Natsu Dragneel and the Goblet of Fire

Veritaserum

Natsu felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face was pressed into grass; the smell of it filled his nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey transported him, and he kept them closed now. He did not move. All the breath seemed to have been knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly he felt as though the ground beneath him were swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold himself steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still clutching: the smooth, cold handle of the Triwizard Cup and Simon's body. He felt as though he would slide away into the blackness gathering at the edges of his brain if he let go of either of them. Shock and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in the smell of the grass, waiting... waiting for someone to do something... something to happen... and all the while, his scar burned dully on his forehead...

A torrent of sound deafened and confused him; there were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams... He remained where he was, his face screwed up against the noise, as though it were a nightmare that would pass...

Then a pair of hands seized him roughly and turned him over.

"Natsu! Natsu!"

He opened his eyes. He was looking up at the starry sky, and Makarov Dreyar was crouched over him.

The dark shadows of a crowd of people pressed in around them, pushing nearer; Natsu felt the ground beneath his head reverberating with their footsteps. He had come back to the edge of the maze. He could see the stands rising above him, the shapes of people moving in them, the stars above.

Natsu let go of the cup, but he clutched Simon to him even more tightly. He raised his free hand and seized Master Makarov's wrist, while Master Makarov's face swam in and out of focus.

"He's back," Natsu whispered. "He's back. Acnologia."

"What's going on? What's happened?"

The face of Tome E. Fiore appeared upside down over Natsu; it looked white, appalled.

"My God - Mikazuchi!" it whispered. "Makarov - he's dead!"

The words were repeated, the shadowy figures pressing in on them gasped it to those around them... and then others shouted it - screeched it - into the night –

"He's dead!" "He's dead!" "Simon Mikazuchi! Dead!"

"Natsu, let go of him," he heard E. Fiore's voice say, and he felt fingers trying to pry him from Simon's limp body, but Natsu wouldn't let him go. Then Master Makarov's face, which was still blurred and misted, came closer.

"Natsu, you can't help him now. It's over. Let go."

"He wanted me to bring him back," Natsu muttered - it seemed important to explain this. "He wanted me to bring him back to his parents...to Kagura."

"That's right. Natsu... just let go now..."

Master Makarov bent down, and with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, raised Natsu from the ground and set him on his feet. Natsu swayed. His head was pounding. His injured leg would no longer support his weight. The crowd around them jostled, fighting to get closer, pressing darkly in on him - "What's happened?" "What's wrong with him?" "Mikazuchi's dead!"

"He'll need to go to the hospital wing!" E. Fiore was saying loudly. "He's ill, he's injured – Makarov, Mikazuchi's family, they're here, they're in the stands..."

"I'll take Natsu, Master Makarov, I'll take him -"

"No, I would prefer-"

"Master Makarov, Amos Mikazuchi's running... he's coming over... Don't you think you should tell him - before he sees -?"