Hey everyone!
Although ADKOW is on hiatus, I still wanted to write something a little shorter in the interim when I didn't have so many assignments. It's going to be a ten-part story and although I promised I'd write them all before posting, I have the patience of a three-year-old, so that turned out really well.
A huge thanks to x102RedDragon, NerdDragonVoid and Taliesin19 for helping beta the chapter. I hope you all enjoy the first installment and stay safe!
Icarus
Wings waxed and weathered, oh take to the sky. Pride and feather, a most grievous fall—be mine, be mine.
Chapter I - Riptide:
His lungs burned.
A hand desperately searched around in the pocket of his trunks, willing more of his rationed Gillyweed into his hand and despite his hope, he came away with only a sliver.
Not much left, he thought grimly.
That was the single, resounding thought in his hollow head as he leapt back into the black depths, the sudden calls of spectators and friends alike rebounding off his back to little avail. His last meagre helping of pungent green plant matter stuffed between the gap of gritted teeth.
With a swallow that relit the agony of a raw throat, a promise was born from the last helping of Gillyweed.
But past an hour, the prospect's black.
It was a poor promise, ushered in on the hope that he could accomplish his goal and so much more if only he was quicker than he had been—faster, better.
The words seemed mocking; it had been nearly an hour when he himself had emerged from the lake, his hostage in tow.
Then he had seen it: an irate mother, a forlorn father and a desperate panic in the air.
Neither Fleur nor Gabrielle Delacour had emerged from the lake.
Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.
Muscles already pushed past exhaustion searched for more, a desperate hope to squeeze the last vestiges of energy into flinging himself downwards into the abyss. No matter what plan he thought of, which path he followed, every road led below into the bleak prospect of the Black Lake.
Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.
There was that same Siren's song that beckoned him deeper, the realisation that with the mundane moving of clock hands, the two sisters would be dead. Fleur Delacour had been aloof, she'd been cold and dismissive, and there was certainly no love lost between them.
But no one deserved to die alone in the Black Lake, all for the hope of a thousand galleons and whatever glimmer of glory came with hoisting a trophy high.
Krum and Cedric had already returned their hostages to the world above and spent their time catching their breaths. A magnetism was formed within his breast, not a result of any attraction to platinum tresses and perfectly sculpted features. It was one of necessity, of the desperate wish to do right, rather than easy.
Sunlight overhead had already long since been filtered out by the film of darkness that coated the calm water that seemed tranquil from above.
"Lumos," Harry tried, though no sound emerged, only his gills flexing and a trail of silver bubbles streaming upwards in the now near black descent.
Reaching tendrils of kelp spelled themselves into existence, long-reaching fronds of seaweed formed an errant path before him. Tickling his exposed skin as he wove through the dense algae, eyes searching for hidden foes he'd already faced, camouflaged in the thickets of seagrass.
What he expected to find, he did.
A single Grindylow leapt forward, a sickly, pale green that blended with the kelp. Displacing stagnant water as it spiralled at him. A strong yet brittle hand latched on to his kicking ankle, claw-tipped fingers tearing through pale flesh.
A hiss of pain let loose from his lips without thought, more precious time expended and bubbles rising skywards from his open gills. Dark crimson ichor painted the water as he moved his wand to face the predator, pointed horns and wrath-filled yellow eyes screaming into view.
"Relashio!" he cried angrily, the lightning charm extinguishing and leaving him to darkness again.
The few excruciating moments of darkness passed by slowly, the boiling water scalding his own exposed flesh in search of his attacker. A shrill shriek soon sounded, his wand lit up once more with a muttered spell.
Shielding its face with an arm, the torso of the creature was marred red. It fled back into the kelp, bream and carp darting desperately away.
With his wand still lit, another Grindylow attacked from overhead, barreling towards him with each propelling thrust of tentacles. Another revulsion jinx turned the water steaming and flushed the new attacker back to wherever he descended from.
The light's attracting them, Harry realised with a dull pain in his ankle. When there had been four contestants descending the presence of light was negligible.
Now, alone, he was the sole target of their increasing ire.
With a distant ache in his flesh, he righted his way and extinguished the light reluctantly. Pushing forward into the darkened water, errant rays of visible light twinkling like twilight above, gave no guidance beyond which was up.
Harry's feet kicked hard against the water; his course set ever deeper. With the final tendrils of kelp tickling at his feet, he left the Grindylows behind, hand still clutched tightly on his wand.
The silence was deafening, a pressure that pounded in his eardrums as he navigated the long dark. He searched for the slightest sound, any indication that another foe might be near or that he had erred in his course.
But nothing came, just the saturating cold and a faint wash of water rushing past his ears.
He didn't have to navigate without light for long, within moments the distantly lit path to the village came into view. A rock charmed to grow brightly carved a path through the black mud, displaced by feet and tails and murkier as he descended.
Now his path was clear, the lights called him, beckoned him home.
Through the green gloom came the familiar crude buildings, the looming village of broken bricks and upturned stones and stagnant water that shone eerily. Even on his approach, he could see Merpeople lingering on the fringes, observing him carefully. The question hot on their lips;
Why did you return?
Truth be told, even if he had an answer amidst the cold and weary muscle, creaking bones and poor visibility, it seemed too far away to recall.
Harry returned to the centre of the village, haphazard and hewn from old stones. In the middle surrounded by swaying crowds of Merpeople was his goal. The reason he dared even return to the depths of the lake.
Fleur and Gabrielle Delacour.
Gabrielle floated idly, platinum tresses splayed around her in an expression that could've been mistaken for tranquillity. Thick lengths of rope and seaweed bound her to a rock, disallowing a natural ascent to the air above.
Fleur, on the other hand, was cut from a different cloth.
Scratches and bruises littered the flex exposed by her swimming costume, long and thin that still wept in the water. Her bubble-head charm remained resolute but weak, the shimmering magic glowing with the bustle of the water.
Merpeople parted like the sea to allow him access, scrutiny and curiosity encompassed him as the water did. Large yellow eyes boring into his person to try and discern just why he'd returned.
The closer he got, the smaller the pair looked. Fleur had seemed proud above the water, steadfast and sure. She was small in the water, drenched in a green glow as she laid at the foot of the tall, oppressive stone that seemed a skyscraper.
Songs that had heralded their arrival, a distant choir that seemed to sing to them when the champions had first made it here seemed to change. It was melancholy, a song filled with mourning, like the conclusion was already foregone.
Perhaps it was ink written and dried—history carved in stone. They had sent them against a dragon. Harry had hoped, perhaps naively, that they wouldn't let the pair die alone, beneath the waves. Though that didn't seem so sure any longer.
The merman that had greeted Harry before came to the forefront once again. If the confidence had been sapped from Fleur by the waves, his sudden appearance seemed to have taken all of his.
He towered above Harry, powerful tailfins propelling him forward, a bronze trident brandished as if it was far longer than it actually was. His choker of shark teeth mirroring his own mouth filled with broken yellow—set at odd angles and menacing as if by merely gazing upon them he could cut himself.
The voice came out not as a soothing melody, but a grating demand, "You've taken your hostage," he said. "Return to the surface."
He could sense an alacrity in the crowd, the calm before the tempest. A fight was brewing, the look in the Merman's eyes was pale as morning mist, indecipherable but the sort that spoke volumes about what he demanded, and what he'd do to achieve it.
This wouldn't be clean. Harry seemed hyper-aware of his surroundings, the painted stones of Merman folklore surrounding him, the distant warmth of a phoenix feather in his hand and the waning supply of Gillyweed in his pocket.
Harry was also acutely aware of the slowly closing gills on his neck—it was do or die.
"I'm taking them with me," Harry said, a declaration laden with false bravado that let anxious silver bubbles rise high above.
They were simple words that had anything but a simple effect. The Merman's shoulders tense, his grip on the trident's shaft tightened and the battle he sorely wished to avoid was cemented.
Aches and pains seemed to plead for a different path, he almost contemplated diplomacy rather than trying to spell his way out of this one.
But past an hour, the prospect's black.
Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.
And then he struck.
"Relashio," Harry cried, on a subconscious level he knew oxygen was soon destined to evade him and conservation was key but it seemed neither here nor now. The Gillyweed in his pocket had never seemed so finite. His neck lurched with pain as a gill began to meld back into his skin, his lungs crying desperately in protest.
A spear sailed past Harry, the boiling water crossing the distance into the Merman, who screeched in pain. His strong tail sent him off, whether searching for cover or reinforcements; Harry didn't know.
His feet fell against the black mud, weary legs pushing him towards the stone. Fleur was untied, but battered and bruised, in no condition to help him. Gabrielle, however, was still affixed to the stone. With a few slow flicks of his wand, the bindings came loose though bit into her flesh passing through.
I can apologise later, Harry rationalised. Now was neither time nor place to let the pang of guilt rise to his mouth.
He wrapped Gabrielle up in his arm, before reaching for Fleur, who weakly grasped onto his midriff. Harry pushed himself off, his bare feet sinking into the mud as he tried. The strength evaded him, the desperate gambit to get to the surface halted by his body's inability to go any further.
Songs had stopped, the choir had fled and Harry was once again left in silence.
Save for the single thought that haunted him, the clangorous percussion of failure alight in his ears.
But past an hour, the prospect's black.
Feet pushed off the bottom once more, webbed affairs that slowly began to lose their effectiveness kicked with all their lingering might.
They fell back down.
Harry was not content with failure, however, with another bounding push he shot upwards. The sounds of Mermen that had clearly been watching the perimeter coming to greet him, though not with open arms.
Every stroke felt as though the tendons would tear, that muscles would atrophy and send him plummeting back down to the bottom. The weight was too much, the expenditure too great and yet, somehow, the surface came closer and closer.
He could make out figures swirling around him, it was a pipe dream to hope and try to outrun the Mermen.
'Lumos Solemn," Harry whispered, his raw throat allowing for little else as more gills found themselves sealed, pale flesh taking its rightful place once more.
A beam of white light careened downwards, painting everything below in an alabaster hue that, compared to the dark gloom, seemed otherworldly. Though he sorely wished he hadn't.
The ranks of Merman following were closer than ever, bathed in the ethereal light. But he was so close, success rose with every breath, though the crucible of failure was hot on his heels.
Gabrielle began to slip from his arms, the sunlight beginning to come into view. Options dwindled as did time.
"Ascendio." Another hoarse, soundless whisper that sent bubbles from his gills. They were too heavy to make it together, but she could do it alone.
Gabrielle's hair splayed around her head like a silver halo, the spell struck her torso and sent her speeding from Harry's arms. A pregnant pause and a sudden splash followed.
She had broken the surface.
Fleur was next but the hope was naive. His arm burned in protest, his mouth had never seemed so dry and wet in equal measures—his very being cried out for a rest it wasn't destined to be granted.
But the sunlight above called to them, daylight seemed only inches away. It spoke a promise, a singular hope against the cold.
A little longer, that was all it asked.
Another gill sealed and his legs flailed, hoping to gain traction to push him higher.
"Ascendio."
He hoped for something—anything. A reaction that could save them both, a desperate hope to pull them from the dark.
But there was nothing.
Nothing. The spell didn't even make it to the apex of his wand, his words dying on his lips without a sound, the magic sapping away in the pained tendons of his forearm.
Fleur's head rolled still, the bubble-head charm clinging desperately to life through the air inside had to be little. Ocean blue eyes blinked in and out of existence, too weak to muster anything but lolling around in her head.
A little longer.
He kicked and thrust, the distance was so very short, salvation inches away.
Then hopes were dashed with a sudden pain.
It was not the sort to make him shout and scream at the world like when he stubbed a wayward toe in the common room, nor one he could shake off and feign that it hurt so little it was barely a nuisance.
It was sharp, acute. A wet, silent gasp that filled his mouth with air followed. His arms fell back, his body's final gambit to protect itself.
The spear was a crude thing, wrought from rusted iron and spelled into something malformed, but clearly, it worked. The few pieces of untarnished metal shimmered in the daylight that would have saved them as it punched through his back, through his lung and beyond.
Whatever energy he had left, whatever hope he clung to sapped through the hole that drained his lifeblood. His strength had abandoned him in a soft rush like the gentle kiss of sleep to the freezing.
I'm going to die.
He'd grappled with the thought often enough that it was almost familiar. When the basilisk had plunged a fang into his arm and his body felt laden with molten metal. When Quirrell had wrapped his hands around his neck and turned to ash, leaving him with an old wraith. When a swarm of dementors descended down upon him and all he was armed with was a memory.
And now, once again, in the Black Lake.
There didn't seem a way out. Though perhaps there was, maybe there was hope yet to survive but he lacked the energy to find it—to solve the enigma of survival. Lethargy bit at his vision, darkness baying for his eyesight like hounds on a hunt.
He tried to push Fleur away, she'd float upwards of her own volition and she would be safe.
But the spear would drag him down, condemn him to a fate of black mud and short life. With his glimmer of might, he shoved with all his aching arms would allow, trying to push her to the surface.
But she didn't budge, his ebbing strength met an obstacle and failed. His drooping eyes fell downwards to the spear that had skewered him.
It had taken her too, the sharp end piercing through her breast and onwards.
The water was not filled solely with his own blood, their shared ichor pooled around them and her eyes continued to fight for the chance at consciousness.
His last gills began to seal and air finally evaded him, a final, mocking parting gift from life. Fleur's bubble charm too faded with her life, water beginning to pool into her mouth.
Breathe, Harry willed. He didn't know if it would be his final thought, he supposed it didn't matter.
Breathe.
Water filled Fleur's lungs, slowly descending with a few bubbles.
It wasn't a conscious thought, not truly. It certainly wasn't because she was attractive, her skin was marred with scratches and blood and she looked a pale shadow of the Veela that had danced into the Great Hall.
He latched his lips to her.
A crude act, in truth. Harry didn't know how to breathe life into someone, didn't know how to put a stopper in death. All he had was a vague instinct, a hope that she didn't need to die because he wasn't what he needed to be— he was not quicker, faster. He wasn't better.
With a last breath, he pushed the air from his lungs into her, a kiss that he hoped to give her a chance. She tasted metallic, of the blood and steel that connected them, of a distant warmth.
His first and last kiss.
Merman surrounded them, the one who threw his spear came to investigate his handiwork.
Or lament it.
Cold yellow eyes were alight with fear, he was sure his were similar. The same song the choir sang, the one of mourning and loss was soft in his ears. Harry tried to meet the eyes of the Merman, who might not have meant to do what he did, but he couldn't.
There was bliss, a feeling of warmth that seemed to touch his very core.
If this is dying, maybe it isn't so bad.
It wasn't like Quirrell, the Basilisk or the Dementors.
Maybe this was it.
Harry released her lips and let them float for a second, hoping someone would come—anyone.
He drifted slowly into the darkness that fully claimed his vision, the euphoria of pushing his life into hers made him feel like a man tall, even in death. He felt proud as life left him.
Thank you.
That was all he heard in his mind, ocean eyes had opened only a fraction.
You're welcome.
It was mundane, but there was no dream that would defy its death. He didn't know if she could hear him as he drifted off.
Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour drifted downwards.
There were few other words for it - Albus Dumbledore was getting old.
The creak in his bones, the sagging of skin, the slow decline in power all pointed to that common conclusion. Though it wasn't all terrible, his age beget wisdom, or so he liked to think, a sense of knowledge unparalleled instilled into him by tedious years of learning and teaching.
Of countless failures that did little else but provide a wound to mend and a lesson to learn.
Though wisdom and knowledge weren't known to be hardy buffers against the inevitable - age was catching up, although it was a far way from killing him by any means.
But few events made him feel as old as he did at that moment, the sudden pained gasps of the crowd, scrutinizing eyes begging him to do something, anything.
He had signed with the blood quill the same as the other judges, an archaic medium for an archaic tournament.
Do you vow never to assist a Champion?
And he did, for if he did not, the others would not have participated.
He regretted many things in life but none more than the words he had agreed to at that moment, the ones that stilled him to the spot while the lake ran red.
Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour did not emerge, Gabrielle Delacour had been dragged ashore by an unknown.
They had seemed so close and now, they lay dying.
Albus shot from his seat, each step laden with molten lead as he strode to the water, nerve endings alight with a warning.
Never assist a champion.
His magic warred against his bidding, his wand drawn to attempt anything that might save them. The crowd parted for him as he staggered towards the water, looking and feeling more his age than he ever had. The stands alight with whispers and screams, cries that urged him onwards beyond the pain.
Albus got as far as the water's edge, his knees shaking with his final warning.
Never assist a champion.
He fell to his knees, all the lessons learned and wisdom they sang songs about was useless. It helped him so little when he needed it most.
And he simply looked another mistake in the face, a boy and girl, barely older than she had been.
Elder wood raised in his grip, more powerful than anything a blood quill could boast.
It'd kill him, the instructions were clear, the warning paramount.
But he'd die, the right was never easy.
An arm raised to the fore, the screaming of the crowds seemed like a chant in his pain-obfuscated mind.
Save them. Save them.
Albus Dumbledore made to part the waves but he was too late.
There was a ball of blue flames, the air was alight with the pungent scent of ozone and pervaded with necessity. It was thick, heavy—a feeling that only came with magics, truly good, or truly foul.
Fire fizzled and fought against the water's edge as they rose, sizzling steam sent skywards as he lowered his wand.
People began to jump into the water, friends of the pair, he presumed, eager to save what could have evaded loss by only seconds.
He didn't know the magic, in that moment, he didn't care.
With a percussive explosion, water was displaced like a tidal wave. Knocking those who hoped to save them asunder and into the depths below, shaking the stands with its colossal force.
It was nothing mundane.
Finally, they crested the water and a voice echoed in Albus Dumbledore's head, the same one that sounded of her.
A second chance, it said, some wicked mantra that haunted him in the vacuum she'd once left.
Albus Dumbledore cast his eyes to the pair, alive despite what they had come across, the single thought still ringing in his ears.
They have their second chance and you, yours.
And, in spite of the pain, he pushed.