Title: The True Tri-wizard Champions
Chapter: Chapter One: The Scar
Author: King Harrison
Category: Romance
Sub-Category: Action/Adventure
Rating: T
Summary: In which Harry awakens from a dream of Tom Riddle
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, and Raincoast Books, as well as Warner Brothers, Inc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author Notes: Well, it's been about 9 years since I last updated any of my stories. I'll preface by noting that I never really did stop reading Fanfiction and should be ashamed of myself for doing to others that which bothers me - abandoning stories. To be frank, although I enjoyed writing the other stories on my account, I genuinely have no recollection of the direction I intended for them, nor do I have any notes remaining from almost a decade ago. I may pick the stories back up, but if I do they will be heavily rewritten. Council of the Magi will always be a 'Super!Harry' fic, but despite the number of positive reviews I really feel that I could do better in several ways, especially realism (Seriously quintillions of Galleons couldn't even fit in a hundred of Hermione's mokeskin bags...). The story that I am posting now is one that I am hoping people will find interesting, even though it is very different from what I would normally write. I'm generally a 'Harmony' writer and reader for Harry Potter, but this story will have a different pairing as time develops. I'll warn in advance that you may not like it, but I hope that you do.
"The end of another year. There is so much that I would like to say to you tonight."
-Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Chapter One: The Scar
The boy called Harry Potter woke with a start.
It took him a moment to recover from the aftershocks of his dream. His lungs gasped for breath as he hyperventilated and from a hand clutched to his forehead, he felt a white hot burning. As his breathing became more regular, Harry was able to pull his hand away from the source of the burning sensation. Beneath sweat slicked raven hair, the angry red lines of a scar were just visible. Harry slowly sat up, glancing around at the blurry room. He reached over to one side, pawing at a bedside table until he was able to grab his glasses. Slipping the glasses on, Harry briefly touched his scar again to find that although the white hot burning had dimmed, it was still present.
He dragged himself out of his bed, turning the lamp by his bedside on in order to have better lighting than the orange haze seeping in from the outside street lamp. He made his way over to his wardrobe, opening it to peer at himself in the mirror on the door.
Harry found his appearance unaltered and unsurprising. He was still skinnier than he would like. Using arms and legs in Quidditch - a wizard sport that involved flying around on broomsticks - didn't do much to help him put on the kind of weight he would need to overcome his admittedly malnourished past. Even the tremendous amount of food at Hogwarts hadn't served to do much more than bring his weight to somewhere in the lower area of what was normal for his stature. Harry leaned in closer to examine his scar closely. The odd mark was in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead. Harry's messy raven hair usually served to cover it fairly decently so Harry had to pull his bangs back.
The scar didn't show any sign of the twinging pain Harry still felt. Harry sighed, and his emerald eyes lost focus as he tried to recall clearly what exactly he had been dreaming about. He knew for sure that he had known two of the people in a dark room that he did not recognize. Peter Pettigrew, a rat of a man that had escaped from capture at the hands of Harry, Harry's friends, and Harry's godfather only a few months prior.
It seemed that the somewhat delusional Divination teacher Trelawney's prediction had come true after all. She'd been right that the Dark Lord's servant would escape, and correct that the servant would return to his Lord. The high, cold voice had belonged to none other than Tom Riddle, the self-styled Lord Voldemort (or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to most folk). Thirteen years prior, Voldemort had murdered Harry's parents and disappeared from the world upon attempting to murder Harry as well. He left Harry with nothing except the scar that plagued him to this day.
For some reason Harry couldn't bring up the image of Voldemort's appearance from the dream. Glimpsing Voldemort's form in the high backed chair had been what had awoken Harry (that and the pain), but Harry couldn't recall it for anything.
Harry wondered who the old man that had wandered into the room was. Poor soul. He seemed to be a Muggle and clearly in the wrong place at the wrong time. He hadn't deserved to be killed that way. Harry shuddered as he imagined the great awful serpent that had been on the rug. "Probably ate the poor man..." Harry muttered to himself.
Harry focused on the dream, even as it slipped away even more and the importance of what Wormtail (a childhood nickname of Peter Pettigrew's that apparently even Voldemort made use of) and Voldemort had been discussing before they callously murdered an old Muggle... They had been speaking of another murder they had committed as well as one they planned to commit. And the target was him!
Harry shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He needed to focus on something else, so he glanced around the room. To Harry, nothing unusual stood out, but to any other bystander (perhaps someone more 'normal') the room would appear extraordinary indeed. Despite the sparse furnishing, all of what Harry actually did have to call his own was in the room. A large wooden trunk stood open at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black robes, and assorted spellbooks. Rolls of parchment littered that part of his desk that was not taken up by the large, empty cage in which his snowy owl, Hedwig, usually perched. On the floor beside his bed a book lay open; Harry had been reading it before he fell asleep last night. The pictures in this book were all moving. Men in bright orange robes were zooming in and out of sight on broomsticks, throwing a red ball to one another
Harry sighed again, walking over to the book. Ignoring an actually rather spectacular goal shot playing out in the pages of the book, Harry snapped the book shut. Even Quidditch, a sport that generally sparked Harry and his best friend Ron into hours of enthused conversation, couldn't distract him at the moment.
Full of nervous energy, Harry tossed the book down on his bedside table and strode over to the window, drawing back the curtains so that he could survey the street below. Privet Drive, as usual, looked exactly as it should this early on a Saturday morning. Respectable. Neat. Orderly. Uniform. And empty.
Even so, he couldn't shake his paranoia. The dream had shaken him, and he felt restless. He went back over to his bed, sitting down and running a finger along his scar yet again. The pain honestly didn't bother him. Pain and injury were older friends to Harry than he would like to admit. His right arm had been broken, the bones vanished, and then regrown all in the same day once. The same arm had, later the same year, been pierced by a venemous foot-long fang that frankly would have killed Harry were it not for the timely assistance of the Headmaster's Phoenix Fawkes and his healing tears.
Harry had fallen from over fifty feet in the air (from a broomstick) and he was pretty sure that he had spent more time in the hospital wing of his school than any other student on record at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
What bothered Harry was the previous circumstances in which his scar had bothered him this way. Without fail, every time it had occurred it was close within the presence of Voldemort himself. In Harry's first year at Hogwarts, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher Quirinus Quirrel had been possessed by Voldemort's shade, which was hidden under a rank turban the professor never went anywhere without.
In second year, an enchanted diary filled with the memories of Voldemort as a student had possessed the younger sister of one of his best friends and used her to control a tremendously huge serpent called a basilisk (the owner of the aforementioned venemous fang).
Harry was pretty certain that Voldemort was not here now. The very idea of him lurking in Privet Drive was frankly absurd. Impossible.
Harry paused in his ruminations, listening to the silence around him, worried that he would hear the creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak. He jumped slightly when he in fact heard a sound; It was the tremendous grunting snore of his cousin Dudley, who slept in the next room.
Harry shook himself mentally. His paranoia was stupid. He was alone in the house with his Aunt, Uncle, and Cousin. They were plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless.
Harry preferred it that way, in any case. The Dursleys were an unhelpful sort when awake, to the point of actively making his life harder whenever they came in contact. Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley were the only surviving relatives that Harry had. Despite the fact that they had taken him in as an infant, they were Muggles who despised and hated magic no matter the form. To be frank, Harry was pretty certain that even the neat-freak Aunt Petunia would prefer mould and bacteria over his presence. But it wasn't to be helped. They took him in despite their misgivings and although they had always treated him poorly, he had nowhere else to live during the summer. They explained away Harry's long absences at Hogwarts in the schooling months by claiming that Harry had been sent to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. They were perfectly aware that, due to Harry's status as an underage wizard (legal majority in Wizarding Britain was 17), he was unable to use magic outside of school without risking expulsion. Even so they were apt to blame him for anything that went wrong about the house.
It wasn't even worth considering waking them to tell them of his dream. He'd never been able to confide in them before or share anything of his life in the wizarding world. The idea was laughable, and Harry was won't to test Vernon's temper by bringing up a subject that had always ended in punishment for Harry.
Harry had been shocked (living in a house where even suggesting that magic might exist or bringing up a fairy tale had been quashed with extreme prejudice) to discover on his eleventh birthday that he was, in fact, a wizard. It had been even more disconcerting to discover that although Harry had been raised ignorant of the events leading becoming an orphan, everyone in the Wizarding World knew his name and revered him as the 'Boy-Who-Lived'.
Harry had arrived at Hogwarts to find that heads turned and whispers followed wherever he went. He was more accustomed to it now, no matter how annoying it was. He would be staring his fourth year at Hogwarts, and Harry was counting down the days until he would be back at the castle again.
But there was a fortnight before Harry could return. Glancing helplessly around the room, he paused on the birthday cards he had received at the end of July. He wondered what would happen if he wrote to one of his friends and told them about his scar hurting?
His first thought was what Hermione, his brilliant but on occasion shrill and panicky friend, would have to say. He was pretty sure her suggestions would amount to suggesting he ask someone in a position of authority (presumably the Headmaster Albus Dumbledore or perhaps the Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall), and while waiting for a response consult a book.
Harry truly doubted a book would be of much help to him right now. Part of the reason for Harry's fame was simply that nobody had ever survived a curse like the one Voldemort used on Harry. Nobody had a curse scar like the one Harry bore. There would be no precedent to work from. And it certainly wouldn't be listed in Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions.
As for informing the headmaster, Harry was clueless as to where Dumbledore spent the summer holidays. He took a moment, amusing himself with the idea of Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, full length wizard's robes, and garish hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion on his long crooked nose. Harry knew that wherever Dumbledore actually was, Hedwig would be able to find him. She'd never failed to deliver a message for him, no matter the recipient, even without an address. But what on earth would he write?
Dear Professor Dumbledore,
Sorry to bother you, but my scar is hurting.
Yours Sincerely,
Harry Potter
Even inside his head, the words sounded stupid to Harry. Why would a man with as much responsibility as Dumbledore (running a school of hundreds of students as well as leading both the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards) take the time to help with as blatantly stupid and needy request?
His other friend, Ron, would be equally unhelpful. His best suggestion would be to inquire with Ron's father who, although a fully qualified wizard, had no special experience in the field of dark curses. Beyond that, word would reach the rest of the Weasleys and the last thing he wanted was for them to know he was getting jumpy at a few moments' pain. Mrs. Weasley would put up a huge, albeit well-meaning, fuss and Harry wouldn't have any peace. And honestly despite their somewhat irascible nature, Harry looked up Ron's older twin brothers, Fred and George, who would probably think Harry was losing his nerve.
Beyond that, Harry really didn't have many friends so much as acquaintances. Certainly nobody that could give him advice on this. His classmates were as young and inexperienced as he was, and even the friends Harry had made playing Quidditch couldn't be much help, no matter that they were older than him.
Then the answer struck him. It was so simple and obvious that Harry was frankly frustrated with himself for taking so long. Sirius.
Harry leapt up from the bed, hurried across the room, and sat down at his desk; he pulled a piece of parchment toward him, loaded his eagle-feather quill with ink, wrote Dear Sirius, then paused, wondering how best to phrase his problem, still marveling at the fact that he hadn't thought of Sirius straight away. But then, perhaps it wasn't so surprising - after all, he had only found out that Sirius was his godfather two months ago.
There was a simple reason for Sirius's complete absence from Harry's life until then - Sirius had been in Azkaban, the terrifying wizard jail guarded by creatures called dementors, sightless, soul-sucking fiends who had come to search for Sirius at Hogwarts when he had escaped. Yet Sirius had been innocent - the murders for which he had been convicted had been committed by Wormtail, Voldemort's supporter, whom nearly everybody now believed dead. Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew otherwise, however; they had come face-to-face with Wormtail only the previous year, though only Professor Dumbledore had believed their story.
For one glorious hour, Harry had believed that he was leaving the Dursleys at last, because Sirius had offered him a home once his name had been cleared. But the chance had been snatched away from him - Wormtail had escaped before they could take him to the Ministry of Magic, and Sirius had had to flee for his life. Harry had helped him escape on the back of a hippogriff called Buckbeak, and since then, Sirius had been on the run. The home Harry might have had if Wormtail had not escaped had been haunting him all summer. It had been doubly hard to return to the Dursleys knowing that he had so nearly escaped them forever.
Nevertheless, Sirius had been of some help to Harry, even if he couldn't be with him. It was due to Sirius that Harry now had all his school things in his bedroom with him. The Dursleys had never allowed this before; their general wish of keeping Harry as miserable as possible, coupled with their fear of his powers, had led them to lock his school trunk in the cupboard under the stairs every summer prior to this. But their attitude had changed since they had found out that Harry had a dangerous murderer for a godfather - for Harry had conveniently forgotten to tell them that Sirius was innocent.
Harry had received two letters from Sirius since he had been back at Privet Drive. Both had been delivered, not by owls (as was usual with wizards), but by large, brightly colored tropical birds. Hedwig had not approved of these flashy intruders; she had been most reluctant to allow them to drink from her water tray before flying off again. Harry, on the other hand, had liked them; they put him in mind of palm trees and white sand, and he hoped that, wherever Sirius was (Sirius never said, in case the letters were intercepted), he was enjoying himself. Somehow, Harry found it hard to imaging dementors surviving for long in bright sunlight, perhaps that was why Sirius had gone South. Sirius's letters, which were now hidden beneath the highly useful loose floorboards under Harry's bed, sounded cheerful, and in both of them he had reminded Harry to call on him if ever Harry needed to. Well, he needed to right now, all right...
Harry's lamp seemed to grow dimmer as the cold gray light that precedes sunrise slowly crept into the room. Finally, when the sun had risen, when his bedroom walls had turned gold, and when sounds of movement could be heard from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's room, Harry cleared his desk of crumpled pieces of parchment and reread his finished letter.
Dear Sirius,
Thanks for your last letter. That bird was enormous; it could hardly get through my window. Things are the same as usual here. Dudley's diet isn't going too well. My aunt found him smuggling doughnuts into his room yesterday. They told him they'd have to cut his pocket money if he keeps doing it, so he got really angry and chucked his PlayStation out of the window. That's a sort of computer thing you can play games on. Bit stupid really, now he hasn't even got Mega-Mutilation Part Three to take his mind off things.
I'm okay, mainly because the Dursleys are terrified you might turn up and turn them all into bats if I ask you to.
A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar hurt again. Last time that happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But I don't reckon he can be anywhere near me now, can he? Do you know if curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward?
I'll send this with Hedwig when she gets back; she's off hunting at the moment. Say hello to Buckbeak for me.
Harry
Harry studied the words he had written thoughtfully and nodded. Yes, that looks alright. There wasn't any point in sharing the dream (what he even remembered of it) with his godfather. He didn't want to seem too worried. He set the parchment aside on his desk, ready for when Hedwig returned. He got to his feet, stretched, and opened his wardrobe again. Without glancing at his refleciton, he started to get dressed. Before he left, he glanced again at his small stack of birthday cards thoughtfully, but then shook his head and headed down to breakfast.
A/N: Well that's chapter one. I'm sorry if this one is a bit dull. Mostly it's due to the fact that the first chapter is full of so much background. I hate skipping parts just because 'they're cannon so we should know them.' I did it for the dream, but I figured the least I should do is include Harry's reactions. Plus, even though some parts of this are verbatim from the fourth book, most is not, and I've added a few things in. I have yet to have this chapter BETAd, so I may update it when I go to post the second chapter within a few days. Anyway, please read and review!