Artificer

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, but I play in his world. If you recognise it, it's Rowling's.

A/N: Opinions expressed about magic by Harry may not be Rowling's, or correct even in this little universe of his. But he thinks it's right, and who can argue with that? No-one, that's who.

It's worth mentioning that I have another, far larger fanfic of great and overwhelming scope lined up, and the delay on this chapter is kinda due to me spending a bit of time mapping out a system for magic. Since canon lacks any real...explanation whatsoever, a theoretical Ravenclaw!Harry fic seems to me like it'll either be a generic 'harry is smart and likes books yay' or spend a lot of time bogged down in the descriptions of everything. So I figure a nice solid, internally consistent (damn you JK for making that so bloody hard) system for magic that doesn't make it seem like just another science would make a nice solid backbone for a fic. If some of that bleeds through here...all the more reason this might get an eventual rewrite. Good thing I like writing, huh?

Chapter 7

Hogwarts is truly a child's dream come true. Or at least, for children who thought like I used to.

I remember daydreaming for hours on end that my primary school would have secret passageways and tunnels, air ducts and crawlspaces leading to secret rooms or the staff-only areas. In those dreams I would make escapes from Dudley and his gang, most likely inspired from the snatches of action movies seen from my cupboard at nights.

Oddly, I like small enclosed spaces. I imagine when I was a child, hiding in that cupboard and pretending it was my own little secret base away from the angry adults seemed like a stroke of genius; probably why I didn't complain about it becoming a bedroom shortly afterwards. That it remained my bedroom for what must have been six years afterwards…I suppose most people would become claustrophobic after a while.

I've rarely been grouped with 'most people'.

I like the secret hideaways this castle has, the passageways that only open on a full moon, the odd behaviour of the staircases. The freedom to get away from it all, discover something new and exciting around every corner.

So it shouldn't really be a surprise to find myself here, in the most well-known, secret room in the whole castle.

The passageway into the chamber is just as I remember it. The cave-in leads to a tight squeeze to get past, and the giant door with the snake motif looms above me as I collect myself. After all, this is where I first really proved myself, where I first stood up for something that I had resolved to do, where I did something truly noteworthy.

Somewhere I accomplished something more than simply surviving another challenge thrown at me.

A gentle hiss opens the door which opens in a dramatically slow manner. The Chamber of secrets is a beautiful place when you look past the years of decay and disuse; soft light reflects off the shallow pools of water, illuminating the serpentine curves of the walls as they rise up into the inky darkness. Even the statue, if of a particularly ugly man, is impressive as it looms down at me, reminding those who enter of the legacy of all those who stood here beforehand.

I imagine if I was a Slytherin, or at least wanted to purge the world of anyone but inbred purebloods, I'd be on my knees with awe right now.

Sadly, I'm not here to take in the surroundings, or look into the secrets of this place. One day? Maybe, as I'm sure this place has knowledge and artefacts long lost and forgotten, waiting for its heirs, but I doubt I would be prepared to find them. A thousand years is a long time, and one cave-in is enough for right now, thank-you-very-much. Instead, I'm looking to something more local.

Here's something I learned yesterday. Just because my body seems to have grown out and toned up, doesn't mean I'm suddenly all powerful and able to perform feats of superhuman strength. This makes some plans, such as crafting a magical, metal sword, rather premature.

After all, there was more than a little dumb luck helping me that day, when I was last here.

The problem is, I really, really want a sword. Wizards, witches and otherwise magical creatures are impressed by overt displays of strength, of power. And as I see it, a large flaming and otherwise sword would be a great way to impress whilst getting through the third task.

As long as they don't suddenly break from tradition, that is.

Not having the few years needed to adequately train, and recognising that sometimes size does matter; an awesomely powerful knife of doom might be serviceable, but it hardly has the wow factor of a handheld cannon or a giant flaming sword, I decided that I needed to be in the market for alternative materials. And as the problem is the weight, I need the theoretical sword to have something to make up for the lack of cutting and stabbing power.

Once I remembered that it would only be used against creatures and otherwise magical obstacles, the answer of 'Basilisk fang' suddenly seems quite obvious. After all, the venom is clearly quite effective at destroying magical items, and that way, I only need to cause a scratch. Forgive me, Hagrid.

The basilisk in question hasn't fared these last years too well. The skin looks completely untouched, acid green scales reflecting the chamber's dim lighting. It's draped loosely over a bleached white skeleton, and the sterile scent of the area around it suggests that in death, it's toxic nature chose to consume it from the inside out, only stopped by the legendarily impervious nature of its hide.

I suppose it's just another oddity of the magical world. The basilisk, the king of the serpents, the guardian of tombs; possessed with both impregnable scales and venom that can corrode anything, is in death the representation of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.

A three-foot long fang looks perfect for my work, so I pull a battered-looking set of chisels and a hammer from my rucksack and set to work.

"You come back in a week! No sooner!"

So I might have been a little too persistent asking the elves about she-who-must-not-be-named. Since Hermione hadn't been around the scare the elves in a while, I thought it might be able to finally find out what they have against her.

Scaring them just before a mealtime is a good way to get kicked out, quickly.

I amble up to the great hall; it's not like I can be recognised, but there's still something about eating in a crowded place that just…gets to me. After the cheers I got for scoring high in the first task, I had at first thought things might be different; I might be apologised to, or at least not openly sneered at, but nothing changed.

Clutching my anonymity to my chest, I walk into the great hall.

The scene is a somewhat normal one from the few times I've eaten in public these last few days; Arguments and conversation in harsh accents coming from the Durmstrang students on the somewhat cowed Slytherin table, bubbly laughter and chattering in softer French and Italian from The Ravenclaw's guests. Halfway up that table a group of men from all years is clustered around, and in the middle I suppose, is the French champion.

And a familiar head of red hair.

"Ball? With me? Please?"

The idiot's question seemed to set off a round of propositions, not many more articulate than the allure enthralled Weasley. Fleur must be having a really bad day.

Chuckling, I move to the Griffindor table, only to spot that which would have an age ago, had me babbling the same question even without any natural attractive gifts. Instead I move a platter of chicken towards me, and start serving myself lunch.

As much as I would love to say that every time I see him he manages to make a complete ass of himself, Ron does manage to be a decent human being most of the time. It's almost like he has some form of obscure magical disease which causes him to lose any reasoning abilities periodically, or maybe causes him to forget random things. Like the fact he's already going to the ball with someone. The sniffling in the seat across from me is a harsh reminder that these periods are accompanied by Hermione crying, most of the time.

"Are you going to talk about it, before you end up drowning your meal?"

"Harry?" Sniff. "I didn't see…never mind, I never do recently."

I pass her a napkin. "Now start venting." She glares at me, dabbing at her eyes.

"It's that, that…French hussy! She always has guys fawning over her like that! How come she get men falling all over her like that? Even…no, especially Ron? It's not fair!"

You know, I'm betting that Fleur is thinking about the same thing right now.

"You know, it's not really her fault." She glares again. "Remember the world cup? When Ron almost jumped off the railing?"

"You mean she's a..?"

"Yup. Or partly at least, I'm not sure how it works. Her grandmother was a Veela."

Hope lights up her still-watery eyes.

"So…so it's not my fault? That…that Ron is…"

"A weak-minded idiot that gets reduced to a stuttering wreak whenever she's in the same wing of the castle as him?" I may be letting some of my bias shine through. "It's not in any way your fault. It's all Ron's."

I smirk at the smile she adopts in the few seconds before she processes the insult.

"Ron isn't an idiot! Ok, he can be a little dense at times, but he's sweet…well…he makes me happy! It's not his fault that that...woman is using her charms on him!" she says, defensively. Part of me wants to quote the legends and lore about being in love, or any close emotional relationship giving someone protection against the allure, but I'm not sure I'd buy it myself, and I doubt she'll stick around if I'm that obvious about decrying their relationship.

"Look, I'm sure Fleur is just stressed about the tasks and the ball coming up. I imagine it takes a lot of self-control to reign in an ability like that; haven't you noticed that whenever she's not surrounded by guys, she always has that cold aloof look on her? It's probably just all getting to her." I glance over my shoulder at the crowd dispersing from the Ravenclaw table. "All the attention is probably just making it worse"

."Maybe, I suppose…I just….I can't believe he did that in front of the great hall!" Her face turns bright red.

"Look." I gather some of my self-control together. "You're the one he's going to the ball with. Which is entirely his luck, isn't it? After all, if you didn't care so much about him," she misses the flinch I made, "you would be going with Krum, right?" she nods. "Just remember, he is the lucky one, ok?"

"I…yeah, I guess so. Did you ever give him those robes by the way?"

I…Did I? I think they're still torn up in their bag in my trunk.

"I'll leave them on his bed later. You able to do any alterations they need? They'll probably need stitching a little." A lot.

"Yes, I was looking at a book about household charms a few days ago, and…"

It's getting hard to remember that I'm pissed off with her lately. The redheaded reminder to replace my necklace is coming back though, so her chatter gradually slows to nothing, as her audience fades from her consciousness.

A long time ago, someone, in Hogwarts, must have had a real passion for the creation of magical items.

The Room of Requirements is an amazing place, capable of creating almost anything at but a request, but its one downside is that anything created by the room, has to stay in the room. Thankfully it also seems to be able to gather things from the castle itself, which is why I find myself looking at the etched and pitted chisels I used to get my basilisk fang.

A Fang I handled with my bare skin.

In the comedy of errors that seems to be the story of my mortality, it was only after I obtained it that I found a book in the room, detailing how best to prepare organic materials for crafting into things, and that basilisk fangs tend to be lethal to the touch.

So, not for my apparent immunity to the venom, I would be dead by now. Chalk one up for the Boy-Who-Still-Lives, I guess.

Using room-generated tools to do the carving is a painstaking task, as the fang tends to corrode the magic and cause the tools to fade away after a short time after which I have to summon yet more tools. While it leaves me confident that it'll end up being an effective weapon, I have to wonder if all of this is a good idea. I'm in enough danger with the tournament without me killing myself simply because I rush into something.

There are few master enchanters for a reason after all.

Then again, what can you really add to a blade that can kill in one strike? A blade that can cut through magical defences with ease?

Sighing, I put down the sharpened fang. The channel that used to exist to pump venom into the monster's prey is a weakness now, one which might cause the whole thing to shatter, and a problem I can't solve right now. Plenty of time for me to figure it out before the third task though.

Instead, I have a second project to work on. I can't really take the most toxic substance known to wizardkind into a populated lake after all.

The spike of dragonbone that once supported part of the horntail's wings is about nine feet long, and after a bit of time sharpening the end, a very lethal looking spear. Up to around a tenth of the way up its length is where I reassume my work, slowly carving runes of strength, aim, and a somewhat archaic cluster for piercing that I found were used in ancient Greece. While, for the most part, there are several most effective versions that have been used since, this one actually drags the spear through the air towards its target.

Take out the alignment representing air, replace it with water…

It'll be weeks before it's complete, so all I need to do if figure out how I'm going to breathe, and who I'll be rescuing. Damned yule ball.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Snow Crunches underfoot as I continue my repetitions, my dance.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

The moon lends it's ethereal light to the scene, floating snowflakes waltzing the tune of the night's silence.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

A charmed cloak softens the cold's bite to nothing, as the sword rests between my hands..

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Could I have picked a better night than this? Relaxing, I return to the base of the tree, replacing my weapon in its makeshift snakeskin scabbard. Faintly, I can hear the slow sounds of a waltz drifting down from the castle, down to my refuge near the lake.

McGonagall did say I would have to dance after all.

Did I chicken out? Part of me wishes to be up there, wearing my bottle-green robes, enjoying and celebrating Christmas with the others, perhaps dancing with an attractive girl who can look beyond the rumours, and just spend time enthralled in the beats of the music.

Towards the end, I did get a few offers; even as a nameless student I could have gone and enjoyed myself, but…what would I have missed?

Just like that night, half a year ago, the moon is dancing over the lake's surface. Thin Ice rings it, causing the castle's grounds to fade smoothly from ethereal white to the lake's inky darkness. With the snow, the stars, the feeling of utter peace is almost overwhelming, the feeling of contentment.

And a small part of me recognises that one of loneliness.

Could things have been different? Had I not…

I know how all this came to be. I've had too much time to think, to overanalyse, and to not recognise my fault in all this. I became…obsessive. I changed. For the better? Undoubtedly. But it meant I grew up, I stopped thinking like a child, I stopped letting life's currents drag me from one encounter to the next. I learned. I improved myself.

For myself, for her.

Reflexively gripping the sword's hilt, I take a deep breath. And another.

Was I really so different that I pushed them away? My two friends, my closest friends, my only friends…if I hadn't watched, if I hadn't paid attention, if I hadn't realised? If I hadn't said those things at the lake, if maybe we'd saved Sirius together, as friends, instead of…what do you become after that?

I stand up again, drawing my blade, this time pushing a little power into it.

Block. Slash. Stab.

Block. Slash. Stab.

The rose-coloured flame flicks around with my movements, warming my hands.

Block. Slash. Stab.

Block. Slash. Stab.

If I hadn't grown up, if I had continued to just let life take me where it will…

Block. Slash. Stab.

Block. Slash. Stab.

…Maybe I would be in that hall right now.

Block. Slash. Stab.

Block. Slash. Stab.

Or maybe I would still be out here.

Block. Slash. Stab.

But would I still be alone?

Block. Slash. Stab.

No, I wouldn't be.

Block. Slash. Stab.

I'd have shared a night like this with someone.

Block. Slash. Stab.

Pouring more power into the blade, I shift my stance again, the now dark red flames now trailing the blade, lashing down at the ground.

Slash. Slash. Thrust.

Slash. Slash. Thrust.

Slash. Slash. Thrust.

Slash. Slash. Thrust.

I know I need to push past this, I need to let go of her, but part of me can't. Part of me doesn't see the betrayals, the abandonment, the lies, the half-truths, the rumours. The flame turns indigo, snow retreats from where I stand, and my eyes just focus on the blade.

I need to let it go.

"You rotten bastard! How could you do this to me?"

A/N: Cliffhanger! Kinda. Sorry?