A/N: I've finally decided to take a little wander into the most popular fandom for fanfiction – just to see what happens. If you have any reviews, comments, criticisms, or requests to share, feel free to hand me a review at the end of the chapter. If you want to, feel free to flame – just don't expect a reply if you do. I'll do my best to respond to each and every serious review; even if it's just a simple 'thank you.' I could ramble on for longer, but why would you want to hear my diatribe when there's a chunk of fiction down below? Just to clarify, this is an AU, and the story diverges from canon around about now – the Death Eater attack on the campsite at the Quidditch world cup.

Harry shifted restlessly in his bunk, hearing the faint sound of screams in the distance. He wasn't sure whether he was awake or asleep, but clenched his teeth in anticipation of a coming nightmare. Only a week ago he had seen the strangest of images as he slept – Pettigrew, and Voldemort. He would have dismissed it as an ordinary dream were it not for the pain he felt in his scar upon waking. There was no pain now, but this, too, was no ordinary dream. It was no dream at all.

"Ron! Harry! Get up, quickly! This is urgent!"

He recognized it as Mr Weasley's voice, and turned over onto his side, vaguely wondering why he was dreaming about him – and promptly fell out of the bunk, falling several feet onto thick purple carpet. The wind was knocked out of him with a dull thump, and he groaned softly.

"Dad? What's going on?" said Ron, sounding half-asleep himself. Behind Ron's voice, Harry could hear the distant screams again. Panicked shouts came over the screams, and feet hitting the ground punctuated all other sounds in sharp staccato bursts. People were running. He picked himself up, an acrid taste in his mouth. Beneath the faint scent of cats that permeated the tent he could smell smoke. It pulled at his nostrils at caused water to gather in the corner of his eyes.

"Put on a jacket and get outside!" Arthur Weasley, normally an imperturbably calm and placid man, had an air of command in his voice that Harry had never heard before. This, more than anything, caused him to rush out of the tent. It was a lot louder outside, and Mr Weasley had to shout over the noise. "We're going to help the Ministry. Get into the woods – stay close to each other!"

Everything was burning. Harry could see figures running about the campsite, almost all heading into the woods, away from the tents. Raucous laughter came from somewhere over to his left, and as Harry turned, he saw what everyone was fleeing. A crowd of figures dressed in black robes was marching slowly across the campsite, wands held in clenched fists, and emitting bursts of light in a dozen colours. Drunken jeers echoed the bangs and crashes whenever one hit a solid object, causing it to burst into flame, or explode, or simply snap in two like a broken twig. Some of the figures clustered towards the centre held their wands upright, pointing into the night sky – and the four distorted bodies suspended as if from invisible strings. With flicks of their wands, or flashes of light from the others', they twisted the dangling figures into impossible shapes, and bounced them around. With a sickening realization, Harry saw who and what the figures were – they were the muggle family who owned the campsite, and they were toys.

Ron dashed out of the tent, followed closely by Fred and George, who stared at the gruesome scene before them in disgust and horror. Tormenting the muggles was something that Harry knew the twins could take in their stride, and perhaps even find amusing if not done to such a cruel extent, but the laughter coming from the black-robed crowd below sickened him to the bone. By the expressions on their faces, he saw that they shared the sentiment.

"Death Eaters," muttered Fred, glaring at the sight. He fumbled for his wand, and made a move as if to step towards them, but Percy grabbed his arm.

"Stay together. We'll sort this out. It'll be safer in the woods," said Percy, speaking over one shoulder, and running towards the Death Eaters, matched in stride by his older brothers and My Weasley.

Hermione came from the tent, clutching Ginny's hand tightly in her own. Her face was tightly drawn in worry, and Harry could only imagine what his own looked like. About the same, he thought. They all shared a similar expression. Fred and George looked the most troubled – torn between a desire to join the Ministry wizards attempting to help the muggle family and reluctance to leave the others behind, Harry thought. He felt exactly the same. Hermione seemed to pick up on this, and began to pull him towards the woods.

"Come on, Harry. You can't possibly help. You'll only get in the way," she said. Her words snapped Fred and George out of their own reverie, and they dashed off, tugging Ginny along with them, and beckoning for the others to follow. Harry hesitated, looking towards the crowd of Death Eaters once more. The look of fear on her face, and revulsion on Ron's, made the decision for him. He couldn't leave them alone.

Inside the woods, the trees were clustered close, spiny branches looking more like claws and less like the bright countryside that Harry had walked through to the stadium only hours before. He almost imagined them reaching closer to their small group when he spotted movement between the narrow trunks. Shadowy figures were roaming around, snapping branches and crashing into one another. A lump caught in his throat, and he pulled his wand out from his back pocket, expecting to see the masks and robes of Death Eaters. The sound of crying children met his ears, and he realized his mistake. These were the people who had been running away.

When they got closer to the people hiding in the woods, they began to get pushed to and fro by bodies whose faces they could not make out. Harry forced his way through the frightened throng to a clearer space, Ron and Hermione close on his heels. An elbow left a slight bruise on his stomach, and he almost walked over a small girl who was clutching at her mother's hand and whimpering softly, but he didn't manage to fall over – Ron did. If the situation was not so dire, Harry knew that it would have been funny, but with things as they were, a chill spread through him when he heard a yelp of pain coming from behind him.

"Ron? Are you okay?" asked Harry, looking around for his friend, but unable to find him in the dark. Hermione bumped into his back, and let out a surprised noise.

"This is ridiculous," said Hermione, drawing her wand out of her coat pocket, and waving it in a tight motion. "Lumos" The tip of her wand glistened for a moment, and a small orb of light grew in front of it. It cast a ghostly pallor over the trees, making the scene look more eerie than ever. Ron lay sprawled on the ground at the base of a tree, his face paler than the arcane light alone could account for.

"I...fell," said Ron, grabbing the hand that Harry offered and pulling himself up. "I thought someone pushed me, but there was nobody...." His words trailed off, and he brushed some of the dirt that had collected on his chest and arms in the fall. "Must have tripped over a tree root." Harry stared past his head, back towards the campsite. In getting away from the crowd in the woods, they had come right to the edge, where the trees dwindled and gave way to tents. The crowd of Death Eaters could be seen, not so very far away at all. A wave of revulsion flooded through Harry – he hated being unable to do anything to help. The muggle family still lay sprawled in midair, more distorted and unnatural than Ron could look if he had fallen over a thousand tree roots.

A drawling voice came from the shadows to his side, and his distaste deepened. He knew that voice, and it was not one he wanted to hear.

"With feet that size it is hard not to." Draco Malfoy leaned against another tree, looking completely at ease amidst the carnage so close to him. His typical smirk was plastered all over his face, and Harry knew what he had been doing – watching the Death Eaters tormenting the muggles. It was the kind of thing that he would enjoy.

"Malfoy," he spat, knowing full well that he was probably just as eager to get over to them as he was, but for an entirely different reason. Malfoy would want to join in. "That your dad out there?" A sneer matched his smirk in arrogance – Harry knew both expressions all too well after three years at Hogwarts together.

"Enjoying the show, Potter?" Malfoy laughed, both to himself and in Harry's face. "You want to watch yourself out here. They'll be coming after you lot next."

"Why would they want us?" Hermione cut in. Harry could tell what she was thinking – as the most brilliant young witch of their age, she often jumped to conclusions quickly. She was right more often than not, save for when it involved the forces of darkness and their personal vendetta against Harry.

"Because of you, mudblood," said Draco, his sneer taking on a cast of disgust. "They're looking for muggles."

"Hermione's a witch!" said Ron. Harry did as Hermione had been telling them to for years, and ignored Malfoy. No matter what he said or did, the little pale-haired rat would never change his ways. It was far from pleasant having someone like Draco around at the best of times, but at least he was more than justified in hexing him from time to time. Seeing Draco with boils rupturing everywhere on his body was always a good way to cheer himself up.

"Want to try telling that to them?" Draco's sarcasm was lost on Harry, who simply glared at him for a moment before answering.

"Yeah, go on them," he said angrily. He didn't think Draco would want to attract the attention of sadistic drunkards even if he wholeheartedly agreed with their ethics. When Draco opened his mouth and called out to them, his voice reaching above even the chaotic noise in the campsite, Harry began to understand that Draco didn't simply sympathise with the Death Eaters, but was a Death Eater in waiting already. Were it not for the fact that Voldemort was nowhere to be found, chances were that he'd already be one of them, and be doing much worse than hoisting muggles in the air by their ankles.

"Have it your way. Mudblood! Mudblood in the woods!" Most of the crowd stayed where they were, occupied by the joint tasks of fending off the handful of Ministry wizards attempting to bring the muggles down safely and making the most of their first time truly out in the open in the last ten years. Five or six, however, broke away from the mob and came towards the woods. Towards Harry, Ron, and Hermione. As much as Harry wanted to fight, he knew that he stood no chance alone against so many fully grown wizards versed in the Dark Arts. Ron and Hermione half a step ahead of him, he turned and fled deeper into the woods. Draco's sardonic laughter echoed in his ears, and he ground his teeth together in frustration. He hated being so useless.

Minutes later, they were much deeper in the woods. It seemed darker in here, and the trees were closer, but Harry couldn't be sure that the Death Eaters had been left behind. Several times as they ran he had thought he'd heard someone – or more than one – close on their heels. It could have simply been Ron's clumsy stride through branches and foliage, snapping and rustling the plant life as they ran, but he wasn't sure. Part of him hoped that it wasn't.

"Where do you think Fred and George have got to?" he asked, a little out of breath from running. They slowed to a walk to catch their breath, Ron and Hermione panting quite heavily. While still slender, playing Quidditch had helped to get Harry into shape. At times like these, he was grateful for that.

"Dunno," panted Ron, a few beads of sweat beginning to appear on his forehead, even in the dim light of Hermione's illuminated wand. "Ginny's with them, so they can't have gone far." Harry nodded, although he wasn't sure if the others saw him. Up ahead it was a little brighter. There was a clearing in the woods. Silvery light came from between the trees, a little brighter than the moonlight should have been. Not much, but enough that Harry noticed. When they entered the clearing, they saw why.

A group of young wizards were gathered in a huddle around three vela, tall and stately as they were beautiful. Silvery –blonde hair reflected the moonlight, brightening the clearing. Harry recognized one of the young wizards as Stan Shunspike, conductor of the Knight Bus.

"I'm a vampire hunter, I am. Get thousands o' galleons every year from the Ministry in payment for performin' such a difficult task. Well known, I am. You say you never 'eard of me?" Hermione snorted in derision, and Harry suppressed a laugh. He saw that Ron's face had gone an odd shade of purple, and watched him lean forward to shout over Stan's voice.

"I've invented a broomstick that'll reach Jupiter!" Harry pulled him back, and Hermione glared at him. The three veela glanced disinterestedly at the newcomers, and Stan followed their gaze. He looked confused for a moment, as if torn between looking at the trio and ogling the veela. After a moment of inner struggle that showed clearly in his eyes, he clapped a hand round Harry's shoulders.

"This is my good mate Harry Potter. Taught him all 'e knows, I did." The veela murmured amongst themselves, and seemed to come to a decision. They looked at Harry, and smiled, showing perfect white teeth. Their hair moved as if in an unseen breeze, and he felt their own unusual brand of magic strike him. His eyes widened, and everything faded away from him but the veela. He struggled to fight against it, but it was too strong. Unlike in the stadium, where their charm had been unfocused, cast over a large group, these three were focusing their power on him. It was too much – they were too beautiful – to resist. He was scarcely aware of Hermione tugging at his sleeve, or Ron staring at the veela beside him. They were everything.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard rustling behind him, and harsh laughter. Hermione's shout of fear didn't get through to him – it was just noise. There were Death Eaters behind him. Part of him knew that. The problem was that he didn't care. The veela were too important. His eyes were riveted on them, and his back was turned to the Death Eaters. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see one raise his wand, pointing it at Harry. Nothing mattered. One of the veela moved her lips silently. Harry, fixated upon her, could hear her unspoken words. More than hearing! He could feel the request – the demand – reverberate in the deepest depths of his being. The veela were everything, and he was nothing. Nothing, yes, but their nothing. He wanted nothing more than to please them, to please his angelic mistresses. Her lips moved again, and the words came again, somehow louder, despite making no sound.

"Protect us!"

Harry fell to the ground, and a narrow beam of sickly grey smoke shot overhead. It hit a tree, and the trunk scorched black as if burnt. Leaves rained down from overhead, and in a matter of seconds, it had withered and died. He couldn't let that happen to the veela. He had to protect them. Nothing was more important. Rising in a swift motion, he knocked the Death Eater's wand aside, using so much force that both their wrists broke. Harry didn't care. His pain didn't matter. All that mattered was protecting the veela. That thought rushed through him, over and over, screaming in his ears with a frantic desperation. His right hand was unharmed – he could still perform magic. The other Death Eaters clustered together, wands held out, pointing at Harry. He had to fight them, and he wanted to. Both the part of him that was entranced by the veela and the core of his being which had struggled against their control fell silent within him, held together in agreement. He had to protect them. Not just the veela, but everyone. He couldn't let anyone be harmed tonight, especially not his beautiful mistresses. He would die first.

Curling his forefinger around his own wand, Harry stared at the Death Eaters with hate in his eyes. He didn't know any offensive spells, minor hexes and jinxes aside. Schoolboy pranks would do no good against these dark wizards. He bit his lip, determined to do whatever he could, no matter how useless it was. He didn't even know how to cast a simple shield charm properly. His eyes turned to the veela as he wondered how to protect them best. He didn't want to entertain the thought of failure. They seemed to know the question he was asking himself, and gave the answer.

"Use the most powerful spell you know, Harry Potter. Show no mercy. Protect us!"

His mind worked furiously. He didn't know many powerful spells – he was only fourteen. He could attempt to animate the trees, but he had never succeeded in animating the simplest of objects. Even Hermione was still struggling with that feat. He wanted to destroy the Death Eaters, not simply stop them. Stunning spells, or petrification were useless. They wouldn't fully sate his anger at the ones who dared to harm the beautiful creatures he protected. The Death Eaters moved closer, almost seeming to glide across the mossy ground in their black cloaks. In the turmoil of his mind, Harry remembered another creature that moved with that horrible glide. Dementors. He was adept at banishing them, and had been able to cast the patronus charm; a spell of power far beyond that of his years. There – that was the answer he sought. A feral grin lit his face. He felt no joy at being able to guard his mistresses, only a grim satisfaction. They filled his thoughts too much, and he couldn't bring up another happy memory. What could make him happier than standing in the presence of the three veela he adored – and yet he was not happy. No, he felt no joy, only anger. It twisted within him, burrowing deeper and deeper into his heart. He didn't care if the patronus charm failed him. He had to try. Harry knew his feelings were wrong, but he remembered the first time he had ever cast a patronus. Lupin had asked him to find a new memory, a different one. He had replied that it was not happy – not quite – but it was the best he had.

"Is it strong, Harry?" Lupin had asked him. It had been. The feelings running through him now – they, too, were strong. Stronger than anything he had ever felt before.

Harry summoned every vestige of anger, both wrought by the veela's magic and by his own hatred of evil. The Death Eaters would not harm those he cared about. Anger and hate poured out of him, held together by fine threads of his desire to protect, above all else. Dark mist began to emanate from the tip of his wand, and he opened his mouth to scream the incantation.

"Expecto Patronum!" were the words that tore away from him, borne towards the Death Eaters on a wind of anger. The mist seeping from Harry's wand coalesced, thickening into solid form. The Death Eaters took a half step back as it took on the shape of a stag. Harry had fond memories of his patronus, despite the dark times in which he conjured it. It was one irrevocable link to his father. "The best defence is a good offence," murmured Harry, more to himself than to the Death Eaters. His eyes were dark and hooded, invisible in the dim light. The patronus did not light up the clearing. It darkened it.

Shadows clung to the sides of the stag, and tall antlers held high above its head were shot through with streaks of black. These same streaks of black flooded through the stag's body, writhing as if they were alive, and giving the stag a demonic appearance. This ethereal saviour did not exist to deflect harm. It existed to bring harm to those who meant it.

The patronus pawed the ground with a hoofed foreleg. A ripple of unease passed through the Death Eaters, and they moved their wands to point at it. It raised its head and let loose a vengeful cry before lowering its antlers, pointing straight at the Death Eaters as their wands pointed at it. The nearest one must have assumed it was an illusion, because he did not move.

"Finite Incantatum," muttered the robed figure, lazily waving his wand. When nothing happened, he repeated the action. It seemed to, if anything, infuriate the patronus. It charged straight at him, catching him on the antlers, and goring him like a bull. The antlers tore through the heavy fabric of his robes without any difficulty, and crushed their way into the Death Eater's chest with little more effort. Bright red blood gathered at the point where the antlers entered his body, and dripped out of his back. Harry was surprised by how little he seemed to bleed. Perhaps the Death Eaters, after all, were just bloodless cowards hiding behind their dark master.

"Incendio," said Harry, flicking his wand in the direction of the gored Death Eater. His robes and hair burst into flame, and the smell of burning flesh filled the clearing. He smiled when the stench hit his nostrils, and jerked his head towards the other Death Eaters. The patronus mimicked him, causing the Death Eater to slide off his antlers, flying into the others. They quickly put out the fire with jets of water from their wands, but the damage was done. One of them was gone, dead at the hands of their master's bane.

Shouts of anger came from the black-robed wizards, but Harry felt no fear. He was awash in a sea of emotions, all screaming within him, louder and more forceful than ever before. Agony seemed to split his skull in two – not from his scar, but from the sheer effort of conjuring a patronus such as he had. It was feeding on him, using his emotions as strength, and fuelling its power on the feelings rushing through him. Harry thought that this must be what it felt like to be struck by lightning. He wasn't in control of vast and powerful magic, he was just the conduit through which fuel for the patronus was flowing.

His eyes rolled up into the back of his head from the pain and pressure. It felt like his head was going to explode, and shards of glass seemed to be embedded beneath his skull. The patronus was not deterred. Harry couldn't see it, but he could somehow feel it, as if it were an extension of his body. He felt it leap across the distance to the Death Eaters, landing atop one and crushing his legs above the knees. It turned, knocking a third to the ground with a sweep of its antlers, tearing ragged gashes in his arm. The arm was not quite broken, but a pleasing sound – to Harry's ears – of scraping bone suggested that it had been torn open enough to show slivers of white.

Harry was swaying on his feet when the next Death Eater fell. A tripping jinx from one of his friends caused him to land solidly on his stomach. The patronus promptly trampled him, bones snapping beneath its weight. He never got up again.

Two more were left standing. Two more able to fight. Ron caught Harry's arm and held him upright, saying something that Harry couldn't make out. Hermione was saying something too, in the background. Their words were meaningless. All he understood was anger, and pain, and an overwhelming desire to protect the ones before him.

The patronus crushed its body against the first of the final pair, causing him to fall backwards, almost toppling over. Supporting himself by grabbing at his companion, he managed to prevent himself from falling. When the patronus attacked them again, he was not so lucky, and they both fell to the ground. Both of them had their skulls crushed by powerful forelegs, leaving only corpses behind, still warm from the life that had surged through their veins only moments ago.

Harry slumped to the mossy floor, his vision swimming. It was too hard to stay awake. He could see the veela, leaving the clearing hurriedly. He assumed that they had no wish to be caught up in this mess, either, and didn't blame them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he missed their presence, and wished for them to return, but even that thought could not stay. It hurt to think.

"Are you okay?" asked Hermione, kneeling beside Harry with a worried expression. He looked at her blearily, but couldn't answer. His tongue felt as if it was made of rubber, and his limbs of lead. A burst of green light overhead caused him to look up, straining his tired muscles as much as was possible. He couldn't move far, but it was enough to see what was suspended in the sky above. A luminous green skull of terrifying proportions stared down at him. A snake hung out of its mouth in place of a tongue, writhing in the sky with an unnatural life. Hermione gave a small squeak of fear, and he could see Ron's pale face grow even paler.

Beams of red light blocked his sight of the skull, flying overhead in every direction. Voices cried out all around him.

"Stupefy!"

Harry could see Arthur Weasley running towards them from between the trees. He didn't recognize the others gathered around them, and they didn't seem to be listening to Mr Weasley's demands that they stop. Eventually they seemed to hear him, and lowered their wands. None of the beams of light had connected with Harry, but nonetheless he fell into darkness.

Hanging in the sky and glowing bright in emerald, the skull was both the last and – inexplicably – the worst thing he saw that night. He didn't know what it was, but it filled him with a strange sense of foreboding. His last thought before he fell unconscious was that somehow the skull was making his scar prickle again. Perhaps it was hurting. He couldn't tell – everything else was in a sort of numb agony, too. It quickly faded, and there was nothing left.