:Public service announcement:

Hey guys, this is Buttholepantsmcgee here! A friend of mine has written an awesome story but she's not a part of the website. She gave me permission to share this, and she and I hope you'll enjoy the read! If you have any feedback, don't hesitate to comment! If you like her writing, be sure to check out her other websites in my bio! She's a talented artist and writer, and often times she uses her skills side by side to create awesome stories and visual characters!

She very well may have written that very note for me because I have no idea what I'm doing.

Linebreak

"And now for our fourth and final champion! Harry Potter of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will be facing the Hungarian Horntail!"

Every corner of the arena was filled with Dumbledore's magically-amplified voice, but Harry barely heard him. Even the roar of the crowd fell on deaf ears, for Harry couldn't hear anything aside from the pounding of his own heart and the sound of his ragged breathing. He clambered over the rocks that barred his path, shielding his eyes from the midday sun with the flat of his hand.

Harry Potter was about to steal an egg from a dragon.

The battleground was quiet, but the terrain showed signs of the previous champion's struggles. Black marks scorched the earth where the flames of the terrible creatures had scoured the earth. Deep gouges were torn into more than one boulder, and Harry couldn't help but think about what those scythe-like claws might do to his own flesh. It was an image that kept intruding on his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to banish it.

A great gout of flame shot up from over a ridge; Harry's foe had shown itself. Even at that distance, Harry could feel the terrible heat of the dragon's flame pinking the skin on his face. One misstep, and that flame would incinerate him before he even had time to register the fact that he was dead - somehow, that thought brought a strange comfort to Harry. Squaring his jaw, the young wizard held his wand aloft.

"Accio Firebolt!" Harry felt his magic reach out, find its target; now he simply had to wait.

"Come here and fight me wizardling, I will roast your flesh and crack your bones!" A guttural, hissing voice boomed out from over the ridge.

Could dragons talk? Harry honestly didn't know.

"Just...give me a minute," Harry shouted back, his eyes anxiously peering to his right. Any minute, now…

Harry's time had run out, however. With an ear-splitting roar, the Horntail mounted the ridge that had separated them; it's triangular, horned head peered at Harry with ancient yellowed eyes that were filled with nothing but hate and malice. It's claws dug deep furrows into the stone as it hauled its scaly body over the ridge and advanced menacingly on the boy wizard.

"There you are," the great beast hissed. "Awfully young, but no matter. Tastes just the same."

"Wait!" Harry hissed. "I taste dreadful, really!"

To Harry's utter surprise, he had spoken parseltongue. Both boy and beast paused, peering intently at each other. The dragon cocked its head to the side, looking for all the world like a curious hound - Harry would have laughed, if he hadn't been terrified.

"The wizardling speaks a civilized tongue?" The creature's great head loomed closer, and Harry saw something new sparkling in those eyes; curiosity. "Who are you, boy? Meat with a name tastes so much sweeter in my experience."

"Harry," Harry was backing up slowly, but he knew that he had nowhere to go. "My name is Harry Potter."

"Are you really? A name with power, even among dragons." The horntail lifted its snout and sniffed at the air. "I thought you'd be taller."

"Sorry," Harry muttered, not really knowing what else to say. "Listen, do you think I can grab that egg from you?"

"The egg?" The dragon sniffed again and cast a careless glance over its spined shoulder. It was still stalking towards Harry, that wicked tail lashing out behind it like a whip. "I could care less."

"Brilliant," Harry said, edging further away from the massive beast. "So, I'll just…"

"Oh, I'm afraid not." Harry swore that a wicked grin split the creature's face. "I don't care about the egg - but I don't like being captured. Placed in a cage so small I can barely unfurl my wings. Poked, prodded, studied, put on display, gawked at, and now THIS!"

The creature's voice had risen to a terrible roar, and the horntail reared back on its hind legs. Those massive wings unfurled, blotting out the sun from Harry's view - briefly, he wondered if it might be the last time he saw the sun. But then it crashed back down onto its forelegs, and now its face was mere inches from Harry's.

"No, boy - you're not going anywhere. The hated wizards are tearing themselves apart with this latest war, and you might be the only one who can stop it. If I kill you…" the dragon's grin widened. Harry could see flames dancing in its throat. "Die well, Harry Potter. May the rest of your kind die with you."

Harry felt the great heat roiling from the dragon's maw before he saw any flames; he turned his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He was certain that the stench of the horntail's breath would be the last thing he experienced. Just as he had accepted his fate, he felt something impact his hand. Something long and slender, smooth and polished wood beneath his trembling fingers.

Instinct took over. Harry mounted his broom and kicked off from the ground just as the white-hot pillar of flame erupted from the creature's mouth. Harry risked a glance over his shoulder to see the dragon beating its wings in a furious attempt to meet him in the air; the rock that Harry had been standing on just moments ago had been reduced to a molten slag pile.

He might have been defenseless on the ground, but in the air Harry had a fighting chance. With the wind whipping through his hair and robes, the young Hogwarts champion soared upwards, clinging to his broom as it carried him away from certain death. He could feel the heat of the dragon's fire on his heels, even through the leather soles his boots. Harry dared another look over his shoulder; the dragon was only a few yards behind, but suddenly it jerked in midair and fell towards the earth.

The creature had reached the end of it's chain, and the heavy iron yanked the unfortunate beast back down to the earth. With a deafening roar the horntail plummeted, beating its wings furiously. It managed to land with some grace, spitting flame in its fury.

"We don't need to do this for their amusement!" Harry yelled; he hoped the dragon could hear him. "Just give me the egg and this will be over."

"Oh, give you the egg and return to my cage?" The dragon spat the words like a curse. "To the 'sanctuary' where your kind has kept me enslaved for a hundred years? I would rather die, Potter."

"You don't have to go back to that sanctuary," Harry had never realized how difficult shouting in parseltongue really was. "I can help you get free."

If the dragon considered his offer, or if it had even heard him, it didn't show it. Another pillar of flame erupted from the beast's maw, accompanied by a throaty roar that split the air. Harry could hear the crowd gasp collectively, but he didn't have time to pay attention to that. His attention was entirely absorbed with maneuvering his broomstick around the searing flames that seemed to block his passage at every turn. Like a frantic needle pulling a thread through a tattered cloak, Harry weaved around the deadly gouts of flame. He had lost sight of the egg completely; his skills were being pushed to their limit simply staying alive.

Then, he saw it; a glint of gold, framed by fire. Harry hunkered down on his broom and gave it all he had, zipping beneath the flames. Intense heat and wind buffeted him from all directions, and for a moment Harry thought that he had taken his last risk. Thankfully, it was over in an instant, and he popped out of the incinerator into the blessedly cool air with the golden egg square in his sights; flames danced on the sleeve of his robe as he emerged from the inferno.

Harry leaned precariously from his broom, reaching his hand out for his prize. Just like going for the snitch, he told himself. When he finally laid his hands on it, he cried out and nearly dropped it; the thing must have weighed fifteen pounds, and the force of the impact had nearly broken his arm. He only just managed to hang onto it, and he cradled it close to his body as he zipped away. He almost made it to safety.

It all came crashing down, quite literally, with a single swipe of the dragon's scythe-like claws. Harry felt the rear end of his Firebolt kick out from behind him, and only a moment later he hit the ground with an impact that knocked the wind out of him. He struggled helplessly for a moment, desperately trying to get back on his feet; he knew that the Horntail would waste no time in capitalizing on his vulnerability.

"Time to die, Harry." The creature was there, slowly stalking towards the boy with that same wicked grin on its reptilian face.

"You can't!" Harry shouted. He was grasping at straws again, hoping that his words would succeed where his skill had failed. "You said, if I die no one can win this war. Do you think things for you will be better under the Dark Lord?"

The dragon laughed. It was a raspy, hoarse sound; wholly inhuman, yet somehow Harry instinctively recognized it for what it was.

"The Dark Lord," it echoed, a mocking lilt to its hissing tone. "You don't even know what that means."

"It's Voldemort," Harry said the name fearlessly, as always.

"Oh?" The dragon laughed again, looming closer with every heartbeat. "Such a clever whelp, you've got it all figured out."

The mocking laughter continued, and despite his peril Harry couldn't help but pry.

"Who, then? Who is the Dark Lord if not Voldemort?"

"Ah, but I can't just tell you." The Horntail was circling around, lashing that wicked tail behind it. "A dragon trades in secrets like you wizards trade those gaudy golden coins of yours; nothing is free, Potter."

"I'll help you," Harry insisted, taking a bold step forwards. "I can make sure you never have to go back to that sanctuary or live in a cage ever again."

"Lies!" The dragon spat the word with an evil hiss, whipping its tail furiously; yet despite its ire Harry could see that it was intrigued by the way it paused in its tracks. "You couldn't do such a thing, wizardling."

"I can," Harry insisted. "I'm Harry Potter, I'm a Triwizard champion - they'll listen to me. I do this for you, and you tell me your secret."

For the first time, the Dragon seemed unsure of itself; murder incarnate waited mere feet from the young wizard, fully capable of eradicating him in a single breath, yet it simply stood and pondered. Finally, it lowered its head, carefully meeting Harry's gaze with its glimmering golden eyes.

"We have a deal, boy. But if you fail, I will kill you - that's a promise."

"Alright - you're going to have to trust me." Harry took his wand in his hand and scrounged up every ounce of strength he had; he wasn't even sure if this was going to work. "DIMINUENDO!"

The silvery-white energy of Harry's spell struck the dragon square in the shimmering black scales of its chest; he could see the shock in the dragon's eyes, but it did nothing. Perhaps it had chosen to put its faith in the boy, or perhaps it was simply too surprised to act, but as the spell took effect the great Hungarian Horntail simply stood by and let it happen.

To Harry's great relief, the spell seemed to be working; the vast wyrm was shrinking. Once the size of a London city bus, it had assumed the modest dimensions of a skip before long. When it finally stopped shrinking, the dragon was the size of a mere housecat; Harry held out a trembling hand. He winced as the creature clawed its way up his arm and came to rest on his shoulder.

"This had better work, Potter." Even at its diminished size, Harry could feel the heat of its breath as the dragon hissed in his ear.

"Harry - " Dumbledore's amplified voice groped for words. "Harry Potter has done it! The dragon is defeated, and he has the egg!"

The arena erupted into cheers. No one had ever seen anything like it; Harry would learn later that no one, not even another parseltongue, had ever spoken to a dragon and lived to tell the tale. People swarmed the arena, crowding in an excited circle around him and the egg, and of course - the dragon. None dared venture too close, however. The dragon on his shoulder may have been reduced in size, but a burst of flame from its shrunken maw ensured that the onlookers were aware that it was just as deadly.

"Blimey, Potter!" Harry recognized the voice of Charlie Weasley, and he turned to find Ron's older brother trotting towards him. "How did you - what did - blimey. You're gonna have to tell me all about that one over a cup of tea."

"Excellent work Harry, very well done indeed." The crowd parted to admit Dumbledore, with Professor McGonagall right on his heels. The legendary wizard seemed to have regained his composure and beamed at Harry over his spectacles with his usual serene countenance.

"Thank you, sir." Harry bobbed his head; he was still processing all that had happened.

"Well," Charlie said briskly, donning a pair of thick leather gloves. "We'd better get this little lady back to her pen. She's due back at the sanctuary tomorrow."

"Ouch," Harry winced as the horntail dug its claws into his shoulder, and he took a step back from Charlie. "Actually, she has to stay with me."

"I think not, Harry." Dumbledore's voice was grave as he regarded Harry carefully over his half-moon spectacles. "Dragons are dangerous creatures, and cunning killers. There's a reason they were nearly hunted to extinction all those years ago. It's best to leave her with the experts."

"Headmaster - please. I made a promise." Harry's eyes shifted between Dumbledore and McGonagall, hoping that one of them might be swayed to his side. He knew before she had even spoken that he had found an ally in Minerva McGonagall.

"Perhaps," she began carefully, regarding the dragon askance. "Perhaps we might allow Potter to keep it for a limited time - a trial, of sorts. She seems docile enough, there on his shoulder, and I will personally inspect the shrinking charm weekly for any signs of unraveling. A promise is a promise, Albus - you were once in Gryffindor too, or have you forgotten?"

Even the great Dumbledore was not immune from a scolding from Professor McGonagall, or so it would seem. The headmaster pursed his lips and seemed to consider for a very long time indeed, before he finally nodded once slowly.

"Very well," he acquiesced at last. "But Harry - heed my warning. Dragons are very intelligent, but their hearts are wild. They do not understand friendship or love as we do."

"Thank you, Headmaster. I'll bear that in mind." Harry could hardly believe his luck.

The crowd swept them away, back to the castle and the feast that was planned to follow the event; as Harry endured the countless back-slaps and congratulations, a thought occurred to him.

"What should I call you?" He peered at the diminutive dragon's serpentine face. "I can't just call you 'dragon' all the time."

"I shan't give you my true name," The dragon sniffed. "After all, we just met. You may call me Sarchanie."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Everyone wanted to see the dragon, everyone wanted to see the egg, and everyone wanted to see him; people mobbed him wherever he went. He didn't have time to speak to his new friend in private, and it was all he could do to keep people from prodding and poking her incessantly. Most learned to keep their hands to themselves after a few minor burns and bites, but Harry was afraid that if she caused too much trouble they would take her away.

The egg, for all the trouble he had gone through to acquire it, was apparently worthless. There was nothing inside, and when Harry opened it the thing emitted the most awful screech he had ever heard. No one, not even Hermione, seemed to know what it meant. No one could even bear to listen to it for more than a few seconds. He had stowed it in his trunk, a riddle for another day.

It was well past midnight before Harry finally managed to peel away from the others and snatch some time alone with the shrunken dragon he had apparently adopted. The dragon had proved surprisingly good-natured through all the festivities; once people learned to leave her alone, she seemed content to sit on Harry's shoulder and watch all that happened around her. She even asked for certain bits of food from Harry's plate, which he gladly supplied; she said it was some of the best she'd ever tasted.

"So - what's this secret of yours?" Harry finally asked the question that had been burning in his mind all night.

"Secret? Hmm?" Sarchanie was licking her lips clean of its latest morsel, looking for all the world like a scaly cat. "What secret?"

"About the Dark Lord," Harry hissed irritably. "You promised."

"Oh, that." The dragon sniffed; she was hunting for a comfortable spot to lie on Harry's quilt. "The true Dark Lord is not Voldemort."

"Yes, you mentioned that." Harry was starting to lose patience, but he did his best to keep his voice level; a small dragon could set his bed on fire just as easily as a big one. "Who is it, though?"

"I haven't the foggiest," She purred. Harry got the impression that she was enjoying herself.

"That's not fair," Harry protested, sitting up a bit straighter in his bed.

"Oh, calm down." The dragon shot him a withering glare. "I don't know, but I know how you can find out. You're not going to like it, though."

Linebreak

It was two weeks before Harry could manage it. It had to be on a weekend, of course; it was difficult enough to sneak away from the castle, making it all the way to London without being caught was a feat in itself. Stealing the floo powder and finding a fireplace in which to use it had been a great risk, yet all of that paled in comparison to what he was required to do next.

"You're absolutely sure?" Harry asked for what must have been the thousandth time.

"Yes," The horntail hissed irritably in his ear. "It's in there. Trust me."

Harry was standing in the massive atrium that served as the entryway to the Ministry of Magic. If he had worried about being discovered there, his cares evaporated; even on the weekend, that massive space was simply packed with people. Witches and wizards of every description and walk of life, goblins and house elves; Harry even saw a centaur carving a wide swath through the thick crowd. It was hard not to stand there dumbstruck as he watched the flurry of activity all around him, but Harry had come with a purpose.

Beneath his invisibility cloak, Harry felt reasonably safe. None but Dumbledore had managed to pierce the camouflage, and Harry doubted very much that any of the witches or wizards bustling through that hall commanded a similar mastery of magic. The more pressing concern was simply navigating through the throng without bumping into anyone; Harry stepped on more than a few toes as he darted through the crowd towards the lift at the far end.

"Level nine," Sarchanie hissed in his ear. "Department of Mysteries."

The Department of Mysteries. Until two short weeks ago, Harry hadn't even known that it existed. It wasn't a secret, not exactly; it was just something that witches and wizards didn't discuss if they could help it. Now, if Harry wanted to know the truth about the Dark Lord he was going to have to break into the shadowy depths of the Ministry in order to find it. More specifically, his answer lay in the Hall of Prophecies.

The lifts were all on the far end of the Atrium. Harry was trying to find one that was empty; with the crowd being what it was, that was a challenge. He had to wait nearly half an hour before he saw his chance. A small break in the sea of witches and wizards, a lift standing empty. Harry seized the opportunity, dashing to the lift and hammering on the 'close' button, hoping against hope that the doors would shut before anyone else entered. To his horror, a tired-looking wizard in a long beige coat was heading straight for Harry - straight for the lift.

"Better hurry," Sarchanie's urgent hiss in his ear did little to ease his nerves.

No matter how many times Harry jammed the button, the doors didn't seem to want to close; only when the Ministry wizard was nearly in arms reach did they slowly begin to slide shut. It was going to be too late, Harry thought; he was nearly there, the doors weren't closing nearly fast enough. Harry watched in horror as the wizard drew ever nearer, moving at a lazy jog once he saw the grated doors start to slide shut. The wizard made it just as the doors were closed past the point where he could have sidled in. Harry's moment of triumph was dispelled, however, when he shoved his briefcase in between the closing doors - and to Harry's horror, they began to open once more.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry reared back and kicked the briefcase. His last sight as the doors slid closed was of the tired-looking wizard tumbling backwards, arms and legs and briefcase windmilling the air. At last the doors slid completely shut, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief, until, that is, he remembered that his task was far from over. His eyes slid down the row of buttons, all worn down from years of pressing. All but the button for the ninth floor, which as pristine and polished as the day it was installed. Harry reached out and pressed it as if he expected something terrible to happen. He was almost surprised when the lift began to move without any theatrics at all.

The lift descended slowly, but purposefully, and in a few moments it had clattered to an abrupt halt. The grates slid open with a clatter that seemed far too loud. Harry and Sarchanie had arrived in a large, circular room. At first Harry thought that it was pitch black; it took him a moment to realize that there was light, it was just that everything in the room was black. The floor was slick black marble, the walls and ceiling were lined in ebony tile. As Harry stepped into the center, splashes of color burst to life on the walls. Blue flames encapsulated in black sconces along the wall illuminated doors – a dozen, perhaps, and all identical – that lined the circular chamber. Looking over his shoulder, Harry saw that the door through which they had come was no different.

Just as he was considering ways to mark the exit door, the blue flames that lined the wall began to blur. No, to move. The entire wall was rotating, picking up speed faster and faster until the blue flames were nothing more than an electric line burning itself into Harry's brain. He swayed on his feet and instinctively reached out for something to steady himself as vertigo nearly overwhelmed him, but there was nothing; he stumbled once but managed to maintain his footing. It lasted only a moment before the wall ground to a slow halt, but long after it had stopped moving the blue lines were etched across his vision.

"Good luck finding the exit now." Sarchanie's sardonic hiss in his ear made him jump, but Harry's heart sank as he realized that she was right. Finding his way back to the lift would be difficult, at best.

"Which way do we go? They all look the same." He asked. Better to focus on the task at hand than dwell on problems he couldn't solve.

"I'll know it when I see it. Try some doors." Sarchanie sounded eager beneath the hood of the invisibility cloak.

Harry saw many strange things in the department of Mysteries on that Saturday afternoon. The Ministry must have been engaged in some very interesting research indeed, for the rooms that Harry explored contained objects both wondrous and terrible. He did his best to put them all out of his head. The temptation to explore those dark and winding paths beneath London was powerful, but with a wrench of his will Harry forced himself to stay focused on his task.

Finally they came to what must have been the most boring room in the Department of Mysteries. It had a high, vaulted ceiling and was filled with rows upon rows of shelves, which were lined with with dusty orbs. Each orb was meticulously labeled, and the room was so large that the rows of shelves disappeared into the gloom. It was so cold that Harry's breath escaped his lungs in puffs of ghostly white.

"Here." Sarchanie's voice thrummed with certainty. "This is it."

"This is...what? What is this place?" Harry peered into the gloom, fighting the curious sense of unease that was creeping up his spine.

"This is the Hall of Prophecies. Every prophecy ever heard by a witch or wizard is in here, somewhere. Stored in these little crystal balls." Sarchanie's yellow eyes were bright as she peered among the dusty shelves.

"And there's one here about the Dark Lord?" Harry pressed, eager to get what they came for and get out as quickly as possible.

"Yes," the miniature dragon purred. "Somewhere."

"Somewhere..." Harry didn't try to keep the hopelessness out of his voice. There must have been thousands of the little glass orbs in that room; perhaps hundreds of thousands. With a resigned sigh, Harry reached into his robes and produced his wand; a whispered spell lit the end of it like a flashlight. Better start looking.

It was something like looking for a needle in a haystack, only worse. The room appeared vast from the entrance, but it wasn't. It was gargantuan. Even with his wand casting a shaft of radiant light into the room, Harry still couldn't see the end of the rows of shelves. When he shone it upwards, he couldn't see the ceiling. The darkness was thick and hungry, and it swallowed his wand-light eagerly. Harry wondered if that room went on forever, if he was doomed to wander the shelves eternally searching for something he would never find. He wondered if there were others down there like him, ghosts floating among the recorded prophecies who were doomed to search for all eternity.

The prophecies were all neatly labeled with names like '1977 J.L.F. to J.S.H. re: 1977 Quiddich World Cup' and '1842 H.H.H. to H.H.H. re: chickens'. There were so many inane prophecies that Harry wondered why anyone bothered recording them, or how anyone even found anything in the never-ending maze of shelves.

"They send them here to be forgotten," Sarchanie hissed softly in his ear, reading his mind. "And some are more forgotten than others."

Harry didn't bother asking what that meant.

They wandered for what felt like hours; time seemed to have little meaning down there. It may as well have been days. They had ventured deep into the rows, lost in a sea of dusty shelves with no shore in sight. One row blended into another, the shorthand on the yellowed parchment labels became gibberish to his eyes. Soon, he felt like he wasn't moving at all, simply drifting among the shelves wherever the current pulled him.

"Stop." The miniature horntail's voice was urgent in her ear, and she was jabbing her tail at a particular sphere. "There, do you see that?"

"1985 A.D.L. to G.G.R. re: lemon drops." Harry red the label out loud; it may have been the most inane one yet. The sphere seemed dustier than the ones around it, duller; in fact the longer Harry looked at it the more certain he was that it was quite possibly the least interesting prophecy in the entire storehouse and couldn't possible be what they were looking for.

"Let's keep moving," Harry said, turning away from the prophecy. He yelped when he felt a sharp set of fangs nip at his neck.

"Look." Sarchanie's voice was sharp. "It's bewitched."

A frown creased Harry's face; he was quite sure that it wasn't, but he humored the dragon all the same. Harry had barely fixed his eyes on the prophecy again and just for good measure, he took one more look but he couldn't suppress the groan the escaped his mouth. They had more important things to do, why bother with this dreadfully boring sphere?

All at once, the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood up. Something wasn't right.

"I think you're right," Harry said slowly.

He tried once more to look at the sphere, and found his gaze wrenched away by a physical force, almost as if someone had grabbed his head and turned it with brute strength. The force was accompanied by a sensation of profound disgust; the sphere was such a waste of time, why was it even in here? The compulsion to get away from it was so strong that Harry took a step back, his face twisted in a grimace.

"I can't look at it," Harry's voice was tinged with frustration. "I don't even want to talk about it. Let me try..."

Harry looked away from the sphere, down the row of shelves and into the gloomy nothingness that surrounded him. Slowly, carefully, he reached out his hand; perhaps he could touch it, put it in his cloak and take it away to where he could deal with it properly. Perhaps Hermione would know a way to help him, or Professor Moody...

"Hey!" Harry yelped out loud as Sarchanie's sharp little teeth bit into him once more. "What was that for?"

"Don't touch." Sarchanie's hissing voice was grave. "They're protected."

"So how do we..." Harry's voice was lost as Sarchanie let loose with a gout of white-hot flame, precisely aimed at the prophecy in question.

Harry shielded his face from the heat as Sarchanie's dragonfire surrounded the bauble but did not touch it. Something seemed to be shielding it, something that shimmered silvery-white; it pulsed and shone against the flame but the little dragon persisted. Gradually, the silvery light grew weaker, and weaker, until finally it flickered and went out.

"There," Sarchanie's voice was smug. "Look at it now."

Hesitantly, Harry turned his head and fixed his eyes on the lemon-drop prophecy. Gone was that feeling of intense boredom; the sphere no longer looked dustier than its neighbors, or less interesting. Sarchanie's flame had stripped the orb of its enchantments, and Harry's mouth fell open as he saw that even the faded parchment label had changed. It now read '1880 H.E.T. to K.G.F. re: Dark Lord Voldemort'

The correction had been written in a precise, flowing hand; Harry could have sworn that he recognized the script but he could not place it.

"This says Voldemort on it," Harry pointed out; he wasn't quite sure if Sarchanie could read.

"It does," Sarchanie agreed. "It was also hidden exceptionally well. Go on, take it – it's safe now."

With a trembling hand, Harry reached out and took the dusty orb from the shelf. To his surprise it was quite cool. The sphere was perfectly smooth and heavier than it looked, sized just right to fit in the palm of his hand. He expected...well, something to happen. Some otherworldly knowledge to fill his mind, or a booming voice to deliver the words of the prophecy to him. A frown crossed his face, and idly Harry tapped it with the tip of his wand as he considered his options.

As soon as his wand touched it, the thing sprang to life. The dust disappeared from its surface in a puff of vapor as the sphere began to glow pale blue; brighter and brighter, until Harry could bear the sight of it no more. He looked away, and at that moment the voice filled the air; not booming, but whispered as if the speaker was standing right over Harry's shoulder. He swore that he could feel lips brushing against his ear.

"Born on the eve of the longest light, a terrible servant of the dark approaches, one by which all others pale in comparison. He will walk in the light, but should he acquire the Hallows all will fall under his shadow."

The voice fell silent, and the piercing glow of the orb slowly faded until it was dull and black once more. The dust had been burned away by whatever magic had summoned the voice; it was smooth and polished and pristine in Harry's hand.

"What...what did that mean?" Harry peered over at Sarchanie, but she simply tilted her head in her own approximation of a shrug.

"Couldn't say," She admitted. "Take the orb. Let's find our way out of here."

That was easier said than done. The gloom and sheer size of the Hall of Prophecies was an obstacle in itself, and finding the exit proved to be no mean feat. Harry tried to keep a rough estimate of time in his head, but it was hopeless. It felt like they were wandering for a very long time indeed before they finally spied the wall in the darkness; and longer still until they reached the door.

In the circular antechamber, Harry squeezed his eyes shut as the doors began to spin once more. Once again, he lost track of where he had come from, and the lift which would take him back to the Ministry Atrium could have been behind any of the identical black portals. Harry tried doors at random, and marked them with a simple spell when he was done; he got lucky on the third try. He yanked open the door and could have wept with relief when he saw the bronzed grate of the lift behind it.

Linebreak

It had taken Hermione and Ron three full days to get over the fact that Harry had not only snuck out of school, not only infiltrated the Ministry, but had penetrated the most secret place in the most secret department. They were mostly cross at him for going on his own and not bringing them; pointing out that he had had Sarchanie with him didn't seem to help his cause.

Hermione was the first to come round. Her compulsive need to know what he had discovered simply outweighed her anger, and without preamble or so much as an apology she sat down next to him in the Gryffindor common room and demanded that he explain everything he'd learned. When Ron overheard them talking, he wasn't far behind; he slouched over, trying to appear disinterested, but he couldn't keep it up for long.

"Blimey, Harry." Ron had lowered himself onto the couch next to Hermione. "That's – I mean, that's heavy. Dad says that even the people who work at the Ministry don't go down there, for a reason."

"It's not somewhere I'd like to visit on holiday, that's for sure." Harry set his quill down; he had all but given up on his potions essay. "What do you think that prophecy means? It's gibberish to me."

"Let's hear it again," Hermione asked. Her face had gone nearly blank, and Harry knew that she was ready to absorb every detail.

Harry recited it dutifully. He had written it down after listening to it again in private, and by then he knew it by heart.

"Hmm," Hermione bit her lip thoughtfully and brushed a strand of her bushy hair back behind her ear. "Well...it can't be you-know-who, he wasn't born until much later. And I certainly don't think anyone would say that he 'walks in the light'."

"That's for sure," Ron agreed around a mouthful of chocolate frog. "Who else, though? I can't think of anyone more terrible than him."

"Hmmm..." Hermione pursed her lips thoughtfully. "What about Grindelwald? He was born in 1883, just a couple years after the prophecy was made. And...well, he was rather popular in his day. 'Walking in the light', as it were. Before he went all...dark, that is."

"OK," Harry nodded. "What about the next bit – 'Born on the eve of the longest day?'"

"The summer solstice," Hermione said at once, though her face fell. "It has to be. Only..."

"What?" Said Ron and Harry together, leaning in close.

"Grindelwald was born in March, if I remember correctly. I'll have to check to be sure, but..." She left the thought unfinished - Hermione always remembered correctly.

"Alright...not him, then. What about this part about the 'Hallows'? What are they?"

"I'm not sure," Hermione said with a frown. "I've never heard of them."

"Well..." Ron piped up, but seemed to deflate as soon as he'd spoken. "Nah, nevermind."

"What? Anything could be important." Hermione laid a hand on his arm.

"I mean, there's the Deathly Hallows..." Ron shrugged, and searched their faces for any sign of recognition. "Y'know...from the book?"

Harry and Hermione both looked at him with blank expressions.

"Right, muggles. I forget sometimes." Ron set his half-eaten chocolate frog down on the end table. "So, the short of it is that there's three artifacts – Death's Shroud, the Elder Wand, and the Resurrection Stone. Someone who gets their hands on all three supposedly becomes the Master of Death, I guess they turn invincible or something. It's just a legend...no one's ever found any of them, far as I know. It's just a kid's story."

"Maybe not." Hermione was shaking her head slowly. "What else could 'Hallows' mean?"

"It could just be rubbish," Ron asserted, picking up his chocolate frog once more with a shrug. "I mean, divination is stupid, right Hermione?"

"It is," she conceded. "But prophecies are different, Ron. It's old, powerful magic."

"Besides," Harry cut in. "Someone went through a lot of trouble to protect this one. Why would they do that if it was rubbish?"

"Well, we can't do anything until we find out who the prophecy refers to. Assuming we can do anything at all." Hermione closed her book sharply, and fixed Harry with a glare. "And you have work to do, Harry. Have you figured out that egg yet?"

Inwardly, Harry groaned - outwardly, he arranged his face in a bright smile.

"Yeah, nearly." He could tell from the way Hermione rolled her eyes that she didn't buy it.

Linebreak

In the coming weeks, Harry had little time to think about prophecies or the mysterious identity of the true Dark Lord. Harry had the egg to contend with, and despite his protests none of his teachers gave so much as an inch in leeway for the Triwizard champions; Harry's schoolwork continued to pile up and threatened to bury him. Worst of all – in Harry's mind – was the Yule Ball. The event was rapidly approaching, and Harry as a champion was not only required to attend, but to find a date.

Sarchanie was proving to be an odd, but not unwelcome roommate. Once the commotion had settled down, people seemed to accept her as easily as an owl, or a rat; as far as they could tell, she was just a very interesting, extremely rare student's pet. Yet to Harry she was becoming more; he found that, surprisingly, he enjoyed her company and that she seemed to enjoy his. Harry paid for the tailor in Hogsmeade to affix a leather shoulderguard to his school robes when her claws became too much to bear. Some days she insisted on accompanying him to his classes, and on others she contented herself with sleeping away the day curled up among the blankets of his unmade bed.

The shrunken dragon always managed to rouse herself for dinner, though; it was the highlight of her day. She sat on Harry's shoulder, imperiously relaying which foods she wanted and which he could have to himself. If eating food prepared for humans was bad for dragons, Sarchanie certainly didn't show any signs. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that she was getting fatter, but he couldn't prove it.

He had also found that, for better or worse, having a dragon for a pet had the added effect of vastly increasing his 'celebrity' status. It seemed like everyone – even people he barely knew – wanted to spend time with him, just to see Harry's miniature Horntail up close. Hermione, in particular, was fascinated; Harry and Hermione had always been close, of course, but since Harry had returned from the Ministry she hardly left his side. Ostensibly, it was to help him with his schoolwork. He had fallen behind, and there was no better tutor than Hermione. Yet harry couldn't help but feel like there was something else – a suspicion that was proven correct one late night in the common room.

"Harry? Are you even listening?" The impatience in Hermione's voice snapped like the crackle of the fire.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah." Harry's eyes jerked open, and he shook his head to clear the fog. "Totally."

"I was saying that you're going to need to rewrite this essay, there are too many mistakes." She held out a parchment filled with his untidy scrawling; twelve inches on the role of the Wizengamot in the formation of the modern Ministry.

"Right," Harry said with a sigh. "I'll do it tomorrow."

"It's due tomorrow." Hermione's tone softened. "You're overworking yourself, Harry. You need to relax."

"I don't have time to relax, Hermione." Harry shook his head firmly. "I've got the second task coming up, Voldemort is out there somewhere, and I guess he's not even my biggest problem. I just - "

"You don't have to take all of this on yourself." Hermione leaned in and laid a hand on Harry's knee; for some reason it made him feel very warm. "You're just one person."

"But I'm not just one person, Hermione." Harry felt the frustration building in his chest, and when he stood Hermione's hand slid from his knee and took the warmth with it. "I'm me. I have to do these things because no one else can."

"If you work yourself to death, you're not going to get anything done." Hermione had remained seated, her legs crossed and her arms folded in her lap. She was looking at Harry very intently. "You need some downtime."

"I wish I had time for it...between Quidditch practice, and my schoolwork...and trying to figure out this egg...and I still have to find a bloody date for the Yule ball..." Harry had been pacing, but he collapsed into the overstuffed armchair across from Hermione with an explosive sigh.

"You told me you had the egg nearly figured out!" Hermione's voice was approaching shrill; Harry winced.

"Sorry...I didn't want you to worry. I haven't the foggiest idea what to do with the thing." Harry mugged a look that he hoped was apologetic, but he just felt tired.

Hermione opened her mouth as if she wanted to scold him, but something about the way she was looking at him softened. She ducked her head to catch his gaze, and she laid a hand on top of his. Her hands were cold – she was always cold, Hermione – but once again that feeling of warmth returned when she touched him. Harry looked up, trying to read her expression.

"Well...I know a way that I can make one of those things easier on you," Hermione said, averting her gaze at the last moment.

"Hermione – no." Harry sighed once more, though he tempered it with a weary smile. "You're not doing my homework for me, you've got loads yourself. I just need some rest, and - "

"I wasn't talking about homework." Hermione cut him off with a shake of her head and a small, shy smile.

Linebreak

The castle was always extravagantly decorated for Christmas, but the Yule Ball set an entirely new standard. Not to be outdone by the other schools of the tournament, the trappings for the ball were above and beyond anything Harry had ever witnessed. The entire, massive space simply sparkled; shrouded in silvery mistletoe and enchanted baubles, it was like stepping into a wintry wonderland. The massive tables that seated each house were gone, replaced by hundreds of smaller ones. And of course, at the front of the Hall, was the dance floor.

"Champions, if you please!" Professor McGonagall's voice wafted over the hall as the feasting died down; Harry felt his heart leap into his throat. The other champions and their partners were already standing up; Cedric and Cho Chang, Fleur and Roger Davies, Viktor and a sixth-year Ravenclaw girl Harry didn't recognize. Harry tripped over his dress robes as he stood, glancing over at his partner nervously.

"Ready?" Hermione asked him; she looked nearly as nervous as he did.

"Guess so. I'll try not to embarrass you."

Harry and Hermione fell in behind the others, and each pair claimed their own corner of the dance floor. Harry tried not to feel the hundreds of pairs of eyes on him; he tried not to think about the fact that with one misstep he could embarrass not only himself, but Hermione and his entire school. Instead he looked only at Hermione, and she at him. Everything else seemed to fade away; the decorations, the people, the judges and ministry officials and professors and even the others they shared the floor with. It was just Harry and Hermione.

She had nearly taken his breath away when he'd first seen her before the feast. Her gown was periwinkle-blue, made from some floaty, soft material that Harry didn't recognize. It flowed around her as she moved like the fins of a mermaid underwater. It might have been magic, but Harry wasn't sure; everything about her seemed magical. She'd done something to her hair, as well. It was no longer bushy and frizzy but sleek and caught at the back of her head in an elaborate knot that cascaded elegantly over her left shoulder.

Yet for all her efforts, it was her smile that drew Harry's gaze and held it. Perhaps he had never seen her really smile before, or perhaps he was simply looking at her in a different way that night; whatever the case, she was positively radiant. It was as if she captured all the light and magic sparkling in the Great Hall, magnified it, and reflected it back at him. He couldn't help but smile just looking at her. Harry took Hermione's hand in his own and laid his other on her waist, and that warm feeling returned in force. He found that it was far from unpleasant.

Then the orchestra began to play, and the dancers were moving. Harry had managed to squeeze some practice in, with Neville of all people; when Hermione had asked him to the dance he knew that he had to make sure he wouldn't embarrass her. He led ably enough, and he had only one small stumble from which he managed to recover with a modicum of grace. Harry and Hermione moved together, and he felt as if his feet hardly touched the ground. They were floating together, in a world all their own filled with the gentle, lilting tones of the orchestral waltz. He couldn't take his eyes off of her face.

Then Professor Dumbledore stepped onto the floor clutching Madam Maxine's hand in his long-fingered grip, and the other soon followed suit. Harry's illusion was shattered as the dance floor suddenly became crowded with couples, but Harry didn't mind. No longer the center of attention, Harry found his voice.

"You, erm..." Harry swallowed heavily; he couldn't quite believe what he was about to say to his friend, but it needed to be said. "You look very pretty tonight, Hermione."

Hermione blushed, to his great surprise, and lowered her eyes. When she looked up again her smile was twice as radiant as it had been before, and Harry couldn't help but smile in return.

"Thank you, Harry." she said simply. They waltzed past Ron and Pavarti; Ron rolled his eyes at Harry like he might have done during one of Professor Binn's insufferably boring lectures, but Harry found that he was rather enjoying himself.

"You know, I was kind of surprised when you asked me." Harry suddenly felt the desire to talk. "I mean, it's usually the blokes who do the asking."

"I was too," Hermione giggled, a little peal of tinkling laughter that was infectious. "It just kind of...came out."

"I'm glad you did," Harry said earnestly. "I don't think I would have had much fun with anyone else. If I could have even managed a date."

"Please," Hermione scoffed, giving his shoulder a playful slap. "Every girl in our year wanted you to ask her; I'm sure some above us did, too. I just got to you first."

"Really?" Harry frowned thoughtfully; it certainly hadn't seemed that way to him. "Well, I'm still glad that I came with you."

Hermione just smiled and laid her head gently on Harry's chest as they danced together. It occurred to Harry that he'd never held a girl in quite that way before, and he certainly never imagined that he would be holding Hermione in that way. He thought it should have made him uncomfortable, but it didn't – far from it. The warmth had spread from his chest, radiating throughout his entire body until he felt like he was going to burst in the most wonderful way imaginable. His arm encircled her waist, pulling her close almost without thought. It felt right.

"I've been thinking," Harry said. "About the prophecy, the one about the true dark lord..."

"Harry..." Hermione lifted her head from Harry's chest wearing an expression that he couldn't quite read. "Let's not talk about that right now. Let's just enjoy...this."

Harry nodded wordlessly; she was right, and there would be time later. As Hermione laid her head back against Harry's chest, he felt her arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. In his mind, he imagined all of his worries, all the stresses of school and the tournament and dark lords, everything that weighed him down flowing out with his breath. He felt lighter, somehow, when it was done.

The slow dance didn't last quite as long as Harry thought it should have, but the Weird Sisters were hardly known for their waltzes. As soon as the stately waltz had ended, the guitarist slammed a chord on his electric guitar that reverberated through Harry's entire body. What had once been an orderly arrangement of dancing couples disintegrated almost immediately as cheers and screams erupted and the ball-goers rushed the stage. Harry was preparing to make a stealthy exit, but Hermione grabbed his hand and tugged at him with a smile so genuine that, in that moment, he would have done anything she asked.

Harry and Hermione rushed the stage with everyone else just as the band launched into an uptempo, energetic song that Harry didn't recognize. Everyone else seemed to, though; the singer's lyrics were completely lost in the drone of the crowd singing along, and everybody near the stage was moving to one rhythm. Jumping, writhing, undulating, flailing; the energy all around them was catching, and Harry had no choice but to join in. Together with Hermione, he jumped and screamed with the rest of them, singing words he didn't know at the top of his lungs.

At his side, Hermione was just as exuberant. She was hopping up and down in place, her arms raised as she added her voice to the crowd. She looked at Harry, caught him with another of her broad smiles, and reached out to squeeze his hand. Then the energy of the crowd swept them up once more, and Harry surrendered himself to it willingly. They danced, they screamed, they jumped up and down and sang until their throats were raw. Harry couldn't remember ever having as much fun as he did that night.

The Weird Sisters played for hours; their energy and endurance was matched only by the enthusiasm of the students. After their third encore, they left the stage for the final time and the enchanted lights in the great hall came up slowly. It was like waking up from a dream; the students looked around and blinked at each other as if wondering how they got there, leaning on one another and laughing as their fatigue hit them all at once. One by one, the students started to leave the great hall and head for the dormitories for a night of well-earned sleep.

Harry felt an arm slip through his, and Hermione was there. She looked decidedly mussed; at some point during the night her hair had come undone and it cascaded in a chaotic tumble over both shoulders. Her face was flushed and her chest rose and fell rapidly, one hand on the pinked skin below her throat as she fought to catch her breath.

"That was...I mean, just..." She looked up at Harry and laughed, leaning on him as if she was unsteady on her feet.

"It was," Harry agreed readily. He didn't have the words to describe it, either.

"Let's get some air," Hermione was fanning herself with one hand, the other still resting on Harry's arm.

The left the great hall for the grounds; there were a few students milling about out there, but not many. The decorations for the event even extended to the exterior of the castle. The lawn that stretched before the entrance had been transformed into an expansive rose garden. Stone benches lined cobblestone pathways among the fragrant flowers, and the entire place was lit by fairy lights dancing inside the rose bushes...no, actual fairies, Harry realized with a start. He could see the little shapes moving among the brambles, chasing one another and dancing merrily as they shed their soft yellow glow.

"Oh, it's so beautiful..." Hermione's voice was breathy and far away as they stepped out into that impromptu grotto.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, drinking in the sight. "Sure is..."

They had no destination in mind. Neither of them led, but together they ambled along the softly-lit path. It took Harry a moment to realize that they, unconsciously or not, were following the sound of burbling water. As they rounded a corner, a fountain came into view. It was a vast, marble sculpture depicting three wizards, wands raised in a shared salute. The fountain dominated a secluded, circular clearing, rimmed by rosebushes and lined with stone benches.

Hermione tugged gently on Harry's arm and led them to a bench. After the heat and energy of the Great Hall, the air in the little garden and the stone beneath them felt blessedly cool. Hermione laid her head on Harry's shoulder with a contented sigh, her arm still intertwined with his. Her fingers traced little patterns on his arm, though she didn't seem to be aware that she was doing it. They didn't speak for some time, simply enjoying each others company and the private beauty that the garden offered them.

"Harry..." Hermione spoke hesitantly, as if she didn't want to break the enchanted silence that had fallen over them. "I just wanted to say, I had such a wonderful time with you tonight."

"I did too, actually." Harry watched two fairies zip across the garden, the tinkling sounds of their laughter mingling with the burbling fountain. "And here I was dreading this thing for weeks."

"I'm glad I made it bearable." Hermione lifted her head and looked at Harry with a small smile.

"More than bearable," he assured her.

"You know..." Hermione's smile slowly faded as she lowered her gaze. "I worry about you, Harry. A lot. You...well, sometimes it seems like you're bearing the weight of the world on your shoulders."

"Sometimes it feels that way," Harry admitted. "But you shouldn't worry, Hermione. I've got you and Ron, and everyone else to help me."

Hermione smiled once more, and her fingers crept down the length of Harry's arm. Before he even knew what was happening, she had intertwined her fingers with his.

"I think I'm going to be the envy of every fourth-year girl after this," Hermione said with wry smirk. "Oh, I would have given anything for that a few weeks ago but now..."

She trailed off, losing her words as she lifted her eyes to meet Harry's gaze. All night, there had been something behind those deep brown eyes that Harry couldn't quite read. Something that she wanted to tell him, perhaps, but couldn't. It nagged at the back of his mind then, as they watched each other in that quiet little garden. And then, all at once, he knew.

Harry could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he bent his head and kissed her. Her lips were warm, and tasted vaguely of whatever she had decorated them with. He thought she might be surprised, or shocked, but she only pressed herself into that kiss and returned it as if it was what she had been waiting for all night. When Harry broke the kiss, he leaned back and watched anxiously for her reaction.

"I've been waiting for you to do that all night," Hermione said breathlessly. Her eyes flicked over his face, absorbing every detail. "Do it again."

linebreak

"Alright," Hermione said briskly, slapping down a sheet of parchment on the table between them. "Let's get started."

The parchment was covered with names; more precisely, the names of wizards born in summer between 1880 and 1885. Not every wizard, of course; only the ones that they had managed to find in books, old newspapers, and other sources available to them in the library. It had taken ages, and eaten up most of the remainder of their winter holiday. It would be worth it, though; if they could eliminate all but one name on the list they would finally learn the identity of the true Dark Lord.

"Blimey, that's a lot of names." Ron eyed the list warily. "Where do we even start?"

"At the top," Hermione said matter-of-factly. Wary of being overheard, they had chosen a table in the most secluded section of the library. "Albertus Alfonsus."

Their table was piled with books; reference materials, birth records, criminal records, anything they could find that might have information pertaining to the witches and wizards on the list. They each opened a book, poring through it for any information about Albertus Alfonsus.

"Ah, nope." Ron jabbed a finger at his page. "Says here he failed out of Hogwarts in his third year, he's a squib – not really dark lord material."

"Alright," Hermione said, and she crossed the name off the list with a flourish. "Serpentus Bastien."

It was slow going. With so many names, and so many books to scour, they sometimes spent an hour or more on a single name before they could glean even a scrap of information. Still, they progressed and one-by-one each name was rejected with a scratch of Hermione's quill. The candles had burned low indeed when finally Hermione laid down her quill with a weary sigh.

"Goodbye Yarro Yardley. That leaves us with...oh..."

Hermione's brow knit in confusion as she looked down at the list. Eagerly, Harry slid the parchment over to his side of the table for a look. When he saw the only name that remained there, he shook his head firmly.

"That can't be right. We must have made a mistake."

There, written in Hermione's impeccable penmanship and surrounded by the scratched-out names of rejected candidates, was the last name Harry Potter had expected to see.

Albus Dumbledore.