I didn't know you could steal your own life. And I didn't know that it would bring you no more benefit than about anything else you might steal. I think I done the best with it I knew how but it still wasn't mine. It never has been.

~ No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

Dyre hated this. He hated not knowing what was expected of him. With Karkaroff, at least he understood his place. Here, everything was skewed. There was someone constantly watching him, and as he had always been mostly invisible to his peers, he found this behavior odd. Especially when none of the usual hackling and roughhousing ensued. He quickly found that he could not handle being in close proximity with either of his… parents.

Their eyes were so pleading, so intense in their emotions, that Dyre was forced to make a quick retreat when faced with their familial concerns and expectations, expectations that he could never fulfill. More often than not he slipped through the castle like an aimless vagrant. He really hated being idle. After a few days of passive, redundant wandering, Madam Sprout finally snagged him. He enthusiastically joined her gardening, and while at first withdrawn, he gradually began to open to her light-hearted banter.

He saw Victor passing through the halls every once in a while. The Bulgarian harbored no ill will for his illegal championing, unlike his peers, who glared viciously whenever opportunity gave them. Under the watchful eye of the teachers, they had yet to accost him but Dyre knew they would not linger in wait forever.

He caught little sight of the Malfoy boy. Mostly they shared the same hallway in between the blonde's classes and Dyre's roaming. He was always pressed between teens, drooling admirers who trailed in his wake like devoted minions. Dyre could not suppress an amused smile whenever he saw this. The prince did not want for attention, Dyre mused.

Still, despite his musing, he noticed that every time they passed the young Malfoy made sure to catch his eye. Amid his entourage, he stood out like a shepherding beacon. His near-silver hair shone among his darker peers, his gait rich in etiquette and royalty. He was finely drawn. Dyre's previous study had not quelled under his attention. Draco Malfoy was still as beautiful as the day he had impulsively reached down to draw his hand to his lips. And surprisingly, the young lord did not scorn him for it.

Mostly people treaded carefully around him. The Potters acted as if he was going to break at any minute and no one knew what to do with him. It seemed they were as confused as he was. The only one who gave him any type of solace was Dumbledore. The old rascal had thrown him for quite a loop. Sometimes, it was impossible to compare the man talking about bubble baths while extracting lemon drops from his beard to the great wizard that defeated Grindleward.

He had told Dyre the date of the first task and what it was about, which was nothing. He gave some tripe about daring and courage and nothing else, not that Dyre really minded. This entire thing was so surreal that he had just decided to treat it like the game it was. If they were going to force him to compete he was going to prove to Karkaroff just how much of an idiot he was.

It was a dangerous field he played. If Karkaroff got a true taste of what Dyre could do then he might obtain grand notions of his own augustness. He could wreak a lot of havoc before Dyre killed him. Dyre could do a lot of damage.

But, damn, it was not in his nature to resist a challenge! And this was a great challenge. To participate in the games without wand or sword… Dyre wondered how truly he could play to himself, if he could test the limits he had placed on himself to restrict Karkaroff's power. If Karkaroff knew what power he wielded, he would not be contented to have him play maid.

Dyre felt himself scowl, startling a few owls in the rookery. The tower near shook with the thunder of wings and cooing. The ground and perches were coated in thick white sludge. The tiny carcasses of mice, reptiles, and the occasional beetle crunched underfoot, as Dyre watched the birds preen and sleep. He knew that the European wizards used owls as messengers, but Dyre could not really imagine using an owl. It seemed slightly blasphemous even, like using a raven. Birds of prey were not meant to serve man like this.

He gave a low whistle. A large owl swooped down from one of the top perches. He extended his arm, and he felt her sharp claws pierce through his tunic and flesh. She was heavy, the crown of her head and the outer layer of her wings crusted in brown and golden feathers. The heart-shaped quality of her face gave her a strange expression, almond shaped black eyes burrowed slightly into her face. Her nose looked as if it was pulled down, the neck pressing into what would have been her chin. The soft underbelly was warm with downy feathers, white speckled with arrows of black. Her head swiveled, and her long talons readjusted her grip, detaching and sinking further into his now bloodied arm.

Dyre bore it stoically, feeling his bones near break beneath the weight and pressure. The owl was unconcerned. Dyre made a gentle shushing noise that he reserved for all birds. A young Burrowing Owl sat on a nearby window, extreme in its contrast to the magnificent creature on his arm. He tilted his head comically, watching the two of them. He gave a small hop and made a cute chirp as if to ask him what he thought he was doing. The female turned to him, hunching. She spread her wings in swift communication and turned again, treating Dyre like she would any common tree limb.

Dyre gave a soft smile. She was swift and lofty but she possessed none of the great cunning of the greater beasts. Dyre could not communicate with her. He raised his arm and flung her weight upward. Recognizing the command, she bunched her chest, crouching on her thick limbs. She took off, taking most of Dyre's flesh with her. Dyre gave a wince, feeling her claws hit bone. She was a great predator, but stripped of magical intelligence, she had nothing left but the purpose of carrying post.

Dyre was sad to watch her as she took roost in one of the higher eaves, tucking into her bristled feathers. If he was correct, this wasn't even her native land. She belonged to the backwater underbelly of Australia. Dyre held his limp arm to him. It dragged, dripping blood and soaking into his grey habit.

The Burrowing Owl gave another… what could only be described as a yip, hopping on the stained alcove. It was a nondescript fellow, probably purchased by one of the lesser wizarding families, one with less money but more hearth. The angle of its brow was not as severe as its brethren and inside of scowling it seemed to give a lopsided look of wry contemplation.

"Fidgety fellow, aren't you?" Dyre asked.

Dyre walked over to the port, leaving a trail of blood that rubbed into his dulled shoes.

"Hello, little one," he said, expertly ignoring the painful throbbing in his arm. "Did you care to sit on my arm as well?"

In answer, the creature dove quickly. He skirted the massacre of miniature skeletons, dipping and gliding high. He sat on Dyre's shoulder, not once having to flap his small wings. Dyre had to admit that this one settled much easier. The little bird was close to his ear, tickling his lobe. Dyre gave an amused smile.

"You bring me no omens I do not know for myself," Dyre told him.

Without the iniquity of breeding and potion-inducing plumage, he had retained his otherworldly intelligence, the knowledge of a harbinger, one of the creatures skirting the line between death and life. Like Dyre.

Dyre blinked.

Many creatures belonged to Dyre. All of their own free will, but owls had never claimed sovereignty to a master, save mighty Athena. Ravens shared the secrets of the nook and crannies, the swan songs of a thousand dying men lying across the battlefield. They heard things, spoke with the dead as they consumed them, took in all the secrets of the flesh they devoured. Battle spawn. They belonged to Dyre, of a fashion.

Owls were completely different. All birds were different. Some carried no intellect and others possessed too much, like Loki's crows. Evil wretches, crows, Dyre thought with a small shudder, though they too proved useful. Owls however were in a separate category altogether. Owls watched the ley lines, or whatever the hell man chose to call the prevalent ambiance that conjoined structural energies.

Ravens conferred with the dead. Owls conferred with Death. Ravens, like vultures, could smell the sickness in people, could feel the ground screaming when blood was spilled, premeditate it even. In that, they were sly and cunning and very patient.

Owls sensed the presence of Death. Not the fleeting maladies and ripples sparked from the first tenacious cough to the painful moaning on the sickbed. Like cats, they kept their counsel to themselves. Dyre spoke to many creatures through the curse in his eye, saw many things that should not be seen and heard whispers in the quiet. The owls were not his. They belonged to themselves, playing with worlds that even Dyre could not see. To have an owl speak to you was a great honor, but it also came with a price.

Dyre could feel the Burrowing Owl settling in his burrs, fluffed like a little fuzz. His beak clicked, and in the endearing chatter, Dyre could hear the heavy swathe of a dark shroud being laid over him. The shroud of being advised by an owl.

Dyre shook himself free of the forewarning. He reached up and patted its little head. With his good arm since the other was beyond such acts at the moment.

"Alright, little omen, I heed you. Return to your roosting."

Impertinent, the fellow sidled along his shoulder, clipping the sensitive area of his neck lightly. Dyre gave a jarring motion, unused the feeling of sleek yet downy burrs nestling in such an exposed space. The little owl gave what might be considered a giggle, continuing its ministrations by nipping his ear.

"Alright, vermin," Dyre said, raising his voice, trying to push him off without actually moving, since that would be an offense.

The owl seemed to sense his unease and thought his courtesy very humoring. Dyre was about to forgo civility and shove the bird off roughly, but the creature hopped down, taking an ungraceful leap onto the soiled ground. His wings flapped like loose bed linens, useless in their fluttering, but they steadied him until he reached the ground. Dyre got the urge to give the fellow a good kick but refrained. The owl hopped over his shoes and like a shade disappeared into the deep congested mess of bones and pellets.

Dyre still buzzed with the twisted warning, convoluted with sharp clicks like nails on stone and the soft whisper of the owl's own tiny voice.

That which lies forsaken comes for you. He rises fast and swift and he seeks to capture you in his tongue. The dark roads crawl with him. Do not travel the in-betweens.

He knew what he meant, what every animal that delivers a message inevitably says. You are being hunted. Dyre understood the implications. This tournament was not just some shortsighted jest gone wrong or a fucked up spell botched in translation. Someone was orchestrating this event, playing him like a marionette, but what did they want? The obvious answer was dead. Dyre was a hard man to kill. His death brought about the wrath of one whom to anger would risk one's immortal soul. Other than that, Dyre was by no means defenseless, even without a wand or sword.

And who was playing him? He could think of no one to benefit from this. Karkaroff might want a faceless way to kill him, but he was too arrogant and stupid to do this. He would never conspire to place a servant as his school's champion. Dyre had precious few other enemies. Little schoolboys who aspired to be kings notwithstanding.

Dyre tapped his finger on his lip as he stood outside the rookery. After a moment, he removed his outer robes. The torn sleeve was soaked red and auspicious. This was the first time he had been without guard, and he did not want to give the impression that he couldn't handle himself. He set the habit on the hard stone turning frosty in the evening air. Still not cool enough for the rigid grace of Iceland. His undershirt was thin, a starch white material that chafed if one was not used to it. Without drawstrings, it was just one uniform piece of grey, though the right sleeve was blatantly red. The torn flesh and muscle was revealed beneath the cloth. Skin flapped over the fabric, stinging in the chilling air.

Carefully, Dyre pulled the undershirt over his head. His arm was enflamed, swollen purple and yellow where thick swathes of red blossomed, dripping like cold liquor. Dyre bit his lip, reviewing the damage. He pinched the skin together, holding the dangling filaments with nothing more than determination and thin, callused fingers. He let the Maiden's words filter through him, leaving him in a thick glow much like the owl had.

Slowly, he began knitting the flesh. He could see his own ley lines. Not really ley lines but he had little else to call them. The Maiden called them river stones. In her low husky voice, she had taught him to tell the pieces of magic in each strand of muscle, vein and tendon, taught him to weave them with his mind like a true disciple of the Tower. He could see the patchwork, the way the lines were supposed to lie.

With determined vigor, he pushed the pieces back into place securing them with taut bridges. The stretches of skin clung together because they wanted to, not because Dyre had told them to. His arm was meant to be this way, unbroken, seamless. One part of a great whole that moved and flowed and changed as much as it stayed the same.

Dyre could do nothing for the blood loss and resolved to snitch a bundle of sweets from the house elves. He turned to his habit. The blood was now a dark, ugly stain in the sleeve. Dyre really hated sewing, but he always had a habit of tearing the damn things. Robes were in short supply to people like him. He supposed he was going to have to deal with it. He moved his now healed arm over the stain.

There was magic in blood, and Dyre could hear it calling to him. The fact that it was his made it all the more easy. Because the wool was untended, possessing not even the mildest warming charm, it was marginally easy to coax his blood from the material. It wavered in a crusted maroon ball, looking more like a spray of rust. Part of it had yet to dry and it clumped together in a lopsided ball. Dyre held it still until it was seamless, compacting it until it was barely bigger than his pinky. It looked like a rusty marble, innocent enough in its dark form. It was held over Dyre outstretched hand. He could already feel it beginning to crumble away. As he held it out over the stone, it drifted away. It rose like dust over the air, disappearing into infantile particles not too far out.

Dyre donned his undershirt, tucking the tails into his breeches. It was still a messy, wet red, but no one would see it through the habit. Though the tear was large, the sway of the cloth concealed much. The most noticeable thing about it was the four-pronged tear, but Dyre could do nothing about that here. That had to be done by hand. He was a fair hand at the needle but it was a bore. A terrible, tremendous bore.

He grouched on the way back down to the castle. He reasoned if he really cared that much he shouldn't have called the Masked Owl down. He was just curious though and she had seemed the strongest of the parliament. It figured that it would be a little Burrowing Owl, one of the only owls that was not nocturnal, that proved to be the strongest. Dyre was still half-heartedly irritated when he was bowled over by James Potter.

"Harry! There you are!"

"Shh!" Dyre hissed, covering his father's mouth with his hand. He pushed him against a wall. The older taller man, surprised, went with him.

He eyed the corridor, but classes were over. Nobody had heard him but there were a few curious eyes watching him accost their Defense professor's husband. Dyre pulled away, glaring at him. Potter gave him a sheepish, nervous smile, and Dyre grew angrier. The man just didn't get it. That or he didn't care.

"Was there something you needed, Master Potter?" Dyre asked acidly.

James, about a foot taller than Dyre, shrank away from him. His eyes were truly contrite now, and Dyre felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He growled at himself, disgusted by his sentimentality. Potter thought it must have been directed at him because he winced.

"I, uh, I just wanted you to practice with us for a bit," James Potter said uneasily.

Dyre eyed him suspiciously, though the full acerbity of his gaze was absent. "Practice what?" Dyre asked in a level tone.

He was going to Hel before he agreed to play target practice for another demented teacher. Father or not.

Potter looked up and down the hall. Thor's Hammer but could he be any more conspicuous? Dyre tried to not let the man - his father, he reminded himself - get under his nerves. He waited patiently, somehow managing to glare down at the man.

"Well, you know, with the Tournament," James petered off. He raked a hand through his disordered hair. Dyre watched the movement hawkishly, like he was listening to a secret. "I thought… We've all gathered to see if you can duel."

The last sentence was said in a rush, as if he had finally gotten impatient with himself and just flung everything out. He looked uncomfortable but unrepentant. There was a hopeful look in his eyes, and Dyre realized that this man really was trying. He didn't understand Dyre anymore than Dyre understood him, but he was struggling through the slew of unfamiliarity to approach him.

It was wearying as much as it was flattering. Dyre decided to take a tactful approach and give himself time to think.

"Who is 'we'?"

"Oh," James said, blushing. His hand went in his hair again. "Well, Lily wanted to make sure you were properly prepared and she kind of invited Lucius and Lucius might have invited Draco who dragged along Victor. I'm not sure how Severus got invited but he's there too." He paused. "Albus said he would watch."

Dyre gave a sigh. These people really went all out didn't they? By the Gods.

"Let me change," Dyre conceded.

Potter's face lit up like an Incedio. Dyre regarded him like one might a small child, shaking his head as he skipped off to inform the others and giving him directions to the corridor where they were to be practicing. Dyre made the walk to his new room on his own. He didn't know why he was doing this, why he was letting them get close to him. He couldn't stay. Neither his bond nor his nature allowed it. Still, he wanted this, he realized. He wanted to learn about his family.

He wanted it so bad he was almost bleeding of it. He supposed since he had warned them, it wouldn't be so bad to engage in small pleasantries. Victor was there so they could not get too beyond propriety. By Thor, he hoped Lily didn't try to hug him. He knew she was aching to do so since she saw him, but such a thing was forbidden, he thought unyieldingly.

In his room, he flung his habit over his head, not bothering with the clasps. Blood had brushed the inside again and he turned it inside out. His undershirt he lied over it, careful to get none of the stains on the furniture. It really was an elegant room, he thought as he surveyed it for the thousandth time.

A fire was eternally crackling in the hearth, moderated for temperature and void of logs and ash. It burned alone in the grate, looking very cold for all the warmth it gave off. The mantel itself was stone and carved with ancient beasts. This was a guest suite, made to impress and impress it did. The battling creatures climbed over the hearth, unmoving stone relics. Half-beasts, some lying slain and others tempting fruit to curly haired children, crawled in the stone. They lured the children to dark woods or reared back on animal hinds to accept a blade. It was old but Dyre could see the sways of Christianity in the depictions.

It made him very sad.

The rest of the room was done in warm, rich colors. Brocade in maroon and gold framed the window. Sheer white curtains lied beneath them, lending subtle grace to the heavy fabric and thick floral swirls. The canopy matched the brocade, tied with golden chords to the dark posts. Dyre had made the bed before he left, but a house elf had gone over it, flattening out the edges as if with an iron. It looked crisp and unmovable. The white pillows were erect squares at the headboard.

It made Dyre uncomfortable. The thick plush carpet and huge mahogany dresser, which not even six times his apparel would fill, made him feel out of place and unclean. He didn't go in the adjoining bathroom, but he knew it would be sparkly clean. He knew the mirror would hint at concealing charms for his ruined face and try to coerce him into taming his unruly hair. Hair that he seemed to have inherited from his father, he mulled.

He probably would have felt better sleeping in the woods.

He was not one for discourtesy though and had said nothing. He had slept beneath the bed every night that he had been here, trying to fall into slumber on the surprisingly soft sheets and pliable mattress but it was no use. He missed the Tower.

Dyre climbed out of his breeches, which were stained by blood splatters and bird shit. The blood did not show much in the dark material but the droppings where pretty visible. His knees were padded with dirt from his early morning gardening with Madam Sprout but that too was invisible. He pulled open the top drawer of the dresser, the only one that had anything in it, and pulled out his secondary uniform. The only other pair of clothes he had was the more formal uniform that Karkaroff bade him wear when he had to attend to guests. The cut was different, more polished and refined, and the Durmstrang crest was steadied with charms to keep it from unraveling.

His boots were dulled and unpolished. Had he been an acolyte, he would undoubtedly be punished for such disregard to his uniform, but as a servant he was afforded some type of reprieve. As it was, it was hard to keep his boots in top condition. His second pair was not even broken in. He wore those only when he was forced to parade about for the Headmaster, and he did not relish the feeling of the blisters and welts that formed on his heels and ankles. The Maiden at least made sure his attire was not falling apart, but they were hardly in good condition.

He tucked his breeches, the same breeches he had been wearing for two years straight, into his boots. He contemplated getting the hidden blade from his fold but decided against it. That was personal. He was gripping his robe in his teeth and tucking his undershirt into his pants when he kicked the door closed behind him. He was rushing down the hall, feeling like he was late for something important. It took him a moment after he was straightening his habit, clasping the knot at his shoulder, to realize that he was nervous, which was stupid.

He wasn't nervous about being in a room of well-trained adult wizards. He was nervous that they would find him lacking. It was stupid because he didn't really care what they thought. They knew nothing about him despite their shared blood. This was just to appease their sense of duty. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that his father was going to watch him fight.

Sweat suddenly blossomed in his hands, and he cursed, rubbing his palms on his robe. The corridor was on the third floor. It extended straight from the stairs, which were rather disconcerting in that they moved beneath him, and he had to backtrack three times. The long stretch of hallway was empty, and he wondered for a moment if this had been a trick. He was prepared to go back and give himself a hardy thrashing when from the corner of his eye he caught movement.

A door that had certainly not been there before opened, revealing the happy face of Lily Potter. Her red hair was braided, and he blinked for a second, thinking of the braiding ritual in which married women gathered in the hall. He shook his head, cursing himself again for acting like an idiot.

"There you are, Harry. I'm glad you came."

"It's Dyre, Madam Potter," Dyre said in a pained voice as he approached the door.

Lily had the grace to look more embarrassed than her husband and held the door wide for him. It was a long wide room. A green fire belched in the hearth. Well-worn training dummies were lying across the walls out of the way. The center space had been cleared and a brown mat had been laid out. It reminded Dyre faintly of a Holmgang, though the lines and ritualistic runes were missing.

His audience had already gathered. Indeed, Potter had not been lying. Most everyone he knew in the school was here, barring Madam Sprout and Neville Longbottom who he had met just yesterday. They had anxious, nervous looks on their faces. All except Snape, Dumbledore, and Lucius Malfoy. Even Victor looked uncomfortable, though only Dyre could tell. He kept looking at the door as if he thought the headmaster was going to come bursting through.

"Alright, Dyre," James said, not one for awkward silences, or any silence really. He had clapped his hands together, and though he showed a fair sense of excitement and bravado, his eyes were shiny with apprehension.

Maybe he wasn't the only one concerned about impressing people.

Draco Malfoy stood in a corner off to Victor's side. His eyes alone were unassuming, and Dyre felt safe in grabbing hold of them. They sparkled like Dwarf dust in the mines, catching the heated gleam of the green fire. Dyre slid his gaze away but continued watching the lordling from the corner of his eye as James spoke.

"We've decided that we are going to let you use my wand until you have your own," Potter said, handing him his wand.

Dyre's eyes lit up as he took the wand. It was the first time he had held one but the light was not from self-improving glory. It was humor. He held the stick lightly, caught between two fingers and pointed down. He did not grab the handle. He looked up at Potter from between his lashes, his scarred face smirking.

"You do realize I could be killed for this?" he said in a tone sparkling with humor.

Potter looked uncertain again, but he did not move to take back his wand. His lip tightened. "You are safe in this room."

The wand swung back and forth arrogantly between his fingers. "I will not be allowed a wand in the competition," he said easily.

"Of course you will, Dyre," Dumbledore said, his voice light and trustworthy but firm.

Dyre and Victor both shook their heads. Victor kept glancing at the door and looked very irritated that he could not stop.

"I could," Dyre said as if dangling a piece of food before them, "if Karkaroff consented to it, but he would never do such a thing. He believes I would turn the wand on him."

"Would you?" Lucius asked, ever the practical man.

Dyre thought about it, testing the thought in his head. "Possibly, if it was an accident."

Most of them didn't look too happy hearing how bloodthirsty he sounded, but Dyre did not care, forced himself not to care. Karkaroff was his, his kill.

"Surely, Crouch will let you get a wand," Lily said, grasping at straws.

Dyre's look turned from taunting to sad. "He would, Madam. But the permission form must be sent through our government. It would have to be voted upon by the tribunal to be seen then voted again about whether or not to pass. Even with your Dumbledore pushing for consent, it would not make it back here in time for the first task."

"Perhaps the third," Victor said, thoughtfully. "Uncle might be able to pass a bit of the red tape. He can at least get your file into top priority."

"Why is it so difficult?" Lily asked aghast.

Dyre and Victor exchanged a look.

"I have told you, Madam," Dyre said softly. "I am not a citizen. It would be like a centaur requesting a wand here, I imagine."

"But you're a wizard," Lily argued heatedly.

"I am no such thing," Dyre said sharper than he meant.

Victor sent him a reproachful look, telling him to calm down. He sighed and unconsciously sifting through his hair. Just as James Potter did.

"A wizard is not a being, Madam," Dyre said, carefully choosing his words. "It is a status, one that I was not born with. Or stripped of," he amended belatedly.

"He is right," Lucius said.

Lily and James turned to him as if betrayed. Lucius sneered, but it was a half-hearted gesture, warning them they should not take their anger out on him. He was just reciting law.

James sighed. "So what are you going to train with?"

Dyre smiled, giving his ripped face an impish quality. He raised his arms. "My hands, of course."

Snape sneered. "You can not duel with your hands."

Dyre tossed back James' wand. He caught it expertly.

"What about a sword?" Lily asked.

Dyre shook his head again. "Same problem. The law forbids weapons to those who have not gone through Holmgang."

"What is Holmgang?" Lucius asked curiously. "I have heard talk of it, but it's true meaning is rather elusive."

"Holmgang is sacred," Victor said in a tight voice, looking quite unyielding as he leaned against the tan stone.

"Through a complicated series of ritual that I cannot and will not tell you about," Dyre said waspishly. "Two students battle each other under two constraints. First blood or to the death. Holmgang was first called to alleviate an insult and win back honor. However, in the building of Durmstrang and the Academy, it became necessary to enter Holmgang to win the honor of wearing a weapon. It is part of the final initiation of Durmstrang."

"What happens if you lose?" Lily asked, her brows drawn together.

Dyre gave a gentle smile. "Different things according to the manner of the defeat."

That seemed to be all that he would say on it. Snape was irritated again.

"So you can't use a wand. You can't use a sword. Are you just going to sit out there and die?"

Several people hissed at him simultaneously. Even Dumbledore looked rather putout with him. Victor and Dyre just smiled.

"North-men do not sit and die," Victor said, a strange peel of valor in his dark eyes.

"Aye, perhaps I will get a death worthy enough for the bards. Can you imagine that, Victor?" Dyre said happily. "Bards singing of a servant."

"I've seen stranger things," Victor said, a peculiar grin on his stern face. His eyes flicked, like the glint of sunlight on a drawn blade. "But you shall not die."

Dyre threw back his head, looking at the ceiling as if looking at heaven. They were struck silent by the absurdity of the conversation, the emotion they could not understand. They thought it mad. A thoughtful expression fell over Dyre's upturned face, his features blending more easily with the taut line that pinched the right half of his beautiful face.

"No, I think not," he agreed sadly.

Snape sniffed, casting off the strange air around them. "You are pathetically outmatched."

Dyre looked at him. The green gaze was sparkling with mischief, alcoholic sin at the bottom of a bottle. It was wild but still human, limited by the laws of his creators. It was arrogant, devilish, and insubordinate but still human.

The other was a milky skein of words unsaid. It held a dark promise, ancient as the bottom of a well. Something slow coiled in the mists of that eye, something slow and old that had devoured worlds. It moved with animalistic grace yet with an intelligence far outmatched by the warm-blooded simians. Cold as a lizard, it was something that slithered but also something that flew. It knew things. It played and was content in its knowledge, was even unmoved by it. It was something outside the perimeters of comprehension. It was something that sat and watched, rolling its tongue over its bright shiny teeth.

It was the other eye, the human eye, that challenged it, used it. Snape got the feeling that the creature inside Dyre would be content to sit back and let the world burn, not participating in the fire but not stopping it either. It would be the human side of Dyre, of Harry, that rose to the occasion, that used the awful power in that eye to charm and shape the world. It was deadly, the two sides of him. The indifference warring with the shifty passion.

He was dangerous. He did not need a wand. He did not need a sword. No doubt that he could use the two, but it was not… needed. Snape could see the challenge in there, in the side that shouted "I don't have to obey you!" It was daring him, coaxing him to act, and Severus did, because who can disappoint the master of that conflicting stare.

The spell shot out. Severus didn't know what it was, but he knew it cast a nasty wallop. He was not shocked when Dyre easily sidestepped it. What should have pieced his chest, flew harmlessly over his stretched shoulders. The shouts of the people around them were ignored as they circled each other, Dyre's smile still begging him to try his best, to kill him.

Severus wouldn't kill him, but he would certainly knock some sense into the boy. His second spell was batted away by a small arch of his back. It frizzled out of existence outside the padded circles. Snape had not even realized that they had stepped in it. Dyre was pacing like a restless, wild creature waiting for his next move, and Severus was very patient. The volley of the next spells trickled like pipe work from the end of his wand. It was superb, one after another in a series of complicated jinxes and hexes learned from half a decade of serving a madman. He was quick and precise and absolutely unable to land a hit.

Dyre recognized the spells. He had training. He knew which spells to leap out of the way of and which to conserve his energy. Take a hit, take a dodge, and it didn't matter that Snape seemed clearly better equipped, more experienced, and better trained because Dyre was not letting anything stay. He was not allowing anything to fell him.

Severus had to resort to the harsher spells, the ones that bordered on cruelty. The volley increased as heat, ozone, and brilliant light filled the room. Severus slowly realized that, as he struck, Dyre was slowly circling him towards the center of the ring. As the young boy retreated back, Severus had moved from the edge of the circle to the center, pushing instinctually as he retracted. He realized his mistake too late. He thought it would be ok to overpower the boy, overwhelm him with stunts and magic and light, and Severus had underestimated him. When Dyre was retreating, he was creating the space he needed to charge Severus' unprotected back.

The moment realization hit was too late. As Dyre's plan was discovered, Severus had hesitated. In the space between one spell and the next where there should have been unrelenting dominance lay a single short gap. Dyre needed no more. He slid between the coming spell and the echo of the last one, both glittering past his cheeks. His determined eyes held Severus' for a second, and their gaze conjoined, preempting the end of the duel, one in which Severus knew he had lost.

As Dyre pushed through the supercharged air, Severus tried to react, tried to clothespin him, but Dyre had anticipated this move as well. With his slim built, even his robes hissing and his hair singed, it was easy for him to slide under Severus' arm. There was a single second when nothing stood between Dyre and his victim, his prey, and he was merciless. What had seemed to be playing out in slow motion suddenly fast-forwarded. Dyre's arm slipped around his.

His grip went lax.

Dyre moved his arms up in a slashing motion, bringing Severus' arms with him. His foot came forward, colliding painfully with the tendon in the back of his knee.

Severus fell.

Dyre had his head in a lock, tight around his throat, his weight pushing Severus to his knees. The wand fell from his grip, his hands slack in shock. He squirmed, but he knew it was over, knew that there was no way that Dyre was going to let him go. He also knew that had Dyre wanted to kill him, he could have. One quick jab to the back of his head, the little knot of muscle that Severus knew Dyre was aware of and he would have been dead before he hit the ground.

Severus was bound prostrate, Dyre leaning almost sensually into his back. Gaping faces surrounded them. He felt Dyre smiling next to his ear, waiting for him to say it.

"I yield."

The grip left immediately, and Severus pitched forward. The arch of his back and his raised limbs had put pressure on his lungs, and he coughed as if he had been choked. From the cavern of his greasy hair, he could see a wand being presented to him. Dyre's face was not cocky or self-assured. It was remarkably impressed. His breathing was not solid, coming out in rough pants Severus was pleased to notice. Various cuts and burn marks graced his skin and his wrist was swollen where he had turned funny to dodge a curse. Severus looked more composed, less wearied, more together, but it was clear who had won the duel.

Severus accepted his wand and the hand that came with it. Dyre helped hoist him up, his gaze still merry and bright. A long streak from a second-degree burn framed the left side of his face, almost mirroring his scar. There was a cut across his brow, and each limb had more than one tear or burn. He was not afraid to sacrifice to win, this man.

"Impressive," Severus allowed stoically.

Dyre seemed to light up with the praise, like they were engaging in postcoital chatter. "I've never dodged that fast before. How did you keep up your energy and your accuracy?"

Severus was slightly surprised to be asked. "Training."

Dyre gave the first laugh they had ever heard. It was deep and voluminous as the mountain caverns. It filled the room, filled themselves, seeming to even echo inside each of their chests.

"You must have the heart of an ox," Dyre said wryly.

He turned suddenly, leaving the circle to approach Victor, who looked not at all stunned and particularly proud of his younger colleague.

"Did you see that Victor?' Dyre said happily. "He almost had me with that Blood Boiling Hex."

He seemed absurdly happy about the fact.

"It is good that you are pleased," Victor said simply. His eyes swept down him critically. "Do you require medical attention?"

Dyre suddenly seemed to remember that he was injured and in fact human. He moved the area around his left side. "A bludgeon spell hit me. It might have cracked a rib but I don't think it's broken. My wrist is broken though," he said, holding up the distended appendage.

That finally seemed to snap Lily out of her shock. She blinked and rushed over to them. "Let me see," she ordered with mothering authoritarianism.

Dyre was startled by her attention and dutifully raised the front of his robe for her to survey the damage. Lily was not a Healer, but it did not take a physician to know the purple and yellowing welting around his left side was not good. It was one of the few spells Dyre had taken head-on, and he had not faltered for a second.

"It is amazing that you could move through that," Albus said, watching Lily work over her shoulder.

Dyre shrugged, and even when the movement caused a distorted bulging in his side that made them all wince, he did not flinch.

"It would be easier if you removed your robe," Lily said.

Instead, Dyre lowered his shirt. Lily blinked, suddenly cut off from the nasty wound.

"I'm fine," he told her, shocking them by looking amazingly honest. "I heal on my own."

"I'm not letting that fester," Lily said stubbornly, looking fully intent on stripping the boy bare and tending to him.

Dyre seemed to decide that a compromise was in order and extended his hand. "This one might be broken. Would you like to heal this?"

It was an offering. He didn't care if she healed it one way or the other. He was just trying to make her happy. Lily frowned but began working on his wrist.

"Dyre, do you not feel any pain?" Dumbledore asked.

"Of course," he said. They waited but he said nothing more

"You do not appear in pain," Dumbledore tried again.

Dyre scowled, his previous stoicism prevalent once more. "I have learned to function through it."

Lucius frowned. "How? Do you participate in duels like these?"

Dyre looked uneasy but shrugged again, and again they waited for a shudder of pain that never came.

"There are usually a lot more," he eventually said.

"A lot more? A lot more duelists?" Lucius pressed adamantly.

Dyre finally had enough. Lily finished with his hand, and he backed away from them, extracting his distance. He turned his wrist expertly as he spoke.

"I serve during the classes sometimes."

"You mean a bunch of students gang up on you while the teacher eggs them on, perfecting their spells and their accuracy," Lucius snapped angrily. He had known where this was going the moment Dyre opened his mouth.

Dyre scowled at him. "I mean to say I am quicker and more cunning because I have had a lot of practice doing this sort of thing. This is what you wanted to know wasn't it?" he snapped, close to yelling. "That I won't keel over in the first round. Save your pity," he spat acridly. "I know how to take care of myself. I don't need a mother or a father to hold my hand and tell me it's alright."

"Harry," Lily tried. "I-"

"It's Dyre," he hissed, enraged. "Not Harry, not Harald, and certainly not your precious Harry Potter. He died," he said forcefully, piercing them with his hateful glare. "He died and I came back so next time you talk to me, talk to me. Not Harry fucking Potter!"

He stormed out, not waiting for their reactions. Lily covered her mouth on a sob.