chapter 16

Ed is flipping through a few geography books in the complete stillness of the library, scribbling barely legible notes on possible places of interest to Riddle. He's already marked down several key "pureblood" landmarks that historically meant a lot to wizards who are into that sort of thing (namely, Riddle and his ilk).

He has no idea where the rest of the Horcruxes could be or even a hint of what they might look like. The only real lead he's got is that the Horcruxes that had already been dealt with (the diary, the ring, and the locket) were typically of great importance to either Riddle or his pureblood obsession.

There are only so many objects in the western wizarding world that could fill those criteria, although Ed is fucked if it turns out Riddle decided to use mostly personal items.

The sound of footsteps approaches him, which is extremely odd given the time — most people are definitely at the big Goblet of Fire reveal, which Ed had deliberately ditched.

What's worse is that the footsteps belong to McGonagall, whose face is twisted into a grimace, flanked by an upset Irma.

"Mr. Elric," McGonagall says, tight-lipped. "Your presence is required in the Great Hall."

That's never happened before. "Why?"

She regards him with suspicious eyes. "We can discuss this once we are there." Her tone brooks no further questions or argument.

He's wracking his brain for any recent activities on his part that could get both McGonagall and Irma so upset with him and strangely finds that he can't come up with a single thing. He's been on his best behavior lately, considering he's making an effort to get along with people and he actually somehow showed up for double detentions on the last few Wednesday's.

It's kind of unbelievable that even when he's not trying, he's in trouble.

But then again, it kind of is believable.

There's really only one thing that could make both of them look so serious and Ed has a steadily sinking feeling in his stomach that this has something to do with the Triwizard Tournament that he's been trying to avoid at every turn.

* * * * *

McGonagall really doesn't say another word as she leads him to the Great Hall, but that's not nearly as terrible as what follows.

Trailing after her down the center of the Great Hall, Ed can't help but feel like it's last year all over again. The whispers, the staring, the incredibly unbearable atmosphere of a place that screams "you don't belong here". It's even worse now that students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are doing the same and they don't even know him.

At least, they shouldn't.

He catches Luna's eye as he walks to the front and he raises an eyebrow.

Do you know what's going on?

She shakes her head slightly, but she looks worried, which can't be a good sign.

The rest of his friends don't look much better. Neville looks extremely anxious, a rare sight nowadays, and Ginny has a fierce look in her eye.

The twins look stunned.

Blaise is stock still.

And the Slytherins stare blankly on.

Ed continues to march forward, trailing behind McGonagall with only minimal reluctance in his steps.

She leads him into the back room, right behind the professors' table, where Remus is shooting worried glances his way.

There, the Headmasters and three students, presumably the Triwizard champions, stand waiting for him.

One of them, of-fucking-course, is Harry Potter.

What the hell happened to "seventeen and older"?

That still doesn't really explain what Ed's doing here.

He frowns. "What's going on?"

Dumbledore looks at him with a polite smile, but if Ed squints just right, it looks strained more than anything. "Ah, Mr. Elric, we were waiting on you. Did you happen to put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"

That startles a laugh out of Ed, until he realizes he's the only one to do so. He resists the almost painful need to scoff. "I did not," he replies tersely.

The headmaster from Durmstrang bristles. "Listen here, you little brat. Your name came out of the Goblet, so there's no point in denying it—, we know! We know what you've done!" He breaks off into a string of Russian that doesn't need to be translated for Ed to understand.

"Igor, please," Dumbledore says, quietly, but firm. He turns to Ed once more. "Your name did indeed come out of the Goblet. Are you certain you did not put your name in? Did you perhaps ask an older student to do so on your behalf?"

"What!" Ed nearly shouts. "I wouldn't put my name in even if my life depended on it, let alone have someone else do it for me!"

Harry's staring at him and he can quite literally feel his eye contact against his skin.

"The boy's obviously lying," Madame Maxine says, her accent thick and foreign to Ed's ears. "There is no other explanation."

"I'm not lying," Ed snaps, losing what little composure he has left. "I've had no interest in signing up for the tournament, ask anyone."

"That's exactly what he said," Karkaroff accuses, throwing an evil glare Harry's way.

Is this really happening?

"And why wouldn't he? He's fourteen, he shouldn't even be here!"

"You're fourteen!" Harry says petulantly.

"I'm sixteen," Ed corrects, much to the surprise of everyone in the room, except for Dumbledore, who just murmurs thoughtfully.

"But you are so short," the Durmstrang champion says, giving him a onceover. Every sound he makes sounds sharp and guttural, a far cry from the way Madame Maxine blurs hers together. "I thought you were twelve."

"What's your name?" Ed demands.

The boy wrinkles his brow in confusion. "What?"

"What. Is. Your. Name?" Ed repeats, stamping out each word.

"Viktor," he replies, still confused.

"Fuck you, Viktor," Ed snarls, forgetting who his audience currently is.

That gets a reaction from the other boy immediately. "What's your name?"

"Ed."

Viktor glares. "Fuck you, Ed."

"Viktor!" Karkaroff admonishes, staring at his star pupil with something akin to shock and embarrassment in his eyes.

"I think that's quite enough, Mr. Krum, Mr. Elric," Dumbledore interjects. He's still as calm, as unruffled, as ever. He gazes at Ed impassively, unblinking. "I'm afraid someone may have interfered with the Goblet. It seems there are two Hogwarts champions."

"This is unheard of," Madame Maxine says. "Perhaps you were hoping for this to happen."

"That's a serious accusation," McGonagall interrupts; Ed had almost forgotten she was there at all. "Are you suggesting Dumbledore tampered with the Goblet?"

Madame Maxine purses her lips. "I have made no such accusation. I am merely bringing to light how peculiar the Headmaster's response has been."

"Well, what would you have him do? Remove them from the tournament? You know as well as I how that will end, Headmistress," McGonagall retorts, quite bluntly. "This is an unprecedented situation."

"What do you mean?" Ed says, not one to sit quietly while the adults argue. "I didn't sign up for this, I'm not doing it."

"Me too," Harry adds on, although he seems to take issue with having to agree with Ed on anything.

"It's not that simple," McGonagall says, turning to address them now. "The Goblet has already chosen, whether you were the one to put your name in or not. You must compete."

Ed frowns. "I don't get it. Why can't you just withdraw us right now? We already said we didn't want to. Our names were put in there without our consent — this is bullshit!"

"Watch your mouth," Karkaroff snaps. "No one is particularly pleased with this, but we can't just ignore what the Goblet has decided."

"He's right," a new voice says.

Crouch enters the room, with Bagman trailing after him like an overeager puppy.

"We cannot ignore the Goblet's will," Crouch states, all while looking at Ed in particular. "That can lead to magical repercussions, the magnitude of which we are uncertain."

"You've been using the Goblet for centuries, I'm guessing, and you just–, what, don't know what happens if you don't do whatever it says?" Ed asks, as insubordinate as he dares to be in front of the wizards.

Crouch's eye twitches. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he chooses to respond. "That is correct."

If Ed had imagined Crouch's ignorance and short-sightedness had been at its peak the night the Dark Mark was cast, he was terribly wrong.

"Then why did you make the incredibly intelligent decision to use the Goblet in the first place?" Ed asks, sarcasm dripping with his every word.

"It was intended to be an impartial judge. How were we to know its impartiality would cause this kind of result?"

"Did you never imagine that your fourteen-year-old 'Chosen One', who gets into trouble every fu–, every single year at Hogwarts—"

"Not every year!" Harry tries to protest.

"— would somehow end up involved in this mess? This sounds like an excellent way to get some unwilling, underaged wizard murdered. Not just any random wizard either, but a very specific, often sought out, unwilling, underaged wizard. Had that not occurred to anyone involved in the process of planning this?"

"No, it hadn't," Crouch answers curtly, the same way he'd uttered it had been Harry's wand to cast the Dark Mark that night.

Ed slaps a hand over his face and drags it down.

"That's enough," McGonagall says sharply.

"So, what's going to happen?" Ed pushes on. "Who's the Hogwarts champion?"

No one will even look his way, except for Viktor who still seems to be upset about Ed's short temper.

"Well?" he demands.

"You will both have to compete," Dumbledore says softly, almost apologetic in his delivery.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me right now," Ed spits out.

Harry's expression reveals a similar line of thinking.

Crouch speaks up then. "The first task will take place on the twenty-fourth of November. Be—"

Ed swears the man's eyes are lingering on him as he speaks, the sensation unpleasant.

He thinks briefly of Winky, and wonders if that explains Crouch's subtle interest in him.

Or maybe it's the fact that Ed's made his dislike of the man too obvious.

"— dismissed."

Madame Maxine holds out a hand for the Beauxbaton girl to take and the pair depart, while Karkaroff slings an arm over Viktor's shoulders and herds him away.

Crouch and Bagman look expectantly towards the remaining Hogwarts contenders.

Dumbledore turns to face Harry and Ed, who don't really know what to do other than stand with their arms hanging limply at their sides.

"I think it best if you both try to get some sleep," he says.

"Right, and maybe when I wake up this entire nightmare will be over," Ed replies sarcastically.

Harry scowls, but not quite at him either.

"Unfortunately, Edward," Dumbledore says, still in a terribly soft voice, "there is not much else I can do, except wish you luck as the tournament proceeds."

"Fat lot of good that'll fucking do," Ed mutters before turning and exiting the room.

He doesn't wait for Harry to catch up.

* * * * *

It's late enough that there aren't any students milling about, which means Ed gets to avoid the questions that are sure to be raised, come morning.

He's going towards the dorms, or at least he thinks he is. Actually, he isn't even fully aware of his surroundings when George appears from nowhere, grabs his hand and starts to drag him somewhere.

"Where are we going," Ed asks.

"Everyone's waiting for you in the kitchen," George replies. "I'm just the one who's bringing you there." After a moment of silence, he speaks again. "You alright?"

Ed doesn't really know how to answer that. "Define alright and then I'll let you know."

George squeezes his hand tightly in lieu of a response.

They walk in silence.

George is the one who tickles the pear and he then pulls Ed into the kitchen, where the book club members are occupying one of the large picnic tables in various states of panic and worry — Fred and Neville are visibly feeding off each other's nervous energy.

"I'm kind of surprised you guys didn't bring Potter here, too," Ed says.

"He's got Hermione and Ron, he'll be fine," Ginny points out. "On the other hand, if we weren't here, you'd probably be keeping all of this crap to yourself."

"Language," Ed scowls, but Ginny scowls back.

"Is that really important right now? Bloody hell, you've been picked as a champion, Ed — what is going on?" Neville asks, eyes round and wide with concern and fear.

"I have no fucking idea," Ed says, running a hand through his hair, disheveling it. When he takes a seat on the bench, Luna scoots over and raises a hand to touch his braid before stopping.

He nods slightly and she takes to combing her fingers through his hair, working out the mess of knots it's become over the last hour or so.

"You didn't put your name in?" Blaise asks.

"When would I have? Also, why would I have?"

"Fair point," he murmurs, more to himself than to Ed, "but who would have put it in otherwise?"

"I don't know," Ed says tiredly, for what feels like the hundredth time that night. "I really fucking don't know."

Both Fred and George are uncharacteristically quiet and Fred is so twitchy Ed is starting to worry that he needs to visit Pomfrey and get a draught to soothe his nerves.

"You all doing alright?" he asks, looking to them expectantly.

"You're asking us if we're alright?" Fred asks in disbelief. "Ed, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Ed responds, and he mostly means it. "I mean, I'll live," he tries to joke, but it falls flat when he sees how unamused his friends are.

"You were the one saying how dangerous this could be…," George trails off.

Everyone is solemn.

It's no secret Ed had been opposed to the very idea of the Tournament. He had blatantly refused to join in on most of their discussions on what kind of events might occur.

"You're still participating then?" Ginny asks.

"I don't have a choice," Ed says, resigned. "Apparently this is some kind of magical hostage situation. For me and Potter."

"How is that allowed?" Neville furrows his brow in thought.

Ed shrugs. "Goblet of Fire," he says, as if that explains everything.

"Goblet of Fire," Luna echoes, and they all fall silent.

It's ominous and grim and unlike anything Ed normally associates with his friends.

He despises it, but he's helpless to change it; the only choice now is to get through it.

* * * * *

It's some time later, when it's far too late for students to be out of bed, but the book club members have given up on sleeping for the night, that Neville asks a question Ed wishes he wouldn't.

"How come you don't just call him Harry like everyone else?"

"I don't not call him Ha–, Harry," Ed says defiantly.

"You just tripped yourself up trying to call him Harry," Neville points out.

"Yeah, what gives?" Ginny asks, wrinkling her nose. She's half-lying, half-sitting on the table, clearly too tired to function.

Ed shrugs. He really wants them to drop it. "I don't know. It's awkward."

George blinks. "Why? You barely know him."

"Would you believe me when I say it's complicated?"

"No," Ginny says bluntly. "It's probably not that complicated. C'mon, Ed, spill."

He makes a face at her and she snorts, but doesn't stop waiting for an answer. Neither does the rest of the book club, waiting patiently for some sort of explanation.

Luna, in particular, gives him a tiny nod of encouragement. He doesn't know how much she knows about Sirius, but she probably wouldn't be surprised even if she hadn't had an idea before.

Well, now's as good a time as any, right?

"Do you guys know about Potter's godfather?"

"Sirius Black?" Blaise asks immediately. "What about him?"

"Woah, Sirius Black is Harry's godfather?" Fred exclaims. "I thought he was trying to kill him last year!"

"But then that Prophet article came out, remember?" George nudges his brother.

"Oh, right. Yeah, I forgot about that."

Ginny rolls her eyes. She's slid down from her half-seated position to lying across the table. "Only you would forget the biggest news of the year."

"Anyways," Ed interrupts the siblings' squabbling, "I kind of… know him? And I don't think Potter's taken that particularly well."

Neville stares at him. "You know Sirius Black, like know him personally? Just casually happened to meet him sometime over the summer, or what?"

Ed winces. "Not–, not over the summer."

They're all staring at him now.

"Then when?" George asks.

There's an immediate glimmer of understanding in Luna's eyes when Ed doesn't respond. It only takes a minute longer before everyone else catches up.

"Merlin's fucking arsehole, did you meet him during the term?" Fred shouts.

"Language," Ed snaps.

George gives him an incredulous look. "You think this is the time to talk about our cursing, when you bloody just admitted you met a criminal during the school year?"

"He's not a criminal," Ed replies.

"When did you even have time to meet him?" Blaise asks, more curious than surprised.

George's jaw drops. "Merlin. Merlin's pants, was that what all that studying was about last year?"

"You were ditching us to hang out with a criminal?" Fred screeches.

"Fucking hell, you guys are taking this far worse than I thought you would," Ed mutters, raising a hand to his temple.

Luna finally speaks up, silencing the growing ruckus of every person trying to speak over one another. "If Ed trusts Mr. Black and Harry does too, why are we worrying about little things?"

Fred blinks incredulously at her. "Did you just–, did you just refer to Sirius Black being a criminal as a little thing?"

She shrugs. "He's not, though, is he. His name's been cleared."

"She's got a point," Neville says, pursing his lips.

"Besides, Ed's already punched a Death Eater, he wouldn't have been scared," Ginny says through a yawn.

George makes an attempt to talk over his sister, but the damage is done.

Luna turns to him with startled eyes.

"He what!" Neville gasps.

Blaise's face, usually smooth and blemish-free, crumples.

(Ed doesn't know what to make of Blaise's distress, because he doesn't know if Blaise's family has any ties to the Death Eaters. It's hard to know for sure with legacy Slytherins families.)

This is not… ideal.

"It was one time?" he tries weakly.

"One time?" Fred snorts. "There were three of them!"

"Fred!" George hisses.

Ed covers his eyes with his hand and breathes out slowly. "Alright, so the more you know, I guess. Thanks for that, guys. Nice. Real nice."

Fred shrugs, unashamed. "Hey, it happened. And we were there for it."

"Yes, but did you need to share that fun little tidbit with everyone?"

"I mean, hey, no one's talking about your friendship with Sirius Black anymore," Fred points out.

"They're going to now," Ginny adds, "since you've so kindly reminded us."

"It's too late for this," Ed groans. "No, it's too early. What time is it?"

"It's almost four," Luna answers.

His friends take pity on him and change the subject once he promises a more thorough explanation once he's gotten some decent sleep. Even with the slowly dwindling conversations happening as they all wait for breakfast, Ed hasn't forgotten that's he just been goblet-picked as a champion for this idiotic Triwizard Tournament.

And surely, his friends aren't the only ones with questions.

He's really not looking forward to the morning.

* * * * *

Ed's least favorite question of all time used to be: "What happened to your arm?" — and that was in a universe where automail at least existed.

He's quickly found a new one to add to the list: "So, did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"

"No," he answers curtly for the twelfth time that hour. "I didn't."

When the Ravenclaw opens their mouth to argue with him, he cuts them off before they can get a word in. "I didn't put my name in and I'm not going to explain myself more than that."

Hogwarts is restless, divided.

Who are they to cheer on in the Tournament?

Who is technically their true champion?

Is it even fair that the two champions weren't technically allowed to be chosen in the first place?

On one hand, they've had enough of Harry Potter's involvement in shenanigans every year.

"It's always Potter," they complain. "Why were we even surprised?"

On the other hand, no one is immediately eager to openly support Ed either.

He's far more personable than he was a year ago, but with the recent developments in his life, Ed's basically reverted back to using snappish, brusque answers when probed by other students hoping to get a chance to see his dazzling personality in action.

"You can cheer for Potter," Ed says, before they bother to bring it up to him. "I'm not planning on trying."

"Isn't that… not allowed?"

"Oh no," Ed deadpans, "whatever will I do. It's not allowed. Oh. Oh no." He snorts derisively and walks off without so much as a backwards glance.

"Rude," the Ravenclaw mutters.

* * * * *

The Hogwarts Houses are conflicted about their champions because of the circumstances under which they became champions. But when it really gets down to it, it's a simple matter

Gryffindor doesn't see it as a choice to make — for them, there's only one person they can support.

Ravenclaw, likewise, is more than ready to ignore the how of Harry Potter becoming a champion when confronted with the idea of openly supporting Edward Elric in any endeavor. (They certainly know how to hold their grudges.)

Slytherin isn't fond of either of them. Draco and his posse are personally opposed to "picking Potter's team", but in reality, most of Slytherin doesn't care for Harry or Ed in the given situation.

Ed's own House is rather unenthusiastic, despite supporting him, seeing as most of them had been anticipating Cedric to be in the running for Triwizard champion.

"Not that we aren't… proud, to have a Hufflepuff champion, I mean, that's excellent, but… you're… er, we weren't expecting—"

Ed cuts Elliott off brusquely. "I didn't put my name in, if that's what you're asking."

"Right," Ernie agrees, as does Archie.

Several of the other Hufflepuffs cast skeptical glances his way.

"I wonder who did," Cedric muses, forehead furrowed in thought.

Ed wants to say something, but he doesn't know how to address the growing prickle of guilt that stabs at him.

Cedric had easily taken him at his word, believed him wholeheartedly, even at the cost of his own name having been picked as a champion. How can a person be so nice and so utterly selfless?

He ruminates on it constantly, until he can't take it anymore.

"You should've been picked, you know," Ed says bluntly.

They're the only two left in the common room, Ed with yet another book of wizarding maps propped against his knees and Cedric with a several feet of crinkled parchment spread in front of him.

"Hm?" Cedric murmurs, too focused on scribbling his transfiguration essay to be paying attention to Ed.

"The Tournament. You should've been a champion."

Cedric finally looks up. "Look on the bright side," he says, flashing him an easy grin, "at least I'll have enough time to actually study, so that my NEWTs will be good enough to get into the Auror program."

"I want to punch you right now," Ed scowls.

Cedric laughs. "And why is that?"

"Aren't you upset? Me and Potter… neither of us should've been picked. Like, someone was fucking around and Potter's name coming out of the Goblet, I kind of understand, but me? I'd be pissed if I were in your shoes."

"What's the use in being angry? You might not have put your name in, and neither did Harry, but the Goblet is picking the best candidate regardless, right?"

Cedric waits for him to nod before continuing.

"Yeah, so it means I wasn't meant to be a champion. You were. No, you are. And Harry is, too. And who am I to say anything about that?" He smiles, bright and genuine and kind.

Ed wants to hide from it.

"You're a good person," he says at last. "Too good of a person."

That startles Cedric, who tilts his head while parting his mouth slightly. "I don't get you sometimes, Ed."

"Who does?" Ed smiles wryly.

* * * * *

It's not terribly unexpected that the Slytherins ultimately decide to support Ed in the upcoming Tournament. It's still a surprise, but it shouldn't really be, given their options.

"Obviously, we don't have much of a choice," Draco sniffs. "But if a choice must be made, then I suppose we'll have to choose you, won't we?"

Pansy and Greg nod in agreement. Theodore ignores him and Vincent, as usual, is more preoccupied with anything other than conversation.

"It's not like you speak for the rest of your House," Ed snorts.

The book club had continued their regular intrusion of the dining tables at meal times when Ed had told them he's fine with it. (At that time, they'd appeared skeptical on his liberal use of "fine", but trusted him to be honest with him on something like this.)

"Oh, but I do." Draco practically bounces in his seat, and he really seems like he's fourteen for once. "We've held a House meeting and it's all been discussed."

"You guys have House meetings?" Ginny asks with a wrinkle of her nose.

"How else would we discuss important things?"

"What could you possibly have to discuss that's important?" Fred says. "Do you color coordinate your underthings?"

"Don't be disgusting, Weasley," Pansy snorts. "As if any of us lack the decency to wear any color other than green."

"You're just going to admit that, then? That you actually color coordinate your pants with the rest of your House, like that's normal," Fred continues, bulldozing any meaningful conversation about Slytherin's choice.

Only Ed bothers to continue Draco's original conversation.

"Don't pull any asshole moves, alright?" Ed warns the other boy.

Draco chews on the inside of his cheek. "Alright," he concedes.

He'd clearly been planning something, although now, Ed trusts that Draco'll be true to his word and drop it. Ed doesn't want to even think about what kind of petty shit the Slytherin had planned before he preemptively shut it down.

He's just grateful that he's built enough rapport with the Slytherins to encourage basic regard for other people.

* * * * *

Ed sends a letter in the morning that only has a hastily scribbled, I'm in the tournament.

He receives an owl during lunch that drops Sirius' response.

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

God, wizards need a more convenient way to communicate, like telegrams or phones. The owls are messy, barfing pellets and shitting everywhere (occasionally on the dining hall tables, despite his friends' insistence that they're all specially trained) and Ed openly despises the loophole they present in the Fidelius charm — he still hasn't managed to think of a decent security measure for said loophole.

Someone's fucking with the Goblet, Ed writes back, not bothering with a more detailed explanation.

WHO!

If I knew that, I wouldn't be writing you these stupid letters, I would be out there giving them a piece of my mind!

DON'T DO ANYTHING STUPID, TALK TO MOONY, CALL ME ON THE FLOO, DO SOMETHING!

What the hell am I supposed to do?

Ed doesn't get a response to that last letter, but he isn't expecting one.

There's nothing to be done, after all.

Someone had sealed his fate this year — the question remains as to precisely who that someone is.

* * * * *

Other than the irritating questions about how he managed to "cheat" the Goblet, Ed doesn't get an opportunity to forget that he's still, above all else at the moment, a student.

He's attending his classes, ignoring the whispers and outright jeers occasionally thrown his way (nothing far too out of the ordinary for him, to be honest), and focuses on living life as if nothing has changed.

This only works to an extent.

Ed's sitting in Transfiguration, not paying any attention at all, when a timid looking first-year informs McGonagall that the champions' presence is required for some photo-related reasons.

"I'd rather not," Ed grits out, in the politest tone he can manage.

"There'll be none of that," McGonagall says. "You are excused, Mr. Elric."

Ed drags his feet in following after the first year, who glances back at him with curiosity and fear every other step.

"It's down the hall and around the corner," the first year squeaks and then races off before Ed can even thank them.

The Beauxbaton champion is seated, ankles crossed, hands placed on her knees, looking the picture of gentlewomanly elegance despite being in a crappy, wooden Hogwarts chair. Viktor is leaning against the wall behind her, a hand shoved roughly into his trouser pocket.

"Good to know I'm not last," he says, noting Harry's absence.

"You are last," the Beauxbaton girl corrects him. She has the same kind of accent as her Headmistress, nasal and smooth. "That reporter woman took Harry."

"Reporter?"

"Rita Skeeter," the girl supplies.

That name rings a bell. He's trying to remember where he heard it when he talks again. "Oh. Took him?"

"They're in the closet." She tips her head to the door just outside the room.

"Right," Ed says, not really understanding what they're doing in a broom closet. "What's your name?"

She manages to convey disappointment by simply dropping her eyes to his shoes. "I am Fleur. Delacour. It is… a pleasure."

"Likewise," Ed says to be polite.

She makes a noise like she doesn't believe him.

He doesn't bother addressing Viktor, who ignores him just the same.

An unfamiliar man wanders into the room with Crouch, Bagman and the Headmasters in tow.

"Where is Mr. Potter?"

"With Ms. Skeeter," Fleur answers promptly.

"Well, we need him to proceed," Bagman insists. "Someone go fetch him. We'll be preparing in the next room."

They leave the teenagers behind.

None of them make a move towards the hallway.

Ed frowns. "Well, is anyone going to get P–, Harry from the closet?"

Fleur and Viktor stare at him blankly.

"Fine," Ed grumbles.

He marches across the hallway and opens the closet door. Inside, squished in between several dusty brooms and rusty buckets, Harry and the reporter both turn to blink at him, like prey animals caught in a bright light.

"Hate to ruin the party, but they're looking for you," he drawls.

There's a flicker of conflicted gratitude that registers on Harry's face, the relief of escaping the Skeeter woman's proverbial claws visibly at war with his dislike of Ed being the one to help him out.

"Thanks," Harry mutters as he rushes out of the closet.

Skeeter, on the other hand, looks terribly put out on having lost her interviewee. She glances over Ed curiously, taking in his clothes, his gloves, and his angry grimace.

A smug grin spreads across her face. "Were you hoping for an exclusive piece yourself?"

That's when it hits him: Rita Skeeter, notorious writer for the Daily Prophet. From what Ed's read, she seems to spin stories more often than actually reporting on them, making unfair assumptions and skewing evidence to present her poisonous opinions favorably to the public.

Yeah, as if he's going to talk to this woman ever.

Ed snorts. "Not at all."

And then he slams the door in her stuck-up face.

He's walking off before she can open the door and yell at him when he runs into Viktor, the only one waiting for him in the first room.

"You will regret that," the Durmstrang student informs him solemnly, furrowing his eyebrows as he does. "She is a snake. She will not let things go once they are in her grasp."

It's the first time they've spoken since they swore at each other, the night they were all picked by the Goblet.

"I'm going to tell you a secret, Viktor, because I think you're going to find out more about me during this competition whether I like it or not." He beckons the other boy closer; Viktor reluctantly obliges. "I don't give a shit about what that third-rate excuse of a reporter has to say about me." He grins, baring all his teeth.

Viktor blinks. And then he's smiling, oddly warm despite how uncomfortably it sits on his face. He doesn't say anything else, just gives him a small nod and wanders off.

* * * * *

The so-called Weighing of the Wands is an event of exaggerated importance in Ed's mind. The wandmaker Ollivander (the only one in the United Kingdom, from what Ed's learned) judges each of the champions' wands, ensuring they're in proper condition for the tasks ahead.

Viktor and Fleur get by without issue.

Ollivander spends a little more time looking over Harry's, recounting the day he bought it from the man himself.

Ed, though, is a different case.

Isn't he always?

"My word, what an unusual wand you have," Ollivander says, more to himself than to Ed, rolling the wand between his fingers. "Not one I've made, naturally."

Oh, fuck. Truth, I'm about to blow my fucking cover. One year in and everything is blowing up in my face spectacularly.

"I'm not from here," Ed says.

Ollivander slants his eyes toward Ed as if to say, "That's obvious".

"Curious choice of symbol." Ollivander taps the bottom of the wand. Just behind the wandmaker, Ed can see Dumbledore's eyes light up as he listens in on the conversation. "Alchemy is a rather outdated magic for a wizard of your age."

Ed runs his tongue over his teeth. "I was homeschooled," he answers curtly.

Ollivander raises an eyebrow at the attitude of his words, but hands back his wand. "Homeschooled in alchemy? By whom? Very few practitioners exist nowadays, especially following the unfortunate passing of Mr. Flamel."

Fuck, that was the wrong thing to say.

"Books," Ed shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Am I done now?"

"That's hardly an appropriate response," Ollivander retorts.

"It's the truth, though. So… is that all?"

Ollivander inhales harshly through his nose. "Quite," he says stiffly, handing over Ed's wand.

"Everyone is fit for battle," Ollivander announces to the Headmasters.

That does nothing except steep Ed's thoughts in dread.

For battle.

He obsesses over that tiny phrase, a euphemism that shouldn't send him spiralling the way it currently is, when all he can think about is two seventeen-year-olds and a fourteen-year-old fighting their way through the "potential dangers" Dumbledore had promised would accompany the title of "champion".

There's no point in worrying about himself, of course. He considers himself well-accustomed to unpredictable and perilous situations and trusts he is experienced enough to weather through whatever wizard nonsense is going to be thrown his way.

He doesn't listen to the photographer who ushers them to stand in certain positions, manhandled for a photo he really doesn't want to take, if he had had the choice to refuse.

"When is this going to be over?" Ed mutters.

Fleur sighs ever so slightly — Ed would like to think it's in agreement, but he has a feeling she's too proper for it to be anything more than annoyance with his disagreeable attitude.

"This would go faster if you would just grin and bear it like the rest of us," Harry says under his breath.

It's true that the photographer isn't happy with the photos, mostly because Ed is scowling horribly in every single shot. Nothing anyone says can elicit an even neutral expression from him, so the photographer had insisted on holding on to them until Ed, at the very least, smoothes out his brow.

Naturally, he refuses.

They take photos for another hour before the photographer gives up, realizing Ed is more stubborn than he is.

Harry, Fleur, and all three Headmasters are clearly aggravated, but Viktor just looks amused.

"Glad you have more of a sense of humor than I thought you would," Ed says to him as they leave.

Viktor shakes his head slightly. "You are too stubborn. What is one photo to save an hour of one's time?"

"It's about my principles," Ed replies adamantly.

Viktor chuckles softly. "You must have some impressive principles."

Ed rolls his eyes. "Stick around and you'll see." He gestures around them, to invisible people. "You'll all see."

"I will hold you to that," Viktor says and then he's gone with a slight wave of his fingers.

Ed watches him walk off, curious as to whether he's made a new friend, when Neville and Ginny approach him.

Neville looks star-struck. "Were you just talking to Viktor Krum?"

Ed does a double-take at the retreating Bulgarian. "Like the Quidditch player?"

Ginny gapes at him. "Yes, like the Quidditch player! How can you not remember when we were at the bloody World Cup together!"

"How should I know?" Ed says defensively. "I barely remember the rules of Quidditch, I'm not going out of my way to remember the names of people playing the game."

"You should," Neville says, making a face.

"No, thanks."

Neville and Ginny all but forget about the famous Quidditch star in favor of insulting Ed's favorite pastime of reading to the point of obsession.

* * * * *

Ed gets a note asking to meet after dinner one night and finds himself in Remus' classroom on a Friday evening.

"Is this a detention?" Ed jokes, taking his customary seat for said punishment.

"Hardly," Remus smiles.

They haven't really been able to talk about it.

It, being the Triwizard Tournament bullshit that everyone else Ed doesn't know has been grilling him about.

"How're you? How's Sirius?"

Remus sits down behind his desk and the ghost of a smile crosses Ed's face. A year ago, they'd sat, just like this, except they'd known nothing about each other and hadn't wanted to give the other an ounce of trust.

And here they are now, practically family.

"Sirius is fine," Remus starts, "if one can call the pacing and shouting fine."

"Took the news that well, did he?" Ed says sarcastically.

"Obviously." There's concern and care in how Remus chooses to proceed. "You seem to find trouble no matter what you do, don't you?"

"You'd be surprised," Ed says, "even if I'm definitely not."

"He's hoping to speak with you soon."

"He does?"

Remus' expression softens. "Of course. He's trying to come here soon."

Ed runs a hand through his hair. "And how's he planning on doing that? More breaking and entering?"

"Ah, actually, he's sent a letter to Dumbledore."

That brings Ed to his feet. "Does he know I know?"

Remus shakes his head. "No, Sirius didn't mention that. But he does know about Harry and that's a perfectly acceptable reason to visit, don't you suppose?"

Ed crosses his arms. "Harry won't like it though, if I'm there."

"He doesn't have to. He might not understand it, and he might not trust you, but he'll come around."

"Sure," Ed replies, skeptical. "We'll just become the best of friends. Totally."

"No one said you needed to be friends," Remus points out.

"Yeah, well, I'm under the impression Sirius thinks we are. When he finds out we aren't, he's going to sulk. Big time. Worse than when you ruined his favorite sweater."

"You have a point," Remus sighs. "But regardless of Sirius' feelings on the matter, no one is asking or forcing you to be friends. You two just need to stop antagonizing one another."

"I'm not the one antagonizing anyone," Ed snaps.

Remus raises an eyebrow. "You're the one who orchestrated the meeting between Sirius and Harry last year, without any attempt to explain how you knew anything to start with. It's a reasonable explanation for Harry's irritation with you, especially considering how often he's kept in the dark about his own life." He smiles, but it's sad somehow. "You should try to understand him. Merlin knows Sirius and I try to do the same for you."

Ed swallows his words right then and there.

It's true he's been a bit mean in his methods of dealing with the Chosen One, more to avoid questions than anything else. But that kind of behavior had deprived Harry of much needed answers, not only from Ed, but from Remus and Sirius, since they clearly hadn't told him about Ed without his expressed consent.

He doesn't want to make life harder for them.

And truth be told, if Ed weren't here, Harry wouldn't have had this kind of awkwardness to deal with in relation to his parents' friends. One of few living connections to his parents' memory.

"I'll be better about it," Ed says at last. "But don't tell him about… well, about, you know." He gestures to his arm.

"We wouldn't betray your trust like that," Remus says. "After all, you've never betrayed ours."

The three of them share more secrets than he'd really ever considered possible when he first woke up on the Hogwarts Express: that Sirius is an unregistered animagus, that Remus is a werewolf, that they've been living in the Black ancestral home together all summer, that Ed has limbs made of metal.

"Yeah," Ed says, "Hufflepuff, remember?"

Remus smiles, his eyes lighting up. "If only we could finally convince Sirius, eh?"

"If only," Ed grumbles.

Remus laughs, the sound echoing off the walls.

They spend the rest of the evening catching up, speaking little of the Tournament — it's an unspoken agreement that that's being saved for when Sirius arrives this weekend.

* * * * *

An article is published in the Daily Prophet by one Rita Skeeter, embellishing the details of Harry's private life.

They might not be friends, and they might not even be acquaintances at this point, but Ed is immediately incensed by the spreading gossip amongst Hogwarts students that Harry Potter is an attention-seeking bastard.

He hasn't really been keeping tabs on Harry, mostly because he'd trusted Ginny when she said he'd be taken care of.

But he'd have to be blind to not notice the way Ron completely avoids his best friend these days.

The Weasleys in the book club had made it rather clear that Ron was working through his own jealousy, although in a rather immature way.

"Ron's usually pretty patient," George says to Ed. "But I think this was the one thing he might have thought he might've had the chance to be, to be special, I suppose. And Harry's taken that too, even though he didn't plan on it."

"Do you guys feel that way?" Ed asks the other Weasleys.

"Not really," Fred says, in a rare moment of sincerity related to his more private feelings. "We know how to get people's attention when we feel like it. We have enough of it."

George nods in agreement.

"And I've had enough attention for the rest of my life," Ginny announces, referencing her stint as the unwilling Heir of Slytherin last year.

"You and me both," Ed sighs.

Ginny grins crookedly. "Hey, at least you're not alone. It could be worse."

If he were in this position a year ago, he'd still be frustrated and unwilling, but he'd also be going through all of this by himself.

Ed bites back a smile and can't help the overwhelming tingle of warmth that spreads through his body, all the way down to his fingertips and toes.

He is so, so lucky to have met the people he has.

* * * * *

The last time Ed, Sirius, Remus, and Harry had been in a room together, things had been awkward because there had been a considerable amount of suspicion and wariness.

This time, things are awkward because there is still a considerable amount of suspicion and wariness, except only on Harry's part, in relation to Ed.

"So, you've been living together, with him?" Harry asks Sirius, looking pointedly at where Ed lounges on the chair.

Ed ignores it and settles into one of Remus' armchairs like he owns the place. "How's Kreacher?"

"He's, uh, doing better, I guess," Sirius shrugs, also ignoring Harry's question, albeit for different reasons. "Winky's been great to have around, they're like, friends now. And Kreacher's almost tolerable on a daily basis."

"Oh, really? Crouch always looks like he wants to stab me through the eye with his wand," Ed laughs. "Maybe the only good thing to come out of this idiotic Tournament, getting to watch his face twitch whenever he sees me and thinks about Winky."

"And how are your friends?" Remus ventures, trying desperately to continue the aimless small talk they're attempting right now.

Harry answers, admirably ruining all of Remus' efforts without intending to. "Hermione's great. And Ron is being an utter prick at the moment, so who knows how he's doing."

"Oh?" Remus frowns.

"He's been avoiding me ever since Halloween. Seems to think I put my name into the Goblet, which I didn't, and didn't tell him about it. He's upset with me."

Harry looks quite upset himself.

Ed rolls his eyes and Harry is quick to scowl at him. "Your best friend is always in the shadows, of course he's being a dick right now."

The other boy snaps at him. "It's not like I chose to have the life I have. I didn't put my name in the Goblet. I didn't ask Voldemort to put a scar on my head and kill my parents."

"Yeah, obviously no one asks to have a miserable life, but yours just happened to put you in the spotlight. And I wasn't saying he's only in your shadow either. Ron has six siblings, and he's one of six boys. He probably never gets proper attention from anyone, whether that's at home or at school, where his closest friends are the Chosen One and the smartest wizard in her year" — Ed holds up a hand to stop Harry from arguing — "and I'm not saying he's not being a crap friend at the moment, I'm just saying being a little jealous given what his life is like all of the time is understandable. Especially if he'd told you he wanted to be in the tournament beforehand."

Harry crosses his arms, defensive. "What would you know?"

"I don't know," Ed freely admits. "I can imagine, but I don't really know what's going through his head. I've asked George, though, and even if it's different, I think he knows what it's like to, to disappear in plain sight, almost."

"Disappear?" Harry wrinkles his nose.

"Probably'll never happen to you," Ed comments, not mentioning it's never happened to him either, "but a lot of people can just blend right into a crowd and poof! They're gone in plain sight." He shrugs. "Because no one's looking at them, y'know? They're just kind of there, but no one's actively thinking about them, observing them, giving them attention."

"Well, they should count themselves lucky," Harry says hotly, "I'd love to be able to live a single day, no, a single hour, without questions about my scar or Voldemort or my parents. Or the Tournament."

"Yeah, and you get to feel that way since you're 'the Chosen One'" — he raises his fingers to make air quotations — "just like Ron gets to feel jealous for being a completely normal person with a famous friend."

"He's right, you know," Sirius remarks quietly. He looks uncomfortable with the admission, shifting from foot to foot in wait of some kind of response from Harry, who clenches his fists.

"Ron'll come around," Sirius continues, "and it's normal for friends to fight. But if you don't try to understand where he's coming from or talk to him about it, I think you're going to lose an important friend. And you might think that's fine now, in the heat of the moment, but ten years down the line, you'll probably look back and regret it." He glances at Remus, who seems to understand just what Sirius is referencing.

"Choice is yours," Ed shrugs. "But from what I remember of last year, Ron's a good friend. It'd suck to lose him over something this petty."

Harry slumps into a sullen silence, which Ed takes as a good sign, in spite of the tension that it brings to the room.

"So," Remus starts, "any ideas as to how your names ended up in the Goblet?"

"Well, I'm kind of assuming someone wants to murder you, Harry," Sirius says, rather blunt to his teenage godson without any of the intention of hurting him.

"That was my first thought too," Ed agrees.

"You'd love that, wouldn't you," Harry says, still sullen.

Ed snorts. "Contrary to popular belief, I have no desire to see a kid get murdered. I don't want to see anyone get murdered."

"You're a kid too!"

"Yeah, but I'm almost seventeen, so technically by wizard standards, I'm almost an adult."

"You're almost seventeen?" Sirius exclaims. "I thought this was your fourth year!"

Ed sticks out his tongue and pulls down his eyelids, because he's more immature than he lets on. "So I started late, sue me."

"This can wait for a later time," Remus interrupts, as he usually does when Ed and Sirius are about to go off on a tangent. "More importantly, do either of you have any ideas on who might've put your names in?"

"I don't know," Harry answers. "I've honestly thought about it and I don't know."

"Pretty sure there are plenty of Death Eaters and Ri–, You-Know-Who sympathizers looking for the perfect opportunity to get rid of you," Ed supplies unhelpfully.

"Oh, fantastic, that narrows it down, doesn't it?" Harry replies sarcastically.

Ed gives him a shit-eating grin. "You're welcome."

Harry bristles. "Well, what about you? Who put your name in? Or were you lying when you said you didn't have anything to do with that?"

"Do you really think I'm the kind of person looking for fame and glory?" Ed scoffs. "I have no fucking idea who put my name in. There's no one here who'd want to get me killed, unlike you. Plenty of people hate me, yeah, but they're students. Why would they bother with an elaborate plan to try to kill me over something as petty as exam results?"

Something relaxes in the way Harry holds himself, as if Ed's brutal honesty on the situation has allowed him to trust him at least a tiny bit.

It's not entirely friendly, the way Harry and Ed squabble, but it makes things more light-hearted and easier to bear. As the four of them discuss what is to come and who might've orchestrated such an event, Harry reigns in his dislike of Ed and shapes it into something resembling tolerance.

Perhaps his unsolicited advice had actually made Harry begrudgingly accept that Ed isn't the terrible, secretive asshole he thinks Ed is. Or maybe it's the way that Ed freely shares information for once, not bothering to guard his current hypotheses on what kind of fuckery is going down with the Goblet.

It might just be the fact that they're in the same boat for once.

Regardless, the important thing is that Harry is being receptive to Ed's admittedly minimal efforts to get along, for Sirius and Remus' sakes.

Maybe by the end of the year, they'll even be able to handle living together at Grimmauld Place, like Sirius and Remus had been hoping for.

After all, Ed was able to make friends in a single year, so he's clearly capable of working miracles to some extent.

(Even if this miracle might be the most unlikely yet.)

* * * * *

The Saturday evening before the first task, George manages to sneak up on Ed as he's walking down the corridor and grabs him by the arm. In turn, Ed almost crushes the bones of George's hand on instinct.

"What the fuck? I could've hurt you!" he says. "Where the hell are we going?"

George pays him no mind, dragging him by the arm along the shadows before pulling him into an alcove behind a suit of armor.

"You need to see something," George says. "Hurry up, Fred's waiting."

Ed follows George through a secret passageway and finds Fred waiting impatiently for them at the end.

"C'mon! Charlie told us to meet him ten minutes ago!"

Charlie's here?

"Okay, I repeat, where the hell are we going?" Ed asks, a touch exasperated.

"You'll see," Fred replies cryptically. He's slightly giddy about something though, which isn't a great sign — Fred's only ever this excited about something that's guaranteed to wreak havoc.

George is quiet, his brother's complete opposite in this moment and that's not a good sign either.

Ed chooses to say silent for the rest of their trip, fumbling after Fred in the darkness, with George right on his heels. They're walking through the edges of the forest, slowly making their way in deeper.

Fred stops abruptly. "We're here," he breathes.

"Where's here?" Ed snaps irritably.

George just points.

And Ed gapes.

There's really nothing else he can do in this situation.

"Are those dragons?"

* * * * *

He hasn't stopped pacing ever since the twins dragged him back to the castle and taken him directly to the kitchens.

"Are they fucking insane? Dragons? Dragons?"

Fred and George watch him move back and forth and don't bother to encourage or discourage his worrying.

He's not worrying though.

He's not, he swears.

He's just wondering what kind of sane person, when tasked with thinking of activities for teenagers to do for glory and honor, is to pit them against an actual, fire-breathing, clawed dragon.

"No sane person, no fucking sane person would do this. Insane person. An insane person planned this." He stops abruptly and spins to face Fred and George. "Who else knows?"

"Dunno," Fred shrugs.

"We have to tell everyone," Ed starts pacing again. "Otherwise they're just going to die, of age or not."

"Why?" Fred makes a face. "You're competing, don't give them an advantage."

George adds, "And also, there's no way Ron hasn't said anything to Harry. Even if they're still fighting."

"Aren't they not anymore?" Fred says, head propped up on his arm. "Think Harry said something to him."

"Oh, he actually talked to him? Nice." Ed then scowls. "Wait, don't distract me."

"We're not," Fred protests. "You're distracting yourself."

"I'm telling everyone," Ed says ,a finger thrust in Fred's face, "Tournament be damned."

George snorts. "Why did we expect any different?"

* * * * *

The next day, Ed goes out of his way to find the other champions.

"First task is dragons," he says casually to them whenever he can get them alone.

Usually he'd be open about the upcoming wizard fuckery to anyone who'd listen, shouting from the top of his lungs that, "There are dragons! There are dragons in the forest!", but he's not completely socially inept.

He knows Fred and George trusted him with the information Charlie shared and Ed's not about to take advantage of their help and potentially costing Charlie his job just for his own satisfaction.

Viktor looks surprised when Ed informs them, but not by the idea that they'll be confronting dragons in a few days.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Viktor's eyes flicker over Ed's face like he's a difficult puzzle, one that's never been solved before.

"Because," Ed says, matter-of-fact, "how else are you going to get ready for the first task?"

Viktor stares at Ed for a few moments longer, before he smiles again.

"Thank you," he nods, "I'll be sure to prepare thoroughly."

Fleur takes the news similarly, confusion spoiling her normally polite expression.

"Thank you," she says, with a tip of her head. "The gesture is appreciated."

It's clear both Viktor and Fleur already know what's coming, most likely through their respective Headmasters.

Ed figures Harry already knows, but he tells him anyway, as a peace offering of sorts.

The boy's face is still riddled with suspicion when Ed corners him alone in the hallway, but it quickly morphs into blatant shock when Ed shares what he knows.

"Why would you tell me that?" Harry asks, dumbfounded.

Ed looks at him, because it should be obvious. "Because you're fourteen? And like I said, I don't want you to die over a stupid contest? And I don't care what happens with these idiotic tasks, I literally just want to make sure everyone comes out of this alive."

"Why are you so sure someone's going to die or something?"

Ed cannot believe this. "Because there are actual, fire-breathing dragons waiting for us in this first task alone. If this is the first task, just what do you think is going to happen in the next two? Dumbledore said it himself, this tournament is supposed to be dangerous, like intentionally so. So I'm just doing my best to make sure you three don't fuck up and die."

"What makes you so sure that you'll make it out alive?" Harry asks. He's genuinely curious, from the way he seems startled by his own question.

"I have my ways," Ed says, almost smiling, but not quite. "But thanks for worrying about me."

"I'm not–, I mean, I'm not not worried, but—"

"Good luck, alright? Don't die," Ed interrupts. He doesn't even need to think about what he says next. "And if you need help, just ask. Don't be stupid and proud and get fucked over by it. Okay?"

Harry stares at him, his jaw slack.

Having said what he needed to say, Ed turns to leave when he doesn't get a response. He takes three steps before he hears a stuttered, "You too!"

And that brings a smile to his face, even if Harry can't see it.

Remus, that insufferable know-it-all, is right: they can get along after all.

* * * * *

"Will you at least plan something? A spell? A back-up spell?"

"Nope," Ed says, head down on the table.

Neville dishevels his hair and groans. "Aren't you worried?"

"Nope," Ed says again.

"Fullmetal surely has a plan in mind already," Luna reassures Neville.

"Nope."

"Can you like, say anything else?" Ginny sighs. "We're getting increasingly worried we're about to watch you become dragon food in two days."

"Nope." Ed turns his head to the side so he can look up at his friends.

They're in the kitchen again, as there's no better place for students from different Houses to spend time with a certain amount of privacy.

"You must have an idea," Blaise says, "otherwise you're taking your guaranteed death fairly well."

"I won't die," Ed snorts.

"Famous last words," Blaise says.

"I won't." He eyes all of his friends, one by one. "Don't worry about me, really. I'll be fine, I just don't have any plans to play by their rules."

"That's why we're worried," George says, "because we know you, and you saying that, in no way, makes us feel better about the half-arsed plan you've surely got brewing in your brain."

"Don't swear. And it's not half-assed," Ed corrects, "it's full-assed."

"What does that even mean?" Fred groans.

"It means don't worry about it," Ed says again. "I mean it. I don't die easy."

His friends share an unamused look, which Ed ignores.

(None of them had been particularly thrilled to learn the details of Ed punching Death Eaters at the World Cup and had subsequently questioned his sanity.)

Every day since Saturday, the book club has been meeting to brainstorm solutions to Ed's upcoming dragon problem.

"It's only fair," Ginny says. "Everyone else is getting help too."

They offer him a variety of ideas to pull from and he'd been overwhelmed with the amount of time and care his friends had spent on his behalf.

But he doesn't agree with this Tournament, even if he's being forced to participate.

And he doesn't want to plan, to prepare for these events, as if he's not a victim of circumstance. He doesn't want to earn points or earn favor in the eyes of Hogwarts, even if it means worrying those who care about him.

It's driving his friends insane.

They just want to help him and he doesn't want to be helped.

They think he's about to be killed and is doing nothing to stop it, but that's not quite true. Ed can think of several bad situations where he's come out on top in spite of his lack of preparation.

He won't die, because he can't.

Dying here means disappearing forever — it means not only losing his friends here, but also losing his friends and family in Amestris, who'll forget him, like he's been erased from their memories.

That's not an option.

His Hogwarts friends don't understand that, though.

Remus and Sirius don't understand it either, based on the letters he's been receiving from a panicked Sirius and the comments Remus has been making about being too young for grey hairs.

In the end, there's not enough time for any of them to convince Ed to do something — anything — to get ready to face the dragon.

It's November 24th already.

The first task is beginning.