Prince of the Dark Kingdom: Book 7

Mizuni-sama

Prince of the Dark Kingdom: Book 7

1. Credits

2. Matters Unsettled and Unsettling

3. Off Guard Moments I

4. Off Guard Moments II

5. Unwinding Truths

6. Instincts and Failed Traps

7. Unsatisfying Conclusions

8. Blood in the Water

9. A Rising Madness

10. Unfinished

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

Matters Unsettled and Unsettling

Harry wandered his way through the woods in the dim predawn light, looking for reasonably dry kindling amidst damp undergrowth. The last few days had been unusually warm for February, hovering just above freezing during the day and even sunny at times, which would have been nice if it weren’t for the mud and the constant dripping of melting snow. After an hour or so of turning logs and checking tree hollows, he found what he thought would be enough and headed back towards the colony. As he drew nearer, other wood-gathers appeared from amidst the trees, tossing him greetings.

“Morning, Harry,” one of the females called. “How’s the arm this morning?”

He lifted his arm, still black even over a month later, and wiggled his fingers at her.

“It’s still there so I can’t complain.”

In fact, he could complain if he wanted to, because frankly it hurt like hell. It often did in the morning, as growing stiff during sleep and then being forced into heavy manual labor shortly after waking was something it didn’t approve of. If he said anything though, Sirius, still feigning indifference towards him, pretended he didn’t care but inevitably assigned his godson to light-duty chores for the morning. He knew his godfather meant well, but being treated like an invalid didn’t help matters, not with his arm and not with his status in the pack. So he ignored the pain and did his part, and life went on.

Harry’s days now consisted of colony routine, mixed with private study and introspection. The winters were quiet here, most of the work suspended until spring, and most of what they did do revolved around keeping fires going and meal times. Hunting parties came and went every few days, rotating three or four werewolves at a time, to hunt the deer and boar that made the bulk of their winter stews and sausages. It was a break in the tedium of winter Harry was not yet privileged to experience. His quiet time had been devoted to researching those subjects he had not had the opportunity to study during the school year. The pagan arts and mythos were his primary focus these days, unraveling those mysterious practices he had glimpsed under Voldemort’s mentorship and finally making sense of them. Even his own abilities, such as his increased healing ability, his magic-imbued scars, and the affinity his magic took to water (especially cold water), which seemed simultaneously influenced and yet independent of Voldemort, were slowly starting to make more sense to him.

At Remus’ encouragement, he had begun writing his own Book of Shadows, detailing those many spells he had created unknowingly in moments of desperation or experienced under the Dark Lord’s tutelage. He was not pleased with it so far. He had never written down his own spells before, and they seemed rambling and disorganized when he tried to describe them or put the processes used into words.

He wished desperately for Hermione’s guidance. There had to be some sort of style or guidelines for this sort of thing, and if anyone knew what it was it would be his best friend. She was a walking encyclopedia of spells, but more importantly she was a scholar in the truest sense. She didn’t learn spells to fulfill some sort of educational quota like most of the people he knew at Hogwarts, but because she genuinely wished to understand magic and how it worked. Even though it took longer and was usually tedious, she had always followed the proper format for research that made it sound like she was writing her college dissertation rather than a third year essay. It drove everyone else crazy, her teachers included, but no one could accuse her of not knowing her stuff.

These thoughts of Hermione’s scholastic obsession inevitably led to other, more sentimental thoughts of his missing friend. Whenever his thoughts started to wander from his studies, they inevitably wandered towards her, where she was, and what she was doing. This in turn led him to considering what he needed to do to find her and bring her home. Voldemort was the major problem here, and he wasn’t quite sure how he could work his way around him. He figured he had two options. One was to find Lucius’ murderer and the other was to gain a favor from Voldemort proportional to Hermione’s pardon. The first option he was tentatively looking into through the use of magic. There might have been some sort of divination technique or spell that could reveal the true culprit, but he doubted it would be as simple as all that. If it were, then Inquisitors like Amelon would have used such spells already. There either wasn’t a technique or the methods were considered unreliable or legally inadmissible.

He had written a letter to Robert and Kyle about this possibility but hadn’t had the opportunity to send it yet. Elsbeth had returned just last night from delivering a letter to Natalie, and he wanted to give her at least another day to rest before he sent her off again.

As for the second option, he didn’t have much control over it. The misadventures of his life often earned him a favor from the Dark Lord but were equally as likely to earn him a debt, and there was no telling when an opportunity would arise next. It could be months or years. He wasn’t that patient. There might be other ways to earn such a favor, but he found himself reluctant to ask his mentor directly. It meant the Dark Lord would get to set the terms, and given what was at stake, those terms were likely something he would never be able to demand of Harry otherwise.

Harry deposited his kindling at the bath house where they were just starting to light the furnaces. He chatted with some of the werewolves for a few minutes, then made his way back towards the cabin to get in a little reading before breakfast. Bobby was there waiting for him, perched on an overturned wheelbarrow near the door. Harry smiled at him in greeting and opened the door wide for him.

The lantern was still lit, although the cabin was now empty. The oversized bed had been stripped of it covers, some taken to be laundered and the rest folded and piled at its foot, and the fire was almost out once again. Harry stoked the embers and threw in the last log from the woodpile, then pulled his trunk from under a table and started rummaging for some parchment and his book. Bobby perched himself atop one of the two chairs positioned in front of the fire, warming himself.

“How did it go?” Harry asked. Bobby’s feathers fluffed and fell in a bird’s equivalent of a shrug.

“Well enough, I suppose. This one wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you get my meaning, but at least he had the sense to listen when I told him to do something,” the raven said, then sighed. “I don’t know why it’s been so busy lately. I used to go months without a summons and now it seems like I get one every other week.”

“Hhhmmm… well, Natalie said paganism has apparently become in vogue lately. I mean, there’s always been this fringe group interested in it and then the few practicing druids, but she thinks with everything that happened at Hogwarts people are really starting to get curious about it. Do you suppose you might be getting a few of those sorts? You know, a couple witches and wizards dabbling on the safer side of things?”

“Merlin, I hope not. That happened in the sixties, you know. The muggles were getting into druidic magic and wizarding folks weren’t about ready to be outdone. It was a silly affair. Nobody knew what the hell they were doing.”

Harry tried to imagine that and started giggling. Yes, he could see how that all might get ridiculous very quickly.

They chatted amiably for a while, discussing Bobby’s recent ventures escorting witches and wizards on journeys and Harry about his studies and his arm. They broke off again when they heard the breakfast bell ringing.

“Stay here and keep warm,” Harry said. “I’ll bring you back some sausage.”

“Well, since you’re so adamant,” Bobby replied, without having stirred from the comfort of his roost.

Harry went to the mess hall and squeezed himself in beside Remus along the bench tables. He helped himself to a slice of rye bread as the sausages made their way up and down the tables and took a quick survey of the room. Every time he sat down in the dining hall, he noticed something new. His first day back, he had noted that there were three new werewolves, and for once they were all women. This was curious since typically the men outnumbered the women three to one. He had tried to approach them separately and together on several occasions, but they had always hurried off as if scared of him. It wasn’t until several days and a very uncomfortable discussion with Sirius later that he learned that all three were German.

He still didn’t know how he should feel about that, but since they seemed even less eager to talk to him than he did to them it hadn’t become an issue yet. He had the unpleasant notion that it was going to become an issue eventually. Sirius refused to talk about it, but Remus had warned him there would likely be more people brought to them from among the German prisoners taken, and while Sirius might not take any of the wizards offered, he was unlikely to turn away any able-bodied witch. Harry was going to need to find a way to get over his stigma, but he didn’t see it happening any time soon. These women… any one of these women might have been the ones to kill Allbright or Slughorn or Vector. Any one of them might have been among the party that orphaned Luna and murdered dozens of innocent men, women, and children. No one else seemed bothered by this, but Harry supposed necessity trumped vengeance in the werewolf mind, and the colonies had been desperate for females from the beginning.

Today’s observation was fortunately more mundane. He noticed the latest hunting party had returned and Morton Longtooth, a boy around Harry’s own age, was looking around rather smug. It was Longtooth’s first winter hunt, a rite of passage for any werewolf but boys in particular, and it seemed he had succeeded in felling a boar or deer. From now on things would be different for Longtooth. He had proven he could be a provider, and that gave him certain rights that he had not had before. He could move to different cabins or even a different colony without his parent’s approval. He could court a fertile female, sit in with adults during pack meetings and voice his opinions, and even issue challenges for position as beta or alpha within a pack. It also meant he would be held solely responsible for his mistakes as well as his accomplishments.

Harry had never been on a winter hunt, but he had been considered a grown man by pack standards since before the passing of Greyback. His rites of passage had been stranger by far, yet no less poignant in the eyes of the werewolves. As a mere child he had challenged the head alpha Greyback more than once and survived, he had tamed the wolf spirit and made it a part of him when he had saved Sirius, and he had killed wizards. No deer or boar could compare with that.

“Blackbone and I are going to take you hunting next,” Remus told him, his voice carrying throughout the room.

A least, he hadn’t thought it compared.

Harry nearly protested, but quickly caught himself. If he had a choice in this hunt, then it would have been offered in private. But they weren’t in private and there hadn’t been a question. Sirius had a tendency to be heavy handed, even with Remus and Harry, but this seemed unusually presumptuous. There had to be a reason. Perhaps the pack was starting to suspect their alpha’s favoritism again?

“As my alpha commands,” Harry said obediently, loud enough for all to hear without sounding forced. This brought a murmur of approval from around the room. Something was definitely going on. Normally, he would spend the meal chatting with Remus, always loud enough for Sirius to hear too, and who ever happened to be sitting around him, but today his conversation was taken up by well-wishers and advice-givers to the point where he barely managed to get a bite of breakfast.

“Don’t let them all make you nervous,” Longtooth advised good-naturedly. “It’s not the hunting part that’s the hard part. Rabbits and ducks are honestly a lot harder to hit, and you’ve bagged a few of them already. It’s the camping out part that gets you. Pace yourself and keep your strength up. Don’t worry if you don’t get anything the first day or even the third. Your shot is out there, you just have to be patient.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, pleased Longtooth hadn’t been put out by the sudden shift in attention. He decided one good turn deserved another. “I’d like to see your kill before I go.”

This pleased Longtooth, and Remus murmured a ‘well done’ in his ear. The meal wound its way down, and Harry finally managed to finish his breakfast as people filed their way out of the mess hall. Sirius left. Remus gave him a verbal list on what he could and what he should take, then joined his alpha to finish their own errands before they left. Harry wrapped a piece of sausage in a napkin and went to see Longtooth’s kill, a boar thinned out by the harsh winter but still impressive and not a kill he was likely to beat, then headed back to the cabin. He offered Bobby the sausage and told him what Remus had said.

“Ah, so he wants to speak with you privately?” the raven asked.

“That might be part of it, but there’s probably more to it. There are a lot easier ways of getting me alone than hauling me off into the woods in the dead of winter for a week.”

“Any ideas?”

“Not going to bother guessing. I’ll be able to ask him myself soon enough. Have you seen my keystone?”

He hadn’t been able to sleep with the keystone recently, what with sharing a bed with so many others, so it had remained low in magic since he used it last. Perhaps he could begin recharging it now that he would be relatively alone again. He eventually found it, along with his Baluvian cloak, an extra set of gloves and socks, Draco’s knife, and minor odds and ends to take with him. Otherwise, he had very little that would prove useful on his journey. The camping equipment used was shared by everyone in the colony, and the hunting equipment would be provided by Sirius and Remus.

Said equipment was ready and waiting when he went to the clearing just outside the village. Sirius’ roundhouse was still standing, archers perched on its roof and smoke puffing from the chimney. A crowd of curious onlookers had also gathered to see them off, their alpha, beta, and… whatever Harry was, exactly, heading off on a hunt. There would be high expectation upon their return, and Harry felt a sense of unease. Harry found his backpack, the smallest among them but still at least twenty pounds, and put away his few contributions. Then he put it on, and Sirius, who seemed to be waiting for just that, tossed his own bag over his shoulder (easily twice the size of Harry’s) and started off towards the trees, heading west. The crowd shouted their well wishes and waved them off until they were out of sight.

For nearly an hour, they continued to walk without speaking. The trees grew thicker and the underbrush heavier. At some point, Sirius led them off trail to follow a small stream as it slowly wound its way northwest. Harry looked about curiously, expecting to catch someone spying on them, but there was no one. The uneasiness he had felt before was becoming stronger the longer no one spoke.

When he couldn’t take the waiting any longer, he said, “So… what’s this really about?”

Sirius grunted, refusing to slow his steady stride, even as he spoke.

“What do you think it’s about?”

Harry sighed. So Sirius wanted him to figure it out for himself. Voldemort played this game as well, stating thinking took practice, particularly in politics, and there was definitely something political about all this.

“You’re not mad at me so this isn’t a punishment, but you hadn’t mentioned a hunt before today so it’s a last minute sort of thing. Which means there’s either an opportunity or a problem-”

“Or both,” Remus chimed in, confirming Harry’s reasoning even as he evaded answering.

“Is it both?”

“I wonder. Is it, Padfoot?” the beta asked innocently, and Sirius finally turned back to glare at him.

“A personal problem?” Harry guessed, earning him a glare of his own. Definitely personal then.

“Jane has been seen lingering outside the village,” Sirius said finally.

“Oh, you just wanted to keep us separate.”

But after he said it, he knew that wasn’t entirely right. His godfathers had gone quiet and weren’t looking directly at him any longer. “Why isn’t one of you back at the colony watching her?” he asked.

While Jane, and by extension, Luna hadn’t been officially exiled, Sirius had made it clear he viewed them as traitors, and they weren’t welcome or trusted anywhere near him. How much the rest of the pack agreed with this sentiment, Harry didn’t know. No one spoke to him about it directly or even in passing. And yet, there had been that night when he had been retrieved by Luna and no one had attempted to stand in her way or reported them to Sirius. Did that mean there were werewolves who secretly supported Jane and Luna? How much power did Jane still hold? Was it a threat to Sirius?

He felt distinctly uncomfortable thinking about this. It made his own decision not to speak of Luna’s last visit seem… disloyal, perhaps even dangerous if Jane’s supporters turned out to be somehow subversive. But if he told Sirius, what would the alpha do? Luna had expressly broken the Head Alpha’s command by coming to see Harry, secretly at that, and if the truth were known she would be punished. Pain would be the least of it. She could be banished, and a banished werewolf had no safe place to go.

“She won’t reveal anything if we’re hovering over her shoulder ourselves, but if she says something or does something she shouldn’t we will know about it,” Sirius said.

“You have spies?”

“Don’t be dramatic. We don’t have spies. We have those who are more loyal to myself than they are to her. Just as there are those who are more loyal to her than they are to me. We’re not wizards, Harry. We fight our battles out in the open.”

It was something of a shock for Harry to hear him say this, and then another shock to realize that he had been so conditioned to expect evasion and half-truths by his circumstances in the wizarding world he hadn’t considered the possibility of a political system, even one as strange as the werewolves’, being so open. He should have known better. He was disappointed in himself for not understanding it sooner.

“But then why is she at the colony in the first place? Didn’t you send her to another colony?”

“I didn’t send her anywhere, I simply kept her away from you or myself. She may be the daughter of Rhiannon and that guarantees her certain privileges, but without my support she can’t really do anything. And if she can’t speak with me, everyone knows her limitations. She goes to the other colonies, teaches her arts and practices her medicines and makes sure no one forgets her, then after a while she’ll come back here to test the waters and see if I’m still angry with her.”

“And are you still angry with her?”

“Yes.”

Harry felt his stomach drop. Sirius wasn’t an eloquent speaker, but he never had to be. That single proclamation, devoid of any variation of meaning or subtext, held a conviction that could not be reasoned with or undermined. While there was no love lost between Harry and the goddess that inhabited Jane, Harry had come to the point where he preferred reconciliation. For Luna’s sake, if nothing else, and for the good of the packs, as well.

“So, we’re out here to snub her.”

Remus snorted loudly through his nose and then burst out laughing.

“He makes it sound like you’re a teenage girl when he says it that way, doesn’t he, Paddy?” the beta laughed. Sirius growled at him, but Remus only laughed harder.

“Don’t you start again,” the alpha snarled.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re implying-”

“That you’re being petty and immature? I don’t need to imply that. I’ll say that right to your face,” the beta said, the humor in his voice suddenly taking on a biting edge.

Harry knew instantly when Remus had taken his joke, if it could be called that, too far. The distance between the two werewolves had increased somewhat while Harry had moved in closer to Remus, but now everyone had stopped. Ahead of them, he saw Sirius suddenly stiffen and then throw off his gear. Remus matched his actions, though not as smoothly or quickly, and they would have been at each other in moments if Harry, still wearing his own gear, hadn’t thrown himself between them.

“Stop! What are you two doing?! Stop!”

Remus pulled back immediately, but Sirius had already been at a run. Harry managed to brace himself and catch the alpha with both outstretched arms, staying upright for a full half second before he was bowled over. He grabbed tight to Sirius’ shirt, and rather than allow himself to be shoved to the side, pulled the larger man down with him. His foot came out, catching Sirius in the stomach and sending him flying over Harry’s head. The alpha landed on his back, the air knocked out of him in a stunned ’wumf’. Harry would have been quite proud of himself for completing a move that smoothly, if he hadn’t still been wearing his backpack and his spine wasn’t currently screaming in agony.

“Prongslet!” Remus shouted, suddenly beside him and quickly undoing the straps of his pack. Within seconds Harry was free, and he rolled over onto his side, grunting in pain and relief. By now Sirius had regained some of his senses and rolled over as well, climbing up onto his hands and knees. They were both dazed and breathing heavily as their eyes met.

Sirius looked stunned.

“That was…”

“Stupid and reckless!” Remus shouted, looking like he wanted to shake Harry to pieces.

“… quite brilliant,” Sirius finished, and half laughed and half coughed as sat back up. “Where did you learn that? I didn’t teach you that one.”

Crisis averted, Harry sighed and rolled over onto his back to finish catching his breath. “Redskin taught me last summer.”

Wrestling was a common pastime with the werewolf boys, and Harry had played at it a fair amount. He wasn’t nearly as good as the other boys, having less opportunity to practice and built more for speed and agility than strength, but he had picked up a few pointers here and there.

“Now what was that all about?” Harry asked. “Since when do you two start knocking heads over… I still don’t know. You having some sort of spat I should know about?”

Remus shrugged as if it weren’t important, but Harry knew he was only that casual when he was being evasive. He turned to Sirius, who was now looking amused at Remus’ expense.

“He’s just sexually frustrated.”

“I am not!”

“Merlin! Never mind!” Harry shouted, covering his ears. Sirius laughed.

It wasn’t until several minutes later, when they were all back on their feet and making their way along the stream again that their moment of madness was explained. As it turned out, Remus was frustrated, although he insisted it was because of Sirius, not because of… that.Sirius had apparently sent Remus’ girlfriend, and really that term had limited meaning amongst werewolves, to another colony, despite Remus’ objections. There were legitimate reasons behind the transfer, and Remus probably would have been fine with it eventually, except that Sirius had taken an interest in one of the new German women around the same time. Even someone as laid back as Remus could be subject to envy apparently. Then there was the matter of Jane. Remus seemed to follow Harry’s attitude in this, preferring reconciliation, although his reasons weren’t the same.

“You can’t keep treating her like a leper. It’s bad for pack morale, and it’s bad for your reputation!” the beta argued.

“My reputation?” Sirius snarled. “Do you think me kowtowing to that little bitch is going to improve my reputation?”

There had been several more minutes of fighting, luckily all of it verbal, falling along the lines that Remus thought Sirius was being stubborn, arrogant, and selfish and Sirius thought Remus was being a short-sighted ninny. Harry grew bored with the bickering quickly and decided action needed to be taken.

“If you’d just talk to her-”

“Let that viper back-”

“- not fair to make the others choose-”

“-give her power over me-”

“- make an enemy where there’s isn’t one-”

“-won’t forget what she’s done-”

“Alright, enough,” Harry said sharply, drawing their attention. “Enough, enough, enough! Let’s just not talk about it. Let’s not think about it. Let’s just have a bloody week where we’re just Padfoot, Moony, and Prongslet and no one is going to die horribly, including ourselves, if we don’t make any important decisions. You’re not Head Alpha!”

He pointed at Sirius, who stared at his finger with some bemusement.

“You’re not his baby-sitter!”

He pointed to Remus.

“Oi!” Sirius objected.

“And I’m not… er…”

What the hell was he precisely?

“The Dark Lord’s puppet?” the alpha offered. Remus slapped him upside the head.

“And I don’t know Lord Voldemort.”

And it was sad to realize how uncomplicated not knowing the man really would have made his life. Sirius looked positively delighted by this.

“Deal!” Sirius said. “I won’t mention who’s it, and you won’t mention that bastard who shall not be named, and Remus-”

“Will forget that you only have the mental capacity of an eight-year old,” said beta offered.

“Hey!”

Overhead a raven flew, cawing loudly. The werewolves paid him no mind, but to Harry it sounded as if it were laughing.

“Well that’s two less suits to worry about,” Robert said, pacing the study and depositing two large folders onto the large desk as he passed and picking up another pile. Draco, who was religiously avoiding sitting at the desk, was sprawled in a chaise, skimming through sympathy letters and checking them for curses. He had found three so far, considerably less than he had anticipated. He yawned and turned his attention to his lawyer.

“Only twenty more to go,” Draco said blandly.

“Six,Draco, just six. Three of which I can stall indefinitely if necessary. One that will probably be dropped within the month. It’s the Oldershaw and Crutchley suits we’re going to have problems with. They have easily traceable lineages to your father, and they have well-documented claims.”

“Except in my father’s Will.”

“Which doesn’t void promises made while alive.”

“I’ll pay them the damn money, but they’re not touching my property.”

“It’s not that simple and you know it. Anyone can get money, but real estate is where the real wealth lies these days. Since the Dark Lord ordered our complete isolation from muggles, we’ve had a severe restriction on where we can live. Over half the land available is owned by the Court, and the rest is already owned by other pureblood families or businesses. This land you live on is worth ten times what it did twenty years ago.”

“Spare me the lecture on my own property’s worth, please. I assure you’ve I’ve heard about it plenty of times already. I still don’t understand how they can attempt to seize the Malfoy Estate. Father never would have promised them that.”

“No, but he did promise them the castle in Ogdensea. He promised bothof them.”

“Ugh, Ogdensea. I saw it once. Only Azkaban is more depressing.”

“Their thoughts exactly it would seem. Which is why they’re trying to seize some of the land around here or one of your better town properties, since they can’t both have Ogdensea. In fact, neither of them can have it, since your father didn’t actually own it.”

“Great Aunt Gwenda is in for it any day now.”

“Wishful thinking,” Robert said dryly. “And in any case, his contracts with them were made in bad faith. It’s not a matter of if they are owed anything now, it’s just a matter of what they’re owed.”

“Damn it!” Draco snarled, jumping to his feet and stalking the room like an agitated tiger. “If my father were alive they wouldn’t have dared! They’d take what he had given them and been grateful for it! Damn him! Damn them! Damn it all to hell!”

Robert flinched back helplessly. Draco was not a large man, nor legally even a man yet, terribly pale, with shadowed eyes, and a touch on the side of too skinny, but when he was in one of these moods he was a demon. His elegant hands curled into iron-stiff fists and the energy coiled in his slender frame held an animal danger. It was times like these that Robert suspected Veela or something other than just pureblooded wizard flowing through the boy’s veins. He could only stand still and listen, hoping that he didn’t turn that thinly-veiled savagery on him.

“We have to make them suffer, Robert. We have to make them and everyone else think twice about trying to force my- the Malfoys’ hand again. They all have to be shown that even with my father gone, we’re not a bunch of pushovers!”

Robert stiffened. What precisely did Draco mean by ‘suffering’? It had better not be of the kind that Death Eaters like his father had been notorious for. He had served as Lucius’ lawyer only for a few months, but those few months had convinced him that he never wanted to work for such a man again. Draco had the potential to be more than his father, at least in character, but the strain of these constant battles was taking their toll. He was starting to slide into the tried and true methods taught to him by his predecessor. Methods that had led to many of the problems they were facing now.

Draco needed alternatives. Draco needed the support of family and friends. Draco needed to eat regularly and sleep more. Draco wasn’t getting any of those things, and Robert hated that he cared so much. He had never grown this attached to a client before.

“Okay,” Robert said, moving back to the desk and pulling out one of the files he had discarded. “I have an idea. You own an apartment complex in London called Chesterhill Terrace. It’s valuable. More valuable than Ogdensea in any event, and the property is set up in a way you could split it between the Crutchleys and Overshaws to cover both suits.”

Draco had slowed his pacing as the elder wizard talked, until he eventually stopped to stand in front of him. His arms were crossed, and he was glaring.

“I don’t see how giving in to their demands makes them suffer, Robert.”

“And if we’re very lucky neither of them will see it either until it’s too late. Here, let me show you something else.”

He handed Draco a file.

“This is the Camish Uwen Brewing Company. They’re the second largest brewing company in Britain, and well on their way to be the largest. The war made them quite a bit of money selling medical potions to the Culties, and they bought some additional property to open another factory. That property is right next to Chesterhill Terrace.”

Draco skimmed through the file more closely, his irritated expression gradually fading into one of wicked delight.

“Oh, my,” he chuckled. “It seems the only thing keeping Camish Uwen from gutting that property and turning it into a factory was an injunction by my father. He claimed the noise and smell would ruin Chesterhill Terrace’s property value.”

“They dropped their suit when I made it clear we weren’t going to lift the injunction, but perhaps we were a little hasty. There’s no reason you can’t make a friend or two in the business world by compromising here and there.”

Draco laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh, but it was better than his cursing the world, Robert thought.

“Do it!” Draco said.

“It’s not a guarantee. One or both of them might catch on-”

“That we fought the injunction, won, and then changed our minds again? They won’t think that. It’s barely been a month since my father died. They’ll think I- they’ll think my mother is caving in to the pressure and trying to get everything over and done with. They won’t see this coming. Not from her. Not from me.”

And he was right about that, of course. To the world Narcissa was a grieving widow who had shut herself off from the world, and Draco was merely a child, an untried schoolboy with no real world accomplishment to his name. But Draco had grown in the company of great men and women. His father, terrible but intelligent and accomplished, his mother, a great patron of wizarding culture and societal figurehead, his godfather a renowned potions master and headmaster of the finest wizarding school in the world, and Harry Potter, a boy whose life defied categorization or explanation. Draco had to have learned from all these people things Robert would probably never fully understand and didn’t truly want to. One day the world would learn to fear and respect Draco, but for now they would take advantage of it underestimating him.

“I’ll make arrangements,” he said taking back the folder and gathering some additional papers from around the room. “In the meantime, you should take a break. Eat something. Sleep all day. You’ve earned it.”

Draco turned away and shrugged it off.

“I’ve letters to write.”

“Draco, you need to rest,” he insisted.

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

Which would be sooner rather than later at this rate Robert was about to say but was interrupted by the door opening. They both turned to see Narcissa standing in the doorway. She was dressed elegantly in a green silk and her hair made up in an elegant weave, but the veneer of her beauty had grown thin. She was looking very much like her son. Thin, shadowed, and too pale.

“I thought I heard your father in here,” she said, glancing around the room expectantly. Robert shared a look with Draco, whose expression was suddenly unreadable.

“He had to get back to the office,” Draco said evenly. “He wanted me to go over some of the projects he was working on with Mr. Reicher. He thinks it’s time for me to learn a little more of the family business.”

Narcissa smiled at this, walking over to him and taking his face into her hands.

“It’s well past time for that. You’re such a clever boy, Draco. You’re every inch your father’s son,” she said and kissed his forehead, oblivious to the look of anguish before her very eyes. She drew back. “And where is Hermione? I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Bookstore,” Draco said, his voice growing thin. Narcissa sighed in exasperation.

“That girl, honestly. She should be spending all this free time getting to know her fiancé better.”

“Mm. He’s been just as busy as father I’m sure. Besides, she’s likes him already. He said he’d give her her own study.”

Narcissa smiled.

“Well, he certainly knows the way to our dear Hermione’s heart. When she gets back, send her to my room, won’t you? There are few things I want to talk to her about.”

“What sort of things?”

“Girl things,” she teased.

Draco laughed, a brittle sound that was worse even than the maniacal one. She left after that, slipping past Robert as if she didn’t even know he was there. Perhaps she didn’t. These days there was no telling who she realized was and wasn’t there. Draco watched her leave, grief and frustration following her until she disappeared, and he turned away in disgust.

“She’s gotten worse,” Robert remarked. “She needs a mind healer.”

Draco sneered at him.

“Obviously, but you know damn well why I can’t get one for her.”

Of course he knew. He had been the one to warn Draco about the dangers in the first place. If Narcissa was declared legally incompetent, Draco and the Malfoy estate could very easily fall into the hands of the very relatives they were currently in dispute with. Draco wouldn’t be a legal adult for several months, and his relatives could obliterate his inheritance in the meantime. Draco might have risked it even then if he had the full support of his godfather, Snape, and some positive regard from the Dark Lord. But Snape had been seriously injured recently and between rebuilding Hogwarts and tending to his new wife his hands were full, and Lord Voldemort seemed to have forgotten the Malfoy’s existence since Lucius’ funeral. To make matters worse, if it became known that Narcissa had gone mad, she would be disgraced. Even if she recovered fully, which could itself take years, she would always live under that stigma, and Draco couldn’t bring himself to do that to her.

“We just need to hold off until my birthday. Then I’ll take legal control over the Estate, and I can hire someone to treat her privately. Maybe have her sent to France. They have the best mind healers, and they’re discreet.”

“That’s a long time to keep a secret like this. She could get worse. Someone might grow suspicious.”

“I know,” Draco said and nothing more.

After all, what else could he say that hadn’t been said before? The secret would be kept because it had to be kept. The alternative was unthinkable.

Harry’s proclamation that they were to be completely normal and unburdened people, while entirely ridiculous, proved to be just the thing they all needed. Sirius hadn’t had vacation from his responsibilities since he became Head Alpha, which in turn meant neither had Remus. So this was the first real break they’d had in years, and while it took a few days for Sirius relax completely, one he did the change was remarkable. He laughed more, he teased and joked, and ran around in his animagus form to chase squirrels. It was like stepping back in time to the old Sirius, the one Harry had met that fateful summer five years before. With Sirius unwinding, something in Remus relaxed as well. He had always been Padfoot’s friend and had therefore always worried after him, but these last few years had been exhausting. Harry could see it was good for Moony to become reacquainted with his old friend again and remind him that who they had been was still there, and they still trusted each other enough to show that part of themselves.

Harry just basked in the glow of it, enjoying the familial intimacy he had been so starved of since his parents’ death. Even Bobby was there, not interfering with Harry’s time with his godfathers but hovering about as any familiar would.

Sirius and Remus led him to a small rock outcropping in the woods, where they set up camp on a wide stone platform nestled up against a small cliff that sheltered them from wind. Their tent, because there was only one, was small and dark, and made only for sleeping and taking shelter from the elements, and they spent very little time there. Early mornings and dusk were reserved for hunting deer and afternoons for boar. Here they cheated somewhat, as Padfoot enjoyed hunting in dog form best of all and with his superior sense of smell he sniffed out their prey, and then flushed them from hiding. For the first three days Harry hit nothing but small game, rabbits and a grouse, and missed hitting a deer twice, much to his disappointment. On the fourth day, a cold and drizzly morning, he finally got one. Sirius had chased the young buck right to him, and Harry had it squarely in chest. It had stumbled, but then got up and kept going in another direction, and Harry had to chase after it in the half dark of the woods, Sirius barking and rushing ahead to cut it off. His second shot caught the deer in the flank, and it fell. Once on the ground, Padfoot seized its vulnerable neck in his jaws and held it down until Harry reached it, killing it quickly with his hunting knife. It was a bloody, clumsy hunt, but he felt strangely happy when it was done.

Not so happy when Sirius made him carry the carcass back to their camp by himself.

Or when he had shown him how to clean it.

Their hunt was completed, but none of them felt particularly eager to cut their trip short. Instead, Remus cast a preservation spell on the carcass, and they spent another three days on Animagus lessons for Harry. It was harder than Harry had realized.

“Does it hurt?” Remus asked Harry, who was flexing out his good arm now bent strangely and covered with gray and black-speckled feathers. They had found an open clearing near a small, shallow lake ideal for practicing. It was early morning, and the lake was still misty in the cold winter air. It smelled of snow but the wind was still, and they wanted to get some practice in that morning while the weather held.

“It aches a little,” Harry admitted, flexing the wing this way and that.

“Then something isn’t right. It should feel tight, but not painful. Change it back.”

Harry let out a sigh and the arm returned to its normal human shape.

“I don’t get it. I have done this before, and it wasn’t nearly this difficult.”

“From what you told me, you didn’t do it so much as had it done to you. I imagine that was very unpleasant.”

Harry grimaced, remembering the experience. It had been painful and exhausting, but once he was rested it had felt surprisingly natural and easy. Now, however, he was struggling to recapture the experience, to follow that particular flow of magic that was now forever etched into the core of his being.

Behind them, Sirius was squatting on an overturned log, shirtless despite it being well below freezing and seemingly oblivious to this fact. He chuckled at them.

“The answer’s obvious.”

They both turned to him with cautious stares.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he said laughingly.

“What?” Harry blurted and turned to Remus who was now looking at him speculatively.

“He’s right. I forgot about that. Novice animagi typically aren’t able to handle fully transforming both their bodies and their clothes comfortably.”

Sirius burst out laughing at the look on Harry’s face.

“Th-that’s the look! Oh Merlin, that’s the look your father had when I suggested it the first time.”

“I’m not embarrassed!” Harry objected, because he wasn’t. Mostly. He had become relatively comfortable being nude amongst werewolves given how little modestly they held as a whole. “It’s just… cold!”

This only made Sirius laugh harder. Harry did end up stripping down eventually after Sirius built a fire for him, and this time he was able to transfigure his arm without pain. After several more attempts he was able to transform fully and found himself suddenly very short but considerably warmer.

“Well, look at you,” Sirius said, grinning down at him proudly. He slipped on his leather arm guard and came to Harry, offering it as a perch which the falcon accepted. Sirius stroked the soft, speckled feathers of his breast with his free hand. “You’re quite a handsome specimen. Your father would have been very proud.”

Harry, without even thinking about it, puffed out his chest and inadvertently fluffed his chest feathers as well, looking considerably less dignified.

“Don’t give him a big head,” Remus scolded, although he too looked rather impressed. “Try to hold that form for ten minutes and then turn back It is easy for novices to get stuck in their animal forms.”

He gave Sirius a pointed look.

“That was one time, Moony.”

“It was four times, Padfoot. Four.”

“The other three don’t count. I was drunk.”

“I still don’t know how you managed that. I mean, who the hell serves alcohol to a dog?”

“People who really like dogs but don’t like drinking alone.”

The falcon suddenly fell off his arm and landed as a heap of naked Harry in the dirt, laughing uncontrollably.

“Oi! Don’t make me- don’t make me laugh when I’m concentrating!”

There was no more practicing that day. The wind quickly picked up, and it was both too cold and too dangerous to continue. They returned to camp just as the first snowflakes began to fall. They managed to cook up some of the grouse Harry had caught earlier and then spent most the day cooped up in the tent as a snow storm blew its way through the forest.

By morning, the storm was over and the forest was blanketed in half a foot of glittering snow. It was all very pretty, until Remus and Sirius insisted Harry needed more practice back at the lake. Then it was just wet and cold. But it did give Harry plenty of incentive to transform into his falcon form as quickly as possible. Which he did. Repeatedly.

“Alright, I think he’s got it now, Moony,” Sirius said, sounding as bored of the back and forth transformations as Harry felt. “We should let him enjoy it for a while.”

Remus sighed.

“Alright, I suppose you’ve earned it. Why don’t you practice flying for a bit? No more than ten minutes and not too high or far, alright?”

Harry was in the air in an instant, his large powerful wings beating furiously to give him lift and speed. Like flying on a broom, Harry found he had a natural talent for flying as a bird. He had flown as a falcon before with Bobby during their escape from Hausteheim, and he remembered his lessons from that day well. The air was calm again that morning, which meant he had to fly harder to gain lift but maneuvering in the air was made simpler, and he managed several spins and turns and loops around his admiring godfathers. At some point, Bobby joined in on the fun and together they played an impromptu game of aerial tag. Harry was faster by benefit of species, but at their limited height and distance his advantage was a small one, and the game proved challenging and exciting as he raced after the raven around the now half-frozen lake.

He was enjoying himself so much he hadn’t thought twice when he had followed Bobby out over the lake. In fact, he didn’t concern himself with much of anything until his left arm suddenly spasmed, agony shooting up through the limb and into his chest. The wing buckled, and he started to fall.

“Harry!” someone screamed, but it was too late. He couldn’t unfold his wing. His magic was unweaving itself, and he felt himself panic. He struck something, but it wasn’t ice or water, and he was too stunned to move for a moment as he felt himself suddenly lifted and carried, clumsily and with great effort. His first instinct was to seize the thing beneath him, to dig his talons into it and hold on for dear life, but he realized just in time the thing beneath him was white and feathered and alive.

Elsbeth!

She carried him over the icy water, her wings beating furiously to keep them both up and upright. She barely managed to reach land before Harry finally lost his place on her back and rolled off into the snow. His tenuous hold on his magic snapped, and his body returned to its natural form. With it a fresh new wave of agony ran up his arm. It was excruciating, but he knew it for what it was. He had felt it before, at the Battle of Hogwarts when the Dark Lord’s venomous blood had mixed with his own. Worse than the pain was the fear, the blinding terror of feeling the poison spread, slowly making its way towards his heart.

“Harry, Harry! What’s wrong?!” Remus was shouting, pulling off his cloak and wrapping him in it.

“My arm! It’s the blood. Goddess, it’s the blood. It’s killing me,” he cried.

“How? The healers said it was harmless now, didn’t they?”

Yes, the healers had said that. Sort of. No, not really. The healers hadn’t had a clue on what to do about it, and said it would merely need to be watched. The pain, still there but fading every day, had been manageable. Why was this happening now?

“Damn fucking bunch of quacks,” Sirius snarled, and then lifted the bundled Harry into his arms as if he were merely a small child. “It’s alright, Harry, I know what to do.”

“Where are you going?” Remus asked, sounding as terrified as Harry felt.

“Jane. I’m taking him to Jane.”

Through the haze of agony and panic, there was suddenly a feeling of distorted gravity and the telltale sensation of apparation.

McGonagall sat in the Snape cottage living room that doubled as the library, sipping tea and quietly marveling at the place. She had visited the cottage before, once or twice, but every time she came she felt slightly disoriented when attempting to attach ownership of the pretty little house with its abundant windows, cheery white painted furniture, and hand-woven rugs with the dark and hawkish man currently seated near the fire. Snape’s quarters in the dungeons at Hogwarts seemed much more in character with the man, but perhaps that was the prejudice of first impressions. He didn’t look the least bit uncomfortable in the cottage, and the masculine touch of his book collection and old Herbology prints hanging on the wall lent something of his personality to the place.

“Would you like some more tea, dear?” Ira asked as she wandered into the living room from the kitchen. She touched his shoulder lightly, affectionately, and McGonagall couldn’t help but be transfixed.

“We’re both quite well stocked,” he said, patting her hand lightly in return. “Why don’t you stay? I’m sure this conversation will interest you.”

McGonagall took a sip of her tea to hide her smile. The two really were quite smitten with each other. Snape seemed to sense her amusement, however, and leveled an annoyed look at her.

“Down to business then,” she said. “As I am sure you’ve probably already guessed, the school board is completely out of its depth with this current situation.”

“I am not surprised. It’s a catastrophe. Normally Lord Voldemort would give this his personal attention and seize control over the situation, but he’s busy in France at the moment. Then Narcissa Malfoy, the only real leadership on the board, resigned.”

“You’re right, of course. The board seems more interested in who is in charge than actually addressing any of our problems. I’ve been to three board meetings already and nothing’s been done, but then I can’t really criticize. I’m at a loss myself.”

Snape nodded thoughtfully, tapping the edge of his cane. The cane was a new addition, along with the metal brace on his left leg. McGonagall had politely refrained from acknowledging it, but secretly it worried her. Hogwarts was not a place for those not quick on their feet. Even the oldest of teachers still had to be light of foot to manage the castle’s many stairways.

Ira spoke with her usual genteel optimism.

“There’s still some time. Surely, it’s still too soon to bring the students back into the school routine just yet. This was a terrible shock and many of them lost friends as well as teachers.”

McGonagall shook her head.

“Children need routine to heal. It reassures them that life as they knew it isn’t over. While a few more days for mourning aren’t unreasonable, they should still resume classes as soon as possible. Particularly the seventh year students who will have to take their N.E.W.T.s in order to move on to university next year. No, I’m afraid we can’t be laid back about this.”

“Surely someone has offered up some ideas? Even bad ones,” Snape asked.

“Yes, but nothing practical in the long run. I’ve received several offers from parents to tutor their children, as have the other professors, but tutoring on an individual basis isn’t fair to the other students and is against our teaching contract. Prunella Ticklebank thought we should set up a temporary school, but I can’t imagine where we would find some place to both house so many students and staff and still have room to teach classes, or how we would afford it even if such a place existed.”

Snape considered, but it was Ira who came up with an idea first.

“Is it really necessary that we provide room and board under the circumstances?” Ira said. “The important part here is that education continues. The children could come to school during the weekdays, then go home to their families in the evenings and weekends.”

“I don’t think daily commuting would be fair or practical for most of the students,” McGonagall said. Snape, however, saw possibilities.

“Not if we expected everyone to go to the same place, but perhaps if we set up several small schools around the country and rotated our staff to the classroom on a set schedule… yes, that might work. We can probably convince local businesses and some of the larger estates to spare some warehouses or guest houses for lessons. Particularly if we can get Lord Voldemort to throw in a tax break of some kind.”

“Do you think he’ll do that?”

Taxes were one of the banes of every British witch and wizard. Voldemort taxed like a tyrant, rich and poor alike, with few offers of leniency except for the truly destitute and those who served the government in some capacity. Would providing real estate for educational purposes fall under assisting the country? McGonagall thought so, but the Dark Lord might have higher standards.

“Perhaps. He may demand certain standards for these ‘classrooms’, but that’s probably for the best. It wouldn’t be proper for students to be educated in an old tool shed for instance.”

“That’s certainly the best idea I’ve heard all week,” she said, relaxing a little. There would still be the problem of finding appropriate classrooms quickly, then contacting parents, students, and teachers about the new routine. Lessons would have to be adjusted for lack of certain supplies and no school library, and then there was the matter of finding replacement professors for Arithmancy and Potions. Still, it was a start. “I’ll present it to the board in tomorrow’s meeting… unless you feel up to going yourself? You’re still the Headmaster and something of a war hero. They’ll be more apt to listen to you than some underling going behind your back.”

Snape gave her sardonic smile.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Minerva, and unfortunately it won’t get me anywhere either.”

He taped the brace on his leg lightly with his cane. It was the first overt acknowledgment of his injury he had made since she arrived.

“Is it very serious?” she finally had the nerve to ask.

“It’s very painful, but I wouldn’t say very serious. I should recover full mobility… eventually. I’ll write some letters to the board directly endorsing the idea. No one is going to accuse you of subversion.”

“My goodness, who is on this school board? Grindelwald?” Ira asked, sounding utterly exasperated. The conversation turned to other subjects after that. McGonagall asked after Harry and Draco, and if there had been any more word on Hermione. Snape asked about the other teachers and how they were faring personally and financially after their impromptu departure from the castle, while Ira prompted conversations about the country in general, the negotiations with Germany, and the rebuilding in London. This in turn circled the conversation back to Snape and Ira, and whether they intended to go to France to attend the negotiations themselves. Snape seemed to think it unlikely he would be able to attend due to his leg, but since Harry would receive an invitation it was difficult to say if he’d be expected to go as well, and how he could politely decline the offer. When the conversation, surprisingly pleasant, began to wind down, McGonagall excused herself in order for Snape to complete his letters to the school board. Snape didn’t get up from his chair, but Ira escorted her to the door and sent her off with an affectionate hug and thank you for the extra company.

When Ira returned to the study, however, she fixed Snape with a rather perplexed expression. He smiled up at her innocently, which he only ever did when he was being facetious.

“Why did you make her think your leg was still bothering you?” she asked.

“Clearly you’ve never been to a school board meeting, or you wouldn’t be asking me that.”

“Why you little scoundrel.”

He just smiled at her until she laughed. She gathered up McGonagall’s teacup and headed back to the kitchen, and Snape shoved himself out of his chair. His injured leg was stiff, but his limp relatively minor, and he carried his cane to the kitchen rather than use it to support his weight. He wasn’t fully recovered yet, but the magical brace allowed him to move freely, and the cane only proved necessary when climbing stairs or steep inclines. Besides, he found the cane quite fashionable. He thought Lucius would have approved.

In the kitchen, he sat down to write the letters he’d promised McGonagall, while Ira went about making dinner.

“So why did you really lie about your leg?” she asked in between charming eggs to break into a bowl and divide themselves into yolk and white.

“Hm? Just some things I wish to sort out first. Draco hasn’t returned any of my letters.”

“That poor boy, losing his father like he did, and then being there for the attack on the school-”

“I am quite fortunate for him having been there, but obviously it hasn’t left him wishing to be more sociable. He had quite a shouting match with Potter at the hospital when I saw him last.”

At this, she could only sigh sadly. She felt terribly sorry for both boys and hoped they would be able to make up.

“Then there’s the matter of the baby,” he said, causing her to stop mid-way through a boiling charm to look at him. “We’ll want to schedule another consultation with Healer Jacobi, and then perhaps another specialist in pre-natal care. Then we’ll talk to that real estate agent from last year and see if any of those properties in Hogsmeade are still available.”

“Isn’t it a bit early for house hunting? The cottage should be just fine for a few years.”

Snape shrugged.

“Hogsmeade property values are still low right now with all the mess still left from last year’s attack. Who knows how high they’ll be again by the time the school reopens?”

“I knew I married you for a reason,” she chuckled.

“And here I thought it was for my good looks,” he muttered offhandedly as he continued to write. Even as he sat there joking with his wife and writing his letter, he felt his thoughts wandering to darker places. He had only partly spoken the truth about why he had lied to McGonagall. He did need time to sort out some things, and some of those things would be the ones he mentioned. But more important than all of them was the matter with the Dark Lord. Now that he had been discharged from the hospital and had some free time on his hands to ‘recover’, it was time to address the matter that had been left unresolved since the confrontation in his office by Amelon and Voldemort. Harry had told him of the reprieve he gained for him, and Snape was genuinely, if reluctantly, grateful for it. While he had not seen either the Inquisitor or the Dark Lord since, he wasn’t fooled into believing that things were settled despite what Harry had done for him. Voldemort was still holding a grudge towards him, and he would never rest easy while that loomed over his head.

Ira finished dinner, and he took a break from his letter writing to enjoy a meal together, discussing the reopening of the Wizarding College of London and the Scholastic Summer Conference that would be held for the first time since the start of the war. They talked about adding a solarium to the house they would buy so she could raise specimens for her own research, and he could grow his potion’s ingredients year-round. When their domestic conversation was done, she tidied up with a couple of spells and retired to their rooms.

Snape watched her go, his minding whirling with thoughts of the future, aspirations and dangers both. Then he pulled out one last sheaf of paper for one last letter.

My Lord Voldemort…

It was snowing heavily as Sirius and Harry apparated into the Goddess Colony, the world muted and hushed. Sirius could hear his godson’s every pained breath and raving heartbeat booming in his ears and nothing else. But they were not alone. Even in the infancy of a blizzard there were still pack members wandering outside, completing chores or stretching their legs. A woman dropped a bundle as they appeared out of thin air, and the alpha turned to snap at her.

“Bring Jane to my cabin. Now!” he snarled, and she dashed away towards the dining hall as if he were chasing after her.

He took Harry to their cabin and placed him on the bed, covering his naked, shivering form in blankets. Harry’s blackened arm had stiffened, and his fingers had curled into twitching claws. The boy himself said nothing. What else needed to be said after his last terrified cry? He merely stared up at the ceiling and tried to control his breathing, refusing to look his godfather in the eye, to see the fear there or show him his own.

There were no medical supplies in the cabin, but Sirius found a strip of leather and used it as a tourniquet to tie off Harry’s arm. If the poison was indeed spreading, then it would hopefully slow it down. There was nothing else he could do for Harry himself. Frustrated and scared, he stalked the room, rekindling the fire and lighting the remaining two lamps and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long, although it was not Jane who burst through the door first.

“Harry!” Luna gasped and leaped for the bed, landing at Harry’s feet and crawling forward to hover over him. Terrified green eyes met wild silver.

Sirius snarled at her, and she snarled back with equal savagery. He nearly backhanded her off the bed for her impertinence, but his godson was suddenly clutching at her with his blackened hand.

“Luna,” he whispered, “It hurts. Why does it hurt?”

She turned to him, lifting his arm and kissing it gently, hushing him like a frightened child.

“It will be okay. Shhh… hush now. Be calm. Hush…”

Jane appeared in the doorway, a crowd of curious werewolves at her back, but she shut the door on them as she entered. Her gaze found Sirius, and for a moment they were locked in a silent battle of wills, anger and resentment flickering between them, followed by despair and fear, and finally hope. She turned her attention towards Harry and climbed onto the bed, her child’s body moving Luna aside with incongruous physical authority. The boy’s hand still clutched at her, and Jane did not make him let go as she examined the arm. She sniffed at the darkened appendage and followed the scent all the way down to Harry’s chest and head, finding the traces of poison in his breath. She pulled the blankets down to his stomach and hovered her hands over his trembling form, then pressed gently at his neck to feel his pulse, then at the discolored skin to test its tenderness.

The entire examination only lasted a few minutes but to everyone else in the room it seemed to last for an eternity. Finally, Jane straightened and turned to Luna.

“Get the black knives, a large bowl, and the bezoars. And bring Celestia. Hurry, he hasn’t much time.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Luna said, more to Harry than anyone else as she pried his hand from her arm. She disappeared through the door a moment later.

“What is happening?” Harry asked weakly. “Why is it hurting now? It was getting better.”

“No, it was never getting better. You were merely getting better at ignoring it,” Jane said evenly.

“But why is-”

“You’ve been practicing magic,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Harry said nothing.

“The poison, the blood, was content to remain dormant in your arm. Its inherent magic stabilized it there. In time, it would have incorporated itself into the muscles and bones and gradually spread to the rest of your body. It may have taken years, but eventually you would have been much like the God Eater. Strange, immortal, poisonous.”

A low growl emanated from deep within Sirius.

“But the metamorphosis was dependent on your own magic remaining dormant. When you activated it you set off a chain reaction, forcing the two disparate magics to fight for your one body. It will kill you in the end.”

“It will not,” Sirius said darkly and in those three words was a promise of what would happen if it did.

“Are you going to cut off my arm?” Harry said with deceptive calmness, staring up at the ceiling once again.

“It may come to that. It is not my first or only option,” she replied, nothing deceptive in her calmness at all. And nothing comforting in it either.

Voldemort surveyed the French Office of Parliament thoughtfully while aides and advisers hovered at his shoulder, awaiting his approval or instruction. The French Wizarding Parliament met there in the Bourges Palace every fall to discuss the affairs of state, but the Queen had graciously lent it out to the Dark Lord for the negotiations with Germany. The conference room was laid out much like a very large amphitheater style lecture hall; rows upon rows of adjoined desks elevated towards the back and sloping gradually downwards towards a small stage at the bottom with a lectern at the center, and tables and chairs set at the periphery. However, only the layout was in any way academic. The rest of the chamber was entirely artful and rife with symbolism.

The chamber was a curious combination of cathedral-like solemnity and palatial opulence. The southern-facing windows were tall and narrow, bordered in a mosaics of stained glass that changed color depending on the light streaming through it and overlooking the palace gardens. The ceiling was high and domed, a fresco of angels flying amidst fluffy white clouds with spears in their hands and no god to be seen. The desks were all a beautiful mahogany, and all different in design and intricacy, the heraldic symbols of those serving office painted across the front, all of them attempting to boast some sort of superiority in design as if it represented some sort of superiority in the witch or wizard who sat there. Voldemort rather liked the effect and considered incorporating it into the Wizengamot. The walkways and staircases were marked with deep crimson carpeting, but the rest of the room was a complicated pattern of the fleur-de-lis in varying shades of gold. A statue of Juno[1] in white marble and gold stood at the front of the chamber, her seven-arched crown brushing the ceiling as she stared down at the assembly, and her robes flowing down onto the stage, giving it the illusion of protection to whomever stood upon it.

In only a few days, hundreds of German and British witches and wizards would be gathered there, ironing out the details of Germany’s surrender to the Dark Lord. The Treaty of Hasselt which had been signed in Belgium the week before had ended the fighting, but it was an incomplete document meant only to prevent further bloodshed as the German community mourned their dead while Britain prepared its list of demands. Voldemort considered the number of representatives to call in from either side of the conflict. Should he allow more British than Germans to emphasize their superior power or more Germans than British to demonstrate how truly impotent they were despite their greater number? There would be representatives of France and Poland present, ensuring their own conditions were met during the negotiations. The press, British and foreign, were all demanding representatives be present for the historic occasion, but Voldemort was reluctant allow them admittance, as they tended to turn everything into a circus. Then there would be the honorary guests, General Lestrange, Intelligence Commander Morgan, and various other military officials. He had sent an invitation to Blackbone to sit in on the proceedings as well, but hadn’t heard back from him. That was too bad, as it would have livened things up considerably if the werewolf lost his temper and bashed in one of the German’s heads with his fist in a fit of pique.

He had a special place in mind just for Harry.

“We will need to replace all the desks, unfortunately,” Voldemort said finally. “They take up too much room and the heraldic symbols may create confusion. Replace them with narrower tables and chairs. We will need to fit in nearly four hundred people and this room won’t accommodate half that number right now. Replace the lectern with the judge’s bench. Negotiations could take days, and I have no intention of standing through all of it.”

“Yes, my Lord,” one of his aides said, scribbling down his orders.

“And get some curtains for the windows. It’s too damn cheery in here.”

“My Lord.”

Voldemort turned to see Morgan had entered the room and was already scanning it for potential security risks. He waved off the aides and advisers and summoned his minion closer. He could already tell by Morgan’s expression that it wasn’t going to be all good news.

“Tell me, my friend,” Voldemort said without preamble.

“They are outraged.”

The Dark Lord snorted. The losers were always outraged.

“Let me guess. It’s the money?”

“Yes. You’re going to financially cripple most of them with your demands. Not even the war with Grindelwald threatened to take away their ancestral holdings. They’re panicking.”

“And do they have the resources and fortitude to start the war anew?” he asked.

“There may be an assassination attempt or two, but none have the necessary support to start the war again by themselves. It is the muggleborns and half-bloods who are the most threat.”

“They usually are. Are they sore about the massacre of their inept army? They have only themselves to blame for that.”

“There are a number of angry relatives, yes, but that’s not the dangerous issue.”

Voldemort sighed. Why did peace have to be so tedious? Had it been this tedious after he won Britain and Ireland?

“Tell me then.”

“The MCSA[2] and WYRA Initiative.”

“Merlin, that won’t go into effect for at least a year. What are they whining about?”

“The same thing the British muggle-borns and half-bloods were whining about when you did it to them.”

Voldemort felt a wave of annoyance.

“I will never understand this loyalty to the biologically inferior. Britain has made a very successful transition into a segregated society and has grown stronger because of it.”

“It is not a matter of superiority. It is a matter of family.”

“Family isn’t an inherent right, Morgan. It is not something everyone is entitled to at the expense of society as a whole.”

Voldemort would know. His mother was a blood traitor, stupid and weak, whose unnatural affections for a base muggle had resulted in her miserable death and his miserable childhood. He had come into his understanding of magic late because of magical society’s disinterest in their unclaimed magical children and struggled terribly through his younger years to make up for the disadvantages this had created in him. Had it not been for his own natural brilliance in magic and the mentoring of Carrigan, an extraordinary wizard himself, he may never have bridged the gap.

He saw the same story playing out for Harry, a child completely ignorant of his magical birthright until even later in life than Tom Riddle and left in the oftentimes cruel and negligent care of muggles. Harry had also struggled at first with little to distinguish him amongst his more experienced peers and no prospects to look forward to, but once he had found himself a place at Voldemort’s side and under the watch of a worthy guardian, he had flourished in the most remarkable ways.

How often had this story played itself out to less happy ends? How many muggle-borns and half-bloods never found their place in magical society and abandoned it for the banal security of the muggle world? How many magical gifts remained stunted or lost because of the condemnation of ignorant muggle guardians? How many Purebloods had shirked their responsibility to safeguard the traditions of their race and instead held themselves proud and aloof in their own ignorant decadence?

Too often and too much.

With the complete segregation from the muggle world, Voldemort had seen the magical world flourish. Their world was a relatively small one, and now that wizarding kind in Britain was solely focused on it, many of the problems that had plagued it were finally being resolved to satisfaction.

“Regardless, they haven’t any choice in the matter. They lost the war, and I won’t have them slipping off into the muggle world to get out of the consequences of it.”

“It will be difficult to keep them obedient to the edicts. We haven’t the manpower to keep watch over every witch and wizard, and they’ll figure that out quickly enough.”

“Then we will have the Purebloods do it for us.”

Morgan blinked at him.

“Sir?”

“All those panicky Purebloods, my friend, so desperate to cling to their wealth and their power. Why not have that work for us rather than against us? They can be my German Deatheaters, my eyes and my wand. The more they can keep their people in line the more they can keep of their own. Perhaps we will need to reorganize Germany under a fief system with one Lord or Lady overseeing the governing of a region or city. Hhhmmm… yes, I think that might work. It’ll keep the country from uniting against us again when their young generation is old enough to fight.”

The more he thought of it, the more he liked the idea. It would be far simpler to govern twenty or thirty lords rather than several thousand individual witches and wizards and with his personal attention he was certain he could win over a majority of those Purebloods to his way of thinking. After all, many of those Purebloods were from families who had supported Grindelwald and his way of thinking. It wouldn’t take much to show them he was the Dark Lord that would fulfill those promises that Grindelwald had failed to. And if anyone objected? Well, there were always others ambitious for a title, happy to sell their talents and their souls to get it.

“The Germans won’t be the only ones objecting to the MCSA and WYRA,” Morgan said, interrupting his train of thought. Voldemort just looked at him expectantly. “The French will object.”

The Dark Lord frowned. Of course the French would object. The French wizarding society was so integrated with muggles you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between them if the witch or wizard wasn’t holding a wand in their hand. There were almost no wizarding towns or even neighborhoods in urban France, only islands of shops and houses and government offices floating in a sea of muggleness. It was highly aggravating, and if Voldemort had been expected to appear anywhere outside the large royal estates for any length of time he didn’t think he would be able to stand it. And yet, the French themselves were strangely proud of themselves for it. No other wizarding society in Europe was as at ease with its muggle population as they were, and they seemed to think the rest of the continent would benefit from their example.

It was a matter that had been glossed over when Voldemort had made allies with the Queen of France. The Dark Lord’s civil war had been more about governmental reform than Pureblood ideology, and despite the suggestion that it had been a genocide against those of muggle descent, the subsequent years of peace had given more weight to his statement of wanting what was best for all wizarding kind rather than the opinion he had been on a simple hate campaign. His public friendship with Harry Potter, a WYRA rescue and half-blood himself, had lent further credence to his character, as had the peaceful establishment of the werewolf colonies both in Britain and France.

But now it seemed peace would be the true test of France’s faith in Lord Voldemort.

“We’ll simply make it a matter of security. We can’t afford to have a German resistance hiding amongst the muggles, nor evading the financial restitution each witch and wizard is expected pay for their part in this war.”

“It won’t hold up for long, and the French won’t ignore it.”

“But they won’t go to war over it either,” Voldemort said. “They won’t risk the same fate as the Germans they helped to conquer. Not yet in any case.”

Luna returned minutes later with Celestia, the supplies, and still more curious werewolves gathered outside the cabin. Harry had broken out into a sweat, despite the coolness inside, and a bitter taste had formed in his mouth. Jane placed a bezoar, a shriveled, kidney-like stone, in his mouth and told him to suck on it. The bad taste went away and with it some of his fear, but the fever remained. Sirius continued to pace, out of the way but still an overwhelming presence in the small room. Harry was glad he was there. He welcomed the distraction because impossibly the pain had somehow gotten worse.

Jane, Luna, and Celestia conversed for a minute near the door. Celestia left, presumably to get more supplies, and Jane and Luna climbed onto the bed. Luna pulled the bezoar he had been sucking on out of his mouth and placed it in her own. His heart skipped a beat as he watched her, and it was not from the poison. She knelt beside him, placing her knee on his shoulder even as she lifted his arm, holding it firm at the elbow and wrist.

“Don’t be scared,” she said. She was smiling at him, and it wasn’t fake or forced. He felt himself relax a little, even though his heart refused to stop pounding and he couldn’t catch his breath. Another hand slipped into his right, and he squeezed it tightly, feeling the raw strength of it in the calluses and scars. But he didn’t look at Sirius, and soon he wasn’t looking at Luna either. He was looking at Jane and the obsidian knives she held in either hand. She whispered something (a prayer or a spell?) and brought the blades to her lips, then slipped a bezoar into her mouth and brought the blades down slowly. One blade traced the width of his wrist, so sharp there was not even a sting at first until the flesh parted and black blood boiled up and out. The second slid across the inner bend of his elbow, and soon it was bleeding profusely as well.

Jane latched onto his bleeding wrist and began to suck. At his elbow, Luna did the same. Harry felt very little pain, but there was a shock. It was not an electric shock. It wasn’t even a shock of surprise; the clues had been there after all. It was a shock of magic. His, the poisoned blood’s, Luna’s, Jane’s. Too many sources of magic of such differing types pushing and pulling at his body, creating chaos for his magus hypersentia. He gasped and tightened his hand in Sirius’. There was magic here too, but familiar and safely thrumming beneath a layer of skin. It was just there, not trying to pull him apart or put him together.

“It’s alright, Harry,” Sirius said, squeezing back gently. “You’re doing great.”

Luna suddenly drew back, her mouth black, and spit into the bowl. She rolled the bezoar in her mouth for a moment, then went back to suckling at his open wound. A moment later, Jane did the same. Harry closed his eyes and turned away.

After that, things became confusing. He kept his eyes closed, trying to sort through the many strange sensations and the twist and pull of magic in and around him, while Sirius’ hand in his kept him grounded. The room was swimming, even with his eyes closed, and at times he felt like he was in the ocean, rising and falling, tumbling and spinning as if caught in a wave without any sense of up or down. Time seemed to skip from one moment to the next without flow or context. Dreaming and waking were all the same.

The pain gave way to nausea. The nausea gave way to weakness. The weakness didn’t gave way to anything, but was soon joined by cold.

He must have slept because he woke as he was pulled upright. He blinked blearily, unable to focus, only to realize a moment later he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Where were his glasses? Had they left them by the lake? He felt something pressed to his lips and swallowed instinctively. He grimaced at the bitter, coppery-sweet taste of Blood Replenishing potion. He groaned.

“Ssshhh, sleep. You must sleep now,” Luna’s voice, always a touch on the dreamy side, pulled him back into the quiet darkness.

When next he woke, if it could be called waking, his forehead was pressed to hers, the arch of their noses fitted together, and they shared the same breathe, slightly sour with poisoned blood and herbs. Her eyes were shut, but he could see them flickering back and forth behind her eyelids. He wanted to kiss them and feel them moving beneath his lips.

“Let her rest,” another voice said, young, feminine, dangerous, and he felt a shift of weight against his right side. The sudden awareness of Jane curled up against him made him suddenly aware of others within the room. He could hear the light and heavy snores of other werewolves and Sirius’ callused hand still gently gripping his own.

They were all there together. Sirius, Luna, Jane, himself, and probably Remus too.

A highly dangerous combination.

He smiled at the thought and closed his eyes again.

“It’s entirely unfair,” Enid sighed, looking up from her book of poetry to her roommate, who was immersed in a very dull sounding history of Paris in its original French, a dictionary readily available (and frequently used) on the nightstand beside her. “It’s not like Lorelei knows anybody in England. She said so herself. How’s she going to find work? Where’s she going to stay?”

Hermione sighed. Enid was normally a very easy-going girl, but ever since Lorelei had announced her intentions to go to England, she had been sulky and depressed. Hermione sympathized with her, but she had even more reasons to want to head home, and her inability to share them left her slightly bitter.

“She probably thinks she has some rich, Pureblood relatives she doesn’t know about just waiting for their long lost niece or cousin to come back and stay with them. Don’t stress yourself out about it. Even if she could afford a take the ferry, she’ll never get her papers without a proper wand.”

While Britain had begun the process of re-opening its borders to British refugees wanting to come home, it was neither simple nor cheap. Many of the witches and wizards that had left Britain to escape the Dark Lord had done so without much in the way of funds and had quickly sunk to the bottom of the social ladder within the wizarding world. Too many English wizards without funds or with job skills already met by the local natives meant many poorer wizarding families had either accepted low-paying jobs amongst wizarding kind or else tried their luck with muggle employment. The result was a young generation of witches and wizards without wands or basic spell knowledge. Britain had no muggle world to support these unskilled magic-users, and there was a not-so-subtle contempt for any witch or wizard who could use magic and yet decided it was not worthwhile to learn. It meant Lorelei, who had her late mother’s wand but neither the connection with it nor the skill necessary to cast a spell, wasn’t going anywhere despite what she said even if she could afford the registration and application fees. Unfortunately, it also meant Enid wasn’t going anywhere either.

“I don’t have a wand.”

“But you’re saving up for one. That’s put you way ahead of Lorelei in getting home.”

“I don’t know how to use it though. What if I’m not any good?”

“Then you’ll just have to keep practicing until you’re good enough. They’re not expecting you to be the next Merlin.”

“Will you teach me some spells when I get my wand?”

“Of course, I’ll- What? How would I teach you? I don’t have a wand either.”

Enid looked at her guilelessly.

“But you used to, didn’t you?”

Hermione felt her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. How did she know? She had always kept her wand and spellbooks hidden and her trunk locked. What had given her away?

“Why do you say that?”

“I dunno. It’s just something about the way you move about. It’s different than people who don’t know how to use magic. And you’re always reading those smart people books and have those nice clothes. I figured you used to come from a family that could afford to get you a wand.”

Oh… oh, Merlin, she had been an idiot. An unforgivably stupid idiot. Had she really thought she was being clever? Subtle? Enid had noticed something wasn’t right about her, and why shouldn’t she? The girl was poorly educated, but she wasn’t stupid and they shared practically every moment of the day together. And if Enid had noticed, surely Mrs. Prewitt had noticed? And who else?

“Don’t look like that, Heloise. I won’t say anything to anyone. You’ve got your reasons, I’m sure, and you’ll tell me when you’re good and ready. Just don’t think I’m entirely thick.”

“Enid, I-”

“Haaaloooo!” a call interrupted from down the stairs, followed by the sound of footsteps pounding their way up. The door burst open, allowing in Lorelei with her usual dramatic flair. She was dressed in her receptionist uniform and holding a bouquet of flowers. “Heloise, look what someone left you at the front desk! Aren’t they beautiful?!”

She scampered across the room and laid them right in Hermione’s arms, like a new baby for a new mother. Hermione had to abandon her book to take them and sat there feeling rather silly buried in blankets, books, and flowers all at once.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?” Lorelei scolded. “Is he new? Where did you meet him? Did you know about this, Enid?”

“No, nothing,” the girl said, climbing out of her own bed to come and see the flowers for herself. She approached cautiously, as if expecting them to suddenly explode. Hermione was feeling rather the same way.

“There’s no card,” Enid pointed out.

No, Hermione mentally noted, there wasn’t, but then there really didn’t need to be. Narcissa had taught her the symbolism of flowers, and while less interesting than their uses as potions ingredients, she had endeavored to remember her lessons. Anemone and baby’s breath for unfading love, blue hyacinth for constancy, purple hyacinth for forgiveness, lavender heather for admiration, and white heather for protection. A beautiful, melancholy bouquet for a beautiful, melancholy sort of love.

“I’m in so much trouble,” Hermione said to Enid once Lorelei had gone.

Her roommate’s reply to this was to lock the window, close the curtains, and hang her cross on the door handle.

1. Juno is the goddess of State, and is a national symbol in France. She is also the model for the Statue of Liberty in New York, an American-French collaboration.↩

2. The MCSA is short for the Muggle Cultural Segregation Agency, which can be considered the adult side of WYRA. It’s in charge of separating adult witches and wizards from muggles and muggle society and culture. Remember, there was originally a number of adult wizards married to muggles or with muggle relatives and friends. They couldn’t afford to have their memories erased like small children could, so the MCSA went about separating the magical folk from the muggles through other means, and of course erasing or altering the muggles’ memories of the magical folk. They’re also in charge of keeping out muggle contraband and preventing wizarding folk from traveling within muggle territory. Ron talked a little bit about this with Hermione and Natalie when he escorted them through muggle London, and Fred and George have quite a business in illegal muggle contraband.↩

Off Guard Moments I

Harry sat on the wall and stared into the forest, heedless of the wind and the cold. The blood magic imbued in the mortar of the wall felt hot against his legs, but he was so full of magic, most of it not his own, he hardly felt it. So full of magic, he felt empty of anything else. For once his heart was quiet. No fears, no longings, no hopes, no anything. Just a great hollowness that would be terrible if he had any horror left to spare it.

“It will pass,” Luna said. She was sitting beside him, facing the opposite direction, and occupying herself with braiding a rope of some kind. She hadn’t left his side since he woke up, and yet whatever it was she was doing it didn’t feel like hovering. He wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t been following her all morning.

“I feel…”

“I know.”

“Is this what it was like for you when the goddess left you?”

“It is what it was like when the goddess was a part of me.”

“How can one feel so full of something and yet so empty at the same time?”

“You are not empty, just overwhelmed.”

Harry thought on that for a moment, but the thought led nowhere. Before him the forest was a study in gray. The sky was gray, the barren trees were gray, and even the snow was now a dirty gray slush. The world had been bleached of color, and his mind felt starved from the lack of variety. He turned to Luna, seeking out the corn-silk yellow of her hair and the rosy stain of her wind-bitten cheeks.

“I will have to trust you on that.”

She looked up from her rope and stared back at him.

“And do you trust me, Harry?”

He blinked at the intensity of her gaze and finally felt the first stirrings of… something. Something that wasn’t magic. Or at least a different kind.

“I… no. I’m sorry.”

She leaned towards him until her arm pressed against his and her head rested on his shoulder. He brushed her hair lightly with his left hand, the formerly blackened limb now molted with purple and blue bruises. It looked even worse than before it had been bled, but the pain had faded to a dull ache he could push to the back of his mind. Now he could run his fingers through her hair and feel the beads and feathers and the odd twig or bur buried in it.

“It’s alright. I’m sorry that I am not trustworthy.”

He sighed.

“Do you think there could ever be peace and trust between us? Could we find some sort of compromise between your love for me and your loyalty to your father and for my love for you and my loyalty to my godfather?”

“I do not understand why there has not been peace already,” she said, a hint of accusation in her voice. “The war is over, our pack was avenged in Berlin. The only problem now is that Blackbone refuses to make the appropriate offerings to the dead.”

The emotional numbness of moments before suddenly sharpened into irritation.

“Oh, is that the only problem?” he said bitingly.

He couldn’t see her face, but the hesitation before she spoke made him think she was at least a little contrite.

“Greyback is a god to our pack. He looks after our dead and avenged their deaths. He deserves our love and respect.”

“Alright, I’ll go along with that. But in looking after the dead he messed with the lives of the living. I nearly died, Luna. Some of our brothers did die, and all of us would have died if Voldemort hadn’t come to rescue us. Looking after the dead doesn’t give him the right to treat the living like they’re expendable.”

Luna remained silent for a long time after that. He wasn’t so foolish as to believe he had convinced her with his argument. He had been brushed by the divine time and again and that had left its mark on his magic and his thinking, but he had never been influenced to the extent that Luna had. He couldn’t even begin to guess where her thoughts were leading her.

“We all eventually die, Harry. We will all be a part of my father’s court. Even your godfathers must bow down to him eventually.”

“But Luna, the dead and the living are different. They have different needs. Greyback can’trule both, and Blackbone won’t willingly play the puppet king for him. There has to be boundaries.”

“Boundaries?” She lifted her head to look him in the eye, her expression disbelieving. “Where do you draw the line between what was and what is? Between the magical and the mundane and the divine? How could you… can any of us, make that distinction? And if we did, would the world be any better for it?”

He closed his eyes and ran his bruised hand through his hair, frustration mounting. It wasn’t the first emotion he would have chosen to have, but it was something. As difficult as this conversation was, he was relieved he was beginning to feel human once again.

“You’re a shaman. You know there are boundaries. You spend much of your time crossing them or tearing them down, but you can’t ignore them. They’re not absolute or infallible, but they are there for a reason. If there is to be that peace and trust between our families we want, we have to decide where those boundaries lay and respect them.”

She looked away.

“Then we will never know peace. My father won’t compromise. Blackbone won’t compromise.”

Harry smiled, despite the grimness of her words. Luna was one of the wisest people he knew, but she had something of blind spot when it came to Sirius. Perhaps it was fear or resentment, but whatever the case she seemed to have it in her head that Sirius was some sort of unmovable object she could only ever work around and never with. Likewise, Greyback was difficult, but even he wasn’t entirely unreasonable.

“It doesn’t hurt to try,” he said.

She smiled at that, as if he had told some sort of joke.

“Okay, that was a little trite. Perhaps it’s better say ‘it’s worth the effort’.”

“Ah, yes. That is better,” she agreed. “You are most remarkable when you are trying. Or most trying when you are being remarkable. I forget which.”

He barked out a laugh and felt magic inside of him stir, like silt disturbed from the bottom of a lake. There was a strangely weightless feeling as he felt his own magic and thoughts rising to the surface, shaking off the shock even as his limbs began to tremble. His laugh took on a hysterical edge as realization settled in. He had nearly died again. Again. Always so close. At the other side of things he had nearly been made immortal, made in the image of his mentor, the Dark Lord, through blood. Like some sort of vampire. Only not a vampire. Just as he was not a werewolf and could never truly become a werewolf, and yet was still a part of their story. A story that was becoming difficult to follow even as he felt it tighten its hold on him. Different stories told by different gods, ending in different places he couldn’t yet see.

Here he was discussing the future of the werewolves in Britain in terms of both the living and the dead, self-appointed champion to stand between the Head Alpha and a spurned devil of a god, while at any moment the Dark Lord might summon him across the ocean to play some undefined role as either peacemaker or warrior or both. The last visages of his childhood had crumbled with the walls of Hogwarts before he was ready or particularly willing, his companions scattered and dealing with their own crises. The sanctuaries he had found among his godfathers and friends had become new battlefields, and he could see no place of respite.

At some point his laughter had turned to gasps for air, a panic attack squeezing his lungs while his heart tried to kick free of his chest. Dying all over again, and he thought he would be used to it by now but it was as terrifying as ever. He lost his balance and fell.

Luna seized him, her bird thin arms deceptively strong as she held him, pulling her to him. He continued to panic and flail, breathing made that much more impossible as she forced his head into her fur cloaked shoulder. He nearly unseated them both from the wall, but her legs came up and wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his side. Smaller though she was, she managed to hold him and draw him tighter into her. There was magic in there, distinctly Luna’s with a touch of power from something other.There was no escaping from her, if escape was what he wanted. It seemed for a time she had the power to crush him into some tiny thing and bury him beneath her ribs and her heart.

“There,” she said. “It has passed.”

Darkness seeped into his vision, and his limbs became leaden and immovable. The panic of suffocation had finally given way to resignation, and in the following stillness he could hear not only his heart but another slower, discordant beat distantly. His mind surrendered to the inevitability of it, followed shortly by his heart, and as it did he felt an overwhelming sense of calm wrapped in Luna’s arms.

Beat by beat, his heart began to ease until the distant thumping he heard became a perfect, synchronized echo.

At a quarter to one, Hermione slipped out of bed. She pulled her wand from its hiding place between her mattresses, slipped Enid’s cross from the window latch, and made her way downstairs. Her slippered feet made hardly a sound as she passed through the corridors. She could hear footsteps and muted voices from some of the rooms, but most were dark and quiet. Nervously, she continued on to the ground floor and peeked into the reception area. It was empty. Doreen was supposed to be manning the desk that night, but no one took the job very seriously and wandering away from the post was more common than not.

She took her cloak from the employee closet and slipped on someone else’s winter boots, then quietly stepped outside. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw she was not alone.

“Merlin, Viktor!” she hissed.

He stood at the bottom of the steps as if he had been expecting her, a pleased smile on his face.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you.”

He didn’t sound or look the least bit sorry.

“What are you doing here?”

“I dought you might come to find me tonight. Ve used to meet after curfew quite regularly before-”

“I’m not that girl anymore,” she said sharply. His smiled faded slightly.

“And yet here you are.”

“To warn you.”

“To varn me?”

She steeled herself. She had rehearsed this moment over and over again since she had first received the flowers. She would be unyielding, cold, even cruel if she had to be. It was absolutely imperative that he understand that she had no affection left for him, and whatever he hoped to achieve by courting her would be futile. Her mental rehearsal had all seemed very practical and reasonable in her head, but now that he was there…

It hadn’t occurred to her how lonely she had been until now. She had Enid, of course, and that helped, but the other girl didn’t really know her or where she came from. Viktor had betrayed her, knew her, and probably loved her. She could stand on these steps and reminisce for hours on end about what had happened since they parted, and he would understand and care and enjoy her company.

The temptation to do just that was overwhelming. The only thing stopping her was fear. If she let herself, she would fall in love with him again. It would be the easiest thing in the world. It would inevitably kill her one way or another.

“Stay away from me, Viktor.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t dink I can.”

Her hand tightened around her wand, and she stomped down the steps towards him. His eyes widened, and he took several steps back until she had nearly driven him across the street. Even then she did not stop and suddenly grabbed him by his coat and pulled him all the way to the end of the street. He could have stopped her if he wanted. Even if he hadn’t been a vampire, she was barely two-thirds his size and no athlete, but he was so stunned by her assertiveness he couldn’t help but follow. When she was satisfied she was far enough away from the hotel that no one would hear her and come to investigate, she whirled on him.

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Viktor. You will stay away from me.”

“You are threatening me?” He seemed amused by this, and Hermione felt a surge of genuine anger towards him. He startled her as he suddenly stepped closer, crowding her so that their noses were practically touching, and she could see the amber hue of his eyes in the streetlight. “How can you threaten me ven it is you who is so obviously afraid?”

His hand reached for her, and for a moment she thought he meant to caress her face, but his fingers found the cross dangling from her neck instead. The skin of his fingertips blistered and blackened where they brushed the tiny piece of silver, only to turn pink and then white again seconds after he pulled them away. She raised her wand, but he caught her wrist before she could point it.

Her heart was suddenly pounding wildly in her chest, and she knew he must hear it too. Hear it. Smell it. Taste it. He was right. She was terrified of him. Only she hadn’t known it until then. Her thoughts scattered in panic, and she tried to grasp hold of them, to at least one of them. The only one she seemed to have any success in keeping was a question.

What would Harry do in this situation?

Viktor was staring down at her patiently, his ice-cold thumb now making gentle circles along the veins of her wrist. Waiting. Waiting for what? Her surrender? Her acceptance of her helplessness? Anger mixed with fear.

What would Harry do?

He would attack. Recklessly, fiercely, unflinching, he would attack and damn the consequences.

“And are you not afraid of me, Viktor?” she said, her voice sharp and strained against breaking. He blinked at her, confused and suddenly wary. “You would be exceptionally stupid if you weren’t.”

He had her wand hand in his grip, but she hadn’t intended to use her wand in the first place. She couldn’t afford to alert the French authorities of her location with use of an unregistered wand. It had been a ‘just in case’, and she was not totally without magic to defend herself even without it.

She closed her eyes tightly, focusing on her own innate magic, on Viktor, on Rue de Lancry, and the little canal it traversed.

And then she apparated.

They reappeared on a walkway at the very edge of the canal. Caughting him off guard, Hermione managed to pull her hand free and push him with all her might. He fell backwards, over a chain-link guardrail, and into the canal. He splashed and struggled until he finally managed to grab hold of the loose brick lining edge of the waterway. Plenty of time for Hermione to regain her bearings and aim her wand directly at him.

Viktor glared up at her. In spite of what muggles thought, vampires were not incapable of crossing moving water. However, that didn’t mean they like it. They couldn’t technically drown, having no need to breathe, but their preternatural bodies lacked buoyancy, and they couldn’t swim. Viktor was no exception. Something Hermione obviously knew. He was familiar with the place, it wasn’t far from Hermione’s hotel and technically still in a ‘wizarding’ neighborhood and thus well concealed against muggles under ‘notice-me-not’ charms. Despite her previous fear, she had chosen well. If he weren’t so peeved at the moment, he would have been impressed by her resourcefulness.

“I could have apparated you straight into a tree, Viktor,” she said coldly, her wand still pointed at him. “Or a church or a bonfire. So don’t push me. You won’t like the results.”

Then she was gone again, apparating away and leaving him to pull himself out of the canal by himself. It was an entirely undignified affair, and it didn’t help that by the time he’d pulled himself sopping wet onto the walkway, Goethe was there waiting for him.

“Don’t worry, my friend, I’m sure she was just playing hard to get. You know how these English witches are.”

“Shut up,” he growled, the menacing effect was somewhat dimmed by him looking like a half-drowned cat.

“The threats of murdering you violently aside, I don’t think she was entirely unreceptive. You might try other courtship techniques. Maybe you could get a tattoo?”

“I vill throw you in de canal, Goethe. Tie you to a post box and just throw you in.”

“It was only a suggestion.”

Cold and disgruntled, Viktor made his way home. He had high hopes for the evening, but he had botched it up something awful. He had used intimidation when he should have used sincerity, pushed where he should have reassured, and mocked were he should have listened. In the end, he had gotten just what he deserved, but he wasn’t giving up just yet. After all, she could have apparated him into a very painful or dangerous place, just as she had said, and yet had not. She was giving him a chance to walk away unscathed, and that bit of generosity spoke of possibilities. Possibilities of what, he wasn’t sure. He had no idea of what he was doing, but it felt… it felt deliciously human.

“You should know…” Goethe said after they had walked for some time in silence. “Master Clarión’s people are in the area. They have been asking around about you.”

Viktor paused.

“Do dey know about her?”

“I believe it would be dangerous to assume they didn’t know anything. There were witnesses to your little spat at the newspaper stand. There were the flowers you had delivered. Either would reveal a name or a place to find her.”

Mentally, Viktor cursed himself. How could he have been so careless? Clarión was looking for an opportunity to either bring him to heel or kill him, and Hermione was the only weakness he had ever revealed.

“I must distract dem,” he said absently.

Goethe nodded.

“And you must watch after Hermione.”

Goethe sighed, but nodded once again. Goethe had the makings of a master vampire, the strength of mind and body, but never the temperament or the inclination. He was the most logical choice to protect the witch when Viktor was unable to do so himself.

Although, given that evening’s happenings, perhaps protection was unnecessary.

The first of the German representatives had arrived at the Bourges Palace that afternoon, and Voldemort was making it a point to ignore them completely. He had sent back several requests for a private audience without reply and left instructions to his security that he should not be disturbed. To that end, he had created the illusion of being occupied by closeting himself away with Queen Ophelia under the pretext of making additional preparations.

In truth, they had been discussing very little about the treaty and a great deal about the upcoming social events of the seasons. Balls and operas and private soirees and national holiday events. Neither of them particularly cared for such social events personally, but politically they were excellent opportunities to introduce well-to-do families into favorable alliances. The French were not as stringent about blood purity as the British, but old money was still the best money as far as the upper crust were concerned, and Voldemort knew the advantages of introducing new blood to the weakening family lines. Congenial relations between the gentry of their respective countries could only be to their advantage.

“Will you invite some of the German Lords and Ladies then?” she asked idly, reclined in a chaise while the Dark Lord leaned against the frame of a window. They were in the China Room, surrounded by pristine white plates and vases and figurines painted with blue ink. Like most wizarding art, it moved, but the Chinese style had the pictures and text moving about like water flowing. Ophelia liked this room. It was very relaxing. But it didn’t suit the Dark Lord. His element was fire, and he stood out as incongruous with the rest of his surroundings.

“It would be a generous gesture,” he said. “I’m not sure that I am so generous or that they are worthy of it.”

“It is not generosity if it must be earned first. Besides, you cannot keep making war on a people you’ve already conquered. It’s bad form.”

He smiled, amused despite himself. In fact, he had every intention of inviting Germans to various events. Just as he had told Morgan, he would woo a select number of them into an inner circle, and through them control the country now in his grasp. For now, however, he had to make them afraid. It was through fear that he would control them. Not through fear of death, but through fear of losing their positions and their possessions. He would shake things up and see who and what came loose. Then when things seemed at their most desperate, he would offer them a way to save themselves.

It wasn’t something he intended to explain to the queen. He had no intention of demonstrating just how devious and manipulative he could be, although she more than likely had her suspicions. She was an intelligent woman after all, and for all her supposed affection for him she was not as free with her secrets and vulnerabilities as a true lover should be.

“I will take it under consideration. For now, the injuries made against my people… I find I cannot easily forgive them.”

She sighed and eased back on the chaise, looking for all the world like a bored goddess in repose. Which was why her next words caught him completely off guard.

“Is that why you are imposing WYRA and the MCSA on them? To punish them?”

“I… It is not as simple as all that,” he hedged, mentally scrambling on how to handle this. He had not expected to have to explain his intentions so soon, and not to Queen Ophelia directly. It was her practice to send others to broach those topics that might prove potentially dangerous, feeling him out before deciding whether to bring up the matter herself or ignore it altogether. That she was doing so now, before it had even reached the wording of the treaty was disconcerting.

Would she try to make him omit that demand?

He couldn’t do that. It would have made the war almost entirely pointless. Yet to defy her could prove disastrous. He was still dependent on her to secure his position on the continent, and they both knew it.

“Then tell me,” she said, still feigning boredom. “I like to think I’m relatively clever.”

He took a deep breath. She was fishing. He would have to pretend he didn’t even see the bait.

“WYRA,” he started, “is precautionary only. While I am quite proud of what has been accomplished with the program back home, I understand it is not very popular on this side of the channel.”

She regarded him politely, offering no opinion of her own.

“I have no intention of implementing it in Germany to the extent it is in Britain. It’ll be more of a dragnet to catch those wishing to avoid paying their restitution. Adult witches and wizards have the ability to hide their magical abilities relatively well, but children? They can’t control it. Accidental magic happens all the time, and we can track it easily enough. Witches and wizards will be less inclined to try to flee if they know that their own children could give them away at any moment, and the penalties will be severe. And of course, there is the general child welfare aspect, which is WYRA’s primary function to begin with.”

Partially true, and it would be difficult for even Ophelia to discern where the truth ended and the lie began.

“I see. And the MSCA?”

“That should be obvious,” he said impatiently and gave the same reasons he had given Morgan.

“Very shrewd,” she said when he was finished. “But it will be tricky to maneuver around politically. You are proving the Germans-”

There was a knock on the door.

“Enter,” he said, feigning irritation at the interruption but secretly relieved. One of his aides entered the room, carrying a letter.

“My Lord, you received a letter from Headmaster Snape.”

“Give it here then.”

The aide handed him the letter, bowed respectfully to them both, and left.

“Headmaster Snape… isn’t that Lord Potter’s guardian?”

“Yes, your Highness, although he has been in the hospital since the attack on the school. Very nasty business.”

He opened the envelope and perused its contents quickly, then came to sit at the other end of the chaise beside Ophelia. He frowned.

“What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

“Nothing like that. It seems the headmaster feels sufficiently recovered to escort Harry to France in person. They should arrive sometime Monday afternoon. I do hope the man isn’t overexerting himself.”

He didn’t honestly give a damn whether Snape was overexerting himself for not. He still hadn’t forgiven the man his deceit and wasn’t inclined to do so anytime soon. Yet the letter had discussed the possibility of making amends. It was presumptuous of the man to approach him so soon, and yet Voldemort couldn’t help but admire the nerve it must have taken. Snape feared him. He had seen to that. And still he sought him out. Had his minion ever been that brave before? He didn’t think so, but perhaps he had never been properly motivated. Curiosity, if nothing else, demanded he discover what he wanted.

It would also save him the nuisance of finding someone else willing to go into werewolf territory to retrieve his protégé.

“Harry will be reaching his majority this year, won’t he?” the queen asked conversationally, their previous discussion seemingly forgotten.

“Yes, this August, although he still has another year of schooling left. Why? Are you still entertaining the possibility of an alliance between him and your niece?”

She graced him with a teasing smile

“Why dear sir, perish the thought. I was rather thinking of stealing the young man for myself.”

“Do you suppose he knew? About the blood, I mean.”

Harry looked up from his notes to Bobby, who was perched on the back of a chair. After his panic attack, Luna had taken him back to the cabin to rest. Tired and depressed as he usually was after such an event, he had napped for the rest of the morning with Luna curled up behind him, absently playing with his hair. He woke up later alone, with only tiny little braids woven into his hair the only evidence she had been there at all.

Feeling anxious and yet too tired to venture outside, he attempted to distract himself with his studies. Bobby had appeared soon after, flying through a window that opened without being touched. They had not spoken much. Harry suspected his brother felt guilty about what had happened during the Animagus lesson, and while he didn’t blame the raven, he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject without upsetting him. So he had said nothing, merely welcomed him with a wane smile and a place to perch on the back of a nearby chair. No one bothered them for hours.

His studies were a distraction, but his focus was anything but idle curiosity. Chakra and magical first aid were currently the only books that could provide even a hint of what precisely had gone wrong with the tainted blood. There wasn’t much useful information, and whatever he found that was relevant indicated that the sharing of magic, without some sort of ritual or potion, should have killed him immediately and not waited over a week to turn maleficent. Admittedly, his books were not comprehensive and given that even his professional Healers hadn’t warned him of the possibility, he doubted he would find any explanations on the matter himself. He considered asking Luna, and by extension Jane, but he couldn’t be sure when he would see them next.

“Who? Voldemort? I don’t think anyone understood about the blood being poisonous.”

“No, not that. Even I don’t believe he thought to hurt you intentionally. I meant about the blood changing you. Making you… more like him.”

The question caught Harry off guard. He hadn’t considered that possibility, but now that it had been pointed out he couldn’t help but wonder. His relationship with the Dark Lord was complicated. He couldn’t describe it as entirely friendly and certainly not safe, but there were a definite sense of attachment. Voldemort mentored him in a variety of educational and magical endeavors, raising Harry up gradually to become something like an equal. Would it be unreasonable to assume he wouldn’t try to ‘improve’ him physically as well as magically and intellectually? The Dark Lord was nearly immortal after all, and that must be a very lonely prospect even for one such as him.

“…Maybe. I don’t think he would see anything wrong with trying.”

Bobby puffed his feathers in indignation. Harry had a more philosophical view on the matter.

“I messed with his soul, brother.”

“What soul?” the raven huffed. Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard him.

“It’d be a little tit-for-tat, on his part.”

The feathers settled, but there was nothing relaxed about Bobby as he studied the young wizard intently.

“It doesn’t bother you? What he did?”

“I don’t know that he did anything intentionally. I’d be bothered more if he had done it knowingly and specifically to change me, but I don’t think that’s what happened. We were in the middle of a battle. I had nearly died several times already before he found me. We both took a risk and lived to tell the tale. Might it have occurred to him that there would be… side effects? I don’t know. I think he would have taken more precautions, but who’s to say?”

Bobby said nothing to this. Harry waited, but the raven remained mute and motionless, and eventually Harry turned his attention back to his studies. They didn’t speak for nearly hour, but he could feel his companion’s unwavering stare on him the entire time even without looking. Finally, Bobby spoke again, and this time Harry wasn’t surprised by the question at all.

“Do you want to be immortal?”

Harry smiled, but didn’t look up.

“I don’t want to be immortal. I don’t want to not be immortal. I don’t want to waste time striving for something I’ll never have or resent it if it’s forced upon me. Let’s be honest, whether I become immortal or not probably won’t be decided entirely by me. I figure, whatever happens, I’ll just roll with it.”

Bobby blinked at him, tilted his head curiously and said, “That’s all very zen, Harry, but let’s see how well that philosophy holds up when you’re reincarnated as a tortoise.”

Harry just laughed.

Some time later, after Harry had switched from studying sharing magic to water-based elemental magics, he was interrupted by a messenger summoning him to the Head Alpha’s meeting place. A little uneasy, he put his books and notes away hurriedly, put on his heavy Baluvian cloak, and made his way to the clearing. It was still cold and still gray, but the village lacked the quiet stillness of the wall. There were too many people milling about outside, anxious and clustered together, neglecting their chores in favor of gossiping. Harry could feel their attention shift to him as he stepped out into the open. They did not feel hostile, precisely, but his presence made them alert. Expectant.

He was used to it enough that he could ignore it.

There were more people than usual in the clearing when he arrived as well. More anxious onlookers, more archers on the roof of the round house, and several women clustered around a girl a ways off. Harry recognized Jane, solemn and distant, as several of the women brushed and braided her hair and sang softly to her. She must have sensed his gaze, because she turned towards him. He turned away before their eyes could meet.

The round house’s windows had been left open to allow in the sunlight, and a large fire burned hotly in the fire pit to drive out the cold winter wind. Sirius circled the room like a caged beast, trapped and brooding. Remus had planted himself out of the way at a low table, where he was setting out a rather formal-looking collection of parchment, quills, ink pots, pen knife, red wax, pencils, ruler, brushes, and various other supplies that suggested he was about to draft something very official.

His godfathers stopped what they were doing to provide him their full attention.

“Prongslet,” Sirius said first.

“How are you feeling?” Remus followed.

“I am well. Tired, but well.”

“Are you warm enough? Blood loss is said to make people sensitive to the cold.”

“Warm enough, Remus. You don’t have to worry about me.”

The beta gave him a rueful look, and Harry gave a helpless shrug.

“Alright, you’ve mothered him enough, Moony. We don’t have time to dance around it,” Sirius said, agitated but not harsh. He was studying Harry anxiously himself, looking for any sign of weakness or discomfort. For all that he complained of Remus’ worrisome ways, the alpha could be even worse. “I’m sending you back.”

“Back? Back where?” he asked confusedly. Back to the campsite? Back to Hogwarts? Snape Cottage? A hospital?

“Back to wherever you like, but you can’t stay here. Not until the matter is settled.”

“Siri, stop being intentionally vague,” Remus chided, then explained. “We’re trying to make a negotiation with Jane. After what happened… there are debts that must be paid.”

Harry closed his eyes and nodded. He had expected this. Jane and Luna had been living precariously at the edge of the pack, but when Sirius had summoned them to save Harry he had unwillingly brought them back into the fold, imbuing them once again with certain rights and responsibilities. Harry had known this instinctively when he had woken to find them all sharing a bed together and became increasingly conscious of it when no one objected to Luna and him spending the morning alone atop the wall. Still, that didn’t explain why he was being sent away, and he said as much.

“They cannot know how much I care for you,” Sirius explained. “It will make Jane’s rescue that much more significant, and tip the scale even more in her favor.”

Harry felt suddenly comfortable.

“Ah… Padfoot? I don’t think… well, that matter of you caring about me… You weren’t exactly subtle.”

Even half out of his mind with pain, he had to have been aware of Sirius’ concern for him. Certainly, everyone else would have had to been aware of it too.

The alpha merely shrugged at this.

“It has never been officially acknowledged. There is a form to such things. If it isn’t acknowledged it cannot be used against me. Not as easily anyway.”

“I don’t see how me staying would change anything if that’s the case. You can just continue to pretend not to care.”

“But you can’t.”

“What?”

Sirius stopped pacing and straightened, staring across the fire at him. His expression wasn’t precisely hostile, but there was an intensity in it Harry wasn’t entirely comfortable with either. It told him the Head Alpha was looking at him and not his godfather.

“You want me to make peace with Jane.”

Harry tensed, unsure if he was being accused of something or not.

“I want what is best for the werewolves. All of…” He was about to say ‘us’, but floundered. He couldn’t claim that sort of kinship casually and certainly not under these circumstances. “All of the werewolves. Things can’t continue as they have.”

“You are unbelievably impertinent,” Sirius said, without bite. “If you remain you will insist on putting in your two knuts, even if you have to undermine me to do it.”

“I would not!”

“You might,” Remus said gently. “Not intentionally, but you still might. Especially if you think he’s being unreasonable. Or it might work the other way. You might try to assist Sirius, and in doing so prevent him from being able to compromise without losing face.”

Harry felt stung by the suggestion. He wouldn’t undermine Sirius. Did they really think he had so little self-control? The hurt must have shown in his expression, because both his godfathers’ expressions changed slightly.

Sirius shook his head. “Don’t be like that. You’re strong-willed and opinionated and more clever than I am by half, and I wouldn’t have you any other way. But this has to be between Jane and me. If you stay, you risk turning a negotiation into a three-way power struggle.”

“I don’t have that kind of power,” he objected. “I’m not here often enough to hold that kind of influence, and I am not a werewolf or even a shaman anymore. I can’t force anyone’s hand, and I wouldn’t want to.”

Sirius and Remus turned to each other and shared an uneasy look. Harry felt suddenly queasy.

“I don’t, do I?”

“It’s complicated,” Remus said.

Sirius met his eyes levelly and answered him bluntly.

“You’re bloody Merlin.”

Harry stared at him blankly.

“Which is just another way of saying you’re a living legend,” Sirius clarified and started to pace the room yet again. “I know you don’t see it. The rest of the pack are careful not treat you differently while you are with us, but when you’re gone… You’re the subject of fireside legends and children’s bedtime stories. They see your life as one great adventure after another, and who can blame them? They admire you for your bravery and your resilience, but they love you for the fact that despite having the entire world open to you, you choose to call this place your home and they your brothers where the rest of wizarding kind sees only a prison and outcasts.”

He gaped at him and sat down heavily, his knees suddenly too weak to support him. He hadn’t known. How hadn’t he known? If anything, he had thought most of the pack rather indifferent to him. Well, no, that wasn’t true. He was aware of at least some of the admiration, at least of the respect no wizard of his age would normally have been granted. It hadn’t seemed as significant as Sirius was implying, but how was he to know really? Lately, he was increasingly aware of how little he really saw or understood of them.

“You are source of great pride for all of us, Harry,” Remus said. “That you tied your fate with ours is a great gift.”

“Even after…?”

No one had ever blamed him for the Goddess Colony Massacre. Nor the Battle of the Berlin Underground. That had always struck him as both strange and tragic. In fact, the most disapproval he ever faced had been his renunciation of his responsibilities as a shaman, and even that had dissipated relatively quickly.

“You have suffered for us, Harry, and with us. Whatever trespasses you feel you’ve committed were forgiven. Don’t misinterpret this. They’re not actually sticking you up on a pedestal to be some sort of god figure. It’s more like… you’re a cousin who went on to be a famous Quidditch star or the Minister of Magic and still comes around for the holidays.”

Harry didn’t think anyone thought much of cousins who became Minister of Magic (when Britain still had one), but he got the gist of what Remus meant. He wasn’t sure it made him feel any better. If anything, it made him self-conscious. The Goddess Colony had always been considered a refuge from societal expectations. While he had never deluded himself into thinking he was treated like any other young werewolf, he hadn’t realized the depth of their regard.

“If I’m so popular, then why pretend you don’t like me?”

“You know why,” Sirius said. “It was more for the Dark Lord’s benefit than the other werewolves. I’m sure most of them know or suspect the ruse. But your loyalty to me is a better endorsement than your affection. That you would support me, who supposedly treats you coldly, over Jane despite your obvious feelings for her disciple, Luna, speaks of your belief in the righteousness of my decisions.”

That’s very Voldemort of you, Harry was tempted to say, but caught himself. The manipulation of the other werewolves rankled him, especially his using him to do it. He wouldn’t have thought Sirius capable of something so Machiavellian if he hadn’t just confessed it himself. Yet who was he to criticize. Hadn’t he done worse and for less? But the bitterness slipped out just the same.

“And you think I’ve changed my mind? That I’ll support Jane instead and undermine you?”

Sirius snarled something that may or may not have been words and stalked towards him, and Harry flinched back despite himself and broke eye contact to stare at the ground. The alpha was often angry, but very rarely aimed that anger at him directly and even he feared it to an extent. He flinched again as Sirius stopped in front of him, half expecting to be grabbed or slapped. But the touch when it came was gentle, a callused hand run through his hair, mussing the already wild locks. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, into the reassurance that despite what was being said it wasn’t all as broken as it seemed.

“I’ve been an awful godfather, Harry. I’ve said it before, haven’t I? I’ve dragged you into these situations and burdened you with these responsibilities, and now you think it’s supposed to be this way, but it’s not. We’ve been talking about power struggles and public opinion like a bunch of bloody politicians, but that’s not… I’m not a politician, and I’m not the Dark Lord. I don’t want to use you. I don’t want anyone elseto use you. But I keep doing it anyway, without even thinking about it until you suffer for it. Remus is right; if you stay you’ll get drawn in one way or other. It doesn’t matter how or who or in what way, you’ll still get mixed up in this mess. So I’m sending you back until it’s been sorted. Don’t try to change my mind.”

The hand withdrew from his hair, and Harry felt simultaneously relieved and bereft. Sirius had delivered his benediction and absolved him. It was no longer his cross to bear. And yet… hadn’t he told Luna they had to try? That it was worth the effort? Would he truly go back to the wizarding world without at least attempting to make some sort of contribution towards a resolution?

“Okay,” he said, slowly rising to his feet. Sirius was behind him, but he could see Remus who visibly let out a sigh of relief. “But can I at least give you my opinion before I go? And will you please think about it before you talk to Jane?”

Remus looked uncertain, but Harry’s acquiescence had earned him a little for himself. The beta brought out parchment and a quill, which stood upright the moment it touched the paper and moved without assistance when Harry began to speak. In truth, there was very little Harry had to say. He related parts of his conversation with Luna, most importantly the needs of respecting of living and dead and the necessity for established boundaries that needed to be respected by all.

It was no more than he had said to Luna, and no less than what Luna had probably related back to Jane.

Harry’s departure was without fanfare. Despite his godfather’s assertion of the other werewolves’ regard, he saw little evidence of it himself as he prepared to go. But then, perhaps they didn’t realize he was leaving. Packing the remainder of his belongings into his trunk was the work of minutes, and after charming his trunk into weightless little box that fit in his pocket, he left. He had said his goodbyes to his godfathers, stilted and awkward and unsure if he was supposed to wish them luck or not. He could not find Luna, and the few people he met along walk to the boundary did not know where she was. His goodbyes would have to be related through a brief note he left back at the cabin. It was yet one more thing that made his leaving feel unsatisfactory.

There was nothing for it.

The sooner he left, the sooner the negotiations could begin. He left Elsbeth behind so that she could deliver the news of their completion and when he could return. It could take hours or weeks. There was no way to tell yet.

The sun was setting as he passed through the boundary wall. He was alone as he did so, but there was someone waiting for him on the other side he had not been expecting.

“Professor? What are you doing here?”

Snape stood a short ways from him along the narrow dirt path, a familiar if ominous figure in his elegant black robes and cane he had acquired at some point. The man regarded him with consternation, seemingly as surprised as Harry to have met him there. His black eyes flickered suspiciously to the wall and the sentries perched atop it, then back to Harry.

“I have come to fetch you.”

“Sirius told you?”

That didn’t seem right to Harry. Sirius rarely sent correspondence to his godson’s wizarding guardians unless it was requested first, and sometimes not even then. Snape in particular was to be avoided above all others save the Dark Lord himself.

“You are already packed then?” his guardian asked, ignoring his question. Harry hesitated.

“Password?”

Snape smirked. “Incorrigible.”

“Cantankerous,” Harry replied, mirroring his expression.

“Good of you to remember at least some of the safety protocols.”

Harry rolled his eyes and made his way to join the man.

“I’m sixteen, Professor. I think I can make my own way home.”

Especially given he had made his own way home from Germany years before.

Snape wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. Most of his concentration seemed to be on the path, little more than a game trail, and keeping his own footing as he made his way stiffly through the forest. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want any of Sirius’ werewolves to overhear them talking. Harry didn’t the force the matter and merely followed after him. Somewhere along the way, Bobby flew out from amidst the trees to alight on his shoulder. When the three of them reached the road, they apparated to the little road that led up to Snape Cottage.

It was already full night there and the road was dark. In the distance, Harry could see the lights of the little village behind them, but not the cottage. He cast a Lighting Charm to light their way so Snape could still lean on his cane.

“What happened to your hand?” the professor asked.

“So Sirius didn’t tell you then.”

Harry couldn’t see the older wizard’s expression, but he could still feel him glaring into the back of his head.

“An answer, if you would.”

“It’s a long story, but I guess you could say that I’m cured. Even if my magic is shot all to hell again, and I’ll probably need another blood replenishing potion tomorrow.”

There was a snort behind him, but no further questions until they reach the cottage. Ira was there waiting for them with a hug for Harry, a gentle scolding for her husband for straining his leg, and a rather dubious look at Bobby. It struck the Gryffindor as slightly funny, slightly awkward, and more than a little endearing. He deposited his trunk in his room, changed clothes (apparently fur and leather didn’t qualify as ‘appropriate’ dinner dress), and returned to the kitchen to help Ira with dinner. He let Bobby loose to explore the house on his own, trusting the raven to make himself welcome even if the Snapes didn’t.

In the kitchen, it didn’t take long before Ira noticed his hand, mottled purple, and she was not satisfied with the vague answer he had provided her husband. She pulled the story out of him bit by bit, and though he tried to keep particular details from her (his animagus lessons and his complicated relationship with Luna to name a few), he could tell Snape was aware of his attempts at evasion even if he couldn’t possibly guess at the specifics.

“We are going to go over all of this again after dinner,” Ira said sternly. “It is all going to be written down in detail, particularly what method of treatment was used. Tomorrow, Severus, you’ll need to take him to the hospital to be checked out before you head out.”

Snape grunted but didn’t argue. It was a perfectly reasonable request considering. Who knew what the werewolves had actually done to the boy? Sucking out the blood? The thought made him shudder. Even if Harry demonstrated a certain resistance to Lycanthrosis there was no way to be absolutely certain he was immune. He would make it a point to pay close attention to his behavior over the next few days. The full moon was in less than a week.

“Head out? Are we going somewhere?”

“France,” was Snape’s succinct reply.

The answer was not surprising, he had been told he might have to attend the negotiations before, but it was still unwelcome news. With matters so tenuous at the Goddess Colony, he had wanted to stay close in case of any news. Elsbeth could, theoretically, find him in France, but it would take over a week and would have to pass through Voldemort’s security first. He would have to send a letter just to warn Sirius not to write anything too revealing.

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Harry choked on a mouthful of Sheppard’s pie.

“Pack for a month’s stay, at least. Make a list of anything you think you will need tonight,” his guardian added as if he hadn’t noticed.

“W-why so suddenly?”

“The Dark Lord summons, and we go. I suspect he intends to include you in the negotiations.”

How veryun-Sirius-like of him, Harry couldn’t help but think with some irony.

“I don’t see what I have to contribute.”

“No doubt you will agitate the Germans immensely.”

No doubt. Of course, he didn’t fancy meeting up with them himself either. Years before he had sympathized with the Germans to a certain extent, but the actions that had been taken since his escape by both their government and individuals that involved the murder and assault of innocent werewolves and children had pushed them firmly into the category of ‘unforgivable’. Intellectually, he knew it was not all the Germans who had behaved so reprehensibly, but it had been far too many and there had been no visible opposition. He wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to control himself if he was forced into their company and if they provoked him, even if it was only verbally, he knew he was more than capable of violence against them.

“So he wants to pick a fight? Seems a bit redundant at this point.”

“Negotiations of this sort are a war unto themselves. Yes, he wants to pick a fight. He wants to be able to say ‘Hogwarts’ and point to you, to a child, and have them squirm and deny their wrong-doings so that he might verbally beat them with their own shame for all the world to see.”

“Severus, really,” Ira said, disapprovingly. “He shouldn’t be dragging Harry into this if he’s just going to treat him as some sort of moral foil.”

Moral foil? Now there was a blade that would bend and snap at the first hint of pressure. He honestly hoped that wasn’t Voldemort’s intention either. It would be too simple to turn the matter around on him.

“I am sure it is only one of a dozen reasons he wants him there. It likely isn’t even the most significant reason.”

“He’s right of course,” Harry agreed. “There might also be dragons at some point. They’ll want someone on hand with experience in that sort of thing.”

They talked a little more about the journey and what he might possibly do while in France, what Snape would be doing (an explanation that seemed as evasive as Harry’s must have about the werewolves), Ira’s plans for while they were away, and other bits of news Harry had missed out on while he was away. When dinner was over, Ira sent him to pack while she cleaned up. Snape’s marriage hadn’t made him any less evasive of housework, and he made some half-thought out excuse to escape and followed Harry to his room.

“I have invited Draco to accompany us to France,” Snape said when they were alone, sitting himself in the chair at the study table. Harry felt a moment of surprise and quickly tried to unravel his guardian’s reasoning. His own purpose for going was obvious, Snape’s less so but not unreasonable. Draco though? He would not have been invited to attend the negotiations, he thought. His father had been a general but he was dead and not as the result of a conflict with the Germans. Factoring his civilian status and since Snape said he had invited him specifically, his invitation was likely unofficial. There was only one unofficial piece of business that would involve Draco in France.

“You want to send him to look for Hermione.”

“You said yourself that she was likely in the country, but you cannot possibly complete a discreet search for her. I will perform a search myself, but I have other duties I must perform first. Draco is a logical choice to search in my place. He speaks some French, no one will be watching him too closely, and his presence can be explained away as my wanting my grieving godson close or moral support to yourself.”

“And what does he think about all this?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t replied.”

Snape looked uneasy about this, and it made Harry uneasy himself. His relationship with Draco was complicated at the moment. His friend was grieving, anger and confusion and despair pulling him in different directions. Harry had been shouted at in his hospital bed by him one day and shown a moment of unspoken kindness at the funeral parade only a day later. Were they still friends? They must be, because he was more worried about the other than he was anyone else at the moment, Hermione included.

“We will see him tomorrow morning. If he has decided to go, he will be ready and waiting, if not…”

He left the rest unsaid. There was no telling how Draco would greet either of them tomorrow until they stood at his door.

“Request denied,” Lestrange said flatly, tossing the piece of parchment aside. It hovered for a moment before gliding over to a file cabinet in the corner of her office, and a drawer opened to swallow it down into the bureaucratic abyss.

Tom forced himself not to grimace, not to glare, not do anything to outwardly express how much he truly despised Bellatrix Lestrange. His boss. Instead, he held himself rigidly straight, expression blank, and gaze focused somewhere slightly about his commanding officer’s head. She seemed to sense his resentment anyway. She grinned like a cat, her blatant sadism bordering on the obscene.

“Ma’am, this was an order made by Lord Voldemort himself,” he reminded her.

“Lord Voldemort did not request you, Captain Stratus. He requested a representative of the platoon. I will be that representative as its commanding officer.”

“With all due respect, you were not present at the battle we are being recognized for.”

Her smugness faded somewhat, falling instead into an angry grimace. Her absence from the battle was sore spot for her. She was supposed to have led the charge, but the presumptuous little bastard standing before her had superseded her authority and taken her soldiers on mission she had not authorized. They should have waited for her, their general, before seeking out their glory in the field. To add insult to injury, she couldn’t punish them for it. Not officially in any event. The Dark Lord had already given them commendations for their valor and Stratus had become a war hero and household name once the newspapers had gotten word of them. A mere forty or so witches and wizards flying into battle against hundreds? They were being called the Spartan Platoon and Stratus was their Leonidas, despite not having the decency to have died in battle.

“A fact I have you to thank for, Captain. You should be pleased, sir. My absence will give that much more opportunity to sew resentment amongst my men.”

He visibly stiffened, even if his expression didn’t change.

“I don’t know what-”

“Stow it. Lucius might have trusted you, but I won’t make the same mistake. Did you think I was oblivious to what my soldiers are saying about me? What they say about you?”

“I don’t know what you are accusing me of. I have never spoken a disrespectful word against you.”

“Of course you haven’t. You’re too good at being a manipulative little bastard to be that obvious about it. If you had wanted, you could have had them eating out of my palm by now, but I can’t get so much as salute without a look of contempt from them.”

He looked at her directly for the first time, indignant at her accusation.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, General Lestrange,” he said tightly, the same contempt buried under his military civility she had seen in every soldier she met. As if they thought her unworthy of her position, that all her successful campaigns both during the civil war and her battles in Britain had been a fluke or credit stolen from others.

She hated him. She absolutely despised him. If it was the last thing she did, she would make him suffer the humiliation he had inflicted upon her a thousand fold.

“You are boring me now, Captain. Go away. Shoo,” she dismissed imperiously, already turning her attention to some report or another. She saw him grimace out of the corner of her eye and felt a moment of satisfaction, which she didn’t show until he had turned away and stormed out of her office. She nearly laughed when he slammed the door behind him.

Outside Lestrange’s office, Stratus seethed. He wanted nothing more than to rage and curse, at Lestrange, at the Universe, at anyone at all. Lestrange’s refusal to allow him to attend the negotiations in France was more than just a blow to his pride. France would have been the perfect time and place to begin fostering a relationship with Voldemort. The Dark Lord would be in a foreign territory, surrounded by relative strangers, and focused on his political games with the Germans and the French. He would be relatively vulnerable and foiling an attack from some unexpected corner would prove just the circumstances Tom needed to gain the Dark Lord’s trust. He was already moving in closer with his public promotion, and his current publicity meant socializing with the Dark Lord at particular events quite likely, but it was not enough for his plans. He needed the Dark Lord to trust him. At least enough that he could influence his actions to a certain extent.

The opportunity to keep Harry’s company was an added bonus, and something that was likely to prove essential for his plans to be successful. It was imperative that his friend be a willing participant, for both their sakes.

But Lestrange had ruined his chance. Now it would likely be months before he had the opportunity to see either of them, and when they returned he would be farther from his goal than before.

“Bad day?”

Tom jumped and spun, mentally cursing himself for being so distracted he hadn’t noticed the other man in the office. His displeasure only mounted when the man turned out to be Inquisitor Amelon, watching him with that unnervingly curious expression he always wore. He hadn’t seen the man since before the Final Battle of Hogwarts, but he knew he had been around. It had been months since Lucius’ death, and still Amelon was asking questions. His own sources seemed to think Snape was the prime suspect, but after the battle the Dark Lord had forced Amelon to turn his attention elsewhere with little results to show for it.

That was unfortunate. It would have pleased him greatly if his impromptu assassination of Malfoy and Crouch hadn’t only resulted in Granger’s exile but also Snape’s ruination. So many birds with only one cursed stone.

Now Amelon was floating about, making inquires of not only Lestrange and Harry, but of Stratus. Tom wasn’t particularly worried about being caught. If something hadn’t been found yet, it was unlikely to turn up. That didn’t mean, however, that the inquiries weren’t potentially troublesome. He didn’t like the idea of anyone looking over his shoulder.

“A minor inconvenience,” he said shortly, and continued on his way. To his annoyance, Amelon followed him.

“Might I have a moment of your time?” he asked politely.

“Aren’t you here for General Lestrange?”

“Of course, but I meant to find you later. This is actually quite convenient.”

“I am sorry, sir, but I have duties of my own to attend…”

“It will only take a few minutes. We can walk while we talk.”

Tom bit down on his annoyance and affected an air of polite helpfulness. He couldn’t afford to break his facade. Not to this man.

“Very well, sir.”

“How would you describe your relationship with General Lestrange?”

Tom frowned in confusion.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see how that would have anything to do with your investigation.”

The Inquisitor smiled back at him affably, but his eyes were sharp and seeking. Tom made it a point to avoid direct eye contact with him.

“It just seems like you are having a difficult time with your current commander, when you were able to reach such intimate terms with General Malfoy. A man I am told was increasingly losing his grip on his own sanity.”

“I am sorry, sir, but you are mistaken. General Malfoy and I were never very close. My position at the time meant I spent a great deal of time with him, but I never knew him well. I told you before I was aware of his increased agitation during my time with him, but it was my ignorance of his person that allowed me to mistake his behavior as related stress rather than… illness.”

“You say you were not close, and yet he offered you a place in his own family. You were betrothed to his daughter.”

Tom affected an air of discomfort.

“If you are aware of the betrothal then you must similarly be aware that relations between General Malfoy and his foster daughter were not good. Affection had less to do with our betrothal than convenience. I am single, I am appropriately positioned in society to appease his wife and not embarrass the Malfoy name, and I didn’t say no.”

“You certainly didn’t say no.”

“Was there a reason to? She’s a pretty girl, smart, with good connections, and I didn’t exactly have a line of women at my door. I thought we would have been quite content together given the opportunity. If… if our betrothal had something to do with… what happened, then I am truly sorry, but I don’t see how anyone could have foreseen it.”

“So you believe she is responsible for General Malfoy and Lord Crouch’s deaths?”

“Don’t you?” Tom asked, feigning surprise. As far as the public was concerned Granger was still the prime suspect, but the scandal of those deaths had been overshadowed by the end of the war. The battle of Hogwarts had touched the lives of almost everyone in the nation in some manner, and the end of the upcoming negotiations had plenty of attention all its own. With no new developments in the story, most of the public had lost interest and papers hadn’t offered any new insights or theories. No other suspects had been offered up, and no one was looking for any others while Granger still remained in hiding.

“Those closest to her are adamant of her innocence,” Amelon said. “I haven’t found any evidence linking her directly to the crime.”

“But she ran.”

“Yes, and there could be any number of reasons for that. Guilt is just one possibility. Or perhaps she is dead. I am beginning to think the later.”

Tom blinked, not bothering to hide his surprise. Granger dead? That was… perhaps not an impossibility. She had not been found after all, and though clever she was hardly educated in the subterfuge necessary to evade a national manhunt. She lacked the knowledge to blend into the muggle world, and without her wand she would be quite defenseless. Would it really be unlikely for her to have a run in with some magical beast or ignorantly walk into the path of a muggle vehicle? It would certainly be convenient if that were the case. It would spare him the necessity of killing her himself.

Amelon, however, seemed to think her continued absence a sign of yet more foul play. That was decidedly inconvenient.

“I hope that is not the case.”

“Indeed, it would be a rather tragic turn of events. Lord Potter would likely be inconsolable.”

There was a something about the way Amelon said ‘Lord Potter’ that Tom didn’t like. Did he suspect Harry of the deed then? He was rather tired of walking through this maze of a conversation.

“Her foster brother even more so I should think.”

“No doubt,” he said dismissively, confirming Tom’s suspicion he had been fishing with his Potter comment. “But I think this conversation is wandering a bit farther from the topic than I intended. Let’s see, where was I? We’ve already talked about General Malfoy, so that leaves Lord Crouch. What was your relationship with him?”

Tom let out a mental sigh of relief. It seemed he was home free.

“There was no relationship strictly speaking. I only ever met the man a handful of times in the general’s company, and we never spoke outside of the usual pleasantries.”

“Really? Even after General Malfoy called off Miss Granger’s engagement with him so he could transfer it to you?”

Perhaps not quite free.

“You are mistaken. The engagement was called off before the general even asked me to marry his daughter. I believe there were financial or legal reasons involved, but I don’t know the specifics. You could ask his lawyer. Reiger or Reicher I believe the name was. He is still working for the Malfoy family last I heard.”

“I shall check on that, thank you. So you never spoke to Lord Crouch after your betrothal? Not once?”

“I saw him occasionally, but again never outside of Malfoy’s company. He may have made a snide remark at the winter ball, but I honestly can’t remember it.”

“Ah-huh, well thank you for your time. It’s been quite informative.”

“Has it?”

Tom certainly hoped not. Was Amelon merely being polite or was he fishing? Had Tom unknowingly given answers contrary to what the inquisitor knew and revealed a lie? How much did the wizard suspect already, and was he trying to trick him into giving some self-incriminating detail? It was best to play it safe and offer nothing else, assume he knew nothing until he proved otherwise. At least until Tom could do a little investigating of his own.

“I’m glad. I hope it proves helpful. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I must leave you here.”

“Of course. Good day, Captain. We’ll see each other again soon, no doubt.”

Amelon turned away and made his way back down the hall towards Lestrange’s office, his step light and jaunty so that Tom half expected him to start whistling. Tom stood there for a long moment watching him go, wondering if that last remark had been a threat or not.

Off Guard Moments II

Malfoy Manor loomed on a hill against a gray morning sky in grim repose, its grandeur muted in the February gloom. Harry had not seen the estate since December. It was not so great a time, and yet the manor had undergone some essential change Harry would be hard pressed to identify but could not be missed. The windows seemed somehow darker, the grounds wilder, the stones grayer.

It’s as if it’s in mourning, Harry thought and did not dismiss the idea. Wizarding places were known for their personalities, their sentience, although they were not strictly alive. The real question was whether the manor itself was mourning Lucius or if it was merely the reflection of its new master’s grief?

There was a sentry at the gate, which typically was unusual outside of special events. He was a burly, disagreeable wizard that must have had a troll or ogre somewhere in his family tree and had threatened to smash their heads in if they were reporters. Snape hadn’t been impressed, but he did wait patiently as the guard summoned a house elf to verify their identities and escort them to the house. Even the elf seemed gloomy, its ears drooping and its eyes sad. Harry pitied it, and he pitied Draco, being trapped in such a depressing place.

Inside the elf bid them wait while she informed the ‘Young Master’ of their arrival. Harry studied the entryway, mentally cataloging what he was seeing to what he remembered. He held no memories of his fall from the top of the staircase, but the events had been reiterated to him enough for him to have an idea of what happened. The chandelier in the foyer was missing. It must have been the one that fell on Crouch, he reasoned. It still hadn’t been replaced, leaving the space dark and cavernous with only the weak winter light coming through the narrow manor windows. He looked towards the stairs, half expecting to find blood there or a crack in the stone. But the stairs were pristine.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” Harry said as the minutes stretched.

“Why?” Snape asked in a put-upon tone, drumming his fingers against his cane in boredom. He didn’t even bother to look at Harry, although there was nothing else particularly interesting in the foyer to look at.

“Draco might… not be entirely happy to see me.”

He still maintained some hope that wasn’t the case since the unexpected gesture of kindness at the funeral, but there had been no reply to the letters he had sent since then, and he wondered now if he hadn’t been snubbed after all.

“That is something better known than guessed at,” Snape said unsympathetically.

Harry didn’t agree. At least, he didn’t agree with finding out in Malfoy Manor. The house had already tried to kill him once before. It seemed impolite to mention this aloud, however, particularly in the foyer where his voice might echo up and out into the entire manor.

Several more awkward minutes passed, and finally the house elf returned, looking shaken, and led them to the study. Snape hissed in disgust as they entered the room, and Harry hesitated at the doorway. The study, once the picture of sophistication and order, was now a hive of chaos. Stacks of papers had piled up and fallen over across every available surface, including much of the floor, along with what looked like a month’s worth of dirty dishes. A fire burned in the hearth, making the room unpleasantly hot and the air vaguely rancid. Amidst it all sat Draco, half reclined behind his desk, one leg draped over the arm of his chair while his right hand held a glass of something that definitely wasn’t pumpkin juice. If the office was in an alarming state, Draco was doubly so. He was thinner and paler still than he had been at the funeral procession. He was greasy and unkempt, and the shadows around his eyes were so dark they appeared painted on.

He stared at them through slitted eyes, his expression closed. Snape glowered at the state of the room, then glowered some more at the state of his godson.

“I take it you will not be joining us then?”

Draco laughed or spasmed or something, and the brittle porcelain of his skin broke into a smile that threatened to shatter into bloody shards.

“I am afraid I must decline,” he said with mocking politeness. “As you can see I am quite busy.”

“Perhaps it would help if you let the house elves into the study. They clearly haven’t touched the place in a while.”

“I can’t stand them in here. They constantly nag and simper and whine. ‘Young Master needs to drink his tea’, ‘Young Master must sleep now’, ‘Would Young Master like a teddy bear and a bedtime story?’ Merlin, it grates.”

“At least let them tidy the office. It’s disgusting in here. And when was the last time you slept? Or bathed for that matter?”

Draco sneered at him nastily. Harry felt a jolt of surprise. For an instant, the other boy had looked just like his father, with all the vitriol and contempt Draco himself had yet to acquire. Until now.

“I can just as easily ban you if you continue to play the worried house elf as well.”

Snape stared at him, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Draco stared right back and took a long draw from his glass.

“Where is your mother, Draco?”

The boy suddenly looked away, and then tried to hide the retreat with a dismissive shrug.

“Visiting some distant cousin or uncle or something. I couldn’t be bothered to remember. I’m not her keeper.”

You said too much, Harry thought. You’re evading and sloppily at that. What are you hiding?

Snape appeared to notice it as well but did not pursue it. This was not Hogwarts. This was Draco’s domain, and whatever regard his godson afforded him might have been enough to get him through the door, but if he used that up he could easily and irrevocably be expelled through it.

“Let the house elves tidy up. I will have Ira bring you a sleeping drought. Undoubtedly she’ll become maternal. Indulge her,” Snape said.

The ‘or else’ went unsaid but heard nevertheless.

“When we find your sister I want to be able to say that you’re alright and not be made a liar.”

Snape made to leave, and Harry felt alarmed. Surely they weren’t going to leave Draco like this! He looked more dead than alive and clearly had no intention of changing the situation himself. But Snape kept coming, crowding Harry out of the doorway and into the hall. He moved out of the way as the man stalked past.

“But we can’t… He…” he stammered, but the man kept going without pause and disappeared around the corner. Harry gaped after him. He turned back to the office, only to have the door slammed shut in his face.

“Draco? Draco?!” he called.

He tried the door and pulled his hand back with a hiss when a bolt of magic stung him. His fingers went instantly numb.

Harry got the message. Reluctantly, he left to follow after Snape. Outside, he had to run to catch up with his guardian. Despite his cane, the man had already neared the gate.

“We can’t leave him like that!”

Snape regarded him blandly and didn’t slow his steady, limping gait.

“And what would you have us do, Potter? Wrestle him to the ground and force feed him potions and good advice? This is his home, and we have no leverage against him. We cannot force the issue, and he is in no state to be reasonable.”

“So we do nothing?” Harry accused.

Snape snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Gryffindors. It’s always all or nothing with you, isn’t it? Of course I’m going to do something, but there are those better suited to this task than either of us.”

“You mean Ira? What can she possibly do that we can’t? She barely even knows Draco.”

“I find your lack of faith in my wife vaguely insulting, Potter and choose not to indulge questions with what should be obvious answers. Now put up your hood. We’re taking the Knight Bus, and I would prefer not to be mobbed by your adoring fans.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said, even as he pulled up his hood as ordered. Predictably, Snape ignored him.

“We will need to go to Bristol to pick up our papers, and then we will split up. You will go and visit Miss Cypher and request her assistance with Draco. Be prepared to negotiate.”

Harry had never been to Natalie’s house before, but he had sent her enough owls over the years to know the address by heart. It was a four-story townhouse sandwiched between rows of similar homes and shops. The neighborhood skirted the border between affluent and Bohemian, an eclectic mix of contemporary art studios, antique shops, salons, and coffee shops that seemed to be owned by the creative working class and patronized by the eccentric wealthy. Harry rather liked it.

Natalie’s home doubled as an antique shop, so that while the building itself was a tidy brownstone that looked like it had been built within the last decade, the fixtures of the house, such as the door and garden statues, were all ancient pieces artfully darkened by the passage of time.

Harry ran his fingers over a copper statue of a faun turned pale green with oxidation, feeling the unique magical signature still strong despite its age. It flicker its ears in annoyance and scampered off further into the garden. There was an antique door knocker with the face of a lion on a red door, and it growled menacingly as he tapped it. He wondered if one of Natalie’s mums had been a Gryffindor.

A woman with long black hair and elegant black robes answered the door. Harry pulled back his hood so that she could see him properly. He could tell she recognized him, although they had never met, and also that she was surprised to see him.

“Hello, Mrs. Quinn,” he said. “Is Natalie home?”

She blinked once, twice, and then her surprise became delight.

“Of course, please come in.”

She escorted him inside, where the space was much larger than the outside would have led one to believe. The front door led directly into the shop, which was full to overflowing with furniture, armor, china vases, standing mirrors, and even an old carriage squeezed into a corner. He followed Mrs. Quinn through the shop, feeling the pleasant hum of so many magical objects crammed into a limited space.

“You don’t have any portraits?” Harry noted curiously as they reached a spiral staircase at the back of the shop. The only paintings he saw were of animals and landscapes.

“Oh, you noticed that? Yes, I decided against selling portraits early in the business. No one wants to buy pictures of people they’ve never heard of, and they were shameless gossips.”

Up the second floor was yet more antiques, but these were clearly not ready for sale. Some were locked behind glass cases, while others looked broken or in the process of being repaired. She noticed his curiosity and explained.

“My wife Adeline does most of my restorations for me. That’s actually how we met. I contracted her to restore some old woodwork for me. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“And the things in the cases?”

“Oh, those. Cursed or otherwise warded. I had a curse-breaker stationed out of London that I used to hire to handle these sorts of things, but he didn’t survive the Italian siege. The poor man, he was nearly ninety and wouldn’t have hurt a soul. I haven’t found anyone to replace him. Most of the curse-breakers work for the Court or the Culties these days, and the rest are a bunch of crooks and swindlers.”

“I know a good curse-breaker,” Harry said. “He’s in France right now teaching some seminars in Paris, but he’ll be off for the summer soon. I can put in an inquiry for you if you like.”

She looked impressed by his offer and quickly found some business cards for both him and his curse-breaker acquaintance. They took another set of stairs to the third floor where the living quarters started. The space was divided into sections by three sets of French doors in a U-shape. She opened a set of doors to their left and led him into a small parlor, sunny with fern patterned wallpaper and vases with yellow roses and lavender. There were family photographs on the wall, many of them with Natalie as a little girl. She had a sly, clever look even as a toddler that he would recognize anywhere.

“I’ll go get Natalie for you and have Adeline make some tea.”

She was gone before he could protest the tea. He honestly didn’t have time to stay long. He continued to study the photographs for several more minutes, until the door opened and Natalie stepped inside. Harry smiled when he saw she had brought Inana with her, the ten foot long cobra draped around her neck and shoulders like some sort of fashion accessory. Inana seemed as comfortable with it as Natalie, and Harry wondered what they got up to with all the time they spent together.

“And here I thought you had forgotten about us,” Natalie said, and strode up to him, lifting Inana from her shoulders and placing the snake around Harry’s. The cobra regarded him lethargically and shifted only enough to settle herself comfortably.

“Never. I just got back from Sirius’ yesterday, and I’m heading off to Paris this afternoon.”

“So soon? Are you up for that?”

She made an unsubtle glance at his wounded hand. He had wrapped it in bandages again that morning. The limb was still ugly with bruising and several conspicuous bite marks he didn’t want to have to explain.

“It’s fine. Besides, it’s a negotiation, not a Dueling tournament. I’ll probably be bored to tears.”

Natalie didn’t look convinced, and he didn’t blame her. To distract her, he turned to Inana and spoke in parseltongue.

“Ssso how are you getting along with my friend Natalie? Ssshe ssseems quite taken with you,” he said.

“Sshe isss… tolerable,” Inana admitted reluctantly. “At leassst, sshe does not ignore me for weeks on end.”

“I’m very sssorry. I haven’t given you the attention you deserve. I’ll be ssseventeen thisss sssummer. We will return to the Nile together then, and you can ssshow me your kingdom.”

“Yess. My kingdom. I will ssshow you the sssacred places, where the godsss sssleep and the Nile isss born,” she said, her sibilant voice reverent with awe and longing.

“Sssoon,” he promised.

“What did she say?” Natalie asked jealously. Harry grinned at her.

“Have you ever considered visiting Egypt?”

They talked for a little while longer, as long as Harry dared with errands still left to complete and his rendezvous time with Snape quickly approaching. They talked of the letters shared and the details that had been left out, Harry’s plans while in France, what they were going to do about school, and various bits of gossip. They were interrupted by the door opening and a perky blond witch carrying in a tea service. Harry concluded she was Adeline, Natalie’s other mother.

“Hello, dears. I didn’t interrupt you two kissing, did I?” she said cheerfully, causing both teens to blush in embarrassment.

“Mum!”

“Like you hadn’t thought about it. It’s nice to meet you in person, Harry. Natalie talks about you so much, I feel like we’ve known each other for years.”

Natalie’s faced burned, and Harry was surprised to realize this was the first time he had ever seen her embarrassed. He might have enjoyed it more if he weren’t so mortified himself.

“Fine, fine. I know where I’m not wanted. I’ll just leave this here for you, and let you get back to pretending I was never sixteen and don’t know what you’re up to.”

She gave Natalie an affectionate peck on the cheek. Then, to her daughter’s absolute horror, gave one to Harry too before bustling out of the room. They both stood there in stunned mortification for a moment.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Harry. I need to go find a rock to crawl under and die,” Natalie said at last.

“Ewr…” he started awkwardly, looking for something say. “Perhaps you could do me a favor before you go do that.”

Harry told her about his visit to Malfoy Manor and his concern for Draco. The change of subject helped distract them so that they were only a few shades light of a tomato by the time he finished.

“I’m overdue for a visit,” Natalie said by way of agreement. “I’ve been busy helping my mums with the shop, but I’ll ask for the rest of the day off to visit. Malfoy Manor is as good a rock to crawl under as any.”

“Better than most, I should think,” Harry joked feebly. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Draco is my friend. Despite what the world thinks of Slytherins, that does mean something to us,” she said dismissively.

“Natalie, I’ve never doubted the value of your friendship. Not ever.”

Impulsively, he leaned in and kissed her cheek just as her mother had moments before. She stood there stunned. Suddenly embarrassed all over again, Harry took advantage of her shock to quickly deposit Inana back onto Natalie and beat a hasty retreat.

“I’ve got to go now. The boat’s leaving soon. I’ll send you a letter when I arrive. Tell me how it goes with Draco. Thanks again. Bye!” he babbled, and then practically ran for the exit, leaving Natalie standing there with a giant cobra and an untouched tea service.

She turned to Inana. Inana looked back at her and flicked her forked tongue. Natalie sighed.

“You said it, sister.”

Wizarding London was still a depressing sight, but there were obvious signs that the city was on its way to recovering. Collapsed and burnt-out buildings had been mostly cleared away, leaving vacant lots and exposed basements ready to be built on top of. Snape hoped the builders would have the sense to use those magical advancements that had not been available when the city was first built to help make their homes and businesses more durable from these sorts of attacks in the future. He didn’t put much faith into it, but hope was cheap.

The Red Weasel was as busy as ever, although several other competing businesses had opened up along the same street and seemed to be doing well enough themselves. With the war over, people were flooding back to the city in droves and those businesses quickest to open were thriving. He entered the tavern unnoticed and made his way towards the bar, side-stepping waiters and tables with patrons talking progressively louder to be heard over others patrons with the same idea. One of the Weasley twins was at the bar, filling drink orders and flirting with the waitresses. He did a double-take when he spotted Snape coming towards him and actually had the cheek to grin at him.

“Professor Snape! Long time, no see. What can I get for you? First drink is always on the house.”

Snape considered the offer, but then decided against it. His limp already affected his balance, and he doubted a drink would improve the matter. He shook his head.

“I’m looking for your brother Ronald. Is he here?”

The bartender gave him a curious look that bordered on wary.

“He in trouble?”

“No,” Snape said but didn’t elaborate.

“That’s too bad. He’s doing inventory in the kitchen. Theoretically. Go on back.”

“Mr. Weasley,” Snape said with a nod and turned to go, nearly running into a waitress half a head shorter than all the others and carrying what looked to be six trays at once.

“Pardon me, sir. Oh, Professor Snape!” Ginny Weasley said, her eyes widening.

“Miss Weasley. It’s good to see you’re putting your education to good use,” he said blandly. She ducked her head.

“Yes, well… money for college, sir. Best to start saving now.”

He wasn’t sure if he believed her, but he nodded anyway.

“A worthy goal. I’ll leave you to it.”

He found Ron Weasley slacking off in the kitchen pantry, reading a book on concealment and disguise charms. He looked up when Snape blocked light coming in the the doorway and nearly fell off his stool.

“Jesus, what are you doing here?”

“We really do need to have mandatory etiquette lessons at Hogwarts. The manners in today’s young people really are appalling,” he drawled and stepped into the panty. He closed the door behind him and cast some spells for privacy. Ron had stood and backed up to the far side of the pantry, which still only left about five feet between them.

“I doubt you came to discuss curriculum with me, sir. What is it then?”

Snape regarded him coldly.

“You owe me a debt.”

Ron glowered, opened his mouth to snap something, hesitated, bit his lip, and finally nodded.

“Today you begin repayment. I am going to France on rather urgent business with Mr. Potter. My wife will not be accompanying me, and I cannot in good conscience leave her without protection of some kind.”

“You want me to be your wife’s bodyguard?”

“And errand boy, as needs arise.”

“When and for how long?”

“Today. I told her to expect you. And for as long as necessary.”

“But I have a job,” he objected.

“I don’t care. This responsibility takes precedent. I will not pay you for it, but if you perform adequately I will write a recommendation to whichever university or employer you wish to seek out upon graduation.”

“I’ll need money more than I’ll need another scrap of paper.”

“You’ll need your life more than you’ll need either. This is a Life debt, Weasley. One in which I have shed blood to uphold. Pray I don’t require some of your own before it is repaid.”

Rather than looking cowed, Ron only seemed to get angrier, his face turning redder by the second.

“You… you can’t just…”

Snape smirked.

“Yes, Weasley, I can and I am. You can’t just go about trying to murder a man with black magic and not expect there to be consequences. Certainly others have been paying for it, Hermione Granger not least among them.”

Ron had no argument for that, and for a moment he even looked ashamed. His eyes skittered around the cramped space without actually settling on anything, until finally he gave up looking for excuses and just nodded.

“Good. You can start with these,” Snape said, handing him a pile of letters. “Post them today. Except for the letter to my wife, which you will deliver to her in person, and then wait for her instructions.”

The boy accepted the letters and stuffed them into his robes, nodding morosely. Snape stared at him for a long moment.

“If something happens to her,” he said finally, “I will destroy you.”

A brief touch of legilimency proved the boy believed him, but to his credit, Weasley didn’t cringe or look away. Bravery wasn’t a prized trait in Slytherin, but cowardice was an absolutely unacceptable trait for what Snape needed him for.

Snape nodded once, opened the door, and left.

Dumbledore did not like to visit Paris unless he had to. It wasn’t that he disliked the city, per se. He admired its people, its intellectual and cultural vibrancy, and its unique approach towards muggle-wizarding relations. What he didn’t like about visiting Paris was that if he left for even a month, he would have no idea what the city would be like when he returned. Paris was a city of political turmoil and philosophical wars. There were always some dissidents, revolutionists, social movement, or scandal that carried the hearts of the common folk in one direction and the French government in another.

In particularly dangerous times, the common folk and French government were in agreement and without the other setting boundaries things got particularly out of control. That hadn’t happened since 1971 when the city had almost uniformly agreed to remove the boundaries between the muggle and wizarding sections of the city. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, in keeping with the perhaps overly sentimental view of muggle-wizarding relations. It had been an unparalleled disaster. For twenty years Parisian law enforcement was forced to direct most of its efforts towards maintaining secrecy and containing ‘accidents’ involving muggles. The government had quickly done a one-eighty and wanted to return back to the previous apartheid state, but citizenry was still intent on making it work. Only in the last decade or so that things had reached a relatively stable compromise, and it was a tenuous situation at best.

At the moment, the atmosphere of the city was a jubilant one. The German War (in their eyes it seemed the Germany held sole responsibility for it), was now over and their British allies had won while still maintaining the moral high ground. The opportunity for strengthening France’s economical and political status within Europe was almost guaranteed. Queen Ophelia was at the height of her popularity, leaving her critics biting their tongues in fear of public backlash. The mysterious and powerful Dark Lord and his young protégé had become international celebrities and the fashionable ideal.

Dumbledore knew he would not receive a warm welcome in this city.

Not yet, in any event.

Maybe next month or next year or next decade the tide would change in his favor, but by then it would be too late. He couldn’t afford to wait. If Voldemort cemented his hold in Germany, there would be no ousting him from Western Europe.

As was his custom, Dumbledore set up operations in the muggle section of the city. A small apartment in a local slum, currently condemned until restorations could be completed. Magic had made the dwelling habitable if not entirely pleasant. His crew for this mission was a handful of witches and wizards fluent in French, most of them German military or militia fleeing the British invasion and one a British refugee from the civil war already stationed in Paris for several years. All of them had reasons to fear Voldemort. None of them had reason to believe Dumbledore could actually protect them, but they were desperate.

Having spent the first day settling in, Dumbledore spent the second day assessing the situation in the city and the country as a whole. Nothing comforting was learned, but nothing surprising either. The real work began late that evening when, disguised as a middle-aged Eastern European wizard, he entered a gallery on a small wizarding street nestled in the district of Avenue Montaigne. It was just before midnight, but the Galeries de Nocturne hadn’t been open for more than an hour. Its unique management situation required unusual hours. The gallery itself was a long, narrow building with contemporary wood flooring and old-fashioned oil lamps. The walls were lined with paintings, none of them less than two hundred years old. The theme of this particular gallery seemed to be muggle historical paintings painted using wizarding techniques. Many of them featured Napoleon leading a charge in some battle or another. Sometimes the charge led into another painting’s frame, and an argument would break out between the diminutive combatants.

“Excuse me,” he said in French with an Eastern European accent to a very beautiful and very pale woman who was spending more time watching the potential customers than the paintings. She turned towards him and smiled, lips closed politely over her fangs.

“How may I help you?” she said, her own French faintly accented. Perhaps Middle Eastern.

“I have an appointment with Master Clarion,” he lied, handing her a card. It wasn’t a business card, but rather a tarot card of the Magician. The woman took the card in confusion and then in suspicion.

“I was not made aware of any such appointment,” she said.

“It’s a standing appointment,” he said. “Please give it to Master Clarion, and I am certain he will see me.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she nodded and stalked off towards a set of stairs at the far end of the gallery. He noted absently that her heels didn’t make a sound on the hardwood floors as she walked and estimated she was at least seventy years old but no more than a hundred. She disappeared up the stairs, and he occupied himself for several minutes with the paintings on the wall. Battles didn’t much interest him, but there was a rather lovely painting of Bougainville’s discovery of Tahiti.

The woman appeared again eventually and gestured towards the stairs she had just descended.

“He will see you.”

He smiled, nodded politely, and strolled towards the stairs in no particular hurry. The upstairs gallery was just as long and narrow, but the wood floors were covered in rugs and the gas lamps were replaced with wall sconces and candelabras, with only a few of those lit. There were no paintings, only furniture. A large, antique desk, several book cases and cabinets, and sofas and chairs he thought he recognized from some of the paintings downstairs. Most of said sofas and chairs were currently occupied with vampires, while Clarion himself was positioned behind his desk.

“It’s been a while, old friend,” Dumbledore said congenially. The vampire smiled thinly back at him.

“And I was just starting to relax. So what will it be then?”

Dumbledore didn’t belittle him by drawing out the unnecessary pleasantries. Vampires had long memories. There was no need to remind Clarion what he owed him, what his vampire family owed him. The war with Grindelwald had devastated Europe, and vampires had not fared any better. There had been strife between wizarding kind and vampires, which had led to losses on both sides. The death of vampires had led to power struggles amongst rival clans, none of them so fierce or bloody as those in Paris. Clarion’s rise as the Master of the City, indeed his very survival, had only been made possible by Dumbledore’s support. More than his rise up the ranks, he owed the wizard for the lives of several of his children who had been directly or indirectly rescued from battles and government execution. Clarion would remember this as a matter of honor. And as a matter of honor, he would not… could not, turn Dumbledore away.

“Nothing too dramatic I should think. I would like you to keep me appraised of the situation in Bourges. Perhaps arrange a place to stay nearby.”

“And what makes you think I would have any way of knowing what is going on in Bourges? We are vampires, not politicians.”

“You are the Master of the City, therefore you have politicians in your pocket and probably a few aides and security guards besides. You can’t afford not to know what the Queen and the Ministry are up to.”

Clarion nodded in acknowledgment and sighed.

“Very well. How many people would you need to hide?”

“Only myself and maybe one or two others. It needn’t be fancy.”

“If you wish to be close to the action there won’t be any choice in that regard. It is a rich, Pureblood city. The servants and workers floo in from Levet or Jussy-Champagne. At least in the wizarding section.”

“As long as it is discreet.”

“That I can guarantee. You will not make trouble for me.”

“I am sure you have your own means of insuring that,” Dumbledore said without changing his congenial tone. It went without saying that Clarion would be keeping an eye on him even as he helped him. Despite what was owed the wizard, Clarion would not risk being labeled a traitor of his country by being caught assisting a known terrorist.

There was little to say after that. They ironed out the details. Dumbledore inquired after Clarion’s family politely, and Clarion answered vaguely. The vampire asked about Dumbledore’s plans while in France, which were met with nonsensical answers. Dumbledore inquired about Clarion’s ‘business’ these days which the vampire evaded altogether. Their conversation could have continued on for several more hours without any straightforward answers, but there was a disturbance from downstairs that drew their attention.

The vampires that had been lounging motionlessly around the room suddenly stood, including their Master. One of the vampires retrieved a sword from seemingly out of thin air and placed it in Clarion’s hand. Just in time for the woman from before to come flying up the stairs and scurry to the far side of the room behind the crowd of her immortal brothers and sisters.

Dumbledore remained seated and watched things unfold from the rather precarious position directly between Clarion’s people and the approaching danger. Their adversary turned out to be another vampire and, to Dumbledore’s surprise, someone he recognized.

Despite being a few shades paler, Viktor looked just as Dumbledore remembered him. A heavy brow and dark eyes that made him look simultaneously earnest and menacing, and arms that looked like they could wrestle a bear. If he hadn’t entered the room with his fangs already bared, the old wizard might have made the mistake of jumping up to hug him.

But the fangs were drawn, and the look in his eyes held a savage gleam he had never seen before. It took him a moment to realize he had not seen him for over a year, nearly two. Had he been a vampire that entire time? What did it mean that he had not sought him out to tell him he was alive? Had his Master prevented him from seeking him out? Not unusual, but…

Whatever the case, it was not time to postulate. Viktor was joined by several other vampires following close behind him, and they all looked ready for a fight. Well this was certainly interesting. Not good, but interesting.

“Monsieur,” Viktor said, looking at Dumbledore, “I would recommend you go.”

For a second, the elderly wizard was confused by his formality; then realized he still had his disguise on. Viktor didn’t recognize him.

“I will be the one to say when my guests may come and go, Viktor. If you have some business with me, then you will go through the proper channels,” Clarion hissed, and behind him several of his children snarled. Several of the vampires behind Viktor snarled back, but were silenced when Viktor raised his hand. Dumbledore felt another shock of surprise. Viktor was the leader? The boy, for he really was little more than a boy, couldn’t have been a vampire for little over a year, maybe less and yet he was in charge? More than that, Clarion clearly felt threatened by Viktor, which meant he held a sizable clan. What circumstances could have possibly led to that?

“Or I can just walk into your office and save myself the time of having to chase after you while you cower from safe house to safe house like a scared little rabbit,” Viktor sneered, then turned to Dumbledore. “Why are you still here?”

Dumbledore smiled back at him, which startled the vampire.

“Master Clarion and I have an appointment, young man, which I believe takes precedent over your rather rude intrusion. Perhaps it is you who should come back later.”

His tone did not change from before, but his wand slid into his right hand from the sleeve of his robe and tapped lightly on the edge of his chair in slow beat. Viktor stared at the wand. His eyes widened as he recognized it. He looked back to Dumbledore, fixing him with an unreadable stare. The old wizard considered legilimency, but then decided against. Only a fool would go up against a vampire with such a tactic. His mind could be crushed like a grape under a troll’s foot.

“Forgive me, monsieur. I have perhaps been overly hasty,” he said evenly, betraying nothing. He then turned to Clarion and twisted his expression into unbridled contempt. “I know what you are up to. Your minions are clumsy at the best of times. If I find them meddling in my affairs again, I cannot be held responsible for what will happen next.”

“And yet I most assuredly will hold you responsible, you savage brat. As will every other clan in this city. Don’t mistake bravado for invincibility. You live only at my benevolence.”

“And you only at my patience,” Viktor replied. “This is your only warning.”

No one said anything else as the invading vampires slowly withdrew. When they were gone, Clarion’s vampires settled back into their respective seats and turned towards their Master for instruction. Clarion said nothing for a long time, his entire body shaking with the rage he felt at their confrontation. Dumbledore waited patiently for the vampire to collect himself. Eventually, he did and settled back into chair, laying his sword on his desk with a harsh clatter.

“Damn that boy,” he muttered under his breath.

“Viktor was always headstrong.”

“So you are not going to deny knowing him?” This seemed to surprise the vampire. “I could tell he recognized your wand. How do you know him?”

“We’ve crossed paths before he became a vampire,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. If Clarion didn’t already know of Viktor’s involvement in the Triwizard Tournament then he didn’t want to be the one to inform him of it. Viktor might have dissolved his ties with Dumbledore, but that didn’t mean he had actively betrayed him. The old wizard would not throw his old comrade to the wolves if he didn’t have to. “I hadn’t realized he had even been turned, let alone taken up residence in Paris.”

Clarion sighed heavily.

“It’s that damn Katarina’s fault. She got in over her head in Germany and got herself killed, and suddenly this self-important bastard takes over her clan and moves them into my backyard without so much as a warning. I thought at first it was just ignorance, but it turned out he really is just that much of a prick.”

“And yet you haven’t driven him out.”

“I can’t drive him out. His clan is bigger than mine, and he knows it.” Not to mention older, stronger, and just plain meaner. “I would have to call on the other clans to help me, and I can’t afford that sort of favor hanging over my head with that many people. They’ll see me as weak. He knows this as well.”

“And yet you cannot let him do as he pleases without seeming weak either.”

Clarion merely nodded.

Dumbledore regarded him thoughtfully.

Clarion looked back equally as thoughtful.

Neither said anything for a long time.

Horace was bored. Oxford wasn’t nearly as interesting as he had thought it would be. At least, not from inside the Owl and Toad Tavern, which could have been any tavern from Inverness to Portsmouth, with the exception of the photographs hanging behind the bar of famous authors that had visited rather than famous Quidditch players. Horace didn’t recognize any of them, but then he would be hard pressed to recognize his own mother most days.

He was there with Charlie to meet with the publisher from the Oxford Wizarding Press for lunch and a discussion of his dragon book. Aside from a very brief introduction, he hadn’t said much at all. Charlie had taken over the conversation almost immediately, and Horace let him. The publisher was a bit of a prig, and seemed more interested with dealing with a college graduate and career researcher over someone barely out of secondary school. Horace had managed to pay attention for a little while, mostly when Charlie was going over the credentials and interesting anecdotes of those behind the creation of the book. The story about how Hagrid had come into Charlie’s employ under the recommendation of Harold Potter, gifted with three dragon eggs from the Triwizard tournament besides, was particularly interesting since Horace hadn’t heard the story told straight through. After that, he lost interest in favor of the food that arrived. The food itself was pretty good for tavern food, nothing spectacular but good, and once he was done eating he realized he didn’t know what Charlie and the publisher were talking about anymore.

He stood up, and they suddenly looked at him, startled as if just realizing he was there.

“I’m going to use the loo,” he said simply. Charlie nodded and the publisher looked away as if he had said something embarrassing. He left, did his business, and while washing his hands, completely forgot about them. He went to the bar and ordered a butterbeer, and sat for a while looking at the pictures of famous people he didn’t recognize. Then he grew bored and started looking around the tavern instead.

The tavern was only half full, occupied mostly with students and professors from the local university grabbing lunch between classes. He spotted Charlie and the publisher and was reminded why he was there again. They didn’t seem to have noticed his absence, and he was in no hurry to return. He looked around some more and found himself drawn to a man and two young girls seated in a booth nearby. It was the girls that drew his attention, as they seemed to be the only children in the place and none too pleased about it either. They were dressed prettily in lacy white dresses, their hair done up in satin ribbons, and accompanied by a man (presumably their father) dressed in a handsome gray and red three piece suit and coordinating maroon colored robe and bow tie. The girls were sulking over their lunch of pot pies, while their father scolded them softly.

He entertained himself imagining what was happening. Perhaps the girls had just come back from a party after causing some sort of mischief. Or perhaps their father was ordering them to behave as they prepared to go to some formal occasion that threatened to be exceptionally dull, like a baptism or a piano recital. His imaginings were interrupted when the older of the two girls suddenly threw down her fork and shouted for the entire tavern to hear.

“Who cares?! If Harry’s too busy to be bothered then father will obviously be too busy to come either!”

With that, the girl clambered over her little sister and ran for the door, red faced and on the verge of tears. Her father sat there stunned for a moment, and it wasn’t until she was nearly out the door that he jumped up to run after her. He stopped abruptly and turned back to the girl left abandoned in the booth.

“Stay right here! I’ll be right back. Don’t move from this spot!” he said sharply, and then hurried out the door.

The girl did indeed stay put, but her embarrassment and worry was obvious to Horace and likely to everyone else in the tavern who was now looking between the door and girl with blatant curiosity. The silence that followed was awkward and must have been awful for her. No one said anything. No one got up to approach the girl, not even the barkeep or any of the waitresses. Disgusted, Horace ordered a glass of pumpkin juice and walked it over to the table with the mortified child. He set it in front of the girl and startled her from her intense study of the table. He smiled at her, and then turned around to glare at anyone else who happened to be looking in their direction. Predictably, everyone looked away and hastily continued their conversations where they had left off.

He sat down across from her.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

She blinked at him owlishly and nodded.

“My name is Horace. Do you want to tell me what just happened?”

Her pink cheeks reddened further, and she shook her head. But then she glanced up at him, and perhaps seeing only kindness there, changed her mind.

“I’m Alyssa. My sister Morgana was angry at my dad because he says Harry might not be able to make it to her birthday party this year, and she shouldn’t get her hopes up. He’s really busy this year, but then he’s always busy and still manages to come other times. Father has a new boss, and he’s busy too, but I don’t know why she would think he wouldn’t come either. They’ll both come. I know they will.”

Despite her words, she looked despondent, or as despondent as a ten year old girl could look. He didn’t like that look. Not at all.

“Is Harry your brother?”

She blinked at him, and just like that the despondent look disappeared into a grin.

“No! Harry’s famous!”

This time Horace was surprised. His initial reaction to the name Harry was to mentally add a ‘Potter’ at the end, but he had dismissed the possibility just as quickly. Harry was an exceptionally common name, even among wizards. Famous Harrys were considerably rarer.

“You don’t mean…?”

She took the glass of pumpkin juice he had brought her and took a sip, grinning into the glass the entire time. Mentally, he shuffled through his scattered memories. Harry was always a subject of unusual clarity for him, and it didn’t take him long to find some minor detail in a conversation they had had from years ago.

“Reicher,” he said, and the girl choked on her juice. “You’re one of the Reicher girls, aren’t you?”

“How did you know that?” she squeaked.

“I know Harry as well. We went to school together. He mentioned your family sometimes.”

Her eyes widened.

“He did?”

“He was very fond of you.”

This seemed to please the girl, and she was more than willing to talk to him about their mutual friend. He was more than willing to listen. He even talked a little about his time with Harry at Hogwarts, which inevitably led to his recent exploits in saving the school. Her perspective of the events was a bit skewed by her obvious hero worship, but she painted a colorful picture that marked her as a talented storyteller.

He took out his notebook and pencil from his robes.

“What are you doing,” she asked.

“I’m taking notes.”

“Notes about what?”

“About Harry. About you.”

“How come?”

“Because I’m Harry’s biographer.”

“What’s a biographer?”

He explained it to her. She looked thoughtful, then frowned.

“What if I want to be his biographer?”

“Then you should also take notes,” he said, attempting to hide his smile.

“Harry can have more than one biographer?”

“Sure. I’m sure there will be a lot of us eventually. We have a head start though, since we’ve known him for so long and are his friends.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to write one book about Harry?”

“Like a collaboration?”

She didn’t know what that meant either, and he explained it to her.

“Yeah, like that,” she said.

“Maybe,” he agreed. “Do you want to collaborate?”

She nodded enthusiastically. So he flipped through his notebook and showed her some of his notes he had pieced together. She giggled at his sketches, and asked him if Harry had really caught blue pox while at Hogwarts and if Harry was really in love a werewolf ‘princess’ (her somewhat convoluted interpretation of the Head Alpha’s daughter). Then, perhaps feeling it was only fair to share something of her own in this ‘collaboration’, she leaned over to one side and picked up a little white child’s purse. She opened it and pulled out a rather large letter from the little pouch and showed it to him.

“This is a letter from Harry. We had to go to our cousin Becky’s birthday party -only she’s not really our cousin- and Morgana wanted to show it off because Becky said she didn’t believe us when we told her Harry was our friend but dad wouldn’t let her. He said it would be unfair to Becky to show off at her party, but she’s always nasty to us so I don’t know why we should be nice to her.”

“I guess if your cousin is nasty, he doesn’t want a daughter like her.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of it like that. I guess I wouldn’t want a kid like her either.”

He nodded sagely in agreement.

They turned their attention to the letter. Alyssa pulled the letter out of its envelope and showed it to him, and the first thing that caught Horace’s attention was the highly detailed pictures of the Great Hall at Hogwarts drawn at the bottom of the letter and up along the sides. It appeared to be the Welcoming Feast, with all its traditional pageantry and crowded to the brim with teachers and students. It was not a fully enchanted picture, but the little pencil lined people did seem to moving a little form side to side in some places and the House Banners flapped slowly in the air while the floating candles bobbed up and down. In the top right corner was another sketch, this one of Inana coiled up in a flower bed, her forked tongue peeking out every so often.

Just as he was about to turn to his attention to the actual text itself, the letter was suddenly snatched from his hand. Alyssa’s dad was now standing at the booth with her sister held firmly at his side by her upper arm and looking just as sulky as before. The elder wizard was looking at him like he was guilty of some crime Horace could only guess at.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Before he could speak, Alyssa answered for him.

“This is Horace. He’s one of Harry’s friends from school. He’s going to be Harry’s biographer!”

Rather than reassuring her dad, it only seemed to condemn Horace in the other’s eyes.

“His biographer? More likely a reporter for some rag paper. Come on Alyssa, we’re leaving.”

“But Dad!”

“One more word and I’m casting a Silencio! I’ve had enough out of the both of you for today.”

Reluctantly, Alyssa gathered up her cloak and purse and climbed out of the booth to stand by her sister, who was glowering at the floor and shunning the world at large. Before they left, however, the man turned to spare him one last venomous glare.

“As for you, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Exploiting a little girl like that the moment she’s alone and vulnerable! Like some sort of…”

Whatever he was going to accuse Horace of being like, he made a quick glance at his daughters and seemed to think better of it. He turned on his heel and marched towards the bar to settle his bill instead of waiting for a waitress, leaving Horace sitting there stupidly for a moment. He wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. Had he done something wrong? Sometimes he didn’t know, but Hagrid and Charlie had never been as cross with him as Alyssa’s dad had been. Maybe it was a mistake?

He thought that must be the case. The man had called him a reporter, which must have been the source of the upset. He had been a school reporter, but honestly hadn’t seen the appeal of it as a career outside of Hogwarts. Nobody liked reporters. Even he didn’t like reporters.

“Hey, you okay?”

He looked up to find Charlie looking down at him, worried and a little angry. At him or for him?

“There was a misunderstanding,” Horace said.

“Yeah, entirely on that guy’s side. What a jerk.”

Horace shrugged. Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t think it would have been good to have just made friends with Alyssa and then turn around and insult her dad. He didn’t want to be like cousin Becky. That thought made him smile, which seemed to confuse Charlie.

“Is the meeting over?” Horace asked, changing the subject.

“Almost. Looks good. He’s sending us home with some paperwork to go over and sign, and then there are few editing decisions we’ll have to go over with Hagrid.”

Horace nodded and climbed of the booth, but as he did he noticed the envelope Alyssa had left in her rush to obey her dad. There was something written on it.

Harry Potter

Snape Cottage

Longhill Rd

Elvenshire, Bracknell Forest

Lestrange thought she would happily travel to France just to get a little sun. Even in Bristol, one of the warmest and sunniest cities in England, the weather was gloomy and chill. The dementors that had been patrolling just off the coast had been recalled to Azkaban, and it was hoped that the unusually harsh winter weather would see an improvement soon. Soon, but not just yet.

Her uniform, flattering though it was on her, was not as warm as she would have liked. She felt a spike of jealousy as she recalled Potter’s uniform, which had a cloak lined in heavy fur. No other uniforms among the Culties were similarly insulated. A perk of being Lord Voldemort’sfavorite, she thought bitterly, then quickly pushed the thought aside. Whether Potter was her lord’s favorite or not was none of her concern. As her Master had said before, Potter served his purpose and served it well despite the occasional mishap or detour. She could do no less than him.

Indeed, she was highly qualified to do considerably more.

For instance, she could deal with Captain Reginald Stratus and his increasingly questionable loyalty to his country. Perhaps her Master would gift her with a fur cloak after she uncovered his treason.

A woman could hope.

“He’s a manipulative little bastard. I don’t know how Lucius could have trusted him… well, except that he supposedly went crazy. Convenient that,” she said, her bland tone taking away the bite of her hatred for the man. She didn’t want Amelon to think she had anything personal against Stratus. The inquisitor nodded, possibly in agreement or possible in acknowledgment. She couldn’t really tell with him.

They were out in London, making their way from the military floo station towards the Thames where a ferry was waiting to carry her and various other Court officials to Paris. She tightened her cloak around her. London was considerably cooler than Bristol, and a heavy fog lay over the city even as it began approaching noon and dampened her clothes. Beside her, Amelon blew warm air into his cupped hands before taking up his notepad and quill from under his arm again.

This was the third encounter with the man she’d had in two days, and she still couldn’t tell what he thought of her suspicions against Stratus. He appeared to be checking up on the few details she knew regarding Stratus’ employment to Lucius and his military career prior to that, asking follow up questions at their next meetings and making additional requests to classified personnel records and mission reports, but he may have just as easily been checking up on other suspects or even herself. He was a slippery fish.

She respected him for that.

“But you’ve still decided to go to France and leave him unsupervised?” he asked.

“I don’t have a choice. I can’t send a man I don’t trust to France, where he could cause unspeakable mischief, and I need the Dark Lord’s approval before I start cleaning house. Stratus’ war hero status prevents me from dismissing him or any of his people outright.”

They turned down a narrow alley which twisted curiously so that after a time it seemed they were going into a spiral and getting no closer to their destination. The effect was intentional. The ferry and its necessary docking station were relatively new additions to Wizarding London, and not ones advertised to the public for security reasons. It was not blocked off from the public strictly speaking, but there were a number of minor hurtles, such as the crooked alley, that discouraged the casually curious from seeking it out.

The fog was lighter here, but the air was still damp. A peculiar rotting scent followed in after them, although the alleyway was empty of trash.

“Do you think he will try anything?” Amelon asked.

“Undoubtedly. He knows why I’m going. If he’s smart, he’ll try to weasel his way into the good graces of one of my rivals. If he’s a fool, he’ll try to sabotage me.”

“Or kill you. If what you suspect is true, he isn’t above murder.”

“Then he would be exceptionally stupid,” she said and spun sharply, her wand slipping from her sleeve and into her hand. “Aperio!”

The revealing spell expanded in a colorless bubble from her wand, distorted their vision of the alley as it expanded to fill the narrow space before suddenly bursting harmlessly. The alley appeared just as it had before, but for the black shadow now outlined on the wall. The shadow was roughly the size and silhouette of a komodo dragon, but completely flat. It let out a savage hiss, before scurrying up the alley wall.

“Quickly! Stop it! Stupefy!”

The shadow ducked back down, dodging her spell and scurried in another direction.

“Claustra incedio!”

The sky above the alley suddenly burst into flames, blocking the creature’s escape upward. It let out another hiss and scurried quickly back down the wall, dodging several of Lestrange’s spells at it went. It was incredibly fast and impossible to predict which way it would turn next. It made one more attempt to flee in the opposite direction of the alley, but after dodging yet another stunning spell from Lestrange, it suddenly turned and charged towards them. This time Amelon joined her in casting the Stunning hex, but the creature was like smoke and every attempt to hit it seemed to push it to the side rather than penetrate.

Then it was on them and too late to do anything. It leaped from the wall and straight for Lestrange, seizing her arm without seeming to open its mouth, its body still strangely two-dimensional, like a flag flapping the wind. Lestrange screamed more in anger than in pain, and unable to cast another curse while it held her wand arm in its grip, she pulled a dagger from her holster and stabbed at it. It squirmed and twisted away from her blade, but it was too close to evade her for more than a second or two before the blade struck something. It hissed and released her, dropping to the alley floor and scurrying away. This time they let it.

“Merlin, fuck me, god damn!” Lestrange swore, dropping the knife in favor of gripping her wounded arm to slow the flow of blood. Amelon continued to stare after the creature for a little longer, as if making sure it was really gone before turning to her.

“How badly are you injured?” he asked. He reached for her, but she snarled at him like a wounded animal.

“Leave it be! It’ll be fine. It’s not venomous.”

Amelon stared at her.

“You know what that thing was?”

“It’s an anthifold. Think zombie lethifold,” she said.

He continued to stare at her blankly.

“The Dark Lord used to use them for reconnaissance work. They’re quick but relatively harmless.”

“Seemed dangerous enough,” he said, glancing at her wound pointedly. She smirked at him.

“The arm is still there, isn’t it?”

He smiled at that and nodded in acknowledgment.

“Nevertheless, we should get you to a healer.”

“No. The ferry won’t wait, and I can’t afford not to be on it,” she said and continued onward. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed after her.

“An anthifold, you said. Don’t think I’ve heard of them before. They’re not used by the Court anymore are they?”

“They were never used by the court,” she said. “They weren’t even used by the Death Eaters strictly speaking. They’re created through necromancy, and we only ever had one necromancer in our army.”

“Lord Voldemort.”

“Yes.”

“So he’s spying on you now?”

“No.”

“But-”

“He knows better than to use something like that against me. I know their smell. I know their tricks. Whoever sent that thing didn’t know I knew this.”

“Stratus?”

Lestrange hesitated. Considered.

“If he did, he would have to be a necromancer himself.”

“… That’s rare.”

“Not something easily hidden either. He’s clever, but I don’t know if he’s that clever. It could just as easily have been sent by the Germans or some other nation. Lord Voldemort will have to be informed immediately.”

They continued onward silently, their eyes darting about the alleyway for some sign of danger. Nothing sprang out at them. No anthifold or any other assailant appeared. The alley finally opened out into a large dockyard, bustling with activity. The fog here had been dispersed by enchantments for safety as large pieces of cargo were levitated on and off the sole vessel stationed there. Passengers were restricted to a narrow stretch of the dock were they could be lined up to go through security, before handing off their luggage to Culties who would stow their belongings (after checking them for suspicious items and contraband), then pass along to an even narrower ramp that led them on board.

The ferry itself was a handsome vessel, moderately sized with an upper deck that could comfortably hold five hundred (far more people than will ever likely need to cross into France at one time short of a national evacuation) and a lower cargo hold with a handful of private cabins for the crew and traveling diplomats and enough storage to haul half the goods in Diagon Alley. It was made of wood, Dwarven copper that wouldn’t oxidize for at least a century, and brass. It was also painted black, a tradition amongst wizarding ships, to hide the runes painted beneath to protect it against storms and sea monsters (and more recently, sonar and satellites). The Albatross was painted in gold letters on its side.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to a Healer first?” Amelon said. “It’ll be back for another trip this evening.”

“There will be plenty of Healers in France. Lord Voldemort must be informed of what happened as soon as possible. It could be a matter of national security.”

Amelon nodded.

“I respect your patriotism, General Lestrange. I wish you the best of luck.”

“You as well, Inquisitor Amelon. I hope you catch the bastard that killed my brother-in-law.”

“And Crouch,” Amelon reminded her.

“I don’t give a flying fuck about Crouch,” she replied with a smirk, and made her way towards the line of passengers shuffling through security. He watched her go, smiling curiously. What a strange woman, he thought to himself.

He seriously hoped he wasn’t going to have to arrest her for treason.

The Albatross, while boasting more than enough passenger space for their small group, lacked anything resembling privacy outside of the loo. The passenger cabin was an open floor plan with rows of low-backed chairs facing each other and the passenger deck was completely empty except for the charmed life preservers mounted along the guardrails. It meant when Bellatrix Lestrange boarded the ferry, Harry and Snape spotted her almost immediately.

“Yech,” Harry said.

“Quite,” Snape agreed.

“She looks like she’s been in a fight. She’s bleeding.”

“Then if we sink we’ll know who the sharks will go to first and swim in the opposite direction.”

“Professor!” Harry cried, going for scandalized but coming out delighted.

“A man can always dream, Potter.”

Word of his people arrival from London reached Voldemort at a quarter to six that evening while he was reviewing the files Morgan had dug up on the German diplomats who would be there for the negotiations. It was informative and important but also tedious, and he was happy to have an excuse to do something else. One of his aides gave him a list of those who had arrived, and he was pleased to find all the necessary players were present and accounted for. The negotiations had been delayed long enough. The Germans were becoming restless, and so was he. Tomorrow, the day after at the latest, they would start. He called on his aides and had a series of instructions written for various members of his entourage, then set off to speak with some of them in person.

Harry was first. He would have preferred he be last so that he could spend as much time as he wanted with his protégé, but that wasn’t an indulgence he could afford at the moment. There was far too much to do, and even working through the night he would be hard pressed to have everything completed in time.

He found Harry in his room, collapsed in a chair while Victoria unpacked his suitcase and gossiped at him. He knocked at the door to draw their attention, and the maid servant immediately dropped into a low curtsey. Harry just offered him a tired smile.

“Hey.”

Voldemort smirked at him.

“Eloquent as always,” he said, then turned to Victoria. “Leave us.”

She bobbed another curtsey and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“Long trip?” Voldemort asked.

“Long day. We went to see Draco before we left today. He’s… not well.”

Voldemort honestly didn’t care. If young Malfoy grew to be half the man his father was, then he would be more than happy to invite him into his inner circle, but it was still too soon to tell if he was worthy of that privilege or not. In the meantime, the boy still had his mother and godfather to look after his well-being and wasn’t his concern.

“He’s also not your responsibility. Your responsibilities are here in Bourges,” he reminded Harry.

His protégé sighed and nodded.

“And what precisely do my responsibilities involve? The only official title I hold is Ambassador to the Werewolves.”

“Which would be enough all its own to assure your place here. The Germans have attacked our werewolf citizens and must pay restitution. Then there is the matter of those werewolves still being held in Germany itself. We must decide what is to be done with them.”

That seemed to catch Harry’s interest. He sat up in his chair, and his tired expression hardened. Voldemort smiled. He knew that expression well. It meant Harry was going to be difficult. Hopefully, it meant he was going to be difficult with the Germans. That could prove infinitely entertaining. Perhaps even useful.

“Then there are other matters in which you may prove quite useful while you are here,” he continued.

“Such as?” Harry asked, already suspicious.

“The Royal Family will be in Bourges for the negotiations, and that means most of the Royal Court and a number of Parliament will be accompanying them. There will be various functions to keep them entertained, and that means there will be opportunities for our people to mingle. I need you to be at your most charming.”

Harry looked at him blankly.

“And how do I do that?”

Voldemort considered.

“You flirt for one thing. Every woman between the ages of eleven and one hundred and eleven likes to be flirted with, but never let it become vulgar or lead anyone on. Even if they want you to. For the men, show interest in their pastimes, particularly sports. These will mostly be men of leisure, and their sports are very important to them. When you do participate in said sports; lose. Not badly. Perhaps not even all the time. But lose. Nobody likes an amateur showing off, and you’re young enough that allowing them to mentor you in some way will be flattering. And of course, you must show an interest in France and French culture itself. The Queen has already offered a tutor during your stay, which you will accept.”

Harry didn’t look enthusiastic, but he didn’t argue which was something. Voldemort decided not mention the tour of France he had planned for him after the negotiations were over. His protégé was quite popular in France, and he wasn’t above exploiting that to improve their international relations. And Harry could use the practice. Hogwarts was an excellent school, but it did not provide the sort of social education Harry would need. He would wait until the negotiations were over to bring it up. If he were lucky, his protégé would make enough friendly acquaintances that he might want to stay for a while of his own accord. Otherwise, it was simply better to avoid an argument for a long as possible. Given enough time, Harry could, potentially, weasel his way out of it.

“I will have your itinerary delivered to Victoria. You will be very busy, so I recommend you get some rest.”

Harry smiled tiredly.

“No argument here. I’ll eat in my room tonight and go to bed.”

“Then I will leave you to it. Don’t hesitate to ask Victoria for anything. That’s why I brought her, after all. We will talk more tomorrow.”

“Alright. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Victoria was waiting patiently outside the door as he exited. He closed the door to the suite and addressed her directly.

“Morgan has informed you of your purpose?” he asked.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Are you up to it?”

“I will not fail, my Lord.”

He didn’t reply. There was no need to threaten Victoria. She knew him well enough to know what he would do if she failed to protect his protégé. Instead he walked away. Snape’s room was right next door to Harry’s, but he was in no hurry to see the man. Private business could wait until later. He intended to meet with Rutherford Gillen, the Head of the Court Treasury Department, but was intercepted along the way by one of his aides with note from Morgan.

He read it and continued on, turning down another palace corridor to another set of suites. He entered a room without knocking and found Morgan and Lestrange waiting for him. Lestrange looked exhausted, but she rose from her chair immediately and bowed respectfully. He stared at her.

“You are injured.”

“The wound is minor, but what it might mean is serious. I came as quickly as I could.”

Voldemort nodded in approval. Lestrange had always known what her priorities should be. Morgan moved to stand near the door. She told them what had happened in the London alleyway. About her discussion with Amelon, her suspicions of Stratus, the discovery and subsequent attack by the anthifold, and her journey to Bourges. He waited patiently for her to finish, and then nodded. He turned to Morgan.

“Summon a healer to attend to the general. Be discreet,” he ordered, and Morgan wordlessly left the room.

Once alone, he crossed the short distance between them and placed his hands on her shoulders in sudden display of intimacy. She inhaled sharply, her eyes widening, her cheeks flushing.

“M-my Lord?”

“Thank you, Bella, for coming to me directly. Your loyalty is a source of great comfort to me. If I could trust even a tenth of my people as much as I trust you, the Court would run itself,” he said, staring down at her warmly.

“I… I am only doing m-my duty, My Lord.”

“Which I have always been able to rely on. If I have ever seemed unappreciative of that fact, I apologize.”

She looked stunned and flattered and perhaps a little suspicious. He was not generous with his praises, and this likely seemed a little over the top. Which it was. Not that he didn’t appreciate her loyalty, but he was hardly going to fall head over heels in love with her because of it.

“I will have the matter investigated. Stratus, of course, will receive extra attention. Whatever we find, you will not have to keep him on as your direct subordinate. He and your honor guard will be reassigned laterally and separately, and you will have your pick of the ranks to replace them.”

That did please her. The Dark Lord didn’t give gifts, but he was generous with his rewards. And to be given precisely what she had come there to get made this Christmas.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“I am afraid I cannot spend much time on this matter personally at the moment, but Morgan will keep me apprised of the situation. In the meantime, I want you to let the healer attend to you and then rest. I will want you with me at the negotiations tomorrow.”

“As you command, my Lord,” she said, practically glowing.

He kissed her lightly on the forehead, bid her goodnight, and left. Outside of her presence, his expression darkened. The presence of the anthifold could mean any number of things, but he suspected he knew the culprit already. Necromancers were rare after all, and of the handful in Europe he could think of none that would go out of their way to spy upon Lestrange. It was possible a necromancer could have been bribed by a local government, but unlikely. That left only one real possibility.

Tom.

He had been unaccounted for over two years. He had always known it was just a matter of time before he resurfaced, but he had become complacent. There were so many other things demanding his immediate attention he hadn’t spared much thought to when or how his counterpart might return. Had Tom recouped enough to finally make his move against him? Or was this merely one of a string of maneuvers in a grander scheme that he had overlooked? And why Lestrange?

Was it possible Reginald Stratus was somehow involved as Lestrange theorized? A conspirator or a patsy? Could Tom have been involved in Lucius and Bartemius’ deaths? The possibility hadn’t occurred to him before, but now that it had it didn’t seem the least bit implausible. But what would his motivation be? Revenge? An attempt to remove some of his closest supporters? Had Harry’s fall that night truly been caused by the manor defenses or was it another possible act of sabotage by Tom himself?

He knew too little to make any sort of supposition, and yet he was suddenly uneasy. If his counterpart were active, it was perfectly plausible that he could infiltrate the Court and his inner circle. His interrogation of Horace McGunny had revealed Tom’s ability to move from body to body. But if Tom got that close, wouldn’t he have been able to sense him? He had always been able to before, but…

He wasn’t the same as he was before.

Harry had…fixed him. The horcruxes were no longer pieces of himself. He was not longer missing any pieces in his soul. He was whole unto himself. It was possible he wouldn’t even be able to sense horcruxes anymore. At least, not as he used to.

“Well, bother,” he muttered to himself. “And things were going so well.”

Unwinding Truths

Voldemort was still lingering in the corridors and mentally running through his options for dealing with Tom when Morgan returned. He was still conflicted on whether he should wait until he returned to Britain to deal with the horcrux personally and risk the malevolent creature escaping yet again in the meantime or if he should risk bringing in a third party, probably Lestrange, to deal with Tom immediately on his behalf and risk the truth about horcruxes becoming known to yet another person. Morgan proved an unwelcome distraction to this dilemma, but the news he had after such a brief absence brought about more immediate concerns.

“My Lord,” Morgan said, “I have just been made aware of a very troubling rumor.”

This was Morgan-speak for ‘let’s go somewhere private’. Otherwise he wouldn’t have wasted his time grandstanding and just said it. Voldemort felt a spike of irritation. What else could go wrong today?

The Bourges Palaces had any number of private rooms that were supposedly safe from prying eyes and ears, but the Dark Lord only trusted those rooms Morgan or he had properly secured. The closest room was his private quarters. The suite included three rooms: a bedroom, a bath, and study that doubled as a parlor. The rooms were lavish with everything in brightlycolored silks, gold, and crystal shining and glittering in the sunlight that streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Voldemort hated them. He preferred his residences back in Britain with their sturdy wood and stone structures, their heavy fabrics and solid metal fixtures. Bourges was beautiful, but it was a frail, shallow sort of beauty that he felt little fondness for.

Morgan secured the doors and activated the wards as they entered the study. Parts of the room sparked and crackled as the foreign magic struck it, revealing the existence of spellwork that could have been anything from charms on the Grandfather clock by the door to a discreetly hidden surveillance spell someone had conveniently forgotten to mention. Nothing unexpected there.

“I just received word from palace security that a wand was registered in Paris matching Albus Dumbledore’s.”

Voldemort let out an irritated hiss.

“Of course. There was no way he could keep his sticky fingers out of the negotiations. Why register his wand? He knows we’ll be able to track it now.”

“I am afraid that is not how French magical surveillance works. Once the wand is registered, it will not trigger the alarms that an unregistered wand would. The only thing it will do is allow us to identify spellwork cast by that wand after the fact.”

Voldemort nodded. He should have known Dumbledore wouldn’t make such an amateur mistake.

“Can we unregister his wand to make it traceable again?”

“Not without the wand going back through customs, otherwise the charms will expire in thirty days. He came in on a work visa.”

“How did he get through customs to begin with?”

“Passed through as a Hungarian potions lecturer with all the necessary credentials, probably while disguised under polyjuice. They didn’t catch the wand paperwork until the final security check back at their headquarters. Ten hours after the fact. A sloppy way to run things.”

Voldemort wasn’t going to argue with him, but he wasn’t going to worry over deficiencies within the French wizarding government either.

“Any leads?”

“They have Aurors and some Musketeers looking into it, but I’d rather send some of our own people.”

“And have them stepping on each other’s toes? Try to remember we are only guests here.”

“We can be discreet.”

Which was to imply that the French couldn’t. Voldemort couldn’t help but mentally smile. It seemed he had finally found something that could annoy his normally stolid servant.

“I have a better idea.”

Snape didn’t unpack. While his request to make amends had been accepted, he wasn’t naïve enough to think that he had been forgiven yet or that his presence would be tolerated. He might very well be sent home that evening or the next. There was no way to be sure what the Dark Lord would demand for his redemption or if it would even be possible, and a hasty exit might be necessary.

He did take advantage of one of the overstuffed chairs by the window, however. His leg ached, as did his hand from using the cane. He had pain potions in his bag, but he didn’t dare take them until he had spoken with Voldemort. He would need all his wits about him for that meeting.

The summons came far sooner than he had expected, barely an hour after his arrival. He had thought the Dark Lord would have placed him at the bottom of his things to do, and he wasn’t sure what the early summons meant. He didn’t ponder it long. Voldemort didn’t like to be kept waiting.

The aide who came to collect him was a nervous young wizard, who fidgeted impatiently when he was forced to slow down to accommodate Snape’s injured leg. The headmaster, annoyed with the aide’s annoyance, intentionally slowed his pace just to aggravate the man further. They finally reached the Dark Lord’s private quarters, and the aide announced his presence and held the door open for him. Snape entered. The door shut and immediately locked behind him. Voldemort sat at a desk. Morgan stood near a window. They both turned their hard, unnerving gazes towards him.

Snape stiffened, and then carefully leaned his cane against the wall, before striding across the room. It made his leg ache viciously, but he managed to cross the room with barely a limp to the chair across from the Dark Lord’s desk. The dark wizard said nothing about his injury, but Snape thought he might have seen a glimmer of approval at the display.

“You have requested to make amends with me, Severus,” the Dark Lord began without preamble. Snape nodded. “You are aware that the depth of your betrayal will require either a considerable sacrifice or a highly difficult task to be forgiven.”

“I am aware, my Lord. I am prepared.”

Voldemort slid a file across his desk without looking away from Snape. He continued to watch as his wayward minion took it and opened it. There wasn’t much there. Only three pages; memo to the local Auror’s branch in Paris, a partially censured alert letter addressed to the Department of Magical Registration and Licensing, and a copy of a temporary wand registration form. All of it was in French. It took a few minutes for Snape to read and mentally translate it all, but he knew what was expected of him from the first three lines of the security memo.

He looked up. The Dark Lord’s gaze had not wavered from him the entire time.

“Dead or alive?” Snape asked.

Voldemort’s subsequent smile was pleased if not exactly pleasant.

“I will forgive you if he dies,” he told Severus, “But if you take him alive, I might very well be… grateful.”

“My resources?”

“Carte blanche, but I expect a full report of your expenses at the end. Also, while I can promise you the full support of my people in Paris, I must insist you keep out of the way of local law enforcement and refrain from telling them of my involvement in your investigation. I would prefer they not even know why you’re there.”

As he spoke, Morgan pulled away from the window. Snape tensed instinctively when the man reached inside of his robe, but he merely pulled out a bar of silver in roughly the dimensions of a cigarette case. He handed it to Snape who studied it intently. It was heavy, solid metal, smooth and rounded along the edges and corners. One side the was engraved with the British emblem for the Court of National Intelligence, while the other side was stamped with his name and number of coded sigils that would announce his rank and privileges within British government. There was no photo anywhere on it. Such badges could not be duplicated by any magic yet known and anyone who attempted to steal and use the badges falsely would be in for a number of very nasty surprises.

“They’ll be investigating as well. What do I tell them if I am identified?” Snape asked, pocketing the badge.

“Improvise. You were always good at that.”

Snape nodded. He preferred it that way honestly. He could already think of half a dozen reasons he could excuse his wanderings around Paris asking questions but doubted he would need them. He would not be seeking out the same sources of information the Aurors would think of or resort to. Paris was a large city and eyes were everywhere. A little coin here and there and mouths would open. He wasn’t afraid to use a curse or two when it proved more effective. If he were lucky, he could catch up with Dumbledore by morning.

But only if he were very, very lucky.

“I should go now. I trust you have provided Mr. Potter appropriate supervision in my absence?”

“He will be taken care of.”

Snape nodded. It went unsaid that there was a very real possibility that Harry was a target while Dumbledore was in France. Harry was a target wherever he went these days, but he was especially vulnerable here. Snape would not be at all surprised if he followed a trail of breadcrumbs from Paris right back to Bourges or somewhere nearby.

This was where everything was happening after all.

Natalie arrived at Malfoy Manor shortly after lunchtime. She would have been there that morning, except that visiting the ancient estate required more than the usual spit and polish than was her daily routine. Her muggleborn status was considered a disadvantage among the Malfoys, and she had to work extra hard to disguise any perceived weakness that would earn their derision. Lucius had never thought much of her, but he hadn’t thought much of anyone and his apathy was par for course. Narcissa was ambiguous. If Natalie had been a pureblood, she thought the woman would have encouraged Draco to have affections for her. However, Natalie was a girl without station or income suitable in a potential bride, and if Draco had demonstrated any romantic notions towards her Lady Malfoy doubtlessly would have driven her off. As things stood, Natalie walked a precariously thin line as the intellectually interesting but poorer friend of the family who served to make the Malfoys appear fashionably eccentric. Natalie played along, and she gleaned enough advantages from her position that she was able to do so without becoming bitter.

It had taken nearly half an hour just to figure out what to wear, and then another hour to do up her hair and makeup. When she was finally perfect, she had a small lunch in her room (she refused to speak or even look at her mum after the embarrassing debacle that morning), then put on her finest cloak and left. She had not yet gotten her license for apparating, but she knew enough to make short jumps at a time, no more than twenty-five miles with small breaks between each one. It took three jumps and fifteen minutes to reach Malfoy estate, another five to get by the guard at the gate. Dobby came to escort her, but he ended up running after as she strode purposefully past his quivering form.

“M-m-mistress Cypher,” the elf stuttered and cringed pathetically. “I am a-afraid M-master M-m-malfoy is not receiving any-m-more visitors to-today.”

She pretended not hear him.

He fretted and danced around behind her but could do nothing to stop her. She entered the foyer and pulled off her cloak and tossed it on the floor. Hurriedly, Dobby picked up the cloak and disappeared with it, no doubt relieved to make himself scarce even if it did involve clothes. Natalie took advantage of the moment of privacy to take a deep breath and ground herself. She was undoubtedly behaving rather presumptuously and normally she would have been more reserved, but if Harry’s concerns were genuine she would need that presumption to force Draco to take care of himself. She went to the study first but found it empty… and rather disgusting. She tried the kitchens, where Draco secretly like to go when he was trying to avoid his parents, but she only found some house elves working forlornly on duck consommé for dinner. None of the elves knew where Draco was a the moment, and Dobby never returned to give her directions, much to her annoyance.

She decided to try for his room next but was intercepted on the stairs by Lady Malfoy herself. The woman’s sudden appearance at the top of the landing nearly frightened Natalie out of her skin. Lady Malfoy was so pale and so gaunt Natalie at first mistook her for a ghost.

“Natalie, what a pleasant surprise,” the woman greeted her with surprising warmth, although her smile held a brittle quality to it. Her clothes and hair were impeccable as always, but they seemed overly large and superficial on such a wan creature, and her hands fluttered nervously as Natalie had never seen them do before. “Have you come to take Draco Christmas shopping? I do hope so. I’ve been trying to get him to go all week, but he’s still sulking over Hermione going off to spend the holiday with Lieutenant Stratus’ family. He could use a bit of cheering.”

Natalie stared at her, dumbfounded.

Lady Malfoy stared back, the same brittle expression on her face as the silence stretched. After a long moment, Natalie blinked and nodded slowly.

“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “I thought he could use some cheering up as well. Do you-”

Draco’s voice came suddenly from down the hall, sharp and slightly panicked.

“Mother! Where are you?!”

“Here, Draco!” Lady Malfoy called back cheerfully. “And you’ve got a visitor!”

The sound of footsteps came echoing down the hall.

“Draco dear, stop running. You’re not a little boy anymore,” the woman scolded gently. The steps slowed, just barely, and momentarily Draco appeared at the top of the stairs beside his mother. Natalie barely recognized him, and she certainly didn’t recognize the terror-filled expression on his face when he stared down at her. He looked for all the world as if he expected her to destroy him.

“You’re not wearing that out, are you?” Lady Malfoy said disapprovingly, gesturing towards his rumpled clothes. That seemed to break Draco from his fearful paralysis. He turned and gave his mother a look of complete frustration, and then sighed.

“Mother, I’m not going anywhere. Natalie and I are just going to have some tea and a chat. Why don’t you talk with the house elves about the holiday decorations. They’ve been terribly remiss. I mean look at the place! They haven’t even started decorating yet.”

She looked up and about, and her expression pinched with displeasure.

“You’re absolutely right. Those little… I swear with your father so busy they’ve become intolerably lazy. You go entertain your guest, and I shall deal with them. It was good to see you again Natalie,” the woman said then stalked down the stairs past her and disappeared into the kitchen.

Natalie watched her go and then turned her wide eyes back to Draco.

“That… was a little strange,” she said slowly.

He flinched then scowled and made his way towards her.

“What are you doing here, Natalie?”

“I hadn’t seen you in a while and you ignored all my letters. I was worried.”

“Did Potter put you up to this?” he demanded indignantly.

A wave of anger crashed into her at the accusation and implication therein. How dare he? How dare he keep this from her and treat her like the enemy? She had been his confidante since they were old enough to have secrets, and no one aside from his foster sister had been as trustworthy. Something must have shown in her face, because Draco’s expression twisted once again into something fearful.

“If I weren’t in your house right now I would slap you. A lot. Knock some sense into your hollow head.”

“Now, see here, I could have you thrown-”

“Don’t you dare threaten me, Draco!” she shouted, her voice booming in the cavernous foyer. “Don’t you dare!”

That shocked him into silence. Then shamefully he looked away. He couldn’t throw out Natalie. Not like he could Harry or Uncle Severus. Not when she knew his dreadful secret, but especially because… well, she was Natalie. She would know exactly how to make him regret it.

They stood there in silence for a long time, her staring expectantly at him while he looked at her shoes. He thought he could out wait her, but he was too tired to just stand there and count the seconds, and eventually he spoke.

“It’s complicated.”

She crossed her arms.

“I know I’m no Hermione, but I think I could understand if you speak slowly and use small words.”

Draco made an impatient gesture and for a moment he looked just like he had before the Christmas Ball: haughty, exasperated, and secretly amused. But then he flinched and pinched the bridge of his nose. The illusion dissipated and left her friend once again brittle and strangely shrunken. Natalie was hopeful though. Beneath the grief and stress, something of Draco remained.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said. He gave her a skeptical look. “Merlin, Draco, why would I? What could I possibly get out of getting your mum committed to St. Mungos?”

He seemed to consider that, but his obvious headache didn’t seem to be helping him. She gave an impatient huff.

“Dobby!” she said softly, but sharply. There was a second of silence and then a soft popping sound at the bottom of the stairs. She looked back to see the house elf cowering at the bottom, half hidden behind the carved marble railing. “Well, can’t you see your master has a headache? Go fetch him some headache potion and some tea. Hurry up and bring it to the library.”

She leveled Dobby an impatient glower, daring him to object. He floundered about stupidly for a few seconds, but didn’t protest. Draco was another matter.

“There are better privacy wards in the study,” he said and made his way slowly down the stairs towards her.

“The study is a bloody fire hazard and it stinks. In fact, Dobby, how could you let things get to such a state? What is wrong with you?! Are you lazy or just that inept?”

The little creature looked positively horrified, whether by Natalie or himself it was difficult to say. He fluttered about uselessly for another second or two, smashed his head into the marble stairs a few times in self-punishment, then disappeared in an harsh ‘pop’. In the distance, they could hear him wailing like a banshee.

Draco gave her an annoyed look.

“You know he’s only supposed to follow the orders of either his master or his master’s family.”

“I know. Why do you think I was so nasty to him? If he’s too busy panicking or punishing himself, he’s not stopping to ask himself whether he should actually be doing what I tell him.”

“God, I forgot how refreshingly amoral you are.”

“You always say the sweetest things.”

They moved on to the library.

Natalie had never been there and was strangely disappointed by its relatively plain design. When they arrived there was a tea service waiting for them with a small vial of generic brand pain potion. The room was two stories high and had a narrow walkway encircling the upper portion, reached via a spiral staircase just off the entrance. There was a glass wall at the far side of the room that looked out onto a small lake with verdant grounds and trees heavy with spring blossoms. It was an illusion, of course, and Draco manipulated a knob by the door to quickly change the scene to a less obnoxious view of an alpine mountain range still half covered in snow. On either side of the room, books were packed floor to ceiling on two walls, broken only by a large portrait of a wizard with distinctly Malfoy-esque features sneering down at them from the west wall. The books themselves were protected behind enchanted glass doors that were nearly invisible.

Draco had told her once while they were mere grade-schoolers that his father had put the glass up after he caught Hermione taking a book without permission. She wondered if Draco would take them down when his sister came home, and if that would relieve any of the bitterness or if it would only make it worse.

Otherwise, the room was uninteresting. There was a small set of reading chairs and a matching sofa, an oriental rug, and some table ends. On one of the table ends was a tea service with a plate of scones and a vial of generic pain potion off to the side. Draco ignored it, but Natalie poured two cups and added sugar to hers and lemon and potion to his. Reluctantly, he accepted the cup when she handed it to him. She sat down across from him and nursed her own cup.

“So tell me,” she said.

“You can’t figure it out for yourself?”

“I can make a pretty good guess, but that’s not the same as knowing. I don’t want any misunderstandings between us. Not about this.”

So he told her. The bare bones of his reasons and his plans, unwilling to lay out his own emotional upheaval over the story. She would read between the lines and glean the rest of the matter from silence. How she would use this knowledge he could not be entirely sure. Natalie could be cruel. She was often cruel but usually it was a purposeful cruelty rather than the natural malice he saw in so many of his housemates and his own father in particular. It was just as likely that she would ignore his weakness altogether. Not because she was being kind but because his weakness didn’t interest her.

Weakness didn’t interest him much either these days. Everybody was weak. That seemed to be the default state of humankind. Strength was a much rarer quality and usually only appeared for brief moments. There was a time where he fancied himself quite strong willed, and perhaps he had been, but he didn’t have the endurance to keep it up.

He was so tired.

“I’ll help you.”

Draco opened his eyes. When had he closed them? How much time had passed? He looked down at his cup and found it empty. His mouth held the faint bitter aftertaste of potion.

“And your price?” he asked absently.

“Nothing too outrageous. It’s in my best interest that your little scheme succeeds. I don’t fancy attaching myself to another rich pureblood heir. Not after I invested so much time in you.”

The fact that she didn’t want to rather than couldn’t was not pointed out. Natalie was a beautiful girl, talented, and intelligent. Boys from all the Hogwarts houses wanted her. It was perhaps Draco refusing to see her in any romantic capacity that actually most appealed to her. Well, that and he was generally awesome.

“But that being said, I expect some compensation for time and effort on my part.”

“And your silence?” he mused darkly. She smiled back over her tea.

“Silence is the price I pay for keeping your friendship. It is the same price I pay for Harry and Hermione.”

Draco looked away. They were friends, but they rarely acknowledged it out loud. Slytherins didn’t talk in terms of ‘friendship’ so much as ‘alliances’. Friendship was too ambiguous; the rules unclear. His father had never taught him how to handle it. The best he could manage at the moment was to change the subject.

“And how do you propose to help me?”

She could have called him on it, but she didn’t. It would have been too easy.

“Simple enough. I’ll be your mother.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll supervise the house elves, sort the mail and handle the necessary letters, and run errands. I’ll keep track of the gossip and news of the outside world. I’ll make sure both you and Narcissa are properly fed, clean, and put to bed.”

“Not a child!”

“I’ll keep you company.”

He tossed aside his cup and saucer on the tea service. The cup broke and reformed. Irritated, Draco picked up the cup and hurled it across the room. This time it shattered into fragments and remained broken. Natalie raised an eyebrow, drank the last of her tea, and tossed her own cup over her shoulder where it struck the glass-encased bookshelves and shattered too. He stared at her. She stared back.

Despite himself, he laughed.

“Merlin, you’re impossible, you know that? How do you expect to help me out. You can’t spend all day and night here.”

“Why not? You’re my friend and you’re grieving. Why shouldn’t I stay with you? At least until we can come up with something better,” she asked as if he were being obtuse. Perhaps he was. She seemed to be ten steps ahead of his every thought.

“You don’t think your mums are going to object to you staying with a teenage boy for weeks?”

She grinned at him. He wondered if he had gone insane or was it just the world?

“Oh, I doubt they’ll mind. I told them you were gay back in fourth year.”

Harry woke to Vicky opening the curtains of his bedroom, sunlight streaming into his face with a luminescent slap. Groaning, he pulled a pillow over his head and tried to drift back to sleep, but it was snatched away along with his coverlet.

“Time to wake up, Harry,” his tormentor practically sang.

“Then come back tomorrow at the same time,” he complained. “We can try it again then.”

But he was already getting up, stretching and yawning theatrically. The room was warmer than he was used to in winter, and he felt stiff and stuffy as if he had slept with a fever. He felt unusually disoriented from his sleep, the large, unfamiliar room, and even the brightness of the sky outside his window. It was all felt alien to him, and while intellectually he knew where he was it felt as if he had woken in a faerie realm.

Vicky had set a cup of tea beside his bedside, and he took it gratefully as she flitted about his quarters, preparing for the morning. She had disappeared into the bathroom for a minute then returned to riffle through his wardrobe, which was filled half with the things he had brought and half with a variety of costumes he had never seen and most he hoped he would never be made to wear.

“You had better hurry and take your bath. You are having breakfast with the Royal family in an hour,” she said, pulling out an unfamiliar blue shirt and showing it to him. The sleeves were puffy. Harry shuddered. She rolled her eyes but put it back.

He went to the bathroom and found the bath, a claw-footed monstrosity decorated with golden sirens (which a muggle would mistakenly have referred to as a ‘mermaid’), already ready full and steaming. The water was hot and fizzy with bath salts, and smelled pleasantly of milk and honey. He might have enjoyed it if it were something to reward himself after a day of grueling exertion of some kind, but a quick morning bath it seemed rather silly and wasteful. A shower would have been more practical.

He bathed quickly, not fancying the thought of Vicky walking in to hurry him along and getting an eyeful in the process. When he was done, he put on the bathrobe and slippers that had been set on a nearby chair and went through his normal morning ritual. A relatively new addition to that ritual was shaving. Harry could not boast the ability to grow a full mustache or beard just yet, but starting that semester he had started to grow enough facial hair to look rather scruffy if he didn’t shave at least once a week, and not in an attractive way either. It was Ira who had given him the bone handle Fighburton’s razor, which was essentially just a straight razor spelled against cutting flesh even as it cut hair, and shown him how to use it. Draco had told him how to remove the charm and turn the blade into a weapon.

Harry liked to carry it folded up in his left sleeve sometimes when he couldn’t bring his dagger to the places he had to go and had even practiced holding and slashing with it once or twice. It had made him feel silly, but he kept carrying it on him.

He returned to the bedroom and found Vicky had laid out an outfit for him: black pants, black shirt, and an emerald green vest with a darker green chainmail pattern printed on it. This shirt had puffy sleeves as well.

“It’s the French style,” Vicky explained when Harry pointed it out.

“But I’m not French. Can’t I have a little leeway here?”

“I don’t get what your objection is. British robes all have puffy sleeves; I don’t see the big deal about puffy-sleeved shirts,” she huffed. Still, she shrank the sleeves so that they became form fitting rather than loose, and even she had to admit the British style suited him better. He conceded to wear the French style robe and cloak, both black on one side and deep green on the other to match. They were curiously abbreviated. The robe had no sleeves and ended mid-thigh, while the cloak was a tiny thing hung off to his left side and ended barely an inch past the robe.

Despite their oddity, when Harry looked in the mirror he thought it all came together with artistic elegance. He would never wear anything like it outside the palace grounds, but inside of it he felt confident of the impression it made. Vicky found him a pair of black gloves and boots (he wrangled his way out of wearing the silly looking slipper shoes the same way he did the puffy shirt) and he was dressed for the day.

“Nice,” she told him approvingly. “Maybe they’ll let you wear it for your sitting.”

“Sitting?”

“Didn’t Lord Voldemort tell you? You’re getting your portrait painted. The Queen insisted.”

Harry sighed. He had had his portrait painted twice before. The first time was just after he had killed the Basilisk in his second year. The portrait resided somewhere in Voldemort’s private collection, not to be seen for a hundred years at least. The second portrait was a month after the Battle of Berlin Underground, and it hung in the lobby of the Court of Magical Creatures. Voldemort had wanted to hang it at Headquarters in Bristol, but since werewolves had featured prominently in it Harry managed to change his mind. And luckily almost never had to look at it as a result.

If he were lucky, the Queen intended this latest portrait to be for her own private gallery as well. The ridiculous number of photographs of him circulating was bad enough without something as pretentious as a dramatized painting added to the mix.

“You’ll be having an early lunch with the other British representatives to go over their negotiation strategies, and then the negotiations themselves start at one.”

“Anyone I know?” he asked, even as they made their way to the door.

“I’m sure you’ve been introduced to most of them at one time or another. I have dossiers on both them and the Germans which we will go over during your sitting.”

“Vicky, if you weren’t married…”

“I think there is enough rolling around with the maidservants going on around here already, thank you, Lord Potter.”

Out in the hall, there were already people moving about, and they were forced to drop their casual banter for a more formal address, although Harry refused to let Vicky walk behind him as they spoke. The palace servants looked at them curiously from time to time, but if the fellow Britons he passed thought anything about his eccentricity they didn’t show it. As they entered the royal family quarters, the presence of Musketeers and other forms of security began to appear more obvious, and Harry could sense the tingle of wards on his skin as they neared their destination.

The dining room was guarded by Musketeers, who checked them both for weapons and their identities with a number of charms. Harry noted curiously that their spells did not detect his razor. He supposed it couldn’t be considered a weapon while it was still charmed. He left his wand with Vicky, who remained outside and then was escorted inside by a valet, who announced him in French.

The dining room, like all of the palace, was a beautiful if slightly ridiculous affair. It was long and relatively narrow with a soaring ceiling and floor and paned windows. Everything in the room was crystal: the floor, the windows, the tables and chairs, the statuaries, the door handles, the vases, the dishes, and the cutlery. Only the walls were not crystal, but were instead covered with what looked like clouded glass. It gave the impression of everything and everyone was floating in the air inside a cloud. Harry took a moment to admire it, then turned his attention to the occupants of the room.

There were a number of valets that looked nearly identical in blue frock coats and black wigs standing along the wall or serving coffee and removing dishes. There were two Musketeers standing at attention by the windows and looking out for any possible danger. Queen Ophelia sat the head of long table, Voldemort on one side of her and Seraphina on the other. There were nearly twenty other people Harry didn’t recognize seated as well, but the table was still only half full. The valet, who had been waiting patiently while he gathered his bearings, led him towards the end of the table and pulled out a chair for him beside the Dark Lord. Another valet brought him a plate with what looked like a small quiche and a bowl of glazed raspberries. It was almost too pretty to eat.

Almost.

“Good morning, Lord Potter,” the Queen greeted pleasantly. She was wearing a white gown, and the rosy warmth of her skin and the luster of her dark hair stood out starkly against it. She was beautiful.

“Good morning, Lord Potter,” Seraphina parroted, drawing his attention. She bore a strong familial resemblance to the queen and was quite beautiful as well, but somehow she failed to hold his interest the way the queen did.

“Good morning, your Majesty, Lady Seraphina,” he greeted politely.

“What about me? Don’t I get a good morning?” Voldemort teased.

“You too then,” he replied with a smirk.

This made the Queen laugh softly and Seraphina blink rapidly before smiling shyly into her tea. Harry promptly forgot about her. There were a few more idle pleasantries exchanged, and then the queen introduced the rest of the breakfast guests. As Vicky had mentioned, it was mostly members of the royal family, cousins mostly with a great uncle and another niece thrown in, but many of them held titles outside of their hereditary titles. Count John of Orleans was the head of the Ministry of Foreign affairs for instance, and Duchess Lacina was in charge of the Ministry of Health and a licensed Healer herself. Most of them spoke English (and probably several other languages) and were quite interested in making conversation with him.

“Lord Potter,” a young man little older than Harry called for his attention. His accent was heavy, much like Fleur’s. “I understand that you are known as quite a flyer. Will you be staying long enough to enjoy the Season?”

Harry didn’t know what he meant, but the Queen elaborated.

“He means The Fliers Season. It is when the Quidditch tournaments begin, but also some of the more traditional flying sports. Officially, it starts around mid-April, but there are some events that start as early as late March.”

Ah, Harry thought, that season. The British had a Season too, although it wasn’t called Fliers Season and was generally marked by several balls and matches involving obscure sports wherein rich pureblood hosts introduced their eligible children to prospective partners. Draco and Hermione both had declared them exceptionally dull affairs unless you were actually participating. But Harry remembered what Voldemort had told him about showing interest in their ‘little hobbies’.

“Well that does sound like something I could get into. Are you are flier yourself?”

“Nothing professional, but I am a Beater on my University Quidditch team.”

“I see. So you prefer participating rather than just watching, as well? Perhaps we should arrange a match. I admit I haven’t had the opportunity to play since the school Quidditch pitch was destroyed.”

Further down the table, Duchess Lacina snorted contemptuously. She was by far the oldest person in the room (except for Voldemort but you couldn’t really count him) and had a sour expression.

“A silly sport. Grown men trying to knock enough other off brooms. It’s entirely artless. I much prefer Wessicle[1], even if it is German,” she said imperiously. Around the table, several people sighed soundlessly. Apparently the duchess was known for sharing her opinion.

“Wessicle is indeed a fine sport,” Harry said, having absolutely no idea what Wessicle was, “but you mustn’t dismiss Quidditch so readily. It requires a great deal of skill to play well and anything that requires skill has art.”

To soften his contradicting her, he smiled agreeably at her and lifted his glass of water as if to toast. The duchess hesitated, but finally conceded by raising her own water glass and sipping it.

“Touché.”

Beneath the table, Voldemort patted his knee to show his approval of Harry’s performance thus far.

“Please don’t let my protégé’s lack of discriminating taste put you off, my Lady. He is young and the world and everything in it is an adventure.”

There was more conversation, and as the Dark Lord had predicted most of it revolved around the myriad of distractions the rich nobility could indulge in. It ranged from dinner parties and the finest restaurants to the countryside hunting trips and riverboat tours. Harry was quickly bored by the frivolousness of it all but found some interest in the way Voldemort managed to squeeze his way into the conversation.

He became aware that they weren’t quite certain how to handle the Dark Lord. He was, after all, a Dark Lord, which they only had the vaguest notion of what that meant. He wasn’t normally the sort of person you invited into polite society in any event. They probably thought he spent his nights worshiping the forces of darkness and strangling puppies. It wasn’t a fair assessment. He only did those sorts of things on special occasions.

But this was hardly new. The situation was precisely the same back in Britain, and here like there Harry proved to be living bridge between Voldemort and everyone else. The easy conversation and body language he and the Dark Lord shared put others at ease and simple conversations they wouldn’t have felt comfortable starting with Voldemort they could start with Harry and pull the other in without it seeming awkward or forced. This pleased Harry, although he couldn’t say why precisely. Perhaps it was because he felt like he was achieving something useful during what was otherwise a meaningless exercise in civility.

The Queen of course, was an exception. She suffered no insecurity in regards to Voldemort and required no buffer to speak her mind. She was also not particularly interested in small talk, and after her relatives had filled nearly half an hour with banter she took over the subject matter.

“We should be pleased if you both are able to enjoy the many pleasures our country has to offer, but I wonder if you’ll have much time for any of it. Negotiations start today. Have you decided you terms?” she asked, gracefully but firmly turning the conversation to more serious matters.

Harry tensed at the sudden change of atmosphere in the room, but Voldemort spoke with the same mild interest he used when discussing opera and Quidditch.

“The terms are decided,” said Voldemort. “I do not expect negotiations will be particularly long. We have the upper hand in every respect. Although I will likely have to leave for Germany once they are complete to oversee that conditions are met.”

This was news to Harry. He hadn’t known Voldemort would be going to Germany nor apparently staying there for some time. It made a sort of sense, he supposed. Voldemort had never been one to shy away from battle, and he would not consider his enemy conquered until he saw it with his own eyes. The Dark Lord could delegate as was needed, but he clearly didn’t like it, and he wouldn’t leave something this important in the hands of others.

Harry wondered briefly if he would be expected to go as well.

He hoped not.

He would have to ask later, because the queen was speaking again.

“And what do you hope to achieve? Vindication?”

“Remuneration. This war was expensive in more ways than one, and my countrymen expect compensation for the wrongs done against them. Then security. We must make certain that five, ten, twenty years from now the Germans do not make the same mistakes again.”

“And your method? Cripple the country so it is unable to retaliate?”

There was nothing accusatory in her tone, merely curiosity, but Harry felt baited just the same. Around the table the guests were starting to look uncomfortable as well. He looked to Voldemort, but the man didn’t seem at all surprised or offended. He was actually smiling at her.

“One cannot cripple a country indefinitely, your Majesty. Given time, it will heal itself. It is in the method of the healing that I will ensure lasting peace between our countries. You ask me if I intend to cripple Germany? Yes, I do. It is necessary to the process. I also intend to heal it. They will be dependent on Britain for many years, perhaps for a full generation, during which time I will implement those social reforms which have seen much benefit in my own country. When at last Britain and Germany unwind themselves from each other, I would have it be done without resentment.”

“That seems overly optimistic,” she said. That seemed to further amuse the Dark Lord.

“Optimism isn’t something I’ve been accused of often. It is, in fact, an oversimplification. I do not expect the Germans to tolerate British occupation without resentment. Merely not resent it enough to go to war over again. Certainly I will be able to find those Germans more than willing to benefit from the coming change of the status quo.”

“You are truly a remarkable man,” she said as if commenting on the weather. Her attention shifted to Harry suddenly. Her dark brown eyes regarded him with a fathomless patience, a touch of warmth in her otherwise neutral expression. “And you? What do you hope to gain from all this?”

He stared at her for a moment, then looked down at the table to clear his mind. What did he want? He thought of the war, of what was lost and why. He thought of his battles, his triumphs, and his losses. He thought of his abduction and those myriads of people he had met, kind and cruel, noble and selfish. He thought of Greyback and the goddess clan and felt his hand fist around his knife.

“I… What I want and what should be done… I know they’re not the same things. I lost friends, family, a place I considered a home to me… I nearly died several times and have the scars to prove it. I can’t think of Germany objectively or in the long term. The losses are still too raw. I have to trust Lord Voldemort and hope when one day I can put things into perspective that I will agree with the decisions he has made.”

The silence that follows tells Harry he has said the wrong thing. Up to this point, the conversation had been spoken lightly, even the political aspects of it. But he hadn’t been able to keep his tone light. He hadn’t been able to take her question as anything but serious, and his voice and his words had been strained by that seriousness that more than likely hadn’t been meant.

“Forgive me.”

He started at the sudden break in the silence and turned his surprised stare to the queen, whose warmth was now tempered by pity.

“It was insensitive to ask. You bear your scars with such grace it is too easy to overlook them.”

He looked away. He didn’t want her apology. He didn’t want her pity. The mistake had been his and could easily have been avoided with a joke or some noncommittal statement, but his damned preference for honesty had ruined it.

“No, your Highness, there is nothing to apologize for. It is anger not sadness that made me say that. My temper is my own responsibility,” he said, striving once again for a lighter tone and not quite managing it.

Ira spent the time during her husband’s absence attempting to be busy. She had sorted the closets, caught up with her personal correspondence, read several back issues of scholarly journals, fixed the squeaky bathroom door, and reinforced the security wards around the house. At the moment she was writing newspaper advertisements for temporary schoolhouses and volunteers. McGonagall had sent an owl that morning informing her of the school board’s approval of her idea and asking for her assistance, and she had jumped at the opportunity to help

The fact that she was lonely and anxious had made it an easy decision to make.

Severus had left her behind while he went to France, and while he had given perfectly good reasons why that should be she couldn’t help but feel he wasn’t being entirely honest with her. He had seemed distracted and distant before he left. It had only been a few days since she had started discussing trying again for a child, and she had not gotten a satisfactory commitment from him. Had her desire to try for another baby driven him off? He had been genuinely upset over the loss of their first child, but she had been so lost in her own grief at the time she could not say for sure how deep his distress had been. Perhaps while she was ready to try again, he was not? Or could it be that he resented the fact that she had brought up the matter now after he had been so seriously injured and there were so many other things that needed to be dealt with first?

He hadn’t seemed angry at her, but how could she know for sure? He was a difficult man to read sometimes, and if he felt anger or resentment towards her he wouldn’t necessarily show it if he didn’t think it was deserved. That would have been a sign of weakness in his eyes. Leaving her behind had perhaps been his way of sparing her his temper or else finding the distance to sort out his own feelings on the matter. That in turn made her feel guilty. His leg still bothered him sometimes, and he got tired easily. While he was looking after Harry, who would be looking after him?

There wasn’t anything she could do about it now except handle things as best she could at home and prepare to make him welcome when he returned. If she could manage to set up the temporary schoolhouses before then, it would mean considerably less stress for him and perhaps help to make amends for her thoughtless request. Perversely, she wanted him to return as soon as possible. She missed him terribly.

As if fate itself were listening, there was a knock at the door.

“Oh!” she said in surprise, dropping her quill. Her felt her breath catch. The cottage was unplottable and only a very select few knew how to find it. Almost all of them, aside from McGonagall, she believed were in France. Could Severus have returned after simply depositing Harry into the Dark Lord’s care? But no, Severus wouldn’t be knocking at his own door.

Suddenly, she felt very anxious, but it was different from her anxiousness over Severus. She was vividly aware that she was a woman alone in the house. Witches were not as vulnerable as female muggles to assault, but it wasn’t altogether uncommon either. Winston, her ex-husband, had seemed to take a perverse delight in reading news articles aloud at the breakfast table about the occasional female victim accosted on the street or in their very own homes while their husband or parents were elsewhere.

Briefly, she contemplated ignoring the knock and pretending she wasn’t home, but dismissed the idea. The lights were on and clearly visible from the garden fence. If she hadn’t been distracted by her letter, she would have seen who was coming herself. And what if it was something important? What if something had happened to Severus and a messenger had been sent to inform her? What if it was Draco looking for some company after his godfather’s visit yesterday? Merlin, what if it was Hermione for that matter?

She took a deep break, reminded herself that the protective wards were all in place, and pulled her wand from her pocket into her hand. There was another knock on the door, this time more impatient.

“Just a moment,” she called and hurried towards the door.

Breakfast had soured the rest of the morning for Harry. Conversation after that had eventually veered back into light, easy subjects, but he had avoided participating, and they let him. He had excused himself once he was done eating, claiming an appointment, and avoided the Dark Lord’s gaze as he left. He hadn’t been dishonest. He did have an appointment with the painter, and he doubted said painter would complain if arrived half an hour early.

Which she didn’t. She didn’t even seem to realize he was early. Madame Baillargeon was a thin, middle-aged woman with beautiful hands, sharp eyes, and lipstick that was too red for her. When Vicky had introduced him to her, he had thought she was glaring at him but eventually realized she was simply studying his face. She did not speak, but instead handed him a large packet of parchment and a fountain pen, and then went about setting the stage for the portrait, which so far only seemed to involve and extraordinary amount of dark blue velvet drapes, a simple wooden chair, and a large chest she must have kept her art supplies in. When he looked through the packet, he realized it was a questionnaire.

The portrait room was a large square room with enormous southern facing windows, white walls, and white tile flooring. It was a blank canvas in and of itself, and its sole purpose seemed be to provide abundant lighting. Vicky had to request a table and chair for Harry to sit at just to fill out the questionnaire, which was the strangest thing he had ever read.

What is your favorite constellation?

Name and describe your familiar.

If you could rename yourself what would your name be?

Who is your favorite contemporary?

What are your best subjects in school?

What is the first spell you ever learned?

How many languages do you speak? List them.

Who is your greatest enemy?

Is God a man or a woman?

It went on and on like that for several pages asking him innumerable personal and philosophical questions. There were even a few math questions and a place to draw a flower. It seemed extremely silly and pointless, but he answered them as honestly as he could anyway. When he was halfway through, he looked up to see what Madame Baillargeon was doing at this point and did a double take. Where previously there had only been the velvet drape and chair, there were now dozens of other items: a deer pelt, a set of silver chalices, several books, a pile of rune tiles, a sword, a necklace of fangs, a bowl of assorted fruit, a bright green snake, and a set of tarot cards.

And Bobby.

He started at the raven staring back bemusedly at him from his perch atop the antlers of a deer skull, wondering how he had gotten into the room. He wondered how anyof it had gotten into the room, and then witnessed Baillargeon pull out a full length Quidditch broom from her little chest for himself. He watched her continue to pull items out of the chest, until she seemed to run out and then turn to him with a frown. This time she did glare at him and gestured at his questionnaire pointedly. Reluctantly, he went back to it, and after a moment she started pulling still more objects from the chest, and he finally realized his answers seemed to be what determined what was coming out it.

It was actually a rather clever idea, he thought.

Except the room was quickly starting to look like a cross between a menagerie and a junk shop. Eventually he reached the end of the packet, and Baillargeon pulled out the last of the props and her own art supplies. With quick impatient gestures, she motioned towards the lone chair, which she had transfigured into a tall-backed red leather chair without any arms. He sat obediently and let her move his limbs and head around until she was satisfied, then held that position for several more minutes as she arranged the seemingly impossible number of artifacts around him. Some she put at his feet, others on a small table in front of him or the large table behind him, or draped over the back of his chair. Bobby was on the back of chair and given a tile with Laguz, the rune for water, on it. A deer skull with antlers was placed in his lap with the green snake draped over that. Its slender body twined among the antlers and through the empty sockets like a reinterpreted mark of the Death Eaters. She placed the fang necklace around his neck, and a sword in his left hand and his wand in his right.

The entire thing was steeped in symbolism, but Harry could not make heads or tails of it. The whole thing was just plain odd but not necessarily alarming. Not until the artist gestured for him to stand again and handed him a large white sheet. He looked at Vicky who was blushing darkly.

“What?” he asked.

“She… um… she wants you to change.”

Harry frowned. Clothing had not been included with the items taken out of the chest.

“Change into what?”

Vicky pointed at the sheet. He stared at her. He turned and stared at Baillargeon. She stared back at him and crossed her arms impatiently.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

Apparently, she was.

“Mr. Weasley? What are you doing here?”

She barely recognized him without his school uniform and even now she couldn’t recall his first name, but she could vaguely recall that he was in Slytherin and had been known to keep Harry or Hermione company occasionally. At the moment, he was bundled up against the cold in a navy blue wool coat and ushanka hat, but his nose and cheeks were ruddy from the wind.

“The Headmaster sent me,” he said, his breath fogging in the air. He pulled out a slightly crumpled letter and thrust it towards her. “He said I should give you this.”

“Oh. Well then, come in and warm up. I’ll make you some tea,” she said and stepped back to let him through. He frowned but stepped in and closed the door behind him. He followed her into the kitchen where she had been working on her advertisements and sat himself down. She put a kettle on the stove, which was already burning to warm the kitchen.

Turning her attention to the letter, she sat down across from her visitor and opened it. It was a short letter but curious. It also had the benefit of stating her guest’s full name. She looked up at Ron who was regarding her expectantly.

“So you’re going to be my assistant,” she said, not entirely sure how she felt about that. She hadn’t honestly felt busy enough to require an assistant, but once responses to the advertisement started coming in she might find him useful. But still, he was just a boy, and she would be responsible for him. Was that additional responsibility worth the help? Her husband seemed to think so.

“I guess so,” he replied. He didn’t seem any more certain than she did. “He said he didn’t want to leave you unprotected while he was away.”

She let out a huff and rolled her eyes.

“Honestly! I’m a grown woman. I admire his chivalry, but sometimes it can just be demeaning.”

She stood up from the table and marched towards the cabinets. She rummaged around in them for the tea and the cups and the sugar, banging things about as she did. At the table, Ron fidgeted uncomfortably. It felt incredibly strange to be in Headmaster Snape’s house, in his kitchen, talking with his wife. Although he had known Snape was married and was Potter’s guardian, it had not actually occurred to Ron that the man would actual have a normal sort of life. But the cottage was cozy and his wife sort of reminded him of his mother when she was huffy. It was disconcerting after imaninging the man haunting some dark, decrepit space alone.

“Well,” Ron said awkwardly, “the man has enemies. He just wants to be careful. I’m sure if you weren’t here he would still have me watch his house or something.”

“What enemies?” she asked, giving him a confused look.

“Er… Germans?”

Her response to that was interrupted by the kettle whistling. She removed the kettle and went through the ritual of making the tea. During the mostly thoughtless process, she considered the letter and Ronald’s words and realized that her husband probably told the boy he was going to help protect his wife in order to spare his pride more than anything. She shouldn’t call him out on it. It probably wasn’t a bad idea to have the boy tagging along anyway, if not to protect her virtue then to at least protect her reputation. She was married to a well-known and respected member of society, which meant she was vulnerable to gossip. The following days would likely mean travel to a number of residences and it wouldn’t take much for an uninformed observer to mistake her visit as something other than business if she went unaccompanied.

She set down the cup of tea in front of him. Cautiously, he took off his hat and took up the tea cup, finally appearing to settle into his surroundings.

“I doubt the Germans will find much cause to come looking for me, Mr. Weasley,” she said conversationally, “but I’ll be glad of the company just the same. In his letter, my husband also requested I look in on his godson. I believe you are acquainted with Draco Malfoy?”

A strange series of expressions crossed the boy’s face too quickly for her to read, before finally settling on blankness.

“We know each other,” he said and took a sip of his tea. She waited for him to elaborate, but he never did.

Tom rampaged through the little house that had once been his prison, destroying artifacts and display cases in a frantic rage. The house was a treasure trove of magical artifacts, but it was all useless to him. And Merlin, the smell! Pettigrew’s corpse lay sprawled where it had fallen years ago, putrid and maggot infested. Even setting it on fire had not alleviated the stench.

He drew his attention to a goblet encrusted with jewels and protected under a number of uncommon spells and felt a surge of hope, but like each time before, once he had peeled back the layers of protection he found himself again disappointed. The goblet was powerful but not what he needed. Disgusted, he threw the goblet aside and stormed out of the house. There was nothing there that he could use. Nothing that would work as a vessel powerful enough to hold the Dark Lord. Voldemort was the most powerful horcrux. He had decades to study and augment his power through rituals. It would take more than childhood trinkets and magical baubles to ensnare him. He would need something powerful and infused with the Dark Lord’s magic. His wand or a sacrificial dagger would be ideal. The first option was not feasible and second he didn’t know where to start looking.

Harry might know. His young friend was openly pagan and mentored by Voldemort. Surely his counterpart had introduced him to animal sacrifice and in doing so shown him the sacrificial dagger? If not, there could be any number of magical artifacts the Dark Lord had shown Harry that might be used for Tom’s purposes.

But Harry was in France and there was no telling when he would return. Perhaps not until after Lestrange returned to seek vengeance or Amelon issued the warrant for his arrest. Also assuming the Dark Lord didn’t figure things out for himself and rush down to deal with the matter personally.

“Damn you, you impetuous idiot,” Tom cursed at himself.

He should have known better than to use the anthifold. The risk had been too great, and he had completely underestimated Lestrange. She had worked with the Dark Lord for decades so why wouldn’t she know about anthifolds? Wasn’t he always making the same amateur mistake and underestimating others? Voldemort, Katarina, Snape, and now Lestrange. All of them uncovered the truth and forced him to abandon one scheme after another, forcing him to start from scratch.

Not this time! This time he would see things through to the end.

This time he would have to destroy his enemies first. Amelon and Lestrange would need to be first. If he were lucky, he could arrange their deaths to draw suspicion away from him. If Voldemort hadn’t become aware of his true identity, that would buy him valuable time and perhaps additional proximity to the Dark Lord himself or to Harry. If he were unlucky, he would need everything prepared before the Dark Lord’s returned. Which so far wasn’t going very well.

To hell with it, he would find a way.

And if he couldn’t find a way, he would make one.

Rue de Sirène was one of the few entirely wizarding streets in Paris, only two blocks from the royal palace. It was a small haven for those magical folk incapable or unwilling to pass themselves off as muggle, and as a result anyone who could pass themselves off as muggle did not feel particularly welcome there. Even Aurors and Musketeers avoided the place as much as possible, and Clarion had taken advantage of this fact to set up a brothel for those of a decidedly eclectic taste in bed partners.

Dumbledore didn’t approve, but it was a small evil in the world that could and would someday be snuffed out on its own. He had an evil more insidious and far-reaching that he had to deal with for now. Clarion at least had the decency to let him through his private entrance, where his employees wouldn’t attempt to solicit their wares at him. It was nearing noon, but he could still hear music thrumming through the walls and the sound of muffled laughter. There was a set of narrow stairs running up the back, more for fire safety than for regular use, and he climbed the four flights of stairs to Clarion’s private residence.

The fourth floor maintained the same style as the office at the gallery, except that here there were several other rooms, most of them bedrooms, and there was the lingering smell of loose soil emanating from them. There were also more vampires, fiercer than those at the gallery and armed as well. This was, Dumbledore deduced, Clarion’s home base.

“Welcome,” Clarion greeted as he entered. He was sitting in a reading chair by the fire, a glass of blood in his left hand.

“Thank you,” Dumbledore said agreeably. Today he was disguised as a gnome, which was uncomfortable but less suspicious in this particular neighborhood. “Were you able to do as I asked?”

Clarion pulled a small package from his jacket and handed it to him.

“Everything is there, including the keys and a map of the area. I took the liberty of including some names and addresses you might go to for more… exclusive information. They’re not cheap, but they’re reliable and discreet.”

“You are quite generous.”

“I pay my debts,” he replied dismissively.

“A sign of a trustworthy business associate. Perhaps we should try for a mutually beneficial arrangement this time around,” the wizard suggested.

Clarion sat up straighter. He was a business man and was always on the lookout for opportunities. Dumbledore had proven a lucrative partner in the past and while he had a considerable run of bad luck recently that didn’t mean he didn’t have something to offer.

“I was hoping that you would be able to arrange a meeting with Harry Potter while I am staying in Bourges.”

Clarion waited for the punchline. After a long awkward moment, he realized it wasn’t going to come.

“I’m not going to be involved in kidnapping the Prince of Britain. There isn’t enough money or blood in the world to make it worth the risks.”

“I am not suggesting kidnapping. Despite all that has occurred, I do not wish Mr. Potter any harm. Rather I wish to have a conversation with him of at least half an hour without interruption, be it in or out of the palace.”

“A half an hour?” Clarion asked, looking more intrigued now. Such a feat was possible. Risky, but considerably less so than a kidnapping. He would need to call in some favors and cover his tracks afterward, but all of that was done easily enough. He didn’t need to let Dumbledore know that.

“A half an hour,” the old man said.

“It’s still dangerous. I’ll have to pull a number of strings and burn a few bridges while I’m at it. All of which is costly. More costly, I think, than I still owe you or that you can afford under current circumstances.”

Dumbledore did not look concerned, but then the old goat never looked particularly concerned.

“If you have an alternative method of compensation I am listening.”

The vampire took an unneeded breath. He took a drink from his wineglass then looked to his children scattered about the room. They stared back at him blankly like dogs waiting eagerly for their master’s cue. He turned back to Dumbledore.

“Viktor.”

The old wizard’s nonchalant expression cracked ever so slightly.

“What about him?”

“You know what. I want him gone, but I don’t have the strength to defeat him myself. You do.”

“While I am flattered by your belief in me, I’m afraid what you suggest is impractical. I would have no way to find Viktor and even if I did, engaging in combat in the middle of Paris will attract more attention than I can afford.”

“There are places, even in Paris, where space and privacy can be found. It is simply a matter of luring Viktor to that place. And I do have something in mind for that.”

Clarion snapped his fingers and one of his minions scurried to his side and handed him a manila folder, who then handed it to Dumbledore.

“There’s a girl, calls herself Heloise Greenwood. We don’t know if it’s her real name. British-born. Currently works and lives at the Hotel Raoulin. According to my sources, Viktor has been courting her. Hasn’t been going well for him either,” he explained with a smirk.

Dumbledore accepted the file. There was only one picture, a muggle still print, and it was grainy and out of focus. From what he could tell the girl was still under twenty years with shoulder-length black hair, and probably on the pretty side. He did not recognize her, but felt a distinct curiosity for her. Who was this girl who had captured the attention of the often taciturn and aloof Viktor? The last girl Viktor had loved had been abandoned back in Britain, only to disappear years later under a cloud of scandal. Could there be a connection? It was too early to make even the most tentative connection. He would need to meet her to draw any sort of conclusion.

“Kidnapping girls isn’t much better than fighting in the street when one wants to remain inconspicuous.”

“Then don’t kidnap her. The girl is said to be unreceptive to Viktor. She might be glad of an opportunity to get rid of him.”

Not an unreasonable conclusion. Witches and wizards did not view vampirism with any sort of envy. Immortality might have been appealing, but not without magic. If Viktor was harassing this girl, she might be scared enough to accept his assistance.

Of course, Dumbledore didn’t intend to kill Viktor. Whatever their differences at the end, the boy had been a brave and loyal ally, and Dumbledore owed him loyalty in turn. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t run the vampire out of town. Viktor didn’t need Paris. There was nothing to hold him to the place with perhaps the exception of Heloise Greenwood, and the fact that he had stayed to cause Clarion trouble was a sign of his troublesome stubbornness more than anything. It would do Viktor some good to learn some humility early in his immortality.

“Do you have an address?”

1. Wessicle: A bit like tennis played on brooms, only with a cricket bat, and for every hit missed the charmed ball (called a wessicle) can fly further away from the player (making it harder to hit). Miss too many shots and the wessicle flies into the crowd and the game is over. Players have to be very skilled fliers and the best players aren’t the one who win the most matches but those who have the most impressive moves.↩

Instincts and Failed Traps

The sheet wasn’t actually so bad. It was quite comfortable, in fact, which was important in a sitting where one couldn’t move for long stretches of time. There was some initial awkwardness when Vicky and Baillargeon had stared, transfixed on the curious palm and crescent moon brand on his chest, but professionalism eventually kicked in and both pretended they hadn’t seen anything at all. When Harry was being positioned for the sitting, however, he noted that Baillargeon arranged the sheet in just such a way that just a bare corner of the brand was exposed, hinting at what lay beneath.

After that, things got very dull very quickly.

While Baillargeon was sketching, Harry could not move. He couldn’t even look around, which was a pity given the veritable treasure trove of objects surrounding him. On the back of his chair, Bobby preened and fidgeted but said nothing. His sole source of distraction was Vicky, who was dutifully reading the dossier on the members of the British representatives he would be meeting in a few hours.

“Lord Aldric Fullenger is recently transferred from Head of Public Information-” which everyone understood to be the department in charge of censorship “-to the Head of the new Department of Trade. He is from Wales and sometimes starts speaking Welsh when he is agitated. He has a daughter named Aldis who graduated Hogwarts two years ago. Does she sound familiar?”

She didn’t.

“Lady Celandine Holst is Chairman of the City Council of Wizarding London and the third most independently wealthy witch in the British Isles. She’s unmarried, but is the guardian to her four nieces. You probably know one of them; Angelina Johnson.”

“Yes, we were in Quidditch and Dueling Club together. She’s a friend of sorts.”

“You might try starting a conversation with her then. Lady Holst is a good associate to have if you plan to spend time in London. Where were we? Ah… Admiral Almeric Pondsetter of the British Wizarding Navy.”

“I didn’t know we had a navy.”

“Don’t tell him that, please. We’ve had a navy long before we had the Culties. How do you think Britain enforced the embargo? And of course, they’re in charge of security around Azkaban. Anyway, he’s an older gentleman. Widowed-”

There was a knock at the door, and Harry instinctively turned his head, earning him an angry hiss from Baillargeon. The door opened as a Musketeer Harry vaguely recognized as Fleur’s mentor entered the room.

“Her Majesty Queen Ophelia is requesting an audience with Ambassador Potter,” he announced formally. Harry turned to Vicky, who looked just as surprised as he did. She cleared her throat.

“Of course,” Vicky said. “Please allow Lord Potter a moment to slip into something…more appropriate.”

“If it is all the same to you,” Balthus said, looking a little amused, “she said she didn’t want to interrupt the sitting. Please don’t get up.”

Harry gaped at him.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable-”

But the Musketeer was already pulling open the door. Fleur entered and brought in a chair that she set across from Harry so that his head was turned in the same direction it had been before the interruption. She gave him a wink, and he felt himself blushing from head to toe. He could only watch helplessly as Queen Ophelia entered shortly after. Baillargeon and Vicky both curtsied respectfully as she entered. Harry could have curtsied as well in his billowing sheet but hoped she wasn’t expecting him to.

“Forgive the intrusion,” she said as she took her seat, looking anything but remorseful. She didn’t, in fact, look anything but neutral, as if it were perfectly normal for her to have conversations with naked people. And maybe it was. How would he know?

He tried to remain equally unbothered and was surprised when he succeeded. He wasn’t, honestly, embarrassed about his lack of clothes. His time at the werewolf colony had cured him of any sort of body shyness, and if no one was there to disapprove of his state of undress then he didn’t feel any inclination to be ashamed of it.

What did make him uncomfortable, however, was the Queen herself. He had spoken privately with the woman before, but it had been very briefly and under less controversial circumstances. Sitting alone with her now, her expression unreadable and her intentions equally so, made him uneasy. Whatever she wished to speak to him about, it apparently was too serious for the breakfast table.

They studied each other for a long moment. Harry’s eyes darted around from her face to her posture to her bodyguards standing around the room and then to the wand resting in her lap. Her eyes settled on his face and did not waver or blink. She may as well have been the one sitting for the portrait. The tension in the room quickly became oppressive.

“Cccaaww!”

Harry and the Queen both jumped at the unexpected cry of the raven. Fleur and Balthus had pulled their wands on instinct as well, but when Harry looked up at Bobby he found him preening his feathers nonchalantly and ignoring everyone. He settled back and so did the rest of the room’s occupants.

“Is there something you wished to ask me, Your Highness?” he said now that the tension seemed to have been broken.

“There is, but it is a delicate subject. Would you object to a privacy charm?”

“That would be fine.”

In fact, he was quite eager to see her perform magic, having never witnessed her do so before. She lifted her wand, a long and elegant instrument of pale ash wood, and swished it in the telltale crossing motion of a Muting Privacy Charm. She did not speak the words, but her eyes drooped in concentration and for a moment her focus was not on him. Her magic washed over him, a chilly, clean sensation that reminded him of still winter nights. He let out a soft sigh, half expecting his breath to mist in the air.

“We may speak freely now,” she said. “Lord Potter, you are known as an honest person, and despite what my advisers say, I don’t believe that automatically makes you a fool.”

Harry grimaced slightly. He wondered if her advisors would find him less foolish if they knew just how dishonest he could actually be with the secrets he kept, one of them currently preening his feathers above him.

“I believe you are not unaware of the character and the power of your lord and patron, and that for all your showy affection for the man, you have the sense to fear him as well. My question to you then is this; what binds you in loyalty to Lord Voldemort? Fear or love? And how far are you willing to go to support him in his cause? How much will you forgive him?”

Harry was struck speechless. She was not the first to ask him that question. It had been asked by a number of people in different ways and in different circumstances, even by the Dark Lord himself. He should have been prepared with an answer, an honest one as she was requesting because she wasn’t a fool either and nothing he said would likely surprise her. The only problem was that despite the number of times he had been asked these questions in the past his answer had never quite been the same each time. Each answer had been customized to the people and circumstances, and even his own understanding at the moment. He hadn’t been dishonest, but he had more than likely simplified an extremely complicated answer.

He considered this for a long time. The Queen sensed his deliberation and remained quiet. Across from them, working quickly but mutely Baillargeon sketched away behind her easel, looking up periodically to study him intently. After several minutes had passed, Harry sighed.

“Fear or love… love, I suppose. I’ve feared plenty of people, some who demanded loyalty too, but it never stuck the same way love did. Having said that though… I need to explain that the reason I am loyal to him is the same reason he terrifies me.”

There was a pause, but the Queen did not speak to fill the silence. She had patiently waited for him to think of an answer, and she continued to wait until he had given it completely.

“I’m sorry, I know that wasn’t very clear. Do you know the source of the Dark Lord’s power?” he asked. She nodded, but he doubted she did. He doubted anyone who wasn’t actually a practicing pagan understood what precisely Voldemort had tapped into. “Don’t be misled by his title. Dark magic isn’t it. Not in the way most people think of it. He is a pagan. His power comes from the earth, just as all magic comes from the earth. The reason he has so much power is because… is because it has been bequeathed to him. The earth wants him to have it. Can you imagine that? It’s a terrible, beautiful thing, deserving of both love and fear… and loyalty.”

“Especially from a fellow pagan,” she said softly, her expression gentling to something almost pitying.

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “You asked me how much I would support him. I will support him as much as my conscience allows, which is perhaps more than a lot of people are comfortable with and considerably less than they fear. As for what I could forgive him… I could probably forgive him just about anything. He has a purpose in life, and it’s forced him to view the world in terms of centuries and countries rather than moments and individuals. Sometimes it makes him behave cruelly, arrogantly, and self-centeredly, and I try to curb that in him when I can and accept it when I can’t. It’s a price he has had to pay to maintain his sanity, or perhaps it was the nature of his character to begin with and that was why he was chosen. I don’t know, and it doesn’t really matter either way.”

Again there was silence between them, this time on the Queen’s part as Harry waited for her to respond. While he waited, he considered his answer. It was, like all times previous, an oversimplification. He could not, in truth, forgive the Dark Lord anything and everything. Not immediately anyway. Even now he held grudges and resentments. That didn’t mean, however, that he couldn’t understand why Voldemort had done the things he had done and accept them, and given time he could let them go. Even the situation with Hermione, as much as he despised it, was something he could understand despite the injustice of it. Forgiveness, he thought, would probably come too easily once Hermione’s name was cleared and she came home. Even his statement that he was loyal wasn’t entirely honest, since he regularly deceived and undermined the Dark Lord, worked for and against him, and usually never felt the slightest twinge of conscience for it. And yet, he did love the Dark Lord, if love was what you could call it. He admired him, certainly, and was endlessly charmed and captivated by him, even as he was disgusted and frustrated and enraged by him. They understood each other in ways that no one else could ever hope to and shared a dreamer’s optimism for the future. But they lied and used each other remorselessly and were at odds as often as they were in agreement.

None of that he ever intended to tell Queen Ophelia unless he wanted to make her believe he was completely insane.

“You said he has a purpose,” began the Queen after a long moment. “What does that purpose have to do with France?”

“France?”

Suddenly, he felt like an idiot. He had been so busy thinking of an answer to her question, that he hadn’t stopped to consider why she was asking. Of course she was worried about her country and what Voldemort’s intentions towards it were.

“I don’t know. I don’t think he has any intentions towards France yet. Well, nothing he hasn’t already made clear anyway.”

“Yet?” she asked earnestly.

“What do you want me to say? He’s probably going to at least a couple centuries. I can’t promise he and France are going to get along the entire time. For the moment, it’s kind of a non-issue.”

“Lord Potter, it is certainly an issue for me.”

He gave her a helpless look. He honestly had nothing else he could offer her. As far as he knew, Voldemort was quite content to let France simply remain his ally, but he wasn’t naïve enough to think the Dark Lord might not have some scheme in the works he didn’t know about. He genuinely hoped not.

She sensed his genuine lack of knowledge on the matter and let it go. She maintained her dignity by keeping her expression neutral, but he thought she must be irritated with the lack of information. He felt guilty he couldn’t find something to appease her, and then relieved that his ignorance absolved him of the expectation.

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me,” she said. “I wish you the best of luck this afternoon with the negotiations. Good day, Lord Potter.”

“It was an honor, your Majesty,” he replied and dipped his head towards her in place of a bow. She left, taking her bodyguards with her. She forgot to remove the silencing charm, however, and once she had left, Bobby took the opportunity to speak.

“Forgive him anything?” Bobby asked indignantly.

Harry smirked up at him.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, brother.”

The raven was not amused.

“I hope you were lying,” he chastised. “Not even Carrigan believed the Dark Lord’s ends justified his means. If not, you need to start asking yourself some very hard questions before you end up doing something for that creature that you will never be able to forgive yourself for. Or that anyone else would for that matter.”

Before Harry could deliver his reply, an irritated little quip Bobby probably didn’t deserve, the silencing charm was suddenly banished, and he was faced with still more scolding, this time by a highly irritated Baillargeon snarling at him in French. Harry was by no means fluent in French, but he believed the gist of it was ‘stop moving around, you idiot’.

Somewhat sullenly, he shut his mouth and resumed his pose. Once he had settled, however, he had little opportunity to do anything other than think about Bobby’s warning. He did not like where his thoughts took him.

Snape’s leg was already starting to ache when he arrived in Paris via the floo station on Rue Euler, a minor street not far from the Arc de Triomphe. His pain was unpleasant, but the resulting limp added some authenticity to his disguise. He had changed out of his finer clothes and into the plain black robes characteristic of potions masters before leaving the palace. He let his hair hang loose and refrained from washing it that morning, so that combined with his limp he gave the impression of being a seedy potions peddler one might find in Knockturn Alley or any other wizarding slum in the Western world.

He cast a Disillusionment Charm while walking the muggle streets, but once he had reached the wizarding street of Rue de Sirène he allowed it to drop away. The place was crowded, and wizards were not the primary denizens. Half-blooded faeries and gypsies had lined the street with stalls or else squawked their wares from lower levels of their tenements, while full-blooded faeries, other sentient creatures, and a few of the braver wizarding folk kept one eye on the merchandise and the other on the roving bands of pick-pocketing street urchins. Snape fit right in and even indulged in snarling like a dog at a freckle-faced pixie who inched just a little too close to him.

He meandered from stall to stall, lingering occasionally at a booth containing rarer specimens of potions ingredients.

“This is good quality hydra skin,” he remarked to one of the merchants in French, as he examined a jar of the purple-gray flesh emulsified in what looked like a common muggle bell jar.

“You buying it?” asked the merchant, a young gypsy girl looking exceptionally bored.

“Yes, and some of the dragon’s blood. Is it Norwegian Ridgeback?”

“Norwegian’s illegal,” she remarked, still sounding bored although her eyes betrayed her sudden interest. “It’s Russian Ridgeback. Just as good.”

Snape snorted.

“No it isn’t,” he said bluntly. “Never mind the dragon’s blood, then. If you don’t have Norwegian then you probably don’t have anything else I require. Just the hydra skin.”

The gypsy girl took his money for the skin, her dark sharp eyes flickering to his heavy coin purse just as he knew it would. He moved on to some other stalls, repeating this action several times, although he left without purchasing anything more often than not. This continued for another half an hour, the tedium broken only once when he hexed the persistent pixie attempting to slide his slender, bird-like fingers into his cloak after his coins. Barely anyone even looked up when the creature shrieked and ran away, a trail of blue-green feathers falling behind him.

After that he took a break at a small cafe so he could sit down and rest his leg and have some coffee while he waited. The fish that took the bait was a surly looking gypsy with a strong resemblance to the bored girl he had purchased the hydra skin from. He sat himself down across from Snape at his small table and glared at him. Snape simply stared back at him blandly, occasionally sipping his coffee, and waited.

“You looking for Norwegian?” the stranger asked, his French accented with something more Eastern.

“Among other things,” Snape said coolly.

“No one here recognizes you.”

“I’m from England,” he said.

The man looked confused.

“Refugee?”

“No. I am an English citizen.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I don’t see how that is any of your business,” Snape replied and took a sip of his coffee. “Unless of course, you’re looking to do business of some kind?”

The man regarded him suspiciously, but finally nodded.

“It may be I have what you are looking for or can get it for you. It won’t be cheap.”

“I’m a professional, Monsieur…?”

“Belikoff.”

“…Monsieur Belikoff. I am not a lost tourist nor am I desperate for what you can provide. If you attempt to swindle me, I can and will walk away and find someone else more reasonable, but if you play fair with me I can guarantee you not only my continued business but also recommend you to a number of my British associates willing to travel all the way to Paris for what these foreign markets have to offer.”

Belikoff studied him shrewdly, his dark eyes deceptively intelligent beneath his low forehead. Snape stared back with indifferent patience. Eventually sensing Snape was not a man to be either intimidated or dismissed, the man nodded.

“Let’s do business. Please follow me.”

Snape nodded and followed after the man when he stood. Belikoff lumbered through the back street, parting the crowds with his large frame as he went while the potions master followed behind easily in his wake. They didn’t have far to go. At the north end of the street was a tall, narrow shop squashed between two other buildings. The building looked abandoned from the outside, boards nailed over the lower windows and the plaster façade rotting and falling unchecked on the street. The only sign that the building was occupied was a sign painted in some Slavic dialect hanging from the front door. Belikoff knocked once and showed Snape inside.

The room they entered was only a little larger than what it appeared to be from the outside. It looked like a cross between a kitchen and workshop, with cauldrons and knives and hammers and bits and pieces of equipment piled up and strewn about a narrow galley. Reptile skins and herbs hung from the ceiling on hooks to dry, making the air reek of dead things and flowers. It was also dark, the boarded up windows offering little illumination, but Snape perceived a figure working at a table, hovering over the corpse of some beast and steadily rending it down bit by bit into potion ingredients.

Belikoff gestured for him to wait while he went to speak to the figure in a language he didn’t know. When the mysterious figure responded, Snape realized it was a woman, and an old one at that. The two spoke for some time, the old woman clearly irritated, but finally conceding something or other. She shuffled out of the room and returned a moment later with a flagon which she walked over to Snape herself. As she drew closer he could see the deep setting of her wrinkles and estimated she was likely a hundred at least.

“Twenty lupes[1],” she said without introduction.

“No,” Snape said just as bluntly. She looked startled for a moment and then narrowed her eyes.

“Twenty or you go away.”

“Then I go away and you get nothing.”

She put her hands on her hips.

“Eighteen.”

“Not unless you bled the beast this morning,” Snape sniffed.

“I might have,” she snapped.

“You didn’t.”

She smirked.

“I didn’t. Seventeen.”

“Seventeen for the dragon’s blood and your freshest sprig of weirroot. I see you have some there.”

The old woman looked ready to argue, but Snape crossed his arms and glared at her, conveying that he was quickly running out of patience.

“It is a deal.”

Snape nodded.

“You want tea?” the old woman asked absently as she went about wrapping up the flagon and the dried weirroot. “It is too early for real drink, but they say you English like tea.”

Snape didn’t want to drink any tea she made in her filthy work room, but he nodded and sat down on a stool Belikoff brought him. Now that business was done with, he could get down to his true purpose.

“It seemed rather crowded out on the street. I take it they started crowding into France when the German markets shut down. Must be hard for business, all that competition out there.”

The old woman shrugged.

“They are fine. Mostly it is the extended family of the locals. They help their relatives run their businesses while they stay. It’s crowded, but that is fine.”

“Werewolves?” Snape asked, masking his natural contempt for the word as he glanced pointedly at Belikoff. Amongst gypsies, more than most Wizarding ethnicities, lycanthropy was a relatively common blight.

“Some,” replied the old woman. “It is nothing new. Being run out from one place or another. It is less common nowadays, but not unexpected. For Romani, home is with the people, not the place.”

“And have you people still in Germany?”

“Some.”

She clearly didn’t like to discuss the matter, particularly with a stranger. Belikoff was busying himself with something, possibly the tea, in the darkness at the far end of the shop, but Snape could still feel his distrustful gaze in the dimness.

“You must be relieved the British have won then. I hear Potter is here in person to oversee the release of the werewolf prisoners. He is a powerful ally to have.”

“Yes,” the old woman agreed with a measured neutrality. Despite her offer of tea, she seemed unenthusiastic about her own hospitality. “Very powerful. Young, but powerful.”

“I should like to meet him myself.”

The woman just looked at him, apparently not trusting herself to say anything that would reveal how silly and irrelevant she found that statement. He gave her a hard look to reassure her he was not just making idle conversation.

“Who would I speak with to arrange this?” he asked.

“How would I know such a thing? Shouldn’t you be speaking to some English government type?” she said impatiently, this time doing nothing to hide her scorn.

“If I were in England, then yes. And I have tried that route and failed. But since I am in France, there are alternative methods and opportunities available.”

“Nothing a Romani would know about. That’s not a circle we deal with. Not in France, in any event.”

“No, but someone with the connections to obtain the blood of a Norwegian Ridgeback and several other illegal potions ingredients I can identify from where I sit without the authorities busting down their door… Well, I suppose you must have connections of a different variety. A connection I believe you have or at the very least have heard of.”

She remained silent for a time, considering. On the other side of the work room a kettle started to whistle.

“What’s in it for me?” she said finally.

Snape smirked, knowing he was about to get precisely what he had truly come for in the first place.

Harry spent the remainder of his sitting in a special sort of hell. His mind was whirling with anxious thoughts, but he was forced to keep his body still and his expression consistent. His mind continued to circle around his conversation with the Queen, and the more he thought about it the more convinced he became that it had been a minor disaster. She must have come away thinking him a silly child or a fool, just as her advisors had warned her. He certainly felt that way himself at the moment.

Despite his own self-recrimination, he wasn’t sure how else he could have responded and that perhaps only made him feel even more stupid. For better or worse, it was likely that he was going to be in similar situations in the future, where he was cornered by some powerful or influential person wanting to question him. He couldn’t possibly bumble through such an encounter a second time.

“Is there time to visit Lord Voldemort before lunch?” Harry asked as he dressed behind the curtained backdrop. The props had all disappeared back into the painter’s strange box, with the exception of Bobby, who seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Baillargeon was back behind her easel, already beginning to paint despite the absence of a model. Harry would have liked to have seen her work firsthand, but as an artist himself he knew it would be impolite to look before it was completed.

“You have a little while to spare for yourself, but the Dark Lord is probably busy. I doubt he’ll be free before later this evening.”

“I guess it was too much to expect given the situation,” he said. This was a disappointment. He had wanted to tell the Dark Lord about his interview with the Queen and perhaps get some advice on how to handle the situation in the future. He might have settled for Snape’s council, but the man had disappeared that morning. He fastened his dress cloak back on and stepped out from behind the curtain.

“Is something wrong?” Vicky asked anxiously. She must have been worried ever since the Queen had left, but Harry wasn’t sure what to tell her.

“No. Nothing serious. Come on. Let’s go take a walk on the grounds or something. I’m stiff from all this sitting around.”

“Of course, Harry.”

They toured the garden for about half an hour, Vicky quizzing him on the people he was supposed to know as they walked. Then it was time for lunch. He had hoped he might have the opportunity to speak to Voldemort during lunch, assuring them privacy through the use of Parseltongue. His hope was quickly dashed when he arrived at the dining room and found he had been assigned a seat at the end of a very long table, opposite and therefore furthest from the Dark Lord, who naturally sat at its head. Between them were nearly fifty British wizards and witches who would make up the Dark Lord’s council during the negotiations. Even if Harry had been sat adjacent to the man, it was soon clear Voldemort had an agenda for the gathering that would not be curtailed by private conversation.

“Let us go over our approach to the negotiations. I cannot stress enough the importance of remaining civil throughout the proceedings. I will not tolerate sarcasm or rudeness from our side of the room. We are the victors; we have no reason to stoop to petty name calling or fits of indignation. That being said, it is important that we establish our dominant position early…”

The Dark Lord proceeded to lay out his plans for the negotiations as if they were plans for the war itself. Maybe they were exactly the same to the man, Harry thought pessimistically. As the Dark Lord spoke, they all ate silently, at least one eye on their leader at all times. It was lite fare, heavy on sugar but low on carbs. Something Harry might eat before a Quidditch match to keep energized without risk of becoming lethargic.

After the Dark Lord was done speaking, he invited everyone to ask questions. Harry ducked out. Vicky was waiting for him out in the hall. She looked worried about his early withdrawal from lunch.

“It’s nothing. It’s just not really relevant to me, you know? I’m here as an observer, not a participant. I’ve got the gist of it.”

They returned to his rooms to change into his uniform. He might have only been an observer, but he would also be observed and was required to make a suitable presentation. His uniform, black with its crisp straight lines, had always made him look simultaneously dangerous and civilized. Not to mention taller. The Dark Lord had even presented him with new medals to attach to it, one silver and white and another dark green and black, for ‘Exceptional Valor’ and ‘Exceptional Use of Magic’ during the Battle of Kent and the Great Battle of Hogwarts. He couldn’t remember which medal was for which battle or which commendation, but it seemed too pretentious for him to ask and even worse that he didn’t already know. Then again, the Dark Lord had probably given them to him because they were some of the few medals that didn’t clash with the uniform.

He had to forego his usual black, fur-lined coat for a deep gray half-cloak that distinguished his ‘dress’ uniform from his ‘working’ uniform. He was also forced to leave behind his wand. No one was allowed to bring weapons into the negotiations, and this extended to wands in particular. Its absence on his person made him feel antsy and vaguely chill. He substituted it with his charmed straight razor, which he folded into his sleeve. With the anti-cutting charm active it wouldn’t set off the wards, but a little wandless magic on his part could render it a weapon within seconds.

It was a small but tangible comfort.

“Nervous?” Vicky asked.

“No,” he said honestly. “Should I be?”

“I guess not, but you do seem rather restless. Did the Queen say something to upset you? What did you two talk about?” she asked as she straightened his clothes.

“Just things. I think I made a fool of myself.”

“She knows you are not a fool.”

He smiled at her ruefully.

“That makes one of us then.”

She generously changed the subject for him, and they bantered on easier things. She teased him about getting a girlfriend. He teased that since she got married he hadn’t been able to look at another woman. Eventually an aide arrived to inform them it was time to head to the assembly.

When he arrived, Harry found that despite his relatively modest attire, he stood out amidst the gathered diplomats and politicians like a grease stain on a Persian carpet. Of the nearly one hundred people there, all were dressed in a rainbow collage of sashes, medals, heraldry, jewels, hair ribbons, scarves and handkerchiefs, wigs, and uniforms. Harry’s inner artist cringed at the garish mismatch of colors, while the rest of him felt suddenly self-conscious. Had he made yet another faux pas today by dressing so simply? Should he have worn his family ring? Should he have charmed his cloak green to break up the monochrome of his outfit?

He did his best to conceal his uncertainty as he stepped into the amphitheater and several heads turned to watch him enter. There was a considerable amount of whispers behind hands and contemptuous looks, but it wasn’t anything Harry hadn’t dealt with before. It seemed all that awkward classroom infamy he had gone through had at least proved to be useful preparation for today.

His seat was clear on the far end of the room and towards the front. He felt the weight of dozens of curious and hostile stares as he moved through the crowded room, and the low burn of agitated magic as he went. If he hadn’t been nervous before, he certainly was now, but it was difficult to say if it was his own reaction or some sort of magical empathy triggered by his magus hypersentia. It was unpleasant either way, and he was happy when he finally managed to find his place, one side protected by the window and his back by a group of his own countrymen.

“You shouldn’t look so grim, young man,” someone said to him in German. Harry turned to the man seated one row ahead of him. He was dressed in white robes with a dark blue cloak with some sort of heraldry on it. He was only about as tall as Harry, but heavier set, a neatly groomed beard with a tuft of silver at his chin, and eyes so dark and cunning they instantly reminded him of Snape. His voice, however, was lower and held a patient amusement his potions master never did. “You look ready to leap on someone and bite their head off.”

Harry let his lips pull back into what Hermione had called his ‘werewolf smile’, all teeth and predatory pleasure.

“Perhaps I am.”

The man did not shrink away, but his dark eyes flitted quickly up and down Harry as if to assess him anew.

“Perhaps you are. I am Lord Kruger of Hamburg. It is an honor to meet the infamous Ambassador Potter at last.”

Harry’s grim smile softened to genuine amusement. He tried to remember what Vicky had told him about Kruger, but the only thing that came to mind was that he was exceptionally rich. Which described just about everyone there.

“An honor I am not sure many of your countrymen share, Lord Kruger.”

“They are understandably bitter. You have quite injured their pride on several different occasions.”

“But not yours? Do you not consider yourself a German?” he baited, unable to help himself.

The elder wizard, it appeared, had a werewolf smile of his own that he shared with Harry.

“I am a Kruger first and a German second, and as a Kruger I can admire a defeat by a skilled opponent. Especially when that opponent is a fellow Kruger.”

Harry gave him a perplexed look.

“Ah, didn’t you know? ‘Kruger’ is German for ‘Potter’. We share a great-great-grandfather in common.”

It wasn’t until then that Harry looked more closely at the heraldry on the back of Kruger’s robe. It did, in fact, closely resemble the Potter family crest, although it favored blue over red which was why he had likely missed it at first.

He felt himself suddenly at a loss for words. What did one say in the face of an unexpected family reunion with the enemy?

“One should know their ancestry, Lord Potter,” Kruger admonished gently. “Especially in the wizarding world. If you find yourself so inclined, it would please me to show you at least one part of it. The Kruger castle is small but easily the most beautiful wizarding castle in Germany, and one of the most historically significant. There is much that you might find benefit in knowing.”

“I will consider it,” he said. And really, what else could he say? It was too sudden, and who knew how much if any of it was true? Then there was the small matter of what Voldemort would say to all this. Voldemort had been stingy when it came to releasing his family inheritance and even more so with his family history. Would he want Harry establishing further ties with his relations, especially those in Germany? Perhaps he would, as a means of introducing Harry into German society under the Kruger name, just as the Potter name had established him among the Purebloods in Britain. And if that were the case, did he even want to present the idea and be forced into an alliance with the Kruger family that he didn’t truly want to be a part of?

The elder wizard politely withdrew after that and took his seat. A few of his fellow Brits seated behind him asked what the man had wanted, clearly suspicious, but Harry politely declined answering. It wasn’t any of their business.

The time to begin drew near and everyone started to take their seats. Harry found a transcribeligraph, or t-scriptor for short, at his desk. He had seen similar ones at Durmstrang, where richer students whose first language wasn’t German would use them to take notes for them in class and then translate them to their own native tongue. They were considerably more sophisticated than quik-quote quills. He opened the large black book to the first page, completely blank except for the line running straight down the middle of it. A quick glance around the room showed that everyone else had one as well.

“Please rise for Lord Voldemort, the Great Protector of Wizarding Britain,” a voice rang out over the assembly, cutting through the dull roar of voices. The noise died away to be replaced by the harsh scraping and thuds of chairs being pushed back as those seated rose.

Voldemort strode out onto the platform from an antechamber, and the polite silence turned into a stunned one.

The Dark Lord had changed before coming as well. And where Harry had stood out as a grease stain, Lord Voldemort stood out as a blood stain. He was dressed from head to toe in an unvarying shade of deep crimson: his robes, his shoes, his gloves, his cravat, his cufflinks, everything. Even his eyes, which Harry was used to being a russet color, now seemed to glow to match his sanguine attire. It should have been garish, even comically overdramatic, but on the Dark Lord it looked supernatural and ominous, as if one of the old blood gods had deigned to reveal himself to a rabble.

Voldemort’s gaze swept the room, unhurried and unreadable, exerting an air of absolute control over himself and the room. His eyes finished their sweep and settled briefly on Harry. The young wizard closed his gaping mouth with an audible click of his teeth. He mentally shook himself and glowered back at the man, irritated that he could still be caught off guard by the man’s aura of power even after all this time. He recovered quickly, but the rest of the room continued to stare in muted horror. The Dark Lord, although his expression remained unchanging, basked in their undivided attention and did nothing to break them out of it.

The silence stretched. Harry grew bored and reached for his watch, feeling the familiar pleasure at having it back with him again. Then he snapped it shut, the sound carrying through the silent room like a shattering glass. The sound seemed to break the spell, and suddenly everyone couldn’t seem to get back into their seats quick enough. It might have been his imagination, but he thought the Dark Lord sighed in disappointment.

After that, it was straight to business. The Dark Lord presided over the assembly, and outlined the agenda for that day and the general rules all were expected to follow. Voldemort would present the terms of the Treaty, the Germans would concede, question, argue, or request amendments over the terms while the British wizards provided counsel to the Dark Lord.

Harry was bored within ten minutes.

He tried to follow along for another fifteen, referencing his t-scriptor when he found his thoughts had drifted. Eventually he gave up. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the importance of what was happening; it was only that there was nothing he could do about it. He was not a counselor. The only expertise he could offer was perhaps on the werewolves, and they were not on the docket that day and probably wouldn’t be until tomorrow or the day after.

There were too many other personally relevant matters going on for him to pay much attention to ‘Rates of Restitution’ and ‘Magical Disarmament Policies’ and other convoluted subjects he didn’t really understand. Bobby’s merciless remonstration about his forgiveness towards Voldemort was the first thing to dominate his thoughts, triggered most likely by his ominous presence within the room. The monstrous nature of his patron had ceased to surprise him, but his own acceptance of it was discomfiting. He did not like to think of himself as an amoral person. In fact, he sometimes fancied himself the closest thing to a conscience the Dark Lord had. But it didn’t change the fact that there were still things the man did, much of it Harry was sure he was unaware of, that he had no influence over and likely never would. It would be impossible to cut his ties with Voldemort unless the man allowed it, but did that mean he had to be so accepting of the man’s dark nature? When would that nature start to become his own? How far would he have to go before Harry could no longer accept it?

This thought inevitably led to others. Hermione was still on the lam for a crime she had not committed, and she would be punished if she was ever found. Meanwhile, Draco, who needed his adoptive sister more than ever, had drifted into a dark place when those most suited to give him support were unavailable. Even Hogwarts, a sanctuary and a distraction, was gone and not likely to reopen any time soon. Snape was precariously perched on the edge of the Dark Lord’s bad side and dangerously close to being tipped over it at any moment. Neither Bobby nor his godfathers approved of his relationship with Voldemort, and with very good reason. Selufiare was enticing him to commit treason for Carrigan’s box, while her father, Gulandri, waited in the wings to kill him and his mentor.

Only the gods seemed to be pleased with his proximity to the Dark Lord.

Given what the gods had done to and for him that was rather a mixed blessing.

His thoughts wandered to and fro, twisting themselves into a Gordian knot that would never untangle itself and never reach a conclusion. Thoughts wandered into fantasies which wandered into waking dreams. The room which had grown so distant to his perception began to take the foreground once again, even as the witches and wizards became increasingly indistinct. He was aware of the magic filling in the room, volatile and iridescent, as everyone became increasingly agitated. Harry could just imagine reaching out and making the colors swirl around his fingers.

He didn’t though. Even in his dreaming state, he was vividly aware of the situation, perhaps more so than when the negotiations had first started. The first clearly distinguishable voice was that of a woman shouting in German.

“You are asking the impossible! We are not England. We don’t have the same physical barrier between the wizarding world and the muggle one! There would be no way to enforce it! And even if there were, we don’t have the manpower or the money to do so! You have seen to that!” a witch was practically screaming in outrage.

“You think me unreasonable?” Voldemort said blandly. “Do not bore me with your petty complaints. I have demanded nothing of you that I have not first demanded of my own country. From these hardships will come strength. From this humiliation will come peace. If your citizens cannot draw the line between wizarding and muggle territory, then my people will do it for them, and it will be a considerably smaller area than you would otherwise enjoy.”

“But you can’t!”

Harry vision started to clear, the iridescence fading to transparent pastels. The people in the room seemed suddenly vivid, like a photograph in high resolution. Here a man’s face buried in his hand, the rings of his fingers glittering with diamonds and gold etched with Latin phrases. There a woman staring out contemptuously at the rest of the room, the lines in the corners of her eyes and mouth stretching across her face like arithmancy diagrams. Just ahead of him sat Kruger, grim and patient, his gloved finger tapping on the arm of his chair as if keeping tempo to some unheard song.

Voldemort, adorned in the shade of his own violent thoughts, smiled with cruel certainty to the witch all but begging her case. She as an old woman- no, not old, aged. Aged by losses and grief and the strain of her experiences. She was probably only in her middle age, but her hair had turned mostly gray and her skin was shrunken and tight against her thin frame. Her eyes were wide and wild, slipping from despair and into madness.

Harry felt his heart suddenly begin to quicken as the iridescence began to coalesce around the strange woman. Was she performing wandless magic? But no, the magic did not take shape, merely condensed and strained around her. Wild magic, he thought to himself. She is going to hurt herself. No one else seems to notice.

He started to rise to his feet, to do what he wasn’t certain, but the aged woman beat him to it.

“YOU MONSTER! I WON’T LET YOU TAKE HIM AWAY FROM ME!” she screamed and suddenly was flying, literally flying, across the room and towards the platform where the Dark Lord stood behind his podium. Something glinted in her right hand, sharp and metallic and pulsing magic in a sickly green shade. Harry was on his feet a fraction of a second later, leaping onto his desk and onto the one ahead of him then straight onto the platform. His straight razor jumped into his hand, the anti-cutting charm breaking with a sharp pulse of his own magic.

She was faster than him, her frenzied magic made her so, and she would have reached Voldemort first if not for one of the Culties guarding the platform who managed to half tackle her as she touched down. She spun around and slashed at the guard with her knife, catching him in the face and sending him back screaming and bleeding. The delay was enough for Harry to reach her himself, and he swung his razor and caught her in the arm. She flinched and pulled back instinctively, but then rushed him with a scream, swinging her own blade violently and recklessly. He dodged and cut her again with his razor, but the weapon was too small and she was too frenzied, and it did nothing to slow her wild swings. One such swing caught him in the armguard, cutting deep but not quite piercing. The hardened leather hissed as poison ate into it.

Screaming like a banshee, she made a rush for him, and he snarled back at her and crouched in preparation.

A hand seized him by the back of his collar and threw him backwards, the force of it sending him sprawling onto his back and causing him to lose his grip on the razor. The dream haze shattered completely, and Harry blinked rapidly trying to bring everything back into proper focus, suddenly confused about what he had just been doing. People were shouting and screaming. Had he just been attacked? What was he doing out of his seat? His armguard was still sizzling with poison, and he regained enough of his senses to frantically remove it before it was eaten away completely.

He searched the stage and immediately found Voldemort standing over a body, his back turned to him. Cautiously, he rose to his feet.

“My Lord?” he said, easing his way around the man so he wouldn’t be approaching from his blind spot. As he did so, the body became more visible, as did the means of its death. The woman’s head had been smashed into the floor, nothing remaining of it except bone slivers, fleshy pulp, and long graying locks of hair. He turned back to the Dark Lord, intending to study the man’s face for a reaction but was sidetracked by the knife sticking out of the man’s chest.

“Shit,” Harry said, rushing forward.

“A succinct but rather accurate assessment of the situation,” Voldemort said conversationally. “A rather futile gesture on her part, but nevertheless extremely uncomfortable. Would you mind?”

He made a gesture towards the protruding handle. Harry grimaced but obediently took the handle in one hand and the Dark Lord’s shoulder in another and pulled. It did not come out smoothly or cleanly, and blood spurted from the wound, soaking Harry’s hand and splattering his cheek and glasses. He dropped the knife and reached back to press the wound with his hand but his wrist was quickly seized.

“While we share many things, a resilience to poisoning is not one of them. Please be more careful,” Voldemort admonished and then released him.

Harry finally recalled precisely what had happened, and realized the man was referring both to his attempted rescue and handling his blood. He must have been the one to grab his collar and pull him out of the fight. It was a rare expression of overt concern, and he felt strangely warmed by it. Whatever else the world thought of the Dark Lord, this was a part of him that none of them would ever know the way Harry did.

It also made him feel strangely embarrassed.

“Well,” Harry said with false humor, and gestured at Voldemort’s soaked robes. “At least you don’t have to worry about stains.”

The Dark Lord barked out a laugh and then recanted it with a grimace.

“Go. Get washed up and see a healer. We will talk later,” he commanded

“But what about…” He made a gesture at Voldemort’s open wound and then to the dead woman at their feet, and the dead Cultie a short distance away, his skull half eaten away and dissolving more with each passing moment.

“Not your responsibility. Go. That’s an order.”

Security let him through the door with a nod from the Dark Lord, and he stepped dazedly into the hall, confused about what had just happened and how he should feel about it. He turned back just before the door was closed again and saw Voldemort had retaken his position behind the podium, preparing to go on, soaked in blood with bodies and abandoned weapons scattered about him.

He’s a monster, Harry thought, but there was no horror in the thought at all.

“Well,” Ira began as she stepped through the back door of the cottage and into the kitchen, “that was all decidedly suspicious.”

Ron grunted in agreement as he lingered in the doorway, charming the mud off his boots before entering. Ira hung up her cloak and hat on rungs by the door and headed for the stove to put the kettle on. Tea was definitely in order after spending so much time in the winter chill.

“He was probably hung-over,” Ron offered, still removing his outer garb. “And she was just covering for him.”

They had gone to Malfoy Manor together that morning, just as Ira had planned, with the intention of checking on both surviving Malfoys, but when they arrived they were greeted by Natalie Cypher instead. The girl had explained the Malfoys were both abed with colds, and she had been looking after them since the previous evening. She was a good little actress, but Ira was far from convinced. If Draco had been sick, then her husband would have mentioned it, and Miss Cypher was hardly the ideal choice to look after them if that were the case. The girl had obviously been up to something. Unfortunately, whatever it had been Ira wasn’t in any position to question her about it. The young witch clearly had the approval of the Malfoys themselves to be there, given how she scolded and ordered the house elves about, and if she had any malevolent intentions the manor would have forcibly evicted her.

“And I suppose Lady Malfoy just happened to be hung-over as well? I might believe one or the other given the circumstances, but I can’t see them both doing it at the same time.”

She tapped the stove with her wand and the internal chamber roared softly as it caught alight, quickly warming the kettle resting on top of it. She made her way to the cupboards to find the tea service.

“Perhaps Lady Malfoy wasn’t there,” Ron said after a moment’s thought. “Perhaps she’s gone off somewhere and Natalie didn’t want you to know she was there alone with Draco.”

Ira cast him a disappointed look.

“That sort of speculation is unnecessary and unwelcome, Mr. Weasley. I ask you to keep it to yourself when you leave here. I won’t damage Miss Cypher’s reputation or stir up more rumors against the Malfoys. Whatever is going on I am quite sure it is nobody’s business but their own.”

She could recall the very cruel and untrue rumors that surrounded her divorce from her previous husband. For all his myriad of abuses and personal defects, Winston had been very charming in public and the lies he spread about her were too easily accepted by friends and family alike. It had given her a distinct mistrust for rumors and speculation, and an even greater dislike for those who spread them.

Ron didn’t cling to the idea. He shrugged. Idle curiosity aside, he didn’t much care about what was going on with Natalie or the Malfoy’s. Now that Lucius was dead, he fully intended to wash his hands of the whole lot. Satisfied with his disinterest, Ira sat down at the kitchen table to get some work done. She considered writing Severus, but since the only thing she could think to tell him about was her failed visit, she decided against it. She would try visiting again tomorrow and hopefully be more successful.

Ron filled the time by reading a Cultie recruitment brochure. Lately he had been more and more concerned about what he was going to do once he graduated. There was no way he was going to live at his foster parents’ house for a minute longer than he had to, and he was not deluded enough to think they would pay to send him to university. He would need a job, and while working for Fred and George was an option, it wasn’t his first one. At least in the army, he had all his basic necessities covered, and if he were lucky he could be stationed across the channel and out of easy reach of Snape. With a Hogwarts education, he was sure he could obtain an officer’s rank within a few years.

Besides, girls loved a man in uniform.

The kettle came to a boil. Ron made the tea and gave Ira her cup, and they continued as they were with the added benefit of a hot drink to drive out the remainder of the chill. Shortly after pouring the second cup, there came a knock at the door. Ron tensed, and his wand jumped into his hand from up his sleeve.

“Calm down, Mr. Weasley,” Ira said, barely looking up from her papers. “It’s probably just McGonagall. She said she would be coming by to go over some paperwork. Be a dear and let her in while I make a fresh batch of tea.”

He relaxed a bit and went to do as she instructed. There was another knock. He opened the door.

“Hello, Pro-” he started, then jumped back.

It was most definitely not Professor McGonagall.

“Oh,” McGunny said, blinking at Ron or more precisely at Ron’s wand, now pointed at his chest. “Did I come at a bad time?”

Ron just stared at him. He hadn’t seen or heard from Horace McGunny since the boy had graduated from Hogwarts, but he had always assumed that if he were ever to meet him again he would look very much as he had at school. Properly put together in plain but quality clothing suited for teachers and legal clerks, a hair cut every month, and his shoes always shined. McGunny wasn’t the sort to concern himself with fashion, but he had always taken care with his appearance and had thus always been confident of it. Ron remembered McGunny’s eyes being his most distinguished feature, not because of they were particularly striking but because of how effectively he used them. The elder boy had had a way of looking at a person as if he were disassembling them. He had always been able to see through everyone’s bullshit and right to the soul. Ron had respected that about him and had felt rather privileged to have been relied on as much as he had back when they worked on the Hogwarts Herald together.

But those eyes were gone.

In their place was a pair of soft, vaguely confused eyes with the same shape and the same color, but none of their previous intensity. So too had his clothes changed and now were second hand, slightly over-sized, and more suited to working some sort of physical labor rather than in an office or at university.

“What are you doing here?” he finally forced himself to ask.

“I’m looking for Harry,” McGunny said guilelessly. “Is he here?”

Harry? Why was he looking for Harry? He knew McGunny had been kind of obsessed with him, despite his attempts to pretend otherwise. Had they stayed in contact even after graduation? He couldn’t claim to know Harry well enough to know who he might keep company with outside of Hogwarts.

“He’s in France. Left yesterday.”

“Oh,” was his lackluster response

McGunny kept that same dull, cow-eyed look. It was starting to give Ron the creeps.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

Theoretically, Harry would return at the end of the week, in time to start attending classes again. Ron had no intention of telling him this. Instead, he said, “I don’t know. Why do you want to see him?”

“I need to speak to him,” was the unilluminating reply.

“About what?”

McGunny was silent for a moment. Then he blinked and looked around as if confused about where he was and what he was doing.

“I don’t remember. Is Harry home?”

Ron felt a shiver run up his spine. Suddenly, Snape’s concerns for his wife didn’t seem so ridiculous. If she had been here alone, she might have invited McGunny inside, offered tea to this somewhat absentminded visitor. She had probably never met McGunny. She would not have realized he was acting so incredibly strange.

What was it?

A befuddlement charm?

A bad hit of Wormwood snuff.

Imperius?

Imperius.

The signs were all there. The distant stare. The confusion. The fixation on an idea or person. It had to be Imperius. But who was controlling him? Who would have known where Harry lived but not known that the boy was already gone?

He considered stunning McGunny, but quickly dismissed the idea. If he stunned McGunny, the curse would be broken, true, but then the boy would forget what had happened.

“Harry isn’t here,” he said. “You should come back later this evening. For dinner. He should be back by then.”

“For dinner,” McGunny repeated and then nodded. “For dinner. I won’t forget. I’ll write it down. I’ll come back. For dinner.”

Distractedly, the elder boy turned away and made his way back towards the road. Ron shut the door and hurried to the kitchen. Ira was setting up the good China, but hesitated when she saw him. She must have seen something in his face.

“What’s wrong? Where’s Professor McGonagall?”

“I’ll be right back.”

He exited through the kitchen door and ran into the garden and then leaped the fence and followed along it until he came up the other side of the house and could see McGunny on the road, his back towards Ron, and heading towards the village. Ron followed at a distance, ducking in and out of the roadside hedges as he went. He needn’t have bothered. His target didn’t stop to look back once. Ron half expected him to apparate away or head straight for the village floo station, but instead he headed for the local pub. When Ron peeked into the window, he spotted him immediately at the bar. He waited, expecting the true figure behind McGunny’s sudden appearance to appear. After half an hour, he was still waiting.

Eventually, he started to get nervous. What if McGunny’s purpose had been simply to verify whether anyone was home? He had left Ira alone and unprotected. McGunny didn’t show any sign of going anywhere or of meeting with the true culprit. Mentally cursing himself, he hurried back to the cottage, half expecting to find it on fire.

The cottage was quiet. Ira was at the table, penning some sort of letter. She gave him a concerned look as he entered.

“What was that all about?”

“False alarm,” he said, sitting himself at the table. “Cheeky garden gnomes is all.”

She didn’t look like she believed him, but she didn’t ask again. Ron suddenly understood how she could possible love a man like Professor Snape. It must be nice to have such an unquestioning nature.

Later that afternoon, there was another knock on the door. This time it was McGonagall. While the adults were about their business, Ron went back to the village on the pretext of mailing Ira’s letters. He swung by the pub, but McGunny was already gone. When he asked the barman about him, he was told, “You just missed him by ten minutes.”

“Did anyone come and talk to him?”

“Suzie might of flirted with’m a bit, but she gave up when he kept saying he had to go see someone already for dinner. He was very adamant about it for some reason.”

Ron left the man a tip and headed back to the cottage. His attempt to track down the threat had failed, but he would likely have one more opportunity to get it right. If he handled this correctly he might get out of his debt to Snape sooner than expected.

He just had to get everything ready.

He was expected company for dinner after all.

“I would like a room, please.”

Hermione, absorbed in L’historie de vampires à Paris 1723-1914, startled and nearly dropped the heavy tome to the floor. She scrambled to close it and set it aside, inexplicably embarrassed to be caught reading at her post.

“Oh! Yes, sorry, of course… I mean… Oui, excusez-moi-”

“None of that, dear. My English is far better than your French, I am sure,” the woman said. English did in fact sound like the woman’s first language, and Hermione felt even more flustered than before. It was her first day working the reception desk alone, and it had been an easy if somewhat dull afternoon shift up until the time. Only a third of the rooms were occupied, and they weren’t likely to have many more guests than that until spring.

This newest potential guest was… unusual. She appeared to be a middle aged woman with dark hair and a thick strip of silver framing the left side of her face, generic features, and curiously mismatched eyes. Nothing unusual in her appearance itself for a witch, but something about how she held herself…

“My apologies,” she said, forcing herself to regain her composure. “We have several rooms available. We have singles, doubles, and suites.”

“I’ll take a suite. It has a fire place?” she asked, her eyes never leaving Hermione’s.

“Complete with fire chat connection, as well as a telephone.”

The woman nodded disinterestedly, still not looking away. It finally dawned on Hermione what was unusual about the woman. She had a stillness about her, a reserved sort of tension that she had seen in those experienced with fighting. She had seen it in Lucius and her godfather, in Harry’s werewolf godfathers, and in Harry himself at times. She had seen it in Viktor.

They briefly discussed the rates and reserved a room for three days, and Hermione led her towards the stairs with growing anxiousness. She intentionally climbed the stairs at a quick pace, and the woman followed deftly behind her, a lightness in her step that was incongruous with someone her age. If not for the sun outside, she would have suspected the woman was a vampire. As it was, she still suspected she wasn’t what she appeared. Magical creature or just in disguise? Perhaps she was using polyjuice? Why?

To cover her uneasiness she recited the list of amenities to the woman, which she had memorized in both English and French and could now repeat as easily as Filbert’s Theory of Inorganic Magic. Which was to say, very easily.

“We have a complimentary breakfast between 6:00 and 10:00 am, as well as a menu from which you can order lunch or dinner to be taken in your room any time before 9:00 pm. The parlor is open from 8:00 am to midnight, and the bar is open until 11:30 pm-” she rattled on and on, smiling politely as she continued to lead her to the third floor and down a long narrow hallway. The woman must have been wearing shoes charmed against noise, because Hermione kept having to glance back to make sure she was still following behind her. It was decidedly uncomfortable.

At last they reached the room. Hermione unlocked it and presented it to the guest, who accepted it but didn’t immediately step into the room. The woman lingered for a moment in the hallway, staring at her intently, as if trying to make sense of her.

“Well… here we are,” Hermione said hurriedly, gesturing towards the open door. “I hope you will enjoy our stay with us. If you need anything please just dial zero on the phone to reach the front desk. Good day.”

She shied her way around the woman and all but sprinted back the way she came, only turning back as she reached the stairs, half expecting to and find the woman right there. But she wasn’t. The hall was empty and the door at the end of the hall was closed.

Weird.

She hurried back to the reception desk and immediately checked the register for the guest’s name.

Pandora Hymnstok.

It didn’t sound like a fake name, but there was no real way to be sure. Perhaps it wasn’t any of her business. She could simply be a woman who found a reason to travel discreetly. Maybe she was there to meet up with a married lover? Or was running from her husband? Or a criminal running from the law? Or a famous person who didn’t want to be annoyed by the press? There were any number of reasons the woman’s visit could have nothing to do with Hermione.

It was rather likely that her own scare with Viktor had left her unreasonably paranoid.

Still, the woman’s interest had been unnerving. Could she have recognized Hermione? She spoke native English, which meant she could just as easily be a refugee or a British citizen. If she were a British citizen she might have come there purposefully to find Hermione. Or she might have been some member of the negotiation party stationed in Paris while her superiors stayed in Bourges and just happened to choose this hotel to stay in because it was known for having an English speaking staff. There was no way to be certain without a direct confrontation, and she didn’t want to do that, but she couldn’t risk being reported.

Should she run away again, just in case?

Run where? It had been a stroke of luck to find this job, and she doubted her luck would continue to hold if she tried to go it alone a second time. And Enid, sweet girl, she wouldn’t understand if she just up and left. But could she risk staying? For all she knew, Hymnstok was up in her room at that moment calling the authorities.

What should she do?

She picked up the phone at the reception desk and pressed some buttons. It started to ring. After a moment, someone picked up.

“Kitchen, this is Lorelai.”

Hermione grimaced. Of all the people to reach.

“Lorelai, it’s Heloise. We have a new guest, and they requested I pick up a special cake from Símone. Can you or someone else watch the desk for a bit?”

There was a rude noise on the other end of the phone.

“We don’t do those sorts of special requests. Honestly, you didn’t let them walk all over you, did you? You should have told their lazy ass ‘no’.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. She hated asking Lorelai for anything. Even the most reasonable requests turned into a huge drama.

“We make these sorts of special requests, Lorelai. It’s just our guests rarely ask for anything like this. Besides, she promised a big tip if I did, and we could use the money with business being so slow. If you don’t want to do it, ask someone else.”

There was a sigh on the other end as if she were the most put upon girl in the world.

“Fine. I’ll do it, but I want some of that tip.”

“Of course. I’m just going to run up to my room to get my cloak, and then take the floo. I’ll be back in no time.”

She hung up the phone before Lorelai could drag out the conversation any longer and hurried up the stairs to her room. She had hoped to catch Enid along the way, but she was nowhere to be seen. In her room, she quickly tossed the few belonging she had laid about the room into her trunk and then pushed the trunk to the end of Enid’s bed. If anyone came in, they would assume it was her roommate’s unless the girl told them otherwise. She would have preferred to take it with her, but since she couldn’t use her wand to shrink it there was no way Lorelai wouldn’t see it and question her.

She penned a quick note to Enid and stuck it in her poetry book. Hopefully, she would be back before the other girl had an opportunity to find it.

Throwing on her cloak, she all but ran back down stairs. She was starting to feel increasingly nervous with every passing minute. What if the authorities were coming? How long would it take them? Five minutes? Ten? How long had it been already? Would she already find them in the lobby?

But no one was in the lobby except Lorelai, moping and already looking excruciatingly bored.

“You-” the girl began, but Hermione was already whipping past her towards the parlor. It was empty inside. A stroke of luck it seemed. Grabbing a handful of floo powder from the mantel, she climbed into the fireplace and threw it down.

“Rue Gargouille!”

Ten minutes later, she had made her way from the floo station in the little antique shop on Rue Gargouille two streets over and right back to her own street, albeit on the other side. She went into the small restaurant across from the hotel and took a seat in sight of the front window but not quite in front. From here she could see the hotel without anyone at the hotel seeing her. She ordered a coffee and waited.

Ten more minutes passed.

Fifteen minutes.

Thirty minutes.

Still, Hermione waited. Perhaps they had come while she had been circling back and were now waiting for her or had come through the parlor floo? But no one came out and no one went in.

Forty minutes.

She ordered another coffee and a slice of cake to stop the waitress from glaring at her.

An hour.

The sun was starting to set, and now she was starting to become more concerned about being caught outside at night than about anyone who might be waiting for her in the hotel. She sighed in relief. It had been a false alarm. The woman had been a little strange, but she hadn’t recognized Hermione and likely hadn’t cared to. Her little ruse had all been for nothing.

Feeling both foolish and relieved, she decided it was time to go back. She ordered a small cake to go from the restaurant, and returned to the hotel through the front door. Lorelai predictably complained about the wait and asked why Heloise simply hadn’t returned through the floo to save time. Hermione told her it would have ruined the cake, and took it upstairs. She did not deliver it to the guest who hadn’t ordered it to begin with, but instead took it up to her room.

Having gone through all the effort and expense over nothing, she rather thought she deserved it.

Meanwhile, the woman calling herself Pandora Hymnstok was in her room, curled over the fireplace, speaking into the embers.

“I don’t like this,” she said. “She’s just a child. We shouldn’t be involving her in any of this.”

“My dear,” a voice husky with age replied, the vague outline of a face glowing in the embers. “We are doing more good than harm here. You cannot believe that allowing Viktor to pursue his infatuation with her is to her benefit. It can only end in tragedy.”

“Don’t play that game with me, Dumbledore. I’m not buying it for a minute.”

“You are in control of the situation on your end. If you believe we’re putting the girl in danger, then please feel free to use your own judgment to protect her. I trust you, Nymphadora, apparently more than you do me these days.”

She was silent for a long moment.

“Fine, I’ll stay. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

There was soft laugh on the other end and a rather uncomforting, “I hope so too.”

1. A Lupes is a French Galleon (approximately).↩

Unsatisfying Conclusions

Amelon could not remember a case where he had enjoyed himself quite so much. Despite what mystery novels and plays suggested about solving murders, it was usually a very straightforward and tedious affair. He could count the number of cases on one hand that he hadn’t been able figure out the murderer within an hour and then use the other to count the number of cases where the motive wasn’t discovered within a day. Usually the most challenge the inspector found was in divining the method, which often involved magic and therefore could get very creative… and gruesome.

The Malfoy case, however, was a gem of exceptional rarity. The victims were very powerful men with a number of enemies, which meant there were a number of suspects, most of them powerful within their own right or at least intelligent. The original prime suspect had disappeared off the face of the earth and was likely dead. Motivations were so numerous as to be useless. Political red tape was blocking him at every turn, except where the suspects lifted it themselves just long enough to point their accusing finger at someone else. Everyone was lying. Everyone was hiding something. The Dark Lord was pushing for results, and he would be expected to deliver them by the time he returned from France.

Amelon had to stop himself from giggling several times a day.

He was having a marvelous time.

But as much fun as he was having, it couldn’t go on indefinitely. He was a professional, after all, and his profession was solving crimes. For the moment, that meant sorting through a small mountain of Crouch’s personal files that had been released from the Court of Foreign Intelligence earlier that morning. He had been petitioning for them over a month now, but hadn’t made any headway until Morgan had taken over as Director and forwarded them along (after heavily censoring them). He had specifically requested the files of all the involved victims and suspects, and with the exception of Hermione Granger, all of them had more than one file. Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange had the most files, but Harry Potter was very close behind them. Amelon had spent hours leafing through each of them, studying photographs and reading between the words, lines, paragraphs, and pages of blacked-out text, his imagination filling in the blanks he was certain were not nearly as astounding as the truth.

With the exception of Hermione Granger, Reginald Stratus’ file was the least censured file of the bunch. This was fortunate because the newly appointed captain was currently Amelon’s prime suspect. He hadn’t originally considered Stratus very seriously. The man was a glorified secretary, which had been a step up from his previous position, and he had no conceivable motivation for harming Lucius. Quite the opposite, in fact, as Lucius was taking steps to elevate the man’s position in society with a betrothal to his adopted daughter. And yet, the more Amelon looked into the man the more suspicious he became, especially after reviewing Crouch’s files on the man.

Crouch had clearly already suspected that Stratus was causing Malfoy’s slip into insanity and had been planning to extort the man for information. No motivation was offered in his notes, but a man like Crouch probably hadn’t considered it particularly important. Amelon was not Crouch. Why something was done was almost as important as who had done it. Extortion seemed like a pretty good ‘why’ if Stratus was indeed the ‘who’. But then, why poison Lucius, then stop, and later kill him at the Christmas Ball? How had Potter been involved? Was he an accidental victim, a target, or the impetus for the murder?

Forensics had shown Malfoy wasn’t under the influence of the Imperius curse at the time of his death and according to both Ira Snape and Reginald Stratus, Malfoy hadn’t pushed Harry down the stairs, although they had been in a physical altercation at the time. That meant Potter likely had not been an intended victim, but his accident had been what had brought the intended victims together in the first place. Was it possible that Potter’s accident had been the catalyst for the murders?

Harry Potter being the motivation would make Hermione Granger the most likely suspect given their friendship and speculatively romantic feelings for each other. However, she had not been seen, and once the security measures had been activated upon Lucius Malfoy’s death, she would not have been able to have escaped the mansion. She would have had to curse Crouch before she made her escape, and that seemed too great a risk without enough motivation. Ira Snape, then, might be suitably positioned for the deed but the subterfuge was far more than a woman of her training or temperament could have improvised on the spot.

But Stratus? What was Stratus’ relationship with Potter? By all accounts they barely knew each other. Had Potter then been a motivation or had he merely created the opportunity Stratus had been seeking? Lestrange had said Stratus had been strangely intent on Potter, and Amelon had found circumstances in which the man had gone out of his way to get closer to the boy, often as a bodyguard of some kind. Was this simply a form of hero-worship, political maneuvering, or was he attempting the same game of trust and poisoning he had potentially performed on Lucius? Or was Stratus in fact one of Potter’s conspirators? Potter had confessed to cursing Lucius in the first place with Snape’s assistance, which had never been fully verified, so could it be possible that Stratus had somehow fallen into their circle? Certainly both Potter and Snape would have seen the benefits of having Stratus as an ally at the time, but how would such an alliance have come about?

Amelon had started his search in Stratus’ files to see if he could find the answers to any of these questions. The first thing he needed to determine was how Stratus had first met all of the involved players. However, the further back he read into Stratus’ history, looking for some previous connection between the others, the more he became aware of a sudden and highly disturbing factor.

Reginald Stratus had a sudden and unexplained change in personality and skill while fighting in Berlin.

Prior to his deployment to Germany, Stratus had done nothing to distinguish himself in service. His training assessments revealed generic results, his leadership assessments had been subpar, and magically speaking he was of middling rank and uncreative. A favor from a cousin of considerably higher rank had pushed him up to the rank of 2nd squadron leader, but he had not merited a promotion after that in the two years he served in the position. There had been a number of reprimands on file for minor infractions of sloppiness and laxness in procedures. Prior to his enrollment in the military, Stratus had been a student at Rookbridge, with average grades and a position on a few sports clubs he had done nothing to distinguish himself in either. He was the third son of a minor Pureblood family, had no accomplishments to his name, and no prospects outside of the military.

By all accounts, Reginald Stratus was exceptional only in his complete lack of exception in anything.

What did it mean then, when after a mere two months in Germany, he should suddenly become a war hero? There were several accounts of cunning and dazzling displays of magical prowess that had previously been completely absent, and he had quickly begun climbing in rank and popularity thereafter. Opportunity might have accounted for some of it. Nothing created rank mobility in the military like actual battles, but that certainly didn’t account for all it. Even after he had returned to Britain and withdrawn from the firsthand fighting, he had still been working ambitiously. Asking around headquarters, Amelon had determined that Stratus was not only a hard worker but also exceptionally charming and popular with almost everyone, whereas all of his instructors and fellow cadets in basic training were hard-pressed to even remember him at all.

Even in his photographs, he didn’t look quite the same after Germany. It was like looking at the picture of two brothers rather than the same person.

But what did that mean? If it meant what he thought it did, it meant Stratus wasn’t only a murderer but an imposter and possible spy. That would account for more than enough motivation to have killed Malfoy and Crouch.

Alone in his office, Amelon didn’t bother to hide the smile that spread across his face. At least until a knock on the door drew him sharply from his musings.

“Just a moment, please,” he called and then flicked his wand over his desk, banishing the stacks of files safely back to his office safe. Without the clutter of the files, his office looked comfortably nondescript, as if it could be the office of an accountant or a school administrator. Filing cabinets, bookshelves, a coffee maker, uncomfortable wooden chairs, a desk and lamp, a small cabinet that hid the coffee supplies and his bourbon. Most of it years old, distinctly masculine, and well-used. Perhaps the room’s only unique feature was the evidence board positioned directly behind his desk.

It was a large board, four by six feet, and covered completely with photographs and maps and notes written on scraps of paper. It was not so dissimilar from what one might find in a muggle detective’s office, but unlike a muggle’s board, this one was magicked to be self-organizing and self-updating. Lines of connection moved and disintegrated as he directed, new photographs appeared and old ones bloomed x-marks over them daily, tiny pins moved over maps to track prospective culprits and witnesses, and notations glowed at varying brightness depending on likelihood of truth.

Most conveniently, it all disappeared to show a window into the park across the street whenever someone other than him opened the office door.

“Enter,” he called.

He could not say he was entirely surprised when the subject of his deepest suspicions opened the door and stepped inside. Not surprised, but perhaps a little alarmed.

“Captain Stratus, how… unusual of you to visit. Have a seat. Is there something the matter?”

The Cultie did indeed look as if something were the matter. He was oddly pale and tense, hands gripping tightly to a folder he was carrying, and eyes flickering about nervously. He looked shaken, but looks were often deceiving as Amelon was in a position to attest.

“Inquisitor Amelon,” Stratus said, moving to take the offered chair across from the desk. “I think someone is trying to set me up for something.”

The detective tilted his head, staring at him curiously. Well, this was a new twist in the game.

“For ‘something’ or for the Malfoy-Crouch murder?” he asked.

Stratus shook his head.

“I don’t know, but something is definitely going on and I can’t figure out what. At first, I just thought it was you, going about your investigation discreetly, but now… now I’m not so sure.”

“I am afraid you’re going to have to explain a little more clearly, Captain. I am not sure what you are referring to,” Amelon said, playing along to see where this was all going. With Stratus sitting in his office, practically trembling, it was hard to imagine the man as a master manipulator. Then again, if he were a master manipulator, then he was hardly going to obvious about it. Nevertheless, he opened his notepad and started to jot things down.

“It started shortly after I saw you that day outside General Lestrange’s office. I got this feeling that I was being watched, followed even, but… I thought it was just you having one of your people tail me.”

He looked to Amelon for affirmation, but the inspector just stared back at him patiently. If he thought he was going to confirm or deny one of his people was following him, then he was mistaken.

“But then it continued even when I was within headquarters, which Sentinels would have required special clearance to pass through, and I would have known… anyway, then other things started to happen. My office was broken into, and later I found out my private room at the barracks was too. I kept everything secured, thank goodness, so nothing was missing but the audacity of it is truly concerning. I was going to initiate an investigation myself, but then I found out two of my soldiers went AWOL this morning. They never reported in to their barracks last night.”

Amelon took a deep breath to calm himself. It wouldn’t do to look too eager.

“You suspect foul play? They couldn’t have just snuck out for some fun last night and ended up passed out somewhere?”

“I run a tight command, Inquisitor Amelon. My people are more than just a pack of the usual grunts. They are highly disciplined and motivated, which is why they’re serving directly under General Lestrange in the first place. They would not just… go off. Especially not to get drunk.”

“You’ve organized a search for them, I assume?”

“I have people looking both around headquarters and checking the local hospital just in case. I’ll start checking with family if they don’t turn up by tomorrow. I don’t… I don’t think we’ll find them.”

“So why come to me? While kidnapping and possible murder are my specialty, this would be outside my jurisdiction. Unless you still suspect I am involved?” he asked, letting a touch of humor enter his voice.

Stratus seemed to take that as him laughing at him and donned a look of indignation.

“Of course not! But if it’s part of your original investigation, then you would certainly have jurisdiction!”

Amelon leaned back in his chair and tapped his quill against his notepad thoughtfully. He didn’t miss the way the other man’s eyes darted down to the notepad, eying it hungrily as if it were something that he wanted. Something he wanted desperately. The look disappeared as quickly as it had appeared as he tore his gaze away to look back up at Amelon.

“You believe Crouch’s and Malfoy’s murderer is responsible for the disappearance of your soldiers? I think Miss Granger would be rather conspicuous for a saboteur and kidnapper.”

“Sir, I would thank you not to mock me.”

“Not Granger then. Lestrange?”

“Lestrange.”

“You are aware, of course, that she is in Bourges and can’t have done these things.”

“I know she could not have done these things in person, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have arranged it. She’s a general, for Merlin’s sake, and a Death Eater. It would be easy to arrange for someone like her.”

“You think she killed Malfoy and Crouch?”

“More and more every day. Not in person, perhaps, but I think she arranged it somehow.”

“Your proof?”

“I don’t have any, and you know it. No one has any proof. Probably the only person who might have half a clue what really happened was Miss Granger and she’s… if your suspicions are true she’s not going to be much help to anyone.”

Amelon wrote some more and didn’t miss Stratus’ looking away from his notepad once again when he looked up.

“These are very serious allegations to make without proof. You could face charges yourself if you make them erroneously.”

“This may be my one and only chance to voice my suspicions, so I am going to risk it. I think she means to frame me for murder. The missing soldiers or Malfoy and Crouch or both, I don’t know. That woman is insidious.”

Amelon caught himself before he nodded in agreement. He had reviewed several files on Lestrange from several different sources including Malfoy’s and Crouch’s records while investigating. Was she capable of what Stratus said? Absolutely, and with motivation to spare. But that didn’t explain away Stratus himself or his dramatic change in personality.

“Alright, captain, I think you need to take a moment to calm down. Sit there, I’m going to pour you a drink and see if we can’t sort some of this out.”

He closed his notebook and pointedly tucked it into the breast pocket of his suit then went to the cabinet to make that drink as he said he would. He had two bottles of bourbon: the good one he kept for himself, and the mediocre one he kept for company. The mediocre one was only a little cheaper, but more importantly it was very lightly laced with Veritaserum. Not a high enough dose to force someone to speak the truth uncontrollably or cause any nasty side effects, but enough so that, tempered with the alcohol, people found it difficult to concentrate on their lies.

He poured the glass and brought it to Stratus, who accepted it glumly with the free hand that wasn’t clutching the files.

“Now then, why do you automatically assume it is General Lestrange? Couldn’t it be someone else just as easily? And why assume something so drastic? Perhaps your two missing soldiers were the ones to spy on you and then, fearing you had caught them, made a run for it? And if Lestrange did in fact order it, perhaps they think she will protect them once she returns from France.”

“But why? I know these people. They hate Lestrange. Even if she would have compelled them, they would have warned me,” Stratus said despairingly, and took a sip from the glass. He grimaced at the taste, and for a moment Amelon wondered if the man recognized the distinctive aftertaste of Veritaserum, but then Stratus took a second swallow and he relaxed.

“Perhaps they hated you more.”

Stratus gave him a startled look, which Amelon supposed was actually quite genuine.

“Is it so hard to imagine?” he said continued. “You are something of an upstart, I am sure you are aware. Prior to deployment and through half your stay in Germany, your military career had been… lackluster to say the least. Then all of a sudden you’re hopping up ranks like it’s a game of tiddlewinks and in the span of a year you’re a captain. You said it yourself; your soldiers are highly motivated and disciplined. ‘Ambitious’ in a word. Do you think it unreasonable to assume that some of them might have resented your sudden rise in rank? Especially when you were first promoted as a result of nepotism rather than merit? Would none of them attempt to usurp you in hopes of taking your place?”

“I…” the captain hesitated. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Perhaps it need not be any of your people even. Is there anyone other than General Lestrange you think might have a grudge against you? Someone who you may have outmaneuvered for a promotion? A superior officer you managed to embarrass? A fellow soldier injured in a battle you yourself received special recognition for or might have felt otherwise slighted?”

“No… No, I don’t… I don’t think so. I… I’m pretty sure I proved I earned everything I got. I proved myself. No one would resent me for that, would they?”

Stratus looked uncertain, perhaps even a little confused. An effect of the alcohol or possibly the Veritaserum or both.

“How did you rise up the ranks so quickly, Captain? Your file was pretty unimpressive for a long time, and then all of a sudden you’re playing Merlin on the battlefield. How do you account for it?”

There was a sudden, strained silence in the room. Stratus looked at him curiously and then around at the room, as if trying to remember how he had gotten there and why. Then he looked down at his hands, at his glass, then at Amelon. Amelon waited. Stratus, staring directly at him, brought the glass to his lips and swallowed the rest of it.

“You know, no one has ever bothered to ask me that. Never. Not once. People have noticed. It’s hard to miss the snide little remarks or blatant surprise when I run across my old unit or some of the cadets I trained with. But they never ask. Even my family never asked. I get a medal from the ruler of wizarding Britain, and my parents and my brothers don’t even bother to show up. That should tell you something about what life was like growing up.”

Amelon nodded. Being the second-born son, the ‘spare’ to the firstborn heir, in a pureblood family was more than enough to breed resentment in most wizards. Being the third born could be downright unbearable.

“Before Germany,” Stratus continued, “I didn’t want to live. I wasn’t suicidal, per se, but I didn’t believe my life had any value whatsoever. And why would I? My family had said as much and genuinely believed it, and no one had ever bothered to tell me otherwise. I was just muddling through life, not really caring if I failed or succeeded in anything.”

“But that changed in Germany?”

“It’s funny how much nearly dying makes you want to live. I had a lot of close calls, we all did, and an existential crisis sort of followed after. You know what I eventually concluded?”

“Please do tell.”

“I concluded the only reason I wasn’t actually doing anything with my life wasn’t because I couldn’t, but because in some twisted way I thought I owed it to my family to be exactly what they said I was. No one. Nothing. And once I figured that out… I let it go. I decided if I wanted to live, then I damn well was going to do it on my terms.”

Stratus thumped his empty glass on the table and then scrambled to catch it when it nearly toppled off the edge. Amelon wondered if the man had eaten at all that day. He seemed rather tipsy from just one glass. Perhaps the man wasn’t a drinker. Perhaps he was faking it. Difficult to say.

“And that was all it took?” he asked.

“Yes and no. When I actually started trying to succeed at things, I was surprised to find I actually succeeded at them, even when I didn’t think I would. Success builds confidence for better or worse. It could have gone wrong just as easily as it went right, out there on the battlefield. I was rather reckless there for a while. Sometimes I wake up at night thinking about those times when I did something so brazen and foolhardy I could have gotten myself and everyone with me killed. It worked out though. Until now anyway.”

“You honestly believe someone is trying to frame you for murder?”

“I honestly believe Lestrange is trying to frame me for murder.”

Amelon nodded and stood.

“Alright, I’ll look into it. You keep looking for your missing people. What are their names?”

“I have a copy of their personnel files here,” Stratus said and held up the files he had been clutching the entire time. Amelon accepted them from him and set them down on his desk. Later, he would add their photos to his board and try to sort out what role they played in this theatre of murder and intrigue. For now, he needed to sort out if he believed Stratus or not.

He had spun a convincing tale, one that would have been difficult to come up with if he hadn’t been expecting it and nearly impossible under the influence of alcohol and Veritaserum, albeit only a small dose. Amelon’s instincts were making him hesitate to trust him so easily, however. His appearance so soon after the attack by the anthifold was in and of itself suspicious, and then there was the fact that he hadn’t mentioned Crouch’s attempt to extort him for supposedly cursing Malfoy, although Potter’s and Snape’s confession to this drew some doubt to Crouch’s claims (or did it verify Stratus was in collusion with them?). Even if everything Stratus said about his transformation in Germany was true, that still didn’t necessarily make him innocent of murder.

This all really was entirely too much fun for one case.

“I have some leads I can look into,” he said. “I’ll be gone for the rest of the day, so if you find them just leave a message with Paige or Lyssa up at the front desk, and they’ll get in contact with me.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor Amelon. Thank you so much,” Stratus said, sagging in his seat in relief.

“Don’t thank me yet. For all we know, this is all just random circumstances and your imagination running away with you.”

Or a ploy that could very well backfire on you spectacularly.

That evening, Hermione and Enid shared the cake she had bought in their room and put everything back in its place.

“What was all this about?” Enid asked as they shoved her trunk back to Hermione’s side of the room.

“A false alarm. I thought I recognized someone from my old life and ducked out for the afternoon, just in case. It turned out to be nothing.”

Hermione didn’t look her in the eye when answered. Enid might have figured out some things about her, but she wasn’t anywhere near the full truth of it. Hermione wasn’t sure yet if she should tell her. She trusted the other girl and felt trusted by her, but to reveal the whole truth was to make Enid an accomplice.

“You think if someone found you they’d try to drag you off?” Enid asked, looking alarmed.

“Something like that. I was engaged to a very cruel man and things ended badly between us. I must have angered a lot of people when I left.”

“So that’s why you left? Cor. It sounds like plot in a romance novel. So you just climbed out the bedroom window and disappeared into the night, then?”

“Not exactly. My brother and I tried to get the engagement called off first, but when that didn’t work my friends helped me escape. There was no climbing out windows involved.”

Enid was smiling at her in an admiring sort of way she sometimes did.

“How about duels in the moonlight? Roving bandits? A dragon maybe?” she asked, grinning at her playfully.

“It’s nothing that fanciful. And perhaps I’ll tell you about it someday, but not tonight. It’s late, and I’m tired.”

Enid didn’t ask anything else until after they were both tucking themselves into their beds for the night. Hermione turned off the lamp and closed her eyes, but she could feel Enid staring at her even in the dark.

“What is it, Enid?” she asked tiredly. There was a long hesitation, then…

“Heloise… are you from England?”

Hermione’s eyes opened wide, her breathing stopped. Then she released it.

“Yes, that’s where my family is from. We have a lot of muggleborns and half-bloods in the family, so the whole clan just up and left when things got bad.”

There was another silence.

“That’s not what I meant,” Enid said after a while and then turned in her bed. Hermione felt the weight of her eyes disappear. She knew what Enid had really meant. She meant had ‘Heloise’ escaped her family in England. Sleep didn’t come easily after that. Hermione’s mind was fraught with unease. How much did Enid know and how much was she guessing? Had she been trying for more information or had that been her invitation for Hermione to make her full disclosure at last, and explain what Enid had already discovered? Did Enid know she was really Hermione Granger; a fugitive wanted for murder and treason? Had she known Hermione was lying and no longer trusted her? Should she just tell her everything?

Part of her wanted to. Not because she trusted Enid, although she did, but because it was so lonely without having anyone truly know her. Only Viktor knew her here, and that alone made him a dangerous temptation.

Another part of her wanted Hermione Granger to disappear completely and leave only Heloise in her place; poor, independent, and uncontroversial. She didn’t want to have to explain herself or take responsibility for those terrible things that had happened because of her.

The scare she had had that afternoon had reminded her how precarious her position in the world truly was. She had almost forgotten. Had wanted to forget and just enjoy her simple life, but it was useless.

Tomorrow, she decided. She would tell Enid tomorrow.

It was late when Natalie stepped out of the floo station and made her way towards home. She was tired, yet satisfied with the day’s events. She had left Draco sober, freshly showered, and belligerent but looking more human than when she had first seen him. She had given Mr. Reicher strict orders that Draco would get to bed at a reasonable hour. Tomorrow she would return to see if he had obeyed her. Tonight, however, she wanted to spend with her own family. No doubt her mothers would start to worry soon if she didn’t show up, and she needed to pack a few things before she went back the next day. While the house elves could launder her current set of clothes every day until eternity, Lady Malfoy would eventually take notice and offense at the unladylike behavior.

Lady Malfoy, despite her insanity, was still quite sharp. Natalie suspected that on some level Narcissa knew her husband was dead, because she made absolutely no action that would have forced her to face that truth. She didn’t go out, she didn’t read the paper, and she didn’t open any of the letters she received in the mail. They had had tea together earlier that afternoon while Draco was sleeping off his hangover, and the woman had spoken coherently and confidently about Draco’s upcoming graduation, a trip to Paris in the summer she had planned, Lady Lucinthia Belmont’s scandalous affair with a squib, and the latest fashion trends in Witches Weekly.

All in all, dealing with Draco had been far more taxing than dealing with his mother. At least Narcissa was self-sufficient in her own delusions. Her son was another matter altogether. Natalie could understand the boy’s grief and bitterness, but it grew tiresome very quickly. Draco was so much better than all this. She knew it. She had seen it. She saw it even now as he managed to hold together the family estate and reputation with a grim savageness that bordered on bestial. Yet when it came to himself, he had seemingly given up all self-respect. Every time he had opened his mouth today, she had wanted to slap him. Had slapped him a couple of times in fact.

She hoped it was merely fatigue. Draco had been under a great deal of stress with little help to be found. Reicher had done what he could from a business standpoint and seemed to be dealing honestly with his client despite being a lawyer, but he wasn’t in any position to support Draco personally. It should have been Hermione’s role to step into that position, to make sure Draco was being taken care of and to look after Narcissa. But Hermione was missing, yet another thing to weigh down on her foster brother, and Natalie had to take her place. It was impudent of her but necessary, and she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment toward Hermione because of it.

Nevertheless, she was a Slytherin. She would make the best of it. Certainly, it couldn’t hurt to have the Malfoys in her debt.

She took a moment to consider her plans for tomorrow while dusting floo powder from her coat in floo station foyer when a familiar but unwelcome voice called to her.

“My goodness, where have you been, Cypher?” Pansy Parkinson half sneered, half insinuated from behind her. Natalie turned to see the unpleasant girl and her ever present companion Millicent Bulstrode. The floo station was small, only four fireplaces, two inbound and two outbound, a clerk on the outbound side of the office collecting fare, and a map with the waiting bench beneath it on the opposite side. Pansy and Millicent were both sitting on the bench, apparently waiting for someone. Natalie hoped they hadn’t been waiting for her.

“Around,” she replied dismissively, and forced herself not to hurry her actions. Pansy was a nasty little weed, but she wasn’t going to run away from her. She wouldn’t give the other girl the satisfaction.

“Around the Malfoy estate?” Pansy asked in the same unpleasant tone. Millicent snickered stupidly beside her. Natalie mentally cursed, but didn’t react outwardly.

“Among other places. Lady Malfoy invited me to tea,” she said with just a touch of smugness. Pansy had been invited to tea with Lady Malfoy once and only once, and Draco had laughed about it for weeks afterwards behind her back. Tea with Narcissa was always an audition, and one Pansy had failed spectacularly. Natalie had tea with Narcissa at least twice a year since attending Hogwarts with Draco. Part of the reason was to make sure she was still Slytherin enough to be Draco’s friend and the other no doubt was to make sure she hadn’t fallen in love with him.

As if.

Normally, the comment about the tea would have silenced Pansy in embarrassment, but today the little weed was in rare form and didn’t immediately wilt.

“I suppose she misses having her little pet mudblood around. What do you think, Cypher? Think she’ll go ahead and adopt you now or try her luck back at the pound? Oh, excuse me, at WYRA.”

The comment caught Natalie off guard. While the matter of Natalie’s origins was always a factor in her relations with other Slytherins, in the confines of Hogwarts it was an unspoken factor. Draco was the de facto lord of Slytherin, and she was his favorite, after his sister, of course. She had a bite of her own on top of Draco’s protection, and few had dared crossed her and none with something as vulgar as her breeding. Not since Ron in first year, anyway.

“Why Parkinson? Wondering where you’ll have to hang out for her to notice you?” she said blandly, but her hesitation had cost her. The retort sounded forced. Pansy’s remark had stung, unexpectedly, and Natalie had revealed the hit. Mentally, she cursed herself. It seemed Draco wasn’t the only one who needed to get their act together.

“Oh, I bet that just makes you feel so special,” Pansy laughed. “The fact that they notice you. And you really are cute in your way.”

In your way held about as much condescension as a pureblood witch could muster, which was a lot. Purebloods stored up condescension from the moment they could speak, in Natalie’s experience. She didn’t flinch from this jab. It was too obviously a result of the other girl’s own insecurity. Pansy still thought she had the upper hand, however, and kept going.

“And maybe it would be enough for someone like Potter, whose taste runs towards mongrels to begin with, but Draco? Don’t kid yourself. Do you honestly think he gives a damn about you? He might let you hang around. He might even condescend to fuck you, but it’s not because he desires you, Natalie. It’s because you’re there and you’re easy.”

Natalie’s wand was in her hand and lifting, but so were Pansy’s and Millicent’s, prepared for the response. Of course they were prepared; there was no way an insult like that could be forgiven or pushed aside. They were fighting words, and if Natalie was lacking anywhere it wasn’t in nerve.

“Go ahead,” Pansy laughed shrilly. “I dare you. This isn’t Hogwarts. The head of house isn’t going to hush it all up with a detention and lines on a chalkboard. I’ll just tell my father and then we’ll see if the Malfoys really give a damn about you. So if you really believe they do, then go ahead and hex me. See if they come to your rescue afterwards.”

Natalie’s hand clenched around her wand, a thousand curses resting on the tip of her tongue. She could feel her magic inside her writhing with the heat of her anger. She wanted to free it, to let it fly, to hurt and destroy with cathartic violence.

She didn’t. Not because she didn’t think Draco wouldn’t come to her defense, but because she knew he would. It was an unfortunate aspect of his personality to be irritatingly gallant at times. On top of everything else that he was going through, Draco would attempt to ride to her rescue when he could least afford to do so. A family feud between the Malfoys and the Parkinsons (and possibly the Bulstrodes) was more than he could handle.

On the other hand, when had she ever needed Draco to truly protect her?

Natalie mouthed the first syllable of a spell, and Pansy’s eyes widened.

“Hey!” the clerk shouted from the other side of the room. All of them jumped and turned in surprise to a middle-aged wizard with a thick moustache glaring at them angrily. “I don’t care what you’re going on about, but you keep your wands in your pockets until you’re out of here. You damage one of these floos and I’ll see all of you up on charges, I don’t give a damn who your daddy is!”

Pansy sneered at the man but pocketed her wand and Millicent followed her example. Natalie was the last to put hers away, and she did so only reluctantly.

“Pansy,” she said coldly, “I know your life’s ambition is to be a baby factory to some Pureblood with more money than sense, and as such you lack the imagination to understand the motivations of someone like me. So don’t try. You’ll only embarrass yourself.”

With that she turned to leave. She was not satisfied. Her anger and her magic were still boiling underneath her skin, but she could have consoled herself that it was a draw if not a victory. Then as she reached to door, she heard Pansy and Millicent suddenly shrieking in laughter. And just like that she felt sick with humiliation. They had stolen her dignity with their clumsy, petty insults, and she had let them. She hadn’t been prepared or armed against them, and now they had won. She didn’t turn around to see what they were laughing about, that was already obvious, and she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her expression.

On the street, she pulled up the hood of her cloak and kept her head down. This was her neighborhood, and she didn’t want to be recognized or greeted. She didn’t want anyone to see the redness in her cheeks or the wet brightness in her eyes. If anyone had shown her pity or mockery then and there, she knew she would have killed them.

A medi-witch had come to examine Harry and make sure he wasn’t suffering the effects of poisoning shortly after he returned to his private quarters. He was already half stripped down, preparing to take a hot bath when she arrived. Harry recognized her as one of his attending physicians during his recovery from the Battle of Berlin, and she seemed to remember him too. He supposed his stay had been memorable for a variety of reasons.

He had not bothered to redress for his examination, as she seemed to find poking and prodding at him without his shirt on that much easier. The collection of new scars he had acquired since last he had seen her were of particular curiosity to her.

There had been some confusion about whether he needed treatment for poisoning or not, because despite his apparently having avoided exposure to the poison blade, his blood still carried traces of Voldemort’s blood and suffered under its detrimental effects. He was still recovering his magic slower than he should have, and now his magic seemed to be fluctuating strangely. She wanted to take him to the hospital for more tests, but he refused. If he couldn’t find his answers from Voldemort first, then maybe he would go but not before.

The medi-witch clearly wasn’t pleased with his defiance, but she had no real authority over him. In the end, she could only prescribe rest and some mild potions to help stabilize his magic.

Once she had left, he went through with his original plan to take a bath and spent the rest of the day in indolent restlessness. He didn’t dare leave his room for fear of confrontation. Confrontation with whom, he didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. He had no answers to give, only questions. Even his feelings over what had happened were unclear to him. He had seen death before, several times in fact, but it had been bad today. Very bad and very close. He didn’t dare dwell on it for fear of inducing a panic attack, and he couldn’t afford to fall apart here and now.

He tried to distract himself as much as possible. He tried reading. He tried writing letters. He tried sketching. All of it ended in frustration and disgust. He flossed. He trimmed his toenails. He listened to the radio. He ordered food and then tried fruitlessly to figure out what precisely they had brought him. He sent Vicky out to gather news about the negotiations and then regretted it when he found himself alone for over half an hour.

“The negotiations ended some time ago,” Vicky had said when she returned. “But things are still chaotic. The Musketeers are investigating how weapons were snuck into the assembly in the first place. It should have been impossible.”

“No one has come to question me,” he said. It was one of the few things about the day that he had let himself wonder about. He might be able to avoid going out, but that didn’t prevent anyone from coming to see him.

“The Dark Lord has been holding them off. He says you can’t be questioned without your legal guardian present with you being a minor.”

Harry gave her an incredulous look.

“Seriously? He wants to play that card?”

Vicky gave him a helpless look.

“I doubt it will hold for long. He’s just trying to buy time, and everyone knows it.”

No doubt the Dark Lord wouldn’t want Harry speaking to anyone before they had had a chance to come up with their story. Yet Voldemort did not seem to be in any hurry. It was two hours later when there was a knock at his door, and Harry opened his eyes to find he had fallen asleep curled in his chair and night had fallen.

“Vicky?” he muttered, but the room was empty. There was a second knock on the door, and he stood to answer it. A small blanket fell from his shoulders as he stood, which meant Vicky must have been there when he fell asleep. Where was she now?

He cracked the door, half expecting a small army of Musketeers to be standing on the other side, but the figure standing there was considerably more welcome. He pulled the door open fully to let Voldemort in. He had changed out of his red clothes and into a less ostentatious outfit of black and dark green, but he retained that air of supernatural menace. With a flippant gesture, the darkened room suddenly blazed with light, and the Dark Lord stalked into the room.

Even as Harry stood blinking and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he could feel the Dark Lord’s magic radiating from him, power and the pleasure of seeming invincibility. Tonight, Voldemort felt every inch the conqueror he was. Harry felt strangely small in his presence, as if the slightest gesture could wipe him from the face of the earth, and he didn’t know if this were an accurate assessment or just his magus hypersentia interpretation of it.

“It’s ours, Harry,” the Dark Lord said once the door was closed. “Germany is ours.”

The younger wizard nodded, wondering at his own lack of elation. He had wanted this. He had wanted this since the massacre of the Goddess Colony, but now that it was his he felt uneasy. Perhaps it was only that he didn’t know where to go from there.

“Yes. Congratulations are in order,” he said, trying to force some semblance of happiness in his voice. Either he had done a good job or the Dark Lord was too distracted to notice. The elder wizard barked a laugh.

“Save your congratulations, I am sure we will both be heartily sick of them before long. Tomorrow morning, this will be the front page headlines of every newspaper in the wizarding world! There will be news conferences and parties and parades. Just open the window, you can practically hear them singing in the streets from here.”

Harry tried to imagine everyone back home when they received the news. Indeed, there would be celebrations, wouldn’t there? He could imagine the Red Weasel full to bursting with revelers and the streets above Diagon Alley alight with fireworks charms. But there were still too many absent from the revelry for him to warm himself with the thought. Hermione nowhere to be found, Draco lost in his own grief, Snape off on his own secret mission, his godfathers still locked in their own battle with Luna and Jane. Tonight was supposed to be a night of great victory, but all he felt was tired at the realization that there were still so many battles left yet.

“So the Queen’s people aren’t upset about what happened during the negotiations?” Harry asked, turning the conversation to more practical matters. Practical matters Harry could deal with. Voldemort gave him an exasperated look.

“Honestly, have you been hiding in here all day worrying about that? Who cares? If anyone should be upset about the attack it should be me. The Musketeers were in charge of security, and they failed abysmally. It may have worked to our favor, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hold it over their heads. How did you get that razor in there in the first place?”

Harry told him about the anti-cutting charm allowing the razor to be snuck in without setting off alarms and the simple matter of breaking said charm when needed. The Dark Lord laughed. He laughed because he wanted to laugh, not because it was actually funny. The young wizard was starting to wonder if Voldemort hadn’t partaken in a celebratory drink or two before coming to see him.

“Very clever. I will have to tell Morgan about that trick. It was far more elegant a method than Preuss had.”

“Preuss? Is that the woman who attacked you?”

“Yes, that was her name. She was a formidable woman in her own right. It is a pity that she lost her nerve in the end. How did you know she was going to attack anyway? You were already climbing to your feet before security even realized anything was happening. What tipped you off?”

Harry took a deep breath and let his false gaiety drop. This was what he truly had been waiting to talk to the Dark Lord about all day. The elder wizard seemed almost startled by his sudden shift in demeanor, and something in the other’s expression sobered him.

“I don’t know quite how to describe it. One moment, I was sort of dozing off and then the next… everything felt so clear. It was as if I could see everything and kneweverything. As if my magus hypersentia suddenly multiplied a thousand times so that it wasn’t just a sixth sense, but all my senses at once. I was moving before my mind had even caught up to what was happening. I’m stillnot sure I know what happened. The only time I’ve felt anything similar is… was during the last battle.”

By the time Harry was done, Voldemort’s expression had actually changed into something resembling concern. For a long moment, neither of them said a thing. Harry waited for some sort of explanation, any sort of explanation, or at the very least a few theories. But his mentor said nothing, merely looked him up and down slowly, as if trying to figure out how he was put together.

“Unbutton your shirt.”

Harry blinked at him, opened his mouth to question him then changed his mind. He pulled out the shirt from his trousers and undid the buttons. He hoped Vicky didn’t suddenly open the door and get the wrong impression of what was happening here… not that he knew what was happening, precisely.

“Push down your trousers just a bit.”

Suddenly, the situation seemed strangely familiar. Voldemort had asked him to do this once before, although he had been lying down at the time. He had a terrible idea.

“You think there’s something wrong with the wards, don’t you?” he asked shakily.

The Dark Lord regarded him seriously.

“Yes, I think so.”

“But how-”

“I need to examine it to find out.”

Harry hesitated, but shifted his trousers down a bit to expose Svadhisthana, the sacral chakra point, where the wards protecting him from possession were anchored. No sign of the wards were visible, but there remained a faint hint of scar where he had intentionally cut himself during the Final Battle of Hogwarts. He felt a touch of fear as he looked at it. Had he somehow damaged the wards when he had only meant to temporarily deactivate them?

Voldemort came to kneel in front of him and pulled out his wand. Harry couldn’t hear the spell that he murmured, but he felt it against his skin like the minute shocks of a static from a wool blanket. The ward reappeared, red lines of indecipherable squiggles and shapes. He could not see it well from his position, but judging from the Dark Lord’s angry expression, it couldn’t have been good.

“What’s wrong?” he asked anxiously.

“It’s deteriorating and rapidly at that.”

“What? Merlin, how can… Why?”

Voldemort stood and started pacing the room, thinking in earnest. Harry tried to lean down to examine the ward, but it had already faded when Voldemort’s wand had pulled away from his flesh. He quickly redressed and righted his clothes, and by the time he was done the Dark Lord seemed to have come up with some ideas.

“They are too weak. They were never intended to be under the strain they have been subjected to. The multiple beings attempting to take over your body, the different types of magic in your body, first from the Sword of Gryffindor and then from my own blood, several near death experiences, and finally your own violation of the ward… really there is no end to the stresses it must be under. I suppose we should be glad that it has lasted as long as it has.”

Gladness was not what Harry was feeling at the moment.

“What do we do?”

Voldemort sighed.

“I’ll have to request another one from the Japanese. A stronger one. At least until I can come up with something better. Dammit. Dammit.”

The Dark Lord’s good mood had evaporated, and Harry felt a twinge of guilt over it. Today had been a major victory, after all, and deserving of celebration. Under different circumstances, Harry would be out there with him, but there were still a number of crises that needed to be resolved.

“Tomorrow’s the full moon,” Harry reminded him. Voldemort let out a hiss of annoyance.

“We have appointments all day tomorrow.”

“We?”

The Dark Lord finally stopped pacing and turned to him. His agitation had settled into grim determination.

“Yes. This is our victory. I have been the mind of the fighting, you have been its heart. You’re a war hero, Harry, the symbol of Britain’s strength and righteousness. You cannot be seen as weakened or evasive once victory has been achieved. It will make everyone uneasy.”

Harry stared at him. It was like being told he was Voldemort’s prince all over again. It had taken years for him to understand and eventually accept it, and now once again he was being told his role in the world was more important that he had ever understood. He had known he was a celebrity of sorts, but the heart of the war? Gods. Gods and goddesses, he didn’t want it. Had never wanted it. Would never want it.

But it was his. It was his because Voldemort said so, and there was no point in arguing it after the fact. He took a deep breath to gain control of his rising frustration and tried to be reasonable about it.

“So what do we do? If it’s breaking down, I’m going to start… getting weird by tomorrow afternoon, and by evening I’ll be… I’ll be a damned lunatic.”

Voldemort rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like you go raving mad and gibbering nonsense.”

“No, I just get these funny ideas about running off to start fights with people; like the centaurs or Dumbledore or the Germany army!”

Despite Harry’s obvious irritation, the Dark Lord had the gall to start laughing at him. The younger wizard threw a sofa pillow at him in annoyance, which was easy knocked aside.

“Now that would make for an interesting evening,” the man chuckled. “But perhaps it is not as bad as all that. The ward is still intact, although weakened. Tomorrow, I’ll keep you close. First sign you’re losing it, I’ll get you back to your room and dose you with sleeping potion for the rest of the night.”

“Sleep would only make me more vulnerable.”

“Paralysis then.”

“Oh joy.”

The pillow Harry had thrown was still on the floor, and Voldemort walked over and kicked it at him.

“Don’t be a brat. There’s no clean solution, only the managing of symptoms.”

“I should go home,” Harry said.

“And then what? Mrs. Snape is hardly qualified to help you under these circumstances.”

“I meant back to the Goddess Colony.”

There was a moment of silence, and Harry realized he had said more than he had intended to.

“No,” Voldemort said finally. He didn’t elaborate, and Harry didn’t dare ask him.

“I don’t see why I have to go. We already won. We don’t have anything else we need to prove,” he said sullenly, leaning heavily in his chair.

“Must you persist in playing the brat? I know politics aren’t particularly interesting to you, but I would have thought you had picked up something along the way. The physical fighting might be over, but the battle for the hearts and minds of the German people hasn’t even begun.”

Harry was once again reminded of his conversation with Queen Ophelia the day before. He had been embarrassed about his own ignorance of the Dark Lord’s motivation, or rather how his actions tied in with his motivations, which underneath everything was tied to the will of the Earth. Now, again, he was wondering what the war had to do with those motivations. At least part of it had been necessity. The Germans had initiated the hostilities and once Britain had responded they had escalated them until they were in a full blown war. However, Harry wasn’t so naïve as to think Britain, the Dark Lord in particular, didn’t bear some responsibility for it. Voldemort might not have started the war, but he hadn’t really given the Germans much in the way of choices aside from it.

But why? Why had Voldemort been so ready for the fighting? Now that he was victorious, what did he intend to do?

“Did you always intend to go to war with Germany?” Harry asked before he could stop himself.

“Of course, I did.”

Just like that. No hesitation. No shame or regret. Just a matter-of-fact reply to a truly terrible question. Harry could only stare at him, horrified. Voldemort glanced at him and shrugged.

“Well, not Germany specifically, but someone in Europe. The Netherlands or France would have worked just as well and I would have settled for Italy, but Germany really was ideal. They have such a rich pagan history themselves and a great deal of private wizarding land ready for use. They practically gift wrapped themselves with that incident at the Triwizard Tournament. I mean, Merlin, how stupid could they possibly be? The conditions were perfect. It had to have been Her will.”

“‘Her’? You mean the Earth?”

“Yes, the Earth,” he practically purred, his eyes going distant and soft at the thought of Her. Harry felt a warm shiver run up his spine and didn’t know if it was him or something else seeping through the wards.

“You conquered Germany… for the Earth?”

“I conquered Germany for the Earth,” Voldemort agreed. “And for Britain. And for wizarding kind. And because I could.”

Harry was horrified, but the horror wasn’t from his mentor’s answers but from his own lack of surprise. The answers were… were reasonable. They were the answers of a fanatic, a megalomaniac, but they made perfect sense. Voldemort had conquered Germany, not out of self-defense, but as the first step of spreading paganism outside of Britain and further isolating wizarding kind from muggles.

“Are you going to conquer the world then?” he found himself asking, surprised when his voice didn’t catch in his throat.

“I will conquer a fair share of it,” Voldemort said nonchalantly, glancing back at his protégé from the corner of his eyes to gage his reaction to the revelation. “But the true beauty of my plans is that I will not have to. My purpose isn’t to make myself king of the globe, Harry. I enjoy ruling, but I am more than happy to make Britain my only Kingdom. What I am doing is not for my benefit, it is for the great Goddess. It is to create a renaissance.”

Harry felt he had suddenly lost the pattern of the Dark Lord’s logic. His mentor must have noticed, because he smiled indulgently and explained it to him.

“You must have learned about the Renaissance in school. The emergence of Europe from the Dark Age and into a time of cultural rebirth and growth?”

Harry nodded. For the wizarding world, the Dark Ages hadn’t been nearly as desperate as it had been for muggles, but it hadn’t been a good time either. Much of the Old Magics were lost with the spread of Christianity with nothing better to replace it, and plague had wiped out wizarding villages as easily as it had muggle villages. It hadn’t been until the Renaissance that the still relatively primitive style of wand magic, its origins rooted in the Mediterranean, had been recognized for its power and diversity of purpose and the sudden influx of exotic plants and animals had expanded the field of potions exponentially. It had been an end to the age of paganism in the wizarding world and the birth of modern wizardry.

“Do you know what started the Renaissance?”

Oh. Now it made sense once again. The same horrible, practical sense.

“The Crusades.”

“Yes. The Europeans were ultimately unable to hold their holy land, but they did manage to pillage enough in the way of riches and scientific knowledge from the Muslims to spark a cultural and intellectual rebirth at home. So too will we spark the rebirth of wizarding kind through conquest. They will see our magic and our methods, and find them so superior to their own that they will take it up themselves. They will return to the Earth and be reborn as a people. This is a holy war, my young friend, and we are fighting for the minds and hearts of our race.”

He turned to face his protégé fully, his crimson eyes pinning him.

“The question now is whether you will help me now, knowing fully now what I intend.”

The shiver of warmth Harry had felt before returned, this time pooling inside of him, heavy and pervasive. Absently, he massaged his stomach gently, as if he could soothe the sensation the same way he might a cramp or a stomach ache. The sensation didn’t fade, and he sighed.

“It would seem that at this point, I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

Voldemort smiled back at him grimly.

“No, you really don’t.”

La Sanglante Chanson was like most vampire run bars in Paris. Dark, elegant, and partially decaying. Snape felt quite comfortable there, and certainly the mortal patrons might have mistook him for an employee. He would not tell Potter about this portion of his investigation if he told him about any of it, he decided. The brat would probably laugh at him.

And there really wasn’t anything funny about this situation. He was surrounded by blood-sucking fiends and people who wanted to be blood-sucking fiends, and both groups of people were eying him speculatively. He had ordered wine while he waited for his appointment and took a sip occasionally but was otherwise very careful to keep a clear head. This was not a place he could afford to be careless.

“Your first time here?” a woman said, sliding into the seat across the table from him. She was very beautiful and very pale, dressed to match the décor in ancient black lace and red satin that was practically disintegrating off of her. If she weren’t a vampire, Snape would have mistaken her for a whore by the way she eyed him up and down. Perhaps she was both.

“I have an appointment,” he said, looking back at her with disinterest. She was not dissuaded.

“Really now?” she purred. “Are you sure I can’t change your mind?”

“It is highly unlikely you could provide what I am looking for.”

She gave him a disappointed look.

“Oh, you’re one of those.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant. If this were a regular bar and she were just a prostitute he would have assumed she meant homosexual, but she was a vampire and it could mean any number of things. For all he knew, she had assumed correct.

“If it assuages your ego, you’re free to think so.”

She sniffed and strutted off to find someone more amenable.

Snape took another sip of his wine out of principle.

He wasn’t even half done with his glass when another woman came to retrieve him. She was better and more thoroughly dressed than the previous vampire, and the look she gave him said she would draw blood if he mistook her for the chattel. He followed after her, carrying his cane rather than supporting himself with it. His leg ached, but he was very careful not to limp. Limping could set off the predators.

Like most of Paris, the building was tall and narrow but the bar was not so deteriorated that it couldn’t maintain an elevator. It was an iron cage contraption that squealed and groaned as it moved, but Snape was still thankful he didn’t have to climb the stairs. The upstairs was in better condition than the downstairs. Still dark and elegant in an old fashioned way, but everything was in good repair and clean. The smell of blood was barely noticeable.

The woman opened a door for him, and he stepped inside an office. Clarion was immediately identifiable by his position behind the desk. There was another man behind him, likely a bodyguard, and the woman moved to a settee placed along the wall to lounge in apparent boredom. Behind Clarion was a fireplace, large enough to be a floo, with a fire burning inside it, providing light and heat and sinister shadows to the room. Snape moved forward and took a seat across from the master vampire without prompting.

“I understand you are looking for an introduction,” Clarion said without preamble.

“An opportunity to introduce myself to someone is all I require.”

“Is there any reason why I should do this for you?”

“Money and no reason not to.”

The vampire gave him a cynical smile.

“I had thought the English were known for their subtlety.”

“Depends which part of England they come from. I come from the part that doesn’t like to waste time.”

“So, Harry Potter,” the vampire continued. “A difficult target-”

Snape interrupted him.

“No.”

Clarion tensed.

“No?”

“I am not looking for an introduction to Harry Potter.”

“I was given to understand that was who you were hoping to meet.”

The vampire was regarding him cautiously now. Behind him, his bodyguard shifted ever so slightly. Snape merely leaned back in his chair as if to get comfortable.

“I apologize for the subterfuge in advance. I have my own means of meeting with Lord Potter. What I was really looking for was someone who would be looking to arrange a meeting with Lord Potter.”

Clarion just stared at him. Snape gave him a name. The vampire remained perfectly still, revealing his complicity as surely as if he had confessed it aloud.

“I don’t know how I can help you.”

Snape shook his head.

“We both know that is not true.”

They remained very quiet for a moment. Then Clarion leaned back in his chair.

“Why are you here, Monsieur Prince? Assuming that is even your name.”

“More or less,” Snape replied. “I am a representative of the British government under instructions to investigate rumors of a terrorist plot against Lord Potter during very delicate negotiations with the German government. I don’t think I need to explain to you how seriously this is being taken. And I seriously hope I don’t need to explain to you the consequences of impeding my investigation, but I will if you like.”

Clarion looked like he had bitten into something rotten, but didn’t say a word.

“Master Clarion, I honestly don’t care what sort of deal you made with Dumbledore. You are not my mission. Dumbledore is. I would rather not deal with the paperwork of involving you or your people with my investigation and would just as soon omit that from my report. That being said, if this attack does occur I will be very, very put out with you, which means the British government will be put out with you. Do you know where I’m going with this?”

“I know where you are going with this,” the vampire said, nodding thoughtfully. He took a deep, unneeded breath and then let it out. He looked back at Snape. He did not look afraid. “I also know… you are lying. Renee, if you would please.”

There was movement behind him and Snape jumped to his feet on instinct, but a hand grabbed his shoulder and shoved him back down. He struggled against the hold, but it remained immovable and another hand scurried across his pockets and then his sleeves, until it found a wand and pulled it free of him. He reached for the wand, but received a harsh slap to the face for his efforts. His lip split from the blow and his mouth suddenly tasted of blood.

“Monsieur More-or-Less-Prince,” Clarion continued, rising from his seat. “I have been Master of Paris for over sixty years now, and I have served the previous Master for even longer than that. I have been here through four muggle wars, two wizarding wars, and more anti-government campaigns than I can count. And do you know something? This is the first time a foreign government has been allowed a private investigation without a French liaison. They don’t like not knowing what others are up to inside their own country. It’s just something they are finicky about. So you can understand my confusion that you are here alone, not only without a French liaison, but without a partner of any kind.”

The Master moved in, coming to kneel down in front of Snape. Snape glared back at him, defiant even as his racing heart betrayed his fear. The vampire lifted his hand, and in a quick, playful gesture that made the wizard flinch, he wiped a spot of blood from man’s split lip with his thumb and then licked it clean. He gave made a considering look at the taste and then shrugged, straightening.

“You know what I think? I don’t think you’re a ‘representative of the British government’. At least, not officially. I think you’re a dog with a bone, and you’ve come here digging for a bigger one.”

Clarion gave him a smug little grin.

“Poor you.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” Snape said, then hissed when the vampires holding him down squeezed his fragile collar bone.

“Hmm… we’ll see. Renee, Oswald, take our guest downstairs and find out what he knows. See if any of the girls want to play with him.”

“With pleasure,” Renee purred and hauled Snape to his feet. He quickly grabbed his cane and used it to steady himself, and he continued holding onto it tightly as the servant vampires led him forcefully out of the office. They crowded him into the elevator, one on either side of him, the woman hissing the things they were going to do to him. The elevator squealed its way down to the first floor and then lower to the basement. It was dark and wet there, and the smell of blood was strong. Snape wasn’t impressed. Just because vampires lacked magic didn’t mean they had to lack imagination.

For instance, they might have tried to imagine all the myriad uses of a walking cane.

Oswald stepped forward to pull the cage of the elevator open, and with his back turned he didn’t immediately see his prisoner suddenly press the head of his cane to Renee’s ribs. He did, however, hear the spell.

“Ligananimus![1]”

Oswald swung around, fangs bared even as Renee collapsed to the ground without a mark on her. There was no room and no time to get off another spell before Oswald was on the wizard. Snape brought up the cane to block the remaining vampire, and it caught on the sides of the cramped elevator, momentarily saving him from being crushed as he was thrown into the corner.

“Ignatus lumina![2],”

The tiny elevator exploded in hot, white light and a deafening bang. Panicked and blind, Oswald shrieked and threw himself through the open door of the elevator and into the safety of the basement. Snape staggered after him, slamming the cage door behind the vampire and smashing the elevator buttons until it started to move. He half fell against the cold metal walls as the cage lurched upwards. Far from feeling secure, Snape frantically unscrewed the top of his cane and pulled his wand free. Clarion might have thought he had seen it all, but this was an old trick Lucius had introduced to him to.

A vampire was standing in the hall when the elevator finally crawled to a stop on the first floor. She was one of the scantily clad voluptuaries that filled the main barroom, and her eyes widened at her undead sister crumpled at Snape’s feet. Snape tried to cast a spell at her through the cage, but she was already running for safety and calling for help. Snarling out expletives the situation so richly deserved, the wizard struggled out of the elevator and hurried down the hall, abandoning his cane in favor of his wand.

Vampires appeared at the end of the hall, but two angry slashes in the air with his wand and they disappeared just as quickly, looking for more advantageous positions from which to leap out at him. He kicked open a door in the hall and found a windowless bathroom. He kicked in another door and found a maintenance closet. The third was a parlor, occupied by a lanky man only half-dressed and an equally naked vampiress draped over him.

“Do you mind?!” the man shouted in outrage. The vampire snarled her own displeasure, gnashing her bloodied teeth at him.

Snape barely bothered to sneer at them, instead hurrying across the room to the windows covered by sets of heavy, moldering drapes. He forced them open with a flick of his wand and climbed hurriedly out of the window and onto the street.

It was still early evening and the street was crowded with people. They stared at him.

He stared back, brushed himself off with a haughty gesture, and strode away. He strode all the way to the back alley where he had every intention of apparating to entrance of his hotel clear on the other side of the river and try to decide what he would do next.

Intended, but didn’t quite manage when he turned into an alley and found himself face to face with Viktor Krum.

It was cold outside, but Sirius couldn’t stand the idea of being cooped up inside. The moon was nearly full and his wolf stirred restlessly inside of him, so he wandered into the night with Remus close behind him. His beta looked as unaffected as ever, his wolf so quiescent that one would question whether he was a werewolf at all. It was a trait unique to Remus, his apparent apathy towards the moon except when it was at its fullest or he willfully chose to enjoy it. It was a trait Greyback had chosen to taunt him with.

Slivermoon.

It meant ‘one who could barely be considered a werewolf’ or ‘a werewolf without spirit’.

Greyback had been an idiot as far as Sirius was concerned. Remus was by far the most levelheaded and dependable werewolf in the entire colony, and his presence had proven itself invaluable even before Sirius had become Head Alpha. For every question and consequence Sirius considered in any given situation, Remus would think of ten more. For every irritation and delay he encountered, Remus would give him perspective and opportunities. For every loss he gave comfort and every victory he provided temperance.

Sirius knew he wouldn’t be half the Head Alpha he was if it weren’t for Remus, which was the only humble thought he had probably ever had and even that he would never say aloud. It was fortunate then that one of his beta’s many innate abilities appeared to be reading his alpha’s mind, which made it unnecessary to voice.

“You’ve decided what to do,” Remus said knowingly as they slipped further from the settlement and into the trees. Patches of snow glowed in the moonlight, illuminating their way down the narrow game trail clearly. It was beautiful and quiet, and Sirius needed the balm to his frazzled nerves. It had been a difficult couple of days.

“Yeah.”

“And you don’t like it,” Remus added.

“Nope.”

“But you’re going to do it anyway, because you’re a mature and responsible adult.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you?”

“You’re going to have to start wearing ties now, Sirius. No one is going to believe you’re a mature and responsible adult if you don’t wear a tie.”

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbled, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward in spite of himself. Remus could also be good for a laugh when he put his mind to it. They walked along for a little longer in comfortable silence.

“You’re doing the right thing, Siri.”

It was good to hear Remus say it, because as often as Sirius had said it to himself it hadn’t made him feel any better.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I know, but in the long run we can’t keep fighting with Jane and Greyback. It’s not fair to the rest of the pack. It is better we do it now when we’re on more equal footing, than waiting until some desperate situation forces our hand,” the beta continued.

“Still rubs my fur the wrong way, thinking of Jane back in the pack, plotting with Greyback. They’re going to be so damn smug when everyone starts making sacrifices to him again. They’re going to think they can get away with anything.”

Remus patted his shoulder.

“That isn’t true. Jane at the very least has learned to respect you, and it’s better to keep her close where you can keep an eye on her. The packs love her, she’s the daughter of their Goddess, so of course they do, but they’re still loyal to you. They’ll obey their head alpha over a naughty child any day.”

“Pfft, don’t let Harry hear you say that.”

They both paused and turned to look at each other, then burst out into roaring laughter. They laughed long and hard, and finally let it fade into a feeling of relief. Sirius felt something in him loosen, resigned to his decision to let Jane and Luna back in to the pack and to allow the worship of Greyback to resume.

“It’s good to know we can still make decisions without the help of an adolescent wizard,” Remus said, bringing another round of giggles.

“Yeah, I’m glad we could keep him out of it this time around,” Sirius said. “Although… hell, I just thought of something.”

“What?”

“We won’t be able to keep Luna and him apart after this,” Sirius sighed.

Remus rolled his eyes.

“I doubt that was ever really a possibility.”

They fell silent, a genuine sadness creeping in. Finally, Remus said the painful truth of it. Yet another thing his beta was better at than him.

“It was doomed from the start. They’re meant for each other, but… they can’t really be together. Not in any way that will last.”

Sirius closed his eyes. He didn’t consider himself a sentimental person, but when it came to Harry, he admitted he had a soft spot. In his heart he felt the boy wasn’t just James’ son any longer, but the son of all the Marauders. He had bits and pieces of all of them. James’ nobility, Remus’ thoughtfulness, Sirius’ own fearlessness, and even a bit of Peter and his desperate need to be loved by others. At the same time, Harry was so uniquely himself as to be a mystery and a wonder. He wondered if all parents felt like that sometimes.

He knew Remus did, at least, if his perpetual exasperation for their boy was anything to go by.

“He’ll be okay,” Sirius said, heaving a deep sigh. “He’s strong. He’ll be okay.”

“You’re right. Eventually, he’ll be okay.” Remus paused, looking thoughtful. “Of course, we don’t know he’s immune to lycanthropy. If he became a werewolf, all this angst would be rather moot.”

That shocked another laugh out of Sirius.

“Don’t tell Luna that. She might get ideas.”

1. ‘Ligananimus’ is a spell used to turn the heart to wood. It’s a transfiguration spell most often used in defense against vampires, as ‘avada kedavra’ has no effect on vampires. Better than even a staking. It’s just as effective against regular people, of course, but easily blocked by various shield spells and magical pendants.↩

2. ‘Ignatus lumina’ is a fireworks spell. It’s more flash than bang and relatively harmless, but damn frightful if you’re not expecting it.↩

Blood in the Water

The knock on the door came shortly after six o’clock. McGonagall and Ira were still hard at work in the kitchen but had pulled Ron away from guarding the front door in order to work on dinner. He was not happy with the distraction but couldn’t argue with them. When the anxiously anticipated knock finally came, he dropped his ladle into the stewpot and practically ran for the front door.

“I’ll get it!” he said before either woman could so much as look up.

As the kitchen door swung shut behind him, he flicked his wand into his hand. He slowed down as he approached the front door, moving silently. Quietly he cast a charm on the door and for just a few seconds it became transparent.

It was not McGunny. Could this be the puppeteer?

Ron’s heart leaped into his throat. His hand tightened around his wand.

There was another knock.

Stiffening his spine, Ron answered the door with his wand clearly visible and pointed at the unknown visitor. The man blinked at the wand, then looked up at the young wizard curiously.

“Well, this isn’t the friendliest greeting I’ve ever had, but it certainly isn’t the worst either,” the man said conversationally.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Ron said bluntly. “Potter isn’t here.”

The man shrugged.

“I am aware of that. At least I know I have the right address. Is Mrs. Ira Snape available?”

Now Ron felt a moment of uncertainty.

“Who’s asking?”

“Sentinel Inspector Amelon, at your service. I would show you my badge if I didn’t think you’d curse me before I reached it. And you are?”

Ron gave him a horrified look which was followed by a very flustered, “S-sorry! I’ll go get her. Just… uh… wait here a minute!”

The door was promptly shut in the man’s face. Ron flinched and slapped himself in the forehead as soon as he had done it. No helping it now, he decided, and hurried back to the kitchen to find Ira. He found her levitating his forgotten ladle out of the stew pot and into the sink and told her about their guest.

She made a heavily put-upon sigh.

“That man again. Will we ever be done with him? Here, Mr. Weasley, pepper and salt this and then let it simmer. I might be a while. Minerva, help yourself. There’s no point in being formal about it.”

Ira didn’t find Amelon in the front room as she had expected, and she made a mental note to lecture her young ‘assistant’ about the proper way to receive a guest when she found the man still standing on her stoop. At least he looked more amused than insulted, but then again he had looked the exact same way any time she could remember seeing him. It was perhaps the reason she disliked him although he had given her no personal insult. Anyone who was perpetually amused by the world was in turn condescending to it and everyone else in it.

“Inspector,” she greeted, opening the door wider to let him in. “What brings you by at this hour?”

“My apologies for the lateness, but it couldn’t be helped. I was chasing down a new lead on the case, and I hadn’t the opportunity to come any earlier and yet I didn’t dare put it off ’til tomorrow.”

“A new lead? Does this mean you’ve had some luck finding poor Miss Granger?” she asked, unsure of whether she should be pleased by the notion or not. The idea of Severus’ goddaughter being arrested was an awful one, but the absence of any word from her was distressing in and of itself.

But he merely shook his head.

“No, I’m afraid not. This is a lead in a different direction.”

“You have another suspect? Aside from my husband, I mean?” she said with just a touch of venom. She had not forgotten the distasteful suggestions he had made at Malfoy Manor shortly after that terrible night. He gave her a rueful smile that looked anything but sincere.

“My apologies, Mrs. Snape. I have been repeatedly assured of Professor Snape’s good character from a myriad of sources and regret my insinuations.”

She gave him a non-committal reply and urged him to get to the point. She didn’t want to drag this out longer than necessary. They moved to the living room where Ira took her husband’s usual chair and the investigator sat himself across from her on the loveseat.

“I wanted to talk to you about that night at Lucius’ party again.”

“I can’t think of what else I could tell you. I told you everything I could remember that night, and I am afraid my memory of the evening is fading. My only clear recollection is of Harry’s fall itself. I think that memory will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Even as she said it, the images rose up in her mind and her heart began to race in remembered horror. Her palms began to sweat, and the wet feeling reminded her of Harry’s blood running through her fingers. There had been other horrors since then, considerably more gruesome and grander in scale, but it had done nothing to dim her first true experience with violent death.

“I wish I could let that ghost lie,” Amelon said, not without sympathy, “but I am afraid I have to resurrect it just this once.”

She took a deep breath to compose herself and nodded.

“So be it. Ask your questions.”

He promptly took out his notepad and quill from his pocket.

“Would you please tell me again everything you can remember from that night, paying special attention to any observations you made regarding Lucius Malfoy, Bartimus Crouch, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Reginald Stratus?”

“Reginald Stratus? Is that your new suspect?” she said, disbelieving. She had not interacted much with the man directly, but from what she had seen of him she thought of him as a perfect gentleman. Her husband had thought him too soft and simple to be a worthy fiancé of his goddaughter, but she rather suspected that Snape wouldn’t have approved of anyone vying for Hermione’s hand. He hadn’t seemed to think the man too soft or simple to protect Harry during his various excursions after the final battle at Hogwarts, and she could quite clearly recall him hovering with genuine protectiveness beside his young charge as he walked him to or from Snape cottage. Surely Amelon didn’t suspect such an earnest man of something nefarious?

“I hope you aren’t just randomly accusing people until something sticks; or do you actually have some evidence this time?” she said.

He gave her the same disingenuous smile of contrition.

“You misinterpret the situation, my dear. I do not accuse Captain Stratus of anything. Quite the contrary, I suspect he may be yet another victim.”

“What do you mean?”

“I would really rather you go over your account first. I wouldn’t want what I say to influence your recollections.”

She felt an intense urge to hurl something at him but politely refrained.

She did her best to recall the events of that night, but even after only a few months, her memory was not very clear of all that had happened. She had a general idea of the evening’s events, but conversations and faces had become muddled. In regards to Stratus specifically, she could recall very little except that he had been with Lucius for much of the evening, more by Lucius’ inclination than his own, it seemed, but had escaped when the Dark Lord had summoned his Death Eaters to the parlor. The Dark Lord had sent her to look after Harry, but Harry hadn’t been in the ballroom. She had left the ballroom and had run into Stratus along the way, and then it had been the scene at the top of the stairs that had ended so disastrously.

“So you and Stratus arrived at the same time? You didn’t arrive and find him there? You are sure?”

“I’m positive about that much, at least. We both ran into each other just inside the ballroom. He was looking for Lucius and I for Harry, and we both had the same idea to ask one of the house elves for assistance. We heard Harry cry out and ran to find Lord Malfoy twisting his arm behind his back. Then… then… oh you know what happened then. I couldn’t tell you what all happened after that, to Stratus or Lucius or anyone other than Harry, I was so caught up in trying to help him.”

A shiver ran up her spine as she recalled it.

“Do you recall Stratus speaking to anyone or being spoken to any time between having left the balcony and your leaving the ballroom together?”

“Not that I recall, but he must have since Lord Malfoy had ordered him to help round up some of the old death eaters to meet in the parlor.”

Amelon nodded absently.

“Did he say why he was looking for Lucius? Shouldn’t he have looked in the parlor if that was where they were meeting?”

She shrugged.

“Perhaps he did and didn’t find him there. I couldn’t say, and I didn’t have a reason to question him about it.”

“Do you remember what he did after the wards were de-activated?”

“I can’t say I paid him any attention afterwards. The medi-wizards came and took Harry to the hospital, and Severus took me home long enough to take a shower and change, then we followed after him. I don’t think I saw Stratus again until we brought Harry back to Malfoy Manor to rest in one of the guest suites. Severus wanted to have Harry close by while looking after Draco and Narcissa, and the Dark Lord practically insisted on it.”

“And what were the circumstances of your next meeting?” Amelon asked with genuine curiosity.

“I can’t say that we met again until the final battle at Hogwarts, or rather, afterward. He and his squadron helped evacuate the castle. After that, he came by the cottage a couple of times to drop off or pick up Harry. He is in charge of Harry’s security while on government business, I believe.”

“And does Lord Potter get along with him?”

“Harry’s never talked about him as far as I know,” she said uncertainly. “Is… is Captain Stratus a danger to Harry?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he said but didn’t elaborate. “Do you know if Lord Potter knew Captain Stratus before the Christmas Ball?”

“I don’t know, but Harry meets so many people he never talks about. He probably has, but I don’t know for sure.”

“He’s secretive?”

“He’s a teenage boy, of course he’s secretive,” Ira said with some amusement, but added more soberly, “But mostly, I think he just doesn’t like to talk about things to people unless they’re already involved. Severus would certainly know more about Harry’s relationship with Stratus, if there even is one. They’re thick as thieves in some ways.”

“And how does your husband get along with Stratus?”

She told him her husband didn’t care for him one way or the other, even if he was somewhat annoyed with his betrothal to Hermione. How long had her husband known Stratus? Where did they meet and under what circumstances? Did he ever talk about Stratus, specifically Stratus’ relationship to Lucius Malfoy or Bellatrix Lestrange? Did she know Bellatrix Lestrange? Had Lestrange ever talked to her about Stratus? What were her impressions of Stratus? Did she know anyone else who knew him?

She answered these questions with non-answers, since she herself didn’t know anything for certain, and with a quickly diminishing patience, until finally she would answer no more.

“Please tell me what is going on, Inspector! You said you don’t suspect Captain Stratus of wrong-doing, and that he might be some sort of victim,” she insisted.

“Ah, yes, that. You are aware, of course, that Lord Malfoy was killed by Mister Crouch while the man was under the Imperius Curse?”

She nodded.

“There is a possibility Stratus was similarly under Imperius Curse either before or during the murder as well.”

“What? Who would… who could have… you can’t Imperius two people at once!” she said.

“Which would mean accomplices, and that would make the murder a conspiracy. Nasty business all around. I ask you to not share this information with anyone. I am only telling you because—”

There was sudden knock on the door. Ira jumped in her seat. The both of them turned to look at the door. Another knock.

“Are you expecting someone else?” he asked.

“I—”

The kitchen door banged open, causing them both to jump in their seats this time, and Ron Weasley hurried past the living room in his trek to answer the door, his wand once again out and at the ready. They watched curiously as the boy cast a transparency spell on door before answering, revealing their latest caller. It was a young man, not much older than Ron himself, dressed in a clean but somewhat shabby set of robes looking around absent-mindedly. Ira didn’t recognize him.

Ron opened the door and greeted the boy with a “Petrificus Totalus!”

“Mr. Weasley, that is not how you answer the door!” Ira shrieked in alarm.

It was already too late. Their new guest had already stiffened and tipped forward into the open doorway and onto the floor. Amelon sat watching the scene play out and felt oddly grateful suddenly about his own welcoming.

Ira was quickly on her feet and hurrying to the thwart any further assault attempts by her obviously insane assistant, but he was too busy looking outside for any more potential victims to bother with the one on the floor. McGonagall appeared from the kitchen a moment later, attracted by the ruckus.

“Good heavens, what is this all about?” she asked, hurrying to assist Ira in righting young man on the floor.

“Don’t un-petrify him yet, Professor!” Ron said as he returned inside and shut the door. “I can explain.”

“You certainly had better!” Ira said angrily as she and McGonagall carried their charge to the living room and set him leaning somewhat awkwardly against the loveseat Amelon had quickly vacated. Ron was on him an instant later, looking through his pockets and patting him down. Ira turned to McGonagall, expecting the venerable witch to have thing or two to say to the boy, but the elder woman wasn’t paying Ron any attention at all. She was looking at the stranger with a look of utter disbelief.

“Horace McGunny?” she whispered and slowly moved away to collapse into the chair Ira had been sitting in.

“Minvera, what is it? You know this person? Oh for the love of… Finitum incantatem!”

Ron, who had still been searching his pockets for a weapon, leaped back and drew his wand as if expecting the now free McGunny to fly out at him. McGunny did nothing of the sort. Collapsing into the cushions of the couch, he let out a pitiful groan and rubbed his forehead where it had smacked the floor.

“That hurt!” he objected. “Why did you do that? I knocked!”

“I would certainly like to know that myself,” Ira said pointedly, and then more gently to the injured party, “I’m so sorry. Are you alright? Do you need a pain potion?”

The poor young man looked terribly confused, Ron was still being a crazed lunatic, pointing his wand threateningly at him, McGonagall just continued to stare as if she had seen a ghost, and Amelon was sitting in his chair and watching the scene play out as if watching the latest theatre house drama.

“Is Harry here?” the young man asked.

“No, dear, Harry isn’t here right now. Are you a friend of his? Mr. Weasley, put down your wand! What is wrong with you?”

“Don’t trust him, Mrs. Snape, he’s under Imperius!”

“What?” Ira and McGonagall said simultaneously. Amelon leaned forward his in chair.

“Am not,” McGunny protested childishly.

Ron explained to them the specifics of McGunny’s previous visit, his strange and uncharacteristic behavior, his conclusion that he was under Imperius, his failed attempt to follow the elder boy back to his curser, and his waiting for his reappearance.

“You’re mad,” Ira said bluntly. The young wizard snorted.

“I knew you’d say that, so I didn’t tell you. You don’t take this sort of thing seriously enough, Mrs. Snape. That’s why your husband told me to look after you while he was away.”

She bristled at the implications of her perceived helplessness and was just about ready to order him out of her house, but McGonagall came unexpectedly to his defense.

“I am afraid, Ira, that at least in this case, Mr. Weasley may indeed have the right of it. What do you think, Mr. McGunny?”

McGunny, who had been sitting quietly through all of this, stared at her blankly for a moment, and then tilted his head.

“I’m not under Imperius. I just need to talk to Harry.”

“A fixation on an idea or person, the most obvious sign of the Imperius curse. Why do you need to speak with him?”

“So I’ll remember.”

“What do you need to remember?”

“I don’t know. Thinking about him helps me remember things. I remember you’re Professor McGonagall, but I only remember that because you teach at Hogwarts, and I only remember Hogwarts because that is where Harry goes to school, and I only remember Harry because… because….”

Watching the young wizard grope for what he trying to say was painful to watch. He looked lost, grief stricken, not because of the loss of a person or a thing but because of a loss of self. He looked around the room, at their faces, at his clenched fists, seeking out answers that couldn’t be found there and ultimately collapsing into himself in frustration at his failure.

“It’s alright, Mr. McGunny, don’t fret,” McGonagall said gently, coming to sit down next to him. “Here’s a different question, and you can take as much time as you need to answer it. Where have you been for the last two years?”

Snape blinked and found himself tied to a chair. The alleyway was gone. His wand was similarly absent. Viktor remained. He loomed over him, his dark features and brooding expression making him look older than the child he was. Or perhaps it was only because he was a vampire now. He realized this alarming and incongruous fact within seconds of realizing he had been Mesmerized. Snape spared only a brief moment to wonder how the sulky teenager he had known from three years ago had become a vampire. Three years, he supposed, was plenty of time for such a thing to happen. Truthfully, it wasn’t important at the moment.

What was important was that he had been taken prisoner once again and appeared to be in an underground catacomb. There were torches burning along the wall, illuminating hundreds of skulls leering out at him from little cubbyholes built straight into the wall. There were a dozen vampires scattered around the small room, their bone-white faces barely distinguishable from the crypt’s rightful residents. Directly in front of him stood Viktor. He glowered at the boy, but carefully kept his eyes focused on his broad forehead.

“How tedious,” he said, feigning boredom. “So who is your master now, Krum? Dumbledore or Clarion?”

A vampiress hissed angrily, taking a step forward, but Viktor lifted his hand and she hesitated. Snape watched curiously as she sheathed her fangs and stepped back. The boy vampire did not turn to acknowledge her, his expression never wavering as he continued to stare down at his captive. After a moment, Viktor moved, circling him once, predatorily, before stopping to crouch down to Snape’s left. The wizard tensed as he felt the vampire lean in close to whisper into his ear, as if no one else there could hear them easily.

“Vhy are you here, Professor? Vat errand does your master have you on?”

Snape smiled mockingly out into the room, still careful to look no one in the eye, especially not Viktor, not even out of the corner of his sight.

“Errand? I’m not on an errand. I’m sight-seeing. Since Dumbledore helped blow up my school, I’ve found I have an abundance of free time.”

The room went quiet. Snape let his eyes fall shut, purposefully relaxing his body in preparation for the coming blow. It came as vicious tug on his hair and harsh bite to his neck. There was a moment of shock, followed by the primitive panic of being savaged by a predator. Snape struggled to control his fear, his body, but his mind was thrown back to his youth when the cruel joke of his adolescent rivals had put him within inches of death by fangs and claws. This was simultaneously worse and better. There was no fear of the hunted. The hunt was long over, now there was only the agony of the end.

Viktor pulled away, and Snape felt his blood warm and wet against his skin, soaking into the torn collar of his robes. He felt dizzy and breathless. Had the carotid artery been cut? Was he bleeding out? He couldn’t remember if he had screamed or not, but he wanted to scream now. He hadn’t the strength to try.

“That vill not kill you,” Viktor said into his ear again. “I just vant you to understand that I will kill you if I have to.”

Snape mustered his courage and sneered between his gasps for air.

“I’ve never doubted your capacity for murder, Krum.”

There was another moment of tense silence, and Snape closed his eyes again in preparation for another attack, but Viktor merely stood and moved away. The room instantly felt colder.

“Nor I yours, Professor. I am, however, vondering if you have any boundaries you vill not cross. You’ve come a very long vay and to a very dangerous place. How desperate is your master for his quarry? Vat vill you do ven you find them?”

Snape almost rolled his eyes. What did Viktor think he was going to do? Sit Dumbledore down and reminisce about the ‘good old days’? Why was Viktor even talking to him? There had to be those more skilled at interrogation in Clarion’s coven, and this was not the basement he had originally been brought to. Something felt off about the whole thing. Had Viktor taken him from Clarion without the vampire’s knowledge? Why? Was Viktor, despite having been turned, still under Dumbledore’s influence? But how? Everyone knew once a person became a vampire, their Master was their sole priority, regardless of whatever ties they may have had as mortals.

He felt light-headed and slow from blood loss. If only Viktor had just punched him, then perhaps he could have remained clear headed enough to figure out what was happening.

“I can make you tell me,” Viktor said when Snape remained silent. “I could have made you tell me in that alleyway if I had vanted to. Just a little trick of the mind. I am very good at it. I have servants who are even better at it here in this room.”

Servants? Viktor was a Master?

“But it vill destroy you. Not kill you, but… for a man who values his mind as much as you, it might be vorse.”

Snape felt the first true inklings of fear. Viktor was cleverer than he had given him credit for. Snape had been tortured several times throughout his life, but it had been mostly physical torments. He had lost all sense of physical vanity early in life, but his mind was a different matter altogether. His quick wits and mental discipline had seen him through times of war and peace. They were essential to his character and to his survival. Losing his mind would be far worse than losing a limb.

“And if I answer your questions? Then what is my alternative? A quick death?”

“I vill vipe your memory and let you go. Aside from some disorientation, your mind should remain intact.”

“How merciful of you, especially given how intent Clarion was on my torture and death,” Snape scoffed. “I don’t think you have any authority to be making deals. Let Clarion make that promise to me in person.”

Not that he would believe Clarion any more than he would Viktor, but it would buy him some time. He needed time to figure out a plan, to create an opportunity to escape.

“Clarion has no authority over me or mine,” Viktor said without hesitation or inflection. At first, the words didn’t register with Snape. They sounded like nonsensical boasting. But when they sunk in he turned sharply to Viktor. He met the boy’s cold crimson eyes, so like Voldemort’s in their own way, absolute and uncompromising. Completely honest about the truths you didn’t want to know.

“Dumbledore-”

“I am my own Master,” the vampire repeated. “On my vord and honor, I vill not harm you if you tell me how close the Dark Lord has come to finding her.”

Her.

Her.

Merlin, this was about Hermione.

Snape felt another wave of light headedness, but this time it was elation. Viktor wasn’t here to protect Dumbledore or Clarion. Viktor was a soppy moron worried about his old flame. It was a struggle not to burst out into laughter, and an even greater feat not to let any of his amusement show in his face. He could use this. He could use this in so many ways.

“He doesn’t know anything.”

Viktor’s lips drew back in snarl, and Snape flinched back instinctively as the vampire moved towards him again.

“Potter!” he shouted.

He heard the audible click of teeth snapping shut, and a cold breath of air against his still bleeding neck. Viktor pulled back.

“Potter sent me. He told me she was in Paris, and how to get in contact with her. He helped her escape to Paris in the first place.”

The vampire gave him a considering look. Perhaps Viktor knew that or perhaps he didn’t, but either way Snape knew the best way to sell a lie was to mix in just enough of the truth.

“And vy vould he tell you dat?”

“He knows I would protect her. She’s my goddaughter.”

Here Viktor looked more skeptical, which meant love hadn’t turned him into a complete fool.

“And he was desperate,” Snape added to further sell the lie to come.

“And vy was that?”

“He needed someone to warn her, to find another place for her to hide. She’s in grave danger.”

Viktor stiffened. Snape could practically smell the machismo wafting off of him at the thought of his damsel in distress.

“From who?”

“From Dumbledore.”

Draco woke in the middle of the night and was too well rested already to even attempt to go back to sleep. Natalie had made him nap through much of the afternoon, and Robert had been insistent on finishing their business early enough for him to get to bed at a reasonable hour. It had felt wonderful at the time, but now he was awake, alone, and with nothing to do. After weeks of being overwhelmed with matters requiring his attention, he felt strangely uneasy, perhaps even guilty for his sudden idleness.

So he climbed out of bed and put on his dressing robe and slippers. He would go to the kitchen and have a house elf make him something. When there were no alternatives, the house elves weren’t bad company. They weren’t much for intelligent conversation, but they had plenty of stories to tell. There were elves in the manor who had served his great-great-great-grandparents, and if he expressed an interest, they delighted in telling him about his ancestors. Not the grandiose sort of things his father told him about, but funny little tales and personality quirks about them. Like how his great-unle Cetus’s hair had turned from black to white when he performed his first bit of accidental magic, or how his great-aunt Amaryllis had kept nearly forty ravens as familiars, or how his own father had gotten lost in the manor for nearly three days when he was five and refused any help to find his way.

When he was about seven or so, he had told his father one of these little stories, he couldn’t remember which one now, and he was soon made to regret it. His father had called him a liar and scolded him for making up such nonsense about his forbears. The telling off had been so savage that Draco had started to cry and that had only made his father angrier. His father had taken him by his arms and shaken him. He had hurt him.

It was the first time he ever felt hatred.

The memory was an unpleasant one to have while wandering the halls in the dark with the oppressive emptiness of the manor closing in on him. The place had a feeling of ghosts about it that night, and he half expected to see his father’s spirit when he reached the staircase.

He didn’t, of course.

No ghosts haunted Malfoy Manor. It would be too undignified.

But there was someone at the stairs, and the sight of her was so shocking that Draco may as well have seen a demon.

His mother stood in quiet contemplation, dressed in one of her finest day dresses, deep green damask and black lace, and black silk gloves and boots with heels so tall and narrow they could be counted as lethal weapons. She was dressed as if she were on her way out for an afternoon of shopping or visiting her society ‘friends’, but she wore no makeup and her hair was left undone. The incongruity made her seem gently mad, like poor Ophelia in Hamlet, looking down into the stream she would soon leap into and seeing… what?

“Mother,” he said softly, as if afraid to wake her.

She didn’t move for a moment, did not seem to sense him at all, but slowly she turned from looking down the stairs to face him. Draco expected to see some evidence of her insanity in her eyes, a dreaminess or a mania, but her eyes were as they had always been. Shrewd and deep and ever so slightly pleased to see him. Had she suddenly returned to sanity? Simply snapped out of it? Such things had been known to happen, but he was too terrified to hope. He wanted his mother back, back to the way she had been, brilliant and strong and prideful, but if this was all simply an illusion, he would die. Or he would murder. He didn’t know which.

“Hello, darling,” she said. “You’re up late. Or is it early?”

She sounded so reasonable.

“So are you,” he said, but it came out stilted and rough with sleep.

“I don’t sleep well these days. It feels so lonely here without your father.”

He stared at her. Was she… was she acknowledging her husband was dead or was this just another facet of the delusion she fostered that Lucius was busy leading the army? He couldn’t think of what to say, couldn’t bring himself to say anything and shatter the illusion that she was once again herself.

She smiled at him, tired and sad. Slowly, she moved towards him until she was standing before him.

“We haven’t talked in a while,” she said. “Talk to me, Draco.”

“I miss him too,” he said without thinking and felt the emotion catch in his throat. He paused, swallowing down the feeling that welled up with the words. He missed his father terribly. He missed his mother. He missed Hermione. And he resented that they had all left him in one way or another.

“Walk with me,” she said. “We’ll keep each other company for a little while.”

So he hooked his arm in hers, startled by the frailty of her slender arm and that he was an inch or two taller than her despite her ridiculous heels. He expected to look into her face and find an old woman staring back at him, but while her skin was pale and her eyes shadowed, she still looked strangely lovely.

They walked down the stairs and into the west wing of the mansion, a rarely used portion of the mansion that housed the overabundance of Malfoy heirlooms and treasures like pieces in a museum. Draco and Hermione had been scared of this portion of the house when they were younger, which also meant that it was their favorite place to play hide and seek when the weather wasn’t good for outdoor play. It had felt so excitingly naughty and unnerving to hide behind suits of black armor laden with cursed cudgels and enchanted broadswords and slip inside ancient armoires that smelled of musty herbs and old blood. Sometimes they would accidentally bump something they shouldn’t and would get a nasty magical shock or the wards would go off and start shrieking terribly. They would both run screaming back to one of their rooms and hide in the closet, convinced the offended object was cursed and somehow chasing after them. Sometimes, it had been.

Now the corridors seemed cold and melancholy, but unthreatening, the half-familiar objects now the receptacles of childhood memories. He glanced at his mother and found her smiling slightly, as if she were remembering those days as well. He felt the stirrings of hope inside him.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” she said at last.

“For what?”

“For not being here for you. I know things have been very difficult for you lately, and I have been distant.”

That was one way to describe her behavior, he thought sourly, but didn’t say.

“I want you to know that I still want what is best for you,” she said. “I don’t say it often, at least not in words, but I do love you and I’m very proud of you.”

He was struck dumb. She was right; she rarely said it. He couldn’t remember her saying it since he was five. He knew it, of course, she was demonstrative in her own prideful way, but rarely had she been overt. Thinking back on it, he couldn’t remember that last time he had told her he loved her either.

“I’ll do better from now on,” she said. “I promise.”

He wanted so badly to believe her.

So he didn’t say a word.

Voldemort hadn’t slept in three days and still didn’t feel the need to. That was good because his days were not about to get any less busy despite his overwhelming victory. He felt the urge to smile, but controlled himself. It wouldn’t do for the queen to see him looking too smug while lying in her bed. She might get the wrong idea. Or the right one.

He was naked with the linens bunched around his ankles, reclined against a pile of overstuffed pillows. He felt positively decadent. His body was beautiful. He had always known since he was old enough to have a concept of masculine beauty, and there had been no one to challenge his claim to it. Any criticism towards his looks had stemmed from jealousy, and transparently so. He had shed any sense of prudishness towards his own body long before he ever left Hogwarts.

The grace of the Goddess had ensured it would always be so. Already in his sixties, he still appeared a man in his mid-twenties who had led an active but unchallenging life. At the moment, the illusion was marred slightly by the reddish scar on his abdomen where he had been stabbed the previous afternoon. It itched slightly, but was already fading rapidly. Tomorrow night it would be gone completely.

He looked over at the queen and caught her staring at him. She was sitting in front of her bedroom vanity, a black silk robe embroidered with elegant black swans in flight hung open around her shoulders. He regarded her with the same open admiration she regarded him. The queen was not the most beautiful woman he had ever slept with. She was a little older than most of his lovers, her facial features attractive but not particularly remarkable, and her body lacking in the toned athleticism current conventions of attractiveness seemed to require. She was, however, definitely a favorite. She had incredible skin, creamy white that flushed the loveliest shade of pink, and a great abundance of it. She was plump, some fool might even call her fat, but it clung to her like a layer of softness rather than misshapen lumpiness of true obesity and served to emphasize her femininity rather than detract from it. She would have been adored by the Renaissance painters of old. He liked her eyes most of all. They were light brown, an uninteresting color, but she managed to convey a remarkable intensity with them despite that.

There was a knowing look to her always. Sometimes it was a pleased knowing. Sometimes it was a cold knowing. It gave him the feeling that while he might be able to challenge her, he would never be able to surprise her. She might be the closest thing to an equal he ever met, intellectually speaking.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked after a minute or two of intimate scrutiny.

“I was thinking that you looked like Psyche in that painting you have hung in my chambers in Paris. Did someone else point out the similarity to you before? Do you keep all your lovers in that room?” he asked, letting a touch of flirtation enter his expression.

“Perhaps,” she said without really answering. “Do you suppose that makes you Cupid?”

His expression turned self-depreciating.

“I suppose the hope for metaphor died on the vine right there.”

“Neither of us has time to wax poetic with metaphor and simile. It’s almost dawn.”

Dawn would be the start of both their days. Soon the queen’s ladies-in-waiting would be at the door, ready to groom and dress her royal highness for a day of meetings and interviews. His aides and diplomats would be knocking on his door requesting signatures and instructions and bringing him news from his spies. He needed to be in his own room before then, a matter simplified by the secret passageway between their two chambers.

He sighed and reluctantly sat up, making a show of stretching. She watched him appreciatively, but with her characteristic knowing. She raised a brow at him. He grinned at her and climbed out of the bed.

“Will you be at the treaty signing this afternoon? I have a place reserved for you and your entourage,” he said as he hunted down his scattered clothes.

“No, I am afraid not. I am afraid it would send a contradictory message, and I don’t wish to appear disingenuous.”

He hesitated and turned to her.

“A contradictory message?”

“I have a press conference of my own this morning. I intend to express my pleasure at the peaceful conclusion of the military conflict between Germany and Britain, but my disapproval of the WYRA and MCSA initiatives. I will make my intentions of dissuading you from implementing them known.”

His expression hardened. Her expression didn’t change at all.

“How do you intend to do that?” he asked. He tried to keep his tone neutral but didn’t think he had succeeded. Mentally, he berated himself. He had known she disapproved of the separation of wizarding kind and muggles, of the concept of WYRA in particular, and there was no reason to be surprised that she would act on her conviction. In truth, she didn’t have much of a choice. France was pro-integration, for the most part, and to side with Voldemort on policies of segregation would inevitably cause civil unrest. Her timing was perfect. If she had objected before peace was assured she would be accused of attempting to drag out the war for her own benefit and if she had waited until after the signing of the treaty she could be labeled a hypocrite. Or ‘disingenuous,’ as she had said.

“I will be offering asylum to German families of mixed magical ability.”

He took a deep breath.

“That would severely compromise security between all three of our countries.”

“Then you should consider delaying the WYRA and MCSA initiatives until it is proven that they are in fact necessary.”

“I can’t do that.”

For a hundred different reasons, both practical and philosophical, he couldn’t do that. Most importantly, it would be a betrayal to the Earth. The segregation of wizarding kind from muggles was essential to the rebirth of the pagan arts.

She did not seem alarmed or concerned with his refusal.

“We will see.”

He left through the secret passage without saying another word. There really was nothing more to say. They had gone from lovers to adversaries in less than ten minutes. To make matters worse, they would still have to maintain the charade of their alliance. He had sold the reputation of his government as being legitimate on its ability to form a peaceful and mutually beneficial relationship with France, and if he turned around to make war after just having finished one that same day, he would be seen as a warmonger.

He would have to take the long route, the peaceful one. He would have to convince the French people that WYRA and MCSA were reasonable measures to take in Germany, a task he was not entirely sure he was capable of, or he would need to abandon his alliance with France without somehow instigating war and rely solely on Britain’s resources to hold Germany. He could probably manage the latter option, but it would be an immeasurable waste. One his own citizens would not readily forgive him.

He would think of something, but he would think of it later. He had other matters to attend to. There was the signing of the treaty itself and all the subsequent publicity and logistical matters that would follow, Snape and his pursuit of Dumbledore, Harry’s sudden risk of possession during the approaching full moon, and Lestrange’s disturbing suspicions regarding Stratus. He frankly didn’t have time to be worrying about Ophelia’s exceptionally inconvenient display of independence.

Still, the matter irked him. He needed something to… relax him. Since torturing people was currently out of the question and Ophelia was unlikely to indulge in another tryst unless he succumbed to her demands, he would have to find relief elsewhere and soon.

Perhaps Lestrange was up by now.

Viktor glanced anxiously at the sky. It was still dark, aided perhaps by the abundance of clouds, but his preternatural senses were already beginning to detect the first traces of the approaching dawn. He had a little over an hour, he estimated, perhaps a little more if the clouds remained thick, and still a few minutes more if he were willing to hole up in a sewer for the day.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t prove necessary.

Hopefully, Professor Snape was just a particularly clever liar and nothing more.

But he had to be sure. That Snape had known of both Dumbledore’s and Hermione’s presence within Paris gave enough credence to what he said that Viktor couldn’t risk ignoring him. Not with Hermione’s life on the line. As angry as he was with her little trick at the canal, he could admit now that he had likely deserved it. She had rejected his feelings for her and her own feelings for him, but he could hardly blame her. He had betrayed her after all, and what could he offer her in recompense? What could a vampire offer anyone except to make them a vampire? A fate she didn’t want and one he didn’t want for her.

At the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to let her go. She was the first thing since his becoming a vampire that he felt any sort of passion for. To lose her was to die all over again.

If he could do nothing else for her, he would at least protect her from Dumbledore.

The Hotel Raoulin was quiet as he approached. The lantern was lit by the door and a faint light glowed from the window, but all else was dark. He scanned the street, sniffed the air, and listened for the slightest sound. There was nothing unexpected or ominous to be found.

Dawn loomed ever closer, but still he lingered.

His uneasiness wouldn’t abate until he saw her himself. He contemplated climbing to the roof and peering in through her window. If all was well, she would be in bed, asleep. It was tempting. He wondered what she looked like asleep, her expression softened by somnolent repose. He shook off the urge. He had no intention of lurking outside her window like a lovelorn ghoul. It was a cliché that he felt vaguely nauseated about playing out.

For her benefit, he would conduct himself like a man.

He entered through the front door, a bell tinkling above him as he stepped into the foyer. He felt immediately uncomfortable. He had not been invited inside, but unlike houses, hotels lobbies stood on the grounds of open hospitality to all. The invitation was limited. He could not enter any of the rooms already occupied and the back rooms restricted to staff would prove unreachable. Even the relatively public space of the foyer felt unpleasant, as if he were being watched by a thousand hostile eyes. He had played quidditch professionally, however. He was used to thousands of people wishing for his absolute destruction.

A girl he didn’t recognized was sitting behind the front desk, flipping through a magazine. She looked up at the ringing of the bell, startled.

“Oh! Hello, welcome to the Hotel Raoulin. My name is Lorelai. Did you wish to reserve a room?” the girl chirped in slightly accented French, smiling at him coquettishly.

He managed a polite, if slightly strained smile back at her.

“Bonjour,” he replied. “I am afraid I have not come for a room. I am here regarding one of your employees. Her- Heloise?”

Rather than looking put out, Lorelai looked positively delighted.

“Oh! Oh my, you’re him aren’t you? The gentleman who sent the flowers?”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment.

“Is Miss Heloise here?”

“I should hope so,” she said, glancing at the wall clock mounted behind her.

“I apologize for the hour, but it is a rather urgent family matter.”

“Family? I didn’t know Heloise had family in Paris,” she said curiously, although a touch of suspicion had entered her gaze.

“Her godfather was coming to see her,” Viktor said. “He ran into some trouble, I am afraid.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“My apologies but I would rather speak to Heloise about it. She is a rather private person.”

She gave him a calculated look. How much of it was genuine suspicion and how much simple curiosity? Perhaps she recognized him. He had been quite well known in the magical sports world and his face was rather unique. People did still occasionally recognize him. He made it a point to kill said people, but he didn’t think Hermione would approve of it under these circumstances. Or possibly any circumstances.

“It’s too early to wake her up unless it’s something important,” she wheedled.

He smiled grimly at her.

“I wouldn’t be here so early if it weren’t important.”

They stared at each other for a long moment and gradually Lorelai seemed to perceive there was something ‘off’ about him, because she started to tense and unconsciously lean away from him. Finally, she looked away.

“I’ll tell her, but if she doesn’t want to get up, I’m not going to make her,” she said sulkily and tromped up the stairs. Viktor watched her go but didn’t follow. Couldn’t follow.

Would Hermione be angry with him for coming here? Undoubtedly, although she might forgive him with the warning he brought. Except, if the warning were genuine she might be even angrier with him for having accosted her godfather in the process of obtaining said warning. The man was alive however and relatively unharmed, if half a pint lighter, so the situation was probably not unsalvageable. If she wanted to see the man, then Viktor would be singularly responsible for bringing them together, and if she declared that her godfather was in fact now her enemy, well… he could do her a favor there as well.

Footsteps on the stairs drew his attention, and he turned expecting to see Hermione, sleep tousled and pensive. But it wasn’t Hermione. It wasn’t even Lorelai. At first, he didn’t recognize the woman who came down at all, and perhaps he wouldn’t have bothered looking at her more closely if she hadn’t stopped and stared at him with far more shock than he thought he warranted. He frowned. She pulled a wand.

The wand he recognized immediately. The woman, despite the slight distortions of her face and her unusually subdued coloring, he recognized a half second later.

“Tonks.”

“Viktor.”

She had paled. Clearly, she hadn’t been expecting him. Likely, she had thought him dead, although Dumbledore surely must have warned her. Yet, her expression was so stricken and, inexplicably, he felt a stirring of sympathy for her. It was a pale shadow of the emotions Hermione brought out in him, but it was something nonetheless.

That was unfortunate.

Her presence meant Snape had told the truth. Dumbledore had sent Tonks to kidnap Hermione. The sound of more footsteps approaching drew both their attention back up the stairway, but from his angle Viktor could not see who approached.

“Don’t move,” Viktor snarled sharply.

Tonks flinched. Up the stairs, the footsteps stopped.

“Viktor?” came Hermione’s hesitant voice.

“Go back,” Viktor said more gently this time. “This woman is dangerous.”

There were more voices, soft, frightened voices of other girls. He recognized Lorelai. Who was the other? The girl who had called Hermione by the other name at the newspaper stand, perhaps? Hermione herself remained silent. Slowly, very slowly, he heard her begin to retreat. Tonks tensed, seeing or sensing the escape herself.

“Praeterolumos!” Tonks shouted, filling the room with blinding light even as he sprung for her. Viktor snarled angrily but cowered instinctively, expecting to feel the burn of sunlight scouring his preternatural flesh to ashes. The burn didn’t come. It was blinding but painless. He fought his sense of shock and stumbled towards the stairway, seeking out Tonks with his ears and sense of smell.

She was already hurrying away, giving chase of escaping prey. Viktor could follow the movement of several people running away, up the stairs and into rooms, but he could not tell who was who. At the stairs, he felt himself being repelled, this time by his lack of invitation. He had not reserved a room and had not been invited upstairs. He could go no further.

“Hermione!” he shouted, “Invite me in! Hurry and invite me in!”

But she didn’t hear him or maybe she even ignored him, and no invitation came. He snarled and punched the wall in frustration, and then stormed back down the stairs in a futile search for other means of helping her. There was nothing in the foyer but the light spell, still burning strongly, and he couldn’t find any way further into the hotel from there. He turned this way and that, frantically seeking out some hidden route, but there was nothing. He was just about ready to run out the door and attempt to climb up the side of the building when he heard the scurry of feet from somewhere else on the first floor. There was the sound of rattling dishes and pans, the shattering of a glass from what must have been the kitchen, and then more sounds of running feet.

Frozen with expectation, he waited, listening and sniffing the air.

And there, that familiar scent of flowery shampoo, musty books, and Hermione.

“Viktor! Are you there? I can’t see in this!” she cried as she burst into the foyer. He couldn’t see her either, but he found her immediately. She let out a startled shriek as he hauled her up into his arms and sprinted for the door. He kicked it open without hesitating and raced into the soothing darkness. Hermione clung to him instinctively with one arm, while in her other hand she held her wand in a trembling grasp.

“I have you,” he said. “You are safe.”

But he didn’t stop running. Couldn’t stop running. Tonks might be following, and while she couldn’t run as fast as him, she could still apparate ahead of them if she knew which direction they were going. If that weren’t enough, the sun was coming up.

“How did you get downstairs?” he asked.

“There are service stairs to the kitchen at the other end of the hallways,” she said breathlessly. “Who was that woman? Why was she after me?”

Viktor paused and looked around briefly, orienting himself to their current location and time they had left. His vision was starting to clear in the dim light of the back street. Hermione was less quick to recover, and she continued to blink rapidly up at him without actually appearing to see him. Under different circumstances he would have thought it adorable, but at the moment, he hated her being so vulnerable. The entrance to the crypts wasn’t far, but he didn’t dare return there directly. If they were followed, they and all of Viktor’s coven would be trapped.

“Her name is Tonks. She is one of Dumbledore’s agents. He must have sent her to spy on you before they kidnapped you.”

“Dumbledore?” she said, disbelieving. “Why would he want to kidnap me?”

“Guess.”

She took barely half a breath before reaching the obvious conclusion.

“Harry. He wanted a hostage against Harry.”

“Yes.”

He turned into a darkened alleyway and followed it to the adjacent street. The street was quiet, but there were cars parked along the sidewalks and lights were turning on apartments above the shops. He ducked into another alley and followed it until it emptied into another wizarding street. Morning was drawing nearer, and Viktor felt the intense unease of one hunted by something far more powerful than himself.

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t, but your godfather varned me.”

This resulted in a flurry of more questions, which Viktor hadn’t the patience for. Sunrise was minutes away, and he still didn’t know where they should go. They had appeared to have lost Tonks, but that didn’t mean they were safe. To make matters worse, Hermione had started to shiver.

For the first time, he noticed that she was still wearing a night gown. It was a simple blue flannel nightgown over which she had thrown a light cardigan. Plenty enough to protect her modesty, but hardly effective protection outside of doors. She had managed to throw on a pair of boots, but they were too big to be hers and were practically sliding off her feet as he carried her. He quickly set her down and threw his own coat around her shoulders.

“This von’t vork. You need to get somevere varm.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted even as her knees began to shake. “It’s just the excitement.”

He shook his head. Already, he knew he was out of time. The sky had started to lighten, faintly, and he would need to stick to the shadows from here on out and attempt to remain unseen by passersby. He might take shelter in the drainage sewers for the day, but it would be far too cold and wet for Hermione.

“Do you have any place safe vere you can hide?” he asked. “Someplace you can apparate to?”

She stared at him and then glanced around her, putting together the situation they now found themselves in.

“Nowhere you could follow,” she said.

“But safe for you?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then go there. Ven night falls, meet me at the newspaper stand and I vill bring you to your godfather. He must have prepared some place to keep you safe.”

“But Viktor-”

“There is no time,” he said and kissed her softly on the lips.

It was quick and chaste, but when he pulled back he could see her cheeks were already burning. He felt pleased by this. Even more so when she didn’t scold him for it. Instead, she glanced around furtively before mumbling a soft “be safe.”

And then she was gone, nothing to mark her absence but a faint echo against the alleyway stones as she apparated away.

Harry didn’t sleep well that night. Whether it was the result of his failing wards or just his own anxiety about them, he didn’t know, but the result was a restlessness that bordered on distress. Had it been like that before the ward, he wondered? Before the possessions got out of control and he had only the moon madness to worry about? He thought he could remember being restless the day before the full moon but never to this extent. Except then he had been in places he felt comfortable and with people he trusted. Now he was in a foreign land, surrounded by people he didn’t know and many of them potentially dangerous. His only available allies were Vicki, whom he had stupidly sent home for the night, and Voldemort, who had far better things to do than babysit him at the moment.

He hadn’t been this lonely since his days in Durmstang.

At four in the morning, he had given up trying to sleep and instead broke out his sketchpad. He didn’t even attempt to make a serious attempt at a drawing. He was far too agitated and his hands were trembling slightly. Instead, he unburdened the chaos of his thoughts onto paper, filling pages with arithmetic diagrams and Old Magic wards, runes and hieroglyphs, simple doodles of magical beasts, his family coat of arms, geometric shapes fashioned into haphazard mandalas, patterned lines that devolved into swirling chaos, the sword of Gryffindor, and twelve different phases of the moon.

This was how Vicki found him hours later, hunched over the writing desk and scribbling out his thoughts like a mad composer of a great symphony. He didn’t even notice her when she came in, and when she finally interrupted him by placing a breakfast plate beside him he nearly jumped out of his chair in surprise.

“Merlin!” he blurted, clutching at his heart dramatically. “How long have you been here?”

She gave him an amused look, which faded somewhat as she stared down at what he had been working on. He felt suddenly embarrassed by it. It wasn’t beautiful by any means, but it was still an intimate portrait of his anxieties. He snatched up the sketchpad quickly and threw it into his open trunk, startling them both with his sudden defensiveness. Vicki was kind enough to pretend she hadn’t noticed.

“Long enough to set out your clothes and start a bath for you. You got out of breakfast with the rest of the British assembly this morning to help with your ‘recovery’, but you still have that sitting with Baillargeon later this morning, and then the treaty signing almost immediately after. Then you’ll be following Voldemort around for most of the day. Press conferences mostly, some private audiences, and then a banquet this evening.”

Under normal circumstances, all of that would have seemed perfectly manageable to Harry, but in his current state of mind and with the full moon rising tonight it felt impossible. There was also no way out of it.

“How long before my sitting with Baillargeon?” he asked.

“Not for another three hours.”

He spent the first of those three hours in the usual morning ablutions: breakfast, a short bath in lieu of a shower, getting dressed, and making a cursory attempt to tame his hair. He expected to look exhausted and sickly at the end of it, but when he looked in the mirror he was surprised to find he looked normal, if a bit moody. If his eyes were a little shadowed, it only served to make his green eyes seem to glow that much brighter in his face.

Suddenly, he couldn’t stand the idea of spending a moment longer trapped in his rooms.

“Let’s take a walk.”

The sun was just starting to rise when Harry and Vicki entered the gardens. A brilliant pink and orange sky glowed behind the black skeletal silhouettes of barren trees and filled the courtyard with long shadows amidst an orange glow. It had a surreal feel to it that Harry rather liked. Aside from that, the garden presented a dismal scene. Winter had robbed the garden of its brilliance of greenery and flowers, and the approaching spring had robbed it of its pristine layer of snow. What was left was a landscape held in suspense, tidy and manicured and still ugly in spite or perhaps even because of it.

It was still far better than being inside.

Despite the early hour, there was still a surprising amount of activity on the grounds. The layout of the palace was such that sometimes it was simply more expedient to cross through the gardens to a different wing than to follow the corridors around, and so there were a number of servants and assistants of some kind passing along the main walkway. So Harry stepped off of the main walkways and went in search of the lonely recesses of the garden. There were several places to choose from: a hedge maze, a walled in rose garden with a magnificent fountain at its center, a large pond obscured by a willow grove, and a wooden glen that bordered the garden and most of the palace.

They visited each but lingered only in the wooden glen. It was a parody of wildness; the undergrowth was too thoroughly cleared, the trees too carefully groomed, and the winding pathway as smooth and clutter-free as one would find anywhere around the palace. But it smelled almost right. Like earth and damp bark and rotting leaves. If he kept his eyes skyward, he could almost pretend he was back in Britain, meandering the forest trail from the border of the werewolf lands to the colony homestead on his way to see his godfathers, and the soft tread of feet behind him was Luna following behind in easy silence.

Time stretched. A breeze picked up and his fingers and toes began to go numb in the morning chill, but still he walked. He could feel his mind finally starting to settle into his body, his restlessness condensing into a weighted sensation, something akin to grim acceptance. Accepting of what, he didn’t know.

“Lord Potter,” Vicki said quietly behind him, and instantly he was alert. She never called him ‘Lord Potter’ when they were alone.

He turned his focus from the brightening sky and overhanging branches to the path ahead of them. He stopped instinctively when he spotted the source of his friend’s concern. There were three people: a tall, stately woman with dark wavy hair, and wrapped in a dark blue cloak and flanked on either side by two men in German uniforms. He glanced back at Vicki, who gave him a worried look.

“We should go back,” she said. He understood her reasoning. They were alone, only Harry had a wand and he was still magically weak, and these people had an air of menace about them and plenty of reasons to see harm done to him.

“We can’t,” Harry said, wondering if some part of him had known this confrontation was coming and that was where the grim acceptance had come from. Perhaps he had in fact been willed to it by some god already slipping through his weakened defenses. Whatever the reason, they couldn’t run now. Not with the witch bearing down on them so intently but without obvious intentions. It would be too humiliating to turn around and run away. If they truly meant them harm…

They would not be the first to have underestimated him.

Slowly, he started to move forward again, and after a moment’s hesitation Vicki began to follow. When at last the two parties met, it was the German soldiers who hesitated first, but the woman kept going until she was standing right in front of him and his path. Up close he could see she was in her forties with a pale, hawkish face that was neither attractive nor ugly and fierce black eyes. She was tall for a woman, several inches taller than him at least, and she used that extra height to loom over him. He was strongly reminded of a feminine version of Snape.

“Do you know who I am?” she demanded in low, growling German.

“I do.”

The blue cloak had thrown him off for a moment, but now he did recognize her from her photographs. Vicki had warned him about her. More telling, Voldemort had warned him about her as well. She was Hildegard Amsel, the Head of the Department of Magical Creatures in the German Ministry, and the longtime nemesis of every werewolf in existence. The extent of her involvement in the attack on the Goddess Colony wasn’t known, though certainly she must have at least been consulted about it, but her role in the persecution of werewolves in Germany both before and after war had been officially declared was well documented. Harry had only seen a fraction of those documents, but he had heard more than enough firsthand accounts from German refugees during his time touring the new French werewolf colonies.

He knew enough to despise her.

She started down at him with absolute loathing, and the look she must have received in return could not have been much better.

“So the rumors are true,” she sneered. “You are a lycanthrosis carrier. You have that disgusting animal look in your eyes.”

At this, Harry threw back his head and laughed. Amsel stepped back, and from behind her men reached for their wands. She turned her head and hissed at them sharply, an animalistic sound that had him laughing all over again from the irony.

“Madam, they don’t have name for what I carry,” he laughed.

Then he stopped. His smile slid away as though it had never been there, and he glared at her.

“What do you want?”

She met his stare and returned it with equal venom. He could almost admire her if she didn’t represent everything that disgusted him in lycanphobes.

“I want to kill you, Lord Potter,” she said bluntly. Behind him, he heard Vicki’s sharp intake of breath. He simply waited. “As I am sure, you want to kill me.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgement. He didn’t spend his days contemplating who and how he wanted to kill people, but now that he was facing Amsel he could acknowledge that he did in fact feel the urge to murder.

“You are proposing a duel?”

“It seems you cannot be accused of being stupid, at least. Yes. A duel.”

He snorted.

“Why should I? I’ve already won. You’re ruined. If not today, then soon. Very soon. You’ll have to stand trial for all those people you robbed, tortured, imprisoned, and murdered. I just have to wait. If you’re not killed outright, you’ll receive the Kiss. You know what the Kiss is, don’t you? I don’t believe you have it Germany.”

Judging by her pinched expression, Amsel knew what the Kiss was.

“Maybe you’ll be lucky, and they’ll offer you to the werewolves to be turned. They won’t, of course. They’ll just tear off all your limbs or perhaps start eating you while you’re still alive or—”

“Lord Potter,” Vicki said sharply, pleadingly.

He stopped. He shrugged.

“Are you a coward then? That you would not take up the challenge yourself?” Amsel demanded.

“And here I thought you weren’t going to accuse me of being stupid,” he muttered and moved to step around her. She stepped in front of him, blocking his way yet again. This time, however, he shoved her away from him, and she stumbled backward and was only saved from falling by one of her men catching her. She righted herself swiftly, but he was already past her and stalking away, already dismissing her.

He had been in a fair number of duels in Dueling Club, but he had learned long ago that any duel that was personal was a terrible idea. His duel with McNair, although it had ended to his satisfaction, had caused far more problems than it had solved, and then there was his disastrous challenge with Ron that had been sabotaged from the beginning and had somehow ended with him stuck in the infirmary with Blue Pox for weeks. Besides, with his magic still so weak, and Amsel having obviously come fully prepared physically and mentally for a duel, he was at such an obvious disadvantage that it would be downright absurd of him to accept.

“Potter!” Amsel snarled, but he didn’t turn back. Vicki was already behind, no doubt watching the threat for him. He doubted it would come to that. If Amsel were going to assassinate them, she would have attempted it already. She had wanted the duel, for whatever reason, not a murder.

But apparently, she was willing to settle for a murder.

“Potter!” she snarled one last time.

“Harry!” Vicki cried, and he swung around. Amsel had pulled her wand, a curse already on her lips.

“Selitus!”

His wand was in his hand in an instant, but it was already too late. If it had been pointed at him, he would have been forced to dodge it, but it wasn’t pointed at him. It veered wide, towards his left, catching Vicki directly. She cried again, this time in pain, and was thrown to the ground by the force of the curse. Harry’s heart leaped into his throat, half smothering the words to the Shield Charm he threw up before leaping to Vicki’s side. She was staring up at nothing, her eyes wide from the sudden shock. It seemed she was trying to breathe, but could only manage series of tiny gasps. A line of crimson was blooming across her chest, and as he quickly pulled open her cloak to see still more blood welling through the split flesh beneath it.

He sucked in a shaking breath. It was a mortal wound.

He pressed his wand to her chest.

“Corpusalitaris!” he cast. His magic poured into the wand and from the wand into the wound, but no sooner than it seemed to close than it hesitated and fell back open. Vicki wheezed painfully, her left hand twitched and grasped at the air. In her right hand was a wand he had never seen before. He didn’t have time to wonder at its meaning. He tried the spell again. Then again. Still, the wound wouldn’t close. The spell was too weak or he was too weak or the curse too specialized. He tore off his cloak and pressed it to the wound.

He pointed his wand in the air and a line of brilliant red light shot from the tip and high into the sky where it burst loud and bright against the blue morning sky. A distress signal. He couldn’t think of anything else he could do.

Beneath his hand, he could already feel the blood seeping through. His wide green eyes found Vicki’s, frightened and pained.

“Victoria,” he whispered soothingly, “help is coming, just stay calm. You’ll be okay.”

He threw his head around to snarl at Amsel.

“What did you do?!” he demanded.

The hawkish woman stared back at him with a cool, satisfied expression. After the first attack, she had not bothered with a second, nor had her cohorts done more than grip their wands tightly in preparations of self-defense.

“I defended myself. The girl drew her wand on me,” Amsel said, sounding like the most reasonable person in the world.

“Liar!” he snarled.

“How would you know? Your back was turned,” she rejoined. She didn’t smile, but something about the gleam in her eyes told him she was enjoying this.

“You filthy bitch!”

He would have attacked her there, could have torn her apart with his bare hands at the sudden swell of rage, but if he did, Vicki would bleed out in seconds.

“Those sound like fighting words, Lord Potter,” she said. “Are you challenging me to a duel?”

Before he could reply, the wooden glen was suddenly swarming with people. Musketeers in their blue and silver uniforms appeared from thin air, apparating by some unknown method within the warded interior of the palace grounds. They appeared on the pathway and through the trees, and converged on the tableau of violence. Two of the musketeers hurried to take Harry’s place over Vicki, and he hurriedly told them the curse that had been cast on her and his own attempted healing charms. They nodded at him solemnly, and then with Vicki ensconced safely between them they apparated away.

The only sign she had been there at all was his blood-soaked hands and clothes.

A hand touched his shoulder and he whirled around, ready to knock away the hand. He didn’t want to be touched. Not now. But the hand on his shoulder was slender and delicate and the eyes that met his were familiar and kind, and he hesitated. Fleur’s expression was the definition of friendly concern.

“Are you alright, ’Arry?”

He stared at her. He didn’t know how to answer that.

“Are you ’urt?” she tried again.

He shook his head.

“What ’appened?” she asked.

Looking back towards Amsel, he could see she and her cohorts had been surrounded and disarmed, but the woman herself did not seem particularly concerned. Already she was telling them the same thing she had said to Harry, that Vicki had drawn her wand on them and she, supposedly, had defended herself. Harry felt the protest on the tip of his tongue. Vicki hadn’t drawn her wand! Vicki didn’t have a wand! She was a squib! A defenseless servant girl who had the bad fortune to be serving a stupid, self-absorbed child who had been so unconcerned about his own safety that he hadn’t thought to consider hers either.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Harry!

But he couldn’t say that. Because Vicki had a wand. He didn’t know why she had a wand, but she did nevertheless, and thus presumably knew how to use it. Had she been lying to him? Why?

Goddess, it didn’t matter.

She had been his friend. She had been his friend and now she was… was going to…

“Madam Amsel,” he said softly. “I challenge you to a duel.”

A Rising Madness

By the time the Musketeers let Harry return indoors, he felt as if he were ready to crawl out of his skin. Or as if he were being pushed out of it. His body felt like a live wire, buzzing with electricity, with invisible, white-hot energy looking for a conduit to release it into. The magic was not his, or rather, it was his, but it didn’t feel as if it belonged to him. He had been magically exhausted yesterday and for more than a week before then, but now he had more magic than he knew what to do with.

It was probably for the best that the Musketeers had confiscated his wand, as well as Amsel’s and her cronies’, as the temptation to use it would surely have resulted in any number of accidents. Nevertheless, the surrender of his most prized possession did not sit well with him. Nothing sat well with him at the moment.

Not even Fleur, silent and unobtrusive as she followed half a step behind him through the palace corridors, was welcome at the moment. She had been beside him the moment the Musketeers had made their appearance, had acted as translator during the initial interrogation, and was now taking responsibility for escorting him back to his rooms. In the back of his mind, he knew he should be grateful to her. He could have been detained somewhere considerably less pleasant if she had not been there, but at the moment, the cruelty and senselessness of what had happened to Vicki translated to the cruelty and senselessness of the world in general and all who inhabited it.

That applied to himself as much as anyone.

Of all the arrogant, reckless things to do! To turn his back on Amsel! It was unforgivably stupid. He deserved to have been eviscerated out there in the woods, his blood and his magic returning to the Earth until She found someone more worthy to inherit it.

Not Vicki.

Not the endless parade of people who had bled and suffered for his mistakes.

And now he was making still more mistakes. To challenge Amsel, in front of so many witnesses, was succumbing to her obvious manipulations. She had wanted things to end this way, for one reason or another, and he accommodated her like an obedient little stooge.

And yet…

Trying to imagine how else it could have gone, should have gone, left him somehow feeling even more disgusted with himself. His original dismissal of her had, logically, been the correct response and no one would have argued it. Amsel was already a doomed woman, disgraced and destined for either imprisonment or death, and him being the one to kill her in the duel would be a kinder and more honorable end that she didn’t deserve.

But even after his original dismissal, he had known they would fight to the death. Perhaps not there or even during the proposed duel, but one way or another he was destined to kill her. Torn between disgust at his actions and simultaneously resigned to them, he felt his magic twisting and churning inside of him, pulsing like a heart pounding too hard and too fast.

What was wrong with him?

Was this him at all? Or some other influence, some god or malevolent spirit creeping into him?

He stopped abruptly. Fleur practically ran into him.

“’Arry? What is it?”

“Greyback,” he muttered, the revelation leaving him feeling suddenly lightheaded. It was Greyback who had driven him out of doors and into the woods. Greyback who had pushed him to accept Amsel’s challenge against all logic. Greyback who would not consider it justice unless a werewolf, even if just an honorary werewolf, were to kill Amsel. But what blame could he truly give to Greyback? How much of what had happened was in his power? To play with Harry’s emotions, that was easy enough, perhaps even to guide him towards the seclusion of the woods where the confrontation could take place. But what of Amsel? How could he have influenced her enough to find him there? To manipulate her into challenging Harry in the first place and then continuing to provoke him until he accepted? Amsel wouldn’t be susceptible to the influence of either Greyback or Rhiannon that same way Harry was, so was that even possible? Then again, she might have come up with this plot on her own, and Greyback had merely taken advantage of the opportunity it presented.

There were too many factors to consider and not enough information. Perhaps he would never know. Or perhaps he would only find out once he faced Amsel again.

“What is Greyback?” Fleur asked after a long moment of stilled silence.

He let out an angry, frustrated sigh.

“The name of the devil on my shoulder.”

Fleur gave him a confused look but didn’t question him further until they had reached his private quarters. Once inside, she checked every room of the suite before closing and locking the doors behind her. Harry busied himself throwing off his outdoor wear onto the bed and pacing his confines restlessly.

“You shouldn’t ’ave challenged ’er ’Arry,” Fleur said at last, her voice soft but tense. “She is a very dangerous woman.”

“Believe it or not, I completely agree. It was stupid.”

Clearly, Fleur had been expecting an argument, for she stood there blinking at him for a long moment as she struggled to find something else to say.

“So why…?”

“Greyback.”

“Your little devil?”

“Nothing little about him. Goddess, why now? Why did it all have to go wrong now? If that woman doesn’t kill me, Voldemort will. And Vicki… she didn’t… this had nothing to do with her.”

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. A landscape painting on the wall suddenly melted out of its frame into a puddle on the floor. Fleur stared at it for a moment, and then at Harry.

“You’re leaking magic.”

“At the moment, I’ve got plenty to spare,” he replied bitterly. A coldly practical thought crossed his mind, and he went to his trunk to rummage out his keystone. He had been much too weak to dare sleeping with it lately, and there was barely any of his magic left in it. It made sense to recharge it while he still could. Who knew how long this unnatural abundance of magic would last?

His hand riffled through the various artifacts of his life until they brushed against something hard, smooth, and cooler to the touch than everything else. Immediately, he felt his magic begin to flow slowly and easily into the stone and sighed in relief. There was still far too much pressure under his skin, but it was easing slightly.

“You were nearly sick due to lack of magic the day before. What changed? Did you… take a potion?” she asked cautiously. He could appreciate her hesitation. The only sort of potions that were known to restore one’s magic so quickly were not only very dark but, without exception, illegal.

“No, nothing so simple,” he said and then explained precisely who and what Greyback was, and his possible influence over what had happened. This too was likely a stupid and reckless thing to tell her. She was his friend, but she was also a Musketeer, and she would report what she had learned to her superiors. If her superiors lacked either an open mind or discretion, he could be painted a madman to the entirety of the French court.

He didn’t care. He wasn’t sure now if he had ever cared.

It had seemed more convenient to play along as Voldemort’s soft-hearted protégé than the frustrating troublemaker he knew himself to be, but there wasn’t much sense in keeping up the pretense any longer. Tonight or the next night, he would fight Amsel to the death and there would be no hiding what he was capable of. Let them know him. Let them fear him. Let them approach him with a full understanding of the danger they courted.

To Fleur’s credit she didn’t look surprised. Uncertain maybe, perhaps even a little impressed, but not surprised. Perhaps she had known at least some of it. Not about Greyback but about Harry’s vulnerability to possession and the complicated practices of a student of the Old Magics. Certainly the French must have spies in the English court just as the English court had spies in the French one.

“We might not ’ave enough to arrest Amsel,” she said after Harry finished. “’Er excuse of self-defense is feeble, but you already admitted you ’adn’t seen what ’appened and she is still a foreign diplomat. Still, you aren’t obligated to follow through. You’re technically a minor, and you don’t ’ave full control over your faculties. You could still just back out of it.”

Harry felt a surge of indignant anger at the suggestion, but he bit down on his first initial reaction to snap at her. It wasn’t his anger. Probably wasn’t his anger. If it weren’t for Vicki, he would know for sure. How much of what happened to her was his own fault and how much Greyback’s?

“I don’t know if I can, actually,” he said. “My magic… this much of it. It isn’t natural. It’s not sustainable. It’s… I think… I think it is Greyback’s blessing or gift or… I don’t know, but if he’s able to do this, grant this, that means he has a lot of influence over me and my magic. He’s not going to let go until I do what he wants, and I don’t know what he’ll do if I refuse.”

“You think ’e will ’urt you?”

“I think he’ll try to possess me. A complete possession. I don’t know if he could, but I honestly don’t want to find out.”

There was a silence that followed and a swell of magic, ominous and oppressive, and Harry closed his eyes and grit his teeth against the sensation. When he opened them he found Fleur staring at him with a sort of sad resignation. He envied her for it. He wished he could resign himself to this, but the cold comfort of forced acceptance was denied him. All he could feel was the pounding of his own magic, someone else’s hatred beating beneath his skin, and his frustrated self-disgust. In this state, he could do nothing for himself or anyone else.

He could not grieve Vicki as she deserved, or even worry whether she lived or not. He could not fear the Dark Lord’s inevitable wrath for the scandal he would cause. He could not think of the gods or the goddesses he had claimed as his own that might protect him from Greyback’s unsolicited trespass. He could not strategize for the coming duel or theorize Amsel’s reason for instigating it.

A silk flower bouquet decorating his windowsill suddenly burst its vase and climbed the surrounding wall and windows with thorny vines and ravenous roots. Harry pressed his keystone to his forehead and closed his eyes, quietly praying for thoughts that were his and his alone.

When Voldemort received the news, he had been in a strategy meeting with his advisors in preparation for the ceremonial treaty signing and the likely backlash they would receive afterwards. While he hadn’t been anticipating Queen Ophelia’s public support, no one was quite prepared for her public dissent. The matter of WYRA and MCSA programs would have to be delayed, temporarily, until they could figure out a way to keep the muggleborns in Germany and out of France. It was an irritating, but minor matter in the face of such an overwhelming victory.

He had been feeling downright smug about his success until a sharp knock on the conference room door interrupted the meeting, and Lestrange marched in with a furious expression on her face. He knew before she even said a word that Harry, by magical misadventure or moon-maddened malfeasance, had gotten himself into trouble. This was confirmed a moment later, when she whispered into his ear, “Potter’s challenged Amsel to a duel.” His first unconsidered thought was that he had never had the opportunity to see Harry actually kill anyone, and he was rather keen on the idea. His second thought was this going to be a terrible distraction from the treaty signing and even worse press for Harry.

He sent Lestrange away with the curt order to keep Harry secured in his quarters until he came to see him and to be prepared for a full report when he was done. The meeting continued on for another two hours, and he forced himself to focus on the matter before him. But beneath his cool exterior, the fires of his anger were being steadily stoked into a burning rage. Rage at his security for giving Harry so much leeway, at Ophelia’s security for letting Amsel get so close to Harry, at Victoria for her incompetence, and at himself for not having the boy cloistered safely in his room until his wards had been repaired. Most of his rage, however, was reserved for Harry himself. How could the boy be so stupid? Had he learned nothing? Harry had quoted the dangers at him just the night before, so why discard his concerns in favor of meaningless wandering? Now on the very cusp of absolute victory he had to turn a historical event into a circus performance.

Voldemort appeared shortly before noon. Predictably, his mood was terrible and understandably so. Yet if Harry’s inability to focus had any benefit, it was that he couldn’t concentrate on anything long enough to worry about it. If he had, he wouldn’t have had the nerve to strip naked and take a bath.

Later, he would credit the bath for sparing him the Dark Lord’s cruciatus.

He heard the man before he saw him, a dull echoing warble penetrating the watery cocoon he had submerged himself in. He opened his eyes to the dancing image of the bathroom chandelier above him, staring at it uncomprehending as if he had just woken from sleep. Perhaps he had. He felt strangely peaceful. Voldemort’s muffled shouts grew louder around him, and then there was a distinct bang as the bathroom door was flung open. Harry sensed the influx of foreign magic, but like everything else, it came in distorted and indistinct.

Nevertheless, he knew he needed to get up. Leisurely, he straightened his legs, pushing at the wall of the tub so that his head and shoulders slid up the sloped back. A fragile film of ice shattered and gave way as he broke the surface. He took a deep breath, and as he exhaled it fogged thickly in the air. He placed his hands upon the rim of the tub as he pulled himself upright and found the porcelain had frosted. As he stood himself up and got a better look at the room, he could see almost everything else had frosted as well.

Voldemort was standing in the doorway, hesitating to enter. Whatever he had expected to find, it clearly wasn’t this. Harry stood in the knee deep water and looked at him, unconscientious of his nudity, and radiating power. They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Voldemort seemed to remember he was angry, and his eyes narrowed.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Thinking,” Harry said. Speaking seemed to break the spell of calm detachment. He blinked several times as if just waking, and then suddenly started to shiver. The shiver turned to trembling, and he scurried out of the bathtub to retrieve a towel to wrap himself in. “S-sorry. I could-couldn’t th-think clearly. The-the wa-water s-seemed to help.”

He rubbed himself with the towel fiercely, trying to dry and warm himself at the same time. Beneath his feet the tiles felt like ice, and unfortunately in some places it was ice where water had dripped to the floor. Harry couldn’t remember when the room had started to get cold. He hadn’t even noticed it was cold until now. For that matter, how long had he been in the tub? How long under the water? Was this the result of wild magic? Too much magic and no way to channel it properly with his wand?

Voldemort seemed to be wondering the same thing. He was circling the room, running his fingers over the snowflake patterns of ice covering the bathroom mirrors. Harry, suddenly desperate to get warm, left him in favor of his bedroom. He donned the warmest set of clothes he could find, including his gloves. Yet no sooner than he started to feel warmth returning to his limbs did he begin to feel unsettled again. Irritated, he entered the bathroom.

Voldemort was sitting on the rim of the tub, one of his sleeves rolled up, and Harry’s keystone resting in his palm. The stone, smooth and almost perfectly round, gleamed almost jewel-like in his hand. The way the Dark Lord regarded it, it might as well have been. It was saturated with magic. Harry couldn’t ever recall a time when he had so much stored up inside of it.

“So it’s broken down completely,” Voldemort said without looking away from the keystone. “Your ward.”

“I suppose so.”

“That was faster than I expected. Is that why your behavior was so unforgivably stupid this morning?”

“Yes.”

Better not to voice his own uncertainty there. He was relatively certain he could have overridden Greyback’s influence, at least for a while, but if he could side step the Dark Lord’s ire he would do so.

“You’ve made a right mess of things. You do realize that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you care?” Voldemort asked.

“No,” Harry said without thought.

He dodged the curse hurled at him, leaping back through the door and into the bedroom. He ran into the room, leaping over furniture effortlessly before ducking down behind an armoire. Voldemort came in a moment later, his wand in one hand and Harry’s keystone in the other. His crimson eyes flickered about the room, but did not settle on him. When the Dark Lord moved to search the other side of the room for him, Harry seized a vase from nearby table and hurled it at the back of his head. The vase shattered in midair, caught by the spell intended for Harry as he spun around. Springing into the opening the ruse had provided, Harry seized a nearby chair and hit him with it.

The chair broke.

The Dark Lord stumbled.

Harry snarled and leapt atop him, knocking them both to the floor. They wrestled on the ground for several minutes, knocking into furniture, clawing and biting at each other like animals, twisting in and out of each other’s hold. Voldemort had lost his wand after the first initial attack, and it had rolled away under the bed. On any other day, the Dark Lord would have had size, weight, and his preternatural strength in his favor, but on this day Harry was his equal. Smaller he might have been, but also more flexible and slippery as an eel. There was a strength in him too similar to Voldemort’s own to be anything close to natural.

He attempted to wrap his hands around Harry’s neck only to receive a kick to the groin and a headbutt to the face for his trouble. Harry tried to dislocate his opponent’s shoulder only to be smashed into a mirror, shards of glass raining down on them and slicing the back of his neck and ears. The fighting was savage and bestial, bloody and loud. It went on and on, neither submitting, destroying everything in their path except the one they needed to defeat.

Voldemort grew tired first. Harry seemed to have an endless well of strength to him and could have fought him forever, but when the worst of the Dark Lord’s bloodlust had been satiated he started to fight with his head rather than his anger. Harry made a go for his opponent’s eyes, and Voldemort kicked him savagely in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and throwing him backwards. The Dark Lord made for the bed, throwing himself half under it and searching blindly with one hand for his wand. His hand curled around something hard just as someone else’s hand curled around his ankle and pulled him away.

It wasn’t his wand.

Harry was on him the moment he pulled him clear of the bed, leaping atop his chest and raising his fist. Voldemort struck him in the side of the head, the keystone hitting his skull with an ominous crack. The boy collapsed to the side. Stunned?

The Dark Lord lay there for a moment, stunned himself. What had just happened? After a long moment catching his breath, he cautiously crawled back under the bed to retrieve his wand. It was there, closer than the stone had been but further to his left. Once he had retrieved it, he checked on Harry.

He was conscious.

Despite how angry he was at the moment, he felt vaguely relieved by this.

His protégé laid awkwardly, one arm twisted over his chest, a leg bent underneath him, and gasping like a fish out of water. He was looking at Voldemort with one eye glowing with the tell-tale light of moon madness, while the other eye was shut tight against the blood leaking into it from the cut on his head. Had that been what this was all about? Moon madness? Harry had never attacked him while under the influence of the moon, but then Voldemort had never provoked him during those times either. And how could it be moon madness when the sun had not set nor the moon risen yet?

Cautiously, he moved closer. Harry followed him with his eye but didn’t, or possibly couldn’t, move. When Voldemort finally kneeled beside him, his protégé spoke of his own accord.

“He won’t let me care.”

The Dark Lord titled his head curiously.

“Who?”

“Greyback.”

“Oh, well that does explain quite a bit doesn’t it?” he said with deceptive calm. Harry flinched when Voldemort took his face in one of his hands and glared down at him.

“If you can hear me, Greyback, listen very carefully. I am called Godeater by your people for a reason, as you well know, so don’t push me. I will make you regret it.” He leaned forward and whispered something in Harry’s ear, not English or parseltongue, but some unrecognizable language that sounded like rolling stones and distant thunder.

Harry felt a surge of aggression and bared his teeth, preparing to bite him in the face. As quickly as the anger rose it faded again, leaving Harry suddenly dizzy. He took a long and shaky breath.

“I think he’s …dormant.”

“For now,” Voldemort said and carefully rearranged his protégé’s limbs before pulling him up to his feet. Harry’s legs were rubbery beneath him, and it was only the Dark Lord’s hold that kept him upright as he was guided to a chair. Once seated, he gagged and struggled to keep himself from vomiting all over himself. He knew he had a concussion, a severe one at that.

“I’ll have a medi-wizard bring you some potions,” Voldemort said, finding a chair still intact and moving it to sit across from him. “So it’s Greyback who’s sunk his teeth into you first. Not the strongest god, but perhaps the most motivated.”

“I tried to hold him back,” Harry said softly. “The water seemed to help. I was washing off Vicki’s blood, and I noticed I felt… what I was supposed to have felt.”

“Hence the bath. That makes sense. Even gods have their limitations, their weaknesses. Greyback’s natural element is earth. Yours is water, the colder the better it would seem. Calling upon your own element helped to weaken his hold over you for a while and strengthen your magical defenses.”

Harry closed his eyes, wanting to sleep but afraid that was the concussion’s doing.

“I don’t understand. All this extra magic is coming from him, how could it be used against him?”

Voldemort snorted.

“Greyback isn’t so powerful a god that he can create magic of his own. In truth, only Gaea can do such a thing, but even a minor god can nurture magic. Think of it as a fire. The smallest flame can be stoked into a raging inferno if properly tended. And he’s certainly stoked you.”

Harry had the decency to look guilty as he glanced around the room, which was now a terrible wreck. Voldemort felt strangely soothed by it. He was still angry, but less at Harry and more at everything else. He should have had Harry watched more closely and kept secured in his rooms until a solution to his damaged wards could be found. Likewise, Amsel should never have been able to get him alone, and the fact that she had spoke not only of flaws in security but of serious planning on her part. He suspected a conspiracy, if it were a conspiracy, it was unlikely that it was simply a matter of a duel.

Assassinating Harry, while not exactly simple, could have been achieved through less obvious means than a duel. That was assuming they believed they could kill Harry in a duel to begin with. Young as he might be, Harry had a reputation as a powerful fighter and talented wizard earned by bloodying his hands on the Germans themselves. Supposing they could kill Harry, there was little to accomplish from it except antagonizing their new overlord. So perhaps killing his protégé wasn’t the goal at all. Perhaps the fight itself was meant to somehow embarrass or discredit Harry, particularly in the eyes of the French who held the boy on something of a pedestal. That was decidedly possible, but hardly seemed worth the effort or the sacrifice. Or there may be some grander scheme in all of this he couldn’t even begin to guess at.

Morgan already had a number of theories he refused to share until he had more information, and Lestrange was working more overtly to uncover the truth.

“He wants me to kill her,” Harry said. “Greyback, I mean. She’s probably tortured and killed dozens, perhaps even hundreds of werewolves.”

“So he wants a representative of the werewolves to kill her,” Voldemort acknowledged.

“He won’t let me go until I do.”

“I will destroy him if I must. Even gods are not invulnerable.”

Despite his obvious agony, Harry opened his eyes to regard him with blatant admiration and horror. The Dark Lord basked in it for a moment. He knew he was a terribly proud and arrogant person, but he did deserve most of it. Too soon, Harry schooled his features again into one of neutrality.

“Are you going to let me kill her?”

“‘Let you kill her’? Are you telling me you want to go through with this duel? It’s a trap. Surely, you realize this.”

“I know, but it’s one Greyback has laid. I don’t think Amsel has a clue what she provoked. And I want her dead. It’s more than just about the werewolves she killed, although that’s part of it, or even about Vicki. It’s… I just can’t stand the idea of her living her life. She’s a terrible person. She does terrible things. She will keep doing those terrible things until someone stops her.”

“I hope you appreciate the irony of what you just said,” Voldemort said sardonically. “And of course, you have no way of being certain that those are really your feelings at all.”

Harry remained silent. He couldn’t argue that.

Voldemort considered him for a long moment.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to see you kill someone.”

Harry frowned, not sure how he should take that. He couldn’t say he was the least bit surprised, but it wasn’t really a flattering thing to say.

“Is that your blessing?”

“In a matter of speaking. If you are going to do this, it will be under my terms. I will not allow this duel to distract from the treaty. It will be a private duel, no press, and limited spectators. It will be done tonight. It’s the full moon and with both Greyback’s and Rhiannon’s support you’ll be near invincible. I don’t want to give either the Germans or the press the time to create any hype over it. No doubt some of the major papers are already aware of the challenge, but since it will be concluded before tomorrow’s edition, it will warrant little more than an interesting side note on the third page. Additionally, my security will be in control of setting up the dueling stage and enforcing the rules of the match.”

“The Germans won’t like that.”

“The Germans can go fuck themselves. If they refuse, the duel is off. If Greyback wants to throw another tantrum, I’m more than ready for a second round.”

Harry glowered at him. It was his mind, body, and soul that was at risk if Greyback ‘threw another tantrum,’ not the Dark Lord’s. Still, he wouldn’t argue with him. He was, in his way, being exceptionally generous, if not selfless. And really, at this point he had no choice but to trust him. They both knew Harry could not assume that his thoughts and feelings were entirely his own, and they would have to rely on the Dark Lord to be the voice of reason.

A terrifying thought.

Amelon hadn’t slept in two days and was exhausted but in a very satisfying way. His evening at Snape cottage had turned out to be far more rewarding than he had originally anticipated, even if it had not led him in the direction he had anticipated. Horace McGunny was a mystery, and while he might not be the same mystery he was currently assigned to solve, the timing and location of his appearance was enough to make a tenuous if unclear connection. More and more, he was beginning to suspect conspiracy in the deaths of Malfoy and Crouch. That Stratus was somehow involved was a given, but whether as ringleader or grunt he wasn’t sure. That Harry Potter was involved was obvious as well, but even here he couldn’t be sure if it was as target or conspirator. What, precisely, had McGunny been sent to do at Snape Cottage? Surely if Stratus were involved, it would be known that Potter was out of the country? For that matter, McGonagall had said McGunny had been missing for a couple of years now, so where had he been and what had he been doing? And why come out of hiding now?

He was on his way back home from London after a night spent hunting down the files on McGunny. McGunny had disappeared before the Italians had laid siege to the city, so the Sentinel records were still archived in their main office. However, finding the necessary files had turned into something of a nightmare, as boxes upon boxes of files were still in the process of being reorganized after being moved from smaller stations destroyed during the siege. The archives were dark, stuffy, and claustrophobic, so that once he had finally found the necessary file he had decided he would take it home with him and look through it after a well-deserved nap. There was no immediate hurry.

Ira Snape was looking after McGunny, which would have worried Amelon if her rather savage little guard dog, Ronald Weasley, hadn’t insisted on staying to watch after them both. He had sent some men to watch the cottage, but he wasn’t overly concerned.

The walk from the precinct to the floo station was only three blocks, but the commute was complicated by the damage left by the siege. The debris had all been cleared away, but early morning was overcast and dim and there were monstrous potholes pitting the walkways where benches, trees, and statues had once stood. Amelon’s attention was divided between the newest development in his case and not breaking his leg.

If it had not been for the panicked flight of a pigeon from behind him he would have been killed for sure. Instinctively, he had thrown up a shield charm. He felt the curse strike it, felt some of it slip through, dispersed but still painful as it struck him in the gut. Letting out a pained grunt, he collapsed and curled on the ground. The shield had not been right for that particular curse, but it had been enough to save his life and deflect the worst of the damage. He was grateful it had not been the Killing Curse.

He struggled to find his attackers from his prone position on the ground, and discovered there was not one attacker but three. Amelon felt a small shock run through him as he caught sight of them.

Death Eaters.

They were unmistakable in their black robes and their signature skull masks. Amelon had never seen a Death Eater in full regalia, although every man, woman, and child in Britain knew what they looked like. The Death Eaters had been disbanded once Voldemort had come to power, but their masks and the legends of their cruel deeds now hung in museums, making all the visitors shiver to look upon them.

Amelon felt that shiver of dread now.

The three Death Eaters approached soundlessly, their wands drawn. They circled him and as they drew near, he realized they were ensconced in a silencing spell. One of the Death Eaters knelt down beside him and reached for him. He flinched away, but the other two leveled their wands at him in a clear threat. He stilled, and the kneeling Death Eater pulled open his cloak and began searching his pockets.

Amelon wasn’t immediately certain what they were looking for, but at such close proximity, he gathered some details about them. The two standing over him were definitely men, but the one searching him was a woman, and judging by her smooth hands and manicured nails, a young woman. Her perfume was cheap, but tasteful, and her shoes were meant for an office, not stalking detectives in the back streets of London. Eventually, she found his notepad and pulled it out.

He was immediately reminded of Stratus that morning, his shrewd eyes seemingly transfixed by it. Stratus must have sent them, but why? What was so important about his notes? His question was answered a moment later, when the woman pulled out several scraps of paper from her robe. She skimmed through his notebook, not bothering to read it, but finding the last pages with writing on them. She slipped her pieces of paper inside the notebook. The paper, which had already been roughly the same size and consistency to begin with, suddenly transfigured to match his notebook exactly.

Oh, he thought, that’s really quite clever.

They were going to kill him and leave his notebook as a red herring for the next investigator to follow.

Or rather, they would try.

As the woman kneeled back down to place his notebook back in his pocket, he seized her by the arm and pulled her over and on top of him. The two standing Death Eaters jumped back and pointed their wands, but their compatriot was now a living shield atop him. They hesitated.

“Avada kedavra!” he snarled, pointing the woman’s wand at the man. The curse erupted from the wand, reluctant and confused, but still deadly. The first Death Eater dropped. The second overcame his reluctance and fired off a Cutting Curse. The woman screamed in agony, and Amelon felt himself immediately soaked in her blood. Struggling with his own fatigue and pain, he kicked the woman off him and at the remaining attacker, pulling her wand from her hand as she went. She flopped off him awkwardly, not even close to the other Death Eater, but the man jumped back and by the time it took him to re-aim, Amelon fired off a second Killing Curse.

Amelon scrambled to regain his feet and move to the meager cover provided by a stack of crates piled beside a boarded up building. He hunched there for a moment, struggling to catch his breath and assess his injuries. He was in pain, a deep clenching ache in his stomach and ribs as if he had been kicked there repeatedly, but it was nothing that seemed immediately life threatening. After his initial adrenaline fuelled panic had subsided, he became aware of the Death Eater still lying in the middle of the street. She was struggling to breathe. Her gasping sounded wet and forced.

He didn’t move for a moment. Should he try to help her? He wanted to question her, but what if there was another Death Eater out there waiting for a clear shot? He would have to risk it. He had a job to do. He pointed his wand in the air, and a brilliant bolt of golden light burst into the air and zipped away in the direction of the Sentinel precinct. Once there it would give out his name and his location, and any sentinel who saw it would come running, and hopefully that meant any other would-be assassins would be sent running. He scanned the alley. Everyone was where he had left them, and after a quick glance around he found his own wand in a gutter where it had rolled away. As he pocketed it, he worried it would no longer acknowledge him as its rightful owner, but knew now was not the time to fret about such things. He kept the Death Eater’s wand in his hand, just in case, and went to check on its owner.

He leaned over the woman now writhing weakly on the ground. She was choking beneath her mask, and he carefully removed it. Wide, hazel eyes stared up at him in confusion and fear. She was even younger than he suspected, not yet thirty and somewhere between pretty and plain. He didn’t recognize her. She didn’t seem to recognize him either.

“Try to stay calm,” he said. “Help is coming.”

She started to sob, making herself choke even more.

“Sssshhh… don’t fret and don’t try to talk. Just nod or shake your head. You’ll be alright. Do you know where you are?” he asked in a soothing voice.

She shook her head.

“Do you know who I am?”

She shook her head again.

“Do you know who sent you?”

She hesitated here, but then shook her head. Was that because she didn’t understand what he meant by the question or was she trying to protect her leader, he wondered. Watching her reaction very closely, he asked her, “Do you know Captain Reginald Stratus?”

The girl looked confused again, but then nodded hesitantly. After that she squeezed her eyes shut and struggled to breathe as she continued to drown in her own blood. He lifted her into a partially reclined position, although she wailed in agony when he moved her. There was no more opportunity for questions. Voices and the sound of running feet drew his attention just in time for a handful of Sentinels to appear at either end of the street. When they spotted him, they aimed their wands and he had to call out quickly.

“I’m Inquisitor Amelon! I need immediate medical assistance for myself and this woman!”

They didn’t put up their wands, but they didn’t order him to show them his hands either. One of the Sentinels apparated away to get a medi-wizard, while the rest quickly crowded around him to secure the scene. Two others worked to stabilize the woman, while the remainder went to investigate the bodies of the dead Death Eaters. The senior sentinel, a dark skinned man with fierce, intelligent eyes, pulled him aside.

“I’m Sentinel Jarmin. What happened here?”

Amelon gave him a rundown of the events as they transpired, but none of his suspicions and nothing about his notebook or his case. He wasn’t obligated to and Jarmin knew it. Amelon outranked him, and since the attack currently pointed towards self-defense the Sentinel didn’t have the authority to interrogate him.

“Do you recognize her?” Jarmin asked, pointing to the woman.

“Never seen her in my life.”

“And the other two?”

Amelon wandered over to the first body, now unmasked. He froze.

“Yes,” he said. “This one is Ezariah Masterson.”

He checked the second body.

“Lawrence Greenwood. They’re both Culties stationed in Bristol. They were reported AWOL this morning.”

“You were investigating their disappearance?” Jarmin asked skeptically.

“No. I was investigating something else. Their disappearances were possibly related.”

“Very related if this is any indication. Who would want to silence you, Inquisitor Amelon?”

“I have my suspicions,” he replied sardonically. “If it’s not too much trouble, would it be possible to borrow some of your men? Perhaps three to help me arrest a suspect?”

Jarmin nodded.

“I’ll come with. How quickly do you need them?”

“Right now.”

More Sentinels appeared along with a couple of medi-wizards. The wounded suspect was carted off under guard, and Amelon took the opportunity to have himself looked over for injuries. It was no worse than he suspected, and the healing potion he was given was generic. The medi-witch had said he had been very lucky, but they always said that sort of thing. As soon as the scene had been secured and Jarmin had rounded up some men, they set off for Bristol.

Back on the street, the anthifold detached itself from the brick wall high above the scene and slid away with no one the wiser. Its cloth-like body floated over the walls and rooftops of London soundlessly and almost invisible. After several blocks, it came to rest in an empty shop near Diagon Alley, slipping in through the cracked window. Inside, Tom waited patiently, the picture of domestic contentment; an open book on his lap, a tumbler of whiskey in his right hand, and a cheerful fire burning in the grate. The anthifold draped itself over the back of his chair, and as Tom tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement, it began to whisper the night’s events into his ear.

When it was done, Tom smiled broadly and indulged in a long pull from his glass.

After all, he had earned it.

Natalie returned to Malfoy Manor early that morning in a poor mood. She had not slept well after her run-in with Pansy and Millicent, and her continued aggravation with them had left her aggravated with herself. Why had she let what they said bother her? They had been snide and cruel plenty of times before, but she had brushed them off easily enough. What was different about this time? They had gotten too close to the truth, she decided, found a vulnerability she had not realized she had.

A vulnerability she could not afford to have.

Walking into the manor, a house elf immediately appeared to take her cloak.

“Bring me coffee,” she ordered. “Strong coffee. Black.”

She hated black coffee, but it was a form self-flagellation she felt she deserved and subtle enough to be overlooked. Her torments were private affairs. She stalked into the study, half-expecting to find Draco already drunk and leaning over some paperwork. Draco was leaning over some paperwork, but he was thankfully sober. He had forgone his father’s liquor cabinet in favor of his mother’s tea service and was nursing the fine white porcelain with thoughtful delicacy.

She knew immediately that something had happened.

Something good.

She hated him a little for it. While she felt harried and out of sorts, Draco seemed to have made a full recovery overnight. His eyes were bright when he looked up at her, and his smile held none of the half-hidden sneer that had defined his face since his father’s death. He was bathed, shaved, and properly groomed for once, and his clothing was pressed and spotless. He was still a touch too thin, but judging by the empty plate left on a side table, that would soon be remedied.

“Well, aren’t you looking grand this morning!” she greeted.

If he noticed any of her bitterness, he didn’t acknowledge it.

“I’m feeling a lot better. That sleep you recommended worked wonders,” he said. He tilted his head to look at her curiously. “You, on the other hand, look like you could use some of your own advice. You look exhausted.”

“Why thank you.”

“You know what I mean. Robert isn’t due to come in until noon, and I’m afraid there isn’t much to do until he arrives. You’re welcome to one of my beds if you want.”

To her horror, Natalie felt herself blush. It was a perfectly innocent offer, with none of his usual playful flirting, but somehow it left her feeling embarrassed and flustered. Merlin, what was wrong with her? Was she really still so prickly after Pansy’s ridiculous taunts?
“I’m fine. I’m sure there are plenty of things that need to be done around the manor that haven’t even occurred to you,” she said dismissively, making a show of running her finger along the bookcase to check for dusk. Her finger came off clean. The house elves, finally allowed to clean the room, had done so with a vengeance.

“You’re probably right,” he agreed congenially and rose from his chair. “Why don’t we have a look around then? I’m heartily sick of this room for the time being.”

She gave him a cool look.

“I can do it by myself.”

He paused partway across the room. His smile stiffened then slipped away the longer he stared at her.

“What is it? What happened?” he asked.

She glowered at him defensively, crossing her arms.

“Nothing happened. I just want some time alone for once. Is that too much ask?”

“You’re acting weird,” he said. He started moving forward, cautiously, as if she were a wild animal he was afraid of spooking. She took a step back.

“Shut up, Draco.”

“Better, but a little late on the delivery. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“God, Draco! Get a clue. I don’t want to talk about it, and you can’t make me. So just leave off.”

He regarded her thoughtfully, and she knew she was in trouble. A thoughtful Draco was a manipulative Draco, and he had a talent for the manipulative. He didn’t bother usually, not with her in any event, but she had tipped her hand and now he was entirely too curious. She wasn’t going to have any of it. She shouldn’t have even come in the first place, except it had seemed so important this morning that she go. Prove something to herself. Well, she proved something alright. She’d proved she wasn’t ready to see him, and until she was she shouldn’t come back.

Clearly Draco didn’t need her as much as he had seemed to the night before. He had gotten a handle on himself with a good night’s sleep, and she probably just needed the same.

“I’m going,” she said, turning to leave.

“Wait!”

His hand grabbed hers and she spun around, jerking away from him as if he had burned her. He looked startled, hurt. He was probably faking it. Manipulative bastard.

She turned to go again and felt him move to follow her, when a house elf suddenly appeared in the office with a panicked scream of ‘Master!’ It brought the both of them up short.

“What is it, Joju? I’ve warned you all not to come in here without knocking!” he snapped.

The house elf was already too frantic for his master’s rebuke to upset him any further, and he puttered and stammered and circled about in such a ridiculous manner that neither of them could make any sense out of him. At last, already impatient and aggravated, Natalie came up to him and slapped him. The house elf yelped and blinked at her with wide eyes, but at least he had calmed somewhat. Now he merely quivered in place pathetically and stared up at them with wide, watery eyes.

“M-master! It-it’s t-terrible! T-terrible!”

“Joju, what happened? What is terrible?” Draco demanded with cautious concern. The house elves had a tendency to be overly dramatic. The manor and the Malfoys were their whole world, and even minor inconveniences or changes could send them into fits of hysterics. Joju’s reaction, however, was even more extreme than usual.

“It-it’s L-lady Mal-”

Draco didn’t wait for him to finish. He was already running out the door and for the stairs. Natalie followed a moment later, remaining just long enough to shake a sure location out of the terrified elf before racing after him. She needn’t have bothered. She had lost sight of Draco quickly, but had only to follow the wailing of the house elves to know where to go.

Narcissa’s bedroom door was wide open. In the hallway, some twenty or so elves were scattered about, sobbing into their hands. Natalie hesitated, for once reluctant to just kick them out of the way, and picked her way carefully around them until she reached the door. Draco was there, standing stock still in the middle of the room. Slowly, Natalie came to stand beside him.

Draco’s mother lay in her bed, dressed beautifully in green and black satin, her hair braided into an elaborate crown of gold hair. Her makeup was perfectly applied, but it was no death mask. It did nothing to hide the unnatural paleness or the faint bluish tint to her lips. If nothing else, her half-lidded eyes staring up cloudy and sightless at the ceiling would have revealed the truth.

Draco was an orphan now.

She felt suddenly sick. It wasn’t fair. It was completely and utterly unfair to the point of cruelty. He had endured enough, too much already. This couldn’t happen, not now. Draco couldn’t… Draco couldn’t….

She turned to look at him, afraid of what she would see. He looked shocked, disbelieving, and she couldn’t blame him. She could barely believe it herself. What had happened? That Narcissa had killed herself was obvious. A vial of poison next to the wineglass on the bedside table explained the how, but why? Why had she done this to herself? How could she have done this to Draco?

Suddenly, he was moving towards the bed, and she feared for a moment he would start shaking Narcissa, attempting wake that which wasn’t asleep. What could she do if he did that? What if he went mad, here and now? How could he not go mad?

But he didn’t touch his mother. Instead, he took the two envelopes she had clasped over her chest like funeral lilies.

The top one was addressed to Draco.

The Bibliotheque Mazarine reminded Hermione of the Hogwarts Library. It was the first thing she had thought when she entered it several weeks before, and she thought it again now. It was a place of straight lines, musty books, and academic nostalgia. The warm familiarity made her feel safe and relaxed, even if the librarians eyed her unwelcomingly. They might think she was a vagrant with her oversized coat and boots and unkempt appearance. Thank goodness for Viktor’s coat, or they might have called the police on her for indecency or possible mental instability. Embarrassed, she found herself a place to hide in an alcove away from their prying eyes. The books she found there were all muggle written and in French, but entrancing in their own way. She picked out one at random from the shelf and settled herself into an armchair to wait. Flipping through the pages, she admired the tiny uniform text and woodprint illustrations made somehow all the more poignant for their complete stillness. She admired the books aesthetically, but her mind was too preoccupied to appreciate their scholastic value. Viktor and his gallant rescue, the woman he had called Tonks and her unknown intentions, her godfather somewhere in the city looking for her, and the life she had made at the Hotel Raoulin that was now ended.

She had more time than she wanted to ponder the current situation she found herself in and the events that may have led up to it. She was quite thoroughly sick of thinking about it after the first two hours, but it refused to let her go. Speculation and suspicion filled her mind. Was this all a trap? Had Viktor set her up to come running to him for help? It seemed entirely too elaborate for someone as straightforward as Viktor, but then he had been a participant in the vastly over-complicated and convoluted plot at the Triwizard Tournament. Who was she to say he was incapable of it?

Ignoring him now would be impossible. If he hadn’t lied, that meant he intended to reunite her with Uncle Severus. If this was a trap, she needed to know who and what she was facing. What she would do in either event, she mentally obsessed over and only half believed her own answers. In a moment of frustration, displeased with all her ideas, she fell back to the tried and true thought of ‘What would Harry do?’ and had a series of rather bizarre fantasies of becoming the British Ambassador for vampires and leading them into guerrilla warfare against the Vatican. It wasn’t in any way realistic or helpful, but it did make her giggle for several minutes.

“What’s so funny?”

She half jumped out of her chair in fright, scrambling to keep hold of the book that had been in her lap. Spinning around, she found Enid standing in the entryway. The girl was looking at her with wide eyes, as if she were a potentially dangerous and unpredictable magical creature she had never seen before. Hermione’s breath caught in her chest, and she felt a swell of love and gratitude towards her. She had come. After all that had happened, the lies and the danger, Enid had done as she had asked her to in those few seconds they had shared before they had split up back at the Hotel Raoul.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked, climbing to her feet and looking her over carefully. She did not appear to be hurt, but she was very pale and wearing a large coat Hermione didn’t recognize. When she stepped forward, Enid flinched back. Hermione hesitated. Enid looked down, embarrassed.

“I’m okay, just… confused. I’m really, really confused.”

Fair enough.

“I’ll explain it, if you want,” Hermione offered, half hoping she wouldn’t.

“I think I need you to,” Enid said.

So Hermione did. For privacy, they moved to the basement level of the library where the old periodicals were archived and few ventured to. Enid handed over a set of clothes she had secreted away beneath her oversized coat and a brush from her hand bag, and while Hermione made herself more presentable, she told her the truth.

“So you really are Hermione Granger? I wondered, but… it just seemed too fantastical. Nothing that exciting ever happens to me,” Enid said. As Hermione had spoken, she seemed to relax more and more, as if realizing this stranger wasn’t so very different from the person she had been living with for so long.

“I’m sorry I had to lie to you.”

“That’s okay. I get why you did. It’s not like you can just tell people this sort of thing.”

“I did intend to tell you, it’s just… Things seemed so much simpler when I was just Heloise. I liked being Heloise.”

Enid smiled at her sadly.

“I liked you being Heloise too.”

The atmosphere in the basement archive suddenly became too heavy to stand, and Hermione quickly changed the subject.

“When did you start to suspect I wasn’t who I said?”

Enid gave her an impish smile.

“Right away.”

“What? No you didn’t.”

“Right away. Your clothes were too nice, and you didn’t use your name as if it were natural to you. You were obviously a runaway. Madame Prewitt knew too, of course. That’s why she had you room with me instead of Lorelai. She didn’t want her scaring you off with her nosiness.”

Hermione felt herself blushing. All this time she had thought she was being so clever and so careful, and it turned out she had been completely transparent! She felt like such an idiot. If her employer and roommate hadn’t been so sympathetic, she probably would have been found out months ago.

“And when did you suspect me of being… well… me?”

“On the fourth day, I mean, the fourth night. You talk in your sleep.”

“What? No!” Surely someone would have mentioned something like that to her before now!

“It’s pretty funny actually,” she said, her impish smiling growing even wider.

“What did I say?”

Enid’s amusement suddenly turned to embarrassment, and now she was blushing almost as brightly as the friend she had been teasing. She was now looking rather interestedly at the tiled pattern on the floor.

“Uh… nothing. Well, nothing bad. Nothing too bad, anyway.”

“Oh Merlin, what did I say?”

“Well… That night… mostly nonsense.”

“Mostly nonsense and…?”

“You might have mentioned a name a couple of times.”

At this point, they were both wishing they could disappear into the floor, but like a witness to a horrendous accident, Hermione couldn’t stop herself from looking.

“What name?”

“…Harry.”

“Oh God!”

Hermione buried her face in her hands. Of all the things she didn’t want anyone to know, it was her crush on her best friend. It had been speculated upon since they had met that they were somehow an item. At the age of ten and both of them unusually practical for their ages, neither of them had entertained the idea of a romantic relationship. She could be honest when she said for the first couple of years, the idea of being boyfriend and girlfriend was entirely absurd to her. Both of them had wasted more time than they cared for convincing others that their relationship was entirely platonic. If she had felt a little jealous of Harry’s attention towards Natalie and Luna, well, it wasn’t unusual for best friends to feel neglected with the introduction of a ‘significant other’, now was it?

It had been considerably harder to ignore her feelings towards him after he had been kidnapped during the Triwizard Tournament. Between Viktor and Harry, she could say honestly that she had missed Harry the most. And it had only gotten worse when he had returned home. She had wanted so badly to confess to him, to try for something more, but he had still been recovering from his ordeal and she hadn’t wanted to burden him then. Then one complication after another had come up, and it had never been a good time after that.

But she talked in her sleep… who else knew that?

The girls in the Hogwarts dormitory? Draco? God, Harry himself?

It was too humiliating to think about.

“I’m going to throw myself off a bridge now.”

“It’s not that bad,” Enid tried to placate. “It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone. I didn’t even tell the Aurors when they came.”

Hermione grimaced at the thought of the Aurors. She had known they would come. After the ruckus of last night, there was no way they wouldn’t have, but there was no telling how seriously they would take the matter. If she was very, very lucky they wouldn’t identify her as Hermione Granger, and she would just become a missing persons case, easily ignored with no family to push the matter. If she was unlucky, they already knew it was her and were issuing a nation-wide manhunt right this minute. Another reason to hope Viktor hadn’t betrayed her. He was likely the only person she knew capable of getting her out of France safely.

“Do you think they suspect?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think they did when I talked to them. They took your trunk to look for evidence, but I managed to get your little box and didn’t see anything else that would have given you away.”

That wasn’t honestly very comforting to Hermione. There were many things in her trunk other than her emergency kit that could have easily identified her, but she had cautiously hidden them in a secret compartment. An experienced inspector would know how to find such things, even if it might take a while to get into them. It was too much to hope that this case had been assigned to a rookie.

“You’re certain no one followed you?”

Enid nodded.

“I don’t think they suspected you of doing anything wrong, so I told them I was going to go look for you. That wouldn’t be suspicious, right? One friend looking for another? Even Madam Prewitt didn’t think that was strange and just told me to back before sundown. One of the Aurors gave me a card and told me to contact them if I had any luck.”

Hermione let out a relieved sigh and complimented her on her quick thinking. They talked a little longer about what had happened and what Hermione intended to do now. She was honest as she could be without compromising both of their safety. If or rather when the truth came out, Enid would be interrogated more thoroughly. France wasn’t Britain, however, and she wasn’t so much worried about Enid being harmed during questioning as she was about her being tricked into giving something away. Ideally, she would have liked to have taken Enid with her, but she couldn’t justify turning her into a fugitive and exposing her to more danger than she already had. She had already been too selfish by half.

Finally it was time to split up. Hermione was now more comfortably and less conspicuously dressed, armed with her wand, and the box of money and fake IDs Ron had given her ‘just in case.’ She regretted the loss of her trunk, filled with supplies and mementos from a previous life, but she could survive it, especially if she was going to reunite with Uncle Severus that night.

“When this is all over,” Hermione said just before they parted, “and if I get to return home, I want you to come to England. I want you to meet my brother and Harry, and see my house. I’ll be your sponsor and get you a real wand. You’re too clever not to have one of-”

Enid’s arms were suddenly wrapped around her, crushing despite her diminutive size. Hermione smiled and hugged her back, somewhat more gently. It was all probably wishful thinking on both their parts, but it was a dream they could both share even after they had parted.

And part they did. Enid left first, and Hermione waited for half an hour longer before leaving as well. Outside, the day was cold but sunny, and the streets were bustling with the people and vehicles that characterized a muggle metropolitan city. She walked into the crowd of pedestrian commuters and felt safely anonymous and strangely hopeful. She would miss her life at the Hotel Raoulin, and Enid in particular, but it was never meant to be permanent. Now that it was over she felt herself returning to her real life and the lives of all the people she loved. Somewhere out there her godfather was waiting for her, Harry and Draco were waiting to hear from her godfather, and their friends were waiting to hear from Harry and Draco.

Waiting on a street corner for a traffic light to change, Hermoine allowed herself to smile softly to herself. There was no choice but to move forward from here.

A hand closed around hers gently, startling her from her thoughts. She turned to her right and found an old man standing beside her. At first, she thought he had grabbed her by mistake, that he had confused her for someone else, but when he turned his twinkling blue eyes to hers she felt herself recoiling in fear.

“I see there is no need to introduce myself,” Dumbledore said congenially. “Would you mind terribly if I took a moment of your time?”

The Treaty of Bourges was signed just before sunset. The light that poured in through the windows was golden and fiery, but ominous in its foretelling of the coming night. Voldemort loomed over the table as each German representative approached and signed their name, formally yielding to his supremacy over them once and for all. He didn’t dare smile, not with the press hovering at the back of the room with their cameras and their hawkish stares, but there was a gleam in his eye that revealed the pleasure he was taking in the moment. Most of the Germans didn’t dare look him in the eye, but those few that did revealed a depth of hatred that made him feel positively giddy.

When the signing was finally done, he made the requisite speech about reconciliation and peace that only fools and the truly desperate believed and received the requisite applause in return. Pictures were taken to mark the event. The treaty was taken away to be preserved and duplicated by his Court calligraphers. Someone in the corner was bent over and weeping into their hands.

Voldemort left the assembly room to the music of trumpets and drums.

He returned immediately to his rooms to prepare for the rest of the evening. As the door fell shut behind him, he couldn’t hold back anymore and threw his head back to laugh. Lestrange and Morgan waited patiently for him to finish in the parlor. They knew better than to attempt to ruin his mood. His laughter faded, but not his jubilation. It was a good day, despite all that went wrong earlier. It was still a fantastically good day.

“Pour me a drink, Bella,” he said, his command softened by the use of her given name. She did as she was told, solemn but obedient, selecting his favorite brandy without asking. Once the drink was placed in his hand, he seated himself and gestured for either of them to speak. Bella spoke first.

“I have finished making the preparations. There is a pavilion on the southern end of the grounds, enclosed on the sides but with an open ceiling. It was ideal for privacy and defensibility, but there was no way to set up a platform inside on such short notice.”

“A platform isn’t important unless there is a large audience,” Voldemort said dismissively. He had no intention of having more than a dozen witnesses, himself among them. Seeing the fight from ground level might make it that much more exciting. Lestrange nodded.

“It’s easier to prevent sabotage as well. I’ve set up the necessary protective wards and set my men to guard the platform. So far, I haven’t detected any attempts by the Germans to monitor or breech our security.”

“And Harry?”

Here she hesitated.

“Quiet.”

“But?”

“The Queen went to see him.”

That gave him pause, and he took a drink from his glass to buy him some time to ponder it.

“What did they say?”

“They didn’t say anything. They just… they just looked at each other. And then the Queen left.”

He would have to ask Harry about it later. He suspected Ophelia had gone to tell Harry something, perhaps to warn him, and then realized the futility of it when she had seen him in person. Harry would not be, could not be, dissuaded from this duel. Or perhaps she had wanted to know why he was going through with the duel in the first place. Perhaps she suspected Voldemort of forcing Harry into it somehow. Not an unreasonable suspicion since he had the power to call the duel off at any time.

“Has his wand been returned yet?”

His one concern was that the French would attempt to interfere with the duel by refusing to return either combatant’s wand. The wands were considered evidence of a possible crime after all, and they were in their right to keep them until their investigation was over.

“The Musketeers have agreed to give back the wands just before the duel, but will confiscate them again once the duel is over. I don’t like it. They could be sabotaged for all we know. There is no telling who might be a German sympathizer.”

He didn’t like it either. He wondered briefly if the whole point of Amsel’s farce was to get ahold of Harry’s wand. What would be the point of sabotaging it though? Had they merely wanted to study it, perhaps? Did they know it was the brother wand to Voldemort’s? He wondered, idly, if Harry would be able to use his wand instead. They were so much a part of the other now. They had shared magic and blood and even their souls. Would their wands acknowledge their bond?

An experiment for another day.

“Harry’s magus hypersentia should be able to detect if the wand has been tampered with. Anything else? Have the press been snooping around yet?”

“A few. Mostly it seemed to be about the attack this morning. None of them seem to be aware of the duel yet.”

That was highly doubtful. It might be that they didn’t want him to know that they knew, however. They would likely try to surprise him at the press conference he had scheduled in half an hour or even attempt to spy on the event. He was prepared for that eventuality even if it did irk him.

“We’ll see. Anything else?”

Lestrange made a dismissive shrug.

“Everything is going according to schedule.”

He turned to Morgan, who was already nursing his own drink. He did so for form’s sake only. He wouldn’t drink during a job, but it would give him something to look at while he was thinking.

“Anything turn up on Amsel?”

“Yes. Someone came forward.”

“A good Samaritan?” he asked skeptically.

“Perhaps. He seemed convincing enough.”

“And ‘he’ is?”

“Diethelm Kruger, the patriarch of the Hamburg Krugers.”

Voldemort recalled the name and the distant kinship he held with Harry. He had made overtures towards his protégé earlier, but nothing too forceful. This latest involvement in Harry’s affairs was an obvious attempt to get in his Court’s good graces, but whether it was for self-promotion or espionage was anyone’s guess at this point.

“And what did he say?”

“He suggested that Amsel is using the duel as a cover for an attempt to cast Dark Magic on Harry.”

Voldemort snorted.

“That’s true of all duels.”

“He said he believes it is something more insidious. He suspects Amsel intends to use her own blood, perhaps even her own death, to cast a curse.”

“And what made him draw this conclusion?”

“It seems something that her family is known for.”

That drew the Dark Lord’s attention. A precedent?

“Explain.”

“The Amsels are renowned for their dark wizardry, more specifically they are renowned for sacrificing themselves as a last resort using dark wizardry. There are several examples; Amsels who turned themselves into mindless beasts or blew themselves up to take out an enemy that has cornered them. Her own father apparently turned himself into a werewolf intentionally after Grindelwald’s defeat and then surrendered himself to aurors the night of the full moon.”

“Merlin,” Lestrange muttered with reluctant admiration.

What a curious family, Voldemort thought to himself. He wondered if there were any other surviving kin out there. He thought he might like to meet one.

“Did he have any theories about what sort of curse she might use?”

Morgan shook his head.

“He couldn’t be that specific, but I have my own theories.”

Voldemort gestured for him to continue.

“If it was a simple matter of killing Potter, she had the opportunity this morning. She is a smart and ambitious woman; a simple murder would not suit her. She will try to cause as much damage as she can to justify her sacrifice. There are two likely sorts of curses she could use; a magically created disease she will intend to make him the carrier of or some sort of curse that induces insanity, possibly violence. If it is the disease, she will be targeting the werewolves Harry visits so regularly. If it’s violent insanity… for someone of Potter’s strength and skill, anyone and everyone would be fair game.”

If this were truly Amsel’s goal, then he had to applaud her for her ingenuity. It was devious and cruel. It was quite brilliant.

It would fail.

Morgan continued.

“I suspect she is planning something elaborate requiring the conditions a formal duel provides. An enclosed space, so close combat. She’ll need contact of some sort to cast the curse.”

“A cursed object?” Lestrange asked skeptically. A cursed object would be too easy to find. Even the most cleverly disguised objects could be identified by a properly trained cursebreaker or Sentinel.

Voldemort shook his head. He could see where Morgan’s thoughts were taking him.

“Something more subtle. Remember, she won’t want anyone to realize anything is wrong at first. Additionally, if it’s a disease, the most obvious carrier for such a thing is Amsel herself.”

Lestrange nodded in understanding.

Blood. Blood was a powerful conduit for magic. It could carry curses and magical diseases equally well. There were airborne disease of course, but if Amsel had access to such a thing she would not have had to fight Harry to infect him. She could have simply sneezed on him, or if she was being spiteful, spat on him. Still, it was risky.

“She can’t guarantee success. How likely is it that Harry will draw blood during his attacks? Or that he will get close enough to get in contact with it? It’s not like he has an obvious preference.”

Voldemort’s expression darkened.

“Far too likely in his present state. He’ll tear her throat out with his bare teeth if the urge hits him.”

Which would be an incredible sight.

“So we call it off,” Morgan said.

Voldemort shook his head. It wasn’t as simple as that. Greyback was an angry god in need of appeasement. If it weren’t Amsel’s blood it could very easily be Harry’s. Greyback could be defeated, but that required supplies and privacy he didn’t have here. It was best to satisfy him for now and retaliate later.

“I am afraid that isn’t an option. We’re just going to have to get creative.”

Bristol Headquarters was quiet when Amelon arrived with Jarmin and three of his people in tow. The front gates were closed and locked, which was unusual that time of day. Normally, there was a steady stream of people going in and out of the building until the ten o’clock curfew. There were guards at the front gate, which was to be expected, but they were not the usual bored grunts milling about with sign-in sheets. They were alert and grim, and one of them was a sergeant, too high ranked for such a menial task. He half expected the soldiers to attempt to deny them access, perhaps even attempt to take them into custody. If Stratus knew they were coming, there was no telling what he might have told his soldiers to do in his desperation.

But no one tried to bar them from the offices. Rather, they were escorted quickly inside to Commander Sorenson, the Cultie currently in charge with both the Dark Lord and Lestrange in France. He was an older man, a career soldier, with pure white hair and a stony face on which was chiseled a perpetual grimace of discontent.

“You’re fast,” Sorenson said sourly, glaring at them from the other side of his desk. “I always suspected your people had an informant in here, but now it’s confirmed.”

Amelon gave him a curious look, but didn’t speak.

“What-” Jarmin began, but Amelon held up his hand for silence. It was too soon to reveal their own ignorance at the current situation.

“Don’t take it personally. It’s just the way things are done,” Amelon bluffed.

Sorensen snorted but didn’t contradict him.

“Let’s not drag out the inevitable,” the inquisitor prompted. “I’d like to see for myself.”

“As you like. It isn’t pretty.”

Jarmin gave him a questioning look which Amelon ignored in favor of watching the commander lead them out of his office and down the hall. It struck the inquisitor almost immediately that the corridor was almost completely deserted.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, taking a risk.

“On lockdown. I’m not taking any chances until everyone is accounted for.”

“Is anyone missing so far? Except for Masterson and Greenwood, of course.”

Sorenson glared at him. Or perhaps that was just what his face always looked like. It was hard to tell.

“One of the secretaries didn’t report for her shift this morning. Aside from Masterson and Greenwood, everyone appears to be here. Half of personnel is in France, so everyone is pulling overtime. Good luck narrowing down the suspects.”

Amelon didn’t risk saying anything else and Jarmin finally seemed to catch on as well. They followed the commander out of the main building and to the barracks in back, a series of long rectangular buildings in two rows of four. A light drizzle had begun to fall, and he wondered if it was going to rain in London. He hoped not. There was no way the Sentinels had finished processing the crime scene.

There were voices coming from the barracks, raised voices and muffled arguments. Culties hovered at the windows to stare out at them resentfully. Amelon stared back at them with mild curiosity, but could glean no clues from their expressions. His party kept moving until they reached the farthest set of barracks and turned to the one on their right. This building was quiet and dark, and there were sentries standing guard outside of it. They saluted the commander and stepped aside to let them in, looking relieved to see them.

The curtains had all been pulled, so the room was dark. Lanterns in the barrack started to glow as they entered and slowly grew brighter to illuminate the rest of the room. One of Jarmin’s men gave a sharp hiss. Amelon didn’t blame him.

There was a body lying in the middle of the room sans a head. The head, it seemed, had been liquefied by some sort of spell and was currently splattered across the back wall. It isn’t pretty, Sorenson had said. King of the understatement. He gestured for everyone else to stay back and drew closer to the remains. The head was destroyed, but the rest of the body seemed perversely untouched. The uniform was perfectly pressed and tidy but for a few specks of blood. The shoes were tied, the wand still in its holster, and the insignia gleaming brightly. Amelon stared long and hard at the name tag.

Capt. Stratus.

Amelon let out a long sigh. Things certainly had gotten interesting quickly, hadn’t they?

Bobby came to see Harry just as he finished his second bath for the day. There was a tap tap on his bedroom window as he’d strapped on the wrist holster for his wand, and when he drew back the curtains he found the raven glaring at him from the other side of the glass. He grinned at Bobby and let him inside. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the moon, fat and yellow, just starting to rise above the palace. He felt a shiver run through him, magic swelling up like an incoming tide. He breathed in the cold night air and felt a blind, sensual sort of happiness.

“You stupid little bastard…” Bobby hissed from his perch on the bedpost.

Harry felt the soft, cruel words wash over him, making his skin breakout in goosebumps in a way the cold night didn’t.

“Don’t be angry, brother,” he said calmly. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Rather than being soothed, the raven’s feathers suddenly bristled angrily.

“Who’s worried? Does it look like I’m worried? I’m pissed as hell.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned away from the view of the moon to look at him. In the mirror across from them he could see his eyes had developed an eerie, luminous glow. He pulled off his glasses and set them on the nightstand.

“Do you blame me for this? It’s not my fault. Not really.”

Not really.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s your fault or not! You could have stopped it! You could still stop it!”

Harry continued to dress, slowly, carefully.

“I don’t want to.”

“I know you don’t want to; that’s why I’m so angry.”

He turned towards the raven and reached out a hand for him, beckoning him close, but his brother recoiled from him, flying across the room to perch on a chair instead. Harry let his hand fall.

“Is it wrong that I don’t want to? Is it wrong to hate her? Why are you being so cruel?” Harry asked softly. Bobby’s bristling feathers suddenly exploded in a flurry of swirling blackness, expanding to the size of a giant before retracting again into the size and shape of a man. Bobby stood before him, the third time he had ever seen him in human form, and never when they were fighting. With his human face, Harry could see so much more clearly how upset his brother truly was.

“Because you are being so selfish!” Bobby snarled at him.

Harry moved forward, slowly. He wanted to touch him, touch his face, so strange and familiar. It had been his face once upon a time, when he was still Seamus Carrigan. Harry’s skin was tingling, and he wanted to touch things, the more magical the better. With Her power running through him, he thought he could map every bone and sinew, every blood vessel and strand of hair, every cell and synapse by touch alone so that Bobby would be imprinted into the core of himself, never to be forgotten as he had forgotten himself, no matter how many times he died and was reborn. Perhaps if he did, he would understand his brother’s feelings. Perhaps he could convey his own.

But Bobby retreated from his touch a second time, his long legs gliding away from him, placing the bed between them. Harry was left with words alone to understand, and he hated that. He was terrible with words. He didn’t trust them.

“Why do you say I am selfish? Do you think I don’t love you?”

His brother looked like he wanted to kill him.

“What is your love worth? What do you do for those you love, brother? You made a promise to your godfathers that you wouldn’t die for them, for the werewolves, and already you’re taking stupid risks. Even though you know it will kill them if something were to happen to you!”

Harry could feel the words, sharp and stabbing, biting into his skin. But no, that wasn’t words, it was just his own nails tearing through his shirt and into the skin beneath. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t true. He didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Why was everyone always blaming him for the way things turned out?

“Who are you to call me selfish?” Harry said, his voice rising with anger. “I would die for you. I would die for Sirius and Remus. For Hermione and Draco and Natalie. For Voldemort too, even though you may hate that. What would you do for the ones you love, O’ Wanderer, Pilgrim of Raecellos? Follow me around and hurl your judgments at me? What is that worth to anyone?”

He couldn’t trust words. Not even his words. These weren’t his words. This wasn’t his voice. These weren’t his feelings. Why was he saying these things?

Bobby’s eyes were wide with shock, but beneath them still lay the anger. The judgment.

“Stop looking at me like at that!” he snarled, snatching up a book from bed and hurling it at him with all his strength. The book missed its target by inches, smashing into the mirror behind him. The book and the mirror both shattered, sending down a rain of glass and paper. Bobby’s glamour broke with a terrified caw, and the raven clambered clumsily into the air and out the window. In a matter of moments he disappeared into the darkness and not even Harry’s preternatural eyesight could not find him.

His anger left with the raven, and Harry stared blankly at the open window for a long time, as stunned by what he had done as Bobby must have been. Then he caught sight of the moon once again and felt himself relax. It didn’t matter. Bobby would forgive him, eventually. His brother served a god himself, surely he understood their lives were not wholly their own. The argument was pointless. His promises were pointless. Love mattered. It was one of the few things even the gods acknowledged.

He continued where he had left off dressing, humming to himself now, some old muggle song his mother had adored.

All you need is love

All you need is love

All you need is love, love

Love is all you need

And truly, in this moment, he loved Rhiannon as he had never loved anyone.

“I see you’ve broken something else since I left,” Voldemort said, noting idly the broken mirror and the scattered remnants of a book. Harry was perched in the windowsill, oblivious to the chill and basking in the moonlight as if it held the warmth of the sun. Harry turned to him, eyes wide and glowing with a divine madness. The Dark Lord was careful to keep his wand visible in his hand. He didn’t want a repeat of earlier that morning.

“I thought the room could use a little more symmetry,” Harry quipped unapologetically, grinning at him wickedly. “Is it time?”

“Almost. Come here a moment.”

Harry climbed from his perch at the window and approached him, soundless and graceful, like a ghost. Voldemort remembered the strength in those deceptively thin limbs from this morning and wondered how much more powerful they were now under the full influence of both Greyback and Rhiannon. Had Amsel ever really stood a chance?

“I wanted to warn you beforehand. That woman is diseased, so don’t bite her.”

Harry gave him a perplexed look.

“Why would I bite her?”

“It never occurred to you to bite her?”

“I would never give her that sort of blessing.”

Voldemort felt a gentle elation, the same feeling he got whenever he found himself privileged to some rare form of knowledge. Rhiannon considered a werewolf’s bite a form of blessing, where others only saw a curse. It made sense, but the significance wasn’t entirely clear. Did that mean that infection was not entirely happenstance? Most didn’t survive a werewolf attack, but even among those that did not all survived the initial transformation. Could there be design to it?

He could ask. He could ask Harry in that moment, and he would be given an answer. As his protégé was now, he would be speaking with one as close to the source as any mortal could hope to get. Tempting. Very tempting. But this question would inevitably lead to more questions, and they had somewhere they needed to be. There would be other full moons, other opportunities, to give the time and ritual such a divine communion deserved.

“Just something to remember. We suspect it’s infectious to werewolves, so take precautions. Try not to get too close to her.”

They didn’t know this for sure, but it was the warning Harry was most likely to heed.

Harry just grinned and shrugged. Voldemort stared at him for a long moment, wondering how much of the boy there was left still aware in there. Then he turned and led him out of his rooms. There were sentries in the hallway, British Culties and French Musketeers both, standing in rigid attention. Harry wondered if any of them had heard him screaming at Bobby, but decided they probably hadn’t or they would have entered at the first sign of an intruder. It didn’t matter anyway. None of them mattered.

Outside, Harry paused and closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation of the night air washing over him. The air was alive with magic, and he could feel it in his lungs whenever he breathed deep and taste it on his tongue when he let it out again through his mouth. As if sensing his appreciation, the wind picked up, ruffling through his hair and cutting through his clothes in a caressing sensation. He laughed. It almost tickled.

The Dark Lord watched him with an amused curiosity as he led him across the palace grounds and into a grove of trees. The grove was a bare, domesticated thing, but still thick enough to obscure the pavilion that lay beyond. It was a neoclassical style building, ornate columns and a clay tile roof. There was a small group of people loitering inside it. Culties greeted him inside with a pat down and a search of all his pockets for unauthorized items, but their search was tentative and nervous. They seemed nervous to touch him at all. The only unusual thing they seemed to find was his watch. Voldemort gave it a curious look and then turned that curiosity to Harry, who just smiled mysteriously and offered no explanations. There was a single Musketeer among them who handed him his wand.

He gave it a few experimental flicks, refamiliarizing it with his magic. He ignored how everyone else flinched with each careless swish. It felt comfortable in his hand, but strangely fragile.

Inside the pavilion, Harry found it was not a solid building, but rather a rectangle built around a large open space that must have held a potted garden or some sort of performance area, but was now nothing more than a smooth stone floor open to the night sky. Amsel was there already, pacing inside the courtyard like a caged tiger. Harry felt some of his mirth die at the sight of her. His mind began to sharpen, fixating on her, taking in every detail of her, the weaknesses and the dangers. She was agitated, but not from fear. He could see she was as eager for this fight as he was. He found himself laughing, giddy with the feeling of magic and uncomplicated hatred.

He moved forward to enter the arena, but a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder, holding him back.

“Do you remember the rules?” Voldemort asked.

“Must we?” Harry sighed.

“The line between a duel and a homicide is a thin one at best, so yes, you must follow the rules. They are British rules, so unspelled blades are permissible. You’ll want to be light on your feet, so your knife will be more practical than a sword. The Killing Curse is forbidden. The first to make three successful strikes or to incapacitate their opponent wins.”

“Incapacitate? Is that English for ‘kill’ now?”

“It is up for interpretation,” the Dark Lord said with a touch of morbid humor to match Harry’s own. “You will not strike until the referee gives the signal for the match to start. You must stop when he commands it as well… so I encourage you not to play with her too much.”

His protégé acknowledged him with a tilt of his head and shrugged his hand off his shoulder. He strode away into the courtyard. The magic here was different, strangely sterile, like one might find in a hospital or a laboratory. He sniffed the air experimentally and turned a questioning look to the Dark Lord. Voldemort gave him his own mysterious smile, no doubt paying him back for his smugness about his previously missing watch.

It wasn’t important, Harry decided.

The courtyard was illuminated by burning sconces lining the inner columns, but the space was nearly the size of a medium sized ballroom and their light was weak. There wasn’t much need for more as there was nothing for either of them to see except for each other, nothing to trip over or to hide in the shadows of. The moon wasn’t visible, but Harry could still feel Her presence in the cold, pale light gleaming off the roof tiles. Outside of the courtyard, Harry realized there were more people there than he had originally thought. Along with the Dark Lord himself, there was also Morgan and Lestrange standing on opposite sides, an officious-looking witch who must have been the referee, two Musketeers, and the Queen.

Harry’s gaze lingered on the Queen for a moment. She was cloaked in purple velvet, a regal color for a regal woman. She was as unreadable as she had been when she had visited him this afternoon, but he felt pleased that she was here. He wanted her to be a part of this moment.

Then he turned his attention back to Amsel and let the rest of the world fall away. She was a menacing, haughty creature in robes as black as his own. She was not so much beautiful as interesting to look at, with her long, thin nose and her cutting cheekbones. Her eyes glittered in the weak light of the courtyard. She looked hungry and a little bit mad, and he thought he could have loved her under different circumstances. In the cool, sterile air of the courtyard he could feel her magic radiating in the air, growing thicker the longer they held each other’s gaze. It felt like death against his skin. The violent kind, as hot and sticky as blood and prickly as thorns.

She drew her wand and took up the standard dueling stance. Harry mirrored her. The courtyard, already quiet, grew again more still. The protective wards drew up around them, sliding in between the inner columns and locking them and their magic inside. Immediately, he could feel Amsel’s magic condense in the confined space, thickening the atmosphere with her malevolence. He felt his breathing quicken, his palm sweating around his wand.

A noise reverberated to his left, but he couldn’t make it out over the roar of his own breathing in his ears. Amsel’s wand flew up, hurling her first spell towards him. He didn’t recognize the words, but he was already throwing out his own spell before she finished.

“Ductimio![1]”

His curse crushed her orange-tinted spell and kept hurling towards her in a glimmer of pale lavender. She jumped and rolled out of its way, and the spell struck the wards behind her. The entire barrier shuddered violently with the colors of their attacks, bouncing back and forth like ripples on a pond. Harry laughed in delight, mesmerized by the beauty of it.

In the periphery of his vision, he could see his opponent jumping to her feet. He let her. He didn’t want this to end too soon. She cast another curse, aiming for his unprotected side, but he danced out of its path and swept towards her in a wandering arc. Two more curses flew at him, and he dodged them both. They were so very slow, but they made such pretty colors when they hit the barriers. He was almost on top of her when she finally threw up a shield charm. He struck it with palm of his free hand, felt the scars on his hands flare with power. The shield shuddered, but finally repelled him, tossing him back a few feet. He fell back another couple of steps, throwing up a shield of his own as she tossed out another curse into the space she had bought herself.

She ran along the edge of the barrier in an attempt to gain some distance again. He let her.

She stopped and turned, and gave him a perplexed look when she saw he hadn’t moved. Her expression hardened.

“You really are a fucking monster,” she spat in German.

“‘Monster’ is just a term for those humans fear. Do you fear me?” he mocked.

“I despise you,” she hissed.

He laughed, startling her. Then he stopped, all amusement slipping from his face.

“The feeling is mutual. Volomilleacus[2].”

“Flagellicito[3]!”

They both attempted to dodge, but neither quite succeeded. Amsel stumbled as the curse caught her in her left leg, shredding her trousers and the skin beneath it. Harry snarled angrily as a gash appeared on his right arm. Off to the side, the referee shouted something meaningless to both of them. Blood welled up in their wounds.

And then slowly disintegrated into thin air.

The both of them stared transfixed as the wounds remained, but the blood itself disappeared almost as soon as it touched the air. Harry glanced at Voldemort, confirming that it was in fact the Dark Lord’s doing.

That woman is diseased, his mentor had said. It seemed he hadn’t left anything to chance. That sterile scent made sense now. It was a disinfecting spell.[4] He turned to Amsel to see her reaching the same conclusion. She looked devastated.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Something not going to plan?”

She looked up at him. Her confusion slowly melted away as she remembered how much she wanted him dead.

“I wasn’t going to use this,” she said coldly. “I honestly didn’t think you deserved to see it, but now… I just want to wipe that smug look off your face. Globulus enfuego multificado!”

Harry snarled and threw up a shield. Her spell, a ball of fire the size of quaffle, broke apart into snitch-size pieces that beat against the barrier, which in turn buzzed around him, trying to find any weakness in the barrier. There was none and the fireballs gradually burned out around him. He kept his wand up and ready, prepared for a second attack, but Amsel wasn’t pointing her wand at him any longer. She was pointing it at the sky.

An instinctual dread came over him, and the incantation for the Cutting Curse, the first truly lethal spell he would summon, touched his lips. Harry felt himself struck violently before he could even utter a sound and fell to the floor, stunned.

Cold, cold, cold.

His entire body felt as if it had been emptied and then refilled with ice water. The shock of it was so painful he couldn’t breathe or move. Then the feeling melted away, leaving him boneless and gasping on the ground.

He was suddenly and completely aware that he was absolutely alone inside of himself.

Greyback was gone.

Rhiannon was gone.

The magic they had so generously ‘stoked’ was now smothered, almost gone completely.

What had she done?

Above him the sky was now black and the sight of it sickened him. His magus hypersentia was numbed, but he could still sense the smothering weight of Amsel’s spell. The woman herself staggered then righted herself. He watched motionlessly from the ground as she turned her attention back towards him. Somewhere outside the courtyard the referee made another call.

“Did you hear that, Potter?” she asked, exhaustion touching her voice. “He said that strike was in my favor. That means I have only one hit left to make before the match ends. I should make it count, shouldn’t I?”

She started towards him, and he made a choked sound and tried to get up. He flopped backwards limply, one arm laid trapped beneath him and the other losing its grip on his wand. His wand rolled out of his hand, and Amsel detoured slightly in order to pick it up again. She retrieved it and carefully put it back in his hand, kneeling over him. She smiled down at him coldly.

“Ah-ah, you have to still be holding it when I cast my last spell or the match is forfeit. And I really want to be known as the woman who defeated the Great Harry Potter,” she sneered. “Although, I don’t know that you live up to all the hype. I mean really, without the full moon? Look at you. You’re pathe-”

He pulled his hand from beneath his back and stabbed her in eye.

She screamed in surprise and pain and threw herself away from him. He tried to keep hold of the knife, but it slipped from his grip. He rolled over and tried to crawl after her. His magic was almost completely gone, what little he had had before his possession nearly snuffed out by the violent exorcism of Rhiannon and Greyback. The knife was his only chance for survival.

The referee made another call.

Two for Amsel, two for me, Harry calculated.

The last one was for keeps.

He struggled after her, his limbs feeling numb and heavy. He tucked his wand back up his sleeve. It was useless to him now. Screaming in pain, Amsel clambered back, kicking at him blindly. He grunted when the strikes hit, but kept going until he was on top of her, reaching for the knife. She screamed again and pointed her wand at him.

“Incendio!”

He rolled off her before she could curse him and circled around on all fours before she could get a good shot. She heard him moving and pointed her wand again, and he rolled a second time to avoid her curse.

Staying upright was difficult. He was starting to regain feeling, but he was exhausted and dizzy. Amsel continued to flail and curse on the ground, blinded but still dangerous. Very quietly and very carefully he crawled away from her, even as she crawled away from him. They retreated to different corners of the courtyard.

Harry watched Amsel’s blurry form cautiously. He had left his glasses in his room, and without divine interference he was almost as blind as she was. Almost, but not quite. He couldn’t help but flinch as she struggled to pull out his knife with one hand while still holding up her wand in the other, not so much from the indistinct sight as but from the uncomfortable squishingsounds she was making. Right now, she couldn’t or wouldn’t open her remaining eye, but once the knife was out she might be able to force herself to. He, on the other hand, had absolutely no weapon and barely enough strength to stand. He wasn’t quite sure which of them was in the worse position, although he certainly didn’t envy her.

He looked around, but outside of the courtyard the world was all darkness and shadowy silhouettes. No help from that corner. He would have to find a way out of this situation himself.

Slowly and as quickly as possible, he removed his shoes and outer shirt.

He had no time to be embarrassed or to second guess himself. This was a matter of life and death. He needed to get close to her while she was still relatively helpless, and to do that he had to be absolutely and totally quiet. Sirius and Remus and the other hunters of the Goddess Colony had shown him how. Once he was down to just his pants and undershirt, he got down on all fours to keep his body a smaller target and slowly crept forward.

The floor was cold and hard on his knees and hands, but it was his breathing that he had the most difficulty with. His heart was pounding and he wanted to be gasping for every breath, but he didn’t dare for fear she would hear him.

“Crucio!” she screamed suddenly. Harry tensed to dodge, but she was pointed the wrong way. The spell hit a wall and sent the room rippling with light. He froze, not daring to breathe. “Crucio!” she tried again casting even further off course.

She was panicking.

Slowly, Harry continued to stalk closer. All he needed to do was get close enough to jam the knife deeper into her skull with his hand. It would kill her instantly. He felt sick as he imagined it, her brains squirting out the ravaged socket as she convulsed around the knife like a landed fish.

He didn’t let himself stop.

“Dammit, where are you, you little monster!” she shouted in frustration and pain.

You’ll know in just a moment.

When he was within a meter of her, he stood up very carefully. He took one small step forward. The sudden flare of her nostrils was the only warning he had before her wand was pointed straight at him. He dropped back down to the ground and rolled away, barely missing her third pain curse. He scurried back on all fours as quickly as he could before jumping to his feet to retreat still further and faster. His entire body shook violently, part cold and part adrenaline.

“Nice try,” she crowed. She was grinning, but she sounded strained. Being stabbed in the face would probably do that. “But I can smell your monster stink from halfway across the room.”

He blinked. Could she really?

He took an experimental sniff and grimaced. Yes, she probably could. Stress and exertion were making him sweat profusely.

He would have to resort to a speed attack. Would she fall for him throwing one of his boots as a distraction? He never got to find out. Amsel had given up on the knife and was now climbing to her feet. She finally seemed to have regained some control over herself. Harry conversely felt himself losing his nerve.

“This is so stupid,” she said. “But I congratulate you. You were a lot more challenging than I thought you would be even without the full moon.”

She lifted her wand to the sky a second time. Harry bolted forward. If this spell was the same as the other, it would kill him for sure. At the sound of his approach, she paused just long enough to throw up a shield around herself. He stopped himself just short of smashing into it. He quickly withdrew again before she could get off another curse at him.

Now what?

Above him, a fog was beginning to form, obscuring the liquid blackness. The more Amsel incanted the thicker it became until it was a rolling mass of storm clouds, cackling and rumbling with thunder. Harry was reminded of the storm during the final battle of Hogwarts. Did she mean to make a reenactment? Lightening burst out from the cloud, striking the ground between them and branching out to climb the surrounding wards. Harry was blinded by the light, first in front of him and then all around him as the wards burned and danced with absorbed magic.

And then it started to rain.

A freezing downpour that left them both immediately soaked to the bone. Harry practically screamed. It hurt. The cold was bad enough, but the rain itself was saturated with Amsel’s magic, sending his magus hypersentia into overload. His feet splashed loudly in the puddles pooling on the floor. Amsel swung her wand towards the sound. She didn’t say a word, but lightening followed her point and crashed down beside him. It missed him, only just, and knocked him off his feet. He landed heavily, face first into ground. He laid there stunned for moment, wondering if he was dead.

But no, he was in too much pain to have died. His body was wracked by cold, and his skin felt as if it were on fire. Silently, he thanked the gods he was still alive. If Amsel had summoned true lightening and not just her magical version of it, she would have killed him. Of course, if she would have used true lightening, she would have killed them both.

The torches had all gone out from the rain, smothered as much by magic as wetness, but there was not a complete darkness. The wards were glowing and rippling with light constantly now, a dancing kaleidoscope that ebbed and flowed, making shadows out of nothing. Even in his pain, Harry couldn’t help but notice how breathtakingly beautiful it was.

He touched his face instinctively, expecting to see blood. But the sterilization charm was still in place and there was no blood. But something else caught him by surprise. It was the sight of the scars on his hand glowing beneath the blood. The more he stared at it, the more he became aware that out of his entire body, only his hands still seemed to feel anything close to warm.

“Are you still alive, little monster?” Amsel taunted from the other side of the room. Despite her arrogance, her voice was shaking too. She as wet and cold as he was, and now just as magically depleted after using a second spell of such incredible power. The shield charm broke, and she didn’t have the strength to put it back up. This last spell would be enough, however, as she could use the lightening repeatedly without casting the spell again. If it killed her in the end… she hadn’t expected to leave there alive to begin with. “I think you must be. They haven’t called the match yet.”

Harry wasn’t listening to her. He was staring at his palms.

The Sword of Gryffindor, forever in his hands.

Through the mind-numbing cold and pain, an idea formed.

Slowly, clumsily, he got back to his feet. He took two deep breaths. He ran straight for her. The water had already risen to his ankles and splashed noisily around him, so he didn’t bother keeping silent and screamed a battle cry as he hurled himself towards her. He could just barely make her out through the curtain of rain, but he knew when she had turned her wand on him.

He threw up his hands to meet the lightening. It hit him full on this time, searing through him. It gripped him like a living thing, shaking him and lifting him off the ground and finally slamming him into wards. There was deafening boom and the sound of cracking glass, but the barrier held. Barely. The lightening retreated and Harry slid to the floor.

He did not move.

Outside the barrier, the referee called the match.

Amsel let out a choked laugh. Victory now hers, she risked the momentary weakness in order to seize the knife and finally pull it free from her socket. It scraped away bone as it went and poured blood, and she released a cry of pure agony as she let the blade fall to the floor. But the pain receded into numbness and the blood disintegrated.

Gasping for breath, she staggered towards her fallen query. She had to see him. She had to know for sure that he was dead. It hadn’t been her ultimate goal, but she would have to settle for it. Carefully, she opened her remaining eye. Her vision was still blurry and rain didn’t help, but she could see Potter. He lay lifeless, partially submerged by the water. On the other side of the ward, staring down at the boy knelt the Dark Lord. He wasn’t crying or wailing, but the mere act of kneeling made her think he was experiencing something as close to grief as a monster like him was capable of.

It made her smile to see it.

She continued to stumble forward. Now she wanted to see the look in the Dark Lord’s eyes as much as she wanted to see Potter’s corpse. Stupid boy. If he hadn’t been so arrogant he might truly have won. She had fought any number of werewolves and lycanthrosis carriers, human and wolf form, but she hadn’t been prepared for his incredible speed and power. It had been her experience that neither lycanthropy nor lycanthrosis increased magical ability, and he had been so very, very powerful. Up until the point that she had taken the moon from him. Whatever he had been, she was glad she had ended him. As much as she would have liked her true plan to have been carried out, she was at least comforted to know that whatever strange new lycanthropic mutation he possessed would not be passed on. She did not think any of her successors would have the strength or the nerve to face a monster of his caliber.

She reached them and stared down at the top of the Dark Lord’s head and the almost peaceful expression of Potter’s pale face. Would it be unsporting to smash his face in with her boot heel, she wondered, or just thorough? If she was going to do it, she should do it now she decided. Her feet were starting to go numb. She lifted her foot and only then noticed that sheen of ice had started to form around Potter’s body.

The Dark Lord suddenly looked up at her with his crimson eyes and a smile only the devil could hope to rival. Below him, Potter opened his eyes. She didn’t even have time to blink when she felt a sharp pain in her chest. She jerked in surprise and tried to step back, but her feet were now frozen to the floor. Lifting her free hand to her chest, she felt something sharp and cold. She looked down. A sword was now protruding from her chest. It was a beautiful weapon, clear as glass along the blade and encrusted with diamond-like crystals near the hilt. It was so cold to the touch it couldn’t have been anything other than ice. Following the blade down, she could see Potter’s right hand clutched tight around the hilt, nearly blue from cold.

Goddamn. She had fallen for the same trick twice.

She tried to speak, but when she did the pain came with complete breathlessness. He had punctured her lung. She made one last desperate attempt with her wand, attempting to cast an unspoken spell, but Potter heaved himself up and drove the blade further until it burst through her back. The pain was too incredible to think, let alone cast.

Her legs gave out under her and she collapsed to her knees.

Blood was filling her lungs and rising up her gullet, but as soon as it passed her lips it disappeared. She had only moments left. She could do nothing more than stare at Potter, her murderer, and he in turn stared back, such unnaturally green and yet perfectly human eyes. She had expected him to look triumphant, but he merely looked pained and tired and perhaps a little bit relieved. He looked so ordinary.

Such a clever little monster, hiding in that human skin.

But she was a clever monster too.

With the last of her strength, she hurled herself down further onto the blade and sank her teeth into the exposed flesh of his shoulder.

Voldemort jerked when he saw Amsel throw herself forward. He didn’t realize what she was doing until Harry let out a choked scream. He hissed angrily and turned to the referee.

“The match is over, take down the ward.”

The referee was staring in shock, much like everyone else, at the two.

“I- I can’t.”

Voldemort gave her a look that conveyed how very dangerous her position had suddenly become.

“I can’t! The wards won’t deactivate until the spells are! It’s a safety measure even I can’t bypass!” she cried in fright.

He hissed at her in parseltongue and drew his wand. The two Musketeers that were guarding the Queen quickly pulled their own wands in case of violence. But Voldemort didn’t point his wand at the Queen or the referee. With a snarled cursed he annihilated the closest of the inner columns. It dissolved into dust, and without its physical support the wards attached to it withered, breaching the protective barrier. Icy water poured from the courtyard and into the pavilion. The Musketeers quickly pulled the Queen from the building despite her indignant protests, and the referee fled. Morgan and Lestrange were running from the other side of the pavilion to meet him, but he didn’t wait for them.

Not daring to curse Amsel while she was still attached to Harry, he seized her by her hair and tore her free. His protégé cried out in pain and when he looked he could see she had torn a piece out of him. She was still alive, barely, after he had thrown her. The sword went with her and without Harry holding it and feeding it magic, the ice sword shattered.

He thought to kill her there, taking her head with a flick of his wand, but he knew he would want to question her later. Instead, he turned his attention to Harry. He had to undo or at the very least weaken whatever Amsel had done to him. The boy didn’t resist as the Dark Lord pulled him up. He had neither the strength nor the will left, but just in case he found either the Dark Lord cast a muscle relaxing spell. The already limp Harry was now completely boneless in his arms.

He placed his mouth over the open wound in his neck and bit down.

Harry screamed again.

“Stop!Stop!”

Around them the water was starting to turn to ice as the magic Harry had stolen from Amsel’s lightening leaked back out through the scars in his palm. His attack had been a brilliant plan only the mad could have thought of, and only Harry could have pulled off. But the water had already dropped too low for the ice to be used as a weapon against himself, and even if it hadn’t, Voldemort wasn’t concerned about it. His only concern was removing whatever it was Amsel had tried to infect Harry with, even if he had to hurt his protégé to do it.

He bit wider and deeper than Amsel. His mouth filled with the taste of blood. He spat it out quickly and then bit again to take another mouthful. Harry continued to scream in his arms. There was nothing to be done about it. It had to be agony. He wasn’t a vampire. His teeth, while slightly pointed at the canines, were not designed to draw blood easily, and his saliva was a venom not an anesthetic. But the venom was something Harry could and had survived. If it killed Amsel’s affliction, so much the better.

Morgan was suddenly kneeling across from him. He didn’t speak or question, merely waited for instruction.

Voldemort spat out another mouthful of blood and paused only long enough to ask.

“Where is the medi-wizard?”

“The referee was the medi-wizard. Lestrange is chasing her down.”

Voldemort merely grunted, already preoccupied with sucking at the wound. Harry gasped, but this time kept himself from screaming. He was starting to go into shock.

“I assume you want Amsel alive?” Morgan asked, giving the writhing creature a skeptical look. Voldemort lifted his head and spat out the last mouthful. He gave the gaping wound an assessing glare. It was a ragged and his venom had started to turn the surrounding flesh black.

He turned his crimson gaze to Amsel. She stared back, her eyes wide and filled with a hysterical sort of pleasure and terror.

“Alive-ish. I don’t expect miracles. Keep the body in our custody if all else fails,” Voldemort ordered quietly. Whether she lived or not, he would have his answers from her.

But for now, his protégé was a more immediate concern.

In his arms, Harry’s limp body suddenly started to convulse.

1. Ductimio is a spell that removes water from the body. Depending on how powerfully it is cast, it can cause anything from mild dehydration to complete desiccation resulting in death.↩

2. Volomilleacus pretty much comes out to mean ‘a thousand flying needles’. You can probably figure out what it does just from the translation.↩

3. Flagellicitio is a flogging spell. At this point in the fight, Amsel and Harry aren’t actually trying to kill each other yet, but trying to make the other bleed.↩

4. The disinfecting spell that Voldemort used on the arena is one of many spells commonly used in wizarding hospitals. It’s designed to banish bodily fluids once they’ve left the body, with the exception of tears. No blood, no diseases or blood-born curses.↩

Unfinished

This book is a work in progress. You can find the latest pages on fanfiction.net:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5782108/1/Harry-Potter-and-the-Methods-of-Rationality

If you find a chapter that isn’t included in this book, please let the editor know:

https://github.com/brendanlong/prince-of-the-dark-kingdom/issues