A/N: Moody being attacked seems to be getting mentioned a lot. That's my bad - I didn't remember that the time of the attack was quite as clear as it actually was. I had thought it was more ambiguous, and decided to have it happen now. I'm not going to change it, so I suppose we'll have to see if the accidental change in timeline will have any more interesting consequences!
Stand Tall - The Rise of Harry Potter
Chapter III
The Quidditch World Cup
Dumbledore looked out across the majestic grounds of his school that stretched further across the beautiful Scottish countryside than most thought, absently stroking the crown of his phoenix familiar, Fawkes. It was a familiar, comforting action - one he took when he needed to contemplate difficult things.
For a good decade, that difficult thing was most often either Lord Voldemort, or Harry Potter.
The reason for his consternation at this moment, was Arthur Weasley's request to take Harry to the Quidditch World Cup, something that normally Dumbledore wouldn't have hesitated to allow - he had, in fact allowed it. The decision worried at his mind however. Times were growing ever darker, and the large portion of British wizarding society was wholly unaware. Bertha Jorkins, whose disappearance was being blamed on Sirius Black, was dead. Killed by Voldemort or Peter Pettigrew; the pair of which were now somewhere in Britain again, plotting a return for the most powerful Dark Lord this isle had seen since the days of the Founders themselves.
Severus' mark was beginning to burn anew, a surefire sign that Voldemort was recovering his strength, and the man had reported that those similarly afflicted were planning a move to show publicly that they were still loyal should their master return.
The Quidditch World Cup would be a prime target, and many of the Death Eaters who had escaped imprisonment were attending.
Really, Dumbledore should have forbidden it. Harry was safest at the Dursley's of course. Not the happiest, Dumbledore couldn't refute that, but definitely safe. But just how much misery was the boy expected to suffer thanks to Dumbledore's own decisions? All in the name of the greater good. The phrase still sounded like a curse to him, even after all this time, yet he couldn't deny it was a key philosophy by which he was forced to make decisions. Without Harry, the headmaster was positive they were all lost - but just how much was he going to suffer for their victory.
This would be far easier if in his place stood Grindlewald - a man who lived and breathed by the greater good. He would not be phased by Harry's suffering, it would simply be necessary.
Albus could never bring himself to think like that. Not for anybody who fought with him during the first war, and not about anybody now - even as he moved them about like pawns on a chessboard, even as he decided who must be sacrificed for a victory or advantage they desperately needed.
Dumbledore cared. About every single one of them. And so Harry Potter was going to the Quidditch World Cup, because despite the risks, Albus just couldn't find it in himself to deny him it.
Harry enjoyed Quidditch. It was fast paced, held a hint of danger, and gave him a rush that perhaps for most people that weren't him, was pretty unparalleled. But most importantly, he got to fly. Now that was where Harry's true passion lay. There was just something about flying that seemed to connect with him on a deep level. The wind rushing through his hair, pushing himself to go even faster - even more daring. The freedom. Yeah, flying was what really got Harry's motor running. It was why he enjoyed being a seeker. He didn't have to learn plays or positions, he didn't have to think about anything besides dodging bludgers and flying faster than the other guy.
So, in all honesty, he had very little interest in the Quidditch World Cup. All the same, he was excited to be away from the Dursleys, and more than excited to see an aspect of normal wizarding life he hadn't yet seen. The fortnight or so of reading he had done had been ridiculously informative, and surprisingly, incredibly interesting. The major effect it had in reality however, was letting Harry know in no uncertain terms how much he didn't know. It was perenially annoying to be a prominent figure in the wizarding world, and yet having no idea how it actually worked at all.
Two weeks couldn't fill in that gap, not by a longshot.
What he did know however, that he hadn't prior to him getting all those books from Sirius and Remus, was what a portkey was without having to ask Mr Weasley. It was an item enchanted to, when touched, transport those touching it to a pre-determined location. It was a wondrous piece of magic Harry thought privately, and a rather ingenious way to disguise an escape route.
The fact that this was the first idea he thought of for what to use a portkey for had only disturbed him a little.
Plus, anything that led to this motley crew consisting of the Weasley family, a Hufflepuff named Cedric Diggory, and the Puff boy's father all standing around a wellington boot in a field in Devon at midnight just had to be a good thing.
Cedric was a good sort - a shoe in for head boy, and had always seemed friendly enough from what Harry had seen of him. He had quite happily chatted away to him and Ron, despite the fact the pair were a fair bit younger, without seeming patronising at all. His father hadn't really paid any of them besides Mr Weasley any mind, and the two had spoken animatedly about some piece of legislation or other that involved both of their departments at the Ministry. This time, Harry not understanding didn't embarrass him - he was quite certain Ron didn't have a scooby either.
Speaking of his red-haired best mate, Ron hadn't managed to stop talking about Quidditch since Harry had arrived at the Burrow, and Harry was reasonably certain he had only stopped now because they were about to take a portkey to the Quidditch World Cup. Whilst Harry's true passion was flying, and Quidditch was just the way he got his fix for it; Ron's heart had Quidditch written across it in thick marker pen. In fact, Harry was fairly sure his blood ran orange, the colours of the 'mighty' Chudley Cannons, Ron's favourite team.
After a moment that Mr Weasley used to count that everybody was still with them (Fred and George were part of their retinue after all), he finally reached out to touch the boot, having instructed everybody to hold hands, so that they'd all be transported at once.
When he had Floo traveled previously, Harry had no preparation - no clue about how to remain upright, or how Floo travel felt. The consequence was him falling on his arse in a disturbing shop on Diagon Alley's 'bad side of town'. This time however was different. He had spotted a piece on portkeys in one of the books Remus had sent him and when he heard how they were travelling, he read up extensively. Often, inexperienced travellers will find themselves disoriented and fail to land on their feet. The trick is to retain a looseness in the knees, as if one was falling from a great height... Harry felt the described pull at his navel, alongside a slight touch of nausea that he was also prepared for as his group wizards were pulled from Stoatshead Hill to a largely 'deserted' moor in Dartmoor almost instantaneously.
"And Ireland score again - really, Krum is Bulgaria's only hope in this game. Of course, the Bulgaria chasers have to keep their side in the game or that to happen." There was a discernible wince from the crowd, and Harry actually heard Grogov's broom splinter as one of Ireland's beater sent a bludger clean through the tip of his broom handle and into his thigh, sending the heavy-set man spiraling at the ground. "But that isn't the way to do it! Byrne cleverly shields McCormack from view as the beater lined up his shot, and moves only when Grogov has no time to react! Brutal but effective! Bulgaria reduced to two chasers as Ireland attack again, and the Eastern Europeans ready one of their reserves..."
If that leg wasn't broken when the bludger hit it - it certainly was after the ground did.
Harry knew better than most how Grogov was feeling, having tasted this particularly clogged variety of dirt immediately after their portkey trip. Maybe I should have warned Grogov to keep his bloody knees loose. Apparently, there was more to portkey travel than loosening the knees. Normally, he would have taken the fall with good humour and a cleaning charm cast by Mr Weasley. Harry had thought he was prepared however - he had been confident, only to end up face first in a Devonshire bog anyway. That more than anything had soured the experience, even after Mr Weasley had taken him side to offer some encouragement and the knowledge that magical travel was largely just practice.
People fell all the time when they're first learning, he had said. What he hadn't said was that wizards tended to have most of their portkey mishaps at age five.
Still, Hermione had met them at the entrance to the site - her parents able to join in the festivities because of her status as a muggleborn - and her presence made the dealing with a game that wasn't particularly grabbing his attention but had seemed to ensnare the Weasleys a bit more easy. The Granger's seemed to be nice folks, both of them introducing themselves with enthusiasm, but they too couldn't keep their eyes off of the game, and Mrs Granger seemed to have a question for Bill or Mr Weasley who were closest to her every few minutes.
It was a weird mix, made decidedly weirder that they were being joined in their top box seats by the Minister for Magic, Fudge, and the entire Malfoy family. Tensions were high, restrained only by the fact that Mr Weasley and Malfoy's boss was sharing their box. Even Draco was on his best behaviour, barring what he must believe passed for a subtle smirk. It was a setting Harry hadn't been aware that they Malfoy scion had.
Still, Harry resolved to ignore them, and ignore them he did. Lucius did have a quick parting jab aimed at the Weasley's poverty, but this time the Weasley patriach held his temper - an example that the entire clan followed.
Harry had never properly considered Arthur Weasley. The man was a friendly, slightly eccentric parent, who seemed to leave most of the disciplining to his wife, preferring to be the voice of reason in any family disagreement. That said, he clearly possessed the temper that most of his sons seemed to carry - even the twins, in their own cheerfully unhinged manner. But, as they left the box to return to their tent, the scene wouldn't leave his mind. Ron had been fantastically seething and Harry had recognised the signs of an outburst well enough.
But one look at his father, and Ron had squared his shoulders and marched out behind the man, teeth grinding all the way. Even Bill and Charlie, men in their own right, had fought back their tempers at their father's example. Harry realised that, as quiet and unassuming as the man was, each and every one of his children respected him just as much as they did their mother.
As somebody who had never known his father, Harry couldn't help but wonder just what Arthur Weasley had done to warrant the respect that his sons had for him.
Suddenly, above the hubbub following Ireland's victory, a pillar of flame erupted about 100 feet away from their group - roaring to the sky as if Dartmoor had been the site of a volcano and nobody had noticed. Harry's feet were moving to obey Mr Weasley's sharp "the tent - now!" Before he had even registered that the man had spoken. It was lucky that he did. Barely a few more moments passed before the screams started, and Harry became aware that this was more than just a spell misfire or something accidental.
A look over his shoulder revealed pure chaos - people ran in all directions, and jets of light shot everywhere, igniting tents and sending debris flying. A searing bolt shot past Harry before he could react, setting a tent alight several paces from him.
He hoped to God nobody had been in there.
Suddenly, Ron went down, and he and Hermione instinctively paused to help their friend who had simply tripped. They pulled Ron to his feet and Harry's heart sank as he realised only Mr Granger had stayed with them and the rest of the Weasley's were nowhere in sight. He looked back, peering through the crowds and could make out something floating above several wizards wearing long, black cloaks. One was focused on what was above them, while the other two were firing the spells causing all the chaos.
Bodies. That wizard was floating bodies over their heads.
"We have to move. Ron, you good?" His best mate nodded, his face ashen having spotted exactly what Harry had.
"Where too though, Harry?" It was Hermione, but Harry knew they had no time to make a proper plan.
"Away from here, we stay and we're getting trampled or worse, now let's go - Mr Granger, stay close, you don't have a wand."
Harry darted off, his best friends and a muggle in tow, keeping low as best he could. Even as he moved, trying to plot a course for the woods, well away from the main line of fire, he could feel his anger start to simmer. Hundreds of wizards, and only a handful of people had them all running in terror. Not one person had stood against whoever it was that was attacking the campsite. Harry had been tempted, but knew full well that they were outmatched even without having somebody with no magic relying on them to get him away from here
"Haha! Over here boys - a muggle!"
A purple flash of light caught Hermione before Harry had any idea what was going on, and it was only instinct that allowed him to shove Ron out of the way of a second curse giving him a moment to get his wand. He fumbled, hand nervous, trying to get the thing out of his pocket and he felt an invisible force impact him heavily as he was banished backwards across the campsite.
"Now, now boy. We've no interest in harming our own. We've only come for the sport that has managed to slither in to this wizarding effect - levicorpus!" Mr Granger was violently jerked upside down, as if being strung up by his left angle, and the attacker in all black cackled wildly, his strange golden mask distorting his voice slightly. The man, twitched his wand, and Hermione's father jerked in the air before falling to the ground, the impact resulting in a sickening crunch. The man barely managed a gasping cry of pain before being hauled up again, and Harry could watch this no longer.
He surged to his feet having kept hold of his wand, and dashed towards the man, eyes narrowed. The man simply laughed again at Harry's actions, but was rudely cut off by the cry of "expelliarmus!" From the soon to be Fourth Year student. The man didn't even drop Mr Granger as he sidestepped Harry's initial attack; but was forced to as it was followed by two well cast reductor curses.
"You have power, boy, but it is no compensation for skill." The man in the mask snarled, as he swatted away the attacks with the tip of his wand, before snapping off a pair of curses of his own that were two differing shades of purple. Harry dodged the first, his reflexes sharp, but the second struck him on the thigh. Pain surged through his leg as if he had insects burrowing under his skin, and without warning his entire world flipped upside down. He was suddenly phenomenally disorientated, struggling to understand his new visual perspective.
He did however realise their assailant had turned back to find that Mr Granger was not where he had been left, and Ron had already levitated the man a decent distance away through Harry's distraction.
Triumph was short lived, as a second voice appeared from nowhere. "You always were too soft - anybody not marked by the master is an enemy to be punished - crucio!" Ron collapsed in a boneless pile, screaming violently through gritted teeth. Harry tried to stand, but his legs collapsed under his as he struggled to balance with everything upside down.
"Idiot, this was supposed to be-"
Whatever was being said was interrupted as something in the background bathed the landscape in a sinister fluorescent green, catching their attacker's attention.
"Whatever, leave them. That's our cue." The two disappeared, and Harry rolled himself in the direction of the glow, even as his scar began to faintly burn.
The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was a colossal skull, composed of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue; rising higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke.
"We never stood a chance."
"Of course you didn't, you idiot - you're 14." Harry loved that Sirius had managed to sneak himself into St. Mungo's to see him, as terrifyingly risky as it was, but his frankness was taking some adjusting to.
"But I couldn't even-" Sirius just cast a silencing charm on him, smirking victoriously at his Godson, a hint of the humour that he had been famed for returned to his face.
"What? Duel two experienced death eaters to defeat whilst protecting Ron and your friend's muggle dad? Really?" But then the man seemed to pause in thought for a moment before speaking again, his prior obnoxiousness absent. "Come to think of it, you probably do think you should have won. Dumbledore is a great storyteller you know. I imagine it must feel like after killing a basilisk and that patronus stunt last year, two wizards should be nothing."
Harry just stared back, sullenly - that had been his exact train of though. Between attempts at ignoring whatever hideous perfume charm that St. Mungo's had to cover the smell of sterility that all hospitals - magical or muggle - had.
"You've done some pretty exceptional shit Harry - I'd be insane to deny it. Think about it though - when have you ever gone wand to wand with another wizard? The things you've done, they're definitely amazing. You have incredible instincts, a good head on your shoulders, and the grits and guts to match. But death eaters are people that have fought a war, Harry. People that have spent a decade using their wands to fight and wreak havoc. You've got a fair ways to go in skill before facing that. Did you even recognise what the one at tagged you was throwing at you?"
Harry didn't have to answer, not really. He gaze just dropped down to his ivory sheets. The guilt he felt was insane. Hermione had gone down to something far worse than what he had been hit with in an ambush he had taken them right into. He hadn't been able to defend any of them, including himself, and what silence had come his way since he had woken up this morning was filled with the sound of his best friend screaming under a torture curse.
"Harry, you're going to get better. Before long, even death eaters will think twice before crossing wands with you - but you can't torture yourself over things you can't change. Use it instead. Let that guilt you feel drive you. When you feel like taking it easy, remember how this felt and use it to push you that little bit further. It's what me and your father did."
That drew his attention. "Really? He felt like this?"
"Kid, we fought in the first war. When we lost, people died - our friends and comrades. Me and James, well, we decided that we would do everything we could to not have to lose anybody we could have saved. I'd gotten bored of thinking 'what if I'd been a little better?'" The man sighed and paused, and even Harry could tell how difficult it was for him to talk about this. "The golden rule, Harry. No-one died, so you won. That's all there is to it. Ron and Hermione are still kicking; so even though your arses took a beating, you still won. Now all you have to do is work out what your mistakes were, and make sure you don't make them again."
Harry knew his only mistake really had been being an inexperienced fourteen year old. Voldemort was returning though, and this was the opening exchange in a war that had been dormant for most of his life.
That excuse didn't apply any more. Being completely honest - when had it ever?
