Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler.
CHAPTER 15
The Final Task
"And the last champion, Harry Potter, enters... Now!"
Harry jogs to the entrance of the maze, retracing the path his opponents had made several minutes before. The thick hedgerows filling the Quidditch stadium are four meters tall and the passages are tight, with only a couple of meters of clearance in which to walk. Before entering, Harry taps his wand on his head and feels a cool sensation spread over his skin as the disillusionment charm turns his body transparent.
He steps over a ward line at the entrance and immediately feels a gust of hot air blow over his body. Looking down at his hands, he sees that they are visible again. Damn. He reapplies the charm, but to no avail. Settling for silencing charms on his feet, he readies his wand and continues into the maze. After several turns, he stops to use the "point me" charm to guide his passage southward, toward the end of the pitch where he knows the cup lies.
As he stops to consider where to go next, he hears a deep rumbling to his left, a sound with which he has been familiar almost since he joined the magical world.
"Harry's doing well so far, it would seem," the Headmaster says to the werewolf standing beside him. In the center of the Great Hall is a graphite-colored cube five meters to a side. On each of the four faces is a projection of one of the champions in the maze. The Headmaster, Remus, and Sirius, in dog form, are among a small contingent--all of the Weasleys, including Percy but not Ron, Harry's Quidditch teammates, several of the Hogwarts staff, and, oddly enough, Ludo Bagman--who watch Harry. Hermione Granger has positioned herself opposite a corner so that she can see Harry and Viktor both, a placement common among the majority of the younger, female students. Most of the older students are seated where they can see Krum and Cedric. Gabrielle is near the other corner, where she can watch Fleur and Harry.
"Yes, Albus, but I am concerned--something doesn't seem quite right. Call it wolf instincts."
"Perhaps...” He sees the projection of Harry look up. “Ah, I believe Harry is about to run into a bit of nostalgia." He is amused to see Hermione gasp and bring her hands up to her mouth.
A few minutes later, Remus asks, "Excuse me, Albus, but are they supposed to be chasing after him like that?" At his feet, Padfoor starts to growl.
"No, they were ordered to stand guard, not to pursue, and there were wards to keep them in place." The Headmaster rubs his brow in frustration.
"We have to stop this, Albus! There's no way Harry can handle three--Krum ran into one and barely escaped--they're spell resistant!"
"I'm afraid we cannot--the anti-tampering wards do not admit entrance unless a champion is knocked out or sends up sparks, and even then access is limited to healers."
Remus sighs deeply, his eyes not leaving the screen. He says dryly, "I'm so glad Harry doesn't just have to deal with Voldemort, Albus. Otherwise he would have it far too easy."
Padfoot whimpers at his feet.
Okay, that was a bad idea. Harry had released his aura to savor the novelty of chasing a mountain troll through the maze. Unfortunately, it had quickly found two of its companions and its courage. The tables are turned, with Harry being pursued by three angry trolls, each armed with a spiked club as long as he is tall. He turns a corner and notes with chagrin that he is trapped in a dead end. Hurling himself against the hedges, he is dismayed that they do not give. He tries several spells--flame spells, cutting spells, blasting spells, none avail; the hedges are enchanted to be impervious. The three trolls enter the passage in single file.
He turns to face them. "Reducto." A thick, red bolt slams into the chest of the first, but it absorbs, failing to penetrate the thick hide. "Abeoconci reducto." The modified curse has little more effect than the first. Shit.
A third reducto reduces the troll's club to kindling. Harry banishes the pieces at the troll, but they prove little more than a nuisance. It roars in fury as Harry retreats until his back is against a hedge. He concentrates and intones, "occulus praemium," tracing a complex, angular rune in the air with his wand. His spell, one of many dark curses he had cribbed from Sirius's family library, expels a slender, yellow lisle that streaks toward the troll's head. Harry is treated to a spray of fleshy gobbets as its eyeballs explode. The creature roars and staggers blindly, tumbling into the next troll and knocking both onto the ground.
The third troll, the one Harry had chased, climbs over the other two with a roar and starts toward Harry. In desperation, he attempts a spell he has only tried a few times, in secret, on conjured animals.
"Imperio." A red-pink bolt strikes the troll. Harry's head immediately clouds as he wrestles for control of the beast's mind. Strong as it is physically, Harry shatters its will with ease.
"Bash trolls with club," he thinks, trying to feed the command down the fibre connecting their minds, but the troll merely blinks stupidly. It must not understand English. Harry sends a vision down their link of smashing other trolls with a club. The troll leers evilly, pivots, and raises its club above its head in a two-handed grip. With a grunt, it brings the club down with full force onto the crown of the oblivious, second troll, which had been grappling the third. Its head flattens and its limbs quiver. A second, powerful strike ends in a series of loud snaps, revealing a concave impression in the chest of the remaining troll. A third blow removes its head and ends its life.
The beast continues to pound upon the lifeless corpses of its kin before Harry overrides rage and bloodlust with an image of the troll dropping its club and fleeing from humans in fear. It obliges and Harry lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"What zee hell is zis?" Fleur asks rhetorically as she ducks flames from an armoured, two-assed, fire-belching monstrosity. She returns the volley with a freezing hex, which does little beyond coating the creature with a thin layer of frost, which quickly turns to water and then steam. Bone-breaking and cutting spells ricochet off the creature's bony carapace. Finally, her stunning spell manages to slow it for a few seconds, long enough for her to get past.
She sprints down the path and takes a quick turn at the next hedgerow, where she stumbles upon a pale, slender man wearing robes of silken midnight.
Several spectators near Fleur's face of the viewing cube gasp and scream, drawing onlookers to see what has befallen the witch. Among them are Headmasters Dumbledore and Karkaroff, who join Madame Maxime. She looks pale with worry.
"Albus,” she says, her voice laced with venom, “I do not recall approving zair being vampires in ze maze.”
Karkaroff curses under his breath. “Not just vampires. An Old One is out there hunting. There shall be four funerals.”
"Nor do I, Olympe. Igor, can you speculate on how this happened?" The Hogwarts Headmaster's brow furls with worry.
Karkaroff shakes his head. "Hogwarts wards are clearly not as potent as advertised. Old One or no, I assure you no vampire would have made it into Durmstrang.” The man's voice is gruff and indignant.
Albus Dumbledore sighs, feeling every one of his one-hundred-fifty-odd years. The three watch in silence as the vampire beguiles the witch and Fleur's young sister weeps nearby.
Long, cold fingers with cerise nails snake nearly all the way around Fleur's neck. She looks up into pale irises of light grey, almost white. The creature's skin is iridescent nacre and it has lips of the deepest red. Its mane is dark, shimmering, carefully styled, matching its silken cape and fine blue-black robes. A silver-pommeled sword hangs from its hip.
"Fair mortal. I do not wish to kill you. Rather, I would speak with you for a moment.” Its voice is dulcet, hypnotic. Parisian French with a hint of aristocratic patois. It plucks the wand from her hand and drops it by her feet.
Fleur's knees buckle as her will leaves her. She feels slightly disgusted, yet strangely aroused at the realization that she would offer herself to this creature if asked. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind is the knowledge that this is one of the Old Ones, the feared, soulless predators of the dark places. She should be horrified, but she's not.
“Tut, tut. Do not fall--you shall come to no harm from me,” it says, or perhaps whispers, as it strokes her unblemished porcelain cheek. A second arm snakes around her lower back and holds her body upright, yet close. She is at its mercy. The vampire leans over her and her head falls back lazily, exposing a tender neck. It places its nose near the base of her jaw and inhales slowly and deeply, its eyes closed.
“Fair mortal, you are blessed to be the granddaughter of Lady Prideux. You have her enchanting eyes and your veins sing with her exquisite blood.” Fleur shivers as the cold beauty of this creature stirs her heart and she opens her eyes to meet its gaze. “I knew Angelique well and I was much saddened by her passing.... But enough of that. Have you seen the one they call Harry Potter?” The voice, satine and silky, elicits her stammered reply before reason can intercede.
“Y-yes,” she stammers, “that way.” She points with a trembling hand.
“Excellent. Do be careful, mortal child, for I am quite fond of you and I would be most distressed if you were to come to harm.” It gently lowers her to the turf and, in a whisper, is gone.
Fleur stills for a moment as her mind dispels from the fog of vampire's spell.
Harry!
Note to self...
Harry wraps green flame around the head of one of the fleeing human forms. A twist of his wrist, a burst of magic down his arm, and the whip burns through the neck to remove its head.
...Inferi hate the fire whip.
He dispatches another of the deceptively agile, animated zombies by slicing through its chest with a hard lash. When the undead had first attacked, they had surrounded him and Harry was hard pressed to avoid being overcome. That is, until he remembered his new favorite spell, tromero fotia mastigio.
A final Inferius stands between him and freedom. Before he can advance on the retreating zombie, a pair of black wolves wreathed in flame, each the size of Fang, leap onto the shambling creature and rend it to shreds in their jaws. A moment later, the two leering beasts start to stalk Harry.
Hellhounds? This just keeps getting better...
Remus pulls Albus Dumbledore forcefully by the arm to where the two can see Harry's progression on the viewing cube.
His eyes are wild with anger as he points to Harry's image. “Okay, Albus, I've got to ask you, who the hell had the inspiration to put Inferi in the maze?!”
Molly huffs over to the pair with Arthur Weasley close behind.
“Inferi? Oh dear. That's what those horrid things are?” Her voice is tight with worry.
“”Oh dear” is right, Mother,” a pompous voice says from behind them. A red-haired Ministry official steps forward while looking at the parchment on which he has been writing. “Let me remind you, Professor Dumbledore, that Inferi are Class II Dark Creatures and that they fall under the charter of the Special Accords for Necromancy and Dark Conjuration. I know for a fact that you neither sought nor obtained authorization to use them in this Tournament. Therefore, this means that you are in violation of several statutes, including, but not limited to...”
“Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” the Headmaster says, cutting off the rant. “Let us deal with the problems at hand and then I assure you we will have ample opportunity to discuss just how much trouble I am in with the Ministry.”
Percy frowns and hastily scribbles another note onto his parchment.
“Very well. But we shall also discuss the matter of your apprentice's casual use of Unforgivable curses....”
“Unforgivables? Harry? Oh dear....” The Headmaster rubs his eyes.
Sniff, sniff. Turn around. Sniff. Aha!
A brown rat scurries through a gap in the hedgerows.
Inferi are effective in close quarters, as Master said, nay insisted. It had taken months to track down Jaryl Selwynn, former Death Eater in hiding and the Dark Lord's acerbic chief necromancer. But an outstanding asset for the Cause, or so Master had said.
Another month to discretely purchase a matched pair of vanishing cabinets and get the Carrow bitch to charm them to allow operation through the wards. A cabinet that, magically shrunk, resides in Pettigrew's breast pocket. Where does the stuff we hold go when we transform? James tried to tell me once, something about phantom pockets of space created by the magic, but I never could figure out what he was nattering on about. Fifteen glorious, powerful Inferi, directed by Master Selwynn had been released several minutes before. Oh, how he insists I use his title, “Master,” the puny man, whose round ass is safe in Little Hangleton, too bloody “valuable to the Cause” to risk on this mission.
Things were going according to plan--he was ready to transform and stun Potter from behind--until the boy had started flinging around that accursed whip. Not only did it beat back the Inferi, but it also made transformation in the cramped space too risky.
Peter Pettigrew did not survive on the lam for twelve years by taking unnecessary risks. He had valorously chosen discretion and fled. Now, he is back to tracking Potter. With luck, the plan can still go on.
His Master's words echo in his mind, “So simple, even you can handle it, Wormtail: Stun, portkey, return. Write it down if you must.” On the other side of the hedgerow, he raises his head and sniffs at the air. Oh, how I hate when they laugh at me....
“Come, oh rodents of the earth. I summon thee to me...”
A melodious, enthralling voice calls to him and he feels a stirring in his tiny, rodent heart. I must heed the call.
“What the hell?” he wonders as his feet scuttle on the turf, his whiskers and ears pinned back. Why am I doing this? Don't I have a mission?
“Come, come to me...”
Yes, oh beautiful Speaker, I will answer your call...
Harry sits up with a groan, the smoldering corpses of the Hellhounds at his feet. He gingerly wiggles his fingers--burns cover his hands and wrists--but, thankfully, his skin is only blistered in a few places and he has nearly full mobility. Catching his breath, he stands, leans against the hedgerow, and takes a moment to think, his wand out.
Dumbledore wouldn't have put Hellhounds or Inferi in the maze, so there's something else going on. The Inferi and whoever sent the Hellhounds are not working together, so there must be two groups pursuing their own objectives. Both the Rosicrucians and Voldemort are after me. The Rosicrucians want me dead--that's a given. What does Voldemort want? The Inferi were not trying to kill--just capture. So Voldemort needs me alive for something, which means that right now the Rosicrucians are my biggest threat....
“Yes, we are your biggest threat, Mr. Potter.” A cold, silky voice draws Harry's gaze. He looks up and sees a dark-clothed man near him, smirking. The man, Harry sees with his enhanced sight, has a thick, magical aura about him, a writhing blackness. He is wearing sunglasses and has... blue skin.
“Perspicuusolis.” Even with his eyes closed, Harry is blinded momentarily by the brilliant flare. When the spots in front of his eyes fade, he notes with chagrin that the man still stands, laughing deeply.
“Nice try, mortal. Unfortunately, you are a bit behind the times.” He chuckles as he draws an ornate, silver-pommelled rapier with a flourish. “Zinc oxide, a muggle invention. Most effective, n'est pas?” He sniffs haughtily, “Do you think I enjoy being blue?”
“Who are you?”
“Who I am is immaterial. What I am is what matters. I am an immortal commissioned to ensure that the apprentice of le Voleur does not see another sunrise.”
“I see. Pity.”
“Indeed. I must confess, watching you as I have, I cannot but think that I would prefer to turn you--you could be a powerful lieutenant, young mortal....”
Harry rolls his eyes. “I've heard it before, from bigger and badder than you.”
The blue-skinned vampire smirks condescendingly. “Worse than me? I think not.”
“Voldemort.” Harry shrugs.
“Perhaps then.” He waves his hand and Harry hears a terrible cacophony of screeches as a river of of rats and mice stream toward him. Glancing back, he is dismayed to see that the vampire has disappeared.
Most of the Great Hall have crowded to see Harry Potter's screen. Irrespective of differences they may have had with him in the past, seeing the Boy-Who-Lived go toe-to-toe with one of the legendary Old Ones is not something to miss.
“Too bad we can't hear what they're saying to each other,” Dean Thomas laments, as he puts his arm around the shoulders of a pale, shivering Ginny Weasley. The muggleborn wizard had been trying to tell his friends about a device called a television. With a practiced motion, Ginny discretely slides Dean's hand off her small breast and onto her upper arm, from where it resumes its slow, inexorable journey toward the front of her chest.
“Sound and pictures both? How daft,” Ron mutters.
Yellow flames flare in front of Harry. For want of a better idea, he had scribed a ward line into the dirt, a modified cave inimicum spell, which creates a security barrier, and combined it with a flagrante curse, to burn anything encountering the barrier with magical fire. It seems to be keeping the bulk of the plague at bay, as evinced by the growing pile of charred rat carcasses near the base of the line, remains of vermin that had tried to push through his ward. A trickle of rats, perhaps one hundred, instead of the many thousands in the original plague, have bypassed the ward by climbing up onto the hedgerows on either side and running along the top of the maze. Harry is alternatively casting incendio spells at the tops of the maze to his right and left to try to force them back.
He has been mostly successful, though a few flaming rats have leaped upon him. His robes are burning in places and several claw and bite him. One scurries from the top of his head down his forehead and tries to push its nose under his eyeglasses to get at his left eye. He reaches up to grab it as another climbs up his arm and bites him on the cheek. A third scuttles onto his shoulder and bites down hard on his ear. Blood trickles from numerous bites, including one on his left eyelid, blood that seems to be driving the creatures into a frenzy.
While thrashing about trying to free himself, Harry fails to notice a silent black cloud approach from behind that solidifies into a lissome, humanoid shape with drawn sword. His precognition flares. Spinning sideways, he slams his left arm downward and his forearm meets the flat of the thrusting blade. Instead of piercing his chest, it angles downward, penetrating the imbricated scales of his armor and lodging deeply into his left thigh. He groans in pain as his eyes meet the pale orbs of the vampire, the creature's sunglasses having been knocked aside.
“Conseco artus!” An female voice shouts and a ribbon of blue smites the creature in its back. The powerful severing curse, which would have left a mortal wound on a human, shreds its robes and exposes pale flesh. It snarls in rage and spins toward her with knife-like fangs bared. Harry jabs the tip of his wand against the vampire's bare skin, shouting, “perspicuusolis!” It shrieks as its flesh begins to dissolve from the powerful, close-range sunlight spell. Harry sees tendrils of black writhe up the creature's pale skin as its body slowly decays to dust. The Old One turns to meet Harry's eyes. It nods formally, an acknowledgment of defeat, and transforms into a cloud of black vapor that moves away rapidly, as if blown by unseen wind. The rats flee, the spell broken.
“Thanks, Fleur. You saved my life,” Harry pants.
“Harry! You are hurt...” Fleur rushes to him.
Harry looks down at the rapier still stuck in his thigh. Grunting, he pulls it out and touches his fingers to the wound, which oozes blood. “Damn. This will have to be closed. Would you mind, um...”
“Oui, I shall stand guard.” Dots of color adorn Fleur's delicate cheeks as she politely averts her eyes.
“Thanks.” Harry loosens his belt and slides his leggings down. His heart sinks as he notices that he cannot locate his wand--it must have been lost in the melée. “Um, Fleur, can I borrow your wand for a second? I can't seem to find mine.”
“Here.” She hand him her wand and then blinks as her eyes glance down at his exposed body. The two blush.
“Thanks. Accio Harry's wand.” He sighs as his nothing happens.
He uses Fleur's wand to seal the wound on his leg, pulls up his armored trousers, and returns the wand to her. “Well, at least I have a sword.”
“Do you know how to fence, Harry?”
“A little, but not much beyond the sharp bit going in the other guy.”
The singed rat twitches in surprise and almost drops its quarry--Potter's wand--as it sees the Durmstrang champion fall to the Diggory kid's Cruciatus. It looks like Crouch has him under the Imperius. Plan B then.
Pettigrew, still in rat form, scurries down an adjoining passage and transforms. Reaching into his backpack, he recovers and expands the shrunken vanishing cabinet. He positions the cabinet so that the doors open in the direction of the two champions and he gives three sharp raps to the rear of the cabinet. He secures Potter's wand in his backpack and assumes rat form once again.
“Zis way, Harry...” Fleur leads a badly limping Harry toward the screams. They stop short as they arrive at a clearing where Cedric Diggory is holding Viktor Krum under the Cruciatus. Viktor has apparently been under the curse for a long time--his body is now unconscious, barely quivering from the spell, and his bloodshot eyes have rolled back in his head. Blood trails from his mouth where he had apparently bitten through his tongue.
“Cedric, no! Fight it!” Harry shouts, as he rushes toward the seventh year. Cedric breaks off the curse and peers at Harry with glassy eyes. After a few strides, Harry senses danger, but too late to dodge completely as a rush of brown light, Cedric's bludgeoner, clips him in the shoulder and knocks him to the turf. Fleur uses the distraction to hurl her own invisible bludgeoning curse, which knocks Cedric onto his back.
As Harry stumbles to his feet, he feels a telltale coldness creep into the back of his mind. “Fleur, dementors!” He watches in horror as Cedric sprints away from the clearing and down the passage from where the dementors are approaching. Harry races after him shouting for him to stop.
Cedric drops his wand and stands, paralyzed, as sallow, bony fingers wrap around his throat. A rattling breath sounds as a black hood lowers toward the wizard's face. Without a wand, Harry is powerless, so he stumbles back to the clearing. He finds Fleur curled into a foetal position, her whimpers of, “No, Robért...” leaving little doubt as to the memory she is reliving.
Harry picks up the veela's wand and turns to face the approaching creatures as his mother screams in his head. He closes his eyes and finds it difficult to dredge up a happy memory not tinged with sadness with which to fuel the spell. As he listens to Fleur's murmurs, he recalls their time walking in the surf in France. Pleasant, though no longer the epitome of bliss--it'll have to do.
“Expecto patronum!” A silver stag erupts from his wand. Though smaller and less substantial than others he had summoned, it is, at least, corporeal. It lowers its antlers and buries them into the first dementor, which screeches and flees. The stag backs up a few steps and charges the remaining dementor. It, too, flees with a piercing keen.
Fleur is crying on the ground next to Krum. Harry puts his hands on her shoulders and pulls her upright. “Fleur, I have to go check on Cedric. Can you stay here with Krum? His wand should be around here somewhere--try to find it if you can.” She nods dumbly.
Harry's heart sinks as he approaches Cedric's insensate body. He searches the ground for the wand he had seen fall. “Accio Cedric's wand.” Nothing. He lifts the larger boy up to his feet and pulls Cedric's arm over his shoulder to walk him back to the others.
After a minute of painful walking, he hears Fleur scream. He drops Cedric and hurries back to where he had left her. He sees a cloaked figure holding her under the Cruciatus curse, which lifts when Harry enters the clearing and draws away the attention of the attacker.
“Potter,” he grumbles. “Knew this would bring you.”
“Moody. Or should I call you Crouch?”
The man laughs gruffly. “You knew? Figured as much. Now I'll tell you what--you drop your wand and your little pigsticker and I'll let her be. Don't, and I won't leave enough of her mind for you to worry over.” Crouch has apparently played the Mad Eye role so convincingly and for so long that his argot falls naturally into that of the ex-auror's.
Harry knows he cannot surrender--Crouch had no reservations with torturing the Longbottoms to within an inch of death and Krum may never recover. Fleur would probably receive a killing curse or worse. Harry pretends to consider the offer while he gathers his magic. “Hmm. Let me see... Stupefy!” Harry's aura flashes as he pours a huge gout of magic into the spell. The mismatched veela wand bucks and sizzles, its tip blackening, as it releases the thick bolt.
“Protego.” Crouch's powerful shield spell slams into place before Harry's stunner arrives--the Death Eater didn't rise as rapidly through the ranks as he did without skill to augment wealth and family connections. The man's disfigured face registers surprise as the cone-shaped streamer shatters the shield and strikes him in the chest, causing him to crumple to the ground.
“It's a Bletchly twist, you fucking idiot!” Harry screams at the now unconscious man. He takes a deep breath and starts toward Fleur. He doesn't even manage a step before his precognition signals something wrong. Very wrong.
Instinctively, he ducks low and rolls to the side as a metal disk the size of a Galleon just misses him. It bounces once on the ground and rolls up against Moody's prone body, which vanishes. Kneeling, Harry slashes upward with his rapier, his still-injured left shoulder complaining, and he lops off the left hand and forearm of his assailant, a short, mousey-looking man with a bad overbite. Peter Pettigrew.
Pettigrew fires a stunner at Harry, which he lunges to avoid. With blade in one hand and Fleur's wand in the other, it takes Harry a moment to struggle to his feet. As he does, his opponent snatches the cleaved limb from the ground and reaches into his pocket to draw out another disk. Pettigrew puts the disk between his teeth and touches his wand to it. A few seconds later, he too disappears.
Harry scans for more intruders and even fires a visum flare. Seeing nothing, he offers Fleur her wand and meets her eyes briefly with a lump in his throat. “I'm sorry. If you'd have had your wand...”
She nods angrily and slaps him before recovering the proffered wand. “You should have left it to me. I could not find Viktor's and I was left defenseless. Zat man, he attacked me....” She glares at Harry.
Harry nods, penitent, and kneels to examine the Durmstrang champion's body, feeling for a pulse and finding an erratic beat. He pants, “Krum's in a really bad way--we need to get him to the hospital. I have my portkey, but it can only take two. There isn't much we can do for Cedric... a dementor got to him.” He stands and hesitantly places a hand on her shoulder, causing her to stiffen under his touch. “I think you and Viktor should go, Fleur. You've been hit with the Cruciatus and need to be treated.”
"Non, I shall stay, Harry." She pulls away from him, straightening her shoulders peremptorily.
"Look, if it's about the bloody competition, you can have it! I forfeit, alright? I just want you safe."
"You want? You think I care about zis stupid tournament? You are an idiot!" She turns away from him, furious.
"What then?" he shouts, exasperated.
She takes a deep breath and blows it out, turning to face him. "I cannot leave you here alone, Harry. I couldn't live with myself if zomething were to happen.” Her eyes glisten.
Fixing her jaw, she steps toward him and presses her body against his, putting a hand on the back of his neck. Harry's arms encircle the small of her back and he feels dreadfully awkward so close to the graceful veela. Yet something about holding her seems so right. He is near enough to be intoxicated by her perfume, peach blossoms and cinnamon, and her radiance, as her aura wraps about him, a warm caress. His heart beats rapidly and he starts to feel dizzy. Before he realizes, their noses bump gently, then move aside as lips touch, lightly at first. The kiss deepens and he feels an electric tingle throughout his body. After a few seconds, far too short for either of them, they draw apart and each scans for danger, breathing heavily.
“Zat was your first time kissing.”
Harry blushes. “Was it obvious?”
Fleur smiles mischievously. “Come, Harry. Let us get zees two to ze hospital, retrieve ze cup, and zen more kissing. You need practice."
As he watches the two separate, their faces flushed with amour, the elderly wizard frowns at the failure of his orchestrations. Falling in love is a luxury his apprentice can ill afford with a Dark Lord on the rise and Rosicrucians ruthless in prosecution of their vengeance. The Delacour witch is the one with whom Harry cannot be involved.
Naturally, she is the one he chooses. Time to take stock of the damage.
With practiced ease, he raises his formidable mental defenses, his face relaxing into an inscrutable mask, and he turns slowly toward Gerard Delacour. The dark haired man scowls slightly with a guarded stoicism that no doubt matches the Headmaster's own. Their eyes meet, neither yielding. Though he does not try, he knows that were he to attempt Legilimency, he would find the Rosicrucian's defenses as impenetrable as his own.
The two regard one another in silence for more than a minute before the younger man raises his left eyebrow by a hair's width. The Headmaster answers with the faintest of nods. Both acknowledge that the rules of the game have changed--a new accord must be sought, a new equilibrium in their opposition.
Dumbledore breaks their exchange and looks down at the large, black dog near his feet. It has started to howl, its wagging tail buffeting the man's robes. A quick glance to his adversary shows him to be involved in a quiet, yet intense discussion with Lady Delacour. She, no doubt, has also noticed the development and is refining her strategy accordingly.
Plans within plans. May I yet turn this to our advantage?
The Headmaster smiles inwardly as he recalls Harry's disastrous meeting with Lady Delacour. Reading his apprentice's range of expressions had been a triviality, as no doubt everyone of substance in the room had discovered. The matron's body language had broadcast that she was approaching Harry with a feeler on an offer of alliance, a matter which would have been simple for Harry, were he marginally competent in politics, to at least defer until after he had received guidance from his betters. Amusingly, the effort had been botched horribly when Harry grievously offended the witch. Harry is many things: courageous, talented, driven. But utterly lacking in the guile needed to survive in a world of nuance.
A simple boy needs simple things. Miss Delacour is far from simple.
Remus Lupin is nearby with a wry grin on his lined face. He reaches down to scratch the dog behind its ears and says, loudly enough for the Headmaster to overhear, "His first kiss--leave it to Harry to make it a highborn veela."
Simpletons, yes, but assets as well--close to the boy, yet beholden to me. Who threatens matters?
The youngest Weasley boy stands nearby, fuming, an obvious concern. Clearly, he cannot be permitted to confront Harry or Miss Delacour--the situation is too volatile and Harry runs the risk of severely injuring or killing the hothead. The boy's infatuation with the witch and his blind obsession with Harry is a complication, though one easily mitigated by memory and compulsion charms.
Behind him, he hears a cluck from Molly Weasley, some muttering about a "scarlet woman," ostensibly in reference to Miss Delacour and not her own daughter. Though, judging by activities of late in a well-traveled broom closet, the young witch is quietly building a reputation for herself not unlike Molly's years ago--a useful datum for leverage on both. Molly is kind, stifling, unwaveringly loyal, easy to control, yet limited in utility as far as Harry is concerned, his having outgrown a need for doting.
The Headmaster is secretly glad that he has arranged the gradual waning of affinity between Harry and the Weasleys--the boy cannot naïvely cling to them if he is to rise to prominence. Though Molly disapproves of Harry's association with the veela, Harry must not be permitted to discuss the matter with her, as she will parse it in irrelevancy and polarize him against the proper outcome. No, the first mention should be made by one who can operate with the requisite delicacy.
The Headmaster's frowns as he considers how to manage his charge in such a way that steers, yet does not alienate him. In his heart, he knows is a pity that Harry cannot be permitted to remain with the witch--she is quite strong and talented and Harry does love her so.
You pose a difficult challenge indeed, dear boy....
Harry and Fleur step carefully around the mortally wounded acromantula, its hairy limbs--the few still attached to its massive body--quivering in death, and they make their way to the finish.
“Fleur, you're the rightful champion. You take the cup.” He cannot believe how anyone can remain so enchanting when covered in muck and blood.
“You take it, Harry. You rescued me from torture and saved me from ze dementors.”
"Shall we both then?" The rules state that the first to the cup wins the tournament. A tie?
"Oui," she says, stepping toward Harry and snaking an arm around his the small of his back as he does the same to her. They hold each other close for a moment and share a quick kiss. Harry sees that her expression is distant: cautious relief and no small amount of sadness.
"On trois, Harry. Un..." The sound of her voice stirs his heart. "Deux..."
Their hands touch the handles of the goblet on the unspoken, "Trois."
Harry feels a familiar jerk behind his navel.