Prince of the Dark Kingdom: Book 5

Mizuni-sama

Prince of the Dark Kingdom: Book 5

1. Credits

2. The Lost Prince

3. The Tavern

4. Legends

5. Recreant Knights

6. The Quest for the Prince

7. The Fae

8. Kings & Princes

9. Serfs and Nobles

10. The Prince and the Purpose

11. Political Unrest

12. The Courtier

13. Lords of War

14. Bad Omens

15. The Land to the West

16. The Crusade

17. The Prince’s Lament

18. Battle Fatigue

19. Heaven and Earth

20. The Black Wolf King

21. Retaliation

22. The Eastern Front

23. Rebellion

24. Musketeers and Madmen

25. Destiny Unfolding

26. Converging Conflicts

27. Vengeance

28. Epilogue pt 1

29. Epilogue pt2

Credits

Copyright © 2007-2014 Mizuni-sama (real name unknown)

Original publication on FanFiction.net

EPUB and MOBI edited by Brendan Long
Source code for these versions is available on GitHub

Based on the characters of J.K. Rowling, and her books:

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

The Lost Prince

As Horace McGunny stepped onto the Hogwarts Express for the last time, he felt a guilty relief he thought murderers must feel when they get away with their vile deed. For months, he had been convinced Snape had figured him out, and was now toying with him as some sort of petty revenge before he sprang his trap. Nothing had come of this paranoia but sleepless nights and Tom laughing at him.

School was a mess. The teachers did their best to reign in the chaos Harry’s kidnapping and the sudden absence of nearly eighty students left, but they were powerless to stop the rumors and indignation. It had taken less than a week for the spread of ‘Free Harry’ merchandise to flood the school, aggravating more than a few educators with obnoxious flashing buttons and ugly themed parchment. McGunny suspected the Weasley twins, but his sources had been unable to confirm. Two weeks later, the even more obnoxious and frankly rather creepy ‘Die Durmstrang Die’ memorabilia hit the circuit and then things got ugly. There had been more than a few fires that had to be put out as students vented their frustration out on straw dummies in Durmstrang style uniforms. He had figured out Matilda Chutterly’s responsibility rather quickly, but nothing had come of it. Lestrange refused to suspend her for ‘patriotism’ despite the teachers insistence that she was only aggravating the students and risking school property for profiteering. McGunny wrote an article on it. Lestrange made him tear it up.

Snape and McGonagall retaliated with dorm searches and crack downs on curfew and detentions handed out left and right. Eventually they’d gotten things under control, and Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff followed suite before they faced similar punishments. Weasley wrote an article on it. Lestrange made him tear it up.

Even with the sudden rise in censorship, McGunny had been busy. Incredibly busy, not only tracking events in the school, which were numerous, but also adding national news to the school editions, a necessity since much of it related to the school and Harry to begin with. To add to that chaos, he had his NEWTS and college applications and Snape’s ever looming shadow to deal with.

And Tom. He could never forget about Tom. The bastard wouldn’t let him.

“That’s not fair,” came the familiar croon in his head, and he quickly threw himself into an empty compartment and locked the door before anyone noticed. “If it weren’t for me, you never would have aced that Transfiguration exam. You suck at it, Horace.”

“If it weren’t for you, my life wouldn’t be utter shit right now and I would have had the time and concentration to actually learn it on my own.” he muttered under his breath, then slumped into seat. “How much longer am I going to have to deal with you?”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.”

McGunny did know the answer. As soon as Tom had a new body, they’d both be free. Or at least Tom would be free. He was becoming increasingly suspicious that he wasn’t suppose to survive long enough to appreciate the spirit’s absence.

Finding a solution, however, was impossible. Any attempts to read up on exorcisms or discover Tom’s identity resulted in horrific migraines and memory lapses. One such blackout ended with him standing atop the astronomy tower, one step away from falling hundreds of feet to the courtyard below. The warning had been clear. For all his threats of killing himself, McGunny quickly learned it was pointless. The spirit would only find another body and he would be dead.

He just had to wait for an opportunity, and hope he was quicker than Tom at noticing it.

Slumping against his seat, he looked out the window as the other students started to climb aboard. Seeing Diggory amongst the horde was a bit jarring, as it had been for the last month that he had been seen wandering the schools. The surgery to replace his damaged heart had been completed and he was now completely healthy, but the months of non-awareness had their affects on him. Under a magically induced coma, he had not been aware of Harry taking his place in the tournament, nor of the betrayal of the Germans, and the events that had lead to a declaration of war; and waking up to find his world on its head had done nothing to help re-orient him. He was depressed and withdrawn, and not nearly as cheerful as everyone had remembered. But that was true of everyone these days. Well, Diggory had another year to get himself sorted out back at Hogwarts, the tournament being canceled and his own missed course work meant he would be repeating the year and take his final exams.

Granger had written an article on it, and submitted last second before Lestrange caught wind of it. Her nerve and her foresight reassured him that appointing her the new Editor and Chief had been a wise move. Tom ranting about him being a blood traitor and a fool had left him feeling warm inside.

And there was Granger and the young Malfoy heir beside her, talking to Snape, who was only half listening to them as he helped supervise the loading of students. The man spotted the Weasley twins slipping things into people’s pockets while they were distracted, and a few deft flicks of his wand had the entire contents of the boys’ pockets emptied across the platform. It was a rather embarrassing mix of candy, ‘Free Harry’ badges, half the inventory at Zonko’s Joke shop no doubt, and some poor girl’s lacey knickers. The students all burst out laughing, even Fred and George, much to Snape’s annoyance, but they weren’t quite as happy when the potion’s master vanished the entire horde.

McGunny chuckled and heard Tom echo it in the back of his head.

Turning away from the window, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a large seed, similar to a pecan but for its deep purplish-red color. It was Corpus arborus, the Body Tree, a very simplistic name for a very complicated plant… animal…. thing. For over a month, he had watched with his classmates as the fully mature tree had bloomed giant red flowers, into which Professor Sprout had dispensed three drops of blood. By mid spring the flower had wilted, but the ‘fruit’ ripened into Cedric’s new, perfectly healthy heart. It had been a monstrous and beautiful thing to watch.

It had been pure inspiration to Tom, who had realized its potential almost immediately.

The research paper McGunny had turned in on the subject earned him top marks. It had also earned him Tom’s silence for two weeks as they poured over book after book on the subject in the library. The nut had been made, as all Body Tree seeds were, in a cauldron, during the new moon with items ordered from different apothecary’s across Britain and along the border of the Forbidden Forest itself. It made him shiver to think about what he was doing.

“It’s a marvelous idea,” Tom said congenially, “You should be happy. No one even has to get hurt or looses their body.”

“Assuming you don’t kill me the moment you have what you want…” McGunny pointed out tiredly.

“I won’t kill you if you don’t give me a reason to. I like you, Horace. You’re a clever young man. If it weren’t for the unfortunate incident that left me bodiless, I think we would have gotten along quite well.”

“I certainly hope not.”

Tom just chuckled darkly, before fading away into the back of his mind. He sighed heavily. When he had thought of graduation, and the newest chapter to his life, this definitely wasn’t what he had imagined for himself. He had always sort of assumed he would be chasing stories, not becoming one himself.

Harry strode off the Durmstrang ship and onto pier 6 and 1/8 like a soldier stepping onto a battlefield. Six months he had spent at Durmstrang Institute, and four of them he had used in preparation for this moment, when he would leave his uncertain sanctuary to face people and places he could only afford to view as hostile.

The sky was clear and hot, and the breeze across the water was cool but brought with it the stink of polluted water and dead fish. The pier had been cleared to make room for the unloading of passengers and luggage, but at the far end Harry could see crowds of people gathered. Some of them obviously parents waiting for their children, but even more obvious were the reporters. He could feel their eyes on him, like starved dogs eying a discarded bone, barking out their questions before he was even close enough to hear what they were saying.

He searched the crowd for any sign of his new guardian, but he couldn’t find him and frankly he doubted the old coyote would be elbowing and shoving his way through the media circus. Harry certainly wasn’t going to try it. So rather than face the horde, he moved over to the piles of luggage and retrieved his trunk, found a space out of the way and sat down on it to wait.

“See you next semester, Potter!” a fifth year boy said, coming up to offer him a hearty whack to the back in typical quidditch beater fashion. Harry had joined a quidditch team shortly after his meeting with Dumbledore, not because he particularly wanted to play (although once he had started he couldn’t believe he’d ever lived without it), but primarily so he could make his frustration known to Viktor in an innocuous and physical way.

“Thanks. Have fun this summer,” Harry said politely. Several other boys followed his lead and even a few girls said their ’goodbye’s and ’good luck’s and ’see you this fall’s, and he responded in the usual polite way. They weren’t really his friends, not like Hermione and Draco and the Weasleys were, but they were alright. Once they realized he liked quidditch and therefore wasn’t a complete mutant, some had actually been pretty nice.

“Harry.”

His eyes slid over to Viktor, and they stared at each other a long moment. They hadn’t spoken, really spoken since the encounter with Dumbledore, when Harry had learned of Viktor’s betrayal. The animosity was far from one-sided though. The Bulgarian had his own bone to pick with him, and it revolved around the loyalty he still held towards the Dark Lord who more than likely wanted him dead. The older boy couldn’t understand, and frankly didn’t want to any more than the Gryffindor wanted to understand his trust in Dumbledore or the purpose of tricking Britain in the first place.

It didn’t help that Harry thoroughly trounced Viktor in the final game of quidditch and broken his perfect winning streak at Durmstrang.

“Viktor.”

Still, they never got around to stop calling each other by their first names.

“Dumbledore sent someone to collect you. Come on, I’ll point her out.”

“Gee, thanks,” he said, dripping with sarcasm. Why don’t point out were you’ll dump my body when your done while you’re at it. Nevertheless, he gathered up his trunk followed after Viktor. The trunk was light, not because of any Feather Light spell but because it was almost empty. He had only left his school uniform, some text books he wouldn’t mind loosing, Elsbeth’s leftover owl treats, and anything else he could easily replace. Everything else he had shrunk down and hidden on his person using the runic spells he had been studying all semester.

The spells weren’t for any class, there was no Ancient Runes class at Durmstrang, but at one time there must have been because the library had a treasure trove of books on the subject. Harry had been pretty good in the class at Hogwarts, but not particularly enthusiastic about it. Now that he was going to be deprived of his wand, however, runes had seemed one of the best ways to protect himself, since his wandless magic was pretty rudimentary and taxing on his body. Besides, they had proven dead useful in Curse Breaking.

If anyone searched his things they would find nothing useful, and if the opportunity to escape presented itself, he wouldn’t have to worry about leaving anything important behind. He felt rather proud of managing it all on his own.

Harry thought Voldemort would have been proud of his progress too… and then remembered the man more than likely wanted him dead.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted someone else who wanted him dead. Oblitz was still standing on the deck of the ship, staring down at him like a hateful vulture. Harry glared right back at him, plotting revenge tactics on the off chance he survived the summer and had to come back to Durmstrang to endure his company yet again.

They moved up the pier to the main docking area, where the reporters and anxious parents gathered round. They weren’t allowed on the pier for safety reason while the students unloaded, but they still managed to make a nuisance of themselves. Several photos were being taken, and Harry tried to convince himself it was mostly due to Viktor and his superstar status as a Quidditch champion. He was quickly disabused of that notion. They were proving just about equally famous.

“Harry! How did you like your first semester at Durmstrang?”

“Mr. Potter, do you feel safe now that you’re in Britain?”

“Viktor, now that you have finished your schooling, will you be training full time with the Vratsa Vultures[1]?”

“Please, let me take a picture for my daughter! She’s a huge fan!”

“Are the both of you good friends? Is it true you’ve sworn yourselves blood brothers?”

“If you could say anything to the Dark Lord right now, Mr. Potter, what would it be?”

“What made you decide to run away? Did the Dark Lord threaten you? How?”

“Can I have your autograph?! It’s for my nephew!”

“Mr. Krum, have you considered the offer to play for the Heidelberg Harriers[2]?”

“Viktor, you’ve been renown for your support of social causes. Are there any you are actively promoting? Have you thought about a career in politics?”

“Mr. Potter do you think you’ll return to Durmstrang for your fifth year or accept the offer of another school? How many offers have you received?”

With more than a little trepidation, they both waded into crowded and immediately became separated. Harry wasn’t very tall, and as the people swarmed around him and blocked his view in all direction, he became disoriented. The day was already hot, and even in his cooler British clothes, the bodies around him radiated like a furnace and stank of sweat. They was more flashing bulbs and shouted questions and people grabbing him to gain his attention, refusing to let him through and he didn’t even know in which direction to go anymore. He began to panic.

“How do you feel about your new guardian, Albus Dumbledore?”

“You were born in Britain but raised most of your life in Germany, which do you consider your true home?”

“When you were in Britain did you ever feel your life was in danger?”

“Were you persecuted because your parents fought in the resistance?”

“Tell us what happened when you escaped!”

Harry only shook his head, and shouted, “Please, let me through!”

“There are rumors that dark rituals performed on you while attending Hogwarts, is that true?”

“Please get out of my way.”

He tried to push himself through, but it was pointless because now they were following him and no matter which direction he tried the crowd was just as thick. Where was Viktor? Dammit, did it even matter?

“What happened to the muggle relatives who were originally taking care of you? Do you know?”

“Did the Dark Lord force you to sign over all of your family’s assets to him?”

“No comment! Leave me alone!”

“Harry!”

“The Minister has recently come under fire for his tactics in Britain. Do you have anything to say in his defense?”

“Are you assisting the Ministry in their case against Britain?”

“Shut up!” he finally snapped, and several cameras suddenly shattered and pens snapped. There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Harry!”

Someone grabbed his hand, he spun around to jerk it away but stopped when he saw who it was.

“Fleur?”

She was ruffled from squeezing and shoving herself through the reporters, but none of it damped her beauty, her shining halo of blond hair and her glowing smile. Having finally noticed her, her smile widened and she pulled him into hug that stole the breath clean out of him. There were a few clicks from cameras, but they were further back in the crowd. She pulled away, still smiling.

“Come on! Follow me!”

Still holding his hand, she started to running, knocking over people with incredible ease for someone so dainty and pulling him after her. The reporters tried to follow, but with none able to block her or even slow her down, the two escapees managed to break through them and made a dash for freedom. Harry couldn’t believe what was happening. Was he escaping? Now?

If that was the case… he dropped his trunk and forced himself to run faster. Together they ran off the pier towards some warehouses. At one point, Fleur spun around around and cast a shield charm. The thud of several people smacking into it made Harry smirk, but he didn’t risk turning around. They continued running until they couldn’t any longer and no one else was in sight.

An ‘alohamora’ later, and they found themselves slipping into a warehouse. It was filled with freight, but empty of people. Turning to each other, they burst out laughing, and hugged yet again.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, grinning like a fool.

“What doz it look lie? I am visiting my friend and rescuing ’im from ze mob.”

“And this friend is very grateful, but why? How did you even know I would be here?”

“I asked Viktor. ’E zed zat you would be ’ere today, and I might ’ave a chance to talk. Chance. Ha! I make my own luck.”

“Viktor told you?”

“I tried to write you directly but all my letters got zent back.”

Harry nodded. He hadn’t received a letter all year, and he figured like in Britain, his mail was being restricted for safety reasons… or because it was being stolen for intelligence purposes, which made him ill to think about. Her expression suddenly turned serious, and she looked at him intently.

“’Arry, please tell me the truth. Did you run away or were you kidnapped? I ’ave been ’earing so many stories I don’t know what to believe.”

An ache rose up in him, the question she had presented one that still haunted him. Had he run away? Not exactly. Had he been kidnapped? Not exactly.

“It’s complicated,” he said. “I didn’t want to go… but I can’t go back. I made a mistake that I don’t know how to fix, and Viktor pulled me out of the fire for completely the wrong reasons, but saved me just the same. But I’m scared Fleur. They want me to do things. Betray the Dark Lord and Britain, but I can’t. I can’t punish them for my mistakes. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Fleur pulled him into another hug

“Ah! Mon petite chevalier, is zere anything I can do?”

Harry shook his head. What could he ask of her? The most she could do was let him escape on his own. She couldn’t hide him, not after all those reporters had seen them run off together, and if he went to France with her there was no telling if they would keep him there or send him back to either Germany or Britain. Then he realized there was something she might be able to do.

“Do you… do you write letters to Bill?”

She blinked, and after a moment she nodded. “Yes, I ’ave been given special permission to write to Britain. I ’ad to apply for a special license, but I can do it. Why?”

“I… would you… would you tell Bill to let everyone know I’m okay? Hermione is probably so worried.”

She gave him a sad look, but nodded. It was as clear to her as it was to him, that he wasn’t ‘okay’. Then she pulled her bag, a school satchel he hadn’t noticed before, off her shoulder and set it on the floor.

“You are not ze only one who ’as made zis request,” she said, “Your friends gave me something for you. Zink of zem as belated Christmas presents… or early birthday presents.”

Harry’s heart began to beat faster as she opened her back and started to hand him boxes. He sat down beside her, and celebrated the Christmas he had missed. The first package was from Mrs. Weasley, a woman he had not met directly, but whom he held a quiet affection for having given him some of his closest friends and respected acquaintances. Inside was a jumper, Gryffindor red with a golden ‘H’ on the front, which made him smile. It was awful, but strangely sweet at the same time. He had seen Ginny and the twins wear theirs in the common room.

Next came Clyde’s gift, which held a fully illustrated play book for the Chudley Cannon’s season, where the players zipped around the pages so quickly they looked as if they’d fly right out of the book at any moment. Ginny had made him scarf and glove set, black and sleek, with his initial anagrammed in even darker black. The Wealsey twins gave him an entire box of wigs, of all things. Short red hair, long blond hair, curly white hair (and a mustache to match), spiky black hair, and wavy brown hair. Both Harry and Fleur burst out laughing when they found a hot pink mohawk buried at the bottom. It seemed the twins had gotten him started on his very own Incognito Kit.

Draco gave him a knife. It wasn’t an ornamental one either. The six inches of smooth steal, the handle plainly crafted wood. He felt no magic from it, but that didn’t make it safe. He carefully sheathed it and tucked it carefully out of sight in the back of his pants under his shirt.

Hermione had gotten him a Reader’s Ring. It was an enchanted object made of silver that slipped over his entire finger, and was hinged to still allow him movement. Runes were carved on the inside, but on the outside it was shiny and smooth as a mirror. He had seen and admired it on Hermione before while she was researching for particularly complicated research papers. It allowed its owner to find the answer to any question as long as it was within a book within a hundred feet.

Hagrid had even sent him something, a baby dragon tooth, probably from one of the orphaned dragons left in his care. Most surprising of all, was the package from Natalie. They hadn’t talked all year and she had barely even looked at him, but she had still sent him a calligraphy set, the nice sort made with polished wood and interchangeable heads and three different colors of ink.

The last item was from Fleur herself it seemed, a large book, but an odd choice for a gift.

“Centurian Prophecies?” he asked, looking at her quizzically. She made a helpless gesture.

“Don’t look at me, it wasn’t my idea. Ze owner of ze bookstore I went to insisted it was for you. Don’t worry, Bill checked it out. It iz perfectly safe.”

“Thanks, Fleur,” he said, genuinely grateful to her for coming all this way on an errand that more than likely should have failed. She just grinned.

“You are quite welcome. Now we better pack everyzing up. It wouldn’t do to be found with all zis illegal contraband,” she said, with a wink. There were letters, four of them in fact, but those he wanted to read alone in private, and he made sure tuck those carefully away in his shirt. With his trunk gone, and not having enough time to work out runes to shrink and hide his gifts, Fleur transfigured his cloak into satchel and stored everything away inside it. Not as subtle as Harry would have liked, but it was better than just abandoning it all.

They looked around outside briefly to see if everything was clear and slipped out of their hiding place.

“You should go,” he said. “It’s one thing to help me get away from a mob, it’s a different thing altogether to help me run away.”

She sighed and nodded, “Ah, yes. I would definitely be expelled from Chevalier training for zat. Did you know I had gotten accepted?”

Harry’s smile turned sheepish. “I don’t even know what that is.”

She rolled her eyes. “I will be a private soldier to ze Royal Family. It’s a very important and prestigious position. You only get in by invitation, you know,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself. Harry had seen sentinels with similar jobs for Voldemort, but it didn’t seem particularly glamorous. But then, Voldemort had very little need to be protected by anyone.

“Congratulations,” he said, hoping this was what she truly wanted. Before, he had thought she wanted to study in Luxemburg, but perhaps it had never occurred to her to even hope for this new career choice. He thought she would do wonderfully at whatever position she took.

“Thank you. If you want to get further into ze city, south is zat way. If you want to try to get back Britain… you know, just in case, you might run into a ferry if you head northwest. Other zan zat, I’m afraid I don’t know zis city very well,” she lamented.

“Don’t worry about it. Go on. I’ll be fine.”

She kissed him on the cheek, making his ears burn. “Good luck, mon ami.”

She hurried on her way, looking around cautiously before disappearing behind another building. Alone, Harry was at a loss about what to do with himself. He had gotten away so quickly and so suddenly, he didn’t know where to go next or what to do. Should he try to hide in Germany, as muggle perhaps? It had been a long time since he’d played a muggle, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do it anymore. Plus he had no money and no where to stay.

He still had his wand though, which gave him a major advantage among muggles. Locked doors were meaningless, and a few charms would leave him completely unnoticeable to anyone who might think to question or stop him.

But if he were caught, he would be in so much trouble.

He was already in so much trouble, he decided and started heading south. He would find somewhere to lay low before he tried to come up with any long term plans. Perhaps he could even find a way to make himself look different and hide among wizards, and if that failed a way to hide among the muggles like his parents did until he was grownup enough to move to the United States. They had no real wizarding government in the U.S. he had heard, so hiding there wouldn’t be hard at all.

Walking south at a quick and steady stride, idea after ridiculous idea flitted through his head, distracting him from where he was going and from being completely aware of his surroundings. So he was just starting to entertain the notion of finding train to take him to Cologne, when a Stunning Hex caught him square in the back and knocked him unconscious to the ground.

Bristol was humming with activity as spring faded into the heat of summer. A normally thriving community to begin with, the wizarding city was now packed to the gills with new Brass Cult recruits, eager young wizards and witches prepared to do their part for their country hustling through their registration, supplying, and training hectically, knowing the deadline for their first strike was drawing closer and no one knowing when they themselves would be called into action.

Hostels and private residents had been contracted to house the extra troops as they waited for their assignments at the various bases that were being constructed across the nation. The most famous of military brass were often seen wandering the streets or coming and going from various offices, drawing on the awe of the soldiers and citizens alike. Chief Commander Lucius Malfoy, Chief Sentinel Morgan, General Blackwell, Judge Devonhill, Admiral Lockhart (although what exactly he was the admiral of no one rightly new, but everyone admitted he looked damn fine in his uniform), and even Lord Voldemort himself could be glimpsed from time to time.

Not that anyone necessary wanted to glimpse Lord Voldemort. Not lately anyway.

It was generally agreed upon by the public (with the press’ insistence) that the Dark Lord was deeply troubled by the upcoming conflict and the safety of the protégé he had come to see as a son, and that the result was a very short temper and an unrealistic expectation for perfection.

Voldemort let them keep thinking that. The truth was too ridiculous to be made public. He was not concerned about the war, was even looking forward to it, and the boy was probably safer amongst the enemy than his former mentor.

The truth was he just plain missed Harry’s company.

He blamed his new soul for the most part, and by extension the infuriating Gryffindor himself. He blamed Brennan for his deception. He blamed Snape for lack of vigilance. If he was feeling particularly irritated, he’d even blame himself for having failed to handle his apprentice properly. He was only a child after all. A damn nuisance of a child, who fooled him with his big puppy dog eyes and his stupid Gryffindor ideals and his supposedly inability to keep his thoughts to himself.

It didn’t change the fact that he still missed him. Perhaps he even missed him more, knowing the boy was participating in a very adult game that he enjoyed playing himself.

Then he realized what an idiot he was being, and started plotting ways to torment the child upon his return. To his continued annoyance thinking of himself as the boy’s master wasn’t nearly as satisfying as thoughts of being his teacher.

“Potter is no longer at Durmstrang,” Voldemort said, staring across his desk at Morgan who sat ramrod straight and unreadable. In the background a map of Germany was situated detailing strategic attack points, glowing red dots at varying brightness to indicate their importance.

“Yes, my Lord,” Morgan agreed. They weren’t saying anything most of Britain didn’t already know. The German school year was ended, and Potter was suppose to be relocated from the school today although no one knew where.

“But he is with Dumbeldore now.”

Also something the public knew was happing today, and were completely outraged by. They were familiar, or at least had been recently reminded, that Dumbledore had been accused of sending assassins after the boy. Morgan nodded.

“That simply will not do.”

“No, my Lord.”

“Have your spies turned up anything?”

Morgan nodded. “I received news half an hour ago. There was incident in Bremerhaven, when Harry left the ship. He met up with Fleur Delacour on the pier and ran away. She was picked up a few hours later on her way back, but Potter wasn’t with her.”

This was not public record. Not in Britain and not in Germany, and it peaked the Dark Lord’s interest. Why precisely had Harry run away? Where had he intended to go? It had been months since he had been taken into Germany’s custody, and Voldemort had expected all sort of sordid details of their shared time together to have been leaked to the press or used as a threat by the German ministry or to turn France against him, but there had been nothing. Could it be possible that the boy had said nothing?

He didn’t see how, but all evidence suggested that he had, so far, kept silent. Nevertheless, he couldn’t rely on Harry’s discretion forever, especially now that he was in Dumbledore’s power.

“Was he found?”

“The Ministry received a statement that Potter was in his guardian’s custody, and had merely gone off to speak with a friend privately for awhile. This matched Delacour’s statement. However, my informant had no way to confirm if it is true or a means to cover up a blunder on their part.”

Voldemort nodded thoughtfully.

“Do you have anyone who might track him down?”

“Tried. He’s either not using his magic or really was found by Dumbledore. My informant only knows what the Ministry knows, and if they can’t find Potter neither can he.”

Not what he wanted to hear, but there was no point in cursing Morgan over it. That the man managed to get an informant in the German Auror division at all was extremely impressive. Given enough time, he was certain Morgan could recruit additional spies within Germany, disgruntled citizens as tired of their ministry’s incompetency as Britain had been of theirs. Besides, Voldemort thought to himself, I have been known to come up with a clever plan or two myself.

“If I were able to locate Harry,” he suggested, “Do you think you could get a man to retrieve him?”

Morgan said nothing for a moment, as blank faced as ever, then finally nodded. “I can think of a few people who might be convinced to take the boy, if it meant asylum in Britain.”

“Asylum is definitely something I can provide. How quickly can you get someone?”

Another moment of though. “… a week… ten days at most.”

“You have four. This will be at the top of your list until it is completed. Harry’s represents a security breach of the highest level. We can not afford to let him remain in the wrong hands.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Good. Are you ready for tonight’s meeting?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Ms. Beadle as well?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You are dismissed.”

Morgan stood, bowed and left, leaving Voldemort to brood until his next appointment. This could be it. In the next week, Harry may once more be in his grasp, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it. Part of him want to kill Harry, destroy the threat before he could turn into the next Dumbledore, and a larger part wanted to beat him down into complete submission, molding him into a blindly obedient tool just as he had told Lucius and Severus he would. But another part was making itself know, and had been growing like a weed despite the fire of his rage constantly trying to burn it to ash.

Part of him wanted to ask him how he had done it.

And why.

And if he regretted it.

Part of him wanted to sit down with a cup of tea, a pile of blank parchments, and recording quill and discuss everything that had happened from the moment Harry had decided to perform the ritual to the point where he escaped with the Durmstrang students. He wanted to compare ideas and theories, and learn what that sort of magic from that particular goddess felt like, what it required as far as sacrifice, if it was something he himself could harness. He wanted Harry to watch him with his wide, fascinated eyes as he explained the parts that he hadn’t realized himself, and feel the tingle of their magic brushing against one another as their mere thoughts drew up the ancient powers, their intellectual and imaginative admiration a form of worship all its own.

Part of him wanted them reconciled, but all of him knew it was pointless.

They would never have what they had lost. The trust was broken.

His whole, willful, and completely illogical soul refused to listen.

Sirius stood up and arched his back, working the crick out of it. Amidst the trees, he and over half his pack, including women and children, were stooping over the forest floor, searching for any sort of valuable plant they could find. The alpha scowled, his annoyance at his current duty only increasing along with the growing ache in his spine. Bide him, Remus glanced up with some amusement.

“It’s honest work,” his beta said.

“It’s nothing of the sort. It’s war profiteering,” he snapped.

“It’s for medicine. Not for weapons. These could save someone’s life.”

“Yeah, some dumb clod who’ll just go out and kill someone else.”

Remus rolled his eyes. Sirius had been in a surly mood all day, and Remus knew logic wasn’t going to snap him out of it. He wanted to be angry, convinced it was somehow better than being worried.

“That’s a very pessimistic thing to say.”

They both looked up and turned, finding Luna. Her own bag looked full, though whether it was anything useful was questionable. She had odd ideas about what was important and what wasn’t after all.

“Hello, Luna,” Remus sighed.

“Hello, Slivermoon. Hello, Blackbone.”

“Hmph.”

She continued to smile dreamily, oblivious or maybe nonchalant about their complete lack of enthusiasm. They could be gloomy all they wanted, because she knew something that would make them feel better.

“Diana says Harry is out of the ice fortress.”

Now she had their attention. They both dropped their bags and came closer.

“Where is he?” Sirius growled. Luna shrugged.

“I dunno.”

The alpha grit his teeth and took a deep breath.

“Then what else did Diana tell you?”

She tilted her head, and squinted one eye as if trying to remember, though the meeting could only have been a few hours ago at most.

“She said he’s being funny again, which I think is good. If he were in a bad way, that wouldn’t be funny at all.”

Remus nodded sceptically, “Yes, that’s probably true. Did she say how he was being funny?”

She grinned, “He got rescued by a damsel.”

The two men shared a looked, and finally shook their heads. It was pointless trying to get meaningful answers from someone half mad who was talking to someone else who couldn’t communicate her own omnipotence any better.

“Anything else?”

“And they lived happily ever after?” she offered.

“Luna,” Sirius sighed, “Is he safe or not?”

“Yep. At least he was when I talked to Diana. He’s crazy though, so who knows?” she said, and scampered off. Remus shook his head. She was getting odder and odder with each passing day, and unfortunately more social at the same time.

“Should I be worried that Luna thinks my godson is nuts?” Sirius muttered.

“No. Sane people always seem crazy to the insane.”

“Do you think anything she said was meaningful?”

“Sure. Harry’s out of Durmstrang. It’s probably the right time of the year for him to be out of class. There will definitely be more opportunities to rescue him now.”

“Or for him to escape. I bet he could, if he tried.”

They fell silent, and went back to get their bags and start harvesting, both of them deep in thought. Harry’s kidnapping had come as a complete shock to them, and in a lot of ways they couldn’t bring themselves to believe it. Harry anywhere other than Hogwarts or with them, let alone holed up in an ice fortress hundreds of miles away, was impossible to imagine. Like trying to imagine a polar bear in a barn or Greyback in a suit. It just wasn’t clicking. The only evidence they had even seen of it was the absence of letters, and Greyback’s single, gruff announcement half a year ago.

The upcoming war, however, felt very real. Greyback had already accepted commissions for the harvesting of medicinal plants, animal furs for the lining of winter uniforms, and crossbows. Their head alpha had also begun drilling them in what to do in case of an attack, digging out escape tunnels beneath their homes and random places around their camp, and holding council with the other alphas every few weeks to see how their own preparations were coming. One alpha had already been killed for not taking the threat seriously enough.

As they went back to their task, Sirius finally found exactly what he wanted to say.

“If he escapes… I hope he doesn’t come back here. I hope he finds somewhere safe.”

1. Vratsa Vultures is the Bulgarian pro quidditch team.↩

2. Heidelberg Harriers are the German team.↩

The Tavern

Harry awoke in an unfamiliar bed. Sitting up cautiously, he took in his new surroundings. The bed was small and covered in a green and yellow checkered quilt. The ceiling slanted sharply, and the room itself was long with a window at one end and a door at the other, all painted a clean white. It was empty but for the bed, a small bedside table and lamp, and his trunk with his satchel set on top of it.

He got up and quickly checked himself. His wand was still on him, as was everything else he owned. Had his kidnapper not bothered to search him at all? Draco’s gift, still tucked in the back of his pants made him think this was probably the case, or at the very least no one wanted him to know that they knew he was armed. He checked his satchel and found everything in place, and just to be certain he looked through his trunk. The trunk had a rune on it that glowed if it was opened by anyone other than him within twenty-four hours, but it remained dark.

The window he found was open already, letting in a breeze from outside, and though the radiator beneath it made it awkward, he managed to get a look around outside. The view revealed a neighborhood of modest apartments and hotels, bakeries and cafés. The people walking the narrow street appeared to be muggles, with not a robe or broomstick in sight. A girl walking with her mother, looked up at him from the street and waved. Harry waved back, his uncertainty mounting.

Where was he? Some sort of safe house? What kind of hideout would a wizard leave visible to muggles? How had he even gotten here? He remembered walking towards Bremerhaven… was this even the same city?.. and then everything after that came up blank. Searching the room for clues revealed nothing but a tiny storage hutch built into the wall and a tiny bathroom with a toilet and sink. It was all very spartan, but clearly not a cell.

With a bit of uncertainty, he tried the door.

It opened with a little groan. He grabbed his satchel and made his second bid for freedom.

A set of stairs lay directly outside his door, twisting downwards, and he followed it to the level below, and found a hallway lined with six doors with numbers on them and red carpet on the floor. A hotel then, he decided, and followed the stairs down to the next level and found a similar hallway but with green carpet. And so it went for another two floors, until at last he found himself deposited into a lobby.

It was empty. There was no clerk at the checkout desk, though there were several keys missing from board behind him, and no visitors sitting on the sofas or chairs. The lights were on, and the ceiling fan was running. It was ghostly quiet, but the place itself was sparkling clean and ready to receive, and he felt uneasy.

He tried the front entrance, and finally experienced his first obstacle. There was no knob on the door. He tried pushing it, but it didn’t budge. With his wand, which he still couldn’t’ believe he had, he tried a revealing charm, and then an unlocking charm, and after some mental debate a blasting charm. All three spells were swallowed up without so much as a rattle.

Throwing a chair at the nearest window had similar results.

Frustrated, he went in search of another exit. If he was forced to, he supposed he could figure a way to climb out his bedroom window and onto the street, but he wanted to see if could manage something less conspicuous on the ground floor. And perhaps find out what the devil was going on.

Searching the ground floor revealed an office, a break room, a coin operated laundry, and a kitchen. One of the laundry machines was running and the kitchen had food in it (Harry wasn’t too shy to nick a cookie out of the pantry), but otherwise he found no evidence of anyone. He was starting to entertain the notion that he was going be kept like a pet hamster in a very elaborate cage, when he heard voices. He followed the sound out to the lobby, and to a set of double doors he had overlooked. Beside the door was sign.

Astrada Hotel Bar

Mon-Thurs. 6:00pm-12:00pm

Fri-Sun: 5:00pm -1:00am

There were muffled voices coming through the door, barely audible but Harry got the impression that someone was shouting or at least protesting loudly. Cautiously, he leaned in closer to listen.

“I still say you should have searched him! It’s careless and naive Who knows what he’s carrying on him? What if he’s got something the Dark Lord can trace? Or even the ministry?” someone argued, a woman, he thought.

“Now, now, my dear, I didn’t take on this responsibility in order to hold young Mr. Potter prisoner. He has had a very difficult year, and deserves patience and respect. I believe that will prove the best approach for everyone.”

“Albus,” someone else said, this time a man, “I can appreciate what you’re saying, but this is a bit much. Viktor said it himself that the boy still felt loyalty towards the Dark Lord. Now, that’s probably not his fault, and he’s probably a very nice kid, but you can’t expect us to put any trust in him. He wasn’t off the boat ten minutes and he made a break for it! What happens if he manages to get out of here and gets picked up by one of Voldemort’s men? Or runs off to find one himself?”

There was a moment of silence.

“That’s a very good point,” Dumbledore said at last, and Harry felt himself recoil. What were they going to do? Lock him up? Well… lock him up more? Cast the Imperius on him? Put him in a magically induced coma? Make him sign a fidelity contract? “Which is why I will be taking special pains to ensure he never meets any of you. Compromising a hideout is one thing, compromising the Order is another thing altogether. With that being said, I must ask you to all to exit through the back door, as Mr. Potter seems to have made himself comfortable at the front.”

Harry leaped away from the door. There was the sound of cursing and moving chairs, the number of which suggested there were many more than just Dumbledore, the man, and the woman. His first thought was to turn around and run back upstairs to his room, thinking that if the others were truly leaving, then he might as well try it himself. If he waited for a few minutes, he might be able to escape without worrying about another sneak attack.

He was just a few steps up, when one of the doors popped open with an audible ‘click’. He froze on instinct, and turned expecting someone to come out and shout at him for spying or order him to stop, but no one appeared. Looking back up the stairs, it seemed a lot further away, five flights of stairs he reminded himself. The old wizard was alone now though. Surely if he wanted to interrogate him, he would have made the others stay.

Turning back towards the door, he wondered if it were an invitation, and whether he should accept it. The last time he had faced Dumbledore, he had been half mad and hurled curses at him and blown up a room. Hardly the best first impression. Not that he cared.

It was just… that opened door seemed to taunting. I dare you come inside, it seemed to laugh.

Well, he thought, I did want some answers.

He flicked his wrist a few times, making sure his wand would pop out easily if necessary, and headed back and stepped inside. The bar was dark, as bars typically were, and only a few dim lights were on. It smelled of stale smoke and wine, and at the bar sat the old wizard, all alone, drinking what appeared to be…

“Lemonade, Mr. Potter?” Dumbledore offered, his eyes somehow managing to twinkle even in the dark. Harry was very tempted to just roll his eyes and stalk back outside.

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, took a long sip from his spirally orange straw, sighed happily, and continued, “How are you feeling? I do apologize for your rather unorthodox arrival. My associates can be a little overzealous in their assignments. I trust you weren’t hurt?”

“Not as far as I can tell…” he said, his tone doing nothing to hide his annoyance.

“Good, good. Now that you’re awake, I thought we might discuss a few things.”

Harry said nothing. In fact, he didn’t even move. He itched to take his wand, stun the wizard, and make a break for it. Dumbledore took another sip from his glass.

“Ah, that’s wonderful. Best thing about summer, without a doubt, is the lemonade. And ice cream. And fireflies. Those are good too.”

Or maybe stun him and call on the nearest funny farm to come and take him away.

“I’m sorry…sir… but what did you want to talk about?”

“Oh, yes. About your stay here for the summer… well, temporary stay anyway. We’ll likely move once or twice, but that’s neither here nor there. I would like to hire you on as a personal assistant. My sources tell me that you have some experience working in an office.”

Harry blinked. That wasn’t what he had been expecting. Inquiries about his affiliation with Voldemort, questions about dangerous magics he had performed, and even his thoughts on the Minister of Magic, but not about a job. He was talking about a job, wasn’t he?

“I don’t… what?”

Dumbledore didn’t seem to find anything about the situation odd, and kept on as if they were long time acquaintances. “I’ve always believed remaining active during the summer was just as important for keeping the mind sharp as homework ever was, and it’s excellent experience for after graduation. Don’t you agree?”

“Er… sure.”

“So what do you think? A little part-time job, say, four or five hours a day? I’ll pay you of course. That’s half the fun of having a job… in some cases the only fun.”

“Uh… what would I be doing, exactly?”

“Filing, taking messages, tidying up, the usual. Do you know how to make tuna salad?”

“… Yeah…”

“Then making tuna salad on Thursdays, as well. I can never get it quite right.”

Harry bulked. He had just hired himself out to a loon. A loon who happened to be one of Voldemort’s greatest rivals. Fabulous. Well, at least he hadn’t asked for his wand.

“Good, now that that’s settled… about your wand…”

Well, bollocks.

“Ministry laws, I’m afraid, and I should be in considerable trouble as your guardian if anyone knew you had cast some rather impressive spells at the front door.”

“How would anyone know?” he tried, then cursed himself for the desperate lilt his voice had taken. Stupid! Stupid! He had been close to begging. There was no way to win that way.

“I am sorry,” the old man said sympathetically, “I know it is disconcerting, but it’s not something that can be taken lightly. I promise, your wand will remain safe.”

Harry said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes.

“Do you think I would tamper with it?”

Again, the boy let his expression do the talking, but added for clarification, “I’m more worried about myself.”

“Ah, yes. Your trust is not so easily given, I imagine, and my words alone will not be enough to convince you. The only proof I can give you that you can trust me is if you don’t have your wand and nothing ill be falls you, and the only way you would give me your wand is if you trusted me. We are at an impasse.”

They fell into a thoughtful silence, and Harry found himself tired of standing and took a seat a little ways down the bar. Looking across the counter, he could see his reflection in the mirrored backdrop. He looked thin, pale, and tired, but his eyes were hard. It was a bit startling. The lighting was generally dim at Durmstrang except in the domes, and he hadn’t realized his deterioration until now.

“Of course,” the old wizard started up again, drawing back his attention, “I could have just as easily taken it from you while you slept.”

Harry swallowed thickly, realizing that was very true. He could have taken his wand, and everything else he had on him, and locked him in his room or kept him unconscious or chained to the bed. A lot of things could have been done to him that weren’t.

“Then why didn’t you?”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, and he gently slid a glass of lemonade down the bar towards him. Harry caught it instinctively. “Trust, Mr. Potter, and respect. Before we can ever hope to reach an understanding, there must be a certain level of trust and respect… on both our parts.”

He looked away, down at the glass. The outside of it was cool and wet with condensation, and he realized now that the room was uncomfortable warm and he was thirsty. It could be drugged though… but that wouldn’t make much sense. He just didn’t want to trust the old man. He had been preparing himself for a confrontation, for an interrogation, not conversations on trust and lemonade. It was ironic, but he thought he would prefer his earlier supposition. He didn’t know how to defend against kindness.

At the same time, he was sick of the fear and the paranoia, quite literally. His reflection showed the strain it had caused him. Cautiously, he took a sip of his lemonade, pointedly not looking at Dumbledore. He was afraid he’d see triumph there.

They didn’t say anything further, and Dumbledore didn’t rush him. When he had finally finished his drink, and his thinking, he was lead back out to the lobby and behind the check in counter.

“The hotel is empty,” Dumbledore explained. “The muggles who own it have passed on, and I am watching it for their children until they sort out what to do with it, which should take another month or two.”

“This is a muggle hotel?” It shouldn’t have surprised him, not after looking out the window at the perfectly muggle-looking neighborhood. In the back of his mind, he had just assumed that’s how German wizards lived and dressed. For the first time, the old wizard’s expression sharpened a bit, into something more shrewd, but it quickly disappeared.

“It’s been a while since you went about the muggle world, hasn’t it? Five years almost.”

“Longer than that,” he said bitterly, before he could catch himself. He hadn’t been out in the muggle world nearly at all since his parents death. The Dursley had kept him constantly at number 4, Privet Drive, never taking him to school, the store, or even to the park and never letting him outside to do anything except work on the garden. At the time, it had merely been depressing, but looking back on it now left him angry. He had missed out on so much because of his guardians’ shame and greed, and that which he had seen and experienced with them was ugly and cruel.

“Then this shall be a rather novel experience. It will certainly be a re-education. Go ahead and pick a mail slot, and place your wand inside of it.”

Harry hesitated, fighting the feeling of nausea over what he was about to do. His wand had been a part of him for years, and to be separated from it felt like willingly amputating a finger. The old wizard didn’t rush him, and eventually he picked a slot that was eye-level to him and placed him wand inside. With a flick of his own wand, which made Harry flinch, Dumbledore cast a spell on the slot.

“There. Now it is quite safe from theft, fire, and flood. No one will be able to remove it, myself included, without canceling the spell first.”

Nothing appeared to have happened. There was no glowing or sparks, and the wand continued to sit there in plain view. Curious, Harry reached up to try and take it back. His fingers missed the slot, and he felt the first tingle of magic. Another attempt and another miss. The third and fourth try yielded the same results. He pulled back his hand.

“Weird.”

“Quite. Now that that is taken care of, if you would follow me to my office. I have a bit of filling that needs to be taken care of.”

Snape stalked through the Court of Military Affairs with the same looming quality he had mastered at Hogwarts, and for the most part it was just as effective among the Dark Lord’s toadies and the toadies’ toadies as it was on school children. Witches and wizards alike, in their suits and uniforms shrank back upon his approach, refraining from any attempts at flattering or networking they normally employed with those of superior rank. The potions master had a reputation as a former Death Eater, and any who came upon him were unfortunately reminded of it by his perpetually dark expression and intense black eyes.

This was good for Snape, certainly a morale booster after months of frustration at his own inadequacy. The Dark Lord had charged him with a task, a task he couldn’t afford to fail at, but ultimately saw no way to achieve. Tonight, he was expected to deliver the results of his investigation into the mysterious letter in front of the Dark Lord and a hundred of his colleagues, and he had nothing.

The Court of Military affairs was an ostentatious building for a place that dealt with the affairs of war. The style was Baroque, garishly over decorated in gold lief and high ceilings, paintings of battles lined the walls, making the hallways unpleasantly noisy when just the images of battling sorcerers and sorceresses blowing each other to bits would have been unpleasant enough all its own. He arrived at the meeting hall and was stopped by Sentinels, suffered through the usual indignity of a search, and was permitted to enter.

He was not late, but he was one of the last to arrive. The meeting was being held in a large room, with no windows and no places to hide for the sake of security. Long tables had been set up in the shape of a ‘U’ with a shorter table above it for the most important attendees, including the Dark Lord himself. The room was crowded, and the noise of battles from the hallway was replaced with the noise of politicians who liked to hear themselves talk. Heading towards the front of the room, he could see Lucius and Morgan had already arrived. Lucius was talking with small group of important looking people, but Morgan’s attention was focused on a woman he didn’t recognize. She was in her early thirties, plain faced, though not unpleasant, sprinkled with freckles from getting too much sun, and her dark brown hair was pulled back into an equally unimpressive bun. She dressed modestly in a blue dress, and a darker blue robe was draped over it. Nothing about her suggested any significance, and her wide nervous eyes suggested she didn’t think she should be there, but she had been placed between Morgan and himself, which meant someone thought otherwise.

He took his seat, ignoring inquiries from the few brave enough to address him, and waited. The woman beside him turned around, a nervous reaction, but when he turned back to her she quickly looked away. He rolled his eyes. He supposed it was better than being stuck next to talker, but her timidness was irksome.

“You could have just handed my report to someone-” she was saying to Morgan, a rather bold move since he was the second most important person in the room at the moment. He cut her off with flat reprimand.

“You were requested by the Dark Lord himself. If you have objections, feel free to take the matter up with him.”

That shut her up quick, as such a threat usually did, and she spent the next few minutes staring at her hands clasped in her lap. Snape spent his time, trying to think of what he was going to say. Unfortunately, he kept thinking how he wanted to strangle Harry for getting him into this mess.

“All rise for Lord Voldemort, Sovereign of the Kingdoms of Britain and Ireland!”

The room fell silent, and anyone who had been sitting, Snape included, rose to their feet and turned towards the door. The Dark Lord strode inside, a party of six Sentinels followed behind him, but they broke away to station themselves around the room. The sovereign himself, went straight for the center table, and sat himself down. Everyone followed his example, and sat, waiting in silence for his instructions.

“We have much to discuss,” the Dark Lord said pointedly, “So we will refrain from the usual ceremonies and pleasantries. Please keep your testimonies brief and to the point. If anyone has questions or statements to add, wait until the end before presenting them. I shall begin with a explanation of what occurred the night I was attacked.”

Voldemort’s story was a shiny little thing, polished after months of consideration and truths dressed in lies and political correctness. It went along the lines that the Dark Lord had been in Ireland, making nice with the local Druidic communities during their Winter Solstice holiday, when he had been attacked with a strange magic. The druids present had been skilled enough to save his life and bring him to the hospital for treatment, where under the excellent care of the doctors he had managed to recover relatively quick. Further investigation revealed the source of the strange magic to be Professor Eric Brennan, a teacher at Hogwarts who had been convinced or possibly coerced by the Germans to attempt an assassination. The Germans had fled without him, and when confronted, Brennan had killed himself and taken his secrets with him. It was also believed he had a hand in Harry Potter’s kidnapping, but this could not be confirmed. He has since made a complete recovery.

There was a rather telling lack of questions after he had given his account, and the Dark Lord turned over the hall to Lucius.

“Commander Malfoy will explain the events that led to the discovery of the German’s attempt at spying. Commander Malfoy, if you would.”

Lucius nodded to the Dark Lord, and stood. Despite his own sense of self-importance, he kept his account brief. There was, after all, very little about the incident that showed him in a very flattering light. The discovery had been made by an anonymous third party, and most of the Germans had escaped, but for a few minor players, and a child had been kidnapped. The only positive point had been his quick actions, which had prevented the acquiring of confidential information via the parasitic insects. There were a few questions here, but no one dared point out his mistakes. Criticizing Malfoy wasn’t as dangerous as criticizing Voldemort, but only because he didn’t make you suffer in public before he killed you… usually.

And then it was his turn.

“Professor Severus Snape has been charged with investigating the mysterious letter from Hogwarts,” Lucius ended, taking his seat. Snape stood, careful not fidget or take a drink of water, or appear anything other than absolutely confident in what he was about to say. He had no real answers, but he could improvise like the best of them.

“Having examined the letter, I can safely say that it did in fact originate from our Lord’s office in Hogwarts, and the owl was also a tenant of the school. Further investigation of both the office’s security and questioning of those present at the school during the event, I have reached the following conclusion.”

He was distinctly aware of Lucius and Morgan and, most unnerving of all, the Dark Lord’s intense scrutiny; more interested than anyone else in the room on what he was to say next. They knew he had reached dead end after dead end, and wondered how he was going to get out of the bind he found himself in.

“Professor Brennan, is in fact, the original author of the letter.”

There were murmurs of confusion, but the Dark Lord quickly broke in.

“Silence! Professor, please explain.”

“Certainly,” he said quickly, but not too quickly. He had to be careful to come off as if he believed what he was saying and wasn’t just making excuses. “I believe Professor Brennan wrote the letter in an attempt to protect Mr. Potter from harm, alerting Commander Malfoy of the spying insects as proof of their intentions so that he might stop their plot before involving his student.”

“But Professor Snape,” a woman towards the back objected, “Why would Professor Brennan aid in the assassination of our Lord, but then try to stop them from kidnapping Mr. Potter?”

Snape took a deep breath, and cast an accessing glance at the Dark Lord. He looked curious, but not convinced.

“Professor Brennan,” Snape began, “Has a… history with the Dark Lord. One that may account for his willingness to murder him, but not one that would justify the abduction of Mr. Potter or the revelation of national secrets to a foreign government. Ultimately, we may never know why, but given the timing and the source of materials, only Brennan had access to the office and the foreknowledge of the plot to have sent the letter.”

Not everyone looked certain, but obviously didn’t have anything to contradict his theory or even an alternative theory of their own. He managed to re-take his seat, fairly confident he was not going to be horribly mutilated at the conclusion of the meeting.

“Thank you, Professor,” the Dark Lord said, looking rather impressed, which didn’t necessarily mean he had been fooled. Snape would have to hope he was impressed enough with his improvisation that he didn’t curse him out of hand. “Most of you are unfamiliar with our next speaker, Ms. Ira Beadle. She is a private researcher for the Oxford University of Magicial Academia and Medicine, specializing in entomology and has been charged with examining the insects used to spy on us.”

Nervously, the woman beside him stood and faced the crowd, nodding in acknowledgment to the Dark Lord.

“H-hello. Ah… one moment please.”

She suddenly dropped down and after a moment of rather undignified groping beneath the table, pulled out box-shaped item. The Sentinels stiffened, but she was too distracted setting up her contraption to notice. After a few seconds of fiddling with some knobs on the side, the top of the box lit up and a faint hologram appeared a few feet above their heads. The holograms were of the bugs, but they were very difficult to see.

“Um… would s-someone please lower the lights?” she requested. Another moment passed and the lights dimmed, and the insects could be seen much more clearly, and she began. “T-these are not true insects, but ascari, more closely related to ticks. The one on the left… excuse me the one on my left,is a common a Western Imagi, easily found in any Northern European country, including Scotland and Ireland. The one on the right, however, is a completely new species…”

In the dark of the room, focused on a subject she clearly understood well, Mr. Beadle’s timid demeanor melted away. With confidence and enthusiasm she explained the technique likely used to change the Western Imagi into the current form, and how the use of grinding the creatures up and mixing them in a potion and then a penseive would reveal everything they had seen and experienced. They had perfect memory.

“Very impressive, Ms. Beadle,” the Dark Lord said, interrupting her before she turned meeting into a course lecture. “You may sit down now.”

Chagrined, she dismantled her projector and quickly took her seat. There were a few more speakers, Sentinels in charge of interrogating the few Germans they had captured, Court officials investigating Germany’s preparations and attitudes towards the upcoming deadline, progress reports on Britain and Ireland’s security and the military recruitment campaign, and various other matters. It was almost midnight when the meeting was adjourned, and everyone was too tired to attempt another round of schmoozing.

The Dark Lord, however, being an inhuman monster, was still peppy enough for just a little more. Snape was among the privileged to receive a pat on the shoulder and a rather sinister, ‘come with me’. He followed the Dark Lord through a back door, and down a hallway. Lucius and Morgan were with them. The guards were not. They stepped into an office and shut the door, Morgan throwing up anti-spying spells behind them.

Snape was rather surprised to find Nagini lounging on the couch, glaring up at them, daring one of them to try and take her spot. It was strange when he suddenly realized he hadn’t seen the snake since Harry’s second year.

“Hassshe messs ssseeessse,” the Dark Lord hissed softly, and the giant snake slithered to the floor and made her way over to him, leaving the couch available to Lucius and Morgan. Snape remained standing, leaning against the doorway. Voldemort reclined in his chair, completely unaffected as Nagini climbed up his chair and laid her head on his lap. He started to stroke her reptilian head and spoke to them in English.

“There are a few matters I wanted to make all of you aware of before you leave. I have recently begun making direct correspondence with Her Majesty Queen Ophelia IV through letters, and she has expressed a willingness to listen to our complaints against Germany. Much of what was discussed today will be presented via representative, and will require you to make yet another formal report and submit it in a week’s time for translation. This is an extremely important project, my friends. If we can convince the queen our grievance is legitimate, we may create for ourselves a powerful ally, one who will allow us a foothold on mainland soil. Your roles in this will be limited, but I wanted you aware of what is going on so that you might facilitate this matter among your underlings who express reluctance in associating with a foreign country.”

If that was what this private meeting was about, Snape wondered why he was there. His ‘underlings’ included a couple hundred juveniles of no political consequence. At least, none of political consequence since Harry disappeared.

“I can see you are wondering about your presence here, Severus,” the Dark Lord continued. “Truthfully, that matter has nothing to do with you. I simply need to ask you a question.”

“My Lord?” he asked, cautiously. The dark wizard’s expression was familiar, a casual cruelty that suggested he was going to curse someone out of boredom, rather than out of punishment.

“Chief Morgan and I have been discussing a means of retrieving my dear protégé from Dumbledore, and it seems we may have the opportunity in the next few weeks.”

Something unpleasant settled in Snape’s stomach at the news, something that left him nauseous at the thought of participating in the child’s inevitable punishment. Still, he managed to get out a ‘congratulations’.

“Thank you. Now, however, I must consider exactly what I am to do with him. A few minutes under the Pain Curse just isn’t going to cut it. I need him healthy enough to face the public and testify to Durmstrang’s kidnapping and torture, but more importantly I need to know he will never again be capable of defying or attempting harm against me.”

Snape nodded, his unease beginning to spread. He didn’t like where this conversation was going. “What would you have of me?”

“I need to know if you are capable of instilling loyalty in him, through potions or spells or a good old-fashion lashing. I don’t care, as long as he remains sane and healthy enough to carry out his role as Prince. Can you do this?”

There were fourteen different ways Snape could think of to create artificial loyalty, thirty if one considered blind obedience the same thing as loyalty, and six methods that could maintain one’s sanity and health. None he had ever considered using on a child, even one as obstinate and infuriating as Harry.

“… Yes, I can,” he said, because to deny his ability would not only endanger him, but leave the boy in the care of someone else, most likely Lestrange or someone else of questionable skill and intent.

The Dark Lord nodded, tension they had not even realized was there, slowly leaving him. In his lap, Nagini closed her eyes, conveying the contentment normally reserved to highly spoiled house cats.

“Good. I recommend making preparations as soon as possible.”

“I shall, my Lord… but if I may ask… why me? I have… failed,” he bit out, hating to remind the wizard of such a touchy subject, but needing answers just the same. “… to handle Potter properly the first time, and surely you are more than capable of handling him yourself.”

He stiffened, waiting for a Cruciatus or possibly something more bloody, but Voldemort merely made a dismissive gesture with his free hand.

“I have two reasons. The first being that I want to maintain the appearance of normalcy upon his return. No one should know of his defection or the retribution that will be exacted on him, not the public in general or his closest associates, including your goddaughter and godson. Removing him from your care would raise questions, and you are too conveniently placed for me not to use you. The alternative would be Lestrange, who lacks the… sensitivity… this situation requires, or Professor Toure, who lacks the skills. The other reason… I do believe he betrayed us both, Severus. You have as much reason to be angry with him as I do.”

Snape was surprised, not only by the Dark Lord’s reasoning, but also by the realization that he had never felt betrayed. Angry, yes, but not betrayed. Harry’s retaliation had seemed perfectly natural, albeit foolhardy and inconvenient. He was a Gryffindor forced to play Slytherin games, and ultimately had lashed out and broken free. Harry’s actions were unbelievably reckless and extreme, but not unjustified. Snape himself had often fantasized of ways to put Lord Voldemort into an early (long overdue?) grave.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to sound sincere but coming off more than a little perplexed. “You are too generous.”

“Aren’t I?” It was said with an ironic lilt, a strange sort of joke for man who only seemed to get stranger with time. “That is all, Severus. You may go, I still have a few more matters to discuss with the others.”

Snape bowed respectfully and left, aware of the other wizards’ intense scrutiny. They had said nothing the entire time, and he would happily have forgotten their presence during the entire awkward and nerve-wracking debacle, but it seemed they would be privy to his every word and subconscious gesture to examine and question on their own once their meeting concluded. His summoning and premature dismissal left him vulnerable to their criticism behind the closed door, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The only true way to redeem himself was to do as Dark Lord requested and-

“Professor Snape.”

Ms. Beadle was in the hallway, sitting in a chair like a child waiting to be called into the headmaster’s office, her little projection box beside her. She was clearly tired, and he couldn’t imagine why she was still there.

“Ms. Beadle… shouldn’t you be on your way home?”

She looked up at him with wide gray eyes, then timidly down at her hands again.

“Chief Morgan is my escort,” she said, softly, and offered nothing more. Just as well, he decided, since he wasn’t particularly interested. And yet some how, he still ended up asking a question.

“A friend of yours?”

She shook her head. “My stepfather.”

“Ah.” And then he completely lost interest, and started on his way.

“Professor…”

He paused and turned back towards her. She was looking at him directly now, still nervous, but with intent. “Yes?”

“I… I just wanted to say… I…” she stumbled, “You have my condolences… about Mr. Potter, I mean. Like everyone else, I guess… We’re all praying for his safe return.”

Snape said nothing for a long moment, decoding her ramble into something he could adequately interpret. When he finally figured it out, a laugh jumped straight into his throat before he could swallow it. He laughed, hard and long. Oh, what a ridiculous thing to say, he thought. Never mind he had heard it a dozen times before. To have someone say it sincerely and to his face was just too funny.

It didn’t help that her wide eyes had gotten even wider and she was now left gaping, like some sort of deer-eyed fish. His laughter wasn’t subsiding, and as it continued her mouth finally closed and her eyes narrowed, but she had also turned beet red, bringing a completely new level of hilarity to the situation.

“Honestly, sir!” she protested indignantly. “What is so funny?”

The laughter finally faded away as he considered her question, and ultimately decided it wasn’t funny at all and he needed to get some sleep. He rubbed his eyes, turned and walked away, ignoring her and her question altogether. It would be for the best if he left before Lucius came out and requested a word with him in his usual attempts to prod a situation until he found some benefit to himself in it.

“Goodnight, Ms. Beadle,” he said offhandedly.

“Good riddance, sir!” she snapped at his back, unknowingly eliciting a smirk from the utterly disagreeable man.

Harry sat at the window, looking down at the empty street below. It was late, or very early morning depending on how one thought about it, and he could not sleep. His life had just taken a dramatic new turn again and his mind was still reeling. In a day, he had gone from Durmstrang to Bremerhaven, was briefly reunited with Fleur, attempted an escape, was recaptured, relocated into a muggle hotel, surrendered his wand to his former mentor’s greatest enemy (not to mention possibly his own greatest enemy if he truly was responsible for the whole Moody debacle), and was now working for him as an office assistant.

The day hadn’t gotten any less strange once he was lead to Dumbledore’s ‘office’, which resembled office only by the fact that it had a desk and a filing cabinet. And papers. Lots and lots of papers. In fact, it looked as if someone had set a bomb off in the post office. They were stacked on his desk, on the floor, tacked to bulletin boards, behind the radiator, under the rug, and even in some of the hats on the hat rack. Despite this, the old loon insisted he knew where everything was… except his coffee pot… and his type writer… and Fawkes, who turned out to be a phoenix taking sanctuary in the adjoining bathroom. A wise move, since a lovely as the creature was, he was also a definite fire hazard with all the kindling just laying around.

Harry had spent hours just trying to find all the scattered papers, which could have been done in minutes if he’d been allowed his wand or even if Dumbledore had done a few spells himself, but the old wizard had busied himself typing up letters on his type writer, after it had eventually been excavated from under some old tax forms that had never been filed.

It turned out that Dumbledore was a philanthropist, who ran almost a dozen charities and organizations almost entirely by mail. The Refugee Scholarship Fund, set up to help refugees and children of refugees pay for school tuition. The Three Tongues Program, volunteer-run classes designed to teach refugees the language of their new home country. Universal Rites, a legal assistance charity that provided legal counseling and representation to British families without citizenship. It went on and on, and even though he wasn’t reading through every piece, he was getting the gist of what life was like for those who had fled during the war. And perhaps an idea of why his own parents preferred living as eccentric muggles, rather than outcast wizards.

They could have gone back, Harry thought. Most of them, anyway. Did it really seem so awful, that they would prefer to live like third class citizens in a foreign country than as first class citizens under Lord Voldemort?

That seemed to be the case, but he was suspicious. Had no one gone back? He couldn’t recall ever hearing a case where someone had left Britain and then returned after the war. Perhaps it had been impossible? The international embargo could have prevented their return, but what sense did that make? Why hold on to people you didn’t really want?

He decided he should ask Dumbledore in the morning. Given the man’s occupation, it seemed he would be the most likely person to know, and in his case the only person he could ask. Sighing, he moved away from the window and climbed onto the bed. It was too warm to bother with blankets, so he simply curled around his pillow and closed his eyes.

Sleep evaded him for a while, pestering him with ideas of escaping out the window and disappearing while the strange old wizard slept oblivious, but such a silly plot wasn’t enough to pull his tired body from his bed. Finally, the world fell away and dreams came to him.

The maze at the Sianach Lodge was far different in the summer than in the winter, and even in the misty gloom he could see the hedges lined in vibrant greens and flowering bursts of color. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a raven call. He made his way towards the center, following the familiar path and nodding to the gods and goddesses perched on their altars, and they nodded back or ignored him in their turn.

The maze opened up at the center, and standing there was the Dark Lord himself, using his staff to burn a diagram into the grass. Harry watched him silently for a while, idly wondering what it was for, not bothering to question why he was there to begin with. When the diagram was complete, Voldemort turned and looked at him.

His expression was cold and blank, and Harry was suddenly reminded that they were not friends any longer. He didn’t run though. It hadn’t yet occurred to him to be afraid, and when the man extended his hand to him in invitation, he entered the circle without hesitation.

“What are we doing?” he asked, looking down at the burnt lines in the ground, runes running out from the center or into the center depending on ones point of view.

“Where are you, Harry?” Voldemort asked, ignoring his inquiry.

“I am here.”

A hint of amusement flitted across the Dark Lord’s expression, but just as quickly disappeared.

“No, you are not here. You are only dreaming of this place. Where are you?”

Harry thought about it.

“Germany.”

“Better… where in Germany?”

“Westerly Street.”

“A city? A town? Are mountains nearby?”

“A city. I don’t know its name. In a hotel. There are muggles outside my window.”

The Dark Lord considered this for a while, and while he was thinking Harry watched the lines in the grass as they started to shift. Gently, the man lifted his chin with his hand, and drew back his attention.

“Have you told Dumbledore anything?”

“I told him how to make a tuna salad.”

Voldemort grinned, but fought it back, trying to keep his expression serious. He seemed to be having a hard time of it, particularly since Harry was grinning up at him.

“Has he asked you about me?”

“No, but I told him I wouldn’t tell him anything when we first met.”

The elder man cocked his head to the side. “Why not?”

Harry cocked his head to the other side, mirroring him. “Why would I?”

“You betrayed me once before.”

“I never meant to hurt you. I just didn’t want you to hurt anyone else… just because you could.”

“It is my right.”

“But it isn’t right.”

“You’re one to talk about morality after what you’ve done.”

“Fine, I’m Mr. Kettle and your Mr. Pot, and we’re both too black to criticize each other. I still didn’t tell him anything.”

Voldemort let out an irritated snort. “Are you with him now?”

“He’s somewhere in the hotel… if he hasn’t snuck out. I wouldn’t know. He took my wand.”

And that was a good old-fashioned sulk right there, and he threw in a shoe scuffing for effect. As he was looking down he noticed the diagram had shifted some more, and had warped so that its center was starting to edge towards his feet. He took a step back and watched as it slowly changed directions.

“Weird. What’s it do?”

“Hold still and you’ll find out,” the Dark Lord suggested. “Has he told you anything about me?”

“Not really. You’ve made a lot of people miserable, but I knew that already.”

“Ha ha.”

“I want to come back.” He stated, seemingly out of nowhere, but it was the only thing he had really wanted to say since he saw the Dark Lord. The rising humor drained away, leaving the dark wizard expressionless once again.

“Then you shouldn’t have run away.”

“I didn’t. Viktor kidnapped me.”

Voldemort snorted derisively.

“Alright, so I let him kidnap me,” Harry admitted. “You would have killed me though if I had stayed.”

“I still might.”

“I really am sorry.”

“I really don’t care.”

They fell silent, Harry staring up into his former mentor’s blood red eyes and Voldemort staring into his verdant green, communicating in a look what they had ready said in words and just a little bit more. Suddenly, Voldemort pulled back and turned away.

“You may return,” he said, stunning Harry to the core and filling him with unrealized hope, “On one condition.”

“What? Please, I’ll do anything.”

The Dark Lord turned back to him, his mouth twisted into a cruel smirk.

“Hold still.”

Below him the eye of the diagram finally shifted to directly beneath his feet, and magic welled up beneath him. He felt his magic twist inside him and the diagram pull at it sharply, as if to tear it away. His cry was more from surprise than pain, but pain quickly followed when he tried to jump away and he felt something tear. He screamed and fell, and the earth rose up to swallow him…

Harry bolted upright in his bed, drenched in sweat and shivering. What had happened? Not a dream. He knew dreams, nightmares in particular, and that hadn’t been either. Voldemort had been there and they talked and argued and he had, somehow, been bespelled.

He didn’t need the blood and dirt covering his feet staining his blankets to tell him that.

Voldemort withdrew from the dream scape and awoke in his body, sitting at his desk where his minions had left him hours before. Nagini still dozed in his lap, content to remain in his company as long as he allowed it. He opened his hand, in which he had held the diagram from his dream. Where the diagram had been now read an address.

He smiled grimly down at it.

“Gotcha.”

Legends

Harry took a bath in one of the guest rooms that morning, rather than his usual shower, hoping the hot water would ease the ache in his feet. There were cuts on him, in a spiraling arch that matched the diagram he had seen in his dream, and though they weren’t deep they ached to the bone. His own magic felt drained, as if he had been casting powerful magic, and he was already tired from lack of sleep.

He laid in the footed bathtub, stared up and out the little window, watching clouds and birds amble by in the slowly brightening sky, and tried to think of what he should do as the water slowly began to cool. There was no telling what the spell in his dream did exactly, or if he wasn’t even now suffering under the slow debilitating effects of a curse. The Dark Lord had said he could come home now… but at what price? And in what condition? He needed to be examined, but what if in doing so he ruined his only chance of returning?

And what if Voldemort lied and was really killing him? Or intended to torture and kill him when he got back? The man hadn’t been happy with him in his dream, and some how he doubted the waking world made him any more amenable.

Reluctantly, he climbed out of the tub and got ready to face Dumbledore. He would have to tell the old man about what had happened, if for no other reason than he might be risking the life of a man who had shown him nothing but kindness. Mutual respect and trust, wasn’t that what he had said? Even if it wasn’t easy, Harry knew he had to make an effort too.

He had nothing to bind up his feet with, so he wore his thickest and softest pair of socks and carried his shoes in his hands. He kept Draco’s knife in the back of his pants, but the rest of his belongings remained shrunken and carefully stored in the satchel Fleur had transfigured for him. Carrying all of his possessions in his pockets for the entire summer just wasn’t that practical, but he still didn’t entirely trust Dumbledore. He was actually planing on hiding the satchel somewhere he could get to quickly if he needed to make an abrupt escape. If. So far there hadn’t been any reason to be afraid, but then he had been there less than a day.

Gingerly, he made his way downstairs, hoping to find the wizard in his office. His feet ached, but there wasn’t as much pain as he thought there should be. He was only to the second floor when the sounds of an argument reached him. At first, he thought it was just another fight between Dumbledore and one of his cohorts, but as he noiselessly inched further down to listen, he recognized the voice of Minister Seibligg. He froze, his eyes widening. What was he doing here?

“Auf gar keinen Fall!” the Minister snarled, “Why would I ever authorize that?”

Dumbledore replied, his tone remaining congenial, but there was a touch of mocking in it, “I did not request your ‘authorization’, Minister. I was merely informing you of the situation so that you would not be alarmed.”

“Don’t give me that! Potter is still under my jurisdiction-”

“But he is under my guardianship, and seeing as I will be leaving the country for a while it’s only natural that he should accompany me. Really there is nothing for you to be kicking up such a fuss about. It will be safer for Mr. Potter abroad in any event.”

“Safer? That has absolutely nothing to do with this! I don’t care about his safety, I care about what he knows! What you promised he would tell you!”

Harry recoiled. It had been a trick? The kindness, the liberties, and all that talk about respect and trust? He had thought it too good to be true, but he couldn’t help but feel both surprised and betrayed to have his suspicions confirmed.

“I never promised you anything of the sort,” Dumbledore said, his tone darkening. “I said I would ask if he ever felt he could entrust it with me, and not a moment before.”

Now he felt uncertain. Yet again. He shoved his confusion away to listen further, deciding to withhold judgment for the moment.

“Don’t play that game with me! The only reason I let you have custody of that brat was because I know what a manipulative old coot you can be. If you try to back out now, I can just as easily take him back.”

There was an amused chuckle, and Harry wondered yet again about the old wizard’s sanity.

“Just as easily? Minister Seibligg, I do believe its Sunday, which means you’ll have to wait till Monday to submit a complaint about my guardianship, which even with your political clout will take a week to investigate and take to court, by which time my own lawyers will submit a counter claim and delay it for another month. By then your deadline will be up, and you’ll be far too busy trying to save your own skin to worry about where Mr. Potter and I are.”

There was a silence, tense and ugly. The kind Harry associated with anger.

“Do not underestimate me, Dumbledore. I’m a man on the edge, with more than power in my left pocket than all your allies across Europe put together. You can not win.”

“Good day, Minister.”

Heavy footsteps and the slamming of a door indicated that the wretched man had left and he felt relieved, but at the same time uneasy. Now what? He couldn’t honestly tell what Seibligg would do, but Harry suspected it wouldn’t involve any legal action by the ministry. Plus, he still had the old wizard to deal with.

“You may come down now, Mr. Potter.”

And how did that man do that? He slipped back on his shoes, gritting his teeth as he did so, and descended the rest of the way down the stairs. What he saw when he reached the bottom made him blink in disbelief. Dumbledore stood there, not in his usual gaudy robe and hat, but in a respectable three-piece tweed suit with matching dark brown hat. He looked like a perfectly average muggle grandfather, even with the ridiculously long beard.

“Sir,” he said, trying not gawk, “Is everything alright?”

“Quite. It would seem that we may have to move on quicker than I had previously intended. However, there is an errand I hope you would like to accompany me on. Stretch our legs, do a bit of sightseeing and all that.”

Harry frowned. Was he really going to ignore the conversation they both knew he had overheard? “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good. I hope you are well rested. It’s a bit of a jaunt I’m afraid.”

Frankly, Harry was exhausted, but he wanted to go out. He hadn’t been in the warm sunshine in months. But he also had to tell him about his dream and the spell… which he didn’t want to do at the moment. Seibligg’s visit left him edgy and paranoid, and though Dumbledore hadn’t betrayed him, he still felt leery about telling him. What would he do if he found out? They were leaving soon, so the chances of Voldemort finding him so quickly were slim, but what if he were ill? He didn’t feel sick, at least not any sicker than would be expected, but hadn’t that medi-witch in Durmstrang said curses could hurt you without inflicting pain? Of course, a curse without pain just didn’t strike him as Voldemort’s style.

Not yet, he decided. I’ll tell him once we get where we’re going, then I can still have a day outside.

“Yeah. That sounds great.”

“Excellent. Lets have breakfast and then we’ll be off.”

“Yes, I understand. I want payment upfront. After that, I don’t care,” Stephen Canis said sharply into the phone, his East London accent creeping into his voice. He pulled the phone from his ear as the man on the other end proceeded to shout into it. “And for heaven’s sake stop shouting! I can hear you just fine if you talk like I’m in the room.”

He looked over at his wife and three children at the kitchen table, and rolled his eyes and mouthed the word ‘wizards’. Sylvia gave him a warning look, but the children giggled into their cereal bowls. The voice on the other end quieted a bit.

“Yes, I can do that. Two days probably, if I can get him today. Any more than that and you’ll know something went wrong…” He listened to the reply, then smiled darkly. “With all due respect, sir, if I’m caught there’s not going to much left of me for you or anyone else to do any of that. What is the address?”

There was a pen and paper on the table, which he snatched up and began writing. He repeated the address back to the phone, then nodded to himself. “Good. I’ll see you in a few days then.”

He hung up the phone without waiting for a reply, and turned to his family. The children looked curious, but his wife only looked worried. She was always worried though.

“I don’t like this, Stephen,” she said bluntly. “This is an ugly business you’re getting us mixed up in.”

“This ‘ugly business’ is going to give us a future out of this slum, Sylvia. We deserve better than this,” he gestured around their ‘home’, a three room hovel with rotting wallpaper and rotting furniture and rotting clothes strewn about. “Our children deserve better.”

“And what if you’re caught? What will happen to us then? And even if we do succeed, how do you know we can trust the British Court anymore than the German Ministry?”

Shaking his head, he moved into the living room, which in such a tiny apartment wasn’t very far at all. He didn’t even have to raise his voice.

“Just have the car and the kids ready within the hour. We’re going to have to leave in a hurry.”

“Stephen-”

“No!” he snarled, and all four immediately flinched and looked down submissively. “I’m not throwing away the only opportunity we may ever have to get out of this place. Just do as I say.”

He waited, glaring at them, until each of them nodded their heads in compliance, even Sylvia who was looking increasingly distressed. He wanted to go over and hold her, to whisper reassurances to her and pet her long raven hair until at last she was convinced, but he couldn’t afford dally here. His contact had said it needed to be done immediately, or the target might move again. There was no time for pacification.

Stalking out the front door, he gave a warning look to the nosy neighbor down the hall and the idiot pissing in the stairwell. God, couldn’t he at least do that in the alley? There was drainage there at least. He hit the street and started loping towards the city train system. People moved out of his way and watched him cautiously as he passed. Everyone knew about him in the neighborhood. Something about him didn’t sit right with the locals, and given the state of most of the residents that said something.

They thought he had killed people, and they would be correct, but no one who didn’t have it coming. He had brought a sinister new meaning to ‘family man’ when he had moved his family there, and anyone who had so much as looked at either his wife or children the wrong way soon learned not to look again. They were all relatively safe, but ‘relatively’ didn’t cut it for him. He wanted them somewhere they were completely safe. Somewhere with a view of trees, where neighbors were friendly, but far between, and where you could go years and never see a witch or wizard.

He wanted to move to Canada… or one of the Northern states in the U.S. at least.

They needed money though. A flight for five passengers over the Atlantic, even one way, was expensive and it still didn’t solve the issue of where they would live or how. With the German ministry dogging their every move, refusing to let them work for muggles even when no respectable wizarding folk would hire them, money was hard to come by and he didn’t dare risk the less than legal activities that would get them what they needed.

At least, he hadn’t until today.

Kidnapping Harry Potter seemed a good way to get a lot of money quickly while simultaneously giving the German government the finger.

“It might not look like much,” the landlady admitted, showing McGunny around the one room apartment. It wasn’t even very big for a studio. “But it’s better than the dorms. Quiet neighbors. Walking distance to the University and the grocery store.”

The new graduate took in the skylight, which effectively lit the entire room, showing off faded paint and creaky floor boards. It was clean though, and private. This was the tallest building for several blocks, and he had the highest floor.

“Any trouble with vermin?” he asked offhandedly.

“Absolutely not!” she said, genuinely indignant. “I run a respectable establishment, young man.”

“I just had to ask… Would you mind giving me a moment to look around myself?”

She gave him an uncertain look, but finally shrugged. It wasn’t like there was anything there for him to steal. “Alrighty, I’ll be in my office when you’re done.”

She left, and once he was alone, he addressed his companion. “What do you think?”

“It’s perfect. Just what we need,” Tom said, pleased with their latest find. After six other places, McGunny was glad. Disembodied spirits might not get tired, but he certainly did.

“It’s awfully small.”

“There are ways around that.”

“I doubt the landlady is going to want some kid right out of school doing any sort of magical renovation in her place.”

“I doubt the landlady is going to want some kid right out of school growing a body in the middle of the room either.”

“Point taken.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll put everything back just the way I found it after I’m done. No one need ever know I was here.”

“I don’t suppose you could obliviate me before you go so we could say the same about me?” he suggested hopefully, because really it was the only conceivable way he thought the spirit might let him live.

“Why, Horace, I’m hurt. Do you really want to erase all the good times we’ve shared?”

He rolled his eyes. There was no way he’d indulge a statement that asinine. From the back of his mind, he could hear Tom chuckle grimly. For a murderous little fiend, Tom really was oddly jovial.

The morning was cool, so Dumbledore sent him back to his room for something warmer. By the time he reached his room, found a jumper (not Mrs. Weasley’s, bless her heart), and returned, someone else had arrived. No, wait. He blinked once, then twice. There were three, shrouded in plain dark blue robes and listening as Dumbledore spoke to them softly. He hesitated on the stairs, and they all turned to him. It was rather creepy to discover he could not see their faces under their hoods.

“Ah, and here he is,” Dumbledore said, smiling pleasantly as if he hadn’t just pulled Dementor impersonators out of thin air. “Mr. Potter, these are some of my associates, who for reasons you overheard yesterday, shall remain anonymous.”

“A pleasure not to meet you,” Harry said blandly, cautiously coming down the rest of the stairs and into the lobby. His eyes automatically flitted to the mail slots behind the reception desk, easily spotting his wand. It was only a few feet away, but it may as well have been in Australia for all the good it did him. Turning back to the others, he could see the hooded figures still watching him tensely. He wondered what they thought he was going to do.

“While we’re out and about, they will be here packing up and moving our things to another location. One that Minister Seibligg will have little more difficulty locating.”

Two of the hooded figures moved, probably to do just as he said. The third one, however, lingered. Harry noted the third had smaller feet and nicer boots. A woman?

“Where to?”

“Greece.”

Harry blinked. Greece? What the hell was in Greece? Yet as he thought about it, it didn’t seem like a bad place to go. No one would think to look for him there, and it was probably an interesting country… except he didn’t know even a smidgen of Greek. He thought about asking where in Greece, but Athens was the only city he had ever heard of and he didn’t even now where exactly that was.

“Oh…”

“Shall we be going then?”

“Yeah.”

He followed Dumbledore to the door, and to his consternation the third hooded figure followed. He was so busy staring at the faceless entity that he missed exactly how the old wizard opened the door, and cursed himself for his carelessness. It probably didn’t matter anyway. If the others were working on moving them out, they would probably be gone before he had opportunity to try the door himself.

The street was cast in early morning shadows, even as the sky was bright blue, the higher buildings facing East practically glowed where the sunlight touched them. The morning was deliciously cool, and there were people walking around them and the occasional car tottled by the one way street.

“Not to be a spoilsport,” Harry said, as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. “But your ‘friend’ is kind of conspicuous.”

A man and woman, each with a corgi leashed to them, smiled as they passed. Dumbledore tipped his hat and wished them a good morning in German. Harry turned to watch as they sidestepped the hooded figure without pausing, or even seeming to realize that there was anything there at all.

“No worries, Mr. Potter,” the old wizard assured him, “The cloaks are spelled for misdirection. Muggles will not notice them, and even a wizard would have some difficulty keeping track of them. In fact, I am rather impressed that you seemed to be able to spot our friend so consistently. It suggests a very deep, instinctual understanding of magic.”

So that was why he had trouble counting them when he had first seen them, Harry realized. Now however, he was able to spot her (he was increasingly convinced it was a woman once he had seen it start walking) without any difficulty. He turned back to Dumbledore.

“You can do it too, though, can’t you? Like that night in the trophy room. You couldn’t have seen me, but you knew exactly where I was.”

The old wizard smiled, but it was sad sort of smile, regretful perhaps. He turned around to address their follower.

“Would you mind giving us just a bit of privacy?”

She hesitated, but finally tilted her head in acknowledgment.

“Thank you.” They continued on a ways and when she was about thirty feet away, he continued. “I dare say our magical educations were not that different, Mr. Potter, although mine was likely far more self directed than yours. The Old Magics leave their mark on us, and even decades later, those reckless choices I made in my youth still effect me, as they will you.”

Harry stared at him, barely able to believe what he had just heard. Dumbledore, the Dark Lord’s sworn enemy and leader of the Foreign Resistance, was a pagan? It was both absurd, and yet appropriate. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. How else could he have stood up against Voldemort if he hadn’t understood his power, and more importantly how to counter act it? Modern magics were strong, but they weren’t as strong as the Old Magics, and certainly not as terrifying.

“How?” he found himself asking. “How did you come into it?”

“Likely the very same way Voldemort did. Through curiosity and ambition and the belief that there was something more than what my professors taught out of Ministry regulated school books. And of course, there was my incredible arrogance. I couldn’t accept that my magic, my skill, should be remanded to the same level as everyone else’s. I believed myself far too special to accept that.”

They walked on in silence to the end of the block, not speaking. Harry sensed that the old wizard wasn’t done, but he needed time to collect himself.

“When I was still a student at Hogwarts, a young man came to my village to stay with his aunt, a close neighbor of mine. In him, I found another seemingly as gifted and dissatisfied as myself. His name was Gellert Grindelwald, and he was first person I ever fell in love with. Together we searched for the true limits of magic and ourselves, and destroyed far more than we created in the process.”

If the first revelation hadn’t stunned him speechless, this second one certainly did. Everyone knew about Grindelwald, and everyone knew that Dumbledore had defeated him. He could recall one of Toure’s lectures, her voice softened by the odd euphoria that seemed to come over her when she talked of Dark Lords.

“Grindelwald turned the world on its head. No one had done the sort of magics he did, not for hundreds of years at least, and he was so veryyoung! Officially, his reign of terror didn’t start until he was twenty, but others believe it truly began with his expulsion from Durmstrang at the age of sixteen for cursing a teacher. He was exiled to England by his family, but while there he developed and solidified his ideology, returning two years later to gather followers. The irony here is that his eventual destroyer was in fact also his next door neighbor while in England. It has been a matter of some speculation as to whether Dumbledore and Grindelwald ever spoke to one another prior to their fateful battle. Considering their styles of magic, I myself wouldn’t be surprised if they hadn’t done more than just discussed the weather.”

So Toure had been right. They had been friends, fellow explorers, lovers? And then it had all come apart. They had tried to destroy each other, until at last one was imprisoned and the other carried around their history together as a shameful secret.

He felt suddenly lightheaded. Was that going to happen to him and Voldemort? Had it happened already? Had this been the inevitable outcome from the beginning? Why the hell was the old wizard telling him all this anyway?

“Those days were the most exciting and joyous days of my life, but ultimately they gave me my deepest regrets and sorrows, as well. I fear, my boy, that you are following the same path I did, and to add to that tragedy, it’s not even your own arrogance or ambition that lead you there. Ah, here we are.”

They had stopped in front of a small shop, bouquets of exploding floral packed the window display, handsomely displayed in the dark green painted frame. A sign hung over the door, reading ‘Fridas Blumenladen’. Still reeling, he followed Dumbledore blindly into the shop.

The woman at the counter greeted him by name, and he said something in return that made her giggle like a school girl. Harry couldn’t concentrate on what was said, and was more than a little surprised when he was handed two bouquets. They were large, with dozens of different flowers, all in their own unique colors. He looked at the old wizard questioningly, but he just held open the door for him. Once out on the street Dumbledore continued.

“I told you before that I wish to save you, and I meant what I said. You are a remarkable young man, as I am sure you have been told before, but these gifts you have can lead you to many places, just as they did myself, and Gellert, and Tom Marvollo Riddle, whom you call Lord Voldemort.”

“What? No wait, stop talking. You’re talking too much. I mean saying too much. Why are you telling me all of this?”

Dumbledore turned to him, his blue eyes twinkly but it wasn’t with mischief or amusement or whatever it normally twinkled with, it was grief and hope and perhaps a little bit of amazement.

“Because I made the mistake of holding back information before, and it has gotten people killed. I feel I must tell you now. Life has taught me that there may not always be a ‘next time’ or a ‘later’. The world is moving ahead without asking us for directions first, and lately it’s been going faster than I can make predictions for.”

“Okay… then what’s with the flowers?”

“Well, it’s polite to bring something when visiting people you haven’t met in a while.”

“Who are we visiting?”

“You’ll see. Now where were we?”

So much for not withholding information, Harry groused mentally.

“Tom Marvollo Riddle is Voldemort… is that really his name?” He couldn’t help but ask. Tom Marvollo Riddle sounded kind of like a dork, or at the very least nothing like a Dark Lord. At the same time, he just realized he had never heard of Voldemort’s first name. Did he even have one? It would have made school kind of weird if he didn’t. It was sort of hard to picture someone like McGonagall calling on ‘Mister’ Voldemort in class or the Dark Lord casting Jelly-Legs on unwary first years. He tried to picture a ‘young’ Voldemort, or rather Tom Riddle, but he just ended up thinking of Thomas Rook instead oddly enough.

“It really is. I had the rather dubious honor of being one of his teacher.”

Harry tried to picture that, but quickly stopped before his imagination slipped any further down the rabbit hole.

“… What was he like?”

“Charming, clever, motivated. The ideal Slytherin… and then some. He was a murderer before he ever graduated.”

“Myrtle…” Harry breathed, because he had suspected it long ago, but didn’t dare linger on the idea. Dumbledore gave him a grave look and nodded.

“Yes, she was his first. I still don’t know if she was an accident or an experiment, but once he had killed her and successfully blamed another, he knew he had the ability to get away with it and tried it again when was sixteen. I didn’t discover the second murder until years after he had graduated, and by then it was too late. He was already terrorizing the country.”

Harry was having a hard time picturing Voldemort intentionally killing Myrtle. Cursing her, sure, but murdering her? It was easier to picture him killing her accidentally… and then just not really caring that he had.

“Ah, but I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself. Lets sit here. The bus should be along shortly.”

They took a seat inside the rain shelter, which was thankfully empty.

“Where was I before we were distracted?”

Harry shrugged, honestly unable to tell where one mind blowing revelation ended and another began.

“Hhmmm… oh, yes, wanting to save you-”

“Did you ever try to save him?” Harry butted in, because that was important. There had been something wrong with Voldemort from the beginning, and it seemed fairly obvious too. Someone should have done something long before Harry had to toss him a soul and get caught up in this international mess.

Dumbledore closed his eyes, as if pained, but answered, “Yes.”

“How?”

There was a moment of silence as the old wizard gathered his memory, and tied back his grief.

“I tried twice. The first time… I knew from the moment I met him that something was wrong. He had such hate in him, and it had manifested in hurting other children and animals with accidental magic. He was being brought up in a muggle orphanage and had no idea that he was wizard, but he knew he was different and so did everyone else. He was completely alone in the world. I was sent to give him his Hogwarts letter, and while I was there I explained what he was and warned him of the consequences of hurting others with magic. I had hoped, naively, that by explaining things to him and offering him a place where he could be among his own kind, his frustration and resentment would dissipate. I was very wrong.”

Harry was still having a hard time imagining Voldemort as anything other than his current self. Strong, confident, merciless but not cruel for cruelty’s sake. An angry juvenile delinquent just wasn’t clicking. A juvenile Voldemort of any kind was hard to imagine in general.

“The second time… I took him to someone else.”

“Someone else?”

“Yes. By his third year I could sense that he was delving into the old pagan magics, but he refused to speak to me of it. He did not trust me and feared, rightly, that I would try and hold back his progress. I had abandoned the pagan arts myself, unable to trust myself not to be corrupted by them, so I had no right to direct the course of study he wished to pursue. So I thought I would take him to someone who had done it right. A druid priest named Cyril Carrigan.”

A chill ran down his spine. He knew that name. He just couldn’t remember where.

“I had actually met Carrigan with Gellert on a weekend romp through the highlands. We thought ourselves so clever and knowledgeable, we decided to try summoning a god. We made a mistake. Actually we made nothing but mistakes, which Carrigan pointed out in vivid detail after he came out of no where and saved our fool necks. He gave us quite a scare, swore if we ever stepped foot in Ireland again he’d tear out our souls and shove them in the nearest donkeys he could find. Said if we wanted to act like asses he would grant our wish. Naturally, being well educated young men of high society, we had a good laugh about it when we got back to England and wrote him off as a backwater yokel. Of course, Gellert never did go back. An endless well of power lies there, but he never dared return to tap into it.”

“Was Carrigan really so powerful?”

“His magic wasn’t incredible, nothing like Gellert’s or Tom’s, but his…‘influence with the higher ups’ wasn’t anything to sneeze at. He could ask for pears from apple trees or for rivers to run North, and they would do it. So they say.”

“So you thought he could scare Vold- Tom back to the straight and narrow?”

Dumbledore smiled a bit at that. “In a sense. I was actually hoping Carrigan would be the sort of role model Tom needed. Someone strong and experienced, with the power to reel the boy in when he did wrong and the knowledge that even that stubborn child would feel compelled to acknowledge.”

“But it didn’t work?”

“Quite the contrary, it worked better than I ever could have imagined. They hit it off immediately. Carrigan took Tom in as a student for his fifth year summer and corresponded regularly with him during his sixth year at Hogwarts, and I never saw him more contented. I won’t say he was any nicer or less arrogant, but his hatred seemed to have subsided. Carrigan had offered him the understanding that I couldn’t, and held the keys to a world he desperately wanted to be a part of. I think he must have felt the same way for that man that I felt for Gellert. He was the first and last person Tom ever came close to loving.”

The slow screech of brakes startled Harry. He had been so captivated by Dumbledore’s story that he hadn’t realized the bus was coming until it stopped right in front of them. A few people got off, and they climbed on. They went to the very back of the bus to continue their conversation.

“So what happened?”

“The Earth had other plans for him. Plans I could not change and Carrigan could not challenge. The summer before his seventh year, Tom discovered the name of the man who left him an orphan, and all the rage and anger he had forgotten, came back with a vengeance.”

“And he was the second person Tom killed?”

“Yes, but not the last. Even after his revenge, he remained unsatisfied with his world. Carrigan could do nothing to reign in his anger, and ultimately had to settle for teaching him control. Control of his magic at least, which may have saved Tom himself but ultimately damned many others. I foolishly thought the renewed aggravation was nothing more serious than a lover’s quarrel or an argument between a father and son. I hadn’t learned of the second murder, and still had no proof of the first. In any event, I was too busy with my battles against Grindelwald to worry about any future battles I might have with Tom. When graduation came, I let him go, having do idea what exactly I had unleashed onto the world.”

“But Carrigan knew? Why didn’t he tell you?”

“Why should he? I had shoved Tom off on to him, and washed my hands of responsibility. He did not trust me, and perhaps more importantly, he still cared for Tom. The same way you find yourself compelled to care for him, even when you’ve seen and experienced his cruelty first hand. I never understood it then, but I think I have an idea of it now.”

Harry looked away, staring at his hands and then out the window. They remained quiet for a long time, and after a few minutes, Harry began to recognize some of the buildings outside his window.

“That’s the Hohenzollernbrücke and the Cologne Cathedral and St. Martin Church! We’re in Cologne?”

“Indeed we are, and a delightful city it is too. They make wonderful pickles here.”

This was very true, but completely beside the point.

“Where are we going?”

He turned back to Dumbledore, who smiled a bit.

“I believe I read in a newspaper somewhere that you said if you ever came back to Germany, you would like to pay your respects to your parents and lay flowers on their graves. I myself am long overdue for a visit.”

Harry was struck speechless. He had wanted to visit his parents grave, but once he had arrived in Germany, it felt as if he were further from that possibility than ever before. It also occurred to him that Dumbledore may have chosen this city as his newest hiding place specifically so he would have this opportunity.

“I… thank you.”

“No thanks is necessary. It was the least I could do. I fought along side your parents during the war. Their bravery and selflessness was an inspiration to us all.”

Harry opened his mouth to ask Dumbledore about them, but then remembered they were talking about something more important. He knew his parents far better than he knew Voldemort, and it was Voldemort he had to worry about.

“What happened to Carrigan?”

“Not a great deal. He still kept in touch with his wayward pupil, tried to convince him to calm down and not behave like such a bigoted loon. I would say his success was limited, but the fact that Voldemort never killed him suggests something of their bond still remained through the years. Somewhere in between his arguments with Voldemort, he finished his own training and became a druidic priest and took on other students. Professor Brennan was amongst them.”

Harry nodded.

“When the eighties rolled around, things got really ugly. Carrigan went out to meet Voldemort one night, no doubt to try to talk some sense back into him again, but was killed by an overzealous young Death Eater. Carrigan’s body was peacefully surrendered to his clan for proper rites, but they only ever found pieces of young Ms. Nominy.’

“It was a bad time for the Druids after that. Carrigan had been their unspoken leader and barrier between his people and the war, but with his death the Ministry proceeded to persecute them as dark wizards and Voldemort refused to help them without their sworn allegiance, which they wouldn’t give. The Ministry in Ireland was the first to fall, not from Death Eaters, but from regular witches and wizards enraged by yet another unwarranted attack on their people. In Ireland the druids are as much an important profession as they are a religious sect. They are the only effective defenders the people have against the fae, a far more insidious threat than any Dark Lord.”

Harry remembered that from history class, and suddenly he thought he knew where he had heard of Carrigan. They called him Carrigan the Mediator before his death… or was it afterwards? His death had sparked a powder keg of violence in any event. Hundreds of druidic priests and priestesses had been arrested and dozens died in raids or in prison, and in their absence the faery folk had run amok amongst the commonwealth. People were disappearing left and right an no one knew if they should blame Death Eaters or Fae or the government itself. In the climate of fear and frustration, the people had snapped one late September night and burned the Ministry offices to the ground and attacked their own officials, hunting them and their families down in search of retribution for their own missing loved ones. It had only taken a few weeks after that for Voldemort and his soldiers to regain control of the country, and then use the resources he found there to continue his attacks on Britain. Yet another incident where the British Ministry had shot itself in the foot.

“… Is that why he took me in?” Harry said after a while. “I mean, he’s been watching out for me since first year… sort of… after the whole torture in front the entire student body thing… Does he want me to replace Carrigan?”

“That is hard to say. I doubt that’s a conscious decision on his part. Carrigan was stronger than Voldemort in many ways, unacceptably weak in others, and only the Dark Lord’s gratitude and respect kept him from ever raising a hand against his mentor. I don’t see him intentionally duplicating that sort of relationship. However, the desire for a companion would not be unreasonable. The desire for a son is also possible, as I doubt he is capable of siring any children of his own anymore.”

The first idea sat better with Harry than the second. He had never considered Voldemort as any sort of father, and certainly hadn’t been treated like a son, at least he didn’t think he had. How did Dark Lords treat their offspring?

“I don’t think there’s anything you can do,” Harry said, looking back towards the front of the bus. Their body guard was sitting directly behind the bus driver, going completely unnoticed by the driver or the old woman sitting next to her, or the teenagers sharing ear pieces to their cd player directly across from them. “He messed me up already. My soul belongs to the Earth. I am a Child of the Moon and Madris is my patron goddess. It can’t be undone, and I can’t even bring myself to resent him for it.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I thought as much. That is not what really worries me. You are not like Tom or Gellert or myself. You are more like Carrigan, and like your mother. If I can keep you from the Dark Lord, I believe you can grow up to be a perfectly self sufficient and morally upright individual, and given your impressive displays of magic, you could easily surpass Carrigan in say… fifty or so years.”

“…. swell.”

“I think the next stop is the one we want.”

The bus rolled to a stop and they climbed off. It was another six blocks taken in silence, as Harry tried to process everything that he had been told, and what it might mean for him and his future. He had learned more in the last half hour than he did in the last five years about the Dark Lord, but as things were going he may never be able to ask him all of this himself. Tightly packed rows of three story houses all painted different colors of the same shade, passed by unnoticed as he tried to puzzle it all out. Would he be on the run forever just like Dumbledore? Moving from safe house to safe house, city to city, country to country? And to what end?

He tried to picture himself doing what Dumbledore did, running charities for people he would likely never meet, endlessly fighting against the injustices of the world from behind a desk. He couldn’t do that. He’d end up hanging himself or jumping off a bridge within a year from depression.

Perhaps he could set up a new identity for himself. It couldn’t be that hard with all the spells and potions out there, disappear as one of the thousands British refugees wandering Europe.

Maybe he just needed to do what neither Carrigan or Dumbledore could accomplish, and just kill the murderous bastard. He shivered at the thought, feeling distinctly unclean for thinking it, and shoved it aside. It appeared he was too much like Voldemort’s faceless mentor, picking up the torch where the other had dropped it, endlessly loyal until the day he died. How pathetic was that?

The row of houses curved upwards until they opened onto a T-section in the street. Beyond that was the cemetery. A high grated fence mounted on a low brick wall ran the length of the street, separating the living from the dead. Rows of tombstones and mausoleums were packed tightly together, not unlike the houses on the other side.

Without the buildings surrounding it, the cemetery already had full sunlight, and was oddly cheery in the summer light. The stones were clean, the flowers by some of the graves no more than a day or two old, and the occasional oak tree did a lot to give the place an open park-like feel.

Harry didn’t need to follow Dumbledore to know where to go from there. He remembered it perfectly even seven years later. The gravestones were simple black marble, like dozens of others, but he remembered the angel statues on the graves nearby. He remembered having dreams about them after the funeral, showing up in strange places, haunting him like benevolent specters of death.

He stopped midway up a shallow hill, and found his parents laying side by side. He knelt down between them, placing the flowers on each of their graves, and listened. He wasn’t sure what he expected to hear, but all he got was the sound of the wind and the occasional passing car on the street below. This was a place he thought he might be able to commune with his parents, to sense them or even hear them, but it felt like nothing more than a plot of grass. His mother’s gentle eyes and his father’s laughing mouth did not come to mind, no words they spoke to him, or gestures of comfort came. Of all the travels and destinations in their lives together, this one was the emptiest.

His parents were not here, not in any way that had meaning to him. They hadn’t been with him since the last morning they sent him off to school, and the last time he saw them was as the funeral director gently closed the coffin lids over their sleeping countenance. There would be no more memories of them after that.

There would be no more walks to the grocery store with his mum, no more football matches in front of the telly with his dad, plans made around the breakfast table, or weekend adventures out in the country. He would never hear them say ‘wake up’, ‘goodnight’, ‘look there’, ‘come here’, ‘I’m proud of you’, ‘you know better’, ‘I missed you’, or ‘I love you’ again. He would never get to ask him those questions that dogged him from the moment he learned that they too had been wizards but had kept it hidden. They were gone, and all that was left of them were his memories and two stone markers bearing their names.

His vision began to blur, but the tears didn’t fall. He had wept for their loss when he had was eight, enough tears he thought he would drown in them, until he just didn’t have enough left to spare. He had to keep the rest for later, for when others that he loved died and passed away, as he had come to accept while alone in the third bedroom at Privet Drive.

“They’re not here,” he said, not looking away from their names. “They’re gone, and I won’t ever get to see them again. Not even when I die.”

“The world is not so black and white,” Dumbledore said, coming up behind him to place a hand on his shoulder. “Not in life and most certainly not in death. You may yet see them again. You may have already seen them and just never realized it.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better,” Harry accused, glaring over his shoulder. The old wizard pretended to be affronted.

“Me? Comfort someone? Just what sort of wizard do you take me for?”

Harry’s lip twitched a bit and he looked away, shaking his head. “It’s okay. I knew what I was giving up when I gave myself to the Old Magics, and I don’t regret it. It saved a life and gave me a family among the living.”

“Really? And who are the lucky people?”

“Sirius Blackbone and Remus Slivermoon. I think they worked for you too. They’re werewolves now.”

There was a moment of silence then Dumbledore gave a little laugh. “I had nearly forgotten. It’s been so many years, I wasn’t sure if they had lived or died after their transformation. Yet another reason why one should never attempt to make predictions for the future. I do have to wonder what Sirius is like now. He always had a lovable mongrel air about him in his school days.”

Harry felt a little of his grief subside, as it often did when he thought of his godfathers. He had loved his parents, and still did, probably more than he ever would anyone, but he loved his godfathers too and more than that he felt proud of them. They were strong and brave, and had been willing to die for him. More importantly, they had lived for him, and now they shared with him a fate in life and in death that comforted him more than any optimistic foretellings of the future or well meaning patronizations ever could.

“He’s going to be head alpha one day,” Harry said. “And Remus is his beta. They saved me from Moody. Didn’t you know that?”

“No. I saw no pictures of your guardians in the papers and they were only ever listed as Blackbone and Slivermoon, names I had never heard used on them when I was still in their company.”

“Oh,” he said, and looked back towards the tombstones, the sadness ebbing away. “Dad would have approved of them looking out for me, I think, seeing as how they’re my godfathers already. I don’t know about mum though. I think Sirius would have driven her crazy.”

“No doubt. Of course, both your father and Mr. Black drove your mother crazy, particularly back in their school days. In fact, Lily didn’t liked James at all until their seventh year.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Indeed? And your father loved your mother at first sight. It made for some very interesting hallway drama.”

“So you were still Headmaster when my parents were in school?”

“Yes, as well as your godfathers and good many of your current teachers. For instance, your guardian, Professor Snape, was in the same year as your parents. I dare say he was at the crux of your parents differences.”

Harry had heard from this from his godfathers, but it was always to strange to hear. His mother and Snape as friends? Weird. Inconceivable even. Plus the man had never said anything or indicated Harry’s parents mattered to him in anyway.

“… He never said anything.”

Dumbledore smiled a bit sadly. “Severus has always kept his feelings closely guarded. That was true as a child and still holds true-”

The old wizard’s suddenly stopped, his mouth tightening into a grim line as his eyes focused on something beyond Harry’s head. Confused, Harry turned to see what he was looking at. Some distance away, standing beside a mausoleum was a hooded figure. At first, Harry thought it was just their follower, but soon realized the truth. The figure was shrouded in black, not blue, and from within in the hood he could clearly make out the bone mask of a Death Eater.

Recreant Knights

Voldemort stroked Nagini’s head, pondering Harry and the chances of him ever seeing him alive again. After sending the address to Morgan to handle, he was left with nothing else to do but wait and think. Being a man of action, this was more difficult than it sounded. A lot could go wrong in extracting Harry. The agent could make a mistake and kill Harry, foolishly attempt to fight Dumbledore directly and fail, or Harry may have told the old coot about the dream and they may have left before the agent even arrived. Even if Harry was recovered, there was still the journey back to Britain to consider.

Germany’s and Britain’s border’s were closed to magical transportation. They would have to rely on muggle transportation, and that was a treacherous route to take for entirely different reasons. The German ministry would send out its Aurors if they knew what happened, and again either the agent or Harry could be killed in their pursuit. If his protégé were unwilling, that presented new dangers all its own. The boy was resourceful, he could find a means of escape and disappear completely.

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed likely that something was going to go wrong.

Even if it went right, he still wasn’t sure what he was going to do with Harry.

Their meeting in the dream had been disconcerting. Six months of silence and an assassination attempt had done nothing to lessen the magnetism he felt for him, and he was more than a little annoyed to find himself charmed and challenged by him all over again. He had liked talking with him. He had liked arguing with him. He liked tricking him, but that was hardly unusual. He liked tricking everyone. It was just a bit funner with Harry, since he always ended up surprising him later on.

And Harry had said it was accident… the nearly killing him at least. Hadn’t Brennan said the same thing? And Diana? This didn’t make it forgivable. Messing around with someone else’s soul was not something that could be easily overlooked.

Except that Harry had. The night of the moon ritual, he had let Voldemort change his soul forever. The boy had never held it against him, even knowing that he had done it for completely selfish reasons.

Of course, he had been giving Harry something he wanted. To save his godfather, and preserve what little family he had worth keeping. The Dark Lord most definitely didn’t want a completed soul. He didn’t want these weird new feelings that contradicted his reptilian logic or to be motivated by emotions he could not control. He didn’t want to forgive someone who had, however unintentionally, betrayed him.

He had been thinking this for hours… no, for weeks… months? Still no conclusion could be reached about what he should do. He needed advice from a more ‘divine’ source. Carefully, he unwound Nagini from his body, and left her dozing in his chair. The display cases in his office, showcasing ancient and modern magical marvels alike, were ignored. Instead, he went to the liquor cabinet, but avoided actually indulging, no matter how tempting it was at the moment, and pulled from a drawer a pack of cards.

Tarot cards.

They were useless for divination as far as Voldemort was concerned, but they were a fairly effective way of asking the universe a question about the past or the present without a great deal of magical preparation. They didn’t even require magical cards. In fact, the best decks had no spells on them at all.

This one was no different. It was a plain deck, worth no more than five knuts, with starkly plain pictures, not unlike a regular card set. He shuffled them for about five minutes, not looking at his hands, merely concentrating on the questions that had been plaguing him up until now.

Tarot was one of those rare crafts that any sentient being, magical or mundane, could master requiring only the ability to correctly interpret the cards and the self-discipline not to ‘cheat’. Therefore, most witches and wizards refused to acknowledge it as anything other than a hoax. Voldemort saw no reason to correct people. It was just another hidden weapon few others knew how to use.

He didn’t ask a question, the ‘universe’ would know the right answer and the right question, without his help. He flipped over the first card.

The Hierophant. Upright.[1]

He stared at it for a long time, sorting through its various meanings, but it all came down to two. Two perfect answers, and he didn’t know if he could accept them. Even though he wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” Harry blurted out, turning away from the Death Eater on the hill to Dumbledore, “I was going to tell you, but I thought we had time. I swear I thought we had more time.”

The old wizard didn’t look at him, instead scanning the entire graveyard. Harry followed his example, and sure enough they spotted two more Death Eaters. Their follower was no where in sight.

“I am afraid I have no idea what you are talking about,” Dumbledore said, still keeping an eye on the threat. “But we will discuss it later, if we manage to escape the five Aurors. They certainly pulled out all the stops to bring us down.”

“Aurors?” Harry did a double take, but all he saw were the bone masks.

“Yes. The Death Eaters were disbanded shortly after the war, given high ranking positions for their service, while the Sentinels took their place. Do you believe Voldemort called together five high ranking Court Officials and sent them into enemy territory for a highly risky snatch-and-grab? No, Mr. Potter, this is one of the Minister’s plots. He knows I was going to take you out of his reach, and sent these men to retrieve you. Then he can blame your abduction on Voldemort. He may have come to the hotel with this very plan in mind, but hadn’t counted on the wards. They had to wait until we came out into the open and weren’t surrounded by muggles to attack.”

Harry felt his heart beginning to race, feeling more than his life was now in danger. He looked around yet again, but could only see the three, who made no attempt at concealing themselves. Instinct drew his eyes upward, where he spotted the other two Dumbledore referred to. They hovered directly above them like vultures. Without his wand, he was almost defenseless. There were few spells he could do wandlessly, and he would only be able to do two or three before he exhausted himself, which he couldn’t allow if he were going to run away. It wouldn’t be enough to get passed them all. It would all be up to Dumbledore now.

“Why aren’t they attacking?” he asked.

“They want to see if we’ll surrender first, most likely.”

“What are we going to do?”

The old wizard scanned the cemetery grimly, assessed the situation, and after a moment, touched Harry’s shoulder with his free hand. The young wizard let out a slight gasp, feeling magic spread into him, warm and tingling.

“This will repel two spells, three at the most,” Dumbledore said. “I am sorry I can provide you with no better protection. It will be your speed and your cunning that saves you now. Do you think you could find your way back to the hotel?”

“What? I have no idea-”

“816 Westerly Street.”

Harry began to protest again, unable to remember the route they had taken, but… what other choice did he have? He’d find a way.

“But they could be waiting…”

“It’s enchanted against forced entry, just like your wand in the mailbox. You’ll be safe, as long as you can get inside. Once you reach the street, they won’t dare use their magic in front of muggles, but you mustn’t let your guard down.”

“What about you?”

The old wizard’s grim countenance melted away, and his twinkling eyes found his. “I assure you, Mr. Potter, I am more than adequately armed to face this threat on my own. Now, when I cast my first spell, that will trigger the others to attack. I need you to run, as fast as you can, to the gate and then keep running. Don’t look back. Don’t hesitate. Understand?”

Frankly, Harry didn’t really understand what was happening. Too much had been revealed today, and now he was going to have to run for his life from duplicitous Ministry Aurors back to the place he had been trying to escape only yesterday? What the hell?

“Sure. Why not? It’s a nice day for a run,” he laughed, his voice a touch on the hysterical side.

“That’s the spirit! Alright, we best take care of our friends up there first. Tacicimos!”

One of the robed figures above them suddenly jerked, smashing into his (her?) partner and knocked him from his broom. Flailing, the unseated flyer fell from his brooms to the ground below. The still mounted Auror cast some sort of spell, and regained control of his broom, only to have another spell from somewhere else knock him off. It seemed Dumbledore’s blue robed follower had finally decided to show up.

Harry didn’t stay to sort out where everyone was or what they were doing, he was already bolting for the gate. Two Aurors ran to head him off, and it was with more than a little concern that Harry noticed at least one of them was closer to the gate than him. Behind him he heard the sound of stones shattering, and knew Dumbledore was now fully engaged in a battle of his own.

The Death Eater reached the gate first, blocking the exit. They had not bothered to stun Harry, so they had to have known he was unarmed, and assumed him defenseless. It wasn’t until the ‘Death Eater’ saw the boy wasn’t slowing down, that he realized something was off, but it was already too late.

“Stupefy!” the Auror shouted, and Harry was too close to avoid it. It smashed into his chest, momentarily knocking the breath out of him, but ultimately bounced off him harmlessly. Harry threw out his hand, shouting one of his wandless spells.

“Expelliarmus!”

The Auror was thrown back, his wand torn from his grip, and he landed in the street. Harry dived behind a tombstone, as he heard yet another stunner being cast at him. It barely missed him. He had barely taken cover when another spell flew at him, this time a Blasting Spell.

The tombstone he was hiding behind exploded, sending him flying into the side of a plith of a statue. Pain stabbed at him everywhere, in his head, in his back, arms, legs. For a moment, he could only lay there, too shocked to move. He couldn’t believe they had actually done that. That could have killed him… it may already have.

Blood was running down his face, getting into his eyes and mouth. His glasses were gone, knocked off in the mayhem, but he didn’t need to see to know there was blood on his hands or that they were shaking badly. Was anything broken? How deeply had he been cut? Was anything lodged in him? He was too afraid to move, to find something that was broken or that he had been cut deeply or that there was something still inside him.

He was still just laying there, when the Auror caught up to him. The wizard just gave him a quick once over, then grabbed hold of his arm and hauled him to his feet. New pain flared, making him cry out, but at least he now knew nothing was broken.

“Wo ist dein Zauberstab?” the man shouted, shaking him harshly, his cover instantly blown. “Where are you hiding it?”

“What?”

“Your wand, damn you?! Tell me or I’ll break your arm!”

The hand on his arm tightened, revealing a strength capable of carrying out that threat. Harry hissed and grit his teeth. They thought he still had his wand? Of course they did. They had no idea about his wandless ability.

“I dropped it!” he cried.

“I just bet,” the man snarled, and threw him back onto the ground. “Stupefy!”

Again the Stunner hit him directly and again it bounced off, but Harry let himself sag and fall, partially to trick the man but mostly because he was really hurting. The Auror walked up to him, and Harry thought he would pick him up or drag him, but he moved passed him and towards the gate.

“Meier! Get out of the street before you’re run over, we still have the old man to deal with! Idiot!”

Harry opened his eyes and watched the vague, blurry figure of the Auror stepping through the other side of the gate to help his comrade. As soon as he was out of sight, Harry got to his hands and knees and began searching the grass for his glasses. It was not his glasses that he found, however, but something much better.

It was Meier’s wand.

He could feel the magic inside tingle as he touched it, not like his own wand, but it would work.

“Accio glasses.”

His glasses flew to his hand, and he put them on. One of the lenses was cracked, but he could now see much better than before. Turning back to Dumbledore, he could now see why the old wizard hadn’t tried to help him. He had his hands full fighting off three wizards at once, while his helper was hiding somewhere, and casting spells from some hidden spot but only enough to cover his back. The two on broomsticks had apparently recovered from their fall, and were going all out. It was mesmerizing to watch. The Aurors were well trained, their attacks perfectly in sync and always varying, but Dumbledore just wouldn’t fall, throwing out shields and hexes and illusions, and the follower threw the Auror’s strategy into chaos. He had to tear his gaze away. He had his own battles to worry about.

Struggling to his feet, he limped towards the hedge and squeezed inside. He could already hear the two Aurors arguing, and while they were distracted he cast a spell on the iron gate closest to him. Through the iron gate, he watched for the right opportunity.

“Leave off, Shauffer,” the disarmed Auror snapped, shoving the other man off as he climbed to his feet. “How was I suppose to know he was a little freak? I hit him spot on, and he barely moved. I didn’t even see a wand. I mean what the hell?”

“Enough of your bullshit. Get your wand and come on. I mean if you think you can handle an unconscious teenager. I know it’s challenge, but-,” Shauer cooed at him mockingly.

“Shut up!”

They stepped back into the cemetery, and Harry made him move, pushing aside the now rubbery iron gate and climbing out onto the side walk. As soon as he was on the other side, he hobbled across the street, barely taking the time to check for traffic and moved as quickly as he could. The houses along the street were all connected, leaving no alleyways to hide in, and with every step he became increasingly anxious that the Aurors would come back out and see him.

What he hadn’t counted on, was the kindness of strangers. No sooner than he was half way up the street, than a passing car suddenly slowed beside him. Harry turned in alarm, expecting an attack, but what he saw was a young woman, barely into her twenties staring at him with some alarm.

“Are you alright?”

“I…” he quickly looked down the street, so see if anyone was coming. The street sloped upward, meaning he should have been able to look over the fence and into the cemetery, and indeed he saw graves and trees, but no Dumbledore and no fake Death Eaters or exploded tombstones. They had spelled it so no one would notice what was happening inside… but that didn’t mean they couldn’t see him outside.

“Uh… no,” he choked out, looking at her desperately hoping for some help. “Can you get me out of here? I don’t really care where, just… not here?”

She looked surprised, and then looked back at where he had been looking. Of course, she didn’t see anything.

“Did someone hurt you, honey?” she asked, then realizing he seemed to think the danger hadn’t passed, opened her door. “Get in. I’ll take you to the police station.”

A police station wasn’t where he wanted to go, but it would be better than here. He climbed into the front seat, and she pulled away from the curve. He kept checking the mirrors and looking over his shoulder, but as the cemetery faded from view and pulled into busier streets he felt himself start to relax.

Annie was the name of his rescuer, and her first order of business was to ask him what happened. He told her he was mugged and beaten up, which she seemed to think odd for the neighborhood, but didn’t question. The second was to call his parents. He told her they were staying at a hotel, vacationing from Britain and all, and that he had an address but not the number or even knew where it was precisely. It took a little bit more haggling, but he managed to convince her he would rather go find his parents than a police officer, and after a brief stop at a kiosk to figure out exactly where 816 Westerly Street actually was, made their way across town.

When they finally reached the hotel, the day had warmed up and the streets were crowded. Harry felt both relieved and paranoid. Like Dumbledore said, no witch or wizard would attempt magic on him here, but that didn’t mean one wasn’t hidden in the crowd, invisible amongst the multitude.

“Thanks for everything,” he said to Annie, who smiled and gave him a pitying look.

“You sure you don’t want me to take you up?”

“No, it’s okay. You’ve done too much already.”

“Well, I hope it was enough to make up for what happened to you. I am sorry that you had to go through that on your vacation. We are all usually much more welcoming.”

He smiled shakily at her. “I know. Thanks, again.”

Climbing out of the car, he made a quick look around and moved as quickly as he could to the door. His primary fear was that it would be locked with magic, but the door opened and closed behind him without incident. It wasn’t until he was inside, that he remembered he had never figured out exactly how to get back out. The door handle was still missing.

Likewise, he didn’t see anyone around. He checked Dumbledore’s office, but found it empty. So was the kitchen and the bar.

Now what?

To find an empty room, curl up and hide seemed like a wonderful idea. Wonderful, but stupid. He needed to be able to defend himself… which technically he could now. He had a wand, and it worked, but… it wasn’t his wand.

So wand first.

Retrieving his wand, now that he had another wand, turned out to be absurdly easy. A few flicks and the password, Cockroach Clusters (seriously?), and he pulled his wand out of its slot without issue. Now he had two wands.How awesome was that? He stuck the spare wand in the back of his pocket with his knife, and headed for the stairs.

It felt like an eternity before he reached his room, every part of him aching, including his previously injured feet. As he made his ascent, the conversations he had just had with Dumbledore flooded his mind, the shear volume and impact of information leaving him numb to it. As he sifted through it, he realized he had said some things he hadn’t intended to tell, not even if tortured. Nothing about Madris or the Moon, and he had very nearly told the old man about the first Winter Solstice, when he had shared something beyond description with the Dark Lord, something the old man could never have experienced with Grindlewald.

Why had he said that? Why had he said anything at all?

He suddenly felt tricked, manipulated… and hated himself for it. He had sworn to himself he wouldn’t fall for any of the old coot’s tricks, but he had just been falling into them one after the other. Dumbledore had told him to give up his wand, yet the very next day he had been attacked and left to fend for himself. He had told Harry things, causing him to drop his guard. Who knew what he would have told him if the Auror’s hadn’t interrupted them.

Dumbledore had already tricked the Minister in order to gain custody of him. And for what? For Harry? Impossible. The old wizard was a politician, even his charities suggested he had strong ties with powerful witches and wizards and the people in general, and wouldn’t risk making an enemy of the German Minister unless the gain outweighed the risk. What did he think he could gain from making Harry his ally? Was he really gambling on his information on Voldemort to be so valuable or was he banking on something else?

When he reached his room, he stripped out of his ruined clothes and took a shower, a torture all its own as the soap stung his wounds. The water turned pink as it flowed down the drain. He check his wounds, and found too many for his liking, particularly on his back and shoulders which also starting to turn purple, but nothing that looked too serious. He couldn’t leave them bare like he had his feet though (which had re-opened as well and ruined his socks), and used his knife to cut up strips of bedsheets and used them for bandages. He redressed in slacks and a button up shirt, nothing unusual for a muggle, but exchanged his shoes for his charmed boots and slipped his arm guards underneath his shirt. He raided his satchel for anything that might prove useful in a fight (or flight), and found the golden ring for his watch, the UnSilencing Bell, but nothing else inconspicuous enough to wear around muggles.

One of the Weasley twin’s wigs, however, found a use and after charming his glasses invisible, he found himself looking… not like Harry Potter. The wig was magical, turning not only the hair on his head blond (and long), but also his eyebrows and eye lashes, and the absence of his glasses made him look older. He thought he looked rather like a college art student… which turned out to look pouncier than he would have liked.

“You ready to go then?” he asked his reflection, who regarded him unenthusiastically. “Well, tough luck. We aren’t sticking around here.”

He put on his satchel, ignored his trunk, and opened the window. He looked up and down the street, up at the sky above, the windows of the adjacent buildings, but saw nothing but muggles. Muggles who were going to make his escape less than conspicuous, but also ensure no one was going to swoop down out of nowhere and grab him.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do after that.

“He’s not in the cemetery. You sure there wasn’t anyone else?” Tonks asked Dumbledore, striding towards him. The five Aurors were now unconscious, and latched together with ropes and devoid of wands. Dumbledore was quite happy to leave them there until the police showed up and arrested them for defacing the surrounding graves, and put them through an embarrassing and much deserved processing down at the muggle police station until the Ministry tracked them down and sorted things out. Depending on how vindictive he was feeling once he reached the hotel, he may or may not give a call to the local wizarding paper and tip them off to the Auror’s less than righteous activities.

He had to find Harry first.

“I am quite sure I saw Harry collapsed over there, but he seems to have disappeared. Given that one of these Auror was missing their wand, I think it might not be unreasonable to assume he took the wand and ran away under his own power.”

Tonks shook her head and ran a hand through her, currently black and red streaked, hair. “Great. How far do you think he got before someone else picked him up? A block? Two?”

They began to make their way out of the cemetery, and she pulled off her blue robe to reveal a light peach colored dress and white sandals. Together they looked like daughter accompanying her grandfather somewhere or other, and while she was not invisible anymore they did look inconspicuous together.

“Let us hope our young friend was resourceful and lucky enough to make it back to the hotel.”

“Or that he even bothered to go back to the hotel. He may have just run off into the city and disappeared,” she pointed out, extremely disgruntled over this turn of events. She hadn’t wanted to take the boy out in the open to begin with, too many risk factors even without the Minister’s men after them, and now they had lost him.

“A possibility,” he admitted, “but I think he trusts me enough now to consider my hospitality preferable to the Ministry’s or the great unknown. We should hurry though. Once Seibligg discovers his failure, he will no doubt try again before we can get out of the country.”

She let out an irritated huff. “Easy for you to say, you don’t have to walk the entire way in these shoes.”

“Alas, my dear, the anti-apparition wards around the country are rather tedious, but you may be comforted to know your shoes are very flattering. I am quite certain any gentlemen we pass will be quite envious of me for having your company.”

She slapped him on the shoulder and rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t fight off a smile completely. Their plans were falling apart like a tissue in the rain and they had gained yet anotherenemy, and he was flirting with her!

Only Dumbledore could be that charmingly weird.

Climbing five stories down a rope ladder (transfigured from his Durmstrang uniforms) was a lot more awkward than Harry had thought it would be. It didn’t help that a small crowd had gathered outside the inn to watch him do it. Nevertheless, he managed to successfully descend to the side walk, and the crowd gave him a little applause for his troubles.

“What were you doing up there, kid?” someone inevitably asked.

“Er… fire drill.”

“Told you so,” another observer said to her friend.

The spectacle over, the people started to wander off, and Harry was one of them. Looking around for anyone suspicious, he hurried off down the street. His first thought was to get out of the city. This was easy enough to accomplish with the many rail systems and tourist buses. All he had to do was cast a Notice-Me-Not Charm, sneak aboard and ride the rest of the way to… anywhere. After that, he would have to figure out what he was going to do.

He walked quickly, but kept himself from running. Running was suspicious, and if wizarding spies hadn’t just seen him escape out a window, he didn’t want to draw their attention now. And also, he was in a significant amount of pain and exhausted already. So with a great deal of paranoia, he walked several more blocks until he was completely out of the neighborhood and in some sort of shopping center and found what he was looking for. There was a kiosk in the center of the square, and there was of course a map of the city printed on one side of it with symbols of important landmarks, including the train and subway stations and the airport and bus routes. Concentrating on his next destination (he was starting to entertain the idea of hopping on a plane to New York), he forgot to keep looking around.

He was only mildly surprised when he felt a hand on his shoulder and something sharp pointing into his back.

“Very clever, kid. I applaud you on your ingenuity. Now if you would be so kind as to hand over your wand?” the voice said in perfect English. Shakily, Harry handed over the spare wand, which the still unseen man behind him confiscated.

“Who are you?”

“Just a bloke trying to earn a living. The Dark Lord says ‘hi’, by the way.”

Harry grimaced. Out of the pan and into the pot and then straight into the fire. Only your luck could this twisted, he lamented. The man grabbed his arm, causing Harry to grimace as pressure was placed on one of his cuts, and pulled him away from the square. Now, Harry could see the man clearly. He was medium height, in his thirties, brunette with a week’s worth of stubble and hard eyes. His clothes were ragged, but he held himself with a sort of confidence that belied his social standing. Something about him reminded him of Sirius.

They only made it a few feet before Harry started to resist, digging in his heels. The man turned back to glare at him, and tightened his arm threateningly.

“Let go or I’ll scream,” Harry warned him.

His abductor snorted. “I knew you’d be a handful. There’s nothing omega about you, is there?”

It suddenly clicked for him why the man seemed familiar.

“You’re a werewolf.”

“Clever, clever. Which is why you should know better than to threaten me. You scream and the first person who comes to help you gets to spend the rest of their life with odd cravings for raw meat and a sudden fondness for the moon. Have I made myself understood?”

Harry glowered at him, but nodded. He couldn’t risk innocent people getting caught up in his fight. He would just have to figure a way out of this himself. It shouldn’t be too hard. He had been escaping all day. He was on a roll.

And he still had his own wand tucked up his sleeve and knife tucked into his boot.

Letting himself be dragged along, he waited for his opportunity.

“So what are you going to do to me?” he asked. Though assassination seemed likely, it just didn’t seem to fit with what Voldemort had told him last night in his dream. Merlin, had that only be last night?

“My job is to take you back to the UK, but if you keep dragging your feet I’ll take a detour to beat the shit out of you. Hurry it up.”

“I just had the shit beaten out of me, asshole. It doesn’t improve my pace any in case you haven’t noticed.”

They were out of the square now and half way down a street of apartments, and only a couple was walking their dog far ahead of them. The werewolf jerked him forward, the blade he was carrying now finding it to Harry’s throat. The boy froze, the first real sense of fear of the man coming over him.

“Don’t push me, you little prick. You ever sass me again and I’ll cut out your damn tongue.”

Oh yeah, werewolf, Harry remembered, you don’t go picking fights with the dominants. Not unless you knew you could win.He wisely kept his mouth shut, and the man put his knife away and started moving again.

“And stop looking around for escapes. If I have to chase you, you’ll be sorry.”

And Harry believed him, which was why he couldn’t let him chase after him. His wand was still up his sleeve, but he couldn’t use it with the werewolf gripping his arm. Likewise, his wandless magic could backfire on him while they were this close. That left the knife in his boot. The knife he couldn’t get to if they kept up their current pace.

“Please… can’t we just stop… for a second? I really did get beat up.”

The werewolf glared at him, but stopped. “What the hell happened to you any way? How did you ditch the old man?”

Harry blinked. “You didn’t follow us?”

“I didn’t go any further than the bus stop. I just waited around for you to come back. Your coming alone made things a lot simpler than I expected.”

“I got on the wrong side of a Blasting Hex. The stone I was hiding behind sort of exploded on me.”

The man gave him a weird look. “What the hell did you say to piss off that old goat?”

“He’s not the one who tried to blow me up! Those were Aurors!.”

The man tensed, and looked around. “Break time is over. Come on.”

His moment of distraction was all Harry needed to grab the knife out of his boot, which he promptly brought to the man’s throat. The werewolf tensed.

“Let me go and step away.”

“You don’t want to do that. Just put the knife away. No one has to get hurt.”

“Mister, I’ve been nothing but hurt all freaking day. I’m tired, sore, and and frankly sick of being kidnapped. So back off,” he said, prodding him with gentle poke of the knife. To his surprise, it cut into the skin easier than he had thought, and he flinched as he saw the blood. It was a mistake.

The man let go and moved away quickly, but only far enough to move his neck out of harm’s way. In stead of retreating, he grabbed Harry’s wrist and jerked him forward, meeting him with a savage head butt.

The world exploded into pain and lights and stars, and then just as quickly went dark.

“How precisely did you talk me into doing research the day after we get back from school?” Draco whined, following Hermione through the isles of books. The Treacle Tatterly Public Library was quiet, and almost empty, much as any library should be during summer break in the young Malfoy’s opinion.

“I didn’t,” she said, not bothering to tear her eyes away from the titles listed in front of her, “I said I was going to the library and you insisted on following in case I were kidnapped by rogue Bulgarian Quidditch players.”

“You know that’s not as funny when we actually know someone it’s happened to. What are you hoping to find here that wasn’t at the school library?”

“I’m hoping to find some of the book I couldn’t get to because they were in the restricted section. They don’t have a restricted section here.”

“That’s because their selection is lame.”

“Hush. I think I found one.”

She pulled out a large book, the cover green faded almost to brown and the edges tattered.

“What is it?” Draco asked, not really interested. After months of trying to help Hermione figure out exactly what she had forgotten the day Viktor had run off with Harry (and he still had urges to throttle her after she told him about her reckless confrontation), and finding nothing he was more than willing to just forget the entire incident. What did it even matter? Knowing what happened wouldn’t get Harry back, alleviate Krum of his treachery, or help Uncle Severus (according to mother, he had already weaseled his way out trouble on his own).

“It’s a book for diagnosing and treating memory loss.”

“Why would that be in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts?”

“I don’t know. Lets find out.”

With a sigh, he followed her out into the study area and resigned himself to wait. It took less time than he thought. It took half an hour in one decrepit book to find an answer that had been evading her for six months.

“I think I was obliviated,” she said, frowning down at her book. Draco blinked at her.

“Pardon?”

“Obliviated. It’s really bad. I’ll never be able to recover the memory on my own.”

“Wait, wait, wait. What is ‘obliviated’? How do you know you weren’t hit with a regular forgetting hex.”

“Draco, please. I tried the counter spells for nearly a dozen memory spells, and none of them worked. An obliviation is different though. It doesn’t just hide a memory, it fragments it and then buries it. It’s considered a Dark Arts spell.”

“Do you think it was Oblitz then? He is a former Auror and Dark Arts Teacher. I bet he knows a ton of spells like that.”

She frowned, flipping through the pages. “Maybe. I don’t know why he would bother though. Why not just stun me?”

Draco shrugged. “Why do you think it was even an obliviation?”

“It’s… it just fits the symptoms… or the lack of symptoms. Most memory spells have after affects, they fade and you start to remember or you dream about the incident or have a strong case of deja vu. With an obliviation you don’t have any of those things. It’s like nothing ever happened.”

“Sounds kind of feeble, if you ask me… and there isn’t a cure? If that’s even what’s wrong with you.”

She closed the book and looked him in the eye, and he instantly knew she was going to propose something he wasn’t going to like.

“I can’t get to the memory myself. Maybe if I were some sort of meditation guru I could, but that takes years of training and mental preparation. However… I know someone who could.”

“… if you say Ron, I’m going to pop you one just out of principle.”

“What? No, of course not! I meant Uncle Severus. He’s a skilled Legilimens. He could probably do it… but…”

“And the other shoe drops… but what?”

“… Remember how I said the memory is fragmented and buried?”

“Yeah.”

“Well… in order to put it back together, I would have to let him sift through my other memories.”

He blinked at her. Then looked horrified. “No way!”

Someone shushed them from the other end of the library.

“Are you serious? I like Uncle Severus and all, but do really want him poking through your head. In case you’ve forgotten, we weren’t… aren’t exactly saints. We’ve broken priceless artifacts and blamed it on House Elves-”

“- technically only you did that-”

“Snuck out after curfew at home and school-”

“Yes, well-”

“And stolen books out of his library!”

“Borrowed, Draco. I always put them back.”

“Not to mention all the embarrassing stuff, like the first time you kissed someone or that time you wet yourself in public.”

“I was five and I told Narcissa I really had to go.”

“Anyway, do you really want him to see all of that? Do you really want to make him see all of that? Is it even worth it?”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s not just about the memory. I woke unconscious on the floor, Draco, and I have no idea how I got there or how long I had been out. I was helpless, completely vulnerable. What if someone… did something to me?”

Her brother suddenly paled. It had never occurred to him that something other than being knocked unconscious could have happened to her. There had been no marks on her, her clothes were intact, and she had only seemed scared of being found out, not of being… that.

“I don’t just mean rape, Draco. I’m pretty sure no one had the time to do it and to get rid of the evidence that thoroughly. But what if it were something else? What if I were forced to tell an important secret or have another spell on me that I’m unaware of? What if I betrayed someone and don’t even know it?”

“… but what if it’s nothing and you end up betraying those secrets to Snape instead?”

“I’ve got to know. Not knowing is driving me insane. Besides, I trust him.”

“He’s Slytherin, Hermione. As a four year veteran of that particular House, I can safely say he’ll only keep secrets as long as it’s advantageous for him to do so.”

“That’s an awful thing to say.”

“Awful? I’d be disappointed in him if he didn’t!”

Her only response to that was to roll her eyes. She had already made up her mind, and Draco knew it was impossible to dissuade her. His only hope was to dissuade his godfather from going along with her foolhardy scheme.

They checked out the book and took the floo to a little pub, and from there made their way up the winding road towards Snape’s house. It wasn’t until they were actually at his door that the awkwardness of the situation began to dawn Hermione. Their godfather wasn’t exactly the sort of man who cared for unexpected visits.

However, as a Gryffindor, stubbornness accounted as much for her bravery as anything else.

“Uncle Severus!” she called, knocking on the door. “It’s Hermione and Draco. I have to talk to you. It’s important.”

It took a few more minutes of persistent pounding, but eventually the door cracked open to reveal a very unhappy potions master.

“Someone better be dead.”

“Uncle Severus, you would really feel awful if you had said that and it turned out to be the case.”

“I imagine it couldn’t be much worse than now. Do you know what time it is?”

Draco checked his watch. “11:26.”

The potions master let out a tired sigh and stepped away from the door, letting godchildren inside. “What do you want?”

Hermione told him. Snape stared at her blandly through the entire explanation, sighed again, rubbed his forehead, and turned to Draco.

“What time did you say it was again?”

Harry was jostled awake when the car came to an abrupt stop, and his seatbelt caught him and threw him back into his seat, knocking him upside the head.

“Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck…” he cursed, holding his pounding head in his hands. It felt as if someone had tapping on his skull with hammer for the last hour.

“Hey, no cussing in front of my kids,” he heard snapped at him from somewhere ahead of him. He groaned, pulling his hands away from his head so that he could see exactly where he was now and in what state.

The first thing he noticed was that he was in a rather small car. The second, was that it was a very crowded small car. The man from before was at the driver’s wheel, and in the passenger’s seat was a woman. Sitting beside him in the back were two children, a boy and girl, neither more than nine years old. He blinked at them blearily, and they blinked back with wide brown eyes. Who were they?

“Here, drink this. You’re probably dehydrated,” the woman upfront said in a barely discernible Scottish accent. She held out a water bottle, and only after a moment’s hesitation did he reach out to accept it… then realized his hands were tied together. He looked at the ropes binding his bare wrists, then realized his button-up shirt was missing. In fact, as he looked himself over, he realized he was missing just about everything. His boots, his arm guard (and his wand), his boots, his wig (no real loss there since it itched something awful), and his socks. The only thing left to him was his undershirt, his pants, and the make-shift bandages he had made for himself..

“Come on, drink up,” the woman urged. Slowly, he accepted the bottle and took a drink. It was cold, and soothing, and not nearly enough. He felt confused, sick, and sore. Outside his window he could see other cars whipping by them and farmland stretching out behind those. Where were they?

“Where are we?”

“About twenty miles south of Cologne,” the woman said. “How do you feel?”

“Probably about as good as I look. Do you have a headache potion, perchance?”

The man snorted.

“Or a Tylenol? I’m not picky.”

“Nothing. I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh, now you decide to be polite?” the man scoffed. Harry glared at him.

“You’re hardly in a position to criticize. You said hello with a knife at my back.”

“Point taken. Now that you’re our guest, I am going to set up some ground rules. If you follow these rules, maybe you’ll get to where you’re going in better shape than you are now,” the man said, watching the road and Harry in his rear view mirror simultaneously. Harry scanned his prison on wheels for routes of escape and the scenery outside for potential sanctuary. “Rule 1, you call me ‘Sir’, you call my wife ‘Ma’am’, and you don’t talk to John, Jane, or Noah period.”

Harry looked at the two children beside him. “Where’s number three?”

From behind his seat there came a rustle, and third child made an appearance. He was about five and was missing half his teeth when he grinned at Harry.

“I’m Noah!”

“Noah, you’re not suppose to talk to him, remember?” John scolded, glowering as menacingly as a nine-year old can.

“Oops!” he ducked back behind the seat and disappeared.

“Rule 2, you will respect me and every order I give you. Rule 3, you will respect my wife and every order she gives you. Rule 4, you will not try to escape.”

“That it?”

“I doubt we’ll be together long enough for any other rules to come into play.”

Small blessings.

What was he going to do now?

1. If you want to know what the Upright Hierophant stands for, you’ll have to go look it up. Otherwise, I’m going to keep you guessing until Harry and Voldemort meet again.↩

The Quest for the Prince

“Damn it! Damn it all to hell, don’t people understand what’s riding on this? How can everyone be so stupid?!” Minister Seibligg snarled, throwing something across the room, and forcing one of his interns to jump out of the way. “I’ve got three and a half weeks! Just three and a half weeks, when I could have had six months… It’s that damn Dumbledore’s fault. He said he’d handle it. Well, he handled it alright. Handled it right over to Voldemort more than likely!”

The minister continued to rant for several more minutes along these lines, while the half dozen interns waited in quiet tension for him to either wind down or throw something at them. You could never be certain which would happen first with a man as volatile as him.

It didn’t help that the political climate lately was… intense.

The papers had been criticizing him relentlessly for the failed attempt at spying, and more importantly for risking the lives of mere school children in the process. His political opponents were out for blood, suggesting he be surrendered to the Dark Lord as a display of peaceful reconciliation with Britain. Their blood thirst wouldn’t let them wait until September when the national election would be held, and defeat him legitimately.

If it weren’t for the common consensus of the public that Britain was ruled by the Devil, and public outrage at the Dark Lord’s Ultimatum, he might have been impeached months ago. As things stood, his chances for reelection were slim to nil.

He had needed Potter’s support, and what ever intelligence he might have on the Dark Lord, not only for military reasons but for public ones. The witch and wizarding community were still patting their own backs for ‘rescuing’ the little ingrate, and he needed to take advantage of that while he still could. The boy was his single gain in the entire Triwizard Tournament debacle, but if anyone found out the child had disappeared or even worse, that he had defected back to Britain, he would be ruined.

They would say he had lied to the public, and the boy really had been kidnapped just like the Dark Lord had been claiming all along. They’d throw him to Voldemort just out of principle.

During coffee breaks, the interns silently admitted to one another that they hoped Potter showed up at the execution and gave the bastard the finger.

“I want Potter found! I want Dumbledore found! Heads are going to roll for this, and mine sure as hell won’t be one of them. Autman! I want you to contact every major paper and tell them the old bastard was attacked by Death Eaters, and we don’t know what happened to him or Potter. Tell them the Ministry is posting a 1500 Schulich[1] reward for any information leading the safe recovery of Potter or Dumbledore or both. I want it out by the morning post or it’s your balls, Autman!”

Autman hurried to do as commanded, more than happy to be safely out of the room than worried about his manhood.

“Spencer, you’re going to contact the Auror Corps. I’m issuing a national alert. The borders are closed. No one in or out until that boy is in our custody. Blame it on the Death Eaters, but make it known Potter might be resistant to capture… Imperius curse or some other nonsense. Eisenhoff, find someone convenient to blame for the breach in security. Oreff, find those imbeciles to botched the mission and then ‘lose’ them again. I don’t want their screw up messing with the official report, got that? And Dieski…”

“Yes, sir?” she said, timidly, hopeful that she’d finally get to do something important.

“Get me a beer.”

The newest headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix was a bit more cramped than their usual selection, but Harry’s disappearance had ruined much of their plans and forced them to compromise. Something no one was happy about.

“You seriously couldn’t find anything better?” Phoebe groused, timidly stepping over a desiccated pile of rodent crap. “I wouldn’t even sleep here.”

The basement of the abandoned paper factory provided them with plenty of privacy, but that was about it. It was dank, smelly, and infested with rodents. It was also only a few blocks from the Astora Hotel, and roving gangs of Aurors trying to track Dumbledore down.

“It is only for a short time,” Dumbledore assured them, “Until we have a better idea of where Mr. Potter has gone.”

“He ran away,” Johan stated bluntly. “Didn’t I say he would at the first chance he got?”

“Some how I don’t think this specific circumstance was what you were referring to,” Viktor said. Of everyone, he was the most concerned about what had happened. Harry and he had not parted on good terms, but of everyone there Viktor thought he understood the boy the most. Harry was probably the most conflicted person he had ever met, which meant all his actions only made sense to himself. It frustrated Viktor beyond words that Harry couldn’t just decide whose side he wanted to be on, but perhaps that very indecisiveness was the final remnant of innocence still left to him. He was still only fourteen, and that boggled Viktor’s mind more than anything else. He was only fourteen and running around with Aurors and Dark Wizards chasing after him. There was nothing good that could come out of this situation.

There was a knock at the basement door, followed by Fredric, still in his Auror’s uniform. They all turned to him expectantly. He gave them a grin.

“The Minister doesn’t have him. He’s shutting down the borders and put up an award for the both of you. I think he still believes you have him, Albus.”

There was a vague air of relief at the news, except for Johan who just snorted in disgust.

“What did you think happened? They spelled him to get his stuff and then climb out the window? How the hell did he even get his wand?”

Dumbledore smiled a bit at this. “I believe he disarmed one of the Aurors and ran off with his wand, and used that to retrieve his own wand.”

Now Fredric was confused. “How did he disarm an Auror without a wand?”

“I am not entirely certain myself. I was unfortunately distracted.”

“I have heard a rumor,” Viktor offered, “that he can do some wandless magic. I don’t know if it’s true. I’ve never seen him do it myself.”

“Marvelous,” Johan muttered.

“So now what?” Tonks said impatiently. “We can’t stick around here.”

“Not all of us,” Dumbledore admitted. “Viktor, I’d like you to stay in the area and conduct a search of your own. No one will question you searching for a lost friend. Fredric, just keep monitoring the situation as best you can. I will talk to the police, and put myself up somewhere for the next couple of days.”

The Order looked a bit confused by his last statement.

“Who are the ‘Police’?” Timmons asked.

“Muggle Aurors,” Tonks said, grimacing. She’d had a few run in with those. A few unauthorized entries while working for Dumbledore had gotten her in more than few hot spots with the police.

“What could they possibly do?”

“Mr. Potter escaped into Muggle Cologne, not Wizarding Cologne. He has no idea how to get to the magical part of the city, and even if he did, he would probably avoid it. I feel it is likely he will try to flee the city by railway or bus. The police can send out a notice to be on the look out for ‘my runaway grandson’, if you catch my drift.”

It seemed like a sound idea, except to Johan who saw the obvious flaw. If Potter didn’t want to be noticed by muggles, he certainly had to know some spells to ensure that he wasn’t. He didn’t say anything though. No one listened to him anyway.

“We will meet here in twenty-four hours. If we have made no progress, we will relocate and make new plans.”

With that, they made their exit. Fredric first to make sure no one was there to spot them, and then the others, each wandering to different sides of the abandoned factory to carry out their various duties.

Viktor hung back a little to talk to Dumbledore, who seemed to be expecting him.

“You are worried about our misplaced friend,” the old wizard surmised.

Viktor nodded.

“What, specifically, are you worried will happen?”

“A lot of things. I’m worried he’ll get caught by Aurors. I’m worried he’ll get caught by Voldemort’s men. I’m worried he’ll go back to Voldemort of his own free will. I’m worried he’ll just disappear and we’ll never know what happened to him.”

“Worrisome things indeed.”

Much to Viktor’s dismay, he realized Dumbledore didn’t have any words of comfort for him. All of these fears were legitimate, and the old wizard wasn’t going to downplay the seriousness of the situation. The only solution was to find Harry first.

He might as well try and find Atlantis while he was at it.

It took less than an hour for Harry to become completely and utterly carsick. At least, he hoped it was just carsickness. If any of his wounds got seriously infected he would be in serious trouble. In any event, he was not in a good state.

The car’s air conditioning didn’t work, and despite rolling down the windows, the car was still cramped and sweltering and stank of sweating bodies. His kidnapper didn’t seem to mind, and neither did his family. The children napped or doodled in activity books, obediently quiet and pointedly not talking to Harry. Their mother watched Harry like a hawk, frequently looking at his hands to make sure they were still bound and unmoving in his lap. He felt too ill himself to work up a good stare of resentment, so he ignored her. The father kept his attention on the road. The only sign that they even acknowledged the heat was the frequent passing of a water bottle.

Harry had his own bottle, nearly empty. Lycanthrosis, he thought vaguely, gradually coming to the conclusion that all of the family were werewolves and not just the man if they didn’t seemed worried about contracting it. He didn’t think too much into it. He was too nauseous and headachy to devote much energy to any thoughts aside from ‘where are we going’ and ‘how do I get out of here’.

They were heading north, towards the North Sea. They passed a few road signs with names Harry thought he recognized, places with rivers leading out to sea. Lubreck. Bremen. He had been in Bremen before. The Durmstrang ship had dropped him and everyone else off there. Where they going to take the same route out of Germany? There seemed to be dozens of easier routes. Plane. Train. Bus. Most of them leading south into Belgium or France, and taking either a ferry or the ‘Chunnel’[2] into England

“Why are we going by sea?” he asked, the first words he had spoken since he’d woken up. The mother’s eyes widened and she turned to her husband. So he had guessed right.

“Why do you think we’re going to the sea?” the man demanded, as if accusing him of something.

“Because we passed by all the train and bus stations, and a couple of airports… and several post offices if you wanted to get clever about it.”

No one said anything for a long moment. The car suddenly lurched to the side to let another car pass, and Harry closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, his insides threatening to revolt.

“Oh God, pull over. I’m going to be sick.”

“As if-”

The mother interjected. “Dear, he’s serious. Pull over.”

There was another abrupt swerve and fierce stop. Harry struggled with the door, but it wouldn’t open, and as his stomach wasn’t waiting for him to complete his evacuation, he gave up and climbed half way out the window and vomited over the side. There wasn’t much to expel, but it seemed to take forever, and when it was finally over he could only hang over the door, exhausted to the point of pain.

Had he ever felt this awful? After Infelix malis? When Snape slipped him that Blue Pox potion? At this point, he couldn’t even bring himself to care that he was being driven to his probable torture and death. This was insidiously slow and torturous death all its own.

“Here,” the woman said from behind him, nudging his hand with his water bottle. “Wash out your mouth and get back inside.”

“Is he okay?” Jonah queried sleepily from the back.

“He’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

“Does he need medicine?”

“Go to sleep,” his father reiterated, and the boy fell quiet. Stephen looked to Harry, who had climbed back into the car, and sat slumped in his seat. They stared at each other for a long time. “You should sleep as well.”

Harry glared back at him. “You should just leave me at the nearest hospital.”

“I swear to god kid, I’m going to pop you one if you don’t drop the sass.”

“Next upchuck I’m aiming at the back of your head.”

“One more word, just one, and I’m gagging you.”

Harry believed him, and relented, turning to stare out the window as they headed back out onto the road. How far was it to the sea? Several hours. When would they stop? Would they stop at all? If they did, he might be able to stun both of the adults. The children were too young to stop him. He could find his things and runaway again. Find a place to sleep off the sickness.

If the fucking drive didn’t kill him first.

Hermione fidgeted nervously in the kitchen chair, staring across the table at her godfather, his eyes skimming the article she had found. He looked awful, like he hadn’t slept at all, even though he obviously needed to. He was still wearing a brewing apron, dragon hide, and his hair was tied back. Had he been brewing all night? What ever for?

He had listened to her though, from start to finish, and even double checked her interpretation from the book. At last, he shut it and looked back at her.

“Do you have any idea what you are asking?”

She nodded. “I know I’ll have to let you into my memories… even those I’d rather you not see…”

“There’s a lot more to it than that,” he said, closing his eyes. She hadn’t a clue what she was requesting. Sure he might find what she was looking for, and perhaps she was willing to sacrifice a bit of privacy to do that, but there was more at stake. She had buried memories that he had buried himself and that WYRA had lawfully buried. Memories of the basilisk incident and memories of her family before the Malfoys had adopted her. Shaking any of those memories loose into her conscious or subconscious mind could have serious ramifications.

It would be a tricky enough operation if her other memories weren’t a factor and he had a full night’s rest, but as it was he didn’t even want to attempt a glance into her mind. His own was too exhausted.

He had been up all night, tweaking loyalty potions, altering them enough so that they could be reversible or broke down on their own in time. The Dark Lord might THINK he wanted a completely loyal Harry, but Snape knew such a thing would soon result in disappointment. A servant who did not question would simply become another meaningless sycophant.

There would likely be several ‘experiments’, before Voldemort found a solution that satisfied him.

Snape knew something had to be done, but he suspected it would all come down to the Dark Mark or something similar. Physical and mental freedom, but with a magical bond. One that could easily destroy you if you ever attempted to break it. The idea didn’t sit well with him, but then nothing about the situation did.

Which was what made Hermione’s unexpected appearance almost welcome. He needed a distraction that even the Dark Lord would excuse.

“Fine. We’ll try, but if it becomes too much of a hassle, I’m pulling out,” he said, leaning back in his chair. Draco, who had been uncharacteristically quiet standing by the counter immediately protested.

“You can’t be serious! When was the last time you slept? If you go stumbling through her brain like you are, she’s going to end up thinking she’s poodle by the time you’re done!”

“Draco!”

“A legitimate concern,” Snape said mildy, turning to the boy. “Which is why you’re going to make some tea. Some very, very strong tea. Second cabinet on your left.”

“You’re all loons,” he muttered under his breath, but did as he was ordered.

An hour later found them in the living room, the curtains all shut tight. Draco guarded the windows, peaking out to make sure no one came to disturb them. Hermione and Snape sat on the couch, a pensieve on the coffee table. Snape took her face in his calloused hands, and stared deeply into her eyes.

“I want you to think of that day in the castle, just before your memories disappear, in as much detail as you can manage.”

Her cheeks instantly pinked at the thought of Viktor’s proposal to her in the abandoned classroom. The potions master scowled at her.

“You can’t afford to be embarrassed. Your mind retreats from memories that make it uncomfortable, and that makes my job that much more difficult.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Just concentrate.”

Gradually, the memory came to the forefront of her mind, and Snape found himself the third party to an adolescent soap opera. All tears and pleas, and the only think keeping him from retching was Hermione’s staunch adherence to logic even in the midst of teen heartbreak. The memory suddenly stuttered, and he found himself looking down at Hermione on the floor, waking up in confusion.

Having found the time frame of the lost memory, he left her conscious thought to find exactly where it went. Technically, he had no physical body with which to move, and both time and space was ephemeral concepts in the mind to begin with, but with mental discipline and self awareness, he found it easy enough to create a landscape that he could work with.

Concentrating, he dismissed Hermione’s image of her last meeting with Viktor, and found himself staring out in a smoky black void. He hovered in the nothingness for a moment, deciding on the mindscape that would best suite his needs, and willed it into being. The darkness suddenly brightened, and where once there was endless space there was now white walls, a floor, and a ceiling. A corridor stretched on into forever, and the walls were each lined with a door, and all of the doors were different. Wood doors, painted doors, glass doors, barn doors, tiny doors, car doors, draw bridges, attic doors, beaded doors, elevator doors, round doors, pink doors, doors with knockers, doors with mail slots, doors with signs on them, just endless doors of all varieties. Their only linking factor was the set of gold numbers printed neatly above each.

Curiously, he opened what appeared to be a closet door. Inside, he found Hermione, no more than six, watching Narcissa intently as she dressed for a night at the opera. Long, elegant fingers weaved through her golden hair, her swan neck tilted just a bit as she looked into the mirror. The image of a beautiful princess made real to a little girl, and the heart racing thrill of knowing she was her mother now.

He closed the door, more than a little embarrassed. If Lucius ever found out he had seen his wife in her under clothes, he’d never see the light of day. He looked at the door number. 2836621. He tried another door.

This one had Harry in it. It had to have been first year, he looked so tiny. They were outside the castle with their fellow first years, Professor Grimms barking at them not to mount their brooms. Snape had heard about this incident, but couldn’t help but linger as it played out before his eyes. He watched as Grimms was called away, as everyone became aware of Weasley riffling through Harry’s bag, the insults, and the fight on the broomsticks. In wasn’t until the end of the little drama, when Grimms smacked Harry upside the head with the journal, that Snape realized exactly what it was.

What the bloody hell isthatdoing here?

He didn’t find out what happened to the journal, as Harry was pulled away and the memory ended, but he made a mental note to find out where and how exactly the boy had come across it. There was no way it could have come into his possession by accident, or that he could have had it for long if he was still alive and (relatively) sane.

It was an important discovery, but not the one he was there looking for. He made a note of the door number, 4594532, and continued on his way. The walking continued on for what seemed like hours, but time was ultimately meaningless since to Hermione and Draco it wouldn’t even be half a second, and his mental body did not fatigue. It was merely an attribute to Hermione’s rather remarkable memory. Aside from the first two memories, most of what was stored behind the doors were facts and foresights she had acquired over the years Even Snape learned a thing or two when he bothered to pay attention.

Most of them he left untouched. The fractured memories were hidden behind some of these doors somewhere in the corridor, and there would be some sort of sign to let him know when something wasn’t where it was suppose to be.

And it came in the form of door 6002 41, a simple blue house door with a conspicuously absent 5th number. He opened it and instantly recognized the memory as one he had altered himself. Hermione and Harry and the Weasley girl conspired in the library over what had happened to the unfortunate Ms. Sweetey. On the other side of the Library, Hermione and Viktor talked softly about fairy folk and house elves. A memory overlapping a memory.

Knowing what to look for now, he watched the numbers of the doors as he passed, looking for any with missing numbers. He found two others, ones of Hermione when she still living with her muggle parents, but it was the fourth door the yielded the first meaningful results.

Door 6666 66, a black door with silver fixtures. Snape recognized it as one leading to Lucius’ study. He opened it.

Larousse’s funeral procession marched passed him, himself at the forefront, marching up the hill with his fiance’s body resting on the palate he held on his shoulders. He could see Morgan on the other side of the palate, but the other men helping him take her to her pyre, he didn’t know and had never bothered to meet. Behind him trailed Harry, looking absurdly young and pale in his grief, Hermione and Draco standing on either side of him.

He forced himself to look away and not follow them to the top of the hill, and watch as that wretched morning played itself out. He would indulge in masochism after he found the memory that was hiding within this memory.

Looking around for anything out of place, he spotted a strange out cropping of trees, still green and deeply shadowed even in the depth of winter. He headed for it. The moment he entered the darkness of the forest, it shifted into the dimness of Hogwart’s history classroom. At the center, he could see Hermione and Viktor arguing with each other.

He had found the right place. All he had to do was wait.

The wait wasn’t long at all. Within seconds of his arrival, the door to the classroom burst open, and a figure stepped through the door, flinging out a stunning hex. Hermione was down in an instant, sent into unconsciousness by the hex. The image dissolved around him but Snape had seen what he needed to.

He had seen Horace McGunny.

“He has a fever now and he’s soaking wet. We have to stop for the night.”

“Sylvia-”

“I’m not killing this boy in front of our children for you, Stephen.”

“He’s not dying-”

“Says you…” Harry muttered, not bothering to open his eyes. He wasn’t getting any better. In fact, the more time that passed the more he was convinced he was dying. He could barely open his eyes, let alone move his body, and breathing the hot, humid air was becoming increasingly difficult.

“… Fine, fine, whatever,” Stephen snarled. This was followed by several sharp turns that rolled Harry’s already sensitive stomach and insured that he would despise ‘Stephen’ for the rest of his probably very short life. They came to a stop somewhere and Harry dozed off, until the door was opened and he fell out of the car. Stephen caught him, and pulled him the rest of the way out.

It was more than a little alarming to find his legs wouldn’t support his own weight. He was half carried, half dragged into the hotel room and straight to the bathroom, where he was set in the tub. It was blessedly cool and unmoving, and he sighed in relief. He had to have drifted off again, because he was woken by Sylvia, turning on the tub faucet. Cold water splashed his feet, jolting him back into awareness.

“Easy now. I’m just going to cool you off and then put to you to bed,” she said.

“What’s wrong with me?” he said, because he hadn’t been this bad off that morning. Not even after being blown up and climbing out a window.

“I think you have a concussion. The heat and physical exhaustion only worsened things. Don’t worry, you just need some rest to regain your strength.”

The water was a touch too cold as it rose up around his legs, making him shiver even as it eased the pain. She left him in his pants, but pulled off his shirt, which he could see was now stained with sweat and blood. His makeshift bandages were likewise discolored and filthy, and he did nothing to protest as she started to unwind them.

“What happened to you?” she said, clearly surprised by the damage he had been hiding. He gave her a wane smile. The water around him was starting to turn pink.

“Aurors.”

“Aurors did this to you?”

“Most of it. The cuts on my feet are all Voldemort though.”

She looked perplexed by this, but didn’t question. Taking a wash cloth, she began to wipe him clean, and despite his embarrassment at being bathed like a toddler, it felt too good for him to ask her to stop. Besides, his hands were still tied and didn’t think he could do much for himself at this point.

“Where’s…Stephen…Sir… whatever?”

She glanced at him briefly, and then at his hands, then back at him.

“He’s getting some supplies. Food. Maybe something to make you feel better. There won’t be any stops tomorrow. How do you feel?”

“Better. Why are you all doing this? What did Voldemort say he’d pay you?”

“Is that what Stephen told you? That it was for money?” she said, looking disgusted. “He can be such an ass. He doesn’t care about the money. The money is just a means to an end. A way to get somewhere better than here.”

“What’s wrong with here? Isn’t it your home?” he asked. He was starting to shiver, but he didn’t want to get out yet. After hours of feeling like he’d melt in that damned oven of a car, this was pure heaven.

She shook her head. “Not any more. Not for many years now.”

“Why, what happened?”

“I got bit by a werewolf,” she said simply. She expected him to flinch, or to somehow withdraw, but he didn’t react at all. He seemed to have figured it out already.

“Are people cruel to you, because you’re a werewolf?”

It was the most absurd question she had ever heard. Where people cruel to her? Of course they were cruel. They spit at her in the street, refused to serve her at the grocers, didn’t give back her change, accused her of stealing, wouldn’t acknowledge her mere existence, took their children to the other side of the street, threw rotten food- She could tolerate it if it had just been directed at her, but her heart shattered when her children were given the same treatment. They were her angels, her babies… they deserved far better than their stupid mother. They deserved what their father wanted to give them.

“They are.”

“I’m sorry.”

She looked at him squarely. This had to be the first time a wizard had ever apologized to her, and ironically enough it was from someone who had a legitimate reason to hate them.

“You say weird things.”

He smiled weakly, but it slipped away, leaving him looking drawn and very fragile. She wasn’t what she had been expecting, all fierce eyes and assertive confidence like he was in the papers. Fourteen, she remembered, he was still only fourteen.

A bang at the door alerted to them to her husbands return. He walked in on them, looked at her and then at him, his expression contemplative. He set a plastic bag on the counter and addressed his wife.

“I’ll take over from here. Go look after the kids.” She looked at him curiously, but did as he said. When she was gone, he turned to Harry. “You better not be trying to sweet talk her.”

Harrry gave him a baffled look, then snorted. “You caught me. My plans to run off with your wife to Paris have been foiled.”

“You are so lucky they were out of duct tape at the store.”

There was Tylenol in the bag, which Harry was grateful enough for that he bit back any witty remarks as Stephen dried him off, cleaned his wounds with peroxide, and wrapped him up in real, clean bandages. The werewolf wasn’t gentle about it, but he wasn’t intentionally rough either. As long as he sat on the edge of the tub limply and didn’t make direct eye contact, the alpha didn’t seem inclined to smack him around.

“Do you want anything to eat?” the man said at last, tying off the last of the bandages.

“…Maybe later.”

“Can you walk on your own now?”

Embarrassed, he made an attempt to stand. This time he was able to get to his feet, although the position made his head pound. Carefully, he made a few wobbly steps. Stephen watched him closely for signs of falling, but once he was fairly certain he wouldn’t, he handed him a towel.

“Take off your shorts and dry off. Then come out and lay down. You have five minutes.”

Harry did as he was told, and came out into the sleeping area with the towel wrapped around his waist. Sylvia and the children were gathered around a table, eating, while Stephen stood staring at the TV. There were two queen sized beds, and Harry climbed into the nearest one. Finally feeling as if he weren’t going to die, he began to think of what he should do to escape. Stunning and running, was about the only thing he could come up with, except for the fact that running wasn’t really possible at the moment.

“Shit.”

Harry opened his eyes, not even realizing he had closed them, and turned to Stephen.

“What is it?” Sylvia asked, coming over to look at the TV.

“Storms up north. Bad ones. They’re suspending all water and air traffic.”

“For how long?”

“They’re not saying. The storm supposedly ‘came out of nowhere’. I can think of a few likely sources.”

Harry could too. He wondered if the storms would hit land, and he’d find himself walking out into one in the middle of the night. Did the Ministry know where they were going? Or was it just another way to block off one of his escape routes? Perhaps even Voldemort had sent it as a means to cover their escape. Stephen didn’t think so, but he seemed to be flying by the seat of his pants anyway.

At some point, he drifted off again without realizing it, and when he opened his eyes the room was dark and he could hear rain outside, arguing with the droning air conditioner. He felt no compulsion to go outside, but he couldn’t think of what had just woken him.

“Go back to sleep,” the Stephen growled from the other side of the bed.

I could stun him now, he thought sleepily. I could stun him and his wife and just walk away. I feel stronger now.

Deciding he had put it off too long already, he rolled over to do just that. Stephen was just a vague shape in the darkness of the room, highlighted in the fainted glow from behind the hotel curtains. He sat up and extended his hands out to him.

“Stup-”

There was a crash of thunder and wood exploding, a blinding light and shouts of surprise. Harry’s first peculiar thought was that the door had been struck by lightening. The second was that they were under attack. The children and Sylvia screamed in surprise and fright, their bodies clearly visible now on the second bed, huddled together, but then there were other shouts, not of surprise but of command.

“Put your hands in the air and stay where you are!”

Wizards poured into the little hotel room, soaking wet and wands drawn. Some of them had cast Lumos, which now lit the room in a harsh blue-white glow, blinding its inhabitants. Harry felt the bed shift, then heard a snarl of rage.

“Stupefy.”

There was a thud, followed by Sylvia screaming again.

“Don’t anybody move! Put your hands in the air and stay exactly where you are!” another wizard shouted. They all did so, even Harry, whose bound hands were now clearly visible.

“What the hell?” a spiky –haired wizard exclaimed, looking at Harry in complete bewilderment. Now that everyone was still and not screaming, Harry could see there were three wizards total, and they were dressed as Aurors. They looked awfully young. “Who the hell are you?”

Harry blinked. They weren’t here for him?

“Er… Heinrich Makowski?”

“Oh shit, that’s Potter,” another Auror with crooked nose said. The other two looked at him and then at Harry, their eyes widening in surprise as they finally recognized his face. Harry’s estimation of them went down considerably. They were all clearly rookies, but what were they doing here if it wasn’t to find him?

‘Spiky’s’ expression hardened, and he walked over to Stephen, now sprawled dazed on the floor, and kicked him in the chest. Hard. He grunted in pain and the children let out shocked cries. Harry could only stare, stunned at the pointless cruelty of it.

“What the hell, Canis? When did you graduate from mongrel to Death Eater lap dog?” Another vicious kick to the kidneys.

“Stop! Please, stop!” Sylvia begged.

“Shut up, you stupid bitch!” the third Auror, the bulkiest of the lot, snapped, seizing her by the hair and pulling her off the bed and away from her terrified children, who cried and reached helpless for her. He tossed her into a dresser, where she hit her head and slumped to the floor, blood running down her face.

What are you doing? Arrest them or stun them, what’s the point of this bullying? Harry marveled, horrified as he had been with Voldemort that day in the Forbidden Forest and his brutal interrogation of the centaur herd

Spiky approached him, and he instinctively flinched away, but the man made a calming gesture and gently took his bound hands.

“It’s alright, no one is going to hurt you. You poor kid, you’re a mess. They really worked you over, didn’t they? Excarcerous!” The ropes fell away from his wrists, freeing them. Harry stared at them, shocked, then at the Auror. He thought the werewolves had hurt him, and not his buddies at the Ministry?

“You are one lucky guy, you know that?” he said, looking him over for any other wounds. He eyed the crescent moon tattoo suspiciously, but didn’t examine it too closely. “Got a call from a concerned neighbor that these guys had run off without notifying anyone, and we were dispatched to track them down. The tracking spell on their car led us here. I thought they were just trying to run off to the mountains, not run off with you. You okay? Where are your clothes?”

Harry couldn’t say anything. They had broken into the hotel just because Stephen’s family hadn’t been at home? What were they going to do if they hadn’t found him there? Arrest them for being on vacation?

“Hey, kid, you alright?”

He blinked at the man, and finally managed, “What are you going to do to them?”

“Don’t worry, they’re not ever going to be able to hurt you again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kidnapping, assault, conspiring with a hostile foreign government. As soon as we get back to headquarters, they’ll be scheduled for execution. You’ll be safe.”

His heart sank into his stomach. He looked over towards the children still huddled together on the bed, their tiny faces morphed into terror and grief, choking back sobs. Oh god…

“The children…”

Now, the Auror seemed to sense something was wrong. Harry’s expression wasn’t one of relief. If anything, he was looking increasingly distressed. He looked to his comrades, who seemed to have sensed it too, but they were occupied with guarding the werewolves.

“No.”

“Harry? What is it?”

“Let them go…”

There was stirring on the floor, and ‘Crooked Nose’ lashed out with a sharp kick to Slyvia’s back, knocking her to the floor, on top of her husband. She let out a cry of pain, and Noah scrambled for her.

“Mama, mama!”

“I said don’t move!”

‘Bulky’ grabbed him by his neck, and shook him like a rag doll, ringing out screams of pain. Harry was on his feet so fast, the Auror who was attending him fell to the floor. He was so fast in fact, the Auror who had grabbed Noah didn’t even realize he had moved until Harry’s foot smashed into his face.

“Expelliarmus!” The wand of Crooked Nose flew into his hand, and knocked the man into the wall. With his newly acquired wand, he swept it towards Stephen. “Rennervate.”

The man was on his feet just as quickly as Harry had been, and he went immediately for the first Auror who had been tending Harry, just beginning to climb to his feet. Stephen’s fist knocked him back into the ground, and he didn’t get back up.

The threat neutralized, the werewolf immediately searched out his pack. John and Jane rushed into his arms, latching onto him as fiercely as they could, sobbing against him. Noah was already with Sylvia, who had managed to sit up again and was hugging him to her breast.

Harry watched them all and felt like crying himself. But he couldn’t. He had to get away. Again. On shaky legs, he climbed off the bed, just barely able to find a path with everyone crowded around and unconscious bodies littering the floor, and made his way to the bathroom. He could feel their eyes on him, but he didn’t look back. His clothes were hanging over the tub, and when he put them on they were still a bit damp, but tolerable. He took two more Tylenol, stared at his pale, hallow face in the mirror for a minute, and then wobbled back out to the sleeping area.

Sylvia and the children were now back on the bed huddled together in a comforting pile, while Stephen searched the Auror’s for anything useful. He noted that Sylvia had a wand, but Stephen didn’t. Everyone turned to him as he re-entered.

“You’ll have to abandon your car when you leave,” Harry said softly. “I left the Tylenol by the sink, if you want any. Oh… and I want my stuff back.”

1. A Schulich is a German form of wizarding money. The equivalent is about $50, so the reward is about $75,000.↩

2. For those who don’t know the ‘Chunnel’ (Channel Tunnel) is a subterranean rail system under the English Channel between France and England.↩

The Fae

Harry swayed, dizzy, but kept to his feet and kept walking. His satchel hung weightless at his side, his small collection of wands tucked into either boot. Stephen had given them back to him without a word as he proceeded to move his family’s belongings from the trunk of his car to the car he was in the process of stealing. Harry felt bad about that, but thought he might feel worse if the family was caught because they were stuck in their current rust bucket.

He had left them still loading the car, simply wandering away while they were distracted with their work. There was no point in saying goodbye, and frankly he didn’t want to risk a confrontation with Stephen, who may still be reluctant to let him go. Probably the only thing stopping the man so far was Harry’s newest wand and the evidence that he was both proficient and quick with using it.

The rain hadn’t stopped, merely slowed to a drizzle, and off in the distance he could make out the lightening traveling south with the storm. It was a good time to travel. The air was cool with the rain, and his black cloak provided both warmth and concealment in the night. He just had to be wary of cars traveling a little too close to the side of the road, and he would be fine.

Well, perhaps he had to be wary of Aurors wandering a little too close as well.

He was practically buzzing with energy after the confrontation with the men in the hotel, senses on edge, even as his body fought its own physical fatigue. How far could he get like this? It was too late… early in the morning for buses to be running, and he had no idea where the nearest stop one was located. He might get a ride from a passerby if he were lucky, but with his luck he’d probably end up hitching a ride with a vampire.

He couldn’t have made it half a mile when headlights coming up behind him drew his attention. He tensed, and tensed further as the vehicle began to slow down. Weird luck, he groaned mentally, when he realized it was Stephen and family in their newly acquired vehicle. The man rolled up beside him, but Harry kept walking, forcing him to follow along at a crawl.

“Hey, get in,” Stephen said, sticking his head out the window. Harry just glowered at him, and kept walking. “Come on, we’re in the same boat, you might as well come with us.”

Harry snorted.

“Harry, please,” Sylvia said, rolling down her own window to speak directly. “It won’t take long for those men to wake up and report to their superiors. Aurors are going to swarm this area, and you don’t want to be anywhere near here when it happens. Please, get in the car.”

He glared at the both of them. “I’m not an idiot! I know all of that. But I also know hitching a ride with people who are going to trying to sell me to the highest bidder is an equally stupid idea!”

“Ha-”

“And stop using my name like we’re friends!” he snapped. “I didn’t save you because we’re friends!”

There was a moment of tense silence. Sylvia hung her head, shame faced, while Stephen proceeded to simply stare at him in his usual unreadable stare. In the back seat of the car, the children stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. Harry just kept walking, eyes on the road, and his wand clenched in his fist. Finally, the alpha broke the silence.

“Then why did you save us?”

“I did it just for your kids, got it? I hate people who hurt kids!”

This was perfectly true, but not the entire truth of the situation. He did hate people who hurt kids, but the situation was a bit more complicated. The fact was, he understood why Stephen and Sylvia had kidnapped him. They wanted something better for their children. A life Harry was beginning to understand they couldn’t get in Germany. So he had saved them, and given them a second chance. But he wasn’t going to pay for their chance at happiness with his blood. They’d just have to get creative.

Stephen heaved an irritated sigh. “You really are a fucking prince.”

“You’re fucking welcome!”

“What do you want? An apology?”

“I want you to go away! Go find someone else to kidnap.”

“Will you just get in the car? What do you think we could do against you when you’ve got…thatanyway?” And by that, Harry assumed he meant his wand. He had a good point there. “The law is going to be here in a few minutes, and none of us can afford to stick around here. So get your sassy ass in the car before we all get blown to bits!”

Well, shit, he was right. He couldn’t afford to be picky with his rides, and right now they were the lesser of two evils. Escaping them would be a lot easier than escaping Aurors, if it came down to that.

“Fine, but I’m sitting up front.”

“No w-”

“Honey,” Sylvia interject, her own patience finding its limit. “Don’t make a mountain out of a mole hill.”

Harry stopped walking, allowing them to stop the car so she could climb in back, and he could climb in front. He had barely closed the door, when Stephen put his foot to the gas and sped away with a screech of tires. Harry quickly fastened his seat belt.

For half an hour, no one said anything. Luckily, their new car was nicer than their old, with roomier seats and working appliances. The digital clock glowed 2:35 am. In the rearview mirror, he could see the children snuggling up to their mother as best they could in their seat belts, except for Noah who was curled up on the floor around her feet.

“Where are you going exactly?” Harry finally, quietly.

“If you’re not going to accompany us all the way, it’s better I not tell you,” Stephen said bluntly, not looking away from the road. The boy fought back his annoyance. The situation called for civility, even if it had to be faked.

“We’re not going north.”

“There’s nothing north. The ports are all closed due to the storms. Besides, the Aurors will know that’s the direction we were headed. We’ll head back south along the less busy highways until we can find a place to lay low for a while.”

“… Why did you even come to get me?”

“It wasn’t gratitude,” Stephen sneered.

“I didn’t say it was,” Harry sneered right back.

“Hn. It’s safer to travel with a wizard on our side. Sylvia knows a little magic, but not much. Nothing like you. So you get a ride and we get a little more protection. Everyone wins.”

Everyone wins, Harry thought glumly, if by some miracle I can keep you from betraying me.

Snape had wanted a distraction, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted one this badly. As much as he disliked fiddling around with other people’s free will (with a few exceptions), he didn’t like wandering around London in the middle of the night much better. It was actually a newer city by wizarding standards, having been developed after muggles had settled there rather than at the same time, and as a result the city was… dirty. Not as bad as the muggle part of the city, but still dirty and cramped and decidedly slipshod in several districts. Oh sure, the Court Offices were all magnificent, along with the art and theatre districts, and a few high end residential areas, but for the most part it was kind of grimy.

It wasn’t as noticeable in the day time, when all the wizarding folk were about in their colorful attire and the stalls for produce and flower sales were open, but at night the garbage littered the streets and rats ran freely trying to snatch it up before morning cleaners came through and magicked away as much of it as they could. The buildings were blacked and crumbling from acid rain, byproducts of living so close to muggles. Their own cultural assertion that old was somehow better than new, and their subsequent refusal to tear down or replace anything didn’t help matters.

At least he didn’t have to worry about muggers. It was a bit early in the morning for any to still be out and about, and none would dare attack a man as well dressed as him. After Voldemort’s regime, any sort of crime you were convicted of with high recidivism earned you a one way trip to Azkaban or the werewolf colonies. Arson, rape, thievery, and the selling of contraband were the most common of these crimes. It was still around, but the perpetrators kept to their slums, where they could act out their brutality and self destruction on one another and no one gave a damn.

The neighborhood he currently found himself in wasn’t particularly nice, but it was well out of the slums. Mostly tiny apartments and shops that catered to the nearby university students and faculty. Here he could see a few windows still glowing as some desperate student crammed for their next exam or abused the vitality of their youth with some other arbitrary excuse to dismiss sleep.

Not that Snape was in any position to criticize them. He should have been asleep hours ago. Hunting down an address when the Court offices were closed (it was still Sunday when Hermione arrived on his door step) was not easy. Hunting down an address when the Court offices were closed and not calling Lucius in for a favor was damn near impossible.

He had made the effort though. Horace McGunny had some role in the Durmstrang students escape, and he suspected the boy also played a role in Harry’s abduct… escape as well. By all accounts, he could have just taken what he learned directly to Morgan or even Lucius and had the boy arrested and interrogated, but he wanted to hear the truth himself and judge whether the boy’s crime was worth destroying his life and possibly harming his goddaughter over. For all he knew, McGunny had been helping Harry per his request, and Snape didn’t see any reason to ruin the Ravenclaw because of his former ward’s selfishness.

The more he thought about it the more it seemed likely McGunny had helped Viktor in some sort of attempt to help Harry, not Germany. McGunny had a fondness for Harry, which was hardly uncommon in the last few years, and was very astute. He may have realized something was wrong when Snape himself had not, and gone out of his way to remedy it. The risk seemed awfully high for someone as conservative as McGunny, but then Snape didn’t know him all that well. He would find out soon enough.

The Newt Hill Tavern stood in the middle of the block, made completely inconspicuous by the four other apartment ‘taverns’ that surrounded it. The entrance was not locked. There was a registry in the entryway next to the mail slots, and he ran his finger down the list until he found Horace McGunny’s neatly scrawled name at the very bottom. Mentally, he groaned. Of course, he would be on the top floor. The building had no elevator.

Maybe McGunny did deserve to be thrown to the Sentinels after all.

Nevertheless, he found the stairs and followed it all the way to the top floor. There was only one room, and Snape was a bit curious to see light was still shining out from the bottom of the door. From inside he could hear a soft, rhythmic tapping.

He knocked sharply on the door.

The tapping sound stopped. There was a moment of silence.

“Just a second,” came a muffled voice, and a moment later the door opened cautiously.

Horace McGunny stared out at him, tired and suspicious. He looked older than Snape remembered, paler too, but that could have just been fatigue. His clothes were rumpled and his eyes were darkly circled.

“Professor? What are you doing here? Especially at… whatever time it is right now.”

“Can I come in for a moment?”

“Listen, I’m really busy. I’ve got a transcript due tomorrow, and this is a new job, so I really-”

“It’s about Mr. Potter.”

McGunny’s tired eyes suddenly became more alert.

“Is he alright?”

“As far as I know… maybe. Can I come in?”

This time McGunny moved away from the door. The apartment was small, only one room it seemed, and despite only having a bed, desk, chest, and small shelf it felt cramped. On the desk sat a type writer, the likely source of the tapping noise. There was no where he would deign to sit.

“Not to be rude, but why are you here, sir?”

“Like I said, it’s regarding Mr. Potter. I needed to ask you something.”

McGunny sat on his bed, across the room from him, and waited.

“Did you obliviate Hermione Granger the day the Durmstrang students escaped with Mr. Potter?”

The boy tensed, his entire continence frozen into an expression of surprise.

“I… what? No. What are you talking about?”

“Actually, that wasn’t really the question. I already know you did that. What I want to know is why. Did Mr. Potter ask you to do it or did you do it of your own volition?”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. How would I have… obliterated… oblibitated… whatever Granger? She wasn’t even there that day. What does this even have to do with Harry’s abduction?”

Snape’s expression didn’t change.

“Did you do it yourself did someone help you? Perhaps you got Oblitz. He probably knows about Obliviation.”

McGunny scowled at him. “I don’t care for what you are insinuating, Professor. I think you better go.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Snape conceded. “But not without my answers. Legilimens!”

He caught McGunny off guard, as was his intention. The subject they had been talking about was now at the fore front of the Ravenclaw’s mind, and he sifted through it quickly. His interruption of Krum and Hermione’s argument, the sleep spell he cast on her, the run to the tower, and his return to obliviate his goddaughter.

And then things got very, very weird.

McGunny started to talk to himself… and someone who didn’t sound like McGunny was talking back. Schizophrenia?

Snape didn’t have long to theorize on it, because he was very quickly and very violently thrown out of the Ravenclaw’s head.

“Oprimmo!” McGunny snarled, slashing his wand out at him. Reeling from the mental expulsion, Snape didn’t dodge quite fast enough. His left hand caught the Crushing Hex, and pain seared through him as he felt the bones in his fingers and hand fracture.

“Sectumsempra!”

McGunny rolled off the bed, which exploded into a flurry of feathers. The Ravenclaw landed on the floor, and found himself staring directly at the potions master. The man’s black eyes burned with the agony of his broken hand and rage was quickly rising to the surface.

On his end, Snape noted clinically that one of McGunny’s eyes had turned red. He didn’t analyze it, merely flung out his wand again.

“Incendio.”

“Obsideo,” McGunny said, blocking the Fire Curse, then grinned nastily at him. “Don’t you think you’re getting a little carried away? Codicarius!”

Snape only partially avoided the curse as he leapt to his feet. The wood of the floor boards had already started sprouting roots, ensnaring part of his robe, so that when he pulled away, it tore away his sleeve with it. He considered himself lucky. That particular curse could have resulted in roots growing straight into his body and torn him to pieces. It was a very obscure curse. Where had McGunny discovered it?

“Celoxis!” the young wizard shouted, before he could get off another curse of his own. Snape didn’t recognize it, which made his attempt to block it as futile as any attempt he may have made to dodge it in the tiny room. It cut through his shield as if though it were nothing, and caught him in the gut.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Snape slowly looked down to see the front part of his robe fall to the floor, cleanly cut. The pale skin of his stomach shown completely untouched, but slowly he started to feel something happening inside his body… something that was quickly turning to agony.

He fell backwards, landing heavily on his back, and further jarring his damaged insides. He screamed, unable to hold it back. Oh fuck, oh fuck… what is that?

“Do you like it? It’s one of my own creations. It leaves the skin intact, but inside… inside it rips you to pieces.”

McGunny was the one who said it, but it wasn’t McGunny’s voice. Struggling against the pain, he looked up at him and could now see both of his eyes were brilliant red, and his smile was monstrous. Casually, the monster walked towards him, sticking his thumb in his pockets, confident in his victory.

“What…” Snape let out a grunt of pain, “… are you?”

The grin grew larger and nastier.

“I’m Lord-”

“Sectumsempra!”

As close as they were, the curse couldn’t be blocked effectively, but McGunny instinctively throwing up his arms saved him from being killed instantly, and it knocked him clear across the room in a spray of blood.

Snape didn’t wait to see how effective his attack had been. He was dying quickly, and needed to save himself before he could worry about destroying his enemy. Closing his eyes tightly, trying to gather his concentration around the pain, he thought of exactly where he needed to go and all of the parts of himself he definitely wanted taken with him.

There was a loud ‘pop’ as he apparated away.

At the other end of the room, lying halfway in the bathroom, McGunny lay stunned as his blood began to pool around him.

“Oh God,” he gasped, “Oh God, oh God, oh God…”

Shut up!Tom snapped. Get a hold of yourself.

“I’m bleeding… I’m bleeding to death,” he gasped.

You will if you just lay there. Get up and get to a hospital. It’s easy enough to fix.

“I can’t… I can’t move… I can’t…”

He was quickly slipping into shock. Snape’s spell had cut deep into both his arms, severing veins and arteries alike, and perhaps taking some of his bone as well. He couldn’t feel the pain, but he knew he should be in agony and the amount of blood that was pouring over his clothes and onto the floor told a story of eminent death.

“This is all your fault,” he said, his voice shaky with fear and anger. “If I die… I’m dragging you to hell with me…”

I won’t let you die. I still have plans for you.

There was a loud banging at the door, startling them both. “Mr. McGunny! Mr. McGunny, are you alright? Mr. McGunny?”

Relief washed over him. He may yet live.

“Help…”

St. Mungo’s saw its fair share of emergencies at four o’clock in the morning. Admittedly, it was usually during weekends and holidays and involved the over indulgence of alcohol and most of them came through the front door with the assistance of Paramedi-wizards and witches.

Tonight, however, Professor Severus Snape apparated himself straight into the lobby, and from the floor, proceeded to instruct the medi-witches and wizards that came to his aid in exactly what potions he required and in what dosage and order… then proceeded to wail in agony out as they moved him into the nearest vacant room to do just as he said.

Dumbledore’s wake up call was unfortunately early. The news Fredric brought him about Harry’s most recent sighting was even more unfortunate. Listening to Fredric’s account of his debriefing and the latest assumption that Harry Potter was now infected with Lycanthrosis and running north with werewolves, Dumbledore was beginning to think he may have gotten in over his head with his latest project.

Breakfast was a sausage roll and a large coffee from the gas station they next filled up at. The morning was gray and gloomy, and according to the radio storms across the country had caused transportation delays, although in the south it seemed business as usual. Harry fought to stay alert as the hours passed with nothing but the soft tones of the radio, and an endless road stretching out before them.

He tried to make plans for himself for when he left them, but he could see no future for himself. Where could he go that no one would follow? Safety existed only in anonymity and anonymity could only be found by abandoning the past, but without a past how could he decide his future?

“Hey…” he said, “What kind of life do you want?”

“What are you talking about?” Stephen said blandly. He too was tired, but he was a stubborn man, and refused to relinquish the wheel to his wife for a few hours.

“I’m curious. What kind of life did you think you could get for selling me?”

“Shit, could you make that sound a little less perverted? Why the hell do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

“Mmm… nothing fancy. Just… a normal life. A house, a job, school for the kids, some place I can let them run around and not worry about perverts or fanatics. A life where no one tells us where we can live or how, or watches us like some sort of criminals every moment of every day, where we don’t have to worry about some bastard deciding on a whim we don’t deserve to live and sending Aurors after us. Some place where everyone speaks English would be kind of nice too.”

Harry thought that very reasonable, but not really applicable to him.

“How did you become werewolves?” he found himself asking instead. “For that matter, how did you end up in Germany? You’re obviously British.”

Stephen just glowered at the road, but from behind them Sylvia picked up the tale.

“It’s kind of a long story. I suppose it’s really my fault. We both lived in London, same neighborhood, same primary school, same muggle upbringing. When I turned eight, a neighborhood kid started harassing me. Lifting my skirt and making lewd jokes, and wouldn’t leave me alone. I got scared and… sent him away. They found him two days later curled up in a drainage pipe. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten there, but I knew I had done it. That day a man came to me from the Ministry of Magic and told me I was witch…”

“Were you really a jerk, even back then?” Harry said, looking at Stephen, who sent him a dirty look.

“That wasn’t me, you jackass… that was my brother. My older, creep of a brother.”

“Anyway,” she interrupted before they really went at it, “I was really happy. I thought my life had become a fairy tale and I was going to have adventures and magic and live happily ever after… but it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all. By the time I was old enough to go to school, I discovered the wizarding could be as nasty a place as the muggle one. I suppose it wasn’t that different in most ways. I had friends, classes I love and hated, people who teased me because I was poor, and I worried about my future. By the time I graduated, I decided I didn’t want to be a witch anymore. My family was all muggles, all my neighborhood friends too. Besides, Voldemort and his Death Eaters were roaming the country, and I decided I’d rather pretend to be a muggle than risk my life as a muggleborn. I lived with my parents for a while after graduation, and met Stephen.”

“My brother used to insist Sylvia was a witch, but no one believed him,” Stephen said, smirking a bit as he brought up the memory. “I didn’t like my brother at all, so I ended up asking her on a date just to freak him out. Which it did.”

“How romantic.”

“It was really a lot of fun,” Sylvia said. “Although, Stephen didn’t think so when I told him the truth. He wouldn’t talk to me for a month.”

“Hn… then you wouldn’t talk to me for two months after I came to my senses and apologized.”

“So you got married?” Harry prodded.

“Yeah,” Stephen said. “We got married. We got jobs, and our own place. We were broke all the time, but we got by. And then we got the Scare.”

“The Scare?”

Sylvia sighed. “That’s what they call it now. Just after the Dark Lord finally destroyed the Ministry, there was a period of time called the Scare, when everyone thought the Dark Lord would start to slaughter muggleborns and half-breeds and anyone who sided with the Ministry. Thousands fled believing their lives were in danger. When one of my friends from school warned me that the Death Eaters would use Ministry records to hunt down me and my family, we decided to flee. We spent all the money we had saved up just getting to Germany. We didn’t speak any German, so getting a job was tough. We ended up living in the ghettos for British refugees, and I worked at a local tavern, while Stephen found work at a muggle office as a janitor. We thought we could make it work, just like in London, but…”

“You got bitten by a werewolf?”

“The ghettos were pretty seedy. The local werewolves started to infiltrate them, hoping to find better living conditions because their own parts of the city were even nastier. They’d set up cages in basements and sewers during the transformation, and then just go about their normal lives the rest of the time. It probably would have been fine, but sometimes someone got careless. We were taking a walk together, the closest thing to a date we could afford back then, and we got attacked. It went straight for me. Broke by collarbone and dislocated by arm. I’m not too clear about what happened after that, but…”

“I killed her.”

Stephen said it bluntly, his expression completely blank. The silence that followed convinced Harry not to ask specifics.

“And that’s how you got bit?”

“No. After Sylvia was treated for her wounds, we found out she was pregnant. Our land lord kicked us out, and we ended up living on the streets. We tried living with other werewolves, but they… we couldn’t stand them. They were just a nasty lot, and we knew eventually they’d kill us or worse, so we tried it on our own. John was born, and I made my first mistake. I didn’t take into consideration that he would need to be kept with Sylvia during the transformation. Eight months old, and he took a bite out of me. It was actually a relief. I knew I’d end up dead or turned eventually, and frankly I don’t mind the werewolf stuff so much. Some of it is actually kind of fun. It’s the damn wizards that are such a pain in the ass.”

Harry wondered how they had the other two children. It didn’t seem likely that they would intentionally have more kids into the situation they were in. Unless they ended up doing…it… while they were werewolves. He supposed that was the most logical reason. It wasn’t like a werewolf would ever use a condom in the middle of a transformation, and why the hell was he thinking about werewolf sex lives exactly?

“So you want to live somewhere without any wizards bugging you?”

Stephen shrugged. “It would definitely be an improvement.”

“Mm…” Harry thought on that, but couldn’t imagine pretending to be an average muggle for the rest of his life. It seemed sad and lonely to him, but perhaps it was different when you had a family. It must have been for his parents to have chosen just such a life. A quiet, feminine voice spoke up.

“What about you?” Jane asked. “What kind of life do you want?”

Harry tensed. Stephen glanced at him briefly from the corner of his eye, then back at the road. They all seemed to want to know the answer.

“… I wonder… I guess I want pretty much the same thing, a family, friends, and not having to worry about people trying to hurt us, but… I still want to be a wizard. I understand why you would want to avoid magic. It’s brought you a lot of pain, but for me… I could never leave it behind forever.”

“What’s it like for you? To do magic?” Jane prodded.

“I don’t know… it depends on the magic. Sometimes it makes me feel warm, other times really strong or weightless, and on very rare occasions… like I can feel the universe stretching out around me and its waiting to do exactly as I say. It feels like…”

“God.”

It was Stephen who said it, barely above a whisper. Harry turned to him, but he was still staring out at the road. He didn’t say anything further and the car fell into silence once again.

Snape woke up in a tiny room, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic potions and his godchildren’s concerned faces. He was bleary from the sleeping potion (which he had not asked for and would be throttling someone over later), but he still managed to hold onto a vague idea of what had happened that night… morning.

Gingerly, he prodded his side with his uninjured hand. It ached, but was hardly the mind numbing agony of before. He lifted his injured hand to examine it, and found it wrapped in a mitten of bandages. Someone had scribbled on top of it, ‘Do not use until 10:30 am, Tuesday.’

Well, bother.

“Uncle Severus?”

“Yes, Draco?” he said softly, his voice husky from screaming.

“Are you alright… I mean, aside from the obvious.”

“Aside from the obvious, I should be fine. What day and time is it?”

“Monday,” Hermione offered, “About three in the afternoon.”

“How did you find me?”

“The hospital identified you through BIN[1], and found Lucius listed as your emergency contact number. They called the house, and we all came down. Lucius had to go back to work after signing all the paperwork and Narcissa went home to prepare a room for you. The medi-wizard said they could discharge you tomorrow, but you’ll have to take it easy for a week. What happened to you?”

Snape closed his eyes, trying to think through the haze. It took him a minute to think how exactly he wanted to handle this.

“Did you tell anyone about our meeting?”

“We only said we went to visit you,” Draco said, “And that you had to leave on an errand and sent us home… and really it was very rude of you to just run off without telling us what you learned. Hermione was freaking out.”

“I was not freaking out!”

“You kept rambling about-”

“Children, if you would please shut up, your Uncle Severus would greatly appreciate it.”

“Sorry,” they apologized in unison.

“Good. If anyone asks, I am going to tell them I went out to Knockturn Alley to pick up some potion ingredients for a special project. I was attacked by an unseen assailant, who I managed to fend off but not before sustaining serious injuries. I aparated here for treatment. That’s it.”

They both nodded, and Hermione asked, “But what really happened? You didn’t say anything before you ran off. Did you see who knocked me unconscious? Is that who did this to you? Oh, Severus, you’re such a mess. They said you would have died within minutes if…”

She was starting to tear up, guilt and relief rising to the surface, but tried to fight it back. She knew it wouldn’t be appreciated. Severus despised emotional displays, sincere or otherwise. Wiping away a few stray tears, she mumbled out a ‘sorry’.

Whether it was leniency on his part or he was too tired to care, her godfather didn’t bother chastising her.

“McGunny,” he said, “That Ravenclaw boy. I confront him, but… there’s something wrong with him. I don’t know if he’s entirely in control of himself.”

Draco and Hermione shared a look of surprise. Horace McGunny? They never would have thought of him. The idea of him attacking Hermione was absurd enough on its own, but attacking and nearly killing their godfather, Dueling Champion and former Death Eater, was just plain inconceivable.

“Do you think it was the Imperius Curse?” she asked.

“No. Whatever it was, it was something more… insidious. If he is still alive, he will need to be thoroughly examined.”

Hermione’s insides suddenly twisted.

“If he’s…. what did you do? He isn’t…”

“Dead?” he said plainly, not an ounce of remorse present in his voice. “I don’t know. The blow I gave him before I escaped was potentially lethal, but… if I have survived, I suspect he will have managed to as well.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find him. I under estimated him last time, but that will not happen again.”

He was tired, but not oblivious, so when his godchildren shared concerned looks he caught them easily enough. It wasn’t hard to figure out their thoughts on the matter. In their selfish, loving way they didn’t want him pursue this matter further and risk his life yet again. Snape honestly didn’t want to either, but he had made a dangerous enemy last night and he couldn’t afford to let him run free. If McGunny survived, there was a chance he would come after him on his own to determine what Snape had told others, putting both himself and his godchildren at risk. There was also the simple fact that McGunny had aided the Germans in Harry’s abduction, and it was possible he was aiding them still or would cause additional mischief in the future.

At this rate, he might have to tell the Dark Lord, and the consequences for that would be dire. He had hidden some very significant facts for over six months, and even now may have allowed a suspected traitor escape. He needed to find the boy, find the truth, and then find a way out of this mess.

The ‘old fashion’ solution was the most obvious, but depending on what was making McGunny a psychotic encyclopedia of Dark Spells that might not be the best solution.

And frankly, it would be a pity to have to kill him. He was bright, sensible, and competent. The world needed more people like him, and he didn’t like the idea of him increasing the ratio of stupid people to smart ones. It was high enough without his interference.

“Get me a medi-wizard. I need him to write some prescriptions for me, and then check out of here.”

Both children opened their mouths to object, but he cut them off.

“That wasn’t a suggestion. Either do it or I’ll do it myself.”

Draco let out an annoyed huff, but stalked out to do as he was told. Hermione just stood there, a horrified look on her face.

“What are you going to do?”

“My dear, the answer to that isn’t going to make you any happier.”

“These tidings bode ill…” Voldemort murmured to himself, looking over the latest report Lucius had sent him. Severus had nearly been killed the night before. A bit of bad luck at any other time, but right now Germany was starting to behave strangely. He would consider these events unrelated, if it weren’t for the fact that his protégé had made a brief but impressionable appearance around the same time in Germany. According to Morgan’s spies, the boy had been found, but escaped not only his captures but the Aurors as well. The search that followed had yet to yield results, and more importantly, the Canis family hadn’t reported in. Were they dead or merely attempting to flee after their failure? Either way Harry was in the wind and there was no telling when or if he would reappear.

It felt as if forces were at work protecting Harry, and that wouldn’t be surprising in the least. He had made a powerful ally in the goddess Madris, and even know might have moved out of his sphere of influence. If the Heirophant card was anything to go by, he would have to accept that he didn’t have as much control over Harry’s destiny as he originally thought.

Ugh.

He needed to stop thinking about it. There were other things he did have control over that he should be utilizing right now. Germany was frantically searching for Harry, and in doing so had closed their borders, and more than likely irritated more than a few of its neighbors. It was a prime opportunity to write Queen Ophelia of what he had learned. She likely knew just as much if not more than he did, but the exchange of information was as symbolic as it was practical.

They were ‘friends’ now, and friends share gossip.

While he was slowly strengthening his alliance with France’s queen, he could begin his work weakening Germany’s alliances with its allies. The Netherlands, Belgium, Denmark, and Luxemburg, proud but small countries that had been held in a financial stalemate with Germany for decades, unable to afford to break away, yet unable to grow with the German Ministry’s ever growing list of trade restrictions and tariffs. Suggesting an open trade market with them might be exactly what they needed to break that stalemate. He already had his people working on several trade proposals which would be sent out by the end of the week.

If everything went according to plan, Sweden, Finland, and Norway would open their borders if only to remain competitive with their southern neighbors. Spain and Portugal could go either way, but sharing a border with France made it more likely they would follow their example. Italy was a hopeless case. They had hated the British long before he had come to power and nothing had improved the situation since then. Eastern Europe was if-y, but they were also in an economic slump, meaning they had a lot of unemployed young men, which more often than not spelled a revolution. A revolution the Dark Lord wasn’t opposed to stirring up for his own benefit.

But that was all years down the road. Right now, he needed to focus on France and Germany, and Britain itself. He had already scheduled a press release for Seibligg’s latest blunder, informing them that Harry had runaway from them, and that the Minister was trying to blame ‘Death Eaters’. He would ask them all to ‘pray’ for Harry’s safe return. It would be the perfect opportunity to gauge his protégé’s current popularity, as well as the public’s outrage at Germany.

Everything was falling into place, except for Harry himself, and perhaps that was just how it was meant to be.

Harry woke when the car stopped. There was a moment of terror, an instant of knowing he was in danger and had left himself vulnerable. He started violently, nearly dropping his wand.

The world snapped into focus. He was still in the car with the werewolves. Stephen was still at the wheel, and Sylvia was still in back with the children, who had switched seats at some point so that Jane was now napping on the floor of the car.

Stupid! He snarled to himself. He had fallen asleep. Stephen could have snatched his wand out of his hand at any time. Why hadn’t he? Had he not realized Harry was sleeping? Unlikely. The man saw everything.

“Where are we?”

The car had stopped at the side of the road. On either side of them stood trees, old trees, thick and tall, reaching high into the air. Flowers crowded along the roadside, whites and purples and yellows, gradually slipping into the forest. The place gave him an odd feeling.

“About two miles from the next town,” Stephen said. “You need to decide now if you’re going to stay with us for the full moon or get out there. I can’t guarantee your safety either way.”

“Tonight is the full moon?”

“Yes.”

“What would you have done if we made it to the port?”

“Not that it’s any of your business… but our contact there was supposed to have Wolfsbane potion.”

Harry’s first thought was that Stephen was too damn trusting. The ‘potion’ could just as easily been poison. His second thought was that he was too damn jaded. His third was that he didn’t know what would happen if were left around muggles during the full moon. He would be completely uninhibited. Magic would be inevitable, and if he did it in front of anyone, things could get very bad very quickly in many different ways. Spending the night with werewolves, however, presented more obvious pitfalls.

Pitfalls he already had experience dealing with.

“I’ll go with you.”

Stephen gave him a weird look. “You’re a lunatic.”

“The word ‘lunatic’ has its root in the Latin word for ‘moon’, you know, so you’re absolutely correct.”

“Whatever, don’t come crying to me if we eat you.”

They stopped at the town anyway to get some food, gas, and a map, and Harry found out exactly where they were. The Black Forest. Arguably, the most magical forest in the world. Nearly 4,600 sq mi of mountains and forests and rivers that the muggles knew about, and another eight or nine thousand sq mi that only wizarding kind did. Well, wizarding kind and the fae.

They were at the north end of the forest range, and drove for an hour on the mountain highway, before turning off onto a dirt road. After forty-five minutes of squeezing between the encroaching trees and being tosses about by the rocky, uneven road, they couldn’t go any further, and got out to walk for another forty minutes. Only Harry brought supplies. The werewolves would have no need of shelter or food once the transformation was upon them. The forest would provide.

They had wanted to bring chains to secure themselves from running off and tearing apart any hapless hikers or from getting separated once the sun rose, but Harry had convinced them he could create a ward much more effective and a lot less damaging to them. While the werewolves waited anxiously, the sky slowly beginning to dim as it sun settled in the west, Harry walked a large circle around their ‘camp’, writing runes in the air with a fiery ‘Flagrante’ spell.

He had the very distinct impression that he was being watched. By what exactly, he didn’t know, but he didn’t think it was anything… human. Fairies, he thought, but couldn’t be certain. If they didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t see them. If they did want to be seen… he might be in a bit of trouble.

He was a bit old to be spirited away, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t take advantage of him being right in the middle of their territory. The Black Forest was notoriously dangerous due to their abundance. Handfuls of people, wizard and muggle alike, disappeared in there without a trace every year. The werewolves would be fine. As far as fairies were concerned, they were already apart of their realm, and didn’t bother with them.[2] So ten minutes before sunset, he magicked himself a platform up in the trees, and climbed up, then placed additional protective wards around himself.

Then it was only a matter of waiting.

“Mom, will you relax? I’m fine,” McGunny assured his mother, who had been bursting into tears randomly since she had arrived at his hospital room. He understood it was her love for him that made her so upset, but it was starting to get tiresome.

St. Hababa’s was a teaching hospital not far from the university, and therefore the first place his landlady, Mrs. Anselfeldt, had thought to take him after finding him a bloody mess on the floor of his room. One of the tenants was a medical student and had managed to stop the bleeding long enough to get him there, and after that things had gone fairly smoothly as far as a rather shaken McGunny could tell. It was his first time being critically injured by a curse, so he had no other incident to compare it to.

They had made him swallow a lot of potions and dipped his lacerated arms into vats of warm ooze, all of which left him numb and disoriented, but blessedly free of pain and with more blood inside of him than out.

A Sentinel had come to question him about what appeared to be a rather nasty assault. McGunny had told him he didn’t recognize the assailant. The man had been crazed, ranting about him owing him money, and then started tossing out spells before finally apparating away. He said he thought it was some sort of addict high or drunk on some sort of potion. The Sentinel hadn’t believed him, but since McGunny was the obvious victim he wasn’t in a position to accuse him of anything.

“I know, I know, it’s just…” she sniffled. “When I went to your apartment to get your clothes and wand, I saw all of that blood… It’s just too horrible. You could have died and I just can’t… I just can’t…”

“It’s fine, mom. I’m fine. Why don’t you go fire call dad and the kids, and let them know I’m okay? They’re probably worried.”

“Ah, you’re right. I’m being selfish making them wait. I’ll be back in a few minutes, alright?”

“No worries, I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, managing a little smile as she walked out the door. When she was out of sight, he let his smile drop, and climbed out of bed. He grabbed the bag she had brought with his change of clothes, and after checking the hallway, walked away.

He didn’t know if Professor Snape was dead or alive or how he had found out about his involvement with Harry’s abduction, but he couldn’t risk sticking around for another confrontation. The chances were high that someone like Snape would have informed someone elseof where he was going last night and why.

He stepped into an empty patient room and changed into his street clothes, then walked straight out into the lobby, passed the check-in desk, and out into London. After that he apparated into the muggle part of the city, inside the attic of pub he had never been in. Tom was guiding him now. This was all Tom’s fault, but that didn’t change the fact he was the only one who could save him, even if it was only to save his own incorporeal ass.

You’ll like Germany, the evil spirit purred, There’s a lot of history there, and good food.

“Fuck you. I may have killed my potions teacher because of you.”

Believe me when I say, he had it coming.

“You’ve ruined my life.”

I’ll make you a better life. It’ll be fun. Harry will be there.

“You leave him alone, you freaky pervert.”

Now you’re just being childish. You always knew it could come to this. You should be thankful that you are even alive.

As annoying as Tom was, he was right about that. He was thankful to be alive. He would be more thankful if he knew he was going to stay that way.

Harry watched in child-like fascination as the Canis family began to transform beneath him. He was too high up for a really good view, even with his improved vision, but it was still mesmerizing to watch as smooth naked flesh turned black with coarse hair, and bones rearranged themselves in painful snapping sounds. It all took less than a minute, but it left an excited thrill in Harry.

This was the first time he had been with werewolves during a transformation since the summer ritual. He rocked himself anxiously as he watched them gather together below him, sniffing and licking at each other in greeting.

He wanted to go down and say hello too.

As if he had heard the boy’s thought, the alpha male suddenly looked up at him and gave short, querying bark. Harry made a little whine, but didn’t go down. He wasn’t afraid of the wolves, but the little creatures that were starting to close in on his perch.

“Komm doch herunter,” a wood sprite said, hanging above him from a higher branch like bat, his stick-like fingers curled under his pointed chin. Black, pupil-less eyes smiled down at him, and Harry fought the urge to smile back.

“You’ll kidnap me,” he pointed out.

The sprite shrugged. “Probably.”

“I’m always getting kidnapped. It’s no fun at all.”

“Then they obviously ain’t do’n it right.”

Laughter broke out in the surrounding trees, but in the darkness of the branches Harry was having difficulty finding the sources. Maybe it was the trees themselves.

“Won’t work, won’t work,” someone chirped, and a moment later another fae appeared, a body of pheasant and the human-ish head hopped up and down at the far end of the branch, causing his platform to pitch to the side a bit. “Too much like the serpent king, hiss hiss, slither slither. No time for wine, food, or women. Sounds the war drums, drums, drum, drums. All blood and no battle makes Tom a dull boy.”

More laughter through out the trees, and Harry found himself getting annoyed. He enjoyed a good laugh or too, but these fools had the humor of drunks and babies.

“If you’re going to laugh at nothing, do it somewhere else.”

More laughter this time, and it didn’t stop. It dragged on for several minutes, grating at his nerves, until at last he flung out his wand and sent out a wind hex, shaking the trees violently. The fae hiding there let out terrified shrieks, and a few of them even fell, although not very far. Most of the tree dwelling fae had wings or gliders of some kind.

“Serves them right. Obnoxious little runts,” a voice said in English.

Harry looked down at his side, and found a raven standing next to him. Inside the ward.

“How did you get in here?” Harry asked curiously, not in the least afraid. In fact, the higher the moon got the less concerned about the fae he was becoming.

“I’m not a fairy. Those wards don’t work on me,” the raven said, his voice deep and smooth, strange for bird known for its high and coarse calls.

“What are you then?”

The raven fluffed up its feathers and then hopped up to a higher branch so they could stare more directly at each other.

“I’m a familiar. My name is Bobby.”

That made Harry grin. “Bobby?”

“Well, technically it’s Bobitimus Tarotte IV, but that comes off as a bit pretentious, don’t you think?”

“Quite. I’m Harold James Potter, but everyone calls me-”

“Harry. Yes, yes, I know about you. Everyone knows about you.”

Harry tilted his head, curiously. “Who’s everyone and how do they know?”

“The faery folk. The Seele Court, and the UnSeelie too. Madris’ people have been gloating about you for months. It’s very annoying.”

“Are you a part of the Fairy Courts?”

“No, no, didn’t I already tell you? I’m a familiar, not a fairy. Very big difference. They’d just wish they could get their hands on me.”

Harry was about to ask his newest guest a few more questions, but he was interrupted by the sound of a fiddle. As he listened, a flute of some kind joined in, and then a drum. Dancing music. Harry’s foot began to tap in rhythm.

“What is that?”

“Wedding party,” Bobby explained, “Mountain elves. You should go. A wizard would make the party complete. They won’t try and kidnap you there. It would be rude.”

“I haven’t been invited,” Harry said, although he was already thinking about it. He wanted to see the other fairy folk. He had never read or heard of a satisfying description of them. Already he could tell they had good music.

“Of course you have. Anyone who can hear the music is invited. That’s why they play it.”

“Well, if that’s the case.” He tucked his wand into his sleeve, and proceeded to climb down the tree. The horde of little creatures started to climb down after him, blocking any possible attempt to return to his perch, but he wasn’t interested in it any longer. He wanted to have fun tonight.

The werewolves were waiting for him when he reached the ground. He smiled at them. They moved forward as one, and he greeted them with his open hands, rubbing their large furry heads behind the ears and down their backs. The fur was coarse, just as he remembered Remus’ being, yet soft in the undercoat. The werewolf pups jumped up on their hind legs, begging for his attention. It was a pity he didn’t have more hands.

He moved forward and they followed after him or, in Stephen’s case, wandered ahead in search of potential threats. Surrounded by them, Harry could feel their magic and their sheer physical presence, rippling against his senses, smelling of earthy things. Moss and flowers and musk and old blood. It was a homey, comforting smell.

They moved to the edge of the ward, and with a flick of his wrist the fiery rune floating in the air vanished. He had no intention of leaving his friends behind for this night. They followed the music deeper into the woods and higher up the mountain and Harry started to sway and move his feet to the music. Meanwhile, other fae began to gather. Not just the foolish tree dwellers either. White fairies, wood elves, High anytas, nymphes, satyrs, centaurs, harpies, horn gnomes, and peoples who appeared completely human, but whom Harry could sense were not. They all moved through the trees, on feet, wings, paws, and hooves, some dancing, some gliding, some cart wheeling, dressed in the finest silks and gold, in furs, in leaves, in absolutely nothing at all.

The music led them to a clearing, fairy lights floated everywhere, shining all around them like white Christmas lights. Harry stopped for a moment to admire it, and Bobby landed on his shoulder.

“Have fun,” the raven said, “Just don’t accept anything anyone offers you. It’ll make for a very long morning after.”

With that, Bobby flew from his shoulder, scattering a small flock of pixies, who chittered at him angrily. The wedding itself must have occurred earlier, for there was nothing ritualized in the party to suggest a ceremony. The bride and groom, mountain elves who appeared nearly human but for their glittering white limestone skin, danced at the center, their union marked in the extravagant brilliance of their Mithril adorned wedding attire and by the tender joy in their eyes as they stared at one another.

Very few of the people there spoke English or even German, but somehow Harry was able to convey everything he wanted to say in gestures and no one seemed confused. In many ways it wasn’t that different from a werewolf celebration. Everyone danced and played, entertainers who were guests or guests who entertained moved about the clearing, charming and surprising them with their talents. Harry nearly busted a gut laughing as one elderly looking gnome folded up pieces of paper, like origami, and his creations proceeded to argue you with one another about who was best until their argument became so heated they all burst into flames. Another creature that Harry couldn’t identify, struck up a conversation, and every time he looked away and then looked back something about him had change. The first time, only his eyes changed color, and Harry was certain he only imagined the difference. The next time he suddenly had a mustache. The third his eye brows were missing. By the sixth time, he had become a she, and Harry ran off before things got really weird. Harry ended up playing a few tricks of his own. Setting off fireworks from his wand and changing people clothes different colors were simple tricks, but it amused the simpler fairies plenty.

There was food and drink, which Harry reluctantly declined, and dancing that Harry did not. The elves seemed to find him particularly amusing, and since many of them were blessedly shorter than him, he found plenty of partners.

The werewolves lingered around the fringes of the party, playing with other werewolves and fairy canids and sneaking off with pieces of the food when no one was there to stop them.

The night passed in the simple celebration of life, and for a few hours Harry forgot about his past, his present, and his uncertain future and lived in the moment. The beautiful, beautiful moment.

The moon settled behind the mountains before the sun rose, and as it did, Harry felt his energy wane. He rested against a tree on the edge of the clearing, and quietly watched the rest of the party from there. The Canis family had found a grassy hill to curl up against, and were fast asleep by the time their bodies reverted back to their human form, oblivious to the revelry surrounding them. Harry too must have dozed off, because when Bobby alighted on his shoulder yet again, the wedding party was gone and only an old crone was left sitting across from him.

He stared at her for a long time, wondering if he were dreaming or if she were real and the fairy party had been a dream. She was rough and brittle being, like an old dead tree, her eyes and nose and mouth little more than knobs and gnarls in her bark-like skin. Indeed, if he were not looking right at her he would have mistaken her for deceased shrubbery.

“Her name is Cucuchoin Anan,” Bobby told him, his voice soft and dreamlike, adding to the uncertainty of his wakefulness. “She has a message from Madris.”

Harry suddenly sat up straighter, his attention caught. When the old crone spoke it was wheezy and barely discernable.

“Hywaa nabucuri nas ni d’hal.”

He waited for her to continue, but she said nothing more, merely stood and moved off into the trees, slower than seemed conceivable. It took her nearly three minutes to move two feet. Harry turned a confused look to the raven, who looked extremely amused.

“I don’t suppose that made any sense to you?”

“Certainly. It’s very basic crone.”

Harry looked at him expectantly. Bobby just preened his feathers.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what she said?”

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

“I wonder if ravens taste as bad as crow,” Harry muttered to himself. Bobby just laughed, and told him.

“It’s time to go home.”

1. BIN stands for Blood Identification Network. Works like a muggle DNA database. No machines involved, but a person does have to register with the Network to be quickly identified, and then additional information can be gathered such as medical records and emergency contact information. All Court officials and many public service jobs require this registration and Snape is no exception. There are other spells and potions that will identify a person using their blood or hair, but they’re less reliable or take longer.↩

2. In my universe, werewolves are technically a sort of fae. They are humans who are physically altered by a fairy curse, and as a result become ‘pagan’ not by choice but by the corruption of their spirit. Sirius told Harry that he and Remus will never go to heaven and so became pagans in a previous chapter, and this why.↩

Kings & Princes

It occurred to Snape after leaving the hospital that perhaps his physician wasn’t a complete idiot when he said it would be unwise to move for another day, and then as little as possible for a week. Whatever internal damage he had acquired due to McGunny’s spell had been repaired, but it certainly didn’t feel that way as he walked through the city streets. His insides felt bruised, and with every step he could feel each individual organ and muscle throb.

He had pocketed the Pain Relief potion prescribed to him without taking any, knowing once he did his investigative ability would evaporate and he may as well just lay around like a log, just as the medi-wizard had suggested. If the pain proved just as mentally debilitating as the potion he might consider taking some later.

“What’s happened?” he asked a young man, a student most likely, crowded outside McGunny’s room in the hall. There were nearly half a dozen other tenants there as well, looking curiously at the open door, but kept at bay by the glowing green line just outside of it. Inside, he could see a pair of Sentinels wandering around the room, taking pictures and collecting evidence.

“Someone got attacked this morning. Really early this morning. Woke up half the building.”

“Really?” Snape said, feigning surprise. “Was anybody hurt?”

Another person, possibly the young man’s girlfriend, eagerly butted in.

“Yeah, the guy who lived here was really messed up. The landlady had to take him to the hospital, but he should be okay. It’s a crazy world though. I’ve been here for two years and nothings like this has happened before, and here this poor guy wasn’t even here a week and it happened to him. Isn’t it a crying shame?”

“Quite,” Snape agreed solemnly. “Perhaps some of us should send him some flowers. Do you know what hospital he was sent to?”

“That’s good idea. I think he was taken to the university hospital. It’s the closest. You could always ask the landlady to be sure. She should be in her office.”

“Thank you, I’ll go do that.”

He did not go to question the landlady, who unlike the young gawkers would know he wasn’t another tenant and likely have been suspicious, but went straight to the university hospital. The nurse at the reception desk told him quite plainly that Mr. McGunny was not there, but something about her nervous, almost embarrassed expression told him that at one point he had been. Checking the sign-in roster proved that Mrs. Trudy McGunny had arrived to visit her son earlier that morning. She had not signed out yet.

When the nurse was once again distracted, he continued his search in the halls. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. The patient observation floor was nearly full, medi-wizards, nurses, interns, patients, and visitors roamed the crowded hallways, making it simple for him go unnoticed as he read the names of the medical files sitting in the slots beside every door. Within minutes, he found a file with McGunny’s name printed on it. The door was already ajar and he could hear voices coming from inside.

“He is not lost. For heaven’s sake, he’s not an idiot,” a woman said, frustrated and impatient. “He could have easily asked someone to help him find his way back. It’s been over two hours.”

“Er, yes, well… he was pretty heavily medicated. He probably stepped outside for something and got confused. I’m sure we’ll find him napping in one of the other patient rooms or something similarly harmless. Don’t worry-”

“You keep telling me not to worry, but what else am I suppose to do? My son was attacked last night and now he’s missing, and you expect me to not worry?”

“Madam, please-”

Snape walked away, cursing. He had missed his chance, by two hours apparently. His next stop would have been the boy’s family home, but obviously that lead was already bust. Just as well, it saved him a trip to Salisbury.

He took a short break for lunch, ate some very bland soup (the only thing he didn’t think would cause him agony to digest), took a few sips of pain potion, and tried to think of what to do next. He ended up returning to McGunny’s apartment, by now devoid of investigators and gawkers, broke the ward to get inside (he had been to enough crime scenes to know how), and looked for any clues of where the young man may have gone or what might have been wrong with him.

He searched the most obvious places, the desk, chest, drawers, and closet, but came up with nothing. The only even slightly questionable thing was the closet, which had been expanded into a little sun room with a large skylight. There was only one feeble little plant in it, but if McGunny had only been there a few days he probably hadn’t had the time to get any more. He was just starting to search the floorboards and the wall panels for hiding places, when it struck him.

Why would McGunny bother making a sun room for a plant he could just as easily have placed on his desk?

He went back to investigate the plant.

It was just a tiny thing, barely a sprig with two tri-lobed leaves, not that dissimilar from a maple. It was not a maple though. In fact, Snape couldn’t identify it at all, and being a potions master with a rather vast mental encyclopedia of plants, that was a bit suspicious. He gave it a cursory sniff to see if he could identify it by smell. He cringed away. It reeked of spoiled blood.

Harry waited till late that morning to wake up Stephen and his family, tossing them their clothes and kicking them lightly on the feet. The look Stephen gave him when he finally opened his eyes promised death. Harry just smiled down at him, cheekily.

“Wake up, Sunshine. It’s time to get dressed.”

It suddenly occurred to Stephen that he was very naked… and so was his wife.

“Turn around, you little perv!”

Harry snorted.

“Like I haven’t seen naked people before. I’ve spent the night at werewolf colonies during the full moon. Hundreds of naked people all over the place.”

Stephen chucked a rock at him, which Harry avoided easily. “Alright, alright. Just get dressed. I need to talk to you about something.”

Harry moved a ways down the clearing to a nest of boulders, and sat himself on top of one. Bobby appeared from out of the tree line and settled himself beside him. The raven had been hovering all morning, and Harry wasn’t so sure what to make of it. Surely his master would be expecting him back once Harry had received his message from Madris. Speaking of which…

“Who is your master, Bobby? Were they at the party last night?”

The raven tilted his head curiously at him. “My master is dead. Dead for a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said sincerely. “But why are you helping me?”

“Because I choose to.”

“Yes, but why?”

He tilted his head in the other direction, and Harry got the impression he was supremely amused. “You’ll make a fine new master. If you don’t get blown up.”

The young Gryffindor blinked at him. Oh no, most definitely not…

“Listen, Bobby, you’re really interesting and all, but I’ve already got an owl… and a snake…and a godfather who can turn into dog. I don’t think I can handle another familiar.”

Bobby seemed to consider this for a moment then gave a little birdy nod.

“Okay. Then you can be my familiar. Ha ha.”

Before Harry could protest, the raven had already flown off, laughing to himself as he went. The boy shook his head and wondered if the bird wasn’t channeling Fred or George. A minute or so later, Stephen made an appearance, not looking any more happy to be awake than before.

“Where the fuck are we? What happened to the ward you put up? Don’t tell me that was just a bunch of BS.”

Something about irritating Stephen amused Harry or perhaps he was just feeling really good at the moment, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

“It’s a bit complicated, but you don’t have to get upset. You all weren’t in any danger. I think you actually had a pretty good time. I know I did.”

“Would you just spit it out already? This mysterious crap is just making you come off as a pervert. What did you want to talk about?”

Harry decided to have mercy on him… well, that and he didn’t want to piss off the guy who was going to be taking him home.

“I think I’d like to go back to Britain after all.”

Stephen just stared at him for a minute then glared suspiciously.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“What made you change your mind? Isn’t the Dark Lord trying to kill you or something?”

“I don’t know, but I know it’s safe enough for me to return now.”

“How do you know that?”

Harry really couldn’t help himself. It was just too perfect.

“A little birdie told me so.”

McGunny was scared of muggles. Strange as that was, with all his power and pragmaticism, it was now an undeniable truth. For all of his life, a muggle had always been nothing more than an accepted idea, like great white sharks and Polynesians. Something you knew existed, but would never meet. Standing in the middle of a muggle department store, in the middle of an enormous building called a ‘mall’, surrounded by hundreds of these ‘accepted ideas’, McGunny was very close to having a panic attack.

At any moment he expected the notice-me-not charm on himself to fail and for dozens of people to suddenly turn to him and shout ‘DEMON!’ Exactly what would happen after than, McGunny wasn’t entirely sure. Logically, he could just apparate away and that would be the end of it, but for the life of him he couldn’t bring himself to calm down. Tom was getting very irritated with him.

Honestly, the spirit grumbled, you’re being ridiculous. Being scared of muggles is like being scared of boggarts. They’re only scary if you imagine they are.

“Yes, well I wouldn’t feel very comfortable walking through store full of boggarts either. Just tell me what we need so I can get out of here.”

You tell me. We’re looking foryourclothes.

Very true. They had already picked up a traveler’s trunk from another store, and were now wandering around the largest clothing store McGunny had ever seen in order to fill it. The wizarding world have very few large corporations, and those few corporations were centered around specific products not the stores that sold them. McGunny hadn’t been in a store not owned by a single family his entire life. Walking around the monstrosity known as ‘Macy’s’ was dizzying.

It didn’t help that he only recognized about half the items being sold, and that only twenty-five percent of the clothing being sold there would be anything a wizard would be caught dead wearing (although the women’s section proved considerably more aesthetic if not for the complete lack of modesty in the juniors department). It drew out an already nerve-wracking experience.

Guilt, however, never factored in. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad about the actual items he was stealing, because as much junkas this place had, he didn’t think anyone would notice a couple of missing socks.

If it weren’t for all the muggles, the Ravenclaw thought he might actually have enjoyed himself. He walked all over the place, sometimes picking up something he would wear and sometimes to just stare and wonder at myriad of strange items scattered around the store. What the hell was a camcorder anyway?

Another feeble attempt by muggles to be more like wizards, Tom sneered. McGunny didn’t even bother to point out that since muggles supposedly didn’t believe in wizards anymore, his comment didn’t make much sense.

“How long should I pack for?” he asked instead.

A very long time.

What else had he been expecting?

Chief Sentinel Andreas Morgan never really left the office. It followed him where ever he went, and home was no exception. Or rather it followed him to Erica’s house. As far as he was concerned, the office was his home, and the only room in the London flat he shared with his wife he truly felt comfortable in was the study he set up solely for that purpose.

“I hope you like the peach marmalade, dear. Lydia just came back from visiting her cousin in the country, and brought us back a jar. She’s such a sweet girl. I never could figure out why she and Ira didn’t hit it off. They have so much in common…” Erica said lightly, continuing on with her usual inane chatter. Morgan didn’t particularly like to chatter himself (which was good because he could barely get a word in edgewise once his wife got started), but with a career mired in conspiracy, terrorism, government cover-ups, espionage, and war, he liked to be reminded of the much simpler lives of the rest of his fellow citizens that he was helping to protect. And there were very few people as simple as Erica.

“Lydia and I have absolutely nothing in common,” Ira said, joining them in the dining room. “Good afternoon, mother. Good afternoon, Andreas.”

Morgan nodded politely to his stepdaughter, and continued with his lunch.

“Oh really, what do you have against Lydia? Certainly, she’s better company than your bugs.”

“I could write a treatise to the contrary.”

“Honestly! No man, no friends, and only creepy crawlies for company. You’re turning into a-”

Riiiiinnnggg.

Everyone in the room gave a startled jolt, and Erica dropped her cup, spilling coffee into her egg salad. The matron of the house let out an irritated huff.

“I hate that thing! It scares me every time.”

Riiiiinnnggg.

Morgan, however, felt a jolt of excitement. There were only a handful of witches and wizards who even knew how to work the muggle telephone, and only three of them knew his telephone number. He stood from the table and went to his study.

Riiiiinnnggg.

The phone was in the old style, black and elegantly carved. He picked up the receiver and placed it to his ear, mentally reminding himself not to shout into it.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon.”

Morgan stiffened, instantly recognizing the voice on the other line.

“Mr. Potter.”

“… Chief Sentinel Morgan, isn’t it? I would have thought someone else would be manning the Court phones.”

“How did you get this number?”

“A mutual friend. He’s here with me now if you want to speak to him, but I’m afraid we don’t have much time to spare. I only had enough change for a five minute call.”

“Where are you?”

“Some place I won’t be in about five minutes. I only called to tell you I’m on my way. I’ll leave it to you to inform all relevant parties.”

Morgan couldn’t help but be surprised. The boy intended to return on his own? He wanted to ask why, but then thought better of it.

“Do you require any assistance?”

“Just tell me how to get back into the country. I’ll take care of the res myselft.”

If only his own men were so efficient.

“Are you familiar with the ‘Chunnel’?”

“Yes.”

“That’s your best bet. It’s the only way you can get directly into Britain from the mainland. Otherwise, you’ll have to take a boat to Ireland, and take the floo network from there. Any above ground travel into Britain is likely to kill you.”

“Good to know.”

“There’s something else. If you take the Chunnel, you’ll have to get to France. Assuming you can do that, things get tricky. France doesn’t allow the use of unregistered wands, and they have means of finding people who use them. If you use your wand, an alarm will go out and you’ll find yourself in the custody of the French Wizarding Guard. I have no way of knowing if they’ll return you to Britain or send you back to Germany, and I would rather not find out, so once you cross the border you can’t use your wand for anything, not to hide yourself or shrink your luggage or fend off muggles. Nothing.”

“…Shit. We’ll need to buy tickets… no we’re not robbing a bank in Germany…because my guardian believes in corporal punishment… no, you would not like him. He’d blame you for corrupting me and turn you into a rug…I don’t know Noah, he’d probably turn you into a hat or something… Shut up, Bobby…” Who else was there? There replies were too far away to make out. When Potter spoke again it was directed at Morgan. “That may be a bit problematic. We’re essentially broke here. Don’t suppose I could borrow a couple hundred Euros? No, never mind. We’ll figure something out. I’ll contact you again later.”

“Potter-”

The line went dead. The cheeky little bugger. Morgan almost smiled, but movement out of the corner of his eyes stole the opportunity. Erica and Ira were standing at the study door, both wide-eyed and perfectly silent. He had forgotten how quiet women could be when they wanted to snoop. He glowered at both of them.

“What exactly did you hear?”

For once, Erica couldn’t seem to find anything to say and just sort of floundered for a bit. Ira, however, was more curious than cautious.

“That was Harry Potter, wasn’t it? And he’s trying to get back home… on his own… without magic… and probably a lot of people after him.”

So they heard everything. He seriously hoped that wouldn’t prove problematic later. He didn’t like messing with people’s memories, particularly in his own house. It tended to make people flakey or paranoid.

“Essentially,” he said darkly, pleased when she flinched. “Since you seem so interested in matters of national security, you can assist me. I need to go to talk to the Dark Lord. I want you to find Professor Snape and inform him there has been a development in the Potter case. He’ll know where he needs to go.”

She looked ready to protest, but then thought better of it. In all honesty, she had nothing better to do. And she was interested. Very, very interested. Perhaps if she helped now, he would tell her more later… or maybe Snape would tell her something. Impossible wretch though he was.

“Very well. Where can I find him?”

“He should still be at St. Mungo’s. He was attacked last night in London. If he’s already checked out, he should be at Malfoy Manor. Erica, you stay here and wait by the phone. If it rings, take a message. And whatever you do, don’t give them your real name.”

Ira frowned at the mention of an attack on the professor, but Morgan was already heading towards the living room where the floo was located, ignoring Erica’s protests and unlikely to answer her questions. She decided Snape had probably said something obnoxious to the wrong person and got into a tussle. It couldn’t have been too bad if he was supposed to check out today.

“Well, that’s that,” she sighed. “I best do as he says. I’ll see you later, mother.”

She kissed her still flustered mother on the cheek, and headed for the door. She hated the floo and the hospital wasn’t far, so she decided to walk. Half an hour later she walked into St Mungo’s main lobby and learned Snape had already checked himself out. She apparated to Nottingham, and from there hired a carriage to take her to the Malfoy Estate, inaccessible by apparation or floo.

A house elf greeted her at the gates, and once she told him her business, it disappeared with a loud ‘pop’. A few minutes later, the gates opened, and the carriage brought her to the manor house. Narcissa Malfoy met her on the marble steps personally, and this made Ira more than a little nervous. It was no secret that Lady Malfoy could be down right dangerous if you got on her bad side.

“Ms. Beadle,” she greeted stiffly with a slight inclination of her head. Ira made a subtle curtsey.

“Lady Malfoy, thank you for seeing me.”

The older woman dismissed her greeting with a wave of the hand. “I am afraid your errand is in vain. Professor Snape is not here.”

Now Ira was getting frustrated. She had spent nearly an hour trying to find him, and he just didn’t seem to want to be found. Not by her at least. She did her best to keep the frustration from her voice when addressing her host.

“I see. Do you know where he might be?”

Now here Lady Malfoy looked annoyed, and Ira wondered if she weren’t in trouble.

“On some stupid, manly mission of revenge, no doubt. Couldn’t even wait for his hand to heal, the fool.”

Ira didn’t know what to say to that, so she kept quiet. The older woman let out an annoyed sighed. “He’ll stumble back here at some point. Would you like me to leave him a message?”

“Ah…yes. Would you tell him Chief Sentinel Morgan needs to speak with him as soon as possible?”

“Can I ask what about?” There was a definite glint of curiosity, but Ira wasn’t sure if Morgan would care if she knew or not.

“He didn’t tell me,” she said, and Lady Malfoy seemed to accept that. It wasn’t like Ira had any business know anything about what her stepfather did. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time. Thank you again.”

She walked back to the carriage, unaware of Lady Malfoy’s speculative look as she climbed inside and out of view. As the carriage left the Malfoy Estate, Ira was stuck with the question of what to do now. Andreas had intended for her to find Snape, but he couldn’t have known the man would prove so difficult. Unfortunately, she had no way of contacting her stepfather about her difficulties, and this matter was definitely an important one.

Harry Potter was trying to come home. The thought of the child attempting it all on his own, was both frightening and captivating. What kind of a person must he be to do that? She, like so many of her fellow countrymen, had read the papers and heard of his many fantastical exploits, and she often felt like a school girl reading a favorite book. One where the hero triumphs against impossible odds and gets the girl at the end. Her brief visit with the boy’s guardian had shaken her image of the boy, however. The guardian had laughed. Not a cruel laugh really, but a very tired one, tinged with irony. What did Snape know that she didn’t? Afterwards, she had started to think about it, really think about it, and realized something.

Harry Potter was surrounded by people who terrified Ira. Lord Voldemort wasn’t even the worst of them, and he was formidable all his own. There was also Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, various people who tried to kill him, and werewolves and others whose vicious reputations preceded them. The more she thought about it, the more impressed she was with him. If she had been in his position, she would have curled up on the floor at St. Mungo’s by now.

And he was coming back to that. He was willingly and intentionally coming back to that.

If he was willing to that, Ira decided, the least she could do was make sure his guardian knew about it. She needed to try something clever and unexpected. Something Harry Potter might do.

“Not far now, my darling familiar,” Bobby sang as he soared beside Harry’s window. Inky black feathers glistened in the afternoon sun, guiding them through the plains to a place not listed on any map.

“Bobby, for the last time, I’m not your familiar. And are you sure it’s still there?”

“Yes, yes. I know these things. The fae only wish they could get their hands on me for all these things I know.”

Harry hoped that was true, because as far as he could tell Bobby was leading them absolutely nowhere. The road had turn to gravel miles back, and he was starting feel the beginnings of car sickness again. At least they were out of the mountains, the land spreading out around in vast fields, broken by the occasional wooded glen and shallow river that flowed down from the mountains. The air here had the cleanliness of the mountains, but not the eerie feeling the fae of the forest left on their lands.

“I cannot believe we’re following a bird,” Stephen muttered, for probably the hundredth time. The werewolf’s dislike of magical beings, his wife not withstanding, left him leery of Bobby. The raven’s insistence that it knew a secret route to get passed the wards surrounding Germany made him down right reticent. However, they were following Harry, the only one who genuinely seemed to want to help them and actually had the capability of doing so.

And Harry was following Bobby.

“Don’t worry about it. Even if this falls through, it’s not like we’re not heading in the right direction. There has to be a dozen different places to cross the Rhine around here.”

“The Bridges will all be monitored,” Stephen pointed out.

“Then we’ll find someone to take us across by boat. They can’t monitor every muggle tugboat and dingy out there,” Sylvia pointed out.

By now, the children were all starting to come out of their post transformation lethargy, and were actually starting to get excited. Harry’s tale of the night before and Bobby’s confirmation of it had them giddy. They had also never seen so much open space in their young, disadvantaged lives, and were eager to explore this strange new world.

“Are we going to live in France?” John asked, uncertain of the idea.

“No, baby, we’re not going to live in France. We’re going somewhere even better.”

“Like England?”

There was an uncertain silence, and Stephen spoke first. “I don’t know. I don’t know how the English handle werewolves.”

There was a pointed look at Harry, which made him feel rather silly for not having told them all about it sooner. Of course, earlier they hadn’t been allies, and once they were they were usually too busy with other things.

“It’s a lot different than here,” Harry said. “Probably as different as you can get. Werewolves don’t live with other wizards or muggles. They live in… colonies… or clans I guess. Packs. There are territories all over the UK, mostly woodlands, where only werewolves live. And all the werewolves live in these territories, and they can’t leave but no one else can enter either, and it’s… kind of a feudal era setup. They build their own houses and hunt their own food, but they also had trading posts where they can exchange goods with wizards without crossing into each other’s spaces. They’re actually pretty rich. They have a monopoly on the fur and potion ingredient’s market, and Voldemort is a friend of the Head Alpha.”

“Head Alpha?”

“He’s sort of… the werewolf king, I guess. All the packs have an alpha, a chieftain, they follow, but all the alphas still have to follow the Head Alpha. He’s kind of a jerk actually, but he does a good job. No one ever goes cold or hungry, as far as I can tell. He throws really great parties during the summer solstice.”

Stephen gave him an odd look out of the corner of his eye. “You’ve met him? This werewolf king?”

Harry gave him sardonic grin. “Oh yes. He tried to turn me into a werewolf once. Oh, and he almost killed my godfather, who also happens to be the next in line for Head Alpha, and part of the reason why we can all be such good friends during the full moon.”

“…That explains a whole lot, and is at the same time extremely confusing.”

Bobby flew in through the car window and landed in Harry’s lap, distracting them once again.

“Turn off the road here. There’s an abandoned manor house a little ways up. Beyond that is the entrance to the tunnel. Humans don’t know about it anymore. Not muggles or wizards.”

Harry stroked Bobby’s back gently, conveying his appreciation, which the raven definitely seemed to enjoy it.

“Then how do you know about it?”

“The dwarves know about it. They use it every couple of years to move their goods. They’d trust a tunnel under a river rather than a bridge over a river any day.”

“And wizards don’t know about it?”

“Humans make nasty thieves. Wizards are the nastiest. Too smart and too dumb at the same time. Except for you, of course. You’re a doll.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Sure enough though, after a minute or so they came upon an abandoned manor house, easily four hundred years old, the windows all empty of glass and the stone infested with ivy. It would have been a great place to explore, but they didn’t want to linger anywhere for long. The tunnel entrance was behind the house, disguised as a tomb. All around lay the graves of the land’s previous owners, the names worn away by time and the elements. The rusted iron gate blocking the entrance practically disintegrated in his hand as he and Stephen pulled it open.

“What do you think?” Stephen asked, looking down into the darkness, “Do you think the car will fit?”

“For right now, yeah, but it’ll be tight. We won’t be able to open the doors once inside, and if it gets narrower or turns too sharply? We’d be in trouble. Bobby, how familiar are you with this tunnel?”

Bobby was perched on the iron gate, looking inside rather curiously himself.

“I’ve never been inside,” he said, “It shouldn’t get any narrower. The dwarves have very large carts for being such short people.”

They thought about it for a minute or so, and Stephen made the decision.

“It’s can’t be that far. Two or three miles at the most. You and I will walk in front, Sylvia will drive the car behind us with the head lights on. If we hit any obstacles, we can move them out of the way or break the windows and help them crawl out, and we’ll all walk the rest of the way.”

And that’s what they did. With the car’s headlights shining behind them, Stephen and Harry lead the way into the darkness. The tunnel itself was in good repair, probably by the dwarves who were very finicky about their tunnels, but also cold and wet and very, very dark. To stave off claustrophobia, they talked about Harry’s experience with werewolves in his home country.

Harry told them about the Summer Solstice celebration, about the Moon Goddess they worshiped, the Head Alpha Fenrir Greyback, his godfathers Sirius Blackbone and Remus Slivermoon, about the goddess possessed Luna and now Diana, about the trades, the foods, the fights, the arts, and everything Harry could think of. He wasn’t exactly trying to convince Stephen that he might be happy amongst one of Greyback’s packs, but he held such a fondness for the people it more than likely reflected in his descriptions. Stephen said very little; accept to ask for examples or for him to elaborate every so often. For the most part, he remained deep in thought. Bobby, who rode on Harry’s shoulder the entire way, remained nearly as attentive and even quieter.

What felt like hours later, though it couldn’t have been more than one, they saw the faint glow of sunlight in the distance, which grew brighter and brighter with every step. At its end, they were bathed in the heat of the summer air, the chill of the underground and their own soaking wet feet, began to warm in the light.

Turning to one another, they couldn’t help but grin and laugh. They had made it. They were free. Now they just had to get home.

“Professor Snape!”

The potions master stiffened and turned, mentally cursing himself for not realizing he was being followed before hand. He was exhausted and in more than a little pain, but that was no excuse. It could have been McGunny coming up behind him to finish what he started the night before. Fortunately, it was not the elusive little hellion, but a woman he thought vaguely familiar.

“Madam?” he said cautiously, as she hurried towards him as fast she could without knocking into anyone on the busy walk way. It was a little after five, and most everyone was heading home for the evening or out to eat, crowding shoulder to shoulder with their fellow Londoners. Snape very much wanted to go home himself, but thought he might have to settle for a hotel. With no further leads for finding McGunny, he had visited the local flower shops in hopes of identifying the plant, and its significance if any. No one had known what to make of it, and he was thinking he would have to try Knockturn Alley for answers, but he knew better than to attempt it in his current condition. He would have to try again in the morning, unless the woman before him had a reason for stopping him. He seriously hoped not. He was tired.

“Professor Snape, thank goodness I found you. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said, breathing heavily from her pursuit. She looked him up and down, and frowned critically. “You’re a mess, sir. You should be in bed.”

“Very true,” he said blandly, and turned to leave, “I was just about to do just that.”

“Wait! You probably don’t remember me, but we met at the court a few days ago. You laughed at me.”

Oh, yes, now he remembered. Myra or Ira or something Beadle, the bug woman. He turned back to her, and waited expectantly.

“I have a message from my stepfather.” She looked around at the crowd of people, and then at Snape, her brows furrowed in uncertainty. “I think you should come home with me, Professor. You’re in no shape to be about, and this is sensitive information. Would you please come with me?”

He thought to protest, remind her that taking home men she barely knew would do her reputation no good, but he was tired and she was already signaling for a coach. Plus she had already taken his plant from him, and he wasn’t about ready to wrestle her for it in the middle of the sidewalk with only one good hand. When the coach pulled up for them, he climbed into the cabin and leaned back into the seat, fighting off the urge to sleep. If he wasn’t careful he’d collapse for certain.

“How did you find me?” he asked, genuinely curious, if a bit tired.

“It wasn’t easy. None of the tracking spells I tried seemed to work, and neither the hospital or Lady Malfoy seemed to know where you had gone. It’s a good thing I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

From her sleeve, she pulled out what looked like a silver toothpick, but when she brought it to her mouth it wasn’t to clean her teeth. A little chirp, not unlike a cricket emanated from the tiny instrument, and a moment later a large black moth fluttered towards her and landed on her outstretched pinky. Snape was a bit alarmed to realize that it had come from somewhere in the folds of his robes.

“This is Marty,” she told him. “He a breed of moth in theSaturniidae family. A very interesting species. A male can find a single female within six miles using only molecules it catches in its antennae. That’s a hundred times more sensitive than a dog’s nose. I’ve been training them at the university to find people for law enforcement purposes. Congratulations. You’re the first successful trial.”

“Honored, to be sure,” he said flatly. “Now, perhaps, you can tell me why you went through the bother?”

She blinked and suddenly became more flustered. Apparently, she had been more prepared in finding him, than actually speaking with him.

“Of course. My stepfather received a call… I mean he was contacted by Mr. Potter today.”

Snape grimaced. That was all he needed. Potter come to make things more complicated and uncomfortable again.

“But of course. Is he still in one piece?”

“I didn’t get to speak with him myself, but I don’t believe he was injured. He informed Andreas that he was coming home. I don’t know if he said when or where exactly. Andreas told me to find you and said you would know what needed to be done. Though, I don’t think he knew you were wandering around London, hunting muggers and shopping for house plants at the time.”

“It’s for a potion,” Snape said quickly. “I meant to pick it up yesterday, but I didn’t factor in the random malice of the universe.”

She nodded. “You should stay at the house tonight. Andreas should be back eventually, and you can talk more with him then.”

“You live with your stepfather?”

Ira blushed, embarrassed. At twenty nine, she knew very well she should have a husband and children, or at the very least her own apartment, but life hadn’t been considerate of society’s expectations.

“For now,” was all she answered, and quickly changed the subject. “What is Harry Potter like?”

“Trouble some,” Snape said, and by his tone he meant it. “Everything he touches gets complicated.”

She gave him a long, hard (or as hard as she seem capable of) look, frowning thoughtfully. “Do you not like him?”

The potions master laughed softly, a quieter version of the laugh he’d had at the Court. “Like I said. Complicated. Now please be quiet. I need to think.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Fleur expected to come home to an empty house. Her parents and sister were off in Séte, sailing their yacht and soaking up the sun. She had to stay behind, her apprenticeship at the Royal Military Academy of Paris keeping her close to home. In another week, she would be assigned to a Master, and would be living under his or her roof while attending the Academy. For now, she just had to mentally prepare herself for the separation, this one more final than any she had had while attending Beauxbatons or even Hogwarts. When she left home, it would be as an adult, and she ached with both pride and homesickness at the thought of it.

Pride and homesickness were the furthest thing from her mind, however, when she came home not to an empty house, but Harry Potter sitting on her doorstep. His hair was Weasley Orange, and his glasses were no where in sight, but even so she knew instantly it was him when he grinned at her.

She blinked at him dumbly for a moment, and then grinned back. She threw her arms around him and laughed.

“You scallywag,” she said in English. “’Ow did you get ’ere? You are zupost to be running wild in Germany. Zey say you were abducted by Death Eaters, and zen zey say you are a werewolf. Pah! No one believes it.”

“That’s good, cause it’s utter bollocks.”

“’Urry, now, come inside before anyone sees you.”

They stepped in her house, and he let out an appreciative whistle at the granite floors and high arching ceilings. The entire place was a mix of Arte Nouveau and Baroque, an elegant combination of curves and extreme detail. It was beautiful and contemporary by wizarding standards, and Harry thought it suited Fleur every well. There were no house elves, but a maid was there to accept their cloaks and offer refreshment. Harry watched her nervously, but Fleur assured him that Nadia was well trained in the art of discretion. If she knew who Harry was, she would never admit it.

To anyone.

They went into the study, however, and closed the doors. Harry highlighted what had happened, firstly about the Auror attack in the cemetery, then about Stephen picking him up and telling him that it was safe to return to Britain (a little fib, but he didn’t have time to get into the entire complicated mess) and that they were werewolves, and then of the second Auror attack and their inability to escape to the North Sea, about his acquiring Bobby in the Black Forest and him leading them into France, and finally that the Canis family were hanging out in a park around the corner and waiting for him. They intended to spend the night in Paris and head into Britain the next morning. Which brought him to the real reason why he was there.

“I know this is really rude of me, and I wouldn’t ask if I could think of another way, but… do you think I could borrow some muggle money? I mean, if you have any or know how to get any or… something. Or know how I could get some really quick… without using my wand, cause that’s really not an option…”

His ears burned at having to ask. He had never had to beg for money. Not at the Dursley’s, not at Hogwarts, and not at Snapes (unless it was to buy groceries which didn’t count). To do it from Fleur, a friend who risked a great deal by helping him, was even more humiliating. She just smiled at him though, and kissed him on the cheek.

“If zat is all you need, I am ’appy to ’elp. Ah, zis is zo romantic. Just like in my book. Kidnapped princes escaping across borders with ze ’elp of strange of allies. I’ll be in ’istory books for zis one day. Just wait.”

He smiled a bit at that. “You’re already in history books, remember? The Triwizard Tournament? All the champions saving each others lives, before Durmstrang got all weird on us.”

She laughed and led him out of the study and up a flight of stairs to the bedrooms.

“Just wait. Ze two of us, we are just getting started. We will ’ave eternal glory and fame. You in ze service of your King, and I in ze service of my Queen.”

“Don’t forget Viktor. He has a master of his own that he serves,” Harry said, trying to bite back his disappointment there. He didn’t blame Viktor for his choice. Of the two of them, Viktor’s choice was probably the more morally sound. It just happened to make them enemies, as well.

“Ah, poor Viktor,” she sighed, “’e does not understand true rulers cannot pick and choose ’zer battles based on morality like Dumbledore. Zey must face all dilemmas with all the resources available to zem, even zose zat bring zuffering. A nation is built with sweat and blood, ’Arry, with love and with pain. It is maintained ze same way.”

Harry considered her words. He was starting to see, or perhaps he had always seen and was only now starting to understand what she meant. Voldemort was a Dark Lord, a ruler steeped in murder and manipulation. But so was Seibligg. Harry might not have seen it like he had with his mentor, but he sensed it when he met him and with the barbarism his Aurors had displayed towards the Canis family and himself. He knew the Old Ministry had its own list of crimes it had to answer for. Fenrir Greyback ruled his people with a more honest brutality, but it was no less violent, and he knew intuitively that Sirius would not be any kinder when it was his turn to take over. He couldn’t afford to be soft.

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like no ruler could afford that.

They reached Fleur’s room, sensually decorated in rich blue velvets and gleaming hardwoods. She had a small writing desk, which she opened and pulled out a silver jewelry box. Inside was a large wad of muggle money. She handed the entire thing to Harry.

“My Aunt Suki zent it to me as a graduation present. She always zays zat muggles always ’ave ze best shoes. Zis is very true, but I won’t be wearing anyzing but my uniform boots for at least a year. Zo zere you are. You ’ave one year to pay me back.”

Looking through the wad of money, several hundred Euros worth, Harry wondered how many shoes her aunt intended for her to buy. She walked him back to the door, hugged him again, wished him luck, and opened the door for him…

And then slammed it closed again in Viktor’s startled face.

She turned to Harry. “Was zat who I zot it was?”

The Gryffindor could only stand there and wonder the exact same thing for a moment. There was a knock on the door. Neither of them moved to open it.

“Fleur, open da door. I know he’s dere already.”

“Go away, Viktor. You are not in Germany anymore.”

“Harry, please just open da door. I only vant to talk to you.”

They gave each other an uncertain look, but eventually Harry just sighed and nodded. Fleur opened the door again. Viktor scowled at the both of them.

“What are you doing here, Viktor?” Harry asked, exasperated.

“Ven Dumbledore found out you left Cologne already, he sent me to France on da very slime chance dat you might head here after the ports closed in the north. How did you even get out of Germany?”

“How did you?” Harry challenged.

“Dumbledore… he has his ways,” the Bulgarian said.

“And I have mine. You should know by now I’m a sneaky little bastard.”

Viktor’s mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile, but he quickly smothered it. “Dat I do. Vat are you intending to do, Harry?”

Harry considered lying, telling Viktor that he was going into hiding and never be seen from again. It seemed a possible way of avoiding another fight with him, one that he couldn’t use a wand for and didn’t want to drag Fleur into. It would also break any trust that still lingered in the face of Harry’s defection.

“I’m going home, Viktor.”
“To Voldemort?” the older boy accused.

“And Hermione,” he snapped back, “and my godfathers, and Draco, and Clyde, and Ginny, and Fred and George, and everyone else who gives a damn about me for reasons other than what I can do for them.”

Viktor’s grit his teeth, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You told me yourself that the Dark Lord wants you did. That taking you out of Britain saved your life. I saved your life.”

“So did Voldemort. So did Professor Snape and Vesper Larousse and Sirius and Remus. They all saved my life. And a dozen others made it worth living. I am not going to turn my back on them for you. I’m not going to betray them for that psycho Minister or a country that doesn’t mean a damn thing to me!”

“What about Dumbledore, Harry? He could have given you life outside the killing and political games and dark magic. He still can. Just come with me and I’ll take you back to him.”

“And do what? Hide the rest of my life? Fight against ‘evil’? I’m sorry Viktor, but I don’t see a future there. I don’t know what he wants, and frankly I don’t care anymore. I can do more good in Britain, than I can do hiding behind his robes.”

“Harry, Voldemort will kill you!”

“Not anymore, he won’t. I know what I have to do. And I know you have to do what feels right to you, but you’re not going to change my mind. I’m going home.”

Harry stepped out of the house and around Viktor, who just watched slack jawed as he walked away. He didn’t move to stop the other boy, although once he was out of sight, he curled his fingers in front of him as if to strangle the memory of Harry in midair.

“Nichts ist diesen Ärger wert!”

Fleur couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s foolishness. Viktor might not understand (or simply refused to understand) what Harry had said, but he was still a good guy. He would not force Harry to do something he didn’t want to do. Not intentionally.

“Come inside, my irate friend. I’ll make you something to drink. Something with Vodka.”

He looked ready to snap something at her, but then couldn’t seem to settle on anyone particular thing before finally giving up and slumping inside. She patted him on the arm sympathetically, and led him towards the parlor. Two Triwizard Tournament champions visiting her illegally in one day. She wondered what her future Master might have to say about that, and grinned.

It appeared as if life had no intention of slowing down for her any time soon.

Harry and the Canis Family ordered Chinese food and crashed in their hotel room, everyone exhausted but happy with their adventure. In the evening, Harry stayed with the kids in the hotel, watching the Little Mermaid in French which Jane translated, going so far as to sing along with the songs she had memorized by heart (it was her favorite movie), while Stephen and Sylvia went for a walk in the most romantic city in the world.

When husband and wife returned, Harry had already had them bathed and put to bed. Stephen pulled Harry outside for a little talk of their own, highlighting their final plans for the next day.

“If we go to the UK,” Stephen started out, “Will they let us leave or are we going to have to stay at one of these… colonies?”

Harry thought about it for a long time, and finally answered, “I don’t know. I don’t know if Voldemort ever intended you to get this far. He might let you go if he thought you would keep quiet about the ‘kidnapping’ bit or he might send you to Greyback or he might kill you just to hurt me. I really don’t know.”

“I can’t risk my family like that, Harry. I need a plan where I know they’ll be safe.”

“… If I could, I’d just buy you a plane ticket and send you where ever you wanted to go, but that’s more money than I have and you don’t even have a passport. You and your family could stay here in France somewhere and pretend to be regular muggles for the rest of your life, and hope no one finds out.”

Stephen snorted.

“The last option is that I take you straight to Greyback before anyone finds us. He’s an asshole, but he takes care of his own, especially the women and children. If you become a part of one of his packs, I don’t think Voldemort will try anything, but you’ll never be able to leave.”

They stayed quiet for several minutes, looking out the window at the city, glittering streets and buildings tall as mountains. It would be hard to give up this sort of place. From what Harry knew of them, none of the Canis family had ever lived outside of a city before, let alone out in the wilderness. They would have to abandon the creature comforts of ‘civilized’ living for a life they only knew about from his stories.

“Is it a good life?” Stephen asked. Slowly, Harry nodded.

“It’s not an easy life, but it’s a good, honest way to live. You get to punch guys who piss you off, and everyone is okay with it.”

The werewolf barked out a laugh, and returned to the room, saying he would think about it. They left early the next morning, all of them sluggish and reluctant after the long day and short night. They abandoned their car at the motel and walked to the train station, purchased their tickets, and waited for nearly an hour. The entire time the adults (and Harry) anxiously scanned the station for signs of trouble, unable to believe they had made it so far without a hitch of some kind, but the time elapsed and they climbed aboard. Bobby followed them inside, and he must have possessed some sort of magic of his own, because no one looked twice the entire time. The moment they sat down they visibly relaxed.

Their tickets took them to London, a near three hour ride, and the first thing Harry did was use some of the change he had left to call Morgan, but it was a rather flustered woman who picked up.

“HELLO? IS THIS HAROLD POTTER?”

Harry pulled the phone away from his ear, and prayed that ear was still useful.

“Yes. You don’t have to shout.”

“Oh… sorry,” the woman said, still a bit loud but no longer deafening. Stephen smirked at him, and Sylvia had to hide her smile behind her hand.

“Is Chief Sentinel Morgan there?” he asked.

“Ah… no, not right now. He told me I should take a message if you called.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m Eri..er…ah… Betty. I’m his secretary.”

For some reason, Harry seriously doubted that.
“Okay, Erierah Betty, just let your boss know I’m in London.”

Then he hung up.

Bobby led them into wizarding London through a strange portal existing on platform one and three quarters. It seemed as if Bobby knew his way around everywhere. Harry kept his the hood of his cloak up after that, which was hot and uncomfortable in the summer heat but necessary. He earned several odd looks, but rarely a second glance. It was London after all.

Harry could hardly believe he was home. After six months abroad, believing he would never get to see his homeland again, it all came at him extraordinarily fast. He was extremely tempted to run to the nearest Court Office and turn himself in, face Voldemort once and for all and finish the journey.

But before he could do that, he needed to ask Stephen his decision.

“We’ve never had an easy life,” Stephen said, “But we’ve had a mostly honest one. No point in mucking it up now.”

“Why, that’s the smartest thing I think I’ve ever heard him say,” Bobby said, as if awed, then fluttered out of reach when the werewolf made a swipe at him.

They had absolutely no British wizarding money to get to Scotland, and since none of them knew how to apparate, it was up to Bobby to lead them, and as knowledgeable as the raven was about magical short cuts and secret routes, it still took them two days of walking and two nights of sleeping outside, before they reached Fenrir’s territory.

Harry remained at its edge, stopping the others before they tried to step over the glowing green line that marked the werewolves’ domain. Once they crossed into it, they would be unable to leave without Fenrir’s permission. He should probably knock first.

“Hello!” he called, and listened as it echoed through the forest. There was no reply. “Hello!” he tried again. Bobby landed on his shoulder.

“They are there. They’re just hiding. Pull down your hood.”

Harry did as instructed, and within seconds the foliage moved, and where once there was nothing but trees and undergrowth now stood two werewolves, a man and a woman, each armed with crossbows. Stephen let out a curse, and moved his family behind him. Bobby hopped off his shoulder and disappeared into the canopy.

“If you play games, sir, I shall kill you for this insult,” the woman said, glaring suspiciously at him, even as she drew nearer. She was vaguely familiar to Harry, but he could not recall her name.

“No games or insults intended,” Harry assured her, tucking away his wand. “I have returned, and wish to speak with Greyback. I have brought friends,” he gestured behind him, “who seek asylum with his people. May we enter?”

The werewolf pair shared an uncertain look.

“Think it’s really him,” she whispered to the man. “Could be a trap. An illusion.”

“You stay here and watch them,” the man said, “And I’ll go get Greyback. He’ll know. He always knows.”

“Hurry up then.”

The man ran off, leaving the woman glaring at them and clutching her crossbow. Stephen nudged Harry’s shoulder to get his attention.

“Are they all this friendly?”

Harry grinned. “When you first meet them? Pretty much. I got my head shoved in a mud puddle.”

“Where was that story when you prattling on about Fenrir’s werewolves?”

“Did I forget that one? Sorry, it slipped my mind.”

Stephen glowered at him. Within minutes, Fenrir appeared, along with about half his pack, and at the forefront of the crowd Sirius and Remus. Harry couldn’t help but grin when he saw their amazed expressions. He had a feeling he was going to be seeing a lot of that.

“Potter, you ballsy little bastard,” Fenrir snarled, some how coming off as good natured at the same time. “How the hell did ya get over here?”

“There was a lot of walking involved. Can we come in?”

“Get in here.”

Harry stepped across the boundary, and wasn’t the least bit surprised when he was swept up in a enormous bear hug and had his hair ruffled into a messy fluff. After days of travel and more than a few lingering bruises, it was painful, but he wouldn’t have stopped it for the world. It was the first time in a very long time that he felt truly happy.

“Prongslet, I can believe it!” Sirius laughed, finally pulling away to get a better look at him. “Although I probably should. An entire Ministry couldn’t stop you.”

“Yes, well, I had a lot of help,” he turned to his traveling companions and gestured for them to follow, which they hesitantly did. “This is the Canis Family. Stephen, Sylvia, John, Jane, and Noah. We sort of… escaped Germany together. They’re werewolves too.”

Fenrir was already before them, leering at Stephen who looked on the verge of snarling and bashing in someone’s head if any of the other werewolves came any closer to his wife or children.

“I can tell. This ones got a nasty look about him,” the Head Alpha chuckled, and leaned in so close to Stephen their noses were practically touching. The Canis patriarch let out a low, threatening growl. Fenrir’s threw back his head and laughed. “I like him! Hopefully, I won’t have to break his neck.”

“Greyback,” Harry said, his voice laced with warning. “Leave them be. They’ve traveled a long way to have to deal with your particular brand of weirdness.”

“Bah,” Fenrir dismissed. “I wouldn’t fight him now. He’s as weak as a puppy. Athena! Get them settled. Make sure no one starts anything.”

The alpha female appeared out of the crowd, and close behind her trailed Luna. The dream-eyed girl smiled at Harry, but didn’t yet approach, following her pack mother’s example and showing the Canis family the way to the settlement, leaving Harry to his godfathers and Fenrir. When all the others werewolves had left, curious about the latest additions to their pack (women were rare enough, and children only occasionally born and never just brought in), the Head Alpha dropped his amused expression.

“Does Voldemort know you’re here?”

Harry stiffened, and then shook his head.

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t be sure what he would do with them, so I came here first. I’ll go see him as soon as I know they’ll be fine.”

“You’ll stay here until I tell you you can leave. Are you bit?”

“What?”

“Are. You. Bit? There’s been rumors floating about since you went missing. Some blaming the Germans, some blaming Voldemort, and more that few blaming werewolves. Claims that you’ve been infected. Is any of that true?”

“Are you serious? No, I wasn’t bitten. Merlin, I don’t know if I can turn into a werewolf even if I were. I spent the full moon walking around with them, and it was completely… safe. Like walking around with really big dogs. They like to be scratched behind the ears.”

“Harry!” Remus said, clearly horrified at the mere thought of what he had done. Sirius looked stunned too, although Harry suspected he would be delighted once the surprise wore off. Greyback looked more skeptical than anything.

“You’ll stay here until I can get your master to come get you. If you disappear on me, one of your new ‘friends’ will pay for it, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Blackbone, he’s your responsibility… as if you didn’t know already”

Sirius stuck his tongue out at Fenrir’s back when he turned away and Remus slapped him upside the head, making Harry grinned. He had really missed them. Sirius swung his arm around his godson’s shoulder, and led him further into the forest.

“Come on, Prongslet, you have got a lot of explaining to do.”

Harry smiled a bit nervously at that. He wasn’t entirely sure if he had enough time to explain the entire thing before Voldemort showed up and wrung his scrawny neck.

Voldemort was very close to wringing Snape’s neck when the missive arrived from Fenrir. It wasn’t that the potions professor had done anything to earn his ire, it just so happened he was the only one in the room and frankly he was in a bad mood.

They had lost Harry. Again. In London of all places. It didn’t help that Harry had been the one to even inform them that he was in the area, and then neglected to show himself for another three days. Voldemort, who believed he had been very patient and done a good job at waiting for his re-emergence was quickly rediscovering what it was about Harry that frustrated him.

He was too damn self motivated.

If Harry had been just a little more uncertain or a little more dependant, Voldemort was positive he would never have gotten it into his head to go messing around with another man’s soul and then to run around Europe like it was a bloody vacation.

To make matters worse, the potions Snape had been brewing to instill that uncertain dependency known as blind loyalty were ruined while the man was holed up in the hospital. Another reason he probably should wring the man’s neck, but he had the feeling the Earth was trying to tell him not to fuck around with Harry in that particular manner and he should just let it slide. Anyway, he didn’t have enough spare potions masters just lying around to where he could toss out his best one.

“Forget it. With the way things are going, you’d probably end up ingesting the potion and swear eternal fealty to Harry, and the entire situation will turn into an even bigger joke,” Voldemort muttered, leaning back in his chair. They were at Hogwarts at the moment, presumably a random choice, but both knew it was on the off chance that Harry showed up there. Harry didn’t really know a lot of other places.

Snape grimaced at the back handed insult, but silently agreed. If anything could possibly go wrong, Potter would find a way to make it happen.

As if to prove it, an owl flew through the window and smacked straight into the back of his head.

“Bloody hell!” Snape spat before he even realized it, clutching the back of his head. He really shouldn’t have taken any Pain Relieving Potion before coming here. Nothing would ever have been able to sneak up behind him if he were sober.

“Quite,” Voldemort said with some amusement then retrieved the letter from the owl now sprawled across the floor. From under his desk, he could see Nagini eying the fallen bird speculatively, and left it where it lay. He opened the letter and scanned it. A hard smile settled across his mouth. “Harry just turned himself over to Greyback.”

Snape stiffened, then nodded. “What do you intend to do?”

“Whatever the universe allows. Stay here. If Harry requires medical attention, I would prefer to avoid the public hospitals.”

“As you wish, My Lord.”

The Dark Lord left. Snape went to do the same, to wait in the infirmary, but paused just long enough to scoop up the owl from the floor before Nagini got to it. Not all creatures were as talented as Harry at handling snakes.

As if out of habit, Harry remained elusive even after Voldemort arrived at Fenrir’s door. The boy was not in the colony itself, and his godfathers were plainly visible at the center of the commune, sharpening knives and glaring death at him. He checked with the Head Alpha. Fenrir wouldn’t be so careless as to let him slip away.

“He said something about making an offering of thanks,” the old werewolf said, leaning in his chair. He looked to be in a rare, thoughtful mood, and Voldemort wondered what Harry had told him or if it were something else weighing on his mind. “He took a stool, some herbs, and a bowl, and left alone on the Western Path about a half hour ago. I told my people to leave him be. You should have plenty of privacy.”

Voldemort nodded and went in search of his wayward protégé. It didn’t take long to find him. Harry had moved nearly a quarter of a mile into the forest for solitude, but made not attempt at hiding. The Dark Lord did not immediately say or do anything when he found him, but watched silently with a breathless sort of fascination.

Harry had stripped down to his pants, and Voldemort could see that whatever had gained the boy his freedom had come at a cost. His back was scrapped raw and bruised a yellowish-green, and he could count each of Harry’s ribs protruding from his skinny frame. There were cuts and small bruises on his face as well, but it was odd shortness of his hair that unnerved Voldemort. Had his head been shaved at some point? Like all the rest of those Durmstrang clones?

The idea of lumping Harry into the masses set his teeth on edge. It was insult by proxy. The masses had never stood a chance at against a Dark Lord, and to suggest they were of the same ability as the Gryffidnor Prince was absurd.

He pushed the thought aside to focus on Harry’s actions. Already he could tell Harry had burned some sort of ward into the ground, and was already burning sage, waving it within his protective circle and around his body so that the fragrant smoke cleansed the ward of negative energies. He cast the remnants of the smolder herb into a bowl resting on a wooden stool, the very crudest form of an altar. Beside the bowl sat a ceremonial dagger. The same ceremonial dagger he had gifted Harry with the year before to sacrifice the sianach.

His breath caught as he watched the boy drag the blade over left arm, then switched hands to cut his right arm. Transfixed, he followed Harry’s every movement, his trembling arms, his pained expression, the rivulets of blood dripping down into the smoking bowl, and a mouth speaking too softly and too quickly to make out.

Voldemort felt a ripple of power escape from the protective circle and it sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. This was perhaps the crudest of sacrificial ceremonies he had ever seen, but the offering was given in such complete sincerity that its power could rival the most elaborate of performances. There was no lip service here. Harry held less guile than a house elf and enough passion to make Shakespeare weep. Terrifying and captivating traits in a pagan.

Suddenly, Harry let out a small gasp, and his head and spine arched backwards so that there was no way he could have kept his balance, and yet he did not fall. Voldemort stared directly into his wide green eyes, and wondered what the boy saw. It wasn’t Voldemort. There was nothing close to recognition there.

He was tempted to try a legilimens, but he didn’t dare. Madris had already proven she could hurt him, potentially kill him, and he wasn’t going to provoke her by poking her worshiper with a proverbial stick while they were conversing.

Harry closed his eyes, and the stiffness suddenly left him so that he slumped forward, and landed on his hands and knees. There was soft sigh, and with shaking hands he took the bowl and flipped it onto the grown, covering the burning sage in order to smother it. The ritual was over.

Voldemort stepped forward. The boy stiffened, and slowly turned towards him.

“Hello, Harry.”

“…Hello, my Lord.”

“Still misplacing yourself, my friend?”

“Oh, no. I actually meant to end up here for once.” He climbed to his feet. He did not have his wand on him, but his dagger remained firmly in his hand. The Dark Lord looked at it curiously.

“Do you mean to use that on me?”

“I hope not. I’m not entirely sure what would happen. You might explode. I might explode. This is far more powerful than I realized.”

“And it gains power with every use.”

He stepped forward, Harry stepped back. Cautious. Good.

“You betrayed me.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed readily, even as his expression tightened with pain at the admission. “But I never meant to hurt you. You can’t claim the same.”

“That’s very true. Circafiat!”

The ward shattered under his spell then caught Harry up in it, sending him flying like a spinning top hurled through the air, and he crashed just as heavily. He landed with a thud, and continued to roll until he hit a tree. There was a groan and a hiss of pain. He was still clutching the knife. Stubborn.

“I should cut out your soul and feed you to the dementors,” he hissed, stalking towards his fallen adversary. Greens glared up at him.

“If I have to go to one more of those stupid charity banquets I’d welcome it.”

Voldemort paused, staring down at him, incredulous. “You have no sense of self preservation at all, do you?”

“No. It ran away with your guilty conscious and we haven’t seen either of them since.”

A grin founds its way onto the Dark Lord’s face, but it wasn’t the comforting sort the foolish Gryffindor was probably hoping for.

“Fio torrete!” Voldemort said, flinging his wand, almost negligently. Harry rolled out of the way this time, and the tree took the hit, shaking violently, but it gave no clues to the spell’s purpose. Voldemort snapped around for another try, but Harry finally decided to start fighting back.

And fighting dirty.

He hadn’t even realized what the boy was doing until the rock actually hit him in the face, smashing into the bridge of his nose and part of his right eye. He stumbled back from the blow, tripped over something, and fell backwards… into a ditch. And fuck, that hurt.

“You son of a –argh! You broke my nose!”

“Well, you cracked my ribs, you damn psycho,” Harry called back.

Snarling, he wiped at the blood pouring from his nose, but it was instantly replaced, making the effort futile. He crawled out of the trench, but by then Harry had disappeared. Marvelous.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Protego!” Voldemort snapped out automatically, shielding himself. He glared over at the cluster of trees the spell originated from. “This isn’t Hogwarts, Harry. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“I don’t want to fight you. It’s pointless.”

“On that we are agreed. You should remain still and take your punishment like a man.”

“How about I take it like a fourteen year old and sit in my room until I’ve learned my lesson.”

Voldemort let out a laugh. “I’ve missed you, Harry, I really have. No one else can survive being this cheeky with me.” Then he had to spit, as the blood from his nose leaked into his mouth. Yuck.

“I missed you too,” and that sounded sadly sincere. “Do you think we could start over?”

“This isn’t a board game, Harry. We can never go back to what we were. You’ve made sure of that.” He murmured a spell, static voca, under his breath, and moved out of view, taking a circuitous route towards Harry’s location.

“… Could we at least stop trying to kill one another?”

“I’m not trying to kill you. I just want to make you suffer,” he said, and though he was moving closer, it sounded as if his voice were the same distance away.

“How’s that working out for you?”

“I can honestly say, I’ve never had the novel experience of a broken nose. I feel obliged to share it with you.”

“I already broke my nose, remember? Moody and that damn potion.”

“… Oh… how about your fingers?”

“…Yes?”

“When?”

“… Uh… at Durmstrang?”

“If you don’t sound convinced of your own answers how do expect to convince me…”

Now he could see Harry’s profile, peaking carefully from behind some trees at the location his voice sounded from. He had his wand now. Clever boy. Must have snatched it up before he hid himself. Not that it would do him any good.

“Would I lie?”

“Certainly,” Voldemort said, dropping the spell. Harry spun around to find himself standing not three feet from the Dark Lord, and he froze like a startled rabbit. “Just not very well. Levicorpus.”

The Gryffindor didn’t have a chance to utter a single word before he was pulled from his feet and left dangling from the air. He cried out in pain and struggled to breath, and Voldemort remembered his potentially injured ribs, making regular breathing difficult enough. He smiled coolly at his captive, and reached out to place his hand over the crescent mark on Harry’s chest. The skin beneath his hand instantly sizzled, as if touched by a brand.

His protégé opened his mouth to gasp, to scream, but he couldn’t pull in the air necessary for it. He could only hang there, making feeble choking sounds until Voldemort finally pulled his hand away. A skeletal handprint in blackened flesh remained, the red crescent resting in the middle of the palm. An ominous marking.

Both the knife and wand had fallen out of Harry’s hands, and the boy simply hung there limply. Voldemort thought there might be symbolism in that, but right now he was just appreciating the moment. Harry had already closed his eyes, waiting for the next blow, resigned to the pain even as he feared it. Ah, sublime submission. He let it drag on for a nearly a minute, letting suffer in the silence.

Then he flicked him on nose like a bad dog.

Green eyes flew open, and blinked. Voldemort glowered at him.

“I want you to remember this moment. I want you to remember the pain and the fear and the helplessness, because if you ever try to mess with me like that again, I will make you feel a thousand times what you are feeling right now for rest of your natural life and then I really will feed you to the dementors. Finite incantem.”

Harry fell, landing heavily and no doubt cracking a few more ribs, if his pained gasps were anything to go by, but nothing lasting. Satisfied, Voldemort walked away, leaving the boy to catch his breath and wallow in his misery. He had only made it a few steps, however, before the Gryffindor some how managed to get just enough breath for a final question.

“We good now?”

The Dark Lord turned back to him and smiled fondly. “Yes. We’re good.”

Serfs and Nobles

There was no comfortable position to lie in, but he was too tired to sit or stand. His entire body felt like one big bruise, aching everywhere except on his chest were the Dark Lord had scorched his mark on to his flesh. That just plain stung.

“Your bed is going to stink like medicine,” Harry protested to Remus, who just rolled his eyes, and continued to rub salve gently over his chest. He had cracked a few ribs on the left side, but nothing was broken. It just made breathing about as uncomfortable as moving.

“You’re not the only reckless fool I’ve treated in this bed,” the beta said, throwing a pointed look at Sirius, who was glowering in the corner of their little house. The bed itself was monstrously large, easily fitting five or six adults at a time, which was practical since it was shared with three other werewolves. Everything in the werewolf colony was communal, from kitchens to beds to showers, but Remus assured him he would be getting the bed to himself unless it rained. Apparently, the werewolves only bothered with a bed when it was too cold or raining outside. Most preferred sleeping under the stars if possible. “This should help with the bruising and the swelling. How do you feel?”

“Would you be mad if I told you, smugly satisfied?”

Sirius snorted harshly. “Satisfied? With what? You’re a mess. You finally make it back home after half a year and the first thing the Dark Doofus can think to do is beat the crap out of you? What the fuck?”

“Sirius…” Remus said, warningly.

Harry just smiled at him cheekily. “I really did have that thrashing coming, even before I broke his nose.” Sirius started to protest, but Harry held up a hand to silence him. “It’s over and done with now, and I’m glad. I don’t want you to get worked up over it. It was worth it.”

And he didn’t just mean the beating. He had been gone for six months, alone and guilt ridden, but he had learned so much along the way, and seen such wonders he could not find it in him to regret.

Sirius didn’t look sure, but then Harry hadn’t told him the whole story. All he knew was that Harry had allowed himself to be kidnapped because the Dark Lord was pissed at him (the specifics he didn’t get into) and that he had come back on his own. Remus was more accepting, although he was none too pleased with Harry’s injuries either.

“Come on, Padfoot, we had best let him rest for a bit. We should go introduce ourselves to his ‘souvenirs’ before nightfall.”

“If Stephen is a bit snappish, don’t take it personal. He’s a bit defensive when it comes to taking care of his family,” Harry said, leaning back more fully against his pillows. They left him to his own devices which unfortunately involved just laying around like a log. Voldemort was… somewhere, and would be there until tomorrow it seemed and left him to the care of Fenrir and his pack. Harry was happy with this, because as much as he wanted to see Hermione and his friends, family came first.

And they coddled him shamelessly. Which he needed. It had been a long, hard week. He was actually prepared to attempt a nap, try to ignore his aching body, but there was something he wanted to do first.

Very carefully, and very slowly, he pushed himself up, climbed out of the bed, and pulled his satchel out from underneath it. He opened it, and after riffling through it for a minute or two, found what he was looking for and brought them onto the bed with him. His letters, still in their envelopes, remained unopened and mysterious. He had longed to open them when he had first gotten them, but events had pushed them from his mind almost completely. There had been no time and no privacy to read them before, but now he had both and he thought he ought to read them before facing his friends.

He picked one of the four letters at random.

Dear Harry

Heard you got into a pickle. I have faith in you, though, and I’m sure you’ll find a way out of it. Everyone is rooting for you. –Hagrid.

P.S. The girls, Betty and Thelma, are growing big and strong. Norbert had a bit of trouble in the beginning but he’s doing well. They’re all beautiful. I can’t thank you enough for the recommendation to Charlie. You’ve made a life long dream of mine come true, and I’ll never forget that. The tooth I sent is one of Norbert’s. He lost it in a fight with Thelma. Get back soon, so I can introduce you to all of them properly.

Harry smiled. Leave it to Hagrid to talk more about dragons than anything else. The next one was from the Weasley’s. All of them. Even the ones he didn’t even know very well. Mrs. Weasley prayed for his safe return, not unlike Hagrid only with a lot more flowery adjectives, but luckily the other Weasley’s offered a bit more information than well wishes. They told him about what happened at Hogwarts after he left, about Dueling Club (Ron had the nerve to threaten him to get back to handle the rookies), school gossip and simple news, National Quidditch matches, hilarious pranks, and the sort of things he would have liked to been with them to experience. Even Charlie Weasley, who Harry had never met, wrote a little something about Hagrid’s rather hazardous but excellent care of the dragonets.

Next came Hermione’s.

Dear Harry

I hope this letter finds you in good health and in good spirits. The papers speculate on your well-being constantly, and after a week I could not bring myself to read them. Uncle Severus assures me of the unlikelihood of you being seriously harmed, but even if you are not being tortured I know you can’t be happy.

I miss you so much. Everyone does. Even those you wouldn’t think of. Out of everyone, I think Natalie might be the most upset. She hides it well, but I’ve known her for a long time, and Draco is worried about her.

It’s futile, but I wish you were here constantly. Hogwarts just isn’t the same without you. I go through the day thinking ‘Harry would have loved to try that’ or ‘Harry should be in Transfiguration right now’ or ‘Harry would have found that hilarious’.

I know it’s a bit weird, but I started to make a log of these moments. I thought, if I ever managed to get it to you, you could read it and it would be sort of like sharing the moment together, like we should have. One day, I pray we will be able to do just that for real. Good luck, Harry.

Love,

Hermione

Harry smiled and rubbed his eyes. Dear, sweet, Hermione. He couldn’t wait to see her again. Behind the letter, was about thirty pieces of parchment, consisting of the log of events Hermione had written, and he took a moment to scan them.

Jan.6

The Hogwarts Herald published its first edition of the New Year. Your kidnapping is featured on the front page. It’s a really bad picture. Draco actually cringed.

Uncle Severus held orientation for Dueling Club. It had the largest turnout yet, with 55 potentials. Ron is freaking out. With you gone, he can barely keep track of the 30 we have already. We may have to divide up the club and get another instructor. I hope the newbies are joining for the right reasons.

We had potatoes at dinner.

Harry chuckled. This would definitely prove helpful when he returned to school. He had missed so much already. Melancholy threatened to invade his happy mood, so he moved to the last letter. It was from Draco.

Harry

Hope you’re not dead. Get your ass back here.

Draco.

“Your wish is my command, oh Blond One,” Harry chuckled.

“If that’s my new nickname, it’s awful and inaccurate.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin, and dropped all of his letters. The move jostled his body and he grimaced at the fresh throbs and stabs of pain that lanced through his body. He turned his head to glare at Bobby, who was now perched on Remus’ chair.

“Oops. Careful there. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Harry sighed and resettled against his pillows.

“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since we got here.”

“Exploring. Do you think all these things I know are second hand? This is an interesting place.”

“Did you see Lord Voldemort while you were exploring?” Harry asked.

“Do you mean, did I see him toss you around like a ragdoll? Nope, didn’t see it.”

The boy rolled his eyes.

“Thanks for the help.”

“Your welcome.”

“You-”

“Did you tell him about me?” the raven interrupted. “I hope you didn’t.”

Harry looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Fairies aren’t the only ones who would like to get their hands on me. These things I know are valuable. You’re lucky to have such a master as I.”

Harry snorted. “Fine. I guess it would be hypocritical of me to let the Dark Lord use you, after I escaped Germany for pretty much the same reason. The Canis’s though…”

“I’ve already talked to them. They’ll take responsibility for knowing how to get out of Germany. No one else need know I exist.”

Harry gave him another suspicious look. “How do I know you’re not a spy? Maybe the Germans set all of this up so that you could get into Britain. You never would have known how to get in otherwise.”

“Ha! I most definitely could. I work for no man or fae. Raecellos is my patron, Protector God of Prodigal Sons and Explorers, Lord and Vassal in the Court of Madris. I have endless navigational resources at my disposal.”

Harry thought on it and nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. Madris wanted me back home, so she had Raecellos send you to make sure of it. But why are you still here? Your mission is complete.”

“Because I like you,” Bobby laughed, and hopped from his chair to fly out the open window. Harry glared after him. He hated when the raven did that.

At some point, Harry must have dozed off, because when he opened his eyes it was already nightfall. The little house was lit with lanterns hanging from the ceiling, perfuming the air with the faint scent of lamp oil. He was not alone.

On the other side of the bed, Luna and Diana had curled up around each other and fallen asleep, while Sirius sat at a small table, Stephen across from him, playing a game of cards. Both alphas turned to him as he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Where’s Remus?” he asked.

“Patrolling. We’ve had issues with smugglers tearing down the wards lately.”

“Smugglers?”

“Voldemort’s been rationing a lot of goods across the country. Makes it profitable enough for smugglers to risk their lives to make up the difference. Dumb as bricks, most of them.”

Harry nodded.

“What are you two doing?”

“Playing cards, talking, keeping watch. People don’t seem to get that you need your sleep.”

Harry looked over at the two girls, and chuckled softly then grimaced as it jostled his ribs. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one in need of rest. He turned back to the Stephen.

“How is the family settling in?”

Stephen looked thoughtful for a moment, before answering.

“I wasn’t really sure in the beginning. It’s so… different, but the kids… They’re sleeping with Greyback’s kids tonight. They’ve never had friends besides each other before. They were really excited about it. We could barely get them to go to sleep.”

Harry smiled at that. Having had few friends growing up, and none for the three years he had lived with the Dursley’s, he knew that finally finding others who understood you and connected with you was precious.

“If you need to talk to someone about adjusting, I’d ask Remus,” Harry said, “He grew up as a werewolf around wizards before the colonies were founded.”

Stephen nodded, but Harry thought he had probably been given this advice before.

“Does anyone know how long I get to stay yet?” he asked.

“Dark Lord Snake-breath is off blowing his own horn somewhere. He’ll be back in the morning to get you, though. I recommend going for a kneecap this time around.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Sirius, my ribs are still soar. It’ll be fine.”

“You should go back to sleep,” Sirius said, looking unconvinced. “I doubt the bastard is going to let you get much of it tomorrow.”

“Alright, just wake me up early so I can say goodbye to everyone.”

Because really, Sirius was probably right. He settled back into his pillows and closed his eyes, trying to let his natural exhaustion take him into sleep. Before he had completely descended into the dream world, however, he heard Stephen and Sirius talking softly to each other.

“I honestly didn’t believe him when he said his godfather was the next Head Alpha. I didn’t think he had a clue what he was talking about. He didn’t seem scared enough.”

“Harry is a lot like his father that way. His mother too. They were good, strong people. They judged people by their character, rather than who or what they were. Although, I don’t think even they could have managed what Harry has. He finds character in the weirdest places.”

“You mean the Dark Lord?”

“I mean you.”

“…”

“I know you didn’t just ‘come across’ Harry and instantly decide to run away with him. I’m guessing you were hired to bring him back. I don’t think he was entirely willing either.”

“… I don’t know-”

“There were rope marks on his wrist. An Auror would never have had to resort to ropes.”

“…”

“I’ll assume you had your reasons. Harry obviously felt you did.”

“… I needed something better for my family. I couldn’t protect them in Germany. The entire system worked against us at every turn. I had do something. Anything.”

“I understand. It is your prerogative as a father to put your mate and your pups above anyone else. Which is why I know you’ll understand when I tell you, that if you ever raise your hand against my godson again, I’ll kill you.”

“… Fair enough.”

Luna woke him up in the morning by playing with his toes. He slipped on his glasses and looked down at her, as she took each toe individually and gave it a little wiggle.

“You have monkey toes,” Luna informed him. “They’re so long. You can tell where your shoes smooshed your pinky toes. They don’t straighten out all the way.”

To prove her point, she took both his pinky toes and tugged them up. They did have a little bit of curve to them. Funny how he’d never noticed.

“Rofin has an extra toe on each foot, but they’re all straight.”

“I imagine Rofin doesn’t wear shoes very often.”

“Nope. Drover only has two toes on his right foot. He lost three of them in a bear trap.”

“His shoes must be particularly roomy.”

Luna grinned up at him, and he grinned back.

“Welcome back, Harry.”

“It’s good to be home. Smooshed pinky toes and all.”

She abandoned his feet to crawl up the bed and lay beside him. He could feel her warm skin against his shoulder, and he was suddenly very aware that he was lying in bed wearing only his slacks and bandages with a girl dressed in nothing more than a one piece wrap, leaving her shoulders naked and her legs almost completely bare. He felt his ears begin to burn.

“Diana said you would be back, but she wouldn’t say when. Everyone was very sad.”

“I’m sorry, Luna. I came back as soon as I could. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

“I know. You had to go. It was in the stars,” she said, dreamily and closed her eyes, turning her head that her forehead rested on his shoulder. Now he could smell her, dogwood, tallow, salt, and Luna. She smelled of magic. Harry remembered she was in training to be a shaman.

“Did the Moon tell you this?”

“Mmm…”

She kissed his shoulder, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Luna, sweetheart,” came a voice from the door, “please stop provoking him. He’s injured.”

He looked over to see Athena standing in the doorway, and the redness of his ears quickly covered the rest of his face. The alpha female didn’t look bothered by the situation, which only made it worse. Luna sighed and looked up at her foster mother.

“Come on. You’re helping me with breakfast. We have more mouths to feed than usual.”

“Coming,” she promised, then looked to Harry. “Do you prefer strawberries or apples in your pancakes?”

“Er… strawberries, I guess.”

“Me too.”

She crawled off the bed, careful not to jostle him, and headed for the door. She gave him a little wave at the door and disappeared. Harry let his head fall back and groaned, embarrassment and arousal warring inside him. Oh, yes, he was definitely a healthy young man, if his reaction to Luna were anything to go by.

He really hoped he didn’t react this way with all his other female friends. He knew from an aesthetic point of view that most of them were quite attractive, but he hadn’t thought of anyone that way since Natalie dumped him and he had been so distracted by other things at the time he had never really thought about anything beyond kissing and holding hands.

Well, he was thinking of other things now. Curse, Luna. Odd, beautiful, and completely uninhibited little daffodil that she was. Bother.

He tentatively got out of bed, and checked his injuries in the morning light. He was still bruised, but now they were yellow rather than the purples and blues of the night before. The mark Voldemort had left on him was as tender as ever and black as pitch. He cautiously walked around the room, loosening his stiff muscles.

Not bothering with a shirt or shoes, he headed out the door and squinted into the early morning sun. The commune was just starting to wake up. The werewolves were dragging themselves from their sleeping places, a lot of them from hammocks or the roofs of their buildings, and heading towards a particular path that led out to a small creek where they all did a majority of their washing and bathing. He headed out with them, knowing it was the most likely place to find his godfathers.

Sure enough, Sirius and Remus were scrubbing down with the rest of the men folk at a spot where the creek was both wide and just deep enough to accommodate the dozen or so others. The women and children were further upstream and out of sight, although every so often you could hear them talking or laughing. Harry had already been wiped down last night to clean his injuries, and didn’t bother with anything more then washing his face and wetting his hair at the edge. The men teased Harry good-naturedly about being skinny and whether he had met any cute girls, making him blush when he was reminded about Luna.

When they got back to the commune the air smelled of cooking ham, and Harry’s stomach growled. They gathered together at the long tables set outside, where the cooks set out ham, eggs, and, of course, pancakes with strawberries. They waited only long enough for Fenrir and Sylvia, their pack alphas, to start eating before everyone else started digging in. The commune was loud with cheerful conversation. Several of the men had clustered around Stephen and started talking about their seasonal plans for the commune (which now included building another house to accommodate five more pack members), and some basic skills he would need to be taught right away. Likewise, the women had clustered around Sylvia, gossiping a great deal about men and fawning over her children, who ate their food as quickly as possible then ran off to play with Fenrir’s boisterous bunch.

It was a happy time, and Harry soaked it up like a sponge, the feeling of belonging and community easing his sorrows and fears of the previous months. Home, Harry thought. This is home. Whether he was a werewolf or not, they accepted him and there were people that loved him here.

His happiness high lasted until around nine, when Voldemort returned, interrupting him in a game of checkers with Luna, who kept moving his pieces for him. It was with more than a little reluctance that he pulled on a shirt and shoes, both of which rubbed against injuries he preferred to remain untouched, and grabbed his satchel. He shook hands with everyone (he really wasn’t up to hugs), except for Luna, who kissed his blushing cheek, and headed out to greet the rest of the wizarding world.

Fortunately, Harry didn’t have to walk far. Voldemort’s black car was there to pick them up. Victoria beamed at him as she opened the passenger side door, and he couldn’t help but grin back. If it weren’t for the Dark Lord, she would probably have broken a rib with one of her hugs.

“You seem very happy,” Voldemort observed.

“I am very happy. I’m home.”

The Dark Lord gave him a considering look.

“You left easily enough.”

Harry’s congenial mood vanished, and he glared at the older man.

“The hell I did. I had just found out that I nearly killed you and that you were going to find out at any moment and more than likely come after me, and suddenly Viktor comes out of nowhere offering me sanctuary, and I couldn’t think. I just stood there like a bloody idiot. I probably would have just kept standing there if Brennan hadn’t-”

He froze. Brennan. He still had no idea what had happened to Brennan. Voldemort seemed to realize what he was thinking, and answered the unspoken question.

“He’s very much dead, Harry. Unlike you, he knew exactly what he was doing when he designed that ritual.”

Harry closed his eyes, a powerful ache coming over him. He had known Brennan wouldn’t be spared, but to have it confirmed was painful. He had been a friend and a mentor with so much knowledge to share with him and the others. It seemed such an unforgivable waste.

“He caste an Imperius on me,” Harry said, when he could find nothing else, he cast his grief aside for a better time. “I could have thrown it off, I think. I nearly broke it at least twice. I was still confused though. I didn’t know if I should stay or go, and by the time I snapped out of it, it seemed a pointless question. I could either go to Durmstrang as a prisoner or a refugee. Refugee seemed safer.”

“So you were just pretending?” Voldemort said coldly, his voice somewhere between disapproval and derision.

“No. I decided to be a refugee. It’s not like I didn’t think my life was in danger.”

Voldemort nodded. “Yes, I did in fact intend to kill you those first few days.”

“Er… good to know. Would hate to think I did it for nothing.”

Of course, given everything he had learned in the last week, might actually have been worth the whole running away thing. Maybe. Kind of.

“What happened in Germany? Did they interrogate you?”

“They tried to threaten me into renouncing you publically, but they didn’t have anything to threaten me with. Not really. They didn’t know about the spell, thank Merlin, or I might have been in real trouble. Dumbledore knew though. He came to see me half way through term.”

“How did that go?” Voldemort asked, genuinely curious.

“Well… he visited during the full moon. He offered me lemon drops and spiritual guidance. I threw curses at him and I blew up a room. It was like visiting you only with candy.”

The Dark Lord laughed. “Ah, I wish I could have seen that.”

“So, what have you been up to? Burn down any villages while I was away?”

“Not yet. I’m currently courting the Queen of France by post. Which is a lot trickier than it sounds. Did you meet the Minister of Magic while you were in Germany?”

“Unfortunately.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Dirty. I felt dirty just being in the room with him.”

“Intelligent?”

“Manipulative. I don’t know if he’s any good at planning or leading, but I don’t think so. No one seems to really respect him. He gave guardianship of me to Dumbledore, which was a piss poor plan. The old goat didn’t seem to think he held any real power, if he could double cross him so easily. Are you really going to kill him?”

“If his own countrymen don’t do it first? Absolutely. You’re welcome to attend.”

“I’ll pass, but thanks.”

They talked for the entire forty minutes of their drive. The tension from yesterday had not completely abated and Harry could feel the burn on his chest throb and chaff under his shirt, but the old chemistry was still there and conversation came out smoothly if not well organized. They talked of Durmstrang, Grindelwald, Dumbledore (although not about Grindelwald’s relationship with Dumbledore which Harry felt was nobody’s business), Harry’s various kidnapping attempts, the Dream Meeting, national outrage at Germany, Harry’s various escapes, Voldemort’s rationing policy, the fairy wedding, and Hogwarts. Everything had to be simplified and abridged. Time was not on their side and they knew it. More detailed accounts would have to wait until later.

They pulled up in front of Snape’s house, and the potions master was already waiting for them. Staring at the menacing dark figure in doorway of the cozy little cottage, Harry was surprised to find he had missed the man almost as much as he had Hermione.

Weird.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape greeted blandly, “Still alive I see.”

“Now, would I do anything as cliché as dying?”

The potions master’s mouth twitched, ever so slightly, but retained its usual intimidating glower.

“Put your things away, and then come back to the kitchen,” he instructed, and Harry followed his orders. His room was waiting for him it seemed, the knick-knacks of last summer exactly where he left them. It was just like coming back from Hogwarts.

Elsbeth’s owl stand was empty and Inana’s basket was conspicuously absent, and he wondered briefly who was taking care of them. He set his satchel on his bed, and went back downstairs to the kitchen.

Voldemort was drinking coffee at the table, while Snape laid out bottles and vaguely familiar looking instruments. Harry sighed, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

“Strip down, Mr. Potter.”

He did as instructed, removing everything but his boxers. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen him naked before, although Harry felt distinctly more uncomfortable about it with them than he did with werewolves. Snape studied him head to toe, lingering a bit on the newest addition to his tattoo.

“You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

Harry offered him a tired smile. “I didn’t break any bones this time.”

“Yes, I can tell. Most of them are clearly visible through your skin.”

Snape began to check him over with various little rods and disks and instruments from the table. Eyes, ears, nose, and mouth first. Then lungs (and ribs, four hair-line fractures on the left side), heart, blood pressure (high), reflexes (sharp as ever). He was also made to suck on what looked like long lollipop sticks, each turning a different color.

Snape looked at the sticks closely.

“Just as I thought, you are malnourished. You need potassium, calcium, and vitamins C and D and K. Your kidneys aren’t working well either. What has your diet been like?”

Harry thought on it.

“A lot of convenience store junk and fast food for the last week. I was skinny before that though. I don’t know. I kept getting to trouble at Durmstrang, and they’d only give me gruel to eat. I hate gruel. I started skipping meals if I knew that’s what I got.”

Snape gave him a look to show how unsurprised by that bit of stupidity he was.

“No fresh fruits or vegetables either, I suppose?”

Harry shook his head.

“Imbeciles,” Snape muttered. “Unfortunately, nutrients can not instantly be brought back to normal levels using potions or spells. Saturating your system before it has time to gradually absorb them and adjust itself will poison you. I hope you like asparagus.”

Harry’s expression stated plainly that he did not. Voldemort chuckled into his coffee.

“Where did you learn all this stuff anyway? This seems like way more than they cover in Magical First Aid.”

“I worked part time as a physician’s assistant while I attended university. I dare say I learned far more than I am legally allowed to practice without a license.”

Harry tried to imagine Snape at 19 or 20, doing this sort of thing on 100 year old men and pregnant women, and was very dismayed when he succeeded.

And finally, the really unpleasant part of the examination. Musculature. Snape bent and pulled and pushed all of his limbs and back and head, testing what parts of him were pulled or sprained or torn or just bruised. And since Harry was all of those things everywhere it really, really hurt.

This was followed by treatment which was even worse.

“Your immune system is shot from stress and malnutrition, this will help fight off infections,” Snape said, handing him a bright green vile. Harry drank it and cringed as it burned his sinuses, then he bulked as Snape continued to hand him several more potions. “This will flush your kidneys of excess nitrates. This should heal yours ribs, but don’t get carried away, they’ll still be vulnerable to re-fracturing for another week. This is for the bruising. This is for the cuts. And this is for your teeth, because you clearly haven’t been flossing.”

“Hey! I have too,” Harry protested, but drank it anyway. Ugh. He was starting to get nauseous. Snape handed him three more potions without bothering to explain what they were for. “Is all of this really necessary?”

“Absolutely not. I just get a supreme thrill out of watching you turn green. That last one was actually an anti-vomiting potions. You’re really going to feel the affects of all those potions in a minute here.”

“You-”

Voldemort burst out laughing. Harry glared at him and then at Snape, who smirked at him smugly.

“Welcome home, Mr. Potter.”

Harry was supremely unhappy once they left Snape at the house. He hadn’t been entirely sure what sort of home coming he would be receiving from his guardian, but he probably should have seen this coming. His stomach rolled and squirmed, threatening to come up, but Harry knew it wouldn’t. Snape had made sure of that. The bastard.

He hoped everyone didn’t decide to take a jab at him for his quasi-kidnapping. If the Weasley clan banded together for it, he didn’t think he’d survive. Of course, the only people who knew he had allowed himself to be taken were Voldemort, Snape, Lucius, and probably Morgan. He’d have to be careful around Lucius for awhile.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked weakly, keeping his eyes closed to stave off motion sickness. In lieu of the latest Slytherin prank, his good humor towards Voldemort had shriveled for the day. No unnecessary chit-chat this time.

“London. We’re expected for a press interview. Don’t worry; you won’t have to say anything. A few pictures proving you’re actually here should be more than enough. The kicked puppy look will tell them everything they need to know.”

“Except that it was you who kicked the puppy?”

Voldemort just smirked.

It took an hour to get to London, which was good because Harry feeling a little better by then, although still not very talkative. They were in the Court District, with all its various division houses, and it didn’t take long for Harry to figure out which one they were going to.

The couple thousand people crowded outside the Department of Public Affairs was a fairly obvious give away. Harry could only gape at the gathering. They couldn’t all be reporters, but what where the others doing there?

“Do they know I’m back?” Harry asked, unable to believe the crowd could have been solely for him. He might be well known because of the Triwizard Tournament and the kidnapping, but he wasn’t that important… was he?

“No, they only know I’m holding a press conference. If I had told them what it was really about, we would have had to hold it in the London Stadium. You’ve become something of a national icon in your absence, my young friend. Your return is going to make a lot of people deliriously happy.”

“Then why are there so many people, if they don’t know what this is about?”

“I don’t speak in public every day and only if it’s about something important to the country,” Voldemort said, “This is the common man’s opportunity to see their ruler and history playing out at the same time. These lucky few will be the first to know of your return, to see you with their own eyes. This is a moment they will be able to share with their children and their grandchildren.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. Part of him felt numb to it. He wasn’t sure if he could accept that he held that much significance to complete strangers. It was mind boggling, even though he had known for along time now that his life was not solely his own anymore.

Thank Merlin, he didn’t have to talk today. He didn’t think he’d be able to do more than stutter like a fool under the weight of all that attention.

The car pulled into the secret entrance garage at the back of the building, where several Sentinels were there to meet them. So was Lucius Malfoy. They stared at each other for a long assessing moment.

“I remember you being taller,” Malfoy said at last.

“I remember you being younger.”

Smirks all around. Harry was still careful not to leave his back exposed to the Malfoy patriarch as they left the garage and made their way towards the front doors. As they went, one of Voldemort’s assistance instructed him on where to stand and how to look and gave him a glass of water he very obviously needed.

“Welcome back, Mr. Potter,” the assistant whispered, sincerely, and Harry managed a smile for him before following the Dark Lord. He had to wait just inside the doors for the first few minutes while Voldemort spoke, and during that time he could neither see nor hear what was happening, and that made him more than a little nervous. He rubbed his clammy hands on his robes and reminded himself that he didn’t have to do anything other than not fall on his face or start picking his nose and everything would be fine. “Okay, now,” the assistant said, and Harry opened the door and stepped out.

And nearly ran back inside, as some three or four thousand people let out a roaring cheer so loud that Harry could feel the vibration against his skin. Cautiously, he stepped forward until he was standing beside Voldemort. He smiled nervously, and photographers flashed their cameras and a few audacious reports actually tried to rush passed the security personnel.

“Mr. Potter when did you return? How did you manage to escape?”

“Mr. Potter, what happened while you were in Germany? How were you treated?”

“Do you have any insights on why Germany attacked the Dark Lord?”

“Is there anything you would like to say to your captors?”

“Is there anything you would like to say to people of the UK?”

Voldemort lifted his wand, and enormous BOOM sounded through the air, drowning out the reporters and the crowd instantly. Everyone was stunned silent, including Harry, who hadn’t been expecting it.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please,” Voldemort said congenially, a warning in the undertone. “Harry has had a very difficult week, and is in no state to be interrogated. When he is ready, there will be time for asking questions. He kindly offered to show himself today to verify his presence and well being to everyone who has shown such concern for him. For which I am sure everyone is very grateful. I could not bring myself to ask anything more of him.”

Nor will anyone else, was left unsaid but clearly heard. Harry silently marveled at the Dark Lord’s way with words. He was a scary, scary man. In the background, he could hear individual voices shouting out, ‘welcome back Harry’ and ‘way to go Potter’ and ‘we love you, Harry’.

Voldemort gestured for him to take a seat and to rest, still in view of the crowds and reporters but not at the forefront. The Dark Lord continued to speak for a few more minutes, giving a few details of Harry’s return, primarily that he had managed to return using muggle transportation and the help of werewolves (which left people gasping rather melodramatically in Harry’s opinion), and glossing over the fact that Harry was in Britain for about four days before he let anyone know exactly where he was. For this, Harry was grateful. He didn’t fancy Hermione finding out he had decided to go spelunking for a couple of days instead of letting her know he was okay. Unless Lucius had already known about it and saw fit to inform her and/or Draco.

By the end of Voldemort’s announcement, Harry was not only feeling a bit more relaxed, he was starting feel as if he owed the crowd something more than just sitting there. Like the Dark Lord had said, these people would be telling their children and grandchildren about this one day. Might as well give them something to talk about.

As Voldemort moved to leave, the conference concluded, Harry caught him lightly by the arm. He turned to him.

“What is it?”

“Do you think I could say something?” Harry asked. His mentor frowned, a bit uncertain.

“Is it incriminating?”

“Er… no.”

Voldemort took another moment to think about and finally nodded. “Keep it brief.”

Harry moved to the podium. The crowd that had already started to move off, hesitated. He cleared his throat.

“I just wanted to say… thank you. I’ve been gone for a long time, and while I was gone I thought of home and how much I missed it. Now that I’m back, I see that home missed me, as well. It means more to me that I can clearly express. Thank you all.”

There was another deafening cheer and more shouts of ’we love you, Harry’s and he retreated back into the building with the Dark Lord, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He felt like such a sap.

Voldemort, just chuckled and patted him lightly on the head.

“Charming. Positively, charming.”

McGunny was scared of muggles.

He was scared shitless of airplanes.

He could not conceive of how a multi-ton monstrosity could roll down a ‘runway’, let alone fly several thousand feet in the air. Crammed into rows upon tightly pack rows were the muggles he was no longer invisible from and hurtling through the air in a giant flying metal coffin, made him wish he thought to pick up some calming draught before he left wizarding Ireland, but it was too late now. He didn’t dare accept the strange little pills the old woman beside him had offered. Tom kept insisting muggle medicine was poison to wizards.

McGunny wasn’t sure he believed him, but he didn’t dare risk it.

You could always hand over control to me for a little while. Just until we land, of course.

He couldn’t reply to Tom, not when there was a little old lady to the right of him and dour looking man to his left, but he had no intention of letting Tom out. True the spirit could force it, but even he knew that was only temporary. McGunny’s will to resist provided enough magic to prevent a complete take over, but if he started surrendering it, he doubted he would be able to regain control as easily. So he just closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and did nothing.

It would only be about an hour, he told himself. Then we’ll be on the ground.

What happened after that, he couldn’t even guess. Tom had some sort of plan, but the spirit was more ambitious than cautious and he was afraid to know the exact details. He knew it involved Dumbledore, and by extension, Harry, and for that alone he hoped it failed.

At the same time, he really hoped Tom didn’t get him killed.

When Harry returned to the garage with the Dark Lord, he was nearly thrown to the floor by a hundred pounds of best friend. He had barely stepped off the elevator, when out of the gloom came Hermione, with the largest smile he had ever seen. She came so suddenly, he didn’t have time to protest when she wrapped herself around him in a hug, crushing his bruises and abrading the burn on his chest.

He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out, and hugged her back.

“I can’t believe it! I knew you were missing in Germany, but I didn’t know how you could have gotten home and was certain something awful had happened to you, but here you are and you look a mess but still you’re alive and okay. Thank god, I missed you so much!” she babbled into his shoulder. He smiled despite the pain.

“I missed you too. I got your letter. How could I stay away after that?”

She let out a sound, half sob, half laugh and pulled back. Her eyes were bright with tears, but she was practically glowing with happiness. And dammit, he was having a repeat of the ‘Luna Moment’. Stupid teenage hormones.

“I just can’t believe it,” she couldn’t help but laugh. “I probably should have though. You’ve never been in a situation you couldn’t get out of.”

“Hey, you’re making me sound very Slytherin when you say it like that.”

“What’s wrong with that?” came another familiar voice, and he looked up to see Draco smirking at him. He looked… a lot taller than he did last year. Stupid hormones, they’re conspiring to keep him short and horney. “And break it up you two or there will be some serious dueling over her ladyship’s honor.”

“Draco!” Hermione protested, her cheeks burning. She did step away though, and let him in to shake Harry’s hand.

“Welcome back. How was your incarceration?”

“It was cold and the food was awful, but they did have an excellent Quidditch Pitch. How was Hogwarts?”

“A lot more weepy Hufflepuffs than usual, but the food is still decent and they put back together the Quidditch Pitch. Ron about gave himself a coronary with the new Dueling Club recruits.”

“Draco!”

Harry chuckled, “Sorry, I missed that.”

“Honesty, the both of you of are incorrigible.”

Someone touched his shoulder, and he turned to see Voldemort standing there patiently.

“I hate to break up your reunion, but we must be going. I’m sure Severus can arrange a get together later.”

Hermione and Draco stiffened and nodded in agreement, and Harry sighed.

“Alright. I’ll see you both soon. We can make a day of it so we can catch up.”

Hermione nodded, and stole one more quick hug before letting him go. Draco rolled his eyes, and hauled her away. Voldemort and Harry got back in the car.

“Where to now?” Harry asked.

“The Department of International Affairs. We’re going to need a complete and formal account of your time spent in abroad. After that, you’ll be taken home. No doubt, Severus still has a few more potions he wants you to try.”

Harry grimaced.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Voldemort had made giving an account of his time in Germany sound like nothing more than a simple errand, like buying shoes or visiting a sick aunt, although if the sick aunt had been Vernon’s sister, Marge, he supposed it wasn’t that far off the mark. It wasn’t just a re-account of what he wanted to say, it was an interrogation.

There had taken him to a court room, and sat him in a chair at the center while some dozen or so others sat in the jury box, including Voldemort, Lucius, and Morgan. He didn’t recognize anyone else, but they were all stern faced and unsympathetic. Harry knew it was an intimidation tactic, to keep him off balanced, but despite knowing that he couldn’t fight back his genuine unease. They had made him hold a large yellow crystal, about the size of a banana, and informed him it would turn red if he lied.

There had been a professional interrogator, who appeared to be about the only friendly person in the room that smiled and cajoled him to into tell his story, pressing politely for more details, until Harry showed any sort of reluctance. Then he turned into an irascible bully.

The crystal kept him from lying, but Harry quickly figured out that omitting certain truths didn’t affect the color of the crystal at all. Thank Merlin. There were a lot of parts to the story he would rather keep the Dark Lord ignorant of. He told them about the kidnapping (leaving out that he could have thrown of the Imperius Curse if hadn’t been so conflicted), about deciding to play along with Viktor’s preconceived notions, his meeting with the German Minister, his meeting with Dumbledore, his life at Durmstrang, his encounter with Fleur on the docks and his short lived escape attempt and capture, his second meeting with Dumbledore, the trip to see his parents’ graves (although he mentioned nothing of Carrigan and said only that Dumbledore had indicated Voldemort was rotten even as a child, which amused the Dark Lord considerable), the attack by the aurors, his escape, his capture by the Canis family, the second Auror attack and his second escape, his truce with Stephen, the full moon and the fairy wedding (at which point everyone became very uncomfortable, and kept looking to Voldemort to make sure Harry hadn’t gone crazy), the crone’s message (but not Bobby’s role in delivering it), the escape to France using a secret underground tunnel Stephen had heard of, his visit to Fleur (but not his confrontation with Viktor), and the final leg of the journey into Britain via the chunnel, and the longer trip to the werewolf colonies. Just for the hell of it, he also tossed out the Dark Lord beating the crap out of him.

“You had it coming,” Voldemort said, looking just as amused as Harry as the other witnesses squirmed uncomfortably in the presence of their Master’s insanity.

“So did you.”

And his protégé’s insanity as well.

It lasted a little longer, the interrogator demanding he give up any offers the Minister or Dumbledore or anyone else might have given him to betray the country, which Harry did easily enough, and attempts to make Harry second guess his decisions while away, which he did not. A few of the witnesses even asked questions, but only petty details and personal curiosities. His story was so fantastic that no one could think of anything he might have withheld without making themselves sound utterly absurd for asking.

Finally, they had thanked him for his cooperation and let him go.

“Victoria will take you home,” Voldemort informed him, “I must stay and analyze the new intelligence your story has provided.”

“Fun,” Harry said blandly. He was starting to feel exhaustion creep up on him again, stress and fatigue taking their toll. Voldemort ruffled his hair affectionately.

“Get some rest, today was only the beginning of a very long, busy summer.”

It was the first time since his return, which Harry wondered if he was going regret coming back.

Victoria was careful not to hug him when she dropped him off at the cottage. She had seen his grimace of discomfort when Hermione had done so, and known he was injured when she had first picked him up. Instead, she squeezed his hand gently in hers and kissed his cheek, and told him she was happy that he was home.

As he wandered up the path to the cottage, he wondered if he would get sick of hearing that. ‘I’m happy you’re back’. ‘I’m glad you’re okay’. ‘Welcome home’. Some how he doubted it.

He went to the side door leading into the kitchen, rather than the front, and stepped inside.

“I’m ho- who are you?!” he blurted, more than a little startled to find a woman standing at the sink, filling a kettle with water. She gave a startled little squeak of her own, and dropped the kettle. Harry almost instantly relaxed. Her wand did not appear, and by all accounts her wide brown eyes looked far more frightened of him than he did of her. She had an honest face, no make up and freckled brown from the sun.

“Oh,” she said faintly, staring at the wand that had automatically jumped into his hand. He quickly pushed it back up his sleeve, embarrassed by the slip. “I’m sorry. We-we haven’t been introduced. I’m Ira Beadle. I’ve been looking after Professor Snape for the last few days.”

He blinked at her. Taking care of Snape?

“Oh,” he said, “I’m Harry. Nice to meet you.”

She smiled timidly.

“Your kettle is overflowing.”

She let out another little squeak and spun around, turning off the water. Quickly pouring out the excess water, she moved the kettle to the stove and turned it on.

“Sorry, sorry. I was just making some tea. Professor Snape is in his lab. He should be resting, but he’s really very stubborn. Of course, I’m sure you know that already.”

Harry nodded, just watching her run about with a growing confusion.

“I’m sorry, but… he didn’t mention you when I was here earlier. Are you…?”

He wanted to ask if she were a maid or a cleaning woman, but if she weren’t that would sound extremely rude. He struggled to find an appropriate term. “…from town?”

Er… at least it didn’t sound rude.

“Town? Oh no, I’m from London,” she said, seeming to realize he really was confused about the entire situation. “I don’t know if he told you, but Professor Snape… had something of an accident about a week ago while in London. He’s an associate of my stepfather, so we looked after him at our flat for a little while. He insisted on coming home early. Stubborn, you know. So I’ve been dropping by to make sure he doesn’t overdo it.”

“That sounds like the professor, alright,” Harry sighed. “Don’t get carried away. He’ll take advantage of anyone doing the housework for him.”

“I don’t mind. With classes out, I don’t have much else to do. Besides, the countryside is much more relaxing than London in the summer.”

They fell into conversation, a bit awkward at first but gradually it began to lighten. Ira was easily into her thirties, but she had such a sweet and vaguely insecure air about her that she seemed much younger. She worked as a research assistant at the London University of Witchcraft and Wizardy, and loved her job but hated the city. Crowded, she said, and noisy all the time. She definitely knew who he was, but she didn’t ask him any questions about what had happened to him and he was grateful for that. He was getting tired of rehashing it after the third time.

They shared tea and conversation for nearly an hour, and when it came time he helped her perpare dinner by peeling vegetables and shucking corn. At some point, Snape dragged himself upstairs for a cup of tea.

“My god, there’s two of you now,” he muttered.

“If you could take care of yourself, it wouldn’t even be an issue,” Ira said pointedly. He glared at her.

“At least, I own my own house.”

When she flinched, Harry’s hero complex kicked in.

“Which Voldemort gave you,” Harry said. “Don’t get self-righteous, Professor, it’s really unbefitting of a Slytherin.”

“You’re right, that’s more a Gryffindor trait,” he sneered.

“Quite right. We’re perfect like that. Still overpaying for eggs?”

Snape just glowered at him, and headed back towards his potions lab.

“Tell me when dinner’s ready.”

After the door slammed, Harry turned to Ira, and Ira turned to Harry, and they both burst out into laughter.

The Prince and the Purpose

“Get up, Potter.”

“Is it noon yet?” Harry muttered into his pillow.

“Most definitely not.”

“Then nooooo…” But even as he said it he sat himself up. If he didn’t get up on his own, Snape had a variety of ways of making him. He snagged his watch from bedside table. 8:45am. Good grief. He turned to glare at the potions master smirking at him from the doorway.

“Ms. Cypher is downstairs.”

“Natalie? What is she doing here?”

“If you like I could send her up and you can ask her yourself.”

Considering that Harry slept only in his boxers last night, that wasn’t the best of ideas. His over enthusiastic hormones didn’t agree, but they could go straight to hell for all he cared.

“Alright, alright, I’ll get up. Is Ira here yet?”

“Miss Beadle has already served breakfast and gone to market. I will be in my lab researching for most of the day. Do not disturb me,” he said, and left.

“Happy hunting,” Harry tossed after him, immune to his cantankerous ways. He dressed quickly, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and hurried downstairs. Natalie sat in the living room, looking as sophisticated as ever. He paused to admire her for a bit, like Draco, she had changed during his absence. A tad more curvy, face slightly leaner, and eyes a shade darker. Her smile was relieved and nervous at the same time.

“You look awful,” she said, as if it were a compliment. He grinned at her.

“It’s all those darn after parties. They can really wear a guy out. I got your gift. Thank you.”

She blushed a little, but quickly hid it, but changing the subject. “Yes, well, your art is all well and good, but your handwriting is awful.”

He crossed his arms and pretended to be insulted. “Oh, so that’s how it is. I suppose once I’ve mastered the pen, you’ll have me writing you poetry.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

He moved into the living room and took a chair kitty-corner to Natalie. He could see now that she had brought a very familiar looking basket.

“Is that..?”

She smiled and opened the basket. Inana immediately slithered out, climbing up the girl’s offered arm and around her neck, just as she had done with Harry countless times before. He watched in amazement as the snake settled around her shoulders. Inana had always liked Natalie best out of his friends, but he hadn’t thought the regal serpent would allow even her to manhandle her without Harry present. Obviously, he was mistaken.

Inana turned her pointed head towards him, flicked her tongue and finally seemed to recognize him.

“Where have you been? I haven’t ssseen you in agesss.”

“Sssorry. I was kidnapped, and I only got back a few daysss ago. Are you alright? What are you doing with Natalie?”

“Isss that her name? I don’t know. When you didn’t ssshow up, ssshe ssstarted visiting. She isss tolerable… for a human.”

“What did she say?” Natalie asked, gently stroking the top of the serpents’ scaly head.

“Nothing really, just… airing all your dirty secrets to me. I never would have guessed you keep that in your closet.”

“Harry Potter, you are so full of it,” she laughed. Inana had slid down from her shoulders and was now making her ways towards Harry. At nearly seven feet, she didn’t have to move much, and even seated comfortably in Harry’s lap, she still managed to keep her tail curled affectionately around Natalie’s wrist.

His laughter died off, and he stared mutely at the serpentine body connecting them. The Slytherin girl also fell into uncertain silence.

“I’ve missed you, Natalie.”

“I’ve missed you too.

McGunny stared blankly at the German newspaper, not comprehending a word of it, but getting a vague idea of what was happening by the moving photos. It was in fact the photos that drew McGunny’s attention in the first place.

There were three photos on the very first page. Harry Potter, looking thin and nervous, standing on a dock somewhere. A picture, a mug shot rather, of another man, looking very much like he wanted to jump out of the picture and strangle someone. The third was of Dumbledore, who looked rather annoyed.

The title page read, Harry Potter zurück in London! Entführt von einem Werwolf! Dumbledore noch immer vermisst!

Out of that, the only words McGunny recognized were the names and ‘werewolf’. He felt an inkling of fear. Had Harry been attacked by a werewolf? In the back of his mind he could feel Tom stirring, and then a sudden piercing headache that disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared. And suddenly he knew German.

Harry Potter back in London! Kidnapped by a Werewolf! Dumbledore still Missing!

McGunny closed his eyes, then opened them again. Reread the German script. It remained the same. He could not only read it, but he was pretty he could say it without stumbling over the unfamiliar words. Too strange.

Read the bloody article, Horace.

He made a quick look around the street, lined with small shops and busy with morning shoppers, and found himself an empty bench to sit on. No one gave him a second glance, and despite being in a hostile country, McGunny felt a lot safer among these wizards than he did among the muggles at the airport. He began to read.

’June,12- The Ministry of Magic has just released its first official statement regarding the disappearance of 14-year-old Harold James Potter, former protégé of the Dark Lord Voldemort who was rescued last December by Viktor Krum. Minister Seibligg confirmed public speculation of an attack by Death Eaters on June 3rd, during which Potter was taken against his will and his guardian, Albus Dumbledore has disappeared.

The latest intelligence puts an odd new twist to the event. A mere sixteen hours after Potter’s abduction, a routine patrol by three Jr. Aurors turned up the child at a known werewolf hideout. Despite their heroic attempt to rescue Potter, all three Aurors were injured and the kidnappers escaped. The names of the Aurors and the extent of their injuries have not been released. At least one assailant was identified as Stephen Nostrom Canis, a known agitator and black market trader in the Berlin Underworld…’

McGunny had to stop, a shiver running up his spine. A hundred ghastly images popping into his head of what might have happened to his young friend while in the custody of ruthless criminals.

Don’t believe it for a second, Tom hissed. The Ministry lies to protect itself. The paper lies to make a better story. You know this already. Keep reading.

He did know better. He had been around Potter enough to know when the paper made up things about him, and they frequently did, and when the ‘official’ story was a load of crock. He continued to read. The article went on to describe the suspicion of a Death Eater circle being set-up by disgruntled werewolves within Germany, the massive efforts to locate Potter amongst them, the half dozen arrests that had already been made, fears of Potter being infected during the full moon, and finally his reappearance in London during a public appearance by Voldemort. There was a lot of speculation about whether Harry was now a werewolf himself, and if the Dark Lord hadn’t ‘Imperio-ed’ Harry or threatened him to insure his cooperation. The German Ministry still adamantly denied any suggestion of kidnapping Potter in the first place, and insisted that the young wizard was happy to be rescued. In fact, the more McGunny read, the more certain he became that the entire article was a load of bullshit. The few vague suggestions that Dumbledore was now dead struck him as particularly absurd. If Dumbledore were dead, the perpetrators would want that publically known. The old wizard had obviously gone into hiding.

Which meant all of Tom’s plans had just gone to pot.

As the increasingly agitated spirit realized this himself, a burst of angry, wild magic ran through McGunny’s body, exiting through his hands and lighting his newspaper on fire.

“Shit!” He threw down the paper and stomped out the flames. “Tom, you idiot.”

The fire extinguished, McGunny looked around and wasn’t surprised that half the people on the street were now looking at him like he was a loon. No point in tempting fate, he decided, and quickly walked away. He could feel Tom raging, pounding like a tiny, but persistent hammer at the inside of his skull. When he had finally found himself on an empty street, he risked talking to the enraged spirit.

“Now what? All your efforts to get Harry out of the country were completely undone, and now that Dumbledore’s gone you don’t have any resources available to you in Germany, and we sure as hell can’t go back to England. I don’t suppose you had a Plan C?” he said, sarcastically.

Tom was silent for a long moment, but with each passing second became calmer and more certain.

I’m a genius, not a prophet. I couldn’t have predicted these turn of events, but as a genius I can find a way to turn them to my advantage. Lets find somewhere to live for now. I will need to gather information before I make any decisions.

“That’s a long winded way of saying ‘I don’t know what I’m doing’.”

You’re being awful mean-spirited, Horace.

“Go back to hell, Tom.”

It had only been about a week and a half, but the mysterious plant Snape had brought home with him was now almost twice as large, which still wasn’t very impressive, being about a foot and a half tall with six leaves. It was rather by accident, that he discovered if he nicked a leaf or stem, it bled. It was a rather disturbing little plant.

At least it didn’t appear to actually require blood, although he found himself changing the potting soil every other day, and seemed quite content with tap water and the artificial sunlight. With this information he was quite certain he could identify the plant, if he could actually find the time to get to the library to get some books on magical botany.

Currently, he barely had time to sit down, let alone do some research, and it was all Harry’s fault. Ira was still coming around to do the shopping and the housework, but there were some things she just wasn’t qualified to handle. Supervising Harry was one of them. Six months abroad had done nothing to curb his willful nature, and if anything he was twice as bad as before. He was already writing letters to just about everyone, including his godfathers, without checking with Snape first and had even gone out to visit Clyde for lunch the day before without telling anyone. The sad thing was, Harry honestly hadn’t seen the harm in it. The potions master was very close to ringing his neck.

On top of that, Snape found himself accompanying the boy to London almost daily for press interviews and conferences with the Dark Lord (which admitted were more for his benefit than Harry’s), and to Dueling Club tournaments (which he would have had to attend anyway as the club’s adult supervisor, but now had to deal with being in charge of a celebrity at the same time). Then there was the increase in post. It hadn’t taken long for people to realize that Harry wasn’t receiving their mail, and much of it was now being routed through to Snape, including nearly forty betrothal offers, sixteen modeling offers by advertising companies, and a rather lot of free tickets to Quidditch matches (which he had no intention of letting Harry go to if he continued to wander off on his own). And as if that weren’t enough, Ms. Cypher had returned to Harry’s life, and reminded him, that yes, he is in fact an adolescent male with all the parts and instincts that entails, and therefore couldn’t left alone with her. Or Hermione, but luckily she always came over with Draco.

Speaking of the Malfoys…

“To what do I owe the privilege of your company?” he asked, only mildly sarcastic, as it was a rare event that Narcissa ever visited him without her husband. She had arrived in the company of Draco and Hermione, who had quickly been sent off to find Harry, out watering the garden with Ms. Beadle. Snape put on a kettle of tea, and sat down with her in the living room. She looked distinctly out of place in his modest country house, her hair and clothes done in chicest London fashion, but not uncomfortable. She was queen of where ever she was, be it a palace or a pub.

They had been good friends during their school years and even tighter during the war, but time and responsibilities had gradually been taking them in different directions. They still enjoyed each others company.

“Lucius and I have been worried about you, Severus. After that attack in London, you just wandered out of the hospital and all but disappeared, and when you did show up you acted as if nothing had happened. Then Potter showed up, and suddenly you’re everywhere. It is a bit baffling,” she said, not looking the least bit baffled.

“You know me, Narcissa. I was never one to lie around and do nothing… even when I probably should have. You needn’t have worried. Ms. Beadle has been mothering me in your absence,” he said, smirking a bit. She smirked back. Her bedside manner had always left something to be desired, and she wasn’t the least bit apologetic.

“Ah yes, Ms. Beadle. Rather charming girl, in a mousy kind of way.”

“If you say so.”

“You must like her at least a little, if you haven’t sent her running yet,” she said, knowingly.

“She cooks and keeps house for free. I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Mmm… How are you recovering?”

“I’ve been recovered for nearly a week,” he lied. Truthfully, he still had trouble sleeping at night because of the aches in his abdomen, but he was able to function for the most part.

“And your ward?”

“Potter is nearly twelve pounds lighter than when he left. You wouldn’t know it for all the hell he still raises.”

“Yes, Draco mentioned he knocked one of his adversaries clean into the stands during the last dueling competition.”

Snape smirked at the memory. No one had looked more surprised than Harry when his simple disarming hex had sent a duelist twice his size nearly thirty feet. The Weasley twins had been crowing about his spectacular come back, even after he was disqualified from the rest of the matches for ‘excessive force’. Harry had turned bright red, and hadn’t stopped blushing until after they left the tournament.

“I suppose duking it out with the Dark Lord and the German Aurors has made dueling against his peers seem rather tame in comparison.”

Narcissa very nearly twitched at the vague reference to Harry’s fight with Voldemort. She didn’t have a clue what it was about, but she did know that Harry had broken the Dark Lord’s nose (not that you could tell) according to her husband, who was still reeling from the fact that the Gryffindor had not only come back to Britain on his own, but had actually survived the Dark Lord’s temper tantrum relatively unharmed. The only one who hadn’t been surprised was Snape, who was taking the ordeal in about as good a humor as Snape took anything.

“Yes, I suppose so. I hope you both can avoid getting into a row. He’s at that age now, after all.”

It wasn’t something he particularly worried about. Harry and he had been in plenty of fights, some real shouting matches and plenty of door slamming, but they had never resorted to wands or fists. There was an unspoken, but mutual agreement that violence had no place in their home. That wasn’t something he felt Narcissa needed to know. It inferred things he didn’t like.

“I assure you I have Potter well in hand.”

“That’s a relief. I have a feeling things are going to get very tense soon, Severus. We need you to be at your most commanding, to lead the children through the difficult times. They’re coming soon. I can feel it.”

He nodded. He felt it too. All of Britain felt it. The Dark Lord’s Ultimatum to Germany was like a ticking bomb, the entire world turned to watch as the time ran down to its final, violent conclusion. Voldemort was still demanding the German Minister be held accountable for his act of war against a ‘peaceful’ nation, and Seibligg was still denying any wrong doing. Potter’s return hadn’t diffused the situation, and had in fact made matters tenser. Germany had no hostage, and the Minister of Magic was more desperate than ever to prove himself in the right. There was no reason for the Dark Lord to hold back.

“I know. When the time comes… I will ensure that they know their duty. Especially Potter.”

And wasn’t that going to be fun.

Harry’s life had gone from very slow and tedious (Durmstrang) to frantically chaotic (return to Britain), and finally seemed to settle somewhere in the middle at frantically tedious. Two weeks after his return, he had finally gotten tired of hearing ‘welcome back, Harry’. He had done more press interviews in one week than he had in all the years prior, met a few times with Voldemort, visited almost all his friends (thank Merlin for Ira, because Snape couldn’t be bothered to take him anywhere just for leisure), written to those he hadn’t (Elsbeth had returned on her own on the third day), helped Ira keep house (which involved a lot more work than the two bachelors had bothered with the year before), finished reading Hermione’s log, and continued Dueling practice and tournaments (and was more than a little surprised to find he was ahead rather than behind most of his classmates). He hadn’t even started on his summer school work. He was afraid to even ask about it, wondering if Snape would tell him he would have to repeat the entire year like Cedric Diggory (whom he had visited and had a very interesting discussion about Valkyries with).

Despite his tight schedule, he made point to set aside this one particular day for a trip to London. It wasn’t for interviews or Voldemort, but it was important. He had been thinking about it off and on since he had been taken to Durmstrang. Ira was escorting him this time, which was good because Snape could be damn frightening to anyone under the age of… dirt. He was could frighten just about anyone if he put his mind to it.

Even through the door, Harry and Ira could hear the sound of too many children after eating too much sugar. Laughter and screeching and singing and running feet. Harry turned to his escort.

“Are you sure you want to come in? If you want to go home and pick me up in a few hours that would be fine too.”

She shook her head, and said solemnly. “Professor Snape would kill me if he knew I left you with a horde of impressionable young people.”

They both laughed. One of the things Harry liked about Ira was that she was one of the few people that knew how to handle Snape. It took a thick skin, a bit of wit, and the ability to ignore him when he got testy, and if you could do all that eventually you found yourself enjoying his company. He was like drinking really strong, black coffee. It certainly wasn’t for everyone.

He knocked on the door. There was a few more moments of playful racket, and then the door was pulled open by Robert Reicher, coated in a layer of glitter and confetti. His eyes widened as he recognized Harry.

“Harry?”

“Surprise?” he said, smiling weakly. It occurred to him that he probably should have sent them word in advance that he was coming, but by the time he had remembered Elsbeth had already been sent out to deliver a letter to Hagrid.

Nevertheless, Robert smiled. “I’ll say.”

He pulled away from the door a moment to look behind him, then turned to Harry. “Okay, hurry in quick before they spot you. This will be a perfect surprise. I have the kitchen cordoned off for the adults.”

They hurried inside and towards the back, Harry chuckling as they snuck passed the living room where a dozen or so children were busy playing a game that looked suspiciously like Twister. They made it to the kitchen safely undetected, and there found a large pile of presents and a congregation of parents. Harry set his present down amongst the rest, and looked around.

“Where’s Kyle?”

“Watching the kids,” Robert said, “I’ll get him in just a second here. It’s good you came. Morgana insisted you would be here, and it would have broken her heart if…”

“I made a promise,” Harry said. “I never forget my promises. I’m sorry, I should have sent you word ahead of time.”

Robert placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder, and smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.” There was a lot said in the gesture, more so than even the words, and Harry felt familiar warmth he associated with home. Then he seemed to finally notice Ira.

“Oh, I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced. Robert Reicher.”

“Ira Beadle. I’m Harry’s…er…”

“Friend,” Harry offered. “She’s been helping me settle back in.”

“Ah, well, it’s nice to meet you. Let me just get Kyle. He’ll ring my neck if I don’t warn him in advance.”

He left the kitchen in hurry, leaving the two with six other strangers, more than a few of them openly gawking at Harry.

“Good Lord, you wouldn’t happen to be-” one rather hefty looking mother started.

A father, one of two there, shook his head. “Oh, I get it, you’re a look-a-like. I’ve heard of this. You hire a look-a-like to entertain at parties, like birthdays and weddings. As if Rob knows-”

“Actually no,” Harry said. “I really am Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.”

The other parents looked uncertain for a moment, but then one of the mothers, clearly well into another pregnancy, came forward and shook his hand.

“I’m Addy Gaines. My son, Joel is in Morgana’s class.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Price.”

And that started off the introductions, but they only made it half way through before Kyle came running into the kitchen as if it were on fire. One moment, he was just staring at Harry and then the next he was hugging the body like an anaconda.

“I can’t believe it! You rascal! You had me laughing for days when I heard you got back all on your own.”

“Well, I couldn’t break my promise, now could I?” he managed to wheeze out. Kyle just laughed and patted him on the back.

“It’s good to have you back. Come on out. Alyssa is already suspicious, and if she catches you, the kitchen is going to be as big a mess as the rest of the house.”

Harry took a quick moment to introduce Ira, and then followed Kyle out into the hall, the other parents following behind out of curiosity.

“Morgana, Alyssa, look who finally showed up!”

Harry had barely even stepped into view before he found himself with an armful of little girls. They cried out in delight, wrapping their little arms around.

“Harry!”

“How are my beautiful princesses?” he said, kneeling down. They were all done up in curls and pink and yellow birthday dresses, flush from laughing and running around. Alyssa reached out and touched his cheek.

“You’re so skinny!”

“Ah, well you see, I missed you both so much, I just about wasted away,” he explained, solemnly, “But then I remembered my promise, and decided I just had to escape.”

Morgana turned to a little boy, who looked a bit like Addy, and said, “Told you so!” Then she turned back to Harry. “Tell us about it! You always have the best stories! I bet this one is really good!”

Harry looked uncertain. Telling stories to two little girls around bedtime was a lot different than telling stories to a dozen little girls and boys hyped up on sugar.

“Please, Prince Harry?” Alyssa begged, which got the other children going.

“Please, please, please?!”

He sighed and nodded, and they all let out a cheer, including some of the adults in the hall just to be cute. He waded through the children until he reached the sofa, Morgana on the right, Alyssa on the left, two more kids squeezed in on both sides and the rest sitting on the floor, while the adults found seating or lounging spots where ever they could.

“Alright, where shall I start?” he asked. Morgana of course, had the answer.

“Tell us why you got kidnapped. Papa said it was because Germany doesn’t have its own prince, so they stole ours. They just have lords and ladies and a really stupid minister.”

There was soft chuckling from the adults, but Harry just nodded solemnly, the idea for the story (because there was no way he was telling it the way it really happened) already starting to take shape.

“Oh, yes, this is very true. There are many noble lords and ladies in Germany, but no king or queen or princes or princesses. All they have is Minister Seibligg, and he is quite stupid. In fact, the Minister was elected because he was so stupid, and the people thought it would be a funny joke to pick him. You see if they had a stupid ruler they thought they could have all the fun they wanted and he would be too stupid to stop them. They could skip school and sleep during work and eat ice cream every day.”

This made the children all smile. It certainly sounded like a good plan to them.

“So they had a lot of fun there?” a little girl asked.

Harry shook his head. “No, they did not. It was only fun for a few days, and then the children all grew bored, the grown-ups all ran out of money, and eating all that ice cream gave them tummy aches. So they went back to school and they got back to work and they ate their spinach.” The children wrinkled their noses. “Now the Minister thought he was doing an excellent job. For a whole week everyone was so happy, so he didn’t understand why they had all started going back to studying and working and eating spinach, and he passed a law ordering them all to stop. This made the people very angry, and they all told him he was stupid and he couldn’t make them do anything, and they kept learning, working, and eating-”

“Spinach,” several children said at once.

“Exactly.” [1]

Harry continued his story, weaving a tale of foolishness and bravery and magic, enrapturing the listeners, both child and adult. He told them of the Minister’s foolish plan to become king by adopting an orphan prince so that he could rule forever, and how he betrayed King Voldemort, who had just happened to have an orphan prince lying around, and stole the orphan and locked him away in an ice fortress. But the orphan was very clever, as most orphans are, and escaped by sneaking aboard the same pirate ship that kidnapped him. Once he reached land, the orphan prince met many people, some bad and some good and some strange, until at last he met the werewolves, who saved him from being lost in a dangerous wood and led him home through a secret underground tunnel.

“And then,” Kyle pitched in, “They all celebrated by eating-”

“Spinach!” some yelled, and everyone laughed.

“Ice cream and cake! Everyone into the dinning room!”

There were shouts of glee, and the tranquility of before was shattered by the promise of more sugar. Alyssa and Morgana each gave him a big hug and ran off with the rest. Harry sighed in relief, and slumped into the cushions. It was hard work telling a story for nearly an hour and keeping it entertaining.

“That, my friend,” Robert said, helping him to his feet, “Was a very good story.”

One of the other parents laughed, “I don’t suppose I could hire you on to do Rachel’s birthday party? I’ve never seen that many children sit that quietly for that long.”

Harry laughed, but shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m all booked up for the rest of the year.”

The rest of the party went off without a hitch. They had their cake and ice cream, Morgana opened her presents, and they spent about another hour burning off sugar with several rounds of hide-in-seek, before everyone started to crash and their parents took them home. Morgana and Alyssa were very reluctant to let Harry go, so he lingered until the very end by having coffee with Robert, Kyle, and Ira until even Morgana and Alyssa were struggling against sleep.

He kissed them both on the forehead, wished Robert and Kyle goodnight, and followed Ira out into London. The sun hadn’t quite settled below the skyline, but the afternoon heat was quickly fading. They were both tired, but in a pleasant, drowsy sort of way.

“You really are a prince, you know that?” Ira said after a block.

“I’ve heard it said, once or twice,” which was as far as he was ever going to be to admitting it.

“You made those little girls very happy today.”

“I also made them miserable for six months worrying about me. Do you think a few hours makes up for that?”

She looked at him startled. He was still smiling, but it had taken on a melancholy air she had assumed was simply fatigue.

“It’s hard being my friend,” he said, “It can even be dangerous. Trouble finds me and I seek out trouble, and bad things happen sometimes.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Do you think that makes it better? I love my friends, I care about them, and for the last six months they had to wait here and wonder if I was ever coming back or if I was even okay. Before that, they had to wonder if I was going to survive the bloody Triwizard cup and before that being stalked by a terrorist and before that it was… something else… and something else before that… It’s always something, and there will always be something.”

She couldn’t say anything to that. She didn’t even know how the subject had come up, but she was feeling distinctly out of her element.

“I like you, Ira. You’re a nice lady and easy to talk to, but you need to understand what caring about me entails. I get into dangerous situations sometimes. I have a lot of secrets that I’ll never tell you. I practice the kind of magics that can tear apart a person’s soul if they’re not careful. I enjoy the company of werewolves, and do things with them that no sane person would dare. I talk to snakes. Oh, and Voldemort wants me to help him rule the UK. That’s all the major things, I think.”

She just blinked at him, and then swallowed thickly. Now, she was feeling just plain out of her league. The things he was talking about she never expected to face, not in a hundred years, but that was the everyday existence for Harry. A life so fantastical it couldn’t be anything but lonely.

He looked so small walking there beside her.

“You have to think this through, Ira,” he continued. “I’ve given you fair warning, which is more than anyone else ever got when they fell in with me. It’s not all going to be tea and birthday parties. Just ask Snape. He can rant for days on the subject.”

“You’re tired, Harry.”

“Yeah, but I’m not lying.”

“I know. Lets just get you home.”

He smiled bit more authentically. “I’m already home. Everyone welcomes me back where ever I go. Complete strangers, even. It’s weird, but kind of nice. I bet I could stop anyone on this street and introduce myself, and they’ll say. ‘It’s good to meet you, lad. Welcome home,’ or ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard of you! Good to have you back!’ I’ll bet you a whole galleon, that’s what they would happen.”

“You’re probably right,” she said. “They all mean it too.”

“And that’s just what the king intended”

Harry sprung up in his bed, staring wide eyed into the darkness of his room. He could sense it was late into the night, possibly even the early morning before even a hint of pre-dawn light.

“Bobby? Elsbeth? Is that you?” he whispered, searching blindly for his glasses and his wand on the bedside table. He cast a Lumos on the darkened room, bringing his wand to a gentle glow that wouldn’t hurt his eyes.

There was no Bobby or Elsbeth, but there was an owl standing on the owl perch, unfamiliar, but with a very obvious roll of parchment on its leg. He dug some own treats out of his bedside table, gave one to it while he untied the message. Unrolling it, he found a letter in familiar flowing script and a newspaper article. He read the letter first.

Dear Harry

I was relieved to hear that you had returned home safely. I knew you could do it. Your escape, however, has had some unforeseen consequences that I know you would want to be made aware of as soon as possible. There are werewolves trying to get into France without permits or papers, and while this isn’t uncommon, we have never seen so many at once. I did some investigating, and what I learned breaks my heart.

The werewolves in Germany are being hunted. There is no telling how many have been arrested, but those who have managed to make into France insist the number to be in the hundreds and dozens have been killed already. The Ministry is accusing them of being Death Eaters, but even if it were true their tactics are too extreme to be legal or moral. They are even arresting the people who are hiding the werewolves, and there has been rioting in Munich and Stuttgart.

The Queen intends to renounce their actions formally soon, but she doesn’t hold much sway in Germany any longer and we do not have the resources to handle so many people so suddenly. If there are accidents, and a werewolf hurts or kills someone, she will be held accountable.

I know you care about these people, so if there is anyway you can convince Lord Voldemort to help us, I can almost guarantee France will accept it. If anyone can convince him, it’s you.

It wasn’t signed, but then Harry already knew it was Fleur. The article she had sent him was in German, detailing lie after lie about Harry and his escape from Germany. There was nothing of the Aurors who had attacked him, which he wasn’t expecting, but describing Stephen, a family man through and through, as a lone dissenter attempting to raise a covert army was absurd. There was no mention of his wife and children at all. He stared at it, baffled for a long time. Then realized what was being done was a lot more important than what was being said.

The werewolves needed help. They needed help, and while he wasn’t sure how he played into it, he was certain it was at least partly his fault.

The weight of an overwhelming responsibility began to settle on his shoulders. He didn’t know if he could do anything. He had no power of his own, only what Voldemort gave him, and he didn’t know if he could beg this boon from him so soon after his return, the ashy taste of betrayal still fresh in the Dark Lord’s mouth.

Unless…

“I have to make it appeal to him,” he said softly to the dark.

He lit the candle on his desk with the flick of his wand, and pulled out some parchment, a quill, and ink. For ten minutes, he simply sat there and tried to clear his mind of images Fleur had conjured in her letters. Images he associated with the Jews and gypsies of World War II; entire families hiding in attics as soldiers hunted the house for them, desperate dashes for freedom in the dark of night, and lines of the captured marched into the back of trucks never to be seen again.

He couldn’t use those. The Dark Lord wouldn’t care, and all they did was weigh him down with guilt and responsibility. He had to shove them aside, and find a reason that would make Voldemort want to help them. To find the advantages in a situation that should be resolved for solely moral reasons.

When he could finally push aside his own feelings, he was amazed that reasons were abundant, all of them cold and amoral, but plentiful. Quickly, he began to write.

“I need to see Lord Voldemort. Today.”

“Certainly. I’ll just cancel your appointment with the Spanish Minister and bump that meeting with the Pope to three,” Snape said, not looking up from the forty-second marriage proposal. Once you got passed the flowery introductions, they were actually pretty funny to read. Like James Potter’s love letters to Lily. The man couldn’t write a poem unless it rhymed and that had resulted in some interesting similes and metaphors that rhymed with ‘Lily’.

Ira was at the stove, making eggs, as if she had never left. She looked over at him curiously, but didn’t ask. This clearly didn’t involve her.

“It involves his relations with France. It’s important.”

Snape looked up from his letter, curiosity peaked.

“And how would you have come across information relevant to the Dark Lord’s relations with France? And what makes you think he doesn’t know what you know already?”

“I have friends in France. How do you think I managed to get through it without getting arrested? And I’m sure the Dark Lord knows what I know already, but just to be sure…”

“If you just tell me-”

“It involves me too.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Harry tried to smile innocently, but he had been up in his room all night brainstorming and then picking apart his own ideas like Hermione had taught him to do, and was too tired for anything more enthusiastic than darkly amused.

“I could make you tell me…”

“I’m not eleven anymore, Professor. Do you really want into see what’s floating around in my head? Even the Dark Lord shies away from it these days.”

“You’re getting better at this,” Snape remarked, and turned back to the letters. “I’ll send him a missive. If he can spare the time, we’ll go.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, sincerely. The potions master sighed.

“And you were doing so well up until that point. I almost forgot you were a Gryffindor.”

“Gryffindors get the toast that’s less burnt,” he said, smirking up at Ira as she set down his plate in front of him. She just rolled her eyes. Snape, however, double checked to see if it were true.

Voldemort did, in fact, have time to spare for them, and a quarter before noon, they walked into the Department of Foreign Affairs, Scottish Branch in Glasgow. Harry made it a point to dress in his interview clothes, freshly spelled free of wrinkles and shoes shined. He had Fleur’s letter and his own list of ideas folded neatly in his breath pocket, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to take out either.

They went through the usual security checks, and entered the Dark Lord’s office. The style was distinctly gothic, narrow pointed arches at the windows and door way, and high vaulted ceiling making the room feel more like a medieval church than an office. The Dark Lord’s desk however, made of ancient timbers and inlaid with dragons and horses and gods would never have been at home in a church. He leaned against his high-backed chair as they entered, his interest immediately settling on Harry.

“You wished to talk to me about something?”

The Gryffindor swallowed thickly, and took a seat nearest his desk. Snape, however, remained near the door with his arms crossed, stating without a world that Harry was on his own here.

“Yes… have you… have you received any letters from France recently?”

He raised a brow.

“I have.”

“Then you know of the werewolf situation?”

The Dark Lord smiled knowingly. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Snape shift, and thought if he turned to him he would see one very pissed off potions master.

“Do you intend to help?”

“Do you?” Voldemort asked, curiously.

“…I only have the power that you give me,” Harry said cautiously. “If you give me the power to help them, I will.”

“A very good answer. And how would you help them if I granted you such power?”

That was a tricky question to answer. If Harry asked for too much, he would be denied, if he asked for too little opportunity would be lost. He decided to aim high. He might be able to argue his way up.

“Offer to take a few hundred of the refugees off France’s hands and set them up with Greyback, perhaps set up additional colonies in France with their permission.”

Voldemort let out a snort. “A few hundred refugees? Do you think Greyback have that much room to spare? They’re hunters and gathers, not urbanites. I would have to hand over half the forests in Britain, including the Forbidden Forest to accommodate that many werewolves. And then I’d have to re-open all those cells in Azkaban because there was no more openings left for the felonious amongst the furred.”

“They’re people,” Harry said pointedly, “They can adapt to being something other than hunter gatherers. They can be farmers, and still live off the land and provide a service to wizarding kind. Or shepherds. Dairy farmers. Anything that gives them space away from witches and wizards.”

Voldemort conceded the point with a gesture.

“Alright, I could take a few hundred people off their hands. Now tell me why I should?”

“Aside from the fact that the Queen of France will love you for it?”

The Dark Lord smirked. “Aside from that.”

“You’ll have hundreds of very grateful people, seriously pissed off at the country you intend to go war with for one.”

“Oh, I like that one. Greyback won’t let me take them out of his territory for military purposes though.”

Harry thought for a moment. “He’d probably let you take a lot of the men if you negotiated for it. There are a disproportionate number of men to women in the colonies.”

Voldemort conceded that point as well. Harry let out the breath he was holding. So far, so good. Naturally, the Dark Lord had to throw a curve ball.

“I doubt I’ll be able to get the Brits to agree with you though. They’re still grumbling over the monopoly on furs and forest goods the wolves have going. If the system didn’t work so well, the trade guilds would still be pushing to dissolve the colonies.”

Harry didn’t know anything about the trade guilds opposition to werewolves, but he had factored in the public’s reluctance to let more werewolves into the country after only a few years of having control over their native population.

“I’ll convince them.”

“You?”

“I’ll convince the people that it’s the right thing to do. That it is the right and honorable thing to do. Isn’t that what you wanted? For me to sell the people on an idea that you can’t? I think that’s what you said.”

Voldemort’s smile faded, and he stared at Harry thoughtfully.

“And do you think you could do it now? Are you that brave? That strong? Once you start down this path you can’t step off of it. You will be identified by your cause, and there are going to be a lot of people who hate you for it, strive to dishonor you and those close to you, mock your every decision and action.”

Harry remained quiet, truly thinking about what the Dark Lord was saying. Life was already difficult without public criticism, but he wasn’t naïve enough to think it wouldn’t have ended up that way. Voldemort wanted his prince, and the prince was always more vulnerable. The least he could do was have the subject of criticism be something he could support whole heartedly.

“I am a child of the Moon,” Harry said, “And they are my brothers and my sisters. What is the mockery of men compared to their suffering? If you give me the power, I will help them.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll have to find the power elsewhere… and that is a scary, scary thought.”

“This is the stupidest idea you’ve had yet,” McGunny hissed under his breath, wandering down the darkened street. Blood Row. Vampireville. Coffin Corner. That’s what they called these places in England. The one or two blocks the vampires kept themselves to in any given city, where a mortal only came under the protection of one of its inhabitants or if they had a death wish. McGunny didn’t have either, but Tom had taken control over his limbs just to get him there, and now was moving him about with the sort of confidence that kept even the most suspicious shadowy figure from looking twice at him.

They are powerful here and numerous. Just the allies we need.

“Can’t we get allies that are breathing and vegetarian instead?” he muttered.

Sure, if we were raging a war against cancer and obesity.

The apartments and shops along Blood Row (he had no idea of the street’s real name or what the Germans called it), were all dark and all open, the soft glow of candlelight peeking out of the odd, open curtain. Pale men and women walked the street, dressed in either elegant black, whites, and reds or tattered grays, and music flowed from every shop, all varieties including folk and acoustic guitar. There was a lively air about the place, despite most of its occupants being dead, and if it weren’t for the poor lighting he might have passed down this street without even realizing where he was.

“Aren’t you a little young to be out on your own, little man?” a voice suddenly purred in his ear. If McGunny had had any control over his body, he would have jumped near out of his skin, but Tom didn’t allow him to so much as flinch. Instead, he turned to the male vampire smirking at him. He was slender, almost sexless in shape, with narrow eyes and a wide mouth that made him look like a snake.

Tom liked him instantly.

“Who is the Master of this Row?”

“Who is asking?”

Tom/McGunny handed him a card, black with an elegant golden V, and nothing else. The vampire took it, but there was no recognition.

“Give it to the Master of the Row. He will know what it means or else he is not worth talking to.”

The vampire’s eyes widened and he hurried off, disappearing into one of the shops. They didn’t have to wait long, before the slender vampire returned.

“Mistress Katiana will speak with you.”

Splendid.

Harry stood at the podium, his hands clenched against the wood to keep them from shaking, and looked over the some six-thousand people gathered into the square in the London Court District. It had only been two days, and despite what he had said to Voldemort he didn’t feel the least bit prepared.

He had helped write this speech with one of Voldemort’s professional speech writers, who had then made him practice it over and over so that Harry didn’t even need his cards (although he still kept them just in case) and didn’t sound like he was just reading at the audience. He had practiced it in front of Sirius and Remus and Luna while Voldemort negotiated with Greyback, and they insisted it was a good speech. Diana had even given him her blessing.

He was as prepared as he could possible be, but still felt like he was going to freeze up and fall over before a single word escaped his mouth. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he reminded himself why he was doing this in the first place. People were suffering out there, people like the Canis’s and his godfathers, and if he could do something…

“Hello and good morning,” he said, his voice magically amplified to rise above the natural din of the crowd. Everyone settled fell silent to listen. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice.”

There was the expected shout of ‘We love you, Harry’, somewhere in crowd, and he ducked his head shyly, before forcing himself to look up and continue.

“Now I am afraid I must apologize. You see, I invited you all here under false pretences.”

There was a confused murmur through the crowd.

“I did not come here to talk to you about what happened in Germany or during my journey home. You can read that in any newspaper from here to Dublin. I have had ample opportunity to share my story with you, and you have been captive audience. No, I do not come before you to speak for myself. I speak to you on behalf of those who have no voice. I speak on behalf of werewolves.”

The crowd reacted as Voldemort had predicted and the speech-writer had warned. Outrage and indignation, but mostly confusion. A press release had been given the day before, detailing the German Minister’s anti-werewolf campaign and France’s only dilemma in taking in those who fled the country, so at least some of them had an idea of what he was going to talk about. Harry took a long slow breath, fighting down his instinct to run from the stage. Now came the really hard part.

“Please,” he continued, and the ruckus died down a little, “let me say my part.”

He gave the crowd another few seconds to settle, and eventually even the dissenters quieted.

“I know it isn’t easy for you accept werewolves. We have had a long, dark history of fear and violence between us and them, and it can not be erased or forgotten in the course of a few years, and nor should it. Their existence is made more tragic and more frightening in their humanity. They are all children and siblings and spouses and friends to us, and it is only bad luck or bad choices that keeps them from sitting at our dinner table, shopping in our stores, and going to our schools.”

Harry had to stop for just a moment, forcing back the emotion that was threatening to choke him. He was thankful everyone remained silent until he was ready to continue.

“As many of you know, my godfathers are werewolves and they have saved my life more than once. The Canis family, also werewolves, risked not only their freedom but their very lives to bring me across hostile country to my homeland. I owe them all a debt of gratitude and eternal friendship, so when I received word that the German Minister has begun a campaign of tyranny against their native werewolf population and any who would attempt to protect them, using my escape as an excuse, lying to save face…”

The anger here was genuine. Two days and Voldemort’s explanation of the Minister’s tactics had fed a deep seated hatred for the man. Tactics, Harry now realized were dripping with spite directed at Harry himself, a way to hurt him while at the same time rescuing himself.

“I can not remain passive as my actions are being used to persecute a people who has no voice, no means of defending themselves. I make my stand here and now. With help from the civil rights group, Voice for All, I am submitting a proposal to the Wizengamot to open sixteen new colonies…”

Some of the crowd started to protest, but Harry continued to plow through before they gained momentum to drown him out.

“… consisting primarily of farmland, rather than forest…”

That shut up nearly half the protestors right there.

“..so that we might accommodate some three hundred displaced werewolves within our nation’s borders and also send twenty or thirty native werewolves to France to help them set up werewolf colonies of their own. The proposal is called Proposal 4-66, and will be released for public scrutiny in two days. I am requesting your support.”

There were more protests, although most of the crowd now looked more torn than anything. Most people had no real opinion on werewolves, who were so far out of their realm of experience as to not warrant thinking about, and being forced to do it so suddenly left them uncertain. Voldemort told him it would be his job to lead the uncertain people to his way of thinking. That was a politician’s job.

“I know this is a sacrifice,” Harry said, raising his voice, drowning out all others. “I am asking you to sign over lands that can no longer be held for public use. I am asking you invite strangers into your backyards. I am asking for you accept that added risk of more werewolves. And I am asking you to do this with no offer of compensation. By all accounts, I probably shouldn’t bother asking at all, and if I didn’t know a few things I wouldn’t. But I do know some things.’

“What I know is that our nation has integrity. I know that you want to do the right thing the right way for the right reasons. Even when it’s scary, even when its hard, even when others say it’s wrong.”

Protest died right there, and there was a small murmur of agreement.

“Do you know how I know this? I know this because you are standing in front of me right now. I know this because fifteen years ago you all took a stand. While thousands fled for reasons both legitimate and false, you or your parents took a stand to hold firm. And when the fires burned out and the future remained unknown, you rebuilt from the ashes your homes, your businesses, and your communities. I know I can ask you this unreasonable request, because I know you are not strangers to unreasonable expectations. Because I know you no strangers to tough decisions.”

Now everyone was starting shout out their agreements, a sense of pride swelling in their chests. Harry could feel the end of his performance drawing near, and his terror was greater than ever, knowing if he fumbled now he would have blown the entire thing. His mouth was dry as sand paper but he didn’t dare take a drink and disrupt the flow of enthusiasm he had finally gathered from the crowd.

“You know, over there,” he said, pointing east, in the general direction of Europe, “They think it was the good people that left during the war. They think only the smart and honest people left, but I know the truth. I know the real quality witches and wizards stuck it out. I know the loyal, the proud, and the courageous stuck it out.”

The crowd was cheering now, shouting out at the end of his every sentence, the crescendo to a line of music.

“And do you know what? We’re going to prove it to them! We are going to show them that the United Kingdoms do nothing by halves. We will show them not only through our great deed of magic and business and art, but also through our great deeds of compassion and humanity. Right now, we have the opportunity to save hundreds from persecution, in a way that no one else can. We have first and only completely successful program for dealing with werewolves, that not only maintains public safety but also the dignity and well-being of person infected. We have not only the obligation, but the honor of sharing this knowledge. In the years to come, what we decide to do today may save the lives of thousands. So if I were to ask you now, for the betterment of our witches and wizards, both here and abroad, will you support Proposal 4-66, what would your answer be?”

“YES!”

The cry rang out through the square, possible through half the wizarding part of the city, and Harry nearly stumbled backwards. I did it!he thought weakly, torn between relief and awe.

“What is your answer?!” he shouted out again.

“YES!” they cried louder than before, and began to chant, “4-66! 4-66! 4-66!”

Harry stepped away from the podium, the chant of the crowd at his back, and entered the Court Building. Voldemort stood beside the door, smiling like the devil and applauding his performance. Harry was very tempted to vomit on his shoes, but politely refrained. One the interns got him a chair and he collapsed into it.

“I feel like I’m going to die,” he moaned. “Please tell me I don’t have to do that again.”

“Not today,” Voldemort said cheerfully. The day had been a marvelous success, and not just because for Proposal 4-66, but for Harry himself.

Harry was now, officially and undeniably, the Prince of Britain.

1. I ended up writing a lot of Harry’s tale before I realized it could make a chapter all its own, so I will be posting it separately in a few days so that it doesn’t take up too much of this chapter.↩

Political Unrest

Katarina, Mistress of Berlin’s Vampire Row, was not a typical specimen of vampirism, but then most Masters and Mistresses were not. It took a rare sort of vampire to look beyond the moment, beyond the despair of an unending existence, and plan for themselves and for others. Katarina was the type to laugh at stereotypes and ideology without substance. She did not wear black or red, as was customary among vampires, but preferred bright colors; violets, blues, yellows, and greens silks and velvets, and perhaps a little more gold jewelry than was strictly tasteful. With her dark skin and kohl painted eyes, McGunny found himself thinking of Egyptian Queens, even though her dress was pure European.

McGunny noted her appearance and demeanor as merely a second hand observer. He had surrendered his body to Tom for this meeting, as much he hated it, with the understanding that if he tried what Tom was doing, the vampiress would see him for the liar that he was and kill him.

“It is happening just as he predicted,” Tom said, idlely stirring his tea. He was sitting across from Katarina in the living area of squalid, little apartment she had provided him. Originally there had been no furniture in the apartment except for a lumpy mattress on a creaky iron bedframe, but he had started transfiguring some crates and abandoned rubbish into furniture on the first day there, and after six days, the apartment had actually started to look homey, which no doubt irked the vampire. She obviously wanted him to squirm, while she thought over his proposal.

She said nothing at first, merely staring at the newspaper article in her lap. The German Ministry was on an anti-werewolf campaign. This wasn’t unusual. She had been through several campaigns in her seven hundred years in dozens of different countries. The UK and France offering sanctuary wasn’t odd either. Countries often offered refuge to the victims of their enemies, out of spitefulness or to recruit more soldiers, just as Europe had done for the refugees of Voldemort’s coup d’état. However, it was the very fact that there was nothing unusual about these events that concerned Katarina. She had lived long enough to know what would happen once the Ministry ran out of werewolves to torment.

“Your people will be next,” the young man who had called himself ‘Horace’, barely more than a schoolboy, stated plainly. “The werewolves are already fleeing. When they are all gone, the Ministry will turn on the other non-humans. Veelas. The half-fae. Goblins. And most especially-”

“Vampires. Yes, I know that. I have danced to this tune more than once, child,” she said, shortly. She really didn’t like wizards. Their arrogance always astounded and disgusted her. The fact that the Dark Lord had sent this toddler to negotiate with her didn’t endear her to either of them.

He made no acknowledgment of her irritation. His palms didn’t sweat, his body didn’t tense, and his eyes didn’t widen. He merely sipped his tea and continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. She was really starting to despise him.

“Then you know you have three options. One, you can ignore the danger, and wait till the Ministry decides to burn this neighborhood to the ground in the middle of the afternoon. Two, you can gather your people and flee ahead of the danger, leaving behind your land and businesses for the Ministry to seize and redistribute as they see fit, starting over at some other city until the cycle is renewed yet again. Or three, you can ally yourselves to the Dark Lord, and take control of your destinies.”

She snorted.

“What can your Dark Lord offer us? The vampires of your country have no more rights or liberties than we do in Germany or anywhere else for that matter. Do you expect me to risk myself and my family to maintain the status quo? We will liquidate our assets through a muggle company and transfer them to another country. When the fighting is done, we will return. I am not interested in playing your master’s game.”

He smiled, a decidedly unpleasant look that reminded her of Goethe, the very messenger who had brought this boy before her.

“The vampires of the UK have no more rights or liberties, because they did not earn them. They played your game, dancing out of the way of danger. Risking nothing. Gaining nothing. If they had sided with the Dark Lord during the war, like Fenrir Greyback did, they too would be enjoying the benefits of his gratitude.”

“Crammed together in the middle of the boonies where the fine witches and wizards of Britain don’t have to deal with them? How wonderful that would have been.”

The look he gave her suggested she was being particularly stupid, and she had to fight herself to keep from ripping out the fool’s throat.

“They are not ‘crammed’, and for your information, they are living exactly the way Fenrir Greyback negotiated for. Their lifestyle is suitable for their condition. You have the opportunity to make a similar negotiation. Think about it. You could have a voice in the government, equal rights to wizarding folk. No more hiding. No more running. No more depending upon the tolerance of others.”

She snorted.

“Until the Dark Lord dies, of course. Then we will once again be dependant on the tolerance of his successor,” she said.

“Madam, the Dark Lord will more than likely out live you and everyone in your coven. It is not a matter you need to worry yourself over.”

This little tidbit silenced her for some minutes. She had heard the rumors, of course, that the Dark Lord had somehow managed to make himself immortal through the Dark Arts. At nearly eighty, and not looking a day over thirty, this wasn’t hard to find plausible. It changed the game somewhat. If the Dark Lord were indeed immortal, and had plans on Germany (and possibly all of Europe), it might be a very bad idea to get on his bad side. A mortal could only hold a grudge for century or so, and their ability to exact revenge was even more limited. An immortal, however, was a different matter altogether.

“Why you?” she asked, changing the subject before he realized he had unbalanced her. “Out of everyone he could have sent, why a scrawny little nobody like you?”

She was starting to descend into pettiness, but she didn’t care. His presence was insulting, and she didn’t feel inclined to tolerate it. He didn’t rise to the bait.

“My Lady, now you are just being rude. It is quite unbecoming,” he chided. “I assure you I am somebody. Somebody Lord Voldemort would no risk for just anything. He chose me specifically as a demonstration of his sincerity.”

“Just who are you, then?”

Tom tilted his head, as if considering. “You won’t believe me. Not unless I show you something first. I beg your indulgence, for just a minute. Serpensortia!”

The vampires leaped to her feet and across the room before he even finished his incantation. She had no wizarding magic of her own. Her only defense against it was retreat or attack before a spell could hit her, and she never forget this while in the presence of a witch or wizard. Her caution and quick reflexes had saved her more than once. She needn’t have bothered this time. The spell had done nothing more than summon a large snake, which was harmless to her kind, poisonous or not.

The boy blinked at her, as if surprised by her reaction, but she knew damn well he was more amused than anything. The snake he had summoned rose up and flared its hood, and she could see the telltale markings of a King Cobra as it hissed and made a mock strike at Horace’s outstretched wand. He didn’t seem the least bit alarmed, and even pocketed his wand.

“Assskuuu ssstisss muisss,” he hissed, and immediately the snake’s hood collapsed. The boy held out his hand, the unprotected flesh mere inches from death. “Kissshhh ne sssisss inusss.”

The snake immediately curled around his outstretched arm, and made its way over him and into his lap, where it curled up like an affectionate housecat. Katarina could almost imagine it purring. She could only stare, dumbfounded.

“You are a parselmouth.”

“Yes. A trait I inherited from my grandfather.”

“Who…” she trailed off, realizing the stupidity of her question. “You are the Dark Lord’s son.”

“His grandson actually, but yes.”

“But… how…”

“The usual mechanics, I imagine. Do you believe Lord Voldemort holds to the idea of celibacy? I assure you, before and after the war, he indulged in more than a few trysts. Witches are very good about taking contraceptives. Muggle women are not. You are aware of Harry Potter’s lineage?”

She thought about lying and saying she didn’t. It was a matter of pride that vampires abstained from wizarding tabloid fodder, but Potter was one of those universally entertaining characters. Her goblin banker and she liked to share gossip on him during their monthly transactions. She nodded.

“Pureblood father. Muggleborn mother. Lived with his mother’s muggle sister before he was discovered. No other living relatives.”

“Lily Evans was no muggleborn[1]. She was a half-blood. Her mother got into it with Voldemort at some point, when he was nothing more than handsome young college student, traveling for the holidays. My father’s mother has an identical story.”

“Why would he keep that a secret? If he has heirs-”

“And inform the entire world that he’s a hypocrite and philanderer? I’m sure you are aware of his public policy against wizarding and muggle interaction, and his youthful exuberance would not be looked kind upon even sixty hears later. Additionally, we are not the Dark Lord’s heirs. He has no heirs, as he will not be dying any time soon. Announcing our existence as his brood would not only endanger us, but place us in a position where we could be used against him. No, no, we will never be officially claimed. However, that does not mean we do not hold any importance to him. Potter is a fine example.”

Katarina moved back towards him, staring down at him in fascination. This was a completely knew game. The Dark Lord had sent her his grandson, his kin. This was no small thing to a vampire. Vampire clans were tight knit and protective. For a Master or Mistress to send out one of their own offspring was only done in extreme circumstances. It spoke volumes about the Dark Lord’s sincerity. She settled back into her chair.

“Very well. Give me a few more days. I will need to discuss this matter with my coven and decide upon the terms of our agreement. In the meantime, I will see that you have accommodations more… suitable to your status.”

He nodded appreciatively.

“Thank you. I ask only that you keep my relation to the Dark Lord to yourself. I have been given permission to tell you this only as a means to convince you of the importance the Dark Lord has placed on our negotiations. Under no circumstances is this to become public knowledge.”

“I understand.”

She left the room, feeling shaken but refusing to show it. She had so much to think about, and she had wasted too much time already. A wave of resentment rose up against the young interloper. If he had told her of his lineage when he had first been introduced, nearly three days ago, she might have taken his presence more seriously. As it was, she saw him as no more than a half-hearted attempt at recruitment into a questionable endeavor.

Well, that and perhaps Sunday’s dinner.

Goethe was waiting for her at the end of the hall. He had been the one to inform her of the boy, known only as Horace, and given her the Dark Lord’s card, and she had subsequently assigned him to look after the mysterious mortal.

“I want him moved to one of the private suites on the East End. He is to be treated as a prince and protected the same way. The Ministry cannot be allowed to know of his presence here. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said plainly, his wide mouth stretched into a serpentine grin. He was having way too much fun his new role, in her opinion. He had always been a troublemaker, only happy when things were going wrong. If he weren’t so damn good at spying, she would have thrown him out into the sun decades ago.

“And don’t you dare bite him.”

“Not a nibble. I swear,” he said solemnly.

She glared at him. His lips started to twitch. She stalked away before he lost it completely. It wasn’t like Goethe was a real threat to Horace. If the boy really was the Dark Lord’s grandson, then the vampire was in need of protection far more so than the mortal.

Climbing down from the stage and disappearing from the view of thousands of people calling his name, Harry accepted the glass of water from one of the ‘Voices for All’ aides. His stomach was still fluttering with nerves and threatening to empty itself, but he managed to keep it all in. He escaped into the sanctuary of a nearby office that had offered its space to Voices for All and Harry for the rally.

This was his third public speech, and it wasn’t any easier than the first. If anything, it had been harder. There had been more hecklers and protestors this time around, attempting to throw him off balance and turn the crowd. It had taken a longer to get the crowd enthusiastic about his message this time, but eventually they were won over. The Wizengamot was in three days. The Ultimatum deadline was in five. The next full moon in seven.

Political rallies and protests and pamphlets were on every street corner. The UK was anxious. The newspapers were flooded with speculation of Voldemort’s next course of action and the possibility of war with Germany and peace treaties with France. Harry’s own cause was quickly being shuffled towards the back of the papers, but his popularity wasn’t fading. The rallies he had spoken at were all packed, and he had interviews daily, often multiple times by newspapers and magazines and once even for wizarding television. He had been shuffled from London to Glasgow to Dublin in the last week, and was exhausted.

“Harry!” He turned and smiled as Hermione and Draco came into view. Hermione threw her arms around him. “Harry, that was wonderful! I’d read you were a great speaker, but I had no idea!”

“Not bad,” Draco conceded. “A bit preachy for my tastes, but that’s just me.”

“Thanks…I think. I’m not entirely sure if either of you are being entirely complimentary.”

His friends had come along on his trip to Dublin, insisting to see him in action after all the hype in the newspaper. He was glad for their company. After days of nothing but speeches and meetings with Voices for All and hotels and reporters, their presence was grounding and comforting. Snape was already strung out, and currently refusing to say anything to anyone for fear of hexing someone without realizing it.

Suddenly, there was someone standing between him and his friends. He looked up to see a handsome man in an impressive Brass Cult uniform, his smile so white it looked like a Lumos had been cast on it.

“Excellent presentation, my good man. Very good show,” the man said, taking Harry’s arm before he could even react. “I’m Gilderoy Lockhart, but I’m sure you already knew that. I’m quite famous, you know.”

Harry thought the name sounded vaguely familiar, but he would be lying if he said he was familiar with witch and wizarding celebrities.

“Er… yes, of course. Good to meet you, Mr. Lockhart,” he said, and looked around for an escape. Hermione and Draco were looking somewhat horrified at the beaming man, and Harry didn’t think that bode well for him.

“It’s Admiral Lockhart. See the fancy uniform? And good to meet you at last, Harry. You don’t mind if I call you Harry, do you?”

“Actually-”

“Excellent! It really has been too long. We should have met ages ago! We have so much in common. Powerful, intelligent, popular… and devilishly handsome if I do say so myself,” the man laughed, even as he preened in a passing mirror. Harry was feeling increasingly awkward, but Lockhart hadn’t released his arm and was starting to lead him off to Merlin only knew where. “Of course, you could use a few minor adjustments. Nothing to be ashamed of, of course. Just a tweak here or there. A bit of advice from someone who’s been there before. For instance, have you considered growing out your hair? Ladies love that. Or taking off those glasses? Not all the time, mind you. Glasses make one look very clever in the right circumstances, but they look rather nerdy sometimes don’t you think? It’d be a shame to waste your green eyes-”

“On anything as trivial as reading,” Snape’s acid tone cut in. They both turned, and Harry felt a wave of relief at seeing his dour guardian glaring death at his would-be fashion advisor. Hermione or Draco must have found him. Lockhart was still smiling, but he suddenly didn’t seem as confident. “Admiral, I am rather surprised to see you here, as busy as someone in your position must be.”

“Oh, Professor Snape, yes, well… I happened to be in the area. Photo shoot just a few blocks over, you know. Thought I’d drop by and introduce myself-”

“Yes, that’s very generous of you. I am sure we all appreciate you gracing us with your presence, but I must ask you to leave. This area is a restricted. Your military training should make you aware of exactly what that means.”

“Er… yes, well, military personnel. Higher security clearance and all-”

Snape didn’t wait for his fumbled explanations. He grabbed Harry and hauled him back to the other side of the room, making a physical barrier between the man and the boy. When they were far enough away, Harry turned back to him.

“Thanks, Professor.”

Predictably, Snape sneered. “You can escape werewolves, German Aurors, and the Dark Lord’s wrath, but you can’t get away from that imbecile on your own? You’re slipping, Potter.”

“Who was that guy anyway?”

Draco and Hermione rejoined them, and they made their way towards an empty office Harry had been given for his private use. There was long table piled with good and drink and Harry’s own itinerary and half completed speeches. The three teenagers set themselves into the comfortable chairs, while Snape set about making himself some tea.

“Admiral Gilderoy Lockhart,” Draco offered, “The most useless pillock in my father’s army.”

“Draco,” Hermione began to chastise, then seemed to realize he was right and didn’t finish. Oddly enough, it was Snape who disagreed.

“Admiral Lockhart is not useless, Draco. He performs the function your father intended quite admirably. And I remind you that the Brass Cult is not your father’s army. It is the Dark Lord’s, and I recommend you not forget it again.”

“What is Lockhart’s function, then?” Harry asked.

“Publicity,” Hermione said, looking disgusted, “He doesn’t command any troops or have any combat experience. He just goes around the country and looks handsome in his uniform and tells outrageous stories in order to convince people to join the Brass Cult. It’s disgusting.”

Draco laughed. “Didn’t you used to have a huge crush on him?”

“Only for like… a week! Then he opened his mouth.”

Harry laughed and shook his head. He had missed this. Sitting around talking with his friends, getting in an out of strange situations, and even Snape’s dark, witty practicality. More than ever before, he wished the summer were over and he were heading back to Hogwarts, surrounded by his friends and a comfortable routine of classes and club activities.

“I hate to be the barer of bad news,” Snape said, smirking a bit at the looks that statement earned. “None of you will be entirely free of Lockhart for quite some time. He’s been offered a part-time position at Hogwarts.”

Hermione looked positively horrified. “As what?”

“Introduction to Military Training Instructor. Supposedly, it’s a pre-requisite to officer training in the Brass Cult.”

“Remind me not to join that class,” Harry muttered.

“It is only open to seventh years, fortunately. It’s a complete publicity stunt, but the Dark Lord went along with it. You will find several differences at Hogwarts this year to accommodate the war effort.”

“We’re not at war,” Harry said, hopefully.

Snape just gave him a look, and didn’t deign to reply.

Viktor and Tonks sat on the garden wall and looked out across the South Aegean at the collection of islands, lined in the stubby white buildings that typified the region. The sun was hot, but the wind coming off the sea made it tolerable, and either of them felt any desire to move into the shade.

“He makes it very hard to hate him, doesn’t he?” Tonks said, staring down at a newspaper. It was a Wizarding Weekly, only two days old, and sharing the front page with the usual doom and gloom article about the tensions with Germany, was Harry and his outrageous and heroic mission to ‘save the lycanthropic victims from the tyranny of Minister Seibligg’.

“Yes,” Viktor agreed. “He’s a good guy. He just has lousy taste in father figures.”

“I wonder what he would think if he knew Dumbledore was helping get werewolves out of Germany?”

“He’d probably be grateful, just not grateful enough to switch sides.”

Tonks sighed, and ran a hand through her leopard print hair. She missed the days when you could support your allies with the same enthusiasm you could oppose your enemies. Seibligg had ruined that for them. The previous minister, Janis Handel, had been a good man with a generous heart and an iron will. He had led his countrymen through the dark days of Voldemort’s assault on Britain, preventing the Death Eaters from getting a foothold in Germany and opening his doors to those who were forced to flee. However, the strain had been too much for his health, and he could not continue another term. Seibligg had shown promise, but his own conceit and secret disdain for foreigners had weakened the Ministry and confused the public.

The rallying against the werewolves was the final act of a desperate man still clinging to power, and Tonks knew it would only serve to weaken the country in the long run. The people were divided, resources were being wasted to persecute a make believe enemy, and their allies were turning away in disgust. More than once, Tonks had wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just let Voldemort have the place and straighten it out once and for all. If she hadn’t remembered exactly how the Dark Lord straightened out countries, she would have just given up.

“Do you think we can win like this?” Tonks asked. “We can’t even stay in the country, and Seibligg just keeps making things worse everyday.”

Viktor didn’t say anything for a moment. Leaving Germany, he thought, was the best thing they could have done. It was so much harder to think objectively about Germany’s future while surrounded by its chaos. In the South Aegean, where news travels slowly but thoughts had plenty of time to settle, he was starting to see things more clearly.

“Dumbledore thinks we can. Seibligg’s time is running out. If he can be replaced with a strong leader before the Dark Lord can get a strong enough foot hold, then they might just have a chance.”

“That’s a big ‘if’.”

“I prefer to think of it as a ‘do or do not’. If we don’t find a way, we are all royally screwed,” Viktor said.

“Well, since you put it that way, I feel much better,” she laughed.

On June 29th, the Wizengamot voted ‘yes’ to Proposal 4-66. On June 30th, Harry celebrated at the werewolf colonies and got utterly smashed, and very nearly got into an orgy with several other drunken werewolves. He was unfortunately rescued by Remus. On July 1st, he was dragged out of the colony by a very amused Voldemort (who had probably been in that orgy that Harry could only now vaguely remember) to Paris to meet Queen Ophelia. Blessedly, there had been a three out stop at one of Voldemort’s many manor houses for breakfast, bathing, and grooming or he would had to meet her looking like wild man and smelling like a brewery.

Queen Ophelia the IV, was built like an opera singer, heavy set and powerful. It did nothing to distract from her beauty, but only enhanced her presence. She was no dainty wallflower. Every step, every gesture, every turn of the head was pure confidence and grace.

Harry was embarrassed to find he had fallen in love with her within five minutes of meeting her. Luckily, she seemed to find his uncontrollable blushing charming.

“I am told,” she said, with barely even a hint of French accent, “that it is your efforts, more than anyone else’s, that have brought us all together this day.”

“I am not entirely sure why I am here, your Majesty,” he said, trying his hardest not to look like a bumbling school boy. It was hard when she was difficult her smiling at him like that, her elaborate white and golden dress making her shine like an angel. “But I am glad we could meet, for whatever the reason.”

He nearly fell over when she kissed him on the forehead, and he suddenly became convinced she had to be a full blooded veela. She moved away, several musketeers and ladies-in-waiting following her. Voldemort placed his hand on his shoulder and lead him in another direction.

“She likes you. I knew she would,” Voldemort teased.

“I’m going to get you for this later,” Harry said, glaring up at the man. There were nearly twenty other men and women in their entourage, all of them Wizengamot or Court officials, or in Lucius’ case, both. Snape was somewhere, probably the royal library, but Harry had to wonder why since he couldn’t read French. They were all dressed to the nines, and even Harry had been shoved into a brand new and ostentatious set of suit and robes. He supposed meeting the queen of France warranted looking good, but he suspected something more significant was happening than a simple meet and greet. Voldemort being very nearly cheerful convinced him of it.

“What are we doing here, exactly?”

“We’re signing a treaty.”

Oh. Now that he thought about it, that was pretty obvious. Stupid residual hangover.

“For the werewolves?” he asked, not entirely certain. Voldemort seemed entirely too pleased for something that simple.

“Part of the treaty includes the establishment of new werewolf colonies, but that is only a minor part. The United Kingdoms and France are ending the embargo and resuming trade and travel, formally renouncing Germany actions against us, and allowing us to open four military bases along its border to France.”

Harry could only stare at him. This was HUGE. Way larger than Harry felt qualified to deal with. This was the sort of event Toure made them study in the History of Magic. At least he didn’t have to make a speech.

“Seibligg is going to piss himself,” Harry finally blurted out. Several of the other officials in the room chuckled. “But why am I here?”

“You are an honorary guest. Proposal 4-66 was essential for this treaty, which would not have been possible if I could not demonstrate an immediate benefit of our alliance. The queen needed something to reassure her people of our intentions before she could agree to it. You have earned the right to witness these proceedings. Besides, the French like you.”

Merlin, was he serious? Had his efforts with Proposal 4-66 actually made this treaty possible?

He was still wondering this when a valet arrived and escorted their party to a conference room. Voldemort, Queen Ophelia, and all other their officials were set at the table, while Harry sat with a small group of attendants along the wall and watched. There were speeches made by both the Dark Lord and the queen, words of welcome and hopes for peace and prosperity and strength through their alliance. The treaty was read, then passed around and signed. There were more speeches by another official. A Catholic priest blessed the document (and surprised Harry by not immediately bursting into flames when Voldemort not-so-subtly glared at him). Photographs were taken. Drinks were handed out to everyone to toast their work. And finally, finally it was over, and Harry still had no idea how he could have possibly brought any of it about.

Merlin, he hoped Snape didn’t hear about any of this. He’s accuse him of having a big head before he could even bring himself to accept even partial responsibility.

Voldemort and Harry stayed at the queen’s palace for two more days (as did Snape although Harry didn’t see him at all until it came time to leave), and Harry spent a majority of that time wandering around and making sketches. The Dark Lord was absent more often than not on official business or merely conversing with the queen, but in the evening he would take some time to talk with Harry.

“Do you think Seibligg will have to resign after this?” Harry asked, staring out the window in Voldemort ’s bedroom. From here he could see the internal courtyard, where several couples and friends were wandering about and enjoying the evening. The Dark Lord was at the desk, signing paperwork, and drinking sherry.

“It doesn’t really matter one way or the other,” he said, not looking up. “The due date for the ultimatum has passed. Germany has done nothing to make amends to me, and allowed the perpetrators to remain unpunished. They could have saved themselves a lot of grief, but now they will have to face the consequences of their actions.”

“What sort of consequences?”

“Bankruptcy for one. France is the largest importer of German goods, particularly potion ingredients and certain types of manufactured products like cauldrons, which they will now be getting primarily from the UK. The embargo from ten years ago has made them the primary supplier to Europe for several years now, but they’re not ready to face competition with British suppliers again. Chances are there will be a recession in Germany.”

Harry let out a mental sigh. Being poor sucked, but being blown up was worse. If Germany’s punishment was strictly financial, Harry wasn’t going to utter a single complaint.

“Of course,” Voldemort said, “Recessions make for very bitter, angry citizens. I doubt this little slap on the wrist is going to be the end of the matter.”

Daigon Alley was crowded with students and their families, as was typical at the beginning of August. There was something festive about the gathering, like a carnival with shops instead of rides or Christmas shopping without the dreary weather. There were even street vendors standing about selling funnel cakes and popcorn, and colorfully dressed men singing out the inventory of their particular shop, enticing buyers to enter. Cages with owls, cats, rats, snakes, or other sorts of familiars were carried about by eager looking first years, who grinned and cooed at their new pets lovingly.

It was amazing considering only a month before people were practically frantic over the due date of Voldemort’s ultimatum. It turned out the first strike against Germany, had led to nothing short of prosperity for the UK. With the 1995 Treaty of Paris (also nicknamed Potter’s Treaty and the Werewolf Treaty), the demand for goods had skyrocketed, leading to a rise in cauldron prices and potions ingredients, but also to a high demand for new employees. The unemployment rate had dropped nearly twenty percent in a month and expected to drop another fifty percent during the holidays, and Gringotts Bank was practically throwing out money for starter businesses.

Everyone was brimming with enthusiasm for the future, and it showed in the faces of the people.

Ira watched it all from the corner of Banikey’s Books, trying not to hover as Harry and Professor Snape’s godchildren hunted the store for their school books. Snape himself was at Olivander’s, escorting several first years as they acquired their wands, and had Ira had offered to keep an eye of them. She had made the mistake of mentioning it to her mother, who had quickly invited herself along.

“I have barely seen you at all this summer, Ira. I’ve missed you. This will be a perfect time to do a little shopping together,” she insisted, but Ira knew better. Her mother was nosy and always would be, and the fact that Ira actually was involved with the daily affairs of interesting people had presented a temptation she couldn’t pass up. Especially not since Snape had come back from Paris with gift.

The scarab broach was iridescent green, like the real beetle, and masterfully crafted. It was worth several galleons, and no one had been more surprised than Ira when Snape had given it to her. He had called it a ‘thank you’ present, and it probably was, but her mother insisted it meant more.

“When a man starts buying a woman jewelry, expensive jewelry from Paris, it means more than just ‘thank you’,” Susan said to her daughter knowingly. Ira kept looking out at the street and pretended she hadn’t heard her. “It means, ‘I want you to wear something I gave you so everyone will know you’re mine’.”

Ira immediately turned bright red, and looked around quickly to see if anyone heard her.

“Honestly, mum, you’re making something out of nothing. He was just being thoughtful. Harry probably put him up to it.”

Ira immediately looked back towards the store, and spotted Harry’s black cloak immediately. The boy had taken to wearing the hood up while out in public to avoid being recognized, even though he looked more than little conspicuous. His friends, Draco, Hermione, Natalie, and Clyde, were doing the same thing, partially to tease him and partially because it made the hoods look less suspicious and more like fashion statements when they all did it. She couldn’t help smiling as she watched them together, laughing and stealing each other’s books out of their baskets and pretending to be vampires.

Harry had a difficult life, filled with stress and intrigue and unscheduled international travel, but he also had wonderful friends. She wondered how Snape, whose life was likely just as difficult, perhaps even more so, managed to keep it all together with seemingly no friends at all.

“Posh. I’m telling you, Professor Snape likes you, he’s just stoic. That’s why he asks for your help all the time. So he can have your company and not be labeled a sap. Andreas is the exact same way.”

Ira rolled her eyes. Snape didn’t ask for her help. She offered it without him having to ask, and he just never bothered to turn her down. She enjoyed both Harry’s and Snape’s company for different reasons. Harry was sweet and interesting. Snape was frank and interesting. She had some of the most enjoyable conversations of her life this summer, and she would miss them terribly when the summer was over.

“Mum, that’s not how it is. For heaven’s sake, he lost his fiancé little over a year ago. Besides, even if he were interested, it would never work out.”

“Never work out? Of course it would! You’re perfect for each other. Quiet, academic types, the both of you, without an ounce of romance between you. He’s a highly respected professor and war hero, obviously ready to settle down if he was intending to marry. I don’t think you could do any better if you tried.”

Ira said noting for a moment, a deep depression settling over her. She did like Professor Snape. She found his taciturn manners strangely charming and his dedication to his duties was admirable, but she couldn’t give him what he really wanted.

“He wants children,” she said.

This stumped Susan for a moment. “…Are you sure? I mean, he doesn’t really seem the type…”

“He does. His house… it’s made for more than just him and Harry. And sometimes, I’ve seen him looking at families with this… longing? Maybe? I don’t know. But I can’t give him that. Winston made sure of it.”

She tried to hide her bitterness at that man’s name, but it leaked through anyway. Her mother fidgeted uncomfortably. She never liked to discuss Winston. She would like nothing better than to forget he ever existed, and Ira would too if it were at all possible.

“Maybe he would be willing to adopt?”

“Mother!”

“All hail Harry Potter, King of the Werewolves.”

“Do shut up, Weasley,” Harry said cheerfully as he squeezed into the train compartment, and sat next to Natalie. He handed her Inana’s basket, which she happily accepted. The compartment was crowded with his friends (and Ron), but he wouldn’t have it any other way. The summer was over and he was going to his true home. His political career was officially on hold until the end of term.

Perhaps the only one more excited about the upcoming school year was Hermione, who was practically buzzing in her seat. She was now the official editor of the Hogwart’s Herald, and couldn’t’ wait to get started. She was looking through her notebook and stressing about her first meeting with her staff and their first paper.

“Hey, Harry, you’re not going to have to repeat the year, are you mate? I don’t think I could get through potions without you,” Clyde said, looking genuinely terrified at the though.

“Nope. No repeating for me. It’s not like I wasn’t learning anything while I was away. The professors are going to test me individually to see if I’ve fallen behind on anything then work something out if I have to catch up. Things are going to be crazy this year though. Make up classes, quidditch, Dueling Club, andO.W.L.s.”

Draco merely smirked at him. “Don’t worry, Potter. I’ll make sure you don’t have worry about the final quidditch match while studying for final exams. We’re going to kick your ass this year.”

“Dream on, Malfoy. If I can beat Krum at quidditch, I can beat you.”

Harry instantly regretted his words, his eyes immediately darting towards Hermione, who was still looking at her notebook, but not reading it. Inwardly, he called himself several unpleasant names. One of the few things Hermione and he had not been able to bring themselves to talk about was Krum. He had betrayed them both, in different ways, and they were both too conflicted to talk about him even with each other.

“Ha!” Ginny but in, rescuing the companionable atmosphere. “You can’t even guarantee your spot on the team this year. I’ll be trying out for Seeker, this year.”

Natalie made a rude sound and rolled her eyes.

Harry blinked at her. “You play quiddtich?”

“Of course I play quidditch. Everyone in the family plays quidditch! Even Ron plays a pretty good keeper, once he stopped falling off his broom.”

Ron just scowled at her then resumed his previous silence. In fact, he seemed to be all out brooding, which was a step up from his usual sulking, but not much.

“What’s with you, Weasley? You’re… quiet.”

“Shove it, Potter. I don’t care about this stupid shit,” he snapped, then stood up and walked out. Everyone just stared after him, then back at each other.

“That was… different,” Harry said.

“And the Asshole Award goes to…” Clyde muttered.

“Shut up,” Ginny snapped, surprising everyone all over again. She bit her lip, and looked down. “It’s not his fault. He’s just… he visited dad a few weeks ago. I think… It was really bad. So just give him a break, okay?”

They stayed silent for a bit. They all knew Arthur Weasley was in Azkaban, and had been for the better part of eight years, and his was not an enviable fate to even most depraved masochist.

“Of course,” Hermione said first, then nudged Draco with her elbow.

“Hey, don’t’ look at me. If I start acting all sympathetic it’ll probably induce a stroke.”

“Draco!’

“Fine, fine! I won’t go poking him with sticks or whatever. I’ve survived more than one of his little pissy fits before, thank you very much.”

“Thanks. I think,” Ginny said.

Snape stared at the once mysterious little plant, that was now not so little and not so mysterious. Concealed in one of his many secured cabinets in his private Hogwart’s laboratory, the Body Tree stood taller than him and was lush with reddish foliage. He had finally discovered the plant’s identity in France, finally left alone to pursue the mystery.

McGunny was still missing, and he had given hope of finding the boy on his own. If he had managed to slip into the muggle world undetected, the chances were he could go underground for years and Snape would never find him. He had neither the time nor the resources necessary.

Discovering McGunny’s intentions was a different matter altogether. Because, right now the Body Tree was bearing a ‘fruit’. Fruit that was looking very much like a complete human fetus.

Now what exactly would someone want with that? he wondered. A thousand different possibilities came to mind, and none of them good.

1. Lily Evans was 100% muggleborn. Tom is lying through his teeth in order to win Katarina’s trust. Suggesting he is Voldemort’s son and proving it with the use of Parseltongue is a good way to do that.↩

The Courtier

Entering Hogwarts for his fifth year was as strange and overwhelming to Harry as it was during his first. He knew each hallway and tower, almost all the other students’ faces (if not their names), and the thousand little tricks that allowed veteran students to bypass or take advantage of the schools innumerable eccentricities, yet he felt everything had shifted into something slightly different since he was taken and all the certainties of the previous year were now frail as spider silk.

The hallways and towers held the history of the second semester he had missed, the stories of battles and gossip and couples sneaking kisses. The students all looked strangely older and keeping their company, however brief, was strained and awkward, as if he had been gone for nine years and not just nine months. Most seemed genuinely pleased that he was alive and returned safely, but his celebrity status in the political world had left them baffled on how to approach him. What did you say to a guy who blended into the sea of students more often than not and at the same time held the influence to sway the vote of the Wizengamot? Talking about the next quidditch match or the merit of noblesse oblige each seemed to present their own pitfalls, and they were as confused on how to treat him as he was them.

There were new tricks to the castle that hadn’t been present before either. Giant stone gargoyles now guarded the entry way to the castle; their cold eyes followed him as he stepped through the castle portcullis with Hermione and Draco.

“You get used to it,” Hermione said, catching his uneasy look. “They’re enchanted to guard against invaders. Hogwarts had some like this already guarding the towers, but Lestrange started having a whole bunch of them put in last spring. I wish you had been here then. I think you would have made some really nice ones. All mine look like demented monkeys.”

“Make them? You mean the students made these things? How many are there? Why not hire professionals?”

“And waste perfectly free student labor?” Draco sneered, obviously bitter about the matter for what ever reason.

“What’s going on?” he asked. Hermione sighed.

“There’s been work done on the castle in the last months of second semester, and a lot of it was done in the guise of student coursework. Draco isn’t the only one who feels we were taken advantage of. Some of the things we did would have earned an artist or professional enchanter several galleons, and all we got was the threat of failing a class. The gargoyles aren’t the half of it.”

“And what do you think?”

“…I think we learned a lot of practical and useful things we wouldn’t have otherwise,” she said, ignoring Draco’s irritated snort. “But I also think we should have been compensated in some way. Not necessarily money, but… I don’t know. A party? A special field trip? Something to acknowledge what we did for the school.”

Harry wondered if he could have done something he had been there. Blackmail Lestrange? Technically, he still had her last attack on him hanging over her head, and that had kept her successfully away from him but would it have been enough to force her into making concessions? He didn’t know, but with his latest successes in politics he might have the power to do something if she tried to take advantage of everyone again.

He was jarred from his thoughts when someone rammed against him, knocking him to the ground and nearly tripping up Hermione as well. He landed heavily on all fours, the stone floor bruising his knees and scrapping his hands painfully.

“Watch where you’re going, Potter!” someone sneered.

“You’re the moron who ran into me!” Harry snarled, jumping to his feet and spinning around. Dorian Whitmore, possibly the biggest boy in the school towered above him, his beefy arms crossed over his chest. Whitmore was a sixth year Gryffindor last year, although not the sort that particularly impressed Harry. He was a big and moderately intelligent, which led him to be something of a bully, usually to Slytherins but occasionally Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws as well. It appeared as if he had decided to include Harry to his list of targets for whatever reason.

“Sorry, Potter. I didn’t see you there. I would have thought with all the time you spend with werewolves, you might have gained a little of their reflexes and instincts but I guess not,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

Harry just looked at him like the idiot he was. “Riiii-ght.”

Hermione gave him a warning look. “Don’t, Harry.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Yet,” she said knowingly.

Students were starting to slow down their trek to the Great Hall in order to watch what was going on. Whitmore was still standing there as if he expected something, and Harry had no intention of walking around him. His pride wouldn’t allow him to surrender the unspoken challenge the larger boy had set down.

“What do you want Witless? I mean Whitmore. You’re blocking the hall.”

Whitmore stepped up to him, towering nearly a two heads over him, and leaned in so that their noses nearly touched. Hermione instinctively stepped away, but Harry held his ground and stared straight back at him. If the fool thought his physical stature would intimidate Harry, he obviously hadn’t considered the sort of people Harry hung out with on a routine basis. This guy had nothing on Fenrir Greyback. Or Snape for that matter when he was in one of his moods.

“I want you,” Whitmore hissed, too low for most of the other students to overhear. “To spend a full moon with your fucking monsters and then tell me they deserve to live. If you’re still alive to tell anyone anything.”

Harry burst out laughing, causing Whitmore to jerk back in surprise.

“A full moon, Whitmore? I’ve spent more than one full moon in the company of werewolves. Did you know their fur feels like a real wolf’s? The top coat is wiry and rough, but the undercoat? Soft as rabbit.”

The larger boy paled.

“You… you freak!”

It had been years since anyone had called him that, not since his three year stint with the Dursley’s, but it felt like peeling off a scab. Hermione’s hand tightening on his shoulder was probably the only thing that saved Harry from doing something very foolish… in front of McGonagall no less.

“MR. WHITMORE!”

Everyone turned at once toward the other side of the hall. McGonagall’s tall, rigid frame was easy to make out amongst the sea of students, and her expression was livid. She cast piercing look at the students loitering about, and they quickly began moving again towards the Great Hall, stopping only to let her pass as she made her way towards the two troublemakers.

“Mr. Whitmore, I would remind you that as a new seventh year, you set an example to all your underclassmen, and that example should not involve juvenile name calling. Since you seem to need some reminder of proper seventh year conduct, we will discuss it further in detention. Monday, 5 o’clock sharp.”

The older Gryffindor’s ears burned with her chastisement, and he mumbled a quick ‘yes, professor’, before hurrying off. Harry smirked, but quickly hid it when McGonagall turned her displeasure on him.

“What precisely was that all about, Mr. Potter?”

“Er… Political differences, Professor. I don’t think he cares for werewolves very much.”

The old witch pursed her lips. “Ah, that would explain it. I doubt he will be the last to confront you. For now, I will simply remind you that while you are entitled to your opinion and they are entitled to theirs, you must still conduct yourselves appropriately. I better not find you started tossing around hexes in the hallways because of someone else’s careless comments.”

Harry shrugged. “If anyone starts tossing hexes, I won’t be the one to start it.”

“See to it that you are not. What I said to Mr. Whitmore about setting a good example applies to you as well, more so, in fact, than it does him. Carry on, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Harry continued on with Hermione and Draco, who was glaring back at McGonagall but didn’t say anything.

“You know she’s right,” Hermione said, earning her a sour look from both boys. She just rolled her eyes at them. “You’re famous, Harry. Lots of people looked up to you before… what? They did! All the rookies in Dueling Club adore you! Not to mention… anyway, you do need to watch how you behave. If you start having fights with every Whitmore who tries to start something, others are going to start doing the same thing just to impress you.”

“It’s true,” Draco said, surprising Harry. “Luckily you already killed that last dragon or we’d have a lot of very crispy classmates.”

Harry rolled his eyes. They made it to the Great Hall without further incident. There was the predictable amount of staring and whispering at his back, but this wasn’t the first time he had been forced to deal with it. Freak echoed in the back of his head, the voice a mixture of the Dursley’s and Whitmore’s. He did his best to ignore it, and once the Sorting Hat began started off the night’s sorting, it was easy enough to drown it out with cheering and clapping for the new first years.

At the teacher’s table Harry could see Lockhart, but also a few other faces he did not recognize. One was a middle aged man, his expression benign, his shoulder length hair a few shades darker than Weasley red. He wore Druidic robes, and Harry felt a pang of grief when he realized that he must be Brennan’s replacement. Sitting beside Snape, was another stranger, dressed rather lavishly for a teacher in a tailored suit and robes that complimented even his rounded physique and an impressive walrus-like beard that distracted from his shiny bald head. He had to be the new DA&D instructor, and looking at his less than impressive physique gave Harry a sinking feeling that he had been sent by the Court just as Umbridge had. He would ask Hermione what she knew about him later.

With the first years sorted, it was finally time for the Headmistress to address the students (Voldemort was too busy for once to make an appearance for which Harry was secretly grateful). There were the usual warnings to the first years about the Forbidden Forest,an announcement that internal construction on the new Hogwart’s wing would be continuing and certain sections of the castle were off limit to all students, and quiddtich would be resuming as usual this year. Then she finally got around to introducing the new teachers.

“With the re-opening of the DA&D position, I have been forced to do a little rearranging with the professors. Professor Severus Snape will now be teaching Dark Arts and Defense, and Professor Horace Slughorn, our previous potions professor, has come out of retirement to take up his old post.”

There was round of uncertain applause. Potions without Snape appealed to most students, but having him in a class that likely involved curses was more than a little unnerving.

Harry blinked in surprise and turned to Snape, who was smirking at him. The sneaky bastard! He hadn’t mentioned this at all! He tried to imagine what DA&D would be like under Snape. It couldn’t be too different from Dueling Club could it? Except with homework. Mountains of homework.

He looked to Slughorn to reassess him based on this newest information. He too was looking at Harry, but it was with an expression he didn’t know how to read. Uncertainty, maybe?

“Admiral Gilderoy Lockhart is on loan to us from the British Assembly of Cultural Preservation and Protection to teach a new class, Introduction to Military Training, open to all seventh years interested in becoming Sentinels or soldiers.”

Lockhart stood and beamed at the gathered students, preening as several girls let out longing sighs and the hearty round of applause. Harry was seriously tempted to chuck a roll at him. He very briefly considered doing that to Snape, but even in his head his sense of self-preservation told him what a very bad idea that was.

McGunny walked through Valkyrie Square, soaking up the sun and trying to banish the corrupting darkness of the vampire world he had been subjected to. Tom’s power over him had increased, and the nights now belonged to the charming devil as he looked on through eyes he no longer controlled. He had seen things in the last month that he had never imagined, and never wanted to.

We’re not here to sightsee, Horace.

“Shut up, Tom,” he muttered under his breath. “You might enjoy living like a ghoul, but I don’t. I’m going to enjoy myself while I can.”

He purposely spent several minutes watching the large fountain at the center of the square as statues of giant winged horses frolicking and splashing playfully at its center. He took what meager satisfaction he could out of Tom’s growing impatience.

This was the first time he had been let out of the apartment. Not that any of the vampires could have kept him there against his will, being weak as kittens during the day and vulnerable to magic. It was just the first time he had a legitimate excuse to leave the protection of Katarina and her clan, having been provided with all that he could possibly require. It was also the first time he felt legitimately alone enough to talk to Tom. No one bothered him during the day, but he never felt comfortable speaking out loud even in an empty room. Vampire strength waned during the day. Vampire hearing did not.

“Are you really Voldemort’s grandson?”

Tom howled in laughter, making him feel small and absurd for even asking.

No, absolutely not. As if he would have associated with filthy muggle whores. I am actually older than Voldemort, at least as you know him now.

“What does that mean?”

He killed me, Tom growled, sidestepping his question. I have a right to take revenge.

That certainly explained any animosity the spirit held against the Dark Lord.

“How exactly? How does tricking the vampires into serving him help you do that?”

I am going to take his place. I’m going to take the Dark Lord’s body and rule in his stead. It will only help me to strengthen his position in the world until I destroy him from the inside.

“You’re mad. He’ll destroy you. He’ll destroy all of us,” McGunny said, terrified and hopeful all at once. He didn’t want to be a part of Tom’s grand schemes, and the more he uncovered them the more appealing self-destruction was starting to look.

The vampires will provide me the opportunity and the resources I need to get close to the Dark Lord. They will produce the chaos necessary to create opportunity.

“How?”

You’ll see. Now go over there, to the building with the statue in front of it. I think that’s where we’ll find what we’re looking for.

McGunny sighed and did as instructed. He didn’t really know what Tom was looking for or why, but if it left him free to spend a majority of the day outside in the sun, surrounded by people of the living variety he was willing to run a few. Even if he had a feeling he was going to regret it later.

Settling back into his old school routine was difficult even before it had really started. Once ensconced in the familiar surroundings of Gryffindor tower, his entire House had seen fit to pounce on him for a full debriefing regarding his kidnapping and eventual escape, keeping him up well into the night until McGonagall had shown up and sent everyone to bed. He had been grateful until he climbed into bed and discovered it had an Itching Curse on it. It was a petty prank and easy enough to fix, but it left him paranoid for the rest of the night. He suspected Whitmore, but it could just as easily been someone else, even his own dorm mates.

He barely slept, and the first thing he did upon awakening was re-ward his trunk and place protection charms on his bed. The same ones he’d used at Durmstrang, and the idea that he might have to live like that again did as much to exhaust him as his sleepless night.

He met Natalie in the Great Hall for breakfast, both of them being some of the first students up. Natalie was now a prefect, which shouldn’t have surprised Harry as much as it did. She was as excellent student and more than happy to boss people around. Draco and Hermione would also have been prefects again, but they had other activities that made the additionally responsibility impossible.

“Do you want me to bug him?” Natalie asked after he told her about his confrontation with Whitmore. He hadn’t mentioned the Itching Curse. He didn’t want the culprit to even know it had worked, let alone was still bothering him.

Harry grinned at her. “So you can get in my good graces and still deduct points from Gryffindors? I don’t think so. Besides, don’t you think it’s a little earlier to begin abusing your authority?”

“Don’t you think you’re playing the martyr by not letting your friends help? Opportunity only knocks once.”

“Thanks, but I think McGonagall has seen that justice was served.”

She let it drop and they discussed classes they were interested in taking. It was a lot more fun to do this with Natalie than with his other friends. Hermione took everything too seriously, Draco too contemptuously, and Clyde was clueless more often than not. They talked and laughed over simple school things, and Harry forgot about his worries for at least a little while.

Harry was a bit annoyed to find he had potions first thing in the morning with Professor Slughorn, who he still had reservations about. Hermione only knew that he had taught at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years before his retirement during the war. He had kept a low profile during the fighting and after until he had shown up last night.

“I’ll write to Narcissa to see what she knows,” Hermione said. “He had to have taught when she was going to school.”

Draco had a somewhat better idea. “Don’t bother. I’ll write to father myself, and then we can get a reply from the both of them. Uncle Severus might know some things, but I doubt he’ll have kept tabs on him after he graduated.”

“You’re all paranoid loonies,” Clyde said, exasperated.

“Considering Obltiz was a spy, Larousse wanted to adopt me, McNair was pure evil and Umbridge was a pink toad, I think I’m entitled to be concerned about Headmistress’s hiring standards,” Harry pointed out. Not to mention Brennan used me to try and assassinate the Dark Lord.

“Touché, mate.”

They entered the potion’s lab, and immediately hesitated. The dungeons had always had a gloomy chill to them and the potion’s lab was no exception… until today. It was still cool, but it was of the pleasant variety and the classroom somehow seemed a little brighter than anyone remembered it. It almost looked… non-dungeon-like.

“Holy Hellhounds,” Clyde remarked, baffled by the change in atmosphere. “If Snape’s absence affects the dungeon’s this much, I wonder what his presence has done to the Dark Art’s classroom.”

“You’ll get your chance to find out, Houghton,” Draco sneered.

“Is that young Mr. Malfoy I hear?” came an unfamiliar voice, which was soon followed by Professor Slughorn stepping out from behind a cabinet door. “Ah, and gracious me you’ve brought friends.”

He looked at each of them, his thick mustache curled up in an affable smile. Harry stiffened. People who were happy to meet him for the first time brought up nearly as much suspicion as those who presented too much hostility.

“You’ve all arrived here ahead of your classmates. A sign of ambition and studiousness if ever I saw one. Traits that deserve encouragement. Why don’t you sit down and take out your books. There’s something I’d like for you to do.”

They gave each other uncertain looks but did as he instructed. Draco and Hermione sat at the front middle table and Harry and Clyde sat to their right. When they all had their books out in front of them, Slughorn spoke again.

“Now then, since you four are the first of my students to arrive, I am going to have you help me decide on the lesson for today. I would like each of you to select a potion from your book, any potion at all before chapter twelve. When the rest of the class arrives they will vote among your selections. Keep in mind you will be able to keep any potion you brew after it has been graded. You have five minutes.”

They each shared a quick look, then quickly sorted through their books. In the five minutes that went by, half of the class finally arrived, but aside from looking at them curiously they didn’t express any real interest in what they were doing..

“Time’s up,” Slughorn said. “Have you made your selections? How about Mr. Malfoy? Ah, the Belfax Heating Potion[1], a tricky potions sure to impress even your father and Professor Snape, both men known for their exacting standards. You Miss Granger of Malfoy? Evergreen Potion, I should have known. By far the most ingenious potion in the whole book. McGonagall said your desire for ever greater heights of understanding were limitless.”

Draco smirked and accepted the praise with his usual ungracious preening, while Hermione flushed with pleasure. Slughorn turned Harry and Clyde.

“I’m terrible sorry, young man, your name is one the tip of my tongue but I just can’t quite,” he started staring at Clyde who was closest.

“Er… Houghton, Clyde Houghton of the Stone family, sir.”

“Oh, of course! I know your grandparents. Bernadette and Xavier! Tell me, does your grandfather still make those beautiful grandfather clocks? You know he gave me one when he first started his business, and it still runs perfectly.”

Clyde blinked at him in surprise. “Why, yes sir, he still tinkers. It’s more of a hobby now. He leaves most of the work to his apprentices, but he’s still making designs.”

“Well next time you see or write to them, tell them Horace says hello. Now what did you pick? Recitation Draught? Ha ha, hoping to quote some poetry to one of the bonnie lasses, are you? Ha, ha.”

He looked to Harry, who was regarding him suspiciously. There was a moment of hesitation, but not exactly fear, merely a moment to plan his approach. Harry pointed to the potion he had selected from his book.

“Wound-cleaning potion? Hhhmmm… that’s a bit middle of the road. Any particular reason you would choose that potion, Mr. Potter?”

“I want to send it to my godfathers.”

Slughorn blinked and then smiled. His expression was more that of relief than the friendliness he had shown to his friends, and Harry wondered if he hadn’t just passed some unspoken test. “I see. You know, when I taught your mother to brew Rhumid’s Draught, the first thing she did was send it to her grandmother? The Ministry nearly had a conniption fit when they found out she had tried to send a powerful potion like that to a muggle. She never did apologize for it either. She cared for her family as fiercely as any pureblood I ever new, and never would have apologized for it. I see you take after her in that respect.”

Harry’s voice caught in his throat, his eyes widening. Slughorn knew his mother? Of course he did, he was teacher at the time she was at school, but so were McGonagall and Flitwick and even Snape had been in the same year as her and they never spoke her like Slughorn did. No one talked about her, period. He wondered for a moment why he had never asked.

Harry fell into a daze. Hermione noticed right away and quickly changed places with Clyde so they didn’t end up blowing each other up. The rest of the class arrived and voted on the Recitation Potion, likely for the same reason Clyde picked it. It was the easiest of the four choices. There was a brief lecture on the potion, and then the potions master set them off to work.

Harry prepared the ingredients, endless detentions with Snape making the preparation a thoughtless process, and wondered at Slughorn’s reference to his mother. It took him a while to realize it was a calculated maneuver on his part, just like the flattery of his friends had been calculated. Once he realized this, he began to take watch Slughorn out of the corner of his eye and listen to him with half an ear. The potions teacher wandered about the room correcting or complimenting a potion with the same genial tone, easing the students’ minds as he went. Every so often he would stop at a particular student’s work station and make brief conversation over the person’s family or school achievement. There was nothing sly or misleading in his approach, and for all intents and purposes he just seemed like a friendly guy interested in his student’s lives.

It made Harry nervous.

“Harry, are you alright?” Hermione asked quietly, as they waited for their potion to start boiling before they could add anymore ingredients. “You’ve been really quiet since he mentioned your mother…”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know… I don’t like him trying to use her as a conversation piece.”

“Oh, Harry, I don’t think he… I don’t think he meant to be disrespectful. He seemed genuinely sad that she was…gone.”

Yes, he got that feeling too, which was half the reason he couldn’t sort himself out. It was one thing if Slughorn was just sharing story about his mother out of genuine fondness, but something else altogether if he was trying to express some false sympathy with him.

With Hermione’s help they managed to finish a successful potion. They bottled their brews and turned them in on Slughorn’s desk, but before Harry could walk away the potions master stopped him.

“Just a moment, Harry, before I forget. The Headmistress informed me that I would need to perform an assessment to make sure your potion instruction at Durmstrang meets Hogwart’s requirements. Are you free this Thursday, around seven?”

Harry’s thoughts scrambled at the unexpected approach. His first instinct was to say no, to prevent being trapped alone with a stranger, but he did need to do his assessment and he couldn’t think of any reason why he would need Thursday evening off during the first week of school.

“Er… sure. Thursday at seven is great.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you then.”

“Are you alright?” Natalie asked, looking across the checkered blanket at Harry. As per tradition, they were all enjoying their first lunch at school outside. Hermione had already left for some lunch meeting with the Hogwarts Herald staff, and Clyde was running away from Draco across the lawn for some rude comment on his hair style. Ron was there as well, but was quietly looking off in the distance across the lake. Anger had faded to apathy for the youngest Weasley son, and that was something they were all more comfortable dealing with. Ginny had come and gone, stuttering something about Gerald St. James, a sixth year Hufflepuff she was apparently dating. That left Harry and Natalie to make conversation. He was enjoying himself, the warmth of the sun and the company around him doing much to lighten his mood, but he still felt distracted by what happened that morning in potions. “Did Slughorn say something to you? You looked bothered when I arrived. I don’t think you even noticed I was there.”

He smiled apologetically to her. “Sorry, it’s nothing. I’m just wondering if I can trust him or not.”

“You think he might be another psycho teacher?”

“Psycho? No. Manipulative? Yeah.”

“He is a charmer. You should ask Snape about him. The guy was his Head of House once upon a time.”

Harry frowned. He had resolved that the next time he saw Snape he’d give the greasy git a piece of his mind for not warning of the abrupt faculty change. If he was going to ask for the man’s advice, he was going to have to give up the opportunity to vent at the man first.

Discussing the matter with Hermione on their way to DA&D brought things into perspective.

“Are you really to go up to Professor Snape and demand an explanation for not receiving special treatment? I think you’re pushing it just asking him about Slughorn. If he thought the man was a threat he would have told you in advance.”

“Not necessarily,” Harry muttered. “Snape tends to wait for me to approach him rather than volunteer information. Either it doesn’t occur to him to tell me or he gets some sort of power kick out of it.”

Hermione just rolled her eyes and called him a dramatist.

Entering the DA&D classroom was even more jarring than entering the potion’s lab. It was still recognizable, the desks and the various displays of Dark Artifacts and cabinets chained shut, but there were some changes. For one, there were several new displays, including a chart on plants commonly found in poisons, several glowing orbs about the size of tennis balls, and many more items Harry couldn’t identify. The back of the room had been expanded and emptied of everything except some mats on the floor and walls, which he suspected would be used for practical displays. Most striking of all was the desks.

They were radiating magic.

“Hermione, wait-”

Too late he turned to warn Hermione, but she had already sat down. He stared at her wide eyed, and she frowned at him in concern. She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. Her eyes widened as well.

It wasn’t till then that they noticed the dozen other students already sitting down and staring at them glumly. Hermione tried to get up from her seat, but found herself stuck.

“I do believe the desks have been cursed, Hermione,” Harry said, trying very hard not to laugh as she bounced in her seat trying to break free. She glared at him.

“You are correct, Mr. Potter,” Snape said evenly, although there seemed to be some underlying irritation. Harry suspected he was disappointed that all the Gryffindors hadn’t been forced to sit down and shut up. “I should like to know how you figured it out so quickly.”

Harry smirked. “I can feel the magic. Like feeling humidity or smelling ozone before it rains.”

“Magus hypersensia. The ability to detect magic as one or more of the five senses. A very useful skill. Have you been drinking any potions lately?”

“Er… not that I know of. Why?”

“You will find out during lecture. Now take your seat.”

“But they’re all-”

“Cursed to make you sit silently. Oh, the horror.”

Harry glared at Snape’s back as the man returned to his desk. He turned to a desk next to Hermione, and cast a few curse detection spells he had learned during his semester of Curse Breaking at Durmstrang. Sure enough he found a silencing curse and a sticking charm, and deactivated both before sitting down and casting the same thing on Hermione. She let out an irritated huff.

“Of all the silly…” she muttered, but didn’t finish. She looked at him speculatively. “I didn’t know you had magus hypersensia. When did that happen?”

“You make it sound like have some sort of fungal infection. And I don’t know. I always thought I had it, but I’ve only been able to sense magic consistently since…”

Since the Winter Solstice Ritual.

“…second year, I think.”

She looked ready to question him further, but Snape was already starting class. As Harry predicted, Snape ran DA&D the same way he ran Dueling Club, emphasizing a disciplined and thorough approach as highlighted in their syllabus with a heavy dose of personal responsibility for ensuring their own safety. Getting stuck to their desks and silenced definitely ensured that everyone paid close attention as he lectured, especially when he assured them that there would be similar tests in alertness throughout the year and not all of them would be as painless.

“For the next three weeks, we will be studying the various ways of detecting curses and defensive charms. There are many resources available that will help you avoid the situation you currently find yourselves in,” Snape said, smirking a bit at the angry students squirming in their seats. “Finite Incantatem omnus.”

There was an audible sigh that rang through the classroom as they were all released from the spells.

“Perhaps the most convenient means is magus hypersensia, the ability to sense magic as one or more of the five senses, which allowed Mr. Potter to avoid your unenviable fates.”

Harry stiffened in his chair as he felt several eyes fall on him, none of them particularly friendly.

“Magus hypersensia can be induced temporarily by ingesting certain potions and through the use of magical artifacts. There are spells that have some limited success but are ultimately unreliable. Many witches and wizards, particularly those who practice the Dark Arts or are frequently exposed to strong magic, develop magus hypersensia naturally, theoretically as a subconscious survival mechanism against harmful magic. A rare case does emerge every so often where a witch or wizard is born magically sensitive, but this usually occurs along the bloodlines of Seers and Prophets.”

I guess it makes sense, Harry decided, that I would be sensitive to magic after screwing around withgods.

The rest of the lecture went on to other detection methods, many of them Harry was already familiar with from Curse Breaking. The last half of the lecture was a practical in the use of Orbis Comperius, the magical orbs Harry had noted at the beginning of class, that could not only sense spells but would turn different colors depending on the type of spell and ever darkening shades depending on how strong the spell was. They were made to go around to a dozen magical objects that had different spells on them and write down their color and intensity, informed by Snape exactly what spell was cast on each object, and then made to write a brief explanation on why the orbs turned that particular color for that particular curse according to the information in their books. On top of that, they were given another assignment to find three different methods of detecting curses that they hadn’t discussed in class.

By the time the lecture was done, everyone was tired and bitter with their long assignments on the first day of class, except for Hermione of course, who was all enthusiasm and Harry who had had nearly identical assignments at Durmstrang.

“Professor.”

Snape didn’t even bother to look at him as he proceeded to re-curse the desks for his next class. This time it was a Sneezing Curse.

“What Potter?”

“I was wondering if I could talk to you about Professor Slughorn.”

Now Snape did look at him, his expression shrewd.

“What about him?”

“I…Is he a trustworthy person?”

The potions master’s expression became very bland, very quickly.

“I mean… he said something before potion’s class today… about my mother.”

“What precisely did he say?” Now the professor’s countenance had shifted to alert and defensive, a complete turn around from the moment before.

“He said she cared about her family and would never apologize for it, and he told some story about her sending Rhumid’s Draught to her grandmother.”

Snape smirked, and looked away. “Yes, I remember that. The Ministry threw a fit. They wanted the Headmaster to suspend her, but he never did. All the teacher’s loved her.”

“Did Slughorn?”

Looking back to Harry, his expression hardened again. “I think what you’re really asking is if Slughorn means to use your parent’s memory to harm you. I can honestly say it is unlikely. He is not a cruel or vindictive man, but he is a manipulator. He will use your vulnerabilities and your pride to collect you.”

“Collect me?”

“Yes. He enjoys collecting people. It’s a very lucrative hobby of his. Voldemort brought him out of retirement specifically for his collection skills.”

“Why?”

“For social networking purposes. Hogwarts is thick with talented and powerful witches and wizards, boys and girls who will graduate to run the country. Professors, researchers, politicians, sentinels, writers, athletes, businessman. People who will go on to influence and lead hundreds, maybe thousands of others, and who will only grow more powerful by the associates they make here in this school. Hogwarts itself works hard to promote loyalty to the Dark Lord and Britain, which makes its students’ influence on the rest of Britain that much more desirable. You in particular would benefit from the support of your peers now and in the future.”

Harry blinked. Whatever he had been expecting it certainly hadn’t been this. He didn’t quite know how to react to it. Snape turned away from him again to continue with what he was doing.

“You would do well to take advantage of his interest, which will bring mutual benefits to you both. The Dark Lord desires it.”

“Oh, well, since it’s what the Dark Lord desires,” Harry said sarcastically. Then he thought of something. “Did bringing in Slughorn force you to take the DA&D position?”

Snape stiffened.

“You should go now.”

Harry very wisely made his retreat.

“I am sorry, Minister, but I’m afraid there is nothing I can do,” Dumbledore said evenly, staring across the desk at Seibligg who was becoming an ever deepening shade of red. After months spent hiding in Greece, the old wizard had seen the situation deteriorate in Germany to the point where he felt reasonably confident that Seibligg would speak with him.

Several hundred small businesses in Germany that had been depending on its sales with France were now preparing for bankruptcy, and that was affecting everyone. The banks had put a hold on lending, home sales were down, newly graduated students with loans were finding it difficult to find work, and the people were trying to save rather spend which only worsened the situation. It was only going to get worse and everyone knew it.

And everyone blamed Seibligg.

Oh, there were a few who supported his anti-werewolf campaign and more who supported his anti-Voldemort attitude, but it was just barely enough to keep him in office and reasonably protected by his own Aurors. Soon the public would demand he step down, and once he did that he had no illusions about his safety. He would be dead within the year, either by assassins or an embittered mob.

His only hope had been Dumbledore, who most of the public didn’t even know was alive, but who was quickly becoming the proverbial saint who could have lead them all through darkness if he had made himself known.

“You’ve sown poison into your own garden. There is no way for me to save your political career and frankly, there is no reason why I should. If, however, you are willing to gracefully step down from your office I am willing to place you under my protection,” Dumbledore offered.

Seibligg didn’t appreciate it one bit.

“You… You, self righteous old fool! The Triwizard Tournament was your idea! Potter escaped because of you! You got me into this mess, you damn well better get me out again,” he snarled.

“The matter of the Triwizard Tournament was barely an issue until you threatened Mr. Potter and sent him running back to Britain and called the whole matter into question. Likewise, your persecution of the werewolves was ill planned. The initial enthusiasm for tightening werewolf restrictions quickly turned to disgust as the public was forced to face the consequences of their own petty fears. Saying you will hunt down Death Eater werewolves is one thing. Publically beating women and children in the streets is something else altogether. Voldemort’s treaty with France, on the other hand, was sheer genius on his part. Not even I had realized he had an ongoing dialogue with the Queen.”

Seibligg could only sit there and glare, disarmed by the truth. Dumbledore wasn’t going to help him. His offer to protect him was flimsy at best. Once he stepped down, Dumbledore would likely throw him to the wolves in order to promote the candidate of his choosing. Maybe he would even run for Minister himself, even without the little technicality known as citizenship.

The only way to save himself was to stay in office long enough to organize a turn around.

“Minister, you’ve made a mess of things and you are not capable of fixing them. For once in your life, do something for the benefit of your countrymen. Step down before you’re dragged down and take everyone else with you. A legal re-election could reunite the country and bring about an administration fit to deal with the current political climate. If you wait any longer, you will only bring chaos and civil. That is just what Voldemort wants.”

“Get out.”

Dumbledore just looked at him, looking neither surprised or angry. Finally he stood and left, leaving Seibligg feeling more desperate than before. Why hadn’t the old man begged? He should have begged for him to reconsider, to think of the people, to relinquish his power. He hadn’t though. Perhaps Dumbledore didn’t think he had enough power left to beg for.

“I’ll show you,” he snarled under his breath. “I am the Minister. No one has more power here than I do. It’s about damn time everyone else remembered that.”

By the end of the week, the awkwardness of Harry’s new celebrity status had faded into tolerable levels. There were a few confrontations and snide remarks about werewolves from others, but nothing he couldn’t forget about at the end of the day. If anything the sudden increase of female admirers was harder to handle. More than once a girl had pulled him aside to ask if he had plans for the weekend or knew who he was going to the Halloween Party with, and he could do little more than stand there and ogle them until Hermione or one of his friends rescued him (although the Weasley twins following him around and pretending to be his secretaries in charge of his social calendar for most of Friday had been more annoying than helpful).

His assessment with Slughorn hadn’t been as painfully awkward as he thought it would be, and he left the man’s office with a few more stories about his mother and the assurance that he wouldn’t need any additional tutoring for potions.

His other classes had mixed results. He would essentially have to retake the second half of fourth year History of Magic and Astronomy (it was so overcast at Durmstrang most of the time that the subject wasn’t even offered there). He only got through runes because he had a strong enough knowledge of it beforehand that he was about even with everyone else once he returned. He also broke even with transfigurations and herbology. He was actually ahead in charms, arithmancy, and DA&D (but then almost everyone in Dueling Club was). He had already elected to take Introductory to Magical First Aid again since he had missed it the year before, and Introduction to Magical Theory. Second semester involved a mandatory Sex Education class that Harry was dreading.

He had dropped Celtic studies. He went to one class, and knew immediately he couldn’t stay. The new teacher, Professor Alexander Seamus, had looked at him through the entire class as if he had killed Brennan himself.

It was just as well. He had moved beyond what someone like Seamus could teach him.

Now it was the second Wednesday of the school year and Harry was at the first varsityDueling Club practice of school year. Cedric Diggory had been forced to step down as team captain because he was too old to participate in competitions and Ron had lost his captain’s status with the rollover, leaving Angelina Johnson in charge. The attack she had suffered during Harry’s second year had made her almost semi-paranoid and an avid fan of self-defense. If he had been impressed with her on the quidditch pitch, it was nothing compared to his admiration for her on the dueling platform. She was efficient, ruthless, and adaptable.

He was less impressed when he found out Lockhart was sitting in for Snape, and was already making things unbearable.

“While I’ve never officially been a part of a Dueler’s Association, I am an Admiral and you don’t get that sort of position without knocking a few heads together,” Lockhart preened, walking up and down the dueling platform like a model on the catwalk, soaking up that dazed, smiling faces of adolescent girls.

Harry seriously hoped he would get over himself in time for them to actually get some practicein. Beside him, Hermione was scribbling ideas in her notebook for the first edition of Hogwarts Herald due next Sunday and next to her Draco and Natalie (she had quit Riding Club after rather nasty fall off a Hippogryff) were having a thumb war (which she won by stabbing Draco with her nail).

“I’ve found that fighting with a bit of a flare does wonders for increasing your chances of winning. A show of absolute confidence will intimidate your adversary… and impress anyone who just happens to be watching,” Lockhart laughed, flipping his wavy, golden hair over his shoulder. Harry quickly looked elsewhere before he got violently ill.

His gaze found Ron, at the other end of the Dueling Hall, casting spells at his dummy. He wasn’t saying the words out loud, just moving his lips, which was the only reason no one else had noticed him up until now. Harry felt himself reluctantly admiring his cleverness, but quickly realized the other boy wasn’t having much luck. Whatever he was casting didn’t seem to have nearly as much strength as his spells cast out loud, and his dummy just wobbled a bit on its stand and nothing else.

“Now who would like to come up and have a match with me? Anyone? I promise not to be too hard on-”

“Spira mobilis!” rang out through the hall as Ron, finally fed up with his failed attempts at wordless magic, finally snapped it out. The dummy he sent the hex at spun around like a top for several seconds and fell over. Everyone turned and stared. Ron looked back them and scowled.

“What? I’m not allowed to practice?” he snarled.

“Well,” Lockhart said, his tone a bit irritated after having his limelight stolen. “Why don’t you come up here to practice with me since you are so eager?”

Ron smiled unpleasantly. “I’d be honored.”

Lockhart actually smiled at that, completely missing the sarcasm. Harry looked to his friends. Hermione shared his worried expression, but Natalie and Draco looked more than happy by this little turn of events.

“Oh, this should be fun no matter who loses,” Natalie chuckled.

Ron and Lockhart both got into position, and saluted each other. Lockhart, however, was almost immediately distracted by someone shouting ‘go Lockhart!’ and Ron’s hex hit him before he could get a shield up.

“Spira mobilis!”

The spell sent Lockhart spinning like a top and when he stopped he was dizzy and staggered and sent a Petrifying charm straight into a window.

“Turbulentus!”

The platform beneath the admiral surged up and knocked the man off his feet and painfully onto his back.

“Amburo!”

“Ron, no!” Hermione shouted, jumping to her feet. It was too late. Lockhart’s robes had already caught fire, and the wizard panicked and flailed about trying to beat out the flames. Harry stood, ready to cast the counterspell, but before he could someone beat him to it.

“Madefacio!” The Soaking Spell washed over Lockhart, dousing the flames with a loud hiss. Snape stalked across the room and onto the stage, snatching Ron’s wand out of his hand as he passed. “You will get this back after we discuss the merits of self restraint, Mr. Weasley.”

He moved on to Lockhart who remained on his back, too dazed to move. His robes were scorched and wet and thoroughly ruined, but he didn’t appear hurt. Snape didn’t look the least bit sympathetic.

“Are you injured, Professor?”

“Er…I… don’t…”

“Yes, Mr. Weasley is something of a spitfire. I suppose I should have warned you,” he said, then looked around at the students who had all gotten to their feet. “I need volunteers to take Admiral Lockhart to the infirmary.”

Several girls raised their hands, but Snape ignored them and selected Cedric another seventh year boy to help carry him away. Harry glared up at Snape suspiciously. It seemed more than a little convenient that the man should just happen to show up when needed, especially when he had told Lockhart that he wouldn’t be able to attend practice at all that day.

He turned to Hermione to ask her opinion, but she was gone, disappeared amongst the crowd of students during the excitement. He searched for her, but never did find her.

It wasn’t until he made his way back to the common room that he realized he hadn’t seen Ronald Weasley either.

“Will you hold on for just a second?!” Hermione demanded, practically jogging to keep up with Ron’s long strides. He turned back to glare at her but didn’t slow down.

“I don’t need a lecture from you, Granger. I’ll get one from Snape soon enough.”

“I’m not here to lecture you. I’m here to find out what is wrong! You’ve been acting weird ever since the train. What is going on?”

He stopped abruptly, his face pinched in frustration and hands clenched. Throwing caution to the wind, she stepped closer to him. She did not honestly believe he would hit her. He could be an absolute racist idiot, but there were certain lines he never crossed. Using his physical strength against girls was one of those lines, and there had been times when Natalie had made particularly acidic comments where even Hermione thought a slap had been disserved.

“You’re not my friend. I might hang out with you because of your brother sometimes, but I’m not about ready to spill my guts to you just because you make with the puppy dog eyes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Bollocks!”

He jerked in surprised. Hermione never swore.

“We’ve been friends since we were primary school together… even after you turned into a grade A jerk, and I’m worried about you. I’m not my brother and I’m sure as hell not Natalie. I’m not going to laugh at you or use whatever’s bothering you against you later. You obviously need to tell someone because you can’t keep going on like this. Why not me? I promise I won’t tell.”

He grimaced, but didn’t immediately shout at her or stalk away which she took as a good sign. His faced twitched and shifted, running a gamut of emotions she could just barely catch before it changed again. Frustration, anger, sadness, disgust. Finally, he pulled away and walk around her.

“Just leave it alone, Granger. It’s none of your business.”

She let out a frustrated noise but let him go. He obviously wasn’t ready to talk to her, and if she kept trying now she’d only drive him further away. She would try again later, after they both had time to cool down. After all, she was nothing if not persistent.

1. Belfax Heating Potion - a tasteless and non-toxic potion. Adding it to water can cause it to heat up. Can be used for cooking when a fire cannot be built, to keep beverages hot, or for heating bathwater for example. Belfax is the inventor of this particular potion. There are other heating potions used for other purposes, such a raising a person’s body temperature due to hypothermia or to turn metals into their molten liquid state. Evergreen potion- is used to keep flowers and plants from wilting after they have been cut and placed into vases. It’s use is simple, but it’s brewing is difficult. It’s also highly toxic if ingested, and is not used to preserve anything other than ornamental plants. Recitation Draught is used to help the drinker memorize what they’ve read for perfect recitation later. Great for making speeches or like Slughorn points out, quoting poetry to your sweetheart later. It is the easiest potion to brew in the entire book, which is the real reason Clyde picked it (and Slughorn knows it). Wound-cleaning potion is exactly what it sounds like. Rhumid’s Draught is used to treat arthritis. If you’re wondering what happened to Felix Felicis, it’s being used as a reward for Advanced Potions, not fifth year potions, just as it was in canon.↩

Lords of War

Snape stared at the six vials of potions, flabbergasted by his results for the first time since he had graduated university with his mastership in potions. There was not an error. Three of the six vials showed the intended result; names in silvery script floating in a solution of dark blue.

Severus Snape

Harold Potter.

Cedric Diggory.

He had collected a vial of blood from each of them, including himself, presumably to use in a demonstration of blood curses in DA&D. Not entirely false, but he had taken a few drops specifically to use in this experiment, as controls to ensure the potion worked properly. And it obviously had.

Which left him wondering why the other three vials had turned black.

The Blood Identification Potion was a standard potion in both medical, legal, and law enforcement fields and he was well familiarized with it. He taught it to his Advanded Potion’s students nearly every year.

Well, he had when he was actually the potion’s professor.

And wasn’t that just a bitch? Lestrange had had quite the gloat-fest when she had handed down the Dark Lord’s intention to substitute him with Slughorn. One day he intended to get even by replacing her as headmaster, but that time was not quite yet.

He needed to figure out who or what the Body Tree was growing at this very moment in the secret room in his living quarters. He had a sneaking suspicion it was a copy of Harry. It would explain why McGunny had helped the Germans escape with the boy. Having the public lose track of Harry, and then replacing him with a replica could serve any number of purposes, not the least of which was getting close to Voldemort.

But the blood he had collected from the fetal ‘fruit’ had not revealed a name, and in fact the corruption of the potion suggested it wasn’t even human. Could it be some human-like creature, a fae of some sort or veela? Or was it a copy of a biological construct such as a golum? Maybe a being that started out looking human and matured into something else like a changling?

If the thing possessing McGunny had not originally been human, it would not be unreasonable to assume that the new body it was attempting to create for itself would not be human either. Even if it intended the body to look like a specific person did not mean it needed the person’s exact internal body specification. There were definite benefits to creating a body that was more than human.

Confusing the hell out of Snape himself being one of them.

With a wave of his wand, he vanished the potion and all proof that he had brewed it. He would need to perform more experiments to determine the species of his current project, but not tonight. He had essays to grade.

He secured the supply cabinets and ingredient’s cupboard, and stepped out of his private laboratory. Lestrange had tried to deprive him of this too, but Slughorn had insisted he keep it. For all that Snape resented his removal from his potion’s position he could not bring himself to resent his former mentor, who had done much to foster his self esteem during his school years and even now the man’s positive regard acted as a balm to his wounded pride.

His rooms were still in the dungeons as well, but there had been no question of Slughorn staying there. He enjoyed his creature comforts more than his privacy, and was housed beneath the Ravenclaw dormitory. Yet even the forbidding gloom of the dungeon’s was not enough to ward of everyone, as was evidenced by the envelope poking out the side of the portrait that guarded his rooms.

He immediately noticed Draco’s sharp, elegant scrawl and after a simple revealing charm proved the letter devoid of magic, he grabbed the letter and brought it in with him. The missive inside was simple and short.

Uncle Severus

Mother would like to invite you to see a play next Saturday. Benjamin and Bailey[1]. Bring a date. – Draco

Snape smirked. Narcissa, for all her class and breeding, lacked the ability to extend invitations graciously or even courteously more often than not and Draco had inherited her lack of tact. She was fortunate, however, that he actually liked that particular play and that he could actually think of at least one woman he wouldn’t mind bringing along to see it.

“I swear if that…girl tries to slip one more article under my nose I’m hanging her by her thumbs in the dungeon,” Hermione snarled, throwing down a stack of parchments on the table and taking her seat. Harry and Ginny, who had been discussing the upcoming quidditch tryouts, blinked at her.

“Are you referring to any girl specifically or should all the resident females fear for their auxiliary digits?” Harry asked. He grinned at her, pleased he even managed a sentence that clever on the fly.

“Trudy Sabbat. Second-year Ravenclaw and know it all. She wasn’t even a part of the staff last year and when she joined she just knew she was the paper’s rising star. As if we have or need a star to begin with, the little snot.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. Hermione was one of the most tolerant people he knew, and even people she didn’t like tended to get some sort of rationalization. It took a rare soul to get her to spout out insults about them.

“Don’t laugh. She’s convinced that her success rides on making you out to be some sort of insane monster bent on over running the wizarding world with werewolves.”

“Oh, her,” Ginny said, her eyes widening in recognition. “She came up to me in the library and had the nerve to ask me if I’d made a pledge to you to become a werewolf once I graduated. Of all the stupid things?”

That was funny too, but suddenly Harry couldn’t bring himself to laugh. Someone had tried to get into his trunk two nights ago, and when they failed they settled for writing nasty things over it. Prior to that he’d had a homework assignment stolen in the library while he was looking for more research materials, and found it replaced with sheet of paper reading ‘Traitor To Your Species’. He would like to blame Whitmore, but Harry suspected it was more than one person. There had been more than few hostile stares in the three weeks Harry had been back in Hogwarts.

Why exactly had he thought coming home would be easier?

“She’s not very bright for a Ravenclaw,” Hermione admitted, “But she is persistent. Eventually she’s going to figure out she can’t write a story without facts, but she can write an opinion piece. I might have to print it to keep from being accused of being bias. The first edition came out so perfectly, why is everything turning into such a mess now?”

The first edition of the Hogwarts Herald had been a raging success, assuaging the fears of many of the students that the paper would get dull after being taken over by its new, bookish editor. Hermione had been a high-strung, yet happy mess until the day it was handed out in the great hall. Now she was just high-strung.

“The solution should be obvious, Granger.”

“Ron!” she blurted, then cringed. She hadn’t meant to use his given name in public. He was looking as angry and irritated with the world as ever, arms crossed with some parchments in his hand. He moved in set them on top of her pile.

“I want to write the article before Sabbat does and embarrasses the rest of us. I actually have some legitimate questions I’d like to ask Potter.”

There was a glare directed at Harry, who just smiled back stiffly and raised his glass to him. Meanwhile, Hermione was looking over his proposal, her pinched features relaxing into interest.

“This is really good. Really really good. Do you think you could have this ready by next Monday?”

“You can’t be serious,” Harry said. “I might not trust Sabbat to write a fair article about me, but you want me to trust him to do it?”

Ron sneered. “Get over yourself. I’m not writing a story about you. I’m writing a story about Proposal 4-66 and the treaty with France. You just happen to be the only first hand source available.”

“Which means anything negative you write about them reflects back on me. No thanks.”

“Harry,” Hermione broke in. “A lot of people have very real concerns about the influx of werewolves, and even if you don’t share it, it doesn’t make their concerns any less valid. You have a responsibility to answer their questions as best you can. Even if it makes you uncomfortable to do so.”

“What she said, Potter.”

Hermione glared at Ron. “And I will be present during the interview to make sure the questions are on subject and not taken out of context.”

“Whatever you say, luv.”

Ron grinned cockily and strutted his way towards the Slytherin table. Harry gave Hermione a dirty look, which she returned. “Don’t be such a baby, Harry. You’ve done this sort of thing loads of times, and you could do a lot worse as far as reporters go. He always writes a well balanced article.”

“Please, Harry,” Ginny said, “Don’t be stubborn about it? I know you and Ron don’t get along, but this might be just what he needs to snap him out of this funk he’s been in. A non-funky Ron has to be better than a funky one, right?”

Harry chuckled at her description of her brother, but nodded in agreement. They were all right. He did need to face the other students and their questions. If he were lucky maybe it would stop the harassment he had been getting. For once, he would just have to bow to the inevitable.

By the next morning he had managed to stir up some enthusiasm for the upcoming interview. It couldn’t hurt to work on an open dialogue with the rest of his peers. If only to remind them that he was still Harry, and they could still talk to him and not be ignored or dismissed. He missed a lot of the easy banter he had held with his classmates and Dueling Club partners.

His optimism for the day was dashed, however, when Snape handed him letter from his godfathers over breakfast. He read the letter. He read the letter again. Then a third time.

“Harry, what is it?” Clyde asked, “You look like someone killed your dog.”

“Huh,” he laughed, wrung from the irony of his friend’s words more than any humor in the situation itself. “Sirius and Remus are going to France.”

Clyde blinked. “Oh… Sorry, mate.”

“Yeah…”

“Does it say how long they’ll be gone?”

Harry shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the idea. It shouldn’t be that disturbing. It wasn’t as if he would have been able to visit them until next summer, and letters from France only took two or three days more to reach him than those from the Goddess Colony. And yet…

Britain would feel a little less like home when they weren’t in it.

According to the letter, it didn’t sound like they would be back any time soon.

He was distracted and depressed for the rest of the day, turning his toad into fish rather than an ottoman (when precisely would that ever come in handy?) in transfiguration and charming his tea set to electrocute rather than warm beverages in charms. Hermione was even getting frustrated with him, until Clyde tipped her off in Arithmancy, and then she became all quiet and sympathetic which was worse in a lot of ways.

“Do you need to talk about it?” she asked during their study period together.

“No… I… I just need to get used to the idea. Maybe…” he paused, a thought occurring to him. “There’s something I need to do. I think you might be able to help me with it, but not for a few days.”

She asked him what he needed to do, but he wouldn’t elaborate. She wouldn’t understand until he showed her. None of his friends would.

The next day was Friday, the evening of the interview. Ron had spent the last few days going around the castle and asking people if they had any questions they would like to ask Harry about Proposal 4-66 and the 1997 Treaty of Paris, and had quite the list when they met in one of the abandoned classrooms.

Sensing they would be there for a quite a while, Hermione had transfigured the desks into soft easy chairs and Harry brought up some snacks from the kitchens (the castle house elves still regarded him as their hero and had been tittering happily to themselves at his personal request). They made themselves comfortable and got down to business.

“Who came up with the idea of Proposal 4-66?” Ron began.

“I did. Or at least, I suggested helping France with the werewolves they were getting from Germany. Most of the actual plans were thought up by Lord Voldemort, Fenrir Greyback, and Voices for All. Personally, I thought most of their ideas were quite ingenious.”

“And why did you make the suggestion? How did you even know what was happening? Britain did not seem aware of the situation until a few days before Proposal 4-66 was made.”

“I had received a letter from a friend in France. This person was aware of my connection to werewolves, particularly that my godfathers are werewolves and that it was a werewolf family that helped me get back to Britain safely. The letter contained a German article about the ministry attempting to round up werewolf ‘Death Eaters’ conspiring with Lord Voldemort. It was all lies. Even Stephen Canis, the werewolf who helped me, was painted as some sort of lone rebel bent on toppling the government, when the truth was that he’s just a father trying to do what’s best for his wife and children. When I realized what was happening, and that they were using my escape as an excuse to persecute innocent people, I went to Lord Voldemort.”

The interview lasted for nearly an hour and a half, with only a ten minute break for snacks and drinks, and it was by far the longest interview Harry could ever remember doing. Ron insisted on asking every question he had been given, everything from where the new colonies would be located (Ireland, where there aren’t enough wards to safely protect wizarding folk against the native fairy population) to his belief in werewolf equality (equal, yes, the same, no- who could they? They had completely different cultures) to granting citizenship to non-British or Irish werewolves (no, once the colonies in France are set up, they’ll return there, unless they find mates and wish to stay).

“Okay, last question,” Ron said, his voice starting to go raspy with talking. “There are several people of the opinion that taking in the additional werewolves presents far greater risks than it does benefits. What would you say to those people?”

“I’d say they’re entitled to their opinion, but I hope they have something to back it up, because I’m not too impressed with it right now. The same safety features that have kept werewolves and humans from harming each other in the last fifteen years are still in place, and the benefits from our decision to aid the werewolves have led to a friendship with France, which can only help us.”

Ron wrote out his response in the short hand gibberish that only he could interpret and snapped his notebook closed.

“That should be it. I’ll write the article up Saturday. Front page stuff this is,” he said, waving his little notebook. Harry rolled his eyes and got up to go.

“If that’s all then, I think we should get back to our rooms. Curfew’s almost here.”

“Actually, Harry,” Hermione said, “I need to talk to Ron. About the paper. So… you should probably go ahead without me.”

He felt immediately suspicious, but didn’t push. If she wanted to talk privately with Ron, he wasn’t going mother hen her. He wasn’t Draco. He did, however, linger for a minute behind the door. It didn’t take long for the conversation to start up again.

“I’m not going to talk about it with you, Granger. And stop calling me Ron.”

“I’m not calling you Weasley, and I didn’t ask you to talk to me about the ‘it’ you haven’t defined. Unless ‘it’ is your article. At which point, I’ll talk to you about it as much as I want. That’s the benefit of being the editor.”

“Playing dumb doesn’t suit a know-it-all like you. Knock if off.”

“I’m just worried.”

“You’re just nosy. I’m fine. Look at me, productive member of society, writing for the school paper and not setting anyone on fire for a whole week.”

Harry walked away after that, rolling his eyes. If arguing with Ron is what she wanted, she could have it.

Snape glowered at the small package on his kitchen table, and considered forgetting about it for the day. It had arrived at his breakfast table via owl post, and even before checking the address he could tell its source by the eager way Harry had watched the package land. He really did hate being that boy’s private postman.

He performed the usual curse detection spells and opened the package. There was a spear head inside, wrapped in a piece of paper.

‘For use in spell. Don’t touch.’

What was that boy up to now? He put the spear head back in the box, careful not to touch anything other than the paper. He’d give it to the boy later. Maybe. After he found out what it was for.

He spent the rest of the morning in his lab, brewing potions to help him identify the Body Tree fruit, which had developed from ‘fetal’ to ‘infant’ with a healthy crop of fine dark hair. By three he was finished for the day, and would not be able to continue his potions for another twelve to sixteen hours. He set them aside, and headed above ground to one of Hogwart’s many towers. He found McGonagall already pouring herself a cup of tea and set himself down across from her.

She always had her tea here, everyday at the same time, and while he didn’t always join her, he knew he could always depend on intelligent company for at least an hour out of any day. She poured him a cup of Earl Grey, and a bit of milk but no sugar, just as he liked it. He smiled his thanks, thin and strained as it was. The tea set was Larousse’s. It had been donated, along with most of her belongings, to Hogwarts and Snape had made it a point to instruct the castle house elves that it should only ever be used by McGonagall or himself. He didn’t think of it too much at the time, but he wondered now if he hadn’t been a touch mad when he done it.

“Hogsmeade weekend is next week,” McGonagall said, skipping over the pleasantries. Snape cringed, and shook his head.

“Has it really been that long already? I suppose I’m on gate duty this time.”

“I’m afraid so. Lestrange really seems to have it out for you lately. I think she’s jealous that you got to go to Paris.”

“I don’t know why. It’s a dirty city, everyone smokes, and the women all dress like muggle hookers.”

“By what you’re describing it’s possible that what you saw were muggle hookers. Wizarding and muggle Paris are a lot more interconnected than wizarding and muggle London. I hear the art district is nice.”

Snape shrugged. He hadn’t ventured far into that part of the city. He had only stopped at a jewelry booth on his way to one of Paris’ many historic libraries when he had seen the beetle brooch and been reminded of Ira.

“I have a date,” he said, now that he had been reminded of the woman. McGonagall blinked at him, her honest surprise more than a little unflattering.

“A date? With a woman?”

“I believe so. I’ve only ever seen her in a dress, although Ira is more traditionally a man’s name.”

“Ira? She doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Ira Beadle. She never went to Hogwarts, but she must have done alright for herself. She’s a research assistant at the University of London. Entomology.”

“Really? What’s she like?”

Snape nearly smirked at her dubious expression. No doubt she had in her mind a pure-blood intellectualist, Voldemort-approved, and greedy for Snape’s influence with Harry and the Dark Lord.

“A Hufflepuff if ever I met one.”

McGonagall blinked. “You haven’t imperio’d this poor woman, have you?”

“Amazingly enough, no. Something about a bachelor and an orphan living alone together tugs at her maternal instincts, and I haven’t been able to get rid of her since.”

“So you decided to go on a date with her in an attempt at reverse psychology?” she asked, smirking herself now.

“Narcissa invited me to a play I actually liked on the stipulation that I brought a date. No offense Minerva, but you’re a bit old for me.”

She chuckled into her tea. Severus was a strange, infuriating, funny man. Any answer he gave you that was longer than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ was never straight or un-mined. Conversing with him resembled dancing more than anything, and one misstep sent you falling all over yourself.

Sometimes it was necessary to change the song.

“How do you like DA&D? I have to say I’ve never seen so many students afraid to sit down in their desks in all the time I’ve taught here.”

Snape tilted his head. “I see now that it’s a good thing I was transferred. Their knowledge is spotty at best. Too many teacher changes half way through the semester, and Quirrel’s been too lazy to do the job properly since his supposedly last year of teaching. There’s no discipline to it, and they’ve forgotten almost anything useful they learned from Larousse and Obltiz. I don’t know how any of the previous seventh years managed to pass their NEWTS.”

McGonagall nodded. She often wondered the same thing.

“Then it is certainly a good thing that you are there to guide them. I suspect the knowledge to protect themselves will become increasingly important in the coming days. I have to say, I’m particularly impressed with what you’ve managed to pass on to Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley. I saw them at the Junior Dueling League Championship. They were both amazing. All of your duelists were.”

Snape acknowledged the compliment with a nod, inwardly pleased. McGonagall and he had not been friends for long, but he knew she was hard to impress and offered her praise sparingly.

“Speaking of which, what has Lockhart been up to? He’s been avoiding me lately.”

McGongall took a sip of her tea to hide her less than polite smile, and set it down again once she had regained her composure.

“Yes, well… I do believe he’s rather afraid you’ll ask him to step in for you again, despite the fact that he was playing down his own defensive capabilities in order to build up Mr. Weasley’s self-confidence. Aside from that, I suppose he’s doing a pretty descent job. Most of what he does is show his ‘recruits’ how to take care of their uniforms and perform drills so that they look impressive. There’s very little spellwork involved, and for that I’m sure we’re all grateful.”

“Count our blessings, as the saying goes.”

“Exactly so.”

It took some convincing on Harry’s part to get Remus’ package from Snape. He had to go from the Great Hall back to his dorm room and then back to the Great Hall to get the book containing the spell he wanted to use the arrowhead in. It had taken another twenty minutes explaining the basis of the ritual magic and reassure the potions master that the spell was perfectly safe and would not end up transforming him or anyone else in the school into pigeons.

It took some convincing, but he had it.

“What precisely are we doing?” Natalie asked, voicing the question all their friends were wondering. “And where did you get a bucket of cow blood?”

Harry had asked his friends to help him with a spell, but it was the sort of spell none of them had any experience with. It involved the Old Magicks, which they only knew of from history books and fairy tales. Most of them were only half convinced it would work.

But they were his friends, and they were curious. So Natalie, Hermione, Draco, Clyde, Ginny, the Weasley twins, and Ron (because once he started following them there was no shaking him) had helped him gather the supplies from around the castle and followed him for nearly an hour out across the lake where they would be assured their privacy.

“Did you know the house elves butcher most of the meat we eat?” he said, glancing back at them to make sure no one had fallen behind. “They’ve been very helpful. I never would have found half of this stuff without them.”

“And what is all of this stuff for?” Ron snipped. He would have guessed Dark Arts with the blood, but he had learned enough from DA&D to know most of their supplies were perfectly harmless. Candles, white linen, mason jars of grains, wine, and milk. They may as well be coming out to have a really weird picnic.

“A protection spell for my godfathers. I told you that already,” he said, then pointed to a spot a little ways in the distance. There was a rocky beach with plenty of room for all of them.

“Why not just cast a protection charm on them and be done with it? Or give them one of those protection relics are something?” Draco asked, perhaps the most put off out of all them. He didn’t own the sort of shoes this sort of spelunking required.

“Too weak. Much, much too weak and they fade too quickly. I need to cast a spell tailored specifically for them that will last over a year. One that won’t be canceled with a simple finite incantatem.Don’t worry, Draco, I promise I’ll make this worth your while. You’re going to get such a buzz from this.”

“So that’s why you needed the mushrooms,” Fred laughed, shaking his jar of dull brown fungi.

“I am so not eating those,” Ginny insisted.

“Don’t worry, they’re not for eating. They’re an offering to Raecellos, the God of Traveler’s. He’ll carry the spell to France once they leave Britain.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Ron spat out, “Are you fucking serious? You’re a loon.”

“If you really think so, you can go. You invited yourself along if you’ll recall.”

No one said anything else as Harry had them help lay out the white linen for his spell. They spread it out over the rocky beach and weighted down with stones. Harry then stripped down to his pants and undershirt and had everyone step back towards the edge of the trees. Out of all of them, only the Weasley twins looked more eager and curious than uncertain and skeptical. It didn’t matter; Harry thought to himself, they would understand when they experienced it themselves. He should have shown them last year, but at the time he had been so concerned with other things and paganism had seemed more like a secret club than a way of life.

He took his keystone from Hermione who had been carrying it and showed it to all of them.

“This is my keystone. I’ve been storing up magic inside of it for months. I’m going to use it to charge the cow blood with my magic. It will take the place of my own blood.”

The keystone had been set to absorb his excess magic, but it only took a moment of intense concentration for him to reverse the flow. Immediately, he could feel his magic flowing back into him and he could tell by everyone’s expressions that they felt it too. Quickly, he dropped it into the bucket of blood, and watches as it rippled restlessly for several seconds, refusing to settle with the steady current of magic pouring into it.

“Whoa.”

Harry grinned at them. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

He took the bundle of sage from Clyde and lit it, releasing a fragrant smoke into the air. He spread it around the white linen, himself, and his friends.

“This will purify the area of malevolent energies that could influence the spell. It also keeps several sort of spirits away.”

“Spirits?” Hermione asked, “Like ghosts?”

“No. Like wraiths or unseelie fairies. We’re so close the Forbidden Forest, I have to be extra careful. I’d keep your wands ready, just in case.”

They shared uneasy looks and brought out their wands. Harry grabbed a paintbrush, twice the width of his thumb, and the bucket of blood and carried it over to the white sheet. He dipped his finger into the blood then brought it up to draw a line across his forehead.

“For concentration,” he said, without looking at the others, then dipped in his brush and applied it to the white canvas. The brush did not drip, the lines were perfectly straight where he needed, curved where he needed, and when he was done his diagram was more precise than anyone without a specific spell should have been able to manage. This was no artistic skill on his part, but the blood itself was now an extension of his will, and he had willed it to be perfect. The diagram itself was three overlapping circles, a symbol for eternity. From Ron he took the jar of milk, added a drop of blood to infuse it with magic, then poured it out in a circle around the blood circles, and then a little at its center. He drank the rest.

In the spaces between each of the lines of the circle, he began to spread out his offerings of grain, wine, honey, mushrooms, fruit, three silver sickles, three fishing hooks, and three small fish. Symbols of bounty all. All native grown or forged, making them symbols of home. At the edge of the circle, three short, fat white candles were set the exact same distance from each other and remained unlit. At the very center of the diagram he placed two items. The first was Sirius’ fang and claw necklace, the one he had been given the summer before his first year and the only item he had that was completely untouched by anyone’s magic but Sirius’. The second was Remus’ spearhead, forged and fished with by him personally for several years now.

Harry stared at his work for several minutes, double and triple checking to make sure it had been put together perfectly, and then turned to his friends. Their expressions were all the same now. The skepticism, uncertainty, and curiosity had all been replaced with fascination. They didn’t understand what he was doing, but deep inside their magical core hummed and brought forth instincts of ancient days before wands and textbooks, when even the most powerful could only unleash their magic at the will of the divine.

“Whatever happens from here on out, you mustn’t interfere. I’m not entirely sure how this is going to look to you, but I don’t want you to be afraid.”

By now the sun was low on the horizon, and the shadows of the surrounding trees had blanketed them in shade and the half moon rose pale in the sky. Across the lake they could see distant towers of Hogwarts and the flicker of torches being lit. Harry removed his shirt and set it aside, earning a gasp from several of his friends. They all knew about the crescent mark tattoo, but none of them had seen skeletal hand print that now surrounded it, courtesy of one very irritated Dark Lord. He didn’t think now was the time to explain (or lie about) it. Natalie held the very last item that he required, and as he stepped towards her she hastily drew out the carved wooden box. He opened it and pulled out the sacrificial knife. Her eyes grew huge.

“What are you-”

“You’ll see. Don’t be afraid.”

He turned his back towards them and stepped into the center of the diagram, his feet straddling the necklace and spearhead. His keystone would ensure the blood he was using counted as blood sacrifice, but a little pain was still required. With the dagger he pricked the tip of first finger and held it over one of the circle so that it would dripped down into it.

“I call upon Madris, The Queen Goddess of Home and Family, to alight upon me a blessing of protection. Before thee I make an offering of my blood and the bounty of my hearth. If this pleases you, I beg of thee a sign.”

Around him he could see and hear and feel the stones along the beach rattle and shake, and one of his friends gave a little shout of surprise. The candle at the edge of the circle directly in front of him suddenly lit itself. One blessing down. Two to go.

He turned himself to another circle and pricked another finger to bring new blood.

“I call upon Rhiannon, Goddess of the Moon and Inspiration, to alight upon me a blessing of creativity in the face of many difficulties. Before thee I make an offering of my blood and the bounty of my hearth. If this pleases you, I beg of thee a sign.”

At the edge of the shore, a wave suddenly drew up and crashed against the beach; bring water up to the very edge of the white linen, like a tide pulled in by the moon.

The second candle lit.

He turned to the final circle and pricked his third finger.

“I call upon Raecellos, God of Traveler’s, to bare these blessings to Sirius Blackbone and Remus Slivermoon upon their journey and until such time as they return to their native soil. Before thee I make an offering of my blood and the bounty of my hearth. If this pleases you, I beg of thee a sign.”

Raecellos apparently wasn’t as into large gestures. Yet out of all of the signs he had received, Bobby landing on his shoulder was definitely the most startling.

“Little scrapper,” Bobby laughed, ruffling his feathers. “You know you interrupted a very interesting exploration of the Selkie Coves off Malin Head?”

“Missed you too, Master,” Harry hissed under his breath. He glanced at his friends, but they didn’t seem to realize the raven was talking. He looked back towards the edge of the circle to see the third candle was lit. The ritual was over. He had all three blessings.

“Well, back to France for me then,” Bobby sighed. “I’d barely touched Ireland. I hope you’re happy.”

“Ecstatic. Now off with you. You’ve got some blessing to deliver, don’t you? My godfathers are leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes, big hurry and all. You owe me one.”

Bobby dove from his shoulder and onto the ground, were he quickly snatched up a silver sickle from Raecellos’ circle and flew off with it. Harry let out a sigh of relief and stepped out of the circle. The evening air settled over his skin, making him shiver and he quickly moved to redress. It wasn’t for some moments that he noticed that his friends were being awfully quiet. He turned around and blinked.

They were crying. Shimmery wet trails fell down their cheeks, there eyes staring at him with disbelief and amazement. He was stuned. Had this been what he looked like to Voldemort when he had first felt the touch of the Earth? The way he and Fleur had felt when they had seen the blessing[2] of unicorns?

“What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

His words seemed to pull them out of their shock, and immediately hands went up to their faces to wipe away the tears there and everyone avoided looking at each other in embarrassment. Natalie pulled herself together first, and a few sniffles later you wouldn’t have known she had been crying at all.

“What was that? It felt all…. Weird. Tingly and weird.”

“That’s three gods dropping by to say hello. Well, them and one rather obnoxious messenger. Is everyone okay? We really need to leave the area now.”

“Why,” Ron said, his voice still rough with emotion. “What’s going to happen?”

Harry pointed towards the white linen piled with offerings.

“That all belongs to Them now. They’ll send their followers to collect it here shortly, and those tend to be fairies. Just leave it all here. I’ll come back tomorrow and pick the jars.”

That got everyone moving quickly off the beach and back towards Hogwarts. Harry followed at the rear, taking a moment to wash off his keystone, forehead, and knife in the lake. He wasn’t even completely out of sight before he saw the first scavenger arrive, a deer-like animal as black as coal with red antlers pulled itself from the shadows of the trees and began to eat of the grain offering from the Rhiannon’s circle. He didn’t call the others back see. He had no idea how safe they all were while painted in divine magic.

No one said anything on the walk back to the castle, and Harry was starting to think he made a mistake in showing them this. He hadn’t wanted to frighten them. More than anything he just wanted them to understand this part of his life that was so important to him, that had brought him home to them in the first place. As they reached the edge of the castle portcullis, the sky now sunless and burning brilliant pink and orange, Harry broke the silence.

“Someone say something.”

As one, they all stopped and turned to him. There was no more tears, but their expressions weren’t entirely clear. Hermione stepped around the others so she could stand directly in front of him. She looked pained and he felt his heart clench.

“I had no idea,” she said, “I knew you were a pagan, I knew you did magic that was different than what we learn in class, but I didn’t… I never even imagined magic could be like that. It was so…so… raw and organic. And you just…you were so in tune with it and… and…”

And her arms were suddenly around him, holding him tightly as her entire body shook with tears all over again.

“You were so beautiful, Harry.”

“Poor Bailey,” Ira sighed, settling into the carriage seat across from Snape. It was very nearly midnight, and while they had each enjoyed the play they were now more than a little tired. Snape hid it well, but then being naturally irritable had its advantages.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Miss Beadle. Bailey got the girl in the end.”

“Yes, but he could have gotten Agatha years ago if he had known how to give a simple compliment. He would have had friends too. And maybe avoided being accused of murder.”

Snape smiled at this.

“Do you think his life would truly have been any better? He was not a pleasant person, but he was an honest one and he wanted others to be honest with him. Agatha couldn’t have appreciated his honesty until after Benjamin betrayed her. She wasn’t mature enough for him yet. Likewise, if he had made friends like Benjamin did he would soon be disappointed by them. Did you not see how quickly Judge Kendell and Arietta turned on Benjamin when they realized the compliments he had given them were fake?”

Ira thought about what he had said, and felt a smile growing.

“You are a real Bailey, aren’t you? That’s why you like the play. He’s just like you… and still gets the girl in the end.”

Snape snorted.

“I assure, madam, I am both Benjamin and Bailey. I’m unpleasant to be around for the honest and dishonest alike.”

“I like being around you,” she said.

“Well, then maybe I’m a Benjamin, and you just don’t realize what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve known a Benjamin in my time, enough to appreciate a Bailey.”

“Do you fancy yourself an Agatha?”

She ducked her head. “No, I’m not pretty enough to be an Agatha. Maybe the barmaid… just not as buxom.”

Snape chuckled. The barmaid had been one of the funniest and most jaded characters in the play, refusing to be charmed by Benjamin or anyone else for that matter. He was feeling uncommonly relaxed. He’d had a wonderful evening, even with Lucius throwing thinly veiled barbs at him about Lestrange and Narcissa’s obvious disappointment in his choice of dates. Ira had been charming and witty, any associated arrogance muted by her nervousness to be dressed to the nines in a demure but tasteful black evening dress. He felt strangely pleased to see she was wearing the brooch he had given her, the back clasp transfigured so that she could use it to pin up her hair. She had a very graceful neck, he noted.

“I’d like to do this again,” he found himself saying, completely unplanned. He waited for the usual feeling of regret when he spoke without thinking. He noticed her stiffen, and felt the urge to kick himself.

“You mean see a play?”

“I mean, go on a date,” he clarified, figuring since he had mucked things up already he’d do the Bailey-thing and bury himself with his own honesty. A blush stole its way across her face, and he wondered if he hadn’t completely overstepped his bounds after all, when the carriage came to a stop in from of her flat.

“I… I really don’t think that would be a good idea, Professor,” she said quickly and scurried out of the carriage without waiting for the driver to open the door for her. He watched her entire escape from his seat, saw her stop twice as if she were going to turn around and rush back, but eventually she passed through the front door and disappeared.

“Well, that went just splendidly,” Snape sneered to himself. “It could have been worse I suppose. She could have said yes and I would have had to put up with this lunacy on a regular basis.”

She had wanted to say yes. He could tell that much, but that didn’t illuminate her reasons for refusing. Maybe she really was a man. Maybe she was seeing someone else. Snape snorted and rolled his eyes. It didn’t matter. This was their first and last date, and since he had enjoyed it for the most part it wasn’t as if the evening had been wasted.

Just unpleasantly concluded.

There was always tomorrow. Stupid bloody optimism.

What are you doing?

Tom frowned behind his mask, but gave no indication to the vampires, two on either side of him, that anything was wrong. He stood on the roof of a town house and stared down coldly at the domicile across the street. It was nearly midnight, and this far into October the air was cold and damp. He could feel his excitement growing, and perhaps that was what had roused Horace from his sleep in the quiet corner of his mind. He tried to gentle push the boy back into the world of dreams, but now that Horace was awake he resisted.

What are we doing here? Why are they wearing masks?

He could not answer him, not with the Katarina and her minions standing on either side of him, waiting for his signal to start. He wished he could though, knowing the truth might be enough to send the boy scurrying into the shadows to hide from what was about to happen. To hide from what he had made possible by going the Ministry of Magic and pulling the information he needed from the Department of Public Records.

It really was amazing the information you could find just lying around. Names, occupations, criminal histories… addresses.

“Now?” Katarina asked, her expression a mystery behind the full white Venetian mask but her voice thick with impatience..

“Midnight. Not a minute before and not a minute after. We cannot give the Aurors time to gather themselves and-”

A bell rang, deep and low, through the night. Tom stiffened, and so did Katarina. He turned back to the house and with a few violent slashes with his wand, wordlessly destroyed the house’ protective wards.

“Now. Quickly.”

If vampires were anything, it was quick. Katarina leaped off her perch and landed lightly onto the house across the street, her brood following closely behind. From here they looked like dementors, their black cloaks floating behind them as they ghosted over the rooftop. It only took them five seconds to find the unlocked window and slip inside.

What are they doing?

“What do you think they’re doing?” Tom whispered.

The silence that followed was answer enough for the both of them.

“You should go back to sleep, Horace.”

Why are you doing this?

Tom closed his eyes. If he listened very closely, he could hear panicked shouting but it only lasted a moment. When he looked up, he could see the full moon staring down at him, yellow and wicked. He smiled.

“This is what I do, Horace. I tear things apart so that I can build them anew, better than they were before. You don’t have to understand it, but you would do well to respect it.”

Monster.

“Yes, now be quiet. It’s almost over.”

He felt Horace attempt to push him back into the darkness, but it was weak. His host had grown complacent, giving him too much power at night and now he could not take it back. If he wanted to, Tom could steal his days as well, but that sort of continuous concentration was more than he was willing to pay for a luxury he didn’t need. Eventually, Horace gave up, but he did not retreat. Perhaps he was waiting for a moment of distraction on Tom’s part or even to see exactly what atrocity had been committed below them.

It only took three minutes for Katarina to complete her mission and return to his side. Her mask was painted in blood. Tom spared her cool grin.

“Did you enjoy yourself, my Lady?”

She gave her answer by lifting a bloody finger beneath her mask sucking it clean.

“Charming,” Tom muttered, and apparated back to Vampire Row. He intended to be there when the other minions he had sent out returned to report their mission’s outcome.

“She’s pretty flashy for a wallflower,” Natalie groused, glowering at Ginny Weasley as she flew circles around the pitch, attempting to catch the Snitch. Harry was in his usual top form, but though Ginny lacked his flying precision she was an aggressive flyer and had kept him from grabbing the Snitch twice. They had been going at it for nearly twenty minutes, and she was starting to get anxious about the outcome. There was no way Harry could ever lose to a nobody like Ginny.

“It must be that new boyfriend of hers, I think that’s him over there. She just wants to impress him.”

That consoled Natalie, but only a little. It had been a little over a week since Harry had shown them the true strength of his magic down by the lake, and she was feeling decidedly territorial over him. Hermione had been right. Harry had been beautiful, his power flowing over them like a warm bath even as the scarier magic of something else had cackled in the air like unborn lightening. For a few brief moments, Harry had been more than himself, a representation of something magnificent and untouchable and powerful, like a phoenix in rebirth. He had glowed with benevolent magic.

For the briefest moment she had thought him an angel.

And wasn’t that a sacrilegious thought considering?

They had been too shocked to react immediately after, but as the days passed the surprise faded and was replaced with a renewed sense of affection. Harry had been magnificent, but in the end he had looked at them with those wide green eyes that just begged for their acceptance. It wasn’t hard to give. In fact, it was probably a lot easier than it should have been.

She was getting rather fed up with competing with the rest of his friends for his attention. Even Ron was being nicer to him…well at least he wasn’t as much of a jerk. In fact, he was the one she was most irritated with. Not only was he being friendlier (sort of, in a Ronnish way) to Harry, he had written that article for the Hogwart’s Herald that had boosted Harry’s popularity all over again so that everyone and their cousin was trying to talk to him during meals and in Dueling Club and the hallways and in the bloody bathroom about the silliest things like whether his French source was that gorgeous Fleur girl or the Queen herself!

She could hate Hermione instead, but there was something about Ron that was just so satisfying to hate. Harry was less likely to hold it against her too.

A loud shout drew Natalie out of her sulking, and Draco was already out of his seat and rushing towards the edge of the platform. She hurriedly followed, and felt a bolt of panic when she couldn’t immediately spot Harry.

“What happened?”

“Ginny hit the pole and fell off her broom. Harry tried to catch her but got hit by a bludger and fell too.”

They quickly climbed down the platform and made their way onto the pitch where the rest of the players and audience was now flocking. They were closer than most of them, but not quite fast enough to stop what happened next. Harry was crouching beside the youngest Weasley, holding her hand, and didn’t appear to have been hurt.

“Oh, God, what is Lockhart doing?” Draco groaned, watching with growing trepidation as the man lifted Ginny’s shoeless foot. They didn’t hear the spell he cast, but they did see the result. Ginny’s entire leg suddenly became as limp as a noodle. She let out a ear piercing scream, which sent both Lockhart and Harry into a panic. The admiral lifted his wand in an attempt to fix his mistake, and Harry dropped Ginny’s hand and used his wand to blast Lockhart several feet across the field. Natalie gaped, not sure whether she should laugh or scream. This was getting very bad, very quickly.

At least Ginny stopped screaming, and had settled on whimpering instead.

“Oh bloody, fucking hell,” she moaned, staring at her useless leg. Someone reached out to poke it and she gave them a look that promised instant death. Harry gave her an apologetic eyes, which she ignored. Professor Grimms, who had been standing on the sidelines, finally reached them. He gave Ginny’s leg a weird look but assured her it was completely fixable, and then went to check on Lockhart.

“Gin?! Ginny?! Are you alright?”

“Gerry?”

“I’m here, luv. Sorry, I was on the other side of the field. How do you feel?”

She tried to smile at her boyfriend but it came out as more of a grimace. “Well, it doesn’t hurt anymore. Lockhart didn’t lie about that.”

Natalie had to fight back a chuckle. It was awful and mean, but it was damn funny too. Harry, however, was looking horribly guilty. She best get them all sorted out before this turned into a teenage angstfest.

“St. James, why don’t you take Ginny-”

Before she could even finish her sentence the Weasley twins appeared on the field with a stretcher and quickly shuffled her onto it, then carried her off the field.

“What a way to start the season, little sister,” Fred said cheerfully.

“Nothing to worry about, though. Harry got that bad, bad man,” George laughed.

Gerry, however, didn’t agree. “It’s Potter’s fault she was knocked off her broom in the first place!”

Harry grimaced, following the procession off the field towards the infirmary. Behind them, Grimms was pulling a dazed but otherwise unharmed Lockhart to his feet.

“It wasn’t his fault I couldn’t make the bloody turn,” Ginny snapped, at her boyfriend. “I knew better, but I tried it anyway, and then he got hurt trying to save me. How’s your arm, Harry?”

“Just a bit bruised.”

“What a minute!” Gerry protested, “I saw him. When he turned he knocked you into the post with his foot!”

Several eyes turned to him at once, wordlessly warning him about continuing that train of thought, and he kept him mouth shut until they reached the infirmary. Ginny’s prognosis was good, but she was in for an unpleasant night. Gerry glared daggers at Harry the entire time. Madam Pomfrey gave Harry a pain potion and some salve for his arm, and released him to the care of his friends while Gerry and the twins remained behind to keep Ginny company. Harry left a message with George that he would be back to visit when her boyfriend wasn’t hovering, but otherwise was completely silent.

“So what happened exactly?” Draco asked as they made their way towards the Great Hall. Harry ducked his head in embarrassment.

“I didn’t mean to knock her into the pole. She was hovering so close to me I sort of freaked and kicked the end of her broom to put some distance between us, but she ended up veering. Shit, I didn’t mean to get her hurt.”

“We know that,” Natalie said, “And so does Ginny. Quidditch is a rough game and accidents happen. It’s not your fault.”

“Well, technically,” Draco contradicted, “It’s illegal to kick or punch another player or their broom in Quidditch, so you’ve probably lost your spot of the team this year.”

“Shit… I suppose I deserve that after putting Gin in the infirmary.”

“Oh please, Lockhart’s the reason she’s stuck in the infirmary. Don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s kind of annoying.”

In typical Harry fashion, their Gryffindor friend brooded the rest of the afternoon over what happened. It didn’t help that news had already spread about Ginny’s fall, and the story had already mutated several times to include Harry intentionally shoving her into the pole and breaking her leg. Draco and Natalie had forced him to remain in the Great Hall playing cards with them and pretending nothing was wrong. Hiding would only serve to imply his guilt. So he stuck it out, trying not to flinch or glare at those who stared and whispered as they passed. Eventually, apathy settled over him and he while he couldn’t gain any enthusiasm over cards, he could ignore the extra attention.

That is until McGonagall stalked into the Great Hall looking for him.

He very nearly bolted, but quickly realized how stupid that would look. Instead, he just sat beside Natalie and tried to look contrite. The transfiguration professor spotted him quickly.

“Mr. Potter, if you would follow me please?” she said seriously, and escorted him from the Great Hall. Natalie squeezed his arm comfortingly, and watched him disappear.

“I swear, Professor, it was accident!”

McGonagall looked back at Harry in confusion. “What are you talking about, Mr. Potter?”

“Ginny and the quidditch tryouts… isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Heaven’s no. I talked with Ms. Weasley earlier. It was obviously an accident. As for what happened with Admiral Lockhart, however…”

Harry cringed. He had nearly forgotten about that. Hexing a teacher had seemed a small issue in light of hurting his friend, but now he realized how much trouble he really might be it.

“…we’ll consider that an act of defending your friend just this once. There’s no telling how much more harm he would have inflicted if you hadn’t stopped him.”

He released the breath had been holding. “Thank you, but if that’s not why you’re here than why did you…?”

McGonagall’s dismissive attitude vanished, replaced by a hard expression. The change in demeanor caught Harry off guard, and he stepped back instinctively. It wasn’t until he nearly ran into a familiar suit of armor that he realized they were heading towards Voldemort’s office.

“He’s back? The Dark Lord, I mean?”

“Yes. He arrived about half an hour ago and demanded the Headmistress’ presence and then Professor Snape and yours. I am afraid I don’t know what it’s about, but it appears very serious. He was definitely agitated.”

Harry nodded, and tried to think what could be bothering the Dark Lord. He hoped it wasn’t something he had done personally, like the protection spell he’d done last week, but at the same time he was afraid of what anything more serious might mean. She escorted him the rest of the way, but left him at the entrance. She had not been invited and more than likely she didn’t want to be there. He entered the office and found himself the last to arrive.

Voldemort stood at the window, his expression sour and his fists clenched. Snape was in his usual spot, leaning against the door and Lestrange had taken residence on the sofa. Harry couldn’t help but note that they had both positioned themselves as far away from the Dark Lord as possible. He made it a point to stand in the middle of the room.

“What’s happened?”

Voldemort turned away from the window to glare at Harry, but the brat just glared right back at him and waited. Lestrange made an involuntary hissing sound that could either have been anger or surprise.

“I have just received word of attacks in Germany. Attacks Minister Seibligg is blaming on werewolves and myself, which would be all well and good except I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

“Attacks? What sort of attacks?”

“Twenty two Ministry officials and their families slaughtered in the middle of the night during the full moon. All of the officials worked in the Berlin offices and all of them were killed within ten minutes of each other. The current death toll is thirty seven, but it’s likely higher. The Aurors are apparently having difficulty adding up all the body parts together.”

Harry felt suddenly dizzy, and quickly moved himself into the nearest chair, which happened to be in front of Voldemort’s desk.

“Merlin…”

“Yes,” Voldemort agreed solemnly. “It’s an obvious act of war, but not one that I authorized. Who ever did this is well organized and intelligent, but self-serving. Rebel werewolves are the most likely culprits, but they had to have had outside resources. They don’t have the freedom of movement necessary to organize this sort of thing, especially not now.”

“Aside from the violence,” Harry said, trying to shove aside any horrific images that tried to fight their way through his imagination, “Why do they think it was werewolves? Why do you? I doubt the Ministry has a short supply of enemies.”

Voldemort nodded his approval over the question, and explained.

“Over a quarter of the officials made up a part of the campaign to hunt down the supposed ‘Death Eater’ werewolves. In fact, aside from the Aurors who did the actual grunt work, all the primary organizers are dead.”

Harry fell silent, and closed his eyes. He would like say he didn’t believe it, that the werewolves were incapable of slaughtering entire families, but deep down he knew better and even understood. They had been pushed and pushed and finally cornered, and when they finally retaliated it was deadly.

“I needed you to be aware of the situation,” Voldemort continued. “There are still werewolves coming into France from Germany, and there will more than likely be several who were involved in the attacks coming through seeking refuge. The Germans are going to make a royal stink of it, and try to earn sympathy from their neighbors by painting Britain as the nasty bully who smacked them and ran away. There will be questions about whether we can justify the sheltering of potential terrorists, and I will need you to be prepared to face them.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t have a choice. Some werewolves had done something awful, but a majority of them didn’t deserve to be punished for it. He didn’t honestly know if all the werewolves who had attacked the officials deserved it either. In a way, it had been self-defense in a war the Ministry had started.

“Good. Voices for All will be sending a representative this evening to discuss the stance you want to take on these attacks. Professor Snape will supervise. We will likely meet again in the next few days.”

He nodded again and stood, recognizing the dismissal. The weight of the world was bearing down on him, but he squared his shoulders and went to face it. When he was gone, Voldemort turned to his other two servants.

“Seibligg’s previously tenuous political hold has now been reaffirmed, his stance against the werewolves and myself vindicated. The opportunity for attack during a moment of political unrest has already passed. Seibligg will use the national outrage to launch an offensive attack against us and further entrench himself in military and political power. I am in a rather unfortunate position. If I attack before him, Germany will gain the sympathy of its neighbors and even Queen Ophelia will have reason to question my motivations. If I wait for us to be attacked first I lose face and the confidence of my people, as well as face potential losses.”

“My Lord,” Lestrange said, “It would seem a wiser course to wait and be attacked. Yes, you may lose some public favor, but it will galvanize them in a fight against the Germans. You can easily regain public confidence during your retaliation and be justified in the eyes of Britians and Europeans alike.”

Voldemort nodded. He had been thinking the same thing as well. He turned to Snape who didn’t look too pleased with the idea.

“Anything to add, Severus?”

The potions master hesitated, but nodded.

“If at all possible… I would use your military force to intercept any attack here or in France. It may not galvanize the public fervor like the burning of a fort, but we will still have enough justification to retaliate against Germany and likewise would demonstrate your military strength and foresight. Once the war is in full swing, there will be plenty of opportunities to demonize Seibligg and his army of Aurors.”

That was also a good idea, but dependent on his own admittedly limited spy network in Germany. It might be worth the effort though. It would be best if he didn’t loose any of his new forts in France or one of the wards in Ireland that protected England and Scotland if it could be helped.

“I will take your words into account, but I did not summon you here simply to ask your advise. Like I said to Potter, I need you both to be prepared for what is to come.”

Snape and Lestrange shared an uncertain look, but quickly re-focused on their master.

“Hogwarts has always been a symbol of the glorious youth of Britain, and with Harry’s growing fame in the national arena more attention than ever is being directed here. When the time comes I intend to use this school as springboard for a few of my more ambitious projects, primarily the use of public schools to help supply my army and supplement national security.”

Lestrange frowned, “My Lord, we are you servants and will do whatever you ask, but I’m not exactly sure what it is you are actually asking of us.”

“I’m asking you to do exactly what you did last semester. Your use of the students to create and install those gargoyles not only increased the security of the school, but saved several hundred galleons in the school budget. I would like you to set up similar programs that will benefit the army. The creation of medicinal potions for the military hospitals and charming uniforms to remain clean for example. Simple things that will save tax payers billions in the long run and create an air of patriotism amongst the students. Establishing such programs here will inspire others schools to do the same.”

1. Benjamin and Bailey is a wizarding play, the plot premise being two wizards after the same witch. Benjamin is a wicked trickster, but appears good and kind because of his friendly and complimentary manner, and Bailey is good and honest, but comes off as cruel because of his sharp words and uncompromising disposition. They are both interested in the local judge’s daughter, Agatha, and each pursues her in their own way. It’s a story about character vs appearances, and it’s something of a dark comedy.↩

2. A herd of unicorns is apparently called a blessing. I honestly didn’t know this until last week.↩

Bad Omens

“I’m really sorry, Ginny,” he said, for what had to a have been the sixth time in the last hour. The little redhead glared at him from her hospital bed, white as a sheet and sweating from the discomfort of re-growing an entire bone. He sat next to her in a chair, ramrod straight and struggling to look at her.

“Will you shut up about it already? I assure you I’m quite bored with the subject right now,” she snipped. She had spent all day putting up with her boyfriend insistence that she tell McGonagall or the school paper that Harry intentionally hurt her, and her sympathy had gone the way of her patience. “Talk about something else. Where were you earlier? You said you would be by after Gerry left and that was hours ago. And stop looking guilty, I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“Voldemort’s in the castle.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but his silence dragged and told her clearly that something important had happened and was now bothering him. He looked tired and strained, worried in ways that reminded her of her mother when the season’s crop failed. Finally, he continued.

“There have been attacks in Germany, and the minister is blaming werewolves. He’s probably right this time.”

“Oh, Harry…”

“There’s more. I’ve been given the rather unenviable job of justifying Voldemort continued support of Proposal 4-66, even though it will lead to war. I spent nearly two hours with a Voices for All rep trying to figure out how.”

She blinked at him. That was… absurd. How could the Dark Lord make Harry take on that burden on top of everything else he did already? It was so unfair.

“I’m really scared, Ginny. It’s gotten ugly so fast, and it’s only going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry.”

He smiled weakly at her. “Will you shut up about it already? I assure you I’m quite bored of the subject right now. Let’s talk about something else. So how did you hook up with Gerry?”

Ginny rolled her eyes, but obliged him. They both needed a distraction, something lighter than the other person’s problems.

Snape sat in the Great Hall, looking for all the world like a man not enjoying his company or his dinner. Harry was in London again to be interviewed. The Dark Lord was accompanying him personally this time to make it clear that both he and Harry were in moral and practical agreement of their continued support of France and the werewolves, even as they condemned the Berlin attacks. Voldemort’s attendance on Harry meant Snape was allowed to stay behind and gauge the castle residents’ reaction to the news that had just barely been outlined to them in the morning post. Their feelings varied.

The staff was naturally suspicious of Voldemort’s possible involvement in the attacks, but for the most part seemed to agree there was no point in punishing all the werewolves or their French allies by retracting their support to placate an already hostile country. McGonagall was in a bitter mood that afternoon, and displaying definite resentment towards Snape after Harry had been dragged off to deal with the Dark Lord’s political mess. Lockhart, being a living propaganda pamphlet, was the only one who believed whole heartedly in Voldemort’s innocence, and said as much to anyone who would listen (or pretend to listen). Toure didn’t think Voldemort was innocent, but his move was brilliant nonetheless.

The students, however, were a mixed bag. Those who had been against Proposal 4-66 were now shouting they had been right, waving their newspapers at their opposition like it was a bloody flag. Whitmore and Sabbat were the most vocal and obnoxious, and they were meeting very little resistance so far. Most of the students didn’t know what to think. The news they had received was woefully incomplete and painted a frightening picture, and with Harry away and their teachers offering no guidance they were scrambling for reassurances. It was obvious what Harry’s stance would be, but he had suffered a very recent fall from grace because of the quidditch debacle, exacerbated by Gerald St. James and other ‘Harry-haters’ and Ginny Weasley’s inability to clarify while she continued to rest in the infirmary. The Weasley brothers’ continued support softened the recrimination, but also left people more confused than ever.

Snape hoped things would improve the next day with Voldemort’s solid stance and Harry’s own idealistic moral compass made available in the morning post, helping to re-orient a deeply confused and frightened public. Ginny Weasley would be out of the infirmary and Harry would be back, allowing for students to witness their reconciliation and hopefully silence the rumors that propagated in his absence. From there it would be up to Harry to win over the student body, and Snape didn’t envy him in the least.

Hermione could have been a great asset with her pull in the school paper, but her Gryffindor ideals crippled her from taking full advantage of it. Draco had great sway in Slytherin from first years to seventh, but he understood well enough that too much support of Harry from his own house would weaken his friend’s relations with the other three, and had wisely kept his followers neutral in public. Gryffindor had no strong single leader, leaving it divided and shifting in its opinions and Ravenclaw was the same way. Diggory had been supportive of Harry, but his former classmates had all graduated and left and he was now too old to participate in either quidditch or Dueling Club (except as a supervisor which Snape was more grateful for than he would ever admit) where he could demonstrate his leadership skills, leaving him in an awkward position of a has-been.

Snape’s assessment of the Hogwart’s political climate (which he often found mirrored that of Britain as a whole), was interrupted by a butterfly. It was black and yellow, and nearly the size of his hand. How exactly it had gotten inside, as all the windows and doors were closed against the cool autumn night, was a mystery but its source was not. It landed on the edge of cup and promptly transformed into a letter, yellow with thick black script. McGonagall, who had observed it, couldn’t help but offer her professional assessment.

“Very elegant, but she needs to follow through with the spell. The final product is hardly subtle.”

“How do you know it was a ‘her’?” he asked.

“A man would never use a butterfly… not unless he didn’t care about you questioning his masculinity.”

Snape spared her a smirk, and turned to the letter.

Dear Professor

I apologize for my behavior last week. It was unspeakably rude and melodramatic, but I’m afraid you caught me off guard and I panicked. I am sorry. If you can forgive a lady a moment of silliness, I would like to see you again.

Sincerely,

Ira Beadle

Well, look at that. Snape smiled, inexplicably pleased. It seemed Ira had come to her senses and even sacrificed a bit of pride to apologize. This was the first good news he’d had all week. Except now he had to figure out where to take her next. Nothing immediately came to mind. He hadn’t been on a date since… well, Larousse, but that didn’t count since she usually picked the place.

“Why, Severus, I didn’t know you had it in you!”

Snape mentally winced as Lockhart’s congeniality stabbed his brain. Cautiously, he turned to see the man beaming down at him over his shoulder.

“Lockhart,” he acknowledged coolly.

“Oh, no dear sir, call me Gilderoy. I couldn’t help but notice you seem to have the affections of a lady friend.”

Snape couldn’t remember the last time he had blushed, but he’d be damned if he did so because this idiot had no sense of tact. He didn’t have to struggle with it long, as Lockhart sat himself next to him, and his mortification was soon replaced by annoyance.

“Congratulations!” the blond man said, “Love is a many splendored thing. Is she lovely? Of course, she is. What am I saying? You’re a man of taste. I heard about Vesper, poor dear. Magnificent woman though. Anyway, I just thought I’d offer up some advice. I have quite a bit of experience charming the ladies, if you get my meaning, and I thought you might like a few pointers. For instance, you hair…”

Snape tried several times over the next hour to interrupt or walk away, but every time he tried the man interrupted his interruption and when he got up to leave, Lockhart blindly started following him without taking the hint. If he didn’t possess a strong self confidence, he would be suffering a supreme sense of self doubt after the man’s less than flattering list of recommended improvements ranging from his hair, his teeth, and his potion-stained fingers to his choice of residence in the dungeon and preference for plain black clothes. Luckily, he did possess self confidence, but unfortunately for Lockhart, he also possessed a Slytehrin’s enjoyment of revenge and once he had finally escaped to his rooms he went to his private library and pulled out his favorite book of poisons.

Fleur polished her shoes by hand, and tried her best not to smudge her fingers. A musketeer’s uniform was a symbol of their pride, and she had been taught the importance of its upkeep from day one. Master Bodine, her teacher and mentor, was busy polishing his sword, also by hand.

This was one aspect of her service that she had not anticipated. A musketeer abstained from using their magic whenever possible, building up their reserves until it became necessary. It startled her how used to using spells she was, and how complacent she had been about it. She had never had to polish her own shoes or iron or wash or mend her clothes, having servants and then magic take care of those menial tasks, and if it weren’t for potions she wouldn’t even know how to boil water to make spaghetti. During school, she could have used a dozen spells before breakfast and another fifty before the day was through, and she hadn’t realized how much magic she had been wasting in the process. Bodine had been quick to teach her by refusing to let her touch her wand for nearly a week. It had been an exceptionally humiliating week, learning how to do tasks a muggle child would probably have been able to do.

After a few months, however, she was proud of her progress and even proud of something other than her magic for once. She could sew a mean cross-stitch. Right now, however, she was not thinking of magic or cross-stitching.

“What is it, princess?” Bodine asked, tacking on the moniker she still loathed even now. “You have been very quiet. You didn’t even complain when I burnt the toast this morning.”

“Of course, I didn’t. I fed it to Chopin[1] when you weren’t looking.”

“Now you’re just being facetious. What’s troubling you? Are you getting split ends?”

She glared at him. A musketeer’s uniform was his pride, but the man seemed bound and determined to break her of any lingering vanity through mockery. She didn’t appreciate his efforts in the slightest.

“I’m just thinking about the attacks in Berlin and what it means for us.”

“A whole lot of fun.”

“Now who’s being facetious?”

“I assure you I am perfectly serious. These are the sort of times musketeers dream of. Battles and intrigue and spying and clandestine affairs. It’s going to be glorious. We just have to be a little bit patient.”

“That’s awful!”

“That’s opportunity. You are a very lucky girl to come into the ranks when and how you have. You are friends with that young man, Harry, who’s turning into a regular prince charming and is growing in power with every passing day, you already have a reputation from the Triwizard Tournament, and now a war is coming where you will be able to prove yourself to Queen and country. Play your cards right and you’ll rise through the ranks in no time. Besides, it really is a lot of fun this whole war business. There’ll be a few scares, mind you, but over all it’s really exciting.”

She shook her head, but it was a token gesture. If she were honest with herself, she was looking forward to the fighting. She wanted a little payback against the German Ministry that had hurt Harry and all those innocent people. She did not know any werewolves herself, but being part-veela she had a personal interest in the treatment of those not entirely human. Madam Maxime had taught her the importance of standing up for others as well as ones’ self.

“You’re just worried about being too busy to see that boyfriend of yours,” Bodine laughed. “Don’t worry about it. When things get interesting you’ll be traveling a lot. Make a boyfriend in every town you stop at and you’ll never be lonely!” he guffawed.

“Espiritus dolor!”

Harry ducked the spell, and flung out a Cooling Hex, but it was blocked and reflected back at him. He performed a blasting spell that propelled through it and into Ron’s shield charm, but didn’t penetrate. This was perhaps their most intense duel since his second year, and looking back he could see how much further he and the other boy had come. Angelina could hold her own against them more often than not, but even she wouldn’t dare challenge them in their current mood.

Harry was frustrated, angry, and stressed with the way things had been going lately. London had been a nightmare, with rooms crowded with reporters and streets crowded with people, all screaming for answers or screaming accusations and there was nowhere to just stop and breath and think. Coming back to Hogwarts hadn’t improved things. He had known people would question him about Ginny and the quidditch tryouts, but too many people had assumed him guilty and his admittedly short temper hadn’t done anything to placate them, and he refused to speak another word about the werewolf attacks in Berlin. Ginny’s casual presence may have relieved much of the suspicion, but none of the questions and still some refused to believe it to be an accident. Someone had but a hex on his tooth brush, and he very nearly swallowed three of his own teeth. He had resolved to truly hurt the person responsible.

Ron, who had appeared to be recovering from his severe case of assholitis, had suffered a relapse after learning Ginny had been hospitalized and getting in a particularly vicious row with Hermione about publishing an article on it and then about the other articles he had promised and not delivered over the last week.

They were both out for blood today and neither of them felt like obliging the other. Snape was standing off to the side, watching them like a vulture just waiting for one of them to fall.

“Sanguis acus!” he snarled, sweeping out his arm.

“Clipeus!” Ron shouted, throwing up a shield charm. The charm blocked the worst of the curse, but a few barbs still managed to penetrate, catching the redhead in the cheek, neck, and chest. He shrieked in surprised pain, and hastily tore out the sewing needle sized pins. The other duelists gasped. Despite their sport, blood wasn’t that common. Bruises and pain and weird spell affects, yes, but very rarely blood.

“The match goes to, Potter,” Snape said quickly, before the other boy could think to retaliate with something truly nasty. “Well done, the both of you. Granger, take Mr. Wealsey to the infirmary to get patched up. Potter, help Mr. Diggory supervise for the rest of the practice.”

Banished to their respective tasks, the two duelists spared each other one last glare and climbed down the platform. Natalie was waiting for Harry when he reached the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t look happy, but he wasn’t in the mood to be lectured and stalked passed her. Not liking to be ignored, she kicked him in the back of the knee and knocked him flat.

“What the hell was that for?” he snapped. She wasn’t the least bit cowed.

“What is your issue?”

“I’m in a bad mood. Is that all right with you? Leave off.” He stalked away, and this time she didn’t go after him.

Hermione managed to keep her mouth shut for an entire five minutes after they left the Dueling Hall, but eventually Ron knew she’d just have to say something.

“Is it because of your father?”

“Shut up, Granger. It’s none of your damn business.”

“It wouldn’t be if you didn’t keep making it my business and everyone else’s with the way you’ve been acting. You’ve got two options, Ron. You can either talk to me and get yourself sorted out or you can continue to make yourself and everyone else around you miserable. And I’ll still keep bugging you about it.”

“Merlin, you’re annoying, Granger.”

He remained stubbornly silent until they were just outside the infirmary, rubbing away at the blood beading up on his exposed neck and face, and then suddenly paused a few steps away from his destination. He thought for nearly a minute, and finally came to a decision.

“You tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, and I will find ways to make you suffer, do you understand?”

“I told you I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I won’t. No need to get nasty.”

He glared at her, reminding her that nasty seemed to be natural state.

“My father is dying, some sort of wasting disease. I doubt he’ll make it through the winter, but they won’t let him go. Still has five years left on his sentence, so even if it kills him they won’t let him go.”

His eyes moistened as he spoke, but he fought back the tears even as he could see Hermione’s growing wide and wet in sympathy. Silly girl, it wasn’t her father who was dying. He took a deep shaky breath and continued.

“But it gets better. When I saw him this summer, he told me who had him sent to prison. We never knew you see. The court was all hush-hush about it, called it a division move, but it wasn’t. Someone pushed for it. Someone wanted to make my father suffer and destroyed my family. And it’s such a fucking mess. I know them. I’ve shaken their bloody hand once.”

He had to stop talking, or he really would start sobbing, or throwing curses in anger and grief and frustration. Hermione stepped towards him, to offer him comfort no doubt, but he stepped away. He couldn’t let her do that, or he really would turn into a big sobbing mess and he didn’t think he could stand that sort of humiliation right now.

“Who?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Some rich government bureaucrat. What does it matter? They’re out there making the world a more miserable place and my father’s rotting on some rock, and I’m supposed to be okay with that? I’m just supposed act like it doesn’t bloody matter to me? Well, I’m sorry but I can’t pretend everything’s fine. I don’t bleeding want to.”

Hermione said nothing, taking a moment to respect the weight of the burden he had just unloaded onto her. Finally, she added her own bit empathy.

“My parents don’t know I exist,” she said. “I was four when I was taken from them, and their memories of me destroyed. I can’t really remember them either, but I know they existed. I know I was happy. And I know my foster parents will never give me what I had with them. Lucius hates me, and Narcissa treats me like a pet. I’m not okay with that and I never will be, but I have learned to move passed it, to keep the resentment from strangling out the good things I’ve found. You need to do the same thing. It doesn’t do your father or your family or yourself any good to hold onto this anger. It’s going to rot you, Ron. It’s going to rot you from the inside out, and it’s such a waste. I think you could do incredible things.”

She moved forward and this time he didn’t back away, letting her wrap him in her arms and as he predicted he cracked, tears and blood falling into her hair and shoulder. Relief was overwhelming the humiliation, eased by the fact that she was crying too. He knew he could trust her now, implicitly, the way he could never have trusted Draco or even his siblings. She had come to him, seeking a way to heal him where others had simply ignored. He didn’t know if she would succeed, but she was trying. It counted for something.

“Dammit, Granger,” he cursed shakily into her hair, “if anyone catches us like this, we were snogging, got that?”

“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Harry muttered, trying to keep from falling asleep in his soup. Hermione kicked him under the table, reminding him that they weren’t the only ones present at Slughorn’s dinner table. There were nine occupants total, several of them acquaintances of Harry. There was Blaise Zambini, Draco, and Natalie from Slytherin House, Hermione and himself from Gryffindor, and Andrea and Terry Borgen (cousins and competitors) from Ravenclaw, and Lawrence Hout who Harry had never heard of before today. Slughorn presided over them at the head of the table, the picture of amicable host.

“So tell me, Mr. Potter, how was London?” Slughorn asked, fighting the awkward lull of the conversation that had dogged it since the beginning. Harry may have enjoyed Draco, Natalie, and Hermione’s company under normal circumstances but this felt more than a little forced to him.

“I can’t honestly say. I can’t remember much aside from people screaming things at me and lots of camera flash. The hotel was nice though. The West Dalton, have you heard of it?” he asked, taking pity on the man.

“Oh yes, it’s famous. That’s where all the foreign dignitaries stay… or did stay before the Embargo. A magnificent place, hopefully we’ll see a return to its former glory now that our relations with some of our European neighbors is improving.”

“And hopefully the Germans won’t blow it up,” Zambini said blandly.

“Well, yes, that too,” Slughorn conceded, still smiling.

“What was Paris like?” Andrea asked Harry, from across the table. Out of everyone, she seemed the most enthusiastic with the dinner table conversation.

“I didn’t actually see Paris. I stayed inside the Palais Royal the entire time. Now that was magnificent. You could fit three Hogwarts into that place. The queen was… impressive.”

“I heard she’s fat,” Terry said bluntly. Harry glared at him.

“She’s not fat.”

The boy quickly busied himself with his soup. Hermione kicked him in the leg again, then Draco who was snickering into his napkin. The conversation turned to travel, which was a safe and neutral subject with few pitfalls and even a few interesting insights. At last, the dinner drew to a close, and they said their goodnights for the evening. Harry lingered behind, however. There were some things he wanted to ask Slughorn, privately.

“Oh! Goodness gracious, I didn’t see you there, Harry,” Slughorn gasped, turning from the door he thought he had escorted everyone out of. He smiled apologetically.

“Sorry, Professor. I just wanted to ask you a few things, and now seemed as good a time as ever.”

“Of course, my door is always open. What can I do for you?”

Somehow the man managed to position them in the sitting room, where a coffee set was already waiting for them, complete with biscotti. Harry blinked at it and wondered if Slughorn hadn’t some how anticipated this discussion in advance. He supposed it didn’t matter. He didn’t think the man meant to poison his coffee.

“I was hoping you could tell me a little more about my parents…”

“Certainly. I’m afraid I don’t know much about your father, I dare say he didn’t like me very much. Thought I was some sort of elitist.”

Harry mentally cringed. Snape had called him an elitist once, and he didn’t like the idea of his father disapproving of him. Then again, there was a lot in his life that he didn’t think his parents would approve of. It made him sad and angry to think about. Their disappointment would hurt, but they had abandoned him in death and didn’t have the right to judge how he made his way through life any longer.

“Lily, however, was a good friend, like I said. She had a very kind and gentle spirit, but could be stubborn as a mule when a suitable challenge arose. She did well in potions, but her true strength was in charms and transfiguration. Potions is a rigid discipline, and she had more of an artists soul and she expressed it through the more intuitive arts.”

Slughorn smiled, sadly. “If you don’t mind my asking… was she happy? I often thought of her and wondered… I’m sorry, you probably don’t remember. That was very insensitive-”

“No,” he interrupted. “I remember her perfectly. WYRA… I figured out their tricks quickly enough to save most of my memories I think. I remember her as being happy. She could always find beauty in the everyday.”

“Yes,” Slughorn agreed, “That’s just how I remember her too.”

They fell into a silence, taking a moment to drink some of their coffee and think back on her. Too soon, Harry felt himself falling into depression.

“I don’t think they would like the person I’ve become,” he said, “I’m not… I’m nothing like the boy they were trying to raise. Hell, I work for the very man that drove them out of the country to begin with. I’m more his son than theirs now, and oh, Merlin that’s a horrid thought…”

He buried his face in his hands, but jumped to his feet when Slughorn slammed down his coffee cup, shattering it. His amicable expression had disappeared, and without it the man looked far more imposing than Harry had thought possible.

“Now see here, young man, I have known your mother and I have known Voldemort, each in their youth and adulthood, and I know for a fact you are more Lily’s child than the Dark Lord’s. You may not grow up as your parents envisioned, but that doesn’t make your achievements any less worthy. I think your efforts with the werewolves is truly magnificent, and your ability to inspire through your actions and words is breathtaking. You have so much potential, Harry. So much more than I think even your parents could have imagined. The Dark Lord sees it and he has taken advantage of it, but that’s no reason to be ashamed in and of itself. He’s taken advantage of everyone he could, myself included. That doesn’t make me his slave and it doesn’t make you his son.”

Harry could only blink stupidly at him. “O-okay.”

Slughorn settled back in his chair and, cautiously, so did Harry. The man fixed the coffee cup with a wave of his wand and removed the mess with another. That done, he seemed to calm himself.

“I apologize; I didn’t mean to snap at you. You’ve broached several sensitive subjects all at once, and caught me off guard. It is not you I am angry at, but perhaps it is time to draw this evening to a close.”

“Er… yes, Professor.”

“Come then, Harry, I’ll see you out.”

He was walked to the door, but by the time he reached it, Harry remembered his original purpose in wanting to speak with Slughorn. He best ask his question now, as he didn’t know if he was still in the man’s good graces despite what he’d said.

“Um, sir… one question, please,” he asked, quickly jamming the foot in the door. The potions master stared at it confusedly, then up at his increasingly rude guest.

“It’s getting late, Harry.”

“I know, just a quick one, I promise.”

“Very well, what is it?”

“I said I remembered my mum, and for the most part I do, but there’s one little detail I’ve forgotten and it’s really been bothering me for some reason. I thought you might know… what was my mother’s favorite flower?”

Slughorn looked even more confused for a moment, but then his face lit up like a 100 watt bulb and he let out a laugh.

“I had almost forgotten about that myself! It was a rather funny joke actually. Her ‘favorite flower’ is called the scarlet pimpernel. A common little weed, unremarkable in every way, magical and mundane alike. The joke is that it’s not the flower itself that she loved so much. The Scarlet Pimpernel is actually the name of her favorite play, and the moniker of the protagonist, Sir Percy Blakeney. She had an enormous crush on the character. I remember Severus used to tease her about it constantly.”

Harry’s eyes widened. He remembered that play! Or rather, he remembered the book version. Bound in red leather with flowing golden script on the front, it had been a part of his small book shelf for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t recall all the details, but he remembered it was a love and adventure story set during the French Revolution, and that the main character behaved very silly in public but was secretly helping aristocrats escape the guillotine. It was the first novel his mother gave him, he was only seven, and they practiced his reading with it for months.

“I see the memory is not so lost, after all,” Slughorn said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m glad I could help. Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

He moved his foot and allowed the man to close his door. No sooner then it was shut he sprinted to his room. He was fortunate to encounter no teachers or prefects, but even if he had he wouldn’t have stopped for all the house points put together. Climbing through the portrait, he spared an acknowledging wave to his friends in the common room, but didn’t linger. Once in his own room, nearly empty at eight in the evening, he opened his trunk and pulled out the mysterious box he had despaired of ever opening. He checked his bed for curses (a new and unfortunately necessary routine) and climbed inside, drawing the curtains and casting secrecy spells.

He licked his dry lips and swallowed thickly, then leaned forward to whisper, “Scarlet Pimpernel.”

There was a small ‘click’, and Harry grinned like a Cheshire cat. The lid opened easily. Inside there was a strange shimmery cloth. He moved it around, expecting to find it protecting something harder and more fragile, but there was nothing else. Curiously, he drew out the cloth and draped it over his arm.

His arm promptly disappeared.

He dropped the cloth as if it burned and his arm reappeared, completely unharmed. He picked up the cloth again and started to experiment with, wrapping it around different parts of himself and finally over himself all together. Every time whatever was under the cloak disappeared from sight.

It was an invisibility cloak.

“Wicked.”

Dunnan Hill was as primeval a village as you would ever find in any corner of the Old World. A little over five hundred men, women, and children inhabited the area and their population had neither grown nor shrunk noticeable in seven-hundred years. Most wizarding folk would call the place a ‘boonie’ town, but the people there took pride in their simple ways and the peace it afforded them. They grew most of their own food, spun their own wool, brewed their own potions, and knew every one of their neighbors by name, family, house, and profession. A quarter of the population lived in cottages scattered in the fields and pastures surrounding the village, but the rest lived closely together in rooms above their shops or family houses or inns. It was for safety’s sake more than convenience. The land was thick with Otherfolk, and the massive black keystone around which their village had sprung protected them from their mischief, the closer the better.

“Don’t like it,” Brigham announced to his old friend, puffing on his pipe and wrapping his blanket tighter around his boney frame. As he had done almost everyday for the last hundred and seven years, he was enjoying his evening tobacco with his childhood friend, Norman, and discussing news about places that had nothing to do with them. “Ain’t ever going to like it. Damn werewolves, too much like them fairies. You know the pointy-ears don’t even bother them? Ain’t human enough to bother with. Already got their demony taint, so there ain’t not point in nabb’n ’em.”

Norman, who was the village school teacher for nearly sixty years, took a more liberal view of the matter. “It isn’t their fault they’re like that. Just bad luck. If they want to live as normal a life as possible, I wouldn’t begrudge them that. It’s not as if anyone but the fairies are using the land up there anyway. It’s a waste, and I’m glad for one that someone found a good use for it.”

They fell silent for a bit, enjoying their pipes and surveying their home. From the center of the square, they looked up and down the two main streets and saw the entire village. Mid-October at eight in the evening and the sky was dark, but the windows were all bright and smell of baked goods and burning wood was still fragrant in the air. Along the streets, pumpkins had been piled in preparation for the upcoming Halloween festivities, paper skeletons and ghouls floated from the corners of houses where children had hung them a few days ago. There was some raucous laughter from the town’s only tavern, but aside from that things were quiet and homey.

“Still don’t like it,” Brigham complained. “Ain’t that far from here. What if one ’em decides to run off and just happens to wander a bit too close?”

“If it hasn’t happened anywhere else in the last ten years, I doubt it’s even an issue. Besides, it’s not like they wouldn’t know if someone tried to run off.”

Brigham just snorted and took another puff from his pipe.

“Still don’t like it.”

A harsh, booming caw startled both men from their leisurely thoughts, causing Brigham to drop his pipe. A raven swooped down low over their heads, sending them both ducking. It cawed and swooped again, then flew off. They stared after it, stunned.

“What was that?”

Norman frowned, staring off into the night the bird had disappeared into. He felt uneasy. He took a closer look at the sky, found mars bright, and the faintest impression of a rainbow haloing the quarter moon.

“Bad omens,” he said, grimly. “I think we’d better go home, now.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

Brigham leaned down to pick up his fallen pipe. Another booming sound, but this time it was no crow. Something heavy and sharp smashed into the side of his head. When he opened his eyes again, he could see Norman staring down at him, one of his eyes burned shut and covered in blood. He couldn’t hear him, although he could see he was shouting at him, and then slowly he felt himself floating upward, above Norman and his own body, which now lay in a broken heap in Norman’s arms. Weightless, he hovered a few feet above the ground, and from there could see a nightmare play out before him.

The village was on fire.

There was screaming and people panicking in the streets and roar of flames, all a dull throbbing sound in his ears but no less horrific. Parents tossed their children through open windows, out of the flames and into waiting arms if they were lucky, while others tried to douse the magically induced fires with strongest spells they knew but doing little good, and those who had freed themselves from the flames were looking frantically for escape.

Brigham watched helplessly as the school he had attended in his youth collapsed into cinders, his cobbler shop and home burn like so much dry hay, and the church he had been married it burn the brightest and most tragically of all. More horrifying was the fate of his family, his neighbors, his friends, and daily acquaintances struggling for their lives and lives of their loved ones all around him. There were bodies in the street, hanging out the windows, dead or too injured to move.

He didn’t understand. What was happening? Had he died? Was this hell?

Slowly, he felt himself being drawn upwards, the horror and carnage below him growing more distant and vague until at last it seemed nothing more than a warm glow against the black earth. A light enveloped him, swallowing his grief and horror and replacing it with peace. His last unpleasant fault was-

“Why the hell did that have to be my last memory?”

Harry bolted up in his bed, gasping in the wake of a nightmare that disappeared before he could grasp it. He sat there for a long moment, listening to the sleeping sounds of his dorm mates, and tried to remember. Nothing presented itself, and nothing in the room seemed sufficiently threatening to wake him. Elsbeth’s lantern-like eyes turned towards him and she hooted softly. He smiled at her and settled back in his bed, preparing to fall asleep again when another eerie feeling came over him. He bolted upright again and grabbed his glasses and wand from the nightstand.

“Lumos,” he whispered, and the tip of his wand glowed dully, just enough to see by without waking up the other occupants of the room.

Bobby stood at the foot of his bed, his inky black feathers making him barely visible in the darkness of the room. Harry smiled at his friend, but it quickly died. There was something off.

“What is it? Are Sirius and Remus okay?” he whispered.

“They’re fine… others were not so lucky. It’s started.”

“What’s started?”

“The war.”

1. Chopin is Bodine’s dog. If you’re wondering what’s happening right now with Fleur and Bodine, she is living with him in his house. It’s like military assigned housing, small but close to work and next to other musketeers’ homes.↩

The Land to the West

Snape was awake when the knock came. He had just gotten done recording the results of his latest experiments on the Body Tree whose fruit had matured to that of two year old. The fruit had loosened from its fetal position and now hung limply from a thick vine protruding from the top of its spine. It was an eerie and disturbing experience to be in the same room with it. However, he could now see that the thing did not resemble Harry after all, though there were some cursory similarities. The ears were different, so was the hair, the shape of the mouth, and the eyes were dark when he had finally ventured to open an eyelid. It didn’t look like McGunny either.

It left him with more questions, hence the additional experiments, but he didn’t want to try to analyze his results until after he had some sleep. Which was why he was particularly annoyed when the knock came at half past one in the morning. He quickly tucked his papers in the secret room with the Body Tree and closed the door, sealing it with magic then went to deal with his unexpected guest. If someone had attempted Dark Arts on another first year, he was going feed someone to the giant squid.

Harry stood at the door, pale as death, his clothes wrinkled and untidy in his hurry to dress. Snape’s annoyance melted as he stared into his wide green eyes, begging without words not to be turned away. With a sigh, he moved aside to allow the boy into his chambers. Once he had closed the door, the Gryffindor didn’t waste any time.

“There’s been an attack in Ireland. A village called Dunnan Hill. They… they set it on fire.”

Snape was stunned, but even stunned his mind raced with what he was being told. Should he believe him? How did he know this? Who had done the attack? When? Was it going on now? Should he contact Lucius or Voldemort first? Why did that name sound familiar?

“Tell me what you know and how,” he commanded, even as he turned from Harry to search one of his many bookshelves.

“I… A messenger came to me tonight. Maybe half an hour ago? He said the war had started, that Dunnan Hill had been attacked. It was quick. They blew up a few things and set everything else on fire. They didn’t seem interested in the people specifically, but there are dead. Oh Merlin, why would Germany attack them? They had absolutely nothing to do with do anything.”

“Yes,” Snape agreed, “However, anyone who had anything to do with anything is safely ensconced in the wards over Britain. Ireland was never afforded the same protection. It would have started a war with the Fairy Courts if we had even attempted it. Here we are… just as I thought.”

Snape pulled a thin book from his shelf and opened it.

“What is it?”

“A manual. Several years ago I was assigned to set up the keystones that support the wards over Britain. Ireland doesn’t have wards over itself, but the Eastern side of the country does hold several keystones that support the wards over Britain. Dunnan Hill houses one such keystone. It was probably attacked in an attempt to take down the wards over Britain.”

The boy shuddered. Good. It was important that Harry understand the seriousness of the situation.

“I’m going to find Lucius. He probably knows what is happening already, but just in case…”

Snape hurried to the closet and pulled out his outer dueling robes. He didn’t have time for the entire uniform, but a little extra protection might be in order. There was a very good chance that once he located Lucius, he would be enlisted to follow him out into the field.

“I want to come too.”

“I can’t imagine why, yet I’m not surprised. You will go to bed and tell no one what is happening until I return and tell you otherwise.”

“But-”

“This is not a fieldtrip, Potter. You look ready to keel over just hearing about it, do you really want to have to see it for yourself?”

Harry flinched and looked down. Snape suspected he was more than a little relieved at being told to stay behind. Gryffindor bravery demanded he act on the knowledge of the injustice he had been given, but he was still child enough to accept adult authority when it was handed down. Only when it was convenient, of course. There was Slytherin in his blood, after all.

Nevertheless, Harry followed him to the castle portcullis, hoping for answers that Snape didn’t have. A pointed gesture sent the boy back towards Gryffindor Tower (hopefully), and Snape continued on to the stables.

Speed was essential tonight.

“What on earth happened to you?” Hermione blurted out, staring at the rumpled and sleep deprived friend. It was not quite six in the morning, and she wasn’t expecting anyone to be up aside from herself, and certainly not Harry. He near jumped out of his skin at the sound of her voice, and she felt supremely lucky that he had apparently left his wand on his chair along with his charms textbook and several pieces of parchment. How long had he been up? Had he slept at all last night?

“Hermione,” he said, but then couldn’t seem to come up with anything to say after that.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” he lied, feebly. She glared at him, he looked away. She softened a bit.

“Come on, Harry, what is it?”

He looked like he wanted to tell her, but simply shook his head. She decided to let it go for now. If he couldn’t tell her, there was no point in making him feel bad about it. Instead, she took him down to the Great Hall for breakfast, the house elves already used to accommodating her unusually early hours.

She did her best to distract him from whatever was disturbing him, giving him several cups of coffee and discussing classes and the details in each others lives they had missed out on with their increasingly differing schedules. It had been a long time since it had been just the two of them, even longer since they had just talked and even with his obvious distraction she was surprised how much she missed it.

“So are you and Ron together now?” Harry asked cautiously, after she had asked him why Natalie was irked at him recently.

“W-what? Of course not! What are you talking about?”

“You’ve just been spending a lot of time with him is all.”

A blush was flooding her face. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. I haven’t spent any more time with him than usual. You’re just imagining things.”

Sensing he had struck a nerve, he grinned at her.

“Oh, really? Then what about-”

“Potter. Hermione.”

Both Gryffindors jumped and turned to the nearest door as Snape strode into the room. He too looked tired, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice he was wearing his battle robes. He did not appear hurt luckily, but she thought this might be the reason Harry hadn’t slept that night. Had he been worried about her godfather?

Snape came in but it didn’t seem he was interested in actually talking to them. Instead, he stole Harry’s coffee cup and refilled it with the carafe that had been sitting between them. He drank the whole thing in one swig and then poured himself another cupful.

“Professor,” Harry started, “Is everything alright?”

The man snorted and took another sip of his coffee, more slowly this time.

“You know very well it is not, Potter. If you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to the headmistress. There will be an announcement in your first period class. You both may seek me out after classes have concluded, but not before.”

With that, he turned and left.

“What’s happened, Harry?” This time it was a demand, her sympathy used up the moment her godfather proved to have been in some possible danger. Harry looked pained, but he did answer her.

“There’s been an attack in Ireland last night. I don’t know the details, but Snape went to find Lucius to find out.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, my.” Then she frowned. “When did he tell you this? Why did he tell you in the first place?”

“Er… he didn’t. I told him.”

“Then who told you?”

“A little bird.”

“Harry,” she warned.

“Alright, a big bird. Seriously. Do you remember the raven from my protection spell? It was one of those. Birds are often messengers for gods, especially crows and ravens.”

Harry had no idea if this was true or not, but it seemed likely. He remembered ravens were the messengers of Odin, and auguries found special significance in them. In either event, he didn’t want to betray Bobby by granting his presence significant in and of itself.

“Why would the gods bother telling you?”

Harry shrugged. “Professional courtesy?”

She rolled her eyes. She threw out another dozen questions or so, but it quickly became clear that Harry had no answers to the important ones and she quickly gave up. She did, however, make a list of questions in her journalism notebook to ask later. This was national news, but it wouldn’t bet the first time such stories had found their way into the school paper. Harry had been serving as a link between school and national politics for years.

They lingered in the Great Hall for several hours, waiting for their friends to make their way down to warn them of the upcoming announcement. Draco had been particularly interested, his position in Slytherin hierarchy bolstered by being the first to know and the most ready to react. He had another, more personal reason to be interested, as well.

“Father will be in the field,” he said softly. “He loves battles even more than politics. He used to talk to tell us stories about all the battles he fought. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him passionate about anything other than mother.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to say to him about that. He did not particularly like Lucius, but then again he wasn’t his father. If Draco felt anything like he did worrying about Snape, who he didn’t like 75% of the time, he didn’t envy the other boy in the slightest. The Malfoy heir didn’t want their sympathy, however, and went off to think of ways to take advantage of his advanced knowledge.

Natalie hadn’t had anything to say about it, but Harry could tell that it bothered her, perhaps more than she was willing to make known. She followed after Draco, and was soon followed by Ron who seemed to have sensed something was afoot. The Weasley twins took it in stride, but promised not to tell anyone. Ginny and Clyde were as upset as Harry, but also promised not to say anything. First period wasn’t long to wait, and there was no point in panicking everyone else with Harry’s lack of information.

Harry didn’t have the opportunity to hear the first period announcement or the students reaction to it. Half and hour before the beginning of class, Lestrange came down to the Great Hall with a small squadron of Sentinels and pointed him out amidst the crowd.

“Mr. Potter,” the leader of the group, a tall, middle aged man a scar running down the left side of his face, greeted. “Lord Voldemort has need of your presence. You are to accompany us at once.”

Harry blinked, but nodded and got up to follow them. He kept expecting Snape to show up at any moment and follow him, but the potions master made no appearance, leaving his ward with more than a little separation anxiety.

“What do I call you, sir?” he asked, as they put him on a horse. The others rode broomsticks, but perhaps they were worried he would fly ahead of them?

“I’m Lieutenant Seitler. We will be your escorts to Edinburgh.”

Harry nodded. He had very little experience with horses, aside from the one made dash to Hogwarts to stop Moody while he was still high on his magical connection to Voldemort. It made the ride awkward and even a little frightening, but he managed keep in his saddle. Luckily, he only had to ride to Hogsmeade, where a secure floo had been set up. It was a one way floo, and they merely had to step through it without saying a word and still end up where they needed to go.

In this case, the Court of Agriculture, Scottish Division. It was completely empty as they walked through the lobby, respendant in bronzed trees with copper apples lining the walls and an enormous mural of Scotland beneath his feet, delineating the various farms and their crop type. This was not where they stayed, however. Seitler moved him through a back door, his Sentinels going ahead of them to make sure everything was safe, then surrounding him again as they moved the side alleys and back roads of the Court District until they finally reached Brass Cult headquarters.

Harry stared in wide-eyed fascination as they crossed the threshold of the Headquarters’ gates, feeling the protection magic dance over his skin and saw a well organized chaos unfolding before him. Perfectly straight columns of Culties stood at attention as their commanders inspected them, while even higher ups started shouting their field assignments, and behind them all ensigns ran in and out of doorways carrying paperwork and equipment and horses, preparing to supply the hundreds of soldiers with every conceivable necessity and few extras just in case.

More than a few Culties turned to stare at him as he was herded towards the administration offices, but Harry wasn’t given the time to linger. The moment the doors were closed, he was searched for any potentially harmful objects and relieved of his wand. He felt another wave of anxiety as Seitler pocketed the wand, and escorted him into Voldemort’s newest office.

The Dark Lord looked up, pausing in his dictation to a young colonel. He pinned Harry with an assessing glare, then dismissed the subordinate.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Dunnan Hill,” Harry said immediately, knowing better than to try and play ignorant. He wasn’t protecting anyone in doing so. “It was attacked last night. Snape suggested because of its keystone. The German Aurors burned the town, but it didn’t stick around.”

Voldemort stared at him, assessing his answers and testing their truth.

“How did you find out about it?”

“A raven told me. I think it was one of Raecellos’. I made an offering to him not long ago.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.

“Does this raven have a name?”

Harry covered his nervousness with irritation. “I didn’t think to ask. I was more interested in the burning village.”

The Dark Lord conceded his point and gestured for him to sit. Harry sat, and waited to be told exactly why he had been dragged out here.

“Dunnan Hill wasn’t the only village attacked last night, only the first. We were unprepared for the first attack and too late to stop the second in Timir. After Timir, we managed to alert the other villages with keystones of possible attacks, and the villagers of Metlow managed to defend themselves long enough for Lucius’ men to arrive and drive them off. The German aurors in Down were completely destroyed before any real harm could be done. They gave up after that and retreated.”

Harry swallowed thickly. There had been more than one attack? One village was bad enough, but four?

“It’s only the beginning,” Voldemort said, “The Germans only managed to take out two keystones in Ireland, but that won’t stop them. We have other keystones along the English and Scottish coast that are much more vulnerable. The attack on the villages was only a piece of revenge, their true goal is to destroy the wards over Britain and I suspect they will accomplish it within a few days.”

Harry’s eyes widened. That meant all of Britain, as well as Ireland, would be vulnerable to attack. What happened last night could repeat itself a hundred times if they didn’t do something. Voldemort smiled grimly at him.

“I know what you’re thinking and let me assure you I will not allow it to come to pass. We are not so weak as to allow foreign invaders to rampage across our lands. The wards were not intended to withstand a long term assault, merely to limit international terrorism and provide some forewarning to more serious attacks. They have done their job and now my military will do theirs. Soon enough the Germans will be too busy trying to protect themselves to worry about harassing our citizens.”

Harry wasn’t entirely convinced. Hell, he wasn’t convinced at all. Voldemort would take his revenge against Germany, he had no doubt, but he didn’t think that would make them any safer. In fact, it would probably make things worse.

“What is it you want me to do now?” he asked, feeling an overwhelming sense of fatigue that had nothing to do with his sleepless night.

“Nothing.”

Harry gave a suspicious look. Voldemort smirked back, knowing his doubt was well warranted. “I just want you to be aware of the situation. You are a leader of sorts, among your peers. It is important that you have a more thorough understanding of events than them so that you can make informed decisions. It is also important that you understand the reasons behind the extra security I will be placing around you and the castle, and resign yourself to certain limitations for the time being.”

The boy frowned, assessing this newest tidbit. “Limitations?”

“You have met Lieutenant Seitler already. He is head of the security team in charge of guarding Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, and I have left him special instructions regarding you.”

“What? Why?”

Voldemort moved around from the desk and towards him, Harry instinctively backed up further into his chair. Their last few meetings had been friendly enough, if business-like, but he hadn’t forgotten his betrayal he knew the other man hadn’t either. He didn’t know how much tolerance Voldemort still had with for his defiance.

The Dark Lord’s cool hand touched his cheek, and Harry took a sharp intake of breath at the familiar magic that pulsated against his skin, hot and electric and almost oily. The older man stroked cheek and ran through his hair in some semblance of affection, and Harry felt himself practically melt into his chair. It was magic, but Harry couldn’t figure out what kind. It was vaguely reminiscent of the first Solstice Ritual that had so irrevocably bound them together, and yet it was different. Harry blinked.

It was Voldemort’s soul, now complete and stronger than ever, reaching out to touch his own but not quite able to connect without the assistance of a divine sort. He stared up at the other man, confused and humbled at once. He couldn’t think of anything he had done to deserve this sort of reconnection.

Voldemort’s eyes were not soft, they were as hard and intent and possessive as always, but they were mixed with a previously absent anxiety. Finally, he answered Harry’s question.

“I don’t think you realize what a target you’ve made yourself. Your rather impressive escape from the auror’s and then Germany itself would have been enough to put you on Seibligg’s bad side, but your public support of proposal 4-66 means your not only a traitor to Germany but also an ally to werewolves, their chosen enemy. We needn’t even mentioned your continued association with myself, and your high public appeal. As far as Germany is concerned you are their most important civilian target. Your age and my possible manipulation of you won’t be enough to protect you if Seibligg decides it’s not, and I believe he has sufficient reason to hate you. You very nearly ended his career after all.”

The hand withdrew and Harry felt its absence as a sudden coldness against face. He blinked and shook his head to clear it, refocusing on Voldemort as he made his way back around his desk.

“Our people need you to be safe, Harry. You are a symbol, and they will turn to you for strength during the war and in its aftermath. You will obey Severus and Seitler’s orders as you would my own. If you fail to do this, it is me who will hand out your punishment. Have I made myself clear?”

“Chrystal, my Lord,” he said, admitting defeat. He did not like the sound of these ‘limitations’, but at the same time he couldn’t argue with the man’s logic. He was in danger (when wasn’t he?), and if he chose to ignore that he might put his friends in danger. He would make an attempt towards obedience.

Within reason, of course.

Harry was only gone from the castle for about two hours, but by the time he returned he may as well have been gone two months. The halls were filled with loud voices, angry remarks and frightened suggestion and mixed in amongst them the occasional sob as some grieved the dead and their own uncertain futures. Several people came to him, hoping for additional information from where ever he had disappeared to. He gave them all that he had, but he was no soothsayer and could offer them nothing about the future.

He spent the rest of the day unable to pay attention in class, and easily got away with it because the rest of the student body was just as bad. Voldemort had given Harry his initial report on the four attacks, which were lacking in a lot of information, but gave the gist of the situation. Dunnan Hill was utterly destroyed, the entire town burned to cinders. Fifteen hundred people lived within the town itself were now homeless, and an estimated two hundred dead and even more wounded. Timir had faired better, but only just. The town was split by a small river, and only one side had been attacked, but it took out the hospital and the three schools, and at least seventy dead. Metlow had faired well considering, loosing only a dozen or so businesses in the town proper and a dozen or so killed by the initial attack. Five brass culties had been killed upon arrival, but the some twenty dead aurors had made them the victors in that particular skirmish. Lucius had been ready and waiting in Down when the final attack came. The general had led a counter attack the wiped the German forces out completely, suffering only a few injured soldiers, some superficial damage to the town, and no loss of civilian life. Harry felt a grim satisfaction in that, but it did little to smother the depression he felt for the innocent victims who had lost so much.

Less disturbing, but more personally annoying was Seitler’s list of ‘limitations’. He was officially off the Quidditch Team, the vulnerability of flying in a dangerous sport surrounded by hundreds, possibly thousands of observers was too great a risk. Likewise, Hogsmeade weekends were canceled, but that was true for the entire school. He mail was being monitored even more rigidly than before. The biggest and most annoying limitation, however, was that the was not permitted outside of the castle at all without an escort and that even inside the castle he had to abide by a strict curfew. It didn’t help that he suspected Seitler’s crew would be keeping an exceptionally close eye on him. Additional security precautions would arise as the situation dictated, but Harry didn’t think it could get much worse short of chaining him to his bed.

He had a feeling his new invisibility cloak might come in handy this year.

A sheet of bright yellow paper inserted itself between his head and the book he had been staring blankly at for the last ten minutes. He snapped awake, looking up to see Natalie smirking down at him. He opened his mouth to say something, but she made a shushing gesture with her finger, reminding him that they were in a library, then pointed down at the flyer.

Dunnan Hill Victim Relief Drive

He blinked and read it over. It was simple enough. It was looking for volunteers to help make potions and transfigure supplies for the villagers in Dunnan Hill and Timir. As an added bonus Slughorn and McGonagall had agreed to let students skip class in order to help.

He looked up at Natalie and smiled, nodding. She smiled back and wrote his name on the tablet she was carrying then moved off to someone else. He looked over the flyer again. Perhaps this was what he needed, something productive that helped to address the problems that had left him so depressed. If he talked to Hermione, maybe there was a way that he could get additional help to Ireland. He was supposedly a big celebrity. It couldn’t hurt to have a cause outside of helping werewolves.

Tom couldn’t help but chuckle as he read the paper, revealing Germany’s first act of retaliation against Britain for attacks it had not committed. It was official. The war had started, and couldn’t wait to see how his elder counter part reacted. He looked up from his paper to Katarina, dark and resplendent in the sunset orange taffeta and topaz jewelry. She glowed like a flame, smiling at him with a warmth that defied the chill of her body.

For a while he had feared he would be unable to win her over, but the attacks on the German pigs had done wonders in his attempts to seduce her. Giving something they wanted, something they forgot they even wanted, was a tried and true method of persuasion he would not soon forget. She admitted it had been centuries since she had hunted humans, and then they had been weak muggles. Now she and her kindred had tasted fresh blood, they felt the thrill of the hunt and longed to do it again. They had been hiding and compromising with the wizarding community for so long, to finally cast of the weight of their conditional bondage was liberating and empowering. He promised her the opportunity to do it again. War had all sorts of opportunity.

“Everything is going according to plan,” he told her, folding his paper and setting it aside.

Reclining in her chaise, she looked for all the world like a well contented cat. But like any cat, she had her pride and would never allow herself to be too agreeable.

“Yes, I’m quite impressed with how far you’ve managed to get us. Your grandfather must be very proud. But I can’t help but think things will only get harder from here on out. They’re going to figure out it was eventually, especially if we continue to make a habit out of this.”

“It doesn’t matter. We have no official connection to Voldemort, making Germany’s little temper tantrum in Ireland an unprovoked act of terrorism. They’ve gone too far to save themselves.”

“Are you so certain your master will be the victor? Germany seems to be ahead of Britain so far.”

Tom snorted.

“A bunch of aurors against village of sleepy peasants? Hardly an accurate judge of strength. Voldemort has his Sentinels as well as a formal army at his beck and call, an already organized army that will only swell when the public perceives the threat to their homeland. Germany only has the aurors, a highly exclusive group that takes years to properly train, and no formal army readily established. They will be overwhelmed and destroyed, and lucky you, you get to help.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that. “I admit, I am enjoying myself. It’s been a long time since me or my children have hunted like this. We’ve made so many compromises over the centuries, I hadn’t realized how much we had surrendered until it had been given back to us. It really is a shame, what we’ve been reduced to.”

Sensing her accommodating mood, he stood from his chair and approached her, dropping to his knee he her hand, and kissed her signet ring. “My lady, you may have been resigned, but you have never been reduced.”

He looked up at her again, judging her reaction. She looked intrigued, so he gently turned her hand and kissed her wrist. There was a definitely stillness, of surprise perhaps? But she didn’t pull away, so kissed her again on the inside of her arm, then slowly trailed kisses up her arm to her elbow then her shoulder. He did not hurry. He had seduced a few vampires in his lifetime and knew they didn’t share a mortal’s sense of urgency when it came to sex. To a vampire, foreplay was more important than climax.

As he traveled ever higher, he gently nipped her collar bone and felt her release a shuddery breath. She liked that, which meant she was going to love this. He rose up, throwing his leg over her, but not forcing his weight on her (if she sensed a power play he had no doubt she could send him flying across the room), and leaned over her to bury his face into her hair. She let out a gasp and arched underneath him. He inhaled deeply, taking in her scent. Coconut, lilies, and blood. A delightfully novel scent.

Stop it, Tom! Get off her!

He mentally snarled at Horace’s protests, which radiated as a feral growl into Katarina’s ear, and she answered with seductive purr.

This ismybody! Go practice your perversions in your own damn body!

Tom decided to just ignore the other boy, but he wasn’t so easily defeated. A sudden, pounding headache bloomed just behind his eyes. He flinched and drew back. That sneaky little bastard! When did he learn that trick?

Ho, ho, ho… you thought you were the only one who could do it? This is my body in case you’ve forgotten. I will be taking it back eventually.

To emphasize his point, Horace let another wave of pain radiate through his skull, causing him to grimace.

“What is it, Horace?” Katarina asked, looking confused and perhaps even a little worried. He managed a weak smile at her.

“Voldemort,” he lied, “Just sending his regards. Says we did marvelous work and all. Hip hip hooray.”

She blinked and then smiled. “So that’s how you do communicate. Telepathically. I take it its’ not natural otherwise it wouldn’t hurt you. Poor dear.”

He grimaced, this time from her endearment rather than his own pain which was now settling back. Horace hovered in the back of his mind, ready to raise another fit the moment he tried to continue where they had left off, and just this once Tom decided it was best to yield to defeat. He’d make Horace regret it later. Slowly, he climbed off Katarina, kissing her hand again in a gesture of regret.

“I’m sorry, my Lady, but I’m afraid we will have to continue at another time. I have to speak with him, and I’ll be useless to you by the time we’re done.”

She signed in disappointed but let him go. “If you must. Another time, then.”

He returned to his private bedroom, and glared at the mirror.

“Don’t think you’ve won anything. I haven’t even begun to play yet.”

“How, precisely, did you manage to convince the Dark Lord to let you go from veritable fortress to the middle of a war zone?” Natalie qurried Harry as he sat across from her on the train. Hogwarts Express was packed with people, but those few actually from Hogwarts had been given their very own set of compartments towards the front. Harry had settled in one of them with Natalie, Cedric, Ron, and Snape (when he could be bothered to check on them). There about twenty other volunteers from Hogwarts and some three hundred volunteers from across Britain crowded into the train, which had been re-routed from London to a mile outside Dunnan Hill. Harry wasn’t exactly sure how they were going to get across the North Sea, but that wasn’t for him to figure out.

“Good publicity,” Harry said, “And a lot of security.”

In truth, it was a lot less honest than that. He’s shamelessly manipulated his way onto the train to Dunnan Hill, citing to the press, who had been given access to the castle to report on the schools massive effort to help their neighbors across the country, that he wanted nothing more than to go to Ireland himself and let them know that they had support of the entire nation behind them. Voldemort had written him a scalding letter (literally, he had to go the nurses office to treat his blistered fingertips) for putting him in the very awkward position of sending Harry off to help the victims of the attack (which he had been encouraging people to do ever since the attack occurred) and protecting Harry (which was a lot harder to do traveling into completely unprotected territory than it was in Hogwarts) from his trouble magnet self. He had, however, been impressed with Harry’s initiative, and ultimately let him go with Snape, Seitler, several other Sentinels, and a press black out that would not reveal his or anyone else’s presence in Dunnan Hill until after they left.

Ron let out an irritated snort, but didn’t comment further. The youngest Weasley son hadn’t so much volunteered to go to Ireland as been paroled there in order to get out of a rather nasty detention scrubbing out all the castle toilets after slipping puking pills into a Angelina’s tea cup (he had been aiming for Fred’s, but had miscalculated). Hermione had summarily charged him with writing an article about the experience as soon as he came back, after Narcissa refused to sign the parental release form that would have let her or Draco go. They too were targets, just like Harry, being the children of the high commander of Voldemort’s army.

Somewhere on the train, Seitler was running his own security check, stepping on the toes of the security detail in charge of the train and the volunteers, and completely unrepentant. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of the man, who didn’t exactly hover but was always there in some form or another.

“You know I’ve never been to Ireland,” Natalie said offhandedly. “This wasn’t exactly how I pictured my first visit.”

Ron glowered at her. “I doubt anyone pictured you doing anything so altruistic. You lose a bet or something?”

Harry bit his tongue to keep from laughing. He had been wondering the same thing for a while. Natalie had practically run the entire charity drive on her own, exercising her rather dubious popularity and exploiting Harry and Hermione shamelessly for promotions purposes, all for a cause she only seemed vaguely interested in. She sniffed at Ron.

“No, I did not lose a bet. As if I would bother with something so plebian. Lestrange enlisted me. She said she allow me to skip classes and give me a hand written letter of recommendation. Do you know what letter of recommendation from the Headmistress of Hogwarts, is worth? Forget the NEWTs, I’ve practically got a free pass straight to Oxford.”

Cedric managed a rather weak smile at that. “Lucky you.”

They talked for a bit longer, but inevitably the conversation faded away. Ron was not really their friend and Cedric was the odd man out while Natalie was unwilling to share her thoughts with Harry while in the other’s company. Harry didn’t mind the silence. As the train slipped into a tunnel, cloaking the passenger cars in darkness, his thoughts drifted to Dunnan Hill and Timir, to Germany, to Seibligg, Voldemort, Dumbledore, and Viktor, to Bobby and Raecellos, Sirius and Remus, and dozen other things that all seemed interconnected.

When they finally cleared the tunnel, nearly an hour later, Harry realized they were Ireland. He felt a shiver run up his spine. The magic here was different, impressing up on the very air a sense of liveliness and danger generally reserved for the primeval forests and mountains. Out the window, a patchwork of green and gold fields and blackish earth rolled out into the distance, stitched together by ancient stone walls older than Hogwarts. Further out he could see mountains and forest, little more than hazy grey shades in the distance.

A knock made all of them jump, and Seitler pulled open the door and stuck his head in.

“We arrive in fifteen minutes. Get ready.”

A sudden wave of anxiety passed through the cabin. Voldemort had assured the public that villages that had been attacked were now safe, each guarded by a squadron of well trained soldiers, but the fact of the matter was it was still a war zone and no one knew if the Germans make a second pass. Even without the threat of another attack looming over their heads, none of them had ever been to a decimated village and had no idea what to expect. Had the dead all be removed or where they likely to stumble across someone’s mangled corpse? Were the citizens dealing with their loss or were some turning violent in their grief and frustration? How much could a bunch of school children do to help?

Their own vulnerability was reminded to them as they put on their leather breastplates and gauntlets. It was a small bit of protection, but one Snape had demanded before letting anyone board he train, along with absolute obedience while in Dunnan Hill. Harry’s own presence in the village required a bit of extra camouflage, including a notice-me-not charm and some additional charms on his hair to make him blond and on his glasses to make his eyes blue.

The train began to slow and finally rolled to a screeching halt. From their windows, Harry and his companions could make out the burnt out skeleton of the village and even further away rows upon rows of gray tents, people coming and going along clearly marked, glowing green pathways.

“I wonder why everyone is sticking to the glowing parts,” Harry remarked.

“Maybe the Germans left booby traps, and those are the only parts they know are safe,” Cedric speculated.

Somehow, Harry didn’t think that was the case. The train was gradually unloaded, Sentinels and Culties first, followed by the adult volunteers and their heavier equipment and then finally the Hogwarts students. Snape led the way, taking them to the very back of the train and then finally out into an open field. Once they were all outside, Snape lined them up in row so that he could take roll of all of them and make sure they were wearing their protective gear. While he was doing this, a Sentinel, young but stern with brilliant red hair approached him and said something no one could hear. Snape nodded at the man, who then turned to the students.

“I’m Sentinel Callahan, welcome to Dunnan Hill,” his greeted, his rich Irish accent strangely muted. “Firstly, the villagers are grateful to you for your assistance, which has been a comfort in a very difficult time. That being said, there are certain precautions you will need to take while here. The keystone, which used to support the wards that protect England and Scotland from trespassing wizards and witches, also support a second set of wards that protected the village from the native fairies. This keystone was destroyed, leaving the village and the surrounding homesteads vulnerable. Therefore, it is imperative that all of you remain together in groups of three or more and never stray from the designated walkways. As long as you can obey these simple rules, you are perfectly safe.”

With that being said, Callahan stepped aside to allow Snape to take over again. The potions master glared at the students in warning.

“If you ignore Sentinel Callahan’s advice you better hope the fairies get to you before I do,” he warned, and then lead them to the nearest path towards the tent village. Despite the ominous threat and the less than pleasant circumstances of their visit, the atmosphere in the camp was surprisingly cheerful. Children played hide-in-seek between the rows of tents while adults grouped together to eat or work on some project or to talk, and the air smelled of campfire, roasting meats, and the sharp chemical scents of construction materials. It had been four days since the attack, the dead had been cremated, the injured had been healed or taken to hospitals, and people too busy rebuilding their lives to fall into despair. Their determination was further bolstered by the hundreds of volunteers who had not only brought helping hands, but supplies and expertise.

Most of the volunteers where specialists of some kind. Construction workers and engineers to help rebuild the buildings, craftsmen to replace furniture and finer details, seamstresses and tailors to refit the villagers with their lost wardrobes, cooks to feed a small army, healers to tend the sick and wounded, and many, many more. All of them busy.

Callahan showed them their weekend homes, two large tents, one for the girls and one for the boys, where they quickly stuffed their gear and were then split into four groups of five. Predictably, Harry and his group were stuck with Snape, who were assigned to handle the massive vats of memoracrete, a sort of potion that to the untrained eye appeared to be able to recreate a building out of nothing. It was hot, smelly work keeping the vats hot and pliable, but it was also important and Harry never once felt the urge to complain.

“Do you think they’ll trying again,” Harry asked, following behind Snape as the man examined the large vats, each large enough to boil and entire horse inside of it, for consistency. After looking at each one, the potions master signaled held up a some of his fingers, indicating the cups of sand Harry needed to add before moving to the next one. “The Germans, I mean.”

Snape didn’t look up from his work, but he did answer. “Unlikely. There is nothing here to attract their attention any longer, and they are too well prepared to make the effort worth the risk. The engineers are working to add protection charms into the foundations of the building. This village will not so easily be destroyed again, and its people will not be so oblivious to danger. This one is ready for pouring. Stay here. I will go get one of the engineers. That goes for the rest of you too.”

There were mutters of acknowledgement from across the street, where the rest of Harry’s group was tucked into the shade of a partially collapsed wall, measuring out ingredients for the next vat of memoracrete. The man left, leaving him to guard against the roving hordes of children running around their ruined town turned playground.

“I’ll be. I never fancied Voldemort letting his pet loose out here,” a deep, feminine voice said, and Harry spun around in alarm. There stood an elderly witch, heavy set, the sleeves of her emerald robe rolled up and large white apron designating her as a cook. Harry just stared at her, wondering what she was even doing this far from camp. She glowered at him, reminding him distinctly of Aunt Marge.

“Nothing to say?” she challenged.

“What would you have of me, ma’am?”

She continued to glower at him for a long moment, saying nothing, then she seemed to deflate and what ever semblance she had to the much detested Marge disappeared.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

“No,” she snapped. “Here I am, a woman of my age, about ready to start a fight with a schoolboy. I’ve really sunk to a new low.”

“Er… well, technically you didn’t actually start a fight, so I think you’re alright, but is there a reason you’re angry with me?”

“You’re Harry Potter,” she stated plainly. He tensed. It seemed his disguise wasn’t as good as he had hoped.

“Well, yes, but doesn’t really explain why you’re mad at me.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” she groused. “And I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at your boss.”

Harry tilted his head curiously. “Well, that makes a bit more sense. Snape should be back any minute though, and you can take it up with him personally.”

“Heaven’s sake, you’re thick as a brick. I was talking about Voldemort.”

For whatever reason, that made Harry smile a bit and her glower deepen even further. “Don’t look so smug. He’d have killed you just as quick as he did my grandson. If you’d been born a day sooner, you’d been sharing a grave somewhere.”

Dread settled in his stomach, a ball of ice freezing his insides. In her vague declaration, an ominous portent unfolded. What she mean by that? Who had Voldemort killed and why did the day of his birth determine his murder?

“Who-”

Before he could finish, a scream rang out, high and shrill and terrified. The witch spun around, her wand drawn and headed in the direction of the scream, but Harry was faster. He bolted past her and to the outskirts of the far edge of the village. It didn’t take long to find the source of the screaming, which was now joined by the cries of several children.

Harry spotted three children, ranging in age from seven to ten calling for help and pointing out to the field. He followed their pointing fingers until he saw someone being dragged through the grass, their bright white and blue clothes flickering in and out of sight in the long grass. The other children remained behind the softly glowing green, not daring to go after their stolen friend.

Harry was not so cautious. Jumped the line without a second thought, quickly gaining on them. As he drew closer, he could see the victim was a girl, eight or nine years old, her bare arms streaked with mud and blood as she clawed frantically at the ground. Drawing closer still, he finally saw what had grabbed her, and very nearly bulked.

It was a giant salamander, and not the of the dragon variety. Slimy and lizard like, it’s enormous, shovel shaped head was clamped fiercely onto the girl’s ankle as it dragged her backwards to some as yet unseen lair. Harry didn’t dare send out a curse, at the speed they were going and the poor angle of their bodies made the chances of him hitting the girl too likely. He needed to get closer-

A suddenly weight tackled him to the ground knocking the breath out of him, and for a second Harry thought he had been caught by a second giant salamander but soon enough he could feel all too human hands pulling him back to his feet. The ground he had gained was quickly lost, and the girl’s screams were starting to grow fainter.

“No!” he screamed, trying to break free. “Stop, she needs help! Help her!”

“We can’t! It’s too late for her,” Seitler shouted, dragging him back towards the ruined village even as the monster dragged the girl to her certain death.

“Let go, let go! I can still- Expecto Patronum!”

The force of the spell knocked them both to ground, the silvery ghost of a stag leaping from Harry’s wand. He tried to break free from Seitler to follow it, but the Sentinel’s hold on him hadn’t slackened, and all he could do was watch as his patronus chased after the girl, disappearing over a hill. Seitler cursed and pulled him to his feet, pulling him back towards the safety of the temporary wards as quickly as he could. Harry didn’t really fight him, but he refused to look away from where the girl and his patronus had disappeared, listening and watching for any sign of either.

By the time they were safely behind the wards, half the village had arrived, to discover what had happened. Several of the village men and a dozen Culties formed two hunting parties, wands and weapons drawn as they raced past them to hunt the beast down. Harry watched helplessly, knowing if his spell had failed they would not be quick enough to save her.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Seitler snarled. “Chasing after a fairy beast like that into a hill[1]. And then setting off a spell of that power! It’ll attract every sprite and hag for miles.”

Harry wasn’t listening to him. He was listening for the girl’s screaming, for the men’s shouting, for some sign that she was alive or dead or just gone forever. At some point, Seitler’s ranting was replaced with by Snape’s.

“Not even five minutes and you’ve managed to put yourself into a potentially life-threatening situation, Potter. That must be a new record,” he drawled coolly, though Harry could hear the underlying anger.

“Harry?! Are you alright, what happened?” He vaguely recognized Natalie’s voice, felt her slender hands on his hand and his cheek, trying to draw his attention, but he couldn’t look away from the distant hill.

“She’s just a little girl,” Harry said softly, “She was so frightened.”

“You’re in shock, Potter,” Snape said, and a moment later he felt something poured into his mouth. He coughed, his gaze finally torn away from the hill when he was forced to close his eyes as a burning sensation caused his eyes to water. “Ugh.”

A sudden cheer rose up from the crowd at the edge of the village, and though Harry couldn’t see clearly what was going on his heart swelled at the sound.

“Is she?”

“She’s pretty banged up, but she’s okay,” Natalie told him. “Now sit down before you fall over, you damned fool.”

Slowly, he did just that, dropping to his knees and then to his backside, weak with relief. She was okay. His patronus had gotten to her in time. Weaving between the crowd that was now moving past him, his patronus reappeared, sniffed him curiously for a moment, then disappeared back into his wand. There were several gasps from the crowd, and only now did they realize the source of the spirit animal. It was too spectacular a sight to be distracted by a simple notice-me-not charm, and all too soon Harry was crowded around by villagers an volunteers, shaking his hand, thumping his back, thanking, and even hugging him.

It was all a blur to Harry, who had barely processed the fact that he had done something heroic. Nearby Seitler looked like a museum curator whose prized and extremely delicate manuscript was now being manhandled by an overly curious mob. Eventually, he could take no more of it, grabbed Harry, and made a run for it.

“Hasta sangius!”

Lucius smiled in grim satisfaction at the scream the signified his aim had been true, and watched as the cloaked figure plummeted two hundred feet to the rocky shoals below. All around him, his soldiers herded the few remaining aurors into every tighter configurations, like dolphins herding fish until they were ready to tear them apart. To the north, a storm rolled, thunder and lightening making for a dramatic backdrop for his second battle in a week.

As predicted, the Germans had decided against a second attack in Ireland in favor of keystones on the less protected islands and islets along the eastern and southern coasts off of England and Scotland. Lucius had dementors released in the north, stirring up storms and fog the broom bound aurors would not dare to breach, forcing them to chose targets in the south where he and his men were waiting for them.

It was so easy it was almost disappointing.

A streak of fire shot towards him, but dodged it nimbly before sending out a curse of his own at the quickly darting form of a young Auror who had managed to slip out of the Culties net. The Auror dodged, and broke off the attack in order to flee the squadron of soldiers that now targeted her. Lucius contemplated joining them, but ultimately decided to let his men have their sport. The battle was already won, as far as he was concerned.

A warm tingle spread over his left arm, the Dark Mark squirming along his skin. Lucius let himself enjoy it for a moment. It had been a long time since its use. Peace time had made the necessity of the Dark Mark wane as he had been bound to his office more often than not and easily reached, but its familiar burn was a welcome reminder of the more glorious days of his youth. He signaled to his second in command, who was at his side in an instant.

“I am being summoned by our Lord. Finish up here and report back to base. Allow the men some time to celebrate, but try to keep the whoring to a minimum. There are likely to be reporters about.”

“Yes, sir.”

He apparated to their base of operation, an abandoned lighthouse that allowed them a convenient and dry look out point, and a place to store the special floo that took him straight to headquarters in London. The soldiers all straightened and saluted, and he felt a his pride swell at the blind and complete obedience. The military was a truly marvelous thing, and he was fool for ever thinking otherwise.

Voldemort was observing the battle and its conclusion on an enormous map that covered the entire back wall of the general’s office. The Dark Lord glanced over at his servant and offered him a rare, congratulatory smile.

“You’ve done very well for yourself, Lucius.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

They shared a glass of brandy together, basking in their own supremecy as they watched the green dots swarming the red ones on the map, and sharing a toast as the last red dot disappeared altogether.

“I don’t know why, but I thought this would be a lot harder,” Lucius lamented.

“I wouldn’t worry yourself, my friend. It’s only the beginning. When they start to become truly desperate, that’s when things will start to get interesting. You remember what the last war was like.”

A bit of Lucius’ amusement died. He did indeed remember. There was much to be said about that period in his life, and not all of it good. Narcissa had nearly been killed while pregnant with Draco during a Ministry raid after the minister finally acknowledged the truth of Lucius’ treachery, and Rudolphus, one of his best friends, was poisoned at a bar while celebrating a victory and Regulus Black had simply disappeared without a trace. He, himself, had nearly died several times, and not one of them particularly dignified.

Voldemort continued, pulling him out of his dark thoughts.

“Lucius, now that you’ve thoroughly trounced Seibligg’s pathetic army, I want you to go back out and destroy the wards off Kent and Suffolk. It should be enough to take down the protection over the southern half of England.”

Lucius blinked at him. “My Lord…I’m not sure I understand? You want me to intentionally weaken England’s defenses?”

The Dark Lord nodded. “Yes. I have already gained sufficient revenge against the aurors that attacked Ireland. Now I need a justifiable excuse to attack Germany itself. Preventing them from attempting to invade our now vulnerable homeland is sufficient cause. We will simply tell the public that although we managed to defeat the German Aurors, we were not quite quick enough to save the wards.”

“That’s… dastardly clever of you,” the Malfoy patriarch acknowledged, tipping an imaginary hat to him. He took a last sip of his drink and set it down. “Ibest do it now before the men return to headquarters. If you’ll excuse me, my Lord.”

Voldemort waved him off, turning his attention back to the map. In his mind, he could see countless future battles dancing across the paper in so many dots, green and red and eventually new colors as allies and enemies joined the fray. Many of them would happen over the next few years, others would not occur for decades even centuries. He had millennium to build his kingdom, and he intended for it last well beyond that. He lifted his glass to the map and all the imaginary and future battles therein.

“Cheers.”

Ceara Colm would not fall asleep until she saw the boy who had rescued her and, more importantly, the silvery stag he summoned from his wand. It took a lot of searching by the villagers and a bit of arguing with the vulture-like teacher from Hogwarts and even more arguing with the dour Sentinel, but eventually the village elder managed to bring him to the Healer’s tent.

He looked different from the last time she had seen him, his hair was dark now and his eyes a brilliant green. Ceara could not for the life of her believe that she had been rescued by a prince. No one had even realized he was in the village until after the attack.

“Are you really, Harold Potter?”

He smiled down at her, and even with the glasses he looked handsome and strong to her. Beside him, the stag he called his ‘patronus’ stood at ease, casting a pale glow against him.

“I really am, but my friends call me Harry.”

“Harry…” she said, smiling until her mouth opened in an enormous yawn.

“You should sleep. You’ve had a hard day.”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid. I close my eyes an’ I keep think’n I hear it coming for me… Mum’s in the hospital, and Da’s gone to look after her. Gran ain’t strong enough to fight off the hill monsters no more.”

“Would it help if I stayed, at least until you fall asleep?”

She thought for a moment. “Maybe… maybe if it stays,” she said, pointed to the stag who sniffed her finger, causing her to giggle.

“Then we’ll both stay, but you have to try to sleep, okay?”

She nodded and closed her eyes. Sleep did not come easy to her, even with the comforting presence of a prince and his magic hart. Her ankle still hurt despite the healing draughts, and the healing salves they’d put over her cuts had dried and now itched against her already sensitive skin. But she tried and as tired as she was she very nearly succeeded, but the soft murmur of voices drew her back from the brink of dreams.

“It’s time to go,” came a rich, masculine voice.

“Just a few more minutes. I want to make sure she doesn’t wake up again.”

“No, we’re leaving now. There’s been another attack on the wards over Britain, this time off Suffolk.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No, but the situation is serious enough that the Seitler wants all the students back at Hogwarts. Your little romp this afternoon likely didn’t help matters.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“Which is exactly why you cannot be trusted to remain here,” the man all but snarled. There was a moment of silence.

“Fine, I’ll come. I’ll leave my Patronus behind. It should be enough if she wakes up. She’s more impressed with it, then me anyway.”

“You can’t maintain a spell of that level for an entire night over hundreds of miles. You’ll be dead by morning.”

“You’re such a cheerful fellow, Professor.”

There was the sound of movement and the rustle of the tent flap, then silence. Fearfully, she opened her eyes, expecting nothing but darkness. Instead, the patronus still stood in the middle of the room, his ghostly form standing guard over her. Tears welled up in her eyes and she sniffed them back, a smile steeling across her face. It had been an awful week. Everything she had ever known had gone up in smoke, and her family was now scattered and she was alone. She’d never felt so much hatred for anyone in her life, as she did for the Germans who had attacked her home.

But other people had come. Good people. People with medicine and tents and food and kind words. Strong people who had helped others feel strong, kind people who reminded her they were not alone. Brave people, like Harry, who proved the darkness didn’t always win. She closed her eyes tight and hugged her pillow, summoning up dreams of her parents wrapping her in their arms and of a future where the monsters stayed in their hills and village was more than just burnt up sticks and mortar.

1. Hillsides are commonly the homes of fairies, particularly hollow hills or hills with unusual shape or characteristics.↩

The Crusade

Harry had figured he was in for a canning when he got back to Hogwarts, and he was right. But, instead of the anticipated thirty (or was it forty now?) lashes, he had received only five.

“You have a knee-jerk reaction to save people,” Snape said, sitting him down at a table for this particular lecture. Harry cringed when the back of chair pressed his bruises, but considered himself lucky that it had been only five. “This can’t be beaten or lectured out of you, at least not after the deed is already done. You saved the girl, you won the day, and the punishment makes you the martyr, not the transgressor. So the next time someone cries out for a hero, you’ll run in again without thought. And it won’t take long for your enemies to realize this and use it to their advantage. I can almost guarantee the fae are now aware of your weakness, and once the press releases your latest stunt, the rest of the wizarding world will know as well.”

Harry swallowed thickly, and looked down. Snape was right. He didn’t regret going after the girl, not even knowing he’d exposed a vulnerability. But if it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else… his love for his godfathers, his sensitivity to storm summoning magic, his moon madness. There were so many points of attack, and Harry would have to wrap himself in a veritable bubble to protect himself on all fronts and it just wasn’t worth it.

“So what should I do? I don’t want to go through my life ignoring people in trouble. I’m not… I can’t be that cold. I don’t want to be.”

Snape regarded him blandly for a moment, but did consider his dilemma.

“If this is truly going to be a long standing issue…” the man conceded, “I will talk with Voldemort about teaching you to apparate early and with Seitler about getting you some defensive equipment. In the mean time, you are not to leave the castle at all for the next two weeks. You will also be assisting me in Junior Dueling Club for the next month, as I am short of volunteers.”

“But I thought-”

“You thought because I was so understanding, that I’d let you off with a couple of smacks and a pat on the head?” Snape smirked. “Do not mistake my understanding for tolerance, Potter. I understand why thieves steal and why arsonists burn; it doesn’t mean I condone their actions. Go. You have homework to complete.”

Harry left, too tired to put up a fight he knew he couldn’t win. He did not go back to his dorm though. By now Ron would have told Hermione what had happened in Ireland and the other volunteers who had been there would have spread the tale to the rest of the school, and the typical flurry of inquiry and rumor-mongering would begin yet again, swallowing up the just abating accusations of assault against Ginny and stealing away any possibility of getting something productive done. By tomorrow the national press would be printing their stories, and despite what Snape had said he figured he’d be back in London to give the official interview he had dodged in Dunnan Hill.

Or maybe not.

Snape had said the wards over England had been torn down. Scotland’s still held, but it would be easy enough to cross through from England, and who knew when Scotland’s wards would fall completely as well. Harry didn’t quite know what this meant for Britain, except that it made them more vulnerable to additional attacks. He wanted to ask Snape and at the same time he didn’t. If Voldemort was truly worried about Harry being a target, be may keep him cloistered within Hogwarts’ defenses, and if he did perhaps Harry could bury his head in the sand long enough to sort himself out.

He headed up to the astronomy tower, taking the back ways and secret passages where ever possible until he reached the open air of the observational mezzanine. No one would think to look for him here, and in the clear autumn day he could see for miles in every direction. This was as close to freedom as he was going to get for a long time.

“I heard about the girl.”

Harry didn’t bother to turn around, a tired smile coming to his face. Bobby’s voice was unmistakable in its cheekiness.

“You did good. Even the Seelie Court is impressed. No one likes Mud Dogs. Of course, now they want to meet you.”

“I just bet. Unfortunately, I won’t be going anywhere for a while. Unless you’re here to inform me of some other disaster?”

Bobby said nothing, and Harry turned to look at him. He was perched on the rail of the mezzanine, his ink black body silhouetted against the setting sun. He seemed oddly stiff.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, it’s just… I don’t wish to bring you bad news, but I…”

“Has something else happened? Is this about the wards coming down?”

The raven shuffled from foot to foot, as if not entirely sure if he should fly or stand, his feathers ruffled as he tried to sort out some internal debate.

“No… I don’t know. There’s been… portents… omens…. Something is going to happen soon and it’s going to be bad.”

“As bad as Dunnan Hill?”

“Worse… no one knows just how exactly… it may not have anything to do with wizards at all.”

Harry was close to laughing at his vagueness, but this was as serious as he’d ever seen Bobby and he didn’t want insult the only connection he had to the world at large.

“If we don’t know what will happen, we can’t stop it,” Harry said, “We can only deal with it when it comes.”

Bobby tilted his head, and nodded. He didn’t look any happier, but he did seem less anxious.

“I didn’t come here to frighten you, but to warn you about the Seelie. They’ll bother you through Samhain most likely, but rest during the winter, so just keep your head about you until then. Don’t go following strangers or accepting gifts from people you don’t know, and you’ll probably be fine. Probably.”

His last words held a touch of his old humor. The raven made a little hop and glided away with a cheerful “wwweee!!!” Harry shook his head and watched as his friend disappeared into the Forbidden Forest.

Yet another things to worry about on top of everything else.

He wasn’t prepared to face the other students or Snape or his school work (he was WAY behind) or Slughorn’s latest dinner party or Hermione’s lecture or Natalie’s irritated scorn or the press or his godfather’s next letter or Voldemort’s latest scheme or another attack or…

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the mountain of concerns and stresses that were starting to crowd into his brain, shoving and kicking for space until he couldn’t think anymore. His arms began to shake, and he felt himself weaken and slide to the floor. His breathing became rapid and erratic.

Not again, he begged himself. He hadn’t had a panic attack since last year, and only that once. He thought it had been a freak occurrence. After all, nothing else had triggered it, not even the abductions or the attacks, but it was back and just as debilitating as he remembered. This time there was no one there to talk him down, and tried to remember what McGunny had said, but all he could remember was to cup his hands over his nose and mouth to keep from hyperventilating.

When Harry came back to his senses, it was dark and cold. He was shivering, his damp skin having soaked through the protection of his school robes. It was not the cold, however, that woke him, but the familiar burn of his watch in his pocket. Quickly, he pulled it out with trembling hands to check the time.

Dinner had already started, and though the idea of food made his stomach roll, he knew his friends were likely worried about him by now. At the same time, he couldn’t see them like this. He was a mess, and freaking out on them in the middle of the Great Hall wasn’t going help his current situation. Moving slowly and secretively, he left the astronomy tower and headed for the infirmary. If he were lucky, he could filch some calming drought from Madam Pomfrey’s cabinet (the Weasley twins had told him the technique for unlocking it without the medi-witch knowing) with her none the wiser, and if that weren’t possible then complaining of sleeplessness wasn’t going to get him locked in the infirmary. He might have to brew some of his own eventually, if he couldn’t get his emotions under control. If he kept going back to her with the same request, she was going to figure out what was going on and probably tell McGonagall or Snape. The one thing he didn’t need was people thinking he was going crazy.

Even if he might be.

“For a historian, he didn’t seem to know much before the Romans arrived,” Snape said, letting his irritation show through. “I could have just as easily looked up the information he offered. I was hoping for something a little more austere.”

“I don’t know,” Ira said, walking close beside him to avoid bumping into the small herds of university students milling about the campus after sunset. Bars and cafes, clubs and boutiques, lined either side the street and the air was filled with the dull roar of a conversing crowd and the festive tune of a street band. The evening was cold, perhaps cold enough to snow even, but the people and the warm glow of the street lights made the atmosphere warm and intimate. Snape was glad he had thought to take her out to eat instead of taking her directly home. The lecture on Defensive Magic Through the Centuries had been interesting, but not particularly romantic and it was the walk and the dinner afterwards that he was counting on to make the evening worth while.

“In terms of practicality, I thought Professor Haubert’s lecture was very insightful. Pre-Roman materials are hard to study anyway. The Druids and Celts who practiced magic handed it down orally, and modern Druids are notoriously secretive to outsiders. Anyone wanting to practice their particular type of magic would probably have to be Druids themselves.”

“True enough. I have seen the textbooks for Celtic Studies at Hogwarts, and they are supremely vague in regards to magic, but highly explicit in regards to their culture and religious deities. I suspect much of the magic is taught informally. Potter seemed to have a strong grasp of it despite having only formally studied it for half a year. Perhaps that is Lord Voldemort’s influence though.”

Ira looked at him curiously. “Harry practices Druidism?”

The potions master made an odd expression, and she had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t think he follows custom close enough to be called a Druid, but… I don’t know. It’s too bad though. If Professor Haubert had any ideas about ancient defense techniques I was hoping Potter might learn some that no one else would be able to counteract. He never seems to run out of trouble to find.”

Ira smiled. She had heard about the rescue of the little girl in Dunnan Hill in the paper. It was a fluff story, through and through, but the press was eating it up. With all the suppressed hysteria about the collapsed wards, a little fluff made a good counter point to the doom and gloom hanging over them.

And as if circumstance were reading her thoughts, a loud trumpet call cut through the air, drowning out the musicians and conversationalists and revelers. Snape’s wand jumped into his hand, giving Ira a start. She quickly touched his hand and shook her head.

“It’s just a campus announcement,” she explained. “They do this every evening once an hour from sunset to midnight.”

Sure enough, once the trumpet call had died a voice came over the speaker.

“Attention students and faculty. As announced earlier this week, all campus businesses, offices, and libraries will be closed at ten and all persons shall return to their domiciles by eleven. Anyone caught outside after curfew will be escorted off campus to the closest Sentinel Station. Thank you, and have a safe and pleasant evening.”

After a second or two the conversation began to pick up and then the musicians started to play again, until it seemed as if the announcement had not occurred at all. Snape, however, was left feeling a bit disoriented. He could remember his own college years, and outside of classes, his most memorable experienced occurred well after midnight on and off the campus. Even back in the seventies he could recall the area being active till at least three in the morning.

“It really is a shame,” Ira lamented beside him, releasing his hand and continuing to walk towards their intended restaurant. “The libraries all used to be open until one and you could work in a laboratory for as long as you liked if you had permission. The astronomy lab has been shut down completely for the semester and there’s no telling when it will be allowed to open again. This curfew is messing with a lot of people’s research, student and faculty alike, and we can’t really do anything about it. It’s for everyone’s safety after all. The dormitories are the only buildings with any real protection spells on them.”

“What? Are you telling me the campus has no protections on it?” he said, disbelieving. Yet the more he thought about it the more obvious it was. The University of Magic in London was not Hogwarts, not a single building designed to hold out against Roman magicians and Vikings and the fae. The university had sprung up during the renaissance, long after the threat of Romans and Vikings had passed and the fairies had all been driven back into the countryside, as a series of buildings built to blend into Muggle London, and had not been fully separated until 1666, when the Great Fire of London made it necessary to cut off the campus from the rest of the city or let it burn to preserve its many secrets from muggles. There had been riots during the civil war, but aside from petty vandalism, there had been nothing to suggest the application of powerful protective wards was necessary. In fact, this was probably the case with most of the public places and non-ancestral homes in London.

“I wouldn’t say completely unprotected, but nothing like Hogwarts or even the Court Offices. Morgan proposed setting something up, but I doubt it will pass. Things will be expensive enough just maintaining current defenses and taking care of the army…”

He had to ask her something before she continued. “Ira.”

Her wide brown eyes turned to him, betraying more sadness than anxiety. She was naively unconcerned about her own vulnerability.

“How protected is your home?”

She smiled at him. “As sweet as your concern is, I assure you my home is very well protected. It does belong to Morgan after all.”

Snape didn’t look convinced. “And the rest of the neighborhood? Do you have many established families living there?”

Her smile slipped away. “I… no, not really. It’s relatively new housing district. Most of us work at the Court offices and moved there to be close by. I don’t really know about their defenses… why?”

“I’ve been by your house before,” Snape said. “Very lovely neighborhood, but there’s nothing more than anti-burglary charms anywhere. It’s as vulnerable as Dunnan Hill.”

She looked away, irritated. “Are you just saying this to frighten me?”

Before he could even think about it, he reached out and grabbed her, drawing her to a halt. She blinked down at his hands, thin hands stained from years of brewing and yet oddly elegant wrapped around her little wrist. Looking up at him, she could see his eyes, dark and fierce as ever but lacking that sardonic humor he always maintained.

“No, I don’t want to frighten you. Not unless it makes you more cautious, more aware. I think you should leave London.”

She blinked at him. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I want you to go to my house. It’s completely undetectable except to those who have been invited, and is thick with protective spells. You would be quite safe there.”

Judging from her baffled expression, she still didn’t seem to understand what he was saying, so he simplified it yet again. “I want you to be safe.”

She blushed. “I don’t know what to say. I… I can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked. He was prepared for a refusal, at least initially, but was certain he could talk her into it. He knew she liked his house and the village nearby more than London, and her initial response would be out of surprise rather than true reluctance.

“I have a job for one,” she reminded him. “And for another… I might not be very brave, but I’m not a coward. I’m not going to run away from shadows.”

Well, those were good points, which was extremely annoying. Her expression softened as she read his disappointment.

“But,” she conceded. “If something does happen, and I don’t feel safe in London anymore, then I will consider going to your house… with my mother.”

Snape winced at the mention of Mrs. Susan Morgan, a busy-body if ever he met one. Oh well, it wasn’t as if they’d be in around her very often until the school year ended. If Ira even decided to go. He nodded. It was as good as he was going to get at the moment, and he didn’t feel like ruining the mood over a fight. He could work on convincing her to leave later, spreading out his arguments so that he would come off as more concerned than pushy. He had a feeling she would run if he tried to be too forceful, but she was reasonable more often than not, and could eventually be swayed. The obnoxious security measures that were being implemented lately (and would likely get worse as other battles erupted within the UK’s borders) might serve as a viable argument.

Suddenly, his thoughts drifted back to his lab, where the Body Tree was continuing to mature behind the secret door in his laboratory. He had not yet figured out a way to move it where it would be found, and its significance understood without betraying his own involvement and he was wondering if he would have to just destroy it and hope it didn’t come back to bite him in the ass. An idea was starting to form, however. Little pieces of fact like McGunny’s apartment being two blocks from the campus and the patrols by campus security after eleven and the abandoned astronomy laboratory were floating lucidly in his mind and waiting to be assembled into a coherent plan.

Harry circled the astronomy tower; his fur cloak spread out around him, letting the icy cold air slip passed its defenses. His gaze never left the Southern window, which yielding no view but that of a starless sky, shrouded in clouds. He knew the Moon was there, full and powerful, but Her absence from his sight left him irritable and restless. The night was thick with anxiety, the usual reckless abandon the full moon brought stubbornly elusive.

How this night so resembled his days.

Halloween, a holiday he had always loved even before he had known about magic, was only a week away yet he felt none of the festive merriment he remembered from years past. Instead, he was trying to make it day to day without anyone realizing he was starting to come apart at the seams, dosing himself daily with calming draughts and spending as much time alone as possible, focusing his mind on nothing more complicated than arithmancy homework.

He had hoped this night the moon would wrap him in her affections. Instead, he felt abandoned and rejected. Why had she forsaken him? Now of all times? Should he have made an offering to her?

From the center of the room, Seitler followed his movements around the room, so still and silent Harry could easily forget that he was there. Snape had wanted to sleep through the full moon for once, and had handed him off to the Sentinel for the night, giving him a rather flimsy explanation of what he should expect. Seitler wasn’t a baby-sitter, but even he was intrigued by this peculiarity from Voldemort’s golden boy. There had been rumors for a long time that Potter had lycanthrosis, but even Seitler, who was by no means a werewolf expert, could tell that wasn’t the case with Potter. There was nothing animalistic about his behavior, but something was definitely happening.

Harry suddenly paused, squinting into the darkness beyond the tower that his lone flickering candle couldn’t touch. He moved out onto the mezzanine, and held out his hand. There was a touch of cold against his skin.

“It’s snowing,” Harry observed, frowning. It was too early for snow. It shouldn’t have started until late November, but perhaps it was to be expected. Voldemort’s dementors were still patrolling the Northeastern coast of Britain, drawing in storms and throwing off the local weather patterns. There had been talk in the Great Hall just that morning about the likelihood of having a truly abysmal winter this year.

Maybe that was why he was feeling so out of sorts. If this snow had been brought in by the influence of dementors, he would be more sensitive to the corruption than most. He wiped the wetness from his hand quickly at the thought.

“I’m going back to the Common Room,” he said, drawing away from the window.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” The Sentinel’s voice was even, but Harry could hear the skepticism anyway. He didn’t blame the man. He had been pacing for nearly three hours and hadn’t shown any sign of winding down.

“Maybe not, but the Moon will not show tonight. I may as well attempt to get some homework done.”

Seitler didn’t argue the point, but he did follow Harry all the way to his Common Room, then perched himself outside the portrait in a very obvious fashion. Harry ignored the expression of distrust, and went inside. It was just after midnight, and being Tuesday, everyone else was asleep. The lone Gryffindor entertained himself with building a fire for a few minutes, but once that was done he found himself pacing again.

What was wrong with him? Why could he settle or find some suitable distraction?

He wanted his godfathers. He wasn’t sure where the thought came from, but now that it had sprung up it didn’t want to dissipate. He wanted to see them, in their wolf forms, run his hands through their thick wiry fur and feel their hearts pounding beneath his hand. He wanted to hear their songs, howled to their goddess in a single mournful note, and smell their earthy scent mixed with the cold air.

He wanted his pack.

On the far end of the room, the grandfather clock struck one and chimed softly, startling Harry from his thoughts. Only five or so more hours to go, he tried to assure himself.

The sound of shattering glass, startled him, as well as the rest of tower most likely, but he didn’t have long to question it. From the staircase to the boy’s dormitory, Bobby came swooping down, darting around Harry’s head.

“Hurry,” the raven said, his voice high with a panic Harry had never seen in him before. With that, he flew straight for the portrait with such speed he would have surely broken his neck against it, if he hadn’t called out a spell causing it to fly open. Harry bolted after him, jumping through the open doorway and nearly tripping over Seitler, who had been thrown across the hall by the swinging portrait. The Fat Lady gave a terrible shriek at the abuse she was suffering, alerting half the castle that something was happening. Bobby was nearly out of sight, and he didn’t have time to wait around and explain anything. He ran as fast as he could, feeling at last the touch of his goddess and she poured her strength into his legs.

His feet barely touched the stairs as he leaped down them, taking them three or four steps at a time and jumping the banister more than once as he fought to keep sight of dark feathered guide and he thought he had lost him more than once when made a sudden turn, but already Harry knew about where he was going.

The main entrance to the castle was sealed shut, but it had been designed to keep people out not in, and Bobby managed to force this door open as easily as he had the Fat Lady’s portrait, shattering the locks in the process and raining down a shower of splinters. Harry didn’t even slow, and dashed forward until he reached the castle portcullis, and finally drew to a sudden stop.

In the light of the burning fires that lit the entry into Hogwarts through the night and through a heavy veil of snow, Harry could see a shape at the end of the castle drawbridge. It was about Harry’s size, but hunched over, supported on three legs, the fourth he assumed tucked into its body. It only took a moment to realize what he was looking at. Cautiously, remembering Snape’s warning about traps and fairy tricks, he stepped out onto the bridge. On either side of him, the massive stone gargoyles growled, their stone eyes bright as hell fire at the sight of the potential threat to the castle, but not yet attacking while the creature didn’t attempt to come any closer. Harry drew closer, details gradually beginning to form as the veil of snow grew thinner.

The first thing he noticed was that the werewolf was wounded, its left arm soaked in blood and dripping heavily onto the snow coated ground. Yellow eyes regarded him tiredly, the faintest hint of recognition, and a lack of aggression. The coat was lighter than the typical werewolf, more light grey than black or brown, and it was too small to be fully grown. It didn’t snap into place who exactly he was staring at until he realized the werewolf was female.

“Luna?”

A pitiful, heart wrenching whine escaped her and finally giving into her injuries, she collapsed in the snow. He rushed to her side, bending down next to her. His hands searched her for injuries in the semi-dark, and it didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. Her left arm was badly torn as he had already seen, but further investigation revealed that almost all of her left side was shredded as well, and snatched his hand back when he felt his fingers brush the smooth hardness of bone.

“Oh, god, Luna!” His wand was still blessedly up his sleeve, and he spouted off the few healing spells he had gleaned from Dueling Club practices. They weren’t enough, not nearly enough, but they helped to slow the blood loss at least. He draped his body lightly over hers, making sure his cloak covered her as much as possible, before turning back to entry way. “HELP!Someone help me! It’s alright, Luna, I’ve got you now. I’ll get you fixed up. Help! Someone get the nurse!”

Luna whined weakly beneath him, but didn’t try move. She was so weak, and he was so warm and safe. Her eyes began to drift shut.

“NO! Stay awake, Luna! You can’t fall asleep!” Harry shouted, drawing her back from the precipice of sleep. She tried to focus again, and soon realized they were no longer alone. Her vision was blurry, but her sense of smell hadn’t yet failed her, bringing her the scent of human prey (predators?) by the dozens. They spoke, angry, frightened voices, but Harry’s was the only one that made sense to her.

“No! She’s been hurt and needs help! Just get me the right potions and I’ll give them to her! She won’t harm me.”

“Good god, boy, that isn’t a bloody puppy!” Seitler was screaming, the closest he had ever been to a heart attack as stared down at a fifteen year old boy snuggling with a werewolf, and injured werewolf no less and refuse to let go until some sort of aid was provided. Seitler couldn’t even begin to guess where he would find help for a fully transformed werewolf. Did he get the school’s medi-witch or call the veterinarian? Did healing potions for humans work on werewolves? If Potter tried to force them down the beast’s throat would it bite him? Did it even matter?

“Great Scot!”

“What the devil?!”

Others were starting to arrive now, bringing with them new layers of tension. Teachers and students, still in their bedclothes where following the shouts to the castle entry way, and once there were no more prepared for what they saw than Seitler was. The image was so completely surreal. Boy and beast crouched in the deepening snow, neither moving but staring back at them with unnervingly bright eyes. McGonagal made a move to approach them, but Seitler fixed her with a sharp look.

“Don’t, Professor. It hasn’t shown any interest in attacking Potter, but there’s no telling what will happen if it feels threatened. Keep the rest of your students back until we can think up a decent plan.”

McGonagal frowned, but nodded, turning back to the students. Most of them were Gryffindors, their tower being the origins of the trouble, and amidst the crowd was Hermione, looking pale as death as she stared out at her best friend. Harry had told her once that the full moon affected his judgment, but this was pure insanity she was looking at. Even more insane was the fact that he had not yet been ripped to pieces. McGonagal quickly herded her and rest of the students away from the door, telling them to go back to the common room. No one wanted to leave, but her insistence that their combined presence might provoke the werewolf into attacking. By the time the transfiguration teacher returned to the drawbridge, Snape had arrived and was arguing with his ward.

“Potter, don’t be daft. There’s no way you’re taking a fully transformed werewolf into the school,” the dark man hissed.

“But she needs help! She’s dying!”

“Which doesn’t justify risking the lives of the other students and staff. Think, Potter! How do you expect anyone to help it without risking themselves? Werewolves are notoriously resilient against spells. There’s no telling when a sleeping or restraining spell might fail.”

“Her name is Luna. She’s fourteen years old. She likes strawberry pancakes and dancing, and is going to be a medicine woman when she grows up. And I’m not going to let her die.”

“Er…” Lockhart, who regarding the entire situation with his usual befuddlement and pretending he wasn’t, interrupted. “Perhaps I might-”

“No!” Harry and Snape snapped in unison, then turned their stubborn wills on each other. They glared at each other for a long moment.

“Fine!” the young Gryffindor finally bit out, “We’ll wait until she turns back and then treat her!”

Snape seemed momentarily taken back, but quickly recovered. “Dawn is almost five hours away.”

“Then I’ll wait five hours!” he snarled, and the werewolf beneath him let out a snarl of her own at the perceived threat, but he quickly turned to her and crooned softly, burying his face into her furry neck. Snape glowered at the pair, but knew he had been bested for the time being and turned his attention to Seitler.

“That thing didn’t just wonder off the nearest colony. Something has happened. Get to the headmistress’ office and contact your people to find out what’s going on. The rest of the teachers and I will guard the castle and make sure Potter doesn’t get his fool head bitten off in the mean time.”

Seitler wasn’t used to taking orders from civilians, but Snape had a reputation and in this case his reasoning was sound. He abandoned the current drama to search out the headmistress and gain access to her office, the only place in all of Hogwarts anyone could apparate out of (but not into). A werewolf at Hogwarts could mean any number of things, but none of them good.

By dawn, Harry could no longer feel his fingers, his toes, or most of his face. The warming spells he cast were on Luna alone, along with the healing spells he didn’t think were working any longer. The moon had been unable to fight through the clouds, and the absence of her light dampened the strength he would normally wean from her. He didn’t dare waste magic on himself, fearing at any moment Luna’s heart would suddenly stop and he would need all the magic inside him to revive her.

None of the teachers had dared try sending spells at them, as their first attempt had sent the injured werewolf into snarling fit. Only Harry clinging to her, and kept her from limping to her feet and rushing for them. When he had finally settled her again, she was exhausted, and blood was now visibly leaking through her nose and mouth. Harry was terrified that blood was starting to fill her lungs.

All through the night, he petted and soothed and encouraged her, sharing his heat and his strength. All through the night, she leaned against him and whined and licked his bare numb fingers, taking in his warmth and his love. She was so tired, and more than anything she wanted to sleep and forget what she had seen and experienced this night, but Diana had told her to live. She told her to live so that the truth would live, and those who had fallen would not be forgotten.

Dawn came in the dark, the sun as obscured as the moon, but both boy and she-wolf felt it in the very fiber of their being. Harry noticed it first as the gradual weakening of his eyes sight and a bone-deep weariness that settled over him. Luna’s experience was considerably more dramatic.

Beneath his hands, Harry felt Luna transform, muscle sliding fluidly over bone that bent and popped and shortened and extended. A strange, almost sickly sweet smell permeated around her as her light gray fur retracted to smooth, sweat dampened skin. Within half a minute, he was holding a very naked, very injured girl.

“Luna!”

Quickly, he pulled off his fur cloak and wrapped her in it, wishing for something that wasn’t already soaked with her blood. Her skin, normally so pale, was purple and black from bruises and blood, and he wept at the sight of them. Pale grey eyes stared at him, barely open, barely even alive, with such haunted expression, he feared to know its source.

“Haaa….,” she breath roughly what could have been his name, blood tricking out of her mouth and nose.

“Ssshhh… don’t speak. I have you. I have you.”

She continued to stare at him, and he held her gaze as long as he could, until the other came with their blankets and their spells and their good intentions, pulling them from each other’s arms. With the last of her strength, he grabbed his wrist and held fast, forcing out what needed to be said.

“They’re all dead…”

Then she let her eyes finally slide shut, her consciousness and her pain slide away until all there was a dark and painless void.

The Prince’s Lament

The moment Luna was pulled from his arms, Harry was dragged away to the nearest available room by Snape and stripped of his bloody clothes as well as the blood itself with several very unpleasant cleaning charms. The blanket he was given was warm, but not enough for someone already nearing hypothermia and with no shoes to fight the icy chill of the floor, but the potions master refused to get him anything else until he checked underneath his fingernails and his hair and every possible place Luna’s infected blood might be hiding.

“Nothing got in your eyes, nose, or mouth?”

Harry just stood there, shaking like a leaf, and unable to speak. Who all was dead? What had happened at the werewolf colony that sent Luna to his front door and in such a state? Could another werewolf have done this to Luna? Was it wizards? He had to know.

“T-t-too-too c-cold.”

Snape glowered at him, but dragged him out of the room and towards the infirmary. Several teachers watched them as they passed, but they said nothing as Harry stumbled half blind down the halls and up the stairs. He nearly fell twice, his legs just collapsing beneath him, but Snape caught him both times and finally put his arm around him to support his weight.

In the infirmary, Pomfrey was busy treating Luna, hidden behind a privacy screen. The medi-witches normally immaculate white apron was splattered in blood and she was wearing surgeon’s mask, gloves, and goggles for protection. The potions master didn’t disturb her from her work, but set Harry on the farthest bed, handing him hospital pajamas to change into and sorting through the potions cabinet himself for something to warm the boy up.

When he turned back around, Harry was gone.

“Typical,” he muttered.

Tricking Snape into thinking he was too weak to move on his own had been simple enough, but escaping the hospital wing and reaching Gryffindor Tower andgetting everything he needed was another matter altogether. He might not be about ready to collapse but he was tired and the halls were crowded with teachers who would question why he was running around in nothing but a blanket. Secret passage ways and short cuts only went so far, and then he had to rely on magic and his wits, neither of which was reliable with his abysmal eyesight, shaking hands, and sleep deprived brain.

He did make it though. He suspected Raecellos would be expecting an offering of thanks pretty soon.

Stumbling into the Common Room, it was the usual chaos that greeted him after a misadventure. Friends and gawkers alike, trying to crowd around him and demand answers.

“Harry, are you alright?!” Hermione said, throwing her arms around him, while the nearly forty or so other students hurled questions at him.

“How did you tame the werewolf?! That was a werewolf, wasn’t it?”

“How did you know it was out there?”

“Where are your clothes?”

“Why aren’t you in the infirmary? Weren’t you bitten?”

“SHUT UP!”

The crowd leaped back, including Hermione, and he pushed passed them and towards the stairs, running as fast as he could manage, his hold on his blanket and his wand tenuous at best. Once in his dorm room, he dropped the blanket altogether, and threw open his trunk, pulling on the first things his hand touched and then some warm outer wear after extra consideration. From a hidden compartment built into the side of his trunk, he pulled his invisibility cloak.

“Harry, what are you doing?!” Hermione cried in alarm, storming into the room, and followed shortly after my Clyde, the Weasley twins, and half a dozen others. He ignored her question, and reached under his pillow, pulling out his keystone. It did not have a lot of magic stored in it after the protection ritual, but it would have to be enough to get him where he needed to be.

“Mate, calm down! What’s this all about? Shouldn’t you be in the infirmary? You’re practically blue!” Fred said, grinning like usual, but it was strained, placating. Like he was talking to a crazy person. Harry ignored him, and slammed his trunk shut.

“POTTER!”

Everyone jumped and turned to the open door at the sound of Snape’s voice carrying through the tower. Not half a second later, the man himself stalked in, his face twisted in anger.

“Where is the little gnome?” he demanded.

They all turned to indicate Harry’s presence by his bed, but he had disappeared without a trace.

That was too close, Harry thought as he slipped through the open portrait. Everyone was so busy staring up that stairs at the rampaging professor they didn’t even notice when it opened and shut on its own. He ran down to the main floor of the castle. He tried the first window he could find, but a shock ran down his arm when he tried to force it open, so he continued for the main entrance.

It was too late.

The door had once again been sealed, and now McGonagal stood as a sentry before it, staring up and down the corridor with piercing eyes. Snape had worked fast. The castle was sealed. There was no way out.

“Well?” Lestrange hissed at her long time competitor, feeling a mixture of frustration and joy at Potter’s latest stunt. It would likely cost Snape his job, possibly his life, but it might end up having some unpleasant consequences for herself as well. The over grown bat looked far less concerned for himself than she would have liked. She wondered if he had found a way of blaming her.

Snape sneered, but his voice was as smooth and silky as ever. “If you have done your job and sealed all possible exits, then he will not have had time to slip out. It is only a matter of tracking him down. He may turn himself in when he realized he won’t be rushing to anyone else’s rescue today. The infirmary will be his first stop, most likely.”

She sneered herself, but it wasn’t at Snape. The idea of a werewolf in her castle set her nerves on end, but there was nothing she could at the moment. Voldemort would want to interrogate it. As soon as it was stable, she would have the Court take it off their hands.

“I’ve done my part. The doors, windows, and all the towers with open access are sealed. No one is getting in or out until he’s found, which I recommend you doing very quickly.”

Snape nodded, then stopped.

“Doors, windows, and towers…” he murmured, his frown slowly deepening. “Headmistress… did you remember to seal the dungeons as well?”

“Why would I seal the dungeons? There no way to get out…”

Her eyes widened. Snape let out a groan.

Harry followed the basilisk through the dank, narrow tunnels, shivering in the chill and cringing every time a sopping wet root hanging from the ceiling brushed his forehead or neck. The newest basilisk was only a few years old, and just a little larger than Inana. It was considerably more talkative, however.

I’ve never had a visitor before. Except for the rats, which are very yummy, but aren’t very funny. Well, it’s knid of funny when they get frozen in weird positions, but that makes them hard to swallow which isn’t funny at all. I wish I had someone to talk to though. It got very boring down here after I got done exploring all the tunnels. Not that is isn’t nice, because it is. Lots of room and food and swimming pools, but awfully quiet.

Harry didn’t say anything, concentrating on not tripping over the debris in the tunnel which was nearly invisible. Thermal imaging glasses may have protected him from the young basilisk’s deadly gaze, but it did make spelunking a hazardous affair.

He really couldn’t afford to fall into a puddle of water, or he would loose whatever strength he had left. At least his boots were both warm and waterproof.

…and maybe you could awaken one of my sisters? I’d settle for a brother, but boys can be so…eh… well, not all boys. You seem nice enough, listening to me jabber on and on, but most boys just can’t do that, you know?

Harry let the basilisk’s voice flow over him, distracting him from Luna’s broken declaration repeating itself over and over again in his head. They’re all dead. Who all was dead? Her family? The entire colony? All the werewolves in the country? Were his godfathers among them? Had they even been with Luna’s colony or had they already left for France? Were they safe even there?

The tunnel came to an abrupt end, a large stone carved with thousands of intertwined snakes coiled around each other blocked the way.

This is where I stop, the basilisk hissed, and turned around. It’scoldout there.

Thank you for your help.

You’re welcome. And she disappeared back down the tunnel.

It took him nearly twenty minutes to figure out how to open the passage way. Sticking ones hand into a moving mass of coils to search for an equally mobile knob was not an easy task, and talking to statues had earned him nothing but being laughed at.

It was still snowing when he stepped out into the Forbidden Forest.

All around him the trees hung heavy with snow, those trees that had not lost their leaves soon enough were near bent in half and some had already snapped. The air was cold and quiet, but even in his exhaustion he knew better than to be complacent. He kept his wand in his hand.

Now what? How was he going to get there?

He had no broom or horse and couldn’t apparate. He might be able to get to Hogmeade, but they would have been warned about him and even he didn’t think he could sneak through a floo without people noticing. His options were in fact extremely limited.

But he did have one left…

The Knight Bus driver kept giving him odd looks, but didn’t ask questions. He was too over worked and under paid to question why a fifteen year old needed to be picked up in the middle of the Forbidden Forest and taken to a werewolf colony, especially someone who looked extremely familiar for some reason.

Harry nearly burst out laughing several times as he realized the ridiculous situation he was putting himself. He couldn’t even imagine what Snape was going to do to him when he got back… if he got back. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried not to think about it. He had to know. Know for sure, what had happened and why. He didn’t trust Voldemort enough to give him a truly honest answer, and if there were survivors he wanted to be there for them. Especially if Sirius and Remus were there. They were his pack. They had faced death for each other more than once, and that wasn’t a reliance he was willing to break.

At least, the shivering had finally stopped. The running and the warmth of the bus had finally restored his body temperature to normal, but now he was left with the reminder of how hungry he was, even as the thought of eating was nauseating.

Luna.

Was she okay now? Pomfrey had taken her, but she had been so weak already. He could feel her strength just drain out of her when she let go of his arm, her eyes sliding shut. Had she been dead in that moment and he not even realizing it? No, he could remember the medi-witch was still working on her when Snape brought him to the infirmary. He had to believe she would recover.

They’re all dead.

“Shut up,” he whispered.

“You say something?” the bus driver asked, turning around. This seemed a very bad idea since they were still driving through a forest with no road.

“Er… nothing.”

“Well, we’re almost there. You sure you want out here? It’s a nearly twenty miles to the nearest town. Heh, unless you’re a werewolf,” he laughed, then sobered. “You aren’t a werewolf are you?”

Harry gave him one of his nastier smiles, and the man paled and stepped on the gas. At last the bus broke out of the trees and onto a wide dirt road, and stopped. Harry stepped off the bus. He didn’t pay the fare, and the bus driver didn’t ask for one, shutting the door on him and speeding away as fast as he could. This was all well and good because Harry hadn’t thought to grab any money when he fled the castle.

The ground was blanketed in nearly four inches of snow and a few light flakes continued to fall from the silvery-gray sky above. He tightened his robe around him and pulled up the hood to conserve heat. He kept his invisibility cloak off. He couldn’t see properly with it on, and in the tracks he left in the snow would make its power meaningless. He would just have to be cautious and hope the danger had already passed.

He spotted the first body just outside the borderline of the werewolf territory. It was a woman, naked, and completely unmarked. She was partially curled, her eyes half lidded and cloudy, and her black hair pillowing her head. He didn’t need to touch her to know her skin was icy cold. Shakily, Harry tried to closer her eyes, but they merely opened again.

He took a shaky breath and continued up the road. He was terrified of what he would find, but he had to know. He encountered three more bodies on the road. One of them Harry recognized as Jackal, and the other two were brothers, still at each other’s side even in death. The brothers were also completely unmarked, but Jackal appeared to have been gutted, his entrails blessedly obscured by the snowfall. The colony itself was gone, nothing more than smoldering ashes and scattered cookery. He saw another woman, but didn’t look too closely. He could smell her partially charred flesh and didn’t think he could stand seeing it for himself. It wasn’t until he reached the clearing just beyond the commune that the sheer horror of what happened became truly apparent.

There were bodies everywhere.

Dozens upon dozens of them. Some of them were completely untouched, while others were torn, burned, crushed, or killed in some other completely sadistic manner. Some of them were huddle together and other alone as they tried to flee. There had to have been at least forty in the clearing alone. He stared, completely frozen at them. Men and women he had known for years, so alive and powerful and filled with laughter and that brazen werewolf attitude, lying so still and quiet.

Trembling, he began searching for his godfathers, but in doing so found so many other familiar faces. Here the woman who had shown him how hides were cleaned and tanned. There the man who beat him in a game of cards once. Then he found Greyback and his family.

The Head Alpha hadn’t fallen easily. Harry could follow the blood and visceral trail nearly twenty feet, and by then the man was only so much meaty pulp. Just beyond the alphas reach was one of his sons, curled tightly in a lifeless ball. He couldn’t have been more than eight. Then another son, spread out on his back as if asleep, his eldest at fourteen. It was Athena that set it off though. She was nearly unmarked but for the deep diagonal slash across her back, but she must have been trying to protect her youngest boy, just barely two, and when she had fallen he was beneath her and…

The long keening wail that escaped him echoed through the forest, piercing the haunting silencing with an even more haunting noise.

He shouldn’t have come! He didn’t want to know this! HE DIDN’T WANT TO KNOW THIS!

He sobbed, loud and messy, like he hadn’t since he was eight. Even more than when he was eight. This was too horrible. Why? Why? Why? He collapsed to knees and covered his eyes, trying to block it out, but it was already burned in to his mind into his very soul and he would never be rid of it again. This would never leave him. Rhiannon, why didn’t you save them?

He wasn’t certain how long he sat in the snow and wept, it could have been hours or minutes but the pain would not ease. It just went on and on until he felt a hand touch his hair. He pulled away his hands and looked up, expecting to see Snape but it was Voldemort who stood over him, his expression the closest to sympathetic Harry had ever seen.

“What are you doing here, Harry? You shouldn’t be here.”

“I-I had to-to know,” he choked out, and still he couldn’t stop. The Dark Lord helped him to his feet, and lead him away from the clearing, not to the commune but deeper into the woods.

“Your godfathers are safe,” Voldemort said, “They left for France a week ago, and I have verification from the Queen herself that none of their own werewolves were attacked. Of course, they’re still being secured inside their fortresses and under heavy guard. A much less convenient target than an isolated colony in the middle of nowhere.”

The relief he felt at his godfather’s survival warred with his grief over the death of the Goddess Clan, and ultimately the grief won out. When he finally saw Sirius and Remus again he might feel differently, but right now it was a mild balm against a gapping wound.

“What happened?” he asked. He knew too much already, what was this little bit more?

They stepped between two trees, and Harry jerked in surprise as nearly a hundred witches and wizards appeared before him, Brass Culties and Sentinels mixed together, appearing and disappearing into the half dozen black tents that had been erected. The overbearing silence of the forest was smashed by the dull roar of activity. The roar dimmed a bit as curious faces turned in puzzlement and sympathy as Harry was escorted to one of the tents. The tent was black on the outside, but inside it was a near glaring white and uncomfortably warm. Six beds lined either side of the wall, and Harry’s heart gave a little sigh at the handful of survivors he saw resting there, all of them unconscious and wrapped in blankets. One of them was Fenrir’s sons, Fierro the second oldest, but the others Harry didn’t immediately recognize.

“The boy escaped into a fox hole and waited out the fighting, nearly catatonic when we finally pulled him out. The others men were knocked unconscious and left for dead. They cannot remember a great deal of what happened, their human minds do not hold animal thoughts well, but what we managed to piece together is that maybe two dozen wizards on broomsticks came during their transformation, before they had scattered for the night and killed them. My men have investigated the wards. They were… inefficient at keeping out such a large group of attackers. Several ward posts are all but melted.”

“Are there any other survivors?”

“No. None except Luna, and her condition is questionable.”

Two Medi-Cults approached to check Harry for injuries, but the Dark Lord waved them off. He grabbed a bowl of water and a towel from a nearby table and set it beside Harry. “Wash your face. You look awful.”

“Was it the Germans?” Harry guessed. He took off his gloves and his glasses, scooped up a handful of water and splashed his face, scrubbing with his hands. He was starting to feel calmer. Voldemort was here, the danger had passed, and now they would deal with what had happened in the cool collected manner he handled everything else. Now was a time for decisions and action. Grief could come later… hopefully much, much later.

“Yes. When Seitler came to Lucius with news of the werewolf’s appearance at Hogwarts, he had squadrons sent out to investigate all the werewolf colonies. This colony was already abandoned, but we managed to intercept their next attack point. Most got away, but a few were killed… one was captured alive.”

Harry stiffened, and pulled the towel away from his face.

“You caught one?”

“Yes. He’s in one of our tents now. Morgan is prepping him for interrogation.”

“… I would like to see him.”

Voldemort stared at him thoughtfully. “Why?”

Harry didn’t really know the answer to that himself, but he wanted to see for himself who was capable of what he had seen.

“Harry, what are you even doing here? How did you get here?”

“… I took the bus.”

Voldemort blinked. “The bus?”

“Well… that and… that place… in the dungeons,” he could not describe Slytherin’s chamber any more clearly while the medi-cults were in the room. “Snape locked down the rest of the castle. I’m surprised he missed that part actually.”

“You…escaped the castle? You escaped Snape?”

“…Sort of… yes… you could say that.”

The Dark Lord closed his eyes. “I don’t know whether I am extremely impressed with your resourcefulness or extremely angry with you for defying your guardian and forcing him to lock down the entire school.”

Before Harry could voice his preference for the first option, Chief Sentinel Morgan stepped into the tent. He gave a disapproving glare to Harry but spoke directly to Voldemort.

“The prisoner is ready for you.”

“Thank you, Morgan. Harry here will speak with him first, then one of your men will escort him back to Hogwarts.”

Morgan turned an assessing look towards the boy, clearly an emotional mess, but didn’t question his ruler. If he wanted his protégé to go stark raving mad that was his prerogative. He escorted them to the farthest tent, and held it open for them.

Harry stepped inside first, a feeling of dread seeping into him as he surveyed the room. This tent was also white and sterile. Slick white tile that sloped down slightly into the center where a drain had been placed lined the floor. Harry tried not to think of the reason behind that practical feature, but the tray of strange instruments set off to the side made it easy enough to guess. Three men stood off to the side, dressed in the same sterile white of the room, discussing something. They stopped when he entered the tent.

The room was disturbing, but perhaps more so was the prisoner who was secured to a chair in the very center. He was younger than Harry would have imagine, mid-twenties, maybe younger, with curly blond hair, and wide, terrified blue eyes. Harry could only stare back at him, confused. Surely this wasn’t a murderer? No hardened, apathetic mercenary or sadistic megalomaniac.

Then the young man seemed to recognize him and his wide blue eyes hardened into a hateful glare.

“Oh, der Verräter persönlich! Ich fühle mich geehrt!”

Harry just stared at him, sensing rather than seeing as Morgan and Voldemort moved around the room. The prisoner didn’t even look away from him, and Harry wondered if he even realized he had the ruler of wizarding Britain standing there with him or if he thought it was just another anonymous soldier or military specialist.

“Was is los? Hast du nichts zu sagen, du Verräter? Bist du nicht wütend? Wir haben alle deine räudigen Schoßhunde umgebracht, und alles was du tust, ist rumzustehen und wie ein Idiot zu glotzen.”

That spurred Harry to speak.

“Du bist sehr überheblich für einen schlappschwänzigen Kindermörder!”[1]

The prisoner blinked, then hissed like an angry cat.

“Don’t try your little sob story about them being human and deserving the same treatment and that crap. They weren’t human. They aren’t human. They’re just dumb mon-”

Harry’s fist smashing into the prisoner’s face knocked the chair over and sent him falling backwards. The young soldier choked on the blood pouring from his nose, and turned his head to spit it out into the pristine white tiles. It flowed obediently to the little drain at the center of the floor. Harry wasn’t done yet.

“Nihil valeo,” he said, casting a feather-light charm on man and chair, then grabbed him by the collar of his sturdy black Auror’s uniform and dragged him outside. Everyone froze when they saw him making off with the prisoner, Voldemort, Morgan, and three rather distraught interrogators following behind. Several people made a move to stop him, but the Dark Lord gestured for them to leave the boy alone.

He was curious about what his young friend was going to do, and a part of him wanted Harry to be the one who exacted vengeance on this no doubt worthy perpetrator. Greyback had been Voldemort’s friend, in so far as that goes, but Harry had loved the werewolves and had been an honorary member of their pack. With the four survivors too traumatized or injured to exact justice, it seemed appropriate that it should be Harry who acted in their stead.

Another part of him felt strangely drawn to what he was feeling radiating off of Harry, the pain and anger and horror permeating outwards like an electric field, sizzling along his nerve-endings to his very core where he felt something stir. He had seen his fair share of suffering and inflicted a great deal of it himself, but what he felt now was not the familiar sadistic pleasure of dominance. This wasn’t pleasant at all. It was… it was…

Inspiring?

Too feeble a description, but it was far too alien for him to call it anything else. He didn’t try, merely let it wash over him as Harry continued to drag the prisoner into the clearing where the werewolves still remained scattered like so many broken dolls. The prisoner was starting to panic now, and that did bring about a bit of sadistic pleasure for him.

“What are you doing? Where are we going?”

Harry stopped exactly where Voldemort had first found him, and threw back to the ground. The prisoner grunted in pain, but it quickly turned to panicked screaming when he found himself inches from the glassy dead eyes of Athena. Harry jerked him back a little but the view couldn’t have been any better because now he could see not only Athena but Fenrir and their children too. The prisoner tried to close his eyes, but Harry knelt down, forcing his head back and his eyes open.

“Look! Look at them! Look how he reaches for them. Look how she tried to cover her baby from harm and her children hung close even in their panic! Look! Look and see that these were NOT dumb monsters. You didn’t kill terrorists or soldiers or beasts, and I will not let you go to your grave thinking you’re some sort of hero. You’re just a murderer! A women and child-killing murderer!”

“No, no, no! I didn’t know! I didn’t know! He said this was where the terrorists were! The ones who killed all those people in Berlin! I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t know!”

His words did nothing to placate Harry, and if anything they only enraged him further. Harry’s hands which had been gripping the man’s head slipped to his throat and tightened.

“Liar! How could you not have known? How could you not have seen the pups? You saw them well enough when you killed them! Did you not see them when they turned human? You knew all along what you were doing! You’re the monster here!”

The prisoner was starting to turn purple, Harry’s small hands an inescapable vice and Voldemort could feel his heart racing as he watched it all play out. He had never seen Harry like this before. It was breathtaking.

“My Lord,” Morgan said softly, but urgently. “Perhaps we should stop him. The man’s no good to us dead.”

“Mmm… maybe in a minute…” he said offhandedly.

“Sir, I really don’t think he has a minute.”

“Then I’ll revive him again. They’re always much more cooperative as zombies.[2]”

Morgan said nothing more, merely stood there and watched with a deepening sense of horror as a child suffocated a man with his bare hands right before his very eyes. The prisoner was starting to turn blue now and his eyes were rolling back in their sockets and Potter’s arms trembled with exhaustion and rage. Beside him, Voldemort watched it all, enraptured, and proud beyond measure.

“POTTER!”

Harry, lost in his anger and hatred, burning with such a destructive need it could have been the will of Rhiannon herself, he could hear and see nothing but the prisoner and his choking and the echoing screams of the dead lying around them. And then everything was black, and was being pulled away, his fingernails tearing away bits of flesh as he lost his grip. He screamed and kicked and thrashed, clawing for his victim and at the interloper who had interrupted him, but the person didn’t let go and the darkness over his eyes remained, blocking the source of his rage and his grief all at once. He struggled and strained, but without the prisoner directly before him the rage began to fade back into grief until sobbing once again replaced his screams, and his struggles weakened until he merely hung limply in his captor’s arm.

“Ssshhhh… Harry, it’s alright. Calm down. Breath deep. It’s over now.”

“Pro-professor? When d-did you get here?”

“Just now. I had to get Lestrange to unlock the entire castle again before I could come after you… and we’re going to have a serious discussion about that later.”

Harry said nothing, just hung there, too exhausted and too shocked by his own actions to move. The darkness over his eyes, which had to be Snape’s hand, was a barrier he didn’t want to cross. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“My Lord, I think it’s best if I take Mr. Potter back to the castle,” Snape said, turning to his master. There was an underlying edge to his voice, a tightly controlled anger that Voldemort might have found amusing if he weren’t so angry himself. It had been very close. A half minute more and he would have seen for himself what happened when a pure soul murders. He could have made a horcux for Harry.

But Snape had to go and ruin it with his misguided concern for the boy’s sanity. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his protégé’s sanity as far as he was concerned. It was perfectly natural and probably therapeutic to destroy something that had caused you such great pain, and despite the social stigma at killing while still in adolescence it seemed a petty thing to stand in his way. He still remembered killing his father and grandparents with great fondness.

He very seriously considered killing Snape in that moment, and that’s when he realized he was behaving irrationally himself. He had nearly allowed the death of a prisoner before their interrogation had even started and allowing Harry to become a killer so young went against his original plans for him. He had been so caught up in an emotional maelstrom he had let it dictate his actions, and that was not acceptable.

He would forestall Snape’s punishment until he could discern whether it was truly warranted or not.

“Go then. I suspect we will see each other soon enough.”

The potions master bowed as much as his position would allow, and dragged Harry away, his hand remaining steadfastly over his eyes until they were far enough from the remains of the colony to apparate.

Harry said nothing to Snape as they made their way back to the castle, nor when they were inside. He said nothing to McGonagall who looked ready to throttle him and then hug him at the same time. He said nothing to Hermione who cried at the sight of him, knowing somehow that he had been through something too horrible to say aloud. He said nothing to Lestrange who did yell at him in words he could hear but not understand. He said nothing to Pomfrey as she helped him change into a pair of hospital pajamas and slipped him a sleeping draught then tucked him in.

He said nothing, but the moment she turned her back he slipped out of the bed again and made his way over to Luna, pulling aside the privacy screen. She was pale, but no longer deathly so, and her breathing was slow and deep. Bandages peeked through the left side of her pajamas, meaning she was not completely healed even though she now stable.

He climbed onto the right side of her bed, and gentle rested his chin atop her head and his arm over her stomach, then finally let the sleeping draught drag him under. A moment later, Luna stirred, not waking, but seeking out the familiar, comforting smell of a pack mate, and turning her nose into the crook of his neck.

Snape sat in the uncomfortable infirmary chair in the corner, watched it all, and said nothing.

1. Prisoner: “Ah, the traitor in person. I feel so honored.”

Prisoner: “What’s the matter? Nothing to say, traitor? Aren’t you angry? We killed all your mangy mutts, and all you can do is stand there like a bug-eyed idiot?”

Harry: “You’re awfully proud for a limp-dicked child-killer.”↩

2. Voldemort is a necromancer. This is stated in canon, but I just thought I’d remind everyone since I don’t think I mention it in my own story.↩

Battle Fatigue

Harry woke twenty-six hours later, staring half blind up at Luna’s blurred form hovering above him and the warmth of her arms on either side of him. For a surreal moment he felt as if he were dreaming, of what exactly he didn’t know. Of the future? Of the past?

And then the present caught up with him, and the warmth of her arms and her presence could not fight off their cold, stark reality. Fenrir Greyback and the Goddess Clan were dead, murdered on their sacred night when they were at their strongest and most vulnerable, and they were two of a handful of survivors.

“Did you see?” she asked, her voice breathy as a whisper and clear as bell all at once.

“I did.”

“I’m sorry.” She touched his cheek and pushed back his hair. “I knew you would go if I said it, but… I…”

“You didn’t want to be alone in this,” he finished for her.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t want you to be alone either.”

He could feel her begin to tremble, and he reached up and gently guided her back down, curling her up underneath his chin just as they had been sleeping previously. Her weeping was silent, but he could feel her every sob and tremor against his chest and felt it echo in the emptiness he felt inside. He could so easily resent her now. She had sought him out, for safety, for comfort, for who knows what or why and in doing so drawn him into her pain. He could resent her, but then they would both not only be hurt but also alone in their suffering.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

“Ssshhh… I know. It’s okay. It’s done now.”

The soft tap of footsteps drew his attention, and he instinctively sought out his wand on the bedside table, moving in a defensive position over Luna, who stilled beneath him. He waited tensely, until the privacy screen around their bed was pulled back just enough to allow a woman to enter.

“Good Heavens, Mr. Potter, you’re lucky I’m not a reporter! You have no idea what an inappropriate picture you two are making right now!” Madam Pomfrey chided, and Harry jumped off the bed as soon as he realized what she was talking about. Redness bloomed across his face. He had been grief-stricken, exhausted, and too shocked to question his initial instinct to seek Luna out before falling asleep, but if anyone had actually seen him he would have a hard time offering explanations. The fact that Pomfrey wasn’t demanding any was vaguely disturbing.

“I’m glad you’re up,” the medi-witch continued. “I need to give your friend…?”

“Luna,” he clarified.

“…your friend Luna an examination. One I don’t think you should be present for if you catch my meaning?”

“Er…not really, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“I think she wants me to get naked,” Luna suggested. “Though why that matters I don’t know. It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”

Harry couldn’t see it, but he could imagine several different expressions crossing Pomfrey’s face, ranging from indignation to embarrassment, and busied himself looking for his glasses to hide his disconcertion. He would have to talk to Luna about what she said, but later, when he could speak without stuttering like a fool.

“Uh..er… yes, well, that’s a bit different. Um…. Where can I…er…?”

“Your friends brought you a change of clothes. They’re on the chair by the medicine cabinet. Change and then go take a walk for an hour or so,” Pomfrey said pointedly.

Knowing he had been dismisses, at least for an hour, he just about turned to go but looked back to Luna first.

“Are you going to be alright for an hour?”

“You’ll be back,” she stated, as if it were a certainty, but she held her arms in self-comfort and he felt his heart break at the sight. He went to his clothes, and after ruffling through them, found his watch and brought it back to her.

“Here. It’s the second most valuable thing I own, after my wand, so be careful with it. I’ll be back in an hour. I’ll get you something nice from the kitchen.”

She clutched his watch in her hands, feeling and hearing it beat like a little heart in her palm. His smile was reassurance and heartbreak all rolled into one, and hers was its mirror image. He slipped passed the privacy curtain, the sound of him moving around and changing his clothes persisted for a few minutes more, and then he was gone. At least… she checked the watch… for another fifty-two minutes anyway.

She turned to the woman who had sent her pack away. She wasn’t sure what to make of her. She was a healer, and as a healer’s apprentice Luna felt a sort of respect and sisterhood towards her, but she was also bizarrely alien. The crispness of her clothes, her lack of scent, and the congenial demeanor were not something she associated with women of their craft. If she were in the proper frame of mind, she would be enjoying the experience, but right now she wanted the comfort of the familiar.

“No worries, dearie,” the elder woman said, “The worst of it is over now. It can only get better from here.”

Harry had no intention of returning to class that day if he didn’t have to, but that didn’t prevent class from coming to him. He had the bad luck to leave the hospital wing between classes and found himself wading through the usual mêlée with an unusual amount of attention being paid to him. He cut through crowd like skiff through calm waters, the students parting before him and only their wide-eyed stares dragged him down. He wondered what they knew, about Luna and that night, about his flight from Hogwarts, the massacre that he had found, the murder he had nearly…

“Harry.”

He turned to see Natalie, her expression tight, pained. Guilt clawed at him. Once again he had rushed ahead without thinking about those he left behind, just like Snape said, and hurt those who cared about him. What had he put Natalie through? Hermione? All of his friends and teachers?

I’m sorry, Luna had said. Yeah, same here.

“Hey.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but never got the chance as Snape stepped out of his classroom and entered the hallway, immediately spotting the wandering Gryffindor.

“Potter, are you making another escape attempt or just being a general nuisance?” he snapped, then cast a sweeping glare at the students milling about. “Don’t you all have somewhere to be? If not I could use a few volunteers for my first years to practice on.”

The inertia that followed in Harry’ wake broke, and dozens of bodies hurried on their way. Natalie lingered, but a particularly sharp look from Snape sent her on her way with only a few backward glances. Snape turned his malevolence back to his original target.

“Well?”

“General nuisance, I suppose,” Harry said, looking pointedly at the floor. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to act around the man who had prevented him killing another. Should he be grateful? Angry? Dismiss it altogether as a moment of temporary insanity? “Pomfrey kicked me out of the infirmary for an hour. I was going to the kitchen.”

“Yes, I suppose that is one of the few options left to you at the moment,” Snape said, almost off-handedly, and stepped back into his classroom. Harry made a move to follow, but before he could step through the door he felt himself repelled backwards. He stumbled and fell to his back. Snape was back at the door a moment later, glaring down at him.

“What part of your suspension don’t you understand, Potter? The ‘you shall not enter any classroom or library’ or the ‘compliance will be strictly enforced’?”

Harry glared up him. “How about the part where someone actually tells me I’ve been suspended?”

He climbed to his feet, angry and humiliated, and walked away. Suspension. On top of everything else he was bloody fucking suspended! Well, screw them! What did he care?

“Where are you going?”

He jumped, and turned around to see Snape had followed him.

“The kitchen, like I said.”

“You’re not going to ask about your suspension?”

You’d bloody well like that, wouldn’t you? Wait for me to come running to you for answers, and all I have to do is sit through your mockery to get them, he thought bitterly. Not this time.

“Ignorance is bliss. Behold my blissening state.”

He turned to leave. Snape touched his shoulder and he surprised even himself when he recoiled violently. They both stood there for a moment, staring at one another in shock. Awkwardness and uncertainty came over Harry, and he quickly moved to leave.

“Potter-”

“I don’t care!” he said, not looking back. “I don’t care one damn bit!”

By now most of the students had reached their next classes and the hallway was empty, making his escape route clear. It also meant he couldn’t hide from Snape’s eyes burning into the back of his head as he ran away.

“There you are.”

Harry looked up from the pumpkin juice he had been brooding over to find Hermione and Draco standing in the doorway of the kitchen. The house elves were scurrying about making him something to eat, as well as ‘something nice’ for Luna, and aside from their usual wide-eyed adoration they were otherwise unobtrusive. He wasn’t sure if he was glad for his friends distracting presence or anxious about what they would ask him. So much had happened and he hadn’t had time to digest any of it.

“Hey… aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Faked a migraine. My dear sister here was just escorting me to the infirmary, but wouldn’t you know it? She got us lost.”

Harry gave him a look. “McGonagall actually buy that?”

“Not a chance,” Hermione said, and drew close to him. He shied away when he felt her reach out to hug him, and immediately felt like a right bastard at the hurt expression that cross her face. He looked away. “Harry…”

He desperately grabbed for the first distracting topic he could think of.

“Snape said I was suspended. I don’t suppose you know the details?”

Hermione wasn’t fooled, but Draco spoke before she could prod him further.

“‘Two week suspension for leaving the school without appropriate supervision or permission and reckless endangerment of students, staff, and self’. You got off light. Lestrange wanted to expel you for the rest of the semester, but Snape nearly bit her head off.”

“He wasn’t the only one! McGonagall and Flitwick argued for him too.”

And didn’t that just make Harry feel like an utter asshole after how he’d walked away from Snape? The guy goes around pulling him out of the fires he’s started, and all Harry can think about is how much the man makes him feel like an idiot sometimes.

“Anyway,” Draco continued, “Two weeks or really thirteen days since it started yesterday. Not that it makes much difference, since you’ve been subpoenaed to appear before the military tribunal and who knows what else and would have been gone anyway.”

Harry blinked at him. What? He was suspended and subpoenaed?

“It does too make a difference! This is going to go on his permanent record!” Hermione protested, but even she seemed to think that was a minor affair, especially given the circumstances.

“Military tribunal?”

Draco and Hermione both turned away, and she remained focused on the elves busying themselves around the oven. “They need your official statement before they can take action against the Germans for what happened. They’ve been collecting evidence since yesterday. The papers have been flooded with the story. They know about the werewolf coming to Hogwarts, and that you saved her and then went to the colony. They… the papers have these… pictures…”

Harry closed his eyes, trying not to imagine what those pictures had recorded and calculated the possibility of him being able to avoid them for the rest of this natural life. About as likely as he was to forget what had happened, he thought. He checked the time with a tempus spell.

“I have to go here soon. Luna’s expecting me.”

“Harry…” Hermione said.

“I said I’d only be gone an hour.”

“Harry…”

“Filly, how’s it coming?”

“We’s is wrapping it up now, Master Harry Sir!”

“HARRY!”

“What?!” he snapped back, startling both Hermione and Draco. He quickly reeled back in his anger. It was getting the better of him too quickly today. “Sorry. I’m just… tired, and she really does need me. I’m the only one she has right now.”

Hermione gave him a said look. “I know, but she’s not the only one hurting. You have people you can turn to also. Remember?”

He nodded, but didn’t meet her eyes. He knew she meant well, and he loved her for it, but this wasn’t something he wanted to burden her with. It wasn’t something she could truly understand, and he didn’t want her to. It was bad enough that he had to live with it.

“I know… but I’ve just been awake for an hour. I need some time to think… and I really do need to go. Filly?”

“Is ready sir!” She grinned up at him happily as she handed him a basket.

“Thank you,” he said, and turned to his friends. “We’ll talk again later.” For the second time that day, he fled, feeling eyes burning into the back of his head. How much longer could he keep running? Where would he find himself when he stopped? The world had changed in just one night or was the world the same and only he that was different? Different how? Angrier if the last hour were any indication, but what else?

All he had were questions he didn’t know if he wanted the answers to and decisions that needed to be made.

She managed to get all the way to the dungeons before the tears came. She had felt the tell-tale signs of it while at dinner. Harry was not there, still hiding away in the infirmary, but his absence did nothing to hinder the talk about him. Much of it was idle speculation, curiosity, and the usual jealous malignment and if that had been all there was she was confident she could have lasted the entire dinner without the slightest reaction. It was concern for Harry that did it.

The Gryffidnor’s appearance, however brief, had driven home the tragedy that had occurred to a people they had never met. His grief radiated out from him like a dementor’s aura, sucking out the happiness of the air itself. He had smiled, or tried to, and his words had not been particular melancholic, but his eyes and his body language had betrayed him. He was suffering.

And it was so obvious that even the nimrods that inhabited Hogwarts had taken notice, and in their usual lack of propriety had gushed on and on about it to each other in hushed voices, awkward pauses, and trite expressions of sympathy. She had only made it a quarter way through her quiche, when a tightening around her sinuses warned her of impending embarrassment. She feigned lack of appetite and headed back to the Slytherin common room, hoping against hope she would be able to hide herself away before anyone noticed. She only just made it to the dungeons when suddenly her cheek was damp. Horrified, she ducked into an empty classroom before anyone could see her. She wiped away the first few tears, but the more she did it the more that came. Before she knew what happened she was sniffling and choking on sobs and nothing she did would make them stop.

“Natalie?”

She spun around, her eyes widening as she saw Draco standing in the doorway, looking as surprised as she was. It was too late already, but she turned away tried to wipe away the evidence of her crying.

“What do you want, Draco?” she said sharply.

“Are you crying?” he asked, stepping into the empty room and closing the door behind him.

“What do you think, stupid? I got hit with a Crying Hex. *sniff*.”

He didn’t say anything, and she was hoping against hope that he bought her ruse. If he had she had probably ruined it by looking when he moved to stand in front of her. He handed her his handkerchief.

“Here, use this. And don’t rub your eyes, it just makes them red and puffy.”

Reluctantly, she accepted it and patted her tear stained face and blew her nose.

“You can keep it,” he offered, smiling at her. She glowered back at him.

“This isn’t funny.”

“No, no, of course not. It must be deadly serious if you’re crying. Did something happen?”

She looked away. “No.”

“Does this have something to do with Harry?”

Her head snapped up. “No.”

He gave her a knowing look.

“Yes,” she admitted, and looked down. “Don’t laugh.”

“My self-preservation instinct is too well developed for that. What happened? Did he say something to you?”

She shook her head.

“No… he didn’t do anything wrong… *sniff* which I think is the problem.”

He gestured for her to elaborate, and she grit her teeth at his presumption.

“He looked so… frail this morning. I’ve never seen him look like that except when he’s sick or hurt. It wasn’t even this bad after Larousse died. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to have these things happen to him… it just isn’t fair. It’s such a stupid thing to say, but it just isn’t fair.”

And the tears were back with a vengeance and the handkerchief was already soaked, and Draco was smiling in that annoyingly indulgent way. But instead of mocking her like she expected him to, like she would have in his position, he simply reached out and pulled her into a hug. She immediately stiffened, although he his hold was easy and firm, as if he done this a thousand times with her before.

“This is the first time you’ve ever cried for someone other than yourself, isn’t it?” Draco asked softly. “It’s okay. I promise I won’t tell.”

And like that she felt herself melting into his hold. She believed him. Even knowing he was the chief manipulating in Slytherin and a selfish brat, she still believed him. In certain ways, Draco was like her. Neither of them formed attachments to people easily, but when they did they guarded them fiercely and treated them like something precious. Had she somehow fallen into his circle of precious people without her even knowing it? The warmth and strength she felt in his arms, certainly made her feel that way.

Snape did not run but over the years he had perfected a sort of brisk walk that moved him at a speed most other people would have to jog to meet. This was particularly useful when leading miscreant students to their punishment, but today it served to maintain his dignity while still reaching his appointment on time. He had believed himself well prepared to complete his ‘chores’ in London before meeting Ira for dinner, but he hadn’t counted on the pedestrian traffic being quite so high or that he himself was quite so publically recognizable. He had been stopped more than once by complete strangers inquiring into Harry’s well-being, something he didn’t divulge because frankly it was none of their damn business.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he could have answered the questions even if he were so inclined. The boy had cloistered himself in the infirmary, spending most of his time with Luna. He didn’t fault Harry’s selection in companions, though their physical closeness left him uneasy. They were two orphans who had both been witness to something horrific that no one else around them could hope to understand. For the time being, they offered the comfort and companionship they both needed. It was when they parted ways, that Snape would really start to worry about Harry. Gryffindors where passionate to a fault, and Harry was no exception. His rage had been so profound he had nearly killed a man with his bare hands, and Snape had a hard time trying to imagine Harry suppressing those feelings for long. Already he had seen glimpses of it directed at himself. Would the boy end up expressing his anger on others or direct them internally? What other feelings lingered? Sorrow, indignation, depression, guilt, fear? It was hard to tell with Harry. As emotional as a person he was, it was hard to tell what was going one with him until some over the top gesture revealed his feelings.

If he were lucky, Harry would have purged a majority of his feelings before he returned to the castle. He had left that day with Luna for Edinburgh and the military tribunal, and wouldn’t return until his suspension was over. Snape hoped for the best, but as usual, mentally prepared himself for yet another disaster to descend on him.

At least he had finally gotten rid of the Body Tree, although its ultimate purpose still baffled him. He had kept it too long already, and with the war in full swing he couldn’t afford to have that particular threat ignored just to sate his curiosity.

“Name, sir?” the maitre ’d asked as he stepped in the restaurant. Loraine’s was not the fanciest restaurant in London, but it did have a respectable serving staff and a cozy atmosphere. Lucius had liked coming here during his collegiate years, when he was still too much of a prig to eat at a pub and too prideful to ask for more money from his parents than the allowance they already allotted him. The booths were charmed so that unless you were sitting there or standing right next to it, the voices you heard would only sound like garbled nonsense, allowing for privacy without the awkward deafness of silencing charms.

“Snape.”

“Right this way, please.”

He was lead to a corner booth, where Ira was already waiting for him, skimming through an article, a set of glasses perched at the tip of her nose. She smiled as he sat down.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“What? Oh! These.” Embarrassed, she removed them and tucked them away in her purse. “Only for reading. Bookworm tendencies are hard on the eyes.”

“And what are you reading?”

“‘The Ethics of Creating Unnatural Life’ by Holt.”

Snape made a face. “I’ve read it.”

“You didn’t agree with him?” she asked, looking a bit disturbed. Holt’s work was canon in academic circle, particularly in classes on professional ethics. He was the scientific Jesus of his age.

“He made some very good points, but he also dealt in the realm of absolutes. Creating an animal only to serve oneself is absolutely wrong. Creating a human being at all for any reason is absolutely wrong. Creating life without a specific purpose is absolutely wrong. I can name several examples, particularly in medicine, where these principles are violated routinely and no one questions the moral reasoning behind it. A man with no flexibility in reasoning is a man without imagination or a zealot or both.”

“I see what you mean, but I think he saw the exploitations of those ‘flexibilities’ when he wrote his paper and believed that the atrocities one could cause made the benefits insufficient to justify such an undefinitive stance could create.”

They argued congenially for nearly an hour over Holt, which was a novel experience for Snape. Whenever he got into academic debates, in his youth and in adulthood, it typically was with men and usually resulted in a lot of shouting and insults. However, Ira was a generous debater, listening to his arguments without interrupting before presenting him with her own ideas, and though they didn’t agree by the end of the debate, he did respect her rhetoric ability.

“You look tired, Professor,” Ira said, once their conversation switched gears from academic to personal.

“It’s been a very trying week.”

“How is Harry?”

It was a fair question and one he had hoped to avoid.

“I don’t know. He’s been avoiding me… and everyone else. The only company he seeks is the werewolf girl, Luna.”

Ira’s eyes softened in sympathy. “And how are you?”

Now that question caught him off guard. “Well enough. I can’t say I had any particular attachment to the werewolves.”

Wasn’t that an understatement? If it weren’t for the fact that Harry would have gone stark raving mad, Snape wouldn’t have been sorry to see Sirius Black listed among the dead. Logically, he knew what happened was a tragedy, but emotionally he felt it only by proxy.

“That’s not what I meant. It can’t be easy for you, being responsible for Harry and for the safety of all of your students with war knocking at your backdoor.”

“Technically, the Headmistress is responsible for the students’ safety, but… I can’t say I trust her with the task. She’s been practical with the defense of the castle, but her spirit just isn’t in it,” Snape acknowledged. “I am less worried, however, about Hogwarts as I am about your own university. Has there been any added security procedures?”

She looked away, skillfully distracted.

“Oh, well…sort… kind… no, not really.”

He smirked. “So have you given thought to my offer?”

She stiffened, and he had a feeling he should have just stuck his foot in his mouth. Trouble came in threes. Harry had brought it twice already, first with the werewolf cuddlefest, then the romp through the site of a massacre. Ira finishing it off seemed strangely appropriate. She was awfully troublesome for such an unremarkable woman.

“You’re going to say something unpleasant, aren’t you?” he said, urging her to get it over with now. She bit her lip, and he was reminded that she had to be almost ten years younger than him, still in her twenties.

“I… You know when I tried to break it off the first time… I did it because I didn’t want to lead you on…”

“You’re married?” he surmised, feeling something icy settle around his heart.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “No! No, of course not! Well, not anymore. I’m divorced. Have been for four years now.”

The iciness thawed a bit, but he was still a little shocked to learn about the divorce. Divorce wasn’t a common practice in the wizarding world, even before Voldemort’s rule, and there were only a few instances in which it could be done. Endangerment of the spouse and or children of their union, murder of another family member, polygamy, violation of the marital contract, or transformatism of a partner (i.e. turned into a werewolf, vampire, fairy, etc) were about the only situations in which it might apply. He wondered which category her husband fell under.

“…But I can’t marry you.”

He was taken back by her forthrightness, and then a bit offended by her presumption. Yes, he was looking for a potential wife, but that didn’t necessarily mean he would choose her. A sarcastic remark was at the tip of his tongue, but she beat him to it.

“I can’t have children.”

And that sarcastic remark died.

Harry and Luna stayed at one of Voldemort’s estates somewhere between Edinburgh and Perth. It was large and roomy and surrounded on all sides by wilderness, and they liked it that way. They spent most of their days outside, walking the swampy meadow and exploring the pine forest surrounding their shelter. They took their meals outside when possible, and in the study by the fire when it wasn’t. At night, after the staff had gone to sleep, he would get up and climb into Luna’s bed. Victoria must have suspected something, but said nothing. In fact, no one said much of anything, including themselves.

The only times they spoke of what happened was when they were debriefed in Edinburgh, and that was a mind-numbing and painful experience, one that fueled Harry’s own simmering anger and resentment. To General Malfoy and his minions it was all just another move on a chessboard, and perhaps Harry could have lived with that, but not with Voldemort’s indifference. He knew Voldemort was an apathetic bastard, but he had expected something from the man who had lost an ally and perhaps even a friend only a few days ago.

Yet, there was no change of expression, no tension, no demands of respect as he oversaw Malfoy’s ruthless questioning of Harry and Luna. The only time Voldemort had said anything through the entire proceeding was when his general had made the mistake of questioning Harry’s sanity and then it had been directed at Harry.

“If my sanity is faulty it failed long before I met the werewolves,” Harry sneered, “Voluntarily working so closely with our Lord does suggest some sort of neuroses.”

It wasn’t an original though. The wording was an adaptation of something Sirius had jokingly said to him once before. The absolutely stunned silence that followed his utterance made it well worth remembering. Even Lucius looked like he had been slapped with a fish. He glanced over at the Dark Lord, who looked less than amused.

“No offense.”

“None taken, but perhaps it would be best to save the witty remarks until later?”

Except there hadn’t been a later. After his testimony, he’s shied away from further contact with Voldemort and finally just left the court offices in a flurry of camera flashes and shouted questions. That was three days ago and he hadn’t seen the man since.

“I wonder what they are now,” Luna pondered, staring out across the moor, her feet half sunken into mud and her eyes far away. Harry, who had been watching a flock of sparrow dancing in the distance, turned to her.

“Who?”

“Father and mother and Diana and Jackal and all the others. Did they find new bodies yet? Have they forgotten us and started their new lives? Or do still cling to their spirit forms and watch over us now? Father… I bet father is still around. I can’t imagine father wanting to be anything other than a wolf.”

Oh. Harry had forgotten about that. Pagans like themselves went to neither heaven nor hell, merely reincarnated or transcended into godhood. He had simply thought of them as… gone. Now… now there were so many other possibilities, and if thinking about it didn’t dredge up the awful memory of them lying dead in the snow he might have seriously pondered it.

“I don’t know, I think he might have made a pretty good goat. A mean, angry goat.”

They turned to see Sirius and Remus coming towards them, dressed in their in their finest leathers and furs (which were still perfectly appropriate for wading through swamp muck) and silent as ghosts. They looked tired, but strong and serious at the same time, and Harry felt the first stirrings of relief and happiness since the full moon.

Sirius and Remus lived. The Goddess Clan still had a Head Alpha, and they would rebuild. It would never be the same, but it could still be good. When Sirius pulled him into his arms and held him tight, Harry relaxed, and when Luna and Remus joined their huddle he all but melted. They were together. They were pack, and they were strong. Everything would be okay.

He almost laughed at the ticklish sensation of Sirius and Remus sniffing at him, puffs of air brushing against his neck and ears. Luna was doing the same, even going so far as to touch her nose to the tip of Remus’. Finally, they pulled away from each other.

“You are hurt, Luna?” Sirius asked first, frowning at the heavy scent of potions that lingered on her breath.

“Not anymore,” she said, wistfully, then added a bit more curiously. “You smell of men.”

“Being cramped in a boat with wizards for two days will do that. The queen insisted I have an escort,” he said, irritated at the memory. He turned to Harry.

“And how are you, pup? I heard you got yourself mixed up in this mess.”

Harry smiled ruefully and shrugged.

“I got suspended for two weeks.”

“I’ll make sure you can’t sit for two weeks if you ever run after trouble like that again.” His threat might have carried a bit more weight if Harry couldn’t have read the pride and affection in his eyes. Remus on the other hand looked more than ready to carry out the threat if it came to that. He accepted both their reactions as signs of their concern and let them warm him.

“How long are you staying?”

Sirius’ expression fell somewhat, and Remus spoke for him. “We only came to check on you both. We have to meet with Voldemort in Edinburgh and return to the Goddess colony. We will be performing the ascension rites for Fenrir and funeral rites for the others tomorrow.”

A tense silence passed between them for a moment, before Luna spoke.

“I’ll bring a ptarmigan. He liked ptarmigan. You’ll help me?” she asked, turning to Harry.

“Er… yeah, of course.”

She smiled and moved away, deeper into the moor to hunt her decided pray. Harry looked to them both questioningly.

“Why is she bringing a bird?”

Remus and Sirius shared an amused look, before answering.

“Fenrir was Head Alpha, and perhaps the most important werewolves in centuries. The chances of him ascending into godhood are high. He’ll be buried with all the respect and offerings we can afford him, so he will be comfortable in his realm. Food, clothing, weapons, all of it. Without it, he’ll end up like the demi-goddess, forced to anchor himself to one of the living or dissolve into nothingness.”

Harry had not known any of this, and felt a flush of guilt over his own ignorance. He had been seriously remiss in his studies since Brennan’s death, and had been relying far too heavily on improvisation and guesswork. Tomorrow would be a rather painful tutorial, he suspected.

“Oh… is there anything you want me to do?”

Sirius shook his head. Remus said, “Just what you’ve been doing. Watch after Luna. She is strong, but doesn’t connect with others easily. Right now, you’re her only friend.”

He nodded, and let them ruffle his hair and say their goodbyes, before he turned back to the moor and followed after Luna.

Whatever gentility and patience Sirius had, he left with his godson and Luna, and by the time he reached the meeting hall he had kicked down two doors and thrown a Sentinel out the window (they were only the second floor so he would probably live). Remus might have been able to reel in his temper, but the security had refused to let the beta entry, which only served to irritate him further. At some point, Chief Sentinel Morgan has planted himself just behind him, his presence assuring his own people that they had intentionally let an irate werewolf storm through the building. Voldemort’s expression when he burst into the meeting hall was decidedly unimpressed.

“Welcome, Lord Blackbone,” he greeted blandly. “As rambunctious as ever, I see.”

Sirius’s growl rumbled through the room like encroaching thunder. The dozen men and women in the room reached for their wands instinctively, but only Voldemort had been allowed to keep one in the room.

“I’m bored of your nonsense already. What do you want?”

“A cure for stupidity would be delightful, but I’ll settle for a modicum of civility. Come now, there’s no reason to be irate. Your former Head Alpha and I had a mutually productive relationship, there’s no reason we can’t have the same.”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed.

“I can think of a few,” he said, but settled himself into a chair (after emptying it of its former occupant with a glare). “What do you want?”

Voldemort smiled, and with a gesture everyone in the room left, leaving only the Dark Lord and the alpha. Once privacy was assured, the Dark Lord spoke.

“I want us to help each other, Blackbone. Help each other fulfill our obligations to our people. The murder of your Head Alpha, his family, and his clan is an insult that can not be allowed to go unanswered, anymore than I can ignore the destruction of the wards and the attack on the villages. The weaknesses that they have exposed cannot be allowed to remain unprotected. You need my help, and I want yours.”

Sirius barked out a laugh, sharp and ugly.

“I don’t need your help, and you don’t want mine. You need me to cooperate with you. The Snake and Wolf Treaty and my own blood-bound oath to you means I can never act as your enemy, but the same treaty and all your werewolf sympathy campaigns means you’re in the same position. I may not have free movement outside my territory in Britain, but I have more than enough in France to execute my vengeance. I’ve got a bloody legion of angry men and women dying to fight back.”

Voldemort’s amusement vanished. He should have realized that Blackbone would make things difficult. Fenrir had never been a savvy politician, and never really had a need to be, but he did appreciate the power that being Voldemort’s ally brought to the table. His successor wasn’t so open-minded.

“Don’t over simply the matter,” he warned. “Your territories and the packs exist only because I let them exist, just as the French werewolf territories exist only because Queen Ophelia is letting them exist. If you make a nuisance of yourself, I won’t hesitate to make your packs suffer for it.”

The depth of hatred in Sirius eyes burns like dragonfire, and Voldemort takes a moment to appreciate the shiver that runs up his spine at the sight of it. It is beautiful and enigmatic, and he wonders if Fenrir, in his ephemeral godhood, has already lain his blessing down on his successor. As magnificent as it was, however, it was also counterproductive. He needed to calm the man down again. He lets out a sigh.

“I am not asking for much, and I am paying for what I ask. Fifty men and women with good health and a bad disposition. In return, I’ll make sure your territories have proper protection during the full moon. I’ll even throw in military pay for the troops. I get the extra man-power and you get the support you need. It’s a win-win situation.”

The burning hate radiating from Sirius cooled to an icy regard, and for a moment Voldemort thought he had won and was somewhat disappointed.

“I want final approval on any mission involving my people.”

Oh goody, round two.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then you don’t get your troops. Did you really think I’d let you use my people as expendable pawns? I won’t be sending them on any suicide missions, dying for your cause of the week or setting them to do your dirty assassin work. If I’m going to give you any of my warriors I want to be damn certain I get at least most of them back and with their sanity intact. We’ve lost enough to your games as it is.”

Touché.

“Fine,” he concedes, because all things considered it’s a cheap price to pay. Blackbone wasn’t the gabby sort, and even if he was he had no one to tell plans to. No one who could use the information against him anyway. “I’ll have a treaty written up. You can review it after your coronation.”

“Fine. Are we done?”

“Yes. Always a pleasure, Blackbone.”

The alpha stalked out without a word, and Voldemort starts to gather up his papers. It had been a long week, but he felt energized, pulled along the momentum of history unfolding. There was waiting and planning and positioning to be done (when wasn’t there?), but now there was also action and reaction. Life and death were on the line now, not just for individuals, but for entire populations and every choice he made may well determine his country’s future. Or lack there of.

He felt like a god.

“My Lord.”

Morgan came into the room, his usual non-expression tight. Something had happened. Voldemort wondered how many casualties were involved.

“What is it?”

The Chief Sentinel closed the doors, raising his suspicions of some sort of disaster. “I have just received word of some sort of plot being uncovered in London. I believe it worth bringing to your attention.”

Mentally, the Dark Lord sighed. Conspiracies and murder plots directed at his person were weekly occurrences, and he had long been bored of hearing about them. There were very few original ideas nowadays, and most were dealt with before they ever came to his attention. The only interesting parts were when he got to interrogate the perpetrators and frankly, he didn’t have time for that particular hobby. Morgan, however, wasn’t the sort to waste his time with trivial matters, so when the man handed him a report Voldemort actually skimmed through it.

Then went back and read it again, his brow furrowing. He stared at the picture paper clipped to the document.

He stood up and turned to Morgan. “Take me there immediately.”

He looked ready to protest, but then thought better of it. Half an hour later, they both stepped through the University of London’s floo in the campus student center, stalking passed several dozen occupants before they even realized who he was. Dressed in his usual robes and without the conspicuous flock of Sentinels (Morgan had dressed in his civilian clothes for this particular outing) and reporters following after him, he could easily be mistaken for a professor or even a graduate student and no one gave him or his servant a second glance as they walked towards the astronomy building.

The investigating Sentinels had done well in keeping a low profile. Only one woman guarded the front, disguised as a student simply reading on the steps, and once he slipped inside the building Voldemort he located half a dozen more.

“Where is it?” he asked the closest investigator. The man swallowed thickly and led him down some stairs and into a boiler room. A group of half a dozen Sentinels lingered here, gathering boxfuls of evidence and photographic documentation. As the Dark Lord approached, they moved out of his way, revealing one last door. The door itself was unmarked and unremarkable, easily overlooked. He turned the knob and stepped inside.

A child was hanging in the middle of the room, hanging from a tree no less, his pale naked limbs dangling limply at his sides. He moved closer to examine him, prodding the little arms (they were oddly warm) and checking the noose, which he quickly discovered wasn’t a noose at all but a vine growing out the child’s neck. Lastly, he checked the face, and confirmed what precisely he was looking at.

Tom.

At least, a seven year old facsimile of him. Of himself. But why would anyone want to..?

“Collect a sample of its tissue for testing and then destroy it,” he said, not tearing his eyes away.

“Yes, my Lord,” Morgan acknowledged.

“Do you have those responsible for this travesty in custody?”

From the boiler room, an investigator stepped in, her insignia designating her the head of the team. “Not yet, my Lord, but we do have a suspect. A student here at the university. He’s been missing for over a month now. Judging by the recent care that’s been given this…thing… he never left the campus.”

“His name?”

“Horace McGunny.”

Heaven and Earth

The days returned to their usual autumnal chill, leaving only a bright, silver sky to remind them of the storm that had come and gone. The werewolves, from every colony in Britain down to the last man, woman, and child, had gathered in the remains of the old colony the day after Voldemort’s men had finished their investigation, and in those five days leading to the Goddess Clan’s funeral rites, tore down the burnt timbers and cleared the scattered debris, until it was as if no one had ever lived there at all. Then they dug out the graves, thirty in total, one large grave at the center and the rest laid in a ring, like the minute markers of giant clock. Then three more holes were dug, larger than the others, equally spaced around the ring, and there they built altars and made their offering to the dead.

Luna brought a ptarmigan. Harry brought a hare. They laid them with the other pack’s animal offerings, piled atop the still warm bodies; furred, feathered, and scaled, and wiped the blood from each other’s hands. In the second alter, others placed offering of clothing, weapons, tools, furniture, books, flowers, cookery, and crockery filled with foodstuff. There was a third pit, but only one was permitted to place offerings there.

Harry watched Jane Canis as she appeared and disappeared with mysterious bundles in and out of the third alter pit, her once curious brown eyes now distant under the weight of the goddess’ possession[1]. A short distance away, her father, Stephen, watched on with all the grief and frustration of a man who has lost his child to death, and for now that might as well be the case. He could no longer touch his own daughter, not laugh with her, or reprimand her, or comfort her. It would be two three years until Jane became an unsuitable host and the possession ended, and by then she wouldn’t be the same. The man had lost something irretrievable.

Luna tightened her hand in Harry’s.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

“I brought them here,” he countered softly.

“They belong here.”

“He lost his daughter.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I brought this down on them, Luna. I brought this down on your family. If I hadn’t pushed Proposal 4-66-”

“And if father hadn’t accepted it, and if those werewolves in Berlin hadn’t killed those people, and if Stephen hadn’t rescued you… A whole lot of ’if’s, Harry. All the joys and sorrows of the world do not revolve around your decisions alone.”

Harry closed his eyes. He knew that. He did, but it was so hard. In his naïveté, he hadn’t considered the retribution the Germans might exact. It had just seemed like the right thing to do at the time. More frustrating was the fact that a part of him knew he hadn’t been wrong.

A horn sounded, low and mournful, drawing him from his thoughts. The others had finished making their offerings, and were now forming a semi-circle around the ring of graves or carrying wooden pallets up the path towards the clearing. He turned to Luna, who was looking towards the line of men and women heading away from them.

“I have to go. I should help carry some of my brothers.”

“Do you want me to..?”

She shook her head. “You’re not ready yet.”

Slowly, she pulled her hand from his and made her way towards the clearing, where the bodies of the slain had been prepared for burial. He didn’t understand how she could face them so soon, when he himself shied away from the mere memory of what he had seen. She was so much stronger than she looked.

And then he was alone for the first time since it had happened. He felt the autumn chill starting to seep into his awareness, and began to search for familiar faces. Sirius and Remus were not there, performing ritual cleansing for their part in the funeral rites somewhere else, and he doubted Stephen wanted his company at the moment and his wife and children were nowhere in sight. Everyone else he knew happened to be dead. The cold was starting to seep in deeper now, and he tightened his cloak around him. His hands were shaking. His thoughts were becoming disjointed

“Not now,” he muttered, “You can’t do this now.”

A strange, familiar magic brushed against him, and he spun around to find Jane staring up at him. He stiffened, and looked around for her father. Stephen was watching them alright, and judging by his expression he wasn’t as nonchalant about Harry’s role in recent affairs as Luna was. Harry swallowed thickly and turned back to Jane who seemed to want his attention.

“We have a little time,” she said. “Follow me.”

She led him a ways from the others, within sight but out of hearing, and then turned back to him. She stared at him for a long time, before pulling some herbal leaves from a pouch in her pocket and handed them to him.

“Chew these, but don’t swallow. They will help calm you.”

Hesitantly, he did as she instructed and grimaced at the bitter flavor that coated his tongue. They left his mouth feeling dry, but after a minute his hands stopped shaking and his thoughts cleared.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“You’re still sad,” she said. “Why?”

His expression darkened, feelings of bitterness rising up to swamp his guilt. “I know you’re not really human, but I thought even you would realize people dying makes us sad.”

She tilted her head curiously.

“But they are not dying. They died days ago. Today, they are reborn. Are you not happy for them?”

His fists clenched and he glared at her. “Is that how you see it? That just because they go on as something else, that everything’s fine? That what is lost is completely irrelevant? Is that why the Moon did nothing that night? It’s just like putting on a new pair of clothes, isn’t it? That’s why you let them kill Fenrir and Athena and Diana, because what’s another-”

Being slapped is never a pleasant experience, but being slapped by a demi-goddess is nothing short of brutal. Even in an eight-year-old’s body, the blow was enough to knock Harry to the ground and wash the bitter flavor of potions away with the coppery taste of his own blood. Stunned, he rolled weakly to his hands and knees, and stared wide-eyed at the pint-sized deity.

“Do not presume to know our thoughts or feelings. They are beyond your realm of understanding, mortal,” she state coolly, her expression completely unchanged.

He spat out a mouthful of blood, and idly noted that he’d accidentally swallowed the leaves she’d given him.

“Why did you let it happen?”

She looked at him blankly, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to hit him again, but she did eventually speak.

“My mother and I are forces of nature and spirit, but we are not the only ones. Even we can be overcome.” She moved towards him, and he flinched away but she continued passed him towards the funeral grounds. He watched her go and grit his teeth. There was no way that he could accept that there was nothing they could have done to prevent this. The Moon had the power to move oceansand induce insanity. What was a couple of bullies on broomsticks in comparison to that? If nothing else, they could have at least warned Fenrir. Now was not the time to call her on her feeble excuses, though.

Especially not when his head was still spinning from the smack.

So he climbed to his feet, spat out another mouthful of blood, and returned to the others.

The cottage was just how he left it and so was Pettigrew, when Voldemort stormed through the front door. The ratty little man scurried into the foyer with his wand out as the wards shrieked at the unexpected visitor, but froze and paled at the sight of the Dark Lord glaring at him. Instantly, he was reminded why he despised Pettigrew so much, and how happy he would have been to let him die out here in exile. If it weren’t for the discovery of the body with his own youthful countenance at the University of London’s, and the abundance of evidence surrounding it, he might have succeeded but he suspected Tom was once again trying to make his life difficult.

“Ah..ah..m-my lord, w-what an unexpected p-pleasure. Er..ah.. w-what c-can I do for-”

“Silence the wards,” he snapped, and headed towards the stairs. By the time the blaring sirens fell quiet, he had already entered his private collection. The familiar display cases, filed with a variety of dark artifacts he had collected throughout his travels, were coated with dust and he could already sense the protective wards on several of them were starting to degrade.

Pettigrew had been neglectful of his responsibilities and he would make sure the rat suffered for it, but first he needed to check the item he necessary to verify his suspicions. He pulled out his wand, and with a violent swish, shattered one of the display cases into a fine shower of glass and dark magic. He toed through the remains until he found what he was looking for and picked it up.

Merlin’s death coin lay in his palm without so much as a flicker of magic, dark or otherwise. Tom had was gone. For who knows how long. Anger, frustration, and something akin to fear came over him, and it took his iron self-control to keep his face neutral when he turned to Pettigrew, hovering nervously in the doorway.

“Pettigrew… have you touched this at all since I placed it here?” he asks calmly, but already the rat animagus looks ready to piss himself.

“No, no, no! I never did! I never could even if I wanted to! I don’t like coming up here at all if I can help it,” the man rambled, and by the neglect of the room Voldemort wouldn’t be surprised if he were telling the truth, but he couldn’t take the risk. Besides, hadn’t he already determined Pettigrew would suffer for the neglect of his duty?

“Legilimens!”

Bagpipes preceded the funeral procession, a loud, echoing bray that drowned out the deathly silence, but not the heavy despair of death as a seemingly endless line snaked its way towards the burial ground. The dead were dressed in their winter clothes and their faces and hair lovingly groomed, and tied to narrow pallets carried by two strong men or women to their respective graves where they were lowered. Those among the dead that were mates were placed in a single grave together, and likewise the younger children were laid beside them. Luna carried her youngest brother swaddled in a blanket to Athena’s grave at the center of the ring, and with the utmost tenderness placed him back into his mother’s arms.

Harry stood perfectly still, his eyes wide and unblinking, as every man, woman, and child was laid to rest. On either side of him, the werewolves wept silently or watched stoically, drawing closer together for physical comfort and Harry felt their magic slide against him, their grief prickling against his skin.

Fenrir was brought in last, carried by Sirius and Remus, the future Head Alpha and his beta being the only ones deemed worthy to carry him. Fenrir had always been impressive to Harry, but not exactly someone pleasant to look at. He was scarred and weathered, and shaving had never been art he seemed to care about mastering. Like all the others, the former Head Alpha had been meticulously groomed, but even smooth shaven and dressed in the finest clothes they could find, his face looked harsh and grave without the hard, wicked, laughing personality that sparkled in his eyes or hid in the curve of his mouth. Harry found himself missing it. Then the old king was lowered into the grave at the center of the ring beside his wife and sons, and disappeared.

There were words spoken, by Sirius, by Jane, by Luna, by a dozen other nameless faces that blurred together, but Harry could only remember a few things said here and there. The bitter taste of herbs was back in his mouth, and his stomach twisted unpleasantly where the herbs had settled. He wondered idly if he had been poisoned, then dismissed the thought as unimportant. If he died, there were plenty of open graves available.

At some point, Luna returned to his side. Her magic didn’t prickle, but soothed and warmed. Or maybe that wasn’t her magic so much as her cheek resting against his shoulder. It was getting harder to concentrate, harder to even keep his eyes open, but he knew he had to. Had to watch it all from beginning to end even if he couldn’t make out the words.

“, it’s funny, ya know,” a familiar voice growled beside him. “Most of them would’a been more than happy to kill me themselves, and now look at’m. Crying like they’d just lost their mother.”

“You’re not the only one dead. Maybe some of them are burying their mothers,” Harry pointed out, glaring at Greyback or at least in Greyback’s general direction. He was having a hard time focusing. The old alpha threw him a feral grin and chuckled darkly.

“That’s no way to be talk’n to a god, brat.”

“You’re not a god…you’re just dead,” he mumbled…slurred… did he even actually say anything?

“Luckily for me, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“You’re not a god, Greyback,” Harry repeated, except now that he looked closer at Fenrir it didn’t seem to be an impossibility. He was wearing the clothes he had seen on his corpse, soft black wool and thick grey furs, but his face was as rugged and badly shaven as he remembered, well suited to the lively and at times abrasive personality he had known in life. The one true peculiarity was his eyes, one bright yellow and the other milky blue. He wondered at the significance. “Alright,” Harry conceded, “What are you a god of?”

The grin he received was chilling.

“War.”

Harry opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and stared up at halo of faces hovering above him. He was laying on someone’s cloak, he could feel the fur beneath his fingers and the sticks and underneath that against his back. Had he fainted? He hadn’t eaten since yesterday and then the herbs…

“Harry? Pup?” Sirius started, his expression tight with concern.

“I’m sorry,” Harry managed, although it was weak and slurred. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

His godfather’s mouth twitched into the beginning of a smile.

“You didn’t fall asleep, Harry. You fell into a trance. Do you remember anything? Anything you saw or said?”

He thought about it, snatching at his dreaming, trying to recall when it had started was a lot harder than finding where it had ended.

“I saw Greyback.”

Remus, who was on the other side of him, nodded. “Yes, we gathered that much. We were afraid he was trying to take over your body. You started rambling about Greyback not being a god and then you got this look…the kind he used to have some times when he intended to something particularly nasty.”

Harry blinked. He couldn’t remember rambling, but then he couldn’t remember much of anything. “That sounds….really embarrassing…”

“More like really scary. Don’t ever do that again.”

“Oookaaayyy…”

Sirius and Remus shared a look. “What’s wrong with him? Why’s he acting all… loopy?” Sirius asked.

“Maybe he’s sick?” Remus offered, then touched his head. “He doesn’t have a fever.”

“Maybe he can hear you even when you don’t talk directly at him?” Harry suggested, then scanned the crowd of curious faces until he found one completely indifferent one. He pointed an accusing finger at Jane. “You drugged me.”

“It was completely unintentional,” she said evenly.

“Clutz.”

Luna giggled. Jane ignored her.

“Tell them what you saw.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Yes, but it will mean more coming from you.”

He told them. There was a great deal of talking and shouting and laughing that followed. Apparently, having a war god in the pack was a good thing for some reason, but exactly why Harry was too tired to figure out. Luckily, his little walk through la-la land hadn’t really started until the after the major funeral rites had been completed, and Sirius was happy to hand Harry off to a group of healers at the temporary lodges that had been erected to house everyone while the rest of the pack finished. The healers, all women, peppered him with questions, about his vision, about his relation to Sirius, about his relationship to Luna, even as they practically shoved hot food and tea down his throat so he couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. Luna hovered behind them, making funny faces that had Harry nearly choking on his food. Then they left him alone with Luna, who cuddled up next to him and wrapped them both in a blanket.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“I’m okay. It was just weird. I didn’t even know I was dreaming until I woke up. Are you okay? I didn’t scare you, did I?”

She shook her head and smiled.

“I was worried when you didn’t respond to any of my questions, but then you started talking and I knew what was happening. You touched my cheek and kissed my forehead. Do you remember doing that?”

He shook his head.

“Father used to do that all the time. I knew you would be okay then. He wouldn’t have hurt you. He liked you.”

Harry couldn’t say he shared her point of view, as those few instances where they had actually talked directly to one another had been at least partially hostile, and even in his dream or vision or whatever it was he hadn’t been particularly amicable. Of course, to Greyback, liking someone and being nice to them probably weren’t related. He liked Sirius after all, and he’d gutted him.

“Well, I’m glad I have daddy’s approval. I don’t reckon on getting on the bad side of a war god for canoodling with his little girl,” he said lightly.

She giggled into his arm. “Is that what we’ve been doing? I have to say canoodling is a lot more fun than it sounds.”

“It does sound a bit like we’ve been knitting socks or something, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, just a bit. Harry, can I ask you a favor?” She pulled back a little so that he could see her wide, beautiful gray eyes. He was suddenly reminded, not for the first time, that Luna wasn’t a little girl. Her eyes were dilated, lips slightly parted, and her body pressed against his arm was soft curves and sweet smells.

“Y-yeah, sure.”

“Kiss me?”

And it was only a matter leaning down, ever so slightly and tilting his head just so, and suddenly they were.

Tom set down the newspaper (the sixth one he’s read today, this particular one was from Britain’s Wizarding Weekly headlining Harry’s suspension from Hogwarts with rumors of him being under mental duress), and rubbed his temple. The pain was becoming more persistent, and negotiating with Horace had done nothing to stymie the migraines. The latest news about the attack on the werewolf colony and Harry’s own involvement had fueled the boy’s righteous indignation, which he was using to continuously harass and annoy him.

It didn’t matter to Horace that Tom hadn’t intended to hurt Harry, that he was in fact sorry to involve his young friend at all and would have taken different actions if he had know it would threaten him. No, all Horace could see was that it was some how Tom’s fault that Seibligg was a selfish, opportunistic bully. Brat.

“Halloween is only a few days away.”

Tom looked up to see Katarina gliding into the living room with a graceful rolling slink. The sway of her hips was like the swing of a pendulum, drawing his eyes and his mind to her hypnotic grace. The throbbing behind his eyes, however, reminded him that any attempt at (or a yielding to) seduction would bring more pain than pleasure.

“And?”

“We should do something… special,” she suggested, a bloodlusty gleam in her eyes. Tom mentally groaned. He enjoyed murder and mayhem as much as the next psychopath, but he wasn’t here to play games. Katarina had gotten a taste for the hunt, for the power it gave her and the rush, and it had become increasingly difficult to rein her in. He had feeling that soon she would do something stupid, and he would have to decide if keeping her around was worth the risk.

“I am all for it, my beautiful death,” he said sweetly, because he was willing to indulge her if he could use the situation to his advantage, “But we will have to do it outside of Berlin. The Dark Lord’s orders. With this latest attack in Britain… Berlin is the only suitable target for retribution. We must leave if we do not wish to be caught in the cross-fire.”

She frowned. “Leave? Now? The election is only a few days after Halloween!”

“Precisely,” Tom said, his impatience starting to show through. “The Dark Lord has been reluctant to give me any details in advance, but he wouldn’t have suggested abandoning such a valuable post unless it was absolutely necessary. Besides, he has important work for us in Frankfurt.”

“Goblintown? Ugh,” she sneered in disgust. “Absolutely not. That place reeks of money.”

“Making it a very good place to start weakening the national banking structure. Seibligg can’t fight a war he can’t finance.”

“If he is even re-elected. A lot of people are angry about the attacks in Ireland and Britain. They see him as twisting their arms into re-electing him rather than hiring someone without experience dealing with Britain. They’re right of course, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work. Doesn’t mean it will either.”

“And we can learn all about it from Frankfurt[2].”

“And miss all the rioting? There are always excellent riots in Berlin after a controversial election.”

“You are free to start one in Frankfurt if it means so much to you,” he snapped, his patience finally worn out. Katarina stiffened then glared.

“Mind who you are speaking to, boy. I am your ally, not your toy, and I am quite through with your mind games. We’re staying until after the elections and then we’re going somewhere that isn’t Frankfurt.”

“Katarina-”

“And that’s final!” she snapped. She spun on her heels and walked out, slamming the door behind her. Tom snatched up the closest item he could find, in this case tea pot, and hurled it into the fire place. It shattered beautifully, but the tea doused the flames, leaving him frustrated. Perhaps he should have thrown the blood-sucking trollop in the fire instead, he thought.

“I hope you’re happy. Now we have a PMSing vambitch to deal with.”

Horace’s dark chuckle in the back of his mind was not what he wanted to hear. If it were possible, he’d like nothing more than to put the little bastard under cruciatus for an hour or two.

It’s all that bad, Karma, Tom. Perhaps you should take up a new hobby. Like exorcism. You can start with yourself.

“Shut up.”

Harry woke late that night to the sound of laughter and music. The lodge house was empty and cold, and he reluctantly climbed out of the pile of furs to see what was going on. It appeared the funeral was over, and now it was time for the reception, which was considerably more jovial after what appeared to be a lot beer and ale than was strictly healthy. Harry looked for Luna in the crowd, but there were nearly a dozen bonfires built around several lodges and in the dark and flickering light he couldn’t find her.

He did find his godfathers though, and thankfully neither of them was drunk. They were sitting around a small fire with a handful of men, alphas by the looks of them, away from the others and deep in discussion. He wondered if he would be welcome there, or if he should find company elsewhere until they finished their business. Before he had a chance to decide, someone came up behind him, grabbed his arm, and started dragging him away. Harry instantly dug his heels and started to struggle, ready to shout for help if necessary, but he hesitated when he realized it was Stephen.

“We have to talk,” the man growled, “In private.”

And that seemed like a very bad idea for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the look in the man’s eyes as he pulled him behind one of the lodge houses. If he called out though… if Sirius thought Stephen had intended to hurt him, Harry didn’t know what his godfather would do to him. He didn’t want the man to get hurt just because he was upset about Jane, and he didn’t want to put the rest of the family through anymore grief. So he held his tongue and clutched his wand, and hoped it he wasn’t making a huge mistake.

When they were out of sight of the others, Stephen let him go and Harry took a few cautious steps away from him and lit his wand. In the electric blue glow of the lumus spell, the werewolf’s was all stark white planes and deep shadows, his eyes so deeply shadowed as to nearly be invisible. Harry kept a close watch on his legs and hands, both already tense.

“What did you want to talk about?”

For a seemingly endless moment, the man said nothing, and as the seconds ticked by Harry was increasingly convinced that this was a bad decision.

“Jane,” he said at last, “You can fix her, can’t you?”

Harry blinked, confused.

“Fix her? I don’t know what you mean by… oh…no. No, I can’t.”

Stephen’s hands clenched.

“Yes, you can! You’re a wizard! You’re a bloody shaman! You can get that…thing… out of her!”

“I’m not a shaman, and I’ve never done an exorcism. And even if I were, she isn’t possessed by a simple spirit. She’s possessed by a god. If I tried to force it out of her, she could die. And afterwards? You’d have an angry goddess running after you! I can’t do anything for Jane. You’ll have to wait-”

He was so distracted trying to make the man understand, he forgot to keep watching his body language, and was unprepared when he was thrown to the ground. He scurried back, bringing up his wand to defend himself, but Stephen climbed on top of him, pinning him with his legs and his wand arm with one arm. Harry kicked and thrashed and punched and clawed his free hand, but Stephen was larger, faster, and a more experienced fighter and all his efforts did nothing.

“Stephen, stop! You’re not helping-”

The punch had him seeing stars, sent his mind flying for a moment in painless, dizzying somersaults. The first sensation to return wasn’t pain, so much as the unpleasant panic of being unable to breath. Stephen’s legs were constricting the sides of his chest, and blood was clogging his nose. The second sense to return was hearing.

“-ought us here. You said it would be safe! It’s a fucking mad house! These people are all crazy, and now they’ve ruined my daughter!” Stephen was shouting, his voice cracking under the strain of anger and stress. “So you fix her, god dammit! You got us into this mess, so you bloody well fix it!”

“I’m…” Harry wheezed, “…sorry.”

There was a choked and bitter laugh, and Harry closed his eyes and braced himself for another blow. A blow that didn’t come. Instead he felt the man being tackled, and torn away from him. There was shouting and snarling and the sound of fighting. And it wasn’t just two people either. He could hear several voices, male and angry and cursing up a storm. Harry rolled onto his side and coughed up blood, his lungs heaving for air.

“Harry!” Remus called, drawing away from the fight to attend his godson his hands efficiently examining him for injuries. “Are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere?”

He could have given his godfather quite the list, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that he could still hear vicious fighting, even though he couldn’t see it (where was his wand?). Even without being able to see it, he knew it wasn’t Stephen who was winning.

“St-Stop!” he gasped…then gathered his strength to shout, “STOP! SIRIUS STOP IT!”

He jumped to his feet and immediately collapsed again, Remus barely catching him before he hit the ground.

“Sirius, I need your help!” Remus shouted.

“Hold him till I get back!” Sirius snarled to the others.

The fighting sounds stopped, and to Harry’s relief he felt Sirius move next to him, reaching for him but too afraid to touch where he couldn’t see any injuries.

“Harry, oh god, are you alright?”

“I’m okay. It was just a little smack. I don’t think he really wanted to hurt me,” he lied, praying that they believed him.

“Fuck, Harry, he could have killed you! He could have crushed your chest or bashed your head in.”

“I’m okay,” he continued to insist, “Please, don’t hurt him.”

Sirius made an exasperated sound.

“Someone get some light over here!” he ordered. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“He’s Stephen Canis,” Harry said, and by the long silence that followed he knew that both his godfathers understood the significance of that statement. “He thought I could… help Jane. I couldn’t. He got upset. More upset. Please, don’t hurt him.”

“The hell I’m letting him get away with this-”

“Sirius,” Remus cut in sharply. “Don’t be a hypocrite. You’re Head Alpha. You have to be the bigger man.”

“He’s not in his right mind. He lost his daughter to things he doesn’t understand. How would you feel if Greyback had taken possession of me?” Harry reasoned.

“I…”

“You’d want to ‘fix’ me too, wouldn’t you? He wasn’t right, but his family doesn’t deserve to go through anymore pain then they are already. Please, promise you won’t hurt him?”

Sirius let out an irritated growl. “Fine. I won’t hurt him anymore. But I’m not forgetting this.”

Harry let out a breath. “Thank you.”

“Come on, pup, let’s get you fixed up,” Remus said, helping Harry to his feet, which were steadier now than before. After a few shaky steps, he was able to walk without leaning on them, and let himself be led away. One of the other werewolves arrived, carrying the requested torch. Sirius took it, and turned back to where his men were still holding Stephen.

“Take him to the healers. I’ll be along in a minute,” Sirius promised. Harry wanted to say something, but he had already asked so much of his godfather already, he wasn’t about ready to question his word.

For his part, Sirius was boiling with rage, and well past the point where killing a man seemed unreasonable. He had seen his godson, the closest thing he had to a child of his own, being beaten practically under his nose and despite what Harry had said, he didn’t doubt that Stephen could have killed the boy, however unintentionally. That afternoon when Harry had fallen into a trance, he had been shaken; terrified that he would lose him to forces beyond his control and now he had been threatened yet again.

This time, however, he did have some control.

The three men holding Canis had been with him when the young beta[3] had run up to them and warned him of what was happening, and obediently fallen behind their leader as he hunted down his godson. They still obediently followed his orders, pinning Canis to the ground with more force than was strictly necessary, but without actually hitting him. The lone wolf himself, didn’t look as if he could take much more abuse. His face was covered in blood and Sirius was almost certain he’d cracked a couple of ribs and broken some fingers, and he didn’t pity him in the least. He glared down at him.

“If you ever come near Harry again, I’ll kill you, Canis, and then I’ll whore your wife out to the mangiest, stupidest, most pathetic omega that I can find. Do you understand me?”

Stephen nodded, or maybe his head was just lolling, but it didn’t matter. He would pass his message on to his pack’s alpha and he would insure it was understood.

“Good. Let him go.”

The other alphas pulled away, leaving their prey abandoned on the ground, and followed Sirius as he walked away.

“Should we take him to a healer?” one of them asked.

“I promised my godson I wouldn’t hurt him, but I never said anything about helping.”

1. Just to be absolutely clear, when Diana was killed, the demi-goddess possessing her jumped from Diana’s body to Jane’s. The Canis family was with another pack at the time and were safe.↩

2. Frankfurt is the banking capitol of wizarding Germany, and home to the German main branch of Gringotts. Gringotts is an international chain, but its British Branch is completely cut off from its other branches due to complex spells and laws initiated by Voldemort, so funds can’t be transferred to or from the bank, meaning those who left assets in the London Branch after they fled the country, can’t pick up those funds anywhere else in Europe. The Gringotts Goblins do, however, have means of communicating with one another.↩

3. In case you’re thinking, ‘well, that’s damn convenient’, it isn’t. That ‘young beta’ was Bobby looking after his ‘familiar’. Why and how, I’ll get into later.↩

The Black Wolf King

“Reckless, bumbling fool.”

Harry sat up abruptly. A dim light radiated from the candle on his night stand, casting the tent walls in a dim orange glow and deep shadows. The healers had left him to rest, insisting he should be alone for a while after losing his fight with Stephen. He hadn’t thought of his smack down in terms of winning or losing, so much as an unfortunate happenstance. A miscalculated step.

Bobby, as dark as the deep shadows, was nothing more than the sound of flutter wings and an aggravated voice.

“You don’t call, you don’t write. And when you do get back, it’s all sweetheart this and darling that,” Harry lamented mockingly, and settled back into his bed. His jaw ached from Stephen’s punch, and the painkillers he had been given were making him lightheaded.

“How you survived this long I have no idea. You have the survival instinct of a kamikaze pilot. Following a clearly deranged man into the woods… If it weren’t for me you’d be…” the shadows snapped, shifting into shapes that could not have been a crow before snapping back into a singular shape perched at the foot of his bed. Harry tilted his head curiously.

“What do you mean ‘if it weren’t for you’? What did you do? What are you even doing here, Bobby?”

There was no immediate reply, and a well of unease began to grow inside him. Harry would be the first to admit that he had a tendency to take people for granted, that they were generally what they appeared to be, good or bad, until proven otherwise. He wasn’t so sure he could afford to be so blithe in his assumptions anymore.

“What did you do, Bobby? And perhaps more importantly, why did you do it?”

Silence.

“Why have you been helping me at all? And don’t give me that ‘you’re fun’ crap. You’re… a fairy. Or of the fairy or part of their realm. Your natural instinct is to kill or convert humans into another fairy, not save their lives. I can only assume you have a reason for not doing so. I’d be very interested in knowing what that reason was.”

Harry gathered his candle from the side of the bed, intent to speak with the raven himself and not just the shadows. He turned to Bobby.

A pale face loomed at the foot of his bed..

He dropped the candle, the flame instantly extinguished, and made a lunge for his wand, ducking and rolling off the bed to the other side of the tent.

“Now your survival instinct kicks in.”

“Lumos.” The tent was filled with a soft blue light. The man was gone, and only Bobby’s avian form remained, glaring imperiously at him. Harry’s eyes widened. “You’re a changeling.”

Even uttering the word sent a shiver of fear up Harry’s spine. It only seemed to ruffle the other’s feathers.

“No. I’m an illusionist. A dream weaver. A magician. All these things, but I am no fae.”

Harry just stared at him for a long moment, before it clicked.

“You’re a wizard.”

“I was a wizard,” he corrected, “I peeved off a few ‘higher ups’ in my day, and poof I get rebirthed as a raven. If it weren’t for Raecellos, I wouldn’t even remember being a wizard, and I would be spared a great deal of this aggravation.”

Wow. Just… wow. That had never even occurred to Harry. It was bizarre and yet… fascinating. Bobby looked rather indignant at his gawking.

“Are you quite done, now?”

He blinked, and then smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry, it’s just… What’s it like? Being reborn?”

“Crowded. There isn’t a lot of room in an egg, although I suppose I was lucky to be spared the joys of mammalian birth,” the raven said, not sounding particularly nostalgic over the event. His dismissive attitude reminded Harry of his earlier concerns.

“So… why are you helping me again?”

The raven preened his wings, the avian equivalent of picking lint, and replied blandly. “I have my reasons.”

“Which are?”

“Which are none of your damn business.”

In a flicker of light and shadow, he disappeared. Harry waved his arm about, casting the blue light around the room, but the raven was already gone, leaving Harry with more questions and concerns than he had started with. What now? Bobby had always been helpful to him, had saved him even, but his evasive attitude was worrisome. Was he truly independent of the fae? He had plenty of opportunities to betray Harry to the fairy folk and never had, but what were his motivations? Was he under orders from Raecellos or even Madris? But then why hide it? Why ask Harry to keep his presence a secret from everyone else?

Most important of all, what was Harry going to do about it?

Lestrange stared across the desk at the man, if mere man he truly was, that she had devoted her life to and was reassured to find that her admiration for him had not dimmed in the slightest. He was as beautiful, charming, and terrifying as she remembered from the height of the war, the years of relative peace merely refining the handle instead of dulling the blade. It had been a long time since she had been granted the privilege of his private company, a fact she blamed on Potter. That boy, that foolish, naïve little Gryffindor, had pulled at the Dark Lord’s attention until he was blind to nearly everyone else, and she didn’t understand it. Not in the slightest.

Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. She hadn’t understood it. Not in the beginning, not until recently in fact. Potter was as foolish and unrefined as ever, but now… now he had power, magical and political on a scale she never could have fathomed. The Dark Lord had seen the potential she had not. Unfortunately, so had Snape, and that left her feeling all sorts the fool. It also made her wonder why her master was meeting her in private rather than her and Snape, or even just Snape.

“Bella, it’s been a while.”

“My lord.”

This was her castle. She was the headmistress after all, but even here she felt her inferiority. Sitting in his high-backed chair, behind his massive desk, in the office he had carved out of her domain, he was every inch the conquering warlord. His fingers were steepled, his eyes shadowed to the point even his crimson eyes appeared black. He was not here for pleasantries. Their recent estrangement had not so dulled her memory that she couldn’t tell when her lord was angry. She hoped it wasn’t directed at her.

“Your progress with the school’s security is quite remarkable,” he said, “Your talents for combat and military preparedness has not failed you.”

He sounded sincere, but Lestrange couldn’t shake the feeling she was being mocked. Over the last couple of years, the castle’s security had been breeched repeatedly, in ways she should never have allowed to happen. Even the werewolf girl’s appearance, a mere few weeks ago, should never have occurred. Potter’s actual escape from the castle when it was on full security alert was an embarrassment she was certain she would lose her job over, and possibly her life.

“It’s wasted here.”

Lestrange stiffened. Perhaps he was going to end it now. At least he had granted her enough respect to do it private, without Snape or one of his other cronies sneering at her. Voldemort moved one of his hands, reaching to flip a photograph on top of his desk. She looked, and immediately felt the spark of recognition.

“You have served me well over these many years, Bella, in some ways better than others. I think its time for you to become my blade once again.”

She stared at the photograph for a long moment, and then up at him.

“I am yours, my Lord, in whatever capacity you desire, but I do not understand precisely what you want.”

The smile that cut its way across his face did nothing to make him look any less angry.

“This is the traitor who helped the Germans escape. I need you to hunt him down and capture him, preferably alive for interrogation. You always had a talent for hunting.”

She took the photograph, staring at Horace McGunny’s cool expression, completely still even as the staff of the Hogwarts’ Herald scurried about in the background. She had not anticipated this. McGunny was one smooth character. He was a smart, no nonsense, slave driver to those under his command, and if his ambitions had been more political than academic she was certain he would have been placed in Slytherin. She couldn’t imagine his motivation for betraying his school and his country.

“You’ll retain the official title of Headmistress for the school year,” Voldemort continued, “but I want you to leave a majority of those responsibilities to Severus while you pursue this. This operation is covert. No one can know what it is about, not Severus and not Lucius. Only you, Morgan, and I know about this and it will remain that way. Morgan is under instruction to provide you with any resources you deem necessary, but I expect you to be subtle.”

It was starting to sink in what was happening, but Lestrange wasn’t sure if she should be ecstatic or humiliated. Was she being promoted or demoted? She honestly couldn’t tell.

“I… It will be done, my Lord.”

The look he gave her told her explicitly what would happen to her if it did not.

November sunlight, draped in a silver cloak, pressed against the stain glass windows, casting the tea room in an ambiguous light, somewhere between brightness and gloom. It matched Severus’s state of mind, and that just irritated him. McGonagall had wisely avoided the usual small talk this afternoon, sensing something in her colleague’s demeanor that was even less pleasant than usual. She waited until the tea was ready and served before she attempted to break the silence.

“Has Lockhart been giving you dating advice again?”

Severus rolled his eyes, his annoyance shaking him from his sulk.

“No. I have successfully managed to pawn him off on Slughorn for at least a week. They’re made for each other.”

Her lips twitched, but she quickly smothered the smile. She didn’t think he’d appreciate her taking whatever was bothering him as a joke.

“Then may I ask what’s wrong? Something is obviously bothering you.”

He ignored her, but she simply waited, taking an appreciative sip of her tea. Eventually, Snape broke the silence.

“I think I might be cursed.”

She blinked. “Really? Have you talked to Pomphrey?”

He shook his head. “No. Not that kind of curse. I think…someone… I don’t know who… might have cursed me so that I’ll never have a family.”

She gave him an odd look, trying to sort out what he was saying. He didn’t fault her confusion. He did sound like a bit of an idiot at the moment.

“What happened?”

He debated telling McGonagall. It was, in fact, a very private matter, one he didn’t think Ira would appreciate him sharing with anyone. But… he needed to tell someone, someone practical who could look at his situation and offer a valid solution or state clearly and unsympathetically that there wasn’t one.

“Ira… I believe we’ve broken up for good.”

“Oh, Severus, what happened? You seemed to be getting along so well.”

He sighed, and took a sip of his tea, not even tasting it.

“We are…were. It’s… she told me something about herself that I don’t know if I can accept if we were to continue having a relationship.”

“What?” Now she was starting to look concerned. There were a lot of possible aspects of a person she didn’t think Severus could accept, and a number of them could get poor Ira in a heap of trouble if he so chose.

“She’s divorced.”

She nearly rolled her eyes. If that was it, she just lost all sympathy for him.

“… because she can’t have children.”

“Ah.” Well, that was a different story. One she had more sympathy for than he could ever know. “I didn’t know you were thinking about starting a family with her so soon.”

“I wasn’t either until she said it… I… I hadn’t realized until that moment that I had no intention of looking for anyone else. She just… fit. Into everything.”

She nodded, as if she understood, but he didn’t really think she did.

“I mean to say, no matter what I was doing… or what I wanted to do… she could be there, beside me or in the background, and it was just a little bit better than it was while I was alone. Like when she stayed with me this summer, while I was in the lab I could hear in the kitchen or in the sitting room, and normally that would be extremely annoying, but with her… it was soothing. I felt at ease with her in my home. I hadn’t realized that she had become a part of it already, and now… now I think we were both deluding ourselves.”

McGonagall felt a strong maternal urge to get up a hug him, but she doubted that was what he wanted or needed. So she remained silent for a moment, and thought over what he had said, and what she should advise. It didn’t take her long to think of something, but it wasn’t something she could bring herself to say easily. They had both nearly drained their tea before she found the courage to speak.

“Did she tell you exactly why she couldn’t have children?”

He glared at her.

“No, and I wasn’t so morbidly curious as to ask.”

“You should have,” she said, with a sharpness that had him sitting up straight and paying attention. “There are different types of infertility, many of which can be treated and cured or worked around. It’s not a well known field among wizarding kind, but there are still a few medi-witches and wizards who practice in reproductive medicine. It’s expensive and often risky, but not something to be over looked.”

He stared at her blankly for a moment, the hint of a blush coloring his cheeks. It was obvious the topic had turned awkward to him. Talking about wanting children was a lot different than talking about the mechanics of making children. She wasn’t going to let him clam up though. Certain things needed to be said so that he understood that the situation was not hopeless, before he gave up on yet another possibility at happiness.

Because, oddly enough, she did want him to be happy. She wanted him to be happy, and to share that happiness with Harry and Hermione and even Draco, little jerk though he was. And if that meant she had to embarrass them both, she would do it.

“I’m going to tell you something, Severus. Something I haven’t told anyone since… well, since Dumbledore left,” she said, sending him a warning look that he better pay attention because she wasn’t going to repeat it. “I have a sister, a year younger than me. When we were both just little girls, we got sick. Very, very sick. We recovered, but… we were both told we would likely never be able to have children.”

He stared at her, unbelieving that she would reveal something so personal to him. It wasn’t in her personnel records. No doubt Lestrange would have mocked her for it mercilessly if she had known. Why was she telling him this?

“I accepted what I was told, and planned my life around the assumption that I’d never have a family. My parents were traditionalists you see. They couldn’t arrange a marriage with damaged goods, and they never would have accepted an adopted child into the family. So I figured the only way to make them proud of me is if I did something with my life that didn’t require a family. The result is what you see today, and I can’t say I regret the course my life has taken. It’s been filled with many joys and sorrows, pride and disappointment, but always my own choices. My sister, however…”

Here McGonagall couldn’t help smiling a bit regretfully.

“My sister didn’t accept it. She absolutely refused to. We got into huge fights about it. I thought she was ‘deluding’ herself, as you so aptly put it. She thought I was settling for less. She ended up marrying some nobody with romantic notions as deluded as hers. My parents were furious. They disowned her, but she didn’t care. She had her dream of a little shop in the city, an endless love affair with her own husband, two kids, and a cat. And you know what? Her dream came true almost as she envisioned it. She has a little grocery store in Edinburgh, is still head over heels in love with her husband, has four children, and three cats last I counted. So as much as I love my life, am proud of it, I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t been more like my sister. If I hadn’t accepted what others told me were my limits.’

“I know it may sound too Gryffindor for your tastes, but I don’t think you should give up on Ira. You’re a fighter, Severus, you always have been. If you truly know what you want, than do what you have to to get it. Experiment, question, argue, curse someone if you have to, but don’t give up. It’s much too soon for that.”

She stood up from her chair, and he very nearly stood up as well, but for the hand that pushed him back into his seat.

“Now if you’ll excuse me. I think I’ve bled my heart enough for today. You just sit there and think about what I’ve said. Decide how much you’re willing to risk and fight for Ira. After all, they do say ‘third times the charm’.”

She stepped through the door, feeling his eyes on her a she went, and wondered if she had made the right decision to tell him. Not just for what she had revealed about herself, but on the very real possibility that he might fail. Her sister may have beaten the odds, but that didn’t make the odds better for anyone else.

Sirius’ coronation was at dawn. Harry was woken two hours before by Luna leaving his bed. She had snuck in at some point last night and once gone her absence left a rather unpleasant chill. Reluctantly, he got up, feeling barely alive and sore everywhere, with the intention of getting another blanket. Any thoughts of sleep, however, were quickly dispelled when Jane entered.

“It is time for you to wake up, young shaman,” she said, laying a bundle of clothes that were not his own at the foot of his bed. “You have responsibilities to perform.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure when they considered him a shaman. Maybe it was as far back as when Voldemort had announced him his apprentice or maybe it was as recent as Greyback’s quasi-possession. Either way, it meant new clothes, beaded with animal bones and feathers, and Jane painting his face with red markings. His responsibilities were very simple. The coronation was to be held in the clearing, and Harry spent nearly an hour cleansing the area with sage, while Jane painted the faces of a dozen other werewolves. Sirius and Remus were there, a single band of black painted over their eyes, looking all the more ominous for it. They did not approach him, and sensing that this time before the coronation ceremony was important to them, he kept his distance as well.

The sun rose subtly, a gradual fading from the black to dark blue to silver, and with it came the rest of the werewolves. The dark funeral clothes (for unlike wizards, werewolves did where black and dark colors to funerals) hadd been replaced with festival clothes, which varied from full length dress to barely clothed in every shade. Harry couldn’t help but notice that almost none of them had their faces painted, and looking more closely the few that did were all strong alphas and their females or betas. He wondered what it meant. Were they Sirius’ lieutenants? Did they hold some special purpose in the coronation ritual?

The ceremony itself was not particularly ostentatious. Sirius wore only his leather breeches and knives, and Remus was little better with actual boots and arm guards. Jane, resplendent in pure white furs, announced them both blessed by the Moon, and kissed their foreheads. The crowd stomped their feet and cheered, but Jane was not finished

“But Rhiannon is not the only god whose blessing you require,” she said solemnly, and a ripple of confusion ran through the crowd. Harry stiffened, and turned to Luna, who stared fixedly at Sirius. “If you wish the blessing of Fenrir, our god of war, you will need to make an offering. An offering of battle. Will you sacrifice in the name of our people?”

“We shall sacrifice.”

Jane stepped away from them to stand at the clearing’s edge with the others, and from among them the painted alphas and their partners emerged, and slowly stalked towards them, forming a ring around their intended prey.

“What is going on?” Harry whispered to Luna, who still did not look away but did reply.

“We’re at war, and the Moon alone is not enough to protect us. We need Fenrir. We need his blessing, and he won’t give it lightly. Blackbone and Slivermoon, they’ll have to fight to prove their worth.”

“What? All of them at once? What if they can’t do it?”

Luna finally turned to him, her expression tight, almost pained. “Do not interfere, Harry. This is what it means for them to be Head Alpha and Head Beta. The rest of us are putting our lives on the line based on the assumption that they’re better than the rest of us. It’s not something-”

A loud snarl interrupted her, but Harry already knew what he needed to. He turned back to his godfathers in time to see Sirius smash his knee into an alphas’ chest, sending the man limp and sprawling onto the ground. His beta, a heavily muscled female, made the mistake of jumping to his defense and got a kick to the face for her troubles. Remus wasn’t slacking either. The beta might not be as strong or fast as Sirius, but he did know how to fight smart and dirty when necessary. Another male and female pair made to attack Sirius at once from different sides, but Remus jumped into their attack, smashing his fist into the females face before hurling her into her mate’s path, tripping him up long enough for Remus to knock him to the ground.

And then things got ugly. It was horrifying and magnificent at once. Harry had always known his godfathers were special, that they were somehow stronger or just a bit smarter than the others, but he had never seen it demonstrated so dramatically as when they fought. Because they didn’t fight as individuals. There was nothing independent about their movements or their techniques. Without looking or speaking, they moved with their backs to each other, defending and attacking with such choreographed movements that neither was ever left exposed.

Even when the knives and the hatchets were drawn and the attacks by the other werewolves became more coordinated, they never faltered. Hits weretaken when necessary and they were given even more freely, to the point where Harry was convinced none of them were going to make it out alive. Two of the attacking werewolves already appeared dead, and three others broken or bleeding beyond the ability to stand, let alone attack. But that still left seven.

Luna was practically wrapped around Harry’s body, holding him back as best she could, whispering for him to let it play out, to be still. If he didn’t know that what was happening weren’t necessary on some level, she never would have succeeded in holding him. Magic or not, he was still bigger than her and with far more to lose.

“Damn you, Fenrir,” he swore under his breath. “You have your battle and your blood, and you’ll have plenty more before this war done, so just stop it. Stop it!Or I will.”

He did not know if he had been heard, if even Luna could hear him over the snarls and screams and shouts of battles, and at first it appeared his whispered declaration dissolved into nothing as yet another werewolf swung his hatchet at Sirius, catching him upper arm. Harry fumbled for his wand, but Luna struggled to hold his arms so he couldn’t reach. Sirius snarled in pain and anger, and swung his bare fist, smashing the attacker in the stomach and sending him flying… five feet… ten feet… sixteen… twenty… and stopped but only because he had hit the wall of spectators, knocking them all to the ground.

Everyone froze. Then slowly, very slowly, those werewolves still in the fight edged backwards, pulling the dead or unconscious or injured with them on their retreat. Sirius and Remus, both bleeding and panting heavily, growled menacingly at them but didn’t pursue. Luna’s grip, bordering on vice-like, loosened and Harry climbed to his feet. An eerie silence followed him, no one speaking or moving but for Sirius and Remus’ heavy breathing and the paranoid shifting of their eyes.

At last, Sirius’ eyes settled on Harry, the only one who dared to approach. It wasn’t a particularly welcoming took, and Harry stopped before he got too close. He had learned that much from Stephen’s attack at least. There was something off about his eyes, the normally black color lightening to a golden brown.

“Sirius?”

The Head Alpha merely growled.

Harry blinked. “… Fenrir?”

That earned him a grin, and Harry glowered.

“What is it with you and possessing people? Shoo, you’ve had your fun.”

The grinned widened, and was followed by a dark chuckle. “For now. I imagine we’ll be seeing each other soon enough.”

The grin disappeared and Sirius’ eyes faded to black once again, but then so did all his fight. He collapsed, and Harry barely managed to keep his head from smacking the ground, and even that much ended up dragging him to the bloody ground with him. Remus wasn’t so lucky. He crashed, unimpeded, as dead to the world as Sirius.

The crowd surged forward, and on instinct Harry brought up his wand threateningly, ready to defend his godfathers if they any of them failed to realize that Fenrir’s game was over. He needn’t have bothered. They merely began to gather up and treat their wounded. Eventually, some of the healers managed to convince Harry to let them take Sirius and Remus.

He followed the Healers to their tents, now crowded with the wounded, and among them was Stephen, pale and bound in splints and bandages. They stared at each other for a long moment, the bedridden alpha’s gaze completely unreadable. Harry finally scowled back at him, before turning to focus on his godfathers, attempting to ignore the other.

Very little actually needed to be done. Their wounds were superficial, and all they truly needed was time to rest and they would awaken on their own. Harry lingered for as long as he could, hoping they would snap out of it quickly, but after an hour Stephen’s heavy staring and pervading silence it became too much and he left.

It was near sunset when Voldemort finally managed to make it to the werewolf colony. The war was requiring a great deal of his time, and with Tom’s escape a whole new list of concerns had popped up, demanding his attention. Missing the werewolf funeral, the ascension, and the coronation ceremonies was more than a little irritating. He had worked very hard to integrate himself into their society when Greyback was alive, and he despised the thought of time and Blackbone’s own antagonistic nature getting in the way of that. It was more than likely that he would find himself dependent on Harry to maintain peace between them. Something he would be both proud and irritated by.

He passed through what once was the Goddess colony, and was now a sacred site. Magic was thick in the air and Voldemort felt his inner monster purr. The graves were freshly dug, heaped of loosened dirt marking each place. It would only require a simple spell to… no, no, that was a bad idea. Fenrir may have been little more than beast in his life, but in his death he was something he knew better than to trifle with. Besides, his old ally deserved more respect than that. If he bothered thinking about it at all, he might even miss the mangy bastard.

A short ways behind him, Morgan followed, as quiet and suspicious as ever. Although most couldn’t tell, the man didn’t like this place, and Voldemort understood that very well. It was haunted after all, by things wands had no power against, and men like Morgan had no business meddling with.

He continued his journey further into the colony, and to his surprise the presence of magic didn’t weaken. He attributed this to the abundance of blood he found in the clearing, but he couldn’t guess its purpose. The werewolves that could be found to explain it shied away from him. Not unusual, but a little irritating at this point.

When he finally reached the main encampment, the area was thick with werewolves and their rough and tumble merry-making. Even in the whirl and ruckus of a several hundred drunken men and women (plus more than a few rowdy children getting underfoot), finding the Head Alpha’s tent was only a minor obstacle. It was clearly visible, the largest structure in the encampment, and stood an oasis against the chaos.

The tent flaps were wide open and the inside brightly lit, revealing the Head Alpha himself and an rather eclectic ensemble. There was the new Head Alpha of course, his beta, several alphas, Harry in the black and encrusted garb of a shaman, that infuriating Luna girl, and what must have been the new vessel of the goddess. Blackbone was swathed in bandages, and beside him Slivermoon didn’t look much better. This was a bit odd, but he didn’t grow concerned until he saw Harry looking nearly in as bad a shape as godfathers.

“Was there another battle while I was away or did you decide to challenge Blackbone as Head Alpha?” he greeted blandly, inviting himself into the tent and seating himself beside Harry, across from Blackbone. Several of the gathered alphas glowered at him for the perceived impudence, but a sharp gesture from Blackbone had them slinking out of the tent. Harry looked vaguely amused at this, but was quickly distracted when Luna draped herself around his shoulders.

Annoyance reared its head as Voldemort watched her casual displays of affection with his protégé. He couldn’t quite forget the one instance where she had defied his claim to Harry, and he rather got the feeling she was challenging him yet again.

“Greetings, God Eater,” the young goddess said, regarding him with that same cool omniscience that followed her in which ever vessel she assumed. He nodded to her.

“My Lady. I hope these last few days have proven…fruitful.”

Blackbone snorted. “That’s one way of putting it. Harry couldn’t stay out of trouble, of course.”

“You’re one to talk!”

Luna laughed into Harry’s neck, making him giggle and playfully shove her off. He turned to the Dark Lord.

“Greyback ascended. He’s now the werewolf’s god of war and has a fondness for possessing people.”

“Yeah, you missed quite the show,” Blackbone sneered. Voldemort rather suspected he had. He weighed the chances of casting legilimens on Harry without him noticing, and quickly found it unlikely. Maybe…

“So down to business then, so we don’t have to bare each other’s company for any longer than necessary,” Blackbone continued, and made a gesture towards Slivermoon, who was all but giving the Dark Lord the evil eye. “Slivermoon and I have been talking about your little arrangement.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “I do hope you are not backing out of our agreement, my friend. That would be… unfortunate.”

The Head Alpha smirked and rested his chin in his hand, his casual posture revealing an arrogance that matched the Dark Lord’s own. “Nah, I’ll keep up my end. No worries there, friend. Just a minor detail we want worked out in advance. We were just thinking about the time in between missions. It occurs to us that a lot of things can go wrong during non-combat situations. We want to have one of my people inspect the living conditions of our troops at least once a month, and report directly to me.”

Voldemort suppressed an eye roll. “Fine. We’ll make arrangements. Anything else?”

Blackbone grinned and Voldemort realized he’d just made a mistake. He wasn’t sure what sort of mistake just yet, but he definitely knew he had. Blackbone turned to Harry.

“Well, pup, you’ve just got yourself a new job. Congratulation, Inspector Harry.”

The Gryffindor looked even more surprised by the announcement than Voldemort did.

“Lord Blackbone,” Dark Lord warned, “You can not start randomly assigning responsibilities to witches or wizards. You don’t have that authority. Besides, Harry has school.”

Sirius shrugged, and turned to Jane, who was tilting her head curiously at this latest development. “Is Harry a part of my pack?”

She blinked. “That is your decision, Lord Blackbone.”

“Well, then my decision is that he’s part of my pack, and thus under my authority. He’s the only wizard my men or I are going to trust, and the only guy, wizard or werewolf, I know you can’t intimidate into lying to me. As for school, you pull him out of that for you political crap all the time.”

However ineloquently put, Blackbone was right. There was no real reason to not to have Harry work as an inspector, or rather as an ambassador between them, and in a lot of ways it provided the training Voldemort desired his protégé to learn. That didn’t mean he was going to agree to the terms without a price. At the moment, Harry looked too stunned to say anything one way or the other.

“Very well, I’ll agree to this, but I have a few stipulations of my own.”

Blackbone and Slivermoon didn’t seem particularly happy about that, but they listened.

“Your girl here,” he said, gesturing towards Luna, who blinked at him. “As darling as she is, she is getting rather inappropriately attached to my protégé. When Harry comes here to make his reports, I expect her to be elsewhere.”

“Wait a minute, you can’t do that!” Harry shouted. Voldemort matched his look of outrage with one of his own.

“You might not give a damn about accidentally knocking up a thirteen year-old werewolf, but believe me when I say the rest of society is going to be raising a few objections.”

The boy turned dark red, partly out of humiliation and partly out of anger. “We.. we haven’t! We wouldn’t! And she’ll be fifteen in March!”

“I don’t suppose you’ve taken sex-ed in school yet?” Voldemort asked idly, and Harry turned even darker. He opened his mouth to protest again, but Blackbone beat him to it.

“Fine, but she’s here for holidays and festivals.”

“As long as I’m there to supervise,” the Dark Lord threw in, creating an opportunity to be invited back into the pack’s live just as he had been with Fenrir. Blackbone narrowed his eyes, seeing the demand for what it was.

“Fine. But I get all weekend, Friday nights through Sunday afternoons.”

“Wait a minute!”

“Done!” Voldemort agreed.

“Done,” Blackbone concluded.

“The hell it is!” Harry snapped. By now he was livid, looking very close to setting both men on fire, but before he could spout off a single curse or launch into an angry monologue, Luna stood and dragged him off. They men in the tent all watched curiously as she pulled him just far enough away that they couldn’t hear them speaking. Which wasn’t to say it wasn’t informative to keep watching them. Harry’s face was expressive; twisting between anger, frustration, surprise, and reluctance with every word Luna spoke. As for her, they couldn’t see her face, but her hands expressed what her face did not, touching Harry’s arms, ruffling his hair, tugging affectionately as his collar of his shirt. Then she kissed him, quick and chaste, and pulled away, disappearing into the crowd almost instantly.

Harry stood there for a long moment, staring out into the crowd, searching for her tell-tale paleness amongst the masses of tanned bodies, but she was already gone. He turned back and stalked to the tent, sinking himself down in his spot. He glared at each of them, including Morgan.

“And here are my stipulations. One, I’m getting paid. 4-66 may have been pro-bono, but if I’m going to have to put up with all of you trying dictate who I’m dating, I damn well expect to be compensated for it. Two-” he turned to Voldemort, “I want apparation lessons. There’s no way I’m driving all over the damn countryside for nine hours every month. And three… that’s between Sirius and me, and you will agree to it,” he snapped, pointing a finger at Sirius and practically daring him to contradict him. The Head Alpha wisely did not.

Voldmort opened his mouth to argue.

“NONNEGOTIABLE!”

The Dark Lord quickly shut it.

The penthouse suite in the Hotel Pont Royale was not a typical choice of meeting places, but given the variety of places they had been no one was particularly thrown off by their luxuriant surroundings. Phoebe had already raided just about anything that wasn’t bolted down, and Johan had rather magnificent view of the Parisian art district, glowing and bustling even as midnight drew close. Krum was dozing in a chair, snatching what little sleep he could before he left for another city, another quidditch match, and another political rally against Voldemort’s impending invasion. Tonks draped a blanket over him and turned the lights low.

“He’s late,” Timmons noted, nervous as always. Fredricks just grinned and helped himself to the liquor cabinet, and poured drinks for the both of them.

“Only just, my friend.”

“He wouldn’t be late. Not for something this important.”

Johan let out a biting laugh. “Dis is important to you? Don’t be asinine. He has the ears of kings and queens tonight. His pawns can wait.”

“Always such a cheerful fellow,” Fredricks chuckled. “He’s right though. Dumbledore has other places he needs to be.”

“Which I hope does not make you believe there is any place I’d rather be.”

They all jumped, including Viktor, who had seemed dead to the world only a moment before. Dumbledore walked through the door to the study, as if he had been there the entire time, smiling affectionately at them. He set his hat and traveling cloak on a nearby chair. Beneath them was a set of robes that could have been found in any of the grand courts and parliaments across Europe, but looked oddly out of place on one of the greatest wizards in the last century.

“How did it go?” Tonks asked.

“Rather as I expected,” he admitted ruefully, “Her Majesty is quite the formidable woman, and she was well aware of the dangers she is courting. Time will tell if she is truly prepared to face them.”

“She won’t help us?”

“No,” Dumbledore said, “But she will not hinder us either, so long as we do nothing to damage her relations with Voldemort. She’s not Seibligg. She won’t rush into anything and assume it will turn out in her favor.”

“Speaking of which,” Fredricks said, “What are we going to do about Seibligg? The election is in two days, and I don’t think Germany can survive another term under him. Half the Ministry Aurors are threatening to quit as it is.”

Viktor shook his head. “The alternative isn’t much better. Ivers is a pacifist. He might not provoke Britain, but he sure as hell won’t stand up to them either. He’ll compromise until Berlin is renamed New London.”

“Nevertheless,” Dumbledore interjected before a real political debate broke out, “I believe it is time for a change in regime. What ever Ivers faults, I do believe he’ll try to do what is best for his country. That is something I can work with.’

“Viktor, I want you in Berlin during the election, rallying for Ivers. You might not be able to vote yourself, but your presence may be what is needed to convince the public that Ivers won’t simply pander to the Dark Lord whims. Fredricks, I want you to do what you can from within the Ministry. Start a few rumors if you must, but I want the rumblings of the Aurors against Seibligg as public as possible. Tonks, you’ll coordinate. If Seibligg does manage to win the election, we’ll need a quick and quiet getaway in place.”

“Vat about the rest of us?” Johan asked, not taking his eyes from the window.

“I want you all in Linz[1] by tomorrow afternoon. There’s a private militia forming there that I believe holds a great deal of potential, and I want you to feel them out. I’ve made arrangements for Timmons to meet with their commander. I’ll leave you and Phoebe to your own devices.”

Phoebe threw a smirk at Johan, who glanced back at her from the corner of his eye and then pretended he hadn’t, gathering up his things and heading for the door. He had his mission. He’d just as soon get it started, and avoid the inevitable trivialities of plans, concerns, socializing, and anything else that kept anything from getting done. He was barely out the door before three different conversations started at once, and was more than happy to leave the old goat to his pawns.

1. Linz is the capitol of Upper Austria (Oberösterreich) in Austria.↩

Retaliation

Seibligg stood, staring out his office window as a small army of construction workers began erecting a large stage in from of the Department of Ministry Affairs, forcing pedestrians to crowd into narrow section of stairs where Auror’s waited, discretely checking random passersby for dark magic. Tomorrow there would be the Ministry debate, where he would meet Ivers for the first and likely last time, face-to-face.

The thought of his political opponent irked him more than it should have. Ivers was already out there amongst the crowds, ranting about peace and reconciliation and whatever Mama’s boy weaklings thought was important. Stupid really. It didn’t matter, he assured himself. The German people were proud, and if Ivers thought he was going to get them to compromise he would be greatly disappointed.

“You look worried,” Oblitz stated, glowering at him from across the room. He had refused Seibligg’s command to sit, like he always did, and forcing the minister into the unfamiliar position of looking up at someone else. “You should be. You’re going to lose this election, then Ivers is going to throw you to the wolves in hopes of placating them.”

“Shut up. What would a grunt like you know about politics? I won’t lose. I can’t. The voters know exactly what will happen if they lose me. We’ve made sure they know it.”

Oblitz snorted. Seibligg was a bully, and like most bullies he was self deluded into thinking people thought the same way he did, even if they never admitted it. The voters were split at the moment, it could fall either way, but Oblitz knew the pep rallies over the next few days would be the deciding factor. Ivers was indeed an idiot, but he was a charming and articulate idiot without in major blunders to his name. Seibligg could turn on the charm himself, but after his years of well documented tyranny, it would be a lot less believable and his provocation of Britain had done nothing to endear people to him. His one true strength in this battle was the fact that he had set up a situation where his leaving office would leave the country vulnerable. Ivers was untested in the field of war, and had already shown a propensity to shrink away from rather than face it.

It wouldn’t be enough. Seibligg had too many enemies acquired over his career to think he would make it through the election on top.

Unless something happened of course. Another attack. Something to shake up the masses. Oblitz had hoped for something just before the election, but it seemed the Dark Lord was biding his time. He must have seen the attack on the werewolves for what it was. Nothing more than poking a sleeping tiger with a stick.

It seemed he would have to take matters into his own hands.

“As you say, Minister. I will see you tomorrow before the rally.”

“I haven’t dismissed you yet,” the Minister warned. Oblitz ignored him and left pretending he hadn’t even heard him.

Snape leaned back in the Headmistress’ chair, his appearance deceptively calm. Inside, however, his mind was in chaos. He was now Headmaster of Hogwarts in everything but name, a positioned he had lusted after since he was a sixth year Prefect. So strange that this dream should come to fruition as another seemed prepared to whither on the vine.

Except that dream wasn’t quite dead yet. McGonagall had breathed some more life into it. He was stuck now trying to decide whether he should smother it once and for all or risk nurturing it with the high probability of failure. His new position made his internal struggle seem more pressing.

As mentor to Britain’s ‘prince’ he had already received (and turned down) several proposals for marriage to several pureblood women, and with a highly influential position to be officially assigned by the next school year his popularity was bound to make his list of potential wives grow. Women who were confirmed fertile and with title and wealth he could apply to his name, the newest primer pater[1] to appear in Britain since the war.

He would think about this, and his children, and his children’s children, and feel a spark of pride and contentment. It wasn’t until he started thinking about the present that he would get distracted by thoughts of Ira. Ira would love being the wife of a Headmaster, he found himself thinking. She’d keep house in Hogsmeade (which was quickly growing in population and industry from a village to an actual town), but would frequently be in the castle, making sure her husband wasn’t terrorizing the students too badly and that he actually ate what the castles’ house elves left him. In the evenings, after she had put their children to bed, he would tell her about his day and she’d laugh at the new way some troublemaker had found to aggravate him and she would tell him what mischief his own children had gotten into. When the children were old enough to mostly fend for themselves, she could take up a teaching position at Hogwarts, Magical Theory perhaps or even Care of Magical Creatures, and they…

Except there wouldn’t be any children, because she couldn’t have any.

Probably couldn’t.

Which was why he should just let go altogether. Except that he had never been very good at letting go. Lily… oh, Lily. His first love, and though distance and silence had numbed that particular pain, thinking of her still brought a dull throbbing ache to his soul. Then there was Vesper, beautiful and darkly glittering Vesper, whose dream he carried on for the both of them. Now Ira, the perfect mix of academic intelligence and feminine warmth, clinging to dreams she could not fulfill.

Probably could not fulfill.

Snape let out a frustrated sigh and stalked out of the office. He wasn’t getting anything done, and he still had DA&D assignments to grade. Making his way to the dungeons, he listened to the passing conversations of students, a collective mix of inane prattle, frustrated rantings, and juvenile attempts at political commentary. The last of these centering primarily around Harry, which was hardly unexpected. The incident with the werewolf girl was not going to fade from anyone’s minds soon, and with news of the werewolf colony massacre and Harry’s own involvement showing up in the paper daily, there was no shortage of fuel for speculation and opinion on the matter. For once, Snape couldn’t criticize their rampant imaginations. It was pretty weird and interesting and… worrisome. Snape hated werewolves.

Honestly, he couldn’t understand Harry’s affection for them, outside of their connection with his godfather who was only a tentative connection to his real father. It was possible that Snape himself knew the boy better than anyone else, having been with him since his induction into wizarding society and reluctant guardian for several years now, and in a lot of ways Harry was an open book, but in others…

Thinking about the infuriating Gryffindor was always distracting, and if there was anything Snape needed at the moment, it was a good distraction. Entering the dungeons, he decided he would make his first real concentrated effort on unraveling the paradox that was Harry. It just so happened he had an unusual abundance of material to study from. Hermione had brought his trunk down to him for safe keeping shortly after the Gryffindor had left. Apparently, there was a history of other Gryffindors tampering with Harry’s things. Why his goddaughter thought to lug the thing down to the dungeon’s rather than to her own Head of House he couldn’t begin to guess. It wasn’t as if he was the more trustworthy of the two.

It took nearly twenty minutes to open Harry’s trunk without setting off the defenses. There were an impressive number of wards and charms protecting it, but Snape had a reputation that was not about to be undone by fifteen year old, no matter how precocious.

Inside was an adolescent’s treasure trove of the mundane and the magical. Clothes of course, and the usual hygiene materials, Quidditch magazines and supplies, bundles of letters, a few of which Snape was concerned to find he had never seen before. A fist sized stone of no obvious purpose. A bezoar (that little thief!). School supplies and text books. Three small vials of unlabeled potion (very suspicious). Several unusual, if not exactly rare, magical objects; a reader’s ring, an UnSilencing Bell, a couple of wands (where had he gotten those?), a tooth and claw necklace wrapped in leather, and a few other odds and ends. Several disguises of questionable taste. A knife, with no magical properties that he could detect. A sketchbook and several art supplies.

The sketchbook was revealing. Harry, despite his inability to retain a girlfriend, obviously had a healthy attraction to women if the abundant sketches of female students was anything to go by[2]. There were several portraits in fact of people Harry knew, including himself hunched over a cauldron, and glowering at its contents as if they had somehow insulted him. When had Harry done that, he wondered.

He continued his perusal through his ward’s possessions, and nearly keeled over when carding through the boy’s pile of personal books and came across Tom Riddle’s journal. Merlin Almighty, he had forgotten about that little monstrosity. He had glimpsed it in a memory once before, but had soon been distracted by some life or death situation and forgotten to investigate further. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He had to be going senile to have let something like that slip his mind.

Except that the journal was dead. Whatever dark magic had clung to it (he had seen Voldemort kill more than a few unwary witches and wizards with it back in the day, and it was a slow and ugly descent into sickness and insanity), was gone. In fact, any magic on it at all, was completely gone. There were a few scribbles inside of it in Harry’s handwriting, some sort of attempt at communicating with the item, but otherwise it was completely blank. Quite the mystery. Had Harry killed it without even realizing it? Why did he have the journal in the first place? He set it aside, intent on studying it further, and looked through the other books.

An encyclopedia of Celtic Gods, which Snape copied a few sections from that related to gods and goddesses he had heard Harry or Voldemort mention before. A few books of ritual, self-defense, dueling, and charms practicum. A large and rather out of place book on Centaurian Prophetic practices, missing the first and probably a third volume of the collection. He opened the book, suspecting it was being used hide something, but was disappointed when it revealed nothing but text. He scanned it idly, and figured out what it was after a minute.

A naming book of all things, based on the date and time one was born. Curiously, he looked up his own birthday, January 9th, early morning.

Sicsano. Born in the ElderYouth of the New Day of the New Month of the New Year. Fated to a life of consistent change.

Snape smirked at that. True enough. He opened the book to Harry’s birthday (one of the few he actually knew). He knew his Centaurian name was Ghihalmelan already, from discussions he had with him immediately after the incident with the dragon. He was, however, curious to see what the book said Harry’s life was fated to be like. Fated to a life of annoying Sicsano, seemed a strong possibility.

Except the name wasn’t where it was supposed to be. According to the book Harry’s name should have been Nuscain, Nuscani, or Nuscast (depending on what time of the day he was born). The first of August. But why would the centaurs lie? Or had they merely been mistaken? Perhaps Harry had misheard. He scanned the page, and found Ghihalmelan a short distance down from where it should have been.

Ghihalmelan. Born as the Seventh Month dies. Fated to a life of conflict against powerful forces.

Snape threw the book across the room as if it had suddenly transfigured into a cobra and bit him.

Ron was happy Harry was gone. No one would be surprised to hear this, but they might be surprised about why he was happy his pseudo-nemesis was gone. None of his reasons were personal. Harry was a complete crackpot minus nonsensical babbling in his opinion, but he figured there were reasons for that, the primary one being Voldemort (along with the second, third, and fourth reason) and last one being childhood trauma (Hermione had accidentally blurted out once that the guy had found his parents with their heads blown off when he was eight, which earned a few sympathy points even from Ron. But just a few. Less than a handful really), so whatever grudge he had harbored against the other boy had puttered out over the years into a healthy rivalry (healthy in that he didn’t plot his death outside of Dueling Club and DA&D).

No, the reason why Ron was happy that Harry was gone, was because Hermione had a lot more free time to spend with him now that she wasn’t mothering Harry into doing his homework, eating right, and avoiding man-eating dragons. He was more than pleased to have her all to himself for the Halloween Ball, the Hogsmeade weekend, and any time they weren’t in class or officially working on the paper.

“It’s awfully gloomy for this time of year,” Hermione commented, as they strolled beside the lake. They couldn’t go far. New security regulations were forcing them to remain within easy sight of the school’s new watchtower, but the weather wasn’t good for a long walk anyway. The skies were overcast, threatening yet another early snowfall, and a biting wind was blowing in from the west.

“It’s the dementors or so they say,” Ron said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s going to be a nasty winter. Lestrange will probably have us raising yaks for coat liners next.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that. Lestrange was indeed keeping everyone busy gathering supplies for the war effort or increasing the protections around Hogwarts, and despite the grim reasons behind these actions, it was becoming something of a running joke amongst the students. Then her smile faded.

“Do you suppose the war will still be going on when we graduate?” she asked, and Ron’s initial instinct was to lie, but he thought better of it. One of the things he liked about Hermione was that he didn’t feel the need to sugar coat things. She’d be insulted if he tried.

“I hope so.”

“What? Why would you want…?”

“Well, it’s not a noble reason,” Ron admitted, shrugging. “I’m no Gryffindor, after all, but you know this war… any war really… awful as they are, they’re also great opportunities for guys like me.”

She frowned. “‘Guys like you’?”

“Yeah, guys who’ve got talent but nothing to their name. This sort of thing can make nobodies into somebodies, turn paupers into dukes, and fools into heroes. Of course, even if this war is done with by the time we graduate, there’ll probably be another one soon enough. I’m going to enlist either way. Bet I could make First Officer within a year if the fighting’s heavy enough.”

“Ron, that’s awful! You could be killed!” He felt genuinely pleased that she looked so upset about that, but far from persuaded.

“Yeah, well. Nothing’s free. Not even opportunity. I’ll take my chances.”

She shook her head. It was stupid and selfish, but she had to give him credit for being honest with her. Draco still treated her like a well-read but fragile china doll, and Harry… oh, she wasn’t even going to get into all the issues she was having with Harry’s self-sacrificing protective streak.

“Come on, Warlord Ronald. Let’s go back. You can help me fend off Trudy Sabbat’s attempts to usurp my throne. You have my permission to use deadly force.”

He laughed, and followed her back to the castle.

“You look very handsome,” Voldemort commented, eying his young protégé critically. The Beast Brigade (a name of questionable taste, but it wasthe army) uniforms were cut in the same manner as the regular troops, but they were pitch black and lined with grey fur atop the shoulders. They gave an impression of a rather sinister mix of military ruthlessness and bestial savagery. They suited Harry nicely; particularly when the boy’s intense green eyes were flaring angrily through his fringe of dark hair.

Just like he was doing now, from the far end of the conference table, hunched over a pile of forms.

“Although, the glasses lessen the impact. We really need to see about fixing your eyes permanently. If they work so well during the full moon, I see no reason why we couldn’t make them work for the rest of the time.”

Lucius chuckled, taking a sip of his wine and throwing in a bit of commentary of his own. “I don’t know, I think the glasses add a… civilizing touch to the whole ensemble. He’s a wizard after all.”

“I think the wand makes that clear enough, Malfoy,” Harry said, his piercing gaze sliding to the man, who had been subtly (subtly as a Malfoy bothered to be anyway) insulting werewolves and Harry since his arrival that morning. He was seriously considering biting the man just to give him a good scare.

“That’s General Malfoy to you, LieutenantPotter.”

And wasn’t that just a delicious turn of events? Harold James Potter, Britain’s beloved prince, under his command? Alright, it was only a technicality, and he would be hard pressed to order Potter to do anything at the moment, but there was so much potential there and he would be damned if he didn’t take advantage of it.

“Now, now, Lucius, what is rank among friends?” Voldemort chided, clearly amused by their little tiffs. A little ‘sibling rivalry’ wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Neither could afford to be complacent. Particularly Harry, who had a tendency to take walking away from a conversation with dark wizards unscathed for granted (walking away unscathed for everything else was practically a miracle).

Or at least, that was what Voldmort thought. Harry, in fact, knew he was poking a sleeping dragon with his attitude, but frankly he was just so angry right now. Since the Dark Lord had shown up last night, things just seemed to worse and worse. He had to say his goodbyes to Luna his morning, feeling both hollow and alone. He left without speaking to his godfathers, and was starting to feel guilty about it, which just pissed him off considering they hadn’t even apologized. Ugh. Then he had spent the morning following the werewolves through orientation, and inspecting the facilities where they would all live, train, and sleep. Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be inspecting, but as far as he could tell everything was clean, working, and devoid of mind altering chemical and spells (he had in fact tested the beds for memory spells just in case). Then he had been dragged off to be fitted for his new uniform and fill out the paperwork for his rank and pay, while the Dark Lord and Lucius hovered like creepy versions of the Weasley twins, making inappropriate commentary and feeding off each other’s amusement.

“Don’t you two have something better to do? Like, conquering Europe or something?”

Voldmort smirked, and looked ready to say something witty and probably mildly insulting, but then paused. His eyes widened. “I knew we forgot something.”

The weather was lousy for so early in November. A cold drizzle and hard north was dampening the enthusiasm of the crowds at they gathered for the main event before the polls opened at noon. Viktor didn’t mind. Durmstrang had forever set the standard for ‘inclement weather’, and with his collar turned up and his hat pulled low it was fine as any spring day.

He wove his way through the crowd, careful not to draw any attention to his face. His own rallies (played out in the pub and bar districts) had been a rousing success as best Viktor could estimate, and he was never so grateful that he hadn’t given up quidditch as he was now. Who knew an athlete could hold that much sway over the opinion of the working man? But now there was nothing left for him to do but sit back, watch, and wait. The first and last debate between Ivers and Seibligg was due to start any minute, and he had agree to watch for both Dumbledore (who couldn’t risk being recognized) and Tonks (who was busy securing an escape route to Linz) even though he wanted nothing more than to go back to his hotel room and sleep for a week.

“How much longer,Dad?” came the telltale whine of a child from behind him. Viktor glanced over his shoulder at a young boy, no more than seven or eight, looking bored and miserable with his mouth scrunched into a full blown pout. He looked ridiculous. Viktor turned away quickly before the kid noticed him laughing quietly into his hand.

“Just a few minutes, Martin. One day you’re going to be telling your own children about this,” the boy’s father promised.

“About what? I can’t see anything down here! And it’s cold!”

“I’ll put you on my shoulders once it starts. And then I promise we’ll have some hot cider afterwards. Okay? Just be good, and pay attention? It’s very important and you’re the only one I could count on to understand. You’re sisters aren’t as grown up as you.”

That seemed to placate the child, and Viktor shook his head. Had he been that gullible at that age? More than likely. Some days he still felt that gullible. His father had raised him on pride and Dumbledore employed him on honor, but sometimes the dark reality of the world cam crashing down on him and neither seemed to be enough.

“Ah, I think it’s starting! Come on, Martin. Up you go!”

Viktor turned his attention to the platform, where both candidates and their entourage of security, family, and aides were filing onto their respective sides. Seibligg smiled and waved pleasantly, and Viktor fought the distinct urge to throw something at him. Ivers smiled, but it was ill suited to his solemn eyes. Viktor had only ever seen him in photographs, and truth be told they didn’t do the man justice. He was rail thin and drawn, but he walked tall and purposefully. For all the jeering about his pacifistic stance, the man looked strong enough to throttle Seibligg with his bare hands.

An excited hum ran through the crowd. Little flags began to wave and groups of people began to cheer, proclaiming their allegiances. Viktor was having a hard time differentiating which side was the more popular and inwardly cursed. He should have found a spot with a better vantage point of the crowd.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen to this historic event!” the announcer greeted, and a loud cheer rose up.

And then another sound rose, wailing and screeching over the din of the crowd like a banshee foreseeing catastrophe.

An alarm.

Aurors drew their wands, and immediately began pulling the candidates from the platform and towards the safety of the Ministry offices. The screech of the sirens was underlaid with the dull roar of confusion, and Viktor could already feel the crowd beginning to panic. He wasn’t feeling too calm himself at the moment.

He had to get out of the crowd. He couldn’t use his wand-

Heat, pressure, and a sound so impossibly loud it felt like punch to the head.

He wasn’t sure how long he was unconscious, probably only seconds, put in those seconds the world had changed. There was screaming, fear and pain, and pleas of help and the sound of an enormous fire. The air reeked of burnt hair, smoke, blood. Viktor blinked, realizing his eyes were still open, even though all he could was the black fog of smoke and dust. It hovered just above him, threatening to descend and suffocate him.

He tried to move, cautiously, wiggling his fingers first to make sure they were still there. Slowly, he tried his arms, struggling a moment to pull them free the weight of bodies resting on top of them.

“Uunnn…”

Was that him or someone else? He couldn’t see, couldn’t think, but he could hear out of at least one ear and really wished he couldn’t. People were dying. Why was he just laying here?

He forced himself to sit up, and nearly vomited as a wave of dizziness sent the world flying. Blood trickled down the side of his face. His eardrum must have been punctured. He tried to stand, but couldn’t keep his balance on the uneven ground and fell to his knees. Just as well. He couldn’t see when he stood.

Others were starting to get up as well, those who could, but it only made things worse. The people were panicked and tried to run, tripping over the dead and injured, hurting themselves and others, blindly groping for loved ones, for help, for a way out of the battle zone. The fallen were being crushed, and Viktor scrambled for some place he wouldn’t be stamped on and crushed. Someone grabbed him, pulling him to his feet, and he almost pitched over immediately but his would-be rescuer held him firm.

“Quickly, before they come back,” A young man, only a little older than himself wheezed and dragged him through the blinding, suffocating haze. “Into the Underground. Just follow the others. Here, someone take him!”

He was handed off to a man and a woman, who took each arm and lead him into a steady stream of people. After a while the air cleared a little, and he tried to speak again.

“What ugh *huck* w-what..?”

“The Brits, they finally did it. They attacked! My god there were children in the crowd!”

Martin, Viktor thought, That little boy was on his father’s shoulders when the explosion…explosions?… went off. He was higher up, more vulnerable. Did he make it?

Viktor found himself being taken down a flight of wide concrete stairs, and the smoke cloud and chaos of the outside fell away to reveal gleaming while tiles and fluorescent lighting.

“Where are…?”

“The Underground. The tunnels lead all over Berlin. Some of them lead out into the subway system. We think they’re sticking to the wizarding area of the city, so it’s the safest place to go.”

“Muggles…”

“We’ll figure something out…”

He was in no position to question it. He was in no position to do anything at all. God dammit, he was a soldier! He should be out there accessing the situation, fighting the bad guys, rescuing the trapped and the injured! Not… not…

“Hang in there, kiddo. You’re going to be alright.”

It wasn’t himself he was worried about.

1. I’m sure some of you forgot what ‘primer pater’ means. In Latin, it translates to ’first father’, and it’s a term used in wizarding society to refer the first wizard to appear with a particular last name. This is usually in relation to a long pureblood line, and is applied retro-actively. Snape, however, is banking on the possibility of having a strong pureblood line stretching out for generations.↩

2. Female students are not the only thing Harry draws in his sketchbook, but they are the only things he draws repeatedly.↩

The Eastern Front

Lieutenant Seitler internally cringed when Potter arrived at the front gates of Hogwarts and saluted him. He had been warned in advance of the boy’s recent change in status, but two days was not enough to mentally prepare himself for the sight of a skinny adolescent boy in full military uniform standing in front of him. It was beyond inappropriate. It was an insult to the armed forces, both Cultie and Sentinel, not so much because of the person Potter was (Seitler like many of his colleagues felt he had great potential despite being a walking disaster magnet), but because the employment of someone so young into an extremely dangerous profession (especially these days) went against their very reason for being. They were meant to protect Britain’s youth, not paint a giant target on them and set them loose. More irritating was the fact that Potter was probably oblivious to his own mortality, and that was dangerous for everyone.

“You’re not going to wear that here,” he stated, glaring at the younger man’s black and fur-lined uniform. It wasn’t quite an order. He wasn’t mentally prepared to attempt to pull rank on another Lieutenant from the military.

“It’s only for when I’m on duty,” Potter said quickly, fidgeting a bit. It was obvious he wasn’t yet comfortable in it. Good.

“Are you on duty now?”

“… no, sir.”

“Then go change. This isn’t Halloween and that isn’t a costume.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir…Er… I’ll go now.”

“Leave your luggage and be back in half an hour. There’s paperwork.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a definite hesitation on leaving his luggage with Seitler and his men, but nothing too suspicious. Civilians rarely liked to leave their belongings to be looked through by government entities. Seitler made quick work of it. There wasn’t much to find. Clothes and the usual hygiene materials mostly.

There were only two suspect items; a bag of leaves and five foot staff. The leaves were common herbs, nothing that couldn’t be found over the counter at any local apothecaries. The staff was holly wood wrapped in leather and sown with bones, feathers, and beads. It obviously came from the werewolf colony and set off their magical detection devices at nearly six feet.

He decided to run that by Snape before returning it.

Privates Tousack and Finn looked disappointed.

“Were you expecting a severed head?” Seitler snipped. Tousack, a recruit barely a year out of academy and who could sass with only his left eyebrow, grinned back at him.

“You never know with this one. Bit of an odd duck, he is.”

Finn tried and failed to suppress a smirk. “Could have stuck a werewolf puppy in here somewhere.”

“Good to know you gentlemen are not underestimating Mr. Potter’s propensity for trouble. I, myself, continue to be amazed at the level of chaos he has managed to achieve.”

Seitler tensed, but kept his face expressionless as he turned to see Snape gliding soundlessly towards them. How had he snuck up on them undetected? He nodded to the man.

“Professor.”

“Lieutenant,” the man acknowledged. Tousack and Finn had once again adopted their ‘game face’ which may have intimidated school children but had no affect on the de facto headmaster. “So he has returned then?”

He gestured towards Potter’s things.

“Yes. I sent him to change. He was… inappropriately attired.”

The other man had nothing to say to that.

“Find anything of interest?”

Seitler pointed out the herbs and staff. Snape checked the herbs first, sniffing tentatively. His expression remained completely blank, but the Sentinel suspected he was thinking very deeply. He set the herbs aside, and went to the staff. He did not touch it, but performed several spells that even Seitler was unfamiliar with.

“This… is coming with me. Inform Potter if you would that I shall be sending it to his vault in Gringotts,” he said finally, carefully taking hold of the staff.

“You do not wish to speak with Potter yourself?”

Snape’s expression remained stony. “Lieutenant, I am a very busy man these days. Idle chatter with delinquent students is not high on my list of priorities right now. Send him to Professor McGonagall. She can deal with him.”

He left without another word, and once out of hearing range Finn muttered ‘jerk’ under his breath. Seitler wasn’t about to jump to the same conclusion. Snape… was not a likeable fellow. He was curt, sarcastic, and intolerant of incompetence. But he was also fiercely protective of his students (Potter in particular who was simultaneously the most troublesome and the most valuable of his peers) in his own merciless way. It seemed odd to Seitler that the man wouldn’t speak with Potter directly, if not to chastise him then to at least learn what the Dark Lord was up to these days. The election of the new Minister of Magic in Germany was supposed to be today, and he couldn’t be the only one wondering if they would be continuing the war against the idiot Seibligg or some complete unknown.

He wondered if something had happened (something more than the usual weirdness) that had created a rift between guardian and ward. He wondered if there might not be a way to take advantage of it.

There was no way out of the Underground that lead to muggle Berlin. Those who had fled into the tunnels soon found themselves at a dead end, bricked over and heavily warded. Any spells sent at it ricocheted, and no one dared try more hardcore spells for fear of killing everyone crowded around them. Some turned back immediately, some just sat and waited for help to arrive, some lingered around the blocked passage and tried to find a way to tear it down. Some of those who left came back with medi-witches and wizards to help the injured. Some of them came back with news.

“They’ve cut off the entire Court District and Lindt-Wilheim University,” a man said, his thick winter robes smeared with blood and ash, to a small group standing near the blocked wall. Viktor listened with his one good ear as a young medi-witch tried to examine him. She was already exhausted from treating dozens of others, and he didn’t try to rush her. She was doing far more good than he was at the moment. “They’re raiding all the buildings, dragging out all the people. Sometimes they just took their wands and let them go, but other times… especially near the Auror’s headquarters…”

The man covered his eyes and could say nothing else. A woman took up where he left off. She was ashen and despite the bright lights in the tunnels, her eyes remained wide and unblinking.

“It’s like they’ve got a list. This…death list, and they’re just sorting through everyone to find them.”

“List? A fucking list? Where the hell were you looking?” another man snarled. “They were killing anyone who had their wand out! And that was everyone! I saw them! Cut down a bunch of college kids trying to put out some of the fires. KidsI tell you! Not one of them over 22! Fucking sick bastards.”

“It’s not just people either,” another nervous fellow jumped in. “It’s places.They were burning all the wand shops on 42 ½ St. I… I don’t know if the owners were inside or not. They were destroying all the Ministry offices as far as I could tell… but it was dark from the smoke so I can’t be sure…”

“My God, how are they doing all this? How could they?” the woman sniffed, her wide eyes finally squeezing shut as tears began to fall and she sobbed quietly. Viktor, who either from his concussion or some other shock, was thinking clearly enough to know the answer but not clearly enough to realize it was a rhetorical question finally spoke up.

“I know this one. It’s brilliant. Horrible, but brilliant. It’s why they attacked the debate first… well, that and they wanted to kill the candidates I guess… This isn’t even their spell work, you know. They just… pirated it. It’s the Ministry’s. They set off the Ministry’s own fucking defenses.”

The medi-witch glowered at him. “Ssshh… enough of that. You’re hurt and confused. Hold still and I’ll do something about your ear.”

But everyone was looking at him now, and it seemed wrong to leave them wondering.

“The Ministry has defenses around the city to protect it from muggles. Most major wizarding cities do. The Brits must have found out where the main hub for controlling them was located. They attacked the debate, the Aurors protecting it all go to help the minister, then those that remain are wiped out by another group of Brits, and then they take over the hub, activate the defenses and then… amp them up. Doesn’t take much to make a ward meant to keep out muggles from keeping in witches and wizards, you know.”

He must not have been very clear because they were all staring at him with the same vaguely horrified and confused expression.

“How… how do you know that?”

Viktor snorted. “Vikings did it in Londinium in eight hundred something… I know a lot about Vikings.”

“And I know a lot about healing,” the medi-witch interjected, “And if you want to heal, I highly recommend you shut up for ten minutes. Would all leave us be? He has a concussion, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Ten minutes later his ear was healed, albeit temporarily, and he could walk without feeling dizzy again. The concussion was gone, but his certainty in his idea wasn’t. It seemed most of the others hiding in the tunnels were becoming increasingly certain of his idea as well, if only because no other plausible or even implausible explanation had been offered yet. He didn’t stick around elaborate on his theory. The only one who might actually make use of it was Dumbledore and he had to find him quickly.

He back tracked through the tunnels, unconsciously searching the dirty, frightened faces of the people huddled together for Martin, the boy he had seen just before the explosion, but there were too many people to know if he was there or not. He continued on until he reached the stairs that would lead up to the surface, and found a small crowd standing there with apparently the same intentions. A young man turned to him as he appeared and gestured for him to stop.

“Wait a minute. We’re waiting for the scout to get back.”

He really didn’t have time to wait around for someone who might not ever appear. If Dumbledore was still in the city, it probably wouldn’t be for long. He had more than a little experience slipping through traps. Pushing and squeezing his way up, he tried to listen for any suspicious sounds, but there was nothing but the dull roar and occasional snap and crackle of fire. Outside the air was thick with smoke and steam, buildings and signs stood out as ghostly silhouettes in the haze. He searched for possible threats, but it was uncannily silent. Cautiously, he made his way towards the Lindt-Wilheim University, an abandoned dormitory the agreed meeting place if things should go wrong.

The journey there was like a dream, shapes forming and disappearing in and out of the gloom, shouts and screams from out of sight, and the uneasy feeling of being watched. Viktor kept to the alleys wherever possible, and made it a point to look upwards frequently for broomsticks and snipers. There was no one else out on the street, but passing by some of the darkened windows he could see people trying to hide under tables and chairs. Some of the windows had been exploded and were now blocked with planks of wood or furniture. Paranoid eyes peeked out at him through doorways and gaps in the woodwork.

He didn’t encounter any real signs of battle until Leipziger, a café and bar strip a few blocks from the campus. Several of shops were now burning, while others were merely cinders and melted glass, and in the street bodies lay scattered. Men and women had been left where they lay, their wands out, some tucked behind a small tree or whatever possible cover they could find. They were not fighters, but even still they managed to take down a soldier or two. Viktor made it a point to memorize the look of their grey uniforms, but shied away from their faces, younger still than most of those civilians they had helped to murder.

Wilheim was the main street leading to the dormitories, and here Viktor met the enemy. His only forewarning was the heavy trod of boots from up ahead, and quickly ducked a doorway and cast a notice-me-not on himself. It was just in time. A small squadron of soldiers, at least a dozen, appeared with their wands up and their eyes alert, looking like wolves on the hunt. They were grouped together in threes, and positioned themselves in front of different shops, just a short distance away from him.

“Reducto!” one of the men shouted, blasting the door of a small restaurant into shards of glass and winter. Inside, several people screamed in fright. “Come out with your hands up or we’ll burn you all alive inside!”

The words were stilted, a rehearsed line by someone who had no real idea what they were saying. The soldiers stepped away from the doorway and after a moment a middle-aged wizard appeared with his hands up, followed by a busboy, then more and more people began to file out. Two of the soldiers grabbed them roughly and herded them into a line and forced them to their knees while the third kept his wand on those still filing out. When no one else came out the third went inside, and returned a moment later and signaled that it was clear. Some thirty men and women knelt terrified in the street.

Across the street another set of Aurors repeated what had just occurred, breaking down the door and ordering those inside to come out. While that was going on the first trio continued to the second stage of their routines.

“When I stop in front of you, surrender your wand, handle first, and you will be allowed to leave unharmed. If you resist, I will kill you,” he stated blandly. He moved to the first person in the line, the middle-aged wizard, who reluctantly pulled his wand from his jacket and handed it over. The soldier took it and snapped it.

“NO!” the wizard shouted and lunged for him.

“Crucio!”

The wizard fell to the ground and screamed, as did several other people in the line. Viktor clenched his wand in his hand and calculated the odds of killing the soldier and escaping with his life. They were abysmal, but he could not stand watching the torture for much longer. The screaming finally stopped and wizard collapsed, struggling to breath. The soldier moved to the next person in the line, who surrendered his wand and did nothing more than cringe when it was snapped in front of him.

“Hey, Captain! They ain’t coming out!” one of the soldiers from the second trio called in English.

The soldier who was snapping wands turned to him. “Did you give them the warning?”

“Yeah, twice.”

The captain shrugged. “Burn it down.”

The soldiers nodded and lifted their wands.

“Oprimo viscera!”

Viktor’s curse caught the closest soldier squarely. The result was a shrieking scream, followed by burst of blood from his mouth, and then death. The others stared stunned just long enough for him to repeat the curse on a second soldier, this one as far away as he could still see him. More screaming, from the civilians in the street, from inside the buildings, and finally shouts from the captain to find the attacker. Viktor had already moved from the doorway to the closest alley, runningas fast as he could without knocking over debris and giving away his position. A whistle went off somewhere behind him, alerting others to what the attack.

He risked crossing the open street to get to a large park located on the edge of the campus, and ducked into the undergrowth. He kept moving until he found himself at large pond. No one followed him, but he continued to scan his surroundings restlessly. When he was absolutely sure no one was going to be firing any curses at him, he sank to his knees and vomited.

Those people on the street, he may have killed them for all he knew. The captain had been willing to burn innocent people alive, would he think twice about killing those on the street now that Viktor had provoked him? Had his own misguided attempt to stop them really saved those people in the shop or had they burned it anyway?

Stupid, Viktor! If you had just stunned those two they might not have been as angry! They may have been distracted long enough for those people inside to surrender.

There was nothing to be done about it now. Maybe he had helped, maybe he had made things worse. For himself, there was no help. He would never reach the dormitories. He knew that now. They would find him, kill him if they recognized him, kill him if he tried to fight, and Dumbledore wouldn’t even be there. He was gone. He had to be. All Viktor could do was run and hide.

For now.

As soon as he found a place to hide that was relatively safe, he would start planning. The Brits were working quickly to unarm the civilian population before a resistance could be mounted, but they wouldn’t get everyone. They couldn’t. Viktor just needed to find others, find out how deeply entrenched the invaders had made themselves, find a way to tear down the wards that entrapped them, and they might be able to win back the city.

Funny how that sounded so much harder without Dumbledore and a bag of lemon drops backing him up.

Katarina awoke choking on ash, her entire body convulsing in panic until she blindly kicked open the lid to her coffin and sent it flying to the other side of the room. She searched the room, expecting to see fire, but there was only a sickening smog trying to invade her undead lungs. Her rooms were shuddered against the deadly rays of the sun, but the electric lamps she kept on at all times glowed and she hunted her way through her room to the adjoining one, where six coffins lay.

“Wake up! Wake up!” she shouted, throwing open lids and pulling her groggy children from their beds and all but tossing them on the floor. “We’re under attack! Wake up the others!”

Disoriented, the younger vampires scrambled to their feet to do as she commanded while their mistress hunted for answers. Despite the smoke, none of the rooms were on fire, and no one had entered. The smell was atrocious, but being undead she was not forced to breathe it in, and despite the lack of fire her instincts were screaming at her to get all of her children out of the house. But what if that was what they wanted? What if they were trying to flush them out so they could cut them down once they left their sanctuary? Who were they anyway?

“Calm yourself, Madam.”

She turned letting out an angry hiss. Horace stood in the parlor, drinking tea, the smoke that had enveloped everything else parted away from him. He did not look concerned.

“What is the meaning of this?”

His expression remained bland, but there was an underlying tension she didn’t miss. He was angry with her, angrier than he had been when she had thrown his last command in his face and sauntered off to do as she pleased.

“The meaning? The meaning my dear lady is… that I told you so.”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“Beg away, I doubt it will save you.”

“You-”

“Shut up, you stupid cow! You didn’t want to listen to me before, wanted to prove something, and congratulations you’ve proven what spoiled brat you are and probably killed us all,” he snarled, a flick of his wand smashing her into the piano. The instrument shattered, leaving her stunned in a pile a dangerously sharp wood and broken piano wire.

Goethe burst into the room, followed by half a dozen other vampires. One of them made a rush for the young wizard, only to burst into flames. He began screaming.

“Horace, stop!” Katarina screamed. “Please, stop! Please!”

The flaming vampire extinguished himself, leaving behind the charred remains of his clothes, and lots of exposed and unharmed skin. It had only been a warning. One she was not going to take for granted. Defeated, she let Goethe pull her to her feet, and looking down turned back to the wizard.

“Please, tell me what’s happening.”

The boy put his tea down, shoving it aside and began pacing.

“Voldemort’s army has invaded Berlin. They’ve locked down the wizarding city. There’s no way in or out. We’re stuck. I filled the house with smoke to trick the Culties from actually setting it on fire, but someone is going to catch on eventually.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean Voldemort’s invaded Berlin?”

“I’m not sure how I can simplify that sentence,” he sneered. She bit back her own acidic retort.

“I mean… why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know. He told me to leave for Frankfurt so that we wouldn’t be caught up in this but he never told me his plans in case I was ever caught. Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

Katarina wanted to ask more questions, offer some suggestions, but she had a feeling anything she said at this point would only infuriate the boy further. Looking more closely at him, she could see he was exhausted, his eyes bloodshot and shadowed and his hair and clothes uncharacteristically mused. At last, he stopped pacing and turned to glare at her.

“I’ll figure something out, but in the mean time I expect you to follow my orders to the letter or I swear on my life I’ll leave you here to burn with the rest of the city, is that clear?”

Once again, for the sake of her children as much as herself, she bit her tongue.

“Chrystal.”

Harry hadn’t even gotten the chance to unpack yet, and Hermione already had him sifting through enough homework to make his brain pop. His suspension meant he could not re-take any tests or make up missed assignments, which after two weeks was going to make a hefty dip in his GPA for the semester, and if he wanted any chance of bringing it back up before the end of the semester he was going to have to ace almost all his assignments and pick up as much extra credit as he could muster.

“I’ve already talked to Professor McGonagall and Professor Slughorn,” Hermione reassured him, looking her most sympathetic as he gawked at the foot high stack of papers. They were in the library, cloistered into a quiet little nook where the stares and whispers from the other students wouldn’t bother them. “They’re both willing let you complete some extra credit work during the holiday break, and I’m pretty sure I can convince Professor Snape to let you tutor for the first years for extra credit, but he’s been in a mood lately so I think we should wait before we try discussing it with him. Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick…eh… I don’t know if there’s much to be done about them. They’re both still furious with you.”

Harry nodded, hoping he didn’t look too panicked. “What about Vector and Toure?”

“Simple,” Natalie interrupted, inviting herself to squeeze in next to Harry, while Draco situated himself next to Hermione. “Bribe Vector with one of those cool pagan rituals with all the circles and triangles and things. Don’t even worry about Toure. She practically creamed herself when she heard you became an official diplomat for the Dark Lord. She’ll probably give you an Outstanding in her class just on principle.”

“Oh, yuck, Nat,” Draco cringed. “Do you have to be so vulgar? It’s hard enough listening to that woman’s ranting without you tossing in those wonderful mental images.”

“Prude,” the Slytheriness dismissed. She turned to Harry, and before he could react she pecked him on the cheek. “Welcome back, Harry. You’re looking much better, I have to say. Although, I’m sorry I missed seeing you in uniform. Cullis said you looked quite dastardly.”

He smiled a bit awkwardly. She’d caught him off guard with the kiss, and he was feeling a bit flustered, although she didn’t seem to have meant anything by it.

“We all are feeling quite deprived. How are you, you mad rogue?” Draco said.

“Getting madder every day. Did you hear-”

“No, no, no. Not now!” Hermione interjected. “You’ve probably got more stories than Beadle the Bard to share, but if you start on them you’ll never even get started with your assignments and you’ve got two chapters to study for if you want to pass that quiz in Arithmancy and a foot long essay on transmutation of alloys due tomorrow in Transfiguration!”

Natalie glowered at the other girl. “Oh come on! You’re here. We haven’t seen him in two weeks and the last thing we heard about him was that he got drafted into the military! Did you really get drafted?”

“Uh… yeah, I guess-”

Hermione glowered at him. “Harry, do you want to pass your classes or not?”

“Er…”

Draco chuckled and climbed out of the cubicle. “Uh-oh, she’s got the evil eyes on her, mate. Best to just nod obediently at this point. Come on Nat, we can grill him at dinner.”

“I’m not afraid of-”

The Gryffindor prefect turned her formidable glare to her. Natalie quickly shut her mouth. She glared back briefly, before letting out an indignant sniff.

“Have it your way, but Ron will be so disappointed.”

She stalked off. Draco rolled his eyes as he turned to follow her. Hermione let out a frustrated huff. “That girls sometimes…Argh!”

Harry gave her a thoughtful look. “What was she talking about? With Ron, I mean? Why would he be disappointed?”

“Forget about it.” She waved her hand dismissively. “He gets jealous about spending time with me sometimes. It’s silly really, and I’m not going encourage his childishness. Now, chapter eight-”

“Hermione…”

“Harry, we really need to get started-”

“Thank you.”

She blinked, and he couldn’t help but smile at how surprised she looked.

“For doing all this,” he elaborated. “You’re a really good friend. I know I don’t say that enough, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think it.”

Her ears started to turn pink and she looked down quickly at her hands, flitting through her notes. “Oh…I… you’re welcome. I mean… I know you’d do the same for me… well, you have done the same thing for me. With the acrumantula and all, except of course you risked your life so really it’s even bigger than… um…. chapter eight. Why don’t you start copying my notes?”

“Sure,” he said, taking mercy on her. Hermione might love being praised for her intelligence, but it seemed any other kind of praise turned her into a modest mouse. He looked down at the parchment containing her small, tidy script, and started to read.

As much as he missed Luna, there was something to be said about the comfort of the familiar and routine. It was a warm, safe place after stumbling lost through the wilderness. They had survived it together and they were bonded forever by the experience, but he had bonds here as well. Bonds formed through steadfast loyalty and shared affection.

It was good to be home.

“Fire!”

Another volley of spells smashed into the wards, causing the air to shimmer like the oily surface of an enormous bubble, only to fade into its undetectable translucent state. Oblitz glowered at the line of Culties grinning at him and his men as yet another attempt to bring it down failed. A few of them actually clapped mockingly.

Oblitz ground his teeth. This was not how he imagined his day going, although even he could find a bitter appreciation for the irony of the situation. It had been his intention to stage a terrorist attack about midway through the debate, blow up a few buildings in a neighborhood shopping district, give everyone a good scare before they went to the polls and remind them of exactly what they were up against.

Except it seemed even Oblitz himself had underestimated what they were up against. He hadn’t anticipated the attack on the city on Election Day. The move seemed too impolitic, too audacious for a creature as manipulative as Lord Voldemort. He had only himself to blame. He was in charge of the city’s security, and now he had lost over 90 square kilometers, nearly two-thirds of the wizarding section of the city, including all of the Ministry Offices and Auror Headquarters. Seibligg was dead or else soon to be publically executed, leaving wizarding Germany without a true leader…

He might be able to work with that.

He turned to his men, a mere two hundred, not nearly enough to oust the estimated two-thousand soldiers terrorizing the city even without the wards separating them. They would need reinforcements.

“I want a perimeter set around this entire wall. We might not be able to get inside, but I want to make damn sure that none of these sons of bitches can get out either! Stay alert! I catch anyone of you sleeping on the job, I’ll make sure you wish you were in there with the bastards,” he snarled.

All of them saluted obediently and went off to do as instructed. They were well trained. Ten times brighter than any of the stooges making monkey faces from the other side of the ward, but they wouldn’t be enough. Not yet.

“Sgt. Lars,” he snapped, and a young Auror paused on his way to follow orders. Reluctantly he stepped up to his commander.

“Sir?”

“You transferred to Berlin from Hamburg, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you know the Head Auror there?”

“Er… by reputation only.”

“Then by reputation only, do you believe he would spare some of his men?”

Lars stiffened. “Sir, with all due respect, any Auror worth his salt in Germany would willingly drop whatever they’re doing to help drive out these tyrants.”

“I’m banking on it. Go to Hamburg, tell them what’s happened. Have them spread the word. I’ll need men and supplies here as quickly as possible. By dawn I want these fools to know exactly what sort of hornets nest they’ve stepped in. Go!”

The Auror apparated away in a deafening snap, leaving Oblitz to wonder if he were truly doing the right thing. What if this was exactly what the Dark Lord wanted? If he took Aurors from the other cities then those cities would be vulnerable to attack. Yet what choice did he have? Berlin could not be surrendered after so feeble a battle.

He would think of something. There was no one else left to do it.

“Harry!”

He awoke instantly, wand in his hand and pointed before be even registered that he had even been asleep. Something broke, a sconce maybe, crashing to the floor. He blinked once, twice, grabbed his glasses and tried again.

Hermione stood by the doorway blinking down at the twisted piece of metal currently laying at her feet. He paled.

“Oh Merlin, are you alright?!” He clambered out of bed, ignoring the icy chill of the floor. In the other beds, boys stirred from their sleep, grumbling and cursing at the early hour.

“I’m fine,” she said, still looking down at the sconce. “I didn’t know you sleep with your wand under your pillow.”

“I don’t. Hermione? Are you alright? I didn’t… bloody hell, I don’t even remember what spell I used!”

“Potter take you’re love spat outside! We’re trying to sleep here!”

She blinked again, and then seemed to shake herself out of her surprise. She grabbed his hand, leading him out of the dormitory and down the stairs to the Common Room. It was empty, but a fire had been lit to fight off the early morning chill. The grandfather clock showed it was only a little after seven.

“We’ll talk about what happened later. Did you know about this?!”

She shoved a newspaper at him and turned away to start pacing in front of the fire, chewing her thumbnail nervously. Looking down at the paper, it immediately became obvious what had her so agitated. Splashed across the front in words large enough to be read from across the room, Wizarding Weekly practically screamed;

BRITAIN CONSQUERS BERLIN!!! MINISTER SEIBLIGG DEAD!!!

Harry’s eyes widened and he quickly scanned the article detailing the invasion of the German capitol city during the election, the subsequent death of the minister during the conflict, and the meager resistance that was so easily swept aside. There was more, much more, but he couldn’t bring himself to continue. He shoved the paper aside, too stunned to know what he should be feeling. Hermione took one look at him and her expression softened.

“You didn’t know.”

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He had seen the Dark Lord the previous morning, the day of the invasion, had breakfast with him, discussed military politics and the werewolf funeral. Some how Harry doubted that the invasion of Germany had simply slipped his mind.

“What does this all mean?” he asked. “I mean… I sort of get why he… why we’re… no, no… I don’t get it. Well, I do, but… how? How can we invade a city? What’s to accomplish? It can’t be held forever! Merlin we assassinated their minister!”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know either. The Dark Lord must have a plan. Lucius must have a plan.”

Movement from the stairs distracted them for a moment, and Clyde ambled down in a bathrobe, looking only half awake.

“What’s going on?”

Harry handed him the paper, and he skimmed it. “Huh. About bloody time.”

They both just looked at him. He shrugged.

“Well, what did you think was going to happen? The stupid jerks got exactly what they asked for. We should have smacked some sense into them last year after the whole tournament plot.”

“People are going to die!” Hermione protested.

“People already died!” Clyde snapped back, the first real hint of anger. “They murdered those people in Dunnan Hill and Timir! They tore down our protective wards so they could go on to murder even more people!”

“How do those sins make it alright for us to commit the same sins against people who weren’t involved?! We’re only escalating the violence. This will only make things worse for everyone!” she shouted back. Clyde threw up his hands and turned to Harry who was staring into the fire.

“You know I’m right. They killed your friends, would killed your godfathers if they had been there. They have to be stopped and this is the first real step to doing that. Explain it to her. I apparently don’t speak intellectual.”

“Harry, this is only going to get worse,” she reiterated, but said nothing else.

Harry closed his eyes. “You’re both right.”

Clyde snorted and rolled his eyes. Harry glared at him.

“You’re both right. This is going to get worse. It’s only the start of things. More people are going die. A lot more people… but it… we couldn’t do nothing. They did have to be stopped. I just… I can’t imagine how this is going to end. I don’t know what we’re going to lose or win and whether it’s going to be worth it. I just don’t know.”

They all stood silently for a long time after that, until finally Clyde nodded.

“Yeah, okay. That makes sense. Sorry, Hermione, didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Hermione nodded, not looking any happier.

“What do we do?”

Harry shook his head. “What can we do? We don’t even know what’s going on. We’ll just have to wait. Gather our facts. Figure out what to do after that, if there even is anything we can do.”

The Dark Lord and General Lucius stood across from one another in the meeting room, staring down at a map of Berlin. On it several pin pricks of blue and red dots were moving. A majority of the red dots were concentrated at the center of the city, with an even larger number of blue dots scattered around them. Amongst the concentration of red dots there was the occasional blue one, but they had been steadily disappearing since yesterday and would soon be gone altogether. Their men had successfully taken the city. It was a matter of holding it that was of their primary concern now.

Around them several lieutenant generals, colonels, and majors were gathered to await news from the battlefield and receive their orders. Among them was Major Beartooth, the official leader of the werewolf troops for all of three days. He was large, bear-like as his namesake, with a thick ruddy beard and arms like tree trunks. He remained out of everyone’s way and they likewise returned the favor.

An urgent knock on the door drew everyone’s attention, and they all turned as the door as doors opened and a young private entered and saluted shakily.

“What is it?” Voldemort prompted.

“The most recent report from Maj. General Albertson, my Lord!” he said, holding out a scroll.

“Very well. Dismissed.”

Lucius relieved him of the scroll and brought it to his master. Voldemort read it, smirked and handed it back.

“The wards remain stable, the Aurors inside have been all but annihilated, and our men have already disarmed an estimated third of the population. Ladies and gentleman, Berlin is ours.”

The room swelled with cheers and applause. It had been a risky maneuver. The true scale of Berlin’s defenses was unknown, but it would have been at its most alert with the election in place. It seemed providence was on their side. Voldemort let them have their moment of enthusiasm, enjoying it himself for few moments before he gestured them to quiet down.

“This is indeed a glorious victory, but we still have much work to do. The Polish Minister of Magic is a new and skittish ally. Our success in Berlin affords us some confidence, but we will need more victories and soon if we hope to keep it. Albertson has what he needs to hold the city for at least six months, but we’re going to need to take the states of Brandenburg and Baden-Württemberg long before then in order to secure the borders in France and Poland. After that, we’ll move our troops towards each other through Hesse, Thuringia, Saxony-Anhalt, and Saxony, effectively splitting the country in half.”

“Divide and conquer,” one of the majors said thoughtfully.

“Precisely. The Aurors will be gathering in Brandenburg and what little remains of Berlin, so we will begin our attack in Baden-Württemberg. We’ll start off with shock troops first, take out as many Auror and Ministry offices as possible, and then march our infantry after them to establish control over the local population. After that we’ll have to wait and see how the Germans respond. If they stick to Berlin or rush to Baden-Württemberg or split themselves, we have plenty of options left to us in any of these events. Any questions?”

One of the Corporals, a hard-faced woman missing her left ear stepped forward.

“How much force do you wish us to use to subdue the civilian population?”

“As much as necessary,” Voldemort said plainly, then added, “And no more than that. As tempting as it may be to punish them for what happened in Ireland and Scotland, they will suffer enough through their humiliating defeat. I expect all of you to be ruthlessly efficient so that they might fear you, but not so utterly ruthless that they will find rebellion the more suitable choice than surrender. Remember, the eyes of the world are upon us.”

An audible snort drew his attention to the corner of the room where Beartooth stood, arms crossed.

“You have something you would like to say?” Voldemort asked smoothly. Several men and women quickly stepped out of the way so as not to be between the werewolf and the Dark Lord’s wand.

“My people don’t give a damn about the rest of the world. Sure as hell don’t give a damn about German sensibilities. We’re here for one reason and one reason only: Kill as many as the fuckers as possible.”

Those gathered in the room held their breaths, certain that such a bold and disrespectful statement could only end in blood and/or screaming. The Dark Lord must have been in unusually high-spirits, however, because all he did was smile.

“Shock troops it is then.”

Snape stared out the window and down at the small gathering of students beside the lake. Harry was out there, weaseling some extra credit out of Vector by demonstrating some sort of pagan ritual for making fire with only diagrams of triangles and pentagons to the entire arithmancy class. Seitler was nearby, scanning for trouble, and more than likely some of his men were out of sight doing the same. He was thankful for their diligence. It was hard enough convincing his own students to be cautious and alert, let alone the castle’s own security detail.

Within a few minutes Harry succeeded in making fire. Small though it was, Snape couldn’t help but be in impressed. He had heard Professor Seamus gloat to Vector that the spell was possible but way out of the league of a fifteen year-old novice. There were three hundred and thirty three parts to it after all, and they had to be arranged perfectly. Apparently, Potter had found an abridged version. Or had created one himself.

The Gryffindor made some sort of flinging gesture at the little fire, which suddenly exploded. Those gathered all leaped back in alarm, except for the conjurer himself who had been knocked three feet away and onto his back. Vector hurried to his side, but the boy was already climbing to his feet, patting his clothes to put out the little fires. He didn’t seemed particularly concerned that he had nearly blown himself up.

Merlin, this was supposed to be the greatest threat to the Dark Lord?

No, it couldn’t be. The child who had been prophesized to destroy Voldemort was dead and gone, and had been for fourteen years now. Buried in some unmarked grave with Frank and Alice Longbottom.

This was just coincidence. A mistake on the centaurs’ part. Maybe even a cruel joke. After all, there was no proof Harry had been born on July 31st. There was no reason for Harry to lie about it. He didn’t know about the prophecy.

However, Dumbledore did. Dumbledore who could have warned James and Lily. It would explain why they had fled Britain so abruptly, why they would hide their identities and pretend to be muggles, and why they might lie, even to their own child, about his age and birthright.

No. They had reason to flee already. The war was escalating and the end could be seen overwhelmingly in the Dark Lord’s favor, and they had fled knowing they and their infant son would be killed if they didn’t. Pretending to be muggles… it wasn’t like they had any reason to cling to wizarding life after they left Britain. They must have thought being a muggle was somehow better than being a refugee, and in a lot of ways they were probably right.

It was too important a matter to guess at. He would have to know before he did anything. Wait, no, that’s not right. If he knew, then he would have to do something. What exactly? Tell the Dark Lord obviously… or tell Harry. Warn him. Explain his destiny. Help him carry it out?

There had been a time in his life, one he was not proud, where he had doubted the Dark Lord’s cause. The Death Eaters, men and women he had respected and admired, had been becoming increasingly fanatical, malicious, and barbaric. He had found himself becoming disgusted with their pointless cruelty and their lack of any true motivation beyond the indulgence of their own growing sadism. More than that, he was starting to hate the Dark Lord for encouraging them.

Only Lucius knew of his doubts, and was the sole surviving confidant of those dark times. The death of the Longbottom child and with it the only hope of the Dark Lord’s defeat had stripped him of the possibility of defection, and despite the hopelessness that followed the months after, it eventually came to pass that the war ended. Lucius had pulled some strings to have him transferred to Hogwarts rather than taking up a Court appointment, sparing him the company of people he had come to despise (with the exception of Lestrange of course, but then they rarely sought out the other’s company).

Things got better. The country began to heal. Everyday the future looked brighter. A new generation, untouched by the horrors of that conflict, was appearing now.

Just in time for this new war to deprive them of their innocence.

If Harry really was the one capable of killing the Dark Lord, should he help him do so and put an end to this vicious cycle? Would that really help anyone at this point? Pulling Voldemort from his immortal coil would destabilize the government, the entire country, leaving them vulnerable to threats from within and without. There would only be more war.

If Harry was truly destined to kill Voldemort, and there was no definitive evidence that he was, Snape may not in fact be capable of stopping him anymore than he was capable of stopping Voldemort. The infuriating Gryffindor had survived countless obstacles at unbelievable odds for years, and in the process had obtained magical and political power. He had nearly succeeded in killing the Dark Lord once already. What if he sided prematurely? He was caught in a very precarious position between them.

Questions. Too many questions. He didn’t know what to do. Had it really only been a week ago that his biggest concern was the future of his own genetic line? It seemed such a small and ineffectual matter, and yet perhaps if the future was really so grim it should be of primary importance. What if he did not survive? Who would carry on his legacy? Ira if he could have his preference, but life rarely asked his opinion.

What if he was just turning into a paranoid loon? Maybe Dumbledore cursed his office before he fled Britain. The years Lestrange had spent here certainly hadn’t improved her sanity.

He needed answers to two very basic questions before he proceeded to any others questions concerning his future.

Was Harry truly born on July 31st as the Centaurian naming book indicated?

And could Ira, in fact, be the future mother of his children?

Saturday was in three days. He would uncover the answer to both questions then.

“She won’t come out,” Timmons said softly, as he descended the stairs to the living room of the small town home they were currently borrowing. It all looked sadly empty. Krum was lost to them, as was Fredricks, both killed during the attack on Berlin or else in mortal peril that none of them could save them from. Dumbledore and Tonks had arrived as scheduled, and while their leader informed them of the sad turn of events, she had gone up to one of the empty bedrooms and would speak to no one. Timmons had heard her weeping, but he didn’t think that was something he should share with the others. She obviously wanted to grieve in private. “I think we should leave her be for now.”

Johan, for once, had nothing sarcastic or belittling to say. Phoebe, likewise remained silent.

“This…” Dumbledore began, then stopped and shook his head. “I find myself at a loss for words in this moment, at a time I know you all need comfort and reassurance. I can find none that would not be an insult to those we have lost.”

“We don’t know if they’re dead,” Timmons said quickly. “They’re both very clever young men. They still have a fighting chance!”

“Yes, indeed, they do,” Dumbledore agreed, smiling sadly. “Please hold onto that hope for us, my friend. I am afraid we are running short on it. Matters have turned increasingly grave. I had not considered the invasion of Berlin possible with it being so far from both Britain and France. It would seem that the Dark Lord has made a secret alliance with Poland, allowing Britain to flank both sides of Germany. If something is not done, Voldemort will take Germany and make himself at home on the mainland. I don’t need to explain to you how vital it is that we prevent that from happening.”

“To hear people talk in Linz, it shouldn’t be hard to gain Austria’s alliance. It’s the bureaucrats holding things up, but with the invasion of Berlin, they’ll have to take a side soon,” Johan said. “Italy hates the Dark Lord. They’re calling him the anti-Christ over there.”

“Funny, they said the same thing about me at one point,” the old man said, trying at a bit of humor. It died rather ignominiously. “I am going to return to Germany. Without a Minister or their Parliament, the people will be in desperate need of reorganization. There aren’t enough Aurors there to protect everyone from an invading army, but if I can convince the public of the imminent threat I may be able to organize a civilian militia.”

They nodded. Timmons looked up towards the ceilings.

“Will you take her with you?”

The old man’s eyes closed and he let out a deep sigh. “No, not yet. Dear Nymphadora has always been a woman to carry her emotions in extremes, both the good and the bad. When the time comes, she will arise from this tragedy more fierce and driven than ever, but that time is not now. Let her grieve.”

“We should offer a truce with the British. Just because they don’t know about our alliance with the Dark Lord doesn’t mean we can’t make one with them now,” Katarina suggested. She was sitting alone in the parlor with Horace, the room devoid of illumination. They had cleared out the smoke when it appeared the Culties were through with ransacking the city. For now, everything was quiet. Too quiet for an 8:00 P.M. in a city like Berlin, but not even the vampires felt much inclined to merrymaking with the invaders hunting the streets for rebels. Her children were scattered around the various windows of the hotel, looking out for trouble.

Horace didn’t even grace her with his usual glare. He simply continued to nurse his glass of brandy, pretending he could actually see it even though she knew he couldn’t. “No. Grandfather will wish to maintain absolute deniability. There’s no way he’ll associate himself with you until the entire massacre fiasco is forgotten or he could convince everyone that you were in Frankfurt instead of Berlin when the attack happened. You’ll all be slaughtered.”

Katarina mentally sighed. Was he ever going to let that slide?

“Then what do we do?”

“We find the hub, deactivate the ward, and escape,” he stated. She was tempted to throw something at him to see if he would duck.

“It’ll be heavily guarded, and even if you succeeded, the Aurors outside would get in and slaughter your men. I doubt Grandpa would appreciate that.”

That earned a small, barely detectable smirk. Yes, progress!

“The wards can’t be continuous. There are too many different types of terrains around the city, some of them are even underground. We may be able to take down a small and inconspicuous section for a short period of time before the Aurors even notice. No harm, no foul.”

She nodded, even though she didn’t like the plan. It was too risky. The hub would be heavily guarded by trained and armed wizards, and while her own people were formidable, they were not invulnerable. They didn’t even know where the hub was and if they did, would Horace even know how to work it without tearing down the entire system?

Also, there were more immediate concerns.

“My children will need to feed soon, as will I.”

He glanced in her direction, his normal ruddy-brown eyes appearing entirely red.

“Then you shall hunt. There are enough dead in the street that I doubt anyone would question a few people going missing.”

Well, perhaps m the situation wasn’t entirelybad.

Harry kept himself hunched over his Herbology essay, determined to ignore Draco’s snickering from across the library table. It didn’t help that if he glanced out of the corner of either eye he could see both Ginny and Hermione trying very hard not to smile.

“I can’t believe you actually burnt off your eyebrows,” Draco finally said plainly, and both girls burst into giggles. He glared at them all. His eyebrows, thanks to Pomfrey, were right where they were supposed to be but no one in class seemed quite able to forget the incident in arithmancy. How was he to know that just a drop of blood would have that big of a reaction?

“Shut. Up.”

The Detrimonius Age Potion was the most reliable and the most precise age determining potion Snape had ever encountered, and also the most difficult to brew. He had only done it once before during his university days and afterwards had sworn never to attempt it again. It had seemed like such a uselessly over specific potion (who cared if your birth was off by half an hour?) and so difficult to brew he was convinced its inventor a closet sadist.

However, if Harry was ‘born as the seventh month dies’ he would have been born close to midnight. A half an hour could have him born in either August or July. He had to be absolutely sure.

Time was not on his side. His duties stole away his daylight hours and snatched greedily at his evenings, and the Detrimonius Age Potion required time and concentration. He had taken to brewing it at three in morning in order to make the timing just right, subsisting on catnaps for the last three days. It did nothing to improve his disposition, and certainly wasn’t endearing him to his students any. McGonagall actually had the nerve to call him a tyrannical ogre. To his face no less!

He hoped his lack of sleep was not reflected in the letter he had sent to Ira, requesting to visit her. Perhaps it didn’t matter. She had written him back after all with her approval.

Snape dared a glance at the clock, before turning back to his potion. Just after six. He was to meet Ira at seven and he was still in the same clothes he had worn yesterday. He could rush his morning routine, but rushing potions was an entirely different matter. She would forgive him for being late, he reminded himself, the potion wouldn’t forgive him for being early.

He hovered motionlessly over the cauldron watching as the transparent green fluid began to brighten ever so slowly. Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. And finally, it was just right. He stirred the potion counterclockwise three times with a white elm twig and then clockwise with a cedar twig six times. The potion became colorless.

He let out a sigh of relief, and carefully ladled out the potion into six small vials, then separated the vials between his refrigerated cupboard and the storage cabinet. After all the trouble he went through to make it, he didn’t want to ruin his work during a moment of insomnia induced clumsiness.

He looked at the clock and cursed under his breath. Abandoning his lab for his private quarters, he dug out some vials from his sock drawer and downed them. The stubble he had been sporting promptly fell out and his mouth tasted far too strongly of peppermint. Potions were delightful things, but they could not yet replace the need for showers or the regular replacement of clothes, which he did in record time. His hair was still soaking when he stepped out of the castle and into the dark chill of the November morning. A house elf had a horse from the stable ready and waiting for him when he arrived and the sentinel at the portcullis watched him suspiciously. He didn’t dare rush his horse in the dim light, and by the time he reached Hogsmeade the sun was just starting to touch the tips of the tallest roofs.

The sentinel station was minimally manned so early in the morning, but the sole guardian did his duty, checking Snape’s identity and authorization before letting him into the same room as their floo. He was seven minutes late when he finally stepped into Chief Sentinel Morgan’s parlor.

The sun was just slightly higher here, and illuminated the room in a soft yellow light. It was much the same as he remembered it from past visitations. Dark wood paneling and large marble fireplace with a hunting scene carved into suggested it had been designed with a man in mind, but the predominance of artfully curved furniture, an over abundance of pillows, and the half dozen vases filled with flowers stated plainly that a woman ruled the roost.

“Severus? Is that you?” From the entry door, Ira made her appearance. Her hair was down, something he hadn’t seen before. It made her look younger, he noted. He bowed politely to her.

“Good morning. Forgive me for my lateness.”

She smiled weakly and gestured towards the small round table where a tea set was already prepared for them.

“I know your time must be especially precious to you these days. Morgan told me you had been promoted. Congratulations.”

“Unofficially, I am afraid. All of the responsibility and none of the respect. I can’t complain, however. My pay has nearly doubled. And how are things at the university?”

They took their seats across from one another. She looked at him solemnly, as she poured him a cup of tea.

“I was fired.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what he should say to that. Then the slightest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. He glowered at him for tricking him.

“I really was fired. Budget cuts. The funds are all being funneled toward military and defense projects. Man-hunting butterflies apparently didn’t meet their standards of scary.”

“I can’t imagine why not.” He poured a little cream into his tea.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

“It’s good to see you again, Severus,” she said finally. “I wasn’t sure if I ever would.”

“Yes, I’ve had a lot to think about since our last meeting. I admit, I didn’t think I was going to see you again either for a time.”

She looked down. “I’m sorry I deceived you.”

He smirked a bit at that. “That is quite alright. As a Slytherin, I have fine appreciation for deception. I didn’t come here to make you feel guilty, Ira. I want to tell you what I realized while I was thinking.”

She looked up again, uncertain. He purposefully kept his expression blank. It wasn’t his intention to pressure her or intimidate her. If he didn’t have her full enthusiastic cooperation, none of this would be worth it.

“I want you to be my wife.”

Ira dropped her tea cup, causing it to shatter. Tea instantly stained the table linen, then disappeared, charmed to remove any evidence of its owner’s clumsiness.

“I-” she started, her eyes wide and on the verge of panic.

“And I want you to be the mother of my children.”

Her panic morphed into hurt. She had such an expressive face. There was nothing she could hide from him, or anyone else for that matter, which normally earned his contempt but right now he found it comforting.

“Severus, don’t…” she said softly.

“I believe you want the same thing.”

“I can’t.”

“I am not convinced it is impossible. I think you should get a second opinion on your… condition.”

“You have no idea what my condition is,” she said, a hint of anger seeping into her voice. “You have no idea what you’re asking me to do. I had the hope of a family crushed long ago, and I won’t let you put me through that again. I think you should leave.”

She stood up, preparing to abandon him and his plan before even hearing it. He took her hand as she passed, forcing her stop.

“Please, wait…”

Refusing to look at him, she tried to pull her hand away. He didn’t tighten his hold, but he didn’t let go either. “Severus, don’t. I know I misled you, but I never intended to hurt you. What you’re doing to me now… it’s beyond cruel.”

“I know,” he admitted, unperturbed. “But you’re also playing at being the damsel in distress, and frankly I don’t think it suits you at all.”

He caught her free hand just before it managed to make contact with his face. She glared daggers at him, her eyes darkening in anger. Staring back at her with his same cool, provoking expression he continued.

“Three hours. That’s all I ask.”

“Liar.”

“And unrepentant.” He let her go, and stood. “I have buried dreams myself, Ira. Do not think you are the only one who knows the anguish of resurrecting them. Right now, I’m hemorrhaging self-respect.”

Her expression softened, then hardened again, then cracked. She smiled.

“How can you be simultaneously charming and abhorrent at the same time?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you just find the abhorrent charming. Two hours and forty-five minutes?”

She crossed her arms, but she didn’t try to escape. That was something.

“And what precisely do you expect me to do?”

Half way there. He was very tempted to smile, but he didn’t want to frighten her.

“There is a medi-witch here in London. A woman with a… unique specialty. Her primary practice is prenatal care and midwifery, but on Saturdays she devotes herself to a different kind of patient.”

“Patients like me? Who can’t… un.”

“You do realize we’ve both completed a college-level education? It’s okay to actually say all those naughty words.”

“She sounds like a quack.”

“Geniuses usually do. I’ve called around. She’s very good. I took the liberty of making you an appointment with her at eight.”

She gaped at him. “You’re shameless!”

“It’s completely confidential.”

“Oh god!”

“You don’t need to be nervous. I’ll go with you.”

“Oh god!”

It took considerably more cajoling, arguing, and charming abhorrence to finally convince Ira to go. Snape was supremely thankful that Morgan was busy in Bristol and Mrs. Morgan was away on some sort of retreat, because he didn’t think he could survive the embarrassment of either of them reporting some of things he had said to their circle of friends. Nevertheless, he had succeeded. Five minutes to eight, he was escorting her to a large town house on the upper east side, looking no different from any of the other houses on the row except for the little sign hanging in the front garden reading;

‘Mothers-To-Be Midwifery; Medi-witch Juliana Jacobi’

A plump, middle-aged receptionist answered the door, and led them inside. The entire bottom floor had been converted into a clinic. The parlor served as the waiting room, the library as an office, and the bedrooms as examining rooms. Ira spent several minutes filling out forms, glaring at them hatefully every so often when the questions became a little too personal.

“It’s asking me if I’m a junkie,” she said indignantly. Snape peeked at her form, and smiled.

“It also asking if your chosen partner was ever diagnosed with a venereal disease. I’ll choose not to take it personally. The answer is ‘no’ by the way.”

“Mrs. Beadle?”

They both looked up to a see a small woman with poof of white hair and a mouth that was made for smiling. She was dressed in the familiar white frock of a medi-witch, and had a file tucked under harm. Ira clutched Snape’s arm as if she expected to eaten.

“Good morning, dear,” the medi-witch said pleasantly. “No need to be nervous. We won’t run any tests today. We’re just going to have bit of a chat. Get an idea of what you want. Would this be your husband?”

Ira blushed. Snape smirked. Jacobi smirked back.

“Ah. A libertine. Haven’t met many of those since college. Hoo-ha, those were the good old days. Follow me please, dear. Boy toys optional.”

He had to lead a gaping Ira into the medi-witch’s office, and quickly sat her down in one of the chairs. She seemed to come back to herself, along with all her embarrassment over being placed in this situation. Things would have quickly descended into an awkward silence if Jacobi weren’t so skilled in ignoring it.

“Would you like anything to drink? You seem a bit nervous. I have some peach schnapps in the cubby if you’re interested. I know it’s a little early, but some things are best not discussed sober.”

“Er…I… no thank you.”

“Suit yourself. Now then, what exactly seems to be problem?”

Ira couldn’t even begin to think of how to answer that. Snape frankly hadn’t a clue. All he knew was what she had told him and that wasn’t anything.

“Let’s try this at another angle. Do you enjoy sex?”

The blush that followed could have stopped traffic.

“A lot of infertility is the result of underactive hormone production. If you find you are not becoming aroused, this can affect conception.”

“N-n-no, that’s not…”

“I didn’t think so either. Are you menstruating?”

Ira stiffened. Jacobi nodded knowingly.

“Have you ever menstruated?”

A nod.

“At the usual age? 12 or 13?”

Another nod.

“When did it stop?”

“…I think I’ll have that drink now.”

It took three shots before Ira could be coaxed into saying anything, during which time her hand found its way into Severus’. It stirred in Snape distant memories of his youth, when his mother lay in her sick bed, weak and desperate not to be abandoned.

“It stopped after my husband poisoned me…” Ira said finally, listless, staring out the window to the empty street outside. Something inside Snape clenched. “…with my own birth control potion.”

And the clench tightened until it became a stabbing pain.

“Why would you-” he started, but Jacobi held up her hand to silence him. Ira went on as if she hadn’t hear him.

“I didn’t want him to hurt the children, you see? He hated children. Hated women. Hated everyone really. He liked money though. And my family had a lot of that. He used to work for my father as manager at one of his mills. I don’t remember what they made. His name was Winston.”

She took another sip from her glass.

“Daddy thought he was a nice man. I don’t know why. No one else thought so. I certainly didn’t think so, but he married me off to him anyway. Said he was a strong, intelligent man and that everyone was jealous of his ambition. Daddy was never very bright.”

Her eyes were starting to glisten with tears, but she wiped them away quickly.

“I wanted children,” she said, turning to Snape, pleading with him to believe her. “I really did, but… I couldn’t… I couldn’t bring them into that house. I wasn’t strong enough o protect them from him. So I started taking a potion. You know, those little home-kit versions? Mix the little blue vial with the little green vial once a week and take once after eating?”

Snape had no idea what she was talking about.

“Oh, yes, I remember those,” Jacobi nodded, “We used to hand them out like candy before the war. Useful, but hardly discreet.”

“So I learned. Winston found out. He did something to the vials. I nearly bled to death… if it hadn’t been for the house elf… Three months in the hospital, too weak to move, and when I came out of it Winston had divorced me, claiming I violated my marriage contract by taking contraception, and ran off with my dowry.”

“You never pressed charges?” Snape asked, unable to believe the man could walk away from such a vile act without some repercussions, especially if Ira’s father really was rich.

“I couldn’t prove anything. The medi-wizards said it was an accident. That I stupidly took the wrong combination of potions too frequently. Daddy believed Winston. What could I do with my own father calling me a lying harlot? Oh god, I can’t believe I’m telling you all of this.”

“Neither can I,” Snape admitted, rubbing her hand gently in his. His mother always seemed to calm down when he did this.

“Mom divorced daddy after that. She couldn’t forgive him for siding with Winston against his own daughter. She tried taking me to some other doctors, but they all said the same thing. That I’d… ruined myself with the contraception. Withered my womb into nothing. No one could help.”

Jacobi came around her desk and handed Ira a handkerchief, giving her a moment to come back to herself. She patted the younger woman on the shoulder.

“There, there, dear. You’ve gone through quite the ordeal, but its all in the past now.”

Ira just sniffled softly.

“Alright then,” the medi-witch said, taking her seat behind her desk once again. “I’ll have to perform some tests, but I think I may just be able to help you.”

Rebellion

It didn’t take long for Viktor to find shelter or round up a group of willing resistance fighters. Or rather, they rounded him up. After three days of raiding and unarming the civilian populous of Berlin, the Brass Culties had settled into a routine of control and reconnaissance, leaving the disoriented and frightened survivors to find shelter and sustenance for themselves. Many of those survivors included college students from Lindt-Wilheim, who had found places to hide in the pub districts and underground where even the local Aurors were hard pressed to hunt them out. Viktor, like so many others, had come out of his hiding place in the park in search of food, and been recognized by a pair of young wizards and invited to stay with them.

There current pad was the burnt out shell of an Italian restaurant, another victim of the Culties burning raid. The windows had been blown out from the heat, and they didn’t dare repair them lest they gave away that anyone was staying there, which left the place bitterly cold. The basement, however, had remained relatively undamaged, and with a working furnace and seemingly endless supply of stored food, it was a treasure. The city was overburdened as it was, with hundreds of stranded men and women from outside Berlin or the unreachable residential area of the city now cut off from their homes, and forced to rely on the kindness of strangers, the few untouched hotels and inns, and their own wits for shelter.

Ernst and Jacob, the young wizards who had rescued Viktor, were from the university but hadn’t been there during the raids and managed to escape with their wands in tact. They intended to keep them too, and use them against the British invaders with extreme prejudice. Viktor was very pleased to hear this. Within in three days, he had fortified their hideout and recruited six additional resistance members, establishing himself as the young, but most experienced, leader of the group and Secret Keeper to their new home.

Now all that needed to be done was to actually make use of those skills he had acquired from Dumbledore. The first one being intelligence gathering.

It was nearly midnight, and their entire party had finally returned, not daring the streets any longer with the curfew in affect. They knew if they were spotted they would immediately be detained and possibly killed. They gathered around in a circle, eating their daily ration and taking in the warmth from the furnace, and waited for Viktor to speak.

Ernst and Jacob, the two university students, Ada, a librarian from the National Wizarding Library of Berlin, Christiane, her 14-year old daughter, Clemens, a mail clerk from the Ministry Department of Justice, Eleonore, a journalist, plus Engel and Hagan, brothers and co-owners of a now destroyed dueling and sporting supply store. Viktor had found them by chance, but selected them specifically for their unique skill sets. Together, they all knew the city like the back of their hands; the buildings, the people, the ways things came together and what caused them to fall apart. Out of them, only Engel and Hagan knew anything about fighting, but the rest could be taught. They were eager enough to learn.

“What have you learned, Ernst?” Viktor started their meeting. The older boy smiled ruefully.

“Nothing that will likely help us. The Culties set up a perimeter around the wards. They got some sort of spell going on that you get a nasty shock if you get too close.”

“How close?”

“Twenty, maybe twenty-five feet? I don’t know for sure, but it’s pointless. You can still see what’s happening on the other side of the wall. There’s a lot of Auror’s gathering there. I don’t know why since they can’t get in to help us.”

Viktor smiled, however. “No, this is good. If we can get close enough to the border to be seen without the Culties noticing, we might be able to get information on what’s happening outside. See if they might have any plans to take down the wards that we can help them with. Well done, Ernst.”

The other boy looked a bit more cheerful to learn his day spent risking his wand by wandering in the cold, gloomy streets wasn’t for nothing. The Culties were no longer tearing people out of their homes and businesses, but they were routinely stopping people on the street and searching them. He could have left his wand at the base, as Viktor suggested, but that wasn’t something he was yet willing to do.

Their leader turned to Ada, who was gently stroking Christiane’s hair, as she watched and listened in solemn silence. The girl hadn’t spoken since they arrived, traumatized as she was by what she had witnessed, but she willingly followed her mother out into the city, perhaps hoping against hope to find the father who had not returned.

“What’s the status at the Minsitry?”

“They didn’t destroy all the buildings, like we originally thought,” Ada said. “They spared six of them as far as I can tell. They’re still raiding the Auror Headquarters and training school, but once they’re done they’ll probably tear them down. They kept the Department of Records, the Department of Transportation, and the Department of Education standing, but no ones allowed into any of them. I think they’re using them as dormitories and bases of operations. They’re definitely using the Department of Education to store their supplies. It was crawling with people. Lots of security too.”

Viktor nodded. “I’ll check it out tomorrow. If at all possible, I want to take it out. The siege has a better chance of working if we can make the Culties as desperate to get out as the Aurors are to get in.”

Hagan chuckled darkly. “Then we can blow these mother-fu-”

Ada covered her daughter’s ears and glared at the other man, who smiled apologetically. The others chuckled. All but Clemens, who was staring blankly at the glow coming from the furnace. He was the oldest of their group, a mere fifty-eight or so, but out of all of them he was taking things the hardest. He spoke little, smiled less, and thought on things no one could even begin to guess at. Viktor had no intention of guessing.

“What’s on your mind, Clemens?”

The older wizard didn’t say anything for a moment, nor did he move, and Viktor was just starting to think the man hadn’t heard him when he finally spoke.

“It can’t be allowed to happen again. Not here. Not ever,” he said, without looking at any of them. Without changing his expression at all.

“What can’t be allowed to happen, old man?” Hagan sneered. He hadn’t understood Viktor’s reasoning for taking in the scrawny little desk-jockey and still didn’t, and though he wouldn’t express his displeasure to their leader he saw no reason to hide his feelings from the man himself.

“The Wall. There can’t be another Wall in Berlin. It’s an abomination.”

“What’s he talking about?” Jacob asked, honestly confused.

“The Berlin Wall,” Ada said, “You should know about it. It hasn’t fallen that long ago.”

Jacob just shrugged, mirroring the attitude of several others. The Berlin Wall was not a part of their culture. It had never touched the wizarding section of the city, and even if it had it wouldn’t have made much of a difference to a society that traveled by floo, broom, and apparating. World War I and II were significant to wizards only for the inconvenience of the temporary isolationist policy against muggles that had arisen during the time. The Berlin Wall was little more than an abstract lesson about the tragedy of being a muggle to most wizards and witches.

Clemens, however, could not view it so blithely.

“I don’t expect any of you to understand this,” he said, finally turning to face them. “You didn’t have to grow up like I did. I was muggle-born. Magic could no more solve anything than wishing could, and as a boy that wall was as impenetrable as Avalon. God, you have no idea what it was like… how many families were torn apart by that… thing. My grandmother died of cancer, alone in some cesspit that passed for a hospital and was buried in a pauper’s grave by strangers. My wife didn’t get to see her parents for nearly twenty years. My eldest brother had a daughter and didn’t even know it until she was grown and had children of her own.”

He closed his eyes, his expression beyond painful.

“God, god, don’t let that happen here. I want to see my wife and children again. I don’t want to die here alone because we were so stupidly arrogant to think we couldn’t make the same mistakes as muggles.”

They looked away from him, shamed to think he might be right, that they themselves might have caused his suffering through their arrogance. That somehow, this might all be their own fault. They all looked away except for Viktor, the only one of them exonerated against the crime of indifference, who stood and walked to Clemens, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You have my word,” he said, “One way or another, that ward is going to come down, but I need your help. I need you to be strong. I cannot do this on my own.”

Clemens opened his eyes, and looked up at him, his expression still painful. They stared at each other for a long time.

“You are so young…”

Viktor, who had heard this often enough to be able to ignore it, just smiled.

“I am what ever is necessary. Can I count on you, my friend?”

The elder wizard stared at him for a moment longer, his stricken expression relaxing. He seemed to find what he was looking for in the young wizards’ eyes, and finally nodded.

Harry was thankful to get out of History of Magic and away from Professor Toure’s less than subtle expressions of total adoration, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about spending that time with the less than adoring Dark Lord. At least Snape wasn’t there for once. The man had been pointedly ignoring him for the last week, and he wasn’t sure what would happen if the dour wizard were forced to notice him. Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy together was bad enough. He didn’t think his sanity would survive a Voldemort and Severus Snape combination right now.

He didn’t bother announcing himself as he stepped through the portrait and into the Dark Lord’s office. The man was at his desk, sorting through piles of paperwork, just as Harry expected. There were three assistants there as well, which was a little unexpected, but given how busy things must have been and the fact that Voldemort had left the convenience of one of his Court offices, perhaps it shouldn’t have been. It did make Harry wonder why the Dark Lord would chose to come to him rather than the other way around.

His uncertainty must have been obvious, because when the dark wizard looked up from his work at him, he said, “Don’t look so worried.”

Which, coming from this man, didn’t mean much to him.

“How are you settling back in to school?”

Harry could have gone on for an hour long lament of his Herculean struggles to catch up on his course work or how he seemed to be stalked by at least half a dozen people no matter where he went or that he really wanted Quidditch to be re-opened, but somehow he doubted the man would find any of it particularly interesting.

“Fine.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Voldemort said. “Since, I’m going to have to muck it up again. I’ll need you for at least in week in France before the end of the month. I’m not entirely sure of the dates, so you’ll need to be prepared to leave on a moment’s notice.”

Harry could almost feel his blood pressure rising. For Merlin’s sake, was he ever going to get a break? Voldemort tried to look sympathetic, but just came off as inappropriately amused. Harry found himself a seat and plopped down into, trying to make himself comfortable.

“Please tell me you’re not getting married to the Queen of France.”

“Alas, no, although her Majesty is a part of the reason I need you. I am hoping to recruit additional werewolves from the new colonies and install them for training at some of our forts, as well as prepare the way for the Beast Brigade. She and her Parliament are understandably concerned over the rapid pace with which we are organizing ourselves within France’s borders. I believe your presence there will assuage their fears more so than my own. Plus I know you like her.”

Harry ignored the last statement.

“No offense, My Lord, but…well… fuck you.”

The Dark Lord blinked at him. The aides all stopped breathing.

“I’m not entirely sure how I can take that without offense,” he said finally and without looking at the aides, gestured for them to leave the room. They scurried out like rats escaping a burning building.

“Now then, would you care to elaborate or shall I just skip to the Cruciatus?”

Harry glared back at him, a challenge perhaps or just honest to gods anger. He actually had the nerve to stand up and stalk closer to the Dark Lord.

“I spent three days in the middle of a bloody fortress with you and Malfoy leading me around like a damn puppy, and in all that time you couldn’t have said, ‘hey, Harry, by the way, we’re going to invade Berlin’. You know, perhaps the morning you were actually going to fucking do it?”

“We really need to work on this swearing habit you’ve developed.”

“Or how about giving the men you hired me to look after, more than a god damn week to actually train so they don’t get themselves blow to shit in the first five minutes of battle?! God fucking dammit! How am I suppose to get fuck all done with you throwing this at me in the last possible second?! Or is that the point? Just keep throwing shit at me so I’m running around like a headless chicken and don’t know what the hell is going on, so I have to rely on you to tell me what to do and what to think!”

I hadn’t thought I was being that obvious, Voldemort thought unhappily, but Harry was still in full rant mode and plowed on before he could interject.

“And what the hell are you thinking invading Berlin? What possible good could come of that? You’ve just validated their paranoia! And for what? What? A sliver of land we won’t even be able to keep? A couple hundred dead witches and wizards on both sides? I mean, what the bloody-”

Fast as snake, the Dark Lord leaped from his chair, and Harry jumped back just as quickly, but the man caught his wrist before he could truly escape. His right was still free, however, and a flick of his wrist brought it to hand.

“Expell-”

Voldemort jerked him around roughly, unbalancing him enough to undo the spellwork and twisting his arm behind his back. Harry let out a pained cry, but it was smothered by the hand that came to tighten around his exposed throat.

The silence that followed was eerie in its displacement. No curses, no shouts or screams, no threats or taunts, nor shattering glass and wood. None of the noise and chaos Harry had come to associate with fighting. It was just him and Voldemort, wrapped around him like the snake that was his totem, squeezing the air out of him.

“You seem a little tense,” the Dark Lord hissed softly in Parseltongue, furthering the snake allusion in Harry’s panicking mind. The tone was soft, but the grip told the truth of the man’s anger, threatening to pull his arm clean out of its socket if he didn’t asphyxiate him first. “Perhaps I can help?”

The hand at his throat loosened, enough for Harry to make a desperate gasp for air before a new sensation stole it away again. It wasn’t precisely pain and it wasn’t precisely pleasure, but rather a combination of both mixed with the nauseating exhilaration of falling from a great height. The room spun, his body became numb to all but the burning sensation of Voldemort’s hand on his throat, and his thoughts throbbed in time with his slowing heart beat.

He wasn’t afraid. He knew he should have been. This was a killing hold, and this man, if man you could call him, was a killer. Still, he wasn’t. The feeling wasn’t entirely foreign. It was not unlike that day in garden during the winter solstice, when he had briefly reached out to the earth and felt it reach back. It was like that… only nothing was reaching back.

When his legs gave out, the Dark Lord released his arm, allowing him to fall back against him rather than risk dislocating it. They sunk to the floor, Voldemort to his knees, Harry on his back, staring up at him, stunned. The dark wizard was not unaffected by whatever he had done to Harry, but seemed positively radiant with power as he leaned over the boy. His grin, however, was as dark and disturbing as ever.

“Feeling a bit more relaxed now?”

With the very last of his strength, Harry slung his arm up and over, slapping him squarely across the face. Voldemort jerked in surprised, then threw back his head and laughed. He withdrew his hand from his protégé’s throat to comb it through his sweat soaked hair.

“That’s what I like about you, my defiant young friend. Always the fighting spirit, no matter who, no matter why.” He chuckled, and Harry had to close his eyes. The sound made him feel dizzy. “Look at you, fighting me, even now, and why? Did you not fight an entire country to be by my side but a few months ago? Was it not you who swore your vengeance against those who threatened your pack and fellow countrymen? I have never doubted your loyalty, but where is your faith? However capricious I have been, I have done all I have for reasons beyond the fleeting passions of the moment. You, who are the culmination of momentary passions and have set in motion the very fate you defy, have no choice but to trust in my foresight. When you have a little foresight of your own, perhaps then you can afford such displays of defiance, but until then…”

Harry opened his eyes again as he felt the man pull away. The Dark Lord was moving towards the door. Was he just going to leave him there? He opened his mouth to speak, to call him back, but nothing came out. Voldemort returned a moment later with his aides following obediently behind him. He made a gesture at as prone protégé.

“Mr. Potter is suffering from magical fatigue. Please escort him to the infirmary and inform Professor Snape of his condition.”

They scurried to obey, two of them carefully picking Harry up from ground and wrapping his arms over their shoulders. They did it quickly and efficiently, and he wondered for an instant how often they had to carry people out of the Dark Lord’s office. He turned to Voldemort to ask what he had done to him, but he was alreadybeginning to figure it out for himself. The floating sensation had eased, leaving him was a familiar, bone deep fatigue.

His magic was gone or at least severely depleted.[1]

Well, shit. He would have almost preferred a crucio. At least then it would all be over and done with. It could take weeks to restore his magic.

“We will talk again when you are feeling more rested,” Voldemort said, magnanimously. In Parseltongue, he added, “And if you can behave yourself, perhaps I’ll even give you back some of the magic you so carelessly fling about.”

Harry cursed at him silently, but even in his head it sounded feeble. In addition to his magic, the man had stolen most of his fight as well. Well, bother. The man was right. He didn’t have any foresight; otherwise he would have known he wasn’t going to walk away the victor of this fight. Merlin, would he ever learn?

Ah, but he had learned just how fast the Dark Lord was.

He made a point of remembering it.

While Katarina and her brood hunted the city’s alleys and basements for sustenance, Tom hunted for information. He moved silently through the shadows, alert but fearless, passing by small groups of soldiers every few minutes. He stopped every time to study them as they passed, calculating the odds of getting one of them alone, before moving on. In his head Horace was screaming at him to go back to the vampire apartments and hide, before someone finally noticed his black cloaked figure skulking about. Tom ignored him.

Nothing would be gained if he just sat around and waited. He needed to get out of the city before Katarina figured out his rouse or anyone else discovered him here. To do that, he needed information.

It wasn’t until well after midnight that the soldiers thinned out enough for him to risk taking any of them by surprise. He chose a pair of female Culties. They had broken off from a larger group in order to take a leak without being leered at by the men in their squardron. And of course, because they were women, they were more concerned with watching out for peeping toms than keeping an eye on each other.

He killed the first one with Neck-breaking Curse before she had managed to undo the second clasp of her robe. Completely silent but for the soft ‘snap’, easily mistaken for a breaking twig. The second went down with a simple body bind, and he dragged her into one of the dozens of empty cellars.

“Lumos buyo,” he muttered, sending out an orb of light once they were out of sight of any possible observers. The cellar was empty, but also partially flooded in places with half an inch of freezing water. He didn’t bother trying to avoid it as he dragged the woman to the center of the room and dropped her onto her back.

He looked down at her. Her eyes were wide with terror, always satisfying to see, but otherwise there was nothing noteworthy about her. Her nose was a little too big to be attractive, her lips too thin, and none of it improved by the overtly masculine lines of her military clothes and haircut. Her insignia designated her a private, the lowest of recruits.

What are you going to do?Horace asked nervously.

“What do you think I’m going to do?” Tom said softly. Somehow, the woman’s eyes grew even wider.

Don’t! Let her go!

Tom reached down to hold her head steady as he looked into her eyes.

“Yes, just like that,” he crooned softly. “Keep them nice and wide. Legilimens.”

Stop! There was a brief moment of pain as both Horace and the woman resisted him, but all too soon they both fell away, overwhelmed by the images that passed before them, the knowledge that came and went, chaotic and meaningless at first. A day collecting sea shells at the beach with her father when she was six, a fight with her best friend just before graduation, her first clumsy attempts at flirting during her freshman year with a boy in her History of Magic class, her favorite uncle’s funeral. Slowly, they started to focus on her time as part of the Culties. The first day of basic, the overwhelming sorrow as her long wavy hair was cut and she said goodbye to all vestiges of femininity, her captain forgetting her name for the first three assignments in Walpole, meeting Donna Ravenwood, who would become her best friend when she was reassigned to a squad in Edinburgh, the first real fear since joining as she stepped out of the floo in a seedy little bar in Warsaw.

Warsaw, fearsome and alien, to a twenty year old girl who never expected to leave her own village. She had laughed and grinned with Donna about all the strapping young Polish men they would meet, but inside all she wanted was to go home. She didn’t sleep that night, wondering why she was in a dirty little hotel in a country that were not technically friends with and what that meant. The early morning debriefing…

Yes, that was what he wanted! How did they take Berlin? How did they activate the wards? Where were the controls for them hidden?

Spies and traitors, yes, he had figured that was how they had found out where everything was. They didn’t explain who exactly, but Tom figured it was a combination of bitter werewolves, French intelligence, and dark wizards longing for the return of a leader of Grindelwald’s stature.

The muggles had been informed that there was a fire in a part of the city under construction. The local fire department was handling it. No need for extra fire trucks or ambulances, it was all taken care of. Just keep people out of the area. Who the bloody hell cared about muggles? He wanted to know about the wards!

The Ministerial debate would be attacked first to draw attention from other targets. Both candidates should be targeted, but she didn’t get to be a part of that operation. She had been waiting behind a cauldron factory for three hours for the go ahead to start the raid on the university. Wards? She didn’t know about them. They were one of the targets after the attack on the debate. No one she knew which one. That wasn’t a part of her job.

Whose job was it?

It was a technical job, wasn’t it? It had to be one of the officers handling it. Who? She didn’t know. She was just a grunt. She didn’t hang out with the higher ups.

Tom broke eye contact with her and shoved her away in disgust. Useless! She knew nothing! Didn’t want to know anything! She had barely made a splash before he flung out his wand, snarling out a curse.

“Opprimo!”

The woman died quietly, namelessly, her internal organs all but liquefied. Tom wasn’t satisfied. Frustrated, he snarled out a half a dozen curses, pointless rending the corpse into so much bloodied meat. When the worst of his anger had dissipated he tore away her clothes and left them in the basement muck. When or if anyone ever found her, they would assume her the victim of an angry group of German wizards, and she would serve as a lesson of caution to other female soldiers if nothing else.

He ascended from the cellar, scanning briefly for any potential threats, then continued on his way. He would need to return to the apartments and clean himself up before the vampires returned. It would be inconvenient for them to smell the blood on him and start asking questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. There were reasons he had gone off alone, after all.

It wasn’t until he was standing under the hot spray of the shower that he realized Horace was being unusually quiet. Cautiously, he gave a mental knock, but there was no reply. The boy was gone. Hiding? Perhaps.

Some people really had no stomach for this kind of thing.

Voldemort did, in fact, visit Harry again before he left. Unfortunately, the boy was sound asleep. At a quarter to midnight, the Dark Lord decided that wasn’t unreasonable. The infirmary was dark, the only light from the half moon streaming in through the window, and around him he could hear only the soft, wheezy snores of sleeping children. He moved down the center of the room, looking from bed to bed to find his protégé. He found him at the end of the row. Books and parchment were piled onto a chair beside his bed, and a few pieces had fallen and scattered across the floor. So the boy was trying to keep up with his studies? Admittedly, that wasn’t something the Dark Lord had considered when he had been maneuvering him around his political chessboard.

If the size of the pile were any indication, it was clear he had his work cut out for him. It would explain why Harry was so overtly aggravated with him, when he had been much better behaved in Bristol even with Lucius provoking him. He was over worked and under rested.

The Dark Lord mentally sighed, and walked around to the other side of the bed so that he could stand beside Harry’s head. He brushed away a lock of wild hair, a source of endless amusement for him. The boy didn’t even stir.

I suppose, he thought wryly. This might count as good behavior. By Harry’s standards, in any event.

He rested his hand on the boy’s cheek, and cautiously, released Harry’s magic. It gravitated easily back to its original source, only too happy to return, and he had to carefully adjust the flow else he risk actually hurting them both. Harry did stir now, just a little, sighing softly and turning his head into the Dark Lord’s hand, seeking out the magic he had so recently been deprived of.

“Hhmm, you’re making me soft. I should kill you, and do us both a mercy,” Voldemort hissed softly in parseltongue. “But what’s the point of holding the world in your hand if there’s no one worth showing it off to?”

When most of Harry’s magic was finally returned, he pulled his hand away. There were no further signs of stirring, and if anything his protégé appeared to sink deeper into dreams.

“Sleep well, young prince. There are yet still more dragons for you to slay when you awake.”

He left as silently as he had come, and when his formidable presence had finally vanished, Harry opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. He did not close them again until dawn chased away the shadows.

I should never have accepted this case.

This was the conclusion Lestrange had drawn after weeks hunting through London, scouring the McGunny’s student and government records, and discreetly (and sometimes indiscreetly) interrogating his family and known associates, and finally drinking herself stupid in a seedy little dive in Knockturn Alley. Perhaps he was dead, she thought, nursing the hangover in the non-discript little inn in Daigon Alley. She might have gotten drunk in Knockturn, but her self-esteem wasn’t so low that she’d actually stoop to sleeping there.

There was a police report about some sort of attack in his apartment resulting in emergency surgery. McGunny had given a statement about a burglar to an investigating Sentinel, but had disappeared shortly there after before it could be corroborated. Perhaps the statement was true, at least from McGunny’s understanding. Maybe what he truly believed was a burglar was in fact an assassin sent by the former Minister to tidy up loose ends, and eventually finished the job at the hospital. Maybe McGunny knew it was an assassin and disappeared before anyone could try for his life again.

With the wards down over England, the little traitor could have escaped. If he was in fact still alive. And that was a rather important matter she needed to have clarified before she could take her investigation anywhere. The only problem was there was no way to verify it unless a body turned up, and that was highly unlikely.

Unless of course…

She smiled grimly to herself. She would have to go to Berlin. If McGunny truly was Germany’s spy they would have to have a record of him at the Ministry there. The chances of finding that record were slim, especially after the destruction of so many offices, but she had run out of leads.

If he was still alive and she found him, she made a mental note to make him pay for all the aggravation he was causing her.

“McGonagall wants to see you.”

Harry looked up from his essay on Gertrude the Gratuitous (a prominent figurehead during the 13th century Hedonist Movement) at Fred (or was it George? No, he was pretty sure it was Fred this time) standing over him with a folded piece of parchment. Across the library table, Hermione’s brow knitted in concern. Harry couldn’t recall doing anything recently that would warrant a meeting with his head of house, unless he was now being called away to France.

That couldn’t be right. It had only been two days since the Dark Lord’s visit.

“Yeah, okay.”

He stood up, and as he did so, he could feel everyone in his in the library turn to watch him. He really wished they would stop that. Following Fred out into the hall, he failed to question how McGonagall could have called him out of his study hall when she herself should have been teaching a class. He also failed to notice George Weasley coming up behind him until the older boy had successfully grabbed hold of his wand arm.

“George!” Harry yelped in surprise. He didn’t immediately panic until Fred dropped back to grab his other arm, and they both turned him in the opposite direction they had been heading, grinning like fools. Now he was trouble. “What are you-”

“Don’t fret, My Lord Chaos,” George said cheerfully. “We’re just kidnapping you. You’re overdue for it, you know.”

That was not nearly as funny as they thought it was.

“We thought you could use a break from honest studying, and join us for a life of crime… or at least a semester of crime,” Fred continued.

“What?”

“Step into our office, and we’ll explain everything.”

“Is that supposed to be an incentive?”

The twins grinned, but didn’t let go of him until they reached their ‘office’, which was in fact ‘Admiral’ Lockhart’s office. Harry could tell by all the obnoxious pictures of him hanging on the wall.

“Er… what if Lockhart shows up?”

“We’ll tell him we wanted advice on how to perform a lobotomy on one’s self,” George offered, then made himself at home behind the man’s desk. He opened various drawers, pulling out official looking documents and set them down. Fred guided Harry to a chair in front of the desk, then returned to the door to look out for spies (or possibly to block Harry’s only route of escape). “Now then, Harry, you don’t mind if I call you Harry?”

“It hasn’t stopped you from doing so for the last five years,” he said blandly.

“Yes, but that was social interaction. This is about business.”

Harry pulled out his watch to check the time. He had twenty minutes until arithmancy, and he was hoping to review his notes in case they had a pop quiz.

“Oi, we’re being serious here mate!” George protested. “This is a serious money making venture I want to discuss with you!”

“You do know I have a job? A legal one with a real paycheck and everything.”

Fred chuckled form the doorway. “Yeah, I heard. Good on you, but for a guy in your position, it doesn’t hurt to have a little non-traceable funds on the side in cases of emergency.”

“Or if you want to buy a hooker,” George suggested. “And we would be willing to set you up.”

“With a hooker?”

“You have a dirty mind, you know that? No, not a hooker, a backdoor account. You see, we’ve got an in with a goblin bank in Belfast that specializes in this sort of thing. It’s no Gringott’s, but as far as discretion goes it’s second to none.”

Harry closed his eyes, not believing what he was about to say next.

“And what precisely is this little business venture?”

George grinned and leaned forward in his chair, adopting his salesman persona once again.

“I’m glad you asked, Harry. You see Fred and I, we were just sitting around the other day thinking, ‘hey, you know what would be great about now? A game of Wizer’s Rent[2]’, but of course, our last deck was confiscated Lestrange banned them.”

“You want to open a casino in Hogwarts?” Harry asked dubiously.

George blinked at him. “Well, I didn’t, but that’s not a bad idea.”

Fred coughed into his hand, drawing him back to reality.

“Right then, we were just thinking how much we’d be willing to pay to get those deck of cards. And then we started to think of all those other things that got banned over the last couple of years because of the added security and all.”

“Exploding Snaps,” the other twin said from the doorway, “two way mirrors, radios, food that isn’t pre-packaged, quick-quotes quills, broomsticks, just about anything in Zonko’s, pet mice… although that last one might be because they keep escaping. You know, just a bunch of perfectly harmless stuff the teachers are sick of dealing with. Normally, no body even pays attention to the bans on those sorts of things, but since Hogsmeade weekends were canceled, the only thing we’ve got left is post and the school can actually keep track of that. Unless, of course, you know your way around it. Which we do. So our thought was we’d start ourselves a little business, getting all the good little girls and boys their special treats, for a price of course.”

“Of course,” Harry smirked. “You little fiends. You want to be black market smugglers.”

He couldn’t help laughing, despite himself. It was such a Fred and George thing to do. Harmless and clever and likely to cause someone in authority a monstrous headache. “And what would you need me for?”

“Ah, see, we know how to mess with the mail to get things in, it’s getting the money outthat’s the problem. Something about money[3] really screws with the system we’ve got going, and it all ends up getting diverted to the Sentinels, and that’s a group of wizards I don’t want to be locked alone in a room with ever again. Yick. We would need you to get the orders off the school grounds so they could be shipped without the Sentinels knowing.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, because they never check mymail.”

George grinned. “Oh, we’ve thought of that. Now your mail gets checked if you send it by post, but what if you didn’t send it that way?”

The youngest Gryffindor rolled his eyes. “Alright, how would I send it?”

“Portkey!”

“What?”

“All you have to do is put the orders and money in a box with a portkey attacked to it, and once you step off the grounds, you can activate the portkey and send the orders where they need to go.”

“Alright, I’ll hand it to you, that’s all very clever, but why me? Why can’t you do it?”

The twins shared an exasperated look. “Mate, you’re the only one who can actually leave the grounds on even a semi-regular basis. You already told us about visiting your godfathers at least once a month. And now you’ve got that thing in France you’re going to. Lately, it seems like you’re gone more often than not.”

Harry mentally flinched at that particular truth. He sighed.

“And what would I get out of this?”

George grinned as if he had already won, and at this point he probably had. “Well, free use of our very handy smuggling operation for one thing. I seriously doubt you enjoy Snape proofreading your love sonnets to the lovely Miss Luna.”

“Hey!”

“Plus ten percent of the profits,” he added. Harry glared at them.

“Thirty-three percent. Even three way split.”

“We have a fourth partner on the outside who actually fills the orders.”

“Then twenty-five percent.”

George shook his head. “Harry, Harry, Harry… this is going to involve a lot of work that you just don’t have the time or the know-how to pull off. It wouldn’t be fair to split it evenly when you’re essentially just walking out a door.”

Harry thought about it for a moment. “Twenty percent.”

“Harry-”

“Don’t ‘Harry’ me. This isn’t just about effort, George. It’s about risk. If we get caught, and considering Snapeis running things now that’s a definite possibility, then guess what? I’m the one who’s really screwed over here. You guys have what? Half a year left? Then you’re gone. I’ve got two and half years and I live with Snape. Not to mention if Hermione found out about this. Twenty percent is cheap, especially since you already said you couldn’t actually pull this off without me.”

George rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You make an interesting point. You’ll have to excuse me for a moment while I confer with my associate over there.”

The twins stepped out of the office for a minute, leaving Harry alone with the gaggle of Lockhart portraits trying gamely (and failing miserably) to impress him with their smiles and crisp looking uniforms. Honestly, what am I doing? Harry wondered, but he already knew the answer. He was reclaiming a tiny portion of his life. So much of it was already tied to the Dark Lord’s plans, plans Harry was no longer certain he wanted to be a part of.

But what’s the point of holding the world in your hand if there’s no one worth showing it off to?

Those words had stolen his sleep for the last two days, reminding Harry that the Dark Lord great andterrible, and above all else he was a conqueror. He would not stop with Berlin. He would take Germany, and then after that he would take another country, possibly France, either through war or through marriage, and then another country and then another. He would keep going until he held the entire world in his grasp, and he would drag Harry along for the ride, showing him all the terrors and glories a destiny that powerful entailed.

And Harry couldn’t stop it. He had already been swept up in it, trapped in the momentum of history.

But he could stop this. If he wanted to. When he wanted to. He could start it or stop it, build it up or tear it down. It was something he could control, something that would be his. A small, desperate defiance.

He needed that if he wanted to hold onto his sanity. The herbs he was taking weren’t enough. They quelled the anxiety attacks that seemed to bubble up in the quiet moments, when everything was still enough for him to realize what a train-wreck his life was swiftly becoming, but they could do nothing about the feeling of manic disorientation that dogged him.

Perhaps this wasn’t enough to really save him either, but it was a first step away from Voldemort’s shadow and that had to count for something.

The door opened and the twins stepped back inside. Harry stood from his chair and walked up to them. They were smiling. That was probably a good sign. Or a really bad sign.

“You drive a hard bargain. We should have known you’d be quite the negotiator,” Fred said, looking quite proud of this fact. He held out his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Mr. Potter, if you can’t be bothered to pay attention perhaps you would do us all the courtesy of putting your wand away before you send someone to the infirmary?” Snape hissed as the boy nearly exploded the armoire he was supposed to be preparing for storing dark artifacts for the second time in nearly ten minutes. It was a perfectly simple lesson, one the boy should have been able to handle easily, but was struggling to absorb.

He shouldn’t be surprised however. Harry had been in the hospital wing for ‘magical exhaustion’ after a visit from the Dark Lord, and though he had returned to classes the next day, it seemed he was not truly recovered from whatever had been done to him. His eyes were wringed and his movements sluggish. Snape considered asking him about it, but then told himself if the boy wanted his help he could very well come and ask for it himself. He had enough going on with his current duties plus the ‘Ira Project’ as he had mentally dubbed it, without chasing after Harry’s demons.

Ira had an appointment for some tests that Saturday with Medi-witch Jacobi, and though she had insisted she didn’t want him there and the results wouldn’t be in until later that week, Snape had every intention of visiting her later that day. It was a form of courtship, he told himself, for a relationship that was entirely out of order. He didn’t think you were suppose to try to knock up a woman before the dating period was even over, let alone before you had actually married her. He wondered if he should be worried about Morgan coming after him in defense of his stepdaughter’s honor.

“Mr. Weasley, keep your eyes on your work, not Mr. Potter’s head. I assure you that despite the ample storage space you might find there, it would not make an appropriate receptacle for next week’s assignment.”

The youngest Weasley boy quickly turned away, his ears burning at having been publically outed for glaring at Harry. Whatever tolerance he had developed for the Griffindor had vanished, with Hermione’s insistence to help her friend catch up on his studies it seemed. His irritation with Harry, was only irritating Hermione, who thus ignored Ron and continued to perpetuate cycle.

He rolled his eyes.

Good god, when was he going to get out of the classroom and all this teenage melodrama?

A week after the invasion of Berlin, the university re-opened. Classes were not officially opened, but students and faculty could now move about the buildings and begin to re-organize. The military presence was thick, the atmosphere tense, but the attempt at normalcy was welcomed by all. Viktor, in particular, was pleased to be able to move around campus without instantly coming under suspicion. People were still being stopped and searched for wands, but it was a half-hearted search by an already bored security force, and Viktor had gone through two of them already, more afraid of being recognized than that they would find his wand in his boot.

There was no worth while target on the campus for Viktor or his small group of rebels. There were a few security posts at each side of the campus that would make easy targets, but they would only serve to make the Culties more alert and brutal in their security measures and served to tactical advantage. His rebels were getting antsy about their lack of action, but if Viktor had learned anything from Dumbledore it was prudence.

The second thing he had learned was that once a path had been chosen is must be followed until its end, without hesitation or regret.

So Viktor’s decision to explore the campus was not one of idle curiosity or ill considered actions. It just so happened that the university had a bell tower that overlooked the Ministry Department of Education, now the largest military supply depot in the entire city. He had spent two days straight in the bell tower with a cheap little sneak-o-scope, a note pad, and what seemed like gallons of hot apple cider, marking the movements of the soldiers in and out of the area. The time spent there was for more than just intelligence gathering. It provided him the time and the quiet he need to make a plan of attack and his people the time to gather what they needed.

And now his plan was ready.

At a quarter to two in the morning, Viktor was once again hidden in the shadows of the bell tower. He had left everything back at the base, bringing only a broomstick and an owl. He stroked the bird’s breast gently, watching regretfully as it puffed and preened proudly under his attention. It was a common Tawny owl, one of hundreds trapped within the city along with their wizarding masters. Clemens had taken him from an abandoned owlry half a block from where he had used to work.

“I am truly sorry about this,” Viktor said softly, carefully tying a small package to its leg. “It will be painless, I swear.”

He moved to the edge of the tower, releasing the nameless owl to the darkness. He could follow it for only a few seconds before it all but disappeared from his sight. Its destination was already known, however, and Viktor turned his gaze to the Department of Education. He didn’t have to wait long.

The explosion rocked the tower, knocking him off his feet, and causing the bells to swing in an atonal cacophony of ringing. Viktor covered his ears, which did nothing to stop their vibrations from flowing through his entire body, and waited for them to stop. It did not take long for their swinging to lose momentum, and he climbed to his feet to see what damage his bomb had done. Beneath him the ministry office burned, brighter than he had calculated, so that he had to remain low to avoid being seen. Over half the building had been destroyed by the initial explosion, and the rest now burned with massive blue and green flames. The fire had spread already to a neighboring building, empty as far as Viktor knew, but near enough to the Department of Records to be a threat if it continued to spread. Soldiers were already beginning to flood the area, little more than black ants to from his vantage point, for which he was grateful.

The second explosion was off its mark, exploding harmlessly over an already destroyed building nearly a block away from its intended target; the military dormitories in the Department of Transportation. Viktor swore under his breath. The soldiers were now alerted to the danger, and the third bomb was intercepted with a series of sickening green lights he readily recognized as the Killing Curse. He prayed the bomb would still go off and take out at least a handful of the soldiers, but nothing happened. Dammit it all!

He spun away from the ledge. He couldn’t afford to stay any longer. The Culties would be all over the area in minutes, and if he were caught here he would never escape. He wrapped his black cloack tighter around him, and reached for his broom. His fingertips had barely touched it, when an ominous chuckle froze him in his tracks.

“Oh my, what a naughty little boy you have been,” a soft voice chided, dripping with femininity and cruelty. He didn’t move for a moment, honestly stunned that someone had been able to sneak up on him, then burst into movement, spinning around and flinging out his wand. A curse was on his lips, but before he could utter it, the target moved, and he instinctively brought up his arm to protect his exposed neck and head. The blow caught him squarely on his lower left arm and the topside of his wrist, slicing through flesh and bone, and smashing him to the ground.

“Caedo!” he shouted, catching his assailant as she made for a second strike. She shrieked in pain and leaped away so that she now stood at the tower’s ledge and in the light from the fires below. She was not a Cultie, was Viktor’s first observation. She was not dressed in a uniform, but rather a shimmering silver dress more appropriate for a cocktail party than a battle.

His second observation was that she was a vampire. He watched in fascination as the normally fatal wound, cutting deep into her body, closed and healed before his very eyes. She glowered at him.

“I liked this dress!” she snapped gesturing to the torn and blood-stained garment. Viktor didn’t even dignify her outrage with a comment.

“Caedo!”

She dodged this time, as he figured she would, giving him just enough time to snatch up his broom with his one good arm and leap from the tower. He felt her snatch at the tail end of his cloak, but it dissolved in her hands (as he had spelled it to do in case of the all too common scenario that it got caught on something while he was trying run away) and then he was falling. With expert precision, he swung the broom between his legs and halted his descent with one hand, keeping his injured one tucked close to his body, and sped away from the tower as fast as he could.

Katarina watched him go, intrigued. It had been a long time since she had met challenging prey. Tom would not be pleased to hear that one of her victims had escaped. That is, if she bothered to tell him. Frankly, she didn’t’ see any reason to do so, especially with him disappearing for long stretches of time without explanation. She watched the dark shape flying away until it ducked between a row of apartments and disappeared.

“Run, run, little boy, back to your mommy and daddy. We’ll play again another night.”

Lucius made it a point to change out of his uniform before meeting his wife. She respected the demands of his career and admitted freely that he looked very good in it, but she also felt it was the most unromantic thing he could possibly wear out to dinner. The last time he had done so their conversation had resulted in nothing but ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ from her and ending with a mocking salute and the closest thing to a march someone could pull off in three-inch heels. Narcissa could be quite artful when making a point.

“You should have seen him,” Lucius chuckled, “He was so pissed off. I kept expecting something to spontaneously combust. I heard from Dorian, you know that little fop from the Nielt party?, I heard from him that Potter actually had the nerve to say ‘fuck you’ to the Dark Lord’s face when they met last Wednesday.”

Narcissa nearly gasped, but decided that would be a bit too plebian.

“Oh, my, what happened?”

Lucius couldn’t stop grinning. “What do you think? They had to carry him to the infirmary.”

She shook her head, but couldn’t hide her own smile at his childishness. “You’re taking far too much pleasure out of that boy’s pain.”

“Nonsense. It’s not his pain I find so amusing, it’s his stupidity. ‘Fuck you’, I mean honestly.”

She chuckled behind her win glass. It was pretty damn funny. She wondered what other nonsense those two got into together when no one was looking. Hopefully, he wasn’t teaching those troublemaking habits to her children.

Suddenly, her husband’s smile vanished, and his eyes which had been riveted on her all evening were now glaring darkly over her shoulder. She turned to see what was wrong. Two uniforms, colonels by the looks of it, were standing in the foyer of the restaurant having words (impatient, angry words by the looks of it) with the maitre d’, and staring pointedly at Lucius. She turned back to her husband.

“Don’t worry, Cissa, I’ll take care of this,” he said, kissing her cheek before crossing to the other side of the restaurant to deal with the men who had the presumption to disturb them. It didn’t take long for the colonels to pale and begin to stammer excuses, and for a moment Narcissa thought that would be the end of it and they would leave, but then one of them said something and Lucius stiffened. He turned his back on them and stalked back to the table. She sighed internally when he didn’t sit back down.

“I’m sorry, but the Dark Lord has called an emergency meeting. I have to go.”

A monster temper tantrum was looming in the wings, but she’d let it out on the house elves when she got home. As the right hand to the man who ruled Britain, she understood she could never truly be his first priority, but why did his job have to be the only priority?

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Soon.”

She let him kiss her cheek, wanting nothing more than to turn away and spite him, but one thing neither of them needed was to end up the latest topic of conversation in the national gossip rags.

“You better,” she warned. He had the nerve to smirk at her, which meant he already had an idea, and that placated her somewhat. If he thought he could make this up to her, the chances were that he could. He was just that good.

Lucius left his wife at the restaurant to handle things there, and followed the colonels back to the base, where the Dark Lord and the entire war cabinet were waiting for him. Apparently, there had been some difficulty in finding him, allowing for everyone else to slip in before him. He felt distinctly unhappy about that, and the fact that he hadn’t had time to change into his uniform. Voldemort, at least, didn’t seem to care.

“There’s been an incident in Berlin,” his master said without preamble. “We’re going to have to move up our time table.”

Lucius frowned. They were already moving things forward at a ludicrous pace. He wasn’t sure how much faster things could go or why they should.

“What happened?”

“There’s been an attack on some of the compounds within Berlin. It was well organized and clever, but sloppily executed. Only one of the three targets was actually destroyed, but unfortunately it was the main supply depot. What should have been a six-month supply has been reduced to a two month supply, at most.”

Well, bother. Lucius nodded.

“If we’re to hold Berlin,we’ll have to change our plans and take Brandenburg before Baden-Württemberg. Long enough to evacuate or troops at least.”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes narrowed. “I have no intention of surrendering Berlin.”

The general stiffened, but nodded, not entirely sure how they could possibly take it and keep it with such frantic actions. The Dark Lord, however, did not seem too concerned.

“Don’t worry, my friend. They think they are ready for us, and right now that may be the case. But soon, very soon, I’ll have something truly nasty for them. Something they will never see coming.”

The summons came in the middle of night, without warning. One moment, Harry was deep in an exhausted sleep, and the next Snape was shaking him awake. Everything had already been packed and ready to go, except for Harry himself who couldn’t focus enough to put his shoe on the correct foot, let alone make sense of what was happening. Eventually, with Snape’s usual bedside manner, he managed to get dressed and out of the castle without breaking his neck. The cold revived him some, but also made him that much more cranky to be pulled prematurely from his warm bed.

There were two trips by floo and an hour long car ride, during which his surly disposition worsened. By the time he actually reached the werewolf colonies, it was nearly two in the morning, and Sirius didn’t look any happier to have been dragged from his bed to meet him than Harry did. Snape said something about having to leave for France the next day, but they pretty much ignored him.

They’re initial conversation involved a lot of grunting and nonsensical sounds, and eventually ended with Harry crawling into Sirius and Remus’ bed with the half a dozen other werewolves[4] and falling back asleep with all his clothes still on. He woke up the next morning momentarily terrified when he couldn’t figure out where he was. He sprung up with a gasp, the room an indistinguishable blur.

“Calm down, pup,” Sirius’ said from the entrance of the lodge, his voice laced with amusement. “It’s home #2.”

Harry squinted at him pointlessly for a moment, before hunting down his glasses from their usual spot beside the now empty bed. He found them quickly enough, and then curled back underneath the warmth of the blankets. He had been warm enough snuggled in with the others last night, but without their extra body heat he was not enjoying himself.

“Here, this should give you a little more spirit,” his godfather said, handing him a steaming mug of something. He sipped it tentatively. It was chocolate, spices, and something he couldn’t quite identify, but which peaked his curiosity.

“It’s good. Thanks,” Harry said, looking up at the older man. They hadn’t seen each other in weeks, and then they had not parted on good terms. Harry had been angry, was still angry in some ways, about how casually he had been passed around between him and Voldemort without being consulted and the careless destruction of his relationship with Luna. Still, Sirius was family. Whatever his faults, Harry never doubted the other’s love for him. “Where are the others? Remus?”

Sirius shrugged. “Working while it’s still light enough. The weather’s been unusually bad this time of year. We’ve had our hands full keeping on top of it.”

Harry flushed guiltily. Here he was lazing in bed while everyone else must have been up at the crack of dawn. Sirius saw his discomfort and ruffled his hair affectionately.

“Don’t worry about it. You were obviously exhausted. You didn’t even stir when we all got up. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

Sleep was never the problem, Harry thought glumly. Most days it was a struggle to stay awake. Left to his own devices he could sleep for nearly twelve hours, and still enjoy the occasional catnap. He suspected it was the herbs, and had stopped taking them for a while, but after the second day his fatigue had given way to restlessness, headaches, and irritability and he started taking them again, fearing yet another anxiety attack.

“It’s just been a bit stressful,” Harry said. “I’m really behind on my school work, and then this thing with Berlin.”

Sirius grinned, and sat down beside him on the bed. “Yeah, that’s something alright. I didn’t know the old snake had it in him. That move took some nerve.”

Not exactly how Harry would describe it. He sighed and leaned against him, taking reassurance from the confident alpha.

“He wants to move the werewolves into France immediately,” Harry said softly. “I don’t like it. They can’t have had the necessary training in that short a time. Not for what I think he wants them for.”

The humor drained from his godfather’s face, and he stared solemnly down at him.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been in contact with Beartooth. If they had to be integrated with the regular army, I might be worried, but they’ve been given almost complete autonomy. They fight the werewolf way. They know how to do that just fine.”

“They’ll be fighting armed wizards, not bears. There’s a difference,” Harry said pointedly.

“A lot less of a difference than you think. Like I said, don’t worry about it. They all are proficient with weapons. Some of them even have wands. With the Wolfsbane potion keeping their wits about them, even the full moon isn’t so great a vulnerability.”

Harry wasn’t convinced. The only fight he had seen between werewolves and wizards had resulted in a lot of dead werewolves.

“I’m going to France today… I think that’s what Snape said. I honestly don’t remember much of what he said last night.”

“Hn. I doubt he said anything worth remembering,” he replied dismissively, then smirked. “Going to go flirt with the queen again?”

The young Gryffindor’s ears burned at the reminder of the regal woman. He had completely forgotten that he was going to have to actually meet with her again, and try, try very very hard, not make a fool of himself.

“Er… no, I… I’m going to look at some of the forts along the border. You know, do the inspector thingy. Maybe visit some of the colonies down there and do some recruiting. If I’m convinced I’m not just sending them out to be slaughtered, of course. Not that they have any reason to listen to me-”

Sirius grabbed his arm, cutting him off.

“Hold up a minute there, pup. What do you mean you’re going to the forts? Why would you need to go there?”

Ooohhh, it looked like the Dark Lord forgot to mention a few things, Harry noted. His godfather looked anything but pleased about this latest turn of events. Perhaps now was the time for a little revenge.

“Well, you know,” Harry said innocently. “My job. The one you so generously gave me. Have to follow the men out into the field every so often. Make sure they’re not being taken advantage of. I might swing by Poland while I’m on the mainland, just to get a better view of the action.”

Sirius opened his mouth, but Harry cut him off before he could speak.

“I’m going.”

“No. This was a mistake. I should never have suggested you take on this responsibility. You’re fired.”

Harry burst out laughing, startling his godfather. He startled himself for that matter.

“Just like that? I don’t think so. You gave me this responsibility, and I accepted it. Who else are you going to get to do it? I’m the only one who has feet planted in both wizarding and werewolf society. You need me to do this, and we both know it.”

“What I need is for my godson to be safe. If something happened to you…I’d never…I couldn’t… I didn’t think you’d ever have to get that close to the fighting.”

Harry tactfully refrained from pointing out that he was always close to the fighting. Danger and him were practically dating. He patted Sirius on the shoulder, and climbed out of the bed, searching for his boots.

“Don’t freak out yet. I’ll be surrounded at all times by the men you’ve expressed so much confidence in.”

Sirius glowered at him. “You really enjoy rubbing it in, don’t you?” Harry just grinned.

“There is no point in arguing with him,” a voice came from the doorway, and they both turned to see Jane step inside, solemn and mysterious. She eyed Harry critically for a moment, before turning back to Sirius. “He will leave and he will return, regardless of what you say or do. He understands the meaning of ‘the greater good’, something a Head Alpha would do well to learn.”

Hey, midget, Harry nearly greeted, but caught it quickly before it escaped. It probably wasn’t the best idea to provoke her. Especially since she’d decked him good during their last visit. Sirius, however, didn’t bother hiding his eye roll, causing his godson to hide his smile by taking another drink from his cup. Jane might be the nine-year old, but Sirius was definitely the biggest brat in the room.

“Hn. ‘Greater good?’ Seems to me every time I’ve ever heard that phrase used it was to justify the unjustifiable,” the man said coolly. He stood and headed for the door, but turned back to Harry before he left. “This conversation isn’t over.”

The young Gryffindor watched him disappear, feeling exasperated and mildly triumphant. He turned to Jane.

“You think he’s gone to find rope to tie me up with?”

She shook her head. “He is going to find Slivermoon and whine to him, until he agrees to come talk you into seeing things Blackbone’s way. He is better at it that Blackbone himself.”

Yeah, that sounded like Remus. He shook his head and went back to hunting down his boots.

“You are ill,” Jane said, her bland expression never changing. He stiffened. “You have been taking too much of the Du’on nadi.”

He looked away. There was no point in denying it. Although, he thought it more than a little hypocritical of her to criticize, seeing as she had been the one to give him the leaves in the first place. She seemed to read his thoughts, for her eyes narrowed very slightly.

“It is meant to be used in spiritual rituals, not as a recreational drug. What you are doing is more than dangerous. It’s blasphemy.”

So youdidknow what would happen when you gave me those leaves at the funeral, he thought bitterly, but didn’t say. He had no intention of getting into an argument with the goddess he no longer trusted. What would be the point? He might as well argue philosophy with a Martian. They lived on entirely different worlds, and could never truly understand what the other.

“Oh,” he said, simply. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

She just stared at him for a long time, and he wondered if she could interpret what he was really saying when he himself didn’t know. Was he going to stop taking the herbs? He should. That much was obvious. How exactly he was going to do that without going nuts was a different matter altogether.

1. Voldemort stole Harry’s magic. Yes, he can do that. Most witches and wizards are capable of it, but they can’t use it themselves very often or at least not very well. It’s like trying to use a wand that isn’t yours (with the exception of course being when you’ve defeated the previous owner, which doesn’t apply with directly stealing other people’s magic). If one does wish to steal or use other people’s magic, they usually do it through a variety of magical objects, which can absorb and store magic. Keystones are like that, except they can only be used by a single person (usually the owner) and are lest likely to disrupt the magic while it’s being stored. There are other ways of absorbing and then converting another person’s magic into ones own. Cannibalism for instance, as well as various dark rituals. Stealing magic is taught to Sentinels (and previously Aurors) as a means of disarming, but not widely learned among the general population because it’s dangerous and unlike most spellwork it requires skin-to-skin contact. Not something witches and wizards are particularly comfortable with.↩

2. Wizer’s Rent is a wizarding card game, in which each player draws six cards. The first player asks the person to their left “Do you have ‘insert number’ galleons for ‘insert number between one and the number of cards the person is holding’ rooms?” If the person has a combination of cards that add up to the ‘rent’ then those cards disappear from other player’s hand. If the player to the left doesn’t have enough ‘rent’ or has too much, it goes to the next player, and then the next, until there are no players left and then the ‘renter’ loses a card. For example a player asks the person next to them “Do you have 13 galleons for two rooms?” and that person has a six and a seven card, those two cards disappear from the other person’s deck and end up in the first player’s deck. The object of the game is to be the only person left with any cards. Don’t ask me how I thought this up. It’s just a complicated version of ‘Go Fish’.↩

3. If you’re wondering about how the twins smuggle things into the castle but can’t get money out, it involves transfiguration which is nearly impossible to do with wizarding money (it’s spelled at the mint in a highly secretive process to prevent it from being counterfeited or transfigured for purposes other than currency). You can tell if money is counterfeit if you are able to transfigure it into something else, otherwise the entire monetary system is likely to collapse.↩

4. During the winter months, werewolves usually share their beds with several members of their pack to share body heat and as a bonding experience. There’s nothing sexual about it.↩

Musketeers and Madmen

Hermione woke up earlier than anyone else in her dorm on Saturday, which was typical even before she had started helping Harry pull up his grades. It was still dark as she made her way down to the kitchens for some tea and coffee for Harry. The castle’s house elves were all darlings, and doted on her just as Dobby did at home, luckily with somewhat less dramatic results. Part of the reason for this, she knew, had to do with her doting on Harry, whom they regarded as some sort of savior for something she could never get out of them clearly.

“But Mistress Hermione,” Koki, a spindly elf with extra long fingers, said as she began to boil the tea, “Master Harry is gone. He left last night.”

“Gone? What do you mean ‘gone’?”

Koki nodded cheerfully. “He was summoned away. Professor Snape had Bicki and Po pack for him. Half asleep, poor Master Harry. He’s going to France, yes? Meet important people! The Queen, herself!. Very exciting.”

Hermione frowned. “Already? I would have thought he would have a week or two before he had to go. And why in the middle of the night? Did something happen?”

“Koki does not know, Mistress. Would Mistress like some muffins? Po is making banana nut and orange cranberry.”

“Thank you, Koki. Would you send them up to my office? I think I’ll try and get some work done today.”

“Yes, ma’am! Koki is happy to help!”

Hermione left the house elves to their work, and headed for the Hogwarts’ Herald office, lost in thought. She was worried about Harry. That was hardly something new, but also something she couldn’t shrug off. Harry had been acting… off… for a while now. As happy to be home as he seemed, he wasn’t falling back into his usual routine with the same ease as he usually did. His concentration was shoddy, he kept forgetting what day it was and what classes he had, he barely ate and dozed off at meal times, and his performance during practicals was slipping. At first, she wrote it off as tiredness from his trip and being overwhelmed with catching up, but that didn’t quite fit. He had mood swings, gotten angry over nothing and not reacted to something that would normally leave him livid, and no matter how much he slept he didn’t seem any more rested.

He was obviously under some sort of stress aside from the obvious, and she had wanted to ask him about it today, but he had already been taken away. Another thing to worry about. If he was acting oddly here, in the closest thing he had to a home, what was it going to be like for him in another country and a whole new load of responsibilities weighing him down?

She should talk to Uncle Severus about her concerns, knowing he was the most likely to be able to help Harry sort himself out, but at the same time she didn’t want to go behind Harry’s back. He was a private person and she respected that, but sometimes he got in over his head. At the same time, with her godfather so extremely busy these days and more than a little stressed, involving him in Harry’s problems could make things worse.

She sighed. Honestly, when did she go from being Harry’s friend to his life coach?

The Hogwarts’ Herald press office was empty as she knew it would be (she was one of only two people who actually had a key after all, Toure being the other), and didn’t expect that to change until after lunch, when the staff would start coming in to work on their articles before their meeting later that evening. They were putting out another release that Monday, so if Harry’s absence had an upside it was only that she would have more time to work on it.

Po’s muffins and a steaming cup of cinnamon tea were already waiting for her at her desk, and she took a moment to appreciate it. She got so very little time to herself these days. Between schoolwork, the paper, Dueling Club, Harry, Ron, and her sometimes needy foster brother, there was never any time to just sit and think.

After about ten minutes of thinking about her life and those she share it with, she decided thinking outside of schoolwork was vastly overrated and somewhat dangerous, and decided to start working. She began by making a check list of everything that absolutely had to the go into the paper; the standard articles first; Teacher’s Tutorial, School Announcements, advertisements (they did have a few sponsors from Hogsmeade, but with the cancellation of Hogsmeade weekends the ads were primarily for student tutors and selling of old school supplies or nic-nacs), sports, horoscopes, etc… then the main articles; this week it was Natalie’s continued relief campaign for winter supplies for the Irish victims, a guide to preparing for Newts and Owls for the upperclassmen, and twenty different ways to entertain oneself indoors (important to know since everyone was getting stir crazy with all the extra security keeping them inside). Then the optional favorites; the gossip column, student opinions, romance advise (a section she tried to exclude whenever possible), other miscellaneous articles, and what Hermione suspected was going to be a speculation piece on Harry’s abrupt departure for France that day.

She would have to write that herself, what with everyone else already working on something and her being the first to know, but it rubbed her the wrong way to do so. He was her friend, and socially and professionally it was in bad taste to write about him. Maybe she could just pretend she hadn’t heard about it until it was too late to include in Monday’s edition. It seemed dishonest to her, but at the same time it felt a lot better than betraying her other ethics. She started sorting through articles that had already been submitted and checking them for spelling and grammar mistakes.

By lunchtime, she had completed just about everything she could possible get done without the other staff members present, which was good because they were starting to trickle into the office. First, Collin Creevey, hurrying to the dark room to print his latest roll of film, then Susan Carmichael; who was responsible for Natalie’s article, and gradually more and more. A few dropped into her office to submit their articles, but a majority lingered outside it to gossip and discuss their work. Hermione didn’t go out and join them, but left her door open so she could listen. The staff had a tendency to be intimidated by her, and sometimes it was easier to get an idea of what they wanted out of the next edition by ease-dropping rather than asking directly. Given sufficient time and quiet, most forgot she was even back in her office and could hear them clearly.

Trudy Sabbat was particularly forgetful, or perhaps just plain reckless.

“Slipped out in the middle of the night! Of all the nerve!” Trudy’s perpetually scandalized (because everything that anyone ever did seemed to be a scandal after being processed by her twisted little brain) voice floated into her office, and Hermione let out a mental groan. It seemed Trudy had heard about Harry’s leaving and decided to orchestrate a new melodrama. “Probably gone off to have a tryst with that werewolf girl! Mark my words, by the end of the school year she’ll be knocked up!”

Hermione clenched her fists. Of all the nerve!

“Can it, Sabbat,” Ron’s irritated voice snapped. “No one wants to hear your trashy shit. The guy’s gone to France for some diplomatic mission or something. I heard it from Malfoy.”

“So he’s gone to knock up that that Delacour tramp? Oh that’s much better!”

Ron burst out laughing. “What is it with your obsession about who Potter is screwing around with? You’re like a crazy ex-girlfriend stalker person.”

There were several other snickers, and Hermione settled back in her seat, hoping that would be the end of it and she wouldn’t have to go out and call Sabbat in her office for another ‘little chat’ about her rumor mongering. It wasn’t meant to be.

“Screw you, Weasley. The only reason you’re standing up for him is to earn points with Granger, who so in blindly in love with Potter he could set fire to an orphanage right in front of her and she’d still think he was Merlin reborn. You’re pathetic. You’re bothpathetic.”

Collin’s ever eager voice protested first, “That’s not true. Why are you-”

“Shut up, you stupid little homo.”

Ron voice cut in, physical violence a promise rather than a warning. “Why don’t you shut up, you stupid little wh-”

“That’s enough!”

The entire staff turned to their editor, who was now standing at her office door, her expression arctic and her body tense. Most of the Hogwarts staff was there, but had quickly moved away from the center of the rising fight, looking anxious. Collin was looking down, red-faced and humiliated, while Ron was looking directly at Trudy, red-raced and his fists clenched. If Hermione hadn’t interrupted when she did she didn’t doubt that he would have hurt the other girl. Not that she cared so much about that, it might even be somewhat satisfying, but it would also be the end of Ron’s career at the paper and probably Hogwarts itself. Trudy, a pixie-faced little brunette who would have been quite pretty if she didn’t look so superior all the time, was gripping her wand, probably realizing she shouldn’t have provoked Ron, the only person aside from Hermione completely unintimidated by her acid tongue and with a reputation for violence under his belt. Trudy looked to Hermione, and smirked, probably thinking she was going to walk away from this having caused more harm than she had acquired.

She was wrong.

“You have to the count of three to start apologizing, Sabbat,” Hermione said coldly.

The girl had the never to look indignant.

“Apologize! For what? He started it!” she shouted, pointing at Ron, who was still glaring death at her. “And then he threatened me!”

Hermione expression didn’t change. “You are the only I heard insulting anyone, Sabbat, and the only one with their wand out. One.”

“That not true! You’re just picking on me again! You alwayspick on me! You all saw it, didn’t you? Didn’t he threaten me?!”

“Two.”

No one said anything. Even Greystoke and Parker, two of the biggest gossips on the staff and the most tolerant of Trudy’s attempts at ‘creative journalism’, remained silent. The jilted girl glared furiously at all of them.

“You-”

“Three,” Hermione finished. “You’re fired. Leave now, and don’t come back.”

The other girl practically hissed in fury, and her grip on her wand tightened. Hermione might have been worried, except that Ron was still watching her intensely and she trusted him. That was a bit shocking to her, that even after their all their recent bickering, she still trusted him to protect her without hesitation.

Trudy’s arm lifted ever so slightly, and Ron’s wand flicked into his hand so quickly it was if it had always been there. She froze, her eyes darted to him. She apparently trusted him to look after Hermione as well. Reluctantly, she pocketed her wand and turned to stalk out the door.

“And one more thing,” Hermione said, before the other girl could escape. “If I find out you’ve started rumors about me or Weasley or any of my staff, I will formally challenge you to a duel. I want you to think about that very carefully before speaking to anyone else.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I am warning you, just like I warned you about disrespecting the other staff members, and about making up stories without any proof. You chose to ignore me, and these are the consequences. If you choose to ignore me again, the consequences will be considerably worse. You can leave now.”

“I’ll tell Professor Toure about this!” she cried, petulant and unwilling to admit defeat.

Hermione didn’t even acknowledge her, and returned to her office.

“Just you wait! Everyone loves my articles! They’ll be demandingme back! Just wait!”

A door slammed and after that Hermione didn’t see or hear anything else from her, although she suspected this would not be the end of things. After a few minutes the deafening silence in the bull pen broke out into low gossip. It wasn’t hard to hear what they were saying, and luckily it was nothing too disgruntled about her short little power trip. Very few people had actually liked Sabbat, even though she was a natural leader when she wasn’t degrading everyone in the room.

After a few minutes, Ron walked into her office without knocking. She was about to snap at him for barging in, but he tossed down his article before she could say anything and she let it go. He sat silently, watching her as she skimmed his article, occasionally marking it with red ink.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You seem a bit stressed.”

“I’m fine,” she reiterated.

“…You did the right thing.”

She looked at him, exasperated. “Oh, yes, I’m sure you think so. Abusing my position to oust someone I don’t agree with without consulting the rest of the staff and then threatening her with physical violence is a wonderful example to set.”

He snorted. “Don’t even. You gave her more chances than she deserved, and she mistook that for weakness and deluded herself into thinking she was somehow more important than she is. You did what was needed to protect this paper and everyone who works here. That girl’s poison and we both know it.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take your assessment to heart. I may not have called you on it in front of everyone, but she was right about you threatening her. You would have cursed her if I hadn’t interrupted.”

Now it was Ron’s turn to look angry. “I don’t curse girls. Even girls like that. I’d have silenced her, but that’s it.”

She held his glare for a moment, and finally nodded. Yes, that sounded right. He would have silenced her, maybe even scared her a bit, but he wouldn’t have hurt her. He was Slytherin through and through, but he had an honor code that he stuck to as rigidly as any Gryffindor. More so, perhaps, given that so much of his personality was otherwise amoral.

“My mistake, but don’t do it again.”

He shrugged. “I don’t have a beef with anyone else on board.”

“With anyone.”

He smirked. “Don’t start power tripping on me now, princess. It didn’t work with for your brother and it didn’t work for Potter, it sure as hell won’t work for you.”

“If you don’t get your temper under control, you’re going to end up expelled.”

“Now there’s the bit of sweetness we all know and love,” he laughed. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. How’s my article?”

“I doubt Professor Toure’s going to let an article encouraging the student body to riot unless quidditch is reinstated is going to make it to print,” she said blandly, but added, “No matter how well written.”

He took decidedly cheeky about the compliment and she regretted giving it.

“Well, we can’t have the masses thinking we’re under the professors’ thumbs now, can we? We’ll lose their trust.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have to speak with Professor Toure about Sabbat anyway. No promises though.”

He got up from his chair and did a mocking little bow.

“I leave it in your very capable hands.”

He ducked out before she could snap something at him, and she settled back in her chair. Honestly, he was incorrigible. Incorrigible, but at least he was also on her side.

When Collin entered her office a few minutes later, timid about seeing her after such a scary display of authority against Sabbat but needing to run his photographs by her for approval, he was surprised to find Granger was actually smiling.

“Would you like some of that peach schnapps, I know you’re so fond of?” Dr. Jacobi offered as Ira stiffly went about redressing. Her patient shook her head, not meeting her eye. Poor dear, she really was self-conscious about her body, and despite what the medi-witch had thought of Professor Snape, her examination made it obvious to her that the young woman hadn’t been touched by a man in a long time, perhaps since her first husband.

“How long before the results are ready?” Ira asked once fully dressed, and was finally able to look at Jacobi more directly. Jacobi lead the younger woman to her office so they could discuss the next steps.

“The blood tests should be ready in three days, but they won’t mean much until I can analyze the tissues sample I just collected, and that may take several days depending on the initial results. I’m optimistic, however. I’d like to see you again next Saturday.”

Ira nodded, a bit distracted, obviously anxious. This was always the worse part for the patient, not knowing if they could be helped or not, wanting to be hopeful but afraid of yet another disappointment.

“Professor Snape did not come with you today,” Jacobi said, hoping to distract her.

“I… no, I didn’t think…Umm… it’s a bit embarrassing really.”

“Oh? So he offered? What a supportive fiancé,” she laughed. “Most men are more squeamish about this stuff than the women who have to actually go through it!”

This made Ira smile a bit, although she was blushing too.

“Yes, he’s been really supportive. It was his idea to come here in the first place. I’d never even heard of this type of medical practice before… well, outside of the usual nonsense, of course. Drink ground up unicorn horns, sleep with phoenix feather under the mattress, that sort of thing. Even if I had known… I think I would have been too scared. I never would have gotten this far without him.”

“You two must be very close.”

Ira’s wistful smile faded somewhat.

“Do you think so? Would you find it funny to know that I’ve been on four dates with him, and broken up with him on two of them?”

Actually, yes, Jacobi laughed mentally, but it quickly faded. She was starting to wonder precisely what these two were up to.

“Ira,” the medi-witch began, cautiously, because she was going to mix personal and professional matters (how could it not when the creation of a child was involved?). “Have you given any thought to what you and Professor Snape will do if there’s nothing that I can do for you?”

The younger woman nodded. “I’ll let him go.”

Jacobi thought on that for a long time, before she asked her next question.

“Are you both together for the sole purpose of having a child?”

Ira opened her mouth, then closed it, then tried again.

“It’s more complicated than that,” she said, softly, “I love Severus. I really do. He’s the first man who ever made me feel like I was desired in my life, and the only one who made me feel like a real woman since…well, since Winston… I love him, and I’m grateful to him. That’s why I want him to have everything he wants, and he wants children. If I can’t give him that, then…I’ll let him go find someone who can.”

“And you? What will you do?”

“I’ll go back to what I did before. Work. Look after my mother. Maybe I’ll try dating again. There are men out there who don’t want children or who are willing to adopt. Whatever happens, I’m not going to regret having met him.”

“You don’t think he’s selfish? Requiring you to have children before he’ll commit to you?”

Ira shook her head.

“He is just being honest, both to himself and to me. Love isn’t enough. Not in marriage. We both have to be completely honest if we’re going to make that sort of commitment. We’ll only end up hating each other if we don’t.”

Jacobi’s profession brought her into contact with all sorts of people, all sorts of families, and far more unhappy marriages than she liked to think about. Young couples unprepared for the responsibility of a child that turned on each other, women haunted by the sin of infidelity against their husbands, unmarried women who through whatever course found themselves with a child and no one to help them raise it, and even women whose fertility lead the family into financial ruin. Ira and Severus were not those sorts of people, yet she couldn’t help but feel a bit of anxiety over what they were trying to do. Their hopes, precious and beautiful, were bound up in spider silk, ready to unweave at any moment.

“True enough,” she said, helplessly.

Harry took a train from London to Paris. It was not like the Hogwart’s Express beautiful and whimsical at once, but a military train, black and ominous with armored plating and more protection smells on it than a Gringotts’ vault. The interior wasn’t any friendlier. Their were no private compartments in the passenger cars, only row upon row of open seating for the optimum number of soldiers and personnel to be transported from one place to another.

The passenger cars were all full with soldiers, and Harry’s was no exception. He had been invited to the officer’s car before the trip began, but opted to stay with the Beast Brigade. He said it was to keep the werewolves and regular soldiers from getting into fights in such closed quarters, but honestly he hadn’t wanted to be left alone with a bunch of witches and wizards of unknown intentions towards him. His excuse, however, turned out to be perfectly legitimate.

The Beast Brigade lingered together at one end of the train car, the soldiers on the other, and between them an invisible line none one would cross. There was an obvious uneasy tolerance by both parties. It didn’t help that the witches and wizards looked decidedly uncertain of Harry’s safety, as several of the werewolves were engaging in dominance rituals (swearing, arm wrestling, glaring matches, and general rough housing) that the young Gryffindor had long since gotten used to (it was a very rare instance where any of the alphas felt the need to challenge Harry, either because he wasn’t a werewolf or because his somewhat undefined status exempted him) and that they weren’t allowing anyone else near Harry.

He suspected it had something to do with the letter he had hand delivered to Commander Beartooth on Sirius’ request, but it may simply have been typical territorial pack behavior. He wasn’t too concerned, but it was obvious the other soldiers were. They knew who he was, and they knew his rank and position both in a military and a political context, and it just didn’t seem proper for him to be slumming it with the werewolves. Even if he was probably in the most highly secured position on the entire train.

Harry would have liked to talk to the other soldiers, perhaps get the werewolves to lighten up enough were they could interact civilly rather than glare and posture their way around each other, but Beartooth would have none of it, and Harry couldn’t even pull rank on him. Not that it would have done much good anyway.

So he resigned himself to the company of the werewolves, and settled in to read the book he had picked up in London while they amused themselves loudly around him. The book was on Animagi, one specifically recommended by Remus from which the Marauders had originally learned their shape-shifting skills, and he was lucky enough to find it in the Londinium Public Library (the oldest wizarding library in Britain still in existence) before he had to leave to board the train (and before Beartooth nearly gave the librarian at the check-out desk a coronary). It was not exactly a large book. In fact, compared to many of the great tomes found in the Hogwarts library, it was actually rather modest, but the print was small, and the phrasing obscure, perhaps because it was meant for someone with a complete university education in transfiguration and animal physiology. He very quickly wished he had brought not only a dictionary, but perhaps Hermione as well. One thing was obvious; he wasn’t going to be doing any self-transformation anytime soon.

Four hours into the trip and they were well into France, the skirmishes had died down, the soldiers had started to relax, and Harry had given up on his book and was watching the scenery pass by in his window. He thought about his mission and what he wanted to accomplish, about his godfathers looking anxious and guilty as he left them safely within their territory, about the study date he had missed with Hermione, and most of all he thought about the little bag of herbs in his back pocket and whether he shouldn’t just toss them out the window or the nearest trash bin.

He couldn’t keep taking them. He knew that. Had known it before Jane had spoken to him, but now the reasons were more explicit. Taking the herbs was not only bad for his body, but bad for his soul. Blasphemous, Jane had said, although he doubted he could trust her anymore. She had manipulated him that day at the funeral, and he suspected she was manipulating him now or at least trying to. Maybe taking the herbs so often now would give him an immunity later on, so that he couldn’t be possessed or go into a trance or whatever it was that had happened.

He still couldn’t keep taking it, even if that were the case. The side affects couldn’t be brushed aside as simple fatigue for much longer. Someone would figure it out, Hermione or Snape or anyone really, and then the whole point of taking it- not letting people realize he was probably going crazy- would backfire spectacularly. Lt. Harold James Potter of his Lordship’s Army, student of the most prestigious school in Britain, diplomat, drug addict, and potential psychotic. Fan-bloody-tastic.

So he had to get rid of it.

Except that he couldn’t.

At least, not now. This trip was going to be stressful, there was no getting around that, and he was already anxious about more things than he could count. This wasn’t like at Hogwarts, where at least if he had a fit, he would be the only one directly hurt by it. If he had an anxiety attack while with the queen or while addressing the werewolf refugees or while touring the forts with the Culties, the results would be humiliating for all of Britain with potentially disastrous results. He needed to find something safer to replace them with first. Which would probably require a prescription from a medi-witch or wizard, and that wasn’t something he could be discreet about while in France.

He was such an idiot. He should have gone to Madam Pomfrey from the start. She would have understood. She dealt with stressed out students all the time, she had to have given out some anti-anxiety potions. Or did you need parents’ permission for that? Would she need Snape’s permission? Voldemort’s?

Stupid, don’t think about it. Just get through this trip and the first thing you do when you get back is go to Pomfrey. She’s a meddlesome woman, but she’s also discreet. If it’s just for a little while, maybe she won’t say anything, and you can find something more permanent. Charms or something. Maybe there’s a God of Calm, Happy thoughts out there. Yeah, okay, you’ve got a plan.

Now you can think about something else.

Like whether or not the Beast Brigade is actually going to be more than cannon fodder for Voldemort’s games and what the chances of getting back home without being kidnapped or attacked by Germans were.

That occupied his thoughts for the remaining two and a half hours, and much to his self-disgust resulted in him needing to discreetly swallow a few leaves of the Du’on nadi. No one noticed, or if they did they probably assumed it was just candy or gum. The anxiety melted away into a cool detachment, but his concerns seemed just as valid as before. He had a bad feeling about this trip, and the feeling would not dissipate even under the influence of the herbs.

He was still feeling detached and a little drowsy by the time they pulled into the station house in Paris, but after nearly seven hours on the train he wasn’t the only one. There was a lot of yawning and stretching as the Culties roused themselves for their departure from the train. Harry pulled his duffle bag from the overhead storage compartments, along with his sword (another reason for concern because when he had found it in his luggage that morning he could not recall having packed it before leaving and its spontaneous appearance usually involved immediate and life-threatening danger) which he strapped to his side. The Culties did not generally carry swords, but the Beast Brigade did (un-ornate, but enchanted to be light-weight and strong with the ability to deflect some simple hexes; Harry had considered several ways to make them even stronger defensively) and no one thought twice about him carrying one of his own, even if it was of a finer quality than the others. He strapped it to his side and followed Beartooth closely as they exited the train.

The train station was packed with military personnel, mostly British but also several French officers and even a handful of Musketeers, plus a few reporters and photographers milling about to talk to the soldiers. Harry made it a point to keep himself as obscure as possible behind the larger bodies of the soldiers, but it didn’t take long for one particularly sharp reporter to spot him and scurry in his direction. The reporter, a scruffy young fellow in a leather trench coat and a quill in his fedora, pulled up short when several of the werewolves turned towards him and growled.

“Ah…” he started cautiously, holding up his hands to show he wasn’t carrying a wand or any other sort of weapon, “Ezcuze me…um… you are Harold Potter, yes?” His accent was heavy, his English stilted, but he kept stumbling through it. “Why are you ’ere? France? In France? Why are you in France? Are you staying far?”

Harry just blinked at him, and several other men snickered at his broken English.

A camera flash caused him to jump, his wand leaping into his hand without thought, but Beartooth was already shoving him behind him while the rest of the pack rose up around him in a singular, well-orchestrated, and unspoken move. Harry would have been impressed except now he couldn’t see a damn thing now.

An argument broke out, in English (some of it heavily accented) at first, but then followed by French as others seemed to join in. It only lasted a minute and Beartooth and the others relaxed and the their formation widened enough that Harry could see both the reporter and what was probably his photographer speaking to a musketeer dressed in blue and his young apprentice dressed in red. He couldn’t tell what they were saying to the reporters, but they were obviously not happy about it. They also obviously weren’t going to argue because the reporter nodded once and stalked off. Then the musketeer turned to their unit, and Harry once again found himself being shoved behind Beartooth.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” Harry snapped and stepped around the alpha. “Would you relax? What are you going to do when I meet Her Majesty? Tackle her to the ground?”

The musketeer let out a laugh, rich and rolling, his faced curved with humor beneath his lightly graying beard. It was something of a relief after an entire day with so many glowering faces.

“As funny as that might be to see, please don’t. She would be quite put off with my men and me if that were to happen. Lieutenant Bodine, at your service.” The man took off his hat and made a dramatic bowing gesture, never taking his eyes off of them. Harry saluted him, and after a moment Beartooth did so reluctantly as well.

The name sounded vaguely familiar, and after a split second Harry turned to his apprentice. He did a double take. The apprentice smiled.

“Fleur? What did you do to your hair?!”

Gone was the flowing blonde hair that had seemed to dance with her every movement, and in its place was a shockingly short head of dark blond curls, the kind he might expect to find on a boy. In fact, he had thought she was a boy up to this point. She just grinned at him and pulled off her hat. There wasn’t any more hair under there either.

“You do not need to look quite so ’orrified! It will grow back!” she laughed, and opened her arms. He slipped passed the other werewolves and into her hug, laughing himself. He hadn’t seen or heard from Fleur since summer, and seeing her now was an unexpected surprise of the good variety. Lieutenant Bodine laughed.

“Come, my friends!” he said, gesturing towards the werewolves, “Let me take you to your living quarters before young Monsieur Potter ’ere runs away with my apprentice.”

The hotel that was putting them all up was only half a block from the station, which the entire Brigade and most of the other Culties marched to. Fleur gave Harry an apprentice’s overcoat and hat as a disguise, telling him that his visit was a secret one until he was safely returned to Britain. The greatest protection they could offer him was anonymity.

There was a bit of a problem once they reached the hotel, however. It seemed that while the soldiers themselves were being housed there, a few of the higher ranking officers had been invited to the palace and Harry was among the requested. Beartooth wasn’t having any of it. He stated plainly that Harry was in his keep and he had no intention of letting him go anywhere without werewolf security. Bodine discussed it with him for several minutes, during which time Fleur snuck Harry out the back before anyone noticed. This seemed like a sure fire way to cause an ‘international incident’, but Fleur assured him that by the time Bodine was done with Beartooth everything would be smoothed over. There was a closed carriage waiting for them in the alleyway behind the hotel, complete with a footman and driver in resplendent matching uniforms and a quick, amused look that reminded Harry of Bodine.

They climbed into the carriage together and once alone, the playful atmosphere suddenly dissolved. They stared at each other for a long moment, each in their own uniform, both of them little more than teenagers and serving their respective countries at the potential cost of their lives.

“’Ow are you, ’Arry?” she said at last. “You look tired.”

“It was a long ride. I am alright.”

“I ’erd about what ’appened at ze werewolf colony. I am very sorry.”

He shook his head. “It was bad. It was very, very bad. I was there just after… I… don’t want to talk about that. That’s over and done with. There are other things to worry about now.”

“Berlin,” she agreed. “And more?” she asked.

“And more,” he agreed. Her expression was sympathetic, but he didn’t think she really understood what he was saying or if she did it meant something entirely different to her than it did to him.

“Viktor’s missing,” she said suddenly.

“What? How do you-”

“Everyone knows. It’s in all the papers. He was supposed to play at a match with Italy a few days ago but never showed. Apparently, he told some of his teammates he was going to Berlin for the election.”

Harry closed his eyes. He had expected this. Not in Berlin and not so soon, but eventually, somewhere and somehow Viktor would find the enemy he had been looking for.

“He may still be alive,” Fleur said, a statement of fact rather than just a mere possibility. “He’s smart, he might be in hiding or he might not be there at all. He may be using this as a way to disappear.”

He nodded, but it didn’t matter. Dead or alive, he doubted he would ever see Viktor again and that was a loss he didn’t realize he would feel so keenly. They had saved each other’s lives, and shared a time that was both frantic with joy and fear. He wondered if he should keep this from Hermione.

Beartooth was not happy with Harry when he returned to the hotel that night, but there was little he could do now that it was done and frankly, he wasn’t going to get in an argument over it. Harry was not, technically, an alpha, but his shamanic status put him beyond the direct control of any alpha, and to some extent even out of the control of the Head Alpha. The young wizard had been touched by both Rhiannon and Greyback, and despite the misfortune that befell the Goddess Clan, it seemed the boy was leading the werewolves to a future of glory and prosperity that they had never known. He never doubted that was the boy’s intention in any event.

So he let Harry off with a glower, and instructions to get a full night’s sleep. He complied gratefully, barely making it to his bed before collapsing. Walking up the next morning, Beartooth had to all but drag Harry out of bed, while the other men laughed to themselves as their leader was made to play mother. A shower and two cups of coffee, and the boy finally woke up enough to take care of himself.

“Queen Ophelia wants me to visit Vosges. They have a colony in the mountains there that’s been particularly restless. I believe she wants me to recruit the more discontented werewolves into our army, so that the colony can stabilize in their absence.”

Beartooth grunted, taking another bite out of his ham. He would give the Frenchies credit for one thing, they knew how to treat their guests. After two weeks of mess hall dining, it was good to have some real food, even if the wait staff looked distinctly horrified by his men’s table manners.

“We could use the extra man-power,” Beartooth said plainly. He had twenty good men and women, but that was small pickings for a military unit. Right now he didn’t have anyone to replace the casualties they were likely to suffer either, and definitely none suitable to lead in his place if he were killed. Harry shook his head though.

“I want to see the Lorraine’s Gate and the Stroudsburg Gate[1] and their commanders first before I recommend the military for any of them. I would have preferred seeing them before you all got dragged here to be quite frank,” he said, looking irritated. Further down the table, Ire and Deepbite were getting into a scuffle over the last buttermilk biscuit, and Beartooth let out a warning growl. Harry shot them a warning look of his own. The older werewolf wasn’t entirely sure whose warning had them more cowed in the end.

“You needn’t be so worried. We can hold our own against wizards. Greyback proved that in the last war, and thousands of years of continued existence proved it before that.”

Harry’s eerie green eyes looked up into his, sharp as knives and just as dangerous.

“It isn’t just about survival. You deserve more than just surviving. This is about respect. Mutual respect. You are men, as well as beasts, and should be respected as both. I would not see you mistreated simply because others believe they can get away with it or even because you do not really care.”

Ah, yes, this was why he was putting his faith in this frail child. More than Blackbone’s commands, more than simple protectiveness for a pack mate, Harry was the future. He saw things not just as they were, but how they should be, and possibly how they could be. Beartooth didn’t hold much faith in wizarding kind, but here lay the exception. Here sat a miracle-worker.

The vivid green stare slid sideways, back to Ire and Deepbite, who were now cat-calling a nervous young waitress bringing an extra tray of food.

“Respect,” Harry snarled, causing the two misfits to fall silent. “Works both ways. Stop embarrassing our unit.” When they looked down, appropriately contrite and the waitress could gratefully continue doing her job unharassed, he turned back to Beartooth. “I know you don’t like wizards much, and I don’t blame you considering, but please try to get along with them. You might find yourself delightfully surprised every so often.”

Beartooth shrugged, as if it was inconsequential, but he would try if only because he had more faith in the boy’s vision than he did his own. He wanted what was best for the werewolves. He had been a part of them since before the war, a listless young muggle looking for a purpose or at least a job, while hitchhiking across the English countryside when his life took an unusual turn. Surviving the werewolf attack had been the easy part, surviving as a werewolf in the wizarding world was another matter altogether. The war had actually made things better for him, providing him a place to go and regular in employment under Greyback, even if the work was dirty, but by then he had learned to hate witches and wizards and hadn’t cared. Greyback had made him proud of his own strength, but there was little pride to be found in their history. Murder and persecution stretched back to time immemorial, and this new war was just a continuation of that for him. Only now it was revenge, cold and bitter and delicious, but as inconsequential as every other fight before it. If Harry could find consequence in it, find meaning and purpose for what they were doing, then he would try his best to help him.

Even if he did have to play nice with other soldier boys… and the occasional waitress.

“Morgana! Alyssa! It’s time to go!” Kyle called out for what seemed like the thirtieth time in ten minutes. He was tired and aggravated after helping the movers pack up their belongings for most of the day, and he still had to get the children to the new house and then get some groceries to make dinner before he could call an end to the day.

“I can’t find Izzy!” Alyssa whined, looking ready to burst out into tears as she scurried down the stairs.

“Oh, baby, we probably packed her up with the rest of your dolls. She’s on her way to the cottage right now. Just like we should be,” he said, trying to keep his voice sympathetic, when his patience was all but in tatters.

“But I had her just a minute ago! I know she was with me after the truck left!” she insisted. “I can’t go without her! She’ll be scared all by herself!”

Kyle sighed. “Alright, I’ll help you look for her. Where’s your sister?”

Alyssa shrugged and ran off to continue her search. Robert came into the foyer from the study and watched her disappear. He shared a sympathetic look with his husband.

“It’s just anxiety,” he said, “They’re worried about leaving. They’ve never lived anywhere but here. It’ll be alright.”

“I wish you were coming with us. They would feel so much safer if they knew you were with us. I’d feel safer too.”

“It’ll be alright,” he promised, “I just need to finish up with these last two clients, and then I’ll join you Sairg as soon as I’m done. I’ll be by every Sunday in the meantime. We talked about this, remember?”

Kyle nodded but didn’t look any happier. Morgana trudged into the foyer, with a glass of milk and a plate of cookies.

“Where are your coat and gloves?!” Kyle demanded. She just shrugged.

“I got hungry waiting for her to find her stupid doll.”

“She’s not stupid! Izzy’s the top of her class!” Alyssa shouted from somewhere upstairs. Kyle ran his hand through his hair in frustration. Robert just glowered.

“I’ll handle this,” Robert said, taking the glass of milk and cookie from Morgana and calling Alyssa down stairs and into the kitchen. Five minutes later they re-emerged, both of them looking very subdued, but dressed and ready to go. “They won’t give you any problems for the rest of the day.”

Kyle wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. “What am I going to do without you?”

“Funny, I was wondering the same thing.”

“Promise you’ll be safe?”

“I promise. The Fortifyers[2] will be in this Thursday to secure the house, and I’ll be done with business before Christmas. Nothing’s going to happen before then. Just be patient.” He turned to his daughters, who were still looking sulky from their reprimand. “And you mind your dad, you hear? I’ll be by every Sunday to make sure of it.”

They nodded petulantly, but didn’t turn away when he bent down and kissed both their foreheads and hugged them. Kyle took his turn as well, holding tight for a moment longer than was really necessary.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, you silly sap. Be careful.”

And with that, they left for the central Floo station in the Court district. Their private floo had been de-activated a week before as part of a city wide security measure, so that only a few select places in the city was connected to the national floo network. It was one of many security measures that had convinced the Reicher patriarchs that it was time to get out of the city before whatever the Court feared would happen did happen.

They had talked about what to do several times in the last month, until at last Robert decided to rent a cottage out in the Scottish countryside, in a little wizarding town called Sairg that was so obscure it wasn’t even listed on ninety-percent of the maps he had looked at. He would send Kyle and the children ahead to settle in while he finished his business obligations in London, then join them until the worst of the fighting was over. His tentative association with Harry had resulted in an unexpected influx of business by several very wealthy clients, many of whom were stationed out of their own country estates away from the big cities and he was confident he could continue to support his family from the little cottage and the London flat in the mean time.

They really were going to have to thank Harry for that later.

All of this was practical and responsible and for the best, but Kyle couldn’t help but look back at their little townhouse at least once, and feel an uneasy regret. Would it still be there when they decided to come back? Did it even matter, so long as man still inside was with them in the end?

“Come on, dad, I’m still hungry,” Morgana whined, tugging him along. He forced a smile as he turned back to his daughters, staring up at him expectantly.

“Oh, now you’re in a hurry to go!”

Lord Voldemort arrived in Paris two hours after Harry’s departure, but did not overly concern himself with that. His protégé would be back in Paris in a few days, and they could discuss his progress then. For now, he intended to focus all his attentions on Her Majesty and take full advantage of the courtesy she was bestowing on him during his visit.

At this moment, he was enjoying her company in the palace solarium, a refuge of warmth and lush foliage in the gloom of winter. From somewhere way above them he could hear the soft twitter of birds, and brief flashes of red and gold. The room its self was like an enormous gilded birdcage, with magnificent granite and marble mosaic of Apollo and his burning chariot spread across the floor. A tea set had been laid out for the sake of decorum, just as the ladies-in-waiting and his own ‘man servant’ positioned unobtrusively at one end of the room were, even knowing that if either one of them decided to do something ‘inappropriate’ none of them could have done a damn thing about it.

The queen herself was looking no less resplendent than the room in a white and gold gown, the bodice accentuating the beauty of her feminine form, the seemingly endless tapestry of lace, pearls, and gold silk accentuating the beauty of the human imagination. Her wide, dark eyes should have made her look innocent but instead gave an air of magnanimity and the not-quite there curve of her mouth a gentle humor.

He could see why his young protégé would fall in love with her, however childish that love, but it was not attraction (although she was very attractive) that drew him to her. It was power, and they both knew it. Etiquette allowed them to pretend otherwise.

“You have made a great many people angry with you,” she said gently. The smile he gave her was not gentle, but he could tell by the slight hitch in her breath that she liked it.

“Have I made you angry at me, your Majesty?”

“Angry? No. Concerned? Very.”

“Then I feel doubly blessed. For having avoided your ire and been bestowed with your concern for my well-being at the same time. I am, indeed, a lucky man.”

“I am not sure if I should admire your confidence or disdain your arrogance,” she admitted, her expression never changing. “It is only a matter of time before the Germans re-group to attack you… perhaps attack my countrymen as well.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt I am the only one in this room who hopes that is very much the case.”

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“Do you believe me so eager for war?”

“No, of course not. War is just a means to an end. Like fundraising or studying. I believe you are eager for change.”

“What sort of change do you think I am looking for?”

“The same kind I am looking for. A revival. A return to the glory days of our respective histories, when our politicians were the great thinkers, warriors, and dreamers of their day rather than the spineless sycophants to the mob we now have. Mediocrity has weakened our people, just as brutality and decadence ruined our people before that. It is time to revive that which is worth reviving and learn from that which should remain buried. This war will shake Europe from the apathy that has overrun it, and force the ordinary to the extraordinary and the extraordinary to take responsibility. The threat of imminent death has a way of doing that.”

“You have an interesting way of looking at war.”

“Fire is my element. I have an interesting way of looking at anything that is traditionally seen as destructive.”

“Hate?”

“The spiritual rejection of an injustice.”

“Fear?”

“A means of survival, of the body, the soul, and society as a whole.”

“Betrayal?”

“The limit of tolerance. There must be limit to everything. All of these ideas have their limitations. They are habitually destructive, but destruction is as necessary as construction for survival and for growth. I notice you did not mention ‘love’.”

He leaned in just a little, and her mouth curved up a fraction so that her not-smile was now a very modest grin. At the other end of the room, the ladies-in-waiting held their breath and the manservant frowned uncertainly.

“Do you see love as destructive?”

“Of course. I thought the French had a very good understanding of this. So much of your literature has love end badly. But love is dual in nature, just like hate and fear and betrayal. It inspires us to acts of selfishness and selflessness, for joy and despair, and is the motivation of countless acts of conception and of murder. It is a source of some of the most powerful magic in existence.”

“And you have known this sort of magic?” There was the slightest, barely there hint of flirtation in that question, but he missed it due to the mental jolt of the words themselves. Had he known that sort of magic? Oh, yes. Not the exact kind she was thinking of, but…

He recovered quickly enough to give his own vaguely flirtation response without a hint of hesitation.

“It is also the rarest sort of magic.”

Let her interpret that as she would.

By early afternoon, the coffee had worn off and Harry was seriously wanting to hit someone. Beartooth had been willing enough to ignore the other Culties that morning, but neither he nor the rest of the unit expressed any interest in interacting with them either. If fact, they didn’t seem to care one way or another about anything as they were flooed from Paris to the Lorraine’s Gate, an abandoned castle at the base of a small mountain that had been reclaimed and refurbished by the French government to accommodate their British allies, and were escorted around the premises.

As far as Harry could tell it was a very fine facility if a little tight in the way of space, and the surrounding countryside was thick with old growth trees and rocky hills. The sort of place the werewolves could patrol and hunt in and feel at home, but which they seemed to show very little interest in. To make matters worse, the commander in charge was personally showing off the grounds and having detected their disinterest, was becoming increasingly irritated himself.

“If our fortification doesn’t meet with your standards,” General Maxxis said, gritting his teeth as Beartooth snorted quietly. Harry shot the werewolf a warning look. They were alone in the man’s office, a rather somber little, and he didn’t want to have to be the adult one out of the three. “You can always request a position elsewhere.”

“General,” Harry said with more calm than he felt, sitting in one of the chairs and trying to swallow what had to be the worst tea in the province, “Please do not take my friend’s attitude to heart. We are all tired from our travels, and neither of us has the experience to critique this base one way or the other. He is placing his faith in my judgment, and as far as I can tell you meet all the requirements I think necessary to house this unit.”

Maxxis, who was middle-aged and had the look of a Sentinel without the scars, nodded and seemed to calm somewhat. He eyed Harry curiously for a minute.

“It’s an odd world we live in,” he said. “When I was your age my biggest concern was whether my old man was going to flog me for failing Arithmancy.”

Harry smiled a bit ruefully. “Oh, I’m still worried about failing Arithmancy too. I just have a few other things to worry about as well.”

The commander nodded, but didn’t smile back. He drummed his fingers for a moment, thinking. Then spoke again. “If you wouldn’t mind, we have some time before your escort arrives to take you to the Stroudsburg Gate, and it would mean a lot to my men if you could talk with them a bit. Nothing formal, just shake a few hands, trade a few names. It might go a long way to ease any tension between them and well…”

“The nasty little beasties…” Beartooth finished with unfriendly little grin.

“Your words, not mine, but perfectly accurate if this your general behavior!” Maxxis snapped. Harry could feel a headache come on. He held up a hand to interrupt them both.

“Respect,” Harry reminded them both, but doubted it was any use. Beartooth was already in a tiff about something and now had Maxxis’s hackles up. Maybe that was a good thing. Better to know that pairing them together wasn’t going to work before the real fighting started. He had to hope he would have better at Stroudsburg Gate. In the meantime, there was no reason not to visit the other soldiers stationed here just because their commander was oversensitive. Maybe Beartooth just needed practiceinteracting with wizards without antagonizing them. “Alright, I would like that. Mind if I borrow your bathroom for a minute first?”

“Certainly, go right ahead.”

The door had barely closed and already he could hear Maxxis and Beartooth muttering things at each other. He closed his eyes and wondered what he should do. He didn’t trust placing Beartooth in the other’s command, and likewise it was dangerous to leave the werewolf with someone he didn’t respect enough to obey. But could he really request the unit be stationed somewhere else? Stroudsburg, maybe, if they didn’t pick up any more recruits from the colony and overcrowded the barracks, but there was no guarantee that fort would be any better than this one. What was Beartooth’s problem anyway?

Merlin, what if he couldn’t find anywhere that they could fit in? Perhaps they could be stationed out of a private post, but that was only temporary solution. They had to integrate with the army at some point, and the sooner the better.

Almost without thinking, he reached into his pocket, grabbed a few leaves, and placed them in his mouth. A sense of calm detachment descended. Descended a little too quickly. The room swam in front of him for a moment, darkened, and with it came noise, growls and laughter and then pressure against his chest. It only lasted a moment, and the world brightened and then righted itself, and he found himself staring blankly at a shattered mirror, his reflection broken into a dozen pieces. He blinked, and spun around but there was nothing and no one there. He looked at his hand to see if he had hit the mirror, but the skin was whole and untouched.

What happened?

Shakily, he withdrew his wand and fixed the mirror. Maybe… maybe he had taken too much Du’ on nadi. Had he taken some this morning and forgotten about it? He didn’t remember doing so, but then again he had been groggy that morning so perhaps had just forgotten about it. It didn’t feel like an overdose. He had never broken anything during the few incidents where he had taken too much. He didn’t feel any different than he normally did after a normal dose, but what the hell was that?

A warning perhaps?

A knock on the door made him jump.

“You okay in there, Harry?” Beartooth asked.

“Uh, yeah… just a second.”

Later, he could wonder about it later.

Bobby lingered in the upper tiers of the hill lodge with the other birds and minor sprites, trying not to fidget too much lest he gain the unwanted attention of the fae below. Dwarves and gnomes mostly, uninterested in someone of Bobby’s skill, but scattered about were a few of the more dangerous members of the Seelie court; a veela, an earth elf, a young rock lord, any of whom might find a traveler of his skill and knowledge quite useful. If he were above ground, he would not be so nervous, but inside of a fairy hill Raecellos’ influence and more importantly his protection was greatly diminished.

Normally, he would avoid a hill unless specifically invited inside, allowing for the protection of the host, but he needed information, the sort that one only seemed to find in the drunken ramblings in the taverns of the Underground. Nothing made fairies more philosophical than drink, and the philosophical discussion that resulted always involved on of three things; love, sex, or politics. Occasionally all three could be worked into a ramble, but usually it was one or the other.

Bobby was hoping for politics, because he had been hearing some disturbing whispers among the wind sprites. Normally, they were too frivolous and scatterbrained to take seriously and forgot what they were talking about within minutes of saying it, but for the last two days the gossip had been unusually persistent albeit vague.

Harry, Twilight Seeker, Gilhalmelan they all chattered and laughed.

Greyback, Devil God, the Black Wolf King, they all growled and hissed.

Nothing to worry about really. These were common enough names these days, Harry being the latest pawn of the gods and Greyback being the newest of an otherwise diminishing pantheon. It was the fact that they were being mentioned together that had Bobby worried now.

“Bullocks!” snarled a particularly irritated gnome. “First god we’ve had in… what? A hundred years? Two hundred? And it’s got to be a damned war god, just what the hell we need. Nasty fellow too.”

“I hear he’s got a wife and kids, but you don’t see them none. Keeps them in their den, asleep. For protection… or maybe they’re dead and he’s just weird,” his rather subdued drinking companion muttered. “He’s got a whole court in that den. Servants and gold and meat and weapons. All of it. Won’t hire out locally though, and that’s bloody unfair. How’s an honest chap suppose to get any work what with all the minor gods dying off and the few new ones comes along aren’t hiring?”

The irritated gnome snorted. “Who’d want to work for that freak? Got blood on the brains. Crazy.”

“Like a fox,” murmured the earth elf, inviting herself into the conversation. She was rather fox like in appearance herself, with a pointed face and black gloved paws for hands. Sipping her wine, she waited a moment to see if her bait had been taken, and when the gnomes waited for her to elaborate she continued. “He’s a god. Not a fairy. He’s got plans. They all have bigger plans. He was in his den-kingdom until a few days ago, but now he’s traveled to the mainland. What do you suppose he’s doing there?”

The gnomes looked to each other, apparently having not heard of this latest bit of gossip. Bobby leaned in as far as the shadows would allow.

“What’s he up too then?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but the Twilight Seeker left for the mainland a few days ago too. Maybe he’s following him.”

“What for? He gonna kill him?”

“Maybe.”

“Naw, he’d protect him, yeah? He was a part of his old pack, yeah?”

“Maybe.”

“Except it might be the boy’s fault they all got killed.”

“Maybe. We won’t know until the Black Wolf King catches up to him, now will we?”

The gnomes made some sort of reply, but Bobby had already retreated to the shadows and into one of the little rabbit tunnels that would lead him outside.

He had heard enough.

They huddled silently in the dark of their cellar, relying on the light of a single candle. Their furnace had stopped working the day before, and nothing they did seemed capable of restarting it. Lanterns and candles were in short supply in Berlin, the Culties having taken to raiding the local residences and business for supplies in order to replenish their dwindling stores. Despite the initial thrill of their semi-successful assault on the British supply, Viktor and his rebels were now keenly feeling the backlash of their actions.

The Culties were pillaging those few places that had survived the initial raid, ousting stranded witches and wizards from what little shelter was available into the streets, stripped of anything of use from food and candles to parchment and medicines. Men and women were interrogated at random and not all of them walked away from the experience. The result was a lot of desperate witches and wizards roaming the streets, looking for food and for shelter, the strongest of them forcing out the weaker until it was almost as dangerous to meet a German wizard as it was to meet a British one.

To make matters worse, the Culties had begun to massacre the local owl population. They killed them by the dozens in the owlrys, in the air, when they found them in residences, or anywhere else. There were rumors that the Culties were intending to eat them, but Viktor and the others knew better. Their previous plan would not work again.

And still, Viktor refused to relent.

“We mustn’t waiver,” he stated firmly. “We must increase our efforts. They are desperate. We’ve made them desperate.”

“Yeah, along with everyone else in the damn city,” Ernst grumbled. Viktor ignored him.

“What do you have for me?” he asked the others instead. Ada spoke up first.

“I got the maps you wanted; although I don’t know how much good they’ll do you. Some of them are at least a hundred years old. Half the routes are probably blocked or destroyed by now.”

“I’ll worry about that later. They’ll be a good starting point for what I want to do. Eleonore?”

The former journalist smiled, and it was decidedly unpleasant. She did not take kindly to the injustices she saw being perpetrated, and it showed in the casual mercilessness with which she had completed her assignment.

“It’s been arranged. We’ll have our weapons. I can’t guarantee it’s not a trap. These aren’t the most trustworthy guys we’re dealing with.”

“It’ll be fine. We know more about them then they do about us- ugh!” Viktor choked at a sudden wave of pain, unable to catch himself before letting the pained moan escape. Immediately, Clemens was on his feet and checking his wounded arm. They may have had plenty of food, but medical supplies was a different matter altogether, and Viktor’s wounded arm was slow to heal without the aide of potions. Clemens did what he could, but his knowledge was limited to first aide, and aside from a few wound cleaning and clotting spells not of much use.

“Dammit, Viktor,” the bespectacled man admonished, unwinding the bloody cloth he had been using as a bandage. “You need a medi-wizard! You’re going to bleed out or get an infection at this rate!”

He shook his head, and carefully extracted his arm, his expression once again masked by his usual resolve.

“It is nothing. God damn, vampire. Must have been trying to take advantage of all the fighting to hide her feeding. She might not be alone either. Keep your wits about you if you go out at night, got that?”

They all nodded obediently, not buying his attempt at distraction. Viktor was strong, but his wound worried all of them. He had every intention of helping them in the actual fighting, maybe even doing most of it himself, and he could not afford to have such a weakness. For now, however, there was nothing they could do but try and keep him from straining himself or making any reckless decisions before he was properly healed.

“Alright,” he continued. “I’ll review the maps tonight, and we’ll investigate the tunnels tomorrow morning. We’ll worry about the weapons when they’re ready. Everyone get some sleep. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

Katarina hunted the streets near where she had seen her prey escape first, but after two nights of fruitless searching, she moved deeper into the city in search of him. She had hoped that the Culties would have identified him for her, but the numerous wanted posters offering a reward for information on the ‘terrorists’ responsible for the Depot Explosion told her otherwise. Horace seemed utterly uninterested in the matter beyond the fact that it had conveniently eliminated one of the three places he suspected housed the ward hub and inconveniently increased security. She hadn’t told him about the man who had escaped her, and didn’t tell him that she was hunting him still. They were pointedly ignoring each other as much as possible.

So now she hung to the shadows of Lintz Street, haunting the alleyways and rooftops, hunting open cellars and abandoned ramparts. Prey was numerous, newly displaced and increasingly desperate, unarmed witches and wizards searched recklessly in the darkness for entrances to half destroyed buildings in hopes of getting out of the wind and coming snow, if not the cold altogether.

She ignored them. Let her children find them and feast. She had something a little more… challenging in mind.

“Civilians keep coming in demanding information or for action or whatever,” Auror Juelsvene complained to the other half dozen men around the table. The sun had set, and they were gathering to discuss their progress, or lack there of. “They’re making a damn nuisance of themselves. Half of them don’t know their way around the city, and my men have their hands full just keeping them from wandering into the muggle areas!”

Oblitz closed his eyes and shook his head in irritation.

“We can’t have civilians in an open combat zone. If some of them want to stay and help I’m sure we can find jobs for them to do, but otherwise I want them out of the entire city. The Dark Lord will have to send additional troops and supplies eventually, and if they’re still here when that happens it’s going to be a bloody mess! Start the evacuation first thing in the morning.”

“What about the people who live here?”

“Give them two days notice and then get them out of here, as well. We could use the space.”

No one looked happy to have to oust people from their homes, but Oblitz was right. It was too dangerous for civilians to be loitering around. They had received news just that morning that the Dark Lord had moving more troops into Poland and France, and more attacks seemed inevitable.

“Have we heard anything from the Austrians?” Oblitz asked.

“Nothing yet,” a tired looking female Auror said, sighing. “I don’t expect we will for another day or two. The minister will sit on his hands for as long as possible. I sent a request to some members of the Wizengamot to host an emergency session to help speed things along, but I don’t know if it will do any good.”

Oblitz snorted in disgust. “What about the Swiss?”

“Some good news, some bad. The Minister has agreed to lend us two hundred men, but they reserve the right to call them back if they come under attack themselves. We received a missive from Rome promising three hundred on the condition that we collaborate to assassinate the ‘Dark Spawn of the Devil Gods’. I assume they meant Lord Voldemort.”

“Sounds reasonable to me.”

The other men shared a look at that. They were not Voldemort fans, but they knew attempting to kill a man… a being… of that great a political and magical power was easier said than done. He had already destroyed most of their political infrastructure and overrun their capital. The German Wizengamot, who was laughably weak and ineffectual in comparison with its neighbors, had been called to into session in Dresden to take the helm until a new Minister could be found, but they were slow to make decisions and several members were attempting to use the opportunity to increase the power of the Wizengamot and themselves by proxy. Oblitz received orders from them every couple of hours and he ignored them for the most part. He didn’t technically have the authority to ask for aid from other countries without their permission, but until someone actually questioned him (and for the last couple of weeks no one had dared) he wasn’t going to question it himself.

And if someone did question him, he wasn’t above insuring that they never did so again.

Crowded into the undersized mess hall, hot from the crowd of bodies and the warmly glowing lanterns, Harry was starting to feel a bit dizzy. He had traveled to Stroudsburg Gate, done another rather unproductive tour, and by nightfall had moved on to the colonies where a very enthusiastic crowd was waiting for him.

“It is so good to meet you in person! I cannot believe how young you are!”

“I wish to fight! Let me fight for you! I will make you proud, I swear!”

“Please let me shake your hand!”

Beartooth’s characteristic over protectiveness had all but disappeared once they had entered the Vosges-Woolf , a two hundred strong colony with a disproportionate number of grown men eager to be out fighting rather than rebuilding their lives. The colony itself was only partially constructed, and much of it appeared to have been done by wizards. The buildings were all wooden and cabin like, but with little character, much like the clothing the werewolves wore which were practical brown wool robes that all looked the same. Harry supposed they had not yet acquired the skills to be a fully self-sufficient colony, which likely hadn’t been helped by the fact that Sirius and Remus had been called back to Britain before replacements could be sent.

The werewolves themselves couldn’t have been happier with their accommodations. For many of them the little one or two room cabins were the finest homes they had had in years and the surrounding countryside was a vast improvement over the crowded slums they were used to. Those who actually had some experience with country living were granted a great deal of respect for what ever skill they could pass on to others, from anything as simple as cutting firewood to more complex skills like hunting or butchering meat. The witches and wizards that visited and dispensed supplies were few but kind, mostly volunteers from local church and civil rights organizations.

And they attributed all of this to Harry.

“Lord Blackbone told us all about you!” one lone female had gushed. “How you were rescued by a family of werewolves and promised to do the same for the rest of us! You even managed to convince the Dark Lord and Britain almost entirely on your own!”

There were several in accuracies in that statement, but she looked so happy he didn’t feel particularly inclined to nitpick. There were other stories his godfather had told them as well, about escaping from under the German Minister’s nose and defeating several Aurors all by himself and apparently even Greyback had listened to him (which Harry thought was stretching things a bit) and he was able to walk with werewolves during the full moon.

He really wished his godfather weren’t so damned chatty. Beartooth had laughed and said it couldn’t be helped. It was a ‘father’s pride’ sort of thing.

“What about the fighting? Are they going to send any of the werewolves to Berlin? I’d love to give those bastards a little payback for the shit they put us through,” snarled a thin, heavily scarred man. Harry noted that several of those scars had the unique shape or color of a Dark Arts curse, and mentally shuddered.

Several other werewolves were in agreement with him.

“Yeah, when can we sign on? Get our own spiffy uniforms?” one of them laughed.

“What’s the pay like?”

“What if you don’t have a wand? Damn, Auror snapped mine back in ’92.”

The Beast Brigade was hung out around the edge of the mess hall, grinning like indulgent fools, completely clueless as to what the other werewolves were saying (they were speaking in German which was not their forte) but having a pretty good idea what it was about. These were their future allies and pack mates, and already they were showing their allegiance to one of their own.

No help from them, Harry thought helplessly. How could he explain to these people that they shouldn’t join the fight? The visit to Stroudsburg Gate had convinced him of that. Where General Maxxis had been uneasy and irritable, General Thurston had been down right hostile and two fights had broken out between the stationed Culties and the Beast Brigade (which Harryhad to break up before one of his men killed the others). Apparently, in close quarters and with a weapon, untransformed werewolves really could be more dangerous than wizards. It was a mess, and more than ever Harry was convinced that he couldn’t leave them in the charge of the commanders. They weren’t ready for it, and obviously didn’t even want to try. The whole fiasco had Harry reaching for more herbs, but luckily he caught himself.

For all the good it did him. He had three more dizzy spells since that afternoon, one of which Beartooth had actually seen. He had said it was simply fatigue and a lack of food (Thurston apparently didn’t have any dog food on hand, to which Harry said pointedly if he made one more smart ass remark like that he would be the damn dog food). He was having another spell right now, and it didn’t seem to want to dissipate.

He felt himself tilting too late, and only another werewolf sitting beside him kept him from falling out of his seat. “Hey, are you alright?” someone said, but it sounded odd, as if it were from far away or underwater.

An uncomfortable heat came over him and with it the sound of growling and laughter, and a pressure against his chest. He had felt this earlier in Maxxis’ bathroom, but now it was stronger. He couldn’t breathe.

“Harry? Harry, what’s wrong? Everyone get back! Give him some room!”

He was on the floor he realized. How had he gotten on the floor? The ceiling was swimming above him, the lamp light swinging oddly and making the shadows fly. Why couldn’t he breathe? The voices in the room were getting dimmer, even as the voices that couldn’t have been there grew louder. His vision was starting to darken around the edges, and all the strength in his limbs died.

What was happening? Had he been cursed?

A familiar, unpleasant laugh rumbled in his ear, and he closed his eyes tight as the nightmare rolled over him.

Beartooth’s heart nearly stopped when Harry suddenly tilted and nearly pitched himself off the table. Then it nearly beat itself right out of his chest, as he scrambled to the boy’s aid. Within moments, the dizziness had become full on disorientation, then paralysis, followed by tremors and a burning fever. Poison was his first suspicion and he shouted for a medic, and one of his men rushed out to find the witch.

In his arms, Harry struggled to breathe, his chest rising and falling quickly but unable to take in air. His wide, unseeing eyes finally slipped closed and his body stopped shaking, and for an unbelievable moment he thought him dead.

Then he started to breathe again, slow and steady. Beartooth (and not a few of those gathered around him) started to breathe again as well.

Then Harry opened his eyes and they stopped again.

One green eye, and the other… the other was milky blue.

A dark, wicked grin spread across the boy’s face and everyone quickly moved away except for Beartooth, who could only stare and ask in wonder.

“Greyback?”

The Dark Lord slipped out of the Queen’s chambers silently, easing the doors closed gently so as not to awaken her. Pleasant dreams, he thought to himself, feeling simultaneously smug and generous. Harry might not talk to me for a month if he ever finds out about this. Which was also amusing for entirely different reasons.

The musketeers guarding her chambers did not look at him as he passed, but he could feel their hatred for him at his back. Their beautiful and pure queen, corrupted by a savage beast such as himself. Oh the horror. It’s the way of the world, gentlemen. The queens mind a lot less than you think.

He was feeling energetic after his first tryst with royalty, and since he rarely slept to begin with, he didn’t see the point in doing so now. Her majesty wouldn’t mind his absence. She would prefer his discretion over his sentimentality any day, and he had no intention of humiliating her by having their sordid affair caught by a gossipy servant. Not unless he could find some gain from doing so at least.

He wandered the halls towards his quarters, still brightly lit even at 2 o’clock in the morning, and admired the architecture and the art that seemed to overrun every available surface of the palace. He marveled at the impossibly high arching ceiling, the stained glass windows, each made of thousands of different pieces of glass, the marble statues of naked maidens who looked away and smiled shyly as he passed. Such opulence was not to his taste, but he couldn’t help but be impressed with the sheer quantity of it. There had to be easily ten times the number of magical artifacts and artwork within this building than there ever had been in Hogwarts, and one could spend their entire lives making a record of it and still only get a third of the way through.

And this was only the winter palace. He hadn’t seen her summer palace in Versailles yet.

He wasn’t exactly jealous, per se, but he did experience a definite sense of… competitiveness looking at it all. Could he create something that would surpass all of this? Without making it so damn awful gaudy? He decided to look into it when he got home.

His chamberlain was waiting at the door for him when he arrived, looking both tired and extremely nervous. The man was French, and for a servant very competent, and the Dark Lord was seriously considering asking the Queen if he could keep him but then decided that would be tacky.

“My Lord,” he greeted respectfully, with barely a hint of an accent. “Thank goodness you’re here. I sent servants looking for you hours ago!”

Voldemort lifted his brow. The servant opened the door to let him into his suite, and went through the expected routine of turning on the lights. Normally, he would help the Dark Lord disrobe into something more comfortable and offer a bath, but it seemed something else had to be addressed first.

“Some of your men stationed at Stroudsburg Gate arrived a while ago with some urgent news. When you could not immediately be found, they left to try and take care of it on their as best they knew how.”

The Dark Lord frowned. If there was one thing that made him nervous, it was soldiers relying on their own judgment to make important decisions.

“What is it then? Have the German’s made a move?”

The chamberlain frowned, his expression pinched with genuine worry. “They do not know. I am not sure how to say this, but… Young Master Potter… he is… he is missing.”

Voldemort stiffened, his good mood vanishing.

“What do you mean by missing? What are the details?”

“I am not entirely certain, my Lord. They would not tell me everything, but from what I gathered Master Potter was visiting the Volges-Wulf colony as per his schedule, when he had some sort of fainting spell. One of the soldiers went to get a healer for him, and when they got back, Master Harry, the entire Beast Brigade, and almost the entire colony had simply… disappeared.”

The Dark Lord said nothing for a long moment, neither moving nor changing expression, and the chamberlain strained to detect any sort of emotion over the news that his protégé was gone and might possibly be dead. Finally, the Dark Lord turned away and headed for his desk.

“Please lay out my traveling clothes and then notify all relevant parties that I will be indisposed for a while, but they should expect me at any moment. Also, extend my apologies to her Majesty for my hasty departure. Given the circumstances, I am certain she will understand.”

1. The Lorraine’s Gate and the Stroudsburg Gate are the names of the English forts in France near the German border.↩

2. Fortifyers are professional witches and wizards who install security and structural reinforcement to magical homes to protect them from thieves or those who wish the occupants harm.↩

Destiny Unfolding

The forest was bare and colorless; nothing more than black skeletal limbs, clean white earth, and a grey sky that hung low and spread out into eternity. It should have been dreary and lonely, but beyond his five senses he could feel life in abundance. Or at least, what passed for life in this place. Perhaps Harry could not see them because he, himself, was not alive. He was very aware that he left no prints in the snow as he walked.

He stopped, and turned around, looking back in the direction he had come. None of it looked familiar. Had he really come from that direction? Where had he come from? How long had he been walking and where had he intended to go?

Turning in a circle, nothing seemed familiar. Another circle and he couldn’t remember which way he had originally been pointing. There was nothing distinctive, the trees were all unique and yet uniform in their style of twisting limbs. Above him the sun was lost, dissolved into a diluted silver glow.

“Hello?” he called out, but despite the emptiness, his voice sounded muffled and barely discernable even to himself. “Hello?!”

He stopped to listen, but there was nothing be heard. Not an echo, not the wind, and certainly not a reply. What now?

There was really only two options available to him. He could stay where he was and wait for someone to find him or he could start walking and hope he found a way out of… whatever this place was. Passivity having never been one of his defining characteristics, he picked a direction at random and started walking.

Simon bolted upright in his bed, startled from deep sleep by the booming crack of the gun. The second shot had him leaping out of his bed, scrambling for the hunting knife on his dresser. The floor was icy cold against his bare feet, and a faint blue glow from the window told him without a conscious thought that it was at least half an hour until sunrise. He stumbled over his things in the dark, the sounds of shouting and breaking glass from downstairs muffling his own clumsiness.

He regained his footing and seized the blade, pulling it free of its protective sheath. It was brand new and wicked sharp. His father ahd given it to him on this trip to teach him how to field dress pheasants, wild ducks, and rabbit and he knew just how to hold it without hurting himself. His father said ten years wasn’t old enough to handle a rifle yet, but oh, did he wish he had one now.

There was someone… or something in their cabin. Something two shots hadn’t managed to kill or scare off. Opening his door and creeping into the hall, he realized the shouting had stopped but there was still movement down below. Heavy footsteps and the opening and closing of doors and cabinets, as if it were looking for something. Dread threatened to steal the strength his adrenaline rush had given him, as his mind flitted through memories of all the scary books and movies where bad things happened to people who went out into the empty woods. Families haunted by murderous ghosts, hunters killed by demon possessed animals, vacationers hunted by mad hermits.

But this wasn’t images on a screen or words on a page. This was real and it was inside. It had his parents.

He could still run away. He was on the second floor, but his bedroom window opened to the roof which slanted down until it was only six or seven feet off the ground. He had snuck out that way before, but he couldn’t go yet, not until he knew if his parents were okay or not.

He inched towards the end of the hall, silently as he could, aware that the floor creaked in certain places and he couldn’t remember where, and it didn’t seem to know he was there and he intended to keep it that way. As he drew closer ot the stairs, he started to hear voices, but he couldn’t understand what was said. It wasn’t French whatever it was.

“There isn’t enough to feed everyone.” The voice was deep and something about its accent made Simon think he might be Scottish. A Scottish killer hermit? In Volges? He didn’t know and his English was really bad.

“This gun is for hunting. They probably have an ice box in the cellar for preserving meat. Tell one of the Frenchies to ask them,” said another, this one English and somewhat nasally.

“Why don’t you just go down and look, you lazy ass?”

“Because I’m the one with the gun now. I’m on guard duty, not recon. That’s your job, idiot.”

“The thing’s empty!”

“How would you know? You were a wizard. You probably never touched a gun in your life!”

“I’m muggleborn. I know a thing or two about guns.”

“Both of you just shut up.”

The third voice caused Simon to falter mid-step, freezing his breath in his lungs. It was a voice like no other he had ever heard. It echoed on itself, simultaneously clear and young and deep and guttural. It was unnatural.

“Take these two into the cellar, check to see if there’s a freezer while you’re there. You check the upstairs. It’ll be tight, but there might be enough room for all of us… if only for a few hours.”

“Yes, Master,” the other two agreed.

Then there were footsteps heading towards the stairs, and before Simon even had a chance to back away from the edge, a man he had never seen before appeared below him. He was a very strange looking man, tall and muscular in some odd sort of black uniform and a roughly cut beard. He stopped at the base of the stairs, his blue eyes widening, as surprised to see Simon as the ten year old was to see him. He tilted his head curiously in a rather animalistic gesture.

“Well, what do we have here?”

Simon turned and flew to his door, slamming it shut and twisting the lock on the knob. He made it to the window just as the man reached his door, rattling the knob that would no longer turn. Sticking his knife between his teeth, he struggled to unlock and pry open the window, crying in fear and frustration as it jammed part of the way up. The rattling of the knob turned to heavy blows against the door, threatening to tear it from its hinges. He leaned over and squeezed his head through the space he had made and pushed his body through, tearing his sleep clothes as he went, until he was through. Behind him he heard the door finally yield to the intruder, smashing open.

From somewhere inside he heard his mother scream his name.

If the floor inside the house had seemed cold before, out on the roof it was mind-numbingly cold. It drained the warmth and feeling from his bare hands and feet, but he barely noticed in his adrenaline haze. He crawled awkwardly but quickly to the edge of the roof, while his pursuer struggled with the window and was still struggling with it when Simon slipped off the edge and tumbled the few feet to the ground. The ground was frost covered beneath him, but he paid it no mind as he ran for the gravel road.

And then a man stepped out from the trees in frount of it. Simon stopped. Another person appeared, a woman this time. Then another man and another. He turned to flee in another direction but there were people there too. Then more people. They came from amongst the trees, dressed in black or grey, like ghostly apparitions, barely visible in the predawn light. No matter what direction he looked there were more there, and the harder he looked for an escape the closer they manged to draw towards him. He pulled his knife from between his teeth and held it out in front of him. It had seemed so large and impressive yesterday, but now it felt tiny and useless in his trembling hand.

“Stay back!” he shouted, voice cracking and shaking as badly as the rest of him.

“What have we here? A little rabbit?”

The others stopped moving in, and impossibly, Simon felt more afraid of that strange voice than all these strangers gathering around him. Turning, slowly, he found its source and he could not have been more surprised. It was a boy, not old enough to be out of school, small and pale and with glassesof all things.

Simon thought he should laugh, but even as ridiculous as it all seemed, he was still terrified of him. Perhaps it was the way the others turned to him for guidance, or the sword his hand rested on, or his strange eyes; one vividly green and the other a milky blue. Most likely, it was because he was looking at his hunting knife and grinning like the Devil.

“No, not a rabbit,” the strange boy continued, “Rabbit don’t have fangs. A fox then. You know, I had son about your age…”

The only words Simon understood were ‘no, not a rabbit’ and ‘fox’ and ‘fangs’, which sounded simultaneously nonsensical and ominous; quite in keeping with the speaker. When the strange boy stepped forward, hand held out, Simon slashed at him jerkily, but the move failed. Fast, much too fast, his wrist was caught and twisted, and a flare of pain forced him to drop the knife Another twist and his arm was folded behind his back, and a hand was wrapped around his throat.

Simon shrieked and struggled, but a harsh shake made him realize how futile and painful that was. He stood there, terrified, expecting at any moment for the hands to tighten and his life to end for reasons he couldn’t even begin to guess at. But the hands did not tighten. Instead, after a moment, his captor tossed him negligently to a man in grey, who held him by his upper arm, but otherwise kept his attention on the leader.

“Take him to the cellar with the muggles. The rest of you find someplace inside to sleep. We’ll be leaving again come nightfall,” Fenrir ordered, and those gathered seemed to sigh in relief. Their flight from the colony had been a sudden decision and none of them had been properly rested for an entire night’s travel through cold, dark woodland and fields or had thought to bring food for the journey.

He snorted in annoyance, but knew there was nothing for it. Even he was tired, or rather, Harry’s body was tired. It really was a frail and ridiculous bag of flesh, for all the conflict it had survived.

“Master Fenrir.”

He turned to see Beartooth approach him cautiously, head as low as he could make it without actually stooping. He still towered over him by several inches, which grated on the war god’s nerves, but wasn’t worth addressing at the moment.

“What is it?”

“There was some meat found in the freezer, but I sent a few of our men to find some deer. What will you do with the muggles?”

Fenrir shrugged. He had originally planned to kill the cabin’s occupants in order to secure it for his people, counting the owners as nothing more than a few casualties of war, but the boy made him hesitate. He had killed children in his lifetime, accidentally and always during the full moon, and quickly realized it never sat well with him once he regained his senses. He supposed it had something to do with his own traumatic encounters as a child, which had not only stolen his innocence but also three of his younger siblings. Orphaning wasn’t much better. He couldn’t let them go with what they had seen, and while he could glean some spells from Harry’s mind the boy was not skilled with the spells wizards typically used to deal with muggles who had seen too much. The adult male might die anyway. He hadn’t exactly been gentle when he trying to neutralize the threat of the rifle. If he did die, the woman and the child would need someone to look after them. The full moon wasn’t that far off…

“I’ll think of something.”

“And the wizards? Voldemort will not ignore the disappearance of his protégé.”

Fenrir snorted at that. If the Dark Lord cared about his ‘protégé’ so much, he wouldn’t have sent him out here in the first place.

“We will leave the women and the children here in France to act as distractions until we are in Germany. After that… he’s welcome to follow us.”

“What if he hurts the ones you leave behind for helping you?”

Fenrir laughed at this. “They are all French citizens now, even the German ones. If he hurts them he risks ruining his alliance with the Queen. Jane explained it to me. All we have to do is get into Germany. After that, revenge will be our only concern.”

Beartooth didn’t look convinced, but Fenrir waved him off. He did not need to explain himself to the mortal. What must appear to be a mad suicide mission to the alpha, was in fact going to be a turning point in werewolf society. Too long their place in history had been remanded to the killing of random wizards or mass slaughter by wizards. Now, for the first time, they were going to unite as an army, as a people, to protect not only their lives but their newly founded sovereignty. They were a nation, scattered perhaps, but bound in a common lineage rather than a common land, and this battle would set the precedent that united they could overcome their enemies, even if they were wizards. Many would not survive, but they would not fail.

Rhiannon’s daughter had foreseen it.

Land passed below Bobby like a dream, verdant green even in what should have been winter and interwoven with lakes and rivers, and the only sight of civilization the odd stone bridge and ancient castle fortress that looked as ancient as the land itself. Mists hung heavy here and moved around like a living thing, hunting for the unwary to devour. Even Bobby had to be careful of it, as the sky was no safer than the land, and he could just as easily disappear into that blinding vapor.

The faerie realms were dangerous places; particularly those that brushed just a little too close to the spirit realms (or vice versa). It was easy to get lost in such places, easy to wander a little too far afield into the mists and find you had died without even realizing it. If Bobby didn’t have Raecellos as his patron he would be considerably more concerned about this than he was, but the gift of an infallible sense of direction had not failed him yet.

For now all he had to watch out for were fae, and ravens were common enough even here that he doubted anyone would give him a second glance. His primary concern now was expedience. Greyback was apparently hunting Harry, and he wasn’t certain how much of a head start the devil god had.

There was still a chance he could make it before the other. He actually knew where Harry was. Or at least, he had a general idea. They were both touched by Raecellos, so finding each other wasn’t a problem as long as one knew what they were doing. Which Bobby did.

He passed over a small pond, unnaturally clear of reeds and water plants, and doubled back. He circled it twice, calculating how far he had traveled in the fairy realm and how far that would translate in the mortal one. He estimated that he was somewhere in North Western France and that if he waited until the next portal to appear he’d probably be in Germany.

Decision made, he dove straight down into the mirror like water, flying fast and hard to what would normally be his death. He slammed into the water without making so much as a ripple, and emerged above a shallow lake, the air icy cold and the sky painted with the first touch of dawn. He flew up higher and higher, letting the momentum of his fall carry him as far as it would go, until he was high enough to get his bearings. From here he could see mountainous forest deep into autumn, small townships and villages scattered here and there, and what he thought was the Saone River winding its way through it all.

This was farther from Paris than he had thought it would be, but it was possible Harry had been sent this way. There was supposed to be a werewolf colony a couple miles north of here. That was as good a place as any to start.

Voldemort glared at the Ward-Master, a middle-aged French wizard in charge of installing and maintaining the wards around Volges-Wulfe and looked more comfortable in an office than out in the field, or perhaps just more comfortable out from under the invasive presence of the Dark Lord. This was probably true of all the men and women the queen had given him to aide in his search for Harry. There were just under twenty, and he didn’t want to risk anymore knowing what had happened, which wasn’t really a problem at the moment since no one knew what had happened.

“Say that again,” he ordered the Ward-Master, who swallowed thickly.

“The wards are all intact, and there was no way through them. Portkey, apparation, even floo don’t work up here. The entrance ward only came down once yesterday, and that was at the same time your… people… arrive. No one came in. There’s no sign of a struggle anywhere. For all intents and purposes, it appears they all just… got up and left.”

“And your wards can confirm this?”

The Ward-Master looked down, obviously embarrassed about what he was going to say.

“I…no, I haven’t… Um, there are very strict laws about what sort of wards we can use. The colony falls into a sort of grey area. It’s not a prison and technically it’s private land, so we’re not really allowed to monitor when the… residents… come and go. I mean, we have wards set up to keep them inside during the full moon, but that’s a public safety issue and they’re all aware of it and…uh…”

Voldemort just stared at him. That was one of the stupidest things he had ever heard. Ministry stupid, except even the Ministry had known better than to give werewolves too much freedom of movement. The Ward-Master started to sweat and fidget, as if he could read the wizards dark thoughts. He couldn’t, of course. If he could, the man would have pissed himself. Finally, the Dark Lord turned away from him.

“Do not allow anyone to disturb me for the next half hour.”

He didn’t wait for an affirmation, but stalked towards the main lodge, the last place his protégé had been seen. Inside, the state of the place adhered to the Ward-Master’s theory. There were plates of food and un-drunk beer in crude clay mugs, but no signs of struggle. No overturned furniture or curse-marks scarring the wood. The two remaining werewolves, one a part of the Beast Brigade and the other a German refuge, both swore they had been gone for only a few minutes after seeing Harry collapse and when they returned with the volunteer Medi-Witch, the place had been completely empty. They had done a search of the colony, and when they found nothing the lone Cultie had run to the nearest town and fire-called the nearest fort. Bureaucracy had tied things up for hours before word had finally reached him, and while search efforts were already underway the Dark Lord couldn’t help but be furious over the delay.

Harry was gone, probably kidnapped, possibly dead and no one knew what was happening. How had anyone even known the boy would be here? Had the werewolves conspired to kidnap him themselves? He couldn’t even begin to guess for what purpose. German aurors were the most likely culprits, but something this bold would only serve to draw the French closer to direct conflict with them and they didn’t have the strength yet to fight two powerful nations at once. It was still possible, however. Current intelligence stated that Oblitz had taken command and was organizing the Aurors, and he was potentially hateful and reckless enough to attempt to kidnap Harry. Just as likely was a group of rogue aurors acting on their own without thought to the long term consequences. Dead or held hostage, Britian’s Prince would soon be missed, and he didn’t like to consider what that might mean for the war effort. He didn’t like to think of what that might mean to him personally either.

A fatigue fell over him. It had been a long time since he had been concerned about the consequences of his decisions, and had forgotten how they could drain a man, even one such as him. He moved himself to a chair in the darkest corner of the room and sat himself down, pondering different spells he might try to find Harry or even just to determine if the boy were alive or dead.

No one came to bother him. Not even after the thirty minutes of required solitude had passed, and he had formulated a number of spells and rituals to divine the knowledge he sought even in the event of other spells put in place to prevent it. Time and supplies would be needed, neither of which he had in abundance while in France. He couldn’t honestly afford to be away from Britain for more than a day at a time, but he couldn’t imagine going back right then.

He was about to stand and begin the proper preparations, when one of the side windows sprung open without warning and a raven flew inside. It circled the room once, barely avoiding smacking into a beam and alighted clumsily on a table, apparently half blind after moving from the bright sunlight to the dim lodge. Voldemort’s conscious mind went completely blank, struggling between the sudden recognition and the seeming impossibility of it. Luckily, his unconscious mind was ready for the unexpected, and he was casting a spell without thinking.

“Stupify.”

The spell flew true, and the raven let out startled squawk before falling over, its black talons clawing at the air. Voldemort snatched the bird up off the table, examining him from head to toe, before realizing he was being stupid. If this was indeed who he thought it was, his physical appearance wasn’t going to be what gave him away.

“Rennervate.”

Immediately, the raven flailed and pecked and clawed at his hand, attempting to escape. Voldemort flinched as it drew blood, but didn’t let go.

“Stop that or I’ll kill you.”

And suddenly, the raven froze. Slowly, it tilted its head up to look up at him.

“Bobbitimus.”

Raven’s don’t glare. They lack the facial musculature to do so, but the Dark Lord could read the hatred in those beady black eyes easily enough.

“So it is you.” This was… stunning. If it were any other time, he might be able to discern some sort of emotion, some sort of nostalgia, but at this moment his only thought was the raven’s presence and his protégé’s absence was too uncanny to be mere coincidence.

“Where is Harry?”

Bobitmus’ jerked, blinking at him stupidly. “He’s not here?” Immediately, the raven realized he had already revealed too much. Before he opened his big beak he could have denied any interest or involvement with the young wizard. The Dark Lord’s crimson eyes narrowed.

“Were you looking for him? What business do you have with him? Or rather, what business do the fae?”

Indignant, Bobby stabbed him sharply with his beak.

“Our business is our own. Not yours or the fae. Neither is my master, as you well know, seeing as you killed the one who was.”

Voldemort’s tightened his hands around him painfully, threatening to crush his fragile bones. He held his breath, held it in, refusing to scream from the encroaching pain that was soon to follow. But the Dark Lord’s gripped eased, until he could once again breathe comfortably.

“It is only out of respect for your master that I do not kill you now, but I promise you agony beyond measure if you attempt to withhold Harry from me.”

“Well, I’m not hiding him in my back pocket if that’s what you’re implying!”

“Don’t try my patience, Bobbitimus. I ran out of it long ago. Tell me what you know.”

The raven considered lying, considered saying nothing, and briefly considered pecking out the bastards eyes (although this was primarily done to make himself feel better about a really lousy situation), but realized rather quickly that of the two of them, the Dark Lord was the best suited to help the missing Gryffindor.

“The War God, Greyback is hunting him. I was sent as messenger to warn him. If he truly is not here and you don’t know where he is, then perhaps it is too late.”

Voldemort’s eyes widened. “Why would Greyback…” a series of awful ideas slipped through his mind, and to his dismay all of them seemed possible with Greyback. In his moment of distraction, Bobby made his move. There was angry curse, and the Dark Lord snarled in pain as the mass of feathers beneath him transfigured into hundreds of razor sharp quills, stabbing savagely into his unprotected hands. Force to open his hand, Bobby tore free and flew as fast as he could through the still open window, leaving behind several of his transfigured feathers in the Dark Lord’s hand.

The curse that followed after the raven took out half the eastside of the cabin and several fine old oaks, but Voldemort could hear the raven’s wicked laughter ringing through the trees for a long time after.

“Lord Voldemort!” someone cried, and several witches and wizards swarmed to the door of the cabin to see what had happened. He only spared them an irritated glower, before turning to his injured hand. There were easily three dozen ebony quills buried deep into his right hand, and they were not going to come out on their own. He pulled a few of them free with his teeth, and hissed as he discovered in a rather painful way that they were not only sharp but also barbed.

“Just like old times,” he muttered to himself, then turned to the frightened little minions hovering at the door. “Fetch me pen and paper, Lt. Potter’s luggage, and the finest blade you can find.”

The dozen or so men and women just stood there and stared dumbly at him, unable to comprehend exactly how (or why) he had just blown up part of a cabin and injured himself so badly. He flung out his wand, which sent anyone not quick enough to dodge, flying several feet.

“NOW!”

“This sucks Mermaid eggs,” Ernst grumbled, as he sloughed after his comrades through the ancient sewers. The murky water was only ankle deep, but it was icy cold and hid the uneven floor so that they had to be constantly alert to keep from falling into it. The Schnauzer sized rats weren’t exactly pleasant either. Viktor was at the front with the maps, carefully marking their progress through the underground, while Eleonore held up her lighted wand for everyone to see by. He was stuck playing pack mule carrying all their supplies and Engel rounded out their little party and followed behind them to guard their backs.

“Shut up, kid. You’re the one who wanted to come along so badly,” Engel grumbled. This was perfectly true, but then Ernst hadn’t known their mission was going to take so damn long. The ancient tunnels had been interesting and sparked his sense of adventure for about an hour, but by the second he had had enough. They were on their fourth hour now, and he didn’t like the idea that they hadn’t reached their destination and after they did they would still need to go back.

“We’re almost there now,” Viktor said tightly. “We’re right under the Department of Muggle Affairs, so the Department of Education has to be about a sixty meters to the left of us… there’ll be a turn in just a couple of feet.”

“I’m with Ernst,” Eleonore muttered. “The sooner we all get out of this pit the better. This can’t be doing your arm any good.”

“It’s fine,” he snapped, and no one said anything else. It was obvious to everyone that it wasn’t fine. It was clearly causing their leader a lot of pain, and the way he was stubbornly refusing to let anyone look at it made several in their group suspect it was infected. The only reason they hadn’t pushed him to stay at home was that this might be their last mission together. If the ward hub really was under the Department of Education, then destroying it would cause the wards to come down and the German Aurors would re-take the city and allow Viktor to find a medi-wizard to treat him. Then what?

Eleonor had made it clear she would write about what had happened in Berlin for everyone to hear, maybe even a book, and do what was her journalistic responsibility demanded of her. Ada would take her daughter Christiane somewhere quiet and safe to recover from the loss of her father. The others… it was harder to say. None of them were technically Auror material aside from Viktor, but that didn’t mean they wanted to sit on their hands while their country was under attack. Whatever Viktor’s plans were, he kept them to himself and they respected that.

Viktor suddenly stopped and looked up from his map.

“Did you hear something just now?”

Immediately, they were all on alert and scanning the darkness for potential threats, which of course was pointless. No one could see anything. They remained motionless and listening for a long moment.

“Must have been a rat,” Viktor finally said uncertainly. “Stay on guard just in case. It’s possible that there are traps down here.”

They didn’t need to be told twice.

“Switch to dark vision,” he ordered softly, “I can find the spot without the map from here.”

Eleonore extinguished her wand, and a few softly whispered spells pervaded until they could all see again. The tunnel was… not exactly clear as day, but easily visible in a spectrum of white, grays, and blacks; nothing more than shapes and shadows. The map was useless to them now, as the spell made it impossible to see anything written or drawn on a flat surface, and Viktor tucked it away into his robes. It freed his hand to carry his wand, and he was thankful for that. His left arm was stiff and useless, unable to unbend at the wrist or even clench his fist, and he had been forced to pocket his wand while carrying the map.

“Did you hear something?”

Everyone froze.

That hadn’t been one of them. It came from ahead of them somewhere, the barest echo. Viktor turned and gestured for them to fall back further into the tunnels and they all ducked into another, and waited to see who it was.

“Echoes from the street and nothing more. There is no one down here. No one knows of this place,” a female voice said simply.

“You know of it.”

“But of course. These tunnels are the safest way to travel, night or day. We have the greatest mobility underground than above during the daytime, and the Ministry is unable to track our movements during the night. We are more familiar with the tunnels than the streets. The tunnels have remained the same for centuries.”

“How much further, then?”

“It’s just up ahead and to the right. Five minutes at the most.”

“Hhhmmm… it seems you may yet redeem yourself, Katarina.”

There was no response from the other, but Viktor felt his heart race. He knew that voice! He knew both of them! Their combination brought up a whole range of dark possibilities. He waved the others further back into the tunnel. They had to distance themselves.

He didn’t fancy fighting vampires in this place.

The others moved back cautiously, but then the vampiress spoke again and they froze.

“Wait… I smell something… Goethe, Ramone, check it out.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“What is it?” Horace asked, staring after the two vampires as they moved into the tunnel.

“There’s someone here…”

“You said… never mind. We’ll have to take care of this before I can-”

“Incendio!”

“Shit! Negatus incendius!”

Goethe and Ramone both just barely managed to get behind Tom’s counterspell before the wall of fire swallowed them. The fire dissipated into scalding cloud of steam, burning and soaking them simultaneously. Katarina snarled like a lioness, and the moment the flames dispersed she flew down the tunnel to meet their attackers. This territory was hers and had been for centuries. She would not yield it to the wizards.

“Katarina, wait!” Horace shouted after her, but she ignored him. “Go and assist your mistress, you useless fools!”

She could sense the others, Goethe, Ramone, Fiore, Nanz, and Lila follow after her, foolishly leaving the wizard unguarded. She thought to counteract his command, but the enemy was already too close. She could hear the loud splashes and thuds of their feet as they scrambled to escape. Slowing just enough to let the others catch up to her she ordered them quietly.

“Split up and get ahead of them. Drive them into the Bone Well if you can, but whatever you do, keep them from reaching topside.”

“Concido!”

The tunnel ahead of them collapsed, but Katarina merely smirked and turned down another tunnel with her minions. Gradually, they started to break off in different directions and passages opened up for them in order to find and surround their prey. The thrill of a true hunt filled her. This was so much better than the simple stalking and surprising of helpless witches and wizards caught out on the street or sheltered in the rubble. There was danger and strategy in this. If she made a wrong turn or didn’t respond fast enough they could escape or catch her in one of those awful spells.

She kept track of their movements by the echoes of the curses and footsteps, carefully calculating how she might cut them off and in which direction they might next turn. It was obvious to her that they were completely lost now, turning randomly, and cutting off their ability to back track by collapsing tunnels behind them, and only through sheer luck had they avoided being caught in a dead end.

Their luck ran out as they made a turn down a wide tunnel that emptied out into the Bone Well. The Bone Well was a nickname given to the thirty foot wide chamber into which six other tunnels emptied at different levels. The chamber floor had collapsed into another tunnel beneath it centuries ago, creating a two story pit from which the only escape was a two foot drainage pipe that was routinely flooded or blocked or both. Whenever it rained the pit flooded with water and when the water finally receded a new collection of animal and human bones from the nearby catacombs, trash, and was left behind. The water was low at the moment, and dozens of mucky skulls leered up at them as they frantically searched for a way to one of the other tunnels.

“Ah hell, what are we going to do now?!” Ernst shouted.

“A bridge! We need to make a bridge!” Engel snapped, pushing him aside and pointing his wand to the rubble down below. “Pon constructio de os et later et mortarium!”

Beneath them the rubble started to move, rolling around and shaking itself loose from the muck, before pulling itself together into pillars of bone and brick and muddy mortar. Taunting laughter rang out behind him, echoing through the tunnels and into the chamber, almost deafening after the long standing silence.

“Incendio!” Viktor cursed, driving back the shadowy figures he could see coming up behind them. “Dammit, how long?”

“Give me a damn minute! I don’t have anything descent to work with!”

“Just hurry!” Ernst demanded, fidgeting frantically as the macabre bridge slowly began to take shape. The pillars were too thin and shaky, but it only needed to stand for a few seconds, long enough for them to cross into another tunnel. The walkway was only starting to form, when out of sheer panic, Ernst rushed it.

“You idiot! It’s not ready!” Engel shouted, but it was too late, Ernst was already on the still forming bridge and it swayed under his added weight, threatening to throw him off and into the pit. He struggled to keep his balance then struggled to keep free as bones and brick came together around his feet, still in the process of forming the structure. Ernst screamed in terror and scrambled across, feeling the structure a hair’s breadth from collapsing beneath him completely. By some miracle he managed to get to the other side, and still caught up in his terror he continued to run into the tunnel, abandoning his fellows behind him. Viktor called after him.

“Wait! Ernst, wait! Damn it! Go after him! I’ll follow behind and destroy the bridge.”

“But-”

“GO!”

Engel grabbed Eleonore’s arm and dragged her onto the bridge. It swayed beneath them, but nothing like it had with Ernst. They were almost to the other side when they were met by Katarina. She stood at the entrance of the tunnel, smirking down at them, her right hand covered in blood. Viktor shouted for them to defend themselves, but it was already too late. Too quick to see, she moved from one side of the bridge to the other, catching Viktor’s arm before he could execute his spell. Engel and Eleanore, still on the bridge, fell soundlessly to either side, the silence of their death a direct contradiction to the intensity of sound that followed as the bridge collapsed, bricks and bones smashing into the walls and the floor and each other.

Viktor stood there, stunned. They were dead. All of them. His people, his mission, gone in an inexplicable moment. How? How had this happened? Why?

“Well if it isn’t the naughty little boy. I had hoped that I would see you again, but I never dreamed it would be here, of all places,” Katarina crooned, smiling happily. He turned to her. He blinked once then kicked out at her, but she didn’t release his arm and with her free hand she caught his leg and tossed him onto his back. Filthy, icy water flowed around him, soaking the back of him from head to toe and when he rolled over to get back on his feet the rest of him was equally drenched. He only managed to make it to his knees, before he was grabbed again and thrown against the tunnel wall, and everything went dark.

It took the French minions hours to get everything the Dark Lord required, and if it weren’t for the fact that it took almost as long for his own soldiers at Lorraine’s Gate and the Stroudsburg Gate to arrive and that he had to wait around for the medi-witch to finish fixing his hand (apparently no one had invented a spell to deal removing so many barbs at once and most of it still have to be done manually) someone would have died, whether they were French or not. By early afternoon, Voldemort was feeling unequivocally frustrated and the rest of the camp thoroughly terrorized, but he finally had what he needed for the location spell.

The usual locating spells had naturally come up empty handed, and this was not surprising. Locating spells were notoriously easy to block or fool, and it took a sort of creativity and arcane knowledge that most people lacked to find or create truly magnificent locating spells. One of them, the Dark Lord had used to find Harry while he was in Germany through the use of dreams. He could not use that one here. If Greyback truly was involved in Harry’s disappearance, the spell could easily be destroyed, and its reliance on Harry dreaming was likewise problematic. There was a very high probability that the boy wasn’t asleep or was trapped that way by Greyback and out of his reach. He needed a different sort of spell.

He let the others watch as he prepared the spell. Even now he was something of a narcissist, and he knew what he was about to do would have them talking for weeks. They gathered around the partially destroyed lodge, peering in through windows or the blasted out wall, as he blasted furniture out of the way to clear a space for himself.

“Vocabulum sanguis,” he hissed, planting his still bloody hand on the floor. There was a delicious burn as the dozens of little wounds in his hand reopened to spill his life blood onto the floor, only for it be caught up by some invisible pen to inscribe a diagram and three hundred and thirty three symbols spiraled out until it was six feet in diameter. He withdrew his hand and the red symbols glowed for a moment before turning black, burning themselves into the wooden floor boards. At the center of the center of the spiral he placed a piece of paper written in Harry’s hand, for some sort of barely started homework and at the end of the spiral he set his toothbrush. He stood at a short distance from the edge of the spiral diagram. After that, the incantation was simple.

“Patronus de Harry James Potter, ego invito protego tuus dominus.”

The end of his wand glowed white to the point of blinding and he looked away with the rest of them. When it faded to a tolerable level he turned to examine his handy work. Harry’s patronus stood stiffly in the center of the spiral, staring at him unhappily. Voldemort took a moment to admire it. He had never had the privilege of seeing it before, and though Severus had described it to him it seemed the potions master failed to convey its true magnificence. The stag was large and strong, his antlers heavily pronged, its gaze fierce and unflinching. Voldemort, who had always thought of deer as prey animals, knew this creature held a warrior’s spirit.

There were several gasps from the observers, for even if they didn’t know the patronus belong to Harry, it was well known that Voldemort’s patronus was a snake and to have summoned someone else’s was unheard of.

“Your master is in trouble,” the Dark Lord said to it, earning him an interested ear twitch. “A devil god has taken him, and I must rescue him before it is too late. I need you to guide me to him.”

His message seemed to agitate the patronus, for it walked itself in a circle within the spiral, but did not leave it. This was the only truly difficult part of the spell, convincing the patronus to leave the spiral. Inside the spiral, the patronus still had the option of staying or returning to its own spirit realm, but once it stepped away it would be bound to the bidding of its summoner until its true master freed it or died. It circled once, twice, a third time and finally stepped out of the spiral.

“Come then,” Voldemort commanded, and led it outside, and everyone there quickly moved away to give them room. He addressed his soldiers first. “Mount your brooms and prepare yourselves. This will happen quickly. When we find the werewolves, do not engage until I give the order.”

As the Culties all began to mount their brooms, he turned to the patronus.

“Take me to your master.”

A handful of Culties barely managed to dodge out of the way as the spirit deer careened through their ranks and into the woods. Those already mounted, shot after it while the rest scurried after them. It was a fast patronus too, the Dark Lord noted mentally, before he too followed. He had no broom and didn’t require one, but instead employing a technique he had taught to many a Death Eater during the war years, dissolved his body into a thick smoke and shot into the air to follow.[1]

It happened as quickly as he had suspected it would. The patronus ran the gamut of trees and hill, ravines and streams, briar and boulder, and still all struggled to keep up from the air. Those who flew too low had to be cautious of the trees and those who flew too high risked losing sight of their guide. Only Voldemort, who’s insubstantial body held as little fear of the physical realm as the patronus did, was able to keep up easily, often moving so low and close he brushed against the side of the spirit deer, urging it to ever greater speeds. Less than half an hour later the patronus suddenly stopped before a large cabin in the woods, straightened itself to full height, ears spread wide and alert, and did not move.

Unprepared, Voldemort shot passed it, and ended up circling back, surveying the perimeter of the cabin as he did so. Immediately, he knew this was the place. It was heavy with magic. He reformed himself beside the patronus. It did not acknowledge him, but stared unblinking at the cabin.

“Go. You have done your part,” the Dark Lord commanded, and the spirit deer disappeared in plume of mist. General Maxxis and General Thurston dismounted their brooms to stand beside him and receive their orders.

“Do not engage the werewolves unless I give the signal. I will discern the situation myself.”

They looked ready to protest his engaging the ‘enemy’ directly, but he was already moving towards the cabin. He had barely taken half a dozen steps before the front door opened and Harry walked out of the cabin to meet him.

The next half a dozen steps and it became clear that it wasn’t Harry who had come out to greet him.

“Greyback, you son of a bitch.”

“Why yes I am,” the monster laughed in his strange dual voice.

“Release Harry this instant,” he snarled, stalking forward. There were several warning snarls from inside the house, and men started filing out from doorway. Voldemort ignored them. They were meaningless.

“I don’t think so,” Greyback said offhandedly. “I need him for something.”

“I really don’t care.”

The devil god laughed. In an instant, Harry’s wand was in his hand, and a spell he should not have known was cast. “Ignis draconis.”

A dragon, composed purely of fire, formed from the air and sprang for the dark lord, setting the leaf littered ground ablaze as it went. The Dark Lord apparated out of the monster’s path a few meters away from its massive fiery teeth, and then again when the thing spat fire at him. Culties sprang into action, sending offensive spells at it, but they were ineffective against something so strong. Voldemort himself was somewhat astonished at the level of the spell. ‘Fire Dragon’ was not really a difficult spell, but typically it was only intended to be the size of a large pony not an actual dragon, and for someone to make it that large required a great deal of magic and control. Greyback should not have had either. The monstrosity roared and swung its tail, smashing several trees into smoking cinders and sending a handful of Culties flying without the aid of their brooms.

“Ignis dissolutus!” Voldemort snarled and the dragon exploded into so many embers, floated up, and disappeared. He turned to Greyback who was still leering at him confidently.

“That was fun. I see why wizards might like this sort of thing.”

“How?” he demanded, but the devil god merely waved the question away.

“Not something ya need to worry about. I was just showing off. Those German bastards are in for quite the surprise.”

“Stupify!”

The spell caused Greyback to stumble backwards, but he threw it off with shiver and a smirk.

“Mine was cooler.”

The Dark Lord’s crimson eyes narrowed. He was not prepared for this fight. He knew a thousand spells that could kill a man or a god, but none that could kill a god without hurting the body of the one possessed. Stunning spells and simple hexes wouldn’t work on the likes of Greyback, and anything stronger risked Harry’s body.

“What do you want, Greyback?”

The devil god grinned and spread his arms, as if welcoming him for a hug.

“I want the same sort of things you want; a strong nation, a happy people, and my enemies writhing in agony at my feet. Is that so unreasonable, old friend?”

“I was giving you all of that already! Why betray me now?!”

Greyback narrowed his eyes, and Voldemort felt an uncomfortable anxiety at seeing the devil god’s anger and hatred shining through Harry’s young face.

“You cannot give pride! We are not your dogs! We will take our revenge on our own terms.”

“And you would betray your allies to do so? You would dare to betray me? I will kill all of your kind down to the last man, woman, and child before I will tolerate such arrogance!” he warned, raising his wand towards the house where the werewolves were still trickling out the door. They froze when they saw the Dark Lord pointing his wand at them. It would only take one simple spell and cabin and everyone inside (and likely anyone anywhere even closeto it) would be dead.

Greyback glowered at him, but made no move to obey.

“It’s funny ya should say that,” he said darkly, and from his back pocket he removed the hunting knife he had taken from the muggle boy and raised it to his neck. “I was thinking the same sort of thing.”

The Dark Lord hesitated, the devil god grinned.

“You wouldn’t…” but they both knew he would.

“Harry is as much mine as he is yours, old friend. He belongs to my Queen and to my people. Killing this body means nothing to me. He will die as Britain’s prince and be reborn a godling in Rhiannon’s court, my brother and my servant. Do not attempt to test my resolve here. I’m fucking crazy and we both know it.”

Black hatred welled up in the Dark Lord, the likes of which he had not felt since the war, when Dumbledore continued to aggravate and harass him and his forces at every turn. He had thought he had outgrown such pettiness, but now he could feel it blooming again like a perennial flower.

“If you harm a hair on his head, I crush the souls of your last living children and feed them their own hearts.”

Greyback snarled, lifting Harry’s wand to truly attack him, but a new voice interrupted.

“Quit being so stupid, the both of you. Threatening each other won’t get you anything but a lot of very dead innocents.”

They both turned to a rather singed tree, where Bobby had landed himself, his feathers blending in to the blackened wood. His feathers were looking rather disheveled, having lost several of them in the Dark Lord’s hand, but otherwise he looked as arrogant as ever.. Greyback glanced at the Voldemort.

“Did that bird just talk?”

“Unfortunately.”

“My Lord, should I…?” General Thruston began, his wand raised and ready to silence or stun or kill the interloper, which honestly was all very tempting to the Dark Lord at the moment, but he wasn’t making any progress with his ‘negotiations’ and Bobby used to be fairly good at such things. He gestured for his men keep their wands lowered. Greyback made the similar gesture to his own people, one of which lowered the rifle he had been aiming.

“Who the hell are you and what do you want?” Greyback growled.

“I am Bobbitimus IV, and I represent an interested third party that consists of everyone who isn’t a raving psycho. Now, how can we get back young Harry without him getting killed?”

Greyback thought about that for a moment. It was not Harry that he needed per se, and killing the boy served no purpose, but he did need the collateral to keep Voldemort off his back and the magic Harry had to deal with any magical defenses he came across along the way. He thought on it for a moment, glancing at the Dark Lord to see if he was willing to listen to this ‘interested third party’.

“Safe passage to Berlin is all I require. My people will take care of the rest from there.”

“If you go to Berlin in that boy’s body, he will be killed,” the raven pointed out.

That was very true.

“I’ll leave him somewhere safe before the fighting starts. I have plenty of other willing followers that I may inhabit for the battle. I just need to be left alone.”

At this last part, he looked pointedly at the Dark Lord. That’s all he really needed, just to pursue their justice on their own terms and not as cogs in the dictator’s machinations. Voldemort shook his head.

“You’ll never make it to Berlin. You’re hardly being subtle. The Aurors will find you and kill you before you get ten miles across the border. If you had just waited a few weeks, we could have invaded from the Polish side and done this properly.”

“We will make it. We’ll take the bloody train if we have to.”

“Subtle,” the Dark Lord muttered.

The raven cocked his head, considering.

“I can take you there. I can even make sure neither the Germans nor his Lordship here can bother you while you travel.”

Voldemort glared at him, but it was useless. Greyback was already interested.

“I’m listening.”

Harry wasn’t sure how long he walked. No matter how long or how far, the sky never lightened or darkened and he did not tire. Every so often he would blink and wonder if he had been dreaming. Then he reminded himself that he was probably still dreaming and started walking again.

However long it had been or how far, he wasn’t where he had started. His surroundings had ever so slowly begun to change. At first, it was the trees. They started to become larger and more spread out. The change was so subtle and gradual he hadn’t been sure there was really any change at all, until the ground started to change too. Before it had been blanketed in thick white snow, but that snow had begun to melt away the farther he went until blades of grass and pale purple crocuses had started to pierce the icy barrier. Harry wondered if he went far enough he would find the place in full spring. How long had he been traveling?

The sky was as silvery grey as ever, but it hung low now, obscuring the tips of the tallest trees. By the time he reached the theoretical spring, he might not be able to see it if the fog continued to descend.

He still had no idea why he was there or where he was going. It was hard to concentrate in this place, hard to tell when he was daydreaming and when he wasn’t. It took him a long time to realize the sound of water wasn’t merely in his head.

It wasn’t particularly loud, but in the endless silence it could not be missed. Harry stopped and listened, then turned in the direction of the sound. It didn’t take long to find. It was a creek, wide and shallow with round black and bronze colored stones lining the bottom. They reminded him of his own keystone. Curious, he reached out to pull one of the stones out.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Harry nearly leaped straight into the creek. He just barely managed to stop himself and fell clumsily onto the bank.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just better not to touch those stones. Once you do you’ll be stuck in the creek until you find a willow to pass under. Funny rules this place has, but there you have it.”

Sitting about fifty feet away and partially obscured by a bush was a man Harry had never seen before sitting on an overturned log. He was in his fifties or very spry sixties, with thick brown hair on his head and face, both neatly trimmed and streaked with grey, giving him a distinguished look. He bore the robes and staff of a druid priest.

Harry closed his eyes tightly for a moment and then opened them. The priest was still there. In fact, the priest was the most real thing he had seen, and the dreamy cloud that hung over his thoughts seemed to dissipate at the sight of him.

“I’m not a dream. Don’t worry. Come sit with me,” he said, gesturing to a spot on the log.

Cautiously, Harry did so, taking a spot just out of reach. From there he could see the man’s eyes were green and wrinkled with laugh lines. He seemed amused by his cautiousness.

“You need not be afraid. I would not hurt you, Harry.”

“Who are you? How do you know me? Do you know why I’m here? Where is here?”

“Hhmm… to answer your questions in order of their importance; you’re here because this is where Greyback thought he could hold you the longest, and you’re stuck here because the gods saw fit to punish you for abusing the Du’on nadi. Which, by the way, was very very stupid.”

Harry ducked his head in embarrassment. Yes, he was realizing that now too.

“‘Here’ is a spirit realm. It has various names that would be meaningless to you, but it is the place where a spirit resides when the body is at the edge of death, when it might return to either the mortal realm or deeper into the spirit realms at any moment. Typically. You’re a special case. You’re here for timeout.”

“So I’m not dead?”

“No. Just in trouble.”

Well… that was something… different. Honestly, how did he get into these messes?

“Wait a second, you mentioned Greyback. What does he have to do with any of this?”

The priest’s expression shifted from mild condescension to sympathy.

“Unfortunately, it is Greyback who is currently in possession of your body. I dare say he’s proven almost as troublesome as you. He is leading a battalion of werewolves to Berlin as we speak.”

“What?!”

“You know, I’m never going to finish answering your questions if you keep throwing in new ones.”

Harry was very close to snapping something, but when he glared at the man he immediately felt like a fool. He had a million questions, and so far this man had answered them, and he had to be some sort of jerk to take his own frustrations out on him.

“You…I… never mind. Please continue.”

“Thank you. My name is Carrigan by the way. Seamus Carrigan.”

It was like getting hit with a Lighting Jinx and a Stunner at the same time. He felt as if his heart was going to leap out of his chest and yet he could neither think nor move, his head and body filled with a electric buzzing. This was the Dark Lord’s mentor? The only person, according to Dumbledore at least, that Voldemort may have ever respected and loved?

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Carrigan chuckled.

Harry could only stare.

“I’m flattered and all, but I’m dead. It would never work out.”

His ears burned in embarrassment and he ducked his head. Merlin, this was ridiculous.

“As for how I know about you… honestly, it wasn’t that difficult. You’re hardly inconspicuous,” he said. There was something about the vagueness of the response that bothered Harry, but he decided it honestly wasn’t that important.

“How did you find me? I’ve seen… nothing… since I’ve gotten here.”

“Which isn’t surprising given how focused you’ve obviously been. I assure you, you are hardly alone here. If you truly want to get out, you’re going to have to be more alert to your surroundings.”

“There’s a way out of here? You mean, I don’t have to wait to be released?” he asked, although he was aware that Carrigan, if that was who this truly was, had once again evaded his question.

“If you wait your body will likely be destroyed before you can reclaim it. You’ll be released once you’ve gone through an ordeal fitting to the severity of your crime. Waiting is a trial in and of itself, but you can’t afford to stay here for much longer. Not if you want to stop Greyback.”

Harry nodded. He was still confused and had a thousand questions, but he knew enough to know what was truly important. If he didn’t stop the war god the werewolves who he was responsible for would be massacred, and that was something he didn’t want to ever have to experience again.

“What do I have to do?”

Carrigan turned and pointed at the creek with his staff.

“Water and caves have always been the natural portals between realms. This creek leads to a lake. That lake is your portal to the mortal realm. Once you reach it you will submerge yourself and then emerge in your own body, evicting Greyback in the process.”

“He won’t try to fight me?”

“He will, but not in the mortal realm. He can’t win against you there. He lacks the necessary skills to anchor himself. Instead, he’ll try to stop you here in this realm, where he has more power. He will place obstacles in your path. The closer you get to the lake the more dangerous it will become.”

Harry grimaced. The idea of fighting Greyback, who was a god for Merlin’s sake, was terrifying. He took a deep breath and rallied his courage. It wasn’t as if this were the first time he had faced danger head on. It should have been as routine as Wednesday at this point.

“Okay. I should get started then.”

He stood and turned to Carrigan.

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely, but knew it wasn’t enough. He may never have found his way out of there without the other’s help. He had an idea. “Would you like me to give Lord Voldemort a message from you?”

Carrigan serious expression broke into a smile. “Tell Tom… no, no don’t tell him anything. He won’t believe you. Tell Bobby-”

“Bobby? As in Bobbitimus IV? You know that Bobby?”

The priest was all out grinning at this point. “I certainly ought to. He was my familiar. After he died and became a raven, of course. Before that, he was my brother.”

“…There is a whole lot I want to say about that, but I’m afraid I don’t have that much time to spare. What did you want me to tell Bobby?”

“Tell him to take you to the Numanti Ring when you have the opportunity. You’ll find a stone that has no business being there. I have buried something underneath it that I would like my dear Tom to have. Do this for me, and I will consider any debt my assistance has earned to be paid in full.”

“The Numanti Ring… okay. I’ll remember it. Anything you want me to tell Bobby directly?”

“Tell him to get a girlfriend.”

Harry couldn’t help but grin, despite the circumstances. He and Bobby really needed to have a little chat about what the raven had been keeping from him. They hadn’t parted on the best terms, but if he wanted to keep his word to Carrigan (and he most certainly did) then he would have to track him down eventually. This might be an interesting way to open up a conversation.

“I’ll do that. Are you going to come with me?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

“No, I am afraid not. This is as far as I can go.”

There was something ironic in the other man’s smile, but Harry didn’t have time to question it. He had already wasted enough time as it was. He turned and started walking. If there had been enough time, he knew he would have spent hours, days even… just talking to the man about a thousand different things, but he didn’t that time. Not today at least. He turned back for one last question.

“Hey, do you think we’ll ever see…”

Carrigan was already gone.

It was raining in Warsaw when Lestrange stepped out of the International Floo Depot, after having spent almost two hours in customs and she couldn’t afford to wait it out if she wanted to check in with the British Embassy before the office hours ended. Spells kept her from getting drenched in the down pour, but did nothing to take the wet chill out of the air or from soaking her boots.

Wizarding Warsaw was an odd little city, seeming to contain a bit of architecture from every country except its own. Tidy little Dutch tenements, Russian orthodox cathedrals, French style cafes, Italian fountains, and British gardens rose up around her and fell away as she made her way to the Embassy. All of it obsessively maintained in a picturesque state, so that while the structures could have been anywhere from a hundred to a thousand years old they looked as if they had been built the year before.

And that probably wasn’t far from the truth. The war against Grindlewald and the German air raids during World War II had been hard on the city and its people, and it expressed itself in their need to utterly erase any reminder of those dark days.

Lestrange didn’t care. She wasn’t there to play tourist. Her primary concern was that the recent events in Berlin and the Polish Minister of Magic’s fickle loyalty was going to complicate her own mission. At the moment, entrance into Berlin was impossible, and communication was spotty and unreliable. Even if she did request information, without being able to reveal its purpose she doubted that anyone would bother to help her. Her best hope was to somehow implement herself into one of the Cultie troops for the second wave invasion of Berlin, and begin her search for McGunny amongst the German Ministry records once things were stabilized in the city again. It was risky, but she had run out of leads in Britain and she needed to demonstrate that she had not been idle when the Dark Lord called upon her to give a report of her progress.

Perhaps she might even be of some greater use in the invasion. It had been a long time since her Death Eater days, but she remembered that time clearly as some of the best in her life. She had never felt so powerful or feared as when she had been running missions for the Dark Lord. This could be a renewal of those incredible times. This cheered her a little, but not much. As much opportunity as there was to be had, she couldn’t forget that she had been banished on a wild goose chase because of that damn Potter boy.

She didn’t think she would be truly happy until she found some way of paying him back.

Madam Puddifoot’ Tea Shop was not normally a place Snape would be caught dead in, but he had few options available for a visit from Ira. He had no intention of bringing her into the castle and inciting an endless wave of shameless rumors, and since Madam Rosmerta in the Three Broomsticks was as shameless as most of the students at the school that option was out, as well. He wouldn’t take a lady within a hundred feet of the Hog’s Head, so that left Puddifoot’s. The Tea Shop was ridiculously feminine, but at least the owner and her employees were discreet.

“It’s not that bad,” Ira said, trying to hide her amusement and failing miserably. She too, found the décor ridiculous, but unlike her companion she could enjoy the absurd now and again. He glowered at her, which only made her smile widen.

“Any word from Jacobi?” he asked, changing the subject.

“No, and I doubt I will hear from her until my next appointment. I think she likes to give news in person when she can. How are things up at the school?”

“The usual nightmare. The restrictions on the grounds have left everyone a bit stir crazy, which is driving me crazy. I’m going to strangle one of the little dunderheads before Christmas. I know it.”

She rather naively thought he was joking and kept smiling. He nearly corrected her presumption, but then thought she look rather pretty when she smiled like that and decided to let it go.

“Which reminds me, how is Harry? Not getting into too much trouble, I hope.”

He sighed.

“No, he’s been unleashed in France for the time being. I expect we’ll hear word of burning villages any day now.”

“France? What’s he doing in France?”

“I honestly have no idea. Some diplomatic mission. He’ll be back soon. Not that it will make a difference. He’s going to fail his classes if he keeps taking all these excursions, and coming back acting like a zombie. He’s going to need tutors-”

Snape flinched and dropped his tea, and the porcelain cup shattered on the floor. He grit his teeth and reached for his arm that was now throbbing painfully. Ira jumped from her seat.

“Severus?! What’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just…a summons. I have to go.”

He watched Ira’s eyes widen as she realized what he was saying. They had never spoken of it, but he knew she knew that he had been a Death Eater during the war and wore the mark on his arm like all the others. He would have been happy to never speak of it, but the unwelcome reminder wasn’t something either of them could ignore. One day, one day very soon, he was going to have to explain exactly what that mark meant for both his past and their possible future, but that day wasn’t today.

He kissed her hand, which made her smile but did nothing to wipe the strained worry from her eyes as he walked out of the tea shop, leaving a few sickles on the counter as he went. He would worry about it later. The horse he had taken into Hogsmeade was ready and waiting for him outside, and he rode it full speed through the village and up the road to the school. McGonagall was waiting for him at the portcullis, her expression tight.

“It’s Harry,” she said one he had dismounted and left the horse to find its own way back to its stable. Snape’s first thought was, no duh.

“Are burning villages involved?” he asked sarcastically, startling the older woman. Her eyes suddenly narrowed.

“Not to my knowledge. The Dark Lord is waiting for you in his office.”

He shivered. This was the first time in nearly ten years since he had been called by the dark wizard in such a manner, but he could recall very vividly what the man had done to those who had arrived late. He wondered what sort of idiotic mess Harry had gotten himself into that would incite Voldemort to that extent, and how he was going to thank the walking disaster once it was all sorted out.

The Dark Lord was in his office, but fortunately wasn’t waiting for him. He was talking animatedly with several Culties and Sentinels of rank, Lucius among them. None of them looked happy, and it didn’t take long for Severus to figure out why.

“My lord, I’m not sure how we can do this,” Lucius said, struggling to remain calm. “We were told we had another week. Our people are still scattered all over the country. They haven’t been assigned official commanders, and we haven’t finalized our plans of attack so I couldn’t even debrief them even if they were. Not to mention we’ve only gathered about half the supplies we need-”

“I don’t want to hear excuses, General,” the Dark Lord snarled, stalking away from the man so that he could stand behind his desk. “I taught you everything I knew about warfare, including how to organize a battle on short notice. Do not tell me you’ve gone senile since then.”

“No, my Lord,” Lucius said tightly, and Snape suspected he was biting the inside of his cheek. The potions master hoped his friend remembered his lessons from the war quickly, particularly the one about swallowing his pride in the face of the Dark Lord’s verbal abuse.

“Good. Now get out. All of you. Finalize your plans. I will meet you in Bristol in two hours to help you,” he sneered and sat down in his chair, gathering up parchment and a quill. Snape’s eyes were immediately drawn to the blood soaked bandages around the dark wizard’s hand. Lucius and his men saluted respectfully and left, completely ignored by the man who was now focused on new task. The Malfoy patriarch gave him a completely unnecessary warning with his eyes as he went, and Snape nodded in acknowledgment. When they were gone, he was left alone with the Dark Lord.

Patience was one of Snape’s natural virtues (one of the very few he actually possessed), so standing in the office without fidgeting or trying to draw Voldemort’s attention was not so difficult. Even after twenty minutes of doing nothing but watching the other man write a letter and giving no indication that he even realized Snape was there.

“Harry’s leading a small army of werewolves to Berlin,” the Dark Lord said at last, not looking up from his paperwork. Snape knew he should be surprised, and to some extent he was, but not enough that he couldn’t hide it.

“Ah,” he said, “Is he under a spell or some other form of coercion?”

The Dark Lord finally looked up, and despite his obvious aggravation he seemed pleased with Snape’s question.

“He’s being possessed by Greyback. It is how he is able to command them even against Blackbone’s instructions.”

Snape wasn’t entirely sure how Harry could have been possessed by the dead alpha, and thought now was not the time to ask. He had set a good precedent for this meeting by asking only what needed to be known, and thought he might yet walk away in better favor with the dark lord than when he had entered.

“What do you need me to do?” That was usually the safest question, even if the answer wasn’t always pleasant.

“Right now I cannot simply stop him. Greyback has threatened to kill Harry if I try, and he has moved himself and his people beyond my reach.”

Snape had a hard time believing that was possible. Where could anyone go and be safe from this man?

“I will have to intercept him in Berlin, but in doing so I must engage the Germans in a battle I was holding off for another week. If I am fortunate, I will be able to remove him from the battlefield before the fighting starts, but if I am not, I will need to keep him safe until the fighting is over. That is what I need you for. You will be his protector and his keeper until I am able to deal with him myself.”

Snape flinched at the very notion of going into a full out battle. He had done his fair share of fighting since the war (not a little of it because of Harry), but a full out battle between wizards and werewolves was not something he ever wanted to be a part of. It wasn’t as if he had enjoyed that sort of fighting. It was all chaos and luck and who was the most ruthless. He still had nightmares about it sometimes.

His only consolation, and it was a very small one, was that the full moon wasn’t for another week and it seemed the battle would start well before then. Fighting both German Aurors and fully transformed werewolves was the stuff of nightmares.

“As you wish,” he said, because there was no backing out of it. “I do not know that I am the best choice, however. I am not as young as I used to be.”

The Dark Lord smirked and turned back to his papers.

“That is exactly why I need you. Someone with your experience will not panic and over react to every little thing that happens. Besides, potions are more effective at subduing werewolves than spells. I suggest packing a broad selection. You have an hour.”

Knowing he had been dismissed, he bowed respectfully and walked out of the office. Once outside he set a tapestry on fire for the hell of it, and stalked down into the dungeons. He had an hour to pack his things, find a substitute for his classes and his headmaster duties, write to Ira to explain why he couldn’t make it to her appointment this Saturday (and perhaps that he wouldn’t be coming back at all), all because the Dark Lord had a soft spot for the kid who was possibly going to kill him in the future.

That thought stopped him dead in his tracks. Harry might one day kill the Dark Lord, if he was the truly the boy from the prophecy… It was something he had managed to push out of his head for the last few weeks as he concentrated on Ira, but now it couldn’t be ignored any longer. He had to decide now where his loyalties lay before he risked his life for all the wrong reasons.

“Dammit,” he hissed under his breath and continued further into the dungeons. Once inside his rooms he went straight for his private lab, and opened the refrigerated cupboard, pulling of the age testing potion and setting it on the counter. From another drawer he pulled out a tiny little vial labeled ‘HP/Blood Nov. 6, 1999’. He added a drop of blood to the potion, shook it once, and set it aside.

Forcing himself away from the potion, he went to his bedroom to pack what he would need. It wasn’t much. Mobility was key on the battlefield, and most of what he needed would be worn on his persons. His old battle robes were a little tighter around the middle than he remembered, but otherwise fit like a glove. They were not the same as the ones he wore to dueling club classes or competition, half the spells he had on this gear would have his exiled from the sport for life if he did. The duffle bag he carried across his back was weightless and served as an extra layer of protection. Inside he could fit those bare necessities he would need. Potions for injuries, non-perishable food for energy, a spare set of clothing in case his own was ruined irreparably, and a book for those unbearably long hours of boredom before and after the fighting.

By the time he was done packing, he knew the age testing potion would have his results, but he chose to write his letter to Ira first otherwise he might not be able to do it. He kept it brief and vague, stating only that Harry had run into some trouble and he was going to pick him up before things got serious, and he would hopefully be back within a few days. He couldn’t bring himself to get any more detailed than that. He didn’t want to worry her, not when she was already so nervous about the test results.

He checked the clock and cursed. He had ten minutes to inform McGonagall that she was in charge until he got back and to send his letter. There was no putting off checking the potion any longer.

On the counter, he could see the potion had already turned a dark purple and as he approached little golden number could be seen floating inside it. He picked up the vile and held it close to face to read.

07311982

He closed his eyes. His suspicions had been confirmed.

He opened his eyes and shoved the vial in the drawer, slamming it shut. What now? He couldn’t delude himself into believing it was all a fluke. Neville Longbottom had been murdered for nothing, and the true assassin was perhaps the Dark Lord’s favorite. He didn’t believe in God, not in the traditional sense, but he hated Him at the moment. Hated the twisted little world He had created and the intolerable cruelty of the fates it wove. He hated Harry and the Dark Lord both for dragging him into it.

The only question now was who did he hate more? Voldemort with his blatant cruelty and undeniable greatness or Harry with his selfish nobility and endless potential? Either of them could destroy the world and rebuild it anew.

But only the Dark Lord was a guaranteed winner.

…Or else the dark lord shall reign for a thousand years…

That had been part of the prophecy as spoken by the ever questionable Sybille Trelawny, a hack fortune teller from a long line of true seers. He knew. He had been there when she had related it to Dumbledore, and likewise related it to the Dark Lord. But there had been no future foretold if the Dark Lord were defeated. There were no promises of a steady rule or even that the ‘hero’ would survive long after. Fate apparently didn’t think it was important to mention.

But Snape needed to know. He needed to know what would happen if he sided with Harry and the boy eventually defeated the Dark Lord. Would he rise to take the dark wizard’s place? Or would he leave wizarding Britain without a leader, vulnerable to her enemies and civil war? Harry was not immortal like Voldemort. Even if he did take the role of leader, how long could he survive in a government founded by the man he had destroyed? He would have to tear it all to pieces and build it anew, and that was civil war all over again. Lucius would be the greatest threat, and behind him Draco and Narcissa would always stand, with Hermione caught in the middle.

The only sure thing was Voldemort, and though he felt squeamish and uneasy about the Dark Lord ruling for a thousand years, he couldn’t imagine the chaos and fighting that would follow his absence would be any better. The fight now… he could see an end to it. Not soon, but eventually. Fighting for fighting sake was not the Dark Lord’s intention. He had a vision, a glorious vision that sometimes left even Snape in awe.

Harry just wanted to save everyone.

As horrible a person that it made him, Snape knew that wasn’t enough.

He checked the clock again. Three minutes. He was out of time. He went to the secret cupboard, the one hidden behind a secret wall, where he kept his collection of poisons. There was no need to think which one he should take. Merciful Sleep was obvious. It was his own special brew; tasteless, colorless and like its name suggested a painless and quiet death in a bottle. It could be applied orally or topically, slipped into food or drink or bathwater with the same affect. There was no way to test for it. No one but him even knew of its existence.

He had never used it on a person before. He had never imagined that Harry would be the first to test it.

Shoving the inconspicuous blue bottle into his duffle bag, he hurried out the door before he could think on it any further. He knew what he needed to do now. There was no point analyzing it endlessly, clouding the waters with uncertainty that he did not yet possess. If he were lucky the boy would be dead before he ever reached him.

Che. Like he hadn’t thought that before.

McGonagall was still waiting for him at the portcullis, convenient since he didn’t have the time to track her down or write her a letter. She looked just as tense as she had when he first arrived, and he supposed she knew no more now than she did then. He spared a quick glance around them, but the Dark Lord was not there and the Sentinels had to be elsewhere guarding their flock of students.

“What’s happening?” she asked, immediately.

“I have to go get Harry in…” he wanted to say France, but McGonagall wasn’t Ira. He was less worried about frightening her than losing her trust when she found out he had lied to her. Despite the Dark Lord’s favor, he didn’t have many allies within in Hogwarts, and she would have been his most important one in any case. “…Berlin. I don’t know how long I will be gone. I will need you to look after the school in my absence. The wards already recognize you as Deputy Headmistress so there shouldn’t be any problems.”

She took a deep breath.

“Berlin? How did he get… is he alright?”

Snape shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t tell you much. Please don’t mention this to anyone else. Not the other teachers and most certainly not my goddaughter.”

She nodded, worry lines dominating her expression.

“Don’t worry. I’ll hold things down here. You just concentrate on getting Harry out of there,” she said. He felt uncomfortable as her voice hitched a little as she spoke, and her expression continued to tighten with repressed emotion. “It’s really bad this time, isn’t it? Worse than the first time they took him?”

Technically, no one had taken Harry. Not in the traditional sense, but he nodded anyway.

“You’ll find him, won’t you?” she asked. He nodded. He didn’t doubt for a moment that he would find him. In what state was another matter altogether. “You promise?”

He hesitated. It wasn’t a promise to find him that she asking for. She wanted him to protect Harry as well.

“I can’t,” he said. “You know I can’t promise that in complete honesty.”

She closed her eyes, her expression laced with pain. “Please…for Lily’s sake if no one else’s.”

She couldn’t have hurt him more with those few words than if she had stabbed him in the heart. Lily, long dead and gone and never his to begin with. He had managed to not think about her as more than one of a thousand regrets for a long time now, a moment of nostalgia in his better moments. Now he was going off to kill her son, and he might as well be killing her all over again. He jerked away from McGonagall, hating her in that moment as much as Harry and Voldemort for smashing his certainty without even trying.

“Do not make a liar out of me, Minerva. I have enough sins to my name as it is,” he said coldly.

What was a few more?

He was spared her reply, her possible begging, by the arrival of the Dark Lord who swept between them from out of nowhere. He spared neither of them a glance, but headed straight for the horses that waiting for him at the end of the portcullis. Hurrying to catch up to him, Snape didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see the hurt in his colleague’s face at his callous refusal.

He didn’t want to see her disappointment in him.

He hated himself enough at the moment.

“You better not be playing with me,” Fenrir warned, glaring up at the raven as it circled low, but not low enough to snatch out of the air as he wanted to do. Around them the air was warm and clear, and the land stretched out in an endless green sea of rolling hills. Everyone had stripped down to their underclothes, it was too warm otherwise, and a few had even taken off their shoes and were carrying them in makeshift bundles on their backs. There was no road to follow, but the ground was soft and made their traveling easier. Their numbers were fewer now that he had left most of the women and the weak behind, and without the trees steep hills in their way they traveled in a neat little line behind Fenrir. Most of them seemed to be enjoying themselves.

He wasn’t so naïve to think this might not all be a trap.

“I could say the same thing,” Bobby said, the edge of warning in his voice. “You might be a god, and a nasty one at that, but don’t think I couldn’t dump you in hell if you double crossed me.”

Fenrir smirked. So the little feather duster had a spine? Good. It would give him something to chew on later.

“How much further?” he demanded. The raven circled once more, letting him hear his irritated sigh. The bad part about traveling in such open country was he had few places where he could safely perch while in Greyback’s company.

“At this pace? Three days. Like I said the last time you asked. And the time before that. And before that.”

The war god glowered up at the raven, contemplating shooting him out of the sky with his wand but decided against it. He had no idea how to get through the faery realms. He doubted anything here could truly hurt him, but he had two hundred other people to look after and a bloody revenge to exact. The unpleasant fact was that his run in with arrogant bird was a turn of good fortune. He now had the means to safely travel to his destination without worrying about either Voldemort or the Germans finding him before he reached it, and the distance they now needed to travel was a small fraction of what they would have had to go before. Jane’s promise was starting to come true. It didn’t mean he had to be grateful for it though.

“If you double cross me-”

“I’m ignoring you now,” Bobby said pointedly and flew off ahead of them.

Fenrir grunted in annoyance, and counted the ways one could eat a raven.

Viktor could hear before he could see, and before he could hear he could feel. He felt the too tight pull of ropes on his chest and on his wrists, the weight of his head and the ache in his neck from holding it, and the freezing chill of his still damp clothing. From this alone he knew he was alive and had been captured by the enemy.

When hearing came he learned who that enemy was and what they wanted.

“You know him?” That was the vampire that had been called Katarina, the one who had killed his comrades. His hands twitched involuntarily at the sound of her voice.

“I do… you could say we were school acquaintances.” This voice was familiar too, but for the life of him Viktor couldn’t understand what it was doing here. He had last seen Horace McGunny the day he had warned him of Voldemort’s orders to arrest them during the TriWizard Tournament, and had not thought of him since. Now he was back, playing a dangerous game with dangerous people for reasons he could not even begin to guess at.

“What will you do with him?” the vampiress asked, and moved to stand behind him. He could hear the rustle of fabric as she moved, and he suspected she had changed out of her tunnel wear and into a dress.

“That all depends how useful he proves to be. These maps, for instance, are quite valuable.”

“I could have told you anything you found on that map.”

“Except what I needed to know. These mark the location of the ward hub. I was wrong assuming it was in the Department of Justice. It’s under the Department of Education, as our dear tunnel rat apparently figured out. We were fortunate to have found him when we did. An hour later and the entire system would have been destroyed, and we would have been trapped in the middle of the fighting again.”

Viktor’s confusion mounted. McGunny wanted to find the ward hub but not destroy it? Why would the vampires bother helping him do that?

A hand touched his shoulder and he couldn’t stop from flinching.

“So you’re awake,” Katarina purred in his ear, and he shifted away from her, pushing up his shoulders instinctively to protect his exposed neck. She chuckled cruelly and moved away. Cautiously, he opened his eyes.

He was in a bedroom, a suite, with lavish furnishing that swung towards the feminine. Two large windows were sealed shut with heavy shutters, leaving a series of candles and strategically placed mirrors to light the room. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, and McGunny was watching him with a cold expression he had never seen on the boy before. Katarina stood by the bedroom door dressed in a dark green chiffon evening dress and eyed him hungrily.

“Hello again, Krum,” McGunny greeted, smiling at him humorlessly. “I see you’ve continued to make a nuisance of yourself after graduating. They must be missing you on the Quidditch Pitch by now.”

Viktor just glared at him. Seeing the young man wasn’t interested in playing his game, Horace got down to business quickly.

“These are very interesting,” he said, gesturing to the maps in his hand, the same ones Viktor had brought down into the tunnels. “Where did you get them?”

“The library,” he replied, because he saw no reason not to. It was hardly going to incriminate anyone now.

“Huh. I suppose I should have thought of that.”

“Why are you doing this McGunny? What are you even doing here? If-”

“Stupify.”

Viktor immediately fell limp and senseless in his chair. Katarina frowned, disappointed.

“You’re not going to question him more?” she asked.

“Later. He’s not really important right now. I’ll interrogate him properly once we’re safely in Frankfurt.”

She didn’t believe him. Something in the boy’s eyes as he studied Viktor told her he had something in mind, and it wasn’t interrogation. A wave of irritation and jealously washed over her. It wasn’t fair. She had seen him first. Shehad been the one to catch him. What possible use could Horace have for him?

Whatever it was, he didn’t say and merely turned back towards the maps he was holding, ignoring her completely until she left.

There were rumors circulating in the school. Well, there were always rumors circulating in the school, but for once some of it was of interest to Ron. Nancy Salibi said she received a letter from her brother, who was a private in the Brass Cult saying that they were moving to invade Germany within the week. Ron wondered if Private Salibi was going to be taken into the woods somewhere and executed for sharing national secrets with a thirteen year old girl within that same week.

There was also a rumor that Professor Snape had been drafted to fight by the Dark Lord himself, which seemed a bit silly to Ron but he couldn’t account for his Head of House’s abrupt departure the day before and none of the teachers were talking. McGonagall had taken over in his place, and the Slytherin in him cringed at seeing a Gryffindor as the school overlord, even if she was a scary woman in her own right.

Potter still hadn’t returned from France, and aside from a few odd suggestions that he might be involved in the fighting (which even the most gullible of them had a hard time swallowing) there wasn’t much talk of him. Ron intended to take full advantage of his absence to continue practicing his charm on Hermione. She might act all frustrated and irritated with him in public, but he knew she secretly liked his company. If it weren’t for the bloody Chastity spell he was quite certain they would have had more than a few snogging sessions in the broom closet by now. There had to a way around it. He bet Bill would know.

He was contemplating writing his elder brother a letter about it when Natalie intruded on his corner of the Slytherin common room. She stopped in front of him and sneered and he smiled back nastily.

“Your mum’s here.”

His smile vanished, replaced by confusion.

“What do you mean my ‘mum’s here’? In the castle?”

“No, the ‘here’ that means she’s in Istanbul,” she said sarcastically. “Yes, in the castle, you dolt. She’s in McGonagall’s office now. You must be in some sort of trouble. The old crone sent me to get you.”

He frowned. He couldn’t think of anything he had done that would earn a special trip to the school from his mother, especially since she wasn’t his legal guardian anymore despite their keeping in touch. An sense of unease settled in his gut, and he stood and walked out of the common room, ignoring Natalie and her ‘you’re welcome!’

He had been to McGonagall’s office only twice, both times for detentions, which did nothing to endear the place to him. The fact that it was close to Gryffindor Tower and the area was usually teaming with the little jerks didn’t help either. He tried to distract himself about the upcoming meeting, which couldn’t be anything good, by imagining that he hexed every Gryffindor (and the odd Hufflepuff) he happened to come across. The exception being the few people he recognized from the Hogwart’s Herald. He felt it was professional courtesy not to imagine turning your photographer into a gopher, and had nothing to do with liking or god forbid, respecting them.

“Ron?”

He turned around to see Ginny coming up behind him, a confused look on her face.

“You got called too?” she asked.

“…I guess so. Mum tell you what this was all about?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t even know she was coming. Do you think something’s wrong?”

Yes.

“Dunno. Guess we’ll find out.”

They walked together to McGonagall’s office. Inside, they found Fred, George, and Percy had already arrived and were studying Molly Weasley with worried expressions. Their mother was sickly pale, her eyes red-rimmed. In one hand she clutched a handkerchief and in the other a folded piece of parchment with a broken official Court seal.

McGonagall sat behind her desk, her expression soft with sympathy and making Ron more nervous than he otherwise would have been. She wasn’t known for her sentimentality. He jumped when Ginny closed the door behind them, and to cover his own nervous reaction he broke the silence first.

“Mum? What going on?”

She looked up at him, and he wished he hadn’t said anything. He wished she wouldn’t answer, and force on them what had left her a weeping mess. But wishing was futile. Wishing was for little children who still had mommies and daddies taking care of them to make them come true.

“It’s your father…”

1. In the fifth HP movie, the Death Eaters transform themselves into smoky missiles and terrorized muggles and wizards alike. I thought this was a very cool concept, so I’m incorporating it here even though it wasn’t described in canon. My theory is it some sort of self-transfiguration.↩

Converging Conflicts

By the next morning, Snape was in Warsaw with the Dark Lord and over five hundred Brass Culties and fifty-six Sentinels. Three were placed in his command, two Sentinels and a Cultie with emergency medical training. Neither Sentinel looked happy to be placed in the command of a civilian, but he had established early on that their feelings on the matter were irrelevant. The Pain Curse had helped reinforce the lesson. The cultie was thankfully more obedient if not any smarter.

He had his own subordinates well in hand, but what he hadn’t factored on was Lestrange being at the embassy to greet them. Voldemort apparently hadn’t been expecting her either.

“What are you doing here, Bella?” he demanded softly, as she approached, escorted by a cultie who had been assigned to watch her. The cultie happily left when the Dark Lord gestured, cringing pathetically as Lestrange glared at his retreating figure before returning it her master.

“What you have assigned me to do. My investigations have led me to believe that the…” she glanced at Snape distrustfully, “target is being kept in Germany. The ministry offices in Berlin should have records.”

The Dark Lord frowned, but unfortunately he didn’t caste a crucio on her like he had been doing to just about everyone else since yesterday. Snape tried to hide his disappointment.

“I see,” Voldemort said, and then seemed to dismiss the matter in favor of ordering his men about. Before he could walk away from her though, she called back his attention.

“My lord, perhaps, since I must wait until Berlin is once again secured, I might be of use to you? An experienced soldier should not be wasted.”

Snape glared at her. He suspected if she got her way she would make herself a nuisance to him at every opportunity. “Madam, you don’t even know what is going on,” he pointed out.

She smirked at him.

“Considering how quickly all of this is going down, I doubt anyone else does either.”

Voldemort considered, glancing between the two rivals. He shook his head.

“Fine. You will replace Captain Nocentelli, have him debrief you, then report to the auditorium at 1100 hours.”

“As you command, my lord,” she said, saluting crisply and retreating, but not before throwing a smug look back at Snape. He pretended to ignore her, knowing that would be the greatest insult of all. He knew he would have to deal with her directly soon, but now was not the time.

Maybe if killing Harry proved unnecessary (in other words, he was already dead by some other means) he could try his poison on her. If he were lucky, the Dark Lord would be so distracted he wouldn’t even notice.

Hermione hated the dungeons. She didn’t tell anyone this, knowing it would offend both her brother and her godfather who called the place home, but she could never quite convince herself she was comfortable there. They were dark and creepy and chilly, and she had nightmares about getting lost in them. She was a Gryffindor though. She could brave the dim and sinister place when necessary.

Although, one could argue about how ‘necessary’ this particular trip really was. She didn’t have potions today, and her brother was in class at the moment. She should have been in the library studying during this, her quiet period, but she had decided to check something out first.

Ronald Weasley hadn’t shown up for dinner last night or breakfast that morning or even for Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall had said he wasn’t feeling well, but when she went to the infirmary he wasn’t there. When she asked Draco, he said had gone to bed early last night and refused to get up that morning. Natalie piped in and said he had gotten into some sort of trouble and his mother had even been called in to chastise him.

Hermione knew that wasn’t the case, but she had no intention of correcting the other girl. She didn’t like the idea of Natalie having anything with which to torment Ron, especially not now. Not after what Ginny had cried onto her shoulder the night before.

Looking around briefly to make sure no one was there to see her, she whispered the password to the Slytherin dormitory and slipped inside. It was thankfully empty, everyone else either in classes or busy elsewhere. Cautiously, she made her way towards the boys’ dormitory. She had visited her brother enough to know where it was and how to get passed the wards, although she was thankful her godfather was gone otherwise she doubted it would have escaped his notice.

The fire play burned green flames, providing a great deal of warmth but only a little light. The torches were turned low, casting the room in deep shadows and the silhouettes of snakes. She shivered. She didn’t know how anyone could sleep in here comfortably.

“Ron? Are you here?”

“’Mione?” came a groggy reply, and she could just make out movement behind one of the bed curtains. “Lumos domesticus.”

The torches flared and the fireplace turned from green to a cheery orange, lighting the room to something that looked less like it had been pulled from the dark imagination of Beadle the Bard. Ron sat up in his bed, still dressed in his bed clothes and his hair looking a mad and unkempt as Harry’s tended to. He gave her an irritated glare that was somewhat ruined by the enormous yawn that followed.

“What are you doing in here?”

She sat down at the foot of his bed. “I came to see you. Ginny told me what happened.”

His eyes, darkly circled and puffy, widened in alarm. She hastened to reassure him.

“Don’t worry, no one else knows. I promise. Everyone thinks you got chewed out by your mum. Natalie’s doing, no doubt.”

He seemed to relax a bit, and let out a deep sigh. He turned his sad brown eyes to her, and shook his head.

“You expect me to talk aboutit?”

“That’s up to you. Whatever you want.”

“Careful, luv, I might just take advantage,” he joked, but it rang flat. His half-hearted smile died a pitiful death as he looked down at his hands resting in his lap. “My father’s dead.”

She reached out and placed her hand over his. They clenched into fists, but he didn’t pull away. “I know.”

“I knew… I knew he was dying, but I… I pretended… like it wasn’t worth thinking about. My father died f-for-” his voice hitched and cracked, but he forced it out even as he felt it rip and tear at his throat. “Forgotten.”

He continued to talk, stammering and chocking on the words and the tears as he told her how the official cause of death was ‘pneumonia’, but that was just the cheap way of saying he grew too weak to live and no one tried to help. There would be no body to bury. Even dead, the prisoners of Azkaban were denied their dignity, and his remains would be sent to a medi-wizard university were some know nothing student was going to hack him into pieces and then toss him the incinerator like so much refuse.

Half way through and he was sobbing into her shoulder, feeling stupid and sick and grateful, but all he wanted was to feel numb and empty. She promised she would try help his father receive a proper burial and at the very least he would receive a proper ceremony. She didn’t know how much of what she said reached him, but eventually the crying stopped and he merely leaned against her quietly and listened.

“I should go now,” she said. “I have arithmancy in ten minutes. Will I see you at dinner?”

“Yeah,” he said softly, hardly enthused, but it was something. “I just… gotta clean up a bit.”

“Teabags are good for puffy eyes,” she suggested.

“Any advice for hiding my freckles?” he teased, and it sounded little more genuine than his last attempt although still pretty weak. She smiled anyway and kissed his forehead, blushing as she pulled away.

“I’ll talk to you later. Try to eat something, okay?”

“Yeah… thanks.”

Her heart was hammering in her chest as she slipped soundlessly into the hallway. Belatedly, she straightened her rumpled clothes, and felt her blush deepen. Honestly! There hadn’t been anything even remotely romantic about what had just happened. Aside from the bed and the holding and his sad, dark eyes… He had just lost his father for Merlin’s sake! She had only been trying to comfort him, exactly as she had done for Ginny the night before. Nothing more, nothing less.

So thoroughly dedicated to convincing herself of this, she failed to take proper stock of her surroundings. If she had, she might have noticed the shadow that didn’t quite fit sticking out from behind the suit of armor that she passed or the feeling of malicious triumph at the back of her neck. So she went on her way, completely unaware that Trudy Sabbat was plotting how to use what she had seen against her.

Harry thought perhaps he should have asked Carrigan exactly how far the lake was before he left him, but it was too late now. He had been running along the creek’s edge for what could have been hours or even days, and still come across no lake. Eventually, he did hit the spring season though. A wet, muddy spring season that threatened to suck his shoes off his feet every time he took a step. He couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t one of Greyback’s traps. He hadn’t left any prints in the snow, so why was he sinking in the mud?

The low hanging clouds had descended even further, so that soon he was blind and forced to follow the creek’s edge by sound alone and nearly fell into it several times and lost track of it more than once. In the fog, sometimes he heard sounds that were not the creek. Rustling sounds, like leaves being moved, but never a snapping twig or a thud or a splash from a mud puddle. It would have been simple to dismiss it as the wind moving leaves about, but one thing that hadn’t changed in this strange place was the absence of wind (and night).

He was being followed. He was certain of that, but what ever it was remained far enough from him that the fog rendered it invisible.

Refusing to let it frighten him, he pressed on, running as fast as he safely could in the poor visibility. His body did not tire here, but he had discovered falling or running into a low hanging branch did hurt.

Gradually, the mud grew deeper and the fog grew denser. The haunting sound of loons echoed eerily and he knew he was getting closer to the lake. But the closer he came, the closer the othersounds became until at last he started to see shadows in the fog, sweeping in close then leaping away before he could get any really impression of their size or shape.

He had stopped several times, startled by the proximity of the potential attackers and their speed, but he always forced himself to continue, reminding himself that it wasn’t real. Not really. Nothing more than a trick, a test. Nothing more. He told himself that over and over again, forcing himself to take one slippery step after another without pausing even when the phantoms darted in so close he thought he felt something brush against him.

He didn’t stop walking, but he didn’t stop flinching either.

“Commander! Commander Oblitz?!”

Oblitz paused on his way to tour the defenses on the western end of their camp, glancing inconspicuously at the young man frantically searching the crowd for him. It was not an auror, much too young for that, but he did have an arm band identifying him a volunteer and he was clutching a messenger’s bag tightly to his chest. Oblitz calculated the possibility of the enemy sending him a booby-trapped letter, found it was likely but also realized it was even more likely a legitimate and potentially important message from his allies.

“Over here,” he called at last, drawing the boy’s attention. The messenger quickly scurried over to him. He saluted clumsily and fumbled with his bag. “Slowly,”the man ordered, and the other froze. Slowly he looked up.

“Sorry?”

“Move slowly.”

The messenger looked dumbly at him for a moment, then turned back to his bag and with a bit more caution, opened his bag and pulled out a letter. Oblitz took it carefully at the very edge of the paper, glancing at the seal which was a pentagram, a generic and anonymous mark. The boy watched him nervously as he cast several spells on the paper, but aside from a few protection spells against moisture and spying it was completely clean.

He opened it. Inside was a short, half page letter with neither a greeting nor a signature. After reading the content, however, he could easily guess its source. He folded the letter and placed it in his pocket, removing a coin. He showed it to the boy but didn’t immediately hand it to him.

“Who gave you this letter?”

The boy just shrugged. “The postmaster, sir. All my letter are given to me by the post master.”

Oblitz figured as much, and toss the coin to the boy, who smiled his thanks before hurrying off. No doubt he had many other letters to deliver what with the owl post being suspended in Berlin. Owls were too easily intercepted. The chances were high that the postmaster wouldn’t even remember where this particular letter had come from or if it hadn’t simply ‘appeared from nowhere’.

It wasn’t important. What was important was that he believed in the contents of the letter. He needed to call all the aurors together and quickly so that they could make their preparations.

They only had a day and half to prepare for the Dark Lord’s next attack.

“I’m going,” Tonks stated, shoving the last of her gear into her traveling case. Dumbledore stood quietly in the doorway; his expression was sad, sympathetic, and pissing her off. Everything was pissing her off lately. The cute little townhouse in Lentz, the quaint little people with their stubborn dispositions, and especially how everyone was treating her like she was made of fine porcelain. She had no intention of cracking. She had things she needed to do. “If there’s even a small chance that he’s alive, I’m going to find him.”

“My dear, even if he is alive and you were to go, you would only risk both your life and his. Voldemort is due to invade within a few days and Oblitz is no friend of the Order. Right now, if Viktor is indeed alive he has successfully managed to hide himself from the Dark Lord’s forces. Should you go in search of him you risk exposing both of you to not only our enemies, but also to Oblitz himself who so far has no knowledge of Viktor’s association with us.”

Tonks closed her eyes and clenched her fists. Merlin, she hated this. All of this. The not knowing, the knowing and not being able to doing anything, the ability to do something and deciding it was against the ‘greater good’. It had seemed so clear in the beginning what she would have to sacrifice in order to protect the world. Love, a family of her own, a career, a home… all of it she had willingly thrown away in pursuit of a cause she felt was worth more than herself.

But she hadn’t counted on loosing her own honor along the way or the loss of those she felt were worth more than the cause itself. Viktor had been the best of them. Oh, Dumbledore was a great wizard and a genius, but Viktor had been a great man… for the brief time he’d had been a man. He had a bright future; a future that could change the world for the better, but he was gone now and all for nothing. Despite what she had told Dumbledore, she did not truly believe he was alive, but he deserved more than what he had been given. If nothing else, she hoped to take his body home to his family.

“What do you want me to do? What do you want?” she hissed through her gritted teeth. “I can’t…I won’t just forget him.”

A firm hand rested on her shoulder, belying the fragility of the wizard’s age. Despite her resentment, he was a soothing, steadying presence.

“Of course not. That is the last thing I would ever ask of you. But you mustn’t remember Viktor as only your friend. He was also your comrade, your fellow idealist. Through his actions and his words he fought to preserve justice and freedom of nations, and he was willing to sacrifice his life to do so. He would not want you torn from that path out of grief or a sense of obligation. He was never that egocentric.”

She gave a little half laugh, half sniffle and nodded.

“No, he never did think of himself much. He was always forgetting to eat or sleep or you know, be human.”

“Just so. Now come downstairs and have some tea with me. There is still much to be done here in Lentz and I need your help.”

She sighed and nodded. He was right. She couldn’t just up and leave. With Viktor and Friedricks gone, they were short on man power and needed her expertise to start organizing a defense here before the war reached their doorstep. Lentz was only the beginning. Once the militia was up and running, they could begin recruiting and organizing additional forces across the nation and into the neighboring countries. Now was a critical time. Germany was likely lost, but there was the chance even it could be saved if allies were roused quickly enough.

It was what Viktor would have wanted.

She had to believe that.

Night had fallen in the faery realm and Fenrir had halted travel in favor of a full night’s rest. Tomorrow they would arrive in Berlin, and he wanted his people well rested for the battle that was to come. They were still upon the rolling hills, with no cover and no shelter, but he had used magic to create campfires and to warn them if any danger approached.

Above him the stars were a shimmering blanket, so different from the odd speck of light he was used to seeing as a mortal, and around him his people were shifting shadows in the fire light. They were restless, saying very little but all of them thinking of the same thing.

Berlin.

“You’re all going to die.”

He glanced behind him at the raven, which was perched on a pile of clothes. It wasn’t much of a roost, but enough to see over the surrounding tall grass. He turned back to the fire, considered poking at it to encourage it to burn but being a magical fire it would be a meaningless gesture.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“It’s an observation. Not an opinion.”

“Hn.”

“Half your people don’t even have weapons! It will be a slaughter.”

“I have a plan.”

“I hope it’s better than your last one.”

Fenrir ignored the remark.

“All you have to concern yourself with is getting us there, and getting your boy wizard safely out again. I will take care of me and mine.”

“…Idiot.”

The raven flew off, which was just fine with him. He didn’t want the creature’s company to begin with. They would be in Berlin the next evening, and then he would prove which of them was truly the fool in this game.

Katarina stared down at Viktor, lying in the coffin, arms crossed in a traditional position. Goethe had probably thought it funny. It wasn’t often that one not of their kind slept in such a manner, even if the sleep itself was unnatural.

She rather thought it suited him. Even in the artificial guise of one dead, Viktor maintained a regal and dignified bearing. He had a strong chin and his brow was low, giving him a look of perpetual concentration even as the rest of his face was smooth in sleep. Slowly, she reached out to touch his cheek with her bare hand. His skin felt no warmer than her own until she ran an immodest thumb over his lips and felt a burst of warm breath against it.

“It would be such a waste…” she lamented, “if all Horace wanted was to prolong your suffering. You impressed me that night on the tower and again down in the tunnels. So brave. So resourceful. You were meant for things greater than being that child’s plaything.”

Gently, she brushed a few stray hairs from his forehead, and then pulled away. Her thoughts turned inward. Viktor would not be the only one being wasted under Horace’s unique brand of tyranny. With every passing day his arrogant, bullying nature was coming to the fore, provoking Katarina and her coven with his imperious demands of absolute privacy and absolute loyalty. She had stopped herself several times from simply snapping the wizard’s scrawny little neck, and now she was starting to wonder if that was a good thing or not.

She had a truce with the Dark Lord, who had entrusted his own kin to her, but with she was beginning to think Britain’s ruler didn’t care one way or another if the boy lived or died here. He certainly hadn’t thought to keep the boy safe or send others to ensure his safety. There had been no communication between them for nearly a week now as far as she knew, though perhaps the wards affected their psychic communication. She wasn’t sure. Either way, if something …unfortunate were to happen to Horace, well… who’s to say what happened? They’re in the middle of a war zone after all.

She looked back down at Viktor who slept on, oblivious. She smiled softly and leaned in to whisper softly in his ear.

“Do not worry yourself, my darling. I won’t let that nasty little boy hurt you. I won’t let him hurt either of us.”

And then she moved lower, her mouth moving from the shell of his ear to the bare skin of his neck.

Fenrir woke them before dawn, had them eat the last of their rations and moved them hard for the rest of the day. The green hills turned to thickets and young woodland, thick with animals, common and faery bred alike, and Bobby was careful to keep them off the game trails. The raven was becoming increasingly nervous, fidgeting and looking back frequently as if contemplating turning them all back around.

He never did though, and just as the sun was starting to hang low they came upon a cave. It was carved out of a hillside, half hidden behind a grove of mulberry bushes, and looked like little more than an large animal den.

“This is the place. It will take you right into the middle of Berlin,” the raven said, alighting on a small tree. “Now release Harry.”

“Our agreement was for when we were in Berlin, not before. I’m not letting him go until I know this doesn’t lead straight to Azkaban or Voldemort’s office or hell as you previously threatened.”

The raven’s feathers puffed out in irritation, but nevertheless he flew straight for the cave, whisking past Fenrir as he did so and disappearing into the dark. The war god turned to the others gathering behind him.

“Anyone with a wand or a weapon follows directly behind me. Anyone without stay towards the back. Don’t wander off and don’t get distracted. This may be a trap.”

Not waiting for their response (they could only reply in the affirmative to his commands anyway), he ducked into the cave. Inside, the cave hung low and its soft clay walls crumbled under the hand he used to guide himself along. He could neither see nor hear his guide, but it didn’t matter. There was only direction to follow.

He cast a lighting spell and led the way.

He wasn’t sure how long or how far they traveled in the underground. There was no sense of day or night and his own anxiety made his judgment of time questionable. Everything was absolutely silent. It quickly grew cold in the underground, and they stopped only once in order to put on their winter clothes.

What little Fenrir did know was that they were traveling downwards by the gradual yet persistent sloping of the ground, and the deeper they went the larger and stonier the cave became until it became a great cavern, and he had to weave around sparkling white stalactites and stalagmites reaching for each other.

Yet no matter how large or small or winding the cave became there was only ever two directions to travel, forwards and backwards. Backwards was never an option.

The caverns grew smaller, the stalactites and stalagmites disappeared, and their route started to slope upwards again. There was still no sign of their guide. Then, without warning, the rough limestone gave way to smooth brick that shook beneath his touch as the sound of a train passed over head, shaking loose bits of dust to rain down on them. He listened intently after it had passed.

In the distance he could hear a female voice, electronic and monotone, announcing something in German. He grinned. So they had made it after all. He ordered those few with wands to start casting Notice-Me-Not charms (although honestly he didn’t know if even muggles could not notice two hundred something people dressed as if they had walked out of medieval battle re-enactment. It wasn’t important. He lead them forward, until their one way tunnel split into several different directions and then he followed the one were he could hear the most people. It emptied out into a wide tunnel with several tracks laid across it. Across the tracks was a station house and a large platform, crowded with muggles going up or down escalators and through security gates. A good sign. The aurors would never set a trap in the middle of such a large crowd of muggles.

“Don’t step on the rails,” he warned the others, knowing they could be electrified. He had past experiences with muggle transportation, when the ministry made the usual travel methods unsafe. “And watch out for trains.”

They crossed cautiously to the other side. The platform stood up to his chin and there were no stairs or ladders, so Fenrir used a little of his magic to jump up and startled a pair of old ladies when he landed in front of them. He grinned at them.

“Sorry, ladies.”

“Be careful, young man,” one said, distractedly, already starting to forget about him. “This isn’t a football field.”

He nodded and turned back to check on the others. They were working in twos and threes to help each other up and required little assistance, so he monitored the muggles closely to make sure the spells were working well enough. Most of the muggles were suitably distracted by cell phones, video games, books, or private conversation that they barely noticed the new arrivals except to move as the platform became more and more crowded. Even security and the ticket takers were suitably distracted checking on those coming from outside that they didn’t seem to notice they were being invaded from within. The few who seemed to notice something odd was happening were those standing alone without anything to pre-occupy them, which were few enough that Fenrir didn’t feel particularly concerned.

When the last of his small army were finally gathered on the platform, Bobby finally decided to make his appearance, landing on top of a nearby trashcan.

“I’ve kept my end of the bargain, now keep yours,” he demanded.

“First, tell me how to get to wizarding Berlin.”

“No!” the raven snapped impatiently. “First, you release Harry and then I’ll tell you.”

Fenrir growled low. “Don’t push me, you stupid pigeon.”

“Don’t push me, you rabid dog. We had a deal, and I’ve kept up my end. It is time you kept up yours. Unless promises only have meaning to wizards these days.”

“Fine,” he snarled so viciously, that several muggles standing nearby suddenly leapt away from him. He closed his eyes and more softly, he said, “Give me a minute. I have to-”

There was a sudden loud swooshing soundfrom somewhere on the left side of the platform. He knew that sound well. He spun around, drawing his sword in the same movement. Despite the sudden arrival of dozens of wizards at once, his gaze invariable found the Voldemort’s first.

“Hello, Greyback,” the Dark Lord greeted coolly. Fenrir flung his sword out, not at the wizard but at Bobby who just barely managed to dive to safety and landed clumsily on the edge of the platform.

“You tricked me!”

Now muggles were really starting to take notice, including security, but the Sentinels tossed outs several spells to distract and confuse them again.

“No, he didn’t,” Voldemort said evenly. “There are only three entrance points from the faery realms directly into Berlin, and one of them is within the warded area. I had my spies plant a portkey at both available locations and waited for your unique brand of magic to activate them. Now then, if we were able to detect you here from Warsaw, I guarantee the German Aurors have as well. So if you wouldn’t mind releasing Harry quickly-”

Another familiar wizarding sound suddenly filled the station house. A distinct popping noise.

“Ah shit,” Bobby muttered. “It’s too late.”

There were shouts from the other side of the platform as several muggles were rudely jostled by men who had not been there only seconds before. Men, who it seemed, kept coming. The wizards who arrived stared horrified at the mass of people around them, whether because of the security risk they presented or the sheer potential for casualties or both was hard to tell.

“Hey! Where are your train passes?” a security officer shouted, even as more aurors continue to pop in from out of nothing.

“Watch it!”

“Move! You’re blocking the elevator!”

Fenrir rolled his eyes. The Dark Lord just looked embarrassed for them, and contemplated slaughtering muggles just to get them into proper form. Fenrir, however, took the initiative. He turned to Lloyd who was carrying one of the two rifles they had and made a gesture towards him. Lloyd unslung his rifle, aimed, and fired. The fluorescent lights above the arriving aurors exploded, raining down sparks and shards of glass. The muggles were faster to react than the aurors, letting out terrified screams and rushing for the exits.

The second shot hit an actual Auror, splattering those closest to him in blood and brain matter. After that, the muggles were nothing more than obstacles for the aiming of their own spells. Lloyd took the first hit, screaming and smoking as was thrown from the platform. The second strike, Fenrir blocked with his sword, grinning like a lunatic. Behind him, Voldemort threw up a massive shield, buying his own men time to prepare their spells and protecting the werewolves as well. Several muggles were either thrown or smashed into the invisible wall, knocking them down and further terrifying those who hadn’t yet escaped. Spells flashed and skidded off the shield, taking out several of the overhanging lights and darkening the platform. Muggle security had drawn their fire arms and shouted commands to lay down their weapons, but they had no definitive target and hadn’t yet fired for fear of hitting the civilians.

“Release Harry this instant,” Voldemort commanded, his tone cutting through the cacophony of voices warring in the echoing tunnels of the underground. Fenrir grinned back at him. He made a terrible sight, a child dressed all in black, blade in hand, sanity in question, and a promise of something worse.

“I’ve got a better idea.”

Voldemort raised his wand to cast a binding spell and prevent whatever the mad creature had in mind, but his shield failed under the Auror’s onslaught and he had to quickly adjust his aim to block the flurry of spells directed at him. His retaliating spell set the entire ceiling ablaze, exploding the remaining lights and electric cables as it blanketed outwards towards the Aurors before descending in blazing spears. The screaming now was from pain rather than panic, from those not quick enough to bring up their shields or apparate to safety.

It was a good attack, but it did nothing to move the fight in his favor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw three Culties fall to a curse, sinking into the liquefied floor until only their hands were visible and floor re-hardened, killing them instantly… hopefully. The Aurors were still arriving, and ready for the fight. One even apparated right in the middle of Voldemort’s men and managed to take out four more culties before Snape caught him from behind and slit his throat.

“My lord,” Snape hissed in his ear, drawing his attention even as he tossed out a countercurse and a shield without speaking. “Potter’s doing something to the others!”

The Dark Lord turned his attention, as much of it as he dared, back to Fenrir. The war god had stupidly turned his back to the enemy, the sword of Gryffindor flitting this way and that without looking to block and destroy the curses being flung at him. His other hand was held high in the air and over the other werewolves who had collapsed to the ground and were know writhing in agony as he chanted something that was lost in roar of battle. It took Voldemort a moment to realize what the war god was doing, and when he did he was momentarily stunned. Only Snape’s presence beside him, kept him from losing an ear as a cutting curse drew a little too close.

They both fell to the floor, cutting the exposed skin of their hands faces on the glass covered floor. It was irrelevant. He was back on his feet, his strongest shielding spell thrown up to protect him so that he could continue to watch the dark miracle unfolding before him. Snape tried to get up as well, but Voldemort pushed him back down into the protection of his shield, forcing him to his knees. The potions master was confused for a moment, until he too saw what was transpiring before him.

Fenrir’s army was getting back up.

Getting back up on four legs. On four long, hairy legs with two and half inch claws and a matching set of fangs.

“Oh my god,” he heard Snape breath out.

Fenrir turn back to the aurors, eyes burning with gleeful insanity. With the hand he had used to cast his spell, he made a gesture towards the enemy. At once, over two hundred fully transformed werewolves leapt into the fray, running full speed and mad towards the aurors. A dozen were cut down before they could engage, but in the low confines of the tunnel, there was nowhere flee. The shields which could be used to block spells were useless for fending off werewolves, who broke through them as if though they were nothing. They tore into the fringe of the group first, tearing witches and wizards from the group and within seconds rendering their prey into pieces before going for the next victim. Over a dozen German fighters were lost within half a minute.

“Defense spells only!” Voldemort shouted to his people, but he needn’t have bothered. They had stopped firing on their own to watch in morbid horror. This was not the same fight they had befell the Goddess colony. Here, there were no brooms to fight from. Here there was nowhere to retreat to. The aurors fought desperately, throwing out their most vicious attacks, killing werewolf after werewolf but there were too many and before another could be taken down they were overtaken.

And still Aurors just kept coming.

Separate from it all and yet a part of it as well, Fenrir laughed and laughed as if it were the most hilarious thing he had ever seen. Any other time, Voldemort might have joined in, but he really wanted to get Harry out of here. The war god was proving stupidly careless with his protégé’s body, standing out in the open like that.

And then all of the Auror’s disappeared.

A series of loud pops indicated their method of escape. The why of it wasn’t immediately apparent. Well, unless it was simple self-preservation, of course. Their prey gone, the werewolves turned their attention towards Voldemort and his soldiers.

“Do you mind?” the Dark Lord muttered at Fenrir, who was smirking at him now.

“Not in the least.” He wasn’t amused. The war god gave a little pout. “Oh, fine. Be a spoil sport.”

He waved the werewolves away, and they turned and contented themselves with feasting on the dead. Half a dozen culties broke away from their group in order to vomit over the side of the platform. Voldemort released Snape and allowed him to climb back to his feet.

“This isn’t the end of it,” he told the others. “They’ll regroup and come back. Keep your guard up.”

Snape nodded in agreement, although he didn’t look away from the monsters as he spoke.

“They’ll collapse this tunnel. It’s standard operating procedure. We need to get out now.”

From above the sound of sirens could be heard, summoning more muggles to complicate an already messy situation.

“Retreat into the tunnel. There should be another platform a mile or two up the line,” Voldemort ordered, then turned to Fenrir who was still chuckling softly to himself. “If your pets can behave themselves, I suggest you bring them along. I’ll need to destroy the bodies before I leave.”

Fenrir nodded, and with a little whistle drew his wolves’ attention. They quickly padded towards him, some of them picking up small body parts to take with them and jumped from the platform. As soon as they were out of the way, Voldemort set the platform ablaze in brilliant green fire. The Culties flinched at the wave of heat drew towards them, and started retreating off the platform as well, albeit with a careful eye on the werewolves moving soundlessly in the darkness. Fenrir admired the blaze for a moment, stepping back slowly so that he might watch his enemies and his comrades alike be reduced to nothing more than ashes and cinders. Then he turned away, and made his way off the platform. As he did so, something gave him pause.

“What have we ’ere?”

Reaching down into the shadows at the platform’s edge, he pulled something out of the darkness. Bobby remained stiff and motionless in the war god’s hands, eyes wide and terrified. Fenrir grinned, but before he could do anything Voldemort snatched the raven from him.

“Hurry up,” he snapped, storming passed him and into the tunnel. Fenrir glared, but followed after. They were hardly off the platform when it gave a horrid lurch and exploded from the floor upwards, smothering the green fire and burying whatever hadn’t been turned to ash. Dirt and smoke blew into the tunnel in a fierce wind, and once it had passed it left everything in a choking fog.

“That wasn’t me,” Voldemort stated, if only to clarify that indeed, the fighting was far from over. He turned to Fenrir. “My protégé if you don’t mind.”

“You really want to wake him up now?” he laughed. “He’ll freeze up, get himself killed.”

“I will see to Mr. Potter’s safety,” Snape stated, daring him to contradict him. Fenrir didn’t contradict him, but he didn’t acknowledge him either. From up ahead on of the werewolves let out a piercing howl.

“Incoming,” Fenrir warned.

Vengeance

The lake was near. Harry could hear the soft, eerie call of loons and the croak of frogs, and the sound of flowing water had slowly died. He could hear it, but he couldn’t see it. The fog had swallowed his world in a damp white blanket, and he was forced to stumble through the thickening muck with his hands held out before him as if blind.

It did nothing to deter the shadow stalkers. Indeed, they only became more bold, flitting in closer and closer and then retreating shorter and shorter distances, until he felt wet fur brush against his outstretched hands. It was nerve-wracking, and though he managed to keep himself moving, he couldn’t stop himself from shaking and flinching.

How close to the lake would they let him get before they attacked? Would they attack at all? Could they? He had no idea how vulnerable he was in this place or whether anything in it could truly hurt him. He hoped not. His wand and his sword were back with his body, and he had nothing to protect himself with.

A shadow stalker brushed against his hands again, and this time he could briefly feel a cold, wet nose. Another rushed in from behind, knocking into him and making him stumble. His arms came up to protect him against the fall, and the mud swallowed them until his nose was nearly touching the muck. Another attacker ran over him, a single claw foot striking him in the back as it went. He pushed himself back up and flung out his fist, felt it brush against more fur and the shadows retreated yet again.

He climbed to his feet and winced. His back hurt where he had been stepped on. Apparently, they could hurt him. Trembling, he simply stood there trying to decide what he should do. He had found that if he didn’t move they didn’t touch him, and as urgently as he needed to leave he needed a break for the sake of his own sanity.

Under the sounds of water fowl and amphibians he could now just barely make out the rhythmic hush of water lapping against stones. He couldn’t have been more than a hundred feet away, probably less than half of that, and yet the closer he got the more impossible it seemed. The mud was up to his knees now, and though he didn’t tire he could barely move either, and… thethings Greyback had sent were getting as desperate to stop him as he was to keep going.

He stood there and thought for a long moment, but no clever plans presented themselves. He took a deep breath, and surged forward again, stomping over the thickening mud as quickly as he could. The attack that followed was no surprise, except perhaps in its intensity.

A mouth filled with pointed teeth clamped onto his outstretched arm, pulling down and forward, back into the mud. He screamed in pain and fright, and struggled to rip his arm free but the teeth only sunk deeper until he was almost certain the bones would break. A second attacker leaped onto his back, pushing him forward so that his stomach and chest sunk into the mud, clawed feet digging into his back before another set of teeth clamped onto his shoulder. There was not enough air available for him scream, with only one arm to support himself and the massive weight on his back he barely able to keep his head up high enough to gasp for air or risk suffocating.

“Aahh!!” he gasped, “Sto-ahhhh!!” Teeth grazed his collarbone, threatening to snap it. Harry felt lightheaded from the pain, but struggled to keep his senses. They were close enough now that he could see them. They were indeed wolfish creatures as he had suspected, but were not in the shape of true wolves or even werewolves. Their legs were extremely long and thin, more deer-like than canine, their claws almost talon like in their size and curve, and their fur had a nacreous sheen like the inside of a claim shell. Their head and body were completely wolf-life but for the eyes, black, empty, and unblinking.

They were horrible.

They were going to kill him.

What do I do? What do I do? he thought desperately, trying to think, between the desperate gasps for air and the excruciating pain. I don’t have my sword! I don’t have my wand! I don’t have anything!

There was an audible snapand agony bloomed in his captive arm, pulling out another scream even as collarbone started to crack under the pressure of merciless teeth. I don’t want to die! I’m sorry, I’msorry!I should never have taken the Du’on nadi! It was stupid and selfish, I know! Iknow!But please don’t kill me! Don’t let anyone else die for my mistake! Please, please, someone help me!

The shadowstalker on his back released his shoulder, and for a blessed moment Harry thought it was over, that someone had answered his prayer, that he was free. Then the teeth returned, this time clamping firmly over the back of his neck.

Harry screamed.

The Aurors were more prepared for the second attack and on the offensive, driving heavily into the ranks of their enemies. Several of them now carried crossbows as well, laden with silver quarrels. Voldemort and Greyback’s forces had lost their element of surprise, but they were far from outclassed. The werewolves, despite their bestial minds, were excellent group hunters, fast and clever. Those few Aurors who had experience dealing with them, had only ever dealt with them one at a time or from the safety of a broom, and had never seen their true potential unleashed while in a pack. They were fast and quiet when it suited them, infinitely strong and terrifying when it didn’t. All of this, combined with Greyback’s strict control and intelligence, made them a terrifying force to reckon with.

Voldemort’s Culties were by no means on the same level as Aurors, but their rigid discipline and numbers supplemented their more skilled commanders, the Sentinels, Lestrange, Snape, and the Dark Lord himself. While the more powerful let loose their own mental repository of dark spells, the Culties supplied the protection and the distraction to allow them the time and space to do their worst.

“Frango vitrum!” Snape snarled, catching an Auror on the leg as he dove for cover. The leg instantly exploded into thousands of glassy shards, and the Auror screamed briefly, before a pair of werewolves caught up with him and silenced him forever.

“Hhmm… I’ve never seen that spell before,” Greyback said off-handedly, before turning back to his werewolves and summoning them back towards the main group with a whistle. One werewolf limped slowly over to its god, causing Snape to cringe a few steps back from him, but only long enough for Greyback to pull out the silver quarrel that had hits its back leg. It yelped in pain as Greyback pulled it free, but lumbered along quickly enough on three legs. Around them, Culties tossed up shields and counterspells as Aurors hurled curses down the tunnels from somewhere up ahead in the darkness, illuminating the brick walls in a flashing rainbow of colors.

Voldemort, whose patience was starting to wear thin, glowered at Greyback. In one hand he held his wand, in the other the raven, confined to a small wire mesh cage. The raven had not moved the entire time, and anyone who thought to notice it assumed it had been stunned. Bobby certainly hadn’t been spelled, as far as the Dark Lord knew, and was likely shocked more than anything. Despite all his traveling, the raven had been uniquely sheltered against the true horrors of the battlefield. Voldemort didn’t spend much time thinking about it, or what he was going to do with the raven once this was all over, as he still needed to get Harry out of this mess first.

“The second attack should be occurring any moment now,” Voldemort said to Greyback. “The Aurors will be forced to abandon the fight here to defend what remains of their city, and when that happens, you will leave that body.”

Greyback glanced back at him, and smirked.

“Of course. No point sticking around if there’s no one else left to kill.”

Voldemort contemplating the possibility of killing Greyback in his god form, but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth it[1]. He would find some other way of punishing him later. Maybe he’d eat Luna instead.

The sound of a train coming drew him from his thoughts of revenge to further down the tunnel. The underground was loud with shouting and screaming and small explosions, but nothing could dampen the ear-splitting screech of trains. Whatever traffic that was supposed to have come down the main tunnel must have been rerouted once it had collapsed, and only now that the fighting was moving into other sectors were the trains truly becoming a risk. The train was far enough away that finding a spot to keep out of its way wouldn’t be a problem, but confining their movement in the already confining tunnels was dangerous. The only consolation was that the Aurors were likewise confined.

“Cross to the other side of the tunnel. They won’t dare fire on us while the train is passing,” he commanded, and everyone moved to obey except the werewolves who were moving about the shadows in any which way they pleased, dodging quarrels and spells, exhausting their enemies’ supplies and energy as they prepared their next big rush.

Greyback crossed the tunnel with the others, not so arrogant as to stand as the sole target of a hundred angry Aurors, but stopped when a howl pierced the air. It was not a howl of pain or a battle cry, but something else, something that brought an unholy light to his mismatched eyes. Bright white light appeared around the turn of the tunnel and a deafening blow from a horn filled the cavern. The spells stopped flying, just as Voldemort predicted, no one daring to risk derailing the train in such closed quarters. Greyback glanced briefly at Voldemort, then in the direction of the howling, now drowned out by the approaching train. The Dark Lord himself was distracted, calculating distance and time and his next offensive move, but Snape’s responsibility was Harry and he hadn’t forgotten it, not even in the middle of their fire fight.

“He’s escaping!” Snape snarled, dashing after Greyback when he changed his direction towards the other side of the tunnel. Lestrange spun around, and cast a stunner at Greyback, but either it didn’t hit or had no effect because he didn’t stop. Snape managed to get across the tracks, along with one of his underlings, but before either the Dark Lord or any of the other soldiers could follow. The train was already upon them, and they were forced to cower back against the walls, covering their ears and their heads as the sound rattled their brains inside their skulls.

After what seemed like minutes, though it could only have been a fraction of one, the train finally passed them and they brought up their wands to prepare for the next assault. It proved pointless. The Aurors were gone.

And so were Greyback and the werewolves.

Oblitz was furious. They had two days notice, two days! That should have been plenty of time to prepare for the second invasion, but they were getting humiliated out there! They had lost nearly seventy men already, while the enemies’ casualties was less than half that! It was ridiculous, that should have to leave the command central to bail them out.

He had not been in the underground fighting, instead sending out the soldiers and taking intelligence on the battle as injured Aurors apparated back to base, and he knew it had gone very badly. To be fair to the fighters, there were several factors Oblitz hadn’t prepared them for. One being that Voldemort himself would be there, a veritable army all his own but never a more valuable target, and the other was Potter and the werewolves… which honestly, he still wasn’t sure he believed. He shuddered to think how it might be true, and if Britain didn’t have two Dark Lords running around.

Then the second attack had started on the edge of their base, Culties on brooms sticks swept in for a surprise attack. There were not many, but with they were vicious and well armed. Oblitz killed two, before apparating to the tunnels to call the Auror’s back. He knew the little Blitzkriegwas only the first strike to soften them up for the heavier fire power, and he needed his other soldiers there ready to face it.

They set up anti-apparation wards before they retreated, and hoped they would keep Voldemort and his people trapped in the underground long enough for him to defeat the enemy topside, before they joined the fray or made their own escape. The only problem with that of course, was they had to get out of range of the wards themselves before apparating to the battle grounds. Oblitz wasn’t familiar with the muggle tunnel system, but one of the Aurors knew a few places where it intersected with the wizarding underground.

They were running there now with only the Lighting spells to see by, and casting the walls in shining wetness and deep shadows. They moved as fast as they could carrying the wounded on their backs, hoping the passing train would buy them enough time to disappear. Oblitz wasn’t counting on it, and as usual his pessimism proved correct.

They were half way to their destination when the first man screamed. He turned around just in time to see one of his Auror’s dragged away into a side tunnel, where the screaming persisted for a few more seconds before ending in a choking, wet gurgle. Oblitz sent out a fire curse to incinerate the attackers, but the stream of molten fire merely illuminated the figures of nearly two dozen werewolves and one lone man before the flash of a sword caught the curse and shattered it into harmless little sparks and then darkness.

Laughter rumbled through the artificial cavern, echoing off the walls so what was only one sounded like dozens. Around him, Oblitz could smell the stink of fear wafting of the Aurors like a wave. It was no Dark Lord, but what they had glimpsed ever so briefly in the darkness was even worse. They were men and women who had been prepared to fight and die violently in the line of duty, but against dark wizards and witches. There was something innately more horrible, something primordially terrifying about the sort of death that was stalking them now.

“Oblitz,” the laughing voice called, and for a moment the commander wasn’t certain he had heard right. “Cameron Oblitz. I know you’re there. We all know you’re there. We’ve come a long way to find you.”

Suddenly, the Aurors’ fear was his own. They were here for him? There was no point questioning the why of the matter, he wasn’t so deluded as not to understand their desire for vengeance, but the how was something he couldn’t begin to guess at. No one had known. He had made absolutely sure of that.

He mentally shook himself. He couldn’t afford to loose it down here. This was a war, there were more important things than his own sins coming back to haunt him. He shouted out orders to his people.

“Kuster! You’re in charge now. Take everyone topside and meet up with Gersten if he’s still alive.”

“Sir!” she protested, her wand drawn and ready to fight to the death. He was glad of it, but if she was going to find death it wasn’t going to be fighting for an old soldier like him. Berlin needed her strength, needed all of their strengths, and he had no intention of them losing their lives down here.

“Go! That’s my final order.”

“S-”

“Go, damn you, or I’ll curse you myself!” he snarled, grabbing her by her cloak and all but throwing her down the tunnel. She stumbled, but straightened, gave him one last look of regret and ordered them forward. Oblitz didn’t watch them go. He didn’t dare turn away from the enemy, he could no longer see.

When at last the echoing footstep faded behind him, he stood in absolute silence, the floating orbs of light the only source of illumination. It was so utterly quiet that, if it weren’t for the overwhelming feeling of malevolence directed at him, Oblitz might have been able to convince himself he was alone.

Then another wand lit, and the figure he had seen briefly stood some twenty feet away, and behind him the two dozen werewolves had multiplied to nearly a hundred, sitting obediently behind their master in tidy little rows, a bestial army of monsters.

Harry Potter stood smiling darkly at him; in one hand his wand, in the other a sword, and a black cloak hanging round his shoulders. There wasn’t a trace of fear in his hooded eyes, no trace of sanity either, and if Oblitz had any doubts about a second Dark Lord they were gone now.

And then suddenly, the sword vanished.

Teeth closed around his neck, just as his fingers closed around steel. Harry didn’t think, didn’t have time or a clear enough head to think, to realize what exactly had appeared in his hand, but swung his free arm backward, clubbing rather than stabbing. The blade hit the shadowstalker awkwardly, the edge tilted so it slivered shallowly against the flesh rather than slicing deeply.

It was enough to startle the monster, though, and it released its prey and skittered out of range, its fellow hunter releasing the captive arm to disappear into the mists. Harry swung wildly at their retreating forms, even as his wounds screamed in agony to be stretched. He shouted and screamed into the nothingness, terror and hatred and anger bubbling out in mad frenzy. Trembling, he climbed to his feet, ignoring the pain and surged forward into the mist.

Sanity was slipping away from him, replaced instead by a primitive instinct to escape. He needed to get out of this place, not to save anyone or out of necessity, but for the simple need to survive. Predators surrounded him and there was shelter in sight, and even with the sword in his hand he felt no safer in this cursed place. The mud wouldn’t let him run, would barely let him move at all, pulling his downward like a predator all its own. He struggled on, eyes wide and still seeing nothing but endless white, his chest heaving and stretching his torn skin and cracked bone.

The faintest of sounds, perhaps nothing more than an echo of his own frantically beating heart or the wet slurping of mud as he moved, blew timidly into his ear and sent him swinging around like a madman. The blade sliced through nothing but air and he swung back to his exposed side. He hit nothing. There probably had been nothing to hit. His cloak dragged in the muck, twisting up in his arms, and forcing him to struggle with it. Frustrated and terrified, he tore the cloak from his neck and tossed it aside, frantic to free himself like a rabbit in a snare. The next steps had him pulling free of his boots, leaving them stuck in the sucking mud. All the while, he searched blindly and swung pointlessly into the colorless abyss.

His paranoia slowed him, but eventually he found himself at the waters edge, cattails and pond grass shooting up around him, thick enough that he could finally walk without sinking into the earth. The water was icy cold, his first experience with temperature since he had entered this strange place, but he didn’t care. He had to go, get away, to the center of the lake, deep enough to submerge himself.

He managed to get far enough in that the water reached mid thigh, and he was just beginning to hope he had moved beyond his attacker’s reach when snapping and splashes from behind had him spinning around to meet the second attack. He caught the shadow stalker as it leaped for him, spearing it through the neck. It was dead before it fell, but the momentum kept it on its trajectory, smashing Harry in the chest and throwing him back into the frigid water. He struggled to right himself, but the weight of the dead held him down, pushing him deeper. One arm broken and other trapped between the body and his own, he floundered pathetically, struggling to raise his head the mere half foot to the water’s surface.

He was feeling light-headed and convinced he was going to drown when his kicking leg was seized savagely in another pair of jaws and was carelessly dragged from beneath the shadow stalker’s body and out of the water. His strength waning, he lost his grip on his sword, leaving it lodged its victim as he was pulled back to the muddy bank. Gasping for air and then screaming it out again, he kicked uselessly at the beast with his bare foot. It didn’t even slow, dragging him further from the lake and into the mists to Merlin knew where. He dug his one good and heel into the mud, but there was nothing to hold onto and it slid easily beneath him.

More out of lack of options than any true plan on his part, he scooped up a wad of mud and hurled it. There was startled yelp, and his foot was released. He scrambled back towards the lake, hobbling and crawling, although all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Maybe if he didn’t move it wouldn’t attack?

Not something he thought he could bring himself to do, not when every instinct was screaming at him to run. He was back amidst the reeds, finding the dead shadow stalker and searching for his blade. It was harder than it should have been to pull it free, his strength all but gone, so that he had to put his whole crippled body into it. He fell backwards into the water, just managing to keep his head above the water. He didn’t bother to stand, he didn’t know if he had enough strength left to do so. Instead, he stayed floating on his back, kicking weakly.

The sword rested across his chest, feeling like a lead weight trying to drag him down, but he dared not let it go. He swam what felt like hours. The icy waters numbed the pain in his limbs, but robbed him of his strength. With every passing moment, he felt his legs loosing the struggle to move and his body sink lower and lower. He could no longer hear the loons and frogs, only the muted pounding of his heart as the water slipped over his ears. The adrenaline rush of his escape faded, and with it came the certainty that he was going to die here anyway.

A soft splashing drew his attention, and as weak as he was, he could do little else but stare into the mist as the splashing drew closer. As close to death as he was, he felt a resurgence of horror as the head of the shadow stalker glided through the water towards him, its mouth opened and panting, its teeth bared in a monstrous grin.

“No,” he cried, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Not you. I won’t be killed by you.”

Decision made, he stopped kicking. His legs sank, just barely avoiding the teeth that attempted to snag one. After his legs, the rest of him quickly followed. An exhalation of breath and his head finally slipped beneath the surface. He kept his eyes open though, watching the black silhouette of the monster against the dark blue tint of the sky as he slipped deeper into the water. The creature dived for him he noted vaguely, but it was a slow and clumsy swimmer, meant for hunting on the muddy marshlands and shallow pools, and the sword in his hand was an anchor, quickly pulling him down into the cold darkness of the lake.

“You know, I gave the sight in my left eye to know your name,” the boy purred in two dissonant voices. He had acknowledged the sword’s disappearance with an irritated glare at his hand, then turned his attention back to his enemy. Oblitz suspected a trick, but he couldn’t think of exactly how such a thing would work. The werewolves had remained seated as their master approached him, a small consolation to him as their master was frightening enough all his own. Oblitz had met Harold Potter before, and honestly he hadn’t thought too much of him at the time. The boy’s escape and rising political career had been curious, but not entirely sinister. He knew now he should have paid closer attention. “I sold it to a crone. Can’t imagine what she intends to do with it, but I suppose in the end we both got what we wanted.”

“I’m flattered you think me worth such effort,” Oblitz sneered, all the while scanning his surroundings for the battle that was to come. “Although, I can’t imagine what I in particular have done to earn such enmity.”

Potter tilted his head a bit, his expression unwavering.

“You killed my wife and children.”

Oblitz blinked at him. Had Potter just made some sort of joke? As punch lines went, that was pretty bad. Greyback chuckled darkly, acknowledging the look of confusion that flittered across the German wizard’s face.

“Don’t let this body fool you. Potter’s gone off on a little vacation and I’m keeping house for him while he’s away,” he clarified. “The last time we saw each other in my true flesh I believe you had just disemboweled me.”

Oblitz started. Greyback attacked, rushing for him. The wizard leaped back barely avoiding the knife blade that had appeared as suddenly as the sword had vanished. He stumbled and Greyback pressed his attack, but was knocked back by a boot to the chest. Rolling back, he landed in a crouch, ready for another strike.

But Oblitz was already fleeing down the tunnel, dousing his wand as he went. Greyback sneered in disgust. To have been killed by such a cowardly opponent was more than insulting. No matter, he would be unburdening himself on the little bastard soon enough. He ran after him, the army of werewolves rising up to follow and assist if necessary. He didn’t light his wand, preferring to bespell his glasses rather than risk exposing himself to the wizard. The werewolves that followed needed no such consideration and could see easily as they pursued their query.

The man didn’t go far, only far enough to put a little more space between them and grant him the space and time he needed to cast his spells.

“Castrostinatum!” he snarled, all previous hesitation gone. The spell glowed darkest red as it hurtled toward Greyback, who cast a simple protego and strengthened it with his own power. The magic smashed into each other, hissed like water thrown in boiling grease and dissolved each other.

“Expelliarmus!”Greyback countered, not expecting anything to come of it, but using the time Oblitz spent blocking it to further close the distance between them. He had no intention of ending this with magic. When he killed the wizard it was going to be with bare hands and bare teeth.

The elder wizard didn’t bother blocking, instead casting castrostinatum again, letting it smash through the Disarming Charm and continue on to its target. Greyback didn’t have time to block it, and dodged to the side instead. The curse missed him, but hit a werewolves not quick enough to get out of the way, and there was a hideous wail of pain. It only lasted a second or two before it stopped and the tunnel was filled with the reek of burnt fur and sulphuric acid.

Greyback growled. “I would have thought you had better aim. You seemed quite adept at hitting even the littlest child from atop your broom.”

Oblitz turned and ran, trying for more distance again, but Harry’s body, for all its weakness, was built for speed. He caught up with his prey quickly, slashing at his back with his blade. It tore the fabric of the cloak, and the wizard spun around and smashed his first into the side of his attacker’s face. Greyback stumbled, lost his glasses, and righted himself. He swung his knife again, but the wizard caught it and tried to wrest it from his grip. Greyback smashed his forehead into his opponents nose before he could succeed and grinned when he felt it break.

Yes, yes! This was the sort of fighting Greyback could really get into. Blood and bone, wits and wills, clashing in a heady mix of exhilaration, rage, and pain! Oblitz had stumbled, and the war god grabbed him by his thin, graying hair so he might smash his knee into his face and see what else he might be able to break. The wizard twisted in his grip, losing some hair and some flesh, but broke away long enough to shout out another curse at him.

“Exsanguis!”

They were too close for Greyback to move completely out of the way, and it caught him on the side as he tried to twist away. He kept twisting until he had spun around completely, bringing up his knife to sink into the wizard’s unprotected back. The man cried out in agony and surprise, and with a sense of satisfied sadism, Greyback twisted the blade and then stepped away. Oblitz collapsed to his knees, alive but momentarily crippled by pain. The war god took the moment to assess his own injuries. There was no pain from the curse he had received or the resulting injury, but he had heard a disconcerting pop, and touching side revealed it was now gushing blood.

“Sanguis restrictus,” he growled. The bleeding instantly stopped, but the countercurse was ironically more painful than the curse itself. He grunted, ignoring the pain as turned back to his prey to finish it. Continuing the fight any longer on this plane was likely to destroy this body, and that wasn’t what he came for. He could continue his fun in the comfort of his own home. “I think we better wrap things up, don’t you agree?”

Oblitz glared up at him hatefully, clutching stubbornly to the wand he likely couldn’t even lift to use. Greyback let out a sharp whistle, and one of the werewolves that had been waiting patiently from the shadows loped obediently to his side. The war god patted the beast affectionately, like a well-loved hunting dog and turned back to the wizard, who was eying them both with growing apprehension.

“I bet you think I’m going to kill you now,” he said idly. “And admittedly, the idea is tempting, but you know, since I’ve become immortal I’ve come to appreciate lasting pleasure…and make no mistake I am taking great pleasure in killing you. If I were to kill you now… well, that would be it. You’d suffer for a while, then your body would just give out. You’d go to heaven or hell or whatever, and I would be left here rather unsatisfied. So I came up with this brilliant idea. I think even Voldemort will be quite impressed with it.”

Greyback paused, giving the wizard enough time to ask what exactly his oh-so-brilliant plan was, but Oblitz wasn’t going to play and remained stubbornly silent. Finally, the god continued without prompting.

“I’m going to turn you into a werewolf.”

Oblitz still said nothing, but now it was from horror rather than stubbornness. Greyback was pleased, and went on.

“I’m going to have Amsel here bite you. And then, no matter what happens or how you die, your spirit will belong to the moon and to me. Once you slough his mortal meat bag you call a body, I’ll drag you into my lair and tear you apart every day and night from here until eternity. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

He laughed at the wizards expression and at his own gruesome imagination, laying down plans for punishment he would reap against his family’s murderer. The laughter boiled out, laced with pain from his wounded side, but uncontrollable. It was over. It was so close to being over!

Caught up in his own twisted glee he didn’t notice the wizard starting to chant voicelessly, mouth moving rapidly for one last spell. Oblitz had lived his life on his own terms, an ambitious and proud man seeking always to better himself by working to better his nation. He had fought against Grindelwald, against dark creatures, against apathy and incompetence. He would have liked to stayed to fight one last war, to see his country and his people rise above the tyranny of yet another dark wizard, but it seemed he would have to be satisfied with what he had managed to accomplish so far and hope that he had tipped events far enough into Germany’s favor to make a difference.

He had lived by his own terms, and if he were honest with himself he had always known he would meet a violent end, so dying on his own terms was possible even now. If he had to die, taking a dark wizard and a hundred werewolves with him seemed a good way to do so.

He was just finishing the last of the complicated incantation, when the insane laughter suddenly broke off into a choking gurgle. The dark wizard before him pitched over onto all fours, vomiting up water. Oblitz’s first thought was that Potter had been hit with a drowning curse and someone had come to save him.

The second thought was that it was already too late.

His magic was already welling up inside, sliding out from his very core and expanding inside of his body in an ever increasing pressure. It burned, turning his blood into acid, his breath into fire, and flesh only so much dry kindling. Worse still was the emptiness that was left in the magic’s place, a crushing emptiness, a hunger that knew no bounds. It was excruciating, physically and spiritually, and now it all seemed pointless as Potter floundered for air before him. The previously missing sword miraculously reappeared again, now glowing brighter than the strongest lumos..

The power swelled and with it the pain, and Oblitz thought for certain this would be it and in an instant it would all be over, but still it keep coming filling him like a balloon that should have burst long before. It was all so excruciatingly mind-numbing, he missed everything that happened after that.

The werewolves, waiting patiently with their bloodthirsty glares, burst out into long, tormented howls and shifted back into their naked human forms, released from the unnatural transformation and collapsed onto the cold, dirty floor and each other. Potter himself had finally stopped choking, and was now gasping desperately for air on his hands and knees. Disoriented and blind, the young wizard flinched away from the rising magical power more out of instinct than anything else. He moved his wobbly legs beneath him and backed away, raising his sword to fend off the newest threat.

It was the likely the only thing that saved his life.

Snape kept his distance. He wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t fool either and he had no intention of wading through veritable ocean of werewolves in an attempt to wrestle Potter… Greyback?… whoever into submission. Greyback was no friend of his, and while he might have refrained from letting his minions tear Voldemort’s people to pieces, Snape doubted he would extend the effort to him alone.

He followed just far enough to follow the werewolves by sound, and kept well out of sight of them. They could probably smell him, but none had turned to investigate and as long as he didn’t pose a visible threat they didn’t seem interested. One of his Sentinels, the fool who had initially challenged his authority, was following close beside him, visibly shaken by the battle that had just happened and the one that might yet happen. Snape’s only order to him was to be absolutely quiet and to watch for danger, and so far the man hadn’t deviated from that task.

When their quarry finally stopped and engaged the enemy, Snape hung back and considered his options. There really wasn’t much he could do. There were at least a hundred werewolves between him and Potter… Greyback…ugh… and his initial attempt to apparate ahead of them had failed, likely do to anti-apparation wards. With only one other wizard, any chances of fighting through would be impossible…well, maybe not impossible, but dangerous and with little chance of success.

Something had to be done though, and soon.

Greyback had recklessly engaged Oblitz, a master duelist, in a fight in Potter’s body. This might be the situation in which Snape was relieved the necessity of killing the boy, but to do nothing while the Dark Lord’s protégé engaged in a life and death battle was enough to have him killed or worse, sent to Azkaban.

Harry had to die. That was a hard and, though he would never admit even under the threat of torture, tragic truth. One of hundreds he had seen play out before him over the years. Snape, however, didn’t have to die (or worse), and that meant setting up the situation where it appeared he had done everything conceivable to protect the boy and yet failed. At least then, he would only be tortured briefly while the Dark Lord excised his rage, and then limp away with only a few extra scars and another lead bar of guilt weighing down his soul.

For that, everything had to be set up just so…

Then everything just fell apart. Greyback started to choke on something, the potion master’s first thought being blood, and then the werewolves who had been ominously quiet until then, sudden burst out into pained howls and writhed on the floor. Within seconds, canine limbs began to shift into human ones, grotesquely misshapen in their transition.

“This is it! Let’s grab Potter and get out of here!” the Sentinel hissed, and jumped out from their hiding spot. Snape let out a furious hissed and reached to pull the fool back, but an explosion of uncontrolled magic burst through the tunnel. His arm caught some of it, and flared with heat and pain as he stumbled further back behind the cover of the stone tunnel. The Sentinel, completely exposed, received the brunt of it. The potions master watched horrified as the other man stiffened, glowed blue for a scant few seconds, before his clothing and skin burned away like paper, leaving only the blackened tissue beneath it. He turned away, unwilling to watch the rest of it, fearing the man might somehow still be alive and aware of what was happening.

Instead, he looked at his own arm. His robes and dueling armor had been burned away, but he had managed to pull his arm back quickly enough that only the top of his hand and lower arm appeared to have second degree burns. There would be more scars he noted clinically, but the nerves at the tip of his fingers and palms were intact. Dueling and potions were not yet lost to him. Merlin, that had been close. If it had been just half a second later, I would be… like Sentinel what’s-his-name. His heart was pounding in his chest, deafening him. He closed his eyes tightly, reciting instructions for the healing balm he would need for his magically burnt skin, willing himself to be calm. 14oz of aloe vera, 3.6 oz of boomslang skin, underbelly would be best, half a drop of dragon’s blood, 1.4 oz of silt from west bank of the Thames, at least thirty miles north of London…

The rising panic began to fade, enough for him to control his shaking hands. Enough for him to grip his wand firmly. The magical energy, although powerful and violent, faded quickly and he cautiously moved from his hiding spot. The sentinel was dead, a black smoldering heap on the ground, and he didn’t waste time on him. He moved further into the tunnel until he came upon the werewolves. Many were dead, killed in the blast, but a surprisingly large number were still alive, weeping and wailing from pain and fear. They had all been low to the ground when the blast hit, partially protected by each other’s bodies, so that now in their frail human forms some still managed to live with partial burns that Snape himself suffered from. He didn’t linger long enough for a deeper assessment, but stepped around and over them to center of the attack.

Harry is dead, he told himself. There was no way he could have survived ground zero of such an attack.

His hand clenched around his wand. Harry was dead, and it was over now. The Sentinel was dead and the werewolves were incoherent. He would state that he had tried to intercede in the fighting, but there would have been no stopping the explosion. He had the injury on his arm, to prove he had tried to save the boy.

Harry is dead.

… 13 pieces of marsilea…no, it will be out of season. Subsititute ½ dandelion leaves and three drops of vinegar… white silk for the burial shroud and silver pieces from Ireland for the eyes… a pint of plum wine, heat slowly so the alcohol does evaporate too quickly…they will build the pyre on the tallest hill across from Hogwarts, the weather mages will make sure the sky is clear and windless so that everyone will see the smoke for miles… add the boomslang skin all at once, then sprinkle silt in slowly, stir clockwise twice then counterclockwise twice, let sit for 23 minutes… Hermione would lay the white rose on his heart, Voldemort the Lotus crown, Snape would hide the Scarlet Pimpernel beneath his crossed hands and hope the boy somehow found a way to bring it to Lily…

“Uuhh…uugh..nnn…he..hel..nngh…” a voice begged somewhere, and by all accounts Snape should have dismissed it as one of the dozens of werewolves doing the exact same thing and continued his search through the charred bodies at the front of the pack for some clue that would distinguish Harry from the rest. But something about the voice, maybe it was the childish tenor or maybe it was the direction it came from, made him pause and turn behind him.

At first, there didn’t seem to be anyone there. Part of the roof had come down due to the explosion, and a broken pipe was pouring a steady waterfall over a pile of rubble almost as tall as he was. Could someone be alive under there? Impossible.

“He..ahh..help!….HELP!”

There was no mistaking the voice now, not even with it so distorted with pain. He moved closer to the pile of broken bricks and mud, scanning it for some sort of opening from where Harry might be trapped inside, but it was solid. No one could be underneath and calling for help. He was a fool, hallucinating, the magical backlash was poisoning him-

“Agh…p-please…”

No, it wasn’t from inside the pile. It was behindit. Quickly, and rather gracelessly, he scrambled and stumbled over and around the loose brick, scraping his hands and bruising his knees as he went. He was half way over when he came across another body half buried in the debris. A blackened skeleton leered up at him, loose bits of meat and hair clinging stubbornly to its skull. He very nearly buried his hand in its open mouth before he realized it was there, and reared back in disgust. He froze and stared at it for a long moment. That couldn’t be…?

“Is-is some…s-someone… ah..ahh…help.”

He turned around, and there was Harry, laying half buried in mud, his clothes almost burned away completely. Snape felt his heart leap into his throat when he saw almost the entire body was black.

“Lumos!”

The tunnel bloomed into light, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he willed away the Night Vision spell. When he opened his eyes again, expecting to see this horror in full color, he was infinitely relieved to see Harry’s body wasn’t as blackened with burns as he had first though. Most of it was blood. Blood and mud and whatever filth he was currently buried in.

He moved in quickly, then to lean over him and stared into a pair of brilliant green eyes. Eyes that were wide with terror and agony, unshielded by his glasses.

“Pro-professor?”

Snape blinked. Harry wasn’t dead. How the bloody hell was he not dead? Looking for some sort of clue, he spotted a sword handle gripped tightly in the boy’s hand. The blade had shatter in the explosion, and what little remained of it was pitch black. The Sword of Gryffindor,he realized. It must have absorbed most of the magical explosion. It destroyed itself trying to protect its master.

He turned back Harry’s face. “Yes. It’s me.”

“I-I d-died again,” he stammered, his breath hitching. “I d-drowned. Did you s-save me, again?”

Drowned? What is he talking about? He must be delusional from the pain.

“Where are you hurt, Potter?” Because, clearly something wasn’t right. The sword obviously hadn’t stopped everything, and there was no telling what sort of injuries the boy had sustained before the explosion.

“E-everywhere…” he managed, and then gasped, “But my side…m-my s-side…hurts…most.”

Snape wiped away some mud from the boy’s naked side, and cringed when the hidden wound there spurt several ounces of blood all over his hand. Mentally cursing, he muttered a spell to help seal the wound and then tore his bag from his shoulders. He tore open a side pocket and pulled out a thick roll of cloth, and unrolled it to reveal nearly twenty potion vials secured safely inside. His hand immediately reached for the pear-shaped vial with the Blood Replenishing potion, only to pause.

Right beside the life-saving vial was another, innocuous little tube with a clear, colorless liquid inside with another purpose altogether. Snape stared at it, frozen.

What am I doing? Didn’t I come here to end his life? To solidify a prophetic future for Britain and myself? He is dying already, by his own stupidity no doubt. How long will you continue this foolish game? How long will you continue to save him? Until his recklessness or his destiny destroys you both?

His hands were starting to shake again. No, no, he couldn’t hesitate now. He didn’t have much time. Voldemort couldn’t be that far behind him. He reached for the clear vial.

Add 6 pints and 4 oz water, bring to a quick boil, do not stir…You have to stop shaking or you’ll poison yourself first… for ten minutes and thirty-six seconds, then clockwise eight and a half rotations. Add shredded dandelions and wait for potion to turn pink…

He turned back to Harry, and froze again. It was a sudden and terrible realization that the boy looked far more like his mother than he had originally thought. The trademark Potter rats’ nest for hair, was now smoothed back from the boy’s face with wet mud, exposing a hairline identical to Lily’s and a beauty mark in the upper right of his forehead just where she had had one. The eyes… they had always been Lily’s eyes, but never had they been so wide and so vulnerable. She had never looked at him the way Harry was now, but he had nightmares about it during the war when any day he expected to hear new of her being hunted down and murdered by Voldemort’s Death Eaters… or tasked with the job himself.

“I…I’m glad you’re here,” Harry gasped out, the pain obviously getting worse with every passing moment.

“Shut up, Potter,” he snapped, unscrewing the vial.

Lily’s dead and gone, and you’re a fool and louse to cling to her memory. You have a fiancé; sort of, a woman alive and probably in love with you, promising you more than Lily was ever willing to give. Her son is going to destroy you, just like she nearly did. Are you going to help things along? Stupid, masochistic fool!

…siphon excess fluid through cheese cloth, place remaining solid in cool glass mixing bowl. Add dragon’s blood, folding gently until paste is a soft pastel orange, leave to set at room temperature overnight…

The vial hovered over Harry’s open mouth. The boy’s eyes were no longer wide, but starting to drift close. He was starting to fade, slowly and painfully. Still, somehow, he managed to focus on Snape.

“I don’t want to die…”

Green eyes drifted shut.

No, no, no! You forgot the vinegar! It’ll be too acidic and ruin the aloe extract! It’s useless! All that planning and preparing and waiting was for absolutelynothing!

He threw the vial into the rubbish heap, heard it shatter, and knew its contents were diluting in the water and would soon become inert as they mixed with the chemicals in the brick. His hands were already plucking potions from his cloth. He moved behind the boy, propping his head onto his lap to keep it angled, pouring Blood Replenishing potion into is open mouth, and massaging his throat so that he would swallow rather than choke. Then concentrated stinging nettle extract to flush foreign magical energy, Berphilium’s healing drought for internal hemorrhaging, Timmelson’s Infection Fighting Drought (because there was no way Harry wasn’t catching something in this damnable sewer), and glucose dissolved in water (not a potion, and technically not magical in any way, but an excellent source of quick energy in a pinch nonetheless).

Harry’s eyes still didn’t open, but his color was slightly better. His breathing still sounded atrocious, and Snape remembered hearing him choking on something before the explosion. He had nothing for it. If he were bleeding into his lungs, the anti-hemorrhaging potion would stop it for a while, but could do nothing to expel what was already there…

He said he had drowned…maybe he hadn’t been delusional when he said that after all.

Removing his cloak, he wrapped it around Harry, and pulled him up until the boy’s back was pressed to his chest. He was uncomfortably heavy, but even still Snape could feel each rib beneath his fingers as he was re-positioning him. Shoving aside the questions that brought up, he concentrated instead on conserving his body heat and monitoring his heart rate and breathing while he waited for help to arrive. It couldn’t be much longer.

But plenty of time to do the deed you set out for yourself. You fool, you’ve damned yourselves and who knows how many others. One day, Voldemort will figure it out and know that you betrayed him or Harry will make his move against the Dark Lord, and it wil bel chaos or civil war or both and all your damn fault! All for some stupid, mudblood who never gave a damn about you anyway!

Except of course, as he sat there in the filth, cradling the fifteen year old who had brought more stress and danger into his life than the Maurauders and the first war combined, he knew it hadn’t really been about Lily. For the last five years, it hadn’t ever really been about Lily. For all the resemblances and reminders Harry may have brought about his mother, Snape could honestly say that his interactions with the troublesome Gryffindor had been almost exclusively between them and not him and ghosts of school days past. Their relationship, whatever it was, was exclusively their own.

He had saved Harry because… because… I am a god damned masochist addicted to stress and misery. [2]

“Idiot. You’re going to owe me after this,” he muttered to the unconscious form. “Don’t you dare die on me now.”

Voldemort sent half his troops to locate and dismantle the anti-apparation wards in the tunnels, while he and the rest went in search of Harry and the werewolves. They were not hard to find. They just had to follow the echoing screams. In his cage, Bobby finally started to stir, but said nothing as he shifted uneasily in his tiny prison.

Stumbling upon the naked mass of men and women writhing on the ground, while not the first time Voldemort had encountered such a thing, was rather worrisome. The Culties certainly didn’t know what to do about it, aside from the medi-witches and wizards who immediately went to work sorting the injured from the dead. The Dark Lord let them dally. Harry wasn’t amongst them, but he couldn’t have been far. The most obvious place to look was underneath the debris that half blocked the tunnel. He stopped and starred at it for a long time, unsure if what he should even admit to the possibility that Harry might somehow, inconceivably, be dead.

“My Lord?” Bella said, drawing him from his distraction. He turned to her, and she flinched, but continued. “Should I have the men search the rubble or…?”

“May as well. We aren’t going anywhere until the others take down the wards. Is Snape amongst the d-”

“Here!”

Voldemort spun around towards the debris and the sound of the shout. Several Culties immediately began scaling the brick to see the other side. One turned back and shouted.

“He’s got Potter!”

The Dark Lord grinned in triumph. Why did he ever doubt Harry’s ability to survive even the most-

“Medic! We need a medic over here!” the same cultie was suddenly shouting, and quickly scrambling to the other side. Three medics abandoned their position with the werewolves and rushed over the pile. Voldemort followed after them, arrived quick enough to see a flash of naked skin before the medics and Culties swarmed around and hid him from view. He didn’t dare get any closer and distract them from their task until he knew it was safe to do so. He could see nothing, but they narrated well enough.

“Shit, he’s practically hypothermic. Someone get me some Pepper-up!” a medi-witch shouted. Snape was quick to countermand the order.

“No. I had to give him anti-hemorrhaging potion. It’ll become toxic if they’re mixed together. Heat some blankets and wrap him in them.”

“Harry? Harry? Can you hear me? Squeeze my fingers if you can… nothing.”

“He’s filthy! Who knows what’s getting into his wounds. Start cleaning him off so I we can see what we’re doing! Lavo corpus!”

“What other potions have you given him?”

The Dark Lord listened with growing concern as Snape rambled off a rather daunting list.

“Where’s his wand?” one of the Culties asked.

“Check what’s left of his right sleeve, otherwise it’s gone.”

Nothing else was said for a few seconds excepted warming and diagnostic spells, until the same Cultie spoke again.

“Ha! Found it! Lucky devil.”

“Do shut up. What do you got?”

“Water in the lungs for one, but that’s better than blood. He’s definitely going to get pneumonia, no matter what we do at this point. Six fractured ribs. He’s going to need a hospital soon just to keep breathing properly. How about you?”

“Minor fractures along both the upper and lower vertebra. No more sudden movements. I don’t want something to chip of that close to his spinal chord. Some internal hemorrhaging, but I can’t tell how bad because of the potion.”

“He was bleeding extensively from the side,” Snape clarified. “He would have bled out before I got to him if it weren’t for the mud.”

“The burns are pretty bad below his knees. Thank Merlin for quality boots or he wouldn’t even have legs right now. We can still probably save them.”

“How’s his temperature?”

“Just below normal range, and dropping!”

“Alright, everyone we’ve done what we can here. Cover him up and get him secured! Tutus corpus leviosa!”

Voldemort watched mutely, as they finally moved away far enough for him to see Harry clearly. They had wrapped him in a thick, white blanket strapped securely around him with black buckles, hiding the worst of the damage. As if in mockery to everything he had just overheard, the boy’s face was smooth and untouched, though far too pale. Under some sort of levitation charm, he hovered, stiff as a board. It all reminded the Dark Lord uncomfortably of funeral pyres. He watched numbly as his people carefully hovered his wounded protégé over the debris to the others.

“Um…my L-lord?”

Slowly, he turned his head to the young Cultie who had been among the melee. He was holding out a wand him, and it took Voldemort a moment to recognize it as Harry’s. Suddenly furious, he snatched it out of the fool’s hand. It was slightly blackened, but nothing a gentle sanding wouldn’t undo. It would still needed to be checked for structural integrity. It wouldn’t do to hand a seemingly undamaged wand back to its master only to have it explode in his face the first time he tried a spell. If his protégé ever touched the wand again.

What have they done to you, Harry?

He turned away from the startled soldier, and returned to the other side of the debris. Harry had been moved safely out of the way, under the diligent care of Snape and a medi-witch, while the others began working on the werewolves again. He felt another irrational wave of anger at them for neglecting their prince, but forced himself to squash it. They had done what they could for him here. He needed a hospital; equipment, surgeons, an apothecary… He needed out of these damned tunnels.

As if fate had heard his thoughts, a Cultie came running up the tunnel, shouting not to curse him as he rounded a corner. The wizard blinked stupidly at the scene before him, before shaking his head, and running up to the Dark Lord and saluting.

“My Lord, the wards have been destroyed. Captains Worthington and Gaona await your commands.”

Voldemort started at him for a moment, processing what had been said, looked to Harry on the verge of death, and came knew exactly what he was going to do.

“I want twenty men to start transferring the wounded out of here. Apparate them to our infirmary in Warsaw. Professor Snape will transfer Harry is to the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital du Sorcellerie[3] in Paris under an alias as soon as he is stable enough, and have her Majesty Queen Ophelia informed of the circumstances.”

“Yes, sir…er… what are the circumstances precisely?”

The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes at him. “That is for Professor Snape to decide. He has experience in such matters. As for everyone else… I haven’t quite satiated my thirst for blood this day. We’re going topside. Inform the others I will be there shortly. That is all.”

The Cultie saluted and hurried off as quickly as he had arrived. Lestrange, who had been lingering close since they had arrived, stepped forward to say something but he walked passed her without listening and made his way over to Harry and Snape. The potions master looked over to him briefly as he approached, and then quickly back to his ward. His fingers were pressed to the boy’s throat, measuring his pulse, while his eyes focuses on the unsteady rise and fall his chest. The medi-witch was busy filling out a medical form, cataloging his injuries and treatment thus far for the next set of medical wizards, and he ignored her.

“How is he?”

“I am fairly certain he will live,” Snape said, evenly, without looking at him. It was just as well. Voldemort wasn’t looking at him either. He had reached out and gentle touched Harry’s cheek. It was too cold, too still.

It made him inexplicably angrier.

Pushing aside a wet lock of hair from his ear, he leaned in to whisper.

“I give you my word, Harry, they are going to pay dearly for this.”

If he heard him, the Gryffindor gave no indication, not even an eyelash fluttered. Snape, however, stiffened noticeably. Voldemort glanced up at him darkly before straightening.

“What happened exactly?”

“I am not entirely sure, honestly. He… Greyback found and cornered Oblitz of all people, said something about… sacrificing his eye to find him. And then… he dueled him, if that’s what you want to call it. I didn’t see most of it. I was trying to find a way to cut him off while my man followed from behind. I managed to get ahead of him, but then there was the explosion. I received minor injuries trying to reach him, but I was already too late.”

He made a gesture with his arm, revealing the burns without removing his fingers from Harry’s pulse. Somewhere behind them, Lestrange snorted. Voldemort nearly turned around and snapped her neck.

“It must have been a… what do you call it? A exhalation furibundus de magi ex corpus[4].”

Snape frowned, but didn’t look up. “My Lord… I was not aware of that being anything other than an urban myth.”

“No myth… just a well maintained secret. Now isn’t the time to discuss it,” he said, then gave the man his instructions.

Snape, through all of this, did not look at him, and if it were under any other circumstances, Voldemort would have been extremely suspicious of his evasive behavior. Under these circumstances, however, all he cared about was the man’s nod of acknowledgment. With one last glance at his protégé, he turned to order his soldiers into formation and quickly stalked away to meet up with the rest of his battalion.

Tom moved quickly passed a small squadron of soldiers, not even bothering to hide. They glanced at his familiar Cultie uniform and then didn’t bother again. He smiled grimly, amused at the effectiveness of simply transfiguring his clothes and wondered how long it would take anyone to notice the ruse. He had no intention of testing it now, and continued back towards the hotel.

Chaos had broken out on the other side of the barrier, and whatever the wards were meant to keep out, it wasn’t chaos. Voldemort had launched his second attack on Berlin, determined to retake the entirety of the city and secure his position there. Civilians still alive within the barrier were panicking, running from their hovels in search of more secure places to hide while still others rallied their courage to resist the second onslaught. There had been several attacks on soldiers caught unawares and vulnerable outposts. Few still had wands and made do with antique weaponry and Molotov cocktails, setting dorms and eateries ablaze and cutting down anyone who ran out in a panic. Or at least trying to. The Culties were soldiers, and once alerted to resistance, they handled matters with their usual brutal efficiency, before moving on to more important things, primarily the fighting going on outside their self-made prison. They were organizing to join the fight, ready to bring barrier down on a moment’s notice.

Chaos, it seemed, had created yet another opportunity.

When the barrier came down, either during the battle or afterwards, he would slip away and think of another plan. The vampires had proven more useless than he had thought, lacking discipline or any true conviction. For all their age and power, they were nothing more than children who wanted to play at being monsters.

He would have to deal with them before he left, wiping away the evidence of his attempted subterfuge. He could not risk Katarina going to the Dark Lord and demanding the terms of a contract that didn’t exist or allow her to speak of what had truly sparked the fires of war.

Besides, Viktor was there, and he needed a new body. McGunny, despite having retreated to the depths of his mind to cower in horror and fear, had worn out his usefulness. He had gotten safely out of Britain, but now Britain had followed him and he couldn’t risk being found. Snape would have informed the Dark Lord of his existence, as much as he knew anyway, and there was no telling if his older counterpart and fit things together yet.

Viktor… Viktor was a target in and of himself, but he was a target with allies and those allies were well established and powerful. Or they at least had the potential to be. He hadn’t had time to delve deep in the young wizard’s mind, but hadn’t needed to. Dumbledore and his resistance (ha!) were at the forefront of his thoughts, moving to gather information and power now that the Dark Lord had shown his hand and the fear of his spreading tyranny would galvanize others into action.

He would infiltrate them, and use the information he gathered to make his move against the Dark Lord and the Dark Lord’s enemies all at once. And fucking kill that self-righteous old goat, Dumbledore in the meantime.

Slipping into the secret side entrance, he entered the hotel and headed for Viktor’s room. He needed to be quick. There was no telling when or for how long the barrier would be down. He needed to block the entrance to the underground tunnels, kill Viktor’s soul (he wasn’t making the same mistake of cohabiting again), take over his body, and set the hotel ablaze. With no tunnels to escape to, the vampires and McGunny would be dealt with by fire and sun.

He made it as far as the hotel lobby, when he sensed something wrong. There was music coming from the parlor, an old viola wailing out some Wagnerian Opera. No one should have been up, and certainly no one would have left it on. He paused. He couldn’t ignore it. If someone was still up, they might warn Katarina. It was best if he dealt with them now and then went about his plan.

Strolling leisurely to the door, he maintained a cool and collected air, ensuring no one would guess at his murderous plot. He knocked politely at the parlor door, then slid it open… and froze.

The entire clan had crowded into the parlor, sitting in the chairs and sofas, or standing nearby. They were dressed in their better finery, handsome frock coats and ruffled satin skirts, looking for all the world like a picture of a Victorian cocktail party. A muggle picture, based on the all encompassing stillness. They stared at him, their expression varying from smug to unreadable. Katarina was of the former party, lounging on the loveseat in creamy white, looking ready for a wedding.

He did a quick calculation on how fast he could close the door, lock it, and set the hotel on fire and how long it would take them to reach the door and/or break it down. The odds were not in his favor.

“Having a party, are we?” he asked. Flight was no longer an option, and he hoped he would be able to bluff before he was forced to fight.

“Why yes,” Katarina said, amiably, “A celebration of sorts.”

He knew a lure when he heard one, but for now there was no point in refusing to nibble. He sighed, ever so slightly, but enough for her to catch his apparent boredom.

“Ah, how delightful. May I inquire as to the special occasion?”

Her smile grew ever so slightly, and he knew his little nibble had just sprung the trap.

“Our family, you see. It’s grown today. Viktor, why don’t you come out and say hello to Cousin Horace?”

Tom’s bored façade dropped as from the back of the crowd, Viktor stood up from the piano and moved around to the center of the parlor. He was dressed as the others, in a black frock coat and maroon vest, a cane in one hand and top hat in the other. As gentlemanly as he was dressed, the bloodlusty hatred in his eyes was pure barbarian. He said nothing, and Katarina swatted him playfully on the hip.

“No need to be so shy and sulky. You and Horace go way back. After all,” she said pleasantly, her eyes lighting with the same suppressed rage of her new progeny. “You told us so many interesting stories about him.”

This is the last time I work with vampires, he decided, and threw out a curse. Viktor dodged, and snarled like a beast, but Katarina was already on the attack. She caught him by the neck and hurled him at the nearby stairs, smashing the banister into splintering pieces, before gravity sent him tumbling down the steps again. He groaned in pain and tried to right himself, but she grabbed him again, this time by the back of his robe, and threw him into the hotel counter. A quick flick of his wand and an unspoken spell turned the wood and marble furniture to the consistency of tofu, cushioning his fall even as he prepared his next attack.

Katarina refused to allow him the opportunity. She rushed him again, kicking his wand out of his hand before backhanding across the lobby floor. He groaned in pain, and she smirked, stalking him at more leisurely pace now that he had been disarmed. Her children gathered just outside the parlor door to watch, Viktor at the front of them, displaying a level of innate dominance that made her feel like the proud new mother that she was. She would give the little con artist to him for his first meal. It seemed poetically appropriate to her somehow.

“Oh, Horace, you played a good game. You had me going there for a while, but you over played your hand. You were just too damn cocky, convinced I would never figure out that you didn’t even hold any cards. Now I have to kill you just to save face.”

She sighed sadly.

“Goodbye, Horace. It was fun while it lasted.”

She removed her silk gloves, baring her wickedly sharp claws. He would be Viktor’s first kill, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to soften him up a little first. Then he laughed, painfully, turning slowly to bare his bloody teeth in a macabre grin and she frowned, confused.

“You stupid cow,” he chuckled. “Always one step behind. Always missing that one vital piece of knowledge, even now.”

She cocked an inquisitive brow, not buying his bluff for a moment. She would never believe a thing he said again. But she would play a long for a little while longer, if only for the excuse to start breaking his fingers.

“Really?” she said, mockingly, her eyes wide and fluttery. “Then why don’t you tell me, oh wise and powerful wizard, sir? Oh, pretty please… before I tear your head off your body…”

His smile didn’t waiver.

“One word, luv. ‘Splinching’.”

She only had time enough to blink once in confusion, and then he disappeared with sudden ‘pop’. Instantly, she heard a second pop behind her and spun around to strike him, but he already had her by the arm and apparated a second time, this time bring her along for the ride.

Most of her.

He left her head behind, and it fell out of the empty air, hitting the marble floor of the lobby with a sickening crack, and rolling a few scant inches before coming to rest on its side, wide eyes staring sightlessly at the lobby doors.

He apparated with the rest of her body to the other side of the room to where his wand had landed, feeling her already beginning to dissolve into ash beneath his hands. He shoved her desiccating corpse at the gathering of stunned and horrified vampires. A vampires caught it and screamed as it crumbled to pieces all over her. He threw one last triumphant smirk at Viktor, who stared back coldly, before apparating again to the outside of the hotel.

Once outside, he fell gasping, his magic and body strained passed reasonable levels. Apparating within anti-apparition wards was possible, despite what everyone said, but anything over twenty feet was likely to kill you. As this wasn’t even his body, he wasn’t overly concerned. He laughed darkly. Things just weren’t going as planned these days.

“Incendio.”

It was a simple spell that required little magic to do, but once it got started it could turn into a real monster. Within moments the front door was a blaze, and spreading inside.

At least, I’m not the only one having a bad day, he thought ruefully, and climbed to his feet. He had best get out of the area before a Cultie came along to investi-

“Hold it right there!”

Tom froze. You have got to be kidding me!

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he thought he heard McGunny giggle but he was probably just imagining it.

“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be at the frontlines with everyone else!” the soldier snarled a heavy Scottish accent. Tom didn’t immediately turn. No one had given him a second glance while in uniform, but if they had looked harder he doubted he could fool anyone for long. “You trying to dodge the fight, you little snot? Name and rank, soldier?”

“Ah, Private…Jones…” he said, and flinched at how obviously fake that sounded. “I was just-”

“Where’s your boots, soldier?”

Tom looked down, and realized he hadn’t bothered to transfigure his shoes into the standard military boots. Damn it.

One of the windows exploded, showering glass onto the street. From inside, there came a terrified shriek.

“Bloody hell! Who’s in there?!” the soldier shouted. “Goddamn, saboteur! Thought we would be too stupid to figure it out what you was up to? Caedo corpus!”

Tom tried to leap out of the way, but he was already exhausted, and caught the Cutting curse in the back. There was a moment of weightlessness, and then saw his body fall forward onto the pavement, the back of his clothes shredded and soaked with blood. Irritated, he turned to his would-be murderer. The Cultie was nothing impressive; young, blond hair cropped close to the skull, squinty little eyes, and a cleanly shaven face that made the loose flesh of his sagging jowls all the more pronounced. The only even slightly redeeming feature about the man, it seemed was that his insignia ranked him a step or two above a private.

As the man swaggered closer to inspect his kill, Tom thought to himself, I can work with this.

Viktor walked beside Goethe through the tunnels, leading the remainder of the once proud clan deeper into the underground. The survivors were a solemn and tearful lot, the loss of their mistress and their home so suddenly and so violently had shaken them and all of them feared the future. All except Goethe, who maintained his detached sort of amusement over the discord he had just been witness to, and Viktor, who had only been dead for less than a day and felt a keen distaste for his own existence already and no urge to mourn the one who had given it to him.

“You are Master, now,” Goethe said quietly, after they had walked a ways.

“I am no master,” Viktor contradicted without looking at him.

“You are the only master here.”

“You are a master.”

“Ha. Maybe, but I am no leader. You are both. It is providence that you came to us when you did.”

“Providence does not exist for the damned.”

“All depends to what god you pray. Mistress Katarina was a good master, she looked after us in unlife and she looks after us still in undeath. They all would have died if you had not been there.”

“You led the way.”

“But it is not me they followed. I am no leader. They hate me.”

“I hate you.”

“Ha.”

“I hate them too.”

“You are Master. They are what you make of them. Make them into something you do not hate.”

They said nothing more, the elder vampire allowing his new master to absorb what had been said and to decide for himself what he would do. Viktor, on his part, felt the wheels in his brain that had ground to a halt at his death slowly begin to turn again. He was a vampire. He was a goddamn vampire because Horace McGunny was a psychotic manipulator bent on war and Mistress Katarina had impulse control issues.

And he to make matters even more fantastic, he was a Master Vampire. The one in a hundred odd vampire who for one reason or another retained enough of their personality and will to control other vampires.

Despite what Goethe had said, there was no providence in him being there. These men and women were now reliant on a leader who knew nothing about them or their world or their needs. How many would die before he figured it out? Did he even care if they did?

He hated them. It absolutely loathed them, but they were his.

Now, he just had to figure out what to do with them.

“Lie still. You were badly injured,” a gentle voice said softly.

“Mom,” he called softly, staring up at the soft cream and brown blur haloed in white. His throat was dry and his lips cracked.

“Ssshhh… I’m sorry, your mother is here, but don’t worry. You’re safe now. You are in a hospital. I’m Nurse Williams and I’ll be taking care of you. You’ll see your mother soon, I promise. Here, drink this.”

A straw touched his chapped lips and he latched onto it, suckling greedily at the cold, slightly sweet liquid. When at last he was satiated, she pulled it away and spoke again.

“You were found unconscious in the war zone. Do you remember what happened?”

He tried to recall, but all that came where hazy memories of fear and pain.

“No.”

“Do you remember your name?”

He thought for a long moment, and the first name that came to mind was Tom, but that wasn’t right. Tom… that had to be someone he knew, not who he was. His name…his name was…

“Horace. My name’s Horace.”

1. Voldemort’s pack name is ‘God Eater’, and that isn’t just a symbolic reference. He really can, and has, eaten gods. Only minor ones, but enough to make his body almost indestructible. That’s how he survived so easily after the Quidditch stands collapsed on him in Book III. Anyway, one of the problems with eating gods is you inherit their powers, but also their responsibilities. Voldemort honestly doesn’t want to be responsible for the werewolves.↩

2. This is Snape Speak for ‘I can’t imagine the world without him.’↩

3. Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital is a real teaching hospital in Paris, France. I couldn’t think of a French sounding hospital that sounded very impressive so I stole this one and attached the French word for wizardry onto it. In my story, it is supposedly the best hospital in the wizarding world (think Mayo Clinic for you Americans out there), so naturally, Voldemort will take advantage of the Queen’s hospitality to have Harry sent there for treatment.↩

4. Basically, this is latin for ‘a furious exhalation of magic from the body’. Oblitz essentially made himself into a magical bomb.↩

Epilogue pt 1

Harry opened his eyes and immediately knew he was in a hospital. Even without his glasses, he could make out the familiar pale blue walls he associated with St. Mungo’s and the distance echo of shoes on clean linoleum and the squeak of gurney wheels. He blinked once, twice, and tried to gather his thoughts, but his memories were all as vague and dark as half forgotten nightmares.

“You’re awake.”

“Professor?” That single word sent him into a coughing fit, and a wave of pain washed over him in a chain reaction. His back and his legs were the worst, simultaneously burning and broken, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he waited to ride out the pain.

“Do not move. You have only been out of surgery for less than an hour,” his guardian informed him, and moved to stand at his side. “Drink this.”

A straw touched his lips and he drank from it quickly and deeply. A sickly sweet and sour liquid, not unlike over-sweetened lemonade, coated his tongue. It did nothing to ease his incredible thirst, but the pain dulled to something close to tolerable. Snape muttered something, and slowly his bed bent and allowed him to sit up. Breathing immediately became easier, but he couldn’t help but grimace as he jostled his aching body. His glasses were slipped into place.

Sitting up, he could see himself better and it wasn’t a particularly pleasing sight. His legs and feet were wrapped in white bandages, and each lay in a silver cage and was held in place by a two dozen or so slender rods. He shuddered as he realized those rods weren’t resting on his skin, but piercing deep into, possibly down to the very bone. Snape caught his revolted look.

“Yes, they are quite hideous, but necessary. The surgeons had to remove several shattered bones in your feet and ankles. Those rods are holding everything else in the right place while they’re being re-grown. They’ll remove them later today.”

Harry shuddered again, wondering where those little pieces of him had ended up. Would they give them back to him as a war memento, like shrapnel taken out of a wound? He hoped not.

His hands were red, tender, and stiff. He flexed his fingers and found they all worked properly, but were as sore as the rest of him. Turning up his palms, he saw the right had been branded black, not unlike the handprint scarring his chest. At first glance, it looked like nothing but three parallel lines that started and stopped at different points across his palm. He had seen something like it before though. It was a rune, but one he didn’t immediately recognize. He lifted it up to show Snape.

“That is all that is left of the Sword of Gryffindor. It was destroyed during the fight and left you that little farewell gift. Be certain I will be giving you my own thoughts on the destruction of that particular piece of Hogwarts’ property when you are better,” he said blandly, and Harry had a feeling he would be up to armpits in beetle eyes before the end of the semester.

He grieved the loss of the sword for a moment, remembering how it had saved his life so many times in the past and served him as no other sword possibly could. He hoped he had done it justice, but it seemed unlikely and such an unequivocal waste.

“You were stabbed in the side as well,” the professor continued, nonchalantly. “One and one-third inches wide and three and half inches deep. It nicked a kidney and part of your large intestines. Easy enough to fix, but not before sepsis had taken hold. They had to completely drain and replace your blood- not that there was much left of it in your body anyway. That will throw off your magic for several weeks.”

Harry fingered his side, feeling the slight tenderness through his blue hospital gown. There would be another scar, he knew. Hopefully it would be normal looking. He was starting to look like a giant page of doodles.

“You had several fractures in your ribs, spine, and of course your legs and feet. They have been repaired, but will be tender for another week or so. If you feel any sudden numbness in your extremities, that’s normal but inform someone if it persists for more than ten minutes at a time. Inflammation around the spine can be tricky to treat.”

“Yes, sir,” he wheezed, and grimaced. His chest hurt, and breathing was still difficult.

“You also have bacterial pneumonia. It is one of the few maladies modern potions has not been able to treat effectively[1]. They’re giving you some sort of muggle medicine,” he explained, sneering a bit at the last bit, then he got thoughtful. “I’ve heard of a few drowning curses, but never one that fills the lungs with lake water. Can you recall the spell?”

“No, it wasn’t a spell…it was…”

…overwhelming cold, unable to breathe as water filled his lungs, the darkness… dying… and then air and the struggle to get it inside of him, fear, light, heat… and explosion… and pain… oh, Merlin the pain… and dying… dying all over again…

“Potter! Potter!” Snape was shouting, his hands on his shoulders, trying to anchor him, bring him back to himself, but he couldn’t breath. He was coughing and gasping, but there wasn’t anything but water and the agony in his body as he struggled against it. Snape was shouting again, but it wasn’t at him. “NURSE! NURSE! GET A MEDI-WIZARD!”

The potions master pulled away, but his hands were immediately replaced by a dozen others, holding him down and pulling open his clothes and his eye lids, gibbering at each other in something other than English.

“What ’appened?” a medi-witch asked Snape.

“I don’t know. He woke up and I gave him half a bottle of Pain Relieving potion, then started explaining what happened… then he started choking.”

There was more gibberish spoken between them, a moment of hesitation, and then they nodded. By then, Harry was starting to black out, and they were forced to slide a small tube down his throat to get the potions into him. They were professionals though, the best in their field, and within less than a minute their patient started to relax and his breathing normalized (as much as the pneumonia would allow at any rate). Harry was once again unconscious.

Snape stared down at him, horrified. He had thought the worst was over, that the touch and go fight for his life in the tunnels had secured victory from death. But this had been a close call, he could feel it, and he didn’t even know why it happened.

“What happened?” he demanded, as the half dozen medi-witches and wizards began performing the more mundane tasks of checking his vitals and marking their records. The medi-witch who had asked him the exact same question, led him from the room and in to the hall.

“’E panicked… it is common after a traumatic experience. ’E…” she struggled for the right word, but seemed to settle for a more mundane phrase, “… thought ’e could not breathe. Ze pneumonia made it worse. We will add Calming Draught to ’is prescriptions and monitor ’im closely. Please wait ’ere while we make sure ’e is stable.”

She left him in the hallway, his thoughts reeling as he tried to process what had happened. He shouldn’t be that surprised. The experience had been a bad one, among an endless list of bad ones, and certainly him leaping in demanding the details the moment he was awake hadn’t helped things. Frankly, it was a stupid mistake on his part.

Dammit to hell! Could he do nothing right? Had he ever been this incompetent, wishy-washy, sentimental fool before? Maybe, when he was still just a schoolboy, but Merlin why did he have to choose now to start it up again? Matters were spiraling out of hand, and he was making them worse… but what could he do? He had made a decision and backed out of it at the crucial point. What now?

He couldn’t go to the Dark Lord that much was obvious. As much as he despised the thought of Harry destroying everything that had been built, he knew he could never consign him to the dark imagination of Lord Voldemort. The man had done (and still did) unspeakable things to his enemies, the overt and the perceived alike and for a child of prophecy, the end could never be as simple and clean as an Avada Kedavra. Even before he had changed sides, he had wanted to avoid that fate for Harry.

The secret couldn’t remain forever. The prophecy would, perhaps already was, playing itself out and the Dark Lord would start to guess.

Then what?

Play dumb? Try and protect the boy? To what end?

He stood in the doorway of the hospital room, watching the medical staff as they hovered over his unconscious charge. Harry looked so fragile, so mortal and breakable. A lie, if ever there was one. Nothing and no one could destroy the boy, not really. No one except the Dark Lord of course.

And there lay the crux of the problem right there.

That might be his destiny.

Draco stormed down the halls of Hogwarts, his murderous expression sending any in his path scurrying out of the way. He had been searching the school for the last half hour, and with every minute lost he was only getting angrier and angrier. How could Weasley do this to him? Hadn’t he looked after him since first year? Hadn’t he offered him a leg up on numerous occasions?

And this was how he thanked him? Going behind his back with his sister and… and…

Ugh, he couldn’t even think it! It was too infuriating. But Ronald Weasley always had been an infuriating little bastard from the start. For being a poor, practically parentless little waif living off the charity of his foster parents, he had been unforgivably arrogant. Weasley had snubbed his generous offers more than once, always going off on his own, never taking anyone’s advice, and he had only became worse as he had gotten older. Frankly, he didn’t understand how Hermione could stand working with him for the paper, let alone being alone in a room with him…

Argh! He was thinking about it again!

But he couldn’t not think about it. Not after what that Sabbat girl had said… not after she had told him under an Honesty Charm no less. The idea of his pretty, smart, sweetly naïve little sister sneaking of to the dungeons to… with Ron of all people! He couldn’t stand it. The little bastard would ruin her.

She had such a bright future ahead of her. Admittance to the finest university in Britain, an ambitious Court career, and a marriage to a handsome, rich, pureblood who would treat her like the princess she was. It would all go to pot with a little nobody like Weasley clinging to her, dragging her down and sullying her reputation. Merlin, if Sabbat hadn’t told him first, this could easily have gotten out of hand.

There was still time to salvage the situation however. He just had to calm himself down first, and then…

He finally spotted Ron by the stairs leading up to the transfiguration classroom, looking sour and self-absorbed. He wasn’t alone either. Hermione was walking with him, her expression sympathetic. The red head muttered something, and she put a hand on his shoulder and that’s when Draco walked down to meet them, and promptly punched Weasley in the face.

Hermione let out a surprised cry. Ron stumbled backwards and landed on his back, his wand coming out instantly even as his other hand went to his nose.

“You keep your filthy hands away from my sister, you third class piece of trash,” Draco snarled.

“Draco!” his sister snapped, too horrified and shocked to say anything else.

Ron looked down at his hand, a trickle of blood smeared across this fingers and then up at the Malfoy heir. Draco couldn’t read his expression. If he had been able to, he might have been able to dodge.

“Pertundo!”

The Punching Hex sent Draco flying backwards into a suit of armor, knocking it over, filling the entire hall with a deafening racket. Hermione shouted at them.

“What are you doing?! Both of you stop! Stop!”

But neither of them was listening to her. They stumbled to their feet, Ron bleeding and Draco with a nasty bruise forming over his left eye. They glared hatefully at each other, their wands raised. The only thing keeping their curses from flying was Hermione standing stubbornly between them.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!”

They all turned at once to the new comer and paled. McGonagall stormed towards them, looking more than ready to curse them both into next Tuesday.

Berlin had fallen, and while that brought a grim sort of satisfaction to the Dark Lord it did not keep him on the field of glory for a minute longer than was necessary. He left his men to clean up the pockets of resistance that clung to the city and secure their hold there, and made his way back to Paris. The Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital du Sorcellerie loomed like a cathedral over the wizarding city. Gargoyles stalked the roof and ledges, hunting the shadows and hidden nooks for pigeons, rats, lethifolds and spectrecats[2]. Its high arching windows and stones blackened from centuries of accumulated soot and age cloaked the hospital in a perpetual gloom that persisted even in the warm sunlight.

He made quite the figure, black robes torn and frayed from curses, his handsome face splashed with blood, crimson eyes gleaming. Certainly, no one stood in his way as he made his way up the marble stairs and entered.

The inside was considerably cheerier than the exterior, artfully decorated in Renaissance murals of French countryside and other neutral subject matter. He made a cursory glance around the main lobby, but there was nothing to threaten him here. He kept his wand in his hand, however. He had been in battle for hours, and while this wasn’t the first time, he would not feel comfortable relinquishing his wand until he was certain he was alone.

“Sir! Are you alright?!” a terrified young nurse at the reception desk asked in French. “How have you been injured? I’ll call a medi-wi-”

“No,” he snapped impatiently, cutting her off. “I am not injured. I am here to see someone else. He would have arrived early this afternoon.”

She blinked owlishly, looking him up and down and still not sure what to make of him. “Ah… are you a relative?”

He just looked at her.

“Eep… I’ll just go and get my supervisor.”

“You do that.”

She scurried off and a minute later an older nurse appeared, scowling like an English bulldog. She too gave him a once over, and if possible scowled deeper.

“You are Lord Voldemort?” she accused. He lifted a brow at her.

“I am.”

“We have your ‘young man’. He is resting in critical care for now, and not receiving visitors.”

He wasn’t going to argue with her, but since cursing her wasn’t a reasonable option (although it was definitely tempting) he evaded.

“Then I will speak to his guardian. He should still be here.”

The Head Nurse clearly wasn’t happy, but knew she had been thwarted. She turned on her heals and led him up an open stairwell to the third story, and down a long corridor. The walls were painted sky blue, and painted birds flew about every which way, flitting into open doorways and then out again. The walls were lined with ugly green chairs, several of which were occupied by worried looking individuals who didn’t so much as glance up as the blood soaked man passed them.. At the farthest end of the corridor, away from the common masses, stood Snape talking with a medi-witch. The potions master seemed to sense his approach, and suddenly turned in his direction. He nodded to the medi-witch and went to meet his master.

“His condition?” Voldemort demanded at once.

“Stable. He woke briefly two hours ago, but had to be sedated again. He should be fit for transfer to St. Mungo’s in two or three days.”

They both turned and stared pointedly at the head nurse, who huffed and stalked off.

“Good… that’s…good. That will give me time to set up the cover story. He can’t be implicated as being responsible for any of this. No one would understand,” he muttered, beginning to pace anxiously. “They would think he had gone mad.”

“He might have at this point,” Snape said candidly, earning him a glare that could peal paint. “I don’t mean that jokingly. As I said before, Mr. Potter woke up earlier, and had to be sedated. He had some sort of panic attack. Not really surprising under the circumstances. The medi-wizards[3] are suggesting a full psychological evaluation once he is strong enough.”

“I’m sure they are. Nothing like a shrink to make up things to treat when the real medi-wizards run out,” he sneered, the bitterness behind it perhaps more telling than he had intended. “Considering the things he has been through, do you think anyone wouldn’t believe he suffered from hallucinations? Delusions? Paranoia? He would be committed within an hour.”

“We cannot simply ignore the possibility that he won’t bounce back as quickly as he has in the past either,” Snape said, trying to keep his tone patient. “Until we know how this latest event has affected him, I believe he should be kept out of the public eye. Perhaps even outside of Hogwarts.”

“I had no intention of throwing him into the public arena the moment he woke up,” the Dark Lord said impatiently, moving towards the half open door he could now see at the end of the hall. “But they do need reassurances that he is alright.”

Snape followed, not daring to attempt to stop him, but not entirely trusting him either. Voldemort pushed the door open further.

Harry was still unconscious, although he looked far from peaceful. His expression was pinched in pain and anxiety, his entire body flinching at nothing and sweating heavily. He suspected the ghastly contraptions binding up his legs was the primary culprit, but from what little he had gleaned from the medical team in the tunnels they might also be the only thing keeping the boy’s legs attached to his body.

Moving closer to the bed, he could hear Harry’s labored struggle for air, a faint rattling sound whenever he exhaled. He reached out to remove a sweaty lock from his forehead, but stopped himself when he realized his hands were still covered in blood.

“He’s feverish,” he said instead, irritated that the medical staff could miss something so obvious and treatable. Snape explained.

“He’s still under treatment for sepsis. They don’t dare overwhelm his kidneys with too many potions yet.”

“Mmm…”

Suddenly, Harry turned his head towards them and opened his eyes, startling them both. He stared at them, unfocused and half-lidded, somewhere between sleep and waking.

“I don’t want to sleep…” he wheezed, barely audible, “We keep dying there. I don’t want to die anymore. I don’t want anyone else to die there either.”

Snape suppressed a shudder, looking away from his unnerving, glassy gaze. Voldemort merely leaned in closer.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said gently. “I will not let Death take you. I have conquered Him many times. I am His master. He will not touch you. Do you trust me?”

Harry stared at him, through him, for a long time before answering.

“I shouldn’t. God knows I shouldn’t, but I do.”

The Dark Lord smiled. He bent over to whisper something in his ear, too soft for Snape to hear, and Harry’s eyes slowly closed again as he fell back into a deep sleep. His expression smoothed, his body relaxed, and even his breathing seemed to become a little easier.

He straightened himself and turned to Snape.

“In a few days, I will allow a select few reporters see him.”

Snape said nothing, glaring at some spot on the wall.

“But only see him. He should be well enough for others to know he will live, but still sickly enough to enrage the public over his condition. As far as they will know, he was kidnapped out of France and rescued in Berlin by myself and the army, but not before being interrogated and tortured by the German Aurors. They will be forbidden from asking him directly what occurred in Berlin.”

Black eyes slid back to crimson, assessing this newest manipulation for weaknesses.

“It won’t hold up for long. There were too many witnesses. There’s no guarantee Potter will even go along with it.”

“His cooperation isn’t necessary. He’ll be out of the public eye for some time, and I doubt he has any clear memory of what happened to contradict my claim with. No one will believe the Germans, the tale is simply too outlandish, and whatever slips through our own ranks will be written off as war trauma or blatant rumor-mongering. Within a few months, no one will even think twice about it.”

“His friends will figure it out.”

“They are irrelevant.”

Snape conceded that to the Dark Lord this was certainly true. School children played no part in the political landscape Voldemort inhabited, excepts perhaps as props or examples, and this secret, which held no definitive proof one way or another, required the sort of credibility teenagers just did not have. However, for Harry and perhaps even Snape, the truth could make life at Hogwarts quite uncomfortable. The students were still reeling from Harry’s saving the werewolf girl, Luna, and news that he could control werewolves was unlikely to sit well with many of them. Harry’s likable personality wasn’t going to stave off fear for much longer, not even among those of his own inner circle. This could cause unforeseen problems that he, as the boy’s guardian and Headmaster would be expected to deal with.

Maybe that was a good thing, for him at least. It would increase his ward’s reliance on him, which had been waning over the last two years, and allow Snape to keep better track of him. On the other hand, it would further complicate an already complicated situation.

He would have to find a way around the oncoming stigma, or though it if it was unavoidable. Harry could not be relied upon to act in his own best interest.

“I’d like some time to prepare the school for his return just the same.”

“He is already behind in his schooling.”

“He will require tutors regardless of when he returns at this point, and perhaps it would be in his best interest to receive a private education that will take into consideration his…special circumstances… until he has caught up with his peers and recovered from his ordeal.”

Voldemort seemed to consider. He turned to stare at Harry thoughtfully.

“Yes, that is likely the best course of action. It will certainly be more convenient for assessing his progress. We’ll need to find a suitable guardian while you’re at Hogwarts.”

Snape nodded, displaying none of the relief he felt. The Dark Lord’s stubbornness could be dangerously inconvenient sometimes. If he played his hand right, however, things might turn out tolerably well.

“I know just the person.”

“Lt. Stratus.”

It took a moment for Tom to remember that was his name now, but when he did he quickly jumped to his feet to salute Major Leeds. The typical military dignity was compromised somewhat as he had been in the middle of cleaning and repairing his uniform when the woman had marched into the barracks. She smirked, no doubt amused to have come in while he was only in his shirt and boxers..

“At ease, Lieutenant.”

He relaxed somewhat into parade rest, and turned to her more directly. It was difficult to retain the blank expression he had been forced to adhere to for the last two days. Lt. Luther Stratus had not been a particularly bright or well liked soldier it seemed, and Tom’s normal cleverness and charm would have been distinctly out of character for him amongst his squadron. It was not in his habit to act the dumb brute, however, and he had no intention of starting now. His withdrawn behavior was shrugged off as battle fatigue.

He had, after all, gone to great lengths to demonstrate his battle prowess in the field and his new body hadn’t walked away completely unscathed. If the major was here for the reason he hoped, then it would prove worth the effort and the pain.

“Col. Abelard was quite impressed with your performance yesterday,” she said idly, clearly not sharing the colonel’s opinion. She probably had not been there when he had killed three Auror’s at once with a particularly nasty curse, and saved said colonel’s incompetent ass. He certainly didn’t look like much at the moment, he was sure. She handed him an envelope. “He’s recommending you for an accommodation and promoting you to captain within one of his units. You are to report to me tomorrow at 8:13 sharp. That is all.”

With that she turned on her heel and walked away without a second glance at him.

“Yes, Major. Thank you, sir,” he said stoically, although inside he was laughing like a madman. Too easy. Things were starting to go his way. Not that it really mattered. Things always went well in the beginning. It was the final stages where everything got bollixed up. From now on he would have to move extremely carefully. No more rash decisions, no more relying on third parties. It was up to him and him alone, and that’s just the way he preferred it.

The hospital staff let Horace get out of bed to walk around the day after he was admitted, but refused to release him from the third floor. This was probably just as well, because despite feeling much better than he had when he woke up he still couldn’t remember how he had gotten to Germany or much of anything since his seventh year. He had a vague memory of graduating, but not of what had happened after that. Had he joined the Culties? He couldn’t imagine why he would do such a thing. Nothing about military service appealed to him, and he couldn’t ever remember entertaining such an idea while in school.

Something had to have happened to put his plans for college on hold. Maybe some financial burden at home prevented his folks from sending him, and he had joined the Culties to help get payment for it. Maybe he had stupidly thought the best way to write the story of the battles was to participate in them, and he forewent his education in favor of experience. It could be any number of things, and unfortunately answers were not quickly forthcoming.

The hospital was full to brimming with the injured and dead, and there was little time for anyone there to spend unraveling the mystery that was him. They had found him in uniform on the street, but who ever had injured him had stripped off his insignia and identifiers, probably for future subterfuge. Without them it was impossible to find his records quickly. There had been inquiries sent to locate his squadron, but so far no one had responded. He doubted the troops had anymore time to spare in the field than the medi-wizards and witches did in the hospital. No one wanted him wandering around looking for answers either, what with his memory loss, and he truthfully wouldn’t have a clue on where to start.

So he was left there to wait until things calmed down or he remembered on his own, and find ways to entertain himself in the meantime. This wasn’t difficult at all. The third floor was a recovery ward, and it was full of bedridden soldiers willing to spend an hour or two recounting their experience on the battlefield for a bit of company. The nurses had been more than happy to give him some paper and a quill, if it kept him quiet and out of their way for a while.

Horace, on his part, felt like he had died and gone to historiographer’s heaven. The stories he gathered over the course of the day could easily make his career as a writer. They were fantastical and painful, terrifying and triumphant, heartbreaking and infuriating. There were tales of cruelty, viciousness, and fear; and tales of bravery, sacrifice, and compassion.

There were tales of the Dark Lord himself leading his men into battle; which he could scarcely believe.

There were also tales of Harry leading werewolves into battle; which he didn’t believe. Or at the very least, hoped were not true. The young soldier who had lost a good portion of his face and his entire squad fighting in the tunnels had whispered such dreadful things; things he could not bring himself to accept as anything other than the delusions of a man whose trauma had left him without his sanity.

Harry could not have done the things that man had said. Last time he remembered seeing the boy had been at Hogwarts and he had been struggling to hold himself together from one day to the next. He was one of the greatest people Horace had ever known, but also one of the most fragile. It was impossible for him to have done… those things.

Impossible.

Lucius stalked into the Headmistresses office, seething with anger and frustration. He did not dignify his rampant emotions, however, with any form of acknowledgment. He did not glare or scowl or slam the door behind him. Nevertheless, the moment he entered, several of the occupants flinched or shrank back into their chairs.

Draco, he was satisfied to note, was one of them. Professor McGonagall, unfortunately, was not. She stared at him coolly and gestured to the chair that had been left open for him as if he were the errant child. He stifled his indignation. His wife was giving him the subtlest of looks to not start something now, while simultaneously directing her disapproval towards her son.

On the other side of her was Hermione, witness to the debacle. He rather hoped her sense of loyalty to the one she called brother would keep her from blathering something incriminating. A mudblood couldn’t be expected to understand the superiority of loyalty over honesty, however, so he hoped the fear of his presence would do the job.

Beside her was yet another embarrassment to wizarding kind in the form of the youngest Weasley son, who was regarding him with cool loathing that had been smacked across his face ever since they had first met. Maybe it was stuck that way. Maybe he just needed to have someone come along and smack that look right off again.

He would be the first to volunteer if that were the case.

A man and a woman whom he had never seen before sat beside the boy, looking unremarkable in their grey clothes and similarly grey looks. The woman wore a light blue-grey dress and pinned up her black hair in a bun, and her partner wore a dark grey suit and had a thick, neatly-trimmed mustache. They looked so much alike that Lucius suspected they were cousin, which might explain why they had resorted to adopting the little Weasley mutant.

It obviously wasn’t out of love. They weren’t even acknowledging each other.

“Now that we’re all here,” McGonagall began, “We can get this matter sorted. According to several witnesses, the altercation began when young Mr. Malfoy walked up to Mr. Weasley and punched him in the face. Mr. Weasley retaliated with a Punching Hex. Miss Granger managed to hold off any further conflict until I arrived and separated them. What I-”

“Excuse me,” the grey man interrupted softly. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why exactly were we called if Ronald did not start the fight? This school boy tussle hardly seems worth drawing all us away from our busy schedule.”

Lucius agreed with him. Or rather, he agreed that he should not have been called away. Not now when he should have been overseeing the Court in the Dark Lord’s absence. Obviously, no one was seriously hurt. A letter and several detentions seemed perfectly in order.

Weasley said absolutely nothing, merely turned his glaring from Malfoy Sr. to McGonagall’s ink well.

“Mr. Brandier, I understand your frustration. However, the situation is not that simple. Mr. Weasley drew his wand on Mr. Malfoy, who was admittedly in the wrong but who had not drawn his wand. This school has very strict rules regarding magic in the halls, particularly when used to attack another student. If he had used his magic to merely defend himself, then this wouldn’t be an issue. As things stand, he is in as much risk of being suspended as Mr. Malfoy.”

“Suspended!” Narcissa protested. “Surely not for so petty a matter!”

McGonagall glared at the other woman, who tried valiantly to glare back for a moment but ultimately had to look away.

“Randomly punching classmates is not a petty matter, Mrs. Malfoy. Particularly, when those classmates share a dorm room I have no supervision over, and their Head of House is in another country. I do not wantto suspend them, but unless I can be reasonably assured this will never happen again, I won’t have any choice.”

Lucius sighed in annoyance. The chances of Draco being suspended were nil, as his wife maintained her position on Hogwarts’ board of directors and he himself would never allow such a stain on the Malfoy name, but the woman was right. Draco couldn’t go around randomly punching people. It was entirely unrefined.

“So what do you want us to do about it?” he asked drolly.

“I want you to have your son explain to me why an intelligent young man with such a refined upbringing-” and there wasn’t just a little sarcasm in that statement “-did such an uncouth and brutish thing. He seems to believe me unworthy of such an explanation.”

Draco looked distinctly uncomfortable as all eyes turned to him. He didn’t speak, however, and Lucius had already wasted enough time there already.

“Explain yourself, Draco,” he commanded.

The Malfoy heir glanced fearfully at his father, then his mother, begging her silently for support. She wouldn’t give it, however. Not if it meant defying her husband in front of all these people. She understood loyalty very well.

He turned to Hermione, but what salvation could she possibly offer? She merely stared at him pityingly and confused.

“Draco… just spit it out. We can fix this, but you need to tell them what’s wrong first,” she begged. Her promise of absolution, however, left him looking more anguished than ever.

“I… I can’t…” he struggled.

“If this is because I sold Blaise some girl’s lacey knickers and said they were your sister’s, I swear they were just a transfigured sock.” Ron blurted out impatiently.

Instantly, everyone’s attention turned to him, a majority gapping at him in a mix of alarm and indignation. Including, Draco, who managed to catch himself before anyone else noticed he was as surprised as everyone else.

“You did what?!” Hermione shouted, horrified and humiliated. Ron just sort of shrugged.

“I needed the money for Christmas shopping.”

“Oh, my God,” Mrs. Brandier moaned.

“You mean to tell me,” Lucius began, the anger he had been struggling to control slowly slipping out. “You punched this little fool in public to defend her honor?”

Draco, very slowly, nodded. His father sneered.

“Why the hell even bother?”

Hermione jumped from her chair and whirled on him, her face contorted with absolute hatred and her eyes brimming with tears.

“Drop dead!”

Magic smashed into him, throwing him backwards from his chair and in an undignified heap on the floor. His wife let out a startled cry and rushed to his side. The hit left him dazed and his body tingling. He was vaguely aware of Hermione slamming the door as she rushed out of the office, and someone rushed after her.

As the confusion subsided, his wife and Mr. Brandier helped him to his feet and back into his chair. McGonagall had not moved from her spot to help him or stop Hermione, and though her expression was bland he had a feeling she had derived some sort of pleasure from that embarrassment. Draco was staring stupidly at him from his chair, which meant it was that atrocious little Weasley boy who had gone after her. They could haveeach other.

“That little-”

“Now, now, Mr. Malfoy, we can’t blame Ms. Granger for a little accidental magic. Given the circumstances, it was rather impolitic comment on your part,” McGonagall chided, then changed the subject. “Well, now that that matter is cleared up, I don’t believe young Mr. Malfoy has any reason to continue pursuing a vendetta against Mr. Weasley, and there is no reason to pursue a suspension. They will both be sharing several detentions together, and nothing rebuilds a friendship like mutual suffering. I hope you all have a good day.”

Lucius would have set her on fire, he really would have, but his head was still spinning and Narcissa, all three of her, were already herding him out the door. He would make her suffer later. Her and that ungrateful little trollop leading his son to such stupidity. He should have known from the beginning that Hermione was somehow involved. Ever since he had brought her home, Draco had been unnaturally smitten with her. He had chalked it up to loneliness at the time, and overlooked it as something he would grow out of when he entered Hogwarts, but away from the manor where Lucius could curb any outrageous behavior the girl was now fostering ridiculous notions of chivalry and impulsiveness.

And she had hit him! Her own foster father. A pureblood wizard! He had pulled her out of that orphanage and given her a beautiful home and beautiful clothing and the best education money could buy, and this is how she repaid him? With a ‘drop dead’ and an honest attempt to do just that!

It was intolerable.

Unforgivable.

She had to be taught a lesson.

As soon as he could stop himself from weaving back and forth like a drunken fool, he would set about doing just that.

Back in her office, McGonagall sighed heavily. Draco remained where his parents had unknowingly abandoned him, looking lost and utterly confused. She did not envy him. She did not have any particular fondness for Draco, but she could sympathize with him. It had to be confusing and painful to watch his family insult and attack one another right in front him, and believing he had somehow instigated it.

“Mr. Weasley is a very good friend, Draco,” she said, startling him from his stupor. He looked confused. She clarified. “He lied. He knew that for what ever reason you attacked him, you could not say, and he lied so that you would not have to.”

He swallowed thickly. “Please don’t… don’t make me say it.”

“I would not dishonor Mr. Weasley’s sacrifice by doing so… it was obviously important enough to you that you were ready to defy your own father to keep it,” she said, although truthfully she just didn’t want to have to put up with Lucius’ bigotries. How Snape tolerated him was beyond her. “However, I will require you to make amends. What ever it is that happened, I am certain it is not worth ruining a friendship and sparking a feud over.”

Draco snorted. “He’s not my friend. We’ve never really… I don’t know. I always got this feeling that he resented me.”

She smiled knowingly. “It’s not your friendship or lack there of that I was referring to.”

“Hermione! Wait! For Merlin’s sake will you just listen to me for a second!” Ron shouted after her, running to catch up before she reached Gryffindor Tower. She kept going, her body stiff with anger. He didn’t dare touch her, not after she had thrown Malfoy Sr. halfway across the room.

“I didn’t sell your knickers to Blaise,” he said, once he managed to get close enough that he wouldn’t be shouting that particular tidbit down the hall.

“Of course not,” she hissed, not even turning to look at him, “It was just a sock. Not that he knows that. Who gives a damn that you’ve just sold my reputation and my dignity with a lie. I’m just a mudblood after all. I don’t have anything to proud about to begin-”

“I didn’t sell him a sock,” he snapped, interrupting her. She paused. “I didn’t sell him anything. I lied. I made it all up. I haven’t a bloody clue why your brother punched me. Maybe he’s on the rag or something.”

She turned to look at him, frowning uncertainly.

“You didn’t…?”

“Of course not,” he said. “If I wouldn’t curse a girl I don’t even like, you think I’d do something like that to you? Christ, even if I wasn’t head-over-heels in love with you, you’re the only friend I’ve got.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide and slowly pooling with tears. The anger and shame were retreating, leaving her shaken and uncertain. He took her hand in his and kissed it.

“I’m sorry.”

She sniffed once, wiped the tears from the edge of her eyes, and that was the end of it. When she spoke again she was back to her usual pragmatic self.

“Why did you… why that lie? Why lie for Draco at all?”

He shrugged. “It was the only thing I could think of that sounded halfway believable. Besides, I don’t think what I said was that far off from the truth.”

“What?”

“It had to have something to do with you. If I’d done something to him personally, he could have waited until the right moment. It’s not like he hasn’t dealt with that sort of thing before. But you…I don’t know… It’s a big brother thing. Something about protecting little sisters drives us nuts.”

She frowned.

“So you lied to protect me, not Draco?”

He frowned back at her.

“I’m not in love with your brother.”

“That’s… strangely sweet… in a weird, dishonorable sort of way.”

He grinned at her. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Sweet ain’t really my thing.”

Ira was still sleeping when someone knocked on the door, startling her awake. The room was dull gray with the light of the pre-dawn slipping through the half open curtains, and her heartbeat raced, aware as she had ever been that she was completely alone in Snape’s cottage. It didn’t other her during the day, and she actually quite enjoyed the quiet solitude, but at night…and right now.

Well, she was a little alarmed that the knock hadn’t come from her front door, but rather her bedroom door.

“Who is it?” she asked cautiously.

“It’s me,” Snape’s familiar baritone came, and she immediately relaxed. “I am sorry to wake you, but there’s something I need to talk to you about and I haven’t much time.”

“I…yes, alright…”

“Get dressed first. I’ll make us some tea.”

She blushed a bit, feeling silly at her nervousness. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t stayed in the cottage with Snape before, although admittedly Harry had always been there and she had been up and about before either of them most days. She dressed quickly and tidied herself into something presentable, not bothering to tie up her hair and hoped for the best.

Entering the kitchen, she found Snape staring at the tea kettle on the stove, lost in thought. He was still dressed in his traveling robes, a black wool cloak draped over his shoulders and heavy boots caked in mud. He did not look hurt but he did not look well either, his eyes shadowed from exhaustion and unhealthy tint to his already pale skin. Unease bloomed in her stomach at the sight of him. The letter he had sent had said he was going to retrieve Harry from some sort of trouble, and Harry was no where in sight.

“Severus?”

He looked back at her and smiled tiredly, loosening some of her fear.

“I am sorry to have to wake you so early, but I wanted to speak with you before visiting hours. It’s going to be a circus today.”

There was something a bit… forced about the lightness in his voice. Perhaps because he had never attempted such a tone with her before. The kettle began to hiss and whistle, and he pulled it from the stove to the kitchen table where the tea pot was already prepared. The scent of the tea wafted through the kitchen as the hot water hit it. She settled into a chair and he took the one across from her. She never took her eyes off of him.

“Severus… are you alright?”

He blinked at her, then nodded. When he spoke again, it was in his naturally dark drawl she preferred.

“I am fine. Just a little tired. It has been a long three days.”

Merlin, had he really only been gone three days?

“And Harry,” she asked cautiously, almost afraid to ask. “Did you find him?”

“I did.”

The way he said it, she couldn’t find any relief in that statement. Did that mean Harry was dead? She couldn’t bring herself to prod him for answers he obviously was reluctant to recount, nor could she simply abandon the topic on such an awkward note. While she tried to think of what to say next, he poured them each a cup of tea. It was very dark, almost black, and he sipped the hot brew and grimaced. Then took another sip and answered the unspoken.

“He’ll live. It was… is… very bad, but he will live.”

“What happened?”

“…I don’t want to lie to you, Ira, but I can’t tell you everything. I will simply say that he was attacked by a very powerful wizard, and that it is nothing short of a miracle he didn’t lose a limb let alone his life.”

“I’m sorry, Severus,” she said, because despite his neutral tone this obviously was very hard on the man. He wouldn’t say it out right, that wasn’t the sort of man he was, but the fact that he wasn’t ranting about his ward’s reckless stupidity and attempting to drink some truly awful tea said a lot all its own.

“Thank you, but it’s not your pity I came for,” he said, falling deeper behind his wall of hard practicality. “I need to ask a very big favor of you.”

“Okay.”

“Potter… will live. He will likely make a full recovery, in fact, but not any time soon. I’ll need to have him pulled from school for a while as he recuperates, and then perhaps a little longer so that he can catch up in his studies.”

She nodded, not quite sure where this was leading.

“I have two choices here. I can either have him held in a long term health facility or I can keep him here under the supervision of a responsible adult.”

“You want me to watch after Harry? Severus, I’m a scholar not a medi-witch.”

“There will be a medi-witch or wizard on call to monitor his health and to assist if something should go wrong. I will not ask you to look after him while he is bedridden, but once he recovers some mobility…? I believe his recovery would be helped along by familiar surroundings and a friend’s company. Tutors will be employed to help him with his studies.”

She thought about it for a moment, but really there was very little thought necessary. Harry was indeed a friend, and even if he weren’t, he was someone she greatly admired for his kindness and his patriotism. Besides, this was the first time she had ever felt she could be of use to Severus, and the first time he had ever volunteered his trust to her.

“I understand. I would be happy to,” and then she smiled, a slight flush painting her cheeks as she added, “It would be good practice for taking care of my own children.”

“Thank you. I’m relieved…” he paused. “Children?”

She nodded, fighting off a grin. It was completely inappropriate, given the circumstances, but she hadto tell him. She needed to tell him so badly. “I got the results back from Jacobi.”

And he just stared at her, as if she had grown a second head, and to her own exasperation she realized he had completely forgotten that she had had her appointment yesterday. She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her tea, grimaced and put it back down again. He was still just staring at her, so she decided to tease him a bit.

“So are you going to make an honest woman out of me, or are you intending to have an illicit affair Harry’s nanny?”

He scowled at her, and really that was much better.

“Of course not. You’ve just caught me off guard. I am not sure if I’m supposed to propose to you right now or pretend to ignore that revelation in order to propose under more…romantic,” he cringed, “…circumstances at a later date.”

She was laughing at him now, her own happiness helplessly bubbling out of her.

“Well, since I know you’re going to do it either way I don’t mind waiting. Did you have a particular day in mind? I’ll be sure to wear something pretty.”

He rolled his eyes.

“You’re an incorrigible woman. Just for that, I will propose to you now in a completely unromantic way. Marry me?”

“No.”

“What? What do you mean ‘no’?”

“Not unless you kiss me first.”

He glared at her, and tried to determine if she was serious. He didn’t think so. This entire situation was ridiculous. He felt happy for Christ’s sake. This was not the time to feel happy. It was completely inappropriate, like a fart joke at funeral.

But she was waiting expectantly, laughing smile never faltering, her head slightly tilted forward. So he did it. He startled her by jumping to his feet, pulling her into his arms, and kissing her. It was as unexpectedly stunning as their first kiss. More so, as he pressed her entire body to his, taking in her scent, her heat, and that untapped well of passion he had barely glimpsed.

She tasted of mint toothpaste and tea, smelled like rosemary, and felt like salvation. He had taken several women to bed in his life; women who sold their bodies for money and those that sold their bodies for favors, but he had never possessed one like he did Ira. Lily… she could have been his, had a moment of injured pride not ruined everything, and Vesper had been a near thing, but even she had never made him feel wanted the way Ira did.

Even now he could feel her melting into his hold, giving herself to him completely, and he wanted nothing more than to take it. It would be beautiful. He knew it would. All the confusion and violence and ugliness of his world would fade away for one glorious hour in her arms…

He broke the kiss first.

“I…” he panted, struggling to catch his breath. “I better go before I spoil the wedding night[4]. Your ring is in my writing desk, middle drawer. The password is ‘precarious endeavors’.”

Ira merely made a soft sound that could have been a moan or a sigh. He pulled away. She sagged visibly as he withdrew.

“Was that a ‘yes’?” he queried. She blinked at him.

“I… yes.”

“Then we will talk more when I return…three days at the most,” he promised, and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Until then, start planning. I would rather not delay our…union… any longer than necessary.”

And with that, he swept out the door into the morning chill. He had hardly made it to the gate when he heard Ira’s hysterical laughter from inside the house. No doubt she would be running through the house like a giddy little school girl preparing for her first date for the rest of the day, and making plans for her very own little dream wedding. Normally, such a thought would only be entertained to intentionally induce vomiting, but somehow he found himself smiling for the first time in weeks.

It took a long time for Harry to realize for certain that he was awake. He had stared a long time at the painted birds flitting across the walls and ceiling, his memories elusive and his thoughts numb. It wasn’t until he realized that if he were dreaming he wouldn’t believe he was that he finally determined that he was in fact a wake. It took him even longer to realize that he was in a hospital.

He didn’t remember why, and honestly he didn’t feel like he would want to know.

At some point a nurse came in and checked him over, talking at him cheerily, but he couldn’t understand a word she said. He didn’t know if she wasn’t speaking English or if he simply couldn’t understand her. She gave him a bitter tasting potion, and his mind cleared a little but still he couldn’t understand her. When she left, he tried to piece together where he was and what had happened.

He knew he was in a hospital and that he hurt very badly. There were some memories of before, places and words and pain that had been so overwhelming before were now like a once familiar song whose lyrics he couldn’t recall and whose tune was broken and out of order.

“You’re awake.”

He turned to see Snape standing in the door, dressed in his usual teaching robes and carrying a satchel. The professor looked as if he hadn’t gotten enough sleep, and yet there was an energized feeling to him. His magic was humming, brushing against Harry’s skin like phantom insects. He looked down at his arms and legs, but aside from the bandaged there was nothing there.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon,” the man mused, stepping into the room. He grabbed a chair from the corner and moved it beside the bed. “What do you remember? The calming drought may be affecting your memory.”

Harry swallowed thickly, his mouth and his brain feeling cottony.

“I…I was lost…somewhere…”he wheezed, then frowned, not liking choice of words or how hard it was to force them out. His breathing was already starting to become labored. “There was a lake and… monsters…they meant to kill me, but I drowned myself…”

Harry ducked his head, knowing he sounded ridiculous, but Snape merely looked thoughtful.

“You did have lake water in your lungs. I had assumed it was a curse, but perhaps it was something a little more… unorthodox. You where under possession by the late Fenrir Greyback, and frankly I have very little experience with the metaphysical’s affects on the physical. Do you remember what happened after you drowned?”

Harry frowned. “I got blown up.”

Snape smirked, inappropriately amused. “Yes, you were having a rather bad day.”

“How did I… what happened to me? I don’t know what happened while I was… elsewhere.”

This sobered the man a bit and he leaned back in his chair, considering his explanation.

“I am not entirely sure either. I was not called in until after you had disappeared from the werewolf colony at Volges-Wulf. You and some two-hundred and fifty werewolves had just up and disappeared. No one knew what happened to you or where you had gone. Lord Voldemort himself came to investigate.”

Harry’s breathing worsened. It was starting to hurt now. Some of what Snape said sounded vaguely familiar, but he could not recall the Dark Lord ever making an appearance. He was not someone you could easily forget.

“He found you, or rather he found Fenrir in your body. I was not there for the confrontation, but I believe he determined the spirit’s intentions to lead the werewolves into battle against the Aurors in Berlin. Fenrir escaped with most of his little army and disappeared for three days. When he finally showed up again Berlin, Voldemort was ready for him, as were the German Aurors. There was a great deal of fighting, the details of which are too macabre for a retelling and eventually you did, in fact, get ‘blown up’. On the brighter side, if such a thing exists, Britain has retaken all of Berlin and the southern half of the state of Brandenburg.”

Harry said nothing for a long moment, trying to process what he had been told. He knew he should be feeling something. These were all events he had participated in, in some capacity, and yet he felt nothing. It was as if he was sitting through another lecture in History of Magic.

“Did a lot of people die?” he asked. He knew that was important, even if it didn’t feel that way at the moment.

Snape shrugged. “A couple hundred, yes. It was a battle after all. At least seventy-five werewolves died, although they must have killed more than twice that number.”

Harry nodded absently, momentarily distracted as he tried to recall who had been with him. There had been Beartooth and Ashskin and the Furloin brothers and Riven and… who had been the others again? He couldn’t recall the werewolves at the colony, except that they had been eager to meet him. No feeling accompanied the memories, and he frowned in confusion.

“I feel…weird,” he muttered.

“That is just the calming draughts you’re on. You had a panic attack when you first woke up. Do you remember that?”

He didn’t remember that, but Snape’s words triggered other memories. Panic attacks. He had been terrified of having them for months now. Of someone seeing him broken and vulnerable, even if was only for a few minutes. No one knew about it accept Horace McGunny and … Jane. Jane had given him something to help calm him during the werewolf funeral, and he had accidentally swallowed it and been possessed by Fenrir. Then she had given him some more to take with him and he had… oh god… he had…

“This is all my fault.”

“Probably,” Snape agreed. “I wouldn’t mind an explanation, however.”

So Harry told him everything. He told him about his first panic attack, then the second, and their increasing frequency. He told him about attempting to hide it from everyone, about the slip up at the werewolf funeral, about Du’on nadi and his misunderstanding its purpose, and ultimately his foolish continuation of using it and the disastrous results. The more he spoke, the darker Snape’s expression became.

When at last, Harry told all there was to tell, he stopped in order re-catch his breath. He wasn’t afraid. The calming drought assured that sort of feeling was nearly impossible, but he did wonder if he would have said anything if he’d had more control over himself. His guardian closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, a sign that a headache was surely descending on him.

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” Harry asked.

“Yes.”

“It is all my fault then, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“…then why are you mad at me?”

Snape removed his hand from his forehead, and looked directly at the boy. For all that he had said he was angry, he certainly didn’t look it. He looked tired and frustrated, but nothing so fierce as to be angry.

“I am mad because it took a near death experience and a medical grade concentration of potion for you to trust me with something that you should have been able to tell me about when it first happened. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Harry looked down, the first inkling of emotion beginning to squirm to the surface. Shame.

“I was scared. I was afraid what would happen if people thought I was going crazy. I thought I could…I thought it would go away on its own or…I don’t know. I could cure myself. But all this other stuff was happening and there just wasn’t any time to figure out how so I just…took the Du’on nadi, even when I knew it was wrong… even though I… It was wrong. It was so wrong and people died because of it.”

Snape closed his eyes, again and took a deep breath. He had lied. He wasn’t angry. He should be. He should be furious, scolding the boy mercilessly and planning out a long and painful penitence. He should… but he couldn’t. It would be simultaneously hypocritical and pointlessly devastating to take out on the boy what to most would have been little more than temporarily self-destructive and embarrassing, and hang the responsibilities of war.

“I would have kept it a secret,” he said, instead.

“Sure…you wouldn’t think twice about letting the crazy kid wander around unsupervised, hang out with your godchildren, or… brew Blood-replenishing potion… nothing at all worrisome there with all the knives and caustic chemicals and-”

Snape held up his hand to silence him.

“Panic attacks are a far cry from a psychotic break. I assure you I can tell the difference.”

“You would have told…him.”

The man conceded the point with a tilt of the head.

“He can’t… I can’t let him know.”

“Why not? He has a done a great deal for you. This is such a small thing-”

“No, no it’s not. It’s a weakness and not one I think he could forgive. He can’t exploit this.”

That was a far more insightful assessment of the Dark Lord’s character than Snape had thought Harry was capable of. It also wasn’t correct. Snape knew Voldemort could forgive his vulnerability, because it was one that could be treated and then forgotten. And because it was Harry. When had his master held anything against him for long?

Snape suddenly wondered how long that magnanimity would last if he ever discovered that Harry quite possibly was destined to kill him. Perhaps it was better that the Dark Lord didn’t know this particular weakness.

“Very well. I won’t tell him.”

The boy’s eyes widen, a spark of life coming through his potion dulled eyes.

“On certain conditions,” he continued, hardening his expression. If he could not bring himself to kill this obstinate child, then at the very least he would exercise some level of supervision. He may yet be able to circumvent destiny or at the very least delay it. “You will meet with me at least once a week in private to speak; during which time you will tell me anything that is bothering you. Be it another anxiety attack or the sniffles. You live under extraordinary conditions, and I took for granted your resilience in dealing with them. I will not make that mistake again.”

Harry looked uncertain, and Snape didn’t blame him. What Snape was asking of him required a level of trust they had not yet achieved, and even he wasn’t certain he deserved or wanted it. He needed it, however. For both their sakes.

“I want your word, Potter.”

The boy flinched and looked down at his red, blistered hands.

“…okay.”

Lestrange waded through the small lake of papers and scrolls that filled the Ministry of Magic’s Foreign Affairs Division, cursing God and Fortune for the disaster area she found herself in. With Berlin now stabilized under British occupation, she had found her use on the battlefield ended and was obliged to continue with the investigation that had brought her there in the first place.

Somewhere in the large open chamber was the file for Horace McGunny, of that she was certain. If she was ever going to find it was a matter of far less certainty. The building had not been burned like many of the other Ministry offices, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t suffered damage. The records room in which she was currently searching had been the site of a skirmish that had left the place in ruin with papers bursting from their respective cabinets and nooks to flood floor up to her knees. The magical filing spells had not been renewed and the mess had been left as it lay.

She didn’t even know where to start.

To add insult to aggravation, not only was she left looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, she was also on pet-sitting duty. Held securely in a gilded cage with more protection spells on it than a Gringotts’ vault, hunched the raven given to her to protect until such time as the Dark Lord requested it back. It had been picked up during the battle in the underground, but why exactly she couldn’t even begin to guess. It was a familiar, she surmised, but whose she didn’t know nor why it would be important to her master.

At the moment, it was sitting quietly and sulking. She glared resentfully at it.

“I don’t know what your problem is. I’m the one who has to clean up this mess.”

The raven twisted its head around to stare at her, and she got the distinct impression it was glaringat her. Which was impossible of course. It was just a stupid bir-

“Sister, you don’t know the meaning of the word ‘mess’.”

Down the hall, several young Culties busily cleaning out offices for reuse were startled from their various tasks by a terrified shriek.

“Hermione, how many times do I have to say it? I’m sorry!” Draco whined, following after his sister. He had finally gotten the opportunity to explain what had really happened, and rather than appreciating his brotherly concern she gotten even more angry with him. How was he supposed to know Sabbat was a lying skank with a grudge?

“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for!” Hermione snapped over her shoulder, but didn’t slow down as she made her way to the library.

“Um… because I believed Sabbat?”

He couldn’t see her face, but the way she moved her head told him she had just rolled her eyes.

“No, Draco. That’s not why I’m angry. I’m angry because my own brother assumed Sabbat was right, instead of respecting me enough to just come and ask me what happened.” Finally she stopped and whirled around to face him, and he flinched away. “God, do you have any idea how humiliated I feel right now? First, you go an act like an utter buffoon punching Ron in the middle of the hall, then I get dragged into McGonagall’s office and… ARGH! I could strangle Lucius right now! And Ron’s stupid lie and…just…”

She threw up her hands in disgust and spun on her heels back towards Gryffindor Tower, and Draco ran after her.

“I’m sorry! I really am! I don’t know what I was thinking. I was going to ask for an explanation first, but then I saw you both together and I just…I lost it! I’m sorry. I never would have done it if I’d know you’d get dragged into it. And to be fair, Ron came up with that ridiculous cover story all on his own.”

She spun around, pointing an accusing finger at him. He barely managed to avoid losing an eye.

“He wouldn’t have had to lie if you hadn’t started trouble in the first place. You owe him an apology and a thank you for digging you out of trouble.”

Draco grimaced at the mere notion. Apologize to Weasley? He’d rather eat glass. Besides, he wasn’t entirely convinced that this wasn’t still somehow the other boy’s fault. Hermione still hadn’t told him why she had gone down to visit Ron in the first place, and said that if he wanted to know he would have to ask the boy himself. He’d rather eat glass anddung beetles.

She read his expression as easily as she read everything else, and began to turn away again but Draco was spared the back of her head by an unexpected interloper.

“Granger! Granger!” Collin Creevy called out, scurrying down the hall towards them. His camera, which was normally attached to his hand like an extra limb had been replaced by a newspaper which he was waving wildly. “Have you heard?”

Draco instantly forgotten, she turned her attention to the photographer and the paper he practically punched her in the face with. It didn’t take a moment to figure out what had him so excited. Plastered across the front page of the Daily Prophet in oversized letters was the announcement: DARK LORD RESCUES HAROLD POTTER AND RE-TAKES BERLIN!

Instantly, she snatched the paper and started to read. Her eyes widened in horror.

“Oh Merlin…”

1. No, potions can’t fix EVERYTHING. Even some things that muggle medicine can. I’ve seen no evidence that wizarding kind is particularly superior to muggles in any way outside of magic. For some, that’s more than enough. Although, really we don’t get to see a lot of the wizarding world in Cannon either when you stop to think about it.↩

2. A spectrecat is completely made up animal, based off the old wives tale that if you let a cat sleep in the cradle of a new born, it will steal their breath and kill them. My spectrecats really do that, except they do it to anyone too weak to fend them off. They look just like regular cats except they’re white and can squeeze themselves through tiny spaces to get inside homes or in this case, hospitals, not unlike lethifolds. Gargoyles in the wizarding world, serve the very real purpose of fending off evil spirits and beings like lethifolds and spectrecats. The pigeons and rats just supplement their diet.↩

3. The one think I don’t really like about the terms medi-witch and medi-wizard is trying to pick the plural form when both genders are represented. It’s rather chauvinist, but I’m adopting the term medi-wizards when referring to a group of them, but be aware that there is a mix.↩

4. Despite Snape’s many dubious character traits, he has a rather romanticized idea about marriage and family. He might not find anything wrong with buying a hooker (so long as he’s not married or affianced to anyone), but he would never consider having sex with Ira before their wedding night. He would view it as demeaning to her, and lower her respectability. Afterwards they’ll probably go at it like bunnies. Assuming I don’t have her killed or some how break off their wedding.↩

Epilogue pt2

The morning after his potion-induced confession with Snape, Harry’s thoughts and memories had reappeared and organized themselves. He still had no memory of what Fenrir had done in his body while he was locked in the spirit realm, but Snape had given him a vague sort of idea. There had been no real details, and honestly he didn’t want any. People had died, some had even been killed using his magic, and that wasn’t something he could calmly accept.

Much of what he could remember he wished he didn’t. The fight with the monsters in the spirit realm and his subsequent drowning, and escaping that only to be nearly killed in a magical explosion (one that’s mere memory made his entire body throb with remembered pain) did nothing to ease the panic he could feel lingering just beneath the surface.

It made him feel weak and scared, which only made him angry at himself and depressed about his situation. The hospital staff was kind and attentive, and Snape proved to be rather enjoyable company when he put his mind to it, but he felt supremely homesick. It seemed like forever since he had last seen Hermione and his friends, and danced the slow and simple routine of student life. He missed his bed and the soft snores of his dorm mates at night, the breakfast discussions, the love-hate relationship with his classes and the resulting homework that inevitably followed, the endless maze of hallways and their little surprises, the quiet sanctity of the library, the challenge of dueling club… He wanted to go back to it, back to where it was safe and beautiful and simple.

But he couldn’t go back. Not yet. For the time being, he couldn’t even walk himself twenty feet to the bathroom. His injuries were all on the mend, and aside from persistent pneumonia and chronic weakness, there was little physically wrong with him. Nevertheless, three days in bed and the potions made to heal his flesh had both resulted in a stiffening of his muscles to the point where everything was cramping terribly. His legs and his side in particular where proving to be nearly unbearable.

His medi-wizards had scheduled him for a session in the physical therapy pool. Snape used the time to go off and run some errands, leaving Harry in the capable hands of his nurses who helped him change into hospital issued blue swimming suit (not unlike those one piece outfits one saw muggles wearing in the 1800s) and loaded him into a wheelchair. Everything had been going well and he had been looking forward to easing his stiff body into warm water until he actually got to his destination.

“Wait…” he said, as his physical therapist, a powerfully built man with skin so dark it was almost purple, began to wheel him towards the therapy pool. The pool was nothing like the few muggle swimming pools he had been to in his childhood. Those had all been rectangular, painted blue, and stank of chlorine. A wizarding pool, or at least the therapy pool, was nothing like those. For one, it was ovular, for another it was painted black. From his vantage point, Harry could see glowing white lines that highlighted where the wheelchair ramp and the stairs were and marked how deep it all actually went.

He felt a shiver run through him just looking at it. Those dark waters lay placid and seemingly harmless like so many other still waters that had risen up to drown him. The Chambers of Secrets, the Hogwarts Lake, the spirit realm… all of them had tried to take his life… some of them had arguably succeeded.

The idea of simply rolling his chair into the water, when his own body could barely move to obey him, suddenly seemed a terribly stupid idea.

“Is something wrong?” the medi-wizard asked, his accent heavy with South African bass. Harry felt like an idiot. Why hadn’t he thought about this before they had gone through all the trouble of bringing him down here?

“I…Is it safe?”

Which was also a terribly stupid question. Obviously it was safe or it wouldn’t be in a hospital! It seemed the medi-wizards had missed the traumatic head injury that had left him a daft wanker.

“Are you afraid of water?” the wizard asked, looking down at Harry knowingly. He had ten years of experience with patients and knew the signs of anxiety well.

“I didn’t use to be,” he said sullenly.

“We won’t go in far. Just enough so the water comes up to your waist. I’ll take you out the second you tell me too. Yes?”

“…”

“Werewolves, dragons, basilisks, Aurors,” came a voice from the entrance and they both turned sharply towards it. Harry grimaced as he pulled a muscle in his side. Voldemort strode in, dressed in business robes and looking very out of place. The medi-wizard stiffened, and Harry didn’t blame him. He was feeling a little thrown by the Dark Lord’s appearance as well. “Mad assassins, kidnappers, fairies, and well, me and you decide your greatest nemesis is water? Really Harry, I’m disappointed in you.”

There was a touch of humor in the dark wizard’s voice that allowed Harry to relax a little.

“Did I ever tell you about the times I drowned?” he asked. “All three of them?”

Voldemort cocked his head curiously at that, and the medi-wizard swung his attention back to him. The Dark Lord turned to address the other wizard.

“Would you mind giving some time alone?”

“I’m not really allowed-” the man protested. Harry put a hand on his arm to regain his attention.

“It’s alright,” he assured him, and gestured for him to make his escape while he still could. The medi-wizard reluctantly nodded, and left with one last suspicious glance at Voldemort.

“You’re looking a lot better.”

Harry knew he looked like crap, but he was right in that he probably did look better than the last time the man had seen him.

“You look exactly the same. To what do I owe the privilege of your company?”

“Oh, none of that, Harry. We shan’t stand on formality. I simply came to see you.”

“I suppose the press is just outside the door?”

“As a matter of fact, they are. Feel free to keep them waiting as long as you like. How do you feel?”

Harry shrugged, and then grimaced.

“Like all my muscles have turned to wood.”

“No muscle relaxants?”

“Not with the calming droughts.”

Voldemort nodded and began wheeling him towards the pool. Harry jerked in surprise and struggled to climb out of it.

“Relax; I have no intention of drowning you.”

He wasn’t so convinced, and finally managed to hobble to his free and stumble away. He gritted his teeth. Merlin, it hurt! He didn’t get far, before the Dark Lord caught him and scoop him up into his arms as if he were nothing more than small child.

“What are you doing?!” Harry shouted as Voldemort proceeded to wade into the pool, fully clothed. He started to panic, breathing becoming more difficult by the second as he struggled to lift himself higher in the man’s grasp.

“Ssshhh…be still. I’m here. I have ssstolen you from the jaws of death more than once, remember?” he hissed in parseltongue, and with it the sensation of the Dark Lord’s magic. Harry immediately felt himself go limp, sinking into it, felt it cradle him in coils that could crush a man. With out realizing it, he had closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he found himself floating in the pool with his head carefully held in Voldemort’s hands. He blinked up at man’s amused red eyes.

“Better?”

“Cheater.”

“And completely unrepentant. Are you ssstill afraid?”

“Don’t let me go.”

“Never.”

Harry shivered at the layers of meaning behind that simple word, despite the warmth of the water. The pain in his body was starting to retreat, replaced with slowly pervading languor. As long as he kept looking up, he did not have to see the black pool and with Voldemort holding him aloft he was able to forget for a moment how utterly vulnerable he was.

“Tell me what you sssaw when Greyback took your body. You told Sssnape that you had no memory of what he did, which meanss he musst have ssent you sssomewhere.”

Harry wondered why the man wanted to know. Simple curiosity? Did it matter? He didn’t dare lie in his current position. So he told him about the spirit realm, about the silence and the seasons that changed according to distance, about the creek and the lake, and about the mist and the monsters. He told him about the guide he had met, but not his name and the Dark Lord did not bother to ask. He did look rather thoughtful though. Once Harry had finished, he spoke again.

“I have read of ssuch placess, but I have never ssseen mine. It may be that I do not have one. Quite fasscinating, really.”

“What do you mean, ‘seen yoursss’? You have your own limbo?”

Voldemort smirked.

“Maybe. Mosst humanss do. The particular realm you walked in wasss your own private sssoul ssspace. Everyone’ss isss different. Everything in it iss sssymbolic, from the sssky to the lake to your guide. They all had personal meaningsss to you. Like a dream.”

Harry frowned.

“The monstersss…”

“Greyback’sss. Hisss possession of your body gave him enough accesss to your sssoul to plant trapsss.”

Then what about Carrigan, Harry wondered. He couldn’t imagine the man being a trap or one of Greyback’s creations. Could he have been a figment of Harry’s imagination? A ‘symbol’, as the Dark Lord said? If that were the case why a man he had never even met? And how had he known those things about Bobby and places Harry had never heard of? Or were those things even true or the ramblings of a meaningless dream? The druid had seemed so real though…

There were two ways to find out the truth. The first was to ask Voldemort theen and there. Harry couldn’t bring himself to do that. Carrigan had been the man’s mentor at the very least, and was likely a sore spot that he didn’t want to start prodding recklessly. The second way was to ask Bobby, who was no where to be found but would inevitably show up eventually.

And what would it mean if it truly was nothing more than a symbol and not the dead man’s spirit? What would that symbol represent? Why something more intimately intertwined with Voldemort’s past than his own? How would the spirit have gotten into his ‘soul space’ if what his mentor said was true?

“It’sss time to get out,” the Dark Lord said, pulling him from his thoughts. “You’re ssstarting to prune.”

Harry blinked, then nodded. Slowly, he dropped his legs and placed them underneath him. He stood and found the water only reached his naval. His legs still ached and felt very weak, but it was no longer the complete agony of before and he was able to walk easily. Voldemort escorted him up the ramp and out of the pool, holding onto Harry’s arm just in case.

Once out of the pool, the Dark Lord dried them both with a simple spell and Harry sat down heavily in his wheelchair, feeling exhausted.

“What happened to Greyback?” Harry found himself asking. “After I kicked him out of my body, I mean?”

“Hard to say. Likely, he went back to his own god realm. I haven’t had the time to confront him yet, but I guarantee you I will not let this matter slide.”

Harry nodded, but he looked disturbed.

“Something bothering you?”

“…what if he tries to possess me again?”

Voldemort started at him. Apparently, the possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

For the two days of Greyback’s descent into the mortal plane, Blackbone struggled to maintain his sanity as his pack and his beta fell under the sway of the war god. Commanded by some unheard voice, the werewolves set about the motions of battle preparation, stockpiling weapons and building new ones, gathering supplies for travel, and building fortifications around their homes. Blackbone had stood aside and let it happen while he tried to sort out the impulses of the roaming god from his own. The only others who were not completely lost to the compulsions were the shamans, Luna, and Jane and they would not help him, either from inability or unwillingness.

When Greyback’s presence suddenly vanished, and the werewolves came back to themselves, Blackbone’s confusion turned to rage. Those in his clan quelled in fear as he swept through the village and systematically destroyed their two days work and then some, striking down any who protested or were not quick enough to get out of his way. The werewolves fled from him and into the forest to wait out his anger, until only Slivermoon dared to linger close out of a sense of loyalty and his own guilt for having been as weak-willed as the rest when his Alpha had needed his support.

Three more days passed, during which Blackbone shifted between blinding, destructive rages and dark silences so profound, they seemed to swallow the entire forest. At the end of those three days, the full moon finally rose and the emotions that had waged war in him were finally lifted up and dispersed in the heat and freedom of transformation.

Waking the next morning on the frost laden earth, he had finally felt calm and ready to do what needed to be done. He washed and dressed, roused his beta from the base of a tree, and started his search for the rest of his pack. It was on this morning, that Voldemort finally sent him an emissary, no doubt hoping the post full moon lethargy would keep the alpha from reacting badly to the news he was to receive.

The emissary was a young court politician of low birth, but slithering up the political ladder with the help of his poison-honey tongue. He played the sympathetic and humble messenger to the fullest as he related the tale of Harry’s kidnapping and the werewolf led mission to rescue him. The story was thick with praise for both the werewolf warriors and Harry’s bravery and with false remorse for those who had died or been injured in the effort.

Blackbone made the emissary bite a hot poker and literally threw the man off his lands, threatening to tear out the tongue of the next liar to grace his presence. Then he had gone to find Jane.

“Do you mean to kill me, Blackbone?” she asked as he entered the burial grounds. She was sitting on one of the marble stones that marked the graves of their recently buried family. Luna was curled up beside her, her head in the other girl’s lap, naked but for the fur skin Jane had wrapped around her shoulders. Blackbone glared at the goddess-possessed child. If she thought either the location or Luna’s presence would prevent what was to come, she was sorely mistaken.

“Remy, take Luna back to the village and put her to bed with the others.”

His beta hesitated for a moment, trying to gage both his alpha’s mood and intentions, but nothing came. The rage was gone, but while that made Blackbone less dangerous to those around him, it also made him less predictable. All he could do was what he was commanded and have faith in his friend. He gathered up Luna in her blanket, and physically lifted her. She squirmed and whined in protest, but she was weak from the transformation and from lack of food. He did not know if she had eaten at all in the three days since Greyback’s disappearance. While the Head Alpha had raged at the world, she had retreated from it, and even now Slivermoon had no idea what she thought or felt about what had happened over the last week.

He suspected she knew far more about what as going on than he did. She was a shaman’s apprentice, but more importantly she was the closest thing the goddess had to a friend.

Blackbone watched as his second took the girl away. Luna had always seemed a mysterious, albeit strangely charming creature to him, but at the moment he didn’t know if he could stand to be in her presence without doing something he would forever regret. She was Greyback’s daughter. She had loved the monster in life and in death and was also the companion of Rhiannon’s daughter in whatever form she took, and that was enough to make him hate her, but she had also loved and comforted Harry when he had been unable to. If she knew half of what he himself had pieced together after the emissary’s arrival, and certainly Jane would have told her some of it, what state of grief was she herself in? The one she had loved most in her short life had been murdered only a month ago, and the one who had helped her through that dark time had nearly been killed himself by the spirit of that loved one. If she hadn’t been mad already, she might very well be now.

He would figure out what to do about her later. For now, he had bigger fish to fry. Turning back to Jane, he stalked towards her and knocked from her perch and onto the ground with the back of his hand. She scrambled away from him and stumbled to her feet. She stared at him with wide-eyed wonder at his audacity. Or his madness.

“You dare…?”

It was a true question, and not an accusation. No werewolf had ever dared to strike her. Not even Greyback, who was the epitome of audacious violence. She was Rhiannon’s daughter and the direct link between the Goddess and her children, and either out of respect or fear no one had ever dared threaten her except those wizards to ignorant to realize who or what she was.

He merely glowered at her, making no further move towards her. The one strike would be enough to convince her he was capable of what he was about to threaten.

“I could ask you the same question, little goddess,” he growled. “You would dare to betray your allegiance to me and your brethren for the favor of a monster?”

She just stared at him, confused, but unwilling to show it.

“I couldn’t figure it out at first,” he said, pacing between the stones of the graves. “I mean how could Greyback have come to this plane. I am no shaman, but even I know you have to invite a god here, before they can have a direct influence, present company excluded of course[1]. Now, I know I didn’t include any shamans with the warriors that were sent, so how?”

He was starting to circle her now, and although she didn’t move or stiffen, her eyes followed his every movement cautiously.

“And then lo and behold I receive a message from the Dark Lord’s people and it all just snaps into place. Harry was in France when Greyback descended. Harry just so happens to be an honorary shaman. But of course, he wouldn’t have invited Greyback. Not willingly. Not knowingly. But he had done it once before… with a little help bit of help from…you.”

“I did not-”

“You did. Did you think you were being subtle? You gave Harry the Du’on nadi during the funeral on the pretense of calming him, when you had any number of other herbs available with that same purpose. Did you know it would work on him or was that just an experiment? He’s not really a werewolf and there was no telling if he could be a shaman or not, so you had to test it somehow. Am I wrong?”

She said nothing. He continued.

“Then you gave him his own private stash just before he left. Did you warn him what it was really for first? Or just let him assume? Doesn’t matter anyway. The situation had already been set up for him to have need of it, whether he understood what it was for or not.”

“I warned him,” she said. “I explained exactly what it was for.”

“But not why you gave it to him in the first place.”

She fell silent again.

“I never realized what a manipulative little wench you really were until now.”

“Mind your tongue, mortal,” she growled, the feral nature of her birthright flitting over her features for just a moment before settling once again for cool indifference. “You have already overstepped your bounds. Grief will only excuse so much. Anger considerably less than that.”

He sprung for her, and she leaped away, but he caught her by the arm. She snarled and lunged for him, snapping and clawing at him. She was stronger than she looked. Her divine status give her strength even in her frail mortal body. It was still nothing compared to his strength, which came through his own natural strength and the innate magic he had inherited upon his ascension to the position of Head Alpha.

He caught her by the back of her neck and forced her to her knees, bending her over the nearest headstone. Struggling viciously, she fought to free herself, but he held her down with ease and sneered at her disdainfully.

“You have betrayed me, little god. You have betrayed your brethren. You have lied and plotted and allied yourself outside of the packs. For any of these things I am well in my rights to destroy you.”

“My contract was with Greyback! I dared not violate it! I would disappear forever!” she screamed.

“Your contract is with the Head Alpha, which happens to be me in case it escaped your notice you stupid girl. Those bodies you possess are only made available to you through my blessing now, not Greyback’s. And I have to say I am very tempted to take that blessing and leave you to dissolve back into whatever abysmal darkness that spawned you.”

“NO! Please don’t!”

Now there was real fear in her for the first time. Her eyes were wide and she trembled beneath him, like a frightened rabbit. He felt a sudden stab of guilt for causing it, for turning the once proud figure into a pathetic little child begging for her life. Then he remembered the hundred odd dead and the cruel exploitation of his godson that may have utterly ruined him and his pity vanished. He tossed her aside.

“I don’t know what Greyback promised you, and I don’t care. It ends now. I spare your life here, but do not think I will soon forget your treason. I recommend you find a way in which to make amends with me and hope that I don’t change my mind in the meantime.”

He left her huddled and frightened by Greyback’s altar, feeling simultaneously powerful and angry. The power had an obvious source. He had stood up to a goddess, regardless of how minor, and indirectly a war god as well. Whether he would get away with it for long, would take time to discern but he was not afraid. His cause was righteous. Rhiannon would favor him in this.

The anger was harder to pin down. Briefly, it was directed at Harry for foolishly abusing the Du’on nadi and causing him so much anguish, but soon enough it had been directed back towards himself and to Voldemort and Greyback and Jane. They had all been so cruel in their selfishness, unloading burden after burden onto the shoulders of a child. If James had been there, the alpha was certain his old friend would have despised him for what he had done to his son.

The backlash was what he deserved. Over a hundred werewolves under his rule were now dead, victims of a god’s machinations, while Voldemort gloried in a victory none of his people would benefit from. His own godson a hair’s breadth from absolute destruction and wounded in ways he still did not yet know. All of it his fault. It was his decision to release the warriors of his pack to Voldemort’s army and place his godson in the vulnerable position that would take him far from the safety of Britain, leniency with Jane that allowed her to manipulate matters into Greyback’s favor, and his lack of foresight had allowed his people to fall under the war god’s control.

Never again.

He was Head Alpha. As far as the werewolves were concerned he was a living god, and the only authority greater than his own was that of Rhiannon, whose hand could not be felt in these dark happenings. It was his responsibility to make sure nothing like this ever happened again. He would not fail a second time.

A week after Lestrange first entered the records room, it was considerably cleaner than it had been and the witch herself was considerably more frustrated. She had set up a desk for herself where she could sit and sort through some of the potential papers, but nothing useful had made itself known.

The raven was there too, sleeping or watching her in a bored manner. He hadn’t said anything since that first day, and no matter what she did or threatened he did nothing more than caw or ruffled his feathers at her again. She was beginning to think she had imagined it or someone had simply played a prank on her, but she could never quite convince herself one way or the other.

“Madam Lestrange?”

She glanced up from a stack of papers to the young Cultie lingering in the doorway. He fidgeted nervously, before stepping inside, and marching to her desk. He gave her a crisp salute.

“Yes?” she asked boredly.

“Madam Lestrange, I’ve been sent from the intelligence office. You submitted an inquiry for one ‘Horace McGunny’, is this correct?”

She sat up straight in her chair, and tried to hide the eagerness in her voice.

“You have something?”

“We have a location.”

Ten minutes later, Lestrange was storming the military hospital, leaving the messenger to watch over the raven as she went to claim her prize. People gave her a wide berth, her less than sane smile clearing the way in a manner her reputation could not.

She found her target on the third floor, chatting with a young nurse. He was exactly as she remembered him, the few times she had seen him at Hogwarts. Mostly. He was dressed in hospital clothes and needed a hair cut, but he also had a quill and clipboard in hand and appeared to be interviewing the nurse rather than flirting with her. No doubt he was gathering secrets to sell to the enemy.

Some sixth sense must have alerted him to the danger, because suddenly McGunny stiffened and then turned. He blinked in confusion.

“Headmistress-”

“Stupefy.”

Voldemort stared down at Horace McGunny. Horace McGunny in turn hung limply in the Dark Lord’s hands while his eyes rolled around in his sockets. The man dropped him in disgust, turning away as he collapsed on the Persian rug. Lestrange watched with growing unease as he abandoned the query she had spent the last couple of months of her life trying to track down. His cage hanging in the bird stand beside the Dark Lord’s desk, the raven watched without so much as blinking.

“Useless,” the man muttered, stalking back behind his desk and throwing himself into his chair. His agitation was obvious, but then he had been agitated since his return from the continent. His people may have proven victorious, but it had been a sloppy victory at best and he was left organizing the clean up from Bristol.

The stabilizing of Berlin was a minor matter. His commanders knew what they had to do on that front; but now he was left placating Poland who was greedy for a take in the struggle they had lent their extremely minor assistance in, dealing with Blackbone who had sent back his messenger after torturing him for lying, smoothing over ruffled feathers from the Queen’s court, and playing up the whole debacle in the media. He still hadn’t figured exactly what he was going to do about Harry yet.

The capture of McGunny, and possibly his horcrux, should have been good news but at the moment it felt like just another mess he had to deal with on top of everything else. To make matters just that much more obnoxious, it seemed Tom had already escaped and his former host had no memories that might help in tracking him down. He almost would have preferred Lestrange found nothing, so that he could forget about the little menace for a little while longer.

“Take him to St. Ghianna’s and have him committed for the memory loss under an assumed name, with you as his legal guardian. I want the best medi-wizards in the field working on him and enough security to guard the Queen of France. No mistakes.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said dutifully, trying to hide her unhappiness. She had hoped to be reassigned now that her mission was complete to something more… well, more than babysitting.

“You have done well, Bella,” the Dark Lord offered graciously, sensing her disappointment. “And you will be rewarded for your efforts, but right now I have more pressing matters to concern myself with. You may leave the raven, and I’ll leave the rest of the matter to you.”

He left her looking mollified, took Bobby with him, and stepped over the incoherent boy to exit his office. A dozen or so office workers, security personnel, and personal assistance dithered in the waiting room in preparation for his arrival. As soon as they spotted him, they descended on him.

“Here’s your speech. You’ll want to go over it on the way to the ceremony. I thought it was good, but Tabitha insisted it was hoaky. There’s another version at the bottom if you-”

“I really don’t like holding it outside. You already proved what a huge liability that sort of thing is in Ber-”

“The ceremony should be relatively brief, but you’ll want to stay around for photo ops and PR for another hour or so. Afterwards, you have been invited to a luncheon with The House of Lord’s Dueling School, which would be an excellent opportunity to-”

“What is this ceremony again?” he asked absently. He had been to six different ceremonies in the last week already and they were starting to run together.

“Military accommodations, my Lord. You’re handing out metals to soldiers who displayed exemplary combat skill during in Berlin.”

“Ah, well that’s not so bad,” he said absently, already skimming through the speech, which was hoaky but just the sort of thing the media would eat up. He listened with half an ear as he made his way down to the garage, gradually loosing the hangers on as he passed through increasingly high levels of security. Before he left the building he handed Bobby off to one of his assistance with instructions to have him released in the new aviary that had been built in the last week. He had commissioned its creation almost immediately upon his return, knowing he could not keep the raven caged for much longer without something.He still wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do with him, but he couldn’t bring himself to simply release.

For one thing, he honestly didn’t trust the bird.

For another, he had been Carrigan’s. It seemed only right that he should inherit him.

He took the car to the ceremony, despite the migraine it caused his security officer, and used the time to sort through his next moves. He would need to speak with Blackbone in person soon, and judging by what he had done to his emissary it was not going to be pleasant. He still had no idea how much the other knew about what had really happened in France and Germany, but he suspected it was far more than was convenient. Harry was supposed to arrive back in France that day, and he debated with himself whether allowing Blackbone to visit his still weak and confused godson first would make things better or worse and ultimately decided against it. He would let Poland’s minister wait for another two weeks just to let him know exactly who held the power in this relationship. If the man wanted to speak with him, he could cross into his territory, and attempt to make demands. Queen Ophelia was a different matter, and he wanted to prolong their good relations for as long as possible. He would write her tonight, and make plans to visit her briefly before the holidays. It would not do to allow her passion towards him to cool. Tom… he didn’t even what to think about what the little devil was up to at the moment.

What he was going to do about the Solstice and Harry’s dilemma with future possession were somewhat more complicated matters. He had not had time to decide on the nature of the ritual he wished to perform, but including his protégé might not be possible in his weakened condition. Attempting to subvert any future attempts at possession of the boy would severally weaken him in the pagan arts and deafen him to the will and gifts of the gods he worshipped, but leaving him as an Imago, a puppet to any deity who wished to wear his skin, was not an option either. How he had come to be in such a state required an investigation he didn’t have the time to conduct.

If he weren’t such a consummate multitasker, the crowd might have realized how distracted he was as he made his speech, spouting the usual rhetoric about patriotism and pride and nobility. He was still calculating the time it would take to visit his private library in Stratford for a particularly interesting book on possession as he was attaching medals to the eight witches and wizards who were being honored for the sake of good publicity if not their own merits in battle, when he felt a strange chill ran up his spine and he stopped abruptly.

His focus suddenly shifted back to the moment, and the soldier standing directly in front of him. His name tag read Stratus and his insignia marked him as a lieutenant. He appeared completely unremarkable, even a little on the pudgy side, and staring resolutely ahead at nothing like the others before him. Voldemort blinked and the odd feeling was gone again, perhaps never having been there in the first place, and he moved on to the next soldier.

He never saw the faint relaxation of Stratus’ shoulders that signaled a well controlled sigh of relief or if he did it was quickly dismissed as the usual nervousness people experienced under his direct scrutiny. An hour later, the Dark Lord would not recall the moment of hesitation or the name of the man who had caused it, and Tom would be celebrating his small victory with an expensive bottle of brandy and a female Lieutenant fresh out of basic.

Hermione, Draco, Natalie, Clyde, Ginny, Fred, and George sat in their desk in the Dark Arts and Defense classroom, staring mutely at Snape who was regarding them all with a cool, assessing glare.

“Do you understand what I have told you?” he asked, finally. For their own sakes he certainly hoped they did. He had gathered together Harry’s inner circle, or at least what he believed to be the boy’s inner circle, and relayed to them as much as he dared about what had truly happened to their friend. His own, specially edited version of had happened in any event.

The simplified version was that Harry had been tricked by a werewolf and ended up possessed by a demon that had him doing incredibly dark magic that eventually resulted in him being horribly injured. He had subtly emphasized the werewolves’ responsibility in any wrong doing and Harry’s status as unwilling victim (which involved relating far more graphic details of his injuries than was strictly tactful or necessary) in the matter, and hoped for the best.

The best being that they would be even more loyal and faithful to their friend, and perhaps start turning him away from his affection towards the canid monsters. He was more hopeful of the first than the second, but he would take what he could get. Clyde was the first to break the silence with a rather perplexed statement.

“Well that’s just… weird.”

Draco nodded. “Yeah, that kind of sums it up for me too.”

Natalie and Hermione just shared a look and rolled their eyes. Boys. Although, privately they were a little weirded out themselves.

“I for one,” George said, looking pointedly at the older wizard. “Would just like to thank Professor Snape for sharing the creepiest story time ever. I am sure we’ll all be haunted by it for years to come. But I do have to ask… why exactly are you telling us this?”

Snape had been prepared this question and answered easily.

“So you won’t go asking Mr. Potter about it. You are his friends. You’ll ask questions about things that seem to bother him, and he’ll feel obligated to answer you. For his sake, I would rather you did not put him under that sort of strain. This event has been unusually traumatic for him. It would be best if he were not forced to relive the experience over and over again.”

“What about the other students?” Hermione asked. “You’re not going to tell them any of this, are you? What about the teachers?”

“I will inform Professor McGonagall, because it is her right to know as his Head of House, but no one else. This is, in fact, a government secret, and there will severe consequences if you should share this information irresponsibly. Besides, like I said, you are Mr. Potter’s friends. I expect you all to exercise a level of… sensitivity that can not be expected of your peers.”

“And to look out for him, right?”

Snape tilted his head in acknowledgment. It certainly wouldn’t hurt things if he had allies on the student level, particularly ones as resourceful as the Weasley Twins, keeping the other students from intentionally or unintentionally stressing Harry. His primary objective, however, was to make sure they didn’t turn away from him or on him.

“This thing that happened to him… it couldn’t happen again could it?” Draco asked cautiously, because even though he considered himself Harry’s friend and ally, he also believed in self preservation. Hermione shot him an irritated look.

“It is extremely unlikely. Like I said, he was tricked into taking a special potion by a werewolf. He would not make the same mistake again, and the Dark Lord has taken additional steps that I cannot reveal to you in order to make sure he will never be vulnerable in that way again. He is perfectly safe… or at least as safe as he ever was.”

Draco shrugged. “Okay, whatever. It’s just another bit of Potter weirdness then.”

“We will have to make a suitable sacrifice to honor our Lord Chaos,” George whispered to his brother. “I say we turn the Charms hallway into a swamp.”

“Sounds good to me. Excuse us, professor! We just remembered we have something important we forgot to do.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve the dungeons, I do not care.”

The twins’ departure signaled the end of their brief meeting and everyone got up to take their leave. Snape would keep his eye on them for the remaining week before holidays to gauge their reaction to what he had told them. It would be best if he ironed out any misgivings they had before Harry returned.

“Hermione, if you would stay for a few more minutes. There is something I wish to speak to you about in private.”

She paused on her way out of the classroom, glancing surreptitiously at the others as they filed out. He moved a chair to the other side of his desk, and summoned a pot of tea from the kitchens with a snap of his fingers. Sitting down in the provided seat, she fiddled with her teacup anxiously.

“If you’re worried about how I’ll react to Harry’s… accident, you shouldn’t be. He’s still my best fri-”

“I assure you, my dear, out of everyone you are the one I am least worried about turning their back on Mr. Potter. Your loyalty to each other has proven itself time and again. I wish to talk to you about your decision to remain in the castle during the holidays.”

She looked away. This wasn’t something she wished to talk to him about. It was a private matter, as far as she was concerned, and while she knew he meant well it didn’t mean she wanted him trying to involve himself. She knew he would side with Lucius if he did.

“You are certain you wish to remain here?” Snape said idly, and took a sip of tea. Across the table Hermione, turned her teacup around in her hand over and over again, staring at the dark liquid making little whirlpools in her cup. “Allowing this quiet antagonism between you and Lucius will only worsen the situation in the long run.”

“I don’t see how letting him continue to belittle my existence will benefit anyone but Lucius in the long run. I’m sick of pretending that I deserve it.”

Snape conceded the point. While he lacked both the power and the inclination to against his old friend, he wasn’t blind to the injustices that had been leveled at his goddaughter. She was a remarkable girl who had brought much happiness to her foster brother and mother, and could have been a source of pride to her foster father as well if he had let her.

He had a memory of her when she was six, still timid and clinging close to Draco or Narcissa whenever in the presence of strangers. He had dropped by Malfoy Manor on an errand, and left waiting in the hall when he happened to pass the study where Draco and Hermione were both being tutored in geography. The instructor was having them name the European countries and all of their capitals. Draco had managed to eleven. When it was Hermione’s turn she had name all of them. Every single one. Then went on to name all the countries and capitals of Asia, the Middle East, and good portion of Africa. Snape had been rather impressed, but when he mentioned it to Lucius, his friend had simply muttered that she wasn’t much to look at so she had make up for it somehow.

“He will not be present for the most part. Matters in Germany will keep him from home more often than not. There is no point in snubbing Draco and Narcissa.”

“Narcissa is too busy exploiting Lucius’ status in every store in upper London to miss me and Draco… I think I have plenty of reasons to snub him at the moment.”

“He has already apologized,” Snape pointed out, and while that wasn’t necessarily a reason to forgive the embarrassment he had caused her, he did not like to see them at odds. They were such a complimentary pair it seemed a shame to have them fighting over such a tedious matter.

“He hasn’t apologized to Ron.”

He barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Ronald Weasley, while he had his uses, was not the sort of boy worth turning on your brother over. There was really no telling where exactly his loyalty lay or in what directions it would take him. For all his Slytherin cunning and ruthlessness, the boy was governed by his emotions more than anything else and that Gryffindor quality was going to lead him into trouble one of these days. He only hoped she would realize this before he dragged her into his problems.

“I am sure Mr. Weasley is terribly disappointed,” he said, sardonically.

It was quite well known that the youngest Weasley son was intolerably smug over having created a rift between the otherwise inseparable siblings, and if he was feeling the strain between him and his dorm mate he wasn’t showing it.

“That’s not the point. Can we please change the subject? I’m not going to change my mind. I’m staying at Hogwarts for the holidays,” she said, setting down her tea. “Do you think I might be able to visit Harry during the holiday? He must be terribly lonely out there on his own.”

“I assure you, he is in good hands. In any event, I have no intention of indulging your teenage rebellion against Lucius. I can’t afford to be that openly bias. Besides, Harry will be busy catching up on his studies. He has a long way to go if he wants to start the second semester at the same time as everyone else.”

She nods, but her disappointment is obvious. Despite the assurances in his letters that he is alright, she can’t help but be worried about him. There is a melancholy tone to his writing, and she knows whatever really happened in Berlin took a toll on him spiritually as well as physically.

“Fine,” she mutters, and just to be vindictive she adds. “I’ll just have to find ways to amuse myself with Ron over the holidays.”

She hid her satisfied grin her teacup at his disapproving glower.

“Good morning, young master!” Vicky greeted, as she opened the door to Harry’s bedroom carrying a breakfast tray. He made an unhappy groan and pulled his blankets over his head.

“Ugh… can’t we put this off until lunch?” he muttered. On her perch, Elsbeth gave an irritate hoot in agreement. “It’s not like there’s anything for me to do once I wake up.”

The maid grinned and set the breakfast tray aside for a moment, before sitting herself at the foot of his bed.

“That’s not true. You’ve got to eat for one thing, and a bath would probably do you some good, plus your potions, and then I have you down for a massage. You still have a ton of homework to get through before tomorrow, so you’ll want to get started, and-”

“Ugh… stop, stop… you’re just depressing me.”

“Oh! And hear I just thought you were sulking.”

“Hn.”

“Did I mention it was snowing?”

“…”

He peeked out from his blankets at her, and she marched herself over to the window and threw open the curtains. He flinched at the sudden influx of light, but soon enough his eyes adjusted and he grabbed his glasses from the nightstand. Against the gray sky he could see the flakes fall, fat and feathery, just like you always hoped to snow to be. He sat up and stared.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s supposed to come down like this all day. You should make some sketches when you have the chance.”

“Hmm…”

She set the breakfast tray in front of him; eggs, toast, apple slices, and orange juice. Just the thing a magical invalid needed. He dutifully took a bite of an apple piece, and she slipped out of his room again to help Ira do whatever it was she was doing.

It had been three and a half weeks since he left the hospital, and while he was thankful to be in the company of good friends, he couldn’t help feeling rather melancholy. Ira and Vicky were wonderful women, like the sort of cousins or aunts he had always wanted growing up, but Ira was somewhat distracted with planning the wedding (which he could not wrap his head around six days out of the week) and Vicky was constantly trying to make him see the bright side of everything. He wasn’t quite ready to put forth the necessary enthusiasm in order to really relate with them again.

He was tired, his magic was just starting to stabilize and strengthen after the blood loss he had suffered, his body ached and itched if he had nothing to distract himself, the final remnants of his pneumonia persisted keeping him from the outdoors, and nights were filed with nightmares of drowning and monsters. There was too little for him to do to take his mind off of the events of last couple of months even with the tutoring sessions and his caretaker’s company. He often found himself sitting alone and thinking, remembering things about his childhood before magic and wondering how it had all lead to… what ever this was. There was blood on his hands and fear in his heart and his head was filled to bursting with questions and ideas and speculations.

He had never felt so lost in his entire life.

A startled shout and crash from downstairs shook him from his brooding, and he was out of bed and hurrying down the steps at something close to his old speed. He skidded through the kitchen door, wand in hand, and ready to fight but it proved unnecessary. He let out an exasperated sigh.

“Honestly, my Lord, would it kill you to knock? I know, technically, you own the entire country and everything in it, but as a gesture of courtesy?”

Voldemort’s smile was anything but apologetic as he flicked his wand, fixing the broken teapot and vanishing the mess. Ira was just starting to recover her frazzled nerves. She still was not yet used to the Ruler of Wizarding Britain’s abrupt visits to the cottage at completely random times without so much a knock on the door to warn them, only to have him leave anywhere from ten minutes to ten hours later. This was his fourth unannounced visit, and she was seriously considering putting wards on the door to have anyone who didn’t knock sent straight for a muggle landfill or the Atlantic Ocean or Severus’ dungeons. Vicky on the other hand had simply curtsied politely and went on as usual, practically whistling as she continued to shuck peas for dinner.

“Force of habit. Sorry if I’m interrupting anything.”

He glanced at Ira, the ‘Lady of the House’ at it were, who shook her head and forced a smile. Harry quickly drew back his attention before he started terrorizing the poor woman.

“What brings you by?”

“You can’t guess?” the Voldemort asked, honestly looking surprised. “Don’t you know what today is?”

“Dictatorship Appreciation Day?”

The Dark Lord sighed, and led Harry out of the kitchen for some privacy.

“It’s December 21st.”

“Okay,” the Gryffindor agreed, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Are we plotting to assassinate Santa and take over Christmas? I don’t think we would be very popular after- Oh! Oh crap, I completely forgot.”

Winter solstice. Today was the winter solstice. How could he have forgotten?

“Never mind,” the Dark Lord dismissed, heading up the stairs. “My plans for you today are not related to the solstice itself, but since we’ve established something of a tradition…”

That was true. They had spent the last three solstices in each other’s company. They marked the most incredible moments of his life, and there was something surreal that they should be made with Voldemort, proverbial King of the Britain. Thinking about for too long often left Harry feeling strangely dizzy.

“I appreciate that, my Lord. I know you’re really busy. How are things in Germany?”

The man looked around his room curiously, like he always did when found himself there. Harry frankly didn’t understand his interest. It was a simple enough room. White walls, wooden floor, an iron frame bed with a blue and green checkered comforter, his school trunk at the foot, a wooden table piled with study material, a bookshelf with books and the little trinkets he had collected over the years, and a few sketches stuck to the wall. Elsbeth cocked her head at him curiously then settled back and fell asleep again. His breakfast tray was still on the bed, barely touched.

Voldemort helped himself to an apple slice.

“Well enough, with Germany itself. Dumbledore has made his reappearance and taken over the organization of the resistance. Our forward advance has been halted for the time being, but we are solidly entrenched now. If I can convince the Polish minister to commit some troops to the effort I am certain we’ll be able to make another advancement, but frankly I am more concerned with preventing any alliances between Dumbledore and Germany’s neighbors.”

“Sounds complicated,” Harry said, suddenly distracted at the mention of Dumbledore. His own feelings towards the man were contradictory and confusing, but the thought that Viktor may have died for him was more than a little sickening.

“Nothing you need to worry yourself about. How are your studies?”

“Ira thinks I’m ready to go back to school after the holidays. She’s going to talk to Snape about it when he shows up. I really need to get out of this house.”

“The estrogen level becoming too much?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I like Ira and Victoria just fine, but Hogwarts… Hogwarts is home.”

“Hhmm… just so,” he agreed, running his finger along the bindings of some old textbooks. Then he turned his attention to his protégé, his expression sharpening. “Take your shirt off.”

The Gryffindor just stared at him. Voldemort sighed.

“I really don’t have a lot of time today. I have sacrificial offerings that need to be taken care of before I return to the office, and this is going to take up at least an hour all its own so if you don’t mind…”

Harry rolled his eyes, and took off his pajamas shirt. It wasn’t as if the man hadn’t seen him starkers already. “Leave the door cracked, I don’t want the ladies getting any weird ideas about what we’re doing.”

“Spoilsport. Lay down on the bed, face up.”

While he did as he was told, the Dark Lord removed a clay jar from him robes and took a paintbrush from his desk.

“What are we doing exactly?”

“I found a way to prevent you from being possessed by anything or anyone against your will. It’s a very old technique founded in Japan. I managed to get in contact with a sect of Shinto priest who were willing to send me the necessary items to perform the spell. I expect you to write them a very appreciative thank you letter.”

Harry didn’t know what a Shinto priest was, but if Voldemort was in willing to deal with them they must have been pagans of some sort. People still believed in lots of gods in Asian countries didn’t they?

“What do I have to do?”

“Just lay there. They have performed most of the necessary rituals themselves already. Pull your pants down a little; I have to paint this over your entire stomach.”

He did so, feeling increasingly awkward. The Dark Lord shook the jar a few times to remix the contents and then uncorked it. A strange scent wafted through the room, smelling strongly of unfamiliar bitter herbs and sulfur. Carefully, the man started to paint across his stomach. It felt cold and tingly, and not entirely pleasant. Harry hoped whatever it looked like wouldn’t become a tattoo like the other marks. He was going to run out of available skin if things kept up like this.

“So… what does this spell do exactly?”

“There is a common belief within several Asian cultures that the soul resides not in the heart or the head, but in the stomach or rather the lower abdomen. Certain studies in Western wizardry support this theory. According to Shintoism and based on Hindu teachings, the spirit must first anchor itself in the Manipura, the solar plexus chakra in the stomach and then travel up the body until it reaches the Sahasrara, the crown chakra in the brain. There are reports of spirits lying dormant within the Manipura for decades without their host knowing before they decide to manifest themselves. Additionally, some possessions will instead travel down to the Svadhisthana, the sacral chakra in order to perform Immaculate Conception.”

“Like the virgin Mary?”

“To name one. In the East, it is not unheard of for women to suddenly give birth to gods or for men to sire demons by the same mechanism. The nature and manipulation of chakra is a vast and complicated study.”

“So what are you doing to me? Messing around with my… Manipura?”

“If I were to ‘mess around’ with it, you’d likely die horribly. No, I am simply putting a seal over it to prevent anything from anchoring itself. When you wish to deactivate the seal, you’ll need to… cut yourself.”

Harry lifted his head to look at him like he was mad.

“Why would I want to deactivate it? That’s… why would I want to be possessed?”

Voldemort gave him a look that said he was being unusually daft.

“Not all possessions involve taking over the body like Greyback did. Much of it is less invasive. The solstice rituals we performed are one example. When you accept the blessing of a god it is the same thing. It all starts in the Manipura and radiates through the chakra points until it is released into the rest of the body.”

He thought on that for long time as the Dark Lord continued his mysterious drawings. The bitter smell was starting to fade, but his stomach tingled and was starting to feel incredibly empty while rest of his body felt increasingly heavy.

“Hey… I feel weird.”

“The spell absorbs a lot of magical energy. You should sleep.”

“No… I want to see it first.”

“I am almost done.”

Harry drifted, his thoughts growing dull. He certainly hadn’t thought his day would turn out like this. In a weird way, it was comforting to know life would throw in a few magical surprises that didn’t nearly kill him or anyone else.

“Hey…”

“Yes,” the Dark Lord said distractedly.

“Thanks for coming… and the mani-thingy spell. You’re kinda cool when you’re not scaring the shit out of me.”

There was an amused snort, but no further comment as the man continued working. Harry tried to stay awake for a little longer, but no matter how long he waited it seemed there was still more to do until eventually he drifted off.

When he awoke, two days later, there were no sign of any seals on his stomach and he felt no different than he did any other day. He was convinced it had all been a strange dream until he went down to breakfast and found Snape sitting at the table. The professor glanced up at him from his newspaper, and slid a book across the table towards him. The title read Introduction to the Basic Principles of Chakra and their Many Uses by Siddhartha Sandi, translation by Ursula Norbleet.

“Our Lord thought you might me interested in that… after you catch up on your homework.”

Robert reached for his coffee cup, then stopped when he remembered it was empty and had been for the last hour. He debated the merits of breaking his work stride to make another pot. Normally, Kyle would take care of these things. Coffee, lunch, invoices, phone calls… little things that otherwise swallowed the time he needed to handle the legal aspect of his business.

Kyle wasn’t here thought. Kyle was in the country with the girls, no doubt cursing him for not being there with them. He had promised after all. What he hadn’t factored on was that the war effort would prove so utterly inconvenient for due process. London had always been the center of legal matters in England. It held a majority of the court offices, particularly those that dealt with civil suites, which were his specialty. Or it had until the last two months. Legislation had been passed to begin decentralizing the various court offices from London to four other cities, which wouldn’t have been so bad if the price of using the floo network hadn’t tripled as a result and the time it took to have a court document processed hadn’t just quadrupled. The Court spokesperson assured everyone that things would be back to normal by late spring, and that it was a necessary step to insuring the stability of Britain’s government. This was all likely true (especially if the mess in Germany were to serve as an example), but it also meant Robert was stuck waiting around in London to finish up cases that should have been done a month ago.

All the while the double mortgage he was paying, the steady rise in prices within the city, and the back log of invoices were quickly putting him into debt. He needed an assistant, which he couldn’t afford without another client, a well to do client not living in London preferably, and he couldn’t get anymore clients without an assistant handling the advertisement that he didn’t have any idea about. Kyle could have done it all with the ease that he did everything else, but there was no way he was bringing him or the girls back to London. Germany was still reeling from its enormous loss, but once it recovered there was doubt on where it would strike first.

So here he was, over worked, broke, and alone in a little flat that could get blown up at any minute. He decided to make himself another pot of coffee.

Just as he was making his way to the kitchen, a knock sounded at the door. He sighed. No doubt it was Mrs. Rutherfield wondering why he hadn’t called her back yet about her bill. He mentally steeled himself for the inevitable shouting, straightened himself out a bit in the hall mirror, and answered the door.

It was not Mrs. Rutherfield.

“Are you Robert Reicher?” Lucius Malfoy, the picture of aristocratic pride in his full military uniform, asked without really asking.

“I… yes, I am he,” he managed, more than a little stunned. Quickly, he snapped himself out of it, and stood aside. “Please come in, General Malfoy.”

The man seemed pleased that he knew him on sight and used the proper title, but then how many people wouldn’t know him? His face appeared in the papers at least every other day. The question was, why was he here?

“Mr. Reicher, I find I am in need of a lawyer.”

Harry started his journey back to Hogwarts with a level of enthusiasm he hadn’t realized he was even capable of anymore. The mob of reporters waiting for him on Platform 9¾ had done little to dampen his mood. The mob of students waiting for him on the train… well, actually fairly enjoyable.

“LORD CHAOS LIVES! ALL HAIL CHAOS!” George cheered down the passenger car, while Fred was busy trying to shake his hand off his arm. To Harry’s embarrassment several other students shouted out a Hurray! and burst out into laughter.

“It’s great to see you again, Harry,” Fred said, swinging an arm over the boy’s shoulder. “The school just hasn’t been the same without you. Although, leading the invasion into Germany was pretty awesome. According to the Tattler you blew up the underground.”

The younger Gryffindor hoped they were joking, because that was little bit too close to the truth for his own peace of mind. Snape had told him in advance that while most of the student body believed he was captured and badly injured during the rescue, his friends had been made aware of the more sordid details.

“No, that was Voldemort… I think. I don’t really remember all that well. Critically wounded and all that,” he said as lightly as he could manage. They seemed to sense his discomfort on the subject though and steered things away from it.

“Well, you look great. Did you get the package we sent you?”

“Was it a package that every time you opened it there was another package in it? For like… thirty tries?”

“Yeah.”

“Snape wanted me to let you know in advance that you’re spending Saturday mucking the owlry. You do know he has to check all my packages before he hands them off to me, don’t you?”

They grinned at each other. “It must have slipped our minds. Hey, don’t forget about the business venture we discussed before you left. Even with the holidays ended we’ll still have a lot of customers to satisfy.”

He had forgotten about it, honestly. His black market smuggling operation to and from Hogwarts hadn’t been at the forefront of his attention, and right now he didn’t know if he would be sent out of the school often enough for it to work any more, but he was willing to try. It still sounded like a lot of fun.

He asked if they had seen Hermione and was surprised to learn she had stayed behind at Hogwarts for the holidays, apparently with Ron although that might have just been another one of their jokes. She hadn’t mentioned anything about it in her letters.

“Well, who knows? There was a whole falling out between her and Draco,” George said. “You’ll have to ask him about it yourself.”

Finding Draco took nearly hour, not because the Slytherin was being particularly evasive, but because people kept stopping him to make conversation including several dueling club members and friends from his house, among them Ginny and Clyde who confirmed that Hermione had stayed behind. When he finally found Draco, he was sulking in his compartment with Natalie and some other Slytherins pointedly ignoring him.

“Harry!” Natalie cheered, throwing her arms around him. “We weren’t expecting you back so soon!”

“Can’t have you all getting complacent on me, now can I? So tell me what’s happened while I was… er…”

“Indispose?” Draco offered blandly. He glared at the other people in the compartment and made a sharp gesture for the door. Grumbling, they stood and shuffled out into the hall. It was rude, but Harry wasn’t going to argue to let them stay. He doubted everything they were going to talk about was meant for their ears. “Good to see you aren’t horribly mangled.”

“I missed you too, darling,” Harry laughed, and settled in next to Natalie. “Now what’s this Hermione and Ron business?”

It was entirely the wrong question to ask, because it sent Draco into a furious monologue about… well, he wasn’t sure what it was about but it involved some sort of rumor and Draco punching Ron and Lucius Malfoy being called in and Hermione being angry at him and it was really Ron’s fault and he was somehow slipping her potions when no one was look and making her totally unreasonable. At some point, Natalie started tuning him out and asking Harry how he had been and what he had done for the holidays. With the young Malfoy having lost all semblance of coherency and knowing he was just going to have to wait and ask Hermione, he picked up the conversation with her.

He explained how the last two months had been utterly dull, with nothing to do but study and heal. Everything before the last two months was carefully avoided, and she didn’t pry. She told him about her own charity campaigns which were still immensely popular, the substitute Dueling club captains who were taking over after Snape demoted both Ron and Draco for their recent stupidity, a whole ridiculous slew of rumors that popped up about Harry, some particularly funny accidents in potions, and an idiot had knocked up one of the seventh-year Hufflepuffs. Oh, and Fred and George had turned an entire corridor into a swamp in his honor. Professor Flitwick was terribly impressed and didn’t even dock any house points.

Eventually Draco was distracted enough from his own personal angst to contribute to the conversation and asked relentless questions about Snape’s fiancé who he had only met a few times over the summer. It wasn’t the same without Hermione, but he managed to enjoy himself until he got tired and dozed off.

When he woke again they were in Hogsmeade and a blizzard was coming down on the little village. Atop its hill, he could just barely make out the burning torches of the castle. Outside the winter wind ripped through his clothing like paper, and he hurried into the nearest available couch to escape it. A familiar excitement filled him. He had been gone for so long it felt like returning after summer break, and endless possibilities waited upon his return.

The travel to Hogwarts was slow and cumbersome, and the coaches rocked dangerously from side to side in the wind. Natalie held on to him tightly every time it shook, but it was Natalie. She may have just been looking for an excuse.

And then he was home, walking through the portcullis and shaking the snow from his clothes. The ancient stones were glowing warmly in the firelight, and all around him familiar faces were laughing and talking and hugging one another. Teachers were gathered along the edges to greet their students, and among them was McGonagall whose severe expression softened a bit when she saw him. He grinned back at her.

“Harry!”

He spun around and found Hermione practically swimming through the crowds towards him. She hesitated for a moment when she reached him, looking him up and down for possible frailty. He rolled his eyes and pulled her into a hug, and she broke out into laughter.

“It’s so wonderful your back! I missed you so much!”

“I missed you too. It feels like for-”

“AAAAHHH!!!”

They both turned to the other side of the room at the sound of terrified shrieking. Amongst the melee of students, one particularly unfortunate girl was panicking and flailing about as large clumps of her hair started falling off her head and something that might have warts or might have been boils began popping out all over her.

“Oh my,” Hermione said, her eyes wide. “It looks like someone slipped poor Trudy Sabbat some Troll Juice. The twins really shouldn’t have snuck those into the holiday party favors. Who knows whose hands they wound up in.”

He gaped at her. “Hermione!”

“Don’t look at me!” she said, in mocking indignation. “Would I do something like that? Besides, you were with me the entire time!”

He glanced around the hall.

“Yeah, but where was Ron?”

She shrugged and he rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, I’m gone for two months and he’s corrupted you!” he said, and then grinned. “I have to say I rather like the change. I’ll assume she deserved it?”

“And then some! I’ll tell you all about it on the way to the tower, and you can tell me what Uncle Severus’ wedding plans are. He’s been horribly secretive.”

“Hermione, I don’t think he even knows what the plans are. He’s left Ira to plan the whole thing on her own. I don’t know what she would have done without Vicky there to help her. I think she’s going to make her the Maid of Honor at this point.”

They made their way to the tower, an easy conversation flowing between them as if nothing in the previous semester had ever happened. He basked in the simple pleasure of it, knowing eventually it would fade and he would be faced once again with his painful past and his uncertain future.

For now, however, he could forget and simply enjoy the moment.

1. Rhiannon’s daughter is a special case. Even though she’s called a goddess, she does in fact have a half-human soul. She’s really the spirit of a demi-god. The way in which she died prevents her from taking on a god’s mantle, so she lives in a between state, attaching herself to specific sorts of people.↩