The Water of Life
No word from the Pripyet. Bellatrix woke up each morning and asked Narcissa through the Telecaster, and received an evasive, gently soothing answer which confirmed that Narcissa had no information good or bad, and regretted it. So there was nothing to be done.
Bellatrix bent to her work. She outmanoeuvred the defenders of Tordesillas in two days of rolling tank battles in the plains and fields to the north and northwest of the city, and slipped one division of the Black Guards to the west. Riding the wind like a bell, her tank columns converged on Torrecilla de la Abadesa to the west of Tordesillas proper and forced a crossing of the River Duero with windrows of corpses left along the banks in the lowlands, as tanks churned and clanked across the steel of the temporary bridges.
An old mill standing out in the middle of the river sat south of Torrecilla, and she established her next headquarters there, to send her tanks screaming east across undefended ground to encircle Valladolid from the south, in a building standing in the midst of the rushing river since medieval times. That was where she spent the night, before she stormed her way into Tordesillas.
She rode in a command track with Jorge, and wore thick riding gloves and a pair of goggles tossed up over her forehead, and a long, light riding duster to keep the carpet of rolling dust from the tanks off of her uniform and magical armour, which hung down to the ankles of her boots in an amusing reminder of just how short this woman, with all her contemptuous swaggering intensity, really was. No longer caring to cover the golden left forearm, she let glints of it appear as she shrugged and gestured with her left arm, until the dust they rode through carpeted it, and reduced its glittering down to the dull glint of bronze.
Once, it had been Bellatrix who lived completely within the magical world. She knew nothing of tanks or nuclear reactors or massed industrial war or muggle parliamentary politics. She had grown up in a perfectly magical upbringing. Then, Thérèse had shown her a world of smokey cafés, mixed drinks, electric guitars, the oscillating waves of the acoustical art which seemed like a different kind of magic to her. She had tried to understand what the muggles had done, how those dirty creatures had stolen a march on wizarding-kind and mastered something which wizards had, at best, with the wizarding radio only vaguely approached a true understanding of.
And she'd succeeded.
In the end, her world consumed her. There was a dialectic magnificence in what had happened next, the decades of hell, torture, war, pureblood supremacy; Thérèse's death at the very hand of the man she had been forced to marry to preserve her family's honour and status, and the end of everything except an obsession with Voldemort that had grown to overcome her and ultimately to completely consume her sense and sanity and leave her with nothing—except for her beautiful, beautiful daughter Delphini, who was in fact everything, not nothing.
Her world consumed her, sent her to hell for fourteen years, and then spat her out with a daughter she loved and had to care for. That combination was immensely powerful. It began to drag her out of her obsessive yearning. It turned her against her Lord—it made her a traitress. It disillusioned her to the cause of Voldemort's power.
It brought her to the thunderclap of a new encounter with Hermione Granger.
With the enemy falling back before them, they reached Tordesillas, and took the city without heavy fighting. There, she found herself in the monastery where Joanna the Mad of Castile had been imprisoned by her father and her own son. She felt an intense connection to this woman, who had in fact been a witch like her close relative Mary of England, but never properly trained, living on the cusp of the magical and technological worlds, torn apart by the aspirations of men.
Hermione had completed dragging her into this world, where muggle things were just as important as wizarding things. The world her daughter would grow up in, where magic and technology would exist hand in hand. A world where she had regained the love of her family.
Bellatrix wished well to Joanna the Mad's soul, and carried on with her charge to the east. She had sent her feelers out to the Portuguese, couldn't the wizards of the world see the madness, the danger from Voldemort that they were all under? Disturbing news from near Ararat, of vast armies of the dead and utterly powerful dark magic were swirling. Were they going to cow resistance, make people kiss the ring, or solidify a new period of resistance to his power?
Bellatrix gambled that Voldemort had no real loyalty left except for the other Death Eaters. That everyone was looking for a way out. That the reputation of his dark magical power and its relevance had been fading since the moment he invaded Russia.
But if he gained the full power at the bottom of Ararat, people would have good cause to kiss the ring, to remain loyal to Voldemort, to hold together his ramshackle Empire. Locking the Portuguese wizarding community into a path of 'treason' to Voldemort before then would be the best time to do it.
And in the back of her head, she was reminded that there was still no word from the Pripyet.
The dawn came up with the bright and wild hues of the sky that was still impregnated with dust from the nuclear exchanges. It was fabulously beautiful, a fantastical sky over the summer fields of Spain. Bellatrix tossed her clothes on and drank her soldier's coffee and ate her food on the run, and joined Jorge at the command track. "The news?" She asked.
"We have been in communication, but there's no cease-fire yet. I think they've also been in communication with the Portuguese, to see if they will cross the frontier to attack us in the rear. You've been reaching out to them, haven't you, M'lady?"
"Yes, and they haven't moved one way or another yet. If we take Valladolid we have the credibility to form a government in Spain no matter what. Men must realise that, and understand that if they do not switch sides now, they will never get another chance." It helped that in Portugal and Spain, many of the wizarding elite had attended Beauxbatons. It had generally been a 'light' school, unlike Durmstrang, which meant that Central Europe was far more firmly for Voldemort than western Europe and southwestern Europe in particular was. There were men and women who would actually fight to the death for him across Central Europe; the loyalties in France and Spain and Portugal were much different. But at the same time, he had thoroughly purged the French, especially, which is why there wasn't a croak of them switching sides, he had taken care to make sure that the usual support for the light in France was crushed. But in Spain and Portugal the situation was more complicated and less urgent, and so the defections were, by corollary, more possible. The muggle population would revolt at the drop of a hat, if they felt it would not be hopeless, Bellatrix was sure. All across Europe, they had to be feeling that way.
But it was only not hopeless if there were wizards and witches on their side. "Keep the pressure up until they crack," Bellatrix said resolutely. "Forward!"
It was such a strange feeling to leave Vologda for Moskva and travel back to Britain, after all that had passed. Where did the dreams and hallucinations begin and where did the truth begin? Where did they end? They had met a Goddess, but a very strange one, who was never quite worshipped, but only propiated, and remembered in legend and in myth.
At least now, Moskva as a city was continuing to recover. It was a good summer, and food rationing had been relaxed as the first harvest came in after the recovery of the south and the eastern Ukraine. The situation was not as bleak as it could have been, arriving by rail, with time for a meal and tea, and to change into new uniforms, which were provided by the Military Commissariat.
At last arriving in the city, after a delay to let a few troop trains pass, they went forthwith to MinKol headquarters from the railway station by tram and trolleybus, heading for the international portkey hub which had been reestablished at the MinKol headquarters. Places like Delhi, Tehran, Oslo, Stockholm, Helsinki, Nanjing and, of course, London, were once again available, but all of the travellers were witches and wizards in MinKol and allied Ministries, and also muggle military personnel who were on such important missions that they were given an escort from MinKol and allowed to travel instantaneously like this.
In the waiting hall, with its little canteen serving tea and simple food, Hermione was astonished to see Tamar Dadiani. She knew, of course, that Master Flyorov and his wife had a relationship that seemed very happy and close enough, but they were also comfortable being apart, and Lady Dadiani was an important part of the Georgian contribution to the War Effort. Her presence was a considerable gesture of affection, the moreso that she approached her husband outright, and embraced him with an intense kiss. "Vasya." She pulled him away from the others.
Ron glanced at the time, and got in line for some tea. If he had any questions, he kept them to himself.
Larissa pulled Hermione away, too.
"Lara?" Hermione asked, with the tug on her shoulder.
"I don't have a good feeling about this."
"Neither do I," Hermione admitted plainly.
"I don't like this," Larissa continued, "In particularly, I don't like the exchange between The Baba Yaga and Master Flyorov at all," she said softly, her expression unusually fragile. She had borne so much pain and suffering in this war, with steadfast courage and her characteristic flippancy, her defiant intent to act absurd in the midst of the absurd horrors of the war—Larissa was rational and supremely fearless and never as disconnected as Luna, but in a way she was rather like Luna. Her encounter with Haldi and the Battle on Ararat had pushed that to the limit. Her romance with Draco had brought her back to something of her old self. Now she looked genuinely fearful and it broke Hermione's heart.
"Draco will be there when we get back to London," Hermione said, barely more than a whisper. "You can stay with him, if you like."
"No, I'd not like that, I can't leave Master Flyorov alone. I won't. But, I would like very much for Draco to be with me, yes."
"He will be," Hermione insisted, and hugged her friend again. "Let me get you something nice."
"If you can find something."
In fact, Hermione found that the canteen had chocolate salami, which while it once would have been a very humble dessert for the likes of Larissa Naryshkina, now was a very welcome wartime snack. She managed a wry smile to Hermione. "Sorry. I know I'm not the one to get maudlin."
"Everyone must be weak sometimes," Hermione answered with a shrug. She'd certainly learned that herself, the hard way, many times over. Then, Tamar and Vasily returned.
They both looked like they'd be crying, but Tamar smiled grandly, and confidently. "We're ready. Come this way, Councillors."
"I suppose we all do have a variation on the same rank," Tonks mumbled.
Off to the portkey with them. A single moment of magical intensity, and they were torn away from Russia and Moskva, deposited in London, the London which already had in the past days made enormous strides of recovering from the horrifying Day of the Dead.
And Draco was waiting, just like Hermione had assured her friend that he would be. Ginny was waiting, too, for both her and Ron, and she was so relieved to be back, even if, like a black claw, stretching from her heart, her mind took the moment to remind her exactly why she was here.
Andromeda was there, too, to lead them to Hogwarts, and to embrace her daughter, with all the furious intensity of a mother who had very nearly abandoned hope.
And remind her that Bellatrix wasn't here. You better be kicking ass, Bella.
Of all the narcotics that Bellatrix had ever taken, experienced, or even fantasized about, of all the experiences that she had craved to reawaken emotion after her mind had been so savaged by the Dementors in Azkaban, there was sex with Hermione, and there was … This.
Liberating a city.
Valladolid.
What could compare to this emotion, to this scene, to this experience? A hundred thousand people lined the streets. They waved flags and they cheered and waved their hands high in the air. And around her, her troops, the Black Guards, the Galicians, cheered her. Their voices roared through the air and shook the glass around them alongside the rumbling of the tanks, that they strove to overcome with their wild screams. This grand city had once been the capital of Castile, and still had a certain royal grandeur which Madrid had never completely taken from her.
They arrived at last, for they could barely move through the sea of those celebrating, at the Plaza de Zorrilla, before the Campo Grande, the great triangular park at the heart of the old city. Her troops stretched straight out to the nearby Plaza Mayor, where the Holy Week processions were held. Jorge had a grin that was also flush with intensity, as the two of them dismounted from their Command Track, and made their way with a knot of escorts to the Plaza Mayor, facing the Town Hall—the Casa Consistorial-with its great clock-tower.
Together they approached the massive statue of Pedro Ansúrez which the Morsmordre administration had not bothered to destroy. Seeing it intact, Jorge was overcome by emotion, wiping at his eyes and staring silently for a moment.
"Since you can't do it with a wand," Bellatrix said with gentle bemusement, she reached over and took a bullhorn from one of their staff who had followed them, and presented it to him, "make due with something electro-acoustic, hmm?"
He took it, and laughed. "M'lady Field Marshal." Tipping his hand in a salute, he jogged forward.
He was right. The promotion had been gazetted. She was Field Marshal Lady Black now.
Jorge climbed to the top of the clock tower, and began to speak. With a little wink, Bellatrix spun out a quick spell that grabbed the acoustic waves of his voice, and magnified them, booming, across the Plazas and the Campo Grande. She thrilled at the experience and felt genuinely good for her friend, savouring the intensity of the emotion, the strangeness of being delighted in the triumph of another, a muggle no less!
And speak he did. There was no prospect of a broadly recognised civilian government, so what he said next was a delicate matter, declaring Valladolid, to great cheering and screams, the provisional capital of Spain. He announced the formation of a Junta of National Salvation, carefully choosing the name to be the same as the temporary government of Portugal after the '74 Carnation Revolution, to avoid any negative connotations politically. He proclaimed the eternal alliance with Russia and Britain, but promised to restore Spanish greatness within the ironclad unity of three brothers that the Alliance represented.
Such talk might all be a vapour in a few years, but it was what was needed now.
And then he finished it with a slogan that also had to be carefully chosen. "¡Adelante, España!"
Bellatrix just leaned against the side of the statue's plinth, and grinned. She had spent several evenings with him, saying the slogans, feeling them over for their tone and tenor. It was part of her natural ear that had led her into acoustics and then electric magic, and it was so simple and she had, strangely enough, loved it, and loved to see him there now.
One of her Aides-de-Camp came up and saluted. She acknowledged it and pushed herself fully to her feet. It was a short transcription of a message.
We will meet in Tordesillas to discuss terms.
Bellatrix gripped it tightly and leapt, tossing her fist in the air with a devilish grin. To those around her she was just one more who was cheering at Jorge's Pronouncement.
I will have another front to give you when you get back, Hermione. Another victory.
It was a promise that she prayed the Pripyet would let her keep.
Andromeda let them embrace relatives and make their greetings. Then she spun on heel, and led them for the Floos. Hermione ached to ask her about Bellatrix—did Bellatrix know that she was back, that she was safe?-but it was clear that Andromeda was not allowing even a second to be wasted. She distributed the Floo powder. "Buchanan Manor. It's the closest to Hogwarts along the rail-line. We have a special train waiting at the passing loop there."
They each said the name in their turn, Andromeda leading them through. On the other side, Hermione was astonished to see Daphne Greengrass, looking pretty, blonde, confident and dapper in the uniform of a British Army Major. She came to attention smartly and saluted Hermione and the others. "Ladies, Gentlemen, Officers, welcome. We have a train laid on for you, this way." Several guards fell in with Daphne.
Ron fell in with Hermione. He glared for a moment, and then confided in her, with his voice a hoarse whisper: "All these snakes, 'Mione. Greengrass turned her cloak from Voldemort to us in Glasgow during the liberation, and that was early enough that, of course, Narcissa pardoned her and gave her a commission. But she's not the slightest bit different than Millicent, just a better sense of timing."
Hermione suspected she knew what was behind it. "Andy is a snake too, Ron. And she's always been with us."
"Wouldn't fight for us, though."
Would you fight Ginny? Hermione wanted to ask, but decided it best not to start a screaming row, when they were on this mission, of all things. To Hermione, Daphne reminded her far too much of Tracey, now entombed forever in Chernobyl. The thought gave her a shudder, and she was glad that some of the Slytherin students at Hogwarts from her days, as awful as they had all treated her, had made the right decision. There was nothing wrong with Daphne being alive.
They walked through the thistle and forest of a Scottish summer in the Highlands, and came out of the woods around the manor, descending toward the cut that the railway ran through, where as promised, on the passing loop off to the side of the single-track main, a smart LMS "Princess Royal" class 4-6-2 was sitting, shining under the sun with a nice Burgundy paint scheme and the nameplate reading "Princess Elizabeth". She had steam up, and a rake of four coaches was marshalled behind her, waiting for them, and a sandbagged flak wagon behind that, with three wizards and a Russian 57mm automatic cannon on it, showing that no chances were being taken. It wouldn't do any good against a modern jet, but it could still chop up helicopters, and men on the ground.
Hermione simply pushed ahead to speak with Daphne, which did net her a glare from Ron. "Major, quite a lot of preparation for just a short trip to Hogsmeade, don't you think?"
"You'll make a speed run to London just as soon as the rake is turned at Hogsmeade, I've been told, if it works. Or rather, we. I'm in the charge of the security detail, Ma'am," Daphne answered, her face schooled with aristocratic Slytherin perfection to show nothing of what she thought about interacting with Hermione like that. "The Lady Regent's orders, personally."
Hermione nodded. Of course Narcissa wants to take personal control of the situation as quickly as she can. "Thank you, Major."
"Of course, Ma'am." Daphne waited on the ground until they all climbed onboard, double-checked the readiness of the guard with her Sergeant-Major, and then swung herself up in the vestibule of one of the coaches and leaned out the far side, gripping the grab-iron with a single black gloved hand, and waving to the driver with the other. The driver acknowledged with a long blast of the whistle, and a moment later they were underway.
The coaching stock was very nicely appointed, and Hermione caught up Andromeda in one of the parlours, swinging her chair around to face her after she sat. "Andromeda, how is Bellatrix?"
"I am sorry I couldn't answer before. She's fine. You were in far more danger, I'm sure. She…" Andromeda shook her head and laughed softly. "They say she's liberated Valladolid, based on the latest news. She gutted the entire front like a fish—opened it right up, and stormed ahead. So very, very Bella—an impatient, restless genius, who lives life with everything on her sleeve."
Hermione felt herself spontaneously crying, and reached up to wipe her eyes. "Of course she's fine. Of course she is. Delphi?"
"She stayed with Draco, just like Teddy. Now they're with Craig's family and the Tonkses, just to get them some muggle influence: don't tell Bella."
"Good. Gods, good." Hermione leaned back, closed her eyes, a faint grin appearing and then quickly fading. "Are we really going to do this?"
"I was warned by Moskva that the mission had succeeded. Well, Cissy was. So I assume the answer is yes, Hermione." A wry smile was offered, gently, and Andromeda got up and embraced her. "I'm sorry that Bella isn't here for you, but you know that it would be so difficult when this situation is already difficult. And she's in her element, doing great things which are making her a legend. In three weeks in command she completely turned the front around in Galicia, and counterattacked splendidly. She needs that."
"You just want her away from this," Hermione whispered. "But I understand."
With a rushing of the drivers, they rolled out smoothly across the viaduct on the approach through the Scottish countryside toward Hogwarts. It felt so very very different, as an adult, wearing her uniform.
Perhaps it had been best that she had resolutely refused to think about this. About the arriving at Hogsmeade station on the special train, about the guards who held open the doors, the rifles raised and clapped in salute, striding wizards and witches in robes and uniforms. Goblins on patrol, under arms.
Hogsmeade, a militarised city. It was so strange, and she hadn't often been there in summer, either, to see it all in this warmth. The castle seemed healthier for it. The causeway had already been repaired, presumably, here, by magical effort.
The last time Hermione had been on it, she had nearly died trying and failing to lead the effort to disarm the magical charges; but it had been good enough, she'd been told later, for Luna to bring up a flying tree, and let the Army cross over. Now, she couldn't even tell where the original arches ended and the new replacements began. The entire event was mercifully hazy—just the infirmary, and waking up to Bellatrix, and the furious evil she had discovered, the mass graves, and…
This. It's time.
We're really doing it.
Harry?
A shudder and an unnatural chill took her as they entered the castle. This was true magic, true magic. No Arithmancy could quantify it. No formal ritual could summon it.
The Water of Death. The Water of Life. They simply were.
The Thing in Itself. The Necessary Existent.
Professor Flitwick greeted them, carrying a vial that he presented to Andromeda. "Andromeda, it was delivered as promised from the Transcaucasian Front, last night."
"Thank you." Andromeda took it with a polite grace, and turned back. "This is a matter for Professor Flyorov and I. The rest of you should wait."
"Harry needs a fam…" Ron started.
Andy held up her hand, eyes severe. "It's not worth it, Mister Weasley. We'll call you in shortly. This is a two-part process, after all."
Ron sighed, but turned away. It was only Tamar Dadiani who insisted: "Where my husband goes now, I follow."
Andromeda twisted her lips into a patient expression of pain which could only be a thought of her own late husband, and she nodded, and the three went off together.
Larissa stared after them with an expression so dire that Hermione didn't know what to say or think or do. Draco drew her into an embrace, publicly and without any cold Pureblood hesitation, and again Hermione was thankful that he had become such a man in his adulthood.
Hermione felt very isolated, without Bellatrix. She stepped over to Flitwick. "Professor, how long should it be?"
Flitwick shook his head and muttered something. "Well, you will not find any more powerful magic in existence. I don't think it will be very long at all, if it's going to work." His voice was hoarse, then: "He's been gone for so long. I can't imagine what that's like."
Hermione pursed her lips, nodded and tried to be brave about it, the kind of bravery that … No, it was just all nonsense, she just wanted Harry back.
Five minutes, it was just five minutes, and Andromeda came out, with an expression that was a frozen rictus halfway between shock, wonder and dread. "Come, come now. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, Dora my dear, you too. It's fine now. He's not back yet, but you can be here."
The Water of Death. Hermione shivered, it could only mean one thing, and dashed on, acutely aware that she had left Larissa behind in Draco's arms, looking warily after them, on the edge of grief, and Hermione thought she knew why.
But, Master Flyorov was alive inside. He smiled to them as they arrived, and gestured grandly to the bed which had been so carefully laid out, and then so carefully cleaned by magical means. "Your friend, a good young man," he offered to them.
Ron gasped outright. Luna stared in an entranced pride, as if she had always expected, but the Water of Death nonetheless validated everything about how she saw the world. And Hermione, she just stared, unable to find any words, at the completion of the dream, the entire week that seemed like a dream in three parts, the nightmare, the Hut on Chicken Legs, and now – Harry, Harry, his body intact, a young man who had become a man, the hard way, by starting a war too soon, but who was now healed.
A young man without a scar on his face.
I wonder if Voldemort is screaming somewhere, she thought, with savage fury and happiness.
"I will leave you with him, my young friends, and wish you all the very best. You will win this war, and I am sure of it. I am going for a picnic with my wife."
"Don't forget to stop and speaking with Larissa," Hermione managed to say, tearing her eyes from Harry. "She needs it."
"...You are the kind of friend she needs, just like Draco is the kind of man she needs. Thank you, I promise you, I will make a little time for her, first. But only if she leaves the castle. It's a very fine Scottish summer day, and I want to explore, a little."
Hermione grinned at that, shaking her head, and thankful that she didn't need to worry.
Flyorov looked at her one more time, bemused, and proud of them all, and stepped out with Tamar, to go talk to one of his last students, whose whole adult life had been war, and whose whole future had been recreated by it. One more time.
And Andromeda, as gently as she could, tipped open Harry's mouth, looking for all the world like he was just sleeping, and dripped the Water of Life onto his palate, and then sprinkled it across his body, while chanting, low and soft.
It was summer, and The Boy Who Lived, opened his eyes.
Notes:
The English reader will be relieved to know that Chocolate Salami is a Soviet-era chocolate sweet made with crushed up biscuits that have gone stale, to fill out the actual chocolate and butter and sugar and so on.
People who are not from England will probably think I am being a bit too fastidious by insisting on calling a train a "rake", passenger cars "coaching stock", and the engineer as a "driver", and a passing siding a "passing loop", for that matter, but in writing this story, we are all going to be using British English, and there is never an opportunity when I won't try my best to be fussily precise. :-)
"Adelante España!" means "Forward, Spain!", and unlike most other slogans I could think of in Spain, isn't necessarily associated with a particular kind of politics, which is important for encouraging some national unity.