Thank you, BlackPhoenixI!

Updating: So... I have three chapters of this fic left to write and ten left to post. The content gets progressively newer content. Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing the end fic will be between 50-60k. The rapid fire updates are thanks to all the reviewers who have taken the time to respond, thank you!

Chapter 5 - Chains and Flames

Harry had no sooner entered the ring than he was accioing his broom, preparing himself to play chicken with a dragon.

Harry had only ridden a dragon a few months ago, yet looking at the Horntail now… he had forgotten how big and how angry the female was. He almost wished he had a better plan, but it wasn't like he could talk to the dragon.

His other idea had included casting disillusionment charms and aversion spells that he had been using since camping with Hermione. That had been the key to tricking and misleading the dragon with distraction. Except, he had gotten the bloody Horntail, again.

The wait for his broom was agonizing, and the Horntail was already spitting flames at him. On the plus side, it reminded him what her range was.

His broom finally came to his hand and he hopped it, taking to the skies like a fish to water.

An illusion of confidence and security came over him. In the air, he was in his element, the winds pushed and pulled at him like friends welcoming him home.

He dived, he swerved, he did things that defied gravity, which was the general idea of flying to begin with. At times the flames got too close for comfort, but he was able to lure her slowly, precariously, away from her nest.

He didn't think, he didn't envision, he just acted. He dove, caught hold of the golden egg then shot straight up.

His heart rejoiced once he reached a safe altitude, the height at which he knew her flames couldn't hurt him.

He was safe. He'd won. He'd done it.

His triumph was short lived, because he was wrong. He was terribly, terribly mistaken.

It wasn't that he had miscalculated the distance and reach of the flames, it was the dragonologists who had miscalculated the strength of the chains.

Harry couldn't understand why he heard it, the sound of metal cracking like a split stone. He hadn't heard the roar of the crowd or his own ragged breathing, but he heard the metal give. And while his mind didn't inform immediately as to what had happened, his gut did.

This hadn't happened the last time.

The dragon rose up off the ground, her wing beats changing the currents of the air. She got to eye level with him, the look in her amber gaze chilling him to his core.

He knew two things; he was going to die, and she was going to take her time killing him.

She stuck him from the side with her snout, propelling him toward the ground.

It took all his concentration and skill to hold onto his broom to attempt to control his descent. A freefall from this height would be it.

He landed hard on the stony ground, far from the nest. He had dropped the egg somewhere along the way but he didn't care. His broom had snapped in half when he crashed. He got to his hands and knees, fighting against the bruises and sprains to get up, to run.

He heard her behind him, he wouldn't be fast enough. He wasn't fast enough. He rolled to his back and in a desperate attempt to spare himself from the heat rushing toward him, he threw up a shield. He threw everything he had into that shield.

Some of the flames reached him before he finished shouting the spell, "Protego!" So that Latin finished on a scream, only as the last syllable left his lips did he realize it wasn't in Latin at all, but Parseltongue.

He didn't have long to mull it over as the pain from the dragon registered. The pain was blinding, licking up his torso, Hermione's flame retardant spells sparing only the cloth that hadn't been directly hit.

He didn't allow himself to blank out, he used the pain to fuel his spell. He poured energy into his shield just as he had done when facing an army of Dementors. He would not die without putting up a fight.

The next rush of flames heated the stones beneath him but didn't break his shield. It gave him hope, and Harry pushed more power into the spell. He couldn't imagine what Hermione would go through if he didn't survive this.

Along with all the people who had come to support him today.

He had survived everything else, he wouldn't end here. Not yet.

Harry went into somewhat of a stupor, his mind emptying of thought and fear as he kept his magic flowing. His magic felt like a living thing inside him, surrounding him. Like a northern wind, cold and steady. Focusing on it kept the pain from the burns at bay, though it pressed on his consciousness like a storm of approaching bees.

He watched in a detached manner as lights flew at the dragon. He didn't quite hear her roar of fury, but he felt it in his bruised bones.

That bit of physicality brought with a decision of the pain, so close to the feeling of the torture curse that it was nauseating.

He almost didn't hear the dragon hiss, You dare chain me!? You dare to touch my young!?

Harry frowned, the pain receding at his consternation, and likely his body entering into shock.

Dragons could speak?

If he had been more himself, he would have laughed out loud. Of course, I'm a parselmouth, I could have just talked to her.

He hated just about everyone in that moment.

Why did humans play such stupid games for entertainment, for glory?

He didn't want eternal glory.

The world seemed to go quiet.

Dimly, Harry noticed Ron pounding on the bubble of his shield with a fist. His voice came from a faraway tunnel. Ron was telling him it was safe now, and that he needed help.

Not Ron, he realized after a moment, Charlie. It really shouldn't have been an easy mistake to make, aside from the hair and general paleness they didn't look that much alike.

Then Dumbledore was knocking on his shield, "It's safe, my boy. Lower your shield."

Harry didn't know why, but he strengthened his wards against the Headmaster. Dumbledore and his secrets had gotten him here. The games this man played with others lives.

With their hearts.

For Harry had loved Dumbledore, he had been Harry's true north, his hope in a dark and uncertain world.

He was only now beginning to understand what the loss of that illusion had cost him. It was like the death of a star, a rewriting of his fundamental understanding of the world. It wasn't simply doubt, but mistrust.

You didn't make children into martyrs, you didn't allow a war to be fought by children on school grounds. That was not something a good man did or allowed.

Hogwarts was supposed to be safe, Dumbeldore was supposed to be wholly good. But it wasn't, and he wasn't.

All men were flawed.

Harry couldn't rely on the Headmaster anymore. All he had left was Snape because to no other would Harry willingly share these burdens with.

Hermione had lost everything, her family, her freedoms had been tortured because Harry had failed to keep her safe.

Harry wouldn't let that happen again, he would protect them. He would protect them all.

People were still pounding on his shields, he saw Snape and McGonagall coming and he almost let go. Almost allowed himself to slip away from the pain lighting up along his side. He readied himself to let the magic fuelling his shield, knowing that the moment he stopped, he would pass out.

But then Dumbledore raised his wand at him and Harry braced himself, pulling on the last of his reserves, giving everything he had to the shield protecting him from the outside world.

It was irrational, but his distaste of Dumbledore didn't come from fear of him, but the betrayal. The lies, the broken trust.

In the knowledge that the man who had been his hero, who he had loved as a grandfather, had used that love to manipulate him.

Harry would have died for Dumbledore, had died for him, if he had only asked. If he had only been honest with him.

Believed in him enough that Harry would do the right thing regardless of when he discovered the truth.

Harry had been loyal to Dumbledore, but Dumbledore's own loyalties lied in his own intelligence and games, not anyone else.

When the Headmaster's magic shattered Harry's spell, Harry felt as if his heart were being torn apart, the air stolen from his lungs.

For a moment he was without; without life, without power, and something dark and malevolent on the other end of an unknown tether was suddenly weighted. He saw Voldemort in his mind, young and handsome, only a few years older than the boy from Riddle's Diary.

Voldemort screamed, and Harry realized that their fates were still very much tied together.

Neither can live while the other survives.

Harry knew somehow he would feel when Voldemort died this time around, the magic that had pieced Tom's soul back together, that had birthed into a new body of an old form, was in fact the same power to bring Harry's soul back in time.

Like their wands, they were brothers. To hurt one was to hurt the other.

It did not necessitate that they would die together. But here and now, Harry realized he had a choice, would continue to have this choice, if he wanted to live, if he wanted to continue being tethered to this life, his own body and not Voldemort, he needed to choose it.

Or perhaps he could choose to kill them both, again.

Don't you dare, Potter! Voldemort hissed into his mind, shoving them both back toward their own bodies.

For a fraction of a moment, he saw himself from a distance. His body frail and pathetic against the stones. A ghastly blacked and red wound on his stomach and along his right arm. His emerald eyes were empty behind the soot smeared glasses.

He could leave, now, he could let go-

No! Voldemort wailed and gave another almighty shove of power, the force of it resonating through Harry's soul and then like a crater striking Earth, he jolted back into his body. He felt his scar burst open as if someone had taken a knife to his forehead and sliced down his face.

Air came rushing back; breath, life, and the blissful release of unconsciousness.

One thought followed him into that painless sleep, Did Voldemort just save my life?

When Harry woke up -surprisingly, he was in the hospital wing -unsurprisingly. Madame Pomfrey fussed over him and the hand holding his shook.

He turned his head to the side and saw Hermione, her cheeks streaked with tears.

"Oh, Harry."

"I'm-" he began thickly, he felt so tired, "'m okay…"

She burst into a fresh wave of tears, pressing her forehead to his hand.

"I'm okay, 'Mione," he tried again, sounding only a little less addled. "I'm okay."

She didn't look up or let go of his hand. The best he could manage was squeezing her hand in return, his entire right side was lost under a mass of bandages. So was half his face for that matter. He wondered why his glasses had been left on.

He couldn't blame Hermione for her reaction. He was okay -because he was currently alive.

But remembering what had gotten him into this cot... he was pretty certain that for a moment there, he hadn't been okay.

He was pretty sure he had died.

"You could have died," Hermione breathed, looking up at him, her voice sounding clearly than his.

"That wouldn't have been good," he said, eyes flicking shut. He needed sleep. But he continued talking to Hermione, it was the least he could do. "That would have ruined the whole Boy Who Lived story I had going."

She mock slapped his uninjured arm. "That isn't funny."

He smiled, which hurt his face.

"Let him sleep, Ms. Granger," Pomphrey called, "Or I must insist you leave."

"I'll be here when you wake up, Harry."

"Thanks 'Mione," he whispered as he gave up the fight against drifting back to sleep.

What had happened to Harry had brought home to Fleur that they really could lose their lives in this competition.

Even in tasks not designed to kill them, there could be mistakes.

In Harry's case, it hadn't been any fault of his that the dragon had broken loose. Had she been in his place she would have died. Her magic could not have held off a fully grown dragon slamming her magic-repellent body against her shields.

She wondered how much he remembered about the attack. She wondered what he would think of the extension of his scars.

If defeating the Dark Lord as a baby wasn't enough to make him a legend, then yesterday would have cemented his title as the Boy Who Lived.

AN: What did you think of Harry's tango with the Horntail?