"My teeth are yellow

(hello world!)

Would you like me a little better if they were white like yours?

I need to purge my urges,

(shame, shame, shame)

I need an alibi to justify, somebody to blame."

-- Alien Blues, Vundabar

..XoX..

Hogwarts has an ambient vibe to it. It is not overtly decorated -- only cleaned up, polished, shined. Harry gets the idea that they are trying to make a good impression.

He sits, tired, holding a warm cup of coffee between cold fingers, counting down the seconds. Today, there will be no classes. Today, the champions of the Triwizard Tournament will be selected. Today, Harry will figure out if he can get emancipated, or if he will need to find a different method of getting out of the marriage that traps him.

The event will occur during lunch -- enough time for the other schools to select their champions and send them over here -- so until then Harry will drink his warm coffee, warm his cold fingers. He thinks about Tom and Luna and futiley tries to avoid doing the same with his parents.

The first part of the day is peaceful. It is calm. Well spent. He sits in on the other Houses' conversations, their gambles and bets -- because Ravens are not typically into that sort of thing; too analytical to get to bet in the first place, let alone win against -- and he hears whispers of names of people he doesn't know. The Hufflepuffs seem most excited for the drawing, certain that they'll win and if they don't then that they will, at least, have fun. They have enough school pride for the bulk of them. The Slytherins are more anxious.

"I'm sending my child to the winning school," says a sixth year, "And I really like it here. So if you make it in... don't lose, alright? And that goes for you, too, Potter."

Harry, surprised that his presence was even noticed, sputters, "Uh. Duh. That -- that goes for you, too, you know."

"If I make it in, we won't have anything to worry about."

"Sure," says Harry. He is unreasonably upset at the arrogance. He could have stopped there. Could have kept his mouth shut in this one moment of House Unity displayed by his peer -- because, to them, it doesn't matter if a Snake, Lion, Raven, or Badger wins. Just that Hogwarts does. Harry should have left it at that. But he has never been good at being nice. "Though you've heard about overestimating oneself, I'm sure."

Harry tenses up immediately, regretting and hating the words as soon as they've left his lips. This is why we hate each other, thinks Harry, bitterly. This is why Houses will always divide us -- because we let them. He expects sneers and frowns and subtly rude remarks to match his own--

But there is just laughter. He throws an arm around his shoulder, smiling, "Damn straight! You heard him, guys! Estimate nothing in isolation! Let's win this shit!"

And the Slytherins cheer, more arms thrown around his shoulders, and Harry realizes he is the arrogant one here -- why does he think their compassion is so fragile that Harry's words could break it? Harry cheers with them.

When the spirit dies down, Harry stands to leave, see what the Gryffindors are thinking, when the sixth year asks if he'd like to stick around for coffee. "You're a funky man, Harry Potter. Join us."

"...Alright." He sits down and cradles a cup of coffee once again. He clears his throat, suddenly aware that he is sitting a group of students older than him, each of them looking at him like he is a child. Like he is a pet. A "fucky man." "So," he tries, "you know my name -- so, I guess, what's yours?"

One of the guys rolls his eyes. "To act as if you don't already know us, Potter, is insulting--"

The sixth year holds up his hand. "Don't be a jerk, Malfoy."

The boy, Malfoy, scoffs.

"I'm serious. Watch yoself. Potter doesn't know us -- it's chill. Whatever. Got it?" To Malfoy's silence, he repeats, " Got it?"

Malfoy all but spits, " Yeah. I got it."

He nods his head. "Alright then." Turning back to Harry, who is confused by their understanding, confused by their nature of which Harry could never try to replicate. "That's Draco Malfoy, as you've heard. There's Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Tracey Davis... and me." He holds out his hand. "I'm Cedric Diggory."

Harry hesitates. But he shakes the hand anyway. He is thinking too much, presuming too much. The shake of a hand is not an admission of friendship. There is no commitment in greetings. (And if there was, would that be such a bad thing? His resistance to change is forever tiring.) "How many of you guys are in the raffle?"

"Oh, only the seventh years."

"Really?" Harry asks.

"We wanted our chances to be the best, so we agreed only the most experienced and most likely to win to enter."

"That's--" Harry laughs. "Smart. Really smart. I dunno why us Ravens didn't think of that."

"Hm. Well. Housemembers are not always clearly defined by their Houses, so speak."

"I'd say," says Harry. "You're the least Slytherin Snake I've ever met." You're like me.

"I get that a lot," says Cedric.

"An understatement," mutters Malfoy. Harry buries his smile in his cup.

Cedric rolls his eyes. "I used to wonder why I was even Sorted here -- but now I believe Salazar chose me for a reason. To better his House? Something significant. Important. I don't know."

Malfoy laughs and says something about "the ways people cope" but Harry isn't laughing. Harry gets it.

Salazar chose him for a reason and it is a good one. He is the reins on Malfoy. He has said something not demonizing Lions and was not only not shamed for it but cheered for it. He is the least Slytherin Snake Harry's ever met. If there are more like him, there's a reason. And it's Cedric Diggory.

Salazar Slytherin chose him for a reason. Harry hopes something similar applies to him.

"Did you pull your name out of the running, Potter? I know my friend had asked you not to, and you didn't seem very, hah... Agreeable with the idea, and all--"

"Wait," says Harry and the joy in him dies a little. If he is talking about who he thinks he is... "Who's your friend?"

"Julian Jackson -- you probably don't know his name. Uh. Seventh year? Ravenclaw? Teaching Assistant? He's only mentioned you once or twice, but, dude, you've clearly made an impression--"

Go to Hell rings in Harry's head again. There is guilt with it. And confusion. Someone who Harry outwardly insulted, dismissed, treated with not even an ounce of respect... still likes him, in the arbitrary way one likes a stranger. "No," says Harry. His voice does not sound like his own. That's why I'm pulling out. Relating to his condition... Oh, god. When will he stop tearing vulnerable people? "Listen, I've got to go--"

"Oh, geez, I'm sorry if I've said some--"

Here, Harry wants to reassure him. No. It is not your fault. You have nothing to apologize for. It is alright. I am alright. Thank you for the coffee. Thank you for the kindles. Thank you for inviting me to sit with you. And thank you, really. For everything.

He wants to. But the words don't match his tongue and the hunger gnawing at him is not kind to his psych so he stands and says, for no real reason at all, "Whatever. Join your friend in Hell for all I care."

Walking away, he hears laughter and he knows that even his insults have not dulled their joy around today. He is like a kitten, clawing furiously at nothing he can break. His efforts to do otherwise are just cute.

For that, he supposes he is glad. It is better they remain unaffected than to be affected negatively.

He still has some time to burn, so he lays in the grass, content to soak up some sun. He will treasure this small gift of life. He thinks many times that beside him, another figure lies. When he opens his eyes back up, there is never anybody there. His mind is playing tricks on him.

His mind is telling him he is lonely and he almost wants to listen, almost does, when a half hour before noon a letter arrives. Harry pets the owl -- recognizing it, as he does, as Luna's. It's weird. She already sent her weekly letter.

It is short, this out of the schedule, out of the ordinary letter... but not sweet.

Harry,

Something has gone terribly wrong. I am not sure how or why but I do not ask much of you, okay? I don't ask a lot. I don't ask for anything. But I really, really need you to believe me when I say that I never wanted this to happen. I did everything right, everything in my power to make sure it didn't.

But it did. And I want you to know I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. I ask that you don't hold it against me.

Okay?

Okay.

-- Luna.

Its implications are terrifying. His mind goes to how today is a special day, how Hogwarts is filled with more school pride than at any given moment in the last century... how the Beauxbatons' champions will be drawn before theirs.

Luna, thinks Harry, breathless, worried. You promised. You said you didn't.

You didn't.

You wouldn't.

You didn't.

He has no time to think more about it, to make any more suspicions before they are confirmed. 'Luna would not do this' is on constant repeat in his head as he checks the time again. It is noon. Time for lunch, time for the drawing of the names. Life is quick. It gives you no time for insecurity.

He steps foot into the Great Hall slightly late. The foreign students have already arrived. The staff table is crowded with what must be the Headmasters (or mistress, or whatever) of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, as well as their selected plus ones.

Beauxbatons leader is a woman. She is tall and thin (so very thin) with sleek black hair. She is pretty. Also reserved. She sits the furthest away from Dumbledore and seems happy to do so. Beside her, her plus one, is a short man with a large smile and ugly eyes.

The Durmstrang Headmaster is a drunk and happy old man. He is not pretty, but he speaks in a way that he doesn't have to be. His plus one is a short woman who is obviously his wife and is more so obviously in love with him.

Harry is reminded of his parents and then tears his eyes away. Fuck his parents. He must keep reminding himself of that.

Their champions, already chosen, are scattered throughout the lunch tables. Harry sits with his Ravenclaws, listening to the chatter around him but not really, trying to spot the foreign robes among them. It is a hard thing to do. He notices one of the Durmstrang candidates -- someone Harry does not know with the build of a Quidditch player -- among the Badgers.

That is as far as he gets before Dumbledore rises from his seat, lazy smile on his face. He claps once and the Hall falls silent. "Students of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and Durmstrang Institute! It is my and Hogwarts' humble pleasure to be the HOST of the 124th and official reinstatement of the Triwizard Tournament!" Rounds of applause wrack the Great Hall. He waits for silence with a patient look. What he says next, and the next ten minutes in general, is more of a punch in the gut than slap of the face to Harry's mental state. Dumbledore continues: "Throughout the year, the foreign champions will be attending class with us -- schedules to be arranged very soon, I assure you -- so, please, though you may be tempted to be rude to them because of the competition, bear in mind that they are your new peers for the year and residents of Hogwarts and will be treated as such!

"To first welcome the Headmaster and Mistress! Of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic we have the joy," and joy is said lightly, is said as lie, "of accommodating Madame Mouton Vicieux!"

She, the tall woman with black hair rises, rises and bows to much applause and that's great and all but Harry is busy feeling nauseous.

Mouton Vicieux.

Oh. My. FUCKING god. Mouton Vicieux! CEO of the Butterflies, eating disorder cult! Here! In Hogwarts! And it makes sense then, why Harry recognized the name despite his inability to place it. She is the Headmistress of one of the most popular wizarding schools in Europe.

And now she is here, within reach. To be sitting so close to someone so disgusting...

If that has him in shock what Dumbledore says later will have him dead.

"And from Durmstrang Institute, we have Sir Lapo!" Another rise, applause, sit. Harry can barely process it. He isn't sure he claps and isn't sure he didn't. He cannot see anything other than her face, imprinting itself onto his mind. As a gift. It will help you achieve your goals. Harry reminds himself to breathe. She has Tom now, thinks Harry. She'll be a Squib soon and Tom'll get his stupid ass form from it so whatever. It is fine. I am fine. It doesn't matter.

"To welcome the foreign champions, we first have, from Durmstrang, Vixen Shallows!" There is loud applause and cheering, whooping and screams. Vixen rises from the Hufflepuff table and flexes, grinning.

Apparently, he is popular.

Dumbeldore says, endearing tone in his voice once Vixen's stood himself in front of the staff table, where the champions are to gather before they're taken out back and talked to, "Thank you, Vixen. Also from Durmstrang, we welcome," not Luna not Luna not Luna she wouldn't, "Luna Lovegood!"

She rises from the Gryffindor table. Her uniform is entirely embroidered with flowers and birds and it is beautiful, she is beautiful, with dragonfly clips in her hair and a sheepishly and small smile on her face and she is beautiful, really, she is... but her presence here, somewhere Harry hoped sacred, forbidden. Well. It makes her ugly.

She joins Vixen at the head of the Great Hall.

"From Beauxbatons, we first have Sally Peick!" A short girl at the Ravenclaw table with dreads and soft brown eyes. She walks with confidence and pride. She grins like a winner. "Also from Beauxbatons," and here, Dumbledore does something he has done already twice this evening; surprise him, "Tom Riddle!"

At the Slytherin table. Tall, dark brown hair, sharp gray eyes. Tom Riddle.

Tom FUCKING Riddle. The Dark Lord Voldemort's son. Of course. Of course. Of course! This is the fifth year, the year of change! The year of fuck you, Harry, fuck you in particular! He's in a room with the son of a war criminal who's other half Harry's been in contact with, the leader of a cult who Harry hopes to help Squib-ify, and the girl he is in an arranged marriage to. Great. Just fucking great.

Dumbledore, like life, does not wait for him to gather his composure. He summons the goblet in front of him. "And now, for the moment of truth, we will draw for Hogwarts' own champions!" There is screaming and pride so loud Harry thinks the deaf could hear it and Harry is only sad that he's too fucked up to join in. The first name, scribbled across a slip of paper, pops out in a burst of flame. Dumbledore grabs him and reads off something that would have shocked him five minutes ago but now only shakes him slightly, "Harry Potter!"

The Ravens, for the first time in a long time, are beyond happy to have him in their House. As Harry walks, shell shocked, slow, to the front of the table, they chant his name. He looks at Luna Lovegood, who won't meet his eyes, and Tom Riddle... who will.

He looks out into a sea of people, almost half now chanting his name, and laughs with no feeling. This should feel good. But right now, he feels nothing.

"And, finally," he grabs the slip of paper from the air, "we welcome Julian Jackson!"

TWO Ravens, aren't the birds just overjoyed, it's their lucky fucking DAY --they're so god damn HONORED and they're YELLING WHWHWHWWOO!!!!!

Except Harry thinks fuck that. Except Harry thinks that he could not have shoved himself into a worse set of circumstances.

... And all things considered, he doesn't think it's luck. Yeah. yeah, looking around? Looking around, it doesn't feel like luck.

You know what it feels like?

It feels rigged.

..xox..

The hint for the first task is Mockingjay. Harry has some ideas, but they're all distant. Julian keeps trying to catch his eyes and Harry keeps not letting him. The room is stuffy and stiff and quite honestly suffocating.

He remembers wanting to thank Tom for giving him the nail in the coffin, the final reason Harry kept his name in the drawing. Emancipation. It's a great idea, right? A great idea in theory, right?

Yeah. Right. In theory. In execution, it feels like what it was: a terrible idea spawned by half a Dark Lord with only himself on the mind.

In execution, it has Harry Potter trapped in a room with the four people he'd never like to be in a room with again.

And you know the worst part? Well. Not the worst part, but it's up there. It definitely ties for first.

The worst part is as Harry leaves the backroom with the other champions, who all seem happy with the situation, who find it ideal, Mouton Viciuex grabs him lightly by the shoulder. He looks at her with wide eyes and swallows breaths and she just smiles. Sweet and pretty, she just smiles. It is not fair. "Hey," she says, gently, her voice soft. "You forgot something."

"I did?" he says, quiet. He didn't. He knows he didn't.

He knows he did not forget anything. But he did send something, and that's just as bad. That's worse.

"You did," she affirms. She reaches into her robes and holds out the letter he resent her. And, on top of that, Tom's journal. "These are yours," she tells him.

And he can't say no, can he? He can't do jack shit. She's won here, won so far, and she knows it. "Yeah," he says, taking them. "They are."

"I'm glad they are back to their rightful owner," she says.

"Me too."

"I'm excited to see how you'll do in the Tournament," she says.

"Me too," he says again.

She smiles. "I look forward to working with you in the future, if conditions permit it."

Working with. No. There is no 'with' here. There is only against. He is not her friend. He is not even her acquaintance.

He's her fucking victim.

So no, Harry's not looking forward to anything regarding her other than watching her fucking DIE.

But Harry doesn't say that. His fight has drained of him over the day and now there is only a reluctant, dull acceptance to do what must be done, do what he knows deep down he wants and needs to do. So he doesn't say that. He doesn't say any of that. He parrots, one last time, "Me too."

..XoX..

"Unimportant, unremarkable,

Unworthy of discussion

A concussion

Caused by faltered grace

I am flattered

Kneecaps shattered

By a baseball bat of fate."

-- Harry Potter, "The Moon."