Key:

"Words."

Thoughts / "emphasis" / Title of Books or spells used

~~Parseltongue~~

¬¬Foreign Language¬¬

"Magical language."

Are You Not Entertained?

9th September 1994 – Room of Requirement

When Harry stormed into the Room, the last thing he expected to see was his ancestor sitting in his favourite chair with a devastated look on his face. To see Salazar Slytherin in such a state drove everything from Harry's mind, and the living Slytherin Lord made his way to the chair opposite his mentor. Harry slid into it and leaned forward to stare into the broken version of his own eyes.

"Master, who is Nicolas Flamel? What is he? I felt nothing from him, but the wards... the wards act like he's some type of -"

"Abomination," Salazar finished. The spirit of a dead man closed his eyes and took a deep breath to centre himself, visibly pulling his tattered psyche together. When the Founder opened them, Harry didn't see despair, but a swirling volcanic rage kept in check only through iron will. "That's because he is, Harry. He's an Acheron."

Harry stared at his ancestor. His mind had shut down, and he absently licked his dry lips. "You told me the Acherons were the reason your uncles asked Death for the Hallows. That the Hallows were the only reason our family destroyed the Acherons and killed them all."

"I thought they were all killed."

"I think it's time you tell me who the bloody hell they were and why you're so sure Flamel is one."

"Because he's the Acheron my cousin was dealing with," Salazar told Harry, freezing the younger man's thoughts for a second time. "I never knew his real name, but I never forgot the smile he gave me as my mother stood between us. He had arranged with my traitorous cousin to buy us once my uncles were dead. He used to call me 'little Sal.'"

"That's three hundred years before Nicolas Flamel is supposed to have been born."

"And yet, it is the same man." Salazar sighed again, as he spoke a truth long since buried. "I've taught you the complexities of Family Magic, how some just don't mix. How they can't mix, and that one will always come out over the other should two families try. Or cancel out and produce what mages now call squibs. Yet this was never a problem for our people when I was alive. Mages used to have larger families and so at least one child would be born with the Family Magic of the other parent. And rarely did two heirs marry, so a couple didn't need to worry about reproducing, anyway."

Harry nodded along. The Founder had just given a truncated recap of the lessons Harry had received in understanding Family Magic and the issues he could come up against by being a Lord of so many bloodlines.

"There were two bloodlines that had never mixed. That couldn't mix. The Peverells and Ebonstones," Harry released a hiss at the second name, his eyes going wide from what was being suggested, but he held back and let his grandfather talk. "The relationship between the two Houses was always cordial. An unspoken acceptance that any conflicts were between specific members rather than the families themselves. In a strange way, there was an understanding between the Houses that neither had with any other. Peverells are of Death. They connect to the spirits and straddle the veil. The Ebonstones are of that which is Beyond. Eldritch beings beyond kin. Both families dealt with concepts and thoughts that most mages could never understand."

"I've felt it," Harry admitted, finally sitting back in his chair. "When the Family Magic is strong, I've felt how different I see things and think about everything. Peverell, Grymm, Danu, even Slytherin."

"I am a Naga's son," Salazar stated. "The Naga are not human, and neither am I. Neither is anyone who takes my title."

Silence fell between, but the Founder pushed on before it grew too long. "If a child was ever born of such a pairing, and they weren't unknown between distant branches of the Houses, they were tied to one parent's House or the other, never both. Or they had no magic at all. But it didn't mean our bloodlines couldn't cross. The further from the Peverell or Ebonstone font a person was, the easier it was to have a child with the other House. My grandchildren could have birthed a mage if they married someone with Ebonstone blood. But a person born of such a connection, no matter how watered down, always has one side being the dominant one. They are always 'of House X, a relation to House Y,' never both."

"Not like how I was born Black-Potter," Harry said, showing he understood his ancestor's words, and the man continued.

"Everything was going fine until a band of reaving mages attacked a village in modern day Norway. They had the misfortune of not knowing that Eldric Ebonstone had made the area his home, and he easily repelled them. Saving the lives of two Peverell sisters living in the village. It was love at first sight and he married one soon after. But Esther Peverell wanted children and she would do anything she had to in order to get some. Her sister Dahlia was willing to help her, and, of course, her husband was an Ebonstone. There is nothing that family would not research."

"They wanted to merge Family Magics," Harry guessed, getting a nod in return.

"Understand, Harry, that I only know of these things in retrospect from my uncle after Lord Ignotus I stormed their castle. It was not enough for Esther to give Eldric a child. She had become obsessed with the thought of her children having the power of both bloodlines. Of proving she was worthy as both a Peverell and an Ebonstone wife. What the trio did, what they created over the years, is nothing I wish to share. Monstrous things, terrible things, heart-breaking things. They brought all that and more to life and then dissected it to find out what went wrong. Eventually, the trio find the answer. A mix of Evil rituals and alchemical concoctions that allowed the birth of someone carrying both Family Magics."

"Something went wrong."

"An understatement," Salazar confirmed with a dark scoff. "Dahlia had fallen into the same madness as her sister and, between the two, they birthed a horde of children for Eldric. Despite seeming to have achieved the impossible, they told no one of their success. The trio just continued to breed and raise their many children, who then went out into the neighbouring villages to have their own families. And then the truth came out. These adults didn't have a genuine connection to Death. Oh, they were powerful necromancers. The most powerful outside of a true Peverell for sure, but that tie to the Peverell Family Magic had only been through a bond they shared with their mother. The older they got, the weaker that bond became. It would replaced by a sense of their own mortality and the approach of their own deaths."

"What of the next generation?" Harry asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"It was worse, as you have no doubt worked out. But it was not just that the link to Esther or Dahlia's Peverell magic was weaker. If that was the case, what came next wouldn't have happened. No, it was that something else replaced it. An empty void. They began suffering the spiritual symptoms of being around a dementor. A constant spiritual torment that grew as each new generation was born, driving them insane."

"Their souls were being sucked out?" Harry asked, incredulous at the thought.

"No, descendant," Salazar shook his head. "This family renamed themselves Acheron after the river of woe and declared war on the Peverells. In their twisted insanity, they concluded they needed fresh Peverell blood and magic."

"The way you say that doesn't sound like forced reproduction," Harry pointed out with as much care as possible. This was his ancestor's life. The terrible events the Founder had seen firsthand as a young child.

"Blood Magic to absorb a living Peverell's life force and blood, and Evil rituals to rip their magic from them are just two of the atrocities they committed against us. But their ultimate goal was getting access to Lord Peverell."

Harry closed his eyes. Being a Lord of a family was more than a title. The mage became the well from which the rest of the family's power flowed. It was how a Lord could throw someone out from the family and deny them access to the Family Magic. Harry couldn't control Sirius' magic, but he was the door from which his godfather and the Black sisters drew their Black Family Magic. For another person or family to rip that away and claim it for themselves was a crime against Magic. Harry's Danu blood raged against the thought. And that was when the pieces fell into place.

"They were wrong," he gasped, eyes opening to stare at his stone-faced grandfather. "It wasn't that they were further away from the sisters' Peverell magic, not entirely. It was that the distance allowed Magic to step in. We are Children of Death, yes, but we were born to Danu, to Magic, to Life and nature itself, and from everything you've told me -"

"The Outer Beings are beyond the natural order of our existence, yes," Salazar confirmed, giving Harry a proud smile despite the horrific subject. "The Eldritch have a bastardised, twisted mimicry of magic they use, but it is not Magic. Every mage in existence has some long distant tie to a Danu branch. It is how they can use magic. How the Ebonstones can be mages despite their connection to the Beyond, and that same Danu blood allows the Peverells to exist. It is Magic, through that Danu anchoring, that decides which bloodlines can produce children or not. And it was the Danu blood that was destroying the Acherons.

"Your Peverell blood reacted to Flamel because he is a twisted mockery of what you are, but you are Lord Danu, and that is where the depth of your reaction came from. He is an Abomination to Magic. And the cruellest of ironies, Harry, is that he no doubt believes to do to you what he wanted to do to my Lord uncle. Yet should he do so, your Danu magic would be his undoing."

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OoOoO

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10th September 1994 – London

Major Tom Baker had done more than his fair share of debriefs, but none of them had been as disturbing as this one, nor with someone who set him on edge as much as the woman talking to him did.

"You ordered your men to take it slow?" She confirmed.

"Yes, ma'am," Baker nodded. "Better safe that sorry."

He hadn't cared how long it took for the men to walk the thirty-one mile Channel Tunnel. He refused to let his men rush the mission.

"I agree, Major. I'm told you staggered your men."

"Yes, ma'am. Current thinking was that it was some type of terrorist attack. If that was the case, I didn't want an ambush taking everyone out."

"And when you found the trains?"

"The men reported hearing sounds. More animal than human, they said," he reported, staying professional despite remembering what he saw on the soldiers' body cameras. It had been a scene from a horror film. "Combat team Alpha got overwhelmed by the small creatures. Beta and Charlie teams almost got dropped on by the bigger things. We lost Combat team Alpha and half of the other two in the first minute of engagement, but by this time Delta, Echo, and Foxtrot teams had arrived."

"And I understand you almost lost those teams?"

"The little ones wouldn't stay down," Baker near snarled. The things were thigh height, looking like demonic children with their clawed feet and hands, and long fangs. Yet it didn't seem to matter how many rounds his men put in the bastards. "But the men performed well once they realised what they had to do."

"So it was the bigger ones that caused you problems?" The woman pushed.

"They moved faster than cats, always bouncing off the walls and ceiling," he told her. They were a twisted nightmare form of the human body, with joints in the wrong places and growths pushing out skin that was the wrong colour. "My men were lucky that there were only four of them."

"Very lucky, Major. The French had eight on their side of the trains. Thank you for your time."

The woman stood from the table and looked to leave the room. "Ma'am, do we know what the hell those things were?"

"Not yet, Major. The French deny any knowledge of them, but our scientists are already saying these things weren't natural. Someone created them."

"What happens now?"

"Now?" Baroness Wilhelmina Kensington, once known as Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed, smiled, chilling the Major to his bones. "Now I make sure this information gets to the people who need to see it."

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OoOoO

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Hogwarts

Saturday seemed to fly by for those within Hogwarts castle and it soon grew close to the choosing of the champions. The Gryffindor table had been constantly expanded for the feast as Harry's friends and allies from each House and the other schools joined him. The large group had been a constant presence for the Lord of Magic as he struggled with what he had learnt from Salazar. Amanda Szardos was the one to ask him if he had put his name in the goblet.

"But I'm only a fourth year," was his innocent reply, giving her a wide-eyed, shocked look spoilt by the many snorts from the others, and someone mumbling a 'yes, because that's what matters.' His playful mood vanished in the blink of an eye. "I haven't entered, but I'm sure my name will come out."

Everyone gave grim nods of understanding at his words while Fleur reached across the table to squeeze his hand. The French students were in the same trap. They had been told to write their names on parchment during the flight over, with the suggestion that it was to help organise those involved in the lesser competitions. Only once the names were collected and stored away did they learn the truth. Maxime would – and did – drop the entire collection into the goblet at her first opportunity.

The goblet's table had also been expanded to allow for nine chairs to be placed behind it, and it didn't take a genius to work out that was where the champions would go.

"It is almost time for the goblet to make its decision," Dumbledore announced. He was standing in front of the goblet with Minister Fawley. Aside from being short, the minister was average in every other way, and Harry mused the man could disappear into any crowd should he wish to. The headmaster brought out his wand and gave it a flamboyant swish, dropping the flames of every candle in the Hall to cloak the grand room in semi-darkness. "Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to take a seat at this table."

The goblet's raging fire turned red, and the chalice shot sparks until a tongue of flame shot into the air. A charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it and fell as though guided into Dumbledore's hand. The headmaster passed it over to the waiting Minister who spoke.

"The first champion for Durmstrang will be... Viktor Krum."

Applause seemed to come from everywhere as the professional quidditch player stood. Harry gave him a look and nodded, getting one in return from the stern-faced teen. Krum moved to the right side of the table and took the end seat.

"The second champion for Durmstrang will be... Daniil Dankovsky!"

The applause was far less for Dankovsky than Viktor. The teen had short black hair cut into a scruffy bowl cut, dark hazel eyes, and a stocky frame, as though having gained every muscle that filled his uniform through physical labour than exercise. He had a scruffy five o'clock shadow that made him look older while the bright red cravat around his neck stood out against the dark plain Durmstrang uniform.

"And the last champion for Durmstrang will be... Stanislav Rubin! Give these champions a huge round of applause."

Rubin was tall, matching Harry's height despite the slouch he had when walking, and Dankovsky's mass, with intense hazy eyes and a head charmed clean of hair. The Durmstrang trio stared out at the Hall, and for all the world appeared to be strangers rather than fellow students.

"Congratulations to you champions," Dumbledore added, giving the boys a smile tight at the edges.

As the goblet warmed up for its next trio of names, Harry sunk his awareness into the school's wards to taste the magic of the room. He felt a spark of something prior to Fleur's name being shot out, and again with Amanda's and Elaine's names. Despite clapping as wildly as anyone that his friends were selected, Harry's gaze turned to the Flamels as he realised what he had felt. External magic.

The ironic thing about Inner Blood Magic and Blood Mages was that despite how they revealed themselves to others, the runes only showed themselves when the mage charged them. Not when they were active. And so, no one noticed when he used his to see through the limited light. He noticed a tick in Perenelle Flamel's throat a split second before the goblet released its next name. And then an iron grip attempted to wrap around his magic, and Harry was standing before the minister had finished speaking.

"And the first champion for Hogwarts will be... Harry Potter!"

The applause for Harry matched that of the one for Viktor. Harry couldn't help himself after noticing that the French trio had taken the opposite end of the table to the Durmstrang boys to leave the three seats in the middle for Hogwarts. He took the centre one that meant the casket and goblet were blocking him from view. Laughter rose when he leant first left and right and gave a cheeky wave to those watching.

Dumbledore giving him the stink-eye made the entire thing worth it.

The seating position also allowed Harry to keep watching the Flamels, and he saw the same tick in the woman's throat each time. That the minister read first Cedric and then Fred's name out didn't surprise the Lord of Magic.

Filch and an Auror took the casket and goblet to a side room off the Hall, with Harry giving the audience another cheeky wave as he was revealed, getting a mix of laughter and disapproving glares. He distinctly heard a 'behave' from Trish somewhere behind him.

Minister Fawley sighed at his antics and focused on the crowd and the press. "Please give the nine champions another round of applause for their success at being chosen."

Everyone did so, with those cheering for Krum and Harry attempting to outdo each other. It took Dumbledore raising his hand to bring the Hall to silence.

"Before I allow the champions to answer a few questions, let me tell you what will happen," the minister said, taking a deep breath before continuing. "The Weighing of the Wands ceremony will take place here next Sunday, where those of you in the press will have the chance to ask the champions more questions after an expert examines their wands. The following Saturday will be the first task in the Tri-Triwizard Tournament. This task will be a team event. The champions of each school will work together to face an animal or animals from the area near one of the other schools. Their task shall be to reclaim three keys... however... the first champion to take possession of a key will be portkeyed out of the arena to safety, earning themselves two points. The next champion to gain a key will earn four points, with the last key earning the sole champion six points. The judges will then mark each champion in how well they performed individually and in helping their fellow champions."

Harry frowned at the scoring. While the minister was doing his best to make the task sound group orientated, the points split could drive up individual competitiveness.

"The champions may not ask for or accept any help of any kind from their school's staff. They will be provided with protective outfits prior to starting the task, along with an emergency portkey they can activate by saying 'safety.' If the champions wish, they may use their own protective outfits, but can only use their wands for the task. No external equipment can be taken in or summoned in during this task. We will have extra healers, Aurors, and specialist animal handlers on site should anything go wrong."

"And owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, all champions are exempt from both classes and end-of-year exams excluding OWLs or NEWTs," Dumbledore added. "While I would not suggest they take every class off, that option is available to them."

"Yes, thank you," Fawley nodded at the headmaster, and Harry blinked at the man's tone. Even as a student of Salazar Slytherin, he couldn't tell if the minister was pleased or annoyed at the old man's 'help.' "And now, before you ask your questions, let me tell you what the champions will be facing. In reverse order, the land of Hogwarts will be challenging the champions of Durmstrang with a pack of quintapeds!"

Dumbledore waved his wave to produce a life-sized example of the 5X man-killer as everyone gasped in horror. Harry heard Dankovsky and Rubin cursing in Russian at the news, and he didn't blame the teens for their choice of expletives.

With a flat, round body covered in red-brown hair, the creatures had five legs, each ending on a club foot, and had an insatiable appetite for human flesh. The creatures jumped faster than some animals could move, and their hides were resistant to many low-to-mid range spells.

"The lands near Durmstrang won't make it easy on their fellow champions," Fawley told the uneasy crowd. The threat of the tournament had suddenly got very real for some of them. "For the champions of Beauxbatons will be facing... a Swedish Snort-snout..." Dumbledore created a miniature version of the silvery-blue dragon to go alongside the quintaped. "A Norwegian Ridgeback..." Here the headmaster created a dwarf adult version of Norbert, the dragon Harry, Ron, and Hermione had helped smuggle out of the school three years prior. This would be where we see Charlie, Harry mused. "And..." Fawley drew the tension out. Harry guessed more than a few of those waiting suspected another dragon, but he had his doubts after the quintapeds. "A Selma!"

Harry winced as the smaller version of a giant sea snake appeared. The Selma was the Nordic version of the Loch Ness Monster; a mammoth serpent that grew anything up to five times the size of Sal's basilisk and lived on both fish and humans. They were fast, deadly, and also had a resistance to standard magical attacks. He almost wished that had been the Hogwarts task, but then his eyes slide over to the waiting Flamels and he realised he wouldn't want either of the other schools having to face whatever had been set up for him and his friends.

Harry felt a hand settle on his shoulder. The touch and magic were all Trish, and he reached back to squeeze it as Fawley finished. He had to give the man credit; he knew how to work a crowd.

"And finally, the land of Beauxbatons will challenge the champions of Hogwarts with creatures thought to be myth. They ravaged the countryside of France and it will be down to the champions to survive a pack of Borosaith, the legendary Beasts of Gevaudan!"

Harry would have shot to his feet were it not for Trish's nails digging into his shoulder, although that didn't stop his magic flaring for an instant at the revelation. Most of the hall were too busy freaking out about the horse-sized wolf that Dumbledore had created. The shaggy beast looked like it was ready to pounce until calm eyes saw that the back legs were longer than the front. The razor-sharp teeth were longer than some people's fingers, and the created animal's canines were almost hand-sized.

He took deep, steadying breaths, focusing on the present rather than the threats he and his friends would face. Cedric and Fred eyed him. They knew the way he had reacted to their task meant nothing good.

"And now a few brief questions," the minister's voice cut through the chaos. "You."

"Viktor," the man Fawley had pointed out said in a heavy accent. His press ID said he was from the largest quidditch paper in the world. "Most people vould have considered taking a break after the World Cup. Vhy did you enter the tournament?"

"I am more than a Seeker,"

That seemed to be enough for the correspondent. Either that or the man was well-used to Viktor's manner of answering questions. The questions continued from the press, with most a variation of 'why did you enter,' 'what do you think of your chances,' and/or 'what do you think of your opposition.' The reporters seemed to have agreed to keep Harry's questions until last, and it was a correspondent from an Italian paper he had seen Blaise read who asked the Boy Who Lived his first.

"Mister Potter, after your failed attempt to ward the goblet yesterday, why did you enter your name forward as a potential champion?"

"I didn't, Mister Richardson," Harry told the bald man. Either the reporter was an Englishman who worked for the Corriere dello Magia, or an Italian with a perfect Cornish accent. The answer had all bar Harry's friends stare at the famous mage. "Aside from the altruistic reason, I put that ward up to keep my name out of this tournament."

"Yeah, right," the Prophet reporter sneered. "Like you don't enjoy the limelight."

Morgan Perlman had replaced Rita Skeeter as the paper's ruck maker with none of the woman's skills at twisting words, nor her ability to ferret out an iota of truth. His articles were blunt, aggressive, and full of self-aggrandising at how he had 'speaking the truth no one wanted to say' that everyone was waiting for him to piss off the wrong person.

"It's a simple thing to prove," Harry told the man, pinning the man who reminded him of a male Petunia with how high in the air Perlman's nose was. "Our minister called out the name 'Harry Potter.' Everyone heard last night that the goblet creates a binding magical contract with those whose names it draws. I'm no law-wizard, but I have one in my family. He's made sure I understand that contracts you willingly enter can use your everyday name. Those that are official or someone attempts to force you into must use your legal name. 'Harry Potter' isn't my legal name."

Despite leading the listening audience to the point long before he spoke it, it took Harry saying the last six words before the majority in the Hall understood what he was saying. Noise sprung up, and he ignored it all to turn back to Richardson. "I was born Harold – the name my mother chose for me – Potter-Black, heir to both James Potter and Sirius Black."

It was the first time Harry had revealed he knew of his political place in the world in public. Many shivered at the mention of the second House.

"Does that mean you won't be competing?" Richardson continued as everyone stared on.

"No," Harry denied with a shake of his head. "As much as I didn't want to compete in the tournament, I wouldn't feel right abandoning my friends to face the first task without me. Nor would I feel right in forcing someone to face it in my place."

He felt the magic of the goblet latch on to his magic. The goblet's binding had been trying to do so since the object ejected his name.

"Mister Potter-Black! Janice Callaghan for the Irish Magical Times. It's been rumoured that your new appearance is down to Fae blood. Any comment?"

Harry didn't need Legilimency to know the woman already believed him. He could see it in her ocean-blue eyes. Yet, it was not the blind fear of Seamus or McGonagall, but rather an awed fear. This was a woman who respected what he was and what he represented. It was similar to how he had seen some people look at dangerous animals in zoos. With both awe and fear.

"I am a child of the High Fae, yes," he confirmed, getting a scoff from Perlman. Harry turned his tri-tone gaze to the man and suddenly something more was sitting at the table. Something that had many nearby shifting away from him. "Why don't you give me your name and I'll prove it."

Shadows shifted. People thought they could hear whispers at the edge of their hearing, or see figures just out of view, or they caught the faintest traces of their favourite scents. As Harry stared the arrogant reporter down, the Faerie – the land and realm the High Fae had side-stepped into for the last two thousand years – started seeping into the Hall.

"Harry," Trish snapped, digging her nails into his shoulder to snap him out of the staring contest.

Harry blinked, and the world righted itself. People shook their heads, believing they had imagined the past few seconds. Perlman looked to speak. Whether he was about to give his name, no one knew. His cameraman slammed a hand over the man's mouth and refused to let him say a word.

"Mister Potter! Jessica Abbot, Quidditch Monthly," the woman shared a passing enough resemblance to Harry's apprentice that he doubted the surname was a coincidence. "Given you've told us you were forced into the tournament against your will, what do you think of the ministry's assessment of Hogwarts?"

Harry had been hoping someone would ask him about Umbridge's mission. "I look forward to hearing what Miss Umbridge finds once she retakes her position in the ministry next year."

Harry caught Dumbledore's eyes widen in his periphery, but the minster was already talking before the old man could stop the avalanche Harry had begun. "Mister Potter-Black, Madam Umbridge still works for the ministry."

He gave the minister the same confused looks everyone had given him at his opening strike. "But that's illegal, Minister Fawley. It says so in Hogwarts' charter."

As though they had planned it (they hadn't), a flash of phoenix fire announced Fawkes. The firebird flew close to the Hall's enchanted ceiling with Sebastian in his claws. The Sorting Hat was glowing and from within came copies of the school's charter that found their way into everyone's hands.

"Thank you, Fawkes, Sebastian," Harry called up to the pair as he caught his copy and flicked to the correct part.

"It's a pleasure, Harry!" Sebastian called out as the pair flashed out. That 'his' phoenix was part of the show had Dumbledore looking like he'd overdosed on his lemon drops.

"If you look at the section dealing with how the school would relate to the wider Wizarding World," Harry told the audience, who were quick to do as he said. "Despite being centuries older than the ministry, the Founders laid out a... well, foundation... of non-interference. While the school nominally follows the law of the land, it doesn't have to. The school's bylaws allow it to teach the students anything it deems will aid them in being productive members of our society capable of surviving anything our world might demand of them -"

"Hey," an Auror called out. "This section is about denying outside influences. It says no member of staff can have another job outside of Hogwarts! It can be permitted on a case-by-case basis, but not if that other job has a conflict of interest with Hogwarts."

Everyone rushed to find the section the red-robed woman had pointed out, with Amelia taking the plunge to read out the important bits.

"Should an outside worker be hired onto the staff, they must be considered unemployed or on indefinite leave from their other job while working at Hogwarts. Any Hogwarts staff member offered an external position can, with the head's permission, take the opportunity only if it does not interfere with their current job and does not cause a conflict of interest between Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and their other employment. Any job involving law enforcement, as a government official, a place on Wizengamot, or any future organisations of equal comparison are instantly denied such leeway. Anyone found in violation of this rule will instantly choose which position they wish to continue. As agreed to by the Wizard's Council and Wizengamot of 1004, the position the violator has left will have everything associated with their tenure stricken from the record. Any teacher in violation of this clause will be removed from the school's record with their actions and decisions wiped clean, and all influences upon the students, both positive and negative, will be forgotten. The Wizard's Council and Wizengamot of 1004 agree that any action said individual had within the two organisations will be equally wiped from record should the individual stay on as a Hogwarts member of staff."

No one looked at Umbridge. They were too busy staring openmouthed at the pale and furious Dumbledore. Dumbledore's entire influence on their country now hung by a fingernail. The man either quit being Headmaster of Hogwarts and see his forty-year reign washed away, forcing Hogwarts to revert to how it was the moment Headmaster Dippet died, or resign as Chief Warlock, and watch his near fifty-year tenure thrown out, including every decision the Wizengamot ever made over that time. Dumbledore's choice would set either the school or magical government back almost half a century of progress.

And into the silence, Harry sprinkled some salt. "It then talks about if someone uses or attempts to use their government position to influence Hogwarts. They can be theoretically arrested for treason along with anyone who knowingly -"

"I believe we get the message, Mister Potter-Black," Amelia interrupted. "All students, it's late and I suggest you head to your common rooms or places of stay for the night."

Trish gave Harry's shoulder one last squeeze before her hand dropped away to let him stand. Some might disagree with the treason part, but Hogwarts and her lands were sovereign territory. They had to be to protect the students from their cut-throat political world. Had things gone differently, and Dumbledore any type of decent human being, the old man could have used that status to offer Harry's godfather sanctuary should Sirius have asked for it.

As everyone shuffled off to leave the press to watch the fallout of Harry's revelation, the Lord of Magic kept his eyes from jumping to the Flamels. Despite this, only two words filled his thoughts. Move, counter-move.

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OoOoO

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Dumbledore chose his legacy as Hogwarts Headmaster than the one he wouldn't leave as Chief Warlock. The country was in an uproar. The drawing of the champions' names was broadcast over the Wizarding Wireless, and it shocked many to their core at hearing what the famous Dumbledore had done. While Hogwarts' charter was a near-mythical thing, everyone knew that the new head had access to it. No one believed the man infamous for his love of esoteric knowledge hadn't read the thing.

The treason thread wouldn't stick, not that Harry expected it to. Instead, he enjoyed the fact that magic wiped away every decision the Wizengamot or ministry ever made that Dumbledore oversaw or signed off on the second the old mage made his choice. No parchment in the ministry's records would hold the information, and all Wizengamot minutes for every session dating back to the one announcing Dumbledore as Chief Warlock had vanished from the enchanted tome. It would take the ministry's dogsbodies months to comb through the ministry's public announcements to find out what decisions had been reversed. And everyone knew that a good third again hadn't been revealed to the public.

This wiping clean of the slate included the protections put in place by the politically powerful Death Eaters, and Riddle's Wizengamot followers didn't have the influence to push through those same laws.

Harry was grateful to the magic the Founders and Wizard's Council had put in place. The records wipe hadn't extended to any DMLE action, even when Dumbledore had been presiding over a trial. Given that the Chief Warlock's role was little more than as a master of ceremonies with the DMLE, Minister's office, and the Wizengamot running the show, it made sense. It also meant Harry wasn't being hunted by an irate Amelia Bones.

Gabriel Delacour arrived with a continent of French Aurors, ready to tear Madam Maxime apart with his bare hands at the threat to his oldest daughter. The woman admitted everything and agreed to resign at the end of the tournament, but no amount of badgering or threats got the woman to say if a famous couple had a hand in putting Fleur's name in the goblet.

Along with the French Aurors came a young-looking Bellatrix Black. The school had been in an uproar when not only did Harry welcome the infamous witch with a powerful hug, but Neville Longbottom had done the same. Apparently, one memory that the Longbottoms had shared with their son was the woman's actions in protecting Neville from her husband and brother-in-law.

Perlman hadn't taken his confrontation with Harry gracefully. The man had released a piece attacking Harry's half-breed status and questioned either Lily's status as a Muggle-born or her loyalty to her husband. Aurors had barely kept the Prophet from burning down despite the building's extensive protective wards. The taste of Faerie that Harry had called upon had reached those listening on the Wireless and a flash mob looked to tear the paper down rather than have someone with High Fae blood turn on them.

Cuffe sacked the man on the spot, despite having agreed to run the article that started it all, and went on bended knees to Andromeda and Ted to find out what he could do to make amends.

And as the school geared up for the Wand Weighing ceremony, Harry avoided the Flamels at all costs. He never knew that one of his fellow Gryffindors was doing the exact opposite.

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"How could he be a champion and not me?" Hermione shrilled. "After everything you've taught me, why shouldn't I be a champion?"

She had used all of her genius to meet the Flamels in their Beauxbatons room with no one from either school being the wiser. They were as still as statues as the girl threw a tantrum.

"Would you kindly stand still, shut up, and listen?" Perenelle snarled. Hermione did as she was told, standing rigid for the pair.

"The goblet's contract is binding," Nicolas told her in a calmer voice to his wife's, although the cold fury in his eyes betrayed his thoughts to her attitude. "One that might even interfere with our apprenticeship. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

"Oh no, of course not, Master," she pleaded, eyes wide in horror at the thought. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realise."

"Of course you didn't," Perenelle snapped, still sneering at the uppity girl. "The tournament is not to showcase the best students, but any potential threats. I remember telling you this myself, Jean."

Hermione's head bowed low, and her meek, trembling voice would have shocked those in Gryffindor Tower were they to have heard it. "I'm sorry, Mistress. I forgot."

The teen missed the look that passed between the Flamels. Nicolas uncurled himself from where he was sitting on an antique love seat. "I am off to visit Wulfric. I shall leave petit's punishment to you."

"Be careful, husband. We are in the Peverell's land now."

"He is nothing but another little Sal, not a true Peverell Lord at all." The man called Nicolas smirked, easing the woman's fears. "For all his talents and lineage, he is a novice in Death's magic if he could not detect it."

Slender fingers rose to brush the powerful and legendary item he carried beneath his silk shirt. The man's body flickered crimson as the power of the Philosopher's Stone surged through him, and Perenelle nodded at the wisdom of his words. Only someone with Peverell Magic could affect their Stone, and neither of them had noticed anything of Death about the Potter-Black mage.

The Immortal Alchemist left his wife to her disciplining and took a lazy stroll towards his most famous apprentice. He barely kept from smirking as he felt the oppressive weight of Hogwarts' wards pressing down on him. He still savoured the memories of seeing the child that would become one of the Founders, still enjoyed the boy's look and the stench of his mother's fear. Losing out on his 'little Sal' had been one of the Immortal's greatest losses when he had to fake his death to avoid the hunting Peverells. A part of the Alchemist wanted the new Peverell to succeed against all the odds, just so he could torment and play with the green-eyed mage the way he had wanted to play with his little Sal. But the rest of him was too eager to see the young man fall, to feel the goblet rip the champion's magic away, pour it all into him and finally fill the hole he had felt for a millennium.

The man pulled out his wand and sent out a messenger spell to warn his apprentice of his approach. He had no interest in waiting for the office guardian to move. Not with the school's malevolence continuing to build.

"You'd love nothing more than to kill me," he spoke to the wards in a language no one living would understand. He felt the wards react and released some of his own power. A drop in the vast ocean that he heald and the floor shuddered beneath his steps as was the right of things. Even here, in the heart of enemy territory, he was untouchable thanks to his rituals and his Stone.

The famous mage found the entrance to Dumbledore's office open and casually made his up the stairs, entering the room without the polite knock lesser mortals would have done.

"Nicolas," Albus Dumbledore smiled, his baby blue eyes shining at the sight of his Master. "Am I to schedule in a weekly tea date?"

The two chuckled like old friends. "Perhaps, Wulfric, perhaps. Would you mind?"

He swivelled his finger in the air to indicate the room, and Albus was already acting before he finished speaking.

"Of course, of course," the headmaster said, drawing the Elder Wand. Fawkes flashed out with a loud squawk that drew the man's attention so that he missed his Master's shudder at the feel of the Hallow. "He's been acting out for a while now."

"Like with the whole charter business," the man pointed out as Albus secured the room from prying eyes. The touch of the school's wards vanished after Albus' command.

"Yes," Albus sighed, putting the wand away. "A sad state of affairs, I'm afraid."

"I said it before, Wulfric. You've been the best person to lead this country as Chief Warlock. It's why I suggested you ignore the charter."

"I know, Nicolas, and I am grateful for all the help and support you've given me over the years. But I could not give up being headmaster."

"And I agree with your choice, my friend. I am grateful you stayed on."

The Alchemist didn't doubt little Sal's descendant would have stepped into the position had his apprentice made a different choice. Facing off against the Peverell Lord when the boy had full control of the school was not something he wished to do just yet.

"And now, Wulfric," the jovial mask slipped away to hint at the monster beneath the mask that was Nicolas Flamel. "We need to speak about Harry Potter."

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17th September 1994 – Private room at the Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade

The Saturday before the Wand Weighing ceremony had Hogsmeade open to the students, and Harry booked the Three Broomsticks' largest private room for a meal with some of his extended family and friends.

Cassie joined Trish on either side of Harry, while a healthy-looking Remus sat next to the Curse-breaker and opposite his Marauder brother. Sirius and Cassie were engaging in a strange tête-à-tête where Harry's godfather flirted with the Seer who responded by telling whatever embarrassing tale of the animagus she could. The Lord of Magic had taken Remus and Trish's eye-rolling as a silent confirmation that it was something the pair had done before.

While neither Lucius nor Ted were there, their wives were next along the table, talking back and forth while constantly bringing in the somewhat subdued third Black Sister. Bella had tried to act like the silent bodyguard to Fleur, but neither her sisters, Harry, nor the Delacours let her do so. Gabriel sat opposite her, with Fleur to her other side facing Apolline. Andre Egwu and Dora were next, followed by the other Hogwarts and Beauxbatons champions with space left for the third school's representatives. Harry felt a familiar presence outside the door and lowered his wards, allowing Piotr, Illyana, and Viktor to enter.

"They want nothing to do with this," the older Rasputin told him.

Harry waved away the follow-up apology that Piotr looked to offer and indicated the empty chairs. "That's their loss. Pull up a chair and enjoy the food."

The trio did so, and the meal passed with laughter and stories shared by all. The group was winding down with drinks when Piotr caught Harry's gaze. He didn't need to read his friend's mind to understand the look's meaning.

"You seem like a decent guy, Viktor," Harry said, putting aside his pumpkin juice to focus on the Bulgarian. The professional quidditch player didn't bat an eye as everyone stopped to watch. "And more to the point, Piotr trusts you."

"Trust is important," Viktor agreed, holding Harry's gaze.

"This tournament is dangerous," Harry explained, getting a collection of snorts from the table. "And I don't trust the people involved. Not with our lives. Andre over there is a skilled tailor. I'm commissioning him to design everyone here battle robes."

And hadn't that been an argument. Harry's plan wasn't just for the champions to have the protections, but for everyone close to him. Along with multiple sets per person, it resulted in almost triple digits' worth of armour needing to be made. The commission would set Andre up to start his dream of having his own clothing business.

"Battle robes?" Viktor confirmed with wide eyes, and no one blamed the teen for double-checking.

Duelling robes were, as the name suggested, protections some duellers wore for tournaments. Usually made of dragonhide and acromantula silk, even off-the-rack robes could protect against moderate spell damage if of a high enough quality. Although with a price range of twenty galleons up to the mid-to-high hundreds, a mage got what they paid for. Bespoke duelling robes weren't just tailored to fit the wearer, but so were their enchantments. Those broke the thousand galleon price with ease.

High end off-the-rack duelling robes were what magical special forces, properly protected Auror squads, and other groups designed to handle dangerous situations wore. It had been a sign of Fudge's administration that the British Aurors hadn't even had the cheapest duelling robes to wear.

Battle robes were a different kettle of fish. As the name suggested, they were robes designed for magical battles, not duels, and were the Wizarding World's equivalent to military armour. No one had heard of a new set of battle robes being made as they had one more material to duelling robes. Blood metal.

Making battle robes wasn't easy, even with blood metal, but Harry and Andre could make the ones for the champions before the first task.

"Battle robes," Harry confirmed.

Viktor looked around the table, ending up at the expected faces of Piotr and Illyana. The young man proved himself no fool. "Ja. I vould like some battle robes."

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SN:

Last Edited - 4th March 2024

Word Count – 8,210

Previous Word Count - 8,181