Green and Gold

by PhoenixTakaramono

As a competent Head Auror, due to an alleged Death Eater sighting Harry was sent overseas to secure the Bone Eater's Well from desecration. During his investigation, he becomes the minder of a dog daiyoukai from a distant past. Aloof and flexible morals aside, he doesn't know what to make of the lord. Yet. Similarly, Sesshomaru is intrigued. SessxHP (MoD, epilogue compliant)

14. Curse of the Deathly Hallows I

(A/N)- A lot has happened in my absence, but G&G OFFICIALLY HAS FANART! The art's linked in my profile, but you should give a look-see through suis0u's gorgeous gallery over at tumblr. We'd met when I was abroad in Germany, but the fact that I can share her illustration with all of our readers is phenomenal. It's also located both in AO3's (eventually) NSFW version and the Art Masterpost. Thank you very much, suis0u!

To DarkRavie, hentai18ancilla, Lina03, Clow Angel, Guest (4x), charm13insomnia, Silvermane1, Dontblink, TrenchcoatMan, MyDearGoddessofthemoonandsun, chicaalterego, KimayceInk, silverkurama, Nth Guest, aliengirlguy, melamariannie, w- easy enough, JBubbles, Psyka, Caitlin, tamashiyuki, Sephiroth Cresent-Valentine, Merlenyn, wolfawaken, Lioness32, animefantomboy, Reaping-Vampire, mishap, Mrs. Regulus Arcturus Black, Winter's Folly, Knaruto, iafaS, antipodean, and to the few who'd PM-ed me, I live! And to jayswing96, Escuro, itachisgurl93, badwolfsvortex, Genuka, enchanted_nightingale, AnguisReginam, pennameisblank, Renee272, Kit, PhoenixPlume320, runqi, The_Rogue_Girl, Jorie2127, theHidden1, remey, Sara, joovette, AxZi, SkadiTheHuntress, Lizu, and especially to the lovely suis0u, your zeal for this project astounds me. (My appreciations to TheBlueMenace and Merlenyn on the Art Masterpost, for being as excited as I am about suis0u's fanart.) I hadn't anticipated it'd take this long, goodness. ...I'm still stunned to be able to deliver content to you lot. I was despairing over this chapter forever, the outpouring of your enthusiasm and patience really meant a lot to me during the writing process.

To address a few questions publically, I realize G&G's clues and subtexts may not be easy to identify. But I think it's extraordinary how many ways readers can interpret the story and its characters; sometimes it's like seeing an alternate path the story could've taken. Plus, it's amazing reading all your theories. I've been archiving your comments and hopefully referencing them as I flesh out more content; they've been so helpful and inspirational, as well as touching. You've all had substantial things to say. And thank you to whoever'd answered my question in our previous installment! It'd contributed to adding and removing future scenes. ;)

To all those who observe the holiday, Happy Halloween!

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Green and Gold

Chapter 14

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"...Blow, O wind, blow, blow. Blow hard, O wind…."

Thousands of tiny granules were sparkling like glimmering stars when the figure that'd been lying prone on his back finally showed signs of regaining consciousness, fingers twitching. Akitoki felt his head throb as his mind struggled to formulate coherency.

The scent of freshwater, crisp and not at all stale, hung like an oppressive cloud in the air. To the average human, it would have smelt too unnaturally pure, clinging to the musky odor of stone and minerals like a corruption. Frost was crawling down his throat whenever air was sucked inward. Managing a groan, the taste of winter replaced the rancidness in his mouth—nearly making him cough up his lungs.

It was only with gargantuan might that his eyes cracked open. Groggy and rasping for breath, he thought of the worst when he was greeted by darkness.

He didn't know how long he waited, breathing raggedly, listening to the steady plip, plip, plip of water droplets hitting a hard surface in the same perpetual rhythm of a shishi-odoshi, where water could collect until the heavier end of the hollowed bamboo-shoot would thunk back down against the pebbled ground. By the time his eyes finally adjusted, he thought he was seeing…the polished luster of jade? When reason reared back up, balking at the thought of additional strangeness, he ridded himself of that notion with several shakes of the head.

Sluggishly, he brought the back of his hand to his eyes, rubbing away the thin film of crust. His nose wrinkled when he picked up the faint smell of herbs on his skin.

"How did I—?" he croaked, rolling over onto his hands and knees. His voice was husky, cracked. His tongue felt thick and foreign in his mouth.

Long brown strands fell into his face, partially obscuring his vision. The warmth that'd been over his left shoulder was inexplicably seeping out. Soon, Akitoki found himself staring down at a material that'd fallen over his knuckles.

Clumsily grasping a corner, he lifted the cloth up to his face, narrowing his eyes at the textiles. Its finer details were indiscernible, but it didn't feel as thick as a futon quilt. Simultaneously it wasn't as thin as the fragrant-smelling straw and hay that peasants would weave together to form their bedding. Mesmerized by his thoughts, he suddenly recalled how craftswomen made their wares spinning and handlooming fiber threads, who couldn't afford the high cost of importing cotton unlike the citizens in the Northern provinces. This fabric he was feeling couldn't be that of cotton; not when trade with the Ming Dynasty overseas was strained; especially not around the rural communities.

Like a fire arrow launching out of nowhere, the pain in his skull suddenly inflamed once more, distracting him from his observations. A hiss escaped him as he bought a hand to the back of his skull, hovering over the his ponytail that should've been perched high on his head. What had once been firm now felt greasy to the touch. His hair-tie was gone. Instead, over where the worst of the headache originated, flakes of congealed blood had caked over the topmost of his head like clay.

His dreams were never this tactile. Nor did he think he was hallucinating; he wasn't even concussed.

Lightheaded, Akitoki squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to take deep breaths. It'd only been mere few weeks ago when he'd been within the safety of his family compound once, having perfumed hair oil rubbed into his long strands. His hair had been pulled back, combed, and tied securely by his personal handmaidens.

While nothing seemed to be requiring immediate medical services, a despondency for finding himself in troubling predicaments swarmed him. Akitoki was aghast. After fulfilling his duties, he'd assumed the plague of bad luck had vanished. Even more worrisome was no matter how much he wiggled his fingers and toes, they were frozen logs. Merchants had lost fingers and toes to frostbite. Akitoki faintly remembered a farmer's wife missing an ear. Curling into himself, he lamented fatalistically to the heavens, "Fortune is once again not with me..."

Akitoki fell silent when the singing, warbling still, trickled back into his hearing: "...Bring the fruits of the mountain. Chestnuts, mushrooms, grapes.…"

Spooked, he seized the cloth closer under his chin. In the moment, it wasn't lost on him that he was behaving like a child huddled underneath a blanket.

Weaved into the singing was the ghostly howls of wind whooshing in and out of an unknown origin, that his ears strained to catch the tune dissipating into the air. His mouth was moving, unconsciously, soundlessly repeating what was heard. An index finger was tapping along to the melody on the ground. His brows furrowed, stumbling after clarity like a fish swimming upstream.

He realized that the longer he sifted through the pronunciations, the tune soon became recognizable to him. It would be the children of farmers, of the village his fiancée was from, that would chant this particular ballad outside. The person singing the verse had was a whisper shyly flitting about someplace in the distance, distorted and bouncing off walls like an invisible ball. The crudeness of her dialect sounded like she came from the regional area—far from the standards taught from living in the city—but he couldn't quite place her originating province. Her voice was distinctly young, sounding somewhat drowsy at the end.

He peered around him. Since he'd never taken refuge inside a cave or a chasm before, what little geology he could make out in the cavernous environment was unfamiliar. Much to his chagrin, wherever the cold light was refracted, the dark walls appeared slickened with a layer of thin glittery material. He couldn't quite perceive what it was; not when everything was a murky sheen of greys and indeterminate iridescence in his eyes. Tall, fuzzy outlines broke his line of sight like pale columns. There was a draft though, surfacing from an unknown origin and making goosebumps arise from his skin.

His eyes abruptly widened. Akitoki twisted left and right, slapping the ground blindly for someone. There was no sign of Isogai. Panic alighted his thoughts. "Father-in-law," he rasped. Treacherous thoughts besieged him as he waited for a response. Nerves stretched as thin as rice paper, he repeated it once more, heatedly and urgently: "Father-in-law!"

When the last of his echoes perished, guilt momentarily flooded him, as well as an overwhelming sense of resignation. He cradled his head in his hands. Moist air settled in his lungs as Akitoki inhaled deeply, as he contemplated the next best course of action.

The disappearance of his traveling companion felt like an omen.

In spite of this, he couldn't abandon his Intended's father; not when there was a chance that Isogai was still alive. Akitoki felt that it would be premature to write off the old merchant as a lost cause. As daunting as the task would be, it would serve Akitoki better to scout ahead, assessing any potential threats before attempting to track down the man's whereabouts.

Akitoki jolted upwards, instinctively patting down his haori and kimono, seeking for anything to light up the shroud of darkness. His fabrics felt inexplicably damp against hypersensitive palms, raw and stinging. While his personal effects were still on him, his knapsack and sword seemed to have been robbed from him. With another groan, he dropped his face again into his hands, cheeks smooshed against clammy palms. Dirt-encrusted fingers were digging against the bridge of his nose and below the ridges of his eye sockets.

Many thoughts ran through his head. Why was he even here? For that matter, just how could he be here? Where could "here" even be?

His muscles tensed once more involuntarily when the singing manifested again: "'Round; 'round; go 'round. Waterwheel, go 'round. Go 'round and call Mr Sun. Go 'round and call Mr Sun—" The idle singing faltered into an eerie low drone, like she was trying to compensate for the forgotten lyrics by humming the tune.

Bringing the fabric to his nose, he inhaled deeply once more. Cold air filtered into his lungs, as his rib cage expanded from the action. As he breathed in and out, his thoughts raced, spiraling into dread. Dread soon bred into an overactive imagination. While he was often told that his superstitious nature stemmed from his grandfather, Akitoki knew that it was often because of people's beliefs in omens that'd saved them from untoward fates. Stranger things have happened in this era; Akitoki could only imagine the nightmare awaiting him if he encountered the source of that mysterious singing. It was only this moment of clarity that prevented him from calling out for help, on the small chance that she was not simply a child whom he could convince to mobilize a rescue party.

It was obvious to him that he was alone, with simply the voice as company and who knows what else. There was no reason for a girl to be here by her lonesome, much less this far away from a village. A heavy feeling settled into his gut like lead. She could be a spirit…or much worse….

Once he felt that it was alright to move, he cautiously staggered onto shaky legs—sore muscles protesting every movement—slipping and stumbling once before he regained balance, his hands thrust out for guidance. In a clenched hand was the cloth. He squinted ahead.

While it was difficult to even see his hands, there was a passage further above, with a brighter illumination. It was radiating from the human-sized cavity with the cold sheen of moonlight. It sounded like the singing originated there.

Regardless of his reservations, he was not staying here to rot.

As he stumbled forth, he tried to puzzle out what had transpired. Just how had he ended up here? His last recollection was accompanying Isogai's venture into Aokigahara—the Sea of Trees also popularly known among the villages as Jukai, rather than the designation that Akitoki was familiar with in the imperial city—and up Mt. Fuji. He also remembered strong gusts which didn't sound natural; instead he'd fancied it as the roar of a woman's laughter.

Recalling it sent an odd tinge of familiarity through his thoughts that a coldness washed down his forearms.

Clenching his hands into fists, Akitoki scolded himself for letting his imagination get the better of him again, although he felt that he was hardly to blame because of his current predicament.

The region surrounding Mount Fuji was known for many peculiarities. The dense forest around it was notorious for missing travelers and for practitioners of ubasute—where it was of the norm to carry the infirm, the diseased, or the elderly into a remote destination to be abandoned, so that their relative would die honorably without burdening their village. It was a custom practiced by this region. Since Aokigahara had the reputation it had, the young lord had assumed the purpose of their pilgrimage was to scout the location for when his soon to be mother-in-law eventually underwent this rite—and perhaps the mule-headed merchant himself.

At least it was, until Isogai begrudgingly imparted what his true intentions had been.

It felt like a distant dream where, days ago, Akitoki and his Kagome—bestowed with the dreaded forename "Suzaku" from her naming ceremony, until she took a liking to the alternative Akitoki had blurted out upon their first encounter—had been huddled over the haiku he'd sent her as part of the conventional poem exchange in the courting process. The both of them had been giggling, attempting to decipher the calligraphy's overall meaning which'd been lost in translation due to his naïveté at composing poetry. In the jollity shared afterward, after apologizing again for her father's mulishness, she'd taken solace in him by confessing that she hoped her lord Akitoki would take advantage of this opportunity to bond with her father.

Slogging further through his memories, Akitoki remembered experiencing conflict. It was to be expected that she thought of him as an ideal protector for her father. Grand reenactments of the young lord's valor had impressed her in the early days of their courtship—whereby he had to force himself to gloat of how he'd successfully dispelled the bad luck on his family, who'd been cursed for their ancestral ownership of the Celestial Robe and the Ken blade.

Still there were tales spread far and wide enough where they'd even reached the capital city that his clan resided. Akitoki was aware Aokigahara's other denomination was the aptly-named "Demon Forest" that his Intended liked him to venture into.

Looking beseechingly at him the way that she had, resembling the comely beauty of the nomadic priestess even more so than that time they'd first met under the sunlight, this village girl took his breath away. He remembered how sweetly she smiled at him, giving Akitoki her hand to take into his own. Improper as it would've been—as they were both unwedded—he'd yearned to kiss her then, to press his lips against each charming speckle along her cheeks, and to stroke her loosened hair. Regardless of the fact that his family disapproved of Akitoki's decision to marry a woman of a lower caste, incidentally being critical of their son obeying her whims like a love-stricken fool, the swell of affection Akitoki had felt gazing upon her visage had been genuine.

In the stead of all sons born into the daimyo clan like him, Akitoki had been brought up on the bushido way of life: a gentleman's integrity, a warrior's code of conduct. That meant backing up his claims with the chivalry, wisdom, and courage expected of him. However simple her intentions were behind making the request, he was aware his manhood was being questioned.

He'd be a stain to the Hōjō name if he dishonored himself.

While he felt more courageous in the three years since his last adventure in the countryside, a little part of Akitoki that never completely vanished was unwilling, recalling rumors about angry spirits of those left to die and demons prowling the forest for their next unsuspecting victim.

Akitoki's breathing sped up as soon as a familiar memory gripped him by its red talons, conjuring up the night where he'd nearly been consumed by a demon—humanoid and dyed crimson from head to toe—who'd declared the "attractive young samurai to be his type."

Helpless to stop once the thought had arisen, Akitoki felt his face draining of blood upon his mind replaying the moment where the yōkai—regardless of his intentions to butcher Akitoki or, had the demon had his way, to keep him as his plaything—had introduced himself coyly and told him that Akitoki appeared delicious. It was an encounter which haunted Akitoki's dreams, and sometimes even his waking moments—he had no idea how he'd kept his composure when he first met his Intended, who'd shared the same name as the demon—although now the terror became a rarity after being taught ways to cope.

His throat constricted. On the verge of having a fit, he brought his hands to his mouth, swallowing his breaths as if he were gulping down water. Repeating the exercise, it didn't take long for his panic to abate, albeit fading into a low simmer in the back of his mind.

His footsteps slowed eventually, soon coming to a complete standstill as he stared, wide-eyed, at the behemoth of rocks before him. His hands lowered from his mouth as he beheld the monstrosity.

From what he could make out, the route leading up ahead was an intimidating endeavor to climb, which seemed to funnel into a crawlspace the higher his gaze traveled. Further up the chasm was a small opening that appeared manmade by a diligent individual. Where it led to, though, Akitoki wasn't certain. But the passageway could only take him outside. This was the only light source. The only problem was that the ascent incidentally led to the mysterious singer.

Whether he was being lured or not, he had few options other than taking the bait. Other foul thoughts were running amok through his mind as he peered down at the cloth clenched in one of his hands. As slow as a tortoise, he began wrapping the material around his fists. He whispered to himself, "C-channel their courage. Don't mess up. Y-you are...you are more than you think."

What would Lady Kagome and Master Inuyasha say if he hadn't grown from their experiences? He felt ridiculous talking to himself, but he persisted: "Brave. Be brave."

"...Birds, bugs, beasts, grass, trees, flowers, bring spring and summer, fall and winter. Bring spring and summer, fall and winter..."

Gnawing on his lower lip, after another exhalation, convinced about his renewed vigor, he began the ascent, his arms trembling with exertion.

The journey up the slanted path was precarious. Heat bloomed in his neck and limbs, while a wet and cold sensation bled into his chest. It was only with much preservation that he managed to not fall backward with each heave upward, despite his muscles screaming of fire. He found himself wishing, not for the last time, that he had the physical strength that came easily to the samurai and the farmers and the working caste. Keenly aware of the hair plastered against his sweaty face, he dug his nails into the surface. Shuddery pants wracked his body.

Abruptly, a debilitating dizziness had taken ahold of him less than a halfway up. His movements ceased. Squeezing his eyes shut, as the buzzing feeling resurfaced inside his temples—smashing and hammering inside his skull—he had to wait for the vertigo to abate. To soothe his nerves, he inhaled its dank, earthy scent. Don't fall; don't fall; don't fall; don't look down—all these mantras were repeated to himself like silent prayers sent to Buddha once he felt ready to recommence. If he didn't look down, he wouldn't be affected. It was all in his mind.

"Go 'round; come 'round; come 'round. Come 'round, O' distant time…. Come 'round; call back my heart. Come 'round; call back my heart."

He reopened his eyes. Fumbling for purchase, the higher he climbed, the more frigid the air became. His pants escaping as clouds of white mist, he soon found himself digging his fingernails into what felt like sleet that'd frozen over the stone in a thin layer. It crackled fragilely wherever he exerted pressure. Many times his legs skidded under him, and he could not get a secure grip other times. His fingertips were sweltering, like a thousand nettles stinging his skin.

While his morale was endowed the further he progressed, he was leery of the swelling volume of the singing.

Once the tunnel became a crawl-space, his movements slowed when he had enough of knocking his head against what was assumed to be either icicles or stalactites. Either way, his muscles tensed; coming into physical contact reminded him of gruesome tales of spikes plunging into the explorers' unaware skulls.

Crawling on his belly, it was after he'd passed the worst of the constricting curvature that he breathed a small sigh of relief. He came back into a crouch. Spots danced in his vision, and he had to wait for his sight to adjust a much different exposure of brightness.

Once he'd gotten his bearings, his eyes expanded. Nearly everything in his field of vision was frozen over. The serrated edges of an undulating glacier—made of the clearest, most vivid crystalline blue he'd had ever seen—surged overhead. They were colossal tidal waves that had been halted in time before they could crash down. To his amazement, entrapped within the undulating waves were a great canopies of icicles hanging from the ceiling, resembling frozen wisteria flowers. Tiny balls of white peeked out behind the range of blues, like sunshine. With the illusion of being isolated from civilization, especially from the impression he'd gotten about waking in some sort of a tunnel system, an impression of desolation seemed to permeate the atmosphere.

He had no idea such a place existed in Aokigahara, if he still even was in the forest. Something in Akitoki felt out-of-breath beholding this majestic feat of nature that he would never have had the chance to witness were he behind castle's walls. His eyes darted across the clearing—flat and even in the middle, only interspersed with what looked like ripples that had frozen over the bedrock—sprinkled with clumps of snow around the perimeter and around areas closest to the protruding stalagmites.

An elated feeling bubbled in his chest once he discerned an unassuming hole, as tall as the average Japanese man, situated across the opposite end of the expanse. It had been partially obscured by frozen obstructions lodged into the ground and the structures like crooked pillars strewn randomly. Still, from where he was observing, he knew that this couldn't be the entirety of this cavernous region.

Holding his breath, Akitoki crept forth to avoid arousing alarm. He peeked over the edge.

And his breath halted.

Abruptly shimmying backward, Akitoki slammed his hands over his mouth, eyes wide. His heart was a roaring thunder. There had been this unnaturally ethereal glow to the area, yet it was the silhouette of a tiny figure in white that was burnt into his mind's eye. She was not the fearsome creature he was expecting. It was the normalcy of her appearance that'd caught him unawares. Certain details were as clear as a painting as he recalled her long dark hair; it had been as dark as an otter's fur, falling past her shoulders, with little blue ribbons knotted at the sides of her head. The contrast had been striking against her simple white attire.

Regardless of her identity, with her little toes poking out behind her attire, he remembered that her skin seemed considerably browner than his. Akitoki could only assume her lineage to be that of a Jōmon heritage or she was simply a child that'd been under the sun. If he could see her face, he would be able to discern if she had the characteristic wide mouth belonging to that indigenous tribe.

"...Birds, bugs, beasts, grass, trees, flowers, teach me how to feel…." The words faded into humming momentarily, before she breathed, "If I hear that you pine for me, I will return to you."

Hesitations warred within Akitoki. His first instinct was to trust what he was seeing. She spoke his language, after all. Yet the experienced adventurer in him was wary. The last time he took strangers at face-value, the party of village-women turned out to be demons disguised as the Lady Kagome's friends. He wasn't certain if this girl could transform into a feral creature once his guard was lowered. He felt himself wavering.

To make up his mind, once he managed to salvage enough courage to twist his head once more over the edge, inching forth a fraction back into exposure, he surveyed the potential threat. Of what little he could see, his mouth had compulsorily warped down sideways.

"If you truly long for me, I will come straight back," the girl was singing, still unaware of his presence. Her back was to him, her arms moving, preoccupied with whatever's in front. He couldn't quite make out what enraptured her so, but the form before her reminded him of a giant block of ice—although jagged and hacked as if someone had taken a blade to it. He squinted. It nearly seemed as if, encased within the frozen coffin, there was a long, dark silhouette.

Once his mind registered what he was seeing, his stomach plummeted.

Akitoki knew his limitations; he was diminished without his sword. Despite his stamina having been improved due to strategic retreats, his combat skills were overshadowed by the outrageously powerful individuals encountered in his travels. Compared to them, Akitoki felt that he was worse than a novice. (While he had been applauded for being brave and loyal—the few commendable traits that personages have remarked they were gratified he'd inherited from his clan's daimyo—Akitoki was levelheaded enough to acknowledge he lacked the proficiency of the gentries that'd been employed by the Hōjō clan for generations.)

It were only thoughts of the woman waiting for him and the man left to an unknown fate that emboldened Akitoki, pushing past the worry gripping him. What would his own Kagome, much less his honorable parents, think of him? Akitoki gritted his teeth. He was the son of a daimyo. A reputable lord does not flee from the first sign of danger. Neither does he cower and be useless when someone else might be depending on him, no matter the petty grievances he may have with the individual. A nobleman—any decent man in general, if they dared call themselves a cultured gentleman—was to be dependable.

In order to fulfill his objectives, he saw no other recourse but to move onward and escape. He closed his eyes once more. Breathing in and out—once, twice, and henceforth—he reopened them as he cautiously shimmied forward, his movements deliberately slow and methodical, eventually swinging himself over and dangling a leg over the cliff edge as he began his descent.

It was at this moment that he was partially glad for his environment, for there were no chances of having pebbles tumbling down the slick rocky surface.

It felt like forever, peeking back and forth, but by the time the sole of his waraji struck ground, he realized with a grimace, that the rice straw of his sandals and the fabric of his tabi socks felt sodden. The back of his neck felt heated and his breathing, although subdued, was irregular.

Promptly, he crouched down to make himself smaller. Fearing that his weight would crack the ice, he was careful to apply pressure only at the tips of his feet. It was difficult to balance atop a smooth surface but as long as he maintained a slow pace, he felt confident navigating the place. Water could be heard squishing between his toes each time he took a step trailing the perimeter.

He kept a wide breadth, his back against the wall, eyes glued ahead. The shadows thrown against the walls were frightful, hulking figures hunched over as he snuck his way around the unknown danger.

"Birds, bugs, beasts, grass, trees, flowers," the girl hummed, still unaware. This seemed to be her favorite verse, from how delighted her voice sounded. From his position, he could now see that her knees were bent atop white fur which looked soft to the touch. Small, inconspicuous trinkets were laid on the ground. "Flower, bear fruit, and die. Be born, grow up, and die; still the wind blows. The rain falls. The waterwheel goes round. Lifetimes come and go in turn. Lifetimes come and grow in turn."

Breathing was challenging; there was a painful sensation inside of his nostrils which was as dry as a drought season. Cold white vapors were escaping his mouth. Clutching the blanket tighter around his shoulders, Akitoki snuck a glance at the remaining distance between him and the exit. His mind working swiftly, he estimated the distance to be roughly two rice fields. She had not noticed him yet. And there was no one guarding the exit. Hope was rising in his chest, curling his mouth up.

His triumph was short-lived though when his legs skidded under him.

Falling backward, instinctively, he exclaimed, "Shimata—!"

His knee and an outstretched palm crashed against the ground, cushioning his fall as he managed to land on his side. His entire right side was throbbing, the most of it located at his elbow and kneecap, but the pain was nothing compared to the time that a roadside bandit drove the backend of his sword into Akitoki's ribs. At that time, the incident occurred when the young lord had been accompanying Isogai and the merchant's daughter early into their acquaintance.

Tongue-clicking noises against his teeth resounded as a measurement of Akitoki's agony. Hissing at his blunder, his eyes shot sideways, gauging his biggest threat. It'd be a miracle of Buddha if she hadn't heard the commotion.

His heart sunk when his vision caught sight of wide, dark eyes. She had an oval face. Her hands were rising to her lips, her sleeves falling down suntanned forearms. Other than that, the girl was carved out of stone, her back ramrod straight. With how rapidly her skin was losing color, he feared that she would faint. (The girl was not of Jōmon lineage at least. Her mouth was as diminutive as the commonplace Japanese noblewoman. In the city, Akitoki had not heard great things about the Jōmon. There was no reasoning with them. The popular stereotype heard back home was that those coastal persons were, at worst, uncultured; animalistic and loutish.)

Although her features could be considered charming for someone of her years, his heart was thudding like a hundred war drums. It was suddenly much harder to breathe.

Abruptly, her eyes darted from his figure to her surroundings, before focusing back on him, and then darting sideways once more. She looked no older than eight years of age.

"I mean you no harm!" he shouted, slamming his hands onto the ground. The ice crackled under the force. Regret was forcibly quelled once he saw her shrink back. Berating himself mentally, he said, "I-I apologize if y-you suffered a terrible fright from me. I mean you no harm."

Despite his stammer, his words came slowly and with a deliberate courtesy. Staggering to his feet, he held his hands up imploringly. The blanket fell from his shoulders, landing with a fwoop behind him. He'd already taken a step back, ready to sprint, when he saw her bow her head until her forehead was nearly touching the frozen terrain. Her fingers were held in the customary position of someone beseeching a personage from a higher social standing than they were.

Something within him clenched when he saw her shoulders shake. No, her entire body was quaking.

The old Shinto gods must be laughing at him because, against all rational logic, he felt his expression become tender at the sight of a child visibly afraid of him like a shivering dog. In the back of his mind, he realized that this could be an act or a result of the cave's temperature, but Akitoki's instincts were screaming otherwise. Still he hesitated.

Behind her, by her toes was a spherical plate inlaid with gold etchings, harboring a cracked mirror. Behind that, placed atop a tiny altar was an assortment of damaged curiosities: a metal sphere that formed intricate patterns, a stone bowl, and a beaded necklace strung with a cowrie shell.

Akitoki had little idea behind the purposes of gathering these together, but it did not seem like they were for a ritual or for divining. While she did wear the color that stood for purity, her white garments didn't resemble that of any young spiritualist or shaman in training. Upon closer inspection, her white attire was embroidered with silver thread that seemed to gleam whenever it caught light. With how elaborately her outer robe was, he could only assume that it was expensive finery. It would be easy for him to mistake her as the daughter of a samurai, but her clothes were missing a family crest. He similarly doubted that any woman of the gentry would allow her skin to be browned to this extent.

Her head lifted when she heard his footsteps approaching. Her face suddenly took on a fearful expression.

To placate her, Akitoki reached into his sleeve and withdrew a gold brocade bag his family had received from trade overseas. Like how one would dangle string before a cat, Akitoki jiggled the contents of the brocade bag. The coins inside jangled and clinked enticingly. "H-hello. Hello there." He knelt down on one knee. Pushing past his nervousness, he introduced himself as kindly as he could: "I'm Hōjō Akitoki of the Izu Province. I hail from a long line of regents of the Kamakura Shogunate…a-ah, I'm sorry. I'd meant to say I'm of the blood with ties to the Fujiwara clan, with no relation to the Hōjō household of the Sagami Province that you might undoubtedly know of. If I may ask, whose family are you from? …Might I know your name?"

He was close enough to perceive that her lips were colored with rouge, but hopefully far enough that he couldn't intimidate her. She smelled of white plum blossoms. Her eyes dropped down to peer at the offering, before shooting back up. Her expression was carefully arranged, mindful and vacant. Yet he could tell, by her telltale fidgeting and darting eyes, that her curiosity had been piqued.

That was a welcome reaction.

He mustered up a reassuring smile. "Is something the matter? Is there a reason why you're feeling so shy? …Heavens, no, please raise your head. It must be uncomfortable to be genuflecting continually under these circumstances." To barter for information effectively, one had to be in good standings with the opposite party. If he had to endear himself to this stranger, he'd do his upmost to earn her trust. He resumed, "Could you tell me where I am? It's not much, but I'd like to reward you in exchange for your help."

Instead of replying, she simply shook her head.

Akitoki's spirits dimmed. Their one-sided conversation was telltale of the sort of conversation he'd come to expect from country bumpkins. Either they were gossipers unable to keep secrets to themselves or they were uninspiring conversationalists that were too intimidated to approach him. The rare exceptions were those that were quick to accommodate him because of his family surname, who had lofty aspirations to wed their daughters to anyone attached to land and wealth.

"Please don't be frightened," he murmured. "I hope I'm not scary. If it'd set your worries to rest, I'm not here to-to h-hurt you. I promise. I swear it on the Hōjō name." Akitoki was duty-bound by honor. Unless she was a wretched monster, he wouldn't dare lay his hands on a defenseless woman—no less a child. Outside of disciplinary action that was common among households, he held the belief that anyone who would intentionally harm human women was despicable.

After all, village girl or not, this trembling person was still a child in theory. If she was as young as she looked, she had a few summers to go before she'd be of marrying age. Thinking for a bit, he asked, "It may be presumptuous of me to ask, but may we…be friends? I know we've only recently met…."

The little face underneath the curtain of dark hair was slightly aghast. White teeth were sunk into her lower lip. Yet her composure did not break.

The awkwardness of the situation was strangling him. He struggled for words to put her at ease. "U-um…that is, if you do not mind? I-I think you're a very cute girl?"

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say. He could see blood had rushed to her cheeks, however now she averted her gaze to be anywhere but on him. His opinion of himself plummeted to an all-time low. Hastily shoving the coin bag back up his haori, into the hidden compartment stitched into his kimono sleeve, he apologized for his poor selection of words.

Lowering his arm from the folds, with the small purse pressed against his forearm like a comforting weight, he said after a prolonged silence: "W-well then, maybe I ought to make myself scarce. I've taken up too much of your time. You have a nice singing voice. I couldn't help but be drawn in by it." He snuck another peek at her. Her demeanor hadn't changed. She was still an unresponsive mute. "Then…farewell…."

His voice trailed off.

She was eerily silent even now.

Casting a last look at the human-sized block of ice—he'd been mystified that, unlike what he thought he'd seen from a distance, a thin layer of frost seemed to have concealed the surface, making it impossible to see the contents within—he felt a shiver crawl down his body.

When he turned to leave, he heard a barely audible voice rasp: "I-I beg for-forgiveness for m-my in-insolence, milord. You—your words just now made me happy, I-I was at a loss of what to say." Stunned, when he whipped back around, he could see that her head was bowed deeply to the ground once more.

Her voice muffled, she said, "Thank you for gracing our home. I'm honored to be in your presence." Without the sing-songy quality to it, her voice sounded more human to him. However, it reflected the tremor of just prior. "Par-pardon me, I'm Shiori of the village by the sea. Even though I was startled, that is no excuse for the disrespect I'd showed you."

"Oh, heavens." His own voice sounded exasperated to him. Akitoki dropped back down on his knees, his hands fluttering helplessly in the air. "You are shaking like the wind-blown grass. Please. Please don't be afraid of me. I feel like a terrible human being with you acting like this. Why are you like this?"

"I-I do not dare, milord. But I should not stand until you forgive me."

"Fine! I understand! All is forgiven!" he blurted, his mind spinning. He felt like his head was overheating. This didn't make any sense. "That's why, please, raise your head! This is really upsetting! There's a limit to how humble one can be! Your forehead shouldn't even be touching the floor!" He could hear his voice echoing in the chambers, from how loud he was being.

"I-I'm—I am most unworthy to be in your gracious audience. I don't mean to cause you trouble." Her spine straightening back up, she tucked her hands above her lap. Her gaze was intent on his chin. "I…I deeply apologize, milord. Please, it's not much, but I hope you find this place comfortable. I know it most likely cannot match your castle…bu-but a lot of hard work went into ma-making this place habitable!"

"It's nothing I've seen before! You did a great job with the place, Shiori-san!"

Her eyes expanded even more. "Re-really?" Shiori clapped her hands together once, looking as if she were ready to perform a prayer recitation. Her eyes betrayed her smile. "How wonderful. I'm glad."

Her voice, while retaining its huskiness and stutter, had become louder, that Akitoki could scarcely believe this was the same timid girl from before. Be that as it may, he felt his muscles unwind. His mouth contorted up to outmatch hers. "Me too. Thank heavens you're not as scary as I thought you were—! Grk!" He coughed into his fist to cover up his gaffe. From his peripheral vision, he managed to catch a glance at the blanket he'd discarded. She followed his vision. "Um, uh, I mean, was that yours? Thank you. It was very warm."

"You were shivering in your sleep. Normal humans have frailer bodies. I was worried you would fall ill." Despite the eccentricity behind her choice of words, her meekness had transformed into a warmer tone. Shiori tilted her head at him, and Akitoki observed with wonder the otherworldly grace and dignity exhibited in her movements. It was difficult to fathom how such a slight girl could manage to carry his weight into this shelter of hers.

Before Akitoki could ponder further over the contradictory mental image, Shiori assured him gently, "You have nothing to fear from me. I will do my upmost to satisfy your needs, Hōjō-dono."

All goodwill he bore toward her dissipated. "'Satisfy…my needs'?" he repeated, shifting uncomfortably onto another knee. The innuendo in that phrasing was unsettling. Hopefully he was overthinking it. Huffing out a laugh, he murmured, "Shiori-san…your hospitality is…it is indeed generous of you to offer. However, I must decline. No, I must take advantage of it once more. Sorry." He studied her face as he asked, "Have you seen the elderly man that was with me?"

The sleeves that'd been raised to cover her smile lowered, and he could see that the corners of her lips had fallen. She turned her head. Her tone was equally lifeless as she denied, "N-no…I-I can't say I have."

"…I'd like to believe you. Truly, I do. Nevertheless—" Akitoki reached out toward her, but his hand stopped when Shiori flinched.

She shuffled backward on her knees, her torso still kept in the same upright position. But her expression was tense.

"A-ah." His hand lowered. "Sorry. I startled you again, didn't I?"

Shiori didn't have to say anything. Judging by her reactions, he could already hazard a guess as to how she'd been treated by others in the past. Purposely kneeling in the proper samurai sitting position, with his hands clasped in his lap, pitching his voice softer, he coaxed, "That elderly man is my father-in-law. It's very important that I find him. If you found me, then you must have an idea of where he is. Or the whereabouts that we are in right now. We were traveling together."

Dark eyes returned to him, and then darted away to peer at the trinkets behind her. Her face could only be described as conflicted. She repeated this motion several times.

"I won't be angry if he wasn't with me when you'd found me, Shiori-san. I need to know so I have an idea where to begin." Akitoki forced himself to sigh loudly as he navigated his face up to the glacial top. He could feel her eyes on him as he lamented, "What will my poor fiancée feel if I came back to her bearing bad news of her father's disappearance? She'd leave me. No, she'll kill me. Shiori-san, please have mercy and save me! Any information will do. Ah, I feel like my hair is going to fall out thinking about how she'll feel."

Her eyebrows drooped. "You say that, but you…seem like a kind person. I'd like to help you, believe me." Her long fringe shadowed her eyes as she bent her head to him. Her voice was quiet: "I'd hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you were by yourself, milord. There was no one but you."

"I see." All exuberance had leaked out of him. He'd anticipated feeling disappointment, but the extent of it was crushing. He mumbled despondently, "I'd thought as much."

"I'm sorry. For what they're worth, you have my sympathies. I hope he is found…. And that he is of good health." Lifting her head, he could see that her eyes were luminous. In her new location, under the refracted light of the glaciers, the top of her head held the illusion of her hair being bathed in a blue and white glow. In a saddened tone, she muttered to herself ominously, "I fear I may be saying too much, but you should not have come to Aokigahara."

His lips parted. He could feel the perspiration sticking his clothes to the sweat running down his back. He spluttered, "Wh-what makes you say that? Am I still in Aokigahara?"

"…You heard me? Oh no. I didn't intend to…." Her tiny, rouged lips warped down. With how intensely her brows were furrowed, she seemed to be deliberating on something. Finally, she disclosed, "Y-you are. If I may, milord, I entreat you to listen carefully to what I have to say. I advise you well." Much to his astonishment, she became the adult comforting the child. Her tone and posture were all too alarmingly serene when she entreated, "Please submit. It'll be as easy for you as it was for me. You will not go wrong listening to me."

Unease was roiling in his gut. He cautioned, "Ara, ara. You shouldn't say such scary things, Shiori-san." Before his nerves fled him, he stood back up on shaky legs. They'd been semi-numbed by the pressure exerted on them and the icy ground they'd laid on. "Thank you for your efforts. I will remember this and pay you back one day."

"M-milord?" Her hands fidgeted in her lap. "Where are you…are—are you leaving?"

"Yes. I have to find Father-in-Law. I don't know what state I'll find him in, but he might need me."

"Don't go—!" Upon raising her voice, she shrank back, hands clasped over her mouth, looking equally surprised as him that she was being so willful. "I-I mean…." Her words were nearly inaudible behind her palms. "It's difficult to exit the cave. If-if you leave, you will not like the company thereof."

That sounded like a threat. His hand habitually reaching for the sword no longer in its sheath, he inquired, "Shiori-san?" Silence. "What do you mean by that?"

More silence. She seemed determined not to speak a word more to him.

Once the silence became unbearable, Akitoki dropped his hand from his waist. He felt terrible for seeing her as a threat but if she was keeping secrets from him, it wouldn't bode well to linger in her presence. "I see. By my leave then," he said awkwardly, flustered. He bowed his head hastily, ready to flee. "So long, Shiori-san."

"N-no! Please don't—!"

"Do you really think you can leave?" a coy, soft voice spoke from within the frozen coffin.

Before Akitoki or Shiori had a chance to react, the ice shattered in an upward explosion. Shards—like throwing knives—were launched everywhere, embedding into nearby surfaces.

Sharp fragments broke off from the bigger pieces, raining down overhead in a glimmering cloud.

"Shiori-san!" Akitoki shouted, wrenching her by the arms and pulling her down with him.

They hit the ground with soft cries. He shielded her with his body. His eyes were squeezed shut, one hand behind her back and one hand over the top of her head. Gritting his teeth, he braced for the impact. It was going to hurt.

"What an admirable show of bravery. It makes a woman's heart go pitter-patter." Spoken with an airiness, a mocking applause commenced, and Akitoki could envision someone in her twenties gazing at them with a pitiless smile. "Admirable, but unnecessary. If you would open your eyes, waka."

Akitoki and Shiori both opened their eyes, and they twisted their sight upwards. If it were possible for a human to pop their eyes out entirely, Akitoki was certain he'd be the first to perform such feat.

An immense, crystalline tidal wave had swelled above them, taking the brunt of the collisions. With the sound of glass shattering after plummeting from a great height, the shards broke like raindrops against the hard surface, eventually disintegrating into nothingness.

"If there's one mercy I'm grateful for, it's that you're still capable of intelligent thought. You were ill. Heavens, you have no idea how long we waited, taking care of you."

"Y-you have my thanks?" Loosening his hold on Shiori, Akitoki clambered to his feet. His fists raised, he demanded, "Announce yourself. Who's there?" A glimmering mist obscured his surroundings that he couldn't ascertain the direction of where the exit had been.

"I'm astounded that you don't seem to remember me. I don't think a day has gone by where I don't somehow end up hearing all of your voices." A long pair of legs was seen striding out of the mist. Bare skin could be glimpsed each time they peeked out from underneath the side-slit of a skirt dyed the color of the ocean. If it were possible for him to collapse from the blood rushing to his face, Akitoki felt that it could be his fate. It took everything in him not to conceal his burning cheeks and hide behind his hands like a little boy. It was provocative, even by the prostitution standards found in pleasure quarters.

"Not that I blame you. There is a remarkably big difference between this body and the one I had when we'd met." To his wonder, there was no sound made from her footsteps. At her feet were scaled boots of a midnight-black reptilian hide that he had never seen before. "This one pales in comparison. With it comes height, voice, appearance, abilities…you understand, I much prefer the one I had before."

An arm was seen emerging from the cloud, waving it away as if it were a puff of smoke. Adorning her forearms were vanguards affixed with the help of teal fabrics, matching the dye of the intricate wheels on her attire. To Akitoki, however provocatively form-fitting the attire was on the woman's body, the collar and her three hairpins seemed like designs from the Continent. Without the obstruction of sight, a tall woman stepped into sight. Shell-like pauldrons protruded from her shoulders, strung together with the same gauzy fabrics that held her breastplate in place. Hanging at her waist were two swords.

Upon seeing them, unconsciously he'd repositioned so that his body was shielding Shiori from this person's sight. No matter how much he wracked his brain, Akitoki couldn't recall meeting any armored, blue-haired, teal-eyed women from the Mainland before. He was flabbergasted.

Given his lack of recognition, her gaze seemed disappointed. Tucking her hair behind an ear—her action revealing a small silver hoop piercing an earlobe—she said, "I know the color is different, but I even went through the bother of styling her hair the way mine was. Fortunately this face was born without markings, so I applied the same cosmetics you should've seen me wearing when we met; I don't mean the markings your friends last saw me with."

Markings? "C-could you…have mistaken me for another?" he offered tentatively, feeling even more on edge. Usually any abnormal colorations were an indication that the person in front of him was not human and was, in fact, a monster wearing the skin of one. The tip of the ear she exposed to him was also pointed up unnaturally. Not to mention that she was speaking as if she were casually discussing the demerits of a demonic possession. He could not allow himself to express the negative emotions in his heart.

"Hn…I don't think so. In spite of everything, your identity—among others—has haunted my nightmares these past years. I am told you are of landed gentry." She chuckled openly, without covering her mouth. To the average Japanese person, the display would be a demonstration of uncouthness. The woman continued, "Very well. We are not swine. We will compose ourselves in the manner as you are most comfortable with."

For every step she took, Akitoki took a step back. "Shiori-san," he addressed, "don't worry. I-I fear nothing that appears before me!" If he had his sword, the blade would be pointed at the woman approaching. Instead, he only had his fists for fighting and feet for running. Putting his fists up higher, he proclaimed, "I am Hōjō Akitoki of the Hōjō household. You, don't come any closer! State your name!"

Her lips lifted up. "How amusing," she commented offhandedly. "You're like a scared puppy."

The back of his neck felt hot. Mustering up any vestige of confidence, he demanded, "Who are you? I'm not one for raising a hand to a woman, but how come you've heard of me?"

Nonchalantly twirling her hair around a finger, she muttered, "So, it's come to this. All my preparations amounted to little, in the end…." Her footsteps came to a halt. The woman then heaved a sigh, teal-painted eyelids slipping shut as she tilted her face up at the structure she'd erected, with her arms outstretched. The strands she'd been toying with drifted back down her chest. "Pay close attention, waka."

His terrified curiosity had frozen him to the spot. Countless of scenarios were sprinting through Akitoki's mind. But what'd finally materialized defied his imagination. His expression beggared belief.

Floating ahead of the blue-haired woman's torso was the spirit of the so-called celestial maiden who'd been recorded in legends, whose sultry features defied conventional Japanese standards of beauty. Unlike their last encounter—when he'd last seen her alive—her body was, at present, dyed head-to-toe in greyish-silver. Gone were her uniquely-tinted eyes—teal, the color of marbles he'd played with in his childhood, he remembered thinking—and the dark hair that nearly all of the Japanese women were born with.

After she deemed Akitoki to have had his fill of her, she murmured, "Unbelievable. I had expectations. But this is what I get for thinking highly of humans." Her translucent forearms and the lower half of her torso were vanished into their fleshly prison. She wore the blue-haired yōkai behind her like a macabre wrap. With each gesture the phantom made, the blue-haired woman imitated, moving like a puppet that served as an extension of her astral self.

"K-K-Kaguya-hime!" Akitoki blurted, his voice cracking like a boy's. Falling back, he hastily retreated backwards, anywhere to be away from her. A gasp was torn from him when ice spiraled up his limbs, grasping his arms and legs, immobilizing him.

"What a lot of noise." Kaguya lowered her hand, and her corporal body followed suit. Without tearing her gaze away, she ordered, "Shiori."

"Yes, Hime-sama." The entire time during their exchange, she had her face and hands prostrated to the ground.

Her expression had been hidden when the man who'd been kind to her let loose a cry when the ice dragged him to the ground. The floor beneath him crackled from the force of the collision.

Betrayal was bubbling hotly in his throat. But the next few words he heard quickly doused scalding emotions: "You are unsightly. What have I said about being vigilant to keep yourself out of my sight while you're like this?"

"I deeply apologize, Hime-sama." Flattening herself even further, Shiori seemed determined to melt into the ground. "I shall endeavor to wash away tonight's transgressions for displeasing you with my appearance. If it'd please you, with your permission, I'd like to take my leave of you until tomorrow's moon comes. I aspire to do better tomorrow."

"Hn. I task you not to meddle. What concerns this human and I involve matters larger than your own." Kaguya glanced down, staring at the trinkets for the longest time. She murmured, "My five—no, my three treasures…. Shiori, what were you doing with them?"

"I was polishing them for you. I most humbly apologize."

"Enough. You shall not be cumbersome to me or to our honored guest." Despite the abrasiveness in the selection of words, there was the same cavalier attitude as when she'd been alive. Ignoring the quiet "understood" from the prostrated form at her feet, Kaguya began sinking back into the blue-haired woman as the corporal form marched forward. There was an unnatural irradiance gleaming at the centermost of Kaguya's translucent chest. Threaded into a necklace, the black pearl, too, was soon submerged beneath skin.

Seeing her come closer, Akitoki begun thrashing like a wild beast. His eyes strained.

"Don't be rash." Bending down, she snatched Akitoki's jaw with the teal-painted nails of the female demon she possessed. Kaguya squeezed until he sensed he had to stop struggling before the pressure exerted crushed his jawbone.

When he sufficiently calmed, she wrenched him up by his chin until they were eye-level, concentrating on the obvious strain put on his throat and on the rest of his body that weighed him down. Her gaze was scrutinizing, her hand turning his head this way and that.

In the meantime, his breathing grew more ragged. Fear filled his gut like bitter tea that'd been left out to cool.

At last, with a satisfied smile, Kaguya crooned, "I see. This will suffice. At the very least, he is presentable. He's been well taken care of."

"I am eternally grateful for your kind words, Hime-sama."

"Yes. Promising." Her hands released him. Without Kaguya supporting him, gravity pulled him back down until he fell on all fours. Akitoki grunted at the impact.

Unbeknownst to him, dark eyes had flitted to his figure before dashing back. "I am glad." Shiori had hidden her face behind her long fringe.

"Then you are dismissed. Remember…," Kaguya's tone became cloyingly sweet, "…I know you've befriended this young landed gentry here, but I don't want to see you until tomorrow night."

"Un-understood. Then I will excuse myself, milady." Shiori kowtowed once more to her mistress. With slight hesitancy, she moved to perform the same for Akitoki. She beseeched, "Y-you are granted an audience with Hime-sama; p-please listen to what she has to say. You'll find that she's a most generous individual. Milord, I—I fare thee well. Excuse me."

After several more genuflections, she walked away, never looking back. Her tiny figure receded from their sight after ducking into the hole Kaguya had opened for her. The gap sealed itself after her, resembling seamless ice yet again.

"Such a good little girl," Kaguya remarked. One hand was clutching her elbow, and the other was raised into a fist below her chin in a ponderous pose. "You've somehow gotten her to like you. Although, she could stop stumbling over her words so much. It gives her a bad impression, don't you agree? No. You don't need to answer that. Put it out of your mind.

"Now then, young master—no, Hōjō-kun. You must be asking how this is even possible." Almost teasingly, she'd pitched her tone low and invitingly. "But first things first—your travel companion. Do you not wish to know what fate has befallen on him?"

Akitoki felt his muscles stiffen. He was brought up under the tutelage that demons weren't shy to tell falsehoods, if it'd serve their nefarious purpose. She seemed as if she was taking this opportunity to use fear tactics to intimidate him into submission. He opened his mouth.

For a moment he dared not breathe. Akitoki's voice had abandoned him. He groped for words that were stuck in his throat.

"Before we get to that, I want a temporary truce. To show my sincerity, I shall tell you a secret: do you know how simple it'd be for me to have pretended to be someone else? This body has a name." She gestured to the space before her chest. She declared airily, "Instead, out of respect to your comrades for defeating me and to you for throwing my Celestial Robe into a volcano, I decided to abandon all manners of pretense."

Although her voice and expression had taken on a frightening quality when she acknowledged his role, seeing his nervous expression, they soon became consoling once more. Kaguya reached out to pat his shoulder. "Rest assured, I only devour demons...mmh, and acquired a taste for certain exotic specialties. I am not inclined toward humans as the rest of my brethren, unless I have no choice."

His features immediately blanched.

"Likewise, I must apologize for my display of force earlier. I have to put on a show for the little one. It wouldn't do for Shiori to get silly thoughts in her head."

The sensation of her touch lingered on his shoulder. Although her hand had been withdrawn, it still felt like it was clamped onto him, pushing him down. To anyone hearing they were the preferred diet of their kind, it would be instinctual to implore the demon to make an exception and to let them go—for them to please take pity on them just this once. Despite knowing that, Akitoki could not bring himself to do that. Thusly, the words were swallowed back. All of his thoughts were centered around how unfair this was. He hadn't done anything to anyone.

His hands balled into fists. He felt that he was among the people least deserving of this fate. A nauseous feeling was building up within his stomach.

Perceiving the subtle change in his demeanor, her face splintered into a beguiling smile. She crooned, "I have a proposition for you. Will you listen to my words, Hōjō-kun? That is your name, isn't it?"

He remained silent.

Evidently, she could see his confusion because she broke into brief mirth. "So you do use your brains," she remarked, after her chortling finally calmed down. "I'm…impressed. You're unexpectedly mistrustful. That is to say, you're not wrong to harbor reservations. Would it make you feel better if I claimed any malice is in jest?"

Aiming a distracted smile down at his prostrated figure, Kaguya withdrew back, tapping her cheek in contemplation. Examining his face, she commented, "You'll have to forgive me for not being able to control my strength yet. I forget humans bruise so easily. How does your species get by without dying left and right? You also have such dulled senses, it must be nice to eventually come to terms with how blissfully ignorant your species are."

"…hy?"

"Hmm?" Inclining her head toward him, Kaguya cupped a pointed ear, feigning deafness. The hair that'd been waist-length when she'd been standing was now pooled down at the balls of her feet. "You'll have to speak up."

"Why?" he rasped. The stone in his throat bobbed erratically. There were many things he'd wanted to ask but under the weight of her focus, he started: "Why are you being amiable toward me? How are you still—? I was told that you were—!"

Out of everyone that'd contributed in her extermination, why was she showing an interest in him? One could only assume that she'd kidnapped him for retaliatory action. Yet he'd been an insignificant participant during the incident; his goal back then was to dispose of the celestial robe out of family obligation. Akitoki had no memories of playing any hand in her death. (He'd been reassured by the demon-slayer and the traveling monk that it was natural, for Akitoki, that time had perceivably flowed without interruption, as he'd been affected by Kaguya's powers like the rest of the world. While he'd normally accept that explanation at face-value, they hadn't divulged why Lady Kagome and her companions had been exceptions to that rule. He could only assume that someone—or all of them—were born with a specific ability or condition making their bloodlines an antithesis to that magic.)

The last Akitoki had seen of Kaguya, she had redirected the arrow back at Master Inuyasha with the power of her mirror, and she'd then kidnapped the priestess when Lady Kagome took the blow intended for the hanyou.

In a world of monsters, deities, and powers thought to be impossible outside of folklore, it'd been easy to believe that the demon was a celestial maiden. Humans were far more trusting of divinities and celestial emissaries—beings that symbolized the existence of an afterlife: heaven and hell—than in the unholy monsters that terrorized their reality. It was later discovered the demon had taken a liking to the moon maiden's appearance, deciding to wear her skin and absorb her powers when the ethereal being had been ascending to the heavens. In Akitoki's opinion, the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter failed to capture the extent of her attractiveness. She'd made for a breathless sight that night under the cherry blossom tree by the lake.

Kaguya's mannerisms and speech, although drenched in mockery back then, were still delivered with a noblewoman's traditional refinement and cavalier attitude. Since Akitoki hadn't been there, in the recounts he'd heard from his companions when they managed to unfreeze time and return to this world safely, he was led to believe that Kaguya's personality changed swiftly when they'd been in her domain. In her castle, truer to the cruel personality a demon would have held after having lived for so long, Kaguya had discarded the pretense she'd maintained in order to deceive others into believing her transcendent origins.

The smile—on those features foreign to him—broadened. Seeing it made Akitoki avert his eyes. Somehow knowing that the demon was manipulating a face that wasn't even hers made it worse.

"If you'd asked me three years ago," she began slowly, "I'd respond with a different answer. But unlike your comrades, you didn't directly participate in the events that led to my death. You were too weak. Therefore, there is no grudge." Her declaration had been delivered flatly. "You were hiding—I seem to recall—clutching the celestial robe your ancestors stole from me as if it would save your life. How unattractive."

Under what brightness that remained, the body Kaguya inhabited matched the imposing environment. A frozen pond could be found in the color of her eyes and in her hair. Mottled with the pattern of natural light, her skin was of an unnatural paleness as if she barely went out under the sun. Studying the dejected slant of his mouth, she proclaimed, "Ningen, if it'd put your worries to rest, however deserving I'd once thought it'd be, I don't intend to seek vengeance."

His pride had already been hacked to bits by her words. His shoulders slumped. "…Really." He doubted the authenticity behind that statement. Men captured by their enemies were often tortured, sold, or attained to commit ritualistic suicide. If not for vengeance or for a meal, why had he been the one to be accosted? Her reasons for consoling him was suspect.

Evidentially, she'd discerned his skepticism because her smile dropped. With newfound solemnity, she criticized, "You callously take that tone with me only because you don't know what it is like to die. Did you once stop to reflect on the likely motivations behind my actions not long ago? Or did you look at me and automatically associate me as evil?"

His mouth dried up.

"That is the narrative you humans have established. You selfishly hunt down and persecute anyone who doesn't fit your ideals. You cannot settle your differences and are so eager to start your own wars and segregate yourself over petty quarrels that the only way you unite is against a common foe—that being us." She frowned. "I know that, but I'm still giving you a chance. Will you prove me wrong? Will you hear what I have to say, ningen? You'll find me more reasonable than you expect."

His eyes shifted down to stare at the ground. So she simply wanted to talk? What little experience he'd gathered from his travels was whispering to him about the illusion of free choice being at the mercy of her whims. So long as he followed along the script she'd thought up in her head—and so long as she hadn't plotted treachery that'd end in his demise—he had a higher chance of surfacing out this alive. It never occurred to him to run.

Still, at this juncture, there was nothing to go on but conjecture. There was little he could do at this point other than hearing what she wanted to do to him. His cheeks mushed against the ground, he wordlessly indicated his consent.

"Splendid. I have no intention of picking a fight with you."

The ice around Akitoki's ankles and wrists cracked and splintered into shards.

"You will follow me. If for no other reason than being a guest in…," Kaguya glanced about her surroundings disdainfully before concluding, "my house, and for want of preserving your life, young master." Rising to her feet, without waiting for Akitoki to gather his bearings, she sauntered away, fully expectant that he'd follow.

Vivid recollections of demonic ninjas and the demon lord that led them, and a cranky inu hanyou with his tiny kitsune and a two-tailed nekomata—the latter trio being the only monsters that'd defied Akitoki's learnings of their gruesome nature and mercilessness—clawed their way through his thoughts. Those beings of supernatural origins had extended an offer of aid and compassion to him, albeit having to be coerced by their human companions to do so.

While he treasured the memories he had of his comrades, Akitoki honestly had enough experiences dealing with the yōkai and their ilk to last him a lifetime. This happenstance with the dead cemented this thought. If he managed to survive this encounter, he was going to persuade his fiancée and her family to leave the countryside for living a peaceful life with him in the imperial city, where there were little to no encounters with demon-kind.

As Akitoki swayed up, massaging his wrists and ignoring the stinging in his ankles, he heard her elucidate distantly, "I've come to understand that it was partially my fault for not explaining myself those years ago, instead of acting on impulse as I would to any home invaders."

She'd spread her arms up, as if beseeching the Shinto deities her species weren't known to believe in. Kaguya resumed, "Now, you may be loyal to your friends—and they may have been ill-informed of my intentions—but they'd ruined my Eternal Night. That makes it difficult for me to grant forgiveness. Subsequently, since you're here as their stand-in, you'll be responsible for the outcome."

Sweat was pouring down his spine. A pacifist at heart, he was inclined to expect good intentions from others. As he watched the colossal shell of ice overhead disintegrate effortlessly with a wave of her hand, Akitoki merely wished this were a bad dream and not a premonition of what was to come.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Evening, Dawlish," greeted a middle-aged man. As cropped short as his hair was, under the glimmer of the crystal chandeliers hovering high above, it still had the appearance of sheep's wool. Wrapped around a forearm was a trench coat that belonged to the standard articles of clothing all of his colleagues at least owned or wore to work. In his Muggle suit and tie, tailored specifically for his stocky build, he made for a distinguished sight among the stacks of papers and case files amassed atop a desk in the open cubicle.

The environment he was in could only be described as a congregation of bodies buzzing with conversation in the large, open space ahead. Familiar faces could be glimpsed from the crowd but other than their presence, amidst the fresher faces he felt like a stranger in the same department he'd spent a good portion of his life dedicated to. Most heads were bent, but a few had theirs affixed anxiously at the walkway suspended above.

A head of wiry grey hair emerged from beneath the piles of paperwork. Unlike his colleague, John Dawlish was among the employees that stuck to the old uniform: enchanted robes—dyed a dark blue that was nearly indistinguishable from black—made by a witch's wand. Folded over the backseat of his chair was also a brown trench coat. Since his desk position required him to be located near the front, he was seated within an open cubicle to receive papers and to point anyone lost in the right direction. He was unaware of the funny sight he made with his bull-like appearance in his neat office, incongruous against the cubicles arranged in orderly rows behind his.

Dawlish squinted up at the wizard addressing him, before his expression lightened up. The dour lines underneath his eyes and around his mouth grew more pronounced as he returned, "Auror Robards!" A charm had been casted on each employee-designated cubicle, amplifying the voices within the invisible area of effect while quietening the ones outside the enclosure. His clouded smile lessening into a wistful expression, he commented, "You're awfully energetic. I'd say 'good evening to you too,' but I think we'd all rather retire to our homes by now. It's two-to-three hours before midnight."

Gawain Robards had been ready to grouse his own thoughts on the matter, when he noticed the look lingering on the credentials hanging below Gawain's collarbone. He breathed a sigh through his nose. Of course Dawlish couldn't help but be captivated. The badge was standard issued to all those employed in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Employees had to carry it for identification's sake. However, behind the blue lettering, engraved into the metal were motifs that differentiated which division they belonged to.

Dawlish himself had been in active service not too long ago, before events in the Second Wizarding War disgraced him. It'd been a miracle that the ad hoc Head Auror, before Potter's promotion, had kept Dawlish within their ranks—albeit demoted to a lesser position—with the justification that Dawlish had been among the unfortunates that had their free wills Confounded or had been mind-controlled by an Imperio. The reasoning was that their services were still needed in the Ministry, and it would be a shame to fire them for circumstances outside of their control when their records indicated exemplary service beforehand.

That decision had not made the previous Head Auror—nor any of the Aurors that had been pardoned—popular.

Out of sympathy, as if in pain Gawain rolled his shoulder and then made a motion to grab it, covering the badge behind his elbow casually. He maintained an amiable smile. "You can't fault me for that. My wife and kids pack enough tea for me to last me through the nights, by now caffeine must be running through my veins."

Dawlish's intense concentration was shattered, and he had to blink several before he got ahold of his senses.

With an embarrassed grunt, Dawlish pushed his chair back with a muted skrrch as he peered at the cubicles behind him. Snatching his coat and swinging it over his shoulder, he said briskly, "So everyone is assembled then. I honestly expected it'd take longer."

"We have a lot of subdivisions and other departments coming in," Gawain agreed, waiting for his old colleague to come around his desk. He pretended not to see the tremor in Dawlish's wand arm. "It's been awhile since we were told to wait. You're fortunate to have your desk assigned near the squad room. When we have to gather for assignment, you don't have to walk as much to the briefing as we do, don't you?"

He was sent a funny glance out of Dawlish's peripheral vision.

Gesturing at the bodies ahead of them, Dawlish questioned, "Do you see all these people? I take one, two, three steps, and I'm already there." The clearest conversation they overheard—passing by a group of wizards, with some individuals still gloved and dressed in hooded, disposable body suits—encompassed heated speculations concerning evidence of magical creature cruelty and exploitation. It's when Dawlish and Gawain strode their way to the back of the crowd that he asked, "It's not that I don't appreciate the company, but is there a reason for the chat? We haven't talked since…well, y'know."

"Nothing suspicious; I'd wanted to make certain no one was left out." Gawain passed a look over the group of Aurors that'd been sent out to the field: Williamson, Savage, Finnigan, Weasley, Macmillan, and the rest that'd accomplished their duties and were expecting, like the rest of them, the Head Auror's imminent arrival. Gawain had no doubt that, after informing them of the situation, the Head Auror would order those individuals into one of the Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms posthaste.

Much like the flock of paper avians threading between the enchanted chandeliers, he felt bitterness encircling his mind. It wasn't long ago that Gawain was recognized among the forces led by the late Amelia Bones. Unable to help himself, he murmured, "In the glory days, that'd be me up there. Now it's all Potter's men."

"That's dangerous talk, Robards," Dawlish hissed, overhearing him. "What are you saying? You still have your position."

Gawain's expression pinched, before it eventually smoothed out. "You're right. That was an insensitive remark. Sorry about that."

"I didn't say that to make you apologize—" Dawlish grimaced. "Never mind. I am upset that he isn't here yet. I overheard that the Deputy Head came back and went to fetch him. How long are they going to keep us waiting?"

"The Deputy Head is back?" Gawain exclaimed, unconvinced. "That quickly? She was on-site minutes ago." If she was back, that meant they would be issuing assignments to them tonight.

"The Deputy Head," drawled a voice behind them, making them turn, "I heard, was summoned back because the Head Auror was taking his fine time with the Unspeakables, after saying he'd come straight back after dropping the ambassador off. A mate told me those eejits from the Committee managed to accost the Head Auror on the way back from Minister Shacklebolt, so she was sent to rescue him. She's good at convincing those busybodies."

"…Well, I suppose she did use to work for them. He went to see the Minister?"

"Aye right, did you know?" a woman piped up. "I overheard through the grapevine that the Americans are involved in this. I'd honestly thought our recent proceedings over there had been the end of that."

"Didn't we make sure their magical monument was left intact?" someone whispered to another. "Oh my days, I remember we had less than charitable things to say about one another, last time that we recently dealt with them."

"That's putting it lightly. My colleague, from one of the teams that went on the overseas mission, said they'd never seen someone as royally reprimanded by the Head Auror as their Director was."

"Erm, wasn't that a rumor? I imagine it was the other way around. Isn't that why the Head Auror loathes him?"

"C'mon, y'know he talks a big game. I only know that someone called someone an 'arrogant ponce' or something."

"Hush! We don't know anything yet."

"All I know is that there are talks of security trolls at the White Tomb. Weasley reckons that American suppliers are involved in the illegal trafficking of magical creatures to our country. And we know what that means if traffickers are involved."

"Did he? Auror Weasley said that?" Gawain interjected into their conversation. "Did he tell you this? I was enlisted in one of the teams you'd mentioned. The Aurors there have their hands busy with a presidential election, a wendigo infestation, Scourers, and No-Majs who saw something they should not have. Fugitives or not, I doubt they'd be desperate enough to be caught resorting to conspire with Death Eaters when they'd been thoroughly ousted to the international wizarding community like that."

"Surely, that's…not the case. Criminals band together."

"Scourers, I understand," stated someone unfamiliar. "They've issued international warrants for those blood traitors. Everyone's keeping an eye out for them. But 'No-Majs?' What are 'No-Majs?'"

"…Truly?" Gawain exclaimed. "You haven't been to the States, have you? They call the Muggles 'No-Maj' there."

"Robards," Dawlish said lowly amidst the debates happening around them. When the Auror's interest was reclaimed, he resumed, "Where is that person? I don't see him…no, not the Head Auror. Y'know who else it could be. The one that's always advising him."

Gawain's eyes widened, and his gaze flitted across the assembly in search of a man with long dark hair and a distinctive beard streaked with grey. A complex blend of emotions surged when little to no result was procured. His jaw tensing, he replied, "I can only assume he's…decided to hear from the Head Auror or the Deputy Head directly instead of waiting like the rest of us."

"I see. So that's how it is."

Just as Dawlish finished the sentence, a mechanical, grinding noise soon made everyone hone in on the walkway like a beacon. The rotating needle in the dial overhead oscillated down from the number three to two. A bell dinged and the set of heavy oak doors suddenly creaked open, revealing the access lift hidden behind.

The walkway shuddered. Emerging from the golden griddles side-by-side were the solemn figures of Lord Potter Black Peverell and Deputy Head Granger. They were both carrying paperwork. Accompanying their arrival was a diluted version of the hubbub beforehand, with government workers shuffling their feet impatiently. Whenever Head Auror Potter had watermarked files in hand, Deputy Head Granger was always known to carry a fearsome multitude shrunken in her handbag.

The golden griddles receded back from the frame with a rusty screech. Likewise, the tall double doors moved to swing shut.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting." Potter's voice boomed loud and clear in the Auror Headquarters, no doubt with the Sonorous charm already in effect. Footwear could be heard clanging against the metal grating. Approaching the rail, he studied the faces of the personnel employed under him or at least had a direct relation to the Auror Office. Gloved fingers grasped the metal bar.

One of the biggest criticisms the Head Auror faced, beside his record-setting age to occupy the Auror Office, was his tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve. Harry Potter, as a wizard and a diplomat, felt too strongly; out of work, he was merely one of the people; he was too accommodating; he was too human with high aspirations for their society. While compassion was valued here now more than ever, outside of special circumstances, the expectation was that he had to be firm and uncompromising while he meted out justice from the local to national level. Because he represented the law, Harry Potter, as the authority figure of their department, had to be a professional—an enforcer of peace. To command respect, he cannot be seen as inexperienced lest he and their system were taken advantage of. His reputation of being a war hero had to be upheld.

It was easy for people to forget his age as he declared, "I will make this brief. There was a distress call, and everyone dispatched demonstrated exemplary performance. Threats have been neutralized and we have successfully captured seven-to-eight persons of interest alive, more or less. And, yes, some of the rumors are true. We have finally apprehended Decio—their Chief Snatcher."

He was interrupted when a round of applause broke out. People were either cheering, clapping, hooting, or whistling. Not the one to crush a cause for celebration, Potter waited politely for the ruckus to die down, before continuing, "You may give your regards to Aurors Weasley, Williamson, Savage, Thomas, Jordan, Finnigan, Parvati, Proudfoot, and Macmillan later. The Chief Snatcher is with the rest, who are either in isolated cells or in the interrogations rooms. We can't keep them in custody indefinitely, so we need to get a move on those confessions.

"I will be real here: we'd sustained one casualty, though I hear from our medical examiners that it's nothing fatal. I want you all to show your support nonetheless. I shall leave it to your discretion, although someone had informed me that Proudfoot likes chocolate frogs. Chocolate boosts happiness. Dark chocolate however will help his heart. Cards or sending some sort of a nice message wishing him a speedy recovery will do just as well, alright? Please have it owled to St Mungo's infirmary when you have the time. I'm certain he'll appreciate the thought.

"Besides that, you might be wondering why our seasoned veterans are here instead of directing the field teams—both our forensic wizards and the Disposal of Magical Creatures—where to set-up while they sweep the grounds for evidence and anything we might've missed. I'm told their speediness is in part due to the exemplary performance I'd just mentioned. The coroner is examining the trolls as we speak. Same with the wizard cadavers. He'll have results to the appropriate parties starting tomorrow. I especially give regards to the reports that'd been compiled at such a short notice, and given to my Deputy to hand to me. You have my admiration—those in the forensics and crime scene investigation division. Thank you for following orders.

"Now, the big question I see on all your faces is whether or not they'd succeeded in their Dark Resurrection Ritual. Rest easy, they will pay. For desecrating Dumbledore's grave and disturbing his final resting place, this travesty won't go ignored. We have foiled them at every turn, I have reasons to believe this is not so much made in desperation as much as it is a sign that they're growing bolder. That, in itself, is dangerous. Analysis will be run on the skeletal remains found on-site; until we have concrete evidence, we cannot assume that they're Voldemort's. We'll have more information to you when it's ready.

"Everyone knows how this goes. In the course of several weeks, I want to hear results. Give me reports. I will hear debriefings from each of your superiors in the meantime. And while we will continue surveillance, my Deputy Head tells me psych evals have been scheduled within the next few weeks. Make sure you clear one day off your calendar for your arrangement with the shrink. No excuses.

"Remember, I'm holding everyone else to the same standard. Every person here in this department pulls their weight and are to get back to work after this briefing ASAP. Everyone is to assist their superiors as best as they can. Everyone is to contribute. Be productive. Make me proud. That is all." Glancing down at whatever was attached onto the first case file, he read aloud, "With the exceptions of Aurors Weasley, Patil, Thomas, Williamson, Macmillan, and Robards who are to meet me and Hermione in Briefing Room no. 3, everyone else is dismissed! Tomorrow's another big day. Do what you have to, to last the long hours. I don't want to catch any one of you with your heads down on the table."

At a loss for words, Gawain had to have his name called out many times by Dawlish before any attempts at regaining composure was achieved. While workmates nearby patted him on the back or on the shoulder sympathetically—or had sent encouragements in his wake—Gawain could only mull over why his name was included in the rollcall. For a heartbeat, he dared to breathe.

XXXXXXXXXX

Having imparted a last, "You got your wish; take care of yourself now" to a still shell-shocked Gawain, Dawlish left him behind in the corridors to vacate the premises. While the rest of the employees funneled out of the corridor, Gawain had to rush to prepare for the meeting. Exhilaration tasted like tangy tea on his tongue. He could feel his blood pumping as he traversed the corridors, finally arriving at his destination.

Surrounding the enchanted glass enclosure of the Head Auror's office, similar to the design language of the cubicles before them the Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms were initially intended to resemble the offices that Muggles in high positions liked at the time. Each Briefing Room had their distinctiveness, but Briefing Room no. 3 was unique in that it contained more contemporary craftsmanship from the British Isles with souvenirs brought back from the Aurors who'd traveled overseas.

Larger than how it appeared on the outside, encased within the stain glass exterior enchanted with writhing Irish Celtic motifs and a large number three, the room contained lacquered folding screens, a handcrafted mahogany conference table that could seat ten people, and what appeared to Gawain as Japanese ceramics laid out tidily on a silk table runner which could be worth more than his annual salary. Other than that, the room was largely comprised of Arts and Crafts furnishings that looked like a lot of time had been invested coordinating them, reminding Gawain of his mother-in-law's appreciation of those specialty shops in Glasgow.

Aside from Gawain, there was only one wizard who had known relatives in Glasgow—and that was Pius Thicknesse: counselor to the Head Auror and Deputy Head Auror.

Seated to the Head Auror's left was the same wizard Gawain and Dawlish had been searching for moments prior, this time wearing a Muggle-styled pinstriped suit indicative of his support of Harry Potter taking office. At the head of the table was the Head Auror, with his Deputy Head sitting on his right. The three had been conversing while they waited for everyone else to gather. From the distance, it seemed that Granger had something on her mind even as she participated in the discussion.

Adjourning midway through his consultation, having noticed the intensity of the gaze on him, the same man Gawain used to work for had lifted his eyes to the door frame where the Auror stood by motionlessly. "Mr Robards," Thicknesse bade, "if you would close the door and take a seat, that'd be appreciated."

Gawain swallowed back his saliva when everyone turned to stare at him. Some had welcoming smiles. Others were indifferent or quizzical to his attendance. After shutting the door behind him, returning any mumbled "hellos," he took the only remaining chair left. At his right was Weasley and at his left sat Macmillan. His head and body felt ready to sway side to side from all the excitement, like how he would sometimes take his youngest by her hands in their house and dance with her to the energetic beat. Even being ignored by his seatmates couldn't ruin his mood.

With the reminder that the younger generations surpassed Gawain in preferential treatment, it always ate at him every day that his wife had to remind him that so long as his colleagues could back up their talk, he couldn't justify harboring bad feelings. The least that Gawain could manage, without letting that mindset affect him, was cooperating in their investigations without letting his resentment showing in his work performance.

Sliding into his chair, he waited for the Briefing to begin. He avoided eye contact with Thicknesse. Sliding the messenger bag off his shoulder, Gawain noticed everyone else had their memo pads open. Hastily, he dug through his bag. To his relief, without needing to look up, he felt Thicknesse's eyes finally lift from him.

Years ago that it was, Gawain remembered working simultaneously alongside John Dawlish and Pius Thicknesse. All three men had been competent investigators with decent achievements. Despite that, Gawain had gotten along better with the stoic Dawlish than the strong-willed Thicknesse. There was something unnerving about working alongside Thicknesse—capable duelist that he was. Then Dawlish had been noticed by Minister Cornelius Oswald Fudge for his ability to follow orders abnormally well while Gawain was handpicked by Head Auror Amelia Susan Bones for his performance in raids, leaving Thicknesse by himself.

At the time, Gawain remembered Thicknesse's heavy Glaswegian accent which'd differentiated him from the rest of his colleagues who bore the traditional English, Welsh, or Scottish dialect who'd lived in the South East for some time. Besides his gaunt facial features, Thicknesse was known for his high overhanging forehead that, at times, shadowed glinting eyes, making him seem sinister to the right people. Very few wanted to be seen associating with him outside of the taskforce.

To his old partners' amazement, Thicknesse amassed an intimidating track record apprehending dark wizards, that even Head Auror Bones had been impressed enough to appoint him as her successor. With that, he'd surged ahead. For each successful arrest and raid, the more his confidence grew, and the more effort was made into quelling his colorful accent until he hardly sounded like himself anymore. Soon that old image of him faded as most came to accept that the headstrong Pius Thicknesse had a bright future ahead of him, naturally placing him in high esteem in their minds.

The threat of his existence could be attributed to why the Death Eaters had Thicknesse forcibly bent to their will, exploiting him for their gain and wresting his self-control away from him during the Second Wizarding War. With the unjustifiable homicide of Amelia Bones, the start of Thicknesse's commanding presence could be sensed when he rose to fill the power vacuum her death had left behind, soon moving onto the loftier position of Minister of Magic—a move which had been suspicious in itself, coupled with recent decisions that seemed erratic and out-of-character for him.

In the Trials, in his distinctly careful intonation Thicknesse was memorably quoted—missing the identifying fast-paced dialect—to have stated that being held under Imperius Curse had stained his hands with blood. With his ability to make sound judgements impaired, he had not been in control of his actions, unable to resist committing the atrocities You-Know-Who's men forced him to. Hence he was resigning from his tenure—with the Acting Minister's blessings—turning himself in for his sentence.

No one had foreseen that he would be offered amnesty, paving the way for wizards who had their free wills similarly stripped from them, thusly being kept as demoted civil servants in the new Ministry of Magic.

At the helm of the scandal, Thicknesse could only keep a low profile, dutifully assisting whoever was to be the next Head Auror. As long as his activities were checked and he continued to demonstrate good behavior, his connections provided him a measure of security.

Gawain flipped through his journal, searching for a page that wasn't filled to the brim with notes. When he finally found one, he set it down with an ink pot on the table, with his own Self-Writing Quill poised to take notes. He was resolutely looking ahead at the Head Auror's jawline.

"I don't expect much tonight," Potter mentioned once he had everyone's attention. The case files were arranged at the left of his elbow, unopened. His hands were clasped together. "But it's the end of the day. I know you're all tired. Before I can let you leave, update me on what you can."

"It's still an ongoing investigation," Granger started. She'd cracked her journal open onto a fresh page. Her magical quill was suspended in the air, ready to jot down notes on its own. "When you'd left, all signs seem to point to what we'd discussed at the White Tomb. We might be looking at illicit activities. We have the appropriate parties working the graveyard shift investigating the collars and uniforms that the trolls were wearing."

"To catch everyone up," having said that, holding a hand up, Potter passed a glance over to Gawain and Thicknesse before resuming, "everything you may have heard might be true. It's still uncertain. Also, it's true that I'd sent an armband to Analysis. Even without being given the results yet, the existence of Snatchers surviving is an unfortunate reality. Thus, aside from certain individuals in this room, you're my top operatives suited for this mission. The reason why I gathered you here is in the event that our lead about the Americans turns out to be probable, we'll have to make correspondence."

"We don't have the time to stand-by!" Macmillan blurted from Gawain's side. "We've crippled their numbers with each arrest we make. We already have probable evidence that they're somehow involved in this. The best way to expose a secret is to get them to turn on each other."

"But why would they leave such an obvious clue when they'd been so careful evading our taskforce?" Thicknesse countered, the intensity of his tone intended to quell the Auror's fervency. Once Macmillan went quiet, he went onto saying, "That's easier said than done. Even with the Malfoys' help and the confessions we've acquired from the fugitives we arrested, we've still yet to find their base of operations."

"The Malfoys, for all we know, could be feeding us false information, stalling us until their old buddies make their getaway."

"And our department values their contributions. You know how this goes. So long as they provide us necessary Intel, the Malfoys are untouchable. There is no incentive for them to betray us."

"They're still a crooked lot," Weasley muttered underneath his breath. His hands clenched into fists. "Immunity agreement or not."

Potter said, "Ron, Macmillan, stop. We're over that. I hate to admit it, but Counselor Thicknesse has a point. Even with reliable Intel from our informants, the Malfoys are no help when the Death Eaters cover their tracks so efficiently. What were they doing here? Is there a new pattern to how they're scattered now—the Death Eaters and now the Snatchers?" Potter tented his fingers underneath his chin. "What else can you tell me?"

"You've already heard most of it," Finnigan answered. "The important thing is that we've obstructed another Dark Resurrection Ritual in the nick of time. And now we find out that the Snatchers who died that night aren't as dead as we thought? Hitting Dumbledore's tomb and bringing in muscle in the shape of trolls outfitted in American gear…something's awfully shady going on, aye. Let's just hope we don't unearth a smugglers' syndicate. We've got enough to handle."

"What about our operatives stationed overseas?" Williamson queried. "I'm more worried about a chain reaction. What's to say that only Americans are involved? I noticed everyone gathered here had participated at one point either in the exchange program or during our last mission in the States."

"Exactly. I've read up on your scores from our cultural sensitivity training. You're all better qualified for this task, should I give the order. It depends on the outcome of this meeting and the evidence that no doubtingly will reveal something or other." Potter reclined back in his seat. His expression dark, his eyes were glued to the ceiling as he said absently: "I have no problem pulling some strings. That's not an issue. I can give the orders in a few hours to the undercover agents you'd mentioned, as well as those still enrolled in the exchange program."

"You sound displeased, sir," Patil remarked. "Not just this instance; you've sounded like you have something on your mind this whole week. Is something else the matter?"

"…Hm? No, I was thinking that they haven't reported any new breakthroughs since the last time we communicated…or, rather, they haven't encountered a big enough golden egg to break this case wide open. It's not that big of a concern. Yet." Even as he'd said that, a severe frown was slashed across his face.

"I don't understand what they're hoping to achieve," Weasley spoke up, His eyebrows were dipped into a frustrated frown. "I want to verify something. I get that our objective is to not maximize casualties. It's to gather information, to round them up. But what's their goal, Harry? To enflame the enmity harbored between our countries? We get along on the surface, right, but with the existence of the press, everyone knows of the bad blood stemming between our departments. Or is this misdirection? We'll be losing a lot of manpower if we're sent on a wild goose chase."

"That's assuming that they're that intelligent," Macmillan replied, crossing his arms and leaning forward to look askance at Weasley. Weasley, likewise, returned his glare. Macmillan went on to say, "They always slip up sooner or later anyhow. This is to send us a message."

"And what message would that be, pray tell?" Thicknesse said curtly, the suddenness of his voice making the two Aurors tense up. "That they have allies? Now why would they reveal their cards to us, if that's the case?"

Silence spread like wildfire.

"Let's take a look at our leads before we come to any conclusion," Potter was the one to suggest, his scrutiny returning to eye-level. "I want my profilers on this to give us credible motives within the week. Have them cross-reference everything. Honestly, Williamson, at this time, your guess is as good as mine."

"Done and done," Granger answered. "I've transcribed that task into their timetables. They should see that when they arrive at work tomorrow morning. I agree that our window of opportunity is closing fast."

"Thank you, Hermione. You're a blessing in disguise."

"If I may, for the Aurors you're sending overseas, could I ask if they can fish around for more information regarding wandless magic?" Thicknesse asked. Crossing a leg over his knee smoothly and glancing in Potter's direction, he explained, "We might as well; it will only benefit us in the long run. I believe this is a matter that greatly concerns the Head Auror. They have some well-known practitioners residing there and they have a long history of exploring that branch of magic."

"…Right, drills and training. I remember you bringing up something like that before on the dossiers." Potter's mouth trudged up into a reluctant smile at him. "Alright, I'd ask either the First Lady or the MACUSA President. Tell them I sent you. We can at least learn new tactics from them that'll also be advantageous to us. At least learning some of their specialized expertise will help us, regardless that I'm losing a few of my best Aurors for a while."

"We're forgetting something. What's our way in with the Director?"

"Bugger off, Macmillan," Weasley snapped, without menace.

Macmillan's forehead puckered from the confrontational tone. Stuck between the two, Gawain wished to sink down into his seat until he was out of their line of sight. If he hadn't been sitting between them as their buffer, the two younger wizards would've got up into each other's faces, this he had no doubt.

"The both of them nearly blew a gasket," Macmillan argued back. "You were there! Everyone thought they'd engage in fisticuffs at one point. You can't expect they'll be receptive to any of us, after that."

"That's a whole lark, Macmillan."

"Decorum, Auror Weasley, Auror Macmillan," Thicknesse warned, interposing into their row. "Have any of you kept with the international media? Regardless of the lack of secrecy surrounding the bad blood between the Director and our Head Auror, we're still political allies. If you continue provoking either parties—"

Potter held up a hand, ignoring the grim frown aimed at him. "Sorry for interrupting, but it's alright, Thicknesse. It's no secret the Director and I hold low opinions of each other."

His elbows landed on the desk. Surveying them, Potter mandated, "In the scenario that any of you that are sent there have to cater to that tosspot, pretend to kiss his arse as long as it benefits us. Don't bend over too much though; we don't want anyone to think we're easily taken advantage of. Also, keep quiet of why you're being sent there exactly. This is outside UK jurisdiction, if we find any ties back to the States. Remember, they will argue with us on this; the American magical policy is to execute criminals outright. I'm okay with giving them traffickers—if they are American—but the Death Eaters are ours. A death sentence would be a waste. At least here, we can give them the persecution they rightfully deserve.

"While you're there, somehow breach the topic of troll hunting no matter which Quahog you meet. I recommend finding the First Lady instead and striking up a conversation about her daughter. That's our golden fleece. If you can spend a moment of your time making small talk about the things she likes, it'll endear you to her. Mind you, I forgot if it was the Salem Witches Institute or Ilvermorny that her daughter attends; regardless, find out so that you don't risk insult. Now, if you manage to find Samuel, don't ask the President about their national Augurey, no matter how much you desperately want to find about the scandal. It's been hushed up for a reason. Don't antagonize him. Remember, you represent our department."

"Be sensitive," Thicknesse advised, "to the fact that they're going through a counterterrorism investigation against foreign instigators. There was even a fiscal crash. Realistically, we can't expect to be greeted with all smiles and sunshine if they think we're imposing on them. It'd be pure Baltic under those circumstances."

"Following that, the Americans have only just started to recover from the years of history the Rappaport's Law had on them that'd segregated them from the Muggles—sorry, I meant the No-Majs. And then this happened, right when Scourers were no longer that big of an issue." Potter paused. Then he amended, "I'd misspoken; Scourers are still an issue. They've now integrated into our modern society as domestic terrorists, conspiracists, and sleeper cells, seeking to oust our magical existence to the Muggles. They're a bigger problem there than in Europe. Point is, the Americans are feeling frazzled and nerves are strung tight across two agencies. If we jump the wand on this…."

He left the sentence unfinished.

"In other words, you don't want our counterparts to think that we're snobbish, insensitive pricks when we send some of our best and brightest over," Dean Thomas summarized, having read between the lines. "Is that what you're saying? You want us to find out if this lead is valid and if it's just trolls, and to report back if it's worse than we'd thought."

"More or less." Lifting his arm, Potter swirled the wand in the air. Smoke billowed out the tip, with sinuous form writhing into words large enough for all to see. The more significant information was transcribed as he asserted, "If you've gotten all that, in other words, you're running recon until this lead on the potential trafficking of magical creatures checks out. Pursue underground contacts. Glean what you can and bring it back to us. If trolls are smuggled across US borders and into ours, it's not just me who wants to be on top of this."

"What do you mean? Is this counted as political intrigue for your associates? Or do you mean the press?"

"Not quite." He began tapping his wand against his palm. "The Americans, and several other institutions I know, would want to know everything about any exploitations, especially if there are black markets, traffickings, or slave trades happening underneath our noses. We're already dealing with wizards and witches being sold as child brides, slave labor, sex slaves, and whatnot. Imagine if there are bidders or underground markets for the exploitation of magical creatures…. Regardless, whatever you end up finding, I want to know."

"So this is a political issue. Macmillan has a point. Will Magical Congress stop us? Unlike before, when we were given permission in a state of emergency, we're quite possibly infringing on their jurisdiction."

"The US government will help us so long as it benefits them," Thicknesse mentioned absentmindedly. "That's why we would have to emphasize that we'll be providing them substantial assistance pinpointing any persons of interest of US nationality related to our investigations. Clandestinely, of course. We'll be turning a blind eye to any magical creature trafficking rings uncovered. In return, any Death Eaters or Snatchers with British citizenship found on US soil are off-limits to them. We'll also get priority over any info from the interrogations."

Falling into deep thought, Thicknesse was muttering beneath his breath, "If memory serves me correct, Magical Congress in downtown New York has a network of crucial information scattered all over—with reliable sources in Quantico, the Pentagon, the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security, and Interpol…. There has to be more, but if only I got to find out before I returned long ago. If I had access to my old sources…but they move around so much." He trailed off, unconsciously stroking his beard.

"They're still mostly the same as when we'd last seen them, Counselor, when we'd traveled to the Woolworth Building," Granger said, staring down at whatever the quill had copied word for word. In her line of sight too was her wedding ring. "Harry…might I…suggest wizards that'd be best suited? For this excursion? I know you have an idea already but I'm beginning to agree with our counselor's recommendations if we have to send Aurors over."

"We'd differed on three individuals only, Hermione."

"I still agree with Counselor Thicknesse on that we should take advantage of whatever connections we have," she reasoned. "I know he isn't here but Lee Jordan should be switched out with Ernest Macmillan. Senior Auror Robards is given; he left a good impression or so I've heard. I still say Seamus Finnigan should come along. Auror Macmillan and Auror Finnigan were in good standing when they'd been in the States…."

Faltering, she then fell into a deep quiet, biting her lip as she brooded over a thought in her head.

"You both strike a fine argument," Potter conceded, when she remained mute. His chin dropped down further behind tented fingers. Focusing on Thicknesse at his side, he articulated, "I'm wary about sending Finnigan over though, to be honest. What do you think, Counselor? You're the one who brought it up first. I know he's half Irish—I remember that made him popular with several witches while we were there—but we have to be sensitive to their recent media coverage. I feel uneasy sending one of my best men out there who is a…before you get into a tiff over what I said, remember I'm also a Half-blood. I don't want to stir something if we can avoid it. Thoughts? Be candid on this."

Everyone sat up straighter in their seats. The pallor of Finnigan's face paled as he downturned his gaze onto his open memo pad, his freckles standing out like brown constellations on his skin.

"…I don't say this lightly to deliberately antagonize either you, Sir, or Mr Finnigan," Thicknesse eventually said, after having collected his thoughts on the matter, "but there would be potentially unsavory results if the world hears of further international conflict. We've already seen the backlash when word got out regarding the animosity between our departments. To this day, we still see the repercussions. It's regrettable that you couldn't keep a cool head, sir, right when the Aurors before you kept friendly relations."

"I know. It's a mess." For the first time since Potter was promoted, the man cringed. "We tried. We simply cannot get along. Our values and method of operations differ too much—the Director and I. I'm still trying."

Thicknesse issued a noncommittal noise, merely continuing to caress the coarse hairs of his beard in rumination. His gaze was heavy on his superior.

Avoiding his eyes, with newfound confidence, Potter declared, "Mind, this is still speculative—since we're waiting on the Committee's verification—but I would want the veterans on this. This would be the official order. Williamson. Robards. You two will accompany Macmillan, Lee, and Parvati to the other side of the pond. Make sure Lee hears about the deployment too. I will have your assignments ready in my office, when everything checks out. Until then, be ready on stand-by. Once you're there, I'm trusting you all to set a good example for us, alright?"

"Best to you, everyone." Having congratulated the chosen few, Dean hid his mouth behind laced hands brought to his mouth. "I remember what our mentors told us about how we, as the British, hold ourselves to a higher standard to the rest of the world."

"Whether anyone here believes that or not, broker good relationships while you're there—to show that we're still trying. See if we need more covert operatives, if this gets to be bigger than we thought. Ron, Finnigan, Dean…you're staying here with me. We're already stretched thin as it is. Hermione needs you for other assignments."

Seemingly recovered from the earlier mood, Finnigan sighed gustily. "Innit a shame? I can't believe I'm going to have to sit this one out then." Reclining back in his seat, he folded his arms behind his head. "At least bring back souvenirs, yeah? I remember they've got fine spirits that'll make Old Ogden want to add to his collection."

"Seamus," Patil said disapprovingly, "You're horrible."

Potter proclaimed, "I cannot emphasize this enough: be friendly, but retain decorum. We are to impress upon them that we are the height of professionalism. I don't want to get reports back about how offensive any of you acted in the States. Don't give them reasons to think…Hermione, what is it? You keep looking at me and not saying anything."

"Umm…I also have an alternative recommendation that you won't like," the Deputy Head said softly.

His expression immediately became guarded. As if physically bracing himself, he prompted, "Let's hear it then."

Granger hesitated, before her lips formed a thin line. "I know you're set on having Williamson overseas, but I need him here. I think…I think Ron should accompany them instead."

The gasp Weasley made sounded like a fish that'd been gutted. "Hermione!" he fumed, lurching to his feet. The chair skidded backward as his hands slammed down on the table. The glare aimed at his wife was unnerving to Gawain, who was watching the proceedings in bafflement. "Do you want me gone so badly? Why are you suggesting—?"

"—No, no. Not…any of that. I just went by—please listen—I just went by what was logical," Granger assured, albeit in a small voice. Her hands had been tucked in her lap, cradling the curve of her stomach. "I know I'm expecting—you want to be a good husband, I understand wholeheartedly—but the baby won't be due for some time. You'd be more useful to me overseas, working your charm on them."

Weasley's expression appeared hurt. "That's Williamson's role."

"No, not quite." She ticked her fingers with each person mentioned: "We don't necessarily need Williamson when we have Robards. Either one would serve the purpose of appealing to the older demographics, who still remember them. The nostalgia will help. Parvati is a show of solidarity for the female agents. Macmillan is for the single crowd, especially those his age; he can be attractive to the right people. Lee is good all around; his curiosity of Quodpot and his obsession for the Quidditch World Cup endears him to the sports-crazy ones, so we can depend on him to fill any gaps."

"Then why do you want me to go?" Weasley asked with a sour look. "It sounds like all bases are covered. Is it to fill Williamson's shoes? Are you saying I'm not as good as him?"

"Hardly. You're both equally talented, Ron. By process of elimination, while I wish I could propose someone else, I think you'd bring more to the table. I personally can't be there, but the President and the First Lady adore us. Both know you're an expectant father." Turning her face away, she stared earnestly at her right. "At least, this is what I think. Do you think that's a bad idea, Harry? You remember how Samuel liked us—the three of us?"

"Harry, I'm telling you—as a wizard to another wizard—this is a terrible idea. What if something happens when I'm gone?"

"You know," she cajoled, "if Ron goes, that'd even endear us to the Director, who is married with children."

Caught between the pair as the mediator, the Head Auror frowned. His fingers were drumming a staccato beat against the surface of the table. Eventually, he responded, "I have my reservations on this, as another man. Sorry, Hermione. Separating you two, when you're this far along, doesn't sit well on my conscience." Noticing her crestfallen expression, he resumed, "That isn't to say I don't see the merits. You wouldn't propose this…unless you really believed in it…but…."

Potter faltered. His eyes rotated down as he cupped the side of his face with an upturned palm. His gaze could melt holes into the conference table as he contemplated.

"We've always stuck together though," Weasley went on to oppose. "We're a team, Harry—me, you, and Hermione. It works. Why change a successful formula? We've never been separated before like this." His hand shot up when he saw his wife's expression from his peripheral sight. "No, Hermione, not to this extent."

Potter gestured to Thicknesse, ignoring the pair quarreling in the background. "Counselor, you always have a different insight." Armed with a disarming grin, he appealed, "I'd like to hear yours on this. Your consultation has helped me several times, since I took office."

Thicknesse frowned. Having been deflected with the task of convincing his superior over a controversial subject, a dark cloud had fallen over his face. He seemed just as cautious to voice his opinion, his thumb twisting the bejeweled ring on his finger gingerly as everyone—excluding the married couple—pinned him with intense stares.

In Gawain's opinion, as he waited with bated breath alongside the rest of the Aurors, Thicknesse was in a tough spot. There was the pressure of reinforcing the Head Auror's decision-making, against making himself an enemy of one of the influential Aurors in the department. Knowing this however, asking Thicknesse might be a cover for what the Head Auror truly thought of the proposition.

Unlike most divorced couples who'd been married for a long while, Mr and Mrs Thicknesse had been without child. Therefore the Head Auror had to know that his Counselor's line of thinking could be atypical from the average wizarding family. He was also known to value productivity over feelings, a quality which the current Head Auror respected in the workforce.

Knowing his personality, Gawain could already anticipate what Thicknesse would say.

At last, Thicknesse replied, "I have to agree with the Head Auror, in some respects. If we're standing by societal standards, normally I would loathe to separate a husband from his pregnant wife. I also understand this reluctance might have to do with team separation; you three have a long, commendable history of cooperation—"

Potter's brows rose. "But?"

"—but Deputy Granger has a point. It's not much of an added advantage, but it would tide the American agents over faster if the President and the First Lady were seen fraternizing with our agents. Neither you nor the Deputy Head will be attending, so Mr Weasley will be filling that void. If we put sentimental objections aside, that asset outweighs the detriments. That is to say, the concerns are exaggerated. We are letting emotion cloud rational thought."

The color of his hair bled into Weasley's face. Clenching his fists, he demanded, "I'm exaggerating my wife and child? I'm exaggerating how I feel about leaving behind my pregnant wife? Is this a set-up, Thicknesse?"

"Anyone going will be outfitted with an International Portkey," Potter explicated in a hefty tone, both of his hands exerting pressure on Granger's and Thicknesse's shoulders until they relaxed their half-raised stance. As he stood up, his gaze was aimed across the table. "Your concerns are valid. Ron, I know how you feel—"

"Do you?" he retorted bitterly. "Don't tell me you're in on this too."

"—and I know how hard this is, but there's no conspiracy you're thinking of. I wanted to be sure the Counselor shares the same opinion, but if I allow this, you won't be leaving her behind entirely. There are methods to return swiftly if something unexpected happens. Since it's a special circumstance, you have permission to come back as much as necessary to take care of Hermione. I won't let anyone stop you from coming back."

"Do you take me for a Pygmy Puff? My brain is not a fluff-ball." His expression distorted. "You're being unusually ornery as of late, repeating yourself left and right. What's going on? It's not that I don't appreciate you coming to my defense, Harry, but I—"

"Ron!" Granger cried, her voice high and frustrated. "You're not being stationed there permanently. Why are you being so obtuse?"

"Obtuse? Me? You're the one who's been trying to run my life. Springing this on me; suddenly expecting me to follow along without question is so unreasonable, so—so—!"

Just as Thicknesse was calling out for decorum, the Head Auror's fist slammed down on the table. The couple fell silent. Having commanded everyone's attention, he said, "We are all prepared to make sacrifices in the line of duty."

In reality Potter's voice was gentle, but it sounded like his volume had been magically amplified. "That's the oath we took when we all decided to be Aurors. If you'd please sit down, I will explain. If this were in any other time, for any other circumstance, I would be on your side, Ron. I know that you think this is unfair or that we're ganging up on you, but I promise you that's not the case."

Weasley bowed his head, his mouth flattening into a white line. He could only be seen staring down at his hands, his legs spread apart as if bracing himself for an attack.

"The Head Auror said sit down, Mr Weasley," Thicknesse chastised. He'd sat up from his lounging position, his hands balled on the table. In a tone equally as strict, he charged, "Or do you think you're an exception because of your friendship with him?"

Everyone froze, upon hearing that. In the meanwhile, Weasley's face—even his lips—became an alarming shade of color.

Bitterness clawed its way back into Gawain's gut as he held himself back from making his resentments known. Among Head Auror Potter's glaring obvious flaws was his propensity to play favorites; that man had never forgotten how people treated him, and that either granted people some measure of privilege or considerable anguish. It hadn't escaped the individuals in the room that Ronald Bilius Weasley had been given more allowances than anyone else—for his association to the Head Auror, who still held a soft spot for select wizards and witches.

Were Weasley any other individual besides Potter's childhood mate, by now he would be charged with insubordination.

As Gawain studied the hunched figure approaching his mid-twenties trembling with humiliation, he could only feel uneasy that Weasley would storm out of the room, and that the Head Auror would let him.

Glowering at the Counselor, in a distinctly lower octave, Potter asserted, "Ron, you are paid to do a job. Contrary to what Thicknesse is alleging, I hope you know you are not granted any special privileges." His eyes were unflinchingly cold when they landed on him. "Sit down. I won't repeat myself again."

The expression on Weasley's face seemed to indicate he was undergoing a tremendous internal struggle. Like a puppet lifting his arms and shoulders into a half-shrug, he uttered, "Blast it." He sagged back into his seat, his arms crossed dejectedly, scowling at nothing.

"Our public image is important," Thicknesse spoke softly. His gaze was affixed onto the solitary figure of the Head Auror by his side. "It's nothing personal, Head Auror. One of the more commonplace complaints about our department is our overzealousness. It applies to everyone. Aurors have been known to have the predisposition of cutting corners to get the results that we want."

"…What?" Granger murmured, her lips beginning to pull down. Her shoulders hunched. Judging by her new posture, Gawain could only assume this switching of topics was disconcerting to her. "Why are you bringing this up unexpectedly as a cause for concern, Counselor? Surely that's not an issue here. We've just come from a corrupt model of government. We're on the opposite moral spectrum."

"Just because you occupy the 'opposite moral spectrum' does not mean you're automatically disqualified from any criticism." His expression was harsh. "Whereupon I've been guilty of the same, I imagine you and the Head Auror aren't any different—and this is the issue about being obsessive over righteous actions."

Just as Gawain was starting to piece together what was being said, Weasley demanded, "What's this sudden speech about, Counselor?" Judging by the rigidness of his posture, he didn't seem to like the tone Thicknesse took to his wife. "I don't see how this has got to do with what we were talking about."

Like a statue coming to life, Potter exhaled through his nose. He straightened up. "…Sorry for digressing, but I guess this has to be said. It's not an implication." Everyone shifted their focus to him. "It is fact."

He glanced at the seated Aurors in the room, only lingering in the direction of Weasley, Robards, and Macmillan—making the three men squirm. Without tearing his eyes away from them, he announced, "This is short notice—I'd meant to address this publicly at later date when I've got the time—but I've been hearing rumors circulating around that some of our agencies are taking the law into their own hands."

"Who're these agencies that're doing what you're saying?" Patil demanded, one of her legs bouncing underneath the table. Her interest made Gawain remember that the witch was among the few in their division who made it their priority to be on top of any new rumor.

"They're under investigation," Potter answered curtly, cutting all further inquiries into the matter. Overlooking the witch slumping in her seat in disappointment, he resumed, "And I understand everyone's concern with what the Counselor's saying, but I cannot have the magical community associate us with condemnation. Just because we are in a higher-ranked position of authority does not mean anyone in this department is exempt from going through the regulations. Which means I don't want to hear reports about one of you mysteriously acquiring selective amnesia and then temporarily forgetting how protocol works. Don't go off the books. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement only has legal jurisdiction over criminal law; we do not have authority over legislation or prosecution in the justice system."

Finnigan frowned. "But aren't you a member of the ICW—?"

"The regulations exist for a reason, Finnigan," he spoke resolutely over him. "We do not want to follow Cornelius Fudge's model of corruption, when he was our Minister. If a jaded Auror starts going on a personal mission—that cannot be allowed to continue. I also cannot have someone accusing the Head Auror of playing favorites. That is to say, anything that'd remind the public of our department's previous models must cease. It's only a downward spiral from there."

"Has this to do with the recent grumblings covered by the tabloids?" Gawain chimed in, nearly startling his seatmates who hadn't expected him to speak up. He sat up straighter; being under judgement bolstered his confidence. "I think I understand. This'd happened under Head Auror Bones' tenure too. The most extreme I've heard are from unsatisfied civilians demanding the immediate disbandment of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If the civilians can't trust us, then how can we freely move around without being monitored or obstructed in some way?"

"That's actually quite insightful of you, Robards," Potter praised, staring at him as if seeing the Auror in a new light. The attention made Gawain's ears feel uncomfortably warm. "Correct. That's the more radical notion I've heard—"

"Don't they realize how impractical that'd be?" Granger exclaimed. "You can't have a society without a Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Do they think it's that easy to replace us? Who else is going to protect them, venture into dangerous situations, or investigate crimes? Themselves—untrained civilians? They can't honestly expect society to be able to function without our presence."

"—while that may be true, Hermione, we have to remember that the recent models they've seen wasn't spectacular—when Voldemort had his coup. And quite a few of those civilians did participate in the war—granted, most of those veterans are in this department—so it's reasonable to expect that they think they're up to the task."

"The media isn't actually our friend," Thicknesse said, "if a story is worth more than their connections with us. Good intentions or not, it's not only our reputation at stake. This is damaging people's faith in us."

"….I understand that we could tone down on the reactionary engagements," she protested, hugging her stomach, "because that's the most criticized, but—and I'd normally hate to play devil's advocate—if we see something wrong, surely we have to act on it. Otherwise, why are we Aurors in the first place? Harry, it's strange that you're showing an unusual interest in our reputation when you're one of the stronger advocates of not taking their words at face-value."

He grimaced. "That's not true. It may seem sudden to you because, at the time, you were still working for the Committee. I didn't plan to speak at length about this yet."

Potter closed his eyes to the befuddled looks tossed toward him. His expression was cross, as if recalling a bad memory. He conceded, "This isn't something that just came up. It is my understanding that we are under heavy scrutiny, since the last two Head Aurors after Amelia Bones has hung a stigma over our department. It was a topic of contention between me and the Counselor for the longest time. He has warned me severely about potential repercussions. This is our chance to demonstrate we've turned over a new leaf. So, don't violate anything. I will drop anyone who goes against procedure like a hot potato."

Dean's expression abruptly contorted. "You say that but what if it's someone we know with—with—Merlin, I don't know—a spouse and three mouths to feed? Aurors are family. If someone's caught misrepresenting the department, we should still somehow show a morsel of support to their families while their actions are under investigation. Even with the public backlash calling for their immediate leave, it's unfair to their families if we suddenly turn our backs on them."

"If someone's caught 'misrepresenting the department,'" Potter said, his expression flat, "family or not, if it checks out, I will have them quit. No and's, if's, or but's. At the most, they'll get their resignation pay. Maybe there'll be pretty words thrown into the public statement, depending on what they've accomplished in their years of service. Point is, no one is hired to be an Auror to satisfy a social agenda. I want hard workers I can trust and not off-the-grid vigilantes who think they're above procedure."

"Personal morals have no place in magical law enforcement," Thicknesse clarified. Everyone, excluding the Head Auror, tensed when he spoke up. "Hogwarts graduates are hired to uphold the peace, and to enforce law and order through our established procedural policies. We don't care about your ideologies or what you feel constitutes as justice. You may do whatever activist movement you support in your personal time, we aren't interested...provided that you don't abuse your authority or our resources in those situations. Tell me, why is it that we schedule for mandatory psych evals after field work?"

"It's to offer field agents psychological help whereupon necessary," Granger supplied, sitting up, "and to evaluate if they're still in the right frame of mind to carry out their duties properly. It's also to detect early signs of a mental breakdown, behavioral difficulties, dissociation, PTSD, and any unchecked behavior. The main point of the assessment is to determine dangerous risks, whether a person should be discharged for duty or if they are still mentally sound to make ethical decisions, as well as what therapy the…officer should be receiving."

Thicknesse held up a hand, staying the words on the witch's tongue. Closing his fingers into a fist, he stated, "Officially, the Head Auror has to investigate claims of misconduct until they've been either proven or disproven. The psych evals are only one of the investigative resources that we have. If a person is found guilty, it is written into the Head Auror's responsibilities to enforce disciplinary actions. That's the way it's been for the longest time, Deputy Granger. Anyone caught acting suspicious is only making it harder on Lord Potter."

"It's as the Counselor says," Potter interpolated. "We are to serve the public and to protect them. Our integrity is important. If we're seen as untrustworthy, then our ability to move around freely and enforce laws are hindered. We'd be as good as useless."

"I believe I'm understanding why you're bringing this to us now," Williamson said aloud this time. There was a crinkling at the corners of his eyes as he directed a tiny, knowing look at his superior who had his attention focused on the floating text. The spell had been condensing their conversation into key points.

Williamson said, "People can forget that they aren't paid to use their imaginations for the wrong purposes, and then slack off while the rest of us pursue real leads and are being genuinely productive. This was a long time coming, isn't it? The psych evals are coming up. Not to mention that you have to hear reports on all the employees from all sorts of personnel. We might also be meeting the Director, who'd accused you of the same. No wonder this is bothering you."

"Expanding on what Williamson said…" the Head Auror underlined key text with his wand, neither denying nor confirming the allegation. "…to bring this back into what we were talking about, no one is to jump into the investigation with the intention to find evidence that'll support our case. The burden of proof lies with us. Honor that. If you are emotionally compromised or if this case becomes personal, I have no choice but to take you off the case. No one's exempt from this—even me. But I would have people focused on investigating real criminal activities rather than chasing imaginary leads simply to prove a point."

As somber as his reprimands were, it was extraordinary how their Head Auror still felt invigorated enough to deliver a lecture. It wasn't to say he was unaffected; his roundabout speech indicated otherwise. He seemed determined to drill this dialogue into their heads, even if he had to run around in circles repeating himself.

"We know the procedure," Macmillan groused, inspecting the path the words trailed in the air before adhering to the stain glass walls. His knuckles bled white as he clenched the arm rests, his nails biting into the intricate whorls whittled into the wood. "This is not to be anyone's vendetta. We get it. No need to prattle on about it."

"Then if you know the procedure by heart, it wouldn't hurt for everyone to hear it again. This is being emphasized ad nauseam right now because I have to stress how important it is to adhere to protocol while handling matters with the upmost discretion…. In other words, I don't want to hear any more complaints about harassment or brutality while you're in the States. Don't abuse your authority. Get everything approved first before you assume all avenues are closed to you. If everything is pointing to the contrary, I want you to stop and use your head before you tell me there is something deeper that we're not seeing. You are to differentiate between imagination and reality."

To everyone's consternation, there weren't any notable signs of him flagging anytime soon as he resumed, "I can't believe these even are reminders I have to give. Be cautious. Use common sense. This is not only addressed to you; this is for everyone in this room and in this department. All in all, don't take cases personally. That is not your responsibility. No more misguided good intentions, am I clear? It's becoming a nuisance. And worrisome.

"If you find concrete evidence that invalidates our lead, don't be disappointed by the results and then come to me with bollocks that'll make us a laughingstock. Reflect on them first before you dismiss any result as untrustworthy. Don't do what some people do and continue searching for what's not there. I don't want to hear claims about someone being too good to be true or the 'internalized' tangent. Give me evidence when you're chasing leads. That'll save you in the long run, if you have something backing you up.

"I don't want to receive reports with omitted information or be debriefed on your gut feeling if it's been rendered defunct. If you happen to derive information from gossip, conspiracy theories, propaganda, public hysteria, ideologies, activism, or even watercooler talk, do your research first before you come to persuade me. No one will trust anything if it hasn't been looked into for credibility."

He paused momentarily, then amended, "Let me know though, if the number or disparity of rumors is suspect. I'll leave that to your judgement, whether something's worth bringing to my attention. But officially I could care less about what your instincts are telling you; at least, not without proof of probable cause. If we find out our lead about the Americans being involved in the illegal outfitting of magical creatures is a false trail, then we stop. If I order you to sojourn current efforts, then you will stop looking into it. Don't waste our department's resources. Don't rely on circumstantial evidence or contradictory eyewitness accounts. Your actions are an extension of myself and a reflection of our department in the public eye. You're here because I have faith in your critical thinking skills."

What was left unspoken was: you were not hired to be a vigilante. Don't waste my time. Don't embarrass me.

"With all due respect, if you're both you and the Counselor are this suspicious about our investigative conduct, I'm surprised neither one of you are the ones volunteering to go," Macmillan scoffed, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Sir, Counselor, we are Aurors. We're better than that. I think everyone is already aware that taking matters into their own hands, without your permission, is a violation of the authority that we're granted."

"…Err, if you don't mind me asking, Head Auror, does this concern also partially to do with the ICW bill—the recent one—that's one of the most controversial?" Patil suggested, lacing her fingers in her lap. Noticing the questioning stares, she elucidated, "Tell me if I'm talking to the air, but remember the amendment everyone's been talking about? Regarding the resolution the ICW will vote on in the next global summit? We saw the infected cuts and scars on the trolls, like they were tied or abused. This'd have a significant impact on your bill, wouldn't it?"

"The one that addresses the hunting, trafficking, and endangerment of magical creatures!" Finnigan proclaimed, his eyes widening at Patil across the table. His head twisted all around, searching for a confirmation before landing on Potter. "Beasts, beings, and spirits, innit? You're in that committee!"

"Encountering the trolls is what finally broke the thestral then," Granger breathed in realization. Her mouth was parted. "And there are only certain ways to acquire security trolls, and no one would legally give criminals-on-the-run magical creatures as fighting power. Right, Harry, you were saying….many of your diplomatic colleagues would be interested in this case."

"You'd have to make revisions, if the lead on international smuggling turns out to be true," Patil said, vibrating in her seat. "Lichtenstein is already a foregone conclusion—with them being plagued by trolls and all. They're a guaranteed rejection. Are you worried it might endanger results of the Voting Bloc—especially with the United States of America?"

Williamson dropped his chin on an upturned palm, his expression bemused. "Actually, Miss Patil, the Big Five can block bills, but they can't prevent or end it. You're young; I'm not astounded if any of you'd get it confused."

"The Big Five's impactful for any Security Council resolutions," Gawain mused aloud, recalling the announcements he'd hear from the radio when his family dined in their house. "Their power to veto is terrifying for that committee. The amendment to the resolution Mr Finnigan mentioned belongs to one of the committees in the General Assembly."

"Any signatories abstaining contributes to the amount of 'no's'. The Head Auror would still need majority of 'yes's' to pass it. And—let's face it—it'd be detrimental to the amendment's success if the international community gets wind of hostile magical creatures aiding wanted criminals. This is already a controversial topic."

"Why are you all speaking as if it's his bill?" Macmillan griped. He snuck a peek. "I mean no offence, sir, but an amendment had been in the works by other parties invested in this."

"Well, he and I made it relevant," Granger said, her tone cross.

"Were you—were you and the Counselor waiting for an opportunity, Harry? You'd planned this at some point then."

"Nay, Weasley, it's quite possibly to do with that federal witness of his in the protected persons service," Finnigan ventured. "And with the rumors about corruption and whatnot, I reckon we've had this lecture long time coming to us."

"Is this something Minister Shacklebolt has spoken to you about too?" she demanded. "Why else would you care?"

While he was being interrogated, there was a faint pride on the Head Auror's face as everyone begun speculating in unison. He inclined his head, as if contemplating the allegations. He divulged, "It's not only addressed to everyone in this room. Like I said, it's for everyone to pay heed to."

Gawain resisted the urge to groan. Potter had avoided answering the questions.

Glancing sidelong at his floating notes, the Head Auror swished his wand. The words followed the route until they stuck against the stain-glass window like a shimmering decal for everyone to read the next day. "We will be conducting surveillance. I want to be greeted with a break in the case soon. That is it until further notice."

Objections broke out, before Potter sliced his wand arm threateningly in the air, silencing them. "I've already talked to no ends about exercising caution and not to let your imagination run its course. If you don't want to hear this again, don't give me reason to rebuke you. Now, does anyone have any issues with this or any schedule conflicts? …No? Then, any last questions before I let you leave?"

Gawain hesitated. Slowly he raised his hand, feeling a little foolish for it when no one else joined him. When the Head Auror called on him, he asked, "How long will we be stationed there?"

"Who knows? Weeks. Months. It takes time for people to warm up to strangers." Potter shrugged. He smiled wryly as he huffed from his nostrils—as if he had found something amusing about what was said. "We need to reestablish trust before I expect we can get anywhere. Anyone else with a question?"

No one else raised their hand or spoke up. Granger was studiously avoiding her husband's gaze. Weasley was still glowering. Many seemed fatigued, already in the process of snatching their Self-Writing Quills or stoppering their ink pots.

"If there's nothing else then..." Ready to depart, he gathered the case files, knocking them against the table until they formed into a neat pile. They were then tucked against the crook of his elbow. "Valiant effort tonight, all of you. Rest well. You deserve it."

"But you, Auror Robards." Potter pointed at Gawain, and then flicked his finger toward Patil. He inclined his head. "I'm sure you're familiar with how this goes. Auror Parvati Patil will catch you up on what you'd missed. I've heard many things about you from the Counselor's mouth. Impressive records, Mr Robards. I have high hopes."

Gawain felt a soreness in his cheeks. He realized—after touching his heated face—that his mouth was stretched wide. Hearing the directive, Auror Patil smiled warmly at Gawain across the table.

Pulling on a delicate chain and tossing it up in a rotary motion over his right hand, Potter watched as the pocket watch landed on his left palm. The watch was unclasped with a flick of his thumbnail.

"If that is all…." Both the Deputy Head and the Counselor had risen to their feet when the Head Auror finished, "meeting's adjourned."

XXXXXXXXXX

"Potter." Just as he was about to depart, a hand reached down to grasp Harry firmly by the forearm, where the wand holster was. The action nearly jolted the files onto the floor. Thicknesse had rotated his eyes down at him, a grim expression pulling the skin over his skull back. "If I may speak to you for a moment."

His heart was thudding in his eardrums. A cross between a surprised exhalation and tense chuckle escaped from Harry. It was a close call; he unclenched his fist. Jerking his head down sideways, he leaned in close to hiss, "I'd left my witness behind, Counselor. I have no time."

By now, his voice sounded foreign even to himself—gritty and gravelly to the ears. Harry had to restrain his urge to yank his arm away as he demanded, "What's this about?"

"That magical creature?" Thicknesse whispered, his grip loosening. His brows were sinking severely downward. "I thought you said you'd left him behind with trusted parties."

"Mind your words, Counselor." His tone was stern. "We're talking about the DoM. It's been long enough, honestly. They're not exactly the most sensible in social situations."

From Harry's peripheral vision, he'd glimpsed Hermione wrenching her arm away. She turned her heel on Ron, marching determinedly over.

Resignation flooded his entire body. He felt his muscles tensing into a practiced posture as he threw himself back into his professional mindset. While Harry thought that he should be feeling alarmed by how easily the dissonance was coming to him finally after all these years, the sense of whiplash—for this shift in mentality between work and his personal life—only dimly registered to him now, however surreal it should be.

When he wanted to be, or when the situation called for either, Harry was decent at diverting attention and at being inscrutable. Without looking away, Harry murmured, "Sorry, Counselor. Can it wait until tomorrow?"

Thicknesse had followed the motion of the Head Auror's head. He exhaled loudly through his nose. Before releasing Harry, he whispered, "One last thing…that matter concerning you and Doge—you may assert your diplomatic immunity. He cannot force you to testify."

His gaze lingering on the leather covering the back of Harry's palm, he let go. Loudly, Thicknesse said, "Very well. Since you're in a hurry." Bending sharply at the waist, he stepped backward, allowing a path to the Head Auror. He was gesturing toward the woman making their way toward them.

"Harry!" Arriving, she directed a wide, frazzled smile at him. Hermione nodded once to Thicknesse, her disposition withering once she sauntered up. Sidling between them as a blockade, she acknowledged, "Counselor."

"Deputy Head," Thicknesse replied amiably enough, straightening his spine. Gazing at her, there was no indication in his expression that he'd heard the strain in her voice. His hands were clasped behind his back. "I didn't anticipate you'd volunteer your husband for the off-seas mission. It's not what…most spouses would allow."

"Nonetheless, thank you for the vote of confidence earlier. No doubt if you hadn't pitched in, Harry here would've concurred with Ron…." Her sentence trailed off upon catching a glimpse of her husband trying his best to muscle through the crowd she'd forsaken him in. His face was an alarming shade of color.

"Your consultation is always appreciated," Harry said, his attention still retained on the wiry figure before him. "Apologies for keeping you this late. I'm surprised you were still around the premises."

"Indeed, it's fortunate that I had other errands today." Thicknesse's mouth twitched. He briefly eyed the arm curled around Harry's bicep before meeting his gaze. "I have to say, you've come a long way since—"

"—Harry, we have to go now!" Hermione said, beaming, tugging him by the arm until Harry had no choice but to finally budge. "Goodnight, Counselor!"

Shoving him forward by the shoulders, she ushered Harry toward the door despite his foot-dragging, determined to evade Ron. They turned their backs on Thicknesse, who'd stepped out of their way to avoid a collision.

Out of courtesy, before they'd reached the door, Harry managed to maneuver his line of sight. He had the intention of ending the night on a conciliatory note, when he saw that the tall wizard had his focus on tidying up his possessions, seemingly unconcerned with the public slight.

"We have to head to Gringotts," Parvati could be heard imparting to the small group congregated a few meters from the door. "C'mon, keep up. Keep up. We'll have to exchange our Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts for Dragots."

"We don't know exactly if we're leaving anytime soon," Macmillan was saying. Seen over people's heads, his expression contorted. "Besides, the current currency exchange rate is terrible."

"Chances are," said a voice that sounded like Williamson's, "if the Head Auror brings something up in a briefing, it's safe to assume it's going to happen. At least he had the foresight to give us enough time to say our goodbyes to loved ones. Isn't that right, Gawain?"

"You're young, Lord Macmillan. You don't have wife and kids to worry about, unlike some of us." With the last sight of Robards clapping Macmillan on the shoulder, both Hermione and Harry crossed the door's threshold. To any bystanders, seeing the pair emerge from one of the deceptively small Briefing Rooms would've startled anyone. With a speed that rivaled sound, they hurried down the corridors.

Despite the significant stretch of time they must have spent inside the Briefing Room, not much have changed. The magical chandeliers were still lit, with the occasional official either being seen migrating from cubicle to cubicle or standing just outside for a chitchat. With each cubicle they passed, indecipherable discussions—scrambled by layers of privacy charms—were taking place from behind the walls. The only notable difference was that the colorful paper cranes and airplanes weaving overhead have lessened in amount—representational of those stuck working the late shifts.

Upon hearing unknown footsteps growing louder and louder, the few personnel working as the skeleton crew poked their heads out curiously from behind the walls. Their eyes widened when their bosses rushed by. To Harry's relief, he had them trained well. In the span that it took to reach the stairs to the suspended walkway, no one went to impede their passage with trifling complications he could care less to be inconvenienced with. Hermione did, however, return smiles awkwardly to each employee that risen to their feet upon catching sight of her full figure. Harry only nodded to those that demonstrated attentiveness for Hermione's circumstance.

"Thicknesse's doing a lot better reconnecting with old associates," Harry remarked to himself. Once more, his mind felt submerged in a pool of icy water. He welcomed the clarity like an old friend, aware that it was not going to last. In the meantime, it chased away the exhaustion and made him clear-headed enough to handle the events which awaited him. When the golden grilles finally closed behind them, he muttered, "But, Hermione—even for you—that was a little rude."

She pressed the button labeled with the number nine. "It's been a rough week." The lift lurched up. After a brief pause, she inquired, "Why did you sound so upset when you heard the Americans might be involved? I understand that it might be a worrisome development, but it's nothing that we can't handle. We have to construct a narrative and trace it back."

"…I don't know if this is ghastly of me to think this, but I'm worried that we might uncover something bigger than magical creature traffickers."

"Bigger? Y'mean the Elder Wand? Or does this really have something to do with your bill?"

"Hermione, I'm perturbed that you, Finnigan, and Parvati think this incident is somehow connected with the bill of magical creature rights."

She crossed her arms below her cleavage. "Well, you'd mentioned certain agencies would be interested. It's only natural that I would come to that conclusion. Tell me, honestly, is this because you don't want to get involved with the Director?"

Harry shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, deliberating on the jumble of considerations running through his head.

At last, he said, "You didn't hear this from me. Putting aside the issue of the missing Deathly Hallow, I'm concerned that this could be a case of smuggling and money-laundering. Think about it. Snatchers, hire-for-gold. Death Eaters, frozen vaults, fear, xenophobia, magical creatures, subjugation, trolls, and now a fighting force from an external source that we are in the dark about. Do I need to continue?"

Her arms loosened a bit, upon hearing that. Her expression was taken aback.

"And on the extreme opposite side of the spectrum, it could be that someone wants our communities to clash heads enough that we break diplomatic ties, possibly setting the stage for the Third Wizarding War. Granted, bare minimum, this sounds a little like what a Scourer would pull off. I don't expect this scheme from our European continent."

"We both hold the same opinion of any war-profiteering. It's an extreme theory to come to, but considering who fills their ranks, it makes sense." Her lips moved into a frown. "Everyone's a little paranoid lately. Your little impromptu spiel earlier didn't help. If I may, I still don't understand why you sprouted those earlier words."

Unconsciously, his upper lip had curled slightly and his eyes were narrowed. "How so? I think it's plausible for me to develop this distinct point of view. If I have to be the upright prick of this department to drive this message in, then so be it."

"With all respects, you sound…you should have a care, Harry. You realize how you'd sounded back there? Even now."

"I would think people realize I'm doing my job and reminding them of our limitations. Like other government entities, our powers cannot go unchecked. I like it when people are driven and motivated. I dislike it when it's for foolhardy reasons. Tell me, isn't this the same thing the Aurors preached on about for many years? It's one thing for a person to be heroic and do what they feel is right; it's another when it's essentially self-sabotage and detrimental to our progress."

"I know. We need capable people who can do their job and listen to orders. At the same time, we don't need people unable to perform without us there holding their hand. It's finding this balance that's the issue. That's why we deploy people, to learn from other cultures and to take things in. So shouldn't it be a relief that our department is made up of freethinkers?"

"Not when they're taking the law into their own hands and go rogue. It's noble, I get that, but that's responding far beyond the call of duty and into misguided intentions territory. Blimey, if all I'd wanted was a chav, I'd go into the streets and find a heckler that's intimidating some poor sod. If I wanted a champion of social justice, I'd find an advocacy group. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"…It's above their responsibilities. You don't like that. You dislike anyone superfluously challenging the establishment."

"No, Hermione, I'm tired of hearing of how we're wasting people's tax revenue for Aurors who can't do their job and how, if things don't go our way, we take the law into their own hands. False accusations and the sort are unacceptable."

Her frown deepened. "Our office has protocols for a reason. I haven't heard any incidents recently where employees have—"

"How come you haven't heard of this?" he demanded brusquely, leaning in. His hand slammed up against the wall by her head. "Did Thicknesse not speak to you about this recently too? Bollocks, he brings it up to me nearly all the time. Was your pet project—which, by the by, is still a breach in security that we'll have to address—so important and time-consuming that you haven't heard the rumors?"

"Harry. Back off." Her words were uttered softly.

"I don't think I'm being insensitive," Harry murmured, not hearing her over the thoughts bouncing in his mind. "If one cannot be arsed to follow formalities, then they are a loose cannon. They're not ready to be an Auror. You know how I detest unnecessary coddling. We saw what happened to Malfoy—to the general public when Fudge was Minister. It happened to Dudley as well…."

Realizing he'd gone off on a tangent, he cleared his throat, glancing away to peer at the numbers counting down.

Gnawing on her bottom lip, with conflicted eyes Hermione peered at his grim expression. "You're exhausted. With your additional stress, while it may sound clear to you in your head, to me you're speaking gibberish. Help me understand, Harry."

"I'm clear-headed actually. Is repeating myself not do the trick for you?" His features contorted. "That's completely irrelevant. It's strange how you haven't…maybe there's a reason behind…the only reason I can think why this would be new intelligence to you is…oh cripes."

When realization dawned in his voice, his expression went through a transformation of concern and exasperation, before it arrived at resignation. He exhaled loudly, his shoulders sinking. Withdrawing his arm back, Harry said gruffly, "Any infraction reported to me has to be investigated for authenticity. This applies to you too."

"Did…." Hermione wetted her lips, reflecting on his odd behavior. Her prior tenseness had evaporated with the space put between them. "Did someone come forth, and report me…or Ron? Were you accused of doing…or not doing something?" Noticing his nonplussed expression, she explained, "You said 'this applies to' me too. You generally also wouldn't raise a stink about anything unless something big happened to change your mind. Or is this because Thicknesse accused you of favoritism?"

For a moment, Harry stared at her, his brows sloped intently downward. With deliberately careful words, he shared, "…There were a lot of variables." His tone was gentler. "What I got out of reports is that we could be better. Much better. It's worrisome when I read certain results from the psych evals, or when I hear of agents going off the rails on some sort of a moral crusade or are on self-imposed missions that I did not authorize. It's even more alarming if I hear Aurors throwing my name or our departmental authority around willy-nilly, when it could be further from the truth."

She was returning his skeptical look. "So this is a precaution then?"

"Honest, that's it, Hermione." He held a hand up. "I'd understand if you'd tuned out my prattling. I know I have a tendency to go on forever if it's made on the spur of the moment. Still, how is it unclear that, as Head Auror, I am obligated to follow through when accusations come up?"

"In the ICW, after the agenda has been set," she stated blandly, "once you're on the Speaker's List you have a set amount of time to debate the topic. You're doing the opposite of that, even though you have experience being a delegate. Things tend to get lost when you ramble."

"I always did better in informal caucuses." Seeing that they were two floors away from arriving at their destination, he clarified, "We operate as a law-abiding, peacekeeping entity—our department, that is. That means we have to evaluate our productivity and conduct. I have to remain impartial. While I do value Aurors who are passionate and want to make a difference and contribute, they have to be warned whenever they step out of bounds."

"That's it?" Her brows lifted. "Oh. Oh, I see. Well, you could've said so in the…." She readjusted the grip on her handbag. "Sorry, brain's not quite functioning well. I'm a little tired myself. I remember you're splendid at morale speeches. It's the same principle when you're lecturing people. You...you just have to be kinder."

"I suppose…it's my fault for not getting to the point. It's a matter of how we tailor our words. But I need them to respect me and follow orders. I'll be forced to take disciplinary measures otherwise. Which means any inconsistency that cannot give me positive results, or is more or less unproductive has to be reprimanded."

"Thicknesse told you this, I remember you complaining. He hasn't spoken to me about this. You said this was before I'd transferred? And even now? Who are these individuals you're concerned about?"

"No, no, no. I mean in general. I'll admit, it's gotten better since we've taken over. But what happened back then is still looming over us like a bloody cloud. If we want to be in office for a long time, then we have to take notice of our reputation. Work is not like the popularity drama among students back in Hogwarts."

"I know. It's of greater consequence in real life, since we're in charge of other people's livelihoods. We have the public media and civilians watching our every moves though, hungry for a scandal. They're the ones who put us in charge though."

"So we have to pay back their trust by being the Head Auror and Deputy Head they want. Which means…y'know what, I think I've talked to no ends about this. You get the point already. Manners maketh man."

As the lift's doors slid open, they walked out into the dark corridor just as the witch's voice began her automated spiel. Their noses wrinkled from the pungent smells. Sweeping her gaze across the floor, Hermione commented, "No one's here. Why is no one here?" The torches gave the illusion of blue streaks in both of their hairs.

"It was the same when I'd left Sesshomaru here. Be thankful. Either they've gone home, or they're hiding in their rooms working on their research projects. Or they're avoiding us. You did send them a Howler not long ago."

Just as Harry began talking, Hermione had instinctively sidled closer for body warmth. Reaching into her sleeve to withdraw her wand with a distinctive grapevine pattern whittled into the handle, she pointed it at herself and then at Harry. She murmured, "Muffliato."

When they could feel the charm taking effect, she lowered her arm to her side. "I addressed it under your name though, to make it official. The Counselor disapproved."

"…You'd sent it with my seal in the wax, didn't you?" Harry raked both hands through his hair, mussing it up. Recalling something unpleasant, he groused, "I can't believe Thicknesse doesn't trust you."

Hermione was avidly scrutinizing the flagstones. She replied, "He took Luna and Mr Lovegood hostage. He did a lot of horrible things, being mind-controlled notwithstanding. I can't exactly forget that. I'm also a Muggle-born married to a Weasley. Don't forget Percy turned him into the human sea urchin painfully at the Battle of Hogwarts. I think the feeling's mutual." She shot him a glance. "How do you do it, Harry?"

"Me?" Releasing his hair, he touched his chest. "You think I get along with Thicknesse?"

"He apparently tells you things he doesn't tell me."

"That's because I'm the Head Auror." His mouth curled up. "I think it's great that he's trying to make up for what he did. We have to commend him on that."

"I…." Her brows crumpled into a troubled frown. "Alright, I'll give him that. It's still difficult."

"I believe that's why this…" His gesticulated at the invisible air between them, rotating his hands in circular motions. "…this atmosphere you're projecting, unconsciously, makes me the better target to approach, in his mind."

"What are you trying to tell me?" Her voice was flat.

"Admit it." He folded his arms across his chest. "You can be close-minded, Hermione."

"We're discussing our flaws now? You are too, Harry, when you get tunnel vision. You're standoffish." She relocated a hand to her hip. "You play favorites. And you have a temper. No one's perfect."

"…Okay, so we all could undergo a project of self-improvement." After a thought, he extracted the New Marauder's Map from his pocket, unfolding the parchment. Glancing down at it as he mumbled the key phrase, he muttered, "Still, I have an excuse—thanks be to Voldemort's blasted Horcrux."

"You only use that excuse to beg off instances of social awkwardness. You act surprisingly normal for someone of your childhood experience—being emotionally neglected." When she saw Harry halt from the corner of her eye, her eyes widened. She said in a rush, "I mean, not that I'm invalidating your trauma! Did I come off as insensitive? That was insensitive, wasn't it? I didn't mean it like that!"

Harry had long since calmed down from his teenage broodiness which'd launch unexpectedly into an explosive anger, whereupon triggered. He was certain his expression was composed, even as he was staring down at the map's inky footprints and their owners' names printed above. Sighing, he stepped forward to elbow her gently, making her stumble in surprise. He said evenly, "That's in the past. I think. I had you and Ron and everyone else."

He managed a roguish grin before turning around, his hands outstretched in a cavalier attitude as he walked away in the direction where the map indicated. "Isn't it spectacular that I didn't turn out like Voldemort? I was taught the ability to love and to forgive."

Rubbing her arm, Hermione made a face at the back of his head. Dashing up to him, she accused, "You're always like this. You don't have to brush it off."

"I'm fine. You sound like Helbert Spleen and his head shrinks. Drop it." Sensing that Hermione still wouldn't willingly drop the subject, he said briskly, "I told Sesshomaru about what happened to the Elder Wand."

At the man's name, the line of Harry's lips thinned when he felt a jerk in his groin. Harry swallowed hard. He still remembered the moment they shared hours prior. No one could easily forget the sensation of an attractive man's tongue and his hot breath against the side of their neck.

His shirt collar was choking him. Hooking a finger under the knot, he loosened the stranglehold the tie had around his neck. The room was suddenly sweltering.

"…What?" Hermione grabbed him by the crook of his arm. Her face was a pale blue from the flames above as she demanded, "Why would you tell him? It's supposed to be confidential, Harry! Only you, me, and Ron."

Even with Hermione hanging off his arm, Harry kept his momentum, dragging her along with him until the corridor funneled them into the circular chamber he'd last seen the Japanese magical creature. In a level voice, he managed to answer, "He's a dog demon. With his 'background,' he supposedly has senses superior to ours. I'm taking advantage of his presence while he's still here. Especially for the Resurrection Stone. He's confirmed that he has ties to the Netherworld."

"Based on what I'd told you? He confirmed it? But that's the stone. How could the other Deathly Hallows—oh! You think he can…really? Because of that sword?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted absently. His arm felt hot. "But it couldn't hurt, especially when we don't know where the Elder Wand is. I tried magically pinpointing its location, to no avail. I might as well try this avenue."

"I wish I knew more about demonology. This whole thing about the Netherworld, demons, magical artifacts that make one a Master of Death…." She gnawed on her lower lip, deliberating on a thought. Eventually, she said, "Retrieve the ring, if you can, wherever you'd left it. But more importantly, you have to keep an eye on your cloak. Whoever stole the Headmaster's wand could've known that it was a Deathly Hallow. They may have understood it beyond being the great Albus Dumbledore's wand and took it for that. It'd only be a matter of time before they pursue the rest."

"We don't even know if it was stolen," he muttered. Spotting an illuminated X—marked on the rooms he'd forbidden Sesshomaru—Harry turned his gaze toward the remaining doors that were following along the circular rotation of the wall.

Noticing Hermione's intense focus on the marks he'd made, Harry briefly explained their purpose as they waited for the rotary movement to stop.

"I'd never thought I'd care, but I'll be gutted if I lose all three. Especially to the Death Eaters or to those bloody Snatchers. These are my ancestors' heirlooms, Hermione…. Really, you'd excavated the site, and nothing came up?"

"No leads on the Deathstick, unfortunately." Hermione's expression pinched when the draft became colder. Clutching his arm tighter, she inched closer until the side of her stomach was pressed against him. Perturbed by the increase of body heat, when Harry peered back at her, she'd leaned over to study his map.

She listed: "Sesshomaru, Saul Croaker, Astoria Greengrass, Sue Li, Orla Quirke, Mandy Brocklehurst, Robert Hilliard, and Eddie…Carmichael." She frowned. "Carmichael?"

"The same wizard from Ravenclaw whom you'd confiscated that potion from."

"He tried to sell you and Ron a dodgy intelligence-raising potion!" Her displeasure deepened. "I heard the Department of Mysteries wanted him because of his high marks, but I can't believe he got drafted to help us. Strange. I thought I've seen him frequenting a different division."

Without a further need for it, he shoved the map back into his pocket. Harry reminded, "Carmichael got nine 'Outstandings' in the O.W.L exams; it'd make sense why Shacklebolt would include him. I think I've seen him…in the Space Chamber. I believe?"

"The Space Chamber?" she repeated. Her eyes lit up. "They study the aspect of space—one of the known limits of magic! Harry, that's why he's chosen! Time is one of those restrictions. That means it's related! Do you think he'll discuss his findings with me, since he's working with us? Actually, no, that's probably unlikely. He's sworn to secrecy, like the rest of them…. Harry! Are you laughing at me?"

"No, I couldn't." He smiled fondly at her. "But here you were, skeptical of him. What a one-eighty. You weren't like this when you mentioned Astoria to me."

Her eyes narrowed. "Greengrass was necessary because she's influential in the DoM. She's also engaged to Malfoy. We couldn't not involve her."

"Especially not when her fiancé's a head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," Harry agreed. By this time, the order of the doors had reshuffled. "Astoria aside, aren't the Time Unspeakables the most qualified? To be honest, I thought you'd advocate for them in the selection process…although, I'm surprised we even got them to agree to help us."

"It's a top-secret project, with your name and the Minister's attached to it. The Asian branches of magic also don't come under the microscope often. Of course they'd be enticed."

"There are still a few concerns I have." They treaded closer, examining the doors that intentionally were designed without distinguishing marks. Hooking his fingers in the air, he remarked, "You just said this was 'enticing' to them, Hermione." His voice was hushed as they strained to hear what was beyond the doors.

"…Maintaining secrecy isn't the issue. I'm worried about what they'll do with the knowledge—yes, I know that's what you're anxious about—but we can prohibit them from doing any further research once we get Sesshomaru back in his time. It's one of the clauses we included; don't worry." She rolled her eyes. Her voice was equally quiet as she whispered, "The issue is that they have to continue the research projects—otherwise it'd create a disastrous backlog. We can't realistically pull them all off-assignment to help us facilitate a method to send him back. Some of them have to keep working."

"I've noticed nearly everyone else attended Hogwarts with us at some time or another."

"That's why Croaker is included, as the senior Unspeakable on staff. I had little say about the rest. But I did advise Shacklebolt that our generation would be the most…accepting of Sesshomaru's heritage. Maybe. No one knows he's a demon. They only know he's a magical creature of Dark Magic inclination." They finally came to a stop at one of the doors. The muted ticking noises made it clear that it was the Time Room.

"I think anyone'd be freaked out if they knew," he said dryly. Pressing his palm flat against the coarse surface, he said, "Although, I'm more concerned about how they'd get along with his personality and idiosyncrasies. Be ready."

Bracing himself, he pushed.

Once they reopened their eyes, their line of sight became a kaleidoscope of clocks and timepieces. Blinking rapidly, once they regained their bearings, they marched into one of the chambers that was enchanted to be larger than it seemed on the outside.

Unlike the outdoors, where prints could be tracked, the flooring was barren of shoeprints. Their eyes shot everywhere, searching for telltale clues. While Harry could map out the path to the Hall of Prophecy that lay to the right—no doubt Hermione could as well—they remained silent on the matter.

Instead, they marveled at the interior as they begun to cover the premises. There hadn't been the luxury to take in the view before. Outside of that one incident in their Fifth Year when they'd infiltrated the Ministry, they had no reason to approach any of the chambers—much less the Time Room—for any prolonged visits aside from occasionally escorting foreign dignitaries around key locations.

The ticking seemed to drown out all other noise—including the clanging their shoes made against the perforated metal below—as they ventured further into the space.

"Didn't your map point us here?" Hermione whispered into Harry's ear. "Do we need to get it out again? I don't see anyone here."

Just as he was about to respond, they heard a growl. Although the timbre sent shivers down both of their spines, while he felt Hermione's muscles tensing at his side, Harry instantly went to touch the side of his throat. He wasn't certain what expression he was forming currently, as the contact against his neck evoked the phantom sensation it'd experienced hours prior.

They both heard a masculine voice cautioning, "You may take my words as truth, because this Sesshomaru doesn't care enough about you to lie."

That particular accent and bellicose choice of words couldn't belong to anyone else.

Their brows shot up, before their features veered into two different expressions; one was more visibly distressed than the other. Abruptly, when Hermione went to turn her gaze toward her companion, her brows crumpled further. Harry was looking ahead. There was something unconscious to his smile that betrayed an immeasurable fondness.

Hermione's lips thinned, but she thought better of pressing the matter. That was when she noticed the oddity of the sight the leather glove made against his flesh. "Harry, what are you—?"

In that moment, Hermione and Harry exchanged looks. Noticing the scrutiny he was under, Harry grinned reassuringly and he shook his head. Placing a finger to his lips, he then pressed two fingers together with his other hand, pointing in the direction where he thought he heard that voice. Then he tapped his earlobe twice, a signal familiar to all the field Aurors that this was an opportunity to eavesdrop.

Her expression laced with suspicion, Hermione nodded once. She squeezed his arm.

While they navigated the labyrinth of bookcases and furnishings, the voices seemed to climb. The voices that sounded like Astoria's and Croaker's seemed to be the only two calm and placating voices among the heated academic discussions taking place.

"Lord Sesshomaru," a distinctly older wizard could be heard saying tiredly, as if he'd repeated himself many times, "we understand your reservations, but how about you share that crucial information with the rest of us?"

"It is not as simple as you transcribe it," he stated primly. "This Sesshomaru is not at liberty to say."

Eventually they reached a corner, and their field of vision adjusted into a grand opening encircled by transparent shelves that soared into the ceiling. Worktables and desks ranged the length of the room. Beyond the contents of the shelves—filled to the brim with books, inkpots, quills, parchment, and damaged Time-Turners—they saw four silhouettes with their heads bowed over the scrolls laid out over the middle worktable, the enchanted lights overhead turning their shadows into elongated, dancing wraiths behind them on the floor. One person was kneeling, her cheek plastered down on the table and her hair—brown in the light—falling from the bun she'd tied it in. Her spectacles were nearby.

The older wizard was a stocky figure with a full head of black hair and white sideburns—he had to be Saul Croaker. He had a hand up to his face. Next to him was the slim figure of a woman with long, dark curls. She had both of her hands on the table. Next to her was a tall man with hair that gleamed like copper underneath the light. His knuckles were white against the bamboo book he was holding, about to snap it in half.

While the three were squabbling, the tall figure of Sesshomaru stirred. Uncrossing his arms from his sleeves, he sniffed the air. Peering away from the group, glancing about, his molten gold eyes landed on Harry. His sneer melted into an expression that, despite himself, Harry felt his mouth begin to curl up in response.

He hoped the embarrassing heat didn't show on his face. Harry held a finger up to his mouth and he shook his head. His gaze swept the entire room.

The remaining Unspeakable was sitting cross-legged up on the mezzanine, flipping through tomes and stacks of parchment, muttering to herself. From what Harry remembered of the body count, that meant two Unspeakables—a man and a woman—had to be missing.

"Bugger what the Head Auror said!" the brown-haired Unspeakable cried. "He isn't here."

"Hilliard," Astoria scolded. The light made the side profile of her face appear haggard. "You're in the company of nobility. We don't use that language here."

"Apologies! But he really doesn't understand how important this is! Why are you making this harder than it needs to be?"

"This Sesshomaru understands the severity," he reproached, swiveling his head to glower down at him. He accused, "You yourself are the one that is hard of hearing. This Sesshomaru has told you my reasons. Know your place."

Harry felt Hermione smack the spot between his shoulder blades, making him stumble forward. Glancing back at her, she too was fixing Hilliard with an indescribable stare. Her face scrunching up, she raised a fist below her mouth and she coughed intentionally.

Her eyes went skyward when she realized the Muffling Charm had obscured her cough into a buzzing noise.

"We're worried that your magical creature bloodline might have something that'll impede our efforts. Five hundred years, oh my days…." Croaker exhaled nosily into his palms, before peeling his face from his hands. Two puffy, dark triangles were underneath his eyes. "As our investigation currently stand, for that amount of time, we're asking only because we'll need to create an unprecedented Time-Turner. It'll have to break all known limits of the quantity of single Hour-Reversal Charms that can go into a magical artifact."

"Didn't Granger say that the Head Auror yanked him from a well?" the kneeling woman conjectured. Burying her face against her arm, when her yawn subsided, she resumed, "That's a magical artifact in itself—that national magical monument in Japan." Hopping onto her feet, she straightened up, searching through the scrolls and parchment. Finding what she was looking for, she rubbed her eyes before slipping her glasses back on. "The Bone Eater's Well. That's what it says. Couldn't we alter that?"

"We don't make the executive decisions for the world just because we want a shortcut, Orla," Astoria replied. Raising the back of her hand to her mouth, when her yawning receded too, she said, "That's government property of a foreign nation. We'd have to get permission from the Japanese Ministry to conduct tests. If this gets out, we'll have to consult with the world leaders, negotiate, and compromise. That's specifically what the Minister said we're trying to avoid."

"So?" Orla said thoughtlessly. "We just do it in secret, just as we always do."

Croaker chortled. "Easier said than done."

"Can't we have a few of their personnel take the same Unbreakable Vow that we've sworn? This is their monument, ain't it? Wouldn't it make sense that they'd help us figure out this conundrum?"

"Problem is that it happened on their soil, with one of our own bringing him here. It'd land the Head Auror in a lot of trouble. I think that's why they want to keep it a secret."

"Wasn't it an accident?" Hilliard reasoned.

"You're not thinking far ahead either." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "We all aren't. We're going in circles. Why in the world could this happen?"

Croaker opened his mouth, then slammed it shut. He peered down at the seemingly blank parchments. "Aparecium." With the spell cast, letters emerged, bleeding onto the surface. Reading the scrawled notes, he remarked, "Lord Sesshomaru, you said you heard the Head Auror through the well and after the sequence of spells you said he'd casted, he summoned you here?"

"Nippon," Sesshomaru insisted in Japanese, his intonation grave and irritated.

Most individuals, Harry knew, would be astonished seeing invisible ink revealed for the first time. However, Sesshomaru looked back at Harry, unimpressed—as if the novelty had worn off by now. The slant of his eyebrows and frown seemed to indicate the longer that the Unspeakables remained unaware of their newfound company, the lower he thought of their intelligence.

"Right, modern Japan. Of course." Grabbing a quill, the wizard scribbled out part of the text, jotting down the rectified info.

Hermione tugged on Harry's arm. Glancing at the pinched face she was making, Harry inclined his head toward her wand arm. Once he felt her cancel the spell, he raised his voice to say, "Pardon us—"

"We're in the middle of something!" The three Unspeakables bellowed in unison, each holding up a hand in his general direction. They were still preoccupied by whatever they were studying.

"Mandy, is that you? You found Carmichael?" a voice overhead said. "Thanks! If you could do me one more favor, here. Have a care and hold this. Mobiliarbus!"

Both Hermione and Harry had glanced up behind them just as a stack of documents came crashing down over the rails of the mezzanine. Before they both had the time to process what they were seeing, the documents decelerated until the papers were hovering in the air. They drifted like feathers, until they landed in a neat stack in each of their arms.

It was almost comical, the abrupt transition of Lord Sesshomaru's expression and the Aurors' bemused faces.

The three Unspeakables were still debating with one another just as the witch above hurried down, carrying a handful of sheets and books that obscured her head. It was a miracle that she could blindly circumnavigate around Harry and Hermione. Passing by them, she unloaded the contents onto the table, scattering them everywhere like a mini avalanche. She beamed at her colleagues. "I believe this is everything you wanted me to find. Mandy and Carmichael have the rest."

"Yes, 'Mandy and Carmichael,'" a voice that distinctly did not sound like any of the expected Unspeakables drawled from behind the papers. "Perhaps you should pay better attention to your surroundings."

"Harry, enough. Mobiliarbus."

Sue Li's forehead creased, and she turned to glance back just as two stacks of documents thudded down on the worktable.

Her expression mirrored that of her colleagues once it registered in their brains who they were staring at across the distance.

"Go on then," the Head Auror said pleasantly. "You seem to be in a moment of something. I'd hate to break it." In comparison to his companion, his expression was nearly benevolent.

"I hope you have an explanation," the Deputy Head said. She had crossed her arms above her stomach, her face contorted nearly in disbelief. She demanded, "You lot don't typically treat guests like this, do you? I know the stereotype is that Unspeakables lack social skills, but this isn't proving it otherwise."

Hilliard bristled. "Hey now—!"

"I heard what you said," Harry said calmly, and the paleness Hilliard achieved made the stubble on his face more pronounced.

"How long were you here?" Croaker asked.

"Long enough."

Removing himself from the Unspeakables' vicinity, Sesshomaru had begun walking around the table as Croaker spluttered, "Head Auror, Deputy Head, we weren't expecting you for another few hours." The color of his face contrasted against his sideburns. "We didn't mean to…it was said in the heat of the moment. Anything else was also unintentional. Li?"

Hearing the severity in his tone, Sue clapped her hands over her mouth. Apologizing profusely, she rambled, "I thought you were someone else, honest. Last I heard—"

Harry held up a hand, stilling her words. He managed a kind expression. "It's fine. It's late. You thought we were someone else. Just don't do it again." His eyes roving down, paying no attention to the surge of heat by his side, he picked up one of the documents that'd been forced onto him.

"Sir?" a drowsy voice chimed in.

He glanced up, immediately placing a name to her face. "Miss Quirke, wasn't it? You have a question."

"I—uh, right." She readjusted her glasses. "Could I ask…you'd sent a…Howler to us. Earlier today."

Harry managed a taut grin, resisting the impulse to glare at Hermione over Sesshomaru's shoulder. "And as I recall, your department sent two. It was during a private meeting when the first flew in."

"That we did." The papers rustled restlessly in her fingers. "Did—did anything happen this time? It was at the Headmaster's grave, sir." Her voice had become smaller at the end.

Staring at her momentarily, he conceded, "We'd engaged hostile forces. As of right now, my units are excavating the site. You'll hear about it in a matter of time, no doubt. I haven't received notice of any new updates or sightings…." He frowned abruptly. "As I seem to recall, this is a confidential matter. You lot are awfully trusting we are who we're claiming to be."

Just as he finished the sentence, a wand was pointed directly at his chest.

Excluding Hermione—who was removing the shrunken books and files from her handbag—everyone tensed.

Astoria was peering at him grimly as she challenged, "Tell me something that only the Lord Black would know."

His eyes trained on the witch, he stated, "Only you insist on calling me that, Astoria, after all this time."

The edges of her eyes crinkled. "Does that satisfy you?" The wand was withdrawn, tucked back into her sleeve.

"A bit." Flicking his wrist, his wand shot down from the holster and into his palm. "I hope you can trust that we've already taken precautions to ensure your identities."

"There's no need for further demonstration," Croaker proclaimed, his gaze traveling sideways until his eyes landed on the contents Hermione was unshrinking. He was staring at them like a wolf starved. "Are those—?"

"It's the rest of my research I'd promised to show you," she affirmed, sounding surly. Unbeknownst to the time traveler in their midst, it was painstakingly curated so that nothing incriminating showed up while Sesshomaru was in the committee's presence. "Is there anything you can tell me?"

"Apologies, Deputy Head. Due to the risks of tampering with the laws of time, strict laws and penalties have been placed on us. As such, we are not permitted to speak about our work."

"We don't need to hear about your work," Harry retorted strictly. He held the paper back to him, just as Hermione was engaged in a short conversation by Hilliard. He asserted, "You're permitted to tell us your progress without getting into the finer details and jeopardizing confidentiality. Can you come to that compromise? We chose you few for the research committee because we believe in your skills. What matters to me are results."

It was surreal watching Croaker opening his mouth, closing it, reopening it, and then closing it once more. He inclined his head, taking the parchment. "Of course. We'll strive to deliver."

"Unfortunately, Lord Black, there's been little headway made tonight. There's much to be digested." Astoria snuck a peek at Sesshomaru. Glancing back at Harry, she implored, "The Minister said, since you're his handler, we'll have to migrate through the proper channels. Is it possible then to arrange times to meet with Lord Sesshomaru? There are many questions we've yet to ask. It'd be convenient for him to be here."

"I'm fine with that," he said softly, turning his gaze up at the man who'd been standing stoically beside him. "Do you have any issues with that, Lord Sesshomaru?"

Sesshomaru sent him a weird expression. "What issues are there to be had?"

"And he gives his approval," Harry said, refocusing on Astoria who'd been studying their exchange with a queer air about her. Raising a brow at her visage, he asked, "Do you have any questions for me personally?"

Her eyes widened. "We can ask you questions?" Realizing what she'd said, her face flushed red. Tucking a curl behind her ear, she corrected, "It's not every day the great Head Auror has the time to comply with our requests."

"I like your positive outlook," he said in the driest tone he could muster.

"Harry." Approaching him, Hermione tapped her shirt, indicating to a similar location where he'd kept his pocket watch. "You should look at the time before you agree to anything." Making certain they had eye-contact, she tilted her head to his side where Sesshomaru stood.

Harry sighed. To Astoria's crestfallen face, he said apologetically, "Actually, another time would be best. We must take our leave."

"Oh." Her shoulders slumped. "Pity. Alright, when there's the next available time to be found."

"Please, no need for bitterness. I promise to come by another time." He shot Hermione an inquisitive look. "Actually, if you could spare a few minutes, do you have enough energy to stay behind to catch them up on any questions? You're the next best source."

"I suppose." Hermione cradled her stomach. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

Harry's gaze turned severe, but he had it in himself to curtail what'd sprung to his mind. "Hermione," he began cautiously, "don't blindly follow what I'm asking you to do, not if you really have someplace else to be. Is this inconvenient for you?"

"Ron's most likely waiting. Or at home." Her words would be cryptic to everyone in the room except Harry. She smiled at him. "Don't fuss. I don't mind."

"Do you need—?"

"No." Her tone was sharp. "Harry, I think you should escort Lord Sesshomaru home."

He'd been ready to reach into his pocket to remove the map. Staring at the strain in her expression, he dropped the topic. Harry tucked his hands into his pockets. "I'll debrief you later for the details."

"I expect no less."

"Sorry, Hermione."

"There's no need to be sorry." She waved him off. "Now, get going. Forensics expects either of us early tomorrow in the Committee. They won't have much, but they'll have something. One of us needs to be awake for that."

All sympathy he had for her vanished. "Early" for him meant arriving at six o'clock in the morning. He breathed, "You're putting it in my timetable." Closing his eyes briefly in acceptance, he said, "If you start feeling tired, turn in for the night. Don't be a workaholic."

"I know." She ticked her fingers off. "Talk about the well. Emphasize how we're not getting the Japanese Ministry involved. Explain how you are involved in all this. Answer any questions. Be attentive and forthcoming. Am I missing anything?"

"Write down any questions they have for me. I'll review them personally myself. Croaker, Astoria, Miss Quirke, Miss Li, Mr Hilliard—I want to know why Mr Carmichael and Mrs Brocklehurst weren't in this room with the rest of you. No, I don't want to hear excuses. You may explain it to Hermione." Sharply rotating on his heels, his shoes clicked together as he gestured to the path that originally led them here. "Shall we then, Lord Sesshomaru?"

XXXXXXXXXX

True to his word, the sorcerer had returned to him from his trip to his barracks. He seemed rejuvenated, however inattentive Hari was still this late into the evening. It was however fortunate that accomplishing the responsibilities he'd left to fulfill had thawed whatever invisible barrier that'd been erected between them.

The time spent in the lift was unbearably silent, with Sesshomaru inhaling the mixture of scents embedded into Hari's clothes. The freshest belonged to the alpha's packmate; the other smelled suspiciously masculine and unfamiliar, located on his forearm. Were he not in control of his mental faculties, Sesshomaru acknowledged he would've felt irritated that others sought to infringe on his territory—especially for an eligible warlord that was highly sought-after, who'd supposedly surrender his bachelorhood to become Sesshomaru's Mate someplace in sometime.

When Sesshomaru looked beside him, the sorcerer had his hand was brought up to his jaw in a thinking pose, and an elbow was propped up by the other hand. Inserted into the crook of his elbow were several sheets of protected itineraries that Sesshomaru hadn't recalled seeing him transport before.

It took a while before Hari startled to attention, upon finally noticing Sesshomaru's fixation.

He managed a wan smile. "Sorry. A lot's on my mind again." He spoke with a grittiness that one could only achieve either by just breaking out of slumber or talking for a long time.

If this was back in his homeland, Sesshomaru would counsel the younger alpha to stop being obtuse and to head out to any nearby bodies of water to soothe his throat. If it'd been Rin or Jaken, Sesshomaru would've already fetched the spring water and left it in a place that they would notice. His lids shuttered and he glanced away.

Hari was staring back up at the panel affixed into the lift's ceiling. "Did you lot talk about anything else that the Unspeakables might've 'conveniently' forgotten to tell me? I don't expect much. I only left you for a few hours."

Sesshomaru began to say, "Nothing worthy of comment…."

He paused. There'd been a few subjects that'd plagued Sesshomaru's thoughts during the interrogation. With the theory that the Bone Eater's Well was a national magical monument capable of time magic, it meant that the intended Mate of his half-brother was a time traveler herself. That explained the strange stench that'd accompanied the human priestess everywhere she went, as well as the strange attire that he'd originally presumed was one-layered and short because of peasant origins.

He condensed his thoughts into succinct sentences for Hari.

"…A miko," Hari repeated in Japanese. He had diverted his attention from the ceiling, and was instead focused on Sesshomaru. "I remember reading that the current caretaker is a traditional Shinto priest. I was also told that the Higurashi family comes from a long line of holy men and shrine maidens. That shrine has been in their family for generations."

"Indeed."

Hari closed his eyes briefly. He murmured, "I remember thinking it was a bit farfetched that a national monument would be left in Muggle property. No one, though, mentioned any of the Higurashis being born into magic."

"The woman was able to fire Sacred Arrows." He frowned down at the hilt of one of his fangs. "She was able to purify weak demons. There was minor damage inflicted on possessed humans. Inuyasha followed that woman because of her ability to sense Jewel Shards."

The intensity of Hari's stare could melt ice. Eventually, once Sesshomaru's sentences winded down, Hari repeated, "Jewel Shards?"

Sesshomaru glanced up sharply, almost in disbelief that someone would be unaware of its existence. His expression cooled once his mind registered the foreignness of the sorcerer's features. "That is a matter that doesn't concern this Hari. It's in the past."

"This isn't significant to bring you back?" Hari said slowly. When Sesshomaru dipped his chin, Hari crossed his arms, legs spread. From his confrontational posture, he didn't seem like he would let the subject drop. After a while, he allowed, "Alright, what else? Anything happened that I should know about?"

About to divulge his experience in the Hall of Prophecy, remembering the distress Greengrass exhibited when she found him handling an oracle that was not supposed to be handled by anyone but those prophesized, Sesshomaru bit his tongue. Sesshomaru reflected on the duration he'd spent in the company of those foreign sorcerers. They'd reminded him of Jaken and the swordsmith Tōtōsai, when those two fell into an academic rut. "The woman," he paused, and then amended, "Gurīngurasu mentioned the possibility of a…'Curse-Breaker?'"

"A Curse-Brea—they think they'll need to break a curse." His brows lifted into his fringe. "There are very few wizards still employed in that profession, after the war."

"They break curses." Sesshomaru tilted his head. Those sorcerers would be useful to acquire, if any had existed on his continent in his time. Most demons he knew would want the supposed immunity against individual or family curses. "That is the literal translation."

"They're effective at dismantling old enchantments and wards in ancient tombs or other historical sites. It's difficult to get a license. That's why they're scarce and high in demand." Turning his gaze downward, Hari was mumbling to himself, "I can ask Bill. He has good experience already with goblins and wealthy clients. But then that's also…. Why a Curse-Breaker? There hadn't been a curse activated when I approached the well. Why wouldn't they tell me this in person?"

Maintaining his silence, Sesshomaru was fascinated by how the younger daiyōkai's thoughts were pieced together. Hari was muttering potential strategies and scenarios under his breath as they exited the lift and onto the Atrium that was quickly becoming a familiar sight to Sesshomaru. Overhead, the text that'd heralded his first arrival was a whirlwind of yellow butterflies—matching the warm glow of the torches—fluttering in the vaulted ceiling boasting the same hue as the night sea.

Leading the way, Hari's movements and any returned conversations were scripted, his mind clearly lingering someplace else. Although Sesshomaru had plotted how he'd react appropriately if they encountered the female clerk with the long, dark curls, she wasn't there at her station when they crossed the threshold.

Just as he thought Hari would direct them into the telephone booth, Hari swerved left. Once Sesshomaru gathered where he was going, he had to fight the temptation to wrench Hari back.

He was making his way toward the heatless emerald flames that Sesshomaru recalled being among the two transportations he loathed with every fiber of his being, since stepping foot into this country. Organized into two rows, the magical fires were contained in plaster hearths—each as wide as warhorses.

Intent on glaring at the fire they were approaching, by the time they entered the hearth, Sesshomaru felt a miniscule pressure on the hem of his sleeve. He'd glanced down just as gloved fingers released the silk.

Dipping his hand into the pouch of silver powder, Hari advised, "While I have no doubt you can pronounce 'the Shrieking Shack' by now, proceed with caution." He held his fist out. "I mispronounced a location once, using the Floo service. I'd hate for anyone to experience what happens."

"What happened then?" he demanded, extending his hand. Granules of fine powder sprinkled down onto his palm, some escaping the crevices between his claws.

"It transports you to the nearest fireplace of the location it thinks you said." The line of mouth twitched up briefly. "I don't recommend it."

Ducking down to avoid bumping his head, Hari extracted himself gingerly from the fireplace. His footwear landed on the mat—dyed grey from soot and sparkling from the Floo Powder. Shifting his weight onto one foot, he leaned against the mantle, an arm cushioning the side of his head. With the green flames illuminating the planes of his face—accentuating the color of his eyes—the crooked smirk on Hari's face was nothing short of licentious.

Sesshomaru found his eyes honing in on the exposed patch of skin nestled beneath that high collar, where the strip of fabric was loosened and the three top buttons were unfastened.

"I'll have you go ahead without me for a bit, Lord Sesshomaru." Hari indicated to the stack tucked against his elbow. "These need to be dropped off in my Study. I'd hate for them to be damaged or—worst—lost. It's my overnight homework evidently."

Much willpower was required for Sesshomaru to tear his gaze away from that enticing display of flesh. Maintaining direct eye contact, he clarified, "This Hari is returning to your family compound."

"…Right, my 'family compound.' Grimmauld Place. That's a new term I haven't heard you call it before." His debauched countenance faded into an expression of wry humor. "I had a plan to go hunt for that heirloom I told you about. Two problems: my timetable is packed with appointments. The amount of Invigoration Draughts and Girding Potions in my kit won't last me through the day tomorrow if I'm sleep-deprived. Two, we haven't declared the winner of that wager we made."

A finger began tapping against the surface of the mantle. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I did specify the victory conditions had to be completed 'tomorrow'—meaning today."

"This Hari did."

"Joy." Even as he said that, he neither sounded nor appeared to be delighted. Adding one more finger to the motion, the restless tapping intensified. "There's a time limit. There's less than two hours. Good god, it takes one hour to just walk. I'll also have to set up, lay out the ground rules, make sure no one else can see us…."

His mouth thinning, Sesshomaru dug through his memories. Yesterday in the woman's townhouse, he'd been informed about the particularities of how business was officiated in this country. "This Hari mentioned," he said slowly, "that breaking this 'magical oath' of ours has a less severe penalty. There is, henceforth, little necessity to fulfill the terms of the contract."

Hari was staring down at nothing as he deliberated. "I could cancel it," he divulged. "We'd still get punished nonetheless, minor as it is; I promise you, we wouldn't leave Grimmauld Place for weeks. There is also the matter that it didn't manifest the way it should've." Straightening up, he declared, "There is still time, even if I have to force a tie. Wait for me at the Shrieking Shack. I'll show you the other side to the secret passage."

Even as his curiosity was piqued, his sense of adventure couldn't extinguish the competitiveness in him upon hearing the verbal challenge made to him by another alpha. The corners of his mouth was dragged up into a bloodthirsty smirk. "This Hari forgets the results of this morning's match. You are deluded if you think you can best this Sesshomaru."

Instead of being cowed by the show of aggression, Hari inclined his head. A gloved hand was encircled around his forearm, where the wand holster was. "You're not invincible. So I'll have to take that bet." A handsome smile unfurled on his face. "I have questions I want answered, Sesshomaru. We'll see what happens."

XXXXXXXXXX

In the end, they thankfully did not have to resort to fisticuffs. Once they'd emerged from the secret passageway that led to the Whomping Willow, they had to transverse considerable distance around the Forbidden Forest to reach the clearing where the Dragon Pavilion was once erected.

Enormous enough to hold a stadium and six dragons, buttressed against a cliff, the pavilion was now the abandoned ruins of a stone amphitheater.

Whilst Harry knew better than to engage in any combat that'd put him in range of the demon's swordsmanship, Harry was also keenly aware that his opponent was more than likely to surpass the wizard in fighting experience and whatever advantages Sesshomaru's magical creature heritage allowed him. That was why, even at the mercy of his decidedly self-imposed restriction, Harry threw himself into his spell-casting.

Fatigued as he soon found himself, Harry had felt no regret unleashing a regulated but no less lethal arsenal of spells, since he felt confident that his opponent had the time and the range to dodge the barrage at vast distances.

However, even his precautionary actions didn't deter his opponent from relentlessly doing his best to pry victory away from Harry's rigid, unyielding fist. Each countermeasure made successfully against him was tempting Harry to go all out.

Beneath the moonlight, their silhouettes were encapsulated under a silvery glow. The evening breeze blew by their faces, where hair stuck to their skin by perspiration and long, wayward strands swayed in the wind. The two of them were currently caught in a stalemate.

Bakusaiga was hovering centimeters away from the side of Harry's neck, just shy of nicking skin.

Having witnessed what that blade could do, it was difficult for Harry to swallow that he could simply concede the fight here. Sesshomaru could earn this win. Conflicted, Harry had to squeeze his eyes shut momentarily.

Under serious conditions, as Head Auror or even as a recognized warlock who'd naturally come to take pride in their dueling magic, Harry might not have allowed the situation to devolve into this. It was still possible to escape from this predicament—his wand had been raised automatically, already fizzling at the tip with another Disarming spell, ready for a follow-up attack—but then he'd run the risk of defaulting to spells with little to no intent of guaranteeing his target any measure of survivability. It was the result of his apprenticeship under Shacklebolt which had ingrained in him training of how to force criminals into complying, and what his experience with the Committee has taught him upon encountering magical creatures that required necessary force.

Unlike a wizard who could amass a creative breadth of techniques, a magical creature relied on a predictable pattern of attacks based on the limitations of their abilities. Yet Harry remembered the close-calls and the sheer devastation left in Sesshomaru's wake had Harry not evaded them by Apparition.

Sashed at Sesshomaru's waist were Tenseiga and Tōkijin. The Tenseiga—whose abilities could be a Deathly Hallow in itself—upon recovering it, in the duration of the duel, it hadn't been drawn. It'd been a coincidence when Harry had forced Sesshomaru to retreat back a far enough distance where the other double-edged straight sword had been embedded into the ground from a sequence of Blasting Curses and Disarming Spells thrown at it.

Although none of Sesshomaru's blows had connected aside from a punch to the side of the face that'd nearly sent Harry flying—after that, he made certain to always try to put a little distance between them, so that Sesshomaru couldn't afford the same luxury of being able to easily capitalize on any perceived openings—Harry could still hear the ringing in his ears whenever Sesshomaru's swords whooshed by, striking thin air where Harry should've been. His heart was jackhammering from imagining what might've happened had one of mighty swings managed to stab him or shatter bone.

Testament of his intelligence, Sesshomaru had discerned that he'd have the upper-hand if he engaged the magic user in close quarters combat instead of being at the mercy of the mid-to-long-range spells from far away, despite the higher risk of being struck by the magical onslaught which could only be avoided by dodging, withstanding, or blocking what he could. His strength was impressive—Harry was admittedly captivated, like a child who got excited over knights and samurais, witnessing a swordsman demonstrating a mastery over the blade—but what'd truly enraptured Harry's curiosity was the magic being channeled through the atypical vessel like a wand.

The wizard never seen anything like that; at least, not in this country.

From his observations, his opponent didn't seem like the sort that Harry could depend on to hold back his recklessness; therefore Harry had to be the responsible party to carefully consider the flow of battle. They were both competitive men. Adrenaline and fatigue often impaired good judgement.

To prevent his crushing disappointment or the taste of bitterness in his mouth from overcoming all rational thought, Harry had to reason to himself that, at close range, especially with his current state and the recent memory still eating at him for firing the dangerous Fiendfyre at the historical warlord, they couldn't take this chance that either of them could go overboard.

There was only one way to demonstrate that he accepted Sesshomaru as the victor. With a weighty sigh, Harry canceled the spell. The brightness was extinguished.

Sesshomaru instantly frowned. Suspicious and on guard, he gripped his hilt tighter.

Contrary to his nature, the demon was a surprisingly honest individual, and that straightforwardness translated to the way he approached the frontline. Aside from exchanging patronizing jibes, Harry had been in disbelief that there hadn't been any bluffs, feints, or elaborate countermeasures to deceive the opposite party. He simply took gambits at face-value and bulldozed through. It made Harry suspect it might not just be a personality quirk but also the result of having survived for over five hundred years in the society which he'd resided in.

Slowly, to convey his sincerity about being a good sport regarding his loss, Harry lowered his wand until the tip was pointed down at the ground. Harry didn't trust himself to talk; nor could he trust himself to bow respectfully enough to pass the warlord's standards without feeling as if he were demeaning himself.

Averting his eyes, Harry waited it out.

It didn't take long for Sesshomaru to understand the meaning behind Harry's gestures. The blade was reluctantly withdrawn, its sickly green light curving in the night sky before being sheathed away from sight.

Beneath Sesshomaru's watchful gaze, Harry folded his legs under him and he dropped down, falling backward until he was ungracefully sprawled over the grass. The earthy fragrance annoyed him. To someone of traditional Japanese sensibilities, his posture must've appeared unsightly.

Peering up at the stars, Harry could still feel Sesshomaru's eyes on him. The disdain was practically palpable in the air. They didn't speak for a while, during which Harry took the time to regain his breath. Rolling his shoulders, he stretched until he swore he could hear his joints popping.

"You held back." Sesshomaru's observation was quiet but no less accusatory.

Harry inclined his head. His mind was a blur, and his body was composed of mud. Harry's exhaustion—and perhaps prolonged exposure to the demon's eccentricities—had more than desensitized him to any resentment felt at the return of Sesshomaru's offensive address. He kept his silence. He did not believe he could properly articulate all the thoughts running rampant in his head; they were a chaotic mess of distractions demanding his attention. At best, he should impart aloud what his intuition was telling him, approximated in a kind way to Sesshomaru.

In the meantime, the sounds of grass and leaves rustling in the wind filled the temporary quiet. The gust moaned, rushing by them and filtering cold air through their clothes to cool their heated bodies. Crickets were chirping unceasingly and an unknown creaking noise was audible even at a good distance.

"...Why?"

Turning his head, Harry levelly returned his gaze toward him. Gathering his thoughts on how to properly respond to his demand, Harry eventually sat up with a straight back and crossed legs to impress upon him a bit of respectability. Like explaining to a child, he said slowly, "We'd agreed on the victory conditions, Lord Sesshomaru."

He gingerly touched the side of his face, certain that he'd find a bruise in the mirror the next day. Sesshomaru's sheer vitality was staggering. Upon seeing Sesshomaru's glare intensify, before he could give voice to his displeasure, Harry confessed, "You're an important figure in history. You weren't someone that I...have to rein in. There's a difference between being a guest lecturer demonstrating dueling tactics and being a magical law enforcer, and you're definitely not among the criminals and whatnot in my fieldwork. I had to make that distinction. I apologize profusely if my decision offended you; that wasn't my intention. I was trying to avoid being a hotheaded idiot."

Sesshomaru's mouth closed. If anything, his new expression was bewildering to Harry. He pressed, "You held back to this extent...as an attempt to control rashness?"

"Did you want me to treat you like a Wanted criminal?" Harry snapped, eyeing the demon lord's equally disheveled appearance, his tone incredulous. Like his, Sesshomaru's robes were only slightly shredded or singed from their magical scuffle. Any light scratches or wounds have long since healed themselves. "I could severe a limb from you if you'd like. If that's not enough, I could aim entrails-expelling curses at you. Or would you have me to have used spells meant to permanently incapacitate you? I could also go into this with the intent to ethically put you down. I don't see the need for further escalation; I wasn't under orders from the Committee for an extermination."

The soreness of his jaw was temporarily forgotten.

To convey his seriousness, Harry channeled the air of authority exuded in his department briefings. Although his muscles were scorching, the coldness of the night threatened to leech all the warmth from his body. Ignoring the temperature, he steepled his fingers into a pyramid underneath his chin. "Like me, you didn't emerge unscathed. There are spells that work even if they graze you, and others that don't require physical contact. As we've seen, the Darker or more powerful the spells are, the more effective they are on you. You aren't entirely immune to their effects, Lord Sesshomaru. And we've already encountered scenarios where you'll have to break the layers of enchantments that are meant to suppress someone of your magical alignment."

Harry felt his mouth tug down further. "...If I may be honest, I'm not sure why you're upset. I was operating under the impression that this was friendly fire, and not a fight to the death. We fought under the parameters we'd both settled on. Actually, if I was to be honest again, I thought you were holding back as well. Did I misjudge the situation? In all seriousness, Lord Sesshomaru, I was trying not to be a dunderhead who goes needlessly overboard against a friendly opponent. But please inform me if my actions had offended you culturally or if I'd accidentally gone against a sacred dueling custom you adhere to."

Sesshomaru stared down at him. In his uneasy silence, it'd felt like forever before Sesshomaru deigned to turn on his heels. He was peering into the forest. "...This Hari has not committed any notable infractions," he admitted.

Hearing the return of that peculiar address, embarrassingly enough, made Harry feel a small ball of elation rising in his chest. While Sesshomaru had his back turned to him, Harry rubbed his arms quickly, producing heat from the friction.

Almost sounding defensive, Sesshomaru followed up with a surly: "This Sesshomaru was not upset by this Hari. There was no incident to speak of. It's a figment of your imagination."

A grin was threatening to split the lower half of his face, but Harry curtailed his snotty reply. Managing a straight face, with his hands folded in his lap Harry allowed, "I'm not perfect. I can make mistakes."

"...See to it that this Hari doesn't," Sesshomaru said haughtily, twisting his head around. His expression was solemn. He stepped forward. "Ignorance is deplorable. Campaigning, politics, or otherwise, a warrior should always be in a project of self-improvement."

Harry's mind blanked. That misplaced sincerity was unexpected. He hesitated. Short of awkwardly thanking him for the unnecessary philosophical advice, Harry offered as earnestly as he could: "That's quite the observation, your lordship. Really wise and generous of you."

He'd started to rise to his feet, when that familiar pressure was exerted against his shoulder blades, warming him from chin down. Forced into a crouch, Harry found himself glancing down at the fluffy pelt again. The ends of it nearly trailed the grass.

"...What's this for—now?" Although the surprise on Harry's face was genuine, his voice sounded lifeless.

"This Hari reeks of sweat." With a clatter of armor, he bent down until he was balancing on his toes, sitting on his haunches. The two men were eye-level. "Aside from the smell of yōkai and similar stock, this forest is saturated with this Hari's scent."

"Hogwarts is my alma mater—no, sorry, I mean it was basically my second home. I'd also ventured into this forest quite a bit." Harry stared at him, uncertain whether to be insulted or not. Just as he was about to default to his second train of thought, his eyes widened. "You can smell."

A brow rose.

"No, no, no. Wait. Let me rephrase myself. That came out wrong." Harry waved his hand through the air, thinking about the possibilities. He'd dragged the ends of the pelt closer for warmth as his mind tinkered. Thankfully Sesshomaru remained silent while he worked out what he was going to say.

His eyes boring holes into the ground, Harry asked, "In your case, how do you tell if someone is lying? Or if they're in heavy disguise?"

"If they are terrible at pretense, it is simple to detect the signs."

"I meant to say, can you smell them?"

Harry stared at the three swords sheathed in Sesshomaru's sash. Although Harry was curious if that sword fully reanimated someone to when they'd been alive, in a spectral state, or in an undead state, the wizard had enough foresight to know that he shouldn't be following one of the Peverell brothers' footsteps. While Harry would never think to exploit Sesshomaru's resurrection capabilities, he was willing to take advantage of Sesshomaru's other sets of skills while he was still here.

If the dog demon could distinguish truth from falsehoods, he'd be invaluable to interrogations. Harry resumed, "To detect if someone is lying, even if they're under the effects of Veritaserum, we have to look for body language and verbal cues. I heard those with the intention to lie sweat more."

"That may be, but that is not always an indication." His eyes heavy-lidded, he tilted his head. "This Sesshomaru still has your antidotes."

"Keep them. I don't need them." His mind reeling at the sudden switch of topics, he persisted, "So, if someone is a Metamorphmagus, Polyjuiced, transfigured, disillusioned, invisible, or whatnot, theoretically if they didn't have the foresight to change up their habits, you could distinguish a fake from the real one?"

Sesshomaru made a noncommittal noise between closed lips. The weight of his stare felt like a hundred rocks piled atop Harry's shoulders. After a prolonged minute, he said, "This Hari casted the enchantment. Is the effects of the ritual gone?"

It was like talking to a brick wall. A bit peeved, Harry glanced down at his palm, squeezing his hand into a fist. The leather creaked. Looking back up, he challenged, "Would you like to make another one and see?"

"…This Hari cannot tell."

"Naturally. It's not any magic that I'd had done to me before; it's a variant of the magical contract that was supposed to happen. I can assume there's only one way to tell if it's gone or not, and I'd be absolutely gobsmacked if it was that." He tucked his fists against his elbows, bracing himself for the question he was to ask. The holster was a reassuring weight against his arm, with the pelt embracing him like a person. He said harshly, "…What do you want from me, Lord Sesshomaru? You've won one request."

Sesshomaru's mouth had parted, as if he'd been about to answer with something already formulated at the top of his head, but then closed just as swiftly—as if he were reconsidering his options. The intensity of his gaze could burn someone through as he brooded.

Resisting the nervous compulsion to break eye-contact, Harry swallowed back the saliva in his mouth as he waited. Sweat pooled beneath his gloves.

Eventually, Sesshomaru stated, "This Sesshomaru shall need to contemplate on the matter further. Be reassured. This Hari may have an answer by the end of the night."

Harry stared after him disbelievingly. His brows wrinkling in deliberation, his hands soon moved to steeple into a triangle in the space underneath his chin. It would be just as easy to gaze at Sesshomaru as if he were addled, but it was more effective to slip into his Head Auror persona. Under a professional mindset, silence was just as intimidating. "Why do you need the end of tonight to come to a decision?"

"This Hari has no patience for frivolity." He nodded once, as if in approval. "It is understandable, after what you've experienced tonight."

A wave of déjà vu struck him, stifling overactive thoughts. Dread pooled into his gut. He had to say it. This was the best opportunity. He began, "…Lord Sesshomaru."

The expression of the demon's face darkened, as if someone had snuffed out the flame on a candle.

Harry exhaled once. Although his muscles still felt sore, he attempted to rise to his feet once more. He jerked to a halt midway when he felt the pelt squeeze around him.

Freezing a bit, he looked down at Sesshomaru, who was nonchalantly returning his gaze.

Minutes ticked by at an eternity's pace. But after a while, Harry released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He gently grabbed fistfuls of the white fur, pulling it closer for warmth. He didn't have to look to sense the smugness radiating from the dog demon.

The angle of his mouth was a severe slant. He recognized the signs. Still, it was more reasonable to craft a diplomatic response, on the small chance that he could be wrong. "With all due respect," Harry murmured, "you've been acting…differently from the day I left you…alone…with Luna." His eyes narrowed. "What did she say to you?"

Folding his hands into his sleeves, Sesshomaru mirrored Harry's stance, rising up until he towered over him. His voice was excruciatingly soft when he asked, "What do you think this Sesshomaru is trying to achieve?"

Harry recoiled; having his question thrown back at him wasn't something he'd anticipated. Faltering only momentarily, he started to say, "I'm going to be relatively straightforward, Sesshomaru. It's been a long day. My patience is shot." He mustered his courage. "Do you fancy….?"

His question died in his throat, upon seeing the expectant look on Sesshomaru's face. Beneath natural or magical light, Harry could fool himself into thinking that the color was a lighter shade of brown or hazel; he could even disregard the slits in the magical creature's irises. Under the moonlight, Sesshomaru's eyes were twin suns. Like a silver river, his hair seemed to glow with a luster matching the stars above, his magenta stripes like dark tattoos against skin as pale as the moon's surface.

Saying those words was like a final ultimatum. He wouldn't be able to deny it any longer and the comfortable foundations they've built their companionship on would crumble. If he wanted to preserve the camaraderie, his only options were to use subtlety and allusions. It was better to default to diplomacy—something they both were used to from their respective vocations—than testing the waters with his Gryffindor frankness.

Harry swallowed. His own attraction to the man had snuck up on him like a thief, until it'd clobbered him over the head. This was his fault for letting their flirtations continue this far. The temptation to fly away from this situation—to bury his head under his pillow, pretending that none of this was happening—was strong.

The mythos behind the demon-kinds of any country typically painted their reputation as magical creatures whose favored pastime was corrupting mortals. While Harry was leery about the prospect of heeding that superstition—especially since he was to be advocating for the better rights of magical creatures across the international pond, and he was more than aware history often came with embellishments—it would be foolish if he didn't take it into consideration.

Harry was not ready to dive headfirst into the complicated web that was Sesshomaru's budding attraction to him.

So, instead Harry heard himself saying, "Contrary to what people may believe, I know when something's up."

He shifted from one foot to another. From the moment he'd stepped into the magical world, he'd been barraged by admirers—with himself being a pursuer on three occasions. Recent memories were playing like a film reel in his mind as he stated, "This may be an unusual comparison, but you've been behaving...you're behaving like my godson. When he had no control over his base urges, when he was much younger."

"You are comparing me to your pup," Sesshomaru stated tonelessly, nearly unimpressed.

"The question about pregnancy, your…personal history in our spar this morning…." Pulling the sentient pelt off his shoulders, he carefully folded it in his arms until it formed into a neat bundle. He petted it once, as emphasis. "This. Altogether, what are you trying to accomplish? That's what I want to know. You weren't acting like this when we'd first met." Hearing Hermione's reports and reading about the sovereign's exploits only hammered in the notion that it was uncharacteristic of him.

"So suspicious, Hari." His mouth coiled up into a smirk, making Harry tense. "If you weren't so high in my favor, this Sesshomaru would be offended. This Sesshomaru has killed for less."

Harry breathed in once sharply.

Squaring his jaw, Harry found himself glancing at the red cherry blossom designs on the long, white sleeves as Sesshomaru unfolded his arms from his sleeves. "…This Hari values individuals who are forward. That is a commendable quality to have."

Before Harry could grasp what he was about to do, Sesshomaru had slid his hand beneath the folds of his kimono. After finding what he needed, he extracted his hand. A delicate chain followed the motion, swaying from the momentum. It settled against the magenta stripes of his arm.

Without taking his gaze off him, Sesshomaru held his fist out. Under Harry's full attention, his fingers bloomed like a lotus, unveiling a familiar pendant against his palm—a triangle metalwork with a line bisecting the circle in the middle. He was studying Harry's expression.

For a moment, Harry could only stare down wordlessly at the abstract eye. Feeling a coldness in his veins, he whispered, "The chain's the same as the one Mr Lovegood owns. He wouldn't…Luna—it's Luna isn't it? Why would Luna give you—?"

"This Sesshomaru has decided." The words were uttered with finality. "This Sesshomaru is to be this Hari's nenja."

Harry lifted his sight from the necklace. "Sorry?" he demanded. His grip tightened on the pelt. "Did you just say you wanted to be my…my what?"

With a look of consternation, he repeated himself.

His mouth contorted. Harry knew he shouldn't be looking a gift horse in its mouth—Sesshomaru could have asked for anything and Harry would be compelled to follow through—but some rationality to the newest ludicrousness of his life would be welcomed. "…I think I misheard. Why do you want to be my ninja?"

Sesshomaru's mouth had curled down momentarily, befuddled, as if he wasn't completely sure what he was hearing as well. "This Hari requires guidance. This Sesshomaru is volunteering for the role to instruct this Hari." He advanced a step forward, his gaze penetrating. With the intensity of a samurai pledging himself to a landlord, he declared, "Be honored you were chosen. This Sesshomaru will be an instrument in your progress."

At a loss of coherent thought, Harry repeated, "By being my ninja."

Even to his ears, no matter how much he said it, Sesshomaru's intention still sounded stupefying. "Why do you want to be…why would you want to do that?" Although Harry was lacking a Muggle education, he'd lived long enough in Little Whinging, Surrey to know he did not need a living shadow tailing his every move and operating from the dark, assassinating his perceived foes.

Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but struggling to make sense of that declaration, Harry demanded, "Do you have nothing else to do? Is that it?" His face twisted. It was his fault if he made the sovereign feel useless. Injecting concern into his tone, he said, "I could give you something to do if that's the case. Or is this some misguided obligation of yours to return my hospitality?"

The frown on Sesshomaru's face deepened. "This Hari has been accommodating, however there are instances that this Sesshomaru will admit to feeling restless. My only entertainment has been provided by you." His other hand down by his side clenched and unclenched, as if imagining it around someone's neck.

Hearing the verbal confirmation made Harry struggle to withhold the urge to plunge his head down and groan into the fur. Sesshomaru been following Harry around in foreign soil, with little else to occupy him with or anything familiar to comfort him. It was natural that the ancient warlord would compensate for his boredom and the insecurities of his self-worth by taking up this idea of his.

He continued, "This Hari is a sorcerer, therefore this Sesshomaru will not teach you what you already know. Howbeit, your strength and combat skills are lacking."

"I'm sure it's an offer you don't make lightly." Sesshomaru was a prideful man; Harry had to remember that. "But I don't require a…not that I don't appreciate and understand what an honor it is. But I am concerned what you're asking for might be for naught."

By now, he was close enough that he could stab Harry through with his swords. His voice taking on a frightening quality as he stared down the Head Auror, he commanded, "Since you lost to this Sesshomaru, this Hari is honor bound to uphold the terms of the wager. You will honor this."

He uttered a quiet but heartfelt profanity. He'd had good intentions, but if Sesshomaru was so intent on being whatever he desired to be in Harry's life, he wasn't going to complain—especially not when it sounded like it was only a platonic relationship that would be fostered.

Today had been eventful, fraught with many situational escalations from morning to night. Like how he'd tackle any surprises that came his way, he adapted.

Exhaling noisily and dragging his hand through his hair, Harry said, "Okay, just humor me. Please. When I asked you what you wanted, you seemed like you had something else in mind. What was your other option? Before you decided to go with this? Intel?"

"It is advantageous and benefiting, yes, but it is unnecessary." He scoffed. "This Hari has already been providing me with intelligence. It would be the height of foolishness for this Sesshomaru to inquire after something that's offered freely."

Sesshomaru nodded down at his outstretched hand.

The definition of surrealism could not encapsulate this moment. Waiting patiently until Harry realized that he wanted him to take the necklace, once it was taken from his possession, a hand rested heavily on Harry's shoulder. The pelt that'd been in Harry's arms slithered up their arms—Harry's muscles had locked, his instincts contemplating fight or flight—until their figures were both enveloped in its embrace.

His heart was thundering like crazy. This close to him, the magical creature smelt of something masculine, and the acrid metal of his armor and blades.

"Calm," Sesshomaru murmured, squeezing Harry's shoulder once warningly. Relinquishing his grip, his hand had left a phantom sensation behind as he retreated back to a safer distance. The enormity of his pelt was curled back around his right arm and shoulder, with the rest of it falling down his back.

"That woman." Sensing Harry's confusion, Sesshomaru illuminated, "The one this jewelry once belonged to."

The metal of the pendant bit into his palm when his fingers constricted. In a dangerously frigid tone, he asked, "You wanted Luna?"

"Her personal assistance would be greatly appreciated." He tilted his head. "She'd offered her services as a resource. She'd foretold an enlightening future for me. That's why this Sesshomaru was offered this tribute."

"…I remember you asking me if Luna was trustworthy or not. That was in reference to this?" His mouth slashed down. "What did she say to you?"

"When the time was right, this Sesshomaru should inquire about 'the Deathly Hallows.' It was implied that this Hari would understand the female's words."

Harry found himself staring at Sesshomaru for the zillionth time tonight.

It wasn't until he could feel the sharp edges of the pendant poking him through his glove that the pain brought him back into awareness. He unclenched his fist. Clearing his throat, he stated, "That's…that's not far off. How awfully convenient actually. Sorry, it's something I might bring up to you. Later, not now."

His eyes narrowed. Just when he'd enlisted Sesshomaru's help to help him track down the Resurrection Stone, he found out that Luna had left the demon with a cryptic message. If this was any indication, just how much did she really know? He'd have to track her down and demand answers at the next available date.

Aside from social niceties, he needed a pretense to contact her.

In a casual roll of his shoulders, he then heaved a sigh. "I recognize a lost cause when I see one. Regardless, I'll see what I can do to put you through the proper channels to contact one another. We'll work something out. It's not like Luna wouldn't help you anyway." Now that he thought about it, he was oddly accepting of everything he was hearing. He wasn't certain whether it was because of a quirk in his personality or if it was a side-effect of the adrenaline that was wearing off.

His expression was filled with trepidation as he glanced up at the moon. Every time he breathed in and out, a cold puff of air was exhaled against the bridge of his mouth. For some reason, gazing at the moon had always revitalized him after a night of hard toil, sending ripples of serenity through his body. "Are you really that desperate to be….what do you expect for me to do anyway if you're my ninja? What I got out of it is that you want to be my professor?" He frowned. "For fighting?"

"Nen-ja," Sesshomaru corrected him, emphasizing the phonetics in his heavy Japanese accent.

He began listing his duties and what he expected from his wakashū—that being Harry's role to fill as student, apprentice, or protégé. He informed him that it was a time-honored tradition for an apprenticeship to be entered between an adult alpha and a younger demon, where the latter would undergo training in martial skills, warrior etiquette, and a warrior's code of honor.

His mind felt clear enough for him in this moment to evaluate what was being said and not being said.

Listening calmly, carefully to everything that was said, when the sentences winded down, Harry said, "'Shudō,' you'd called it. The way you're making it sound, it sounds something exclusive—something more permanent. Am I wrong?" He wasn't even certain why some parts of Sesshomaru's explanation sounded familiar to him. Something was off. This sounded like it went beyond a teacher-student mentorship. If anything, it sounded like a partnership or a feudal pledge of vassalage. "You do realize, if I agree to this, it'll be temporary, right? You'll have to go home eventually, back in your era, where I'm not even born yet."

Sesshomaru paused.

With suspicion dousing his thoughts, he stated, "Don't take this the wrong way, but what do you gain out of this? It seems like I'm reaping the benefits." Harry had learned it was usually best to be wary of agreeing to arrangements with clauses he wasn't fully aware of.

For once, he looked uncomfortable. "This Sesshomaru…has not taken a wakashū before." He glanced away abruptly, focusing on the forest. The trees were tall, black silhouettes in their field of vision. "There is a 'mutually ennobling effect.' It is implied that the nenja will be predisposed to behave more honorably himself, in his desire to be a good role model for his wakashū."

"…Does it really?"

Hearing the sarcasm behind that question, Sesshomaru sent a scathing glower in his wake.

"Alright. Alright. Sorry." Harry held his hands up in surrender. "You said both parties—meaning you and me—have to be 'loyal unto death, and to assist the other both in feudal duties and in honor-driven obligations such as duels and settling disputes.' In our situation, that's a bit…excessive. And impractical."

"You are worried about devotion." His tone was sharp. "This Hari has shown much loyalty and dedication to this Sesshomaru among our acquaintanceship. This Hari has proven this Hari's worth, that your word is honorable."

"I'm glad." His smile was strained. "I appreciate the thought. Really, I'm flattered you considered me as a candidate. But if this crosses the line…."

"You've eradicated that male's memories."

It was as if he'd taken his sword and impaled Harry with it.

Swallowing hard, he looked down at his feet. Harry murmured quietly, "I'm aware I'm not entirely a good person but my sense of duty outweighs personal endeavors. I said I was going to fix this. I will bring you home."

"While it is doubtful a mere promise would compel so much devotion, you've proven to this Sesshomaru you're prepared to fulfill this objective, no matter the cost. This Sesshomaru is impressed by this Hari's determination." His expression was indescribable, but it made Harry feel very lightheaded being at the end of it. "This Hari has potential. Which is why this Hari will accept the position as this Sesshomaru's wakashū."

This was too sudden. He mumbled, "Give me time." When Sesshomaru's countenance became perplexed, in a louder voice, feeling a confidence he did not feel, he declared, "It's too soon. I'll need time to process this development."

"You are going back your word." His tone was flat and accusatory, as if he'd just been cheated.

He shook his head. "No, that's not it. From morning to now, I've been hit with many twists and turns. I need a break to reflect on everything that has happened—especially this." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You won fair and square. I won't go back on that. I just need time to think about this further. It's not changing anything. I'm prolonging the inevitable."

"Then why would you request time to meditate on the matter when there is no further choice to be had?"

"Because certain parts of this arrangement goes against all common sense…." He trailed off.

He'd thought he'd seen movement from the corner of his peripheral vision. Scanning the premises, when nothing showed up, he glanced toward Sesshomaru, who was still glowering at him. Harry relaxed, his shoulders slumped. Since the mental state of Sesshomaru gave no indication of any disturbances detected in their proximity, it was logical to assume his mind was playing tricks on him.

He inhaled the scent of grass and wood into his lungs, acting as a balm to his nerves. His expression soon melted into a carefully crafted mask. His eyes were directly confronting Sesshomaru's unflinchingly. "I gave you time to think about what you could request from me. I only ask for the same."

To his surprise, although the intensity of the atmosphere around him was still frightening, hearing the headstrong rejoinder had Sesshomaru's lips pulling up in a reluctant smile. "It is an exercise in futility," he told him. "Nonetheless, this Sesshomaru shall entertain your request."

Harry chuckled. "You have no idea how long I can make you wait."

XXXXXXXXXX

Unbeknownst to either one of them, as the pair went to restore the stone amphitheater to its former condition, obscured by the dense canopies, deep in the Forbidden Forest was a colony of magical creatures—whose head, torso and arms appeared to be human, with anything further down joined to a horse's body—had been gathered under the light of the moon. The earth shook under them.

Armed with makeshift bows and arrows, their hides were drenched in mottled white and black as they cantered across the field, hunting for their next prey. Those who chose to adorn themselves with jewelry rampaged at the front of the herd, leading the charge into a territory that'd once been forbidden to them years prior because of the Acromantulas that'd once made their den in this part of the forest.

Hooves rumbled against the soil, kicking up dirt and rocks. As the last of them started trickling in, fast at the heels of their elders, one of the hooves lobbed a chunk of earth into the air.

The solidified chunk sailed in a volley before gravity yanked it back into the earth. It scattered into pieces as it crashed down against the roots of a tree trunk.

Amongst the fragments was a black stone in the shape of a diamond. When the light was right, floating in the obsidian-like vessel emerged the golden inscription of a triangle bisected by a wand and a circle.

---

(A/N)- This chapter is split into two parts, from its sheer scope. It was a battle of attrition, but I'd finally conquered this beast! Hurrah! I ultimately hope this monstrosity balances out whatever negative feelings the long absence generated, whew. (Did you know HP is canonically a Leo? And some people's headcanon is that Sesshomaru is a Scorpio. Coincidentally, if you look at their horoscopes, apparently Leos and Scorpios are romantically compatible.) If you haven't already, check out suis0u's fanart for this story. Links are in my profile, AO3, and tumblr. So based on the PMs and questions I've been getting, should you want atmospheric clues for my writing, you now may also find me on tumblr! I throw in updates about story statuses occasionally with research and inspiration, among the hodgepodge. It'll hopefully make future A/Ns shorter, because I intend to dump a lot of my thoughts there instead.

Next chapter: Curse of the Deathly Hallows II. While it couldn't fit into this update, the next one will contain a few bits I'd been excited to share since chapter 8. ;) Take that as you will. Someone is going to meet some persons. What a glorious meeting it'll be.