Warning: Some gore and cussing

The last light has gone out of the world, except

This moonlight lying on the grass like frost

Beyond the brink of the tall elm's shadow.

~ Liberty by Edward Thomas

The stands roared with chatter and cheers. The sky hosted the beginning of spring, bright with the morning sun and a soft breeze that cherished more than it whipped. But despite the fair weather, Dyre could feel the ground rolling with discontent. The Forest was exceptionally foul these past few days. Bane had taken the herd into the hills. Centaurs did not believe in luck, but Morgan rested his hand on his shoulder, and Dyre understood the words that did not pass between them.

Now, the maze pressed before them, daunting and mysterious, and everyone was rushed with excitement. Everyone save the nine at his back, eying him with varying degrees of anxiety. Dyre took a deep breath, smelling the recently churned soil of the mutilated quidditch pitch and the metallic tinge of repressed magic.

He approached Draco and not caring who was watching, kissed his cheek, resting his hand along the other side of his jaw.

"Be safe," he told him.

Draco gave a snort that was much too strained. He ignored chasteness and took his mouth. Dyre allowed him to rake his hand through his hair, closing his eyes in one of those rare moments of peace that only Draco could coax from him. Draco pulled away, and for a moment, they felt the inch between them.

"You be safe," Draco said, backing away. He allowed himself to be comforted by the warmth of the glass wyvern at the back of his neck.

Dyre resisted the urge to embrace him. He wasn't sure he'd let go. He looked at them all, making sure to encompass every single one of their gazes, resting a tad longer on Lily.

One last time.

"Wait for me," he said of his last command.

Confused stares met him, and with one last meaningful glance at Draco, he approached the maze. Dumbledore was called to begin the task, and the other two competitors lined up beside him. He didn't care about winning. He didn't care about what trap had been lain for him, what plan had been unrolling for fifteen years some unfathomable distance. He thought only of his return. There was no dream of a future, nothing beyond a moment at the story's end. He held onto their expectations of him, their refusal to take the easy way out and release him.

Love and despair, a coat of colors so often weaved in tandem.

A spell banged and Dyre entered the maze.

o.O.o

Dark loomed around him. He could hear the shuffling of other creatures through the dense foliage, but none came to accost him. His dirk remained in his belt. He met a dead end and turned around, not even bothering to keep track of where he was or where he was going.

Dumbledore had given him a wand. The petition from the start of the tournament had finally made it through and was approved, but he did not draw it. It was rowan with dragon heartstring. It was a good wand, and he felt only marginally guilty about dropping it in Sirius' pocket earlier.

The path he was walking suddenly shivered and moved. He made the last step and watched it vanish behind him in a whirl of leaves and twigs. He stared at it a bit, wondering if he should let himself be caught in the next one, if perhaps he should just sit down and wait, but he didn't. As much as he wanted to defy his Fate, it was not in his nature to abandon a battle, and he had no desire to change because of his Fate anymore than he had of changing to obey it.

The sound of dueling caught his ears, but it was a ways off and behind a green wall. With a whistle, he called Loki and Levi. They appeared from the shadows. He asked them to watch over Delacour and Diggory. Loki licked his hand and faded, Levi behind him.

He started singing a short nursery rhyme beneath his breath. He had met nothing and no one. He knew enough that he was now deep into the maze and should have run across something by now.

"Merrily, merrily, life is but a dream," he murmured.

Loki howled. Something to his left gave a high-pitched scream and ran. The spit dried in his mouth, but he thought that was more of a reaction to the hellhound's cry than to his own emotion.

The path he was about to take suddenly closed over, and he had to hurriedly snatch his foot away.

"Life is but a dream."

Finally, he caught sight of creature. A sphinx sat at the end of a pathway, a dome of intersecting vines shielding most of the light but less so than the rest of the maze. She watched him, her tail flicking back and forth over her front paws. As Dyre approached, she bent nonchalantly and licked her leg, but when he stepped at the threshold of the clearing, her head twitched, and she set the limb down, face sharp and beautiful with Egyptian bronze.

"Do you seek passage?" she asked, an amused purr in the background as her tail flicked back and forth.

The way behind her was dark, looking no more entreating than the rest of the maze. Dyre stayed where he was and reviewed her. She waited patiently for his answer, her smirk widening the longer he took.

"Yes."

She smiled and stretched, claws kneading the grass as she stuck her rear in the air, bosom brushing the grass.

"You must answer my riddle to pass. One answer. You can walk away if you choose. If you answer wrong, I will attack you."

Straightforward. Absurdly straightforward for a cat. Dyre suspected she was lying about the walk away bit. But Dyre was a curious creature too.

"What is your riddle?"

She sat up.

"'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,

Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder;

'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,

Attends him at birth and awaits him at death,

In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,

But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir;

It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,

With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned;

Without it the soldier and seaman may roam,

But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!

'Twill soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear,

It will make him acutely and instantly hear.

Set in shade, let it rest like a delicate flower;

Ah! Breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour."

That was longer than he thought it would be, and he had to ask that it be repeated several times.

Finally, he smiled. "H."

She stepped aside.

"Watch for the hellhounds," he said with a bob of his head as he passed her.

She didn't respond, her eyes following him out.

The cup was glowing a soft silver-blue. The soft hum of magic surrounded it, lighting the area in a subtle fluorescent glow. He squatted on the grass and stared at it.

Was the sphinx the only thing that guarded it? True, maybe if the dragon and the knucker had given him a riddle, he would have survived the other tasks better, but this seemed entirely too easy.

The minutes ticked by and nothing happened. There was no glory in grabbing a cup off a pedestal, and he was thinking about finding one of the other champions so they could win the damn thing. But that would be a waste of time. He didn't think he was wrong in assuming that the beginning of the prophecy's end would happen today, and he didn't think he was wrong that it was connected to this tournament. But he was beginning to doubt that the creature from the ley lines would suddenly appear in the maze. What sense would it make for it to attack him as he was exiting? The perfect moment would have been before he reached the cup, when he was still alone.

This reeked of foul play, but he couldn't sit there forever, and the hope that one of the other champions would wander in was dwindling. He stood, eying the cup. The hum was constant, ignoring the chaotic emotions swirling about his head. With little option, he grabbed the cup and won the Triwizard's Tournament.

o.O.o

Lily bit her lip, wringing the handkerchief Lucius had given her. The old dragon hummed against her shoulders, dozing. James was pacing anxiously. The stands had dissolved into excited chatter, the projection from the maze showing Cedric battling a black annis. James wished simultaneously that it would and would not switch to Dyre. Though he wished to see him, the charm was set only to pick up adrenaline and fear.

Draco touched Lily's hand, stilling her wringing for a second. "He'll be fine," he said without looking at her, eyes on the watery projection.

She swallowed and interlocked their hands.

Cedric dodged another attack from the annis' long arms and fired back a spell around a hedge. A second projection flared, revealing Fleur combating one of those obscure crab-like monsters Hagrid had bred. Cedric finally incapacitated the annis and the screen dissolved. Fleur rolled the earth and knocked the skrewt over. She blasted its unprotected underbelly, though her robes caught fire in the process. She was casting a water spell when the scene dissolved as well.

"Looks like he's managed to avoid trouble so far," Severus mumbled behind them, eying the area where the projections were to appear.

"Something isn't right," Sirius added, agreeing with the tone in his voice.

"Just be thankful," Narcissa said curtly, her arms folded.

"Dyre is quick," Lucius added. "Perhaps he incapacitated the beasts before they noticed him."

"Maybe he hasn't experienced any adrenaline rushes or fear," Remus mused.

They were reasonable conclusions, but thirty minutes passed and no other screens appeared. Dumbledore approached the maze and ran a check over the spells. His brow crinkled and he flicked his wand. The protection rose with great distortions, as if fighting to dissolve. Faintly, they caught the image of two human-shaped creatures dueling. Dumbledore put out his hand, and the image cleared.

Cedric and Fleur were fighting. Distressed cries rose from the stadium.

"Were there any spells that would make them do that?" Remus asked.

Lily shook her head, but she looked unsure.

"No," Severus said.

Fleur released a Dark spell, noticeable only for the bright, overwhelming crackle like lightning that sped towards Diggory. He raised a shield but was still blasted back, colliding with the thick brush. He slumped slightly like he had lost consciousness, Still, his arm extended, the wand rolling like a whirlpool. Roots erupted from beneath Fleur's feet. She grappled with them, shooting spells. Her feet began to sink through the earth. Roots captured her wrists. She squirmed, snarling, tearing at them with her fingernails.

The twigs and gorse of the hedge wrapped slowly around Cedric. His wand arm sagged, and he allowed himself to be pulled backward, head lolling. Fleur had been pulled onto her back, the ground up to her knees and swimming over her chest. Her arms were tied down, and she gulped, terrified, as the dirt rose up to her neck, straining her neck to keep her mouth free.

"We need to get in there!" Sprout shouted, standing with her wand drawn.

There was a sudden howl, like a jaguar's hunting screech. Some of the students screamed, most covering their ears. Loki and Levi came up through the shadows, Loki's neck extended in the long echo of a hellhound's infamous scream. The shrubs trembled, and even in the stadium, they could feel the ashy power of its voice. The vines shrank back from the students, and the dogs tore at them with their teeth, pleasuring themselves in the short-lived squeals made by invisible flowers.

With unarmed grace, The dogs shrugged the bodies atop their long girth and faded through the shadows. The screen remained, swimming with empty green and black. Almost instantly, the hellhounds bounded through the entrance of the maze. Despite the rescue, several people still screamed, pointing their wands from the stands. Dumbledore shouted a brief disarming spell, rewarded by shrill yelps.

The teachers and the champions' families swarmed the beasts, the other professors working wards to hold back the crowd. Dumbledore was the first to reach them and floated them off the hounds' backs, performing charms only a moment before he was crowded.

"Imperius," he surmised. "Send them to the infirmary."

They were immediately carted away.

"Get the students to the castle," he continued to order.

Sirius, Remus, and Severus nodded and started herding the confused children back into the castle with the other professors. Victor and Hermione escaped, jogging to the clearing.

"What about Dyre?" Hermione asked.

"We need to get him out," Lily added frantically.

"We will," Dumbledore assured then froze suddenly. He turned to stare at the maze and the now empty clearing. "Someone has the cup," he whispered.

Horror spread though them when no one appeared. The port-key was set to apparate the winner to the clearing. Dumbledore's brow wrinkled, his mind awhirl. He threw a spell over the maze. His breath left him, his face falling in disbelief. He slowly lowered his wand.

"What?" Lily said. She grabbed his robes. "What? What is it?"

"Where's Dyre?" Draco shouted.

"He's not in the maze," Dumbledore said.

"What do you mean he's not in maze?" James demanded, returning after making sure both Narcissa and Lucius were protected from stray spells. "He left? How would he leave?"

Hermione gasped. "The cup," she said, stunned. "Someone must have changed the coordinates."

The bloody fucking cup.

"Where is my son?" James yelled, his face a mess of fury.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't know."

His eyes scanned the field, then up the castle, ablaze with suspicions. No one else could speak, their own thoughts trapped in a cycle of what-ifs and shocked hows.

With a start, Draco pulled out the wyvern, inspecting the bright flame in the center. Lily did the same. Both were brilliant, humming with life. Lily curled around the creature, holding it close and crying. Cetis folded a wings over Draco knuckles, spreading the other in a display of triumph. There was nothing weak in the way he held himself, daring the world to deny him.

Draco watched him and sucked in his breath. With a strength he wasn't sure was his own, he straightened and beat back the horrified silence in the back of his chest. "He'll come back," he said. "We'll just have to wait. He'll come back."

Hermione nodded, even as Leopold gave a chirp, asking for Dumbledore's attention. "He'll come back."

"He'll come back," Victor agreed, watching nothing but the darkness brewing beyond the sky.

The adults looked at them and said nothing. Gradually, the remaining glass creatures came to their masters, called by a force none of them, not even Dumbledore, quite understand how they were tied to. Some professors returned to the field, having their students in the hands of fellows and prefects.

Dumbledore took a single breath and faced them, explaining, divining, calming, as he did best. But even he knew, two successful attempts at foul play on the cup, it was not coincidence. Yes, there was a traitor among them. And as he soothed and manipulated his staff, he watched their eyes and wondered and damned his naiveté, his trust, that might have yet again killed a young boy so close to him.

o.O.o

Dyre stumbled when he landed, dazed and winded. He doubled over but did not fall, the cup dangling in his hand.

"About bloody time!" someone shouted.

Still stunned by the journey, he could only blink blearily. The land around him was scorched, but the sky was still a pretty blue, making him think that he hadn't traveled far. Someone kicked him in the back. He fell on his stomach and managed to keep hold of the cup from reflex only.

"Now, was that entirely necessary?" another person chided. He heard the click of a watch closing.

The figure behind him laughed, high-pitched and female. She straddling his back and grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back. He winced, a horrible tearing sound wrestling with sudden pain. She tore a chunk away away, forcing a scream from him. She laughed and turned him over. Blue eyes, dilated and jittery with cracked sanity, stared back. She was smiling.

"Now that's a scar," someone whistled. "Lemme see his back."

With a chuckle, the witch pulled him up from beneath her and slammed him against a stone effigy. The wind pounded out of him, the carved figure digging into his stomach and forehead. Ropes slithered and snapped, ensnaring his arms and tying him to the figure's girth. Still half in shock, he did nothing as his robes were torn off with a spell.

The sudden rush of cold air made him shiver, replacing the fog of confusion from his head. The most intimate part of him was on display. He had not braced for it, as he had at the Lake and found himself feeling weak and nauseous because of it.

He'd known worse. With a rope of self-control, he gritted his teeth and suffered the indignity.

"What a beauty," a man whispered, replacing the woman.

His hand petted the skin around the furrows. Dyre managed not to flinch, managed to keep the part of them that said only Draco should touch him there to himself. He felt it when the intent changed.

The hand traveled down its path, pausing and stroking, and kneaded his arse. Dyre did not respond, did not shut his eyes from where he'd turned his face to rest his cheek against the curve of the angel's shoulder. Yes, he'd experienced what a family should be like, how real people could treat him with respect. He feared that he might have lost his ability to tolerate cruelty when he'd become to accept them. But no, it was the same. He was still a servant, a survivor. Even if he grew old, he didn't think that would ever change.

The person behind him moaned, pressing someone hard and damp to the curve of his back.

"Powers," a voice snapped.

"What?" he whined, turning his head.

Dyre's eyes flickered behind him, wondering what face this man might make if he killed him.

"That does not belong to you," a swarthy man, complete with untrimmed goatee and the same flash of wildness, more constrained than the woman's, said. He crumpled the paper of some type of smoke and sucked on the tip.

Powers snorted. "Stop being such a prude, Mulciber."

The man Mulciber blew out a breath of tobacco, uninterested. "If you're so horny, go rub one out behind a tree." He shuffled in his coat.

Powers stepped back from Dyre, glaring at him.

"Now, come on, Ernie," a new voice cajoled. This man was a spindly fellow, the type taken for misdemeanors like pickpocketing and flashing old women. He had a crop of dirty blond hair and moved like a vermin. His smile was too wide, eyes too bright. "We ain't'n no hurry. No reason to get'cha knickers inna wad."

Mulciber threw him off. "Get off me, piker."

"Boys," a woman called, voice oddly rich in the situation. There was a hint of cultured sultriness. She unfolded herself from a tombstone. "Save the foreplay. Let's not be rude to our guest."

There was some wild snickering, made by a solitary voice full of hysteria, from somewhere Dyre could not see.

"Go tell our lord that he is here," she ordered.

"My pleasure," said a new voice, full of slickness and excitement. There was no crack of apparation, no sound of footsteps, but he felt that the man was suddenly gone. It sent crawls down his spine.

Dyre rested his head against the stone. Blood ran sluggish from the wound on his scalp, slipping down his forehead and into his mouth. He tasted it and remembered that he was still alive.

They continued to speak above him, and Dyre didn't bother keeping up. They were irrelevant, subordinates. Even the woman who had spoken with some authority. Maybe he should have been listening though. A sudden snap was all the warning he got before a stinging hex pounded into his back. The air whooshed out of him, and he sagged on his heels slightly. The spell spread out, burning faintly and itching. His body shuddered, but his training kicked in before he even thought about it, bracing himself on his legs.

"Told you he wouldn't cry out."

"Poor boy," the pureblood woman (by the sound of it) said. She leaned over him, her hair brushing his shoulders. She smelled of honeyed perfume and rot. Her voice said softly into his ear, "Do you wish you were never born, Harry?"

He didn't answer. She wouldn't know it, but she was nothing to him, and the moments that they played with him prolonged the moment when he'd had to face the one who did matter. She didn't seem to mind his silence but moved her body so she was leaning on the angel beside him. The hex came again, striking harder.

"No," the woman said, watching him with honey-color eyes, likely the result of some potion. "You're used to pain. Do you want me to tell them to stop?"

Dyre breathed through his nose. "I think... what I want is entirely irrelevant in this situation."

He felt her surprise. It loosened her face before she let out a chuckle too loud to be feminine. Her fingers brushed his side, intrigued. "Such a good boy," she muttered, looking into his blind eye. Then, she drew away.

"He's so polite," she giggled. "Maybe he could teach you some manners."

"Careful, Carrow," the first woman taunted. Dyre couldn't turn his head to see her, but there was something lax and bland in her voice. "You're getting wet."

Carrow gave a faint sigh of disgust. "Better wet than frigid, my dear."

The witch snarled, and Dyre heard of movement of robe that meant she had stood. "I'm not your dear, you fucking cunt."

"No need to get in a pissing contest, Bella," another man (How many were there?) said soothingly. "She's just jealous, love," he whispered in a mockery of intimacy.

"Of course, Bella," the Carrow woman agreed. "It's all jealousy. You've nothing to worry about, dear."

"I did not give you permission to call me Bella, cunt," she snarled.

"Azkaban made you crass," Carrow scoffed offhandedly, and Dyre didn't have to see her to imagine the way she flicked her hand.

"Is Redan back yet?" someone said impatiently, cutting off the brawl.

"Don' lik'er be rushed now do 'e?" the thief answered, shuffling and jumping like a puck. "No prob'em waitin' I sees it. What, such lovely com'ny n'all," he leered. "Jus' sayin' s'all," he added to some unspoken threat. "Could carve boyo a new pisser," he offered.

"He wants him unharmed," Mulciber said.

He hopped down from his squat on a tombstone. "He still 'ave all e limbs."

"If you could control your bloodlust for a blasted minute."

It wasn't much longer that they had to wait. Dyre could feel it. The chaotic rumble that rode through the ley lines beneath them. The sudden sick that rose in his throat, accompanied by the acidic stench of bile. His exposed back made him shiver was suddenly beyond his tolerance of obscenity, his wrists rolling in the restraints. There was no crack of apparation to herald their return. Though he could not see, he could feel the lines open like a torn fissure.

Odin's eye jolted, mad, and he hissed, biting his tongue when he tried to close his mouth. The gathering grew silent. It was an unworldly silence, full of reverence. In the lull, Dyre heard the slight crunch of boots meeting dead leaves as loud as a rapist's stalk.

Dyre could not help the small instinctual struggle against the bonds.

"He's scared now," Bella whispered. She was quickly shushed.

Dyre pressed his face into the statue and closed his eyes. He knew fear. He knew fear. He thought of the Maiden. She had seen this, hadn't She? Her eye could reach even here. She loved him. She knew he could face this. He thought of how hard Yrsa was trying to weave him a happy ending. He thought of his promise to Draco.

Oh Draco.

He took a deep breath, but even then he could not rationalize what his instinct knew was coming, what they understood and revolted to think about. He was an animal, and animals always knew which beasts ate meat. He tried to capture his bravery, but it slipped from him. The only thing that kept him still was the ropes.

"Harry Potter," something hissed.

The voice itself did not scare him. He'd heard old men talk like that. That alone let him find his tongue.

"I am known by that name," he said with amazing ease. "But I cannot claim the house of Potter."

"Oh," the voice said with some amusement, lingering behind him. (Don't think about that! Don't think of it!) "Why not?"

"A servant cannot claim the name of a lord."

It laughed. It was low and obscenely normal, each syllable soft and clear.

"You are right. Dogs need no surname. Turn him around," it ordered in that safe, lulling hiss. "I cannot see his eyes."

The spell tying him to the effigy suddenly flipped. His abused back slammed into the stone, knocking the wind from him again. His arms were pulled over his head and locked behind the statue's neck. It was a little better than his position before. He took a moment to brace himself and opened his eyes.

He bit back a scream.

Dyre had seen things. He had seen the scions of Hel, horribly fouled chimeras, things made of pus, things formed from hatred and jealousy. Demons locked in ice, with too many mouths. (Too many, far far too many begging, screaming, aching mouths.) And he had seen them feed.

It was not only fear that made him sick. It was disgust.

The thing might once have been human, and that was the most terrifying. It was without eyelids, so the irritated pink veins stretched wickedly long, the orbs sitting in the skull like apples in a barrell. They wobbled and bobbed. The flesh of the thing was sewn like a bag, the mouth hewn without lips. Just an opening filled with the forked and mutilated stub of a tongue. The cavity of its nose was exposed, leaking red and sore.

Dyre held his breath. This was what hunted him. Yes, putting a face to it made it less terrifying, just barely. This was a monster. Not an old one, not one that demanded respect, that had sunk into other worlds and found its place there.

This was something human, perverted by greed and anger and hatred, that refused to descend where it belonged.

This was not natural. This was not something he could bare touching the same world as him.

A hand grabbed his jaw. Dyre's bile rose to the back of his throat. It pooled and he had to turn to let it spill from the side of his mouth. The creature waited and laughed. When Dyre felt the sickness curdling sour in his stomach and head, it touched him again. He flinched and tried without success to pull away.

There were no emotions in eyes without eyelids. He knew that, and that ripped smile made the entire creature only all the more surreal.

"You made me this way, Harry," it said, displaying that hideous tongue again, gnawed and floating in its mouth like the head of a corpse peaking up through a lake.

Pale and ill, Dyre felt something like a worm crawling through his skull. He shrieked but it fell short, full of weakness and bile.

"You did this," it purred, stroking his face.

Dyre looked up at it and felt something sovereign in him die. He knew it was lying. He'd seen the past. Voldemort had done this to himself, had chanted the spell that killed him and forced him through the gates of Hel. Voldemort had taken the backlash, had fled to the ley lines and waited. This body was only a construct, but Dyre, with his Eye, could see what lay beneath it. The resolve to do such a thing. The ability. And he had been bred by it. He had been bred by this maniac so he could have the secrets he desired.

The ability to conquer death.

He sagged. Yes, he was a puppet. The Harry Potter of this world had died for this creature's ambition, had been given up like a sacrificial lamb. This was the only reason he was here, to serve as fodder for this madman.

He knew. He'd always known. He'd dared to believe he could create his own soul. Even though that was the one thing magic could not do. He was a curse. That was all. The Maiden had coddled him, telling him sweets, and he'd dared believe Her.

He still could not Hate her. Even though She must have known. She loved him. She'd gifted him with the illusion of life only because She loved him.

But he was not Hers. He was not for any of the Gods of this worlds. He belonged only to a demented man, drunk on arrogance. This monster.

Dyre cried. A small sliver of the life he'd yearned for remained with him, carrying the face of a young boy with luminescent eyes, waiting for him to come back to him. Soon, even that would be gone though.

Yes, he thought. Not even you could make me real. I loved you. I love you. Forgive me.

This was not the end of things. The tapestry was still not complete. He remembered that for only a second before his mind slowly began to be swallowed by the worm. This was not the end. If Voldemort could swim in the unmanned night, so could he. He too could wait.

"Prepare the ritual," was the last he heard before the world folded, engulfing him in a sloppy gulp.

The grim of the Norns was never simple.