Harry let the silence stretch for a few heartbeats after declaring there was no time limit on the task.
Then he raised his voice one last time, calm and cutting.
“Has everyone got that?
That means whatever I do is within the rules of the task and the Tournament.
So while what I do might seem inconsequential or irrelevant to the task to you, it does not mean it’s against the rules.
Therefore, just because you cannot understand what I’m up to does not mean you have the right to interfere with what I’m doing.”
He turned slightly to his right and snapped his fingers.
A dark khaki British Army surplus echelon bag appeared with a soft pop, sitting on the sand in front of him.
The crowd stirred.
Harry ignored them.
“I bet you’re all wondering how I did that,” he said, voice laced with open mockery.
“Too bad.
I refuse to tell you.
If you cannot figure it out for yourselves, I think you’re too daft to be told.”
He slid his wand back up his sleeve and crouched beside the bag.
The interior was clearly expanded far beyond its outward size.
One by one he drew objects out with deliberate, unhurried movements.
First came a hip-height pedestal.
He set it on the ground, twisted it until it sat level in the uneven sand, and gave it a final firm press to lock it in place.
Next he lifted out a stone Pensieve basin and settled it carefully on top of the pedestal.
Then came a folding banana sun lounger.
He snapped it open, positioned it so the foot end faced the judges’ box, and left roughly three feet of space between the lounger and the pedestal—close enough for him to reach the Pensieve without getting up.
A battered novel with a bookmark already in place landed on the lounger’s striped fabric.
Last came a wooden rack holding a dozen numbered glass vials, each containing swirling silver memory strands.
Harry stood.
He held the rack in his left hand and, one by one, uncorked the vials in order.
Each time he poured a memory into the Pensieve he tapped a specific rune on the basin’s rim with his wand.
The rune glowed briefly, locking the strand into sequence.
When the last vial was empty he returned the rack to the bag and zipped it shut.
He drew his wand again, recast Sonorus, and addressed the stands.
“Because it might take quite some time for me to figure out how I’m going to complete this task with only three and a bit years of magical education, I’ve brought some… entertainment… for you all.
“Be very aware: while the entertainment I’m providing is playing, I’ll be concentrating on the task.
Any distraction from you will be considered hindering.
Again—you have been warned.”
He cancelled the charm, tapped the activation rune on the Pensieve, and immediately enlarged the emerging projection until it floated above the basin at roughly twice human size.
The first memory began to play.
The scene showed a bare white room—the Room of Requirement configured for privacy.
A younger Harry, still in his Hogwarts uniform, stood facing what looked like an invisible camera.
“Testing… testing… one… two… three,” Memory-Harry said.
“Testing… testing.”
Real Harry adjusted the volume with a flick of his wand so the words carried clearly across the entire arena.
Then he turned away from the Pensieve, walked to the lounger, and replied loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Yep.
All set to go.”
“Excellent!” Memory-Harry said, appearing to glance back toward the real Harry.
“Make yourself comfortable.
This is going to take a while.” There was a short pause before he added with a bark of laughter, “What am I saying?
Of course you already know that.
You set this whole thing up!”
Real Harry dropped onto the lounger, swung his legs up, and opened his novel.
“Damned straight,” he called back, settling against the canvas with obvious comfort.
“Alright,” Memory-Harry continued, turning to face the judges’ box directly.
He drew his wand, held it ready, and spoke with clear, formal weight.
“I, Harrison James Potter, swear on my magic and my life that the memories you are about to see played over the course of the beginning of my first task of the 1994 Triwizard Tournament are a true account of my actual memories.
As I say, so I swear, so let it be written.”
A collective intake of breath rippled through the stands.
Swearing an oath on magic and life in front of thousands was not something done lightly.
Real Harry gave a short, amused snort from his lounger and turned a page in his book.
Memory-Harry tucked his wand away.
“Now that the oath is out of the way, let’s get on with them.
“Since this is going to take quite a while, you should all know before we begin that there is no time limit on completing the task.
I can take as long as I want.
And I intend to do just that.
“So if you had plans on leaving within the next fifteen minutes or so, I’ll disabuse you of that belief right now.
You’re going to be sitting there for a while.
“If you need to visit the loo, do so.
Just don’t make a scene or any noise while you do.
Leave and return… quietly.
Remember—if you distract me, it may cost you your magic.”
Memory-Harry let the warning hang.
Then his expression shifted.
“Many of you—at least those who were students during that year—have been left wondering what really happened in Hogwarts during the last few weeks of the 1991–92 school year.
You’ve probably heard a great deal of rumours.
For example, what really happened to Professor Quirinus Quirrell?
You may even have started one or two of them yourselves.
Now you’re going to learn the truth.
“However, before we get to that, and keeping this part chronological, I’m going to show you a few scenes from the year leading up to it.
First is the troll incident on Hallowe’en, 1991.
This is what happened in the Great Hall during the Feast.”
The projection shifted.
The Great Hall appeared in perfect detail—floating candles, carved pumpkins, the long tables crowded with students.
At the head table the staff were relaxed.
Then Professor Quirrell burst through the doors, face pale, turban askew.
“Troll!” he wailed.
“In the dungeons!
Troll in the dungeons!
Thought you ought to know.”
He gave a dramatic stagger and collapsed backward in a theatrical faint, arms flung wide, landing flat on his back without so much as a bruise.
Memory-Harry’s voice overlaid the scene, dry and cutting.
“Right.
What’s wrong with the scene you just watched?
First: when Quirrell apparently fainted, the first thing I wanted to do was laugh.
Why?
Because he’s supposed to be our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and he’s fainting because he saw a troll?
Yeah, right.
“Secondly, the way he supposedly fainted was so fake I thought he was performing comedy.
People—witches and wizards included—do not faint like that.
They topple forward like a bloody tree.
And when it’s onto a hard surface like the flagstones of the Hall, they’ll usually break their nose, teeth, jaw or something similar.
Quirrell didn’t even try to put his hands out to catch himself.
He just… performed.”
Real Harry turned another page in his novel, the soft rustle of paper oddly loud in the stunned silence of the arena.
The Hungarian Horntail shifted restlessly at the far end of the sand, chains clinking, but no one in the stands seemed to notice.
Every eye was fixed on the giant floating memory and the boy lounging comfortably beneath it, reading as though he had all the time in the world.
Which, of course, he did.
Memory-Harry’s voice continued, calm and relentless.
“So.
Either our DADA professor is the worst actor in Britain… or he was faking the entire thing.
Keep watching.
The truth gets worse from here.”