Whoa. I can't believe it's been almost two months since my last update. Sorry! I've just been really busy, but that's really not a good excuse. I promise the next chapter will be up a lot quicker.
A bad messenger brings trouble,
but a faithful envoy, healing. -Proverbs 13:17
Tyr Ulfhednar trudged tiredly home, cloak pulled close to protect against the snow. In early December, the weather was still not nasty enough to cut down production. He wasn't the only werewolf soaked to the bone.
So it was a pleasant surprise indeed when he opened his door and found that his drafty home was already warm.
Tyr's guard snapped up. Warily, he looked around, sniffed the air, listened. Someone was in his house, he knew it. But why?
"My apologies for breaking and entering, Master Ulfhednar," said a cordial voice. Tyr stiffened.
"Who are you?" he growled. "And how do you know my name?"
The speaker was a tall, dark-haired man of about thirty-five years. He was pale, with strong, handsome features and intent brown eyes.
"My name," he said calmly, as though he wasn't facing an angry werewolf alone, "is Pollux Ophion Riddle, and I have a proposition for you."
Dobby the house-elf was miserable.
What in the world had he done wrong? He was a good house-elf, he couldn't help his nasty bad thoughts about his masters (and it certainly wasn't his fault that all the thoughts were true).
And yet here he was, an unwilling accomplice in his master's kidnapping scheme. Bad enough when Lucius had plotted to release the monster of the Chamber; this was even more dangerous. The girls he'd stolen (girls that Dobby silently fed, watered, and guarded each day) could die at any second.
The house-elf pondered this as he slaved away on the grounds, trembling like a leaf in the December cold. His hands were chapped from the wind and dryness, and his oversized ears were slowly turning blue at the tips. His work, Dobby noticed morosely, was slowing; he would have to jump out of the window again.
Then the owl came.
Dobby had been watching the owl for several minutes, envying its freedom and assuming that it would bring a letter to his master or mistress. Amazingly, though, it didn't. The messenger bird, a beautiful white specimen, landed before the startled house-elf and held out its claw.
Dobby blinked. "Is… is this for Dobby?"
The owl hooted impatiently.
Confused, he took the letter from the owl's feet. Immediately the bird leapt up and flew away, a white speck in the wide blue sky. Dobby stared after it for a moment, then remembered his job, jumped, and went back to work.
He didn't discard the letter, though. The mysterious missive was tucked beneath his pillowcase for safekeeping.
Later, when the yard was shoveled, the prisoners were fed, and the mistress's meal cooked, Dobby finally managed to unfold it, still wondering if the lovely owl had made a mistake.
It hadn't. There, in plain black ink, was his name.
Dobby grinned. Most house-elves didn't know how to read or write, but he'd taught himself when young Master Draco was a toddling babe and the child's mother had read him little fairy tales. Dobby had often been in the room then, waiting on Mistress Cissy and memorizing the stories. Later, he'd borrowed the Tales of Beetle the Bard and taught himself letters.
The other house-elves had thought him crazy, but he'd always known it was worth it.
Dobby turned the letter over, pausing briefly to note the strange seal: black wax in a circle with a flame at its center.
Dobby, the letter began, your master is possessed by the spirit of Lord Voldemort.
The house-elf's heart nearly failed. His hands trembled; his breath came in short gasps. He almost dropped the letter then and there; Master Lucius was horrible, but a host for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? It was impossible.
Your master is possessed by the spirit of Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord is taking advantage of Malfoy's Death Eater status to attempt to return to power, and his first plot involves the kidnappings. Voldemort (Dobby flinched) plans to use the girls to begin a second war; space prevents me from giving the details.
However, the fact that it is not Lucius Malfoy devising these schemes is incredibly convenient. Dobby, Lucius Malfoy is no longer giving you commands. You are bound to Malfoy; you are not bound to the Dark Lord.
My companions and I are planning a rescue attempt. When we come, Dobby, you must be ready to help.
Apollo Peverell, Smoking Mirror
The house-elf stared blankly at the letter, not knowing what to think. Whoever had sent it clearly knew about the kidnappings; it was just as clear that the author wasn't a member of the Ministry, or he would have brought in the Aurors.
Smoking Mirror… something about that tickled at his memory. Dobby thought of his mother, a sad, exhausted woman, singing him to sleep.
Smoking Mirror, serpent's brother….
The little he did remember made absolutely no sense. But then, neither did the proposal that his nasty no-good master (bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!) was possessed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
Yet it did make sense. The diary Lucius had been carrying around felt wrong, somehow, and he had been acting strangely.
Dobby glanced at the letter again. Lucius Malfoy is no longer giving you commands. And if it wasn't his master…
With a loud crack, the house-elf vanished. Just a moment later, he materialized in the summer home, panting and shaking. The house-elves weren't expressly forbidden to visit the prisoners, who couldn't escape anyways, but he should be doing other things, like beating himself over the head for thinking such terrible things.
Dobby stuck his head inside, hesitating. A few of the girls looked up, curious. House-elves usually didn't appear unless it was mealtime, and they had just been fed an hour ago. Dobby felt his ears quivering.
Lucius Malfoy had forbidden all three of his house-elves to speak with the prisoners. Of course, if it hadn't been Lucius, if it had been He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, then Dobby was perfectly capable of disobeying.
He opened his mouth, wondering what would happen. Would his voice give out?
"Hello," he said, and knew that the letter was true.
"My name is Pollux Ophion Riddle," Harry said, "and I have a proposition for you."
Tyr was still glaring at him. Harry wondered nervously if the Fae's disguise also blocked his odd effect on werewolves; he hoped so. If not, his game would be up.
But Tyr showed no recognition. The Winter Queen's illusion held.
"What kind of proposition?" the werewolf demanded suspiciously. Keeping his eyes on Harry, Tyr walked further into the house.
Harry held up his hands, doing everything to appear unthreatening. The werewolf didn't seem convinced. Harry spoke.
"My proposal requires a bit of explanation. May I sit down?"
Tyr nodded. He probably thought that Harry/Pollux would be less of a threat sitting down, unable to move as quickly.
"I've long had reason to believe that werewolves are not monsters, that you are in actuality guardians." Tyr believed this too; the other werewolves would have kicked him out the moment he spoke that sentence. This werewolf, though, simply nodded.
"I searched for more clues, unable to find any until a chance comment put me on the right path." He remembered Gilderoy Lockhart's arrogant posturing and fought back a sneer. "The incantation of the Homorphous Charm, wotan translycanis. I recognized the second word as a derivation of the Latin trans, across; the Greek werewolf-king Lycaon; and the Latin canis, dog. The first word, though, I had never heard.
"After more research, I learned that Wotan was the Germanic name of Odin, a Norse battle-god strongly associated with wolves. Odin led the original berserkers, the bear-skins, and a caste of warriors who could supposedly transform themselves into wolves."
"The ulfhednar," Tyr commented.
Harry pulled up short, startled. "You know of this?"
"Of course," the other answered. "I've done research, myself." His face was grim. He sighed heavily. "That trail led me for almost two years before it finally went cold. It doesn't lead anywhere."
The Parseltongue shook his head. "The trail led me somewhere, Master Ulfhednar. The book mentioning other ulfhednar called them the 'hounds of the god.'"
Tyr was frowning. "I've never heard that term," he admitted.
"I had. In a book of obscure canine lore, I had read about someone who used the same term: a mad old Muggle named Thiess. It took a while to find more information about him, but what I found was worth the wait.
"Thiess was born in Livonia in 1612. At the age of eighty, he was hauled before the local court on charges of lycanthropy. Instead of denying the accusation, Thiess pled guilty- but only after telling the court a wild tale. Werewolves, he claimed, were not evil beasts.
"This is where Muggle and wizard history differ. Muggle records state that Thiess claimed his people fought witches and wizards over the contents of blighted fields. Wizarding records explain that Thiess believed werewolves could kill ghosts."
"Ghosts?" Tyr interrupted skeptically.
Harry nodded. "That's what Thiess called them: 'ghosts, wraiths, shadow-beings.' But his description fit that of a dementor."
"You said he was Muggle," Tyr pointed out. "Muggles can't see dementors."
"I know they can't…. unless they've been bitten."
The werewolf blinked. "You're right," he said, surprised. Then he frowned. "So, Riddle, you think Thiess was right?"
"The dementor's description was incredibly accurate. Also, when the Wizarding government tried to punish Thiess, the Livonian dementors refused to take him. That's where I lost his trail, I don't know what happened then."
"It's the best lead I've had in years," Tyr said simply. "And I'm assuming that, since you came to me with a 'proposal,' you want me to follow up on the old man."
Harry nodded happily. "The international Floo in Diagon Alley connects to Livonia," he explained. He waved his wand, smiling as a suitcase materialized. "I have supplies- a thousand Galleons, Language Lozenges, an inflatable tent… things like that."
Tyr smiled slightly, something he didn't do often. "I see you've come prepared."
The younger wizard nodded. "I assumed that you'd want to get started right away. I have a Portkey that-"
"No," the werewolf interrupted. Harry blinked, pulled up short. "Pardon?"
"I need my wand."
Harry knew he had forgotten something. "Where is it?"
"In the Aurors' home," Tyr answered. His eyes said something else: How will you react to a challenge?
"I need directions," Harry replied. This is how, Tyr. Happy? Yet somehow, he believed that the elder wizard was fully capable of retrieving his own wand.
Ten minutes later, Pollux Ophion Riddle, dressed in the robes of an Auror, handed Tyr Ulfhednar his wand. Apparently, werewolf-watching was reserved for trainees, disgraces, and pureblood fanatics.
Shouldn't there be better security for a "colony of dangerous, feral criminals"?
"If the guards are that pathetic," he asked dryly, "why is the village still populated?"
Tyr met his eyes, gray boring into brown. "Because we have nowhere else to go."
Tears of frustration leaked from Dobby's eyes.
"Dobby is sorry!" he cried. Five times he'd tried to transport a girl to freedom; five times he'd failed.
Some of the prisoners glared at him accusingly; others wilted. Perhaps it had been cruel to give them false hope, but he'd had to try.
"Dobby cannot rescue you," he said, though they'd probably figured that out by then. "But- but Dobby will try to help." He hesitated. It was said that the Dark Lord could read minds….
Then he saw the girls' pitiful faces and gave in. "Dobby-Dobby has a letter," he announced shyly.
"Yeah, right," snarled one. "What kind of an idiot writes a house-elf? It's not like you can even read!"
Dobby glared. "It says that someone is coming to rescue you," he told them.
Instantly the mood shifted (so much for house-elves not being able to read). Girls crowded round the startled house-elf, begging for more details. Who would free them? When would he/she/they come? How were they going to do it?
"Dobby does not know when or how!" the slave cried. "Dobby only knows that Apollo Peverell says he will rescue you!" He also knew that Lucius Malfoy was possessed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but somehow doubted that telling them would help. "Dobby wishes he had more knowing, but-"
And then Mistress Cissy called, and Dobby could answer no more.
Harry Portkeyed into the Chamber of Secrets with a wide grin.
"Someone's chipper," observed Blaise, who was working with Neville on the next few "Better than Binns" notes.
The younger wizard nodded. "Tyr's going to Livonia," he explained.
"Do you think he'll find anything?" asked Neville.
Harry nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised if he comes back with a cure for lycanthropy's side effects."
"The Chalice of the Moon," Hermione mumbled.
All three boys blinked at her.
The young Ravenclaw looked up from The Book of Hope and Despair. "Saysa directed me to a prophecy that she thinks relates to werewolves…. Let me find it." She grabbed Helga's The Prophecies and flipped rapidly through. "Here it is! Seek the Chalice of the Moon/ to break the silver chains/ Reclaim the Cup of the Wolves/ Make nighttime clean again. Saysa thinks that the Chalice is a metaphor for the potion that can cure them."
Blaise chuckled. "Should have told Tyr he was looking for a potion."
Neville was concerned. "But doesn't that mean that we should be out looking?"
"No," Hermione answered, cutting Harry off. "Harry's already done the seeking: he found the trail."
"Does that count?" wondered Neville.
"I hope so," the witch replied. She closed Hufflepuff's book and went back to Ravenclaw's.
"Haven't you read that already?" Harry wondered.
"Yeah, but she's only read it five times," Blaise answered in a mock-scandalized tone. "She has to reread it at least twenty more times before dinner."
"Oh, shut up," Hermione snapped. "According to Hufflepuff, I have to 'solve the riddle'- but I don't even know what 'the riddle' is! It can't have anything to do with You-Know-Who, of course, because Harry is obviously better equipped to solve that Riddle, so it must be about Dumbledore or about the prophecies themselves, so I need to study both of them as much as possible. But I've been pouring through all these books, and I haven't found any clues!"
"Then take a break," Harry advised. His friend looked scandalized. "No, seriously. Even Voldemort- quit flinching- took time off after every two hours of intense concentration. You need time to digest everything."
"Well, I suppose I could study Dumbledore inst-"
"Or you could help me break into Voldemort's lair."
All three human inhabitants of the Chamber froze. "What?" Hermione squeaked.
Harry repeated himself.
"Er- are you sure that's safe?" Blaise asked nervously.
"Of course it's safe," the Parselmouth replied. "I have Voldemort's knowledge, remember? Besides, Norberta will be there; she really wants to raze something of his to the ground."
"And that's supposed to make us feel safe?"
"Don't worry. I made her promise to wait until we were out."
"You're certain you can disable the magical defenses?" Hermione demanded.
"Of course," her friend promised.
Harry's three friends still looked uncertain.
"What if a Death Eater comes in?" worried Neville.
"They can't Apparate directly into the headquarters," Harry explained. "They'll have to show up a quarter mile away, and Norberta can take care of them."
The Prince of Flowers was not convinced. "But what if there's one already inside?"
"Send me in first," Sisith suggested.
"Not necessary," Harry assured him. "I know a spell, hominum revelio, that will warn us if anyone else is there."
Blaise chuckled ruefully. "We're just not gonna talk you out of this, are we?"
"Nope."
The black boy shrugged, doing his best to appear nonchalant. "If you're certain that nothing nasty will jump out of the shadows and kill us all, I'm game."
From the expressions on their faces, neither Neville nor Hermione appreciated their friend's attempt at humor.
Despite his irreverent attitude, Blaise Zabini couldn't help but shudder as he stood before Voldemort's hidey-hole.
The structure itself wasn't intimidating: it appeared to be nothing more than a dilapidated shack. The walls were grayish, age-worn wood, almost completely obscured by layers and layers of vines. The thatch roof was ready to fall apart; even from a distance he could smell its decay. If the hovel had a door, Blaise couldn't see it.
No, the shack itself was almost peaceful. If it hadn't belonged to the Dark Lord, Blaise wouldn't have given it a second glance. Knowing its owner, he couldn't take his eyes off it, not even to look at the murderous Norberta.
Neville was giving the greenery an odd look. "Harry… is that Devil's Snare?"
Harry, who was mumbling under his breath and wiggling his wand in a complex pattern, nodded. A wooden boardwalk materialized several from where they were standing. Harry stepped up on it.
Neville grasped the other boy's arm. "Harry, what about the Death Eaters?"
"Don't worry, Nev. I just want to get a bit closer first, that's all." Sure enough, the Parselmouth cast the detection spell a few steps later.
Nothing happened. Harry, unconcerned, trotted forward and began deactivating the wards.
"How are the notes going?" Hermione asked nervously. Her eyes remained fixed on Harry's form.
Blaise shrugged. "We finished the Herbology notes on Strangling Orchids, and I've gotten started on this month's Astronomy notes. Nothing very exciting."
Hermione moaned. "Oh, I'm so far behind on mine! Have there been any complaints yet?"
"Don't you always write up your notes, like, three chapters in advance? Relax, Hermione, you've got until the end of break."
The Ravenclaw grimaced. "I should probably get started on them right away…. I'm going to busy all through break. I have to stock the Isle's Potions lab, find some kind of printing press, work on the Truth Potion for Malfoy- oh, I wish the Aurors could free those girls without losing the Horcrux! We need to rescue them, and quickly."
Norberta hissed something about dragons, islands, and girls. Blaise thought hard. Something about… about dragons helping rescue the girls?
"You would ask them to do that?" gasped Hermione.
The dragoness shrugged. "Why not?"
Hermione's lips twitched. "Why, Norberta, I do believe you're going soft."
She snorted. "Not bloody likely."
"Done," Harry announced. "Sisith, you'll want to close your eyes for this."
"We're going through the wall, aren't we," the snake on his shoulders grumbled.
Harry walked through the wall with a grin on his face.
"Like Platform Nine and Three-Quarters," muttered Neville.
Yeah, if Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was owned by an evil lunatic.
Blaise grimaced and stepped forward.
If the shack's exterior was… unimpressive, the inside was filled with Voldemort's dark grandeur. The walls were dark wood, extending almost thirty feet into the air and covered in menacing tapestries. A bone-white, evil-looking throne dominated the center of the room. There were no other chairs, just a long, dusty table taking up most of the southern wall. The shack had no internal lighting but relied solely on tiny, reluctant rays from the outside.
Neville sneezed, then sneezed again. "Dusty," he explained.
"Of course," Harry agreed. "It hasn't been used for over a decade." His eyes were distant. Abruptly, the boy shook himself, and his gaze focused. "Sorry. There are just a lot of memories here."
"Are you still having trouble with them?" Hermione asked gently.
"Not really. I'm good as long as there aren't any major triggers around, so I'd kind of like to get out of here soon."
"Is it safe to cast spells?" Blaise wondered. Harry nodded, and the black boy immediately cast lumos. His companions followed suit. Somehow, light made their location less threatening.
"This is just the meeting room," Harry explained, walking towards the walls. "Supplies are kept here." He shoved open a door.
The next room reminded Blaise of the stores on Knockturn Alley: dim, cramped, and filled to bursting with unpleasant-looking artifacts. There was an entire shelf of skulls and another of pickled or mummified body parts, some human, some from things he couldn't recognize. There were candles and a tattoo kit; twisted, ugly sculptures; manacles and rusted chains.
"Where are the books?" wondered Hermione.
"Beneath us… should we do wands or books first?"
"Books, of course."
Harry grinned. "Why did I even ask? The staircase is… here." The Parselmouth tapped his wand on the grimy floor; a section vanished, revealing a damp, mildew-covered staircase.
"Oh, gross," moaned Blaise, covering his nose. "Harry, that reeks!"
The other Slytherin seemed just as surprised. "I didn't expect the slime," he admitted, "but I suppose a decade of disuse will do that."
"The castle is in much better condition," Hermione agreed.
Wands at the ready, the four companions descended.
The library was marginally more impressive than the supply room. It was square-shaped but with slightly rounded corners, and a few torch holders hung on the wall. Each of the nine shelves was filled with dusty, ancient-looking books.
Hermione immediately gravitated towards the nearest shelf and began observing the titles. "De Mortis… A Guide to Inferi… Potions to Enhance Warlocks… Deception and Disguise… The Mudblood Taint…." Her lips curled. "I think we should just Portkey these to Founder's Isle, then levitate them into the castle itself. Then we can catalogue the books, get rid of the ones we don't want," (her eyes flickered to The Mudblood Taint) "and decide what else we want."
"Good plan, Hermione," Harry said. He was pale and sweating slightly, obviously fighting the onslaught of memory. Blaise grimaced, thumped his back reassuringly.
Fifteen minutes later, the nine shelves (minus a few books Harry wanted to let Norberta burn) had taken their place as the start of the isle's library.
It was time for the wands.
Harry grit his teeth, trying desperately to remain calm.
Voldemort's supply room made him sick, and not just because of the severed appendages. He knew exactly what everything was used for.
Very few of the uses were pleasant.
He would not take any of the Dark objects; these would meet Norberta's fires. If not for the bottom shelf with its wand-filled cubbies, he would be far, far away.
Harry's friends started in the "victims" pile, not wanting to touch the Death Eaters' wands. Hermione and Blaise both found their secondary wands there; Neville, ironically, moved on to the Death Eaters' wands. Fortunately, he didn't have to linger there long. The second dark wand had belonged to Regulus Black, and it gladly accepted a new master.
While his friends searched, Harry worked on dismantling the room's enchantments. He didn't want to waste any of the wands, but they were all hexed to return if no human had held them for two days or if their masters called. Fortunately, that task was easy, as the spell itself was nothing more than a clever variation of the Summoning Charm.
"Aren't you going to pick a wand, Harry?" asked Hermione, gathering a small bundle of the leftover wands.
"I already have," he answered softly. "I'll show you outside."
Norberta was waiting impatiently. "Done yet?" she growled. Harry nodded, and the satisfied dragoness turned on the shack.
Flames exploded from Norberta's mouth, landing on the hut's gray wooden walls. Though the planks had been damp and almost slimy, the dragon-fire couldn't be stopped.
Harry held out his second wand, trying to ignore how familiar it felt in his hand. Hermione frowned at it. "Yew wood?" she guessed.
The Slytherin nodded. "Thirteen and one-half inches, yew with a core of phoenix. Powerful, especially good for defensive and offensive magics." It was, word for word, what Ollivanders had said to the young Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Harry looked up from the Dark Lord's wand and watched the fire.
I don't own Language Lozenges, but I saw the idea for them in "Partially Kissed Hero" by Prefect Lionheart. Basically, they give you the ability to speak a new language (duh). In my little world, the effects are only temporary and you need three or four each month to maintain the tongue.
Tetsurga: I had once guessed far back that the Werewolves once served as protectors, maybe it was against the Dementors?
