Author's note: It's been some time since I read Goblet, but I don't think they ever gave a reason for why Harry had to compete? Just a vague...you gotta, champ. So I've tried to pull my own explanation out of a hat here. Also, to offer a fair warning: there is an implication of sexual assault. It is not based in any credible source and is not depicted or described (as it didn't happen) but wanted to give a warning just in case.

Anyway, this chapter was a bit of a struggle- it's the closest to canon events and I want to make sure I managed to turn it into my own so it's not boring. Hope I was successful!

Chapter Eleven: The Vow, the Promise and the Reporter

It did not take long for the chaos to follow Harry, the door bursting open as the Heads of each school rushed forth, followed by Fudge, Crouch and the two aurors. The sound was riotous, each talking above the other- shouting, at no one in particular, but their pointed glances were turned to Harry- and he instinctively took two steps backward until his knees hit the seat of a sofa and buckled, depositing him down.

"This can't have happened! There's no way-" Crouch yelled before the words became too muffled, falling into the sea of words and questions and demands for something to be done.

"Beauxbatons has two champions? That's hardly fair to-"

"-He's always been a troublemaker, he must have-"

"How dare you insinuate that my age line enchantment was anything less than perfect! I have been practicing magic for-"

Harry scoffed, his face turning red with the indignation. Why did so many people in his life insist on talking about him right in front of him, as if he wasn't there? As if he wasn't worthy of the respect or the consideration?

His eyes flicked about, from the bodies that waved before him- a tangle of angry gestures and open scowls- to the other students. The other champions. Three sets of eyes followed the same motions, glancing from Harry to the bickering set of adults and back again, uncertain and confused.

So much for the moment of glory that Maxime had promised them.

Fleur was the first to break it, stepping forward so that she caught the eyes of the others and they fell silent long enough for her to ask, "I'm sorry, but what is this about? I thought there was supposed to be a ceremony with all of us."

As though realizing for the first time that they were not alone, they pulled apart, staring at each of the champions in turn. Then, finally, falling on Harry.

"How did you do it?" Crouch asked, his voice reedy and thin. "How'd you get your name in?"

Harry blinked owlishly. "I didn't," was all he answered, the two words igniting the cacophony of sound once more.

"He's lying! Surely he had to have-"

"What does that mean? He didn't- well who the bloody hell did?"

"Maybe he found an aging spell or potion that could-"

"-my age line was flawless! Maybe he got someone else to put it in-"

"I'm sorry!" Cassius all but screamed, the fierceness of his voice startling Harry, who, until that very moment, was unsure he had ever heard the former Slytherin speak at all. "But are you saying he's been selected as well?"

Aradhya was the next to talk, arms folded over her chest as she said in a soft, syrupy voice that made Harry think of honey, "That's impossible. There can't be four champions. There are only three schools."

Fleur sniff, nose tilted up in the air. "Not to mention he's only a third-year or something."

"I'm a fourth year," he corrected sharply, though he immediately regretted it when it was met by a snort, a soft chuckle. It probably didn't help his case, whatever his case was. He wasn't so sure. But he pulled himself up from the sofa, taking advantage of the lull in arguments to say, "And I swear, I didn't put my name in. I didn't ask someone else to put it in. I don't know how it happened- I don't want this. I'd much rather get through the year with my head down and-"

Cassius snorted, a sputtering sound that drew Harry's attention, made him quirk a brow. "I'm sorry, have you got something to say?" He was hostile, more aggressive than he knew he should have been. But he was in a foul mood, and wasn't this supposed to be a perk to transferring to Beauxbatons? That nearly all of the Slytherins that plagued him had been moved to Durmstrang, far and away from him?

Cassius rolled his eyes in a broad motion, one intended to be seen. "Oh, come off it, Potter. You've never been one to go through the year with your head down. Like you aren't loving this attention," he taunted, taking several strides towards Harry to bridge the distance, glance casting downward as he towered over the younger boy. His lips twisted crookedly as he added, "In fact, you're probably the reason we're standing here in these robes right now instead of our Hogwarts ones. Nearly got the school shut down in your first year, wouldn't be surprised if you did it again. What happened, did that Weasley girl get in the way of a curse meant for you? Not the first time some poor witch died trying to-"

He was silenced, quite promptly, when Harry rose on his toes and pulled a fist back, only to hook it across his face.

"Potter!" Came a unison of shouts, all merging to form one surprised call of his name.

But he ignored them, followed the fall of Cassius's body as the wizard reached up to cover his nose- bent and bloodied. Harry was on top of him, one knee digging painfully into his sternum as he pressed his full weight into it. He was shouting, tangled and incoherent obscenities mingling with Cassius's threats as fist flew, finding soft and pliant surfaces in the few seconds before Harry was pulled off, held back in the tight arms of Moody as the other auror pressed a boot to Cassius's chest just as he tried to rise to follow him.

"Get a hold of yourself, boy!" Moody grumbled into his ear as Harry fought and resisted against the hold. His cheek stung from where Cassius had managed to hit

"This is deplorable behavior! Control your students," Crouch hissed.

Maxime gave him a sparing glance before glowering at Harry and Cassius. "He's right, this is unbecoming of two champions. You are to treat each with the same respect as those before you- it is an honor not to be taken lightly. Two weeks of detention for resorting to such boorish defenses!" Her eyes then slid to Karkaroff, who seemed to be watching the scene unfold before him with a mixture of both amusement and boredom before adding, "Both of you! It is my school we are in and I will not tolerate instigation or retaliation from our guests."

Harry sneered. "If it's such an honor, I'd hate to besmirch it. I don't want to compete anyway, so just take it away."

He was met with silence, averted gazes that made him falter, the adrenaline and tension vanishing from his muscles and making him limp. "What?"

"You really don't know anything, do you?" Cassius said, words gargled as he spat out blood which smeared on his chin.

Harry felt smugly satisfied, even as he scrunched his face in question. "What are you-"

"It's a form of an Unbreakable Vow," Aradhya answered, her accent thick and rounded. "When you enter, you're signing your magic over to the contract. If you don't fulfill the contract- or compete- the ramifications can be at best...forfeiting your magic."

Harry balked, jaw slinging open as something that tasted like panic crept into him. Forfeit his magic? He couldn't even imagine such a thing, moving through the world without his magic- something that had grown to be as much a part of him as his green eyes or his untidy hair. It was a comfort, a balm that soothed him. Even when he wasn't using it, he could feel it, shifting within him. Feel its core warm him over like a fire, ever constant.

And what would his life even be like without magic? He would be expelled, as he would be no better than a muggle, and what then? Sent back to live with the Dursleys? Would Voldemort continue to hunt him then, and he would be forced to rely on the magic of others to stay protected, unable to defend himself against such a behemoth? Or would Voldemort cease to care about him, no longer considering him a threat?

Would Tom stop caring about him too?

The thought ached more than he wanted to admit. Whether it was the idea of Tom casting him aside or the idea that he had only ever mattered to Tom because of his magic, he did not know. But it ached all the same, and he felt a pang in his chest that shifted like a tremor to each of his slackened limbs. He didn't want to be alone- alone without magic, alone without this school and his friends, alone without Tom. Alone in that horrible cupboard, surrounded by the taunts and the abuse that would only grow now that there was no threat of his magic.

"I can't...I can't lose my magic," he mumbled, not realizing he had said it aloud until Moody's hold loosened and he felt rather than heard the soft sigh rumbling against his back. She had said that was the best-case scenario, even. What could possibly be worse?

He asked as much, receiving his answer in Cassius's cold laugh as the boy held his straightened hand under his own chin and made a slicing motion.

Oh.

"That's enough out of you," the other auror said with a grunt, flicking her wand in Cassius's direction. His lips snapped together, and his eyes widened, muffled sound coming from his mouth that could not open.

Crouch was muttering, rubbing a hand down his weary, drawn-out face. "This is unbelievable- you mean to tell me these are our champions?" It was a question posed to no one in particular, and he was shaking his head as he continued to speak, rage simmering beneath his stoic veneer, making his words poised and acidic. "This is- perhaps the spells have soured on the Goblet. I knew we should have made up a new one instead of using that ancient relic. Can't go back now, though, can we?"

He pointed then, gestured a skinny, knobby finger at Maxime as he said, spittle flying from his lips, "Get them under control. Imperio them if you have to. This is supposed to be a unifying and internationally respected competition, not a wrestling arena for two boys!" The jowls of his cheek shook with emphasis at his words, punctuating and sharpening them. He glanced around at the rest of the room, chewing his lip.

"And the Revealing Ceremony is canceled! Serve the students out there their dinner without further interruption-" he extended an arm, pointing at where the courtyard was behind them, filled with students no doubt wondering what was happening behind closed doors. "And keep them in here, get them cleaned up and presentable." He glanced distastefully at the blood smearing Cassius's chin and his bent, purple nose; Harry's swollen and broken lip, the bruise quickly forming on his cheek. "No one is to see them until they look and act like champions."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, lips twisted into a scowl.

~x~

"Pretty mean hook you got there," the blue-haired auror- she introduced herself as Tonks- said, offering Harry a sly smile as she brushed some bruise salve on his cheek. She seemed appreciative, and she glanced around the room before giving him a wink.

He bowed his head to hide his smile.

The room held some semblance of order now, even if it was a tense, vulnerable one. Fudge had left shortly after Crouch, making a perfunctory final statement to the students that weren't they so lucky? They were to watch not three, but four champions compete! It was blustery, all showmanship as he tried to smooth over the fact that none of the four champions would be making another appearance that night- that one of those champions wasn't even supposed to be competing in the first place.

And now each champion had been relegated to a corner of the room, eating their dinner in a bitter silence as they leveled glares at Harry for tarnishing their night. Cassius was as far from him as could be managed, the school mediwizard fixing his nose- which made a sickening crack as her magic pulled it back to the center of his face- as Karkaroff whispered something to the young wizard that made the taunting smile slip from his face.

Harry himself had already been properly admonished for his behavior, with the threat that he would be expelled- yet still forced to compete in the tournament, so as to not break the contract- hanging in the air should his conduct not improve. He had mumbled a stilted apology and promised not to do it again.

Or, at the very least, not to do it in front of a room filled with ministry officials and aurors, he supposed.

The door opened, closing with a soft click and Harry looked behind Tonks to see Dumbledore standing beside Cassius, speaking with him in hushed words he could not hear. Tonks turned to follow his gaze, looking back at him with a grin. "Ah, yeah. I suppose it's only right to show support to him too. Slytherins were his old students, too, I guess."

"What House were you in?" Harry asked. She must have been to Hogwarts if the playful disdain was anything to go by.

"Hufflepuff," she answered, closing the jar of the bruise salve and wiping her hands off on her cloak. "I was devastated when I heard about Hogwarts. Hopefully, it can be reopened soon though."

Harry nodded dully, glancing up just as Dumbledore came to stand before him, an indiscernible expression on his face. "You know, Harry, when I suggested the possibility of having two of my former students compete, this wasn't what I intended," he mused, his concern hidden behind the playful note of his words, mirrored in the wideness of his eyes as he considered the young boy for a moment. "Crouch seems to be certain that you got someone to put your name in for you."

"I didn't-" Harry began, his irritation at having to explain something he could not coming to a halt when Dumbledore raised his hand.

"I know you didn't, Harry. I believe you."

Even if it was placating lie, it made him feel better, and he slouched back into the chair that had been tucked away in his corner. "So then how did I get entered?"

Dumbledore sighed, resting a palm flat against his chest as he pulled a stool closer to Harry's chair and sat upon it, folding his legs. "We're not entirely sure, to be honest. Our leading theory is that someone, without your knowledge or consent, entered your name in. But that doesn't answer the most pressing question. The why," he explained, and Harry nodded glumly.

Why would someone do such a thing? What could anyone hope to gain? The only thing that he could gather was that they wanted to humiliate him, or perhaps see him become one of the few champions to die while participating in the tasks.

"I've become no stranger to puzzles in the last few months, though I admit, this is a few more pieces than I had planned for," Dumbledore hummed, and Harry scowled at the metaphor. He was insinuating, just as Hermione had, that Tom had something to do with this.

But that was impossible- what could Tom hope to gain? He already had Harry doubting and distrusting those he once trusted infallibly. Had already had Harry ensnared by his charms, even if he tried to keep such mechanisms under control by setting a time limit on their communication.

But Tom was a planner, thinking further along and more intensely than Harry had ever known anyone else to do. He considered all variances, weighed each option before setting the foundation that he would build upon. Would Harry even realize he was caught in the middle of something Tom had set in motion before such a fact was revealed?

He shook the thoughts from his head.

"They're two separate puzzles," he ground out.

Dumbledore blinked, knowing the intent in his words. "I trust you if you say so."

"Oh," Harry said. He hadn't expected Dumbledore to be so understanding. Though, maybe that was a matter of perception. His thoughts were tumultuous and cloudy, and he struggled to sometimes pull the truth- unbiased, certain reality- away from his emotions which shifted too easily, as Tom often reminded him. His emotions which might infect his perceptions, fester within them like maggots in rotting flesh.

Perhaps Dumbledore was always being understanding, and Harry was too twisted and contorted with rage to tell.

His head pulsed painfully, and he wanted, all at once, to go to bed.

"It's unfortunate, though," Dumbledore said, picking mindlessly at the ends of his beard. "One puzzle is much neater and easier to solve then two. Too many pieces to collect before the image can be revealed."

Harry struggled to not roll his eyes at the metaphor. Tom was right- he did have an exhausting, meandering way of talking.

"Can you...stop with all the...puzzle talk?" Harry asked, words strained. His head was throbbing now, nudging behind his eyes and making him wince.

Dumbledore considered him for a moment, eyes softening as he nodded solemnly. "Very well. My apologies, Harry, you seem to be under great stress and I'm only making it worse. Just know that should you ever need anything, I'm always available. And rest assured that you will be safe here, I've seen to it that the best aurors are to help maintain the school's security during the tournament." He clapped a hand on Harry's knee, giving it a firm squeeze before rising from the stool. "And though your presence in the tournament is a surprise, I'm sure you will do well. You've always been a talented wizard, Harry, and I look forward to seeing you perform in it."

Harry smiled at the praise, through the haze creeping into his brain. But Dumbledore was still standing before him, even as Harry's vision fell out of focus, blurring and obscuring his form.

"Just know that myself and several other highly respectable witches and wizards will be working tirelessly to figure out what happened. Whoever has put you in this position will be discovered, you have my word. We'll solve the pu- oh, of course. My apologies, Harry, I know you didn't like that metaphor. Perhaps then we will call it a riddle?" Dumbledore hummed, his voice soft and humorous as though he didn't realize the way Harry widened his eyes, the way his breath caught, lodged in his throat.

But he exhaled that same breath when Dumbledore did not push the subject and simply bid him goodnight. He turned to leave the room, leaving him with one parting phrase, spoken more to himself than to Harry.

'Let's hope you're wrong about the two incidences being connected. After all, the only thing worse than one riddle is two.'

~x~

The kitchen was empty when Sirius slunk into it, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he began searching through cabinets and the old, squat fridge. He was often hungry- trying to stretch the moments between meals so as to avoid Tom more easily, keeping to the corners and paths of the farmhouse that Tom didn't frequent. It was easy enough. Tom was a creature of habit, rising early and spending most of his days in the basement that was so heavily warded that Sirius's palm had blistered and bubbled when he tried to sneak in one night. The only real chance they had of encountering each other was the kitchen, which Tom used almost as frequently as the warded basement.

He would spend an hour in the morning, eating toast and drinking tea while he read the prophet. Another hour during lunch. Two hours between his preparation and his tidying up of dinner. And of course, the random intervals at which he entered during an unscheduled break, drinking some more tea and flicking through a book.

Sirius was certain he did it intentionally, trying to occupy the space as much as possible. As though he was hoping to force Sirius into the room, force him into whatever sort of relationship could exist between them.

Unfortunately for Tom, Sirius was used to the pangs of hunger. He didn't mind the long pauses between food, letting himself fill the thought and pain in his belly with the exploration of the old home. The old muggle books in the rarely used sitting room, soft and worn in their age. The old telly that didn't work, only fizzing and blaring until he shut it off (he had been to Lily's house, once, before she and James married, and had marveled at the muggle invention, forcing the rest of his friends to cancel their dinner plans so he could watch some ludicrous movie set in space. He was more disappointed than he wanted to admit that this telly was broken.)

He wandered the attic, filled with boxes of long-forgotten clothes that smelled of mothballs and dust. Holiday decorations that had fallen once and had never been picked up, spilling ornaments across the dust-covered floor. There were boxes of jewelry that his own mother might have owned- the nice, heirloom sort- and boxes of documents that he had read through one afternoon. Birth certificates, newspaper clippings from an old, muggle war, death certificates, various invoices. It was an entire tableau, the life, and death of someone who had lived here once. Who had a son named Robert Muller who was a decent enough student who died at age twenty in something called the Battle of Bulge. Who had a daughter named Evelyn who married a man named Richard.

It had been a solemn way to spend the hours, and the next few days that followed he found himself cleaning the attic, salvaging what items he could and bringing them down to the farmhouse. As though he could honor the people who lived and died thereby keeping their belongings alive and in use.

If nothing else, it gave him something to do, washing and drying the clothes. Resetting the bare walls with framed photos. And his efforts had been rewarded when he found a record player and a box of old records, the cardboard cases soft and fraying on the corners. Lily had one of these as well, but he was more familiar with this than the telly. Sometimes, muggle technology and magical technology collided, and though the record player his father had was charmed and operated with magic, it wasn't too different from a muggle one.

He set it up in the sitting room, and was delighted to find it worked, rasping and screeching before the songs of his selected vinyl played through the air, clear and bouncing across the peeling wallpaper. He didn't know who any of the musicians were, but it didn't matter. He simply enjoyed the sound, the music. A pleasant break from the quiet of the house- the creak of old floorboards and the groan as it settled.

It was so pleasant, that it lulled him off to sleep, and he awoke hours later in the dark and cool room, the music gone. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn, rising until he wandered into the thankfully empty kitchen he now sat in, pulling a box of dry pasta from the cabinet and looking for a pot. He had just found one and finished filling it with water when a voice came from the threshold.

"You've been redecorating."

Sirius turned at the sound, frowning at the sight of Tom leaning against the frame of the entrance, lips tilted in an uneven smile. He wasn't scared of Tom- not in a physical, imminent sort of sense. But he was afraid of the uncertainty of him, the mismatched loyalties that aligned with Harry but against Dumbledore. He was afraid of the charm he employed readily at the younger boy- who opened to it in increments, warming up to him with each day that passed over the summer.

He was afraid of the way he smiled- like a knife, like he had too many teeth for his mouth.

Sirius sniffed, raising his chin defiantly. "Sorry, did I upset your tasteful cobwebs? What sort of aesthetic were you going for- abandoned, certainly haunted house?"

Tom considered him for a moment. "I was shooting more for lived in by a suspicious widow who believes her husband's death was something supernatural and holes herself away in fear it might seek her. I suppose I'll have to fire my interior decorator."

His lips twitched, but he restrained them. Refused to so much as smile at the boy.

As though to prove his point, he skewed his lips in a deep frown and then set about making himself some pasta. A chair scraped across the floor as Tom sat down and stared at him, his gaze a physical thing. It was oppressive, and Sirius might have shifted his weight unsteadily if he were a less confident man. Instead, he said, "Should I make some for you as well?"

"Please. I'm practically ravenous. Spent all day long in my laboratory and I'm afraid I lost track of time," he said, conversationally. It was a bait, though to what end, Sirius did not know.

He wished he had a wand.

"Normally I know to end the day because Harry will start talking to me, but he seems to have run a little later than usual."

Ah. Harry was the end, it seemed.

And yet, even though he knew it was a bait, Sirius perked, twisting around to look at Tom with narrowed eyes. "You've talked to Harry?"

To his credit, Tom managed not to smile smugly, his face remaining passive as he said, "Every night. He must've gotten detention and that's why it's taking so long," he muttered, more to himself than to Sirius who pulled away from the stove now that his food was cooking.

He swallowed. "How is he?"

"Well. He's enjoying his classes and he's even improved his occlumency. He's finally gotten the hang of clearing his mind for longer than a minute. It won't be enough to keep Voldemort out. But it's a promising start," Tom said, and Sirius nodded along.

Tom did not like Dumbledore, that much Sirius knew.

Tom did not like Voldemort, either. He knew that as well.

He had never paused to consider that there could be more than two sides to a war- had there ever been a war with more than two sides, he wondered? It seemed as though it was always split cleanly down the middle. The right side and the wrong side. How could there be a third, separate side, one that existed outside the parameters of the other two?

What then were his beliefs?

He knew Tom would not answer, so instead he asked another question, one that had plagued him for so long it had nearly etched itself into his brain. "You want to protect Harry from Voldemort, but you don't think Dumbledore is capable of that?"

"I know he isn't capable of it," Tom said, his voice stern and pointed. "Don't play dumb with me, Sirius. I know you're smarter than that. Could you truly believe he would have had a better summer with the Dursleys than with us?"

Sirius balked at that word. Us. As though they were a unit, as though he were something more than a hostage, a ploy for Tom to endear himself to Harry. Harry, who had already grown too attached to the dog for Tom to get rid of him. He remembered then, with frightening clarity, the moment Tom hovered over him in the alley, handsome features pulled into an unrecognizable veil of cruelty, making him crooked and hideous. Had Harry ever seen the boy at his most cruel, his most threatening? When he had been so near to killing Sirius?

"You kidnapped him. They thought he died, surely there could have been a middle ground-"

Tom leaned back in his chair and tilted his head to the side, fixing Sirius with a curious expression. "You didn't see it, what they did to him. And he doesn't like to speak about it because it makes him feel like a burden. But surely you're wise enough to see the signs? How he carries himself, like he's trying to go unnoticed? How much he distrusts the adults around him to help or care about him, as though they've failed him before? Or even how quickly he is to place his trust in someone, as though finding someone to comfort and validate him is more important than finding the right person to do so? The mood swings, the self-deprecation...surely you're smart enough to recognize the signs of abuse when you see it." His tone was measured, but there was something lacing the words. Something acerbic.

Sirius gripped onto the chair opposite Tom, leaning forward as he said, "Of course I saw it! The moment I first saw him I knew something wasn't quite right."

"And you think that Dumbledore wouldn't? Dumbledore, who seems to know everything before it happens? Dumbledore, who can and does read people's minds so freely? You don't think he would see it too?" He did not pause long enough for Sirius to respond, rising from his own chair and splaying his palm flat on the table between them, leaning forward. "Because I've seen them, the memories he couldn't hide when we practiced his occlumency. When most kids are younger, their first instances of accidental magic are childish, whimsical things. Summoning a toy, making flowers blossom. His first incidences were in escaping the abuse; appearing on roofs when he was chased and making his cupboard unlock at night so he could sneak out for food."

Sirius opened his mouth, a rebuttal that formed and died on his tongue, his jaw slipped open as he gaped for a moment before promptly shutting his mouth. Where James had been broad and fit, and Lily all soft curves, Harry was skinny. Lanky and awkward limbs that disappeared in his over-sized clothes, the sharp point of his jutting collar bone. He had gained weight during the summer, his face filling out the hollow of his cheeks, making him appear less gaunt as his face structured, seemingly overnight, into the face of a man and not a boy. His clothes didn't drape from him quite as poorly as they did before, and after the first few weeks he seemed to ease into the routine.

Sirius had thought that it was Tom, worming his way into Harry's brain, infecting his thoughts until he was all-consuming. It hadn't occurred to him that Harry might have been genuinely happier. That his smiling and comfort was not the result of Tom's mechanisms, but the symptoms of something else. That he was happier because of the simple accommodations he didn't have with the Dursleys. Access to food, as often as he liked. The ability to fly beside his owl, to toss his clothes and dishes aside knowing that Tom would clean them with his magic instead of forcing the young boy to do it.

He skewed his lips before muttering, a bit childishly he knew, "Harry needed a home. Where was he to go?"

He regretted saying it almost immediately, knowing there was no justification. He was grasping at straws, trying to defend something indefensible purely because he didn't like the person saying it.

Stubborn.

Tom pushed himself away from the table, standing to his full height as he considered Sirius for a moment. "You could have given him a home. Instead, Dumbledore let your rot in jail. He didn't even speak to you, try to get you the trial you deserved. Nobody cared, they all just assumed you betrayed Lily and James."

"I would never-" he began, but the words came out strangled, hoarse. His throat felt swollen, so constricted that it hurt to swallow and he grimaced painfully. "Crouch didn't give anyone a trial. I wasn't-"

"You were a member of his Order, you served by his side. You weren't just anyone," Tom reasoned. He looked as though he was ready to say something else, but paused, brow furrowing as his gaze fell to his robes. He reached inside a pocket, produced a journal from within- a journal Sirius thought he saw him scribbling in from time to time. Whatever he had been ready to say was forgotten as he flipped to a random page in the journal and glanced down at it.

Sirius was thankful for the distraction, the sudden ache in his chest and tightening of his throat all but pulling his focus. He didn't like to linger on those thoughts for long, the betrayal he felt was given to him in equal measure. How abandoned he felt, sullen and alone with nothing but his spiraling thoughts to keep him company. The dementors that loomed through the corridors, allowing for only his most vicious memories to surface. The ones with teeth and fangs.

He shuddered, closing his eyes as he tried to pull himself out of that place- Azkaban. The unending chill and dampness that pervaded him, the smell of salt so thick in the air he could taste it on his tongue. The shouting, deranged screaming that shook through the prison like a wind, the grating of metal on metal as the other prisoners dragged their cuffs across the bar. The cackling and the taunts and the anguished cries and-

"Sirius!"

He startled, blinking as he glanced to his side where Tom was now standing, closer than he thought they'd ever been. He was fixing him with steady, narrowed eyes, and it was only then that Sirius realized how harshly he was breathing, his ragged breaths that came in pants. Shallow, unfulfilling.

He blanched, embarrassed at his loss of composure.

He wasn't at Azkaban anymore. He was free.

Well, more free, at least.

Tom allowed him only a moment to catch his breath, watching unflinchingly as Sirius tried to collect himself, his shoulders sagging with each exhalation.

"Harry finally wrote me," Tom answered, words terse and pinched. The word restrained came to mind, and it was only then, the veil of the past slipping from him, that Sirius realized how clenched his jaw was, his flared nostrils. Tom was furious.

He recoiled, pressing himself flat against the wall. It was foolish to let himself slip up around the dangerous and unknown boy. He kept him alive and relatively safe for now, but how long was that to last?

"Something's happened," Tom said, licking his lips. "Someone's entered Harry into the tournament."

Sirius frowned. "The tournament? But that's...he's only fourteen…?" There wasn't anyway. Unless...surely Harry wouldn't be so stupid to get an older student to put his name in, would he? It wasn't like a game of quidditch, people died in this tournament. He thought of James, his bolstered arrogance and appetite for challenges, for daring feats for him to test something within himself.

Harry was nothing like James.

James might have pulled that sort of stunt- hell, Sirius himself as a young student might have done so. But Harry wouldn't.

"They can't make him compete, can they?" Sirius asked, though he already knew the answer, burning like acid on his tongue.

Tom pursed his lips. "They are."

"He could die," Sirius said before he could think better of it.

"NO!" Tom roared suddenly, taking a step forward and slamming his hand down on the table. His eyes were wide, glinting with something that made Sirius's throat clench once more. Something manic, something terrifying. He looked murderous.

His jaw clenched, skewed from side to side and Sirius knew that the young boy was grounding his teeth together, hollows created in his cheeks by the motion. He inhaled steadily, as though to calm himself. "He won't die," Tom ground out, the words needing to be coaxed from him. The words too hard to say. "He won't die. We'll make sure of it."

It wasn't a question or a proposal, and once more Sirius found himself wondering when they had become a we. A unit in Harry's aid. As though they were in on this together, Sirius a co-conspirator in Harry's abduction and every bit the criminal the world believed him to be.

But they were in something together, weren't they? Bound together by Harry and the deadly tournament he had somehow found himself a part of.

Even if Sirius refused to offer his help purely to spite Tom, Harry would be the one suffering for it. He was, in more ways than just physical, trapped.

"How can I do anything? I've no wand, and I'm sure by now they know to be on the lookout for a dog," he muttered, trying to ignore the ache that blossomed and wilted like a dying flower in his chest. Remus would have told them by now- he had read the Prophet, the articles that decried him as suspect number one in Harry's disappearance. The source of an international manhunt as several neighboring countries sought to bring the former Death Eater to justice.

Memories with teeth.

Tom chewed his lip in thought. After only a moment, he said, "That's a problem for another time. For now, all I need is this-" He rose a hand, tapping his finger twice against Sirius's temple. "Everything you can tell me about Voldemort and his followers. This has to be connected to him somehow I just...don't know what he might gain from it. Other than putting him in danger."

The words were followed immediately by a hissing, the pot of water on the stove overflowing as water slid down onto the old, heated coils, steam billowing from the red metal.

~x~

"You know we'll help you. Anything we can do, we'll do it," Hermione assured Harry as she and Luna followed behind him, nearly sprinting to keep up with his long strides as he made his way through the corridor, head bowed low.

Luna nodded, her steps more of a skip. "Hermione might be the smartest witch, but I was in Ravenclaw before transferring. I know my way around riddles and books and- oof!" Her words came to an abrupt halt when she ran into Harry's back, the wizard suddenly standing still as he fixed her with a quizzical glance.

"What do you mean? Riddles?" he asked, his heart thundering wildly against his ribs. It had never quite ceased from the night before, Dumbledore's parting words still echoing around the caverns of his brain like a taunt.

Had it been a coincidence? Was Harry placing meaning into something that had just been a silly metaphor for the predicaments he found himself in? Or had Dumbledore chosen those words with purpose, letting Harry know that he knew? He knew who Harry spent his summer with, who cursed Harry into silence?

Luna rubbed at the bridge of her nose where she collided with Harry's head. "I've heard that the tournament often employs riddles as part of the challenges. It's meant to test your problem-solving abilities and intelligence. That's how we had to get inside the Common Rooms, we had to solve a different riddle."

"Oh," he said simply, feeling foolish for the overwhelming surge of paranoia that pervaded him since Dumbledore's visit. Hating that he could be reduced to such. He let his gaze wander from Luna to Hermione, her eyes scrunched in the thoughtful way of hers when she was thinking hard. It only made him shift with discomfort at her scrutiny. "I've got to...I was running late so...I'll see you at lunch, alright?"

He turned from them with a final nod and wave, shaking his head at his own thoughts. He was getting jumpy, overthinking everything. This was the true danger of secrets- not the secret itself or the burden of it but the senses that were intensified by the need to protect it. The way he startled at the chance that someone might have uncovered it. He recalled, with a biting laugh devoid of all humor, how much he had once wished for the secret to be revealed and the words he could not say made known.

How times had changed. How he had changed- though he did not wish to examine that.

He had spent the night awake, struggling to sleep, his dreams littered with his insecurities and dread. The impending tasks- the often fatal tasks, as he was reminded all too frequently- and the unanswered question of who had entered him in the task to begin with (Tom seemed to favor Karkaroff as a suspect, though he didn't yet know to what end.) And then his dreams had turned, reflecting the chat with Dumbledore, distorting it and fracturing it. The words riddle hung between them like a harbinger, a threat. A growl of some unknown beast.

In his dreams, Dumbledore had not been so understanding or flighty- he did not speak with the light-toned whimsy he oft possessed and did not leave Harry with the odd and confusing choice of words. In his dreams, it had been an interrogation, each utterance of the word riddle causing his eye to twitch in a phantom pain. In his dream, Tom stood behind him, whispering in his ear all sorts of cruel and tainted things.

'He knows Harry. He knows you're protecting me, he's repulsed by you. He'll take me away from you, and you don't want that, do you?'

He had woken up in tangled sheets, struggling to breathe and sweat slicking his pajamas so they clung disgustingly to his fevered skin. It was the early hours of the morning, but he didn't go back to bed, thoughts swimming and blurring with all the things that couldn't exist at once.

What did he want?

He wanted Dumbledore to know, he thought, on some level.

But on another-

What would happen if they did discover the truth? If they found Tom and discovered who he was? Would they give him a trial?

Would they give Harry one?

Would they kill him?

He hated that thought more than all the others. Tom might have been a shadow of Voldemort, but he didn't commit the crimes of his successor. Not really, at least. Would it be fair to charge them as though they were the same?

Were they the same?

His thoughts were spiraling in the way he knew Tom hated- Tom would probably chide him for it later, tell him that the tournament is no excuse to let his occlumency slip. Tom said he thought too much, and Harry scowled at the idea. He thought exactly the right amount- it wasn't exactly his fault Tom made his brain itch so much with all the contradictions.

Still, he tried to settle and bury the thoughts, knowing he couldn't be distracted as he walked into the open classroom he had been told to meet at.

"Mr. Potter!" Crouch barked when he saw him enter, lips twisting into something between a smile and a pained expression. "You're late."

He shrugged an apology, eyes scanning the room. The other three champions were already there, the Heads of each school, aurors,and Payette turning to look at him as he entered. The motion was mirrored by another witch, a tall witch with blonde curls piled on top of her head and ostentatious jeweled glasses perched delicately on the edge of her nose. Her lips pulled into a tight, painted grin at the sight of him, and she bounded towards him, a quill and parchment floating beside her head and the stiff, unmoving curls.

"Harry Potter, as I live and breathe!" she said, her voice a high, stringy sigh as she came to stand before him, a hand pressed against her chest. "I suppose I should thank you, you've given me enough content to keep me employed for the next few months."

She said it with a giggle, as though it were a joke he simply didn't know the punchline too, and when he failed to laugh she extended a hand outward, her nails long and painted the same crimson color of her lips. "Rita Skeeter, a writer and reporter for the Daily Prophet, as well as some other reputable-"

"I know you," Harry interrupted, eyes narrowing with familiarity.

She giggled once more. "Oh, so perhaps you've already read some of my work then? I'm flattered."

It clicked then, and he was unable to stop the grin that spread on his face. "You were at the platform! When I was coming to school- you don't have the uh-" he paused, using his hands to make a pulling gesture out from the crown of his head- "Antlers, anymore?"

His eyes were bright with the memory of Ron pulling him out from the crowd of reporters, casting the effective charm that made Skeeter wobble with the weight of the sudden appendages.

She pursed her lips into a flattened line. "Just some pranksters trying to get in the way of the story," she said, trying to sound dismissive even if her tone betrayed her, sharp with indignation.

Harry swallowed his smile.

She cleared her throat and straightened her spine. "Anyway, I've already interviewed the others, so now it's your turn!" She grabbed him then, pulled him by his wrists into a supply closet within the classroom, her quill and parchment following her.

The door clicked shut before Harry could even protest, and he grimaced. He felt rather trapped in the small room, Skeeter unconcerned by his discomfort as she used her wand to transfigure a bucket into a stool. Sitting atop it, she looked at him expectantly, smiling in a way that seemed false. Not quite mocking, not quite the mimicry of one that Tom did when he didn't know what else to do with his face. It was just...disingenuous.

"Now, Harry, what a year you've had so far and it's only just begun. Quite the stir you've been making, getting kidnapped by Black only to appear just in time for school and the Tri-Wizard Tournament. What was the summer like? Were you terrified?" she asked, the question more like an attack as he gaped openly at her, eye twinging with the mild ache he had long grown accustomed to.

"I-I thought you were supposed to interview me about the tournament?" he ground out bitterly, eyes flicking to the quill and it's fluttering plume as it wrote on the parchment. 'Visible pain shone on his face as he recalled his summer spent in fear, hidden away by a deranged convict who made him the focus of his obsession-'

"I'm in pain because I can't talk-"

She was nodding along, false sympathy lacing her voice like too sweet honey as she said, "I know it's hard to talk about. My heart aches wondering what you might have gone through this summer. Is it true he took you to replace his best friend and former lover, your father James Potter, who was stolen from him by Lily-"

"What?" he spat, unable to hide his confusion and disgust at her implications. Was that what people were saying? Weaving some sick and perverse story out of the tragic betrayal of his parents, trying to find something more beneath the surface? A why, as if cruelty and evil needed a reason? As if unrequited love and scorn and obsession were enough of a reason?

"Oh, dear, I was in school with them, I remember how close they were. Best of friends until your mother, Merlin rest her soul, finally returned James's advances and it was as if something within Black snapped!" She rose a hand, snapping her middle finger against her thumb as though striking a match. "He was obsessed with your father, and when he lost him, he must have decided that no one should have-"

"Stop," Harry snarled, heat burning his cheeks at the implications. That wasn't true.

Was it?

"You look so much like him, of course he would want you, hoping to bring back the boy he once loved. How frightened you must have been all summer."

His eyes darted to the scribbling quill, cheeks flaming with something between humiliation and rage as he read the words scratched into the parchment.

'...The months passed, Potter wondering when his nightmare would end, turned into the memory of a love gone sour by a man desperate to have something long forgotten. Nights spent hoping someone would rescue him from the abuse-"

"Don't write that, it isn't true!" he yelled, voice filling the small closet and bearing down on him, mixing with his brewing anger and embarrassment at her words. "None of...none of that happened so don't say it. The tournament-"

He tried once more to redirect her, but she leaned forward, renewed interest sparking in her eyes. "Did you run away with him then? Was he the one who put your name in the Goblet, at your request-"

"NO! That wasn't...you're wrong! None of it...the summer was-"

His eye seared with pain, a burning, sharpened pain that began in the center of his eye and radiated outward, enveloping his brain and nudge from behind his brow. He reached a hand out and cupped it uselessly, hissing from the pain. "Please, it hurts-"

"What hurts? Remembering what he did to you, or knowing no one would ever understand your love-?"

"That's not what happened," he hissed through gritted teeth, the dim overhead light all at once too bright, too blinding.

"Then what did happen? We can tell your story, of the summer. The world is dying to know, and now is the time to share," she said, leaning uncomfortably close. So close he could smell nothing but the floral and musky scent of her perfume, the harsh smell of whatever potion she had used to keep her ringlets in such perfect form. The room was small, too small and too bright and the smell was too strong and his eye hurt and blurred his vision-

The door to the closet was ripped open, and a hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him out of the closet. "You were supposed to interview him about the tournament like we agreed! I told you not to talk about the summer!"

Harry looked up, blinking at the sight of Tonks, her features pinched into something fiery.

"It was just a few questions about the rumors I've heard! I'm sure after everything he's been through he needs someone safe to talk to about all the things Black had him do-"

"I will ram my wand so far up your arse you'll be coughing sparks for a month if you don't drop it," Tonks said, her voice a low, rumbling warning as Skeeter gasped in shock.

"Auror threatening reporter for trying to solve the disappearance of Harry Potter will certainly make a good headline," she sneered.

Tonks was nonplussed by her threat, raising an eyebrow as she countered, "Let's move it to the obituaries where it will be really good. And give me that." She reached forward, pushing pass Skeeter and plucking the parchment from where it was suspended in the air. She crumpled it up in her hand, looking smugly satisfied at the aghast and affronted expression marring Skeeter's face. "Mad-Eye has a prepared statement for you to use since you couldn't be trusted. And that better be the only one to see publication."

She narrowed her gray eyes at Skeeter, her glare unyielding as the reporter looked ready to say something before thinking better of it. With a huff, Skeeter pulled her quill to her side and stowed it within her crocodile skin handbag before sauntering away from them.

"You looked better with the antlers," Tonks called before turning back to Harry. "Sorry 'bout that one. She's a gossip columnist who somehow clawed her way to being a reporter. Don't give what she said much thought."

He rubbed at his eye, the pain receding some. "Is it true? I mean...is that what people are saying? That Black took me because he-"

He couldn't find the words, cheeks flaming once more with the implication of it.

She pinched her lips, tilting them so they sat crooked on her face. "Some people will say anything," she said after a moment.

"But it's not-"

"I know," she said, though Harry wasn't sure if she actually did know or if she was just saying it to ease his nerves, abate the blush creeping up his collar. How could she know, after all? He couldn't say anything to clear the air himself. Would the truth be preferable?

She chewed her lips, glancing to the side before saying, in a hushed whisper, "Look, I knew Black and it wasn't anything like that. He and your dad were just friends. And he loved your mother."

Harry shrugged his arm away from her grasp. "Not enough to not betray her to Voldemort."

She opened her mouth, ready to say something until Moody called to her, his voice a bark that didn't startle her in the slightest, so used to his gruff mannerisms. She smiled at Harry. "Let's get back to the others, shall we?"

He wondered, only for a second, what she had been about to say when Moody called to her.

~x~

"Potter! Wait up!"

Harry twisted around, watching as Professor Payette approached him. The other champions move passed him, parting around him like a wave as they made their way to lunch. Payette glanced at them, waiting until they were gone from the corridor to lower his head. "I can't formally offer my assistance, as it would be an unfair advantage, but I think an even more unfair advantage is the three years of training the others have had," he began, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Won't I get in trouble?" Harry asked, uncertain to the rules of the tournament he had been dragged into. All he knew for certain was that he had to compete, and he had already been punished for poor behavior. He recalled the moment from the night prior, flexing his still sore knuckles. He couldn't afford to break any more rules.

Payette grinned, pulling away and walking backwards down the hall as he said, "About those two weeks detention- I need help preparing for the year. You know the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher has to help with the tasks, so I've got extra on my plate and could use some help. I've already arranged it with Maxime. I'll see you at seven, Potter."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode in the opposite direction.

~x~

Author's Note: Next up, Harry's first task, where some old friends show up to support him.