The early spring air was a balm, clean and sharp, carrying the faint, earthy scent of melting snow and newly thawed mud. The Hogwarts grounds, once a solid expanse of frozen white, were now a vibrant, uneven green. The Black Lake, its surface rippling under a cool breeze, was perfectly still save for the gentle bobbing of what appeared to be massive, camouflaged diving bells—the last-minute preparations for the Third Event. Albus Dumbledore, his purple robes a startling contrast to the budding green, stood near the water's edge with Minerva McGonagall and Barty Crouch Senior. The Headmaster was calmly consulting a scroll of parchment while Minerva paced, her hands clasped tightly behind her back, her face a familiar mask of professional anxiety.
"The structural integrity of the aquatic observation dome is sound, Albus. " The crowd should be able to see clearly in the lake, and if they can't, we have spells that will project several locations and someone to control them," Minerva stated, her voice brisk. "Though I still maintain that submerging a champion in the Black Lake for one hour for the 'third-event tournament' is an entirely unnecessary risk."
"Ah, but Minerva," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling over his half-moon spectacles, "a good tournament must always escalate. And besides, the stakes have been set, and the merfolk are positively enthused to host a second challenge near their village."
Barty Crouch Sr., his pinstriped Ministry robes looking stiff and out of place against the pastoral backdrop, sniffed dismissively. "They are only enthused because of the promise of a certain individual, Albus. They are hardly participating for the glory of the British Wizarding Community. Speaking of enthusiasm… have we managed to complete a single day without a catastrophic, unscheduled incident from the Hogwarts champion?" Crouch adjusted his monocle, his severe gaze sweeping the deserted lawn.
Minerva's pacing slowed to a stop. "Mr. Echo has been, for the most part, quite calm for the last month, Barty. His mind has been entirely occupied with other things." She paused, a flicker of something between exhaustion and affection crossing her face. "The accidental Cockatrice has proven to be quite demanding, requiring near-constant observation and a very specific diet, in addition to keeping it from attacking everything."
"There was one minor incident, Barty," Dumbledore murmured, his gaze distant. "A small few scuffled that echo engaged in, willingly or otherwise. Though it was… handled."
"Handled," Crouch repeated, the word dripping with cynicism. "I see. And I can only assume that little imp has some sort of idea to circumvent the event, is that it?"
"Who are you calling an imp?"
The voice was rough, low, and completely unexpected. The three turned their heads instantly, startled. Standing barely ten feet from them, striking a perfectly theatrical pose, was a large, lean black horse. Its coat was dark and sleek, and its mane and tail, thick and long, were a chaotic, shifting canvas of color—a frantic, tired black overlaid with a shimmering, anxious silver, an exact match for the champion they were discussing. Perched comfortably on the horse's muscular rump was the Cockatrice, Nugget, staring blankly into the distance with unnerving, absolute calm.
Barty Crouch Sr. blinked, his jaw slackening. "Did… did that horse just speak in the voice of Mr. Echo?"
The horse snorted, flicking its multi-colored mane with an air of profound boredom. "My, my, aren't we observant. It's no wonder you're a member of the Ministry, Barty. They clearly take anyone with passable skills."
Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling again, though a professional assessment remained beneath the merriment. "Echo, my dear boy. Why are you a horse?"
"Oh, that," the horse-champion drawled, lifting a hoof and examining it with a detached air. "I figured out a bit of self-transfiguration, thanks to Mr. Slughorn. Had to bribe him with some Cockatrice feathers, of course. They're highly prized for high-end potion stabilization, apparently. And I needed the expertise, so I turned myself into a horse."
Barty Crouch Sr. groaned, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose firmly. "He's not even hiding the fact that he bribed to get something. Merlin's beard."
Minerva, however, cut straight to the core of the problem, ignoring Crouch's histrionics. "We realize how you turned yourself into a horse, Mr. Echo. We mean, why did you do this?"
Barty didn't wait for the answer. "Is this another of your harebrained schemes to not participate in the tournament, boy? You think being a large equine will somehow disqualify you?"
The horse-champion sighed, a rough, gusting sound. "Honestly, at this point, I'm just grasping at straws here."
Crouch shook his head, his face still in his hands. "Well, you're not entirely right about being disqualified from the event."
The horse's ears instantly flattened. It snorted, a sound of utter defeat. "Aww, man. That means I still have to be in the stupid event."
Minerva, her stern gaze softening slightly, looked past Echo to the chicken sitting serenely on the horse's rump. "I see you got your pet to calm down, Mr. Echo."
"I worked extra hard to make the calming spell fast, Professor," the horse replied, flicking its tail. "It worked, but it might've worked too well. He really hasn't returned to normal in a few days. Hope this isn't permanent. Then again, it's better than having him attack everything."
Albus Dumbledore stepped forward, his expression curious. "And what did you think would happen when you did this, my boy, besides the slim chance you wouldn't have to participate?"
Echo shrugged, a motion that looked awkward and theatrical for a horse. "I had no idea, Professor. Like I said, just grasping at straws. Or even hoping a Porlock would come and help me."
Barty Crouch Sr. let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Are you serious? Porlocks are terrified of humans! There's no way that—"
Before he could finish, a large shepherd's hook, wielded with surprising force, whacked him squarely on the top of his head. WHACK! Barty stumbled, clutching his head, a sputtering cry of outrage dying in his throat. The hook then struck him several more times, a quick succession of brutal, precise blows that sent Barty running for cover behind Dumbledore. The Headmaster and Minerva were also driven back several paces by the aggressive sweeps of the hook.
They all looked down to see a small creature standing defensively in front of the horse. It was a Porlock, no taller than a garden gnome, with coarse, brown hair and a large, pointed nose looking like a small upright version of a horse. It held the shepherd's hook with an aggressive two-handed grip, its tiny, dark eyes fixed with startling belligerence on the three retreating figures.
The horse-champion blinked, his multi-colored mane flashing with pure shock. "Huh," Echo said, his voice flat. "Would you look at that. A Porlock. Didn't think it would actually happen."
The Porlock gave a quick, satisfied nod, seeing the three humans back off. It then deftly hooked its shepherd's crook around Echo's massive neck and began to pull the horse-champion toward the Forbidden Forest. Echo, seeing no reason to resist, followed the surprisingly strong creature.
"Oh, looks like this is happening," the horse-champion muttered, looking back over his shoulder. "Goodbye, Professors and Barty! I'll see you after the tournament ends."
Once Echo was gone, pulled away into the shade of the forest by the Porlock, Dumbledore sighed, a small, weary sound. "Should we tell him that the actual date for the Third Event isn't for another three days?" he asked, adjusting his spectacles.
Barty Crouch Sr., rubbing a rapidly forming lump on his head, scowled. "He'll figure it out."
Three Days Later
The sun was high and warm. In a secluded, open field on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Echo—still a horse, its mane a placid, bored brown—was grazing contentedly on some patch of spring grass, its long tail occasionally flicking at a fly. A few wild, shaggy horses grazed nearby, completely unbothered. The Porlock watched over them all, sitting on a mossy stone with its shepherd's hook resting across its knees. Nugget, the adult Cockatrice, still unnervingly calm, sat firmly on Echo's rump, occasionally pecking gently at the horse's coat.
As he munched, Echo's internal monologue was one of deep, comfortable confusion. I'm either completely lost my marbles, or this is the most delicious grass I've ever eaten. Even better than the patch from yesterday. He paused his chewing, thinking for a moment. Yeah. Definitely lost my marbles.
The world shimmered. The image of the enraged, fully-grown Cockatrice, the terrified tabby cat, and the stunned Hagrid vanished in a violent surge of pure, raw magical backlash. Echo didn't feel a snap or a click, but a sudden, terrifying decompression as his senses were violently righted. He found himself on his hands and knees in a patch of coarse, damp grass near the edge of the glade. He was human again. The cold, wet earth was beneath his palms, and his body was instantly encased in the familiar weight of his black Hogwarts robes—the sight a bizarre shock, as they were perfectly tailored and clean, somehow fitting him even though he had been... elsewhere. He looked down, his eyes wide, and saw the last remaining piece of grass still dangling from his lips.
He spat out the grass, pushing himself up to a stand. His hair, a mass of chaotic, uncertain colors, was now a steady, exhausted gray. "Finally," he thought, running a trembling hand through his hair. He straightened his robes, a frown of deep confusion etching his face. "The spell wore off. But... three days? That felt like three months." He rubbed his face, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Well, it's been three days; no doubt the third event is over and done with. Time to go back and enjoy some peace and quiet until I figure out how to sneak away from the fourth event."
He bent down, gently scooped up Nugge, and tucked him under his arm. Nugget was clucking weakly, the long green snake-head giving a groggy, slow flick of its tongue. "Easy there, Nugget," Echo murmured, tucking the small creature securely against his side. "The spell keeping you calm seems to have finally worn off, I see. Time to head home."
He turned and began to walk back toward the familiar direction of the castle's distant towers. He had only taken a dozen steps when a frantic neighing sound, unnervingly similar to a horse, assaulted his ears. A small, brown, shaggy-haired creature with an enormous nose and spindly legs suddenly burst from the tall grass near the treeline. It was the Porlock, and it was sprinting with desperate purpose. Before Echo could react, the Porlock was on him, its short, stocky body vaulting up, and its shepherd's crook—a symbol of its role as a horse protector—hooked firmly around Echo's neck. The Porlock pulled back with surprising strength, still neighing wildly.
Echo stumbled, clutching Nugget tighter after almost losing his grip. He wondered what the Porlock was doing until he realized the creature's small, worried eyes were fixed not on the boy, but on the place where he had just stood.
"He must still think I'm a horse," Echo realized with a mixture of disbelief and deep annoyance. "Just a horse that was morphed into a human."
He pulled himself free of the hook with a sharp yank, dropping the crook to the ground. "Hey, you bloody idiot!" Echo snapped, his voice tight. "I'm not a horse! I'm a human! Just a regular old human boy!"
The Porlock didn't let up. It snatched the crook back up and immediately lunged, trying to hook him again, its ears pinned back, still letting out its concerned, equine-like neighs. Seeing no way around this bizarre, insistent creature, Echo simply sighed, picked up his satchel, which had fallen from his belt, and began to walk off with the Porlock, trying and failing to pull him away, the small creature yanking uselessly on the crook like a ridiculous, hairy anchor.