t it? The voice sounded suspiciously like Jordie, when he used to tease Kaz for playing with Saskia’s red hair ribbon.

Fuck off, Kaz told it, and followed his favourite accomplice to the Gryffindor dining table.

Chapter Text

“Are Kaz and Inej finally speaking to each other again?” Jesper looked up from his sausages long enough to spot one of Matthias’ closest friends and her demjin making their way towards the Gryffindor table. Both of them. It was strange to see Brekker sitting at a table that was not Slytherin’s, and even more strange for that table to be Gryffindor’s, but then, Jesper had spent most of the week at the Ravenclaw table with Wylan. Love potion fumes were getting into everybody’s heads. At the moment Matthias was extremely glad he had dropped Potions, even if the course would maybe have made a potential future career as an Auror easier.

“I guess? It’s news to me.” Jesper twirled his fork between his fingers. “They had to start scheming together for Kaz to win the First Task at some point, I suppose.”

Matthias grunted in acknowledgement and turned back to his own plate. If Brekker wanted any sort of help from him (which he might, actually, since the former Durmstrang student knew far more about at least one of the competitors and her school than any of the rest of them), then he would have to come to Matthias directly. He had enough problems in his life already without adding cheating in an international competition to the list.

Jesper patted him on the back. “Cheer up, Helvar! At least you’re not competing. And neither is Nina! You don’t even like Kaz. You’ll be fine if he dies horribly!” The other Hufflepuff boy had been less sympathetic towards his best friend and even more chipper than normal ever since he had started dating Wylan. Matthias found it mildly unsettling. It was not because he thought that Jesper was secretly unhappy; it was clear enough to anyone with eyes that the two boys had been pining after one another for quite some time, and were glad to finally be together. It was just that, well. They were two boys. And that was not so very common, even here at Hogwarts.

At Durmstrang, the teachers were very strict about limiting any kind of romance, so that students could focus on their studies. Boys and girls were kept apart in dorm rooms, common rooms, and the dining hall, and there was never any chance for students to go on little dates at tea shops or pubs or sweet shops in any nearby magical villages. When students were caught fraternizing, the consequences could be severe: months of detention, reprimands from the Headmaster, cleaning the lavatories, and so on. Nobody ever really talked about what would happen if the two students caught in a compromising position were both boys, or both girls. Thirteen-year-old Matthias assumed that such an event would never happen, since it was so taboo (and, to his mind then, unnatural), but meeting Nina had changed his mind about many things, including, and maybe especially, his ideas about who was allowed to love whom. Brum had been wrong about so much; why not this as well? Matthias could adjust. He was always adjusting.

However, Nina’s constant flirting with anyone of any gender, and even her short and not very serious relationship with Anika, were not really the same as the romance between Jesper and Wylan (or, as Nina liked to say, Wesper). Nobody really cared what two fifth year girls from the same year and the same House did behind closed doors (or in passageways behind hanging tapestries or alcoves behind suits of armor). Everyone was still trying to figure themselves out, and to pass their OWL exams. But Wylan was a pureblood from a very rich and famous family, and Jesper was a half-blood boy who had been raised mostly in the Muggle world and talked about it all the time, and both of them were from different years and different Houses, and neither of them knew how to keep a secret. Well, Wylan did, but he only seemed to keep the wrong ones from the wrong people, like the fact that he could not read from his caring and trustworthy friends (Matthias was definitely not bothered by that anymore, though). So it seemed, to him at least, that everyone at Hogwarts knew that the two boys were together, and if there was anything on anybody’s mind that was not the Triwizard Tournament, it was this strange and new relationship. Matthias did not think that anybody had made any rude comments to his friends directly. He certainly hoped not, or he would have to take matters into his own hands, and that would definitely end up badly for everyone involved. The whispers, though, and the sidelong glances, and the very small number of students who had started avoiding him in the halls, were all enough to make Jesper’s smiles and jokes a little bit strained, coming as they did on top of his schoolwork and his anxiety about exams and graduation. Probably he did not have enough time or energy to deal with Kaz’s poor choices either.

At least there was one reprieve available for both of them: Care of Magical Creatures. The weather was starting to turn cold and dreary, but the Scottish mist and rain was nothing compared to the frosty winters at Durmstrang, so Matthias would never complain. In fact, the need to work outside in bad weather was one of the many reasons students dropped the subject, so the few who stayed until seventh year did not usually complain, unless it was to commiserate together, as a private joke that the rest of their year, with their more “career-focused” courses, could not understand. Since Matthias would never dream of being anything less than five minutes early to a class, he made Jesper finish his lunch quickly, and the two of them had stomped across the chilly grounds and arrived at Hagrid’s hut before any of their classmates.  The gamekeeper was outside watching over a large, fenced-in ditch filled with muddy water and what appeared to be several mossy pieces of dead wood. They had been studying the care, feeding, and identification of different species of Dugbog for the past week or so, which Matthias thought was a surprisingly tame option for a seventh year Care of Magical Creatures class when the professor was Hagrid. After all, the magical amphibians only very rarely attacked humans in the wild. There were plenty of them in the marshy highlands near the Hogwarts grounds, though, and maybe, if the previous Triwizard Tournament was anything to go by, Hagrid was too busy with other magical creatures to travel very far from the castle for lesson planning.

“Hello Jesper, Matthias. D’you think they look a bit peaky?” Matthias thought they looked like dead wood. He was fine with the cold, but dampness and clamminess were something else entirely, so he did not, as a general rule, like working with anyone or anything that lived in water or wetlands. Swimming with Nina, of course, was the exception.

“Hmmm.” Jesper squinted down at the homemade pond. They had both helped Hagrid dig the ditch without magic last week during a free period in exchange for tea and rock cakes (which apparently none of the rest of the Crows could eat, but which Matthias rather liked). “Actually, I think they might be dying. Guess we’ll have to cancel the First Task, since Dugbogs are obviously an essential part.”

“I’ve told yeh before and I’ll tell yeh again: I don’t know anythin’. An’ if I did know somethin’, I couldn’t tell you, and I wouldn’t tell you.” He frowned. “I think the water level’s getting’ too low. The algae doesn’t look right.”

Jesper waved his wand carelessly and a stream of clear water sprang out, flowing into the pool. He was a very skilled wizard, when he did not think about it too much. “Argh, come on. You tell us things you’re not allowed to tell us all the time! And anyway, it’s for Kaz. Do you want him to die?” Matthias himself was not entirely sure if Jesper’s questions were for Kaz’s sake or to satisfy his own curiosity.

“I’m sure Kaz will be able to deal with it on ‘is own,” said Hagrid airily. “Not that I know what it is, o’ course.”

The flow of water from Jesper’s wand stopped abruptly, and he gasped in realization. “You’ve already told him, haven’t you? After all that rubbish he was talking to the Potters when we had tea? Honestly, I’m shocked. Shocked, appalled, and betrayed.”

“I never said that.” Hagrid wore the alarmed and guilty look he usually wore when he had, in fact, said basically that. Fortunately for him (though less so for Jesper, who still looked honestly insulted), the other members of the class had started to arrive.

Most Hogwarts classes were split between two Houses, but the low numbers in seventh year Care of Magical Creatures, at least this year, meant all of the students were taught together, regardless of House. Really, though, the class was a mix of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, with no Slytherins and just one Ravenclaw, a gloomy boy named Adrik Zhabin who talked even less than Matthias. Nina had once shared a rumor (to Matthias’ annoyance, since he did not gossip, and she knew that) that Adrik had lost his arm in a hippogriff attack. Continuing to spend time around dangerous magical creatures did not make much sense, if that was the case, but maybe he was trying to face his fears, or learn the skills to prevent such a thing from happening again? If so, the choice was honourable, and Matthias respected him for it, even if, and perhaps because, the other boy seemed to hate every minute of his time outside of Hagrid’s hut.

Nobody with any sense at all could manage to lose a limb to a Dugbog, and most of what there was to say about them had already been said in their last two lessons, so the students did not pay much attention to Hagrid’s short lecture as they got to work checking the algae levels of the pondwater and feeding the creatures’ turnips carved into the shape of their real favorite food, mandrake roots. There were more important things to talk about.

“It won’t be dragons again.” Reyem Yul-Kaat was always looking for an excuse to talk about something besides schoolwork, even if it was just stating the obvious. “They’ll want to do something new and exciting, especially with the way the last one ended.”

“Yes, because dragons are so boring,” said Adrik dourly. “No-one in the magical government of this country has any money, not after the war. And there are way more rules and regulations about moving magical creatures and artifacts across borders now. If it’s a magical creature, it’ll be something native to Britain.”

“Hopefully it won’t be a creature at all.” Leoni was carefully checking her Dugbog for woodlice, a rare frown on her face. “The way the dragons were treated last time was pretty unethical. They were all laying mothers, and I heard that one of them trampled most of her own eggs during the First Task.”

“Hagrid wouldn’t let any magical creature be treated poorly! He’s far too skilled a teacher!” Jesper was good at flirting, but almost as bad as Matthias at using fake flattery to get what he wanted. It was hard to watch. Mayu threw a turnip at him, and even Leoni winced. Hagrid just grunted.

“I’m sure the kelpies will be very well cared for. Unless it’s a Flying Seahorse? The Loch Ness Monster?”

“The Loch Ness Monster is a kelpie, you git.” Mayu Yul-Kaat did not bother with manners when speaking with people outside of her House, but she was still less annoying than her brother. Matthias thought she worked hard enough that she could have been a Hufflepuff, but Sorting at Hogwarts was odd. Sometimes it seemed like the Sorting Hat put students in whatever House they asked, even if they would have fit in better somewhere else. The system at Durmstrang was much better, in his opinion. There was none of this splitting students into little groups for no reason; all the students were loyal to each other, and to the Headmaster. Which, on second thought, had not been such a good thing after all, at least for him.

“It’s also the reason Scotland is one of the most frequent violators of Clause 73 of the Statute of Secrecy, so I don’t think Professor McGonagall would allow it on the grounds. This school has enough problems with the law as it is.” On that, Matthias could agree with Adrik.

“I once asked Professor Dumbledore if we could keep Nessie in the Great Lake for a bit,” said Hagrid wistfully. “Thought she might be lonely.” There was a pause as the class tried to figure out how to respond to that information.

“Would there be enough room?” asked Matthias, as delicately as he was able to (which was not very). “With the giant squid there too?”

“Ah, Nessie’s only about ninety feet, she woulda bin fine. Dumbledore didn’t think the merpeople would like it, though.”

“Wait, there’s merpeople in the Great Lake?”

Mayu rounded on her twin. “How could you possibly not know that? You’ve been going to this school for seven years.”

“That was all a clever ruse,” said Jesper in a sort-of-but-not-very hushed voice to the gamekeeper while the rest of the class was distracted by the bickering twins. “Of course, I know that the real First Task is … catching a phoenix!”

Hagrid dropped the Dugbog he was holding. It made a squawking noise that Matthias would never have expected to come from an animal that looked like a log. Jesper looked almost as surprised as the Dugbog. “Wait, what? Really?”

“’O course not,” said Hagrid unconvincingly, picking up and rather aggressively brushing pond weed off of his angrily chittering Dugbog. “Don’t be daft. Where would we get a phoenix? They’re mighty hard teh befriend, and they don’t go nowhere they didn’t have a mind teh go already. Yeh can’t tame a phoenix, really, and yeh certainly can’t bait one.”

“Those are all very good points. But, counterpoint: you’re a very bad liar.” Jesper was a very bad liar too, though he often tried to act like he was not. This was one of the reasons Matthias liked spending time with him, now that several years had passed and he had gotten somewhat more used to his Jesper-ness. He did not say this out loud. Instead, he said: “I think there was a phoenix at the school in the years Albus Dumbledore was Headmaster.”

“Great! So all Kaz has to do is catch Dumbledore’s pet phoenix. Easy peasy.”

“Fawkes wasn’t Professor Dumbledore’s pet, yeh can’t have a phoenix as a pet! An’ they don’t just hang around when their friends die, they have lives o’ their own. Fawkes only turned up ‘bout a month before term started, when they were still fillin’ out the paperwork to get an Occamy across the border. An’ don’ look at me like that,” Jesper was wearing a very smug expression, “yeh’d figured it out anyway. An’ this way yeh can tell Kaz.”

“You have not told him yet?” Even Matthias was surprised. He did not really think that Hagrid considered it cheating. At least, he probably valued his friendship with Kaz (if it could be called that) more than any worries about dishonesty. Matthias could understand that logic, though he was not sure if he agreed with it.

Hagrid looked a little bit sheepish. “I was plannin’ to invite ‘im an’ Inej over fer tea tonight.” He frowned. “He’s bin pretty hard to get a hold of lately. Takin’ too many classes.” This was certainly true. Matthias was not entirely sure he had not stolen a Time Turner from the Ministry of Magic in order to manage his schedule. Seven NEWT level courses was more studying than most Ravenclaws did, and, as far as he knew, Kaz did not have much interest in any of the careers that needed so much education. Though, admittedly, trying to get a straight answer out of Kaz about his plans for after Hogwarts was like trying to get a Niffler to give up its gold.

“We’ll spread the message along to everyone, and you can make the big reveal to all of us. That way poor Nina and Wylan need never know about the appalling favoritism you almost demonstrated by only inviting Kaz and Inej. They would be devastated.”

“Aye, yer a nuisance,” said Hagrid, with much less sincerity than people usually had when they said such things about Jesper. “None of yeh are as small as you used to be, an’ the house gets a bit crowded, is all. Inej would’ve told yeh everythin’ anyway.”

“But this way we get to eat more rock cakes,” reasoned Matthias, ignoring the face Jesper made beside him, which he quickly tried to pretend was in response to his Dugbog trying to eat his Hufflepuff scarf. Hagrid grinned. “I’ll make a new batch as class lets out. An’ that reminds me,” the gamekeeper raised his voice so that the rest of the class, who had mostly moved away from the cold, muddy water to a dry patch of grass where they could work on their species charts, “you lot all have a one page essay on classifyin’ amphibious magical creatures due next week.”

Everyone groaned, even Matthias.

Chapter Text

Jesper was so happy he could sing. He could dance. He could kiss someone (unfortunately, Wylan was in Transfiguration right now). Catching a phoenix! It was laughable. Barely a challenge at all. Well, probably a challenge, but not the kind that would lead to permanent injury or death. Quite possibly that had been intentional on the part of the Tournament’s organizers, the Ministry and the Department of Magical Sports and Whatever, as yet another attempt to avoid the casualties of 1994. Not to mention the animal rights backlash last time after one of the dragon mothers from the First Task had crushed her own eggs (Matthias had gone on a very long rant about this the other day, which was pretty impressive for someone who favored monosyllabic answers to questions). But! More importantly! Kaz’s arrogance wasn’t going to get him killed (the fact that Jesper had also been overconfident enough to put his name in the Goblet was irrelevant). At least, his best friend was safe until February. Frankly, at this point Jesper was a little more worried about how he would deal with the Yule Ball. But December problems were for December.

His good mood carried him through Defense Against the Dark Arts, where Professor Nazyalensky, the Dragon Dread, granted him one of her exceedingly rare and begrudging compliments on his ability to produce a non-verbal Shield Charm. The fact that his emotional state affected his magical performance was probably something a normal person would want to know more about, but Jesper was just glad that he hadn’t accidentally sent Joost flying across the room, like Anya had. Joost and Anya were always doing cute couple-y things like that. He was dead certain they were going to end up married someday.

There was no opportunity to speak with Kaz before dinner, since he was taking eighty-seven classes and had no free periods, or during dinner, since he was secretly a vampire and was incapable of consuming human food except under extreme duress, but the library was always a good place to look for someone who had no concept of work-life balance, so that was where he headed afterwards, arm-in-arm with his rather reluctant boyfriend. Understandably, the library was not Wylan’s favorite place to be. Fortunately, Jesper would be there with him, and he made every situation better automatically, especially when he was feeling this jubilant. Also, Inej would probably be there too, since she and Kaz had been scheming together at lunch. The one bad thing about having so many close friends spread across multiple years and Houses was that everybody learned important news and gossip at different times. This fact didn’t seem to bother Matthias or Wylan so much, but Jesper and Nina both felt it keenly. It was astounding that no wizard had invented a magical version of a mobile phone or walkie-talkie yet. Jesper appreciated a commitment to aesthetic, and oil lamps and parchment letters definitely looked very nice and regal, but he also appreciated electricity. Why British wizards could have indoor plumbing and not telephones was beyond him. His mother had never had any qualms about using and adapting Muggle technologies, but apparently, according to the Ministry, the “misuse of Muggle artifacts” was “against the law.” Narrow-minded, exclusionist, and possible a mite racist? Maybe. But mostly inconvenient. Wylan would certainly prefer it if they could just call their friends and arrange a meeting at the Slat rather than visiting his least favorite room in the castle.

Despite the darkness of the late fall evening, it was still early enough that the library was relatively full of fifth, sixth, and seventh years who were starting to grasp that OWLs and NEWTs were actually real. Naturally, because he hated joy and also most people, Kaz had gravitated towards the most shadowy and deserted corner. Inej, the primary exception to the people-hating rule, was indeed sitting next to him (though still a healthy distance away) on a very uncomfortable looking wooden chair. They were speaking in the low tones of conspirators, and also of people who didn’t want Madame Pince giving them the evil eye.

“Good evening fellow students!” shout-whispered Jesper, as loudly and irritatingly as he dared. Without really thinking about it, he waved his hand in the general direction of the pleasant, well-lit part of the library and Summoned an armchair for himself. Kaz looked personally affronted. Oh well. Mister try-hard didn’t have to be good at everything. Not that Jesper was jealous, or that he wanted to show off (well, maybe he wanted to show off a little bit). Being able to predict when his spells were going to succeed would probably be nice, instead of just hoping for the best at all times. But such was life. And anyway, there was a far more pressing issue at hand.

“I don’t suppose you two have had a chance to talk to Hagrid today? Or Matthias?” The burly Hufflepuff was still eating, because apparently he didn’t think friendship was worth getting indigestion for. Eating dinner in under five minutes was a skill Jesper highly valued in himself, but others thought it was unhealthy and alarming. Their loss.

“No, because I have actual work to do.” Clearly Kaz was not going to be so easy to infect with joy. Not that he ever was.

“Very important work, like posing for photos with a reporter from the Daily Prophet,” said Inej smugly. If the two of them were back to affectionate teasing, then Kaz really must have pseudo-apologized for doing the same shit he always did and mended their relationship again.

“Are they interviewing all the champions?” Wylan settled next to Jesper on the armchair he had conjured for himself, even though there really wasn’t enough room for two people. Jesper was not opposed to this arrangement.

“It wasn’t an interview. It was the Weighing of the Wands. A very feeble attempt to make sure none of us are going to cheat.” The only thing Kaz liked more than actually cheating was making fun of other people for not catching him. “They tried to make me do an interview, but fortunately our headmistress isn’t completely incompetent and knows how to spot a gossip vulture.”

“Photos are bad, but not as bad as a Quick Quotes Quill,” agreed Wylan. “You’ll probably have to talk to a reporter eventually though. Especially if you do well in the First Task.”

“Speaking of which! I have very valuable information for you all. I take payment in offers to edit my essays, music recommendations, and snack foods. Also money.”

“We already know that the First Task is catching an Occamy. Inej found out through Ludo Bagman last week.”

Jesper chose not to feel slighted that neither of them had seen fit to grace his ears with that information, and instead decided to relish the fact that, for once, he knew something Kaz did not.

“I’m sorry to say, my friend, that your intel is outdated! It has recently been divulged to me by our very own and much beloved gamekeeper that for the real First Task you must catch a phoenix. No need to thank me. I wasn’t kidding about the money though.”

Inej furrowed her eyebrows. “Given what Bagman was saying I knew it had to be some sort of bird from South Asia, but I never would have guessed a phoenix. They’re much rarer, I thought.”

“Ah ha! So you were just guessing.”

“It was an educated guess.”

“But it was based on information from Ludo Bagman. He’s not exactly known for being honest and well-informed.”

Jesper patted his boyfriend on the shoulder. “Wylan, I hate to break it to you, but you and Kaz are the only ones who know anything about the bureaucracy in the Department of Magical Games and Stuff. I, for one, didn’t know there was a soul on earth named Ludo before last month.”

“Bagman’s an idiot, but idiots are usually poor liars. Anyway, he was bragging to Madame Rosmerta just this morning, and if he had been at all interested in equivocating to show off he could have come up with something better than a snake with wings.”

“Wait, this morning? What happened to last week?” This was actually an immense relief; Jesper hadn’t had a chance to speak with Inej at all today, so maybe she wasn’t hiding the truth because she secretly hated him. Almost certainly that was the case.

“An Occamy is not just a snake with wings. They’re feathered choranaptyxic bipeds. And what were you doing in Hogsmeade, Brekker? Visits were cancelled this year, because of the tournament.” Jesper still thought that latter fact was an injustice. He could have been planning a delightfully ridiculous afternoon in Madame Puddifoot’s Tea Shop with Wylan, but now all he had to look forward to this Saturday was schoolwork and trying to find out what choranaptyxic meant without asking Matthias.

“Those are some awfully big words for you Helvar. I’m surprised you didn’t strain something.”

“Hey! What if you weren’t an asshole to my boyfriend? Just for, you know, an evening. To shake things up a bit.” Matthias had found Nina somewhere on his way up to the library. It was possible his delay had been partially due to a pit stop for snogging, which Jesper thought was perfectly fair and valid for both of them. They had also brought over more chairs, and a jar of those lovely bluebell flames that Inej had tried to teach them all to make (Jesper himself had stopped after his second attempt nearly burned the Slat down). To Kaz’s presumable chagrin, their little corner was starting to feel much less like the perfect place for brooding in quiet angst.

Inej spoke up before Kaz, Matthias, and Nina could begin arguing in earnest. Evidently, she was also interested in not being angsty this evening. “I was in Hogsmeade. I had … some other things to deal with. Bagman’s staying at the Three Broomsticks, and the Weasley-Potters have a room booked for next week.”

“Merlin’s beard, is the First Task really that soon? You’d better learn how to kill an Occamy fast, Brekker.” Matthias gasped audibly at the idea of killing an endangered magical creature, put forward by his own girlfriend, no less.

“Don’t worry,” said Jesper reassuringly. “It’s really a phoenix, and they’re immortal! Also, the champions aren’t supposed to kill him, just catch him.”

“How do you know it’s a him, hmm?”

“It’s Fawkes, Albus Dumbledore’s old phoenix familiar.” Of course Kaz knew that. Why not? So much for Jesper having the upper hand in terms of knowledge. It had been nice while it lasted.

“Please tell me that’s not true, so I can make fun of him for being wrong.” Nina looked pleadingly at Jesper, but, alas, he had no comfort to give.

“Unfortunately, this is yet another example of Kaz being borderline omniscient. However! I would like to strongly emphasize that it was I, not the brilliant Kaz Brekker, nor the equally brilliant and also wise and kind Inej Ghafa, but I, Jesper Fahey, who first discovered the task was centered around a phoenix. They were the ones who thought it was an Occamy. No offense to Inej.”

“None taken,” said Inej, amused.

“I was there too.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t really do anything. You were playing with your Dugbog for most of class.”

Wylan turned pink and made a choked noise. “Is that a euphemism for something?”

Jesper winked salaciously. “You could find out.” Wylan turned even pinker.

“Alright boys, keep it in your pants. There are sensitive ears nearby.” Nina patted her boyfriend’s kindly, as if he were an elderly person or a very small child. Rather than attractively rosy, his cheeks were bright, blotchy red.

“The plan still stands though, no matter what kind of bird they’re going to use. Arguably a phoenix will be easier to catch, since they can’t change size.” Ah, so that was what choranaptyxic meant. See? He had already checked off one of his to-do list items for tomorrow. He could be productive, even on a Friday.

Inej’s statement had obviously been an invitation for Kaz to reveal his alleged plan, based on the look she was shooting him, but Matthias, still red and possibly still smarting from the comment about his vocabulary, spoke first. “What plan do you have that can catch a winged creature? You cannot Summon a broom. You do not know how to fly one.” Harsh. But not inaccurate. Kaz’s ineptitude on a broomstick had been well established since long before he broke his leg.

The Slytherin waved his leather-clad hand dismissively. “They’ll probably have made provisions for that particular workaround this year anyway. And I would lose points for lack of originality.” Naturally, you couldn’t just complete an impossible task, you had to be unique about it. Add a little something special as you tried to avoid being burned alive. Okay, so maybe Jesper was still a little worried about his best friend dying. Sue him.

Matthias scoffed. Jesper wasn’t sure the blonde had ever made such a sound before. He was kind of impressed. “Only the most powerful Dark wizards can fly without a broom. You are not that good at magic on your own. And you cannot have any outside help.”

Kaz raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were supposed to be the magical creatures expert? And an advocate for equal rights, no less. I’m disappointed in you, Helvar.”

He rose to his feet slowly and picked up his cane, annoyingly aware that they were all, excepting Inej, hanging on to his every word. “The Triwizard Tournament rules say quite a bit about not getting any outside help from wizards. They never say anything about other magic users. And we aren’t the only ones who use magic to fly.”

Chapter Text

Not exactly surprisingly, the ground floor of the Three Broomsticks was packed full to bursting the morning of the First Task. From what Harry could tell, the inn was fully booked for the weekend. Such was the anticipation for the Tournament that even the Hog’s Head, or whatever the pub was called now that Aberforth had retired to a goat farm in Switzerland, seemed to be seeing equal traffic. Though this last was possibly also a result of the fact that the new owner followed basic sanitation and hygiene requirements.

As usual, crowds meant stares and whispers, even at this early hour, but fortunately Rosmerta was sufficiently used to him and Ginny by now that she provided them both with full plates of eggs and bacon (and, most importantly, strong black tea) without comment, and, indeed, almost before they sat down.

Ginny squinted out the window next to their customary table. “Looks like it’ll be a nice day for it, at least. Can’t see any sign of rain.” Harry had no idea how she could come to this conclusion just by a single glance at the breaking dawn, but he trusted her. Professional Quidditch playing came with a lot of strange and oddly specific skills.

“Oi! D’you have room for two more? Or are you both too famous now for the likes of us?”

Grinning, Harry slid over to make space for Ron, while Hermione sat in the booth next to Ginny and began making tactfully complimentary small talk about how large her stomach was getting and how exciting yet intimidating babies were. By this point Harry could pretty well recite all acceptable variations of such comments from memory, so he ignored them and turned to his best friend. Technically they were both still Aurors, and therefore ostensibly worked on the same floor of the Ministry of Magic, but in practice they had different enough competencies that they were often assigned to different missions. In consequence, they hadn’t actually seen each other in person for nearly three months, which Harry was finding, perhaps due to everything else that was going on in his life, oddly nerve-wracking. The rumour travelling around the office that Ron was thinking of quitting and transitioning to work full-time at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was not helpful in this regard. Obviously it wasn’t true, just jealousy at Ron’s swift promotion (fueled equally by his role in the Second Wizarding War and his many strategic successes in the field), but still. There were plenty of fine people in the office, but Ron would always be Ron. They had been through hell and back together, and if Harry was really honest with himself (which Ginny would say he rarely was), then he wasn’t sure he could keep going into the field without knowing his best friend was out there somewhere too, even if it was helping to organize negotiations with a group of shady warlocks in Dover rather than trying to root out yet another group of former Snatchers hiding in London.

“Does the great Harry Potter get to know what the champions will be facing? All I know is that it’s not dragons. I saw Charlie a couple weeks ago and he’s not a good enough liar to have hidden that from me.” Ron stole a piece of his toast, and Harry attempted to wave down Rosmerta so that the other Auror could order his own breakfast.

“They haven’t told me anything. Bagman won’t spend ten seconds in a room alone with me, not since that business with the dodgy Bludgers last year, and I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to anyone else involved since the champions were chosen. Too busy with work.”

“I would’ve thought McGonagall would know something, or Hagrid.”

“No chance I’d get any information out of McGonagall. I’m pretty sure she thinks I would just tell all the champions everything I knew.” A fear that was not unfounded. It was not at all clear to Harry what was gained by sending four—sorry, three—teenagers into a potentially life-threatening situation completely unprepared. At least during his tournament everyone had known what was coming.

“But Hagrid, though? He would tell you anything, and if it’s any sort of magical creature he’s bound to know about it. He’s probably already told the Hogwarts champion, actually.”

Harry hemmed, and Ron stole a piece of his bacon and another slice of toast. “He’s a Slytherin, you know. He doesn’t really seem like the sort of kid who would spend a lot of time with the school gamekeeper.” This assumption was not exactly supported by the fact that Brekker had been quite comfortable with Fang, and with Hagrid’s hut more generally, when they had visited for tea. But, given how the young champion had also spent most of that same visit demonstrating explicitly the level of his own self-interest and disdain for others, qualities Hagrid found deplorable, Harry felt he could ignore the former.

“He’s also a pureblood,” added Ginny, joining the conversation perhaps in a desperate bid to get Hermione to stop giving her unsolicited infant feeding advice. “The Brekkers weren’t exactly known for their kindness and tolerance.” Ron shrugged in acquiescence and took a gulp of Harry’s tea.

Hermione surveyed them all with more shock than was probably strictly necessary. “I think we, of all people, should know better than to assume House and lineage dictate morality. You especially, Harry. What about Sirius? Or Snape?” Ron and Ginny both snorted derisively at that last example. In perfect tandem. It was kind of uncanny. Harry ignored them both in favour of addressing the rather harried looking Madame Rosmerta, who had at last arrived.

“He’ll have what I’m having.”

“And milk, for the tea. And any information on the Hogwarts champion, if you’ve got it.”

“Ron! He’s a seventeen-year-old student, not a suspect.”

Rosmerta gave a put upon sigh, but it was all show. She loved gossip, even when the principal actors were seventeen-year-old students. “He’s a troublemaker, that one. Worse than you three ever were, or maybe better, since he hardly ever gets caught. I’m certain he’s been stealing alcohol from my stores since at least his fourth year, but I can’t prove it. And then there’s the illegal gambling ring, and the new ‘ghost’ sightings around the Shrieking Shack, and the problems Heleen’s been having with inventory at The Peacock…”

“The Peacock?”

“Formerly known as the Hog’s Head. Aberforth sold the place after the war, didn’t you know?”

“Well, that can only have improved things.” Hermione gave her husband an accusatory glare. “What? I’m not saying he was a bad person. He just didn’t know how to run a pub. You’ve been to that place, it was filthy!”

“In any event, it will be an interesting tournament. Mr. Brekker isn’t particularly popular with the rest of the students, as far as I can tell, but he certainly has as much of a chance of winning as the other two champions, if not more. Whether there’ll be much celebration if he does is the real question.”

Ron sighed laboriously and stole some more of Harry’s bacon. Harry seriously considered just ordering more for himself. It was getting cold now anyways. “It’ll be just our luck if some blood purist wins the first tournament after the war.”

Rosmerta, who did not seem very interested in returning to her actual job, hummed a little at that. “I never said anything about prejudice. From what I’ve heard, he spend most of his time with Muggleborns and half-bloods.”

“You met him at Hagrid’s, whether you like it or not, and I can’t imagine Hagrid would let anyone into his house who was secretly a Death Eater in training. And as I said before, he’s just a seventeen-year-old boy. They’re all idiots. You two certainly were.” Ginny seemed willing enough to agree with Hermion one this, and nodded emphatically. Ron grimaced, probably remembering some key moments from their hunt for the Horcruxes that would support this theory. Harry was also coming up rather short on counterexamples. Instead, he ordered another side of bacon, and some more coffee. It was going to be a long day.

“You should really eat something.” Kaz looked up from the Arithmancy essay he was working on to find Inej, predictably, eyeing him with no small amount of concern. “You’ll need your strength for today.” As if he were marching into battle, and not completing a perfectly safe and manageable task with a carefully thought out plan. He gestured to his coffee without bothering to answer aloud.

“Ah, yes, black coffee. Breakfast of champions.” Nine dropped a full plate of waffles and apple syrup in front of him with a loud thunk. “Eat up, Brekker. We promise we’ll only make fun of you for the next three or four years if you vomit in front of the entire school.”

“This essay is due on Monday, and I’d rather not have to Scourgify syrup off of it, if it’s all the same to you, Zenik.”

Wylan frowned at him. “That essay is due next Friday, and you know it. Did you just forget I take Arithmancy with you?”

Apparently he had. Which did not do wonders for the air of calm indifference he was trying to cultivate by publicly doing schoolwork the morning of the First Task. If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t really expected the rest of the Crows to fall for it, but he wished that they would be a bit quieter about their skepticism. He had a reputation to maintain with the rest of the school, at least.

Kaz rolled up his parchment with a melodramatic sigh, then winced inwardly. He sounded like Jesper. “The task will be over in a couple of hours, and I can eat then. Filling up on carbs will just make me sluggish.” He gave the waffles a disdainful glance. Nina, unbothered, handed the plate to Jesper, who accepted it enthusiastically. Inej, very bothered, replaced it with an apple.

All six of them were seated at the Slytherin House table, steadfastly ignoring the stares and whispers from almost every other student in the school. Normally the Dining Hall would not be so full of students this early on a Saturday, but the First Task was set to start at nine o’clock sharp. Given everything Kaz knew about Ludo Bagman, he suspected this timeline was optimistic at best, but he wouldn’t be the champion to show up late.

To Inej’s evident satisfaction, he began to eat the apple in the methodical way he did most things, leaving practically only the seeds and the stem behind. She was probably right that he needed some energy source more long-lasting than caffeine, and he also needed something to do with his hands that wasn’t too obviously a sign of nerves. Not that he was nervous. He had an excellent plan, and several contingency plans, and the task itself wasn’t even dangerous. Everything was going to be fine.

The goalposts remained at both ends of the Quidditch pitch, but the flat green lawn had been replaced by great dune-like hills of sand. Harry could imagine Oliver Wood’s look of horror, though, in all honesty, the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been during the last tournament. He wondered idly if Wood was here. Besides Ron and Hermione, he had already seen a few familiar faces who weren’t contractually obligated to be here by virtue of their employment. Dean and Seamus had turned up together (Ron had made some comment about how close they were as friends, and Ginny had rolled her eyes so powerfully Harry had almost, channeling Molly Weasley, told her they were bound to get stuck like that). Fleur and Bill were there, as was Viktor Krum, with his new girlfriend (Spouse? Fiancée?). Many people seemed interested in talking to Harry, in getting his opinion on every possible aspect of the tournament, and since Harry was not at all interested in talking to any of them, he dragged Ginny as quickly as possible to the judge’s booth, which fortunately had very restricted accessibility. Krum in particular seemed quite insulted that he was not allowed in, though perhaps he was just annoyed that Hermione had not divorced Ron yet. Harry thought that continuing to chase after a girl you had dated informally for a few months over a decade ago was maybe a bit excessive, but then again, he had married his own teenage sweetheart, so perhaps he was being a tad hypocritical.

Professor McGonagall, Madame Maxime, and Jarl Brum were already there. Bagman, unsurprisingly, was not. Once again, Harry was astounded that he still had a job. As soon as Wood retired from Puddlemere United, he was going to start talking to people. Or, more likely, ask Hermione to start talking to people. Or maybe Percy. The two of them had been in the same year, and Harry was pretty sure they were moderately well acquainted with one another. Of course, it was also possible that Bagman and Nikolai Lantsov from the Department of International Magical Cooperation were still speaking with the champions about what they were actually supposed to do for this First Task.

Professor Flitwick, present in his role as Deputy Headmaster rather than as Charms professor, was chatting with two other wizards. Jan Van Eck, who really did bear a striking resemblance to his son (if you discounted the height and the receding hairline), and another man with a well-trimmed red beard and mustache whom Harry only vaguely recognized. Presumably another sponsor, or stakeholder, or some other kind of person with enough money to get the best seats on the pitch for no discernible reason. He tried as much as possible to stay away from the bribery and nepotism that seemed endemic in those areas of the Ministry still essentially governed by a small cabal of pureblood families. That was a problem for people who aimed to make a career in politics, and who had the ambition to do so; Harry just wanted to catch Dark Wizards. If he never had to attend another dinner party again, it would be too soon. It went without saying that dinner with any member of the Weasley family, or with the Grangers, didn’t count.

Van Eck turned and greeted him with far more enthusiasm than Harry really felt ready to reciprocate. Ginny stepped on his foot, probably to prevent him from actively grimacing.

“Mr. Potter! How wonderful to see you again.”

“You as well,” Harry lied, without even gritting his teeth, and shook the extended hand.

The primary issue with Jan Van Eck was that he was a perfectly civil, pleasant person to be around. He was polite, philanthropic, and successful, and there was literally no reason whatsoever for Harry to dislike him, besides a vague suspicion about the untrustworthiness of rich Slytherin purebloods generally. But he liaised with Muggles through his work, and was a strong proponent of integrating Muggle technology into wizarding businesses, so clearly he wasn’t a blood purist. They didn’t really run in the same circles, since, despite his significant sphere of influence, Van Eck didn’t actually work at the Ministry, but as Harry continued, to his personal chagrin, to be promoted to higher ranks in the Auror Office, he was expected to appear at the same events as other rich and famous people. Hermione called this networking. Ron called it the Slug Club two-point-oh. Complaining about it to them and Ginny was easily the most enjoyable part.

Harry had met Van Eck formally for the first time at some sort of fundraising dinner getting young magic users scholarships to study dead languages abroad (or something like that). Then there had been that deeply weird commute with his son to King’s Cross Station, and, most recently, a meeting about increasing positive publicity for the tournament and convincing the European wizarding community that absolutely nobody was going to die this time, they promised. Not like all those other times. Those were just tragic accidents. Flukes, really. Van Eck had gone on about the importance of partnering with local small businesses while Harry had taken advantage of the free lunch provided.

Obviously there was nothing wrong with caring about politics or communications or management. Clearly somebody had to. It was just that these sorts of meetings and conversations always put him in mind, a bit, of smarmy smiles and obsequious compliments and elaborately prepared puddings falling on the heads of high-powered business executives’ wives.

And that car ride with Wylan Van Eck had been really weird.

Ginny shook Van Eck’s hand as well, doing a much better job than her husband at pretending to be happy to see him. Her acting skill was a boon sometimes. “I’m not sure if either of you have met Pekka Rollins? He owns a number of properties in Diagon Alley, and around London. We’ve been working together to promote the radio broadcast of the tournament.” Harry had completely forgotten that that was happening. He had likely been too busy eating complimentary bacon-and-tomato sandwiches to pay attention to that part of the discussion. He smiled and nodded, as if he knew or cared what they were talking about, and shook Rollins’ hand.

Olympe Maxime was clearly even less invested in pretending to care about publicity. “Yes, yes, I am sure eet weel be very good for business, to ‘ave ze first task playing in your leetle bars.” Rollins made a face. “But I do not theenk it is very appropriate, as you say, to ‘ave these conversations right now, in ze judge’s box. Now zat we are all ‘ere, I theenk maybe eet eez time for you to leave, Monseigneur?”

“Now that we are all almost here,” piped up Flitwick. “We’re still waiting on the representative from the Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

“Yes, and he’s late. As you almost were, Mr. Potter.” Based on McGonagall’s expression, Harry was doing a poorer job disguising his feelings than he had thought. He had not gotten that much sleep last night. Probably it was nothing to worry about, though, just like it was nothing to worry about that three teenagers were going to risk injury and humiliation in front of not only the crowd gathered here in the stands but also listeners across magical Britain. At least, if the evident displeasure and jealousy of Maxime and Brum was anything to go by, the broadcast would not be international. Small mercies.

Before he or anyone else could respond, there was the sound of footsteps thundering up the wooden stairs of the stands, and Bagman appeared, pink-faced and out of breath. “Speak of the devil,” muttered Ginny, too quiet for anyone but Harry to hear. Ludo’s penchant for defrauding goblins had not made him very popular with any members of the Weasley clan, not since Bill had begun putting so much effort into improving relations between them and wizards in the last few years.

“Oh, hello! Are we all ready then? Excellent! Mr. Rollins, Mr. Van Eck, do you have seats? I’m sure we can squeeze you in somewhere.” Everyone else looked visibly uncomfortable, but Bagman either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Let’s get started then.” He faced the crowd and pointed his wand at his throat. “Sonorus!”

Professor Safin met Kaz and the rest of the Crows coming out of the Dining Hall. “Mr. Brekker, good to see you looking well and ready for the day.” Irritatingly, he couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic. “Follow me, if you please. You’ll be meeting with the rest of the champions to be debriefed before the first task begins.”

 Kaz definitely did not swallow thickly or break out into a cold sweat. That would be absurd. Everyone else looked nervous on his behalf, though, even Matthias and Nina, who really only spent any time with him because Inej did. “No mourners,” said Jesper.

“No funerals.”

Safin seemed like she wanted to inquire about this odd exchange, but then thought better of it and gestured for him to follow her through the front doors.

Unsurprisingly, they headed towards the Quidditch pitch, accompanied by a few scattered students and faculty members who apparently wanted to arrive as early as possible to get good seats. From what Kaz could tell, the stadium hadn’t been altered in any significant way, though it was just possible that a few extra rows of seats had been added. That was fine. He had already known certain members of the Ministry and other relevant parties from outside of Hogwarts would be coming to watch, and a bigger audience didn’t change anything. It’s not like he would be in the crowd. That would be a different situation entirely.

“I believe everyone should be in the change rooms. Nikolai Lantsov from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Ludo Bagman, whom you’ve already met, will explain how the task will be structured and judged, then you will each be given a turn to complete it. If you need anything, or if you have any problems before you start, you can come to me as your Head of House or to Professor McGonagall, who will be in the judge’s box near the top of the stadium.” She nodded at him and turned to go as they reached the pitch.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to break a leg?” called Kaz sardonically, in an attempt to be amusing rather than an attempt to delay the inevitable.

Safin sighed and, to his surprise, smiled somewhat fondly. “Good luck, Kaz.” And then she walked away.

The change rooms were dim, since the entire pitch was extremely flammable and naturally something as practical as electric lighting was out of the question. The wall that normally separated the girls’ and boys’ sides, or at least that had the last time Kaz had needed to come near the Quidditch pitch (probably two years ago), had disappeared, leaving one largeish open space. Dunyasha, still wearing her impractical all-white robes, was standing in the center with her arms crossed, looking appropriately disgusted by her surroundings. Lantsov, dressed in a shade of teal Jesper would have envied, was chatting far too cheerfully with Bagman, and the other one, Adem Bajan, was as yet unaccounted for. It was nice to see that Hogwarts was not always going to be the least organized and most tardy of the schools participating in this competition.

Lantsov grinned widely at him. “Mr. Brekker! I’m glad you’ve arrived. Would you mind letting me take a look at that lovely cane of yours?”

With more trepidation than he would ever have admitted aloud, Kaz handed over his crow-headed cane, which Nikolai began examining closely, running his hands along the shaft and muttering in the bastardized pseudo-Latin most verbal spells seemed to use. This was not totally surprising, though he had rather hoped it wouldn’t happen. None of the other competitors would be bringing objects of any kind with them into the arena, besides their robes and wands, and Kaz’s obvious and necessary exception therefore needed to be inspected to avoid giving him any advantage, either in appearance or actuality. Fortunately, he had remembered to remove all the anti-burglary hexes that morning. If Lantsov was in any way worried about the perfectly unmagical lead lining which made the cane noticeably weightier than one made only of wood, he didn’t comment.

Bajan arrived as Lantsov was returning the cane to its rightful owner. He seemed as uncomfortable in the dank and poorly heated change rooms as Lazareva, but he was letting it show on his face as nervousness instead of disdain. How embarrassing for him.

Lantsov gestured for the champions to sit on the wooden benches that lined the walls (none of them did), then reached a gloved hand inside his robes to retrieve a roll of parchment which he unfurled with unnecessary gravitas. “I’m sure each of you has been waiting in eager anticipation for this moment! After all, there is no conceivable way you could have learned any information about or in any way prepared for this task before now.” Bagman furrowed his brows and Bajan blinked. Kaz suppressed a snort. At least there were some members of the Ministry who weren’t complete imbeciles. One might have hoped they would have worked in a more useful Department than International Magical Cooperation, but it was probably all to Kaz’s benefit that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement wasn’t more intelligent.

“You will each be assigned the same task, and will be observed by our five judges and over a thousand of your closest friends. You will be graded on a point scale from zero to ten, based on speed, efficiency, creative use of magic, and the individual whims and biases of each judge.” Bagman seemed about to interrupt, but Lantsov steamrollered over him, still grinning brightly (or perhaps manically). “The order will be determined by the contents of this bag.” A dramatic flourish, and the appearance (seemingly out of thin air, but possibly also out of his sleeve, which is what Kaz would have done) of a small velvet sack in ministerial burgundy. He handed the bag to Dunyasha first, because she was the sort of person who had things handed to her first, and she, wearing a haughty expression that seemed a bit inappropriate for the context, withdrew a small crystal flask. Bajan gave an audible sigh of relief. What had he expected, Flesh-Eating Slugs? The Durmstrang champion showed them all the golden number embossed on the side; naturally, a one. Kaz was next—a three. Good. The extra time would give him the chance to review his plan, and make any changes based on the new information about to be provided. Namely, what on earth potion making had to do with catching a phoenix. He was not, or course, worried that Hagrid had lied, since the man may have been physically incapable of doing so, but he was starting to regret that apple. And maybe the four mugs of coffee.

Bajan withdrew his own flask, and Lantsov clapped his hands together. “Well, that’s settled! And I’m sure you all are wondering what these little bottles have to do with the upcoming task you know nothing about.”

Bagman interrupted at this point, still looking slightly put out. Being upstaged in intelligence by someone half your age was probably irritating even if you were as politically insignificant and socially unaware as the washed up Wimbourne Wasps player. Lantsov was only in his early twenties, after all, barely out of school really. As far as Kaz could tell (and international magical cooperation was not really his area of expertise or interest when it came to ministerial operations), his position was largely the result of nepotism and money. The Lantsovs were powerful pureblood Russian expats who had arrived in magical Britain a few decades ago for some long, convoluted reason which seemed to have involved a number of forms of malfeasance, including a sex scandal and misappropriation of public funds. Nikolai’s older brother Vasily held some equally performative position in the Department of Magical Transportation, of all things. Their parents were retired somewhere in Majorca. Kaz had learned this all somewhat accidentally while researching the history of the tournament and the relevant governmental parties several weeks ago. You never knew what information would prove useful, or, as was equally important, what information a pureblood of his supposed pedigree would be expected to know. Thus again, the motivation behind his seven NEWTs, and the reason he averaged about four hours of sleep a night and five cups of coffee a day. Tea just didn’t cut it in terms of caffeine, even if the tea in question was Inej’s handmade chai.

“I’m sure all our champions are aware of and have followed the rules of the competition. So, of course, none of you know that you have been assigned the task of locating and catching a phoenix! That’s right! One of the world’s rarest and cleverest magical creatures, with properties that befuddle even the most accomplished magizoolo

gists. Which, naturally, is where these come in.” He tapped Dunyasha’s flask with the tip of his wand, and she smiled in the way people often did when they were trying to disguise their disgust. She did not appear at all shocked by the nature of the game (she was a very poor actor), which was both unsurprising and irritating, since Kaz didn’t know who her informants were. Yet.

“You will need to fill these vials with phoenix tears, which are capable of healing any wound or curing any illness. But be careful! Injure the bird in any way, and you will certainly lose points, and possibly even risk disqualification.”

It was child’s play, really, compared to fighting a dragon. Kaz wondered how Potter would react, watching; in his place, Kaz would have at least been bitter, if not downright furious. How could something so paltry be equally deserving of a thousand Galleons? Not to mention this suddenly sentimental focus on the well-being of the beast in question. People were always sympathetic towards pretty birds with profitable powers, and much less so towards monsters.

Nikolai went on to explain who the judges were (as if they hadn’t already been told at least twice before), where to go after they had successfully completed the task, and what to do in case of some emergency that prevented them from continuing. Not that the latter seemed particularly likely. Phoenixes couldn’t even breathe fire; they only combusted when they were about to die.

Time moved slowly throughout the not-so-brief disquisition, until it was over, and then everything and everyone was moving quite quickly. Bagman left for the judge’s box, and Lantsov left for somewhere else, and there was an announcement even more ludicrously overwrought than what they had already received, and then Dunyasha was stepping out onto the Quidditch pitch. The Triwizard Tournament had officially begun.

Harry had not been expecting Fawkes to turn up. It was definitely preferable to watching a bunch of teenagers face off with a dragon, but he also felt strangely insulted. Such a servile role seemed unbefitting the noble phoenix. And what if he got hurt? It didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility, even with Bagman’s warnings, especially given what the champions were actually meant to do. But the wizarding world, and the Ministry of Magic in particular, was always more than capable of treating any person or creature as a tool for their own ends whenever it suited them. He really shouldn’t have been that surprised.

The girl from Durmstrang came first, Dunyasha Lazareva. Harry still occasionally read the non-sports-related sections of the Daily Prophet, mostly to mock it as a bonding exercise with Ginny, and Skeeter had painted her as the favourite to win, a talented, charming, and confident witch. Naturally, none of that counted for anything when you acknowledged who was providing the information. At least her eyes weren’t swimming with the ghosts of her past.

Fawkes was perched on one of the tallest goalposts when the student walked out onto the pitch, preening himself and appearing utterly unbothered by the cheering crowd. He seemed to be in his prime, red and gold plumage glinting in the sun, surely years from Burning Day. Harry felt mildly ill.

For no very obvious practical reason, Lazareva twirled in a circle, producing a ring of bright red flames as she did so. Seemed like a less than effective strategy for combatting a bird immune to fire, but alright then. Showing off was, well, part of the show. Fawkes reacted not at all. Dunyasha’s ring of fire widened, burning brighter and brighter, transforming the sand into smooth black glass. The crowd made appropriate noises of awe, and even McGonagall gave an appreciative little hum. Harry, who was certainly not searching for fiendish forms in the flames, or thinking about a smooth black lake filled with animated corpses, felt moderately ill.

Gradually it became clear that the waves of glossy black stone were forming tiers, steps the witch would presumably use to climb towards the phoenix’s perch. How exactly this would help her if the bird decided to actually use his wings was unclear. One might also have imagined that sand would be easier to manipulate into some kind of moving platform or staircase than stone, but the magic was impressive. For the crowd at least, if not for Fawkes.

Dunyasha ran up her stairs as lightly as a dancer, maintaining her ring of fire and creating new ones as she went. Fawkes stuck his head under his wing and seemed to settle down for a nap. As the witch rose higher, it began to seem absurdly possible that her strategy might actually work. Ludo Bagman narrated all of this in his most enthusiastic Quidditch announcer voice, despite the fact that there was no seat in the stands from which the action wouldn’t be visible. It wasn’t like anyone was flying out of view, or looking particularly likely to start doing so. Maybe the entire task would be over quickly, without anyone sustaining any serious (or even minor) injuries.

Then something started to move under the sand.

Salamanders. A lot of them. They must have been fed on quite a significant amount of pepper before the competition to be able to survive so long outside of their flames, and especially in the chilly November weather. Harry hadn’t thought they were desert dwellers (though, in all honesty, he didn’t remember much from Care of Magical Creatures beyond the Hippogriffs and the Blast-Ended Skrewts), but staying buried in the sand was probably keeping them necessarily warm. In any event, they were certainly not put off by Dunyasha’s flames; a few were even hot enough to climb through the still soft layers of her molten glass. One of them, now wreathed in the Durmstrang student’s own red flames, set her white robes on fire with its tale, eliciting a cry Harry could hear even this far up in the judge’s box. They were so high up, in fact, that they seemed to be swaying in the wind, though his vertigo could have been a result of the ringing in his ears. He looked down at his hands, clenched with white knuckles on the edge of the bench, in an effort to steady himself. It did not help. He felt like he was going to vomit. A great gasp rose up from the stands, and he squeezed his eyes shut, vaguely aware of Ginny addressing him with concern in her voice. “Just need the toilets,” he muttered, before fleeing their small section of the stands, in fairly flagrant dereliction of his duty as a judge. This would probably come back to bite him in the ass later, but he couldn’t work up the energy to care. After all, what did it really matter? These kids would either die or get hurt or, by some miracle, survive unscathed, and there was nothing he could do to help them now.

Inside the change rooms, it was pretty difficult to hear what was happening on the pitch itself. There were gasps from the crowd, and mostly unintelligible exclamations from the extremely excitable commentator, who sounded like Ludo Bagman; however, none of this gave Kaz much of a sense of what to expect when his turn arrived. According to Kaz’s watch (a stolen pocket watch, to fit with the wizarding world’s overall anachronistic aesthetic), Dunyasha took approximately six more minutes to complete the task than Adem, but she also drew far stronger reactions from her audience, which could be either a good things or a bad thing. The rules of this tournament really were not very clear, and the evaluation of the champions’ performances was clearly going to be very subjective, to the extent that six minutes might not matter much in the long run. Kaz was also convinced he had heard violin music during the Beauxbatons student’s turn, but such a sound was so incongruous with the circumstances that he had not completely discounted the possiblility that he was simply losing his mind due to nerves.

Because he was nervous, even if he would never have admitted it aloud. Kaz was competent, and a moderately powerful wizard, and certainly not the type of person to enter any type of competition without being as prepared as he could be, regardless of the rules. But, when all was said and done, there was only so much he could control. That was the problem with magic. There were rules for potion-making, and spell-casting, and runes, and arithmancy, and astronomy, and even that imprecise monstrosity, divination, but at the end of the day none of it really made any sense. None of it could be explained, not properly, not like Muggle mathematics or logic or even the rules of probability. Nobody had yet been able to tell him why some people were born with magical abilities and some weren’t, and that made magic unpredictable, and therefore dangerous. This was especially true for magical creatures. Hagrid had once told him that no wizard had ever performed a comprehensive study of Thestrals and their affiliation with (and potential attraction to) death. The research on phoenixes also had gaps you could drive the Knight Bus through, since modern magizoologists apparently only cared about creatures which could risk exposing the wizarding world to Muggles, like dragons or the Loch Ness Monster.

He had a plan, though. He had a plan, and it was a good one, and he was Kaz Brekker (born, phoenix-like, from the ashes of Kaz Rietveld). He would win this ridiculous, under-regulated, dangerous, pointless tournament, simply because he wouldn’t accept anything less from himself. When Nikolai Lantsov returned, as he had for Bajan, to lead him onto the Quidditch pitch, he was ready, because really, he didn’t have any other option.

The arena was blindingly bright after the dim change rooms, an irritating disadvantage and delay, but he wasn’t stupid enough not to have foreseen it. The more serious problem was the sand; shifting surfaces were not easy to navigate with a cane and a bad leg. Fortunately, he wouldn’t be on his feet for long. Ludo Bagman was saying something inane over whatever passed for wizarding loudspeakers, but Kaz tuned him out. Commentators were there for the audience, not the competitors, and Bagman probably wasn’t going to describe the phoenix’s exact location on the pitch, or divulge the menacing creature which was surely lurking beneath the sand dunes. No point in delaying the inevitable, then.

Whistling with one’s fingers while one is wearing gloves was perhaps more difficult than the average person might assume, but, as with many of Kaz’s skills, obsessive practice had brought him close to perfection. That he had learned the technique barehanded while still a child living in idyllic, pastoral ignorance of any and all magic had made re-learning it in the past few years much easier. The crowd in the stands seemed confused, even mildly alarmed, at the piercing shriek he produced, but any puzzlement on their part would hopefully just increase their (and, more importantly, the judges’) interest in what he was about to pull off. Not that he was leaving anything up to hope; he was as confident as he could be.

He didn’t have to wait long. Less than a minute had passed before a dark shape briefly blotted out the sunlight, then landed lightly in front of Kaz. Flapping her batlike wings gently to regain her footing on the unstable sand, Onyx nuzzled at his robes with her cool, reptilian snout, unsurprisingly expecting some kind of treat. Actually, he probably would have brought her something if he had thought it worth the risk. Thestrals were smart and patient enough to handle delayed gratification, fortunately.

Mounting the Thestral was more painful than it would have been with two good legs, but Kaz could handle discomfort. And by this point Onyx was used to his awkwardness, and could accommodate by sinking into a low crouch. Kaz hadn’t ridden a real horse since he was nine, but he was pretty sure they didn’t normally do that. Once settled, he whispered the words to transfigure his cane into a pencil (with a real lead core, not graphite) and tucked it away in a pocket of his robes. He hated doing that, but carrying the thing at full size while riding Onyx was inconvenient for both of them. Arguably, he should have just left it in the change rooms, saving himself and Lantsov the trouble, but this way he could show off his wandwork far more effectively than he was planning on doing throughout most of the task. Also, he may have been trying to prove a point to bloody Dunyasha Lazareva. Sue him.

As usual, Onyx responded to his instructions almost before he could utter them. And Jesper liked to brag about his stupid broomstick. Kaz was less certain than Matthias that most magical creatures could understand human language, but Thestrals, in this as in so much else, were atypical. The winged horse took off immediately, clearly glad, like Kaz, to be free of that damned sand, and headed toward the opposite end of the pitch, where he could now see the phoenix’s brilliant plumage glinting in the sun. Thestrals were, in fact, practically blind, especially in bright light like this, but they had an extraordinary sense of smell, and Onyx had spent as much time as possible since her rider’s discovery of the real nature of the first task becoming familiar with phoenix scent, courtesy of minute amounts of powdered phoenix feather stolen from Professor Safin’s Potions supply cupboard. Whether or not the Head of Slytherin House was aware of this theft was as yet unclear, but that was a problem for another day.

The phoenix did not seem to be particularly concerned about the enormous equine reptile flying straight towards it, but most of Kaz’s slightly manic last minute research about phoenixes had suggested this might be the case. Immortality did wonders for the nerves, apparently. Not ideal for a creature one had to make cry, unfortunately, but he was a bit of an expert at thinking on his feet. Figuratively speaking, anyway.

Abruptly, when they were close enough that Kaz could see that its wrinkled feet were a surprisingly ugly shade of pink, the phoenix took flight from its perch on the central goal post. Without needing any prompting, Onyx swerved to follow, rising high above the towers of the pitch. Annoying. This would impede the view of the audience, and therefore Kaz’s future score. The bird had a wider wingspan and was much faster than he had expected, even with the descriptions he had read and the diagrams he had studied, but Thestrals were hardly slow and clumsy, and Onyx was younger and stronger than most of Hogwarts’ herd. Not that Kaz was proud of a horse. That would be ridiculous.

Ultimately, they overtook the firebird easily. When they were close enough that Kaz could have reached out and plucked one of its tailfeathers (he didn’t, obviously, though they would have fetched a fine price on the black market), he drew his wand instead and whispered the spell he had been practicing almost as compulsively as his whistle. A gout of golden flames burst from his wand and engulfed the bird, which gave a musical yet vaguely unsettling cry. The fire wouldn’t hurt it; they were classified as firebirds for a reason. The goal was simply disorientation. Phoenix feathers, according to most sources, were at least moderately impervious to magic, so even mental spells, like the Confundus Charm, were basically ineffectual if aimed from behind, and the bird wasn’t foolish enough to let Kaz face it head on. So, he had to get it turned around some other way. Onyx was rather less pleased about the fireball she was now flying alongside, but, unlike an actual horse, she was smart enough not to flee, spooked, at the first sign of danger.

Against his better judgement (which generally took the position that the least desirable thing would always be the one to happen), Kaz had hoped that the phoenix, once confused, would fly down. Naturally, it flew straight up. He had practiced for this, though, not just since learning that the first task would require flying. That damn bird, and the stupid Triwizard Cup, was going to be his.

Harry almost missed the end of Dunyasha’s performance. He came back from voiding the contents of his stomach in the deeply unpleasant stadium toilets just in time to see her enclose both herself and Fawkes in some strange glass bubble. Several salamanders were scattered across the pitch, looking very dead. So it hadn’t been a problem. Everything was fine. The Durmstrang champion, like all the champions, was a skilled witch, perfectly equipped to complete the tast without getting herself hurt. And even if she had, there were plenty of Hogwarts professors, Healers, and Aurors in the audience to help. Apparently, he was just as stupid as he had been at fourteen, trying to save Gabrielle Delacour from some imaginary danger. He was glad Ron wasn’t sitting with them.

After several minutes of what, with a less graceful actor, would have been called fumbling, Lazareva produced the vial of tears through some unclear means, and the crowd applauded loudly. Bagman said a few things over the magical loudspeaker which Harry didn’t register at all, and then the judges were called on to evaluate the performance. Van Eck gave a nine, Maxime a seven, Bagman an eight, and Harry, loathe to agree with Bagman on anything but thinking he probably didn’t have a right to give too harsh a judgment on something he mostly hadn’t seen, settled on an eight as well. It might have been a nine, but he thought Hagrid would be upset about the salamanders.

There was a bit of time before Bajan’s turn, since Flitwick and McGonagall had to undo whatever Lazareva had done to the pitch. Irritatingly, this gave Ginny an opportunity to try and talk to him about his sudden disappearance.

“I’m fine, Ginny. Just ate too much bacon at breakfast.”

“Ron ate all your bacon.” She paused, and Harry considered jumping out of the stands to avoid this conversation. “You know, if you tell McGonagall—”

“Tell her what?” Harry snapped. “I’m an adult, I can watch some kids compete in some bloody games.”

In the careful tones of a mother who was trying to inform her four-year-old that his hamster had died, Ginny said, “they’re seventeen, Harry. They’re legally adults.”

Harry had a very sudden vision of himself at fifteen, trying to convince Molly Weasley that he was old enough to join the Order of the Phoenix. Oh, how the tables had turned. He had been risking his life to try and destroy Voldemort at this age, surely these ki—students could catch a phoenix. They just looked so much smaller from this high up.

Thankfully, the cleanup of the pitch was over before he had to give a response. Bajan’s attempt was much tamer, though it took longer. He Summoned (points of for unoriginality) some sort of stringed instrument (a lute? did lutes have strings?) and succeeded in luring Fawkes (less amenable to music than Fluffy, but not immune) to his end of the pitch. He was interrupted and briefly set on fire by one of the salamanders, at which point the sand became a minor problem, but eventually a sad song was played, tears were collected, and sevens across the board were achieved. Harry, having apparently spent all his remaining emotions on the Durmstrang champion, didn’t throw up once.

Brekker summoned a Thestral.

Unlike Bagman, who seemed utterly bewildered in the commentator’s booth, Harry knew what was coming as soon as the Slytherin let loose his eerie cry. He had heard Luna do it a few times, though she generally maintained that magical creatures ought to come and go as they pleased. When the winged horse appeared, rising from the Forbidden Forest and approaching the pitch, a few people pointed, and whispers gradually spread through the stands. It was hard to know how much the audience could actually see the thing, but he supposed that was part of the drama. Not a bad idea, as long as the ki—student could ride it.

He could, apparently. Even better than Luna. The leg injury, whether it was real or not, was certainly not a problem in this instance. Harry hadn’t known Thestrals could move that fast. They were so much less aerodynamic than brooms.

Like Dunyasha, presumably to avoid hurting the phoenix and losing points that way, Brekker launched a heat-based attack, encasing Fawkes in a ball of fire. Harry still couldn’t see the point, but Bagman seemed enthusiastic enough about the manouever (or maybe he was just compensating for the fact that he couldn’t actually see the animal Kaz was riding). Watching the Slytherin champion switch directions at lightning speed, from flying almost vertical to a swan dive, made his stomach lurch with vertigo and returning nausea. Was this how other people felt watching him play Quidditch? At least that sport didn’t involve any fire. Normally.

And then, blessedly, it was over. Harry definitely did not heave a sigh of relief, and Ginny definitely did not give him another discomfitting look of understanding sympathy.

Brekker had succeeded in what presumably he had been trying to do the whole time, confusing the phoenix enough that he crash-landed on the sandy ground. One of the few remaining salamanders surfaced briefly, took one look at the Thestral (which, perhaps after watching its fellows die, it could apparently see), and decided not to risk it. Bagman was announcing with delight that one of the only spell-sensitive areas of a phoenix’s body was its feet, and thus Brekker had managed to trap it in the sand with some sort of magical adhesive. Or something.

Fawkes struggled for about five seconds, then settled down, as if accepting defeat. Very possibly he was also too dignified a creature to humiliate himself in front of an audience by flapping his wings and wallowing in the sand. Up until this point, Harry would have been fairly confident betting money on the fact that Brekker, and probably all three of the champions, had known about the content of the task beforehand. Calling a fully grown Thestral to one’s aid didn’t seem like something one did without prior planning. Right now, though, Brekker looked much less certain of what to do.

He looked at the bird.

The bird looked at him.

He looked at the bird.

The bird looked at him.

He raised his wand to his temple and, very very slowly, drew it away, trailing a silvery substance that, from this distance, was barely visible. Perhaps it wasn’t visible at all, and Harry was just imagining what he knew was there. What else could it be? But how advanced did a seventeen-year-old wizard have to be to perform memory magic? Hermione would have a field day with this.

Ever so carefully, Brekker floated his little string of thoughts towards the phoenix. Barely ten seconds later, they had their desired effect. An unnecessarily loud gong sounded as the Slytherin champion raised his vial of phoenix tears over his head. The First Task was done. For real this time. And nobody was even in the Hospital Wing.

Chapter Text

“The Yule Ball is a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament, a symbol of its ultimate goal of intercultural and inter-school unity.” Zoya said this all as if the very words tasted like Polyjuice Potion. And yes, Nina had actually tried Polyjuice Potion before (there had been an incident, and a resulting scheme, formulated by Kaz, obviously). It was worse even than anything Madame Pomfrey could brew up, and thus appropriate to the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s seeming views on inter-school unity. Or maybe she just hated dances. And romance.

Nina, like any rational person, had been looking forward to the Yule Ball since the tournament had been announced. Naturally a thousand galleons of prize money was exciting, and death-defying feats of magic, and the more or less equally thrilling possibilities of either Kaz making a fool of himself and taking a hit to his ridiculous pride or somehow snatching victory from the jaws of defeat again, and this time in front of the entire school. But the Razorgulls were supposed to be coming to the ball! To her great personal shame, Nina had never actually seen a wizarding musical act, if you didn’t count Jesper singing along to ABBA in the Slat (which she didn’t). Even more importantly, it would be an excellent opportunity to introduce Matthias to another one of the Things Normal Teenage Wizards Do For Fun (patent pending).

“The ball is a dance, obviously. You will be served food, you will dance, you will listen to some truly appalling music, and you will probably be miserable by the end of the night. Many students choose to bring a partner of some kind to dance with, but this is not required. Frankly, I would advise against it. If you must, however, keep in mind that there are no parameters. Spend your time with whatever gender you see fit.”

And that was the reason Zoya Nazyalensky was Nina’s favourite teacher. Sure, she was rude, and strict, and hated the idea of young love and general human flourishing, but when one of her Gryffindor students had started making snide comments about Nina dating a girl, the Dragon had lived up to her namesake and nearly had the flabbergasted fifth year expelled. Nazyalensky also had the hairstyling and makeup skills of a registered professional.

Regardless of what they may have been thinking, none of the other students in the class, Gryffindors or Slytherins, were brave enough to even look askance at Zoya’s comment: wizards didn’t stay in NEWT-level Defense Against the Dark Arts because they were idiots. “There is a dress code; try to be at least somewhat presentable. If you have any further questions, ask somebody else. Now, to return to the actual point of this class,” she waved her wand at the blackboard and chalk words in neat cursive began to appear.

“This should have been taught to you last year, in my opinion, but unfortunately, like this year again, we had to spend too much time practicing wandless magic.” She levelled a cool glance at Nestor, who cowered slightly. Wandless magic was not his strong suit. “Which of you can tell me what an Inferius is?”

There was a pause, and then Nina, without raising her hand (she didn’t want to look like a teacher’s pet), said, “Inferii are corpses reanimated by dark magic. It’s necromancy.”

“Necromancy is a Muggle coinage, and it’s inaccurate, as it implies divination or communication with the deceased. But, yes, otherwise you are correct. Now, everyone turn to page 412 in you textbooks.”

The image on the page looked basically like a zombie, but Nina wasn’t stupid enough to say that word out loud. Any word that appeared in popular Muggle horror movies was almost certainly wrong, at least in Zoya’s book.

“Inferii are reanimated to do a Dark wizard’s bidding, anything from manual labour to intimidation to security. There are no recorded cases of an inferius eating a person’s brain. They have no instincts at all, and no need for food: they are more like robots than zombies, barring the fact that they fear fire. Anyone who mentions Night of the Living Dead in this class will be immediately removed from it.”

Surprisingly, Nina found herself just as interested in the discussion of corpse witchery as she had been in the brief warning about the upcoming Yule Ball. Sure, it was gruesome, but plenty of magic was, at least at some level. You didn’t get boomslang skin or lacewing flies by making an entourage of jolly animal friends, which was probably why Matthias didn’t take Potions anymore. And anyways, she was a Slytherin. She was allowed to be a little gruesome. On that note, she wondered what Kaz knew about about inferii. The little creep had probably tried to reanimate a dead mouse when he was six or something.

Kaz had been as insufferable as ever, if not more so, ever since the First Task. The champions had all received scores within spitting distance of each other, Kaz and Dunyasha tied with Adem in a close second place, and that meant the Second Task in February was highly anticipated even now, with over two months to go. Nina had briefly considered asking him what the hell he had actually done to make the bloody phoenix cry, but the odds of getting an honest answer were slim to none, and she hadn’t really been in the mood for some weird melodramatic metaphor. Not that she would ever have admitted it to him, but she had been more than a little nervous watching from the stands. There hadn’t been any moment where he appeared to be in real danger (the same probably could not be said for poor Bajan), but even so. She was glad it was over. Now they just needed to get through two more.

NEWT-level Defense Against the Dark Arts was a popular enough course that there were two classes, one for Slytherins and Gryffindors, and one for Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. This meant, primarily, that instead of teasing Matthias for being squeamish about dead bodies on the way to the Entrance Hall, Nina engaged in some rigorous pretend flirting with Anika. She needed to stretch her muscles if she was going to invite her sort of boyfriend to the Yule Ball.

As they entered the hall, the great double doors opened of their own accord and Hagrid tramped in, carrying an enormous evergreen on his back. The decoration of the castle for the Christmas season had begun on the first of December, and though most of the changes seemed to occur overnight, probably through the action of houselves, every so often the gamekeeper could be found in the building or on the grounds with an armful of festive greenery. Nina waved goodbye to Anika and traipsed over to her second-favourite Hogwarts professor.

“Need any help there?” Charms wasn’t the strongest of her suits, but she could produce a levitation spell in a pinch.

“Nah, it’s alrigh’. I’m just headin’ to the Great Hall. Yer not goin’ fer lunch?”

“I was just going to take a quick walk out to the greenhouses to meet Matthias, after Herbology.” Despite the fact that an icy sleet had started mid-morning and not let up yet, Hagrid didn’t comment on the oddness of this proposition. He had probably known their little gang had been sneaking out to the Shrieking Shack between classes since her fifth year, and clearly didn’t care enough to call them on it.

She walked with him to the Great Hall anyway. It seemed only polite. “I guess you need to put in an extra effort with the decorations this year, for the Yule Ball.”

“Oh. Er, Yes. Er. Say, yeh wouldn’t know, er. The champions. They dance first, righ’?”

The question seemed like it was supposed to be casual, and missed by several kilometres. She couldn’t imagine why it would matter to him, though. “Yeah, I think so. It’s probably the only way anyone could convince Kaz to dance.”

“Er, yeah. Tha’s right,” said Hagrid worriedly, nearly bowling over a startled fourth year with his tree. Nina had a sudden thought.

“He’ll be fine. I mean, the leg thing is real, obviously, but he can use Inej or whoever it is for support, and it’s only three minutes. If he can mount a Thestral, he can do one dance.” She was honestly a little bit surprised that he would be concerned about this, considering how long he had known Kaz, but people were always weird about the leg injury, herself included.

“Yeah, o’ course, o’ course,” said Hagrid distractedly, and he wandered into the Great Hall, leaving Nina at the door. Well, it wasn’t her job to convince him. He would see soon enough.

The weather truly was awful. Nina summoned up some of those cute little blue flames Inej had taught her when they first became friends and walked as quickly as she could towards the Whomping Willow, which was also sagging dejectedly in the cold precipitation. She hoped that Matthias was on his way already, because she wasn’t planning on making a detour to the greenhouses in this shit.

One Wingardium Leviosa later and a tap on the willow’s secret knot with a twig, and she was out of the cold and wet. See? Levitation! Really, it was the only useful charm. The tunnel to the Shrieking Shack had grown significantly cozier and more spacious since their group’s first visits, mostly due to Kaz’s efforts, irritatingly enough. Jesper sometimes called it a Hobbit hole, though only when the other Slytherin wasn’t around to glare daggers at him.

The trek to Hogsmeade was still unreasonably long, though, especially when one hadn’t eaten since breakfast. If Kaz could do this, he could dance for three minutes. Nina still thought finding the Room of Requirement would have been a more practical secret hideout plan of action.

Matthias was indeed at the Slat when she finally arrived, as was everybody else. Not that it was a competition or anything, especially not one that Jesper was now unfortunately winning. “Took you long enough,” said the Hufflepuff, offering her a cauldron cake and a bottle of some Muggle fizzy drink from their stash. Nina and Jesper were the only ones who contributed anything decent to their food hoard. They were the ones who carried this family.

“I had to offer moral support to Hagrid while he was dragging another Christmas tree into the Great Hall. Speaking of which. Wha’ ith evryun gon’ air oo Yule Ball?”

“Would you like to try that again in English, Zenik?” Asked Kaz, without looking up from whatever fundamentally uninteresting thing he was doing behind his makeshift desk in the corner of the room. He had made it out of a door which seemed, rather alarmingly, to have been ripped off its hinges, and a stack of crates stolen from the basement of Honeydukes. It was, sadly, the sturdiest piece of furniture in the building.

Nina swalled her mouthful of cake and sniffed daintily. “I said, what is everyone going to wear to the Yule Ball? We only have a few weeks people, and we need to decide whether we’re going to coordinate colours as a group, or only with our respective partners.”

“What am I going to wear?” Jesper sounded delighted.

“Coordinate colours?” Matthias sounded bewildered.

“I’m not going.” Kaz sounded bored.

“Oh, yes you are. I was just talking to Hagrid about it. The champions have the first dance. It’s tradition.”

“That’s absurd,” spat Kaz, with more vehemnence than she thought the situation really warranted. “It’s a competition of skill and wits, not a—a beauty pageant.”

“Oh, lighten up Brekker. It won’t kill you to let someone within a three-foot radius for once in your life.”

From the look he gave her, it was more likely he would end up killing someone else. “My sincerest apologies for attempting to take this tournament seriously. Maybe I have better things to do with my time than attend a ridiculous dance. Like, I don’t know, preparing for the Second Task?”

“Oh, sod off Brekker. If I can take a night off from being a Prefect, you can take a night off from scheming.”

“Don’t you take every night off from being a Prefect? I say this with love, as your dearest friend who isn’t Inej.”

“Fine then, if Matthias can take the night off from being a Prefect.”

“I do not think—I was not sure if I would—”

“Shut your mouth, Helvar, you’re obviously going with me. Which means, as I said, we need to decide what we’re going to wear.”

Despite the fact that he didn’t normally have a tendency to blush (at least when compared to Wylan), Matthias’ cheeks turned a satisfying shade of pink. A little more romance to the proposal would have been nice, but surprising him had its own charm. It was pretty absurd that he had ever considered they wouldn’t be going together, but he could be an idiot sometimes. At least he was her idiot.

“Well, here’s what I was thinking.” Jesper opened a contraband bottle of Fanta and rearranged his gangly limbs into an even less comfortable-looking position on his threadbare armchair. “We all have completely different complexions, not to mention personal styles and overall wardrobes. Kaz will of course be wearing formal black dress robes with the Brekker family crest—”

“I am capable of speaking for myself, Jesper.”

“Very boring, but, alas, it suits him. Pun intended. Inej will wear whatever she wants because she’s a strong independent woman who doesn’t need me to tell her what to do, but I might suggest some form of silver accent if theoretically she were going to the ball with someone wearing a silver badge or coat of arms of some kind.”

“Jes—”

“It is known that I look excellent in gold, unlike the rest of you, no offense. So for myself I was thinking Hufflepuff colours with deep blue accents, and any Ravenclaws of our acquaintance could do the opposite, since yellow and blue are complementary colours.”

“Actually, yellow and purple are complementary. Not yellow and blue.”

“Yeah, but you don’t look as cute in purple,” said Jesper reasonably.

Predictably, Wylan flushed. Unlike Matthias, however, he sounded perfectly confident when he replied. “You need to let me choose the corsages though. I have a better eye for that sort of thing. No offense.” Jesper, far from offended, looked overjoyed.

Sadly, this beautiful expression of true romance was interrupted by Kaz rapping the end of his cane sharply on top of his makeshift desk. “As fascinating as the topic of your formal wear is, Jesper, you two are going to have other things to do during this dance than stare at each other. This will be our best chance to get some information about Bajan and Lazareva’s strategies for the next task.”

“Oh, so two seconds ago you thought the ball was idiotic, and now it’s the chance of a lifetime.”

Kaz ignored her. “People say things at parties that they wouldn’t normally say, especially if there’s alcohol involved.”

“There won’t be. The fourth years are invited too, so it’ll just be butterbeer and pumpkin juice.” Wasted potential, in Nina’s opinion. She definitely didn’t need alcohol to enjoy herself, but a shot or two made Matthias a little less uptight, and she wanted him to have fun, not just sway stiffly in place praying for the earth to swallow him whole.

“I can handle that,” said Kaz cryptically. Well, alright then. “Nina, you just need to get people talking. Lazareva might be proud enough to brag that she knows something, but she won’t fall for anything as subtle as your flirting.”

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

 “I’ve created a list of more reasonable targets. Both Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. You might focus on Rasmus in particular.”

“The Durmstrang students are too disciplined. They won’t fall for—for—”

“For my womanly wiles, my love?” Matthias made a sound like a Pygmy Puff somebody had stepped on.

“Jesper doesn’t know how to be subtle, but Wylan, you have plenty of experience with this sort of thing.” Kaz made a face, as if eating nice dinners around nicely dressed people was the lowest sort of knavery. “Will your father be there, like he was at the First Task?”

Now that was an accusation. Not really a justified one, though. Wylan certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about the elder Van Eck coming up to the castle in November, and they had all been surprised, but Nina had assumed he hadn’t known. The two of them weren’t exactly close. He hadn’t been aware of the tournament itself before the school-wide announcement either.

“Was that the original plan, then? For you to lay out our instructions and then spend the night back in your common room while we gathered all the intel?”

Inej had been surprisingly quiet up until now. Not that it was exactly surprising for Inej to be quiet; it was one of her main talents. But she usually had less patience for Kaz’s bullshit than she had been showing so far. Now, though, she sounded angry.

“Gathering intelligence is your job, Wraith.”

Jesper blew air out through his teeth. Nina wondered what would become of the tournament if one of the champions was murdered outside of gameplay.

“I’m not an employee, Kaz. And I certainly have better things to do for two hours on Christmas Eve than wear and uncomfortable dress while trying to avoid your spiked punch.”

She was up and out of the room before any of them could reply. For fucks sakes. “Brekker, if you don’t go after her—” But bless his cracked, black heart, he was already getting up to follow.