Harry was terrible at Defense Against the Dark Arts. It wasn't any fault of his, not anything under his control, but it still irked him. He cursed under his breath as he tried, and once again failed, to legibly sign his name at the top of his essay for professor Moody. He glared at his hand which continued to tremble uncontrollably.
He didn't know what caused it, the Durseleys had refused to take him to any Doctors despite how it impacted his ability to do chores, but for as long as he could remember his body had not been fully under his control. It would shake and tremble at random, and he was physically weak beyond what was normal even for a sedentary teen. It was only when he was calm, focused, and moving with deliberate slowness that he could bring the trembling under control well enough to cast spells, and even then it took far more focus and mental control than was normal.
This wasn't a problem in most of his classes, the extra focus and deliberation meant that while it took longer to cast a spell the first time, he usually cast it to a better standard than his peers. It evened out, on the practical side, and his written work was good enough to ensure him full marks on most assignments. Except in potions, of course. Snape didn't bother him that much in class, likely due to the realization that any disruption to Harry's focus presented a legitimate danger to his classmates, but he was merciless in his grading of Harry’s written submissions.
Defense Against the Dark Arts though, that was the worst. His written work was the best in class, it had to be, since he failed so abysmally at the practical side. Calm deliberation was all well and good for charms and transfiguration, but the simple fact was that if he was attacked by a dark wizard or creature they wouldn't give him the time to carefully control the random movements of his body. The juxtaposition balanced out to him barely passing the class each year.
"-heard he has a deathwish."
Harry gritted his teeth, doing his best to ignore the whispers from two tables down. The school's response to him being entered into the tournament had been horrible. They hadn't ostracized him like in second year, but the pity was almost worse.
"Harry Potter."
Harry felt his stomach drop.
"Harry Potter?"
He heard the shifting of fabric and creaking of benches as people turned to stare at him. The whispers began to multiply, rising in volume far away even as all sound and motion ceased in his immediate vicinity. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hermione staring at him in undisguised horror while Ron looked shell shocked. He turned to face him, Ron looked back, plain denial the only expression he could muster.
"Harry, come on up."
Ron shook his head slowly, fear coming onto his face as Harry stood. Hermione let out a quiet, strangled sort of whimper as he rose to his feet, one hand reaching towards him. For a moment he stood there, trying to get the shaking under control. Then he clambered over the bench and began making his way up the hall.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking, nor his back. His legs remained loyal though, indifferent to his body's mutiny. They carried him steadily towards the goblet even as the rest of his body trembled beyond his control. The students to his left and right stared at him, some with horror, some with confusion, and some with pity. He reached Dumbledore, and the Headmaster wordlessly gestured him to the door off to the side where the champions had gone.
It hadn't gotten any better after that. No one had cheered for him like the other champions and, when he returned to Gryffindor tower, he had been met with fearful gazes and pitying stares, and the ever-present whispers.
"-Malfoy said-"
"Oh come off it, you know he hates Potter. You can't listen to a word he says."
He hunched down further over the library table, his face contorting into a scowl as he tried to ignore them. Malfoy and his cronies had been among the only one's not to pity him, and for a bizarre moment after he realized that he had been strangely grateful, at least until the ferret had opened his mouth.
"Honestly, Potter, if you wanted to commit suicide there are easier ways."
Harry froze, and the murmur of voices around them dimmed as people stopped to listen.
"I get that you don't want to stain your parents legacy, anymore than you already have, but cheating your way into the tournament just so you can kill yourself in a manner befitting your parents legacy is a bit far."
He smirked at Harry, all smugness and superiority. How Harry longed to hurt him, to hit him right in his arrogant face, to cast a spell on him that would ruin him forever.
"Of course, the simpler methods might not work for you. You might trip on your way up to the astronomy tower, fall down the stairs and break your back. Then you'd be even more of a cripple than you are already."
"Shut it Malfoy, just shut up!" said Ron heatedly. Harry glanced over at him to see he was purple in the face, wand in hand and ready to explode.
"What's the matter, Weasel? Are you upset that you can't add enough meaning to Potter's life to convince him not to snuff it?"
"Why yo-"
Harry walked away, he'd had enough. Ron and Malfoy both froze, on the back foot from the unexpected deviation from the script.
"Ha, so long Potter. I'll be taking bets on how long you last."
While Malfoy was scrambling to get in one last parting shot, Ron was hurrying to catch up with Harry. He didn't slow, didn't stop, didn't do anything but keep walking, trying desperately to control the shaking in his right hand.
The rumor had stuck, and it wasn't long before even the foreign students were staring at him and whispering. He found that he didn't mind it as much with them, it was easier to tune out when he couldn't understand what they were saying.
"-what about the dragon?"
His scowl morphed into a vicious smile. His performance against his dragon was the talk of the tournament even now, seeing as he'd been the only champion to kill one...
"The Hungarian Horntail…"
Bagman stared at him apologetically, and the other champions shifted uncomfortably in place. Fleur Delacour opened her mouth to say something, but it died when Harry looked at her.
"Right. I go last, then?"
"Yes, that's right. Er, excuse me, got to be off. Commentating."
Bagman hurriedly left the tent, and Harry smiled to himself bitterly. Of course he got the Horntail, Hagrid said it was the worst of the lot, after all. He didn't say a word to the other champions, just moved to sit in a corner, focusing on controlling his breath and limbs while he waited. The others shot him a variety of looks, visibly torn between wanting to do something and needing to prepare for their own encounter with a giant, fire breathing lizard. The Beauxbatons champion stood and came near, then faltered and began awkwardly pacing to try and cover it up.
A cannon blast rang through the air, and Cedric darted off to face the task. The crowd roared, louder than the dragon, and soon enough went quiet. A second blast rang out, and Fleur left too. Soon after Krum was called, and then Harry was alone. He stared down at the miniature dragon in his hand, a facade of angry defiance barely holding back his fear. His hand shook, the dragon tipped off it and onto the floor squawking, and Harry closed his eyes. The cannon rang out for a fourth time.
He stood, and then he was standing in front of the arena, the memory of getting there having fled. There were a pair of dragon handlers arguing with professor McGonagall off to the side, one of whom had a shock of red hair. Charlie met his gaze, and Harry turned away. He walked into the enclosure to a silent reception.
He saw the Horntail. Massive, jet black with burning orange eyes, covered in cruel spikes. It saw him. His wand trembled in his hand, and Harry darted behind a boulder right beside the entrance just in time to avoid a jet of flame. Any time he tried to move, the dragon's fire blocked his path. Soon enough he began to tire and he realized that he wouldn't be able to get back behind cover in time if he tried again. The audience was silent, Bagman's booming voice gone quiet and still.
Harry felt frustration and fear well up within him, the feeling so intense as to make him want to cry. His body shuddered, shaking and trembling as the dragon roared behind him. The fear gave way to fury, and in that moment Harry wanted nothing more than for the dragon to be dead. He glanced down at his wand in disgust, little more than a matchstick in his incapable hands. He froze, quivering in excitement as an idea popped into his head. He ran through the steps of the plan, uncaring of the suicidal risk at the end, and determined he could pull it off.
He began gathering lumps of stone and transfiguring them into a rough shaped pole, then shaped them into a smooth rod. He transfigured the stone into wood, and then began pouring his focus and strength into the first spell that professor McGonagall had ever taught him. He strained with the effort, sweat pouring down his face and body shuddering as he put all his focus into maintaining a steady grip on his wand. Slowly, the ten foot wooden stake silvered over into a giant steel needle. He shrunk the needle to half its original size, making the point even smaller and sharper in the process.
By now he was feeling slightly delirious from the effort, his peripheral vision fading away, but he didn't care. He charmed the steel javelin to be featherlight and then levitated it in front of him. The crowd was making sounds again, and Bagman's voice was echoing throughout the enclosure, though Harry didn't register the words. His face was set in determination, and his eyes were feverish and wide. He stepped out from behind the rock and shuffled forward, facing the dragon head on.
People were shouting, there was a rustling sound like people running behind him from the direction of the entrance, and someone that sounded like Hermione was calling his name. Harry didn't care. The dragon stared at him for an instant, then opened its mouth. Time seemed to slow. He could see a red glow building in the back of the dragon's throat, and Harry moved the floating spear to hover in front of him along his line of sight to the dragon's maw. He saw the flames about to come and he didn't care. At that moment, all he wanted was for the dragon to die.
He cast the banishing charm, quicker and with more power than he ever had before, and watched in fascination as he saw the spear sail through the air into the Horntail's mouth. The sound of flesh and bone crunching and tearing penetrated through the haze of his thoughts, and he watched with detachment as the Horntail reared back, its mouth wide open and gagging as it fought to expel the silver horn that was protruding from the back of its neck, obvious amid the black forest of spikes that were its own. It thrashed and cried, its roars reduced to strange snarls and whimpers, wet and muffled. It shook and writhed, fell to the earth, and then it died with a shuddering rattle like a distant hurricane. The crowd was silent as Harry lifted the golden egg high overhead, shaking like a leaf in the wind.
"Harry Potter?"
His head snapped up, and he distantly registered that the whispering had ceased. He looked to see who had said his name and discovered it to be the Beauxbatons champion. She was standing up straight, looking somewhat awkward and uncomfortable.
"May I speak with you?"
He stared at her, thoroughly confused. She fidgeted, and Harry was reminded of his own shaking hand before realizing she didn't have that problem and was waiting for an answer.
"Yeah, go ahead."
She nodded gratefully and slid into the seat across from him, and for a moment he was taken by the simple grace of the movement, envious of it.
"I wanted to speak with you about the tournament."
Harry raised an eyebrow and Fleur soldiered on.
"You are at a disadvantage, both because of your age and because…"
"Because of my disability."
"Eugh, yes, that… In any case, I came, that is… I wanted to help you." The last words had been said in a rush, as if she was trying to get them out as quickly as possible.
He raised the other eyebrow.
"How?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, how will you be able to help me? Can you teach me anything that will not be limited by my condition, anything that will be any more useful than what I already know?"
Fleur was caught off guard, apparently not having thought of that, and she opened her mouth and closed it for several seconds without saying anything. Harry snorted derisively.
"Didn't think so."
He returned to his essay, trying his best to still his hand so that he could try and sign his name at the top once again, when she suddenly burst out and interrupted his concentration.
"Enchanting!"
He glared at her, and she hastened to elaborate.
"At Beauxbatons, we can take enchanting as an elective. I noticed how you dealt with the Horntail, and I thought that it might be of use to you. If you could animate and enchant proxies to do the tasks for you then…"
She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
"Then I might survive."
She nodded uncomfortably. Harry nodded with her, a thoughtful expression covering the twitch in his face.
"It is taught at Beauxbatons, and I am one of the best students in the class. I had thought, since it is not taught here, that I could help you with it..."
Harry stared at nothing as she trailed off. He looked down at his hand, putting down the quill and raising it up in front of him. Letting go of his control and watching as the fingers danced in strange rhythms, never ceasing, never repeating, his mind wandering.
Dudley was bored. Uncle Vernon was making him watch the old film Jason and the Argonauts, "As a proper classic for men." His cousin couldn't care less about the old story, and his uncle was more focused on the violence than anything, but Harry, peeking from the kitchen where he was supposed to be scrubbing the floor, was enthralled.
Talos, the automaton of Hephaestus, towered over Jason, the claymation giant moving with a shuddering gait that both suited its mechanical origin and reminded Harry of himself.
"Forged by the crippled god," Harry whispered.
"What was that?" asked Fleur.
He looked up at her, tearing his gaze away from his trembling hand, and smiled. She smiled back tentatively, still uncertain.
"I would be incredibly grateful to you if you could teach me," said Harry, and with more reverence than he had ever spoken to her before, probably more than the offer alone warranted. But she didn't, couldn't, know just what she was offering him, the new road she just opened to him, a path he could have never walked on his own. She smiled beatifically, and Harry's spirit lifted, a stray thought resounding in his head; that if he was to be like Hephaestus, then surely his instructor in enchantment was like Aphrodite in turn.