HP vs Alastor Moody (Pt 1)


I paced my room at the Dursleys, wand spinning between my fingers. Dumbledore had warned me to stay inside for fear of Sirius Black, and I had reluctantly abided by his request. But the Muggle world was exhausting, and – worse yet – incredibly boring.

The Weasley’s old owl thudded against my window, scratching the glass weakly. I scrambled toward it in a horribly undignified manner and swung open the window, causing the owl to fall into my room. He was probably dead.

I shrugged and grabbed the message from his twitching claws.

Hi Harry,

Has Hermione been on you about doing homework? She’s completely mental. We’ve got a whole month left!

Did you hear that the Cannons won their last game? It’s the third time this season. The twins say it’s a fluke, but I think they’ve really got a chance at the Cup.

I skimmed the rest of the letter. Apparently, Ron’s rat was eaten by a grim or something. See, this is why I miss the wizarding world. When I leave, even Ron has adventures without me. I scowled, returning to the letter.

Mum’s been asking when you’re going to visit. If you want, you could probably come for the rest of the summer…

I didn’t read the end of the letter. I was too busy packing.


“Harry!” That was my only warning as I stepped from Mr. Weasley’s car and was viciously attacked. I stood still and waited for Hermione to stop hugging me.

“Hello, Hermione,” I said. “Ron.”

Ginevra also peeked at us from the doorway. But, since she was attempting to be discreet, I pretended not to see her.

“Hey, mate,” Ron said.

His mother bustled over, beaming. I think she wanted to hug me as well, but I’d already gotten my wand out. She kept her hands clasped atop her chest. Smart of her – which made sense since she was only a Weasley by marriage. “Harry! Oh, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I’ve been telling Ron to have you over for years.”

“I didn’t want to impose,” I said.

She smiled sweetly. “No imposition at all.”

A loud ding echoed across the yard. With a harried look, the Weasley matriarch said, “Now, lunch will be ready in a few minutes, so don’t stay out here too long.”

As she left, Ron turned to me. “You didn’t want to impose?”

“Well, no, it seemed rude.”

“Mate, that doesn’t sound like you at all. When have you _ever _cared about being rude?”

I shrugged, tucking my wand back in my pocket since the danger of Weasley affection had passed. “I was under the impression you lived in a shoebox.”

His Weasley mouth dropped open and stayed that way for some time. “What?!”

“That’s what Malfoy said,” I said peevishly.

“He was just being an insulting git like he always is,” Hermione said.

I frowned and observed Ron with unshielded confusion. “But, if he was lying, why did you get so upset?”

Ron went on sputtering for a while, waving his hands around as if to illustrate some incomprehensible point. I turned my attention to a thoughtful Hermione, which could only lead to trouble. She stared at the place where Mr. Weasley’s car was parked. “Why didn’t you mention that your family were Muggles?”

“Oh, I prefer not to talk about them. They’re really quite insufferable,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Ron asked, finally recovered.

“They just are” – I shrugged – “You would understand if you met them.”

Hermione said, “Harry, if you were raised by Muggles, then where do all of your biases come from?”

“I have legitimately no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You have no respect for Hufflepuffs, and sometimes you just completely disregard Muggles like they aren’t even people” – Hermione cocked her head, giving me a suspicious look – “Your family _is _alright with you coming here, right? You didn’t just decide they were unimportant and go off without telling anyone?”

I tried to cut in on her completely unwarranted paranoia. “Hermione –”

She rambled on. “Because that really seems like something you would do.”

I huffed, insulted. “I told them. And I’ll have you know they were very happy to see me go. There was hugging and everything.”

She giggled. “Aw.”

“I wasn’t involved,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t get any ideas. “They also had a party.”

“That sounds nice,” Hermione said.

“I wouldn’t know. It was after I left.”

Hermione seemed quite stunned and failed to respond. Since the conversation was clearly over at that point, I wandered inside in search of lunch.


“Now she insists I’ve been ‘emotionally neglected.’ Whatever that means.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, ‘Mione can be kind of weird about stuff like that.

“It’s like the house-elves all over again,” I grumbled, “except I’m the house- elf. And she’s trying to kill me with her deformed mittens.”

“What does that –”

“It’s a metaphor, Ron. Don’t strain yourself trying to make sense of it,” I said.

I paced the floor of Ron’s room, bursting with agitated energy. Usually, when I felt like this, I would relieve my tension by destroying something. But magic was not permitted over the summers, and I refused to break things with my hands like a Muggle.

“She’d probably forget about it if we got out of the house for a bit,” Ron said.

I stopped pacing. That seemed reasonable, for a Weasley suggestion. As much as Hermione struggles to care about things that are traditionally immoral, a quick distraction usually causes her to lose interest.

Ron continued, “I bet even a couple of days would do it.”

“I’m listening.”


I woke up early the morning after the World Cup – no surprise since I’d spent most of the previous day sleeping. Ron had been rather upset at Hermione’s and my disinterest in the game – insisting upon waking me up every ten minutes and snatching Hermione’s book from her hands – but he forgot our “betrayal” easily enough after the Cup’s climactic finish. At least, I presume it was climactic; I slept through it.

I left my invisibility cloak and other blankets crumpled on the couch as I wandered towards the tent’s kitchen. The fridge was well stocked, but I’d never cared for cooking.

“Dobby,” I snapped.

The house-elf arrived a few minutes later, looking nervous. “Yes Great Master Harry Potter sir?”

“You’re late,” I said.

“Dobby is sorry, so very sorry!” he cried, slamming his limbs violently against the floor in what might charitably be referred to as a bow. “Master Lucy came home very late, and he wanted me to fetch him pain potions. I did not want to be making him angry.”

“Don’t let him order you around so much,” I ordered.

Dobby nodded, ears flapping and eyes shining rebelliously. This is why I don’t keep house elves: The risk of betrayal is far too great. I continued, “Now, bring me whatever Lucius is having for breakfast.”

Ginevra stumbled upon me half hour later, as I was polishing off some sort of giant egg set on a silver plate.

“Harry?” she gasped, then shouted, “He’s right here!”

A stampede of Weasleys and a lone Hermione stumbled, bleary-eyed from their rooms. Hermione cried indignantly, “Where have you been?! We were worried sick.”

I frowned, confused and quite displeased with the feeling. “It’s not like I don’t usually sleep under the cloak.”

Hermione’s fists clenched, and she hissed, “You weren’t in your bed.”

“If I was in my bed, then that would destroy the whole point of sleeping invisible.” I said.

She gave a little screech of frustration, while Mr. Weasley said, “I’m glad you’re safe. I suppose you couldn’t find us during the attack?”

“Attack?”

One of the Weasley twins spoke, voice filled with the appropriate amount of awe. “You slept through a Death Eater attack?”

After a further ten minutes of failing to communicate (entirely the Weasleys’ fault) I found out that a group of Death Eaters had come to wreak havoc, torment Muggles, and generally have a good time. I had slept through it, a skill I’d acquired during my reign of terror.

It was nice, I reflected, to see the Death Eaters taking the initiative. Perhaps they were paying homage to their fallen leader.

I don’t know why else they would attack a Quidditch game.


At the Head Table, Dumbledore began his start of term speech. First, he happily informed us that the Dementors had been removed due to our foreign visitors – apparently Beauxbatons takes a dim view on the consumption of their students’ souls. Then, he turned to the topic of horrible deaths, as he does every year. I wasn’t paying much attention, consumed by my thoughts.

The Triwizard Tournament had finally returned to Hogwarts. It hadn’t been around when I was a student, or I would have another trophy to add to my collection. In fact, it hadn’t been around for two centuries. Trust Dumbledore to revive a dangerous, Gryffindorishly reckless competition. Still, it fit well in the narrative of Harry Potter, vanquisher of the Dark Lord and future Hogwarts professor.

As we stood to leave the Great Hall, Ginevra at our heels, Ron snatched some sweets from the table.

Hermione sighed dramatically. “Do you really need more sugar, Ronald?”

His words were mangled by a mouthful of food. “Ima gwwing boy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t need sugar to grow; you aren’t a bacteria. And that’s disgusting!”

“You’re dis –”

“I’m going to win the Triwizard Tournament,” I declared.

“What?!” Hermione shrieked, once again paying attention to me. As is only appropriate. “Harry, that’s even worse than your usual ideas. People die doing things like this.”

I shrugged. “It can’t be any more dangerous than going to school usually is.”

Ron frowned, jogging to keep pace with us as I sped up with enthusiasm and Hermione with righteous anger. “I dunno, Dumbledore thinks it’s dangerous, and he hires werewolves as professors.”

I said, “I still think I’ll be fine.”

“Well, you can’t enter anyway,” Hermione sniffed. “It’s seventh years and older, no exceptions.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair. Even if we start doing it regularly again, it isn’t due for five more years. I’ll have graduated by then. Then I’ll never get the chance to compete.”

“It’s for your own safety,” she said.

“The Goblet wouldn’t choose me if I couldn’t compete.” At least, I didn’t think it would. How _did _that work? “But it can hardly judge if I don’t put in my name.”

“They’ll put up protections to stop you,” Hermione said with a desperate sort of hope.

“I’ll get around them,” I assured her.

“I’ll help, Harry,” Ginevra said.

“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about you.”

We had reached the common room by then, going inside with a muttered, “Flobberworm.”

The familiar, red room, filled with chattering students, greeted us. I took the only available chair, earning an insolent glare from Hermione and a “Hey!” from Ron. Ginevra stood without complaint, which nearly made me regret my decision. I took a deep breath.

“Look, Ginevra, we have to talk about this” – I waved my hand vaguely – “following us thing. I didn’t say anything before because we were at your house, and you should be able to stalk whomever you like at your house. But this is my house.”

“It’s a school, Harry. It’s nobody’s house,” Hermione said as she dug out her Transfiguration book, intent upon reading it for the third time before term.

I ignored her, of course. “Now, I appreciate your stepping in last year. You made a perfectly suitable substitute for Ron. But Ron’s back, and he has seniority.”

Ginevra pouted, asking, “Why can’t we both be your friends?”

I shook my head. “We’re already perilously close to a Weasley majority. I can’t have the two of you stalemating.”

“It’s not like we’re the same person,” Ginevra said. “I’m different from my brothers.”

“See, now you sound exactly like Ron,” I said. “This just isn’t going to work. Right, Hermione?”

Hermione didn’t even look up from her textbook. “I don’t have a problem with Ginny.”

“Right, Ron?”

“Yeah,” he said, elaborating at his sister’s betrayed look. “Sorry, Ginny, but you’re my little sister and these are my friends. You should go spend time with your own friends.”

Ron paused for a moment. “Uh, you do have friends, right?”

Ginevra frowned but didn’t answer. Several seconds passed.

“Ginny?” Ron asked nervously.

“I’m thinking,” she snapped.

Hermione finished reading another twelve pages before Ginevra spoke again. “…Yes.”

“Good,” I said. “Then go and spend time in their company, earn their trust, fashion their loyalty, and when the time is right –”

“You’re starting to sound like a Slytherin, mate,” Ron said.

“Right, yes. What I meant to say was: Have fun. Also, leave.”


Professor Moody’s magical eye had locked upon me the moment I entered the classroom, and it hadn’t moved yet. He was suspicious of me, I could tell, and I forced my face to remain impassive as he explained the topic of today’s lesson:

The Unforgivable Curses.

Still, I couldn’t entirely quell my enthusiasm. They were my favorite curses, after all.

“So…do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by wizarding law?” Moody asked, narrowing his eyes at the class as if one of us was going to burst into tears and confess to a heinous crime.

My hand shot up, followed tentatively by Hermione’s. Moody barked, “Go on, Granger.”

“The Imperius Curse,” Hermione said, “It forces the victim to follow the caster’s orders.”

“Good,” he said. Moody pulled out three cages, each holding a spider. He turned his wand upon one of them and forced it to dance. A few nervous giggles greeted its performance, though none of my classmates took their eyes from the arachnid.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” Moody asked. “You’d like it, would you, if I did it to you?”

“No, sir,” Longbottom squeaked, shaking his head so quickly that it seemed ready to fly from his shoulders.

“Good, that’s next lesson” – Moody laughed – “Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?”

My hand returned to the air, but at least one of Moody’s eyes looked to the back of the room. “You, in the back.”

Now he was just toying with me. I should have expected as much from an old friend of Dumbledore.

Longbottom said tentatively, “The Cruciatus Curse.”

“Your name’s Longbottom?” Moody asked gruffly.

Longbottom attempted to hide under his desk. This might have been more effective if Moody couldn’t see through it. He enlarged the second spider, sparking terrified gasps from several students. A few slightly less terrified gasps came when he tortured it using the Cruciatus.

“And the last one?”

Unable to hold back any longer, I shouted, “Avada Kedavra! The Killing Curse. It lets you kill things.”

“Yes, I suppose you would know about that,” Moody said, giving me an unsettling smile.

He was on to me. He was on to me, and Dumbledore had already given him permission to cast Unforgivables on students.

Moody continued, “You are the only survivor of that curse.”

I laughed weakly. “Yes, of course. I’m not sure why else I would know it.”

“Not like those bloody snakes,” Ron grumbled. “I bet they’ve been casting them since they were in diapers.”

Moody smirked, gave a nod to Ron, and cast Avada Kedavra on the final spider. As my classmates breathed a collective sigh of relief at the arachnid’s death, Moody’s eye almost popped out of his head to watch me closer.

I hoped my curse would strike early this year.


I tilted my head, examining the age line surrounding the Goblet of Fire. My sixty-eighth birthday was coming up, so it should let me through. Carefully, I nudged my foot against the line, feeling an ominous force pushing it back.

Clearly, it responded to physical and not mental age. Of course, the Weasleys had artificially aged themselves and been thrown back regardless. Perhaps it required both? Or possibly Dumbledore had enchanted it to only allow Seventh Years in. Yes, I decided, that seemed reasonable.

It was probably for the best that I couldn’t walk right through. That would raise all sorts of suspicions. No, I would have to take a more subtle approach.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” I said. The parchment on which I’d scribbled my name smoothly levitated forward yet started shivering as it crossed the age line. Not far from the Goblet, it stopped altogether, crumpled into a ball, and ricocheted back. The ball bounced off my forehead.

Lip curled, I tossed the piece of parchment in the air and snarled, “Ventis.”

It tumbled towards the Goblet atop a spiral of wind which knocked over several unsuspecting passersby. It then returned at equal speed, again hitting my forehead.


I was crouched on the stone floor, putting the last touches on my latest attempt to enter the tournament, when Ron and Hermione interrupted me an hour later.

“‘Bout time. We’ve been looking for you all over. Hermione thought you were in the library.” Ron made a face that was – for once – intentionally stupid.

“Harry spends plenty of time in the library,” Hermione said. “It’s not my fault you like to pretend he’s some sort of Quidditch fanatic.”

“He’s coming around,” Ron said with an offended look. “He practically begged me to organize a game last year, and he went to the Cup with us.”

“Two instances is hardly evidence of a trend, Ronald,” Hermione said.

“Sure it isn’t, ‘Mione” – Ron faked a cough – “Jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Hermione mumbled, “and you know I hate that nickname.”

Grinning, Ron turned his attention to me. “What are you doing on the floor?”

“Beating the age line,” I said. I added another slash of ink onto the stone. It was a little wobbly and looked more like a dragon than a unicorn, so I vanished it.

Hermione leaned over to peek at my work. She gasped. “Those are NEWT level runes. You don’t even take Ancient Runes!”

“You aren’t the only one who reads, Hermione,” I said.

She glanced triumphantly at Ron. “I told you.”

“So, what’s it do?” Ron asked.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Well, I’ve only read about it in passing, mind you. It’s a very complicated work, though not all that uncommon among Curse Breakers who need to move something that they can’t touch, or in cases where other means of magical transportation might damage an object. It makes extensive use of the rune –”

“Yeah, but what does it do?”

Hermione sniffed haughtily. “I was getting to that. It’s used for teleporting things.”

“Dunno why you can’t just say that,” Ron muttered. “Always have to go off on some –”

“AT LAST!” I cried, rising from the ground. “I’ve completed it. Oh, sure, Dumbledore protected against physical intrusion and simple spells. But he could never have prepared for something so intricate, so far above anything he would expect of a mere child. But I am more than that. I am Harry Potter, and I will not be thwarted by the likes of_ him_.”

I smirked, dropping the ball of parchment atop the rune and laughing as it popped away. My eyes darted to the Goblet. The parchment appeared directly above it, only millimeters from the top. But it didn’t fall.

It flew backwards and onto my forehead.

As it fell to the ground, my eye twitched.

I hadn’t experienced such intense fury since the dementor incident. I snatched up the crumpled parchment and blindly flung it at the Goblet. It traveled uninterrupted as it passed the age line, bounced against the Goblet’s interior, and fell inside.

Ron gaped. “You can just throw it in?”

“Of course,” I said. “They would never think to protect against the most base, mundane, Muggle methods. After all, who would stoop so low?”

I smirked, congratulating myself on my astounding success. “Ron, bring me more paper. In fact, bring me all the paper you can find. Ink, too.”

Ron scurried off to do my bidding. Hermione, always questioning my decisions, asked, “Why do you need paper?”

“I have to put my name in more times, obviously,” I said.

She pursed her lips. “No, you only need to put your name in once.”

“Yes, that is what they would have you believe,” I said, “but I’ve contemplated this thoroughly. No one knows how the Goblet works or why it chooses the student it does. Oh, sure, sometimes it picks a great fighter with unmatched cunning, but, others, it picks someone whose name was put in as a joke or a Hufflepuff.”

In retrospect, I was being redundant.

“So?” Hermione asked.

“It’s a lottery.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, believing that a big cup can choose the greatest champion based on a name on a slip of paper is ridiculous. What’s it do, analyze the handwriting?”

“It’s very advanced magic,” Hermione said.

“Or it picks a name at random. What do you think is more likely?”

Ron raced towards me, a stack of parchment in hand. “Got ‘em.”

I nodded. “Good, now get more.”

He took off again. I tore a strip of parchment off a sheet, scribbled my name, and shoved it into Hermione’s hands. “Make use of your terrible, Muggle origins and start throwing.”


“And, from Beauxbatons, Fleur Delacour,” Dumbledore said. A haughty witch in powder blue flounced towards the back room.

Hermione shot me a triumphant look. “See? Both of the champions were their schools’ favorites to win, and they’re each very talented. It’s not a lottery.”

I laughed, admiring her pigheaded attachment to an obviously incorrect theory. “That’s probably because they were the only ones who entered.”

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked.

“I spent eight hours camped out next to the Goblet yesterday. I’m pretty sure.”

“Finally,” Dumbledore said. “For Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…”

A third slip of parchment shot into his hands atop a jet of green flame. “…Harry Potter.”

“Told you,” I said, standing to take a bow.

A wave of disgruntled whispers echoed across the Great Hall. I don’t know why any of them were surprised. Honestly, who were they expecting? A Hufflepuff?

A Durmstrang student gasped. “They can’t actually let him compete. He’s a Fourth Year!”

A Seventh Year Hufflepuff sighed. “It’s always the bloody Gryffindors.”

“He must have cheated!” Draco Malfoy cried.

“Yeah, he cheated,” one of the Weasley twins shouted. “What did you think he was doing in the Great Hall yesterday – making paper airplanes or something?”

I smirked. “I am the best at cheating, or I wouldn’t have been chosen by the Goblet.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” a Beauxbaton student said.

I ignored them, sauntering towards the door where the previous champions had exited. Suddenly, the Goblet flared again, and Dumbledore cleared his throat. “It appears to be Harry Potter again…in different handwriting.”

“Merlin’s tit, Harry broke the cup!” Ron yelled.

I said, “I hope it doesn’t do that with all the entries.”

Dumbledore appeared troubled. “My boy, just how many times _did _you put your name in?”

“Oh, three hundred or so. A lot bounced off the rim, so it was difficult to keep track,” I admitted.

“How the hell did you manage that?” someone shouted from the Slytherin table.

“It was a lot easier once I got the house-elf production line going,” I said. “I never thought I would be so grateful for Hermione’s literacy program.”

“I didn’t start that so they’d be better slaves,” Hermione snapped.

“And yet that was still the result,” I said. The harder she struggled against her naturally evil tendencies, the greater the eventual damage became. It was awe-inspiring, really.

I left Hermione to her anger and followed the other champions.


Twenty minutes later, we were still waiting in the same room. Delacour actively ignored me, while Krum’s abortive attempts at conversation faltered before the shouting going on a few feet away. I watched in amusement as the judges squabbled over my entry.

With her champion’s fervent support, the Beauxbatons Headmistress insisted that competing against a fourteen-year-old wasn’t very sporting. I personally had no problem beating children a third my age. The event organizer, Crouch, was similarly worried that Britain would be at a disadvantage.

In contrast, Igor Karkaroff feared the overwhelming power implied by the night I vanquished myself. It was hard to say if that was a sign of his intelligence, cowardice, or paranoia. Or perhaps he’d simply seen that Dumbledore was twinkling again.

“Now, now, there’s nothing to be done but let him compete,” Dumbledore said. “The Goblet of Fire is magically binding, and the boy was chosen by it.”

“Twice,” I added helpfully.

“We wouldn’t want him to lose his magic, or even his life, because we were trying to protect him,” he continued, smiling serenely.

They couldn’t argue with Dumbledore – no one ever can for long – so the judges begrudgingly agreed to let me compete and stormed off to sulk elsewhere. Their champions soon followed.

“Lemon drop?” Dumbledore asked.

I shook my head, unwilling to risk whatever concoction he’d devised to punish me for this latest scheme.

“No one ever wants my lemon drops,” he sighed dramatically. Dumbledore popped a lemon drop in his mouth, winked at me, and left as well.

Severus sneered at me from the corner of the room, sweeping forward only when everyone else had left. “You really are _exactly _like your father – an arrogant, conceited, reckless fool with no regard for your own or others’ safety. But even he would not have been so moronic as to enter a dangerous magical competition. Repeatedly.”

I gave him a lazy smile. Bantering with Severus was such fun. “Well, what can I say? I’m a typical Gryffindor, not a slimy Slytherin like you.”

Severus’s eyes flashed with fury, and he leaned in so close that spittle flew at my face. “Do you think this is a game, Potter?”

“Technically, it’s a tournament,” I said.

Severus drew back, almost physically reigning in his emotions. He was silent for several moments, his lip curled in disgust at what he was about to do. “I think it’s about time you were actually punished. Twenty points from Slytherin.”

My eyes widened. “You can’t do that! I’m not even in that house.”

Severus smiled cruelly, drawling, “Five more for your cheek,” as he walked away.


“I don’t understand,” Hermione asked as we made our way towards the common room. “Why doesn’t he just give you detention?”

I chuckled. “Oh, he tried that back in First Year. So long as he’s there, I rather enjoy them, and, if they’re unsupervised, I try to brew Felix Felicis and leave him to clean up the resulting poisons. The detentions are inevitably more of a punishment for him than me.”

We passed through the portrait entrance. Inside, a party was in full swing. They’d been planning this ever since the tournament was first announced because the Hogwarts champion was obviously going to be a Gryffindor.

A cheer erupted when the partiers spotted us, and someone shoved a butterbeer in my hand. I grinned, announcing, “My plan has finally come to fruition. Snape has decided to take points from Slytherin every time I annoy him. We are going to sweep the Cup for the NEXT FOUR YEARS!”

A second cheer went up, and a few people slapped me on the back. They soon turned their attention towards a keg of Weasley-smuggled firewhiskey. As we jostled our way through the crowd, Hermione said, “Harry, you weren’t actually planning…”

“Nope.”

“So you’ve just suddenly stopped rooting for Slytherin?”

“I came to a very important realization today,” I said. “It doesn’t matter what color the Great Hall is during the Leaving Feast or who gets bragging rights for the next year. What matters is that I am the one who decides.”

“There is something seriously wrong with you,” Hermione murmured.

“Thank you,” I said. “Speaking of something seriously wrong, there’s Ron!”

Ron sat in a bright-red armchair, an island of misery among the jovial crowd. He stared morosely at the contents of a textbook. Something was obviously amiss. Ron doesn’t read.

“Ron?” Hermione said softly. “Are you alright?”

Ron shrugged, muttering, “Yeah, I just…well, I was just hoping it would be me.”

I plucked the book from his lap before he became confused and tried to eat it or something. “You had your twelve chances, Ron. It’s no one’s fault that the Goblet chose me in its lottery. Except possibly Dumbledore.”

“You can’t blame Dumbledore for all your problems, Harry,” Hermione sighed.

I shook my head. “This is different. I’m blaming him for Ron’s problems.”


A/N: Seventh Horcrux is now completed on SpaceBattles, with omakes being posted every couple of days. As always, the link is on my profile.

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