The Last Dragon

by SurrealSteamPuck

Where Dragons aren't always firebreathing monsters, Angels are sociopathic despots, and Demons just like to have a little fun. We don't talk about Elves. We have standards - a reworking of the Harry Potter universe centered around the triwizard tournament and slightly older students, mostly two-three years older. Magic will be more expansive and dangerous in this world.

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Harry Potter was a man of simple tastes. He like girls and the things they brought with them, hearty food, great booze if he could get away with it, and that was about it. The fights he could do without, but he'd be lying if he said that he didn't enjoy them, and it was more that he didn't want to deal with the aftermath than the actual fighting. Father liked to claim he was sometimes more of a beast than he was, though Dad just laughed it off and then did something disgusting like kiss in front of him (Not that the kissing was bad, but dude, they were his parents after all and no one wants to see their parents do that).

Thus, when his time with a hot veela, a description which he found redundant but nevertheless worth saying and repeating, interrupted, he wasn't happy. All he wanted with some alone time with what's her tits, which oddly enough were her best feature. He would not consider a bad thing for failing to remember her name. All he could focus on when he saw her was the fine, blonde hair he constantly ran his fingers through, the way her tits pressed against his chest as she kissed him, trying to stealing his soul. "Mind," he said, his eyes still closed and his lips hovering over hers. She giggled, and it felt wonderful against his body. The bright light from the hallway was seriously distracting.

"Father requests that his translator actually translate, Potter," Victor Kurm said. "And I'm pretty certain that the cheer team will require their captain." Potter always wondered how the seeker was able to look down on him, given that he was a head taller than the seventeen year old, but Victor accomplished it pretty well.

He leaned his head against the blonde's and frowned. "Sorry babe," he said, before pushing away. Potter stepped out into the hallway, tucking his shirt back into his pants and fixed his belt. He grabbed his coat off the floor, stole one last kiss from the veela, and walked away.

They walked through the hallways of the recently conjured and constructed stadium for the World Cup. While Victor would be playing, it was a personal favor that Potter was along, and even then it was in a position of illusion. "It is imperative that no one know that the Boy-Who-Lived is in attendance at the World Cup," Father said before they left. "But that is no reason for Harry Potter to not enjoy himself." The makeup and charms would do enough to hide his appearance, but coming as an employee would also prevent people from second guessing who he really was; at least, that was the reason he was told. Potter figured it had to do more with him learning responsibility more than anything else. That he was Victor's friend helped things long, Potter figured. Every once in a while, Victor would glare at him, looking up and down, shaking his head. "What?" Potter asked.

"Really?" Victor replied. "Really? You just had to go out on find another-"

"I don't seek them out," Potter said. Victor raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. "Okay, some of them I do, but I swear that one-"

"That one? Doesn't she have a name? And are you implying there have been more than her?"

"Never told me it, and, yes. That one just pulled me into the broom closet a couple minutes before you found me."

"She was missing for nearly twenty minutes."

"That's a couple," Potter replied, smirking at his friend.

"What I want to know is how you get away with all of it."

"Cougars."

"Cougars? I fail to see how wild cats-"

"No, not like that." They stopped in front of the locker room. The two security wizards ignored them, and Potter was happy to return the favor. "I mean older women, though I guess they gained that moniker due to their tendency-"

"Topic."

"Right, what I mean is that they seem to appreciate a bit of attention, that's all."

"And how in the name of Dracul do you get away with it?"

He shrugged. "I have no clue, but I swear it's the reason why. Seriously, try it sometime. Don't be all-" He waved his hand up and down. "Okay, be more like you when you're out on the field."

Victor glared at him. "I do fine for myself," he replied, "There is more to life than girls and sex."

"Quidditch?" Potter asked, smirking again. "And I'll agree to disagree. I find that there is little more to life than girls. Sex, I'm okay waiting." He turned to walk away, but a hand shot out and forced Potter to face Victor.

"Really," Victor asked, "seriously, you're still-"

"Technically? Yes, I'm pure." He smirked. "It makes a nice challenge to keep them happy."

"I don't believe it, how can-" Potter held up his wrist and looked at it. The shirt sleeves were unbuttoned and slid down his forearm, revealing some of the Brands he had across his body, most large and black thorny chains over his arm and down to his fingers. Three blue bands sat around his wrist, almost glowing with no light.

Over the summer, after a long discussion with his Dad and Father, Potter had finally accepted that he was different, more so than just physical. He stood at one point nine one meters, putting him over most of the students older than him. At sixteen, he had less body-fat on him than most soldiers ever would, something that worried Father, but Dad seemed to think it just made things easier with the ladies. Potter knew he had anger issues, and that the anger was more than just trying to hide who he was, the Brands and everything that made him different. It burned deep within him, a cold torrent of ice and wind that blew hard until it enveloped everything around it. The anger was frozen, calm and still, and acted without care or thought. The worst about all of it: Potter enjoyed it.

Beyond the physical, the Brands were marks that he was a kind that no longer existed as far as societies were concerned. The Dragons were more than mindless magical reptiles. Potter didn't know much about what he was, other than he suffered yearly growths in stature, as Karkaroff refused to tell him anything really, but the inability to lie was annoying. The fact that he was bound to his word was another aspect Potter hated. He didn't promise, nor did he give an oath. If he did, he would be forced to follow through to the best of his abilities. His word was his life. It took two times to realize that he was truly and utterly bound to it, as the magic within him forced him to do some stupid things, including inability to talk after losing a bet(Potter didn't want to talk about). He was released from both vows, but was wary of it remember and was careful never to promise a thing. Since then, Potter gave his word three times more, each with careful consideration of the wording of what he agreed to.

"So chaste huh?" Victor continued. Potter nodded. "How then-"

"I get creative," he replied. "Mainly, it's no penetration and at most I'll eat out sometimes. I rarely let them handle the goods in the flesh, but honestly, I don't need to. I can simply-"

"Enough, I don't want to know." Potter smirked again. Victor was as much a hound as he was; the Seeker just hid it better and didn't get caught. "Father and the Minister will be out shortly, they want a brief pep-talk with team."

"Then why are you out here?"

"Because I've heard the speech already, probably before every match I've had. It would do me no good. I'll perform well or not. It does not matter what words other say to me."

"Fair enough," Potter replied. The locker room doors opened, and two bodies stepped out, eyes searching the area. Following them was the Minister of Bulgaria and the Ambassador. The Minister stood shorter than Potter by a head and a half, the graying hair retreating to someplace else, probably his back, which had a slight hunch to it. Potter liked the guy, for a politician; he was competent enough and tended to ramble, so Potter got some extra sleep in whenever he was around. The frown was evident of their relationship, so he took it in stride.

Ambassador Krum was like his son, only stood as tall as Potter did. The salt-and-pepper hair was held back in a tail, and the beard trimmed cleanly. He gave Potter's disheveled appearance a once over. Potter just ran his fingers over his mohawk. In English, the ambassador said, "Really, son? A muggle hair cut? From one so respectable last time I saw you."

Potter laughed. "Dad said I could do what I want. I was tired of taking care of it. And it was depressing whenever I noticed a hair falling out. I don't care how natural it is." He turned to the Minister, who looked put off by the short exchange between men, and bowed slightly, before switching back to Bulgarian, "An honor sir, to serve you and my country in this matter of celebration."

Victor snorted and walked into the locker room, leaving Potter to deal with the politicians. While he liked Ambassador Krum, everyone else he could do without. The minister was tolerable at his best. But, as he told his Father, and to the humor of his Dad, a job is a job and he would do it, if only to see the veela again.

They made small talk, discussing the upcoming match and the outcome. Quidditch was okay. Potter preferred dueling and even then it wasn't close enough to actually cater to his tastes. Dad said he was a very physical being, that his emotions and thoughts played out on his body before he had them. Potter just figured he liked to hit people. But it was important to appear interested, if nothing more because the ladies enjoyed an athlete.

They arrived to meet the British Ambassador and Minister, and Potter continued to be disinterested. While at least the Bulgarian contingent had some dignity and grace, however little in the Minister's case, the Brits were corrupt and lazy and foul. They were not worth much more of a description.

Potter was surprised that people did not recognize him. Dad warned him about the possibility. As they walked to the box, he translated, a few people gave him a few looks, but given his size and stature, they assumed he was just a body for the Minister, who did not give out his name. People would stare at him, his solid green eyes and then look to his forward, frowning in disappointment. There were rumors of the Boy-Who-Lived, but everything about Potter was different from the legends and stories, if only because there were so many. Potter felt he lived up to a few of them, what with his physical strength and prowess. He doubted he could do anything like the magics the stories proclaimed he could do. It helped that makeup covered his scar.

Walking towards their box, the British minister stopped and warmly greeted a tall wisp of a man, platinum blonde and his family, a wife and a single boy with a sneer marking his face. Potter did not like them. Arrogance was a trait he shared and he didn't like seeing it in someone who didn't earn it. At least in the boy. The Head of the family was calm, collect, ready to strike at any moment. The wife was similar, though hers was hidden in elegance. The boy however, and Potter had no trouble referring him as such, was trying to imitate his father with no real training or understanding just what it took to be a cobra. When the British Minister introduced them, the glances were quicker this time, but still present, they left the Malfoys, if he remembered correctly, for the box with pleasantries exchanged, but nothing else, thankfully.

In the box, he noticed a family of red heads, poor soulless bastards, who greeted the British Minster warmly, though the sentiment was not returned. The name was something about weasels. The Head of the family bowed to the Bulgarian Minster, and Potter translated for the man. A stare at his eyes, a glance to his forehead and a frown greeted him. It was tiring to see the same disappointment. The mother was overbearing and yelling at her children to behave or stop or whatever. It was like a seagull that never stopped: you learn to tune it out. The youngest would be cute if she ever grew into her body. Mostly she just seemed frustrated by her youngest brother, who desired food and nothing else. The twins were interesting, and the one who from the dragon reserve would be an excellent conservationist if he ever said anything. The oldest son also kept his mouth shut, though his eyes watched everything and anything.

The announcer roared around them, charms echoing through the stadium, announcing of all things for the wizards to remember dress properly in front of muggles and see the nearest Auror if they were confused on what a dress was and why a male should not wear it. He introduced the teams – oh Bulgaria was playing Ireland, awesome – and the mascots came out. The crowd seemed to enjoy when the leprechauns threw out their fake money, what with the youngest male red head freaking out over the gold. They certainly had fun with the veela, whose allure was on full blast. He felt it wash over him, a wave of lust and desire, and as much as he wanted to go find that veela again, his Brands burned behind his shirt and kept him sane. The rest of the people in the box were not so lucky.

The British minister had his wife hold him back, with a swift hit from her purse. The Head of the family held back, again, the youngest boy(there is no way a human being was that foolish) had to be restrained before he jumped out of the box, while his wife kept the twins at bay. The daughter just stepped in front of the dragon handler, and placed a hand on the man's chest, which stopped him. The oldest held his ground, and just watched, protecting the family. Interesting. Possible that each with a role and duty to play. Potter filed that thought for later.

With the mascots done, the match started. Potter was bored. It was like football but worse. At least here, there was a chance of someone getting smacked in the face with a extremely dense, rubber ball, but really, the Beaters did their job, so there wasn't too much in terms of that. That was the problem with professional sports these days: too good at their jobs.

Potter leaned back against the wall behind the Bulgarian contingent, watched the crowd and the people he was with. He was bored, and wondering just how much he could push the boundaries he was in. While picking on the youngest boy seemed like fun, he doubt he could get away with it here, what with the oldest watching everything but the game. There were roles to play, and while he was finally allowed to play his (it was badass being the playboy-rogue), this wasn't the time. And this family understand it.

Within the hour, the game was over, an exciting victory for Ireland with Victor holding the snitch, a Pyrrhic victory (as far as Victor would be concerned the only victory), and Potter had to work again. He translated the false platitudes for the Bulgarian Minister, with the British man gleefully enjoying the victory for his team. The stadium was a live with talk and cheer and laughter and sadness. Harry felt the buzz of magic in the air, more so now than when so many spells were used to announce the game and entertain with fireworks and such. Magic was life, and here, the sounds of people enjoying all of life, were almost overwhelming for him.

They parted ways, with the Bulgarian Minister wanting to see the team and speak of his pride in them. Damn politicians. As if the words of a man would take away the loss the team felt. Victor would smile though, play with the winged-ball (there is a joke in there, Potter knew, and would tell the Seeker later) without worrying what the old minister said.

Course, at the moment, there were more important things than victories and snitches. A cheer team needed some consoling, the captain especially. They took the games very seriously and he had large shoulders to offer his support. Maybe the captain and her friend required some consoling. And if they didn't, he was sure to find someone who was in the mood to celebrate. Yes, it was good to be him.

*()*()*()*()*

A scream echoed through his skull before Potter realized that there was an intense heat surrounding him, more so than the bodies lying next to him. Well, they were laying; now, it was more like flailing about and screaming. He sat up, and looked about. The two girls who were asleep with him were screaming, and apparently had good reason to. The room of the tent they were in was on fire.

"Dove, Hawk," A male's voice shouted from the doorway, but dared not enter the flames. Was he not a wizard? Could he not simply cast away the fire? Potter then saw the jets of blue leaving the wand pointed at the fire, and watched as it did nothing. Another thing to not. "No, please no, Shiva do not take them." The older man, spoken with a distinct Indian accent to it, continued to attempt to enter the room, but failed miserably.

A girl screamed in his ear, and Potter pulled her over his body as the flames flared. He hated magical fires. Dastardly things, difficult to put out and even harder to contain. The heat grew slowly, as more items were consumed by the inferno. His wand lay somewhere, probably in his pants, and thus ashes, which meant he wouldn't be insulated from magic as much as he'd like to be.

There is a misnomer concerning magic, that a wand is required to cast spells. In fact, any foci isn't required at all. A wizard can summon the forces of magic with but a thought. Problem was, they'd burn themselves out, leaving a husk of a person. What foci, like wands, and words accomplish was isolating the fragile mind from the power of magic.

Potter also had the issue that his magic didn't like to leave him. The Brands kept one of the most dangerous spells created hidden inside of him, turning him into a living spell. The side effect meant he had difficulty, ranging from painful to downright impossible, casting spells that required any sort of distance greater than a meter, and even that was a stretch for him. What he needed to do would require a few heart beats and a bit of luck.

One: he summoned up his fear and his anxiety, his anger that his sleep had been interrupted, as well as the lust he had felt with this two girls, however long ago it was. Two: he pulled the emotions together and bound it with his will into a tight ball, wrapping the magic up in it. The Brands on his arms started to pulse with magic, sizzling his skin. Three: the world spun around as his eyes remained looking at the man, and sounds dissolved into a grumble of movements and flickers. Four: he bit down his teeth, struggling to hold the magic together as it threatened to burst through every pore of his body. Colors brightened and sounds tightened in the air. Everything was alive and glorious in his mind as he held the magic within him. Five: a scream escaped him as Potter finally was able to release the energy with a wave of his hand in a circle above him, and then he shouted: "Sinuos!"

The power flowed down his shoulder through his arm and out his fingertips into the air as the magic flooded from him. While he could not cast spells over distance, he could at least start something and let the energy expand out and do what it could. A torrent of wind spun overhead, and while his arm was still smoking, Potter grasped the two girls tight to him, holding them against the wind. He let the tornado blow out the fire around him. It sucked the air away, pulled the fuel for the fire and extinguishing what it could as it spun about them.

In seconds, the wind died down, the energy that started it dissipated throughout. But the fire was mostly gone with it. It needed to fully extinguished, or else it could easily take over again, but he couldn't finish his sentence as his mind refused to focus on anything except the residue of magic and loss of it. While the pain danced up and down his arms as the nerves had frayed themselves against the spell, he just wanted to do so again, to feel the body electric and brilliant once more despite the pain and agony of the energies; Potter tried to ignore the small puffs of smoke trailing off his right arm.

The Indian man nodded, and with a wave of his wand put out the remaining fires. He rushed over to the girls; Potter pushed them away and leaned over the bed, puking out what little dinner he had. His head ached, the world spun around him, and sounds slowly stopped being trampled over by the elephant in his mind. Everything was dull and empty; why couldn't he hold on more, why couldn't he keep the magic close to him where he could always feel that glorious life force? The man spoke rapidly in what he could only assume was Indian, and probably was praising whatever god he worshiped his daughters were okay. It took a moment for Potter to realize that they looked almost exactly alike, save very small minute differences (Potter got twins, go him!). It didn't matter though, nothing did, except that the power he held, free of the foci, was more wonderful than any drug or sex act he could have.

"Thank you," the man said, "Had you not deflowered my daughters, they would have been died. I guess-"

"Daddy!" Twin one spoke up. "We're still virgins." Potter wished he could focus for the moment and see whether that blush he was imagining traveled down her pastel brown skin.

Twin two quickly added, "We are not that stupid to risk it before our majority. And mind you, Father, we are of age and while I'm sure you would like to seek a pairing of us with some noble, Mother would kill you for that."

"Not to break up this little heart to heart," Potter said. "What's happening, why the fire?"

"Death Eaters," The man said. The twins gasped and a frown crossed his face before he could steel his response. "The camp grounds are under attack by the cowards."

Potter sat up and took a deep breath in. He would prefer to get rid of the taste of vomit, but if this tent was on fire, then others would be too, which meant others could be trapped. As much as his Dad would prefer him to sit back and let the professions handle it, Potter couldn't sit around and do nothing. Three years of being passive and letting things happen, of letting the terror of being found out control him and his actions. He was a bully, following along so others never found out what he was, trying to be popular. That was the deal Potter made with his parents, be normal and don't attract attention, be part of the crowd. He hated it; the popular people, the cool kids, the it crowd, was cruel, petty, and often downright vicious, because that was normal. To be an alpha, one must crush the omega; law of the jungle, eat or be eaten. He could never grovel or bow or cower, he would fight, and because of it, his size, and his temperament, the popular kids scooped him up and let him join together. And for a while, Potter liked it. He liked the fear others had of him for whatever reason. He liked that he could get any girl he wanted. He could do anything he wanted.

Problem was, he hated himself.

Now though, the deal was over and free from the oath, and he could at least start being who he thought he should be, who he was when this who Dragon and Brands thing began when he first started school: a fool. People were trapped and, given the limited logic of some wizards, they would be until the Aurors arrived, which would be too late. Water spells failed on the fire, and while wind worked the best, it wouldn't be enough. Spells like this, which continue to exist despite attempts to put them down, required a caster's concentration and nearby.

The nausea had not left him, but he pulled his legs forward and stood up, shaking slightly. Potter opened his eyes and grabbed his slightly singed pants, feeling the lack of weight in the pocket, ignoring the rest for a second. The world may have stopped spinning, for the most part, though everything was a bit blurry. Sounds returned to normal, and he could hear the snapping of the fire, the collapsing tents, and the screams of the terrified people.

"Stay inside," he said, reaching down and pulling up his pants. "Find the center of the house, surround yourself with salt, and don't move. The wards will keep it up and the salt should keep the fire away."

"What does salt have to do with it," Twin One asked.

"Ground out the magic power, the fire can't touch and pass over it." Potter looked around, taking one last look at the family. The twin girls were about his age, and while one carried herself as a queen, the other a warrior. Intelligence and bravedo. Interesting. Physically they were exactly the same, but stance alone set them apart. Twins were rare in the magical world for good reason, that often they were considered a singular soul, and break them apart would be lethal. Whoever earned their respect would be lucky to have received their devotion. "Stay inside, the fires will be out shortly. Maybe. Hopefully. Just stay here until the Aurors arrive. Or I do. Or someone who knows what's happening." He smiled sheepishly before running away.

Stepping outside of the tent he felt the inferno caress his face, and the ground crack beneath his feet. Around him, fire licked and grasped the cloth tents, ignoring whatever it couldn't ignite. Red and orange lit the world around him, coating the world in madness and terror. Around him, shouts for help and orders to put the fire out were quickly covered by screams of terror and pain.

He wanted to help. He wanted to run over there and pull every last victim from the fire and get them to safety. There was no time; Potter's fist tightened and he breathed shallowly, focusing through the fire and the screams and the burnt flesh.

The tents were arranged in a pseudo-circluar pattern, focused around a rather poor representation of a bonfire, as though to create the illusion everyone was present just for camping. The focus was there, the caster, the being behind the pain and suffering was there.

Potter broke into a run, jumping over fallen tents and limbs, side-stepping the fire when possible or moving through it when not. He ran past twenty seven people in the process: thirteen men and fourteen women; and five children. Four of the latter were died. His footfalls slammed against the ground and he pushed harder off of it, elongating his steps.

He slid to a halt around the rings edge, as a man spun around on the bonfire, laughing. The monster threw out fiery lines, traveling further and further through the mass of tents and people. Potter grabbed a piece of lumber and threw it at the man.

The two-foot long log connected with a shield, bouncing away, but at least he swayed a bit, though only an inch or so, like a man moving to swat a fly. "Fuck," Potter said and the cloaked man turned to him.

With a wave of his hand and a well-placed moan, napalm erupted from his hand, stretching in a straight line directly towards him. Potter dove to a side, rolling best he could, landing on his feet only to break out into a run, trying to find a path that would actually lead him to the pyre. But the man-creature had been smart enough to surround himself in the same substance as he lit the tents with, preventing any and all attempts to reach him. Shielded, magically and distance-wise, he had formed a barrier that he could not reach.

"Fool of a took," Potter said, diving again as another pillar of napalm was thrown at him. The log had done something, but it didn't travel fast enough, or hit hard enough, which was interesting. A distance of fifty meters from him to the pyre, and whatever traversed it would have to be fast and hit harder.

This was going to hurt. Potter took a deep breathe. He took a step and steadied himself, eyes focused on the man-creature before him, starting to laugh wildly. The laughter slide into lower and lower tones, slowing down between each sound.

One: all the anger, hatred and pain he could muster was drawn deep within him, summoned from every inch of his body, from his surroundings, from the people around him, alive and dying and dead, until his blood felt like it would boil. Two: he compressed it, pushing harder and harder on the non-existent mass of emotion, using the flames of them to heat the substance even more. His Brands burned him, and somewhere in him, he could sense the smoke rising off of his skin, but that idea was so very, very, far away from the diamond he was creating of his will. Three: a faded circle of shapes and colors of what once was the background behind the man formed, stretching all the way to Potter, the screams around him a cocoon of suffering, bonding to the magic he held within his body. Four: his ears rang, his teeth shook, his muscles strained to remain still. Every fiber he knew that existed of him begged to release, to relax, to let the power that now mimicked his beating heart go. The ground shook around him, or maybe that was just his body struggling to remain standing. Five: he spoke not a word. That was the worse of it. Dirt, twigs, pebbles floated up around him, hovering in place. Potter raised his hand and with a circular motion, four rings half a meter in diameter and a meter apart, formed from the aether. The magical constructions spun in the air, tearing at reality and leaving wisps of blue, green, and purple above them.

Potter swung his arms back and clapped in front of him as hard as he could. The negligible matter followed the motion, first behind him then flying through the magically constructed rail gun where it was accelerated to one thousandth of the speed of light.

A clap of a thousand thunders threw everything back as the matter broke the sound barrier. Potter found himself flying through the air only to be stopped by a friendly tree, well, sort of stopped; he broke through it and landed in a tent that was no longer on fire due to the force of the sound.

As he opened his eyes, Potter found the world to have lost all shape and definition. And an extremely bright light shining down on him. The sickness that usually accompanied that type of magic use was gone, passed already, and while he physically hurt, there was no pressure on his mind, his magic, to remain still. He had been unconscious for a while.

He muttered and tried to raise his hand at the light, to push it away, but his limbs betrayed him and just sat there. "Don't move," a gentle voice said. "You're dangerously magically exhausted, though I can't seem to get any readings on you."

"Harry!" that voice was familiar. At least the tone was. It said 'I've been worried sick about you', 'thank god you're alive', and 'I'm gonna kill you for doing that stupid thing you just did that landed you here'. He found it was a common tone used with him. And extremely comforting. "Merlin's rites, what have you done?"

"Numerous lacerations covered his body, along with first to second degree burns along the tattoos he has, nearly every muscle in his body has been torn-"

"Leave," someone else said. In perfect, non-accented english.

"Sir, my patient-"

"No longer requires your assistance, my healers will take care of it from here," it replied.

"Dmitry, a pleasure as always," the first voice said in Bulgarian. It was responding to the entrance of the minister of Bulgaria, why was he here? Who was with him? Potter tried to turn his head, but the effort just made the non-defined world spin, so it was better to stay still he decided.

"Remus, good to see you as well." Father!? Father was here? He was in trouble.

"Minister Obolensky, I must insist-"

"You are to leave, now," Dmitry said, in his unbroken and smooth English. He broke no disobedience. Shuffling followed, and a few people left the room. Someone helped him sit up. "Easy there, child, you did good today." The return to Bulgarian was as smooth and calm as the man's voice. Right, there was a reason why he actually liked the Minister. It was an act. Always. Like him at school. Like his Dad and his Father around people. Like the weasel people, like the Malfoys. It was all an act. Potter would have to remember than when the world stopped hurting.

"So the ocean liner that decided to use me as wall," Potter mumbled, "did someone catch it, because I don't think I did a good enough job."

Remus laughed, though it was wet and uneven. "Harry, Merlin bless you, you are a foolish boy."

"Thanks, Father," he replied. He couldn't see straight. Sound was muffled, and everything smelled of fudge, but he held his arms open and let himself be hugged as tight as possible by one of two people who stuck by him through all of it, who had ensured his life could be healthy and prosperous. So ensured he lived. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Remus replied and kissed his temple. "It's okay."

"Your son did a great thing today," Dmitry said.

"Did it work?" Harry asked, though he couldn't let his father go. It wouldn't be fair to him after all, worry this much about him and now seeing him on a table under healers watch.

"The fires extinguished themselves the moment the Death Eater died. Though it was difficult to prove he was a Death Eater. Or that he was a he. Or that he was a human at all. The English Aurors struggled with the, what was the term they used, sludge you left them."

"The rail gun?" Remus asked. He pulled back, but held onto Potter's shoulders. He nodded. "It worked."

"Well, we can see the end result, granted I was pushing it as I already extinguished the fire in someone's tent, nice Indian family, twins. Merlin, Twins. Do you know how much fun-"

"The Patil's, yes," Dmitry said. "They offer their eternal gratitude for you being there. And for not taking their daughter's virtue."

Remus laughed, though it was again wet and uneven. "Merlin almighty, you've put me through hell today, Harry."

"I'm so sorry," he said. He had never meant to hurt Father, or Dad, or anyone really. Potter could handle pain, he could handle everything physical thrown at him. But this emotional stuff. He did not like at all, especially when it brought him close to tears. "I didn-"

"You saved hundreds of lives tonight," Remus replied. "You did. Not the Aurors or our bodyguards. Not the average folk fighting back. You did."

"I just...I couldn't stand listening to it," he said. The sounds of screams of humans being burnt alive still sat within him, and Potter was sure when he fell asleep tonight, alone in his room, he would hear them again. "How many...how many died?"

"Too many," Dmitry said. "Though one is too many. We saved over ninety percent of the attendees, and we are thankful for each one."

"Good. Good." Only ninety percent. He didn't move fast enough.

"Let me see him!" A voice that was both blusterous and foolish echoed as it tried to enter the room. "I demand you let me see him."

"The Minister has-"

"I am the Minister," the fool said.

"I saved him?" Potter groaned. "Couldn't I have been at least a bit lucky?" Remus chuckled but wrapped an arm around his son.

"English for the uncultured swine," Remus said. Potter repeated what he said in English, which just earned him an even larger laugh from both his Father and the Minister. His sight was slowly returning, though the ability to remain upright was limited by the fact that the floor looked incredibly inviting at the moment.

"Let him in," Dmitry said. The veil in front of them parted, and a contingent of armed men, Aurors perhaps, surrounded a father fat and lazy looking toad of a man, who Potter could only assume – nope that was actually a woman though the toad description was still correct. The minister wore a silly bowler hat, and it looked incredibly fitting on his fat body. Were English politicians all this size? At least the Bulgarians understood the important of diet, exercise and restraint. "Minister Fudge, you honor us with your visitation to one of my injured contingent."

"You speak English?" Fudge stopped short while the men with him spread out in the room.

"Of course, it is only polite," he replied. Potter held back a snort, poorly. It was a gentle slight against the English Ambassadors inability to speak Bulgarian when they arrived to discuss protection and construction of the stadium for this event. Fudge did not understand it.

"Yes, well," Fudge said. "This him?"

"Him who?" Dmitry asked. "This child is just one of the many of my people injured, and while I am grateful for your-"

"This is boy who killed the pureblood, sir," The toad stated in a sick overly sweet tone. The group talked for a bit, demanding back and forth, screams from Fudge, sickly sweet still sentences from the toad, calm and collected from his father, and restrained anger from his Minister. The words congealed into a mass that sat firmly on his skull, breaking down whatever barriers he had left. He would scream, he would cry, he would wail in pain and loss. But not now, he couldn't. So Potter did the next best thing: be an ass.

"I believe the term you are looking for is 'pasted', as in the past tense of the verb 'to paste'," Potter added. The room stopped talking.

"Harry, not now," Remus muttered. But Potter had enough hiding.

He pushed himself off the table and gentle removed his Father's arm, squeezing his hand. It would be okay. The gloves were off, the mask crumbled. Potter grabbed a cloth and wiped away the remaining makeup on his face. "I apologize about the hair, but bleach does wonders these days, right?" He said, and took out his contacts only to flick them at the toad.

"How dare you...you..."The toad continued.

"Because it's fun," Potter replied.

"What is your name boy," she asked. Was it right to call her a she? Pink did not necessarily signify a female these days.

Potter smiled down at her. He stood about a hand and half over her. "Harrison James Black-Lupin."

"Technically," Father said, "It should be Lupin-Black, your dad is the-"

"I do not now, or ever, want to hear about your sex life," Potter said, turning to glare at his father. "I just placed them in alphabetical order. Now, toad, what is your name. It's only fair."

"I am Under-Secretary Doleres Umbridge, and you will answer some questions, boy, or I-"

"Say that again," Potter asked, stepping closer. Looking down at her, he just smiled. "Please."

Umbridge looked right up at him, into his eyes.

There is a rare, well, sort of rare phenomena known as soul gaze, where two magically infused folk make eye contact for the first time. The exact details of the how are really unknown, mainly because it can't be repeated between people and most people find it incredibly uncomfortable, but the effects are at least documented by ministers and students are warned against it, because of the intimacy, because of the danger.

When eyes connect, two souls understand each other. Potter watched as everything slide away for a moment, until he was standing in pitch darkness, with just empty space around him, save a little patch of land, where a ranch style house from the fifties stood. The only colors were black and white. No shades of gray, no hues or designations other than black and white, zero and one. Everything pristine and perfect, shaped in the manner as defined by the neighbors, but without looking instead, there were places even Potter was hesitant to enter, he could tell nothing was within the house.

The soul gaze ended, his sight pulled back until he was standing in front of Under-Secretary Umbridge, staring back up at him. She was pale white, every last bit of blush on her face and color in her hair dissolved before them. He moved to walk past her.

"Father, I'm leaving," Potter said.

"Harry?" Remus replied. He looked back at his father, holding up a pair of ...oh, right. Sometime through the entire event, his pants were destroyed, torn to shreds by the force of the rail gun he created or the fires that most likely nipped at him as he ran through them. "I doubt many, well, the women might and a few of the men, but the folks out there won't want to see you nude, son."

"Right," Potter said. He walked back, grabbed the pants and slide them on before exiting, leaving his father and Dmitry to clean up the mess.

Back in their tent, unharmed from the magical fire as they had at least thought to ward again, well, everything. Potter sat on his bed. He grandstanded, gathering the attention and making them see the strong, fit, capable man who bowed to no one. Oh, how he wanted to destroy, to lash and scream and yell, but the methods he learned from being a bully taught him subtlety and quiet worked so much more than a show of physical force. Never had he seen such foolish men and women, incapable of helping themselves, more worried of what looked right rather than what was.

He sat straight up, his back burning and shivers of pain ran up and down his spine every breathe. Potter was still, unable to do anything, except breathe and think, and the former was a task in itself. Without a focus, magic burns the body. It is an energy source like anything else and the human body is not capable of handling it without being insulated by it. He cast twice directly from the source, using his own blood as a channel, and nearly killed himself for it.

Walking back had been a chore. The doctor was right in stating that every one of his muscles had been torn or stretched. He forced his body through hell. But he saved lives. It was enough, he told himself, over and over again, you saved what you could, who you could, and nothing more. But it wasn't.

"Harry?" Remus stepped into his room. He couldn't open his eyes; not from pain, though that did not help the situation, but exhaustion had set in and while sleep would be wonderful, he couldn't yet. "As much fun as that was to watch, you left the Minister in a bit of a tight spot."

"I'll pay the fine," he gritted out, sighed as another tremor had passed.

"It's not about a fine, or anything," Remus said. "But we are going to be guests of their country for a long time, and I wish you did not remove the disguise we gave you. That was-"

"There to protect me," Potter said. "The joke of a minister and his toadie toad had already convicted me of whatever they thought I did. I was not about to be accused of saving lives, whatever it took."

"Harry," Remus walked over and sat next to his son. The bed sung a little, though Potter weighed more than his father or his dad. "It wasn't about that. It wasn't about saving the people or-"

"The English are horrible, corrupt people," Potter said. "To be so worried about a man, a monster, who caused this much damage, rather than the people who were actually hurt is enough to-"

"You can't kill them too," Remus said.

"But it'd be so much fun," Potter replied, relaxing. "I am supposed to save them? Really, those people? Everything I have seen about the English today, everything, endeared me none to them. They are lazy, dull, simple folk who believe the gossip and swill of yellow rags and the constant yammering of a government who only lines its pockets and ignores the majority of its people. Why should I do anything? Why should I care?"

Remus sighed and wrapped an arm around him. It hurt. It hurt a lot. But Potter leaned into his father's embrace. "Son, no one can walk your path. No one but you. For that, I am truly sorry. You have suffered so much, been asked to do so much, and now being asked to do so much more. The only thing I ask is that you reserve your anger and dislike-"

"Hatred."

"Dislike of them until you meet them, truly get to know them."

"I...I... this is dangerous isn't it?"

"Yes," Remus said. Potter nodded. "Yes it is."

"The war has started up again, hasn't it?"

"Yes, it has."

Potter sighed. "If I go to Hogwarts this year, it isn't meant to see the tournament, cheer on my friend as he wins it all, enjoy my last few years as a teenager. I am...I'm recruiting people, aren't I."

"I can't tell you what you are doing," Remus said. "Only you can. But yes, I think it'd be wise to find council from others than us. This is your war, and though it causes me pain to put you through so much, I and your Dad will stand by you throughout all of this."

"Does Dad know?"

"He doesn't want to believe it yet, but he knows and is aware at least." Potter nodded. "You need to rest. Tomorrow, we return home, and I'm sure Dad would love to hear your time here, especially with the girls."

"He's still upset you converted him from the winning team."

"You keep telling yourself that," Remus laughed. "Sleep well, you are exhausted and I know in pain. The rest will do you some good."

"I should have grabbed something to cuddle with," Potter replied. "Though pickings were slim. Veela were nice. Twins better. I want a brunette, I think."

Remus laughed and helped his son lie on his back, trying to ignore as some of his skin was already peeling off. "Who knows, maybe at Hogwarts you'll finally meet your match."

"That would be awesome," Potter replied. "But I'd prefer at least four matches." He yawned through another tremor and tried to relax, his body already falling asleep.

Remus left without another word, leaving his son to the nightmares they both knew would come, but would never mention.

My god, has it really been that long since I've updated this. I am a horrible person. Well, yes that's true but not for that reason. I've been busy with school and stuff, and frankly was stuck with where to take the story. Until recently, this has been just sitting in my folders, waiting for some writing to get done on it. I finished it, so figured why not. I'll post and see what the response is.

I own nothing from Harry Potter; if I did, the story would at least have focused on how we treat people properly and call out the characters who fail to do so.

As always, read and review,
SurrealSteamPuckk(WeOffendedShadows)