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The Answer

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Deep in the Forbidden Forest, three figures huddled around a chopped tree stump they used as a table.

"We'll want to take the fight to them here," Moody marked a spot on the map, "and here."

On opposite sides of him, Kingsley and Norse nodded.

"Fighting them in open-field or in the open-air is nothing short of blundering suicide. Our people need to exercise tree cover discipline—attack where the woods are thickest. I don't want to see a single idiot even touch a broom!"

"I think it would be wise to insert myself and Liar into their ranks. From there, we will cause as much chaos and confusion as possible."

"Our people might hit you in the crossfire," Kingsley warned.

"They won't."

"…"

The Auror detected the condescension as clear as day, but decided now was not the best time to diminish them. Moody seemed to think the same, as he also said nothing. That, and the Forgiven were practically trained and bred for this type of tactic.

"Where is Liar?" Kingsley asked, changing the subject.

"He is still working with Dumbledore. Apparently, enchanting an illusioned sky proves more difficult than the ceiling of a dinner hall," Norse answered.

"That's putting it mighty lightly."

The group watched Liar appear from the bushes.

"Is the enchantment finished?" Norse asked.

"Not exactly," Liar shrugged with a self-deprecating grin. "After spending countless hours (and breaking several of the school's finest dinnerwares) trying to reverse-engineer the sodding spell, it finally occurred to me to ask who bewitched the damned thing in the first place."

"And?"

"Albus said he had no clue. Been there since ancient times. Likely only the Four Founders knew."

"So, a dead end?"

"Yes, until out of the corner of my eye, I spot the little crafty ones repairing the dishes I, er, dropped."

It was then, that the group saw four small figures hiding behind Liar peek out.

"Turns out it was the House Elves who've been maintaining the ceiling's enchantments. So, I decided to bring a few of them over."

Norse approached them, and went to one knee. After writing something into the air, she made a bow that was lower than usual, as to take their height into account.

"Thank you for helping us. You do us a great honor," her words read.

"No! No, masters should not be bowing to us house elves!" they started to clamor and rush to her, urging her to lift her head.

Only when she finished expressing her gratitude, did Norse straighten once more.

"Now, I must meet with Firenze."

"You're actually going to do this, aren't you?" Liar questioned. "Tricking the Centaurs into fighting this battle. It's a massively dick move."

"We have no other choice. If he will not tell us how to configurate the astrological sign for wartimes, I will interrogate him."

"I can't let you do that. Not in good conscience, anyway."

"You must."

Liar stepped in front of Norse.

"I'll be the one to do it. Firenze and you are, what do you call it again, warbound? I figure that means you're good mates, so why ruin it when I can be the one to betray his trust instead?"

"It should be me. It is because I call him friend, that I must do this, even if my honor is the price."

"A price you need not pay, my friend."

From the shadows of the dark shrubbery, Firenze made his way to join them.

"Snuck upon twice," Norse turned to the two Forgivers. "Our emotions cloud our senses."

"Then, you must take care to clear them before the battle," the Centaur advised. "I can teach your House Elves the signs they must conjure."

"Firenze."

"…"

"Why?"

Norse looked pleadingly to him, expecting there to be hate in his eyes. But what met her was only a stoic passiveness.

"This conflict is greater than all of us. Your coming, the shade we fought, the evil encroaching not just here, but the rest of the world—these are signs as prominent as the stars. My people sometimes forget to read the events below."

"So, we put the signs where they can see them," Liar laughed. "Makes perfect sense. Now, at least, we're only half-screwed."

"You refer to your comrades. Yes, I took weight of your host… It is rather small."

"It is puny," Norse wrote bluntly. "Human clans are less understanding than your own."

Firenze stepped closer, and held out his arm.

"Take heart, friend Norse. We will find victory. If not in the next moment, then in the next."

The large witch broke into a genuine smile.

"Well met, friend Firenze."

She grasped his arm in return.

"Well met."

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X

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Death would be a mercy.

For as long as Grimm could remember, that single thought echoed the halls of her soul.

She did not tire, she did not sleep, for she was already sleeping.

The witch could only watch as those she cared for were tortured by none other than her accursed self. The victims never found peace in death. Like her, they were trapped in an endless purgatory of agony.

Grimm deserved to die. She knew that fact herself better than anyone. She wondered why it took so long to realize.

Since, when?

The moment I became a Forgiven?

Hah…

That name was never more ironic.

Her eyes never blinked as she was forced to watch every second. The pain never dulled. The display never stopped wrenching at her heart. Her Cruciatus was right. It was the perfect torture.

Did it begin the moment I killed those Death Eaters on that bridge all those years ago?

Sometimes her Cruciatus forced Grimm into the perspective of the torturer—a perspective she knew too well.

That would certainly make sense…

I was supposed to receive the death sentence, after using the Killing Curse.

Ever since then, I've been living on borrowed time.

Maybe, this is just the price I pay for being alive longer than I should have.

Tonks' screams intertwined with Moody's. The cycle of victims replayed again and again. Grimm dreaded any moment, if any, that she could possibly be accustomed to it.

Because the only ones that had yet to appear, were those two.

And if they appeared, if she tortured them—

I'd die?

My heart would be broken more than it is right now?

Is that even possible?

At that moment, her Cruciatus paused time to tilt its head curiously at her.

No.

"Ah. You're wondering why I haven't summoned Liar or Norse to the stage, yet?"

"No… Please."

"Then, answer me. Would you like me to continue hurting these fine folk?"

"Don't… It's enough, already. Just let me die…!"

"You have to answer me."

"Why…?"

"Because you have to suffer. Now, choose. Her?" the Cruciatus pointed to an anguished Tonks. "Or Norse? Or maybe, Liar?"

"You just want whoever brings the most pain… And if I choose, I'll be doing just what you want...!"

"That is the point, after all."

Grimm opened and closed her mouth intermittently. She couldn't bring herself to answer.

"Silence is its own answer, I suppose."

"T..t…ton—"

While mid-stutter, Grimm stopped. She was able to experience a moment of clarity she hadn't been able to in so long.

"You… You want me to say Tonks."

"Tonks, it is."

"Norse."

"Hahaha! I have no obligation to grant your request. Sorry, my love, but you never had the choice to begin with."

"You can't use them, can you?"

"…"

"CAN YOU?!"

The Cruciatus resumed its torture, but Grimm's mind focused on her discovery desperately. It was as if the thought alone was the last vestige of her survival instinct, before she was lost to an endless despair.

"You never brought Norse or Liar here!"

"…"

"You can't! Why can't you?! You know they would hurt me the most! So, why?!"

"…"

"ANSWER ME!"

The screams of all her victims filled her head in concert. Grimm could barely concentrate, but she found a flaw. A crack in the curse, but what it meant, she still did not know.

"LIAR!"

Grimm roared.

"NORSE!"