𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐱𝐢𝐢. hope for the faintest of hearts.

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT
The delegations from Beauxbatons and
Durmstrang will be arriving at 6 o'clock
on Friday 30th of October. Lessons will 
      end half an hour early. Students will
return their bags and books to their
dormitories and assemble in front of the
castle to greet our guests before the
Welcoming Feast.

                                      The large sign had been burned into Harry's memory the moment he saw it, stood between Ron ( who, as the tallest of the three, stood on his tiptoes and read it aloud to the two ) and Hermione. A feeling of dreadful excitement had settled over his bones at the prospect of the tournament, sleepless nights of tossing and turning that consisted of wondering who the Hogwarts champion may he.

Harry personally felt that you had to be incredibly brave ( or incredibly stupid ) enough to enter the tournament and willingly put yourself in harms way with no guaranteed help from those around you. He'd had nightmares each night since the tournament had been announced of him standing in the middle of an arena, clinging on to his last desperation as he battled his way through each task; the first night he'd dreamt that he'd fought against a giant and got his head smashed in, the next he'd dreamt that he had to save Ron and Hermione from an insanely high obstacle and had fallen to his death, and the list of nightmares continuously grew.

However, Harry was no fool. When moonlight pooled through the sliver of his drapes and the boys in his dorm were snoring, he dropped to his knees and recited the prayers that Father Charles sung during service. Melancholy drunk and whispers that shake, he hoped, prayed to whatever fucking God was listening that his name wouldn't magically end up in the pickings; and perhaps he is the cause of his own despair when he allows that feeling in his gut, some hidden natatorium of blackened viscera to flood his veins when bad things were coming for him, but what other choice did he have? Hope is for those of us who deserve it, he remembers Uncle Vernon telling him at a mere seven years old; and for Harry Potter, hope is a feeling he could never seem to chase, nor a feeling he seems to deserve, so instead he vehemently prays he won't be chosen. But in the back of his mind he knows that he will be, and that makes the nightmares that much more real.

In turn, to occupy his thoughts throughout the day, he mulled his mind for theoretical Hogwarts Champions. He had hoped, rather secretively really, that sixth-year Hufflepuff, Cedric Diggory may be chosen. He'd never had a conversation with Cedric before if he were truthful, but he was good at Quidditch ( and Harry thought he was rather pretty in terms of masculinity, but he would never admit that out loud and certainly not to Ron, who seemed to despise the boy, in fear that his thoughts may make it back to the Dursley's ) and he would certainly prefer him being champion over the various Slytherin names he heard thrown about the corridors; what Hogwarts didn't need was a Slytherin champion, he thought.