Disclaimer: I do not own the characters within this work of fiction that are recognizable. They are owned respectively, by their creators, JK Rowling and Frank and Doris Hursley.
AU: Events contained within this story are not in keeping with the timelines established within the worlds of Harry Potter and "General Hospital." Taking liberties with description of the dragons and a great deal of other things as well.
A/N: I appreciate all the support I get from my reviewers. I value each and every one of you because reviews are the currency of the fan fiction world and the exchange rate between readers and reviewers is skewed. Therefore, I am grateful when you take a moment out of your busy day and let me know you have enjoyed reading what I have enjoyed creating. I never take that symbiosis for granted, thanks for your input.
For those of my reviewers who express in an interest in the timing of updates be assured that I fully intend to update and finish all my stories but that I have no definitive timeline for completing the task. Life and all its messy intrusions make it impossible for me to say when but be reassured that there is a finishing point and I would love for you all to reach it with me. Thanks for your support and patience.
Lulling Dragons to Sleep
"How do we get past this gate?" Jason suspended his disbelief. His mind, unable to wrap itself fully around the explanation which Alma and Sam had given him, in spite of having shared something of Sam when he'd looked into her eyes, was content simply to continue on with the charade until it should prove itself to be otherwise and he woke to find himself in the confines of the padded walls of Shady Brook.
"We need to call someone from Hogwarts to let us in," Alma knew that her answer was not going to placate Jason.
"And how do we do that?" Jason was looking at the formidable gate standing in front of him, figuring out how he could get around it, whether he could simply climb to the top of it and swing himself over to the other side.
"It's protected by magic," Horace was watching the young man and his lips quirked upward as he realized what he had planned. "You won't be able to climb over it to get to the other side, nor squeeze through it. It's been designed to protect the school and thus the students housed within from such mendacious breeches," he explained good-naturedly. "You know from dark wizards and the like."
Jason gave him a scathing look. He didn't like the thought of dark wizards and the like, whatever that meant, attempting to storm the castle which held, not only Spinelli, but young, innocent children within it. The audacity of it gripped his heart in a vice and he continued to study the gate for any opening which would cause the castle to be unsafely guarded. If there was any way in which the gate could be trespassed, he was going to find it and give hell to whoever had deemed it worthy of protection.
Now that it was revealed that he hadn't placed a charm on Jason, Horace was warming up, readily, to the idea that the man he and his wife had watched over for the past several months was a wizard. It suited him, truth told, better than a bottle of whisky and heavy brooding had. Though he hadn't liked the man much, seeing him in this element had thoroughly convinced him that his wife had been a right judge of his character. He hadn't wanted to see it because of her incessant comparison of the volatile man to their lost son.
Now that he'd had more time to get to know him and had seen him dressed as a wizard, he'd become reconciled to the fact that Jason was all of the things his wife had said he was. He was a man of his word, trustworthy, of solid convictions, and, as a wizard, a force to be reckoned with. He could certainly give Albus a run for his money if what had happened when his wife broke the spell on him was anything to judge by.
He wondered what kind of wand Jason would take to and had half a mind to transport the young man to Diagon Alley to have him fit for one right away. He would have done so posthaste had he not feared the man would turn the wand on him in an instant for retribution. Jason had but one aim and that was to rescue his hapless friend from whom he believed were fiends. No amount of words to the contrary were bound to convince him otherwise, so Horace was reconciled that he could do nothing else other than help him in achieving his single, solitary goal.
Maybe afterwards, they could make a trip to Olivander's and have Jason properly wanded. The wizard would need to be properly armed at some point in time. He would be unable to deny it if he convinced the young man that it was the only way to protect his friend. He would just have to approach him in the right manner; maybe he could sway his wife to help him. Surely she would see the necessity of it and would be unable to argue against it, especially as it had been her rashly incanted Finite Incantum which had irrevocably revealed the truth and thrust the young man irreversibly into the realm of magic.
Spinelli and Harry shared a twin look of trepidation as they listened to Ludo Bagman explain the task to them, how they'd have to snatch a golden egg from their respective dragon and how points would be awarded for finesse among other things. Both boys stopped paying attention to the game master's words and instead stared at the small purple pouch he held within his hand. Tiny models of the dragon they'd be facing were housed within it. Turn-by-turn, each 'champion' would plunge his or her hand into the small pouch and retrieve the miniscule model of the dragon they'd soon be facing in earnest.
They'd known they would be facing dragons, thanks to Hagrid, but now that they were about to face the winged, fire-breathing creatures, they were feeling a little purple. Spinelli's throat closed up and he swallowed hard, fighting for air. If this kept up, there was no way he'd be able to utter the charm which would amplify his voice let alone sing the song which he'd memorized scant hours prior under Hermione's tutelage.
A flash of white caught his attention and his eyes were drawn to a slight opening in the tent. A blonde head bobbed under the flap, followed by one crowned in brown, bushy-hair. Both girls surreptitiously caught his and Harry's attention, the blonde one scowling at the brown haired girl crowding the limited space. Both jockeyed for position and came to a silent truce when the Headmaster's sparkling blue eyes came to rest upon them. He smiled slightly and put a silencing finger to his lips. Both girls stilled and, under the Headmaster's remonstrative look, clasped hands, helping each other maintain their shaky footing.
They gave Spinelli and Harry shaky smiles, Maxie giving Spinelli a thumbs up, Hermione gesturing pointedly to her throat. Harry, feeling mad as a loon, caught himself returning their nervous smiles with a lopsided grin of his own. He was so on edge that he couldn't stop from shaking as he placed his hand into the purple pouch and pulled out the miniature version of the full-grown dragon he'd be facing. Crap, it's the Hungarian Horntail, the most dangerous of the lot.
Somehow Ludo Bagman's overly cheerful enthusiasm and pat on the back seemed forced, especially after he'd taken in the wide-eyed look of apprehension which had briefly crossed the man's visage before he'd almost haphazardly schooled it into the crimped one he now sported as a camera flash all but blinded him. Though he supposed that he should have been prepared for the presence of the wizarding press, he wasn't quite prepared for the keen interest the reporters seemed to take in both himself and Spinelli. He knew that his so-called fame had something to do with it as did Spinelli's unknown background, probably even more so than the fact that they were the youngest champions and both from Hogwarts.
He'd seen the stories printed, Hermione had insisted that he read them so that he could be fully prepared to face the press and give accurate statements to both classmates as well as fans. Some of what had been printed had rankled him, especially the stories written by Rita Skeeter who'd managed to corner him a few days ago. Her story painted a pathetic picture of him as a thrill-seeking orphan out to prove himself to the wizarding world because he'd grown up with a Muggle family. It was a complete and utter fabrication built on twisted truths.
Spinelli had fared no better. She'd poignantly depicted him as a lonely, misunderstood and somewhat deranged wannabe Death Eater, trying to prove himself to his heretofore unidentified parent. She'd done a superb job of creating the illusion that Spinelli and Harry were closet-enemies and had even gone so far as to insinuate that Spinelli had used Dark Arts to insert his and Harry's names into the Goblet as a pitiable bid to prove his worth to the Death Eater community at large by killing his father's master's nemesis.
It wouldn't have been all that bad, both Spinelli and Harry knew she'd spun nothing but lies, if their fellow classmates and the wizarding community had not seemed to hang off of every libelous word that was printed about them. He'd lost count of how many times he'd been approached by a fellow student and questioned about his connection to the Death Eaters as well as the Dark Lord himself this past week. It had gotten to be, quite frankly, ridiculous and was an even greater pain in the ass than the previous headlines speculating on his parentage and his mysterious debut into the wizarding world.
He didn't know how Harry had managed to handle it for all of these years. Hermione had shown him past issues of The Daily Prophet for the last four years and it was a bit disconcerting how much unwanted press Harry had gotten over the simple fact that he had lived when a powerful wizard had tried, yet failed, to kill him.
He started slightly when the purple pouch was thrust in his direction and Professor Snape called out his name as though he'd been attempting to gain his attention for quite some time now. He blushed in embarrassment and thrust his hand into the pouch, flinching imperceptibly when the mini-dragon bit his finger with tiny, yet razor sharp teeth, causing blood to bead up and pool on the pad of his index finger.
He drew his finger into his mouth and blinked rapidly when several bright flashes of light nearly blinded him. Ludo Bagman clapped him soundly on the shoulder, informing him that he'd be the first champion to compete.
"Spinelli here, the young upstart, has drawn the Swedish Short-Snout. A rather fetching dragon. Really, you couldn't ask for a better draw." Ludo beamed at the photographer, pulling a dazed Spinelli into an impromptu embrace.
Seconds later, the enigmatic man had drawn Harry into a half hug on the other side and all three were captured in a magical photo. Spinelli's injured finger was still in his mouth; his green eyes were wide in shock and embarrassment. Harry was grimacing as his own mini-dragon spit fire at him and his eyes held a dazed look to them.
Before Spinelli knew what was going on, he was thrust into a small booth with Rita Skeeter. He'd finally managed to pull his bleeding finger from his mouth and was seated awkwardly close to the intrepid reporter.
"How do you feel knowing that you, one of the youngest champions involved in this deadly competition, second only to Harry Potter, will be the first to compete?" Rita licked the tip of her quill and set it in the air where it began to write as she manipulated it with little, minutely discernible jerks of her wand.
Spinelli caught a few hastily scribbled words: 'doomed', 'certain death', and 'tragic impending demise' searing themselves on the forefront of his mind, before Rita physically turned his head until his eyes were caught up by her own earnest brown ones.
"Uh," he stammered incoherently. What had she asked him again? And what did she mean by first? Was he really going to have to be the first to face one of the dragons? He felt like he was suffocating and his vision swam. Did he see the words, 'terrified beyond words', scrawled in poisonous green lettering on the magically floating scroll?
Suddenly, a skinny, freckled arm reached into the stifling, enclosed space and drew him out. He let out a relieved breath when he recognized Hermione and Maxie. Each gave him a brief hug, the latter kissing him quickly on the cheek before releasing him and being ushered out of the tent by the Headmaster. Flashes accompanied each harried movement and Spinelli knew without the shadow of a doubt that a new headline and photos would be gracing the cover of the next Daily Prophet. He wondered dazedly if it would read something like: "Mysterious Son of a Death Eater and His Harem of Hotties" or something else equally scandalous.
He glanced in Harry's direction and saw the selfsame look of ill-disguised panic mirrored in the other boy's eyes. His tiny dragon was now flying lazy loop-de-loops around his head and Spinelli's was yawning contentedly in the sweaty palm of his hand. Oddly enough it didn't seem to mind how tightly he'd clasped it. He hurriedly stuffed it into the pocket of his robes and wiped his sweaty palms on the cool, black fabric. In a failed attempt to steady his nerves, he grasped his wand and muttered the sonorous charm beneath his breath as he mentally prepared himself to face a real, live dragon, hoping that Hermione was right and that singing would calm the dragon.
Before he knew what was happening he was shoved forward. His feet, firmly planted on the ground within the tent, scrambled to keep up with the rest of his body as he was unceremoniously thrust into the arena where he came to a skittering halt face to snout with a rather pissed-off looking charcoal grey, scaled dragon. Gulping he scrabbled backward in a crabwalk, wincing at the bruising on his knees that the shove had caused when he'd fallen into the arena.
The dragon, its nostrils flaring dramatically as it drew nearer to him and sniffed, had a wild, incensed look in its glittering, cobalt eyes. As it breathed out, a puff of air, hot as a blazing furnace, ruffled Spinelli's hair. The dragon's breath itself reeked of sulfur and brimstone.
She eyed him curiously and Spinelli was momentarily frozen in place as a single gleaming, black-jeweled eye narrowed at him from mere inches away. She appeared to be assessing him and, if the ensuing snort was anything to go by, found him to be nothing more than a nuisance.
He swallowed the bile which had surged up from his stomach, why had he listened to Hermione this afternoon? It would have been much better for him to face his death on an empty stomach. His eyes searched the arena, a detached portion of his mind admiring the realistic rocky lair that had no doubt been set up using magic, as he looked for the golden egg he was supposed to retrieve from a nest of dragon eggs.
Carefully, he inclined his head to the right, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior of the magical lair as he continued to search out the golden egg. He was all too aware of the dragon that was still watching him warily. She was now inching nearer. Her left nostril, big enough to accommodate his head, fluttered as she continued to judge him by his scent. He knew that he must reek of nothing but raw fear and wondered if fear was tantalizing or off-putting to dragons. Either way, he was probably toast. Burnt toast, that is.
Just as he was ready to give up his search for the proverbial golden egg, he spied it in a nest perched precariously on an outcropping of rock. Eyeing the distance from where he was sprawled beneath the inquisitive nose of the she-dragon, he realized that, should he manage to escape the scrutiny of his rival, he would have to forge through a mile of rocky territory to make it to the egg.
What was that spell that Harry was planning on utilizing for his own match? Something which would summon his broom, maybe he'd be able to use that to summon the egg…provided that he could extricate himself from the dragon before she dined on him.
Her tentative exploration of him took an abrupt and distinctive turn toward aggressive and Spinelli quickly gathered his wits about himself. Once more, she narrowed a glittering eye at him; her mouth broke out into something akin to a grisly smile which revealed long, shapely teeth, pointed in sharpness.
Numbness stalled him as she pulled away and stood to her full height, unfurling her impressive wings. Temporarily mesmerized by her majesty, Spinelli blinked stupidly up at the massive dragon before him. What was it he was supposed to do again? He shook his head to clear it and the previously ignored crowd of spectators surrounding him came into crystal clarity.
Though he couldn't quite make out what it was that they were saying, he felt the wordless chant reverberate through his bones, mobilizing him to pick himself up off the ground and come to a quivering stand beneath the colossal beast which had now begun roaring. He grit his teeth and barely managed to keep from covering his ears with his hands as the dragon shrieked.
A blast of magma-hot air filled the stadium and the spectators, as a whole, held their breath in dreaded expectation of Spinelli's impending demise as orange flames flickered forth from the mouth of the enraged beast. The breath of fire dripped molten rock and Spinelli was shocked out of his stupor as he dodged the dripping volcanic-like substance and sought higher ground. It seemed he was being drawn inexorably, as though it were completely out of his control, toward the nest which cradled the eggs. Bringing him nearer and nearer into the danger zone.
His wand remained forgotten, yet firmly fisted in his hand as he swerved and dove, hiding behind an outcropping of rock here and there as he wove his way ever upward and the dragon dogged his every step. The frantic hammering of his heart drowned out the vigorously renewed sound of chanting and, though he still could not make out the words of the chant, he gained courage from the fact that there were hundreds, if not thousands of people supporting him. Or at least he hoped they were offering cries of support and not vocalizing his imminent demise.
"What in Merlin's name is all that commotion?" Alma's voice held a cranky edge to it that caused Horace to grimace in dreaded anticipation of a very unpleasant afternoon. It was bad enough that they'd discovered that one of their charges was a wizard, unbeknownst to himself, now he had to contend with his sweet wife in a temper.
After performing the necessary enlightenment and protection spells on Sam and then the protection spell on Jason, they'd prepared to face and storm a nearly impenetrable gate only to have it swing open as though awaiting their arrival. It was uncanny and Horace felt a shiver of apprehension ghost up and down his spine. Surely this did not bode well for them.
Jason strode forward, toward the sound of a cheering crowd. His black robes ebbed and flowed about his ankles. Horace wheezed as he rushed to keep up with the young wizard. They were trailed by Sam and a softly swearing Alma.
They followed the ever increasing sound of chanting to what appeared to be a stadium. Jason elbowed his way through the crowd, toward the front of whatever event was taking place. A sense of foreboding filled him with anxiety as he forced his way through the entranced crowd. Slowly, he began to understand the chant which had been taken up by the frantic throng. A single word of the chant tore through him, like a lance to his heart: Spinelli.
What the hell was going on and what the fuck was that flying above a dark-haired speck of a human cowering at the edge of a pointed rock? Surely dragons only existed in fairytales. No way was that ungainly creature bellowing forth smoke and dripping fire real. Must be a trick of magic.
Terror slammed itself into his heart and he clutched at the railing which kept him and the rest of the crowd from encroaching upon the events playing out before his eyes. Could that dark-haired youth cringing beneath something which could not possibly exist really be Spinelli? If the chanting of the crowd around him were to be believed, it was.
He held his breath as the dragon lunged at the diminutive figure and let out a relieved sigh when the boy leapt out of the way. Unfortunately, the dragon flicked its wicked tail and caught the youth in the middle with one of its sharp barbs, sending him crashing to his knees. What the hell was the point of this? What was going on? What had Spinelli gotten himself into now? How the hell was he going to get him out of it?
He made to vault the thin rail and join the boy in his fight against the dragon, only to find that some invisible barrier held him back. Fuck. Hang in there Spinelli, he thought as his eyes remained riveted on the noticeably injured boy whose considerably pale face was lit up by yet another blast of orange flames which licked at the air above him. Sweat swathed his countenance, and though it had changed since he'd last seen him, Jason knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it was indeed Spinelli who was, for some inexplicable reason, standing before a dragon, blood weeping from a grievous wound to his belly.
"Spinelli!" His shout was lost amidst the shouts of the cheering throng and yet it seemed as though the boy's head turned minutely in his direction as though he sensed his mentor's presence.
His shout was silenced by a great booming sound as Spinelli's voice, somehow amplified, cut through that of the crowd's growing mantra of: "Spinelli! Spinelli! Spinelli! Take the dragon down!"
Spellbound, the audience held their collective breath as Spinelli's voice, tremulous at first, coursed through them. Steadily, his voice grew in potency as he sang. Each word echoing in the very heart of each individual present as it pumped through their veins.
He let out an almost derisive snort of laughter as he recognized the song that Spinelli was singing, "Puff the Magic Dragon". What the hell was the boy thinking? Maybe he'd cracked his skull somewhere along the way before he'd arrived to witness it. Certain that he'd finally found Spinelli only to see him suffer a far worse death than that which had been previously faked, Jason attempted to hurdle the railing once more only to be tossed back by the hidden barrier.
"Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff…" Spinelli sang and Jason could only watch in abject horror as the dragon made another sweep with its lethally barbed tail. Yet, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the looming evisceration of his friend who'd stuck closer to him than a brother on many occasions.
"Oh Puff the magic dragon, lived by the sea…" Spinelli was somehow still standing, the dragon's tail having missed him by mere millimeters.
The crowd remained silent, watching the boy, waiting for him to fall. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a young bushy-haired girl, clinging to the rail as though her life depended upon it, smiling grimly as she mouthed the words to the song along with the now wavering boy.
Standing on a pinnacle of jutting rock, gut bleeding copiously from the wound he'd sustained when the Swedish Short-Snout had rent him open with a solitary lash of her tail, he recalled the song he'd committed to memory and the words to the charm Harry and Hermione had taught him. Steeling himself against the searing pain of his injury, he took a deep, shuddering breath and uttered the words of charm which amplified his voice.
All other sound ceased save for that of his own voice and the heavy breathing of beast whose nest lay just over the horizon of the next rock, just a few feet away. He felt an inexorable pull toward the audience he knew lay beyond the dragon's lair and his eyes lingered momentarily on the spectators who crowded the railing which kept them out of harm's way.
At first he couldn't make out any distinguishable figures in the mass of people, but then, his eyes lit upon the familiar, somehow comforting outline of Hermione and then upon another figure directly to her left – Professor Snape. He beheld the startling dark eyes of the harsh, imposing man and was floored by the depth of some unnamable swirling emotion within them. Perhaps Hermione had been right after all and this dark man was his father.
The notes he sang became warbled as he contemplated the ramifications should it be revealed that Snape, the dastardly bat of the dungeons, was his father. He was so focused on his introspection, that he was very nearly sliced open yet again by the still circling dragoness as her tail whipped at his mid-section. Before he refocused his attention on the onerous task set before him, his eyes fell upon another individual who was familiar only in his unfamiliarity.
The man's face held a look of unabashed concern. Worry lines creased his brow and were etched around the corners of his firm mouth. His blue eyes pierced through Spinelli, though the man was several yards away and Spinelli wondered that he could make out the cerulean shade of blue from such a distance.
The eyes sparked something within him and he knew on some instinctual level that this man was someone he could trust, and there was something niggling him at the back of his mind, telling him that he knew this stranger, maybe even loved him as a something like a brother. But he didn't have a brother, did he? Shaking himself from these odd musings, he turned his attention to the dragon once more.
His breath caught in his throat and he panicked as he searched his mind for the next verse. Was the dragon's flight becoming slightly more erratic? Was she succumbing to the music, allowing it to lull her into a temporary repose?
"His head was bent in sorrow; green scales fell like rain…"
Were the dragon's eyes fluttering closed? Another half-hearted puff of smoke escaped her partially parted lips and she made another half rotation around his head as he sang, "Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave…"
She landed on a rocky protrusion a few feet below where Spinelli stood and yawned. A gust of tawny air billowed from her gaping mouth as her scaled eyelids drooped. She circled sleepily as though trying to find a good spot to lie down upon. She kept one ear cocked toward Spinelli's crooning voice, and one eye on him. She curled up like a dog, resting her enormous head upon her massive shoulders and let out what could only be described as a contented sigh.
Her wary, watchful eye slipped shut as Spinelli sang the chorus once more, painstakingly working his way toward her now unguarded nest. The hand not clutching his wand was pressed tightly to the steadily leaking wound on his stomach.
Though the summoning charm was on his lips, he didn't wish to cease singing lest the dragon be roused from her peaceful sleep. So, he kept singing, making up words now as he'd sung the chorus thrice over and, though he doubted the dragon would find it to be overly redundant, it was lulling his aching body into a state of almost hypnosis.
"Sleep, sleep Swedish Short-Snout dragon, sleep until I reach my goal…"
When he reached the mammoth-sized nest made of giant twigs, whole patches of bright, lively-colored swatches of cloth, and bits of stone, he gazed in wonder at the stark beauty of it. Shivering from blood loss and the now, thankfully fireless, yet cool night air that swirled around him, he took a faltering step forward. Kneeling at the base of the nest, he kept up his nonsensical singing and removed the hand staunching the now sluggish flow of blood from the gash in his stomach and reached out to touch the hard won golden egg with a bloodied hand, marking it as his own before he pulled it to himself and succumbed to the soothing pull of darkness as he lost consciousness.
He remained blissfully unaware of the burst of applause and raucous cheering that spilled forth from the mob when he'd retrieved the prize he'd been abandoned into the arena to attain. They let out the collective breath they'd been holding and remarked to one another what an amazing show it had been. How they'd never seen anything quite like it and how brave the unknown young wizard had been.
Rita Skeeter's quill was writing like mad, barely able to keep up with her thoughts, smoke fairly flew from the page. Surely none of the other champions could compete with such a great showing. Though he'd no doubt lose points due to his injury and seeming frozen state at the beginning, she knew that after today, he'd been marked as a hero, not unlike Harry Potter.
Grinning mischievously as various headlines pitting one boy against the other popped into her mind, she continued to write out the tale of how Spinelli, the boy who would one day defeat Harry Potter, lulled dragons to sleep with his angelic voice. She barely noted the marks he'd received from the judges, though her quill had faithfully recorded them without missing a beat: 8 – Bagman; 10 – Dumbledore; 9 – Crouch; 9 – Maxine; 7- Karkaroff.
Sitting back to watch as the unconscious boy was levitated from the field and the still sleeping dragon was removed to be replaced by the next dragon, she wondered if any of the remaining champions would be able to come close to putting on the amazing show Spinelli had. She somehow doubted it.
Jason felt tears of pride and fear prick the back of his eyes when the boy triumphantly plucked the golden egg from the nest only to collapse in the next moment. He tensed for a moment, wondering if the boy, his boy, was still alive when cheers and whoops of victory pulsed through him as the crowd celebrated Spinelli's victory. They only stilled for a moment when the scores were announced, booing when Karkaroff's score was read.
Jason watched as Spinelli's still body was levitated and he followed the progression of the young man with his eyes, shrugging off the hand that tried to hold him back as he began to work his way through the crowd to where Spinelli's body was being directed. He was oblivious to the people he passed, heedless of the imposing impression he left in the wake of his swirling robes. The crowd fairly fled, parting like the Red Sea before the Israelites, as he strode through their midst, never taking his eyes from the boy he'd come to rescue.
If Spinelli died from the injuries he'd sustained in his fight with the dragon, what the hell kind of people set students against dragons, anyway, there was no doubt in his mind that the first official use of his magic would be to commit mass murder. He could feel said magic stirring within him like some suffused energy long bottled up within him, desirous of release.
The air visibly crackled around Jason and Horace struggled to keep up with the angry strides of the singularly focused young man. He'd attempted to forestall the mobster, but had been unable to keep hold of him. The body-binding curses he'd been casting at the man's back seemed to be absorbed by him and only served to add to the increasing magical energy being emitted from the man.
He was unduly impressed with how the crowd parted before Jason and only frowned in concern when he noted that the path they were taking led directly to the first aid tent that had been set up for the champions. As soon as they'd made their way onto the grounds, he'd realized what was happening, that the Tri-Wizard Tournament had been reestablished for some reason unfathomable to himself and that somehow Spinelli had become a part of it.
If he had been chosen to be a champion, there was no way he'd be able to get out of it. Once chosen, a champion had to participate in the tournament until it was finished or he or she died. He knew that convincing Jason of this, however, would be a monumental task. He almost wished that he could face a dragon rather than the determined young man who had made his way to the first aid tent and had only paused at the entrance because Albus Dumbledore had been able to forestall him.
If he had met with any other wizard, there was no doubt in Horace's mind that Jason would have, not only made his way into the tent, but also been even now carting his friend out of it and off Hogwart's grounds. From the frown on Dumbledore's face, he knew it was only a matter of time before Jason was in the tent and at the boy's side.
Taking a deep breath, he reached Jason's side and nodded at Dumbledore, hoping that his wife and Sam would be there soon. He did not wish to face off against an angry Dumbledore on his own. He knew that the elder wizard would not take it lightly that, not only had he and Alma blown their cover in Port Charles, but had also carted two of the residents closely tied to the young man he'd invested much time and resources into retrieving along with them.
Albus' blue eyes pierced into his and he felt the man's anger beneath the surface of his benign countenance as he spoke calmly to Jason, assuring him that Spinelli would be just fine. From Jason's taut stature, Horace knew that until the young man saw Spinelli with his own eyes, he wouldn't believe a word Dumbledore said.
"Albus," Horace said by way of greeting. He puffed out his chest, unwilling to be cowed by the formidable wizard who was all but glaring at him. "I see you've met Jason Morgan, Spinelli's roommate from Port Charles."
"Yes," the single syllable held a note of tension though it was spoken mildly. "Though it somehow escapes me how Mr. Morgan managed to find our school and how he's come to be outside of his hometown."
"Yes, well," Horace cleared his throat, "you see…"
"I came here to get Spinelli," Jason cut in; he'd had enough of the old man's stalling.
Brushing the man's arm aside, he ducked under the flap of the first aid tent and rushed to Spinelli's side when a groan of pain reached his ears. He started briefly when he saw the same girl he'd stood next to at the railing holding one of Spinelli's blood-stained hands in her own. Tears coursed down her cheeks and he stood there hesitantly before reaching out to take Spinelli's other hand in his own calloused hands.
A dour-looking man stood at the foot of the floating gurney that Spinelli lay upon. His black eyes flicked briefly to Jason's face before once more resuming their intense examination of Spinelli. A flurry of sound caught his attention and Jason thought he could hear the tail end of a curse as the man's robes billowed and he ushered a much younger looking Maxie and some blonde-haired, pinch-faced boy into the tent.
Maxie all but bristled as she bumped into the other girl, trying to loose her grasp on Spinelli's hand, having to content herself with sharing the hand with the other girl when Spinelli's grip could not be loosened. He gave the disheveled looking girl a measuring look and smiled tersely as he noted her resolve to stick by Spinelli's side.
"Spinelli," his voice sounded thick in his ears and he coughed to clear it.
His eyes searched the face of the boy who lay stretched out on a makeshift gurney before him. It was Spinelli and yet, he had somehow been changed. He appeared to be vastly younger than what he'd been when he'd last seen him. How the hell was that even possible? Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. He blinked and turned away to face the old, white-bearded man while a matronly woman flicked a stick here and there and somehow managed to clean the blood from Spinelli's hands and stomach and bind up the wound so that only a thin, silvery scar remained in its wake.
"What the hell did you do to him?" He demanded.
Albus cleared his throat. "Perhaps we ought to discuss this elsewhere." He nodded suggestively at the girls and the young boy who were now scrutinizing the exchange with an intense curiosity and at the prone boy lying between them.
Spinelli's eyes flickered open and he looked from Jason to the girls standing beside him to the elderly wizard who smiled sadly at him. His eyes once more landed on Jason and he coughed. A cup of water was thrust to his lips, Jason hoisted him up gently and he drank deeply of the cool, soothing liquid. His throat felt as though it was on fire and his head ached, but he felt victorious as he remembered the events which had landed him in the first aid tent.
"How did I do?" He asked around another cough.
"Splendidly, my dear boy," Dumbledore said with enthusiasm. His eyes were sparkling as Spinelli sought out his approval. "I do believe that you may come out with the highest marks."
Severus stifled a caustic remark, doubting very much that it would be appreciated by the man who was holding his son's hand in a death grip. He'd never been so proud, angry and worried in his entire life as had been when he'd watched his son face that dragon. Marks be damned, his son was alive and whole and that was all that mattered.
He wanted to reach out and touch him to verify it for himself, his eyes not being sufficient enough to satisfy him, but knew that his touch would be unwelcome. Even so, those green eyes, sought his out and he couldn't help but give a tiny, tight smile of support in return. The smile that graced his son's lips in return sent his head reeling and he had to hold onto the edge of the instrument table to keep from falling under the weight of his son's loving smile.
God he hoped that his features gave nothing away. It would not be good were Spinelli to believe that he really was his father. He had to somehow get his son's suspicions off of him. Though it pained him to do so, he turned a scathing scowl on his son and new small satisfaction when Spinelli's smile faltered and he looked away.
"Are you okay?" The man with the startlingly blue eyes that he remembered from the crowd asked him and Spinelli reluctantly turned away from Professor Snape.
"Y…yes," he stuttered wondering if he should know the man who was holding onto his hand as though fearful he would vanish before his very eyes. "Who're you?"
Jason's heart clenched at the question, but he smiled down at Spinelli as he answered, "A good friend."
He was unaware of the audience that had gathered around them as Alma and Sam joined them and another champion was brought into the tent to be tended to, followed by his friends. He was content to watch Spinelli breathe.
"Oh," Spinelli's face wrinkled in confusion.
He felt that he should know this man, yet he couldn't call up any memories of his face and he could see that it caused the other man pain not to be recognized. He wished he could take the pain away, but wouldn't lie about something that seemed so important to the man who'd introduced himself as a friend.
"My name's Jason," he supplied.
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Spinelli said around a yawn.
In spite of the wound being healed, he was extremely exhausted and, though he wanted to keep his eyes open, wanted to learn more about this man, he simply couldn't. He gave into his need to sleep, oblivious to the worried looks of those surrounding him.
Next: Will Jason get the answers he seeks? Will he be satified with the answers that he is given? Will Spinelli remember his long-time mentor? Will Ron get over his jealousy of Spinelli and Harry? Will any of these questions even be answered?