Disclaimer: Nothing is mine; everything is J.K. Rowlings & DarknessEnthroned’s.
Links to previous chapters in bio.
Chapter 8
Someone had taken the wise precaution of enlarging the tables in Durmstrang’s dining hall. Harry smiled happily, he had space to continue reading without anymore uncomfortable interruptions, and as long as he left his arm between Michael and his plate of eggs, he had enough breakfast as well. It promised to be a good day too; The Chalice of Water was still cheerfully lapping away at the opposite end of the hall to where Harry was sitting. The blue waves flickering in the corner of his eye. It grew annoyingly quiet quickly and Harry was forced to turn back in towards the table and the conversation that was burning away there.
“Ten sickles says it's Angelina,” he heard Michael mutter.
“You're on,” Roger replied, keeping a weathered eye on Cho who thoroughly disapproved of gambling. “It will be Diggory or that uppity Slytherin for sure.”
“He won't pay you,” Luna accused through a mouthful of yogurt. “Michael still owes me for the house-elf bet.”
“Don't remind me,” Roger shuddered. “And keep it down, Cho’s not remembered to try foist badges onto us today yet. Let's try and make it last?”
“Badges?” Harry looked up from his book curiously.
“Yeah,” Michael glowered. “It's your damn fault. That rubbish you concocted and fed her about house-elves at Hogwarts set her off in search of the kitchens before we left, and now she's gone and started an enslaved magical people's rights group.”
“I wasn't expecting her to do that,” he objected. “I just wanted to stop her attempts to force feed me.”
“Well it worked, but we're all paying a high price for it,” Roger said with mock seriousness.
“She hasn't tried to sell me one,” Harry shrugged.
“You haven't exactly been around, mate,” Michael retorted. “We're living dangerously, we are.”
“Yeah, any more refusals and she'll realise we don't agree with her,” Roger cut in, his grin threatening to split his face.
“Or worse,” Michael whispered, “we might end up like Luna.”
Harry looked down the table in search of their shy friend, but saw nothing amiss. He raised an eyebrow at the british wizard.
“Cho’s sold her about ten badges already, but she keeps forgetting them. Cho thinks she’s doing it on purpose and has taken to harassing her about wearing them every time she sees her,” Michael elucidated, shoveling a berry tart into his mouth rather indignantly.
“Better her than us,” Roger advocated, “better her than us.”
“Too true,” Michael agreed. “She went mental on Marietta when she refused to wear one because it didn't go with her lip gloss.”
“Best refusal yet,” Roger laughed. “Cho was absolutely livid that lip gloss could be considered of equal importance to her anti-slavery movement.”
“Someone needs to tell her about the differences between keeping house-elves and having slaves,” Michael groused. “It's growing well beyond a joke.”
They both turned to look at expectantly at Harry. “I don't actually know myself,” he apologized. “Have you tried leaving books about it lying around near her? She'll see them, read them, and maybe stop. Once she's learnt a bit more about it, she'll realise she's wrong and move on. Cho’s never been one to cling to an opinion she knows is incorrect.”
“That's a good idea, mate,” Michael agreed. “Cunning. It's worth the trip to the library too.” Cho, fortunately, was not listening and remained unaware. “Do you reckon they'll announce the champions today?” Michael asked, changing the subject and throwing a furtive glance at the chalice.
“Dumbledore said they would.” Roger patted Michael comfortingly on the head.
Harry really had very little interest in the Triwizard Tournament and buried his nose back into the pages of his charms book. The cover had started to fall off from centuries of neglect in the nest, and the outer pages were all but illegible. The section on the water-conjuring spell was both unmarred and interesting, if a little theory heavy for Harry's taste, but he curiously went through it regardless. The charm would save him a great deal of effort in the night.
Everyone hates it when someone staggers or rummages around noisily in the middle of the dormitory searching for a drink.
He quietly pinched Michael’s goblet to practice. “Aguamenti,” he murmured, pointing his wand tip into the vessel.
A very small dribble of water filled the bottom few inches of the cup. Turning the next few pages, most of which seemed to be adhered together by something that looked unpleasantly like bile, he found an interesting note on shield charms. The shield charm is a heavily intent based ward, adapted from basic hex deflection into a more practical defense. As such it can only be penetrated by spells cast with stronger intent and focus. The ultimate example of which is the Killing Curse that has such a potent level of intent it cannot be shielded against.
It was quite a useful little nugget of information and Harry was rather glad he'd snuck the book out past the watchful eyes of Rowena’s portrait. Happily ensconced in the weathered tome, he continued to pour over the few legible pages, munching on his eggs in between turning them, and trying not to get any food-bits on the book. It was quite a while later, when he was considering the wand movement of the stunning spell, that an odd, uncomfortable feeling began to make itself known. Harry looked up out of growing paranoia.
The entirety of the Viking-themed hall was staring at him. I missed something important, he realised, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
“Good book, Harry?” Professor Dumbledore asked lightly from halfway down the hall.
He nodded warily in reply and there was a titter of laughter. The sudden attention was giving him a serious urge to run for the doors. He noted that Karkaroff was glaring daggers at him from his place next to the chalice, a scrap of paper hanging from his wire-like hands.
“Would you mind joining the others?” The old headmaster gestured towards the small door at the end of the hall.
Eager to be out of the hall and from under the eyes of the entire assembled population of Hogwarts, Harry complied, sighing and keeping his expression neutral. It was only when he caught sight of the utter betrayal etched onto his friends' faces, and read the beginning of his name off the burnt-edged piece of parchment Karkaroff was still holding, that he realised what had just happened.
Oh, he paused mid-step in shock. Oh, this is not seriously happening, is it?
Harry turned back to ask Dumbledore what was going on, but one look at the headmaster's stern expression stopped that idea dead in its tracks.
I didn't even want to watch the tournament, let alone take part. I don’t care.
He fixed the watery cup with his most venomous glare, half-tempted to try and take some measure of revenge for what the object had just done to him.
He pulled the paper out of Karkaroff’s hand, more than a little forcefully due to the Norwegian’s tight grip on it, and stalked out into the antechamber on the side of the hall.
“What is it, Harry?” Cedric Diggory asked when he entered the underbelly. “Do they want us to go back?”
Harry blinked. Evidently Cedric was the Hogwarts representative, which led him down two paths of thought. What the hell am I here for if he's the champion? Harry wondered. Slightly less importantly, but immediately afterwards, came the realisation that Michael owed Roger ten sickles.
“This is unprecedented,” a loud voice boomed. Harry recognised it as Karkaroff’s. “A fourth champion!”
“He is going to compete?” The silver-haired girl seemed almost as displeased by the turn of events as he was. Her unimpressed look of dismissal was reflected in the eyes of both Cedric and Viktor Krum, Durmstrang's chosen student.
“He has to,” a dry, tired voice explained. Harry recognised the voice and face of Mr. Crouch from the articles about the World Cup. “Entering your name in the chalice represents the creation of a magically binding contract.”
Of course it does, Harry fumed. Every year. Every single year. I shouldn't even be surprised anymore.
“What,” he queried, more out of a desire to clear his name than any real hope of escape, “if you didn't put your name in and happened to find yourself here anyway?”
“Are you suggesting that you did not enter your name, Mr. Potter?” Dumbledore swept into the room, taking centre-stage immediately. He was trailed by a disapproving Madam Maxime, and Harry felt the presence of the shadow from before creep in.
“I wasn't suggesting it, sir,” Harry defended. “I can say with complete certainty that I didn't consciously do so, nor,” he continued, as Karkaroff’s sneer grew more pronounced, “did I get another student to do it.”
“He's lying,” the Beauxbatons student declared. “How else did his name come out?” She tossed her hair indignantly and raised her chin. Cedric and Krum stayed quiet. The actual Hogwarts Champion seemed slightly confused and Krum did not seem to care in the slightest whether he was lying or not. His hostile gaze did not lessen, not even when it passed over his other, more conventional competitors.
“It does seem unlikely, Harry,” Dumbledore probed.
Harry just shrugged. There is nothing more to say. I owe no explanation to anyone, for I have not committed any crimes.
“We would like an extra champion,” the enormous headmistress of Beauxbatons demanded. “Hogwarts cannot have two when we only have one.”
“Hogwarts has only one champion,” Harry decided, eager to get this over with. “Cedric put his name in and was chosen, he is the representative of the school.” The Hufflepuff student looked rather taken aback by Harry's announcement.
“You have to compete,” Mr. Crouch told him firmly, “else you will lose your magic.”
“I know,” Harry stated flatly. “I don't have to belong to a school, though. I'll turn up and take part, but I won't be earning any extra points for Hogwarts when I never even wanted to compete in the first place.”
“If that is what you wish,” the headmaster nodded. His eyes had lost their twinkle and Harry could only see unending disappointment within them. It struck him as a profoundly unfair reaction.
“Is that acceptable?” Mr. Crouch asked the other champions.
“It's not like he will earn any points anyway,” the French witch laughed. Krum and Cedric just nodded, the latter considerably more amicably.
“Then it's settled,” Karkaroff muttered vehemently. “We'll come and fetch you before the wand-weighing ceremony at the start of the tournament.”
The other champions filed out past Harry. He received rather neutral looks from Viktor and Cedric, but the Beauxbatons champion gave him a look that could kill, through her veil of silvery-blonde hair.
I don't think she likes me.
“Stay here please, Harry,” Dumbledore ordered. He waited nervously while everyone else left, wondering what else the headmaster could have to say to him. “I didn't expect this from you, my boy,” Dumbledore declared, shaking his head. “I won't pretend to understand why you entered, but you have to take part now and you're at a great disadvantage. The tasks were designed for sixth and seventh year students, not fourth years.”
“I didn't enter my name,” Harry repeated, but he was beginning to give up on any hope of anyone listening to him.
“I see,” Dumbledore responded softly. The look of utter disappointment had returned and it was beginning to provoke Harry's ire.
What do I have to do for people to trust me? This is beyond ridiculous.
He turned and left without waiting for the headmaster to dismiss him. His journey back to the common room was dogged by whispers and barbed comments. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff in particular were rather open about their disdain for him.
At least my friends will believe me once I tell them.
Ravenclaw’s coach greeted him with stark silence upon his arrival.
“I can't believe you, Harry,” Michael spoke up after a moment. “You said you wouldn't put your name in. You promised us you'd be watching alongside us.”
Luna, Roger, and many of the friends from his house were regarding him rather coldly. It was worse than the reactions he'd received in the corridors. He'd expected those.
“You could have at least told us how you managed it, so we'd have a chance as well,” Roger said frigidly. “Your word doesn't mean much does it.” They turned away from him when he tried to protest, even Cho, though she seemed reluctant.
The little boy from the cupboard under the stairs cried out in sorrow from inside him.
Why won't they listen?
“You guys believe me right?” He asked, looking rather desperately at his other house mates.
“You told us you weren't going to enter,” Marietta retorted angrily, “but your name came out, didn't it?”
A sea of tears streamed from the young boy’s face. — Harry searched across the sea of cold faces for a single supportive look, but found none.
So that's how it is. He tightened his hands into fists. So much for house loyalty.
He spun around and stormed out, ignoring the stares that followed him. His face reddened, so utterly furious with all of them. It was white-hot, searing him from the inside, and potent enough to make his whole tremble. He stalked in the direction of the ice fjords, fingering his wand. He stormed right past the school’s outer limits, down the freezing, bitterly cold hillside, the sight of ice-ghosts dancing around him in merriment from the corner of his eyes, as if celebrating in his torment. He felt the shadow follow him. Reaching the ocean where a ice-shelf sat, he unleashed every violent spell he knew in all directions, icebergs and stone-cold jetties shattered, throwing gelidness and sharp snow fragments across the water, but Harry didn't stop. A sharp piece caught him on the cheek, but the stinging pain was so much less than the burning torrent of rage his house's betrayal had created. No amount of furious spell casting seemed to lessen it and in the end he just slumped against the beach, curling himself in a way reminiscent of how he had set in the cupboard when he was a child, and pounded his fists into the sand until it hurt too much too continue. He wasn't sure exactly how long he sat there seething, staring at nothing and thinking about how his closest friends could have turned their back on him, but in the end his rage abandoned him just as they had.
It left him feeling rather hollow. Like he was trapped once again, in the cupboard under the stairs. The feeling of nothingness and emptiness resurgent.
“What are you doing?” A voice, the shadow, asked.
Harry’s eyes shot up to see who on earth could have tracked him to this secluded section of the school. It was a slithery, slender, and frail-looking man. With shoulder-length frizzy black hair, not unlike Harry’s own, with ice-pale skin and glowing-red eyes. Harry noted a set of fangs protruding from the corners of his mouth as well, and instinctively tightened his grip on his wand.
“Who are you?” Harry narrowed his eyes.
“Professor Vlad Trocar,” the man enunciated, a serpent-tongue protruding his mouth as he spoke. He took a seat next to Harry and gazed across the blue sea. “I teach the Dark Arts, here at Durmstrang.”
A vampire teaches the Dark Arts... how quaint.
“What brings you here, I ask once more?” Trocar lifted his head.
“Venting,” Harry snorted, turning his face away from the creature of the night.
“What happened?” The vampiric professor raised a thick brow.
Harry gazed incredulously at him. “My name was chosen... for the Triwizard Tournament.”
Trocar sighed, “I admit I don’t take interest in these things, and as such, failed to attend the ceremony.”
“I didn't even enter, but nobody will listen to me, let alone believe me.” Without the anger he had felt before his explanation sounded very tired, almost resigned. “My housemates and friends certainly don't,” he finished wearily.
“I do,” the vampire told him, eying him through his mane of hair. “We vampires can tell when someone is lying. Unfortunately however, no one trusts us either, so my relation would hardly make a difference in your accusation.”
“It’d only fuel the dark wizard rumors anyways. Consorting with creatures of the night, and that rabble.” Harry thought back to Professor Lupin.
Trocar rolled his eyes, though at which statement, Harry wasn’t entirely sure.
“What does it say about my friends that the only one who trusts me is a vampire I barely know?” Harry demanded.
“It says Rowena Ravenclaw would both be very disappointed,” Trocar’s tone was unusually frank. “Tell me about the tournament.”
“It has tasks,” Harry began, drawing on what he had overheard from Michael and the others. “Three of them. Surely you know there is a champion from each of Hogwarts, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and me.”
“Dangerous?” Trocar prodded.
“It was cancelled because the contestants kept dying,” Harry stated.
“Something worth winning, then,” Trocar declared, returning his gaze across the frozen ocean.
“I'm competing with much older students; the best in their schools.” Harry clenched his jaw, doubting a professor from one of the rival schools would be much help.
“You're Harry Potter,” Trocar reminded him gently. “From what I’ve heard you’ve considered some no meager feats, you'll be proficient at duelling, and you're powerful in your own right. You can win. You will win.”
“Why would you even want me to win?” Harry asked him, exasperated. “You belong to Durmstrang.”
“Let’s just say I have some sense of sympathy for the underdog.” Trocar rubbed a clammy-pale hand on Harry’s shoulder. It felt as if ice had encased his entire right side, and he had to resist the urge to flinch. “That and Karkaroff is a fool. Use some of that ambition you must have lurking inside you and prove yourself better. Silence your doubters and former friends by winning the damn thing. They'll come flocking back to you afterwards I guarantee it.” The vampire sounded particularly scathing at that.
“What if I don't want them back,” Harry decided.
“Make better allies, then.” The creature’s wand let out a spurt of green and silver sparks. “You want to be stronger, accomplish it. Participating and winning in this tournament will prove you really have bettered yourself.”
I do need to be better. Harry could not bear the idea of another Pettigrew escaping.
“What should I do?” Harry asked the professor. “How can I win?”
“Cunning. They will underestimate you. Ignore your pride and use theirs against them. A vampire strikes from hiding.” Vlad paused to consider his statement and the ice around him hissed in the brief moment of silence.
“Perhaps consider becoming a vampire?” He suggested lightly. “There’s more of a risk if you carry it out before your magical core has finished growing, but it’s benefits will be greater. The rewards are virtually risk free when used properly. Vampirism will encourage your body to improve itself more quickly, though that is a very simplistic explanation. It will bring you incredible power, closing the gap between you and the others. I profited greatly from it, though I took them many steps further afterwards to enhance my abilities.”
Harry did not want to follow in the footsteps of Vlad Trocar. The idea alone was nauseating. The man had become more a monster than anything human, if he had not been born one to begin with.
“Intent is the most important part of magic,” Vlad reminded him, watching his internal struggle.
I need to be stronger, but nobody would understand, they'd think I have betrayed them and gone dark. I’d be dubbed the next Voldémoir swiftly enough.
He was about to refuse, fearing the reaction of the school and his memory of the time when everyone considered him the Heir of Slytherin, but then he remembered the cold, hostile faces in Ravenclaw’s coach, and the disappointment of his Headmaster.
They already think I’ve betrayed them.
Trocar had alone had trusted him. Harry should do the same in return. “I'll do it,” he decided.
Vlad nodded and gestured for Harry to stand. There were very faint footprints on the path up to where Vlad led him. “I became a vampire at a young age, seventeen to be precise. Which is why we don’t look too dissimilar in age.”
Harry nodded, tracking Trocar’s footsteps in the snow, about the same size as Harry's own.
“It’s not very complex, just dangerous if you do something wrong.” Trocar said, leading him towards a dark inlet.
“Am I likely to do anything wrong?” Harry inquired.
“Not with me here,” the young-looking professor assured him. “Also, best not to tell anyone.”
Vlad Trocar was a perfectionist. Harry was made to completely erase and redraw both sets of vampiric runes several times before the vampire was satisfied and allowed him to proceed.
“A little blood, only a few drops, at each of the points,” Trocar instructed, gazing critically across the shapes Harry had etched into the ice with his wand.
The runes were a bright violet, the enchantments arrayed in an asymmetrical seven-pointed star that spread out around him, and a simpler triangle for a ritual Vlad assured him would improve his body. Harry drew his wand gently across his palm, splitting the skin with a wordless cutting spell. A thin line of red welled up and trickled down his palm.
“What happens now?” He asked the man dubiously, spattering a few drops of blood on each of the corners of the two shapes.
“You stand exactly at the centre,” Vlad indicated to the middle of the star, “and channel a little magic. It will increase the potential of your magical core by a very small fraction, but more importantly it will alter the ease with which you can wield your magic.”
Harry didn't move.
“Fine,” the Dark Arts teacher sighed, “I'll embellish. Think of your magical core as a bubble. As you grow towards your majority the bubble gets bigger, taking in magic from outside. Vampirism, to use a limited metaphor that doesn't require centuries of study to understand, changes the consistency of the bubble. Very slightly more natural magic is taken in and your magic can be pulled out swifter and more easily, relative to before.”
“And if something goes wrong?” Harry pressed his eyebrows together.
“Your runes are perfect, so unless you are interrupted,” Vlad gave him a pointed look to remind exactly how unlikely that was, “nothing will happen.”
“Humour me?” Harry challenged.
“Your bubble changes too much and bursts,” Trocar told him subtly. Harry flinched. “It is a virtually non-existent possibility.”
“And the other benefits? Any nasty surprises there?” Harry gulped.
“If you drew the triangle incorrectly or unevenly the effects might only be limited to certain parts of your body, but even if that happened you could simply redo it to correct things.” Vlad nodded, inspecting his sharp fingernails. “Vampirism allows your body to make better use of what it's given, developing more quickly and easily, but will also cure pre-existing problems. It will likely only give you the body of an athletic fourteen year old and perhaps change your facial appearance slightly.”
“I don't have to be naked do I?” It was cold in the north, Harry knew.
“No. Fortunately for both of us.” The professor had rather insultingly slithered back at the question. “You should probably leave your wand outside, though, just in case.”
Harry carefully placed his holly and phoenix feather wand outside the edges of the runic star. He felt rather vulnerable without it.
“I suppose we best get started,” Harry said. He felt surprisingly light, unburdened by emotion. His fury from earlier had left him and nothing had come to take its place.
I won't turn back, he declared, as the glyphs began to glow more brightly, pulsing frenetically on the floor around him. Vlad stepped up and injected his fangs into Harry’s neck. I won't even look back.
AN: Please read and review. Thanks to those of you who have, or will.
