Technically a week late, but I've been a bit busy with college applications as of late. As such, this chapter is somewhat rushed; I'll likely make a few edits/adjustments in the future. For now, read, review, and enjoy.

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Read, review, and feel free to point out any errors/inconsistencies.

The next chapter will be published the next Saturday.


Harry Potter: A Flaw in Fate

The Desolations of Destiny

IV. The Mind's Eye

Harry frowned, staring at the quill that hovered before him. He struggled to find the words he wished to say.

"I escaped the Death Eaters in the clearing," he said, pausing, "After that, I managed to make my way to the Portkey Area. There weren't many Aurors there - most of them were trying to track down whoever shot the Dark Mark up into the sky. Still, I managed to get out of there pretty quickly. Fudge ordered some of the Aurors to get me back to the Leaky Cauldron, and that was it. I'm still a bit shaken up, but I'm alright, mostly. See you at school."

He watched as the quill twisted through the air, scribbling his words over a thin sheet of parchment.

Bark.

"What?" Harry turned to Hedwig. The snowy owl was watching the quill with thinly veiled disapproval, "It's useful."

Hedwig barked again, hopping from her stand and onto his lap. Harry gently ran his fingers through her thick coat. His eyes swept over the letter that was being written before him.

"D'you think I should've mentioned the girl in the woods?" Harry murmured, "Or what Bella did?"

I reckon Daphne already knows about Bella by now.

The quill shivered for a moment before tumbling to the floor. Harry stared at it.

"Er - could you write another?" Harry asked nervously, "For Theo?"

The quill remained still. Harry rolled his eyes, fumbling for the manual. He pulled it from his bedside table before holding it up to his thin-rimmed spectacles.

"Make a copy," he said clearly, setting the sheet aside. The quill burst back to life, springing up into the air and back onto a second piece of parchment. Hedwig turned back to the quill, her beady eyes tracking it as it crossed the length of Harry's desk -

"Ouch!"

Hedwig fluttered up to his desk, watching him worriedly. Harry grimaced.

"Sorry." he said quietly, "Just a sec -"

He pulled his robes over his shoulders, his pale skin staring back at him. The faint outline of his ribs poked from his skinny frame, and dark bruises littered his chest. Hedwig crooned nervously.

"I'm fine." Harry assured her, tracing wounds with the tip of his wand, "Here, pass me the passage on Healing Spells, would you -"

Hedwig's talons wrapped tightly around a thick tome, and she flew across the room, dropping it just before him. Harry watched as she fumbled through the pages with her beak. After a few moments she shuffled back, her head held high.

"Clever girl, aren't you?" Harry smiled, massaging the back of her head. Hedwig barked loudly, nodding. Her feathers slid gently across his bruised skin. Harry watched as she shifted uncomfortably.

"Reckon I should've told the Aurors?" Harry whispered, petting her gently. The owl barked back.

"Yeah, I know." Harry said, "But then I'd have to explain the fights and the Death Eater that I . . . I . . ."

He trailed off uncertainly.

"I just don't understand." Harry glanced back at the book, following its instructions carefully, "I did what Bella told me. How'd they beat me so badly?"

There were loads of them. A voice reminded him, You should be grateful you're alive at all.

"But I'm better." Harry snapped impatiently, "I should've done better."

Dumbledore would've, back when he was my age.

"I got a couple." Harry noted glumly, "Before they got me, anyway."

Some consolation prize.

Harry sighed, flipping through the textbook. His eyes slid across a list of healing spells, each far simpler than anything he might've actually found useful.

"Maybe Bellatrix didn't teach me properly." Harry suggested, flipping through the pages, "She's bat-shit crazy - I wouldn't be surprised if she messed up at least a bit -"

She doesn't mess up, though. Not when it comes to fighting.

His lips fell. Harry thought back to that night in the clearing, vaguely picturing the man behind the pale Death Eater mask.

"Myrddin . . . you can't keep switching to the Morrigan." Harry repeated, "They don't mix . . ."

Curiosity flickered within him with the heat of an oil lamp. Harry let his gaze sweep the room. He found nothing.

I've got to know. I've got to get better.

"Hedwig," he said slowly, "How about we turn tomorrow into a shopping day?"

Bark!

-(xXx)-

Unnaturally pale skin glowed beneath the light of the moon. Her hand gently vanished beneath robes of dark silk, and she sank further into her armchair.

"Master?" a voice murmured, "Is something wrong?"

Voldemort frowned, glancing up. Bellatrix stood opposite her. She watched her carefully, worry etched upon her face.

Voldemort shook her head dismissively.

"Conjure a mirror for me, Bella."

Bellatrix nodded, waving her wand. A mirror appeared from thin air, encased in a handle of silver and ivory. Voldemort took the mirror from her, studying her reflection.

"I haven't looked so young in years," she noted dully.

Decades, actually. I look about four.

"It'll only last a few more days," Bellatrix whispered. She stared at Voldemort's left hand, glancing at a patch of peeling skin, "It's starting to fade already."

"Then have another body prepared." Voldemort said indifferently, "Nagini will help - won't you, Nagini?"

The bloodied maw of an oversized serpent rose from an open chest. Nagini nodded, her tongue flicking through the air. They watched as her head dipped back into the bloodied corpses.

"Another muggle from the village, then?" Bella asked.

Voldemort nodded.

"Ensure you are not seen. I would be extremely displeased to find myself formless by the month's end, Bella."

"I - yes, I know."

Voldemort watched as Bella paced back and forth across the room. Tattered robes swept dust from the wooden floors of her father's house, sending it twisting through the stale air. A faint pang of worry slipped across her senses.

"Nervous?"

Bellatrix paused. Voldemort's head tilted as the woman turned to her, brushing locks of curly hair over her ear.

"The Quidditch World Cup." Bella started. Voldemort glanced at the body that lay across the floor.

"Yes?"

"He was hurt." Bella murmured, "He was hurt badly."

"Who?" Voldemort murmured, bemused. She pointed at the two corpses by their feet, "Crouch Jr. or Rosier's nephew?"

Bellatrix stared at her.

"Harry!"

Harry.

A slight frown marred Voldemort's peeling features.

"The boy is resourceful. I'm sure he'll manage to put himself together just fine -"

But Bellatrix shook her head furiously, pacing back and forth again.

"He's awful at healing." she snapped worriedly, "I had to put him together all the time, after every single duel we had."

Bellatrix slowed to a stop.

"I should have helped him."

The stale air hummed with magic.

"Is that so?" Voldemort asked, eyes narrowed. Bellatrix crossed her arms.

"He's different." Bellatrix hissed, "Special, like you -"

"I'm sure that'll warm his heart, coming from you."

Bellatrix stomped angrily. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath her heels.

"He is." she said, "I know you see it too. You're just pretending it isn't there because you're scared -"

"Bella -"

"- scared of a prophecy made by the most pathetic seer of the millennia -"

"SILENCE!" Voldemort roared. Bellatrix crumpled like a sheet of paper, slamming hard into the wall behind her. The scarlet light of Voldemort's eyes bathed the room in a blood-like glow.

"You'd best mind your tongue, Bella." the Dark Lady whispered, her eyes like hot coals, "Not even you are untouchable . . ."

Snap.

Harry shot up. The blurred outline of his room in the Leaky Cauldron whirled to life. A dull fire crackled beneath the mantle, and Hedwig lay fast asleep on her stand in the corner. Harry shook himself awake, letting his breathing slow as he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

That felt real. That felt really, really, real -

Harry reached an arm out, his fingers clawed as he tried to pull his book on Occlumency towards him. Sweat slipped past his brow, and the book didn't move an inch.

"For Merlin's sake," Harry murmured, fumbling with his wand, "Accio!"

The book zoomed haphazardly across the room, eventually dropping into the palm of his hand. Harry flicked through dozens of pages.

"Like the hallucinations, maybe." he whispered thoughtfully, "I haven't had those in a while -"

Maybe they've grown stronger. Maybe instead of seeing things when I'm awake, I'm seeing shit in my dreams.

Harry paused, his eyes jumping across the table of contents. There was no mention of 'dreams' here. Harry frowned.

"I'll look into it in the morning." he decided at last, "I can add it to the list of things to buy."

The book tumbled lazily to the floor. Harry's gaze slipped to the fire as his head pressed against his pillow, the ghost of his dream still at the front of his mind. A single question pressed against his skull like a hot iron.

Prophecy . . . what prophecy?

-(xXx)-

Emerald eyes slipped across a thin sheet of parchment. Harry frowned, holding the list cup to his circular spectacles.

'Prophetic dreams. Prophecies. Healing Magic.'

"Er - here." he murmured, handing the list to a wizard bedecked in robes of grey and gold, "Anything that's on the list would be great."

The old wizard nodded slowly, raising a spectacle of his own up to his eye. He stared at the list intently.

"We haven't much on Healing Magic, I'm afraid." the man admitted, "Certainly not anything particularly advanced. But I've got several books on Prophecy if you're interested -"

"They aren't anything like Divination, are they?" Harry asked hesitantly.

The man smiled.

"Got Trelawney as a teacher, do you?"

"No, but I've talked to her a bit," said Harry.

She predicts my death every other time she sees me.

"I didn't take Divination either. Never really had much belief in it. But," the man ducked behind the counter, shuffling through stacks of books, "I'd wager this'll do you well."

Harry examined the book in the man's outstretched hand. Short yet thick, it was adorned in white with a thin gold frame. Etched across the top was the title, 'The All-Seeing Eye: An Understanding of Prophetic Magic'.

"I'll give it a shot." Harry decided at last, accepting the book, "How much will that be?"

"Two sickles and four knuts."

Harry fished for the coins in his robe pocket, handing them to the wizened bookkeeper. The man waved as he departed.

"Thanks for shopping at Flourish and Blotts, and have a lovely day!"

The bright green door slid shut behind him with a soft thud. Harry glanced at the list in his hands, then at the store behind him.

I've made zero progress, basically.

Sighing, Harry tossed his hood back up and stalked down the street. It was almost nightfall now, and the few who remained outside were getting ready for the journey home. Harry watched as mothers and fathers dragged kids inside by their hands, each glancing around almost conspicuously.

Makes sense, what with the Quidditch World Cup and the Dark Mark.

Harry paused, frowning.

I'll have to add the mark to the list.

A bespectacled boy stared back at him in the reflection of a boarded-up window. Harry could make out little more than the tips of jet black hair and pale skin from beneath the dark hood of his robes.

"I want to see," Harry whispered quietly, "Now."

The world blurred for a moment. Harry reached for his glasses, pulling them off. Though far from perfect, the majority of his vision returned.

Harry glanced back at the window. He looked quite a bit different without his glasses.

I doubt it'll last, though.

Harry waved his wand across his face, watching as his eyes darkened and his cheekbones rose. He stared at his features in awe, his cheeks aching slightly.

"I look like Emily," he murmured. His fingers slid across his skin, curiously poking at his new features.

"Oi!" a voice called. Harry jumped, "Stop staring at yehself through me window! Yeh not that handsome!"

Harry turned, sputtering, to face the hairy man who'd poked his head out from the shop's door.

"I'm fourteen," Harry said, bewildered.

"An I'm constipated, but yeh don hear me goin on about it, do yeh -"

"Gerald!" a shrill voice shouted from somewhere inside, "Gerald, you leave the pretty boy alone -"

"I'm not a pretty boy!" Harry exclaimed irritably. Gerald sent him one last glare before ducking inside.

I like my face better.

It was getting darker now. Harry quickly fastened his robes tighter around him before heading off. The cobbled path beneath him slowly turned to gravel, the shops nearby slowly becoming darker and more shabby.

A rusty gateway stood just before him, the sign atop it swaying eerily in the evening breeze. Harry watched it curiously.

'Knockturn Alley'

A frown wormed its way onto Harry's lips. He glanced up at the sign, then at the list in his hand.

'Prophetic dreams. Prophecies. Healing Magic.'

With an exhausted sigh, Harry took a step through the gate and into Knockturn Alley.

Unlike Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley was practically teeming with life. Witches and wizards (and some that were almost certainly neither) of all sorts lazied about. Harry watched curiously as they mingled amongst one another, a wicked gleam in many of their eyes -

"Lost, are you?"

Harry forced himself still. His now hazel eyes flicked to the left, landing upon a young witch adorned in little more than a leather corset. Waist-length black hair hid much of her skin, and a pretty smile etched its way onto her face.

"What makes you think that?" Harry asked, frowning as her scarlet eyes swam into view.

"You're so young," she murmured. She stared at him, drinking in his features, "You don't see people your age around here. Not so late."

Harry laughed dryly.

"Why's that?"

"Because they're usually not so stupid," she whispered. Her eyes had fallen to his lips.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" he asked curiously. Slowly she shook her head.

"You smell good. Powerful," she murmured. Harry frowned as she leaned closer, "You look good, too."

Harry blushed, backing up a bit.

"Er - I'm fourteen -"

"A hundred and forty-seven." the woman said with a shrug. Harry stared at her.

"You - you look good, too. For your age, I mean -"

I need to go out more often.

The woman smiled. Harry caught a quick glimpse of long, pointed teeth. The puzzle pieces slowly clicked into place.

Vampire.

Her eyes slid along the side of his head down to his neck. Harry shifted uncomfortably.

"You're hurt." she murmured, her eyes hovering upon a bruise near his shoulder, "Been fighting, have you?"

Harry frowned, tightening his robes.

"You should see the other guys." he snapped irritably. The woman nodded seriously. Harry had the faintest impression that she believed him.

"I'd look into blood magic if I were you." she whispered, "Excellent for healing. I'm quite good at it myself."

"Is that a vampire skill, or your own?"

The woman smiled. Harry couldn't help but stare at the flash of sharp teeth.

"Why not both, dear?"

Leaning closer, she pointed at a shop along the road with a long, thin finger.

"Borgin and Burke's." she whispered seriously, "They'll have the books you need."

"On Blood Magic?"

"And more."

"I bet the Ministry loves that."

The woman shrugged.

"What they don't know won't hurt them."

She cast him a knowing look, and with that, she spun on her heels, vanishing into the crowded nightlife of Knockturn Alley.

Weird.

A rusty sign grew larger with every step he took. A green banner hung from it, a yellow inscription painted haphazardly near its center.

'Borgin & Burkes,

Established 1863'

Harry stared at the sign suspiciously.

That's the shop that sells Malfoy's father all his illegal stuff.

"According to Theo, anyway." Harry murmured quietly.

He glanced conspicuously around the Alley, almost waiting for a legion of Aurors to swoop down and arrest him on the spot. No one did. Sighing, Harry clambered up the stairs and into the shop.

The place was small and dingy. Hundreds of strange artifacts littered the shelves, and a greater number of books accompanied them. A short, balding man stood behind the corner to his left. He was watching Harry suspiciously.

"You're a kid." he barked, leaning closer as if to see him better.

"I am." Harry agreed slowly, "That's not an issue, is it, Mr. - er -"

"Borgin," said the man. He squinted at Harry for a second, "Got money?"

Harry almost snorted.

My trust vault alone has more money than I know what to do with

"Enough," he said instead. Borgin nodded, still staring at him.

"Your surname wouldn't happen to be Riddle, would it?"

Harry froze.

"What?"

"I asked if you were a Riddle." Borgin repeated, "One of my employees from long ago was a Riddle. Pretty girl, she was. Clever, too. What was her name again -"

"Emily?" said Harry slowly.

"Emily." Borgin clapped his hands together, "Yes, that's the one -"

He peered down at Harry again, leaning closely.

"What are you, her grandkid?"

Harry shivered.

"Sure," he said eventually, "Say, you wouldn't happen to remember anything about her, would you?"

Borgin thought for a moment. A frown slowly slipped across his lips.

"No . . . no, not much." Borgin's eyebrows scrunched together in frustration, "Odd. I don't usually forget anything . . ."

The heat in Harry's chest dissipated, his shoulders slouching in disappointment.

Voldemort's gotten to him already.

"You're sure you don't remember anything?" asked Harry pleadingly, "Anything at all?"

Borgin paused.

"She used to sell inventory, I think." said Borgin, "Didn't work for long. Shame. She could've sold sand in a desert, that girl. A bit too feisty for my liking - didn't appreciate it when clients disrespected her. Had an ego the size of Britain."

"Sounds like her," muttered Harry darkly. Borgin glanced at him curiously.

"I reckon she killed Burke, too," he added absentmindedly. Harry shifted uncomfortably.

"Er - you're not going to make me pay extra for that, are you?"

Borgin snorted.

"A discount, more like. I've had all our revenue to myself for decades, thanks to her. Next time you see her, tell her I said thanks."

Right.

"But never mind all that," Borgin said eventually, "Why are you here? What is it you're looking for?"

"Books on prophecies. Anything you've got on healing and blood magic, too."

Borgin smirked at him.

"Blood magic, eh?" he turned around, waving his wand. A half dozen books spun through the shop, stacking themselves on the counter, "Best not be seen with that in Hogwarts. Or anywhere else, really."

"I've heard it's good for healing."

"You've heard right." said Borgin, "Good for loads of nastier things, too. You'll see -"

He shoved three books forward, tapping them with his index finger.

"Should cover blood magic as a whole. One on the left focuses the most on healing specifically. And these," he reached for the other three, pulling them forward, "Anything you'd want to know on prophecies."

Harry picked them up, inspecting them carefully. After a few moments, he nodded to himself, lowering them back onto the counter.

"How much?"

"Two-hundred and twenty-seven galleons, seven sickles, and a knut."

Harry stared at him.

"Surprised?" asked Borgin, smirking, "Blood magic is an expensive hobby."

"Do I get a discount for being a - a Riddle?"

Borgin paused for a moment.

"Fine. I'll knock off the knut."

Harry glared at him. Borgin didn't budge.

"Fine."

Harry reached into his Gringotts bag, stacking armfuls of galleons on the counter. Borgin took a seat behind the counter, pulling out a spectacle and counting the coins one by one. Harry watched as he worked, making sure to count along with him.

"You wouldn't happen to have anything on dueling, would you?"

"Why?" asked Borgin, not looking up from the coins, "You didn't lose a fight, did you? It would explain the books on healing -"

Harry grimaced.

"Just something someone said," he muttered, "Something about the Myrddin and the Morrigan."

"Dueling forms. Those are the first two."

"How many are there?"

"Eight. Well, seven, technically - nobody knows the fifth form."

"Why?"

"Because it's the unknown form."

"Er - right." Harry said, confused, "And what's wrong with mixing the first two forms?"

Borgin stared up at him.

"They don't mix."

"Why?"

Borgin sighed. Straightening up, he waved his wand. Another book soared through the shop and into his outstretched hand.

"The Morrigan's all about constant offense. You overwhelm your opponent. Myrddin's about perfect defense. Waiting for your opponent to mess up, and capitalizing on it. Mixing them makes you a jack of all trades. You pick one, or you die."

He placed the book atop the six others.

"Anything else on dueling you'd want to know is in there." he said, tapping the cover, "That's six more galleons, by the way."

Harry nodded. His eyes slid around the room as Borgin continued his work. A pair of odd, skull-shaped instruments hummed off in a corner, and a strange cabinet wobbled near the front. Behind Borgin, a large black book whispered menacingly.

Borgin caught his eye. The man turned around, glancing at the book.

"I'm not selling you that."

"I didn't want to buy it." said Harry, shrugging, "But now that you've mentioned it, what is that?"

"Book on rituals." said Borgin, "One of the last in all of the United Kingdom. Nothing gets the Ministry's blood boiling quite like ritualistic magic."

Harry frowned.

"Is it a good idea, keeping it out in the open like that?"

Burke smiled smugly.

"It's more warded than you'd expect." he said, "Not that a kid would expect much - how old are you again?"

"Fourteen," Harry said absentmindedly, focusing on the book. A faint wave of protective magic washed over him. It felt far from benevolent.

"Here we are," said Borgin at last, separating a stack of coins from the rest, "Two-hundred thirty-three galleons, seven sickles, and a knut."

"You said you'd knock off a knut."

Borgin flicked the bronze coin back at him with a frown.

"Worth a shot," he said, staring expectantly at him, "I suppose you'll want to count for yourself, too."

"Obviously."

"I wouldn't be a fool enough to steal." Borgin said lazily, watching as Harry counted, "Bad for business. Besides, your grandmother might kill me."

Harry snorted.

"I reckon she's busy killing someone else at the moment."

Crouch Jr. and Rosier's nephew, whoever they are.

"You attend Hogwarts, don't you?"

"Sure."

"What house?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Slytherin, then."

Harry glared at him.

"I always wondered how that school stays open." Borgin muttered, more to himself than anything, "Fiendfyre last year. Chamber of Secrets nonsense before. Makes you wonder what they've got in store this year."

"I'm sure they'll manage to surprise me," Harry said bitterly. Borgin laughed, taking the pile of coins from him.

"Pleasure working with you, Mr. -"

"Riddle. Tom Riddle."

"Riddle," Borgin repeated, nodding, "I look forward to our continued business."

-(xXx)-

Cool mahogany slipped beneath his fingers. Harry glanced around conspicuously as he ducked beneath the bar table.

Show me the time.

Violet and silver magic twisted in the air, reading '2:23'. Harry swore, forcing himself back up.

"Dropped something, did you?" called Tom as he clambered down the stairs. His gaze quickly swept over the bar, which was mostly empty, "Or are you just tired?"

"It's two in the morning, Tom. Of course I'm tired."

"Is it really?" the barman frowned, "He said he'd be here by now. Must be taking longer than expected."

"Who's 'him'?" asked Harry innocently. Tom stared at him, unimpressed, before turning around. Harry swore.

"You can tell 'him' how much I loved staying up 'til two-thirty just to see him!" he shouted at Tom's retreating back, "Honestly, you'd think my schedule was jam-packed . . ."

A few patrons stared at him. Harry glared irritably back. His mind went blank as he wandered behind the bar, his hands occasionally whisking into the familiar pattern of drink-making. He was getting quite good at it now.

The bar slowly emptied out. Harry watched as Tom waved off the few lingering bar-goers, his eyes occasionally slipping to a small glass of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey in the corner. He summoned it towards him with a curve of his palm.

"You taste pretty awful on your own, you know." Harry told the bottle seriously, "But I reckon making drinks isn't much too different from potion-making . . . "

Snape would kill me if he heard that.

Harry emptied out a third of the bottle before glancing around the bar.

What works together . . . what feels right -

A bright purple vial gleamed beneath dozens of bottles. Harry plucked it gingerly, dashing a generous amount into the Firewhisky. Another bottle, filled with silver liquid, joined the concoction as well. Harry stared at the glass in his hands. For whatever reason, the drink's color had turned from a glowing red to violet.

Perfect. Should only last a couple of minutes now.

Harry glanced uncertainly at the swishing substance.

I hope, anyway.

Harry looked up. Tom had stepped out through the muggle entrance, where he was talking to someone Harry couldn't see. Beyond that, the bar was empty. In one quick swig, Harry gulped down the steaming liquid. A strong, warm buzz swirled through his stomach, slipping down the length of his limbs and across his fingertips -

"Good evening, Harry," a familiar voice called from before him, "though I suppose 'Good Morning' is more apt."

Harry choked. Standing across from him was none other than Albus Dumbledore, dressed in a particularly offensive shade of orange. Behind him, Tom slowly slid the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron shut. The silver of Dumbledore's beard gleamed faintly beneath the candlelight, not unlike the Mall Santas Harry had seen back at Privet Drive.

"I - Merry Christmas, Professor!" Harry stammered, wincing.

This shit kicks in way too fast.

Dumbledore grinned. He turned quickly to Tom, and after a few muttered words, the barman stepped up the stairs and out of sight.

"There's steam pouring from your ears, Harry." said Dumbledore cheerfully, "You remind me a great deal of the Hogwarts Express."

Harry blushed, quickly clasping his palms over his ears. Steam was slipping from his nose now.

"Vinumdele." the Headmaster chuckled. The pleasant buzz of warmth faded from Harry's chest, and the steam quickly dissipated into nothingness.

"Discovered the infinite wonders of alcohol, have you?"

"I wanted to see if I could change it," Harry explained somewhat shamefully, "make it last for a smaller time frame -"

"A noble cause, as I'm sure your father and his friends would have agreed." assured Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling, "Though perhaps not amongst your cleverest ideas."

"No, sir." Harry agreed quickly. He straightened himself up, "You're the person Tom said was going to meet me, aren't you?"

"I am indeed."

"Did something go wrong?" Harry asked, frowning, "I can't imagine why else you wouldn't just wait until the morning."

Dumbledore sighed.

"It's far more secure to speak with you at odd intervals," he admitted off-handedly, "but yes, I did imagine you would rather hear of this from me."

The headmaster pulled out a scroll of parchment from within his robes. Harry grasped it carefully, opening it. The cover of the Daily Prophet stared back at him.

'Boy-Who-Lived Faces Fiendfyre in Forbidden Forest!'

Harry gaped at the headline.

"I thought they couldn't write about me!" he sputtered, "Daphne said so ages ago -"

"Miss Greengrass is correct," said Dumbledore, "Rita Skeeter is in hot water at the moment, as she was when she illegally reported on your sorting."

Harry nodded blankly, his eyes cutting across the parchment. It didn't seem particularly in-depth, only mentioning that he had been found by a group of Aurors during the night of Bellatrix's escape. A small passage at the bottom included the names of Snape and Lupin. Neville, Ron, and Hermione had been forced into the very last line.

"How'd she even figure this out?" he asked slowly, "I thought only the Wizengamot knew about it."

"Rita Skeeter has a talent for knowing things she ought not to." Dumbledore informed him, "I imagine, one day, it will prove a curse more than a gift."

Harry nodded thoughtfully.

"This doesn't change anything, does it?"

"Not particularly," Dumbledore agreed, "Rita has always had a commendable sense of self-preservation. She would not write anything that might shift the blame to the boy who lived."

"Well, that's something." Harry held out a hand, watching as a bottle of Butterbeer zoomed across the bar. He took a quick sip, "Nothing more than a few stares, then?"

"Nothing more, nothing less."

Harry felt the stiffness slip from his shoulders. He took another swig from his Butterbeer.

"I didn't see you at the Quidditch World Cup." he said eventually, "I thought you'd have been there, being the Supreme - er - well -"

"Supreme Mugwump?" Dumbledore chortled, "Yes, being the head of the International Confederation of Wizards would normally entail something of the sort. Fortunately, I had the Triwizard Tournament to busy myself with."

"Fortunately?"

"Fortunately." Dumbledore repeated, "Between you and I, the game of Quidditch has never quite appealed to me. Far too chaotic for my liking."

"Yeah, it was," said Harry, reminiscing, "the after party was, too."

Dumbledore studied him. Harry felt his gaze slowly slip from his face down to the slight bruises on his neck.

"An impressive attempt at self-healing," he noted, waving towards his bruises, "Though I suspect healing is not your strong suit."

Harry shrugged.

"I'll make sure I know enough to get by. Madam Pomfrey can deal with everything else."

"And during the Tournament?" Dumbledore asked, frowning.

"Surely Beauxbatons and Durmstrang have got decent healers," Harry muttered. Dumbledore sighed.

"International Cooperation, I suppose." he decided, "Perhaps a member of the Hogwarts delegation might prove adept, too -"

"Hogwarts delegation?" Harry interrupted, "I thought you said I was going alone."

"At the time, you would have. The agreement between schools has since changed."

Harry grimaced, eyeing the copy of the Daily Prophet.

"It's not got anything to do with the article, does it?"

Dumbledore glanced at the paper. A picture of brilliant gold flames swirled beneath the inky headline.

"The other ministries have known of your presence for quite some time," he whispered.

"So no, then."

"I didn't say that." Dumbledore frowned, "I imagine the article has reminded them of your existence. In their eyes, implementing delegations increases the chance that you'll be visiting their respective nations. It'd spell quite the boom for their economies."

Harry began to laugh, only to realise that the headmaster wasn't joking.

"And the delegations? How are they decided?"

"They must be nominated by one or more Professors." Dumbledore acknowledged, "So long as they can keep their grades up to standard until October 10th, they will be granted a spot in the Hogwarts Delegation."

"Who recommended me?"

Dumbledore smiled.

"As of now, no one."

A cool feeling slipped across Harry's chest.

"What?" he sputtered, "But - who'd you nominate?"

"That would be telling," chuckled Dumbledore, "Some things are better kept a mystery, but not everything. If I recall correctly, you have yet to decide if you're ready to leave Hogwarts for the better part of the year."

"I'd rather not just leave Daphne and Nott behind," Harry admitted, "I've got a strange feeling that neither of them made the delegation."

The dull gleam in Dumbledore's eyes confirmed his thoughts. Harry sighed.

"You haven't got to be a part of the delegations to try for Champion, right?"

The headmaster nodded.

"And if you become champion, you join the delegation?"

"Correct again."

"You're really making me work for this, aren't you?"

The Headmaster laughed. Harry watched as Dumbledore took a gentle sip from his bottle of Firewhiskey.

"As Professor Snape has reminded me many times these past few weeks, 'Why waste something on someone who isn't sure?'"

Harry nodded, frowning.

"And if I decide I am?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"Then you'll have to earn it."