48-hour notice of REWRITE AND DELETION
Details are at the bottom of the page, but I figured everyone willing to put up with the last two chapters deserves at least this much.
I still don't own anything here. Take what you want; just mention me in the notes, please.
. . . . .
Harry
. . . . .
For the first time in ages, I wake without the feeling that Merlin dragged his wizened scrotum across my face while I'd slept. Somehow it was also still dark out too. After lazily snagging my glasses from my nightstand and some digging under my pillow for my wand, I mutter a soft Tempus." Zero-five forty-seven etches itself into the air in dim silver light.
"Well fuck." I mutter.
With an hour and a half left before breakfast, going back to sleep is a waste of time. I'll also probably end up having really annoying dreams. Possibly even real ones instead of the bullshit from Tom, but I hate dreaming in general. I'm also too awake to enjoy being not awake, so just lying here is also out.
So the only thing left was to find something productive to do. It took all of a heartbeat to cross out just about everything on my dismally short list of options except reading which leaves me in a dilemma.
I could do that, but I'd have to deal with my friends; that last word sounds sarcastic even in my head, once they wake up. With the mood I'm in, I'll probably manage to pick a fight with any of them but Neville, who I'll just end up bullying.
That leaves going down to the common room, but then I'll have to deal with whoever comes down first. With the easiest of my options already scratched off the list, all I'm left with is getting up, showering, and going down to the great hall to wait for breakfast to be served.
I'm halfway to the showers before I even consider whether or not going down for breakfast an hour before it's served is against the rules.
Worst that can happen is a few lost house points; I'm confident I'll feel suitably chastised when or if it happens. I reason as I turn the water on to what I consider near scalding.
Fleur would probably risk adding a heating charm as well if this was all she had. The thought clicks in my head as I recall how she'd shrieked after getting splashed with the water in the Chamber. The culminating result of a series of wagers between Cedric and Victor that had started with just jumping. I'm pretty sure they were both posturing for the Fleur with the age-old tactic of getting a girl's attention.
Piss her off.
If that had been their intention, they'd succeeded admirably. I managed to get away with only a few minor scrapes and a new appreciation for feathers.
I eye the soap.
The delay only cost me a handful of irrelevant minutes and, according to several philosophies, several million lives before I finish showering.
"I need a better sense of humor," I mutter tiredly. The admittance is probably a cry for help, but with my luck, I doubt even Morgan Le Fey, let alone Merlin, could guess who'd answer it.
"If the legends got her sense of humor right, she'd show up just to find out who would," I comment out loud as I finish getting dressed.
"Who might you be referring to young Harry?" A voice asks from outside the shower doorway. I might have jumped if I wasn't familiar with Nickolas showing up randomly. Ghosts were rather good at that.
"Morgan Le Fey, Nick," I answer without bothering to think. Considering how much good it'd done me of late versus the results I'd gotten from a handful of impulsive whims, I might as well just keep rolling the dice.
"And why, would such as she, be showing up based on her. . . sense of humor?" He sounds honestly curious instead of wary, like most people get when the legendary witch is mentioned.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and give my house's ghost a shrug. "I realized my piss pot of a sense of humor could be a call for help, but I was drawing a blank on who'd show up to answer it." The explanation comes out as I head down to the common room.
Surprisingly, Nick actually nods thoughtfully and doesn't answer for a moment. "Aye, you may be on to something, my boy, given your place at Fate's table."
I jerk my head to look at the ghost just as I step out from behind the Fat Lady's portrait, causing me to stumble on the step. "What do you mean by Fate's table?"
It's Nick's turn to offer a shrug. "Nothing quite so concrete as all that young Harry. All I can say is that I've been around long enough to gain, let's say, a sense of familiarity with the idea."
"How so?"
"My dear boy, history repeating itself is more than just an expression, and I've been here for much of it." Instead of his usual ever so slightly pompous nature, Nick's words came out with something closer to a tired sort of pride. "In that time, I've seen the start of many villains and heroes, and you'd be amazed how interchangeable they can appear."
"Interchangeable?"
"Oh yes, my boy, there's a reason Professor Binns has never droned about anything but the goblin wars in years unless pressed; he hasn't finished them yet."
If I were still on the stairs, that tidbit would have led to a much, much longer conversation, as my current company could attest. "Hasn't finished; is there anyone still alive that can remember when he started?"
"Not many, given he started sometime just after the last turn of the century," Nickolas answered solemnly. "That being said, he's yet to repeat himself even once, though his order of events could use some work."
"How do you know that?"
"We take turns listening." The nonchalance of the answer is almost as vivid as the question burning on my tongue. "Boredom afflicts the dead just as easily as the living, my boy, and unlike Peeves, we cannot find refuge in insanity or our youth as young Ms. Warren." He answers my question without looking in my direction, and I blanch when I recall Myrtle's last name. Dying at the height of puberty really had to suck.
"But I digress," Nick stated as he floated in front of me with his usual careless abandon. "History has always had a circular feel to it, with only the faces, names, and, occasionally, the means changing between each loop."
"Are you saying you can tell when things are coming to a head?"
"In hindsight, the signs are there, but in the present, they are usually completely indistinguishable until the course is already set." Nick stopped to examine a painting of a pair of twins currently sleeping underneath a large oak. "Just as it's nearly impossible to tell which path a budding hero might take."
"Where does Fate play into all of this."
"Ah, now that is the real question, my boy, as its answer could be as simple or as complicated as you want it to be."
"How does that make any sense?"
"It doesn't, of course, and sense is the absolute last thing you should be looking for when discussing fate, young Harry. Its temperament is all too much like the oceans, after all."
"How would you judge its current mood?"
"A lull, my boy; how long it will last I couldn't say, just that it's already been a fairly long one as they go."
The great hall comes into sight as Nickolas speaks, and I can't help but look up at the enchanted ceiling, taking in the swirling clouds above. In the light of the candles, they look rather ominous in the amber tinge, but I can tell they'll be fluffy white once the sun rises instead of stormy grey.
"I suppose I'll just have to accept that I'll be at the center of things for the foreseeable future."
"If I may, young Harry, though I cannot speak much of those caught in fate's wake, I have noticed a thing or two from those who've lived through such troubled times."
"What would you recommend?"
"Two thoughts for you to ponder over. The first is to remember that the old god's risked laying the sky on Atlas's shoulders instead of carrying it themselves," Nick answers almost mystically. "The second is that the best sailors are almost always the ones who look forward to the storm."
His parting words were not a complete revelation for me. Still, they certainly make me think, as he suggested, and I sit down at Gryffindor's table without even realizing it. I've always driven myself to find answers for one reason or another, and I've always paid the price for them.
So far, that price has only been physical pain, unspeakable horrors, and near-death experiences. Emphasis on the near. This year has two additional schools in the splash zone and three older students that, after last night, I can safely call friends all hooked in beside me.
It should piss me off, but that hook has a line that'll inevitably lead back to the angler. All I have to do is bring enough hell on my tail to get back into the water. Sure, and throw in some luck to that mix, and I might even drag the angler in with me.
I lose track of time as I play with my different options and only notice once the first silver rays of sunlight filter through the windows behind me.
It still takes another twenty minutes before the first of the early birds start to trickle in, most going to Ravenclaw's table, but there are a few Hufflepuffs as well. Thankfully, they all ignore the lone Gryffindor.
I find it interesting that many show up alone but still join those in their house that already arrived. They aren't loners, just comfortable doing things at their own pace.
I can't remember the last time I did something as simple as walking down to breakfast alone if I didn't have to. I shake my head and try not to laugh at how deeply I'm reading into something so simple. If I keep this up, I'll follow Peeve's example instead of Nicks's.
The poltergeist 'is' usually in a good mood.
Stifling another laugh, I pull out Malloc's journal. The next couple pages after I left were just a series of day-to-day stories that would have been rather dull if not for Malloc's. . . perspective of the world around him.
From his attitude towards all of the houses, I can't guess which one he was in, but it's hard to miss the chip on his shoulder. Slytherins and Griffondors get the worst of it, but the other houses are let off by any means.
I'm leaning towards Ravenclaw, not that I'd expect him to keep a book open any longer than it took him to find the answer he was looking for. No, Malloc's personality screams, 'what does this button do' followed by 'OH' half a minute later.
Fitting for someone clearly thinking of giving up dragon handling to hunt monsters.
I got the info off Roid, only cost me thirty gallons worth of whiskey and a slimy feeling I doubt anything but an overpowered Oblivious is ever getting rid of. Bastard has to be more eel than snake. To his credit, the info's solid enough to start a hunt.
The den's roughly thirty years old at this point. The dumb fucks running the preserve probably can't muster the balls to deal with it themselves or the gallons for someone to. Not really a surprise, given how tough even a single acromantula is supposed to be. The real problem is that a colony has to have a king.
For an acromantula to get to that level, they have to be at least forty years old. This may not seem like a lot, especially since they rarely live past sixty, but Acromantula's are extremely cannibalistic, and they get slower the bigger they get, making them a rather tempting meal.
This usually means kings come in three categories. One, some human raised him. Two, he lived on his own. Three, he's the most vicious and cunning bastard in the brood.
Given the age of the colony, I'm leaning toward the second option, with the first being a rather dismal possibility. Anyone twisted enough to raise an acromantula colony is not something I want to deal with.
Granted, these are all just theories I've managed to cobble together from what little info I've been able to collect or piece together. No one seems all that keen on getting hard facts on giant, highly poisonous, always-hungry spiders.
Weird.
The last word causes me to burst out laughing, quickly turning me into the center of attention. Ignoring the curious and or scathing glances without batting an eye, I set the journal aside and reach for the food that I hadn't even seen appear.
For once, the meal is relatively peaceful, with nothing but the mail run and one person rushing from the halls at close to reckless speeds providing any sort of distraction.
At least until Hermione runs up to me ten minutes later, all but doubling over as she pants for breath. "Where the hells have you been, Harry."
I raise an eyebrow at her. "Here, were you the one who bolted out of here right after the mail came."
She answers by thrusting a copy of the daily prophet in my face. I glanced at the paper with only mild curiosity, wondering just what slander they'd managed to come up with after my last spectacle. "Save me the effort and just give me the cliff notes."
"They raided Skeeter's house for evidence, and holy shit did they find it."
I blink. Hermione just swore; Hermione never swears. Taking the paper she was all but jabbing at me like a wand. I don't even make it to the article; the picture alone enough to catch me by surprise.
Fudge and Malfoy, along with at least a dozen or so flunkies being escorted through what I guess must be the Ministry of Magic by dozens of aurars.
What the. . . the thought doesn't have a chance to finish before another familiar voice starts screaming my name. "Potter-"
My wand is in my hand, magic already coursing through it. "Expelliarmus!" A heartbeat later, Malfoy is splayed out on Hufflepuff s table covered in, from the trail, roughly a sixth of its contents. My focus never actually leaves the paper.
Ignoring the abrupt gale of laughter filling the hall, I read how the charges I'd brought against Skeeter had led to the aurars searching her house. The search had turned up dozens, if not hundreds, of incriminating documents and photos, resulting in the largest mass arrest wizarding history. That's on top of the impeachment of Fudge and his entire cabinet.
The only direct statement in the entire article was a rather blunt one concerning a woman named Umbridge and her escapades involving blackmail, cover-ups, and muggle children. I tack 'and may the bitch rot in hell' onto the end of it as an appropriate subtext that the paper simply didn't have space to add. Given the scale of the event, I find room in my heart to forgive them for once. They'd have months' worth of scandal to cover.
"So much for the tournament, I guess," I say after reading it a second time.
A laugh follows that statement, and I look up to see Cedric loading a plate across the table from me. "What, here I was promised everlasting fame and fortune."
"The first isn't all it's cracked up to be, and just how far do a thousand gallons really go?" The statement and rhetorical question come out absently as I stare at the repeating image of Fudge, Malfoy, and a Toad-looking woman that must be Umbridge being escorted by aurars.
"Aye, there's wisdom in those words," Victor comments as he takes the seat beside Cedric.
I give him a nod of greeting before looking back at Hermione. "Thanks, Hermione," I start to ask if she could help me look up Ann Nuff's work, but her shocked expression makes me pause. "Something wrong?" When she doesn't respond, I wave a hand in front of her face. "Hello."
She blinks, finally, then whips her head towards me. "What's going on here?"
I start to answer, but a now familiar French accent beats me to it. "Excuse me, are you going to sit there?" Hermione spins, and I catch the faintest glimpse of silvery blond hair before Hermione's wild mane of curls manages to get tangled into my glasses and yank them from my face.
By the time she gets them free, Cedric's managed to stop laughing, but the smirk on his all-to-perfect face doesn't look like it's going anywhere.
. . . . .
Junior
. . . . .
The sight of the four champions grouped together leaves a sour taste in my mouth. One even worse than the Polyjuice I'd been imbibing for months. This wasn't one of the possibilities my master had considered when he'd told me his plans, not that I could fault him for it.
The last couple of months had gone almost exactly as he'd anticipated, with Potter becoming the pariah of all three schools. Then Potter gets one utterly meaningless reporter arrested, and suddenly entire ministry is set on its ear while the four champions are sharing breakfast like old friends.
While I couldn't have cared less what happened in the ministry or the fools that had bribed their way clear of Azkaban, I don't like the solidarity between the champions. I needed Potter to be predictable, and that meant controlling the environment around him. Impulsive as the brat was, he isn't stupid and has a history of relying on his friends.
At the beginning of the year, that would have only meant the mudblood and Weasley. Now it clearly includes the greatest talents of all three schools. Worse, with what he'd done to Malfoy's spawn, it was clear that Potter's impulsive nature is entirely out of control.
This would have to be dealt with.
. . . . . .
AND CUT!
This was going to be longer, but life, my muse, and a host of minor details swimming freely in the heavily caffeinated depths of my brain told me what I could go and do with myself.
Anyway, this is NOT the end of 'When Tickling a Dagon' I promise. But instead of the quick and dirty crash and burn with Harry skipping off into the sunset to the sound of maniacal laughter, I've had a change of heart.
If you have an interest in such, please join me in-
Harry Potter and the Rising Cinders
When cruelty sends Harry deep inside himself, he's not prepared for what he finds or the world it opens for him. First Person AU, where Harry is an unknown orphan, and the wizarding world has much bigger problems than blood purity and returning dark lord.
The first chapter has already been posted.
PLEASE KEEP READING
I am writing my own book and have posted the first chapters on Fictionpress. If you like Harry Potter, Star Wars, and Game of Thrones, I give you-
Crest Under the World's Ashes
First Unwritten Rule
Needles play up my spine as the goddess gently traces the line I just wrote with a fingertip. "Why, Pendragon? Her kind turned our gods, their angels, and nearly the galaxy to ashes." Eyes of sunlit blood meet mine as Athena favors me with a gorgeous smile. "I expect a resounding finish to this, Julian, understood?"