PART II
The flames had been considerably lowered, but the fire still burned. Long shadows danced on John Hanley's face.
He did not flinch when somebody laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Come and rest," his wife said, sitting down by his side. "Thou didst hardly sleep in the last two days."
He turned to look at her. "So didst thee. Please, do not stay awake for me."
Anne took his hand. "If not for thee, then for whom?" A small, sorrowful smile curved her lips. "I will not have another occasion, if thou follow thy plan."
"Now, now, my wife, what hast thou to complain?" He said lightly, caressing her hand. "I leave thee with our dear relations and with enough funds to provide for thee and our children."
Anne opened her mouth, then closed it without a sound. "Art thou thinking of thy father, the Lord rest his poor soul?" she whispered after a pause. "Is it his memory that drives thee?"
"Perhaps. I cannot deny it…"
"I know those were hard times for you… Thou and James were so young and mother Hanley worked hard to raise you and keep your father's trade, but why hast thou…"
"Decided to leave thee and our children to the same fate? I only wish to protect you all." He turned toward the fire, his eyes lost in some place 24 years earlier. "At least, the children will not be here when they will arrest me." He forced a smile. "Do not be sad: remember our relations and your good funds."
"But thou leave me without thee…" she whispered.
"Oh, Anne…" John murmured, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. "My dearest Anne…"
She said nothing, but raised her hands to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt in her fists. She would not beg him – not out of pride, but out of knowledge it would have broken his heart – and that gesture was all she could allow herself.
A few feet behind them, their daughter Mary closed her eyes and turned her back on them, trying not to listen. The slow murmur of their lowered voices soon lulled her back to sleep.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Mary Hanley sighed softly and tried to turn, but only managed to disturb David, huddled against her side. Stilling all movement, trapped between her brother's body and her mother's back, she listened carefully: the hut was filled with the others' even breathing – and granny Meg's light snore.
Young Mary frowned a little, trying to figure out how long she had slept. If even Granny Hanley was asleep, dawn had to be quite far away – and she needed to relieve herself badly.
Slowly, quietly, she disentangled herself from her mother and brother's side and stood up, closing her eyes to remember where everybody slept, then started navigating through the dark, stuffy shed.
Mary stopped halfway to the door, blindly patting the hay until her fingers found warm, heavy fabric and she pulled a cloak out of the pile: the night air certainly wouldn't be as hot as their refuge.
Now the last obstacle: grandpa Peter, who slept near the door with a loaded pistol at his side.
Mary stood still for a moment, throwing the large cloak over her shoulders, then opened the door a little and slipped out quickly.
No voice called her back or asked who was there and she slowly let out a deep breath, fishing her wand out from her pocket. The moon was at its last quarter, giving little light, and the stars were occasionally covered by large grey clouds pushed by the cold wind. Dawn was still two or three hours away.
"Lumos."
The small flame cast a small circle of light around her, clearing her path. She adjusted the cloak around her shoulders and hurried into the wood, as her father had instructed them.
They were not to leave a trace – and Mary was not afraid of the forest anymore. She had her wand, her mother's lessons in the past years and, above all, the bitter knowledge that the most frightening creatures were not those who lived among the trees.
She walked until the hut was out of sight.
Later, she would wonder how long it had actually taken her, how far she had gone. The way back felt longer, so much longer – but then, time itself had vanished, stretched almost to breaking point.
Later, she would remember her annoyance at the wind tangling her hair, tugging at her cloak and blowing her skirts against her legs.
Ironic, since it was the wind that saved her.
At first it was voices, fragments of sentences – but she thought it was just her imagination giving shape to the rustling of the leaves.
The sounds grew more definite – a soft whispering she couldn't decipher – and trembling lights shone among the branches.
Mary stopped dead in her tracks and whispered the counterspell, turning off her wand. One hand gripped the folds of her cloak and with the other she crossed herself – both hands were shaking, but the cold had nothing to do with it.
Thoughts raced through her mind – she tried to recall all the magic creatures she knew and which one of them could have done such a thing. Goblins? Hinkypunks? But they used only lights and this wasn't a bog…
Then, the voices rose and merged into a single, wordless scream and a shot rang out.
Mary gripped her skirt and ran forward, for she had realized that something worse than Goblins had arrived at the hut.
The lights grew brighter, shadows danced back and forth. More screams.
The hut was not far now. Mary hid behind a large tree and swallowed hard, gathering all her courage. Her instinct told her to turn around and flee back into the forest, away from those terrible sounds, but she tried to ignore it.
She had to see, she had to know – but she had to be careful, too.
She darted from tree to tree, moving closer, mindfully avoiding the dots of light.
She was so close she could recognize all the voices, now. Quietly, she sank to her knees and crawled into a cluster of bushes, peeking between their thin branches and yellowed leaves.
The hut was surrounded by men – Muggles of all ages, some not much older than her – from the village and the farms nearby, carrying torches and whichever weapons they could find.
The firelight gleamed on pitchforks, scythes and sickles. There were even a couple of muskets – keepsakes from the war now called back into service.
All eyes – as cold as snow, as hard as rocks – were on the prisoners who walked or were dragged out of the shack.
Mary couldn't see the door, but she could see them lining up on the grass.
Grandma Meg wept without a trace of her usual command, looking suddenly small and fragile. Grandma Mary was holding Martin close to her chest, trying to soothe him as he squirmed and cried, looking for his mother – but aunt Martha was nowhere to be seen.
Anne, her mother, stood tall and proud, one hand on David's shoulder and the other caressing little Sam's head. She looked like a lady sitting for a portrait, if not for her dishevelled air and her four-year-old hiding against her plain, crumpled skirt.
Next to her was – Mary almost gasped when she recognized aunt Bess. Her hands and clothes were covered with blood, it had even sprayed her face. Her gentle eyes were wild and devoid of anything save heart-wrenching horror. When Mary could not find her cousins anywhere – lively Grace, sweet Maggie whom she had carried on her back for hours just the previous day! – she understood.
A man pushed uncle Matthew into the group: he was holding his bleeding arm with the other, his head sunk between his shoulders. She could not see his face and she was grateful for that.
Next came uncle James: a Muggle walked behind him with a sickle half-raised, yet he limped on unhurriedly, as if he was strolling in a garden.
There a movement among the Muggles, a glimmer of light that caught her eye. A red-headed man approached one of the guardians, keeping away from the wretched group.
"What of the others?" he asked.
"Silas and Tim are bringing out the last one," the older peasant replied. "Abram shall come for the dead with his cart later."
The other man nodded. "At what o'clock?"
He did not get his answer, for two things happened in close sequence: first, John Hanley saw him as he stepped out of the door and lunged at him with a furious roar; second, his elder son took advantage of the ensuing confusion to slip away from his mother's side.
For a few moments, chaos reigned. Torches wavered, weapons fell, Muggles shouted and yelled, some moving out of the way, some running to restrain him and others gathering around his kin, trying to push them back and away from him – and behind them, David ran.
Mary could not tear her gaze away from him as his short legs devoured yard after yard. Her heart hammered in her chest as if she had been running with him. One hand clutched the silver cross around her neck, the other her wand as her lips moved without a sound – if in prayer or encouragement, she couldn't tell.
She dared not hope, but he was so close now, her soul was filled with it to the brim.
'I will call him as soon as he is safe, we shall flee into the wood together…' Her own muscles tensed in anticipation. 'Just a few yards…'
A shot thundered above all the noise.
The boy's breath caught in his throat – he let out a strangled gasp as his small body tensed from the sudden pain in his back. The momentum of the race fed one more step, then he staggered and tumbled on the dark grass.
Mary's hands flew to her mouth, pressing forcefully on her lips, choking back any sound.
She heard nothing, she saw no movement, as if every single person had been caught in a game of freeze tag.
Then, her father lunged at the red-headed man again, almost breaking free from the four Muggles holding him.
John Hanley's blood-smeared face contorted in anguish as he screamed, "WEASLEY!"
Mary shivered – she had never heard anybody scream like that, never known that a single word could hold so much hatred, rage and agony. It sounded like a horrible, unstoppable curse.
She would never forget that cry.
Voices rose and mingled again, but, to her, it was just a jumbled buzz.
She was hazily aware that the crowd began to move, carrying the prisoner back to the village, but she dared not look up.
The torchlight gradually moved away, shadows crept back on the turf. Footsteps and voices dimmed and faded in the distance.
The whistling of the wind was the only sound once again.
For a long time, there was nothing else.
Slowly, as if she had to concentrate all her thoughts on each movement, Mary pushed herself to her feet. Her legs trembled and she felt cold, cold to the core.
Supporting herself against the trees and shrubs, she stumbled out of the wood and crossed the lawn, like a sleepwalker trapped in a nightmare.
Her brother lay there, his hair lightly ruffled by the wind.
Mary dropped on her knees by his side, barely feeling the pain of the fall. A quivering hand reached out, hesitantly hovering above his head.
"David…" she whispered, not recognizing her own voice. "David…" His hair felt soft under her fingers.
Surely he would stop playing now. He did it all the time when they quarrelled, all the time: if she made to hit him, he threw himself on the ground and pretended to be hurt until he had scared the anger out of her. She always fell for it, always, but now it was no time for play…
Then she realized his eyes were open.
David always closed his eyes when he played dead. He was not moving.
Her hand shot back to her mouth, only half-muffling the wail streaming though her lips.
For long minutes, Mary just sat there, like a statue.
When she stood up again and turned her steps toward the hut, she moved like an old woman. The cloak hung askew on her shoulders, blowing and flapping in the breeze like a dark wing.
The door had been kicked down, its thin structure barely offering any resistance. Even from the threshold, the smell of blood and sweat was clear. Dark, uneven shapes lay among the scattered hay.
Mary shrank back quickly, slamming her back against the wooden wall.
"Oh Lord, help us!" she sobbed, struggling not to break down. "Help us…"
She pulled the cloak closer, as if to get some warmth back, and tried to steady her broken breathing, filling her lungs with air.
Eastward, the stars were already beginning to fade.
Mary looked at the clearing sky and swallowed hard. Her mother had often told her that she would be able to accomplish anything with magic – but her limited training could not help her or family.
Or maybe it could?
'Think, Mary! Think!'
She closed her eyes, picturing in her mind the map her father had drawn in the air a few hours earlier.
There was only one thing to do.
Mary pushed herself away from the wall and covered her head with the hood, then cut across the meadow and entered the wood on the other side, this time not bothering to cover her tracks.
About fifteen minutes later, she stood at the edge of the fields.
Dawn was steadily replacing twilight, lifting the shadows. Mary glanced nervously at the sky, then at the brown land laying in front of her.
If she met somebody else there, all would be lost – there was no place to hide, no chance of not being seen.
Among the branches, birds chirped their songs. Tugging the hood more firmly on her head, Mary gathered her skirts and ran out of the safety of the wood, across the fields, as fast as she could.
Within half an hour, she reached the Weasleys' cottage.
The barn was closer and she hid behind it, listening as she waited to get her breathing back under control. The only sound was the occasional lowing from the shed – no footsteps, no voices, nothing.
Carefully, Mary peered out from behind the corner: the yard looked empty and she couldn't see very well with her hood up, but she did not dare to push it down.
She mentally counted to ten, but nothing moved.
Wondering if it was a trap, she pulled the wand from her pocket before scuttling toward the farmhouse.
She flattened herself against the wall and listened at the window, but, again, no sound came. Doubling over, she passed under the windows and approached the door – her fingers clenched the wand even tighter when she noticed it was not locked.
Carefully, Mary pushed it open and slipped inside after counting to ten, closing it again behind her. The large kitchen was empty, but its inhabitants had left in a hurry, as witnessed by the half-eaten bread and dirty tumblers still on the table.
Without giving her surroundings a second glance, Mary came to the large fireplace, almost tripping over a kettle. The fire was dying out, so she hurriedly fed it a couple of sticks from a nearby pile and started inspecting all the jars and pots on the mantelpiece.
None of them held what she needed.
Mary frowned, inspecting every nook and cranny close by.
'No body would keep it far from the fire…Ah!' She pulled out a small box and opened it, revealing the fine glittering dust inside.
Her heart beat loudly with relief as she took a fistful and snapped the lid closed. Then, she made to place it on the mantel, but stopped herself halfway and put it back in its hiding place.
A second later, the powder was vigorously thrown into the fireplace and emerald-coloured flames rose to meet her, roaring.
Without hesitation, Mary stepped into the fire, shouting her destination: "Hogwarts!"
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Hogwarts Castle
Janett Davies truly did not mind sitting up in the Lavender Room: at her age, she did not sleep much and the warmth from the fires burning day and night did her aching joints a lot of good.
Besides, it was a nice, spacious room – it was good they had redirected all arrivals there, now that they didn't get as many.
The unicorn carved on a mantelpiece turned his head and spoke in its low, artificial tone: "One cometh."
Janett blinked and pushed herself up, tapping the table on her left with her wand: several jugs of drinks and herbal teas appeared, along with dishes full of biscuits and pies.
Just in time: a dark-haired girl stepped out in a cloud of soot. Her clothes were wrinkled and stained, a cloak too big hang around her shoulders.
"Welcome, dear. Here, let me take thy cloak…" Janett said, shuffling toward her.
The girl straightened her back, her eyes darting from one corner to the other. "Is this Hogwarts?"
"Of course, dear. Make thyself at home, thou art safe now – what is thy name, dear? Dost thou care for a glass of butterbeer?"
"No. I am Mary Hanley and I must speak with Headmaster Macmillan immediately," the girl replied in a cold, controlled voice.
The old woman blinked, confused. "At this time? But…at least a cup of…"
"Immediately." Even under the dust, her face looked grave and authoritative beyond her age and her eyes burned fiercely.
Janett swallowed hard and decided against trying with a biscuit. "Right, well… I shall call him. If you would follow me…"
The young lady nodded gracefully. As she led her to the Headmaster's private sitting room, Goody Davies didn't even realize she had automatically switched to the respectful form.
TBC...
Author's note: at the beginning of the chapter, Anne mentions her father-in-law. David Hanley was arrested for witchcraft in 1632 and subsequently executed at the age of 29. At that time, his sons John and James were respectively 9 and 5 years old
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