In celebration of my awesome friend, Ashley (LittleNightDragon) who's birthday is TODAY and is the reason the story is a story, along with the other birthday stories I'm doing for her, I'm updating with not just one but TWO chapters of Stages.
Ash, hope you enjoy the birthday extras. Readers, I hope the same. I also hope that since I'm updating twice as many chapters, they both recieve twice as much love. Getting so much love like awesome reviews helps me write & type faster
Also Kila & Belle, thanks so much for helping me out with the chapters. And if you guys go on my tumblr page (gloster) you'll see the awesome picture my friend Sammy aka dreamydrarry did for Stages. She help me do it in honor of Ashley's birthday and I think you guys will LOOOOVE it
Chapter 27: Let the Games Begin
Images pounded against his head like a sledgehammer: an old man following the hum of hissing voices as he crept into a room, two figures positioned by the fireplace, a short man cowering away from the other one perched on the chair, his skeletal body frail, eyes chilling. A door creaking, red eyes laughing, green light flashing, a body crashing to the floor with his eyes, dull and lifeless, staring up at the ceiling.
"Harry Potter," he drawled. "is mine."
A gasp tore through Harry's throat as he woke up, the dream breaking apart into fragments.
His forehead was burning up as if he had a fever of a hundred and five, pain radiating from his scar. He placed a finger against it and hissed as the touch sent flares of pain through his body.
Harry reached over for the glass of water sitting on his nightstand, grimacing at the stale taste but gulping down the entire drink in seconds. He grimaced again as he crawled out of bed, his pajamas damp with sweat that hung heavily on his body. He walked over to the dresser and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
His hair had grown out; it was now brushing past his ears and was messier than before, dark strands ruffled around his head like a bird's nest. It was damp with sweat, plastered onto his forehead. His lightly-tanned skin that had darkened during the summer was almost white as a sheet. His bright-bright green eyes wide and dazed with fear.
The lightning bolt slashed across his forehead looked just as vicious as it did the night he received it. So thick, it nearly took up one side of his head, and-dear Merlin-it was glowing bright red.
Harry blinked and shook his head.
When he looked back at the mirror, the scar was just as it was: a thick bolt, darker than his skin. No glow, no red.
Was he dreaming?
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe he was just seeing things but the dream…there was no way it couldn't be nothing, not the way his scar burnt up. Not the way he was frozen by fear that held him in a tight grip, caused by the conversation he overheard.
Walking back to his bed on shaky feet, he tried to remember as much as he could about the dream, but the more he thought back, the less he remembered. It was falling apart into pieces, the fragments dissolving like quicksand. He remembered-remembered-the short servant. The weak figure by the fireplace. The old man intruding, then falling. Dying by a stroke of green light. Those chilling words.
"Harry Potter is mine."
A shiver crawled down his spine like a spider.
There was no way his mind could come up with a dream like that. Something that chilling, that vivid-
"You alright, kiddo?"
Harry had no idea how tightly he was clenching onto the blanket till he felt the strain in his hands. Had no idea he was looking down till his vision changed from his dark sheets to Sirius, the concern sculpted onto his face as he stood in the doorway, watching him.
"I-" He wasn't alright. He was miles away from it, countries even. The spinning in his head slowly decreased but each spin was like a boomerang slicing through his skull. "No," he finally admitted. "I'm not."
Sirius nodded, then walked into the room. He came in as a man. By the time he approached the bed, he was a dog, leaping onto the mattress and settling himself beside Harry.
A faint smiled touched Harry's lips. Whenever Sirius was around during the nightmares, he'd transform into his Animagus form and stay close to his side, chasing the bad dreams away. Slinging an arm around him, Harry nuzzled close to Sirius.
"Thanks Paddy."
He heard a soft growl before he closed his eyes, and sleep finally took him away.
The next morning, Harry woke up earlier than usual, both because of the plans he had with Ron and his family and, during the moments of drifting between sleep and consciousness, remnants of what happened last night fell like snowflakes in his head. Slow and steady until they piled up, the fragments becoming a whole picture, bringing back the cold grip of fear that clutched onto him like a fist.
Voldemort. He dreamt of Voldemort. More than that, he saw him, felt him. He was weak, his body frail as paper, but far from powerless-not entirely. He possessed enough terror to silence his follower with several cold stares that could freeze a person's veins. Enough power to kill that poor Muggle man with only a flick of his wrist.
"Harry Potter is mine," he hissed, the words a promise that rang of absolute. That he would see it till the end.
The short man that had been with him, the one skidding away from the serpent kept close by his master's side, wincing at the cold looks aimed his way. With his thinning hair and plump frame, there was no doubt it was Pettigrew. But...that was impossible, right? Pettigrew was in Azkaban, rotting away in a cell. Voldemort was-well, Harry couldn't say dead, not when Dumbledore himself was hesitant to use the word. But he was gone. Harry saw his ashes wither away. Tom Riddle, the piece that was embedded in the journal, was destroyed during Harry's fight with the basilisk. Yet….doubt unraveled in Harry's chest, rolling faster than a thread being spun on a wheel.
As crazy as it was, as impossible as it might be, Harry knew that it was true. Voldemort, somehow, someway was back. Actually back.
Harry reached into his nightstand drawer for paper and a quill. Dipping it in a jar of black ink, he scrawled Dear Draco across the sheet only to stop afterwards. He couldn't tell Draco. Not when his best friend already had so much on his plate. Learning more of his Veela heritage, the signs that pointed to him possibly carrying the gene, his annoyance at the Veela bootcamp (or hell, as he called it) he was at.
The last letter he got from Draco spoke of nothing but clear, absolute annoyance at the place and his parents, distress over a conversation he had with a Fleur Delacour although he was vague with the details. Not only did the letter carried heavy weights of annoyance but also of loneliness. Loneliness that pulled at Harry's heart, making it clear that, despite all the fun he was having, the emotion wasn't one-sided. He missed his best friend. He wished he could fire-call Draco, but his camp didn't allow it. Something about needing to separate their students from outside distractions to keep them more focused.
And this was the type of conversation that needed to be done face-to-face, not on paper.
With a defeated sigh, Harry dropped his quill. He couldn't tell Draco, but maybe he could try his other friends. Except they be more skeptical. Theo would say he'd need something more solid than a dream. Pansy would think his late-night reading was messing with his head. Blaise would either take it seriously or make it into a joke. Crabbe and Goyle…as lovable as they were would probably think indigestion.
He could tell Hermione. She was just as reasonable as Theo. A strange dream would be more than enough for her to call the need for investigation. Except Hermione's first response to almost anything was telling Dumbledore, which wasn't a bad call but one Harry wasn't ready to make. Not yet.
Ron's reaction would be an either-or.
Harry bit his lip. He could tell Severus, but Harry remembered he was called away for business. To a remote place where fire-calls weren't allowed and it'd take days for Hedwig to fly out and get back a response. So that was out. Uncle Lucius and Aunt Cissa were all the way in Paris.
A growling from his stomach interrupted his train of thoughts.
Breakfast first, then he'd figure out what to do.
Sirius was already waiting in the dining room, seated at the table, reading through the comics while whistling Bon Jovi's Dead or Alive, a song Mum got him and the rest of Dad's gang into when she introduced them to records. Sirius liked to think of it as his theme song.
"Morning kiddo."
"Morning." Harry replied as he sat across from him. Kreacher popped next to him, dropping a plate that contained a ham and cheese omelet and toast. Harry nodded in thanks.
"Rest well?" The question was innocent but Harry spotted the concern in his eyes.
"Not at first," he admitted. "But after awhile, I slept like a dog."
It was such a lame joke, but it made Sirius smile just the same.
Sirius waited awhile for Harry to say anything else, but when Harry sent him only a smile, he accepted it, raising his mug and returning to the comics. Harry knew Sirius wouldn't push him on the matter until Harry confided in him. It was one of the things he loved about him.
"Well, you must be excited." Sirius said.
A smile curled Harry's lips. The World Quidditch tournament was today, which Harry and his friends would be seeing thanks to Mr. Weasley who had gotten great seats from a friend at the Ministry. Enough seats for his entire family, enough seats for Ron to bring Harry and Hermione along. It was like the wizarding world's version of the Olympics, bigger though with flying and tricks. The last time Harry went, he was around nine or ten and it was one of the best nights of his life. Uncle Lucius had gotten them the best seats, treating the boys to all the toys and food they wanted. Harry and Draco could barely sit still, cheering as they watched the players whirl over their heads.
"It's too bad you and Remus can't come with us." Harry said.
Mr. Weasley had two more tickets to spare, but both men declined. Remus because a full moon was too close-by, he was low on Wolfsbane, and didn't want to take chances. He left last night for the Shrieking Shack, saying he'd be back in a few days. Sirius couldn't go because the same time the tournament was starting, he had therapy. Aunt Cissa made it clear if he went against any of the conditions she set, she'd revoke the summer visitation.
"Wish I could too," Sirius said. "Maybe I can-"
"Sirius."
He smiled innocently, a mischievous gleam shooting through his eyes. "You know what they say, kiddo. Strays always turn up at the strangest places."
"Sirius."
Sending Harry a wink, Sirius flipped the next page of his paper and switched his whistling tune to Dead or Alive to Stairway to Heaven.
The journey to the tournament was longer-far more than Harry expected. Ron and his family along with Hermione picked him up at Grimmauld Place before eight, and they used the portkey that took them through various stations and stops before reaching the woods where participants and fans were camping out, running into new and familiar faces.
Like a member from the Ministry who butchered a newly-intern Percy's name as he served him tea, failing to improve him. Seamus and Dean who were rooting for the Ireland team, decked out in various shades of green. Cho Chang, pretty as always, with a group of friends. Even Cedric Diggory and his dad.
Fred and George weren't too friendly with him at first, still sore over his win at the last Quidditch game where he got the snitch while Harry was swarmed with dementors. Harry, though, didn't hold a grudge.
Cedric, good-looking with his auburn hair and light gray eyes, was a nice guy who was friendly with everyone, even those outside his house. His dad though…
"Imagine," the man grinned. "You actually gained the upper-hand over Harry Potter. It's a great story to tell your grandkids."
Harry bit his lip to hold in a groan. Cedric shot him an apologetic smile and shrugged, as to say, Dads? What can you do?
Right after Harry and his friends stopped by the shops, nearly clearing out their pockets by buying trinkets and shirts and posters, Mr. Weasley led them into the woods, following the lantern-lit trail. They could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around, shouting and laughing, catching snippets of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was highly infectious Harry couldn't stop grinning. They walked through the wood for minutes, talking and joking, until they emerged on the other side and found themselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium.
"Seats a hundred thousand," said Mr. Weasley, taking in the awestruck looks on their faces. "Ministry task forces of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling charms on every inch of the place. Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all year, they've suddenly remember urgent appointments and dash away again…bless them," he added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.
"Prime seats!" said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. "Top box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go."
The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through the doors into the strands to their left and right. Mr. Weasley's party kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goalposts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Harry, filling up the first two rows, looked down.
He felt like he was nine again, bathed in the sweet excitement thrumming in the air like the beat of a drum. A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light which beamed from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them, almost at Harry's level, was a gigantic blackboard with advertisements dashing across it in golden writing.
"Ladies and gentlemen…welcome!" Ludo Bagman's voice boomed throughout the stadium. "Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to their racket. The huge blackboard opposite them wiped clear of its last message and showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce the...Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.
"I wonder what they've brought," said Mr. Weasley, leaning forward. "Aaah!" He suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. "Veela!"
"What are veel-"
A hundred veela were now gliding onto the field, answering Ron's question for him. Harry saw the pictures from Draco's strange books, but it was different seeing them in person. For one, the Veela entering the field were women…the most beautiful women Harry had ever seen…except they carried no wings like the man from the books. Power practically oozed from them. What made their skin shine moon-bright like that? Or their white-gold hair fan out behind them without wind…but the music started, and Harry stopped worrying. The Veela started to dance and Harry's mind had gone completely, blissfully blank. All that mattered was that he kept watching the Veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible things would happen...
No, that couldn't be right and yet in that moment it seemed the God-honest truth. He needed to keep watching them. Needed to get closer.
"Harry, what are you doing?" Hermione's voice sounded miles away.
The music stopped. Harry blinked. He was standing up, and one of his legs was resting on the wall of the box. Next to him, Ron was frozen in a position that looked as though he was he were about to dive from a springboard.
Angry yells filled the stadium. The crowd didn't want the Veela to go. Harry was with them.
"The Great Defender of the Wizarding World falls prey," Ginny grinned, suddenly beside him. "to the power of beautiful, siren-birds."
Harry playfully knocked his shoulder into hers, causing a stream of giggles to flutter from her mouth.
After Ireland mascots, an army of leprechauns, drifted down onto the field on the opposite side from the Veela and settled themselves cross-legged to watch the match, the team members were announced. Each clad in their national colors, zooming through the stadium on their Firebolt brooms. When Victor Krum zipped through, the audience set off the place with screams and cheers. He was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an ever-grown bird of prey. It was hard to believe that he was only eighteen.
The referee strode onto the field, a small and skinny wizard with a thick mustache that reminded Harry of his estranged uncle Vernon. The man mounted onto his broom and flew high till he was close to Harry's level. With a sharp blast of his whistle, he released the balls into the air.
"Theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey're off!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"
It was Quidditch as Harry had never seen it played before. The speed of the players was incredible-the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to the one another so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names.
"TROY SCORES!" roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. "Ten zero to Ireland."
"Foul!" Ron cried.
"Levski's got the Quaffle!" Harry yelled.
""Honestly, you two." Hermione rolled her eyes as Troy did a lap of honor around the field.
Harry knew enough about Quidditch to see that the Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appeared to be reading one another's minds as they positioned themselves. The rosette on Harry's chest kept squealing their names: "Troy-Mullet-Moran!" Within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters.
The match soon turned in a faster, more brutal pace. Volkov and Vulchonov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were whacking the Bludgers as hard as possible at the Irish Chasers, and were starting to prevent them from using their best moves.
Penalties were soon delivered to the players, more so to Ireland than Bulgaria, which caused an uproar with the audience, and soon one among the mascots. The leprechauns rose into the air, and this time, they formed a giant hand, which was making a very rude sign at the Veela across the field. At this, the Veela lost control. Instead of dancing, they launched themselves across the field and began to throw what appeared to be fire at the leprechauns.
Watching them through his Omnioculars, Harry saw that they didn't look remotely beautiful now. On the contrary, they were frightening, their faces were elongating into sharp, cruel-beaked birds heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders-
"And that, boys," Mr. Weasley yelled over the tumult of the crowd. "Is why you should never go for looks alone."
Harry winced as he saw one of the Veela's beaks clamped down on a leprechaun's arm, its formerly breathtaking face wildly animalistic and twisted in rage. A familiar blond flashed through his head. Is that what Draco's face will look like if he carried the gene, if he got mad enough?
Ministry wizards were flooding into the field to separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little success. Meanwhile, the pitched battle was taking place above was just as crazy. Harry turned this way and that, staring through his Ominioculars, as the Quaffle changed hands with the speed of a bullet.
"Levski-Dimitrov-Moran-Troy-Mullet-Ivanova-Moran again-Moran-MORAN SCORES!"
But the cheers of the Irish supporters were barely heard over the shrieks of the Veela, the blasts now firing from the Ministry members' wands, and the furious roars of the Bulgarians. The game recommenced immediately; now Levski had the Quaffle, now Dimitrov-
The Irish beater, Quigley, swing heavily at a passing Bludger and hit as hard as he could towards Krum, who didn't duck quiet enough. It hit him full in the face.
There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum's nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, but the referee didn't blow his whistle. He had become distracted, and Harry couldn't blame him. One of the Veela threw a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.
Harry wanted someone to realize that Krum was injured. Although he was supporting Ireland, Krum was the most exciting player on the field. Ron obviously felt the same.
"Ah, come on. He can't play like that, look at him-"
"Look at Lynch!" Harry yelled.
For the Irish seeker had suddenly gone into a dive.
"He's seen the Snitch!" Harry shouted. "He's seen it! Look at him go!"
Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on… but with Krum right on his tail. How he could see where he was going, Harry had no idea. Flecks of blood were flying through the air behind him, but he drawing level with Lynch now as the two hurtled towards the ground again-
"They're going to crash!" Hermione shrieked.
"They're not!" Ron roared.
"Lynch is!" Harry yelled.
And he was right-for the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately trampled by a horde of angry veela.
"The Snitch, where's the Snitch!" bellowed Charlie, along with the crowd.
"He's got it-Krum's got it-it's all over!" shouted Harry.
Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, was rising gently in the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand.
The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170 across the field. For a moment, silence fell over the crowd, taken back what just happened, what they've seen. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight.
"IRELAND WINS!" Bagman shouted, who like the Irish, seemed to be taken back by the end of the match. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH-BUT IRELAND WINS-good lord, I don't think any of us were expecting that!"
"What did he catch the Snitch for?" Ron bellowed, even as he jumped up and down, applauding. "He ended it when Ireland was a hundred and sixty points already, the idiot."
"I think it was a daring move," Hermione argued with a glare. "One that should be applauded for."
"I'm surprised you actually knew what was going on with the way you making goggle-eyes at the bloke."
Her glare intensified as blood filled her cheeks.
"He knew they were never going to catch up," Harry shouted over all the noise, applauding just as loudly as his friends. "The Irish Chasers were too good. He wanted to end on his terms, that's all."
"Which, I repeat, is a daring move," Hermione said. "One that should be applauded for. Praised."
"Then enjoy applauding and praising from your one-woman band, Hermione." Ron commented, then winced as the girl swung a hard punch at his arm.
"He was very brave, though, wasn't he?" Hermione leaned forward to watch Krum land as a swarm of Medi-Wizards blasted a path through the battling veela and leprechauns to get to him. "He looks a terrible mess."
"And yet, you're still drooling."
Hermione punched Ron again on the same arm, twice as hard.
The Bulgarians were too dejected to help their injured teammate, sullen and annoyed, like the Slytherins were when the Gryffindors won the House Cup. The Irish players, on the other hand, were climbing on top of each other, laughing, crying, cheering, celebrating as wildly as their fans were.
Minister Fudge carried the dazzling World Quidditch Cup Trophy over to the field, lines of annoyance still fixated on his face after discovering that the European official he was trying to translate for spoke perfect English but enjoyed seeing the man act the fool. Fudge tried not to let his annoyance show, plastering on a smile as he stepped onto the platform. The Irish captain and two of his teammates followed him up to claim their prize.
But before they could touch the trophy, a clap of thunder banged against their eardrums.
"What the…" Ginny said, staring up at the sky with wide, bewildered eyes.
Rightfully so. The clear, blue sky was changing rapidly as rolls of thunder erupted, its loud clap making people in surprise. The beautiful sun and clear blue were being devoured by thick, dark clouds that cast the stadium into semi-darkness. Confused mutters and clatters of noise sounded through the place, then mutters heightened to screams as a lightning bolt shot across the sky, heading straight for the platform, narrowly missing the Minister by an inch.
One bolt followed by a series of other lightning bolts that shot from the sky, coordinated with specific targets. One that hit the bickering mascots, breaking the two apart. One that hit lower section of the auditorium, narrowly missing the front row. Another that hit the infirmary tent, forcing the Medi-Wizards to scatter. Each bolt more powerful than the last, igniting a fire that spread panic among the crowd as they scrambled for cover.
"What's happening?!" Ron yelled.
"No idea!" Harry yelled back.
"It doesn't make sense," Hermione said. "The weather reports said clear sunshine."
"Well clearly the reports and Mother Nature aren't seeing eye-to-eye." Ron snapped.
Harry wasn't too sure if it was Mother Nature behind this. The power, the aura pulsing from the sky. The pattern of the thunder and lightning were off. It was all off.
His train of thought was interrupted by a burst of pain, pain radiating from his head. From his scar that burnt like fire as he hesitantly touched it, hissing in pain.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice sounded far away, fuzzy almost, as if he were drowning underwater.
"I-"
Another lightning bolt, the size of several bolts combined, shot right at their row, right at them. Harry and his friends ran. He could feel the electricity sizzling through the air behind him. Heard a scream-
Harry stole a glance over his shoulder. The wall that had protected them from falling over was crumbled ash, its burnt pieces falling onto the ground, along with Ginny who lost her footing.
"Ginny!" Harry reached forward and dove, managing to catch her just in time. Grunting, he held onto both her arms and pulled with all his might. As soon as she was secured, Ginny clutched onto Harry as she was pulled back onto the box, trembling. He tried to sooth her by stroking her hair as he chanted, "It's okay, it's okay, you're alright."
"Look!" Ron shouted, pointing.
Harry followed the direction of that pointing finger.
Streaks of lightening, this time bright green and glittering, came together, forming a colossal skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, the skull rose higher and higher, growing, blazing in a haze of green, etched against the dark sky like a new constellation.
The stadium erupted with screams.
"What the bloody hell is that?!" Ron shouted.
Hermione placed a shaky hand on Harry's shoulder. Her voice quivered in fear as she asked, "Harry, is that what I think-"
Trembling just as fearfully as Ginny, Harry nodded once, confirming her suspicions.
Harry knew that mark, could remember it from countless reading of his DADA textbook. It was a mark that only the darkest wizard ever dared to use, a mark that made Aurors, and even Minister Fudge, tremble. A mark that rapidly spread fear and panic among the crowd like a plague.
Voldermort's mark.