Excitable tension floated overhead through dinner, each table speculating on who was going to be champion. Fred and George, now beardless, were taking bets, with the current out-lier being Filch, followed closely by Harry. Dean had offered an apologetic shrug when he'd placed his bet, offering a simple, "With your luck…" by way of explanation.
Harry shook his head, doing his best to deny the unease the idea engendered in him. He let his gaze wander up to the Head Table, where a not-so-subtle movement from Hagrid caught his eye. The half-giant was rummaging in a massive pocket in his coat. Finding what he was searching for, Harry watched as he dropped a small stack of coins into Professor Sprout's open hand.
"You have been most patient," Dumbledore began. The desserts vanished from the tables and he raised a hand to the side where Filch set the Goblet on another conjured pedestal. "It is finally time to discover who will have the honor of representing our schools in the Triwizard Tournament!"
The moment he finished speaking, the Goblet's flames shifted from blue to bright red. They climbed high and sparks began to issue from the center. With a burst of fire and spark, a parchment flew into the air, its edges smoldering.
Dumbledore snatched it out of the air, the room thick with silent anticipation.
"Representing Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum!" Thunderous applause met the pronouncement. "Mr. Krum, would you please make your way through that door." He indicated the doorway behind the head table.
As the door clicked shut behind Krum, the Goblet shot forth a second parchment.
"The champion for Hogwarts is Cedric Diggory!"
An explosion of noise issued from the Hufflepuff table as they collectively rose to their feet and cheered, knocking their benches over in their haste. Even the Slytherins cheered for the friendly Hufflepuff, who waved appreciatively on his way to the meeting room.
The third name flew into the air a moment later.
"Fleur Delacour is our third and final champion, representing Beauxbatons!"
The cheers that followed Fleur's name were fraught with yells for her attention. She walked through the gawking students, back straight, eyes forward. When the door shut behind her with a soft click, hushed conversation resumed. Dumbledore raised his hands for silence and opened his mouth to speak. Harry was certain he could hear the click of the Headmaster's jaw as it snapped shut, a fourth smoldering parchment fluttering down into his waiting hand.
Dumbledore's eyes flashed Harry's direction before he spoke.
"Harry Potter."
His voice wasn't loud, or sharp, but his words reverberated through the silent hall all the same.
Harry's mind whirled with incoherent thoughts as the eyes of the collective students turned to him. He felt his face burn and he sunk into his seat. Attention was dangerous.
He tried to will himself to vanish.
"To the champion's room, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said, his bespectacled blue eyes stern.
Harry looked to his friends as panic rose in his throat.
"I didn't-" he tried, the words dying against the silence from his friends.
Hermione simply nodded him towards the Head Table and the door waiting beyond. Ron, however, refused to meet his gaze, instead staring down at the table in front of him, frowning.
He stood from his seat, each footstep thunderously loud over the blanket of whispers that covered the room. He passed Dumbledore without a word and stepped through into the champion's room.
Inside the room, a fire blazed in a large hearth opposite the door. Krum leaned against the wall next to the entrance, while Fleur stood unreasonably close to the fireplace, warming her hands. Cedric stood to her left and turned to face Harry as he closed the door behind him. Fleur spun when she noticed Cedric turn, one perfect eyebrow arched in surprise.
"Did they need us outside for something?" she asked, her accent barely distorting her words.
"Er..." was all Harry managed.
Ludo Bagman swung open the door, saving Harry from further elaboration. The genial man was the only person excited by the unusual turn of events.
"Harry!" the man greeted him, clapping a large hand down on Harry's shoulder, making him jump. He frowned and forced himself still before sliding out from under Bagman's calloused hand unnoticed. "Meet your fourth Triwizard Champion!"
Cedric's, "But you're only a fourth-year," rolled over Fleur's stunned, "Pardon?"
Krum watched the exchange from where he leaned against the wall, his face shadowed. The firelight reflected off his dark eyes, tiny pinpoints of orange scrutiny.
Fleur took a step forward, one hand held out to gesture to Harry.
"Surely there has been some mistake," she snapped. "The dangers were made clear. Anyone underage and underskilled would perish if they attempted to participate-"
Her speech was interrupted by the arrival of Barty Crouch, Professor Moody, Professor McGonagall, and the heads of all three schools.
"Miss Delacour is correct," Madam Maxime said, her deep voice thick with her accent in contrast to Fleur's. "The tournament is indeed too dangerous for one as young as he."
Karkaroff slid carefully past Moody to stand next to Krum. "The question is," he said, his reedy black wand held at his side, "why does Hogwarts get two champions? It is unfair, even if he is too young!"
"I assure you that we had no intention of breaking the rules that have been in place for centuries," Dumbledore replied. He turned his gaze to Harry, who felt suddenly small in the middle of the crowded room. "Did you put your name in the Goblet, Harry?"
"No, Sir."
Moody clunked forward. "Potter is a fair enough wizard, but he's not good enough to best one of Dumbledore's spells."
Professor McGonagall nodded in agreement, while Madam Maxime remained unconvinced.
"Perhaps he asked an older student to place his name inside," she said, moving over to stand protectively at Fleur's side, who hadn't stopped glaring at the assembled teachers and the pair of Ministry workers.
"The enchantments on the cup forbids an individual from entering another's name into the cup," Crouch cut in, his voice clipped and businesslike. "All three of you were present when we examined the Goblet earlier this year. Its enchantments are intact."
"Then he must have bypassed the age line," Karkaroff spat. "Or perhaps someone allowed him through."
"Even I couldn't have bypassed that line if I wasn't of age," said Moody, his magical eye fixed unerringly on the tall sallow man. A sneer lifted Moody's scarred cheek. "And you know precisely how powerful I can be. Don't you, Igor?"
"Albus did no such thing," Professor McGonagall said, her stern tone more worried than Harry had ever heard it, though it still managed to cut through the storm of wills brewing between Karkaroff and Moody. She nodded to Harry. "Surely he won't have to compete."
"I am sorry, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "If Harry's name came out of the Goblet, the magic compels him to compete, or forfeit his magical abilities."
Silence fell across the room, though he heard Fleur mumble something he couldn't understand under her breath.
"I think," Moody said after a moment, "that if Dumbledore were trying to gain an unfair advantage for Hogwarts, he'd have chosen a second champion who stood an actual chance of winning."
Madam Maxime and Karkaroff considered, then finally nodded.
"And if Potter here did manage to pass an age line set by the most powerful wizard alive today, and managed to bewitch a centuries-old artifact, then I'd say he deserves to be the fourth champion."
Dumbledore nodded graciously at the praise and shifted his gaze between the two other heads of their schools. "Are you satisfied that we have not skewed the champion results in our favor?"
"I suppose so," Karkaroff said.
"It would be impossible for one so young to be a challenger to the true champions," Madam Maxime said, placing a hand on Fleur's shoulder to quell the growing outrage that built to dangerous levels in the French champion.
"Then that settles it," Dumbledore said. "He will be allowed to compete in an effort to retain his magic. Barty, would you, please, give the instructions?"
Harry stared up at Crouch while he gave his explanation, the words arriving at his ears as little more than a fuzzy drone.
Certain death…or his magic? He was pretty much dead either way.
The droning stopped when the other occupants had left the room, leaving Harry alone with Professors Moody, McGonagall, and Dumbledore. The Headmaster sighed once the door clicked shut behind Ludo Bagman and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Please indulge me, Harry," he said. "Now that it's just us, did you put your name in the Goblet?"
"No, Sir!" Harry answered with a touch more vehemence than he had meant to.
"Then it would appear that we have a rather glaring issue."
"Someone else did," Moody growled.
"But why would someone want him forced into the tournament?" asked Professor McGonagall.
"That is something we must discuss and speculate upon," Dumbledore said. "But not right this moment. I expect everyone has made their way back to their dormitories, and it is time you do so as well, Harry. I know it will be difficult, but try to get some rest tonight."
He wanted to protest, to say that he deserved to know who would go to such lengths to push him into the tournament. But the dismissal was clear. After a quick goodnight, he slid out the door.
The walk back to Gryffindor Tower was a slow affair. Years at the center of school-wide gossip had taught him what awaited him in the Gryffindor common room. The genesis of the newest rumor mill would be standing by the fireplace, or sitting in the chairs. They would be chatting but would fall silent for the barest of moments when he stepped through the portrait. Then the questions would start, peppered with praise and accusations alike.
A crinkling in his pocket as he stepped onto one of the moving stairways pulled him from his predictions, and a small smile broke through his gloom. As bad as things were about to get, at least he still had Sirius. After a fashion, anyway. Ron and Hermione too.
Despite their unbelievable years at Hogwarts, the three of them had an impressive track-record for success. With Sirius's help as well, even from another country, maybe the Tournament wouldn't be quite so bad as he feared. He picked up the pace, eager to write his reply to his godfather.
As expected, the common room was filled with nearly the entirety of Gryffindor's members. A quick scan of faces found the two most familiar ones missing. He ignored the knot of anxiety that bloomed from their absence.
Harry did his best to dodge the questions and congratulations that battered him as he passed through on his way up to the dorms. Calls for the truth of how he stuck his name in were pervasive, and far more grating and numerous than the friendly claps on the back he received as he pushed through. He ascended the stairs and closed the dorm-room door, shutting out the cracks and bangs of celebratory fireworks that Fred and George had charmed to be slightly less dangerous.
He let out a shaky sigh. No matter how much he thought he was used to such attention, it never failed to rattle him each time he was in the thick of it.
Ron was waiting for him when he turned from the door, a fragile half-hearted smile plastered on his freckled face. "You're back," he said, the attempted casualness in his voice grating to Harry's frayed nerves. Ron had never been one to hide his feelings, and the new taciturn version put him on edge.
"Yeah," Harry replied when no further comment came forward.
"Did they tell you what the First Task will be?" Genuine curiosity mingled with Ron's eerie, constructed facade.
Harry cast his mind back to the droning words of Barty Crouch. "We were told that it's a test to see how well we think on our feet." The desire to write to Sirius grew painfully inside him. He needed to get his whirling thoughts organized before putting the necessary ones down to paper.
"So they're letting you compete?"
"If I don't, I'll lose my magic." He could feel his hackles rise at the clear turn in the conversation.
"Was Dumbledore mad that you put your name in?"
Had Hermione been hiding from him because she thought he put his name in too?
"I didn't put my name in," he forced out: a phrase he must have uttered a dozen times while pushing through his fellow Gryffindors downstairs.
"You can tell me," Ron insisted, finally dropping his false nonchalance. "I'd have liked to have had the chance at the glory and prize money too, though. But I'm not mad."
Harry looked up at his friend to find eyes that were distinctly at odds with his words. He was well acquainted with simmering anger. He set his jaw, anger of his own sparking to life in his chest.
Ron had a life Harry dreamed of, with a family who loved him and a life in which he had grown up in the magical world. He had so many places to belong.
He was wanted.
Not for an accident as a baby, but for him. And he was still unhappy? Wanted to throw all that away for prize money and a title?
"Somebody put my name in the goblet," he said, clamping down on his volatile thoughts.
"You don't have to lie to me," Ron said, doing his best to sound conspiratorial, but only sounding angry. "You should have given me a chance to enter too, not kept it to yourself. We're best mates, aren't we?"
"I thought we were," he shot back in a furious burst of self-pity. It seemed as though he would be dying in the tournament, friendless. "I didn't put my name in. I don't care if you don't believe me."
Ron's blue eyes flashed with anger and his face burned bright red. For the first time, Harry noticed just how much bigger Ron was than him. Ron's lanky form grew indistinct, the hazy form of a laughing Dudley taking his place. He flinched as Ron stomped by before slamming the dorm door behind him.
Harry blinked back angry tears while scanning the room around him. Thankfully nobody else was in the dorm. He sunk down onto his bed once he found that he was alone and did his best to calm down. Years of practice and a few deep breaths did the trick, and he managed to put away the raging feelings.
He scooted to the edge of his bed and rummaged through his trunk, searching for some spare parchment and a quill. It'd be good to focus on something other than Ron. Surely Sirius would believe him.
Padfoot,
No sense in beating around the bush. I was picked to be the fourth champion in the Triwizard Tournament. I didn't put my name in, and nobody seems to know how it happened.
Professor Moody and Professor Dumbledore didn't tell me much besides that I have no choice but to compete. I guess the First Task is in late November, but they didn't tell us what it was.
Nobody believes that I didn't put my name in, not even Ron.
Let me know if you find anything out about Wormtail. It'd be nice if you were able to be here.
-Harry
XxX
The halls of Hogwarts near curfew sat empty and cold. Dying leaves rustled on the courtyard trees as a chill October wind blew. He counted himself lucky that he'd only run into one pair of students who were far more interested in each other than they were in him and he took care to avoid notice. He climbed the stairs to the tower where the owls roosted, being sure to step hard and noticeably. More than once he had been too lost in his thoughts to remember to do so, and come across a couple mid-entanglement.
To his relief, nobody else occupied the Owlery, leaving him alone to select from the handful of owls that remained roosted so deep into the evening. He grimaced when he found Hedwig sitting on one of the lower spots, preening her wing feathers. She noticed his attention, stopped, and peered at the letter clutched in his hand.
"I'm sorry, girl," he said, reaching out to placate her with scratches on her head. "I have to use a different owl." Her head spun and she nipped at his finger, before turning back to look at the letter. "You're just too pretty," he tried, gently stroking the feathers on her chest. "People might recognize you, and then he'd get caught."
She shot him a baleful glare before hopping away from him to the end of the makeshift branch.
"That is an unusually smart bird you have," said an accented feminine voice from behind him. He whirled in surprise, his mind scrambling to remember if he had mentioned Sirius by name. His panic stuttered to a halt in front of the serious, sky-blue eyes of Fleur Delacour.
"Uh…yeah, she is," he managed once he had gathered himself.
"What is her name?" She bent over to peer around him at Hedwig, her long silvery-blond hair falling to the side with the motion.
"Hedwig."
"She is beautiful." She stood upright and smiled at him, though it faded after a moment and her brows drew together. "After we left the room earlier, did they discover who placed your name in the Goblet?"
"Er…what?"
"I assumed that is why they kept you behind. After the announcement of the champions?"
"Yeah…" he said slowly. "Or rather, no, they didn't."
She frowned at his reply, the ghost of her earlier outrage returning to her features.
She opened her mouth, but Harry found himself cutting in.
"You believe me?" he asked.
"Of course," she answered, tilting her head to the side, confused. "Many people tried to pass the age line. Not one succeeded. If they had, they would have bragged about their accomplishment, not deny it."
Warmth sparked and swelled inside of him. At least someone believed him, even if she was a stranger from another country.
"But in the room," he said. "You seemed so angry at me."
She blinked at him in surprise.
"I was not angry with you. I was angry with the Ministry officials who were not the least bit concerned that you have been roped against your will into a life or death situation. I was angry with the heads of our schools who squabbled over fairness for the other champions."
She took a deep breath before continuing, calmer.
"My father was placed at your Ministry as both Ambassador to the French Ministry, but also for oversight from the ICW. This is one of many irregularities that he will have to investigate." She withdrew a letter from one of the pockets in the light blue robes. "That is why I am here. I wrote to him about what happened…and that I have been selected champion."
She nodded down to the letter in his hand.
"I assume you are doing the same?"
"Yeah."
"Why not wait until morning?"
He frowned. "You're here late too."
He couldn't exactly tell her he was sending a letter to Britain's most wanted man.
"It is…easier for me to wander at night." She hesitated, catching his gaze with hers. "I expect you would understand the desire for solitude from the stares of strangers, no?"
He could only nod, his hand reaching unconsciously to touch the familiar edges of his scar. When he realized what he was doing he let his hand drop. If she noticed, she didn't say anything.
A silence stretched between them that he was unsure how to break. For her small smile and open posture, Fleur seemed content to stand quietly, surrounded by owls and straw, staring at him with her head cocked oddly to the side.
She spoke finally, breaking the odd silence. "Though I have enjoyed our conversation, I must send my letter and return to my carriage. I will be missed if I am absent for too long. Especially now that I am champion," she said with no small measure of pride.
It was his turn to blink in surprise. He didn't feel as though he had said enough to warrant a conversation, but he didn't argue.
"Me too," he said. "Er…I liked talking with you. Not the champion thing."
"Surely you will be missed as well if you are gone too late, unorthodox champion or not."
"I don't like to spend time in our crowded dorm room, so I tend to take walks in the evening." A partial truth.
"Something else we have in common." Her bright blue gaze swept across the remaining owls. "Could you tell me which are free to use? I cannot tell which belong to the school, and which are owned by students."
"It's sort of a trial-and-error thing," he said, walking up to a large brown barn-owl. "If they offer you their leg, you're good to go."
"That seems a little…" she paused a moment, frowning in thought. "Désorganisé. Disorganized."
"You aren't wrong. You can use Hedwig if you'd like. She'll like to take a letter since she can't take mine. She might even stop being mad at me by the time she gets back..."
"Thank you," Fleur said, stepping over to where Hedwig still sat perched with her back to them. "Do you think she will let me?"
Before he could reply, Hedwig had turned and offered Fleur her leg. The snowy owl stood still as Fleur tied her letter tight, and flew out the window as soon as she had finished. Harry tied his similarly to the brown owl and watched as it flew away, noticeably slower than his familiar. It would be a long time before he got a reply from Sirius.
"Thank you for offering your owl," Fleur said, turning to him. "And thank you for talking with me." She bid him goodnight with a smile and left him alone in an owlery that felt far colder and lonelier than it had before.
XxX
Their first event as Champions came only days after his impromptu meeting with Fleur. Colin Creevy rescued him from a dreadful Potions lesson, sent to gather him for the Weighing of the Wands ceremony. Whatever that was. He waved a quick goodbye to Hermione, who had thankfully not agreed with Ron in her assessment of Harry's entry to the tournament, and left the dungeons.
The purpose of the strange-named event was not made any clearer when he stepped through the door to the unused classroom, ushered through by a grinning Ludo Bagman, who herded him past where Krum and Karkaroff stood apart from the others. Both of whom took refuge in a corner, far from the noise that surrounded Fleur.
He had been hoping to see her, to get the opportunity to say something more substantial than to talk about owls, but a middle-aged woman was badgering Fleur with questions, a floating quill and parchment scratching away next to her head. Her blond hair was done up in tight curls mounted atop her head, and though not a hair appeared out of place, nor did a single streak of gray mar her golden curls, it was nothing more than a dull lifeless mound next to Fleur's hair, which shone with the golden light of the sun streaking through the single window on the far wall.
Harry moved to stand next to Cedric, who stood alone by the window. The Hufflepuff offered him a friendly hello before his gaze slid back over to where Fleur stood, her back straight and her chin high.
"Non," she said, her eyes narrowing at whatever the woman had said. "That is not something I will disclose. Especially to one such as yourself."
"No need for any of that," the woman said, her voice a cheap silken cloth draped over a thorn bush. "I'm sure you'd prefer to represent your school in a more positive, cooperative light."
"I am sure I will represent my school however I choose," Fleur answered, her voice hard. She frowned down at the woman, her countenance stony. "I am unsure if this is the norm in England, but in France, interviews are far less-"
"She is correct," Madam Maxime cut in, stepping forward from where she had been unsuccessfully trying to stay out of the way. "Your questions are unprofessional, and I thank you to refrain from questioning my champion any further."
The woman glared up at the large Headmistress, the effect spoiled by the extreme angle of her head. She clicked over to a seat near the door, her high-heels reverberating through the small stone room.
Fleur's shoulders relaxed, and she shot Harry a quick smile through the crumbling facade she had produced for the reporter. For the first time, he wished he was able to hide behind the Boy-Who-Lived as effectively. He saw the reporter staring at him, one eyebrow raised behind ridiculous glasses, then looked away, opting instead to look out the window over the grounds.
Before she had a chance to rise, the door swung open and Dumbledore strode through, followed by Barty Crouch and Ollivander.
"I apologize for our delay," Dumbledore said, motioning for Ollivander to move to the center of the room. "Let us begin the Weighing of the Wands.
"Mr. Garrick Ollivander will be our Wandmaster for today. He is Britain's foremost wandmaker, of unparalleled skill and knowledge, preeminent throughout his fellow colleagues."
Mr. Ollivander bowed deeply, his stringy white hair bouncing with the movement.
"Thank you, Headmaster," the wandmaker said, his wispy, absent voice stronger than Harry remembered. "Let us not wait any longer. Miss Delacour, if you please?" He held a hand out to her and she nodded, placing a wand of a dark, red wood in his hand. The wand twirled through knobby fingers with a speed belying the wandmakers considerable age.
He stopped and held it between both hands, rolling it back and forth.
"Very well put together," he said, smiling. "One of Emilienne's, if I'm not mistaken?"
"It is," Fleur confirmed, a touch of surprise in her voice.
"She does some of the most elegant work of our generation," he said, holding it close to his face for closer inspection. "Rosewood, with a Veela hair core…"
"My grandmother's."
"Yes. I can see it is well suited to you… Orchideus !"
With a wave of his arm, a multitude of pure white irises flew from the tip of her wand and fluttered to the ground. Harry caught the quick roll of her eyes before Fleur accepted her wand with a small smile for the old man.
"Mr. Krum," Ollivander called as Fleur stepped back into place. The lanky Bulgarian offered his wand silently. "Ah. One of Gregorovitch's, correct?"
Krum nodded.
"Finely made, as is to be expected. Heartstring of a dragon and made of Hornbeam. Avis!"
On command, a small bird burst into existence and soared down into the scattered flower petals.
"A very obedient wand," Ollivander said, returning it to its owner, "and masterfully built."
"Twelve and a quarter, ash, unicorn tail," Ollivander rattled off as he inspected the wand, though he didn't twirl Cedric's as he had done for Fleur and Krum. After producing silver smoke from the wand tip, he offered it back to Cedric. "I remember making this one, as I do selling it to you seven years ago. It is in fine condition. Well done, Mr. Diggory.
"Now, for Mr. Potter." He accepted Harry's wand, his fingers wrapping carefully around the base, as though it might break with too much pressure. "I remember this one…" The wand turned between his fingers, each spin an opportunity to reveal its twin. "Holly and phoenix feather, and well maintained."
With a wave and a word, a fountain of red wine flowed from the end of Harry's wand. Ollivander handed the wand back, stood up straight, and addressed the room.
"I pronounce that the wands are all in good order, and no alterations have been placed on them. I deem all four fit to compete."
Ludo Bagman strode forward as Ollivander stepped aside, moving to stand next to Dumbledore. "Now that that's taken care of, let's get some photos of our champions!"
They spent the better part of an hour being moved around by the reporter and her photographer, who lingered near to Fleur no matter where she was placed. His partner, on the other hand, was determined to single Harry out for a one-on-one interview. After two dozen pictures had been taken and Harry was blinking away spots from the photographer's flash, the woman finally managed to pull him away.
"So, Harry. I hope it's okay to call you Harry. It lends a much more personal tone to the article. You wouldn't want to seem unapproachable to all your adoring fans."
"My…fans?"
"Oh yes. A fourth champion in the Triwizard Tournament, and it's the Boy-Who-Lived to boot. So tell me, Harry, how did you do it?"
"I think that is quite enough, Ms. Skeeter." Dumbledore had extricated himself from a conversation with Crouch and strode over to stand next to Harry. "Mr. Potter is a minor, and as such, you may not interview him without a guardian present. While he is at school, that is me or Professor McGonagall. The other three champions are bound by no such rules. Perhaps you will find greener pastures with them."
Her jaw worked beneath a decidedly false smile but in the end, she spun and walked over to where Cedric stood by himself to begin what sounded to be an uncomfortable interview.
Dumbledore said quick goodbyes and led Harry from the room. They walked down the hall in silence, neither speaking until they had turned a corner that would lead to the Great Hall.
"I would advise you to keep your distance from Rita Skeeter," Dumbledore said, breaking the silence that had surrounded them. The halls were quiet between classes, the empty stone corridors chill with the early November air. "She has an unusual knack for digging up information you would rather stay hidden, and filling in any missing details with her own."
"Yes, Sir."
"If she does attempt to approach you again, please refer her to either Professor McGonagall or me."
"Yes, Sir."
They took another turn, moving away from the Great Hall and instead towards the Gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office.
"So you have met with the Beauxbatons champion," said Dumbledore, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in a smile.
Harry stumbled in surprise. He hadn't even told Hermione that he'd met Fleur in the owlery. "Er…yes, Sir. I did."
Dumbledore let out a small chuckle. "I am gratified to see you doing as I have asked and forming bonds with your peers from the other schools. It is not unheard of for champions of the Triwizard Tournament to form lifelong friendships. The other three students in that room are some of the precious few that will share that title with you, regardless of who becomes Triwizard Champion."
"It was only one conversation," Harry said.
"Ah, but all great friendships must begin with a first meeting. Do not discount a single conversation as unimportant, Harry."
"I won't, sir."
"That is all I ask." Dumbledore stopped, nodding to the gargoyle standing to his right. "Pumpkin pastie." The stone figure rose from its seat and took two heavy steps to the side. "Thank you for seeing me back to my office, Harry. You had better get to the Great Hall. You should be just in time for lunch."
XxX
Harry spent the rest of the day wondering at Dumbledore's methods for finding out that he and Fleur had met in the Owlery, eventually giving it up as a bad job. He instead answered Hermione's burning questions about the Weighing of the Wands, and what exactly Ollivander had been looking for.
She had been quite dissatisfied with his oft-repeated "I don't know."
In the end, he decided it best to tell Hermione of his meet up with Fleur, despite his odd desire to keep it a secret for himself. As he had predicted, she had been unable to refrain from commenting.
"So, when did you have the chance to meet up with her?" she said, feigning disinterest.
Poorly.
"After my name came out of the goblet." He glanced around the common room, spotting only a pair of sixth years studying at one of the tables in the corner. He lowered his voice just in case. "I was taking a letter to Sirius. She came to mail a letter to her dad at the Ministry, and we talked a bit. Nothing special."
"That must have been her dad sitting with her at the world cup," Hermione said. "Fudge said he was the French Ambassador."
Harry frowned, recalling only a vague memory of a brown-haired man in green robes standing next to her as they entered the top box.
He goggled at her. "How on Earth do you remember things like that?"
"Not all of us had our eyes glued to pretty older witches."
Harry felt his face flush and he steered the conversation into safer territory.