Alright people! My first major fic is up. This is going to be a relatively long story, spanning at least the events of Book Four. Something you need to know: I've messed with the timeline a bit - the Triwizard Tournament is in Harry's fifth year (1995) but the canon champions are still the champions. I suppose they're all a year younger or something. More background info as an endnote; right now, go ahead and read!

BTW: Italics = French.

With thanks to my betas: MarvelGirlX, DarkFeyLady, and Light Side of the Dark. You rock!

Trial of SB (0229103), 1 November 1981

Acc.: Murder (2x)

DE

OathB

uV 01:58 - 07:24 minutes

Extract from transcript of questioning under Veritaserum (02:21 minutes to 04:37 minutes)

Prosecutor: What is your name?

Accused: Sirius Rigel Black.

Prosecutor: Did you betray the Potters to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?

(Silence from the accused)

Prosecutor: Did you betray the Potters to...to the Dark Lord?

(Silence from the accused)

Prosecutor: Did you betray the Potters to Tom Marvolo Riddle, self-styled Lord V-Voldemort?

Accused: No.

(muffled outburst from unidentified member of Wizengamot)

Chief Warlock: Order!

Prosecutor: Are you a Death Eater?

Accused: No.

Prosecutor: Were you Secret Keeper for the Potters?

Accused: No.

Prosecutor: Do you know who was?

Accused: Yes.

(pause)

Prosecutor: Who?

Accused: Peter Pettigrew.

Prosecutor: Did Peter Pettigrew, to the best of your knowledge, betray the Potters?

Accused: Yes.

(uproar)

Chief Warlock: Order! Order in court!

Prosecutor: Did you have any knowledge, take part in, or assist in any way with his betrayal?

Accused: No.

Prosecutor: Do you approve, support, or otherwise condone said betrayal?

Accused: (shouting) No!

Prosecutor: Do you approve of, support, or in any other way condone the actions, ideology, or otherwise, of Tom Marvolo Riddle, self-styled Lord V-Voldemort?

Accused: No.

End of extract

Verdict of court: Not Guilty.

Extract from the Last Will and Testament of James Charlus Potter, dated 2 August 1980, nullified by a subsequent will, dated 28 October 1981

"...in the event of my death; if my wife, the aforesaid Lily Jane Potter (née Evans), is also dead, listed as MIA, or otherwise incapable of caring for my son, Harry James Potter, then custody of my son, the aforesaid Harry James Potter, goes jointly to my friends and brothers-in-arms, Sirius Rigel Black, Remus Edward Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. Should any of the aforesaid guardians die, are listed as MIA, or otherwise become incapable of caring for my son the aforesaid Harry James Potter, then that guardian shall have his custody revoked. Should all three of the aforesaid guardians have their custody revoked in this manner, then custody of my son, the aforesaid Harry James Potter, shall pass to my friends Frank and Alice Longbottom. Should they also become, in any way, incapable of caring for my son the aforesaid Harry James Potter, then custody of my son, the aforesaid Harry James Potter, shall pass to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore ... under no circumstances do I wish for my son, the aforesaid Harry James Potter, to be placed in the care or custody of the family of Petunia Dursley (née Evans), sister of my wife, the aforesaid Lily Jane Potter (née Evans)..."

Extract from the Last Will and Testament of James Charlus Potter, dated 28 October 1981

"...in the event of my death; if my wife, the aforesaid Lily Jane Potter (née Evans), is also dead, listed as MIA, or otherwise incapable of caring for my son, Harry James Potter, then custody of my son, the aforesaid Harry James Potter, goes to my old friend and mentor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore..."

Both versions of the will are identical in the relevant particulars with the corresponding wills of Lily Jane Potter (née Evans)

Headlines from Daily Prophet, issue no.s 0199834, 0199835, 0199836, 0199845, 0199852, 0199853 dated 3 November 1981, 4 November 1981, 5 November 1981, 14 November 1981, 21 November 1981, 22 November 1981

PETTIGREW CAUGHT!
POTTERS' BETRAYER TAKEN AFTER VICIOUS HALF-HOUR FIGHT WITH AURORS

DEMENTORS' KISS FOR PETTIGREW
TRAITOR SENTENCED TO DEATH FOR HIS CRIMES

PETTIGREW DEAD!
TRAITOR KISSED LATE LAST NIGHT

BOY-WHO-LIVED IN HIDING
DUMBLEDORE: "HE WILL BE KEPT SAFE UNTIL DEATH EATERS DESTROYED"

BLACK AND LUPIN KILLED
POTTERS' BEST FRIENDS KILLED IN DEATH EATER ATTACK

HARRY POTTER KIDNAPPED!
BOY-WHO-LIVED TAKEN FROM HIDEOUT - DUMBLEDORE FEARS WORST

Passenger list of British Airways Flight 214, London Heathrow to Toronto International, 22 November 1981, original

Seat 17A: Lupin, Remus Edward
Seat 17B: Black, Sirius Rigel
Seat 17Ba: Potter, Harry James (infant)

Passenger list of British Airways Flight 214, London Heathrow to Toronto International, 22 November 1981, altered

Seat 17A: Le Pin, Raymond Eduard
Seat 17B: Blackmoor, Sean Richard
Seat 17Ba: Blackmoor, Harold Jonathan (infant)

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 31 October 1995, 8:00 p.m.

The Goblet of Fire, standing massive and rough-hewn on its pedestal in front of Dumbledore, was about to name the first champion. The red fire burning brightly in it flickered, then a gout of blue flames erupted from the Goblet, bearing a scrap of parchment.

"The champion for Durmstrang..." Dumbledore called, unfolding the parchment, "...is...Viktor Krum!"

The hall erupted in cheers, as the round-shouldered, black-haired Quidditch legend came up the hall to the teachers' dais with his familiar rolling walk. Dumbledore smiled at him as he passed, eyes twinkling brightly, and applauded with the rest as he went through the doorway into the Champions' Room. The Goblet flared blue again, and Dumbledore snatched the next parchment from it.

"The champion for Beauxbatons is..." he was having a bit of trouble unfolding the parchment, as whoever had put it in had folded it into an origami swan, "Fleur Delacour!"

The cheering this time was less intense from the females in the hall, but the redoubled efforts of the males more than made up for it as the French girl, waist-length silver-blonde hair swinging with each step, hips swaying gracefully from side to side, strode proudly up the hall. She made a brief curtsey in front of Dumbledore, and a noticeably deeper and longer one in front of Madame Maxime, who laid her large and beringed hand on her student's head as if bestowing a benediction, before the girl went into the Champions' Room as well.

"The champion for Hogwarts," Dumbledore cried, as the Goblet spat blue flames again, "is..." he paused, ratcheting up the suspense, "Cedric Diggory!"

This time, the cheers almost lifted the roof as the tall Hufflepuff came up the hall at a half-run, the students either side of him leaning out to touch his robes or slap hands. The brown-haired Quidditch Captain stopped in front of Dumbledore with a huge smile threatening to split his face and shook hands gleefully with the headmaster, then turned to face the students with both fists in the air - there were several shrieks from the female population - before heading for the Champions' Room.

"Now," Dumbledore called, struggling to make himself heard over the clamour, "now that the Champions have been chosen..." He broke off in shock, as the Goblet flared blue a fourth time. For a couple of moments he stared at the parchment dancing on the blue flames, as silence spread through the hall. Slowly he reached out and picked the scrap off the flames, which instantly died out. The Goblet had gone out, but not before completely destroying the festive atmosphere. Now the euphoria was replaced by shock, surprise, wonder, and curiosity.

"Albus?" Madam Maxime asked quietly. "What is zis?

His fingers suddenly stiff, Dumbledore tentatively unfolded the parchment. There were two words written inside, forming a name he hoped - for the best of reasons - never to have to see again. Despair flooded through him; evidently, someone knew he was still alive - and was trying to smoke him out.

"Harry Potter."

The name echoed out into the silent hall. The silence stretched for a minute, two minutes, then three, before being broken by a single, shocked, incredulous voice.

"What?" Professor Snape said, and as if his voice cancelled a spell, the hall erupted into sound.

"Quiet!" Dumbledore shouted, seconded when the noise failed to abate by Hagrid, McGonagall, Snape and Madam Maxime, but to no avail. Dumbledore whipped his wand from his robes and thrust it at the enchanted ceiling. A blinding flash of lightning and a deafening roll of thunder, coming from a clear sky, smashed the uproar to the ground.

"Please," Dumbledore said, his voice loud and commanding, " matter will be settled swiftly. Madam Maxime, Professor Karkaroff," he said, glancing at them, "and you also, Mr Crouch, would you please come with me to my office? Minerva, Alastor, Severus and Filius, please come as well. Mr Filch, bring the Goblet, please." He turned to Bagman, as the professors and others began to rise from their desks. "Ludo, please Floo call the Minister and tell him to meet me in my office now, then come up. Pomona," he went on, turning to the Herbology Professor, "would you please inform the Champions of what has happened and bring them to my antechamber. Students," he added, "finish your feast and then head to your quarters. I will inform you of what happens tomorrow." With that, he swept off out of the hall.

Dumbledore's anteroom, 8:17 p.m.

Fleur was sitting on a high-backed, armless wooden chair in one corner of the room, head demurely cast down and hands folded in her lap, looking the epitome of modesty. Usually this was a front, enabling her to watch any boys who happened to be around ogling her without them knowing she could see them - or any girls, for that matter. She preferred boys, but if a girl was of a certain description, then, well...

This time, though, she wasn't watching the two boys in the room with her, despite one being a Quidditch legend even if he didn't push her buttons, and the other pushing just enough of her buttons to make him attractive. This time, her gaze was fixed at a point about five feet below the floor as her mind wondered. A fourth champion? That was ... well, strange didn't quite cut it. There was no way the Goblet just decided to spit out a fourth name; no, foul play was a given. Someone had to have bamboozled the Goblet into thinking either that one of the schools had two candidates, or that there were four schools taking part. Probably the latter, it would be easier. 'Why?' was a completely different question, one that was linked tightly with who the fourth champion was - or was supposed to be.

Harry Potter.

Fleur bit her lip thoughtfully. The Boy-Who-Lived, as the British wizards called him, had vanished from his safehouse around three weeks after his parents had died - or, as most people remembered it, three weeks after he had vanquished the Dark Lord Voldemort and saved the British magical world. Despite search efforts that had gone on for a whole year, no trace of Harry Potter had ever been found. Eventually, the magical world had concluded he must be dead.

Obviously, he was not.

But where was he? And what was going to happen now, especially if he did not appear for the tournament?

A door opened, and she looked up to see the heads of the three schools enter the room. She began to rise, but Madame Maxime gestured for her to stay seated.

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"Before we begin," he said, "I must ask you all to swear on your magic never to reveal anything that I am going to tell you now."

Fleur's eyes widened in surprise, and she glanced swiftly at her headmistress, who nodded to her. Waiting for Cedric Diggory to finish his oath, she drew her wand and mentally ran over the words she was going to use. Cedric finished, and she stepped forward a pace, raising her wand.

"I, Fleur Delacour, swear nevair to reveal anysing zat I may be told in zis room today by Professeur Dumbledore, on pain of losing my magic, and to accept an Oblivatíon charm to be used on me should Professeur Dumbledore choose to. So mote it be." The white flash of a binding magical contract flickered momentarily around her, and then vanished. Once Krum had made his own oath, Dumbledore began to speak.

"You all know, I presume, that Harry Potter was kidnapped almost fifteen years ago today, and also that he was declared officially dead after a year." There were three nods. "That is all a lie." He paused for a second, to let it sink in.

Fleur was shocked. A lie? Then Harry Potter wasn't kidnapped, and wasn't dead?

Dumbledore went on, "The truth is that he was hidden away. By the terms of James and Lily Potter's wills, I was made Harry Potter's guardian. I decided that it would be best if Harry Potter grew up away from the British magical world; it would be safer for him, because the Death Eaters would not be able to get to him, but it would also be better for him to grow up away from the fame and adulation that would undoubtedly have been his should he have remained. Until today, I thought that I had succeeded in fooling the world that Harry was dead." He paused for a minute, seeming to be steeling himself for something. "What happened today demonstrates, beyond doubt, that someone knows that Harry Potter is alive. Unfortunately, I have very good reason to suspect that that someone is none other than Lord Voldemort."

"What?" Cedric interrupted, his voice shrill with shock. "But You-Know-Who is dead!"

"Voldemort, please. Or Tom Riddle, if you prefer," Dumbledore said calmly. "Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. Sadly, though, Voldemort is not dead. Somehow, he managed to survive, and he is trying to come back. I have it on good authority that he has managed to regain corporeal form, though not a human body, and that he is once again collecting his followers. I fear that it is one of his followers who has found out that Harry is still alive, and that that person is the one who put Harry's name into the Goblet. They must not be allowed to reach Harry. You see, there is a prophecy concerning Harry Potter and Voldemort. The gist of it is, that only Harry can defeat Voldemort - 'for neither can live while the other survives.'

"It is thus very important, for the safety of the magical world, that Harry remain hidden until such time as he is ready to face Voldemort. However, if he merely remains in hiding and does not take part in the tournament, then he will lose his magic. This is inescapable. There is a way to avoid that happening, but I will need all your consent for it."

He stopped and looked at each one of them long and hard. Fleur shivered. The grandfatherly twinkle she had seen in his eyes whenever she looked at him had vanished. Instead, his gaze was deep and penetrating, seeming to see right into the depths of her soul.

"If you all unanimously agree to resign from the Tournament, and never compete in it ever again, then the binding magical contract that you all implicitly accepted by submitting your names to be champion will be rendered null and void. It will mean, however, that this decade's tournament will be cancelled - and that all your preparation will be for nothing, all your hopes dashed and reduced to nothing. But it will mean that Harry Potter will be kept safe - and it is, I repeat, very important that Harry remain safe." Dumbledore looked round at them all again. "I will give you half an hour to think this matter over, as we must have a solution soon. Whatever you choose, you will not be blamed." With that, he turned and left, taking a visibly dazed Cedric Diggory with him. Karkaroff followed in his wake, accompanied by Viktor Krum, whose expression of surliness remained unchanged. Madame Maxime made her way over to Fleur, and conjured up a large armchair for herself. Silently she placed her hand over Fleur's.

The blonde girl was in a state of mild shock. First the revelation that Harry Potter was not dead. Then the revelation that neither was Voldemort. Then that one of them should be. Then - the clincher. The matter of the Tournament - and the choice she now had to make.

For the full half-hour she sat, musing. On the one hand, there was the issue of the safety of the magical world. Should Harry Potter lose his magic, then no-one would be able to defeat Voldemort. On the other hand ... Fleur, the Veela half-breed, had spent all her school life trying desperately to prove that she was just as good as anyone else - specifically, as good as any pureblood witch or wizard. She was intelligent, witty, talented, and with a natural gift with magic - qualities that had propelled her to the top of her classes year after year.

Unfortunately, the general opinion was that she was only there because either she had bewitched the teachers with her allure, or the teachers were being politically correct. It didn't help that she didn't have a proper boyfriend, and never had. Heaven knows, she had tried. She had tried several times, choosing boys who seemed to actually like her for who she was. Each and every time, however, they merely used her for her looks and body, dumping her once they realised that she wasn't about to have sex with them. Each rejection hurt more than the last, and she eventually had given up - but not before, unjustly, earning the reputation of a slut. The Tournament was her big chance - her opportunity to demonstrate, once and for all, that she, as a person, was worthy of being a witch. Everyone knew that the Goblet was an impartial judge, and that there was no way to win the Tournament with nefarious or illicit means. You had to be the best, plain and simple.

And Fleur needed to win. She had to take part.

"Fleur, ma cherie," Madame Maxime said gently. "You need to make your choice now. It is time."

The part-Veela looked up at one of the few people who saw her as a person and not an object or half-breed.

"I have made my choice, Madame. I cannot pull out. I must compete - if I do not..." she trailed off, and Madame Maxime nodded understandingly.

The door opened and Dumbledore re-entered, followed by the others.

"Miss Delacour," he said, "I must hear your choice. Remember, I will not blame you for what you choose. Whatever choice you make, I will understand."

Fleur got to her feet and cleared her throat. "I am sorry, Monsieur Dumbledore," she said. "But I must compete. I cannot wizdraw from ze Tournament."

Dumbledore closed his eyes, and a fleeting look of sorrow ghosted across his face. "Then so be it. I shall summon Harry Potter tonight." He turned and left the room.

"What did you decide?" Madame Maxime asked the other two champions, and Fleur felt her breath catch in her throat.

"To quit," Cedric Diggory said, and left the room.

"I also," Krum growled, and with Karkaroff exited as well.

Fleur turned to look at her headmistress, but the older woman refused to meet her eyes. Slowly Fleur headed for the doorway, her feet heavy as lead. If anything happened to Harry Potter, she thought, it would now be her fault and her fault alone.

Unless ... her eyes lit up as an idea hit her. If she befriended him, then she could protect him - and then her conscience would be clear. For once, perhaps, her Veela allure might be useful.

A cleft in a mountain, eighty-nine miles east-north-east of the town of Bāfq, Central Iran, 31 October 1995, 11:14 a.m. GMT, 1:44 p.m. local time

It didn't matter how many times Harry did it. Every time the same jolt, the same thrill and power. He wrapped his fingers tighter round the staff and took a deep breath. Now or never, he thought, raised it in the air and brought it stabbing down, the meteoric iron basecap slamming into the ground with a crack. He felt the magical energy rush through him, thrilling every fibre in his body, pouring down his arm and out his fingers into the staff, rushing down the nundu-hair core and spreading out like lightning into the earth. Five patches of ground, forming the points of an imaginary pentacle centred on Harry, began to bubble, smoke starting to waft up through the heaving earth and paralleling the smoke beginning to trickle from Harry's clenched fingers. A second later there was a roar and from each agitated area an anubite burst, arms flailing and jaws gaping. Harry released the breath he'd been holding and drooped momentarily, before pulling himself together and intoning the words of the ritual. The spell, long and intricate, was in Ancient Egyptian and was designed to reaffirm the ties of allegiance and servitude that bound the summoned beings to him. It wasn't strictly necessary, but safety first, especially when dealing with anubites. Eyes shut, right hand clasping the five-foot long yew staff, left hand outstretched, palm up, fingers clawed, he chanted the ancient words with a dirge-like rhythm. When he finished he felt the familiar tug on his core as the bonds were reaffirmed yet again. Slowly he opened his eyes and relaxed.

"Your bidding, master?" the anubite in front of him asked in Ancient Egyptian, its voice harsh and rasping like dry rocks grating against each other, sinking down onto one knee. Even kneeling, it was still taller than Harry - standing, it was over nine feet in height. An elaborate golden headress, Pharaonic in appearance, reached over the back of its jackal's head and fell in broad sweeps on its sinewy shoulders. In one clawed hand it held a long double-headed polearm, in the other, pressed respectfully to its chest, a pair of sickle-shaped swords. A loincloth was wrapped round its waist, and assorted pieces of armour and jewellery adorned various parts of its body, which was darker than darkest night and seemed to writhe with unholy energy.

Harry swallowed to moisten his dry throat before giving the anubite its orders. "Somewhere here," he said, also in Ancient Egyptian, gesturing round with the staff, "is a pack of manticores that has been terrorising the local population for months. Hunt them down, kill them, but herd the pack leader to me. Do not injure that one, I will deal with it." He made a gesture of dismissal with his staff. "Go!"

The anubites dipped their heads in obedience and took off, leaping across the broken, rocky ground with massive strides, clawed feet pounding the hard earth, raising puffs of dust as they went.

Harry rolled his head, cracking his neck, then flexed his shoulders and chest, limbering up for the forthcoming fight. He raised the staff, glanced thoughtfully at it, muttered, "This time...I can try, at least," and tossed it, with a flick of the wrist, to his mentor, Remus Lupin, sitting comfy on a rock nearby.

"So, pup," his godfather, Sirius Black, said, walking over to Harry, "feeling confident enough to tackle a manticore with just your wand?"

Harry turned to him with a small smile. "I think so," he replied. He flicked his wrist again and his primary wand shot out of its arm holster and slapped into his palm. Slowly he traced a finger down its length, feeling the graceful curves worked into the hand-crafted ten-inch ebony rod. He sent a burst of energy through it and sparks shot out the end, a mix of acid green and Stygian black by the combination of basilisk and dragon heartstrings which were the wand's core.

A hideous screech came faintly to their ears, and Harry met Sirius's eyes.

"Hunt's on, pup," Sirius grinned, passing him a flask of water. Harry drank a few sips, just enough to wet his throat and mouth, and passed it back.

"Better get clear, old man," he winked. Sirius punched him in the shoulder and then winced. "Old man indeed! Ow ... maybe you're right," he groaned, flexing his hand.

"More than you think," Harry said, grinning, "since you obviously forgot that I am wearing my armour, and equally obviously are so short-sighted that you didn't see it."

"Fuck that," Sirius growled, "it's a reflex action. I've got used to punching Remus every time he makes an age-related comment."

"Doesn't change the facts."

"Prat."

"Whatever."

Another shriek split the air, this one much closer, and Sirius glanced round warily.

"Right, pup," he said, drawing his wand, "I'm moving into position...be careful."

Harry smiled. "Don't worry," he murmured, as Sirius darted off to a rockpile nearby. Holding his wand loosely in his hand, he assumed an easy, relaxed posture, feet apart, shoulder relaxed and head alert. He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, licked his lips, and waited.

A few minutes - and three more screams - later, the massive form of a manticore appeared at the mouth of the cleft, anubites bounding at its sides, herding it along. Harry's lips curved into a predatory smile. He shifted into a ready pose, moving his right foot forwards, left foot at ninety degrees, knees bent slightly, still relaxed, left hand back, right hand forwards, wand held almost vertically. The manticore, enraged by the leaping, bounding anubites that pricked it along, came thundering into the cleft. It stopped dead when it saw him, and gave vent to a shuddering roar before charging straight at him. Behind it the anubites formed a line across the mouth of the cleft, blocking its exit.

Harry waited, motionless, as the beast pounded towards him; at the last second he darted his wand forwards with a wordless stabbing curse before leaping backwards and to the side, landing in the ready pose again. This time he immediately went into the attack, snapping off a volley of assorted curses at the manticore, taking advantage of the distraction of it's missing eye, courtesy of his opening spell. Within moments, despite sustaining numerous wounds, the manticore had recovered from the shock and was actively engaging Harry in combat. He was forced to move almost constantly and to throw up numerous shields, as the manticore slashed at him with its massive claws and stabbed down with piledriver blows from its football-sized sting.

The fight lasted almost fifteen minutes before Harry, dishevelled, bruised and winded, and bleeding from a heavy blow to the side that had got through his personal wards and dragonhide armour, managed to score a glancing hit to the manticore's face with a cannonade curse. Though it wasn't lethal, not with the ricochet, it stunned and weakened the beast long and severely enough to let Harry come in to point-blank range and use an overpowered Diffindo to sever the monster's head. Stepping quickly back to avoid the corrosive blood spurting from the manticore's body, Harry cast a Levitating charm on the detached head and trailed it behind him as he made his way towards the mouth of the cleft, Remus and Sirius slipping out of their positions high on each side where they'd been ready to keep the manticore hemmed in for Harry to kill. Sirius transformed into the massive black dog which was his Animagus form and ran down the rocky slope, while Remus was forced to take a much slower and more cautious route down.

"Way to go, pup," Sirius laughed, transforming back once he'd reached the bottom. "Here," he added, "let me carry the head."

"Your staff," Remus said, coming up beside them and handing the staff back to Harry, who nodded his thanks.

"Now, pup," Sirius said, as they came level with the waiting anubites, each one holding a manticore's head, which Remus Levitated, "you let that manticore get too close. You have to remember, with a staff you can let that happen, because of the increased stopping power of your spells and the fact that you can also use the staff as an ordinary polearm. Your wand is primarily a ranged weapon." Harry nodded, as Sirius went on, "You need to keep further away from it. I know that's hard when it keeps coming for you, but the fact is, fighting a magical creature with a wand is different from duelling a wizard. You need to keep much further away, so that the amount of avoidance you need to make is proportionally less." He let the head fall to the ground and motioned to a nearby rock. "Sit down. I need to see that wound."

"So how far should I stand?" Harry asked, sitting down on the rock. "I mean, at times I was about three yards from the thing and that still wasn't far enough."

"Well," Remus contributed, "from where I was? I'd say about six or seven yards is your optimum distance. I think that would give the best trade-off of ease of evasion and hitting power. Your killing spells - the heavy-duty ones - shouldn't lose too much power over that range."

"Yell if I hurt you," Sirius interrupted, as he examined the wound. "It's not too bad, though."

"Further," Remus went on, "and you'd have to put exponentially greater amounts of energy into them to get the same effect. You know, because of the inverse square law. Spells expand."

"Of course," Sirius cut in, pulling a vial of orange paste from his robes, "you could stand like twenty yards away and just pepper the thing with Avada Kedavras, but it'd take forever to get one through." He put the vial back, and cast a quick warming spell to dry the paste. "Muggle weaponry's also an option, but where's the fun in that?" He cinched tight Harry's armour straps and stood up. "Right," he said, "you're done. Let's take these heads to the village and get some food."

"Sure," Harry said, pushing himself to his feet. He glanced at the waiting anubites and patted the nearest one on the muzzle. "Good work," he said, in Ancient Egyptian. The anubite bowed, Harry made a gesture with his hand and spoke a command, and the anubites sank into the earth without a sound.

An inn in a large village, ninety-two miles east-north-east of the town of Bāfq, Central Iran, 31 October 1995, 8:25 p.m. GMT, 10:55 p.m. local time

Harry was sitting cross-legged on a straw mattress, busily disassembling, cleaning, oiling, and reassembling a piece of Muggle weaponry - a 0.45 pistol, made by a German company, Heckler and Koch - when Sirius came into his room, followed closely by Remus, faces drawn and worried.

"What is it?" Harry asked, unsettled by their sombre and agitated appearance.

"Pup," Sirius said, "something bad has happened."

Five minutes later

"Well," Harry said, inserting bullets into a clip, "we'd better get moving if we're going to be there by ten, their time." He loaded the clip into the gun, pulled back the slide to cock it, and made sure the safety was on. "Cocked and locked," he muttered, putting it aside. "Guys?" he asked, looking up at the two adults, still sitting motionless.

Sirius sighed. "I guess so," he muttered, but made no move. Harry leant forwards and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, Sirius," he said. "This was going to happen someday. We always knew it - we were preparing for it."

"Yes," Remus burst out, "but we haven't finished preparing you for it yet!"

Harry laughed. "Moony, I can already do masses of things that neither of you two can, I'm at least as powerful as you two are already, and I'm still growing, and there are no spells you have left to teach me. If you 'prepared' me any more, I'd end up as some kind of space marine, or something."

Sirius blinked. "Space marine?"

"Muggle thing," Remus said, and Sirius rolled his eyes.

"Right," Harry said, clapping his hands together eagerly. "I'll dress and pack my gear, you guys do the same and sort out the travelling aspect. Now shoo, I need my privacy."

"As you command, most high and mighty Harry," Sirius simpered, putting on a humble courtier's act. "We, your most abject slaves, will hurry to do your bidding..." He yelped and fled the room as Harry reached meaningfully for his staff.

"See you in five, Harry," Remus said, standing and leaving in turn.

When the door had shut behind them, Harry leant back against the wall and thought for a minute. So old Voldy's minions have finally realised that I'm still alive, he mused. Could be a failsafe, I guess, putting a dead person's name in the Goblet. Well, when I win the Tournament they should start to realise just what they're dealing with. Of course, it can't hurt to be careful...I wonder if Notice-me-not charms will work on my anubites? Need a few bodyguards, just in case.

Harry blinked and stood up. A quick series of cleansing and general tidying charms removed the grime of the day, and he quickly donned his most presentable clothes. A mix of Muggle and magical, they comprised a pair of black trousers and a garment that was a sort of cross between wizards' robes and a Muggle trenchcoat. He pulled on his dragonhide boots and then conjured up a full-length mirror to inspect himself in.

Harry saw a young man of indeterminate age, five foot seven inches in height and well muscled. His hair, thick and black, was short-cropped in a military buzz cut. On his forehead the vivid red scar that was his relic of Voldemort's attack didn't stand out that much against his deeply tanned skin, a testament to his outdoors life. A pair of narrow, semi-parallel scars wound down his left cheek to his chin, the marks left by a juvenile chimaera when he was twelve. The firm set of his jaw and the general expression of his face told volumes about his strength and determination, while the depths in his eyes bore witness to his early maturity. To look at him, no-one would ever have thought he was only fifteen, a fact that he knew saddened his two mentors. He didn't mind, though they occasionally would tell stories, with a wistful and regretful air, of their childhoods. Sometimes, when they drank a bit too much, Sirius would become rather loud and angry, raging at Voldemort for having forced them to make Harry what he was, while Remus would wind up maudlin, shedding tears for Harry's lost childhood. Personally, Harry didn't see what he'd missed. Yes, he may have lacked an innocent, fun-filled childhood, full of games and laughter - but on the other hand, he was pretty sure that there was not another fifteen-year-old in the world who could do what he did. It wasn't like he hadn't had fun, either. He'd had plenty of fun. It was just that his kind of fun was dangerous and occasionally life-threatening. Besides, he'd give up the childhood any time to be ready to get back at the guy who killed his parents.

The only thing he really regretted was that he never actually got to know any girls. He'd met plenty in his travels, but the necessities of training, and the fact that Harry and his mentors never stayed in one place for very long in case they were being tracked, meant that he barely got past the distant acquaintance phase of the relationship. Still, maybe he'd have a chance now ... he could probably capitalise on his Long-Lost-Boy-Who-Lived persona to attract girls. Of course, he thought, grinning at his reflection, his looks ought to do that for him.

He shook himself out of his reverie and glanced at his watch, a run-of-the-mill analogue watch accessorised with a few charms - Unbreakable, Replenishing (for the battery), Waterproof, etc. - and realised that he had only a minute left. When Remus said five minutes, he meant five minutes. Preferably four. Drawing his wand, Harry cried, "Pack!" as he swept his wand in a wide arc across the room, and all his belongings - mainly weapons, armour, and clothes, in that order - soared into a large-ish rucksack, with pre-cast Weightlessness and Expansion charms on it. He buckled it shut, hoisted it onto his back, Vanished the mirror and picked up his staff. After a quick glance round to see if he'd missed anything, he pushed open the door and left the small room.

He peeked quickly into Sirius's room as he passed, saw the man stuffing weaponry and clothing indiscriminately into a rucksack identical to his own - Sirius had never really mastered the Packing charm - while keeping up a running inventory under his breath, punctuating each item with a profanity. Remus's door was shut, so Harry tapped on it and called, "I'll be in the courtyard," and went on. In the courtyard, he cast a quick Muggle-repelling charm around him, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and struck the staff against the ground. This time, he summoned only one anubite to him.

"Can Notice-me-not charms work on you?" he asked in Ancient Egyptian, as soon as he'd finished the ritual.

The anubite bowed its head as it answered. "Yes, master," it growled. "However it is not necessary to resort to using your spells on us. If you alter the ritual slightly, using words I can tell you, then we become invisible and intangible until such time as we are needed. I think I am right in assuming that you require us to act as guards?"

Harry nodded, and the anubite went on, "In that case, the changes I mentioned to the ritual will be perfect for your purposes. The ritual will need to be redone every day, for with the changes it lasts only for a day and a night, before we return to the realm below."

Harry smiled. "Perfect," he said. "Tell me the changes to the words."

By the time Sirius stepped into the courtyard after settling with the innkeeper - Remus having arrived as Harry was talking to the anubite - Harry had memorised the new ritual by heart and had dismissed the beast.

"D'you think I should summon them now or wait until we're there?" Harry asked, glancing at Remus.

"Best now, I'd say," Remus answered, and Harry nodded. As he began, he heard Sirius ask what he was doing and Remus reply.

"Good thinking, pup," Sirius said, clapping Harry on the shoulder when he'd done.

"I agree," Remus said, "but I feel odd not being able to see the anubites. Are you sure they're there?"

"Pretty sure," Harry replied, and gave a command in Ancient Egyptian. A trio of anubites, blades at the ready, materialised out of nothingness.

"Not bad," Sirius murmured.

"Right then," Remus said, "grab hold. We're gone."

Five hands, three clawed and two not, reached out to touch the plate that Remus proffered. "Sprung!" Remus muttered, the plate glowed blue, and with a whirl they were gone.

It took three days for the Muggle-repelling charm on the courtyard to wear off, during which time several guests complained that they could no longer find their heavy luggage, the staff found they'd misplaced the wine store, and the innkeeper had his work cut out to prevent a riot.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1 November 1995, 8:12 a.m.

Usually breakfast at Hogwarts was a relatively subdued affair, as most students were still sleepy or not in the mood to talk. This morning, however, things were very different. The babble of voices that filled the Hall sounded, from a not inconsiderable distance, like the buzzing of a large and very active beehive. All the chatter, unusually, had the same subject: Harry Potter.

Dumbledore wiped his lips delicately with a napkin and stood. Instantly a hush fell across the Hall, leaving a silence so tangible that it could be kneaded like dough.

"Students of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang," he began. "You all know, no doubt, of the event that occurred last night, namely the selection of Harry Potter as a fourth Tournament champion. In addition, you must also all know that Harry Potter is dead." He then proceeded to outline to the stunned students roughly what he had told the champions the night before, except the prophecy and the fact that Voldemort was still alive, presenting it instead as the plot of a vengeful Death Eater on the loose. Not all the truth, he felt, was conducive to the Greater Good.

"Therefore," he said into the silence, gazing out into the sea of shocked faces, "I ask you all to welcome most warmly," he gestured towards the doors, and a ripple passed across the sea as all heads turned, "Harry Potter!"

The doors swung open dramatically, revealing a figure silhouetted against the blue morning sky. Dressed in a combination of new black dress robes and his armour - polished and gleaming, but still bearing the obvious wear-and-tear of battle - Harry cut an imposing figure. He strode slowly up the hall, robes swishing and armour clinking, his dragonhide boots thudding on the stone ground. As he passed, the students' heads turned to follow his progress as if tied to him by invisible threads. Cameras flashed incessantly from a far corner of the Hall, where over two dozen reporters, with photographers in abundance, were clustered. Harry kept his eyes fixed firmly on Dumbledore, head high and shoulders back. It had been Dumbledore's idea, to emphasise Harry's strength and confidence. The night before, in the Headmaster's office - at a meeting attended by the Minister, the Heads of several Departments, and representatives from Gringotts Bank, among others - they'd debated whether Harry should have his anubites show themselves and escort him in, but that idea had been scrapped due to the British wizarding community's bias against magical creatures - the British Ministry for Magic had some of the most discriminatory laws against magical creatures, second only to the United States in harshness.

Harry reached the staff table and gave Dumbledore a deep bow.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," he said, and Dumbledore smiled.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," the Headmaster said, stepping forwards to greet him, the table melting magically away to let him pass. Beside him Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, came forwards as well, followed by a dozen or so senior government officials and even a representative of the Queen. Dumbledore gave a short speech, beginning with a recap of the reasons for the deception, followed by his hypothesis of Death Eater tampering with the Goblet to produce a fourth champion, and finally a formal welcome into British magical society and into Hogwarts for the duration of the tournament. Fudge then gave a much longer speech, which essentially was Dumbledore's with excessive waffle. The reporters were dealt with, Harry giving them a condensed and sanitised account of his life up to then. More speeches were made, the Queen's representative spoke...when eventually the official palaver was done, it was noon and Harry was feeling exhausted - he found that he disliked wearing dress robes. Too stuffy. Plus they chafed in conjunction with his armour.

Finally, there was only one piece of business left. The awed, stunned silence which had filled the crowd at the beginning had been replaced, now, with an expectant silence, tense as a drawn bowstring as the Headmaster announced that Harry, like the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, would be Sorted into one of the Hogwarts houses.

"...so, Harry," Dumbledore said, concluding his preparatory speech, "if you would please don the Sorting Hat?"

Harry reached out and took the tattered and ripped hat from the velvet cushion that Filch - more repulsive than ever in a hideous orange and brown suit - held obsequiously, putting it on his head. Too large for him, it fell down over his eyes. He made to remove it, but a tiny voice said in his ear, "No, no, leave it. Better this way.

"Now then. Let's see. What are you like inside here, eh? Brains, lots of them, yes ... hmm ... not so much cunning, though, no, so not Slytherin - though you could be great, you know, it's there, the potential, yes ... but maybe not. Hmm ... bravery, ha! yes, in abundance, but not, I think, foolish bravery ... you are a hard worker, but not so gregarious, I see ... yes, there's really nowhere else to go, not with these brains, no, so ...

"Ravenclaw!" the Hat bellowed out to the waiting students. There was a beat of silence as Harry took the Hat off, another as he put it back on the cushion, a third as he stepped off the dais ... and then the Ravenclaw table tore itself loose with yells of delight, students whooping and cheering with abandon, stamping on the ground and pounding on the table. The tumult spread to the other tables, all cheering as well but to a lesser extent than the Ravenclaw table.

As Harry neared the Ravenclaw table, Transfiguring his dress robes and armour into far more comfortable regular robes - black with bloodred lining - he ran his eyes thoughtfully along it, wondering where to sit. Usually when choosing a place, he would take one which kept his back to a wall and allowed him to keep an eye on at least one entrance or exit and to watch as much of the room as possible - basic safety precautions. Here he was confident that he wouldn't have to do so, since Hogwarts was one of the most secure places in the world, but still. He cast his eyes over the table. With Dumbledore at the staff table, he should be fine sitting with his back to the dais, facing the doors ... he realised that just about all the Ravenclaws were motioning him to sit by them. Quickly, in the few seconds he had before he reached the table, he tried to make up his mind. He noticed a rather attractive black-haired witch waving at him and thought, mmm, and then noticed the girl on her other side.

He took the next three steps on remote control.

Silvery-blond hair falling to her hips, slim and lithe with a delicately-pointed face and beautiful blue eyes that seemed to glow from within ... then his occulumency shields sprang up and he realised something else: Veela aura.

Definitely mmm.

Fleur

The French beauty watched, applauding with the rest, as Harry walked down the Hall towards the Ravenclaw table. His wordless, wandless Transfiguration of his dress robes and armour impressed her, as did his air of confidence and strength. She noted the way he walked - swift but controlled, each step calculated yet primal; silent and light but redolent with hidden bulk and power, the walk of a dominant predator.

Forget befriending him to mitigate the damage, she wanted him for herself!

As he drew closer and she saw him looking at Cho Chang, sitting beside her, Fleur focussed her aura on him as powerfully as she could. His gaze moved from Cho to her and she saw his eyes glaze over.

Yes! she crowed mentally, then nearly gaped in surprise as he shook his head slightly and seemed to snap out of it. He headed for her and Cho, slipping onto the bench between them, the cheering from the Ravenclaw table faltering as the aftershocks of gaining the Boy-Who-Lived as a member hit them.

Harry glanced at Cho.

"Hi," he said, with a grin. "I'm Harry Potter - but you already knew that."

The Chinese girl smothered a giggle. "Cho Chang," she said.

"Delighted to meet you," Harry replied, dipping his head.

To say that Fleur was shocked would have been an understatement. Not only had Harry managed to throw off her aura, he was sitting right next to her, and practically ignoring her! No-one, no-one, ignored Fleur Delacour - especially not someone she was determined to know.

"Monsieur Potter," she said, interrupting the small talk that Cho was all too evidently enjoying. As Harry turned to Fleur, the French witch smiled and again turned her aura as high as she could, focussing it entirely on him. "My name ees Fleur Delacour. I am ze Champion for l'Académie Beauxbâtons," she said, watching him carefully. Almost too quick to catch, she saw the telltale flicker in his eyes of a momentary lapse into lust. Not immune then, but incredibly well disciplined, she thought.

"Enchanté," Harry said, taking her hand in his and bringing it gently to his lips. With an effort Fleur refrained from showing the surprise she felt - she hadn't expected any of the English of her age to have such manners, apart from the highest-born of the Purebloods - who would not have shown her such courtesy, classing her instead as subhuman due to her Veela ancestry. That Harry Potter was resisting her aura by means of what seemed like Occulumency was proof in itself that he knew of her Veela blood - and seemingly did not care.

"So you are one of my fellow champions?" Harry asked, looking at Fleur appraisingly as he let go of her hand.

"Oui, zat is so," Fleur replied. "I hope zat will not be a bar to us getting to know each ozzer?"

"If anything could bar my becoming acquainted with such a beautiful and charming a damsel as yourself, apart from your own desire, it would be my pleasure to cast it back to the nothingness from whence it came," Harry murmured softly, surprising her again. She did not think even the most cultured Frenchman would say things like that nowadays, especially not to her. As the rest of the Ravenclaw table began to revive from the shock Harry's arrival had put them in, Fleur knew that Harry Potter would prove to be far more interesting than she had first thought.

Right then. Just so you know, the Voldemort-related events of Books 1 through 3 never happened. Voldemort is still a homunculus, but the Basilisk was never unleashed, the Horcrux is still in Lucius's possession (presumably), and yes, Moody is Barty Crouch Jnr. The anubites are going to play a biggish part, but they are not some kind of Instawin thing. He can only summon up to twenty-five at a time, and it does take it out of him - exponentially with each one. Anyway, it'll all be developed as this goes on.

I'm hoping to have a new chapter maybe every two weeks or so, each at least seven thousand words.

I hope you enjoyed it! Review the crap out of this, people.