Chapter XI: The Way of Pain
Harry was rather glad that his time in the Hidden Halls was over, brief as it might have been. He felt lighter than he had in days, ever since Nicodemus had given him his assignment. Stress had been slowly building on his shoulders, and both the extreme tension of meeting the Senior Council members and the incident with the ley line had exacerbated it.
He had been looking forwards to a few days of peace and quiet, without the need to fear for his life.
Of course, given that he was once more among his fellow Denarians, such things were out of the question. Nicodemus maintained tenuous control over the vast majority of the Denarians, but without the Princes or the Lightbringer to force them to unite, there was always a risk of conflict. Sometimes, the Denarians would fight among themselves, and while such encounters were rarely fatal, Harry suspected he was still too young to stand up to any but the weakest of the Order.
That was why he had Jeeves with him. His presence, Harry realized as he walked through the factory door, gave him no small amount of comfort.
The room was now dark, the lights dimmed, and there was a disturbing metallic tang to the air. Harry vaguely recognized it from his time at Hogwarts, but he couldn't quite place it.
Nicodemus clapped his hands, and one of his human followers hurried over. Nicodemus asked something in an undertone. The man nodded, pulled out a notepad, scribbled something on it, and then passed it to Nicodemus.
Nicodemus scanned the notepad in an instant, his dark eyes flickering too quickly for Harry to see. He returned the pad to its owner, and then turned back to Harry.
Harry's insides turned to ice, and he positioned himself for a quick escape. Then he felt Jeeves place a hand on his shoulder, and he relaxed slightly.
Nicodemus Archleone's face was thunderous, his eyebrows like brooding storm clouds. He was pressing his lips together so hard that they were turning white.
Something, Harry supposed, had not gone quite according to plan.
Nicodemus strode quickly towards the stairwell at the far back of the room, his shadow billowing behind him. Harry was forced to run to keep pace with him.
Down they went, a full three stories below the ground. Down past the bedrooms he had been staying in, and down past a closed door. Firelight flickered at the tiny crack below the door, and cast strange, misshapen shadows onto the floor. Choked, slavering growls could be heard within.
Harry sped up his pace a little more as he went past that door. He had absolutely no desire to learn what, exactly, was behind it.
Well, if he was being completely honest about it, he did. Then he would remember the horrible grandeur of the ley line, and the unspeakable pain that followed. Such things did a marvelous job of keeping his curiosity in check.
The door at the very bottom of the stairs was made of some sort of silvery metal, and it was locked from the outside. Harry was fairly sure it wasn't steel; it didn't gleam quite right. Extensive wards had been woven into it, making it extraordinarily durable and resistant to energy.
Harry reached his hand out and carefully brushed his senses along the wards. Whoever had cast them had been no novice, for the magic was more delicate than he himself was yet capable of.
Strangely enough, the magic rather reminded him of his own; there was the vaguest hint of what he knew to be Hellfire simmering sullenly in the runes.
The work of Polonius Lartessa, Namshiel informed him. Nicodemus' wife, Deirdre's mother, and a former student of mine.
Is she dangerous? Harry thought back. He felt the faintest stirrings of . . . jealousy? at the idea. It rather shocked him, to be honest. He already knew himself to be Namshiel's best host in centuries, and that really ought to have been enough.
Yet it was not.
Would she be dangerous here? Now? To you? Very, though your natural gifts in the Art dwarf hers. She is no penny-ante sorceress, mind you; long centuries of practice and use have forged her talent into something even Wardens would be very wary of.
The two Squires on guard drew back as Nicodemus released the series of bolts on the outside of the door and threw it open so hard that the concrete wall cracked. He stalked inside, fury radiating from every inch of his frame. Harry followed him, careful to stay out of his way.
Harry gagged when he entered, and covered his nose and mouth with a sleeve. The room reeked of sweat and burnt flesh, and tickled unpleasantly at his throat.
It rather reminded him of the late Professor Quirrell.
The heat beyond was almost unbearable, probably made so by the roaring fire in a sort of oven on one side of the room. Several short metal poles lay in a brazier to one side, their ends warming in the fire. In the furthest, darkest corner of the room, a stream of water fell from the roof, splashed over a set of metal cuffs, and disappeared into a grate in the floor.
Several stainless-steel tables lined one wall of the room, rows upon rows of toolboxes and what looked like tackle boxes set out upon them.
Johnson was standing in one corner next to the fire, his brawny arms crossed over his bare chest. Said chest was heaving, and the man was shiny with sweat. He appeared to have been exerting himself considerably.
Urumviel was nowhere to be seen; it was possible that he had either not yet returned, or that he was sleeping. The Fallen slept a rather lot – Harry hypothesized it was because he did not have to exert his control over his host body while doing so.
Nicodemus made a beeline for Johnson. Harry noticed that the larger man's body language instantly became defensive and wary.
"Tell me," Nicodemus said, his voice sharp and clipped, "why you so recklessly endangered our presence here."
"I did what you told me to," Johnson ground out. "I nabbed us a vampire. Is somethin' wrong with it?"
"The vampire is not an issue. No-one would have missed it – by staying in England, that nest practically signed its own death warrant. The girl, however, is an issue. I do not recall asking you to abduct a Warden of the White Council."
"It's a long story, and it was too good a chance to pass up."
"Enthrall me," commanded Nicodemus, "with your acumen."
"The nest was at the address you gave me, but when I got there, Wardens were already swarming all over it. They weren't pulling any punches – I guess they didn't want to risk having a nest so close, even if they're kinda at a cease-fire with the Reds. One of them had already blew a hole through one side of the manor."
Johnson looked nervously at Nicodemus and licked his lips. Nicodemus gestured for him to proceed.
"I had to move fast to grab the master vampire. He was holed up in the cellars way below the main house, and just throwing waves and waves of blood serfs at the Wardens, trying to swamp them with numbers. I don't know how he turned so many, let alone supported them. When I got to him, this chick had already breached the vault, and she was duking it out with the master."
"And she spotted you?"
"Yeah," Johnson said, shifting uncomfortably under Nicodemus' glare. "I ripped the vault door off its hinges, so it was pretty damn obvious. The vamp got distracted when I did that, and she got his legs. Then she turned to me, and tried to broil me. I was going to kill her, but then I realized Potter probably wasn't going to make it out of Edinburgh in one piece, so I knocked her out so you could interrogate her."
"A peon like this will know nothing, as you would have deduced by thinking for a second before acting. Knowledge of the kind we seek is concentrated in the Senior Council and the oldest of the Wardens. She will know nothing of what Harry was sent there to find."
"Maybe. But we could always find out something about troop movements or something and trade it to the Reds for an item you want. And I figured she might have known a secret way into Edinburgh if Potter couldn't find one."
"Would you be willing," Nicodemus murmured, voice dangerous, "To stake your life on that?"
Johnson balked at the question, and looked around the room several times before he replied.
"Yeah. Yeah, I would. The Reds aren't picky; they've been paying out of the nose for third or fourth-hand information. They'd pay a fortune for a real, live Warden. A little bit less for information straight from one. And I'm pretty sure the girl knows something, and she knows that she knows it."
"Since she's been here," Nicodemus decided, tapping a finger against his lips, "I'm afraid that trading her to the Red Court is quite out of the question. We don't want anyone knowing too much about our little operations. Hopefully, she was of negligible significance, and the Wardens will not try to investigate further. The wards here should thwart any casual attempts at locating her. If we are very lucky, they may already suppose that the master vampire either killed her or turned her and fled, and I am quite content for them to continue thinking that."
"We could still trade in information. Not bad for a quick job, right?"
Nicodemus' eyes sharpened at Johnson's casual tone, and his voice frosted over.
"Let me make this very clear, Mr. Johnson: the next time you disobey me in such a fashion, merely because you wish to snub a rival, I shall discipline you accordingly. And that was precisely what happened here – do not lie to me, or attempt to conceal your motives. You took a Coin when I offered it; now, you follow me. Am I understood?"
"Sir," Johnson said, backing away. Nicodemus turned away from him, and looked towards the odd table-like devices that dominated the center of the room.
"But we have guests here that I have sorely neglected. Johnson, have you made any progress with either of them?"
"Some with the Warden," Johnson told him. "She passed out a little while ago. The vamp is pretty far gone as it is. The magic she used cauterized the wounds, but we'll have to find him some blood before we start on him, or he'll die on us."
"Then the bet was hardly fair. I think we'd best wake the Warden up again. I'll send a squire out for the blood," Nicodemus decided, striding towards the tables. Harry and Johnson trailed behind him. Jeeves maintained his position at the door.
Harry had been intentionally trying to avoid looking at the people on the tables. Namshiel supplied him with a series of choice images that flashed across his vision, apparently in an attempt to cure him of his delicate sensibilities, but all it did was make him want to vomit.
A blobby black something was chained to one of the three tables. It had two arms, no legs, and had a face vaguely resembling that of a bat.
Harry, being the master of logical deduction that he was, decided that was the master vampire that Johnson had caught.
A Red Court Vampire, Namshiel informed him. A member of the lesser nobility, and quite insane to have remained in the United Kingdom during the ongoing hostilities.
Hostilities? What hostilities?
Do you remember that tale Mr. Jeeves told you, a tale of a masquerade and a wizard? It was intended to educate you about proper etiquette in the magical world.
Harry had to think for a moment, but he finally managed to coax the memory out of the dusty corner of his brain where it had been hiding.
Yes, but I thought it was just a tale for magical children, not real.
It was real; very real. It began a war that has lasted for nearly several years now, and tremendously destabilized the magical world. The Red Court, Namshiel judged, has the upper hand at the moment.
The security at Edinburgh didn't seem appropriate for a war, though, Harry thought back.
It was; you simply did not notice it, Namshiel said, the faintest hints of condescension entering his tone. Moreover, you were vouched for by a standing member of the White Council, and are a child. And not a vampire in the shape of a child, either. They checked for that.
Really? How?
The golems, and thousands of more discreet spells lining the corridors. Even if you had managed to get through those, you wouldn't have gotten very far with a mixture of holy water and distilled sunshine in your belly.
Harry remembered the glass of water he had partaken of during his recovery and blanched.
Indeed. The wizards are not wont to attach gift-burdens to such things as Fae are, but they are not above poisoning them, either. Remember that.
Harry promised that he would, and looked at the other table.
It was occupied by a girl of perhaps thirty years of age. She was Asiatic, and rather pretty. Or, Harry supposed, at least she used to be. Now charred black stripes adorned the skin of her face, like meat fresh from the grill. He thought he could make out the white of teeth through one particularly deep burn on her cheek, and his stomach roiled in protest.
He looked over to where irons were glowing orange in the brazier.
So, it was to be torture, then. He thought he could cope with torture – or rather doing the torturing. If it had to be done to show his loyalty to Nicodemus, then he'd surely do it, and do it well.
Also, he gathered from the visions that Namshiel thought it something of an art form, and Namshiel was not to be disappointed.
Johnson looked on impassively, arms folded as Nicodemus slapped the Warden lightly across the face. She didn't stir, and Nicodemus sighed.
The Denarian rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, hauled an iron from the brazier, the tip glowing orange, and ground it into her bare shoulder. Foul-smelling steam hissed up, fat spat and sizzled, and the girl woke up with a terrible scream.
Harry averted his face from the horrible tableau, and began scuffing at a dark mark on the floor.
The Warden saw them all standing there, and she began babbling something in a tongue Harry was not familiar with.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nicodemus remove the iron and slap her across the face once more, asking something in the same language.
The girl spat at him, scoring a direct hit on his face, and Nicodemus' eyes went flat.
"If we had Lasciel, or even Malthaiel, things would be considerably easier," Nicodemus observed, wiping the spittle from his face with a kerchief.
No, they wouldn't, Namshiel said crossly. Lasciel is notoriously fickle, and does not work well with me. Nor do purest terror and deepest despair assist in anything more than driving others into a catatonic state.
Harry noted that Namshiel didn't say that out loud, though.
Nicodemus walked over to a table, and opened one of the toolboxes.
As the lid was pulled back, the many trays inside lifted and fanned out, displaying the tools in all their gruesome glory. There were blades of every size and shape, needles curved and straight, bottles of oil and acid and more mysterious substances, nails and screws, clamps and pliers, saws, hammers, chisels. Barbed fishhooks and coils of razor-edged wire lay side by side. Pairs of barbed handcuffs lined the lid of one box. Metal, wood and glass glittered in the bright lamplight, all polished to mirror brightness and honed to a murderous sharpness.
Nicodemus proceeded down the row of boxes, opening them all. Racks of glowing potions hung in some, next to what Harry suspected to be holy water. Vials of dust and pastes lay in delicate holders. The functions of some were horribly obvious to the budding young potioneer, the functions of others were horribly obscure. For example, one box contained nothing but dozens of globes of crystal. Tendrils of some shadowy substance pressed against the glass, desperately seeking some way out.
Mordite, Namshiel told him. Deathstone. Terribly expensive, and incredibly rare. It is of little use save in torturing those who are not immediately disintegrated by it. And Nicodemus never has occasion to do so, save perhaps once or twice a millennia. It has greater use as a weapon.
The poor woman was scared absolutely witless, Harry knew. He could see it in her eyes, and he had seen a similar fear often enough in the mirror after his nightmares.
"Then again," Nicodemus said, "we have one among us not yet initiated in the subtle science and exact art that is persuasion. Step forwards, Harry."
Harry hardened his heart and tried to silence his roiling stomach as he did so. This grated on his soul, but in a different manner than killing Quirrell had. Quirrell's murder had been justified, and he had not been particularly bothered by the fact that he killed the man. Instead, he had been bothered by the recognition of his own mortality that the act forced upon him.
The torture of this innocent girl, though – perhaps a little over a decade older than Harry -seemed just wrong. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He forced such thoughts to the back of his mind, and tried to pretend that the Warden was not an actual person. Such softness could not be allowed free reign; he knew what was required of him, and he knew that such weakness would be his undoing.
Harry did not want to think of the doubts and uncertainties that seeing the pitiable woman before him brought to the surface of his thoughts. He had made his choice almost a year ago, though he had not known it at the time; a choice to continue along the dark, twisted path that Namshiel directed him along, to accept that he was not told everything, and simply to obey without question. He had no desire to doubt again; he did not want to think of anything that would deflect him from his purpose.
He was Harry James Potter, he reminded himself, Host to Thorned Namshiel, and he was beyond such petty things as moral concerns.
He met Nicodemus' gaze. He knew the leader of the Order was waiting patiently for him to walk over to the table.
"What would you have me do?"
"The teeth, I think," Nicodemus mused, "are a good place for a beginner to start, as she isn't likely to die of blood loss if you make a mistake. Crack out the teeth above, and leave the teeth below. Alternate it by cracking out the teeth below and cracking out the ones above so that every remaining tooth touches the opposing gum."
"I don't know how to crack teeth. I am no dental surgeon, Mr. Nicodemus. What if I mess up?"
"Well," said Nicodemus, handing him a tiny chisel and a wooden mallet, "there are plenty more where this came from, and you'll have many decades to practice."
Harry looked down at the tools in his hands. They were the tools of a carpenter, a creator, pristine and unstained.
It was, he thought, rather ironic that they should now be turned to this purpose.
I will finish what I've started. No matter the cost.
Harry took a deep breath and went to work.
A fortnight had passed, and Harry Potter could not get the sounds of the Warden's screams out of his ears nor the smell of blood and burning flesh out of his nostrils.
It was a small enough price to pay, he supposed, in order to be a Denarian.
The Warden had talked, of course. She had screamed and babbled and cried out in her foreign tongue until her voice gave out and she made a horrible noise like a goose. By the end, even Nicodemus could decipher nothing from the noises she made.
Namshiel had not seen fit to translate for Harry's benefit, but Nicodemus had been pleased by whatever answers her suffering had produced. He had ordered Harry to kill the Warden once she broke completely. It seemed to be a last test of his loyalty.
It had been easy, this time. A single deadly spell, provided by Namshiel and uttered while clutching her jugular vein, had cut off the flow of blood to her brain.
And there was no guilt. He felt light, powerful, purged after the act, as though he had done something he had been waiting desperately to do. It scared him, the euphoric rush of power, and . . . the faintest taste of an odd, delectable pleasure. Perhaps it became easier to murder the more often you did it.
Or perhaps he felt no guilt because he knew he had been doing the Warden a favor.
Johnson had tossed her body in the Thames. It would probably turn up in a month or so. He could imagine the headlines in the news: Body Found Floating by the Docks! Bloated by Water and Horribly Mutilated!
His morbid fantasizing came to an end when a spotless white glove shoved a steaming mug of tea under his nose.
"Your tea, sir," Jeeves informed him. "Mr. Archleone should be arriving at any moment."
"Very good, Jeeves," Harry said, almost automatically. He took a sip of the tea. It was really quite good, and he found the hint of chamomile in it rather soothing.
Quiet footsteps echoed up the stairwell, and Nicodemus came up from the dungeon, Deidre trailing behind him.
"Despite Johnson's many flaws," Nicodemus remarked, sinking into the leather of his office chair, "I find myself rather pleased with the results of his impetuousness. The girl was rather useful in her own way, and Count Lopez was most forthcoming once we broke out the flaying knives."
Harry did not want to think about knives, and he did not want to think about the Warden. But Nicodemus did not know, and Harry doubted he would have cared if he had known, so he continued.
"You took the torture remarkably well, for a child of your age. To be fair, Deirdre was more enthusiastic about it when she questioned Saint Sebastian. Have you any concerns? Second thoughts about your oath? Questions?"
"I meant every word I said," Harry snapped, shaking himself out of his depression. "I don't care what it takes; I'll show the rest of the world that I'm worth something, that I'm no weakling to be trodden upon, no freak to be laughed at. The only way to do that is through you and Namshiel. I'll not stray from my path."
Nicodemus' hooded eyes never left his as the man nodded.
"Quite so. Raise a child up in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it. Still, were you not curious as to why we were questioning the Warden when you had already completed your infiltration of the Hidden Halls?"
"You said for troop movements."
"Johnson said that," Nicodemus gently corrected him.
"I don't like Johnson," Harry muttered. "He is dangerous, and I know he doesn't like me either."
"How unfortunate. I said to him, and I say to you: I do not tolerate fighting among my Denarians, unlike my wife. Johnson has no defense against some of the magics Namshiel can show you. Do not be tempted to misuse them; if he should die of mysterious causes, or with his heart ripped to shreds, I shall blame you, and punish you accordingly. And you cannot hurt me with those sorceries."
Harry started.
Is that true?
Yes, Namshiel admitted. Nicodemus cannot be killed, save by the Knights of the Cross, and the holy swords they bear. He is wholly indestructible, though I know not how.
Harry made another note to never, ever, get on Nicodemus' bad side.
"Mr. Johnson has his uses, though, not unlike you. Did I ever mention where he came from?"
"Los Angeles, I think. Isn't that in America?"
Geography had never been his best subject, and they didn't teach it at Hogwarts.
"Yes, it is. Mr. Johnson has significant power in the Southwestern United States, and his power base is in Los Angeles. He is allies – good friends, even – with many members of the Red Court, something which he believes I know nothing about. He transports narcotics from Red Court manufacturing facilities in Mexico and distributes them in Los Angeles. That relationship has made him a target for the regional commander for the Wardens, whose name escapes me."
Harry nodded, though he did not believe for one instant that Nicodemus did not remember the name.
"Ramirez," Deirdre purred from where she had draped herself across a seat. "Carlos Ramirez. An ally of Dresden's."
"Thank you, my dear. The Red Court offered him significant aid, but it all came to naught when a Warden team raided one of the dens when Johnson was present. I saved his life in the ensuing pursuit, and he jumped at the offer of a Coin."
"If he is friends with the Red Court, why do we have one mutilated, tortured, and strung up in our basement?"
Nicodemus chuckled at that. Deirdre merely rolled her eyes.
"Count Lopez was officially disavowed by the Red Court almost two years ago, after ignoring repeated orders to withdraw to friendly territory. He refused to leave Britain, in other words. He had grown to like it here, and had already developed a sizable force, from what Johnson mentioned. Moreover, he was a blood addict, and therefore useless to war effort. There was a standing order out for his head, and Johnson will have curried favor with the Red Court by disposing of him. I knew of the price on the Count's life, and that is why I let Johnson choose the target. I merely specified that it needed be someone with access to a great deal of information, which Lopez was. He is only three or four centuries younger than me, and he used to be a Duke before the blood lust overcame him."
"Johnson's not half as clever as he thinks, then."
"He was not wrong, though," Nicodemus pointed out. "I do acquire and sell information to various members of the supernatural community – for a price. When I am not busy with my own agenda, that is."
"For a price?" inquired Harry, toying with his tea. "As in, for money? And what agenda is this?"
Nicodemus laughed a deep, rich laugh at that, a laugh that set his shadow a-flickering behind him.
"Not quite. Money doesn't mean as much when you've two millennia of compounded interest shoring up your accounts. No, I take my price in favors, to be paid at a later date."
"And what about our agenda?"
Nicodemus was quiet for a long moment, absently playing with his grey tie. His shadow leaned down and hissed something in his ear, but he waved it away, and then spoke.
"It is only fitting that I explain both in a parable, as our Enemy is so fond of doing so. This is a story my father told me, long ago."
"Father adores this story," Deirdre put in, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers. Harry found it rather distracting. Her hair was very shiny.
"Hush, you," Nicodemus said, the picture of paternal indulgence. "In ages long past, when the great demigods still walked the Earth, there were three who were more famed than the others: Orpheus, the renowned bard; Hercules, the son of Zeus, and Ulysses, the trickster. No heroes had been as wronged by the Fates as these three men. There was a price to be paid for their greatness, for their tales. Hercules had been cursed by Hera, who went to the Fates, and demanded that he forever be fated to kill those dearest to him. Ulysses, for his part, had been shunned by the gods, made to wander the seas for many years as his home was laid waste and his wife cheapened by suitors. Orpheus, in his turn, had lost his beloved wife."
"They were greatly saddened, for though glory was theirs, the cost was equally great. Ulysses, on a quest to plant an oar, had much time to think about his fate. By-and-by, he came across Orpheus, who was weeping on a fallen tree. Ulysses asked what so ailed him, as it was not befitting that a man should shed such tears. Orpheus then told him of his great loss; the gods had granted him a voice beyond the compare . . . but they had taken the woman who was the song in his life. Ulysses saw that this man had also paid a price, and he said unto him, 'Come, walk with me a little further, for we are much alike, you and I.'"
Nicodemus' voice, deep resonant voice (with the faintest hint of a rasp to it) made Harry drowsy. He allowed his eyelids to droop nearly shut. He could see the men in the story now, outlined against an arid grassland. One bore an oar over his shoulders and was clad in simple, scarred bronze armor. The other figure was smaller, dressed in a cloak of many colors, and he carried a worn string instrument at his side.
"Presently, the two tortured souls came upon a man, grievously ill. His mighty sinews had wasted away and an unclosed wound oozed puss. They also inquired after the identity of this giant. The man answered that he was Hercules, son of Zeus, and the man most hated by the gods. Then Hercules told them of his own labors, and of the deaths of those he held dear, and they expressed their sorrow at his suffering."
"Afterwards, Ulysses rose to his feet before the others, and there was fire in his eyes. He told them that it was not right that others should decide their fate. The gods decreed it, and the Fates wove it, but what right had they to do so? There ought to be no fate, he claimed, but that which men made with the strength of their arms and the sweat of their brows."
Harry agreed; how could he not? He had once not been the architect of his own fate, when he lived with the Dursleys. Namshiel had freed him; his chains had been broken.
"The others agreed, of course, with the mighty orator's honeyed words, but what could be done? The gods were beyond the power of mortals, and they cared not for their suffering. It was then that Ulysses proposed a most audacious plan. They would ensure each man could weave his own fate . . . by making sure that the Fates could not. They would steal the tools of the Fates and give them to man, just as Prometheus stole fire from the gods."
"Many long seasons, many trials and tribulations it took them to reach it, but finally they stood before the gates to the dwelling of the Fates. It was said that so heavy was the burden of the gates that no man could open them – but Hercules was more than a man. With a mighty groan, he heaved the gates open, allowing the others to pass. He was forced to bear the burden until they returned. They found the Fates at their loom. With much arrogance, the Fates demanded to know their purpose there. Ulysses beguiled them with honeyed words, yet even his tongue could not lull them into false security. So Orpheus took up his lyre, and he played them a melody that lulled them to sleep. As soon as they began to doze, Ulysses went to their tools. From them, he took the shears, so that they could not cut the weave. From them, he took a thread, so they could not make the weave. And from them," Nicodemus finished," he took the whorl, so they could not spin the thread."
"Free will," Harry breathed, suddenly opening his eyes. "You fight for absolute free will, for actions without punishment. You still fight for what caused the Fall."
"I suppose that you could say that. We," Nicodemus said, with perfect serenity, with absolute certainty, "are fighting to save the world."
Harry could not tell whether he was telling the truth or not, so he turned to his oldest friend and greatest to separate fact from fiction.
Is he telling the truth? Is that what we are fighting for, Namshiel?
The response was slow in coming.
That is what Nicodemus is fighting for, yes.
Then Harry knew he would help Nicodemus, insofar as he was able. As long as Namshiel agreed, of course, though he didn't know why his Fallen wouldn't. There had been vague references to some past misdeed, and some mistrust, but that seemed to have evaporated after his recent mission.
"Johnson had already returned to America," Nicodemus told him after a long pause in the conversation. "Apparently, the Warden there has launched a campaign dedicated to removing Johnson's businesses, and this threat requires his personal attention."
Really, Harry couldn't have cared less about what Johnson did. He hoped the man would get himself killed, though he rather doubted it. Nicodemus did not offer Coins to weak imbeciles, and while Johnson may have been an imbecile, he was not weak.
No, he was far more concerned with his immediate future. It seemed wrong, somehow, to return to his normal life after what he had done in service to the Order of the Blackened Denarius. Almost as if he were a filthy vagrant entering some exquisite mansion.
"What should I do now, Mr. Nicodemus?"
"Tessa and Magog are off in Africa, stirring up trouble. I believe they're in Rwanda right now, and that is no place for a schoolchild like yourself. Not yet, at any rate. Deirdre and I have the situation here in the United Kingdom well in hand, and Urumviel is staying with us for the nonce. I do not know where Rosanna is – most likely looking for recruits. I believe, Harry Potter, that you are free to do as you please for the rest of the summer."
"Is there nothing for me to do here? Summer will be so boring after this."
If by 'boring,' you mean the absence of immediate threats to your life or well-being, I must agree. You can hide nothing from me, my host; false bravado does not become you. You did not enjoy what tasks Nicodemus gave you, but you performed them flawlessly nonetheless, and that is more than enough. Enjoyment will come in time.
Harry breathed out a sigh of relief. Namshiel has seen what troubled him, but had not found him wanting.
"There is something you could do for me, though, Mr. Potter."
Harry's attention snapped back to Nicodemus, who had swiveled his chair away from Harry.
"I invested a rather significant amount of capital in Grunnings, your uncle's company. I should like you to make sure that your uncle understands exactly who he would cross, should he attempt to swindle me."
"It would be," Harry smirked, "my very great pleasure. Can I bring Urumviel?"
"Absolutely not," Nicodemus' voice floated back. "We are not looking to raze a city block. Nor does this have to be done immediately; simply visit them before the year is out."
"Humph."
I think you will find Mr. Jeeves a more than adequate substitute for Urumviel.
Namshiel had decided that they would not visit the Dursleys that day. Once past his initial disappointment, Harry quite agreed with him. It was already quite late, and he was very tired.
They did not stay at the warehouse. Jeeves had made other arrangements for their accommodations. It was a fair drive to their new lodgings, but that was perfectly fine. It left time, he thought, for questions.
Questions, Namshiel sighed at him, questions. Man did ever seek to improve his knowledge through them. But knowledge is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to.
Harry had a great many questions, and he tried to sort them into some sort of coherent order before beginning. It was not easy; there were far too many, and they covered a great many topics. So he decided to start off with the most important ones first.
"Why did I go to Edinburgh, Namshiel? What information was Nicodemus looking for?"
Clues as to the whereabouts of the Sangreal, The Fallen said. You might know it as the Holy Grail.
"The cup from Monty Python?" Harry asked, fiddling with his seatbelt. It was too tight, and it was beginning to irk him, but it refused to let him loosen it. The mechanism had somehow become jammed.
What species of snake is that?
There was an awkward pause as Namshiel rummaged through his memories.
I see. The same, though I suggest you not treat it so lightly. That cup is the strongest symbol of the Enemy's power on Earth. Its power is immeasurable; not for nothing does he claim the title of Almighty.
"What do you suppose he is going to do with it?"
I'm sure I don't know, Namshiel told him. He didn't sound at all interested in the artefact. He'll come up with something suitably dastardly, no doubt. I personally believe the cup to be a trigger, of sorts. A very important cog in a much larger machine
Fine. That was more than enough information, and it didn't sound very important, nor particularly pertinent to Harry himself, so he switched topics.
"I'd like to know why I saw a wand-wizard in the art in Edinburgh."
Namshiel heaved an enormous sigh at him, and Harry could feel his weary resignation.
I suppose it is long past time that I told you some of what I know of the interactions of wand-wizards with the rest of the supernatural world. It is a relationship deeply rooted in their origins, and to understand it, you must understand that wand-wizards are, to be rather blunt, an accident. An anomaly, if you will; one of chance breeding and magic and emotion that shall never occur again in the life of the world."
"How do you know that?"
After all, Harry thought, wand-wizards continued to be produced at a regular rate. Perhaps the gene that carried magic was dominant, and allowed wizards to marry Muggles, but still have magical children. Or maybe Namshiel meant a similar act of creation.
Because one of the parties involved was unique, and he is dead, Namshiel sniffed. No-one shall ever take up his mantle.
"Who?"
Oberon; the King of the Wyldfae.
"Oberon?" Harry could have sworn he had heard the name recently, but he just could not seem to place it. "The Faerie King from A Midsummer Night's Dream?"
You heard the name when I spoke to Nicodemus; the White Council records noted that to refuse Arthur's request for aid in finding the Grail would also offend Oberon – something the council would not dare do. But yes, Oberon was truly immortalized by the Bard. A fitting epitaph for a fallen monarch, arranged for him by his grieving lovers. He was, you see, Consort to both Summer and Winter alike.
"Both Summer and Winter?" Harry was, quite honestly, incredulous. From all he knew of them they were anathema to one another. Cold and heat, life and death, predator and prey, love and hate. Co-operation was impossible.
They are, and he would eventually pay the price for those dalliances. But that is a story for another time, and one you could not comprehend the scope of without having known what it was like before his death. More relevant to you is the fact that he was the distant progenitor of wand-wizards.
"What? Do you mean to say that I am Fae?"
Such a thing was not possible. The Sidhe were immortal and powerful and beautiful beyond compare, and wand wizards were not. Long-lived, certainly, but not extraordinarily so. And not beautiful, either; he knew that from the mirror.
All wand-wizards are, to an extent . . . and yet they are not. I see, Namshiel said, his voice sounding far-off, both faint echoes of both Sidhe power and wizardry within you. Your genealogy is thus: Oberon lay with Titania, and they produced Arthur, who cast aside his role in Faerie to rule as a King among men. The only Fae to every wield one of the Swords, if I remember correctly. But Oberon also lay with Mab, and they begot Merlin, thrice blessed and thrice cursed; a wizard, when there should have been a Sidhe. Perhaps it was because Oberon was always closer to being a human than any other High Sidhe. It matters not. Arthur was seduced by the sorceress Morgan of the Fey –
"But wasn't he a Knight of the Cross?"
While Namshiel was formulating a response, Harry finally gave up on the seatbelt and began biting at it. Jeeves turned around and gave him an absolutely murderous look, so he ceased his efforts to gnaw himself free.
Sometimes, he mused, it was almost as if his manservant had eyes in the back of his head.
He is, but did not David also lay with Bathsheba? Was he not forgiven, and a man after God's own heart? Add to that that he was enchanted by her, and the Enemy was quick to pardon him. In any case, their union produced Mordred, the most vicious changeling to ever walk the earth. Around the time of Mordred's conception, Merlin also became intimate with Nimue of the Summer Court and had a child by the name of Niviane, who Mordred took by force many years later. The offspring of that violent act was the first wand-wizard.
There was a long silence. Not even the sounds of the motorway could be heard- the noise-proofing of the Rolls was superb.
"That," Harry proclaimed, "sounds really, really complicated, and much more information about relationships than I needed."
I am sure that your delicate sensibilities shall recover, Namshiel remarked dryly. Nonetheless, that is how the breed of wizardry you know as wand-magic came about.
"And it was an accident?" Harry pressed.
A freak happenstance. It is not unheard of for the Queens to have Changeling children, but wand-wizards have inherited only the magic, and not the essence of Faerie, from the Queens. From the Merlin, the one of the most powerful wizards to ever live, and from Morgan le Fey, you received the gift of wizardry. There was a blending, a melding, and the two became one. I suspect Oberon's blood had something to do with it, and the violent conception of the first wand-wizard. Probably the fact that Arthur was a Knight, and that he was seduced as well. Intent and emotion often alter such things. There is a greater chance of spontaneous combustion.
"If he was Consort, Oberon must have been rather powerful, and you've told me of the strength of the Queens. But how strong was Nimue?"
You are correct in your assumption; Oberon held the position of the current Erlking, among others, but was far more powerful than the current incumbent (who used to be his most trusted servant). He was, in every way, an equal to the Queens. Nimue was to Titania as the Leanansidhe is to Mab. The Lady of the Lake, some called her.
Very powerful, then. Harry wondered if she was still alive; Namshiel had never mentioned her when speaking of the Courts, though he often spoke of the Leanansidhe.
And that made him wonder . . .
"Why don't the wand-wizards ever talk about that? For the matter, why don't they ever interact with the Council or the Courts?"
The isolationist nature of the Wizarding World is not entirely a self-imposed one, whether they know it or not. They were forbidden from migrating to other continents as part of the strictures laid down after the Battle of Hastings, and discouraged -almost outright forbidden – from interacting with the other supernatural nations. Those that disobey do not survive long. So long as you keep to yourselves, you remain under Mab's aegis, and to a lesser extent, that of the White Council. The existence of wand-wizards is a closely guarded secret, and such secrecy is your chief defense. Only a select few among the Senior Council remember your existence
"It seems rather unlikely," Harry pointed out, "that no-one knows about wand-wizards, and the wand-wizards know about no-one else."
People believe want they wish to believe, and there are a great many predators who would hunt your kind if they attempted to break the strictures, knowingly or not. The Black Court, for instance, consider wand-wizards a delicacy. I rather suspect that your Statue of Secrecy was intended to protect you from far more than just Muggles, though it has failed miserably in that regard. The Black Court are well-acquainted with you, however, and the Faerie Courts maintain a strong presence here, though direct interaction is discouraged. Your kind has always dismissed them as sub-humans, and they are content to let you believe that.
"Like the centaurs in the Forbidden Forest?" Harry asked. He hadn't ever seen the reclusive creatures, but Hagrid had once spoken of them to Hermione whilst Harry was nearby.
No. Those are Grecian centaurs, not Faeries.
"Then we can hardly be called a secret, can we?"
I suppose not. It has more to do with the fact that no-one really cared enough to bother with you. There are countless small factions that share a similar fate. The Ddraig, many of creatures from Native American folklore, and almost every werewolf pack in existence, to name but a few. You are more sheltered than most, but then again, after Hastings, no-one wanted to deal with your kind, and they lacked the power, political clout and unity to form a nation when the Accords were drafted. Since that time, the memory of the other supernatural nations has begun to fade. There was a considerable magical tinkering involved, and unless I miss my guess, no few alterations made to time, in order to achieve and ensure the anonymity that you now possess. The anonymity is a little too convenient, and the Merlin was notorious for his meddling ways.
"But why?" Harry asked, puzzled. "What happened at Hastings?"
Next question, boy. It did not sound like a request.
"Well, I was thinking of how we got into Edinburgh - "
Yes? And?
"How do you know - "
Harry had wanted to say Peabody, but he found himself unable to speak. His throat constricted, and his tongue rolled back on itself so far that he feared he would choke on it.
Do not speak that name, Namshiel warned. Not aloud. No-one can enter your mind without my being aware of it, but the shadows have ears, Harry. And they answer to a man I would rather not discuss such things with. Suffice to say, Peabody is an old friend of Mr. Jeeves, and a more recent acquaintance of mine, through another mutual friend.
There was a tone of finality about those words, and Harry knew better than to pry.
Mr. Jeeves pulled up in front of a dull little cottage. It was covered in ivy, and contrasted horribly with the pristine splendor of the Rolls-Royce.
"This is not", Harry decided, pushing his nose against the window, "where I thought a Lord would live."
That title was given to me a long, long time ago, by one who was unaware of my true nature. It has been three centuries since I had a proper estate, and I have not missed it. I find that such possessions mean nothing; they are empty, hollow, and speak only to the vanity of the owner. This dwelling was acquired quickly, discreetly, and cheaply, but is also fit to live in.
"I suppose anything would be better than the closet at Number 4 Privet Drive."
You might be surprised where you must stay while in your line of work.
And up to 'M' we go.
It is worth mentioning, for the sake of clarification, that True-Wizards are the wizards from the Dresden Files. Wand-Wizards are those from the Harry Potter books. The term 'wizard' may be used interchangeably to describe them. Harry Potter is both a wand-wizard and a true-wizard (though he lacks a great deal of training, he has the raw power needed to pass the Council Trials.).
Finally, we have something of an explanation as to why no-one in the Dresdenverse has heard of wand-wizards. It may seem a tad unrealistic to some, but think about it: the wand-wizards are relatively small in number (in this fic, anyways; I'll be taking advantage of the notoriously poor maths skills of Rowling), with a total population numbering well below the half-million mark, and quite probably much less than that (I'll be doing further research into that quite soon). They're powerful, in their own way, what with things like the Killing Curse and other combat spells, but they might just find that those don't work so well on things that aren't human, or those that are immortal or do not age. Let alone Immortals. They aren't active players on the world stage, either, and are far too divided to apply pressure to anyone if they were. As such, no-one really cares much about them.
There are thousands, probably even millions, of different mythical creatures from all different parts of the world. In the Dresdenverse, they all are supposed to exist – and think of how few we've heard of! It's not realistic, of course, to expect Mr. Butcher to elaborate on them all, or even mention them, but that works out quite well for this fic. The factions we've heard about in the Files are the big players, but there are countless more living out their lives (or unlives) in comfortable obscurity. The wand-wizards are one of the most obscure, thanks to the united efforts of some of the most powerful beings on the planet, and it'll stay that way.
For now.