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
"Crucio."
The high hiss cut through the dusty air of Riddle Manor, and the echoes of that cold, flat voice were immediately drowned in screams. The curse was lifted quickly—the Dark Lord needed his attendant to continue to serve him, of course—but he was the Dark Lord, and the strength of Voldemort's Cruciatus Curse was such that Wormtail would undoubtedly be twitching in pain for several days.
"M-m-mass-masssterrrrr," Wormtail half-gasped, half-wailed, crying out in agony. "Wha-t d-do you wish of m-me?"
"Get out of my sight, fool," Voldemort's voice hissed.
Wormtail had forgotten—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—a cardinal rule of serving the Dark Lord: make sure someone else brings the bad news. Voldemort was infamous for shooting the messenger. Crouch had sent word to Wormtail that he was almost entirely certain that Severus Snape was a traitor—Dumbledore had expended his own power and influence to keep Snape out of Azkaban far too many times, and now Crouch had overheard Snape and McGonagall discussing Snape's actions to protect Harry Potter against the Dark Lord's own jinx during the boy's first Quidditch game (apparently, what had begun as McGonagall's gloating about "her lions" beating Krum had turned into a reminiscence of Harry's past Quidditch games, including his first). Foolishly, Wormtail had immediately scurried to his master to bring the news; Crouch was probably laughing himself to tears now, knowing that he had doomed Wormtail to such pain.
Losing Snape would be a significant blow, Wormtail mused after choking down several remarkably ineffective pain potions (which were notoriously inadequate for treatment of the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse). Snape was a powerful wizard, a skilled fighter, an excellent potion-brewer, and already within the enemy's camp—as Voldemort was infamous for his temper, Dumbledore was infamous for his foolish trust, and a Death Eater poised as an Order of the Phoenix member would have been invaluable. It was likely that the Dark Lord would allow Snape back into the fold, if for no other reason than his potions expertise, and use him to pass misinformation back to Dumbledore, until such a time as his usefulness ended...at which point, the unfortunate man would become an abject lesson in loyalty for the rest of the Dark Lord's followers.
"Better him than me," Wormtail muttered.
Harry awoke a little after 8 AM, and slow becoming aware of his own body and Daphne's presence in the bed beside him. First, he noticed a nest of soft chestnut hair underneath his chin. Then, he noticed his left hand, which crossed Daphne's body to cup her right breast, and his right hand, which was splayed out just below her navel. Finally, he noticed her naked bum wiggling distractingly against his thighs—clearly, Daphne had woken up before him.
"Mmm," she hummed brightly. "I see you're...up."
Harry got out of bed a little after 10 AM.
Where the bloody hell was that boy? Potter had been in the Great Hall for brunch two days before (after how late the party had gone the previous night, there was no way anyone was waking up for an early breakfast), but he had since disappeared, and nobody seemed to know where he was. The problem was that the students and staff at Hogwarts had become so accustomed to Potter being out of pocket that they weren't worried, which meant that he couldn't shake down too many people without someone starting to wonder why the infamously-paranoid and questionably-sane Alastor Moody needed to find Harry Potter so badly. Blast that little toerag!
The one bright spot, though, was that Crouch's thoughts kept turning toward Severus Snape. Crouch had exposed him for a traitor, and the best part was that Wormtail, that simpering, cowardly fool, had been forced to deliver the bad news. The weakling would probably still be aching from the Dark Lord's...displeasure...until the New Year.
Crouch spotted the little Malfoy brat ("Draco," a ridiculous name for a ridiculous child), and stumped over (curse this bloody wooden leg!). If anyone knew where Potter was, it would be Malfoy, who seemed to have an absurd fixation on Potter. Malfoy apparently thought that he was Potter's dark arch-nemesis or something, somehow not realizing how much more powerful and talented Potter was—Crouch had heard that Potter had swatted Malfoy like an insect in every single confrontation the two had ever had, and only Snape's blatant favoritism had ever kept Malfoy from total defeat.
Malfoy, however, turned even more pale at the sight of his Defense professor, and fled behind Snape's skirts (almost literally—he was still peeking out from behind a corner in the corridor, keeping Snape between him and Crouch). The boy had been skittish around him ever since the ferret incident.
"Snape," Crouch growled, not having to pretend to be Moody to put hate into his voice. The traitor deserved whatever punishment the Dark Lord saw fit to inflict, and Crouch desperately hoped to bear witness.
"Moody," Snape sneered back. The traitor's hand twitched toward his wand—it had done that every time he had seen "Moody"—but even someone foolish enough to turn traitor on the Dark Lord was not quite foolish enough to try to outdraw Alastor Moody, who had capped his career with the single-handed (literally, as a piercing hex had shattered his wand arm) quadruple capture of the three Lestranges and Bartemius Crouch, Junior. The battle had demolished a fair portion of the Longbottom estate, but in the end, Moody had stunned and bound four of Voldemort's most loyal Death Eaters, despite wounds that might have killed a lesser man. Snape was right to fear Moody's wand; even the Dark Lord had made certain to assign a full squad to counter Moody at any battle he was expected to attend. The fact that it was Crouch, rather than Moody, did not factor into Snape's calculation, thanks to the wonders of Polyjuice Potion.
"Where the bloody hell is Potter, Snape," Crouch snarled. "I've got to talk to him about the investigation into who put his name into the Goblet. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, eh...Death Eater?"
For a brief moment, absolute fury burned in Snape's onyx eyes, before his expression flicked back to its typical blankness. Though he was obviously itching to draw his wand, Snape controlled his rage, spun on his heel, and strode down the corridor and out of sight, his cloak billowing behind him as though trying to catch up.
"Blast," Crouch muttered.
At that precise moment, Harry Potter was laying on Balandra Beach in La Paz, Mexico. After dragging himself out of the Chamber (he had actually lacked the willpower to do so, until Daphne literally kicked him out of bed) and making an appearance in the Great Hall for brunch, he had gathered his things, snuck off the Hogwarts grounds, and apparated back to Number 12 Grimmauld Place. From there, he and the remaining Marauders had taken an international portkey to Mexico City, and then another portkey to La Paz. Thanks to the time difference, they had been able to finish sleeping off the previous night's party, and had immediately commenced a proper holiday.
The plan for the next several days was for Sirius, Remus, and Harry to relax on the beach, practice their spellwork, and—for Harry, at least—work on the plan for the second task. Harry had picked up some of DuMorne's more advanced books on thaumaturgy (Fundamentals of Thaumaturgy and Evocation, while an excellent beginner's text, didn't quite reach the level of complexity his plan required), and was grinding his way through them as quickly as possible, reaching almost Hermione-esque levels of obsession. Everything would hinge on how effectively he could exploit this relatively obscure (but unbelievably fascinating and widely useful) branch of magic. He was currently about four-fifths through DuMorne's excellent Thaumaturgy in Combat, Construction, and Everything In Between, and after a brief glance at the waves crashing onto the shore, shot upright in excitement when he remembered the words from the previous chapter that would be the key. Remembering how he had almost become aware of the Jersey Devil, if only he had finished the book he had then been reading, Harry resisted the urge to go finish his plan, buckled down, and kept reading.
Daphne Greengrass was doing her best to keep from laughing aloud, but it was extremely difficult. The entire staff of Hogwarts was running around in a blind panic, desperately searching for Harry Potter; Dumbledore was a particularly ridiculous sight, looking torn between blazing fury and frozen despair. Rita Skeeter could be seen in a corner, cackling gleefully as she dictated to her Quick-Quotes Quill, alternately looking around at the chaos and down at a letter which Daphne knew came from Harry and contained quotes for her use in the Yule Ball coverage.
"Come on, Anthony," she called to the handsome Ravenclaw, who was talking quietly with his very close friend Terry Boot.
"You know," Anthony said quietly a few hours later as they danced (he really was an excellent dancer, she thought distractedly—though she'd rather be dancing with Harry, this wasn't too bad a compromise), "I wonder how long it'll take for them to check the holiday list. I checked earlier, and he never signed it."
And clever, too, Daphne mused with a wry grin. "Probably not until the beginning of term, when Harry points it out to them while they're telling him off. They really have been making it so easy for him to embarrass them."
"Too true," Anthony replied pleasantly, before looking over her shoulder and wrinkling his nose. "And speaking of embarrassing, take a look over there. Weasley is being himself again," he said, rolling his eyes. "And it was such a nice night."
Daphne's laugh rang out, high and clear like a chiming bell. Anthony had a good sense of humor, too. She sighed. Too bad he isn't Harry—plus, there's that whole other issue. Suddenly, she couldn't wait for the start of term.
Harry sighed, torn between his desire to be back at Hogwarts (unsurprisingly, he had been missing Daphne) and his desire to stay with Remus and Sirius in the warm, comfortable, stress-free La Paz. Remus and Sirius—no longer needing to capture Wormtail to prove Sirius's innocence—would be taking a few months to travel (or, in Sirius's words, "go wenching 'round the world"), and would return to Britain in time for the second task. Harry would be taking an international portkey straight to Hogsmeade, entirely skipping the Hogwarts Express (he saw no real reason why he should ever again waste an entire day on that train). He was glad that the time difference was going to be in his favor; he had a feeling that he'd need the extra stamina to weather the storm of self-righteous indignation that Dumbledore and McGonagall would inevitably stir up once he returned having missed the Yule Ball.
Unfortunately, his feeling proved correct. As soon as he entered the Great Hall for dinner (what would be his lunch, having skipped forward six hours), the students began buzzing, and Harry had scarcely re-transfigured his booth before McGonagall descended upon him.
"Mr. Potter!" she demanded sternly. In her rage, her eyes flashed and her native Scottish brogue leaked into her normally-precise and cultured pronunciation. "Where hae ye been? We turned tha bloody school up-side-daen looken fer ye! Ye missed the Yule Ball!"
She continued in this vein for some time, though Harry largely tuned her out, catching only words like "tradition," "embarrassment," "disrespect," "discipline," and "detention" as he dug into the hearty meal. Finally, she either wore herself out or realized that he wasn't paying her the slightest bit of attention, and her tirade ceased. She stood, shoulders and chest heaving, with her mouth pressed into a thin line, her eyebrow raised, her arms crossed, and her foot tapping; she was obviously awaiting Harry's apology. Harry was not inclined to supply her with one.
"I think you'll find, Deputy Headmistress," Harry said calmly, "that in my absence from Hogwarts, I was in full compliance of both the school's stated holiday policy and the Tournament's contractual requirements. If you care to look at the list of students who agreed to stay at Hogwarts over the break, you will see that I did not sign it"—(Anthony Goldstein's poorly-stifled snort of amusement greeted this statement, and several coins changed hands around the Great Hall)—"and the Yule Ball is not mentioned in the Tournament's contract. In fact, historically, roughly half of all Triwizard Tournament champions didn't attend the Yule Ball, and in some Tournaments, the Ball wasn't even held."
"Mr. Potter, the Headmaster and I—"
"Deputy Headmistress," Harry cut in, not interested in continuing the conversation. "What I do on my time, away from this school, is my business, and my business alone. If the headmaster has questions or concerns related to my academic standing, attendance at this school, or the investigation into who he allowed to enter my name for the Triwizard Tournament, he can bring them to me himself."
The Great Hall fell absolutely silent. After nearly a minute of McGonagall staring at him, speechless, the silence was broken by Professor Dumbledore's tired voice.
"Mr. Potter, please finish your meal, and please report to my office at nine o'clock this evening."
At precisely 9 PM, Harry Potter waited in front of the stone gargoyle that led to Dumbledore's office.
"Move aside," Harry told the gargoyle. The gargoyle, of course, did not move aside.
"The headmaster requested my presence, and he did not give me the password. Move aside, or I will move you, and you'll never move again."
The gargoyle still did not move.
Harry drew his elder and thunderbird feather wand. There was a spell Harry had read about in Earp's Offensive Magic for Defensive Mages that he had been meaning to try; it was a modified form of a drilling and tunneling spell (focused on a much smaller cross-section), and was perfect for blasting apart stationary defenses composed of stone or earth. He was halfway through the wand motion and was opening his mouth to perform the incantation when Dumbledore's voice called out to him.
"You're late, headmaster," Harry said flatly.
"You have been so quick to violence of late," Dumbledore observed sadly. "That gargoyle has stood watch over this office for over a thousand years, Harry, and the arts and knowledge that crafted it are lost to us now. Would you truly have destroyed it?"
"Yes, I would have," Harry replied. "If that's what it took to get you to realize that I'm tired of your little games and tests, I would have blasted it to pebbles, and then done the same to your office for good measure. You summoned me to your office; are we going up, or will we hold our conversation in the corridor?"
In answer, Dumbledore led Harry up the revolving stairs (the gargoyle had stepped aside as the headmaster approached). Harry took a seat in front of Dumbledore's desk, and Dumbledore sat down heavily.
"Fawkes is out flying tonight," Dumbledore supplied, seeing that Harry had noticed that the phoenix was not at his perch.
"Good to know, headmaster," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "What did you need to discuss with me?"
"You left Hogwarts during this holiday break," Dumbledore stated, a note of accusation in his voice. "Why would you do that, when you knew you were expected to attend the Yule Ball?"
"You mean to tell me that you really don't already know?" Harry asked, truly surprised; it seemed so blindingly obvious.
"I would not have asked if I did," Dumbledore replied stiffly.
Harry blinked, and continued. "Because for the first time in my entire life, I had people—Remus and Sirius—who loved me and who wanted to show me a real Christmas. If you thought for even one second that I was going to give that up for a dance party celebrating a tournament that someone entered me in as an assassination attempt—and for which everyone in this castle has treated me like garbage for two months—then you are even more insane than everyone already thinks."
This was not the answer Dumbledore was expecting, apparently; his surprise was evident on his face.
"What, did you think that I did it to spite you?" Harry asked. Dumbledore remained silent, but he may as well have shouted in the affirmative. Harry snorted. "What, you thought I was turning into a dark wizard, and the way I chose to show it was to skip a party? I'm not turning dark, headmaster; I'm just trying to survive all the things you keep throwing at me. If you didn't check the sign-up sheet for my name just because you assumed that I'd show up, that was your stupid mistake, not mine."
With a sigh, Dumbledore sat back in his chair, and drew a book from his desk. "Ms. Granger recommended a most interesting book for me to read over the holiday break, Mr. Potter," he said slowly. Harry noted the cover—it was Crane's book. So he knows that much, Harry thought. I wonder if he was able to find out about Wisconsin?
"I'm surprised you were able to get a copy delivered so quickly," Harry said lightly. "I'm told that they're practically flying off the shelves, and few copies were available in this country to begin with."
"Yes, but despite your efforts last term, I do still have some connections available to me," Dumbledore said casually, though there was a definite tightness in his voice. "The librarian of the largest school of magic in Europe need only ask, and a copy of virtually any text is usually reserved."
"Handy," Harry said dryly. "Have you read it yet? If not, you can skip directly to chapter thirteen, though the acknowledgments on the inside of the cover might also interest you."
"I have read it, Harry," Dumbledore said. "I was...surprised, to say the least. Why did you go to the Pine Barrens? It is known the world over as the home of that particular species of demon."
"Is it?" Harry asked, feigning surprise. "Well, that's good to know. It's a good thing I didn't spend a decade of my formative years in my muggle aunt's cupboard under the stairs—otherwise, I might have missed out on a vast amount of background knowledge that would prove invaluable to my future as a wizard. Oh, wait..."
Dumbledore's jaw dropped, and what little remained of his trademark twinkle disappeared completely. "Harry, do you truly blame me for all that? You must know that I had only your best interests in mind when I left you with your relatives."
"We're not having this conversation, headmaster," Harry said sternly. "The conversation we're going to have is about how my life is my life, and I will live it as I see fit, without any further interference from you. You meddled with my life too many times, and you never once let my "best interests" get in the way of using me for your schemes. I breathed free air this summer, headmaster, and I liked it, and I will never accept being someone else's tool, ever again. The sooner you accept that, the sooner I can stop helping you drag your name through the mud—I'm not doing it for fun, you know, I'm just trying to get you off my back. The more you tighten your grip, the more I'll slip through your fingers."
Dumbledore obviously hadn't seen Star Wars; if he had, he would have realized that he was being compared to the villain "holding Vader's leash," and he would have been much more offended. Still, though, the headmaster said nothing, fearing that any words he might have would only drive Harry further away. Harry stood, and moved toward the door; opening it, he turned to address the headmaster once more. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it, shook his head and walked out of the room.
Dumbledore's eyes lost even more of their brightness.
"Well, that went well."
Author's Note
Holiday! Dance! Experimental sections with other POV characters! Harry practices diplomacy (badly) with McGonagall and Dumbledore!
First and foremost, I need to say that I'm going on vacation, and therefore will not be writing or updating this story until at least July 8th. Whomp whomp. For my fellow Americans, enjoy your Independence Day celebrations; drink beer, eat meat, and blow shit up (and yes, I plan to do all of those things), because 238 years ago, our forefathers told the king of Britain to go suck a lime. 'Murica! For our friends across the pond, don't fret; we're all buddies again! But still, you know...'Murica!
Speaking of American independence, GBTtown pointed out an extremely embarrassing typo that I made, which then propagated about a hundred times. Specifically, I wrote "Gadsen" rather than "Gadsden," and then simply kept doing it. Ironically, I once corrected (correctly) a friend's pronunciation of that very name. Anyway, I went back and fixed each example of the error, which was a truly tedious task.
This chapter was very difficult to write—honestly, I just want to get to the second task, but I couldn't just timeskip that far. Plus, I've ended up writing it late at night three days in a row, which, well, sucked.
Also, for what I believe is the second time, ladysavay has brought up a good point. Specifically, she asks "what motivated" Daphne to move her relationship with Harry in a more intimate direction. This is something I've been meaning to touch on:
Sometimes I think that fanfiction authors make a much bigger deal of the houses than they should; in many stories, trusting fools are derided as "Hufflepuffish", brashness is "Gryffindoring", and anyone with the ability to plan ahead is a "slimy Slytherin snake". Basically, they extrapolate the "house attributes" to substitute for individual character personalities. It kind of reminds me of when Illyrio Mopatis tells Tyrion Lannister in A Dance with Dragons: "You Westerosi are all the same. You sew some beast upon a scrap of silk, and suddenly you are all lions or dragons or eagles." What I'm saying is that the students at Hogwarts are teenagers, dammit. I remember what it was like in middle school and high school—everyone could barely keep their hands off each other. I was in all honors and AP classes, surrounded by IRL Ravenclaws and Slytherins, and everyone was having sex with everyone else, without any further motivation being necessary. Teenagers don't need an excuse to fuck, because it's already the only thing they want to do. Daphne and Harry have been spending a lot of time alone together; it's practically a miracle that it took them (two teenagers who find each other attractive) nearly a month to bang. If you need a more HP-centric reason, then what is more Slytherin than taking what you want? Daphne wants Harry, so she makes the moves she needs to make in order to get him.