Crouching Lion, Hidden Serpent

Author: Lutris Argutiae

Beta: myharlequinromance598

Chapter Six: The Fourth Champion

Austria, The Black Forests

Early 1982

The power of Dark Magic was strong, and while seductive, extremely useful in the right situations. I was morally compelled against this aspect of Harry's destiny; however, it was necessary in order to incorporate all aspects of training I had planned for him into a ten year schedule. I recognized the magic as necessary, and nodded my approval to start the ritual.

The vampiric coven of the Silver Strain was one of the most notorious groups of blood drinkers to have lived in the past six hundred years. However, this also meant that this was one of the most powerful bloodlines of the vampires in recent times.

Silver Strain vampires, although inherently Dark Creatures, were unique in that they had never taken a side in most magical wars between Light and Dark. They were always on their own side, never allying themselves to any one side or person. In the last war against the Dark Lord Voldemort, they had been recruited by said Dark Lord- but declined the offer, instead preferring to continue their relatively peaceful lifestyle.

The Dark Lord took this as an insult to his name, and the Black Forests knew no darkness and only sunlight for the whole of twenty days and nights, effectively killing all of the younger vampires, and many of greater age and experience. Satisfied, the Dark Lord turned his attention to other vampire covens more willing to fight against Light wizards.

The Coven of the Silver Strain was still in shambles by the time the Dark Lord was brought down by my adopted son- and it still is. The vampires older than five hundred years can be counted with one hand, while those still younger are certainly not numerous.

Therefore it was logical to assume that they would harbor ill will towards the Dark Lord, and the possibility of aid from the Silver Strain, however small, became possible.

Vampires were Dark Creatures- so naturally more in tune in magic than most other magical organisms, but Silver Strain vampires were again, unique. They were so in tune with magic that they could 'sense' powerful magic, and tremors in magic to predict disastrous events.

Which meant that they knew Voldemort was alive. Albeit not at his strongest- but still alive.

I was able to convince them of the truth in the Prophecy- mainly by subjecting myself to truth serums and mind scans, but I did it nonetheless. Anything for the future.

They understood the importance of what I needed to put Harry through- and the reason I came to them in the first place. The blood of a vampire was a powerful tool in ancient strengthening rituals. These rituals were generally Dark in nature- but relatively unknown. Thus, they were, for the most part, unmentioned by the law; however, the use of vampire blood in potions or rituals were strictly outlawed in the early 1600's.

The Patriarch Marian suggested using the Lamian Illumination Ritual- Laminus Illuminatus, since it transferred the most dominant vampire breed traits from the vampire host to the ritual's intended receiver. In this case, Harry would experience accelerated mental, physical, and magical maturation, and a closer affinity with raw magic than before- and also several minor vampiric tendencies, although those would fade with time.

The ritual did not require an exact measure of blood; instead, the measure of vampiric blood to be used in the ritual potion was supposed to be scaled to the amount of power and attributes transferred to the receiver. Harry would still have to blend in with his fellows when the time came, as not to arouse suspicion, so the amount of blood used in the ritual would be significantly less than the suggested amount.

Slowly, I picked Harry up, and set him in the pentagram. Marian and his remaining elite stood at the five corners of the circle, and then, darkness overtook me, and I knew no more.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The Weasley twins, as always, were a pair of complete idiots; intelligent and devious idiots, but still idiots nonetheless. It was hard to believe that they were sorted into Gryffindor, Harry mused, what with all of their tricks and tomfoolery, they should have been in Slytherin. Although, they ought to have known that an Age Line was infallible. Strictly speaking, as sixth years, the red-haired brothers were expected to know about basic wards development- it was a NEWT class requirement- and said enchantment was a perfect example of the concept.

But, being the fools that they were, Fred and George (or Gred and Forge, as they now preferred to be called) had gone and decided that a simple Aging Potion would be enough to fool the Age Line drawn around the Goblet of Fire. It was inordinately stupid, even for the twins, on top of its properties, the line was drawn by Dumbledore. Dumbledore, although meddlesome and potentially senile, was no pushover when it came to magic and enchantments.

They two boys ended up with long, flowing white beards, and the apparent age to match. In the middle of the Entrance Hall in front of no less than fifty individuals, including some of the foreign students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons.

The Goblet of Fire had been in the Entrance Hall for about twenty-three hours now, sitting there waiting for any and all potential challengers to the Triwizard Tournament to put their names forth. Dumbledore, to ensure that the younger students would not be able to enter, had put up an Age Line restricting the entry age to seventeen, the age of lawful maturity.

Several other people from all Hogwarts Houses had entered: Angelina Johnson, from Gryffindor, Cedric Diggory, Hufflepuff, and a sloth-faced Slytherin named Warrington, who was also on the Quidditch Team, to name a few. All of the Durmstrang (and Beauxbatons) students had entered their names into the Goblet of Fire, which now rested in the Entrance Hall, enclosed in its Age Line.

Harry, along with Daphne, Kevin, and Terry (Granger had opted to stay in the Library, of all places instead of watching the Choosing; it was hardly a surprise, with her being what she was like), was sitting in the Great Hall, waiting for the evening meal to start. Daphne was sitting at the Slytherin Table, but as usual, had slipped down to where the three Ravenclaws were seated, engaged with Terry in a heated argument about whether woodpeckers that pecked oak were better than woodpeckers that pecked rowan. Harry sat amused alongside Kevin, who was also grinning his face off at the pointless debate.

"… No, obviously, the oak-pecking woodpecker is infinitely better, because my wand is made of oak, and since I'm the most important person in the world…," Terry ranted, only to be cut off by the blonde girl.

"NO! The rowan pecker is better than your filthy oak-pecking specimen, you insufferable male idiot! Oh wait, I shouldn't have said that! Male and idiot in the same sentence! Redundant synonyms! Oh good heavens!" The dramatic tone taken in the dialogue was astounding, but not surprising, considering who was saying it.

"I defy thee, stars!" The blonde girl continued in melodrama. "I am fortune's fool!"

Entertained, Harry realized something at this moment; all of the training he had completed in secret, all of the individuals he and his father had silenced; none of that could compare to what he was experiencing, here at Hogwarts: genuine friendship. It was rare that Harry would find a true friend in his travels; accomplices were found even in the most unlikely of places, and indeed, there were a surprising amount of able conversationalists in the world as well, but friends that he could trust, people that he would be able to eventually confide in were rare, and that was what he had found here. Despite Dumbledore's ominous presence and the high tension he experienced in the active concealment of his father's plans, Harry thought that it was worth it to be here.

Harry fell back to his thoughts while the others were preoccupied with their banter; the Triwizard Tournament would be a prime opportunity for a terrorist strike; Voldemort was sure to be out there, and he would be biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to bring himself back to power. I know he's out there. And I know that this is too good an opportunity to pass up- there were too many people at the Quidditch World Cup; HE couldn't make an appearance himself, but with the main part of the crowds being students… excellent psychological tactics as well, if he succeeded in killing a few. Once the Champions are chosen, the security risks will be greater. I'll be damned if I let him harm any of the students here, especially my friends and contacts.

But even Harry could not keep himself from getting excited about the upcoming Champion selection for the Tournament; he was only fourteen years old, after all. Of course, his excitement was heightened not only from the fact that it was the Triwizard Tournament, but also because his father would be present- it had been a while since Harry last saw him, at Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. His three friends were eager to meet with his father as well- although they didn't seem to care a single bit about it at the moment, seeing as how Kevin had put forth his opinion on the benefits of naming a rodent a woodchuck when it obviously didn't chuck wood.

Abruptly, the doors to the Great Hall opened, with a monstrous bang. The Durmstrang students, led by Karkaroff, marched into the chamber, along with a few Hogwarts students who straggled in behind them. A few moments later, the Beauxbatons contingent fluttered into the room as well, taking their seats at the Ravenclaw Table. Karkaroff headed up towards the Head Table, next to Dumbledore, and was closely followed by Madame Maxime, who sat on the other side of the old Headmaster.

After all the students were seated (which took quite a while, what with all of the extra students present), Professor McGonagall took her spoon and tapped it several times against a tall glass, producing a ringing sound that rang throughout the whole Great Hall. The students immediately quieted, and Dumbledore stood up.

"Students," Dumbledore began, "it is my pleasure to welcome you to the official opening feast for the Triwizard Tournament!" Thunderous applause and raucous whooping and screaming exploded from the students' tables. Dumbledore waited until the clapping had subsided, and continued. "…but before we start, I would like to introduce to you some of the many Ministry officials that made this most amazing competition possible! First, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation!" Polite applause could be heard, and the man neither stood or bowed; he just sat there with a sharp expression glued on his face, unmoving except for the occasional swivel of the head.

Harry grinned at his father, taking care to quickly blink his eyes back and forth. The stern official's left eyebrow twitched several times- three, if one were to count- at the offending act, and Harry gave a minute nod. It was a previously agreed method of communication; to others it would have looked like a strict father silently reprimanding his son, but to them, it was an effective form for the sending and receiving of orders.

What should I do?

Left side corridor, third room to the left.

Affirmative.

The clapping died down, and Dumbledore continued, "…and the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports: Mr. Ludo Bagman!"

There was a much louder response to this name than the previous one, presumably because Bagman had played as star Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps Professional Quidditch Club. A tall, round-bellied man with round, rather young blue eyes stood up, and cheerily waved to the crowd. He looked as if he had cut a formidable figure in his youth, but had slacked off in his later years, as his abdomen could attest to. Bagman bowed, and took a seat once more.

"Yes, yes, quite an exciting pair, I assure you. However, that is not all they are. These two, along with their employees in the Ministry of Magic, have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament, and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the…" here, Dumbledore paused. "…champions' efforts."

At the mention of the word 'champions', the students of the hall straightened up, and their attentiveness seemed to focus and sharpen several times over. Terry leaned over to Harry's ear and whispered, "Funny how eager people get to have something new to gossip about, ain't it?" But Harry wasn't listening; something was wrong, he could feel that something wasn't the way it should have been, something was not right.

Dumbledore lowered his voice, and showed a slight smile.

"But for now, let us eat."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

After everyone had eaten their fill of the second feast in two days, Dumbledore reached for his glass (filled with brandy), and took a deep drink from it to sate his thirst. Following his example, Karkaroff drank something straight from a bottle placed on the Head Table and gagged, as if it burned his throat on the way down. Some of the Hogwarts staff also took this break as a chance to drink something; Hagrid took a massive swig from his equally gigantic mug, Professor Sinistra had a small sip from her glass, and Moody drank something from his hip flask, casting a literal eye over the entire Hall.

The headmaster coughed lightly, and slightly dimmed the lights in the hall with a sweeping wave of his wand. "The Goblet of Fire is almost ready to make its decision. I estimate that it needs only, oh, about five minutes left till it starts calling the champions' names. When that happens, I ask that they come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber through the door behind Professor Snape, where they will await further instructions." He made a small pushing sort of motion with his wand, and a wooden door with a doorknob and hinges made of battered metal shimmered into view behind the greasy haired Head of Slytherin. Dumbledore waved his wand again, and a tall marble pedestal materialized, easily a full head taller than he was when he was seated. "Now, Mr. Filch, if you will?"

Filch walked in the doors, which had opened sometime after the lights had darkened, carrying the Goblet of Fire impossibly gingerly in front of him. He carefully set the wooden cup down on the pedestal, and backed away to the corner of the Hall, picking up his cat, the scruffy, yellow-eyed Mrs. Norris along the way.

The whole hall was now avidly staring at the sparkling, white-blue flames of the Goblet, which was now the only illumination in the entire room, excepting the candles inside the carved pumpkins floating some thirty feet above their heads. Silent whispering broke out among the students, and Daphne remarked to the rest of their group, "I hope the champion's a Gryffindor."

Kevin took a double take, and motioned as if he was picking his jaw off of the floor, and questioned, "Um… need I remind you that you are a Slytherin? And that Slytherins and Gryffindors have never mixed? And that you have been seen by no less than forty-seven sources, including myself, that you've hexed at least five different people on the event of a Gryffindor victory at Quidditch matches?"

Daphne swiveled her head around causing her hair to flip into her eyes before giving Kevin a disbelieving stare. Terry and Harry quickly followed.

"What? My argument is sound! It's absolutely logical! Why does that warrant staring?"

Terry shook his head in mock exasperation. "Kevin, Kevin, Kevin; you really don't see it, do you? She obviously wants a Gryffindor, as One, it gives her a valid reason to mock the champion, and Two, as Gryffindors are the ones who struggle the most amusingly. Are you sure you should've been Sorted into Ravenclaw…?"

The Entwhistle boy glared. "Why you little…"

But before he could say anything more, the Goblet of Fire's flames suddenly turned a burning, crimson red, and flashes and sparks flew from it. A hushed silence fell upon the Hall. The next instant, a tongue of flame shot a charred and burned piece of parchment out of the cup, and Dumbledore snatched it out of the air. He carefully unfolded it, and announced, "The Champion for Durmstrang will be… Viktor Krum." Loud cheering and applause came for the Quidditch star, and Krum rose, and slouched up to Dumbledore, shook his hand roughly, and headed into the back room.

Another flame leapt out of the Goblet, and shot forward, propelling another piece of parchment into the air. Dumbledore caught it, and read out the next name.

"The Champion for Beauxbatons: Amedie l'Eytinge!"

A slender, regal-looking girl with dirty blonde hair deftly rose, smoothed out her robes, and elegantly walked up to the headmaster, before shaking his hand and walking through the open doorway. Kevin smacked Terry upside the head for giving an appreciative whistle at her retreating back (quite possibly end).

The Goblet of Fire sprouted another length of fire, and it threw one last piece of parchment into the air. Dumbledore grabbed it again, and read the last champion's name.

"The Hogwarts champion," he called out, "is Robert Cleaves!"

The whole Gryffindor Table leapt up in delight, screaming and yelling, stamping around while Cleaves cockily rose, and flipped a sheen of hair over his eyes with a twist of his head. Harry thought that it looked frighteningly arrogant- too arrogant to actively compete in a life-or-death competition. But what happened was what happened, and one couldn't change it no matter what.

The perpetual clapping and chatting seemed to temporarily die down, and Harry was getting more and more anxious as his sense of foreboding grew ever more stronger. He reached down to grip the knife handle concealed on his thigh, and squeezed hard. He drew the blade out by about two inches. Something wasn't right. The magic around him was telling him so. The flames of the Goblet of Fire were supposed to turn an off-red colour, not crimson; and the sparks weren't supposed to fly as often as they had this time.

Harry's snapped his head to attention as something entirely impossible happened. Suddenly, the fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks flew out of it in rapid fire. With a sound not unlike a whip cracking, a piece of parchment was carried into the air by a long flame, and Dumbledore slowly reached out for it, as if he was afraid what it would contain- and Harry was too, he was afraid also, of what would be written in the parchment. This would be what would go wrong- Dumbledore would read out a name, and the name would be-----"

"Harry Potter."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

A deadly silence permeated the Great Hall of Hogwarts, which was unusual in itself, as it was usually bustling with activity, even during the middle of the night, because of the house elves.

The whole of the Hall was staring at Harry Crouch-Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. He could feel the eyes, the hundreds of eyes boring into his skin, his very fiber, and straight through past his very bones. Ignoring them, Harry quickly suppressed the dread and uncertainty that shot through him. Emotions in tight or awkward situations were liable to get you and your allies damaged, or worse, put out of action. But he couldn't move- not yet; as much as how he had killed his dread, he had to act the part of a shocked teenager, which wasn't that hard, as that was what he essentially was anyway. He looked up at his father, who had a surprised look on his face, which was expected. His face had an emotion on it, which was rare in public nowadays: genuine worry. Harry pulled a pinched face to complete the act, and made the slightest of grins at him- it was necessary in this situation- and waited for a reply.

Finally, after about a full half minute, Bartemius Crouch Sr. furrowed his brows together. We'll discuss this later. The fourth year then turned his head to face his friends.

Terry and Kevin were just staring at him with wide eyes and slack-jawed expressions. It appeared that even Ravenclaws could be shocked, Harry thought morbidly. What with their intelligent nature, he expected them to think all situations through… but this one was surprising for himself as well, so he supposed it worked out. He slowly faced the other direction, to Daphne. She stared at him with a blank look also. With a massive sigh, he sheathed his knife as silently as he could. So, this was what friends did here as well- do or become something that conflicted with their expectations, and then they turn away from you. Just like her. Like Mis… no, I won't think that.

Then to his surprise, Daphne said, "Go on Harry. They're waiting." Encouraged by her unexpected words, Harry looked away from them- this was evidently not the time to ponder on things of the past- and took a deep breath, and exhaled. He rubbed his eyes and then slowly stood up, pulled his leg over the long benches that served as seats, and took a small step forwards toward the headmaster. Each step seemed to him to last for impossibly long periods of time, and he could still feel the eyes of his peers drilling holes into him.

Finally, he reached Dumbledore, who looked less than pleased; Harry knew this to be an act- what better excuse was there for him to bring himself closer to his prized champion?

"Well, go on now- I dare say that being late isn't an excuse in this Tournament. Go on."

Suddenly, Harry felt a Legilimensic probe touch the back of his mind, scanning through the his still basic Occlumens barrier. Quickly, Harry tore his eyes away from the headmaster's, and brought his hand up to shake Dumbledore's. The elderly professor simply waved his hand towards the door in the back in reply, apparently reluctant to shake his own. So that's how it is? Pretend to have to act like you had to show me no leniency, and then get closer to me? We'll see about that. I've learned a lot over the last ten years. Be prepared for me, you mangy old manipulating coot. Harry smiled politely, and stalked off towards the back room.

Once he entered, he noticed that the whole room was not, in fact, a room, but furnished and built more like a small hallway with a miniature alcove at the end. Harry took a step forwards, and looked ahead. The Cleaves boy was just a few meters ahead, leaning on the side wall next to a portrait of the wizard Dembar the Dirty.

"What are you here for, little Potter-boy, eh? Dumbledore want summat done for' im? Or…" with a facial expression somewhere between an arrogant smirk and a treacherous grin, he continued "are you just here for kicks? Then you should'a bin a Gryffindor, mate."

"I was selected as a champion, if you must know." Seeing Cleaves' expression, Harry pressed his luck. "Yes, unexpected, wasn't it, Bobby?" he said.

Gaping, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, Robert Cleaves froze, apparently at a loss for words. At least he proved to Harry he had at least a fraction of an operating mind and was not just a cocky brat, when he put a halt to the conversation with a vehemently retort. "Well best'o luck to Yasu mate."

His voice must have carried down into the alcove, since the Beauxbatons champion, l'Eytinge, emerged from within to the hallway. With a cultured voice, she queried, "What is all the commotion out here? I would have thought that the administration… ah, so they sent you instead. Harry Potter. Well met." She stuck her hand out, as if for a handshake. Harry thought that her English was close to perfect- it sounded regal, aristocratic, and without the typical French accent. His father had often told him that purebloods were often instructed in courtly manners- as Harry himself had been- and it seemed that French purebloods were no exception.

Not to be held as rude, Harry gave a small formal bow, and with his head down, muttered, "Well met, Miss l'Eytinge.", then stood up straight, and lightly shook her hand.

"At least you seem to have some culture. I was afraid all Englishmen were brash and rude." She curtly replied.

"Need I remind you that I was raised in the family of Crouch?" Harry countered.

"Ah yes. French intermingling four generations back, I believe?"

"Three."

Cleaves, not to be out done as his pride mandated, interjected, "I will have you know that I," he paused, "come from a line almost as old as the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black?" Behind his back, he flipped his middle finger at Harry in a most rude manner, as if being from an older line of blood actually merited some recognition.

L'Eytinge turned her aristocratic face towards the Gryffindor. "Ah. So you are. Cleaves, was it? Manners take precedence to blood, at the moment. Your bloodline matters not; shall we proceed?"

"Yes, mademoiselle." An apparently cowed Cleaves said. The sheer foolish and brash manner of the Gryffindor teen was displeasing to Harry, but he managed to tone his distaste down to the point where it was nigh unnoticeable to the others.

As the pair started forward, Harry fell back behind them, and also into his mind to organize his information and ideas. The Triwizard Tournament, as I thought, is a major opportunity for Voldemort to strike- and he means to use me, somehow. It is inconceivable that the Goblet of Fire was confused into selecting four champions without outside intervention. Therefore it is logical to assume that a powerful variant of the Confundus Charm was cast upon it- and a fourth school name was entered. But then how to isolate a single champion as to ensure my entry? It wasn't a coincidence or pure chance that forced my name to come out; no, it was intended. That means it had to be the ONLY choice the Goblet had to choose from. Too convenient for the Dark Lord to pass up, even if he wasn't behind this, which was highly improbable. Then the question remains: who entered my name?

L'Eytinge stopped a few paces ahead of him. "Well, aren't you going to escort us to the chamber? Dumbledore has you here as a guidesman, doesn't he?"

Harry merely looked up at her eyes, then gave an obviously fake smile. Cleaves answered instead, "No. Apparently, he's got himself selected there for the bloody fourth champion, haven't Yasu Potter?"

"Yes. I am not sure as to how it was possible though."

"Oh, come off it Potter, Mae bigheaded liar! We know that you got past the Age Line! How! How'd Mae fuckin' do it?" Cleaves yelled.

"As Mr. Potter has stated, he should not have been able to enter his name in to the Goblet of Fire. Now, please, proceed to the briefing room, and Mr. Cleaves, be glad that I am not allowed to expel you from the tournament. Please watch your mouth before I am tempted to change the rules."

Bartemius Crouch emerged from the shadows in the corridor, his graying hair and stiff back clearly visible. "Now, proceed to the chamber, Champions. Mr. Krum is waiting for you. Your professors will be coming shortly." He ushered l'Eytinge and Tumin into the small room, and turned to face Harry.

"Harry, our previous appointment must be cancelled, I am afraid. More pressing matters have arisen."

Harry nodded. "Yes Father. I understand." The discussion will take place at a later time then.

"Good. Now go with your fellow Champions to await the Professors and," he added in distaste, "…Bagman."

Nodding once more, Harry walked briskly into the chamber, and took a second, closer look at the other Champions. He was aware of the rules: his name came out of the Goblet of Fire, and as such, through an unbreakable magical contract, he would be forced to compete against Krum, l'Eytinge, and Cleaves.

Krum he already knew about; Viktor Krum was a world-class Quidditch player, and played Seeker for the Bulgarian Team at the Quidditch World Cup that summer. He was moderately tall, certainly not a giant in size, but now what you'd call average either. His eyes were a muddy sort of brown, and when his eyes were furrowed (as they usually were) they would give off the impression that you were staring into the eyes of a hawk. Krum looked like a hawk on ground as well- as his stance was somewhat slouched, and if observed closely enough, it would be noticed that he had sort of a small loping sort of walk, as if he wasn't meant to walk on the ground. A cruel person would have described him being a man with a critical case of 'brawn-over-brains' syndrome.

Harry turned his attention to Adelie l'Eytinge. She was by no means a pampered pureblood princess like several examples that could be found in Hogwarts (Pansy Parkinson came to mind), and unlike them, she looked and probably was capable enough to defend her title. No, princess wasn't a term to describe her, and so heiress was probably the most capable word to use. The l'Eytinge family was famous in France and mainland Europe for its ferocity in dealing with enemies, and the professional manner in which any and all business concerning them was dealt with. She would probably be the most efficient out of Harry's competitors- a cold and systematic approach and thorough way of dealing with the Challenges was expected from her.

Cleaves was the average Gryffindor, although skilled in Defense Against the Dark Arts and exceedingly popular among the higher years of the House. Fortunately, this was his last year at Hogwarts, and so if Harry were to be coming back for his fifth year here, he wouldn't have to deal with the arrogant fool. Although, arrogant he may have been, Cleaves certainly wasn't one to trifle with when he was irritated. The not-so-mysterious appearance of a trio of Slytherins in the Hospital Wing on the second week of school were testament to that fact.

Harry finished his observations, and he then committed them to memory. Glancing around the chamber, he noticed that all of the other Champions were present; Krum was off in the side of the room, and l'Eytinge, having conjured an elegant chair, was sitting down whilst calmly ignoring Cleaves' boasts of valor.

The sound of running footsteps suddenly echoed down the short hall, and Harry turned around sharply. As expected, Dumbledore, followed by Karkaroff and Maxime, led the small entourage, Bagman trailing behind with other Ministry flunkies. The Headmaster stopped at the entrance of the room, and then with a panting voice clearly showing that he was out of breath, questioned,

"Har…Mr. Potter- I can not stress the importance of you answering my questions honestly; Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"

"No, sir. I didn't."

Maxime retorted, "But of course, 'e 'ees lying!"

"No, I'm not. I am willing to submit to a truth potion, if necessary."

Here, Bagman made himself known, shoving his way through the small crowd of officials and in front of Harry. "But the Goblet's selected him, my dear Madame Maxime- he's bound by a- what did you say it was, Barty, a… magically bouncing…no magically…magically…"

Bartemius interjected before Bagman made an even bigger fool out of himself. Beater's work obviously did not require much brain matter in the world of Quidditch. "A magically binding contract, my dear Ludovic Yes, it is now official, since Mr. Potter's name has come out of the Goblet of Fire; so it has been written in the rules of this competition. So it must be."

A small, awkward silence enveloped the room; nobody seemed to know what they wanted to say. Karkaroff finally, maliciously sneered, "Hah! This is… treachery, Dumbledore! Where in the rules does it say the host school can have two Champions, I ask! Treachery! Mr. Crouch, I find it a strange coincidence that your son is the one you seem so keen on supporting; tell me the truth, or Viktor and I shall take no part in this, this... this mockery of a tournament!"

"Oui, Bartemius, I em finding zis a peculiar coincidence also! Ze boy is obviously lying! 'Ow else would 'e enter ze Tournament wiz'out outside 'elp?" interjected a close-to-angry Madame Maxime.

Harry noticed that his father momentarily tensed at the accusations, but wrote it off as nothing worth noting. "I swear on my life and magic that I, Bartemius Crouch, had nothing to do with Mr. Harry Crouch-Potter's selection as the fourth Triwizard Champion." A rush of magic accompanied this statement, and Bartemius looked at the other adults present, and then turned to the four Champions.

"Now, in a week's time, Markus Ollivander will arrive for the customary Weighing of the Wands ceremony- official Ministry personnel will accompany you to the ceremony at the proper time. Until then, prepare well, Champions, and we shall see who shall triumph in the end. This introduction to the Tournament is now concluded. I shall see you once again in a week's time."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Soon afterwards, the Champions all left with their respective school officials to their dorms, and Harry was strolling back towards Ravenclaw Tower. Upon passing the portrait of Bartleby the Grossly Unorganized, he tapped the stone wall five times in rapid succession, and Glamour on the wall disappeared, revealing a wooden door. Harry slowly opened it, as to not be seen, and went in.

Inside, his father was waiting for him, sitting in a blue armchair, writing in a notebook.

"Sit down, Harry. We need to discuss our plans, and I assume you would rather sit."

"Yes, Father." Harry replied.

"I was originally going to ask whether your Occulmency studies were coming along nicely, whether you were able to conceal your abilities well- if you found more strategically valuable spells, but I think that those are topics for a later time. Tell me Harry, did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, directly, or indirectly? Answer truthfully, my son."

"I didn't, Father. I suspect that the Dark Lord or another Dark agency is planning to 'use' me as an example to cow the rest of the students into following the Dark Lord- the Tasks are prime opportunities for terrorist strikes, and maximum damage can be expected in such an event."

"Very good. I will change my plans accordingly. Harry; I'm warning you, in these Tasks, do not show your full potential. Do not. I forbid it. I suspect that powerful obstacles shall be brought in front of you especially, considering your somewhat unorthodox selection, but never, NEVER reveal what training you have received, unless it is already standard knowledge."

"Yes, Father. I understand." Harry confirmed. This severely limited his options, but he always could improvise. Besides, the First Task wasn't for another month, so he wasn't worried yet. Harry leaned into his chair stretching like a cat, and yawned tremendously.

"Dad, I think I'm a bit tired… I need to be returning to Ravenclaw Tower soon- can I, ah, may I be excused?"

Bartemius got up, and reached over to Harry's messy hair- they had never managed to fix that- and ruffled it affectionately. "You may go. I love you, son."

Harry stood up and walked over to the door, with a small smile gracing his face; his father rarely opened up, but when he did, it was truly genuine.

"Love you too, Dad."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Author's Note: I'm really sorry for the massive delay. I really am. School happened for the first few months, then my total laziness and awesome procrastinatory skills came into play for the summer. Gah-gah.

On a lighter note, I now have a beta. Yeah. Really. She's a nice person, and her grammatical skills are splendid- everything to look for in a beta, actually. It came as a bit of a shock to me to learn that she was also reading HP fics; it had never come up in conversations before. One thing led to another, and so, here we have the next installment of Crouching Lion, Hidden Serpent.

Next: Chapter Seven

Barty Crouch Jr. finally comes into play, and the customary weighing of the wands takes place. But what's this for the First Task? Sweet Nyx, what are THOSE?