The candles above flickered with firelight, twinkling with the stars that brushed across the enchanted ceiling. It was clear, not a cloud in the night sky. It was a beautiful evening for the Halloween Feast; it was a beautiful evening to eat as many sweets as he could possibly want without Snape restricting the amount. The man would have the chance to scold him come morning when Harry begged him for a Stomach Soother.

Harry was going to spend the feast with all the other students, just like all the other students, watching with bated breath as the Champions were chosen. He would cheer with the others as Cedric Diggory’s name burned forth out of the Goblet of Fire. He would support the Hogwarts’ Champion without so much as a sliver of disappointment of not being chosen.

Only in his dreams would he be a Champion. That was good enough for him.

But it simply wasn’t so; only in his dreams would he be an ordinary student – there was nothing ordinary about Harry Potter.

And that was his greatest disappointment.

The Goblet of Fire spat out a fourth name. The hall hushed. Harry looked around, confused. Something wasn’t right. This was a Triwizard tournament, right? There wasn’t supposed to be a fourth school represented, right?

A breath of foreboding chills exhaled on the back of his neck.

Please… No…

“Harry Potter.”

Dumbledore lowered his hand, the condemning slip of paper still clasped in between his fingers. Harry didn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He sat, staring at the old man. Terror struck his heart; it threatened to suffocate him, threatened to close off his lungs.

Snape is gonna murder me!

“Harry Potter!”

He was angry. The old man sounded angry. It made Harry want to stand up even less. Hermione nudged him, pushing him to his feet. He resisted. “You have to go,” she whispered. “You have to go.”

“I don’t want to go,” hissed Harry with a low, furious gasp. “Stop pushing me, I’m not—”

“Professor Dumbledore will sort it out. You need to go.”

“Harry Potter! Come!”

If he won’t, then Snape will.

He couldn’t delay any longer. With that thought shielding him from his fears, Harry stood up. He trembled with each step. It felt like he was getting further away; the path elongated, mocking him. The silence in the Great Hall was overwhelming. Then, everything snapped back into place with a cruel pop. As he passed by Dumbledore, he caught sight of Snape.

Don’t be mad. Please…

I didn’t do this! I swear it.

Why was it that every Halloween Feast in the past three years something bad had to happen to him? Every year! Voldemort had cursed the day for him. It couldn’t just be a nice evening, with the only unfortunate thing in his future being an upset stomach from all the sweets.

Halloween must’ve had a hit list. ‘Who can we screw with today? Excellent idea, Fate, our old favorite: Harry Potter.’

Harry walked into the room of the Champions, still trembling. He kept his arms around his waist, wishing he could go back home - back home to Spinner’s End.

He missed the quiet mornings at the breakfast table. He missed the rustle of the paper as Snape turned the pages.

He missed the peaceful afternoons in the man’s potions lab. He missed the rhythm of the knife chopping ingredients as he stood at the man’s side, helping him with his latest potion project.

He missed the warm evenings seated at Snape’s side on the sofa. He missed the soothing sound of Snape’s reading voice, before he was sent to bed with a gentle squeeze on the arm.

He missed being home. He missed being a family.

Harry wondered if he had cursed himself. He had just wanted to enjoy the tournament with everyone else. Maybe he shouldn’t have daydreamed. He’d been fine with imagining it in his mind, pretending to win the Triwizard Tournament. There was nothing wrong with having fun within the safety of his mind.

But physically participating in it?

No way.

Why can’t I be normal?

“Are they sending for us?” asked Fleur. The other two Champions turned around. “Should we go back?”

Harry didn’t answer. He kept himself separate from the others, feeling like an outsider. He was encroaching on their territory. This was their tournament. He was just going to ruin it in the end, because it would turn towards The-Boy-Who-Lived. Because he was Harry Potter, they would become shadowed beneath his name and fame.

He curled himself into a corner, dropping his face into his hands. This is a dream. Can’t this please be a terrible, bad dream. There was a moment of silence.

The door burst open. Steps clipped down stairs.

“Amazing!” cried the voice of Ludo Bagman. “This is incredible!”

Harry peeked through his fingers.

“What are you talking about?” asked Fleur. “What is going on?”

“We have a fourth champion!” cried Ludo Bagman, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. “Unheard of!”

“What?” said Cedric in a low whisper. 

“It’s unprecedented! We are paving the way for a historical event!” exclaimed Bagman, looking like a five year old on Christmas morning. A chill slid down Harry’s back. “Never before in the history of the Triwizard Tournament has this ever occurred. You all should be thrilled to be part of this extraordinary event!”

I’m not.

I’m already a historical figure as it is. Why would I want another reason to be even more well known? I can’t catch a break.

The door burst open again. Voices melded with one another. Harry waited, hoping to see Snape among the group.

He wasn’t.

He’s going to give up on me… He’s mad. He thinks I did this myself.

Harry tried not to cry.

Dumbledore rushed ahead of the others, tearing down the stairs. For an old man – over one hundred and fifty years old – he was booking it fast. He made a beeline for Harry, who shrank back. The old man grabbed him by the shoulder. Harry winced.

“Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?” demanded Dumbledore with an almost crazed, flurried sense about him.

Harry opened his mouth, but he couldn’t answer, his eyes wide. They burned. His back bumped against the wall. Something chimed in his ears. 

Have to get away.

He’s not Uncle Vernon.

…

Right…?

“Did you ask another student to do it for you? Did you?”

A shake punctuated that question. His words were locked in his throat. The hand on his shoulder tightened, growing more painful. This was bad. He had to answer. He had to tell someone the truth.

But no one would believe him.

Someone please—

Snape strode into the room, his robes billowing with his steps. His eyes burned with seething fury. Harry glanced up at him. He couldn’t stop the relief from filling his heart. When Snape caught sight of them, the man grew absolutely livid.

“Albus Dumbledore, you unhand that boy immediately,” snapped Snape, his nostrils flaring with his smoldering eyes. “You will not harass my godson.”

I’m still…

Snape descended the stairs with elegance, his robes fluttering silently behind him. His steps were soft, nearly nonexistent. As he reached the bottom, his wand flicked out of his sleeve and into his hand. It was low, but armed with a presence.

The tip of his wand was pointed in the direction of the old man.

“But Severus—”

Dumbledore cut himself off at the incinerating glare sent his way. The wand lifted a few inches. Dumbledore released Harry, drawing away.

Panic exploded inside Harry. Stars popped in his sight, glittering with the ambient light of the room. His vision blurred; his head began to pound.

What if Snape didn’t believe him? What if Snape thought Harry had put his name in the Goblet of Fire? What if Snape stopped being his Godfather? What if Snape sent him back to the Dursleys?

What if—

Hands grabbed Harry by the shoulders, firm yet gentle. They squeezed comfortably.

“Harry, listen to my voice,” said Snape, his deep smooth voice washing over his senses. “I need you to breathe.”

Harry inhaled deeply; his lungs greedily drank in the air. Lightheaded, the pain in his forehead worsened. Thump. Thump. The room came into focus briefly. It blurred once more. Something warm slipped down his cheeks. More quickly followed. He couldn’t stop them.

“That’s it,” whispered Snape. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You focus on breathing. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Snape…

He whispered the man’s name. A hand encased his cheek; a thumb brushed beneath his eye, wiping away a tear. Memories of the past summer flooded through his mind. It was foolish to believe Snape would throw him away. The man would never do that. If there was one thing Harry could count on, it was that this man would not falter in his responsibilities.

His Godfather wouldn’t abandon him.

Snape pulled away. The warmth disappeared and Harry longed for the man to come back.

“Confess!” snapped Crouch down at Harry, eyes burning with a glare. The panic threatened to resurface. Hunched in the corner, Harry had nowhere else to go. “How did you confound the Goblet of Fire to let you compete?”

Snape swept in front of Harry, shielding him from the other occupants in the room. Protected. Something uncorked inside Harry’s chest; he let out a deep exhale, the tension subsiding with his breath.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Snape curtly. “Mr. Potter did not put his name into the Goblet of Fire.”

“Of course he put in his name!” cried Fleur, incredulous. “We’ve all been waiting for this opportunity for weeks. The honor of being our school’s chosen Champion, we’ve dreamed nothing more. And this little boy steals the limelight – it is not fair!”

Little boy?

Well, that was a bit rude.

“How can you be so sure the boy didn’t cheat his name into the Goblet of Fire?” said Madame Maxine with a scoff. “Who would not want the honor to represent their school?”

Not I, said Chicken Little.

Please, I’m already a beacon of fame for Hogwarts.

“Because Mr. Potter has a level head on his shoulders,” said Snape, his smooth voice powerful with dry insinuation. “And he knows better than to submit his name into a deadly tournament with a high body count. He would not so carelessly risk his life – a life so greatly sacrificed for already by his parents – for a few fleeting moments of fame and a measly sack of galleons.”

Moody snorted. Karkaroff and Madame Maxime appeared thoroughly offended. Fleur went pink, while Krum shifted uneasily. Cedric let out a weak, uncomfortable laugh.

Harry’s face burned.

Yet… He was pleased by Snape’s words.

Snape looked back at Harry, his dark eyes holding a firm light. “Harry, did you,” he began, his tone calm and even, “through any means available, try to enter your name into this utterly inane and ridiculous tournament?”

“No, sir,” whispered Harry.

“There you have it,” said Snape, turning his attention to the other adults. “Someone entered his name without our permission.”

He believes me…

He believes in me.

“That’s it?!” shouted Karkaroff. He gestured wildly towards Harry. “You barely even asked him. He’s lying! You would believe such an explanation?”

“There was no explanation,” whispered Snape, glaring at Karkaroff. “It was a simple, ‘No.’ He didn’t put his name in. What more of an answer do you need? At any rate, Harry would not dare lie to me.”

The silence following this strengthened his stance. Snape turned to Crouch.

“I request his entry be removed post haste.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said Crouch. “It’s a binding contract. There is nothing we can do—”

“I didn’t ask for your excuses,” hissed Snape, the pressure in the air dropping to an icy chill. “I asked to have my godson’s name removed from this blasted tournament! He will not compete.”

“We can’t, though,” said Bagman with a shrug. “Besides, why wouldn’t you want a fourth Champion? It’s history in the making!”

Snape’s wand hand twitched. He ignored Bagman. “Surely as his guardian, I can dictate whether or not he may participate,” he said in a low, menacing voice.

“I’m afraid not,” said Dumbledore with a sad sigh. “The contract is binding. Harry must be present for each Task. There’s no backing out of it, Severus. He must compete.”

Snape looked like he would spit fire.

Snape threw a lot of things in their quarters. Glass shattered against the wall. He kicked the wall a handful of times, growling with the viciousness of a pack of wolves. Harry sat in his favorite armchair with his legs curled beneath himself, watching as the pieces of glass fell to the floor. With a flick, Snape repaired them, only to throw the mug against the wall with another echoing shatter. Harry chewed on his lower lip. Flames flickered in the fireplace; the clock on the mantle ticked with each second.

The man uttered some inappropriate expletives under his breath, as if he didn’t think Harry could hear him. The stream went on for a minute or so. Harry brought his mug to his lips, but he didn’t drink his tea. He knew better than to repeat those words in Snape’s presence.

Though, he’d have to tell Ron about the colorful way Snape had described Dumbledore.

There was a lull. Snape’s chest heaved up and down, his back towards Harry. The man didn’t move, standing still except for that angry rising and falling of his chest. The man’s fury hung in the room, with the weight and pressure of condensed fog.

It would’ve been odd to anyone else. Perhaps they would’ve judged Snape for his outlandish actions, acting so unfitting as the adult in the room. Perhaps they would’ve questioned their respect for the usually composed and quiet man.

Harry knew better.

Sometimes, it was hard to remember that Snape was only in his thirties, that he was pretty young according to the Wizarding World’s standards. Snape didn’t have all the answers, just like Harry didn’t have them.

Broken souls.

Sometimes, breaking stuff felt good.

In the end, Harry wasn’t really surprised by his name’s appearance in the Goblet of Fire. It would’ve been a weird year if something wasn’t out for his blood.

Even with Snape, he wasn’t safe from the evil conspiring against him. Snape himself seemed to hate his own powerlessness in this situation, if the borderline tantrum was anything to go by – another thing Harry suspected the man wouldn’t appreciate if he emulated him.

The flames danced their light within his eyes. He gripped the mug tighter. He chewed on the glass briefly.

“I’m scared, Snape,” whispered Harry.

There was a deep sigh.

“I am, too, Harry,” said Snape in a low voice. He sounded tired, exhausted to the end of his sanity.

“You are?” asked Harry, looking up at him.

Snape sighed again. He turned away from the wall. He repaired the glass, the mug flying up into his waiting hand. He set it aside on an end table. Snape walked over to the armchair and knelt down in front of Harry, gripping the sides of his knees. The man looked at him with a serious expression.

“It would be unwise to go into this without a healthy amount of fear. Fear will keep you alive. Facing that fear is what makes you a Gryffindor, yes?”

Harry nodded.

“You and I will do all we can to prepare you for each task. You will know everything you can. I will arm you in every way possible.” Hands squeezed Harry’s knees, desperation in their touch. “You will survive.”

“Isn’t that cheating?” whispered Harry.

Snape scoffed. “This ridiculous event should never have been revived in the first place,” he snapped, hard lines creasing his features. “This isn’t a test. Someone cheated by entering your name. Someone has a design over you. They want you in this tournament.”

“You think Moody is right?” whispered Harry. He shivered in spite of himself. “Someone wants to kill me?”

“This isn’t a surprise, is it?” asked Snape, raising an eyebrow. “Have these last three years not solidified this?”

“I suppose so.”

“However, if it’s been orchestrated by the Dark Lord, he would not want you to die in the tournament.”

“Really?”

“He would want to kill you himself, to prove to his followers and the entire wizarding world that he is more powerful than a child.”

“Comforting,” said Harry with a roll of his eyes.

Snape snorted. “You are fourteen years old. You have endured much. I would prefer not to coddle you nor mince my words to protect your sensibility. You prefer this as well, do you not?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You need your wits about you this year,” said Snape, lifting a hand and lightly patting him on the cheek. Harry had quickly grown used to these gentle gestures of affection. He craved them. “Being a target is not unknown to you, but this year we don’t know the full extent of it. I want you to stay out of trouble. No slacking off.”

“I’d have to do that anyway.”

“Indeed. You know what I expect from you, then,” said Snape, standing up. “You would not want to lose privileges nor have unpleasant chores, now would you?”

The threat was mild, but Harry was more than aware of the man’s meaning.

“I’ll work hard,” said Harry softly.

“I know you will,” whispered Snape. There was a light touch, barely a hint, of a smile at the edge of his lips. There was a pause for a brief moment. The man’s tone changed. “I am sure your housemates are having a raucous party as we speak. I’m sure I could be convinced of walking you to the tower, if you wished to join them. Though, I’d expect you to be in bed before ten o’clock.”

Harry tucked his lower lip beneath his teeth. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go back. He was sure everyone was having fun, thrilled their house also had a Champion, but…

No.

This wasn’t fun.

All they could think about was fame and glory for their house. They weren’t thinking about how dangerous it was. They weren’t thinking about the previous deaths. They weren’t thinking about how someone had put his name into the Goblet of Fire against his will. They weren’t thinking about Harry at all.

What if they didn’t believe in him?

“Can I sleep here tonight?” whispered Harry.

“You don’t wish to celebrate?”

“I really don’t see the point to celebrating, I suppose.”

Snape glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “We have enough time to brew a simple potion, if you wished to take your mind off the events.”

“I’d rather not tonight,” said Harry in a low tone.

“Very well.”

Snape left the room. He was gone for a moment, coming back with a book in hand. He sat down on the loveseat and crossed his legs. He inclined his head towards the empty spot beside him.

A feather of hope pulled Harry out of his armchair. He sat down beside Snape, curling against the man’s side. Snape began to read, his voice a soothing balm on Harry’s frayed nerves. The book wasn’t exciting, but nor was it dull.

Yet, it sang with a perfect melody to lull him to sleep.

And Harry wasn’t surprised to find himself in his own bed, tucked in with tenderness, the next morning.