Ghosts of the Past

by Nimbus Llewelyn

Sequel to Child of the Storm. Harry's life has changed a lot over the past year, what with the return of his father, Thor, murder attempts by everything from HYDRA assassins to Elder Gods keeping him on his toes and making a few new friends. But while Chthon and HYDRA are gone, all sorts of dark things have been stirred up, things thought long gone. And guess who they're after...

38. Chapter 38: One Equivocal Evening

Well, this was an unexpectedly quick new chapter. Granted, I had a fair chunk of it written up already, but even still… well, as usual, fic serves as a good rest from writing my dissertation. And said dissertation is very nearly done, a prospect I regard with both joy and trepidation.

Anyhow, this chapter turned out a little more serious than I intended, with a lot of discussions on the line of moral ambiguity. It also fills in a little bit of Alison's past, while kicking on Harry's character development, and showing the already present differences from his canon self. So, read on, enjoy, and please review.

A couple of days after Harry departed for Hogwarts, Carol found herself mulling over something that had been bothering her ever since she'd had a certain chat with Ron Weasley. Specifically, the fact that Bucky used to be the Winter Soldier. Well, that hadn't bothered her per se – after all, her best friend who was very firmly not (yet) anything more had been turned into his successor. What did bother her, though, was the fact that he'd been picked as Harry's bodyguard, when as the Winter Soldier, he'd snapped the neck of Arthur Weasley, late father of Ron Weasley, best school-friend of Harry.

She considered the options and dismissed each in turn.

Steve tended to overlook, if not ignore, Bucky's Winter Soldier days. Natasha had a lot of complicated history with the Winter Soldier, probably wouldn't give a very helpful answer, and in any case, was kind of terrifying. Clint, fantastic arms aside, was someone she didn't know very well – also, she was pretty sure that he was Bucky's grandson by Harry's transfiguration teacher, so yeah, that was a hornet's nest she didn't want to poke.

Thor, she suspected, would probably be unhappy about it, but ultimately consider it an unfortunate side-effect of protecting his son. As for Loki, ditto with knobs on, swapping 'son' for 'nephew' – while he wasn't evil anymore, she knew enough of what he was capable of in pursuit of protecting family that she severely doubted a few lies would really register as a moral consideration. Bruce probably wouldn't be happy if it was brought to his attention, and making Bruce unhappy was a Bad Thing. Tony, meanwhile, deemed Bucky responsible for saving his daughter's life, which meant a) he'd probably do anything for him at this point in time, b) he probably wouldn't be all that objective.

As for the civilians, Jane generally deferred to Thor when it came to Harry related things. Darcy might be helpful, but a semi-sober discussion on deontological vs teleological ethics was not what Carol was looking for at the moment. Sirius, like Thor, would focus more or less entirely on the fact that Bucky was protecting his godson and doing what he couldn't. Remus, again, she didn't know so well, but she suspected he'd probably defer to Thor, who was one of his oldest friends from another life.

Who she should talk to was, in the end, fairly obvious. Even if they weren't immediately that helpful.

"It's complicated, darling," Alison said.

"Why do I feel like that's adult code for 'I don't want to talk about it'?" Carol wondered aloud.

"Your feeling is wrong," Alison said dryly. "It normally is, granted, but in this context, it's code for 'this is not easy to explain and a fair bit of it is speculation'."

"Oh."

"Indeed," Alison said. "The short version is that your young man is at heart, a very sweet, very kind, and very decent person. However, he has not been in the best of mental states recently. In fact, he's been borderline insane. It was only a couple of months ago that the Red Room were trying to torture him into their new prize killing machine, their heir to the Winter Soldier. And while they only partly succeeded, they did horrible damage to him. You know that better than most. He's been preoccupied with his own pain and his own problems, which is quite reasonable under the circumstances. Goodness knows many teenagers are like that anyway, and unlike them, he actually has good reason. Accordingly, when Bucky was appointed his guardian, no one really spared it much thought, much less considered its implications for people other than Harry. That is the first part."

"Okay, with you so far," Carol said.

"Good," Alison said. "The second part is that Harry's experience as the Red Son and Bucky's as the Winter Soldier are, while superficially similar, as different as chalk and cheese. While Harry was set to be turned into, essentially, the Winter Soldier Mk II, his mind was removed from his body before that could happen. It was locked away, safe and sound, while his empty husk was reprogrammed. Bucky, by contrast, was reprogrammed, parts of him overwritten. Moreoever, he was the Winter Soldier for decades, over half a century. And he wasn't just a guided missile or a kill sat, the way the Red Son was. He was used for more sophisticated missions as well, ones that sometimes required at least a semblance of humanity."

"So he lived," Carol said softly.

"Yes," Alison said. "Despite the best efforts of handlers and programmers alike, and in large part thanks to Natasha, he formed an identity of his own. It was part James Buchanan Barnes, part programming, part the experiences he'd had since, all jumbled up. That's why the Soldier had quirks, like never hurting children if he could possibly avoid it, when the Red Son didn't. Harry and the Red Son were two very different people. Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier, on the other hand, were not. Are not. They are different sides of a coin, but they are still the same coin."

"Okay," Carol said slowly.

"Harry doesn't get that," Alison said. "Or to be more accurate, he probably knows it, but prefers to think of Bucky and the Soldier being different people. With that logic in mind, especially in the mind of someone so familiar with possessions, body swapping, mind control, and telepathy in general, he feels Bucky is not responsible for what the Soldier did. He can distinguish between the two personalities in a way a non-psychic can't possibly understand."

"Okay, but –"

"This also assumes that he even knows what the Winter Soldier did to Arthur Weasley," Alison said. "I think he does, but it's possible that he doesn't. As I've said, he's been very busy these last few months, and now… Bucky is his bodyguard. It's the way things are."

"But Bucky, the Soldier, he still," Carol began.

"He snapped Ron's father's neck with his bare hands," Alison said calmly. "I know. It would have been far from the first widow he made that way. I've killed more than my share, a few that same way. Clint, Natasha, Thor, Loki even before he went mad, Bruce as the Hulk, and even my father. We've all killed, and all like that too." She sighed at Carol's expression. "I know. It doesn't make it any better. It doesn't help me to live with it, in truth. The fact that each of them was necessary does that." She paused. "And though I'm speculating here, I'm pretty sure that the Soldier did it for the same reason."

"How the hell was it necessary?" Carol demanded, suddenly furious.

"Can't you think why, Carol?" Alison asked mildly. "You know better than most who and what HYDRA had in that base of theirs. They didn't invent the concept of a 'fate worse than death', but they certainly took it to new depths, and they would have loved to experiment on someone like Arthur Weasley. And that's even before you consider that HYDRA's leader, Lucius Malfoy, had a well-known grudge against Arthur." She sighed again, and looked sad. "As for the Soldier, well. It was around the time when he was showing signs of his own personality beneath the programming. Only a couple of months before, he saved your life."

"I know," Carol said quietly. "And that's part of why I don't get it. I mean, from what I heard, he – the Soldier – killed one of those giant psycho HYDRA werewolves, with his bare fucking hands, and then carried me all the way down a giant fucking mountain in the middle of the night in the middle of a colossal fucking blizzard."

"And you're wondering why he didn't do the same for Arthur," Alison said, nodding. "You'd have to ask Bucky for the real answer about that."

"But you have a theory," Carol predicted.

"I have several," Alison said. "Firstly, you were a child." She raised a hand as Carol looked indignant. "By the Soldier's reckoning, you were. You might have proven yourself capable of bearing a grown woman's burden, but that was how he would have seen you. And the one moral principle the Soldier consistently held was that he would never intentionally harm a child. No one's entirely sure why – I don't think even Bucky knows for certain." She shook her head. "In any case, you were a child, and Arthur Weasley was not. Accordingly, he might not have been able to defy his orders enough."

Carol frowned. "And your other theories?"

"Secondly, around this time he was working to undermine HYDRA from within. Natasha stated that she offered him the chance to come in from the cold at Easter, shortly after he was sure you were safe, and he refused on the grounds that he could do more damage as a double agent. In that capacity, he managed to save Mr Pietrovitch's life," Alison said. "He might well have had to sacrifice Arthur Weasley to protect his cover."

Carol frowned.

"I know," Alison said. "It's dirty business. But often necessary."

Carol didn't disagree, but she didn't agree, either. "You got a third theory?"

"I do," Alison said. "That he had no other choice. And that it was the best he could do."

Carol frowned again.

"There isn't always another option, darling," Alison said gently. "You know that. I wish you didn't, but you do. And whatever the reason, Carol, considering the likely alternatives, and how it was done… I honestly think it was the closest that the Soldier could manage to mercy."

Carol absorbed this as best she could – which meant that she didn't fall off her seat, though she was chilled to the bone. Intellectually, she knew that Bucky had been the Winter Soldier, but hearing this, having met the son of one of his victims (the son of one of his victims who was particularly focused on revenge, that is)… it brought it home. Her grandmother rubbed her back, steadying her, but said nothing.

"Okay, let's stop asking why he did it. Why did the Avengers pick him?" she asked eventually. "They knew."

"Necessity," Alison said. "Bucky is quite simply the best at what he does, nasty though it is. He is also unyieldingly loyal, he has full knowledge of what Harry has been through thanks to a degree of shared experience that leaves him well placed to manage Harry's recovery, along with the skills and judgement to teach Harry what he needs to know to watch his back."

She stood up and folded her arms.

"Most crucially of all," she said. "He is also one of a very short list of people outside the Avengers, and an even shorter list of combatants, who can make that young man behave when he's wobbling, to pull him back when he's right on the edge. Of that very, very short list, he is more or less the only one who could pass mostly unremarked as Harry's bodyguard." She regarded her granddaughter steadily. "And you would know better than most, darling, how close to the edge Harry's been recently."

"He's getting better," Carol said indignantly.

"So he is," Alison agreed. "But when Bucky was assigned, he most definitely needed someone to rein him in. Posting him to Harry's side was the lesser evil."

Carol, again, didn't respond directly. "Why didn't I think about it – the implications, I mean?" she asked quietly. "I mean, what the Winter Soldier did… it's not exactly secret. In our circle, anyway."

"Oh darling," Alison said, voice a whole mix of emotions as she slipped an arm around her granddaughter's waist and hugged her. "It wasn't for you to worry about. You had quite enough on your plate with your own experiences with the Red Room, and your young man's on top of that."

"Not what I meant," Carol mumbled, a little muffled by her grandmother's shoulder, which she was resting against.

"I know," Alison said. "The simple truth is that we tend to see the best in our friends, and the worst in our enemies. You didn't want to see that side of Bucky, and neither did he. Neither of you ever had to. You never had it brought home." She sighed. "Until now."

There was a long moment of silence. Then Carol broke it.

"It's still not fair," she said abruptly, standing up and out of her grandmother's reach. "I get the logic of why you guys feel that it has to be him, and maybe it does. But it's still not fair. Not on Ron, who's spending so much of his time around the man who, whatever the reason, killed his fucking father. Not on the Twins, who're in the same boat. Not on Bucky, who has to spend every day around them and other people whose parents he killed when he most definitely was not in his right mind. And not on Harry, either. He has to lie to Ron, his oldest friend, lie to his face, and do it every single day, about who his bodyguard and mentor really is, because said bodyguard is the same guy who killed Ron's dad."

"I know," Alison said eventually. "And I have every sympathy for Harry's position. But we don't have any better choices."

Carol stared at her for a moment, disbelief, frustration, and anger roiling in her. "Is that it? Is that all you're going to say?" she demanded. "'Yeah, sucks to be them, but that's life, it's necessary, move on'?" She waved a hand irritably. "Also, 'every sympathy for Harry's position'? Do you even understand what that position is?"

Alison regarded her granddaughter for a long moment, expression unreadable. "Yes," she said quietly. "Actually, Carol, I do understand it. Intimately as a matter of fact. Every day, I work with people whose friends and colleagues were killed by the Winter Soldier, and those forces he led. Every day, I lie to them, openly or by omission, by allowing them to believe that the Winter Soldier is dead. I have every sympathy for Harry's position, darling. Because I am in it. Every. Single. Day."

She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and added, "And I understand young Mr Weasley's position, too. I've had bad experiences with the Winter Soldier: him and Natasha were key parts of the incarnation of the Winter Guard that kidnapped me for the Red Room and their alien allies. They nearly killed me, they nearly killed Howard, Howard Stark, and they nearly killed my mother. The Winter Soldier nearly killed Jackie Falsworth, a speedster like Jean-Paul who went by Spitfire, and it was only her speed that saved her. And there were others, some of them dear friends, who weren't so lucky. One of them was Brian Falsworth."

"As in Montgomery Falsworth, the Howling Commando?" Carol asked.

"Yes, he was Montgomery's son," Alison said, and smiled faintly. "Well, I say Montgomery – I always just called him Uncle Monty." The smile faded. "Brian was a few years younger than me, and in many ways, he was like the little brother I never had. In his early twenties, he became a secret agent codenamed Union Jack, working for the British government. Thanks to an enchanted amulet that gave him serious superpowers, he went from secret agent to super agent, and became a counter to one of the earlier iterations of the Winter Guard, the Red Room's superpowered elite."

"What, all by himself?" Carol asked, startled.

Alison smiled wryly. "Like I said, serious superpowers," she said. "But he had a relatively normal partner, Agent Roger Aubrey a.k.a. the Destroyer." Her tone turned dry. "Originally, it was 'Dyna-Mite', and then 'Pocket Rocket', but understandably Roger preferred not to focus on his height." The smile faded. "I was one of the few who knew that they were more than just professional partners. I even acted as Brian's beard a few times, while Roger made his own arrangements. They were good men, as kind and decent as the spy business let them be, and they loved each other dearly. And the Winter Soldier killed them – Brian with a vibranium jacketed bullet, Roger with an ordinary one, both through the head. The bullets were large sniper rounds, so as you might imagine…" She paused and closed her eyes. "Well. I sincerely hope you can't imagine. Suffice to say, it wasn't pretty." She sighed. "It broke Monty's heart. Brian was his only child, and his wife died of cancer a few years later. He was a shell of his former self after that, until he died of a heart attack a few months ago."

Carol stared, mouth opening and closing as she tried to find the words, before finally she shut it, blinked a few times, then shook her head sharply. "I… Oh god, grandma, I… I didn't…"

"You didn't realise," Alison said gently. "You didn't think. I know."

"I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted," Alison said. "I'm not minimising what Harry must be feeling, what Ron is feeling now, let alone what he'll feel if he ever finds out. I just want you to understand that I'm not just being a callous bitch in thinking it's the right option. I understand, I really do." She half smiled. "There is, I'll admit, a helping of callous bitch in there too. A lifetime as a super spy tends to leave you with a certain moral flexibility, and an inclination towards what's practical over what's right. But it's not just that. Like I said, I get it. The Winter Soldier killed people I cared about too. And he was not the only one. Often enough, Natasha helped him do it. After all, for many years the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier were all but inseparable."

Carol stared for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "That one doesn't surprise me as much," she remarked. "The Natasha thing."

"Oh?"

"She's awesome, but she scares the crap out of me, and…" Carol grimaced. "I never really saw the Winter Soldier up close. The only time I met him before he became Bucky again, I was unconscious, and he was saving my life anyway. Sure, I've never met an evil Natasha, either. But I have been inside the Red Room, I've seen what they do to people, and I've met an evil Black Widow, too. So imagining evil Natasha isn't as hard as it might be."

"Fair point," Alison acknowledged. "Though Yelena Belova was, and is, insane in a way that Natasha never was. Which is something that, to my mind, made Natasha a much more dangerous opponent."

"Yeah, having gone a couple of rounds with the Black Rip-Off, and sparred a couple of times with Natasha, I think I can pretty definitively say that I'd prefer not to go up against Natasha, given the choice," Carol said firmly. She sighed. "Okay. Fine. But… is Bucky really the only option?"

"Not quite," Alison said eventually. "There are others. Not as trustworthy, perhaps, on deployment elsewhere, or psychologically imperfect. But those issues can be remedied. Like it or not, though, the fact is that Bucky is the best. And going by the amount of trouble he attracts, the best is exactly what Harry is going to need."

OoOoO

Harry himself, however, was not so burdened by worries. Instead, at this point in time he was relaxing in the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Um, Harry?"

Harry looked up from his latest reread of Quidditch Through the Ages. "Neville," he said, sitting up. "Hey. Something I can help you with?"

Neville looked nervous. Or to be more accurate, since 'nervous' was arguably Neville's ground state of being, like he was nerving himself up for something. "I wanted to ask you something," he said, then after a long, expectant moment, he shot a glance at Bucky, who stood up.

"I can…" he began.

Harry, however, cut him off, discarding his book and standing up. "No, it's all right," he said, putting an arm around Neville's shoulder. "Neville and me can have a chat in the corridor outside."

Bucky met his gaze for a moment, then nodded and settled back down, resuming his previous task of reading an extensive file in what looked like some sort of code, while Harry piloted Neville outside. After he'd done so, and at Neville's nervous glances at the portraits, moved down the corridor to find an area where the portraits were either empty, or their occupants dozing.

"Okay, Neville," he said, folding his arms. "What is it?"

Neville fidgeted for a moment, then said, "You're a legilimens, right?"

"A telepath, but that's fine detail," Harry said.

"And you're a really powerful one," Neville continued.

"Strongest mortal psychic ever born, with exactly two exceptions," Harry said, tone neutral. "Of course, I'm not exactly mortal anymore, but the psychic powers come from that side of the family tree. What are you driving at, Neville?"

Neville mumbled something.

Harry raised an eyebrow, then softened his tone a little. "Neville?" he asked, more gently this time. "What is it?" He reached over and gently took Neville's shoulder. "I'll help you, if I can, but I can't help you if I don't know what the problem is."

Neville's eyes, nervous and conflicted, flickered up at him, the message in them clear, no telepathy required.

"I could look," Harry said. "Yes, I could. Easily. But I try not to do that. I can't avoid seeing, or hearing, some things, but I try to filter as much out as possible." His tone turned dry. "Believe me, at a school like this, it's that or go mad."

Neville snorted slightly.

"You can tell me, Neville," Harry continued, more gently now. "You already did. Just a little louder, this time."

"… My parents," Neville managed. "They're… they…" He took a deep breath. "They aren't well."

Harry closed his eyes. He remembered now. His father had told him what had happened to the Longbottoms, and it had not been pretty. "And you want me to help them," he sighed.

Neville nodded, a little more confident now. "They were – "

"Tortured into insanity by the Lestranges," Harry said quietly. "I know. My father was a friend of your parents', he told me." He sighed. "And you want to know if I can fix it."

Neville nodded again. "If you can't, it's all right, I just thought you might –" he began, before stopping as Harry raised a hand.

"If I can, Neville, I will," he said. "That much I can promise. But."

"But?"

"But I don't know if I can," Harry said. "I've been on the wrong end of psychic attacks before, I've seen the damage they can do. I've got more than a few psychic scars of my own. In my experience, everyone reacts differently to long term psychic damage. There's also the problem that I don't know how the Cruciatus Curse works. Does it attack the pain centres of the brain? Or does it attack the mind directly? Are looking at physical brain damage, or spiritual damage? Or is it a mix of the two?"

"What's the difference?" Neville asked, frowning.

"If it's physical brain damage, then I probably couldn't help, no matter how much I wanted to," Harry said bluntly. "I can do basic healing magic, but only a fraction of what someone at St Mungos would know. I could do it another way: I'm a very powerful and, frankly, a pretty talented telekinetic. However, I know very little about how human brains are wired up, and if I tried to rewire one, a damaged one…" He shuddered. "Let's just say that I wouldn't want to risk it."

"And if it's spiritual?" Neville asked.

"Depends what form it takes," Harry said. "If it's like psychic wounds, or scars, then maybe I can help, but there's only so much I could do, after all this time. If their minds have just fled to somewhere deep in their subconscious', then I can find them and bring them back." He gave Neville a serious look. "But the thing is, Neville, messing around with minds is not something you should try lightly."

Neville, to Harry's surprise, looked up and glared, squaring up to him in spite of the differences in height, build, and raw power. "I know," the other boy said, in a hard, quiet voice. "I know it's not something you should try lightly, I know it's risky and it's dangerous, and I know that mind magic is dangerous – it's the reason my parents can barely recognise me in the first place! If you won't help, just tell me!"

Harry blinked a couple of times as the echoes faded, then sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean… what I was trying to say is that psychic repair-work is difficult, dangerous, and can have a lot of unforeseen side-effects. I'm a very strong psychic, yes, and I can do the telepathic basics pretty well. But I've only tried psychic healing on someone once before, someone who was just a bit traumatised, who had nowhere near the trauma your parents have, and it ended up forging a permanent psychic connection. Just for one, relatively simple thing. Gods alone know what could happen to your parents, whose minds are probably in a much more fragile state – I could break them with one wrong move, and believe me, I really, really, really do not want to do that."

"So, you can't, then," Neville said.

"I don't know how, I don't want to risk making it worse, and I don't want to risk making it worse," Harry said simply.

"Worse?" Neville asked, voice suddenly edged.

"Your parents recognise you. They are, to some degree, functional," Harry said evenly. "I'm guessing from the fact that you haven't said otherwise that they aren't unhappy, probably because they aren't really aware of what they've lost. If I went in and screwed up, I could reduce them to mindless vegetables, do seriously painful psychic damage that would leave them at best miserable and even less functional, or in agony and actively dangerous. I could even kill them. So yes. I know it's hard to imagine, but it could get worse, Neville."

He shook his head. "Anyway, I thought you should at least know why I probably can't help. But I'll ask a couple of people, a couple of the best psychics I know, if there's anything that they can do. And Doctor Strange too – odds are, if it's possible, he knows how." He put a hand on Neville's shoulder and met his gaze. "I can't promise anything, Neville, other than that I'll try. But I will definitely try."

Neville offered him a slightly shaky smile. "Thanks," he said, before pausing, and rummaging around in his robes and producing a letter. "Oh, I forgot: Professor Dumbledore gave me this to give you."

"Thanks," Harry echoed, taking the letter and ripping it open, whilst wondering vaguely why Dumbledore would pass a message to him through Hogwarts' most forgetful student. As he glanced back up at Neville, though, he realised that this was unfair on Neville. Most people dismissed him as not merely clumsy and forgetful, but useless and frankly, stupid.

He wasn't either of the latter two things, though. Forgetful, yes, but not stupid or useless. He was excellent at Herbology, for one thing, and he was brave as anyone in Gryffindor: he'd stood up to all three of Harry, Ron, and Hermione back in First Year, having previously gone hand to hand with Crabbe and Goyle, and just now, he'd squared up to Harry himself, which was no small thing these days.

Back in First Year, Harry had just been a fairly ordinary student, no different to Ron or Hermione, to all intents and purposes. Now, as Harry knew very well, that was not the case, being aware that he commanded a reputation as a force of nature with a short temper and a significant capacity for holding grudges (a description that, Harry had to admit, wasn't exactly inaccurate).

No, Harry could definitely say that Neville was not stupid, not useless, and most definitely was not a coward. And going by what Harry could sense of him, he was actually a fairly powerful wizard, if a thoroughly accident prone one. Perhaps, he mused as he opened the letter, this was a side of Neville that Dumbledore saw more of than he did.

"What is it?" Neville asked, sounding curious.

Harry scanned the letter, and sighed. "I have a detention with him tomorrow," he said. "It's about something that happened on Halloween. You know, I'd actually forgotten about that." He paused, and looked at it again. "Oh, and he wants to discuss my participation in the Triwizard Tournament, probably to make sure I don't accidentally kill anyone…"

"You really don't want to take part, then?" Neville asked, a little puzzled.

"Not really," Harry said, pocketing the note. "I have all the fame and glory I want, I don't need the money, and I get enough thrills in my spare time without having them at school too." He eyed Neville. "But you'd have liked to, I'm guessing."

Neville nodded. "It would have been a chance to prove to my grandmother that I'm like my parents," he said. "Like my dad."

Harry frowned. "She goes on about that a lot?" he asked.

"A bit, yeah," Neville said. "Not as much recently, though."

"Well, she should be proud of you for who you are," Harry said firmly. "Rather than going on about who you're not."

Neville flushed, and said nothing, which was quite all right. He didn't really need to.

OoOoO

The next day, Harry duly arrived at the door to Professor Dumbledore's office, knocking, then entering as he was bade to.

"Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, before inclining his head to Harry's ever present bodyguard. "Bucky. Please, sit down."

Harry sat, while Bucky took up position by the door.

"Tea?" Dumbledore asked. "Hot chocolate, perhaps? Or maybe coffee - I hear that your uncle has a certain talent for making it."

Harry, looking as puzzled as he felt, said, "Hot chocolate, please, Professor." This was not how he'd expected the detention to go.

Dumbledore nodded and waved his wand, making the requested drink appear. As Harry sipped, he spoke.

"First of all, I should inform you that your participation in the Triwizard Tournament will come with conditions," Dumbledore said. "Your psychic abilities will be restrained, though not completely deactivated, as on discussion it was deemed that this struck the best balance between maintaining a competitive balance and your own safety. Should something go critically wrong, you will be able to deactivate the restraints and use your abilities freely. This will, of course, lead to your disqualification from the Task." As Harry brightened, he added, "And in case you were tempted to deactivate your restraints as soon as the task begins, I am afraid that the Goblet requires you to at least make some effort to participate. It was a measure added to the enchantment to minimise interference in the Tournament and prevent coercion of the Champions into throwing the match, as it were."

Harry privately thought that this was a flawed rule at best – one that only worked if it was known about by those who would otherwise interfere. Then again, it might be that it had once been better known. After all, the Tournament hadn't been properly performed for centuries.

"Now, as to the detention itself, you are probably wondering where the lines to drill home your wrongdoing are, the speeches sternly reprimanding you for your behaviour, followed some back-breaking task assisting Mister Filch in his duties," Dumbledore said. "For most students, those would be sufficient. However, you are not most students,."

He steepled his fingers and regarded Harry with unblinking focus.

"All such speeches and duties would do is reinforce your stubbornness, make you feel justified in your defiance. Contrary to what you may believe, the purpose of school discipline is to help you, to make you realise the consequences of your actions, that they have consequences, not merely to browbeat you into submission," Dumbledore said. "I do not believe in punishment for the sake of punishment. You have made it abundantly clear that mere detentions are not likely to faze you, and why would they? After all, you have been through things a thousand times worse than the most severe punishment I would ever sanction. I could force you to apologise to Professor Snape and Mr Crouch, but I doubt that would achieve anything – as you demonstrated on Halloween, you are sufficiently eloquent as to convey a complete lack of remorse with the most contrite of words."

Harry tried not to look pleased. Going by Dumbledore's expression, he failed.

"So, what now, Professor?" Harry asked.

"Now, I am going to ask you to do something much harder than simply clean every trophy in the trophy room, or sorting potions ingredients for Professor Snape," Dumbledore said. "Something that will, hopefully, achieve the same end. Since punishment is insufficient to discourage you from misdeeds, I intend to find the root of your misdeeds instead, and hopefully deal with the matter that way."

"So…"

"I want you to talk, Harry," Dumbledore said calmly. "About how you are, and what has been bothering you."

"I thought I made that fairly clear after my name came out of the Goblet, Professor," Harry said bluntly.

"You made it very clear what was bothering you at that moment in time," Dumbledore agreed. "After you hit a breaking point. However, that was not quite the issue I am concerned with. That is an issue I think you are coming to terms with."

"Is it about me and Snape, Professor?"

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore said reprovingly, before sighing. "And no. While we will discuss that subject, I know where both of your respective feelings on the subject come from." He shook his head. "No. My specific concern is more general. You have been, if you will forgive me for saying this, not quite yourself ever since you returned to Hogwarts."

"And you know why that is, Professor," Harry said.

"I do," Dumbledore acknowledged. "I also know that you have been improving, in part thanks to a discussion with Cedric Diggory."

Harry nodded.

"I also hear that you have reached something of an epiphany," Dumbledore said. "About the nature of the life, the universe, and everything."

Harry nodded again. "I realised that life isn't fair," he said. "I mean, I knew it before, but not really seriously. I realised that there wasn't any fundamental justice in the universe," he said. "So, I decided that I should try and make some, try and make it fairer."

"A noble goal," Dumbledore said quietly. "On preliminary evidence, I must say, you do seem to be doing better. This is encouraging."

"But you want to know if I'm likely to revert," Harry said flatly.

"I am," Dumbledore said. "Before, you were curt, surly, and prone to avoiding your friends, usually by disappearing into the Forest. That last I allowed at the time because we all need our moments of privacy, you more so than most with your ever-increasing telepathic abilities, and because you are more than capable of looking after yourself." His gaze flickered up to Bucky. "And even if you were not, Sergeant Barnes most certainly is."

"You're worried about me being grumpy, Professor?" Harry asked, eyebrow raised.

"Not particularly," Dumbledore said calmly. "I would begrudge no one the right to a bad day. After all, we all have them. I myself have had several." He looked at Harry over his glasses. "And I think that you have had a great many these last few months. One in particular I believe started this build-up of pain and anger, the one that exploded earlier in the week, after you were selected for the Triwizard Tournament and Mr Crouch unwittingly made the worst possible choice of words. That 'bad day' was a night. Specifically, the night Luna Lovegood died. The night that you died."

Harry flinched slightly, but said nothing.

"A part of you blames yourself for her death," Dumbledore continued quietly. "And a part of you always will. You feel that you have protected her. Believe it or not, I know exactly how it feels."

"You do?" Harry asked, then frowned. "Of course, you do. You're the headmaster."

"Luna's death does weigh heavily on my conscience," Dumbledore said quietly. "However, I am speaking more personally, about someone close to me that I failed to protect, many years ago."

Harry gave him a surprised look.

"What I am about to tell you is variously not widely known, or known only to a couple of other living souls, neither of whom is likely to say anything about it," Dumbledore said. "However, considering that you are keeping Sergeant Barnes' secret, along with that of Captain Rogers' family, and I am sure you are keeping many others, I believe I can trust you with it."

Harry blinked in surprise, then nodded. "I won't tell anyone, Professor," he said.

"Good," Dumbledore said. "It is not widely known that I have a younger brother, Aberforth. He owns the Hogshead down in Hogsmeade. We have always been rather different and have often not seen eye to eye. In truth, he does not think much of me, and for good reason. That was because of our sister, Ariana."

Harry sat, attentive, and increasingly horrified, as Dumbledore's past rolled out before him – not the legendary wizard, the wise old mentor, or the twinkly-eyed, grandfatherly headmaster. Someone fallible, someone flawed, someone no more immune to the temptations of power than anyone else.

Finally, Dumbledore looked at the stunned Harry. "Of course, our situations are not the same," he said. "Whether or not it was my curse that killed her, it was my fault that Ariana died. Luna's death was not in your hands. But you blamed yourself as if it was. It haunted you, and I think it continues to haunt you. It also exacerbates the other trauma from that night. Your death. The events that have followed have partly helped, but also partly compounded that trauma."

"I'd say more replaced it," Harry said, with a touch of gallows humour about his voice. "The Red Son thing in particular."

Dumbledore inclined his head. "While I cannot claim to have died, or to have faced what you did at the hands of the Red Room, I have fought in wars both magical and mundane, been wounded and suffered losses," he said. "I have experienced what was once called 'shell-shock', what the Wizarding world still calls 'curse-shock', and what modern muggle science calls 'Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder', as well as Survivor's Guilt and similar mental afflictions. I see them in you, as do Sergeant Barnes, Professor McGonagall, and, I believe, Draco Malfoy."

"You also know that I'm getting better," Harry said defiantly, eyes narrowed. "I'm not a ticking time-bomb, Professor."

"I know," Dumbledore said calmly. "If you were, if I thought you were a genuine danger to your fellow students, then while I would have done everything that I could to help you, I would also not have allowed you to return to Hogwarts."

Harry was silent for a long moment, dealing with the strange combination of the brief stab of hurt at that blunt statement, as well as the burst of happiness at Dumbledore's implicit faith in him. That said, he thought, 'not being too dangerous to your fellow students' was a fairly low bar to clear.

"So, what do you want me to say, Professor?" he asked eventually. "You know what I've been through. You know what made me react the way I did. And you know that I'm recovering, and getting therapy for it. What do you want me to talk about?"

Dumbledore looked him in the eye and said two words. "Professor Snape."

"Oh," Harry said sourly. "So, it is about him."

"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore said sharply. "It is about him. Your comments on Halloween greatly upset and angered Professor Snape."

"With all due respect, Professor, they were meant to," Harry said coldly.

"I noticed. And so did he. He wanted to have you put in detention for the rest of the year and be made to give a public apology," Dumbledore said. "Among other things. I declined, partly because you were provoked, partly because your feud with him is at best an inauspicious thing to focus on when the Triwizard tournament is about promoting international co-operation, and partly because it would achieve nothing. As I have said, punishment does not faze you."

The words 'also because your apology would be about as sincere as a promise from Peeves to behave, and you find a way to publicly humiliate him' hung in the air.

"I'm completely fine with international co-operation, Professor," Harry said. "I was thinking of talking to the other champions, setting up a sharing of information principle. You know, so none of us die." He paused. "Well, none of them, anyway."

Dumbledore looked at Harry over his glasses. "While I applaud your generous impulse, Harry, there is an old muggle saying: 'charity begins at home'," he said. "As does co-operation."

"Professor, why would I co-operate with Snape? He hates me for existing," Harry said. "He takes out his hatred of my father and Sirius on every Gryffindor he teaches. He bullies Neville horribly, and last year, he tested a probably poisonous potion on Trevor, Neville's toad, out of sheer spite. And believe me when I say that I know that Neville has more than enough to worry about as it is."

Dumbledore sighed. "Professor Snape, Harry," he said. "And while he does lack social graces, Professor Snape has done a great deal for this school. The vast majority of his students pass the OWLs and those who are accepted into his NEWT class often do well and find success in later life. He also, despite their past enmity, uncomplainingly brewed the Wolfsbane potion every month for Professor Lupin last year."

"He also forced Professor Lupin to resign out of petty spite," Harry said coldly. "Sir, I'm sure he's a potions genius and that's probably why you hired him – I somehow doubt it was for his personality. But he's a horrible person and considering the way he bullies Neville, a terrible teacher too. I'm fine with sticking out the hand of friendship – I've done it to assassins, psychopaths, and brainwashed living weapons. I'm all for appealing to someone's better nature. But that only works if there's actually a better nature to appeal to."

Dumbledore sighed. "Professor Snape is not evil, Harry," he said.

"I know, Professor," Harry said. "I used to think he was, but I know better now. What I mean is…" He paused for a long moment. "I believe that people can change," he said. "But they have to actually want to change. He doesn't." He folded his arms. "I'm not going to try and upset him - not any more than I do by existing, anyway. He leaves me alone, I leave him alone. I'm not going to pick a fight with him, because frankly, I have far better things to do with my time. If he snipes at me, I'll even ignore it." He met Dumbledore's gaze. "But if he tries to pick on my friends, then I'm not just going to sit back and watch."

"Harry, Professor Snape is your teacher."

"Tell him that."

Dumbledore gave him a look which said that the glib mark was very much not approved of.

"Sorry," Harry said, grudgingly. "But Professor, can I speak freely?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"If he acts like a bully, then I don't care who or what he is," Harry said. "I will make him regret it and nothing you say or do will change that."

Dumbledore nodded. "I will take that into account," he said quietly. "For the time being, at least, I shall accept a lack of overt hostility from the both of you." He gave Harry a serious look. "But remember that I am your headmaster, Harry, and I will not accept the public continuation of your feud, something which requires you to treat Professor Snape with at least superficial respect."

"And what about Snape, sir?" Harry asked.

"I have already spoken to Professor Snape about this matter," Dumbledore said coolly. "He is willing to live and let live."

Harry arched an eyebrow.

"Which is not to say he is pleased about it," Dumbledore added. "Now, I will tell you this, as I told him: I will be watching you both, and if I see any signs of your feud recurring, there will be consequences. Conventional punishments do not faze you, but there are privileges you possess that I can revoke. Is that clear?"

Harry weighed this up, then frowned. "What about Neville, sir?"

"I will speak to Professor Snape about Mr Longbottom," Dumbledore said firmly. "And I will make it clear that bullying is not tolerated at Hogwarts, no matter who performs it. Now: are we clear?"

Harry considered for another moment, then nodded. "Clear, Professor," he said.

"Good. And Harry?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"You have shown that you are not a child anymore," Dumbledore said. "Your actions on Halloween were in the finest traditions of Gryffindor House. And that is far from the first time you have put yourself to the test in such a fashion. Though of course, such deeds come with a price, and that price is clear to see in the scars they have left on you. You have proved that you are a young man, and a very brave one at that. I know what you went through with the Red Room, and the effects it had on you, and I therefore understand entirely why you lashed out at Mr Crouch. However."

Harry looked up.

"I have limited your punishment, in light of the circumstances," Dumbledore said. "But I will not exempt from any further punishment either. I understand why you lashed out, but I will not tolerate it any longer. You have proved yourself worthy of being treated as a young man, so now you must act the part, and accept the responsibilities that come with it."

Harry nodded, looking somewhat shame-faced.

"Equally, I am ending your visits to the Forbidden Forest. We will also have weekly meetings to keep track of your progress.," Dumbledore said. "Furthermore, I will expect you to write letters of apology to Mister Bagman, Professor McGonagall, Madame Maxime, and Professor Karkaroff, for your behaviour. In the case of Mister Crouch, considering the root of your reaction, I will settle for you at least restraining yourself from overt hostility when he is at the school."

Harry grimaced, then grudgingly nodded. "I will, Professor," he said.

Dumbledore nodded. "Good," he said. "Then the matter is closed." He raised an eyebrow as Harry paused. "Unless there was something further you wished to discuss?"

"Yes," Harry said. "It's about Snape." He raised a hand. "And not about the fact that we don't like each other. It's practical."

"Ah," Dumbledore said. "You are referring to the Dark Mark on his arm, the remains of his time as a Death Eater. Specifically, the possibility that Voldemort might control him through it as he did those unfortunate former Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup."

Harry blinked and nodded.

"And you assumed that I hadn't considered it, or even that it wasn't among Director Wisdom's first questions?" Dumbledore asked with a raised eyebrow, tone mild, but pointed.

"I try not to assume anything these days, sir," Harry said. "It tends to get me beaten up."

Bucky snorted quietly, but said nothing.

Dumbledore, for his part, smiled faintly, and said, "I feel, as I have felt for many years, that Professor Snape is safer at Hogwarts."

"The wards block Voldemort from controlling him?" Bucky asked quietly.

"The school herself does," Dumbledore corrected him. "While Professor Snape has formidable abilities in Occlumency and Legilimency, Voldemort is every bit as skilled, and these days, considerably more powerful. Additionally, keeping Professor Snape on site also prevents him falling to Voldemort's vengeance, or having his mind ransacked for the vast number of secrets he possesses. Such secrets would be invaluable to Voldemort, either for his own use, or for barter – I believe that he was the one who informed Dracula of Miss Danvers' heritage and her abilities."

"That would make sense," Harry muttered, thinking back to the World Cup.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said, then he glanced at the clock. "Goodness me, it is rather late, isn't it?" he remarked. "You had best get back to Gryffindor Tower."

OoOoO

Elsewhere, at the Xavier Institute, night had also fallen. All its inhabitants were sound asleep, dreaming dreams of peace, quiet, and hopefully not having their school blown up. Again.

Or at least, so the intruder assumed. Small, skinny, with long, clever fingers, hairless beige skin, and bulbous eyes that most resembled those of certain kinds of chameleon, he would have attracted comment in most parts of the mundane world. In the magical world, they saw stranger every day, and in Madripoor, they saw stranger every minute. Nevertheless, he blended into the shadows with preternatural ease, slipping unnoticed past security measure after security measure.

Or so he thought, right up until he heard a very distinctive sound: snikt.

"Ah," he said quietly. "I am found, it would seem."

"You got that right, bub," Logan growled, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. "The Professor wants a word."

"How fortunate," the intruder said mildly. "I wish one with him as well."

Indeed, despite carrying a long wooden stave inlaid with metal, he made no resistance as Logan half dragged him into Xavier's office, to come face to face with a stern-faced dressing gown clad Charles Xavier.

"Our intruder, I presume," Xavier said. "You have a name?"

"I am most commonly called Smith," the intruder said. "Blacksmith, by some." He inclined his head in something just short of a bow. "You are Professor Charles Xavier."

Xavier narrowed his eyes, taking in Smith's stave and simple clothes. "What are you doing here, Brother Smith?" he asked. As Smith started, he smiled thinly. "I am many things, Brother Smith, but I am not a fool. While I have not had dealings with your Order for many years, I still know an Askani Adept when I see one. Or sense one, as the case may be - I detected your presence before you breached the grounds."

Smith blinked, but didn't seem too rattled. If anything, he actually seemed somewhat pleased. "I see that the tales of your abilities are not exaggerated," he said. "Though simply being in your presence is proof of that. Your power is impossible to miss." He cocked his head. "But if you detected my presence, why did you allow me entry?"

"Logan wished to see how you would fare against his new defences," Xavier said evenly. "It seemed a reasonable way to test them."

"Ah..." Smith said, nodding, before smiling faintly. "How did I do?"

"Better than you should have done," Logan growled. "Who the hell are you, bub?"

"I have already told you my name," Smith said mildly.

"Brother Smith is an Askani Adept," Xavier said evenly. "A rather senior one, if I am not mistaken. And to forestall your next question, Logan, the Askani are a quasi-religious order of psychics. Some call them an Order, others, a Clan. In truth, they carry elements of both. Those feeling less generous might call them a cult, and with good reason."

Logan grunted. "Sounds like the Brotherhood in the old days," he remarked.

"Not quite," Xavier said. "Though there are a few similarities." He regarded the silently patient Smith. "They are, primarily, mutants, though they have psychically inclined wandless mages and part-humans in their ranks. However, they are more like magical communities in that they have little interest in the rest of the world, save when it affects them. They are centuries old - in my own private researches, I have found evidence for their presence in Anatolia, what is now Turkey, in the 7th century, when they were assumed to be a heretical Christian sect. There were also hints that they are a good deal older even than that. As it is, when I encountered them, they were almost monastic, with a whole mixture of beliefs and doctrines, drawn from sources as diverse Christianity, Buddhism, certain schools of Hellenic philosophy, and others related to Hinduism, and a group of psychics known as the Golden Council. Other concepts were apparently developed independently. Unlike most monastic orders, however, they were rather enthusiastic about the prospect of ensuring a next generation."

He sat back in his chair, not taking his eyes off Smith. "Seniority is dictated by mastery of the psychic arts – usually skill, though power also plays a key part. They have a number of ranks; Brother Smith, as indicated by his staff, is an Adept, one of the missionaries of the Order - they wander the world, find young psychics and bring them into the Order. They also serve as the Order's warriors, opposing groups and entities that might threaten the Order. Accordingly, they are among its most skilled, most powerful, and above all, most dangerous members."

"You've met 'em before?" Logan asked.

"Professor Xavier was the Order's prize student," Smith said. "The most powerful mortal psychic ever known." He directed his next words at Xavier. "Some even believed you were the Askani'son."

"I encountered some of Brother Smith's predecessors on my travels as a young man, and they guided me to the greater Clan," Xavier said. "I spent a long time with them, in which they taught me much about my powers." His eyes narrowed. "Eventually, however, my ideals and theirs were impossible to reconcile. I wished to find and help all of mutantkind, or as much as I could, and to protect humanity. The Askani, however, only care about the world when it either threatens or benefits them. I also objected to some of their methods. I chose to depart, and I made it very clear to the Mother Askani and the Elders that I wished to have nothing to do with them."

He leaned forward, with no sign of his usual warm amiability.

"So. I will repeat my question, Brother Smith, for the first and last time. What are you doing here?"

Brother Smith met his gaze for several long moments, before nodding slightly. "You are aware of our interest in maintaining bloodlines," he said. "And your experiences, and researches into the so-called 'X-Gene', have supported our reasoning: superhuman abilities, magical and non-magical, are hereditary, even down to specific sets of abilities. Psychics, for example, tend to produce psychics."

Xavier's eyes narrowed. "My researches have proven only that the X-Gene is often inherited," he said coldly. "They do not, and I do not, support the eugenicist Askani dogma of selectively breeding humans like animals to bring forth desired traits, keeping them and their ancestry listed in vast stock books, all in pursuit of creating the so-called 'Askani'son'. All this unnatural selection achieves, in the medium and long term, is to create a genetic bottle-neck."

Brother Smith inclined his head slightly. "I am told that you made this argument to the former Mother Askani," he said. "And some among us have come to agree with you, using you as an example. You have no Askani ancestry, no evidence of psychic abilities in your family tree, and yet… your powers were, and are, breathtaking. Unrivalled. Others have also been cited – Lady Elizabeth Braddock, for instance, your former student, stronger than all but the very strongest of the Askani, and growing stronger still. Some believe that she has some degree of Faerie ancestry, which confuses matters of course…" His expression took on a hint of a grimace. "And others, other… non-psychics… have also been used as examples. Magneto, for instance." He regarded Xavier with a pointed look. "It was part of why your input, your fresh blood, was so desired."

"Brother Smith, my patience is waning," Xavier said.

"This background is necessary, Professor Xavier," Smith replied calmly. "Most of the Askani are what you might call Beta Class, some stronger, some weaker. Alpha class psychics, on the lower end of that scale, are very rare, and celebrated when they appear. I can say without ego that I am one of those, and one of the strongest members of the Clan. I can also say that even in the families when they appear most regularly, they never appear more than once in a generation."

"What are you getting at, bub?" Logan asked suspiciously.

The question was directed at Smith. It was Xavier, however, who answered.

"What Brother Smith is getting at is that there is a family that has, in one generation, produced far more than just one Alpha class psychic and a smattering of Betas," he said tightly.

Smith nodded. "Three psychics. Three psychics, of the same generation, of the same family, little more than children, and yet each alone is already more powerful than even you," he said. "You call them Omega class, and many among the clan would agree: they feel that they are the peak of psychic potential, the end of our search –"

"I would agree," Xavier said coldly. "It is the end of your search. In fact, I would say that it is none of your business."

"All psychic matters are Askani business, Professor Xavier," Smith said flatly. "This one more than most. Until now, the Mother and the Elders have been inclined to allow you to find and teach non-Askani psychics as you wish and as you will. Now, that policy has changed."

"On what grounds?" Xavier asked, eyes narrowing at the 'allow'.

"When one of the three wields their powers to the fullest, they cause not ripples, but waves, in the Astral Plane," Smith said. "When at least one of them engaged in psychic combat a matter of months ago, members of the Clan all over the world were brought to their knees, some effectively crippled."

Xavier regarded him through narrowed eyes. "Given the circumstances, I can understand why the Clan would have concerns," he said evenly. "Though I would remind you, Brother Smith, and your superiors that I am not, have not be, and will never be answerable to them. I have demonstrated that before, and though I would rather avoid doing so, I will demonstrate it again, if I must. So there will be less of the 'allow', if you please."

Smith regarded him with an unblinking gaze, then suddenly changed tack.

"The X-Gene is often inherited," he said. "But 'often' is not 'always'. As the X-Gene often emerges without warning in bloodlines that have shown no previous evidence of it, our genealogies show many instances through the ages of bloodlines, or branches of bloodlines, that seem to run dry of potential. As the magical world has its 'squibs', we have our own equivalents."

"And historically, they were often excluded and treated as second class citizens, if not outright shunned, to the point where they left," Xavier said, voice growing even colder. "Removed like branches pruned from a tree. If you are attempting to make me more sympathetic to your aims, you are not succeeding, Brother Smith. All you are doing is reminding me why I repudiated the Askani in the first place."

"Sound more and more like the old Brotherhood every minute," Logan grunted.

Smith ignored him, focusing on Xavier. "As you say, Professor Xavier, they often left," he said. "Carving out lives in the mundane world, usually vanishing into obscurity. Now, with increased knowledge of genetics and heredity, and of course the X-Gene, thanks to your work, we encourage them not to. Psychic traits usually resurface, after all, even without being partnered with a psychic. Some take as few as one generation, some many more." He paused. "You say that they are as pruned branches. I would disagree, but let us use your metaphor. Cuttings, taken from the tree, they are planted in new soil. Given time, they blossom once more. And sometimes, they flourish on a scale that the tree they were taken from only dream of."

There was a long moment of silence.

"What are you getting at, bub?" Logan asked, tone suspicious.

"I would like to know that too, Brother Smith," Xavier said, in the guarded tone of a professional poker player who thinks he's about to get a nasty surprise.

"I think you know exactly what I am getting at, Professor Xavier," Smith said, tapping a portion of his staff and withdrawing a small memory stick, which he slid over to Xavier. "The relevant details are on there, should you want them. DNA samples can be supplied, for tests of your own, should you desire it. For confirmation, should you need it. The short version, however, is that Jean and Madelyn Grey, and Harry Thorson, are descended from a formerly defunct Askani bloodline."

There was a long moment of silence, before Logan broke it.

"Bullshit," he snarled.

"That is for Professor Xavier to decide," Smith said calmly.

Xavier examined the memory stick for several long moments. Finally, he looked up again. "Let me assume that your information is accurate," he said. "For now." As Smith seemed to relax slightly, he smiled thinly. "I believe that you, in turn, have made an incorrect assumption."

"And what is that, Professor Xavier?"

"That I would care," Xavier said bluntly. "While this information is no doubt fascinating from a historical and genealogical point of view, I fail to see its relevance."

"Their ancestry –"

"Their ancestry, paternal and maternal respectively, will not dictate their future," Xavier said in a voice of steel. "I will teach them about the Askani in due time. In the meantime, you – and the rest of the Askani – will leave them, their families, and their friends, alone. If they seek you out, it will be because they wish to."

Smith regarded him for a long moment. "You truly trust us so little?" he asked.

"My first responsibility, Brother Smith, is to my students," Xavier said. "Students who have been particularly targeted for their heritage and potential." His eyes narrowed. "Most recently by a man who was, among other things, a psychic. A psychic with the power and skills of an Askani Adept."

"And you think that his actions were sanctioned by the Mother Askani?" Smith asked. "We have our renegades, Professor Xavier, as much as any other group."

"That is true," Xavier acknowledged. "But that does not change these simple facts: I have precious little reason to trust the Askani, and I have every reason to suspect a threat to my students. My answer is no, Brother Smith. You may not see them. Please convey that to the Mother Askani, as well as this warning: if the Askani make any move to contact any of the three, I will know. And I will not be pleased."

Smith was silent for a long moment, then nodded and stood up. "Your decision grieves me," he said. "But I can understand it, and I can respect it."

"You do not seem particularly surprised," Xavier observed.

"It is well known among us that you departed the Askani on poor terms," Smith said. "And your protectiveness of your students and associates is also well known among us." He shrugged. "Besides. We can wait." He paused, then said, "So far, I have spoken on behalf of the Clan. But now, I have something of my own to speak of, if I may."

"You may," Xavier said.

"The Clan is troubled," Smith said. "Not by the psychic storms that have rippled through the world in this last year – we can weather those. We are troubled by what they have stirred up. Entities are emerging from the depths of the Astral Plane. Some we know; lesser, manageable, but still dangerous. Others… we do not." He met Xavier's gaze. "We sense beings, vast and terrible, whose mere passage sends the astral plane into turmoil. And if that were not enough…" He trailed off. "A shadow is falling over the world, over all of creation. Seven of our most skilled and experienced seers sought to follow it back to its source, to discern what it was. They took every precaution. And when they finally managed to reach its leading edge, six of them were consumed. Nothing of them survived. Mind, body, and soul. They were burned from within."

"Burned?" Xavier asked carefully.

"Only shells of ash remained," Brother Smith said quietly. "Shells filled with the echoes of screams."

"You said there were seven," Logan remarked, breaking his silence.

Smith nodded. "The seventh was seemingly isolated by the other six. They took the brunt of it," he said. "She suffered the same fate, but survived long enough to share with us what she saw. I was one of those present. It is not pleasant, but I think you should see." He held out a hand, palm up. "If you will permit me?"

Xavier met his gaze for a long moment, then took his hand.

OoOoO

Several hours passed. Brother Smith had long since departed, and after he was assured that his help was not needed, Logan had returned to bed, pausing only to reset the defences. Xavier, for his part, could not sleep. Instead, he found himself staring at the lamp on his desk, a warm light surrounded by a thin, fragile shell, the sole light in a room bathed in a darkness that seemed to go beyond the physical.

And as he did, he found himself dwelling on the message that, even third-hand, had seared itself into his mind. It was not a complicated message, but it registered on many levels, as words, as scent, and as intent. After a moment, Xavier paused, then frowned. No, he decided, 'intent' was the wrong word, as was message. What had been communicated was not a promise or an intention, and was not, in fact, a message at all.

Words like 'promise' and 'intention' implied that it was possible that it might not happen, and message implied a desire to communicate. This was something far more fundamental, an inexorable sense derived from contact with something truly vast, something that most probably had not even noticed the circle of Askani seers brushing against it. And that 'sense', such as it was, could be summed up in the two words that now echoed in the mind of Charles Xavier.

EVERYTHING BURNS.

And on THAT cheerful note, we come to the end of this particular instalment, with secrets, moral ambiguity, and foreshadowing aplenty. All in a day's work. Well, a number of days, but howsoever. Next chapter should be a bit lighter, with more Ron and Hermione, and it'll be leading into the First Task, because seriously, I have put that off long enough.