Harry pushed aside the heavy canvas flap that covered the entrance to the Champions tent, he paused there staring into the darker interior while a hot knot of fear and tension rested heavily on his stomach. It was a dark pit of anxiety, one which turned his stomach sour, causing him to taste a harsh, nasty, acidic bile in the back of his throat; a burning, foul taste that matched perfectly his mood and the emotions that twisted through him.
His eyes having finally adjusted, he fully entered the tent and allowed the canvas to drop behind him. Part of him noted that it must have been charmed for silence as the outside sounds snapped off suddenly and with a harsh finality. He allowed his eyes to flicker around the tent, focusing on each of the other Champions for a moment.
Cedric sat on a bench fairly close to the entrance; his elbows were on his knees and his back was curled as he rested his face in his hands. His body occasionally spasmed with some emotion or feeling. Professor Sprout was there with him, one hand rubbing his back in what Harry assumed was supposed to be a comforting motion. Her normally kindly face was stone-like, with dark inscrutable eyes that were focused on something past the horizon.
In one of the furthest corners stood Krum. He was an intimidating figure, dark and broody with his arms crossed over his chest and his lips and other facial features twisted into a dark scowl. He was a stoic presence, with no outwards signs of distress or concern or simple anxiety. As if all of this, the tournament and the task and the danger, was a common, normal thing. Maybe even somehow beneath him. An older man was settled onto a bench near him, and Harry assumed that he was one of the Durmstrang professors due to how he was dressed.. The professor's eyes were closed, and he appeared either asleep or dead.
Harry fought the urge to snicker. He knew that such an action would not be appreciated by either of the dour Bulgarians.
Finally, his gaze fell on the final champion. Fleur paced along one wall of the tent. Her skirted outfit and her silvery-blond hair flared with each turn, and trailed after her as she stormed back and forth. Her emotions were clear on her face, anxiety and fear gave her a hauntingly tragic beauty. He absently noticed that heat seemed to shimmer up from her clenched hands, as if she was just able to keep her transformation under control. She too had a professor with her, this one dressed in the dark blue robes of a Beauxbatons faculty member. The older woman appeared haughty, and sniffed slightly when she noticed his attention. The only other person in the tent to react in any way or shape or form to his presence.
A whisper-flick of disquiet twitched in his chest. The anxiety turned over, and bile burned at the back of his throat once again. He, the youngest of them all, was the only one without an adult with him. He, as always, lacked any type of support or help from any adult in his life.
Harry looked down, ignoring the others as he walked towards the back wall. He stared for a moment at a bench, glaring at the cheap pine it was made of. After a moment, he gave a slight sigh and then settled onto it. He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, resting the back of his head slightly on one of the support poles. He focused. Focused on his emotions and the twisting and spinning and twirling they had started performing in his stomach. He strained his ears, focusing away from his emotions and into his environment; he tried to hear the crowd or the dragons, or simply anything beyond Fleur's steady pacing.
A murmur of disquiet tripped through him. His eyes snapped open and he glanced around. Not sure what it had been. Just as he was about to close his eyes, it came again. A voice. Her voice. It was an almost hissed whisper. One designed to get his attention and none others, and coming from immediately behind him.
"Harry!"
He exhaled strongly, and felt his heart lighten. He twisted slightly and then stuck his hand through the gap of the canvas, and grasped her arm. She gave a quiet squeak as he pulled her into the tent. Once she was in, he wrapped her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. Her arms snaked around him, and he inhaled deeply, drawing a deep lungful of the smell of her hair.
They clung to one another; he could the tension in each her posture and arm. A tension similar to the one he felt itching at the base of his spine. Her body hitched, and he could tell when she choked back a sob.
Her presence was a soothing balm against the dark emotions that had plagued him. A calm that washed away the bile and the tension. He released her from his hug, only to claim her hand with his. For the first time since he had woken that morning a feeling of peace had settled onto him. He drew in another deep breath, smelling that Hermione smell, before exhaling.
"Won't I get in trouble in here?" Her voice trembled slightly.
He shrugged his shoulders, and gestured toward the others with his free hand, as his eyes sparkled with mischievousness. He spoke just loud enough that all the champions and their companions could hear him, but not so loud that it was obvious that that was what he was doing. "They all have someone with them. Since, I apparently don't rate a staff member watching out for my needs and concerns, I'm more than happy to have someone that I actually like in here with me."
He saw Hermione's eyes flicker from one person to the next, they turned impossibly cold for a moment when they landed on Cedric and Spout. Once she completed the circuit, then she gave him a wry smile. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. A burning, bright spot of warmth and life. A fire of something good and joyful. "That makes sense to me."
She slipped off his lap and then settled into the bench next to him. A slight shift, and she had leaned her head against his shoulder, and this was enough to let him to allow his posture to relax. He could feel the tight knot of anxiety slowly continue to untangle in the calm presence of her acceptance and love. He took another deep breath, reveling in the smell of her.
Fifteen minutes passed, with the only sound in the tent the continued pacing from Fleur. Thirty.
Then the tent flaps swished open, and the Tournament Officials came in.
First was Ludo Bagman, Harry thought he looked quite ridiculous in his old quidditch uniform of yellow and black. A uniform that was at least a size too small. In his left hand he held a small black leather bag, which shifted and twitched as if it held live animals..
Then Karkaroff entered the tent. His appearance was as dour and harsh as his student and fellow professor. His dark eyes glittered maliciously as he looked around, and he spared a harsh sneer for Harry.
Third was Madame Maxime. She was hunched slightly as she entered, and once passed the initial canvas straightened. As was usually the case, she physically dominated the space around her. Her face was blank, imperturbable, and she ignored them all to focus her attention on Fleur.
Next was Barty Crouch. He seemed to have shrunk since Halloween, gotten smaller and just less; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot and flicked from person to person never resting on anyone or thing, and a slight tremor shook his hand. A tremor which reminded Harry of a meth addict that had mugged his Aunt Petunia the previous summer.
The last person to enter was Dumbledore. He was dressed in his customary outlandish and gaudy robes, and had his beard gathered in the center of his chest with a golden circlet which held an odd brown stone shining in it. His blue eyes swept over those in the tent, an imperious, commanding movement, as if he was the master of all he surveyed. Yet that gaze stumbled, and his eyes tightened for just a moment as he paused on Hermione. Then the eyes shifted and dropped so that they were focused on the interlocked hands of Harry and Hermione, and the intimate way they were huddled together. The usual twinkle seemed to dim slightly, he spoke, his voice was clipped and cold and harsh and carried a tense undercurrent of distaste.
"Ah, Ms. Granger, could you tell us why you happen to be in the Champion's tent?"
And with the Headmaster's words and tone, Harry could feel his anger become a tight hard knot in his stomach. An anger that then exploded through him, and seared across his thoughts and perceptions. When he spoke, his voice was just as tight, clipped, harsh and cold as the Headmaster's had been. "Hermione is in here because I asked her to come in after I noticed that everyone else had someone they trusted with them, thus I wanted someone that I trust in here with me."
Dumbledore's gaze shifted, and Harry felt the full weight of the older man's attention. A glacial clench of something ethereal and unnameable and almost overbearing. Pained throbbed in Harry's head; a rhythmic pulsing pain which pounded in tempo with his heartbeat. A protective urge twisted in his chest, a surging, wild counterpoint to his anger and headache. A protective urging which drummed with an overwhelming staccato of pulses that demanded he hurt someone, anyone, just so long as Hermione was safe and with him.
"But Harry, you could have asked a member of the Faculty to be in here with you. I'm sure Professors Snape or-"
Harry cut into his words with a snort in amusement. "Thank you for your concern Headmaster, but my statement stands."
Before Dumbledore could speak again, Bagman gestured around him with his free hand, and gave his bag a short, sharp shake with the other. "That's all good. All good. But for now, I need everyone who's not a Champion or a Judge to go find their seats. We need to be getting ready with this particular show, yes?"
Harry turned towards Hermione, and kissed her. Initially, he intended it to be a chaste kiss. A simple press of the lips to indicate his affections and that he would miss her. Yet as he leaned in and touched her lips, he could feel eyes on his back, the others staring at him. It was a tenseness that raised his hackles, and made him wonder if he was about to be attacked. To annoy them, he deepened the kiss for a moment. Then two.
He broke away, and noticed that tears had seemed to gather at the edges of her eyes. Sparkling diamonds that highlighted the honey brown.
"Be safe, Harry," she whispered, her lips twisting into an smile. A tear slipped over the edge of her eyes, and sliced down her face. "Please?"
"I promise," he replied with a grin, trying to project a sense of calm determination that he did not feel. He lifted his hand, and then brushed away a tear right before it fell. Once done, he cupped her cheek with his hand. She leaned into his touch slightly.
They stood there, with his hand on her cheek, and eyes locked. As always there was that knot twist of emotion that bounced and danced in his stomach whenever he watched her like this. It was an almost shiver of feelings which traced itself around his body, and always reminded him of old books, libraries, and vanilla beans.
"See you after the task," he whispered, giving her a final gentle kiss on the forehead.
She gave him another of those odd smiles and then spun around. With her chin lifted slightly, appearing to ignore everyone and everything, she strode from the tent. Harry almost chuckled as he saw the look of venom that she did manage to shoot Dumbledore and the other judges on her way out.
Once the other professors had left, Bagman shook the bag again, and grinned at them all. That grin held a wild, manic quality to it, a twitchiness, that Harry recognized and instantly made him hesitant; wary. His Uncle would sometimes get that same look; especially when it seemed as if one of his bigger sales was going bad. It was a look which never spelled good things for Harry. In fact, it was almost always a precursor of bad things happening to Harry. Things that left him bleeding in his cupboard for days without food. When he was lucky.
Bagman gestured all the Champions forward, and as they drew closer he started speaking.
"Well, in this bag, I have... representations, models if you will, of what you'll be facing, as well as the order that you'll be going in. Your challenge will be to get past these guardians and to retrieve a Golden Egg. You'll need this egg in order to successfully prepare for the Second Task. Questions?"
He grinned widely at them all, that manic, twitchy quality never leaving his eyes or posture or lips. His eyes were bright and shiny and feverish, and with those feverish eyes he looked at each Champion in turn. After a moment, he nodded, and lifted the bag. "Well, then, let's start. Ladies first as always, so Ms. Delacour?"
Fleur stepped forward, and reached into the bag for a moment. She pulled out a miniature dragon. It had black scales, and a ridge that ran down its back, bright eyes, appearing as jewels of amber against the black scales, seemed to glow as the animated thing twisted and turned and attempted to escape her grasp. A number two was painted on its side. Harry noted that Fleur's pale skin had paled slightly more, and she seemed to lose a bit of etherealness that always seemed to cover her.
"Good, good," Bagman exclaimed, overly loud. "You'll have the Hyberdian Black, and go second. Mr. Diggory, if you please?"
Cedric stuck his hand in, and pulled out one that Harry instantly recognized; as it looked just like Norbert. A three was painted on its side. Cedric's jaw clenched slightly, but that was the only outward sign of discomfort or concern in the Hufflepuff's bearing.
"And Mr. Diggory will go third, and face the Norwegian Ridgeback. Mr. Krum?"
Krum stuck his hand in, and pulled out his dragon. Its scales were a deep blue, though it had bright white splotches at the tips of its wings and tail. Bright blue eyes twisted back and forth, trying to look at everyone at the same time. A large number one was painted on its side.
Harry could feel his heart sink.
"Wonderful. Mr. Krum will go first and face the Swedish Short-Snout."
Bagman held the bag towards Harry, and gave it a rough shake, even as his fever-bright eyes seemed to glitter with something more, and that manic grin turned wider and wilder.
Harry frowned, but knew he had no choice but to go forward. With that determination, he shoved his hand into the darkness of the bag's opening. There was a slight, almost tingle of something which teased itself along his fingers and hand. A flare of focused intent and will that was both familiar and alien and something Harry had never experienced before. Then he felt his questing fingers brush up against something. It was like touching a lizard or a snake, a cold slice of slick scales. His fingers wrapped around it, and he grasped the dragon. It squirmed in his hand, twisting and wild and he could feel sharp teeth latch onto the flesh of his pointer finger.
He gritted his teeth, stifling the exclamation of pain, as he pulled out his hand and the dragon it grasped. Baleful red eyes watched him with a cold, malevolent intelligence, even as he took in the appearance of the model. A crown of spikes rested at the back of the head, and the tail looked like some sort of medieval battle mace with the thick knob and layers of spikes. Gray effervescent scales coated its body, they shimmered navy blue for a moment as it twisted in his grasp and clamped its mouth around another finger. A number four was painted on its side, and Harry looked up at Bagman, to see the older man grinning that wide, manic grin.
"Oh, oh, that's a lively one there, Mr. Potter!" Bagman let out a belly laugh. A laugh full of good cheer and mirth. A laugh that had no true place when condemning four teenagers to facing nesting she-dragons. "You'll be facing a Hungarian Horntail, and be fourth."
Bagman clapped his hands twice, loud gunshots which, from the way she had jumped, startled Fluer. He looked around at everyone. Harry noted that the manic gleam appeared to have gone from Bagman's eyes, the stress and anxiety and twitchiness had faded from him, as if something had gone his way.
"Well, we'll have everything ready to start in about ten minutes, and you'll each have thirty minutes to complete your task. There will also be a fifteen minute delay between each task. Mr. Krum, we'll be calling for you soon."
With his piece said, he spun around, and walked away, a jauntiness, an almost hop, to his steps that Harry did not understand, but left him disquieted nonetheless. It was the sudden suspicion that the man was happy that Harry had gotten the most dangerous of the dragons that was at the root of his disquiet.
He frowned, and watched the man leave.
Then he felt eyes on him, and he glanced around to see Dumbledore watching him. Harry almost missed it, but there was a small smirk on the old man's face. If Harry had not been watching closely, he would have just assumed it was nothing, a figment of his imagination and tension and stress, he would have assumed that the current facade of grandfatherly concern on the old man's face was really all that was there.
Dumbledore nodded towards him, and then turned and left, the rest of the judges following.
Harry looked back down at the dragon in his hand. His anger at the Wizarding world burned in his chest and stomach. He watched the red eyes which glared up at him for a moment, and then shifted his focus to the blood that rolled down his hand from where the teeth once again were sunk deep into a finger.
He squeezed.
The dragon squealed in pain. It was a high-pitch keen that stabbed deep in the primal fear receptors in his brain; the anguished cry of an alpha-predator in pain. A sound which caused the other Champions to twitch and then focus on him.
"Finite," he snarled at the thing, and spell light flared in the palm of his hand. Instantly, the dragon stilled, all of its animation just gone. As the light faded, the model slowly shifted, losing details and colors and definition, until all that was left was nothing but a poorly done wood cut out, one that vaguely looked like a child's drawing of a dragon.
He dropped the wood, and then pointed a finger at it.
"Conflagre," he hissed, the ball of anger giving his words a menacing, taut quality. Liquid napalm flared into life, and splashed against the wooden model. There was a hiss, and then it burst into fire of bright reds and yellows and oranges; a miniature sun that burned hot and bright on the ground of the tent.
Just as fast as the fire appeared, it disappeared. Leaving behind just a smudge of burnt earth, and the acrid tang of smoke and destruction. Harry looked up to see three dumbfounded faces watching him.
He could feel his temper flaring, as hot and bright as the fire that had consumed the dragon statue. He snapped at the other Champions, a harshly worded command-like question. "What?"
Cedric shook his head slightly. "N-Nothing. It's... that... that was wandless."
Harry looked down at the smudge of blackened dirt. He kicked at it, and it crackled like glass. Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked back up at his competitors. "So? Can't everyone do that?"
They stared at him in open-mouthed, unblinking shock. He glared at them for a moment, and then settled back onto one of the benches. He looked around, and muttered under his breath, "Should have brought a book."
Just then Bagman's voice-magically enhanced from outside the tent-erupted all around them.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to the First Task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament! We'd first like to thank the Romanian Dragon Preserve for allowing us to borrow a few of their dragons for our little task today. And of course, Hogwarts and Professor Dumbledore for hosting the Tournament in the first place! Anyways, first up in this task is the star member of the Bulgarian National Quidditch team, Viktor Krum!"
Krum's face shifted to an impassive mask of indifference, and he stepped forward, vanishing beyond the tent.
Time passed slowly. Each minute felt like ten. And as the time slowly progressed, the air in the tent grew heavier- more stifling and more oppressed.
Krum had walked out calmly and stoic. His face etched from granite. For twelve minutes, all that could be heard was Bagman's exclamations and random comments about what Krum was doing. Enough to allow the others to know that Krum had not finished, but not enough to give them any ideas.
Finally, the roar of success reverberated loudly enough to overcome the silencing charms for a moment. A cacophony of sounds, that thrummed within the tent and Harry's head.
Fifteen minutes later, Bagman was calling for Fleur.
Her time out there lacked the exuberance of Krum's; and lasted almost twice as long. It was twenty-three minutes of near silence which ended with a shout from Bagman about her being on fire.
Harry fought the urge to smirk.
Another fifteen minutes, and then Harry was waiting alone.
For every minute that passed, Harry could feel the tenseness settle across his shoulders, eking deep into his chest and muscles, making everything tight and tense, and leaving him with the feeling that he was going to snap.
Dragon roar screamed out, loud and harsh. Bagman's laughter was louder and harsher.
Cedric lasted fourteen minutes before it was announced that he had made it back with the Golden Egg.
Harry felt the tenseness and anxiety double. Nausea and bile burned thick and heavy in his stomach.
He pulled out his wand, and looked at it for a moment, watching it closely.
Finally, Bagman's words echoed in the tent, they wrapped around Harry's head, heavy as an executioner's noose. "And our final Champion! The Boy-Who-Lived! Harry Potter will be fighting against this Hungarian Horntail, as he tries to get the Golden Egg! We'll see if he does as well against this one, as against the one in Harry Potter and the Dragon's Tooth!"
And with that final sentence, the anxiety and nervousness fled. They were replaced with a seething, turbulent hate. In an instant, his thoughts had turned dark. He stared at the entrance to the tent for a moment, dark thoughts flickering through his mind as he wondered just how much damage he could do to the judges and other Ministry personnel that were there. Everyone in those stands, bar Hermione, saw him as the Boy-Who-Lived. They celebrated his orphanage; rejoiced in the death of his parents, and gave him that damnable name to remind him of it each and every day.
His fists clenched tightly, and he violently exhaled a breath he had no memory of holding.
Hate.
In that moment, that burning, twirling hate was all that existed in his world. He hated all the other students. He hated the wizarding world as a whole. He hated the judges and the other schools. He hated those Death Eaters who he just knew were at the root of him having to be in this thing, and he hated the 'Light' which put him on a pedestal as some type of super hero. He even hated that dragon who was just doing as her instincts cried for her to do in regards to this task. It was all consuming and powerful and there in a visceral sense.
In a fluid movement, he stood, and stormed out from the tent. With each step, that hate churned in a boiling pit of power in his chest, which thrummed within and through his other emotions. A pulse of something deep in the pit of his heart, that slowly shuddered around him. Step by step, the power and emotion grew and trembled beneath his skin. It was an odd feeling that he had never experienced before. A straining pressure that grew within him, which struggled against his sense of self in an effort to escape and get free. To run wild and uncontrolled. To lash out and destroy and grind those who angered him to dust.
He stepped from the Champion's tent and into the arena; his wand still clenched tightly in his hand. There was a crackle that he felt more than heard, and the power arced away from him. It twisted around his body, causing his hair to become even more of a mess and his over robe to whip out in an unfelt breeze.
His runaway emotions rushed through his magical core, pulling his magic with it, and setting up a feedback loop as it struggled with itself. Harry did not often feel his magic, but at that moment, he could. It was that thrumming power and twisting thing trying to escape his control. He drew in a deep breath, focusing on that burning feeling in his chest, and knew that it was wrong somehow. That there was something not right with his magic. It was as if there was something between him and his magic. Some barrier that kept him separated from it. That kept him from constantly sensing it as he sensed it at this moment.
The boos and hisses from the crowd of students washed over him. He ignored the noise. They were unimportant. Lackluster and flat. The other students were blobs of gray in a colorless world.
Instead, he looked out over the stands, hunting for just one thing. For one person.
He had to see her. It was an imperative, an unconscious, almost genetic command, one that dwelled deep in his heart and soul. He felt like a gladiator or a knight of old while on the field of honor. His head swiveled around, searching, hunting for his princess.
And then he saw her.
She was sitting in the front row of one of the stands, her body and her posture were clenched with fear, and he could see that she had been chewing on another of her fingers. Her eyes were wide, and her hair was even bushier than normal, evidence of the anxiety and concern that she was obviously feeling. But she was there, and alive and real in a way that none of the other students were. She was a bright spot of life and color in that self-same colorless world.
His eyes locked with hers, and he mouthed three simple words towards her.
A minute amount of the tenseness seemed to leave her shoulders, and she gave him a weak smile. Her mouth moved, and he could almost hear the words of her response in his head: Survive. Win. For me.
An ear shattering cannon blast rolled out over the field, and echoing wall of sound, and cloud of black powder smoke coupled with the acrid stench of sulfur. The symbol that his timer had started; that the task had begun.
Harry wrinkled his nose, as he entered the dragon's den and came face-to-face with his dragon.
The beast's serpentine face was at least four feet long, not counting its crown of spikes, the longest of which added roughly three feet of length. Multifaceted eyes whirled with reds and oranges, waves of anger and distress and hunger battered at him, washed over his senses. The malevolence and hunger were almost physical waves that battered at his senses and magic.
Then the eyes locked onto him. Each eye was a whirling, glittering jewel, and each facets an individual lens, that resembled fire stored in a ruby. Those glittering jewels focused, stilled, locked onto him, and Harry knew that it was time to move.
He jumped out of the way, throwing himself behind a series of rocks, just as a jet of white-hot napalm splashed against the ground where he had just been standing. The stream of liquid fire, moved over, and slammed hard against the rocks he was huddled behind.
In the background, he could hear Bagman's bellowing voice, and the cutting, derisive laughter from the stands.
The anger clenched in his chest again, and he rolled away, ending in a kneeling position. His wand slashed through a familiar motion, even as he muttered the rather simple incantation that Hermione had taught him just a few days ago. "Creare liquidas nitrogen."
A splash of searing cold slashed across the compound, and splattered against the rocks, and dragon.
The creature howled in agony, and Harry grinned darkly, as he dashed to the next bit of cover.
As he ran, his wand was already slashing through the movements, the words leaving his lips, and another blast of transported arctic washed across him.
Warmth accosted his back, even as the blistering cold liquid boiled away. Harry touched the wall behind him, frowning as the touch of the thing nearly seared his fingers.
Then he understood. They had applied warming charms to the rocks and the walls in an effort to help keep the dragons warm. With a gesture, he sent a simple finite at the section of wall right next to him. Hesitant fingertips touched the wall, to find just cool stone.
Grinning, he jumped into a standing position and gestured with his wand, and screamed out an incantation, while pushing with his magic. A wave of magic flickered out from him, smashing against everything around him. There was a shudder that raced through everything. A moment later the warmth disappeared, the ambient temperature of the arena had dropped by at least ten degrees.
A cool wind whipped through the fake den, as all the warming charms, as well as Bagman's sonorous failed. Harry grinned and conjured another dozen gallons of liquid nitrogen, letting it splash across the dragon's claws, watching in amusement as the scales flaked away, leaving blistered and bleeding hide behind. The dragon squealed in pain and lurched away from him.
Glancing around, he realized he had gotten to the far side of the arena from the judges and VIP section. He saw Dumbledore up there watching him, and Harry could not help but smile at the thought that crashed through his mind.
Then he waved his wand again, conjuring more of the liquid nitrogen. This time though, the freezing liquid overshot the dragon; a steady stream of it slammed against the wood of the stands causing them to splinter and crack. There was a loud crashing boom, and all the judges and VIPs tumbled into the arena.
The dragon, lurched away from the initial blast of liquid cold, which turned its face-and its attention- towards the judges.
Harry rushed forward, heading towards the clutch of eggs, even as the beast let loose a stream of fire in the direction of the VIPs.
He grabbed the egg, and felt his hand blister from the cold. Hissing, he darted away from the dragon, a dead run towards the Champion's entrance.
Instincts honed through hours upon hours of Quidditch practice screamed at him, and Harry dove to the side.
Dragonfire flared through the space where he had just been, and Harry could feel heat slash down his side.
He rolled up, and conjured more liquid nitrogen, letting it appear directly above the dragon.
As it splashed down on her, the dragon screamed in pain. Harry watched, absently noticing that he had also caught Crouch, Karkaroff and a fat toad-like lady from the Ministry in a splash of the freezing liquid.
The dragon dropped to its belly, slamming the top of its head into the dirt, and pushed itself forward. It scrubbed its snout against the rocky ground, and Harry watched as its scales seemed to shatter away into nothingness.
His wand whispered through a movement, and he focused on his intent to bind this creature-this thing that wanted to harm him. He wanted to make it submit to his will; to conquer it. A snarl entered his voice, as he exclaimed, "atrumal varis!"
Bloody, black chains erupted from his wand, and started wrapping around the injured dragon.
Harry felt a pull from deep in his magical core. His magic twitched, as the chains continued to encircle the beast. They appeared in great lines around and around the arena.
The world wavered, and blackness crept into the edges of his vision, even as the magic pulled harder and harder at his magical core.
Then he could feel a crack.
It happened somewhere in his mind, and heart. His body wanted to flinch, but he refused. He instinctively knew that would be the wrong thing to do. He could feel a hole in the barrier that existed between him and his magic.
Still the chains erupted from him.
Blackish blood erupted from his scar, even as chains burst from his chest.
And Harry screamed.
That blister of black blood hung in the air between Harry and the dragon. A odd surreal wrongness that seemed to twist and writhe and made him feel dirty just being this close to him. It had the presence of a dementor and a rat and a jar full of roaches, all rolled into a single moment of disgust. It felt like every bad thing that had ever happened to him compiled into a single boil of pestilence.
The chains from his chest wrapped around the black blood that hung in the air. They squeezed and then the blood screamed. It was a sound he had heard before, in the Chamber of Secrets when he had killed the diary. As those screams died down, there was a bright green flash and the blackness was gone.
The chains that hung tight around the arena dropped to the ground, and Harry hit his knees.
The world wavered around him, and he tilted forward, catching himself on the palms of his hands.
He coughed, and bright red blood flew from his lips, splattering against the ground.
Silence hung heavy over the arena, as none of the students or guests were making a sound. A part of him noticed that they were looking at him, staring hard. Their faces showed either awe or fear, or both.
Harry, struggled to stand. His knees felt like paper and the world had a tendency to waver and wobble, but after a moment, he managed it. Exhaling slowly, he straightened as best as he was able to and then looked around.
There was the dragon, watching him, subdued, submitting. Its dark scaled hide was ripped and shattered in places which exposed red, blistered flesh from where the liquid nitrogen had splashed down across it. The large multi-faceted eyes whirled with blues and a familiar green, a peaceful color at odds with the angry reds that had previously shown in them. He recognized particular shared of green. It was the same green he saw in the mirror every morning.
He had won.
He had beaten the dragon.
His magic sang, and flared in a brilliant display of bright white light that burned around him as an aura. Mana pooled physically around him, appearing as a thin mist that leaked out of the bleeding, gaping wound across his chest.
He took a hesitant step forward his feet still unsteady beneath him. As he moved towards it, he watched the dragon in much the same way as it watched him.
Then he grinned, and closed the distance between them. As he neared her, the silence of the audience just grew. It was pregnant with expectation and awe in equal measures. As if the entire student body could not believe he had done this, while at the same time clearly expected him to be eaten by the dragon. He laid his hand across her muzzle, and gently caressed the beast's nose being careful to not touch any of the blistered, bleeding flesh.
He waved his wand, and all the chains in the arena disappeared.
As one, the crowd took a deep breath.
Harry just kept his eyes on the dragon. It rose to its full height. An impressive towering creature, thirty feet at its shoulders. She raised her head at the end of her long neck, and stretched it around. Then lowered her nose, until it was right next to him. Harry leaned slightly, and patted the dragon on her snout twice.
Then she leapt into the air, with an overpowering downbeat of wings. The wind whipped at his robes, and threw dirt and rocks all around the arena.
Harry laughed loudly, and then clutched his side as pain erupted across his chest.
Straightening from a huddled stance that he had not even realized he had adopted, he looked around the arena. The urge to see her once again overpowering him, filling him. The need for it throbbed in time with the beating of his heart.
He spun in place as quickly as his dizziness would allow, scanning the crowds of the stadium. Then he saw her. She was standing at the edge of one of the stands, leaning over the railings.
He grinned, and sent a compulsion towards her. He needed to have her in his arms, and there was only one quick way to ensure that happened.
As he ran towards her, he watched as she climbed up onto the rail. She jumped off, to the sound of screams.
He flexed with his magic, and felt an odd twang in his chest, a twisting deep in the wound that still leaked physical mana. Then he could feel her magic as it touched his. He could feel her presence, deep in his chest. Their magic entwined, helping guide her through the air. It was a new feeling for him, something amazing and glorious and so purely Hermione.
She gently came to rest in his arms.
Then she was holding him tightly.
The mana thrummed and hummed, a heavy sound that could not really be heard, just experienced, as it started to glow a bright golden color. The now golden mist rolled upwards, covering both of them, surrounding them.
Magic itself pulsed with joy.
Harry stared into her eyes, watching the love dance in their depths. He leaned forward.
Then Dumbledore called out to them; screamed at them; his voice laced with compulsions and Command. "Harry! Stop! Don't kiss her!"
Harry's head snapped up, and he glared towards his Headmaster. Watching as the old man ran towards them, even as he was in the process of pulling out a wand. In response, Harry's instincts flared alongside his anger. That anger pulsed in his chest, screamed at him that Dumbledore was a threat to Hermione, that he was trying to separate them, that he was trying to take his Hermione away from him.
"Respectfully, sir," Harry snarled, he could feel the magic and intent twisting around the sound of his voice. "Bugger off."
Then he waved his wand, and sent Dumbledore tumbling away from him, even as Dumbledore's wand flew towards him.
He ignored that, utterly unconcerned about Dumbledore or his wand now that it was no longer pointed towards them. He turned back to Hermione, and pulled her close and tight against him. He leaned forward and kissed her hard. It was a demand that she surrender to him, even as he submitted himself to her.
The golden glow that surrounded them doubled in brightness. Then doubled again. It was a blinding light, a physical representation of their love, created through the mana that still leaked from Harry's wounds. Flames erupted into life, swirling around them, burning the air and mana. Waves of water appeared, as well, twining around the flames and mana.
All three elements twisted together, rising into the air; a column of fire and water and magic, binding and burning, healing and purifying.
It was the fierce joy and burning passion of newly found love. It was the calm quiet and gentle serenity of the library. It was the soaring freedom and rough thrill of adrenaline of free-fall while on a broom. It was the steady affections of old friendships. It was the frozen hatred generated by bigotry and manipulations. It was a wellspring of emotions. It was rage and joy and anger and laughter and death and life. It was Harry and it was Hermione. It was them. Their magic. Their anger. Their laughter. Their hate.
And it was their love.
It was all of this, and more, given physical form.
The cyclone towered over the two young teenagers; a pillar, a monument to the moment; a wonderment dedicated to the two children whose lives had been so irrevocably changed by one another. A shaft of light and power that kissed the heavens, and caused hearts to soar and cower at the same time.
Then as suddenly as it had appeared, the column crashed back to the ground. And with its disappearance a deep silence gripped the arena as something that was not quite a song ended. Even though there had been no true music, everyone had been certain that they had been hearing something, an almost ghostlike presence of almost phoenix song. The sheer pressure which the pillar had exerted on everyone, the presence which generated both fear and awe in every soul that saw the display, disappeared; suddenly gone as if it had never existed.
The golden glow faded, as the mists of mana drifted away on the slight breeze, and as it drifted away, it revealed what remained. On the ground, at the center of what had been that cyclone of elements and magic and power and emotion, were the still forms of Harry and Hermione. Smiles graced their lips, their hands were clasped together, and they were wrapped into and around one another. Their clothes and skin still smoked slightly from the power, but Harry's wounds seemed to have healed, or at least closed.
But above all, most importantly, the two teenagers were there. They were whole. And they were together.