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The Tribulation Trials
Part 3
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Her knowledge on volcanoes is sorely lacking, having only briefly glanced over the topic as a primary school child.
Still, Hariel knows enough to recognise when the very air around her is poisonous, noxious gases given off from whatever funky stuff the volcanoes below the earth are producing. It's the kind of knowledge that comes from handling dangerous plants in herbology, and she has listened to Neville enough times in the past to know the kind of effects poisonous plants can result in. She will not take her chances with the very air around her.
So she halts her journey, finding a suitably sheltered outcrop within which she can settle down and read. The spellbooks that Hermione bought her -the ones she's been so sure she'd have all the time in the world to learn until suddenly she wasn't in her world any more- are incredibly helpful now that she no longer has the bushy haired girl herself to consult. Her fingers flick through page after page, the charm she's searching for right near the back.
The bubblehead charm, one that keeps clean air and nothing else around the head. It's perfect, if a little difficult. Still, necessity breeds productivity, and Hariel manages to succeed with the charm by the dawn on the next day. She sleeps while the suns sits heavy in the sky now, unwilling to keep braving the scorching temperatures when she needs not do so. If the chill of the desert air just so happens to remind her of Hogwarts, of home, then so be it.
It is within this makeshift shelter she takes two days to fully master the bubblehead charm, already reminded of just how close she had cut it with the summoning charm against the dragon. An event that ended in more than one life lost, and Hariel stranded in this god forsaken place.
Running a hand through the loose mane of her curls, the brunette lets out a frustrated sigh before she goes about manually binding her hair back in one tight braid. She's still mentally running through the charms she's performed before the Triwizard Tournament, trying to recall if there's any at all that could have landed her here. Yet, it is only the summoning charm, that along with a basic-witch spell to put off one's period for a little longer that she remembers. Joy of joys, she'll have that to content within a few days too. Wonderful.
Merlin damn it, will she ever catch a hint of a break on the horizon?
Tying off the end of her braid, Hariel lets out a low sigh, her mind wandering back towards Roathos; are Mylner, Lazoar and Firana okay? What about the rest of them, all those people she helped. Are the okay too? Perhaps if she doesn't find what she's looking for here, she could spare the time to visit the lot of them.
While there stands an intimidating language barrier between them, Hariel cannot deny their treatment of her, their open admiration and adoration, has been a great change from what she had been exposed to at Hogwarts ever since the Goblet coughed up her name. Getting attached is something she shouldn't allow to happen, look how having friends has already turned out, only one to stand by her.
God does she miss Hermione.
These people don't know her as the Girl-Who-Lived though, so maybe if she's gonna be here for longer than she'd like, maybe it won't be so bad to get friendly with the locals. If she ever learns the language that is.
Never mind though, she'll worry about all that after she's taken a look around the centre point of magic in this world.
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Even from just the ruins, Hariel can tell this place was magnificent.
An empire once stood here, towering and grand. Mayhap it is like looking upon the coliseums of Rome, on the half-fallen temples that have deteriorated physically in time but have grown nothing but grander in presence.
Even with the charm in place to hold back the noxious gases, Hariel can see the way corrosive air has steadily eaten away at stone. Or rather, whatever the past streams of lava and pyroclastic flows failed to claim. She walks forwards slowly, fingertips running over the surface of the crumbling marble, catching on the little nooks created from the chips long since fallen away.
It's ancient, a civilisation that prospered for far longer than Hariel herself can imagine, only to fall before forces not even humans can ever hope to control. Even the witches and wizards from Hariel's home, they've never managed to subdue a volcano, or protect against an earthquake. Nature is still as untameable as ever, and while it is pleasant to see something familiar in this world, she wishes it weren't so. Otherwise she'd be able to speak to the people here, to talk face to face with others and learn their secrets. Maybe they would have had the magic necessary for Hariel to return home, maybe they would not.
But she cannot picture any books ever surviving the catastrophe that occurred here.
These people though, these people were magic.
And if Hariel is sure of anything, it is that those with magic that died in tragic circumstances…
Well, there's sure to be a ghost or three around here.
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She walks further into the once grand city, musing with each footstep over just how many had passed down the same route she now treads. There are no footprints here, the rubble long settled. Only as the earth breathes and the volcanoes wheeze does the dust shudder, shuffling about atop the crumbling forms.
Slowly sitting herself down upon the mound that was perhaps once a family home, Hariel calmly sets her trunk down, flicking back the lid as she does so. Within, still in the cradled hold of her many Quidditch robes, the eggs lay.
Recalling Norberta's egg and the need for a heat source, she ever so carefully lifts the eggs free of her trunk, settling them down together upon the far too warm earth. Mayhap she should start a fire to keep them in, just to be safe.
Looking at the four eggs that her life will revolve around for the next few months, be she still in this weird place or if she manages to get home, Hariel reaches out and gently runs her palm down the side of one egg, the surface perfectly smooth. It's hot to the touch, the same kind of feeling she'd have gotten from cupping a mug of hot chocolate between her hands.
There's cooling charms all over her body right now, the protective spellwork woven into every article of her clothing by a worried Hermione the only support she has in this horrid environment. If one discounts her magic that is.
Yet, while it's hot, Hariel doesn't feel like she's burning. Even through the noxious air, the sun still manages to kiss down upon the crown of her head, a basking warmth that has Hariel abusing the water summoning spell in order to keep hydrated.
Sitting down upon that outcrop, Hariel pillows her head upon one hand, arm support by her knee as the other continues to stroke at the dragon's shell. She needs to start heading towards the inner centre of the ruins, but summoning up the will to move just isn't happening right now.
"I suppose I won't get much chance to rest when the four of you hatch," she whispers, focused on the four little miracles that the mother dragon had managed to save.
There's no answer, not even the sensation of slight movement occurring from within the egg. She's so lonely, so far from home.
Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Hariel brushes her hair back with one hand, the other reaching for her wand. Within seconds there's a fire crackling merrily away, the dragon eggs shelter deep within the steady flames.
And then it is time for Hariel to explore.
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The vast majority of this place is ruins, shambles battered constantly by the weather and volcanic produce. Physically, there is little to nothing left.
The ground is hot beneath her feet, to the point she's had to enchant her footwear with a cooling charm. It still scorches at the outer-flesh of her soles though, despite the distinct lack of any burns. Hariel's not sure why that is, only that it's a blessing. She's had so very few of those recently. No, in the physical world there's almost nothing to these remains.
To her eyes though, to the eyes of a witch or wizard, there's others, lingering traces of history long since past.
Ghosts, there are a handful of ghosts that persist here, in these desolate remains. Hariel has known ever since second year that ghosts can be incredible beneficial; if she had questioned the cause of Moaning Myrtle's death just that little bit more, she'd have probably found the chamber so much faster, so much earlier -maybe they'd have hated her less if she could have stopped it all quicker that she did- than what she'd actually managed.
It's just... which one is she suppose to talk to?
Some of them have died in truly horrific manners; several have half the flesh melted from their bones, there's an uncomfortable number missing their hands and ears -the ones that upon closer inspection appear to bear the scars of a slave's life- and then there are those that have been killed by a blade, punctured through the chest of slain by a slit throat.
Worrying her lip back and forth between her teeth, Hariel walks down what had perhaps been a street of trading back in glory days of this empire; it certainly seems wide enough. She can almost picture stalls of fresh fruit, cuts of meat and merchants with silken cloths. It's like stepping back into the pages of history. Perhaps Hariel would feel better about it were it not for the fact she appears to be stuck here.
Stuck for the time being.
It takes her a moment to remind herself of that, which in itself is terrifying. Is she already growing complacent with the idea of being stranded in this strangeness?
Pushing the thought away, the witch centres herself, harshly recalling that she must focus on the here and now. She's in this dead land, a fallen empire that was once the heart of magic, that is clearly still regarded as the heart of magic. Her best bet for answers lies within this place. Hariel looks between the scattering of ghosts again, wondering what prompts them to remain in this place.
How many of them had faded away? Were there any that'd began their existence as ghosts here but travelled away to seek out answers from the rest of the land?
Sucking in the dry flesh of her lower lip, Hariel's eyes stop upon one of the ghosts.
He's not interacting with any of the others, seemingly content to ignore their fearful, hateful glares. He's older than Hariel, but not by much, ten years at most, more likely seven of eight. Though all ghosts are of a silvery pallet, his hair is strikingly light, as if it'd have been a very white blond, maybe even silvery blond during his life. And his features... the man reminds her uncomfortably of a male Fleur Delacour. Could make Veela exist?
Just like that, their eyes meet and Hariel's startled to see washed out purple there. Did ghosts retain a bit of colouring from their life? She can't quite remember.
The mauve eyes remain on her for a second, and though he looks far too well bred to cock his head to a side, he does appear surprised.
"How curious, you see us." Like that, the man rises, intangible hands brushes down the length of his tunic. It looks well made, not like the rags that the others are all dressed in, luxurious almost. "After so many years, I do suppose it is quite time for someone to appear. Tell me, how long has it been since the Doom occurred?"
Hariel has absolutely no idea what this ghost it speaking of. When tells him such, the man's lips twist into a mockery of a smile, allowing his head to tilt just enough that Hariel feels as if he's mocking her.
Her wand jumps into her hand, though she knows no spells that can touch a ghost. If students were ever taught such a thing, then unquestionably Professor Binns would have been long gone by now. Right now though, Hariel would give anything just to be provided with some kind of proof that Hogwarts is still accessible, even if it did come in the form of Professor Binns. She's at the point right now that she'd be happy to see his insipid form.
"I'm not from around here," Hariel stammers, watching as the man's eyes narrow even more, head shaking slightly from side to side. His weightless hair, falling just short of touching his shoulders and with slight waves, glides effortlessly with the movement.
"And the great Valyrian Empire falls into nothing more than droll history," he scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. While his upper arms are clothed by the fabric of his tunic, his forearms are exposed, and Hariel can see a handful of scars across the skin, stretched taunt of hard muscle. "Your name, girl?"
"Hariel Potter," she bites out, already reminded terribly of all those snooty purebloods form Slytherin, of all those know-it-all Ravenclaws who think they're so much better than everyone else just because they know a few facts.
"Hariel," the ghost muses, testing out the sound of her name upon his tongue. His accent leaks through in that moment, stressing the 'ri' of her name and not softening as much as he should upon the 'l'. "Not a particularly banal name," he concludes. "I am Maehanys Lentheos, Dragon Riders of the Valyrian Empire… Or I once was."
His smile is a wistful and brittle thing.
"Dragons… There aren't any dragons around now," Hariel murmurs, recalling the books she had read, the few she'd been able to understand anyway.
"The dragons have died out then? Not particularly impossible to believe, given the fall of Valyria. Creatures of magic are hard pressed to survive when the world runs dry of sorcery." Maehanys summarises, looking quite dispassionate about the whole thing.
Hariel wishes that another ghost had approached her, one that would be friendly, open and helpful. Instead of this one, who seems content to speculate on things and not allow her to get a word in edgeways.
"I have four eggs though, they're going to hatch soon." She can feel that in her bones, a deep-seated certainty that doesn't so much as scream at her, rather performs a harrowing song that remains forever in the back of her mind.
Yet, it seems for the first time she actually has Maehanys' full attention. He's straightened his posture now, no longer looking quite so relaxed and disinterested.
"Dragons eggs," he repeats, working the muscles of his jaw and Hariel is rather distracted by the motion. He is quite pretty, ghost or not, and the more she looks the more Hariel is sure he has to have some form of Veela blood within him somewhere. "Take me to them, prove you're worthy of my time."
Scowling at the tone, Hariel carefully stresses, "I don't need your help," and she doesn't. It will be far more difficult to raise four dragons if she doesn't quite know what she's doing, and as a former Dragon Rider then perhaps Maehanys has an idea of what he is talking about. But by Merlin is this ghost rubbing her the wrong way; too smug, too egotistical.
"Four dragons? It takes a family branch to successfully raise one trained enough to be rode, and you expect to manage four upon your own?" Maehanys' voice is laced with mockery.
When Hariel turns on heel, fully intent upon making her way back to the dragon eggs and leaving this place for the day, Maehanys follows after her, walking beside her. Unlike Hariel, he leaves no footprints behind him in the ash and dust, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Standing almost a head taller than she, the dead Dragon Rider arches a shapely eyebrow in response to her clear snub of his presence.
"You don't fear death by dragonfire in the least, do you?" He questions, the washed out purple of his eyes considering her with far more intensity than Hariel feels comfortable with.
She wants to ask her questions, wants to know if there's a way -any way at all- to travel back to her home. Back to Hogwarts, even if they may all hate her at least it'd be familiar, at least she'd know the basics of her own damn country as opposed to being so Merlin-damn-it lost here, completely unable to speak the common language and having to rely on others to translate.
Death by dragonfire; she'd thought that was going to happen once, but the flames hadn't scorched her, hadn't burnt in the slightest. Now, now Hariel cannot drum up the courage to be afraid of such a thing.
"No, I don't suppose I am."
"Fascinating," Maehanys drawls, but not in a way that reminds her of Malfoy. Malfoy always did it to undermine her, to highlight just how superior he is. Maehanys… it sounds as if he's both impartial and begrudgingly interested at the same time, if such a state of existence is possible.
Hariel says no more to him, does not wish to speak to him again.
There has to be other ghosts more welcoming than this fellow. Mustn't there?
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When Hariel returns to her temporary camp, her stomach is starting to cramp, as it was wont to do every day she spent at the Dursleys. Where food was nowhere near as plentiful as it was at Hogwarts and she had to ration care-packages from the Weasleys. The Weasleys who have no doubt listened to Ron and believe her a liar and a cheat by now.
Swallowing is difficult, her throat dry and it's not from a lack of water.
"Dragon eggs indeed." Maehanys has not left, instead stubbornly tracing her path through Valyria.
Everywhere he goes, he receives the same looks from all the other ghosts; none of them have the same light colouring as he, not of them have the same clothes that indicate they were born of wealth and Hariel is starting to get a terrible sinking feeling. Part of her only hopes that this man has managed to isolate all of his fellow ghosts after his death and not before.
She doesn't like the implications of his character if that is the case.
"And it wasn't even a falsehood, they really are hatching."
Hariel's head snaps around and sure enough, one of the eggs within the fire is trembling.
"Fantastic," and Maehanys genuinely does sound pleased by this turn of events. "I've never seen a dragon hatch before, the mothers would never allow you close enough. The one time cousin Raegarys attempted it the fool died by dragonfire. Though given the lack of mother dragon here-" Maehanys breaks from his own sentence at this point, narrowed eyes locking onto Hariel.
"How did you come across these eggs?" The tone is low and threatening.
Hariel sees no point in responding though, for it is at that point that the first eggshell cracks.
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
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