Chapter Eleven ~ The Centaur Liberation Front

FIRENZE

Mars shone brightly over the treetops.

It was a symbol of conflict. The summons Firenze had received would be a call to arms.

He had trod the forest alone since leaving his post at Hogwarts. The trees had guided him, keeping him well clear of Bane and the rest of his former clan. He was a Centaur without a home, without kin, which was really no Centaur at all. But he feared that the cost of rejoining his clan would be a steep one.

A furtive, many-legged creature scurried underfoot, but beat a hasty retreat at the sound of Firenze's hooves scraping against the ground. The wide berth given the Centaurs by defenseless creatures evinced the need for gentleness and compassion: this was a lesson often repeated by Ronan, who had led Firenze's first hunt. Yet, to Ronan's mind, the Wizarding folk of the castle did not merit this same care. It weighed on Firenze to see the youths of the clan trail after Ronan in idolatry, learning fear and mistrust in one breath with wisdom and survival.

In the time it had taken Firenze to follow the stars to the North end of the forest, many others had already gathered at the Oak Parthenon. Here a natural depression in the forest floor allowed pockets of subterranean water to rise to the surface, attracting hosts of swamp-dwelling Hinkypunks. More smoke than flesh, the demons were no threat to the Centaurs. Their lanterns bobbed to and fro across the muddy expanse of vines and fallen Pines, offering natural illumination on moonless nights. All around the swamp Centaurs had taken great pains to grow a barrier of Oak trees to keep penned in the accused brought to the Parthenon for sentencing, and to ward off intruders.

Currently the enclosure was packed fuller than Firenze had seen it since long before his first hunt. Every Centaur able to cross the forest, old and young, had answered the call.

Ronan stood proud by the Parthenon's East border, raised above all others on a dome woven of vines and Cedar. To his left stood Nessus, and her silver-haired grandfather, venerable Chiron. To his right were Bane and Magorian, newest appointees to the council of five.

Firenze noticed that many of the Centaurs he had known as a foal nodded discreetly at his passage, casting nervous looks in the council's direction.

The assembly was called to attention when Ronan uttered a primordial cry, of the kind Firenze had come to associate with his own misdeeds. His instinct remained to stand straight at the sound, head held high in an admission of remorse.

"My kin!" boomed Ronan. "You have answered my call. I see many faces here tonight, new and old, whose loyalty I shall not forget. You are entitled now to the full truth of that which the stars may not yet display."

A ripple of unease spread through the crowd. It was known that Centaurs of the Eastern forest paths did not hold to the dictates of the stars so firmly as those of the West. Ronan, though serving in the East, had been born in the far reaches of a Western hollow. His words struck unease in the minds of the clan's elders. Fifty pairs of eyes fixed upon Ronan with renewed attention.

"For many seasons now have the humans profaned our forest with merchants stripping wandwood from our homes, and dark mages treading on lands rightfully ours. The ink on their decrees may have emboldened them, but we do not recognize their claim to our territories. Though we extended them a hand in comradeship during the Dark Lord's battle, they have refused us the respect we are owed. We have fought the injustice dealt by Wizarding forces, and we have bled for our kin!"

Bane and Chiron were nodding solemnly. Many of the foals in attendance wore rapturous expressions, as though Ronan's words were a revelation. Firenze's unease grew.

"But today, at last, the humans go too far!" Ronan thundered.

He nodded over his shoulder, and a pathway was cleared in the throng to make way for a pair of Centaurs carrying a third figure on their backs. Groans of dismay were heard all around the Parthenon.

The inert form of Raif, a Centaur no more than a few seasons old, was lowered to the ground at Ronan's feet. His eyes were vacant, reflecting only starlight.

"This monstrosity has been the work, not of the school of wizards, but of Mugglekind," said Ronan. He need no longer shout. His voice carried over the preternatural silence that had settled on the assembly. "Yes, that is the truth. Muggles, who have so boldly invaded Wizarding lands just as our lands were invaded, now go further. They venture into our forest, slaughter our kin. I ask you, friends, will you stand with me against this injustice?"

A murmur of assent rose from the crowd.

"Will you stand with me?" Ronan repeated.

The Centaurs roared their approval. Somewhat to his own surprise, Firenze found himself cheering along with them. There were tears in his eyes; he had known Raif for a very good sort.

Ronan nodded again. Through his nascent fervor Firenze noticed that Bane looked reluctant this time. For a moment nothing happened, and then Firenze understood.

A stout-legged creature with coal-black eyes had slunk into view before the council. The Centaurs stiffened. Many hissed obscenities in his direction. The creature appeared superbly unconcerned, and surveyed them all with thinly veiled contempt, waiting for Ronana to speak.

Firenze had met a Goblin but once before, at the castle during the Dark Lord's great battle. Heartened by the chance to fight side by side with another being so unlike himself, he had given little credence to the commonly held Centaur prejudice that all Goblins were creeping, half-formed miscreants. He could see, however, that many of his kin did not agree. Ronan himself was looking at the Goblin with unconcealed dislike.

"My kin, I ask you to heed me," cried Ronan. "Who among you has observed the stars of late? Who among you has seen in their portents, as I have, the return of a great and ancient reign?"

Firenze had seen it. The conflict ushered in so brusquely by the Dark Lord's resurrection had passed, and in its place the stars revolved in a very old, familiar pattern. The Centaurs kept no records of the skies, but rather passed down the progress of the stars in stories told from one generation to the next. Firenze recalled hearing of this celestial alignment as a foal. Like most of his kind, he took its resurgence to mean that the calm disrupted by the Dark Lord was to be restored.

But the word of the heavens was murky and uncertain, even to the Centaurs.

"Mugglekind has defied the stars!" Ronan went on. "They have declared battle on wand-carriers in utter folly, and against all odds, they have emerged victorious. The time has come to remove the scales from our eyes, friends. The Muggles have evolved faster than Centaurs had foreseen, and so to outwit them, the Centaurs must evolve as well."

"Then send away the Goblin!" cried a callow young Centaur from somewhere near the front. There were shouts of encouragement, quelled almost at once by Ronan's scowl.

"Goblinkind has led rebellions against wand-carriers in the past." Ronan swept them all with a glare. He looked as though the words were wrenched from him with great pain. "We here would do well to recall that there are things we stand to learn from our fellow beings. As we speak, envoys have been sent to the Giants of the mountain clans. There is no wisdom in turning away a willing ally."

Magorian's lip was curled in distaste. Chiron looked most unhappy. It was his granddaughter, instead, who cleared her throat to speak.

"You see before you the Goblin Griphook of Littlemoor," she said. "Ousted from his stewardship of Wizarding gold by the usurpers of Gringotts, he has pledged his kin to our cause. His assistance will double our numbers."

"Even so," called the same callow Centaur, who was hardly more than a foal, "you cannot expect us to take on the Ministry in full force!"

"The Wizarding Ministry of Britain is among the most securely guarded in the Commonwealth of Nations," said Nessus. "It will not serve us to approach it outright."

"We will first confront those more vulnerable establishments on the continent," said Ronan. "Once we have amassed further numbers there, we shall return from abroad with strength on our side."

His eyes were alight with conviction. It struck Firenze how greatly Ronan must believe in his cause, to invite even sworn enemies to fight by his side. Not only was the Goblin there, but Firenze, too, who had betrayed the principles Ronan held most dear.

"My kin, do I have your support?" cried Ronan once more.

This time the trees shook with the Centaurs' response. Firenze howled at the top of his voice, his eyes trained on the dead form of Raif.

"But how are we to make our way abroad?" asked a lone dissenter at the back of the assembly. "Are we to board a ship?"

At this Ronan gave way to Bane, who smiled.

"There is a tunnel," he said, "running underground from Folkenstone to Coquelles."


HARRY

Harry slept poorly on the nights following the Quodpot World Cup. Far from regretting the warm hearths and soft beds of the Durmstrang ship now that he was back to sleeping on thistles, he felt a hard pit of guilt in his stomach every time he thought of the flames devouring the Durmstrang grounds. His every instinct had called Harry to return and fight alongside Krum, for all that he knew his presence would have done more harm than good.

As the days shortened and Winter settled in, Harry could tell by the often irritable and short-winded conversations he shared with Ron and Hermione that they, too, were dispirited by the progress of their venture. He did his utmost to keep them from falling into discord as they had done while hunting for Horcruxes. At every opportunity Harry risked jaunts into Muggle cities while wearing the cloak, returning with local delicacies to serve for dinner. Each time, he also caught a glimpse of his face gazing out from a wanted poster.

At Hermione's insistence, they eschewed the coast and made a beeline for the South of France by way of Luxembourg, where a loophole in Wizarding law permitted unregistered foreign Portkeys to be pushed through the Office of Magical Transportation for approval without documentation.

"If we can't Apparate, we're not risking a Portkey," argued Ron when Hermione raised the subject at the end of November. As they had moved South through Germany the weather had steadily improved, so that they no longer spent their evenings casting ineffectual warming charms with increasing aggravation. Ron and Hermione were sitting cross-legged by a jar of Hermione's perennial bluebell flames, while Harry paced the periphery of the clearing where they had settled, keeping watch.

"No, no, we shouldn't travel by Portkey," Hermione agreed. "But there's a chance we'll be able to pick up news from home there. Luxembourg is a mecca for Wizarding commerce, according to the Potioneer's Quarterly. I went there with mum and dad when we traveled to France the Summer after second year." She wrinkled her nose. "There was so much black market business, they were selling Class A Non-Tradable goods in broad daylight."

"George'd love that," said Ron.

Hermione looked reproachful. "Of course, it could be dangerous."

"We're wanted fugitives in every country in the world," Harry chimed in over his shoulder. "How much more dangerous can it get?"

"I don't think we should be taking any of this lightly," said Hermione testily. "We don't know what we'll find in France and—"

"We'll find out when we get there," said Ron firmly, in a tone that said Drop it, already.

Before Hermione could voice a retort, there was a rustling noise from a nearby copse of trees. Though they had cast their customary protective enchantments, Harry quickly threw the Invisibility cloak over himself, Ron and Hermione, while Hermione Disillusioned their feet.

For a moment the forest was plunged in silence, and Harry held his breath.

"I told you we should have camped further from the road," moaned Hermione, barely moving her lips.

"Last time you walked us right into a swamp," whispered Ron.

Harry stomped on his foot. A familiar, minuscule man with a mane of grizzled hair had emerged from the trees.

"That's Barnabus Cuffe," mouthed Hermione, and Harry recognized the wizard he had seen on photographs in Horace Slughorn's office.

Cuffe was joined by a second man with a hooked nose, who looked thoroughly dispirited by his surroundings. This time it was Ron who stirred excitedly.

"Dragomir Gorgovitch!" he said. Harry could tell by his tone that they were thinking the same thing: What could a former Quidditch star and the Editor of the Daily Prophet be doing together in the woods outside a small town in Germany?

Cuffe pulled a gold pocket-watch from his robes and peered at it over his spectacles, tapping his foot. Harry heard Hermione whisper a spell, and suddenly he could hear twigs snapping under Cuffe's feet. Gorgovitch let out an exasperated sigh that was clear as day.

"Remind me again why we're meeting this charlatan in the middle of nowhere?" asked Gorgovitch.

"Best to change the meeting place," said Cuffe, unperturbed. "Too many Muggles at the farmhouse."

Gorgovitch sniffed. "He's late."

Cuffe was not listening. A streak of orange had caught his eye. To Harry's horror, Crookshanks, who had been away for most of the evening hunting voles, scampered into view. Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged panicked glances, but Cuffe only smiled.

"Hello there," he said, crouching low to scratch between Crookshanks's ears. The latter moved unerringly to Cuffe's side and raised himself to paw at his robe pockets.

"Carrying Kneazleweed, Cuffe?" said Gorgovitch without humour.

Smiling, Cuffe revealed the contents of his pockets. He held out a small wax paper parcel, in which was wrapped an iced lemon cake. Crookshanks seized it between his teeth and carried it away, tail swinging.

"Odd little fellow," said Cuffe fondly.

"Wonder where he could have come from," said Gorgovitch, who looked more suspicious than amused.

"The woods are full of these creatures," Cuffe replied. "Now that the Supernatural Committees have risen to power, many Wizarding families are abandoning their homes, and leaving their pets behind if need be."

"Pests," muttered Gorgovitch.

A throat was cleared. This time, Harry had trouble keeping silent as a third man emerged from the trees. Furtively, with many sidelong glances, Ludo Bagman stepped into the open. He nodded to Cuffe and Gorgovitch. His hand remained in his pocket, where Harry was certain it must be clenched around his wand.

Bagman had not aged well. His hair had thinned considerably since Harry had last seem him, and the jovial roundness to his features had turned to a pallid, aged sag that gave him the appearance of being worn down by life. Yet his robes remained cut of the finest violet materials, suggesting that he had yet to relinquish his lavish lifestyle.

"Found the place all right, did you?" said Bagman.

"Evidently," Gorgovitch replied.

Bagman looked uncomfortable. "I had the impression that I would be meeting Celestina."

"If you have a problem with either of our work—" Gorgovitch began loudly.

Cuffe stepped between them. "There was an incident with Cake," he said, placing particular emphasis on the word cake. Harry looked at Ron and Hermione to see that they shared his confusion. "Warbeck had to step in and take care of it while Millie is… indisposed. One of my sources in the American Magical Congress has reported some shady business to do with the attacks on Durmstrang. I volunteered myself and Dragomir to meet with you in Warbeck's stead while traveling up to Norway to verify the story."

"Of course, of course," said Bagman, nodding. "You'll have to forgive my lateness. I was intercepted." He spoke this last with a significant look at Cuffe, who groaned.

"What did she want?"

"Same as always. She had all sorts of questions about Cake."

"I'll do my best to keep her off your trail," said Cuffe without conviction.

"Yes, well," muttered Bagman. "Let us hope she stays two paces behind."

"If you two don't mind," Gorgovitch interjected, "we don't have all night."

"Right." Bagman clapped his hands together. "Shall we make the trade, then?"

He reached into his cloak and produced a rectangular box rather disproportionate to the size of his pockets. Harry could only assume his cloak was imbued with undetectable extension charms, because the box had to be at least six feet long. Its weight threatened to crush Cuffe, who hid it quickly beneath the folds of his own cloak with the help of a few spells.

"A good job I was able to get my hands on it," said Bagman of the box. "Tracking down Augusta Longbottom alone was a feat. But I've amassed a few favors through the years. Tell Millie she owes me for this one."

In return, Cuffe handed Bagman a single scroll of parchment sealed in emerald wax.

"This should keep the Goblins off your back for the time being," he said. "Though I don't know that I can say the same for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"Ah, yes. Well, I must say, that debacle was hardly my fault. Many of the families who lost it all when the Dark Lord fell have been stoking the fire with these Supernatural Affairs Committees. I wouldn't put it past the Selwyns or the Malfoys to have staged that whole incident with the water main…"

Gorgovitch snorted. "I doubt the Malfoys are involved. The way I hear it, they're far too busy making a great show of mourning their brat to leave the house."

Bagman stared, round-eyed.

"Hadn't you heard?" asked Cuffe more softly. "The Malfoy boy is dead. Killed in the explosion at the Ministry. The body was too badly burned to be identified, but it's been confirmed. Of course, there's been a great deal of talk over what's to become of the Malfoy fortune—"

"Cuffe!" said Gorgovitch sharply.

"Yes!" said Cuffe, snapping to attention. "We really must be going. Until next time, then, Ludovic. Do try to keep out of trouble."

Bagman gave a wink that was more piteous than sly, and Disapparated with a crack. A moment later Cuffe and Gorgovitch had vanished as well. Harry threw off the cloak. Ron and Hermione stared back at him, at a loss for words.