The Water of Death

Hermione never failed to be impressed with Narcissa, but at this point she had come to the conclusion that anyone who failed to be impressed with Narcissa was setting themselves up for very unpleasant surprises in the future.

She had arranged for the House Elves to prepare for a full midday meal. The moving pictures on the walls reminded all that this was a magical household, but it was the first one that the Irish Government had seen. Muggles had not been allowed into the houses of Wizards before this day, not this kind of wizard's house, and especially not Ancient House, which handily beat out Saltford Manor as the oldest private house in all of Britain.

It was also a Roman villa on a scale that few were, which had survived all the wars and dissensions since, the legacy of a family rich and powerful two thousand years before. There was a certain psychological factor in humans that simply was predisposed to being impressed by this—it was not tacky, or cheap, or anything like nouveau-rich, but rather the effortless grace of a very old family.

And Narcissa was a charming host. Understated elegance was her very nature. Hermione felt like a bit of a popinjay in her full dress uniform. Andromeda demonstrated that she could put the same show on, despite her life on the margins of both wizarding and muggle middle class society.

"Field Marshal Lady Black is already off to the Iberian Front," Narcissa was explaining to the Taoiseach. "And yes, we were blessed to grow up here." Whether or not that was true was immaterial, Hermione supposed; it was simply what you said.

Narcissa made a show of praying to the family shrine before leading them to table. It was all subtle, and they were mostly nominally Catholics, but it was a remind that she was from an older tradition than the English, and one of the most impressive things to Hermione was that effortless code-switching—the way Narcissa smoothly went from modern English, to presenting herself as the Prime Minister of a country of which England was very much the largest part—to the living manifestation of an ancient and pagan Yr Hen Ogledd.

Hermione felt very much like a conscious decoration, a reminder of a united front, a friendly face. The longer she sat and listened, the more completely she realised that Narcissa had them, she was taking advantage of the shock of what they had seen in London. Even after years of magic, what had come in London was like the literal rising of the dead from Hell. It was instinctually terrifying. The muggles in the military probably avoided fear not merely by being hardened veterans, who were prepared to lay down their lives for others, but because they were very closely embedded with witches and wizards and had been for years. These men and women had seen them only adversarially from a certain distance up until the point of the liberation.

On that day, and for all that it felt so very distant, but it was only yesterday; yesterday, they had seen wizards and witches for their power to manipulate the world, for good or ill, and just how great it was. And Narcissa, hewing carefully to her line about the unity of one single people—about the realities of the fact that the Celtic nations could never untangle themselves completely from England, nor should they desire to, for the English were only Celts who a thin band of conquerors had impressed with foreign ways—was wearing down opposition to her plan. She cheerfully indulged in using Bellatrix's defence of Galicia to her advantage, and didn't stint in plying on the stories of heroism, and driving home the point of how their unity, and shared effort, would be the only way to defeat Voldemort, and retain civilisation in the wake of the war.

But the words never quite struck home, never quite came into focus, save a few snippets here and there. Hermione said the right things at the right times, but mostly her mind was fixed on one thing—her oldest and dearest dead friend—Harry Potter.

On the evening meeting that would come after Narcissa's master-class in diplomacy, and probably require just as much, or more diplomacy as this had. And Hermione really was dreadfully uncomfortable about it. She didn't know what to think, what to feel, what to say, about the meeting where they would discuss trying to bring Harry back from the dead, after more than six years.

She had seen the list of attendees.

Molly and Ron Weasley were on it.

Evening would come soon enough, and for Hermione's soul… There was no way that could feel fast. So she did anything she could to kill time. After the House Elves had completed their rearrangements, Narcissa moved into the Tablinum, which had last been occupied by her father as an office (and probably every other Lord and Lady Black since the 1400s, and with a brief gap, right back until the house was built). Hermione, for her part—her mind clouded—headed out onto the land for a walk. Bellatrix had worked her into the wards—they treated her like family.

They weren't officially married yet, but Bellatrix had already uncomplicatedly treated her like family, in ways that had meaning and power. She hadn't mentioned it, or made a big deal about it. She had just done it. And, to Hermione, it meant much more that way. She could ramble through the whole extent of the Black Estate without a care.

And she needed it. Gods, she needed it. The summer sun beat down, so she wore her uniform cap, a reminder of all that had come to pass, but a reminder of good times just as well as bad. When the bitter winds howled across the steppe, what a feat had it been, when she charged forth with Bella, and served as her Chief of Staff as she shattered Armies that all told amounted to a million men in the field against the CIS? A feat she'd never imagined, never even thought to imagine, that had demanded every effort from both intellect and body, until they were strung out, down to the bone.

Even the storms in spring, the terrible three sisters waves, seemed like a feat to be proud of. Without fear, they had stormed and liberated Britain. She remembered thinking about poor King Harald, and how at least he had the supreme pleasure of liberating his homeland even as he died. Well, she had managed the same feat—at Bella's side.

Pausing in the sun, a little tremble of emotion went through her. She had read Tolkien, of course she had read Tolkien, like most creative and imaginative children. Of course, not as many of them read the Silmarillion, but Hermione had. She was struck with the thought now that even if they could not kill the Dark Lord, if they could not crush and stop Voldemort, that they had wounded him, they had imitated Fingolfin's attack on Angbad. Bettered it, even. She started to laugh, and laugh, and laugh, alone in the woods. "Slowly in fear, the Dark Lord appears…"

Even if they all died now, they had humiliated Voldemort, and taken his homeland from him, in the hour when he thought his triumph over Britain was complete and absolute, utter and eternal. They had done more than kill him, they had wounded him, they had humiliated him.

Her laughter gently pattered away, like release from the intensity, the pain and the uncertainty. What would she do if this worked? She'd be there for Harry, in every way she could. But when he questioned her relationship with Bellatrix, and that was certainly inevitable, she'd show her memories to him, and show all they had done and shared, and hope that their friendship still had a place. If it didn't, she'd do her duty by her friend, even if he didn't consider her one anymore.

But, this wasn't a choice to be undone. Hermione Granger of the House of Black.

Really, she was more afraid of facing Ron and Molly Weasley than she was of that, at this point. So many people had used and abused Harry. Dumbledore had set him up. Hermione saw her mission as pretty clear: If he came back to them, she would, absolutely, positively, and without a doubt, give him the right, the power, the privilege of being his own man. If he never forgave her for the choices she made, she would accept it.

She wasn't sure the resolution or the confidence would hold in practice. It was still a hypothetical and it was easy to think big about hypotheticals. But she resolved to at least try. She would do right by her friend, and if it ended… It would still be her obligation to keep doing right. Firm-fixed in her mind, she wandered back toward Ancient House, wondering what the response of the others would be, more afraid of Molly and Ron than of the 'hypothetical' she had just thought over. They had suffered all the parts of the war, all the cruel indignities, all the way it taught ruthlessness, in a way that Harry had been spared. Hermione had perhaps only made it work with Bellatrix, as opposed to getting into a profoundly unhealthy relationship (ignoring those who would still call it unhealthy, including those she was about to face), because of that harshness, that had burned away the girlish innocence forever. But for someone else without her particular circumstances it might have well made them into an implacable enemy of Bellatrix Black.

And of course, Ron had his own reasons to take it especially badly. Hermione sucked in her breath, held a grimace on her face. By the time she reached Ancient House, the resolution, the good feelings, the confidence that she could 'do right by' Harry and that's what really mattered, the entire ridiculous hypothetical scenario when they didn't even have the Water of Death yet, all of it had gently melted away, leaving her just as anxious as she had been before. She was only sure it would work out in her daydreams, and that was the only place anything could ever be sure.

The Atrium was being prepared for an informal evening reception when she returned. The guests would start arriving within half an hour, and Hermione decided to put on her field uniform, to be the Russian Officer, not the old friend. The armour of a professional at least held at bay the doubt and self-recrimination that once again set in as soon as she had returned, and she she would just have to settle down and run with that as long as she could. They were all sitting down, after all, to try and have a calm and reasonable planning session about how to resurrect Harry, as if you just, every day, brewed a pot of tea, and sat down, and planned out how to bring back to life a friend six years dead.

Well, that was what the world had come to.

When Ron walked in with his mother, Hermione, who until that moment had remained reasonably in control of herself, froze in place. She watched them, and she felt Ron's eyes on her, dressed in uniform, looking so, so grim.

Narcissa stepped and interposed herself with a polite gesture of acknowledgment. "Madame Weasley. Councillor Weasley. Please sit, and avail yourselves of the refreshments."

"Thank you," Molly answered, looking around and seeming for a moment nonplussed. They had to have some idea of what the meeting was about, after all, and coming to Ancient House, which no Weasley had been invited to in centuries (except Ginny and only very recently) must have been almost disconcerting.

"I'm not sure we'll want any refreshments," Ron muttered, but moved to sit.

Narcissa was quite professionally unperturbed, as Hermione moved to sit with her. Soon enough, Ginny, Luna, Nymphadora and Andy also all arrived, as well as Charlie Weasley, whose arrival with reinforcements at the Battle of Hogwarts had nearly defeated Voldemort despite Harry's death—Hermione hadn't seen him since their escape from Britain, and six years wiser and more learned in history, she now couldn't help but compare the tragic last moment when it seemed like they would win to the legendary Orre's Storm at Stamford Bridge. He was a very sombre man now, aged past his years.

Flitwick arrived, and then that was all of them. "Your Grace," he observed with perhaps some bemusement, looking at Narcissa sitting on one of the chairs that were casually arranged in the Atrium. The elves were serving tea, seamlessly and invisibly.

But it was Andromeda who started to speak. "Witches and wizards… We are here to discuss a delicate matter. First of all, I must warn you that this conversation is covered under the Official Secrets Act. If any of the information in this meeting is discussed with any person not invited, for any purpose whatsoever, without the express written permission of the Prime Minister, personally, you will be prosecuted according to the Defence of the Realm Act of 2004," she began, acknowledging the enabling legislation for the wide-ranging Emergency Powers that Narcissa's Government presently had. "In a Civilian Court, or Military Court, or by Attainder, according to the preference of the appropriate Government officers. Now, with that formality gone," Andy seemed a bit bemused that Charlie Weasley managed to stiffen up with a classic bit of the Weasley surprise at something so serious—but 'Strelkov' was another matter entirely… "I am referring, of course, to … A concept, a power, that in the common wisdom of the British Wizarding Community is impossible, but common wisdom in the Russian would say is possible, with one source. If I may introduce Lady Larissa Sergeivna Naryshkina?" She gestured, and Larissa entered, alone.

Draco had decided it would be best to stay away from this meeting. Hermione suspected he was right. As the woman who would someday be her stepmother, Narcissa rose and helped her to sit. Before this point, Hermione had never seen Larissa dressed like this, in the tasselled cloak of a Russian witch, wearing a Kokoshnik. As a sign of power and responsibility, adult Russian wizarding women wore them whether or not they were married. It was with a collected dignity that Larissa sat.

"How many of you," she began without preamble, "know of the tale of Koschei the Deathless?"

"Well, I know that for someone who's supposedly deathless, he's very dead," Ron quipped, and tossed a sharp glance at Hermione.

Larissa frowned, blue eyes glinting. "Yes, he is. But not for the want of trying. He had the Water of Life, to cure his body of ills and grant him youth and beauty, as long as it lasted. But it was not a proof against the death given to him by Ivan Tsarevitch and Marya Morevna. Other tales say the Water of Life could grant life, even to one whose head was severed from their body."

Ginny winced and began to softly weep, trying to keep herself together. Molly reached out and gently wrapped an arm around her. Hermione sucked in her breath and trembled, and Ron was still. This time, she met his eyes, and nodded once. Before Voldemort buried him, he mutilated him, to make it unbearable for you, she thought back to the words Bellatrix had used, in the intensity of her emotion not quite exact, when they had been at Hogwarts.

Ron stiffened, face going so cold, a cold she had never seen on his face before the Battle of Hogwarts, never imagined seeing on it. The look which had come to predominate, after Chisinau.

"Well, it's not quite true," Larissa continued, after allowing for the pause. "The Water of Life will do nothing to heal a decayed body. It is the Water of Life. Its magical remit, if you will, is the living world, and living things, and granting and maintaining and nurturing life. Where decay has set in, the world of death, it has no power."

"So, the Water of Death," Hermione found herself speaking up, whispering in a hushed tone, as if the very concept held power, and wondering if, perhaps, it did.

"The Water of Death," Larissa agreed. The shadows were growing long outside, and over the hot cups of smokey tea, the world felt mysterious, powerful with magic in this place. She looked up to the sky, thought about the hill on the Black Estate, the one with the Standing Stones. Thought about the origin of the name, that the House had been the Keepers of Black Water— bog men, she thought, darkly, and imagined days when earlier Bellatrixes, two thousand years before, lived by a code far more ancient than any morality of their age, and sacrificed men in bogs, for power in the murky black water of death.

This was not the kind of magic that Dumbledore's Hogwarts had taught. This was…

"The Water of Death," Larissa continued calmly, reciting facts she had no doubt learned in the Black Court of Koldovstoretz, "The Water of Death kills. To drink it, you will instantly die—it is like an Avada Kedavra spill made into a liquid potion. You can't tell it apart from normal water, or the Water of Life, for that matter. But when applied to a corpse, a dead person? It binds the parts of their body back together, and heals their physical form, to the perfect whole shape of a person who died just a moment before, peacefully, or of the Killing Curse, without a mark. From This state, one in which every imperfection of decay has been removed by the Water of Death, the Water of Life will indeed bring someone back to life who has once been dead. Because of this, as many people have sought the Water of Death as the Water of Life—but it is held by -"

Luna looked up with a bright smile. "Oh, dear, Larissa, someone shall be questing to find the hut on chicken legs, then, shall they not?"

Larissa and Andromeda exchanged a glance, and Larissa nodded comfortably at Luna. "Indeed, Miss Lovegood. And as it happens, I do know someone who has more information than I do."

Hermione couldn't help it, despite how stressed and uncomfortable the meeting was, she smiled. "Master Flyorov."

"Yes," Larissa agreed. "I have sent for him, by Floo, portkey, and Floo. If we receive permission to proceed."

"Permission to proceed?" Ron blinked. "We're talkin' about bringing Harry back, right? Why would we need permission? Is this about N—the Prime Minister? Is it about Crazy Lestrange?"

Hermione winced and felt a flush of anger hot at her cheeks.

"Permission from all of you," Andy intervened hastily. "From all of us. Larissa excluded. This is… Gods know what the afterlife is like, and which one he has experienced, though we all believe it must be a very, very good one. He is a brave young man. Was a brave young man. But he was cruelly manipulated throughout his life."

Flitwick grimaced. "I never did like what Dumbledore was up to there," he muttered, then, spoke louder, "Ron Weasley, we don't know how painful or disconcerting it will be him to return from beyond, if we can find the Water of Death, if everything works as advertised."

"It will," Larissa insisted over her tea.

"Be that as it may, Lady Larissa," Flitwick continued. "It's a grave matter, and…" He trailed off, looked to Andy.

"Harry never got a choice about anything in his life," the middle Black sister finished with a nod. "Now we're all sitting here, and we're going to choose for him. Again. Because the world leaves us with no choice, ourselves."

"If the world leaves us with no choice then we know what we have to do," Charlie whispered, and looked to his mother, whose expression was frozen in thought.

But Luna just smiled. "Well, I think it's lovely. I can't wait—I haven't been able to wait to see Harry again for years. "

Hermione wondered morbidly if Luna was talking about seeing Harry in the afterlife by dying herself, or if she had always expected him to be resurrected. She didn't want to know which.

Tonks grimaced and folded her legs very precisely, like she was a little afraid that she might fall out of her chair. "The prophecy says he'll kill Voldemort. We need a dead Voldemort. So we bring him back. How does it actually work? Voldemort is surrounded by an Army of a Million Men, and he's less than a hundred miles from the Door of a Billion Stars."

"A billion stars?" Molly glanced back to her. "I'm never expecting you to be this cryptic, Andromeda."

"The portal of horror," Hermione thrust herself up, and stepped behind the chair to grab onto the back, for support. "There is a creature, among the stars, which swallows planets—I saw it, I felt it… A hunger for the essence of a soul. Azi Dahaka, the Lord of Ten Thousand Serpents… I participated in the Priestesshood, in ancient times, in dreams. Larissa had a similar experience. So did Bellatrix…"

Ron glared, but his older brother kicked his shin with his boot, and he held his tongue.

"So… It is a dire threat and I think it has something to do with the way that Voldemort managed to raise the dead in London. And he's very close to this portal, and we don't know what kind of power he might gain, or what kind of threat he might unleash, when he reaches it. So he must be stopped, not only for that, but also because the Water of Life is found only on the top of the very same mountain, Life on the top, Death on the Bottom at the Door, you see," Hermione continued, her voice almost stuttering with the urgency she felt in explaining it. "If he seizes Ararat, he gains both the Door, and cuts off our access to the Water of Life. And he's so close, and it's unlikely he'll run out of ammunition and troops, despite the reverses we've inflicted upon him, until after he's obtained his objective."

"Who doesn't want Harry to come back?" Ron asked. " Bellatrix? "

Hermione shot him a look. "Nobody doesn't want Harry to come back. But Tonks is asking a very valid question. We can't just—hand him a wand, and tell him, 'all right, back in the saddle lad, go up to Voldemort and challenge him to a duel'. For starters, we know there's one horcrux left—Nagini!"

"Then bring him back," Molly spoke, "and I'll be his mother, and if we can't find a way for him to take on Voldemort, then he won't. But he will be alive." She directed a look at Narcissa. "This meeting had a foregone conclusion, didn't it? You just wanted us to feel comfortable with it."

"How Slytherin of you, Misses Weasley," Narcissa acknowledged, and raised her teacup. "Tonks, do you have any objection?"

Tonks shook her head. "No. Not to that. We just have to properly plan this, so we're not throwing him unready into a meat-grinder, just like … Just like Dumbledore did, before the war escalated. Like we all did, I guess. Still feel guilty about that."

"I'm not Albus Dumbledore," Narcissa answered, very softly, and very coldly.

"No, you're Draco Malfoy's mother…" Ron muttered.

Narcissa shot him a look. "If you don't believe me to have the slightest bit of compassion for the boy, then at least please consider that I am competent enough to make sure that the prophesied man who will defeat the Dark Lord is properly surrounded by dozens of witches and wizards, thousands of troops with the best weapons, the finest regular intelligence briefings and every magic charm that can be made to help; with entire Front Armies laying down their lives as a distraction for his mission. As I said. I am not Albus Dumbledore. Now, are there any more questions or objections?"

"No? Good."