The odd looking trio of individuals walked, or stumped, their way through the Great Hall picking up Draco on their way. Ron and Hermione clearly wanted to come along as well, but Severus sent them back to their Common Room to await the dinner hour.

Not willing to argue with his professor, and still a bit put out by Harry being chosen as a champion and thus eligible for the grand prize, Ron pulled a reluctant Hermione out of the Hall and the Snapes headed down to the dungeons with Alastor in tow.

Severus shed his cloak as they entered his quarters, the boys following suit and heading over to the settee in front of the fire. Severus poured himself a double finger of Fire-Whiskey offering the same to Moody who declined.

“If you will excuse me for a moment, Alastor, I need to get something from my office.” Severus walked down the corridor behind the portrait of Salazar and returned a moment later with a bit of parchment in one hand. He tucked it next to him as he took his seat. At Moody’s questioning flick of eyes, he just shook his head slightly, focusing on his whiskey instead.

When they were all seated in front of the fire, Severus looked over at his guest with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, Moody, you called this meeting,” he pointed out.

“Aye, I did.” He pierced them all with his magical eye. “There is dark magic behind this, Snape – someone wants your son killed, or tested,” he declared.

Severus nodded. “That much is obvious – the question on the table is who?” He looked shrewdly at the ancient and battle-scarred warrior. “I could almost suspect you, Moody.”

The bark of laughter that came out of the Auror was not pleasant, but it was obvious he was amused. “And I was about to say the same of you, Death-Eater!”

Harry and Draco bristled at the accusation. “My dad’s not a Death-Eater!” Harry growled. He was still wary of the gruff and frightening professor, but no one was going to accuse his father of being one of Voldemort’s followers.

“Down boy, it’s just a game we play. I’ve been after your father’s hide for years – but it’s all been a feint to keep the authorities on their toes. We both belonged to the Order back in the day. He’s told you about the Order of the Phoenix?” he asked them.

Both boys nodded.

“Good,” he said approvingly. “Well, your father and I saw eye to eye on a number of things; didn’t think he should have... Do they know?” he directed at the wizard. Severus indicated they did. “Well, I didn’t agree with him becoming a spy in Voldemort’s camp. But that’s neither here nor there – what’s done is done. Alright Snape, ask the question,” he demanded.

“Not yet, Alastor – it has five more minutes to go before the hour is up.” He turned to look at his sons sitting on the couch. “Draco, why would I have to wait an hour after Professor Moody has drunk something?” he asked in a perfectly reasonable, professorial tone of voice; as if he were conducting a class.

Draco hesitated a second before answering. “Polyjuice?” Harry almost smacked his head; he should have known that answer as well – especially after Hermione had wanted to brew it second year as an experiment, but the ingredient list had been prohibitive and she had eventually given up on it.

“Very good. I have already ascertained via another method that this should be Alastor Moody, but I felt it prudent to await the allotted time – just to make sure. Of course, if he had accepted a drink from me, he would have found it laced with Veritaserum.” He smirked over at his colleague, toasting him slightly before finishing his own finger of Whiskey.

Alastor’s laughter boomed out, slapping his thigh in merriment. “Well played, Snape! You haven’t lost your touch. Now how did you verify it was me? I didn’t feel the touch of any spell,” he asked curiously.

“And you wouldn’t  - I have a magical artefact... and I’ll just leave it at that, shall I – hmm?” He had darted his eyes toward the boys.

“Of course, of course – Well, the time is up, and no bubbling skin – ask your damn questions, you know you want to!” He practically threw himself against the back of the chair, getting comfortable.

“Not particularly, but I have to complete the thing. What did Lily tell you and I, in confidence, on October fifteenth, nineteen eighty-one,” Severus asked.

“That her son was the subject of a prophecy and that they were going under the fidelius charm that night, after the Order meeting,” was the answer.

“And what was her pet name for me?” He grimaced as if it pained him – or possibly embarrassed him to ask.

Moody cringed; he hated remembering this name – it was so not-Snape. “Curry.”  Snape nodded, satisfied; this was not an impostor. Even someone surgically altered, or under a glamour, wouldn’t know either of those answers. Moody only knew because he had happened upon them when they were still married and having a quick snog in a curtained corner. In both instances, Moody had been bound by a wizard’s oath never to reveal the contents of either of those occasions except to Snape. He hoped that the red on his face would be discounted as reflection from the flames in the fireplace.

Harry looked curiously at his father. “What was all that for, and why did Mum nickname you ‘Curry’?”

Moody answered, a bit too gleeful in Snape’s estimation, for him before he could steer Harry away from the embarrassing question. “Your father was giving me a little test of questions that only the real Alastor Moody would know the answers to; he was checking to make sure I wasn’t someone else under glamour or surgically altered to resemble the real Moody. All part of making sure I am who I say I am.  And in answer to your second question – Lily nicknamed him that when they were courting. She said his kisses were as hot as curry.” He smirked as Severus snorted from his corner.

“That’s enough, Mad Eye; you don’t need to traumatise the children,” Severus chided the Auror, but he winked at the boys keeping his face absolutely stoic. Draco nearly choked trying to keep his laughter inside. Harry just looked worried, as if he hadn’t really heard the good-natured ribbing going on around him.

Sparing a glance for Harry, Severus looked at Moody again. “Well, we’ve established your credentials –you were saying?” he prompted.

“We need to protect your son, Snape. Harry’s name was deliberately placed in that cup. I’ve been hearing rumours, boy, rumours that He is rising again. There was a disappearance this summer at the Ministry – Barty’s own secretary went to Albania and hasn’t been heard from since. An old caretaker in Little Hangleton was found murdered in the Riddle Mansion – not a mark on him, but the reports say his facial expression matched those of the deceased owners, fifty-years earlier. Aye, you mark those names laddie! Gives ye goose-flesh, don’t it?” He leaned forward and the boys leaned back against the soft back of the couch. “This has all the ear-markin’s of  -  Voldemort.”

Severus looked over at his son, concern etched on his face. “Harry?”

“How am I going to compete, Dad,” Harry rushed in. “I’m nowhere near as talented as the other three – this is suicide waiting to happen! At this point I don’t care who put my name in – although if I find out who...” He left the threat hanging as he was sure his father felt the same way. He swallowed hard before continuing. “I just don’t see how I can survive. They must really want me dead!” He had managed to calm himself down during the meeting in the trophy room and stay that way on their journey to their rooms – but he was on home territory now, and allowed to let loose with his emotions. He was terrified, and he didn’t know why things kept happening to him. Apparently it was too much to believe he would have a nice normal year at school; whatever that meant.

“We agree, Harry. It’s either that – or someone wants to test your mettle.” At that suggestion, Alastor hummed thoughtfully and Severus could tell that the old man’s wheels were turning that one over. Severus came over to sit on the coffee table in front of Harry and took his son’s trembling hands. “Which is why I think we – Alastor and I – are going to set up training sessions for you in the exercise room.” He looked over at the Auror to get his assent. “We are going to increase your spell repertoire and increase your defensive and offensive battle strategies. The first task is a mystery – not even the teachers are aware as to what it is, but we can at least train you in spells that will help you in many situations.”

“Correct! What do I always say in class, boys?” snapped the old Auror, pounding his crutch on the ground.

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” they parroted back at him.

He grinned – not a pretty sight at all – and leaned forward towards the boys. “I train Aurors, Harry. If I can train them, I can train you. Starting tomorrow we will begin your sessions. I want you down here at your father’s training room by five-thirty. Bring your books and uniform with you, you will be down here until first bell!”

“Yes, sir, Professor Moody,” Harry said reluctantly. What in Merlin’s name had he gotten himself into this year?

****

Harry eased himself under the shower head, moaning as the scalding hot water hit his sore muscles. He had been meeting with Professor Moody and his dad in the training room every morning for two weeks. Moody had been teaching him a new spell with every session - constantly drilling him until he could perform it cold and then running through all his spells in quick succession, building a repertoire that would rival the smartest of the Ravenclaw seventh-years. He was also impressed with Harry’s ability to sense his surroundings by feeling the magical and energy fields around him, praising his initiative with a congratulatory thump that had nearly sent the teen sprawling. He took that burgeoning ability and was building on it; expanding the distance and accuracy.

The spells he was learning were dead useful, but weren’t generally taught until NEWT years; summoning spells, breathing spells, banishing spells, hexes and jinxes that took out opponents without permanently hurting them. And he was just beginning.

Then there was the physical preparation! Moody had him running circuits around the grounds and Quidditch pitch, building up his stamina and endurance. Yesterday, he’d begun adding weights to the regimen, using resistance training as well as free weights. Afterwards, came a full day of classes and running around all seven floors of the castle carrying his books. The only way he was going to be able to get up in the morning and not be bent over like an old man was to take the steaming hot shower and let the water loosen the muscles before they seized up on him.

A pounding on the door to the shower room startled him. “Harry!” came Neville’s shout.

“What is it?” he shouted back.

“An owl came for you, and he looks mean!” Neville heard a bit-backed curse mumble through the door, but the water turned off and a moment later, a towel-wrapped Harry came walking out, Waist length hair dripping on the ancient wood floor.

“Oy!” Ron yelled when the damp strands dripped on him. Harry mumbled an apology, casting a quick spell that dried his hair. “Hey did you just do that wandlessly?” the boy asked, jealousy still tinged his words. Harry had yet to have it out with Ron – he hadn’t had much time where the two could talk alone for two minutes. As it was, Ron was beginning to act like a git again, just as in second-year. All he could see was Harry was getting all the glory again.

Harry just gave him a look, and Ron raised his hands in mock surrender, a scowl on his face, before Harry stalked over to his bed where his father’s owl eyed him, one foot held imperiously forward for the boy to remove the note and small package.

Harry kept an eye on the wicked beak belonging to the large Sooty Black owl as he carefully untied the note and set the package to the side. That would be the crowning glory of the day, if Edgar bit him. Reading the note, he sighed heavily.

“No response,” he told the owl who took off immediately through the cracked open window which Seamus slammed closed immediately afterwards.

“Bad news?” Dean asked.

“Tournament stuff; reporters are coming tomorrow,” he let his dorm mates know. “And the package is some muscle balm my dad made for me, thank Merlin!” Most groaned in sympathy to both statements. Ron just turned his back to the other boy, feigning attention to his Transfiguration book. Harry, and in fact all of the other champions, had been hounded for the last two weeks by reporters popping out of the woodwork, sometimes literally in one case when a ghost reporter had cornered Fleur coming out of the girls loo. She had instinctively let loose with a volley of Veela-created hexes that were designed to immobilise wandering spirits and it had taken the combined efforts of Dumbledore, Maxime and Flitwick to unfreeze the hapless third estater. Ron apparently saw it as more of Harry basking in the attention, never mind that the Snape scion deliberately went out of his way to avoid the journalists.

This, however, was a planned jaunt with ministry officials in attendance as well, and by the tone of his dad’s note, Severus was not pleased at all.

Of course he wouldn’t be; it was during Harry’s Potion class.

Harry smirked as he tossed the note on top of his nightstand and changed into his pyjamas after smearing some of the balm on his aching parts – it stank, as did most of his father’s concoctions – but it worked.

****

Harry had barely been in class for ten minutes when Ginny came into class to summon him to the reception hall. Trying very hard not to snicker outright at his dad’s look of annoyance, Harry followed the younger girl upstairs to a large oak panelled room.

Dumbledore, the Ministry officials, the other three Champions, their school officials and the press were all milling around a table spread with a mid-morning tea. Harry dropped his bag in a corner and straightened his tie before wandering over to stand near Cedric – the only person who was remotely friendly to him. McGonagall handed him a cup and saucer with a tight little smile and he gratefully sipped at it, thankful for something to do. He used it as an excuse to observe the other people in the room. He knew most of them – the school and Ministry officials – but he was surprised to see Ollivander the Wandmaker there, and there were several reporters as well. Lovely.

Harry hated reporters – ever since the Dursleys’ trial. They always blew hot and cold depending upon which way public favour towards him went; they fanned the flames making a mountain out of a molehill. And there was the worst of them – Rita Skeeter – and her sidekick photographer who followed her around like a panting puppy. He wished his dad could be there – Rita was scared of Severus – but the others didn’t have their parents present, neither should he. He could be just as grown-up as the rest despite being a head shorter... .

Soon enough, the end of morning class bell ringing seemed to be the signal Dumbledore needed to call everyone to order and Crouch made a little ceremonial speech concerning the weighing of the wands. Harry really wasn’t paying much attention; he was keeping an eye on the reporters – one of whom was inching his way towards the student bags heaped in a pile on the floor. Harry watched from his place at the end of the line as the man tried to sneak a hand towards the pile. Soon a yelp startled the adults into looking at the cad and Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed as he zeroed in on the reporter. Harry quickly snugged his Wand into his holster, a small smirk playing on his face as he watched the interplay.

“Mr Beasley, can I help you with something?” the Headmaster asked, casually walking over to the corner.

“No sir, I – uh – I thought I saw a mouse scramble behind the bags.” He straightened up, trying to look important and self-righteous, while exercising his fingers behind his back to work off the stinging hex they’d been hit with. “Wouldn’t want someone to get a nasty surprise when they put their hand in, did I?”

“Hmmm, perhaps – let me see.” He made a movement in the air with his wand, and nothing happened. “Apparently you were mistaken, Richard. No rodents there. Let us leave this area and come back over here to where the action is, shall we? That’s my boy!” Dumbledore said, ushering the frowning man away from the pile.

“Ah, Mr Potter-Snape!” came the voice from in front of Harry, snapping his head around to face Ollivander. “Your wand please?” the old man said, holding out his hand. Harry dropped his wand into his hand, quickly running it through a fold of his robe before handing it over.

Scowling, Ollivander peered at the wand, hefting it in his hand and then sighting down the shaft. “I’ve heard of some of your escapades so far, Mr Potter-Snape. She has been helping you, eh?”

Harry nodded his head. “Yes, sir – no problems at all,” he assured the Wandmaker.

“Excellent!” he chanted a short word and water filled a conjured goblet, then another incantation turned it to wine. Ollivander grinned in satisfaction as he took a sip. “Perfect. Thank you, Mr Potter-Snape.” He returned Harry’s wand and turned away and began speaking to Dumbledore and Crouch. Harry knew Seamus would kill to get that spell! He’d been trying to do it for three years straight! Harry snapped his wand back in place and turned to get ready to leave only to run into – Skeeter. He groaned.

“Harry! So nice to run into you, we must have a little chat – don’t you agree? Lovely, just come in he---what!” she screeched as a pale hand clamped down on her shoulder.

“Take your talons off my son, Rita. I’ve warned you before – you apparently don’t listen!” Snape pronounced; his voice low, perfectly controlled but full of encased anger. Harry could have cheered from the rafters. As it was, he let a small grin grace his face, lighting up his eyes.

“I listen well enough, Snape, but I decide whether to follow the advice or not,” she declared, releasing Harry – a bit reluctantly. “You can’t stifle the news, Snape! I have rights!”

“Do you need another lesson in journalistic etiquette? Especially with Minors? The other three are of age and do not need a guardian present. My son is fourteen – still underage. No questions without my express permission, Rita,” he chided – as if she were a student that needed reminding of school rules that should have been memorised this far into term.

“Severus, Severus,” she said shaking her head to cover a blush of anger. “You were always a hard nut to crack. Fine,” she sighed, as if giving in – albeit reluctantly, “shall we find a place to sit down?” she simpered at him. Harry nearly sicked up at her sudden switch-ups in attitude. Did she really think she fooled people?

His father led them over to a seating of chairs, taking the most comfortable one, seating Harry next to him. “And please use a normal pen, Ms Skeeter – wouldn’t want your flowery phrasing to get in the way of the story, would we?”

Her smile froze on her overdone face as she dropped a green Quill back into her clutch and retrieved an ordinary turkey Quill pen, snatching her pad of paper from the air where it had hovered beside her. “Lovely,” she exclaimed, “where to start...”

****

Harry found Hermione pouring over the Prophet a few days later when he came up to breakfast. It was a rare day that he’d been let out early from his morning routine in time to actually catch some food in the Great Hall rather than a hurried repast in his father’s quarters after taking a shower.

“Anything worthwhile?” he asked, piling his plate up.

“Not really. Background information on all the champions – you included, although your write-up is more factual than the others...”

 Harry chuckled. “Yeah, Dad insisted on that. You should have seen that reporter change her tune when Dad showed up at the Wand Weighing. Anything I should know about the others?”

“Well, apparently Fleur is a part-Veela...”

“Oh, yeah – in fact her wand’s core is a hair from her ‘Granmuzzer’,” Harry butted in. Hermione nodded her head.

“That’s what the article says, and apparently she is somehow related to your brother – although the connection is pretty deep in their ancestry.” Harry’s eyebrows popped up at that revelation – he couldn’t wait to tease Draco. “Krum, while brilliant on the broom, is apparently not as bright in the academic side of things,” she continued. “You’ll need to watch him on a purely physical aspect. He was held back a year during his fourth year – had to repeat it,” she pointed out. “Cedric, I think, is going to be your toughest competition.”

“Moody thinks so as well. He says for all Ced’s being an easy-going guy, he’s quite brilliant and is the top performer in his class. We already know he’s talented on a broom – but Draco says he thinks we’re actually about equal in that regard. I hope so!” He sighed before dishing himself some more egg casserole and snagging a few rashers of bacon. Hermione placed two triangles of toast on his plate as well and he gave her a little smile in thanks.

“How’s the training going?” she asked, pouring him some pumpkin juice in his goblet.

“Hard, but it’s working. I have a ton of new spells... and Professor Moody says that they’re going to continue the training all year as each challenge builds on the previous one – or at least that’s what the books all say,” he pointed out. Hermione snapped her head around to stare at him.

“Books? What books? I looked all over the library and there weren’t any!” she complained.

Harry looked at her sheepishly over the edge of his goblet as he washed down some of the toast points. “Umm, Dad has some books on past tournaments at the manor. Draco and I read them last year and I kind of read them again when I went home at Hallowe’en... Don’t look at me like that, Hermione! If you really want to read them, I’ll ask Dad if I can lend them to you after Christmas...”

“Harry, you’re not going home for Christmas,” she said patiently, as if explaining to a child.

“What do you mean? Of course we are – we always go to the manor at Christmas,” he explained. “Why should this year be any different – just because I’m a ‘Champion’?” He etched quote marks in the air around the word, sneering as he said it.

“Didn’t you see the post in the Common Room on Monday?” she queried, tilting her head a bit to look at him quizzically.

“Hermione, I barely have time to use the loo in the dorms much less read the notices on the board!” he groused, digging into his rapidly cooling eggs.

“Well, if you had you would have seen that there is going to be a ball Christmas Day to celebrate the tournament. It’s open to fourth-years and above and all the champions – including you – are required to be there. With a date.”

Harry spewed egg over the table at that little announcement. His friend giggled. “Nice one, Snape!” She waved her wand and the bits of breakfast covering the table vanished. Harry hastily wiped his mouth with his serviette and stared at the brunette.

“You can’t be serious! A date? I’m supposed to find a girl to take to this thing? How in bloody hell am I supposed to do that? Ow!” He scowled at her when she slapped him. She did this regularly to him and Ron when they swore.

“Harry, you simply ask her!” said the girl in exasperation. He stared at her for a moment, green eyes blinking owlishly behind his round frames.

“Hermione...” he started.

“And before you begin,” she said, raising her hand to halt him. “I already have a date.”

“Damn. Ow!” He winced as she slapped the back of his head again at his use of language. That spot was getting real sore. “Stop that!”

“Stop swearing and I will,” she said piously. “Now, you have six weeks to find a date; I’d start thinking if I were you – and don’t wait until the last minute, all the good catches will be caught. Oh, and you’ll need good robes for it as well.”

“I already have dress robes,” he mumbled. “Dad bought them last year – don’t know why, haven’t worn them yet. They’re down in his rooms.”

“Well, you might want to make sure they still fit.” She swung her legs over the bench and stood up grabbing her bag and daily pile of extra books. “We need to get going or we’ll be late!”

Snagging a small stack of toast, Harry followed her as they joined the general traffic heading out of the Great Hall and he began to worry about who he could ask to the bloody ball.