Chapter 1: A Dream of Fire
I had nightmares when I was younger.
They were, no, they are still terrible things that turn my throat hoarse for the coming day as I spend the nights wailing for a reality never destined to be. My screams would always echo in the lonely and dim halls of Potter Manor. Sometimes, I swear that I could even still hear their lingering desperation as I awoke, breathless and frazzled.
Yet, it was in my tortuous realm of unconsciousness that I was subjected to what shaped me into the person I am today, standing amid flames that lick their lips, tasting the cusps of my robes. And while the nightmares come and go these days, the idea, the colors, the heat, and the memory of it all still linger in the black of my eyes in everything I have and will do.
Especially now.
In my paralyzing dreams, hellish fire devoured the world around me, reshaping reality into its molten hell. Pale blue walls decorated with moving dragons and trees swaying in their painted hills turned black as the acidic green light of the Flames of the Underworld rendered my unconscious reality to ash and cinders.
And it is in those dreams that I see both the caster and the protector, eclipsing the flames that so greedily devour the constructs of my mind.
It makes me wonder which of the two I look like now….
Do I even cut an unforgettable figure in the midst of these lavender flames that seek to turn me to ash and cinders? Will I, too, linger in the minds of others… in their dreams?
I hope. Ideally, with a better connotation than how I remember my mother's final moments, even if they did inspire me to become who I am now.
So I wonder, do they see me with my wand raised, a shield deforming around me as I endure the onslaught of pure magic from my enemy? Do they think of me as their hero? Someone to root for? Are they rooted in their seats because they can only sit and watch, praying to Mother Magic that I will walk away like I do in my dreams?
And what of the girl opposite of me?
Does the crowd see past her allure to see her fury? Do they shudder at the gleam in her cerulean eyes where her lavender flames reflect back at me? Do they see at which the speed her wand moves–her inhuman speed? Do they hold their breath, knowing that her power is raw and oppressing?
Do they understand what it takes to brace her wrath? Do they feel her presence hanging about their necks like a noose? Do they choke at her power like smoke in their lungs, created from the flames she spews so freely from her open palm?
Will she, too, linger in their nights, keeping them occupied in the glow of her own light and destruction? Perhaps…. She is a veela, after all. Magic itself bends around her. You would be hard-pressed to forget her, ever.
But I digress from all this. It is not the point of my dream to be a comparison to the fight I am in now. Much less whether Fleur Delacour will haunt our minds, feeding our emotions with her allure as she feeds us to the Flames of Zeal.
At this point, I am sure I've said much to you that doesn't align with your thoughts and understanding of what you know. After all, how can you know what you do not know?
Let me backtrack to my firey dream, or rather, the waking moment from my nightmare.
As my screams echo the halls, my door would always open in a flash, slamming against the wall with the unmatched adrenaline of a frightened parent. Not once did this ever change, mind you, no matter how many years I woke him from his slumber.
James Potter was many things after the death of his wife, my mother, Lily Potter, but my father was not an absentee. He was always there for me in the blink of an eye, his arms encircling me as I shook from the cold sweats. He'd hold me together as my memories retreated from their attack upon my mind and heart.
And when my breath leveled out, and I dared to peek from behind the walls of my silence, he'd tell me the same thing every time.
"It is okay, Harry. Breathe. It's okay to be afraid. Just collect that fear, that hate, and all your doubts. Hold it in your eye and see it. Do you see it?"
I would, of course, nod into his chest, letting myself be lost in the safety of his arms.
"Good. Now, close your eyes, but only for a moment and not a half second longer. Give your brain no time to think upon what you see in the dark. Instead, open your eyes and give life no quarter. See the world for what it is: yours. See past your hesitations and conquer all that which tries to cloud your path and mind."
The younger me never really understood what that meant. The notion of casting your fears aside seems rather mundane to the eight-year-old who had just relived watching his mother die, again. I can also blame the fact my brain was severely less developed than it is now.
Puberty really changes you.
Naturally, nearly six years later, I see those words in a different light. Especially after I began learning to play quidditch more and more, and even greater so when I began to duel.
When you are surrounded by flames that cannot be contained, your mind begins to panic, no matter how much you've prepared for this exact situation. The notion of feeling not just your body burn to cinders but also the intangible and unquantifiable magic inside of you ignites….
Fear….
Now, personally, if deciding what was and wasn't legal duels was my choice, a veela's flame wouldn't be allowed. I'd rather have a vial of Dragon's Breath thrown at me, that at least has limits on what it can devour. But, the Zealous Flame? It can burn anything its master commands it to as long as they are just as determined.
Yet, here I am and not behind the judge's table calling those shots.
I've chosen to be the one starring a gruesome and horrendous death down in its very blue eyes. It is here that you can see it all in her glare: the madness of needing to win as if your life depended on it. It is what makes Fleur and me alike at the end of the day. And it's also the reason I take not even a half-second to blink.
My golden shield breaks in that frame of darkness. Pain, unimaginable, already ignites itself upon my left foot. Her flames are eager to burn, just as she is so eager to win.
Yet, as my eyes open wide, I have the perfect view of watching death become fearful.
Yellow, red, and blue leave my wand before my brain can even comprehend what I've cast. The trio of spells seem to claw at the very photons of the light around us, propelling themselves forward faster and faster.
I know the outcome before she does. I always know the outcome when my eyes open.
Each spell finds its mark.
She never even had a moment to think about her defense as she is sent flying backwards, unconscious as her wand soars through the air towards me. Her purple flames rapidly vanish as their puppet queen can no longer dictate their actions.
In the words passed down from generation to generation of my family, "A Potter's greatest asset is his instincts. His ability to handle any challenge before him. "
The crowd cheers around me. I hear them chant my name over and over again as if it's the only word they know. The people do love an underdog, a hero to throw their banner behind.
Yet, I can honestly tell you that I try my best to ignore their excitement, no matter how contagious it is or how elated I feel inside to have won another duel against someone older and more gifted than me.
After having my ass handed to me in the first round, I know my journey is limited in this tournament, that this victory here before me now is meaningless in the scheme of things.
Since I was immediately knocked to the loser's bracket, I have been working my way through every other teen who's been stomped by the actual top ten duelists of the tourney. So, even with this victory, I know it is likely my last of the tournament. The next opponent I face will be one of the ones who has knocked everyone else down to my ring.
I say this to you not in an attempt at humility but in honesty. I know where I sit in terms of skill. Sure, I have great potential, and my peers are sure to tell me so, but I have not even started at Hogwarts yet while those still in the winner's bracket are at or approaching the final years of their respective schooling.
Which is why I do not let the crowd's cheering uplift me into spirits only matched by a bender shared with friends behind the backs of our parents. While this is not a pyrrhic victory, it does not amount to much either.
And yes, I know some of you may think I am backtracking or opposing my father's sentiments by these thoughts, but I do not feel the same.
This is my first tournament. My goal was never to win the whole event but not to lose the first round, which I promptly failed at. I was on my arse in the first thirty seconds. So I say this now, clear of fear and doubt, as I stride across the duelist ring to where a healer kneels at the veela's side. I am happy to be a spectator for the rest of the tournament.
In fact, I prefer it. I would much rather see the best duelists of my age in my dreams than what exists now.
"Are you okay, Ms. Delacour?" the on-staff healer calls to the freshly revived girl.
Her eyes are wide, rapidly sliding left and right as she tries to understand why she is on the ground. I was like that, too, mind you, at the end of my first round. When the spells rip at you faster than you can utter a defense, the next thing you will always see is someone looking down upon you.
"I am fine," she mumbles, propping herself up on her elbows.
Once more, we lock eyes even as her pale silver hair breaks free of its constraints and falls in her face. Yet, one thing is clear about her pretty face.
She's glaring, and it's not just a spiteful scowl. I see her hate for me, the ill-begotten passion bestowed upon me by besting her. The taste of defeat must be a new flavor for her.
I smile.
"I like the new color on you," I tease, and her eyes shoot down to her duelist robes.
My third spell, the blue one in the triplet, was taught to me by my wonderful and great influence of a godfather. It's a simple color-changing spell, but in reality, it is far more damaging than changing what was once a black outfit to a shade of blue perfectly matching her eyes.
It's mental warfare.
She mutters something in French at the sight of her new and improved color. I couldn't tell you what she said. It's French, though, so probably something about surrendering to my superior English talent and that I should be rewarded with a baguette or the like.
With that said, I nod my head and turn my back on her. Arm in the air, I allow myself to embrace this victory now. I've conquered my opponent in mind and magic now. I have won.
I turn to the masses. The crowd is thick in the stands around the ring. Every duel from mine to the grandfinals is expected to be a generational match. Yet, in this moment, they are mine.
"POTTER! POTTER! POTTER!"
My name is upon their lips. My figure is carved into their eyes. My magic has ensnared them.
It is a fire in my heart, as unquenchable as a veela's flame. Only the gods could steal this moment from me.
My eyes continue to roam across the crowd, indirectly making eye contact with many. I pump my fist again as, behind me, Fleur walks off the stage, head low. It is as I begin to shift my gaze to my father that I falter, arm still raised, punching the heavens.
I see someone in the crowd. If it weren't for her violet eyes, I would think she was my protector ripped from my dreams. Her hair is long and flowing, but more importantly, it is as red as a freshly picked rose.
Our eyes connect directly, and something is different. Her lips are not bewitched in my name. Her eyes do not bask in my presence.
Time does not register to me. Even as she smiles, nods to me, and walks away, I watch her disappear through doors that seal her away from me.
An arm slings itself around my neck as it pulls me back down to earth.
"That's my boy!" my father shouts, holding me close. My own arms grapple around him.
He is my biggest supporter. I'd be a fool to take him for granted.
"You know this is my last win, right?" I ask him, pulling away from his clutches.
He shrugs, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, pride blazing in his eyes, "Who cares? You knocked both of the French kids out. That's a greater win than winning."
Together, we raise our arms to the crowd's continued chanting. I will not win this tournament, but make no mistake—I've won this tournament.
As long as I have my father in my corner, I will blaze a path through life. Let my destiny be that of a conquerer, and let the world know that where I walked, greatness followed.
