Fate's Curses and Gifts
Many thanks to all those who have reviewed this fanfiction as the positive feedback is really motivating. Also I've just started planning of my own dystopian story (possibly a trilogy) as I've found a joy in writing that few activities seem to give.
If anyone is wondering Harry and Hermione will naturally gain a more prominent role throughout this and possibly even a pairing. Also please let me know whether the chapters are too short.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: All of Harry Potter and related topics belong to J.K. Rowling
Chapter 4 (Part 1) - The Beginning?
Matthew.G POV1
It's times like these where one really begins to question their existence. To question their integrity or to question their sanity. I feel trapped like a wild beast eager to feed upon the hour. My soul compressed between my heart and magic. Magic. What I once thought of as a gift now merely a curse branded in me upon entering the world. It resulted in my involvement that lead to my family's murder. It forever wounded my already crippled soul. And it's latest endeavour has been to bond me to Fleur Delacour in this world and the next. That kiss she gave me one month ago cannot have been driven by love, but merely the magic between us and there are two reasons why I know this. One is I will never allow myself to succumb to love and two is why would anyone love someone who is broken to the core. Why would anyone love someone who remains as a mere shell of who they once were? I may be Matthew Glenn by blood and name, but not my heart and soul.
And so I arrived upon the third task with just the wand weighing ceremony obscuring whatever fate I await. I welcome it with open arms.
With a brief glance I notice many different expressions. Krum was clearly determined despite his signature surly façade; his posture spoke for itself. Harry surprisingly held a similar stance though still appeared a tad sick in the face. Fleur however remained expressionless never engaging eye contact much to my relief.
My glance swayed towards the tent entrance as a few reporters entered. Ah the media, the butchers and friends of celebrities depending on how easy the public are to sway. Each one's quill twitching in anticipation with the idea of a fabricated story. More than a few pairs of hungry eyes now washed over the four champions, but took an array of seats off to the side as Professor Dumbledore appeared in their shadow with Bagman, Crouch and Ollivander in tow.
"Mr Ollivander if you will," spoke Dumbledore gesturing towards a rather primitive table featuring a lone chair behind.
"Of course Albus," Ollivander replied and occupied the seat, "Mr. Krum if you'd care to go first."
Krum all but trudged up to the ancient wand maker and held out his wand. Ollivander tenderly took it beside twirling it around upon his thumb.
"A Gregorovitch creation of I'm not mistaken."
"One of his last," Krum spoke revealing a hint of pride.
"Hornbeam, dragon heartstring, ten and a quarter inches...quite rigid. All in all this will serve you well Mr Krum. Now Miss Delacour."
Without a second thought Fleur made her way over and occupied where Krum had been standing moments earlier.
"Rosewood, nine and a half inches and oh my..."
"A hair from my grandmother."
"I've personally never used a Veela hair core before, but this wand suits you perfectly."
Ollivander went to pass it back, but hesitated before bringing it to his ear and speaking, "Unusual. Very unusual... Your wand is fine Miss Delacour, but feels lonely, lost, incomplete. It may be worth having it checked over the course of the summer however I believe this shouldn't impact the tournament whatsoever."
Fleur hastily snatched her wand back and glanced in my direction before walking towards her headmistress while caressing her wand carefully.
"Mr Glenn if you would."
With no small amount of trepidation I strode towards Ollivander with a mask of confidence upon my face. The wand that I held within my hands was my one and only prized possession. Rarely parting with it has became more of a friend who would resolutely stand by my side.
My hand tentatively stretched forward before laying my wand to rest upon Ollivander's worn, withered hand.
"One of my very own and a creation I'm particularly proud of. Birch, eleven and a quarter inches with a core of a very fond memory."
Fleur.D POV1
My heart though perfect in health felt incomplete and wounded as if a knife cut and bled it leaving nought but those aforementioned feelings intact. I felt neglected and deprived as would a stray among the heartless streets that grace this world. A bitter truth that knowing I can't possibly have fallen feverishly in love with Matthew yet knowing what my heart desires. The way my body pushed to continue the intimate moment was enough to confirm that suspicion. It's odd really how much this bond has affected me to the core. Every movement, every action and every word during that night one month ago is still vividly etched upon my mind. A constant torment to remind the bond of its aims and desires. And while I knew that wands were closely tied to their owner, never would I have suspected a similar effect upon it. Every aspect and fibre of my being is bound to Matthew Glenn. A person of many feelings; hurt, anguish, pain and sorrow, but underneath deep down was another side. And it is this side in which my heart yearns for. His disappearance since that fateful day had hurt me more than I expect he knows and to see his ignorance of me today hurts me further.
A memory for a core was simply unheard of, but it must have certainly been a fond memory to fuse with a wand.
From the moment he receded into the shadows of the tent my mind became absent of the world; only noticing a frightened, but determined Harry Potter present his wand to the renowned wand maker.
"Now that the tedious part is all over and done with, we can proceed with the fun and interesting part; the first task," Bagman jovially spoke up becoming the centre of attention to all those present.
Matthew scoffed at Bagman's statement, but it apparently went unnoticed by many.
"If each of you in turn will take a representation of what you will face from this bag," Bagman continued, while gesturing to a small leather pouch, "Mr Krum if you would please?"
"The Chinese Fireball, certainly a challenge for even a dragon tamer, and now Miss Delacour."
Dragons came as no surprise to me courtesy of Madame Maxime. As I fumbled amongst the contents of the bag a minor flame grazed my palm; my nerves flinching at the brief sensation of pain.
As my hand emerged from the pouch upon it lay a rather impressive charmed dragon model of a Swedish Shortsnout. It began to threat in forms of meager flames and pathetic swipes with its claws.
"The Swedish Shortsnout and now Mr Glenn."
As I receded to make room for Matthew I watched as despite his emotionless facade he was terrified, completely unaware of the event prior the past minutes.
"The Hungarian Horntail, good luck Mr Glenn and last, but not least, Mr. Potter."
Utter turmoil had consumed my mind reeling what confident emotions into the abyss leaving naught, but panic and fear for Matthew's welfare. A person who despite barely knowing them means the world to me, my heart and to discover his ignorance to the circumstances had all but impaled my soul. So fragile, so broken.
"The Welsh Green and now that is all done and dusted, we shall precede to the task at hand," Bagman spoke lacking no enthusiasm and blinded of the impending danger of the participants.
"Now of course you shall not be expected to actually kill and dragon," he paused clearly waiting for a laugh at his poor taste of humor before continuing, "so you must retrieve a golden egg that said dragon shall be protecting. Alright now, I best be off and shall call you through one at a time."
As the ex-quidditch player departed from the tent I collapsed, shaking in a fear one knows not through experience. My thoughts, my visions, my senses, all plagued with every worst case scenario and outcome that may unfold in the coming task. Through pained eyes I glanced in Matthew's direction expecting to see an uncontrollable fear, but was shocked to see him conversing with Potter, while his face held utter betrayal and distrust, neither directed to the equally anxious fourteen year old.
"The champion of Durmstrang, Victor Krum may enter the arena," Crouch's voice echoed throughout the tent.
It lasted ten minutes, dead and empty silence, gasps of fear and awe, before ending in an immense applause to Krum's obvious retrieval of the egg. The spectators believe this tournament to some sort of childish game rather than what it is. None of us entered for fun, none of us entered as a dare or as a laugh, but as a way to prove one's self to the world and to change perceptions. There are no second chances, no sanctuaries, only one's courage, bravery and skill to compete with.
"The champion of Beaxbatons, Fleur Delacour may now also enter the arena."
Trepidation was one of numerous feelings that plagued my already troubled mind. It thieved my senses leaving nought, but one. A virus with no cure. A fever with no relief. A problem with no remedy. It snaked and weaved among myself; coiling around me like a Boa Constrictor that had been teased a relief to hunger before that relief taking the form of me. A claustrophobic tightness strangled me reaching and clawing at my self doubt and fear. A fear for not only my own life, but for another's. A person who remains a complete and utter mystery to me. A life not of a seventeen year old, but a thirty year old that had led to a haunted and absent appearance in which few would miss. A distinctness that for some bazaar reason, I find attractive. However, in more of an understanding and mature sense that others of my age group tend to lack. They see a Veela, not Fleur Delacour and ogle me as if my entire purpose and presence extends to merely pleasuring and satisfying them; actions I wouldn't even consider going as low to participate in. It is a sad truth that I would have thought would lace any relationship I involved myself in; but not Matthew. What he sees me as currently alludes me apart from the lack of lust and longing, which many men show.
My thoughts came to a rather abrupt end as I stepped out of the tent into a dimly lit tunnel. Despite the lack of rain or being underground there was the occasional drip that resonated throughout the tunnel. Whether intentionally or by coincidence the walls amplified said noise casting apprehension among the intolerable silence that lingers upon the air like a disease. As I progressed forwards, the opening offered little respite as a roaring crowd thundered chants of many different forms; in favour, against and in the hope I meet an unpleasant end. I found it rather refreshing how the masses showed their true colours with no hint of trying to conceal it.
With a deep breath, a wringing of wrists and a draw of my wand I strode forward into the glaring sun and met the gaze of my first opponent: The Swedish Shortsnout.
Author's Note: Please review as any advice and criticism will be taken into account.