Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix and Fenraellis. And the crew at DLP, for their comments on an early draft. The champions selection scene was added on their recommendation. Also, Vlad the Inhaler suggested a few changes to the Fleur/Gabrielle scene in Chapter 3, which have been made.
Thanks to all who have read and reviewed!
CHAPTER 5
Goblet of Fire
Dearest Harry,
Thank you for writing me. I have been so lonely and I miss seeing you too. Your letters give me something to look forward to. In a few weeks, we shall have each other, no?
I have but a few days more and then I can leave this place for something new. Father wishes for me to join him at the Ministry after school, though I don't wish to. I don't know how I will be able to convince him. I find myself unable to oppose him, no matter how much my mind may be made up otherwise.
Gabrielle asked me to thank you for the chocolate frogs. I think she ate them all in one sitting! She did not get an Agrippa card, but she did get two Dumbledore cards. Did you know that you are listed on them now as his apprentice?
I thank you for your offer to help me train. I shall ask Madame Maxime whether she will permit it--I do hope she agrees, as I am sure we would make a wonderful team!
I had heard about what happened on your train, both from the newspapers and from Father, who received word from the Ministry. It sounds as if you acted in self-defense, so you should not blame yourself, but I know I cannot know what you are going through as I have never taken a life. Please understand that I do not think less of you, but more, since the assassin you dispatched could have harmed others.
You are a hero to me, my rogue.
Love,
Fleur
“Harry, who's the letter from?” Hermione's question causes him to look up from his station near the window. The two are alone in the Gryffindor common room early on Saturday, Harry having finished his morning exercises, Hermione getting an early start on a potions essay.
“Nobody, really. Someone I met this summer.”
“Nobody?” she smiles, “Then why is it the only time you look happy is when you are reading a letter she sent?” At his look of surprise, she continues, “...and yes, it's a 'she.' Who else would send a letter that you would spend as much time smelling as reading?”
Harry coughs nervously. “Is it obvious?”
“To me, yes. But I pay more attention than most,” she says smugly.
“I don't know. You're right--I've never been good with feelings.” He looks away. “I just have a lot of things on my mind now.”
“Harry, talk to me. You're miserable and I want to help....”
“I'm fine, really.” She gives him a disbelieving look. After a long pause, Harry concedes, “My scar has been hurting a lot, okay? I'm not sleeping well at all. Usually that has something to do with Voldemort, which I guess isn't surprising, with what happened at the World Cup. He's coming back, you know....”
“You-Know-Who? You should talk with Professor Dumbledore, Harry!”
“I have, Hermione, many times in fact. It just means that Voldemort's gaining strength and will make his return soon,” Harry says, tired. “Remember this summer, when you scolded me for not working hard enough?”
“I didn't scold you, Harry, I just...”
“You scolded me all right and I probably deserved it. Listen, I'm going to share a secret--I've been spending nearly every waking hour training and haven't taken a real break in ages. I'm just so utterly knackered.... I don't know how long I can keep it up.” He closes his eyes, wishing he could just keep them closed and fall asleep. “Did you know that I used your time turner all summer to overlap my training several times over?” She gasps. “Trust me, I abused it far worse than you ever thought to do--Sirius figures that I averaged about a six times overlap, though toward the end it was more like fifteen. So much so, I lost count and we started overloading the charms on the Room of Requirement that I showed you. Remus figures I caught up on the equivalent of a year and a half in a couple of months, and this was working intensely, one-on-one, with tutors.”
He smiles grimly. “You know how you felt at the end of last year? Take that and multiply it by ten and you'll have how I feel. Now you know how I'm doing so well now in my classes, which I know you resent...”
“Harry!” she protests.
He winks at her. “Hermione, I may have been lazy, but I've never been stupid. I know it's part of why you've been distant. Well, that and the elves and the whole thing with Ron.”
He looks down at his hands and sighs. “I dropped Care of Magical Creatures yesterday since with my work for Albus and Voldemort's return, I don't really have time to spend on Hagrid's 'blasted screwts.' I broke his heart when I told him, so now I've got one more person who's avoiding me like I'm a thestral.”
“Harry, I'm really sorry about how I reacted before with S.P.E.W....”
“Forget it, Hermione. You and the twins are the only ones here, besides the teachers, who even bother trying to talk to me, who aren't put off by everything. I'm not upset--really. I just... feel like an outsider, like I'm not part of this place anymore. I wear my invisibility cloak a lot when I walk the halls now--I just have too much on my mind to worry about dealing with the others.
“As for writing Fleur, it helps to talk with someone else who is on the outside, who has her own experience with the same kinds of things.”
“Harry, I'm so sorry. I hope you know I'll always be your friend.” She looks down at her hands, then back to Harry's eyes, her own showing amusement. “You know, Harry, you seem to be figuring out pretty well what your feelings are.” She smiles faintly. “Before today I didn't know you were even capable of talking about them....” She gives him a calculating look. “So tell me about this Fleur.”
Harry shifts uncomfortably and looks out the window at the overcast day, the grounds showing only in hues of grey. “We first met in July when I went with Albus to Beauxbatons to finalize something with the tournament. Since then, we've seen each other lots of times and she's turned into a good friend. She's is a seventh year--brilliant, talented.... drop dead gorgeous.” He grins. “She's coming to Hogwarts to compete in the Tournament. I don't think you'll like her though. Most women hate veela on sight.”
“She's a veela?”
“Part veela, one quarter on her mum's side.”
Hermione is quiet for a moment. “Are you affected by her magic?”
“It did affect me at first. It doesn't anymore, well not really. I can still feel it, but I know what's going on so I don't let it control me. I think she's relieved too to find someone she can talk to who won't get hung about her being a veela.” He turns and looks at his friend, who twists a strand of bushy hair about her finger. “Do I get to ask you a question now?”
“Sure, Harry.”
“What the hell happened with Ron? This jealousy is out of sorts, even for him.”
She sighs sadly. “I wish I knew. I can't even mention your name around him without a blow up. It's pretty annoying and I think we're headed for some time apart.”
“Don't break up on my account. For what it's worth, the twins couldn't get an answer either. He's got some real issues to work through.” Harry chews the inside of his cheek for a moment before continuing, “I caught him trying to break into my trunk last night.”
“What?!”
“Yeah, I watched him do it--I'd slipped under my cloak to come back for something without bothering anyone. He was using opening spells, even tried prying it open and smashing the lock. I don't know what he was playing at, but after the assassination attempt, I can't risk being around people I can't trust.” He looks out the window again. “I'm moving out of Gryffindor tower tomorrow and into one of the guest quarters.
He takes a deep breath and looks out the window. “I'll miss this view.”
Harry trudges into the Great Hall, utterly fatigued, his tie loosened, his robes disheveled. A several-hour detention following his normal Saturday training routine has caused him to miss the arrival of the two schools, an event he had been anticipating for weeks. The Hall is abuzz with excitement at the arrival of new faces and speculation about the Goblet of Fire, set in a corner, and the upcoming Tri-Wizard Tournament. Harry notices the artifact immediately, his vision drawn to it by its brilliant magical glow.
At the Slytherin table, thirty new students sit dressed in dark red uniforms lined with fur, their hardened demeanor consistent with stories of the austerity of the Durmstrang Institute. Viktor Krum, Quidditch prodigy and seeker for the Bulgarian national team, is near the Slytherin prefects, where he engages in conversation that is as much gestures as words.
The Ravenclaw table hosts the two-score contingent of Beauxbatons students, who wear robes of blue silk adorned with coats of arms--crossed wands on a powder blue field. Harry scans the table for a familiar face and he spots a platinum-haired witch sitting near the end across from Ravenclaw prefect, Roger Davies, who speaks animatedly to her. Beside him is a sandy-haired, sixth year Ravenclaw wizard, who stares at her dazedly. She wears a slight frown as she nods at her prattling companion. She takes a dainty bite of her stew, a fish concoction prepared with fennel, and swallows with disgust. She continues to nod absently at the prefect as she scans the room. Noticing Harry, she beams and waves brightly, excusing herself to rise to meet him.
“Harry! It is so good to see you.” Fleur smiles brilliantly and gives Harry a tight embrace, followed by busses on his cheeks. Her breathless greeting, which takes place in the center of the Great Hall, elicits a response from most of the students--the young men either gazing longingly at Fleur or balefully at Harry, the women staring maliciously at Fleur. Roger Davies fixes Harry with a particularly hateful glare.
“It's good to see you too, Fleur--I missed you. I hope your trip went well.”
“Oui, very well, but it's so good to arrive. I'm not one for long flights.” She leans toward him and whispers, “I'm sorry, but zis English food is horrid--ze bouillabaisse, it isn't fit for a dog.” She shivers and attaches to his arm, a gesture which causes Harry to blush self-consciously. “The castle here is quite cold, non? I shall have to ask ma mère to send warmer clothing.”
“You're welcome to use Hedwig if you like. She'd love the chance to fly to France again.” Harry's stomach flutters at being in close proximity with the witch. He is almost sure that it is her veela aura at work and that he is out of practice at subduing its effects.
“You are too kind, Harry.” She raises an eyebrow at him and teases, “So, were you with a woman--is that why you missed my arrival?”
Harry groans. “Unfortunately, no. I had detention with my potions instructor, Sn- er, Professor Snape. He likes to schedule my detentions whenever I have something I'd much rather be doing.” He smiles at her and half-winks. “And seeing you again certainly qualifies.”
Her laughter is musical and Harry can't help but grin wider in response. “So, Harry, my rogue, will you escort me to the Goblet? I wish to put my name in it and I prefer to avoid being accosted by cretins.” After a few steps, she says, “I encountered your... Ron.” She spits the name with obvious distaste.
“He was a prat, wasn't he?”
She nods at Harry, noticing the glares of a pair of nearby witches. She answers them with an aloof sniff as she and Harry pass. Several seventh year students have congregated near the Goblet of Fire, including Viktor Krum, who has just entered his name. The Bulgarian seeker gives Harry an appraising look, mumbles a few syllables in Bulgarian and sulks toward the Slytherins. Harry sneaks a look back at the Gryffindor table and catches a murderous glare from his former best mate, who is muttering to Dean and Seamus.
“Yes, you could say that. But his woman pulled him away.”
Harry nods. “That was Hermione. She usually can keep him in line.”
Fleur whispers in his ear, “I do not think they will stay a couple, Harry. This Hermione slapped him after he was very rude. I don't blame her, either.”
Harry stops abruptly as they approach at the Cup. “I see the ward line here, Fleur, so I shouldn't go further--I'm sure that whatever the Headmaster has cooked up is something I wouldn't want to test.”
She looks surprised, “You can see the ward, Harry?” He nods and she turns to him, teasing, “You really are not going to try to enter? I should think a hero like you would jump at the chance....”
“I'm afraid not, Fleur. Though it would be fun and I would enter if I could, I've got enough going on now with my apprenticeship. I'll be content watching you compete.” He smiles, “Though you make it hard for me. I'll be torn whether to cheer on my alma mater or my dear friend--and I'm leaning toward the latter.” He straightens his shoulders. “Besides, fair maiden, as but a mere fourth year, I would stand not a chance against such an accomplished and enchanting witch as you.” He bows deeply, reminiscent of the more clumsy bow he had made when they first met.
She laughs again, their feigned formality a private joke of theirs. “You never know, good sir.” She curtseys, then steps gracefully towards the Cup to enter her name.
“So what gives, Harry? You holding out on us?” George and Fred sit at the table on either side of Harry, who is eating his breakfast.
“What do you mean?” Harry has learned the hard way to be wary whenever the twins take a sudden interest in him.
“Who was that fine bird you were with yesterday?” Fred asks.
“'Fine bird,' he says.” George rolls his eyes. “That's why I'm the eloquent one. 'Exquisite creature,' more like.”
“Her name is Fleur Delacour. I met her this summer when Albus and I visited Beauxbatons,” Harry says, taking a bite of eggs, then grins widely. “She is rather brilliant, isn't she?”
“'Rather brilliant' is a bit of an understatement. Just like Ron is 'rather dense.'” George nudges Harry, who bumps into Fred.
“Angelic, more like it. And to see she has eyes for our Harry--growing up, this one is.” Fred nudges Harry back into George.
“Hardly. She's a seventh year....” Harry protests.
“And a veela too, if we're reading ickle Ron's reaction right,” George continues, stealing a rasher of bacon from Harry's plate.
“Oi, remember the World Cup?” Fred steals a piece himself.
“Guys, my food!” Harry covers his plate.
“How could I forget? Nearly took a swan dive, our brother did...”
“Off the top row, no less...”
“To impress some veela. Poor boy.”
“Hermione was none to pleased.”
“Fleur and I are just friends,” Harry says, pushing his plate away from him. “She's a prodigy in charms and heiress to two old, aristocratic lines on the Continent.” He sighs. “Even if I were interested, she's a bit out of my league, don't you think?”
“You never know, Harry, old chap.”
“Well, brother of mine, shall we do the deed?”
“Definitely.”
“You guys are still planning to try to beat Dumbledore's age line?” Harry asks, incredulous at their misplaced Gryffindor bravery.
“Representing the Durmstrang Institute will be... Viktor Krum!”
“Krum! Krum! Krum!” The Durmstrang students shout in unison upon the announcement of their champion, punctuating each word with slammed fists on the Slytherin table. The timing and choreography leads Harry to believe that they had little doubt who would be selected. Viktor Krum stands proudly and salutes the assembled students with a nod and a clenched fist over his chest. He spins on his heel and marches quickly to the front of the Great Hall to follow his Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff to the waiting area.
The Goblet of Fire fizzles and crackles anew, yellow and white sparks flying out its mouth. With a small “boom,” it spits out a slip of parchment. Albus Dumbledore grabs it from the air and shows it to the two Ministry officials, who nod. Harry recognizes them from his time with the Headmaster over the summer--the taller, heavy-set man with a paunch is Ludo Bagman, a former beater for the Wasps who somehow, despite his ties to Voldemort in the last war, managed to secure a Ministry position. The shorter, prim-looking man with a neatly trimmed Vandyke and cold, black eyes is Barty Crouch Senior, Department Director and aggressive Death Eater prosecutor in days past. That he and Bagman can work together in the same department is considered by most to be a minor miracle.
“Representing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will be... Cedric Diggory!”
Cedric stands to cheers from the assembled students. Harry notices a few disappointed faces among the seventh years--Alicia Spinnet, Roger Davies, Natasha Marshak--but for the most part, the school seems united behind its champion. Cedric says a few words to his fellow Hufflepuffs and then makes a point of walking over to each of the other Hogwarts contenders and shaking their hands before he leaves, accompanied by his short, squat Head of House, Pomona Sprout. Harry can't help but feel happy for him, as well as a bit jealous.
Again the hall quiets as the goblet starts to spew sparks. Blue and green motes flick into the air and a third slip of parchment flies out and flutters into the outstretched hand of the Headmaster. He shows it to the two Ministry officials and then to Madame Maxime, who gives a stately nod.
“Representing the Beauxbatons Academy will be... Fleur Delacour!”
The blue-robed students all stand and applaud their champion, who rises, beaming. As she does, she glances over to Harry, who himself stands and applauds, making a “thumbs-up” sign with his hand. She tosses her hair back and steps gracefully between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables leaving in her wake a trail of stunned male students. Harry suspects that she must be very excited if she has allowed her control over her aura to lapse so. She follows her Headmistress, who ducks to pass through the portal, and leaves the hall as well.
“And with that, we conclude... the...”
The Headmaster is interrupted by a loud hissing and sizzling. He turns, stunned, to the goblet, which glows with red flames, and sees it expel a fourth slip of parchment. He snatches it, reads it for a long moment, and shows it to the officials, whose eyebrows rise. Crouch purses his lips and turns to his red-haired secretary, whom Harry recognizes as Percy Weasley, Head Boy from the prior year, and starts speaking animatedly. Percy nods and scribbles notes onto a parchment.
The Headmaster's shrewd eyes seek out Harry, who appears confused, like most in the hall, and then Moody, who stands near the rear of the Hall taking a pull from his hip flask. He clears his throat and speaks, deflated, “Listed as independent, no school affiliation, is the... fourth champion, Harry Potter.”
Harry blinks, widemouthed, from his solitary spot at the far end of the Gryffindor table as all eyes turn toward him. He sees outrage and anger on the faces of the assembly. He looks to the Headmaster, who gives him a faint nod. Harry stands and straightens his shoulders before walking amidst a sea of muttering students as he makes his way towards the exit near the teachers' table. He walks up to the Headmaster and makes eye contact, whispering, “I didn't do it, sir.”
He feels a gentle brush against his mind and he drops his Occlumency shields to allow access to his thoughts. After several seconds, his mentor nods. “Come, Harry, we must go meet the others.” Harry leaves the Great Hall with brisk strides that belie the apprehension he feels. He is followed by the Headmaster and the Ministry personnel.
“Harry,” Fleur says, her delight fading to distraction as Harry enters the low-ceilinged side chamber. “Whatever are you doing here?” The other two champions, with whom she was speaking, also turn toward Harry with scowls.
“I wish I knew,” he says bitterly, crossing his arms and looking toward the Headmaster, who has just entered.
“Olympe, Igor, if you could please join us--something has come up on which we must confer.” The Headmaster walks briskly to the side of the room opposite the four students, who are near windows overlooking a darkened courtyard. The three Ministry officials and Professor Sprout join the three and the Hogwarts Headmaster places a silencing ward about them. Within seconds, Karkaroff gesticulate wildly and Madame Maxime's face reddens as she speaks furiously to Crouch.
“Merlin, what's got them so upset?” Cedric asks.
“Me,” Harry says flatly.
“Harry?” Fleur asks, putting a hand on his shoulder.
He turns to her. “After you left, Fleur, the goblet spit out a fourth champion.” She gasps, her hand falling from Harry's shoulder, and steps back, contemplative. “Someone put my name in as an independent.”
“Someone, Harry?” Cedric asks, doubtful, shaking his head and frowning. “But not you? Right....” He extrudes the last word. Krum nods slowly, appraising but not visibly upset, his arms folded across his wide chest.
Harry feels a flicker in Fleur's aura, indicating strong feelings. Swallowing, he girds himself and gazes into her soft, blue-grey eyes and, seeing nothing definitive, skims her surface thoughts with a light breath of Legilimency. The technique amounts to little more than a careful reading of body language and is the boundary of what is detectable and ethically permissible without her leave. Though she masks her feelings well, he senses a hint of betrayal, that she too is unsure about whether she can trust him.
“You have to believe me,” he whispers, a tightness in his chest. She looks away.
“Dumbledore, we are leaving this evening. Krum, come...” Igor Karkaroff's loud voice snaps sharply as the man steps past the silencing ward.
“...must compete, it's a magically binding contract,” Crouch implores, stepping through the ward as he follows the man.
Moody's unmistakable silhouette appears the doorway with his wand trained on the Durmstrang Headmaster, who freezes, his eyes hateful and fearful. “I don't think I have to look far to find who put Potter's name in that cup. Potter couldn't have passed the age line and I think maybe our resident Death Eater might know something about how his name got in?”
Karkaroff snarls, his hand easing toward his wand. Harry sees Krum discretely draw his as well.
“Just give me a reason,” Moody says, his voice low and menacing as he sets his shoulders and relaxes into a dueling pose.
“Alastor, enough!” Dumbledore spryly steps between the two men.
“Zis, ees preposterous,” Madame Maxime objects, her hands on her waist. “Beauxbatons cannot abide by zis irregularity--we had an agreement, which has been broken.”
“Please, if you would all calm down.” Dumbledore closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his long, crooked nose. “The fact of the matter is that Mr. Crouch is correct. A magically binding contract is in place and the selected champions are required to participate. Indeed, they are bound to compete in earnest--because of the enchantments on the Goblet, they cannot forfeit, save by being incapacitated. Even Mr. Potter, I'm afraid, is obliged to participate, despite that I am quite certain he did not enter himself....”
“'ow can you be sure, Dumbledore?” Madame Maxime says, glaring icily at Harry.
“He could not have--doing so would have constituted an oath and I would have sensed it over our bond. Someone else put his name in, for reasons we can only guess at.”
Karkaroff shakes his head incredulously. “And I'm to believe you didn't condone this? How typical, Dumbledore, that you've manipulated this tournament to your advantage.” He looks Harry up and down and sneers, baring brown teeth. “Mark my words--apprentice or not, the boy is too small, he doesn't belong with the others.”
Harry seethes at the gibes and ignores the Headmaster's signal to stand fast. He steps forward and stares defiantly into the dull green eyes of Durmstrang Headmaster and says hotly, “The boy didn't enter the tournament in the first place. But if I'm required to compete, so be it.”
He crosses his arms and stares at the gaunt, bearded man, who, after a long spell, turns away with a patronizing smirk. “We shall see. Dumbledore, you might want to start interviewing for a new apprentice... I doubt he'll survive even the first task.”
Crouch steps forward and makes a few hasty assurances and the professors and Ministry staff return behind the ward to rejoin their conference, but not before Percy issues his own threatening glare. Harry turns back to the other champions and sees Cedric staring equally coldly at him. Krum steps forward, holding out his hand. “Am sportsman, Potter, vant best competition. Vill look forward to beating you.” He grins assuredly, showing a small gap between his front teeth.
Harry clasps his hand firmly. “Thanks, Krum. Likewise.” He nods to Cedric, who returns with a curt nod of his own. Harry approaches the final champion, who has strode to the other side of the room, her back to him. “Fleur?” he asks quietly.
“Please, I wish to be alone, Harry.” She sighs, still turned away from him. “I am not upset with you.... I am upset because of you.”
Harry grimaces as the brilliant scarlet sigil, which had crystallized in his mind just moments before, fades and morphs into something alien. The ruined black stain grows, snapping in his mind space the natal lines threading the thaumaturgic binding, both his own, silver gossamer lisles, and the more substantial reinforcements laid down by his mentor. The stain flares, blackness on black, and lashes at him, feeding mismatched energies back into his core. He screams in stereo--mind space and real.
He is shaken roughly by his mentor and his eyes blink open as he breaks the trance. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being Cruciatus pain, Harry puts this experience at about a seven. Down from the nine of his last failed attempt, but progress too slow for his or his mentor's tastes.
The Headmaster removes his half-moon glasses and rubs his temples, obviously nursing a headache of his own. “Harry, I am disappointed that you have not been keeping up with your meditation. Must I remind you of the grave consequences were you to attempt to join this rune with inadequate preparation?” The Headmaster sits upon the corner of his large oak desk and looks at Harry sternly.
Harry is devastated as much by his own dashed expectations as by failing the man before him, Hermione's words about wasting the man's time ringing true. “I'm sorry, Albus. I know it's no excuse, but I've had a lot going on lately and haven't had as much chance to prepare as I should.”
“Yes, Harry, I understand. As hard as you may find it to believe, I too was young once. But that does not mean that I excuse you.” He sits upon his chair and folds his arms. “The stakes are high, now that subterfuge has joined you to this competition. I must insist that you make the time somehow. I suggest that you drop your potions class--I dare say Severus won't be too put out and your need to join the magical focus ritual is rather more acute than that of learning to brew cheering draughts.”
Harry nods, part of him elated that he can escape Snape's torture chamber, but another part disappointed at not being able to keep up with the workload and at proving that Snape was perhaps right all along about fame and privilege overcoming lack of talent.
“Do you have any idea how my name was placed into the cup, sir?” he asks, changing the subject.
“No. I confess that I find the matter quite enigmatic as we took quite a number of precautions to guard against tampering.” He smiles coltishly. “Let me pose this as a puzzle to you, Harry, as I believe we both need a diversion and you've proven quite adept at solving them in the past: The cup only allows one who is seventeen or eighteen years of age to place a name within and my own ward prevented any student from crossing the age line bearing a parchment with another's name scribed upon it--a rather brilliant piece of spellcrafting, if you don't mind my saying... Filius's marvelous charm prevented writing instruments from working within the warded space and my own ensured that conjurations were impossible. Neither portraits nor ghosts saw anything untoward. My ward recorded all who crossed the age line. Even the clever efforts of Misters Weasley,” he chuckles.
Harry thinks for a moment. “Could anyone have written my name on a slip of paper and banished it into the goblet from outside the ward?”
“No. I believe it was Fred Weasley who found this out. Such an attempt would have incinerated the parchment as it crossed the ward line and the culprit would have triggered the defense mechanisms.”
“How about from above or below? Could someone have gotten around them that way?”
The Headmaster shakes his head. “No, if you were still a student, you would learn in your NEWT charms study that a properly constructed ward is fashioned to avoid this, with the side bonus of strengthening the ward. And before you say it, neither animagus nor metamorphmagus transformation could have bypassed the ward, nor are time turners or magically enlarged spaces a possibility. Please think on it, Harry. I'd be most interested in what other ideas you come up with.”
“I see, sir.” He frowns for a moment. “From the visions I've had lately, I'm pretty sure that I was entered by Death Eaters somehow.”
“I concur. I just do not know how it was done, nor what they have planned. It would seem that they are after something beyond merely killing you--that could be easier accomplished by other means, such as sending an assassin. Unfortunately, this means we all must all take Professor Moody's excellent advice about 'Constant Vigilance.'”
“Robért? What a surprise!” Fleur rushes down the steps at the entryway of the castle and into the arms of the dark, long-haired man. She embraces him tightly, her lissome body pressed against his own powerful form, and kisses him deeply.
“I am here only for the evening, my court flower, but I thought that we could dine together before I return.” He leans in closely and whispers in her ear, “I have much I wish to speak to you about, including hearing of what you have learned in your stay here.”
“Of course, my love. Let me tell Madame and get my cloak.” She frowns slightly as soon as she steps inside the atrium.
Several minutes later, the two walk together down the southward path to Hogsmede Village. Fleur's arm is hooked in Robért's, her head leaning affectionately on the tall man's shoulder. They stop briefly to exchange a gentle, yet affectionate kiss. They do not notice a black-haired boy looking out from the window of one of the Hogwarts guest quarters, a boy who has watched the scene from afar.
“Bloody hell!” Harry screams in frustration as he picks himself up from the floor. Sirius's cocky grin makes his blood boil. Over the past month, as Harry has improved, Sirius's demeanor has become increasingly playful and, at times, highly annoying.
“Kiddo, if your transhield can't stop a low-powered reducto from lil' ol' me, do you really think it can hold off dragon fire?” He points to the shattered remains of a transfigured granite slab that Harry had conjured to block the spell. Transfiguration takes a large toll in terms of concentration and power, which makes transfigured shields, or “transhields” among the hardest to make. The upside is that, as physical matter, a thick enough transhield can block an Unforgivable.
“Yeah. So I missed.”
“I wouldn't say you missed, per se. You just fell back into your trademark 'monkey shit' casting style.” He flutters his eyelashes at Harry, who answers with a rude hand gesture. Sirius emits a barking laugh as he vanishes the remains of Harry's ruined slab.
“In all seriousness Harry, pardon the pun, you're doing pretty well. It's tricky work, but bloody useful. The key is to optimize for size, thickness, and mass, not staying power...” He puts his hand on his chin and looks thoughtful, “...sort of the opposite of what witches want, come to think of it.” Harry groans. “You typically only need seconds to block a curse, but you want to make sure it's thick enough and dense enough to do so, since you're sacrificing visibility and power to make it. You just need to work on maintaining concentration throughout the conjuration. I know it's hard with a spell bearing down on you, but you're almost there. Ready for another go?”
The two drill for another twenty minutes and Sirius calls for a halt. “Nice work, Harry. You've basically got it, to within practice. I just have one other wrinkle to show you tonight. Let's see what you make of this....” Sirius repeats his blasting curse as before, but precedes the wand motion with a slight sideways quiver of his wand, followed by a very subtle retraction. The bolt streaks from his wand with a head of dark orange and a yellow streamer, the latter exactly like the standard reducto. Harry's transhield snaps into existence and, as before, the curse strikes it dead-center. But, to Harry's surprise, it passes completely through the granite and smites him on the chest, hurling him onto his back. Harry sits up and looks dumbly at his conjured barrier, which appears intact.
“What the...”
“Gotcha.” Sirius throws his head back and cackles. “Old dog's still some mad tricks, eh Harry?” He dances a ridiculous jig.
“Mad is right. How?” Harry continues to stare incredulously at the pristine slab until it fades on its own.
“I'll teach you, but it's a trade secret--you'll need to do nonverbally because it's just too damned cool to share.” He winks conspiratorially. “Albus doesn't even know it. The incantation is abeoconci, which translates, roughly, to 'vanish briefly,' but it's probably closer to Pig Latin than real Latin. Funny thing is, if you do say it with textbook Latin, the spell won't work--James and I used to drive Remus up the wall with it. It only works with a few spells, mostly percussive ones. The wand motion is similar to evanesco, like this.” Sirius drills Harry on the curse and shows him how to precede blasting and the bone-breaking curses.