A/N: And we're back again, this time with a Harry Potter-centric chapter. The plot is heating up. Treat this as an early Christmas present from me to all of you. I can't add tinsel, though, I'm afraid.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or TYPE-MOON.
The great hall of Hogwarts was dark. The enchanted candles which normally shed light over the four long dining tables - along with generous amounts of wax - were extinguished and the only light in the room was the eldritch blue flames which licked at the rim of the rough-hewn wooden goblet which sat on the teachers' table at the head of the hall. Unintelligible whispers resounded off of the stone walls as the students seated at the tables speculated quietly about who would be chosen as a champion in the Triwizard Tournament, a three-way competition of magic between Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and Durmstrang Institute.
From her seat halfway down the Gryffindor table, Hermione Granger was interested despite herself. Not so much in the competition itself, but the Goblet was an incredible piece of magic, near-sentient and powerful enough to retain its enchantments for more than a thousand years, if what the history books said about it was right. She shifted uncomfortably at a stab of pain in her hip, a relic of the troll attack which she had suffered in her first year. The troll had been dispatched by Professor Snape before it could kill her, but its club had caught her legs with a glancing blow and the force behind it had shattered them beyond repair. Even after spending almost a month in St. Mungo's Hospital and having her bones vanished and painfully regrown over the course of her stay, the muscles were still damaged in ways that the treatment her scholarship could afford couldn't fix, leaving her to walk with a stick for the rest of her life, or at least until a solution could be found.
Following that incident, she had been surprised that she had not heard anything about her parents pulling her from Hogwarts altogether, but when they had finally secured a permit to visit her at St. Mungo's they had explained it. Although they could remove her from the school, doing so before she had achieved the Ordinary Wizarding Levels - roughly the equivalent of muggle GCSEs - both her memories and those of her parents would be wiped of anything pertaining to magic's existence and her magic would be permanently bound, rendering her incapable of utilising any form of magic, even if she was to rediscover it at some point.
The elder Grangers had explained that although they did not want to see her in danger, they would not make a choice like that without asking her first. It had taken a great deal of thought (the troll had been terrifying and the time spent recovering had been almost as unpleasant) but eventually she had decided that running from the Wizarding World would just mean that she had been injured for nothing. She was determined that she would find a way to help people like her, without paying the exorbitant fees that the few remaining users of the necessary ritual magic would require.
Since then, the muggleborn had thrown herself into the study of magic, especially the charms and potions which were most often used in healing magic. The following years had been difficult and often lonely, as she had few friends and those she did have she did not share an especially strong bond with, but her resolve remained unchanged. Even Professor Snape with his well-known dislike of Gryffindors was forced to recognise her devotion to the study of healing and had even given her a couple of pointers towards pertinent books. When she had asked him why he was helping her, his face had turned stony and he had ground out that she reminded him of a friend of his, before turning on his heel and billowing away between the shelves of the library.
She was torn from her musings when the colour of the Goblet's flames changed, becoming an angry red. Sparks singed the air and spiraled down to extinguish themselves in the teachers' wine glasses.
"Ah, I do believe that the first champion is to be announced."
The voice of the white-bearded Headmaster of Hogwarts cut through the whispers like a knife through butter, his eyes twinkling merrily.
The Goblet flared, before a single tongue of crimson flame rose from it bearing what looked like a pair of singed paper slips. The headmaster caught them and straightened them out, holding first one and then the other in front of his long and crooked nose.
"The champions for Durmstrang Institute are… Mr. Viktor Krum and Ms. Annika Jansdöttir!"
Cheers erupted, the loudest coming from the red-robed students of Durmstrang but the rest of the hall made their approval of the Quidditch star's choice clear as well. The star in question stood up from the Slytherin table, his face set as always in a scowl, and tramped down the aisle between the tables towards the door which Dumbledore had earlier indicated that the champions should leave through, followed by the quiet form of Annika, a tall, serious-looking girl who tied her long blonde hair back into a tail.
A few minutes passed before the Goblet flared again and an expectant hush settled once more over the hall.
"The champions for Beauxbatons Academy are… Ms. Fleur Delacour and Mr. Rosaire Bernard!"
Cheering filled the air again, this time focussed around the sky-blue robes which signified the Beauxbatons students. Two stood up, one a girl who, despite her long blonde hair and height, could scarcely have been any more different to the Durmstrang champion and the other an unassuming brown-haired boy who looked more shocked than triumphant over his selection. The pair both stood, the boy stumbling a little, before making their way to the side door, the eyes of many of the males in the hall following Fleur avidly. As she walked past Hermione, even she could feel the faint was of the quarter-Veela's aura like satin and warm water against her skin..
The cheering took less time than before to fade after the two French champions left and there was a few moments of silence before the Goblet flashed red again, bearing the names of the final two champions high into the air before they fluttered down into the waiting hand of the aged headmaster. A flash of...something passed across Dumbledore's face, but the expression vanished before Hermione could identify the emotion. It was replaced with a look of confusion, but the headmaster's voice was as clear as ever as it rang out, announcing the names of the last champions.
"The champions for Hogwarts School are Ms. Katie Bell and…
"Mr. Harry Potter."
Pandemonium ensued.
The black-within-blue blast of prana seared past Asharu's ear, setting the air humming with the prana contained within it. He twisted away from the attack, sparing a thought to direct one of his curse ofuda to fire at his enemy, before another lance of energy speared up towards him. He cut the flow of energy to the enchanted shoes that kept him aloft, allowing himself to fall for the few metres that would place him beneath the attack and allow him a clear view of his opponent.
Semiramis stood on one of the balconies of the Hanging Gardens, half a hundred metres in front of him and thirty below, preparing yet another azure blast of energy to send his way.
"Excellent dodging, son, but you won't win a battle that way!" The Servant's face was alight with the excitement that only a battle of magic could bring and Asharu knew that if he could see his own face he would see the same exultant grin there as well.
Preferring to reply with his spells rather than words, the younger magus snapped out the aria for a new spell, directing it to the Qabsu which he had directed next to Semiramis while she was distracted by his now-destroyed curse ofuda's spells.
"Adad, kasu!*"
White mist condensed from the air before swiftly drawing inwards towards the clay sphere. The orb of water reached the size of a football within a second and froze solid, before erupting in a shower of razor-edged shards.
The attack did little but surprise the Servant, with the icy shrapnel skating harmlessly off of the purple barrier which flared into existence around her, but it did throw her off balance.
It was an opening which Asharu would never have the chance to take advantage of, though, as it was at that moment that a force gripped him around the chest like a burning shackle, disrupting his concentration on his follow-up spell. Panic set in a moment later, as whatever magic it was seemed to shrink inwards, disappearing inside him and settling somewhere inside his chest, where it sat like a bad case of heatburn. The worst of it, though, was that whatever it was, the magic was nothing like his mother's, an irresistible blazing immensity to the precise and surgical finesse that Semiramis favoured.
Holding up his hands in the signal that had long since been agreed to show surrender - and didn't it rankle that he's never, not once, managed to get his mother to make that signal - he allowed himself to drift down and forwards towards the balcony where Semiramis stood, looking a little concerned at his sudden capitulation. He alighted, letting the ofuda embedded in his shoes lose their power and gravity reassert itself.
"What happened?"
"I felt something grab a hold of me, some kind of magic. It didn't feel like an attack, though."
The Servant raised a scalpel-sharp eyebrow.
"How do you know it wasn't me?"
"I know what your magecraft feels like and it wasn't like that."
The ancient sorceress looked troubled, her face twisting into a frown. "Hmm. Let me see."
She took a deep breath and then, in the resonant, otherworldly tones and echoing glossolalia that signified a Divine Word, she spoke.
"Sight."
An ethereal quality overcame the woman's eyes, their yellow irises gaining a faint radiance. A slight gasp escaped her lips before her mouth was set in a determined line and she squinted, scrutinising something which Asharu could not perceive.
A few minutes passed before she spoke again. She straightened up, her eyes losing their luminescence.
"It's a contract, not dissimilar to a geas, where the penalty is the loss of your magic core if you fail to uphold your part."
"Can it be broken?" the younger magus asked, alarmed. They didn't even know what he had to do to keep the contract from coming down on him.
"No. The contract has an element of Authority about it, an Authority of Binding. It's not a complete Authority, but it can't be broken by anything short of a True Magic or a counter Authority"
Authority was the attribute of a Divine Spirit - a god to all intents and purposes - to change the world, not through skill or power, but through having the 'right' to alter the world. Since the end of the Age of Gods, though, the only things which still had the ability to make use of an Authority were the Divine Beasts and Artefacts which remained in the world, meaning that whatever was the source of the contract, it was almost certainly an Artefact, as few Divine Beasts would have that sort of Authority.
"Fortunately, though, I was able to discern where the magic was originating from."
"Where?"
"The contract's origin is located in northern Britain, but specific location of the source is concealed behind some impressive protections. The general area is clear, though. I believe that if we want to find out more, we may have to go there in person."
The thought gave the younger magus pause. He had been born in Britain, after all, and had been brought up there, inasmuch as his life with his relatives could be considered an upbringing. He'd been to a few countries since his adoption by Semiramis; Italy, the USA Australia and China among them, but he'd never gone to Britain since he'd left all those years ago.
He shook his head briefly to clear his doubts. There wasn't a great deal of choice in this. The loss of a magic core would lead to a complete inability to use wizardry, but the shock of it often lead to severe physical consequences, resulting in death in almost a third of the cases.
"How will we be going?"
Semiramis walked over to the low table where more fragile possessions had been deposited before they began their spar and picked up her state-of-the-art mobile phone, flipping it open and scrolling down the list of names before pressing the call button. It rang once before it was picked up.
"Yasumoto-san? Prepare the Challenger for takeoff as soon as possible. The destination should be Manchester Airport. How soon can it be ready?"
A garble of speech came through from the other end.
"11:00 AM tomorrow? That will give us the time to prepare and get to the airport. Thank you, Yasumoto-san." There was another bark of sound from the device. "Yes, in fact. Could you please arrange appropriate accommodation for myself and Asharu there and inform the board members that I won't be able to meet with them in person later today, but that I shall be available tomorrow. Thank you." The Servant hung up.
"How much should we bring?" asked Asharu. Semiramis paused in thought for a moment, then replied.
"Ask the servants to bring the long-term luggage, as well as the portable workshop. We may be working at this a while, and we shall require all the advantages we can bring to the table if we are dealing with a Divine Artefact. I shan't be able to accompany you, for fear of leaving the Gardens open to attacks, but I can send a homunculus familiar so that I can still help. Make sure that you bring whatever you'll need for magic tools and for your studies."
She called up another number on the phone and once again it was promptly answered.
"Ishimoto-san? Ah, excellent. I'm afraid that something has come up, meaning that Asharu will not be able to attend the cram school for a while. I'm not sure how long it will last, but rest assured that I'll make sure he's keeping up with his studies."
Garble garble.
"No, he's not injured. It's something of a family matter….. Yes, thank you. If you could, that would be excellent. We'll still only be paying for the actual time of tuition, yes?... Good. I'll talk to you again. Goodbye."
In his office at Hogwarts, Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore was waiting on an owl. The Order of the Phoenix, its ranks swelled in the years since he had last called them together, were out in force across Britain, searching for news of Harry's return. It had been confirmed that the magic of the magic of the Goblet had settled as it had been intended to, the shackle of its contract binding Harry to compete in the Tournament. All that now remained was for the boy's location to be confirmed, and then a meeting could be set up.
He regretted that such methods were necessary, but even the most powerful seeking-spells that he had cast had yielded nothing. Eventually, he had been forced to resort to the most powerful artefact that could feasibly be utilised to find someone: the Goblet of Fire. Unfortunately, the Goblet found people solely in order to bind them; that function was an integral part of the Goblet's workings and trying to separate the enchantments which located the target from those which bound him would have been quite impossible, even if the magic hadn't been impossible to alter in the first place thanks to its Divine provenance. That was why the Goblet was used to seal important contracts and deals, after all: there was no way to escape it. The Triwizard Tournament was but one event which had been deemed important enough to Britain's overseas image that the Goblet was employed to ensure that the champions could not shame their countries by withdrawing.
Still, it was better to see a glass as half-full than half-empty, after all, and the way that events had played out certainly had its upsides. As it was, whomever was holding Harry would be forced to bring him into the public arena and the Tournament itself would make an excellent trial for the boy, both to gain some assessment of his magical ability and his temperament.
The negotiations for the use of the Goblet for such a purpose had been long and arduous, necessitating a number of concessions which had had to be made, both to the Ministry of Magic and to the governments of the other countries involved in the Triwizard Tournament. One thing that had been on his side, though, had been that his goals - for once - had the backing of the Minister himself. Cornelius Fudge was very eager indeed to have the famous Harry potter back in England and as a British citizen and was willing to go to some lengths to see that happen.
All of which ended with him reclining in his favourite red leather armchair, waiting on an owl which he had begun to suspect would never arrive and perusing a letter borne by Minister Fudge's personal owl. The letter was a virtual clone of the previous one, asking for the same advice on the same matters, the only difference being a postscript which informed him that the Ministry's agents had had no luck with discovering whether or not Harry had re-entered the country and asked with all the fervency of a schoolboy's confession to his crush whether Dumbledore would perhaps be so kind as to inform him if his contacts had discovered anything.
In truth, the wait was becoming far longer than he would have expected it to be. It had been four days since the names had come out of the Goblet and the beginnings of malcontented grumblings had begun to bubble up from the gossip-springs of the school. It was rumoured on the grapevine that Harry Potter was, in fact, dead, and that his ghost would be competing in the Tournament, or that one of the other schools had fixed it so that they each had two champions while Hogwarts only had one.
The headmaster was drawn from his pessimistic musings when the alarm on the outer wards quacked out its warning (he had long ago changed the tone from a deafening bell to the calming quacking of the ducks from the pond in the park at Godric's Hollow; the sound reminded him of better days). He glanced over at the framed parchment on which the wards would record the names of the arrivals, then looked again, before grabbing his wand from the desk and stormed out of his office, the Minister's letter floating to the ground below the ward parchment.
On it, five words had been newly inscribed in glistening, still-wet ink.
H̶a̶̶̶r̶̶̶r̶̶̶y̶̶̶ ̶̶̶P̶o̶̶̶t̶̶̶t̶̶̶e̶̶̶r̶̶̶ Asharu Sharratu
S͘҉e͜͞҉͝͠m̸̶̶̕i̡͡r̡̢̛̛a̴̵̛͟m̴̧̧į̷̛͡s͜͟͠
The corridors of Hogwarts passed Dumbledore by as he strode down towards the entrance hall, the breeze of his passing ruffling the tapestries and provoking incredulous looks from the students and teachers who quickly moved out of his way, shocked at seeing the aged wizard move at such a rate. His mind was racing just as quickly, though. How was Harry here already? Why had the parchment registered him under a different name? What was the unreadable name underneath? Was it the name of one of Harry's 'guardians' in the years that had passed between his abduction and this return? The questions buzzed around his skull like a swarm of bees, each trying to outdo the others and get an answer first.
As he paused in his dash to wait for a staircase to swing over to him, the white-bearded headmaster took a deep breath and reached inwards with his magic, calming the storm-lashed sea of his thoughts with an application of Occlumency. All that mattered now was that he make a good impression on Harry and that whoever else was there, that he retained an opening for conversation. Everything else was secondary at this point. Information could be gleaned later.
Calmer now, Dumbledore stepped onto the stairs and descended them, one step at a time as opposed to the two he had taken on the previous stairs. From there, it was half a minute's walk to the door of the entrance hall and out into the grey Scottish sunlight of a September afternoon. Most of the students were still in class, meaning that there were no crowds of children to stare at the two figures walking up the path.
One was shorter than the other and wore a sumptuous black dress with artful tracings of silver embroidery. Her hair was long and just as dark, reaching past her waist and nearly to the ground. A collar of feathers which reflect the light in patterns like oil on water framed her pale and angular face, its sharpness detracting nothing from her beauty. Pointed, elfin ears held her hair out of her face, while yellow, slitted eyes shone catlike above a sculpted nose. Beyond her statuesque looks, though, there was a presence about her, in the controlled sensuality of the way she held herself, in the magic which swirled around her and in the sheer flawlessness of her visage. It marked her as something different, something other, and Dumbledore knew immediately that she deserved both respect and wariness.
The other - likely Harry, given that he was the male and only two intruders had been reported - was tall, almost six feet despite the youthful cast of his features. His hair was as black as oil and was pulled back from his head in a shoulder-length braid. The clothes that he wore were clearly muggle, a navy blue jacket worn open over a white shirt and dark jeans. His face was handsome in an aristocratic way and vivid eyes blazed emerald beneath a brow furrowed in thought. It was a little worrying that his eyes were slitted as well. Perhaps he had come into a creature inheritance or a blood adoption had been performed? Dumbledore hoped so. The kind of rituals which inflicted physical mutations were rarely pleasant or savoury things.
He had the same pointed ears as the other arrival, although they were not quite so pronounced. There was a certain presence about him too, a self-assurance that declared to the world that he knew precisely who he was and what he wanted.
It was both a worrisome and deeply relieving first impression for the headmaster. On one hand, this was far from the Harry Potter which he had set out to create, all those years ago, the shy, withdrawn boy-hero for the Wizarding World to worship while he worked to dismantle whatever remained of his fallen pupil's designs on the world. On the other, Harry seemed to have had some kind of a pleasant upbringing. He was not starved, beaten nor did he look cowed in the least, so there was hope that he had had a pleasant childhood.
The pair were almost to the doors by now, and Dumbledore decided to take the initiative.
"Ah, welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am the headmaster of this august institute. May I ask why you have come here?"
"You are Albus Dumbledore?" asked the woman, her expression betraying nothing but a polite - and doubtless false - curiosity. Her voice was melodious and had a subtle accent which he couldn't' quite place. Middle eastern, perhaps?
"I am. And may I ask your names?"
"My name is Semiramis Sharratu and this is my son, Asharu. As for our business here, it concerns the magical contract which was levied upon my son without his knowledge."
Those yellow eyes were icy daggers as she spoke.
"I'm sure you will aid us however you can."
Dumbledore recovered quickly from the woman's sudden cold tone. "Of course, I would only be too happy to shed some light on the subject. Would you mind if we continued this conversation in my office?"
There was a moment's pause before she answered. Her smile had all the warmth of a pit viper.
"Of course. If you would follow me, I am always happy to help."
The journey back up through the school was far more sedate than the headmaster's trip in the opposite direction scant minutes before. As they walked, Dumbledore gave a commentary on many of the paintings, statues and rooms which they passed, relating stories and anecdotes of their histories and those of the people they depicted. Occasionally he struck up a brief conversation with one of the animated inhabitants of the paintings. It was not enough, though, to entirely distract from the eyes which followed the small group as they made their way through the halls, nor from the speculative whispers which rose like a tide behind them.
Eventually, they reached the animated gargoyle which guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office. It sprang aside at the passowrd - "Chocolate coins" - and permitted access to the short staircase which spiraled up into the Headmaster's office. Small silvery devices clicked, hissed and tinkled from their shelves while the previous headmasters and mistresses looked curiously down from their portraits - those that weren't snoozing, that is. Dumbledore settled himself into the ornate chair behind his desk. With a wave of his wand, two comfortable armchairs popped into existence. He gestured for the pair to seat themselves.
"Now, you were speaking of a contract. I am afraid that if I am to explain the circumstances of the contract which Asharu here has found himself under. Forgive me if I digress a little.
"Thirteen years ago, as I'm sure you know, the Dark Lord Voldemort was defeated by Harry Potter, deflecting his killing curse back at him. Harry was placed on something of a pedestal by the wizarding world for his victory, gaining the title 'the Boy-Who-Lived' for his survival. He was placed with his last living relatives, as at the time his godfather, Sirius Black, was believed to have been guilty of betraying the Potters' location to the Dark Lord.
"However, nine years ago Harry disappeared from the Dursleys' house, while the Dursleys were left suffering under a powerful curse. Despite all our investigations, Harry's trail ended with a set of adoption papers in the muggle world and even our most powerful tracking spells could not locate him. Eventually, the Ministry decided to rely upon the most powerful artefact which could divine his location they had at their disposal: the Goblet of Fire.
"Unfortunately, the Goblet's purpose is not only to locate but also to bind its targets, and they decided that they would ensure that Harry was bound to participate in an upcoming event between this school and two others, the Triwizard Tournament. I am deeply sorry that this obligation was placed upon you. I only learned of the scheme after Harry's name had come out of the Goblet, and by then it was too late."
The woman's face was like stone.
"What does this tournament entail?"
"Well, traditionally the Tournament had three champions, one from each school, who compete in three tasks. This year, though, it was decided that each school would have a pair of champions. The prize at the end of the Tournament is 1000 golden galleons and a place in the records of its winners - for you, of course, there is release from the contract of the Goblet.
"As for the tasks themselves, they are the reason that the Tournament was discontinued some centuries ago. Traditionally, the tasks were made to be extremely dangerous, so as to be a spectacle for the audience."
"What do you mean by 'extremely dangerous'?" asked Harry. There was something in his eyes; perhaps excitement? Well, boys would be boys, he supposed, but being excited at the prospect of 'extreme danger' was abnormal and bore watching.
"An example of a past Task - the one which caused the Tournament to be banned in 1792, in fact - would be pitting the Champions against a cockatrice and tasking them to obtain its venom. I have it on good authority that the tasks have been made less deadly this time around, but I would caution you to train hard, as they will by no means be easy. I would be more than pleased to help in teaching you."
"Is there anything else which we should know?" asked Semiramis, ignoring the headmaster's offer.
"There is one thing. It is customary for the Triwizard Champions to remain at the hosting school for the duration of the Tournament, once they have arrived. That was also made a part of the contract without my knowledge. The furthest that the contract will permit is going to the village of Hogsmeade, on the other side of the lake, or the outskirts of the castle grounds. The only exception is if one of the tasks requires that the champions leave the area, I am afraid.
"There are plenty of guest rooms in the castle, of course, but as you will have to remain for most of the year anyway, may I suggest that you enrol here for that year? You would not be charged, of course, considering the circumstances, and you would have no need to employ separate tutors. If one is confined to a school, after all, there is always learning to be done."
The woman, Semiramis, stood, Harry following suit. "Thank you for the offer, but neither I nor Asharu practice wand-based magic."
Now that was curious. There were a number of nations around the world who eschewed the wand-magic which had become popular with the Romans and had spread through the expansion of their empire, but it narrowed down the locations where Harry had been living considerably. It was a pity that there would be little chance of getting a feel for Harry's personality via the Sorting Hat, but he dared not push the idea of a true Hogwarts education further, for fear of alienating them.
"Well, it's never too late to learn. As Asharu will have to remain around the castle, he is welcome to attend whatever classes he sees fit, provided that the teachers consent, of course."
In a quiet rush of feathers, a great grey owl alighted at the window, a Ministry-sealed letter clutched in its claws.
"Ah! I am afraid that duty calls. Tibby!"
There was a piercing crack, following which a small, long-eared creature with wrinkled skin and large brown eyes appeared on the floor of the office. The other two occupants of the room started at its sudden appearance. The aged wizard's eyes noted the practiced and fluid stances that they both fell into with practiced ease before they relaxed.
The woman was a fighter, some kind of battle-mage, by the magic which flared around her, and she had taught Harry to be as well. That was worrisome. Children should not be forced into battles no matter the circumstances. It was what often kept him awake at night, the thoughts of the newly-graduated students who had fought and died against Voldemort's Death Eaters in the last war. The sort of person who would train a not-yet-14-year old in martial techniques was the sort of person to be cautious of, even besides her unknown nature.
"Hows can Tibby be helping, Headmaster Sir?" it asked.
"Could you please show my visitors to the state quarters on floor three, Tibby?"
"Of course, Headmaster Sir."
"Now, if you just follow Tibby here, she'll show you the way."
The pair turned to leave as the little creature beckoned them towards the stairway with an eagerness which somehow came off as endearing, as opposed to how irritating it would be in a human.
"Oh, one last thing, before you go. If I may ask, where were you all these years?"
They turned again, and Harry grinned. For the first time, Dumbledore noticed the way that his teeth were more pointed than, perhaps they ought to be.
"In a fortress in the sky." he answered, before walking down the staircase, leaving behind a mystified Headmaster whose passive legilimency had revealed no word of a lie.
*Cold
A/N: As the clever ones among you may deduce, the Triwizard Tournament is not going to follow canon exactly, as I personally find the tasks really quite dull and uninspired. So you'll get to experience a whole new tournament! Rejoice!
Note that in the latter parts of this chapter and for the time being, Dumbledore refers to Asharu as Harry, as that is the name which he associates with him.