Another chapter, the last before the trip to Durmstrang.
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Read, review, and feel free to point out any errors/inconsistencies.
The next chapter will be published the Saturday after next.
Harry Potter: A Flaw in Fate
The Desolations of Destiny
IX. A Beetle's Beloved Laurels
The fire burned bright beneath the mantle, bathing the Gryffindor Common Room in a homely glow. Neville stared into its depths, lost in thought.
"Stupid gits," Ron muttered from the armchair across from him, "I still can't believe Dumbledore recommended them for the delegation."
Neville looked up. Fred and George were dancing atop a desk in the far corner of the common room, surrounded by a roaring crowd.
"They're not nearly as daft as people think," Hermione noted thoughtfully. She watched as one of the twins popped a sweet into the other's mouth. The both of them began sprouting feathers all across their face, "Besides, they seem like the sort of people Dumbledore would choose."
"I thought he'd pick Potter," Neville admitted, "Gran heard from a friend that Dumbledore stopped by the Leaky Cauldron to talk to him. They seem fairly close."
"I thought so, too," Hermione frowned, "I'm really not sure why he didn't -"
"Who chose you again?" Ron barked from within his armchair. His expression fell into a thin-lipped scowl.
"Professor McGonagall."
"Shock," Ron said dryly.
"Not quite as shocking as Professor Sprout not picking Neville," Hermione said, glancing at Ron with narrowed eyes. She turned to Longbottom, "You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"
Neville shrugged.
"I suppose I didn't pay much attention in Herbology last year," he admitted, "I was a bit preoccupied with dueling practice and all that, with Lestrange running about."
"You're not a Hufflepuff, either," Ron noted pointedly, "Sprout's bound to pick one of her own."
"Did all the heads of house pick their own students, then?" Neville asked curiously.
"I think so," Hermione said, "I know Professor Flitwick picked Luna Lovegood -"
"Loony," Ron snickered.
"- and Professor Snape chose some sixth year."
"What?" Ron said loudly, leaning forward, "What about Malfoy?"
"What about him?"
"He's Snape's favorite lapdog! How in Merlin's name did he not get chosen?"
Hermione sighed.
"I don't know, Ronald," she said, exasperated, "It's not like I can just go up to Professor Snape and ask him -"
"Maybe his parents didn't let him," said Neville thoughtfully, "Remember what we overheard him telling Crabbe and Goyle on the train?"
"About his mum thinking Durmstrang was too far?" Ron's expression darkened, "Yeah, I remember."
"Maybe," Hermione agreed curiously, "I'd love to know who the other Professors chose -"
"You can ask the other delegates that during the trip," said Ron impatiently, "I'm more interested in why the goblet chose Harry."
"What's so strange about that? Neville frowned.
Ron stared blankly at him.
"He's in our year, Nev," Ron reminded him, "Weren't we all saying it would be one of the older students?"
"It can't be that uncommon," Hermione frowned, "The Delacour girl's a fourth year, too."
"How do you know that?"
"'La France Magique Moderne' is a fourth-year textbook at Beauxbatons," the girl murmured, "I saw her reading it in the library,"
"She was in the library?" Ron moaned, "Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because I thought it'd be a bit hard for her to focus with some lovesick ape staring at the side of her skull," Hermione snapped impatiently, "She and the other Beauxbatons delegates are there every afternoon. They've got study hour, I think."
"Unlucky them," Ron yawned, "But we're missing the point. That's two fourth-year champions."
"She must be good, then," Hermione frowned, "Better than the other delegates at any rate."
"What does the goblet base its decision on, anyway?" Neville asked curiously, "I can't imagine Harry's the best student in the school."
"Likelihood of success," Hermione answered, "I asked Professor Flitwick about it after looking in the library for hours -"
Neville stared at her, confused.
"Likelihood of success? What's that supposed to mean?"
"What it sounds like, I imagine."
"Probably whether or not they can survive the tasks," Ron muttered, "To be fair, Potter's already survived more than a few things he definitely shouldn't have."
Neville grimaced. Golden flames licked the sky high above the Forbidden Forest.
Maybe . . .
-(xXx)-
Harry flicked through countless pages, the dust that covered the book's surface now sticking to his fingers like glue. His brows furrowed with distaste.
This is pointless.
He sighed, shoving the Occlumency textbook back into his bag, watching as it slammed into an Apparation textbook he'd nicked just moments before. His fingers tapped softly against the library table as he closed his eyes.
"Maybe it isn't possible," Harry whispered to himself.
I can't imagine anyone's ever used Occlumency to block out any nighttime visions.
"At least I'm not seeing things anymore," he laughed bitterly, "No more hallucinations. What a silver lining . . ."
Soft giggling wrapped around his ears. It sounded almost like music. Harry opened his eyes.
Several witches sat at a table across from him. They were his age, he guessed, though he wasn't quite sure he'd seen them before. All of them wore Hogwarts robes, sporting Ravenclaw pins coloured blue and bronze.
Harry felt his nerves prickling beneath his skin. He fought to keep his face still.
They're really pretty.
Harry blinked at the thought.
"Mr. Potter!" a voice called from behind. Harry almost sighed with relief, "A word, if you please!"
"Coming, Professor!" Harry almost shouted. He tossed his book bag over his shoulders, moving away from the table two steps at a time. A trail of giggling followed in his wake.
Professor McGonagall was waiting for him by the library's entrance. Harry made his way toward her, ignoring the pointed glare Madam Pince sent his way.
"Having fun, Potter?" Professor McGonagall said curtly. Her eyes flicked back to the girl's table.
Harry grimaced.
"Definitely not."
McGonagall's expression fell into a thin-lipped smile. She straightened up, handing Harry a tall stack of parchment.
"You're to help me take these to my office," she said, stepping out of the library. Harry followed, "We have much to discuss."
"Er - we do?"
"We do," Professor McGonagall agreed. Harry hastened to keep up with her pace, "Now that you have been crowned Triwizard Champion, there is much you need to know."
Ah. That.
"You're now a part of the delegations, as I'm sure you know," Professor McGonagall said, "You will depart with them for Durmstrang Institute in a week's time -"
"Shouldn't Snape be telling me this?" Harry frowned.
"Professor Snape," Professor McGonagall corrected. Her uncharacteristically soft voice lacked conviction, "is busy overseeing his classes. I assure you I am more than up to the task."
"Right. Sorry."
"As I was saying, you will depart for Durmstrang Institute on the tenth. You will largely follow the same guidelines as the other delegates, though you will additionally be granted access to Durmstrang's Restricted Section. You will also not be required to take any classes you do not wish to take."
A small smile slipped across Harry's face.
"I hope that smile has nothing to do with missing classes, Mr. Potter." Professor McGonagall frowned.
"Not at all, Professor."
I'm far more interested in Durmstrang's Restricted Section.
"Durmstrang is to host you for two months, as opposed to three at Beauxbatons," Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, "After the Fiendfyre incident, the French Ministry wishes to have more control over the Triwizard Tournament. Durmstrang Institute, given its reputation for the Dark Arts, does not care. You will return to Hogwarts in the early weeks of March."
Harry nodded slowly, pausing as they finally reached the Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall opened the room with a wave of her wand. He followed her once more, stepping through another that led into a wooden office.
"On my desk, Potter" Professor McGonagall nodded toward the papers in his hand. Harry nodded, "And take a seat, please."
"Right," Harry lowered himself into the squishy armchair opposite her, "I've filled out the form for the Looking Glass memories, too."
He pulled the parchment from the pocket of his robes.
"I - er - I couldn't exactly fill out the parent permission part, but -"
"I understand, dear," Professor McGonagall said kindly, "It matters little, given your recent emancipation."
"Right," Harry nodded uncomfortably. He straightened up, "Does it mean much, being emancipated?"
"It used to, many years ago," the Transfiguration master admitted, carefully reading through Harry's form, "Now, however, it likely means little more than greater access to your family's fortune."
"Family fortune?" Harry repeated blankly, "How much have they got?"
"That is a question for Gringotts, Potter," Professor McGonagall frowned. She rolled up his sheet of parchment, "I do know, however, that your parents spent much of their remaining wealth in the last war."
Harry sighed.
Nothing I could live on, then.
"The Potter Family is known for producing inventors, you know," Professor McGonagall noted, "They've procured a new fortune nearly every other generation. Perhaps you will continue the legacy."
"Maybe," said Harry doubtfully, "Enchanting objects isn't exactly my hobby, though."
Sounds more like something Daphne would be into.
"I wouldn't be quick to overlook it," Professor McGonagall said curtly, "Such objects are capable of changing the world as we know it. Objects like this, for example."
He glanced up, watching as Professor McGonagall ruffled through a box behind her. When she turned, a gleaming silver amulet was pressed between her thin fingers.
"You know what this is, I presume?"
The Language Amulet.
"You're to keep it on you at all times," said Professor McGonagall strictly, "You will not let anyone borrow it, not even members of the delegation. They will all soon be receiving amulets of their own."
"Right," Harry nodded, gingerly taking the amulet from her. It hummed softly as he wrapped it around his wrist, "How does it work?"
"Truthfully," Professor McGonagall frowned, "I've no idea. A question for Professor Flitwick, no doubt."
Harry's eyebrows furrowed in thought.
I wonder . . .
"Will the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students still have accents?" Harry asked curiously.
"No," the Transfiguration Professor pursed her lips, "To you, their voices will sound like whatever you can understand best. The same will apply to others once you put on your amulet. It matters little, of course; English is the closest thing to universal as a language can be . . ."
She glanced back at Harry.
"Questions, Potter?"
"Not anymore."
"Then hurry along," Professor McGonagall rose to her feet, "It's almost time for supper."
-(xXx)-
Harry yawned, slipping into his seat at the Slytherin table. His eyes slipped to Daphne's furrowed brows.
"What, it's about seven in the morning. I'm allowed to be tired -"
"It's not that," Daphne frowned. She passed him a copy of the Daily Prophet, "Skeeter's really making waves."
Harry groaned as he read the paper's title.
'Harry Potter crowned Hogwarts Triwizard Champion!'
"She's really pushing it, you know," Harry muttered darkly as he reached for a rack of toast, "You'd think she'd be a little more cautious, what with the laws stopping people from writing about me."
Daphne and Nott glanced at each other.
"That's the thing, Harry," Daphne whispered, "She's in the clear. She can write whatever she wants about you."
"What?" Harry stared at her, "But - what about that law Fudge wrote when I was like two -"
"You're emancipated, genius," Theo reminded him, "That law was only to protect you as a child."
Harry groaned.
"It doesn't matter much," he decided eventually. He irritably ripped apart his piece of toast, "Skeeter was getting away with writing about me before, too."
"There's also the Looking Glasses to consider," Nott said, "Now people know what you look like. It's not like you could've stayed hidden for long."
"That reminds me," Daphne mused aloud. Harry watched as she pulled a package from her robes, "Mother's package arrived."
Harry took a neatly wrapped parcel from her, opening it carefully. A pair of simple black spectacles sat in his palm.
"They're as close to what you already had as possible, minus the tape and the broken frames," Daphne explained, "I managed to convince Mother not to send anything too out there. I know you wouldn't like that."
"These are nice," Harry agreed. His eyes narrowed, "Er - your mother hasn't charmed these, has she?"
"No, I already checked."
Nott snickered.
"Nice to know you trust your mum that much."
Daphne glared at him.
"I wanted to be sure," she snapped at him, "I know damn well you'd check anything your father sent at least a half-dozen times -"
"If it was for Harry, I'd throw it out within seconds," Nott yawned, "There's no way whatever father sent wouldn't try to kill him."
Harry frowned, inspecting the spectacles carefully.
They're nice. Almost the same as the old ones.
His frown deepened as the glasses nearly slipped from his fingers.
It'd be nicer if I didn't need them.
"Emily said something about that," Harry mused thoughtfully, "Rituals or instinct -"
"You say something?" Nott asked from his bowl of porridge.
Harry shook his head, pressing the glasses against the bridge of his nose.
"I'm heading down to the Great Lake," he said eventually, rising from the table, "Got a bit of research to get out of the way -"
"We've got potions in ten minutes," Nott yawned.
"No, you've got potions in ten minutes," Harry grinned, "I'm Champion now, remember? I don't have to go to any classes I don't want to."
Nott groaned.
"I forgot you could do that," he moaned irritably, "You can't just skip them all, you arrogant little prick -"
But Harry laughed, waving them goodbye as he strode out of the Great Hall and down through the Hogwarts grounds. Tall, lush trees loomed below white skies. Harry sat along the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, glancing back at the lake as he pulled a few books from his bag. He withdrew his list from the pocket of his robes.
'Prophetic dreams, prophecies, healing magic, dueling/combat, divination, apparation'
Harry nodded, holding out his palm. A textbook on apparition - one he'd nicked from the Restricted Section - flew into his grasp. Harry stared at it.
It's not like I could practice at Hogwarts.
"Stupid fucking wards," Harry muttered dryly, tossing the book back into his bag. His hands drifted, pulling another book out.
Borgin's book on dueling.
Harry opened the book to where he'd left off, pulling out the bookmark (an old potions essay) and tossing it aside. His eyes combed the left-side page.
'The Eight Dueling Forms
Though various dueling forms have been produced throughout Wizarding History, the Eight Dueling Forms are considered the standard base forms for any witch or wizard interested in combat. They are known as Pure Forms.
Most witches and wizards do not utilize a single dueling form - in fact, it is most uncommon. Instead, they tend to mix elements from several dueling forms to produce their own unique branch of combat.
Listed below are notes on each of the Eight Dueling Forms:
Form I. The Morrigan
The Morrigan, also referred to as the Morrigan's Form, is a highly offensive fighting style characterized by constant attack. Its core aim is to overpower the opponent through sheer force.
The form is often considered to be a perfect match (match, not counter) for the Myrddin. Fittingly, the Morrigan and the Myrddin were popularised by none other than Morgana Le Fay and Merlin themselves.
Form II. The Myrddin
The Myrddin, also referred to as the Myrddic Form, is a highly defensive fighting style characterized by constant shielding and evasion. Its core aim is to outlast the opponent or capitalize on an eventual blunder.
The form is often considered to be a perfect match (match, not counter) for the Morrigan. Fittingly, the Morrigan and the Myrddin were popularised by none other than Morgana Le Fay and Merlin themselves.
Form III. Ithora
Ithora, also referred to as the Ithoras Form, is a fighting style characterized by conjuration and transfiguration. It often utilizes the dueling stadium and/or environment surrounding the duelists.
One notable staple of the Ithoras Form is the conjuring of birds to shield from Unforgivables, as used by Ithoras during the Battle of Thermopylae.
Form IV. Emeric
Emeric, also referred to as the Emericien Form (and much more commonly the Trickster's Form) is a combat form most commonly utilized by criminals and petty thieves. The form, unsurprisingly, is characterized by trickery and deception. This includes a generous use of Apparation, and, in some cases, Disillusionment.
More skilled (or in some cases more daring) criminals have taken the form a step further. The more advanced skills associated with the Trickster's Form include:
- Saying one spell whilst nonverbally casting another
- Using the Imperius Curse when faced with multiple opponents
- The usage of Animagus abilities
In 1942, an adaptation of the form was published by the British Ministry of Magic, known as the Emericien Honor Form. This adaptation relies solely on Apparition and Disillusionment, while further building on mobility and evasion. Considered more honorable and socially acceptable, this form has been taught to all upcoming British Aurors ever since.
Form V. The Unknown Form
During the height of Ptolemaic power, the Library of Alexandria was used to educate and train magical warriors. This included the use of a supposedly pure dueling form utilized in the conquest of the Ancient world. This form was a fiercely guarded secret, known only to the guardians of the Egyptian Empire.
Ultimately, the Egyptian warlocks paid the price for their secrecy. The mysterious form was lost in the burning of the Library of Alexandria in 48 BC during an intentional attack from Julius Caesar, a muggle wary of the powers of magic.
Form VI. Godelot
Godelot, or Godelot's Form, is a style characterized by high-powered and costly spells. It aims to intimidate and quickly subdue opponents. The style, however, is largely considered a double-edged sword. In most cases, should one fail to swiftly defeat their opponent, they are likely to be beaten themselves (largely due to fatigue).
The form is often utilized by extremely powerful witches and wizards who can handle its usage for longer periods.
Form VII. Pythia
Pythia, or the Delphic Form, is characterised by prediction and Legilimency. Users combine simple analysis with the mind arts to determine their opponent's moves before they occur.
More advanced practitioners utilize divination prior to the fight to gain a similar advantage. In some cases, these practitioners use divination to end the fight before it even begins. Users of this combat style are extremely uncommon.
Form VIII. Circe
Circe, also referred to as the Achlysi Form, is a combat style characterized by the usage of outside objects such as potions and artifacts. Witches and wizards often used these to strengthen themselves, weaken their opponents, or in rare cases alter their surroundings.
The Achlysi Form was commonly used by Aurors prior to the guideline change of 1942. More recent adaptations to the form include the usage of muggle weapons and Martial Arts techniques, which often prove ineffective due to distance between combatants.'
Harry closed the book, lost in thought.
I could try for Pythia. Maybe Godelot, too, when I'm older -
Bang.
His eyes shot away from the lake and up at the castle's weathered walls. Sparks flew from a classroom on the third floor. Harry grinned.
Moody's got the third-years dueling, then.
The ex-auror's scarred face drifted through his mind. Harry's thoughts drifted.
"They're all the same, witches and wizards like that." Moody had said, "They always want something. And whatever that something is, they'll shatter the world in their pursuit of it."
Harry paused.
'Course they all want change. The world has problems. Surely you'd want to fix it . . .
"I could fix it," Harry murmured, "I could change the world."
"Yes, you can," a doting voice whispered from behind him, "And you will, in time."
Harry shivered.
"It's not smart, Bella," he frowned, his shoulders slowly relaxing, "Coming to Hogwarts. You might get caught."
"No, I won't," the voice called stubbornly. It came from in front of him this time, "Not with this -"
The air shimmered. Harry felt a familiar presence pop into existence as his invisibility cloak fell to the floor.
What the -
"I know, alright?" Bella said irritably, coiling her unnaturally brown hair around her pointer finger, "I look stupid with brown hair. But it's a disguise -"
Harry stared at her, bewildered.
"Were you wearing the cloak?" he asked, confused.
Bella nodded slowly.
Why the fuck couldn't I sense her coming?
Harry shook his head, blinking furiously.
"Everything alright, Harry?"
"Fine," he said sharply, "It doesn't matter."
He paused for a moment.
"You still shouldn't be here, though," he added seriously, "You could get caught. I'll take my cloak back if I have too -"
But Bellatrix only smiled.
"Aww, Ickle Harry does care!" she giggled merrily, kissing him happily on either cheek.
"More than you do, clearly," Harry whispered, "You didn't even bother patching me up after my fight at the World Cup."
Bellatrix paled.
"I wanted to, badly!" she pleaded desperately, "I stood up to Master for you. She punished me for it, and she never punishes me -"
Harry's jaw clenched. One of many visions replayed itself. He watched again as Bella was tossed across the room like a ragdoll -
The visions are real, then. Definitely, absolutely real.
A grim feeling settled in Harry's chest.
"I believe you," he whispered eventually. He just barely noticed the way Bellatrix's body relaxed, "I just wish you'd helped anyway. It was hard enough to manage on my own."
"But you're resourceful," Bella said reassuringly, more to herself than to him, "You figured out how to patch yourself up, right?"
Harry stared at her.
"Of course I did."
The remaining stress faded from Bellatrix's body.
"I did think I'd do better against the Death Eaters, though," Harry frowned.
"You were brilliant," Bella assured him, "Besides, they were older and more experienced - not to mention there were several of them."
"Yeah, I know," Harry muttered, "That's not stopping me from wanting to do better, though."
He nodded at the book in his hands.
"I got this book on dueling from Borgin -"
Bellatrix scowled.
"The fat cunt," she hissed, "You shouldn't associate with him, Harry. He's as slippery as they come."
"He seemed nice enough," said Harry, shrugging, "Anyway, he reckons he knows why I didn't do as well as I thought I would."
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed.
"You told him?"
"'Course not," Harry said, "I asked him a vague question. He answered it."
Bellatrix stared at him expectantly.
"He reckons it's because you taught me the Myrddin," Harry muttered, "Which you did, didn't you?"
Bellatrix nodded slowly.
"Right, well it didn't work," Harry said, "You're too used to using the Morrigan. It must've bled into whatever you taught me."
He watched as Bellatrix pursed her lips.
That means I'm right, then.
"Why did you teach me the Myrddin, anyway?" Harry asked curiously, "I'd have thought you'd go for the Morrigan, seeing as that's yours."
"Because I want you alive," said Bellatrix pointedly, "Why else would I teach you a defensive form?"
"I suppose," Harry frowned, "Was it your idea or hers?"
Bellatrix didn't say anything.
"Hers, then." Harry sighed. Bellatrix bristled, "It doesn't really matter. I'll just have to tweak it into whatever works for me."
Harry thought to himself.
"I could work on it at Durmstrang, actually," he realised, "I doubt they give much of a shit about combat magic."
"I almost forgot you'd be leaving," Bellatrix pouted.
Harry fought back a grin.
"I'd have thought you'd remember, seeing as you're the one who entered me into the tournament in the first place."
Bellatrix stared at him. Her eyes narrowed.
"You seem certain."
"Am I wrong?"
Bella frowned.
"You're not," she admitted, "But you knew that already. How?"
"Magic," Harry said stubbornly. Bellatrix scowled.
"You probably just used that raggedy map cousin Sirius made with his friends," Bellatrix decided eventually, "Probably stalked me while I tossed your name into the goblet."
Harry snorted.
To be fair, that was part of it.
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about the first task, would you?" asked Harry curiously.
Bellatrix smiled coyly at him.
"I would."
"And?"
Bellatrix flashed him a wicked smile.
"Not telling!" she giggled. Harry sputtered.
"Why?"
"It's got to be a challenge, Harry," Bellatrix sighed, "You'll understand in the end. Besides, you want it to be difficult, don't you?"
Harry frowned at her.
"What makes you think that?"
"Master said so," said Bella simply, "She was pretty sure you'd enter yourself if I didn't do it for you."
Of course she did.
"Right," Harry said, "Well, you go tell her to stop signing me up for death tournaments, will you?"
"But I don't want to go," Bella moaned, "I haven't seen you in ages!"
Bellatrix waved her wand, paling as ghostly numbers shimmered before her.
"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," Bellatrix turned, hugging him tightly, "I'm late. I've got to go, but I'll see you sooner or later, I promise -"
And in a flourish of movement, Bellatrix hid beneath the Invisibility Cloak and scrambled back into the Forbidden Forest.
-(xXx)-
Harry wrapped himself more tightly beneath his sheets, turning within his bed. The depths of the Great Lake cast an eerie green glow across the room. Harry frowned, staring at his window.
It's the middle of the fucking night. Where's the light even coming from?
Harry sighed, rolling over again.
Just a few more hours until we're off to Durmstrang. I've still got so much to do . . .
"It's not like I'd have figured it out, anyway," Harry admitted, "I don't exactly have much of a shot uncovering Voldemort's prophecy while I'm stuck at school."
I wonder what it's about.
Harry almost snorted to himself.
Killing me, probably -
Harry shot up.
"Grindelwald's warning," he remembered, "The prophecy must've helped narrow it down."
Harry's brows scrunched furiously together as he strained his mind.
"He warned Voldemort about me," Harry remembered.
He only said my first name, though.
Harry nodded to himself, the pieces slowly falling into place.
"The prophecy must've told her which Harry, then," Harry decided, "It's not like I'm the only Harry in the world."
It must've said something about Neville, too. Bella said the only reason she went after Neville was to throw Dumbledore off.
"Which means Dumbledore knew the prophecy, too," Harry frowned, "But he didn't know about Grindelwald's warning, I think. Which makes sense, too - he hasn't talked to Grindelwald since their fight."
This is all way too confusing.
Harry sighed, his head hitting the pillow again. His eyes slipped from one fish to the next until, at long last, he was asleep.
