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).
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The next chapter will be published . . . yeah I ain't gon lie I dunno when. Enjoy!
Harry Potter: Sacred Sight
The Goblet of Fire
VIII. The Cross-Eyed
Harry squinted, forcing his eyes to peer through the dark grounds of Hogwarts. The dark outline of the Forbidden Forest dominated the horizon, accompanied by the faint glows of Hagrid's hut.
Somehow this feels nostalgic.
In truth, it probably was. Tom's memories affected him in a number of ways he didn't fully understand.
"Are you going to say something?"
Harry frowned. He watched as Draco stalked closer, his platinum blonde hair just barely visible beneath his hood.
"I wasn't aware there was something to say."
"You're breaking into Azkaban," Draco hissed, "Your stupid ass is breaking into Azkaban, and you really think there isn't anything to say?"
Harry shrugged.
"Why, do you have any useful advice to impart?"
"I do, actually. Don't fucking do it!"
Harry rolled his eyes.
As if I'd give up the Resurrection Stone so easily.
"That does remind me," Harry said, turning around, "While we're on the topic of not doing stupid things -"
"Yeah?"
"Don't fucking send me letters with your eagle owl," Harry snapped, "I got the damn thing in the common room. The entire house saw."
Draco shrugged.
"Who fucking cares? Not like either of us can tell anyone anything, what with the Unbreakable Vow -"
"At this rate, we won't need to tell anyone," Harry hissed, "Just - think for longer than five seconds, would you?"
"Funny," Draco let out an empty laugh, "I'm not the one planning to break into Azkaban."
Harry rolled his eyes.
"You make it sound so impossible," he muttered, idly wandering toward the greenhouses. They watched as a number of magical plants swayed whimsically beneath the moonlight, "Azkaban really isn't all it's hyped up to be -"
"Do you hear yourself right now?" Draco barked, "I know you're - you're not exactly talentless. But this is out of your depths. Way out of your depths."
Harry shook his head.
"It's all exaggeration," he decided aloud, "The Ministry is far too arrogant to believe anyone would actually try to break in. Azkaban is designed to keep people from getting out, not to stop people from getting in."
"If you get in, you'll have to get out," the blonde boy bristled, "And if you get caught, you're taking me down with you -"
"Nah. Goes against your best interests, and all that."
Besides, I'm not a rat.
Harry's palms curled unconsciously at his side. He slowly shook his head.
"Dementors only work because the prisoners don't have their wands on them," he said certainly, "I don't exactly fall into that group of suckers."
He stepped forward, his outstretched palm reaching for a plant that shook rather suddenly.
"You'd best cover your ears."
Covering one ear with his shoulder and the other with a palm, Harry leaned closer, plucking a single leaf from the stem of the Mandrake plant. A muted screech tore through the evening air. Harry grit his teeth.
Shut. The fuck. Up.
He forcefully shoved the mandrake deep into the dirt of its potted home. The high-pitched voice tittered off.
"Is that your plan, then?" Malfoy asked, watching as Harry tucked the mandrake leaf neatly into his robe pocket, "Becoming an Animagus?"
Harry stared at the boy in surprise.
"I didn't expect you'd know how Animagi are created," he admitted.
Draco frowned.
"My mum wants me to become one," he muttered, "She and dad reckon Black's . . . well, she thinks it'd be useful."
Harry nodded in a relaxed manner, his mind racing.
They know about Snuffles. Or guess, anyway.
"Becoming an Animagus would take too long," Harry said eventually, leading them away from the greenhouses, "I can't risk it. I need to be in soon."
"Worried Morfin might die if you take too long?"
"A bit," Harry agreed, "He's not getting any younger, after all."
Draco frowned.
"If you're not going to get in as an animal, then what's your plan? You can't possibly be desperate enough to brute force it."
"You know, I did consider it," Harry admitted, grinning, "But there's no need. I have the cloak."
Malfoy stared at him.
"Please tell me you're joking."
"Not in the mood for lies."
"You do know dementors sense people based on their emotions, right?" Draco said loudly, "Your stupid cloak won't do a thing -"
"It's a special cloak, Goldilocks," Harry yawned, "Besides, if it really doesn't work I can take the Patronus approach."
"Terrible idea. Everyone knows exactly what your Patronus looks like."
"I doubt everyone knows -"
"A stag," Malfoy interrupted irritably, "A big, silvery stag. How far off am I?"
Harry bristled irritably.
"Tell Lucius it's a breach of protocol, sharing classified Ministry intel with his stupid son."
"His intelligent son is more than allowed to hear what one of his peers' Patronus looks like."
Harry rolled his eyes.
"It doesn't matter, either way," he said with an air of finality, "There are hardly any Aurors stationed on Azkaban as it is. It's not like the Dementors will recognize shit -"
"The Warden will, though," Malfoy reminded him, "That fucker's there around the clock. He'll recognize your stupid stag in a heartbeat."
Harry paused, his lips thinned. His conversation with Sirius replayed in his skull.
I wouldn't mind having a run in with that Warden.
"He might not be the only one, either," Draco added quickly, "Aurors visit the island every few weeks, too. Even I couldn't guarantee they wouldn't show up the day you sneak in."
Harry thought for a moment.
"Then I'll go on a day when something important is happening," he nodded slowly, "A time when they'll be stationed somewhere else."
"Most upcoming events that'll require Auror presence are happening here at Hogwarts. What does it matter if they can't catch you at Azkaban if they can catch you here?"
Harry rolled his eyes.
"You really are an idiot sometimes."
"I'm being serious," Malfoy snapped, "If you go down then I do too -"
"No, you don't -"
"Yes, I do," Draco grit his teeth, "You tricked me into an Unbreakable Vow. You can trick me into something else, too."
Harry frowned.
"I just need Azkaban as devoid of Aurors as possible," he said, "I have to capitalize on their arrogance."
"Right now you're overdosing on yours."
"If the Aurors are at Hogwarts, they aren't at Azkaban," Harry continued, ignoring him, "That's enough to simplify things into something feasible."
"And if the Warden realises you're there?" Malfoy asked, "He's got a one-way floo flame in his office. He could easily call for backup."
Harry shrugged.
"He won't."
I won't let him.
(-{- S S -}-)
A single bead of sweat slipped past his brow. Tom leaned closer, his midnight robes obscuring him as he pursued the last pages of the Book of Admittance.
Nothing.
It was very late into the night - or more likely, Tom imagined, early in the morning. The faintest glimmer of gold poked its way through the barred windows of the locked tower. Normally, he'd be worried; students weren't allowed anywhere near the tower - as far as Tom knew, he was the first to ever break in. Should he be caught, expulsion would be on the table -
Nothing.
His cherubic lips curved into something ugly. Tom pulled his fingers from the glowing book, watching as it magically clamped shut. Shaking fingers removed a crumpled sheet from the inside of his robes.
'The Book of Admittance is a large, parchment book bound in black dragonhide at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in which the Quill of Acceptance writes down the name and birth of every magical child. A powerful magical artifact in its own right, the book serves as a regulatory system, refusing to allow the quill to write in it until sufficient evidence of magical ability is displayed, thus guarding against Squibs being incorrectly admitted.
The book and quill are housed in an undisclosed tower at Hogwarts school. It is said to be by the ingenious creation of the four founders of the school: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin.'
Tom felt his jaw slack. He shoved the excerpt of Hogwarts: A History back into his pocket, straightening up.
He was never here.
He was sure of it now. Hours upon hours had been wasted away, slaving over every inch of the magical book. He'd started in the 'R' section, naturally, but was met only with disappointment. For a time hope had lingered . . .
My father never attended Hogwarts.
Confusion gripped the sides of his skull. Tom shook his head, thinking hard.
"He must've attended another school, then," he reasoned aloud, "Durmstrang, perhaps . . ."
But why? The voice of reason whispered in his head, What Parselmouth would pass up the opportunity to learn at Hogwarts? To learn from Slytherin himself . . .
"One who wanted to master combat magic," Tom decided. He nodded quickly to himself, "Yes, of course . . . everyone knows just how soft Hogwarts has become . . ."
"Who's there?"
Abscondere!
Tom's form vanished with a single thought, his skin mirroring the wall behind him. He silently slipped through the tower door, carefully locking it behind him.
"I said, who's there?" a tall, thin man slowly lumbered into view. Tom waved his wand as slowly as possible, silencing himself and removing any smells that slung to him, "I know you're here!"
The caretaker, one Apollyon Pringle, stalked forward, a cane in one hand and a lantern in the other. He held them both up, peering into the darkness.
"An older student, eh?" he muttered, glancing around, "Know a thing or two about Disillusionment Charms. Well, I'll tell you what . . . I know a thing or two, too -"
He held his wand up, pointing it gleefully into the air. Tom's eyes widened.
"Finite Celare -"
Bombarda Maxima!
A smoldering blast of magic careened through the room, turning several brick walls into mixed debris. Caretaker Pringle flinched. His jittery spell missed Tom by the slightest of margins.
"Why you -" Pringle roared, hurrying off in the direction of the blast, "I'll have you lynched, I swear to Merlin I will . . ."
He grew smaller in the distance until at last he was gone. Tom let out a heavy sigh of relief.
For fuck's sake.
He set off, taking the path opposite Pringle, the one that led down to the dungeons. His mind raced all the while.
If father really was a descendant of Slytherin, his family never would've let him attend Durmstrang.
Numb realization slowly imparted itself within him. Tom bit his lip.
You know the truth, A traitorous voice whispered, It can't have been father, can it? It was her. It was mother . . .
"She died," said Tom pointedly, "She wasn't a witch. She can't have been. She was weak."
But it makes sense . . .
Tom paused. His brows scrunched together as he struggled to remember the contents of the books he'd previously chosen to ignore.
"Morfin and Merope," he remembered aloud, breathing heavily, "The most recent Gaunt students at Hogwarts."
The supposed last descendants of Salazar Slytherin.
Morfin wasn't his father. Tom had decided that months ago, when he'd dared look the man up in a catalog in the library. Haggard, animalistic, and wholly unimpressive - no, that man was of no relation to him.
Merope, though . . .
Tom grimaced. He remembered her, too - he'd seen her picture next to Morfin's. Gaunt was a name that suited her appearance rather well; she was a woman with sickly skin, dull hair and eyes that veered off in opposite directions. She was certainly nothing worth looking at.
Looks can be deceiving.
"Not these ones," Tom spat harshly, "She was pathetic with magic, too. No . . . she isn't my mother. She can't be."
But my mother was weak, too. My mother died.
Tom slowed as he reached the dungeons, an angry sensation building in his chest. He smothered it reluctantly, his eyes sharp and impatient.
"Say that - that thing is my mother," Tom whispered, allowing the puzzle pieces to fall into place within the depths of his mind, "It would explain my . . . gift. It would explain she died during childbirth, too . . ."
Even witches and wizards have runts of the litter.
An ugly expression reared upon his features once more.
"It would mean I got my looks from my father, clearly," he noted dryly, inspecting his reflection in a mirror alongside the corridor. An abnormally handsome boy stared back at him, "That'd make tracking down my father less tedious a task . . ."
It would also mean that my father was a muggle.
"Explaining why his name appears in no magical records," Tom acknowledged irritably.
It all fits . . .
"My mother can't have been a witch," he tried stubbornly, hoping his logic would make greater sense once said aloud, "She died. Not even a witch of Merope's make could be so . . . so . . ."
Weak.
His mind whirled. Shaking his head one more time, Tom stepped through the entrance to the Slytherin common room, allowing his thoughts to disperse. The surrounding world faded with them . . .
Snap.
Harry woke up with a start, blinking wildly.
(-{- S S -}-)
A thick, heavy mixture swirled within Harry's pewter cauldron. Harry stared unseeingly into its depths, his mind wandering.
September twenty-ninth. The Delegates arrive tomorrow.
He paused.
That's a pretty big deal.
He reached blindly at his workstation, his fingers wrapping around what he hoped was Lionfish Extract. Harry held it over his cauldron, allowing a single teaspoon to fall into its depths. To his surprise, the potion turned a sharp scarlet rather than the described navy blue.
Fuck.
Harry focused up, waving his palm over his workstation. He glanced back at the potion, a subtle tingling spreading through his palm.
You.
His fingers wrapped tight around something he didn't recognize. Shrugging, he held it over his cauldron, slowly adding the ingredient to his mixture. He smiled as the potion shifted to navy.
"You know, you'd be half decent at this if you actually bothered to pay attention."
Harry frowned, turning to face his potions partner. Daphne Greengrass was watching him carefully, her braided blonde tucked gently behind her ears on either side. Icy eyes latched questioningly onto his.
Pretty.
"I'm more than half decent," Harry argued, stepping aside as the girl added a pinch of diced rosemary, "I just don't find potions nearly as interesting as -"
"Fighting?" Daphne suggested irritably, "Flashy, stupid sparks that you think make you look cool?"
Harry couldn't help but grin.
"Yeah, that sounds about right."
"It's a waste," Daphne frowned, "A poor use of talents."
"You know, in my case I think I have to disagree," Harry admitted, eyeing the group in front of them. He watched as Ron desperately tried to stop Neville from adding a large lump of glistening seeds, "Seeing as I'm - well -"
"Humble, aren't you?"
"I don't see how having a massive target on my back requires humility," Harry frowned, "But you're right, I am."
Silence brewed between them. Harry let his gaze wander. It floated across the room, eventually falling upon the focused form of one Parvati Patil. Her brown skin glistened beneath the sparse rays that frequented the dingy room.
"You like her."
Harry paused, basking in the certainty lining Daphne's voice. It was far more sure than anything he felt.
"I . . . I don't know," Harry shook his head, "I don't think so. Not in the way you're thinking."
"Oh?" Daphne's lips quivered, "She's quite pretty. I'm not sure what's not to like."
Pretty . . .
"Beauty fades," Harry whispered, "At least, physical beauty does. I'm more enraptured with the mind."
For a brain built with beauty rules eternally . . .
Daphne stepped away from their potion, staring curiously at him. For the first time, she seemed actually intrigued.
"She's smart. Very, very smart -"
"I'm smarter," said Harry with utmost certainty. He leaned forward, his fingers wrapping tight around a wooden ladle submerged in their cauldron, "Not that it's a deal breaker, of course, but . . ."
She's normal. Pitifully mundane.
Parvati's head turned, her eyes flickering in their direction. A beautiful smile coated her soft, pink lips.
Pretty, though.
"You know, I used to envision a future with someone more . . . special," Daphne muttered, gently pulling the ladle from his grasp, "In the few moments where I forgot about being the Greengrass heir, I used to dream up who that special someone might be. Usually, they were everything most purebloods aren't."
Harry turned to her.
"And now?"
"Now," Daphne paused, "Now I live in reality. I know whoever I end up with will probably be . . . normal."
"And that's enough?" Harry asked, curious, "You're fine with that?"
"Somewhat," Daphne nodded, "In truth, no partner is truly special. The connection you share with them is."
Harry mulled over her words.
I'm special. But how many 'me's can there possibly be . . .
He shook his head, shaking scrambled thoughts from his mind. He watched as Daphne mixed in another ingredient he didn't recognize.
"You fascinate me," he told her earnestly.
"You fascinate me," Daphne admitted as well, "You're not what I expected."
"Is that so?"
"It is," Daphne nodded, "I've heard a lot about you, you know."
Harry shrugged.
"Most people have. What they hear usually isn't true."
Daphne laughed.
"No, I know what I've heard is true," Daphne smiled gently, "I just didn't expect there to be more to it."
Harry frowned, watching as Daphne diced two doxy wings into thin strands. He waited in vain for the girl to continue.
"You're not going to elaborate, are you?"
Daphne set the diced doxy wings aside.
"In our younger years, I heard you were quite the Slytherin," she whispered, "Ambitious maybe, cunning, but most of all, charismatic. More so than any eleven year old had any right to be."
Harry smiled.
"Gryffindors can be good with their words, you know -"
Daphne shook her head.
"It's more than that," she said, "The way you change ever-so-slightly depending on who you're talking to. You don't talk to me the way you do Parvati. You don't smile at Parvati the way you do Lisa. You don't look at Lisa the way you do Weasley. It's all . . . different. Premeditated."
Harry laughed.
"Premeditated," he repeated, "Really going out of your way to avoid calling me clever -"
"Even now," Daphne murmured, "I'm practically calling you manipulative, and you don't seem concerned in the slightest."
Harry smiled.
Of course I don't. I know you aren't against it.
Understanding flickered in Daphne's eyes. Harry allowed himself to drown in their depths.
Icy blue. I think I like icy blue.
"Don't get any ideas, Potter," Daphne said faintly, "You can't wrap me around your finger as easily as your other puppets."
A genuine smile arched across his features.
"Trust me, I know."
That makes you so much more interesting . . .
The faintest shade of pink flitted across Daphne's cheeks.
"Potter, Greengrass!" a loud voice rang through the Potions Classroom. Harry fought the urge to swear, "Stare into each other's eyes outside of my classroom, please -"
Harry and Daphne both looked away, hunching over their potion again. Harry could just barely make out the ends of Snape's robes as he swept past.
Mangy old bat.
A panicked face appeared between the fumes from Neville and Ron's potion. Harry ignored Malfoy's wild motions, focusing instead on the cauldron that tittered in between them.
"The delegates come tomorrow," Harry noted aloud, glancing back at Daphne, "You reckon that's a big deal?"
Daphne stared at him, confused.
"I - yes, I suppose so."
"Think anyone interesting will show up?"
"A few foreign leaders or ambassadors, probably. Definitely some people from our government. Possibly even the Minister."
No Aurors making routine trips to Azkaban, then.
He watched as Neville and Ron argued over which ingredient to add next. A vial of red powder appeared in the corner of Harry's eye. Harry moved closer, allowing its faint magic to wash across his skin.
Perfect.
He focused on the vial, watching as a pinchful of powder rose from the opening. Turning away, he pictured it falling into Weasley and Longbottom's battered cauldron. Nothing happened, and for a single moment, Harry wondered if he had done anything at all -
Bang!
A small blast of putrid green tore through the air, bathing Neville, Ron, and one Harry Potter.