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8,508Chapter 9: Part I Chapter 9

Edited November 2020

Part One, Chapter Nine

The Great Hall was fiercely abuzz.

Daphne sneered at her fellow classmates for their obnoxious behavior. Honestly, there were limits to showing excitement for an event and this was clearly over the top. Once they caught her disapproving stare, they quieted, glancing solemnly at each other.

Sometimes, she wondered why she even bothered to keep up pretenses. Her father—Merlin bless him—always expected Daphne to show proper etiquette in public. She loved her father, but at times, she grew tired representing the old line of Greengrass. Because her mother and father hadn't conceived a male heir, Daphne was expected to continue on the Family name.

She looked further down the Slytherin table at her fourteen-year-old sister, Astoria.

Daphne experienced a spasm of jealousy. Astoria was very beautiful with platinum blonde hair and bright eyes of sapphire. Beauty aside, Daphne was most jealous of her sister's ability of unwinding. As long as Astoria did not make a fool of their Family name, she could be as carefree as she wanted to be. There were no pure-blood expectations on her.

Most importantly, there was no pressure to marry a respectable pure-blood.

Despite all this, despite her jealousy, Daphne admittedly adored Astoria and felt immensely protective over her. She was happy her sister did not live within preestablished expectations.

Turning away from Astoria, she looked toward the Ravenclaw table, knowing the boy wouldn't be there. Despite it only being three days into the new term, Izar was already skipping meals in order to dwell in the library. It didn't surprise her in the least, but it worried her. Even Daphne noticed the pressure weighing on the Ravenclaw. He never showed it, but she imagined he had a driving need to prove himself to the disbelievers who thought he hadn't demonstrated enough aptitude to skip a year.

Suddenly, the voices quieted and the candles across the Great Hall dimmed.

All eyes were on the Goblet, holding their breath as the flames turned a blinding white-blue.

Daphne sat up, intrigued.

Malfoy claimed he would be the Hogwarts Champion. In fact, he went so far as to brag to the rest of the Slytherins about how he would bring glory and pride to their House. Daphne didn't find anything impressive about the young Malfoy's claims. In fact, she imagined Malfoy Senior would be less than pleased if he knew his heir was acting so… pompously obvious.

"It is time." Dumbledore swept from the High Table and stretched his hand toward the Goblet.

Daphne held her breath as the flames turned a vivid red before a piece of parchment shot from the Goblet. It spiraled in the air, all eyes watching its smoky descent. Dumbledore snatched it promptly and gazed down at the name of the first Champion. He probably enjoyed the way every student and politician leaned forward with anticipation.

Daphne could have sworn she saw the old Headmaster's lips twitch.

"The Champion for Durmstrang Institute is…" A significant pause. "Lukas Steinar!"

Daphne watched as a tall, thin boy stood from a group of cheering Durmstrang students. He was very attractive. Silky black hair fell in his bright eyes as he approached the Headmaster. He definitely wasn't as beautiful as Izar, but there was definitely competition. And to make matters even more appealing, he was the Norwegian Minister's son. And a pure-blood.

Steinar accepted the parchment and congratulations from Dumbledore before disappearing through one of the side chambers.

The Goblet suddenly spat out the next twirling parchment.

"The Champion for Beauxbatons Academy is…" The pause extended longer this time around, spurring anxious whispers across the Hall. "Cyprien Beaumont!"

Surprisingly, it was a male Beauxbatons Champion. Daphne sat back, both pleased and irritated. She was pleased, simply because she didn't think any of the Beauxbatons witches were remotely important enough to be so publicized, yet Daphne had hoped a female had been chosen for at least one of the schools.

There was always the Hogwarts Champion.

If Malfoy didn't get it, that was.

She watched the redhead—Cyprien—as he approached the side chamber. Seeing him, she found her previous perceptions of redheads changing. Typically, when she thought of redheads, her mind instantly conjured up the image of a homely Weasley. It was distasteful. But Cyprien…

Before Daphne could thoroughly observe Cyprien, the flames turned red once again and the last piece of parchment shot out. Dumbledore was quick to snatch it, his own actions almost demonstrating a level of excitement that the students all shared. Holding the piece of parchment between his fingers, the Headmaster stared at it for quite some time.

Everyone sat forward.

Draco—almost landing in his dinner in his lean forward—looked as smug as the albino peacocks his family kept around their manor. Daphne observed her nails despite the lack of decent lighting.

"The Hogwarts Champion is… Izar Harrison?"

Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened before she could remember that a Greengrass doesn't gape. Did the Headmaster really just say— But there was no way! The students and staff members leaned forward further, their faces twisting incoherently. They hadn't heard either. The Headmaster had spoken it so softly.

"Izar Harrison!" the Headmaster shouted loudly, causing the Hall to flinch back from the sheer volume.

Dumbledore turned to the Ravenclaw table and the rest of the heads followed suit when they didn't know where else to look. There weren't many people who knew who Izar Harrison was. And because of that, there weren't many who knew he was underage.

Daphne covered her mouth with her hand to muffle a pleased laugh. Oh, this was just too good. What made it even greater was Malfoy's flabbergasted look. Daphne wished that annoying Gryffindor was around with his camera. Or better yet, Rita Skeeter. Unfortunately, she was waiting in the Trophy Chamber with the Champions.

The Ravenclaw table was in uproar as they looked around for their Champion.

Daphne rolled her eyes. Izar needed to start telling people where he was going. She sniffed with disdain and stood from the Slytherin table. She kept her face cool as eyes turned to her. When she incurred Dumbledore's attention, she lifted her chin proudly.

"Izar is in the library, Headmaster."

Laughter and conversation spread furiously across the Hall. What Champion—who put his name in the Goblet—would be in the library when they were about to announce the winners? It was outrageous. Little did they know that Izar had not put his name in the Goblet. Even Daphne wasn't thick enough to believe that.

But it did beg the question of who did.

Who was cruel enough to put in another's name? Especially another who wanted nothing to do with the Tournament?

Dumbledore nodded sharply and his expression twisted into one of understanding. It was if the Headmaster were chastising himself for not having known the answer soon. "Will you go collect him, Ms. Greengrass, and tell him to meet us in the Trophy Room?"

She nodded, keeping her cool as she swept from the Great Hall.

Izar wasn't going to like this at all.

And Daphne was looking forward to it.

Death of Today

Izar pushed the parchment away, relieved to have finished the Charms essay in advance.

It was relatively easy enough and Izar was a bit disappointed that it hadn't challenged him. Hopefully Defense Against the Dark Arts would be a bit more… difficult. Even if the material wouldn't challenge Izar, the professor would. Tomorrow was his first class with Sirius Black and Izar knew he would have to work hard showing his indifference with the professor.

But now that he was done with his homework for the night, he had time to look into the Dark Mark.

He had already searched the Eruditio—the gift Riddle had given him—to see if there were any spells to determine a wizards' wand core. However, the information had been very limited. There were a few potions that broke down the properties of a wand, but the potions took months to brew. Not only was it time consuming, but the brewer would actually need possession of the wand in question.

Why, in Merlin's name, would someone create such a useless potion? Obviously, if someone had the wand in their possession, finding out the elements could be achieved with a simple charm. Izar was more than certain Voldemort wouldn't lend his wand.

It was pathetic.

And the few spells inside the book contained the same guidelines. He needed to hold the wand in order to find out what the properties were.

Izar had entertained the idea of asking Ollivander—the renowned wandmaker.

Though, even if Ollivander agreed to answer Izar's questions, there were still issues and concerns.

No two wands were the same—even if they had matching cores. Because of this, Izar realized that if he gained knowledge on Voldemort's wand core, it would still be difficult to manipulate the Dark Mark unless it was identical. He needed to determine the type of wood Voldemort had as well. When he had watched Voldemort heal him, Izar observed the lighter wood that could, perhaps be yew, maple, or even balsa.

It was frustrating.

Izar tapped his own wand on the table, eyeing the eleven-inch Indian rosewood with a Thestral hair core. It would be rather ironic if Voldemort had the same, but Izar doubted it.

And then there was the question if Izar needed the same creature who donated its feather, hair, or heartstring. It would probably make manipulating the Mark more obtainable, but… thinking about searching for the exact animal seemed impossible. He needed to ask Ollivander. Though, Izar doubted the wandmaker would disclose private information on a wizards' wand properties.

"Izar!"

He flinched.

The ceremony couldn't be finished already, could it? He had been looking forward to his time alone in the library. "Yes, Daphne?" he replied imperturbably as he looked up at the blonde. Immediately, he noticed her wicked grin and Izar wasn't in the mood to hear about the gossip of the Champions. "If you've come to—"

"Headmaster Dumbledore wants you in the Trophy Room. Now." She grabbed Izar by the arm and hauled him cleanly from his chair.

He blinked. Merlin, she was so strong for such a little thing.

"I need my things." He batted her persistent hands away in order to pack his schoolbooks. "What did Headmaster Dumbledore want to discuss with me?" He shot a look at the smug girl. "Isn't he supposed to be meeting with the Champions to discuss the First Task? What does my attendance have to do with the Tournament?"

"Do you have to ask so many questions, Izar?" She hooked her finger into his sleeve and pulled him out of the library as soon as he shouldered his bag. "Not everything in life needs to be analyzed so…" Her face screwed up rather cutely. "So provisionally..."

Izar's eyes narrowed with amusement. "My, my, Daphne, 'provisionally' is a big word for you. Do you even know what it means? I would had suggested 'thoroughly', but I'll give you credit for trying to impress me with your exceptional, albeit imperfect vocabulary. "

She threw him a nasty look before releasing his sleeve. "You're the Champion for Hogwarts."

"Excuse me?" Izar chuckled.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at him evenly. "I'm not joking, Izar. Your name came out of the Goblet. Dumbledore wants you in the Trophy Room with the other Champions."

His amusement died. When he realized she wasn't fooling around with him, Izar turned his heel and quickly made his way to the Trophy Room.

"Good luck!" Daphne called after him.

This couldn't be.

He didn't put his name in the Goblet. The age-line restricted him from crossing. Not only that, but he wasn't remotely interested in the Tournament. The very thought of competing set Izar's teeth on edge.

He ran an anxious hand through his hair, disordering it severely.

Izar opened the door to the Trophy Room, swallowing thickly before walking down the stairs. He heard the arguing. They were arguing about him. Izar paused, unsure if he really wanted to go down there. They actually thought he put his name in the Goblet. How amusing was that? It was the last thing he ever wanted and hopefully Dumbledore knew a way to get him out of the Tournament.

But even Izar knew it was impossible to withdraw from the Tournament once the Goblet selected its Champions.

Professor McGonagall's voice floated up the stairs. "If anyone can successfully cross Albus' age restriction line, it would be Mr. Harrison. The boy is remarkably adept."

"Surely this is something worth investigating." The voice had a very thick Norwegian accent. "Someone must have tampered with the Goblet. We should not have the boy competing." The man—Izar believed it might have been the Minister of Norway—sounded as if he were accusing someone of sabotaging Izar.

At least someone was on his side.

"Or…" a female French woman—surely Madame Maxime, the Headmistress of Beauxbatons—interrupted, "as Minerva has explained earlier, the boy could have achieved such a feat himself. Evidently, he is smart enough to do so. There is no need for suspicions and speculations, Minister Steiner. Surely the boy just wants glory, fame…"

"The boy does not strike me as someone who searches for attention," Snape's grim and deep baritone intervened.

"Then why wasn't he at supper?" Maxime questioned. "I'm sure the boy was too ashamed to face the consequences of his wrongdoings."

"Or…" Izar drawled as he stepped off the last stair and into the fire-lit chamber. All heads turned to him. "'The boy' could have simply been in the library completing his Charms essay." He shrugged. "But I suppose your theory sounds so much more… scandalously riveting."

The whole group was gathered in the Trophy Room. The Headmasters and Headmistress, the Ministers of each country, and a few other professors and politicians. There was also one Undersecretary of the Minister. Tom Riddle. The Dark Lord stood among the group, looking oddly casual and scarily unobtrusive. But Izar knew he was anything but ordinary. Every time the man moved, he demanded attention.

"Izar." Dumbledore swept forward, his brows furrowing with concern. He held up a hand, halting a blond woman and her cameraman from approaching. "Not yet, Rita," Dumbledore commanded sharply.

Rita Skeeter. Izar withheld a grimace.

Dumbledore opened his mouth, most likely to demand if Izar had put his name in the Goblet, but he was interrupted.

"This is the boy?" Maxime demanded with an exaggerated look down at Izar. "He looks no older than thirteen."

Izar flinched. This time, he sneered. "If we are judging age by height alone, Madame, you must be pushing—" A hand closed around his shoulder, cutting him off before he could insult a very prominent figure in the French world. Izar refused to look down in shame, but he did glance at Snape, silently thanking the man for silencing him.

"A Slytherin!" Rita exclaimed excitedly as she looked between Severus Snape and Izar. After all, what other student would be comfortable in Professor Snape's presence? "There hasn't been a Slytherin Champion for over thirty years!"

"Yes," Izar drawled, "because the raven on my school robes resembles a serpent exceptionally well."

Rita cleared her throat, finally noting his Ravenclaw robes. She sniffed, looking away as if she hadn't heard Izar's remark.

A hand steered him away from both Snape and Rita. Izar found himself looking up into the concerned face of Albus Dumbledore. The old Headmaster stooped low in order to meet Izar's eyes more comfortably. "Did you put your name in the Goblet, Izar?"

"No, Headmaster, I would never put my name in the Goblet. The very idea of the Tournament turns me off." A few snorts were heard from the spectators, but Izar paid them no heed. His eyes were locked on Dumbledore's genuinely curious gaze.

The Headmaster smiled softly and straightened. "Do you have any suspicions of who would put your name in the Goblet?"

"Perhaps an older Ravenclaw," Izar muttered before realizing it wasn't the best thing to say. But if anyone put his name in the Goblet against his will, it would be the older Ravenclaws. Wasn't it only days ago when they expressed the importance of Izar bringing glory to their House? Or maybe it was in attempt to belittle Izar and bring attention to his inadequacy.

Dumbledore raised his brows, appearing truly surprised. "Why would your own House want to put you in danger?" As Izar looked away, Dumbledore remained persistent. "Izar," the man gently persuaded.

"We've had a few disagreements, that's all," Izar said quickly.

"I'd say let the boy compete."

Izar turned, his eyes immediately drawn to the tall brunette across the room. The Durmstrang Champion appeared far too haughty as he examined Izar with a sardonic twitch to his lips. If the student wiped the arrogant smirk off his face, Izar believed he would have looked marginally handsome. Except for the hair. While it may have been every female's envy—silky and straight—it covered one of his blue eyes. Clearly, the boy believed it was fashionable, though Izar didn't find it convincing in the least.

Just behind the Durmstrang Champion stood the Beauxbatons Champion. The redhead appeared a far kinder as he offered Izar a small smile.

"Besides," the Durmstrang student continued with a scoff, "if it comes down to it, I don't even think he'd be able to reach the Trophy."

Izar bristled, his eyes narrowing into slits. Why was everyone attacking his height? "Is this coming from the boy who wouldn't be able to see the Trophy past the curtain hanging uselessly in front of his face?"

The Durmstrang students' eyes grew wide before narrowing thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid, no matter the consequences, Mr.—" Riddle began, motioning toward Izar as if he'd forgotten his name.

The man was brilliant at acting the politician.

"Izar Harrison," McGonagall supplied, casting an incredibly stern look at Riddle over her spectacles.

"Mr. Harrison is entitled to compete, no matter his age. Once his name is pulled from the Goblet, he becomes legally obligated to participate in the Tournament until the last Task." Riddle flashed Izar a strained smile—as if politically required to treat him with respect despite his own opinion on the matter. "It's a pity this had to happen. If we find evidence that you placed your name in the Goblet, Mr. Harrison, I can assure you that you will face some serious consequences. There are many people relying on Britain succeeding this year."

His words were so real and so well versed, Izar found it hard not to believe the man.

But just how did the Dark Lord feel about Izar's participation in the Tournament? Was the man truly disappointed that Izar's name was called? It was difficult to tell, and Izar knew he wouldn't know the man's true feelings for quite some time.

Next to a silent Karkaroff, the Norwegian Minister looked just as bemused as Izar, if not a bit suspicious.

"Now, now, Mr. Riddle." Dumbledore placed himself in front of Izar, cutting off Riddle's intense stare. "Mr. Harrison is just as guilty as the rest of us. There is no certainty as to whom placed his name in the Goblet. I can only hope you will support Izar instead of slighting him."

If Dumbledore was suspicious of Tom Riddle's true identity as a Dark Lord, then the old Headmaster would know of Riddle's dislike for Muggle-borns. Dumbledore, in turn, would believe that Riddle was repelled with Izar because he was impure. Izar being the Dark Lord's Death Eater probably wouldn't cross Dumbledore's mind.

"Gather 'round!" Rita took control of the situation, motioning the Champions near the hearth. "We will need a photograph for tomorrow's story. Of course, we'll take more photos at the Wand Weighing ceremony, but we must tease our readers! It is all about the subscriptions!" She appeared all but tickled as she debated on the perfect pose for all three Champions.

Wand Weighing ceremony… Izar pondered over that briefly, ignoring the Durmstrang Champion's stare.

"Harrison could stand on the chair over there," the Norwegian boy proclaimed. "At least then, he may be as tall as us."

Izar threw the chair in question a look before crossing the room. Ignoring the surprised scrutiny from the others in the room, Izar lowered down. The chair resembled a throne and Izar settled assuredly upon it. With an arrogant swipe of his leg, he crossed his legs and placed both hands on the armrests.

He flashed a smug look at the affronted Durmstrang boy. "Or maybe you two can situate yourself around me."

Originally, he had been horrified at the prospect of participating in such a Tournament. But after interacting with the Durmstrang boy, Izar realized how fun it could be trouncing on the boy's pride. Just because he was Hogwarts' Champion, didn't necessarily mean he had to be in the limelight all the time, did it?

But then he remembered the projects he had wanted to complete before the year was over. Immediately, he became a bit disheartened. Maybe stepping on the Durmstrang boy wouldn't be as fun as it sounded. Not when he already had so much to balance.

This year was going to be chaos.

Death of Today

Tapered fingers unrolled the Prophet while his free hand grabbed his cup of tea.

Grey eyes glimpsed at the front page. He snorted as he read the headline. So, it appeared as if the Triwizard Tournament would be taking place at Hogwarts this year. He examined the photo of the three Champions, uninterested, yet curious at the same time. It was always amusing to see if he recognized familiar wizarding names he went to school with.

It seemed like ages ago, yet it had only been sixteen years.

His gaze immediately focused on the boy in the middle. His heart thumped once before it sped rapidly. His left hand collided shakily with the tea, sending the fragile porcelain cup clattering to the ground. It broke in pieces, sending hot liquid everywhere.

"Kreacher!" he yelled, his hoarse voice indication he did not speak often. His feet burned from the spilt tea, but he hardly noticed as he clutched the Prophet closer. He trembled. Thick grief washed over him. "Damnit, Lily!"

He threw the Prophet down, and in a fit of rage, he brought back his arm and pushed all the porcelain dishes off the table.

"Master Regulus, sirs!" Kreacher cried.

Regulus whimpered and collapsed into his chair. He covered his vulnerable face with his hands. No matter what he thought about Lily before, no matter how much Regulus had suffered for the betrayal almost fifteen years ago, it would never compare to this, this betrayal. Not when a child was involved. His child.

"We leave for Britain, Kreacher."

Once Regulus pulled himself together, he stared down at the Prophet, his eyes obsessively drinking in the boy. His name—rather ironically—was Izar. Izar was the star in the constellation of Boötes, conveniently located in the same constellation as the star Arcturus. There were three generations of Arcturus' in the Black family. Not only that, but Regulus' middle name was Arcturus.

The surname really itched him the wrong way. Harrison. Izar Harrison. Regulus raked his fingers through his hair, his teeth on edge. 'An orphan, a Muggle-born orphan' the paper read. What in Merlin's name was Lily playing at?

"Britain? Master Regulus?" Kreacher's ears flopped forward. "But the Dark Lord, Masters—"

"It doesn't matter," Regulus snapped harshly. "Pack my things. We're leaving as soon as possible."