All posts by RavenclawHarry

My older sister made this for me for Christmas. I’m the Hufflepuff Boy (4th year), and she’s the Ravenclaw Girl (6th year).

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

If you guys are interested, I was going to start penning an elder scrolls fanfiction.

Chapter 10

Tom’s moment of triumph had come, just as he had known it would. The book, flaring into his palms, had found him, naming him as Slytherins's heir and champion and thus the best possible candidate for the school. As he strode proudly across the great library to the corridors, every pair of eyes had been a witness to his victory over the rumours his former friends had spread, and every pair of eyes had been on him.

Nearly every pair, he corrected. One witch had not looked up. One witch had not noticed him. Again.

It had, of course, been the same young student who hadn't noticed him before. The dark-haired Ravenclaw girl had not noticed him as Tom Riddle, and now she had not noticed him as Slytherin’s heir. Her eyes had not even flicked up from the pages of her book. Tom had fumed down the halls, ignoring the curious, yet slightly hostile gaze of his competitors. After a long minute, in which the Hogwarts first years had arrived, sorted themselves and been ignored, he had decided that having his attention was not really that important.

Then she had joined him in the halls.

In his anger at her audacity and arrogance he had snapped at her and dismissed her as a girl without any chance of competing at his level. She’d barely noticed that either. It was only after he filed out to leave her with her housemates that he realized the girl’s name must have somehow bypassed his senses. That was no mean feat. That line of thought brought him back to the girl again.

What is so special about her?

He knew who she was. His need to know, which was more pressing than ever, had now bypassed simple curiosity and was rapidly approaching obsession. He simply did not understand why she did not stare like everyone else. Tom had taken to following her when he could, often under the disillusionment charm, but it was not an easy task. Myrtle Warren was rarely seen around the castle and when he did run into her, she would swiftly vanish only moments later. That left him invisible, in the middle of students, and quite often lost. It was how he hoped he would not end up this time. For once the fourth year had not simply walked into a classroom, or around a corner into a corridor only to inexplicably disappear from view. She had walked confidently, albeit with an air of illicit activity, along the first floor corridor. Tom, who had been following her since catching a glimpse of her untidy hair and glasses on his way back from penning a diary entry, had seized his chance. It was not between classes, so there were few students in the corridors and he had no trouble following her all the way along the perfectly straight corridor. She paused to take one furtive look back down where she had come and, seeing nothing, then slipped through the door at its end. When he grew close enough to see where she had snuck off to he almost spluttered with rage and shock.

A bathroom, he seethed. What’s she doing in there?

As he approached the door, now rather more hesitantly than before, he heard cries, a girl's. Her words didn't carry, but her tone did. Whomever Myrtle Warren was crying about into in the first floor girl's bathroom was rather important it seemed. Tom checked his charm and slowly crept closer. The door was ajar, so he carefully squeezed through, anticipating catching the girl in the midst of whatever she was always disappearing off to do. Tom was half-afraid he would regret it and never manage to rid himself of the memory of what he might see. The bathroom was empty however. There was no girl. There was no Mrytle Warren. There was nobody but him, a row of empty cubicles, a large central sink and a sizeable puddle on the floor. Somehow she had given him the slip and vanished, just as she had every other time before. He had a careful look around, but it wasn't a large bathroom and he was quite clearly alone. Tom swore under his breath. He would not waste another moment trying to follow this girl.

The sink turned and Tom’s brows rose a notch. He inspected it and curiously enunciated, “open.”

This was clearly a mystery he would have to solve from afar. The sink turned its serpent-engraved faucet and broke open. Fortunately for him, revealing a set of steps down into a chamber of some sort.

Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets.

The floor was not so far from where he had originally been that he could not easily make his way down, providing the very unhelpful staircases allowed him. He was only halfway down the ancient corridor when he overheard some voices.

“Come closer,” it said.

Tom edged a little closer. He was not normally one for danger, having spent the majority of his life on the receiving end of it, but curiosity, the word obsession might have been more apt, but he was damned if he would ever use it, got the better of him.

“Come,” it called again as he came upon a serpent effigies adorned on door.

“Your friends betrayed you,” the voice said as the door began to give way...

I have no friends.

Tom swept out of the empty hall, narrowly avoiding a serpent-stone statue who had not had the foresight to stand further from the door, leaving him to inspect the rather odd assortment of effigies that were lining the floor. By the time he had returned to the center, most of the whispers were near him. The giant head of Salazar Slytherin sat before him.

“Open,” Tom commanded quietly.

“Yes,” the voice said.

It was the mouthpiece that had begun to peel down, and though some few now littered the sky it did not yet threaten rain. Tom thought he was imagining but this was the closest Hogwarts ever got to a giant serpent. The largest snake, which included Runespoors, and his two favorite people, Avery and Lestrange, while he ogled the sheer magnitude and size of the king of serpents. Scotland didn't lose all its light for several months in winter, after all.

It was not pleasant enough for Tom to endure the other students, so he headed closer towards the beast, and could let his guard down.

“Basilisk?” He sputtered in wide awe.

“Yes, Tom,” she responded kindly.

“Do you know anything about Salazar Slytherin, my ancestor?” His new friend was the only person he could ask without alarming suspicion.

“Why do you ask?” It cannot possibly be for the completion of his work,” she hissed.

“I was curious. He’s a founder, isn’t he? I have not seen such a person before,” Tom explained.

“He is interesting, but quite useless now that he’s dead. I don't doubt I am the only one of your friends who knows more than the name of him,' the Basilisk informed him. “This chamber is warded, designed to allow passage to his heirs, provided the blood of the beings meets the potency requirement, and so simple that they can be neither bypassed nor adapted to any other purpose. It is not a ward you will ever really need to use, I don't think.”

“Thank you,” Tom replied, disappointed but not surprised.

She must have found a way in, he decided. Perhaps someone with the same blood and surname who was willing to add their name and then let her pretend it was hers.

How frustrating. From what he had seen in history books, this normally involved some sort of magically binding creature: a cockatrice, a manticore and even a sphinx had made appearances in this sort of lair.

Tom wasn't particularly fond of the girl. He often eyed her with the same professional curiosity he extended to things like griffins, or dragons. Consequently she had not paid a great deal of attention to his classes and didn't know what magical creatures were native to these depths. Surely, a Basilisk would surprise her. Whatever the creature was, Tom was confident that the school could end in his favour.

AN: Read and please review.

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.

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.

Links to previous chapters in my bio.

Chapter 7

The face that gazed back blankly from the mirror was proud. High, refined cheekbones, slender, elegant brows, dark-brown eyes and flawless skin, all framed by gelled black hair. This was his face and it was perfect.

I am not like other people.

I have been left behind.

I have been mocked.

They have abandoned me.

I have no real rivals, he smiled, proud of that fact.

I am more powerful, more intelligent, my family line more prestigious than any other in England, and my magic is stronger.

They will beg to me, on their knees.

The Hogwarts game keeper was holding a slow and painstaking conversation with the Hogsmeade' stationmaster when he exited the carriage outside.

Tom quietly slipped past him up towards the thestral-pulled carts. He was not supposed to leave the carriage unattended. Somehow his cloak was soaked before he had even reached halfway to the affair. The rain wasn't even visible. There was as much water in the air as there was in the foul, cold looking lake. The grey, dreary battlements of Hogwarts filled Tom’s mind as his personal carriage brought him closer to the place he once called home. Everything was solid, square and grey, even the few towers were sturdy rather than slender. He supposed they needed the thick walls to keep out the rain and, furthermore, deduced that there was little point in building a beautiful castle when the clouds would always obscure it. The Great Hall was quiet; a far cry from how it would be when the others inevitably arrived. He spun on his heel to make his way back down the hall and to the Slytherin table where he would be free of both gawping boys and gossiping girls. Tom froze as a shadow passed the entrance of the hall. Someone was coming.

If it is Dumbledore, I am in trouble.

The transfiguration teacher was the only person at the school he feared. The other teachers had all but succumbed to his charm but he knew the old man would not buy it. It wasn't the old red-head and Tom’s shoulders slumped with elegant relief. A dark, pig-tailed Hogwarts student made her way along the wall to his right. She was a little shorter than him, about the same age from first glance, with round glasses that protruded past her face. She wasn't unattractive. There was an untidy, casual appeal to her face, Tom had seen hundreds of girls with similar aesthetics back in London. The bespectacled girl followed the edge of the wall, her head tilted to one side in thought. As she approached the end near Ravenclaw table, the candles illuminated her face, reflecting off her glass and giving him a glimpse of intense, sea-hued eyes. Tom watched her dispassionately, waiting for her to notice him and grind to a halt, but she never slowed. He knew she must have seen him, but she did not even acknowledge his presence in the slightest.

How dare she ignore my brilliance?

It was the same girl he had briefly seen on occasion in their tenure here together.

She did not look at me then, Tom remembered. They all will recognize me for my greatness.

Releasing his hold on his anger, he allowed it to swell back to the usual, passive level and made his next step a little louder than necessary so she would turn to look at him. His charm would only work if she was looking at him. He did not like being ignored, it was unfamiliar and made him

strangely nervous. The young witch paused a few steps from the end of the hall and Tom celebrated internally.

Nobody ignores Tom Marvolo Riddle.

He was looking forward to seeing her glazed over eyes for having the audacity to not notice him.

“Tempus,” he heard her whisper. Silver numbers ghosted from the end of her wand and he saw her shake her head in apparent relief, but she didn't look back and simply continued on her way at the same leisurely pace to the end of Ravenclaw table.

Tom scratched his chin. The dark-haired witch had piqued his curiosity. He was going to find out what made her so special that he was so far beneath her notice.

As his moment of surprise faded he realised it was not such a slight really.

After all, I barely notice any of the girls around me. They are all the same to me, with their blank, charmed faces and laughable dreams. As if I would ever deign to make their dreams of me real. This girl is no different to any of the others. I have come across those who were resistant enough to my charm to not be affected by the passive aura of attraction radiating from me. — Those girls do still notice you, though. She isn't aware that I exist, resistant or not. Tom was still a little curious about exactly how resistant she really was. Bringing her to her knees would rather make up for her inexplicable indifference to him and restore the pride she had unintentionally wounded. The idea brought a slightly cruel smile to his lips.

He took a seat at the table finally and began pulling out his school books, ignoring the girl who was mirroring his action, for now, and awaiting the arrival of the other students and his fifth year colleagues.

After the feast, stealing back out into the drizzle, he cast an enchantment to ward the cold off his clothes and moved quietly back down the halls. The steps were uneven, steep and slippery under foot and it was hard to see how high they were in the dark, so he was forced to take them slowly. He was back inside Slytherin common room soon enough however.

“Where have you been, Tom?” Richard Avery’s overly dulcet tones caught him before he could reach the dorms. The small, thin boy had been skulking the shadows at the of the corridor with Edward Lestrange.

“Been sneaking around again?” Edward cut in. He was Richard’s counterpart in every way. Tall where his friend was shorter, more filled out where Richard was not. The muscle had culminated over the last few years to create a strong jaw and a stronger mind. It was a wonder how he even managed to fit in enough food to maintain hisself in Hogwarts’ short meal times.

“Tom Riddle does not sneak.” Tom grinned charmingly. “You're both still upset that your girlfriends left you.” He was not in the mood to be merciful, especially not to these two who were his closest followers and should know better than to disturb him.

“Our girlfriends weren’t worth our time anyways,” Edward hissed furiously. “At least we know those rumours about you really are true. Why else would you be sneaking out in the middle of the night.”

“It's barely even early evening,” Tom corrected coldly, “your ability to tell the time is as poor as your duelling, Edward. Would you like me to remind you which of us is the school duelling champion?”

“You wouldn't dare,” Richard smiled. He had a boney face that reminded Tom of a some of the underfed orphan boys he had occasionally seen around his orphanage.

The fact he had ever managed to get a girlfriend in the first place is the real mystery. Tom suspected heavy doses of amortentia had something to do with it.

“It doesn't matter,” his friend remarked with mock innocence. “Not going to share? We won't tell. Or are the other rumours true. The ones that say for all your dark abilities, poor Tom has never been kissed.” That hit a little too close to the mark for comfort.

“As if I care what you or your rumours say,” he declared with carefully feigned indifference. “You are both of you less than me. Less attractive, less powerful and less important. Go satisfy your empty lives by whispering about your superiors to compensate for your own inadequacies.”

Richard gasped, the sugary pretence of over friendliness completely collapsing under the weight of Tom’s statement. Tom reached for his wand and caught Avery’s wrist before Rich could make it to his own wand, he had tucked through the waistband of his uniform. “Why would you even try?” He asked, genuinely curious. “Charms, duelling, enchanting, I am better than you at every aspect of magic. We are not children anymore, Avery, you can't flaunt your first girlfriends and early kisses in my face anymore and expect me to care. Go back to your room and take him with you before you lose someone else you care about to me.”

They took his threat more seriously than Tom had expected and scurried away like frightened mice.

“Remember your place,” Riddle reminded. It was only when they were gone did he catch sight of his reflection in the window and realise he had switched to Parseltongue. Tom took several deep breaths and watched his eyes shrink and shift back from red to their normal dark-brown. Under his uniform, he felt the goosebumps slide back into his skin. At least he had not slipped so much as to conjure snakes.

Dippet would be furious with me if I had gone so far.

Tom hadn't calmed down all that much when he returned to his dorm.

I have no friends.

I have no one.

His gold-nibbed quill was where the elves had left it, carefully clipped to a quill stand that unfolded from the back of the desk in the room.

Dear Diary,

I hope you are not missing your dear Tom too much, because I am missing you very much. I have finally arrived at Hogwarts. It is a dreary sight, as it’s come to be. Like my mind, only rain, and everything is grey: the walls, the clouds, the ground and the sky. The food is terrible, even if the inside of the castle is tolerable, and there are too many people. This evening, only an hour ago, I sat and studied at the Great Hall, but don't worry I'll make sure I get through the competition. There's nobody else who will do any better than I in this school.

Don't listen to anything the other people say. They don't understand what it means to be great and are just jealous. I've told you that before I know, but until they stop I won't either.

I know that you'll be lonely this year with me here. But greatness is afoot.

Love,

Tom.

He closed his prized diary, his only real friend, and put it away where none could find it.

The world will choose the best possible candidate, me. The thought put a smile on his visage. Absentmindedly he fell to polishing his wand with a soft wand-cloth. I have never been kissed, a thought said. And I am better off for it.

He reached for his hairbrush and began to pull it through his lustrous black hair. It didn't really need brushing, it never really needed it. Tom replaced the hairbrush back on the desk beside his quill and wandered into the bathroom, bypassing the mirror.

If I died or fainted in here. Few enough of them would come then, he thought bitterly. But I’ll make them care, make them love me.

He ran the water, making it cold, very cold. The water would scar anyone not as naturally resistant to cold as he was. As the bathtub filled he searched for his book on advanced charm alteration and found it buried underneath a pile of old articles about the rituals.

He grabbed his book and settled into his ice cold bath.

I will be the greatest wizard alive.

E/N: Leave a review please.

Thought I’d give a brief advertisement of this Fanfiction (of a Fanfiction) I’m writing and if any are interested in following it.

If you’d like to see A version of Harry’s journey where he is in Ravenclaw House and the Triwizard Tournament takes place at Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts, then check out A Pyrrhic Victory, links in my bio.

There are also full flashback chapters sprinkled throughout from Tom Riddle’s perspective while he was a student at Hogwarts.

Update rate is anywhere from 1-3 chapters a week. If you do read, please leave a comment on the chapter you read with what you thought. Thanks.

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

Previous chapters in Bio.

Chapter 6

The autumnal falls fell upon the north, the old kingdom of Vikings and warriors, and the Norwegian summer was short at best, and the light, warm rain had gradually transitioned into heavier, cold snow. The leaves of the Mystical Woods began to change, the old, snow pines moulded, and an autumn mist began to settle over the Ice Lake. Harry watched from the train as they neared the station at the base of the foothills that inevitably poured into the fjords and icebergs where Durmstrang was located.

“Can’t wait to get inside!” Roger crowed excitedly from a little way down the train where he, Michael, Luna and Cho were enthusing as normal.

Harry returned his gaze to his book, pausing only to glance down the train to where everyone else was sitting and dodge the first years’ best attempts to spill pumpkin juice over everything nearby. Harry vanished a nearing spill distractedly, registering their surprise and gratitude at his use of a vanishing spell, before re-burying his head in his transfiguration book. Rowena had told him he had something a gift for transfiguration. The founder's portrait had been quite tetchy about his aptitude for one of Salazar’s favourite subjects, but encouraged him to spend time on developing and practicing the art nonetheless.

“Papilionis,” he said firmly, drawing a very narrow, close-bottomed vee in the air with the tip of his wand. A single, rather lopsided looking butterfly, more grey than black, lurched in comical spiral around his head.

Not quite what I was hoping for.

The tragic creature corkscrewed across the table, narrowly avoiding Michael’s head, to collapse in front of Hermione Granger, an annoying Gryffindor student, who poked it curiously with her wand. It burst into a wisp of black smoke. Harry frowned and scratched his head, for some reason the spell just wouldn't work no matter how he tried to visualise the movements of the insects. — Hermione shot him a rather smug look from where she sat.

“Papilionis,”’he repeated pushing more magic into the spell. This time he was rewarded by an extra butterfly and a shriek from Katie Bell, another Gryffindor girl, who had not expected to be accosted by an insect in the midst of her conversation with some dark-skinned girls.

They were a little better formed, Harry decided, as he watched Katie vengefully set his conjurations alight. The wings had been a better shape, and they'd actually managed to flutter rather than corkscrew listlessly. Hermione remained unimpressed. I'd like to see her try and adapt something to make a new spell, he fumed.

The train slowly began to ground to a halt as Harry glanced outside to be greeted with the view of almost fantasy like ice shelves and snow that seemed all but blue, surrounding the nearby countryside of Norway.

At least when the champions are chosen the excitement will die down and Michael will start talking about something else.

“Aren't Beauxbaton students also meant to be arriving today,” Cho asked, clutching Harry’s throat and squeezing it tightly before taking a seat from across where he sat, and shooting him a smile.

Is that supposed to be her affectionate passive-aggressive way of greeting? Harry rubbed his soar throat painfully, feeling quite weak. Cho had the grip of a powerlifter it seemed.

“I think so,” Michael nodded, eyeing their asian friend warily, “but I don't know how they're arriving.” His face examined Harry worriedly as if asking: ‘what was that?’

A burst of startled exclamations from by the window drew the attention of everyone in the coach.

“What is that?” Roger came to peer over Harry’s shoulder, apparently he had the misfortune of having a good view out the window from where he sat.

“It's a bird,” someone dismissed.

“No, it's a plane,” a muggle-born student cried out to a few snickers and more than a few blank looks from those raised in the magical world.

“It's Beauxbatons’ flying carriage,” Hermione Granger announced in a very snobbish manner as it drew closer. “It's pulled by Abraxan horses.”

The coach was a pale, pastel blue and rather ornate. It’s wheels reminded Harry vaguely of the Penny Farthing bicycle in that the rear pair were much larger than the front pair. The entire affair, both winged horses and carriage, disappeared behind the mists and Harry returned to his book again. A few more unfamiliar faces hardly changed anything here in a new school where he knew and recognised no one.

“I heard Durmstrang doesn’t accept Muggleborns. And teaches the the Dark Arts... Do you reckon they’ll send the Muggleborn students of ours back? Michael swallowed thickly.

Harry sneezed. “Dark Arts you say? Now that seems fascinating!”

“Don’t make me choke you again,” Cho warned lowly.

“Hogwarts!” Dumbledore entered the coach excitedly, startling Harry out of his reading. “Welcome to the frozen north! If you’d all be so kind as to follow me out. Please wear coats as it is very cold and rest assured, leave your belongings here as this is where you’ll be sleeping for the majority of the year.” Dumbledore turned around and began leading a band of jumpy students out of the train.

Time to go, Harry sighed resignedly, closing his book shut.

It wasn’t long before Harry was wrapped in Hogwarts themed furs and trailing after Cho and Michael, up a bridge formed from an iceberg.

“This is bloody amazing,” Michael awed, his eyes wide.

Harry saw the school up ahead and was surprised at how much smaller than Hogwarts it looked. It sat upon an iceberg island, connected to the snowy lands by the translucent blue ice-bridge alone. The school must have been four stories tall, in a squarish-U shape with the courtyard in the center. Harry spotted a colorful forest on the land, to the east, and a domed Quidditch pitch on the southwestern side. He could glimpse several men in heavy robes waiting for them at the gate. Somebody had informed Dumbledore because he and the majority of the Hogwarts staff were now entering the grounds, trailed by what appeared to be the remainder of their student body. Harry was more than a little bemused by the air of excitement.

“Something's happening at the lake,” a first year squeaked from the other side of Harry. There was a rush of noise as half the students flowed from one side of the bridge to the other.

“It's bubbling,” someone cried in surprise.

“Merfolk!!”

Harry spotted a man down below discussing with a group of Merfolk on the ice covered lake.

Interesting.

“They must be with Durmstrang,” Granger prominently declared.

“Do you think they have a giant squid? Or a Sea Dragon?!” A girl asked innocently. Harry bit back a laugh. That could be a nasty surprise for any arriving ships. He did spot a port and shipyard below the elevated castle. Briefly wondering if they were connected through a network of ice tunnels or something of that loose nature.

“I had heard Durmstrang was in the Czech Republic,” Michael announced loudly from down the bridge. Harry was almost proud of his friend for not joining the congregation around the edge.

“The Czech Republic is a landlocked country, Michael,” Cho declared with some incredulity. “Traveling by ship would be very impractical.”

“My mom had said something about Scandinavia,” Roger added. “Guess she was right.”

Harry felt a flash and stopped, feeling quite dazed before noticing they had arrived at the entrance gate.

“Albus, forgive me,” came the surly voice of the Durmstrang Highmaster. “A precaution to keep our school safe, a memory charm to make you and your ehh... ‘students’ forget the path here.”

What can’t I remember?

“Not at all Igor.” Dumbledore briefly embraced the younger headmaster. “How’ve you been?” He gestured for the students to follow him in through the castle grounds.

Harry gulped as he took in the sight of the plain courtyard. It’s crystal white marble steps with fountains, wells and benches dotting the surface. They walked in through the center doors and into the room that was presumably the feasting hall. Unlike Hogwarts, there were seven round tables covering the expanse with a staff table similar to the one at Hogwarts in the center of the back of the hall, overlooking the students with a throne not unlike Dumbledore’s where Harry assumed their Highmaster sat. The hall was lit by torches along the walls, and the tables were sorted by year, rather than house, of which Durmstrang had none. Beauxbatons, he noted, were already here and seated.

“If everyone could find a seat on their year tables,” Dumbledore suggested, his wand held against his throat to magnify his voice over the hubbub. “Let's give a good impression to our hosts.”

There was a scramble to the tables and Harry found himself squished very tightly in between Michael and a Durmstrang girl he didn't know. He tucked his elbows in as far as possible to try and separate himself from the warmth of the two of them, but as soon as he made space they seemed to encroach into it again. He took several deep breaths and tried to concentrate on his book, that he managed to crack open as best he could to block out the uneasy nearness of the people around and the annoying tickling sensation of the girl’s arm hairs on his hairless forearm, since he had shed his furs and rolled up the sleeves on his sweater.

“Sorry, Harry,” Michael apologised with a giggle when he realised he was all but lying across him. “Didn't mean to be so forward.” He gave him a slightly awkward smile in return.

The Durmstrang students were also dressed for cold weather, the likes of which Scotland would never have seen. The Highmaster, a silver-haired, sour-faced man with a short, pointed goatee came to rest in his seat at the front like a jarl would his kingdom. The french students seemed rather underdressed though. Their garbs would’ve helped them in a Scottish winter, but not in a Norwegian one.

“That's Viktor Krum,” Michael hissed, pointing at the table full of seventh years. A murmur of surprise and admiration spread as the prodigious young seeker gazed about the hall.

“Madame Maxime,” Dumbledore announced in surprisingly unaccented french. Dumbledore let his arms drop and continued to smile magnanimously as his counterpart joined him at the elevated table. The hall began to fill with whispers as they waited for an inevitable announcement.

Harry's attention returned to the pages of his transfiguration book and, consequently, he only realised anything had happened at all when the hall fell eerily silent and he caught the Durmstrang girl next to him mutter, “that girl is not normal.”

Looking up from his reading material for what he decided would be the last time his eyes roved over an unremarkable group of French witches on the far side, and a number of glassy-eyed Durmstrang students at the seventh year table. One of the witches had oddly familiar platinum hair and sat at the very end of her group. She looked a little left out of the conversation in the few moments Harry watched them and for a second she reminded him of himself and his currently distant group of friends, but he didn't see anyone to justify the Durmstrang girl’s comment. He raised his book to avoid the sudden arrival of food, something that proved to be wise as it’s spine only narrowly avoided the appearance of a large bowl of fish stew. It had the largest prawns he had ever seen arrayed neatly around the edge.

It looks quite tasty.

There wasn't any room to eat comfortably at the moment and between the elbows of Michael and his other neighbour, Harry decided to wait until the table had begun to clear before eating. He had more time than most without any lessons later on in the day. For they had yet to receive their new schedules.

Everything around him went unnervingly quiet all of a sudden and a very soft, french accented voice spoke up in the silence. “Do you want the bouillabaisse?”

Bouillabaisse, Harry assumed, was the name of the untouched dish in front of him. He shook his head absently, leaning out of the way of Michael, who swung the bowl dangerously over his lap, without looking up from his book.

“Merci,” the voice replied with an element of shock. Harry glanced up to catch a flash of platinum hair and Michael’s awed stare.

“What?” He demanded, eyebrow perked.

“You're not acting like all those idiots,” the nordic girl next to him said, gesturing at the pair of fifth year boys across from them who were still staring after the French girl.

Harry blinked, gave her a confused look, and then decided it was easier to read and continue trying his butterfly spell than puzzle out whatever she was talking about. He purposely allowed his lochs to drift over his forehead to block view of his scar in order to avoid another confrontation.

“Papilionis,” he murmured softly, drawing the wand action as carefully and gently as possible. This time he managed to achieve a whole swarm of imperfect butterflies and those around him erupted in general disgust as they scattered across the table wreaking consternation. “Sorry,” he apologised, after banishing them into black smoke. “I wasn't expecting so many.”

“No more insects,” Michael growled as Harry noticed a shadow slip into the hall.

The food eventually vanished and Harry, who had only managed a few mouthfuls, was left feeling a little hungry.

“Now that our guests have arrived, and we have been nourished and watered, it is time we come to the main attraction of the year.” The Highmaster, who Harry deduced was Igor Karkaroff, approached the lectern at the head of the hall. “It is time for the Triwizard Tournament to begin, but first, the rules.” His words were largely lost on the hall as the majority of the students eyes were fixed on the chalice that now stood just in front of the lectern. A glass, ornamentally hewn artefact made remarkable by the water that splashed within it, and the almost visible aura of magic projected around it. He glimpsed Michael staring at it with obvious, fervent desire.

“First of all it should be made very clear that nobody below the age of seventeen is allowed to enter.” The hall erupted into groans of disappointment and Harry was certain he heard the almost-seventeen Roger complaining loudly. “I have,” Professor Karkaroff continued, “to ensure that no mishaps occur, taken the liberty of drawing an age line around the chalice here. Aside from that the tournament will proceed as it did before it was cancelled. Anyone wishing to be chosen as champion may enter their name into the goblet over the next two days and the names of the champions will be announced by it soon afterwards.”

Most of the table had already started searching for pieces of parchment, ink and quills as if the first few to enter might have some advantage. Harry pulled his book back out of the way of the ink bottles now scattered across the table.

It might be best if I went somewhere private, he decided. The Chalice of Water, he thought amusedly in turn.

It was loud in the Feast Hall, the food was gone, and he was finding it hard to concentrate on his book or his butterfly shield spell. He made his way out, pausing only to overhear Michael and Roger launch into outraged rants about the age restriction.

Roger’s birthday was only a week away too.

Harry slipped out, taking note of a shadow creeping alongside the corners as he went to sit outside, crossing the bridge and making his way a little trek off the main path, to a cliff edge, in order to intake the Aurora Borealis and northern lights that reflected off the starry water. He breathed in the cold sea air and relished in the beautiful feeling of it.

This is life.

Most of the guys from his dormitory were in the makeshift common room of the train, by the fire, when he got back. “It's rather empty in here,” he remarked, crossing to join them.

“Everyone's still by the chalice in the hall and the younger years are in lessons,” Michael explained sullenly.

“Not happy about the age rules, I take it,” Harry said sympathetically.

“Bloody pissed off is more like it,” Michael responded. Cho didn't even bother to scold him for swearing, though she did roll her eyes.

“Don't take it too hard,” Harry told him.

“It was my chance, Harry,”

Michael sighed. “You wouldn't understand, you've always been noticed and famous and had everything I want.” He didn't sound particularly jealous, at least no more than normal, just tired. “I was going to be noticed too. I wouldn't just be another Ravenclaw, or Harry Potter's friend, or something like that. I don't want the whole limelight or anything, just a glimmer for myself.”

“Honestly, Mike,” Harry began, “I'd happily give you the whole thing. Fame is overrated honestly, people only want you for your status or money.”

“It's easy to say that from where you're standing, mate,” Roger cut in. “I'm just another student that half the wizarding world doesn't care about, but you've been a hero from birth.”

“I didn't want to be.” Harry pursed his lips.

“We know,” Luna reassured him. “It's just a little annoying to be in your shadow sometimes.”

“Well I can promise you all that we'll be in the shadow of the Hogwarts champion together,” Harry said. “I've no desire to enter my name and I couldn't anyway.”

“Roger tried to cheat past the age line earlier,” Cho announced. “It didn't work, but I've seen loads of younger students trying everything they can to get in.”

“I'd take my hat off to anyone who manages to slip past that age line.” Roger didn't seem to think it was possible and Harry bowed his head in accordance.

“Maybe next time,” Harry suggested, “you'd have a better shot at winning then too.”

“It was held every five years back when it was running,” Cho informed him quietly.

“I'm going upstairs,” Michael declared, shoving himself out of his chair and slouching off. Roger and Luna shared a glance and trailed off after him.

“Did you try and put your name in, or watch the others?” Cho stared into the fire, as she possessively held Harry’s wrist in her palm. Harry began to swelter from sheer anxiety at why Cho had begun to act so weird as of late.

“No,” Harry replied. “I've just been admiring the view outside and practicing my butterfly charm.”

“That's really advanced transfiguration, Harry,” Cho consoled him, unaware it had been successful whilst he had been admiring the view outside. “You shouldn't be trying it for another year at least. I'm impressed you managed to conjure anything at all.” Cho didn't sound all that impressed. If anything it seemed more like she was trying to convince herself she was impressed. Cho then eyed him creepily similarly to the dream he had had of her.

“Thanks, Cho,” Harry replied, smiling the smile of his predecessor, all brilliant charm and obvious emotion. Tom Riddle had taught him one thing that was useful, he supposed.

E/N: Please read and review. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed already.

Disclaimer: Everything is JK Rowling’s & DarknessEnthroned’s.

Links to the rest of the story in my bio.

Chapter 5

“It's only been two days since the beginning of term, Michael,” Cho explained wearing a rather indulgent if sultry smile.

“It feels like we've been here for ages,” the black-haired boy sulked, reaching for the nearest rack of toast.

“We were here a bit earlier, but still, it's barely September and nothing is happening until October,” Cho added unhelpfully.

“It's a travesty,” Michael mumbled around a mouthful toast. “All that hype about the bloody tournament and we have to wait until October to enter.” Cho’s eyes narrowed at the swear word and Michael instinctively retreated out of elbow range.

“Not much point entering now, mate,” Roger interjected. “Got to wait till we leave for Durmstrang first. If any of us do, that is. Heard only a select contingent is going.”

“Are you going to enter?” Michael’s grin returned in full force.

“Of course,” Roger responded, unaffected. “I had a research about it when I heard. There is a huge chance of death however.”

“Doesn't sound like eternal glory to me,” Luna piped up from across Michael. The latter had made his way through the toast rack and was now polishing off half a plateful of eggs.

Where does all the food even go?

“Sounds like unexpected death to me,” Roger grinned. “Still, I'm entering. They'll have made it safer or something now, I'm sure.”

“Well,” Michael emerged from behind his napkin, “if you see a basilisk, just summon Harry and hide for a bit. That ought to do the trick.”

“That's pretty much the plan,” Roger laughed. “I'll let the seventh years know. They're the ones who'll get chosen anyway. The tournament is supposed to have the best possible student chosen from all the entered names.”

“How does it know?” Luna continued to stare at her prim plate of food as she asked the question.

“Magic,” Roger shrugged. Everyone then turned to look at Cho with an expectant stare.

“What?” She defended. “I'm not interested in a silly tournament, I’m at my OWL year now.”

“That's a point,” Harry realised. “I'd wager the champions will all be sixth years really. No exams that year.”

Michael nodded. “I'd agree,” he chuckled, “if I wasn't putting my name in. Can you imagine Dad’s face?”

Harry laughed. “You would get another howler from your mum,” Roger pointed out.

“Worth it for eternal glory.” Michael seemed quite taken with the idea. “Pretty much everyone in Gryffindor is putting their name in, even some of the firsties wanted to.”

“House of the brave,” Roger nodded, using a fork to stab an apple strudel on his plate before dipping it in cream and inserting it into his mouth. Harry watched as some cream fell into the older Ravenclaw’s short beard and he had to wipe it away ardently with a napkin.

I’d do the same for my lochs, Harry thought, pushing his long black mane off his eyes and forehead to avoid a similar fate.

“House of the brave and Neville,” Michael corrected as a few snickers resonated among the group. “Maybe you'll be champion, Luna,” he said, switching targets. “Up for it?”

Even Cho smiled at Luna’s suddenly pale face. “I prefer to leave that stuff to Harry,” she stuttered. “Giant snakes, swords, dark lords and lethal tournaments are his area of expertise.” The blonde took a forkful of what was presumably porridge, abandoning her previous plate.

“It's about time it was someone else's turn,” Michael decided forcefully.

“Madam Pomfrey might not let you out next time,” Roger added.

“We've got double Defence with Mad-eye,” Michael then spoke up nervously, as if just remembering. “Madam Pomfrey might be seeing all of us if what I've heard is true.”

“Oh,” Harry swivelled to look at the boy. “What did you hear?” He had decided after learning the hard way that it was best to keep an eye on the revolving Defence Against the Dark Arts post.

“Apparently he's been talking about the Unforgivable Curses,” Michael explained, his voice shrinking.

“Bit of an odd thing to teach,” Roger muttered after a moment.

Harry nodded once.

“It's probably useful, though,” Michael decided in the silence. “Dad says those three spells are the ones that are most often used by wizards involved in the dark arts.”

“You’re about to find out,” Cho said, glancing at her watch, which Harry thought was an odd sight for someone of magical nature.

Surely she knows the tempus charm? Or maybe it was a gift?

Soon enough Harry and his fourth year friends retreated from the hall and made their way up the corridors and staircases of the illustrious castle. The so named Mad-eye Moody's classroom was full of rather worried looking students, but the grizzled ex-auror was nowhere to be seen.

“Oi, Potter,” Zacharias sneered. “How did you enjoy the World Cup? I heard you collapsed again, saw a dementor did you?”

“No, Smith.” Harry clenched his jaw and tightened his fists, sending a death-stare at the hefty Hufflepuff.

The slimy brunette recoiled as if struck. “Slanderous buffoon, “he muttered, turning away to a simpering Hannah Abbot before Harry could remind him that slander was pretty much all Zacharias managed on a day to day basis.

“Ignore him, Harry,” Sue said coolly, having just arrived and covering his wand arm with her hand. Michael seemed to be considering hexing the brunette as well, but his temptation was abruptly quelled by the arrival of their professor.

Professor Moody was even more unsettling up close than he had been in the Great Hall. Above a nose that had a sizeable chunk missing, an electric blue eye whirled frantically across the room. It stopped only to hover over each student and to peer suspiciously into the shadows around the edges of the room. He heaved himself down past the desks, his wooden leg clunking on the stone floor with each step until he came to the front.

“I am Alastor Moody,” he growled in the immediate silence. “I served as an auror in the war against the Dark Lord and I've seen almost all there is of the dark arts and not from a practitioner's perspective.” From behind his desk he retrieved a large, bell-shaped jar. It contained three quite large spiders.

There was an audible scraping noise as Michael’s chair moved slightly further back. “When it comes to the dark arts, I believe in a practical approach. There's nothing out there that will really prepare you for what's to come. I survived the war, but it cost me an eye and a leg and more to do so.” He unscrewed the top of the bell jar with stiff, jerky motions and placed it on the desk in front of him. “There are only three curses that will get you a lifetime ticket to Azkaban if performed, or attempted, on another human being.” Harry shared a wary glance with Michael; his friend had heard correctly. “Can anyone name any of them?”

“The Imperius Curse,” Zacharias suggested with only the slightest hint of a sneer.

“You'd know all about that one, wouldn't you, boy?” The ex-auror barked. Zach had the common sense to stay quiet for once, but Harry had little doubt he was seething inside. Professor Moody levitated the spider out of the jar and onto the desk. “Nasty curse the Imperius, it gives complete control of the victim to the caster. The ministry had terrible trouble with it, because it's hard to tell when anyone is under its effects. It is, however, the only one of three that can be defended against as a strong-willed wizard or witch can fight it off.”

The scarred ex-auror raised his wand, a thick, notched piece of wood and pointed it at the hapless spider. “Imperio,” he growled. To the amusement of most,

the spider careened around the room, scuttling over students and dancing on desks. Neither Harry nor Michael laughed. Harry knew from his book the unpleasant truth of the curse and Michael, well Michael was still afraid of spiders. “Another curse?” Their teacher asked as the spider obediently crawled back to his desk.

“The Cruciatus Curse,” Michael whispered. He looked even more pale than he had during breakfast and Harry thought he glimpsed his hands trembling within his sleeves.

“Yes, Mr. Corner, the torture curse, it’s incantation is crucio.” The ex-auror's magical eye froze on Mike’s face. “I will not be demonstrating that one in front of the eyes of children.” He scooped the spider up and poked it back into the jar with the tip of his wand. “And the last one?” He finished, returning his wand to a holster along his forearm.

“The Killing Curse,” Sue murmured.

“Speak up, Li,” the professor snapped. “You are correct. The Killing Curse. It cannot be deflected, or magically blocked; its only survivor is Mr Potter.” Professor Moody regarded both him and his scar with an air of suspicion for a moment then looked down to screw the jar lid back on. Harry noted he had not told the class the words for the killing spell.

It’s probably for the best, otherwise Zacharias and his lackeys will be out practicing it on small animals before the end of the day.

“Blimey,” Michael whispered. “That was an intense lesson.”

“The lesson has not yet ended, Mr. Corner,” Professor Moody retorted from the front of the class where he was tucking the jar of spiders back under his desk. “There is a very lengthy chapter on hex-deflection in the text I recommended for this year, read it before next lesson, either in here or wherever you please.” He turned and stomped into his office and Harry glimpsed an array of fascinating looking glass and mirror-like artefacts.

I wonder what those do?

“Come on,” Sue tugged at his arm, waking him momentarily.

“I've got to go get started on Flitwick's essay,” Harry apologized as if muscle memory. “I don't want to fall behind.” Sue gave him a look of disapproval as he hurried off.

Ravenclaw Common-room was quiet and empty when he reached it. He vanished the dust on the stairs up to the tower. “I'm back,” he told the hidden door.

“Oh, joy,” he heard the portrait announce from within, “company.” Despite the comments of the snarky painting of Rowena Ravenclaw, he strode across the closed-off corridor eagerly.

So much I want to try!

“You are back,” the ancient painting remarked as he entered. “That seemed very quick, decided not to go to class then.”

“It's been over a day…” Harry trailed off uncertainly.

“How am I supposed to know,”

the witch demanded. “There aren't any windows in here, and the last I knew the year it was the mid-twentieth century.”

“The century is almost over,” Harry informed her.

“Like I care,” Ravenclaw retorted. “I'm a painting. I will exist until I am destroyed, time means little to me now.” Harry raised an eyebrow and wondered how bad Salazar Slytherin must have been if he was the childish one.

“I thought the two of you were supposed to be enemies, Salazar and you, not involved in some war of pranks?” Harry’s brows raised questionably.

“I did not carry out pranks,” Rowena objected, thoroughly displeased by even the idea. “We had a healthy spirit of competition. I made all the wards around the castle with Godric, so he transfigured and enchanted all the gargoyles and suits of armour. When I created the Headmaster's office with Helga, he and Godric snuck off to make some secret rooms

of their own. They were very proud of them. Especially when I couldn't find either,” she groused.

“What secret rooms?” Harry inquired, undeniably curious.

Well I know there’s the chamber.

“Godric called his the Room of Requirement,” she explained. “I never found it, but they never found my nest either.”

“Any idea where it is?” Harry asked. “Or what it does?”

“Presumably it is whatever it is required to be, but no, I'm not sure exactly where it is, or how to find it. I narrowed it down to the seventh floor, but it would be a waste of time searching for it when you have all this.” Rowena gestured grandiosely around her secret study, nearly dislodging her raven from her perky shoulder.

“True,” Harry agreed. “I have some magic to practice,” he told the portrait.

“Not in here you don't,” the painting snapped. “Out into the hall where you won't make a mess of everything.”

“Reducto,” he cried, stepping outside, whipping his wand through two sides of a triangle, and unleashing the blasting curse in the general direction of the glass walls.

The wall didn’t even shudder.

Magically resistant then, Harry decided thankfully.

“Reducto,” he tried again. The curse sailed past the alcoves and struck the pile of feathers at the far end of the chamber. It left nothing but a very fine dust in it’s wake.

A few additional attempts, and exponentially more renditions of the mending charm, and Harry had gotten quite adept at changing the strength of the spell.

“Have you finished destroying the finest room in this castle?” The portrait asked acidly when he wandered back into the study. Her eyebrows curved alarmingly.

“I fixed it afterwards,” he defended. “Do you know anything about using transfiguration and conjuration in duels?”

“I am Rowena Ravenclaw,” the painting replied indignantly.

“You said Salazar Slytherin was the expert,” Harry chided.

“I'd like to think I know enough to teach a fourteen year old,” Rowena shot back. “Sit and listen.”

“I've used it before,” Harry mentioned on his way to the chair behind the desk.

“You have?” That seemed to have perked the founder's interest.

“I conjured a basilisk out of ash and killed a wizard who was attacking me,” Harry confessed.

“Good for you,” she testily answered, utterly unconcerned by what was tantamount to murder. “What was the spell? Serpensortia?”

“I didn't use a spell, I just waved my wand and made it happen.”’Harry tried very, very hard to make that sound less childish than it did. He failed miserably.

“Show me.” She gestured with a raised arm.

“You said not to do magic in here,” Harry objected.

“So pick me up off the wall,” the portrait snarked, “and carry me out there. It will be nice to have a change of scenery.”

The ancient painting was heavy and Harry staggered clumsily along the hallway, hoping very much he didn't fall. The founder berated him every time he lurched too close to the windows.

“Is that my common room?” She stared at the oblivious Ravenclaw students who were relaxing through the stain-glassed windows below.

“Yes,” Harry gave the enormous birth a glance.

“Beautiful,” the founder smiled. “They can’t hear or see us, I enchanted the walls and windows to be foolproof.”

“I sorta deduced that for myself,” chuckled Harry.

“Now, show me this conjured serpent,' the painting asked once it had regained it’s calm.

“I managed to repeat it with fire,” Harry began, “but I don't know how well water will work.”

“Just try, it shouldn't really matter,” she snapped sharply.

Picturing the basilisk coalescing from a conjured basin, just as it had struck from the cloud of ash Harry slashed his wand forwards and well away from himself. A vast, liquid basilisk maw rose from the pool to crash like a wave against the wall across from Harry. It disintegrated back into the makeshift sink in a wild spray after impact.

“Well now,” Rowena remarked, “that's a very impressive piece of silent battle-conjuration. If you hadn't used a serpent I daresay, I might have deigned to teach you.”

“Er, thanks,” Harry replied. He wasn't sure if anything connected to Salazar Slytherin was compliment when it came from the mouth of the painting of one of his rivals.

“Try again. This time don't imagine a striking snake, but one that hovers in the air over the water,” she instructed.

Harry dutifully did so and they watched as the water rose to roil in the form of the king of serpents. It hung for a few seconds, coiling and twisting as it awaited a command, then Harry's magic gave out on him and both he and the snake collapsed.

“I can imagine how tiring that must have been,” the ancient painting said once Harry had regained his breath. “It looks powerful, but draining. That's not a spell you should be using until you've got a lot better at directing your magic.”

“I have no idea how to do that,” Harry admitted pathetically, in between gasps.

Rowena gave him an incredulous look. “To conjure and animate something like that would require a great deal of magic. Even in my prime I would be capable of wielding it for no more than a minute or two and you're using imprecise wand movements and pouring magic all over the place. Focus on only your spell when you cast it and keep your wand movements small.”

Harry struggled to stand and try again but the painting shook its head. “Not now. Get some food and rest.” She eyed Salazar’s apparent heir critically. “I'd recommend it.” She then turned and gazed her deep blue eyes directly at Harry. “You don't have delusions of vengeance against muggles or an over-inflated sense of self-worth do you?”

“Not that I am aware of,” Harry answered tensely, confused where the sudden shift of subject matter arose from.

“Good.” The painting nodded. The Raven on her shoulder nodded too. “Redeem the title of Heir of Slytherin if you dislike the connotations he gave it so much.” Harry carried the portrait back to its resting place. “Now go, relax, it will make carrying my picture a lot easier if you did. You're his heir, the last reputable member of his family as far as I know. I'll help you as much as you allow me, especially since you saved me from the insane ramblings of that poor girl.”

“I'm not sure I want to ask,” Harry decided aloud.

“She had nightmares,' Rowena explained simply. “I think the magic which was used to hurt her. She is now free of Tom Riddle and I no longer have to listen to her tortured raving.”

“Why did she leave?” Harry asked after a moment. “I just walked in here and found the study and it's far too tidy to have housed an angry girl.”

“She slept in the dormitory,” the painting elucidated.

Harry threw a glance around the study. He would have liked to stay longer and study more. Wonder who she was...

“I'm going to head back to the tower,” Harry announced, turning to exit.

Cho was waiting for him in the common room when he returned. “Where have you been?” The taller girl demanded, taking ahold of his arms and squeezing them motherly. “I looked in the library, and asked around, but nobody had seen you since you left after your class.”

Harry shrugged vaguely. “It's easier to work out of sight where I won't be disturbed.”

“Did you finish the charms essay? Sue told me. I can look over it for you.” She seated him down and he was a bit surprised at how strong she was when she wanted to be.

She’s on the Quidditch team for a reason, he remembered.

“It's not quite done yet,” he lied. “I want to check a couple of things, maybe squeeze in an extra bit to give Flitwick a good impression at the start of the year.”

“Good idea,” she agreed. Harry was rather surprised by how well he deceived her. He was also rather sickened by how smooth it had all sounded.

Tom Riddle would be proud.

“Michael’s upstairs with Roger and Terry,” Cho told him. “Luna said he was fine, since Sue told me you were so concerned earlier, but I think the Unforgivables really bother him.”

So that’s what she wanted earlier, Harry suppressed a frown at Sue’s indirectness.

“The Unforgivable Curses bother everyone except the worst kind of wizards, Cho. What would you have to be to not be bothered by curses to control, torture and kill?” Harry said, beginning to get nervous as Cho’s arms were squeezing his so hardly he could feel his bones, being reminded vaguely of his dream at the World Cup and wondering if it had any basis in reality.

“I think they bother Michael more than most,” she replied quietly. “I'm going upstairs, you're acting differently again.”

She released her death grip on Harry, to his relief and he watched her disappear towards the girl's dormitories.

Differently?

E/N: Please leave an elaborate review.

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

Chapter 4

“Telephones?” Harry reluctantly replied, staring expectantly at the eagle-shaped knocker that led into the entrance of Ravenclaw tower.

“Incorrect,” the door handle giggled. “Again: what doesn’t ask questions, but is usually answered?”

“Let me try again,” Harry defended, seemingly annoyed. Thinking hard about the riddle, Harry attempted again. “A doorbell,” he enunciated finally.

The handle shuddered and pulled away, revealing the entrance. “That's more like it!” It swayed gleefully. It was actually the first time Harry had really seen it so happy.

“Thanks,” Harry confessed, blushing furiously.

“That was definitely better,” the door handle cooed, still cheerful.

He stepped towards the common room, giving the regal inside a rather pleased look. Harry cast a sceptical glance down the length of the room, nobody was here at this time.

“There’s a secret to this room,” the handle said. “Rowena Ravenclaw’s office. It’s at the very top, on top of the seventh year dormitories. But only her voice can take you there.”

Harry shot his head around to question the knob but it closed, sealing him in. “Hmm,” he hummed. Harry followed the small set of footsteps up through the dorms. The stairs led to a door that was identical to the entrance.

There was a very long silence as Harry stared at the hidden door, trying to decide what to do, then, from within in came a distinctly unimpressed voice, “what a ridiculous way to impress me, you know.”

It took a moment for Harry to get over the shock at hearing another voice in the empty common room. He firmly reminded himself that whoever it was, it could not be Rowena Ravenclaw, since she was long dead.

“And no,” the mysterious voice continued rather petulantly, “I won't speak to you.” Harry did a rather sharp double take.

That can't possibly be the voice of Rowena Ravenclaw?

“Open,” he ordered, half-heartedly. He had been rather resigned himself to getting lost and so was pleasantly surprised when it cracked ajar.

“Oh, by all means come in,” the voice started up again sarcastically. “I'd like another visitor, my only other company has been my annoying heiress.”

Harry strode through the secret door and gazed around as the gate shut behind him and integrated into the wall. It was a study. Actually it quite reminded him of the headmaster's office, with shelves of books, odd magical instruments and a carved marble basin rather like the one he had often glimpsed in Dumbledore's cabinet.

“Just stand there and gawp, that's exactly what the other one did.” Harry whirled round to stare at the clearly ancient portrait that hung above the door. It held a rather young, formidable looking witch, dressed in blue and bronze robes with a raven of some sort sitting on her shoulders, just above where her ebony hair hung to. “Well you look sane,” the portrait mused, “but the last one did as well and look how that turned out.”

“Who, exactly, are you?” Harry scrunched his brows together.

“Portraits are named,” the dark-haired witch sighed. “I always hated children.”

“Rowena Ravenclaw,” Harry read aloud. Then, more curiously, “if you hate children, why found a school?”

“It wasn't safe for magical children to just learn their craft all over the place. Don't you know anything about the burnings?” The sarcasm had disappeared at the mention of burnings to be replaced with deep disgust.

“Witch burning?” Harry’s eyes widened.

“Sort of. The muggles couldn't actually burn witches and wizards, but they got a fair few of our children after they were seen performing accidental magic. Burning children alive.” The portrait’s eyes filled with fury. “They call us demons,” she snorted. “Hogwarts was a haven for magical children. They were taught how to control and even hide their magic for their own safety.”

“You don't leave a basilisk that eats children in a school,” Harry pointed out pointedly.

“Salazar’s basilisk was meant to sleep until the school was under attack,” Ravenclaw snapped. “A basilisk is very hard to kill, especially for those without magic. Had anyone ever tried to get to the children here, she would have protected them with her life. It worked perfectly until Tom Riddle twisted it’s commands to his own ends.”

“Tom Riddle,” Harry muttered. “How’d you know about him?”

“Yes. Basilisks are renowned not only for their power, but their loyalty too. She devoted herself to her creator and Slytherin’s command to protect the children from the outside world. Tom Riddle,” Rowena spat, “corrupted my colleague’s creation and set her on children who had come from the outside world to learn here.” Rowena clenched her jaw.

“It's good thing she's dead, then,” Harry said quietly, feeling a little sorry for the serpent.

“Dead?” Ravenclaw remarked. “Who managed to kill her?”

“I did,” Harry sighed, doubting the portrait would believe him.

“You are Slytherin’s heir, I suppose,” the ancient portrait mused, “you would be powerful.”

“I am not his heir.” Harry balled a fist.

“You speak parseltongue, yes,” Ravenclaw told him very slowly, as if addressing an idiot. “It is an ability he created and is tied to himself. Only his direct descendants can speak it.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, embarrassed. “The school all thought that in my second year when the basilisk was attacking students. They blamed me.”

“You can't really blame them,” Ravenclaw replied evenly. “You do speak parseltongue. I assume you're in his house?”

“Yours, actually.” Harry rubbed his teeth together playfully.

“Salazar would have exploded with rage,” the portrait laughed.

Harry's sceptical face caught the attention of the humored witch and sparks flew from her painted wand, startling the raven on her shoulder. It hissed indignantly and took cover within Ravenclaw’s robes.

“Did you think he was an ambitious, clever trickster?” Ravenclaw shook her head in exasperation. “That wizard never matured beyond the age of eighteen. He was an exceptional duelist, quite brilliant and creative too, but cursed with an angry teenager’s sense of maturity. Most of the things he did around this school were actually done by Godric and I after the idiot injured himself trying to enchant things in overly complicated ways.”

“I'm quite witty,” Harry offered as an explanation of his sorting. “The hat did suggest Slytherin too, but I chose Ravenclaw.”

“Interesting,” Ravenclaw mused. “Who would want to live in the basement when they could have a view out over the Black Lake and castle grounds.” She calmed down fairly quickly with only a few more murmurs about irate Salazar and the raven deemed it safe to return to perching on her shoulder.

“I'm Harry Potter,” he introduced himself, realising he still hadn't and almost extending his hand to the picture.

“Rowena Ravenclaw, and I can't shake it but I appreciate your manners.” It struck Harry then a considerable amount of time might have passed and he should probably make his way to class.

“I think I have to go to class now,” he told the ancient painting.

“How old are you?” It asked, ignoring his statement completely.

“Fourteen.” Harry scratched the side of his head, disheveling his lengthy lochs.

“Your eyes are older,” Ravenclaw responded after a moment. “Return here whenever you like. My library and study are yours provided you're tidy and not as reckless as Salazar.”

“Thank you,” Harry answered earnestly as he left.

The wooden door peeled back into the common-room once he opened it and Harry made his way back down the stairs, throwing a regretful look at the fire.

I’m late for Ancient Runes, he decided.

Striding swiftly across the school in the direction of his new class he caught sight of Sue just leaving the Great Hall after breakfast. Hurrying after her down the corridor towards the classroom for Ancient Runes he narrowly avoided sending Zacharias Smith sprawling. The arrogant Hufflepuff was sent scrambling for his bag amongst the feet of the students traversing the corridor. Harry laughed and followed down the hall. Bathsheda Babbling, the current professor, was fortunately doing her best to live up to her name in the corridor outside the class amongst a gaggle of seventh years and Harry slipped past her to join Sue in the front row.

If only she’d sat in the back. Harry sighed.

“Welcome back to Ancient Runes,” their professor gushed immediately upon entering. “Happily everyone survived from third year and we even have an additional student,” she gestured at Harry, “who needs no introduction.” There was a rustle as all the students turned to look at him, his scar, and then back to their bubbly professor. “I trust you've all brought your copies of Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms,” Professor Babbling said sweetly. “As this is the first lesson I'll allow you to recap anything you feel you need to or just get started on the material for this year while I chat with Harry and start planning our year together in detail.” Babbling gesticulated for Harry to join her in her office. “Harry,” she smiled cheerfully, “mind joining me in my office.”

“Of course not, professor.” Harry abandoned his already finished book and followed the professor through, into her office.

It was a small, cramped room the walls of which had been repeatedly covered and recovered in parchment.

She probably works on them, Harry noted Professor Babbling used it to work on as there were runes and notes scrawled all across the parchment draped walls in different coloured inks.

“My office is my playground,” the professor explained with a cheery wave at the walls. “So why did you decide to switch to my class?”

“I find runes quite interesting,” Harry replied earnestly, “specifically their applications in wards and, if I'm being completely honest, Professor Trelawney was a bit too fond of predicting my death.”

“How horrible,” Professor Babbling remarked. “I'm glad you have a genuine interest in the subject, this is a small group and we tend to move quite fast, so anyone not on board gets left behind.” She was staring at a particular set of runes emblazoned on the wall beside Harry's hair. “Back to class then,” she smiled. “I won't pass your concerns about Professor Trelawney on, between the two of us, I've never really had time for a subject as imprecise and vague as divination.”

Sue spent the whole session lost in the book, gazing into it’s pages in a manner amusingly reminiscent of her least favourite divination teacher. Harry meanwhile quietly flicked through the pages of his own copy, eager for the day to end so he could return to Ravenclaw’s Nest again.

A fitting title for a secret room atop Ravenclaw tower, he decided.

“What did Professor Babbling want?” Sue asked when the lesson came to an end.

“She just wanted to know why I switched to Ancient Runes and to warn me about how fast the class will move.” Harry strolled alongside his friend as they danced down the hall.

“We do go fast,” Sue agreed, “but if you're already ahead in transfiguration, then you'll be able to redistribute your time and keep up.” She shot him a smile that seemed almost proud. “Why did you switch?”

“I told you. I got a bit tired to being told how I was going to die every lesson.” Harry rolled his eyes.

“It's Arithmancy now,” she said, beginning to rummage through her bag. “I've got the notes from last year. I thought you might like them if you wanted to go over what we did or anything.”

Harry accepted them with a grateful smile. I don’t need these but it’ll save me buying any textbooks.

Septima Vector, the Arithmancy teacher, reminded Harry very much of his math teachers from muggle school. She had the same air of neat, logical action. He settled in his seat and watched Sue happily work her way through the exercises.

“Why aren't you working?” She asked, when she eventually looked up to see him doodling on the edge of his parchment.

“This isn't the form of Arithmancy I'm particularly interested in,” he admitted. “I read a lot in the summer, but everything I want to learn isn't covered until after OWLs.”

“Advanced Arithmancy is supposed to be one of the hardest classes,” Sue responded rather dubiously. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. This is just the basics behind the theory to any passable enchanting or warding. After OWLs, they cover all the complex, interesting stuff. Two-dimensional equations are useless to describe magical patterns when any magic we fold into planes for warding or enchanting will be done in reality, an obviously three-dimensional construct.” Harry scribbled harder, not bothering to look up at his asian associate.

Sue paused and seemed to be going over what he had said in her head.

“I guess that does make sense,” she agreed, “but you'll still need to know this stuff.”

“I already know enough to get by until Professor Vector sets more complex assignments,” he answered. Harry leant across to fill in the answers to the very last and only incomplete question on her parchment. “See, easy.”

Sue shot him an angry look and scribbled out his answer to work it out herself. Harry returned to his doodling. He had just finished adding feathers to the head of his Arithmancy raven when class came to an end. Sue had eaten her lunch rather sullenly next time him. Cho was equally subdued and still quite bleary eyed.

“Divination was absolute hell without you, mate,” Michael mumbled from next to him as he stared at his food with hesitation. “I had to partner with Mandy. She was so enthusiastic. It was no fun at all.”

“What's your horoscope?” Harry perked a brow, turning to gaze into Michael’s dark orbs.

“Well I'm not going to die, so it beats whatever yours would have been. Mandy mentioned something to do with fire and veela, but I think she was talking to Padma about the World Cup.” Michael scooped up a spoonful of some unrecognizable glop into his mouth.

“You slept through the whole thing didn't you,” Harry concluded sympathetically.

“It's so warm and stuffy,” Michael complained. “I don't know how anyone stays awake.”

“It's history of magic next for you,” Luna interceded, “no need for anyone to stir themselves. Even my pa says that the subject is a waste of time while Binns is still teaching it.”

“You know they say that his body is actually still in his office from where he died and that he just kept teaching as a ghost.” Roger tickled his beard thoughtfully.

“Aren't ghosts meant to have a reason to linger?” Michael asked Cho.

“Maybe he hadn't finished marking essays,” Roger snickered, when Cho didn't respond.

“How does he mark our essays?” Sue wondered aloud. “He can't exactly touch them, can he?”

“Maybe that's why he never notices when we don't hand anything in,”

Michael grinned.

True to its usual standard, History of Magic was lectured to a class that was largely asleep. Harry was sure in the few times he had glanced up from his book on advanced transfiguration that Binns had been addressing the class from within the wall. He shook his head. Having a ghost for a teacher was a terrible idea. Even Sue wasn't really paying attention. She had opted to use the time to get started on the essay Binns had set rather than listen to his voice echo out from the wall about goblin tunnel skirmishes. Harry only looked up from the passage in his book about human transfiguration to nudge Michael whenever he started to snore too loudly. The theory of the book, A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, was truly fascinating.

Something for a later date, he decided and swapped the book for his copy of Confronting the Faceless. There was quite a nice selection of curse and counter-curses in his new book, many of which were quite advanced and included the nasty purple looking spell he had been attacked with. Lacero was the incantation for a rather nasty adaption of the cutting spell that was intended for flesh rather than inanimate things. In its later pages, Harry found a section on the unforgivable curses, including the Cruciatus curse he had been hit with at the World Cup. The Imperius curse, described over the page, intrigued him. It was the only unforgivable that could be defended against, even if it required very strong will power to do so. The book suggested that practice would make it easier to fight off.

You'd have to be mad to risk being caught casting it. It, like all Unforgivables, carried a lifetime sentence in Azkaban for being caught casting it at someone.

Absentmindedly he traced the scar on his forehead, remembering dreams that always ended the same way. A flash of bright green light.

“Avada Kedavra,” he murmured very quietly.

Disclaimer: Sadly I still don't own anything. This belongs to DarknessEnthroned & JK Rowling. I am simply posting it here for my own enjoyment and the enjoyment of others.

Chapter 3

“Welcome back to potions,” Snape's drawl was the only thing really capable of penetrating the gloom of the dungeons and Harry repressed the urge to sigh. “This,” the insufferable professor continued, “is the year before OWLs and thus the year in which those who truly have the talent for potions begin to separate themselves from those too lazy to apply themselves to such a delicate art.” Harry didn't need to look up to know that the eyes of his professor were fixed on him.

Where does he get his impression of me from?

“The instructions are on the board.” Snape flourished his wand over dramatically to dispel the illusion there. “Begin,” he sneered.

Harry sighed and reached for his new, more expensive, silver-plated knife he had purchased from Diagon Alley, before the school year had begun. Michael was slaving over his cauldron on the closest bench with all the delicacy of a confounded troll. His neatly diced toad liver had gone in misshapen chunks and Harry was fairly sure he had added almost twice as much sneezewort as necessary.

It might be a good idea to finish before that explodes, he decided.

Leeches were the key to this potion. This was something that Zacharias Smith, in all his hotheadedness, had seemed to grasp, as he was attempting to cut his in mid air while poor Hannah Abbot held them and flinched away from the ornately engraved knife he wielded. Harry grinned at Zacharias’ ridiculous efforts and returned to his own potion. He had two knives and the older would work as a makeshift chopping board. Carefully he sliced his leeches, trying his best to avoid letting any of the slimy creatures touch the desk, or anything else, before adding them. To his delight the potion gradually changed colour, slowly shifting towards the transcribed shimmering turquoise. Taking a sneak peak at Sue’s as she carefully prepared a vial he fancied that he had done just as well as she had. Stoppering his flask and noting with some glee that he was the first to finish, something that would definitely annoy Snape, he made his way to the front of the class. Professor Snape gave only a dismissive sneer as he placed his vial in the rack, but Harry was certain he could feel his eyes tracking him on his way back to his desk. When he turned around, however, he found Snape had moved on to lurk ominously over Sue’s attempts. Hovering over Sue was something Snape seemed to enjoy and the poor girl immediately cracked under his teacher's oppressive scrutiny. The potion went from her perfect turquoise to a shade of yellow so sickly and bright it attracted the attention of most of the class.

“Li,” Snape tutted. “It was going well, but your utterly inescapable ineptitude has proven itself again.” He swept back past Harry to his gloom shrouded desk, passing an oddly curious eye over Harry’s attempt to leave his cauldron immaculately clean.

Terry finished next, then Zacharias and soon most of the class were making some half-hearted attempt to clean their cauldrons while Sue desperately tried to rescue whatever concoction she had produced. It was a sort of bright, lime green when she eventually gave up, better, admittedly, than yellow, but nowhere close to the required turquoise.

Reminds me of the basilisk’s scales, Harry eyed the potion warily.

Most of the potions on Snape's rack of vials for submission were some sort of blue-green variant, but only a handful came close to his own.

“If that is everyone you may leave,” Snape drawled from a particularly dark corner. Somehow he had crossed the classroom without anyone noticing. “I won't bother assessing your work, Li, don't worry.” Harry winced as he made his way towards the door, he'd come away relatively unscathed from Snape, but Sue seemed to have taken his place instead. “Potter, remain behind if you'd be so kind.”

I knew it was too good to be true.

Snape was looming over the rack of vials when he turned back. “What do you think this is, Potter?” His lips curled in disgust.

“My inevitably ungradeable attempt at potions making.” He fought to keep the smile off his face.

“This,” Snape gave him a surprisingly neutral stare, “is a passable attempt. Not the standard I expect from students looking to continue after OWLs, but close enough that I might begin to hope of keeping the school's most prominent celebrity a little longer.”

That sounded almost like a backhanded compliment.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry responded uncertainly.

“My teaching has nothing to do with your improvement, Potter,” Snape snapped. “You finally deciding to apply what I've been fruitlessly filling your head with is promising, but no less than the wizarding world demands from someone of your elated stature. Do not slip back into your previous levels of mediocrity.”

“I'll try my best, sir,” Harry replied, eager to be on his way to Transfiguration.

“See that you do.” His potions professor disappeared into his office in an unnecessary if impressive swirl of cloak and robes.

Right.

Harry exited the classroom and shuffled off towards Transfiguration as quickly as he could, squeezing through a trifle of seventh years who were discussing the Triwizard Tournament on his way there. Professor Mcgonagall had given him a somewhat disapproving glance when he slipped onto the back row of desks a few moments after the lesson had started, but she hadn't said anything or deducted points.

Maybe she knows I just came from potions?

A cage of rather innocent looking guinea fowl clucked from atop her desk. The birds didn't look anywhere near alarmed enough for whatever was about to happen to them.

“Today, we will be transfiguring guinea fowl into guinea pigs.” Their stern professor flicked her wand and the cages floated across to deposit themselves in front of each student. “This type of transformation is as complex as any we will attempt this year.”

The level of clucking swiftly escalated as the class fell to a comical level of desperate wand waving. Harry eyed his bird curiously. His guinea fowl did look surprisingly plump, but, out of a desire to not eat whatever Neville Longbottom created, he would be avoiding poultry for the next few meals, as the shy Gryffindor was fruitlessly attempting to transfigure his fowl, only to end up damaging it beyond all recognition.

“Very good, Miss Granger, take ten points,” Professor Mcgonagall's voice rang out.

Ten points seemed slightly generous since Hermione Granger’s guinea pig did still have the occasional feather and its feet seemed to have retained a slightly birdlike, taloned aspect to it. Hermione didn't seem to care though and glowed with pride. Nobody else in the rest of the class had come anywhere close, though Seamus Finnigan had somehow managed to change his fowls feathers green and Michael’s had plucked itself. Michael was probably considering lunch from the look of things.

“Harry,” Sue nudged him, “aren't you even going to try? It's not that hard you know.”

Time to put my summer of study to use.

Slipping his wand from his sleeve, Harry tapped the guinea fowl on the head, earning himself a sharp, annoyed cluck from the bird.

“That's not the proper wand action, Harry,” Sue began exasperatedly, but whatever else she had been going to say was lost on her tongue as the bird changed into a perfect guinea pig.

Harry shot her a beatific smile.

“But that was your first try,” Sue stuttered. “It took me almost five.”

“Five!” Harry pulled a shocked expression. “It’s not that hard you know,” he imitated.

See how she likes it. You shouldn't rub your success in others' faces.

Sue huffed and turned away to watch Michael whose guinea fowl was beginning to look more and more like it had been roasted and nobody else in the class had really improved either.

“Well done, Mr Potter.” Harry jumped as Professor Mcgonagall appeared over his shoulder. “Twenty points to Ravenclaw for a perfect species-switch transfiguration. I daresay you might have inherited your father's talent for my subject as well as his tendency to overlook the rules.”

Hermione Granger looked distinctly put out with his reward and he hid his smile.

“I can't believe you did that on your first try, Harry,” the Gryffindor girl congratulated him after a moment. “That's really lucky. If only Ron was as fortunate as you.”

Lucky. Is she really incapable of accepting that someone might have done better than her?

A loud bang from the row behind drew the attention of most of the class. Neville Longbottom’s increasingly frustrated attempts had lead to him knocking his guinea fowl cage off the desk with his arm, spilling Seamus’ bottle of water.

“Mr. Longbottom,” their transfiguration professor lamented, “focus on the outcome you desire, don't just wave your wand like a baby's rattle.”

The spilt water was streaming towards Sue’s bag, which was no doubt full of books and notes.

A disaster in the making.

He vanished the encroaching liquid before it could ruin his friend's things and Sue, who had been scrambling to retrieve anything from the water's path gave a loud sigh of relief.

“Thank you, professor,” she exclaimed loudly.

“Pardon me, Miss Li,” Professor Mcgonagall responded from her desk, her wand rather unhelpfully placed out of reach for her to claim the credit for his timely intervention.

“Nothing, professor,” Sue said confusedly, catching sight of her wand. “Vanishing is an advanced fifth year spell,” she muttered to herself as she carefully rummaged through her bag to ensure nothing was damaged. “I can't do a vanishing spell yet. If I could I would use it on Michael’s stupid quidditch posters.”

Harry laughed and turned away, returning his wand to his sleeve.

Later in class, Sue had taken to jabbing her wand frustratedly at small pieces of parchment and snapping the incantation for the vanishing spell under her breath. She had managed to make the edges of the torn fragment fade a little as they packed away to leave, heading in the direction of the Great Hall.

There was no poultry at lunch, something for which Harry was quite relieved, and Michael seemed distinctly disheartened by. No doubt his dark-haired kin had spent most of their transfiguration imagining how his guinea fowl would taste rather how it would become a guinea pig.

“What did Snape want?” Sue asked him in-between bites of a precariously made sandwich. “I forgot to ask earlier.”

“Told me my work was finally passable and that I shouldn't slide back into mediocrity,” Harry replied, as several slices of radish escaped Sue’s lunch and made a bid for freedom across the table. They only rolled as far as Michael who gratefully accepted the contribution to his meal.

“That was awfully nice of him,” Michael sniggered. “Did he deduct points to compensate as well?”

“No. He didn't take any points off me today actually.” Harry gathered some lunchtime foods onto his plate as he explained, his eye affixed on a particularly tasty looking plum.

“Odd, normally at least ten are gone in our first potions lesson, maybe he was happy about something and forgot,” Terry had a point.

“What would Snape be happy about?” Michael asked incredulously through a mouthful of cold beef.

“He's probably anticipating failing all your OWL exams,” Luna cut in dreamily. “My Pa will kill me if I don't get at least five OWLs like my mother.”

'It's three years away for you, Luna,” Michael exclaimed. “Harry has to go through three near-death experiences first, you've got a huge edge.” The table laughed with the exception of Sue who was still trying to vanish her piece of parchment with a single-minded determination Harry had rarely seen, even from her.

“I've had my one for this year, thanks,” Harry interceded.

“It doesn't count, mate,” Michael countered. “The Bulgarian cheerleader cancels it out.” The guys nodded in agreement.

“She wasn't that gorgeous, Mike,” Harry defended. “And all she did was carry me while I was unconscious. Hardly anything to be proud of.”

“She was a veela, Harry,” Anthony said. “Those legends about the sirens in the Odyssey are supposed to be based on veela. You've outdone Ulysses.” That brought blank looks from those raised in the magical world. “It's a really famous story,” Anthony exclaimed. “How could you have not heard of it? Harry, Sue, back me up, everyone knows about the Iliad and the Odyssey.”

Sue didn't stir from her attempts at vanishing and Harry was beginning to feel rather guilty. I suppose I should come clean.

He leaned over Sue’s shoulder to tap his wand against the small fragment of parchment and watched with a small smile as it immediately faded from existence. Sue whirled around like a viper.

“How did you do that?” She hissed. “I've been trying since transfiguration.”

“It's not too tricky, you just have to visualise what you want to happen and really focus when you perform the spell.” He shrugged rather helplessly. “It's like all magic really, but it affects transfiguration more.”

She looked scandalised by his casual description and reached for another piece of parchment.

Harry caught her hand. “It's an advanced OWL year spell, Sue, plenty of time to practise later. Can't have you starving, and someone needs to help Anthony and I defend the Odyssey.”

“The Odyssey,” she responded blankly.

“See,” Michael crowed. “Sue doesn't know about it and that means virtually nobody does.”

His friend went rather pink, but shook her head. “I know about the Odyssey, Michael, it's one of the most famous stories ever written and it's over two thousand years old, but I have no idea why you're all talking about it.”

“Anthony said there are veela in it,” Roger explained rather bravely.

“Are attractive, part-human women all you people think about it,” his friend retorted testily, the flush fading to a more indignant expression. “I assume he was referring to the sirens that Ulysses encounters.” Harry nodded. “He's probably right,” she acquiesced after a moment, “but you can't still be thinking about the Bulgarian cheerleaders, their charm only works when you're looking at them.”

“They were goddesses,” Michael defended, adopting a rather dreamy expression, before bursting into laughter at the reactions of both Sue and Cho, the latter of whom had been passing by.

The guys began to whisper about the beauty of veela as Michael explained and related the actions of the referee at the World Cup.

“How did you get so good at transfiguration,” Sue asked him in a surprisingly humble tone.

“I spent the summer reading up on all the theory,” Harry explained. “I never bothered before as I'd just picture what I wanted to happen and with a bit of practice I'd get the hang of it. I did it for all our subjects, but I'd imagine transfiguration will be one of my best now since it's quite intent based and very visual. My dad was supposed to be really good at it.”

“Oh,” Sue nodded, seeming to accept his honest answer. “I didn't know he was so good at transfiguration.”

“He and his friends were animagi during their mid-school years, Sue,” Harry laughed. “Even basic human transfiguration isn't covered until our last two years, let alone full animagus transformations.”

“I guess that does make sense.” Sue seemed to be struggling with something. “It's good you've started studying seriously,” she added. She didn't seem completely pleased with it, a touch too bitter to be just impressed.

“Time for charms,” Michael sighed, throwing one forlorn glance back into the Great Hall as they headed out.

Charms was still in Flitwick's well lit room beside the central tower and thus only a short walk away.

“Repairing, summoning and banishing charms,” Flitwick squeaked quite excitedly from his perch at the front of the class when they had all entered and settled down. “We'll be starting with the mending charm and moving on to the others after Christmas,” the tiny professor explained, waving his wand to reveal his year plan on the board.

“A theory lesson,” Michael groaned quietly from beside him. Even Sue seemed a little let down.

Soon the soft scratching of quills filled the room as the class resigned themselves to only taking notes. Harry flicked a little further through the textbook to the banishing charm, noting with a touch of amusement that Sue had already done so.

The banishing charm was really only the reverse of the summon charm and after a cursory glance through the chapters on its specifics and a cheerful skipping of the history of the charm Harry decided to quietly try it himself. Withholding as much of his magic as possible he whispered the incantation and aimed it at the ink pot of Draco Malfoy, a rather pretentious Slytherin. A soft ripple of air crossed the class and the ink pot gently slid across the desk to the far side, spilling ink across Draco’s notes. Smiling, Harry returned his wand to his sleeve just as the Slytherin student look around indignantly. The spilt ink had spattered a familiar, poisonous green across the parchment Draco was waving angrily in the direction of Professor Flitwick.

Sue perked up through the lesson, clearly glad to be back into the rhythm of taking notes and was even happy enough to let him borrow them tomorrow when he asked after class.

“Did you flick any further through the book?” she questioned him eagerly on their way back to the common room.

“Not really,” he admitted, “nothing more than a skim through the summoning and banishing charm. I was curious, but they both looked quite useful.”

“They do,” Sue agreed, seeming glad of having someone to discuss more advanced topics with all of a sudden. “Summoning is one of the most useful charms, it will save everyone so much time at the library.”

“Madam Pince will murder you if she catches you summoning books, Sue,” Harry grinned.

“What she doesn't know won't upset her,” Sue gestured vaguely, “it doesn't hurt the books, so it's fine.” She bounced animatedly up the spiral staircase alongside him as a puzzled Michael trailed behind them. “Harry,” she began as they reached the bronze eagle-shaped knocker on the door to their common room. “In return for lending my notes for essays would you give me some pointers for casting the spells themselves?”

“Of course,” he agreed readily. “You don't really need them, but if you want.”

“I understand all the theory, of course, but my spells never work first time. I thought it might be worth trying how you visualise them.” Sue answered the knocker’s riddle before entering.

“It's just a good way of focusing the intent that has to accompany your magic.” Harry gesticulated with his hands. “I've some mind-clearing exercises that are supposed to help your focus. I can teach you those.”

“That's a good idea.” Sue balanced on the balls of her feet as they relaxed into the common-room. “Michael needs those. All he does is think about how long is left until the next meal.” Michael threw her a mutinous look, but didn't actually deny her accusation. “I'm going to the library,” Sue decided. “I want to get the essay out of the way before all the other professors give their first homework as well. Come on Michael.” She skipped out through the portrait, trailed by a rather crestfallen Michael who had probably been looking forward to relaxing by the bookcases.

They had left him alone in the common room so he pulled a chair up close to the curtains with the intention of waiting for the others to come back down from the dormitories. Staring into the stars above reminded him of the camp at the World Cup and, unable to resist his curiosity, he retrieved his wand. Picturing the serpent he had conjured from the ash he slashed his wand violently at the remote glass fireplace across from him.

Nothing happened.

Never one to give up straight away, Harry imagined the basilisk forming from fire instead and repeated the wand action. The head of the flaming basilisk lunged at him from the fireplace, fangs agape, and he threw himself backwards out of his chair. It flared out of existence the moment he looked away from the fire and pushed himself back to his feet, swearing under his breath and brushing at his singed robes. Standing his chair back up he firmly replaced his wand up his sleeve to avoid temptation, but he couldn't ignore the shiver of excitement he felt.

Disclaimer: I do not, of course, own JK Rowling's Harry Potter, nor do I own DarknessEnthroned’s A Cadmean Victory, or anything here. This is simply for myself.

Chapter 2

Harry was lying on his back with something warm and soft beneath him, his wand was nearby, yet the most concerning thing was Cho, who standing in front of him. She was brewing something in a vast black cauldron, stirring it cheerfully and looking rather disheveled under a large, cone-shaped witch hat.

Strange.

“What're you making?” He managed to ask.

His friend looked up at him and he recoiled in horror. Cho’s black eyes had grown to almost twice their size and beneath the huge orbs was a cruel, hooked beak.

“Amortentia,” she replied dreamily.

Harry tried to edge away as Cho shuffled closer, frowning, her brows descending and her vast, dark eyes narrowing angrily. She patted him gently on the head as if he were a small kitten. “It's for you,” she told him happily, “drink up!” Cho proffered him a ladleful of bright, silver liquid that steamed and shimmered. It looked almost drinkable until he caught sight of twisting, slithering, silver serpents within it.

“I don't want to.” He shook his head quickly.

“It's for your own good, Harry,” she assured him, raising the ladle to his lips.

“No,” he spluttered, turning his face away and sending the liquid snakes squirming all down his chest.

“You should've drunk it,” Cho screeched, lunging for him. Feathers exploded over her body and her beak gaped towards his head, stretching in a soundless shriek.

Just as the curved tip of her beak was about to reach him there was a flash of green light and Harry flinched upright in his bed with a gasp. It took him a long minute of mind-clearing exercises to regain his even breathing.

“Mr. Potter,” the familiar, stern voice of Madam Pomfrey greeted him, “you're awake.”

“I hope so.” Harry cracked his neck, yawning loudly.

Weird, veela-Cho dream, he shuddered.

Madam Pomfrey sent him an odd look. “You're in the school hospital wing,” she started, “term hasn't actually begun, but it was so close to it, it was decided you'd be better off here than at St Mungo's.”

“What happened?” He glossed a hand over his veil of hair. “I remember falling asleep in the ashes of the camp at the World Cup, but that's it.”

“You were found by one of the Bulgarian team's cheerleaders after the chaos was over by all accounts. She, of course, recognised you and brought you to the nearest hospital point where you were found by the Corner family and Miss Chang, then you were brought here.” Madam Pomfrey paced to and fro, depositing empty potion bottles into a bin.

“Are they okay?” Harry swallowed the knot in his throat.

“Miss Chang and the Corners were all quite worried, but otherwise fine. You however, Mr. Potter, have somehow exhausted your magical core and in recovery, you have set a new record for your lengthiest stay in my hospital wing. I daresay it is the first time that a student has managed that before term has begun,” the old nurse harrumphed.

“That's good,” Harry replied, relieved that the Corners and Cho were fine.

“It's not good, Mr. Potter. Honestly, you seem to almost die at the end of every year, you'd think you might have learnt some caution by now.” Madam Pomfrey fixed him with a disapproving stare.

“It's the start of the year,” Harry responded flippantly, “I wasn't expecting anything for months.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Potter, you are awake, and once I have made sure you are fine; you may return to Ravenclaw Tower.” The strict nurse placed the tip of her wand against his forehead, tutting when Harry flinched slightly. “Everything seems fine,” she nodded. “Off with you, and don't let me see you back in this bed for at least a few months.”

Harry hopped out of bed, absentmindedly transfiguring his hospital gown into a set of school robes.

“You're alive,” Michael greeted him midway across the Great Hall.

“Yes, Michael,” Cho responded, “that's a great way to say hello to your friend who was in a coma because he used too much magic.”

“I don't mind,” Harry laughed at the outraged expression on her face and walked with them on the back end of the hall towards the common room.

“So what happened, mate?” Michael, it seemed, had waited as long as he could before the question burst out.

“I'm not actually sure,” Harry stated carefully, unwilling to mention the ash basilisk. “It was chaotic, one moment I was running with you guys, and the next I was waking up in the hospital wing.”

“The healer at the World Cup said you had put too much strain on your magical core, Harry,” Cho recounted skeptically. “That means you tried to push so much magic into a spell that it forced everything out of your body.”

“I don't remember casting a spell like that,” Harry shrugged. “So what actually happened to cause all that, the fire at the cup that is?”

“They haven't told you yet,” Michael gaped.

“Harry only just woke up, Michael,” Cho sighed. “How could he know?”

“Oh,” Michael looked slightly mollified. “It was Death Eaters, they attacked the site, only you can't tell anyone I said that because we heard it listening to Roger and Mom talking before work. Apparently they attacked the muggles near the site and anyone nearby. It's been chaos at the Ministry since then and Mom reckons something's up because Mr. Crouch has supposedly resigned.”

“That's not what they said,” Cho cut in, frowning, “Mr. Crouch is supposed to be resigning later in the year. Something is happening that he's organised before he can retire easily. He's unofficially resigned.”

“Same thing, Cho,” Michael objected.

“It's not the same thing really, and it means that whatever he's doing must be really important to allow him to continue on.” Harry understood what Cho meant, even if he wasn't sure Michael did.

“There are loads of rumours flying around the Ministry and Roger says that he heard one of the auror captains talking about Barty Crouch's son being found dead in the campsite.” Harry gave Michael a questioning look at his words.

Could explain why Crouch is resigning.

“He was a Death Eater, Harry.” Cho scrunched her fingers together to simulate terror. “Michael never explains anything properly. He was supposed to have died in Azkaban ages ago.”

A horrible chill settled down Harry's spine. The mad, dark wizard he had unleashed the ash basilisk on suddenly seemed very prominent in his mind. “What else happened?”

At least he deserved it, a small voice pointed out. Harry’s stomach felt queasy.

“Not much,” Cho answered. “We were all so worried about you. Mrs. Corner went around every healing point trying to find you.”

“Yeah,” Michael affixed, “and then some gorgeous Bulgarian girl came out of the camp carrying you in her arms. It might have been worth being injured just to be in her arms.” His eyes went slightly hazy at the memory until Cho elbowed him in the gut.

“It's not funny, Michael. That was a veela, they're not just pretty faces you know.” A scowl drew itself upon Cho’s round face.

“They are beautiful, though,” Harry noted absentmindedly, only to receive Cho’s elbow himself. “So, when does term start?” It seemed unwise to continue their current conversation.

“Today, Harry,” she told him.

Harry grimaced, “where is everyone, then?”

“It's only ten, mate.” Michael rubbed Harry’s shoulder. “Still another hour or so before anyone arrives. You need to speak to Dumbledore about what happened. He asked us to tell you when you were awake.”

“I need to change as well,” Harry reminded them.

“You're in school robes.” Cho eyed him as if he were daft.

“I transfigured my hospital gown,” he elucidated. “I don't know how long it will last though.”

“That's quite advanced transfiguration, Harry,” Cho beamed at him. “I only read about doing that last year.”

“Headmaster first, then,” he decided and detoured towards the gargoyle.

“Sugar quills,” Cho commanded the gargoyle and they made their way up to Dumbledore's office.

“Ah, Harry,” the old headmaster smiled after he opened the door. “Come and have a seat. Are you feeling better?”

“Much better, sir.” A soft grin painted itself upwards upon Harry’s visage.

I missed Dumbledore.

“I was beginning to fear you might not wake up in time for the school year and end up missing classes,” the headmaster nodded. The portraits around him appeared to be largely uninterested in their conversation, but Fawkes was peering at him curiously.

I'm sure Snape would've been gutted if I'd missed potions, Harry thought, trying hard to keep a smile from his face.

“Do you remember what happened?” Dumbledore questioned hesitantly. “I don't want you to feel I'm forcing you to think about anything unpleasant, some quite atrocious things were done to the muggle owners of the site.”

“Actually I don't remember much at all, sir,” Harry admitted. “We tried to run out of the camp into the woods, but something hit me and I blacked out. As you know I was found afterwards and brought here.”

The old headmaster ran a hand through his famous, silver beard. “At least you don't remember anything terrible then,” he grinned. “You're too young to have to live with such things.”

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry pursed his lips, drumming his fingers softly against the wall, looking anywhere but at the aged wizard’s eyes. “Is it true about Barty Crouch's son? I heard he was found in the camp.”

“Unfortunately it does seem to be the case, though I recommend you keep this information to yourselves. It could cause great panic if everyone suddenly starts to think Azkaban can't keep hold of its prisoners.” Dumbledore frowned.

Especially after the fiasco from last year, Harry thought bitterly.

“We will, professor,” Cho answered enthusiastically.

“You had best go and prepare for the welcoming feast, Harry,” Professor Dumbledore suggested gently, eyes twinkling. “Those transfigured robes, while impressive, may not last for the whole meal.”

“I was going to, sir.” Harry bobbed his head shyly.

“Very well then. Try and stay out of trouble this year, Harry. There will be unfamiliar faces around us soon,” the Headmaster warned politely.

“Of course there will unfamiliar faces,” Michael blurted the moment the gargoyle closed. “The first years will be here, they come every year.”

“I doubt he means the first years, Michael,” Cho laughed. “It's probably something to do with whatever Mr. Crouch was organizing. He mentioned being at Hogwarts to Roger at the World Cup.”

The Ravenclaw common room was empty when they arrived, but somebody had pinned the schedules of the students to the board for each dormitory. Someone whom both Harry and Michael thought deserved a good hexing since the moment Cho had seen them she had instantly flown into a rant about Michael’s options. Harry had managed to quietly change while Cho was berating Michael, but he was not subtle enough to remove his schedule without her noticing. Her gaze snapped to him in a birdlike motion uncomfortably similar to his dream and she all but tugged the paper from him to read it herself.

He rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly.

“Fourth year Ancient Runes and Arithmancy,” Cho read aloud. “How did you get into the classes without doing the third year exams?”

“Why did you take those?” Michael’s eyes shot open and his mouth gaped, horrorstruck. “Divination and Magical Creatures are easy OWLs. You've gone and done a Cho Chang, mate.”

“If by that you mean he's made an intelligent decision about his future then you are quite right, Michael.” It looked like Cho wanted to say a great deal more, but instead she waved Harry's schedule at him. “You might be really far behind in your electives, Harry,” she warned. “It's good you want to try, but I don't know if you'll able to manage everything.”

“I'm sure,” Harry grunted, doing his best to conceal his annoyance, “that I'll be fine.”

“If you say so.” Cho seemed unconvinced and Harry took a deep breath when she wasn't watching to calm down.

“The welcoming feast starts soon. We should go down and join everyone.” Michael pushed the two of them along towards the exit. He had been glancing between the two of them slightly nervously and had evidently picked up on Harry's irritation a lot better than Cho had.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, slipping his wand into his sleeve, “let's go.”

All of a sudden it was loud again. There were students everywhere, many of whom, were still taller and much bigger than Harry was. The trio took the nearest seats amongst those in their house, joining Luna and Roger. Michael slipped in alongside Harry and gazed down at the empty sparkling plate with some consternation.

“Food soon, Michael.” Harry comforted his dark-haired friend with a pat on the shoulder as the first years nervously trickled in.

The sorting hat, looking as every bit as underwhelming as it did every year, sat on the chair at the front. No doubt it would soon start singing.

“Do you think it makes up a new song every year,” Harry whispered to Michael as it launched into verse.

“Dunno, mate, but the Weasleys say they've never heard the same one twice.” Michael regarded him with dark-brown eyes.

“That's probably a good indicator it does, the Weasleys must've covered the last decade or so here, and it does have all year to write them.” Harry breathed in fruitfully, relishing in the smell of food, soon to arrive.

“When it's not delivering swords to you,” Michael replied with a grin.

“It's a good thing it does deliver swords,” Harry responded. “What happens if there's another giant snake in Hogwarts and Luna needs to kill it? She can't be expected to go get the sword herself now can she?”

The two of them laughed until Cho hissed at them to be quiet. As the sorting drew to a close and the first years anxiously squeezed on to the ends of the tables, Dumbledore rose to speak. Harry cocked his head curiously. If something was going to happen at Hogwarts this year, now was when it would be mentioned.

“A few announcements before we all get too distracted by our impending food to forget them. Firstly, I would like to welcome Professor Moody to our teaching staff. He will be taking over the role of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Secondly, I must remind members of all years that the Forbidden Forest is so named for a reason and, lastly, this year, after centuries, a great sporting event will be making its resurgence.” A murmur of barely concealed excitement rose from the hall at the old warlock’s announcement.

There was less ruckus when Quirrell announced the arrival of a troll, Harry smirked.

“The Triwizard Tournament will be held at Durmstrang Institute of Sorcery come October,” the headmaster continued unabated. “A chance, for those who enter, to earn eternal glory as school champion. A few seventh and sixth year students will be selected as possible contenders, with a list of reputable younger years to come, spectate, and encourage their older brethren.”

“So that's what's happening.” Michael pounded his fists on the table, his eyes wide open. “I'm definitely putting my name in. Eternal glory,” he finished with a longing sigh.

Clearly he wasn’t listening.

“Professor Moody looks none to impressed about it.” Cho scowled.

She was right, the new teacher's gash of a mouth was downturned, twisting the scar-scattered face above into quite a forbidding frown.

“He looks like he's been through hell,” Harry noted quietly.

“He has,” Michael confirmed. “That's Mad-Eye Moody, that is. Mom says he was one of the greatest aurors back in the war against You-Know-Who, but that he's sort of lost it recently.”

“I bet he can identify crumple-horned snorkacks with that eye,” Luna mentioned with a slight smile.

“It's supposed to be magic,” Michael clarified, observing it warily. “Don't know what it actually does, though.”

Harry helped himself to bread, despite Cho’s insistence that he should eat more. He had admittedly just awoken from a coma of sorts, but he wasn't particularly hungry. If anything he felt slightly sick. It was the sort of unsettled feeling he got every year from the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher for one reason or another.

“You need to eat more than just bread, Harry,” Cho pressed, attempting to add food of every kind to his plate when he wasn't guarding it.

“Michael’s eaten enough for all three of us,” he defended, deflecting a serving of potatoes onto the dark-eyed boy’s plate. Michael happily speared and devoured one of the vegetables without a second thought.

“Just because Michael eats enough food for a small country doesn't mean you should starve yourself to compensate,” she huffed.

“I'm doing it out of protest,” Harry tried. “The food is all made by house elves and that's practically slavery, Cho! I can't exploit their efforts in good conscience.”

Cho looked horrified and dropped her fork as if it had bitten her.

“You've done it now, Harry,” Michael muttered. “We'll be hearing about this for the rest of the year.”

“Should've taken the potatoes,” Roger agreed. “Who knows where this will lead?”

“Did you hear about the World Cup?” Terry Boot eavesdropped in.

“Ireland won, congrats,” Michael grumbled.”

“Not that,” Terry grinned. “Well a little bit that, but I meant the attacks.”

“We were there,” Cho broke in. She had, it seemed, recovered from the shock of learning about the house elves enough to begin eating again.

“Harry was in a coma until this morning,” Michael revealed, “he got carried out of the camp by one of those gorgeous, Bulgarian cheerleaders.” All of the nearby guys turned to give him slightly awed and jealous looks, even Luna.

She probably just wants to study them.

“You learn that your friend was in a coma and the first thing you do is imagine the cheerleaders.” Cho shook her head in disbelief. “I'm going to the library.” She stalked off leaving her plate half full.

“Wasteful that is,” Michael commented, helping himself to Cho’s plate.

“Imagine what the house elves would think,” Roger chuckled.

“What was the cheerleader like?” Anthony asked, sliding in where Cho had been.

“Don't remember,” Harry shrugged, “I was in a coma.”

“I saw them during the game,” Michael embellished, “they were gorgeous.”

“Cho said they were veela, apparently they can charm men.” Harry felt he should at least try to defend her viewpoint.

“Anyone that looks like that is going to charm me. Until they grow all the feathers at least.” Michael leant on his elbow and gazed longingly out the window.

“Feathers?” Terry shot Michael a look of disbelief.

“When they got angry at the end of the match, they grew feathers and beaks and started throwing fireballs around. They didn't like that Bulgaria lost,” the dark-brunette explained.

“Is that what started all the fires then?” Anthony asked.

“Nah, that was Death Eaters, or people dressed like them,” Michael replied. “Mom says there was no Dark Mark like they used back in the war, so it might not have been real Death Eaters, just sympathisers.”

“Ministry didn't catch anyone, though,” Luna piped up. “Pa was furious that they all got away with it. He spent an hour muttering to himself about how useless Fudge is.”

“It doesn't exactly inspire confidence,” Roger nodded. “Still, the Irish won, and that's what counts.”

Harry smiled and tried not to remember the ebony basilisk he had conjured from the ash and the dead Death-Eater who he suspected must have been Barty Crouch Junior.

“Let's head back to the common room,” Anthony proposed. “I've got to unpack everything still, but I'm fairly sure I've brought the new exploding snap cards to replace the ones that Sue lost. Anyone fancy a round or two?”

There was a murmur of mutual consent and the group of them rose to return to Ravenclaw Tower.

“Harry,” a familiar voice rang out. He stopped, allowing the others past him to the stairs up to the dormitory.

“Cedric,” he smiled at him in turn. He looked quite put out.

“Can you believe I can’t play quidditch now,” the Hufflepuff fumed. “This was going to be a really important year for me. We needed to start to add new faces to the squad, like a keeper.”

“At least you've got the Triwizard tournament,” Harry placated. “Eternal glory comes a close second to quidditch, but at a pinch…” Cedric laughed.

“Are you not going to enter?”

Cedric asked. “I am.”

“No,” Harry declared. “I'm going for a nice quiet year. No snakes, no dogs, no dementors and hopefully no more trips to Madam Pomfrey either. I’m also too young, probably.”

“Fair enough,” the older boy agreed. “Hogwarts' champion will be from the upper years anyway. We know more than you cute little fourth years.” Harry tensed at the pat on the cheek.

“Where do the other champions come from?” He asked, suddenly curious.

“From Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, they're magical schools in Europe. Some of their and our students will probably come to Durmstrang to support their champions when we compete,” Ced said.

“Well good luck, Cedric. I promised the guys I'd play exploding snap with them.” Harry gazed up at the taller boy.

“Bye, Harry,” he called as Harry turned away.

Snap didn't last long. Exploding snap games never really did.

I'll be better, he vowed.

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

I edited DarknessEnthroned’s brilliant A Cadmean Victory to something I’d enjoy a bit more. A fanfiction of a Fanfiction, suffice it to say. I own nothing, this is his work. Not Mine, I’m simply sharing my revised version of it with the fandom.

Harry doesn’t wear glasses in this version. And he’s a Ravenclaw. You can probably piece the rest for yourself.

Chapter 1

“Harry,” the delighted, if still slightly strident tone of the female third of the golden trio cut straight through the rather pleasant absence of thought Harry had been enjoying.

“Cho,” he smiled. She looked very much the same. Her hair was every bit as dark and long as before, rather like his own if he was honest.

“How has your summer been? Have you started studying? What are your classes? Have you dropped divination yet?” Cho fired her barrage of questions at him nonstop.

Harry blinked. “It was okay actually,” he admitted, trying to keep track of the other questions streaming at him.

Perhaps I've spent a little too long in my own company, he decided.

“And your classes? Divination?” Cho stared ardently at him. Harry tried not to physically retreat from the onslaught of attention.

“Runes, arithmancy and yes, I dropped divination,” Harry answered. Cho only narrowed her eyes in response. “Trelawny was starting to run out of original predictions for my death,” he shrugged in explanation.

“You can't take fourth year runes or arithmancy without knowing the third year course!” Cho raised her brows in surprise. “You'll have to study to catch up or join the third years. You should have studied in the summer,” she stressed implicitly.

Harry had to suppress a laugh at the horror with which she displayed at being in a class with the year below. “I'm sure I'll find a way.” He stretched his arms widely.

“Where are the others?” Cho chewed on her lip, staring around the room they were in.

“Attempting to pack, I think,” Harry responded, sharing a knowing glance with his friend.

“Michael,” Cho sighed.

“Harrikins,” came the enthusiastic cry of Roger Davies from across the expanse.

“Is everyone here?” Mrs. Corner bustled around, pausing only to attempt to convey some semblance of tidings on a bleary-eyed, dishevelled looking Michael. “Honestly, Michael,” she exhaled in passing, “Roger was ready before you and he's not even interested in Quidditch.”

There was a murmur about the divine broom, and some passing reference to the slipping standards of cauldron bottoms from behind her, but the sudden, disorientating whirl of motion and noise only seemed to end when they were seated again.

I hate magical transportation.

To one side of Harry, he had Roger and Michael locked in argument and the other belonged to Cho and Luna, the latter of whom was trying to explain the types of wrackspurts to the asian girl.

“Bulgaria will win,” Michael confidently declared as Harry leant in to at least appear to be joining in one of the conversations around. “Krum is brilliant.”

“I disagree Mikey. Far be it from I to dispute the talent of the mighty Krum, but my money is on the Irish,” Roger elucidated. “Technically, our money is on the Irish, and Krum,” he corrected, much to Michael’s chagrin. “Ireland to win, but Krum to catch the snitch.”

“I still think Bulgaria will win it,” Michael argued stubbornly. “Krum will get the snitch long before the Irish can score that many points.”

“Stop fighting,” Cho hissed from across the front of them all, “the teams are coming out.”

The Bulgarians had the sort of cheerleaders Harry was used to seeing in the American high school drama shows Dudley gawped at in his room when he thought his parents weren't watching. These cheerleaders had silver hair that made you want to run your hands through it, soft lips, eyes so lustrous and bright, and nearly perfect curves. Harry peered closer, curious, before realizing something.

But I hate attention, a little voice in the back of his head reminded him.

It would be nice for them all to respect you, though, the voice's second statement sounded uncomfortably like Voldémoir.

Harry's desire to be seen vanished abruptly. A glance around him showed that the majority of the wizards around the vicinity were still enthralled by the cheerleaders. He leant back into his seat, suddenly rather tired, and waited for the actual match to begin. The Quidditch World Cup final commenced in a blur of motion that, without his previously purchased omnioculars, would be completely lost to him. The crowd roared and something caught him on the cheekbone. The omnioculars were knocked off, lost into the rows below. Sneaking under the chair, he caught a glimpse of reflected light from his much abused goggles. It was too far for him to reach sitting down. As swiftly and unobtrusively as possible, he summoned them back to his hand with his wand. They were, inevitably, scratched, so he repaired them with a wordless tap of his finger. Slipping his wand back into his sleeve rather than standing to return it to the pocket of his jeans he replaced his omnioculars and shot a glance at Cho. Both Cho and Luna were busy fixing something with disgusted glares and so hadn't noticed his unexplained prowess. A brief glance showed the victim of their distaste; the referee who had, rather embarrassingly for him, stopped to dance in front of the Bulgarian cheerleaders.

He's a terrible dancer, Harry laughed quietly to himself at the poor wizard’s antics.

“They're veela,” Cho whispered to him. “I haven't really read about them, but I did come across a reference in a potions books about amortentia.”

“Isn't that a love potion?” He asked amusedly, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Cho flushed scarlet and Luna, who had been listening from the far side, looked away. “Harry, be serious,” the black-haired witch hissed angrily. “Veela have the ability to charm most men. They look like very attractive women, but they're not completely human.”

Harry threw another, longer glance in the direction of the Bulgarian team's cheerleaders and was again struck by the same compulsion as before, but, unlike last time, he ignored its temptation immediately.

“Interesting,” he remarked. “I'm still curious why you were reading about amortentia, though.” The scarlet returned to Cho’s cheeks and she huffed, turning her back to him to speak to Luna instead.

He leant back in his seat again, allowing the lights and noise of the crowd to drift away as he focused on the mind-clearing techniques that were supposed to help him focus his intent for magic. His concentration was broken a moment later by a massive roar from the crowd and he had to clap an arm to his face to prevent an ecstatic Michael from clipping his sight-seeing goggles once again. The reason for the noise soon became clear. Viktor Krum, Bulgaria's prodigiously young seeker had caught the snitch. His strong jaw and brows were set in a determined frown as he hung, one hand raised above his head, over the stadium.

Harry fancied he could just make out the twitching wings of the snitch within his grasp, but the seeker himself seemed rather unimpressed with the ending of the game. The scoreboard explained why. Despite the points earned for his catch, Bulgaria had still lost. The veela cheerleaders had not seemed to realise as they danced victoriously, drawing the attention of many wizards in the stadium, and it was only when the booming voice of Ludo Bagman announced the result that they stopped to look up at the score. Their reaction was instantaneous and shocking. Feathers sprouted along the arms of many, their eyes grew dark and wide, lips and chins elongating into cruel beaks.

Not completely human at all.

Despite their new, dangerous appearance they somehow still retained their grip on the men near them and Harry couldn't deny that they were still beautiful. It was something he found slightly disturbing. Feathers and beaks really should not call to him in such a way.

“Time to head back to the tent, Michael,” Mrs. Corner suggested. Michael nodded, one eye still on the veela, half-enraptured, half-concerned about the conjured, blue flames in the hands of the more irate of the former cheerleaders.

There were a lot of steps down, the stadium was steep and high, and Harry was sure he hadn't walked up any where near as many on the way. He voiced as much to Cho who turned, the glint of knowledge in her eye. “It's a very clever space manipulation spell,” she enthused. “You put your feet on a step and the space is stretched upwards so you actually go up much farther than you think. It's like a tiny magical escalator for each step really.”

“Means an awful lot of different sets of steps for different levels though.” Michael scowled grumpily. His attitude had deteriorated rapidly after Roger’s prediction of the result proved true. But he was right, there were almost ten times as many sets of stairs as Harry would have expected.

“It's brilliant, Michael,” Cho began again. Sure enough within moments she was explaining the runes and arithmetic principles behind the idea.

The tent was far more comfortable than Harry had expected when they got back. He sighed and relaxed into the warm environment once they were settled in.

“Look at all this, Harrikins,” Roger grinned. “Bagman bet against my prediction, gave me good odds too. It ought to be enough now,' the sixth year wearing the jumper emblazoned with the letter R crowed triumphantly.

“Indeed it should,” he continued, to himself, hurriedly shovelling armfuls of galleons into his trunk. “Best get it out of sight before Mrs. Corner comes and sees I’ve been gambling though.” He knelt down and started scooping the pile away.

Harry snorted, and moved in the direction of his bed. It was still loud, fireworks were constantly exploding above the tents as the Irish celebrations began and he begun to grow uncomfortable with it again. Harry passed a still arguing Michael and Cho, Luna had vanished into the girls' side of the tent and Mrs. Corner was quietly skulking by the entrance. The part of the tent that he would be sharing with Michael and Roger was blessedly dark and far quieter than the rest. Settling himself down on the cot designated his, he waved his wand over his clothes, transfiguring them into something more comfortable to sleep in. Harry eventually lied down and fell into blissful sleep, too tired to care.

Something shook at his arm and he stirred, instantly alert in unfamiliar scenery. “Harry,” Mrs. Corner hissed. “We need to leave now. Get Michael and Cho and get out of the camp. Stay together.”

It took a long moment for the seriousness of the situation to sink in, but he nodded, rubbing at his eyes and fumbling for his wand on the table next to him. Michael was by the entrance of the tent with Cho. They both looked slightly pale as they peered out into the camp through the door.

“Come on, Harry,” Cho urged, tugging at his arm. He frowned at her, pulling his arm away long enough to re-transfigure his clothing, annoyed at her closeness. The sound of screams from near by in the camp quickly made him forget about Cho’s grip on his arm and they fled from the tent towards the woods through the chaotic crowd.

There was smoke in the air from the burning tents in the camps' centre. It drifted, thick and choking over them, and Harry had to duck beneath it to breath and see. People were running all around him in every direction, screaming, shouting and crying. Flashes of light cast eerie shadows against the veil of smoke and the dull echo of explosions rang over the roar of the flames. Somewhere in the chaos, Cho had lost her grip on his arm, but he could still hear her shouting at them to run to the trees he could glimpse from across the next few lines of tents. Something hit him hard in the side of the head and with a flash of white light everything vanished.

Harry's face was warm. Too warm. It was uncomfortable and he immediately tried to shift away from the heat. A wet, sticky something adhered his cheek to his shoulder, but it broke when he flinched back from the heat. His wand was still in his sleeve. Harry was so surprised he hadn’t broken it, he almost didn't notice the flames that were engulfing the line of tents no more than a few metres from him. He scrambled to his feet, continuously surveying the ground around him.

What caused this? Maybe a dragon, he decided. That would be preferable and explain the fires.

It was horribly, unsettlingly quiet as he walked through the ruined camp. The fires had mostly died, but the ash and embers were still warm through the soles of his shoes and the charred remnants of furniture or worse crunched beneath his heels no matter how hard he tried to be silent.

There were shapes under the ashes and Harry tried very hard to ignore those that were vaguely humanesque. The fire had already passed over this part of the camp, anyone lying under the ash would be dead and uncovering them would only serve to give him worse nightmares. There was a blinding flash of light and something hissed viciously over his head as he reflexively ducked. Twisting about and slipping his wand from his sleeve he had just enough to throw himself out the way of two more sickly purple curses. He rolled in the ash, catching a glimpse of a thin, almost skeletal wizard, draped in black robes.

“Lacero,” the robed wizard commanded viciously and another purple curse flew at him. Instinctively, Harry summoned one of the awful looking shapes out from under the ash into the path of the curse. “I must remain unseen and behave,” the wizard muttered monotonously, seemingly to himself, but his wand snapped up to unleash another trio of curses that tore through Harry's makeshift shield and grazed his left arm.

“Reducto!” Harry shot back. It ricocheted harmlessly off some kind of shield into the smoke.

“Stay unseen,” the wizard repeated more loudly, but in the same detached tone. His wand hand trembled and his free fingers came up to press against his temples so hard his knuckles turned white. “No,” the voice of his attacker shifted suddenly, growing cruel again, “the Dark Lord will reward me beyond all others.”

“Expelliarmus,” Harry enunciated, hoping to catch the irate wizard off guard. His opponent laughed with more than a hint of madness as the disarming spell failed.

“Crucio,” the wizard cried delightedly, releasing the crimson spell gleefully. “I'm free,” he exulted as the curse tore just past Harry's mane. “When I take you to the Dark Lord, I will be his most trusted servant! Loftier than Lucius, greater than Goyle, better than Bellatrix,” his laughter warbled disturbingly.

He is utterly insane, Harry realised.

A second torture curse narrowly missed him, but the third caught him on the arm and he collapsed into the hot embers curling up around the pain.

“I am his most loyal follower,” the mad warlock laughed through a deranged grin. He raised his wand again, its tip glowing with sinister sorcery.

Desperately, Harry slashed his wand at the Death Eater. The ash swirled against the wind. For a moment the laughing face of the mad wizard was unobscured, then a vast, ebony serpent lunged from the ash cloud, it’s fangs closing around the Death Eater's chest with a sickening crunch. The snake crushed the wizard into the ground beside one of the few lingering fires and vanished in an explosion of hot smoke. The mad wizard didn't move. Harry hesitantly approached, his wand outstretched and shaking. The Death Eater's chest and robes were a ruin and Harry had to look away to avoid being sick. He gagged twice before stepping back and pressing his hand to his mouth. The ribcage of the wizard was shattered inwards on itself; bright, gleaming, points of bone poked sharply from the mess of black tatters and red guts that the ash serpent had left behind. Harry cast a desperate look around him, hoping to glimpse another person in the smoke. A wizard or witch who would step up alongside him and reassure him by saying the snake was their spell.

Nobody stepped from the smoke. He slumped down in the ashes facing away from the body, shaking but unsurprised nobody had come.

After all, I'm likely the only person to see a basilisk since Tom Riddle and Moaning Myrtle.

Harry began to laugh. It came out unsettlingly high-pitched and wavered as his body trembled. The fire beside the body burnt through something important and popped loudly. Startled, Harry's head snapped round instinctively to see the remains of the tent collapse across the body, shrouding it from sight.

There was nobody else around. No one had heard their duel and he dared not roam any further across the camp. He was cold and shaking too much to stand. The ash was soft, and warm in an almost comforting way, so he wrapped his arms around his knees and hunched into himself.

I think I'll just stay here for a bit.