Stormseeker: Borrowed Destiny

That's not the last of my 'detentions' with Moody. As autumn wears on, I'm getting better with the Killing Curse, able to cast it faster and more effectively.

"Avada Kedavra!" I cast, and with a rush of green light, a rat drops dead.

My heart is racing, and it's such a thrill to cast that spell. Such power! I was too horrified at what I was doing to really notice it the first time that I barely managed to cast it. But now, I find myself wanting to kill things, eager for these sessions, looking forward to them all week. It's getting easier and easier to cast the spell, and in the back of my mind, this disturbs me greatly.

Paranoid of Prior Incantato, I clear out my wand after every session. Lumos, Tempus, Scourgify, Reparo, and so forth. The halls become very clean, and perhaps I've disappointed a few house-elves in giving them less work to do.

Classes in general are even rougher this year than they were last year. I suppose it's because the material is more advanced, and whatever knowledge I gained in the future doesn't really help so much here. I'm reaching the limits of where I've studied ahead.

I can do the Summoning Charms that Flitwick is teaching us already, but I've even fallen behind Neville in Transfiguration. I imagine that I would probably be completely useless in Charms if I hadn't been studying ahead. Most of the spare time I have that isn't spent with Storm Army's informal Dueling Club is spent practicing charms. At least Hermione is happy to help, when she isn't hanging out with Rispy, plotting elvish liberation, or snogging Draco, or whatever it is she's doing. Well, I don't think she's actually snogging Draco, at any rate.

Dealing with my transformations this year is rougher, since I don't have the excuse of spending them with a known werewolf that I did last year. I wind up convincing Snape to give me Wideye Potion so that I can continue to attend classes after spending nights as a werewolf. I'm missing a lot of sleep, but I push through by sheer stubbornness. It's making a wreck out of me, however.

In Potions, we've been studying antidotes, and I've been being as hopeless at it as usual.

"Potter," Snape says. "You rely on Malfoy far too much in this class, I think."

"It's better this way," I say. "Fewer explosions. Same reason Neville's with Hermione. I know this isn't where my talents lie, but at least I know enough not to cause unnecessary problems."

Snape peers down at me. "And what would you do if you cannot brew a proper antidote?"

"Shove a bezoar down their throat," I reply. "Definitely beats wasting the time attempting to make an antidote that I doubt would be brewed well enough to work properly anyway."

Snape is looking at me strangely. Maybe he's forgotten about what happened in the Chamber of Secrets. So he was Obliviated, but it's not like my memory was lying. I did show that to him, didn't I? "Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek," Snape says lazily. "Carry on, Potter." He shakes his head as he walks away.

"That was weird," Draco whispers.

Toward the end of October, the groups from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive. We get out of Potions class early because of it. That's probably just as well. The entire school is brought out to gather as the visiting students arrive.

Padfoot takes a place at my side, and McGonagall glares at him for a moment. "At least the dog is better behaved than some of my human students," she mutters, moving on.

Beauxbatons arrives in an enormous flying carriage, and a woman as big as Hagrid climbs out. A dozen students in their late teens come out after her, shivering in their thin clothing. Didn't they realize it would be cooler here? And do they not bother teaching Warming Charms in whatever sort of obviously warmer climate Beauxbatons is located in?

The Durmstrang group comes in a ship that emerges from the lake. It looks as though it might have been a wreck or something. It must be enchanted to be able to travel to whatever body of water they want it to. That must be an interesting bit of enchantment work. The Durmstrang students are all wearing cloaks of heavy fur. Maybe it's just as well that this wasn't being hosted at Durmstrang, since the Beauxbatons lot would likely be freezing there.

"Look, it's Krum!" Draco whispers next to me.

"Who?" I say. "Oh, the Quidditch player? He goes to Durmstrang? Didn't realize he was so young. Playing at the World Cup when he's still in school?"

"I'm going to try to get his autograph," Draco says.

I snort softly in amusement and just shake my head, grinning. We head into the Great Hall. The students from Beauxbatons take seats at the Ravenclaw table, while the ones from Durmstrang situate themselves at the Slytherin table. Draco drags me over to try to get a seat straight across from them. Which one of them was Krum again? I didn't exactly get a close look during the Quidditch World Cup.

"Oh, the Stormseeker wants to sit here," murmurs a sixth year. "We'll move." The older students shuffle away and let my group sit across from the Durmstrang students.

"Is this your table?" asks one of the foreigners. "You aren't wearing the same colors as the others at this table." He talks a little funny, well, funnier than usual for this world, but I'm quite used to hearing the people at Hogwarts talk by now.

"Technically, I'm in Gryffindor," I say, gesturing vaguely off toward their table.

"But some of the other Gryffindors don't like him overly much, so we usually sit with the Slytherins," Neville says.

"What did they call you? Stormseeker?" asks another student.

"Ah, allow me to introduce myself," I say. "I am Harry Potter. And yeah, they call me the Stormseeker." I snort softly. "It beats calling me the Boy-Who-Lived. I've surely got some claim to fame beyond merely not dying."

"Harry Potter," says one of the Durmstrang boys. "Good to meet you. I am Viktor Krum."

"I'm Draco Malfoy. Can I get your autograph? I'm totally your biggest fan!"

I snort again, almost choking on the bite of food I'd just put in my mouth. Padfoot seems to be amused as well, stopping eating for a moment to give a sort of canine laugh.

"Perhaps later," Viktor offers, peering at Padfoot. "That's an awfully large dog. They allow you to bring pets like that to the table?"

"Wouldn't want to be sneaking him food or having him raiding the kitchens, would we?" I say. "Good doggy." I scratch him behind the ears fondly.

"I don't know if it's so much allowed as that nobody really wants to argue about it," Hermione says.

"So, Viktor Krum, is it?" I say. "You can play Quidditch, it seems. But can you duel?" I grin at him wickedly.

"Are you challenging me, little boy?" Viktor says. "What's it to you?"

"I'm the current head of the Hogwarts Dueling Club," I say.

"You?" Viktor says. "What are you, twelve, thirteen?"

"Fourteen!" I say. Physically thirteen, mentally fifteen, close enough.

"They canceled Quidditch and Dueling Club this year, what with the Tournament," Draco gripes. "But that wasn't about to stop the Stormseeker from doing it unofficially."

"I see," Viktor says. "Well, then, give me a time and place, if you want to see what a real duelist can do."

"You're on," I say. "Saturday, after breakfast, in the room next to the tapestry with the sleeping dragon."

At the end of the feast, Dumbledore stands up and announces, "The Triwizard Tournament is about to begin."

First, however, he introduces Ludo Bagman and Bartemius Crouch, leaving me yawning. I already saw both of them at the Quidditch World Cup. A former Quidditch player who tries to goad people into gambling, and a... what in the Abyss does Crouch actually do, anyway? I'm not sure that I even care.

"In addition to myself, Madame Maxine, and Professor Karkaroff, the heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang respectively, they will be making up the panel of judges that will score the champions' efforts," Dumbledore goes on.

An old, jeweled chest is brought forth, and the students peer over and whisper excitedly about it.

"We will hold three tasks throughout the year, to test the champions' magical skills, intelligence, and capability of handling danger and the unknown," Dumbledore says. "There will be three champions, one from each of the competing schools. And the student to compete for each participating school will be chosen by an impartial selector that cannot be influenced by outside forces: The Goblet of Fire."

Dumbledore taps the chest, and pulls out a large wooden cup filled with blue flames.

"Anyone wishing to compete must write their name and school on a piece of parchment and place it into this cup," Dumbledore says. "You have twenty-four hours to enter. Tomorrow night, the champions for each school will be selected. And, to ensure that no underage student can enter, I will be drawing an Age Line around the goblet that will prevent anyone under the age of seventeen from crossing."

I murmur to my friends, "You know, this entire setup seems a little silly. Didn't this tournament used to take place every five years? But the way they have it set up now, only seventh years and a few sixth years are going to be able to enter. So most people would never even have a chance to try to compete. They really ought to make up their minds whether they want this to be a competition for students or for adults."

"Not that it should be a problem to you" Draco whispers. "I'm sure you'll find a way to enter."

All of the Durmstrang students enter their names. Fred and George attempt to bypass the Age Line with some sort of potion, but they're flung back several feet and sprout long, white beards. Impressive Beard-Growing Jinx, I think.

I, however, am not about to test it in front of everyone. I take a nap in the evening, putting up with nightmares so as not to waste a Dream Sweet and make sure that I'll actually want to wake up. I wait until after curfew, and then slip down in the invisibility cloak. The hour of midnight is just striking as I arrive, and no one else appears to be around.

I slip forward, creeping up to the Age Line. WHOOSH! I go flying backward, just like the Weasley twins had, sprouting a beard of my own. I mutter a Shaving Charm and straighten myself up. Why do I even know that charm? Because I know the Beard-Growing Jinx and I'm paranoid.

So, whether it goes by physical age or mental age, I'm still underage. Bah, I'm a Time Mage. I should be able to work around this. I just need to be a few years older. I need to be older.

I shudder involuntarily. What was that? It felt like my skin was crawling for a moment. Wait, why is my face rough? I just shaved! Hmm, could it be, I wonder? I need to be older, I think hard, focusing upon that thought harder.

I almost collapse that time, my head spinning, my skin crawling, my body shifting. It's not as painful as the werewolf transformation, but it does ache. I put my hand against the wall, panting softly. I feel as though I just ran a mile in five seconds.

Well, it feels like I'm older, certainly. The sudden gain in height feels a little awkward, and my robes fit uncomfortably snugly on my chest. If this doesn't get me past the Age Line, nothing will. I approach the shimmering golden line, step across, and then promptly get flung back again, sprouting a brand new beard once more.

Obviously, it goes by mental age, not physical. I could be hundreds of years old, physically, but I'm still only mentally fifteen, so that's the age it must think I am. Or worse, it might be able to determine that I should actually chronologically be thirteen in the current time frame. That doesn't really matter at the moment, however. Either way, I'm simply not old enough.

My bones ache, and my skin crawls some more. Damn it, I didn't mean to do that. Wishing that I were older is actually making me older. I never actually wished that I were older before. I was perfectly content with the age I actually was. Now, my body is full of all of these little aches, and my skin hangs from my bones as though it's trying to cover up more than there is. My vision is hazy, like everything is a little out of focus.

I lean against the wall heavily, and slide down to the floor. My heart is pounding in my chest, weakly, painfully, like it can't quite keep up with the exertion I've been putting my body through. I slip down into darkness.

I wake in the Gryffindor boys' dorm, shortly before midnight, and blink. What in the Abyss happened? What did I do, age myself to death somehow? Brilliant, just brilliant.

Surely there must be some way to get my name into the Goblet of Fire, but right at this moment, I'm more concerned and curious about this strange new ability of mine that I've discovered. I head into the bathroom and peer at myself in the mirror. Ordinary thirteen year old boy. At least it doesn't appear to have had any lingering effects.

So, how did I do it? Did I just kind of want to be older, and I got older? This would be really bad if it happened accidentally again. I'm going to need to learn to control this. And if I can make myself older, I can probably make myself younger again, or simply not age at all, couldn't I?

I strip off my clothes so that they aren't getting in the way, since this sort of transformation doesn't seem to change them. Then, I carefully start experimenting a bit. Older, younger, specific ages. The more I do it and the faster I do it, the more it hurts, though. The human body wasn't meant to undergo rapid changing of ages. At least I manage to avoid killing myself from old age again.

The door opens behind me and I jump in surprise as I see Ron's reflection in the mirror. He stands and gapes speechlessly at the naked middle-aged man standing in the dorm restroom.

Once he overcomes his shock, Ron whips out his wand and pokes it at my back. "Who are you and what are you doing in here?"

"Um... hi, Ron," I murmur in a voice that sounds way too deep. "It's me, Harry."

Ron peers up at the reflection of my face, as I'm still not going to turn around. "Harry Potter?" he repeats. "What did you do?"

"I was trying to get past the Age Line," I say.

Ron snorts softly. "Always trying for fame and glory, aren't you?" he says. "Didn't you see what happened to my brothers, you idiot?"

"It was worth a shot," I say. "But it didn't work, anyway."

"Of course it didn't," Ron says. "Dumbledore's magic isn't about to be tricked that easily. But more importantly, why are you naked?"

"My clothes wouldn't fit anymore like this," I say a little sheepishly.

I focus my Time Magic on becoming younger again so that I don't have to stand in front of Ron like this anymore. A little too enthusiastically, however. I keep shrinking rapidly past my intended age, down to a child, a toddler, a baby. I start panicking fervently moments before the world winks out.

I wake up with a start. Damn it, I killed myself again. I need to quit doing that. Obviously, my control over this power still isn't nearly as good as it ought to be. I need to try and put in some mental blocks as safeguards or something. No going under one year old or over seventy, no matter what. There's no good reason to want to go outside of that range, anyway.

Unless, of course, I just want a quick way to kill myself, I suppose. Which might not be such a terrible thing, really. An emergency way to force a reset if need be. Not something I would want to do carelessly, of course, but it's always good to have options.

I think, however, that I will leave further practice with this for another time. Two accidental, self-inflicted deaths is enough for one night, I think. Instead, I turn my thoughts on how to get my name into the Goblet of Fire. Pulling the invisibility cloak back on, I head downstairs again.

So, let's see. I bring out the piece of parchment with my name on it. First I try getting it across by levitating it over, but it just stops at the Age Line. Then I try wadding the bit of parchment up into a ball and chucking it in. Even without magic powering it, the parchment stops at the Age Line again. Dumbledore isn't about to make this easy, is he. Everything I try fails.

Then I have an idea. I grin broadly and slip down to the Slytherin dorms to see a dog about a man. A man that is a dog. A dog that is a man. Whatever.

Padfoot's ears perk up as I creep into the dorm, doubtless hearing my footsteps before I even take off the cloak.

I mutter a few quick spells to ensure some privacy and not to wake up the Slytherins, and say, "Hey, Sirius?"

The dog's form morphs and changes, and Sirius Black stands before me. "Evening, Harry," Sirius says. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get my name into the Goblet of Fire for the tournament," I say. "It's not working very well. So, I don't suppose I can convince you to put my name in for me?"

Sirius scowls at me. "You know I don't approve of you trying to do this, Harry," Sirius says. "It's dangerous, and it's bound to attract far too much attention. Let someone else be in the spotlight for once."

"Oh, come on, Sirius," I say. "When have you ever been a stickler for rules? You, Padfoot, of the mighty Marauders?"

"It's nothing to do with the rules, Harry," Sirius says firmly. "I just don't want to see you getting hurt, you know?"

"I'm immortal," I remind him. "In fact, I've already accidentally died twice tonight, but that's another matter entirely..."

"Harry!" Sirius says. "You shouldn't take this so flippantly. I'm just looking out for you, you know? And I'm worried about what might happen if you end up becoming more famous than you already are. What if they scrutinize your actions to the point where your crimes are uncovered? You don't want to go to Azkaban, believe me."

I sigh, looking to the floor as my expression falls. "I know... I just... I'm sorry, I just thought it would be fun and a good chance to prove myself..."

"There will always be more opportunites for fun," Sirius says. "And who do you have to prove yourself to? Yourself?"

"I guess you're right," I say, although I can't help but sound extremely disappointed.

"Why don't you look on it as an opportunity to prank the pants off of the actual champions?" Sirius says with a grin. "It's not every year that you get stuck-up foreign students hanging around Hogwarts, after all."

I chuckle softly. "That might not be such a terrible idea."

"Keep that thought in mind," Sirius says. "Now, why don't you run off to bed and get some sleep? Unless you're planning to stay here tonight, of course."

"I think I'll just stay here," I say, canceling my spells and curling up on the couch. Sirius resumes canine form and cuddles up next to me. I pull a Dream Sweet out of my bag of holding, pop it into my mouth and settle in for sleep.

The next day is Monday, Halloween. Hopefully I've already gotten the potential for bad things on Halloween out of the way with dying this morning. Still, not a single Halloween can pass for me without feeling a nagging sense of dread, whether anything bad actually ends up happening or not.

"So, the Stormseeker decided to sneak into our dorm to crash last night, huh?" Draco says. "Why don't you just join Slytherin already and make it official?"

"Nah," I say. "Besides, I like being in Gryffindor."

"Why?" Blaise wonders.

"Because nothing says 'I'm a reckless idiot with no sense of self-preservation' like being in Gryffindor," I reply.

"You're not an idiot, boss," Crabbe says.

"So, did you do it?" Draco asks. "Did you get your name in?"

I shake my head. "Sadly not. But I did discover something neat I can do! Watch this!"

Carefully, much more carefully than I had done before, I will myself to be older, stopping at around the age of forty. Then I make myself young again, down to five years old, before returning to the age I'm supposed to be.

"Whoa!" Draco says. "You can change your age at will! Kind of like a Metamorphmagus, like that my half-blood cousin of mine? Except just with age and not appearance, I guess."

"Hmm," Blaise says. "That would be awfully useful for disguises, I think."

Theodore adds, "And for getting into anyplace that would require you to be an adult that isn't as stringent as an Age Line."

"I just need to be careful not to go too far in either direction," I say. This could also be useful if I'd rather start off in a new life as an adult rather than deal with being a child again. Of course, if I'm attempting to learn magic and enter myself in a magic school, then being a child would still be ideal.

That evening, following the Halloween feast, everyone is eagerly looking to the Goblet of Fire.

"The goblet is almost ready to decide on the champions for this tournament," Dumbledore says. "When I call the champions' names, I want them each to come up and enter through that door for further instructions."

So I won't be competing this year. I still haven't gotten over how disappointed I am about that. I can have my little unofficial Dueling Club, but it's just not the same. It doesn't even matter if I would have won or not. The point is in testing myself. If I can't even win a duel against Ginny Weasley, I'd have no hope against Sedder.

The flames in the Goblet of Fire flare up and turn red, and a piece of parchment flies out. Dumbledore catches it and reads, "The champion for Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum."

"Way to go, Krum!" Draco says, applauding as Viktor gets up and heads for the side room.

"Bravo, Viktor!" exclaims Karkaroff.

The goblet spits out another parchment, and Dumbledore grabs it and reads, "The champion for Beauxbatons will be Fleur Delacour."

A beautiful girl with silvery hair gets up and heads over to the door.

A third parchment comes out of the goblet, and Dumbledore takes that and says, "The champion for Hogwarts will be Cedric Diggory!"

"Who?" I mutter.

"Hufflepuff," Draco says distastefully. "Seeker for their house team."

"You know who this competition is really unfair toward?" I say. "Gemma Farley. She totally should've been our champion. But we get a Hufflepuff instead? Bah."

"I hear he's a good student," Hermione says.

"He's a Hufflepuff," Draco says. "Hard work, and all that."

"Now we have our three champions for the tournament!" Dumbledore says. "I hope I can count on all of you to give your champion all the support you can..." Dumbledore blinks and turns around in surprise as the goblet flares to life one more time, and another piece of parchment comes out. He peers at the piece of paper in puzzlement, and then says, "Apparently, the champion for the Salem Witches' Institute will be Harry Potter..."

"What?" I exclaim.

"You got your name in the goblet after all?" Draco asks.

"No," I say firmly. "And if I had, it certainly wouldn't have been under the Salem Witches' Institute!"

"Harry, if you would please come up here?" Dumbledore beckons me over.

I approach the staff table. "But I'm not even a witch!" I protest.

I'd already resigned myself to not getting to compete, but now that I've unexpectedly wound up being entered, I'm not sure whether or not I should even be happy about it. Was this some sort of horrible prank? Who put my name into the goblet?

"Through the door, Harry," Dumbledore says.

I step into the room where Viktor, Fleur, and Cedric are waiting. Fleur looks up at me and says, "What is it? Are we needed outside again?"

Ludo Bagman comes into the room behind me, and says, "This is more extraordinary! May I introduce our fourth Triwizard champion, Harry Potter?"

"It's not a Triwizard Tournament if there are four champions," I point out. "And I don't attend the Salem Witches' Institute. I've never even been there."

"What is going on here?" Viktor asks.

"Somebody put my name into the stupid goblet," I say. "Under the Salem Witches' Institute!"

"This must be a mistake," Fleur says. "He's too young to compete."

"I'm afraid it's a magically binding contract," Ludo says. "He can't back out now. Harry Potter is compelled to compete."

I'm not Harry Potter, however. I can't tell them that, though. Still, if I wanted to back out of this, I shouldn't receive any ill effects from it.

The three headmasters come into the room, along with Mr. Crouch. Fleur looks at them indignantly and exclaims, "What is the meaning of this? Is this little boy supposed to be competing too?"

Little boy? I glare at her, and my skin ripples involuntarily. I find myself abruptly a few inches taller. Crap, I didn't mean to do that. Everyone is looking at me in alarm.

"What on earth was that?" Ludo says.

"I think we've figured out how he managed to bypass the Age Line," Viktor says.

"I didn't," I say. "I swear, I tried, actually, but I couldn't get across anyway. I was going to try to enter, but if I had, it would have been under Hogwarts, not the freaking Salem Witches' Institute."

"Harry, what did you just do?" Dumbledore asks.

"Um..." I say. "I'm apparently a sort of Metamorphmagus or something. I can change my age at will."

"Fascinating!" Ludo says. "A most unique and extraordinary ability!"

"Regardless of how old he looks, he's still a child!" Fleur says.

"And Hogwarts should not have two champions," Madame Maxine says. "It would be quite unfair."

"Technically, I'm not a champion for Hogwarts," I say. "I'm a champion for the Salem Witches' Institute. Perhaps someone should contact their headmistress. I'm sure she might like to know about this."

"You told us that your Age Line would keep out the younger contestants," Karkaroff says. "Otherwise, we would have brought a wider selection of potential candidates along with us."

"It did keep me out," I say. "It only cares about mental age, not physical." I grumble a little and will myself to return to the proper age, if only because my clothes are uncomfortable when I'm bigger like that. "I even tried to convince an older friend to put my name in for me, but he refused. So, despite me trying and failing to find a way to get my name in, and giving up, I wound up in anyway somehow?"

I sigh and sit back over in the corner and watch them argue about it. I wonder where Theodore got that lovely portable magic popcorn maker. The way the adults are going at each others' throats about this really makes me want to munch on some. Honestly, at this point, I don't even care whether I wind up competing or not. Even some of the professors are getting in on the argument. Maxine and Karkaroff are threatening to lodge complaints.

"If anyone has a right to complain, it's Potter!" Moody says.

"And I'm primarily complaining about the fact that I was entered under the Salem Witches' Institute," I say. "Do I have to wear their uniform, too?"

"This is a chance many of us would die for!" Fleur says.

"And maybe someone is hoping Potter will die for it," Moody points out.

"I probably will," I say lightly, shrugging. "But my name came out of the goblet, so I'm not about to back out now. I will fight for the honor of the Salem Witches' Institute!"

"Weren't you just complaining about that?" Cedric comments.

"Yes," I say. "But, you know, honor, damn it."

"Harry's courage is admirable," Dumbledore says, which only sparks another argument. I sigh, roll my eyes, and wish for popcorn.

Finally, after settling the fact that I'm going to be competing, Mr. Crouch finally decides to give us the instructions we've been waiting for. "The first task will take place on the twenty-four of November." A good week after the next full moon, excellent. "It will be to test your ability to cope with the unknown, so we will not be telling you what it is. You are not permitted to ask for help from their teachers for the tournament. With the first task, you will have only your wands. You will receive information about the second task when the first is over. You are also exempted from the exams at the end of the year."

With that, we're dismissed. I decide to head down to the Slytherin dungeons rather than up to Gryffindor Tower. To my surprise, Neville and Hermione are already in the common room when I arrive.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Got sick of the nonsense going on upstairs," Hermione says.

"The Gryffindors hate you now," Neville says. "Even more than before, that is."

"We Slytherins, on the other hand, are still your loyal followers," Draco says with a crooked grin.

"Well, that's good to hear," I say. "So is this going to be a party celebrating me being a champion, or commiserating someone putting my name in the goblet against my will?"

"Which would be more fun?" Theodore asks.

"Point," I say. "I was trying to enter myself anyway, I suppose, so hey, let's party!"