P*T*E*N Page is up and running, slightly ahead of FFN and AO3. This pace will change to significantly ahead of FFN/AO3 once we reach the next hiatus point (at the end of the Durmstrang Arc). Visit P*T*E*N / 521dream if interested. Posted stories include A Flaw in Fate and Sacred Sight (A King's Path Rewrite/Remaster).

I've started a Discord. I intend for it to be a small, relaxed server - nothing too fancy or grand. If you have any questions about my writing, want to discuss my work, or simply want to hang out, you're more than welcome to join. The link is in my profile.

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

The next chapter will be published . . . yeah I ain't gon lie I dunno when. Enjoy!

Harry Potter: Sacred Sight

The Goblet of Fire

I. A Face That Isn't Yours

Emerald green. Slytherin's chosen colour . . .

He stared carefully at his reflection, picking out whatever flaws he could. He found none.

"Tom?"

The boy turned. A girl was standing at his doorway. She was short and thin, her hair a deep brown and her eyes a dull blue. Though her cheeks were hollowed and her lips thinned, she was much prettier than most girls his age.

"Does Mrs. Cole want something?" he asked smoothly, rising to his feet. The girl grinned.

"What, I can't visit you just because I wanted to?"

A practiced smile covered his lips. He watched as the girl's cheeks tinted to pink.

"Of course not, Emily," he said easily, "You know how much I look forward to your visits, It's just . . . odd."

Emily's nervous smile faded away.

"I've heard how the others used to treat you," she whispered, "Years ago when you were still a wee lad -"

"I still am," Tom grinned. His gaze returned to the mirror that hung within his small bedroom, "I've got loads of growing to do."

"You look like a man to me," Emily blushed.

"Daring, aren't you?"

The girl giggled.

"It's 1941 now, Tom," she said, spinning around and falling atop his bed with a loud splat, "Us girls can do more now, you know -"

"And you should," said Tom kindly, "You're capable of a great deal. You deserve the chance to prove it."

The smile on her lips only grew larger.

Quit wasting time.

"Say, Emily," Tom started slowly, "Would you do something for me?"

"You know I would."

Tom smiled.

"There's something I've been meaning to do. Something important."

"What?"

Tom thought quickly, his eyes combing around the room.

"I've a friend, you see," he began, reaching for a bottle of cough medicine on the table, "He an orphan, like us."

"Have I met him?"

"No, Em, you haven't," Tom forced his features into a frown, "He's not quite so lucky as us. He lives on the streets."

"That's terrible!" Emily cried, her eyes wet. Tom nodded morosely.

"He's been sick of late. I wanted to give him this."

He held out the bottle of cough medicine.

"Oh, Tom," Emily said sadly, "You know Mrs. Cole would never let us out on a Sunday -"

"Of course, I know," he sighed, "But I've got to try. It could mean life or death, you know."

Emily bit her lip.

"What am I to do?"

"I heard Mrs. Cole has you on hall duty this week. You're meant to keep track of us all, aren't you?"

"I am."

"Well," Tom leaned closer, spinning the medicine bottle in his palm, "Why wait to count me at breakfast? You could do it right here, right now."

Emily stared up at him.

"You want me to lie for you."

"I want you to lie for my friend," Tom corrected sincerely, "For Robert."

He watched the gears cranking in Emily's mind, thinking carefully.

"If it were anyone else, I wouldn't have said a thing," he added offhandedly, "But I know you. Everyone at Wool's knows you've the biggest heart of us all. What is it you always say?"

"Do the right thing, especially when no one's looking," Emily whispered.

"All I'm asking of you is to not look."

Emily nodded slowly.

"You're a good man, you know that?" she said, her eyes wetter than before, "Sharing your cough medicine like that. Mrs. Cole isn't restocking them for months - you might get sick."

Tom fought to keep his frown at bay.

I'm not a man. Men get sick.

"He needs it more, Em," Tom smiled faintly, "I just want to help, that's all."

The muggle girl nodded, leaning closer. Tom felt her lips, soft and supple, press gently against his cheek.

"That's for being you," she said softly. Her hands wrapped around his neck, straightening his collar, "Now you go help poor Robert out. I'll make sure no one hears a word about Wool's Orphanage being one orphan short."

"Thank you, Emily," said Tom sincerely, "I'll see you at dinner."

The girl winked at him. Tom watched as she sent him one last smile before vanishing through the doorway and out of sight.

Perfect.

Tom strode across the room, pushing the door shut. He twisted the lock with a gentle click.

"Robert can wait," he whispered, tossing the cough medicine under his bed, "The fucker's only existed for about two minutes -"

He ducked down, pulling a large, ragedy trunk from under his bed. The locks clicked open with a simple tap of his fingers. Tom pushed the trunk open, staring with joy at the heaping mess within.

Finally.

"Hello, love," he said sweetly, plucking a thin wooden rod from between a stack of books, "It's been a while."

The wand of yew sparked in agreement. Tom grinned.

"I say you and I do some catching up in Diagon Alley. It's been a while since I've seen the real world. I'm starting to miss it."

He kicked his trunk under the bed, straightening himself up.

Destination, determination, and deliberation. That's what it said in the old Ministry magazine -

Tom steadied himself, his eyelids forced shut. He concentrated, twisting carefully on the spot -

Crack!

"Harry!"

His eyelids rose, but it was not Diagon Alley that awaited him. A dull, cozy flourish of color pressed against scratched-up glass. Harry moaned, pulling his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes.

Another dream.

"Scratched glasses, too," Harry moaned, "I should've remembered to take them off . . ."

He placed the black frames upon his nose. Thin, jagged lines traced across his vision.

I really should've remembered.

Harry slowly lifted himself from the bed, allowing his gaze to wander. He was surrounded on all four sides by walls of wooden planks, the floor beneath him carpeted maroon. Water tapped at the window to his left as rain poured down upon the streets of Diagon Alley.

1941. Tom would've been about fourteen by then.

"I'm fourteen," Harry murmured to himself, "If he can apparate, so can I -"

"Harry!"

He turned. A wooden fireplace sat along the wall opposite his bed. Sparks flew from the flames as they swayed in a wind that wasn't there, leaving Harry to wonder how the place hadn't yet burnt down.

"Look closer, would you?"

The voice was deep and gruff. Recognition flared through his senses at once.

"Sirius?"

Harry dashed to the fireplace. It was hard to see through the cracks in his vision, but he could just barely make out the face that sat amongst the flames. Sirius certainly looked better than he had a month ago; his shoulder-length hair was cleaner now, his face less skeletal. The man graced him with a crooked smile, though it slowly hid behind a slight frown.

"You look worse than me," said Sirius slowly, "You've been taking care of yourself, haven't you?"

"'Course I have," Harry mumbled. His fingers curled along the inside of his robes, "This isn't the first time I've done this. I was here for the last few weeks of last summer too, remember? After what happened with my aunt."

Sirius chuckled. Sparked flew as his head twisted in the flames.

"Absolutely brilliant, that one," he commended, his voice booming. His frown slowly returned, "I imagine they deserved it, too. It's probably for the best that you spend as little time with them as possible."

Harry sighed.

"Tell Professor Dumbledore for me, won't you?"

"I did," Sirius yawned, "But he seems to think staying with them is for the best."

Harry perked up.

"You're in contact with Dumbledore?" he sputtered, "Shouldn't you be - I don't know - a bit more 'on the run'?"

"It isn't an issue," Sirius waved him off with a raise of a flaming hand, "I'm more than fine where I am, I promise you. I wouldn't be able to reach you if I wasn't."

Harry squinted at him carefully.

"Where are you, exactly?"

"Grimmauld's Place," Sirius's lips stuck together almost bitterly, "My childhood home. I hate it here. Kreacher makes me wish I was in Azkaban again."

"Kreacher?"

"Old house-elf. I reckon he's fully gone mad by now."

Harry nodded. His fingers slid across the lens of his glasses, toying at the scratches that marred them.

"Just mend them," said Sirius impatiently, "There's too much magic in London, especially around the Leaky Cauldron. The trace won't be able to tell what you did. James and I used to do it all the time."

"It's not the trace I'm worried about."

"Then what?"

Harry shrugged, pulling his wand from the insides of his robes. He spun it along his fingers.

"I dunno," he mumbled uncertainly, "Sometimes I feel like I'm being watched. I don't think Professor Dumbledore would just let me run along Diagon Alley and do as I please."

"Of course, he wouldn't," said Sirius as though it were obvious, "He's got to make sure you're safe, hasn't he?"

He let out a deep sigh. Flames blew out of his way as his breath left him.

"It isn't anything too bad, mind you," Sirius assured him, "A couple of Aurors around the Leaky Cauldron at all times, and Tom - that's the barman, of course - will have to keep an eye on you. Nothing too invasive."

Harry nodded slowly.

"Did he tell you that?" he asked curiously, "Professor Dumbledore, I mean."

"Eventually." said Sirius with a grin, "I haggled him."

Harry laughed. He pressed the tip of his wand to his glasses.

Reparo.

The jagged lines vanished, leaving his glasses as good as new.

"Nonverbal," Sirius nodded appreciatively, "Dumbledore did say you were good."

Harry smiled.

"I'm better than good."

I've got to be.

Sirius rolled his eyes, grinning.

"I'm sure I was better at your age, of course."

"I'm sure you'd like to think so."

"I was," said Sirius stubbornly, "I became an Animagus when I was only a few months older than you are now."

Harry shrugged.

"There's still time. I might beat you to it."

"Fat chance," said Sirius, "It takes about five months. You've got to hold a mandrake leaf to the top of your mouth for about six weeks, too. Ridiculously tedious, even if it was worth it in the end.

"But nevermind that." he added quickly, "You've got your ticket, haven't you?"

Harry nodded, standing up and searching for it along the length of the room. His belongings sat in a large pile in the corner. Textbooks lay sprawled upon the floor, empty bottles of ink and battered quills lying among them. His school robes lay atop his trunk, which sat at the foot of his bed. Harry picked them up, his eyes curving along the black silk lining. A golden lion sat within a pool of scarlet, yawning softly. A set of emerald green dress robes sat by their side.

"Stupid color, green," Sirius called from the fire, "I always thought red was better."

Harry snorted, glancing at the dress robes.

"I like them," He said, "They go with my eyes."

Sirius nodded thoughtfully in the background.

"I suppose that's something," he agreed hesitantly, "It'll probably make it a lot easier getting a witch or two into a broom cupboard with you. James and I would've been jealous."

"And Professor Lupin?" asked Harry, pushing his robes aside.

"Probably wouldn't have given a shit," admitted Sirius, "Never really had his priorities in order, that one -"

"Found it," said Harry, pulling his ticket from beneath his trunk. Pale parchment sat in the palm of his hand, a golden finish lining the edges. Harry held it up, emerald eyes stretching across its surface as he read:

'The International Quidditch Association is proud to present the 422nd

Quidditch World Cup

Finals

Bulgaria V. Ireland

VIP - Admit I

The Quidditch World Cup is proudly partnered with:

Gringotts Wizarding Bank / Butterbeer / Firebolt'

Harry flipped it over. There was nothing on the back.

"How'd you get this, anyway?"

"I'm a Black," Sirius reminded him, "I've got more money than I know what to do with. Same as you, I'd wager."

"And how'd you get Professor Dumbledore to agree with this, again?"

"It wasn't too hard, really. He seemed to think you could use a bit of fun for once. He must've thought it'd be a nice change of pace."

He's not wrong there.

Harry sat back on his bed, flicking the ticket through his fingers.

"Keep that safe." said Sirius, eying the ticket, "You'll need it to enter the stadium tomorrow. The Aurors won't take you up if you haven't got it -"

"Aurors?" Harry repeated, confused.

"Fudge's work," Sirius explained irritably, "Dumbledore reckons he's trying to make it look like the two of you are best buds."

"He wants to sell a dream, then," Harry surmised.

It'd be useful for me, too.

"Going to put on the tried and true Potter charm?" Sirius barked, grinning.

"I wouldn't quite call it Potter charm," Harry frowned, "I definitely didn't get it from dad -"

"I wouldn't be sure about that. He got to your mother eventually, didn't he?"

"Eventually," Harry admitted, "I don't have that much time to waste."

"Yes, Dumbledore's told me as much," Sirius sighed, "Just have fun, alright? Have a bit of fun for once without nearly dying for a change."

Harry chuckled.

"I'd have thought you'd like the nearly dying part."

"I do." Sirius agreed with a grin, "That's the best of it - love the adrenaline rush. But best not to die when you've still got so much life to live, don't you think?"

"Right." Harry smiled, raising a hand in mock salute, "See you, Sirius."

The flames flickered, and the crooked grin vanished from sight.

(-{- S S -}-)

Acromanutla silk, soft and smooth, encased him from head to toe. His fingers toyed with the collar, folding it neatly into an angle he liked.

"That's it, dear," the mirror before him yawned tiredly, "Don't you cut quite the figure?"

Harry frowned. His eyes drank in the face in the reflection, one with pale skin, circular spectacles, and bright green eyes.

"We really do look similar, Tom and I," Harry whispered thoughtfully, "Not just because of the eyes . . ."

Same skin. Same dark hair, same nose -

"Who's Tom?" asked the mirror groggily.

"Friend from work."

"But you look about fourteen."

"Ever heard of child labor?" Harry snapped.

"We'd never allow such a thing in precious Albion," said the mirror proudly, "Haven't for ages. Not since the wars with Grindelbald and Moldyshorts -"

"Grindelwald and Voldemort," Harry corrected, "And what's Albion?"

The mirror sniffled irritably.

"Great Britain, obviously," it told him, "This is why I don't like your generation much. You've got no respect for our country, not so much as a drop -"

"It's not my fault you were made about two thousand years ago, you mangy old -"

"Three thousand, actually -"

Silencio.

The mirror went silent. Harry let out a loose groan.

"It doesn't matter," he sighed to himself, "There's too many people using magic around here. It's not like the Ministry's going to know."

Seeing how Fudge acted last year, I doubt they'd even care.

Harry turned back to the mirror. His hair was, as usual, about as messy as a bird's nest. Almond-shaped eyes blinked in his reflection.

I look more like Mum and Dad than I do Tom.

"Shock of the century, that is," Harry muttered snarkily, "Boy looks like his parents -"

I wonder if I should change that.

Harry frowned at the thought. His eyes combed across the mirror, searching for imperfections. His eyes were a bit sunken. His hair was a mess, his cheekbones too mundane . . .

"Appearances, like most empty pursuits, are everything," He'd heard Tom once say, in a dream long, long ago, "Though superficial and shallow, they make the fools of the world want to listen, and that is everything . . ."

"Mr. Potter? Are you there?"

"Just a second!" Harry called, fastening his robes. He glanced back at the mirror.

Good enough for now.

He strode across the length of the tent, his fingers wrapping around the door handle. He pulled it open with a mighty tug. Standing outside were a number of Aurors, all adorned in robes of scarlet and gold.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," said a tall, dark-skinned man at the front.

"Good evening, sir. Thank you for taking the time to accompany me."

"Not a problem at all," said the man kindly, stepping forward to shake Harry's hand, "You're not the only person we're accompanying, after all."

Harry frowned, glancing around. A short, plump blonde-haired boy poked out from the group of Aurors. A pang of irritation rang within Harry's stomach.

"It's good to see you, Nev," Harry smiled, stepping closer. The boy nodded back.

"They're ready for us, Kingsley," said a pink-haired Auror from the back. She glanced curiously at Harry, "We're all good to go."

"Right. Let's get a move on."

Harry and Neville hurried after the Aurors, following them along a winded path through the woods and toward the gleaming silver stadium within which the Quidditch World Cup would take place.

"I didn't expect to see you here," said Harry eventually, breaking the silence, "I heard your grandmother didn't want to buy tickets."

"She didn't," Neville whispered, "Great-uncle Algie got them for me. A gift for doing well on my Herbology exam."

Right.

Thoughts flickered across his mind. Harry wasn't sure which to voice, which words to say . . .

"It's weird, seeing you like this," Neville mumbled off-handedly, "Like a fish out of water. Is this the real you?"

Harry grit his teeth.

"I'm the real me."

"No, you aren't," Neville shook his head, "You're like him. Just like him."

The chubby boy stumbled over loose roots. Harry didn't bother to help him back up.

"I always wondered why Dumbledore seemed so weird around you," Neville continued, "You seemed perfect. There are just some things I don't understand . . ."

"Then ask," Harry snapped irritably, "I'm not in the mood for patience."

"You know who he is now," said Neville slowly, "We've both known for more than a year, ever since that night in the chamber. Why haven't you changed?"

Harry shifted, glancing at the Aurors that surrounded them. All of them feigned disinterest, leading the way forward.

"Why should I?"

"I'd have thought the answer was obvious."

"I know you would," Harry frowned, "You're wrong."

"So you don't care about everything he's done -"

"No, Neville, I don't," said Harry firmly, "What he did isn't any concern of mine. I've no intention of following in his footsteps."

Not all of them, anyway.

"Yet you wear his face," Neville said heavily, "You use his words and his mannerisms as if they were your own -"

"They worked," Harry said simply, "He used them to do awful things, but that doesn't change the fact that they worked."

Until he met me, of course.

"I don't care about whether or not it worked. I care about what he took from both of us."

"That's your problem, Neville. Not mine."

"We're here, boys," the pink-haired Auror said loudly, "We need your tickets to enter."

Harry and Neville both pulled thin strips of parchment from the insides of their robes, handing it to her. They got them back a few moments later. Harry returned his to the depths of his pockets, following the Aurors up to the Top Box.

"Mr. Longbottom, you'll be seated beside Mr. Crouch," The lead Auror, Kingsley, told them, "Mr. Potter, you're between the Minister and Ludo Bagaman."

"Don't get nervous, now," the pink-haired Auror whispered conspicuously, "They'll catch on right away. Shoulders back and head held high."

"Nervous?" Harry frowned, "Doesn't Fudge still wear that lime green bowler hat?"

The woman snickered loudly.

"Leave them alone, Tonks," Kingsley called from the front of the group.

"I am," the pink-haired Auror argued, "They're not worried one bit, are you?"

"Not even a little."

I reckon Fudge is more nervous about greeting me.

"I like you," Tonks told him seriously, "You seem like you know how to have a bit of fun.

"You're great too, blondie," she added to Neville, "You've just got to loosen up a bit. It's the Quidditch World Cup, for Merlin's sake!"

"I'm loose," Neville argued, frowning. Harry fought back a grin, "Are you supporting Ireland or Bulgaria, then?"

Tonks grinned at them, her bubblegum pink hair shifting to a deep green.

"Ireland through and through!"

"Shame you can't change the uniform," Harry grinned smoothly, "You look like a walking advert for the Bulgarian team."

"Funny," Tonks glared at him, "You know, you should probably be a bit nicer to me, seeing as I'm your protector for the evening."

Harry laughed.

"I can take care of myself just fine."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard," Tonks sighed, "Bones won't stop going on about it. If she had it her way, you'd be locked up after what happened in June -"

"Tonks," warned Kingsley.

"Don't worry, he won't hear a thing he isn't supposed to," the now green-haired Auror grinned, "Nice Patronus, by the way. Shame it helped Sirius Black get away."

Harry's lips fell into a practiced frown.

"There were about a hundred Dementors. I wanted to survive, that's all."

"Uh huh," Tonks nodded, unimpressed, "You tell that to Madam Bones."

"Maybe I will," Harry decided, "She's Susan Bones' aunt, right?"

"Think so. Going to send her a letter?"

"I just might," Harry grinned, "If I can't, would you mind delivering it for me?"

"You're going to get me fired."

"You're an Ireland fan. You deserve to be fired."

"Why you -"

"Quiet, Tonks," Kingsley said as he came to a stop. A grand archway of marble loomed before them, "We're here."

"Best of luck, you two," Tonks smiled, turning to Harry, "Keep the confidence going. They'll probably appreciate a kid with a bit of backbone for a change."

"I've met Fudge before," Harry said offhandedly, "It shouldn't be too big of a deal."

"It's the Quidditch World Cup. There's no such thing as too big of a deal."

They stepped into the box. A flurry of bright lights crashed against his vision. Harry could barely make out a man at the very front, waving a lime green hat in his direction.

"Have fun," Tonks whispered in his ear, "Not everyone's fortunate enough to watch Bulgaria's downfall from the best seats in the house."

And with that, Harry stepped forward, the gleaming silver stadium roaring with life.