Vampire

Did you know that Dean's melancholy suggestion for a Vampire being the new Defense against the Dark Arts teacher was actually crazy foreshadowing? Vampires, in order to stay alive, drink blood. Barty Crouch Junior took the hair of Moody's and drank it to keep his disguise alive. So in a crazy way, Barty Crouch actually was a vampire.

He also had pale skin.

I'm not sure what subject they would teach, and idk why she didn't include this I just read this on the internet

In Every fictional universe vampires are different.

In Harry Potter we know little about them except that they feed of human blood, are part of the living dead Category, have long lifespans and aren't much of a problem. So what are they. Are they a normal generic subspecies of Humans or do you have to be bitten to be transformed.

Let me just say, I don't think getting transformed like werewolves is the answer. I think that if everyone transformed became a Vampire and have A longer but lower quality life, it would be to good to be true. I think dark wizards would use it to extend their lifespans all the time.

And why are they considered "Living Dead", we know resurrecting the dead is impossible. But reanimating corpses with Dark Magic is possible but the real person dies. Either it's a misconception because their heart don't beat or they are corpses reanimated with Dark Magic.

I think that in Harry Potter Vampires are a Sentient Parasite that grows inside Dead Bodies. I think that when someone is bitten the real person dies or the parasite in their body waiting for them to die from natural causes. My guess is that Vampires are along these lines.

What do you think they are?

So I’m making a team of hp characters and I’ve only made one but I almost have them finished. I have Markus Blackwell who is a slytherin and is a half blood. He is a metamorphogus. Then there is a veela who is a ravenclaw. Then there is a werewolf who is in Hufflepuff. And I’m planning on making a half vampire who is in griffyndor. All of the ones except for Markus are not completed yet. That’s why I didn’t call them by their name.

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.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine; everything is J.K. Rowling's & DarknessEnthroned’s.

Chapter links in bio.

Chapter 9

Harry woke up on the very cold, very uncomfortable, ground of the icy beach outside Durmstrang. His cheek pressed into the dark sand and his arms bent oddly behind him. Everything was blurry and disoriented for a few brief moments as he stirred. When he reached out his body protested. Even Snape’s infamously long study sessions from Double-Potions had not made him as stiff and sore as he felt now. Awkwardly he pushed himself back up off the ground. Trocar was sleeping nearby, and the runes he had so painstakingly engraved across the ice had all but faded. The only signs that he had ever undertaken either ritual were his smarting muscles and the incessant throbbing of his head.

Harry groaned. He could really used a drink. Staggering rather stiffly past the snoring vampire, he bent, grimacing, to retrieve his wand. Pointing its tip into the palm of his hand he softly commanded, “aguamenti.” His imagination was already full of the images and the sound of water from thirst, so he hardly needed to focus.

The spray of water reflected off his cupped hand and struck him in squarely in the chest, soaking his robes.

Wonderful.

Harry didn't know any drying spells, which meant he had to go back to Ravenclaw’s Coach and change.

God spare me.

“Oh,” Vlad remarked with obvious sarcasm, “you survived.”

“I feel utterly awful,” Harry ground out as a warning.

“Why are you wet?” Vlad asked curiously. “The ritual had nothing to do with water.”

“I wanted a drink.” Harry’s face fell flat.

“Your magic came out more easily than you expected, then,” the professor deduced. “Better to get a bit damp than accidentally destroy something important.”

“I’ve got to go and change,” Harry sighed.

“And I to my classroom.” Trocar scratched his face. “Ehh, avoid the sun, silver, wooden stakes, and garlic. Jesus is fine however,” he finished with a slight chuckle.

“Right.” Harry began climbing up the hill. His body screamed in protest at the effort, but he made it across the fields with a few pauses to rest.

“You’ll be able to make better use of your powers shortly,” Trocar told him as Harry lifted himself up the hill.

“How do I get blood? And can I still eat food, do I need to?” Harry breathed in the cool sea air to much relief.

“You can feed on people when they sleep, or eat rare steaks, animal blood, and drink lots of water or blood potions,” advised Vlad.

“I don’t assume some lessons would be in order?” Harry yawned, sparing the ancient being a glance.

“Yes... make sure to sleep too,” Vlad responded straight away. “We’ll cover those next time. You should be resistant to poisons and cold now however.”

“What about my wand?” Harry gestured. “My wand has a phoenix feather core,” he shared, wondering if it would still understand him.

“I'd bet it's a powerful, but rather limited, wand. Phoenix feather wands do not excel at some of the more delicate aspects of magic.” Vlad pulled on a hood as they stepped into a sunnier area. Harry also drew his school cloak over himself.

“Do you know why?” Harry had always thought the feather of such a potent magical bird would make it an ideal wand core, especially after learning that Voldémoir’s wand had one as well.

“No. A riddler told me it might have something to with phoenixes being of fire, which is notoriously difficult to control, but I think he was guessing.” Vlad furrowed his brow in thought. “You should get your wand checked, really. Vampirism can sometimes have an effect on it.”

“It can?” Harry chafed his nose with his thumb.

“That's why I told you to leave it outside of the runes,” Vlad explained. “You've slightly changed your magical core and how it interacts, inevitably that will have some affect on the conduit you use to channel magic.”

“How great an affect?” Harry held his wand lovingly, as if it would leave him if he didn’t.

“Most of the time it's nothing, neither I nor my colleague ever noticed a difference, but sometimes you might need your wand length changed, a different type of wood or even a new core, but I wouldn't worry about it. You could just have a new one made or, if you can't afford it, don't. The old one might not be a perfect match, but it will still work very well for you.” Vlad closed his eyes, revealing long, lengthy lashes.

“I see.” Harry tucked his wand away, unrepentant. “Well, we should part ways now.” The water had not really begun to dry and even the sun with it’s warming wasn't managing to keep the discomfort off him.

“Visit soon,” the professor responded, but take things easy for a day or two. The descent into undeath will take some time to recover from.”

He swallowed, sighed, and nodded, leaving his fellow vampire by the ice-bridge that led into Durmstrang, swiftly exiting the premises, pausing only to inspect the maw of the school-gate from afar.

“Hey, Hermione,” he called on his way past the Gryffindor coach. There was a startled squeak of alarm and the girl swooped out from under her book to scrutinize him.

“Have you been out here all night?” She inquired, her cheeks were rather silver and flushed from the cold.

What is she doing out here anyways?

“Yes,” he admitted, “but can you not tell anyone. I needed some alone time,” he pleaded.

Hermione nodded, seeming to understand his ordeal. “I won't share, Harry,' she smiled wryly. Harry blushed briefly and turned away to hide his visage.

“Thanks,” he gave her his best smile. “I have to go change. I'm all wet”

“So I noticed,” Hermione harrumphed, tossing her bushy-brown hair over her shoulder and returning to her studies in the snow.

Odd, Harry thought to himself, eyeing the closed head of Hermione’s back. He shook his face when she didn't re-emerge and continued his way back to his own coach.

One of Durmstrang’s professors who Harry recognized as Pyotr Vulchanov caught him on the outskirts up to the coach’s entrance.

“Mr. Potter,” he greeted him tersely. “Where have you been?”

Harry didn't answer, uncaring.

“And why are you wet?” He snapped in his Russian-accented voice when he didn't respond.

“I performed the water-summoning spell a little too proficiently,” he relied dryly, ignoring the teacher’s tone.

“That's a sixth year spell, Mr. Potter,”

the transfiguration professor responded slowly. He did, however, look less displeased with him than he had before. “If you can perform it then very well done, and all the better since you are excused from all lessons you do not wish to attend as Triwizard champion.”

Wow, Harry exulted internally. The sun still shines behind the clouds.

“I hope that smile has nothing to do with not having to attend your lessons, Mr. Potter,” Professor Vulchanov admonished. “You've come forwards in leaps and bounds from last year, from what I’ve heard, but this tournament is still much too dangerous for any child, let alone a fourth year. I can't believe that so many of the younger years would have the irresponsibility to try and enter their names.”

He swept off abruptly, both warning and compliment delivered in his stern Russian-accented fashion. Harry smirked, turning and entering his coach. A Ravenclaw first year gave Harry a cool look upon entrance, but swung out of his way regardless.

Really, he wanted to ask, even the firsties?

The common room grew unnaturally quiet when he entered and the moment he was out of sight, up the makeshift stairs to the higher levels, he heard the room break back out into animated conversation. No doubt some choice rumours were about to spring up about his damp appearance. His dormitory was empty, none of his friends were around, but somebody had charmed the hangings around his bed a dull white rather than Ravenclaw’s blue and bronze. It struck him as quite a petty, spiteful thing to do. He returned them to their original colours and ran his eye over everything else for traps or pranks. The Weasley twins had never taken a serious run at him before, but with Ron Weasley and Michael so clearly against him, he wasn't sure anymore. It was nice to be dry again. Harry discarded his wet robes onto the pile of not-so-clean clothes and had just begun to cast some locking spells on his trunk when he heard someone enter the room.

“Harry,” a quiet voice greeted him nervously.

“Luna,” he kept his tone neutral.

“I'm sorry about the others, Harry,” the shy girl said awkwardly. “They're just angry that you told them you wouldn't enter, didn't want to, and still managed to come away with something they all wanted.”

“Do you believe I put my name in, Luna?” Harry asked her flatly.

“I don't think it really matters,” she admitted, shuffling by the end of his bed. “I didn't ever want to take part, but everyone else, they were so hopeful, and then you, who never wanted anything to do with it, became champion. It's annoyed them, especially the older students who thought they had a chance.”

“If I could've, I would've swapped with them, Luna,” Harry sighed regrettably.

“Yeah, I know, but that doesn't mean all that much when you can't.” She pointed out.

She’s right, Harry realised. It doesn't really matter what I say. I still have what they wanted.

“Anyone share your opinion?” He questioned as lightly as possible. “Or is it just you?”

“Most of the younger students are annoyed you managed to get past Dumbledore when they couldn't, the older ones are resentful, especially Angelina, and Michael, Roger and Zacharias were really angry too.” Luna drummed around the small area.

“I'll take that as a no, then,” Harry muttered.

“Hermione, Cho, and some of the girls in our year and below don't mind. Cho seems more worried about you and wherever you're spending all your time than anything to do with the Triwizard Tournament. It's Angelina Johnson and the few who were tipped to be champion who you need to watch out for. They're really not happy you stole their place.” Luna grimaced.

“I didn't steal anything, Luna. I didn't even know what was happening until I was in the antechamber being told I was the fourth champion.” Harry closed his trunk and slipped on his sweater-vest.

“I don't think that's going to make much difference to them, Harry,” Luna shrugged apologetically. “As far as Roger and Michael are concerned you promised you wouldn't try and then you did, and got chosen.”

“At least it isn't everyone,” Harry replied tiredly. “I can deal with the hostility as long not all of my friends have abandoned me.”

“I don't think very many people are going to risk openly crossing Angelina or the seventh years,” Luna grumbled.

Harry looked up at her sharply, hearing the implied apology for ending their friendship in her tone, but Luna had already left.

Is Angelina that upset over this? It seemed a little over the top. Cedric had been chosen champion for Hogwarts anyway; if anyone had the most right to be upset with Harry, it was him. Getting out of lessons and suddenly improving in classes is only going to exacerbate things, he realized with a grim smile.

I will be nothing again. Harry was used to being nobody, to being alone within the crowd and invisible in plain sight. He could endure, but it might even be worth going to charms. I’ll never speak to them again, Harry decided darkly.

He wandered back down in to the common room in the hope of coming across one of the few who hadn't decided to avoid him. I could really use a nice normal conversation about something mindless. No emotionally charged topics and no sarcasm.

Marietta and Marcus were giggling by the fire. They shot him sympathetic glances, but he doubted he wanted to be involved in whatever they were gossiping about, so he slumped down and stared into the fake fireplace.

“There you are, Harry,” hands came down on either of his shoulders. It was Sabrina Fawcett, a seventh year in his house. He tensed nervously.

“Don't need to look so concerned, I’m not against you.” She pulled up a chair of her own.

“You believe me?” Harry inquired, more careful of being hopeful after Luna’s reaction.

“If the Weasley twins couldn't get past the age line, how could an ickle fourth year?” She smiled and shook her head. “That's not it at all. Besides, even if you did; then I’d only tip my hat to you for tricking the headmaster himself. The problem I face is far more tricky. I’m quite close to Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, and I don't want to ruin that, so I'm afraid I’ll have to be keeping my distance. Luna too. Michael’s already written home some garbled version of events and told her to stay away from you. She didn't look too happy about it, though. In fact, she hexed him good, but she said she really wants to join the quidditch team next year and you know Angelina will hold a grudge, Alicia too. They haven't forgiven Fred & George for swapping themselves on their double date with them yet, and that was almost a year ago. No pranks, and no hard feelings.” She patted him on the shoulder once more before leaving him by the fire.

I was never close to you anyways, he thought bitterly.

It was beginning to seem that anyone in his house was either against him or afraid of Angelina. The quidditch captain seemed to have considerably more influence than Harry imagined. He could count the remaining members of his house that might risk speaking with him on one finger.

Cho better believe me, or I might as well just move in with Trocar.

He went to her charms and slipped into the seat in the back corner of the class. Cho always got to charms before anyone else so she could ask the Professor questions about the material she had skipped ahead to look at.

“Mr. Potter,” the Durmstrang Charms Professor, Wolfgang Munter, squeaked upon entering the classroom and seeing him. “I was under the impression that you were excused from classes, and also a fourth year...”

“I'm excused from the ones I don't want to attend, sir,” Harry explained dutifully. “Also, I’m here to speak with Cho Chang before class begins.”

“Oh,” the bubbly professor's face brightened. “Do you have questions for me? Miss Chang normally comes early with questions.”

“I'm keeping up fine, professor,” Harry told him. “I've actually gotten a little ahead, I might as well be right here at home in your fifth year classes,” he laughed.

The short charms teacher beamed widely. “That's great news, you'll need the time to prepare for the tournament. Where have you managed to get up to?”

Munter’s smile and encouragement was the first really positive comment he'd had from anyone but Trocar’s snarky self and Harry couldn't help but go looking for another. “I've finished all of it,” he admitted quietly.

“All of it,” the professor's jaw dropped, “but it's October.”

“I did some reading over the summer,” Harry added half-heartedly.

“Quite a lot of reading by the sound of it,” the teacher corrected.

Munter retrieved the cap of an ink bottle from his desk and placed it on Harry's desk. “Can you demonstrate your banishing charm, Mr. Potter? It would certainly ease my worries about you being a champion.”

Harry flicked his wand without saying a word and the cap hissed across the classroom to ricochet off the far wall.

“Excellent,” the professor cried. “Non-verbal as well. I wonder why you even came to class today, Mr. Potter, you are well ahead of all your peers,” he said, forgetting this wasn’t actually Harry’s class. Naturally Cho chose that precise moment to enter the classroom.

“Miss Chang,” the Durmstrang chairmen greeted her enthusiastically. “Your friend has just been demonstrating his astonishing grasp of the banishing spell.”

“Professor,” Cho greeted, caught a little off guard. “I had a question about our essays.”

“It's a bit late now, Miss Chang. I'm collecting them at the start of class.” He concluded with a nod.

“Oh.” Cho looked quite crestfallen.

“Er, Professor Munter,” Harry started nervously. “I haven't got my year’s essay.”

“Don't worry, Mr. Potter,” the goofy teacher beamed again, “you clearly are in no need of the revision that writing that essay would provide and you've been excused from classes regardless, remember.”

“Thank you, professor,” Harry exhaled.

“You can perform the banishing charm?” Cho whispered, nonplussed, as the other students in her year filed in looking remarkably under eager.

He drew the attention of some of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons fifth years, but the students from his school ignored him completely. His loose glance only recognized Marcus, Marietta, and Cormac. “I've been doing my best to improve myself, especially now I have to compete in the tournament. I thought it might come in useful.”

“That's very wise of you,” Cho nodded sagely. “Is that where you've been disappearing off to then?”

“Yeah,” Harry confessed, eager to keep at least one of his close friends. “I needed to practise somewhere.”

“How far have you got?” Cho laid her query in hushed tones.

“I've reached a lot of the sixth year material in both charms and transfiguration,” Harry began hesitantly, very aware that Cho might not appreciate being outstripped.

“Thats amazing, Harry,” she gasped, then lowered her tone embarrassedly. “That's incredible,” she said in a much quieter voice. “I saw you trying to summon butterflies, but I thought it was a one-off attempt.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I've got the hang of that now.”

“I can't believe you're ahead of me in two classes now.” Harry glimpsed more than a hint of envy in her eyes.

“You'll still be as good as me at potions, our electives and you're miles better than me at essays,” Harry placated.

“Charms and Transfiguration are my favourites after Arithmancy, though,” Cho let out a sigh, “and now you're better than me at them.” She fell silent and quickly began to take notes as Munter ran through the wand movement and incarnation for the mending charm. Harry noticed she spent a fair amount of time looking at the banishing charm in her book.

She’ll probably practise that until she can perform it perfectly.

When the Fifth years began to practice the charm, dropping the small, clay tiles onto the desk and mending them, he took his opportunity to ask about the tournament. “Do you think I put my name in?” He licked his lips in anticipation.

“Honestly, I'm not sure,” she answered apologetically. “You've been different since the summer and the World Cup, distant and withdrawn. I don't know what you're thinking anymore.”

“I promise that I didn't,” he insisted. “You know I hate the attention.”

“I knew you did before the summer,” Cho corrected, tapping her wand on her shattered tile and watching as it swept back together. The tile still had cracks in places, but Harry thought it was quite an impressive first try.

“I didn't. I'm not even interested in it and now I've got to take part. Everyone seems to think I'm either a liar or worse. It's like second year all over again.” He began to feel disgruntled and frustrated.

“At least you aren't the Heir of Slytherin,” she responded lightly.

Yeah, that would be terrible, he thought sarcastically. Rowena was starting to rub off on him.

“I'm sure it'll all pass, just like things did that year.” She avoided eye contact with him he noted.

“I had to kill a basilisk to prove my innocence,” he objected, “and nobody in Ravenclaw listened to the rumours back then.”

“It'll be fine.” She tapped the tile again and this time it seamlessly crept back together. “Michael will get over it, he always does, and when it becomes clear you didn't put your name in, everyone will feel rather stupid and come to apologise.”

“I'm not sure I even want them back,” Harry whispered as Munter glanced their way.

“Harry!” Cho’s mouth gaped. “They are your friends!”

“They aren't acting like it, are they?” He retorted fiercely.

“It's not their fault, you must realise what it looks like. You cast a bit of a shadow, Harry, and it just keeps getting bigger.” Cho’s eyes widened.

“Do you really believe that matters?” He interrogated her incredulously. “I don't care about it. I've never cared about it.”

“But they do,” the Ravenclaw seeker persisted.

Harry shook his head in disbelief. She agreed with them. Cho thought that it was indirectly his fault. She's almost as bad as the rest. He swept his bag back up onto his shoulder and left without a backwards glance. There didn't seem to be much loyalty or brains in the house of the intelligent, from where he was standing.

Harry strolled along the wooden, ancient, and torch-lit halls of Durmstrang until a voice permeated annoyingly in his ears. “Shouldn't you be in lessons, Potter,” Zacharias sneered as he reached the end of the old fortress corridor.

“Shouldn't you?” He retorted, really not in the mood for his antics.

“I heard your housemates have finally realised what a pretentious, pathetic person you are,” he sniped. “Even Corner doesn't want anything to do with you. How does it feel to be ditched by a charity case?”

Harry glanced up and down the corridor. There were no teachers. He slipped his wand from his sleeve. “Anything else you'd like to say,” he asked sweetly, placing it's tip between Smith’s eyes. “I know a wonderful number of hexes now. I'd love to teach you a couple,” he offered.

“You wouldn't dare,” Zacharias blustered.

“Try me,” Harry replied with deceptive calm. “Please, try me, give me an excuse.”

“You think you're such a big shot, Potter,” Zacharias snarled. “You're nothing.” Harry flinched internally at his choice of words. “Everyone knows you're just a cheat and a liar now.” Smith shoved himself out from under Harry's wand, drawing himself up in preparation for another piece of vitriol, but Harry had heard quite enough from the mouthy Hufflepuff student already.

“You've grown brave, Zach,” Harry smirked. “Talking back to someone who has you at wand point and walking around a foreign castle without any lackeys. Aguamenti,” he intoned, pouring magic into the spell and tapping the Hufflepuff on the forehead with his wand. A stream of liquid burst from his wand tip and Zacharias was drenched in water. “You probably should have kept your newfound bravado in check, Zacharias,” he smiled, making sure to be as infuriating as possible.

“I hope you die in the tournament, Potter,” Zacharias spluttered through the water dripping off his face.

“I doubt you're the only one,” Harry declared calmly, “but I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you.” He slipped his wand back into his sleeve and out of sight. “Oh, and Zacharias, if I find out you have anything to do with my name coming out of the chalice, I'm going to make you wish you had been competing in my place.”

Harry left him in the corridor, soaked and shivering, with his ever so carefully cut brown hair plastered against his forehead. It was a long, humiliating walk back down to the Slytherin Coach from here. Zacharias would be ridiculed and then punished for being late to whatever class he was supposed to be in. Normally it was Smith who managed to lure them into trouble, but Harry was done being outsmarted by the arrogant little git.

AN: Read and review. Thanks to those of you have and a special thanks to those who keep doing it again and again.