Chapter Text
“Harry Potter!”
The Great Hall fell into stunned silence.
Panic surged in Harry’s chest like a rising tide.
No. This couldn’t be happening.
His breath quickened, the air catching painfully in his throat. His mind was blank—save for one raw, pulsing thought: dread.
This is wrong. So, so wrong.
“Harry, get up!” Hermione hissed, giving him a firm shove. He stumbled, catching himself before falling, the echo of her urgency ringing in his ears.
He couldn’t look at anyone. Couldn’t bear to meet their eyes.
This had to be a dream. He hadn’t entered his name. He’d been looking forward to a quiet year—no near-death experiences, just ordinary classes and homework. Well, as ordinary as magic could be.
But peace was never meant for him. Not after last month’s discovery.
“Harry Potter!” Dumbledore’s voice thundered through the hall again. The sound rolled across the stone walls, heavy as a storm. Whispers swelled, a wave of disbelief and accusation crashing around him. He could feel their stares like fire on his skin. Cheat, some of them were already murmuring.
But he hadn’t volunteered for this death tournament.
And this time—it wasn’t just his life at stake.
Without thinking, his hand drifted to his lower abdomen before he caught himself, snatching it back as if burned. Don’t. Don’t let them see. Don’t let them guess.
He took a shuddering breath and forced his legs to move, heading toward the antechamber where the true champions waited. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor; his fists clenched at his sides. He trembled, surprised his knees didn’t give out beneath him.
“Do zey want us back in ze hall?” Fleur’s lilting voice broke his fog of panic. Harry barely lifted his head, but before he could answer, the door slammed open.
Dumbledore stormed in.
Harry froze as the headmaster seized him by the shoulders—fingers like iron clamps—and shook him hard enough to make his teeth rattle.
“Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?!”
“N-no,” Harry gasped, dizzy from the motion. His stomach churned. He tried to push Dumbledore’s hands away, but his attempt was feeble.
“Headmaster,” Snape drawled, his tone dripping with disdain, “perhaps you should stop shaking the boy before his stomach contents redecorate your robes.”
Dumbledore stilled but didn’t release him. His grip remained bruising, unrelenting.
Bruises, Harry could handle.
But this? This was something else entirely.
“You have to believe me, sir,” he whispered, voice trembling beneath the noise of the other headmasters’ arguing. “I didn’t put my name in the goblet.” His eyes stung, tears threatening to spill.
“Did an older student help you?” Dumbledore’s tone was cold, his disappointment slicing sharper than any shout—yet the familiar twinkle remained in his eyes.
The accusation hit Harry harder than the shaking. He almost stumbled.
He’d grown used to people thinking the worst of him, but hearing it from Dumbledore still felt like a knife twist.
He remembered the summers at the Dursleys—how he’d begged to stay at Hogwarts. How Dumbledore had sent him back anyway, calling his desperate pleas “exaggerations.” Perfectly lovely people, the old man had said.
Harry had lost a large amount of respect for him that day.
Now, the rest of it crumbled away.
“I didn’t, sir,” Harry whispered, swallowing a sob. His hand twitched toward his stomach again, then fell limp at his side. He turned from Dumbledore’s unrelenting gaze and met Snape’s instead.
For a brief moment, the Potions Master’s expression flickered—something like concern—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the cold, unreadable mask of a Slytherin spy.
The world felt too small. The walls too close.
Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the argument erupting around him — Dumbledore demanding answers, Karkaroff’s outrage, Madame Maxime’s furious protests. The room spun.
He swayed on his feet. His fingers dug into his palms so hard his nails broke skin.
Don’t fall. Don’t show weakness.
But his vision blurred, edges darkening. His heart hammered too fast, too loud. Every breath came shorter than the last.
“Potter!” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you!”
Harry lifted his head, but the motion sent a rush of dizziness crashing over him. The ground tilted. His lips parted soundlessly as his knees buckled—
A strong arm caught him before he hit the floor.
“Enough.”
The word came in a thick accent, low but firm. Viktor Krum’s glare swept across the room like a blade.
Dumbledore froze mid-step. Karkaroff sputtered, his voice rising with outrage. “Viktor! Vhat do you think you are doing? Leave the boy!”
But Krum ignored him. His hand stayed braced against Harry’s shoulder, steadying him. “He can barely stand,” Viktor said, his tone even but laced with something close to anger. “You vill break him before the tournament even starts.”
“I’m fine,” Harry rasped, but the lie wavered. His skin had gone deathly pale, his breath shallow. The trembling in his limbs was uncontrollable now.
“You are not vine,” Krum muttered, his dark eyes narrowing. He guided Harry toward a nearby chair despite the rising protests from both headmasters. “Sit.”
“Mr. Krum—” Dumbledore began, his tone warning.
But Viktor ignored him. He crouched slightly, keeping his large frame between Harry and the others, his voice lowering so only Harry could hear.
“Breathe. Slowly.”
Harry tried. His chest hitched, but he followed Krum’s calm rhythm—inhale, exhale, again. Gradually, the roaring in his ears softened. The tremors didn’t stop, but they dulled to a distant hum.
Krum’s presence was solid, grounding. A strange kind of shield.
Across the room, Fleur watched with wide eyes, her usual poise fractured by concern. Cedric took a step forward, uncertain, but didn’t interrupt.
Karkaroff bristled, his voice dripping venom. “Viktor, you forget yourself.”
“No,” Krum said simply, “I remember who deserves decency.”
A thick silence followed. Even Snape looked momentarily caught off guard, his usual sneer replaced by something unreadable.
Harry sat there, trembling but upright, clinging to the edges of composure. The world still felt unsteady, but Krum’s unexpected intervention had carved out a small pocket of calm—a fragile, fleeting reprieve.
The adults gave Harry exactly five seconds to come to his senses before they started discussing – read arguing – among themselves, once more.
The argument dragged on long after Harry stopped listening. Voices rose and fell around him — Dumbledore’s grave pronouncements, Karkaroff’s indignant sputtering, Madam Maxime’s offended protests, and the weak arguments Ludo Bagman and Crouch brought to the table. Words blurred together into a dull roar, meaningless and distant.
All Harry could hear was the echo of the Headmaster’s final decree:
“Harry Potter will compete.”
It felt like a sentence, not a decision.
He’d begged, pleaded even — voice shaking, eyes burning — but it didn’t matter. Dumbledore’s tone had been final, sealed by authority. Whatever faint hope Harry had clung to dissolved.
When the others were dismissed — Krum left the room, with one last concerned glance at Harry — Dumbledore’s gaze turned toward Snape. “Severus,” he said quietly, “see mister Potter back to his dormitory. We don’t want him to run off.”
Snape’s expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes flicked toward Harry briefly. “As you wish, Headmaster.”
Harry barely registered the words. His legs carried him forward on instinct, following Snape through the shadowed corridors. The castle was silent now — no chatter, no laughter. Just the echo of their footsteps and the faint rustle of robes.
They didn’t go toward Gryffindor Tower.
Harry blinked, confusion piercing through the fog. “Professor?” His voice cracked. “This isn’t the way—”
Snape didn’t slow. “You’re in no condition to stumble through that madhouse tonight. You’ll stay in my quarters until you can at least breathe properly.”
Harry stiffened. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though the words were thin and unconvincing.
“Spare me the Gryffindor bravado,” Snape snapped, whispering to a large portrait in the dungeons – Harry didn’t pay attention to see what was on it. Soundlessly, the portrait swung open. Warmth and lamplight spilled out. The room was small but tidy — shelves of books, the faint scent of fire, herbs, and tea in the air.
Snape gestured sharply toward the leather couch. “Sit.”
Harry stayed by the entrance to his professor’s quarters, stubbornly rooted in place.
Snape exhaled through his nose, irritation prickling his tone. “Of course. The great Harry Potter doesn’t take orders from anyone.”
The sneer stung. Harry flinched as though struck.
Snape moved toward a shelf, retrieving a small vial filled with pale blue liquid. “A simple Calming Draught,” he said, not looking at Harry. “Unless, of course, you prefer to continue shaking like a leaf.”
“I said I’m fine,” Harry muttered again, taking a small step back. His hand drifted instinctively toward his abdomen before he caught himself.
Snape turned, the vial glinting between his fingers. “You’re pale, unfocused, and on the verge of collapse. Stop being ridiculous and take it.”
Harry’s breath hitched. “No.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Potter—”
He raised his hand slightly — perhaps to gesture, perhaps to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration — but Harry didn’t see it that way.
The boy recoiled so fast the chair behind him clattered to the floor. He ducked in on himself, arms raised to shield his head, shoulders trembling.
The movement wasn’t theatrical — it was instinctive. Raw. Terrified.
Snape froze.
For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.
“Potter,” he said, voice low, uncertain. “What—”
But Harry was already mumbling apologies, his voice barely coherent. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—please don’t—”
Snape’s stomach dropped. His irritation evaporated, replaced by something cold and heavy.
Merlin.
He took a slow step back, careful not to startle the boy further. “I’m not going to hit you,” he said, each word deliberate. “Do you understand me, Potter? I’m not going to harm you.”
Harry didn’t move at first. His hands were still over his head, body curled inward, as though years of conditioning refused to release him.
Then, cautiously, he looked up. His green eyes were wide and glassy, the trembling worse now that he was trying to stop it.
Snape saw — really saw — the fear there. The kind that didn’t come from mischief or guilt, but from memory. From pain long practiced.
Alarm bells rang in Snape’s mind, sharp and unrelenting.
Clearly, Dumbledore had lied to him. The old man had told him how Potter was raised by his wixen family, pampered like a prince, just like his father had been. But this…
This reaction… this was not even the product of neglect. It was the reaction of someone who had learned to survive.