Chapter 62: Who the hell are you?
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A while after Harry returned from the lake, the other champions followed. Fleur was the first, though she was sobbing and hadn't brought her hostage back with her.
Neither Harry nor Loki was very worried about her receiving a high score for the task.
After Fleur came Cedric, though it must've been at least ten minutes later. He, unlike Fleur, had managed to actually get his champion.
Viktor followed not long after, also with his champion.
Daphne was yet to awake, and Harry had her taken away before she could do so. Dealing with her was something he frankly couldn't be bothered to do.
It wasn't long before the judges finally halted the bickering they had been partaking in and raised their wands, firing numbers up into the air for each champion.
Harry had won, with Cedric in second, Viktor in third, and, rather unsurprisingly, Fleur in last. In the overall scores, that put Fleur in last, Harry in third, Viktor in seconds and Cedric in first.
After insisting to a medical woman that he was in fact fine, Harry had been allowed to leave. If they wanted to go, everyone was allowed home for the Christmas—Yule, Harry reminded himself—holidays.
With him being exposed to the magical world, there really was no longer a reason for him to conceal himself under illusions.
L Being in Britain would be annoying, however, with the public clamouring over him, so he decided to go abroad.
All of the official channels would be too long. Somehow, Harry doubted that the Ministry of Magic would want him disappearing back into the world for another eight years.
Luckily, he knew Maria was getting a Portkey back to Italy, which was coincidentally where he wanted to go.
She was still annoyed at him, though, so he did what any normal person would do: he hunted her down, wearing the illusion of someone else, and then eavesdropped on her conversations until he found out that she was leaving at midnight that day.
That gave him the rest of the day to do as he liked. Or more accurately, what Loki wanted to do. That happened to be practising spells.
In Lord Potter's book from the Potter Vault, there had been quite a few interesting ones. Some were subtle, while others swayed more towards the side of fiery explosions and mass destruction.
While Harry was yet to be informed of what the Third Task would consist of, he was fairly sure that a lot of the flashy spells would be quite impressive.
They would also, however, be extremely difficult to perform. It had taken Lord Potter years and years to make them, and it still took him quite a while to use them.
They would be useless in an actual battle, except perhaps for starting it off. Then again, it was extremely useful if you could start a battle by killing half of your opponents…
Harry was still unsure he would even be able to use the spell to start a battle, however. When he had practised it before, it had taken him two minutes to build it up to his intended strength.
It was because if this he was designing a focus specifically for the spell he intended to use. Well, it wasn't exactly a focus, more of a grenade.
Loki had admitted that he had, in fact, based some of the design on a type of magic grenade, though avoided the subject of which civilisation's design it was.
With all the intricate runes and massive failures, Harry found midnight creeping up on him rather fast.
So he packed all of his belongings into a bag and made his way towards the Beauxbatons cabin.
He didn't really want to bother saying his goodbyes; if Daphne was pissed off at him, he could just make up some crap about being exhausted from saving her.
With ten minutes to spare, Harry found himself outside the cabin in which Beauxbatons had arrived.
Maria stood outside with a few of her friends, one hand resting on her luggage and the other holding a necklace.
It wasn't anything fancy, and Harry didn't recognise it, but her grip was tight. A Portkey, then.
'Wait,' Loki said, halting Harry as he went to move towards them. 'She's probably still annoyed, and won't appreciate us riding along on her Portkey.'
Harry nodded. People were supposed to like surprises, anyway. A glance at his watch signalled that it was nearly midnight and thus nearly time for it to depart—anyone making a Portkey would make it leave exactly on the hour. With Loki directing him, his timing was impeccable.
Maria didn't even notice he was there before he touched her arm. She had no time to look surprised before the Portkey activated and both of them were hooked upwards into a void of swirling colour.
It felt like an eternity before the ground rushed up to meet them. A numb cold washed over Harry before he had time to even think about throwing up.
Maria, apparently also a poor Portkey traveller, had no such restraint. Harry shoved her off of him as she threw up on the floor beside her—the marble floor.
Suddenly aware of his surroundings, Harry looked up—and found no less than six wands pointed at him. Marco was easy to pick out among the crowd of bodyguards, especially when he said, "Who the hell are you?" in English.
Even as Harry slipped his wand into his hand—just in case—he grinned. "I am Harry." He bent his magic until the blond hair, blue eyes and average facial features of his old illusion formed upon his face. "I don't mind whether you call me Harry Potter, or Harry Rossi."
Marco stood stunned, seemingly incapable of forming words.
The smell of puke reached Harry's nose and he glanced back at Maria, who had at last stopped violently vomiting. "As you can see," he said, "I've once again saved your sister from something. This time, the floor. I'm not quite as good a safety mat as I am a bodyguard, but I suppose it'll do."
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