The Prince and the Blacksmith
Inside the storage room of the old grist mill, the general assembly of the Portuguese delegation met with Bellatrix, representing Britain by herself. In old wood and stone, it was only the spartan nature of the surroundings that didn't feel at home, as light filtered in through all the open windows, which had no glass, just opened shutters.
"Let me be plain with you," Bellatrix explained, having listened to their presentations and appeals. "Since ancient times, Portugal and Britain have been allied nations. In this modern world, the disintegration of the modern order demands that we turn back to those ancient, time-tested bonds."
"Portugese culture is the Celtic culture of Iberia. Portugal conquered the south out of Galicia, and northern Portugal remains deeply connected in the wizarding world to my own people—to many of you, nothing I am saying here is a surprise. It's the stated political policy of my sister, the Duchess of Lancaster, to realise the unification of the peoples who still have a tangible connection to their Celtic heritage. That certainly includes northern Portugal—but we, as the British state, have no interest in dismembering one of our oldest allies. I also know that many of you are in fact from Porto yourselves, because of the nuclear devastation of Lisbon. The magical cultures of our people are linked. That should matter, and it does matter. So how do we handle the essential problem? What will we do to protect Portugal in this situation, and link Portugal into our system of alliances? How do we make sure the interests of the north are kept safe in the future configuration of the Portuguese state? I would suggest that in terms of autonomy, of national prestige, support for economic reconstruction, and national defence, the straightforward solution would be to proclaim His Majesty, King Charles, the Protector of Portugal."
Probably Bella's hardest challenge in making that speech was avoiding getting a tremendous big grin at the end. She had far too much fun thinking of how she had just mentally kicked a can over inside of all their brains. Narcissa would have said something like 'following through with the necessary consequences of the nuclear wars', and Hermione would have talked about how people were returning to older, more familiar forms of government under the pressure and fear of integrating the magical community directly. Bellatrix mostly just thought that it was absolutely amazing that she had been given the opportunity to tell the Portuguese government, such as it was, that they should seek a dynastic union with Britain.
From the eruption of voices in the room, expressions of shock and wonder, she had placed a lightning rod perfectly, an idea that would attract, but nobody else would have dare first spoken. The witches and wizards of Portugal had no context in the modern world to oppose it. The rest, perhaps, understood that they simply did not have many options, and that people wanted food and security more than anything else.
"I will draft your own proposal on the basis of Protection," Bellatrix declared with a generous nod, and rose. Having kicked over the ant-hill, it would be very unwise to keep pressing. She retreated from the room, her duster fluttering behind her like a cape, and went to her guards. "Make sure they are given plentiful food and drink, and taken to their quarters at the end of the day, but they're not to be allowed to dismiss themselves, to leave, or otherwise to end the proceedings until they have an agreement. Consider it a sequestration."
"Of course, M'lady." The soldiers were just as amused as she was.
Bellatrix was sure that had happened before in European history, but she couldn't quite remember. Hermione will probably know.
Hermione.
The telecaster was sparking and spinning when she got to her office, and she made haste to it, seizing control of it with her wand. The image of Andy immediately resolved. "...Has something happened to Cissy?" Bella asked, an abrupt stabbing of fear dissipating her pleasant mood.
"No, she's just very busy with things, and knew you were probably in meetings, but this was so urgent that she asked me to keep contacting you non-stop until you answered. She wants you to come back to London. Voldemort has launched a major offensive, and he may very well break through to Ararat. We're trying to pull together our strategy for how it's actually possible to defeat him, and she wants you there. The Spanish front has been brought under control; and so, we can't spare you there anymore. It's come, the time has come."
Bellatrix nodded once. Suddenly, the weight of facing her former master crashed down, and her throat was sore and hoarse, remembering the ruined waif of a great witch she had been when she had been rescued by him from Azkaban. That was the act which, in the end, she had repaid with betrayal. If you regret that, you will die. It will be your destruction.
So there was no time for regrets. There never had been, in all of her life. "I'll make forthwith for London." At least, after all, it guaranteed that she'd see Hermione at least one more time.
The MinKol wizards and witches assigned to the 25th Army Corps were as invisible as the others behind their masks, impermeable suits, and anti-gas cloaks. Alexandra's wizard protection forces linked up with them in groups, waiting for the signal to join hands, and endure the gruelling experience of sidealong apparation one more time, into battle.
She looked at her chrono and checked the time. "Comrades, don your masks!" She repeated, to trenchantly remind any of them who were waiting until the last second, and then stepped forward toward the front wall of the trench. A trench periscope was in place, but she didn't look through it, she rather liked having her sight left.
The enemy artillery was still hammering them, and their own remained silent, concealed. They would let one single battery of guns do the talking, first. The sun blinked through clouds of smoke and dust, and soon enough, for all the madness of a daytime offensive, it would have competition.
"Fifteen…"
"Fourteen…"
Some men nervously tightened the straps on their gas masks again, just to make sure the seal was complete. Some crossed themselves. Others prayed aloud:
"The dark clouds of life bring no terror to those in whose hearts your fire is burning brightly. Outside is the darkness, terror and howling of the storm; but in the heart, in the presence of Christ, there is light, peace and silence: Alleluia!"
The troops looked at her as she passed, with body language which she could read even through their full gear-some cold and fixed, or bright and confident. A few glares through the masks—why are we doing this?-the appeals always had trouble with some, but they would attack nonetheless. Some promised to see their command in Tatvan, with a jaunty coolness. Some just saluted, as she took up her place, she could know none of them…
"Three…"
She reached her place and pushed herself hard into the dirt wall of the trench, to minimise the exposure to the ionising sleet of neutron radiation which would be emitted from the bombs. Her hand slipped down to rest on air horn fixed to her belt; in masks, there was no using a whistle.
Shells crashed around them until the last minute, the enemy hammering them as the units on both flanks were routed, as the Morsmordre turned their attention against the 25th Corps. Their own artillery opened up, a thunderous roar across the horizon from concealed positions—counterbattery fire.
MinKol personnel were stationed among them, they were casting shields against magical warnings, so the enemy could not know that mixed into the conventional counterbattery fire, the heavy guns had joined in, and lobbed their tactical warheads.
Alexandra pushed in closer against the wall of the trench and waited, mentally calculating the range, the flight of the shells, tearing at supersonic velocity through the air, one more conventional payload.
She looked down, and everyone looked down. The shadows shifted abruptly, lengthening and stretching. A white glare cast itself malignantly over the lip of the trench, and pushed their shadows onto the far wall. The harsh relief of white and darkness below her, of shadow and the brilliance of a thousand suns, told her, told everyone, all that they needed to know.
The shadows shifted, and shifted again, and again. Another, another, another. The soldiers whispered prayers. There was the roar of artillery around them—shells falling, the thunder of a distant cannonade—which might be coming from guns that had already been destroyed, men ripped to their component molecules, seconds ago.
Seconds passed. The terrified roar tore through the air. A cloud of dust blew across the trench, whipped by a furious wind that tugged at them. She had trouble drawing breath through the filter of her mask against the back-pressure in the very atmosphere around her. The dust hovered in place, and then exploded outwards, and with it, scrubs, limbs of fallen trees, ephemeral garbage of the Army's defensive position, went fluttering and flying above them. The roar cascaded into the roar of more bombs. Eight bombs. Eight bombs, slamming in an interlocking grid into the enemy position, a claw of death to rip the heart of their lines and to subject their horde of Inferi to a nuclear hellfire against which the undead had no defence. Then.. Ten… Twelve… And then the light flashed out and over again, a terrible new flash erupting through the sky, distant, but more intense.
Alexandra's eyes widened for a moment. Big ones. They used some big ones. She hadn't been told. The secrecy around them had been total. They must have been slipped in right behind the others, using short-range ballistic missiles, in the midst of the chaos and the interference of the defensive missiles from the first group. Three. Fifteen. God. Fifteen. They ripped through the ground ahead with terrible deep roars, she could feel the earth shake, the clods of dirt dislodged from the walls of the trench by the shaking in the earth, toppling to the ground, dusting her boots in soil.
The brilliant lights began to dissipate. The main group of bombs were only 5kT each, tactical weapons for 18cm artillery. But twelve of them in the same place… Had torn precise gaps in the front, while to the rear, the larger detonations caused mass chaos and disruption to prevent the easy response of the Morsmordre reserves supporting their offensive.
With the nuclear strikes over, the Russian conventional artillery now immediately laid down patterns of nerve gas shells on the enemy artillery to suppress them, the guns opening up moment the fireballs began to fade, the heavy S-23s shifting from nuclear to chemical shells. The greater mushroom clouds, the three greater ones further to the rear, rose higher and higher, flickering with unnatural light, silhouetting the work of the gunners laying their guns with a malevolent triad of red-smoke columns rising ever further skyward.
And Alexandra swung around, grabbed the ladder, and climbed out of the trench. She activated her air horn, letting it scream again, and again, and again, with her hand thrust up into the air with a pistol more as a symbol than anything else. Around her, the world was abruptly silent, as silent as peace. The enemy artillery had just been gutted, their hordes of Inferi sent on fire, the wind had carried away the roar of the nukes.
Then the cacophony of the artillery firing nerve gas and conventional explosives downrange tore back through the air. The shouts of thousands of voices, the screams of alert sirens, the snort of revving diesels. An army, out of its concealed defensive positions, came alive.
"Za Rodinu! Ura!" They swarmed out of the trenches into their assembly positions. What were their objectives? Where were they to apparate? They had to exploit holes in the enemy positions. Each one of the attack groups chained together, hand to hand, shoulder to shoulder, and apparated deep into the enemy lines. Their support would be coming, protected as best as they could be from the radioactive sleet by the steel walls of their tanks and APCs.
The regular troops had a simple objective: Seize the holes in the enemy's lines and push on to link up with the Wizard assault squads. To accomplish this, per the plan, and per the locations Alexandra had briefed and sent her troops into with the MinKol personnel, required the objective of the regular troops to be simple, clear, and brutal.
The plan went like this – Advance through the hypocentre of the fireballs. Keep your armoured vehicles buttoned up and your positive pressure suits on. Keep your masks on, even with the hull buttoned up; you won't have enough time to don them if your tank is breached, before you breathe in a fatal dose. Drive hard, drive fast. Spend as little time inside of the perimeter as possible. Get to the other side, and assault the enemy rear-areas before they can reestablish the line. Link up with the MinKol forces, follow their orders. Don't stop advancing until you are dead or receive orders to consolidate.
In short: Do you see the fireball? Yes? Attack through it!
And to a man—and woman—they followed their orders.
Bellatrix knew that it mattered to Hermione. She knew that Potter mattered to Hermione. She remembered, distantly, having barely escaped from Azkaban, the clouded feeling in her memories, the way she had mockingly told him how to use the Cruciatus Curse, when he had tried to use it against her—and failed. But, for all that it had been mocking, she was resolutely convinced that she had meant it. Bellatrix tried to extend a measure of respect to all her enemies. If the boy had mustered the hate to inflict pain on her—let him try his best.
Now, that feeling was faintly embarrassing, not because she was embarrassed for causing pain, or because she was embarrassed at the prospect of feeling it (she had certainly felt enough in her life), but because she felt the entire episode silly. After six years of trying to rule the world and failing, and destroying a lot of it, and defecting, and leading massive armies, one's time as, in the grand scheme of the entire world, a terrorist, came off pathetic simply for how minor it was. How little, in the end, any one action had changed things.
The Battle of Hogwarts had not been the grand finale of a war, it had been the beginning, and even by the standards of magical mobilisation in this conflict only, not counting the muggles, it had barely been a skirmish. It would be remembered for what it meant to all the things that came after it, not for anything else.
And now she had to put the last demon to rest. Arriving in London via Portkey, she had commandeered a dressing room at the Ministry and completely changed into her dress uniform. The peaked cap, the skirt, the baton, the boots, the full works. No dragonskin armoured corset in sight. No attempts to hide her golden artificial arm—not, anyway, after she doffed her gloves on her arrival at 10 Downing Street. It was probably the first time she had actually turned herself out as fully Regulation to her British Army uniform, and it was the first time she had worn the uniform of a Field Marshal.
With her staff alongside her, arriving in cars sent to Diagon by the Government, she looked exactly like a professional military officer, and only the wand at her side instead of a sword and the fact she was, after all, a woman of predominantly (in modern terms) Franco-Welsh extraction who stood barely 5'2", marked her as unusual. The guards and security and the staff at 10 Downing Street knew that this woman was always welcome; Narcissa's instructions had been explicit.
So let us see Potter, brought back to life by the Waters. She doffed her hat, tucked it under her left arm, and strode in, and up to the Cabinet Room, where Narcissa was meeting and planning the operation which would either defeat Voldemort and soon, or likely get them all killed. Or worse, she thought back to Ararat, and shuddered; there was no more need to think of it, for now.
"Field Marshal Lady Black."
The room went silent. The doors opened. Bellatrix doffed her gloves next, and presented herself to the table, with a salute for Narcissa. "Your Grace."
Harry stared.
Bellatrix couldn't resist. "Lord Potter." She dipped her head, and made her way to Hermione, who was as tense as a mouse in the shadow of a hawk. But it was Harry's eyes who followed Bellatrix like the eyes of a hawk.
Bellatrix very deliberately sat down in the chair next to Hermione, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Her appearance was awful, and it was sincere, not show, when she asked her lover, "that must have been awful, because you look it."
"I'm still a little sick, Bella," Hermione mumbled, the trance broken. "It was. But. Thank you."
The elder woman now wondered if Hermione had been afraid of her doing something stupid in front of Harry, so afraid that, alone, was what had her on edge.
Well, that's a reminder of your reputation. She reached up, gently put her gold artificial hand on Hermione's shoulder; Hermione brought one of her hands up, and clapped it over, the feeling remaining almost exactly like a real arm, a real hand. Almost.
Good enough. Don't bitch about it. Bellatrix flashed a smile. "So, Cissy, we're planning for the final operation against Riddle?"
A sigh, and a gentle hum of confidence, slipped out of Hermione. Bella could feel her relax more completely. A good sign…
"We are. We're also digesting unfortunate, and rather significant, information that he may have already been in contact, or made a deal, with the power in the base of Ararat—Azi Dahaka. The city of Diyarbakir has been extirpated, and Hermione..."
Her girlfriend swallowed, while leaning against her. "Yes, I remember from the stories the Priests told, when I lived in the temple in the – dream. He has extinguished entire cities before. But the true dark power is not at hand—killing and raising the dead is different than what it does, and the power that it lends to its servants."
"Eating souls, just like a Dementor," Bellatrix murmured. "Yes. But we must have a way to stop this—I mean, Kaveh the Blacksmith stopped this monster before! Must have been one hell of a wizard blacksmith…
There was silence. Bellatrix looked around, left and right, down the table. Did I say something wrong? Her own confidence was perhaps overstated… She smiled tightly.
It was Luna who spoke next, and she quoted, at length, from a text she had quietly produced:
"In Old Iran, the story of Zahhak begins with that of Jamshid, a legendary king who had led Iran magnanimously for seven hundred years and brought about peace and justice, civilisation, sanitation and health, arts and splendour, joy and prosperity, by the grace of God during his reign. But his success eventually led to pride and arrogance. He thus demanded to be recognized not only as the ruler of the world, but its creator. The arrogance marked his downfall as God withdrew the divine fortune of Jamshid's reign."
"Zahhak was once a man, a noble Arab deceived by the Lord of Serpents, the Darkness Between the Stars, to kill his father Merdas, to acquire his fortune and power. The Lord of Serpents guided Zahhak in treacherously killing his father; Zahhak became the ruler. The Lord of Serpents then kissed the new king's shoulders to bless him, and disappeared. Two black snakes appeared where the Serpent's lips had touched him. The snakes could not be removed, as new ones would replace them as soon as they were cut off. All physicians and healers in the realm proved powerless to deal with the snakes. When Zahhak begged of his power to relieve him of the suffering and threats of the snakes, he was told he must sacrifice the mind and essence of a young man to each snake each day for all time."
"At the time that Jamshid lost his divine favour, Zahhak took the opportunity to attack Iran. Jamshid was defeated, escaped, and remained in hiding for a hundred years. He was finally caught and on Zahhak's order cut in half. Zahhak claimed Jamshid's throne. He ruled as an evil tyrant for one thousand years and killed many innocent young people to satisfy the snakes, during which the land was covered in a cloak of gloom. One night he dreamed that three warriors attacked, bound, and dragged him to Mount Damavand near Tehran as a cheering crowd followed. It would be the youngest who struck the decisive blow, with a golden mace. The dream terrified Zahhak and he consulted many wise men and dream interpreters. A brave one finally interpreted that Zahhak's days were numbered, and a new king, Feraydun, would overthrow him. It is said he would be found in a meadow in the mountains north of Iran; but north of Iran there are many meadows, and many mountains. Zahhak hunted widely for Feraydun with spies and assassins he sent all through the north, and finally found him, as a young boy who was being nursed by the magic cow Barmāyeh, whose every hair is a different colour, in a high mountain meadow. Feraydun's mother flees with him, and so Zahhak's men kill Barmāyeh, but do not kill the boy."
Zahhak lives the next years in fear and suspicion, commanding all his courtiers and lords to make writings declaring his righteousness and kindness to all, that he saves them from greater evils. But a man named Kaveh, the blacksmith, has lost seven of his eight sons to the Serpent's hunger. On the day his eighth and last son is arrested, he marched into Zahhak's palace to loudly and openly protest the killing of eighth son as the previous seven were, to satisfy the demonic snakes. Taken aback at Kaveh's fearlessness, Zahhak ordered Kaveh's son be released, but asked Kaveh to recognize the king's royal generosity, justice, and benevolence by signing the declaration of the King's goodness that had already been signed by the leaders of the land. Kaveh tore up the document in rage upon reading it and scolded the stunned cowardly courtiers serving a demonic tyrant. Kaveh stormed out of the court with his son, hoisted his leather apron on an iron lance, and called upon people to join together to remove the tyrant. People listened and thus began Kaveh's revolt, and his apron became the Dasht-e-Kaviani, the flag of Old Iran. He found Feraydun hiding in the Alborz Mountains."
"Kaveh, his son, and his followers recognised the noble young man as their king. They rode for days and crossed Arvand River to reach Zahhak's capital. They conquered the town and the palace and freed prisoners, but Zahhak and his army were away. When informed that his palace had been occupied, Zahhak and his great army rode to the capital, but were attacked by inhabitants from all corners, rising up against his power. He was finally subdued by a blow to the head by Feraydun, wielding the golden mace, with Kaveh and his son beside him (as Zahhak had dreamed, that three men would arrest him as the youngest delivers him the immobilizing blow). He was bound and taken to a cave under Mount Damavand, where he was imprisoned in chains."
Luna finished delicately, and smiled with sweet earnestness toward Harry. "Harry Potter, I do think you are our Feraydun. If you wield the Golden Mace, I do not think you need a new wand to strike down Voldemort, even if he consorts with Azi Dahaka, the power, the Lord of the Ten Thousand Serpents who dwells in the Darkness Between the Stars."
"Miss Lovegood," Narcissa started, but Bellatrix watched as Hermione held up her hand.
"Actually, Your Grace… Bellatrix, do you remember the cattle? Inside of Koschei's Cloak of Gloom?"
Hermione said it that way, and Bellatrix immediately felt that Luna's words were immediately significant. It was true that Koschei's realms were those of perpetual gloom, hidden beneath mountains pulled over them like a veil of non-euclidean geometry. And she remembered the herd of cattle… Bellatrix sat bolt upright. "You think Koschei's herd is descended from Barmāyeh?"
Larissa looked from where she leaned against Draco's shoulder, ever so tired. Her blue eyes gleamed. "There were golden weapons in Haldi's temple. And it's known that the Dasht-e-Kaviani was long lost, but reappeared, when native Persians threw off the reign of the Caliphs. Elahaïs would certainly know something of this, and was likely still alive at the time of the Saffarid revolt, when it's said that Ya'qub al-Saffar hung out the Dasht-e-Kaviani in revolt. If the Temple of Haldi held the Mace of Feraydun it would explain why there were the ritual processions from it to Sacred Ararat, and it would be the place that the Dasht-e-Kaviani was kept safe from Alexander the Great."
"And…" Larissa let the word linger for a moment. "Koschei used horcruxes, like Voldemort. Voldemort wanted to keep the last fragments of his soul away from Ararat. There is a certain logic—your soul cannot be consumed, if it is not all there to be eaten… Oh, and one more thing, Bellatrix."
She shot a look at the Russian woman. "Yes?"
"The legend of the Snake Princess says that Koschei turned a Princess into a snake. When the Cossack saves the snake-princess from the fire, she begs him to carry her for seven years, and journey to the island of Tin. We're on the island of tin right now, right?"
"...Yes, Britain was the land of tin in ancient times. Cornwall," Bellatrix answered automatically. Narcissa was now looking more interestedly, and Hermione hung onto each word, like she were trying to mentally tear them apart and slot in the pieces.
"Snake-Princess," Larissa mused. "Your plan with Nagini, much?"
"Hah!" Bella couldn't help it, she exclaimed and grinned.
"Right well," Larissa pointed Luna. "There's one more point about the legend of Zahhak. He corrupted the two daughters of Jamshid to be dark sorceresses who served him-Shahrnaz and Arnavaz. They were redeemed by Feraydun on the hour of his triumph. It is the law, that events of history reoccur in cycles, the Gunas of the Ages. I believe that as the Lord of Serpents enslaved Shahrnaz and Arnavaz as his servants, and Koschei imprisoned the Snake Princess, it is fate to free Nagini on the hour of the Dark Lord's defeat."
Bellatrix sank back, breathing slowly and steadily. "What else is part of that story, Larissa?"
"The cossack asks for the keg that becomes a palace, as his reward, at the advice of the snake-princess. The keg that becomes a palace leads to his claiming the self-slaying sword. With admittedly some underhanded murder." Larissa rubbed her forehead.
"Mmmnn… Sounds promising." Bellatrix leaned forward, but she saw Hermione shaking her head out of the corner of her eye.
"If the self-slaying sword—the Golden Mace—is just sitting there in the hidden city—if that's how to interpret palace-in-the-keg," Hermione objected, "then how would we need Nagini's help to gain it? Larissa could just go take it, as a Priestess of Haldi. Just go to Musasir and take it."
"Then maybe the keg that becomes a palace isn't the city of Musasir, and the Golden Mace isn't there. Musasir is hardly the only legend of a hidden city in the East; the area is rife with them," Narcissa sighed. "And it's all supposition."
"It's not supposition. The Gunas do come and go, Your Grace," Luna murmured, looking intently at Bellatrix. "The problem," she said, and she said it in a voice that made even Bellatrix a little uneasy, "is that we lack information."
"About?" A little uneasy, but not enough for Bellatrix to decide she needed to avoid snapping back.
"Tying the pieces together, like a snake in a knot," Luna nodded, quite seriously.
"Nagini. You want information from Nagini." Bellatrix held her head, closing her eyes, thinking. "Well, actually. You know, I was always curious what Riddle was up to with Nagini, even when … Even when he was my master, I wanted to know. And I did piece together her history, the terrible fate of being a Maledicta," Bellatrix did shudder at that, being trapped in the body of a snake but still sapient sounded like it would be just as bad as Azkaban, "and a bit of her life before that. She actually travelled, for a while, with Newt Scamander, around the time of Grindelwald's wars. She may very well know the location of something relevant to this—I mean, that rogue Scamander," she supposed it was a bit hypocritical of her, but still, "did manage to get up to a lot."
"This requires we assume the myths about Koschei and Zahhak repeat, and contain clues." Hermione wasn't going to just follow along with that without pushing it, hard. "If we assume that the myths about Koschei are also myths about Zahhak, or Azi Dahaka…" Hermione looked to Larissa, face studious. "Problem, though. Koschei wanted immortality. He wanted the Water of Life at the top of the lake. Elahaïs was clear about that."
"But he also wanted more. I rode in his army in those same days," Bellatrix countered to her. "It's…"
"It's simple," Luna was so sweet. So, so unnervingly sweet. "In the old Iranian legends, Zahhak begs Anahita for the power to kill all human life on the planet. He sacrifices countless human lives to her, over and above the two he had to feed to his serpents each day. But she will not grant him this wish, no matter how much he sacrifices."
"But she was a Goddess of light!" Hermione exclaimed, her eyes flaring. "I've prayed to her."
"Indeed! But she is at the top of the mountain."
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed. "As long as the Lake is there, the Door cannot complete the destruction of Earth."
"Mm-hmm."
"He may well have sought to be a Dark Lord, then. The real source of the Lake's power is the Simurgh, and we don't know what happens to the Simurgh on the days the Simurgh does not rise," Bellatrix nodded slowly, a lip caught in her teeth for a moment. Hands playing uncomfortably with her tangled dark hair. "So, Nagini."
"If we need Nagini to get the final piece of the puzzle, how?" Harry finally spoke up. "She's right next to Voldemort, at all times, even now."
"Not if he descends into the mountain. She's a horcrux. He won't dare bring his last horcrux," now that you aren't one, finally, and only thanks to the Baba Yaga and the Water of Death, Bellatrix did not say out loud, "into the mountain. So I have a window. I could seize her by launching a raid on the remaining Death Eaters at his headquarters and take her to the Lake of Anahit at the same time he is presenting himself before the Door. Simply sealing the pact won't destroy the Earth, he wants to conquer and rule for a thousand years as Zahhak did, we'll have an opportunity."
"But if we wait that long, he may become unstoppable," Ron briefly glared.
A tight smile from Bellatrix was all he got back, her eyes gleaming with a sharp confidence. "He might. But Zahhak was stopped after a thousand years in power as Azi Dahaka's servant. I think we can take our chances."
"Well, I'd hope you would think that way, Kaveh." Luna said.
Of course. She had raised the banner of revolt—when no means of victory was in sight.
Unspoken in the story of Kaveh was that he had lived his entire life under Zahhak's power and not complained until the very last moment he had to redeem himself-the chance to save his last surviving child. He had not resisted the human sacrifice of his first seven sons.
It had taken him a long time to become a hero.
Harry was Feraydun.
Bellatrix was Kaveh Āhangar.
And Luna saw it clearly.
Bellatrix, being Bellatrix, just thought-so, is Hermione my son, then? Kinky.
But she was ready to raid her former Lord's camp, at all hazards. She had raised the Dasht-e-Kaviani, and she would never look back.
Notes:
All of the mythological references are taken from various versions of Koschei's stories in Russian folk-tales, and from the Iranian Book of Kings, and Zoroastrian mythology and folk tales; they are woven together from these sources, without any embellishment in the recounting here, so that I square the circle based on the real myth, albeit with the singular assumption that Zahhak represents the corrupted mortal avatar of Azi Dahaka, as the true Darkness Between the Stars, the Lord of Ten Thousand Serpents.