[From Samhain to the Solstice]: A Path Like Frost, gen, Like a Malfoy series, 4/6

[lomonaaeren]

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Part Four

“I hate to let you leave.”

Harry nodded and hugged Mother back for a long moment. He knew it bothered her that the Healers hadn’t made any real progress on finding out how to remove the Horcrux from him. There was simply no precedent. Healer Percival had said that the Horcrux should have been too weak to torment him and assimilated by his soul if he was still alive, but he shouldn’t have lived as long as he had if it was that powerful. They obviously didn’t know much yet.

Draco and Mother and Father had all said they would figure it out. That was the only reason Harry hadn’t broken down in panic or shock daily the way he had after he first heard the news.

Well, and he was going to Hogwarts now, and he didn’t want to break down like that in front of Ron or Hermione. He trusted them, of course he did, but…

He just didn’t know who they might feel they had to tell if he told them the truth about the Horcrux. Their parents? Dumbledore? A professor?

It was better to hold it to himself for now and only tell them if he had to.

Mother hugged him once more, and straightened up with a small sigh and a pale face. Father immediately placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and stared into his eyes. His left arm worked as well as it ever had, and Harry couldn’t see any differences between it and the right arm in strength or color.

He hadn’t missed that Father was wearing short sleeves to place him and Draco on the Hogwarts Express, of course. But he perfectly understood why Father would want to show off the Dark Mark being gone.

“You’ll write to us every week?” Father asked softly.

Harry nodded. There was something going on at the school this year that apparently was going to make it impossible for his parents to come to Hogsmeade the way they’d been doing. Even regular Hogsmeade visits were curtailed, and Quidditch was being canceled, too. At least Harry was still going to be able to meet with Healer Letham, who had smiled and told Harry not to worry about the method she would use to get around the restrictions.

Father closed his eyes and nodded. “And you’ll allow Draco to take care of you?”

“Not follow me around.”

“I can do that, too,” Draco said, stepping up beside Harry. He’d already put their trunks on the train and said hello to some of his Slytherin friends.

Harry scowled at him. Draco gave him an angelic smile back, and turned to hug Mother.

“I’ll do what I can,” Harry finally answered Father, whose worried expression got a little more relaxed. “I just—it’s hard for me to get used to other people peering over my shoulder and asking me questions all the time.”

“I understand that,” Father said. He tightened his hands on Harry’s shoulders, and then bent over and hugged him.

Harry hugged him back. He was never going to doubt that Father loved him again, not after what he had done this summer.

The Express whistled, and Draco grabbed Harry’s hand. Harry waved to their parents and hopped onto the train with his brother.

Ron and Hermione did ask him a few times during the train ride what was wrong, but Harry told them that he was worried about Voldemort and the fact that they’d never heard what the outcome was from Sirius’s trial, which was true enough. And Hermione filled the silence with chatter about the books she’d read and the holiday she’d taken to France, while Ron complained about his parents and brothers and Ginny. It was as normal as things could be right now.

Harry caught the eye of his own reflection in the window glass, and grimaced a little. He didn’t like the way his cheeks were pinched and drawn and he looked even paler than a Malfoy “should” look.

He tried to smile and relax. The Horcrux hadn’t killed him so far. The Healers were working to find a way to remove it from him. Things would get there. Worrying too much about it right now probably wouldn’t change things.

“Did you hear about that attack at the Quidditch World Cup?” Hermione asked abruptly. “I’m glad none of us were there!”

Ron grumbled about how he’d wanted to be there, and only Mr. Weasley having a work emergency had kept him from attending. Harry shuddered a little. He had heard about the attack, about a bunch of Dark wizards attacking Muggles, and the Dark Mark being shot into the air. At least he hadn’t dreamed about it or got any pain in his scar from it.

“Did they catch any of them?” Harry asked, just to say something.

Hermione shook her head. “Well, they claimed they caught a house-elf who was using someone’s wand to cast the Dark Mark, but the house-elf’s owner sacked her, and that was the end of that. I think they know perfectly well who it was, and they’re just ignoring it so they don’t have to do something about it…”

Harry let Hermione ramble on about it, while he caught sight of his reflection in the glass again. He did his best to smile and sit up.

He really had to get over his fear that the Horcrux was just going to eat him from the inside out someday. There was a reason that he’d lived so far. And if he was going to get eaten by the Horcrux tomorrow, he couldn’t prevent it.

*

“Are you planning to build regular flying exercise into your routine?” Healer Letham asked, seemingly out of the blue, during their first visit they’d had that term.

Harry blinked at her. As always, Healer Letham had a cup of tea with her. Dobby was thrilled to be able to Apparate to Hogwarts and make it for them, so Harry had one, too, but he didn’t feel like drinking it.

“What do you mean?”

“I know that flying lifts your mood, and there won’t be any Quidditch for you to play this year.” Healer Letham pinched her lips. “I think they are making a mistake with the Tournament. But it shouldn’t affect you, I hope.”

Harry nodded. The Headmaster and the Ministry had had to announce they were holding the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts since the rumors had already spread all over the place anyway. “I hope not. And I didn’t think about flying regularly. Do you think it would help?”

“It would.” Healer Letham leaned towards him “Particularly as you will not tell me the cause of your current misery.”

Harry grimaced. His parents had asked him not to tell anyone, and although he thought Healer Letham could be an exception to that, he also dreaded to see how her expression would change when she heard about the Horcrux.

“Harry?”

“My parents asked me not to,” Harry murmured. “They think—well, it’s a private thing, and they want to keep it close until we can get it taken care of.”

“Ah. You believe it is a temporary condition that will end at some point, then?”

Harry nodded, still looking down. He had to believe that. And in a way, it was true. Either they would find some way to get the Horcrux out of him, or it would kill him.

“Are you only keeping silent because your parents asked you to? Would you like to tell me?”

Harry would have, honestly. It would be someone other than the Healers—who were caught up in the theoretical possibilities of it—or his family—who were all caught up in worry—to talk to about it.

But he still imagined the way that Healer Letham’s face would change when she heard about the shard of Voldemort’s soul, and winced.

“I want to talk to you about it someday. But I can’t right now.”

Healer Letham studied him for long enough that Harry thought she might ask him to speak anyway, or end the session. But then she nodded, and relaxed back into the chair she was sitting on. “Tell me about the new Potions professor. And the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. How are you getting along with them?”

“Professor Slughorn is okay,” Harry said, although he grimaced a little. The man had seemed eager to talk to him at first, but when he realized that Harry didn’t like hearing himself called “the Boy-Who-Lived,” he’d backed off. Draco, on the other hand, was soaking in the praise and attention, as the uncomplicated Malfoy son who had always been a Malfoy. “I’m learning more from him than I did from Snape.”

“And Professor Moody?”

“I don’t know, actually. Draco and I are still taking lessons from Ted. Sometimes Professor Moody tries to stop me in the corridors and speak to me, but he’s always dropping these hints and saying he has to invite me back to his office to tell me more. I haven’t gone.”

“I think that a wise decision,” Healer Letham said mildly. “It might be that Professor Moody would offer you the same kind of training Ted is, but if so, I’m afraid that he’s close enough to the Headmaster, he would be doing it Dumbledore’s instigation. And you don’t want to start down that road.”

“No. My friends seem to like him well enough,” Harry added.

“Good. And what of your brother?”

The conversation passed pleasantly enough, and Harry was surprised to find at the end that it almost had worked as if he’d told Healer Letham about the Horcrux. He’d managed to forget about it and remember there were other things in the world, at least.

And that was all he really needed.

*

“The Champion for Durmstrang is…Viktor Krum!”

Harry applauded politely, smiling at the way Ron was whooping and hollering into his ear. Harry knew who Krum was, of course, even though he hadn’t attended the World Cup. Pictures of Krum’s spectacular Snitch catch had been on the front page of the Daily Prophet for almost a week.

And the boy who stood up and walked through the cheering and clapping to a small antechamber on the far side of the Great Hall looked as if he would do well in a contest like the Tournament. He was strong and solid and had a slight scowl on his face. He looked studious, Harry thought.

And even if some people did say that the only magic studied at Durmstrang was the Dark Arts, well, maybe that was what you needed to survive in a situation like the Tournament.

“The Champion for Beauxbatons is…Fleur Delacour!”

The Veela girl who had been attracting some people’s attention since she arrived yesterday glided from the Ravenclaw table to the antechamber. She was getting lots of cheers, too, Harry noted, although Ron only sighed wistfully after her. Hermione sniffed.

“Some people should pay more attention to things other than looks,” she said, and picked up her book again. But even she put it down again when the Goblet flared and spat out another name.

“The Champion for Hogwarts is…Cedric Diggory!”

Harry applauded a little harder than he had for Krum. He did actually know Diggory, and the bloke was pretty fair, both as a Seeker and as a prefect (he hadn’t done more than take a couple of points when he caught Harry coming back from visiting Draco after curfew one time last year). Hufflepuff, of course, was going mad. Diggory stood up, smiled around the Great Hall, and walked towards the same small room the other Champions had entered.

“I am pleased that all of the schools have found their Champions, and would like to thank you for your attention.” Dumbledore folded his hands and smiled out at the room much like Diggory had done. “If Headmaster Karkaroff and Madame Maxime will join me in the antechamber where the Champions have gone, we will explain—”

The Goblet abruptly ignited again. Dumbledore blinked and fell silent. Harry stared at it, and wondered if it was his imagination that his scar gave a little twinge.

Another name was spat out of the flames. Dumbledore caught the piece of paper and stared at it for a long moment before he unfolded it.

And although he knew what Father would say, Harry was sure that Dumbledore’s face had gone utterly slack with shock and surprise, and not that he was planning something, when he read the name and looked up.

“Harry Potter.”

Harry folded his arms and glared at Dumbledore. Draco stood up at the Slytherin table. Hermione and Ron, still sitting beside him, both gasped.

“Harry Potter,” Dumbledore repeated, and already he seemed to be over his surprise. He waved the slip of parchment. “You are a Champion, as chosen by the Goblet of Fire. Please join the other Champions in the room I have already indicated.”

“Harry Potter isn’t my name,” Harry said, loud enough to silence some of the murmurs that were starting up in the Great Hall. “It’s Henry Malfoy.”

“You were chosen as a Champion by the Goblet of Fire, Harry.”

“Don’t call my brother that!” Harry turned to the Slytherin table at Draco’s indignant yell and saw that his twin was pointing his wand at Dumbledore “He’s told you he doesn’t want to be called that!”

“Nevertheless,” Dumbledore said, regaining confidence by the moment, “his name has been chosen.”

“His old name. That means it isn’t really him!”

“I didn’t put my name in!” Harry yelled, standing up in turn.

“You are a Champion nevertheless,” Dumbledore said, and leveled a look at Harry over the rims of his glasses. “If there is some irregularity here, we can sort it out later. For now, join the other Champions.”

Harry shook his head and sat back down. Hermione gasped again and started tugging on his arm. “Harry, you’re going to get in so much trouble!” she hissed at him.

“I don’t care,” Harry said, loudly enough that he knew the people leaning in from other tables and trying to eavesdrop would be able to do so easily. “I didn’t put my name in. And I’m not really Harry Potter, so obviously this is some prank.”

A loud thump sounded from the far end of the professors’ table, and Harry turned. Professor Moody was standing there, bracing his wooden leg on the floor, while his magical eye zoomed around his face.

“There’s some treachery here, right enough,” he said loudly. “For now, lad, do as Headmaster Dumbledore says.”

“You’re not even one of my professors!” Harry called back. “No.”

“Dumbly-door, what is going on?”

That was Madame Maxime, standing in the doorway of the small room. Delacour peered out around her, and Harry thought he could see a glimpse of Diggory’s face, too.

“There seems to be a slight problem with the choosing process,” Dumbledore said, and smiled at her, then down the Gryffindor table at Harry. “The Goblet spat out a fourth name. Harry Potter, as it happens.”

“How is it fair for Hogwarts to have two Champions?” one of the Durmstrang students still sitting at the Slytherin table muttered.

“I’m not the Hogwarts Champion! Diggory is!”

“Shut up about my brother,” Draco snapped, and turned to aim his wand at the Durmstrang student.

“I wish you would just do what Professor Dumbledore says,” Hermione whispered.

Ron said nothing, and when Harry looked at him, he was very red in the face, and turned away. Harry got a horrible sinking sensation in his stomach. He had thought his two best friends would believe he hadn’t put his name in the Goblet, even if Hermione also thought he should do what Dumbledore wanted, but if they didn’t…

It was going to be like first year after they’d lost all those points for being caught out after curfew all over again. He’d be shunned and people would laugh at him.

Harry clenched his hands in his lap. He had his family now, he reminded himself. He had Healer Letham now. From the way Draco was yelling at some Durmstrang students, his face turning a bright pink, he wasn’t about to decide that Harry had pulled some kind of grand prank.

Harry sat back in his chair, ignoring the way Professor Moody kept staring at him, and settled in to wait for the results.

*

“There is nothing that can be done. Harry’s name has been drawn out of the Goblet of Fire. It constitutes a binding magical contract.”

“And you have nothing that would identify who entered the name?” Father stared at Dumbledore over his desk, while Mother sat quietly beside him. Harry thought they were letting Father take the lead because of the bare left forearm he could rest on Dumbledore’s desk. Dumbledore had trouble keeping his eyes off it. “Do you mean to tell me that the only security you had on the Goblet was that Age Line around it?”

“We didn’t think we would need more.” Dumbledore raised his hands in a helpless little gesture. “We all assumed that students would want to enter their own names, not those of someone else.”

“And if it was not a student who did it?”

“Well, professors aren’t supposed to want to enter someone else’s name, either,” Dumbledore said.

Through his shock—Harry wondered if he would ever get angry about anything again, or if his reaction was just going to be numbness all the time—Harry still gave Dumbledore a disbelieving look. “You didn’t think that Voldemort would use a professor if he wanted?” he asked. “He was using Quirrell first year!”

Dumbledore sighed. “It honestly doesn’t matter who did it, although of course we will try to find out. Harry has to compete. He is bound.”

“What is the binding based on?”

Mother’s voice was so quiet that Harry thought Dumbledore was going to ignore her at first. But he turned towards her, maybe because it would spare him from having to look at Father’s blank arm any longer. “Pardon me, Mrs. Malfoy?”

“What comprises the binding contract between the Goblet and the Champion chosen? It cannot be the intent of the person submitting the name, as we have established that it accepted Henry’s name despite his lack of interest in entering.” Mother was leaning forwards, fiercely intent, and Dumbledore hesitated.

“It is based on the school,” he admitted finally. “Someone must have submitted—Mr. Malfoy’s name as a Champion for a fourth school, and the Goblet chose him because it had no other candidates.”

“And is that all?” Mother stared hard at Dumbledore. “Or is there more?”

Dumbledore folded his hands on the desktop. “Well, it is also based on the name of the Champion. If someone had submitted the name of a dead person, the Goblet would not have chosen them.”

“And,” Father said, smiling a little, as if he had already known the answer but wanted to see if Dumbledore would actually say it, “the name that came out of the Goblet was Harry Potter. A name our son no longer bears.”

Harry looked up, hopeful for the first time since he had started fearing that Ron and the other Gryffindors would shun him. Dumbledore, though, was shaking his head.

“The binding would not have taken at all in that case. If Mr. Malfoy thought of himself as a completely separate person from Harry Potter, then the Goblet would have kept the name and not emitted it, the same way it would have for the name of a dead person. Harry Potter still exists.” Dumbledore stared at Harry. “In Mr. Malfoy’s head.”

“But I don’t think of myself as Harry Potter,” Harry said quickly. He didn’t want Dumbledore to blame him. Ten to one that would get out and people would start deciding that he did want to be in the Tournament even if he hadn’t entered his own name. “I promise. I don’t think of the name Potter as mine.”

Dumbledore hesitated again. Father narrowed his eyes, but Mother was the one who spoke. “The binding is weak, isn’t it, Headmaster?”

“Well, yes. Unexpectedly so.” Dumbledore coughed. “But enough so that your son is bound to compete.”

“Why is it weak?” Harry asked. Dumbledore sighed.

“Because you think of yourself as Harry Malfoy,” he said. “If your name had been Harry Potter, then the binding would be strong and you would have to compete simply to survive. If your name were Henry Malfoy, even in your head, then the binding wouldn’t exist.”

Harry sat up. He refused to feel guilty that he still thought of himself as Harry. It wasn’t like he could have anticipated this, or known how the Goblet worked. And if it was really Voldemort trying to kill him, then he would have found some other way to enter Harry, maybe just by having someone write “Malfoy” on a piece of parchment.

Could that have bound Draco, too?

Harry had the horrible feeling that it might have. At least he was facing this alone.

“So what do I have to do if the binding is weak?” Harry asked. “Do I have to compete at all?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore with a sidelong glance. “And it would be best to do so wholeheartedly. We stand more chance of locating the person who put your name in the Goblet in that case, by seeing how they react to your efforts.”

“Our son did not enter his name in this travesty,” Father said. “And if the binding is weak, then all he needs to do is appear at the Tasks and make a little show of trying. There is nothing saying that he has to win or make a serious effort.”

“The likelihood of catching the person who used his name—”

“Why couldn’t they just react to how poorly I’m doing?” Harry interrupted, ignoring the fleeting thought in the back of his head that Hermione would be horrified about his interrupting the Headmaster. “Sir, why do you want me to compete?”

Dumbledore took his glasses off and polished them. Harry suspected he was only doing that to avoid having to look at Harry.

“I believe it is our best chance of finding Voldemort,” Dumbledore admitted softly, “and his latest pawn. At the moment, I have no idea where the wraith is.”

“You would let a situation dangerous to our son to unfold merely because you desire to know the Dark Lord’s next move?” Mother shook her head slowly, and said nothing more. Harry was kind of surprised. The look in her eyes was once again the one she’d had right before she cursed Black.

But maybe she knew that cursing Dumbledore in his office wasn’t a great idea.

“At least I know where you stand now,” said Father. “And that is as an enemy of the Malfoy family.” He shook his head in turn and spun away, touching both Harry and Mother lightly on the way. “Come. We should go out.”

“Wait! Harry! If you would—”

“Call me Malfoy, Headmaster,” Harry said, and this time he didn’t feel any urge to look over his shoulder.

*

The next few weeks weren’t brilliant.

As Harry had thought would happen, most of Gryffindor was shunning him once they figured out that he wasn’t going to back down and recant the “lie” of not putting his name in the Goblet. Hufflepuff was angry at him for “taking away Cedric’s glory.” The Ravenclaws sometimes fell into that camp and sometimes into the camp of pitying glances.

Slytherin was actually the most supportive, a huge surprise, but with how many people Draco was cursing on a regular basis, perhaps it shouldn’t have been. Harry shook his head at Draco when they met up briefly in the corridors where Draco was going to Professor McGonagall for another detention.

“I wish you wouldn’t. You’re going to get hurt.”

“They’re lying about you,” Draco said hotly. “I’m not going to stop.”

“But the more time you spend in detention, the less time you have to protect me,” Harry said, and gave Draco a wide-eyed look that he’d been practicing in the mirror. “Please stop. For my sake?”

Draco blinked and looked completely caught off-guard for a long moment. Then he nodded. Harry smiled thankfully at him and went his way.

At least it worked, and Draco stopped getting as many detentions for the next little while.

Ron, meanwhile, was angry about Harry “not telling him” about putting his name in the Goblet. Harry had no idea why he believed that so stubbornly, but he didn’t work on changing his mind. Ron would either come back or he wouldn’t, and although it hurt that his first ever friend didn’t believe him, well, Harry had seen Ron get upset and then come back to his side after the Malfoy thing. It would probably happen this way, too.

Hermione believed him, and was willing to spend a lot of time with both him and Draco, but she didn’t like the way that Harry had argued with Dumbledore and refused to do what he said. She was also starting to nag Harry about attending class with Professor Moody, too, even though Ted’s lessons were going well and Hermione had seen for herself what a great teacher he was.

“Professor Moody is a great professor,” Hermione said one evening in the library, continuing her latest mantra. “He showed us the three Unforgivables.”

Harry snapped his head up to stare at her. “He did what?”

“I mean, he cast them on a spider,” Hermione said hurriedly, as if she was worried that Harry might think she was accusing Moody of illegal activities. “But it was brilliant, really, to see how well they worked.”

“Why did he even know how to cast them?”

“Aurors have to, to counter them, I suppose. And they were allowed to use those spells in the war with You-Know-Who.”

“They were?” Harry echoed softly.

Hermione nodded. “Wartime powers. Wartime emergency, I think. Mr. Crouch was in charge then, and he gave them permission.”

“Wow.” Harry was glad that he’d managed to avoid being cornered by any of the Headmasters or the Ministry officials working on the Tournament. He shuddered and returned to his Charms essay.

“Won’t you at least visit our class once, Harry? Just to see what it’s like?”

“No. That would be breaking the terms of the agreement by which Ted’s allowed to tutor Draco and me. The Headmaster was very firm about that last year. I couldn’t just drop in and out of Lupin’s class. I had to stay out of it altogether once I decided I didn’t want to attend it anymore.”

“About Professor Dumbledore, Harry…”

Harry sighed and glanced at her. Hermione was leaning forwards over the table, and her eyes were wide and appealing.

“What?” Harry asked.

“You know that he was only trying to do his best, don’t you? I think he was caught off-guard by the situation as much as you were.”

“He’s made it clear that he thinks Father is going to turn me over to Voldemort,” Harry said bluntly. “Or at least he thought that before Father got the Dark Mark cut off. I have to admi that I’m not sure what Dumbledore thinks now.”

“I just meant the Tournament situation. He wasn’t trying to order you to go into the other room because he hates you. He really thought you were a Champion, and he was trying to cope with it.”

Harry shook his head. “If he really knew me at all, he would know that I hadn’t put my name in it.” Ron should know that, too, he thought but didn’t say.

Maybe Hermione had also made the connection, because she shifted uncomfortably. “I mean,” she said, and then dropped it.

Harry was just as glad for her to do so. He wasn’t going to go around telling other people that Dumbledore was stupid or mean or whatever. He didn’t even tell people that about Professor Moody, and he hadn’t about Lupin, except when they directly asked him why he wasn’t taking Defense with the other students anymore. But he didn’t owe it to anyone to defend those people, either.

“What are you going to do in the First Task?” Hermione asked then. “Aren’t you worried that you don’t know what it is yet?”

Harry shook his head. “I told you about that weak binding to the Goblet of Fire. I’m just going to show up, shoot one spell, and sit in the stands.”

“You aren’t worried about the magical contract, then?”

“No. Even Dumbledore admitted the binding was weak, so I don’t need to do anything more.”

“Professor Dumbledore, Harry.”

Harry gave her a single exasperated look, and Hermione blushed and really did drop it, this time.

*

Harry was glad as hell that he’d decided not to participate when he saw that the First Task was bloody dragons. The Champions who had actually entered their names in the Goblet were mental.

“Now, then, our Mr. Potter—do excuse me, Mr. Malfoy!”

Ludo Bagman, the excitable announcer, called out his name, but Harry walked out of the tent as slowly as he could possibly get away with. The Hungarian Horntail that he’d taken in miniature from the bag earlier loomed over him in reality now, crouched over her eggs with her mouth open in what looked like a permanent snarl.

Harry shot a small Stunner towards her. It splashed against her scales without affecting her at all.

“It’s going to take more than that to defeat this dragon, Mr. Malfoy!”

Harry turned away and walked towards the stands, where Mother, Father, and Draco were sitting. He could hear some people gasp and murmur as if they thought this was a daring strategy or something.

“And what is Mr. Malfoy going to do? Summon his broom and outfly the dragon?”

That wasn’t a bad idea, Harry thought. He was a little surprised that Krum hadn’t done it, since he was such an adept Quidditch player. But Harry climbed into the stands and sat down next to Draco, between him and Mother. Draco grinned at him and punched him in the shoulder. Mother touched his arm lightly.

“I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen a strategy like this before!” Bagman was trying to sound cheerful, but his voice was getting a little shrill. “We’ll no doubt see Mr. Malfoy come out swinging to get the golden egg any second now!”

Harry sat still and stared at Bagman. Other people stared at Harry, and he could hear the discontented murmurs rising and falling like waves. Harry rolled his eyes. They didn’t want him in the Tournament in the first place, and now they were disappointed that he wasn’t participating?

The announcements went on for another ten minutes before Madame Maxime stood up and shouted, “It is obvious that the boy is not participating! Bring in the Dragon-Keepers and end this farce, now!”

Bagman tried to protest, but apparently the Dragon-Keepers agreed with her. A group of nine of them ran forwards, dodging the fire the Horntail blew with practiced ease, and subdued her with repeated Stunners.

The murmuring got louder. Harry ignored it, and didn’t turn around when he got a pitiful three points combined from the judges, either.

Why should he? He hadn’t wanted to be here in the first bloody place.

He briefly caught Ron’s eye as he walked with his family back to the school. Ron stared at him, but when he saw Harry looking back, his entire face turned red, and he stomped away.

Harry sighed. It was going to take a while longer for his best friend to come back to him, he supposed.

The important thing was that he was alive, and he had shown people who were smart and paid attention exactly how little he cared about the Tournament.