Chapter Three

AN: Okay so here it is, chapter three. I hope you all like it, both the way I portrayed certain characters and how I view the reincarnation cycle that no doubt most of you have figured this story revolves around. If you haven't figured out that this story revolves around reincarnation, go read more asian literature and come back when you have a firm grounding in what it means to have a past life.

So with out further ado, I don't own Harry Potter, Other wise... well what can i say other than it would not have been a kids book.

123

Violence. Sheer unadulterated violence on a scale that could be scarcely be believed. That was the only way to describe the current spectacle. Harry Potter was dealing out bloody violence upon a dragon, and he was currently winning. It was a feat of power, magic, and skill that not a single of the other champions could have ever achieved even if they had tried. It was an unbelievable sight that was forever seared into the memories of every person watching. It would become a tale for the ages, retold with more grandeur and grace each time. The sheer horror of the tale would be glossed over, and eventually it would be just another story. But to Ablus Dumbledore, it was one of the most disgusting things he had ever had the misfortune to see.

Deep at heart Albus was a peaceful man, at least he like to think he was one. He had never been fond of destruction, or death, especially when it was dealt out by the hands of others. At one hundred and thirteen years old he had seen more than his fair share of messy ends. His father, his sister, and all the poor souls he had to fight through to end the threat Gellert had become. So many deaths weighed on his conscience, and sadly he suspected there would be quite a few more before he met his end. Chief amongst them would be poor Harry if his suspicions were correct. To stop yet another Dark Lord, the poor boy would likely have to die, yet he hoped that it would be a mutual destruction, and from what he could see that was getting to be a likely outcome.

The one and only bright side he could see out of Harry's new power, was that it was a far more concrete and wieldable power, than the power of love. For while love was something he knew, and understood could inspire people to perform feats of sacrifice and valor, it was not something that could be wielded as casually as Harry now wielded his new found power. Love was a driving force that allowed people to put other before themselves, but in all his research it had only proven to be a motivator for sacrifice, as it would doubtlessly be in Harry's final clash. Yet from all he had learned, it had no strategic power on its own. No, from what Albus had seen, it would be the fires that allowed Harry to stand equal to Voldemort.

The problem Albus knew however was in Harry himself, he was a head strong boy that would struggle against his death until the bitter end. Through all the trials Albus had watched him survive, he had seen a spark within Harry that refused to be extinguished. Had the situation been any different Albus would have been proud to know such a person, someone who would struggle to carry on despite the odds. However the distressing part was the sheer lengths Harry would go through in his struggles.

His first hint had been the standoff Harry and the Voldemort possessed Quirrel had within the final trial when the boy had been but eleven. Most other first years would have been hopelessly out matched and capable of survival only due to pure luck, and perhaps a bit of arrogance on the part of the elder wizard. Any other child would have cowered in fear, maybe the braver ones would have found some petty way to be defiant. It was nigh impossible for a barely trained child to defeat a fully trained wizard in a contest of magic. Harry however didn't even try. The boy had done the unthinkable and charged Quirrel, his fists drawn back in preparation for a mighty punch. It was a suicidal tactic that should have been doomed to failure, but because of arrogance, luck, and a mother's self-sacrificing love, it had worked in Harry's favor.

The first blow to the older man's crotch had been due to surprise and luck. Something caused because of an expectation within both Quirrel and Voldemort, a belief that all forms of combat happened at range, but because Harry had chosen the suicidal tactic of closing the distance rather than making it, he was able to land that critical blow. It only took that instant as the man reacted as all men do when punched in a place so full of nerve endings, for Harry's next action to be effective enough to kill him. It was a simple thing that wouldn't have killed any other man had the circumstances been different, had Voldemort not been possessing him the blow Harry did to Quirrels head would have dazed him, maybe even knocked him out. But because of Lily's protection placed upon the young boy, and because of the specter within his body, Quirrel had died a painful death. And Harry had watched him die.

Naturally, as an eleven year old boy who had never really seen death, Harry had vomited at the grisly spectacle.

It was only because Harry had reacted as horrified as he had that Albus had not begun to suspect that he had another Dark Lord in the making. But even with the death of Quirrel engraved in his mind, Harry had continued forward, meeting all his challenges head on, and a growing skill for violence. The blood and venom soaked sword of Gryffindor was just one other such testament to Harry's skill, and there were more beside.

Now a dragon lay dead before him, and he was smiling all the while, Albus didn't know what to think any longer. Part of him was horrified that a boy of fourteen was capable of such things, both the power that allowed him to do such a thing, along with his willingness to take such actions if pushed. It was a part of Albus that wondered, could Harry become every bit as dangerous as Voldemort? It took a team of wizards to subdue a dragon, Harry alone had shown he was capable of killing the most dangerous of their breeds. Another part of him prayed that this was the answer to ending a blood war. With the power Harry now held, so different than anything he, Albus Dumbledore, had seen and powerful enough to enable a child to face down a dragon alone, could Harry now meet the self-styled lord Voldemort as an equal on the field of battle? And if he could, who would win, the dragon slaying fire, or the malevolent dark arts? Yet curiously there was another part that had become fascinated by what the magic Harry used could mean for the whole world. Not in all his years had he seen such a feat of magic, nor had any book he'd read mentioned power such as Harry had displayed. Could others learn it? Could that idyllic world he had dreamed of oh so long ago be achieved with such power? Only time would tell which side of him would win out in the end.

Fear, hope, or curiosity.

123

It couldn't have been more than ten minutes after Harry's final and deadly blow to the mother dragon, and already he had made his way to the hospital tent that all the champions were required to head towards after the task was finished. But for the life of him, Harry wasn't quite sure how he'd even managed to get from the middle of the arena, to the tent where Madam Pomfrey worked like a mad woman to tend the injuries of the champions. In fact, he was still trying to figure out just what it was he had even managed to do out there in the arena. It was strange to him, for while he was aware of what he had done on an intellectual level. The sheer act itself was a struggle to comprehend on a level more to his speed. The realization that he could even manage to kill the (false) dragon the way he had somehow rebelled against everything he knew. Stranger still was that he felt he could do it all again… against all four of the dragons at once if need be. Harry felt powerful and confident, and above all proud, yet for reasons that didn't make a lot of sense to him. Truth be told it was one of the stranger experiences he'd been involved in. And when one considered why he usually wound up under Madame Pomfrey's care, that was saying something.

There was also a brief feeling upon his tongue, not even a conscious thought really, merely the after taste from a good meal. The consuming thing was that this feeling was about how good the fire had tasted and felt as it passed into his stomach/lungs (He wasn't quite sure which really). That memory however just seemed to agitate Harry more. Everything he had spent the last four years learning told him that what he'd done was impossible, that while a wizard could conjure up fire, sometimes even without a wand, none could do it as he just had. To him it was as if the fires had come alive, wieldable in a fashion that boggled him. Yet even now in his confused and slightly delirious state, he could feel it. Deep within the core of his being there was a fire burning, simply waiting for him to call, and waiting to be used once more.

Frowning at that realization, Harry could not help but look upon his hands. Hands that were covered in blood, soot, and callouses. They were the same hands he'd always had, but somehow the new knowledge that he could conjure fire into them as simple as breathing, and rip through dragon scales like paper with little effort changed them. If he'd been anyone else, suddenly gifted power such as this, a period of panic was a very realistic expectation. To Harry however, he couldn't help but be struck by how it all seemed natural. Calling the fires had come as easily to him as breathing. Stranger still the knowledge of his strength somehow seemed like a forgone conclusion. After all he was Igneel's one and only son, it was expected that he be at least this strong.

'Wait, that's not right, my dad was James Potter, who the hell is Igneel?' Harry suddenly realized, and in that moment it suddenly came to him just how very out of character every single thing he'd done during that fight was. 'I killed that dragon. I can understand not wanting to die, but she didn't ask to be out there either. Why the hell would I even do that?' no sooner had the thought crossed his mind that some distant and animalistic part of his mind conjured up an answer. The impressions he got was that somehow or another he'd been insulted, enough that he had no other recourse but to respond. Not only that, there was the breach into his territory, even now others sat within, false wyrms that had not been penalized their invasion. Most of all was the simple fact was that the (false) dragon had tried to kill him. Any one thing would have driven him to violence, all three together, demanded death!

'But that doesn't make any sense!' the logical side of his brain argued, 'I just had to get the egg, and then it would have been over, so why didn't I?' the thought continued.

It was as he sat there trying to muddle through everything he felt he'd done wrong, that the adrenaline and endorphins of the battle finally began to wear away. It was then that he was struck by something else entirely. It was dull at first, but the more time passed, the louder it got. A dull repetitive thumping sound, steady and strong, almost like a drumbeat, but not quite. And the longer it went on, the more Harry became aware of it. Slowly looking up from his hands he focused upon the sound and tried to find its source. It was during his intense focus upon the disjointed drumbeat, that Madam Pomfrey finally had the chance to approach him. Displaying her shock at his condition as she spoke to him. However, when the words passed from her lips and into the air, she almost deafened him.

"GOOD HEAVENS POTTER, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?" she exclaimed.

It was with the same objectivity that Harry used to note the injuries he sustained mid battle, which noted that despite the deafening tone he perceived it to be, somehow Pomfrey was actually speaking in her customary soft, yet stern voice. Despite this however, to his own ears it was as if she had shouted directly into his ear whilst under the effect of the sonorous charm. Reflexively he grabbed his ears and inhaled deeply in a harsh gasp of pain. Yet, no respite from pain was found in his actions, rather, a new curiosity began to overwhelm the senses of the last Potter. As the air passed through his nose, he became suddenly, and acutely aware of every single scent within range. The strongest scent by far, was the smoky smell of burnt flesh coming from his right, accompanied by a scent that his brain attached to the image of Cedric Diggory. There was also another similar scent to the first, smelling of fire and ashes, but different. 'Cloth, burnt cloth' his brain conjured. This particular smell however was accompanied by something that he found to be rather heady, yet aside from that he could not quite identify it, yet somehow it almost made him produce a rumbling growl of approval and desire.

The final two scents were much less demanding of his attention, he could smell a small amount of blood from one of them, but his brain quickly identified it as belonging to a (false) dragon, too much fire in it to belong to any normal human. The final scent was wholly Madam Pomfrey's own unique scent, something that vaguely reminded him of potions and disinfectant… and for some reason he could smell a faint aroma of lamb and peas coming from her breath.

"POTTER, WHAT IS THE MATTER, WHERE ARE YOU HURT?" she asked again, once more reminding Harry that someone had cast a widespread sonorous on those around him, after all, why else would it sound like everything was held up to a megaphone.

"'M, fine. Too loud." Harry whispered, trying to ease the pounding in his head. Pomfrey only looked at him funny for his quickly whispered reply. That look made him realize how odd he must have sounded to the woman that Harry had come to know. For one thing he was covered in blood and soot, and he was currently saying he was uninjured while holding desperately to his head because he perceived the world to be shouting at him, along with producing a steady yet disjointed sound of several beating drums.

For another thing, he was Harry Potter. The boy who had earned his very own bed complete with a name plaque within her hospital wing.

To any competent doctor or healer the first half alone would have driven them to conclude that their patient was concussed. Thus the medi-witch went about her duty, muttering about stubborn fools, whilst under the assumption that Harry had slammed his head against a rock, and could not remember being injured. Which to be fair, had happened to Harry before… more than once actually. Thus she first needed to clean him up to find the source of his bleeding, then she could focus on his concussion. A quickly, yet quietly mutter scourgify… did absolutely nothing when it touched Harry's skin.

Harry was of course confused by this, and judging by the raised eyebrow so was Madam Pomfrey. Once more she cast the charm, and this time Harry was consciously aware of the power she'd fed into it. His skin shivered as the spell hit, but aside from that, nothing seemed to happen when the spell made contact with Harry's skin. Even the slight slight shudder running across his features, centered directly where her spell had made contact, was barely perceptible unless you were watching very carefully. The older witch, frowned as the spell yet again fizzled into nothing. Once more she muttered a word that sounded vaguely like analysis, while pointing her wand at him. As the spell hit, the medi-witch kept the length of mystically imbued wood pointed at him even after the spell seemed to have no effect. She simply stood there pointing her wand at him, with a look of extreme concentration upon her face, pouring more will into her spell… Before with a sudden jerk, the woman began flailing backwards a gasp of fright escaping her lips. In concern for her Harry asked,

"Madam Pomfrey, are you alright?"

123

(Seconds earlier)

Madam Pomfrey frowned as once more the scourgify charm did nothing but fizzle out when meeting Harry's skin. Just as the first one had, leaving the boy still covered in the latest amount of grime he'd managed to accumulate whilst getting injured. However the spells failure had told her something this time, if the grime was merely magically resistant, Harry's skin would not have shuddered as it had. Meaning that her attempts at cleaning him had failed because of a rather uncommon condition. Which would force her to move onto the next viable course of action, a full diagnostic. Once more she pointed her wand at the dark haired teen and spoke the spell words, she then waited for the information to be fed directly to her brain, yet despite watching the spell make contact with him, and then maintaining the effort of will she had fed into the spell, her mind failed to conjure the specifics of what was wrong with the youngest champion.

Idly she recalled being informed that Harry had developed some manner of spell resistance over the summer. A resistance strong enough to need two stunner bolts cast by an adult wizard to put him down for the count, which while odd, was not an unheard of phenomena. Some people's magic never stopped reacting to a subconscious desire to be protected from harm, and it sometimes developed into a full blown talent for resisting foreign magical effects, add to that the fact that Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived, the only known survivor of the killing curse and it became expected that he have some form of passive resistance to magic. So she did what the Healers guide book said to when one encountered a patient with such a resistance. She fed more power and focus into the spell. Slowly but steadily she exerted more and more power into the charm, waiting to break through the skintight field that kept magic from working upon the boy. However, when the magic pierced through, and the information flooded into her, she became acutely aware of something.

Abject horror.

What else could one feel, but fear? Fear of the titanic Dragon currently sitting next to her, at one hundred and thirty two feet long and weighing somewhere in the neighborhood of seventeen tons, it was a vicious creature of fire and tyrannical majesty. An existence that could squash her with not, but a mere thought! Worse, it could even do away with her, by way of a casual absentminded gesture, no thought even required! In such a case it wouldn't even notice her death as anything more than the particular patch of ground it had stepped upon being stickier than the other patches. With perfect clarity, Pomfrey understood how very insignificant she was compared to it. Worse still was the Dragon knew that same fact with a clarity that was probably greater than hers. And that was the most frightening thing of all. Dragons were animals, yet the being before he was so much more than that. It gazed upon her with an alien intelligence greater than anything she had seen before. It turned its eyes upon her slowly, regarding her as a cat would a mouse, and with each passing second she could feel the heat emanating from it with every breath. Slowly it would boil her alive, all before gobbling her up like the lamb stew shed had that morning. It was enough for all thoughts to be halted within her head as she beheld the great being before her. She couldn't even breathe as its emerald eyes regarded her curiously, and then the unthinkable happened.

"Madam Pomfrey, are you alright?" the Dragon asked, and just like that it was as if a spell had been lifted. The Dragon was gone, and there in front of her was Harry Potter. His eyes were winced in discomfort, yet she could spot the concern on his face. A face that to her was shockingly like that of a dragons.

"It-it's nothing Mr. Potter." She said shakily, and once more Harry winced in pain as her voice cut through everything else. On her part Pomfrey had to double take as he one more shrank back from her, pain evident on his face. Yet despite the very large hiccup in her diagnostic charm, she had been given the knowledge that Harry was indeed nominally uninjured, save for a few bruised ribs and back. So what was causing him pain?

"Stop shouting at me." He said desperately, as his hands found his ear, cradling his head… and attempting to block out noise.

"Mr. Potter, what do you feel right now?" Her voice was whisper soft, barely audible and should have been near impossible for someone covering their ears as Harry was to hear clearly. Yet somehow Harry turned towards her and began answering.

"It's loud, like someone cast a sonorous on the entire world. I can hear… everything in this tent. Every intake and outtake of breath you and the others make. And there's a… rhythmic thumping sound, but it's disjointed, like there's several of them going all at once... I think they're your heart beats." He explained softly. Pomfrey for her part Hid from her earlier fear behind the confused and understanding his explanation provided. The understanding was in regards to what was actually causing Harry discomfort, the confusion was of course over what could have caused such a change in Harry. Yet before she could asked Harry kept going, inhaling deeply through his nose he began to rattle off more. "And it's not just sounds, I can smell the blood on Krum, Cedric's burnt skin, and the charred cloth of Fleur's robes. I can even smell the lamb on your breath." It was the last part that brought her up short. Smelling out the other champions was one thing, especially in the sterile state of the little tent. But to smell what she had eaten for breakfast, hours ago? Added to his newly sensitive ears, along with the impression her diagnostic had given her, and she was slowly growing more and more worried for the young man.

"Is there anything else?" she asked, as quietly as possible. Harry for his part was very quiet, his hands finally coming away from his ears. His gaze was locked with the floor, a deep focus coming over him, Pomfrey was almost about to ask what was wrong, but before the first syllable had left her mouth, Harry burst into flame. Fire as hot as those she had felt in her head mere minutes ago. Yet despite the intensity of the fires, Harry was completely unaffected by them, in fact he looked comfortable, wreathed in a cloak of the primal element of destruction.

"There's this." Harry said as he stood from the bed, the fires moving with him, and just as suddenly as they had appeared, the fires disappeared. "Madam Pomfrey, what's happening to me?" the young dragon asked desperately, his fear evident in his voice. Yet despite this, the medi-witch could not answer. The shock of Harry's fire being too much for her, with fear still so fresh in her mind, seeing him use the element the titan in her mind had breathed was more than she could bear. She was ashamed to say this, but she ran.

Ran to Albus in fear of the Dragon her charge was changing into.

123

Harry watched Madam Pomfrey run, watched as her body stiffened, eyes widened, and skin paled. He'd seen it before, Dementors caused quite a similar reaction, as pure unadulterated fear spread across her features. Then she ran, ran away from the thing that scared her, towards something that made her feel safe. To Harry it was yet another wound to add to all he'd taken this year. Pomfrey wasn't quite a friend, she was his healer, the person who patched him up when he'd done something stupid. Yet there was trust, and fondness there. To see fear consume her, hurt almost as much as his realization of Hermione's fear. But before he could begin to sink into a depression at this recent turn of events, a voice broke through it all.

"WHAT WAS- HOW DID YOU DO THAT?!" Fleur's voice was the same melodic French accented voice she'd always had, yet to his ears her demand was a large chorus trying to deafen him in perfect harmony.

"Not so loud!" he growled back, his fires reacting to his ire and springing up around him as he glared at the blond woman, her pale features shrinking back in fright as his ire became apparent to her. He instantly regretted it,

'"Pardon moi," she said softly and shakily, he could see her features stiffen in fear as surely as it had consumed Pomfrey, her heart beating a frantic tune of distress. But it were her eyes that really made him feel like a heel, her soft blue eyes were looking at him as if she expected him to lash out at her, and they reminded him of Hermione. That same look had been worn by her all year.

"Just, just don't talk so loudly." He said miserably as the fires once more died out and he sank back onto the cot.

"Pardon, but what, what was that just now?" she spoke once more, her voice still feather soft and quivering with a tinge of fear.

"Fire, my fire." Harry answered calmly, knowing that was the clearest answer he could give her.

"Oui, but… how are you doing that?" she asked, confusion added into her voice along with her unease.

"I don't know, how do you make men drool like idiots?" Harry asked rhetorically, trying to get her to stop her line of question. After everything that happened he felt oddly weary, even if physically he felt he could run a marathon. Sadly for him, the French witch did not realize his desire.

"It is my Allure, my grandmother's gift." She spoke with assurance to the fact, her fear slowly draining away. Which honesty made Harry feel a bit better, and a bit more willing to continue the conversation.

"Okay, but how do you use your Allure?" He asked, honest curiosity driving his question. Fleur for her part just looked at him, an odd look of incomprehension upon her face. "What I mean is, what is it about your magic that lets you use the Allure? How do you produce it?" he tried to elaborate, hoping that with a decent answer, he could then make a fair analogy between her 'allure' and his flames.

"I simply… do? My Allure is a part of me, always there. I can suppress yes, but it shall not go away, it'll be here, just underneath the skin. Waiting to be used, it is that what you mean?" She asked, understanding starting to come to her she placed her hand over her heart.

"Maybe, it's probably very different. My fires are here," Harry touched his chest, feeling out the physical representation of the center of his being, it was actually close to that same spot Fleur had placed her own hand. "They're just waiting for me to use them. But when I call them, I know exactly what I'm doing, the best way to utilize them." He explained as he conjured up a small ball of flame, letting it dance in his hand.

"… I have never seen anyone else other than a Veela, or someone with Veela blood use fire like that, might one of you parent have been such?" Her voice completely calm now, the fear gone, but hesitation still remained.

"No." Harry responded instantly, his head shaking from side to side in a negative answer along with his words. "Mom was muggle-born, and dad was a dr-" Harry actually had to stop himself there, realizing how ridiculous he would have sounded if he had actually finished that sentence. He actually had to laugh aloud at that, which only served to confuse the quarter-veela before him.

"Qu'est-ce?" she asked in confusion, her voice slightly louder than the soft pitch she had been keeping it, but he found himself growing used to it.

"Sorry, I almost said something ridiculous." He admitted merrily, causing her head to tilt in a silent question. "This'll sound stupid, but I almost said that dad was a dragon." He laughed, causing the young woman to do the same. If anything her bell like laughs caused yet more mirth in him, he would have laughed longer, if for the sudden thought that hit him.

'Why would that be stupid, what else would Igneel be other than a Dragon?' His mind asked unbidden, once more using that same name and attaching it to the role of father.

'But my dad's name was James Potter, and he was a wizard!' He silently argued back against the illogical question that his mind just conjured up. All the while his sudden cessation of laughter confusing Fleur.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

"I'm honestly not sure, it's-"whatever Harry was about to say, what he wanted to say, about how his mind seemed to be playing the strangest tricks on him. Yet before he could voice his own confusion, another voice interjected, and this one had obviously not been briefed on how sensitive his ear where right now,

"HARRY MY BOY, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT!?" Came the booming and concerned voice of Albus Dumbledore, once again causing Harry to wince in pain. Which was compounded with the fact that those following him also spoke at the same time.

"HE LOOKS FINE ALBUS, I AM MORE CURIOUS OVER HIS PERFORMANCE OUT THERE. SLAYING A DRAGON WITH HIS HANDS! OF ALL THE WONDERS I'VE SEEN!" Bagman spoke, his voice compounding with Dumbledore's as he gazed at Harry, a look of triumph and curiosity worn on his face.

"INDEED, WE ALL SAW IT ALBUS, THAT MAGIC HE USED, It WAS A SIGHT I DOUBT ANY OF US HAVE EVER SEEN OR HEARD OF BEFORE. NOTHING LIKE IT EXISTS IN THE OLD TEXTS. EVEN THOSE WITH VEELA HERITAGE COULDN'T MATCH HIS MASTERY OF FIRE, HIS… MAGIC WAS TOO STRONG TO BE NORMAL. JUST WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN TEACHING HIM?" If anything, Madam Maxine's voice was the worst of it, she already had higher lung capacity due to her build, and thus her voice had a tendency to project, Harry had noticed this even before his hearing had become so sensitive, now it was like icepicks in his skull.

"SHE ASKES A FAIR QUESTION ALBUS, JUST WHAT DID POTTER-" Krakoff had started speaking then, however the most surprising person cut him off before he could continue.

"SILENCE!" Fluer shouted, an actual shout that hurt Harry's ears more than anything else at that point had, yet the blissful quiet that followed her outburst was heavenly to his ear. At least until Krakoff tried to reprimand her for what he perceived as rudeness

"HOW DARE YOU-"

"His ears headmasters, they're more sensitive than most right now, to him it would almost be as if you're shouting directly into his ear, probably louder." Oddly enough it was not Fleur who spoke up in his defense, rather it was Krakoff's own protégé, Victor Krum. His voice soft enough to avoid harm to Harry's ears, but stern enough to draw attention to the fact that Harry was indeed wincing with pain.

"Harry, is that true?" Dumbledore's voice was soft now, blessedly normal to Harry's abused ears, and still the elder's voice rang with concern, Harry for his part could only nod his head slightly, his head still ringing from the constant assault from the multiple voices that had been only just now stopped booming.

"He also claims to be have a heightened sense of smell at least that was the conclusion I drew from what he told the healer." Krum continued, his tone cordial and informative. Yet Harry wasn't sure why he sensed a hint of malicious curiosity from the young man's words. It almost reminded him of Gajeel, before the stick was pulled out of his ass.

'Wait, who the hell is Gajeel?' However before Harry could further contemplate the name that brought with it the feelings of metal, rival, and dragon, another voice interjected.

"SUCH THINGS DO NOT MATTER, WHAT DOES MATTER WAS POTTER'S DISPLAY OUT THERE. WE MUST ASSERTAIN WHAT HE DID. WELL POTTER, OUT WITH IT! WHAT DID YOU DO OUT THERE BOY?" Crouch spoke now, ignoring the pain he caused to Harry with his every word, favoring an accusatory tone that spoke volumes to just what conclusions he'd already drawn about Harry's new found abilities.

"I- I'm-" Harry had meant to say that he wasn't quite sure what it was he'd done. Yet two things stopped his answer. The first was a vague notion that he really did know just what it was he'd done, yet somehow lacked the words to properly express it.

"Really Crouch, you almost sound as if you're accusing Harry of Dark Magic." The second was Dumbledore, his voice soft yet it still rang with an authoritative reprimand towards the former Head of the DMLE. Crouch for his part seemed flustered, yet he pushed on with his belief.

"I HATE TO BE THE ONE TO SAY IT ALBUS, BUT YOU CAN'T DENY THAT WHAT HE DID OUT THERE WAS NOT NORMAL. THAT… THING HE CONJURED WHEN HE ROARED. HELL THE FACT THAT HE EVEN COULD ROAR. THEN THERE WERE THE FIRES HE UTILZED TO RIP THROUGH THE DRAGON. WHEN YOU ADD IN HIS PURE STRENGTH, IF NOT DARK MAGIC THAN WHAT ELSE COULD POSSIBLY EXPLAIN ANY OF THIS? Crouch responded, his words grating on Harry's already frayed nerves. Pain wracking through his head like a lance as the accusation hit him like a metaphorical gut punch.

His fires a dark magic? Never! While it was true that his fires could cause large scale destruction, so could a lot of other magic, like Make magic, Titan magic, and Celestial Body magic. It was all in how the user chose to use the magic, but to so dismissively call the gift Igneel had given him Dark galled Harry immensely. His anger cutting through the obscuring darkness that had blocked him before, revealing to Harry the answer to the question asked of him. With utter certainty he named the magic taught to him, the greatest gift his father had ever granted him. The magic that he had used to climb to the height of strength. The sword he had wielded against his enemies, and the shield his Nakama had taken refuge behind. The Lost Magic to take the power of a Dragon, and make it his own.

"It's called the Ka no Metsuryū Mahō." Harry spoke with such certainty, that it wasn't until he had the attention of all five judges that he realized the path his thoughts had moved down. The words and names that meant so much to him, yet at the same time dreadfully confused him. Yet before he could collapse into confusion about the certainty he felt, what each of those names meant. Dumbledore was there, a question posed to him.

"And what Harry, is the Ka no Metsuryū Mahō?" His headmaster asked slowly, and once more the answer was instantly on his tongue, even though Harry consciously had no idea what was being said. Some part of him, the part that had seen him through so many battles alive and willing to fight again, spoke for him. He let it, for it spoke with an authority that Harry had never thought to possess in matters of magic.

"It's a Lost Magic sir." Harry responded, the surety of his response drawing a profound shock from those around him, some might even claim that he'd caused outright fear from four of the judges before him. Bagman still wore his clueless face, far more concerned with something else entirely. Krum was still weighing him carefully, a foe he had not yet overcome. Fleur however, wore a look of honest curiosity, no plans or fear. She simply had a desire to discover the answer to the puzzle presented to her.

"Pardon? But what is lost magic?" Fleur's question even reflected this. All that was conveyed by her question was confusion.

"… Lost Magic, is just that Miss. Delacour, magic that has been lost, or rather, magic that has been forgotten. The methods of its use as naught but speculation. It was said that the true abilities of anyone who could use such power… it is said that one could destroy entire nations with such power. Harry… how did you learn such a power?" Dumbledore asked, his tone soft, but the implications behind it were vast.

Harry for his part… could still not bring himself to care. The implications despite how vast they were, meant nothing to him. Nothing compared to the profound completeness he felt now that his flames existed within him. Harry had never felt more whole, more complete, more sure than he did at that moment. The power that dwelt within him was the missing half of his being, and with its presence, came a surety he had never before felt. He knew exactly why he could use his power, and he felt no qualms with letting the whole world know. After all, it had been far too long since the world had seen his like. So he answered Dumbledore, with no hesitation.

"That's simple. Because I am The Fire Dragon."