Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar

The evening after the first task, Harry did not attend dinner in the Great Hall. After defeating the Hungarian Horntail so spectacularly and violently, he knew that Dumbledore and McGonagall would jump at the first chance to interrogate him about what magic he had used, and the headmaster would probably try something underhanded to get him to relinquish the dragon's carcass. That, Harry could not allow, as he planned to use it immediately.

Dobby and Winky had proven once again that house-elves are much more powerful than most witches and wizards realized, by having the carcass waiting for him in the Chamber by the time he sent Daphne away, shortly before dinner was to be served in the Great Hall. As much as he had begun to enjoy her company—particularly this afternoon, which mostly consisted of typical teenage snogging, as few things get the heart pumping quite like battling a dragon, and both teens had needed a bit of release—and was looking forward to spending more time with her, he needed the rest of the evening alone. Plus, both knew that they had to be careful with how often they were "missing" at the same time. It wouldn't do to have the knowledge of their association spreading.

Harry needed to be alone for the rest of the night in order to prepare for a powerful ritual that he had read about in Shamanism, by Tenskwatawa, which he had picked up in a Chicago bookstore (incidentally, just moments before a hag had tried to pull him into a side alley) along with several other texts on some of the different branches of magic he had heard about outside of Hogwarts. As described by Tenskwatawa, many Native American rituals centered on drawing on the energy from an animal, and the Exultation of the Conquering Hunter was no different. The ritual had only two requirements, and Harry's battle with the Horntail had satisfied them both. First, the wizard had to be in mortal danger—the magical beast in question had to be trying to kill him, rather than simply escape, or scare him off. Second, the wizard had to use magic (rather than a weapon, magical or otherwise—therefore, the basilisk and the Jersey Devil couldn't be used for this ritual) to kill the beast. That was it, really. The ritual was rarely performed only because of the legal and practical difficulties involved in hunting down and killing a magical beast that was simultaneously dangerous enough to satisfy the requirements and powerful enough to grant a useful benefit.

The ritual had to start at sundown on the day he killed the beast, so he had to do it tonight, or not at all. Harry would have to start a ritual fire, and toss in the dragon's heart—bathed in his own blood—at exactly sundown. The fact that the heart had been mostly destroyed by lightning in the battle was actually helpful for the ritual, as it made for another link between the magic of the Hunter (Harry) and the Hunted (the dragon). The rest of the ritual was simple—Harry would drink a ram's horn of the dragon's blood, and then spend the rest of the night sitting in front of the ritual fire, high as a kite.

The best part of this particular ritual was that the only sacrifice Harry would have to make would be the blood he'd use to cover the dragon's heart; the rest of the power was supplied by the death of the dragon. Thus, when he awoke in the morning, it would be an aspect related to the dragon's death that would flow through Harry's veins. He suspected that it would be an increased affinity for channeling fire, as it had been the dragon's own flames that had powered his devastating attack that dealt the Horntail a mortal blow.

So, with Gadsden and Hedwig looking on, Harry set up a campfire in the middle of a clearing in the Forbidden Forest, which he surrounded with a series of simple but increasingly-dangerous perimeter wards. After he lit the campfire, he cut open his palm, dripped blood onto the dragon's charred heart (which Winky had helpfully removed from the Horntail's ruined chest cavity), and used a small paintbrush to ensure that every bit of the heart's surface was fully covered. At the moment that the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, Harry dropped the bloody heart into the campfire, which promptly flared a brilliant blue-white, the precise hue of the lightning that had taken the Horntail's life. As an orange-red tint—the precise shade of the Horntail's flame—began to creep into the blazing fire, Harry drank deeply from a ram's horn full of blood (which Dobby had squeezed from the dragon's heart right after Winky removed it from the dragon).

Harry finished his drink, and felt the dragon's blood practically burn its way down his throat. The ritual was complete. His inner thunderbird screamed in triumph, celebrating that it had destroyed a powerful foe and was taking its rightful spoils—its prey's own power—as the victorious hunter. Thunder rumbled around the grounds of Hogwarts, and over a mile away, the three surviving dragons laid their heads against the ground in submission.

A man who looked very much like Alastor Moody drummed his fingers against his hip flask before taking a thoughtful swig, ensuring that he would continue to look very much like Alastor Moody for another hour.

He was having disturbing thoughts about the events of the first task; specifically, how Harry Potter had brushed off his advice about trying to out-fly the dragon, instead opting to destroy the beast in what might have been the most dramatic manner possible. The magic the boy had used had been immensely powerful, and he hadn't even seemed tired afterward. Assassinating Potter as an infant had been the right decision in 1981, even if a stroke of bad luck had prevented the mission's success. Such foresight about the potential power of a future adversary was even more proof of his master's omniscience, though the result of that night proved that he was still at least partly vulnerable to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune—and what outrageous fortune it had been!

Barty Crouch, Junior shook himself from his thoughts, scanning the tables in the Great Hall with Moody's magical eye. He was surprised that the boy had not chosen this night, the night of his great triumph in defiance of all expectations, to return to visibility among the school. It would have sent a powerful message to those who had doubted him, and Crouch—who knew first-hand that the boy had not actually entered himself into the tournament—knew that as a boy, he himself would have taken the opportunity to gleefully shove such a spectacular victory in his detractors' faces. As powerful as Potter was magically, he clearly did not understand what it was to gain power over others. Crouch allowed himself a smug internal grin, knowing that the Dark Lord would be able to crush Potter like an insect, and his own loyal service would make it all possible.

Harry awoke the next morning at dawn, feeling quite well-rested, especially compared to the other campfire rituals he had performed back in Wisconsin. As he began his morning routine (mostly with his wand, as there were neither sinks nor showers in the Forbidden Forest), he noticed that his movements were stronger, surer, and more precise. Was that a side effect of the ritual? Suddenly worried about other possible effects, he stripped naked and checked his body from head to toe in a hastily-conjured mirror—after all, it would be just his luck to have started growing scales or a tail. Thankfully, though, there were no outward signs of change, except perhaps a slight increase in height and greater muscle tone. It was possible, then, that he had merely gained in physical prowess, a subtle but potentially extremely useful benefit.

Between the nutrient potions from that summer, the effects of the thunderbird transformation, and now the Hunter ritual, Harry was quickly becoming quite a specimen. Harry had never been particularly vain, but he was rather pleased with his new appearance, and it certainly didn't hurt that Daphne seemed to like it, if her wandering hands the previous afternoon were any judge.

Moments later, Harry realized that he should have known he was wrong the instant he thought of the word "subtle"—nothing in his life had ever been subtle, and it certainly wasn't going to start now. As he went to pick up his clothes (in his brief panic, he had tossed his clothing everywhere) he stumbled over the remains of the campfire, falling into the embers. The still-glowing embers. The embers that should be melting his exposed skin, but which felt merely pleasantly warm.

"Well, that's new."

Hogwarts was still buzzing about the first task the previous day, when a sudden hush fell over the Great Hall. Harry Potter had just entered the room.

Seemingly ignoring the stares of the staff and students, Harry walked nonchalantly to the intersection between all four house tables and glanced around, looking for an acceptable place to sit. The Gryffindor and Slytherin tables were obviously out, both houses having been far too unfriendly to him over the last several weeks, and Ravenclaw was already full. That left Hufflepuff, which would have been good if a seat next to Cedric had been open—Harry figured it would be good for his PR image if he could be observed chatting amiably with his fellow champion—but it was not to be. He allowed himself a brief frown, took out his wand, and gave it a casual wave.

Students and staff alike gasped in surprise as the central intersection was suddenly occupied by a large, sturdy booth which looked as though it had been taken directly out of a 1950's-style American diner, but which in reality was an exact replica of his and Annie's booth from the back corner of the Great White Bear Inn. He sat down, snorting in amusement at their collective reaction—after all, they had seen him blow away a dragon with one spell, and now they were surprised by a little bit of transfiguration? Though in fairness, he considered, he had transfigured the air into the booth, so it looked like had performed conjuration, a much more difficult feat. Food appeared on a plate in front of him and he set about eating his breakfast, making a mental note to thank Winky for remembering to give him orange juice (he had had enough pumpkin juice to last a bloody lifetime) and coffee (students generally were not served coffee at Hogwarts, and several nearby upperclassmen were shooting envious looks at his steaming mug).

The morning post arrived in a flurry of feathers and beaks. Hedwig arrived bearing a letter (sent to Grimmauld Place via the USPPS—United States Portkey Postage Service—and forwarded to Hogwarts by owl) from Annie, and several owls arrived from the various periodicals available in magical Britain, all asking for interviews. Finally, the Daily Prophet arrived, and Harry put aside his letters for Winky to secure back at the Chamber. He glanced down at the front page, and grinned. After the first task, he and Daphne had put together a few quick quotes for Rita Skeeter, and sent them via Hedwig. Apparently, she had decided to paint him favorably, and Dumbledore...somewhat less so.

Dragonslayer Potter!

Boy-Who-Lived Crushes First Task and Unfair Judges, Quotes Law to Lawmaker, and Schools the Headmasters!

The full-color photo (rare, in wizarding Britain, and only used for special occasions) showed Harry enveloped in flames, then cut to him blasting the dragon with lightning. Harry skimmed the article, before moving on to what he considered much more important news, on the second page.

Dumbledore to Answer to Wizengamot Tomorrow, Dismissal Likely. Who Will Be New Chief Warlock?

This article was merely the latest in Rita's ongoing series; since her first article after the Wand Weighing, she had continued to hound Dumbledore, chipping away at the mystique with which he had surrounded himself. Before the first task, Fudge had used the verified contents of her articles to strip Dumbledore of his seat in the ICW; now, the Wizengamot would be meeting in a full session to determine whether Dumbledore would remain their leader. With public opinion overwhelmingly against him, Rita was right; his ejection from the Wizengamot was virtually guaranteed, and it would take a great deal of effort to keep himself from ending up on trial.

Even better, Rita speculated that the next Chief Warlock would be the venerable and fearsome Augusta Longbottom. She would have seniority in the Wizengamot once Dumbledore was ousted, and her no-nonsense approach and pureblood status made her an acceptable compromise to all factions. Plus, she was quite old, and the general feeling (which of course went unsaid) was that if she was unsatisfactory, she'd probably die in a few years anyway, so they wouldn't be stuck with her for long. Harry didn't care about that; rather, he only really cared that she had already spoken out—at length—against Dumbledore for failing to secure Sirius a trial, and had stated that if he was given a trial and found innocent, the Ministry and Dumbledore would both be personally held liable to compensate him for his years in Azkaban and as a fugitive.

The dull roar of conversation in the Great Hall suddenly died down again, right as Harry finished reading. He looked up to see Dumbledore and McGonagall standing next to his booth.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said quietly. He looked even more worn-down than he had at the first task. Apparently, he had already read Rita's article. "I'm glad to see you in the Great Hall again."

"Well, it was getting a bit too quiet where I have been taking my meals, and as much as I enjoy his company and conversation, my snake is not the best dining companion," Harry said casually, before gesturing to the booth across the table. "Would you care to take a seat, professors?"

McGonagall looked suspiciously at the booth, but sat down resignedly after Dumbledore slid into the center without hesitation. It was a good thing that Harry had invited them; if they had just sat down, they would have been shocked and ejected from the booth. Harry decided to leave that tidbit for some jealous students to find out the hard way.

"I must say, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said. "This is very impressive—conjuration as a fourth year! Have you been holding back in your classes?"

"Ah, that," Harry replied, grinning, before continuing in a conspiratorial whisper. "It was actually just transfiguration; the whole "conjuration" thing was just a bit of theater. I still have a bit of trouble with conjurations of this size and complexity; it's something I'd like to work on, but much of my time has been spent preparing for the tournament."

At the mention of the tournament, Dumbledore's face appeared to tighten, and he didn't call Harry out on not actually answering McGonagall's question; apparently, he was still smarting over the verbal beat-down Harry had delivered after taking down the dragon.

"Speaking of the tournament," the headmaster said lightly, "the magic you employed in the first task was...impressive. In fact, nobody—myself included—can quite work out what exactly you did or how you did it. You've got a lot of people very curious."

"Well, professor, I don't see much point in trying to explain it," Harry replied. "Because this year, nobody seems to be interested in believing anything I say." More than a few students and staff members—including Dumbledore and McGonagall—winced at this; their collective cruelty toward Harry over the Goblet Incident would hang over them for a long time, and the rumors of his confrontation with Ron and Hermione in the medical tent made it clear that Harry was not in a very forgiving mood.

"Harry...I see that you've read Rita's other article already," Dumbledore said slowly. Harry merely raised an eyebrow, wondering where this was going, so Dumbledore continued. "I was hoping to talk to you about that issue."

There it was. Harry had gotten the ball rolling on Dumbledore's fall from grace, and now the headmaster wanted him to stop it again.

"Ah, I see," Harry said scornfully, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest. "You want me to save you."

"Harry, is all of this truly necessary? I know that you are feeling hurt and abandoned, but taking it out on me will not bring you closure. Please, stop all this—a word from you would keep me in the Wizengamot, and I can keep working for the greater good. If you just trust me, I can get Sirius his trial."

Harry laughed harshly, and the sound echoing thunderously throughout the otherwise-silent Great Hall reminded him that hundreds of people were hanging on every word. He didn't care—Dumbledore had just handed him an opportunity on a silver platter, and he was going to swing for the fences. McGonagall saw the look in Harry's eyes and braced herself—the last time she'd seen that look, Harry had thrown her arguments back in her face and resigned from Gryffindor. She suddenly looked as though she'd rather be anywhere else.

"Headmaster, you continue to astound me," Harry said. His voice was low, but everyone in the Great Hall heard every word. "Every time I think that you can't possibly be more arrogant and self-righteous, you manage to up the ante."

"But what about—"

"Oh, our old friend Tom Riddle? Tell me, what use have you ever been against him? You sat in your school and sent your brainwashed teenagers off to fight and die, but what did you actually do? With all your power, all your skill, did you ever even take the field? Hell, professor, you practically did everything you could to make Riddle into Voldemort, and then you tried again with me!"

"I needed to protect Hogwarts, Harry! You know as well as I do, better than I do, what this school meant to him!"

"And there's my question, evaded! You claim to be a supporter of muggleborn rights, but with all your power and influence, the Ministry still screws them, and you do nothing! You claim to be against dark wizards, but you don't fight them unless it's convenient, and then you go and hire them! Your pet Death Eater abuses and legilimizes students, especially me, every bloody day, and you do nothing, but then you're surprised when I don't just fall into line? And you want me to just trust you, because you promise you'll get around to giving my godfather a trial, which you should have done thirteen bloody years ago?!"

Harry's voice had been steadily rising, and he was now practically shouting in Dumbledore's face, which was rapidly paling. McGonagall had shrunk back and sunk down in the booth, desperately hoping that Harry wouldn't turn his anger toward her; she, too, had her failings, particularly when it came to supporting Dumbledore against Harry's best interests, and Harry's resignation from Gryffindor had already dealt her reputation a sharp blow. Thankfully, his attention remained on the headmaster, and his tone suddenly dropped to a cold, venomous hiss.

"The worst part is that you still think that this is just about Sirius, and if you suddenly deliver, then I'll go back to being your little pet savior. You have failed and betrayed our society in general and me personally, over and over again, for years, and you would have kept doing it. All I did was pull back the curtain, sir. Once the rest of magical Britain saw what was behind it, they realized for themselves that you need to go. You can twinkle your bloody eyes all you want, or look at me like a sad, disappointed grandpa, but I can't save you, and even if I could, I wouldn't, because you don't deserve it. If there's any justice in this bloody country, you'll end up in Azkaban where you belong."

Harry stood abruptly, finally noticing the stares of the rest of the school, and finding that he didn't care in the slightest.

"Professor McGonagall, I'll see you in transfiguration. Professor Dumbledore, I suggest that you enjoy your time in office, because you won't be Chief Warlock by the weekend. And tell Snape that the next time he tries to break into my mind, my...reply...will make what I did to the Horntail look tame by comparison."

During the course of their conversation, Harry had detected and deflected several legilimency probes against his mind, looking for a way in. The probes had a familiar...greasiness...that meant they could only have come from Snape. Harry saw Susan Bones writing furiously—it was of course illegal to use legilimency on people, especially minors, and Harry had referenced it twice. Susan's aunt (who was the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement) would undoubtedly want to hear about it, and Harry would get the satisfaction of putting Snape in hot water with the law. He could also see Karkaroff and Maxime at the staff table shooting sly grins at each other—as much as they didn't appreciate Harry's impertinence after the first task, they were always happy to see Dumbledore taken down a few notches.

Concerning himself no further, Harry strode from the Great Hall. After all, it wouldn't do to be late for Transfiguration.

Shortly before going to bed that night, Harry rolled up the scroll and turned off the mirror. That was that; the Yule Ball was not mentioned as part of the "binding magical contract," and Remus had turned up numerous examples of past champions skipping it, so Harry had no intention of going, regardless of how much McGonagall insisted. She had intended to announce the Yule Ball in two weeks, but instead had done so in her Transfiguration classes that day, to ensure that everyone had time to find a date. In light of the clue from the golden egg, he figured that the judges would probably use whoever he took as his date as the thing he'd "sorely miss," and he would rather not make things easy for them. The only person he would want to take to the ball would be Daphne, but they were still keeping their association a secret, and he didn't want to get her shanghaied into the Tournament. Granted, he had no intention of telling anyone but Daphne that he wasn't going to the Yule Ball; much better to have it be an unpleasant surprise, just as the nature of the second task had been only hours before.

Harry had not taken long to figure out the "riddle" of the golden egg. Once he took a few minutes to examine it after classes that afternoon, he noticed traces of elemental magic on it. Thanks to Morris's lessons, he was able to identify that "water" was practically written all over the egg. With a shrug, he had tossed it into the Chamber's bathtub, dunked his head, and opened the egg.

Come seek us where our voices sound,

We cannot sing above the ground,

And while you're searching ponder this;

We've taken what you'll sorely miss,

An hour long you'll have to look,

And to recover what we took,

But past an hour, the prospect's black,

Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.

It was obvious to him that the "it" would be a person; Harry expected that in the absence of a Yule Ball date to kidnap, Dumbledore would pick Ron or Hermione, or perhaps Ginny (as Harry had risked his life to save hers back two years ago). He had nearly three months before the second task to figure out a plan, and ideas were already swirling around in his head; he was certain that between Sirius, Remus, and Daphne, he would cruise through the task with no major problems.

Author's Note

The merpeople's song is courtesy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, page 463. I think quoting this falls under fair use. Either way, if your name is JK Rowling, please don't sue me.

Sorry about the long time (seven whole days!) between chapters; it was one of those weeks at work, and then my free time was dominated by Skin Game (the new Dresden Files book by Jim Butcher). If you're unfamiliar with that series, stop what you're doing and start reading them, right now. They're unbelievably good, and if you're the kind of person who reads Harry Potter fanfiction (which you are), you're precisely the audience that would love the Dresden Files. I mean, come on, it's about a wizard who is (nominally) a hard-boiled private detective in Chicago. It literally does not get more awesome than that. Only huge amounts of self-control kept me from having Harry Potter and his gang run into Harry Dresden and his...shenanigans...during their trip to Chicago. I suppose the grabby hag will have to do. Once I've got a few HP-fics under my belt, perhaps I'll consider writing a fic based on the Dresden-verse.

I noticed that I made a slight timeline error in chapter 24; basically, I inadvertently made the first task take place on Wednesday the 25th, instead of Tuesday the 24th. I think it's minor enough that it doesn't matter—especially in the face of a competent Harry who is able to figure out the egg's clue almost immediately—so I'll just roll with it rather than go back and fiddle with it.

And thanks, Frog1, for your insight. In fact, I originally considered having Harry start out in New York instead of Philadelphia, visit the Statue of Liberty (rather than the Franklin Institute and Independence Hall), and be inspired by that very poem. I ended up scrapping that idea because I didn't want this to become a "Harry moves to America" story, which would have been the inevitable result of a sufficiently-meaningful Ellis Island visit—Lady Liberty (and New York in general) is just too symbolic of immigration from the "ancient lands" to be used in a story that doesn't end up with Harry striking off on his own for good. I thought that Philadelphia was a good compromise, as it could symbolize independence from Dumbledore/Britain without having the "fuck Britain, I'm here to stay" connotation of NYC. I do put actual thought into the broader aspects of this story, as much as I'm winging the details.