Harry Potter: The Goblet of Fire Stories: A Wizard's Tale: Chapter One

Summary: Hogwart's decides to reinstate the tradition of twice annual dramatic productions, one play and one musical, as only a group of wizards can perform. To start, however, they will be showing the last production, from 25 years ago, that was done at Hogwart's, including James and Lily Potter, etc. The situations are taken from a combination of movie and screenplay book for A Knight's Tale.

Spoilers: Up to the end of the Fourth Book, especially the Fourth Book! Also, Spoilers for "A Knight's Tale".

Disclaimer: I do not have rights to Harry Potter, JK Rowlings does. I do not have rights to A Knight's Tale, Brian Helgeland does. I have only borrowed the characters and situations as a means of entertaining, for free, myself and a select choice of friends. No one is making any profit off of this, and no House Elves were injured or endangered in the reproduction of this tale. Suing me would produce a list of bills and debits, and a lot of weeping, so please don't.

Notes: Anything in past tense is happening at Hogwart's in Harry's era. Anything in present tense is happening at Howart's twenty-five years ago. Got that? Minor characters in the plays are performed by unnamed students. Those who are played by people 'we know', will be verified at one point or another in the story.

Character Note: Alice Caulwell = Neville's mother (last name not released, so I put one in)

The Sorting Ceremony was complete for yet another year. Thus, as the first years adjusted to their new status, and the elder students welcomed the youngest of their ranks, a delicate chiming shimmered over the hall. Silence met the ringing of silver on crystal, and all heads turned towards the Head Table. Professor McGonagall put down her spoon, also turning to gaze upon the Headmaster, Professor Albus Dumbledore.

He rose from his chair, tall and regal, old and wise, loved and respected. Turning his head slowly, to encompass the entire staff and student body of Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the venerable man smiled slowly. His voice was kind and strong as he raised his hands and spoke.

"Now that we've settled among our fellows," he smiled fondly at the newest students, "I have an important announcement to make. We, the staff, feel it is time to rouse a sleeping tradition. Time was when Hogwart's was known for not only brilliant Wizards and Witches, but for creative ones as well. Unfortunately, that creativity has been buried and allowed to lie dormant."

He looked over towards Harry Potter, smiled, and continued. "Twenty-five years ago, Howart's held it's last Dramatic Production, as well as its last Musical Production. It is time to revive those dramatic collaborations. This will be a school effort. In one week's time we will hold auditions for the first piece. Those who are not a named character will become a background player as well as crafters of sets and costumes."

Quietly, the students started whispering amongst themselves. Some of the questions overheard were among the lines of:

"Do you think the professors will be involved, or do we have to do all the work?"

Harry looked at Ron and blinked. "Did you just ask about breakfast? You're only just about to have supper."

Hermoine rolled her eyes. "Shhhh, I am trying to hear. They've just mentioned which play we're to do, and I couldn't hear."

Ron rolled his eyes right back, but hushed up. Professor Dumbledore let the students discuss what they'd been told, sitting down to join the other professors in the traditional "First Day Feast". Hermoine harrumphed and crossed her arms, glaring at Ron and Harry.

"Just fine. I've gone and missed what play we're performing. Thanks loads, Ron."

"Don't worry, Hermoine. We can find out from somebody else. The others heard, I'm sure." With that, Harry turned to Neville on his other side. "Neville, what play are we doing?"

Neville nearly choked on his mashed potatoes when asked. He hadn't expected anyone to address him. Coughing, while Harry pounded his back, he turned wide eyes to the others. Finally, he croaked out, "Uh... he didn't say, actually."

"Of course he did, Neville. I heard him myself." Hermoine flipped her hair back over her shoulder, but it didn't do as she'd planned. Instead it kind of wobbled and flounced right back into her face. She sighed and pushed it back with one hand. "Only I didn't catch the name as Ron as talking with Harry."

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but Neville cut him off. "Oh, but he didn't say, Hermoine. He'd only said the last play done here was A Wizard's Tale, and that we'd find out what we're doing when we audition."

Seamus leaned over Neville to join in the conversation. "There's to be a special viewing of A Wizard's Tale tomorrow. We'll get to see the last class that performed it."

Ron shrugged. "So, what's the big deal? A bunch of half-rate student actors got up on a stage and made stupid long speeches about dragons and potions, right?"

Neville cut in. "My father was a seventh year here twenty-five years ago. I wonder if he was in it."

"Your father?" Harry turned sharply to his chubby friend. "But, that'd mean my parents were here, too..."

Hermoine smiled. "Then, let's go to the viewing, Harry. You can see if they're in the play."

Talk revolved around who else might have been in school then, and what the story had entailed. Ron still seemed doubtful, even after it was pointed out that his parents would have both been in school then, too. It was much later, though most hardly noticed the passage of time, when the gong was sounded, ending the feast.

Climbing the stairs towards the Gryffindor common room, Harry thought over the events of the night. The possibility of seeing his parents, even if it were only in a school play, was enticing. He had to find out when and where it was showing. He resolved to ask the Weasley twins when he got the chance.

"All right, students, quiet down." Professor Minerva McGonagall's voice carried over the Transfiguration classroom. As requested, the class immediately stopped talking and turned to face their first professor of the week. She had on dark emerald-colored robes and a tall pointed emerald hat, as was her norm. Standing with her hands inside her sleeves, Minerva let her eyes roam the group of fifth year Gryffindor and Slytherin students. Finally, she spoke again.

"We are going to take this one class to view the final production of the Hogwart's Dramatics Society. I would request that you attempt to remain quiet, so as not to interrupt the viewing for the other students. Questions should be withheld until the end of class." With that, she moved to the door and nodded.

Professor Flitwick entered, accompanied by a heavily perfumed Madame Trelawney. Both professors moved to the center of the room and took out their wands. Together they quickly spoke words, only half of which even Hermoine understood, and flicked their wands in an intricate pattern. The teachers backed up, and the room filled with a misty white haze.

As the haze dissipated, images, life like and audible, flickered across the empty space.

The sounds of a great crowd, interspersed with the occasional call of a trumpet, swell into the area. A long near-level expanse of sparsely treed land shows signs of hastily erected tents and grazing horses. Off to the side, a lone, very large figure squats behind a bush, leaning his back against a tree as if for a break in whatever activity he is occupied in.

Two older teens stand with the bush between them and the large man. One teen is a rotund, friendly-faced young man with brown hair and green tunic. The other is fair of face, with fine brown eyes and longish blond curls. He sports a full beard and mustache, reminiscent of one who has neither time nor inclination to smooth his features with a shave. He also has a strip of cloth shoved up each nostril.

The blond turns his head to look at his companion. "He has to be in the lists in two minutes. Two minutes or we forfeit."

Complying, the blond takes the cloth from his nose and holds each out in turn, "Left... Right..."

"Right." The darker of the two shoves the cloth in his nose and heads over to the large man.

Suddenly a gasp went out in the classroom, earning a disapproving glare from McGonagall. "That's Hagrid! The really big guy: it's Hagrid!"

Another voice broke in, timidly. "My father's the brown-haired guy." People turned to look at Neville, and several studied the now frozen image to compare the darker teen with his son. Murmurs of agreement could be heard.

Then Draco Malfoy's voice sneered out, "well then, if Longbottom's father is the fat guy, and the groundskeep is the big lug, who's the blond, hmmm?"

Quietly, into the confused anticipation of the classroom, McGonagall's voice carried. "James Potter played William, the blond."

Now stares were pointed at Harry. The young dark-haired boy ignored them, though. He was too intent on leaning forward and absorbing the frozen image of his father at seventeen years old. True, his father naturally had possessed hair as dark as his son's, but a good deal of costume and make-up were the reasons behind his altered appearance. Harry smiled.

"Now, if we've all finished comparing actors, let us continue. And..." she held up a hand, before anyone asked, "the red-head coming up will be Arthur Weasley, and the blond man a bit later will be Remus Lupin." The class turned quickly so as not to miss the next bit, Ron looking curious.

Frank kneels down next to Hagrid, placing a hand under his nose for a moment. Dropping his hand, he turns to James with a sigh. "Dead."

A tall, thin man dressed in loose peasant clothing, with a shock of bright red hair, strolls up. He seems extremely happy, grinning and chatting away to those he approaches. "Two scores to none after two spells. All Sir Ector needs to do is not fall off his broom, and we've won."

"The spark of his life is covered in shite. His spirit has left him, but his stench remains. Does that explain it?"

Arthur's jolly mood leaves suddenly, visibly, as he desperately says, "No! He sleeps. Rouse him!"

Snickers ranged around the classroom, and whispered comments about the notorious Weasley appetite abounded. Ron flushed at the comments, but he kept his eyes on the vision before them. Harry merely leaned forward to catch a better look at his father.

"We need to fetch a priest," is Frank's addition to the strained conversation. He seems resigned.

"He's not dead!" Arthur stumbles over to Hagrid. "He's asleep, and I'll wake him if I have to fong him!" He starts kicking Hagrid, interspersing his kicks with curses and comments about being hungry.

At this point, the Master-Of-Arms approaches. He is a lanky man dressed in finery, marking him an important tournament official. He frowns at the scene by the bush and tree. James steps in view, blocking the sight of Arthur kicking Hagrid.

The Master-At-Arms calls out "Hoy, Squire. Sir Ector must report at once or forfeit the match."

Frank opens his mouth as Arthur keeps swearing and kicking Hagrid. Hagrid flinches, but continues trying to pretend to be dead.

Minerva sighed, frowning at the class. Every time they spoke loudly, the image froze. McGonagall had a feeling that this would be an all day class.

In answer to the Master-At-Arms' demand, Frank starts to open his mouth and gesture towards the bruised Hagrid. James steps forward a pace and interrupts the other teen.

The Master-At-Arms moves off as James turns to the other two. "Strip his robes. I'm riding in his place." He moves next to Arthur as Frank frowns. "Stop kicking him and help me!"

With a last vicious kick, which earns a grunt from Hagrid, Arthur leaves off kicking the large man. Frank looks incredulous as Arthur and James start stripping Hagrid's robes.

"What's your name, William?" Frank asks. When he gets no answer, he continues, "I'm asking you, William Thatcher, to answer me with your name!"

"It's not Sir William. It's not Duke or Count or Earl William, and it's certainly not King William."

"A detail," James counters. He turns around, flinging out one hand, nearly smashing Arthur in the head, and earning a definite glare from the redhead. "The landscape is food. Do you want to eat or don't you?"

Arthur, almost unnoticed in the back, starts nodding and shoves Hagrid aside. The half-giant lands squarely in a pile of brown mush, set there as a prop. A disgusted snort comes from their general direction.

Frank shakes his head. "If the nobles realize who you are, there'll be the devil to pay."

James grins grimly. "Then pray they don't." He turns back to get the padded hat used for safety, and makes a face. For a moment the teens forget they are in a play as they stare at Hagrid lying in the brown mush. The man's nose is twitching, and he looks a bit green.

"Ewwww... that's gross!" Pansy Parkinson squealed, shaking her head in disgust as the mist froze.

Pansy glared at him, then turned back to the haze. "It's still gross, Weasley. You won't catch me letting anyone shove me into brown mush when we do our production."

Everyone in the room suddenly turned to Harry, all of them aware that he'd not met his parents and was now seeing his father, probably for the first time. Harry pushed his glasses back up on his nose and looked around, flushing. He slouched into his seat and turned to Ron, rolling his eyes.

The thin redhead grinned and looked around. "Looks like you're going to be the talk again this year, Harry."

"Then stop spouting off, Potter, so the play can get on," Draco's supercilious voice drawled across the room.

Arthur collects himself first and kicks Frank in the ankle. Frank blinks and calls out in a confused-sounding voice, "God love you, William." His voice grows firmer and he draws his eyes from Hagrid to look resignedly at James. "No one else will."

The scene cuts to the Lists. It is day and the crowds are cheering and singing. The area looks oddly like the Quidditch Pitch with the Hoops decorated to disguise them. The Master-of-Arms stands on a raised dais surrounded by professors dressed as nobility. All are seated. The students are dressed as commoners and stand around the bottom of the dais in two long lines. The center of the pitch is set in a 100 yard field with a four foot barrier separating the two halves.

On the far side is a Knight, emblazoned with a Unicorn, head bowed, on his robes. He is on a broom and surrounded by his servants.

"What's this, then?" Dean Thomas sat forward in his chair. "Knights didn't ride brooms! They rode horses!"

McGonagall turned and frowned. "And we are a Wizard's school. We took liberties to make it easier for the students to portray. Are you going to watch or pick apart every detail, Mister Thomas?"

Amazingly enough, the crowd isn't acting upset by the delay. They're dancing and stomping. A rousing beat can be heard: stomp, stomp, clap... stomp, stomp, clap. The Master-of-Arms is rocking to the crowd's beat. Finally, however, as the small band approaches, the crowd falls silent and the Master-of-Arms crosses his arms, staring in disapproval. The trio wearing the White Stag of Sir Ector settle on their side of the field, James on his broom.

The King-of-Arms steps forward. In a ringing voice, he calls out, "The score stands at two spells to none in favor of Sir Ector, second son of Henry Earl of Surrey, liege knight to Duke Robert of Essex... Lord Philip of Aragon, first son of Prince Philip of Aragon, stand ye ready?"

Unfortunately, when the unicorn knight nods and tries to lower his visor, it sticks. He tries again, his varlet trying to help. It still stays up. The crowd watches in amusement as the poor knight removes his safety hat, exposing bright blonde curls, which spill down her back. She gets off her broom, stamps her foot and says something to her varlet, who takes the visored hat and starts trying to get it unjammed. Finally, with an ungodly ripping, the visor comes down and the varlet shoves it back on the girl's head. She yelps in pain, then straightens, climbs on her broom, and turns to bow at the Master-of-Arms. The crowd sniggers.

James already has his visor down, and his eyes are visible for a brief moment before the scene starts to shift again.

"Are we going to be jumping back and forth the entire thing, Professor?" Crabbe's slow voice came forward as he was elbowed by Draco.

McGonagall turned and glared. "Yes, Mister Crabbe. You will be shifting back and forth. Try to keep up with the production and it will eventually become clear."

Ron grinned and rolled his eyes, whispering to Harry, "Some people just don't appreciate a good illusion spell."

To Be Continued in Chapter Two: Chapter Two

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