Chapter Text

Chapter One—Someone Else's Choice

The library was very quiet today. And that was the whole point. Nobody was asking him questions, his name wasn't whispered from across the room, no first-year students pointing behind him, and, most importantly, no one telling him what he should be doing right now or how. He was at his table near the tall windows in the back, far enough from the main entrance that people rarely bothered to walk past it. The afternoon light fell across the old wooden surface, highlighting all the little imperfections from years of students and illuminating the open book in front of him, and when he turned a page, those little particles danced around his book, shifting, but staying around.

It went unnoticed by Harry. He was too interested in this chapter. The book was old enough that the binding creaked whenever he opened it. He had to be very careful or Madam Pince would have his skin. It was also considerably more interesting than the title suggested. Advanced Applications of Charms by Cassandra Waffling. Harry had picked it almost at random. He had expected another collection of increasingly complicated wand movements and long explanations of why a particular incantation produced a particular effect. Instead, the author had spent the last twenty pages discussing something Harry had never really considered before. A spell did not simply produce an effect, well yes, but also no.

The caster's intention mattered. Not in the vague way professors sometimes talked about concentration, but in a much more precise sense. The shape of the spell, the amount of magical power being put into it, the caster's understanding of what they wanted the magic to accomplish—all of them affected the final result. Harry turned back two pages. He reread a paragraph. Then another. He picked up his quill and made a small note in the margin of his parchment. So the wand movement isn't the entire spell. He stared at the sentence.

That seemed evident now. Which meant it was probably one of those things that was obvious only after someone had explained it. Harry leaned back in his chair. He liked that. He liked the feeling of discovering something that made the things he'd already learned fit together a little bit better. It was one of the reasons he had started spending so much time in the library. There were always more things to understand. No one expected him to talk or to be entertaining.

No one expected him to be Harry Potter.

The library was one of the few places in Hogwarts where his name seemed to mean less than whatever book happened to be open in front of him. Harry looked down at his notes again. He tried to imagine explaining what he had just read to Ron. He lasted about three seconds.

“Mate, it's a charm.” Harry could almost hear Ron's nagging voice. “Does it work?”

“Yes.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“There isn't a problem.”

“Then why are you reading a bunch of pages about it?”

Harry smiled despite himself. That was probably exactly what Ron would say. He liked magic. Harry knew he did. He enjoyed Quidditch, magical chess, sweets, explosions, and anything else that involved actually doing something or having some effect. He could spend an entire afternoon talking about a match or arguing about which team would win the League. But Harry had learned that there was a limit. Ron liked magic when magic was something you could do. Harry liked magic when magic was something you could understand. Those were not quite the same thing. He looked back at the book.

He wondered if Ron would understand what the author meant about intention. Probably not. Or perhaps he would, and Harry was being unfair. Harry frowned. That wasn't really fair. Ron wasn't stupid. He simply didn't enjoy studying as much as Harry did now. There was nothing wrong with that. And Hermione— Harry stopped himself. Oh Hermione would understand. That was the problem. If Harry showed Hermione the book, she would probably be delighted.

She would ask where he'd found it, whether he'd read the references in the footnotes, whether he'd compared the author's interpretation with the standard Hogwarts curriculum, and whether he had considered reading the historical texts upon which the chapter was based. Then she would probably produce three books from somewhere and explain that the theory had actually been debated for nearly a century. Harry rubbed his forehead. He loved Hermione. He really did. But sometimes talking to her about magic felt less like having a conversation and more like accidentally opening a textbook.

He looked around the library. Perhaps that was why he had started coming here alone. It wasn't that he disliked Ron or Hermione; he simply wanted somewhere where he could think. He turned another page. The author's argument became increasingly complicated. Harry leaned forward. The rest of the castle seemed to disappear. For several minutes, there was only the book, the parchment, the scratching of his quill, and the faint sound of pages turning somewhere behind him. It was peaceful. Harry liked peace. Perhaps too much.

His eyes moved over another paragraph, but he stopped halfway through. Something had changed. Not in the book. In his thoughts.

The Tournament.

He sighed quietly. He hadn't even wanted to think about it. The Triwizard Tournament had been announced weeks ago, and everyone seemed fascinated by it. Harry wasn't. He knew the stories, of course. Three champions. Three schools. Dangerous tasks. A ridiculous amount of glory. Ron thought it sounded brilliant. Hermione thought the age restriction was sensible. Harry agreed, but mostly he thought it sounded like something that would eventually involve people being burned, cursed, eaten—or, well, all of them. He mindlessly turned the next page. His eyes remained on the words, but he wasn't reading them anymore.

There was something about the tournament that bothered him. Not the danger—not only that. It was the certainty surrounding it. The Ministry had arranged it, the schools had agreed to it, the Goblet would choose, and once it did, everyone seemed prepared to accept whatever followed. Nobody spoke as though the champions might have anything to say about it. The rules existed; therefore the matter was settled. Harry knew that feeling rather better than he liked. An adult made a decision, explained why it was necessary, and somehow the explanation was supposed to make it his decision too.

He looked down at his parchment, though he had stopped reading it, and moved his finger around the binding— At eleven, Hagrid had told him he was a wizard and what had happened to his parents. Dumbledore had decided what he needed to know about the Stone—and what he did not. Teachers decided what he ought to learn, the Ministry decided what sort of boy it thought he was, and every time the important parts of his life seemed to arrive already decided, waiting only for someone older to tell him how things were going to be. Even Sirius— Harry's quill stopped. Sirius had been different.

Or at least, he had wanted to be. Harry still wasn't sure what to make of everything that had happened. Sirius had spent years in Azkaban for something he hadn't done. Harry had been thirteen when he had learned that Sirius was innocent. And somehow the adults had known things. Dumbledore had known about Sirius. Other people had known about Sirius. There had been reasons. There were always reasons. Harry leaned back and stared at the ceiling. That was perhaps what bothered him most.

There was always a reason. Dumbledore had known that something was hidden beneath Hogwarts. He had known Voldemort wanted it. He had known Harry was investigating. Harry hadn't understood that at the time. He'd simply gone down there. He had been eleven. He'd fought through traps designed by some of the most talented witches and wizards in Britain and yet three first years did it. He'd faced Voldemort. Afterward, Dumbledore had explained things calmly. Harry had been brave. Harry had done what was necessary. Harry had protected the Stone. Harry had saved the school. All true.

Harry couldn't really argue with any of it. But sometimes, when he thought about it now, another question appeared underneath all the praise. Why had it been necessary for an eleven-year-old to be there? He had never asked. Or perhaps he had asked and simply accepted the answer. Harry looked back at his book. The chapter had not become any more interesting while he wasn't looking at it. He turned the page anyway. Then there was the Chamber. He remembered the sword. The basilisk. The burning pain in his arm. Tom Riddle's diary.

He remembered waking afterward. He remembered people telling him how incredible he was. How brave. How lucky. He had been twelve.

Twelve.

Harry stared at the page. There was something deeply strange about being praised for surviving something that should never have happened to you. He had never known what to do with that thought. Perhaps that was why he preferred books now. Books didn't tell him that everything would be fine. They didn't tell him he was special. They simply explained how something worked. If he didn't understand it, he could read the page again. If he disagreed, he could look for another book. There was something comforting about that. Harry picked up his quill again.

He wrote another note. Intent changes outcome. He paused. Then added: Does intent change the strength of the spell, its precision, shape? That was interesting. He began turning pages again. The memories faded. For a while. Until another thought surfaced. Dumbledore. Harry's eyes narrowed slightly. He trusted Dumbledore. At least, he thought he did. That had become increasingly complicated over the last few years. Dumbledore had always been kind to him. Usually. He had never shouted at Harry. He had never treated him like the Dursleys did.

He had never made Harry feel like an inconvenience. And yet there were times when Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that Dumbledore knew where Harry was going long before Harry did. Like with the stone, Sirius, the Chamber—Dumbledore always seemed to know where Harry was going first. Maybe that was simply what being wise meant. Dumbledore had lived a very long time. He had fought Grindelwald. He had defeated Voldemort in battle before. He had spent decades dealing with things Harry couldn't even begin to understand. It made sense that he would know more. Harry frowned.

Knowing more wasn't the same thing as always being right. That thought felt strangely disloyal. He pushed it away. Perhaps he was simply tired. He had been spending too much time thinking. That was what Dumbledore would probably say. Harry almost smiled. He could already imagine the conversation. Harry, perhaps you should spend some time with your friends. He could hear the gentle tone. The disappointed but amused smile. Harry closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe he should. Ron had been trying to get him to play chess for two days.

Hermione had asked him to join them in the common room last night. Harry had said no. He had wanted to finish a chapter.

Then another.

Then another.

He opened his eyes. He wasn't actually sure when studying had become his preferred way of avoiding people. Perhaps it had happened gradually. Perhaps it had always been that way. He glanced around again. The library remained quiet. A few students were scattered between the shelves. Madam Pince was nowhere nearby. Harry relaxed. He liked this— he liked being left alone, being able to choose what he was doing and he liked that nobody here expected anything from him. He lowered his eyes to the book again.

The next section was about modifying existing charms. Harry's interest returned immediately. He leaned forward. Perhaps—

“That is an interesting choice of reading, Harry.”

Harry froze. The voice was calm. Familiar. He slowly looked up. Albus Dumbledore stood on the other side of the table. Harry glanced at his book. Then at Dumbledore.

“Professor.”

Dumbledore smiled.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

Harry looked around the empty table. He knew better than to say yes.

“No, sir.”

Dumbledore's eyes moved to the parchment.

“Studying Charms?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Dumbledore pulled out the chair opposite Harry, but did not sit. His eyes returned to the open book.

“You've always had a rather curious mind, Harry.”

Harry wasn't entirely sure whether that was a compliment. He waited. Dumbledore smiled again. Then he looked toward the library doors.

“I was wondering whether you might consider taking a break this evening.”

Harry glanced at the book.

“A break?”

“Indeed.”

Dumbledore's voice remained gentle.

“You have spent quite a lot of time studying lately.”

Harry looked down at his notes. He wanted to point out that he hadn't been studying for that long. At least not today. But he didn't. The headmaster continued.

“Mr Weasley is in the common room, I believe.”

Harry sighed internally. Of course he was.

“Perhaps a game of chess?”

Harry looked at the book again. He had just reached the interesting part. Dumbledore seemed to notice.

“Books will still be here tomorrow.”

Harry knew that. Obviously. He also knew that Ron would probably complain that Harry was taking too long to make a move. He knew that Hermione would probably be pleased to see him. He knew that spending an evening with his friends wasn't exactly an unreasonable request. So why did it feel as though he were giving something up? Harry closed the book.

“All right.”

Dumbledore's smile widened slightly.

“Good.”

Harry gathered his parchment. Perhaps the Headmaster had a reason. He usually did. Harry slid the book back toward the center of the table and tucked his quill into his bag. As he stood, Dumbledore stepped aside. Harry gave him a small nod.

“Good evening, Professor.”

“Good evening, Harry.”

Harry walked toward the library doors. He glanced back once at the book. He could always finish it tomorrow. He had barely taken three steps into the corridor when someone came around the corner in the opposite direction. Harry stopped. A stack of books wobbled in the girl's arms. He caught the top one before it fell.

“Sorry.”

The girl adjusted the books.

“My fault.”

Harry handed the book back. He caught only a glimpse of her face before stepping aside. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Slytherin robes. He recognized her vaguely. Greengrass, perhaps.

Harry wasn't certain.

“Sorry,” he said again, already turning away.

“It's fine.”

Harry continued down the corridor. He didn't notice that the girl had stopped walking. He didn't notice her watching him leave. His mind was already returning to the book he'd left behind. He wondered whether the author was right about intent being the primary factor in spell modification. And, somewhere behind him, Daphne Greengrass was still standing in the corridor with her books in her arms.

* * *

Daphne remained where she was for a moment after Harry disappeared around the corner.

The corridor was quiet again. She could still hear the faint sound of his footsteps fading into the distance, but there was nothing particularly remarkable about what had just happened. He had nearly walked into her, caught the book before it fell, apologized, and continued on his way. It was hardly an encounter worth remembering.

And yet she found herself looking at the corner where he had turned.

She glanced down at the book in her hands, then back toward the corridor.

“Ridiculous,” she murmured under her breath.

Daphne turned and continued toward the library.

She had been on her way there to begin her Arithmancy homework, and unlike some people she knew, she actually intended to finish it before dinner. Professor Vector had given them a particularly irritating set of equations involving magical number theory, and Daphne had already spent enough time avoiding them.

The library doors opened with their very familiar quiet creak.

Inside, the afternoon light had begun to fade behind the tall windows. Most of the students had already gone to their common rooms or down toward the Great Hall. The library was one of the few places in Hogwarts where the approaching evening seemed to make everything quieter rather than louder.

Daphne liked that.

She found an empty table near the back and set her books down.

For several minutes, she managed to concentrate.

Then she found herself thinking about Harry again.

Not Harry Potter.

Just Harry.

It was a distinction she had never consciously decided to make. It had simply happened over time.

In first year, everyone had known who he was before they knew anything about him. His name had been whispered through the castle before he had even unpacked his trunk. Daphne remembered watching the other first-years crowd around him whenever he appeared, asking questions about the scar, about Voldemort, about what had happened to his parents.

She had not joined them.

She had been eleven, and she had not particularly understood why everyone was so fascinated. What she remembered most clearly was how uncomfortable he had looked.

At the time, she had assumed he was just shy. Later, she had realized that he had probably never had much opportunity to be anything else.

Second year had been different.

That year, people had watched him for another reason. The Chamber had opened, students had been attacked, and suddenly Harry Potter was not merely famous. He was suspicious. 

Daphne remembered seeing him in the corridors during that time. He always seemed tired. Sometimes he would be walking with Ron and Hermione, sometimes alone, and there had been something about the way he carried himself that made him look older than he should have.

Everyone else had been arguing about whether he was the Heir of Slytherin.

Daphne had mostly wondered when he had last slept properly.

Third year had been the first time she remembered seeing him look genuinely happy.

It had happened in the library, strangely enough.

He had been talking to Hermione about something, and for once there had been no crowd around him, no whispering, no argument, no obvious crisis. He had been laughing about something she couldn't hear.

It had surprised Daphne how different he looked.

Not because he looked particularly different.

Because he looked ordinary.

That was the part she remembered.

Harry Potter was supposed to be extraordinary. The Boy-Who-Lived. The child who had defeated Voldemort. The famous survivor.

But that Harry, sitting in the library with a book open in front of him and a stupid grin on his face because Hermione had apparently said something amusing, had simply looked like a boy who enjoyed being there.

Daphne had found herself watching for moments like that afterward.

Not deliberately.

At least, that was what she told herself.

She noticed when he laughed. She noticed when he was excited about something in class. She had noticed that he seemed to enjoy practical magic far more than most people expected him to. She noticed that he could spend an absurd amount of time reading about a spell when something genuinely interested him, despite the fact that he complained about homework as enthusiastically as everyone else.

She had also noticed that he preferred being left alone more often than people seemed to realize.

Perhaps that was what had made her notice him in the first place.

Daphne had never been particularly fond of being watched herself.

There was a strange irony in that.

She had spent years observing Harry from a distance while making certain he never noticed her doing it.

And now, when he had finally looked directly at her, it had been because they had nearly collided.

She opened her Arithmancy book.

The numbers on the page stared back at her.

Daphne frowned.

She read the first line.

Then read it again.

Nothing.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead.

This was becoming embarrassing.

She had no reason to be thinking about him. There was nothing special about what had happened. Harry had probably forgotten the encounter already.

That thought should have made her feel better— it didn't.

She forced herself back to the assignment and for a while, the numbers won.

Then she heard footsteps approaching from between the shelves.

Daphne looked up, but it wasn’t Harry.

A pair of younger students walked past, whispering to each other. One of them glanced toward the entrance before lowering his voice.

“Think they'll announce the champions today?”

“Of course they will. The feast is tonight.”

Daphne looked toward the clock.

Right.

The champions.

She had nearly forgotten.

The Triwizard Tournament had been the subject of conversation since the beginning of term. Even students who had no interest in the tournament itself seemed interested in knowing who would be selected.

She had been curious too.

Mostly because the whole thing seemed rather dramatic.

Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had arrived. The Great Hall had been decorated. There had been endless speculation about which Hogwarts students would enter their names into the Goblet.

Daphne had not.

She had never seriously considered it.

There was a certain appeal to proving yourself, certainly, but the tasks sounded unpleasant enough without volunteering to be attacked by monsters or whatever else the champions would have to face.

Her thoughts returned briefly to Harry.

Could he have entered?.

Daphne wasn't certain.

Harry was brave. Recklessly so, sometimes. But there was a difference between bravery and stupidity, and she wasn't sure which side of that line entering the Tournament would fall on.

She closed her book.

Perhaps she would ask Tracey.

The thought had barely formed when the library doors opened again.

Tracey Davis appeared.

She did not walk into the library so much as arrive in it, somehow managing to make the quiet room feel louder simply by being there.

“Daphne.”

Daphne looked up.

Tracey pointed dramatically toward the door.

“No.”

“I haven't said anything yet.”

“You're about to.”

“We're going to the Great Hall.”

Daphne glanced at the book in front of her.

“No, we're not.”

“Yes, we are.”

“I have homework.”

“So does everyone else.”

“That's not an argument.”

“It is when the alternative is watching the Goblet choose three champions in front of the entire school.”

Daphne considered this.

Tracey smiled.

“You want to see it.”

“I am not particularly interested.”

“You're lying.”

“I am not.”

“You're doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend you don't care about something because caring would make you look interested.”

Daphne stared at her.

Tracey stared back.

After a few seconds, Daphne closed her book, and sighed. “I dislike you.”

“You say that every time I am right.”

“I say it because you are irritating.”

“Still counts.”

Tracey picked up Daphne's books before she could object and stacked them neatly.

“Come on.”

Daphne followed her out of the library.

The corridors were beginning to fill as students made their way toward the Great Hall. Conversations overlapped around them, most of them concerning the same subject.

Who would be chosen?

Would it be Cedric?

Would Viktor Krum be chosen for Durmstrang?

Would one of the older students finally prove themselves?

Daphne listened without contributing much.

When they reached the staircase, Astoria was waiting for them.

“You're late,” she said.

“We're not late,” Tracey replied.

“You're always late.”

“We're fashionably late.”

“You're not fashionable.”

Tracey looked offended.

Astoria laughed.

Daphne smiled despite herself.

The three of them joined the flow of students heading toward the Great Hall.

For a moment, the afternoon seemed perfectly ordinary.

Then Daphne noticed Harry.

He was farther ahead, walking with Ron and Hermione.

She recognized him immediately, even among the crowd.

She always did. Ok maybe it was beginning to get a bit weird. 

He seemed distracted, though. His attention wasn't on the conversations around him. He was looking toward the Great Hall with an expression Daphne couldn't quite read.

She watched him for only a second before looking away.

She didn't want Tracey noticing.

Unfortunately, Tracey noticed everything.

She leaned closer.

“You know, if you're going to stare at Potter, you could at least be subtle about it.”

Daphne nearly tripped on the next step.

“I wasn't staring.”

“Of course not.”

“I was looking ahead.”

“Which happened to be directly at him.”

Daphne gave her a warning look.

Tracey raised both hands in surrender, though the grin remained.

“Fine. I said nothing.”

Astoria looked between them.

“What are you two whispering about?”

“Nothing,” Daphne said.

“Potter,” Tracey said at exactly the same time.

Daphne closed her eyes. Sweet Morgana.

“Tracey.”

“What?” she asked.

Astoria's eyebrows rose.

Daphne decided that silence was the only sensible response.

They entered the Great Hall.

The four houses were already gathering at their tables, and the enchanted ceiling reflected the darkening evening outside. At the center of the room stood the Goblet of Fire, its blue-white flames flickering calmly as if it had no idea how much attention was being paid to it.

Daphne took her seat with the other Slytherins. Across the hall, she could see Harry.

She watched him only briefly this time—or at least she tried to—and then the feast began.

There was food, conversation, laughter, and the restless energy that came whenever the entire school knew something important was about to happen.

Daphne ate very little.

The Goblet stood at the front of the hall.

Waiting.

When Dumbledore finally rose to speak, the room gradually fell silent.

The selection was about to begin.

And for the first time that evening, Daphne stopped thinking about whether Harry had entered the Tournament.

She began wondering what would happen if he had.

* * *

The Great Hall seemed to hold its breath. Daphne had never seen the entire school this attentive. Even the students who had spent the evening pretending not to care about the Tournament had stopped eating. Forks rested forgotten on plates, conversations had dwindled into whispers, and every pair of eyes seemed fixed upon the Goblet of Fire at the center of the hall. Its blue flames rose and fell without sound.

Dumbledore stood beside it, smiling over the assembled students as though he were presiding over an ordinary school ceremony rather than one of the most dangerous competitions in the wizarding world. Daphne found herself leaning forward slightly. Beside her, Tracey whispered something that Daphne didn't catch. The Goblet suddenly flared. A thin tongue of flame shot upward, and a small piece of parchment was expelled from the fire. The room erupted. Dumbledore caught it neatly before it could fall.

For a moment, he looked at the parchment without speaking. Then his voice carried across the hall.

“The champion for Beauxbatons…”

He announced the name. There was immediate applause from the Beauxbatons table. Daphne joined in politely, though she couldn't say she knew much about the very pretty girl who had been chosen. Around her, the atmosphere changed almost instantly. The tension had broken. One champion had been selected, and now everyone wanted to know who would follow. Dumbledore waited for the noise to subside before returning his attention to the Goblet. The flames rose again. Another piece of parchment flew into the air. This time the reaction was even louder. Durmstrang had its champion. Viktor Krum.

That name required no explanation. Even Daphne knew who he was. The Quidditch player had barely been able to walk through the castle without students staring at him, and now the Goblet had confirmed what many of them had already expected. Krum rose from the Durmstrang table to a tremendous amount of applause. Tracey leaned across Daphne.

“I told you.”

“You didn't tell me anything.”

“I said he'd be chosen.”

“You said you thought he'd be chosen.”

“Exactly.”

Daphne ignored her. The third piece of parchment was drawn not long afterward. Cedric Diggory. This time the reaction from Hogwarts was enormous. Hufflepuff practically exploded. Students were cheering, clapping, shouting his name, and thumping the table. Cedric himself looked surprised for only a moment before standing and making his way toward the front. Daphne watched him go. Three champions. That was it. The room seemed to understand the conclusion before Dumbledore even returned to his place. There were supposed to be three. Three schools. Three champions. Simple. Dumbledore waited for the cheering to fade.

“Now,” he said, “I believe that concludes our selection.”

Daphne relaxed slightly. She glanced toward the Gryffindor table. Harry was there. He had been looking toward the front throughout the selection, though she couldn't tell whether he had been nervous or simply curious. Ron was watching Cedric with an expression that suggested he had just been personally insulted by the result. Hermione was clapping politely. Daphne looked back toward the Goblet. The blue flames continued to burn. Then they changed. She frowned. The Goblet flared brighter than it had before. The room fell quiet again. Dumbledore's expression changed. Only slightly. But enough.

The Goblet spat out another piece of parchment. For a second, nobody moved. The parchment drifted down through the air. Dumbledore caught it. Silence settled over the Great Hall. It was a different silence from before. This one wasn’t anticipation—no, it was confusion. Daphne looked at the Goblet. Then at Dumbledore. Then back at the parchment in his hand. There shouldn't have been another one. Dumbledore unfolded it. His eyes moved across the parchment. For the briefest moment, he seemed genuinely puzzled. Then he raised his head.

“Harry Potter.”

Daphne didn't understand. She heard the words. She knew the name—everyone in the hall knew the name—but the words didn't seem to connect to anything. Harry Potter. Another champion.

Then something twisted in her stomach, hard, and she didn't know why.

She looked toward the Gryffindor table.

Harry wasn't moving. He was staring at Dumbledore, and the noise around her seemed to fall away as she saw his face.

There was no smile. No surprise curling into excitement. No flicker of triumph.

Harry looked horrified.

And the twist in her gut pulled tighter, some private, unwelcome ache she had no name for—no right to feel, not for him, not like this.

His face had gone pale, and his eyes were fixed on Dumbledore with something that looked dangerously close to disbelief. He didn't look like someone whose name had just been called for the greatest magical competition of his generation. He looked like someone who had just been told that something terrible had happened. Daphne stared at him. She had seen that expression before. Not exactly that expression, perhaps, but enough.

She remembered him in the corridors during his second year, exhausted while the rest of the school whispered about the Chamber. She remembered how he had looked when people accused him of things he didn't understand. She remembered the occasional moments when his shoulders became rigid and his attention seemed to retreat inward, as though he were trying to work out what everyone else already knew. And she remembered him in the library less than an hour ago. Quiet. Comfortable. Content.

He had looked like a boy who wanted nothing more complicated than to be left alone with a book. Now he looked as though the floor had disappeared beneath him. Daphne's first thought wasn't that Harry had entered the Tournament. It was that he hadn't. She didn't know how she knew. She simply did. The Great Hall erupted.

“He entered himself!”

“That can't be right!”

“Potter!”

“He's already got enough attention!”

“He thinks he's better than everyone!”

“Maybe he cheated!”

Laughter came from somewhere near the Ravenclaw table. Someone behind Daphne shouted that Potter had finally found a way to make himself even more famous. The Slytherin table was no quieter. Daphne heard several voices immediately insisting that Harry must have done it himself. Some sounded amused. Others sounded impressed despite themselves. A few seemed genuinely angry that a fourteen-year-old had somehow managed to put his name into a Goblet that was supposed to reject underage entries. Tracey said something beside her, but Daphne didn't hear it. She was still watching Harry.

He had stood up. For a moment, he seemed unsure what he was supposed to do. Students were looking at him from every direction. Hundreds of eyes had turned toward him at once, and yet he seemed unable to look at any of them. His attention moved from Dumbledore to the Goblet and then briefly toward Ron and Hermione. Ron looked furious. Hermione looked confused. Neither seemed to understand what was happening. Harry looked from one to the other. Then Daphne noticed something that made her chest tighten.

He was alone.

Not literally. There were hundreds of people around him. His friends were sitting only a few places away. Teachers were standing at the front. Dumbledore was speaking to him. Students were shouting his name. And somehow Harry looked more alone than he had in the library. Daphne had spent years watching him from a distance. She had seen him surrounded by people before. She had never seen him look so isolated. Dumbledore was saying something now. Daphne couldn't make out the words over the noise. Professor McGonagall had risen from her seat. Students were still arguing.

The champions were being gathered near the back. Everything was happening at once. Harry remained where he was, looking as though he was trying to understand how his life had just changed without his permission.

Daphne's hands tightened around the edge of the table, knuckles going white. Her chest felt too small for her breath.

She didn't know what had happened, or how the Goblet had chosen him, or why her body wouldn't unclench. Worse than any of that—she didn't know whether there was anything she could do. And worse still, she didn't know why it mattered so much that she couldn't.

Why him? Why do I want to help him? 

She had no answer. She only knew one thing, with a certainty that scared her more than the question did: Harry Potter had not wanted this.

And somehow, that seemed more important than anything else happening in the room.

* * *

“Daphne.”

She barely heard it. Her eyes remained fixed on the front of the hall. Harry had finally started walking. Students were moving around him now, some trying to get a better look, others calling questions across the room. A few were laughing. Others were already arguing about how he had cheated. He seemed not to hear them. Dumbledore was speaking with the other professors. McGonagall was standing nearby, her expression stern and concerned. The other champions were being brought together, and somewhere behind Harry, Ron was still visibly angry. Hermione hadn't moved much.

She was simply watching Harry. Daphne wondered whether Hermione had seen what she had seen. Whether she understood. Whether Harry had told her something.

“Daphne.”

This time the voice was closer. She turned slightly. Astoria stood beside her.

“Come on.”

Daphne looked back toward Harry.

“Wait.”

Astoria followed her gaze. For a moment, she said nothing. Then she reached out and caught Daphne gently by the sleeve.

“Daphne.”

“I know.”

She didn't know what she meant by it. Perhaps that was the problem. She didn't know Harry. Not really. She had spent years noticing him from a distance, collecting small pieces without ever having enough of them to understand the whole person. And yet she was certain about this. He hadn't wanted to be standing there. Daphne looked back one last time. Harry was surrounded now. Students. Teachers. Champions. Friends. Strangers. Hundreds of people. The Great Hall was full of noise and movement. And Harry still looked completely alone. Astoria tugged her sleeve again.

This time, Daphne followed. But as they walked toward the Slytherin exit, she found herself looking back over her shoulder. Only once. Then the doorway closed behind them.