Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling.

Chapter 17 - Gave My Love to a Shooting Star

Sharp pain in his arm jerked him awake, head throbbing. Harry looked up groggily, realising he was in a standing position. His arms chafed against a rope as he tried to move, slowly remembering the predicament he was now in. Something was uncomfortably caked just above his eyebrow, all the way to his temple.

"Quick, you idiot!" a voice hissed from nearby.

"Y-yes, my lord," another stuttered through whimpers.

Harry's blood ran cold as he recognised the voice.

Peter Pettigrew.

He squinted in an attempt to see what the large black object in front of him was, a small form being dropped into it. Several dark blurs circled it, muttering lowly. Looking to his left, he saw what he could only guess to be a row of headstones.

"Get his glasses, the boy should see it," a third voice rasped out.

A hot, viscous liquid ran down his left forearm, dripping off his fingers. He tested the restraints. The arm tingled uncomfortably in protest - were it not throbbing, Harry would think it had gone to sleep.

His glasses were shoved onto his face, one of the temple tips catching him in the eye momentarily. Harry refused to flinch, pressing his eyes shut tightly. He was already testing the rope on his other side, ignoring the chafing sensation. Somehow, he had to get his wand back.

A scream tore through the air, forcing his eyes open. They adjusted to the low light slowly, and what he saw did little to assuage his worries. Pettigrew was missing his forearm, the stump hanging limply by his side. Crimson began to spurt from it in bursts, coating the wall of the oversized cauldron next to him in blood. It was placed in the middle of a clear patch of grass, the graves surrounding them like the walls of an arena. Terror began to take hold as he watched the man writhe slowly on the ground.

The bubbling of a cauldron increased dramatically, the white liquid threatening to overflow. It hissed, and then a pale curtain of steam burst outwards. Whatever it was, it did not bode well for him. Harry prayed that the cauldron would explode, or that whatever they attempted would fail. The sudden silence gave him hope, Pettigrew's faint sobs the only noise filling the graveyard.

"Robe me."

It was a familiar voice. One that he'd heard a few times, but couldn't quite recall where. The realisation slammed into him as the steam cleared.

Glowing red eyes stared back at him. The slits, in place of pupils, slowly dilated, becoming unnaturally wide. His skin was leathery, looking as if it was pulled too tight over the skull it sought to conceal. He drew breath through two thin holes above his mouth rather than a nose, chest expanding through his robes as he inhaled deeply. He stood taller than Harry by a fair margin.

"Harry, Harry, Harry… Potter," Voldemort drawled, his slow grin revealing a horrifying set of teeth. "We meet again."

Harry refused to let his eyes leave the tall, thin man before him. If he could be called a man at all. In his peripheral vision, Harry saw the other figures rise from tending to Pettigrew, and then take up various positions in the circle.

"The 'Boy Who Lived'," he continued, gesturing grandly as he spoke. "Quite a title for an infant."

Voldemort fingered the pale wand in his hand carefully.

"Not very talkative, are we?" he taunted. "That is… easy enough to remedy."

"Crucio."

It was said cheerfully, but the experience was anything but that.

Harry couldn't even feel the rope biting into his raw skin as he writhed against the bindings, body completely tensed. He tasted something rich in his mouth, but it was immediately overpowered by the excruciating agony of the spell. His skin felt like it was slowly being torn from the bone and muscle it rested upon.

The spell ended suddenly, leaving Harry disoriented and unaware of how much time had passed. He'd bit through his tongue but had somehow managed to avoid screaming, seeing spots when he tried to refocus on the figure before him.

"That just won't do, will it?"

Voldemort's silky voice gave him little time to react, as the pain immediately started up again, this time amplified further. Harry wasn't able to stop himself from screaming, his throat raw when he was able to slump back against the ropes that had kept him in place.

"There we go. Happy, Harry?" he asked casually. "Barty, come."

As he gained his bearings again, Harry was seething. Rage bubbled inside him like it never had before. A rushing sound filled the air. He looked up to see that at least a dozen cloaked figures had filled in most of the gaps, forming a semicircle. The black-garbed forms contrasted starkly against the pale tombstones behind them.

"Welcome, welcome all. Today, you shall witness the start of a new era," he started in a dignified tone, inspecting his robes. "Some of you have been faithful, others not. My true followers are serving time in Azkaban, having been loyal enough to not renounce their service of our cause."

Voldemort gave several of the figures a deliberate look.

"No matter, we shall deal with it after," he said, but only after a moment of tense silence.

Anxiety seemed to radiate from the assembled group, pungent enough even for Harry to detect it.

"So, no response?" Voldemort prompted, turning back to Harry. "Quite impolite. Let us teach you some manners first."

The bindings fell away, and Harry caught himself on his hands and knees, the strong scent of damp, dewy grass filling his nose. Standing was an effort, but he forced himself up.

"Throw him his wand," Voldemort commanded.

"But, my lord, are you sure?" someone asked from behind him.

"Do you dare question me?" he hissed angrily as he turned, the sudden shift in demeanour taking even Harry by surprise.

"N-no, my lord."

His wand fell at his feet. Harry bent to pick it up, his arm and back burning at the effort. His anger overrode the protesting muscles. The wand was smooth and cool in his palm, providing him with some semblance of immediate comfort.

Harry stood on edge as Voldemort waved his wand in a peculiar motion through the air. The gravestones surrounding them expanded and lengthened, filling in the gaps between them and forming an uneven white wall too high to see over.

Ironically, it now felt remarkably similar to the first task of the tournament. Only now, the stakes were infinitely higher.

"Have you ever duelled, boy?" Voldemort asked.

Meeting his gaze again, Harry stared dead at him, refusing to avert his eyes.

Voldemort sighed dramatically.

"We shall have to begin at the first step, then. Proper etiquette," he enunciated, "requires both participants to bow. Bow, Potter."

Harry said nothing, channelling his fury into a venomous glare. He had little left to lose and refused to die on his knees. Fleur was safe, and that is what truly mattered to him. The wand twitched in his hand at the thought, as if ready to be unleashed.

He wasted no time as Voldemort raised his wand, sending off a chain of spells with lightning speed. Voldemort must've not expected such a move from him, failing to shield the first one and being punished with a gash on his cheek.

"Such disrespect," he hissed. "Your rightful place is in the ground, boy, with your mudblood of a mother."

His remark only fuelled Harry's emotions, the magic thrumming through him as his shield repelled Voldemort's counter-attack.

"Do nothing!" he commanded, quelling the surprised shouts that had risen amongst his followers.

Harry thought rapidly, the adrenaline in his system elevating his senses. He managed to quickly drop his shield and send back a curse, dodging the other incoming spells. They crashed into the headstone behind him as he rolled to the side, sending chunks flying.

He conjured a long dagger and sent it hurtling towards the taller man. Voldemort dodged it elegantly, but one of those behind him was not so lucky. It was not something he was entirely yet proficient with, but the dagger proved to be enough. They fell to the ground, clutching at their chest. Red was splashed over the pure white tombstone directly behind him, tainting the beautiful stone. The rest of the cloaked figures remained still, watching impassively.

"What would Dumbledore think of such measures?" he taunted. "No matter. If you're able to put an end to them, then they weren't quite so valuable. I shall have to thank you for thinning the herd."

Harry resisted replying, digging his feet into the damp soil as endless spells splashed against his shield. It faltered, with Harry redoubling his efforts as a gash of his own opened up on his shoulder. The skin stretched uncomfortably with each movement.

He knew Voldemort was toying with him, but wouldn't let himself be beaten down so easily.

"You're a magnificently dull opponent," Voldemort commented offhandedly.

The shield was dropped as Harry had to jump out of the way of an Imperious Curse. The sight of another Unforgivable prompted him to toy with the idea of upping the stakes, a plan slowly forming.

He'd never tried apparition but had read enough of the theory to think it was worth the risk. It was something taught in the sixth year, and he'd nearly mastered a selection of seventh-year spells for the tournament already.

Finding an opening was Harry's best bet. He just needed a moment. It was a long shot, and if his magic failed him, it'd be the end. Allowing a brief moment to accept the loss of the life he'd never been able to live, he braced for the inevitable.

Harry was again forced to dodge multiple curses, most of which he didn't even recognise. Voldemort's decades of experience were becoming more apparent by the minute, his stomach sinking as he found himself continually outclassed.

Another attempt at conjuring a dagger went poorly, his momentary lapse in focus nearly costing him part of his hand as a Cutting Curse rocketed past.

Sending back a Bone-Breaking Curse, followed by a Severing Charm and a banished tombstone that had been lying flat on the grass, Harry looked for an opening. His rage simmering just below the surface, he fought to see through the red haze that threatened to cloud his vision.

"Go on," Voldemort jeered, "let yourself be put down like a dog. Just like your father. I'll make it just as quick."

Just as Voldemort moved to flick the tombstone to the side, his view of Harry was obscured for a brief moment. He brought forth his raw hatred for the man before him, holding his wand up and and concentrating.

Harry felt the ridges around the base of the wand more prominently against his palm but thought little of it. They dug into his skin, giving the sensation that splinters were slowly embedding themselves in his hand. Ignoring it, Harry met the red eyes opposite him.

Avada Kedavra.

Green light burst forth from his wand, colliding mid-air with an identical stream from Voldemort. It made a sound like a cannon shot, green light arcing around them dangerously. His opponent's eyes widened considerably.

Ignoring the slickness around his wand, Harry willed everything he had into it, the base beginning to heat considerably. It was difficult to see, but Harry could vaguely make out where his and Voldemort's spell met, the beams of light crashing into each other like opposing tides.

He was emboldened by the look of concentration on Voldemort's face. Gone was any trace of nonchalance, the focused expression morphing into pure hatred. Harry refused to avert his gaze, staring into those terrifyingly red slits as steadily as he was able to with his wand vibrating in his hand, digging in deeper to the skin between his thumb and forefinger.

Light coalesced around their point of connection, suddenly touching the end of Voldemort's wand. The mask of rage faltered, a hint of fear flashing across the snake-like features. An orb of light ejected itself from Voldemort's wand, followed by several more. The cloaked figures looked on with their wands in their hands.

One lengthened before his eyes, stretching out into the spectral form of a younger woman who slowly floated towards him. It wasn't until he met her eyes that he realised just who it was.

"Mum?" he whispered with a tremor in his voice.

She nodded, her red hair bobbing as she did so. The colour was muted due to her transparent features, but undeniable nonetheless.

"You're doing so well Harry," she soothed, looking back to where their spells connected. "Just hold on."

It wasn't something he'd thought about before, but hearing the motherly affection in her voice caused his heart to throb painfully.

He was about to reply when he felt his wand sear his grasp, grabbing it with the other hand as well to stop himself from dropping it. Catching sight of a taller figure with dark hair and familiar glasses, he felt the air leave his lungs for the second time. It was the near-spitting image of him, except for the eyes. Sure, he'd seen him in photos, but they didn't compare to almost having the real thing right in front of him.

"Dad?"

He nodded, a small smile on his face.

"Yes, Harry. I-"

Whatever he said was drowned out by another loud bang from where Voldemort stood, wand still locked with Harry's. Panic filled him as the small bulge signifying their point of connection began to move back towards him.

His wand burnt his hand again, this time causing him to stumble slightly. He'd lost count of how many times it'd done so by now. Seeing Voldemort's triumphant look, face illuminated by the green light between them, Harry pushed as hard as he could. He was unsure he had anything left to give.

The wand began to jump and twitch in his grasp, like a trapped animal trying to escape. Harry tightened his grip further, ignoring the intense heat now burning his hand. It was beginning to cramp uncomfortably. However, just hearing his parent's voices, and this time not because of a dementor, had renewed his determination.

Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, Harry pushed back. The beam faltered for a moment, his wand stuttering in his hand. Bright light filled his vision.

He felt himself become weightless, a tremendous boom coming from somewhere in front of him. He tried to grip at the wand, but his hand closed around nothing.

Something gave way behind him as Harry flew through it. The wet ground then slammed into him, leaving him gasping for breath. He ached all over as he lay in the damp grass, staring up at the blurry night sky.. As much as Harry wanted to lay there and fall asleep, the bright stars overhead drew him in.

They shimmered brightly, a mixture of white and silver against a perfectly black backdrop. A brilliant streak caught his attention, the shooting star fizzling out into a small silver shower. Even if they just appeared like smudges to him, the colour was all that mattered.

It shined bright enough to make all else seem insignificant, with nothing to compare. The light always caught it so well, giving it a unique gleam he couldn't quite place. A sleek, metallic waterfall, always perfectly styled with not a strand out of place. He loved it.

Slowly, a smile stretched across his face. His cheeks were sore, but he couldn't prevent it, nor did he want to. It numbed his body pleasurably, the aches and pains receding.

Fleur.

It was the one place he wanted to be. Ignoring the distant voices, his smile grew as he imagined himself there. With her.

As he heard a shout, Harry closed his eyes, feeling himself become weightless once more. He suddenly felt as if he were being compressed.

The sensation was comparable to being squeezed through an impossibly tight tube, ending as quickly as it had started. Cool night air washed over his face again, the nausea fading. More shouts came from nearby but Harry didn't have the energy to acknowledge them, instead letting his body go slack and drifting off to a more peaceful place.


Fleur landed on her hands and knees, unable to process what had just happened. The Triwizard Cup dug into the skin of her palm, almost as if it were mocking her. She refused to believe it.

As cheers erupted, she could do little more than stare blankly ahead of her, vision blurred by tears. They trickled down her cheeks, with her powerless to stem the flow. Her limbs refused to respond.

It couldn't be.

The last thing she'd felt was the horrible sense of resignation and acceptance that had come from Harry as he'd sent the cup flying toward her. Fleur grasped desperately at the memory of the feeling in her mind, clinging to any trace of him, however minute.

Why?

Since the second task, they'd been in this together. As much as he was mature for his age, she was still the older of the two. It should be her stuck in that graveyard, not Harry. He'd already been tested enough. Did he not value his life as much as hers? Fleur knew of the upbringing he'd had, but surely that couldn't be the reason. Not unless he'd left something out.

Now she wasn't sure she'd ever know.

A fresh wave of tears cascaded down her face. Someone lightly tugged her up, the sounds of the crowd now unusually quiet. Whispers came from all around her as she stood, but refused to move. It was an effort to not sink to the ground and curl into a tight ball.

The mixture of anger and sorrow clawed at her insides. She leaned into the gentle arm that had come around her, but it provided little comfort. Fleur heard her father's urgent voice, full of concern, but didn't listen to any of the words.

An indiscernable amount of time went past before shouts from behind caused her to jerk out of her father's light grip, spinning around. Just a short distance away in the grass, a familiar tall form lay still. Her heart leapt into her throat.

Fleur rushed forward, coming to a stop on her knees beside him. With a trembling hand, she reached under his torn champion jersey and placed her palm over his heart, begging his closed eyes to open. Oddly enough, he had a faint smile on his lips.

A faint but steady beat beneath her hand led her to sag in relief. Fleur brushed back his windswept hair, some of which had become stuck in a patch of dried blood over his temple. It unnerved her how pale he was, his eyes still shut tightly. Two small rosy spots tinted both cheeks.

His glasses were nowhere to be found.

She gently drew him in and pressed her face into his shoulder, trying to ignore the turbulent emotions raging within. His light heartbeat thumped steadily against her body, one of her hands supporting his head and threading through the messy hair she'd come to love.

A touch on her shoulder gently drew her back.

"We have to get both of you to see a healer, my Flower."

Her father's quiet voice got through to her this time, and she acquiesced, allowing Harry to be taken from her embrace.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, Fleur trudged up to the castle. She refused to be more than an arm's length away from Harry, who floated alongside her on a stretcher. She was about to take his hand but quickly jerked away, moonlight illuminating what appeared to be a painful burn.

It was then that Fleur realised his wand was also missing. She hoped it was in one of his pockets.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a large, shaggy black dog slink into the group that had formed around Harry, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Amongst them was Dumbledore, who gave the dog a lingering look.

Her parents and Gabrielle walked behind her, all unusually silent and meeting her gaze solemnly as she looked back. Madame Maxine brought up the rear. The sudden black mood that permeated throughout the group matched the falling night all too well.

Ministry officials argued loudly in the distance as they attempted to follow, Ludo Bagman amongst them.

Entering the castle, their footsteps on the hard, marbled floors created an unsettling rhythm that rang through the corridors as they approached the hospital wing with the matron in the lead. Somewhere along their journey, the Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress joined them. She walked on the other side of Fleur, head held high. Her expression remained blank, although Fleur thought she saw a look of distress tugging her usually inscrutable countenance.

None questioned the dog she had recognised as Sirius as they entered the hospital wing. He trotted in silently, then darted towards the back corner.

The matron immediately sprung into action. Fleur recalled the last time she'd been here, and was beginning to truly despise the wretched place. Looking on with her family, she felt helpless, unable to do anything.

Fleur sat down on the bed next to Harry. She still had no idea what to think, torn between anger and concern. The matron removed the tatters of his champion jersey that remained, revealing a network of angry bruises and red skin. A laceration on his left forearm was immediately healed, leaving a pale line behind. The gash on his shoulder took several minutes to heal, but eventually closed up too.

Madam Pomfrey swore lowly after waving her wand around Harry multiple times. Shocked at hearing the matron use such language, Fleur saw Dumbledore inch forward from where he hovered, wearing a detached expression. She'd never liked the man anyway, especially not after the second task.

"What is the problem, Poppy?" Dumbledore asked.

"Mr Potter has prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. Please call for Severus."

She failed to stifle a gasp, clapping a hand over her mouth as her already-damp eyes welled up further.

"I'm afraid he is indisposed at this current moment," he responded gravely.

"Indisposed? What could be more important?" Fleur hissed at the Hogwarts Headmaster, wiping angrily at her eyes.

"I, too, would like to know," Madam Pomfrey snapped in something more than her usual brusque tone. "I'll have to hope that I have enough potion here."

Dumbledore sighed deeply, seemingly weighing his options. He glanced back at the doors, hearing the arguing Ministry officials drawing closer. Slipping his wand out, he sent multiple spells flying towards the door, locking it.

"Due to the delicate nature of what I believe to have occurred, I will be discussing it with you in private at a later date. Do you know what happened, Miss Delacour?"

"No," she snapped, "because Harry sent me back with the cup."

"I understand it may be distressing for you, but I must know," he placated. "One of my professors is currently missing, and one of my students has some rather serious injuries."

Fleur realised this was neither the time nor place to take out her many frustrations on the man. She reluctantly decided to comply in the meantime, but she still had a bone to pick with him over Harry.

The rest of the group gave her their undivided attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sirius slink underneath the hospital beds to lie beneath Harry's.

"We took the cup together, thinking it was a Portkey that would take us back to the start of the maze. Instead, we ended up in a graveyard. Harry didn't say why, but he knew something was wrong," Fleur said, pausing to gather herself.

"Harry pushed me down when he saw a spell coming towards us. I tried to move to a better position, not knowing that he still had the Triwizard Cup, nor that it was still an active Portkey."

She sniffled. Her father rubbed her back lightly from behind.

"I didn't know where he was, but the people who attacked us saw him, and headed for him. I think he tried to get to me with the Portkey. He didn't make it," she said tightly, her throat threatening to close up.

"What happened?" Dumbledore prodded gently.

"He shouted my name and sent the cup flying towards me. By the time I'd realised it was a Portkey, it was too late. I grabbed it, and I was gone," Fleur finished, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know why he did it, that silly boy."

She looked back to where he lay on the white linen, Madam Pomfrey treating the burns on his hands.

"We shall need to ask him when Poppy allows us to," Dumbledore commented, steepling his hands before him.

Loud knocks came from the door to the hospital wing, and Dumbledore left them to deal with the Ministry officials.

"I think I know," her father stated from behind her.

Fleur spun so quickly she felt she might have given herself whiplash.

"Know what?" she all but demanded.

His expression spoke of a deep regret that he was only beginning to realise.

"I asked him to look out for you."

Her anger reared inside of her, finally being given an outlet.

"You did what?!"

Her father nodded soberly.

Seeing that a few people had noticed her outburst, including Madame Maxine and the Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress, Fleur did her best to contain herself.

"I am an adult," she growled, punctuating each word with a light prod to her father's chest, "if anything, I should be the one looking out for him. Did you not see how he might interpret that? You might as well tell him that his life is worth less than mine. To get himself killed for me!"

Her father's face drained of colour as he understood the implications.

"It was a foolish thing to do," her mother said, "but I can't blame you for it, Sebastien."

"I'm sorry, I did not intend for it to be like this. I was worried," he explained.

With most of her sudden anger fading to the background at his sincere admission, Fleur felt a bit drained. She opened her arms to her father and took him in a light embrace.

"It's okay. I know you didn't mean it, I'm sorry," she mumbled.

Her mother made it a three-way hug, with Gabby also worming her way in soon after. Pulling back, her father gave her another once-over.

"You should lie down," he said, "the matron still has not yet taken a look at you."

She dutifully slumped back against the mattress, making eye contact with her younger sister.

Gabby had none of her usual enthusiasm, looking uncharacteristically morose. She looked past her toward Harry, eyes welling up.

Fleur wasn't sure just how ready she was to hear what he'd experienced to get himself here.

Her fury at his actions had slowly faded, a deep longing to see him healthy again overtaking the urge to berate.


A/N

Time for some credits - big thanks to my regular reviewers (you know who you are) as well as OfficeSloth and The Lone VA for letting me bounce some ideas off them and giving me some suggestions of their own.

I hope you've enjoyed this chapter - I am seeking to thicken the plot now that we've reached this point. I endeavour to keep things entertaining, please let me know if anything seems dry/boring/lacking plot or structure. Thanks all for the reviews once again.