☤ Pseudonym ☤

~Chapter Two~

I am jolted awake by Dean shaking me. 'Renn you gotta get up.' I groan and rubs the sleep from my eyes. I sit up on sofa and stretch my limbs. 'Seriously, come on. We have quidditch practice in ten minutes.' This wakes me up. While I run up the stone steps I am detangling my hair with my fingers. Making a mental note to cut it at some point. I pull open my drawer and pull on my trousers and knee pads. Then the numbered jersey, a large yellow number one embroidered on the front and back. One had always been my favourite number and I had been secretly thrilled to be given it when I joined the quidditch team in my second year. On the way out the door I slip on my boots and grab my broomstick. A Siberian Arrow, normally used for racing but I like to be quick in the air as I am one of the chasers.

Downstairs Dean is waiting for me, tapping his foot impatiently. I send him a glare, 'I skipped brushing my teeth for you.'

'Not for me. For your spot on the quidditch team.' I roll my eyes. After three years at Hogwarts I have slowly been drawn out of my shell and become more confident. My closest friend is Dean, closely followed by Ron and Hermione, and of course Draco. Even if he is a snobby prick.

Dean and I run down the stairs, taking two at a time. Wood is ridiculously fastidious about punctuality and it is one of reasons for his aversion to me. The paintings shout at us to stop running indoors but we ignore them. Dean even shouts right back at a few of them. At last we reach the quidditch pitch and jog up to the already assembled group. Wood gives us a ten minute lecture about wasting time and how we need to win the cup this year as it is his last year. I feel a pair of eyes on me and turn to face Potter. I have always kept my distance from him yet made notes of his activities. He seems to have a strange obsession with me. Constantly I would catch him staring at me. But when I turn he would look away instantly.

It is a sunny morning, one would think a perfect day for quidditch practice. However, the sun is distracting and people keep throwing terrible passes. After two hours Woods calls it quits and we head into breakfast. I sit next to Ron on the bench and immediately dig into some bacon and eggs. After years of proper feeding and puberty my frame has filled out, yet I am still on the skinny side and would return from holidays a fraction of my size. Only to gain the weight back after a few weeks. Barty kept in touch via a mindlink he had created. If one of the two needs to speak then the other could open their mind or keep it closed. I wish to keep the line closed, but I know it would only make my time at home even more unbearable. I scrunch my eyes, trying to block out the horrific memories.

'You alright there, Renn?' Ron nudges my playfully. I snap my eyes open.

'Yup. Just tired is all.' I stare at my plate, suddenly not hungry.

Later on that day I am sitting in one of the arches in the courtyard trying to do my DADA (Defense Against the Dark Arts) homework. I have been taught how to use the dark arts my whole life, but never taught how to defend against them. All of a sudden the students that are milling around the courtyard rush to the edge of it, all craning their heads to the sky. I follow their gazes to meet a magnificent carriage being hauled through the air by seven white pegai encased in gold. My mind quickly flits back to the first day of the year. Dumbledore had announced the hosting of the Triwizard Tournament. I had not thought much of it at the time, but it seems that it will have a greater impact than I had originally concluded.

At dinner that evening Dumbledore announced the arrival of two schools for the tournament. First, 'the lovely ladies, the Beauxbatons Academy of magic'. At his words the doors of the great hall swing open to reveal around twenty blue-silk-clad girls. They glide along the aisle, frequently pausing to lean over and sigh. I frown at their ridiculousness, whereas Ron is quite enjoying himself, 'Bloody hell.' he mutters under his breath. Pausing once more butterflies fly out of their layers of silk, I roll my eyes. So much for all-girls schools being anti-stereotypes.

Behind the girls a tall woman glides regally towards Dumbledore, eyeing the students carefully. Seamus nudges Ron, 'Blimey. That's one big woman.' I silently agree as Dumbledore takes her hand, reaching above him for it. When they finally come to a dramatic halt cheering and whistling fills the hall. Mainly boys. Some even give a standing ovation. Dumbledore kisses the woman's hand and rushes to the front.

He raises his hands for silence. 'And now our friends from the north. Please greet the proud sons of Durmstrang and their high master, Igor Karkaroff.' I freeze at that name. The door flies open and a dozen unsmiling boys, or should I say men, walk in. I do not pay them much attention as I consider what this means. Karkaroff, ex-Death-Eater, sworn enemy of Barty and apparent schoolmaster. The boys grunt and stamp their sticks on the ground causing sparks to fly out. Everyone looks a bit intimidated, even the professors. They suddenly sprint to the front causing all to gasp in surprise. Then he enters.

'Blimey, it's him.' Ron voices everyone's thoughts as Victor Krum marches in. Followed closely by Karkaroff, the one who has my attention. To my surprise Dumbledore greets Karkaroff with a friendly hug and a laugh.

Throughout dinner Karkaroff is seated next to Snape, who eyes him suspiciously. Thank God I am not the only one who does not believe this facade. Karkaroff refills Snape's cup and then sniffs the jug, probably checking for poison. I would imagine he has more enemies than he can count.

Once everyone has finished their meals several men place a large ornate object in the front of the staff table. It has gold tiers decorated with fine jewels. 'Your attention, please!' the chatter immediately ceases, Dumbledore has always held a strong presence that demands respect. 'I'd like to say a few words.' he places one hand on the object and glances over it. 'Eternal glory.' he bellows, 'That is what awaits the student who wins the Triwizard Tournament. But to do this, such student must survive three tasks.' the word survive sticks in my brain. 'Three extremely dangerous tasks.'

Fred and George are enthralled by his words as they both whisper, 'Wicked.'

'For this reason, the Ministry has seen fit to impose a new rule.' As he talks I notice a shabby-looking man enter the room. He has one beady, glass eye that seems to see the whole hall all at the same time. 'To explain all this, we have the head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, Mr. Bartemius Crouch.' I gasp audibly, a few people turn their heads in my direction but soon refocus on Dumbledore. I examine the man. From his short, fat moustache to his long billowing robes. His greying hair is greased against his head, not a hair out of place. A grim expression decorates his wrinkled face. This is the father of my torturer. The man who created such a monster.

I spot a beady eye following him as he approaches the front. Not a look of curiosity, but instead of apprehension and trepidation.

Suddenly a loud clap of thunder cracks through the room like a whip. All the students duck and begin to panic, screaming all the while. The beady eyed man whips out a wand and aims it to the ceiling. After another huge crack the ceiling recovers and the weather returns to the norm. The man tucks the wand away into his tattered leather jacket. 'Bloody hell. It's Mad-Eye Moody.' Ron gasps.

Hermione whips her head around 'Alastor Moody? The Auror?' I have heard of him, only by eavesdropping behind closed doors. Whispers of Aurors hung in the air. Feared and revered.

'Auror?' Dean looks confused.

Ron gulps, 'Dark-wizard catcher. Half the cells in Azkaban are filled thanks to him.' We all watch as he hobbles his way around the tables. 'He's supposed to be mad as a hatter, though, these days.' Most of the teachers eye him cautiously. Dumbledore and him exchange a few muttered words before he leans against a wall to watch the proceedings.

This whole evening I have barely spoken five words which is unusual. But I have a bad feeling about this tournament. First Karkaroff showing up, then Mr Crouch and then this Auror. I feel an eye on me and face it. I meet an electric blue bead and glare at it. Moody raises the sides of his mouth into a crooked smile, full of malevolence and spite. He mutters something and my hand burns painfully. I wince and open my palm. Inscribed on it is a message in a jagged letters, 'miDniGHt GoBlET' a bead of blood trickles down my wrist and I quickly wipe it away. Something really is not right.