Title: The Choosing (takes place during Goblet of Fire)
Author: Rockygirl
Rating: PG
Summary: The Champions must be chosen for the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and Hogwarts is the center of attention. Who will it be? And who should it be? Told from Blaise Zabini's PoV.
The Tri-Wizard Tournament. I could scarcely believe the Ministry'd pulled it together again after all these years. If someone had told me that morning that Hogwarts would be hosting the Tri-Wizard Tournament, I would have called them stupid, or mad. Maybe both. It had been nearly a century since the last Tournament, and no one had ever thought they'd be resurrected.
Oh, my name is Blaise Zabini, and this is how I remember things happening in my fourth year. The year the Dark Lord returned.
It began as any other year, and I was eager to get to London to catch the Hogwarts Express back to school. My summer had been dreadfully boring, as we'd been forced to visit my father's great aunt Lebelia in Italy where she was on holiday. She insisted we stay, and since father is dependant upon her good nature for our family's continued prosperity, we obliged. Lebilia's fondness for solitude is succeeded only by her fondness for having family around to argue with. I cannot abide the countryside, or my aunt, for that matter. The people are tiresomely provincial, the food horribly rich, and if I've ever done anything correctly or well as far as Lebelia is concerned, she's yet to inform me.
But never mind that, I was speaking of the Tournament. When Dumbledore announced to the school that not only was it taking place, but that we were hosting it, I could scarcely believe my ears. Malfoy had known, of course. He'd been strutting around the train for the entire trip dropping not-so-subtle hints that he knew something no one else did, and deliberately teased us all until we asked what it was. He only told those who asked, though, and I made it a point not to. I don't beg idiots for favors, and I made it a point to leave the car if he happened to strut in. When the announcement was finally made later that night he stared around at us with a triumphant grin while Pansy Parkinson gushed at his side and several others congratulated him. Those few others he'd told tried to pretend they'd known all along as well, but I was certain Malfoy was one of a very small number of people who had known before hand.
I remember how excited we all were, how we knew that year would be special. Hosting both the Durmstrang and Beauxbaton contingents; what could be more honorable, or more glorious as we showed off our superiority? We whispered and wondered who would try to represent Hogwarts, and how they'd be selected. Dumbledore said only that the champions would be selected at Hogwarts by an impartial judge in October, and that they'd have to be seventeen. Oh, how my friends and I bemoaned our youth which disqualified us from the honor and prestige, but we weren't earnest in our disappointment. The Tournament would be dangerous, despite any safety precautions the schools took, and cheering from the sidelines sounded like a far better proposition. And as spectators, we'd be having all the fun.
I looked up and down the Slytherin table then, wondering who among our House mates was capable of winning the slot. We had many sixth and seventh year students who qualified, and the Slytherin cunning would be a valuable asset to the Hogwarts champion.
But what if it wasn't a Slytherin who was chosen?
I looked slowly around the Hall, first at the Hufflepuff table nearest us. There were a few worthy students there, but then Hufflepuffs were known for their hard work and diligence, so it was possible that they might be granted the opportunity. . . but what about the Ravenclaws? My eyes searched their ranks. Intelligent and clever, resourceful and inventive. Excellent skills in any situation, yet were they strong candidates? Who among them shone out in their achievements as worthy of the honor of representing the school, not to mention winning a thousand galleons?
Shone out. . .
"It isn't fair, you know," a crisp whisper interrupted my thoughts, "We younger students should be allowed to try for the privilege of competing in the Tournament. There's always brilliance where you least expect it, and I daresay one of us fourth years could easily snag the right."
It wasn't as though I hadn't expected Malfoy to protest vehemently, if only for the benefit of looking the slighted genius. Still, his constant bids for attention were grating.
"If you're talking about yourself, Malfoy, allow me to remind you that anyone who plays substandard Quidditch and gets coddled through Potions can hardly be called brilliant!" I said quietly, not wanting anyone at the next table to overhear my comment.
Pansy glared furiously at me, and I knew she'd make me pay for that comment later. I didn't care; I was trying to think and didn't appreciate useless interruptions.
"Zabini," Malfoy's equally quiet voice floated over to me, causing me to look his direction again, "allow me to remind you that ignorant blatherers don't fare well when the Professors aren't looking."
I allowed my face to assume a cold expression, but nevertheless managed to spit out an apology. Malfoy was never one to issue idle threats to his House mates, and it paid to stay on his good side, or at least remain unnoticed by him. Very few people provoked his anger, though most greatly disliked him, a few even in our House. The only people who freely tempted his wrath were. . . ones who shone out. . .
My eyes drifted over to the table farthest from ours. Farthest in distance and reputation, yet closest to us in strength and purpose.
Gryffindor.
Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was listening eagerly with his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger as Dumbledore continued to drone on. The bushy haired Granger seemed troubled or angry, but Potter and the rest of his House mates seemed to hang on the Headmaster's words. Who in Gryffindor would be picked if they were chosen? I knew who many of them would like to pick.
But he was too young, like the rest of us. Which was a good thing because his head had probably already swollen to ten times its normal size with the accomplishments he'd already managed. Defeating a Voldemort-possessed Quirrel in his first year, a book spirit and a Basilisk in his second, Dementors in his third, oh the list was long. He always acted nice, or shy, but I didn't believe that anyone who'd accomplished what Potter had could possibly be modest. Not back then. But I was always a harsh judge of character. I still am, really.
When we retired that evening our rooms were filled with chatter about the upcoming Tournament and speculations on who might win the privilege of representing Hogwarts. Like me, most of my House mates thought a Slytherin would and should be chosen. Several of them were convinced that we already had it, and names were tossed about like Fizzing Whizzbees of those considered cute enough or tall enough to represent our house properly. It makes me smile sometimes to remember. Ah, the carefree idiocy of youth!
The days passed quickly, yet not quickly enough. As September turned to October it seemed the whole school began to look forward to the thirtieth with an appreciation we hadn't given it in years. Halloween spirit was fun, but not as fun as hosting foreign students. As I eavesdropped on many conversations, I came to realize that Cedric Diggory, a Hufflepuff, was favored to win the spot as Hogwarts champion. Well, favored is a rather strong term. The Hufflepuffs favored him, others thought he had a better than average chance. A few didn't wish to admit he had what it took, like Seamus Finnigan, who nicknamed him Pretty Boy Diggory. The school was scrubbed as it hadn't been in years, which accounted for Filch's foul temper, and an aura of excitement descended over us all, though I and my House mates did our best to appear unruffled.
Other students made no pretense at appearing calm and collected, and I sometimes longed to join them in their fanciful chatter. Passing a group of Ravenclaw girls clustered around a library table one day, I heard them whispering of the dark reputation of Durmstrang.
"I've heard they teach the Dark Arts," Mandy Brocklehurst pursed her lips, a strange glint in her eyes, "my mum doesn't think they should be allowed to be here."
"That's ridiculous," Cho Chang laughed, "It's only a contest, and Dumbledore wouldn't have invited them if they were really dangerous."
"I'll bet they're all tall and dark," Padma Patil smiled knowingly, "their school is up north somewhere, and weaklings can't survive a harsh climate."
The statement was followed by an explosion of giggles, and I wanted to laugh and encourage their stupid, but thrilling, assumptions. The Durmstrang males were going to get lots of attention, I knew, if the mere rumor of these "bad boys" could inspire such insipid admiration. Less was known about the Beauxbaton contingent, and that made them more intriguing to me. Who would they bring? What kind of students were they? Were they more or less powerful or dangerous than Durmstrang? The rumors flew as thickly as owls with the morning post, and we felt the anticipation build to a fever pitch.
But we had distractions to keep us busy until the thirtieth. Many of our professors, particularly McGonagall and Professor Snape, had us working hard and preparing for the more difficult lessons and inevitable O.W.L.'s that would come in our fifth year. Then there was our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Alastor Moody. He was strange, very paranoid, and possessed a gruesome enough appearance to lend credence to the most exaggerated rumors about him. He gave us the most interesting lessons we'd ever had, though, even if I did suffer a bit of humiliation when he put the Imperius Curse on me and I was unable to throw it off. Rumor had it that Potter could, and I hated to think that I might be inferior to that egotistical Lion boy. Still, I must say I learned more from him than from almost any of our former DADA professors, even Lupin.
Potter. Passing whispering, silly groups of gossiping girls was one thing, but passing the Gryffindor Trio in the corridors was nothing short of irritating. They were constantly with heads together, when they could pull Granger from her ridiculous campaign for House Elf rights, that is. It was a common sight, and I'd come to interpret it over the years as them knowing something mysterious and intriguing that they weren't sharing with anyone else. Merlin forbid that Potter the Hero should ever be unable to fix every problem he encountered!
But there seemed to be something agitating Potter that year, as he seemed to be in a temper when he wasn't anxiously watching the owls converge with the morning post. Or at least, he was in a temper one particular evening. I don't know what set him off, but I remember looking up when I heard a muffled bang. I was in time to see Potter's snowy owl fly off, hooting angrily, and Potter himself storm out of the Great Hall. I looked around, but few other people paid any mind to what was happening. I think it was then that I realized I was unique among my fellow students in that I paid close attention to anything that was amiss, which was why I heard that bang from almost all the way across the Hall. Didn't anyone else believe in being prepared for anything?
I never found out what made him so angry, but time and future events made that episode seem trivial. In any case, the thirtieth finally arrived, and we all descended to the front lawn to greet our foreign guests. Their arrival is well documented in other tomes, and with more descriptive skill than I'm willing to manage, so I will just say that we were very impressed at the site of our competition. Especially at finding out that Viktor Krum, the internationally famous Qudditch player, was a student at Durmstrang. We greeted them, trouped back inside, ate, and speaking only for myself, discovered how annoying snobby, part Veela females are.
Then the time came to officially start the Tournament. We all sat up a little straighter after the Ministry officials were introduced and Dumbledore announced the impartial selector: The Goblet of Fire.
This was my first glimpse of the legendary goblet, and when Filch carried in the jewel encrusted chest, I had expected to see a jewel encrusted goblet of gold. But no, the goblet was a roughly hewn wooden cup, rather plain and ugly, except for the flames dancing in its depths. The contradiction between its appearance and its reputation actually amazed me. The goblet was ancient and wise, housed within an expensive chest powerfully enchanted for its protection. Yet it looked so. . . ordinary. I couldn't speak for a moment; I was so lost in contemplation.
Youth. How things seem to be simple, how thrown we are when they're not what we expect.
I began to attend Dumbledore's speech after a few moments, as I found my curiosity unbearably piqued.
"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," he said. "Aspiring champions have twenty four hours in which to put their names forward."
Twenty four hours. The champions would be chosen on Halloween night. I felt a smile spread over my face at the thought of this exciting ceremony taking place on my favorite holiday. It seemed grimly fitting, considering the danger the champions would have to face. I almost chuckled at the irony, and wondered if anyone else noticed it.
When Dumbledore finished his speech and dismissed us all, I found myself wondering, along with my fellow House mates, if we would be hosting the Durmstrang contingent in our commons since they'd seen fit to dine with us. But Igor Karkaroff, the head of Durmstrang, could be heard ordering his students back out to their ship, as well as openly favoring the surly Mr. Krum. What did everyone see in him? So he was an international sports celebrity, what else could he do?
But our progress out of the Hall was suddenly halted when the Durmstrang students reached the doors, and I craned my neck to see what was happening. I shouldn't have been surprised to see Potter there, or the looks on the faces of Karkaroff and his students. It was the famous Harry Potter, after all. The Boy Who Lived To Irritate Everyone. Predictable response from those seeing him for the first time, and I was about to turn away when I saw Karkaroff's face change.
That caught my attention, especially since he was no longer looking at Saint Potter, as Malfoy likes to call him. The Durmstrang Headmaster's expression had gone pale with shock and fury, and I eagerly cast my eyes about for the source of this very interesting reaction. I found it a moment later as I heard the now familiar muffled thump along the floor.
Professor Moody.
Ah, now that made sense, since Moody had been an Auror. Perhaps the very Auror that had captured Karkaroff? It was a little known, yet true, fact that Karkaroff had been a Death Eater. My father had told me, and he'd also told me that a deal had been struck with the Ministry for the man's freedom. My mind immediately began to entertain the most titillating theories to account for this little scene, until a gruff statement from Moody caused the Durmstrang Headmaster to stalk away with his students. I felt myself smirk as I watched them leave. I'd known the year would be interesting, but I'd never have guessed in what ways.
Saturday morning dawned cold and bright, and after washing and dressing, I immediately began casting about for who had submitted their names. To my disappointment, I found that thus far only Warrington had submitted his name. I felt myself get annoyed as I headed down to the Great Hall. What happened to Slytherin Pride? When I arrived I saw many students from all the Houses milling about, and my temper flared even more. What were they all waiting for? To gawk at everyone who submitted? Merlin, who needs this kind of embarrassing attention? I looked across the Hall and noticed Potter talking closely with several of his cronies, and took an almost choking gulp of my pumpkin juice. What was he doing? Planning on how to effectively trick Dumbledore's Age Line? Didn't that scarred idiot get enough attention already?
I was suddenly distracted by a loud noise, and I frowned as I looked over at the entrance and saw Angelina Somethingorother of Gryffindor House enter the Hall with many of her fellows cheering her on.
I should have known. What is embarrassing to others is lapped up by those attention seeking lions!
Allow me to just say that the day was, for me, embarrassing. No other Slytherin, as far as I know, submitted their names to the goblet, and I suddenly knew why. Slytherin House represents cunning, ambition, and gain. To win the tournament would have been glorious, but the price was high. You would not be told what your tasks were, so the unknown factors would be many. Cunning would serve, as would cleverness and ambition to win, but success was not a guarantee. To risk one's neck was extreme, and there should be a payoff for the effort put in. But in the Tournament, there were no points for second place. My mood grew fouler as the day progressed, and by dinner time I was furious.
I ate very little and spent the majority of my time looking about and deciding who I thought might have made excellent representatives, if not for their lack of fire. There could be no glory without risk; surely I wasn't the only person to realize this? It didn't even occur to me, back then, that some of my House mates might have decided to drop their names in during the night, when no one would be watching. I was too infused with Slytherin pride, and conveniently forgot that I myself would not have wanted anyone to see me submit my name in case I didn't get chosen.
The Great Hall suddenly became quiet, breaking me from my useless reverie. The Headmaster announced the goblet's readiness, and instructed those who were chosen to parade across the head table and take themselves into the next chamber, where they would receive their instructions. I could feel the tension all through the Hall and even from the many professors as Dumbledore lowered the lighting to an intriguing and somewhat comforting dimness. Who would be chosen? The goblet spit out its first slip of parchment.
"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, "will be Viktor Krum."
I felt myself smirk as Krum moved forward and his headmaster boomed congratulations over the applause. Had anyone else seen that coming? Perhaps the Tournament was fixed? The thought disgusted me.
But then the second slip of parchment emerged, and the Beauxbaton champion was named: Fleur Delacour. Another big surprise, I'd thought sarcastically as the part Veela walked arrogantly to the side chamber. I suddenly considered throwing a Boil Hex at the back of her silvery head, but thought better of it.
As soon as she disappeared, however, all thought of her and Krum was driven from my mind. The Hogwarts champion, who would it be? My entire body tensed with nervous excitement, and I found my irritation lessen a great deal. A third slip of parchment was caught by the Headmaster.
"The Hogwarts champion," he called, "is Cedric Diggory!"
I was stunned, I will admit that now. I had heard his name bandied about, but up until that moment I had not thought him to be a real candidate for representing the school. How wrong I was! The Hufflepuff table literally exploded with cheers as Diggory made his way to the next chamber. I couldn't help thinking that their moment of glory had finally come, and they were ready to snatch it from the air. I felt myself deflating faster than a balloon, and only dimly caught the furious remarks of Malfoy and his cronies. Though I do recall the insult "pretty faced, empty skulled badger boy". I think that was Goyle, which would have been the evening's second shock had I been attending more carefully.
So that's it, I remember thinking, the end of our hopes and the beginning of the Tournament. There was nothing else for it but to prepare for some interesting trials, and I found myself philosophizing in order to accept and move on. After all, from here on out it would be
Another slip of parchment flew from the goblet, and I felt my heart seize in my chest. I had no conscious thoughts, no formed questions in my mind for several moments; I was simply shocked into stillness. A fourth name?
The entire Hall plunged into shocked silence, and even Dumbledore seemed taken aback. But in true Dumbledore fashion he wasted no time in carrying on with the matter at hand, and read the name off the slip of parchment.
"Harry Potter."
This, then, was my second shock of the night. Potter the Hero, Gryffindor's Glory Hog, had somehow managed to slip his name into the goblet! Not only slip his name in, but somehow tricked the bloody thing into choosing him despite the fact that the Hogwarts' champion had already been named! What snake rot was this?
I turned to see him move very slowly up to the head table, every eye in the room trained on him. How did you do this? I wanted to scream. Don't you get enough attention? Why can't you ever let anyone else do something great and take credit for it? I stubbornly blinded myself to the fact that he looked just as shocked as everyone else. Dumbledore ordered him into the second chamber, and the moment he disappeared I saw both of the Headmasters of the rival schools stand and begin whispering furiously at Dumbledore. McGonagall stood also, as did my Head of House, Professor Snape. Very soon there seemed to be an intense argument going on, and I strained my ears to hear snatches of it.
Unfortunately, Dumbledore chose that moment to order us all to our commons. I rose, simmering with resentment at how a mere fourth year had managed to trick some very powerful spells and once again gain the spotlight. But my anger was nothing compared to Malfoy's.
"I knew it!" he spat as we descended the stairs to the dungeons. "I knew that scarred rat would find a way to steal more fame for himself. Dumbledore helped him, he must have! How else would he have gotten past the Age Line?"
"But why not just make him the Hogwarts champion?" Pansy Parkinson fretted, clearly knocked off balance by all of this. "It doesn't make sense-"
"It makes perfect sense," Malfoy interrupted, shooting her a furious glare and making her flinch. "With a fourth champion the publicity will skyrocket more than it already has, and Potter will get more attention than ever before."
We walked the rest of the way in silence, only the older students speaking quietly as we entered the common room. This was too much, and too unreal. How had Potter defeated the Age Line? Unlike Malfoy, I had trouble believing that Dumbledore would have helped a fourth year cheat their way into the Tournament, no matter who they were. And Pansy had brought up a good point (for once); why not make him the Hogwarts champion? Why go to all this trouble and then make the Tournament seem questionable, even unfair?
I couldn't think properly, and it didn't occur to me then that Potter might not have had anything to do with it. So I comforted myself the only way I knew how: I plotted revenge.
"Malfoy," I called, squelching the smirk that wanted to bloom on my face at the sight of him staring moodily into the fire, "I had a thought."
"Did you really?" he drawled, "Well that's a record. Someone should mark the date."
I ignored his hostility, and the snickers from his cronies. What I had in mind would put me in the good graces of the whole House.
"I think we need to make badges to show our support," I continued, watching him closely. His head snapped towards me, a scowl marring his pointy features.
"To do what? If that's an example of the thoughts that flow through your head, Zabini, then it's emptier than I thought."
"These would be special badges," I said emphatically, hoping he would understand me now.
He did. His eyes narrowed, but he sat a little straighter in his chair.
"How special?"
I pulled my wand out and stood with a sly smile.
"Let me show you."
THE END
Posted by rockygirl at August 29, 2003 11:17 AM