They Shook Hands: Year Four (Original Version)

They Shook Hands : Year Four

An alternate (but realistic!) universe Harry Potter fic
by Dethryl

Chapter Five - The Quidditch World Cup

The Portkey was a singularly unpleasant form of transportation. Feeling jerked into the ether via a hook behind his navel and being hurtled through space-time left one amazingly dizzy. It almost made Harry feel appreciative of Floo travel.

They had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho.

Sirius exchanged a few words with the men and led the way to a Mr. Roberts, who was very clearly a Muggle. Mr. Roberts was in fact a very confused Muggle. That was due to the fact that whenever Mr. Roberts witnessed the strange (to him) actions of the assorted wizards of the world, he would begin to question. He would then start to answer his own questions. That was usually the point when the Obliviator showed up. Even as they talked with him about which campsite they were in, a wizard wearing poisonous yellow plus-fours appeared out of thin air to alter his memory.

"Funny lot here-abouts. Everyone seems to know each other, even the foreigners. Lot of them, too. One bloke tried to pay me in wooden nickels!"

The Obliviator Apparated into sight behind him and cast, "Obliviate!"

Mr. Roberts blinked owlishly. "Top of the hill there next to the big oak. Here's a map of the campsite." He peered at Sirius intently. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"Obliviate!"

The poor Muggle wandered off in a daze, and the Obliviator snorted with disgust. "I don't get paid enough for this. I need a vacation." Without further comment, he Disapparated.

As Harry and Sirius walked across the campsite, they saw flags from every nation. Germans were camped next to Spaniards. Poles bordered with Finns. Italians, French, Swedes, and more were present. Of course there were plenty of Scots, Welsh, and British, to say nothing of the Irish. Ireland was one of the teams in the final, facing Bulgaria.

"Harry! Over here!"

Percy Weasley was calling his name. Harry looked to see him standing beside a very common canvas tent. There were three other red-haired people with him. Ginny, Harry knew. The others were strangers.

"Harry, meet my older brothers Bill and Charlie. Brothers, Harry Potter."

Charlie held out a large hand, which Harry shook, feeling calluses and blisters under his fingers. Charlie worked with dragons in Romania. He was built shorter and stockier than Percy, who was long and lanky. He had a broad, good-natured face, which was weather-beaten and so freckly that he looked almost tanned; his arms were muscular, and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it.

Bill was all smiles and also shook Harry's hand. Bill came as something of a surprise. Harry knew that he worked for the wizarding bank, Gringotts, and that Bill had been Head Boy at Hogwarts; Harry had always imagined Bill to be an older version of Percy before that worthy's defection to Slytherin: fussy about rule-breaking and fond of bossing everyone around. Nothing could be further from the truth. Bill looked -- there was no other word for it -- cool. He was tall, with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang dangling from it. Bill's clothes would not have looked out of place at a Wand Smasher concert. Harry recognized his boots to be made, not of leather, but of dragon hide.

"Percy and Ginny have said all kinds of nice things about you," Bill said pleasantly.

"Especially Ginny," Charlie snickered.

Ginny responded by kicking him in the shin.

"This is my godfather, Sirius Black."

Both Weasley men took a sharp breath and a step back. Percy rolled his eyes at his older brothers and gave them each a solid whack in the arm.

"He's an innocent man, you. The Minister himself declared it."

Bill attempted to speak, but made only a partial recovery of his wits, for he stammered horribly as he reached out a trembling hand to greet Sirius. Not a trace of levity showing, Sirius shook it. More.

Charlie cleared his throat. "I must apologize for our rudeness. I blame an anxious mother who drilled the name Sirius Black into our nightmares."

"I'm glad you were vindicated," Bill said. "I hope you sued for a billion Galleons."

"Not quite that much, but yes, the Ministry will be making a small transfer of funds to my accounts. Former Minister Bagnold will be providing much more."

"So Harry, Percy tells me you're the youngest Seeker in a century? I was a Seeker once upon a time. Led Gryffindor to six straight Cups."

"And Slytherin has taken it for the last ten," Harry shot back with a cocky smirk. "And I was there for three of them, and I'm only going to be a fourth year."

"Oh, there were times before we took the Cup that I still caught the Snitch. I just hadn't been given the authority to whip my Chasers and Beaters into shape. When McGonagall made me Captain, we took the Cup that year, going from last to first."

That was pretty impressive.

"What's your fastest catch?" Harry asked instead.

"Three minutes, three seconds."

"Not bad. Nothing on my two fifty-nine, though."

Charlie was now eyeing Harry up and down. It was the look of a Quidditch captain. Harry knew it well. Marcus Flint had given him the same eye. Harry knew he would have to develop that look for when he became captain himself.

"Yeah, not bad. Which broom was that on?"

"Nimbus Two Thousand. I've upgraded since then."

"To what?"

"A Firebolt."

Charlie whistled in amazed admiration. "Wow, I wish I had that much money to spend on a broom. Holy dragon breath!"

"It's the fastest thing on the market. Still."

"No kidding. But I guess you need all the help you can get, right, kid?"

Harry bristled. "Don't talk down to me just because you're taller. I'll fly against you any day, and you can ride the Firebolt. I'll still beat you to the Snitch!"

"Now those sound like fighting words," Charlie declared. "You're on. Where's my broom? I don't need your shiny toy, Potter. I've got a top-line Cleansweep Ten."

"I eat Clean Tens for breakfast."

"Now, now, Harry, don't provoke the hot-tempered Gryffindors," Sirius joked, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "No fighting in front of the rest of the world. You're acting as representatives of Great Britain for the next few days."

Percy added his own opinion. "Quite right, you know, Charlie. Don't you see the French over there? And over on the other side, Merlin help us all, it's the Americans. If you cause an international incident, Mother will skin you alive."

"I'm just going to teach the mouthy little Slytherin a bit about flying," Charlie protested.

"No, you're not," Percy declared firmly.

"Listen to Percy, Charlie." Ginny advised.

"Maybe we should be going," Sirius suggested. "We still need to find our campsite."

"See you around, Percy. Bye, Ginny."

Their designated space was marked with a little sign reading "BLACK". It was a decent little square of land abutting a tall oak tree, pleasantly free from mud. Without ado, Sirius unpacked the tent. Carefully showing Harry every step of what he was doing, he quickly had the tent pitched. Perhaps nine feet by five, it stood about three feet high and was nauseatingly orange. Harry immediately tapped it with his wand and changed it to a more sedate green.

"Cheering for Ireland, are we?" Sirius asked.

"Sure. I don't know anyone from Bulgaria, and at least the Irish speak English."

"Well, sort of."

Aside from its previous colour, there was nothing glaringly obvious about their tent. The same could not be said, however, for the others around them. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Harry could hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on was a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

The only way their humble tent resembled a palace was inside. The main room had feather pillows strewn about amidst elaborate lamps and low tables with trays of sweets and pitchers of ice-cold drinks. Doors on either side led to private bedrooms. A wide door to the back led to a spacious dining room with a full kitchen off to the side. Except for that kitchen, it reminded Harry very much of the Arabian Nights.

"Well, this is grand," Harry said appreciatively. "I never cease to be impressed with just how cool magic can be. This is much better than kipping in a sleeping bag."

"Magic can provide many comforts," Sirius agreed.

"Are you hungry? Because I'm hungry. Does that kitchen work?"

"It certainly does. Let's have a look."

They ended up fixing ham sandwiches with crisps and a pickle. They washed it all down with cold glasses of pumpkin juice.

Sirius wasn't nearly so excited about things as Harry was. The idea of thousands of people packed around him made him a bit nervous, he confessed. Sirius hadn't really been out in the public eye yet aside from a brief appearance in the Three Broomsticks in the late spring and a very secret, private meeting at the Ministry.

"Do you not want to go walking around?" Harry asked. He didn't like the edginess in Sirius' voice.

"I just keep thinking about Mister Roberts."

"What about him?"

"He recognized me. Didn't you say that even the Muggle news programmes were talking about my escape?"

"Yeah. You think he saw you there?"

"I've certainly never seen him before. That was a Muggle. Imagine how it would be if wizards start in on me? I've been the blackest of criminals for twelve years. Hearing it contrary in the newspaper is very little counter to that deep sort of impression. You saw how the Weasley boys reacted. I don't think I'm ready to deal with that on a large scale. You go exploring, though. Just be safe and respectful of everyone you meet."

"Hello?" came a voice from the entrance.

"Draco?" Harry called out.

"None other. Wow, tally place."

"Thanks."

"Hello, cousin."

"Hello, Draco."

"Ready to explore, Harry?"

"Ready steady."

"Father wouldn't settle for less than the best, so he's still setting up the secondary tent with the swimming pool. Cousin, I was to convey an invitation to join us after dinner this evening."

"Thank you, young owl."

"Hoot-hoot."

"Where's Elan? He's not chaperoning you?"

"No, he's working with the Ministry as a translator, remember?" Harry had heard Elan talking about that at the birthday party, but other things had weighed more on his mind.

"So shall we go make friendly with foreigners?" Draco asked brightly.

"I trust your father advised you about proper behaviour," Sirius said in a questioning tone.

"Oh, he was in rare form this morning. Said if he caught me doing anything, I would be packed off to Durmstrang just like Elan."

"That might not be so bad. How many N.E.W.T.s did Elan get?"

"Twelve. But I can't speak German."

"Elan could teach you."

"I'd rather stay at Hogwarts, thanks."

"Sirius, may we go look around?"

"Just be back in three hours. I'll get something cooking for dinner. Take your broom, and your cloak, just in case."

"Thanks, Sirius!"

Harry and Draco dashed out of the tent and collided squarely with Millie. Younger brother Arcen was tagging along, and his laughter at watching the older kids fall down was high and mocking.

Millie jumped to her feet and grabbed Arcen's arm. She twisted, spun him around, and wrapped her other arm around his throat and started to squeeze.

Arcen squealed with pain and begged, "Ow! Lemme go!"

"Say uncle."

"Uncle!"

Millie smirked at Harry and Draco. "Now tell my friends how much you like kittens."

"Get bent! Ow! Okay, okay! Harry-"

"Potter, you little brat. He hasn't said you can use his given name."

"Ow! P-potter, Malfoy, I want you to know that I really like kittens. Ow! I think they're cute. And- and precious."

Draco snickered from the ground. "That's very interesting, Arse."

Harry stood up and offered Draco a hand to his feet.

"Now then," Millie said speculatively.

"Enough, troll-face!"

"Oh, that was a mistake," Millie said with delight. She squeezed her brother's neck a bit more. "Did you eat all of your vegetables last night at dinner? Do you like broccoli?"

"Yes, yes, I love broccoli!" Arcen half-shouted.

"Okay." She let him go abruptly.

"Millie, we were hoping to run into you," Harry said as he brushed off the dirt.

Draco and Millie both groaned at him. "Where are you two off to in such a hurry?"

"Mostly just walking around, I think. I see you're also carrying a broom."

"As always, Draco, you state the obvious."

"And what use do you intend to put that broom to, Millicent?"

"Same as you, I imagine." Millie and Draco were sharing a smirk in a way that made Harry start to smirk as well. Parents and godfathers had said to behave, but they'd said nothing about laying down.

Within a few more steps, they saw the sort of people they were looking for. Three kids on brooms were flying around a large cauldron on an elaborate metal frame. They looked to be carrying a Quaffle, and the object of their game was to evade the other two players and dunk the Quaffle into the cauldron.

It was the Americans' campsite, and they had quite a large one. Genuine rock wall delineated their ground, a foot high all around. Right in front was a tall flagpole, the American flag rippling, even though no breeze blew. Perhaps ten identical tents were pitched in a row. It was a neat and tidy affair outside, all straight lines. Another rock wall marked off the broom area in back.

"Hallo, Americans!" Draco called out.

One of the three boys on brooms noticed them and yelled at his friends. Together they swooped down and landed at the front entrance. They looked to be about Harry's age. Each boy was wearing green robes that had the look of uniforms.

The leader was tall with close-cropped black hair. He had a sharp nose and narrow brown eyes. He eyed all three of them quickly, and he turned to Draco.

"You wanted something?" he asked in a bored voice.

"I see you're having a bit of sport," Draco drawled in his most languid manner. "I wonder if you wouldn't be interested in some friendly competition."

"What, you all?" said one of the other American boys. He brushed back brown hair and raised one eyebrow.

"What's this game you've bastardized a Quaffle for? It's not Quidditch."

"Quidditch," the first boy scoffed derisively. "This is a Quod, and the game is Quodpot."

"Not that Quidditch isn't grand," the second boy added diplomatically. "But Quodpot is on a whole other level."

"How do you play?" Harry asked. What could possibly be better than Quidditch?

"It's real simple," the first boy said. "This Quod here will explode if you don't get it into the cauldron there soon enough."

"Sounds tally," Millie opined.

"A girl wants to play Quodpot?" said the last American, who hadn't yet spoken. "Check it out, fellas."

"If Amy heard you talking like that, Jeff, she'd hex you to the wall," the second boy scoffed. "Didn't she make the team before you?"

"We'd be delighted to have a round of Quodpot with you," the first boy said to Draco. "But we don't play with strangers. Eric Lochmaster. This is Brian O'Leary and Jeff Smitherson."

"Draco Malfoy, Millie Bulstrode, Harry Potter."

Harry's fame clearly extended beyond Britain. The three boys recognized the name. The inevitable quick glances up to his forehead followed. Harry tamped down his irritation and managed not to scowl.

"Okay, then," Eric said. "The rules are, anything goes. Quodpot is a fairly rough game, and the school teams use pads. Since this is a friendly game, we don't need pads, but the rules are the same. As guests, you get the Quod first. The goal is to dunk it in the cauldron there. That causes a turnover. If it explodes, that's a turnover and a point for us."

The Quod was a heavier Quaffle, and the rough leather was blackened with scorch marks in places. Harry would have felt better about chasing a Snitch as he tossed the ball from hand to hand to get a feel for it. The three American boys kicked off into the sky and began a defensive pattern around the cauldron. Harry handed the Quod to Draco.

"Hawkshead Attack Formation," Draco said after studying the American defence. "We'll cut right through them and sink this."

Marcus Flint, Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team would have been proud of their coordination. The three Slytherins were almost good enough to have made the team as Chasers. Draco and Millie were dead-set to try out against Warrington, Pucey, and Montague when they returned to Hogwarts in the fall and had been practising. The Americans didn't seem to be prepared for some of the tactics out of Flint's playbook, which Harry had been drilling on with the others during Quidditch practice at Malfoy Manor. Conversely, when they managed to fly past the Brits like they weren't even there, Harry was amazed and dismayed. He took careful mental notes, wondering what might work against Gryffindor.

The more the Quod was passed from player to player, the longer the thing went without exploding and the team had more time to try to score, so there was plenty of room for interceptions. The final score was ten to six. Harry and his friends had put up a tough fight, but still managed to lose spectacularly. Only a last second explosion had kept Harry from sinking the Quod and preventing the inevitable. That point had won the game.

"Not bad, redcoats," Lochmaster complimented as they landed. "If you want to come back for a rematch before the end of the Cup, we'd love to beat you again."

"That could be fun. How many players to a team in regulation?" Harry was now intensely curious about Quodpot and was plotting ways he could get a Quod to blow up in Ron Weasley's face.

"Standard is eleven, but you can play with any number, really."

Harry couldn't get over the funny way they talked. He found himself asking more questions just to listen to it. Lochmaster and his friends were glad to tell them all about Pine Manor School of Magic and the American Wizarding Republic.

American wizards largely kept to themselves. They claimed the whole of North America as their territory, and strangers were not welcome. Powerful magical barriers guarded the coasts, preventing direct Apparition and broom travel. There were no Portkeys allowed either. The only route of entry or exit was through a specialized Floo connection via Greenland, Iceland, and Ireland on the east, via Alaska in the north, and via a stronghold in Panama to the south.

Their school, Pine Manor, had been founded to serve the needs of pureblooded families in the old colonies. Other schools had been founded to teach Muggleborns, but there was no grander institute of learning with fine old traditions. American wizarding society was of the most common blood, with merit being the sole qualifier. That was just fine with the purebloods; who possessed more merit than those who had been raised with magic their whole lives?

It was an interesting concept to Harry, and he could see echoes of it in the Magical Child Protection Act. It didn't matter where a wizard came from, only that he was a wizard.

"Well, we're off to explore a bit more. It's been smashing good fun, Yanks. We'll see you later, yeah?" Harry knew he was being a bit pompous, but he couldn't help himself.

"Oh yeah. We still need that rematch."

Harry and his friends wandered around, taking in all the sights. Arcen tagged along a few steps behind, dazzled by the phenomenal flying he'd witnessed. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire. They encountered another group of Americans, a group of middle-aged witches gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: THE SALEM WITCHES' INSTITUTE. Harry caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though he couldn't understand a word, the tone of every single voice was excited.

There was no question when they walked into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth, that they'd found the Irish. Grinning freckled faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open.

They saw Finnigan and Thomas, fellow fourth year students at Hogwarts. They were in Gryffindor House and apart from Potions class, Slytherins paid little heed to them. The Gryffindors only attracted attention when they stood up with Ron Weasley to act like gits. There had been a few hexes and a few blows exchanged, so Harry reckoned that they didn't need to stop and chat.

At a large patch of tents upfield, the Bulgarian flag - white, green, and red - hung limp on a flagpole. The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl.

"Krum," said Millie quietly.

"Who?" Harry asked.

"Krum! Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker! He's an unbelievable talent, and young besides. Right genius at Quidditch, you know."

"Isn't he the one Elan told us about in one of his letters?" Draco asked. "He finished at Durmstrang, right?"

"Yes," Millie answered.

Salesmen were carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes - green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria - which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectible figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.

The most interesting thing they found was called by the salesman, "Omnioculars". They looked like a very expensive pair of Muggle binoculars with a dozen more knobs and dials added for good measure. Wizards had harnessed magic to recreate the video camera, for the image seen through the lenses could be paused, rewound, slowed down, and fast forwarded. Harry instantly bought two pair for him and Sirius.

As the sun set, the camp was lit up by various wizardly magics. The most impressive of all was the flagpole in the Americans' campsite which glowed gently, illuminating the flag that still fluttered in the dead air.

Harry and Draco left Millie and Arcen at the Bulstrode encampment (where the tent had two stories and minarets at the corners) and meandered to the Malfoy site. The pair strolled into camp to see Lucius Malfoy having heated words with a strange wizard.

"I won't hear any more of it, Selwyn. Go back to your mistress and have her feed you grapes. Don't be a fool."

Selwyn folded his arms across his chest. "When you loosen up a little bit, Lucius, let me know." With an angry pop, he Disapparated.

Mr. Malfoy sneered at the empty air where Selwyn had been. Then he caught sight of Draco, and his smile returned.

"My son, it is so good to see you have behaved yourself. I'm very proud of you."

"Thank you, Father."

"Harry, have you been having fun?"

"Yes, sir. We learned about a new broom game from some Americans called Quodpot. It's only got one ball, a heavier Quaffle, and if you don't dunk it in the cauldron in time, it explodes."

Mr. Malfoy blinked. "Americans are very unusual wizards. They're particularly fond of explosions."

"It was like Quidditch, but at the same time, not at all. It's hard to explain. Of course I don't play Chaser. Draco and Millie did much better than I did." It was true. Harry had been nursing burned fingers and was fair covered with soot when the game was over. Thankfully a few Cleaning Charms, which Harry could now cast without effort, took care of all three of them.

"It is always important to have friends," Mr. Malfoy declared. "Nothing like a little sporting contest to break the ice. Well done."

"Thank you, sir." Harry checked his pocket watch that had been a gift from Mr. Nott two Christmases ago. "And I'm late. Sirius is making dinner."

Harry hopped on his Firebolt and the sound of his farewell was lost as he zoomed down the path. He blew right past Mr. Roberts, who stared with incredulity until he was thankfully Obliviated yet again. Harry practically screeched to a halt in front of the tent and stumbled off his broom.

"Sirius? I'm back!" he called out as he entered the tent. The scent of roast chicken was strong in the air. "That smells great!"

"Thank you."

Sirius was in the kitchen, where he had a spit set up on a grill. Though there was no motor, the chicken turned above the flame that burned with no fuel. The bird was just a perfect shade of brown. He was right on time.

After the dishes had been set to wash themselves, Harry led Sirius to the Malfoy campsite. Draco was waiting for them outside the tent to escort them inside.

Mr. Malfoy had spared nothing.

It was as though they'd been transported to Rome. There were columns everywhere, festooned with silk bunting. Fountains burbled happily and an artificial sun shone down in the common area. What appeared to be genuine little homes led to bedrooms. Mr. Malfoy was lounging on a backless chair in what could only be called a park area, complete with stone benches. There were some pillows though, which Harry was appreciative for after the bang-up he'd had playing Quodpot.

"Cousin Sirius, it is good to see you."

"If you insist, Lucius."

"Do sit down. What would you care for?"

"We've just eaten."

"A drink, then?"

"No."

Mr. Malfoy's eyes narrowed just a bit, and his forehead wrinkled slightly. "Cousin, stop this. You're acting like a child. Nibby!"

The house elf appeared with a loud pop. "Master called for Nibby. Nibby has come. What is Master being needing?"

"I should think a carafe of wine and one of grape juice."

Nibby bowed and vanished, only to appear twenty seconds later with a silver tray containing two glass vessels filled with purple liquid and four goblets. He set this carefully on a smooth stone pillar and poured the wine. These glasses he sent levitating over to the adults while Harry and Draco received the grape juice.

"To magic," Mr. Malfoy said, raising his drink. "Wizards, talent, brooms, and Quidditch! Magic: it is our blessing."

Harry and Draco clinked goblets. "To Quidditch!"

Sirius had not joined the toast, and Harry shot him a penetrating look. Please, he implored silently. Sirius shot a flinty glare at Mr. Malfoy, but he clinked glass with Harry and Draco.

There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence.

"So we decided that we're actually going to challenge Montague, Pucey, and Warrington at trials," Draco said abruptly. "Though Tim has been a right slouch, so Millie and I have been limited to practising two-person manoeuvres."

"Then you're sunk," Harry replied. "Because I know for a fact that Bletchley is going to find the best three and make them play his dream team. There's no way you can hope to beat them."

"Not with a left-handed broom, no."

"I wouldn't worry too much about not making the team, Draco," Mr. Malfoy said mysteriously. "There will be plenty of other things to occupy your attention next year."

"Like what?"

"I'm really not supposed to say."

Sirius was watching Mr. Malfoy intently.

Harry was curious as well. "What's the big surprise? I hate surprises. Don't keep me in suspense, please."

"I've said too much."

"Oh, not nearly enough, I think," Sirius declared. "Out with it, Lucius. Tell me what you know."

"It's nothing, Sirius, nothing at all."

"I'm the judge of that. I don't want any surprises around Harry. Don't make me beat it out of you. I will."

"It's not a bad surprise, Sirius."

"I repeat, I am the judge of that." Sirius flicked his wrist, and suddenly his wand was in his hand, pointed at Mr. Malfoy's face. "It may not have sunk in through that thick ego of yours, but I don't trust you, Cousin," he sneered. "I don't trust your intentions towards my godson. What is going on at Hogwarts next year?"

Harry felt filled with mortification at Sirius' actions, but Mr. Malfoy didn't seem the slightest bit perturbed at having a wand pointed at him. He sipped languidly from his goblet and set it down.

"Very well, Sirius, in the interest of assuaging your suspicious mind, I will tell you. After much negotiation, the Triwizard Tournament will be returning this year."

"The Triwizard Tournament?" Sirius repeated, echoed by Harry and Draco.

Mr. Malfoy answered the boys' question first. "The tournament is a competition once held every five years between the three great schools of magical learning: Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons. Each school selects a Champion, and there are three great Tasks. The Tasks vary from tournament to tournament, but they are all very dangerous and require strong magic to overcome."

"It's not just dangerous," Sirius reiterated. He had lowered his wand, but he still looked suspicious. "Champions have died. There was one tournament that had no winner."

"Measures are being taken to prevent hazard of that magnitude. International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have been negotiating with their opposite numbers in other countries to bring back the old spirit without the anarchy that marred earlier times."

"Brilliant," Draco exclaimed. "I can't wait to enter."

"You will not be entering. No student under the age of seventeen will be permitted to stand for selection as Champion."

"Well that's not fair," Draco retorted. "What if I were just that good?"

"Trust me, Draco, you're not that good," Sirius said. "Can you deal with a Sphinx? How about a honest-to-goodness mummy? There's worse than that in the tournament."

Mr. Malfoy, it seemed, was in agreement. "It is highly unlikely that any student not of age could have the skills needed to survive the tournament, but forbidding it is an added precaution. Even if it had not been, I still would not have allowed you to compete. Elan, perhaps, but you are still too young."

Harry took one look at the disapproving expression on Sirius' face and knew better than to ask if he could have competed. The question was answered before it could even be spoken.

"Seems a rather Goblin-esque deal, if you ask me," Draco said, folding his arms. "No chance at all for any recognition just because we're underage."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "You'd think they could organize a duelling tourney or inter-school Quidditch Cup or something."

"That's an excellent idea! Father! Do you have any friends in Magical Games and Sports?"

Mr. Malfoy seemed taken aback by Draco's enthusiasm. "I know Ludo Bagman, certainly; he's head of the department."

"Can you maybe get him to set up a tri-school Quidditch Cup?"

"I could speak with him, certainly. But I believe they will be very reluctant to renegotiate any of the terms of the treaty."

"Well it doesn't have to involve the government, does it? Couldn't the board of governors and the headmaster work out a little friendly competition?"

"Of course Headmaster Karkaroff is an old friend of mine as well. I believe something could be arranged. It wouldn't be nearly so grand as the Tasks."

"That would be enough."

"Then I will send the owls tonight."

"Thank you, Father."

"You are most welcome, Draco."

They turned to other topics, but Sirius apparently had nothing else to say to Mr. Malfoy. Any question Draco's father addressed to him, Sirius answered in short, clipped sentences. But he volunteered nothing. At least he was responding. Harry reasoned that was a good start. By the time they sought their beds, Sirius had almost stopped trying to burn a hole through Mr. Malfoy's head.

"Thanks for trying tonight," Harry said gratefully as they walked back to the tent. "I really want you to know that I appreciate you being vigilant. I know you don't see eye to eye with Draco's dad, but I don't think he's the way you think he is. Not any more."

"My brother turned back," Sirius said in a troubled voice. "I want to believe him, for your sake, but for your sake, I can't trust him. I need something a bit more tangible than the word of a former Death Eater before I'll believe Lucius has changed. You see, I knew him, once upon a time."

"He'll prove it to you, Sirius," Harry said earnestly. "We just need to figure out how."

to be continued...