AN Uploading again this weekend because there was a minor hiccup on Friday where I accidently uploaded this chapter instead of the proper chapter 4, like a hundred people saw it, but still. As always thanks to my beta bbs!

Chapter 5

The walls pulsed with an amethyst glow, at their peak luminance the light was blinding, but as they faded the runes shown etched into the stone. A complex mess of equations, arithmancy far beyond anything he'd learned in his study of wardcraft, truly a sight to behold. The very surface they populated seemed to shift and writhe with the magic inscribed on it, between pulses the room seemed to change, the walls expanding and contracting as new equations were born. The effect was nauseating and hypnotizing in equal measure. The language of magic was transcribed here, and it grew, and lived in its own right.

As the pain and light reached its zenith a voice filled the room, barely discernible over the noise in his own head, but he managed to catch the tail end:

"I'm sorry."

-o-o-o-

Harry was out of bed the moment his eyes opened.

For the last week or so he'd been having the same dream, and the contents of that dream had fueled the ever growing population of his wall art.

What had been a sheet of parchment with a few odd abstract runes the morning of Sirius' return had become a veritable wallpaper now. The memories of this dream were hard to pin down, the ever shifting nature of the runes he saw were transient, something about the room he kept seeing was … non-euclidean.

He did his best though, and it grew across the wall as he pieced together bits of arithmancy, enchanting, warding, and advanced runes that were beyond him. His collection of books grew as well, the text on magical beasts was long forgotten, buried under the bulk of the restricted sections selection on these subjects that had come to dominate his day to day life recently.

Nearly two weeks had passed since the locket's destruction, he hadn't ventured out of his office in two days, and today wasn't shaping up to be any different. He pulled a new roll of parchment over and began sketching out the circle he remembered most clearly from this latest walk down memory lane.

Piecing together another's rune work was no small task, especially in the higher applications, but he was beginning to see a pattern in the formulas. Comprehension was still far off, but he could at least jot down his best guess at what had been written and then find a place on his wall that seemed to connect to the rest. The effect was a growing jigsaw puzzle that spread across his wall like an encroaching fungal bloom.

He was pulled from his work an hour after dawn by the sharp and familiar rap of a beak against his window. Hedwig chittered from her preferred roost atop his wardrobe and cracked one dissatisfied eye to watch him open the window and receive the Prophet from the delivery owl. He'd subscribed to the paper to keep an eye on the headlines, even if he rarely delved deep into the full contents. Hermione had once admonished him for glazing over the first page, but even now he couldn't muster the interest to give it a full read.

Today's headline fully pulled the brakes on his train of thought though.

Ireland vs Bulgaria Tonight!

7 hours, 37 minutes, 14 seconds

He blinked at the page for a moment, realizing that it was in fact the eighteenth. He dropped the paper on his desk and sat back in his chair, the dream momentarily forgotten. Dumbledore was hesitant to do anything too decisive, and Harry understood the logic in his caution, on the surface. It was hard to ignore the part of him that wanted to go to the World Cup though.

Death Eaters would be there, men and women Harry had fought countless times, men and women who had killed his friends in battle and tortured the innocent muggles in the wake of the ICW's imprisonment. He wanted to get them.

He blew out a heavy sigh as he went back and forth on the matter, and he'd worked himself up to a course of action when the room's quiet was shattered with a crack! that had him jerking upright in his seat.

"Professor Potter sir!" Dobby greeted, clutching an instantly recognizable paper wrapped bundle in his hands. "This arrived for you by the post sir!"

He proffered the broom and Harry reached out to take it reverently. He'd almost forgotten, with his focus on research, the order he'd placed under Sirius' suggestion.

"Thank you Dobby," he said, already undoing the twine holding the packaging around the broom.

"Will you be wanting your breakfast sir?" the elf asked, standing by his desk and peering at Harry's delivery.

"No," Harry said, a grin growing on his face as he unveiled the word Firebolt in gold leaf on the handle. "I think I'll have breakfast in the village today, Dobby."

He got ready in a hurry, it was warm out so he forwent heavier robes that were practically a necessity when flying in Scotland nine months out of the year. A giddy excitement was building in him as he hastily dressed. He'd lost his Firebolt somewhere in the shuffle of community hopping following the Battle of Hogwarts, not that living in hiding afforded much leisure time, but the option had been removed shortly after the wards went up.

Now he felt thirteen again, taking his first professional broom out for its first test flight. This time he departed from a teacher's quarter's window on the second floor though, and his skills were rusty from years of disuse.

It was like riding a bike, thankfully. He fell back into his comfortable place in the skies with ease. His ascent from his window sill took him high into the air, and he let out a whoop of pure thrill as he dipped into a steep dive and shot toward the ground. He spent a quarter of an hour doing loops and dives across the Hogwarts grounds and fully dusted off his old muscle memories. By the time he landed at the gates to pass the wardlines he was windswept and the fear of speed and height had left him fully to be replaced by thrill.

He remounted as soon as he left the grounds. The walk up to the Three Broomsticks wasn't too terribly long but his knee saw to it that he would avoid the walk if the option presented itself. He stayed low, and directed his broom in an unhurried pace toward the pub, staying just above the roofline of the village.

The streets below were busier than usual, the village bustled and bluged in full preparation for the coming World Cup. He landed just before his destination and shuffled into the bar behind a group of locals chatting excitedly about the coming day. Rosmerta's wasn't yet fully packed, but the match was still hours off, and the crowd already formed this early spoke well for her day's profits.

He spotted Hagrid at his usual table in the corner and made his way over. There were others with him, most notably a mousy haired woman that Harry recognized after a moment as Professor Babbling.

"Morning Hagrid!" Harry greeted brightly, his broom over one shoulder as he sidled around a group of wizards and took a seat at the table with the two Hogwarts professors.

"Mornin' Professor!" Hagrid boomed, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. He had the misfortune of it being his bad shoulder and he winced as the weight came down, but Hagrid didn't notice, already taking another swig from his mug.

The Ancient Runes professor was looking at him curiously following Hagrid's greeting so Harry offered his hand across the table toward her. "Harry Potter," he introduced himself as she took it, "call me Harry."

"Bathsheda Babbling," she said, returning his polite smile, "most just call me Babbling, I've been informed Bathsheda is a mouth full, are you filling the Defense position?"

She was taking in his appearance in interest now, he was quite young to be a professor, and his casual wear and the broom now propped up on the table didn't help matters. He watched her eyes trace down the scar that connected his right temple to the base of his jaw, clearly the evidence of some dangerous magic by virtue of its very existence in the magical world.

"Nope," he said with a grin as Rosemerta joined them to take orders, he put in his breakfast request and because it was the world cup he got a beer to go with it. When they were alone again he picked up with, "I've heard the Defense position's cursed."

She laughed and Hagrid nodded grimly, "I'm teaching Enchantments and Warding," he elaborated, and her eyebrows rose.

There was a new keen interest in her gaze now, the focus of a practitioner, and she leaned in conspiratorially. "I've been trying to get those clubs elevated to a proper class for ages! What convinced old Dumbledore to do it?"

"The tournament!" The bar was rather loud, so he had to raise his voice to be heard, this was all part of the carefully constructed lie Dumbledore had delivered to him on his second day in the castle. "Beauxbatons is the best Enchanter's school in the world, and Durmstrang offers two levels of Warding. Dumbledore told me in the interview I had some big shoes to fill, but he wanted the school offerings to at least stand up to the visiting students' expectations."

"No pressure," Babbling said with a laugh and Harry nodded, feigning a grimace at the prospect.

In truth he was not the least bit worried about standing up to the international students standards. The thought had crossed his mind briefly, but something about planning to pull the rug out from under a dark lord's resurrection washed away a lot of daily worries a normal new teacher might experience. He was more worried about how a certain French enchantress might evaluate his syllabus, but that was for far more personal reasons. Ultimately, performance reviews and his job security didn't rank high on his priority list.

"Ready for the Cup?" he asked, changing the subject as his breakfast arrived. He'd splurged for the special occasion so his usual eggs and toast were accompanied by a rasher of crispy bacon this morning.

Babbling smiled tightly, in a way that told Harry she had little interest in the quidditch match to come, but had long since made an effort to join in the festivities at the very least. It tracked with the sparse memories he had of her from his school days, if he recalled correctly she often spent meals writing in a notebook.

Hagrid, though, started and looked down at Harry.

"Blimey, is tha' t'day?" Harry cocked his head to the side, looking up at Hagrid in bemused confusion as the half-giant looked around the pub as if just taking in how cramped it was. "I was wonderin' why it was so bloody busy in here t'day!"

"Hagrid," Harry said, as he tucked into his meal and Rosemerta brought a second round to their table. "If you're not here for the World Cup, why are you?"

"Celebratin!" the gameskeeper declared. Harry shared a look with the other professor, confirming that she didn't know either, and rolled his eyes.

"Well, what are we celebrating?" he prodded, raising his mug to toast whatever it was, finding Hagrid's jovial spirit infectious.

"Justice served!" Hagrid proclaimed and took a gulp from his massive cup, Harry joined him as the booming half-giant continued, "jus' heard from one o' my old ministry friends, that old tosspot McNair got the boot!"

Harry choked on his beer at that and slammed the mug down, coughing. Babbling looked on in concern as Hagrid slammed a bruising hand of help onto Harry's back. He contained himself and cleared his throat.

"Why are we celebrating that?" he managed after a moment's recovery. McNair was a death eater, and in truth he knew why Hagrid would celebrate his sacking from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. The issue was McNair certainly hadn't been fired, not as he recalled it.

"Oh," Hagrid said, getting a bit sheepish, "jus' had a bit of a run-in with him last year, nasty business, he was comin' to punish an 'ippogriff o' mine, fer no good reason."

Harry nodded, sitting back in his chair as a silence fell over the table. Professor Babbling had retrieved a small notebook and was scratching out notes, Hagrid was listening in on a conversation at a table over, leaving the gears in Harry's head to turn over in private.

Walden Mcnair had been at the ministry the night Sirius died, his arrest and escape from Azkaban were big indicators of Voldemort's return when Harry was in school, namely because it showed that people within the Ministry were still keeping to their old dark ways.

The fact that he was fired put a weight in Harry's stomach. Just as Dumbledore had cautioned against, things were changing. It gave him an antsy sort of anxiety, a drive to move in conflicting directions. Dumbledore feared that aggressive action would change things too much, that their knowledge of Voldemort's plans would unravel the more the path shifted off center. Harry feared, especially now, that events would deviate to the point where they were caught in the same stalemate they had been before. Sure, they had a headstart on the horcruxes now, but Hufflepuff's cup was as unreachable as it always had been.

Either way, the news solidified his plans for the day. He had to go to the world cup now, he had to see for himself. He wouldn't intervene, he had the cloak now, he would go in secret, but they needed eyes on the death eaters. Those monsters were probably even now planning their little appearance in the campgrounds that night.

He left Hagrid and Babbling in the Three Broomsticks with a distracted goodbye and made a quick route back to his rooms. It was nearing noon by the time he made it back to the castle and he wasted no time getting ready for his trip. The old auror's armor, reinforced with magic he and Fleur had developed, was retrieved from his trunk for the first time since his arrival. His arm guards and wand holster came out too, and suiting back up in them felt like a return to form. Grim and foreboding, but comforting at the same time.

The invisibility cloak completed the ensemble, he threw it over his shoulders in his classroom and disappeared from sight, he decided not to tell Dumbledore of his plans lest the professor attempt to forbid it. He had no intention of following such an order, so it was best not to present the Headmaster the chance.

He should've known better of course, as he padded quietly across the entrance hall a soft voice called from nowhere:

"Going somewhere, Harry?"

He stopped a few paces shy of the doors and turned on the spot, after an uneventful moment, Dumbledore's disillusionment spell fell and revealed the headmaster across the hall. Harry dropped the hood of the cloak so that his head appeared, keeping his battle-ready attire concealed.

"I thought the cloak's invisibility was true," Harry mused idly, taking in the wizened professor. He did not appear hostile, were it not for the context of the situation Harry would believe the headmaster was simply pausing in the hall to inspect the suite of armor to his left. "How'd you know?"

"Magic isn't the only way to spot subterfuge, my boy," the elder man said pleasantly. "It was not a large leap to assume you would want to be at the World Cup, considering the events you recalled. Beyond that it was a simple matter of listening carefully."

He reached up and tapped his ear as he took a few steps across the hall. "I had hoped you would come to me if you were concerned," he said, and he did seem genuinely remorseful at the impasse they currently found themselves in. "I suppose trust is to be earned, though."

"It's not a matter of trust, Headmaster." Harry said, feeling some measure of guilt at Dumbledore's tone, though not enough to sway his course.

"Isn't it?"

"Walden McNair was fired from the Ministry," he said, instead of answering directly.

"Was he? I hadn't heard." Harry didn't believe that for a second, but he didn't say as much.

"He wasn't before, things are already different, I'm going to make sure nothing else goes wrong."

Dumbledore inspected him for a moment before nodding. "That is wise, if I recall correctly, you said the attack on the muggles at the World Cup wasn't fatal. I will rest easier knowing someone is there to step in if that changes."

Harry shifted his weight from one invisible foot to the other, formulating a response. That wasn't the reason he'd intended to go, but it was a good enough reason, he certainly would step in if things went that way.

"Don't worry professor," he said with a grin, going for a bit of levity, "I promise not to go on a rampage."

Dumbledore laughed softly at that, though Harry was unsure in that moment whether it was sincere or not. "Very good then Harry, let me know how it goes."

He bowed his head in a nod and moved toward the stairs leaving Harry alone in the entrance hall. Harry watched him go for a moment before pulling his hood back over his head and vanishing from sight.

All things considered, he thought as he crossed the grounds to apparate away, it was better that Dumbledore knew he was going in the long run. The less contention that existed between them the easier it would be to work toward their common goal. He just hoped that goal remained common.

-o-o-o-

Harry had been lurking around the campgrounds for a few hours. He didn't have tickets to the game itself, and as much as it would pain his teenage self to hear, he had no real interest in catching the match in the first place. The cloak would get him into the stands if he so willed it, but he used the time among the abandoned tents to snoop around.

He didn't know where any of the death eaters in attendance were posted, didn't really know where anything was in the literal sea of tents sprawling out from the stadium, but he was well practiced at scavenging these days. Anything experience couldn't give him, he used his eyes to try and glean some insight into.

All the tents were magical, that much was obvious, and activating his extra-sensory enhancement was a nauseating wash of color and sensation. It was not, however, completely without its uses in this over-saturated landscape. With the physical presence of magic displayed before him the entire field glowed a mess of color and feeling, but there were flavors to the colors he saw.

The vast, vast majority of the enchantments at play were standard spatial distortions, they showed a pale parchment-hue not too dissimilar from the standard canvas they surrounded. There was the pale green of glamor on some; illusory magic designed to present a more impressive front for the tents they augmented. Security measures flared yellow, warming charms flashed red. It gave him a headache to maintain the sight for prolonged periods, he prowled the abandoned camp while he had the chance to take in all he could. He saw a blip of purple a few rows over, a color most often associated with dark magic in some sense, and after picking his way through the wards on the tent, he dug around inside until he found the source of the malignant magic.

In a chest under a four poster bed he found a set of crisp death eater's robes, pristine in their disuse. The mask had been emitting the aura he'd tracked. A bit more snooping, and the discovery of a stationary set revealed he was in the Malfoys' tent.

With that clue discovered it wasn't hard to pick out the rest of the flag-bearing death eaters in attendance. A dozen tents gave the same faint traces of dark magic, and slipping in around their defenses revealed the same set of ill-fated robes. None housed artifacts darker than their attire, but he made note of who was present regardless. The roster was not particularly illuminating. He'd never had a full account of those that participated in the rally but the list was not hard to guess: the Crabs, the Goyles, the Carrows, Malfoys, the list went on, and all were accounted for in the first place.

He kept track of the game as best he could, if only to prevent being mid-sleuth when the owners of a tent returned, and from the cheers and uproar he could at least identify the moment the Veela cheerleader's took up arms against the Leprechauns, and lastly the moment Krum caught the snitch.

His investigation was done by the time the match let out, and he was out from under the cloak and mixing in with the crowd exiting the stadium, invisible in a different sense. He milled with the crowd for a bit, knowing the attack wouldn't occur for a few hours still, and he found himself in a familiar corner of the camp wholly by accident.

"Come off it Dean, you were drooling at the mouth!" The sound of Ron's voice, and subsequent laughter, brought his wandering pace to a halt and sent a bolt of pain through his heart.

He turned and watched as Dean Thomas shoved Ron, the onlookers gathered outside the Weasley tent laughed at their antics. He stayed where he was, between two rows of tents and masked by night, and watched for a moment as the group carried on with their post-game revelry.

Hermione was there with them, and it seemed Dean had taken his place with regards to the Weasleys' spare ticket. Fred and George were sitting close, heads bowed in each other's direction, no doubt planning for the expenditure of their useless Leprechaun gold. Bill, Charlie, Percy, Arthur, Ginny. They were all there, healthy and whole, laughing and relaxing in the wake of a spectacular match.

He only let himself linger for a moment before he pushed on. There was no sense torturing himself with the ghosts of the past, even if they were still very much alive.

He didn't know when exactly to expect the attack, he'd been asleep when Voldemort's old cohorts had donned the robes and treated themselves to a bit of unwholesome fun. He wandered the camp aimlessly, alert for any sign of danger, and tried to remember where he'd seen the procession of muggle-torturing bigots originate from all those years ago.

Lost in thought, he was not entirely focused on his immediate surroundings, so a familiar flash of color and the warm sensation of home yanked him from his musings. He came to a halt at the tinkling sound of laughter in the air, like little bells of mirth, and whipped around.

Veela.

It wasn't Fleur, the notion his mind had initially conjured, but he'd evidently wandered near the Bulgarian mascot's encampment. Around a fire a crowd of beautiful witches were laughing and chatting. Evidently their team's loss in the cup hadn't soured their mood in the slightest.

His feet took him that direction on instinct, the familiar pull of their racial magic was like a siren's song to the part of his heart that knew it well. He followed it on idle feet, to a group that were speaking in a language he could at least comprehend.

He'd spoken to Fleur about the Veela delegation in attendance, the Veela population was not exactly vast, and she'd had more than one family member amongst the performers. The Veela camp comprised some three campfires, and about twice as many tents as best he could tell on his approach. Despite his intimate knowledge of Fleur, he knew next to nothing about the race as a whole, apart from what tidbits she'd shared over their years together.

It was a bit bizarre to see so many gathered together in one place. Their shared traits were obvious, there wasn't a thread of hair among the mix that didn't share the same iridescent silvery sheen. They all held themselves with the same poise and grace he'd come to expect, but otherwise their differences were as interesting as they were stark. The most intriguing were those that didn't share his Veela's smooth porcelain complexion. Two campfires over there was a woman with skin nearly black in the darkness, it made her sheets of metallic hair shine by contrast.

He heard the familiar lilting drawl of French and wandered over, aware of the intoxicating wash of compulsion that their combined allure's provided, but relishing it.

"Hello," he said with a smile, in his best attempt at French.

Fleur often teased him about his horrible accent, but he also knew after years practicing it wasn't nearly as bad as she teasingly let on. The collected women inspected him with various degrees of interest. The one that he knew shared this tongue was the most keen, and he used that as a metric to measure the rest.

They sat on plush chairs, gathered loosely around the fire, a renaissance painter's dream. Some drank from crystal cups, others snacked on foreign meals, and music was emanating from some unseen wireless to permeate the air and provide a soothing ambiance.

A smattering of greetings in French and accented English chorused in response and he secured himself an invitation to their circle. He wasn't the only man in attendance he noted, the collection of outsiders were mixed in with the group in various stages of reverence. He found himself a seat between a Veela with pale skin and sharp features and a tanned man who looked a bit overwhelmed by his inclusion in the group.

The woman to his left, who'd made room for him, turned to him and in a low sultry voice asked him: "What's your name love?"

He responded in kind, wrangling every lesson he'd received in French, "Harry, a pleasure to meet you."

She giggled, and in accented English carried on, "nice to meet you 'arry. I am Collette, what brings you here?"

He smiled, a part of himself that was often repressed these days stretching its limbs. "If you don't mind," he said softly, leaning her way, "I'd prefer French."

She blinked in surprise and a smile split her face, radiant in its brightness, he returned it and continued:

"I was wandering the camp and came across you," he said, shifting back into his seat, "your performance was great."

It was easy to compliment the Veela, the haze that dominated the camp with so many of her kind present was a familiar feeling. Like so many lazy days in his home when Fleur was relaxed, the Veela essence that filled the air here was a cornerstone of home for Harry. Some of the men in attendance were less equipped, he could read the signs on their faces, but for him it was a beloved reminder of something he'd sorely missed these last few weeks.

He knew that Veela sought out those that were resistant to that very effect; it spoke true in the non-Veela company they kept here. For every glassy-eyed and half-stupefied man among the group there were two more than laughed and chatted effortlessly.

"What was your favorite part?" she asked, with a demure smile, reaching over to her neighbor to retrieve a bottle and pour him a glass of wine. He accepted it, noting the smooth undertones to her voice, the soft features of her face, the implication of where the night could go.

"Fireball on the ref," he said immediately, the simple memory enough to bring a smile to his face, years later. At the time he had been shocked by the cheerleaders' transformation but now, after traveling and living with Fleur, the entire ordeal was hilarious. "What a … tosser."

He struggled to find a word in his limited French vocabulary to describe the referee before giving up and switching to English, it was clear from her furrowed brows that she didn't quite understand but that was fine. The wine was sweet and delicious, better than Hogwarts' selection, and the company was just as much so.

He spent a few hours there, as best he could tell, until the crowd around the fires was beginning to thin. Some Veela left in pairs, others swooped in to claim a companion and the man followed her toward a tent looking giddy. Harry was distracted, half tracking the moon and waiting with growing apprehension for something to happen.

He jumped slightly when Collette reached out and took his hand, and he looked over to see she'd stood while he'd been scanning the surrounding grounds. Her eyes held an invitation, her soft smile hinting at a bit of deviousness, an offer to join her.

He stood and raised their joined hands to press a soft kiss to the back of her's. "It was nice to meet you Collette," he said, proffering a smile of his own. "Thank you for indulging my horrible accent."

Her head tilted to the side, an inquisitive predator relaxed in her den, unbothered. "You as well, 'Arry." she said in her own accented foreign tongue, "goodnight."

He released her hand and inclined his head before turning to leave, and though it was hard to walk away from the familiar comfort of a Veela's company, it was not hard to walk away from Collette.

Harry made a mental note to order a watch as he wove through the tents. The moon was high overhead, potentially even past its zenith, and still nothing had happened. The night was warm, but he felt a chill growing the further he moved from the Veela camp, the deeper into the uncertain night he went.

Despite the relative darkness he retrieved the cloak from inside his robes and vanished from sight once more, taking solace in the invisibility. He picked his way across the field back toward the Malfoy's tent. It was entirely possible that another was the ringleader of the night's planned events but he could admit he was somewhat biased toward that particular family.

His efforts were rewarded. Before he could hear the voices he saw movement in the shadows, the silhouette of two figures against the night sky, and he crept closer to listen in.

"... do not."

He sucked in a quiet breath, he knew that voice, even if he'd only heard it a handful of times. Barty Crouch Jr. One of the figures moved toward the other, he paced a wide circle around the pair listening in and trying to catch moonlight on their faces.

"Unhand me!" the other spat, this one clearly Lucius Malfoy, "I don't know what hole you crawled out of Crouch, but your exile has clearly confused you-"

"Shut it Malfoy," the younger man snapped back, both keeping their tone's to a low and furious whisper. "I saw what you've got in your tent, and I'm telling you to forget it, your Lord commands it."

Harry's eyes went wide, hidden from sight a few tents over he could see Malfoy pale a few shades, if that were even possible.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about." The Malfoy patriarch returned, clearly shaken.

"Don't you?" Crouch was victorious, an unconcealed vitriol for the other man permeating his tone. "We know what you and your little friends have planned for tonight, abstain if you know what's good for you. The Dark Lord does not want attention drawn to him now, certainly not by such fickle followers."

"He's back?!" Lucius' response was hoarse.

"He never left, you fool."

With that the man with his back to Harry turned and skulked off, making a line in Harry's direction. Harry stepped back between two plots and held his breath as Crouch passed by him, only a few paces away, and he watched as Malfoy ducked quickly into his tent. He stayed rooted to the spot for a few long minutes, mind turning over what he'd heard, before he made his own way off.

For a quarter of an hour he walked, getting a good ways off from the place where he heard the conversation, and apparated back to Hogsmeade when he was absolutely certain neither of the two men would be able to hear his departure.

He never left.

The words haunted him all the way back to the castle, as he puzzled over their meaning, and they still turned over in his head as he laid down to sleep that night.