Angela's Note: It's rained a good few days, and I've had some time to write. And I hope everyone enjoys this latest chapter! But I've got one thing I want you to know. It's been my policy, and joy, of the last few years to personally answer every review. I love reviews, and especially the positive ones for obvious reasons, and I appreciate each and every person who takes the time to stop and let me know what they think. Some of you I recognize by username now because of the many messages I've been happy to receive. But in the last few months, I've realized that what now amounts to the cumulative hours I spend responding I could be spending writing instead. And thus I've fallen almost two chapters behind in answering reviews. SO, from here on out, I will only respond to outright questions. But please, don't stop giving me feedback. It means a great deal to me.

Enjoy!

Hermione held his hand in her own, tracing the raised scar ridges left by the Stone across his palm, her heart beating too fast, her emotions tethered just enough to keep her silent as she tried to think it through.

The octahedron stone was embedded deeply into the palm that carried it, long shining strands of metallic black spiraling out into vein and muscle, sinking down under skin until only a ghost of it was visible.

Within the stone, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows glowed out visibly, starkly white within the black angled surface.

"It doesn't hurt." Harry whispered, as if a soft voice would also soften the blow. "I… contemplated cutting it out, but at the thought of trying, the Stone responded. It grew these… roots. Its pattern wrapped up to the inside of my wrist. When I thought of amputating and regrowing my wrist, the roots grew again, to my elbow. I do not dare try to remove it at this point."

Hermione's breath sped up; she was almost panting with it now.

She rotated his hand within hers, staring at the unmarked skin of his wrist and elbow.

She could only see the marks on his palm. Obviously what Harry saw was under skin and into bone.

And Harry just kept whispering, words spilling into the silence.

"I've thought the Hallows were possibly sentient before. They must have established some sort of connection with my soul, can respond to my thoughts as well as my emotions. I've been able to summon the Cloak for some time, call it from across the room with a thought. I never… I didn't think what else that might mean."

He licked his lips; a nervous gesture that she couldn't yet find enough calm of her own to soothe.

And still he whispered, on and on.

"I tried a summoning, thinking that without the rotation its effects might be nullified. In our previous tests the three rotations had to be precise, remember? But it doesn't matter. The Stone is able to rotate its pattern within my skin at my command. It feels… it feels like another muscle, a new one I've never had before. It moved just like I would move my fingers, or my toes. Except there is no obvious way it can move, no muscles or bones or tendons. The pattern just moves, except the stone itself does not. As if its pattern is fluid within its physical shape. Like… like the metamorphmagus on my team. She is still human, but it's a flexible, fluid humanity. She…"

Hermione reached out, put her free hand against his mouth to stop the flood of rambling whispered words.

As he couldn't stop speaking, she couldn't start.

So she held his words in, and let the silence wash over them both.

Then she moved her hand away, and looked down at the dark scarred stain on his palm, the living gemstone that had apparently chosen her boyfriend as its new host.

She refused to think about fictional aliens and what often happened to their hosts.

"Harry." Hermione cleared her dry throat, continued. "I want to view the memory. I want to ask you to forgo using the Stone again, at least until we… understand more. There are parasitic magical ailments out there, objects too. Hell, even humans can be parasitic, based on that stupid horcrux you wear on your head. We have to make sure this… this Stone is not going to hurt you. I… There must be something…"

She broke off, took a deep breath, looking into the familiar green eyes that stared into her soul with desperate trust. "There must be some information on dark objects and magic that can assimilate into human bodies. That's part of the classification of something as dark, being able to change and manipulate human bodies and personalities against their will. You will be f-fine."

She said the last as much for herself as for him. Harry sighed, and gently drew his hand out of hers, lifting his palm up towards his face.

"It doesn't feel foreign. It feels like a part of me. Not malevolent or dark, but like… family. I don't think it will hurt me, any more than I would hurt myself. Or rather, it wouldn't hurt me because that would be like hurting itself."

Hermione bit her lip, not soothed in the least by that statement.

"That's not normal, Harry. Objects do not just suddenly decide to adopt someone like they are homeless children. They do what they are created to do. We thought the Stones purpose was to bring back the dead, and when that failed, could be used to commune with them. Now I think we are missing something, something vital."

Harry's mouth twisted.

"The blasted story. We have a good guess that the objects were created as a set. Maybe the Stone was even created last, as it is the only one we know of that bears the symbol. Perhaps what we are missing is the third part."

Hermione shook her head quickly, the motion almost violent.

"The last thing we need is yet another Hallow attaching itself to you. Whatever the Master of Death is, I don't think it's going to be some sort of super power. It might even change you into something neither of us recognizes or wants, and it probably won't give you a choice in the matter. I don't think we need to go looking for the Elder Wand as a way to solve this."

She saw his eyes flicker; wondered if he had already been looking.

And instead of just wondering, she asked.

"Have you been looking for it?"

His head jerked, then slowly shook.

"No. At least, not consciously. But a part of me… it's watching. Just watching. Waiting."

Hermione wove her fingers together, held them tightly, refusing to let them shake.

"What were the Peverell brothers really trying to achieve? Immortality? Each of their objects had a different purpose."

Harry lowered his palm, rested it against his leg gingerly, as if it bore an open wound.

"They wanted to defeat Death, in all its forms. Knowing what we do now, it seems like they wanted to somehow bypass the experience of death. They just went about it in different ways. The Wand was to make one strong enough you couldn't be killed. The Stone to bring back those already dead. The Cloak to… I assume defend you against death. It's not following the order in the story, but I can reach a few educated guesses in how this happened."

Harry stood, began to pace, and she saw the way his fingers moved across the Stone in his palm.

"The Wand is created. But while it prevents defeat in an outright duel, it also subverts its owner. It dosen't like preventing death. It is sentient enough to somehow, some way bring about death in another way. It seeks to kill the one who holds it even as it prevents them being killed. The conundrum that seems present in all of the Hallows."

He turned, walked past, turned again, steps even and measured.

"Then, perhaps using some of the same research, the Stone is created. They've failed to prevent death, so now they are going to reverse it. But while it can bring the dead back, it can't bring them to life. So it neither creates life, nor defeats death, but an in-between space. It is sentient as well, perhaps because of the very nature of its pattern. Then we have the Cloak."

Hermione watched as the silver folds of the invisibility cloak rippled in an unseen wind where it lay across the chair Harry had abandoned, like a faithful dog hearing its Master call its name.

Harry paused, and bent down to gather its folds into his arms before he resumed his pacing.

Maybe she was wrong about who was the Master and who was the faithful dog.

"The Cloak that hides its wearer from Death. It can't be damaged itself, can act as a type of armor so that no spell can harm the one who wears it. Perhaps not even an illness or malady. Except they would still age. Time still goes against them. So eventually, the Cloak gets passed to another bearer. Each object is a failure by itself."

Hermione spoke as he paused again.

"But the Stone bears the symbol of all three. It had to be made last."

Harry nodded slowly. "Or maybe the Stone and the Cloak were made at the same time, by the two surviving brothers. Maybe they even planned to resurrect the first brother. I don't think we can ever know. But the Wand was lost with the death of the first. Maybe the second or third brother realized that only with all three could they obtain their true goal."

"Immortality." Hermione guessed.

Harry frowned, staring blankly into space.

"That's the obvious answer. It might even be the right one. But I don't trust it. Why call the person who holds all three the 'Master of Death', unless they gain mastery of more than just their own death? What if the mastery is not of their own death, but of the place of death? Immortality might be a side product of that. Perhaps, if that level of mastery was obtained, immortality could be a gift given to whomever they chose. One that could also be taken away. Mastery. Complete control. Who knows just what someone could accomplish with control over the afterlife of the entire world?"

Hermione shuddered, and this time could not contain her reaction to his words. Harry turned to face her, kneeling to put his face at her level where she sat in one of his armchairs.

"They failed. Their inventions didn't work separately, and they never found out if they worked together. How long has it been before two Hallows found themselves with the same Master? Chances are the Wand will never show up, if it's even still whole. It could have been destroyed."

"You don't believe that." Hermione pointed out, and Harry grimaced.

"It's not likely, no. Not with the substance that makes up its pattern. Something has to be part of our realm to decay or break down. But that doesn't mean the Wand isn't sitting in an underground cavern somewhere, or buried, or simply lost in the woods. It would take a miracle for it to appear. And if it does, we would know. Some undefeatable wizard roaming the world would make the news these days."

"And if that happens?" Hermione countered. "What then? I know you. You would have to go see it, at least. You might even decide to see if it really is unbeatable."

She saw his face twist, and knew she was right. At the lost look on his face, she sighed, reached out to wrap him in a loose hug.

"I'm not attacking you, Harry." She said softly. "I'm not saying you aren't right either. I'm just worried what it means. We ought to be prepared, is all."

"How do you prepare for something when you don't even know what you are preparing for?" Harry was whispering again, leaning into her hold.

Hermione pulled back, looking into his face.

"We do all we can to find out what to prepare for, of course. And meanwhile, we don't let a possibility ruin our lives. Just like we haven't let the horcrux ruin us either."

She saw it pass over his face then; an idea, a moment of clarity.

"The Hallows respond to my soul alone. They haven't touched or manipulated the horcrux in the least bit. Perhaps one will cancel out the other. If the horcrux in any way abruptly tries to damage my own soul or pattern, one of the Hallows will react. I'm certain of it."

Hermione wasn't so convinced. But she nodded anyway.

"Maybe. Now." She sucked in a stabilizing breath. "What are we going to do about the Stone? I'm not sure how we will explain its… new location."

Harry rotated his palm back and forth, then shrugged, his smile lopsided when it came.

"Magic, if it comes up. A simple glamor would suffice to keep it out of any photos. Otherwise, it's just a… unique tattoo?"

Hermione rolled her eyes in response to that one.

"You do know the Dark Lord Grindelwald practically worshipped the Hallows right? And now his symbol is actually glowing out of a stone embedded into your palm."

"It's glowing?" Harry asked, a note of excitement in his voice. "I wonder if that's fueled from the Hallow's magic, or my own? Does that mean it's active?" A pause. "How bright is it?"

Hermione slumped back and groaned.

The September meeting of the Wizengamot started out as it usually did; with a reading of a general itinerary.

Harry sat back in his chosen chair, both hands wrapped in light cotton gloves that covered his emerald hue with a lighter shade of verdant.

Better than wasting magic on a glamor that some of the wizards present might see through was to simply wear a physical covering. None would question the choice, or think twice about it for that matter. Just gloves, after all.

But Harry found he did not like the covering. The Stone itched under the fabric, unhappy to be hidden away. It wanted to shine; it wanted to see and be seen.

Even with no eyes it chafed under the blindfold that kept its pattern blind to the patterns around them. It had enjoyed being a ring; perhaps, if it got tired of its current form on his palm it would be willing to detach itself and return to being a simple Stone.

At that thought, Harry saw black light flicker up his wrist where the sleeve of his robe had fallen away. The Hallow pattern was not amused.

Lord Dumbledore raised one deep blue hand, drawing his attention back to the floor. The wizard made a wide gesture, cutting off the current argument on cauldrons that had been an on-going debate the entire year.

One member of the Wizengamot had even approached him last session to ask his own opinion on the motion to change standard thicknesses.

Harry had no opinion. He had heard both sides, and could only assume one side was using a few preventable accidents to push forward legislation that would harm one manufacturer of cauldrons, while boosting another manufacturer's sales. It seemed a clear case of politics being used as a capitalist gun, aimed to shoot the competition where it hurt most.

But Harry, like the majority of the Wizengamot, was getting tired of being forced to listen to both sides loading their proverbial guns. Harry had no doubt that the members who argued the most fiercely were the ones gambling money on the legislation.

"Until Lord Nott can give conclusive evidence that these accidents were related to the thickness of these cauldrons and not the acidity of the ingredients themselves I see no reason to continue listening to this debate."

Bless Dumbledore. Harry could almost like the man at that moment. Grumbles sounded across the circular auditorium, a wave of sound and color and the smell of a hundred bodies forced into close quarters to argue.

A third of the Wizengamot was not even present. Not many expected much to happen this session, a year after Harry Potter had stood up to champion house-elves, and made no political moves since.

"Moving on. Are there any more motions to discuss?"

But a year ought to be celebrated with an anniversary motion, he rather thought. He had his next speech planned and ready, a subtle thing of elegance Hermione had helped him memorize, digging into werewolf legislation and the statistics that showed only an increase, not decrease, in registered infections in the years since the current legislation's implementation. A call to action, creating a safe haven for werewolves to go during the times they could not control themselves, removing them when they were most dangerous to civilization.

Make it their own idea. Let them think how smart, how effective they will appear.

But before Harry could stand, one familiar hue rose up from across the room, cleared his throat.

Chrysochlorous light. A tan hue with olive accents, giving it the appearance from far away of a nearly golden green. Harry knew the look of that soul, and knew right away that Lady Longbottom must have stepped down from her seat for one very specific reason.

To let her grandson grow up and face down a chosen challenge of his own.

"I have a discussion I wish to open." The wizard's voice was slightly too high; but it did not crack or waver. Harry doubted many would even hear the nerves that crawled underneath the surface.

"Go ahead Lord Longbottom." Dumbledore was gentle, a trace of fondness in the Chief Warlock's words. Everyone present would hear that fondness and make note of it. The waves of British wizarding politics could rise and fall on who had Lord Dumbledore's favor.

Neville cleared his throat.

"I believe the current legislation prohibiting werewolves from holding jobs in the government and public sectors is unnecessary and does nothing to fulfill its purpose of protecting the public."

Murmurs rising across the crowd, a low rumble of thunder. Longbottom continued unheeded, words coming faster as if he sensed the explosion about to erupt.

"I think we should reopen discussion into alternative methods to protect people from rogue werewolves, while also allowing the infected to work and provide for any families they should have."

"Werewolves shouldn't have families." One brown man murmured audibly nearby. Another voice echoed the sentiment. "They should all be rounded up and put out of their misery." From his other side Lady Gamp hissed in return, her old mauve soul a flare of rare colorful emotion. "That's despicable! Children get infected more often than not! Want to start exterminating children that get dragon pox next?!"

Lady Gamp rarely spoke at meetings, and neither did the purple-red sangria tones of Lord Brown who sat beside her, currently muttering his agreement of her words. That two neutral members could feel so strongly over this issue did not bode well at all.

Neville was forced to speak louder, almost yelling over the rising voices all around them.

"Based on my studies, the current legislation has led to more infections than any other policy Britain has had in the past. Other countries have designated safe zones for anyone infected with lycanthropy..."

"Werewolves are monsters!" It was a rude exhalation in a feminine voice, a flash of canary yellow. "You want to protect them so they can kill more of our children?"

Neville's words stumbled to a halt. Into that pause the shouts began.

"Execution worked well enough in the past!"

"You want to let them work in the Ministry? Let them go crazy one day and infect us all?"

"No one would be safe!"

Lord Dumbledore was standing, his voice a boom augmented by a Sonorus Charm.

"Quiet! Lord Longbottom has the floor!"

But anti-werewolf sentiment ran deep. Fenrir Greyback's actions of only a decade ago were still recent memories to the members of the Wizengamot. The practice of infecting official's children a sour taste in their mouths.

Some of those children had not survived to become monsters.

"Werewolves do nothing but murder and spread their disease. They shouldn't be let free in public!"

A yell from a wave of blue and green embedded deep into the conservative left seats.

"They are already in public." Harry said in response, his voice lost to all but those near him, who became silent in their wake.

He saw their colors turn towards him, muave and sangria, lime and cider, judging, considering. He sat in the neutral middle, had no ties to werewolf infected that was common knowledge.

Those sitting around Longbottom were finally rising to defend him, Amelia Bones' high pitched voice a cutting knife.

"Current legislation does nothing to protect the public, it only makes werewolves more poor and desperate! I second Lord Longbottom's motion. We should be trying to work on a solution to lycanthropy. It's been long enough."

A male spoke up from the opposing side, voice just as cunningly sharp as Lady Bones. He was a pillar of peacock vibrance, green and blue intertwined into a beautiful soul.

"I agree with Lady Bones. We should be changing the current useless laws and think about far stricter ones. I've long thought the beasts should be registered and locked up, for their own safety if not ours."

It took many a moment to gather what the peacock man had implied. Once it sunk in, there was unanimous agreement.

The laws should be changed. The only problem being that at least half of the room wanted those changes to be far more strict for werewolves than the current status quo.

He wondered just how Neville Longbottom was feeling about his first foray into government service.

After the session was finally adjourned, Dumbledore calling a halt to the constant bickering that had followed with no headway, colors began to swirl and group into clumps of like-minded individuals.

Harry thought it interesting that the hues were evenly mixed. No one color tone stood out, but all consisted of red and blues, greens and yellow, purples and browns.

A few came towards him. Witch and wizards who wanted his own opinion on the proceedings, no doubt. He avoided them by simply turning his back and moving towards the right, where Longbottom was nestled in between the cyan of Lady Bones and the deep midnight blue of Lady Marchbanks.

He caught the tail end of the conversation as he approached.

"...we can't let them turn this into a rush to make things even worse! I'm trying to help them, not get them all thrown into Azkaban or worse!"

The man sounded caught between crying or screaming in frustration.

Lady Marchbanks spoke, her voice cracking with age, her light a pulse as slow as the old shopkeeper who had told him the story of the Deathly Hallows.

"Lord Tripe had his nephew turned twenty years ago. The family abandoned him to the Ministry, but the boy ran away and joined with Greyback a year later. Got killed by the aurors during the war, only nine years old. He blames the entire thing on werewolves, though the way I see it he only has himself to blame."

Harry came to a stop, saw the three turn to face them, their unique color highlighting the bulk of their features with pulsing life.

"I think it would have been easier to push for research and a sanctuary to be built first, before tackling and overturning the legislation itself. But at this point we will have no choice but to fight more legislation at the same time as overturning the old and getting a safe region set aside."

"...we?" Neville Longbottom asked hesitantly. Harry smiled.

"I agree with you that the laws do nothing to curb lycanthropy, and if anything exacerbate it. Proving that fact will help us a great deal."

"A good place to start." Lady Bones announced. "I have contacts in the department that oversees magical creatures. They might have those figures, or the ability to calculate them."

"Find out where the money goes." Harry added. "Find a way to make the Ministry save money, or at least spend less. That would also work in our favor."

"A sanctuary is not going to be cheap, Lord Potter." Marchbanks' gravelly voice responded. "I doubt you could convince a fourth, let alone over half, of the Wizengamot to confiscate private land to set aside as a werewolf stomping ground."

Neville's light brightened in a rush of emotion. "I'll donate it. My family is large, owns a lot of land. Might not be the most wealthy, but we do have land."

More color pressing in around them, more suggestions and comments. A core group of about ten witches and wizards pledging their support.

It wasn't many. But it wasn't a poor start, either.

"The press isn't too good." Hermione muttered, the sound of rapidly flicking pages echoing across the kitchen. "Some lady in the Improper Use of Magic Department, called Umbridge, is raising a stir about so-called half-breeds. Less than human. She's also a member of the Wizengamot, appointed to a seat by Fudge when he was in power. I would have thought our last paper made some impact, but some people refuse to listen to common sense."

"Anything pro-werewolf?" Harry asked, fork moving his eggs from one side of the plate to the other.

He just wasn't hungry. Hadn't had much of an appetite in the last week, really.

"Yesterday Amelia Bones did an interview. Talked over statistics on werewolf attacks and infection rates. Common sense stuff, easily verifiable. But not good press. Not like this Umbridge spouting off curses left and right."

"Hard to sugar-coat a ravenous beast." Harry muttered. "Neville sent me a letter yesterday. They've got a group of healers together from St. Mungo's who are experts on the disease and the way it works. They are looking for a potions master willing to work with the healers from the standpoint of how the wolfsbane potion works and how it might be manipulated to potentially lessen infection if bites or scratches are given accidentally. He's trying to convince Severus Snape, from Hogwarts. The man is about to retire at the end of the school year. He used to make Weasley's potion when he was there."

Hermione's light flickered, her head jerking up as the paper in her hand drifted to land on the table.

"Severus Snape." She groaned, shaking her head. "I just had an insane thought. I hated the man in school. Had to be the worst teacher ever for young children, so biased it was laughable. But... he's retiring?"

Harry raised a brow. "If he was that bad, I'd think everyone would be happy he's getting out of the teaching profession."

Hermione stood, her chair scraping against the stone floor. "But he still has to make money, right? Surely he didn't make enough at Hogwarts to retire gracefully. The Snape's aren't a pureblood family, right? So no huge trust fund or something?"

"It's not only purebloods who are wealthy, but no. Not that I know of."

"He was never dressed like he had a lot of money. He probably will need to supplement his retirement somehow..." Hermione mused. "Oh, what am I doing. I'll just owl him."

Harry was lost.

"Owl him?"

She flung a blue-violet hand into the air.

"I haven't found a potions master to take me on yet. The wizarding world doesn't just have a school for potions students. I mean, not in Britain anyway. It's all set up through apprenticeships. And you only get the level of potions master when you invent a new potion, or an innovative new way of making an existing potion. Which is why there aren't many potions master's around."

Harry sat back in his chair. "Why not find a journeyman potions person then, or whatever they are called. Someone who knows what they are doing but doesn't have the title to prove it yet."

"Because I refuse to give up." She declared. "And they are called potions journeymen once their potions master says they are no longer apprentices, however long that takes. Or just called a potioneer. But not all potioneers are journeymen, some masters prefer to be called potioneers or potion-brewers. In fact, the elite group of potions master's in Britain is the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers." She hesitated a moment, and Harry knew she had more she wanted to say. He grinned when she abruptly continued, the flood of information spilling out as it usually did. She simply couldn't resist giving out information that might prove useful to someone, somewhere, eventually. "It was founded by Hector Dagworth-Granger, the last spelled the same as my own last name. I don't think we are related, considering I'm muggleborn. Hector specialized in love elixirs, though he disagreed with calling them love elixirs, preferring to refer to them as strong infatuation creators."

Harry felt his amusement evaporate at the mention of love potions.

"Love is too kind of a word for what they can make people do." He muttered.

Hermione paused, came to stand close by his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I forgot."

Harry shook his head, forced out a laugh.

"Don't mind me. Go owl Professor Snape."

Her hand squeezed his shoulder over his robe, a warm comforting weight. Then he saw her light lean closer, her soft lips pressing briefly to his forehead, then moving to run gently over the scars between his eyes.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Reluctant words. Her eager desire to leave had apparently faded.

He stood, turned to bring her into a quick hug.

"Yes, tomorrow."

But when the door closed behind her and he turned to sit back down to his now-cold breakfast, Kraken was waiting, his slender yellow form dipping into a bow.

"Floo for you, Master."

He wasn't going to have to force the food down after all.

This time the Hit Wizard operation was routine, no surprises, no guards to take out.

It was a simple warehouse, packed full with illegal goods.

Winged Horse went in first, alone. Captain Matthews had reluctantly recommended the Department call Hippogriff in to deal with wards designed to destroy the contents within when disturbed.

The Captain had said he could deal with them, with time and experimentation. But he wasn't keen on wasting that time and needed resources on a warehouse that could be dismantled by Hippogriff in less than a minute.

So Winged Horse was sent, and Harry took down the advanced wards in a pathetically easy blink of time. Then the rest scouted out the interior, confirming no such nasty surprises lay in wait for the unwary.

With that done, the aurors came and seized the contraband, half of which were potions. Harry looked at the gleaming glass containers, stacked hundreds wide, magic sparking from inside in swirls of red liquid. He wondered how many were love elixirs, and how many were things intended to harm body and not soul.

Then he let Aethonan apparate him back to the Ministry, and put the thought from his mind.

Miss Granger,

No.

Severus Snape.

Miss Granger,

Despite your pathetic attempt at appealing to my sense of pride, the answer remains, No.

Severus Snape.

Miss Granger,

These repeated attempts mean absolutely nothing to me but an increased feeling of annoyance. You have nothing of value to offer me that would convince me to tolerate another child for any space of time.

No.

Severus Snape.

Miss Granger,

Prove it.

Severus Snape.

Miss Granger,

On sheer principle, I should say no.

My terms are inclosed.

Severus Snape

Hermione grinned fiercely down at the parchment in her hands, the note short and to the point.

The parchment rolled alongside it, however, was bulky. It contained words like 'fees', 'hours', and 'royalties'.

The potion master was a right bastard. But he was also one of the best potioneers in the country, his reputation only tarnished by his conviction as a Death Eater during the war. As a result, he was not a member of the Most Extraordinary Society. He was also not going to be quickly employed by any reputable apothecary.

He just wasn't trusted enough.

He could use more money. Hermione knew he wouldn't have many applications for potions apprentices. She might be the only one. But he had still turned her down, time and again.

He was a stubborn, solitary, abrasive wizard. He was going to demand the best from her and still say it wasn't enough.

He wouldn't be boring.

And he had challenged her to prove she was valuable.

So she had sent him a single bottled potion, the hardest she could create in only a week's brewing.

It had taken her the entire week to get it right, but the challenge of it had invigorated her. It had been perfect.

The Draught of Living Death.

It had been as clear as crystal when completed; she had grinned like a loon at finally pulling it off.

And the man hadn't even told her well done. But he had done far better.

He had agreed.

So she would wait until June to start working with him. She would pay him whatever he wanted, give him any royalties he wanted on any potions she sold while working with him. She would treat him with respect even when she wanted to bite his head off.

She was going to make him very glad he chose Hermione Jane Granger as his apprentice.

In the month that followed Harry traded owls with Longbottom, passed through his classes with a modicum of effort, and gave his focus to the study of soul magic.

He had already read what was offered legally at the bookstores in Diagon.

Instead he delved into Knockturn Alley, relying on Vaughn to search out titles and guard his back both. The wizard wasn't happy with the situation, but was good enough not to say so too often.

It probably was a little weird for a former Ministry employee to be involved in purchasing banned books. It impressed him that the man was helping him at all.

But Harry didn't push Vaughn's sense of morality too far. Once he established a connection with select shopkeepers, he paid them well to owl him whenever they received a book they thought he might be interested in. Then he had Kraken teleport him directly to the store, the house-elf extremely valuable at giving advice on the authenticity of wares.

Kraken knew Knockturn Alley in a way Harry did not want to contemplate. And when one shopkeeper tried to touch his elf with a violent motion when the elf said one book was worthless, Harry had no qualms giving the man's tarnished purple light a hard whipping slash of emerald power.

The shopkeeper had screamed, so loud and piercing that Harry had slowed the man's life down to unconsciousness, the wizard falling with a loud thunk onto his cracked green wooden floor.

Harry would not allow anyone to hurt a member of his family, and both of his elves were family now.

Kraken had been thankful for the defense, but also claimed it unnecessary.

"Kraken can protect Kraken, Master Potter. Kraken a strong elf, has strong magic."

Harry didn't doubt that. The younger elf had taken over much of the day-to-day cleaning from Kreacher, leaving the cooking to Kreacher's strict standards.

Which was why Kreacher was currently the one hovering over him as he ate.

"Master should eat more." Kreacher reminded him again. Harry still had not regained his appetite, content with only two light meals a day. He had delved through medical textbooks until he was satisfied he wasn't about to perish from some muggle or magical disease.

Perhaps it was merely a phase.

Or perhaps the Stone's Hallowed pattern was influencing him.

Which was another reason why soul magic had pushed his experiments into magical uses for electricity aside.

The black-white of the Stone had warped portions of his human pattern, just as it had began to mutate his soul color. He had noted as much in the pensive, thoroughly studying his past and present selves.

But the mutations did not seem malevolent. They were subtle changes that he could not be sure would even change anything at all. His emerald soul now had light shadows and dark stars within it; and the sharp angles of his humanity was a bit more rounded, meshing together more like the swirling whirlpool of water crystals than the crisp edges of flesh and blood.

But he still felt the same. Except the odd lack of hunger, that is. He still bled blood, still felt pain and pleasure both. If he hadn't had the ability to see the Stone's pattern burrowing deeper under his skin he would have no idea anything was wrong.

So he studied the soul, everything wizarding kind had documented so far.

And one device that was written about had a great deal of merit. It had once been a means of execution, before the Dementors and their Kiss; it was said that one could hear the souls of the dead calling out from inside the artifact, beckoning any who heard to come closer, come closer, and partake of the wonders of Death.

No one ever returned from its embrace. It might be a door; it might be a labyrinth. It might be an entirely new world contained in rippling fabric.

The Veil, it was called. Beyond the Veil, the books warned in cryptic words, lies a mystery best left unsolved.

It was found somewhere in London, and was either moved, or built around and guarded. What was said of its existence was mostly rumor and speculation. Once, Harry would have thought those speculations to be greatly exaggerated rumors based on old religious lore.

But he had the Hallows, now. He had spoken to the dead, and knew there was a place called Death.

Surely someone had tried to create a way to enter that realm and return. After all, dying is easy, resurrection is not. But if they had created something, it was a one-way ticket only.

Harry, thinking of London, gathered the hints given and set them beside what he knew of the Ministry.

Why place the center of magical government in the heart of muggle civilization? Why not withdraw and move their base of operation, more easily separate themselves once the Statute was implemented? Why stay in London, unless something was there that could not be moved? Something of great value, and potentially a tool of great devastation?

Something like a door to the afterlife. Because if someone here had managed to make a door to go beyond the Veil, someone might manage to open that door from the other side and return. Or call forth the dead souls to rise again at their bidding.

Harry felt a burning desire to know growing inside himself. He wondered what the dead behind the Veil might say to him, what secrets they might whisper if he only listened and did not call them out of that place of peace.

And if the Ministry was hiding such a door, there was only one place they could hide it without knowledge leaking to the public. An Unspeakable place.

Level Nine on the main lifts, The Department of Mysteries.

"When you ask for something, you do not do it by half measures." The Minister lay back in his chair, his light agitated. "I was not expecting this of all things when I received your owl. I rather thought you might want to discuss, say, werewolves?"

Harry shifted in his chair, looking about the office as he thought of the proper way to respond.

"Do you want to discuss werewolves, sir?"

A angry exhalation of air, bringing with it the thick smell of cigar smoke.

"You are supporting that young pup, aren't you? No doubt the Longbottom boy wants to help out his friend, Ronald Weasley. I've heard all about that situation. Right when things settle down this mess is dumped onto us. I've got activists springing out of the woodwork, people in my own Ministry causing problems for both sides of the issue."

Harry tried not to let his own annoyance show; knew it failed when he heard the tone of his own voice.

"I doubt the werewolves are comfortable with the situation either."

A moment of silence. Then chartreuse light flared with emotion as the Minister spoke.

"I worked years in the Auror Department, and more years as its Head. I know the damage werewolves can do if they set a mind to it. Semi-immunity to spells, even outside the the full moon. Brutal strength, magical and physical both. Increased senses, sight and smell. The list goes on and on."

"Sounds like they would make good aurors." Harry pointed out blandly.

"Until they devour their team." The Minister growled.

"Don't put them on a mission during the full moon. Give them a place to go instead, where they won't fear being hunted and killed. Where they can follow the drive of the disease without being afraid of killing someone."

Scrimgeour banged one fist on his desk, the sound loud enough to make Harry jump in his chair. "The drive of the disease?!" Another thud, another flare of light. "Any drive it has it to hunt, kill, and infect! Next you will demand we allow erklings to feast on children! It's only their nature!"

Harry sat stiffly, mouth tight as he listened to the Minister breathe harshly as his words wound to a brutal halt.

Then he spoke, leashing his own temper with rigid self-control.

"If you have read the studies, you would know that killing animals also soothes the hunger. And even if you did not wish to allow them that freedom, keeping them from valid employment does not remove risk of infection. They are on the streets instead, haunting alleys, growing more hungry and desolate as the seasons pass. They are not roving forests and avoiding humanity. They are beggars on the streets, waiting for the next Dark Lord to offer them rescue from an oppressive Ministry."

Scrimgeour slowly sat back in his chair, hands returning to his lap.

When he spoke, it was with the same leashed temper that Harry felt within himself.

"I have an emergency motion on my desk for the immediate forced capture of any known lycanthropes, for the safety of the public. People didn't know until the last month just how many walked among them, it appears. They are scared. They are afraid to shop in Diagon. We had three arrests this week, one of which was a werewolf who beat two wizards nearly to death. The werewolf said he was defending himself. The wizards say it was unprovoked. Who do you think the public is going to believe? Whats going to happen if this gets riled up any further?"

Harry felt the chill spread through his bones at the information. He spoke with a suddenly dry throat.

"What does this measure suggest be done with the captured lycanthropes?"

A husky, bitter laugh.

"Execution, what else? This is wizarding Britain. We do our best to destroy what scares us."

"It won't pass." Harry was certain of that. Had to be.

"No. Not yet. But many more instances like I mentioned and it might. It only takes one horrible thing to tip the scales of public opinion."

"These are human beings. Most infected through no fault of their own. Some are children. One is a celebrity!"

A drum of chartreuse fingers on green wood.

"Let a reporter get a photo of that celebrity as a ravenous wolf. Let a child be set loose, by 'accident', to go out and kill someone elses innocent children. Soon, people will be claiming the execution is to put said children out of their misery, preventing a long, horrible life of being a dark creature. Longbottom is in over his head. This is about to go very, very wrong."

Harry thought of lepers and their colonies. He thought of Hermione and her grand dreams to save humanity.

But could you save humanity from itself, when it was so determined to be inhumane?

"The werewolves need to go." Harry said softly, heard the other wizard make a sound of surprise. "Before the issue is forced. It needs to be their own choice, and to a place of their choosing. A safe haven."

"My ministry can not endorse that."

"It can't prevent it, either. A privately funded, protected place. Transportation provided by volunteers. If wizarding Britain doesn't want its werewolves, then it should let them leave."

A grunt of agreement.

"You better hurry then. Take the ammunition away before they can use it against you."

Harry didn't rise from his seat. He stayed there, trying to wrap his mind around what might happen.

"You would really let them legalize mass murder?"

Another bitter, angry laugh. "This is a democracy, Lord Potter, not a monarchy. Even the Wizengamot is manipulated at times by the consensus of uneducated fools. No government is perfect."

"No." Harry muttered. "I suppose not."

He certainly couldn't name one.

Harry slowly began to rise, already mentally writing his owl to Longbottom.

He might just ask Vaughn to deliver him to Longbottom manor. This seemed to be escalating far too quickly to wait on the wings of a bird.

"About the Department of Ministries." Harry paused at the Minister's voice, turned to face the seated man. "What do you want down there? Most do not even know what they research."

What to say? That he was researching into the mysteries of Death itself?

"I believe there is an ancient artifact hidden down there. The Veil?"

A flash of yellow-green light. Some emotion he could not identify by sight alone.

"I doubt simple curiosity about a veil would bring you to me to ask for a stroll on Level Nine."

An unspoken demand. Give me information, and I'll give you some.

Harry's right hand fisted inside his glove, the Stone a slight pressure against his palm.

"I'm studying Death."

Let the man make of that what he would. Harry wouldn't give him more, and considered what he had already too much.

They played their own manipulative games, the Minister and he.

"I see." No condemnation in that word, only blank acknowledgement. Only another pulse of light, the heart quickening with adrenaline, the blood moving faster in response to some threat. "A dangerous topic to study."

In more ways than one. After all, what way best to study something that to experience it first-hand? Only, experiencing death tended to be a very, very final thing.

"Yes." Harry agreed. "It is."

Silence, lit by the green walls and golden wards, the rapid pulse of the Ministers light a glowing miniature sun at it's center.

"I'm not very happy with you at the moment." Softly spoken words. "I have my suspicions that you are part of the reason the lycanthropy debate has ignited. Come back and ask me for Ministry secrets when I don't have the inclination to toss you from my office for the trouble you've helped cause."

"Fair enough." Harry inclined his head in bow he knew was taken just as it was given; with barely concealed annoyance. "Good day, Minister."

He was already opening the door when he heard the wizard's parting murmur.

"Be safe, Lord Potter."

"You work with the Hit Wizards so you would get answers when you ask for them. He owes you." Hermione muttered.

They were waiting in the living area of Grimmauld Place for the others to arrive. He had sent Vaughn and Fallon both with letters to deliver to each of the witch and wizards who were spearheading the pro-werewolf movement.

They needed to act, and fast. He didn't have much energy left over to think about the Veil and the stone wall the Minister had placed in front of him.

"It's fine. I'll deal with it later."

She grumbled under her breath. "Makes me want to write a paper on the trustworthiness of Ministry politics."

A flare of anger spread in Harry's gut. He ran a hand through his hair, the length of it longer than his normal preference.

"That last paper could lead to people getting killed, Hermione. This entire thing has spiraled out of control."

"We only told the truth. The truth hurts."

Harry grimaced at her response.

"We can tell the truth more delicately, though. Instead of slapping the Ministry in the face with it."

"They need to wake up." Hermione's voice was low, angry. "They can't keep treating people who are different like crap under their shoe!"

"But we don't want to drive them to scraping that crap off and throwing it in the garbage, either!" Harry returned, voice rising. "We might have incited just the kind of violence we wanted to prevent!"

"That is their fault, not ours!" Hermione matched him, word for angry word. "And there is no way the majority of witches and wizards would allow what the Minister is implying! This is something that a few stuck-up rich snobs are trying to push through on the sly!"

"They're scared!" Harry countered, his emphasis nearly a shout. "They want to keep their families safe!"

"They have nothing to be afraid of!" She hissed back.

"Not completely true." The words were softly spoken, a jarring change between the heated words they had been exchanging. Ron Weasley dusted himself off, his fawn colored soul shining in contrast to the red flames behind him. "You can't tell people to pretend we are normal. We're not. We can hurt them, infect them, if we chose. Nothing you say will change that base fact."

Hermione deflated slightly in the face of the calm rebuke. But she didn't give up her stance.

"That doesn't mean you should be treated like monsters. Anyone with a wand can kill someone. They don't even need a killing curse or dark magic. Even basic household spells can kill with some imagination."

Ripples of pale brown light as Weasley shrugged, moving to sit in a chair.

"I'm not going to argue with you there. I just have no solution, either."

This time Harry noticed when the fireplace flared with light, another figure stepping gracefully through.

Cyan light moved into the room, strong with life and power. Lady Amelia Bones.

Another flare of light, midnight blue. His fireplace hadn't seen so much action in years.

Maybe, between them all, they could find the solution Weasley had already given up hope of discovering.

Next Chapter: Pink Blood on Purple Stone

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