Chapter Text
Harry Potter?
Cheater!
How did he do it?
Of course it's Potter, honestly.
Harry walks blankly towards Dumbledore, eyes fixed steadily on the small piece of paper clutched in the older wizard's hand, as the insidious whispers of his peers echo in his wake. He stops in front of the Headmaster, panicked green eyes meeting kindly blue, until he is gestured towards the ante chamber the Champions had all disappeared behind. He dare not look at anyone else, terrified of what he might find on their faces. As he went, he clung to the kind look in Dumbledore's eyes.
Dumbledore will fix this, he'll believe me. He won't let them force me into competing.
These thoughts firm his shoulders as he crosses the threshold into the room where Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, and Cedric Diggory sit stiffly by the fire. Cedric is the first to spot him, smiling tensely in greeting. He thinks Fleur may have said something, asked a question, but Harry isn't paying attention; too busy watching the grin slowly slide off Cedric's face. Harry isn't sure how much Cedric can glean just by looking at the play of emotions across his face, but he must catch enough because a look of dawning concern begins to sketch across the other boy's features.
Before the older boy can ask questions Harry is sure he wouldn't be able to answer, the door opens again. Filing into the room are the three headmasters, Moody, McGonagall, Snape, and Barty Crouch. The entire group of adults descend upon Harry in seconds, all with different emotions playing across their countenances; venomous - Snape and Karkaroff, worried - Professor McGonagall.
"Harry," Dumbledore begins calmly; the first to break the tense silence, "did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"
Relieved at the chance to explain Harry looks imploringly into his bespectacled eyes and shakes his head and giving a firm "No, sir."
There is an immediate uproar, all of the adults attempting to talk over one another. Inadvertently he finds himself backing up hastily from the deluge of raised voices, until his back hits something and he stumbles. Feeling two hands land heavily on his shoulders, he turns sharply, looking up into Cedric Diggory's confused face. He takes a hasty step back, flushing.
"Sorry," Harry mutters.
"S'alright, Harry," a pause, "So...your name came out of the Goblet." Cedric utters this as a statement, though his face is still painted with questions, and all Harry can do is nod.
Then, they're both glancing at the still-arguing adults, trying to decipher what's being said. Harry is able to pick up a few things including, but not limited to; Karkaroff and Maxime accusing Hogwarts of cheating (of course), Moody sneering heavily at Karkaroff (strange but not out of character), Mr. Crouch muttering something about binding magical contracts (which did not bode well for Harry), Snape arguing that Harry is too inept to put his name in the Goblet (true but still rude), and McGonagall looking fierce as a lion-mother that is two seconds away from cursing Mr. Crouch where he stands (strangely comforting).
All of these things filter in and out of Harry's perception as he notices one important detail. Dumbledore isn't saying anything, he is simply standing back with a strangely blank expression on his face. He isn't arguing with Mr. Crouch or stating unequivocally that Harry can not compete in the tournament. Merlin, he hasn't even officially said if he believes Harry or not. An incredible sense of unease creeps up his spine, and in the warmth of the fire-lit chamber, ice wends its way through his veins.
Sick to his stomach with worry, he is caught in a downward spiral of panicked 'what ifs' until a gentle hand on his shoulders startles him out of his thoughts. Looking to his left, he realizes he has forgotten that Cedric is still standing next to him.
"Even I know you didn't put your name in the Goblet, that's just not who you are. They can't really expect you to compete, I'm sure." Though his words are an attempt to ease Harry's worries, it would help if the Hufflepuff sounded even remotely confident in his last statement. But Cedric is gazing at the adults, still shouting over each other, with an angry furrow to his brow and helpless irritation sharpening his handsome features. It occurs to Harry, then, that out of all the people in this room the only one who has thought to comfort him, the only one offering him explicit support, is a fellow student. A child, if only in name due to his age. Harry’s nebulous and fractured thoughts begin to shape themselves into a swelling tide of anger and clarity:
They can expect him to compete and, in fact, Harry is quite sure they do. Just as they expect him to be their Boy-Who-Lived and their Chosen one; the brave Gryffindor that revels in all things reckless and dangerous because Morgana forbid he ever say 'no, thank you I've had quite enough adventure to last anyone a lifetime.'
Anger boils through him, chased by his magic. He feels it swelling up his throat as if to choke him, making it hard to breathe. He knows that if he doesn't get control of himself, his magic will lash out, and he would very much like to avoid another Aunt Marge incident. He runs through an approximation of the meditative breathing Hermione tried to beat into his head last year. By the time his breathing is steadies, his ire has condensed into something sharp and very cold.
Unbidden, he is reminded of his first time in the castle; small and thunderstruck, an old hat falling over his eyes. He remembers that the Sorting Hat wanted to place him in a House known for cunning intellect. Now, he reminds himself that while he chose the House of the Brave, the house his parents belonged to, it does not mean he has less propensity for cunning. The Hat told him so. So Harry desperately summons all the intellect Remus and Hermione have been trying to get him to use for years; all the strategy he has learned through late-night chess matches with Ron and well-planned pranks with the twins.
Without glancing at Cedric, Harry walks purposefully into the midst of the adults until, one by one, their eyes turn to him. Harry isn't quite sure how much of his thoughts are showing on his face, but it's enough to see surprise flair across McGonagall's eyes.
"We've established that I did not put my name in the Goblet," he begins, only to be interrupted by a scoff from Karkaroff.
"Oh, have we, boy?"
Harry levels him with a bored stair, perfected over years of avoiding Vernon's ill tempers, and silently refuses to dignify his statement with a response until Harry is sure he's done being an asshole to a fourteen year old. When no other vitriol is forthcoming he moves his eyes back to the others, landing finally on Mr. Crouch.
"If I understand you, Mr. Crouch, you're argument for allowing an underage wizard to compete in a deadly tournament is that their is a 'binding magical contract.' Is that correct?"
An astonished silence follows his question. He isn't sure why they're surprised, it's not as if they were keeping their voices down. McGonagall is the first to recover, drawing herself up and glaring heatedly at Crouch.
"Yes, Barty. I am most interested in this reasoning as well," she states tartly, her Scottish brogue crisp in anger. Harry gives her a small smile, grateful for the steadfast protection she extends to all of her lion cubs.
"It is as I've said, Minerva," Crouch sniffs haughtily, "The boy's name came from the Goblet of Fire, the contract compels him to compete!"
"A contract? I'm actually quite familiar with the language of Magical Contract Law. I spent a significant time researching it last year, to help a friend with a case against an unfairly accused hippogriff," Harry says mildly. "I would love to see the contract for myself since, as you say, it is what compels me to compete."
"What a great idea, Harry!" he hears from behind him. Without his notice, Cedric had sidled up to stand beside him once more. There is a cheerful grin spread across his face that would be quite charming, Harry's sure, if not for the piercing challenge in the boy's eyes as he stared down Crouch. "My Dad works in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I'm sure he'd be happy to be a second set of eyes. Well third maybe, after you give it to Granger, of course. Scary smart, that one," he finishes happily.
For a moment Harry blinks dumbly up at him. Suddenly he feels an immense wave of gratitude for this young man, who owes him nothing, but has decided to fight for him anyway. Crouch, for his part, isn't doing much better as he stares speechlessly at the two Hogwarts students.
"Well?!" Madame Maxime chimes in, "Let us zee zis contract!"
"It is not that kind of contract," Crouch says sourly, evidently displeased that the conversation isn't going the way he intended, "It is old magic, very old, creates a binding pact between the named competitor and Magic Herself. It is magic the likes of which can be seen in the bond between a Wizard and their House Elf, as well as-" at this he paused, looking unsure, "as well as in the contract of an Unbreakable Vow."
There were gasps around the room, next to him Cedric went rigid. Well that can't be good.
Irritated, Harry cleared his throat loudly, trying to stall whatever rant he can see brewing in McGonagall's eyes.
"Would anyone like to explain what that means to the fourth year?" he asks, feeling it necessary to emphasize his age again. Just so everyone is clear on how bloody ridiculous this entire situation has become.
To Harry's surprise it's Dumbledore who speaks, breaking his silence for the first time in almost an hour.
"It means, quite regrettably, my boy, that should you choose not to compete you will surely die."
Dumbledore, Harry thinks (a tad uncharitably), could stand to tone down the dramatics.
Days later, Harry finds himself sat on the far edges of the Black Lake, as far away from the Castle as he could get without passing into the surrounding moors. The weather is just this side of biting, the Autumn chill of the Scottish highlands seeping past his cloak. With the way Ron has been acting, however, Harry feels like the weather is a fair trade for getting away from his best mate's attitude. Hermione, at least, believes him when he says he didn't put his name in the Goblet. She even agrees that he's not just being paranoid to assume someone is out to get him. But no matter what he says, she thinks that Dumbledore has his best interests at heart. Harry doesn't know what to think anymore; isn't sure if he can forget how easily Dumbledore stood back and let things unfold the way they did that night.
As a first year, Harry remembers feeling so in awe of Dumbledore, and thinking that the man must surely know everything. He remembers the chilling fear of realizing someone was trying to hurt him, but knowing that as long as Dumbledore was there he would be safe. Then Dumbledore was gone when Harry faced Voldemort for the second time in his life. He remembers waking up in the hospital wing and realizing that the old wizard wasn't as all-knowing as Harry originally thought. His 11-year-old self came to that conclusion believing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Headmaster wouldn't have left a priceless artifact hidden in the school if he had known about Quirrell.
Now? Now he isn't so sure.
As Harry sits, contemplating powerful wizards and all their big games, he is pulled sharply from his own thoughts at the sound of a familiar call. Looking up, he sees Hedwig gliding gracefully towards him, a thick letter attached to her leg. I guess that means I've missed lunch, he thinks absently. He hasn't been very hungry these days, anyway.
Perching proudly on his left knee, Hedwig gives him a demure 'who' in greeting as he strokes her head. Untying the letter around her leg, Harry is surprised to see the official emblem of Gringotts Bank pressed firmly into a shimmering golden wax seal. As he pops the seal on the rich parchment, he realizes that the reason it's so thick is because there is another sealed envelope inside the first. As it falls into his lap, he sets it aside to read the contents of the first:
To Lord H. J. Potter,
On behalf of the Horde of Gringotts Bank, allow us to offer our congratulations to his Lordship's coming of age. This is the official notice to inform you that your status will be updated within our records to reflect your new title(s):
- Lord Potter, Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter
- Heir Black, Heir Apparent to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black of the Sacred Twenty-Eight
- Descendant and Sole Executer of the House of Peverell, absorbed by The House of Potter (1328) and The House of Gaunt (1603)
- Lord Slytherin, by right of Conquest and possession of the Magical Gift of ParseltoungeFor detailed information on your estate and assets, if applicable, your Primary Account Manager will enclose a more detailed correspondence.
May your gold flow,
The Horde of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, United Kingdom
Fortius Quo Fidelius
As Harry scans the short missive, he can feel his eyes widening further with each new line. Heart beating fast, he scrambles to open his second letter, the one that is supposedly from his account manager.
Dear Lord Potter,
Let me offer my personal congratulations on your coming of age (surprising as it may be). Next let me introduce myself; I am Nilki. I have served as the Potter account manager since the time of your name-sake Henry Potter. Before myself, the job belonged to my Father, and his Mother before that.
I am sure you must be confused. As, I must admit, am I. However, I will endeavor to explain the circumstances of your new Lordship to the best of my knowledge. After my thorough inspection of your accounts, it appears that you are now considered a legal adult in the eyes of Magic Herself as of Samhain. There are few things that could have caused such a thing and I was understandably befuddled for many hours until I heard a rumor. You, Lord Potter, are being touted as a Champion in the upcoming Triwizard Tournament. If this is in fact the truth, it would explain your sudden coming of age quite well. The Goblet of Fire is a Goblin Made artifact; the enchantments made with Goblin Magic. It is an immutable fact that the recently amended Magical Agreement, welded into the very essence of the Goblet itself, requires every Champion to be of age. As soon as the Goblet names you one of its Champions, Magic must acknowledge you as an adult.
Being an adult in the Magical world, as you have no doubt noticed by now, comes with many things; chief among them the right to your Titles. It may also be prudent for you to note that files at the Ministry of Magic are automatically updated when one comes of age (though I highly doubt anyone in that institution of disorganization will think to check their records). This means, whether they know it or not, the Ministry can no longer Trace your magic use outside of Hogwarts. Thought you might like to know.
Now, this is only the beginning of the process of inheriting the full extent of your Lordship and assorted Titles. We need to go over all of your accounts and the entirety of your estate. You will also need to speak with the Black Account Manager for the specifications of your role as Heir Apparent. In the case of your Slytherin Lordship, I will need to consult our Inheritance Ledgers for more information on how to proceed. Either way, I would like to set up a time to meet in person in the near future. However, I understand that the tight leash they keep on you students will make this near impossible until Holiday.
Until then, I am available to you via owl for any questions you may have.
Magic Be With You,
Nilki Wrandaughter
Primary Account Manager of the House of Potter (Peverell)
Gringotts Wizarding Bank
London Branch
Harry stares blankly at his two letters until the sun begins to set and he is in danger of missing dinner. He moves to stare at a preening Hedwig, who has stayed faithfully by his side while his world turns upside down.
"What the fuck," soft voice carrying across the Lakes mirror surface.