Chapter 92:

"Maybe you should think about entering. There's money involved, you know; you'd be able to buy some decent robes then." Harry knew that Draco knew underage wizards wouldn't be able to enter; he was just trying to get a rise out of the redhead. The Slytherin laughed at Ron's confusion. "You mean you don't know?" He chanced a look at Harry, who shook his head slightly. Draco's smirk widened. "Oh, that's just precious! My father told me ages ago. I suppose yours just isn't senior enough to have been told about it."

"Or Ron's

father just respects when things are supposed to stay secret," Hermione said icily. Draco laughed.

"As if everyone else's parents didn't tell them immediately. They probably just don't talk about the important things in front of him." Happy with his annual pre-sorting mocking of Ron Weasley, Draco let it go, his eyes turning to Harry once more. Harry wished he could somehow arrange a way to talk to the blond in private, but that would have to wait until they got to school. The train was far too crowded to risk it. Instead he merely quirked his lips in the briefest smile, which turned into a glare when he caught Ron looking at him. When Draco left, Ron slammed the compartment door shut so hard the window cracked.

"Oh, honestly, Ron," Hermione muttered, whipping out her wand to fix it. "You shouldn't let him get to you like that."

Ron, who had been sulking on and off for various reasons since he'd been given the dress robes, merely scowled and squashed the last remaining cauldron cake between his hands. Harry shared an uneasy look with Neville. Rooming with Ron in such a mood was going to be interesting; hopefully he would perk up once the Tournament was announced.

When they reached Hogsmeade station, they hurried to the carriages, not wanting to be out in the deluge of rain any longer than they had to be. "Has the weather ever been so bad they can't take the first years across in boats?" Harry wondered aloud, watching Hagrid lead the group of tiny, bedraggled eleven year-olds towards the lake.

"I don't think so," Hermione replied. "I've certainly never read about it. They always find a way."

Harry cast a quick Drying charm over himself, even though he knew he'd just end up getting soaked again when he reached the castle. It beat having to sit in the carriage in sodden robes.

Thankfully, he was eventually at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, spelled dry for the third time — thanks to Peeves and his water balloons — and eagerly awaiting the start of the feast. As the sopping first years were led in, leaving a veritable stream of water in their wake, Harry realised it was the first sorting he'd actually been present for since his own. He was surprised when the Sorting Hat's song was completely different, impressing upon them the virtues of each house individually. Harry's mind cast back to Sirius' words the night before he'd left Seren Du; his insistence that the war would only be won by the houses working together. Perhaps the hat was trying to tell them something.

There seemed to be a thousand first years to sort as Harry's stomach rumbled expectantly, the golden plates in front of him staying frustratingly empty. He tried to pay attention, to keep an eye out for any names that sounded familiar from all his books about the Wizengamot, but other than the Carrow twins — both of whom went to Slytherin — there weren't any he recognised.

At last it was time to eat, and Harry ravenously filled his plate, tuning out most of the conversation around him. He grimaced when Nearly-Headless Nick let slip that Hogwarts was staffed by house elves, immediately setting Hermione off again. That was going to be a problem this year, wasn't it?

At the end of the feast, Dumbledore stood to make his start-of-term speech. Harry hadn't realised the Triwizard Tournament would mean cancelling quidditch, and his outrage was echoed by several others from every house. He caught Cedric Diggory's eye across the room, the boy looking upset at the news. So much for that rematch. The interruption of Mad-Eye Moody was an unexpected one. Harry felt uneasy when the man's magical eye landed on him, unnaturally bright blue. It felt like it was piercing his soul — he made a mental note to ask Sirius exactly what that eye was capable of.

He didn't know much about the man, just what Mr Weasley had told them that morning, but it was clear he was at least friends with Dumbledore. That didn't exactly inspire confidence in Harry. He'd have to be careful around Moody until he'd got the measure of him.

Harry pretended to be just as startled by the announcement of the Tournament as everyone else. The twins, unsurprisingly, were among those not pleased with the news that only wizards who were of-age by the end of October would be able to enter. "We're so close, we're practically seventeen!" Fred insisted as they walked up to Gryffindor Tower.

"There's got to be a way to get around it," George agreed. "Once our names are in the running, they won't be able to turn us down."

Harry doubted it would be that simple, but stayed quiet as the pair plotted ways to hoodwink the impartial judge. When they extended the offer to Ron and Harry, Harry snorted. "I think I get into enough trouble in the average school year without seeking it out, don't you?" he pointed out dryly. Fred shrugged.

"Yeah, mate, you're probably right. Ah well, more glory for us!"

They went off to their respective dormitories after bidding everyone goodnight, and Harry grinned at Dean's new poster of Viktor Krum. Maybe he should've brought his Holyhead Harpies poster with him instead of leaving it in his room. He could explain it away as a birthday present, or something. Though he'd have to figure out a reasonable explanation for why it was the Harpies. Maybe he could buy a Puddlemere poster in support of Oliver instead.

Changing into his pyjamas, he put all thoughts of quidditch and posters out of his head, drawing his curtains around his bed and setting the usual privacy charms. Now he was back at school, all his plans for the year came rushing back to the forefront of his mind. He wanted to get the heirs closer together, even the Slytherin ones — if he could get them all working together before either Dumbledore or Voldemort managed to get to them, they might have a chance at sorting out the shambles of the wizarding world after the war was over. It was all well and good planning for battle, but someone needed to have a good idea of what came next, or they'd end up doing exactly what they'd done after the last two wars; sticking their heads in the sand and letting Albus Dumbledore take care of everything.

As well as that, he had to keep his head down and out of Dumbledore's way, and figure out just who he could trust within the castle. Right now, it was a pretty short list. The next morning Harry woke up early, so he left the dorm quietly and headed down to breakfast alone. There was only a handful of students in the Great Hall already, and as Harry walked towards the Gryffindor table, someone slammed into his shoulder. "Watch where you're going, Potter." It was Draco, glaring harshly at him, and Harry returned the look even as he brightened up internally, shoving a hand in his robe pocket and wrapping his fingers around a scrap of parchment that hadn't been there a second ago. He waited until he was sat down before unfolding it under the table. Tonight, after curfew, fourth floor Charms room?

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