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The Tribulation Trials
Part 1
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Leaving the dead mother dragon upsets Hariel.
She's been hiding in shade of her cool wings for the past few hours, but now as the sun starts to set, the witch has to face the harsh reality stretching before her.
She's in an open wasteland with no idea where she is and no civilisation in sight. Not only has she got to provide for herself, but she's got four eggs, soon to be four hatchlings to look after.
It is with this thought in mind that Hariel edges out into the seemingly endless heathland, the ground set ablaze by the dusking sun. Brilliant orange shadows stretch across the earth, clawing out as the sun steadily drags them into darkness, the sky bleeding a harmony of purples, pinks and reds. It would look pretty, had the horizon not been so flat.
Hariel cannot see a single city and that had her innards clenching in anxiety. Given the state of the dragon -the dead dragon- Hariel has been in no rush to eat, has been far too depressed to do so. With her wand, water is easy to come by. Food is not going to be the same way, though with the summoning charm she might be able to call it to her. If anything at all lives in this desolate wilderness.
Wiping her face free of tears, the last Potter alive makes her way over to her trunk, eyes scanning the horizon and almost recoiling in shock. She has absolutely no idea how this has happened, but it appears as if it is not only Hariel's trunk that has come along to this strange place.
She spots her bedsheets from Gryffindor tower shaking in the wind, half of her bathroom products -soap, loofa, along with her favourite body butter that now runs dangerously close to being empty- and a random variety of other everyday objects. Several pairs of shoes; the favourite ankle boots that always sit at the bottom of her bed when not in use, the three pairs of sandals Hermione had sent her for her birthday, though the pair of high-heeled peep-toed monstrosities that Lavender had attempted to pass off as actual shoes when she'd gifted them to Hariel were gratefully absent. Hariel's pretty sure they'd have been of no use anyway. Inside her trunk, all of her Hogwarts uniforms rest, alongside a great majority of her summer clothes, a handful of winter clothing in comparison.
It will not be for years to come until Hariel concludes the miscellaneous items all had one thing in common; a great deal of recent exposure to her magical presence.
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In the present time however, Hariel focuses her efforts on packing everything that has come along with her -including the thick book on healing she'd preemptively borrowed from Hermione under the assumption she'd be getting quite hurt in these tasks. Whoops- into her trunk. It only just all fits, and only due to the sight expansion charm she had installed just that summer, having wanted to ensure her precious Firebolt's safety.
It is only after a moment of consideration that Hariel returns to the dead dragon's side, nose wrinkling at the smell that is starting to build. It feels as if every inch of her flesh is crawling, cringing away from the death that lingers around the once great beast.
A wave of her wand, the holly wood warm beneath her fingers, has the eggs charmed to stay at optimal temperature. She can practically hear Hermione chanting the spell, an almost religious chorus preformed by the bushy-haired girl during their first year and the Norberta fiasco. Hermione had spent a great deal of time looking up fireproofing charms, along with other spells that would make dragon-raising if not easier, than at the very least safer.
It is with that in mind that Hariel carefully extracts one of the eggs from beside it's dead mother's side, cradling the football sized shell close to her chest. It feels burning hot to the touch, her fingertips scorching. But it is a welcomed heat in the face of the fast approaching night; Hariel squirrels the egg further into her embrace.
They will be safest wrapped in her Quidditch robes, Hariel thinks, recalling all of the softening, cushioning charms upon the fabric. To ensure bludgers only broke bones, and instead didn't tear right through a Quidditch player.
Making her way over to the trunk, Hariel slowly lowers the unhatched dragon into its depths. It is a process she repeats three times more, noting that the final egg feels heavier. A big baby, she thinks, near hysterical.
When all four are secure, Harry hits her trunk with a feather light charm, wrapping the bedsheets around the handle before she slaps that with a sticking charm. She ties the other end of her makeshift rope to her belt, so that her luggage will trail behind her as she flies to civilization.
Merlin, she hopes she doesn't pass any muggles on the way. Surely whatever country she is in will have registered her intentional magic by now?
Then again, no one had shown up for the dragon that had so blatantly crash landed here.
Sighing, Hariel takes another look at the Hungarian Horntail who had saved her life, sacrificing her own in the process.
Dragons are creatures of fire, she thinks, wand shaking in her hand. Perhaps she should be sent off in the flames.
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The dragon corpse blazes in the dark night's sky. By this point, Hariel is already flying westwards.
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Hariel's first run in with slavers is a bloody affair that she considers better suppressed than remembered.
While her wand is perfectly capable of producing water to drink, food presents a problem. She honestly does not want to steal from other people, will go out of her way to not do so. For the first few days, she's managed to get by, given the amount of sweets and biscuits she'd found at the bottom of her trunk.
By day four though, they're all long gone, and no matter how much land she covers upon her trusty Firebolt, she has yet to find any kind of city.
The surroundings are scorching hot, to the point where she can only travel in the handful of hours that consist of dawn and dusk. During midday, she summons up a shelter from the sandy earth, and cradled within the shade, she spends her time flicking through the books that had appeared here alongside her. There's nothing in them that could possible relate to her current situation, even if she has learnt a few new spells.
It gets to the point where Hariel summons one of the large birds down from the sky for dinner. Her lesson with Moody reflects back in her mind, the acidic green of the curse, that it's illegal to use on humans. But it's also painless death.
And she really needs to eat.
Avada Kedavra leaves her wand in a bolt of brilliant colour, the vulture like bird dead before it can even lift its head.
It takes Hariel far longer than it should to cook and eat the bird; she's too busy throwing up after having used that curse. Her limbs shake from the bubbling emotions that rise in her chest, that leak from the corners of her eyes to splash upon the dry earth.
In the distance, the line of volcanoes she had flown over two days previous waver, a shaky visage beneath the heat of the sun. It's so warm here.
Fanning at the edge of her shirt collar, Hariel tucks her legs over one another, skirt spilling out around her thighs.
It hurts.
She has no idea where she is, she has no company, and no one has come to find her. So far there had only been one plus point, one good thing to come about ever since she's walked out of that tent to meet the dragon.
Hedwig is here.
Hariel doesn't have the slightest idea how she got here, she hasn't the slightest clue how the beautiful white owl had appeared, given she'd been nowhere near the First Task. But Hariel's thankful for it.
Even if it's infuriating that the owl cannot seem to find anyone.
The first time Hariel tried sending a letter off, her beloved familiar had just flown in circles for several minutes before landing again, shaking her head. This has happened each time Hariel attempted sending Hedwig off with a letter.
She still doesn't like thinking of the implications.
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It's as she's sat, the curling smoke slowing in its lazy rise from the fire's embers, that someone grabs hold of her.
Hariel screams as the rough hands pull and reel her back and away from her trunk, away from her bag and away from her shelter. She doesn't understand what these men are saying, what language they're snarling at her.
But she sees the terrified men and women -oh Merlin, there's children in there too- trapped in cages, collars on their neck, and she understands that at least. The Dursleys treated her like a slave; Hariel will never go back to that life again.
She cannot reach her wand, hands hold her arm in too awkward a position, but the holly stick is not what answers her call.
Instead, a familiar weight settles into her palm and Hariel swings blindly. The spray of warm red liquid that showers her left hand side, the yowl of pain, lets her know she's connected. She stumbles forwards, spinning on heel and gripping tighter at the handle that rests within her palm.
Gryffindor's Sword sings in the midday sun, silver blade gleaming and rubies glittering.
There's an arm on the floor, detached from its previous owner, and there's blood everywhere. She doesn't understand what the man is screaming, but Hariel knows the bite of basilisk venom, she knows how quickly it kills. The dying man's companions stare in horror, watching as the blood pools upon the burning sand, as he twitches and screams.
There's a moment of silence as Hariel levels Gryffindor's Sword against them, arms shaking as adrenaline floods through her body. Unfortunately, the men clearly fancy their chances, for they race towards Hariel.
The blade cuts through the air, through skin and muscle. It only takes one cut, and Hariel has to focus on keeping back and away. At one point she gets a nasty cut of her own to the shoulder.
But none of their blades are tipped with the deadliest poison in the world, and soon enough, they are all dying on the floor.
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It is as if everything has been moving in fast-forwards and has only now decided to slow down.
Her muscles scream in pain from the vicious effort she has demanded of them, the cuts that litter her arms sting, but are nowhere near as bad as the searing gash on her shoulder. Blood soaks through the light fabric of her shirt, warm and sticky upon her sweat laced skin, the scent vomit inducing.
Hariel has to turn away from the men, some dead and others still succumbing to the fatal poison, before proceeding to empty her stomach of the bird caught a mere hour ago. The others that these dead men have captured are silent, she can feel their wide eyed gazes resting heavy upon her shoulders. But for all that they judge her, probably fear her, they are still people trapped and taken prisoner.
So she takes everything, all the horror and self-disgust, all the terror and shame and guilt and the tiny bit of pleasure -glad they're dead, glad they'll never hurt anyone again- and she locks it up. All packed up and shoved into the same corner of her mind where the scent of Quirrell's burning flesh and Tom Riddle's dying screams hide. That little patch of her mind that she refuses to acknowledge, because if she does she'll have to accept the fact she's a murderer. Just like Voldemort.
Instead she swallows around her dry tongue, dropping Gryffindor's Sword to the floor, where it dissolves in a slow glittering gleam of light.
Not that it matters, the sword will apparently always answer her call, not matter where she is.
Slowly, so as not to startle them, Hariel approaches the cages, tied up to horses and she forcibly steels herself against the horror filled eyes. Unlocking the cage is impossible without a little help; the keys no doubt on one of the men she has slain. It only takes a quick wave of her wand though before the metal padlock resigns with a click, a muffled thump as it drops to the ground.
She can't face them though, so Hariel slinks back to her cave.
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When she surfaces as the sun dips to kiss the horizon, she's horrifically startled to realise the whole group is still there, waiting for her.
Hedwig sits upon her shoulder, head cocked to a side, as if considering the crowd and their presence here. Whoever these people are, they do not speak the same language as Hariel, nor do they appear to have any inclination to make it out of here on their own. Instead they mull around, death reflecting in their dull eyes.
But there is a very slight glint of hope, buried far beneath the depths. It gleams whenever they look upon her.
Hariel swallows, throat as dry as the surrounding landscape, and for a moment it seems as if the earth is pressing in upon her from all sides. How can she possibly be responsible for all these people? How can they expect her to lead them free from this desert?
Something niggles at the back of her mind, a tickling sensation that reminders her this scenario is familiar. She's only ever read holy texts at school; Aunt Petunia wouldn't have her 'devilish' hands upon the Lord's book.
She wonders what the Dursleys would think now, with these people looking to her as is she is their saving grace, their messiah. Perhaps books will be wrote about this moment, Hariel thinks, near hysterical. It will either be a triumph or a tragedy.
She's bitter; it's been days and no one has come for her, no one has saved her and they clearly don't want her any more. They believe she entered the tournament and have condemned her ever since. Perhaps it is time the Girl Who Lived made a name for herself outside of her infanthood legacy.
Swallowing is difficult, her threat still parched. Slowly though, Hariel steps forwards and raises her hand. Once it's up there, attempting to garner attention, she's not quite sure what to do with it. Should she shout? She clearly doesn't speak their native language, but maybe one speaks English?
"Er, hello? Does anyone here understand me?" Hariel's head tilts to a side slightly, her arm slowing in its gentle wave, glancing between each face and waiting with sinking hopes.
"Slower.. please." It's stressed, heavily accented, but so clearly English that Hariel near bursts into tears.
The man who speaks is perhaps middle aged, though wears his years far more obviously than what even Uncle Vernon did. He's led a tough life, and Hariel wonders just how bad it has been for the man to showcase that many lines.
"Right," Hariel nods, forcibly slowing her pace, trying not wince because it is exactly how she imagined talking to a child. It reminds her of the foreign visitors back and Hogwarts, the ones who have brought with them so much trouble for her.
"Where is the closest city?"
The man's bushy brows lower, resting heavy atop his eyes, before slowly, he points into the horizon. Thankfully in the same direction she has been heading.
"My name's Hariel," she says, careful with her pronunciation and even more cautious of using her full name.
"Lady Hariyl?"
"No, it is just Hariel."
The man nods, turning back to the newly freed slaves that have gathered around them. The crowd is a bit overwhelming, but they are not here for Hariel's legend. They congregate around, listening to the rapid fire words that leave the man's mouth.
His voice is raspy and Hariel recalls they've probably had very little to drink, maybe whatever they've been able to forage from their captures, but there is no water out here. Not far from Hariel's wand that is.
She watches this man, the only one to speak her language and interpret her words address the mass, feeling like an outsider. These are not her people. Clearly they are not witches or wizards, for they look upon the wand she has holstered with fearful awe, they teem around her, but they keep a respectful distance at all times.
"Safety?"
Startled from her thoughts, Hariel stares at the worn man for a second before she slowly nods. She'll get them somewhere safe, she couldn't possibly do anything else.
"Your name?"
"Mylner, Lady Hariyl." Yeah, he's never gonna get her name right.
"I'll get the lot of you to the city, find you some place safe to stay…" It's the least she can do. If she's focusing on something, focusing on keeping these people alive instead of panicking over her own situation, Hariel thinks that just maybe she can learn to cope with whatever's happened, learn to accept it. And once she has accepted her situation, then perhaps she can go about rectifying it.
"Please, easy words, I not good at High Valyrian." Valyrian? Is that what these people call English?
Offering the man a slight smile in return, quite unsure of what to say, Hariel adjusts her grip on her wand. Projecting her movements, she reaches out and takes a mild hold of his chin, feeling the whiskers scratch against the supple pads of her fingertips as she gently parts his lips.
"Drink," she orders, a flick of holly filling the man's -Mylner's- mouth with fresh water. Drink he does, gulps greedily at all she offers until his thirst is quenched.
Once her voice among the people is well, she has him call the children forwards for their own drink. As much as she is grateful for the distraction they provide, Hariel hopes she will be able to drop these people at the next town over. Looking after a group seems far more work than she is prepared for, and quite frankly, she doesn't fancy accepting such a duty for too long.
Just until they reach the next town, she mentally affirms.
I've lost interest in the Hariel/Rhaegar version of this. So, here's the Hariel/Aegon VI version. Something is better than nothing, right?
Tsume
xxx