The Goblet of Fire emitted a light brighter than anything else in the Great Hall.
The sparking blue-white flames turned red for the fourth time, cutting across Dumbledore's words. A tongue of fire leaped into the air and deposited a charred piece of parchment into the Headmaster's outstretched hand.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Harry Potter."
"So much for Professor Dumbledore's confidence," Draco muttered, glancing across the table toward Harry.
Amid the buzzing of hundreds of students, Harry was nudged forward by Hermione — his face entirely blank — and walked through the door behind the staff table like a man who had no idea where he was going.
Exactly as it happened last time, Draco thought. This could have been prevented if Dumbledore had been less certain of himself.
Even Dumbledore was not infallible. And apparently neither was the Elder Wand.
Around the Hall, students had started to react. "He cheated!" "He's not even seventeen!" Zacharias Smith of Hufflepuff was shouting the loudest; Ernie Macmillan and several others were nodding along in open indignation.
"Shut it, you're just jealous!" Fred bellowed. The Gryffindors, recovered from their initial shock, were erupting into excited chatter. Only two faces were different: Ron had gone an unpleasant shade of red; Hermione looked first puzzled, then increasingly troubled.
At the Ravenclaw table, the Beauxbatons students' voices had climbed several registers. At the Slytherin table, the Durmstrang contingent had collectively gone dark.
After a time, amid the rising noise, the judges and headmasters filed through the small door with expressions of careful bewilderment. Dumbledore called for students to return to their dormitories.
Draco fell in at the back of the Slytherin line, distracted, heading toward the left-side door of the marble staircase. Someone caught his sleeve.
Hermione. "Come with me," she said, frowning, and pulled him out of the crowd.
They slipped quietly in the wake of the Durmstrang students, away from the noise, and out into the courtyard decorated with carved Halloween pumpkin lanterns.
It was calm out here. Nothing but the faint sound of her footsteps on the grass.
He followed where she led him, feeling a twinge of apprehension. Would she suspect him again? In his previous life, she had — she'd suspected he was behind something, questioned him directly, and he'd been furious about it. The memory was still unpleasant.
But then she turned around under the large oak tree, her expression serious, and said, "Draco, who do you think did it?"
He blinked. "I — don't know."
"It wasn't Harry. I could see it on Dumbledore's face when he read the name." She began to pace, short and agitated. "Ron thinks Harry secretly put his own name in without telling anyone. Which is completely absurd."
"Yes," Draco said.
"So how did someone actually do it? How do you get a fourth-year's name into the Goblet as a Hogwarts champion when Hogwarts already has a champion?" She stopped in front of him, expectant.
Draco paused. Then: "Don't you suspect me? You've noticed how closely I was watching the Goblet all week."
"Everyone was watching it closely. Why would I suspect you?" She sneezed as a night breeze passed. "And what possible benefit would there be for you — you're the most self-interested Slytherin I know — in putting Harry's name in?"
"None," he agreed, and felt, in the darkness beneath the oak leaves, a warmth that he was aware was disproportionate to the compliment. Hermione Granger's trust, given without hesitation, was always startlingly pleasant to receive.
He glanced at her, noticed she was shivering slightly, and took off his outer robe. He draped it over her shoulders.
"Thank you." She pulled it around herself, breathing in the cedar. "Aren't you cold?"
"Not particularly." He turned to face her, found the clasp of the robe, and began to do it up in the dim light of the nearest pumpkin lantern.
Hermione stood quietly while he did this, studying the bridge of his nose, then seemed to remember she had been mid-thought. "So — how could someone put Harry's name in?"
He glanced up at her. In the lantern light her eyes were darker than usual.
"I think they used a Confundus Charm on the Goblet itself," he said. "The Goblet is no different from any thinking magical object — it has its own sort of mind, or it couldn't make selections. Confund it powerfully enough, and you could convince it that Harry represents a fourth school, the only entrant from that school. It would have no choice but to produce his name."
"A Confundus Charm can work on magical objects?" she asked.
"Anything with a mind can be Confunded by a skilled enough caster. The Goblet selects champions — it has judgment. I'd wager the Sorting Hat could be Confunded too, if the wizard were talented enough." He paused. "Which means whoever did this isn't a student. At minimum they'd need to be a skilled adult spellcaster."
Hermione's expression shifted as she worked through this. "So Harry is completely innocent. Surely the judges will see that — what happens to him?"
"Barty Crouch is on the judging panel. He doesn't bend rules. He'll insist Harry compete." Draco looked at her steadily. "And there's a magical contract binding the Goblet's selections. Once your name comes out, you're bound to participate."
"That's dangerous," she said quietly. "Someone deliberately put him in danger. And everyone in Gryffindor is celebrating." She looked at the castle windows. "Fred was already talking about a party."
"They shouldn't be so cheerful. Look at how the rest of the school is reacting — the Hufflepuffs especially think Harry stole Cedric's place. The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students aren't thinking about whether Harry is innocent or at risk; they're thinking about competition and conspiracy." He turned to look at the lights moving on the Durmstrang ship out on the Black Lake. "He's going to have a difficult few weeks."
"Should I talk to him?" Hermione asked as they started back toward the castle. "Warn him to expect it?"
"It would help." He reached out and caught her wrist without thinking — her pulse jumped under his fingers — and pulled her sideways off the step she'd been about to take, away from the gap in the staircase that wasn't visible in the dark. He held on for a half-second longer than strictly necessary, then let go. "He'll need to be prepared for it."
"Yes. You're right." She looked up at him, her expression a little distracted. "Right."
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As Draco had predicted, by the next morning the Great Hall was already thick with rumour, and most of the Hufflepuff table was directing sustained resentful looks at the Gryffindors. Harry and Hermione were both absent from breakfast, which left him with his thoughts and a letter.
His father's owl had dropped it neatly in front of his pumpkin juice.
Lucius Malfoy, it transpired, was eagerly interested in the development of Harry Potter becoming a Triwizard champion. The patriarch wrote with considerable enthusiasm that the Goblet of Fire's selection was a clear mark of recognition. His cursive slanted slightly with excitement as he encouraged Draco to consider: *This unusual boy seems to have more about him than I had credited — perhaps you might cultivate that closer connection we discussed.*
Draco put the letter down and considered this.
His father had apparently concluded that Harry had somehow outwitted both an age line and the most powerful magical selection process in Europe, and found this deeply impressive. He was wrong, but he was wrong in a way that had made him far more warmly disposed toward Harry.
Let it stand, Draco thought. He fed Joan a piece of toast crust and she accepted it with the dignity of an owl who has decided, after mature consideration, to forgive her owner for last month.
Stealing Harry away from the Weasleys held no appeal for him whatsoever. His sights were set on another of Harry's friends entirely.
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"Talk to Harry," his clear-headed friend said to him urgently during Care of Magical Creatures. "He and Ron are barely speaking. Look at him."
Harry was, indeed, looking deeply sorry for himself on the far side of the paddock, attempting alone to manage a three-foot Blast-Ended Skrewt.
"You've tried and can't do anything, but I'm supposed to manage it?" Draco said.
"You're a boy," Hermione said, as though this were a complete answer. She was attempting to present her own Skrewt with something edible and getting nothing but hostile clicking in return. "Boys are completely impossible. Stubborn and completely unreasonable."
"I hope that wasn't aimed at me."
"Not entirely." She glanced at him. "Will you go?"
He sighed, pulled on his dragon-hide gloves, and looked at the Skrewt she was trying to manage. "Before I do: stay at least three feet from that thing. It's looking for an excuse."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm advising you. There's a difference." He narrowed his eyes at the Skrewt. "If it blasts you, I'm going to try a Reductor Curse on it, Hagrid's feelings be damned."
"That is absolutely a threat." She straightened up with an expression of someone who privately thinks the other person has a point. "Go and talk to Harry."
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Harry was crouched over his Skrewt with the particular dejection of someone who has recently become famous in a way they didn't want.
Ron, unusually, had drifted off to stand with two other Gryffindor boys instead.
Draco walked over and pulled on his gloves.
"Your knight's gone AWOL," he observed.
"Oh, you've come to mock me," Harry said flatly.
"I've come because Hermione asked me to." He crouched beside him and examined the problem with the tail bolt. "Also: I know you didn't put your name in."
Harry looked up sharply. "You believe me?"
"I watched the Goblet for most of the day. You barely went near the age line." He took hold of the bolt carefully, avoiding the blast end. "And you're not stupid enough to volunteer yourself for something you know the Dark Lord is trying to use against you."
Harry stared at him for a moment. Then he looked down, and it took him a few seconds before he could speak normally. "Ron doesn't think that."
"Ron's being an idiot. He's hurt because he cares about you and he feels left out, and instead of saying so he's sulking — which is the Weasley way of handling difficult emotions, apparently." Draco gave the bolt a firm turn. "He'll come around when he understands what you're actually up against. He still thinks the Triwizard Tournament is exciting."
"Professor Moody told me someone wants me dead. That's why they put my name in."
"I'm increasingly inclined to agree with him." Draco paused. "I assume they won't accept your withdrawal?"
"Bagman said the age limit was just an additional security measure. Now that my name's been called, there's no way out." Harry's voice dropped. "I'm bound."
Draco looked at him for a moment. "What do you know about the first task?"
"Only that it has to be completed by the twenty-fourth of November. Crouch said being willing to face the unknown is an essential quality of a wizard. Our only weapons are our wands." Harry repeated it as though he'd been turning it over in his mind all night. "That's all we know."
"That's essentially no information at all." Draco frowned.
He knew, of course, what was coming. The question was how to point Harry toward it without being too obvious. He kept his expression carefully neutral.
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That evening, Harry told him quietly that Sirius was hiding in Hogsmeade and had owled to say he was coming to Hogwarts — could Harry meet him near the Whomping Willow tonight.
"Bring your Invisibility Cloak," Draco said immediately.
"Will you come?" Harry asked, with the particular caution of someone not sure of the answer. "Sirius would want to see you too."
Draco glanced across the common room toward Hermione, who was enthusiastically shaking a tin of Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare badges at a third-year who clearly wanted to escape.
"Is Hermione going?"
"Ah." Harry dropped his voice further. "She's been trying to make me SPEW secretary, and I keep dodging it—"
"Then yes, I'll come."
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A large black dog was already waiting beneath the Whomping Willow when they arrived.
The moment Sirius transformed into himself, Draco barely recognised him. The gauntness was almost entirely gone. His complexion was healthy, his dark eyes clear and bright. He looked, in the moonlight, almost like the young man in the photographs Draco had once seen in old newspaper articles — handsome and sharp-featured, with the ease of someone who had recently been reminded that being alive had its advantages.
He pulled Harry into an embrace first, then clapped Draco on the shoulder with enough force to suggest he was genuinely pleased.
"Come — I know what the first task is." He transformed again immediately, and the great black dog loped ahead of them into the darkness.
They pulled the Invisibility Cloak over themselves and followed. The cloak was extraordinarily light — lighter than any Draco had encountered.
The dog had a playful streak. When they fell behind, it would stop, look back at them, and tug theatrically at its own tail until Harry started laughing under the Cloak — a sound Draco hadn't heard from him in days.
They walked a long way around the edge of the Forbidden Forest, further than felt reasonable, until the castle and the lake had both dropped out of sight. And then they heard it: men shouting, and something beneath the shouting that was less like sound and more like pressure in the chest.
They stepped into the trees and looked.
Four dragons. Adults, enormous — Hungarian Horntails, a Swedish Short-Snout, a Chinese Fireball, and a Welsh Green. Thirty or more dragon handlers were working to bring them under control, chains and spells flying, great bursts of flame illuminating the forest and the handlers' faces in orange.
"Stunned!" a cluster of handlers shouted, and one of the dragons crashed to the earth with a sound that shook the ground underfoot.
"Merlin," Harry breathed beside him.
Draco said nothing. He had seen dragons before — at a distance, in a stadium. This was different. At this distance, their scale was simply wrong, in the way that things were wrong when they were too far outside ordinary experience.
No one dislikes dragons in the abstract. In the specific — required to face one — was another matter entirely.
They watched until Hagrid appeared from another direction, moving toward the dragons with the expression of a man seeing something he has loved from a great distance and is now almost touching. Sirius caught their attention and jerked his head back toward the path.
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"You saw them?" Sirius transformed back, barely containing his excitement.
"Clearly enough," Draco said. Harry had gone very pale.
"How am I supposed to deal with one of those?" Harry asked. His voice was controlled, but only just.
Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry — there are two good options." He was entirely confident. "First: the Conjunctivitis Curse. Targets the eyes, impairs vision considerably. If the dragon can't see you, you're already halfway safe."
"Though I'd skip the Stunning Spell entirely," Draco added. "It takes seven or eight professional handlers working together to Stun a dragon that size. On your own it would be less than useless."
"And second," Sirius continued, giving Draco an approving glance, "play to your strengths. You're the best flier in your year — summon your Firebolt and put it on your terms."
Harry was quiet, turning it over. The colour was coming back to his face.
"You'll need to practice both. Neither is simple," Draco said.
"He can manage it," Sirius said, with the serene confidence of someone who has decided not to be worried. He looked at Harry squarely. "James would be proud of you."
Harry's chin came up. "I'll be ready," he said. "I'll make sure of it."
"Good man." Sirius looked satisfied.
"He's fourteen," Draco said, looking at Sirius with some exasperation. "His opponents are all seventeen or older, experienced, and adult. You're very calm about this."
"I have every confidence in him," Sirius said, untroubled. He glanced at Draco. "Speaking of which — Harry, I want you to watch Karkaroff. He was a Death Eater, and there's every chance he's connected to Quirrell and Voldemort's escape. Add in the Death Eaters at the World Cup and that Dark Mark in the sky — something is being planned, and this tournament is a convenient framework for it." He paused. "Also, the attack on Moody concerns me. Someone wanted to stop him from coming to Hogwarts. He's the finest Auror the Ministry ever produced — Death Eaters have reason to fear him."
"Professor Moody said something similar to me," Harry said. "He thinks someone put my name in to use the tournament itself as the method."
"He's probably right. Don't go anywhere alone. Don't assume Hogwarts is safe just because it's Hogwarts." Sirius looked at the moon, and then suddenly at Draco. "Watch over him for me."
He transformed before Draco could respond.
"Sirius Black!" Draco said, at the departing dog. "You're his godfather! I'm a Slytherin student, not a—"
He stopped. He turned to find Harry watching him, something complicated in his expression.
"I didn't mean it like that," Draco said. "Obviously I'll — that wasn't directed at you."
The black dog, already several yards away, made a sound that was very clearly a laugh, spun around once, and disappeared into the dark at an unhurried trot.