Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.
Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar
Harry left the back room of the Three Broomsticks feeling exhausted. He had just spent nearly three hours telling Rita Skeeter everything that might discredit Dumbledore, from abandoning an infant Harry on a freezing doorstep, to his use of the Stone as bait for a Voldemort-possessed Quirrell, to his inaction in the face of the basilisk and Lucius Malfoy's manipulations, to the coup de grâce: failing in his duty as Chief Warlock to ensure a trial for Sirius Black, allowing an innocent man to spend twelve years in Azkaban. Worse, Harry lamented, was that even when Dumbledore knew Sirius that was innocent, he swept it under the rug instead of pushing Sirius's case in front of the Wizengamot.
Daphne had also been in the room; Harry had included her "as a witness, to ensure that the story is written truthfully," and Rita hadn't seemed to mind. Daphne had worn Harry's invisibility cloak down into Hogsmeade (it wouldn't do for them to be seen together), and Rita swore to keep Daphne's name out of her story. She had been suitably shocked about everything, especially Sirius's innocence—that alone, she had said, would be enough to shatter Dumbledore's hold over the Wizengamot, and would virtually guarantee that Sirius's name would be cleared.
"What now, Harry?" asked Daphne from somewhere to his left (she was wearing his cloak again) as they left the building.
"Well, I guess I go back to training for the dragon, and we wait for Rita's story to break," Harry responded. "I've got my plan pretty much worked out, but it can't hurt to get in a few more days of practice, especially since I'm going to take Tuesday off—I don't want to be too tired for the task the next day."
"Can I...I mean, do you want any help practicing?" she asked tentatively. "I've been curious about the Chamber of Secrets, and I'm sure I could help out."
"Sure, why not?" Harry replied, warmth spreading in his chest—it really did feel great having someone back on his side.
The rest of that weekend was spent in the Chamber; Harry mostly practiced his spellwork, and Daphne provided a surprisingly able assistant. Granted, she wasn't quite a dragon, but she was definitely helpful, and Harry was certain that her help might give him a better chance of getting through the first task unscathed.
For her part, Daphne had been shocked at how much Harry had improved his spellcasting, especially when compared to their classmates. He was easily at an OWL-, if not NEWT-level—though she didn't realize it, he had broadened his spell repertoire considerably over the summer, and he could always draw from the thunderbird for more raw power—and his month of incessantly practicing in isolation had boosted his skills even further. It was clear that he had been holding back in classes, only doing what he needed to complete the assignment as quickly as possible and then leave (even in Arithmancy, which he had just started this term)—she wouldn't be surprised if he was holding back even now, to keep her from knowing the full extent of his abilities. After all, that's what she would do.
She was also quite impressed with the Chamber of Secrets. Winky had cleaned up the place; it was now a far cry from the slimy, dank pit that Harry had endured in second year. Winky had also removed the basilisk's remains, selling the parts off to various apothecaries and potions masters (with the exception of the venom and skin, which Harry had kept for himself), but the damage that the basilisk had caused—including a vast bite mark on a solid stone pillar—remained as a testament to its size and ferocity. If Harry could kill that with a sword at age twelve, then of any student, he would be the one who might stand a chance against a fully-grown dragon.
They didn't speak or meet again on Monday; Harry merely attended his classes and then disappeared to the Chamber to continue to train, largely ignoring the pandemonium that gripped the castle in the wake of Rita's article. However, after dinner on Tuesday, Daphne—knowing that Harry was taking the night off training—went to Myrtle's bathroom and knocked on the snake-engraved tap. It was the signal that they had worked out; if she knocked, Winky would pop up and take her down into the Chamber.
Harry was sitting in the study, finishing up a mirror-call with Remus and Sirius (both of whom were hopeful about the fallout from Rita's front-page article proclaiming Sirius's innocence). Just as he put the mirror down, Winky popped into the study, holding Daphne's hand.
"Master Harry sir, Miss Daphne is here," Winky announced.
"Hey Daphne," Harry said, a small smile curving his lips. "Winky, thank you very much. That'll be all for now."
Winky curtsied and disappeared with a slight "pop," leaving the two teens alone in the study.
"Are you ready for tomorrow?" Daphne asked.
"Yes, I think so. At least, as ready as I'm ever going to be. I suppose we'll find out either way tomorrow."
Harry and Daphne spent the next few hours alternating between companionable silence and quiet conversation. Once it was time for bed (Harry had a big day tomorrow, after all—people to see, dragons to fight), Harry called Winky to take Daphne back to her dorm.
As she prepared to leave, though, Daphne turned and gave Harry a quick hug and a light kiss on his cheek.
"Good night, Harry," she said softly. "And good luck tomorrow."
An instant later, she was gone, leaving Harry to his thoughts. As he rubbed his cheek, he remembered another goodnight kiss in early July, and what that had become.
"I guess I've got one more reason to survive tomorrow, then," he murmured, before lying down in his bed and falling asleep.
A sense of foreboding washed over Harry as he put his hand into the bag, knowing full well that only the vicious, man-killing Hungarian Horntail remained. As expected, his hand came out of the bag holding a small, animated model of the dragon, which bared its fangs and tried to bite his thumb. A tag with the number four hung around its neck; Harry was to go last, and would be facing a more powerful and dangerous dragon than the other three combined.
"Well, that's bloody fair," he muttered darkly.
Harry spent the next hour or so enduring the stares of the other champions, and listening to the roars of the crowd as first Krum, then Fleur, then Cedric faced their dragons. Finally, after Cedric's scores were posted, the crowd quieted, and the whistle blew. Harry stood, barely noticing as he pushed aside the fabric of the tent, and walked down the path through the trees and into the dragon enclosure.
Thousands of people stared at him from the stands that had been erected around the makeshift arena. Harry could pick out Remus, sitting with a large black dog, and Daphne over in the Slytherin student's section. His eyes moved over to the judges' booth—Dumbledore looked particularly worn (though the Wizengamot had not met yet to cast him out, it was more or less a done-deal, and Fudge had already stripped him of his ICW position).
Finally, a hissing scream that turned into an earsplitting roar drew his attention across the enclosure. There lurked the Hungarian Horntail, huge and serpentine, crouching protectively in front of its nest. Her leathery wings unfurled, showing their vast span—it's trying to intimidate me, Harry thought—and her spiked tail whipped back and forth, tearing long, wide gashes in the dirt. The huge, curved talons clenched into the ground, ripping up rocks as though practicing for Harry's flesh. Its bright acid-yellow cat-like eyes narrowed in fury, and the monstrous beast let loose another howling roar from its huge, fanged maw.
Harry's wand was in his hand. He had eschewed his holly and phoenix feather wand in favor of his oak and thunderbird feather wand; he needed every edge he could get, and for whatever reason, the oak wand (rather than the elder and thunderbird feather wand) felt right for this fight. Though channeling magics didn't require a wand, using one could help, especially for this. His wand was a tangible link to his inner thunderbird, which was central to his plan.
With another deafening roar and a huge blast of flame, the battle was on. Harry stood tall, holding his wand out in front of him. He didn't try to dodge, and he didn't cast any spell to defend himself. The crowd let out a collective cry for him to do something, anything, but it was too late. Harry was engulfed in a swirling torrent of dragonfire hot enough to melt steel—he surely had no chance.
Hundreds of spectators screamed in terror, and scores (including Molly Weasley—the elder Weasleys had never really jumped on the "anti-Harry" bandwagon) fainted. Had Harry Potter really just allowed himself to be immolated? Was the Boy-Who-Lived...dead? Minerva McGonagall, for all the trouble the boy had put her through this term, was sobbing. Hagrid was moving his lips in voiceless horror, and Albus Dumbledore hoarsely whispered "no, no" over and over. Even Snape had no words—for all his cruelty toward the boy, for all his hatred of Sirius Black and James Potter, he had never wanted this.
Most wizards didn't fully understand what energy actually is—they cast their spells, and never really worry about the mechanics. However, the channeling magics that Morris Oshkosh had taught Harry over the summer required at least a basic understanding of the fundamentals of the topic, and Remus—who had once worked as an electrician, of all things—had refined his general understanding into something he could put into use.
When the stream of dragonflame rushed toward him, Harry channeled as he had never channeled before. He took the energy from the air—almost entirely heat—and shoved it through to his inner thunderbird, leaving only the magic inherent in dragonflame to splash about harmlessly (though it looked as though he was being engulfed in fire). The thunderbird was acting as a huge magical capacitor, soaking up the energy from the flames and storing it as electricity. The only question was whether the Horntail could output more energy than Harry could channel at once, or more energy than the thunderbird could store in total. Harry was already straining; if the flames grew more intense, or if the stream of dragonflame went on longer than the thunderbird could pack in the energy, he would be burned to death. This was a very all-or-nothing gambit.
Finally, the dragon ceased its attack, having run out of breath (or simply deciding that nothing could have survived the inferno). However, the flames continued to swirl around the spot where Harry had stood, as though caught in a small tornado. Of course, that was exactly what had happened. Harry had been unable to keep up with the dragon, but instead of giving up and burning to death, he had whipped the air around him into a cyclone. While he stood in the center, he was protected from the flames, and had more time to siphon away the energy of the dragon's attack.
As the flames finally died away, the spectators gasped—somehow, impossibly, Harry Potter still stood alive and unburned. His verdant eyes blazed, crackling with barely contained energy, and power rolled off of him in waves. He aimed his wand at the extremely surprised dragon (it was entirely beyond the beast's experience for anything to survive its flames), and released.
As Harry understood capacitors (in this case, his inner thunderbird), they functioned much like clouds in a thunderstorm. They stored up electrical energy, and when they reached their maximum capacity, they discharged, and the result was lightning. This was no different; all of the energy that Harry had collected and shoved into the thunderbird blasted from the tip of his wand in a huge, crackling, blue-white bolt of lightning. The bolt tore through the air—loosing a massive crash of thunder whose shockwave blew over several trees surrounding the enclosure and almost toppled the stands full of spectators—and struck the dragon directly in the chest, right over its heart.
The raging thunderbolt continued streaming from Harry's wand for several seconds (not as long as the dragon's breath, but much more intense), and the dragon screeched in pain, its wings twisting, its limbs and tail thrashing around, and its eyes rolling around in their sockets. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry vaguely considered cutting off the blast to save the dragon, but he immediately dismissed the thought—he might only get one chance at this (after all, this trick it wouldn't save him from the dragon's teeth, claws, or tail), and pulling his only punch to try to knock out the dragon instead of killing it might get him killed instead. No, as unfortunate as it was, the dragon had to die; in fairness, though, this tactic was only possible because it had tried to kill him first. The thunderbird within screamed in approval, and Harry intensified his attack, moving in for the kill.
Finally, Harry's massive counterattack was finished, almost as suddenly as it had begun. The dragon convulsed one last time, then pitched over on its side, still twitching slightly.
"Vitas revelio," he incanted, panting for breath. The dragon's body did not emit a brief glowing aura; it was definitely dead. Harry walked across the enclosure, ignoring the roars of the crowd, and picked up the golden egg. Finally, he looked up to see Remus dancing with a dog, and all five judges sitting with their mouths open in shock. The dragon keepers rushed out to try to revive their Horntail, but Harry knew that it was a lost cause; the dragon's entire chest was practically charcoal, and its roasted heart was clearly visible.
Harry found himself dragged off to the medical tent by Madame Pomfrey, who began to frantically examine him for injuries; he stopped her when she tried to pull off all of his clothes. That was going too far.
"I'm quite sure I'm unhurt, Madame Pomfrey," Harry said. "Your other patients are all in much worse shape than I am."
It was true; he could see the occupants of the other beds. Cedric had bandages covering the burns on his face and right arm, and Fleur's left leg was covered in a sort of paste that Harry assumed was to treat whatever injury she had suffered. Krum didn't appear injured, but he did look a bit dazed—maybe he was in shock or something. Finally getting the point that Harry didn't need her hovering over him, Pomfrey bustled off to harass the other champions.
Moments later, Ron and Hermione darted into the tent, their eyes lighting up when they saw him. Hermione looked as though she had been crying, and Ron was practically glowing with excitement.
"Harry," Hermione moaned. "I can't believe you had to fight a dragon! We were all so scared. We thought you died!"
"Yeah, mate," Ron said. "You were ruddy brilliant, though, the best champion by far! It was so awesome when you...well, didn't die! We were behind you a hundred percent the whole time, you know that, right? Everyone believes you now."
After Hermione had spoken, Harry had almost, almost forgiven them—she seemed like she had been genuinely concerned. But then Ron went and did what Ron had always done best: he said exactly the wrong thing. The warmth that had begun to spread through Harry's chest at Hermione's words froze at Ron's, and any hope of reconciliation shattered.
"Is that so?" Harry hissed coldly. "Even though literally nothing has changed that would prove one way or the other, you bloody people believe me now? Or maybe you're all just cowards trying to get back on my good side now that you've seen what I can do."
"Come on, mate—" Ron began, but Harry cut him off.
"You both nagged me for months about my summer, the one thing that have ever I asked you to leave alone, the one thing I've ever wanted to keep to myself," Harry said. "But I guess that was too much for you two, because you tossed me aside like I was garbage once the rest of the school turned on me. Even after all we've been through together, despite all I've done, you both turned traitor. Get the hell out of my sight."
White-faced (and with tears running down Hermione's cheeks), Harry's two former friends fled in fear; both had seen a dangerous, predatory glint in Harry's narrowed eyes. Harry had changed; the once mild-mannered teen had transformed when they had been looking elsewhere, and whatever he had become, it would not, could not grant forgiveness for their transgressions against him.
"Well said, Harry," Daphne said from behind him as they left the tent. "And I've gotta say, this cloak of yours is incredibly useful."
"Thanks. It belonged to my father. He and his friends used to get into all sorts of trouble with it—I guess I've kind of followed in his footsteps, except while he usually just pulled pranks, I always seem to get stuck saving the school from monsters and dark wizards."
"Well, let's go get your scores," Daphne replied. "And make sure you have a good explanation for killing the dragon—I don't think the judges are going to like that."
"Don't worry," Harry replied lightly. "I upgraded my research team—they told me everything I need to know about the rules. I'll be fine."
Ludo Bagman's voice suddenly boomed out. "Well...we have conferred, and are prepared to award Mr. Potter's scores. It has been decided that since Mr. Potter killed his dragon, he did not truly complete the task. Therefore, he will receive the minimum score of one point from each judge, for a total of five points."
The crowd, which had been silent for Bagman's speech, buzzed wildly. This was not entirely unanticipated; Remus had coached Harry on what to do if this happened. He put his wand to his throat, cast a quick sonorous, and spoke.
"In accordance with Rule 18, paragraph 2A of the Regulations section of the Triwizard Tournament Contract, I would like to appeal this ruling. In the event that a contestant believes that he has been judged unfairly due to differing interpretations of the task's objectives, the Goblet of Fire will determine that contestant's score."
"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said tiredly. "The Goblet has gone out. You will accept your—"
"Actually," Crouch cut in (apparently he did know the rules backwards and forwards). "That is not true. In this case, the champion's memory will be dropped into the Goblet, and the Goblet will determine the score appropriately."
"While the Goblet of Fire is retrieved, I'd like to address the issue of the Hungarian Horntail," Harry spoke up again.
"Oh, that dragon that you killed?" Karkaroff snarked. "The dragon which was procured for this tournament at enormous expense? The Triwizard Tournament committee takes cash and personal checks. I suggest you get out your pocketbook."
"Well actually, that won't be necessary," Harry replied, his lips turning up into a slight smirk. "Per Rule 81, paragraph 7, any creatures killed by a contestant are to be disposed of per the prevailing law of the land. In Britain, that would be the Magical Creature Hunting and Poaching Law of 1698. As our esteemed Chief Warlock—" the crowd laughed, and Dumbledore's face colored—"is surely aware, section 4 of that law states that any magical creature which endangers or takes the life of a wizard or witch shall be exterminated by the Ministry of Magic. Failing that, any wizard or witch who exterminates said dangerous creature is entitled to its carcass and any and all proceeds consequent from the sale or use thereof. No exceptions exist, not even for ridiculous interscholastic tournaments. That dragon is mine."
"But surely zis boy cannot be allowed to keep ze dragon!" Maxime shouted. "Eet eez an outrage! Ze dragon should be sold, and the proceeds split between ze schools! A dragon carcass of zat size eez worth a fortune!"
"Too bloody bad," Harry said flatly. "That dragon belongs to me...that is, unless anyone wants to duel me for it? Of course, they'd have to put up equivalent stakes. Anyone willing to bet their life and their fortune on a duel with a guy who just killed a dragon with one spell?"
Absolute silence greeted Harry's challenge. "Didn't think so. My staff will deal with the carcass by sundown. Ah, there's the Goblet now."
Crouch showed Harry how to extract a copy of his memory of the fight; when Harry placed the silvery memory strand into the Goblet, a huge argent flame shot up. Moments later, the flame turned blood-red, and a ghostly number appeared in the air above the Goblet.
"And it appears that the Goblet of Fire has determined that our youngest champion's approach to the task warranted full marks!" Bagman shouted out, surprise tinting every syllable. "I guess that puts Mr. Potter in the lead, with fifty points!"
Harry gave a short bow, and strode out of the enclosure, with the still-invisible Daphne close behind. Moments later, he was engulfed in a strong hug from a tearful Remus.
"Oh Harry, I was terrified! Even though I knew your plan, when that fire hit you..."
"It's okay, Moony, I'm alright," Harry replied, touched by the man's obviously deep concern. "How did Padfoot hold up?"
"Badly," Remus said with a snort. "I'm pretty sure he didn't actually watch any of it—he just shoved his head under his paws and waited for it to be over."
"Ah, well, I'm sure we'll be able to show it to him in a pensieve at some point. Is he still around?"
"No, I made him apparate back home already—I was afraid he'd lose control and transform in front of everyone," Remus explained. "That article did us a lot of good, but he's not been proclaimed innocent quite yet. You'll have to call us later to reassure him that you're still in one piece."
"I will, Remus," Harry said seriously. Sirius was still suffering the lingering effects of his imprisonment at Azkaban; it wouldn't do to have him fall apart with worry over nothing. "I'll call tonight. In the meantime, I'd like to get back to the Chamber—I'm sure people are going to be looking for me to get back on my good side, and I don't feel like dealing with them right now."
"Ron and Hermione?"
"I've already dealt with them," Harry said, his eyes flashing angrily just from the memory. "I actually almost forgave them, but then I pulled my head out of my arse and sent them packing."
"Whatever works for you, Harry—Sirius and I will always have your back. And I'll send Dobby to help Winky with that dragon carcass. Maxime was right, that thing is huge; it's going to be worth a fortune."
"Thanks, Remus," Harry said, giving his kind-of-uncle a hug. "I'll call tonight, I promise."
As they walked back up to the school, with Harry making sure to dodge or scare off any potential conversations, Daphne told Harry what the other champions had tried. She was of the impression that Harry had been by far the most spectacular; going toe-to-toe with a dragon and coming out on top—even more, unscathed—was difficult to beat.
"I didn't realize you were that close with Professor Lupin," she said thoughtfully as they approached Myrtle's bathroom. "I mean, he was a really good teacher, but I never hear anything about you spending extra time with him."
"He was a really close friend of my parents, and he's also really close to my godfather," Harry explained. "He's kind of like a god-uncle or something. I didn't know him until last year, but he taught me the Patronus Charm when he saw how badly I was affected by dementors, and we've been close ever since."
"I'm glad, then—it'd be a shame if I was the only person on your side all this time. I guess that means that Remus and Sirius are that "research team" you were talking about before?"
"Yeah," Harry said with a grin. "It's like having Hermione, but with a lot more knowledge and some sense to back up her brain. Without them, I'd be dragon dung right about now."
"Well, I'm glad you're not," Daphne said, taking off the invisibility cloak as they finished their descent into the Chamber. "Fertilizing plants in Sprout's greenhouse would be such a waste of a wizard like you."
"A wizard like me, huh?" Harry asked, a teasing note in his voice as he preened a bit, doing his best Malfoy impression as he sat down in his favorite armchair in the study.
"Oh shut up, you prat," Daphne huffed, though her grin belied her pout.
Harry sat back, a satisfied smile growing across his face. He'd survived the first task, and now he got to live a little.
Author's Note
I hope my explanation of how Harry fought the dragon makes sense to everyone. I always like pulling in Remus's broad range of experience to help Harry, and this was kind of how I imagined Harry using the dragon's main strength against it. Dragons are tough opponents, and the only way Harry was going to beat it was by going full-thunderbird, by hitting it with some kind of cheap shot (like the Jersey Devil), or by using his brain and skills to turn the dragon's overwhelming power against it.
Why did the dragon have to die? Well, Harry's reasons are pretty good—if he pulls what might be his only punch, the dragon might not get knocked out, and then Harry ends up as dragon dung. Also, he's (subconsciously) biased toward finishing it off—the thunderbird sees the Horntail as a challenge, and wants to prove its superiority. Thunderbirds don't believe in half-measures, and it wanted to go all-in. Plus, the fact that a dragon carcass is worth a great deal of money certainly plays a role—Harry suspects that Remus is hoping he'll kill it, so they have more cash on hand (Harry is rich, but he can only access his school trust fund, and Sirius can't show up at the bank until he's cleared), and Harry doesn't really have a problem with that. Finally, the canon-Harry, who would be wracked with guilt over the dragon handler's death and the dragon's extermination, no longer exists. Harry has gone hand-to-hand with a demon, all of his friends have abandoned him, and he's on the outs with Dumbledore, whose failure to protect him has once again landed him in mortal danger. He's hardened, not just by the thunderbird, but by life—the way Harry sees it, he's going to survive, and anything that gets in the way is fair game.
Obviously, the rules and laws were completely made-up; however, I think they make sense. Remember, the last tournament was held in 1792, so the rules would be outdated compared to modern sensitivities. There was no magical ASPCA to look out for animals back then, and there really isn't one even now (which is why Hermione's SPEW is viewed as ridiculous), so this kind of "you keep what you kill" attitude seems appropriate.
"Vitas revelio" is made-up, and based on a spell from the books. Seems reasonable—it detects life. I suspect that Moody can't actually see through the invisibility cloak; rather, he is skilled at casting silent, wandless revealing spells, and does so constantly (and vigilantly).