Chapter Forty-Three of 'Wolf's Choice'- Like Stars

[lomonaaeren]

Chapter Forty-Two.

Title: Wolf’s Choice (43/60)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Main story is gen, a few GoF canon pairings mentioned
Content Notes: AU of GoF, angst, gore, violence, torture, present tense, minor character death
Rating: PG-13
Summary: AU of GoF. Harry begins his summer with horrific visions that come true much faster than he was expecting. He’ll have to rely on his circle of friends, both his guardians, and all his allies to cope with the results.
Author’s Notes: This is a long fic that is a sequel to my fic Other People’s Choices. Make sure you read that first before you start this one.

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Forty-Three—Like Stars

Albus stares at himself in the mirror. The only good thing about his appearance right now is that very few people are going to believe that he’s Albus Dumbledore, once Headmaster of Hogwarts, and feared and powerful wizard.

His left eye has healed as much as it’s going to heal, and now he has an eyelid that closes reluctantly over a mostly hollow socket. Dragonfire is meant to destroy, and so it severed all the connections that might have enabled Albus to grow a new optic nerve. The best he can do is a charm placed on the eyesocket that is a variation of the one used on magical eyes like Alastor Moody’s. He can see shapes and colors and the fall of light from that direction, and movement. But he can’t see clearly except on the right.

His left hand also caught some of the blast of fire, and there are scaly patches of melted scabs along the back of it where the skin will never grow properly again. But Albus can still use his fingers on that hand, and he doesn’t wield his wand with it anyway. He considers himself lucky there.

The greatest change, to his taste, is his face. The blast of fire seared away the beard that grew on the left side of his jaw, and there’s no more coaxing the hair to appear there. In the end, Albus shaved everything rather than go about with half a beard. To himself, he looks naked now.

Harry has changed him.

But most of all, Albus has changed in his own eyes, and he’s no longer as convinced as he once was that that is Harry’s fault.

If he had been vigilant, then Harry would never have been entered in the Tournament in the first place. He never would have acquired a dragon. He never would have become a murderer.

He never would have been Sorted into Slytherin, or, if he had been, he would never have stayed there. Albus could have been subtler about encouraging Harry to maintain his friendships with his old House, and then they would have counterbalanced the dreadful influence of Nott and Malfoy. And Black might have stayed loyal.

The world deserves a protector, has since Albus made the dreadful mistake of allowing Tom Riddle to attend Hogwarts. Albus assumed that it was his natural place to be that protector. He had caused the mistake, he should fix it.

But now he remembers what happened the last time he had that deep conviction. Aberforth estranged from him, and Ariana dead, and his own cowardice preventing him from facing Gellert until he had no choice.

The Elder Wand gives a single deep thrum in his right hand. It’s opposed to what he’s thinking, but he’s fought with it since he took it from Gellert, his natural preference to work behind the scenes opposing its desire for flair and open domination. Albus turns it around now and thinks.

He has something in mind. He might never have thought of this if not for the pain of his melted left eye and left hand. But if he cannot make a contribution to the defense of Britain through his power and his leadership skills, then he will make it another way.

He will make a gift. He will show the world that his arrogance has diminished and he no longer views himself as the only one able to protect it.

Or perhaps he will not. It all depends on whether the person he makes the gift to has any compulsion to let other people know.

Albus puts the Elder Wand down and goes in search of the books that should still be here in the old Dumbledore house. To make this gift will require work and study of at least a month. He has never done something like this before, although he knows the general outlines of the theory.

How could he have done something like this? This is the last thing someone does before the end.

*

“Have you thought about it, Potter?”

Zacharias has waited patiently until he could catch Harry alone. It’s not been easy. An honor guard of Slytherins and Gryffindors seems to surround him day and night, never letting a poor Hufflepuff through.

Now, though, Zacharias has his chance. Harry is alone in the corridor outside the study room, except for his dragon and his golden winged snake. The snake seems to approve of Zacharias, and at least Chaos doesn’t look at him with any hostility. Zacharias inclines his head to Harry and waits for attention.

“Thought about what, Smith?” Harry sounds distracted. Not good for the proposition Zacharias wants to put to him, but he pushes ahead anyway.

“Thought about making a political statement like those older Slytherins want.”

“Oh, have they infected you with that madness?” Harry leans back on the wall with a tired sigh. Chaos sticks her nose into his pocket, apparently looking for treats, and Harry absently pushes her away. “No. I don’t think I need to make a political statement, anyway. People always assume they know what I stand for since I’m the Boy-Who-Lived.”

“But that’s exactly why you should make a statement. People just make assumptions. They might not be accurate—”

“You know what I really want, Smith?”

Zacharias pauses. That tone in Harry’s voice and the intent glance he’s getting aren’t exactly the responses he hoped for out of Harry. “What?” he asks cautiously.

“For people to stop making those assumptions. And for people I consider my friends and allies to stop pushing me as if the greatest thing I could do is engage with them.”

“I think everyone in the study group would agree that the assumptions about you are unfair,” Zacharias says, striking out in what seems to be the direction of dangerously shifting higher ground. “Really unfair,” he adds, as he watches the glare in Harry’s eyes deepen. “But that’s why they need to be counteracted. They can’t go away if you stand back and do nothing.”

“I’m not doing nothing. I’m studying magic, and I’m teaching my friends to defend themselves. And I refused to participate in that stupid Tournament.” Harry looks down at Chaos leaning against his leg. “I mean, as far as I could.”

“So you’re not interested in making more political moves? My grandfather said—”

“I’m grateful to your grandfather for getting Dumbledore tried under the Law of Medea and getting him out of my life.” Harry scrubs his face with one hand and starts walking down the corridor. Zacharias follows him, because as far as he’s concerned, they’re not done talking yet. “He’s a good ally, too. But I’m not interested in being more political, now.”

“What if people misuse your name behind your back?”

“Do you know someone who has?”

Harry turns around with a darkness to his face that makes Zacharias pity the first person who tries that, actually. Zacharias shakes his head. “I’m just saying that it could happen if you don’t take ownership of your image and your words. Give a few interviews to the papers, make just a few statements of principles, and people will at least have something to work with.”

Harry smiles faintly. “I’ve seen first-hand how the papers can twist things. Giving them more to work with is giving them more to condemn me with. And I do have someone who occasionally gives interviews and gives me advice on what to do.”

“You do?” Zacharias stares in astonishment. “Who?”

“Her name’s Gwendolyn Macmaillan.”

“Oh, yes.” Zacharias recognizes the name of Ernie’s great-aunt, and now that he’s thought about it, he remembers that her name was in the papers last year some of the time saying that Harry wanted privacy, or directing the interviews that he gave to reporters. He hasn’t seen her name there in a while, though. “Is she still doing that?”

Harry nods with a snort. “She just tells the reporters exactly what we agree they should hear, and they don’t bother me. They’d rather talk to an adult, anyway. They want me to be an adult, but I’m not, and apparently I don’t make a good interview subject.”

“So you won’t—reconsider?”

“Why should I, Zacharias? I’m sorry if your grandfather thinks that I was going to let him run a public campaign for me in exchange for bringing this forwards in the Wizengamot, but I’ve already got someone who does that.”

Zacharias finds a reluctant smile twisting up the corners of his mouth. “Well, truthfully, Grandfather wanted to do this partially as revenge because Dumbledore tried to read my mind last year. But also because of you,” he adds hastily. He doesn’t want Harry, who doesn’t have the kind of powerful blood family that the Smiths are, to feel left out.

Harry only laughs quietly at him. “I reckoned. Well, thank your grandfather for me and tell him to send an owl to Madam Macmillan if he thinks some kind of statement of principles is a good idea.” He nods to Zacharias and then turns and walks away, Chaos trotting next to him and nuzzling a little at his leg. Harry speaks to her in Parseltongue, which no longer makes Zacharias jump and swear the way it used to.

Thoughtfully, Zacharias goes back to the Hufflepuff common room. He knows Grandfather Josiah will be disappointed, but Zacharias isn’t. He thinks about the odd feeling in the center of his chest all evening. It’s not just that Harry is his friend. Zacharias has friends and he never hesitates to advise them. He disapproves when they don’t follow his advice, too.

But this is like...

Pride, Zacharias thinks finally. It’s like pride. As though he’s proud that he has a leader who’s beyond being influenced by Grandfather Josiah and doesn’t owe Zacharias a favor.

Which is beyond strange, because Grandfather and Father always taught Zacharias never to yield to anyone, to think for himself, to follow no leaders except the ones that could actually benefit their family. And those have been few and far between for the Smiths. They’ve mostly been leaders themselves.

For some reason, though, it’s different when it’s Harry. It just is.

*

“I came to ask you whether you would be competing in the Third Task, Mr. Potter.”

Harry gives Karkaroff a thin smile. The man is standing carefully back out of what he probably assumes is Chaos’s flame range. Harry thinks he won’t tell him that Chaos could still breathe on him from there. “Can you even call it the Third Task when there was no Second Task? Sir.”

Karkaroff flushes red, predictably, and swells up like a toad. “There was no Second Task because you refused to cooperate, Mr. Potter!”

“As I told you I would all along. Which ought to answer the question you just asked me.”

“The Tournament is an important effort to bring our schools together and eliminate nationalist prejudice,” Karkaroff begins.

Harry snorts. “And instead it encourages competition, backstabbing, and manipulation.” Truthfully, he thinks the only reason Karkaroff and Maxime haven’t attempted to corner him before this and force him to participate in the Tournament is because of the bad press they got after they spread rumors about a friend of his being at the bottom of the lake. They could have held a Second Task at any point without him, once Cedric got better from his illness, but they refused. Or were afraid of the papers.

“You would know all about manipulation, of course?”

“Are you still holding on to the tired theory I put my own name in the Goblet? Really?” Harry makes sure his voice is slightly patronizing, the way that Professor Snape’s voice is half the time when he talks to Sirius and Remus. “We know who did it and we know how it was accomplished. I announced that to all the papers.”

“It is most convenient, this, that you blamed someone whom you killed afterwards.”

Harry rolls his eyes upwards until it feels like they’re about to touch his skull, and turns away. He doesn’t think there’s anything to be gained from a conversation with Karkaroff.

“You will listen to me!” Karkaroff shouts, and makes a grab for his arm. Then he ducks back with a little scream as Chaos lunges at him, even though she just tried to claw his leg and didn’t breathe fire on him.

“You will listen to me, now,” Harry announces coldly, stepping back and curling one arm around Chaos’s neck so she can’t lunge again. “You can hold the Tournament perfectly well without me. You have a Hogwarts Champion. Award me zero points and put me in last place. I don’t care. There’s no reason that you need to have four wizards competing when even the bloody name is saying that there should only be three! Do whatever you want, but leave me out of it.”

“You must be there.”

“There’s no magical reason why. There’s no legal reason why. You were one of the people who thought I shouldn’t be there from the beginning, sir. Care to tell me why you’ve changed your mind so drastically?”

The corridor is silent for a second apart from Karkaroff’s breathing. Harry keeps his hand firmly on Chaos and watches warily. For the first time, it occurs to him that there does seem to be more to this for Karkaroff than just the mere legalistic rules of a Tournament or exasperation that Harry is getting away with things.

“I need to show that Viktor is the best.”

Harry blinks. Well, that’s not what he expected. “What do you mean?”

“Viktor, some people doubt him.” Karkaroff seems to be speaking carefully, searching for words, and Harry thinks it’s not his problems with English. “They think he is nothing but a good Quidditch player, that he is not a good student or a good wizard. He needs to utterly destroy his challengers. He got no chance in the Second Task, and the First Task performance was overshaded by you and your dragon.” He spits the words, glaring at Chaos, who looks unimpressed. “But he is the best student in Durmstrang! He deserves to show that he can beat all the competition.”

Harry shakes his head. “Well, sorry, but I’m not going to participate in this farce just so he can show that. It wouldn’t be much good to show he can beat a fourteen-year-old anyway, right? It’s Fleur and Cedric that he needs to beat.”

“You have a reputation.”

Harry shrugs. “That’s too bad. Like I said, Viktor will just have to live without the notion that he can beat the Boy-Who-Lived. And you’ll have to do the same.” He sees Karkaroff slowly drawing his wand from his pocket, but for the moment, decides to pretend that he doesn’t. He just fastens his gaze earnestly on Karkaroff and repeats, “He’ll have to—”

A Stunner comes shooting at him. Harry doesn’t move, because it would mean he had to release his hold on Chaos, and he’s honestly not sure what she’d do. He fastens his gaze on Karkaroff and snaps up his wandless magic around him instead.

The Stunner bounces from a Shield Charm that wasn’t there a second ago and hits the wall behind Karkaroff. A small pebble falls out. That’s nothing compared to the way that Karkaroff’s jaw falls, which Harry honestly thinks is pretty humorous.

“I gave you a refusal that I think you should have respected,” Harry says. Healer Lyndell told him a few weeks ago that he could be more impressive if he didn’t get angry, and with wandless magic and an angry dragon on his side, it’s easy not to. “I don’t care about the Tournament. I don’t care about my reputation. I don’t care about the reputation of the other people who entered. Do whatever you need to to convince people that Krum is more than just a Quidditch player. I don’t care. But don’t expect to involve me in any way.”

Karkaroff is silent. Harry waits for a response, but it seems that he isn’t going to get it. He ends up shrugging and turning away, heading towards the Slytherin common room.

Blackstaff and a few of the other older Slytherins who have joined the study group on probation are waiting for him there.

“That was impressive,” Blackstaff says. She’s speaking slowly, like she assumes that referring to what must be the incident with Karkaroff will offend him. Or maybe she’s only wary of Chaos.

She doesn’t have to be, Harry could say. Chaos is projecting images of herself asleep and upside-down beneath Harry’s bed at the moment, and she wouldn’t attack unless someone proved herself a threat right in front of her. But Harry finds it easier to handle the older Slytherins when they think he has deadly force on his side, so he only smiles and tries to push past them.

“I was thinking about what you said the other day.”

“What thing I said the other day?” Harry pauses in front of the common room door. “About wandless magic?”

“No. About refusing to be a Lord.”

Harry braces himself for another fruitless discussion, but Blackstaff is already charging ahead with impulsiveness that Snape would probably scold her for. “I don’t know any Lord who could do what you did tonight.”

Harry stares at her. “There must be Lords in history who have been able to do wandless magic.”

“Not that. That you—that you held onto your temper and defeated him by hardly doing anything. That was more impressive than getting enraged and spraying him with dragonfire or curses.”

Harry is a little lost. Blackstaff thinks that this is some huge kind of important moment, but to Harry, it was only one in a long series of unimportant moments dealing with people who want to shape him to their own ends—and Blackstaff should know something about that, since she is one of them. “Right,” he finally says.

“So we won’t insist you be our lord.”

“Good,” Harry says, and then gives the password and hastily enters the common room before anyone can say anything else. He isn’t in the mood to discuss this tonight.

But as he’s stroking Chaos’s belly that night and waiting to fall asleep, he finds himself feeling a little hopeful. Maybe, just maybe, that means his middle path, the one that avoids the extremes of Lord-enslavement and dragon-individuality, will work.