Disclaimer – I solemnly swear that JKR owns everything Harry Potter. Whether or not I am up to no good with her characters is for you to decide.

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Muggle-Raised Champion

Chapter 1 – No More Freakishness

7:30pm

Monday, 31 October 1994

4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey

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A tired, sweaty Harry Potter trudged through the rear door at number four Privet Drive later than usual. Almost without thinking, his feet took him into the little laundry where he reached up and pulled down a pair of pants and a shirt from on top of the cupboard. Having placed them on the tiny bench, Harry began shucking off the overalls and undershirt that he was wearing before throwing them straight into the washing machine.

He'd learnt very early on that traipsing through the house and up to his room after work was a very bad idea.

Aunt Petunia nearly had a fit the first time that he'd left a trail of sawdust from one end of the house to the other. In fact, that was one of the very few times that Harry had actually been hit by his aunt. His Uncle Vernon, though, had had no such restraints and had shown his displeasure with Harry thinking that it was alright to come home and have a shower and get changed before making his dinner.

And after over three years, Harry now had the routine down pat: come home and straight to the laundry to change into the clothes that he'd left there, followed by scrubbing his arms and face in the basin before shaking out his hair from any loose detritus from the day's work and then, finally re-entering the kitchen.

After that, there was dinner to make and the cleaning up to do, not to mention any chores that he'd been assigned for the day. Only then could he finally have a shower and, if he was still awake enough, attempt to do some homework ready for school the next day.

Of course, that was his routine now. The first couple of years that he'd worked at Keating's Wood n Furniture, he'd only worked weekends and holidays. But for the last year and a bit, he'd added working every afternoon after school as well. All that extra work was murder on his school results, though. He figured that that was why Uncle Vernon had renegotiated with Terry for the extra hours.

All through primary school, Harry'd known that coming home with better grades than Dudley was a very bad idea. If Dudley hadn't beaten him up for it, then Uncle Vernon made sure that he knew the inadvisability of that idea with a few well-placed slaps. And then there were the numerous times that both his cousin and uncle got in on the act.

Then had come high school where Harry and Dudley had finally been separated – Harry to Stonewall High and Dudley to Smeltings. With the two cousins at separate schools and especially with Dudley being away at boarding school, Harry had allowed his natural academic prowess to slip through. By no means was he anywhere near the top of the class, but he was definitely in the upper reaches.

And then Dudley had brought home his report card from Smeltings at the end of their first year of high school and Harry had been forced to understand just how badly he had slipped up. Every day that holiday he'd thanked his lucky stars that he was out working from dawn until dusk every day.

The second year, Harry'd tried to curb his ability, but it was hard, especially when his teachers already had an idea of the level to which he could perform. He'd even attempted to immerse himself in subjects that he knew Dudley wouldn't even consider taking: wood working and art and even home economics. Not that it did much good – his marks were still light years above Dudley's.

Thus, Uncle Vernon's solution of having Harry increase his hours at Keating's to the point that if he wasn't at school, then he was at work, and if he wasn't there, then he was at home doing chores. Somewhere in there, he managed to find the time to do his homework, although, admittedly, most of that time was at lunchtime at school.

Stretching a kink out of his back, Harry sighed with relief. A quick glance at the clock told him that he was fast running out of time. Pots and pans were quickly retrieved, followed by potatoes, beans, carrots and a massive hunk of prime beef from the fridge.

As the small part of Harry's brain settled into the mundane of cooking dinner for his relatives, the bulk of his mind was still processing his day. October thirty-one had never been a day that he particularly liked and especially after he'd found out that that was the day that his parents had been killed. But today had been different; it'd actually been good.

It'd started at school in art class where, at the end of the lesson, he, along with two of his classmates, had been held back by their art teacher, Mrs Jensen. The kindly old teacher had informed the three of them that there was an art competition being held the following month at the Surrey Art Gallery for high school students and that she thought that they all had the talent necessary to enter.

As thrilled as Harry was about the opportunity, he didn't seriously consider that he'd enter, after all, the consent form buried at the bottom of his bag needed his guardian's signature, something that he knew wouldn't be given.

The other part of Harry's day that still held his attention had happened at Keating's Wood n Furniture. Today, both Terry and Pete, his boss and the store's lead furniture maker, had signed off on his most elaborate piece of furniture yet.

Over the last couple of years, Terry, Pete, Sid and Old Angus had been teaching him how to use the various tools of a wood worker and had helped him learn how to select, shape and then piece together pieces of furniture. Already he'd created a full dining set (table and four chairs, in a very basic design), a single bed, a pair of bedside tables, a hat stand and a blanket box.

But for the last four months, he'd been working on a desk. And not just any desk but the best designed and constructed desk that Harry could imagine. It was five feet long with a set of four drawers on either side the leg cavity. Its top was protected by a sleek black roller top that stretched down from the top of the hutch at the front of the desk. Inside this hutch were a dozen drawers of varying sizes, along with another dozen open pigeon holes. A large black blotter set off the desk top from the rich red rowan wood that he'd created the entire desk from. Terry'd declared it the best piece that he'd seen in many a long year.

Harry was incredibly proud of what he'd been able to create. Seeing it sitting there in front of his workbench with Terry and Pete standing back, nodding at him, hints of the smiles that they were trying to hide peeking through their identical black beards had warmed Harry's heart. He wasn't looking forward to actually passing it along to Felicity, Terry's wife and the one in charge of the showroom ready for sale, especially knowing that, once it sold, he wouldn't actually see any of the profits from it. No, his share would go straight to Uncle Vernon.

"Dinner should be ready by now, boy," Uncle Vernon's accusation broke into Harry's musing.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied automatically. "I'm just about to dish up."

With a hmph of annoyance, Uncle Vernon turned and waddled from the room.

Dinner, as per normal for the Dursley household, was a quiet affair. There was a smattering of conversation between the adults while Harry was duly ignored. The instant that Harry had finished his meagre plate, he scurried about the kitchen attempting to get everything cleaned up as quickly as possible.

The sound of the doorbell froze the three of them, Vernon and Petunia still at the table and Harry with suds up to his elbows.

"Who in the devil would be calling at this time of night?" Uncle Vernon growled.

Harry had only taken a single step towards the door before a meaty hand clasped onto his shoulder. "You clean, I'll get the door."

Harry's ears were quivering as he attempted to listen in on their unexpected visitor, but all that he could hear from the other end of the house was the occasional muted voice. If he had to guess, though, he would have said that there were two visitors at the door.

The thumping footsteps of his Uncle returning were accompanied by others, prompting Harry to turn as Uncle Vernon and two other men entered the kitchen.

The first was a tall, thin, elderly gentleman. His short steel grey hair was parted in an unnaturally straight line and his thin moustache was ruler straight. He was dressed in an impeccably crisp dark suit and tie, set off by highly polished shoes.

While the first looked as though he was some kind of bank manager, the other gave the impression of a dock worker or rugby player gone to seed. His upper body and arms still sported large muscles, but gone somewhat flabby and were accompanied by a paunch that rivalled Uncle Vernon's. He had a jolly looking face and gave the impression that he knew far more dirty jokes than he could ever tell in one sitting.

His clothes, though, were … off somehow, as though he'd dressed in the dark or something. He wore an old faded jersey in garish horizontal black and yellow stripes with a cartoonish wasp emblazoned on the front. His suit pants were tucked into knee-high boots of some dark green leather that Harry'd never seen before.

"Boy, these two men are here from the government to talk to you about some competition that you've entered," Uncle Vernon glared.

Harry started, whirling around so that soap suds flicked onto the kitchen floor. "But Mrs Jensen only gave me the form about it today! And I wasn't going to enter, I swear."

"Who's Mrs Jensen?" Aunt Petunia asked sweetly, an act that Harry knew was for their visitors.

"My art teacher," Harry replied.

"No, no, we're not here about an art competition," the tall, thin man stated. He faced Harry fully then and stepped forward, hand outstretched. "Mister Potter, it is an honour to finally meet you."

Snatching up a dish towel, Harry wiped his hands before gingerly taking the proffered hand. "Uh, thanks."

"Oh, of course, we haven't introduced ourselves, have we? Very remiss of us," the thin man gave a thin-lipped smile. "My name is Bartemius Crouch and this is my colleague, Ludo Bagman. And we aren't here about an art competition."

"Nice to meet you, Harry," Ludo Bagman said jollily, pumping Harry's arm.

Uncle Vernon's eyes narrowed. "Exactly what department in the government are you from?"

Mister Crouch turned so that he was facing the larger man.

"I am the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation …"

"OUT!" Uncle Vernon roared. "I'll not have you freaks in my house pretending to be from the government!"

"But we are from the government," Mister Crouch protested. "We're from the Ministry of Magic."

That was enough for Uncle Vernon to start getting physical. Two meaty paws slammed into the front of the tall thin man, pushing him back a number of quick steps.

"Here now, stop that!" Ludo Bagman snapped.

"This is my house and I'll do whatever I please in it!" Uncle Vernon shot back. "Now, get out!"

"But it's vitally important that we speak to you and Mister Potter," Mister Crouch protested. "He could lose his magic if we don't."

Suddenly Uncle Vernon froze, a gleam in his eye. "The boy could lose his freakishness?"

"Yes," Mister Crouch huffed.

"How?" Uncle Vernon asked pleasantly.

"We've just come from Hogwarts," Ludo Bagman replied. "You know what Hogwarts is, don't you?"

A short sharp nod of a head indicated that they all knew.

"Well, the three largest magical schools in Europe have gathered there and they're holding a competition, the TriWizard Tournament. That's why I'm involved. I'm the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports," Ludo Bagman stated.

"What's that got to do with the boy losing his … thingy," Uncle Vernon near growled, most likely, Harry thought at so many uses of the hated 'm' word in his house.

"Yes, well," Mister Crouch continued. "Each school is to be represented by a single champion in the Tournament. And tonight was the choosing ceremony. However, the Goblet of Fire, the magical artefact that chooses the champions, for some reason that we can't explain at the moment, chose four champions this evening."

Four pairs of eyes swivelled to the dark haired boy leaning up against the kitchen sink, soap suds still sitting just below his elbows.

"What? Me? I was chosen?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Right in one, Harry, my boy," Ludo replied, smiling widely enough to nearly split his face in two.

"You said something about the boy losing his freakishness?" Uncle Vernon prompted.

"Yes, of course," Mister Crouch nodded with a frown. "When Mister Potter's name emerged from the Goblet of Fire, it created a magical contract between him and the Goblet in relation to the TriWizard Champion."

"How is that possible?" Harry asked. "I didn't put my name in in the first place."

Ludo Bagman shrugged a large shoulder. "No one quite understands that, but rules are rules, right Barty?"

"Indeed, they are," Mister Crouch replied.

"You still haven't explained how the boy gets to lose … it," Uncle Vernon persisted, more than a touch of annoyance in his voice.

"The fact that a magical contract has been enacted between Mister Potter and the Goblet of Fire means that Mister Potter is now a TriWizard Champion. Being a TriWizard Champion means that he must compete in each of the three tasks that make up the Tournament or he will forfeit his magic," Mister Crouch explained.

"So, you see, young Harry here has to come with us back to Hogwarts," Ludo finished gleefully.

"No," Uncle Vernon stated emphatically.

"No?" Mister Crouch repeated, blinking rapidly in obvious startlement.

"No," Uncle Vernon repeated. "We've been trying to stamp out the boy's freakishness for years. We even managed to put a stop to him going off to that freak school when those damn letters came three years ago. And if this Tournament … thingy … is going to get rid of his freakishness for good, then there's no way that either his aunt or I are going to let the boy compete."

"You can't be serious," Mister Crouch replied, sharing a glance with his slack-jawed companion. "You want Mister Potter to lose his magic?"

"Too right we do," Uncle Vernon stated, his eyes gleaming in anticipation.

"But … but he's Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived," Ludo Bagman stated, pointing at Harry.

"What?" Harry asked as a vague memory of a large man, a dingy pub and crowds of people burst from his memory.

"The Boy Who What?" Uncle Vernon spluttered.

"The-Boy-Who-Lived," Ludo Bagman repeated. "Harry's a very important figure in the magical world."

"Mister Potter must compete," Mister Crouch stated.

"I don't care if he's the Queen of England," Uncle Vernon snapped back. "The fact is that his Aunt and I are his guardians and we get to say what the boy can and can't do. And we say that he's going nowhere near that abnormal competition or that freakish school of yours. And if that means that he'll finally lose his freakishness for good, well, that's just a bonus, isn't it?"

"But …" Ludo began to protest before he was cut off by Uncle Vernon.

"Now, if that's all that you had to say, I'll ask you to leave."

After sharing a glance with each other, Mister Crouch gave Harry a nod before the two men turned and headed back the way that they'd come.

Harry was still standing facing the kitchen door, his thoughts frozen and whirling with everything that he'd just heard at the same time when his uncle re-entered the room.

"Don't just stand there, boy, get your chores done," Uncle Vernon growled.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied automatically before turning back to the sink and the dirty plates awaiting him.