Angela's Note: My area was hit the worst by Hurricane Matthew, of the United States. I do not hesitate to claim that, as we had more than half of the total deaths in this country, and will bear the scars for many months and years. Of myself and my farm, the worst damage was flooding. At least half of our acreage under water for more than a week, which is about 75 percent loss of product. Of what was not flooded, it was almost flattened by the combination of soft ground and the wind. The weather has not been kind to us this year, and what more is there to say? We will harvest what can be harvested, and plow under what can not be to plant again next season. That is how the world turns, when your work is reliant on sun and rain. At some point, you wash your hands of disaster and your inability to do anything about it, and focus on what you can do. How else is there to carry on?

Some have expressed concern about when this story will wrap up, or perhaps just wondering what the endgame is. What is the point? A dramatic battle? A joining of worlds? Marriage? Repairing a soul? Children? Research?

I'll make it a little more clear. The rest of this story is a counting of moments in Harry and

Hermione's lives, a cataloguing of the events that will shape them and the world they live in. It is an exploration, a journey of minds. It's a hike through the forest, pausing to view the interesting scenes, then walking quickly by the less interesting trivia. It is meant to be savored and enjoyed, both for me inside my mind, and you reading it along with me. It will end when I stop walking because the trail I have followed has come to its natural conclusion.

And if you know anything of trails through the forest, they can be winding, surprising things. A snake in the grass, perhaps, or a butterfly on the wind. A feather you find on the ground and tuck behind one ear. A stone that fits the palm of one hand and later graces your desk, unimportant to everyone but you and the forest you took it from. You take what you want from an experience to carry along with you, and I invite you to do the same with this story. Enjoy for the simple pleasure of reading, or do not. Walking is not for the weary, or the rushed.


There is something in this, this feeling, bittersweet and angry and desperate.

The vampire runs teeth across dry lips, can almost feel the pulse of life under tongue, a crashing oceanic storm, electric and fierce and alive.

Rapture, waiting under a thin barrier of flesh, waiting for its release to flay them alive.

Flay them alive, the vampire silently laughed. Flay them to life with each painful pulse.

They had to taste. Just one taste, to know what is was to be that level of alive, hold that level of creation. They had followed the scent of that power for months, tracked it to its source with slow, meticulous days.

They were dying, all of them, some more slowly than others. They moved through life and forgot, a sharp and steady decline of forgotten days. There was no true childhood, no unique birth, no perfect creation.

They were monsters walking in the shell of a man, moving mans hands and mans feet to do monsters work. Looking out of human eyes and speaking human words, thinking inhuman thoughts.

They can all smell it so strongly now, that power, a force that licks at their skin with painful shocks, a vicious warning that what was inside such a storm would surely kill them, finish the task of their death in one rapturous moment.

The vampire's nose burned, skin aflame from the brief touch of such power. The family waited, shaking, their own magic its own hunting storm. They surrounded a force that could sustain them if only it would open itself up and die for them.

The wolves chased the moon by killing. The vampires chased after life by taking it. Theirs was not a true life. They had no life. They were nothing. Puppets held alive by dark magic from ages past, that no one left could remember clearly.

The ones they drank from, willing or unwilling, if left alive were tainted by that death. A poison that seeped inside of them and made them into mutants. Stronger, their life sustained by half its normal length. No disease touched them, magical or mundane. Their bodies forgot to age for a time; they became pristine, blood clear as water from a spring brook.

Mutants who gave up a portion of their life so that the vampires might live. Fuel to run a body that only took and never gave back. Life.

But for a time. Only for a time.

The vampire cut the man's skin with sharpened nails, watched the blood bloom and spill over long fingers, heard the family sigh with longing.

So much power. Just a taste. Just a small drink, to seal the bond and make him theirs, ours, us.

Nothing so sweet could be savored, though. The blood burned like exquisite fire in the veins, and down the vampire fell, contorting with pure pleasure and sharp pain alike.

Never had there been It's like. Almost, It might kill them. Almost It could resurrect them in truth.

But the power was taken from them by Its own hand, leaving behind only supreme desperation. With It went what semblance of hope they had, the small sustenance they had paid dearly for days before.

The vampire was empty, a husk, a cadaver. A loose bundle of memories with no tether, thoughts drifting away like leaves in a fall wind.

'Help us', they might have said, brothers and sisters flocking over one another with anxious gazes and slight touches.

Help us remember.

Save us from ourselves.


"They could have killed you."

She was mad at him, her color a rushing, flashing storm of light. Her voice, however, was calm, matter of fact.

He would rather she be shouting at him.

"I didn't realize what was going on until it happened."

One blue-violet light slashed through the air in a rapid movement, the quick gesture of dismissal showing the violence her voice did not.

"Not what I meant, and you know it. You went to the Crup, to see a vampire, not even healed. You went to Knockturn Alley! Alone!"

Her voice rose at the last note, and Harry slumped into a chair.

"You're right."

"You could have been!" She paused, sucked in a deep breath. "I'm right?"

Harry lifted his shoulders in a shrug, smiled up at her half-heartedly.

"I wasn't thinking clearly. I'm trying to decide if that was because I was emotional, or because of the compulsion abilities the vampires must possess. If compulsion is what it can be called. I still doubt whether it was my own mental reasoning or if it was tainted. Or at least what degree of taint."

She moved closer, sat beside him. He saw her wand fall into her hand from its holster, her magic rising to wash over his cheek with a gentle incantation.

A cleansing charm, followed by a minor healing spell.

Hermione sighed. "Do you want me to run a diagnostic?"

Harry thought it over for a moment, then nodded. He leaned back as Hermione stood, light fierce, wand raised.

He let himself bathe in her light as she cast her spells, one rapidly followed by another, the latin words meticulously spoken, each movement of her hand precise.

"Nothing." She finally murmured. "That I can tell, anyway. I'm no expert."

There was a swirl of yellow light, and Kraken appeared, a bangladesh green hand in his grip.

Vaughn sprang away from the house-elf, and he did not waste time with projected calm.

"What happened? Fallon is still out searching your campus grounds. We couldn't locate you with standard charms."

Harry filed that information away, along with the many random puzzle piece facts he had assembled on the nature of vampires.

"Kreacher is getting him. Sit, and I'll explain as best I can. Or better yet…" Harry stood, motioned towards the library. "I'll show you. Maybe you'll notice something I did not."


Fallon and Vaughn viewed the memory three times. Harry left them to it after the first, sitting back in the library while Hermione paced the shelves, mumbling to herself about various tomes that might hold some vital nugget of information on the living dead.

She was angry, but also just as curious as he. Harry had understood the political wishes of the vampires for more civil rights and freedom. No one wanted murderers to go unpunished, or for murder to be excused because the one killed was considered a second-class citizen.

But vampires were also no longer actively hunted. Hadn't been for decades. There were laws in place to ensure vampires could attain sustenance from willing donors. They shouldn't be starving, and their race shouldn't be dying off. Why was the vampire in the alley so desperate?

Mr. Brendon was hiding something, something vital.

Living death.

The alley vampire used those words. Mr. Brenden had said something similar.

Not pleasant to spend life dying.

There wasn't enough detailed information on vampires available. The Ministry knew more than was officially published, Fallon had admitted as much to him when he was questioning the creatures time-manipulation abilities. But the government chose to hide much of what it knew for reasons only Scrimgeour could tell him.

Was that motivation simply to keep the public happy and unafraid? The wizarding world was full of monsters, vampires not the worst of them.

Living death.

The words circled in his mind, around and around and around. He could feel the idea growing in his mind, an idea, a thought, a connection.

The dead could not be resurrected. It was universal fact, a law of magic. Dead bodies could be animated, inferi and zombies. Souls could return to wander incorporeal in the form of ghosts.

Vampires had no souls that he could see. Instead, Harry could see the colorful remnants of the ones they fed off of, sustaining them in floods and trickles of life.

Black flesh.

"A birth without life."

"We have time."

Time. Blood. Life.

"We will be alive again."

Black flesh. Living death.

The way his own blood had sunk into that black flesh, a pattern he hadn't been able to clearly see until his own light began to change it.

No. It hadn't been changing it at all. The ugly thing he had seen, the incomplete pattern, was a vampires true pattern.

"Dead flesh isn't black." Harry spoke the words aloud, feeling cold running through his veins, the hair at his nape prickling.

"What?" Hermione turned, a frown in her voice.

"Dead flesh. It's white. Cadavers, inferi, zombies too I assume. A white husk, empty of live blood and soul."

She approached slowly, and he knew she made the connection when her color flashed.

She was just as brilliant as he, if not more so.

"Vampires aren't dead."

Harry stood abruptly, began to pace himself, energy flooding through him as if he stood at the edge of a cliff.

The edge of discovery, more like, and the rush of it was far greater than any jump he could take.

"They're alive, but… flawed. The pattern… I can't see it, it's black on black. Black like dark magic, but more carbon than liquorice, if I have my colors correct. Not quite the bottomless shade the Hallows can take on... but something happened when it tasted my blood. Either my blood is not compatible due to the Hallows, or when it attempted to make a bond the process failed for the same reason. I'm certain the collapse was not a planned part of whatever ritual it was attempting. The green light…"

Harry needed to see it again. He approached the silver penseive, its magic swirling with the presence of his two guards within. He touched the liquid and let himself be pulled down into its magic, the memory of when he stood in the Crup appearing around him in bright streams of color.

Vaughn and Fallon turned, but Harry spared no time for explanations. He mentally manipulated the memory with the ease of long practice, rewinding time until he stood again in the mundane alley, the black shadows of the vampire coven arrayed around him.

The leader, if it was the leader, stood in front of his own body, its form nearly indistinct from the surroundings.

Harry stepped closer, trying to catalogue the exact shade of the magical creature. Not true black emptiness, not like what lay inside the Hallows. There was a sort of fullness there, a heavy presence that was backed up by the heat he remembered feeling emanating from its form.

The vampire was lifting a hand, one moment still as a stone and paces away, the next right up in front of where he had been standing.

Carbon black, with blue and purple blood remnants from a previous feeding. Carbon black nails that appeared wickedly sharp in contrast when those nails pierced his body's emerald skin, only bare inches away from the bloody red horcrux across his brow.

A horcrux whose presence he now realized his guards could not have missed.

Something to consider later.

The emerald color flooded out from the shallow cut, pulsing with life and light and magic, and as the vampire lifted the dripping hand to its mouth Harry stepped even closer, watching with every iota of his concentration, waiting, waiting…

Green light, with brighter verdant shadows and dark jade stars within it, beginning to soak into that thick, carbon flesh, sinking in, lighting it up, making it new…

No. Harry thought, forcing himself to move past previous conclusions. There is nothing new here.

The pattern that formed in those brief moments was wrong, fractured in layers deeper than mere skin, down to bone, down to the heart that didn't beat, the mind that held no unique colorful soul. A human pattern at its core, and that explained much more than it didn't, like why it was possible for half-vampires to exist.

Soulless and lifeless, but alive. And if it can have no life and still live, than it can have no soul and still think and reason and feel emotion.

The moment passed, as his blood was forcefully pulled away from the creature that had fallen to the rough concrete ground. Harry stared dully down as he watched himself pull away what little life had been inside the pitiful creature.

That had probably felt like torture, if it was not an outright death sentence.

A tinge of remorse flooded him, but he pushed it aside. He was the one the vampire had attempted to force into a blood pact, oath, bond, or whatever the creatures preferred to call that connection.

Harry left the memory as quickly as he had entered it, falling into the first chair in his path, hand coming up to cover his face with emerald light.

A human pattern, warped out of its humanity. Unable to die? Unable to live? Stuck in vertigo, in a paradox. A human pattern that can not make its own life, can not hold its own soul.

A failed experiment?

Or a successful one?

It wasn't natural, of that he was certain. Nature played by rules, and immortality was not one of them. Even phoenixes, one of the rare beings capable of such, went through cyclical periods of death and rebirth, times of renewal.

Harry dropped his hands when he heard movement, looked up at Hermione as she came to a stop beside his chair.

"I think we need to hear their story. And sooner rather than later."


"Not used to worrying much about Lord Potter's safety." Fallon muttered into his cup, the ex-auror swirling the liquid inside with a restless movement. "I suppose I was beginning to fall prey to the public sentiment that he's invincible."

"Yeah." Vaughn agreed, eyes closed. "And what a whopper of a memory. Couldn't understand much of what I was seeing at first. I can't imagine seeing all that, all the time. I still feel nauseous."

Fallon grunted agreement, took a quick sip before placing the cup down solidly on the table. It was late, Grimmauld Place as silent as a tomb, their respective charges safe upstairs.

It had been agreed upon to return to Knockturn the next day, in the late afternoon twilight hours when the Alley was just beginning to stir to life.

"We'll have the advantage of numbers tomorrow." Vaughn mused aloud. "That's something at least."

A snort.

"Four to one, good enough odds I suppose. Except 'there is never only one vampire.'"

Vaughn grinned at Fallon's comment.

"Was that a quote from old Mad-Eye Moody?"

Fallon lifted his cup in salute.

"The one and only. And he always had good advice."

"The best." Vaughn agreed, and sat up with a smile. "But don't discount the house-elves. I'd put ten galleons on Kraken in a duel with any mere magical creature. I heard rumors he once kicked three hags out of his owners shop with one spell."

"I heard, and I wouldn't take that bet." Fallon shook his head, before standing resolutely. "Best enjoy what might be my last sleep."

Vaughn laughed at the dour comment.

"So melodramatic."

"I can still curse your arse, boy." Fallon muttered as he walked from the room. "Don't tempt me."

Vaughn held his tongue until he heard the tell-tale sound of the floo being activated.

Then he grinned into the open air.

"Wouldn't dream of it, princess."


Harry woke to a soft knock on the door, Kreacher speaking a single word into the following silence.

"Aethonan."

Hermione moved restlessly beside him as he slipped carefully out of the bed, his feet only lightly thumping to the floor. In a matter of moments he was dressed, the purple graphorn armor tucked in one hand.

"What time is it?" He asked as soon as he entered the living room, moving toward the floo as the exhaustion of a restless night fought to muddle his mind.

"Five in the morning." A familiar female voice said, as Aethonan's resolution blue soul rose from his couch. "This is a personal favor."

Harry paused, and quietly placed the purple armor onto the nearest chair.

"Your bodyguard let me through the front door. I'm… not in my armor."

Harry could see that well enough. Only the mundane shades of plant fibers clothed her, with a light dusting of red charms laced over the shoes on her feet.

Anti-slip charms, perhaps.

At his silence, Aethonan crossed her blue arms and wavered a moment before speaking again.

"This isn't official. Don't use my title. Just call me Hato. Please."

"Okay." Harry agreed, and waited, the aftereffects of sleep lingering in his gruff voice. "What's wrong."

She seemed to be considering something, her light flickering with with each rapid beat of her heart. He found himself counting those beats, considering her flawless human pattern, the newest conclusion about vampires passing through his thoughts.

How broken that vampire had been. In ways that couldn't be fixed easily, even with a perfect pattern to base their transformation off of.

"There is a... person close to me. She's young, just a child really. She's been cursed by a... that doesn't matter. The healers at St. Mungo's say the only treatment is a particular series of transfigurations that are… they are brutal. Painful. I've seen grown men go through it and… with the consequences, I…"

She stumbled to a halt, and he was not used to hearing her voice sound so uncertain, her words an erratic mix of misdirection and fact.

"I'm not a healer." Harry said, and saw the blue liquid light gathering on her face.

Tears, just three reluctant droplets. Beautiful crystalline light that rose up and fell down solid cheeks. Light crystal blue on deeper resolution blue light, a sight he wished he couldn't see, knowing it would embarrass her for anyone to see her distraught.

"I know." Her voice gained the strength it has lost, a thread of command returning. "I understand that. But I wouldn't feel right if I didn't ask you to look. To see." She lifted one hand to her face, the movement hasty as she wiped away the evidence of her tears. "The operation is at six. They have to move fast before it reaches her heart."

"We'll take the floo." He said, and didn't give her time to thank him as he moved towards the large fireplace. "Tell me about the curse."

He heard her take a deep breath, light jerking in a firm nod.

"Hurry."


The girl lay on green sheets, the fabric soft to his touch as he absently ran a finger across their surface.

Her hue was among the most beautiful he had seen. It could be called dove grey; but it held a sheen of white that gave its light a silver gleam. It reminded him of a muggle professor from his past, who had held a pearlescent light that set her apart from the typical colors he was used to in human souls.

He knew of no reason that few possessed that gleam. It could be a type of magical creature heritage, or a genetic trait in the body that was separate from the soul. It could be something special about the soul, something that made the light burn brighter, stronger.

Except the grey light that slept in front of him was fading, losing its special gleam, the sparkle being sucked out by the deep red light that crouched inside her chest like a gluttonous worm, wiggling and gnawing away at her magic.

It was a dark curse, one rarely encountered by the average citizen, especially children. He hadn't asked why this young girl had been hit with it, or how. He hadn't had the heart to ask, when by asking he might inadvertently heap more weight onto Aethonan's already slumped shoulders.

It was called Nutricatus, which was also the incantation. The latin itself was innocent enough. It spoke of a child being nursed, suckling at the breasts of a mother for nutrition. For life.

But some dark wizards of the ancient past had had another idea. They had created a spell that latched onto the magic inside a witch or wizard and ate it away, one sickening slurp at a time, a process that was as painful as it sounded. Until no magic was left.

When the magic was gone, the curse took the life of its victim as a last prize.

And despite the amazing healing advantages of the wizarding world, the only way to save a Nutricatus victim was to remove the source it fed upon. Luckily for most aurors, Nutricatus was notoriously difficult to cast, and not a curse most would favor in combat, as its effects could take months to culminate.

It had been a good weapon for magical assassination, however. Especially upon muggle targets, who with no magic to consume, would slowly fade away day by day, with a slight fever that never abated until it claimed their life.

Harry looked at the red worm, wrapped tightly around the young dove grey heart, and felt the horror of it deep inside himself.

The things men create to kill each other. To torture. The ingenuity required, the genius, to even create this spell, and all of it wasted on dark magic that benefited no one.

"Can you help her?" Soft feminine words from the doorway.

It was the quiet time given to family members to visit their sick kin before they were operated upon. No one at St. Mungo's knew he was here with her, a fact Aethonan had insured when she put an invisibility charm over him and led him blindly through the sterile halls.

She hadn't known the charm blinded him. He had followed the sound of her steps, his staff a steady soft staccato to match the click of her boots, rather than give his weakness away.

Harry lifted his hand from the green sheets to lay it gently on the child's stomach, just under the main bulk of the curse. He could see where it had first burrowed under skin on her abdomen, red residue left behind like a slimy trail.

He wasn't a healer. He didn't like dabbling with the human body, especially in front of others. He could transfigure the light inside of her, but the consequences would be just as dangerous. The body wasn't meant to have something inside it that did not belong.

He wasn't afraid he would kill her permanently. But he had no desire for Aethonan to see the consequences should he have to resurrect her body if it failed.

However.

Harry considered the curse again, went through what knowledge Aethonan had given him while they stood in this room, time clicking steadily by.

Remove what fed the worm, and the worm would die. So simple, really. It's what the wizards planned to do, removing her magic strip by painful strip, and the worm would leave her body along with the magic, eating it even as it was coaxed out of her body to follow the source of its sustenance.

But there was another way for magic to leave the body.

"You need to leave the room. I can't be distracted."

His voice was firm, but she didn't move.

"Will it hurt her?"

He didn't hesitate.

"She won't feel a thing."

Light jerked in a nod, before she whirled and left with quick strides.

They didn't have much time, and she knew it as well as he did. He needed to fix her and get out of there before anyone suspected his involvement in what would be another miraculous recovery.

Alone, he locked the door with a splash of magic, and took in a deep breath, memorizing the sight of her soul, it's silver-grey gleam, so unique and perfect.

Then he stopped the steady pulse of that light.

An alarm began to sound from her bedside. He killed it with a glance.

The red worm began to thrash.

The girl was so small and still. She had to be younger than five. Her corpse lay there, her soul still inhabiting her body even as her life was gone.

The soul sometimes lingered a long time after the body died. Days, even. Other times it began to fade away almost instantly.

Her soul seemed determined to stay. It clung to the flesh around it, a steady hue with none of the flashes and flickers of a heart beating. No breath stirred the air, no sound of her gentle snores.

The red worm was thrashing wildly now, its pulses flickering up and down her body, seeking heat as her body cooled. A maw seemed to open, tendrils of red light like teeth as it sank its fangs again and again and again into her with no results.

If she had been alive those magical bites would no doubt hurt her. But a corpse feels nothing. No nerves sending signals to the brain. No pain receptors alive and functioning.

Magical ability was tied to the body, not the soul. It was a theory he had reached early on, though he had never performed experiments that might prove it true or false.

The wizarding world probably wasn't ready for a muggle soul to be placed into a brain dead magical body, after all. If what he thought might happen did…

And to be able to change a muggle body into a magical one? If he figured out that secret, the subtle nuances between the two… with enough study…

The worm died. Its red light shredding as it began to eat itself, an ouroboros of dark magic.

A knock at the wood of the door behind him, a soft reminder that he had no time to contemplate the future.

He leaned close, assuring himself that no flicker of red remained. Then with a push of his own life he started her own, her chest rising under his hand with a deep sudden breath.

Her light jumped and flickered and roared to full iridescence, the silver gleam that wringed its dove grey life so bright he squinted and stepped away.

She gasped in the air and trembled to wakefulness, bolting up in bed with the speed of the young.

Time to go. He called for the Cloak and it rose from where it was tied at his neck, wrapping closely about him like a pet snake as he backed into a corner, simultaneously unlocking the door.

It burst open, the sound of familiar boots clicking into the room at a rapid pace.

"Marie!" Her voice was strained with emotion.

"Aunt Hato! Aunt Hato!" A high young voice, fear etched raw in every syllable. "Where's mummy? Aunt Hato!"

He heard the rustle of sheets, heard the sound of the older woman gathering the younger into her arms, her voice soft and gentle.

"Marie, shhh. Mummy's gone, remember? She went to heaven last year. Everything is going to be alright."

A sniffle followed by a sob, classic signs of a child beginning to fall apart. He shifted in the corner, staff in one arm, feeling like the intruder he was.

"But I saw her! She was here, with Jesus! I saw her Aunt Hato!"

Harry blinked at those words.

Apparently the child was religious. And he was certain she hadn't had time to see him, as if he looked anything like a god.

"Oh Marie." Aethonan only said softly. "I'm sorry. You've been sick, darling. Very sick."

Another sniff, then two.

They were both crying. Harry tamped down a groan.

Shouldn't they be celebrating or something? She was saved!

More footsteps rushing in from the hall, with the clashing smells of strong coffee and wet dog.

"Mrs. Karazu, please, we need to scan her. She should be deep into the healing coma before we operate. Please, just…"

Rustling, following by incantations. Shocked breaths, whispers to a colleague, with Aethonan's soothing words to the young girl a constant backdrop.

The one who smelled like black coffee spoke in a foreign accent, the deep male voice confused.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Karazu, but there has been a… change. In her condition. It appears the curse has resolved itself naturally without our interference."

"Her magic...?" Softly spoken, as if the child in her arms couldn't hear them.

"Whole. She's as healthy as a young magical child should be."

"I saw my mummy." Marie declared proudly, the shock apparently giving way to a child's impeccable ability to state things he would personally rather be kept quiet. He was never having children. "I was dead and Mummy held my hand and told me she loved me. She was on the big ferry boat to the island, and dressed in her favorite red kimono and her favorite white pearls daddy gave her when I was born. I wanted to get on the boat with her, but Jesus was there and she said I couldn't come yet. That I wasn't dead after all."

An incredulous pause. He could imagine the raised eyebrows, or eye rolls, that were currently being exchanged among the adults in the room.

The man cleared his throat.

"Ah, vivid dreams are typical during the magical coma. We should do more scans, be certain that there is no…"

"It wasn't a dream." The girl said stubbornly. "Mummy was there. But Jesus doesn't look like he does in my books. In fact, he looked..."

For the first time, the girl sounded skeptical herself.

Harry crossed his fingers. He could use a little luck that she wouldn't describe her 'Jesus' with the same thoroughness she described her deceased mother.

Apparently Aethonan realized the shaky ground they stood on as well.

"Lay back, Marie. Let the healers look at you. I need to check on a friend. I'll only be a moment."

She didn't protest that he could hear.

He needed to get out of the room, now.

He heard heels click by, and slid out behind them, walking forward into the black-white void of the Cloak as it swirled at his heels, not daring to touch his staff to the floor.

He counted the steps out as he counted them in, focusing on every sound around them to prevent running into a passing patient or healer.

Aethonan stopped five steps short from the outside floo.

Her voice was a low murmur.

"I won't ask what you did. But thank you. From the bottom of my heart. I won't forget this."

She turned, walking away with the sharp stride of an auror on a mission, not waiting for his reply.

He shook his head under the Cloak, and stepped to the floo, listening before sliding the silk off his face just enough to see the round powder container.

With a flash of magical fire, he was gone, to hopefully fall back into his warm bed.


The next evening the house-elves took them to the street in Knockturn Alley, the two yellow sources of magic spreading out at their back as the wizards approached the Crup.

Mr Brandon waited for them at his green oak counter, no surprise in his voice when he spoke.

"Follow."

Harry could see the tension in the people around him, in the way the two guards held themselves stiff, wands cradled in semi-raised hands. In the way Hermione threaded her own hand through his for a brief squeeze, her skin uncharacteristically cold.

Only Kreacher and Kraken appeared unaffected, the two house-elves mirroring each other with the same rigidly polite stance they held at Grimmauld Place.

The vampire led them through the silent store, into a back room that shimmered with white magic as brightly as any wizarding wards he had ever seen. He could make out multiple magical signatures, but none that he could recognize from people he had met.

The vampire stood in the center of the white room, and didn't ask anyone to sit. There were no chairs that he could see anyway.

"It's our legend." The vampire began with no preamble, or questions about the presence of the others. "It is told to us in this way, every year that passes by. To the young and the old, to those who can't remember by those who can."

Hermione's hand tightened in his grip.

Brandon took an audible breath, his words falling into rhythmic tones.

"In ancient times, thousands of years before wizard's first laid hands onto wands, there was a place, deep in the earth, a cave that those who magic sang to would find and worship the natural rhythms of the world. A place that had such power it called to those across rivers and seas, mountains and deserts. Some who descended to its deeps came back changed, more powerful, more… purposeful."

Another breath.

"Others did not return. It was said that the cave was also a tomb, a place some went to die, only those who died sometimes lingered, and spoke with the living, giving away the secrets of life. Such was the power of this place that no blood could be shed, and no tears ever fell within its confines. Enemy tribes would travel there to broker treaties with magic's approval, and victims held hands with their abusers and forgave them."

Harry let every word, every potential nuance of information seep into him.

"This was a place of peace and magnificent power. Until it was broken."

A hissing growl, deep and guttural.

"Shattered. Torn. Desecrated."

The words spit out, and Harry could imagine young vampires trembling at the words, spoken like curses.

"A Door was created in that place that could not be shut, and the dead ones who lingered were sealed into slavery by its creator. They were the first of us, but they were not like us. They had seen true life and true death both, and they hated what they were made to be by the Door. Life brought them excruciating pain and sorrow, every hour and minute and second."

So similiar to what he knew of the shades he could summon with the Stone. So similar he could not help but think it was no coincidence that those he summoned also found the return to life painful.

"Every year and decade and century."

Another pause, Brandon taking a long breath, mournful.

"As a child, we learned this simple truth. Some places are not meant to be open or shut. Some places are supposed to be simple corridors and hallways, open passages with no barriers or obstacles. The very act of having a Door changes the perception of a place into something radically different."

Spoken aside to them, in simple words, before the vampire continued his story.

"The Lingered were forced by the Door's creator to make more of themselves, to serve its ever growing desire to rule the world, and among those children was born One we call Libero Sigillum, the One Who Broke The Seal. Libero slew the creator, but could not destroy its creation. The Door remained, but the seal upon it was torn."

Triumph, though the sadness remained.

Hermione's hand was squeezing his forcefully. She wanted to tell him something, but couldn't yet.

"The Lingered were free, and they left, every single one. They went down through the cave or into the fire or under the water, they let themselves bleed and burn and drown, and they sang songs of joy while they perished.

But Libero and the other children did not embrace death, though the still-open Door called to them constantly. Libero created the Lore of Blood, and passed to us all the knowledge that the life inside mortal blood could sustain us, could help us live like mortal men. Blood gave us a semblance of life, allowing us to walk and breathe and create magic of our own."

Black hands spread, highlighted vividly against the white walls behind them.

"But blood was not enough. Libero did not age, but he grew old. He saw what was coming and gave us warning and hope alike. The Door would never stop trying to call us, trying to enslave us once again to its purpose. We were forced to create bonds to the living mortals who fed us, bonds of blood and sometimes love, friendships and partnerships to deafen that call. Bonds to tie us ever tighter to life though it pains us still.

Bonds to help us remember, for without them our memory begins to fade, and we forget our long years and life and lose our will to stay."

Finally, Harry begun to understand the desperation the vampire in the alley had had. The motivation to push him into attempting a bond.

But why target Harry directly? Why use the words he had spoken?

Mr. Brendon took one last breath, speaking his last part of the tale in a long flood of words.

"And the Hope we were given by Libero before he could no longer fight with the pain of life was that another One would come. One with the power to destroy the Door completely as he could not, and give us all true Life. Not blood or bonds, but hearts that create our own life, and souls that hold our own memories, not shared, not given, not taken.

And we would know this One because they would possess the ability to See the Door. Without a sight beyond normal sight it is impossible to destroy it. Sight Without Seeing, the Lore says, and the power to create and destroy life itself."

Harry felt his blood begin to run cold, dread trickling down his spine. Hermione let go of his hand, and he saw her fiddle restlessly with her wand, shifting foot to foot.

Brendon seemed to be waiting for them to speak. When no one did, he continued, his words soft.

"Some of us seek this One. Others fear its existence. They say such a One who could destroy the Door could also create it anew; could bind us into slavery once again, or eradicate us entirely.

But we search for them. More of us perish into death every year that passes, unable to live a half-life, not truly alive, nor truly dead. We are in pain, torn apart from the world even as we walk through it. We desire true life, not one drained from others by blood."

Silence fell again, and Harry tried to place the vampires story neatly into what he knew already and found it fit far too well.

The vampires broken black pattern. The Door, which resembled what rumors told of the Veil. Even the story of the roman witch Aelia, found in the ancient scrolls inside Gringotts, with her hordes of living dead.

But he had no desire to have any portion in the vampires' search for a chosen one.

"You think Harry is this person? Why?" Hermione burst out finally, breaking the silence.

Brendon laughed a low hissing chuckle that raised goosebumps up and down Harry's arms.

It was a sound one wouldn't want to hear behind them at night in a dark alleyway.

"He is the Blind Sorcerer. He kills with a glance, and sees without seeing."

"All unsubstantiated rumors." Fallon spat gruffly to their right, the older guard moving forward to stand at Hermione's side.

"Oh?" The vampire purred. "Look at him, wizard. He has been blinded by dark magic, and yet he walks freely. Years ago, he decimates countless inferi, and with no spell kills dark wizards. He brings them to their knees and tears the souls from their eyes."

Fallon sputtered out a laugh. "That's preposterous! No one has said anything about soul magic..."

Harry stopped listening to the ex-aurors words as what the vampire had said sunk in.

"You said these blood bonds help you retain memories." Harry broke in, interrupting the beginning of his guards diatribe. "Does this go both ways?"

He could hear the smile when the vampire replied.

"Ah, Mr. Hill found himself in financial straights after being let go from the auror force for his lack of… discretion in relation to the inferi incident in muggle London. I took his bond myself. The arrangement had been satisfactory for both of us."

Answer enough. Mr. Brendon must have viewed the aurors memory of that night, which would explain how he knew that Crouch had fallen to his knees before Harry killed him. Unless that wording was merely exaggeration. Still, the mention of souls...

The vampire had no doubt seen dark magic in his many years, and along with it, soul magic. He could possibly recognize the signs of a soul being torn asunder.

After all, such things were often done on purpose in dark rituals of power.

Like when creating a horcrux.

Harry took a deep breath of his own, tried to figure out how he felt about the vampires, or this coven at least, having some knowledge of his abilities.

"I see." Harry said softly, and found himself at a loss for more words.

Hermione didn't have that problem.

"Then those vampires in the alley wanted to force Harry to… what? Fix them?"

The vampire moved, though Harry could not see what gesture he made.

"In short, yes. They grew tired of waiting."

Harry shook his head.

"I can't... I don't even know where to begin with this."

Another gesture, a hiss.

"Simply begin. We will protect you from our own, now that rumor of your potential has spread among our covens. What was broken quickly will not be fixed swiftly."

Fallon snorted, grumbling in a low voice.

Harry glanced at Hermione's peaceful light, saw it pulsing with emotion. He needed her opinion; needed to know her thoughts on the legend and how it might fit in with their own research.

He needed time.

"I will start research." He said finally. "When I am ready, I will need volunteers for study. Both vampire and bonded wizards. It will not be a pleasant process, trying to…" How to say it, what he suspected might need to be done? "...fix them."

How does one fix broken immortality? Make immortals mortal again? And if the price of feeling no pain, of no longer needing blood, was a loss of that immortality, would the vampires even still want it?

The dead he talked to only wanted to be dead again. The living all want to keep living. What would those stuck in between really want?

"It will be done." Brendan hissed. "This we promise, on the Door."

Harry smiled grimly.

And first on his list of research, was setting his eyes on that bloody Veil squatting deep in the Department of Mysteries.


Hermione held his hands as they sat together in his laboratory, their two chairs slid close to one another.

Her fingers idly caressed the palm of one of his bare left hand, and he leaned into the motion with a sigh of gratitude.

Her voice was calm, methodical.

"It fits with the story of Aelia. Vampires first existed in roman times. Or at least my books place them at that date. Rumors of how they were created abound, most suspecting that dark wizards did it to themselves for a form of immortality. That they are children of summoned shades is no less probable, with magic involved. If the Door is indeed the Veil in the Ministry, then the Ministry might be aware of what Aelia did, and are guarding the blasted thing."

He nodded. "That would explain it nicely. Perhaps too nicely."

She sighed.

"But about fixing them Harry? You possess a unique form of mage sight, this we know. But you can't see the black vampire pattern. And how would you even begin to fix it? What would be your model?"

He grimaced.

"Experimentation. A lot of it. Too much of it."

She grumbled, sighed, and leaned forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders in an awkward embrace.

"You don't have to." She whispered in his ear. "I know you feel like you need to. You probably even want to, from a scientific standpoint. But... you don't have to."

He smiled lopsidedly. "I know. But I want to try anyway."

He felt her answering smile against his cheek.

"I knew you'd say that. Onward and upward, then. When will we ever find time alone?"

He laughed and pulled her up, their arms still tangled together.

"Who needs sleep, really? You know, the average witch or wizard needs one to two less hours of sleep than a mundane counterpart once they are past adolescence…"

She cut off his sentence with a long, lingering kiss.

He didn't have much to say after that.


The spring meeting of the Wizengamot went about like Harry expected.

It began with the same tired debates of the year before. The issue of new cauldron thickness legislation was finally resolved, with Lord Ogden and his coalition of business owners losing their push for less restrictions on the sale of cheaper cast iron materials.

A witch brought up her concerns over the state of Diagon Alley, specifically how much dirtier it was now that property owners inside the Alley had to pay for their janitorial labor. She was hushed by another witch whose acidic response on 'the inexpensiveness of slavery' made him want to applaud.

A wizard sitting seven seats down from him did, to the consternation of Lady Gamp. She did not like such uncivilized displays.

Then there was the tedious hour of debate over the House-Elf Committee, who had twenty pages of civil rights laws to put before the council.

Harry, and a great deal of others based on their mutterings, wondered why the members didn't just make a copy of basic human rights and be done with it. Instead, there were arguments over how tax law might apply to house-elf income, whether a department should be created to deal with disputes between house-elves and humans, and if house-elves should be allowed to enter into apprenticeships to learn basic medical arts.

The last was something Harry had not considered. He knew that Kreacher was able to use his unique magic to heal to some degree. He had simply never thought a house-elf would wish to pursue a career in that field.

Which just goes to show that even he still had some unconscious bias still.

Lord Malfoy's sharp quip on the matter was audible over the multiple witches and wizards who bickered between themselves during a brief recess that followed.

"Merlin forbid the house-elves actually want to pursue a… career? The thought practically makes my knees tremble with fear."

The laughter that followed made some colorful souls duck down in their plush green chairs.

No one liked to be laughed at.

But it was not until after the recess that the werewolf matter arose once more.

"Non Mordere is a threat to modern wizarding civilization." Lord Tripe began in his deep sonorous voice. "An enclave of dangerous magical creatures that openly oppose this Ministry and Wizengamot. They should not be allowed to continue to assemble into a potential army that could kill hundreds of our citizens."

"Since when is disagreeing with the Ministry a crime?" Neville demanded in response from across the room. "And werewolves are citizens. They are part of the wizarding world! You argue with labels that spread fear and hate, instead of confronting the true problem. You are afraid of a world where werewolf children are treated as equals to your own children!"

With two such opening statements, the debate was headed for another heated argument between the two opposing forces.

But Lord Dumbledore spoke up before it could degenerate beyond control.

"Two main issues have been brought to the table." His voice was chiding, a carefully controlled modulation that made one lean forward to catch every word.

The old wizard knew how to manage a room.

"One, that Non Mordere has reached a population level of nearly a thousand individuals, with no civil defence force in place to control crime and establish order. Two, that the warding in place does not prevent a werewolf from willingly leaving the safe zones in the hours before the full moon and transforming near the two wizarding settlements in a hundred mile radius. Lord Longbottom and Lord Ogden, as the managers of Non Mordere, your response to these accusations."

Silence fell, the kind that meant magic was at work. Harry could see the blanket silencing charm ripple across most of the atrium in a sparkle of Dumbledore's magic.

The Supreme Mugwump was going to guarantee that Neville, and Neville alone, was allowed to speak. It made for an odd sight for Harry, to see most of his world reduced to the pale blue light of Dumbledore's soul.

Silencing charms channeled through a wand were usually shades of red. But when Dumbledore cast them, it was only with the brute force of his raw magical power.

Astounding.

"Non Mordere's wards have been tested and are above Ministry standards." Neville's tone was scathing, anger a low simmering boil.

What shyness the man had had in previous sessions had burned away with the force of that righteous anger, and the growing confidence he had in his cause.

"But any person, at any time, can choose to commit a crime. And a werewolf willingly leaving safety during or before the hours of the full moon is without question a crime. None of us are asking werewolves to be held to a different standard than any witch or wizard is. On the contrary, we are asking for equality."

Biting emphasis. Harry smiled, hearing the repetition of Viola James' own wording. His Viola was an inspiration indeed.

"As such, when a werewolf commits a legitimate crime, they should be punished as any criminal is. In the case of the full moon, that crime is attempted murder even if no one is infected or killed."

Harry blinked at that, and wished again he could see the facial expressions of those around him. No doubt, under the silencing charm, there were currently more than a few gasps of surprise.

Attempted murder, while accurate, was not the stance many would expect a pro-werewolf champion to take.

"However, intent must be established as well. Werewolves under the moon have no sentience, no control. They can be taken advantage of. In every case, werewolves should be offered the same rights as every witch and wizard; the right for a trial with representation, where such intent can be determined in all fairness."

A deep breath before Neville continued.

"As for the first issue. The organization of Non Mordere, as a private town on private land with no Ministry funding, should not be an issue before the Wizengamot. However, as a gesture of good faith, I will make it known here and in the Daily Prophet, that Non Mordere has established its own auror force within the town, and will be holding elections to determine who will lead that force."

Harry was certain that the election would be won in a landslide, with Ronald Weasley the winner. Most of the werewolves of the town looked upon Neville and Ron as their personal saviours, and Weasley had hinted more than once during their meetings that the wizard wanted to prove that werewolves could work in law enforcement as well as, if not better than, non-lycanthropic wizarding counterparts.

The thought brought another smile to Harry's face as he leaned back in his chair, gloved hands folded in his lap to hide the black lines of the Stone.

It was something, to realize that he was not the sole champion of either his or Hermione's two political causes any more. Malfoy had become the main force in supporting house-elves in the last months, and Neville and his coalition had rising strong support from many different factions.

They're going to make it. Harry suddenly thought. It would take time, but the werewolves and house-elves alike were well on the path to equality, and not simply on the brute force of his own reputation, power, and money. The wizarding world was beginning to realize what the muggle world had started to decades ago.

No one group of people was superior to another simply because they wished it was so.


After another hour, in which Lord Tripe tried and failed to combat Neville's simple reasoning about Non Mordere with the fear of potential futures, the meeting was adjourned for another quarter.

Non Mordere was safe for the time being, and strides were being made into changing the hearts and minds of those in power about the true nature of werewolves.

It would take that change of heart first to change the current stifling anti-werewolf legislation. It would take the acknowledgement of facts, not fear.

It would take time, but with that time, the change was far more likely to be permanent and strong through the coming years.

Because eventually there would be that rogue werewolf who was a serial killer. Eventually a house-elf would commit theft or murder.

And when that happened, it would be the strength of the laws that upheld justice, not the whim of a fickle public.

Harry returned to a silent Grimmauld Place, and entered his laboratory with a satisfied sigh.

His bulky robes joined his gloves across the back of one chair, followed quickly by the orange dragonhide boots he kicked off into a corner.

Comfortable, he settled into a purple chair and called to the Cloak, letting it drift over his form and basking in the sudden dark light that consumed him.

A peaceful place in which to think, the silk a soft caress against his face, as he sat and considered human experimentation.

It was the wall he kept coming up against, the line drawn into the sand that prevented him from tackling the magical potential he possessed with his unique sight.

With experimentation into human patterns, he might be able to cure werewolves and fix vampires. He might learn how to heal and not just duplicate and replace.

He might learn how to improve or replicate genetic potential. Cure muggle and magical maladies alike.

But in the process, he might create monsters. He would learn how to ruin, not just fix.

And those he experimented on, no matter how willing, no matter for what good cause, would no doubt experience pain. Would eventually die from the process, perhaps more than once. He would hold their lives in his hands.

When he experimented on animals, he always justified to himself that there was no permanent damage. He always returned them to their natural state at the end.

And with his experimentation on the horcrux piece of Voldemort's soul, he had justified his actions by affirming that the man was evil, and more self-inflicted damage had already been done to the soul than he intended to do himself.

What was wrong with what he needed to do, if no one would be permanently hurt by it? If in doing so, he might save the lives, and improve the lives, of potentially an entire species? Of thousands of people, magical and muggle alike?

It made ethical sense to him. Moral sense. Common sense.

He himself saw no reason to hesitate any more. And with the summer fast upon them, he would have the time he needed.

He would start with cadavers. He would learn the human pattern, from the outside to the inside. He would learn what made a magical person different from a muggle one, if possible.

He would learn, and observe, and learn some more.

Because he found nothing so fascinating as learning about the vampires and the Veil and how a body might be made to house an immortal soul inside its mortal form.


April passed with the speed of a spring thunderstorm. Exam study was a peripheral concern, Hermione putting more emphasis on college than Harry ever spared.

Harry considered college an investment in degrees he would need to be taken seriously in future muggle endeavors. Hermione considered college a test of her worth, her ability and knowledge. While Harry did enough to do well, Hermione did more to be the best of her class, the shining star in all her professor's eyes.

And the envy of her classmates, many of whom she found to be as petty as any of the students in her primary school classes.

They were just bigger, and more nasty with their comments when she ruined the averages in the classes that graded on a curve.

Harry listened to her complaints with half a mind to simply show up at one of her classes and transfigure the lot of them into rats.

To bad that would place him in front of the Minister with some serious explaining to do.

He noticed more about Hermione's habits than he ever did when they lived apart, and he learned all he could about her with more focus than he gave his own college classes.

He noticed she always apparated back to grimmauld place if she needed to use the bathroom. She had a strong dislike for public restrooms, one rooted more in her past with a troll than in any worry over germs or cleanliness.

He observed she liked to sit and talk with Kraken every morning, consuming exactly one cup of hot tea before she left for classes.

She mentioned at least once a week her desire for a pet, preferably a feline one, though she would settle for a dog. Absolutely nothing scaled, however.

She tied her hair back from her face when she studied. She rubbed her face from forehead to neck when she was overtired. She liked to lay on the couch in front of the fireplace to relax, listening to the wizarding wireless.

Her light glowed brightest when she was excited, a flickering force of blue-violet power. It beat slowest when she slept, a steady glowing hue that lit the center of his room with her presence.

She didn't like her feet covered at night by blanket or Cloak, but instead insisted on slipping the cold appendages between his own, which could be quite painful if her ankle bone hit his own.

Not that he complained, because her skin was soft against his hands, and her breath warm on his neck. Cold feet were hardly a concern in comparison.

He wondered what she had observed about him. He wondered if she found his presence in her life as fascinating as he did her. He wondered if she minded that he liked to sleep under the Cloak, or didn't eat lunch, or sometimes lost track of time.

He was fascinated with the idea that the love he felt was not simply the emotional response triggered by happy chemicals. He did not just love her because she made him feel good. It was something else; something not so easily defined in scientific terms.

Magic did better, describing true love as a compulsion to dedicate oneself to another. To put their wants and needs above yourself.

He had read about magical binding ceremonies and the various marriage rituals of wizarding kind, and oddly enough liked the traditional pureblood rites the most. Where less words were said, and more magic was woven; tying two willing souls together in such a way that losing one or the other would wound the very core of a soul.

Foolish, maybe, to tie oneself to another so permanently. But Harry couldn't help but want that, not so much as a binding than as a declaration; external proof of what he felt internally.

Not that he was anywhere brave enough to ask Hermione for such a thing yet. Nor ready for it.

But soon, maybe.

Soon.

"Head out of the clouds, Gryff."

Thestrals smiling voice brought him out of his reverie, along with a soft nudge into his side.

They stood together at the edge of an auror perimeter, waiting to be dismissed after a simple raid with Winged Horse.

Two business owners had been kidnapped from Diagon Alley and held for ransom for the release of the two Luxe Sumbre potioneers the Ministry had captured months before.

Instead, two teams of Unspeakables had been sent to infiltrate and rescue the wizards, their location gained through the collaboration of the various auror departments.

Winged Horse had been held back while Owl did their work, backup in case of a trap. But they hadn't been needed after all.

"Knut for your thoughts?" Her voice was male, a fair mimicry of the Minister's own tone.

Harry smiled at Thestral's antics and shrugged.

"When would you ask a girl to marry you?"

She rocked back on her heels.

"Whoa, there. That's a thought worth a galleon, at least." Thestral laughed in her current baritone voice. "That serious, huh?"

Harry looked out over the street at the edge of the Ministry's sparkling emergency anti-apparition ward, watched the wizards moving about, wands alight with spells of one kind or another.

"Yes. For a while."

She hummed a bouncy tune under her breath, then took a deep breath.

"Well. Not like I'm an expert or anythin'." She began, holding up orange hands with their fluid pattern. "But, being a girl and all… I'd want a man who married me to have a house or apartment."

She held up one finger, ticking them off one by one. "And a good job too, cause, you know… kids and stuff. And I'd want him to be nice to his mum, cause wizards nice to their mums are nice to women in general. Of course, there are exceptions to that rule, like if his mum is a crazy pureblood witch…" She laughed at her own joke. "And he'd have to like animals. And not mind a mess. And of course, it would help if he's open to exploring his sexuality…"

Harry sucked in his breath and began to cough with surprise, Thestral thumping him on the back with a large meaty hand as she continued.

"...cause I'm a metamorphmagus. I mean, I haven't found a guy like that yet, but a girl can dream, right? I've always wanted to try..."

"Enough!" Harry interrupted quickly. "That's enough. Really. Thank you."

Her form abruptly began to change, rippling with motion as it began to shrink, becoming more slender and feminine.

Her voice this time lacked its laughter, and was softer with a young woman's lighter tone.

"Seriously, though. I'd want a guy who likes my family like I do. Who likes the same things I do, wants the same things I do. You know, not agree on everything but… the big things. Things that matter. If I have that, marriage is just an affirmation of what I would already know once I know those things. We're meant to be."

Harry smiled, but before he could speak her tone changed once more, abruptly louder.

"But you'd be surprised what kind of things a guy asks for when he finds out his date is a metamorphmagus. This one guy wanted to know if I could create a third boob!"

Harry laughed, the seriousness of the moment lost, as she had intended.

But he tucked her words away in his mind nevertheless.


The woman was whip-thin, her deep green satin robes tailored to highlight her form.

She liked when they admired her as much as they feared her. When they kneeled in her presence to grovel, but their eyes roved over her helplessly.

An effect helped by the charms on those same robes, by the potion she used to coat her fingernails and perfume her skin. She had never been powerful magically; she did not have to be to rule her private kingdom with her cunning mind and her soft hands.

They would want her even as she killed them for their failure.

They would beg for her touch even as she punished them with magical thorns.

And they had failed, and they would be punished in her garden. The branch of her empire in Britain was falling apart, the roots that kept her business strong being dug up piece by piece.

Luxe Sombre was her child, her creation, her lover. It was a living vine made up of the greed and desire of witches and wizards the world over.

And it would not die because of the British Ministry. She would make certain of that.

If a person threatened to destroy what she loved, she would destroy what they loved. If they threatened to hurt what she loved, she would hurt what they loved.

If they killed a single stem, she would kill them. So simple.

Retaliation was an art she learned long ago, and perfected throughout her decades of life.

She only needed to know who the thorn in her side was. Only needed to know the name of the weed she needed to pull up by the roots and throw into the fire.

Luxe Sombre. Let their light shine onto Britain and reveal the truth of their enemy.

They couldn't hide forever. No shadow was deep enough to hide them from her.

She did so love to fight with fire.


~*~Next Chapter: The Cinnamon Cat~*~


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