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Chapter VII — Flight of Icarus
"A paradox about the tale of Icarus, Harry, is that, even as his journey and ultimate fall caution us about the dangers of hubris, there's another message underneath—that if we dare to try, we can fly."
— Albus Dumbledore to Harry Potter.
Fleur is the only one inside the tent with me. She doesn't look well. Her skin is pale and she's fiddling with her wand nervously, stealing looks at the miniature of her dragon. Outside of the tent, the crowd roars and cheers as Bagman announces Krum's arrival.
I look down. The figurine in my hands is small but perfect. Black as night and with the same yellow, ghoulish eyes of the real Hungarian Horntail. As if feeling my gaze, the miniature snarls at me, his tiny, pointed teeth glinting.
"Screw you too," I say, freezing it with a wave of my hand.
"Excuse me?"
I raise my eyes to see Fleur looking at me with narrowed eyes.
"Not you-" I wave towards the Horntail miniature, "this critter here."
"Oh," she says softly, her expression relaxing.
Eager to distract myself somehow, I decide to keep talking.
"So, Fleur—can I call you Fleur?" She answers with a nod. "Good. If you excuse me… you're not looking all that up to arms now. Didn't you know about the dragons?"
"No, I knew beforehand, as I think you and Krum did," Fleur answers with no shame. "But it feels completely different to see one of them with your own eyes, though," she then waves toward the exit of the tent. "It's the waiting that's getting to me. This anticipation, the atmosphere…"
"I understand." I smile and she turns to me, her icy, blue eyes meeting mine for the first time. "Hell, I just want to go and finish it. I'm bollocks with anything involving patience."
Fleur gives me her full attention, then. "I thought you would be more scared."
"Because I'm a leetle boy?"
I grin at her. My words were devoid of any real heat, but I am glad to see her cheeks dusting with pink; just a bit, mind, but it's there. Fleur crosses her legs and gives me a small smile.
"I admit my words were hasty," she says, shaking her head. "After I had time to think and talked with a friend of mine, I understood. No leetle boy-" she pauses to give a lilting, clear laugh, "could have breached such enchantments. Especially enchantments wrought by such a wizard as Monsieur Dumbledore."
Now it's my turn to blush. "Really, it wasn't all that impressive."
"You underestimate yourself, Harry Potter," Fleur says, then she stares at me. "What are these abominable things you're wearing?"
"Oh, these?" I rap a knuckle on my vambraces. They're slim and the scales seem to shimmer in the sunlight. Made of dark green, the same color of the chest piece and the pants under my cloak. "Basilisk skin. Not all that common for armor, but hey, I'll take whatever advantage I can."
Fleur doesn't say anything for a second or two. The crowd is on overdrive outside as Bagman declares that Krum has completed his task. Even then, her eyes don't waver from me.
The intensity of her gaze is almost uncomfortable, but she's hot, so it's fine by me.
"Basilisk skin," she repeats, the words rolling from her tongue as she raises an eyebrow. "You are a most curious wizard. First, the Age Line, and now you somehow managed to acquire access to a Basilisk?" Fleur's smile is one of interest, now. "A man full of mysteries, indeed."
I blink, trying and failing to find the right words. "Call me Harry, please."
Before she can answer, however, Bagman's voice rings from the outside, calling for her.
"It's time, then," Fleur says, getting up and straightening her posture. Only the small tightening of the corners of her mouth shows what must be her real feelings. She then raises her chin and strides towards the opening in the tent—but pauses as I call her.
"Fleur?" I say, and she turns to me. "Good luck."
"Thank you." She seems to relax, even if only just, and gives me a dazzling smile. Not like those in the Prophet's photoshoot, but a small, real smile, one that looks much nicer to me.
Then she goes and I am alone. My wand sparks in my grip and I take another look at the dragon miniature, frozen in mid-snarl. My magic seems to be buzzing under my skin, yearning to be free, and I barely pay attention to Bagman's narration, my hands balling into fists.
The clock is already ticking.
"Here he comes," Bagman shouts, "our youngest champion, Harry Potter"
The noise from the crowd is nothing less than cataclysmic as I walk the steps up to the dais. My cloak billows on the wind, but I have no eyes for anything other than the dragon on the opposite side of the arena.
The arena is scattered with rocks, bigger than me and positioned to leave a large path in the middle. The dragon's bulk, though, still towers over them—it's a bloody Hungarian Horntail.
The miniature didn't do the real dragon justice. The Horntail peers at me from over its eggs as plumes of smoke escape from its nostrils. Its enormous wings are folded around it as its spiked tail gouges the floor, circling the nest.
The magic of the dragon burns hotter than any fire I've ever seen. Red and orange hues churn and twist around it in archaic shapes that express nothing but power. The magic coils as a spring around it, ready to unleash misery upon its foes.
Upon me.
Bagman's voice shakes me from my reverie. "It seems that Mr. Potter's stumped! What can we expect from our youngest champion, ladies and gentlemen? Even in his young age, Mr. Potter—"
It's the crowd, though, that gets to me. Catcalls and jeers cut through the air, feeling like acid in my ears; they're laughing at me. My eyes narrow and fury surges like bile up my throat—they're mocking me.
Hell, even the dragon's magic doesn't see me as a threat.
I spit on the ground.
Fuck them.
I raise my wand, cutting a line of fire through the air, and magic coalesces on the point. I reverse the grip, my entire body thrumming with power, and then I slam the tip onto the ground. There's a crack of a gunshot as a chain of gold and red extends from the tip through the ground and takes hold.
"My magic is my might," I whisper to myself, "and through magic, my will is."
I yank the wand up as if I'm pulling a heavy chain. The tendrils connecting my wand to the ground tense, and under my feet, a rumble of thunder shakes the arena. Like a monstrous heartbeat is resounding from deep inside the earth.
The dragon growls in alarm, its eyes narrowing.
"Come!"
A bead of sweat trails down my jawline as I push again. A sound reminiscent of a war drum echoes through the arena. The ground shakes and bulges outwards as I clench my jaw. Focus, Potter. Focus!
"Come forth!"
With a monumental heave, I push for a third time.
And the ground explodes.
From where I had buried it the night before, it comes. An arrival heralded by the pieces of stone and dirt falling around me like rain. A monstrous cranium rises through the hole, the sunlight shining upon it for the first time in many years. Its eye-sockets are empty and tethered to my wand as the strings controlling a puppet.
A cavernous, long, bone-white ribcage, notched with runes, follows the decayed head. The sigils I had engraved on the bones with a mixture of my blood and its own venom are brought into stark relief as it uncoils. The first stirrings of savage elation courses through me as its enormous body hit the arena. It makes the ground tremble.
My voice turns into a hiss. "Come forth, Basilisk!"
Not even Bagman dares talking as the monster rears to its full height, both great and terrible to behold. I stand tall, firming my feet and crunching some scattered pebbles under my boots, and point my wand to the beast.
"Anima Exedos Vitae—".
Magic explodes from the tip my wand and hits the monster, engulfing it in a cloud of crimson light. Inside the nimbus of power, it shudders. My modified Animation Charm seeps deep into its bones, like fingers gnawing to find the marrow within, and finds purchase through the runes. Hours upon hours of work dedicated to this.
The beast spasms as, guided by my spell, its magic cannibalizes itself. A thousand years of power now relegated to mere fuel as I will it. The runes on its head are set alight in a green light from within, a light that goes down the gigantic spine and ribs to the very the tip of the tail. The beast shudders again.
Then a bright green fire explodes on its eye-sockets.
"—Obey me!"
The skeleton measures to at least seventy feet, devoid of any meat or sinew and held together by unseen means. The ribcage scrapes the stonework of the floor as it slithers around me. The thing has had many names in the past. The monster of the Chamber of Secrets. King of Serpents. Salazar Slytherin's beast. Tom Riddle's pet.
Many names for a creature that was as old as Hogwarts itself before the Headmaster and I killed it.
In death, though, it has gained one last name—
"Master." It hisses. "Master..."
Harry Potter's Golem.
"Ladies and gentleman, I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't seeing with my own eyes! Harry Potter managed to summon a giant snake and he talked to it! Good grief, a Parselmouth! He's pulling no punches whatsoever—"
I catch the sight of familiar faces in the crowd, Katie almost digging her nails in her cheeks, Fred and George open-mouthed, some official-looking wizards looking at the scene with undisguised awe. Professor Dumbledore leaning forward. Sirius...
I smile. There's no one laughing anymore.
The Basilisk approaches, circling me, and I caress the underside of its cavernous maw in a mockery of affection. The dragon is following every movement, its growls a deep rumble from its chest, and the air is thick as thicker than concrete with tension.
My gaze then meets the Basilisk's burning eye-sockets. "Attack."
The Basilisk obeys.
It go right through the middle path and I run alongside it, letting the tip of my wand trail along the rocks. The dragon roars with such potency that my hair is blown in the wind and I skid to a stop before I can be in its range, pulling my arm back.
Then I punch forward.
Two heavy rocks shoot from the ground and through the air, both bigger than me and propelled by my spell. I grimace as a plume of fire meets them halfway, but it's enough to bring its attention to me.
And with its attention, comes the fire.
My Shield Charm springs around me, hastily done, but holds well enough as the flames wash around the surface. All I can see is fire and smoke as the dragon's breath starts to viciously consume my shield—It can't last. The heat is only building more and more.
But all I need to do is to create an opening.
The Basilisk seizes the opportunity and slams on the Horntail with the rumble of thunder, yanking its head to the side. The two beasts tumble onto the ground and I dismiss the Shield Charm, the acrid scent of smoke now wafting to my nostrils from the blackened, almost glassy, stone around me. The floor shakes and my steps falter as the two giants meet in battle—fire and flesh colliding with old bone and venom.
Then the dragon spits a column of flames on the Basilisk.
"Harry Potter's monster is under dragon fire! Dragon fire can melt almost anything—"
The Basilisk's magical resistance rang true, though, and its jaw clamps down onto the dragon's leg. The beast screeches with pain, its enormous, horned tail whipping around as it turns.
The tail comes down onto the ribs of the serpent with a horrible cracking noise, shattering it into pieces. I take a step back and, with a twirl of my wand, Flitwick's spell covers my left arm, and I raise it before my eyes. Just in time—the bone fragments clatter against the shield like rain.
My world is full of noise and wind as everything shakes under me.
Blood rushing in my ears, I come to a knee behind a rock and point my wand towards the stone floor, as gusts of wind sway the gravel around me. Split your focus as McGonagall taught you.
The ground ripples and bulges from within as I hold it with my will, going through the relations—stone—construction—pillars. I flick my wand forward and the bump under the terrain speeds towards the dragon, similar to how a parasite crawls under the skin.
I shout with defiance and pride so loud that my throat protests under the strain as I yank my wand upwards. The stone floor under the dragon shoots up with the rumble of a avalanche. A enormous tentacle of pure rock surges and snakes around the dragon's tail, pulling it down.
The rock constrains the tail so tight that the scales make a grinding noise against it.
"Merlin! Harry Potter has caught the Horntail's tail and isn't letting it go! Are you seeing this, Dumbledore? Our youngest champion is coming to blows with the biggest dragon of the lot!"
The dragon turns to me and opens its maw, trying to yank its tail free without success. For a instant, I see the glow of embers deep within and fire is all I have on my mind, building up from its throat and ready to engulf me, my entire world...
For a instant, I see myself burned to cinders—and I refuse it.
Roaring, I jab my wand onward and shoot a Blasting Curse right on its mouth.
Teeth and pieces of flesh scatter around as the power of my curse yanks the Horntail's head back. The Basilisk comes back with all the strength of a tidal wave, slamming its head on the dragon's—and then onto a enormous rock. Something cracks and the stone breaks in two, now splattered with blood and rolling out of the arena.
The dragon roars again and a chill runs up my spine. I roll and hide behind another rock, my thoughts getting sharper, clearer. The Horntail seems cautious now, with one side of its head squirting blood and constrained to a limited range of motion by its tail.
The Horntail is not finished, however, and stumbles back to its feet, belching flames on the Basilisk. I can feel the heat and even if the serpent's magic is still vast, I know it can't last forever. I close my eyes for a instant, taking a deep breath.
"He scared the dragon! The dragon is desperate, and this is not good! How will it—"
I need to end this.
And the ground is still under my control.
I get up and my clothes cling to my skin, drenched in sweat, while the only thing I can smell is smoke. Every muscle of my body feels tense, the next movement would break the stillness between us. I firm a foot on a piece of rock, my wand pointing downwards as the dragon flickers its head from me to the Basilisk repeatedly.
Now.
I roar as I raise my wand with both hands—and another pillar of stone shoots up from the floor. It slams on the dragon's maw so hard that teeth fly, clattering on the ground. The pillar follows my movement as I bring the wand down, arcing and crashing down on the Horntail's head.
I hold it down as the Basilisk hits the Horntail's side, toppling it with the strength of a earthquake. The serpent can use its full force now and its fangs find purchase, gouging the dragon's flesh. The Horntail roars even louder as the jagged bones of the skeleton shred the thin membranes of its wings and blood spray on the air.
"Potter's holding the dragon down! He's holding a full-sized Hungarian Horntail down!"
Blood and meat and broken scales rain down on me. I fall to a knee, pushing my wand down, maintaining the pressure, my teeth gritted together. The dragon claws carve deep trenches as it tries to wriggle itself free, and the strain of holding it hurt. I don't let go.
I can't let go.
The Basilisk then rises to its full size, and for a second, our eyes meet.
"Finish this!" I snarl.
The serpent comes down like the hammer of an angry god. It clamps its maw on the dragon's exposed neck and snakes its skeletal body around it. A symphony of cracks and crunching erupts as the the Basilisk's body constrict the wings. The dragon screeches, convulsing as if it suffers a seizure, but I still hold it down.
Blood gushes in rivulets from the Horntail's neck, staining the pearly white and cracked head of the serpent. But I keep holding it down.
Fire burns inside it's maw, but can't open its mouth and the flames squirts along the length of its jaw. The blood on the ground is bubbling and sizzling at the heat, but I keep holding it down with the stone pillar.
The Horntail convulses and rages and roars. My body is burning and cramping and painful under the strain of directing the Basilisk and the Transfigurations. But I—hold—it—the fuck—down!
The Basilisk's bite can kill a human in seconds.
A dragon?
It takes almost an entire minute.
With an last, pitiful spasm, the dragon shudder; then it goes in a full-on seizure. That yellow, baleful eyes are now a slit through its eyelids, closing slowly. The magic around it flickers in and out, its fire and life extinguished forever by my hand as it falters.
The last look the dragon takes isn't directed towards me, neither is it at the Basilisk.
It's for the eggs. Her eggs.
For the first time, that red haze seems to abandon me—and pity and shame takes its place.
The Horntail's head is a mockery of what the powerful being once was. Deformed, broken and shattered. Its lifeblood gushes through the wounds and pools at my feet in a testament of my deed.
I shiver with a feeling of pure revulsion and step back from the blood—it can think. I could have won without killing it. I could have found another way if I had tried to learn more about the First Task.
I could have done many things that I didn't.
All because of my damned pride.
"That—that wasn't right," There's a lump on my throat, now, my gaze flickering to the nest and back to the defeated dragon as its magic, even on its death throes, tries to reach for her eggs. My voice cracks, weak and vulnerable. "I am sorry. I am so sorry—"
The Hungarian Horntail closes her eyes.
And like that, the last embers of its magic are erased forever.
"I am sorry."
The spectators are in silence, seeming to hold their breath as I rise to my feet, coated with sweat and soot and blood. There are many cuts on my face and body, wounds I hadn't bothered recognizing before. I walk towards the dragon's nest, almost slipping on the ground as a muscle twitches on my right leg.
I'm tired. So very tired.
The eggs look untouched—I don't know how, exactly, but I am grateful for it. I pick up the Golden Egg with my good arm, as the other one has a deep gash running alongside my forearm.
My body shakes with a mad desire to laugh. This entire fight, done to recover this pitiful, useless thing. My expression is contemptuous as its weight settle on the crook of my arm, the taste of bile coming up my throat.
It's finished.
I raise my head upright as I walk to the center of the arena and I look around. I can recognize Sirius' shocked face, Thicknesse in a hushed conversation with some Ministery of Magic officials and throwing fearful glances at me, and Dumbledore's sitting on the judge's table. There's sorrow in his expression and not even a hint of a twinkle in his eyes.
I open my arms and the Basilisk rears up to its full height with a deafening hiss. The bones are bloodstained and broken, but the monster is still fearsome, even as my magic runs its course and it begins to crumble. First the top of its head, then its cranium, and then everything else.
The beast turns to dust on the wind as it lets out a last, triumphant cry.
My shout is louder than Bagman's voice could ever be. "Did you all have enough fun?!"
"Harry Potter has killed the dragon! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Harry Potter!"
I close my eyes as the crowd roars with applause I do not deserve.
Happy new year, folks! Reviews, as always, are appreciated.