This work is a parody of J.K Rowling's Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and it is not endorsed by either J.K. Rowling or her publishers. As a parody, this work is protected under the Fair Use Doctrine.

The characterizations in this work deviate significantly from the original, and this does not imply these characterizations exist in the original work. The author received no financial compensation or endorsements for the production of this work.

All characters in this story are fictional. This story depicts sexual acts between consenting minor males. This story is meant for entertainment purposes only and in no way reflects reality. Please be aware of local laws or ordinances that may prohibit the reading of such material.

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Harry Potter and the Loo of Desire

(A Parody)

Chapter 18: Frying Pan or Fire, It Doesn't Matter

It did not take much for Harry to decide The Loo of Desire to be the worst trophy he ever saw. Of course, it seemed rather fitting given the history and nature of the Bi-Wizard Tournament. It blotted out the fact that the four competitors beat the odds and managed to locate it without dying. Harry glanced around at the others.

"How did you find me?" Ass Cleft inquired while casting his gaze up and down the path.

"Burned our way through the hedges, used revelio to navigate to the trophy, and didn't let anything stop us," Harry answered for himself and the other two. "How did you get here?"

"Don't know. Tried that trick of always turning right, but the maze kept changing. Did you know the hedges..."

"Da," Diktor cut him off.

"Okay, so I just got lost and kept wandering. Got chased by manticore, a wood troll, a dragon of all things, and stumbled my way here. Didn't see the scorpion guarding it `til it was too late," Diggory concluded.

"'Ow do you not see a great, big `orrible thing like that?" Foul inquired in a small rant and waved one hand in the direction the scorpion disappeared.

"I saw gold."

Harry and Diktor nodded as if it explained everything, but Foul appeared furious with the answer. The four contestants looked at each other while they stood in mud. Dirt clung to their wet clothes and faces. Hair got mussed and shot through with debris. Most bled from wounds. One appeared a bit burned as well as wet. In a word: bedraggled. Yet they all managed to survive.

"Now what?" Harry asked the group. "Who's going to claim the trophy?"

They cast furtive glances round and round while nobody ventured an answer.

"Look, Harry should take it," Ass Cleft said.

"Why the boy?" Foul demanded.

"'Cause this is the third time today he saved me."

"He saved me, too," Diktor quietly asserted. "And helped me get to here."

They looked at Foul.

"So what? `Ee distracted za cow man. I was working..."

"You would be dead," Diktor flatly stated. He turned to Harry. "I do not how it is the youngest of us did so much. You are brave man, Potter, and good with sex, too. You would have place of honor at Spurmstung for all you do."

"You are brave, Harry, and a damn fine wizard. I personally think you won this contest in the loch when you freed everyone," Ass Cleft said in a firm tone. "With what you did today for all of us," and he fixed Foul with a cold stare, "it means you are the champion of champions."

"Da!" Diktor instantly agreed.

"What did `ee do that we could not?" Foul challenged.

"Well, he faced... Holdequart as a baby, and twice here at school, and lived each time. He got run down by an escaped lunatic from Bangabang and come out of it intact. Then look what he did with the dragon, the Merscots, and half a dozen creatures in here," Cedric listed Harry's accomplishments much to Harry's embarrassment. "And you never, ever hear him brag about any of it. Look at him right now. He almost seems ashamed."

"I didn't do it all by myself," Harry squeaked and wanted to hide behind Diktor.

Foul glanced at him and seemed to soften a bit before she said: "Very well, let `im have the trophy."

"Can't," Harry surprised even himself when he said the word, but his brain reminded him of an important fact. "If I take it, you all get stuck in here. I can't do that. I can't leave you here to get killed."

Ass Cleft, Diktor, and Foul stared at him with semi-blank faces.

"Remember when Dumbledore said it was the key to getting out?"

They nodded.

"So what if we all grab it at the same time? We all win. We all escape this crazy maze. We all live. To be honest, any of you can claim to be the champion. I don't care. I just want out of here," he offered.

"I think I understand what it means to be a Gryffindor now," Cedric quietly asserted.

"You are true sportsman, Harry," Diktor simply stated.

"Fine, we all take the trophy," Foul accepted.

As a group they walked through the soaked debris to the ugly statue. Each knelt in the mud as close to it as they could manage. Foul started to reach out.

"Wait," Harry said. "It has to be at the same time. I'm going to count down. When I say go, we all grab some part of it. Ready?"

Three heads nodded.

"Okay, three... two... one... go," he delivered as promised.

Four hands seized the nasty piece of hardware in unison. In unison they all began to spin and get twisted into knots. The world seemed to wink in and out existence as nothing stayed logical or sane. Four seconds later the four champions landed hard on the ground and started rolling around. Harry gave serious thought to vomiting, but then remember he threw up the last of his breakfast hours before. Ass Cleft, Diktor, and Foul slowly climbed onto to all fours while letting out miserable little groans.

"What the hell was that?" Diggory grumbled as he wobbled to a kneeling position. "And where the hell are we?"

"Ow, my head," Foul grunted.

"Sort of like fappitch," Diktor remarked and made a remarkable recovery. He stood and turned in a small circle. "This is a burial place, no?"

The statement brought Harry back to reality in a split second. He also got to his feet and took stock of the situation. Ass Cleft and Foul managed to get their legs under them as well. The four looked about. Harry felt a nervous twist in his stomach that did not originate from the surprise travel. He started reading the markers and tombstones scattered about them. One name stood out from all the others: Widdle.

"Hide!" He hissed in an automatic response. When the other did not move, and Harry spun around and glared at them. Then he said: "Hide now, or you'll die!"

His words took root. The three other champions darted away from where they landed and sought cover behind the various things one would expect to find in a cemetery. Once he felt certain his friend could not be seen, Harry started to search for his own hiding place. Just as he tried to slide behind a large stone penis engraved with a name and a loving message, his body painfully recoiled. He dropped his wand as searing agony surged through him.

"Tee hee, tee hee. It worked! It worked!" A voice, and one Harry could not forget, giggled and sang. "We got him!"

"Wormdick!" Harry cried out in a hoarse whisper. "Set me free!"

"Ah, no. We've waited for this day for a long, long, long, long..."

"Oh, do shut your mouth, Wormdick," a second voice rasped, and the head of Harry's penis burst into pain. "Grab his wand and move him into position, send up the Dungmark, and get the other ingredients ready."

The bandy-legged, buck-toothed, pot-bellied, thin-haired man nicknamed Wormdick pranced about following orders. Harry began to regret letting the man live a year before when his godfather broke out of Bangabang and searched for the supposedly deceased Peter Pottybrew. The man hid as a guinea pig with the Weasley family for over thirteen years with none the wiser. Only Sirius Black, believed to be a Dungeater and mass murderer, knew the truth. Harry learned on that fateful day in the Streaking Shack exactly what transpired that lead to his parents' death, the scar on the head of his penis, and why Black got sent to prison. Pottybrew betrayed them all as a secret servant of The Dork Lord. Instead of letting his godfather kill Pottybrew, Harry argued taking him to the wizard court to face trial and to clear Black's name. However, Pottybrew managed to escape when Snape thought he crashed a student party.

Harry floated through the cemetery until he reached a statue of an angel with a huge bulge in the crotch. Pottybrew magically affixed the boy wizard to it. The painful magical cords constricted his hands and legs. He could not move or even use non-verbal magic without the aid of his hands. The binding on his chest made it difficult to breath. Once strapped to the statue, Pottybrew held his wand over his head. A foul brown ball of gas shot upward. For the first time Harry got to see the making of a Dungmark from beginning to end. He thought it looked like the worst fart one could imagine.

High in the sky a skull took shape, one that seemed a drunken four-year old drew, then a pile of poo formed from the gas some ways away. Gradually, the poo drifted to the skull. The skull began to eat it. Thus, the Dungmark reached completion. Brown jets shot out of the skull's empty sockets and raced across the sky in all directions. Harry remained powerless to do anything. He hoped and prayed his friends would stay hidden once they saw the Dungmark in the sky.

A woman's scream caught his attention, but he did not recognize the voice. Soon a lady, perhaps twenty years older than Harry, floated through the air guided by Wormdick. Just as he did with Harry, Pottybrew bound her to a statue of a nymph with breasts so large it would break the back of a real one. The woman's screams diminished as the painful bindings took hold. Harry and the woman stared at one another across what appeared to be a fire pit. The sinking feeling in Harry's stomach felt as though it could take down a British Navy fleet.

Wormdick continued to giggle and prance while making preparations. He stacked wood in the pit. He set up a tripod over the pile, and on this he hung a great black cauldron. Using a spell Harry employed not that long before, Pottybrew filled the cauldron with water. Then he ignited the wood. It became clear a serious potion would be brewed or a terrible spell would be cast. Harry feared both as his state left him helpless. The woman stared at the fire in horror. To one side Wormdick set up a table and placed numerous items on it, including an ancient, dual-bladed African circumcision knife. It did not seem a happy harbinger of things to come.

Just as Pottybrew finished his work, dark brown clouds dropped out of the sky. From them people emerged wearing soiled brown robes and a Dungeater mask: a white skull face with the rictus smeared in brown. Harry knew the situation went from worse to lethal. In all twelve Dungeaters, excluding Wormdick, arrived. They stood in a tight circle around the fire pit and the cauldron that started to steam.

"Welcome! Welcome, my faithful," the hoarse voice said and sounded almost but not quite pleased. "Gather around and be ready."

The pain lancing through Harry's cock made him gasp. It signified one thing and one thing only: Lord Holdequart hove nearby. Harry gasped and panted. He caught sight of Pottybrew mincing his way to the table with a small parcel clutched in his arm. This he laid on the table, and the rough brown blanket fell away. Gagging seemed a decent option to Harry as he gazed upon the deformed figure that looked as though someone attempted to graft parts of mutated otter onto a naked mole rat, and then physically tried to mold it into the rough shape of a person. It took on the appearance of a Teddy Ruxpin toy somebody attempted to incinerate with rubbing alcohol.

"We have at last captured the one who reduced me to this state. With him we will restore my body and resume our important work," the scabrous thing one could only assume to be The Dork Lord said to the assembled. "Let us think of the last thirteen years as nothing but a bad dream brought about by drinking too much cough syrup and smoking too many clove cigarettes."

Those hiding behind hoods and masks mumbled their agreement.

"Wormdick, is everything ready?" The dumpster-fire baby inquired.

"Yes, my lord! It is all here! Every piece of it just like you ordered!" Pottybrew replied in his sing-song voice.

Harry saw the mottled humanoid monstrosity on the table roll its eyes. He rather agreed with the sentiment. Pottybrew seemed too cloyingly optimistic, overly toadying, and happily venal all at the same instant.

"Let us begin," the ghastly shit-baby firmly stated. "First, bring forth the boner of the father and begin the brew!"

Wormdick grabbed an item from the table. He threw it with limp-wristed action. However, the object seemed to find its trajectory. Just before it hit the water, Harry noted with disgust it appeared to be a mummified penis.

"Now add the teat of the mother!"

Pottybrew again threw another item into the cauldron. Even from a distance it clearly stood out as a desiccated breast. It landed with a small splash.

"Here comes one of my favorite parts: the blood of the last girl!" The living corpse of a seeming infant cried.

After seizing the nasty looking blade from the table, Wormdick went to the woman who got dragged to the pit and tied to a statue. Pottybrew took her right arm, held it out, and drew the knife down the length of it. Blood welled up through the cut. The horrid man smeared both side of the blade with the red liquid. Then he went to the pot, dipped the blade into it, and swirled it around. Harry saw the light steam from the cauldron turn a faint pink color. Some of the Dungeaters clapped.

"Yes, yes, excellent. Most excellent," cackled what looked to be a failed experiment in cloning. "Yes, this is the best bit. Pottybrew, fetch the blood of the last boy!"

Harry began to struggle when the warped follower of Lord Holdequart approached him with the blade. His struggles proved useless. Wormdick grabbed Harry's left arm, and sliced open the sleeve of his fappitch sweater from wrist to elbow. Then as he did with the woman, he pulled the knife down the length of his forearm. Although not a deep cut, it still bled like the dickens. A river of thick liquid rolled down. Wormdick coated both sides of the infernal blade with Harry's blood. He then skipped to the cauldron. Repeating the motion, he swirled the blade through the hot preparation. The cauldron burped a cloud of dark red vapor. The Dungeaters standing around gave a polite little round of applause.

"Wait, wait, there is one last thing," the grotesque animated mummy of malformed dwarf said. "We've talked about this Wormdick, and I hope you're prepared. Now, the willing offering of the servant!"

"What?" Pottybrew said and glanced around. "Right."

With that the ungainly man lifted his robes, showing everyone he wore nothing underneath. Harry suspected the gathering probably wished Wormdick at least wore underwear. However, he did not. Pottybrew then grabbed his scrotum, pulled it tight, and then brought the blade around in a swinging slash. With only a little peep of pain, Pottybrew neutered himself. He then chucked his scrotum and testicles over his shoulder. The severed bits sailed in graceful arc, and landed in the center of the cauldron like a trick shot. The assembled Dungeaters gave another small round of applause.

"Wands to the ready!" The vile lump of blotchy flesh laying on the table called out. "Recite the incantation. What once was is again. Let left be right, right be left, and to hell with the rest. Bring forth the best of both worlds."

"What once was is again. Let left be right, right be left, and to hell with the rest. Bring forth the best of both worlds!" The collective voices incanted as one.

"What a terrible spell," Harry groaned.

However, streamers of energy shot out of the Dungeaters' wands, some blue and others pink. The combined powers hit the cauldron and it began to vigorously boil. While the other Dungeaters performed the spell, Pottybrew went to the table and collected the shriveled infantile form of The Dork Lord. He scooped into his arms, held it in the air while a wild chortle issued from the thing, and then Wormdick slam-dunked it into the pot. The Dungeaters did not clap as they continued their spell. The sight appalled the young wizard.

"Yeck," Harry let out with a retching sound. "Dead baby stew."

None paid him any heed. The activity in the cauldron became severely agitated. Something banged against the side of the pot, and a gong noise reverberated through the air. The Dungeaters continued the pathetic chanting of the awful spell. Everyone and everything became more frenetic. Pottybrew whipped out his wand and added his power to the spell while he danced about leaving a small trail of blood in his wake. Harry wondered when it would end.

It ended a minute later when the cauldron fell over, the liquid spilled out and extinguished the fire, and the Dungeaters let out a soft groan of displeasure. Pottybrew stopped his cavorting and examined the overturned kettle. A strange yet ugly look of jubilation converged on his features as he backed up. Harry watched. From the overturned cauldron something crawled out. A sticky, wet mess made its way from the pit. Then it stood. It lifted it's arms into the air.

"I'm back!" Lord Holdequart said as a new pain exploded in the end of Harry's cock.

The naked form of The Dork Lord spun in a circle. Sagging breasts flew outward along with the small sausage of a penis. Harry could not see a scrotum, but rather a hairy cleft where it should be. Fear fed on his pain as he saw beyond any doubt the dark hermaphrodite did indeed boast a new body. It looked to be around sixty or seventy years of age and not in the best health, but a body nonetheless.

"Did you miss me boys and girls?" Lord Holdequart said while he, or she, rubbed the dual set of genitals and the drooping tits. "I missed you. Yes, I did. Daddy and mommikins missed our little peanut and clam so very, very much because that nasty little boy wouldn't cooperate and die."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry mumbled to himself.

"Could someone get me a kimono? Hmm? Preferably a floral print in black and blue. Those colors always complemented me so much better than brown," The Dork Lord requested. "Oh, and my wand, too? I'm gonna need that in a few minutes."

Pottybrew appeared out of nowhere holding aloft an open grown in a style no sane man, woman, transvestite, cross-dresser, or Halloween party-goer would ever wear. Not only did it fail to accentuate any part of Holdequart, it made the visible bits look even worse. Harry looked away in disgust as the man-woman slipped into it like a baby falling down a well.

"Well, who do we have here? Could it be Becky? The girl who said yes until she saw what I had to offer and then said no?" Lord Holdequart asked in a voice that grew steadily angrier as he spoke. He twiddle his wand in her face. "What's the matter, Becky? Didn't feel like rubbing oysters together while you got a little pork inside you?"

"It's just so ugly," the woman heaved out the words as if she got sick.

"Well, you didn't seem to mind once I got going!"

"I didn't feel anything, Miss Tic-tac."

Holdequart hauled off and slapped the woman. Instead of screaming, the woman put on a brave face and chuckled a little bit. It seemed to infuriate The Dork Lord.

"Yeah. That's right: you know what I'm laughing at," she said through a smirk.

"It's not funny! I was born this way!" Holdequart shrieked and slapped her again, sending his gown billowing. "Wormdick. Set her free and let's see if she's learned anything."

"Yes, my Lord-Lady," Pottybrew obsequiously answer and aimed his wand at the bound woman. "Libero!"

The air wavered and the woman fell half a meter to the ground. Harry watched as she rubbed her arms and legs, ignoring the cut on her arm. No one moved or said anything for a few moments. Then the collective of Dungeaters all aimed their wands at her.

"Stand up, Becky," Holdequart snarled while attempting to shove his damp hair behind an ear. "I've got something to say to you."

The woman named Becky used the statue to steady herself as she got to her feet and stood. She wobbled a bit, but she faced Holdequart with only a mild trace of fear on her visage. Harry wondered if she understood whom she actually faced. She adjusted her blouse and skirt that seemed ready to fall off. Then she tried to make her bobbed blonde hair behave without any success.

"So, Becky," and Holdequart again turned her name into an insult, "think you might want to go on a date with me? Maybe get lucky this time?"

"Me? You? Date? You've got to be kid..."

"ASS-END OVERHEAD!" Lord Holdequart shouted and a stream of power colored a murky taupe shot out of his wand.

The bolt struck Becky in the chest. She rose in the air, flipped one and a half times, and then landed on her neck with sickening crunch. Her bodily folded on itself into a heap, clearly dead.

"I would've bought you a pizza," The Dork Lord grumbled at the corpse.

Lord Holdequart then turned. He spied Harry. Harry looked away from the rather wrinkled countenance of the man-woman. Even in a dress Holdequart did not cut a pretty figure. Harry heard bare feet crunching on grass and gravel. It drew near.

"Well, well, well. We have another guest," Holdequart said, seized Harry's chin, and made him look up. "Oh! What's this? I can touch you again without exploding? How can this bed? What terrible magic did the bad, bad Lord Holdequart use..."

"It's blood magic. I get it," Harry interrupted The Dork Lord. "Pretty common. It means you neutralized the protection my parents gave me when you killed them. It's not a big secret or even very complicated. Any second-year could do it."

A look of rage rampaged across Lord Holdequart aged features. A nose whittle down to a bare nub tried to flair. His cheek implants rose too high up, and it pulled against the plastic surgery done to his eyes so he appeared rather fish-like. Harry read all about Holdequart's attempts to hang onto his supposed youthful beauty, except no one ever called him (or her) beautiful. It seemed to form the core of his derangement.

"So you're a clever little wizard, eh?" The man-woman's voice shook with anger as he spoke. "Feel like a little duel, Mister Smarty-pants?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not? You'll probably end up killing me some other way. At least I'll have a fighting chance," Harry said and tried to sound nonplussed by the offer. In the back of his mind he panicked because he knew what would happen to Neville.

Holdequart seemed apoplectic for a second. The he turned in dramatic circle, gown unevenly flowing behind him, and sashayed to a spot five meters from the cauldron fire pit. He struck a pose that made him look more like a fireman than Marlene Dietrich. Harry rolled his eyes while the Dungeaters gave another polite little clap.

"Libero!" Pottybrew called from some place off to the side.

Harry fell to the ground. Blood rushed into his feet and hands. They throbbed with a pins-and-needles sensation as the blood returned. The slice on his arm pulsed with pain. Harry worried it would get infected if he did not get the cut treated soon. Even though it hurt to stand, he rose using the statue to help him maintain balance. All the Dungeaters swung around and pointed their wands at him. It seemed certain he would die even if he somehow miraculously managed to defeat Holdequart. His heart ached because the one he loved most would needlessly perish.

"Come on, Potter, and get into position. I don't have all day. I've got places to go and people to fuck," Holdequart shrieked at him, but not nearly with the same ear-deafening tone as Professor McGonagall.

Harry staggered over to a location roughly six and half meters from The Dork Lord. His wand sailed through the air and he managed to catch it. Seeing the feared dark wizard in the flesh, something he never saw except as a baby, did not entirely compute in his head. When as that baby Harry managed to do something infants could not do, it caused Holdequart to detonate, and, thus, gave him the moniker of the Boy-Who-Came. Later, when taking refuge in the body of Professor Quirrell simply touching Harry cause both the professor and Holdequart to explode. Even the ghost of Tom Widdle trapped in the diary blew up when Harry jabbed the book with the basilisk boner. Somehow Harry expected The Dork Lord to just go to pieces upon seeing the young wizard.

"Okay, let's go through the niceties, so I can head out for a night on the town," the evil wizard said. "You bow. I curtsy. We swish our wands around. You pull some lame stunt. I catch you at it, killing curse, and blah, blah, blah. Got it?"

"Bite me," Harry answered.

"Bow first," Holdequart said.

The Dork Lord raised his wand, and Harry's body went stiff with pain. Against his will he started to bend at the waist. Holdequart laughed. His followers politely chuckled. When Harry completed the bow, Holdequart held out the lower edges of his gown, daintily crossed his legs, and curtsied. Harry grunted in torment as his body got forcibly pushed upright.

"There. That makes things all nice and civil," Holdequart giggled through the statement. "Now raise your wand and utter some ridiculous spell that wont have any effect. I want people to know I defeated you fairly in a duel."

"This is not fair!" A voice called out. "You are an abomination!"

"Cedric, no! Get back!" Harry yelled as he saw his friend come racing out from behind a tombstone.

"Wormdick, dispose of that pretty boy and feed him to the werewolves when you're done," Lord Holdequart muttered.

The neutered Pottybrew danced out from behind the knot of Dungeaters. He came up in Diggory's blind spot. He acted before Harry could warn his friend.

"ASS-END OVERHEAD!" Wormdick squealed at the top of his lungs.

The same dingy colored streak of power shot through the air. It struck Ass Cleft in the side, but he still sailed into the air, flipped around one and a half times, and landed on his neck. The breaking of bones rattled through the clearing in the cemetery. Ass Cleft did not move.

"No!" Harry shouted. He turned to The Dork Lord. "Petrificus totalis!"

"ASS-END OVERHEAD!" Holdequart simultaneously screamed.

The two spell got cast in the same instant. Harry's gray-blue bolt of energy met the dingy taupe power stream. A sound distinctly reminiscent of a loud, wet fart blared around them where the two streams collided. The area lit up with a lurid light of conflicting colors. It made Holdequart look dead. Harry felt it probably made him appear the same. That did not trouble him as much as the fact his wand seemed to grow slippery in his hand, and it appeared Holdequart experienced the same problem. The Dungeaters moved toward them.

"He's mine! By Morgan le Fay I've been waiting to fuck over this little turd for almost fifteen years. Anyone who denies me this will suffer like one of my enemies. Now, back off, you assholes," Holdequart hollered at his followers.

The group went back to fire pit filled with rank water and the dented cauldron.

"How long do you think you can keep this up, Potter? Huh?" The evil, mad wizard taunted him. "You're just a boy and a second-rate talent. The body binding spell? Please, I can deflect that in my sleep. I just knew you'd use a lame spell."

Harry ignored the taunt, turned his head and yelled: "Get Cedric's body, get the trophy, and go back to Snogwarts! Now. Do it now!"

"Who the hell are you talking to?"

With all eyes on him, Harry watched as a pair of hands reached out and dragged Cedric's corpse away from the edge of the fire pit. The ease with which it happened could only mean Diktor performed the task. Harry felt relieved the two visiting students might escape. He returned his attention The Dork Lord.

"Poor Tom Widdle," Harry shouted across the distance. "You weren't born a freak, but you turned yourself into one. Couldn't be happy with a man or as one. Couldn't be happy with a woman or as one of those either. Instead of getting plastic surgery on your face, did you ever once think about picking one gender and getting the other removed?"

"It doesn't work like that, you butt nugget. You think it's easy cutting away half of what you are? I just wanted people to accept me as I am!" Holdequart answered in an angry, booming voice.

"But resorting to rape to meet your sexual needs? That's what losers do, Tom..."

"It's Lord Holdequart. Show me some respect!"

"You gave up on that option when you tried to force others into being copies of you," Harry rejoined. "Even a fourteen-year old knows that. You're pathetic!"

The infuriated dark wizard redoubled his efforts and pushed Harry's bolt of magic backward. A terrible strain built in the young wizard's head as he struggled to fight in return. Slowly the advance of taupe magic slowed. It gradually reversed until the meeting point rested in the center.

"Oh, somebody grew up and got some balls," The Dork Lord sarcastically intoned.

"At least one of us did!" Harry fired back.

Holdequart's face went slack for a moment, and then twisted into an ugly sneer as the pointed insult hit it's mark. Despite the juvenile nature of the remark, it proved effective against The Dork Lord who seemed incapable of brooking a single personal comment. Harry started to prepare a list of cutting statements he felt certain would goad the man-woman. It would likely end up leading to death, Harry thought, but it would buy time for Diktor and Foul. He tried to calm his mind as he watched Holdequart try to rein himself in.

During the exchange and the standoff, Harry saw activity out of the corner of his left eye. He only moved head slightly to take a look. Just behind an above-ground crypt where The Dork Lord could not see, the two living champions held the body of the dead one and the trophy. Diktor pointed to the trophy and shook his head. It did not take a genius to figure out something went wrong with the plan. Harry started to wrack his brain without diverting too much of his attention from the duel with Holdequart.

After a minute during which Holdequart's comments became increasingly vile until he got to the point where he compared Harry's anus to the nostril of chimpanzee, Harry found himself at loss. He could stay and fight The Dork Lord with a certain outcome of destruction or he could try to help the other two teenaged mages. He discounted his own chances of survival and focused on the other two. They would need his help, but he could not imagine in what capacity. The conundrum frustrated him, and Harry poured that frustration into his wand. The gray-blue light started to advance against the taupe stream. He reached further inside of himself and unearthed the anger he felt toward Dumbledore for engineering the needlessly deadly challenge in the first place. It apparently offered Holdequart spies a chance to infiltrate and make alterations.

"Dammit!" Harry shouted as loud as he could.

The power flowing form his wand flared and pushed Holdequart's energies within a meter of the dark wizard. The man-woman started to look very concerned at the turn of events. He no longer taunted Harry and seemed to focus on the magical part of the fight. In a flash Harry realized he gained himself a slight advantage: The Dork Lord's magic would need additional time to reach the spot where Harry stood. He began a countdown in his head and applied every last dram of concentration he could push into his wand. The wood felt hot in his hand. When he feared he neared the breaking point, Harry put his nascent plan into action.

Harry just shut off the supply of power to his wand, jammed the stick of wood into his pocket, and ran to the crypt covering the other two tournament champions. His sudden motions seemed to disorient Holdequart who forgot to control his stream of magic. It flashed like a lighthouse as the crazed wizard spun in a circle. Harry heard the sound of bodies hitting the ground, but he could not see if Holdequart killed any of his own people. In the meanwhile, Diktor and Foul pulled him deeper into the shadows.

"What are you doing?" Foul asked him in a cold voice.

"Trying to find out why the hell you're still here!" Harry tersely answer.

"The trophy is not working. We touch it and touch it, but we stay here," Diktor said and skipped addressing Foul.

Voices began to ring through the cemetery as Holdequart brusquely ordered the Dungeaters to spread out and find Harry. Time became exceedingly precious. Harry glanced at the wizards who looked expectantly at him. He touched the trophy, but nothing happened. He slapped it with his hand. Diktor and Foul each grabbed a part to hold it steady. Still they remained in place.

"Hold it up so I can see if anything is written on it," he told them.

They did. He squinted and tried to read anything he could see on the base of the trophy. Dirt and grime obscured the bottom inch from where it got caught in the flood the young wizards produced earlier. He grabbed the tattered end of his sweater and tried to clean it off. He only added blood to the mess. Shouts echoed around them and some sounded close. In desperate act, Harry grabbed Cedric's dead arm and tried to use the cleaner sleeve to clear away the gunk. It panicked him to think what Dumbledore and the rest of the committee, let alone entire student body, would think about the death of the popular young man. A multitude of conflicting emotions regarding the headmaster assailed him. He wiped and wiped. Cedric's hand flopped around and made small metallic bangs on the ugly statue. Harry grabbed the hand and the trophy to silence it.

The world tied itself into a knot. Harry felt like someone tried to make a pretzel out of him. His guts churned as he rolled and spun. It seemed to last for hours, but four seconds later he landed on the ground again with a dull thud. Three other thuds echoed around him. In a state of panic he jumped up and waved his wand around fearing Holdequart's forces would attack. Instead he faced the committee table where Dumbledore sat humming to himself. Barty Crouch sat off to his right, and the heads of Boobbeatons and Spurmstung lined up on the left. It took two seconds before a collective gasp issued form the audience.

"What the...?" Harry intoned while blinked and attempted to make sense of the situation.

"Ah! They're out," Barty Crouch said.

"They're... what?" Dumbledore began politely and the finished with a shout.

The entourage at the head table all stood, except Madame Maximus who towered, and they gazed at the four champions. Diktor rumbled something in Bulgarian, and Harry felt certain Foul began cursing in French. The surreal method of their escape eluded explanation. However, Harry did know one fact. He dropped down onto his knees and rolled Ass Cleft over. Lifeless eyes stared up at the sky. The terror of facing Lord Holdequart got swept away by a profound sadness that Diggory did, indeed, get murdered. Harry lowered his head to Cedric's chest.

"No! No!" He began to wail. "NO! Not my friend. Not my friend!"

He grabbed handfuls of Ass Cleft's warm-up suit and tried to shake life into the corpse. He sobbed at the injustice of it all. Harry liked Cedric Diggory and considered him a real friend. Moreover, he felt Cedric held him in the same regard. Two sets of hands rubbed his back, and two more voices got added to the weeping.

"What in bloody hell is going on down there?" Dumbledore demanded.

"What is matter, Kum?" Igor Krackhead inquired in confusion.

"Did something happen to that boy?" Barty Crouch queried.

"My word, is he... is zat Diggory boy dead?" Madame Maximus sputtered.

Chaos erupted as word spread that one of the champions arrived dead. It got worse when they correctly identified Diggory as the victim. People started streaming out of the stands. Cedric's father pushed through. He knelt across from Harry and took control of the body.

"My boy! My boy!" The man wailed in total grief.

A woman sat next to him and shouted: "My son! My son!"

"My student! My student!" Professor Flitwick sobbed as he joined those around the corpse.

"Our Ass Cleft! Our Ass Cleft," moaned a majority of the male Snogwarts students.

Harry got nudged and elbowed away from his dead friend as mourners took over the situation. He felt sickened by the display because they did not know and did not witness what happened. Budding anger and profound grief warred within him. He started to reach for his wand when a strong hand stopped him. He looked to the left and into the scarred face of Goo-eye Moody. The orb that oozed a perpetual flow of slime whirled around in a crazy manner.

"Isn't one enough?" The man asked in a gruff voice. His thick arm coiled around Harry's neck and started to pull him away. "It'll do you no good staying here, Potter."

"But I..." he began to argue in frustration and rage, but the expression on the man's face halted him in mid fury.

"Come. Tell me what happened," Goo-eye ordered him.

They walked unnoticed through the sobbing and wailing crowd. Goo-eye lead Harry toward the main road leading to the castle. As they traveled, Harry attempted to mentally frame the return of Lord Holdequart into words, but it seem to immense for such limited constructs. He glanced at the auror.

"Tell me one thing that happened," the man rumbled.

The sound of the distraught crowd faded the closer they got to the castle.

"Just one detail."

"He's back. Holdequart is back," Harry said barely above a whisper.

Goo-eye halted in his tracks. The magical eye stopped spinning and seemed to bore a hole into Harry. Harry could not recall any point in the past when the man's eyes looked at him in the same instant. He found it unnerving.

"It was bound to happen, Potter, and no fault of yer own," Goo-eye said with what could only be called his brand of compassion. "Into the castle with you. You need a restorative. You look like hell to be honest."

They walked without speaking. The man and boy headed down the stairs to the Dark Art's room and Moody's personal space. Inside the office three other rooms branched off. Harry did not see behind the doors or the curtain. Moody led him to his desk and sat Harry in a chair. Then he went to small upright cabinet and opened it. Harry heard the clinking of glass and smelled a strong almost acrid aroma. Mood returned with a glass containing perhaps a twenty milliliters of a bright orange liquid and handed it to Harry.

"Cut fire water," Goo-eye explained. "You might not be physically old enough for it, but right now you look to be about ninety in mental years. Drink it up. It'll do you some good, Potter."

Séamus boasted about drinking fire water once in the past, but no one really believed him. Anyone who saw an adult drink even a small amount knew it could lay a man out flat for an hour. Harry eyed the concoction. It did not resemble the bright red liquor he saw at the Weasley's, and then he remember Goo-eye said he cut it. Thus, without thinking any more about it, Harry drained the glass into his mouth and swallowed.

When his head stopped spinning, the air cooled, and he could breathe again, Harry worried about the tingling numbness in his feet, hands, lips, and gums. He could not feel his teeth. He cast an askew glance at the man.

"I want you to note you're not laying on the floor, and blood isn't seeping out of yer ears, Harry," the man stated as if he already knew the question on Harry's mind. "Feel better?"

"I don't know if this is better, but it's different," he rejoined.

"So Holdequart is back. How?" Goo-eye skipped any pleasantries.

Before he could answer, Goo-eye's chest wobbled and Harry thought he could hear a voice. Moody glanced at him and, for a spare moment, looked sheepish. The trunk continued to move about and the voice got a little louder. The auror stood and walked back to the chest from which he got the firewater. After closing the lid, fiddling with a dial, and opening it again, Harry distinctly heard a man shouting. Whoever raised his voice knew a vast array foul epithets.

"Shut your gob, Crouch," Goo-eye yelled into the chest. "Keep it up and I'll drop you in Banbabang myself. Tit!"

The the war-disfigured man slammed the lid shut. He turned. Harry eyed the famed wizard.

"Barty Crouch, Junior," the man stated.

"I thought he escaped from prison?" Harry skeptically inquired.

"Caught him outside King's Cross trying to get on the Snogwart's Express at the start of the year. He planned on mugging one of the professors here and taking their place with polyjuice. Once I knew he was up to no good, I figured I could use some fun for the year, so I kept him."

"Fun? You mean sex toy?"

"Same difference," Moody replied. "Now what got done to you that left the Diggory boy dead?"

Harry showed the man his arm. Then he explained what happened when the champions all touched the trophy. Once he got going he could not stop. The story poured out of him as if it needed to be told for its own reasons. He did not leave out a single detail. Recalling the death of Cedric caught his breath several times, but he plowed on even when the tears raced down his face. He finished with the part when the arrived back at the castle grounds.

"How did we get transported to the cemetery?" Harry grunted the question through a tight throat.

"It's a fear key. It responds to the strongest fear that touches it. We thought it would take whoever touched it back to some part of the maze. Never expected it would be you... and not all of you at the same time," the scarred auror explained.

"You people are complete dickheads!" Harry yelled.

"Eh, might have a point there," Goo-eye semi-agreed. "But the big concern is Holdequart's return, and he used yer blood to do it. You're not an effective defense against him anymore, Potter. You're in worse danger than ever. I'd wager my other eye he's going to hunt you down as fast as he can. He's going want to go digging through yer head to find out what happened to him."

"Well isn't that just fucking great!" Harry bellowed and channeled a bit of Ron.

The novel parts of this work, including characters, plot, and setting, are licensed under

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The characters, plot, and settings originating in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire remain licensed to J.K. Rowling.