Author's Note:All the action we've all been waiting for! I've been looking forward to this portion of the story for a long time. With holidays this weekend, it will probably be two weeks or three before the next update. HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

The Guide to Harry's Runes, in the forum, has been updated up to the fifth runic set. The link can be found on my profile page.

Many thanks to everyone who helped make this chapter brilliant: GJMEGA, jdh41, Costin, and MayaCC. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,

The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,

The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,

The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,

Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,

Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,

And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha

And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,

And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.

And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,

Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury.

I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you.

-T.S. Eliot (Four Quartets)

Durmstrang spared no expense or effort in making the Yule Ball a grande affair. The event was not restricted to the students only: foreign dignitaries from every Ministry was invited to attend, including the North American Bureau, which caused quite a stir among the attendees.

But Gryffon claimed only Principal Valerian would be coming.

"Politics." The man had murmured, and left it at that. Harry figured that said everything.

The Ball was hosted inside the indoor Quidditch Pitch that Durmstrang boasted, the unbelievably large cavern whose stands had been transformed into rolling hills, an entire enchanted forest sprouting around the dance floor and myriad tables and chairs.

The trees were huge; and several appeared to have been cut, leaving large stumps on which a band played or food was arrayed. In the center, a wide clearing of stone that resembled a blue lake waited. On top it Durmstrang students mingled, the low hum of conversation echoing in the room.

Harry waited at the sidelines, black dress robes immaculate, as he watched the crowd.

Dillon and Gaëlle had long since found each other, and Gryffon and Principal Valerian had walked off with their heads together.

And Hermione and Draco stood together.

She took his breath away; her dress robes a sparkling purple that only made her wavy brown hair the more lovely. When Harry had first seen her, he had immediately looked away, ignoring the hurt look on her face to retreat to his room under some mumbled, forgotten errand.

He couldn't tell her how pretty she was. He couldn't look her in the eyes, or touch her hand and escort her to another wizard.

Instead, he had been a coward. He had hung back, let Dillon spin a joke and make her laugh, gallantly delivering her to the Ball before he found his own date.

And Draco had been waiting for her. The blond Slytherin hadn't been able to look away; and Harry didn't blame him. Hermione had done something with her hair, her face, and that dress… it mystified him that she could somehow look so different. Harry had seen Draco walk towards her, leaving his father behind with Gyldenpalm and Karkaroff.

The two had been together since, the blond's hand on her arm, talking and laughing.

And Harry had simply stood aside and watched, feeling poisoned.

"There you are."

The French accent made him stiffen; Harry turned, looking away from Hermione for the first time since entering the Pitch.

Fleur Delacour was a vision. Her silver hair spiraled down from her head in curled ringlets, pinned in places with sparkling crystal. Her silver dress seemed made of glass, but flowed like water around her form. Her pale skin and vibrant blue eyes caught his gaze and seemed to hold him prisoner, her lips twisting into a pleased smile.

"What do you 'sink?" She asked softly, and for the first time Harry did not feel her enthrallment reaching out to him like clinging vines.

And he realized that he might be the only man there who could give her an honest answer, one not prejudiced by Veela charm.

But she didn't need Veela magic for this. She was beautiful.

"You're beautiful." Harry said honestly, and Fleur smiled. Then she looked in the direction he had been staring, and her eyes became cold.

"I saw you watching 'er. You will never gain 'er affection by acting so lovesick."

Harry blinked at both her tone and her words. He didn't look toward Hermione again. Now that he had looked away, he found himself unwilling to see her with Draco again.

"I'm not trying to gain her affection."

Fleur met his gaze, an eyebrow raised.

"I know men, Monsieur Potter, and what it means zat you stare at 'er so. She is not worzy of you."

Harry scowled at her tone. "Don't talk about her like that."

Fleur's smile was satisfied. "I can 'elp you, of course."

Harry straightened from where he had been leaning as she drew closer, the soft sound of her dress moving reaching his ears.

"I don't need your help."

The Veela's laugh rang out again, and several nearby boys turned and stared at her, their gazes hot, while their dates scowled.

"Of course you do! She is off with some pureblood sycophant, and does not seek you with 'er eyes. Let 'er see you wiz me, and I guarantee she will watch you and regret 'er choice."

Harry looked away from her glittering blue eyes, looking blindly into the forest.

"That makes no sense. And anyways, why would you want to help me? It doesn't help you any."

Fleur moved closer, and her hand slipped inside of his. Harry stiffened as she whispered, leaning close.

"Because, 'Arry, it gives me ze chance to prove I am better suited for you. We shall see who ends up wiz whom when ze Ball ends. Let your muggleborn friend 'ave 'er beau tonight, and you and I shall dance."

"One dance." Harry muttered, but even to himself he could tell he was caving. Fleur was simply too beautiful, and for the first time Harry understood some of why Sirius had allowed himself to be seduced by a muggle.

And Hermione was with Draco. Why shouldn't he dance with Fleur more than once? What could it hurt?

Fleur's hands squeezed his as her smile widened.

"One dance, 'Arry, and you will ask me for more."

Hermione waited for the opening dance, her heart pounding in anticipation.

A real Ball!

It was like something from a fairytale. The elegant dress robes, the enchanted forest, the sparkling crystals above them that simulated a night sky in the dark ceiling of the Pitch.

Draco laughed at the smile on her face, his hand squeezing hers. She had been a bit unnerved at first that he insisted on holding her hand; but it had been a while since they had seen each other.

Right?

Hermione fought down a glimmer of disquiet. Draco had been in odd form the last hour, as they waited for the official start of the Ball. He had escorted her around, gotten her a plate of the delicate appetizers, stared at her with fervent intensity.

She was deceiving herself. She was smarter than this! It was so obvious, now that she was here at the Ball. Draco thought this was a date, a real date. Not just friends at a Ball.

Why hadn't she seen it sooner?

Draco was handsome, of course. It was hard to miss that, with his grey eyes and white-blond hair, his formal speech and sharp tongue. He was smart, funny... and he obviously liked her. When he first saw her enter the ballroom, his eyes had locked on hers and not left her since.

And Harry had barely even looked at her before practically running from the room when she had exited her rooms. She hadn't seen him since, and she did not even know if her friend had gotten a partner for the dance.

Harry had been distant ever since Dillon's jibes about the Ball, and she hated it. She worried about him. He had been so tired and distracted lately, worrying about the Hounds.

"What are you thinking about?"

Draco asked suddenly, and Hermione realized she was frowning down at her toes. She jerked her head up, and pasted on a smile.

"Nothing! Daydreaming." Draco smiled, then nodded forward.

"They are assembling for the dance. Ready?"

Hermione nodded eagerly. She, alone of the Academy students, had taken the offered dancing lessons with the other Durmstrang girls, ignoring the strange looks she received. She knew every step of the common, elegant dance by heart.

Draco pulled her along, and Hermione's thoughts spiraled back to Harry. Surely he wouldn't disappear again, and miss it entirely? There was no way she could explain his absence now!

And then she saw him, standing at the edge of the gathered champions. His long black hair pulled back, his green eyes staring into hers. Her breath caught; almost, she could feel some emotion pressing down on her from him, something heavy, a mixture of anger and resignation and sorrow.

And then a pale hand curled through Harry's, and Harry looked away.

That was when Hermione saw who Harry was with, and she nearly stumbled to a halt.

He wouldn't. He couldn't! He better not have!

Draco tugged on her arm and she reluctantly continued walking, led to the opposite side of where Harry and Fleur had stood, her mind racing.

Fleur was a Veela! She was vile, mean, manipulative! She was probably the reason they had come in last during the first challenge! Why on earth would Harry go to the dance with her of all people?

Because she's beautiful, a voice inside Hermione whispered, and she found anger and hurt of all things swirling in her belly.

Suddenly the Ball didn't seem all that grand.

Music began to play, a soft lilting tune, their signal. With hardly a second to think, Draco swooped her into his arms and away, out onto the wide blue dance floor. Hermione followed by pure rote, catching the occasional glimpses of Fleur's pure white dress, until she finally focused on Draco's black clad shoulder, gripping his hand tightly in hers. The dance passed in a blur of anxiety, and was over far sooner than she realized.

Draco paused, looked down at her with a frown, then led her off the floor to the applause of the crowd. Immediately other dancers began to spill onto the floor, the band slipping directly into another song.

Hermione fell into a chair and tried to smile at Draco.

It was going to be a long night.

Harry forced all thought of Hermione from his mind during the dance; he focused entirely on the Veela in his arms and led the steps Sirius had painstakingly taught him over a few midnight hours in New York.

And he found that, against all odd, he liked it. The complicated steps, the sensation of whirling Fleur around the floor, a dance that seemed abruptly so similar to the sensation of flight that he found himself smiling back at the woman in his arms.

"I told you once would not be enough." She whispered as the song ended, and Harry's heart raced.

Then, without looking around for Hermione, he clasped her hand firmly in his and led her into the next dance.

Hermione knew she was being a horrible date. But in her defense, she hadn't really thought it would be a date.

But she simply couldn't dance again, not with the way Harry and that woman were whirling around out there. And she couldn't eat because she felt nauseous. And she really, really didn't want to take a walk in the forest, because that would mean being alone with Draco, and she really did not want to face the blond at that moment and what he might want.

He had come to this Ball to see her. And she was a blind idiot.

Now, nearly two hours into the Ball, Hermione still sat, absently wringing her hands together, and trying to smile at the Slytherin who was trying so hard to make her laugh.

Draco sighed and leaned away from her.

"What's wrong, Hermione? You've been quiet. Are you sure you don't want to dance?"

"No!" Hermione blurted out, then bit her lip. "I mean, I really don't feel that well. I'm sorry."

Draco's gaze ran over her face; and this time he did not back down.

He, unlike her, was not an idiot.

"Tell me the truth."

Hermione blinked at his firm tone. Then she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. Draco growled under his breath.

"Is this about the legilimency? I thought we had talked…?"

"Of course not!" Hermione interrupted him, then clenched her fists in her lap. "I'm past that. I just… we're friends, right?"

She finished hopefully, and Draco's grey eyes narrowed.

"Yes, we are." He said softly, and Hermione looked away from him again, at the floor by her toes.

Draco slipped a hand around her shoulders, and Hermione stiffened before she could think better of it.

His hand retreated immediately. Hermione closed her eyes.

"It's Harry." His voice was so soft, she could barely hear it over the music. And it wasn't a question.

Hermione felt tears, of all the blasted things, rising in her eyes at the hurt in his tone.

She choked them back and made herself face him. She couldn't be a coward any more. He was her friend, and if she wanted to have any chance of preserving that, she couldn't hide from the truth.

"Yes." Her voice was thin; Draco only nodded, face tight, and looked away from her.

Hermione tried to think of something to say, anything really. But what was there to say?

"I think I'm going to go. My father will want to leave soon." His voice was still soft; controlled. Hermione fought the urge to beg him not to, to try to say something that would fix everything.

"Alright." Was what came out instead, and Draco came to his feet, not looking at her.

"It was nice to see you."

Hermione nodded quickly, jumping to her feet.

"You too! Um, tell Blaise, and um, Neville I said hi. And everyone else."

One corner of Draco's mouth lifted in a sarcastic smile, and then he turned and walked away without another word. Hermione watched him go, his shoulders tight and straight, and fell back into her chair.

Merlin, she had ruined everything. Everything! Her gaze went to the dance floor. Harry and Fleur were gone. Hermione felt the turmoil rising higher inside of her.

Why now, now that she had finally realized how she felt, was Harry off with some other girl? Harry, who had asked her to the Ball, who had seemed so angry that she had agreed to go with Draco instead. Her best friend. Hermione looked around, her eyes beginning to film, and didn't see a single familiar face.

She was in a sea of strangers. One of her friends probably hated her now, and Harry… Harry was with a Veela.

Feeling sick and embarrassed, Hermione leaped to her feet and fled the open area at a fast pace, heading straight for the enchanted forest that rose on the hills on every side of the Pitch.

She needed to be alone, and figure out how to get herself out of the mess she had created.

Harry let Fleur drag him off the dance floor, claiming her feet were numb.

He had not had so much fun in weeks, enjoying something as simple as dancing, not since his last flight. And the Veela had been with him literally at every step, laughing and whispering to him, telling him stories of her grandmother and the Veela Covens she had visited, of all the sights she had seen traveling with her aristocratic mother.

And Harry, in turn, had found himself sharing his travels in Egypt, his tour of the Alchemy Centre, and some of the things Nicolas Flamel had told him of the world.

And he realized, as she led him towards the tables of food, that Fleur was so much more than a pretty face. She was fiercely intelligent, ruthlessly competitive, and she had dreams and goals she worked towards in every way she knew how.

She could be a friend. Except it was so very obvious she wouldn't be satisfied with just that.

Harry sat, the euphoria of the last hours beginning to vanish, and for the first time since the dance his gaze scanned the crowd, trying to pick out Hermione.

He frowned when he couldn't find her.

"Well. I 'ad you for two 'ours, at least."

The husky voice brought his eyes back to the table, where Fleur had joined him. Her smile was slightly forced. Harry found himself turning red.

"I'm sorry, I…"

"No, no." Fleur cut him off with a wave of her hand. "I consider zis a triumph, of sorts. I won, you see. I got more zan one dance. Per'aps, ze next time, I will 'ave you for a meal, as well."

Harry blinked. "Next..?"

Fleur shrugged one shoulder. "I graduate zis year, 'arry. I plan to travel in ze summer, see ze world. I sought, maybe, if we end up in ze same place, we may 'ave dinner."

Harry thought on that a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded his head.

"As friends." He said softly, and Fleur's lips twitched into a smile.

"We shall zee."

Hermione reached the wall of the Pitch after scrambling up transfigured boulders and dodging both trees and various couples who had escaped the crowded area for more private quarters.

Really, it was quite disgusting, and if she hadn't been heartsick and desperate, she might have given up and braved the crowds to return to her rooms instead.

But it was dark here, against the stone wall, and she hadn't passed anyone else in minutes. With a groan, Hermione slid down to sit upon the grass, heedless of her dresses delicate material.

She didn't know what to do.

Hermione always had a plan; she knew what she wanted, and why. But now she was confused, and didn't know how to feel.

Harry. It all came back to him. What were they, exactly?

Friends, obviously. One of her very first friends at Hogwarts. She shared everything with him; and he had been inside her mind, more than once. She had let him inside, had witnessed his rituals, and been a part of one. They trusted each other, relied on each other.

They had some sort of bond, now. One that allowed them to speak telepathically, that allowed Harry's magic to protect her own mind, and allowed Hermione to… what? What did she give back to him?

Advice? Comfort? Friendship?

Why had it hurt so much to see him dance with another girl? Why did the very thought make her teeth clench?

She had been so busy agonizing over him, that she had been a complete buffoon to Draco, and now she would be lucky if he would even look at her again.

But Draco wasn't Harry. Harry was kind, giving… and she didn't think she could ever look at another boy's face and not long to see those vivid green eyes. Harry was hers, damn it. It was enough to make her see red, thinking of that slimy witch putting her paws on him during the Ball.

Merlin. She liked him. Not just liked him, but really, really liked him. Harry Potter.

Hermione liked Harry Potter.

It was impossible. It was… oh Merlin, and he was with a Veela! How could she ever compare to a Veela?!

Except, she knew Harry thought she was beautiful, too.

Hermione groaned, sick of the emotions that would not settle, laying her head on her bent knees. Slowly, tears leaked out from behind her closed lids.

She was such a colossal idiot!

He couldn't find her. Harry had filtered through the tables, circled the wide dance floor.

Lord Malfoy was gone, Draco with him. But Dillon, who had been by the wide door, swore that Hermione hadn't left the transformed Pitch since he last saw her sitting at a table with Draco.

Moreover, Harry knew she was there. The bond between them, which he had been forcefully ignoring since he had seen her dressed up for the Ball, was now wide open on his end. And he could feel her emotions, dull and vague, but enough that he knew she was nearby and in some sort of emotional pain.

If Draco said something to upset her, Harry would strangle him.

Normally, Harry would simply use his phoenix flame to go directly to her; but he had no idea how many people might be present near her. He was in much too public a place.

With a growl, Harry paused by a tree, closing his eyes and wrapping mental threads fiercely around their bond, testing it. He had to find her, and now. He had to know why she was upset.

With a forceful expulsion of power, Harry sent a wave of feeling through their bond, frustration and anger and longing, and the bond between them rang like bloody bell. And he knew where she was.

With a ripple of magic Harry cast an invisibility charm over himself and then sprang into a run, dodging trees, working his way up the large incline in large soaring leaps. She was crying, he now knew, and furious anger had shaded all other emotions.

He would kill Draco Malfoy. What had the arrogant sod said to her? Then left her here, alone, while he trotted off to his father like an obedient dog?

When he reached the edge of the stone wall he finally saw her. She was sitting on the ground, face pressed down onto her drawn up knees, small hiccuping sounds rising from her. Harry nearly teleported to her side, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close. Hermione jumped, startled, then with a watery glance up at him folded onto his chest like a limp rag, her arms pressing under his cloak to hold him close.

"What happened?" Harry growled into her brown hair, its usual wildness tamed into smooth waves.

Hermione breathed in a sharp sigh, then groaned.

"Oh Harry, I was so stupid. Please, I'm not sure I want to talk about it."

Then don't talk. Harry's mind whispered into hers, and he slid along their bond with easy grace now that they were touching. Show me.

But Hermione's mind began to pull away. For a moment, shock held him steady; when had she ever pulled back from him like that?

Why would she hide?

"What's wrong?" Harry questioned, looking down at her face. Hermione stirred restlessly, then dropped her hands and stood, leaving his hold.

Harry watched her, eyes running over her dress as they had many times that night from across a room. His heart leaped, and this time Harry looked away, fists clenching, and spoke.

"I saw Draco leave. It seemed early."

Hermione flinched, then her face became miserable. "He was really nice. He was wonderful…"

Harry's teeth clenched so hard together that he felt they might shatter. He was going to kill him.

"...but I couldn't. I mean, I didn't even realize that he… and that I… oh, this is so confusing."

Harry frowned at her words as Hermione wrung her hands together. She leaned towards him, voice a whisper.

"He likes me. He put his arm around me!"

Technically, Draco had done it more than once, while Harry had been watching. And Hermione hadn't seemed to mind it at the time. And as far as Harry was concerned, it was obvious that Draco liked Hermione. Who wouldn't?

At Harry's silence, Hermione continued, her head dropping.

"And I just couldn't… relax. So he left. And, I might have let him know I'm uninterested. But I'm not sure. I mean, I kind of just... didn't say anything, actually. Except sorry, which I now realize was probably not the best thing. And then he said he was going, and I told him to tell Blaise and Neville hi for me, which now makes me think that maybe he was hoping I would tell him not to go or something, but at the time all I was thinking was it would be good to just… be alone so I could think. Except, when I started thinking about it, I realized I really didn't know what to think. So now I'm upset because I didn't know what to do and he probably hates me now, and after we only just became friends again, and you were dancing with Fleur, and she's the enemy but she's really pretty even if she is also really mean, I can't believe you went to the ball with her by the way, why didn't you tell me? and…"

"Hermione." Harry interrupted the flood of words spilling from her and stepped forward again, following when she backed up until she couldn't retreat another step. He reached out and held her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him.

Quietly, his eyes on hers, Harry took his chance and spoke what he had been coming to terms with the last few weeks.

"I wanted to go to the Ball with you, not Fleur. I was extremely jealous when I found out you were going with Draco. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen tonight, so much so I couldn't stand to be near you for fear I'd just grab you and damn the Ball and our dates both. I enjoyed dancing with Fleur, but the moment it was over I was looking for you. When I couldn't find you, I went looking for you. And now I'm here, with you."

Hermione stared up at him with stunned eyes. Harry could feel her mind roiling with confusion against his own, the bond between them a twisted thing with the force of his pressure and her defense.

Then, she leaned forward, and she stopped pushing his mind away. The thread that bound them straightened with a snap, and Harry was abruptly surrounded by her.

They were close, very close. Her hands wrapped around him, her head pressed against his chest. Dread was hissing in his mind, in their mind, pleased and content, the serpent twining between them in a way Harry had not known was possible, as if the serpent could rest inside Hermione's mind as easily as his own. Harry was surrounded by color and emotion not his own, the real world falling away as they fell into each other.

And together, at once, they brought their memories of the Ball together with brutal honesty.

They watched Hermione across the wide floor with Draco, and felt the burn of anger. They saw Fleur Delacour, and thought she was beautiful. Their eyes returned to Hermione again and again.

Harry felt their delight with the Ball; heard their laugh at Draco's wicked smile. Harry saw when their eyes found himself standing with Fleur; and their heart sank.

They danced; Harry found joy in the mockery of flight; Hermione lost what joy she had.

Harry felt Draco's arm come around them; Harry heard Draco's statement.

"It's Harry."

Harry nodded their head, and felt tears in their eyes.

Harry gasped at the conflicting memories and feelings, and felt Hermione right there with him, her body real and solid in his arms, trembling.

Harry opened his eyes, his mind flooded with hers, and saw she had done the same, their gestures together and in sync. In harmony.

Dread whispered between them. "I do not understand this feeling."

Me either, Harry said, or maybe it was Hermione, he couldn't say for sure. Maybe they both said it at once. He couldn't think without thinking of her, the bond overwhelming him, no longer certain which emotion was his and which was hers, only knowing with absolutely no doubt that there was something they both very much wanted in that moment.

And they were going to have it.

Harry lowered his face and Hermione lifted hers, and their eyes closed as their lips met.

And Dread hissed in complete puzzlement in their minds.

"What are you doing?"

Draco Malfoy was angry. Angry at Hermione, angry at Blaise, angry at himself.

Angry at the world.

The only one he was not angry with, oddly enough, was Harry. But he saw little point in blaming Harry for the same thing he himself had done; fall stupidly for a muggleborn witch. At least Harry hadn't traveled to another school to escort her to a ball in front of his pureblood father.

Only Draco was that stupid.

"Son."

Draco jerked; he had been standing by the apparition point at Malfoy Manor, waiting for his father to give him the portkey to return him to Dumbledore's office.

Lord Malfoy stood staring at him and Draco realized he was nearly as tall as his father. Then he saw that his father held a wand in his hand.

"Father?" Draco whispered, and Lord Malfoy raised his chin.

"I'm sorry, Draco. But it's for the good of the family."

Instinctively, Draco lunged to the side, but it was too late. The wordless spell caught him mid stride.

Everything faded to black.

Lord Malfoy looked down at his sprawled son, and then began the spell.

It was dreadfully simple, the task he had been given by his Master. And perhaps, if he retrieved the item in good time, his Lord would forgive him his failure with the Diary.

And Draco, who followed after a muggleborn and muggle-lovers, would get it for him. His son, his only Heir.

The spell was simple as well. Draco was his son; his blood. They shared a bond of family. Though the boy had obviously worked hard to protect his mind, enough so that outright Imperius would be unwise, his unconscious mind was another story completely. Even sleeping, when thoughts were black and memories faded, an experienced mind could slip inside and plant a thought, an urge, a mission.

Draco would remember nothing; would not act odd, or show any change of attitude. But inside, waiting, like a coiled snake, would be that single urge.

The Room of Hidden Things. There were something there that was needed, desperately. A small thing, delicate and yet indestructible, silver and bejewelled and precious. Hidden somewhere among everything else, a crown.

Draco would find it. Not right away, not being obvious. But he would find it, and he would owl his father, and he would meet them at the forest and hand it over and then he would serve.

Each thought triggering another; each urge leading into the next. As Draco did one, he would do the next, and the brilliance of it all was that he would think the ideas all his own. He would not sense the foreign thoughts, because they were his own. His blood; his father; his.

Lord Malfoy withdrew and prepared to wake his son and bundle the boy back to Hogwarts.

Dreadfully simple.

Harry took them through the flame directly to their quarters in Durmstrang. For a long time they simply held each other; content to share thoughts and feelings between them, smoothing out the misunderstandings and sinking into comfortable silence.

Harry ran his fingers over her bare arms as they spoke, him leaning back against the wall beside his bed where they sat, her draped across his lap and leaning into him, her face in his throat, her own fingers absently tracing the raised scar of Ankh on his chest.

I've got to go to New York tomorrow. Harry finally whispered into her mind, breaking the peaceful feelings stealing over them.

Hermione did not falter. I know.

I'm not sure how long it will take. Harry admitted, and felt her smile both against the skin of his neck and inside his mind, a starburst of color.

I'll cover for you. I imagine everyone's expecting to sleep in tomorrow, after such a late night. Hermione's voice was soft, sleepy, and Harry's hold on her tightened before he reluctantly began to pull away.

Sleep.

Hermione shook her head and scrambled closer. Not yet. Just a while longer.

Harry let out a breath and relaxed, allowing her to pull his cloak up and over them where they sat. She sighed in contentment.

Dread echoed it. "This is a nice, cozy nest, Master." The snake's tone was slightly pleading. Hermione chuckled.

Let him out, Harry. While it's just us three.

Harry was in too good a mood himself to argue. Without a word, he sent Dread out from the bright core of his magic, and the snake lunged from his chest to hover upon the air a moment, bright scarlet wings spread in a stretch.

Then the snake dived between them, soft feathered scales tickling Hermione's nose, to her amusement, before coiling into their warmth with a hiss.

"Mr. Dreadful." Hermione whispered aloud, and wrapped one hand loosely around a length of the snake. Then, like a light, Harry felt her fall into sleep, the quetzalcoatl following soon after.

Harry stared out over their heads, looking to where Fawkes perched, the phoenix's black eyes focused on where they sat in a cuddled pile.

The fire bird chirped, then let out his own soft sleepy song.

And Harry didn't have the will to fight the slumber that song eased him in to.

Despite his better judgement and probably common sense, Harry slipped from his bed and left Hermione and Dread still curled inside it, Fawkes watching over them like an eternal sentry.

He knew he should wake her and send her back to her room. He also knew he should return Dread safely to himself. But there was something about seeing them there, Hermione's purple dress rumpled, her hand resting on Dread, that made him smile.

Hermione and he had talked at length about introducing Dread. If the snake's existence was noted, Hermione could simply go ahead with their plan. But Dread was talented at hiding, and Harry hoped to return before they stirred for a late lunch.

With a sigh, Harry turned his back on them and pulled off the heavy velvet dress robes, replacing them with muggle jeans and a black shirt. Then with only a last lingering glance at Hermione, Harry jumped through the flame to Australia.

Within an hour, Harry stood with Mike in pre-dawn New York. For Harry, it was mid morning. For Mike, late afternoon.

For Sirius and Hannah, it was very, very early morning.

Needless to say, keeping the time differences straight was becoming a chore Harry was getting reluctantly used to.

The apartment looked like an entirely different place. It was actually decorated, though Harry was at a loss for how and why. There was new furniture, new appliances, and a new coat of paint on every wall.

Still, Sirius did not look happy to see them, though Hannah had met them with a small smile and a large kettle of tea.

"I found him easy enough. The man's rich as sin." Hannah said, deftly tossing him a notepad with her words scrawled across it. "Stephen K. Wilson, CEO and owner of Wilson Enterprises, big shipping and manufacturing business. There are no other Wilson's in manufacturing, and with this kind of scale… this has to be the man James met. I've walked by his building a few times, Harry and I've got to tell you…" Hannah shook her head, then glanced at Sirius before continuing. "Maybe it's just rich people, maybe it's normal security. But my instincts tell me that man is expecting trouble, and of our own kind, not yours." She turned to look at Mike now. "You said the government was onto James? Maybe the same thing is happening here."

She paused, took a sip of tea, then set it down.

"In any case, be careful. I would feel better about it if we went with you."

Mike nodded in agreement, but Harry shook his head firmly.

"I can get out of there easily if things go wrong, and I plan to keep up a shield around myself. It would be harder with three people."

Sirius huffed, then folded his arms.

"So what do you need us here for?"

Harry looked around the table. "Hannah is here because it keeps her safe from James. You're here, Sirius, because you want to be with her." His godfather flushed, but did not deny it. Harry looked at Mike. "And you're here because you want to be in the thick of things, not stuck in Australia."

Mike grinned, his hazel eyes bright with humor. "Exactly. And I refuse to listen to anymore wedding plans."

Sirius looked at Harry curiously, but he only stood and shook his head.

"Mike can tell you about it. I plan to flame nearby now, watch the place. When do you think I should officially arrive?"

Hannah grimaced.

"Not sure. Maybe eight or nine. You will have more luck getting in to see him first thing, though I hope you have a good plan for that. They don't just let random kids in to see their CEO."

Harry smiled.

"Magic."

Wilson Enterprises's tower loomed along with its fellows, the high buildings almost unbelievably tall. Harry wasn't used to being around skyscrapers; but he couldn't help but wonder how cool it would be to fly between all that glass and steel.

Harry waited, invisible and watching, and saw what Hannah had seen. The black clothed men, wires in their ears, walking casually but obviously on patrol. The armed men at the entrance, by the front desk, by the elevators, all of which could be seen through the wide glass windows of the lobby. Employees began to stream in, passing through some sort of detecting system, using key cards to access various elevators.

And finally, as the sun rose higher in the sky, Harry decided it was time.

He let the spell's drop and strode casually up the sidewalk, heading for the wide double doors. He ignored the occasional glances that were cast at him, but none lingered for long.

He looked like a teenager, but not a poor one. His shoes were leather, and the quality of his clothes hard to miss. Though his hair was long, he didn't look like the kind of kid to cause trouble.

Harry headed straight for one of the receptionists at the front desk, and slipped lightly behind her green eyes to plant a suggestion there.

The woman smiled.

"Mr. Potter, I see you've arrived just in time. Mr. Wilson would be glad to give you an interview for your school paper. He's in his office, simply take the elevator to my right, all the way to the top."

It was the elevator he hadn't seen any others using. Harry smiled at her, then glanced at the security guard beside the elevator.

He was dressed head to toe in grey. And though Harry couldn't see any weapons on him, he didn't doubt they were there. The man met Harry's eyes, then stepped aside without questioning at a simple mental command.

Harry smiled as the elevator doors closed.

Magic.

Falcon, Wilson's head of security, knew something was wrong within seconds. Mr. Wilson had no appointments that morning, and certainly not with a high school newspaper. And he knew for a fact that Owen, the guard on duty of the private elevator, would never have let said kid inside without first contacting himself about the change in routine.

The minute the appointment was filed in by the clueless receptionist and beeped on his phone, and he saw Owen's bored gaze, as if the man had not just committed a horrible security breach, Falcon burst into action.

Wilson was informed when the elevator was just reaching the tenth floor. By the time it reached the thirtieth, Falcon had a team assembling outside the main office, the receptionists being ushered out with confused gazes.

And when it reached the top, Falcon stood in front of the metal doors, his men to either side, weapons ready. And he waited to get his first glimpse of a wizard in the flesh.

Harry had never ridden a muggle elevator before. It was an odd thing to strike him, but at that moment he realized he had always taken the stairs. He felt safer on stairs; more in control.

He really did not like the feeling of moving under something else's power.

With a shudder, he strengthened Heth's bubble, the shield held tightly to him, glad the elevator was empty save himself. No one would notice when they bumped into something invisible. He had to be careful; though things had gone easily enough so far, the Hound he was meeting knew of wizards, and doubtless just like James, had made plans for ever being confronted by one.

The doors snapped open, and Harry was startled by the sight of a large, barrel-chested man, his greying hair cut ruthlessly close to his skull.

And he held a muggle gun.

Harry stiffened, eyes on the black metal, and his power rose from inside him like unfurling wings. The lights in the elevator flickered ominously.

"State your business." The burly man drawled in a commanding tone, and Harry's eyes darted up to him. This man, too, wore the grey security uniform of the guard downstairs, with one addition.

He had on sunglasses, inside of a building, and their metal frames were the same slate grey of his uniform.

And Harry could not enter his mind.

The shock of that hit him first; followed by a quick set of mental calculations, his mind kicking into overdrive, the runes on the back of his neck flaring with a steady burn, time seeming to stand still.

Grey.

Grey glasses, grey clothes.

He could summon the glasses off him, if they were what was causing the blockage; then enter his mind and make the man stand down.

He could simply take him out with a spell; the man's gun could not harm him, not with Heth against his skin.

He could teleport past him and transfigure a wall the man could not pass through.

Grey. PUB. There was something about that, something he was missing.

But that was what he was here to find out. Not to attack Wilson's security, not to be a threat. Not yet. He was here to find out what on earth James had done.

The silence had stretched out awkwardly and full of tension. Harry made himself relax, and let his gathered power retreat back under his skin. The elevator lights brightened to their full glow again.

"I'm sorry." Harry began, voice soft. "I need to see Stephen Wilson."

The older man did not lower his weapon. "Why, wizard?"

Harry blinked at his sharp use of the word, like an insult. Or a threat. "I need to talk to him." Harry said simply.

The man tilted his head; Harry wished he could see his eyes, if only to try to predict his emotions. "About what?" The man finally drawled, and Harry considered how truthful he should be.

In for a penny, in for a pound, Harry mused.

"James, the Hounds, and PUB."

The man jerked. Again, the long pause, and Harry realized suddenly that the burly muggle must be listening to someone, most likely Wilson himself. Of course. Muggle technology, earbuds as wireless communication devices.

"Why should we trust you?" The muggle said, and Harry fought the urge to scowl.

"You can't." Harry spat, then sighed. "But I'm probably the only wizard in the world who actually knows and cares about your mission, until a few weeks ago anyway with those stupid pictures, even if I'm not too happy with the way James is going."

That was an understatement. Harry was extremely, unbelievably, angry with James. In fact, if he saw the muggle again, he might just tear the man's mind apart as he had nearly done to Sirius. That would be the only way he would get the truth, and it would double nicely as revenge for the man's manipulative, backstabbing actions.

"What's your name?" The muggle asked, and Harry wondered if it would be that easy.

"Harry Potter."

Apparently, it was.

The man lowered the gun, then nodded to the sides. Harry was startled to realize he had underestimated the muggles again. An even ten men had been waiting outside the elevator, five on either side. Harry would have had more of a fight on his hands that he realized.

Had he been a normal wizard, the muggles doubtless would have been able to kill him quite easily. Luckily for Harry, he wasn't normal.

"This way." The man growled, and spun on one heel to walk down a long hallway. Harry followed, eyeing the men he passed briefly, unnerved slightly by their covered eyes and formal stance. None of them looked happy that he was being allowed to pass.

He was led to a large, wide office whose walls to the outside were all solid glass, giving a breathtaking view of the city far below.

A muggle stood there, tall, wearing a grey suit of the same steel color of the security teams around him.

Hannah had been wrong. This man wasn't just prepared for muggle attacks; he was ready for wizards too, the implications of which made his heart fall. Just how bad had things become? And what did it have to do with all the grey clothing?

Stephen Wilson's hair was prematurely white, his skin ruddy. Wrinkles spread from around his eyes and mouth, and the man held himself in a way that said he knew what power he held and what he could do with it if he wanted.

And he wore glasses whose rims where silver, though the lenses were clear, and out of curiosity Harry reached out ahead of him to touch his mind.

Nothing.

Wilson smiled, leaning back against his desk as Harry walked inside, the older muggle closing the door behind them both and taking up a wary stance.

"Before we start, Mr. Potter, I do have one pressing question. It's been bothering me for some time, as I've had no way to test it."

Harry paused at the man's jovial tone; then slowly nodded. Wilson continued with a smile.

"Can you read my mind?"

Harry blinked. Did the man not even know? With narrowed eyes, Harry spoke.

"No."

"Great." Wilson said, and reached up a finger to flick the rims of his glasses. "I expanded on the theory, you see. Lead's ability to corrupt magical pulses, and yet also its ability to protect electrical pulses from magic's own electromagnetic signatures… well. The information you had gathered with your dearly departed foster father, rest his soul, was invaluable. The books on wizard kinds ability to read minds, your Legilimency, and how it required direct eye contact. Therefore, protect the eyes, protect the mind."

Harry rocked back on his heels. Lead. Latin Plumbum. PUB. Of course. Of course! PUB wasn't a weapon at all, it was anti-magic armor. And Harry shouldn't be as surprised as he was at the leaps in logic the muggles were making. He had seen what the werewolves in Pungo were capable of; already factions of wizards were making electricity work for them. But Harry hadn't known how they were doing it.

And James, observing Sirius, had figured it out somehow. And the man in front of him had taken that knowledge from James and made it into a reality.

Harry breathed in deeply. "I see."

Wilson cocked his head to the side with a smile. "I've heard a lot about you, from the very beginning, when we thought you just a lucky discovery. Mr. Steel thought very highly of you. James, on the other hand, well. You know how he is."

"He's insane." Harry said simply. "And he is going to ruin everything if he keeps going."

Wilson looked surprised; then pity filtered across his face.

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, Mr. Potter, but the speed of the revelation of the wizarding world is out of my, or your, control. The Hounds' work is finished. It is only a matter of time."

A chill ran down Harry's spine. "What do you mean, it's finished? Only the pictures have been released!"

Wilson sighed, then rounded his desk to sit, gesturing for Harry to do the same. Harry sat in the black leather chair, and barely felt its soft surface, every part of him focused on the older man as he spoke.

"I rather thought you might be here to join with me, now that James has treated you so poorly. I heard about your godfather; we all watched the videos. James was quite confident that he had you hoodwinked, but the fact that you are here, and knowing about PUB, means he was wrong. This is encouraging, as I rather dislike that man. But I see I was mistaken about your reasoning. The Hounds have done their work, son."

Wilson paused, straightening a pen on his desk, then continued. "We got the news to those who mattered. We made the wheel begin to turn. Even as we speak, no doubt the powerful people of the world are preparing, just as I am. Our groups, our Hounds, have gone into hiding from their own governments, if they are smart. They are ready to rise at the final signal; one no doubt our James is preparing even now, which could come tomorrow, in a week, in a month. Ready to educate the world about wizards as soon as they believe."

Harry sat back, shaking his head.

"Signal? If you're done, why are you waiting for a signal?"

Wilson folded his hands together. "Our goal was to make people believe. To do that, we had to gather proof. We had to spread our ideas and share them, preserve them. We had to find a way to get what we learned to the people. We have done so. Now, it is only giving the final irrefutable truth to the millions who wait for it, and for that only one Hound is needed. James decided he would be that man; and no one will be able to find him wherever he is hiding, waiting. I suggest you prepare yourself as well, and anyone you care about. Without a doubt my own government is planning, and hopefully your own as well. If they are not, they will probably fall."

"War." Harry whispered. "If it happens like this, without warning, how can they possibly learn to accept each other in a day?"

Wilson's face was grim.

"There is no way to ease the world into this. If we had given them time, either your government or mine would have found some way to prevent it, some way to keep things just as they are. Or perhaps they would have quietly fought one another, a secret war that the normal people knew nothing about. For all I know, perhaps some already are. But this way, everyone will know. Everyone will understand what it is they are facing. I have done my best to prepare my staff and their families. The new armor in particular will help, if the wizards turn against us. But in my own country I have higher hopes. My government knows of wizards, and I suspect has been collaborating with them for some time. My hope is they are prepared; and probably have the sacrificial lambs lined up to take the fall with the populace. Humanity will survive this, Mr. Potter, and be better off for it. It needs to happen. We all deserve it."

Harry closed his eyes, the weight of it settling on him.

He remember vividly his first days among the Steel boys, learning of magic, experiencing its wonders. He remembered how earnest and innocent he had been, how simple it had seemed to simply tell the world that magic was real and beautiful and grand.

But he had learned so much more since then. He had met people, good people, muggles and wizards alike, whose lives would be threatened now. He had learned that magic was not always good, but could be used for evil. Had learned that some muggles wanted wizards dead; and some wizards wished the same to muggles.

And Harry had helped this happen. He had leaked knowledge of the wizarding world to Mr. Steel and the Hounds; he had worked with James, even after his foster father's death. He had let his godfather show them magic first hand; he had been pivotal in the discovery of PUB.

The Hounds might have figured it all out anyway, he would never know. But he would always remember that it had been himself who had played that key role.

And here he was, sitting across from a muggle who might have more influence than James. Who certainly seemed better prepared, with his armor and weapons.

Harry opened his eyes.

He had to move forward. If the news couldn't be stopped and contained, then he had to make sure people were prepared. Even if that meant exposing his own involvement.

"You asked if I was here to join you." Harry said softly, and Wilson straightened. "I'm not. I have responsibilities in my world, and I need to do what I can to protect myself and my family. But two of my brothers, Steels, were working with James until he went into hiding. They both feel strongly for the cause, and would probably want to work with you, if you have room for them on your team."

Wilson lifted his hands.

"I'll welcome them, as long as they are willing to work."

Harry stood with a nod, and looked about the office, his gaze slightly lost. "I'll bring them now."

"A moment." Wilson interrupted, and Harry's gaze sharpened on him. Wilson, still seated, looked up at him solemnly. "I take that to mean you are still with us, Mr. Potter?"

Harry felt his face tighten with straining emotion. "My world is not perfect, and neither is yours. But it was the chance that we might make both better that always made me defend the Hounds' actions. Even now, if you stacked the odds, I truly believe things would improve, though we might not see that for years, until the dust settles. But if I see James again, I can not promise I will restrain myself. He is a disease in your organization. This signal he plans to give, I highly doubt it will be done in a way that promotes peace."

"No." Wilson said softly. "It probably won't."

Harry continued. "And our job isn't done, either. Maybe getting the news out was the first goal, but we should have a second. Helping the worlds come together. I won't let either side simply slaughter the other out of fear and mistrust."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "I agree. After all, that would be bad for business."

Harry snorted, then gave the muggle a last nod, before flaming directly away from the office.

He was absurdly satisfied to see the startled surprise in the man's too-calm face before he disappeared.

Director General Andrew Parker, of Britain's MI5, looked over the reports with narrowed eyes.

"Gerald Steel, deceased. Factory in London, residence in Cheddar. The first closed down, the second destroyed pre-death. You are certain of what is written here?"

Across from him, an agent nodded firmly.

"Yes, sir. Footage confirms this man visited John Fredericks more than once, and we now know that Steel was gathering magical artifacts and transferring them to Fredericks. Upon his death, Fredericks cleared out his factory. Steel was using young runaways to gather his items from various dead zones in the city, using the rooftops from what we can tell."

"Do we know who these boys are?" Parker questioned, and the agent nodded once, sharply.

"We've linked all but one as our kind, all of them leaving their former homes of their own violation. Kerr Terrence, Richard Brown, Michael Ellis, Benjamin Rock. All were taken in by Steel. Latest pictures are in the other folder, to be sent to other agencies to track them down. All but Richard have not been seen on CCTV in over a year."

"And the last?" Parker asked, raising his gaze from the offered pictures. Kids, all of them.

The agent shifted.

"He is one of their kind, sir. His records start abruptly at age two, with mundane relatives who records state took him in as an orphan. He ran away at age eight, was taken in by Steel. The boy then disappears from all records, but we have footage of him at Frederick's last known location, as well as at the warehouse the Hounds group frequented. He displayed teleportation abilities on CCTV."

Parker looked at the last photo, grainy in black and white, of a teenager in regular clothes, entering the doors of the Hound warehouse.

"Name?"

"Harry Potter, sir."

Parker slapped the folder closed, eyes narrowed.

"Find him. Find them all, but especially him. Wizards, working with these fools! They may even be hiding Fredericks."

The agent stood swiftly at his dismissal, and left the room at a trot.

MI5 spoke with MI6, and together the two British intelligence agencies contacted America, France, and Germany, expanding the net further and further, and it did not take long at all to get results.

For the CIA took one look at the name of the wizard suspected of helping the Hounds, and recognized it as one who already had his own file. An HVT of the wizarding world, a High Value Target; one watched for his influence and his power.

And HYBRID, already watching the building of Wilson Enterprises, saw the teenager that should have been in Norway walking boldly down the american street and right into the location of a known Hound leader.

Within two days, Agent Jackson was taking hold of an international portkey and going to once again talk to his old friend Gryffon. This time in person.

Harry James Potter, a wizard confirmed to possess mage level abilities, was the only known magical user they had seen who had direct contact with the extremist Hound organization, and they needed to know what he knew immediately, by whatever means necessary.

But to take a mage by force, you would need either extreme luck, or another mage at your side.

Agent Jackson sincerely hoped he would have both.

The three days before the second challenge of the Triwizard Tournament went by in a daze for Harry.

On one hand, he had all the news from the Hounds and what it would mean. He had shared it all with Hermione, who didn't know what to do any more than he did.

On the other hand, he had Hermione, and she knew how he felt about her and she felt the same.

It was such an extreme pull between happiness and dread that Harry felt torn in two.

He made plans, of course. He had to fortify the house in Kondinin; He needed to contact Rufus Scrimgeour, and figure out how much the Ministry might know of the Hounds and how much he himself should tell them. He really, really did not need to be stuck at Durmstrang, pretending to be normal, when he ought to be running across the globe at a rapid rate. But Hermione was stuck here thanks to some Ministry artifact, and so Harry was as well.

He couldn't leave her. Even when he knew he had things he needed to be doing, he couldn't bring himself to go. He just wanted to hold her hand; touch her arm or shoulder, a compulsion reminiscent of that to complete a ritual.

The bond between them was growing at a rapid pace. Harry found himself able to share thoughts across a short distance, skin to skin contact no longer as necessary though it now happened more frequently.

Both Dillon and Gryffon had noticed. But luckily, besides a few sly looks, neither commented.

Harry wasn't sure what he would have said in response if they had.

But he couldn't hold off forever in Durmstrang. James could move at any time. After the next challenge, he would make some reason to go, for a week at least. Enough time to spend rewarding Kondinin, and adding extra protection to his townhouse in Hallam St. and the New York apartment. Time to visit his vaults at Gringotts, speak to Griphook, perhaps see if the goblins were even aware what might be about to happen…

Goblins. Banks. Merlin, what would happen to the banks? The price of gold, when muggles found out about all the stashes of it wizards held around the globe, under the care of short creatures with nasty temperaments? Harry knew enough from his quarterly statements from Griphook that such things would be important to anyone with investments. Griphook wouldn't comment on gold prices if they weren't important.

Just how far would the consequences of what was about to happen reach? Would there be anyone in the world who was not affected in some way?

It was now the night before the challenge, which was scheduled to take place the next morning. Fawkes had had his burning day; the chick sat in a pile of ash, looking forlornly out at where Hermione and he stood, about to leave for the library.

Dread was safely inside him once more, the serpents presence with Hermione having gone unnoticed days before. Dillon looked up at them, eyes rolling.

"Library, again? What's the point?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Just because we all think it's going to be a duel, doesn't mean we shouldn't all be prepared."

Dillon shrugged. "Hey, I am prepared. I've got my awesome shield, remember? You two just cast your spells, I'll cover, problem solved."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "So while you dance around in a native american shield spell, we take them all out. That's your plan?"

Dillon grinned. "That's my backup plan. Plan A is Harry there just takes them all out himself."

Hermione folded her arms. "Most people don't know how powerful Harry is, and neither for that matter do you. He doesn't want to show them, either."

Dillon glanced at Harry with a wicked tilt of his mouth.

"I'd blow them away if I were you, Harry. Show them who's boss. Maybe we can dent some egos."

Harry only shook his head, heading towards the door. Dillon called out after them as they left.

"Study hard for me!"

"You can't be serious." Zachary Gryffon whispered, but Jack met his gaze with level eyes.

"I've seen the pictures with my own eyes. He was seen by two of us, right outside of Wilson's building. And now British muggle intelligence have their eyes open and are after him too. They have footage of this boy with Steel and with James, as recently as last summer. I've got my orders directly from Lovick, DMLE, and CIA's Brennan. They want this kid, yesterday. And when they are done asking him questions, they plan on passing him over to Britain."

Gryffon leaned back in his chair, one hand raising to massage the headache growing behind his eyes.

They were in his rooms. Jack had arrived an hour before, directly from Headmaster Karkaroff's floo. It had taken the agent days just to break through British and Norwegian red tape to get inside Durmstrang. So long, in fact, Jackson might have been better served to just sneak in by broom.

But that wouldn't have looked good on the North American Bureau.

Gryffon dropped his hand, meeting Jack's enquiring eyes.

"We can't take him by force."

Jackson frowned. "Sure, we'll talk to him first. But if he isn't willing to come, we don't have a choice. This kid could have information we desperately need. And if he's really working with the Hounds to undermine the Statute, he's broken ICW law several times over. I understand you like Potter, but you won't be able to protect him for long. If the Bureau needs to, they'll approach the Confederation and tag him that way, and that won't go well for him. Right now he's safe from that because HYBRID can't afford to draw their attention either. But that game is changing."

"You don't understand." Gryffon said simply. "We can't take him by force. Our only option is to convince him to come willingly."

Jack stiffened. "Have you been keeping secrets, buddy? Last report you gave, he was ranked mid-range on the mage scale. That's far lower than yourself. You're trained to take on mages, that was your job."

Zak Gryffon lifted his chin. "Harry Potter is not mid-range on the scale. He's something different, something I haven't been able to determine. I've been watching him for longer than on this mission, Jack. When he was a kid, sure, I checked up on him then when he was with the Steels, and he was average. But I saw him again, summer before last. It was staggering. And in the last year, he's nearly doubled again."

"Doubled? Again?" Jack asked softly, his face beginning to pale, and Gryffon snorted in derision.

"Doubled, tripled, it's all the same really. Doesn't need a wand, at all, for anything. It's like a prop to him. He breaks through wards like they don't exist, he has some way other than apparition to travel. I thought it was just that phoenix of his, but now… I don't think so anymore. He's done something to himself, some sort of ritual, but I have no idea what it is, and I've been researching while I'm here. It reeks of blood magic, though, and he's gotten his best friend, a muggleborn, involved in it too someway I can't determine. The only way I could even imagine taking him captive was by forcing him unconscious, but you can't question someone in a coma. I'm not certain he's completely human anymore, in fact I'm positive of it. He would probably break through a magical coma, and with the way his body can move and probably heal, potions would be a risk as well. And what would you do with him? Even if we could get him to America, if his abilities are what I think they are, there is no way you could hold him there. He would simply teleport away. And if you did manage to take away his teleportation abilities, what about all his raw magical strength? This kid could probably break right through any cage we put him in."

Gryffon looked over the agent's astounded face, then shook his head again.

"I'm telling you, Jack, we can't take him. Me and an entire team probably couldn't take him, at least not without substantial casualties first. It would probably take hours to tire Harry Potter out in battle, with nothing preventing him from fleeing when he gets tired. You can't corner him, you can't fight him. You've got to talk him into it. It's the only way."

Jackson folded his arms.

"You said he has a friend, a muggleborn. Could she be leverage?"

Gryphon blinked, then began to laugh.

"Do you honestly want to piss off what might be a wizard in the top ten percent of the most powerful mages currently alive? Let the ICW have him, if it comes to it. Maybe Potter can do us a favor and tear them apart so we don't have to. Then the Bureau can give him a medal and a slap on the back instead for ridding us of that controlling menace."

Jackson was silent a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he began to smile.

"Alright, then. Let's go talk."

It was late. Most of Durmstrang's students had left the library, leaving Harry and Hermione alone in their usual reading corner.

Harry sat facing her, watching her lips move as she silently read. He found himself doing that more and more often the last few days; simply memorizing the way she did everything. He figured Sirius would call it puppy love. Simple, uncomplicated adoration.

But what was wrong with that?

"Mr. Potter?"

The sound of his name made Harry turn, eyebrows beginning to furrow in confusion.

And the knife slipped through his skin before his magic had a chance to respond.

Hermione leapt to her feet, a horrified scream caught in her throat. She fumbled for her wand even as she stood; but the tall Norwegian man had already turned from Harry's slumped form to meet her eyes.

"Drop the wand, Ms. Granger." His soft, calm voice said, and Hermione froze.

What had he done? What had the man done?

"What did you do to him!" Hermione demanded hotly, and Hjalmar Gyldenpalm smiled.

"A simple potion, one you are quite familiar with now, seeing as you've recently made it yourself. Don't worry; it won't harm him. The dose was very specific. His death is not mine to take. I simply need to take him with me without… issues."

Hermione trembled, fear taking firm hold.

"I don't understand. The Tournament... "

Gyldenpalm waved one hand in dismissal.

"This is not about the silly Tournament. My Master has better plans for this boy. An example must be made."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Gyldenpalm's wand had begun to glow.

"I wasn't going to take you; but since you are here, I think you might like to know what happens to your meddlesome friend. Yes?"

Hermione didn't have a chance to respond. The silent spell struck her, and the world went dark.

"They're not in the library, either, Uncle Zak."

Dillon said breathlessly, moving towards them at a fast pace.

Gryffon glanced at Jack, who leaned against a wall. Dillon looked at the tall black-haired man curiously.

"Who are you?"

"He's a friend." Gryffon interrupted. "Did you check the cafeteria too?"

Dillon smirked. "I knew there was a reason you never brought any witches home." At Gryffon's murderous look, the blond quickly continued. "But yeah, I passed it by. It's closed, just like about everything else. The library too, soon. They've never been out this late, you know, but I figure… they're probably making out somewhere. Lovebirds."

The last word was said to Jack, who raised a brow. Gryffon groaned, running a hand through his hair as he paced the corridor outside their quarters.

"Fine. Alright. You can go."

At the dismissal, Dillon shrugged and slid into his rooms. Jack straightened from his pose and approached.

"You think the boy's right?"

Gryffon cast him a glance, then dropped his head.

"Maybe. This isn't the first time he's disappeared, but every other time Hermione stayed behind. She usually gave some excuse for his absence. At first, I believed her. But too many times her story didn't match his, or he wouldn't be where she said. He was leaving the school to go who knows where. Them both being gone, I don't like it. But we'll have to wait the night out. If he's still not here in the morning, we'll know somethings wrong. Might as well get comfortable."

Jackson's face split into a smile.

"So, your room or mine?"

"Shut it, before you give my nephew ideas to take home to his mother." Gryffon hissed back, and led the way into the Academy's suite.

Hermione panted harshly in the cold cell she had awoken in hours ago.

Harry was out. Even through their bond she couldn't reach him, and his skin was cool to the touch. It was as if he was dead.

But then again, that was what the Draught of Living Death did.

And that bastard Gyldenpalm had given him a nice dose right to his bloodstream, she figured, when she had seen the shallow cut in Harry's side. She hadn't even known that was possible, but it made sense. Hadn't muggles been doing it for years? Still, the thought…

Hermione shivered, moving close to where Harry lay. She hadn't seen or heard anyone, and she was desperate for Harry to wake. He was their only chance for escape. She couldn't apparate, and even if she could she figured they were in a protected cell. She had tried calling Dobby repeatedly, with no response from the house-elf. There was no telling just what wards might be in place.

But nothing could cage a phoenix. It was simply horrendously bad luck that Fawkes couldn't even be summoned to come to Harry's aid. The phoenix wouldn't be able to fly or teleport for another few days.

Why had she begun to feel safe at Durmstrang? Hermione fought back tears and searched the room again, as she had done several times already, uselessly. Her wand was gone, as was Harry's.

Suddenly, the door creaked open. Hermione whirled and leaped to her feet, eyes wide.

And standing there was a tall, extremely pale man, freckles dotting cheeks under light green eyes.

He giggled, actually giggled, and lifted a slender wand towards her heart.

Dobby keened, pulling at his ears painfully with gasping sobs.

The Mistress was calling him, begging Dobby to come. And Dobby couldn't. For the first time in Dobby's life, he could not answer the summons, could not go to his Family.

Dobby had failed.

And when Dobby had asked his beautiful Blossom, she could not go to Master or Mistress either. Neither could Ivy, and then reluctantly asked, Kreacher.

The Master and Mistress were in danger, and their elves could not find them.

"What?!"

Sirius hissed towards the scrawny house-elf, hands reaching out to grab the creature.

"Master Black is missing!" Kreacher repeated urgently, his face murderous at the wizard's touch. "Kreacher can not find him!"

Sirius released the house-elf after a quick jerk, spinning to face where Hannah sat on the couch, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Then he stopped, his wand in hand, and felt tremors shoot through him.

Missing. And where even the house-elves could not get to them. There were very few places warded against such bonds; Azkaban, for one, and the Ministry.

"Missing." Sirius whispered, and clenched his fist.

And he was in New York, an ocean away, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to find him. Remus would be in North Carolina; and the werewolf would be just as helpless. If he was in a place that blocked out elves, then it would definitely block owls and location spells as well.

But he could try, at least.

"Kreacher." Sirius said softly into the silence. "Take me back to Grimmauld Place."

"Headmaster Dumbledore." Gryffon said softly, meeting the warm blue gaze of the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the man who also happened to be the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.

Jackson, at his elbow, was stiff with disapproval. But Harry Potter and Hermione Granger were still missing, and the Tournament would start within an hour.

"Yes, Mister Gryffon? Can I help you?" The white haired wizard asked congenially, and Zak stiffened his spine.

"We seem to have a problem. Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger are not present. We need to postpone the tournament."

Nearby, Headmaster Karkaroff spun to face them.

"Postpone the tournament? Preposterous! We have guests from around the world here to witness the second challenge. If your students are too afraid to show up, they will simply forfeit."

Dumbledores eyes never left Gryffon's.

"Excuse us a moment, Igor." The old man said humbly to the irate Durmstrang Headmaster, before gently clasping Zak's arm and pulling him away.

"Missing?" Dumbledore questioned.

Gryffon nodded once.

"Since late last night, more like morning actually. Nearly six hours."

"I see." He mumbled.

Gryffon continued. "There is no way they would not show up, Headmaster Dumbledore. Ms. Granger is bound to attend every challenge, or risk losing her own ties to her magic. The Goblet of Fire made it so. We must postpone it until they return."

"Do you know where they are, then?" Dumbledore asked, and Zak gritted his teeth.

"No."

"But surely they must be in the school somewhere." The Headmaster asked, and Zak narrowed his eyes and stretched the truth. The man facing him was a master of Legilimency; he would be able to smell a lie.

"Potter has a phoenix."

The Headmaster stiffened; his blue eyes seeming to dull, his shoulders slumping.

"Of course." The elderly wizard said softly. Then he straightened. "I'll see what I can do."

Hermione was forced to walk along a long corridor, Harry levitated behind her, until they entered a wide cavernous room.

And there, facing her, was a man who she had no doubt was none other than Lord Voldemort.

"Put him over there, Evan." The thin pale man called, his voice cultured and sibilant. His eyes, glowing a scarlet red, seemed to ignore her very existence

Hermione watched, heart thumping wildly, as Harry was dropped to the floor.

Please wake up, please wake up, please wake up, she chanted in her head. But there was no answer.

The giggling man, Evan apparently, seemed to be positioning Harry to some purpose. As she looked, the wizard forced her friend's body into a kneeling position, then ripped off the robes and shirt he wore, bearing the many runes that decorated Harry's body.

She wondered if the others could see them. She could, now; what seemed like hundreds of slashes, scars raised off his skin. She even knew what some of them felt like; she had been working her way by touch across his chest the last few days, touching them in fascination.

Now, she could only watch as conjured ropes burst from the man's wand, pulling Harry's hands behind his back, forcing him to arch, his head to face up towards the large throne Voldemort sat in. Hermione glanced around, frantically, and saw that they did not stand in a room at all.

They were outside, in a courtyard of some sort, stone arches scattered around them, tile under their feet. Above them, stars glimmered brightly, and a bloated moon hung low in the sky.

Near daybreak, then, wherever they were. She had no way of knowing even how long it had been. They could be anywhere, even back in Britain.

"There, that's perfect." Voldemort hissed, voice pleased. Hermione jumped, and saw that Evan was walking towards her, his pale green eyes nearly a ghostly white. She stepped back, but the wizard had her by the arm, yanking her to his side.

His wand came up beside her; but it wasn't pointing towards herself.

It was pointing towards Harry.

"Now." Voldemort said. "I will finally call all my followers."

"They won't postpone it." Dumbledore said gently, but his blue eyes were icy with anger. Gryffon turned from where he stood next to Jack and Dillon. He only nodded. What else was there to do?

Dumbledore's face was grave. "All you can do it try to stall. The contract of the Goblet states she must be present, even if she does not raise her wand. But she must be here, on the day and time of the challenge. I have spoken with my students, as well. They are willing to help."

Dillon jerked at that news; Zak saw the boy looking towards where the Hogwarts Champions stood. One of the boys looked mutinous; but the other boy and girl were resolute.

Gryffon felt his heart lift a little.

"Alright. Stall."

Dumbledore's mouth tightened. "This is most unusual. Mr. Potter would not put Ms. Granger in such a position willingly."

"I know." Gryffon breathed, but there was nothing else to say. Harry was missing, Hermione with him, and they had no way of possibly finding the both of them.

Dumbledore nodded once, then strode off, his brightly robed figure regal.

Jack growled under his breath a few choice insults. Dillon sighed.

"Plan B. Looks like it's the Indian shield after all, then."

Hermione watched them arrive, one by one, figures in black with white covered faces. All the while her heart raced a quick beat, praying desperately, promising anything so that Harry would wake up.

He just needed to wake up.

When the arrivals slowed to nothing, Voldemort began his speech. Hermine barely listened to it, all her focus locked on where Harry knelt, bound, his eyes closed and face slack with unconsciousness.

There was a lull in the words, and Hermione belatedly paid attention.

"I have brought him here, the wizarding world's savior. To announce my return, I will place his dead body where all can see it."

The crowd roared its approval. Hermione shuddered, and the wizard who held her laughed in her ear.

"It's something, isn't, sweet? I've asked reeeeeaaaal nicely, and when I'm done playing with the boy the Master is going to give me you."

Hermione groaned in panic, brown eyes darting around the open courtyard, desperate.

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't end like this. How could they have been taken so easily? How could Harry have been taken? She struggled against her better judgement, but the wizard's laughter only heightened as he held her, his arms stronger than she would ever have imagined.

Lord Voldemort turned to face Harry, looking down at him with a sneer. Then he gestured towards Evan with a commanding arm.

Evan's arms tightened, and his wand lifted in a rapid twist and flick as he shouted two words.

"Acer Linum!"

Hermione watched in horror as long whips of silver spun forth, stretching across Harry's back, looping about his neck, crossing his stomach, curling a strand across his bound wrists.

And where they touched the skin, thin rivulets of blood pooled and formed.

They were sharp. Razer sharp. Hermione's brain automatically translated the latin of the spell Evan had cast, and her horror only grew.

...oh Harry, please no, not Harry, not Harry, please! I love him! Oh please, please please please...

They weren't just going to kill him. They were going to torture him, and right in front of her.

They were going to mutilate him.

Hermione struggled furiously, grasping for Evan's wand again, but the wizard only panted with excitement in her ear.

"That's right, girl, fight me."

Hermione went still; but it wasn't because of Evan's words. It was because Harry's eyes had snapped open.

And they were locked on her.

The dose should have knocked him out for twelve hours. Severus Snape knew this, because he had been the one to make it, specially formed for use on a blade.

But he never would have suspected its purpose would be to capture Harry bloody Potter. The boy was right under the Headmasters nose, for Merlin's sake, and in Durmstrang, an entire sea away!

And Severus had never suspected to arrive to find his Master had returned. He had known of his growing strength; his own darkening Mark had paid testament to that. But he had thought that perhaps the wizard's spirit had simply possessed a stronger host.

He had not thought to see this tall, ghostly pale figure with red eyes who spoke in Lord Voldemort's voice, teeth too sharp and nails too long to be human. He had never thought to find the Boy-Who-Lived bound, or that he himself would play a role in it.

Severus had been trying to figure out what, if anything, could be done to rescue the teens when he saw the boy's eyes open, the muggleborn girls struggles ceasing like a puppet's strings had been cut.

But Severus Snape did not move forward to help then. No, he moved back, farther away, sliding through the assembled Death Eaters with easy grace.

He had served two wizards of substantial power before. His instincts were finally tuned to when it was time to grovel, and when it was time to retreat.

And he had no wish at all to be slain.

Harry's runes were on fire, every single one, and his body reeled in shock.

In one blinding instant, Harry took it all in.

He was bound; normal rope from a binding spell, harsh against his bare skin.

His shirt and robe were gone.

There was thin wire laying upon his skin, cutting with every infinitesimal motion he made, around his neck and wrists, across his back and front.

He was forced into a kneeling position.

A tall man was saying something, pale and gaunt, eyes burning red and focused on a crowd of dark robed figures with pale white masks.

Death Eaters.

A man who could only be Bartemius Crouch Jr. stood closest to him, eyes wide and bulbous with excitement, focused on on the tall man with every portion of concentration he had.

Lord Voldemort was back.

Dread was screaming in his mind, not in pain, not in shock.

In rage.

Because most important of everything he saw in that one moment of clarity, was Hermione held tightly in the arms of Evan Rosier, a man whose picture Harry had seen before in a book long, long ago. And the wizard's wand was at her neck, his mouth to her ear as she struggled.

Her brown eyes met his, and she froze.

Hermione. Hermione. Hermione.

He felt her panic through their bond; felt her horror, her pain, her… love?

Voldemort whirled to face him, his face twisted. For a long second he glared down at Harry.

Then he smiled.

"Can't escape, boy? Afraid Evan's little spell might cut your throat?"

The wizard holding Hermione laughed, loud and clear, and Voldemort's smile grew as he continued.

"I wasn't expecting you to be awake for tonight's entertainment. But this way will be much more fun, I think."

Harry was going to kill him. He was going to kill all of them.

How?

His mind reeled again, thoughts passing furiously though his head.

His eyes never left Hermione's frightened face.

He could escape; easily, really. But what about her? Rosier's wand was at her throat. How could he possibly not only break free, but protect her as well? The wizard was insane, Harry could see it in his eyes, see it in the pleasure the man was obviously feeling.

He would kill her in an instant.

I can't fail. Harry thought furiously, his power roiling under his skin, afraid to cast a spell, afraid to make a move, afraid that at any moment Voldemort and his rabid pack of blood purists would realize that the only reason Harry hadn't moved yet was the danger his friend was in.

Another long second passed, another beat of his heart, another word from Voldemort's lips.

But Harry wasn't listening anymore to what the man said. His entire world was focused on those brown eyes as they filled with tears. Indecision holding him frozen where he knelt, binding him still more solidly than any ropes or wire could. His heart pounding loudly in his ears.

I can't. I can't reach her in time. I can't save her. I can't.

We can.

At first, Harry thought it was Dread who had spoken in his mind.

But he knew that whisper. He had heard it before. Where?

We can.

It whispered again, and Harry broke Hermione's gaze, his already tilted head allowing his eyes to dart up to the open, cloudless night sky.

His last rituals. The ones to the Moon. He had heard a voice speak, and not remembered. Not wanted to remember.

Between the stars, beyond the Moon, the voice came down to him again, calling, cajoling.

We can.

Harry answered back with one word.

How?

And the Darkness-Between-the-Stars replied.

Blood.

When the second challenge began, the four-way Duel announced, Dillon started the dance.

It was ancient, passed from one native american shaman to another, a spell designed to protect archers from enemy tribe arrows. It came from a time before wands and staffs, before magicians themselves began to join together in their own communities. When shamans were respected, invaluable, leaders.

Dillon's next door neighbor knew the dance; he had only been a few year older and taught it to Dillon one summer, the dance that was passed down to him from his father, and his father, and his father.

The boy had thought it a neat trick; then something cool to show off with. It wasn't particularly useful for anything else.

Except now. Because though it was ancient, it worked. And it was impenetrable to both magic and physical objects. In fact, the only way it would fall was if the shaman who created the magic stopped the dance.

Which meant Hermione and Harry had as long to get to the tournament as Dillon could dance.

So while the Hogwarts Champions dived into an elaborate game of cat and mouse, while Beauxbatons and Durmstrang began their war, Dillon stood aside and let his feet fall into the familiar rhythm, the slow even pace in time with his heart, random spells splashing against his shield with no effect.

Hermione Granger and Harry Potter were going to owe him big.

Blood.

Harry knew what it meant. He knew what the feeling was that was spiraling around him now, the addiction, the yearning.

It was the potential for another ritual, another set. One he was not prepared for, and to an entity he did not know. It wasn't the Moon or the Sun.

It was Void. It was Darkness.

Blood.

It called again for him, and he could feel its hunger. A hunger that would never dim or fade, that was always there in the dark. Flamel had mentioned the Void before; as a warning to the powerful who could be corrupted, of those who had been corrupted. Flamel had told Harry of the ancient wizards who fell into darkness willingly, exchanging their humanity for power.

But had any exchanged it for love?

Seven. It would take seven symbols, and all at once, not even spaced out over hours as he had done with Fawkes and the Sun. And he had never, never used the ritual in such a way; to gather the magical high he always felt during a ritual and use it in battle. To use that extraordinary, finite connection to an Origin of magic for his own selfish use.

It would only work once. But Merlin, it would be enough. It would have to be enough.

We can, you and I. The Darkness whispered in his mind. Just give me yours, and I will give you mine.

Harry panted, harshly, and Voldemort laughed again, a high pitched sound of glee. Hermione whimpered, and he felt it like another knife into his flesh. Her terror for him, all of it for him.

"Are you ready to feel real pain, Harry Potter? A measure of what I have felt, living for years as a spirit?" Voldemort crooned to him, the wand in his hand twirling through his fingers.

Harry couldn't speak. He closed his eyes, instead, blocking out the sights around him, the sound of Voldemorts laughter, concentrating on what he had to do.

Seven. He had no time, no time at all. He had no purpose to this ritual, no runes ready to be inscribed, no dagger in his hand to cut them with. He couldn't just…

We can. The Void interrupted his thoughts again, insistent, its hunger growing, its magic building like an audible hum in the air, calling to him, pressing on him, knocking like a stranger at his door.

Harry.

Hermione's voice whispered in his mind on a tide of fear, and Harry did not have time to wait any longer.

He had to act. He had to act now. Later, he could live with the consequences; later he could figure out what he had done.

Yes.

The Darkness-Between-the-Stars came down to him, eager, and Harry opened his eyes to meet Evan Rosier's gaze.

The pale wizard had Hermione still caught in his grip, and was slowly running the tip of his tongue down her neck, his pale green eyes meeting Harry's with unholy glee, the wand in his other hand digging into her skin.

And Harry lost his control and let the Void have him.

With a sharp exhalation, Harry reared back against the sharp wire that bound him, and felt it sink into his skin. Felt one slash across the front of his throat; two more across the flesh of his back, another two across his lower stomach and chest. And one slash across each of his bound wrists.

Seven. Seven slashes, seven runes with no meaning at all, nothing but pain and anger and frustration and desperation, terror and hope, and finally love of all things, a paradox of emotion, and the Darkness shouted with exultation.

His sixth set, and to the Darkness-Between-the-Stars, with Hermione and Death Eaters watching him, pressing in on him, their darkness feeding the Void like dry tinder to a fire.

And then the power came to him, power like he had never felt before, and it was hungry, so so hungry, and the blood Harry had spilled for it, the blood that even now ran from his neck and wrists and back and stomach, wasn't enough.

"We can!"

The Void cried, and Harry cried, and his power rose from inside of him like an explosion of darkness, and Harry Potter looked into Evan Rosier's startled eyes and consumed him.

He reached out with the darkness and the hunger and he took what made Rosier an evil bastard and he took what made him a man and he took what made him a wizard, his life, his blood, his magic, all of it, everything, and Harry knew in that instant exactly what Rosier was, knew him better than he knew himself.

And he took him anyway.

Rosier became darkness, and the darkness then fell away into nothing, and Hermione fell to her knees alone on the stone courtyard.

There was a shout; many of them, voices rising in startled surprise and confusion. Voldemort backing away one step, not knowing what was going on, not understanding how his favorite Death Eater could be there one moment and gone the next.

More blood. More magic. More, more, more!

Harry's bonds dissolved with Rosier's death and he stood to his feet, eyes seeing and yet not-seeing, everything around him twisted and unreal.

He felt his wings unfurl at his back, rising behind him; felt all his runes break open and bleed, burning into his skin all over again, his ritual twisted and misshapen, out of order, out of place.

Blood.

The Void groaned in desire, and Harry could feel it taking what was spilling down his skin, taking it as Harry had taken Rosier.

A Death Eater lunged into his line of sight, and without a thought Harry reached out a hand and took him, as well. Mulciber. The name came to him from the darkness with more magic and life, another dark soul, and the Void was singing, singing some dark song he thought he knew but couldn't quite remember the tune.

Another. Another. Another.

Three more black robed figures, because they were there, and Harry saw them, and he took a breath and breathed them in like air, their souls, their life, and it was warmth and power and insanity.

The Void howled its song, and Harry rested his eyes on a group of five Death Eaters, scrambling away from him, and he blinked and they were his, inside of him, torn apart and screaming, and their blood was in his mouth, their magic inside his own, their fear eaten by his rage.

"Potter!" The scream came, and Harry saw Voldemort, wand raised, face red with fury.

Death Eaters were yelling, running, and what eyes he saw looked at him with horror, and Harry found himself humming the tune the Void was singing even as Voldemort cast his spells and Harry ate them too, tore their magic from the very air and swallowed them whole.

A golden masked Death Eater was running towards them. No, not to him, towards Voldemort, the only one not running away to hide from what Harry had become.

Harry felt only amusement now. His rage had fled with the rising, terrible hunger.

More, more, more.

Harry focused on Voldemort and reached for the Dark Lord, ready to take him too.

Except the gold masked Death Eater was there, and he tossed something towards Harry that caught the attention of the Void, something so pure and full of magic that Harry instantly grabbed it from the air, eager, ravenous.

A stone, a black stone, a Vessel, and it was so full of magic that nothing else in the world mattered but having it.

Harry took it in; and it was something that made his belly ache, his mind fray, his body tear. It was magic, generations worth, swollen, enough to sink a country, enough to bring back the dead, enough to make a man immortal for a time.

And Harry took it, he took all of it, and the Void only howled so loud with pleasure that Harry screamed.

And then, when the stone was gone, the darkness asked for more.

Dillon danced, and danced, a continuous square, his feet falling in timeless rhythm, his voice chanting the words to each heartbeat.

And he began to grow really, really, fucking tired.

"Stop." Hermione whispered faintly. "Oh, God, Stop."

She hadn't understood, at first, what was happening.

The hands on her, the wand, it had all disappeared, and she had fallen. And then Harry had been bleeding, so much and so badly, she had only thought to go to him, to help him somehow.

But Harry hadn't even seemed to see her, and his eyes, his beautiful green eyes, were black.

So black, so cold, so hungry.

And she had been afraid of him, truly afraid, for the first time since she had became his friend.

Then, suddenly and out of nowhere, Dread was inside her mind, his hissing voice urgent.

"Away. Back, back, away!" The serpent had told her, and Hermione had followed his instructions without question, eyes locked on Harry as she quickly backed up, dimly aware that the Death Eaters had come to the same conclusion, fleeing left and right, the few spells they cast seeming to flicker from existence before they ever made contact with Harry's skin.

Harry's skin. So much of it bloody now, and the wounds he had sustained from the wire were open and gaping and pumping blood at far too fast a rate. At least one must have hit a major artery, and her muggle background was yelling at her about the danger.

"He'll die! We have to do something!" Hermione had cried, but Dread had only tightened inside her skull, the oddest feeling she had ever felt, and her legs refused to move closer to where Harry now stood, steel wings spread about him like some avenging dark angel, eyes black and fixed now on where Voldemort stood, casting spells of such power that Hermione flinched.

But Harry had merely blinked at them, and they were gone.

"What's going on?" Hermione asked Dread, and the quetzalcoatl's mind trembled against her own.

"It's a rule, of the rituals. Never, never complete them in the presence of those who can think. Their thoughts intrude on it, they twist it, change it. Master has made a terrible mistake. Terrible, terrible!"

Hermione flinched.

"But, you and Fawkes have witnessed them! I was even there once!" Hermione said quickly, desperately, and saw movement rushing towards where Harry and Voldemort stood.

Dread moaned. "I am a part of Master; and the winged squeaker a representative of the Sun. And you, you did change things. She-who-explains made a bond with the Master! It was not his intention!"

Hermione wanted to speak; wanted to deny she would ever do such a thing, that she even could.

But at that moment, a Death Eater bearing a golden mask threw something towards Harry, before he and Lord Voldemort both vanished into thin air. And Harry caught whatever it was and a sound, a low growl of pleasure, came from his throat.

The sense of heavy power increased exponentially; and Hermione felt as if darkness was pressing in on her, pulling her down, dragging her under, suffocating her.

Dread squeezed her mind again, and Hermione was forced to take a breath of air, and then Harry began to scream.

And Hermione began to beg.

"Make it stop." Hermione cried brokenly to Dread, "Please. He's hurting, he's dying, how do we make it stop? How do we fix it?"

The serpent only coiled tighter and tighter, his hiss beating back the encroaching darkness.

Then Harry went silent and still.

And Dread's voice was mournful in her mind. "I only know what the Master knows, and I don't know this."

Harry took a breath and held it.

More. The Void demanded now, and Harry turned, eyes blind, looking for life, anything, anyone foolish enough to still be inside the courtyard.

And he saw her. Hermione, standing against a pillar, her hands over her mouth, her wide brown eyes locked on him.

It hit him, like a solid fist, and rationality struggled to return. He had forgotten her; forgotten his very reason for letting the darkness have him.

We can. We can! The darkness howled, stronger, louder, begging Harry to take her too, to have her forever inside himself and then go on, and on, and on, circling the world, staying in darkness and avoiding the Sun, ravenous and feeding and never full.

"Harry." Hermione whispered his name, and Harry realized he was in front of her, so close he saw every strand of her tangled brown hair.

And he didn't know how he had gotten there. He didn't know anything anymore; the ritual was squeezing him, killing him, making him into something new. Something violent and hungry and horrific.

"We can." Harry whispered back. "We can, we can, we can." He couldn't think of anything else to say. Any words to describe what he was feeling, any magic spell that could make things right again. He only knew the hunger and the pain and whatever power the Void had given him in those seven slashes.

Hermione shuddered; and then, haltingly, her hand rose to touch his cheek, her fingers gentle, and Harry could feel her heart beating in the blood that pounded in her veins, in the life that hovered so close to him, so close for the taking.

And he wanted to. He wanted to eat her alive; he loved her, he did, and the darkness loved her too, loved her magic and life.

"We can." Harry whispered again, and he meant to say so many other things. We can be together forever. We can live for eternity. We can eat the entire world and never grow tired of it.

Hermione sucked in a breath; then she leaned close, and Harry's power rose to sweep over her and take her.

"I can't." Hermione whispered brokenly, and then she rose on her toes and kissed him, and her mind struck his like a hammer, the bond between them snapping back into place, and he had never even known it was gone.

Had not realized until then what he had been about to do; that he would have killed her, and the darkness would have made him like it.

And the Void's hold on him shattered.

Harry could hear Dread again; could hear the serpent crying, knew the quetzalcoatl had somehow been thrown from him at the same time Hermione had been, everything that mattered to him gone when the darkness took him.

Harry began to fall, and Hermione's hands tightened around him, controlling their descent together, until they both knelt in the courtyard.

Harry sucked in a ragged breath, pain in every limb, blood streaming from his many cuts, and still he could feel the Void pushing at him, its insidious whispering pleas.

"Sun." Harry gasped. "I need the Sun, I need it, quickly, before... before I lose my control, before I…"

Hermione's fingers ran over him, her eyes wide as they looked over his body.

"Harry, you're still bleeding! They haven't healed! You've lost too much blood, we need to…"

Harry gathered her close, and with a wrench of pure will tossed them both into white-hot phoenix flame.

It burned. It burned him from the inside out, that flame, and what was left of the Darkness-Between-the-Stars shriveled in the cleansing fire like poison from a lanced wound.

Then Harry let it go, and they fell onto the stone altar of Heliopolis, the Egyptian Sun beating down on him like the wrath of some arcane god.

He felt his runes heal; felt the strength return to his veins now that the struggle to remain sane and rational was gone. Felt the enormous power around him soothe his wounds and renew his energy. Harry sucked in a deep breath, ragged, the events of the last minutes threatening to unravel his mind again.

In trying to save her, he had nearly killed her himself. How could he go so wrong?

Hermione's fingers touched his throat. Her eyes had filmed with tears.

"It's going to scar." She whispered dully, and shook her head with an angry sound. Harry grit his teeth together.

"They all will. It's the sixth set. And I have no idea what that means, what it even does. What I've done."

Hermione bit her lip; then she looked about, and her face paled.

"Harry." She whispered fervently. "No time. We have to get back! The Tournament!"

Harry sucked in a breath, and then cursed aloud.

He pulled Hermione to her feet and jumped into flame again.

Dillon missed a step, and the shield flickered. He recovered, and it sprang back into life.

But the flicker had not been missed.

The Hogwarts Champions had all fallen, as had all of Beauxbatons with the exception of Fleur, who was holding her own with an arcing fire spell that too closely resembled fiendfyre for his comfort.

Two of the Durmstrang Champions remained, Krum and the vicious Karkaroff girl, whose dark spells he had seen take down both Diggory and Johnson. And in ways that were going to require a lot of time in the hospital wing.

Now, Johanna Karkaroff turned to face him, and her smile was wicked.

Leaving her teammate behind to deal with Delacour, she paced towards him, that wide smile on her face.

And Dillon, sweat dripping down his face, missed another step.

Harry had taken them to the top of the stadium in the hope they would not be noticed.

His blood was racing again; the horrible hunger still echoing in his mind, though the voice he heard now was his own. Hermione's hand was still in his, clenched tight. He couldn't afford to let her go; she was his lifeline now, the light in the darkness that was trying still to swallow him whole.

There! Hermione whispered frantically in his mind, and Harry saw.

Far below, the second challenge's duel still raged on, only four people left standing. Fleur, by the looks of it, was exchanging fire with Krum in wicked blasts.

And Dillon was dancing his bragged about shield spell, but Harry could see right away that the teen was faltering. And right outside his range, Johanna Karkaroff stood, smirking, one foot tapping the sand in sarcastic impatience.

Harry felt the anger inside him rise again, fierce and hot, his temper hair thin and more than willing to splinter.

He spared a moment to glance around him; all the students on the sixth tier stands were facing forward, avid, calling out jeers and cheers in equal measure. He could run down the stairs, sneak inside, pretend he had a wand...

Hermione gasped, and Harry turned to watch Dillon fall to one knee, and Johanna's laugh ring out.

And the rage inside him broke.

"Damn them all." Harry growled, and let Hermione's hand go as the power he had begun to carefully wrap back inside him slid free and he broke into a run.

The students ahead of him moved and whirled, gasping, screaming, and Harry realized his wings were out, his shirt still missing, and the only thing he had to be thankful for was that the phoenix flame had cleared the blood away, and that his runic glamours would hide his runes.

And he didn't care. He simply didn't care anymore. He didn't care if they saw his power, didn't care if they were afraid, didn't care if they knew.

Let the whole world know. What did it matter anymore if he showed some of his power now? What was the point in hiding? He could have died that morning; Hermione could have died. He could have killed her. Voldemort was back somehow. The Hounds were poised to expose the magical world. Everything around him was spiraling out of control.

Too much had happened.

And below him, his teammate, his friend, was about to be cut down by a sadistic girl, and he was no longer willing to hide what he was, be a coward, and watch it happen.

Harry reached the railing in a mere second, and vaulted it, flinging himself off the side of the stands into open air with a wild push of power.

His power, which was magnified by his ritual, bloated from the Void's hunger, and riled to fury by his overwhelming anger.

Johanna lifted her wand, and from a hundred feet away Harry flung out the defensive rune of his fifth set for the first time at another person, his left hand pointing down.

"Tiwaz!"

The power spat out of him, an arch of green lighting, crackling around where Dillon knelt, his breathing heavy. A crackling emerald barrier, tied to Harry with strands of light, protecting his friend with all the force of his own magic.

And the spell Johanna cast hit the lighting shield and was turned back, spiraling to punch into her own chest.

The girl went pale and fell to the ground, shaking, boils rising across her limbs at a rapid rate before bursting, sending pained screams from her throat.

Harry hit the ground nearby feet first, knees bending at the strain, wings spread out for balance, and looked down at the girl with fury in his eyes.

For a moment he heard an echo of haunting song, and felt the scar across his throat burn with the dark hunger for life-blood-magic. He wanted to destroy her; he wanted to snuff the life out of her and take the magic she had and make it his own.

Then he pushed the blood-hungry song aside and drew his power up and slammed it down on the girl, sending her mind spiraling down into unconsciousness.

"Well." Dillon panted. "About time."

Then the exhausted teen looked up at Harry, and froze.

Froze, as the entire stadium had done at his wild dive. Froze, not only because he had dived through the air and used wandless magic.

They froze because they could see him.

They could see his wings, and they could see his scars, the runes that littered his skin on every limb now.

And Harry suddenly realized that they could see them because the slashes he had made in his haste to save Hermione had severed a portion of his second set, skewered the rune Kryptos on his front that obscured his runes, and Ikaros on the top of his back that hid his wings.

And Harry was beyond lucky that none of the other slashes during the impromptu ritual had hit other runes. For if they had, he might find himself flightless, or without flame, or unable to turn into a phoenix.

Or if it had ruined Ankh, the master Rune, he might simply have lost his life.

"Harry." Dillon breathed incredulously, but Harry turned away. His rage was still hot; and he had no time for regrets.

Only that furious, hungry ache for blood that still sang in his veins and burned on the scar across his throat like a tightening noose.

He needed to fight. He needed to hurt something.

He needed to make them bleed.

Across the arena, Krum and Fleur had stopped their duel and stood, watching him.

Harry began to walk softly towards them across the sand of the large dueling ring, black wings held back now and out of his way, fierce green eyes locked on the two Champions in front of him. And his power rose and rose and rose, angry, hungry, too much of it, an amount he was not used to having to hold in check, rising around him like another set of wings, the smell of ozone metallic in his mouth, a nice mix to the copper that lingered from his ritual.

Fleur, her flawless skin already pale, took a single step back.

Then she lowered her wand and her eyes, and spoke softly into the silence.

"I forfeit."

Harry paused, incredulous; and his gaze flickered to Krum, who did not hesitate to do the same, the large boy crossing his chest with his wand as he bowed in surrender.

Harry's power trembled and flexed, echoing the movement of his wings, restless, lost with no target.

The crowd did not cheer. The judges did not announce a winner. All eyes were still locked on where he stood, like children watching fish in a bowl; and one fish had just transformed into a shark and ate the rest of the fish it could reach. And now might just jump out of its bowl and try out human flesh, too.

Been there, done that, Harry thought with dark humor, and remembered the taste of Evan Rosier's life on his tongue.

"Harry!" Hermione called, and he turned, looking down at her as she ran onto the sand from the low stone steps leading to the stands. Hermione, his friend. His light.

He reached for her, and she was there, her hand sliding into his, her side pulled into his chest, and Dread hissed inside his mind a soothing sound. We're fine. We're safe. Hermione took up the mental sentence, her voice and Dread's an odd echo of one another. We're alright, we made it. You can relax now, Harry. Please. You're magic is out of control.

But he couldn't relax. His body was strung tight; and the danger was not gone.

And everyone would know now that Harry Potter was something different than they had ever suspected, and he had no doubt that even now pictures were being taken, omnioculars recording, students guessing, professors suspecting what he had done.

No, they weren't safe. Not yet.

Harry faced the judges where they sat, still silent, and spoke in a loud voice, his power carrying his words to every corner of the arena.

"I was kidnapped last night, along with Hermione, by Hjalmar Gyldenpalm, right within the Durmstrang library. We were brought to the Dark Lord Voldemort, who then attempted to kill me. Both men escaped before I could return the favor. I no longer trust this school, or this Tournament. I'm leaving, right now, and taking Hermione with me. Damn the Goblet of Fire and these petty political games."

Hermione jolted in his hold; Harry turned to look towards Dillon and spoke quietly.

"I'll pay you the three thousand galleon prize myself, with interest. Thank you."

"Mr. Potter!" Dumbledore thundered, and the old wizard stood. "Ms. Granger must compete! She is bound!"

Harry's anger throbbed in the air; and his words came out in a snarl.

"If the Goblet of Fire still binds her, than I will tear it to shreds. No bonder, no contract."

And with that Harry drew both Hermione and himself into his fire, his last sight of Zachary Gryffon's blue eyes locked on his own.

Agent Jackson looked at the empty place where Harry Potter had stood. Then he turned to look at his friend and fellow agent.

"Not by force. Got it."

Zak did not smile at the attempt at levity. He only cursed, loudly.

But none of it was heard over the shouting that broke out between Headmasters Albus Dumbledore and Igor Karkaroff.

To Be Continued: A Fire of Many Kinds

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