Artificer

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, but I play in his world. If you recognise it, it's Rowling's.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I'll announce that, as of right now, I will not be posting semi-random spoilers in my notes; if you want to know what happens next, you'll have to keep reading :) I'll be kind enough to mention some things that will definitely not be happening though, such as a Harry/Ginny pairing. Ginny didn't exist till book five anyway, amirite?

More jumping, but only for this chapter; the rest of the fic should be fairly linear.

Chapter 3

With a slow melodious chant, I begin charging my creation.

Scabbers lives!

Even if there's nothing more we can do for Buckbeak, at least Ron and Hermione might make peace with each other now; the row they had over Crookshanks eating the old rat was huge, and I've barely seen them talk since.

Although I can remember seeing them together loads of times recently.

I feel my mind pull away from that line of thought against my will, after all, they've been nothing but hostile recently, right?

The way my mind changes direction reminds me of the Dementors for the few moments before all is well again, and everything makes sense again.

"What did you do? You said you were only going to keep a lookout!"

Internally, I flinch at Hermione's tone. I look back at the still-corporeal patronus, my patronus standing at the lake's edge.

"Everyone always tells me I look like my father…" I started. The scene was beautiful, the full moon reflecting off the still waters. The ghostly glow of the stag gave the night a peaceful quality despite how close we came to becoming soulless husks a few moments ago, a few hours ago.

"I just saved our lives," I begin again. "It was me casting that patronus; it was me that looked like my father on the far bank."

I turn towards our fallen forms, where Snape began shifting. Perhaps it was exhaustion catching up to me as my tone grew hard and my patronus flickered out.

"But I didn't know of the time-turner then, did I? Quite a big secret for you to be keeping from us all year, isn't it? Even from your best friends?"

At least it explained why I couldn't figure out her timetable all year. But with that thought, images came rushing back. Thoughts and fragments my mind had forcefully ignored.

"He knew." Quietly, coldly the words fell from my lips.

How long? As far as I had seen, they had not once made peace over their fights this year, leaving me to act as a go between at all times when they wouldn't spare a word for the other. How long were they secretly meeting outside of time?

Snape was binding and levitating the bodies on the far bank, doubtlessly anticipating the rewards of being the man who captured the 'Murderer', Sirius Black.

Hermione stays silent. Did I put the shattered pieces of a hundred thoughts together correctly? Has she done anything wrong? She hasn't moved to confirm or deny anything yet. I speak again,

"I've wanted to tell you something for a year now, but I've never been able to find the right time."

The last word rolls off my tongue slowly, as if I am unfamiliar with it. I suppose that in the end, I am.

"Harry, stop. Harry…"

Part of me didn't want to hear her next words, even if they were her first.

"I'm sorry." Those words. "I'm sorry."

"Ron and I, we…during the first Hogsmead weekend, he said he liked me."

He said he liked her. Why didn't I ever say that?

"We were going to tell you, but then you got angry over the broomstick at Christmas and…and…"

I got angry? I remember Ron yelling, I remember Hermione crying, but when was I angry about it?

"…Ron thought it would be a good idea if we kept it quiet. We're not dating yet, but we want to see where things will go?"

I had started walking to where Snape had taken our unconscious forms from, my mind racing as the world slowed to a crawl. I was in the chamber again, pain numbing my thoughts and my blood burning in my veins.

"Harry, wait! Where are you going? Why are you angry?"

Angry? I'm irritated. I defeated the basilisk, the Dementors, and now I just want my peace. Is it so much to ask? To not lie, listening to a monologue as I feel myself decay from the inside?

"Harry? What's wrong! Harry!"

Fawkes laid it's head on my arm, the healing balm of its tears slowly soaking into my wounds.

"Harry, we have to save Sirius!"

Sirius. My godfather. Healing powers.

The world comes back to me as I stand on frosted grass, the empty cloaks of a few Dementors scattered at my feet. The spoils of victory. But after the basilisk, I had to fight again, to save Ginny.

This time it's to save Sirius.

"Ok." I pass her my cloak as I pick up the ones at my feet. "Just…wait at the entrance hall. and I'll take Buckbeak to the tower to save Sirius." My voice regained some warmth at the last word.

She stood staring.

"Go!"

She backs away, and starts running up to the castle as she vanished from sight.

The fifty-first chime broke me from my memories. The tube was glowing with power, as I channelled my emotions into magic, into intent.

Ron never learned of that discussion. As we returned to the hospital wing she tried to apologise, tried to explain the charm Professor McGonagall had used so people wouldn't be curious about her time travelling; I pretended to ignore her. I continued to pretend when she spent the next day with Ron and his mauled leg, and I pretended further when she cooed over the small owl Sirius had bought to replace Ron's 'rat'.

When we went to the world cup, we talked of inconsequential things, a silent agreement not to gouge out old wounds. I took to seating myself in a corner and reading, often the worn storybooks of Wizarding myths and legends, where the hero would have his items of power; the flaming swords, the mirrored shields. Something clicked for me, and on spare parchment I started scribbling ideas. I started copying rune clusters, designing patterns that would impart even just a fraction of the old world's stories into objects, the flaming swords, the impenetrable cloaks. In time myself, Hermione and Ron were back to being friends; they had each other, and I had my work. Just before the beginning of the new school year they decided that they were dating, and I congratulated them. The old wounds were healed if still tender, and I still had my first and best friends.

Then the goblet of fire chose to destroy the life I had built up for myself. Once again, the memory of my parent's sacrifice for me was snubbed, as yet another situation arose to risk the life they had saved, on the very anniversary of their sacrifice. But of course that is not what Ron saw. He exploded at me right in the middle of the great hall. He said I had everything; the fame, the glory, the money. He said that I had everything, that it wasn't fair, and I cut him off.

"And Ron, you have the girl" I said softly, as I stood up and walked to the head table.

The French Competitor belittled me, Cedric was confused, and Krum was silent. Everyone in that room knew I didn't want to be here, to be a part of this. Of course, they gave me no way out of the tournament.

Ron publicly claimed I cheated, said that I put my name in and refused to help anyone else do so. Hermione was off to one side, but without even her token support the Griffindors turned on me as a group. I suppose it was too much to hope she would openly contradict her boyfriend, since the bickering and fights had all but dwindled to nothing in the past few weeks, and so I became a pariah in my own house.

Breakfast the next morning was no better; the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs scorning me for stealing their champions glory, the Slytherins never having been fans. The faces at the teacher's table were the same, even if they didn't vocalise it.

And then I heard about the dragons. The listening charm was a moment of inspiration, as Professor Sprout lead Cedric from the hall. My lack of practise meant it didn't last long, but it was enough to hear the important part.

Dragons.

Perhaps if it had lasted longer, perhaps if I had heard the full conversation I would have picked a different plan. Maybe I would have practised the summoning charm, and played to my strengths.

But this will be far more flashy.

I wave my wand, dismissing the silencing charm. The faintly glowing tube now resting at my feet.

"Sonorous"

The fifty-sixth chime sounded.

"May I have your attention please?"

The murmuring from the crowd grew quiet. Perhaps they want to see this over as soon as I do.

"I know the majority of you don't think I should be in this tournament." Boos. "I agree."

I may have given up trying to defend myself against these people individually, but I may as well say it once for everyone.

"I didn't enter myself into this tournament. I don't know how many of you know my history, but there are people who feel that my demise would be to their advantage." Quirrel, Tom Riddle, Voldemort.

Ron's red face stood out in the crowd, the bushy head of hair next to him now looking at me.

"As of today, I'm still alive; despite the efforts of killing curses, possessed teachers, Acromantula, Basilisks, Dementors and Werewolves. Honestly, I don't want to add dragons to that list."

Right on cue, the horntail roared. I smile.

"So I won't."

Reaching down, I pick up a small rock and place it in the tube, then another, then another.

"But if I don't at least attempt to reach the golden egg, then I lose my magic."

I turn to face the dragon.

"And that would make it hard for me to survive if people keep trying to kill me."

The dragon looks back at me.

"Unfortunately, dragons are quite lethal. Call me a coward, but I don't particularly want to go near it."

McGonagall shakes her head at her 'courageous' cub. One day I might tell her the hat wanted me in Slytherin. The fifty-ninth chime sounded.

"So, I'm sorry about this."

Hefting the tube onto my shoulder, a small trickle of my magic starts a cascade of light.

"Harry?"

I lean back and rub my eyes, aching from poring over the rules of the Triwizard contract.

"Are you ok? Can we talk for a while?" It's Hermione. Which means that Ron…

"Sure. What did you want?"

She frowns at my cold tone. While she may not be openly harassing me like most of everyone else in this school, not once has she said a word in my defence either. We used to be friends damnit!

"Harry, why are you avoiding me? Avoiding everyone?" Avoiding people?

Is she blind? I bite back the scathing remark.

"I'm not avoiding anyone Hermione. The clear space all around me formed after I sat down, not before." Best not to mention the only time I can normally even get a seat in here is during mealtimes.

"Harry, you need to-"

…here he is. Mt. Weasley.

"Why are you talking to him?"

I tune Ron out, as is my habit. Ten minutes later I look up, and they're gone.

It's amazing what wizards used to create to keep up with their non-magical counterparts; self-propelling vehicles, fireplace transport, and Crystal radio. Half a millennium ago, progress was far faster; a rapidly evolving muggle world was using mechanics and machines to do things faster, better. Then there was a separatist movement; witches and wizards shrank back from the greater population, and in their own little islands declared themselves to be the superiors of the species.

It wasn't wholly incorrect.

But the muggles continued to grow and thrive, while wizardkind decayed. If a muggle couldn't lift an object, he would set up a pulley and winch; if a wizard couldn't levitate it, the object obviously wasn't supposed to be moved.

The worlds grew apart.

Before the separation, advancement in technology was met with an advance in magic. A powerful non-magical weapon was met with a magical counterpart, but all that progress stopped.

Thankfully they never got to enchanting cannons.

After all, what could a cannon possibly do that a spell could not? And every witch or wizard is capable of it.

But wizards are limited by their own power, the power of the individual. They don't need tools; don't need weapons, because everything they could ever want can be procured with intent, visualisation and power, and a wand. So when faced with an obstacle they can't surpass, they try to go around it.

A muggle on the other hand would just tunnel through.

It's a fact; one wizard is better than one muggle. Similarly, one dragon is better than one wizard. They live longer, are physically stronger, are more resistant to damage and if they want you dead, you'll not likely see the next day.

So in a fight between a child and a dragon, who should win?

"Dragons."

I lose the charm after hearing professor Sprout's kindly voice.

Dragons.

I can feel the shift in my weapon. There's no going back now.

It again occurs to me that all so called 'great' witches and wizards been to be born from their actions, from a defining moment where they say something or they do something that makes people stand up and take notice.

This will be mine.

"I'm sorry."

A flash of light and it's over. The lack of recoil makes me want to chuckle. The crowd all seem to be holding their breath, looking at the dragon as I start walking up.

You see, dragons are stronger than wizards. They are heat resistant, impact resistant, spell resistant.

Dragons may be resistant to heat, but even they burn at a high enough temperature.

Dragons may be resistant to impact, but their bones can still be broken.

The reason that dragons are stronger than wizards is that a lone wizard cannot hit it hard enough, or overcome its defences.

Dragons are, after all, resistant to magic.

"I'm sorry." I dispel the amplification spell on my throat, and reach down to pick up the egg.

The sixtieth chime rings out, and I dispel that too.

Noise builds up in the crowd as they realise what has happened. The dragon handlers run up to try and revive her.

They won't, not that they'll accept that. After all, a wizard can't kill a dragon; a large group? Maybe. But a child, a fourteen year old wizard? Not a chance.

As I turn my back I remind myself to claim it as spoils once the scores are given out. The rules do say it's mine now after all.

The crowd start reacting loudly. Most of them are angry, and some of them are crying having realised the dragon is dead. Some simply don't think its dead yet. The hole where it's heart and lungs used to be saying otherwise, the blinding white mass of molten rock caught in the wards saying otherwise.

The spectators came today to watch four children fight dragons.

They came today to watch a blood sport.

And instead they saw me. I wonder if they realised what I showed them?

The dragon handlers are too shocked to do anything; is the red-haired one Ron's brother? It would have been nice of the Weasleys to tell me about the dragons.

Glancing up, Hermione has left the stands, Ron seems to be looking for her.

Turning towards the medical tent, I sigh. If the wizarding world is good for anything, it's patterns.

One fight down, one fight left.