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Chapter Text

May 22nd, 1995 - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Glencoe Highlands, Scotland.

Pulling himself up onto the platform proper, Harry paused for a moment. Comfortable in his lead -- though he could sense Viktor much closer than he had been just a few moments ago -- to survey the maze around him from his new vantage point.

Glowing green eyes locked onto the familiar shape of Cedric as the older teen spun his way onto a platform not too far away by way of portkey.

The Hufflepuff seemed to be missing a chunk of his left trouser leg and his handsome face and hand seemed to be marred with smears of soot from who knew what, but otherwise he looked to be in decent health.

Fleur, he spotted off in another direction, apparently having come up from the room with the Mirror of Erised just like he had, although she seemed to have taken a different route than Harry himself had.

It probably said the most about how close Viktor was to him now, that regardless of how Harry turned about to try to catch sight of him, he was still stubbornly out of his range of view, despite how close the younger teen could feel him.

The hum of his magic was smoldering and intense, smokey and prowling just beneath this skin and Harry had a brief moment of his mind comparing him to a hunting predator before the image of his own animagus form flashed through his mind's eye.

Honestly, if any of the four of them could be considered a predator, Harry felt he fit a bit closer to the bill than the secretly bashful bear that was Viktor Krum.

Turning away from the thought and the sprawling vista of the maze Harry considered the platform that hovered unsupported but for the magic holding it suspended in the air before him.

From his current position he couldn’t see the runes keeping it afloat in the air, so he couldn’t tell if there were any trigger arrays worked into the main array that would set off traps or just flat turn off the floating.

Or more importantly, he couldn’t see if it actually was a complex runic array that was causing the floating to begin with an not some layered enchanting that could unravel at a moment's notice.

Or less than a moment.

Which, really, would be less than ideal, particularly if it decided to drop out from underneath him while he was walking about on top of it.

It also didn’t help that he couldn’t tell from his position if the platform was actually stable on its axis or if his weight would unbalance it the moment he tried to get up onto it.

Frowning at it Harry started to make his way around the floating platform, keeping a couple of feet distance between it and himself in the event that it abruptly dropped for some reason.

It was not an overly large platform, perhaps ten feet by ten feet made of worked stone bricks that were held together, upon first inspection, by magic. It hovered in its position approximately ten feet above the platform Harry himself was currently standing on which meant just jumping or climbing up by normal means was out. Though that in itself was hardly a barrier.

He knew that the cup was resting on a pedestal in the center of the platform, he could remember seeing it from where he had ascended out into the open half of the maze before his path had led him deeper down.

So he knew he was where he needed to be, just not quite how to get to what he wanted.

Harry considered for a moment that he probably should have made time in between everything else he was trying to do, to figure out how to fly intentionally. He had done it reflexively at the Yule Ball months ago so he knew it was possible, he just hadn’t found the time to actually learn the ins and outs of the ability.

Though to be fair he was building a country, learning his weapons, learning how to hunt and track -- although he was in the process of being tested on his knowledge on that front so technically he wasn’t still learning it -- and learning how to fight and maneuver in his animagus form.

There was also the matter of his treatment of the Longbottoms, even though other medi-wix saw to their basic day-to-day care. Sporadic unplanned check-ins with Malfoy and Snape as part of their asylum agreements. Being one of Malfoy and Neville’s instructors and reviewing potential professors for Skyfall’s schools. And of course reviewing and approving or denying early immigration requests to help staff the many other positions that were open and that needed filling before Volstar’s borders officially opened in a couple of months.

Which left present Harry thinking past Harry was a bit of a knob for deciding to put -- arguably a very useful ability -- on the academic backburner for future Harry to work out later.

That said he did have other options.

He could conjure a ladder or bricks to make himself some stairs.

He could exert his own magic on the platform to try and lower it to his level…

Harry paused, his train of thought halting almost entirely for a moment before he sighed, this time at himself.

He was overcomplicating things, he realised. Inventing solutions to a problem that had been created with the other three champions in mind. Three perfectly normal -- though talented -- seventeen year olds that were all still in school.

The young king walked around the platform one more time noting small inconspicuous markings and rapping lightly against them with his knuckles, idly wondering if he could change his royal nickname from ‘The Dragon-King of Volstar’ to ‘The Idiot-King of Volstar’ instead.

One by one the stone bricks in the sequence began to glow softly until all of the outer layer of stones beneath the floating platform were glowing softly, then after a slight pause they separated from the main structure and floated themselves up into place neatly arranged into a solid looking set of stairs.

If he were less grumpy with himself, Harry rather thought he would have been amused that the final hurdle to the cup happened to be an arithmancy counting game geared towards the order of balance in numbers for spell creation.

What many would consider the start of something new.

Honestly the symbolism was a little ripe.

The end of the tournament, the start of the rest of the champions life as the tournament victor and all the things that went with it.

Someone in the tournament organising committee was a romantic at heart.

Or, just really liked messing with people.

Maybe both.

After a quick test to make sure the stone stairs would take his weight without sinking Harry set to climbing up onto the floating platform with its cup pedestal, only to find that whatever illusion had been weaved around the maze to block out the sight and sound of the crowds beyond the maze structure didn’t include the cup platform.

As noticed by Harry nearly leaping out of his skin the moment his foot made contact with the top of said platform as the roar of the cheering crowd was suddenly dumped on him like a bucket of cold water.

It was in that moment Harry became very certain he had been wrong.

The person that had thought up this last hurdle to the cup was not in fact a romantic.

They were a sadist and the first chance he got, Harry was determined to discover where they lived and worked so he could revisit their prank upon them in a magnitude so grand their great-great-grandchildren would feel it.

Surreptitiously, he raised a hand to rub lightly at his chest where his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest before he strode forward to stand before the cup, glimmering as it was under the late afternoon sun.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted someone else appear on the lower platform and offered them a wave with one hand as he reached for the cup with his other.

Almost immediately he felt the world swirl around him as his body was pulled through the tiny portal in space and time to the location programmed into the portkey spell placed upon the cup.

When the world righted itself he was standing in place in front of the judges table.

It took him just a moment to realise that something was very wrong when he had tried to turn and find Sirius so he could give him a wave, and found that he could not.

He was locked into place.

Neither his legs nor his arms, would move from their position.

Indeed not even his head would move.

He had a brief moment of realisation as barriers snapped into place around the arena, locking down apparation and portkeys. Containment spells and enchantments geared to the denial of passage through their area of effect.

All around him the sounds of great cheer were dropping away, being replaced by confusion and panic.

Harry reached for his animagus form, intent on wrapping himself in the greater armour of his scales and hardened plate segments but found the transformation would not trigger and a deeper sense of wrongness settled in his gut.

“Harry Potter.”

The intonation of his name, whisper smooth even in the din of panicked cries around him drew his attention back to the judges table where the array of individuals selected for this final task were settled.

Madam Maxime, frozen in place, teacup and saucer locked into place by hands rapidly turning to stone. Ludo Bagman, eyes wide and breathing hard beside her as panic began to set in. Highmaster Karkaroff back straight, face forward and eyes locked onto Harry. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic of magical Great Britain, locked into place with a rapidly flushing face as he strained against the magic holding him in place.

Harry’s focus swept across each before settling on Karkaroff just in time to see his dark eyes gleam.

Red as blood, the eyes stayed locked on Harry as the man rose to his feet in a shift Harry might have considered quite elegant if he weren’t currently quite stuck. One long fingered hand moved to rest upon the Minister’s shoulder for a brief moment before trailing up, following the slant of muscle and bone to the former aurors neck while the white robed man moved past the trapped Minister.

Harry watched unable to look away as the delicate, near negligent touch passed, leaving a gash of red in its wake.

He could hear shouts and sounds of battle from behind him. The guttural barks of goblin orders to attack and destroy, human voices somewhat distorting shouting spells while the scents of ozone, acrid bitter cloying dirt and sour whispers started to waft through the air as magic flew fast.

“Boy king, storm blooded, dragon son...the boy who lived.” Karkaroff’s thick voice intoned, counting off each title calmly, as if caught mid stroll and not in the middle of screaming chaos. “They’ve given you many names now.”

Locked in place, unable to move even his own jaw to speak in turn Harry felt his mind grow oddly numb.

The tall figure came to a stop in front of him and regarded him with head cocked to one side, predator regarding prey. “There’s something to be said for the willful belief of whispered lies, the desire of men and women who hold each other close and tell each other the danger is gone. The day is saved.”

The young king stared, unable to look away while Scrimgeour’s face lost its colour and his robes turned darkest red.

“You and I, we dance around each other, do we not. Set apart from these other pathetic sacks of meat and fear, unfettered by their sad limitations, their weakness.” The figure possessing Igor Karkaroff crooned, one hand reaching up to lightly trail the backs of worn fingers across Harry’s cheek. “They marvel at your successes and whisper about your power, but not a one could ever understand what it is to be different.”

Harry reached blindly, sweeping the arena with his magic, searching.

One by one he found his friends.

Found Sirius and Molly and Arthur.

Found the arrays carved into the underside of their benches.

And shattered the runes that held them prisoner, anchored to their seats unmoving.

“They don’t know what is to be more, to be greater than anything they could ever hope to be. But still, they worship us like gods.” The figure said, raising a hand and turning it this way and that, studying it as if the chaos around them was a passing daydream.

Pulling his magic back into himself Harry started to pull, to drag up all of the power he had been pushing down as he had grown.

All of the parts that would rush to the surface upon whim and desire and manifest his thoughts, fears and frustrations.

“You’ve been quite busy since we last spoke, scurrying about building your little country. Learning and growing...but Harry. I’ve been busy too.”

Harry stood, trapped where he had appeared, a place apart.

“Dumbledore stands trapped in the maze with your other friends, your guards are dying around you. Can you hear them, their last breath, their fear, their anger?”

His heart was pounding in his chest, power rushing in his ears.

“How disappointed do you think they are, their great bastion of power and fairness, failing to save them from the thing they fear most?”

He felt the air driven out of him as something struck at him below his ribs and he felt confused for a moment before it gave way to pain.

Something gleaming moved up into his field of view and it took his mind, focused on its own task another moment to recognise the red gleaming blade. Distantly he could feel his side growing wet.

“You really should be careful Harry, who you give your blood to. You never know what they’ll do with it given enough time and power.” The figure told him, voice mocking as his eyes glowed twisted red.

Power rushing, Harry was vaguely aware that he was aglow with it. Burning bright with power just like he had in the Forbidden Forest just a few short months ago. Barely aware of anything around him, not smoke nor screams and shouts of spells or his own name. Harry’s entire focus narrowed down to the sound of a whispered voice, sibilant and menacing in its lack of care.

And on the blood smeared blade raising for a second pass.

“But worry not, dear Harry. I have all the time in the world. Lord Voldemort, after all, is eternal.”

Quick as a whip the hand holding the dagger descended and Harry’s power exploded out of him.

And the world shook.