The dungeons always felt heavier than the rest of the castle, like the very stones held grudges. Cold seeped through the stone walls of the Potions classroom, coiling around ankles, soaking into skin, and clutching at nerves. The smell of damp earth and bitter herbs lingered endlessly in the air, amplified by the smoky fumes of simmering brews.
Harry sat at a workstation near the back, shoulder to shoulder with Neville Longbottom. Their cauldron emitted faint blue vapors as they worked on a healing draught, one Harry had nearly memorized. Neville, however, looked like a boy attempting to disarm a bomb.
"Careful with that—only a pinch of the powdered valerian root, not a scoop," Harry murmured, guiding Neville's shaking hand with his own. "And stir clockwise exactly four times. Then once anticlockwise."
Neville nodded nervously, sweat beading on his brow. The poor boy always seemed to struggle in Potions. Maybe it was the gloom. Maybe it was Snape's looming presence. Or maybe it was the silent pressure of living up to a family legacy carved in pain and sacrifice.
Professor Snape swept between the rows, his robes trailing like smoke. Every step, every glance carried menace. He stopped near Malfoy's table to praise something needlessly and then drifted toward Harry and Neville.
Harry kept his eyes on the potion. The color was right—pale violet. No foul smells. No smoke. Neville was finally getting it right.
But the tension still clung to them.
"I said lower the flame, Neville, not extinguish it," Harry muttered.
"Oh! Right! Sorry!" Neville squeaked, fumbling with the knob.
Snape paused behind them.
"Longbottom," Snape drawled, "if incompetence were a spell, you'd be the Unforgivable of the classroom."
Neville flinched. Harry's hands clenched beneath the table.
Then came the knock.
Snape scowled. "What now?"
The door creaked open, and a cheerful voice piped in, "Professor Snape? I've been sent to collect Harry Potter."
It was Colin Creevey, grinning from ear to ear with his camera hanging around his neck like always.
"For what purpose?" Snape asked curtly.
"The wand-weighing ceremony, sir. Mr. Bagman said it's very important."
The room filled with murmurs. Harry sighed heavily. Of course they'd drag him into another display for the cameras.
Snape turned, eyes glittering with thinly veiled amusement. "Off you go then, Mr. Potter. Fame calls."
Harry stood and turned to Neville. "Let it simmer for two more minutes before the next stir. Watch the surface—it should start rippling."
Neville nodded quickly, grateful and nervous.
"Potter," Snape snapped.
Harry raised his chin and followed Colin out.
"Harry! Harry, did you know you were going to be chosen? Is it true you didn't put your name in? Why do you think the Goblet picked you? Are you going to use any powerful spells for the first task? Did you hear what Seamus said—"
Harry let the words wash over him like wind. He didn't answer. Not because he was being rude, but because he was tired. Tired of the questions. Tired of the stares. Tired of being Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Cheating Champion.
He didn't want a ceremony.
He wanted to stay in the dungeon, helping Neville with potions. He wanted to be in the Room of Requirement, practicing Force techniques with Dobby. He wanted to be a student. Just a student.
But that was never going to happen.
They entered the marble hall near the entrance staircase where the ceremony was set. There were chairs and velvet cushions, elaborate banners with swirling school crests, magical lights floating in elegant patterns.
Mr. Ollivander stood with a box filled with measuring tools and wand-polishing cloths. A photographer from the Daily Prophet stood off to the side, his camera already flashing in anticipation.
Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor were already present.
Harry stepped in without a word.
"Ah, there's our final Champion!" Bagman beamed. "Splendid. Splendid."
Harry didn't reply. He simply walked over and stood by Cedric.
"Didn't think I'd see you here," Cedric muttered under his breath.
"I didn't think I'd be here either," Harry replied.
The Wand Weighing Ceremony should have began now, but as Harry turned toward the door, hoping to vanish back to his peaceful solitude or at least the dull comfort of the library, a shrill voice cut through the room like nails on glass.
"Well, well, well! If it isn't the youngest Champion in a century!"
Harry stopped mid-step, his shoulders stiffening at the overly sweet tone. He turned slowly to find a woman in a lurid green robe striding toward him, her high-heeled boots clicking on the stone floor. Her quick, snake-like movements reminded him of someone trying far too hard to appear youthful. Scarlet-painted nails, quick-flashing eyes behind jeweled spectacles, and a quill already levitating beside her head—this was someone looking for a scoop, not a story.
"Harry Potter!" the woman squealed, extending her manicured hand. "Rita Skeeter. Daily Prophet. It's such an honor to meet you—finally."
Harry raised an eyebrow but didn't extend his hand.
Rita blinked, confused for half a second, then leaned closer. "Oh, I get it. Modest. Strong, silent type." She nudged his arm like an old friend. "But our readers love honesty, Harry. I'd just love a quick interview—come on, we can pop into that broom closet right over there, and—"
"No," Harry said, voice flat.
Rita's painted smile flickered.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said no," Harry repeated, stepping back as she reached for his sleeve.
"But—Harry—" She turned to the crowd, laughing nervously. "He's shy, isn't he? All that power, and still humble—how precious."
Her quill scribbled something furiously midair. Harry could already imagine the headline: Harry Potter: Humble Heartthrob or Secret Strategist?
"Leave me alone," Harry said again, more forcefully this time.
But Rita only laughed louder. "Come now, darling. Just a few questions—"
Suddenly, her feet left the floor.
There was no visible magic, no spell cast. Just raw, overwhelming force. Rita gasped as Harry shoved her back—not with a spell, not even with physical touch, but with a surge of invisible power. Her body slammed against a nearby bench, quill falling with a clatter. Her crocodile-skin handbag burst open, scattering self-inking quills and enchanted notebooks across the floor.
The room fell silent.
"I said no," Harry said, his voice cold. "And for the last time—I'm not participating in this bloody tournament. So why am I even needed for a wand weighing?"
Fleur blinked. Viktor tilted his head with interest. Cedric looked alarmed.
Professor Dumbledore remained impassive, his gaze unreadable. Perhaps finally realizing that any attempt to push Harry would only damage their fragile trust further, he said nothing.
Instead, it was Minister Fudge who stepped forward, smiling nervously and dabbing his forehead with a floral handkerchief.
"Now, now, my dear boy," Fudge said with forced cheer, "this is all just a formality! Just a few tradition-bound details—nothing to worry yourself over. The public expects these little ceremonies—helps the Ministry show unity, and all that rot."
Harry stared at him, unmoved. "Unity?"
Barty Crouch cleared his throat and stepped forward, briefcase in hand, robes perfectly pressed. "Mr. Potter, regardless of how you feel, your name came out, which means—"
"I'm not playing," Harry interrupted coolly. "There is no binding contract. I didn't submit my name in blood, nor did I agree to any magical terms. Someone else forged my entry, and I won't suffer for it."
Crouch paled slightly. "That's not how it works—"
"That's exactly how it works," Harry snapped, turning to look at all the officials gathered. "You know it. Every one of you knows it. The Goblet of Fire is ancient, yes. But even it can't force someone into a magically binding contract without the subject's will. You all know that."
A heavy silence descended over the room. For a fleeting moment, the only sound was the quiet scratching of Rita's quill slowly dragging itself across the floor, forgotten.
Cornelius Fudge tried again, smiling too broadly. "Surely you wouldn't want to disappoint your schoolmates—your fans, Harry. Think of the glory!"
"Glory?" Harry scoffed. "Is that what you want me to die for? Glory?"
Ollivander, still standing near his table of tools, cleared his throat awkwardly. "If we might move on, then. Since Mr. Potter is here, perhaps he will at least allow me to examine his wand?"
Harry glanced at him. Of all the adults in the room, Ollivander at least looked genuinely respectful. Harry gave a curt nod. "Fine. But this is the last ceremony I'm attending."
The ceremony began.
One by one, Mr. Ollivander called each champion forward. He examined their wands meticulously—length, core, wood, pliability—and offered commentary as if reviewing royal scepters.
When it was Harry's turn, Ollivander's eyes twinkled. "Ah yes. Eleven inches, holly and phoenix feather. Supple. I remember this wand well. Curious, very curious..."
Harry stood still as Ollivander ran his hands over the wand, murmuring. Harry could feel the wood vibrating slightly, sensing the attention.
"Still in perfect condition," Ollivander said with approval. "And quite loyal, I imagine."
Harry gave a faint nod.
The wand was weighed, polished, returned. Flashbulbs popped. More grinning.
He could feel Rita's glare on him, fury behind her glittering spectacles. She had been humiliated publicly. No doubt she was already planning her revenge on paper.
But Harry didn't care.
When the wand weighing ended, Harry reclaimed his wand and turned to leave. No one tried to stop him this time.
"Good day, Minister," Harry said coldly. "I hope you enjoy your tournament."
He didn't look back.
As the doors closed behind him, Dumbledore finally exhaled a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
Fudge turned to him, flustered. "He's dangerous, Albus. That kind of power—he can't be left unmonitored."
Dumbledore didn't answer.
He knew Fudge was right. But Harry wasn't dangerous because he was powerful.
He was dangerous because he was done playing by their rules.
The following morning dawned bright and crisp, the light streaming through the tall windows of the Gryffindor common room like golden swords. A soft rustling filled the air as owls swooped in through the castle's enchanted openings, dropping thick envelopes and newspapers across tables, laps, and heads alike.
Hedwig arrived with a graceful swoop, dropping The Daily Prophet onto Harry's lap before perching beside his untouched toast. Harry set down his pumpkin juice with a sigh. He already knew what would be inside.
He flipped open the front page with practiced disinterest.
WAND WEIGHING CEREMONY BEGINS TRIWIZARD TRADITIONS
A moving picture of Fleur Delacour, Viktor Krum, and Cedric Diggory posed gallantly, their wands extended toward the camera. Fleur smiled like a model, her silver hair catching the light. Viktor looked awkward, stiff as ever, while Cedric wore a proud, easy grin.
The accompanying article detailed the ceremony with glowing prose. Ollivander's expertise, the elegance of the champions, the symbolism of unity among the schools—it was all written to sound grand and heroic.
Harry, notably, was not mentioned. Not even a single line.
Good, Harry thought.
He reached for his spoon, preparing to start in on his porridge. But Hermione leaned over from beside him, yanking the paper from his hand.
"Did you read this yet?" she asked, her voice tight.
Harry sighed. "If it's the article on the front page, then yes. They left me out. Not a word. I consider it a blessing."
"No, Harry," Hermione said, flipping the paper and slamming it down to the next page. "This."
The headline was scrawled in garish emerald ink, glittering obnoxiously in the candlelight.
POTTER PLAYS THE MARTYR: HARRY'S HYPOCRITICAL HERO ACT
By Rita Skeeter
Harry stared blankly at it. Hermione, however, had already launched into a tirade.
"She calls you a fraud, Harry! She says—listen to this—'Harry Potter, not satisfied with stealing the spotlight through mysterious circumstances, now claims he's too noble to participate. A classic attempt to turn guilt into sympathy.' Can you believe that?"
Harry reached for his toast without looking up. "Yes. I absolutely can."
Hermione's eyes flashed with fury. "She even quotes Millicent Bulstrode, saying you 'hexed your way in' and that you're 'too arrogant to admit it'—and Malfoy, of course. And Pansy Parkinson called you 'attention-starved.' This is disgusting."
"I'm not surprised," Harry said calmly. "Rita Skeeter writes for scandal. She needs a villain. I gave her one."
Neville leaned across the table, the paper now crumpling in his clenched hand. "Harry, this isn't just scandal—it's character assassination. She's making people hate you."
"They already hate me," Harry said, tearing off a piece of toast. "This just makes it easier for them to pretend they have a reason."
Neville's round face flushed. "If you want, I could speak to my gran. Augusta Longbottom still has connections at the Prophet. She could make a complaint, maybe force a retraction."
But Harry shook his head. "No. Don't. That'll only add fuel. If Rita wants to play dirty, I have better ways to deal with her than dragging in public figures."
Hermione blinked. "You mean… you're going to do something?"
Harry smirked slightly. "I said if she becomes a nuisance."
"Harry," Hermione said cautiously, "you can't go around throwing journalists into walls."
"I didn't throw her into the wall," Harry replied calmly, sipping his juice. "I pushed her away. She tripped. Completely different."
Neville chuckled despite himself, but Hermione didn't look convinced.
"But seriously," she said, folding the paper. "She's going to keep doing this. The more people whisper, the more she'll write. You can't let her ruin your name."
"I stopped caring about my name the day I realized it was a brand the world used to sell headlines," Harry muttered. "Let her try. If she digs too deep, she might find something sharp."
Hermione opened her mouth to argue but closed it again when she caught the gleam in his eyes. He was too calm. Too composed. Too much like someone who had already planned what to do.
The rest of the day passed in awkward silences and sideways glances. As they walked through the corridors, students flipped their copies of the Prophet open dramatically as Harry passed by. Some jeered. Some laughed. A few of the younger Gryffindors stared at him with hesitant confusion.
The Slytherins, naturally, were having the time of their lives.
Draco Malfoy lounged in the hallway near the Defense classroom, flipping through his paper with exaggerated flair.
"Morning, Saint Potter!" he called out. "I must say, your humble act is so believable—Rita captured your soul perfectly."
Harry didn't even glance at him. He kept walking.
"Too busy pretending not to care to answer?" Malfoy called.
"Too busy to waste breath on insects," Harry muttered under his breath, brushing past Crabbe and Goyle like they weren't even there.
That night, as the common room dimmed and students turned in, Harry sat quietly in the armchair by the fireplace. The flames flickered across his face, reflecting in his eyes.
Hermione was watching him from the desk, her quill paused mid-scratch.
"You really don't care?" she asked softly.
"I care about truth," Harry said, voice low. "I don't care what people want to believe. That's their business."
"What if she writes worse things? What if she starts digging into… other things?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. Then, slowly, he said, "Then I'll dig deeper."
Hermione stared at him for a long moment. "Harry, what does that mean?"
He looked up at her then, eyes calm and unflinching.
"It means I've learned a lot more this school than just magic."