The journey from the antechamber to the director's office was extremely quiet and very tense. The stone spiral staircase wound its way up until it left them standing in front of the oak door with its griffin-shaped knocker.
Harry entered the circular office with his head held high, still clinging to his previous attitude, but as he entered, all that faded away. The silver instruments hummed softly, and Fawkes, the headmaster's phoenix, dozed on his perch.
The peace was broken as soon as Harry took two steps inside the office.
"Bravo! Simply magnificent!" exclaimed a sarcastic, high-pitched voice from high up on the wall.
Harry looked up. In the largest portrait, a wizard with a pointed goatee and blue and silver robes looked down at him with disdain. Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius's great-great-grandfather and former headmaster of Hogwarts, was the one speaking to him.
"Another Potter showing off his stupidity," spat Phineas, crossing his arms. "I never thought the Black family would sink so low as when they allowed that other Potter to become family. But this... this is ridiculous."
Phineas shook his head, looking at Harry as if he were a stain on his carpet.
"Risking your life for a little cheap glory... You're a fool, boy. A complete idiot. Isn't it enough to be famous? You have to actively seek death. How low has my legacy fallen to be associated with you!"
Harry clenched his fists, feeling the blood rush to his face. He wanted to yell at the portrait, tell him that he was a hero, that he was special, but he bit his tongue. He wouldn't give the bitter old man the satisfaction.
Dumbledore, completely ignoring Phineas' insults, walked over to the fireplace. He took a handful of Floo powder from a pot on the mantelpiece and threw it into the flames, which turned emerald green.
"Sirius Black!" Dumbledore called out in a clear voice.
Seconds later, the flames roared and a tall, thin figure spun out of the fireplace, brushing ash from his leather robe.
Sirius Black looked as if he had aged ten years in the last ten minutes. His normally carefree face was pale, and his gray eyes frantically searched the room for his godson.
"Harry!" Sirius exclaimed, ignoring Dumbledore for a moment. "Are you all right? Are you hurt? I got your message, Albus. Now explain yourself. What the hell is going on?"
Dumbledore gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk.
"Sit down, Sirius. We have a lot to talk about."
Sirius ignored him and remained standing, tapping his foot nervously. Dumbledore sighed and began to recount the events: the selection of the Goblet, the fourth name, the binding magical contract, and the impossibility of removing Harry from the wheel without him losing his magical core.
As Dumbledore spoke, Sirius's energy evaporated. His shoulders slumped. The reality of the situation hit him like a bludger to the stomach.
"The Tournament...?" Sirius whispered, his voice breaking. "He's going to have to fight creatures like dragons and Nundus? Albus... Harry's still a child. James... James would kill me if he knew I let this happen."
Sirius slumped heavily into his chair, running his hands through his hair, overwhelmed by the terror of losing the only thing he had left of his best friend.
Harry, seeing his godfather in such a state, felt his own arrogance crack a little. He took a hesitant step toward him.
"Sirius," Harry began, quietly, "I... I'm glad to be participating. I can win. I know I can." He smiled weakly.
Sirius raised his head. There was no anger in his eyes, only deep fear and desperate love. He stood up abruptly and pulled Harry into a fierce embrace, pressing him against his chest as if trying to protect him from the whole world.
"It's not about winning, puppy," Sirius whispered in his ear, his voice trembling. "It's about your chances of survival."
Sirius pulled back slightly, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and staring intently into his eyes.
"Listen to me carefully, Harry. I'm going to help you. I'm going to train you until your bones ache. I won't let them hurt you. I won't lose you too. I promise."
Harry felt a lump in his throat. He nodded and hugged his godfather tighter, clinging to that promise.
"Thank you, Sirius."
From his desk, Dumbledore watched the scene with a sad but warm smile. He was comforted to see the bond between them. However, behind those eyes, his mind was already working at full speed.
"Who was it?" Dumbledore wondered, drumming his fingers on the wood. "Voldemort is silent. His Death Eaters are scattered or imprisoned... Gellert... no, he shouldn't care about Harry. Who has the power to confuse an object as ancient as the Chalice, and what is the motive for putting Harry in mortal danger? Is it an assassination attempt... or something darker?"
The silence in the office was broken only by a sigh from the portrait on the wall.
Phineas Nigellus Black had stopped insulting. He watched his great-great-grandson hugging the half-blood boy with an indecipherable expression. He narrowed his eyes and, for the first time in many years, the sneer of disdain softened into something resembling a sincere smile.
"Well," Phineas murmured to himself, leaning back in his frame, "Pathetic or not, at least what's left of my family knows what's important. Blood calls to blood, I suppose."
The days following the selection of the champions felt like walking through an ice storm. For Harry, that cold was nothing more than confirmation of his superior status.
The breakup with Ron was immediate and inevitable. His best friend, the eternal second, had finally exploded.
"Don't talk to me," Ron had spat at him in the dormitory, his face red with anger. " 'I don't know how it happened,' you said. 'It was an accident,' you said. You're a liar, Harry! You just wanted all the glory for yourself, like always. You couldn't stand someone else getting attention, could you?"
Harry didn't even try to apologize. He stared at him coldly from his bed.
"If you can't be happy for me, then you're not my friend anymore, Weasley," Harry had replied. In his mind, Ron was simply a burden, an envious person who couldn't stand to see him shine.
Hermione was the only one who remained by his side, although her support came loaded with constant, anxious lectures about his safety and the rules, which Harry barely tolerated because he needed someone to help him with his books.
The rest of the school was hostile territory. The Hufflepuffs hurled curses at him in the hallways, the Slytherins (led by Malfoy and his group's snickers) wore badges that said "Support Cedric Diggory, the true champion" and changed to "Potter Stinks" when he was nearby.
But Harry didn't care; he walked through the hallways with his head held high.
"Envy," Harry repeated like a mantra as he ignored the insults. "They hate me because they know I'm special. They know I'm going to win, and they can't stand it."
The confirmation of his "destiny" came during a particularly unpleasant double Potions class. Snape was distilling verbal venom on Harry when the door opened.
Colin Creevey, his small, nervous follower, poked his head in.
"Excuse me, Professor... I've been sent to fetch Harry Potter."
Snape curled his lip in disgust.
"Potter," he sighed. "Get out. Take your things. I don't want your incompetence polluting my air any longer than necessary."
Harry calmly gathered his things, smiling inwardly at the fury in Snape's eyes, and left the classroom feeling like a king summoned to his court.
Colin led him to a classroom on the first floor. Upon entering, Harry saw that the tables had been moved aside. Ludo Bagman was there, talking animatedly with a platinum-blonde witch wearing jeweled glasses: Rita Skeeter, if he wasn't mistaken.
"Ah, the fourth champion has finally arrived!" Bagman exclaimed cheerfully. "Come in, Harry, come in. We're about to begin the Wand Checking."
Dumbledore was standing by a window, chatting cheerfully with Mr. Ollivander. Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor were already seated. Harry took a seat, noticing that Fleur was staring at him as if he were an insect and Viktor was simply ignoring him.
"You'll see," Harry thought, frowning.
Ollivander stepped forward and began the examination.
He examined Fleur's wand (rosewood and veela hair), confirming its temperament. Then Cedric's (ash and unicorn hair), praising its loyalty. Next, Viktor's (carp and dragon heartstring), highlighting its rigidity.
Finally, Ollivander took Harry's wand.
"Ahhh, I remember it well," he began. "Holly and phoenix feather, twenty-eight centimeters," murmured the old maker, his pale eyes fixed on Harry. "A volatile combination, but powerful. It has served you well, hasn't it?"
"Better than any other," Harry replied haughtily.
Ollivander made the wand glow, nodded, and declared it to be in perfect condition.
"Wonderful!" Rita Skeeter interjected, stepping forward with a predatory smile. "Dumbledore, may I have a word with the champions before the photo? For The Prophet, of course... How about starting with the youngest?"
Without waiting for a reply, Rita grabbed Harry's arm with surprising strength and dragged him to a nearby broom cupboard.
"We'll be more comfortable here," said Rita, closing the door and lighting a magic candle. Her acid-green quill was already floating above a parchment beside her.
Harry leaned back against a bookshelf, feeling important. It wasn't every day he got such an exclusive interview.
"So, Harry," Rita purred, her eyes sparkling behind her glasses, "a twelve-year-old boy..."
"Fourteen," Harry corrected.
"...facing death. What drove you to enter? The need to prove yourself? Does the ghost of your parents still weigh heavily on your shoulders? Do you cry at night thinking about them?"
Harry frowned at such accusations.
"I don't cry," Harry said, puffing out his chest. "I entered because I know I can win. I've faced worse things than this tournament. For me, this is nothing, it's just like any other day at school."
Rita's pen moved frantically, scribbling words that undoubtedly distorted reality, but Harry paid no attention.
"Do you believe you are destined for greatness, Harry?"
"Well, I am the Boy Who Lived, aren't I?" Harry replied with a arrogant smile. "I suppose fate has big plans for me. People can talk, they can be jealous, but at the end of the day, I'm the one in the arena."
Rita smiled, revealing several gold teeth. She had exactly what she wanted: the image of a tragic, unstable, delusional child.
"Perfect, Harry. Simply heartwarming."
After the other interviews and a photo shoot where Harry made sure he was in the center, Dumbledore intercepted him near the door as the others left.
"Harry," said the headmaster quietly. His face was serious, his eyes fixed on Harry. "Be careful what you say and do. We still don't know who put your name in the Goblet or for what purpose. This is not a popularity contest. There are dark forces at work."
Harry looked at Dumbledore and nodded, but his words went in one ear and out the other.
"I'll be careful, Professor," Harry said in a tone that bordered on condescension. "You don't need to worry so much. I have everything under control."
Harry left the classroom and walked toward the Gryffindor Tower.
"Dark forces," he thought with disdain. "I'm sure it's only Dumbledore getting older and paranoid."
He imagined the moment when he would lift the Triwizard Cup. He imagined Ron's face begging for forgiveness, Malfoy's face full of rage, and the whole school chanting his name.
Harry Potter smiled in the darkness of the hallway. This year was going to be glorious.
------------------
I have a Patreon account. If you would like to support me, I would greatly appreciate it. You will be able to read up to 15 more chapters, listen to all chapters as audiobooks, and view images of the characters in the story for free. Thank you very much for reading my story :D
patreon.com/Daoistrg