World Enough and Time

Summary: On the night four names are drawn from the Goblet of Fire, Viktor spies the figure of young Harry Potter from aboard the Durmstrang ship and makes a decision that will rock the entire wizarding world.

Rating: T


Thanks for being so patient guys (o:

And congratulations to Dreamers0rule0the0earth for being the 200th reviewer! The requested pairing will be Harry/Blaise with a Slytherin!Harry, and they will be featured in a chaptered piece.


The First Task

Viktor was the first up. He entered the stadium stonily, his wand a constant presence by his side. He stalked forward, not bothering to hide behind the rocks in the arena. The Swedish Short-Snout watched him with narrowed eyes, a snarl growing deep within her throat.

When he was about fifteen feet away, he slowly drew to a halt. Despite the sizeable distance, theer was no doubt about the Short-Snout's ability to cross that distance in the blink of an eye. Then he bowed low, to the waist, carefully keeping his eyes on the floor. The stadium tittered with people just wondering if the world's leading Quidditch star was insane. To leave himself so vulnerable to attack from a dragon-

The Swedish Short-Snout drew herself up, and let out a fearsome roar. She blew out an enormous jet of flame into the air, far above Viktor's head. Breathing hard, he dropped to one knee before her, and held out his wand: 10-and-a-quarter inches, hornbeam, with a core made from the heartstring of an expired, but particularly vicious Antipodean Opaleye. He glanced up, made sure the Short-Snout was watching, before carefully laying it on the ground. You could practically hear the jaws drop around the stadium. Then Viktor stood, and took a couple of steps back, leaving his wand to the Short-Snout's mercy.

She stalked forward, oddly sleek for a creature of her size. Flaring her enormous silver-blue wings aggressively, she hooked one of her claws over the fragile piece of wood. For a creation Ollivander decreed "rather rigid" and "thicker than normal", it looked painfully vulnerable in the Short-Snout's grasp.

Viktor drew his hand across his chest and bowed again.

"Great Lady, I mean no harm," he pledged in his native tongue. "My task is merely to retrieve the golden egg from among your hatchlings. I solemnly swear I will do no harm to your young."

The Short-Snout let out a great hiss, and, to the surprise of many, began to speak in a rather archaic form of Bulgarian. One long-forgotten characteristic of all dragons was their ability to speak in all the Ancient tongues, except for Latin and English. Slytherin, who had formed a great kinship with the drakes, had always speculated as to why this was so, but had come no closer to the answer even at the end of his life. However, his entries did detail the old rituals of respectfully approaching a dragon, something the four Champions were going to shamelessly take advantage of.

"You know the old wayssss, youngling. Very well, we will permit you thisss. However, touch one of our young…" She ended in a sharp hiss that needed no translation. Viktor just bowed lower, and then slowly walked to the Short-Snout. He manoeuvred his way under her belly, all the while very aware of her keen eyes tracking his every move. When he reached the clutch of eggs by her enormous hind claws, he took a deep, shuddering breath. He stretched out his hands and plucked the golden egg from the rest of the stone-grey hatchlings. The Bulgarian waited for a moment, and when no retribution befell him, he quickly retraced his steps back to where he had first spoken to the dragon.

"Your word was true." Was it Viktor's imagination, or did she actually sound amused? Viktor thought it better not to comment. She raised the tip of her hooked claw from his wand, and he heaved out a large sigh of relief. Then a thought occurred to him.

"Lady!"

The Short-Snout, about to return to her eggs, turned her head briefly.

Viktor bowed again. "Might I have the honour of knowing your name?"

She let out a fearsome roar, and a bellow of flame into the sky. The stands were shrieking, thinking Viktor had reached the end of his odd rope of luck. But Viktor knew better. She was laughing. The dragon was laughing.

"Impertinent fleshling!" She reared up, wings flaring as the light hit her wings in a myriad of colours and blinding anyone that dared look upon her, trumpeted by terrified screams. She settled back down, holding her wings out to keep her balance. "You may call me Emiliya."

Viktor let out a choked laugh of his own. "Rival, indeed. My Lady, I have been well-met." He shifted forward to swipe his wand. Stealing a glance at the Swedish Short-Snout caused him to nearly do a double-take. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn she was preening.

With his wand firmly clenched in his hand, and the golden egg secured under his arm, Viktor strode out of the arena unscathed.


Despite the fact that the judges had no idea what in Merlin had just happened, they had to admit that Viktor had near-perfect technique. His time was a mere 6 minute and 13 seconds. Although he hadn't battled the Swedish Short-Snout, the task's goal was to retrieve the egg, and not fight dragon fangs and dragon breath.

Dumbledore awarded him 9 points; Crouch awarded him 9 points; Madame Maxime awarded him 10 points; Bagman awarded him 9 points; and Karkaroff awarded him 10 points. Altogether that gave him a near perfect score of 47.

Following him was the elusive Veela, and speculation ran high about what mysterious Veela technique she would use to get past the Chinese Fireball. The crowd had already written Viktor's technique off as some obscure Bulgarian mumbo-jumbo, seeing as how he'd only spoken in his native language. The judges, of course, knew it had to be more than that, but any attempts at prying information, let alone details, out of him was warded off by the infamous Krum silence. He spared a faint smirk for only Madame Maxime; he knew Fleur would have told the giantess what their strategy was today.

Fleur Delacour sashayed into the arena. While Viktor had been wearing his official Bulgarian robes, as would Harry, she was wearing a silvery robe that shimmered ethereally. She, too, walked fearlessly up to the Chinese Fireball. The Chinese Fireball was much more temperamental and aggressive than the Swedish Short-Snout, and by the time she had reached the fifteen feet mark, the Fireball was already snorting fire and lashing its tail about. Fleur was starting to shimmer almost uncontrollably, and speculation reached a fever-pitch. But Viktor knew that bright light and flame were two things that endeared to Chinese Fireballs, and Fleur was using her glow to soothe the creature somewhat.

What happened next was something no one could have predicted. She, too, lay her wand down at the Fireball's feet, all 9-and-a-half inches of Rosewood and Veela hair core, and curtsied delicately. She, too, began speaking to it in Old French. The crowd gaped as she went through the exact motions as Viktor had less than ten minutes earlier. She, too, finished her task with aplomb less than 6-and-a-half minutes later.

The crowd turned questioningly to the judges. Were they going to mark Fleur down because she had used the same technique as Viktor? Dumbledore awarded her 8 points; Crouch awarded her 8 points; a tickled Madame Maxime awarded her favourite student awarded her 10 points; Bagman awarded her 8 points; and Karkaroff awarded her 6 points.

There was audible grumbling from the foreign sector, while the reporters were hurriedly jotting notes down. The English judges were clearly following Dumbledore's lead on this, while Madame Maxime was remaining impartial; Karkaroff, however, was plainly biased.

Cedric Diggory emerged next to loud English cheers. His broad, sunny face was open and smiling. Up in the stands, his father Amos had joined Sirius Black, greeting the other man amicably. Fleur's parents, two impossibly stunning French persons, were in the stands as well. Viktor's parents were absent, but that was hardly surprising, given their political status.

Cedric followed the exact routine the previous two Champions had, choosing to face his Welsh Green with Old Welsh. The grumbling in the stands grew louder. More so than ever it was obvious that the Champions didn't trust any of the judges– rightly so– to be impartial in this.

As Dumbledore had already marked Fleur down for unoriginality, he could hardly go back and award his own student the 9 points he had awarded Viktor. So he continued with his depreciation in points; Crouch and Bagman both gave Cedric 7 points as well; Madame Maxime still awarded him 10 points, and Karkaroff just randomly assigned him 6 points. All of them, except the giantess, were going to be fodder for tomorrow's papers.

When Harry Potter entered the stadium, the crowd almost imperceptibly leaned forward. They were curious as to whether the youngest Champion would follow in the footsteps' of the other three, and if he would, which language he would choose. Either Italian, Spanish, or German would be fitting, since French and Welsh had already been used. Maybe Gaelic, then. What they didn't know was that Harry had never been taught a foreign language in his life, and there was a chance that he wouldn't succeed speaking another human language, especially when facing the Hungarian Horntail, by far the most vicious of the beasts brought out today.

Harry knew the Hungarian was probably the most dangerous dragon in the world. The Room of Requirement had been most obliging and provided several books on dragons, all of them had unequivocally labelling the Hungarian as the dragon an experienced hunter would least like to face at any given time, and was better of not facing at all during nesting season. Any advice to would-be dragon tamers in dealing with Hungarian Horntails was summed up in one word: Don't.

Unfortunately, Slytherin had no notes concerning the Hungarian either. Whether that meant he had never encountered it, or had deemed it too dangerous to approach, Harry never knew. Either way, he knew he'd still have to take drastic measures when following the ritual.

He stopped a good thirty feet away, and even then the Hungarian was already screeching at him. He knew it wouldn't stop the Horntail; she could cover that distance and more in one beat of her darker-than-night wings. He dropped to one knee, presenting his holly-and-phoenix-feather wand above his head. The Hungarian paused in her fury and looked down at him, slightly curious. Then Harry gripped both ends of the wand and snapped it in half, and tossed the ends to the Hungarian. She let out a snort of flame that immediately incinerated both halves, and a faint ghost of phoenix song warbled in the stadium as the ashes of his phoenix feather core dissipated entirely.

"Lady…" he hissed.

The crowd was beyond shocked. Dumbledore had nearly fainted at his last stunt, and now the Parseltongue just about did him in. Poppy was rapidly casting charm after charm on him in a rush to make sure he didn't suffer a heart attack.

Although they had all known Harry Potter was a Parselmouth, most had never heard the language, never seen such an open display of this ability. Harry Potter was openly announcing to the wizarding world that he was a Parselmouth, and unafraid of that fact. But by using his gift, despite the stigma connected to it, he was also signifying his willingness to do absolutely anything to survive this damn tournament. The foreign reporters were almost chuckling with glee. And who had forced the famous Boy-Who-Lived into such a corner? Who else but the adults who had subjected him to such a task?

The Horntail froze. She crouched closer, glaring at the tiny flesh-coloured creature in front of her. "Speak again," she demanded.

Harry glanced up through his fringe. "Lady," he began again in Parseltongue, but he didn't get much further when she cut him off.

"You speak the Snake's tongue. Only one other of you fleshlings has ever spoken it, and I have only heard it as a hatchling. That fleshling protected my mother…"

Harry nearly fainted. Slytherin never wrote anything on the Hungarian Horntails because he'd been cushy with them?

"Lady, I meant no disrespect," he tried again, when the Horntail cut him off.

"Stand!" she ordered with a roar. "I will NOT see one of his own grovel like this!"

Shakily, Harry clambered back to his feet. "Lady, you honour me. I think I know of the wizard you speak-"

"Is he still here?" she asked eagerly, nearly disembowelling him with the spikes on her face as she leant close. Harry ignored the screams and hopped nimbly back a couple of feet. "My apologies," she mumbled, but her attention was clearly elsewhere. "Is that fleshling still here?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry, my Lady, but he died a long time ago."

She sighed regretfully, and Harry had to dodge the blast of flame that accompanied it. "Yes, I had forgotten time moved differently for you fleshlings." She shook her head to clear her thoughts. "What is it you wish of me?"

"Of you? Nothing, great Lady. I was merely assigned a task. This is a competition I was entered in, and I need to retrieve the golden egg in your nest."

She roared up to her full height, blasting a fearsome stream of fire nearly a hundred feet into the air. "They dare infest my nest?" She turned furious eyes back on the clutch of eggs. "Which one is it?" she demanded. "I will blast the imposter into ash!"

Harry had a feeling…"My Lady, how did you come to be here?"

She let out a long, furious hiss, and turned around to glare at the stands full of fleshlings. "I was taken from my home! Away from my mate!" She released a pain-filled howl that shook the very foundations of the stadium.

Harry narrowed his eyes in anger. "I truly am sorry for that," he told her honestly. "As someone who's never really had a say in anything, I sincerely apologise for the injustice done to you."

"Can you release me?" she asked eagerly, once again nearly goring him with her horns. "That chain-"

Harry shook his head sorrowfully. "If I hadn't snapped my wand– that piece of wood– I might have been able to, but now-"

The Horntail looked as if her brow were furrowed. "The other fleshling, the older one- he would hiss at things to make them do as he wished. Perhaps if you try the same-"

Shrugging, Harry pointed at the chain holding the Hungarian Horntail in place and hissed, "Disappear!" The chain vanished, and the Horntail let out a screech of triumph as the screams in the stands increased tenfold. Her wings snapped open to either side of her at full-length, stretching the entire length of the seventy-foot arena.

"Freedom!" she shrieked. "And now my young-"

Phoenix song erupted in the arena as Fawkes appeared in a burst of flame. The bird nipped lightly out of the Horntail's way, and then settled onto Harry's shoulder. He idly brushed the bird's scarlet plumage, the remnants of his song making him smile. "Fawkes," he greeted the phoenix. "Are you here to lend a hand again?"

Fawkes gave a whistle and an agreeing set of chirrups. Harry turned back to the Horntail. "Lady," he said, "I think Fawkes can help you with your nest." Fawkes chirped in his ear and waved one of his wings in the direction of the eggs. "Oh, but first I think I have to retrieve that egg."

"Go, fledgling," she said, settling back down on her hind legs, her huge black wings blanketing the autumn sky.

Harry made his way over to the clutch of eggs and picked the golden one out. Fawkes gave a whistle and fluttered down to settle on top of the brood. Then they all burst into flame and reappeared atop the Horntail's back. Harry watched with wide eyes as Fawkes casually helped secure each one of the eggs into a pocket between the Horntail's scales.

"What name do you bear, great Lady?" he asked curiously, once Fawkes fluttered back and landed on his shoulder.

She spread her wings and crouched in a take-off position.

"Csilla," she said, "He called me Csilla."

Harry smiled as she soared into the air and disappeared into the horizon.


"You lost us a dragon, boy!" One of the dragon handlers roared when Harry slipped out of the stadium. He would have been immediately trampled if Viktor hadn't intervened.

"You vill leave him alone," Viktor snarled, his wand raised.

Fleur was right beside him, and immediately pulled Harry aside. "Are you alright? You spoke to her much longer than the rest of us did," she whispered, petting his wild locks.

Harry was irate over the dragon handler's behaviour. His eyes darted over to the crowd watching them and then he blurted out in French, "They took her from her mate! They took her from Hungary and dragged her here with her eggs-"

"'E DID WHAT?" Fleur exploded. Everyone just stopped for a moment as the French Veela nearly burst into flames. She rounded into the dragon handler, but not before leaving Harry in Viktor's capable arms.

"You dare," she hissed, "take a wild nesting mozzer away from 'er MATE?" She veritably screeched the last word, and everyone in the near vicinity had overheard. Which, of course, included the reporters.

"How'd you know that?" One of the other handlers blurted out, before slapping a hand over his mouth. Dragons were an endangered species, and the Tournament had allowed the use of nesting mothers only if they were the tamer ones from the Romanian reserve. But to hear that one of them had to be kidnapped from the wild-

Viktor didn't have any illusions about how this would end. The rights of any magical race that wasn't human were disregarded almost as soon as the issue was raised. And dragons were only an endangered species as long as their existence wasn't a burden to the Ministry. After exchanging a glance with Cedric, he knew he wasn't the only one who was aware of this. Harry didn't need to hear this. Viktor turned to about to shield the boy, but he was already looking bitterly toward the lake.

"I don't want to hear this," Harry insisted, his eyes directed stonily away.

Viktor sighed heavily and wrapped an arm protectively about him, and they left the stands in chaos together.


I hope it was worth the wait (o: The dragon Viktor's wand core came from was of my invention, because there is no mention of it in canon.

I know a lot of you were concerned with the time lag between Cedric's leaving the tent and then Harry's, and none of that is shown here. Dumbledore himself couldn't have gone, because he'd have to have been in the public eye the entire time 'judging'. As to why he simply doesn't capture Harry by proxy- this fic really isn't about that. As far as Dumbledore's concerned, Harry's Bulgaria's now. He's pretty much stopped trying at this point, although he continues to hope Harry will 'do the right thing' later on. I hope that clears things up for you guys.

On another note, you'll can expect at least a new chapter every week, usually before the full seven days has passed. We have five more chapters and a tentative epilogue that I'm still quibbling over (o: Cheers.


Names

Emiliya – Bulgarian for 'rival'

Csilla – possibly derived from the Hungarian word 'csillaga', meaning 'star'