Love's Labour Lost

Love's Labour Lost
ScarletSerpent
Disclaimer: Although this story follows the plot of the book/movie Goblet of Fire, the plot is
my own. Everything belongs to Rowling and the producers of the movies. I am not selling
it, or reproducing it for profit, I swear. I am not quite genius enough to work that out.
Summary: Harry Potter is fourteen and in a lot of trouble. When confusion and dark
forces combine to make a daunting fourth year, who can Harry turn to as it all falls to
pieces? The story behind the story, of a love that defeats evil, but even love cannot cheat
death.
A/N: I have decided that this story will ultimately follow the movie. I know that is
disappointing to the more avid readers out there, but the book has so much detail that it
would be difficult to follow the plot that I have outlined. I'm sorry, I have read the book,
and I think they're all amazing; JK Rowling has inspired me to become the best author I
can be. However, as this story has to fall within a time frame that has already been written,
I am going to have to change things. The movie gives me a good outline, and I will stick to
those scenes.
And so my friends, off we go once more...
Chapter Two: Turning of the Tides
To say that Ronald Weasley was furious would be a severe understatement. He was beyond rage,
ire and fury; he was a seething mass of anger, entirely without an outlet. After watching his so-
called best mate walk smugly from the Great Hall, no doubt rejoicing in his selection for eternal
glory, not that the other boy needed it, Ron had stalked from the room. He was shortly followed
by Hermione, who simply buzzed with questions, not the least important of which was,
"How did he do it?"
Ron stared glumly ahead, not bothering to dignify the question with a response. Harry was
obviously much more brilliant than either of them had anticipated. It begged a question or two: if
Harry had hidden his talents from them, what else could he have lied about? What other things
could he have hidden? Mouth set in a mutinous line, he brushed past Hermione, ignoring her
onslaught, and escaped into the nearest chair. Sinking into the plush red velvet, he stared vaguely
at the wall. How could Harry just, ignore him? They had been to Hell and back together.
Suddenly, the common room exploded around him, as the occupants of Gryffindor Tower
entered, debating heatedly. Questions were hurled back and forth, arms and hands gesticulated
wildly. It wasn't until Neville Longbottom responded hotly to an accusation by Seamus
Finnigan, "He didn't do it Harry's too honest." that Ron let the white hot anger take hold.
"Of course he did it," Ron stated smoothly, rising from the comfort of the chair. "Harry has
always been better than us, and what better way to prove it?"
A buzz of whispers echoed around the room, Ron was Harry's best friend, wouldn't he know?
Seamus was the first to respond, "That's what I was sayin', y'know. The git's gotten himself a
swelled head from all the attention."
Ron seethed in anger, "Too good for us. Too good for Gryffindor. You'd think he was Godric
himself, risen from the grave, the way he acts." It was clear from the expression on his face that
he was just beginning, "Putting on all his fancy airs. Pretending he doesn't like the fame, the
glory of it all. Acting all caring and brave, honest and true, all to hide what he really thinks of us.
He put his name in the Goblet to show us how superior he is. If he's a Gryffindor, I'm a toad."
Ron's face turned a mottled red, "that bastard should have been in Slytherin."
At that, the room stilled into an utter silence; to accuse Harry of being a Slytherin was akin to
saying the boy was Dark. Perhaps that's what he was alluding to. And, after all, wouldn't Ron
know?
"Well, you're doing a pretty damned good imitation of one yourself, your Toadiness." Hermione
rose, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "I don't believe for a moment that Harry put his
name in the Goblet of Fire," she leaned close to his face, taking him by the shoulders, her voice
wavering with the force of her words, "and neither do you." She pushed him firmly back into the
chair.
With that, she stalked out.
Ron shook his head, she was too weak to see it, still blinded by the brilliance that was Harry
Potter, but he wasn't fooled any longer. He faced his housemates, and opened his mouth to
speak, only to hear a voice coming from the portrait: Harry. At the sound of his best friend's
voice, he swept the room with a quelling gaze, and escaped up the stairwell, Seamus and Dean
trailing in his wake.
The actual confrontation was somewhat less than the rampaging fury that he was sure would
occur. Harry seemed utterly confused, then completely irate. There was no way Ron was falling
for that innocent charade this time. After his final farewell of "piss off", Ron had turned over to
contemplate how it had become this way. He and Harry had been best friends, no, more than
that. They had been brothers. Ron had shared everything from his family to his darkest secrets
with Harry. He had loved him. He shut his eyes, blocking out reality.
How could Harry leave him behind?
With that thought, a seed of doubt wiggled into his brain and began to stew- the way that evil
always seems to begin.
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Confusion. It was a state of being that Harry had been inhabiting for a week now, and it seemed
it was there to stay. He had become testy and snappish, spoiling for a fight, for anything that
would erase the awful static feeling. Every time he saw Ron he wanted to go straight for the
other boy's throat, but always stopped himself just in time; he wasn't Malfoy. The tension had
mounted to an all time high, and Harry was restless, sick of the dirty looks and mocking airs.
The scowls and heated looks weren't just from Ron either, most of Gryffindor and half of the
rest of Hogwarts was awash with newly minted anti-Potter personas, and it was getting old
quickly.
Hermione seemed to be the only one who stuck by his side, encouraging him and making certain
he didn't kill Ron. Of course, she had to be on Ron's side too, it wasn't fair to stick her in the
middle as they had. After one particularly nasty encounter, she had finally stormed off,
complaining of being used like a messenger owl. Harry rarely saw Cedric, so there was no
comfort to be sought there. The two had entirely different schedules, as Cedric was three years
older than him. It was all Harry could do to remember that he had at least one staunch supporter
in Cedric, and that hope nearly died every time he saw the hatred in the eyes of Ron, or the
disappointment in Ginny's.
The days seemed to crawl by at a pace slower than that of a snail, classes and homework left
unchecked by friends. Harry felt himself sinking deeper into the stresses of school and the
tournament that he was meant to compete in. It was a week before the first challenge, and he was
up to his ears in 8, 10 and 12- inch parchments on various potions, herbs and transfiguration
spells. The only bright spot on the horizon was his visit to Hagrid's at seven. He knew that
Hagrid wouldn't cast the blame at his feet without evidence, not after being thrown out in much
the same way himself when he went to Hogwarts.
A howling wind swept from the Forbidden Forest as Harry made his way to Hagrid's hut,
trudging through piles of fallen leaves. Harry wrapped his robes tighter around himself,
clutching his Invisibility Cloak closer to himself. It was one thing to be asked to Hagrid's for tea,
at least one knew that there would be deadly substances and rock-hard biscuits involved, but he
needed his Cloak, which meant some kind of adventure, and with Hagrid, adventure was never a
good thing.
Harry bit his lip and knocked forcefully on the door of the gamekeeper's hut. Barking and a few
loud thumps echoed within, the sounds of Hagrid and his, er, lovely pet Fang, no doubt. The
door swung open, a shadow falling over Harry's slight form as Hagrid came out, dressed in the
strangest attire. An orange flower the size of Harry's head was pinned to his jacket, and he
smelled strangely of oil and aftershave. Massive amounts of aftershave, Harry thought to
himself, coughing into his Cloak.
"Are yeh ready to get on then there, Harry?" the enormous man asked, the steps creaking as he
made his way down and towards the Forest.
The Forest, Harry knew he should have suspected this whole secrecy thing would involve the
dangerous looking woods. "Er, Hagrid?" he ventured, half-jogging to keep with the giant strides
of the large man. Hagrid seemed distracted, asking him questions that he responded to warily.
Something very strange was underway, that he knew after noting that Hagrid had indeed combed
his hair. Something very strange indeed.
A voice from ahead caught Hagrid's attention. He gave Harry one backwards glance, telling him
to put on the Cloak, and motioned him forward. After watching Hagrid and Madame Maxine
"greeting" eachother, he was moved... to puke in disgust, of course. It wasn't until he heard the
sounds of rattling chains and roaring that he found himself looking up from the ground. The
strange trio made their way towards the noises, and Harry gasped. Howling winds from the
Forbidden Forest, of course not, that was too tame. Dragons. What a game.
Harry made his way from the Forest in a daze, having left Hagrid to his large love. Shaking his
head, he wondered just how he had gotten into this particular situation. Nearly killed at the
Quidditch World Cup, his name coming out of the red flames of the Goblet of Fire, his
housemates hated him and now the dragons. Heavens knew what he was supposed to do with
them. Probably play muggle football. That would fit with the absurdity of the entire state of
affairs. He needed to think.
"Accio Firebolt " he flicked his wand and waited for his broom to reach him from the heights of
Gryffindor Tower. When it reached him, he headed off towards the quidditch pitch, the one place
where he could always find solace.
He kicked off from the ground, reveling in the freedom of flying. For a boy who had once been a
muggle, flying was one thing that would never lose its magic. He would never forget the feeling
of the wind whipping through his hair, which was, he had convinced himself, the real reason that
he never brushed it. Looping around the keeper goals at the end of the field, he looked out into
the inky black night sky. When he was this high from the ground it wasn't hard to imagine he
was looping through the stars, weaving through the universe, threading through eternity.
Dragons. He shook his head tiredly, how to defeat a dragon?
Looking around the pitch, he remembered the one game he had lost. The image of dementors
came flooding back to him, that feeling of having the life slowly sucked out of him. It was
enough to make him waver on his broom. He looked down to where Malfoy and his cronies had
attempted to recreate his fear and snorted, what complete gits. So absorbed was he in this train of
thought that he entirely missed the figure watching him from the shadows.
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Cedric watched Harry weave across the pitch, laughing to himself and making false grabs for a
nonexistent snitch. He couldn't remember a time when he had seen the boy look more carefree.
It must be difficult, he thought, to have the weight of a world on one's shoulders, and at only
fourteen. When he was fourteen he had been admittedly brilliant, but even the expectations of
Amos Diggory didn't quite compare to the expectations of the entire Wizarding World. His
father may demand perfection, but the wizarding community demanded Harry's life. Watching
Harry at that moment, arcing through the air, Cedric was certain he would never have guessed
that Harry was anything other than a beautiful creature of the skies.
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A/N: Thank you all so much for reviewing and sending your encouragement, it really
helped I am going to try to update on Sundays, because everyone needs a bit of a pick-me-
up before Monday, eh? Thank you all again Keep up the encouragement, please, it
brightens my day every time I see a review in my mailbox. Hope you all enjoyed this
chapter