Harry stares with wide eyes as the third piece of paper shoots forth from the Goblet of Fire. It’s with the same dramatic burst of flame as the others, but somehow as it floats down towards Dumbledore’s waiting, outstretched hand, it moves down impossibly slowly, far slower than the others had. Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum are already waiting down in the armoury, and now it's time for the Hogwarts Champion to be selected. A sinking feeling makes itself known in his chest, chilling and nauseating, and Harry knows even before it touches the headmaster’s wrinkled fingers whose name is on it.

"Cedric Diggory!" Relief floods through him - God, how could he have thought it was going to be him? What a stupid thing to worry about. He shakes his head, giving a little laugh into his pumpkin juice, but then...

"What's he doing?" Blaise asks beside him, and Harry turns back up to the staff table as Diggory runs up and into the trophy room. Dumbledore is turning the parchment over between his fingers and talking hurriedly to Amelia Bones. Oh, no. No, no, no, no.

“Harry Potter,” the old man says quietly, and Harry shrinks down in his seat; as a protective reflex, the other Slytherins sit up straighter, leaning around Harry, surrounding him, and blocking the other Houses’ view of him. “Harry Potter,” Dumbledore repeats a little more forcefully.

“No thanks,” Harry calls back from behind the broad body of one of the Slytherin beaters, ducking a little lower. “Not happening.”

“Mr Potter, your name has been called by the Goblet of Fire," Dumbledore says. Whispering is becoming louder and louder all around the hall, and all of the Slytherins are looking at Harry with a mix of concern, irritation and upset. Theodore's hand is on Harry's shoulder, holding the back of his robes tightly as if it will somehow protect Harry from this nonsense.

“I didn’t put it in there, sir, so I’m not coming up.” There is muttering around the other tables, some from the other Hogwarts students, but mostly from the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, all of whom are leaning right out of their seats in an attempt to get a look at Harry’s face.

“It’s your handwriting, Mr Potter,” Dumbledore says, in what Harry’s sure the old man thinks is a reasonable tone, and Harry’s never hated this school more than he does in this moment.

“I didn’t put my name in the Goblet, sir. I refuse. I rescind whoever’s offer it was. I decline.”

“You can’t,” Celia’s voice says quietly from the table, and although Harry can't see her, he can imagine her serious, concerned expression. “It’s a magical contract, Harry, the runes on the inside are intricate but binding. Refuse, and it’ll kill you.”

“Who says the tournament won’t kill me anyway?” Harry demands, and he loses his patience, standing up. Bones is staring at him with her eyes wide and a hand over her mouth, and Ludo Bagman looks ready to throw a party, the fat bastard. “I’m fourteen. You just said I couldn’t participate. There was an age line, and we already have a Champion! It's not happening, Professor, I won't do it!”

“The cup doesn’t know, and it doesn't care,” Celia maintains in a quiet voice that rings through the room, and Harry feels all the eyes in the hall on him as he makes his way to the middle of the floor, sweating and doing his best to remain calm. “Your name is on it. It’s your hand. The contract is signed.” Harry’s gaze flits past the staring eyes of McGonagall, Dumbledore, Celia and the rest of the teachers, and he meets Snape’s black stare. His head of house very slowly stands and, almost imperceptibly, gives a nod of his head.

“I hate this fucking school,” Harry snaps, loudly enough for the Ravenclaw first years to his left to hear him and gasp in horror, and he stalks up to the staff table, pushing past Dumbledore and following Snape down and into the trophy room. He heads straight for Diggory, shoving the older boy hard in the chest, and Diggory's blue eyes and handsome face contort themselves into an expression of surprise.

"Hey!" The Hufflepuff says, as if Harry doesn't have any reason to be mad.

"You put my name on the other side of your parchment," Harry snaps. "You twat, how the Hell did you even-" He grabs for his wand, but Snape's cold, clammy hand is suddenly tight on Harry's wrist, pulling him sharply away from Diggory and stopping Harry from doing any damage. "Let me-"

"No," Snape hisses at Harry like he's giving an order to a badly behaved puppy, and shoves him to stand against one of the trophy cabinets. Harry crosses his arms over his chest, twisting his mouth into a scowl, and Diggory has the gall to peer at him.

"What is 'appening?" Madame Maxime asks, a mild note of anxiety in her voice. "Why is this boy 'ere?"

"He put my name in the Goblet of Fire!" Harry says sharply, pointing an accusing finger at Cedric.

"I did not!" Diggory argues, a pink tinge appearing on his handsome cheeks. "Why would you think-"

"Mr Diggory," Dumbledore says in a delicate tone, "Mr Potter's name was on the other side of your parchment." Cedric's cheeks loose their blush, turning a little pale, and he looks from Dumbledore to Harry, shaking his head rapidly. "You had nothing to do with this?"

"No, no, I'd never do that, I swear."

"Hogwarts is to have two Champions, then?" Karkaroff demands. "How-"

"Shut up," Harry snaps, and Karkaroff stares down at him, curling his lip. "If you so desperately want a fourteen-year-old boy on your team, Karkaroff, hand me a contract and I'll join your school right now!" There's an awkward pause as Karkaroff turns his dark eyes away from Harry's, and Harry feels the gazes of Maxime and the other teachers on him as he keeps his focus on Karkaroff. "What? Don't want me after all? You-"

"Calm down, Potter," Snape orders, and Harry sits down. He listens as Amelia Bones and Ludo Bagman talk quietly about the rules of the tournament - Bones seems harried, but Harry can't bring himself to feel sorry for her only having had a month or so to familiarize herself with the rules of the Triwizard Tournament. He wants to yell and scream and kick, for all the good it's going to do him: it makes no difference that he might have put his name into the Goblet, had the choice been offered to him.

It's that he didn't have the choice.

"It would seem, then, that Hogwarts will have its two Champions working in conjunction: Mr Diggory, Mr Potter, you will work together."

"When I get killed by a dragon or something," Harry says icily, "does the title of Hogwarts Champion revert to just him?" Bagman actually laughs, and Harry feels like trying to punch him.

"Indeed, Mr Potter," Dumbledore says pleasantly, "though I'm sure it will not come to that."

"I want Sirius," Harry says. "Right now - I'm not of age. I don't have the- I can't sign a legally binding contract like this, can I? I'm not old enough."

"The Goblet of Fire has worked for hundreds of years, Harry," Amelia Bones says tiredly, wiping her brow. "It doesn't see the difference between a fourteen year old and a seventeen year old - that was something we just added in."

"It's not fair!" Fleur says sharply, "he is a boy! He will be killed!" Cedric nods his head, standing beside Fleur and looking concerned for Harry's welfare - Harry knows he's going to have to apologize, but for the time being he doesn't want to. He just wants to scream.

"It's an unfair advantage," snaps Karkaroff. "He's just faced a grown wizard in combat, and faced the Dark Lord himself, has he not?"

"I want Sirius," Harry says again, and Dumbledore seems to realize that no number of pleasant smiles or twinkling glances will calm him down. He inclines his head, and Harry leans back against the trophy case, crossing his arms over his chest. Krum has been silent throughout this endeavour, but when Harry turns to look his way he gives Harry a short look. His expression remains as grim as Harry's ever seen it, but he gives Harry a minute nod, a steadfast expression of... Something or other. Harry guesses it's meant to be some kind of comfort, so he offers the Bulgarian a small, stiff smile smile.

---

Sirius can't actually do anything for him. Harry, on one level, had known that, and so he isn't all that disappointed as he listens to Sirius talk to Dumbledore and Bones. On the other, Harry feels nothing more than a desperate desire to go back to Grimmauld Place and lie in his own bed, where none of the Slytherin boys will be able to ask how he got his name into the Goblet of Fire.

"Headmaster," Harry hears Snape say, and he doesn't bother looking at the older men as they speak, a listening silently and messing with his wand. "Every Hogwarts entry has Mr Potter's name on its back."

"What?" Sirius demands.

"Obviously one individual was suitably desperate for the boy to participate," Snape murmurs, and Harry glances at him. His Head of House's expression is mostly neutral, but Harry can see the slightest twist of his lip showing his irritation, and he's holding his hands stiffly; it's virtually impossible to glean what Snape is feeling if he doesn't actually spell it out for you, but at the very least Harry can see he's annoyed. Whether it's at him, at Dumbledore, or at the general state of his life, Harry can't discern. "They were each crafted in invisible ink - I don't recognize the brand, but it's a goblin-made product."

"A goblin wanted me in the Triwizard Tournament?" Harry asks, arching his eyebrows at the sheer ridiculousness of it, and the twist of Snape's lips disappears, ironed out like a wrinkle in a skirt of Aunt Petunia's.

"Presumably, Potter, you are as well-loved among the goblins as you are here." Harry laughs. Sirius looks annoyed, but Harry stands up before he can have a go at Snape. The other Champions had all been permitted to go to bed - Cedric had actually offered to stay and argue with Harry, even offered to let all of the Hogwarts names be drawn again, but it hadn't been possible, and even if it had been, Harry doesn't know that he would have taken away Cedric's chance to participate by taking the offer.

"You alright?" Sirius asks quietly. His anger is obvious in his face and the clench of his fists, but Harry doesn't point it out - he just nods his head. The great hall's lights are dimmed, and Harry walks from the room with his hands in his pockets, feeling tired. "I'm sorry, Harry. If there was anything I could do, you know that in a second-"

"Yeah, I know, I know," Harry says, nodding his head. "It's not your fault. I just wish it wasn't me every year. Why does it have to be me?" Sirius reaches out, gently patting Harry's back, and he sighs, stopping in the entrance hall and standing with his godfather for few moments. "Where's Remus?"

"He's in bed," Sirius answers, shaking his head, "He's caught some cold, and because he needs his Wolfsbane on next week he won't take anything for it. He's a mess." Harry feels a pang of sympathy for the werewolf: Remus always seems to be unlucky, and Harry wishes they could do something for him. "Lucius made him a chicken soup and wouldn't let me have any." It's said with such a natural petulance that Harry smiles, trying not to snicker as he looks at Sirius.

"What? Why are you smiling like that?" Sirius demands, utterly oblivious, and Harry just shakes his head, putting his hand on his godfather's arm.

"I'll see you later," Harry murmurs. "Thanks for coming."

"I'd knock down the walls if you needed me, kid," Sirius promises, and Harry gives him a nod, heading down and into the dungeons. At the very least, he thinks, it can't be Voldemort who wants him in the Triwizard Tournament - not unless he's added goblins to his ranks.