1995


The clue to the second task lay within the egg. When it opened Harry heard the screeching and immediately slammed it shut in wincing response.

But he had had time to glimpse the pattern easily recognizable from his careful perusal of the magical creatures around the Scottish castle. Scales and fins, fish and human patterns alike, the color the gray-blue hue of the merpeople.

Hermione held the egg under water and opened it again, and together they ducked their heads and listened to the song.


They could not have made more of a challenge for him if they had purposefully tried. Harry didn't know how to swim; the very thought shot dread through him.

One team member was to retrieve an object from the merpeoples village at the bottom of the lake; then, they were to bring it to a floating platform in front of the school and hand it to the second team member, who would be responsible for placing the object upon a higher platform, charmed to hover high above the water.

There would be creatures to challenge them both above and below the surface.

Hermione tried to teach him the bubble-head charm; he learned it easily, but found the magic of the charm prohibited his sight to such an extent that it was useless. They tried to locate gillyweed, both in person and by owl, and found the supply sold out for weeks and nearly impossible to import with Ministry regulations.

Finally, Hermione put her foot down, and insisted on completing the first part of the challenge herself. She wouldn't have him forfeit, not after the success with the dragon, and the Headmaster's nearly insulting condescension afterwards because Harry had not followed his suggestion to lay low.

And she also claimed that retrieving a stone from merpeople would be a walk in the park.

So Harry found himself waiting as first Hogwarts, then Durmstrang, exited the water with their stones.

Then, he waited, and waited, seeing Neville triumphantly use a rapidly growing green vine of some sort to reach the higher platform, Cedric below helping cast spells to make the diving hippogriffs and pixies stay away. Durmstrang's team sent Krum aloft on a summoned broom, the man's light whirling with such speed Harry could barely follow it if he tried.

But he didn't try. His vision was focused on the water. He could hear it lapping the sides of the deck, could smell it on the air, seeming to surround all his senses, and hiding from him the one thing he wanted.

Fleur paced and paced, her voice sobbing, claiming attack by grindylows or the giant squid must be preventing her sister from surfacing. Harry's heart seized in nearly catatonic fear at the thought. Together, he stood next to the witch whose fiery pattern betrayed relation to a veela, looking down into the dark depths of the lake.

He saw her light flare first; blue-violet, electric, and he shouted aloud.

Hermione carried with her Gabrielle Delacour, who was scooped up by her sister even as Harry drew Hermione into a hard hug, burying his face in her wet hair.

She pushed him away, speaking quickly.

"Go! To the platform! Here!" She thrust the stone in his hand; he could hardly care. She pushed him again, and he reluctantly turned, looking upward at the wood platform, the swooping colors of airborne creatures waiting for him to attempt to ascend.

He couldn't apparate even if he knew how. He couldn't fly a broom, never having learned the skill and knowing its dangers for one who couldn't always see correctly. He could only levitate himself, and he would have to do so quickly.

So he did. With a wild push of green magic he threw himself into the air, his staff cradled in one tight hand. When the creatures curved towards him, he jerked aside, flowing around their colors with grace.

When he alighted upon the platform and placed his stone among the others, he heard his score placing him firmly in second place, tied with Durmstrang.

And then, as quickly as possible, he returned to Hermione, who had just reluctantly made friends with the French girls from Beauxbatons.


Hermione wanted to tell Harry to relax. Since the second task he had always been hovering over her, watching her and the air around her, his gaze fierce and dark.

Haunted.

She remembered his face when she breached the water, his knuckles white in a fist. The fear she had read there.

He wanted to forfeit the third task. He wanted to just leave and return to the relative safety of muggle London. He seemed disinterested in their studies, even with the recent breakthrough in the creation of spirits and what it might mean about the afterlife.

She could barely twitch without him coming alert, that blasted tall staff of his at hand.

"Stop it." She finally burst out, turning on Harry as he paced the room. "We're not leaving yet. I'm f-fine! I only took so long because little Gabrielle was too afraid to even move for fear of running into more merpeople. Apparently they don't care for veelas very much. I finally took her up myself, and that was that. I used all the proper spells to get rid of the lake creatures. I'm not h-helpless Harry."

He grimaced and sat. "I'm sorry. I just… it worried me. I don't want anything to happen to you."

Hermione scooted close to him, leaning her head onto his shoulder. "That's silly. You've already happened to me, so I don't expect life to get dull. Plus, we need more material for Viola's next paper. Stop worrying about me and get back to work."

She poked him hard in the side, and he grunted.

Then, he laughed, and she saw the tension in his face begin to relax.

"Alright, Ms. James. Let's get to work then."


At every turn, fate seemed determined to thwart him.

Albus had designed the Tournament to showcase Neville Longbottom as the new savior; a hero worthy to be followed, able to destroy a Dark Lord. He had thought Harry Potter unable to be that hero.

Then, Harry was summoned, by an unknown person within his very school, a follower of Tom Riddle most certainly. And Harry was shown to not only be able enough to learn magic, but possessing what could possibly be the power spoken of in the prophecy.

And the prophecy clearly stated that the Dark Lord would not know of that power, though the boy himself seemed determined not to hide it.

Now, he no longer knew the right thing to do. Teach the boy? His professors all claimed Harry Potter to be an amazingly bright student, unparalleled within the school. Warn him of the prophecy? He risked the child fleeing from his destiny, or worse, seeking to make it come about before he was ready.

Wait?

He risked his enemies making their own moves.

And yet, he had very little other choice.


Harry practised magic when he was not listening to books, studying with professors, or tracking down spirits and creatures to add to his list of patterns.

He experimented with his power, using it with and without the phoenix staff, both intoned spells and wordless ones.

The staff made up for its lack of finesse with raw magical power, the stones atop it nearly bursting with amplified light. He manipulated raw elements the best, turning them from one to the next, weaving fire and water together as shields or weapons, raising earth in jagged spikes or flinging it like arrows, riling air to a ferocious wind.

Uncomplicated, simple patterns and light, with so much more potential in offensive and defensive maneuvers than complicated spells that required complex wand movements and precise wording. Magic at its most pure, strong and bright.

He preferred fire most of all, the sparking patterns of bright red and deep orange, the lighter the color the hotter the flame.

Once, in the dead of night, he left Hermione alone to slip from the castle onto bare ground, and there finally cast the spell he had most longed to cast.

Fiendfyre.

It bloomed so pale it was white like a ghost, hot death, assuming the forms of animals of all kinds, magical and muggle alike, nearly sentient as it craved to consume life. Uncontrollable in its urges until he was forced to let it go, cutting off his magic from feeding it further.

And in the wake of its destruction, he felt humbled.

There would always be something he could not master in mere moments, if he ever could at all.

But he would greatly enjoy the challenge.


The students at Hogwarts seemed of a mixed mind toward the Blind-Boy-Who-Lived. Some, after seeing his ability in the Tournament and his easy way of walking through the halls, thought that the papers might have gotten the news of his vision wrong. Others thought that perhaps it merely was not as serious as proclaimed.

Several rather thought that Harry Potter was the next Merlin, and therefore being blind simply couldn't make him any less spectacular. That these found themselves in a self-styled Harry Potter Fan Club, whose members tended to stalk the halls looking for the elusive teen, wasn't a surprise.

But a few watched every movement they could of Harry Potter very closely, who he was close to, what professors he learned from, what unique abilities he might possess, and this information was reported most diligently to those relatives who wanted to know.


The third task was set near the end of term, months past the second. There was no need to involve Hermione; it was to be some sort of obstacle course, observed by all as they sat high above them.

To Harry, who had to wait to enter the maze second with the Durmstrang Champions, it all seemed superfluous.

It was supposed to be some great challenge, showing off the strength of various school's prime students. It had done that to some extent; no one could doubt the prowess of Neville Longbottom and Cedric Diggory in Hogwarts.

But why had Harry been involved at all? The question had haunted him and Hermione both the entire time, wondering who would wish to bring them into public light. Was it simple curiosity? Was it in hope of tarnishing his reputation, or highlighting his disabilities? It had done neither, for now many assumed he was not blind at all despite his glasses and the obvious use of his staff as a cane. He moved too easily; seemed to see things coming his way, following movement with his eyes and avoiding obstacles.

Of course, they didn't know that was only because of the magic that saturated everything around the school and its grounds. They couldn't know that anything of plastic or concrete would send him sprawling on his face, that he couldn't tell simple colors of portraits or decorations, couldn't read or write ink on parchment. They only knew what they saw; and that was powerful in a tournament of magic.

In the maze, Harry split off from Durmstrang and began a leisurely stroll. He was in no hurry; he didn't want the Cup or the prize. He had learned enough in his months at Hogwarts that it was worth the hassle. He only wanted to complete the test and return to Hermione and his studies.

He heard the screams from the crowd; heard the cheers and jeers.

He heard the announcer's description of events as they passed. And as he completed a simple riddle from a fascinating large feline pattern he was excited to learn was a Sphinx, he heard the confusion.

Durmstrang had turned against the competing Champions. It was an unexpected strategy; the challenge was supposed to be from within the maze, not from the other competitors.

Hogwarts' Cedric Diggory was down; Beauxbatons had fled in retreat, Neville Longbottom valiantly covering their escape. Then, Krum was defeated; the second Durmstrang champion also falling to the Gryffindor's wand as she simply stood there in apparent forfeit.

And in front of Harry, unnoticed by the eyes riveted on the combat, the maze moved out of his way, tearing itself apart and restructuring at the hand of some other's wand.

Harry saw the pale magic tearing apart the green plant life; he knew that someone was leading his way. He could have turned aside; but what was the point? The answer to the mystery lay ahead, waiting to be solved.

Someone wanted him to walk on, so he walked, staff swinging from side to side, eyes wide open for tricks of magic.

The announcer cried out his name; Longbottom was rushing for the center of the maze.

But Harry was already there. He looked at the Cup, a crystalline pattern of deep purple light.

And like a spiderweb on its surface another spell lay, the stamp of a portkey. The trap set to spring.

He saw Neville's unique brownish-green hue, rushing towards the Cup, the red wand in his hand sparkling with light against the deep green backdrop of the hedge maze.

"No!" Harry called, walking as quickly as he dared towards the large boy, feeling slow and useless, not used to moving fast.

Neville, on edge from Durmstrang's vicious tactics, attacked first, spells flung wide in his haste. Harry dodged some and dispelled others, slowing to raise his staff in protection.

The boy was close; close to that magic that would send him away to someplace else, either the start of the maze or somewhere far, far worse.

Harry, the suspicious thoughts at the forefront of his mind, was betting on worse.

So when he knew he would not beat the boy to the Cup, he did what he had to do for the one who laughed at Hermione's expense years ago but had apologized for it since and was sincere; who had given them the hint about the dragons though it gave them an edge in the first task.

"Accio Cup!" Harry called with a lash of emerald magic, and let the trap spring upon him.


In a graveyard of violet stones and shadows, the sickly red and brown hues of a rat animagus was waiting for him. He was bound before he could fight; his staff fallen at his feet.

It was the disorientation that made him pause; the portkey's spinning colors still making his mind reel. Then he saw a different pattern being brought closer by the brown shade of rat, a giant coiled serpent at the feet of what had to be Peter Pettigrew and one other person.

Its pattern was red, like heart's thick blood, the deepest shade he had ever seen, and it was the pattern he had seen stamped upon the colors of Professor Severus Snape and Alastor Moody. If Dark Magic was what caused such a taint, then the being in front of him had nothing of the Light left in him.

And it was broken, a mere fragment, that spoke in a high nasal voice and called itself Wormtail's Master.

The confusion left him; the final pieces of the puzzle found, the picture now laid out complete before him.

Lord Voldemort had been scheming all along behind the Tournament, not dead at all as he had been lead to believe. Lord Voldemort had been waiting, this broken remnant pattern of a wizard, waiting to trap him. Wanting him at his mercy.

It appeared he might owe the Headmaster a small apology; he was about to profit greatly from being underestimated by his enemy.

Harry did not wait when he saw the still gleam of metal in Pettigrew's hand. He called to the light in the staff at his feet; sang the phoenix song in his heart. He felt the bindings on him rip and tear and fall away, and he slumped down to fall upon the scarlet fire and green wood that made him so much more powerful.

The rat pattern of Pettigrew scrambled away, calling to his master in high pitched tones. Harry spared him no attention, unsure if Lord Voldemort was weak even when broken.

He flung out the green ropes of an Incarcerous spell at the Dark Lord, feeling both rewarded and relieved when the bloody pattern was bound in emerald light.

"Harry Potter!"

Voldemort roared, a wand of familiar phoenix tones in his hold, like a brother to the staff he held. But the wizard did not cast a spell; his magic apparently as broken as his pattern.

Harry saw the rat begin to change; shrinking in size, the brown deeper in hue, fur tones stronger than human.

Perhaps he thought he was hidden in the grass, able to escape; but Harry saw Pettigrew clearly as a spot of brown among the sea of green plants and purple stones around him.

"Petrificus Totalus!" Harry enchanted, and was pleased to see the pattern freeze.

"Kill him!" Voldemort raged and struggled and hissed, and from the grass the large serpent came, lightning fast, brown and red scales with the yellow shade of poison upon it. Perhaps a magical breed of constrictor, Harry thought absently, and raised his staff in a silent shield.

The brown and red light jerked and slid away, words hissing from its form.

"It sees me, Master!"

For a second, Harry paused in shock; was there a breed of magical snake that spoke? But then the familiar tried to strike again, slamming against his shield with an audible thunk, angry hisses spilling from its mouth that he heard as spoken curses.

"Petrificus Totalus." Harry muttered, and was surprised when the snake's light shed the green binding spell with hardly a shiver. He quickly raised his shield again with wordless intent, eyeing the large serpent as it hissed curses, circling him rabidly.

"Incarcerous!" He tried again, and again the snake shed the light. Natural resistance, maybe, or else the thing had multiple layers of protection charms.

Time for some creativity.

Harry dropped his shield, and with a wave of power and intent transfigured the pale air into bright pinpricks of metal, quickly threading them together around the thrashing snake as it curled and struck the new bars.

And as the cage closed around it, holding it still for the moment, Harry realized he must be mistaken; for the brown snake pattern was distinctly different from the red pattern that seemed etched over it; a very familiar, human, red pattern.

Unlike the smaller taint upon what he now knew to be the arms of Death Eaters, the snake's entire being was overlaid like a murky film, collapsing in on each other in places, human and snake, red and brown, two souls in one body, unlike anything he had ever seen before.

Something he had not known was even possible.

And the human soul that crouched upon the brown light was as fractured and broken as the bloody monster that howled in anger under his spell.

For a long moment he stood still, appalled, in a graveyard surrounded by enemies he had overcome perhaps through sheer luck, or perhaps just their own incompetence, and considered yet another puzzle that had arisen.

Two broken fragments of one soul, each controlling a separate body. Perhaps he had indeed killed Voldemort after all when he was a child and gained his scar. Perhaps what he saw before him was only the remnants of a wizard who had not properly died or become a spirit as normally broken patterns tended to do. Perhaps Voldemort's pattern was tethered to the world in the slivers before him.

What a fascinating thought. An entire realm of new questions and possibilities opened before him; and he really did not have any more time to think on them.

The snake thrashed again, and to his surprise he saw the metal pattern caging it crack and begin to break under the serpent's strength. He frowned sternly at it as the thing fell free, brown and red light fixing on him with vicious intent.

Well, he had tried to take the specimen alive.

"Kill!" The snake hissed, coiling to spring, and Harry banged the butt of his staff hard against the ground, his green magic bonded with the scarlet phoenix song of the staff as he struck in a much more powerful, and deadly, spell.

"Confringo!"

Unlike the inferior binding spells, this one did its intended job. The brown light of the snake shattered into pieces, its pulsing life beginning to slow with death even as the remains fell to the ground.

And the red sliver of broken soul that had covered the snake wrenched free and began to perish with an unholy howl, fading to nothing as all human souls did when the body they inhabited no longer had life.

Harry spared a moment watching the still pieces of the brown snake, Voldemort quiet now behind him.

He wondered if one part of a soul knew when the other part died; if they felt the loss. Then, with a grimace, he reached out for the portkey at his side, its web still alive and functioning, levitating the Dark Lord and Pettigrew close enough to touch, though his skin crawled at having their lights so close to his own.

"I will have your heart for this, Potter. I will destroy you and everything you hold dear."

Voldemort hissed in a sudden high, whiny voice, the small, almost child sized scarlet light gleaming with furious rage.

Harry didn't answer. He didn't quite know what to say.

He only wrapped a hand around the Cup and let it take them all away.


There were no words for the shock that came over the stadium when Harry Potter appeared with a wanted criminal and something other in tow.

The world dissolved into pandemonium. Reporters clicked wild pictures; aurors swarmed like bees around a hive. The Minister yelled for order; the Headmaster of Hogwarts rushed to cage a squealing bundled monstrosity from attempting to escape into another host.

The horrible name of Lord Voldemort was said aloud; and in the quiet that followed, the Headmaster of Hogwarts confronted the bundle and it responded in a hiss that too many wizards and witches heard.

"You can not kill me, Albus Dumbledore! I will never die!"

No one was watching Harry Potter except a single witch with tears of relief in her eyes at seeing him unharmed; and only she saw Professor Moody reach to lead him back away from the possible danger in front of him.

And she was the only one who understood when Harry let the black glasses upon his face fall away and turned his gaze up to find where she sat among the crowd. His piercing green eyes met hers, and she saw the anxious warning there.

She jumped to her feet.

"Get Down!"

Her scream rang out over the crowd, the only words of warning she could think to say in that instant; words she had heard more than once in muggle movies.

The crowd, already on edge, startled and scrambled at her words; but it was the loud explosion from behind that sent them to the ground when Alastor Moody turned his wand upon Harry Potter and tried his best to kill him.


Harry had been watching Voldemort when the steadying hand at his elbow tightened; He looked down to see the damning stamp of bloody red on Moody's forearm.

"Come with me, boy. It's not safe here." The gruff man murmured.

Harry knew better; one never went with the enemy where they wished to take you, no matter how one was threatened or coerced. The only advantage you had was to strike when it was unexpected, on your own terms.

And Alastor Moody was a trained and deadly wizard. If the man meant him harm, Harry would need every advantage he had.

"I'm fine here, thanks." Harry replied softly, but the man's grip did not waver. Harry felt him lean closer, his light burning bright with gray swirling into black.

"I must insist."

Harry closed his eyes; then he nodded and took a step back, reaching up to pull the glasses from his eyes and let them fall to the ground by his feet. He raised his head to face the stands, finding the gleam of blue-violet, the beloved pattern, assuring himself that she was far away from any damage that might occur.

He heard her shout something even as he whirled, bringing his staff up between himself and the professor, breaking the older man's grip.

He heard Moody curse in dark tones, saw the bright green-orange gleam of a wand that bore a dragon's heartstring.

Then Harry raised the golden light of the shield Protego as the professor's gray magic swarmed towards him with the deep crimson stain of dark magic.

He heard the explosions; but worse, he saw the patterns flicker then fade around him as the curse was turned aside to strike the nearby stands, wooden sparks flung into the air, people screaming, patterns muddling together in a confusion he could not interpret.

He could only defend himself, backing up one step after another, pouring more and more of himself into the shield, the dark magic eating away the golden light like nitric acid onto flesh.

He heard orders, commands, attempts to rally behind him. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that battle was raging in more than one part of the stands. He had no time to worry about his friend.

His shield shattered, and Moody laughed.

Then Harry knew there was no use trying to only defend himself, when the people around him were dying.

So he called to the light inside the earth, the deep purple tones of rock and stone, some of it bearing the pattern of the castle itself.

And with a desperate twist of his own emerald light, he flung his staff out from him and made the purple light into a new familiar pattern, one deadly, one large and powerful.

And he sent it to attack.


Later, when the rubble was settled and all of the statement's taken, everyone could agree on one solid thing.

The dragon surprised them all.

The Death Eaters in the crowd, waiting to hear their Master's call, or better yet, see his triumphant return, had taken the attack upon the Boy-Who-Lived as the final signal to bring them to arms. Seeing their Master, the frail thing caged by Dumbledore, had frozen them; but the explosion of a portion of the stands and the death of several of the Ministry's guarding aurors had given them courage again.

Albus Dumbledore, faced with attack from unknowns within the crowd, securing the Dark Lord and his servant, and the attack on Harry Potter, had to make a horrible choice; to save those around him, or continue to bind the darkest wizard that had risen to power since Grindelwald.

He chose to hold He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the scales in his mind falling to where the greatest good might be gained.

It was left to the remaining aurors to battle the rogue Death Eaters, the Dark Mark rising above their heads, but telling friend from foe was difficult, and the casualties of both the fleeing innocent and those battling were steep.

None were left to help the Boy-Who-Lived; but soon, he didn't need it.

Hermione, forcing herself between the stampeding students and press, had only managed to reach the outskirts of the battle between her best friend and the Defense Professor when a hand snagged her, pulling her back.

Before she could cast a spell, the black-haired Potions Professor spoke harshly in her ear, a shield rising from his wand to turn aside a particularly nasty curse.

"Foolish girl! You'll only be in the way! He needs no distractions now!"

She turned to argue with him; Harry would be nearly blind with the amount of spell light being flung through the air!

He wouldn't be able to cope!

He wasn't a god, he was just Harry. He couldn't take on a Death Eater alone.

And when she turned, her fears were realized as she saw Harry's shield fall, and heard Moody laugh.

Severus Snape cursed under his breath, pushing her aside to step forward.

Then, the ground shook under their feet and Hermione fell to her knees with a harsh gasp, the shouts renewed around them in horror.

Because between the dueling wizards claws were pulling themselves from the ground, sharp pinpricks of rock, spines, ridges, stony scales and a large arching neck.

It happened fast; a blink of the eye, really, was all it ever took for Harry to change the pattern of one thing to another. Hermione had seen it before, on a much smaller scale.

She would have thought, later, that something large would take more time to transform. But as it turned out, it only took more space, and that space made the world shake and tremble.

The ground was an empty, collapsing hole; the stands were beginning to fall, witches and wizards fleeing in a riot in any direction they could.

All, away from the stone dragon that launched itself at Moody with wicked intent, its long tail lashing behind it with the crunch of rock upon rock.

Hermione squeaked; then Professor Snape picked her up from the ground and pushed her away.

"Run!"


To Harry, the thing he had created gleamed with the still purple light of stone, only infused into the pattern of a Hebridean Black.

The professor hardly put up a fight; later, Harry would learn that there were few spells that could blast apart the amount of solid stone he had sent at the wizard. The man only spent enough time to block the first few efforts of the lumbering beast to snatch him in its jaws before sprinting away.

And without apparition, Moody was left only one means of escape; the edge of the wards.

The dragon couldn't fly; neither was it very fast. If anything, it was an extremely awkward creation. But it had a few things going for it; surprise, and the terrible appearance it gave.

He saw Moody's gray light disappear; and he simply stood, weak and trembling from the effort it had taken to transform the stone, leaning heavily upon his staff, weary. The cloying smell of smoke and burning flesh assailed him, the air heavy with spellfire and destruction. How many had died? How many lights had faded from the world during the mere moments the duel had lasted?

"Merlin,boy." He heard a whisper, and turned to see Professor Snape's pattern.

He stiffened; the man also bore the bloody mark.

"Peace, Harry. He is one of mine." The pale blue light of Headmaster Dumbledore said; but he couldn't relax.

"So was Moody." Harry snapped back, and saw the blue pulse with emotion.

"That was not my dear friend Alastor. If I am not mistaken, that was Bartemius Crouch Jr, who has been thought dead for some time."

The world was spinning; His eyes burning, burning, burning. Harry groaned at the sensation, and heard a growl from the distance, hissing words reaching his ears.

"This isn't over, old man!"

Dumbledore only sighed in response.

"I very much fear it is not."


With the appearance of the dragon and the flight of Crouch, the opposition ended. Those that did not escape were rounded up by the Ministry.

But in the end, three students would never return to the castle, and nearly three dozen were wounded. Of the spectators, two were killed, with five times as many injured.

And the Ministry lost eleven aurors, half of them new to the force.

It was a blow the wizarding world had not seen since the war against the Dark Lord; and the only thing that pushed that news to the second page of the special edition of the Daily Prophet was the picture of a mutated terror under a single headline.

Boy-Who-Lived Captures He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!

Standing tall in the background, elegant staff in one hand, was Harry Potter, his face uncovered for the first time in pictures, scars twisted across his face in thin white lines, eyes open and focused on the monster at his feet in fierce concentration.

And when his blindness was finally mentioned, it was done with a reverent tone, as if describing a gruesome wound that had been overcome with spectacular skill.


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