When Death comes a'knocking (REWRITE)

by Under the Oak Tree

1 JUNE 2019: REWRITE. New title "From the Thunder & the Storm". Two worlds are about to collide, violently. Wizards are losing the battle against the dark as they rely on a would-be saviour who's not sure he's up to the task. Death walks the mortal realm in the shape of men and they bring with them secrets that even they are not aware of. May the gods save them all.

38. Chapter 38: Kurushimi

Title: When Death Comes a'Knocking

Plot Mistresses: Kelly & Librarycat

Spell Researchers: Kelly & LibraryCat

Warning: Secrets. Tantalizing hints.

Scene Master: Kelly & LibraryCat

To all reviewers: Much apologies for the lateness. I surrender myself to your mercy. (Please be reminded that if you kill me, you'll never get to know the end of this story)

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Chapter 38

Kurushimi

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Tsuzuki Asato had the dubious pleasure of being known as the Legendary Slacker of the Shokan. Or Slacker Extraordinaire he preferred to be called, when the whim struck. He had always insisted that slacking was an art form, pursuable by those dedicated to the path of missed deadlines and excuses that could have sunk the Titanic twice over for sheer audacity.

Indeed, he had the perfect guise for it; messy, chocolate bangs that had twitched many a finger to run for the scissors, a tall frame permanently in a lazy slouch that hid the fact he had not an ounce of fat on him, and the perpetually rumpled clothes that Tatsumi despaired of setting aright.

But a certain someone had convinced him of the need to have another guise. Or perhaps, he pursed his lips thoughtfully, it wasn't so much a second mask, but rather, his true face. If he had one that is. Hisoka had seen through the first rather easily too.

Oh, if he was really honest with himself, a lot of people had seen through him. Tatsumi, Watari, Konoe; but none had dared to accuse him of it, nor to try and make him take it off, even for a while. They respected him too much to ask that, their sympathy for the devil silencing their mouths.

But Hisoka loved him too much to let him pretend that the Slacker was Tsuzuki Asato. And the result was an intriguing mix of a man who had seen the world for what it was: a terribly beautiful place. A man who doubted his own humanity but thanked the gods for giving him a mate who was there to remind him that he was, and to whack him over the head if he was being particularly stubborn about it. A man who still had the jovial face to show to people, but this time, it rang with honesty.

So who am I today? Tsuzuki sank a little in his seat, the padded couch marginally comfortable, crowded as it was with all four of them. He crossed one ankle on top of the other knee, vaguely aware that his shoes needed a shine. The Slacker or Asato? Or maybe.. . .he snuck a glance to the side, where a pale Takashi cradled a sleepy Kyo, the man's partner practically comatose in his lap. Tsuzuki knew, if he were to look closely, that the former sensei's eyes would show a certain, dark despair that he was all too familiar with. A slow crushing of hope and optimism that Takashi would try to pretend wasn't dying, so that he could be strong for his loved one. All for his mate who gave him a reason to exist.

Tsuzuki closed his eyes, feeling weariness drag his shoulders down. Today, he would be Tsuzuki Asato. The most powerful, and one of the oldest Shinigami of the Shokan, replacement mission leader for this assignment gone to hell. And he would be his friends' shield if need be.

"You won't be alone," Hisoka said, his voice low but fierce, and Tsuzuki couldn't help but be mesmerized by the strength shining within the jade-bright eyes. It was a stark contrast to the hurt and confusion so clear. . .was it just yesterday? Hisoka was strong. As strong, or maybe even stronger than him. Someone who, despite being broken so many times, could still pick the pieces up and try to go on anyway. And the young empath would carry his mate and his friends forward with him, even if he had to drag them kicking and screaming.

For once, seemingly ignoring the suspicious, mismatched eyes of that Auror, Alastor Moody, trained diligently on them, and the children who watched with damnable curiosity, Hisoka gripped his larger hands, squeezing tightly. "Kyo will get better," the boy continued determinedly. "And we will finish this damn mission, and we're going to go home, and we'll never, ever leave Japan again."

Tsuzuki burst out laughing, and Kyo stirred, murmuring. Hushing his mate, Takashi threw the both of them a look of mingled exasperation and affection. Tsuzuki grinned back, happy to see the former sensei had forgiven him. Takashi, Tsuzuki thought to himself fondly, was a true redhead. Quick to anger, and quick to forgive.

"Aa," he said agreeably, slinging an arm around his partner. "We'll do just that. And we'll wrangle a week long holiday from Tatsumi too."

Hisoka snorted. "Yes, I definitely see that happening. Especially since our cho have been practically unsupervised while we're here. Naturally, Tatsumi will love to let us take a holiday."

Snickering, the Commander of the Divine Twelve flapped his hand amiably. "Maa, maa, Soka-chan," he said happily. "You're his successor. You have to have some leeway with him."

That exasperated eye roll was a heart-warmer alright. "Baka. And speaking of Tatsumi—" Hisoka's voice dropped low, and the young Shinigami made a seemingly casual gesture – just brushing his hair back – and Moody and the children were fortuitously distracted when the fireplace belched out suddenly high flames – and said, "We haven't heard from him since Enma's missive. And nothing at all from the Regulations Office here since we started this. Not even a letter for killing mortals in their realm."

Grimly satisfied, Hisoka leaned back, a challenging look in his eyes that said plainly; try and make this look good.

He tried anyway, if only because it was in his nature to put a good face on things, to believe the best in any situation. "Inter-realm matters are always tricky—" he murmured, and Fawkes, the Headmaster's phoenix, obligingly provided another distraction, squawking and flapping at nothing.

"Blasted bird-!"

"—it's entirely possible that he's tied up with arranging for the enquiries," he finished, and Fawkes settled back on his perch, fluffing his feathers airily at a rather irate Moody. Hisoka was spared from showing his continuing disbelief when the fire roared high again, this time, an incoming Floo.

Belching out green flames, and startling Kyo badly, they saw the whirling shapes in the magical fire approaching closer and closer, finally spitting out first, the Headmaster, followed by Snape, McGonagall, the werewolf and a young woman the Japanese did not recognize immediately.

"Ronald, and Ginevra," the Scottish witch announced without preamble, and the two children named looked surprise at being singled out. The Transfiguration professor appeared sterner than usual, though Tsuzuki detected an odd glimmer in her eyes. Sorrow?

Hisoka squeezed his partner's hand where it lay between them, and a silent message rang through his head.

Someone died. . . .?

"Your mother has requested the both of you to return home immediately," McGonagall announced crisply, but not unkindly. "It is an emergency. Auror Tonks will accompany you." She gestured at the young woman by her side, and to the Japanese' surprise, her muddy brown hair immediately turned a Weasley red.

"Wotcher," Tonks greeted them, her voice subdued. Her name clicked her identity in Tsuzuki's mind – an Order member, and also a Metamorphmagus was what these wizards call someone with her ability. A shape-changer. By the looks on the children's faces, this wasn't typical Tonks behavior and properly subdued, the two Weasleys did not think to protest. They immediately stood up and followed her into the once-again green flames, shouting out, "The Burrow!"

When the last bit of green fire turned orangey-red again, Hermione spoke up, "What. . .what happened, Professor Dumbledore?" she asked, voice trembling. She and Harry exchanged frightened looks, and the Shinigami was saddened to see understanding dawning on their young faces.

"The Ministry of Magic was attacked early this morning," Dumbledore answered slowly, and the gaikokujin gasped as one, the children paling. Moody growled something uncomplimentary, earning him a scowl from the Scottish witch. The Shinigami watched their reaction silently, faces passive. Kyo, awake now, threw Tsuzuki a wide-eyed look, one he answered with a minimal shrug. This was not their territory. They had no right.

"The precise number of the dead and the missing is, as yet, unknown. But Arthur Weasley, Ronald and Ginevra's father, the head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office was one of the earliest identified."

A whimper of "Oh no!" found Hermione throwing herself at Harry, burying her face in his shoulder. The boy looked older than his friend just then, his face white as a sheet but with an oddly mature acceptance that should never have been there in the first place. His grass-green eyes, darkened, met the Shinigami's, and Tsuzuki bowed his head briefly.

The Headmaster continued, but Tsuzuki recognized the burden he could see so plainly. All of the Shinigami carried the same weight, and it got heavier throughout the uncounted years of service.

"He was not our only supporter lost – Kingsley Shacklebolt, a fine, upstanding Auror is among those confirmed dead. Yet, in many ways, Arthur represents the greater loss to the cause." Dumbledore paused to look significantly at each of them over his half-moon glasses. "We had been positioning him with an eye toward ousting the present Minister, Cornelius Fudge from office, in the hope of breaking the stranglehold of the nay-sayers on the government before it is too late."

Hermione made a sound of protest, lifting her tear-stained face to say, accusingly, "He was a good father, and that's the most important loss!"

"Granger-!"

"Severus-!"

Dumbledore quieted Snape with an upraised hand. "Ms. Granger is correct," he replied gently, the twinkle in his eyes decidedly gone. "Arthur was one of the best men I had the honor of calling friend. But nor do I deny the fact that he was just as important to our cause, in our fight against evil and darkness. Don't you agree, Ms. Granger?"

The young witch opened her mouth, but said nothing, throat working soundlessly. Defeated, she nodded, but made no move to disentangle herself from Harry.

Dumbledore gestured at the rest, and armchairs of various shaded patterns materialized for those still standing. Tsuzuki noted silently that the colors were muted, subdued. A reflection of the man's mood, he guessed. Another wave of the wizard's wand and a tea service hovered before them. Cups of hot, fragrant brew were distributed, floating gently into their hands.

"Such ill business to discuss," Dumbledore sighed. "The Minister plans on declaring a state of emergency. Wartime rules are to be enforced, though it is too little, too late. The Auror Division is almost completely disabled, the Ministry in such chaos as I have not witnessed since Grindelwald's rise. I have tried to convince Cornelius to assemble those we do have, and launch our own assault but the man refuses. He insists the remnants of the Aurors be reassigned as his bodyguards. His own protection is of more importance."

Tumult broke out in the office, as disbelief over the Minister's selfishness was expressed, and the old wizard waved a hand tiredly, gleaming gold sparks leaving a bright comet's tail in the air. "Please," he sighed. Tsuzuki watched, and saw the telltale signs that said the Shinigami's reprieve was over, that they would be required to break their oath of secrecy soon. He got another squeeze of reassurance from his mate, and Takashi, likewise, gave him a slight nod that conveyed the former sensei's continuing willingness to let him shoulder the burden of leadership. The senior Shinigami grinned, an inquiring tilt to his head and was rewarded with a slight blush on the redhead's cheek. Kyo stirred again, dazed, cursed-darkened eyes flitting confusingly from his partner's face and to Tsuzuki's.

Takashi smiled, an expression of such pure devotion and nudged the boy's nose gently with his, murmuring barely-heard endearments. Tsuzuki felt the breath catch in his lungs, turning cold with threatening despair and the gut-twisting swirl of premonition.

They weren't going to come out of this intact, were they?

. . .Asato. . .

He straightened, unconsciously fixing (or trying to) his crooked tie at the well-known tones of exasperated affection. He shot Hisoka a quirky grin, and got a resigned shake of the head. Cheered by that familiar routine, he met the Headmaster's strangely knowing gaze head on.

"Be that as it may," Dumbledore was saying, and the rarely-heard sternness sent abashed adults subsiding in their seats, Hermione and Harry likewise retreating to their own. "While the attack is of pressing importance," the wizard sighed, "We are here to address another concern. Perhaps, when we've put that to rest, we will be able to approach this latest problem with clearer heads. Now, Tsuzuki—" long fingers, wrinkled and adorned with jeweled rings, folded together, infinitely patient. "—you have said to Harry and his friends, that you are willing to 'come clean', as the Muggles call it. Which implies, you haven't before," he finished wryly.

Tsuzuki held out his hands, palms up in a gesture of helplessness. "Only as much as we can," he corrected gently. "No matter how badly we want to help—" and got a snort of disbelief from the Potions Master which he ignored, "—we are bound by higher laws than yours. We swore an oath to serve Enma-sama without fail, and part of it requires our silence on certain matters." Tsuzuki shook his head ruefully, giving his partner a small smile. "Enma-sama is all knowing though, and he has allowed us to break our silence when the situation warrants it. And as mission leader, I deem it to be so." Strength suffused his words at the end, and the other three Shinigami unconsciously straightened, even Kyo, whose inner core was still imbalanced enough that the older man half-suspected that the boy wasn't really hearing much of anything save his sensei's voice.

"When a human dies with regret, or any other strong emotions that prevents them from accepting the peace of final rest," he said quietly, catching the wizards' and Shinigami's attention alike, "they become restless haunts, roaming the mortal plane. Or they become like us."

Silence, and then. . . "P-professor?" Hermione spoke up, confusion in her brown eyes. She looked for direction in the Headmaster, only to find dawning realization in the aged face which didn't really help much, lost as she was. "I. . .we don't understand. Are you saying. . ." she trailed off cautiously.

"That we're dead?" Tsuzuki smiled humorlessly. "Yes. Literally. In Japan, we are called Shinigami. Death gods. Here, our brethren are called—"

"Tuatha de Danenn."

Tsuzuki chuckled, shaking his head wryly. "I should have known you'd figure it out, Headmaster."

"You're aware of the Tuatha de Danenn's existence then, sir?" Hisoka asked curiously.

Dumbledore nodded again. "Yes, I am. I met a pair once, during Grindelwald's rise. . ." he trailed off, a faraway look in his eyes. "It was a brief encounter, but very remarkable all the same. Walking, living legends usually are." The old wizard smiled gently. "Though, the four of you are rather. . young, for such positions," he said delicately. If the old man expected an answer, he didn't get any.

"Wait, wait." Hermione held up her hand, a frown of disbelief on her face. Her eyes were large, her smile, just this short of incredulous. "Are you saying you really are….dead?" she asked faintly. "Like… 'dead' dead?"

Tsuzuki blinked. It was rare to see the bright young witch so flummoxed. "Yes," he said cheerfully and helpfully added, "Very dead. As in, 'no longer among the living' dead. Kicked the can, deader than—"

"She gets the idea, you baka."

Her mouth was a perfect 'o' of surprise but the adults fared better. The Potions Master watched with shrewd eyes, and Tsuzuki knew that this man was just as, if not more so dangerous than the Headmaster. Alastor's spinning magical eye and Lupin's look of faint hurt and disbelief was easier to take than Snape's unblinking regard. The senior Shinigami was distracted though, by Hermione who had recovered quite well from her shock.

"The war goddess, Cymidei Cymeinfoll and her husband, Llasar Llaesyfnewid, supposedly owned a magical cauldron that can resurrect warriors killed in battle." The young witch was practically quivering with energy, bouncing excitedly in her own chair. The speed which she accepted their non-mortality was disconcerting. The Shinigami, to put it simply, were flabbergasted "They were mute though, similar to when the cauldron owned by Dagda—"

"Cauldron of Rebirth, owned by Matholwch Bran," Snape cut in, and to the Shinigami's collective surprise, the entire office sans Headmaster fell into a vicious debate on which legend was the more accurate for the current situation. Dazed, Tsuzuki could only shake his head, sadness dampening the levity when he recalled two other children who ought to be here, but weren't. The young are so easily distracted from tragedy, he thought sadly, taking in Hermione's flushed face and bright eyes, and even the werewolf's normally placid tones rising in hot protest.

Yes, these wizards had seen death. But had they ever had the task of convincing a ten year old child that he was no longer among the living, and that he would see his mother soon enough?

But one young voice was missing from the babble. The Shinigami locked eyes again with Harry, and Tsuzuki saw the anguish in their depths. The death gods might win on quantity, but they could not deny that grief was grief and in this bright, cheerful office with its many portraits, a boy mourned his friend's loss.

"Your theory is preposterous Granger. All of the cauldron born were supposed to be warriors and these—these children are hardly that."

"We are all ignoring the fact that all of the myths agree on one thing," Remus interjected. The werewolf leaned forwards in his seat, amber eyes bright with the heat of the debate. Those golden-brown orbs fixed unerringly on Takashi, the former sensei taken aback at the intensity. "The cauldron born were all supposed to be mute, to protect the secrets of the dead. They—" he gestured, "Are decidedly not."

"There's a perfectly reasonable way to settle this, Professor," Hermione replied crossly. "Well?" She turned to Hisoka, arms crossed.

"Well what?" the blond Shinigami countered. To all appearances, he seemed bored by the argument and through their link, Tsuzuki could very well detect he was.

"Are you cauldron born or something else?"

"I don't recall any cauldrons, no," he replied, wry. "Nor are we, obviously, mute."

"Then what are you exactly?" she asked shrewdly.

"Shinigami," Hisoka rolled his eyes. "A god of death. Look, you all, strangely enough, seem to be perfectly willing to accept the fact that we're not among the living. Isn't that enough? Dead is dead."

That immediately sparked off another round of furious arguing.

"Inferi are not—"

"—zombies which are—"

"—ghosts are fine examples of those who—"

"Why do you get a second chance and not someone else?"

All eyes turned to Harry, the young boy ignoring them to stare at the Shinigami with haunted eyes. "Why not Sirius?" he asked quietly. "Why not my parents? They had unfinished business. They had the power as well."

It was Takashi who answered, the former sensei's face sagging tiredly. "Not all are asked the question. Nobody knows exactly but the general rule seems to be those who appear to be candidates who would pass the three tests of a potential Shinigami. Or a Tuatha. The three tests of Need, Strength and Loyalty."

"I'm assuming that the test of loyalty would not be to the living," Remus said quietly. "But to your god."

Takashi clamped his mouth shut, sending Tsuzuki a look of apology. Tsuzuki waved his hand, garnering their attention. "You're asking us to reveal more than we can, Remus-san," he said gently. "In fact, we've told you more than we should. It is enough that you know we are death gods. We now ask you to keep this a secret. If the Headmaster knew of the existence of our kind before this, then no doubt Voldemort does as well. But better to keep his suspicions as only that, rather than risk any of my colleagues' safety any further. We already have one of our own compromised," he concluded grimly.

"And we promised you our help, as much as we can extend," Dumbledore agreed slowly. He was quickly silenced by protests.

"Albus, are you daft?" Moody asked furiously. "You've heard them! They're Tuatha! I don't practice the Dark Arts," he sneered at the Potions Master, "But I know enough from fighting scum that they are not beings you associate with freely without a price paid!"

"His ignorance aside," And really, Tsuzuki mused silently, Snape was a master at those sneers. His easily put the old Auror's to shame. "The one-eyed fool is correct - Tuatha are long creatures of darkness in magical lore." The tall, lean form of the Potions Master swept to his feet in one elegant move, night-dark robes swirling. "I will say this with the utmost respect Headmaster," the dour professor said, voice low and silky smooth. "You are undoubtedly, certifiably, insane, if you do not throw these four out of Hogwarts immediately. At the very least, seal them back in whatever Hell dimension they oozed out from!"

"Really!" Tsuzuki protested mildly. "We did not ooze out from anywhere, thank you. And your lore is obviously wrong; death gods serve to help maintain the balance between the spiritual and the mortal world. Professor Dumbledore—" He turned pleading, guileless amethyst eyes to the old wizard, sincerity strong and earnest within. "—everything I said to you, after the hospital wing, in this very same room, was the truth save for what we call ourselves. Yamabushi are what we really would have been were we alive. We're not, hence, we are called Shinigami. I swear this on the name of Enma-Daioh, Lord of Death and Judgment," he ended solemnly.

Further dispute would have arisen, and perhaps, given more than just Hisoka a headache if Fawkes hadn't taken matters into his own metaphorical hands. The firebird flew off his golden perch, alighting on the grateful Tsuzuki's shoulder. The phoenix eyed the wizards beadily, the message in it, and in the warm, uplifting tone of his song clear – trust.

"Look, we're wasting time as it is," Hisoka snapped, the first to shake off the effects of phoenix song. He surged to his feet, pacing back and forth. "You know our secrets – as much as we can tell you and not be accused of treason, your Ministry's been hit and you lost valued supporters. Now I suggest we damn well do something before the cost gets any higher!"

Before it costs my friend his life.

Tsuzuki snagged the slender boy's hand and pulled gently, uncaring for their audience. They were past that anyway, even if Hisoka squawked with indignation and furious embarrassment , tumbling into his lap with little of his swordsman's grace. Their link thrummed with fear-worry-anger-guilt-pain and Tsuzuki embraced the empath, just as he embraced the tumult of emotions swirling agitatedly inside his partner. Gradually, the maelstrom eased, becoming more of an ache, rather than a sharp sting that stole the breath away.

"Our current problems right now," Tsuzuki said, quietly, but with no less conviction, "are related. This Dark Lord of yours has struck again, taking the lives of loved ones and friends. And he has hurt one of our own. Our other secrets aside…" here, he smiled, "Won't you agree that we share a common goal? To bring down the one who has caused us so much misery?"

Hisoka shifted, and belatedly, he murmured a quick apology, allowing the slight blond to sit by his side instead of his lap. The empath scowled, but it was more reflex than for real; Hisoka appreciated the calm influence he brought to bear.

"You are correct, Tsuzuki," Dumbledore replied, and Fawkes trilled in agreement, yet to leave his new perch on the Shinigami's shoulder. "And I promised Takashi our help, regardless. If no one else has anymore objections? Splendid!" The Headmaster clapped his hands once, and Tsuzuki noted that he really didn't give time for them to protest, if they had wanted to.

"Severus," the old man announced, "I do believe it's your turn."

---

Snape shifted with irritation, less than pleased at being trapped into the role of spokesman by the assembled members of the Order. He cast a frustrated scowl in the direction of the Headmaster, who responded with a typically cheerful and encouraging smile and a lift of his bushy gray brows. The old man could at least have the decency to cease with the thrice-damned twinkling when matters of dead…'comrades', his lips curled in a habitual sneer at the sickening term, and dead allies were the main topic of conversation. Steadfastly, he ignored the creeping sensation of doubt at the back of his mind, urging him to set right the score this time, in recompense for past mistakes.

He did not make mistakes.

Nevertheless. . .he flicked an imaginary lint from the cuff of his tightly buttoned sleeve, that moment of fastidiousness his only indulgence to his impatience with the sheep's tendency to focus on the obvious and the odious. It was displeasing, admittedly, to be shown that his formidable knowledge of the Dark Arts was lacking in some areas, but isn't that what knowledge was? A constant flux of theories proven and disproved, what was held steadfastly today, might be tomorrow's myth.

Still. . .he scowled. If they so much as sneezed wrongly, he was exorcising them, allies or not.

"Shall we attend to the matter at hand?" he laid out briskly, none of his pleasure at their complete attention to his every word shown. But the irritating blond – Kurosaki – had a most intriguing gleam in his jade eyes. . . "Your supposition is sound, Mister Tsuzuki—" the faintest grimace showed his disbelief at how a bumbling fool such as the purple-eyed man obviously was could suggest anything logical, "—but you are blinding yourself to one facet of the conclusion only. The Ministry is in chaos, and while the Dark Lord has undoubtedly sought to achieve that, the real concern at hand is why. Is this a diversion? A delaying tactic? Or a concerted effort that ties in with his. . .other projects?" He inclined his head towards Shiozaki, the boy looking startled at being singled out, as though they weren't going to discuss his little predicament. Typical Gryffindor. It seems even in death one could not escape the inherent obtuseness gained upon admittance into the house of lion-headed fools. The Potions Master's normally forbidding expression became briefly sour (well, more so than usual), but still he sighed and began.

"Mr. Shiozaki." The boy so addressed turned innocent blue eyes his way, focusing his attention and charm on the older man. Snape's scowl deepened at the sight of a smile that would have suited Dumbledore. "The spell cast on you utilized ritual magic, and that has been the source of some... difficulty... for those of us engaged in researching its purpose." Confusion skated across the boy's young face, but before Shiozaki could do more than open his mouth, Snape plunged on. "What you have seen on a daily basis, here at Hogwarts, and in the European community as a whole, is not ritual magic. Normally, a spell is the imposition of an individual's – the caster's – will upon an object or subject. In ritual magic, the situation is far more complex because it represents the intersection of many forces. More often than not, they involve the combining of the power of several wizards to achieve their ends, and as such, ritual spells are not practiced and learned in a classroom setting. They are created at the moment of casting, according to the ebb and flow of power among the participants and their environment. And because of that, taken outside of the context in which they are cast, they are devilishly difficult to break."

"But -" The boy paused, gathered himself, and continued with a kind of desperate irony. "We practice ritualized magic." He gestured at himself, and his friends. "That's what onmyoujitsu is; spells and wardings based on the current alignment of nature and the heavenly bodies—"

He was, Snape admitted grudgingly, impressed. What the boy said was correct, and it lacked the regurgitated drone the Granger girl was so fond of. Shiozaki knew his craft, as did his mate and friends, that much he could credit.

"—you have m-my memories of that night. Why can't you re-create it and design an unbinding from it?"

"Mr. Shiozaki. Kyo." From his place at the far side of the semi-circle of chairs, Lupin learned forward and spoke with gentle forcefulness. "I have also watched the memories that you placed in the Pensieve. What Severus says is correct. The spell that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named cast was very complex, and very Dark. He used your own magic and connection to the elements to curse you. While it was more subtle than the Imperius, it is no less Unforgivable." Lupin glanced at Snape, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Better the wolf than the reformed Death Eater, when it came to discussions of this sort. "The Dark Lord did not mingle his essence with yours during the initial creation of the Quinta Essentia. That would have formed a true melding of your powers, a symbiosis. Rather, he waited and superimposed his control at the end of the process, which allowed him to dominate your connection to the elements. The bond is one-sided – he is able to affect you and your magic, but you cannot use the link back against him. Breaking that domination is going to be very, very unpleasant, as is always the case when the Dark Arts are used."

The boy looked between the two of them, eyes gone wide with distress. His lips parted as though he wanted to argue, but then a shuddering sigh of pain passed over him, and soot black lashes swept down to rest on cheeks that glowed faintly golden with arcane energy. A soft rose blush washed across the elegant curve of bone and flesh, and his eyes flicked open, meeting those of the Potions Master. Snape forced himself to hold that gaze, to not yield and look away. He owed the boy to not falter. He owed Sebastian. One of the very few he dared call friend, trapped by the same madman and now, undoubtedly lost.

The Master knows.

An unpleasantly hollow sensation behind his breastbone assaulted him, and agony ran liquidly down his arm. Hastily, Snape closed his eyes.

If I can't save Sebastian, he thought with grimly, then I'd damn well save this boy. Even if it means destroying him.

---

We are gods of death.

Shinigami. Or Tuatha de Danenn. Whatever the label given, the basic fact was still the same: the Japanese were no longer among the living.

Amber eyes, wrinkled with crows' feet at the corners, latched on to the redheaded former doctor. His nostrils flared; inhaling the scent of dust, tea, lemons and colognes. Resisting the urge to sneeze, he cocked his head to the side, unaware of how wolfish he looked at that particular moment. Although if Remus had bothered to turn a bit to the left, he'd have seen Harry trying to stifle a small smile, heartrendingly sweet in its honesty and rarity.

The werewolf expected something. He wasn't sure what, but surely something would change upon realizing that the man you truly enjoyed spending time with was dead and was neither a ghost, nor a zombie. Takashi breathed like any living human, and had a heartbeat (his senses could pick that up quite well), and had the warmth all living mammals did. So in essence, nothing changed.

Takashi. . .was Takashi.

Well, that certainly made things easier. He had no right to pass judgment on what made you Dark or not. He was fine proof of that wasn't he?

Snape was saying something, and the man's silky, yet oh so dour tones could catch the attention of a crowd. Which was his intent, Remus was sure. With effort, he turned his attention to what Snape was saying; what was he blath—oh.

With bemused interest, Remus watched the swift interplay between teacher and student, and wondered what the hell was going on. In the time that he had known the grim man, he had found Snape quite capable of using sex – or more accurately – the threat inherent in sex, to achieve his goals. The werewolf had even stumbled on him in an inexplicably unguarded moment, nearly naked and tangled in another's embrace. But this didn't have the feel of that; rather, it was as if something else that Remus couldn't quite put a paw on was motivating his secretive fellow professor. The boy faltered, caught in the throes of a blessedly mild seizure that was still enough to send a pulse of projected magic through the circular office. At the same moment, Remus noted the sudden, unwilling clench of Snape's hand in the fabric of his robes, nearly hidden between his thigh and the arm of his chair, and confusion crystallized into certainty, the wolf inside sorrowed. Oh, Merlin! He's allowed himself to become fond of the boy! Heaven help us all. Because there could be no other explanation for way he seemed tugged to follow the child as if on a leash.

No, not a child, he corrected himself. A man, if he was to believe Kyo's claim of his age earlier.

But in this bright, cheery office, comfortably overcrowded, and with the faint, lingering scent of lemon sherbets, Remus could believe the thin youth cradled lovingly in his mate's embrace was the age he had lied to be. Or younger – because the fear in those darkening eyes called out for someone to soothe it away – and certainly, their Potions Master seemed to be the one answering.

It was a complication that none of them needed. While Remus was nearly positive that Snape would never approach the younger Asian, he was just as sure that even a one-sided emotional involvement would be disastrous. If they were unable to break the curse and the boy died because of it (can a god of death die – again?), Snape would first condemn himself for the failure, and would then be driven by rage to take it out on everything else in his path. While he might have turned aside from the path to damnation, fury and destruction were still his instinctive response to any kind of overwhelming passion.

Remus quickly glanced around the assemblage, cataloging reactions: Moody, cross and oblivious as always was still slouched into a chair as far away from the rest of them as possible, his back firmly against the wall. Matsumada gazed only at his lover's haunted profile and unthinkingly laced supportive fingers with his. The expressions of the other two Asians were so guarded as to be nearly unreadable, but Remus was sure that the strange one's violet eyes swam with hopeless tears. On some level, they had already known the danger that Kyo faced from Voldemort, but Remus doubted that they would recognize this new threat.

Harry…Harry held himself back, but the werewolf could smell the longing, could taste the boy's need to be by his friend's side if wariness didn't overpower the mix. Lastly, Remus glanced at Professor Dumbledore. The werewolf flinched inwardly as the Head Master's sad blue eyes captured his. Yes, Dumbledore had seen and likewise understood that the stakes had just been raised. But even if another of their own had not now become involved, there was still no question that the Order would act to help. It was simply the right thing to do.

The wolf agreed; pack, even if they were a very strange pact by canine standards, was pack.

The elderly wizard shook himself, as though to shake off his sorrowful mood, deliberately swirling his wand at the teapot on his desk and attempting to refill everyone's cups. Snape came back to himself with a silent snarl of refusal, covering his cup with his hand even at the risk of being splashed with hot tea. "All is not lost," Dumbledore was saying as he sent the pot hovering over to McGonagall. "I've been in contact with my old friend, Nicholas Flamel."

"How is he?" McGonagall asked, a rare smile flitting across her normally stern features. She liked the master wizard, Remus recalled, having heard that she had spent a year-long internship with him when she had first decided to specialize in Transfigurations.

"Fading, as we all expected when he decided to allow the Philosopher's Stone to be destroyed." Seeing the identical looks of confusion on the four Asian faces in the circle, Dumbledore elaborated. "Nicholas is the only living wizard to have successfully completed the Magnum Opus, creating the aurum alchymial – alchemical gold – and the Elixir of Life. I was his partner for a number of years, which led to my allowing the Stone to be hidden here at Hogwarts. Harry can tell you in greater detail what kind of adventures that caused during his first year here as a student." If the headmaster thought to elicit a response from the Boy Who Lived, he was disappointed. Harry merely ducked his head, studying tightly laced hands intently. The old wizard sighed, shifting his kind regard to Snape, ignoring the shuttered blankness that had settled on Snape's taut form. Dumbledore said calmly, "Nicholas concurs with your findings, Severus. Although he believes that the odds for success will increase dramatically if you were to factor in the White Oil created together with Mr. Shiozaki's Quinta Essentia."

Focused consideration chased surprise in a rapid play of emotion on the Potion Master's lean face. "Yes... Possibly." He slid down in the chair, crossing one ankle on top of the other knee in an uncharacteristically heedless movement. His heavy black robes shifted, revealing a polished, calf high boot of black leather and the snug line of his trousers across his knee. "Hmm. It will no longer act as a solvent upon the white clay, but the traces of the active components still present would be most instructive..." His voice trailed off as his agile brain began turning over new possibilities. One hand propped up his chin as he withdrew into thought. Remus bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to restrain an inappropriate laugh; Severus rarely permitted himself to lose track of his surroundings. Survival, after all, depended on constant vigilance as Moody was fond of saying.

The werewolf cleared his throat diffidently. "I've been looking to the wording of the Dark Lord's incantation. What he said at the end was fairly clear: Enyalius et Enyo, ades et satia scelerato, Sanguine Terra Ferrum, Aquae ferventes, Aer immundus, et per Ignem. That would literally translate as 'Enyalius and Enyo, be by my side and satiate Earth's Cold Steel with Blood polluted by guilt, scalding Water, foul Air, and Fire.' Enyalius is an aspect of Ares, the god of war, in his role as the bringer of carnage, and Enyo is the murderess goddess of war. I would take it to mean that he intended to use the Four Elements to bring about death and destruction. I believe he's made a doomsday weapon out of Kyo."

Startled, the boy flinched at the familiar use of his name, but it didn't distract him from the real import of the werewolf's words. He paled further, if that was possible, saying faintly, "A weapon?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I had begun to think the same thing, Remus. Given the power that young Mr. Shiozaki has displayed in the past, I think it would not be unreasonable to assume that Voledemort's target is Hogwarts, and all of us. It would require something on this scale to breach the wards that protect us here."

"That. . .that would be the logical assumption," Kyo murmured, sagging further into Takashi. "Even without, I do. . ." he faltered, eyes unfocused.

"Shiozaki?" Snape bit out. Moving swiftly, he crouched before the boy and his mate in a swirl of black robes, stained fingers gently probing.

Takashi, Remus noted, allowed the touch, even going so far as to mention, "Kyo seems susceptible to these lapses. I fear his strength is greatly sapped from fighting the hold of the curse."

"Yes. . ." Snape hissed, displeased if Remus could trust his nose. "My theories have yet to take into account your little. . .revelation." He glared darkly up at Takashi, fingers tightening their grip on an unresponsive Kyo's chin.

"We are capable of regeneration," Kyo's mate answered neutrally, after receiving the barest of nods from Tsuzuki. "But it is tied with our magical core. If we are weakened enough, or forced to constantly maintain regeneration, then we are basically mortal. Your theory is sound – as best as I can understand it."

Satisfied, the dark man sank back on his haunches, stroking his cheek thoughtfully. The whitened spots of Kyo's flesh were slow to disappear. "Do you know what he intended to say?" he gestured tightly at the boy.

"I can guess," Takashi shrugged. "Even without the curse, Kyo is strong enough to take down your wards by himself." He noted their unease with a small smile. "If," he qualified, "he was willing to ignore or break all tenets governing onmyoujitsu and his gift. The simplest explanation is that he able to command the elements to do his bidding – in truth, it is a give and take relationship. He only asks from them what he can give back." He looked down on his mate with a fond smile, ruffling Kyo's hair gently. The boy stirred, looking around dazedly. "That connection is now tainted," Takashi continued quietly. "The elements are not dumb forces; they understand and are aware, at a level incomprehensible to us. All they know now is that Kyo has been sullied. The next time he engages his mastery – or is forced to – they will demand a reckoning. That alone will produce terrible, destructive energies we can ill afford."

The charged silence was broken when Snape shot to his feet, pacing to the farthest corner of the office and whirled around. "I think I have it. Perhaps." He paused, frowned indecisively, and then continued with renewed conviction. "Flamel is correct. The White Oil is critical, and I was an idiot for not recognizing the fact sooner."

Several jaws dropped at the unfamiliar sound of the egotistical Potions Master calling himself an idiot. That kind of treatment was normally reserved for the students who had the misfortune to attract his attention. Remus shook his head silently; they might never be the best of friends, but he knew the Potions Master well enough to have realized that no matter how hard he was on others, the man was harder on himself.

A sharp gesture with his wand conjured a blackboard in mid air, and Snape began writing swift symbols across it. He began with a triangle-on-a-cross, labeling it as 'Alchemical Sulfur'. The next column was headed by an egg with a line across its middle and the word 'Salt.' Last came an odd little caricature of a demon, together with 'Mercury.' His back was toward the combined numbers of the Order and the Japanese, which saved him from the urge to hex them all as grins appeared on every face – even Moody's. "Very well then. We know that the original formulation included saturnine water of antimony, gold, silver, cinnabar, realgar, sal ammoniac and semen. The blood of the Dark Lord was not present in the formation of the Quinta Essentia, and so can be considered as a contaminant. But in so doing, he has left us a loophole." Symbols for each ingredient were added to the columns, together with odd notations. The last item, the blood, was scrawled to the far right end of the board.

He paused and turned to face his audience, deep set eyes sparking with suppressed excitement and anticipation. A smudge of white chalk marred the tight cuff of his black robe, but no one pointed it out. Dumbledore rose slowly and passed around the end of his desk to better take in the formulation on the board. "Yes..." The elder man nodded. "I see."

"See what?" Kyo asked dazedly, looking first at the weird writing, then at the two wizards who stood facing one another with himself seated in between. With visible effort, the young man forced himself to concentrate, shaking off the earlier lapse and Snape looked down at him with a triumphant smirk.

"The key, Shiozaki. The key." They stared at one another for a long moment, the taller man's glittering black eyes holding the darkening blue of the younger effortlessly. Remus shifted again, uneasy for the implications that stare held. Then Snape broke the connection and turned back to the blackboard. He began writing again. "If we presume the White Oil as an active base, it is then possible to formulate a potion that will force the minerals from your flesh. It will require Aqua Regia, which Muggles know as a mixture of one part nitric acid and three parts hydrochloric acid. It is called the 'King's Water' because it is able to dissolve the king of metals, gold. And we will need vinegar, preferably distilled from a good vintage of wine that has gone sour. Vinegar is only a medium strong acid, but it reacts with most organic substances." As he neared the bottom of the blackboard, it scrolled up to provide him additional space.

Takashi spoke up, his voice shaking "You intend to feed Kyo a potion including acids?"

"Indeed. It will be a necessary first step." Snape was abstracted as he stepped back to review his calculations, then reached out with his wand and wiped half a row from the board.

"Professor! I object! You can't have people go around ingesting hydrochloric acid. I'm a doctor, and there isn't a medical treatment on the planet that -" He was on his feet, shouting, normally gentle features flushing scarlet.

Snape spun sharply about, and took a fierce step toward. "This is not Muggle medicine, you fool! I do not lightly recommend administering toxins. I am trying to find a way to break the idiot boy's curse!"

Dumbledore's wand was in his hand, ready to intervene, but his voice was mild. "Severus, we know that. But perhaps it would be good if you were to explain your thought processes from the beginning. I think all of us, not just Professor Matsumada, would benefit."

"Very well, Headmaster." With poor grace, he acquiesced, forcing his clenched fists to relax. "I believe it will be possible to draw much of the Quinta Essentia out of Mr. Shiozaki's body, and in so doing to remove the contamination of the Dark Lord's blood. Once that pressure has been alleviated, Shiozaki ought to be able to fight – and hopefully break – the control that the Dark Lord had gained over his Elemental magic. But, he will have to consume these potions -" He gestured vaguely at the board behind his back. "They will separate the contaminated Quinta Essentia from his tissue. Once that has been done, he must be bled to remove as much as possible. A prolonged soak in a chemical bath should leach out the remainder. And yes, the process – potions, blood letting, and bath – will be both painful and dangerous. It will also require a complex casting of ritual magic on our parts, for even as Shiozaki is being killed by the poisons that I propose to use, others of us will be forcing healing on his body and interfering with the curse's function. It will become a race to see which occurs first, his death, or his salvation."

Kyo shuddered, the only visible concession he would allow for the fact that they were discussing feeding him acids and poisons. But the werewolf scented the fear, and the odd resignation.

"Well, at least they can't say we didn't try our best to rectify this," Shiozaki murmured to himself, and Remus wondered. . .who were 'they'? This Enma-sama they called upon often?

Takashi dropped heavily by his partner's side, dropping his head in his hands and mussing his neat hair beyond salvaging. "I wish…." He said, words muffled and unfinished.

"I know Taka," Kyo sighed tiredly. "I know."

---

Barny Bluster. That's what Charlie Whittington used to call him, back when schools were proper schools and not this mucking about with Muggle Studies – honestly! - and children pretending to be adults. Defense Association! Hah! He had seen right through that mortal boy's front. Could have called the boy's bluff, but he didn't. Couldn't anyway. Being dead does put a crimp in your lifestyle but he, like the past, illustrious Fudges of before - Merlin bless them! – he had persevered. He had made a name for himself. None of these schoolyard nicknames given by bullies who were jealous of a mate's inevitable rise to power and glory.

He was Banalius Fudge, Britain's Head of the Office of Regulations of the Affairs of the Dead. He commanded the Tuatha de Danenn. Figures of legends, whom, he had discovered, were just ordinary (dead) wizards and witches. And people needed a strong leader. Someone who could see what's right and what's not, and set them straight. He had seen it. Oh yes, he had. Better, without the distractions of a mortal life. He had seen that there was more to this than just a madman out for power and the death of a boy.

Banalius Fudge, had seen an Opportunity.

A square of purple, yellow-polka dotted handkerchief was dug out, and he wiped the sweat off his brow. That annoying man was still looming over him, and he detested it. So he was rather lacking in height; no need to flaunt it! And. . .he eyed the unnatural shadows warily, such an ostentatious display of power!

He licked his lips. Power that could be his, if he played his cards right.

"I say, I say old chap," he huffed, settling deeper into his padded seat, trying not to quail under the man's cold glare. "No need for that—" he waved a pudgy hand. "—just because we got the news faster than you lot. Well, I say your man has been delaying, maybe trying to put a better spin of things, eh?" He winked conspiratorially, putting a knowing finger alongside his nose. "Better men have done that, and we can't blame them. We all know the punishment for such offences, Tuatha and you. . .Shee-nee-gar-mee," he announced, pleased with the way he pronounced the rather awkward phrase. Tropical, backwater cultures; it showed in everything, from their language, to their manners.

"Indeed. Pray, refresh my mind on what these punishments are, and for what offence."

The man—oh, what was his name? Banalius discreetly nudged Smithers in the ribs, glancing significantly in the man's direction. Their unwanted guest, and his assistant, the blond, had taken the available seats, faces blank. Smithers – good man, if a bit touched in the head – shoved a piece of parchment under his nose. Banalius had to lean back to read it, and practice allowed him to retrieve only the most necessary information.

Seiichiro Tatsumi, Secretary of the Shokan (Summoning) Division.

A mere secretary! He huffed, and puffed, getting purple in the face.

"I say, man," he blustered, waving the parchment around. "I really don't approve of this visit, not at your rank! Really, Mr. Tat-Tas-oh, blast it! Mr. Tat!" He poked a fat finger in the secretary's direction, growing indignant. "And no surprise if you don't know the listed punishments! Stripped of their ranks, and that's just for breaking the code of secrecy! Banishment to the Forgotten Planes, at the very least, and eternity in the Seventh Hell for slaying humans!" Panting a bit, Banalius leaned back, confident that he had awed the man with that bit of trivia.

Only to find Mr. Tat looking supremely unconcerned, one leg crossed over the other knee, the sharp crease of his suit following the bent of his leg as though Nature intended it to be so. His blond assistant was smirking. And that blasted Sheen girl-! Was that a grin he saw, quickly hidden?

"Now see here," he said sternly, shaking an admonishing finger. No more Mr. Nice Wizard, oh no! Not for this lot of pompous, arrogant barbarians! "I'll be lenient this time and overlook it, but you're obviously very much not aware of the enormity of your willful flaunting of the rules. Honestly! Only Division heads are allowed to cross realms without prior invitation, and you've gone and brought along this poor chap—" he leveled the blond a kindly look; obviously he didn't know any better, "—and he'll be right beside you, in hot soup, when your superior hears about this!"

The smile he offered them was smooth and practiced, perhaps with a little touch of fatherly condescension. Leaning back in his seat, he took out his wand – nine inches of cedar, dragon heartstring – and conjured a proper tea service. Granted, it lacked touches of finesse such as the painted ivies and blooming roses like dear Mrs. Fudge was fond of, but it was a good set anyway. The tea had steeped the right amount of time; hardy, with the bitterness cut by a dash of milk, and he gestured expansively for them to indulge themselves.

"I could have overlooked the unnecessary close relationship they forged with Potter you know," he continued, magnanimously ignoring their pointed refusal to drink. Smithers by his side, nodded agreeably, quill scratching. Fudge reminded himself to destroy the records later and give Smithers another Obliviate. Really, the poor sop was getting too much of the Memory charm but it was for a good cause. He'd see that the man get a proper retirement plan for all his troubles. "But slaying five mortals?" he shook his head in practiced sorrow.

"You can't ignore the fact that Kyo and Hisoka were forced to protect themselves," the blond cut in, low and furious. Amber-gold eyes glinted behind wire-framed glasses, and Banalius sighed heavily.

"Really man," he complained. "They would not have been 'forced to protect themselves', if they weren't foolish enough to get kidnapped in the first place! I asked for your best you know, and frankly, I'm more than a little disappointed with what I've gotten so far." He took a sip of the tea, smacking his lips. The cup clinked gently against the plain saucer, arranged with tedious care.

"Cursebound spirits are not forced to obey the spellcaster." Banalius froze for a split-second, until he gathered his wits and shrugged.

"Any good wizard knows that," he replied loftily, and got a small laugh in return.

"Hardly, Fudge-san," he was answered, the Tat fellow looking supremely unconcerned. "It is a common, human held mistake. In actuality, the cursebound obeys the spellcaster because often it requires the same magician, or wizard, to release them in the first place. But it is not impossible for a skilled Child of Danna, or a Shinigami, to break the tethers. And despite the strength of the spellcaster, no cursebound can affect a Shinigami's soul while on the mortal plane. The damage is done on the Shinigami's physical body only. And yet, Tsuzuki-san reported just the opposite. That Narcissa Malfoy was able to grievously injure Shiozaki-kun, and forcibly transport both him and Kurosaki out of a warded castle."

The supposedly mere secretary leaned forwards, the gleam in his eyes turned hot. "A cursebound," he continued in a soft voice, "Is only able to affect a Shinigami on both planes if the spirit was given an imprint of a death god's aura. And please, do not insult me by claiming it a lucky chance, Fudge-san. Any idiot knows that Shinigami, and Children of Danna, have unique, identifying auras. And so I asked myself; who would have given Narcissa's wretched spirit the imprint of a Shinigami's aura, when even Voldemort was unaware of our existence?"

He delayed for time, fussing with the serviettes. "Suppositions, Mr. Tat," he answered airily, failing to look at him straight in the eyes. It was rather disconcerting how the pale blue irises seemed to glow with an inner, cold light. Smithers kept on taking dictation, damn the man's dogged tenacity with carrying out his duties. He resisted the urge to knock the quill out of Smithers' hand, though he was all too aware of the nervous looks his own secretary kept giving him. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill," he swiftly continued, fists clenching underneath the table, his wand gripped tightly. He didn't know how an Obliviate would interact with a Japanese death god, but he wasn't afraid to try and find out.

"Am I?" Tat asked mildly. "I am a man of science, Fudge-san. I prefer logic and numbers, as opposed to wild theories. And solid facts and figures tells me this-" the Japanese leaned forwards, pinning him in his seat with those merciless blue eyes and cold sweat slicked the hand-grip of his wand.

"Your department has been remarkably inefficient in retrieving lost souls. There are over thirty-three percent of unsolved cases in the wizarding world, with ninety-eight percent of those given the option of protected haunts. A deplorable number, but understandable considering your lack of staff. But what caught my interest, Fudge-san, was the fact that non-wizarding cases have a failure rate of seventy-nine percent. And with none of them offered the choice of protected haunting. All have been forcibly banished. And correct me if I'm wrong, Fudge-san, but no matter what realm, the law on retrievals is the same – banishment is a last resort as forcible deportation damages the soul and reduces the chance of reincarnation due to the need for rehabilitation."

There was a loud smack, and Banalius was hardly aware that it was his hand that throbbed, the length of cedar digging into the fleshy bit of his palm. "Now see here!" he said furiously. "Are you questioning my methods? Those seventy-nine percent are Muggles! Non-magical folks who ought to be damn thankful that we're retrieving them all the same! Barbaric, dirty creatures with their loud contraptions and outlandish habits! Why, if I had my way, they'd all be banished to the Forgotten Planes and good riddance I say!"

He panted, belatedly realizing that he was on his feet, and shaking with leftover adrenalin. Sweat dampened the back of his robes, made his collar itch and he fumbled for his handkerchief, wiping away the spittle.

"And isn't it interesting, Fudge-san," came the low, silky whisper that froze him to the spot, "That the monster you asked our help to retrieve, holds the same view on Muggles as you do?"

Banalius dropped heavily into his chair. The sick twisting in his guts said he had made a mistake, revealed his hand, and like a shark sensing blood in the waters, Seiichiro Tatsumi was moving in for the kill.

The pale blue eyes blazed, twin pinpricks of lights in the gathering gloom and it became his entire world when the velvet-dark whisper came again, and said It.

It.

The Words of Power that not even a Division Head could utter. This. . .he gasped, the breath freezing in his laboring lungs, this was the power of an Appointed.

Oh, Merlin-! A corner of his brain whimpered pathetically. We've gone and bollocksed this up, haven't we?

Like a slow invasion of Lethifolds, the shadows pulsed, oozing down and out from every crevice to pool on the floor and coating the walls. They throbbed with alien magic, holding him in place. The Words wrapped around his brain, squeezing with the slow force of a python, and he let out a low groan of pain. There was a furious thudding – why won't they just break down the damn door and – oh, it wasn't the door. It was his heart, struggling under the awesome power of a God's Appointed. Banalius mewled pathetically, soft hands spasming, and he knew without a doubt that he would truly die today oh Merlin help hi—

And as though it never happened, as though the Words were never said, the shadows rushed back, and the room was a room and not the slithering desolation of the Third Hell where souls were fed on the despair of a thousand other damned souls and where demons methodically flayed your skin with knives fashioned from their ice-laden breath. The not-secretary was just a man again, and there was a perfectly affable smile on his face, but his companion and that Shiina girl was frozen.

Frozen. Like Smithers, quill poised over the dictation parchment.

If he had doubted what his gibbering mind had insisted had happened a few seconds ago, this was proof. None but the Appointed, and the gods themselves could freeze time. And this Seiichiro Tatsumi had done it.

"I have had ill feelings regarding this mission request since the beginning, Fudge-san," the Appointed said calmly, chin propped in one, long, elegant hand and a small, utterly terrifying smile on his face. In this world fashioned a heartbeat away outside of reality, there was only him, and the Appointed called Seiichiro Tatsumi; a fact that the both of them were very much aware of, if Banalius had interpreted that smile right.

Sweat beaded down his face, dampening the back of his robes, but he didn't dare make himself comfortable.

"Allow me to point out the troublesome facts, Fudge-san," Tatsumi continued. "Regardless of the serious lack of capable Children of Danna, it is puzzling that you'd ask for four of our Shinigami. And not just any four, but the strongest. Class A Shinigami, Fudge-san." A tendril of shadow detached itself, snaking along the tabletop as though looking for prey, and it reared off the table, seeming to look straight into his eyes and Banalius gulped. Like a cobra, the thread of shadow swayed dreamily from side to side, and unbidden, he tried to follow it desperately, and all the while, Tatsumi's glacial blue eyes pinned him like a hapless moth on a collector's board.

"Then there is the puzzling fact my colleague, Tsuzuki-san, brought up; you had yet to make any contact with them despite several months in the mortal world, and absolutely nothing, after Kurosaki-kun, and Shiozaki-kun's kidnapping. Are you really that confident of their abilities, Fudge-san?"

Tatsumi seemed genuinely waiting for an answer, and the scared, rotund little man hurriedly wiped his face with the already sodden handkerchief. "Of-of course!" he blustered. "I asked for the best, and told them quite clearly that the matter is in their hands, and to use their best judgment! You have no idea the mess they caused here with their mucking about though! Had to postpone my breakfast meetings," he finished pompously, but quickly deflated when that damn smile refused to falter.

"Of course," the Appointed acquiesced. "Did you know, Fudge-san, that both Tsuzuki and Kurosaki-kun have fought a general of Hells Army before?"

He didn't, and the nervous twitch of his eye probably gave him away.

"But that's not all," Tatsumi continued, the not-smile growing wider. He had scored a point, and Banalius had given himself away. "You seem remarkably aware of my colleagues' activities, from before the kidnapping, during, and after. Aware enough, to compile a list of offences that could condemn a Shinigami. And yet, why did you not step in and put a halt to these 'offences', Fudge-san? Why did you let it continue? And…who told you? Perhaps…you planted a spy in Hogwarts?"

He opened his mouth, ready to defend himself when the Appointed leaned back, saying, "Tsk, no, not your own spy. . .someone else's. Voldemort's, perhaps? Serving two masters without his or her knowledge?"

Banalius cursed himself for that twitch, because it made that smile grew wider, and the shadows darker.

"I think, Banalius," Tatsumi said gently, kindly, "that you need to tell me everything."

---

She hissed, baring fangs sharper than a normal human's. "That hurts, ye son of a hyena!"

Suresh merely hummed, tying off the last knot. "Your insults are hardly creative, mistress," he rumbled, the gravelly tones hinting at laughter. The white gauze was staining rapidly with red, and he frowned; creased forehead adding more years to the already salt-and-pepper hair. The fire was burning low, caressing the older werewolf's face with craggy shadows that moved and slithered, like a ghoul slipping through the cracks. Akela hid a shudder, disguising it with a terse command for more vodka.

Suresh, long-time advisor, mentor, and more importantly, the lynchpin to her position as pack mistress, merely shook his head, long ponytail swishing across the broad, cotton-covered back. The serviceable shirt was golden in the dim light, the dark slacks hugging the powerful muscles of his thighs as feet stepped softly across wooden floorboards, quieter than what the heeled boots should have been capable of. A crystal decanter stood on a sideboard, half full with the clear liquid. Suresh was a man of modesty, but his vice were books and vodka.

"It would be pointless of me to ask if the negotiations fell through," he commented, taking a seat opposite, nursing his own drink and the smaller werewolf appreciated how well he looked; a lord in his domain. Suresh's house was small, but nicely appointed. His study, their bastion from the storm outside, was cozy despite the contradictory mess of ordered shelves and of papers on the desk tucked against a corner. Akela studied him with fierce, golden brown eyes; her admiration and respect bordered on the reluctant. Suresh Menon was, like his neat appearance and messy desk, a contradiction.

He was a powerful wolf; no doubt about that. His shoulders were broad as an ox's, the strength in his corded forearms able to crush a pup with a mere squeeze. But the formidable exterior could not hide the light of intelligence, the veritable walking library that was Suresh; gifted by the gods with parents who saw ignorance as a far worse curse then lycanthropy. And that was a dichotomy. The nature of their curse celebrated in his physical supremacy, in his muscled arms and powerful legs while their humanity admired the mind keener than the sharpest sword.

Suresh Menon was an educated predator.

And that very incongruity earned him the respect of the 'wolves. He was everything society said a lycan could not be and because of him, they obeyed Akela o'Meara with every breath in their body. For if Suresh respected her, than surely she was worth ten times theirs?

Her expressive lips curled into a sneer. "The white demon and his master spin lies out of air. Their spiel is regurgitated war-drivel; be they stupid enough to believe we'd fall for that trick again?"

"Never underestimate your opponent," he chided her gently. The leather armchair creaked as he leaned sideways, snagging a thick tome bound in green velvet off the nearest shelf. "History," he tapped the book, "tells us that no matter if the pretty words are the same, the dreams familiar dreams; if the dreamer is desperate enough, he will hoard it like miser's gold, and treasure its glint and glitter in the darkest nights."

"Ach." She took a neat sip of the vodka; the alcohol burned the throat and stomach like silver burned werewolf flesh. But this was a fire that they could control and quench at will, unlike the venom that was silver. It was no wonder that most lycans favoured the clear liquor. Its burn was something to focus on when silver poisoned the body. "You're right," she conceded reluctantly. "Even I was swayed by the snake's words. I wonder what befell the young human they were torturing?" she mused out of the blue, surprised to find herself thinking of the pale, blond child in Lucius Malfoy's torture chamber.

Akela O'Meara was many things. And cold practicality was one of them. The child was beyond her help – her own pack was her priority. The humans could take care of their own.

Suresh waved a large hand, the nails neatly trimmed, setting the issue of tortured children aside. "That they tried to eliminate you, mistress, bodes of ill things."

"Many things," she agreed, "And one of it is that the madman is a capricious creature who seeks only power and glory for himself. We will not follow him." It was an order, and not to be protested against.

Suresh gave her a seated bow. "Your will, mistress," he rumbled. "But it is undeniable as well, that we have made a formidable enemy."

"Then the answer is obvious, no?" she replied sharply. "We fight back."

"Not when half of our pack is facing starvation." Suresh's eyes glittered, an old wolf at the limit of his patience by a young pup's eternal optimism. "Voldemort will crush us. He has the resources and the utter disregard to use it all to destroy any who stands in his way to glory. You are a strong leader, Akela," he said with a bite of impatience, "but you think with your heart more often than you do with your head."

A terse silence blanketed the room; even the fire burned low, as though sensing the subliminal growl reverberating. The older wolf's shoulders tensed, bulky muscles coiling and straining the white shirt before abruptly relaxing. He bowed his head, baring the back of his neck.

"Mistress," he murmured. The ghost-light touch of fingertips against his skin wrenched a shudder through his powerful frame and he whined softly, bumping his head into her palm.

Akela, standing before him, accepted his submission with only the faintest, warning squeeze. "You are beloved, old friend," she said gently. "But show such disrespect again and I will tear your throat out."

"Mistress," he repeated and accepted the light nip at his ear.

But he meant it well, and in the end, she released him, turning to settle with a weary sigh onto the thick rug. The fire was stoked higher, driving away the storm and lightning lashing the walls of the house. Akela, sitting before the hearth with Suresh curled around her legs, head in her lap, said musingly, "I met him in the woods."

"Hmm?" Suresh stirred sleepily, quieting when his mistress carded her fingers through his hair, working it free from its tie. "That man?"

"That man," she affirmed. The glowing log popped, sending sparks through the air and Akela made her decision.

"We will seek him out."

The next roll of thunder shook the house to its foundation.

---

"We are ruled by symbols."

Lucius paused with goblet to mouth, the fumes of the aged whisky dizzying him for a moment. "My lord?" he asked cautiously. He wondered whether he should rise; Voldemort had abandoned his armchair to steadily pace the length of exposed floorboards before the fireplace. It gave the skeletal man an appearance of seeking comfort, the warmth of the crackling blaze perhaps, as the storm outside raged on as it had since the night he, Lucius Malfoy, lost his pretty little plaything. But the Dark Lord had forsaken earthly comforts as he had forsaken humanity.

High cut robes flared with the sharp turn, and the sharper eyes pinned the Malfoy to his seat with cruel amusement. Fleshless fingers stroked the hilt of a knife tucked in the sash, and Voldemort asked, gently, "What is your opinion, my Lucius? Are we not ruled by symbols in our lives? Slytherin for the cold and the ambitious, Gryffindor for the lion-headed fools, a circle and pentagram for protection against the forces you summon, the evil eye to ward off ill luck. Are they not all symbols, representations which we invest faith and magic in?"

The blond wizard carefully set his goblet down on the side table – beaten gold and tastefully encrusted with cut emeralds – and leaned forwards, lacing disfigured hands together. Voldemort in such a mood preferred a thinking man with the correct level of servility. Too much or too little…well, one had plenty of examples at hand of fools trying to play their lord. But strike the right balance…ah, strike the right balance and here he was; the Dark Lord's favoured. A position dear Bella had lost and could not reclaim.

Not when they used her shell to reinforce the curse that bound Narcissa's wretched spirit to this house.

"I believe so, my lord," he said humbly, dipping his head briefly. "Mortals need tools; apparatuses that could help focus their magic and will to achieve the desired outcome. Few can rise beyond that crutch." The tone of his voice left little doubt whom he meant by the minority.

Voldemort laughed, a soft sibilant laughter that sent a shudder of ecstasy down his spine and careful, cold-blooded calculation to disappear in the rush of heated devotion. This is the one he had sworn his life to-!

"Ah, my dear Lucius, ever the politician," said Voldemort, distinctly amused. "You yourself have just barely begun to understand that stark truth, my own message, do you not?" Whispers of silk and the tread of leather, and Lucius was looking up into the face of the one thing he had believed in when hot irons mangled his flesh and tore his fingernails out. His nostrils flared, inhaling dry spice, snake and the dust of ages. It was a far more intoxicating scent than quality whisky.

"The stupidity of the masses amuses me, Lucius," Voldemort was saying, skeletal fingers running through his hair, sliding richly through and a shiver sped down his spine. He leaned a little more into the caress, drunk on the attention given. "Why have they not learned from their past mistakes, as I have? To leave a treasure hoard that is the Ministry so inadequately unguarded. They tinker with objects of power, claiming it in the name of research but failing to see that the lack of proper use, demeans its existence."

"We will remedy that, my lord," he swore hoarsely. "We will use the treasures we took, use it as their creators meant. We will rain fury and destruction on the flock and cull the weak and the foolish."

"Well said, my Lucius," the Dark Lord murmured. "My beautiful serpent. And those dedicated aurors languishing in the dungeons, crying out for a saviour? The women who sit huddled in dark corners, wishing our eyes and ears are blind and deaf, that they would be overlooked, and spared the fate their sisters and children were given?"

"We will use them. Use them as we did the boy." He surged up, caught his lord's hand and pressed a fervent kiss to the cool, dry palm. A strangled laugh escaped him, his mind dizzied and fevered with blood and death and the screams. "Return them to their loved ones, let them steal a moment's joy, a warm hug and a sweet kiss. And we will repay it with sweeter pain and delicious agony as they watch their sister die a slow death as the blood boils. Let them plead to deaf gods as their mother plunges the knife into their flesh and rend them limb to limb--!" Gasping, cold sweat ran down his face, slipping into the furrows created by torn and repaired flesh.

"Lucius…my beautiful, obedient Lucius." His name fell from the pale lips as soft as a caress, and he leaned into the thin form standing before him eagerly. "How well you know what I enjoy. And I will enjoy myself, won't I?"

"Without doubt, my lord."

"But…tell me Lucius…what would the common, misguided fool think or feel when he hears of our casual destruction of their Ministry? When they realize that the return of lost love heralds more death?"

"They would feel despair," he answered throatily. His gloved hands skated the Dark Lord's ebony black robes, felt the silk sliding and with the reverence of a believer, he gently rested his hands against his master's hips. "They would know of your might, my lord, and that there's no one they can turn to…."

"Save Dumbledore and his pitiful army."

Lucius stiffened, silver eyes narrowing in hate, lips pulled back in a vicious snarl. "A fool to lead fools! He would take them to their deaths and they would follow, believing in sandcastles he builds!"

"Ah, and isn't that the key, dear Lucius?" Voldemort murmured, and he petted the man as he would Nagini, and there was the same devotion in both. "They believe. They invest their magic and faith in a white-headed fool because they believe in love, fairness and justice. They refuse to see…there is only power."

He leaned down, grasping Lucius' chin with black nails digging in cruelly into the flesh, and the kiss he took was vicious, leaving behind a streak of red on white.

"There is only me."

---

Snape had attempted to vanish immediately in the direction of the dungeons, but Remus caught hold of his sleeve. He had observed in the past that things were well so long as the Potions Master had something to occupy him, but left alone and unable to act, he was as volatile as any student-brewed incendiary. One small set back, and who knew what might happen? The taller man glared down at the werewolf's restraining hand and demanded waspishly "Is there something that you need, Lupin? I'm a trifle busy just now."

"I know. I thought I might be able to help. I have some ideas as to how we might frame the counter spell." He kept his voice on the pleasant side of neutral, and his golden-brown eyes were guileless as he stared up into Snape's face.

"Ah." The dark man relaxed marginally. "Very well then. You may accompany me to my laboratory."

Remus accepted the grudging offer for what it was: an olive branch. He and Severus had never gotten on well together – something about his attempting to tear the other apart one night while in his wolf's form – but at least they respected one another's abilities.

He released the black linen between his fingers and fell into step beside the Potions Master. Snape unconsciously adjusted his swift stride to accommodate the smaller man, inclining his sleek dark head to attentively listen to what he had to say. Remus found the concentrated attention unnerving, and it rattled what he had intended to say out of his brain. They had descended to the level of the entrance hall before his tongue found the words again.

He coughed. "I think the most significant line of the incantations that He-Who-Is-Not-Named used was Seminate aurum vestrum in terram albam foliatam. It's Maier's sixth emblem from his Atalanta fugiens, and I can't help but think that that's important."

Severus's elegantly angular black brows shot up in astonishment. "Maier? I had no idea that you were familiar with his work."

"I've only ever read his discourses in translation." Remus admitted apologetically. "And that was years ago, so -"

"I think you are correct. We will have a look at my copy when we arrive." The darker man said abruptly. Remus was shocked by the unexpected agreement into stunned quiet as they reached the final staircase to the lower level of the dungeons. His own booted feet padded silently on the cold stone, and Severus's were also nearly inaudible. Years of hunting had given them both the gift to stalk their prey unnoticed. We're more alike than I've realized. Remus thought in surprise. And he wasn't sure whether he welcomed that realization or not.

Severus's private lab was actually rather nice. The room was not terribly large, but it was arranged in meticulous order. Immediately to the right was a long, low bench-like hearth on which several steaming cauldrons sat, their fumes drawn off by a deep, vented overhang. In the center were two large work tables at a good height for standing, together with sturdy metal stools. Beyond was a deep sink, and to the left were shelves loaded with immaculate glassware and a crush of books and scrolls. The floor was impossibly clean, and so were the whitewashed walls. It looked very nearly like a Muggle laboratory that Remus had seen pictures of during his wandering days. While he gawked from the doorway, the Potions Master strode past him and began checking the cauldrons that he had brewing.

"In his sixth discourse, Maier is mainly concerned with the preparation of the 'White Earth.' It's an obvious reference to the subject in his experiments." he remarked over his shoulder. Warily, the werewolf entered and let the door close on its own behind him. To his sharper than human normal senses, the lab was an overwhelming collage of scents – some bitter, some pleasant, others merely too strong for his nose. He sneezed.

" 'Subject?' " Drawing a cautious breath, he was relieved when there was no encore to his sneeze. "I'd always thought 'victim' to be a better choice of words. Have you the book?"

"Yes. Over there." Still engrossed in the contents of the cauldrons, Snape waved vaguely at the bookcase nearest the sink. Amused, Remus took it as permission to go digging for himself.

Not surprisingly, every title that he was able to read dealt with the art of potions. An eclectic mix of languages was represented: English, Latin, Greek, something that seemed – if he squinted at it just right – to be Polish. He'd picked up a smattering of Romanian as a free-lance vampire hunter and curse breaker, enough to know that it wasn't that.

Virtuously Remus fought off the temptation to snoop, and only pulled the Atalanta fugiens. He carried it to a clear spot at one of the tables and perched on a stool.

The woodcut illustrating a burly farmer throwing handfuls of seed at the freshly turned earth of a field was just as he remembered. And so, unfortunately, was the author's writing style. Absently, he took a scrap of parchment from a box in the middle of the work bench and plucked a quill from a jar. If Snape noticed that he made himself to home, he chose to ignore it. Grimly, Remus set to work reading the sixth discourse. A timer for one of the cauldrons ticked monotonously as accompaniment.

"Severus? I know that the Atalanta fugiens is Maier's record of his experiments and major castings, but did he have to be so bloody obtuse?" Exasperated, he finally shoved the book away. He dropped his head into his hands, elbows resting on the table and fingers sliding up through the strands of his graying hair. The unpleasant scrape of blunt nails against his scalp helped to ground him. "It's obvious that he's discussing the preparation of a subject for a ritual involving a Quinta Essentia, but I can't make heads or tails of his bloody agricultural metaphors."

"Here." An impressively thick book in bad need of rebinding thumped onto the table beside his elbow. Remus straightened from his funk and shoved back his loose hair.

"What's this?" he asked curiously.

"Leinenwald's Commentaries." was the short reply.

Fighting back an inappropriate grin, the werewolf said "And I repeat, 'What's this?' " The Potions Master made an impatient noise and flipped open the book's cover.

"Leinenwald was Maier's student and assistant. It's odd to think that a man who was nearly a Squib in his lifetime is the only one of Maier's disciples to have gained a measure of renown." He took in Remus's politely doubtful expression, and continued in exasperation. "Then again, perhaps he has not achieved immortality. You certainly seem to have no concept of who he was."

Ruefully, he chuckled. "Pax, Severus. You know that History of Magic was never my strongest subject when I was a student. I'm only grateful that you know his work."

Mollified, the Potions Master flipped to a page illustrated by a sketch of a man writhing in agony on a floor patterned much like the one that they had seen in the Pensieve. Like Kyo, he was contained by a circle of symbols, framed within a larger triangle. Snape's voice was oddly gentle. "Leinenwald recorded his observations of each experiment. These are his notes on the sixth emblem. Perhaps they will help."

Mindful of the volume's weak spine, Remus drew it close and began to read. As if anticipating his response, the taller wizard remained motionless behind his shoulder until the werewolf turned to him. "Merlin..." he choked. "This is Dark magic."

"Yes." Snape briefly inclined his head. His ink dark eyes avoided the other man's golden brown ones. "But instructive."

Sighing, Lupin reached for another piece of parchment and the quill.

---

Takashi closed the door behind him, the half-hearted sizzle of an incomplete shield ward tingling his fingertips. His footsteps alternately rang out on cold flagstone, and muffled in the embarrassingly polite and earnest attempt at comfort of the lone, small carpet that barely covered even half the floor space. The colors were obscenely bright; a clashing purple and yellow that made the former sensei wince.

Must be a refugee from the Headmaster's office, he thought ruefully, and with barely a thought, changed the colors to something more pleasant to the eyes, a sea blue. This time, Takashi actually noted that the room was small, perhaps no more than nine tatami and was only meant for one occupant. He hadn't been in much of a state to notice even that the first time he was here. His entire attention had been taken up by his husband who was shackled by potions and trapped in nightmares. The bed had been shoved by the window, so that the patient could at least alleviate his boredom by looking out into the grounds and the Quidditch pitch.

"I hate hospitals."

Kyo's voice was tired, thin and scraped raw. Propped up by pillows, the yukata hanging loosely off his frame, Kyo had never looked younger or more lost. His hands lay lax on top of the covers, and Takashi covered them with his own, larger and far warmer. Kyo's felt like ice. Takashi kicked off his shoes, climbing up into the bed and his mate obligingly allowed him to haul the worryingly light frame into his lap. A soft sigh escaped him, and he settled Kyo more comfortably, lacing their fingers together. He buried his face into the back of Kyo's head, inhaling that familiar scent deeply; even lethargic to the point of catatonia would not deter Kyo from taking care of his personal hygiene and as such, his silky fine hair still retained the fragrant scent of peaches. It almost, almost, made it possible for him to ignore the problems of prominent ribs, painfully concave stomach and the haunted, deadened look in unnaturally colored eyes that spoke all too eloquently of imminent ends.

"Remus and Snape are designing the counter ritual right now," he said in a whisper, locks of smooth black hair catching on his lips. "They say it's best to do it on the night of the full moon, since the curse was done during the new."

"Mm…" Kyo shivered, goosebumps prickling his skin and Takashi hitched the blankets higher, covering them both. "Too long to wait," Kyo murmured. The raspy voice turned dreamy as the painkillers Pomfrey had plied him with earlier kicked in. "I won't be able to hold on."

Pain squeezed its claws around his heart, and Takashi rested his forehead against Kyo's shoulder. "I know." He shut his eyes, wishing he could shut away reality that easily. Could ignore how cold the body he held on so tight to was.

"Maybe….during noon?" Kyo offered, sleep tingeing his voice. "The sun at its zenith would offer the strongest yang, counteract the yin of the new moon."

"Yes," he answered, muffled in cotton. "That's what I told them." He raised his head, pressing a soft, trembling kiss against Kyo's cool cheek. His mate sighed, a pleased hum.

"That feels nice," Kyo said drowsily. Silence fell between them, and Takashi was loathed to break it, the oath he took as a mortal doctor stinging his conscience. It demanded what justification he had, telling his partner his plans now, when pain clouded his koi's mind even as the drugs fought it. Because, he argued back, it might be too late if I wait.

"Kyo…"

"Hmm?"

"I want us…" he swallowed, forced the words out past the lump in his throat. "I want us to resign when this is done."

He could have told Kyo that he wanted to eat chicken for dinner tonight for all the reaction he got. "Alright," his koi murmured. "If that's what you want."

"It is." He tightened his embrace, an almost punishing hold but Kyo accepted it as easily as his decision to give up their existence as gods of death. Takashi cursed himself for a bastard, guilt tearing inside. But the unbearable agony in witnessing his partner's suffering outweighed all that.

If it meant tricking Kyo into saying yes when his mind was befuddled with drugs, so be it.

"It's okay." Kyo yawned, settling deeper into his embrace. "I'm sorry. I've always made you worry, don't I?"

"It's okay," he echoed Kyo's words. "It's okay if we're together. Always. You promised me that, remember?"

"I do."

The silence then was calmer, held less of the fear and more of the peace. Takashi slowed his breathing to match Kyo's. He could almost pretend then, that they were back home in their own apartment and that Watari would drop by soon to convince them to try his latest experiments. He could pretend that everything was normal.

"Taka?"

The soft, breathy voice could have been swallowed by the layers of blanket, could have gotten entangled in the wards that shielded the room and fused into every block and mortar. It could have gotten lost and never reached his ears but then, Kyo could be calling from the other side of the world in that same near-whisper and he would still have heard.

"Mm?"

"Do you know where I was buried?"

Hazel green eyes flew open in shock; his chest hitched, an uncontrolled spasm forcing the hand Kyo still held to twitch in his grip and Takashi almost choked on his next indrawn breath. His voice, when he found it, was croaky and raw, scraped and dry from the sudden shock. "W-what?"

"I wasn't allowed to come down to Chijou again after saying goodbye to you." The wistful voice would have been suitable for talking about the weather, not about your own death. "I had to be trained first and have a partner before I could. And I wasn't allowed to be anywhere in your vicinity. So I never got to go to my funeral."

He's confused, Takashi tried to reassure himself. The medication is a mild hallucinogenic. It's making him ramble. He probably doesn't realize what he's asking.

But that didn't make the memories stop either.

Dark, overcast sky. Grey mixed with the black and white; scudding clouds that threatened rain with a belligerent note and had the mourners casting their eyes heavenwards nervously. His broken leg throbbed sympathetically with the cold and the wheelchair he was forced to use was uncomfortable to say the least. Bits of grass clung to the metal spokes and dew marred the shiny brilliance of impersonal steel.

The turnout for one of the most popular students in school was large, only to be expected really. More than three hundred people had attended, filling the church to overflowing and even now, darkened the cemetery with rivers of grieving black. But even with the amount of people there, he was left in an island of personal anguish, Hikaru and Ken by his side and their shared misery drew a cloak of privacy around them, pushing the onlookers, gawkers and casual acquaintances away.

The rectangle wound of gaping empty hole amidst the bright, manicured grass with the dark wood coffin ready and waiting above it was a gruesome, intoxicating sight he could not tear his eyes away from.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why are you asking me this?"

A single red rose clutched in his unfeeling hand. The other lay lax and limp on his lap. Nurses at the hospital had cast him pitying looks and one had patted his shoulder as she arranged the folds of the blanket covering his legs carefully. She was the one that had given him the rose.

Kyo didn't like roses. Said that they were too much, too full, too vibrant and the shape, smell and color dizzied him, made him nauseous and churned his gut with the flower's ability to crowd out others merely by its existence. His koi liked lilies better. Pure white and unmarked by freckles of colors.

But Takashi only had a rose for him today.

Kyo shrugged; an infinitesimal movement restricted by his hold. "I was just wondering."

Takashi swallowed dry and he couldn't help but shudder as memories he thought had faded after thirty-plus years proved to be as fresh as yesterday's. "St. Andrews," he managed to choke out. "We buried you in St. Andrews, near their older section."

"I like St. Andrews," was Kyo's answer. "The cemetery there was peaceful, when I saw it last."

Takashi did not know what to say to that.

"Did they bury you beside me?"

A low whine erupted from his throat and Takashi buried his face in Kyo's neck, his sobbing muffled.

"Yes," he gasped. "Yes, they did."

"Good." It was that odd, peaceful acceptance that unraveled him and Takashi cried, letting his tears spill on to Kyo's too-cold skin. Kyo was patting his hand comfortingly in a slow, sleepy rhythm that did nothing to stop the tears from falling.

The difficulty with grief and grieving was that he could never be allowed to indulge in it in peace. Beyond the door that connected to the larger hospital ward, raised voices and the shrill squeal of hard casters on a harder floor announced the arrival of some other unfortunate. Trained instincts that were never really buried rose, making him wipe ineffectively at his eyes and his feet were already on the floor before he paused, looking guiltily at his partner's back.

The light, but even breaths said that his mate was still awake, but willing to be good and try to rest anyway. And not stopping him from leaving.

With a quiet, "Gomen," Takashi put on his shoes and eased the door open. He took a quick glance around the outside ward as he closed back the door, reminding himself to reactivate the shield wards later. Knowing Kyo, the boy would be out here as well and it was better if Kyo did not engage his talents just to undo a ward.

The first thing that caught his eye was the small body lying peacefully on a bed. A girl, he noted, trying not to remember a time when he was a doctor, in a school of laughing children and Kyo would give the most outrageous excuses to visit the infirmary.

This isn't Josui, he reminded himself, taking a deep, steadying breath.

The girl lying in the hospital bed wasn't breathing, was too still for her to be anything but dead.

And so was the still warm body he clung to so desperately, ignoring the wetness dampening his coat and chilling his skin where it soaked through. "Please, sensei. He's d-dead. Please let go. We have to get you to the hospital as well."

The swish and flick of a wand, and the no-nonsense tones of the Hogwarts medi-witch snapping "Rescusita!" brought his memories crashing to a halt. Squaring his shoulders, Takashi resolutely set aside old pains and old grief, realized that there was a Hogwarts professor with them and managed to recall the witch's name before he nodded a greeting.

"Professor Sinistra," he said quietly, watching the medi-witch's crisp movements. He did not try to help – his instincts and his connection to Enma said plainly that the girl, Amanda Fitzhugh, sixth year Ravenclaw, was beyond saving. But he didn't stop Pomfrey either. He turned his attention to the young, astronomy professor, her usual dreamy gaze decidedly flustered and for once, actually concentrating on something else besides the heavens. "What happened?"

"I f-found her in the observation tower," she stammered, wringing her delicate hands. "I saw the door was open and these children, really, they know it lets in such a draft to my quarters when they do and I thought, well, surely they can't be thinking of assignations right now—"

"Professor," he interrupted, gripping her chilled hands in his own and squeezing gently. "Breathe."

The loud whoosh almost sent her dangerously listing hat flying but some color returned to her pale cheeks. She squeezed back, gratitude in her eyes. "I found her then," she continued calmly, even though the nervous twitch at her right eye had yet to subside. "Already like…like that." Sinistra indicated the girl with a sharp jerk of her chin.

"Did you see anything suspicious?" he asked. "Anything that caught your eye? Anyone?"

She shook her head slowly, and gravity claimed her hat. Dark locks of hair tumbled free, transforming her into a beautiful young woman but she was oblivious. "No…" she answered slowly. "No one else. Just her and oh-! Her wand." Sinistra, with some reluctance, worked her hands free and patted her robes down. She extracted a thin length of wood from one of her pockets.

"Have a care, dear." the older woman snapped. Her sharp eyes were trained on the patient she worked so relentlessly to save, but her free hand shot out and snatched the wand from Sinistra's trembling fingers. "The headmaster will want to cast priori incantantem to see if she managed to get a shot off at whoever did this to her."

Takashi and Sinistra stood quietly at the side, but it wasn't long before the nurse stopped, shoulders slumping in defeat. "She's gone," Pomfrey announced needlessly. Something vital drained out of her then, and a pang of sorrow shot through Takashi's heart. He knew the feeling of bitter disappointment well.

"Poppy?" Sinistra asked, voice small and scared. "What…what did she…d-die of?"

"The Killing curse," she answered flatly. "No signs of struggle, and no apparent damage as well. Her heart simply stopped beating and…" her hand hovered over the eyes opened wide in fear, refusing to close despite the nurse's attempts to.

It was the first time Takashi had seen the effects of the Avada Kedavra and the former sensei found that he didn't like it much. Death, when it came, was hardly welcomed to most but to die with that kind fear...it was truly unforgivable.

"Poppy, I came as fast as I—oh, dear." Dumbledore practically flew in but stopped immediately by the occupied bed and his shoulders sagged, the weariness they carried all too similar to Poppy's. His hand, white and trembling, tried to close the girl's eyes but again, they refused. "What happened?" he whispered, arm dropping uselessly at his side.

Sinistra again recounted the events that led up to that moment, her voice cracking throughout. Takashi left her side as she broke into tears, comforted by the old Headmaster. He stood next to the nurse, and held out his arm.

"Come," he said quietly. The air shimmered, twisting down to form a shadowy bird that gripped Takashi's arms in black talons. A soft kee! echoed throughout the infirmary, and the door at the end opened, a head of dark hair peering inquisitively out. "Inform Tsuzuki and Hisoka what happened," Takashi instructed his shikigami. "Ask Hisoka if he can glean any clues from where they found her body, and Tsuzuki to contact the Tuatha."

With another ringing cry, the construct took off, circling once and shot off through a wall. Dumbledore meanwhile, took the dead girl's wand that Pomfrey offered, turning the slim length of wood over and over in his wrinkled hands. "Another death," the old wizard said to himself. Dimmed blue eyes closed briefly in regret but that did not stop him from taking out his own wand and placing it tip to tip with the girl's.

"To show what were the wand's last spells," he murmured to Takashi. "Prior Incantato."

Green, ghostly mist erupted from the girl's wandtip, along with a faint scream. Disturbed, Dumbledore broke off the connection and he exchanged a troubled look with the nurse.

"Ms. Fitzhugh performed the Avada Kedavra?" Pomfrey asked incredulously. "Surely she did not kill herself, Headmaster!"

"Why not?" Takashi asked curiously, resolutely ignoring troublesome memories dragged up, of a young girl thanking him only to throw herself to her death. Soft footsteps pattered up to his side, and he automatically made room for his koi, slinging an arm around the thin shoulders. Kyo leaned into him more than necessary, obviously lacking the strength to stand on his own but Takashi bore his weight without comment.

"Out of the three Unforgivables," Dumbledore said, "The Cruciatus and the Avada Kedavra requires not only a strong will, but the intent to cause harm, fueled by hatred." The Headmaster met his gaze squarely, saying, "I do not believe that Ms. Fitzhugh could have hated herself that much, to end her life with the Killing curse. And there is also the fact that a Priori would have shown the effects, and not the spell itself. It would have shown us a memory, a shade of Ms. Fitzhugh herself."

"And it did not," Takashi murmured, unconsciously hugging Kyo tighter. "Perhaps…she was attacking someone or something then, rather than trying to kill herself…"

"Ne, Taka?" A tug at his shirt made him look down into deep, navy blue eyes, and despite it, Takashi smiled, and it managed to grow just a little bit wider when Kyo had to pause for a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Yes, koi?" he asked quietly.

"Where's the girl's spirit? Did you send her on?"

He stilled, mind working frantically at the implications of his answer. "No…" he said slowly. "I didn't…and nor did Tsuzuki or Hisoka. They would have told us. And we are not allowed to in the first place," he explained distractedly to Dumbledore's mute enquiry. "This is not our jurisdiction and there has not been any Child of Danna assigned to this school, or the surrounding district for the past fifty years."

Dumbledore stilled, stroking his long beard thoughtfully. "Interesting," he murmured, but the calculating gleam in his eyes disappeared when his gaze fell upon the dead girl. "How will I tell your parents, Amanda?" he sighed. "Takashi, I…" he faltered then, looking at Kyo with such intensity that the sleepy young Shinigami tilted his head to the side, asking curiously, "Sir?"

Takashi shushed him, understanding the reason for why the Headmaster's glint of determination wavered, why his mouth thinned with the ache of doing what was a necessity. He appreciated the fact that the old wizard could still find the burden of asking a heavy weight, could still find it painful to ask more from those who had given so much. For that, Takashi gave him respect and he gently turned Kyo into his embrace, shielding his mate. Kyo was clearly confused but like his earlier, eerily calm acceptance, he followed his prompting without question, snuggling into his side.

"Yes, Headmaster?" Takashi asked calmly.

Dumbledore, with Sinistra still crying, stroked her long hair once, and the witch sagged in his arms. With care, he laid her down on another bed, patting her damp cheeks before turning to face them. "I would ask your help, Shinigami," Dumbledore said gravely, and their title fell from his lips easily. "Find the one who caused the death of my student, that we mortals might exact our own justice."

Takashi bowed, as deep as he could with Kyo still clinging tightly to him.

"As you ask of us," he said softly. "So shall it be."

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To be continued...dammit.

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Kelly: Again, apologies for the lateness. If this chapter sucked, in your opinion, it's entirely my fault. Word of warning; it is most likely that this story will end in a couple more chapters, and there will not be a sequel. You just gotta let a good thing die a peaceful detah, y'know? Do review.