Blood Sings to Blood

by Almadynis Rayne

At a tender age, little Harry Potter wishes to be rescued by an angel. How will Hogwarts respond to the adopted son of Jaenelle Angelline and Daemon Sadi? It will certainly hold true that the magical world won't be the same! Crossover with Black Jewels Trilogy. No slash. Rated 'M' for dark themes in first chapter.

1. Part 01

Blood Sings to Blood – Part 01

The following are canon to the Black Jewels Trilogy, given as the forward to every novel.

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JEWELS

White

Yellow

Tiger Eye

Rose

Summer-sky

Purple Dusk

Opal*

Green

Sapphire

Red

Gray

Ebon-gray

Black

*Opal is the dividing line between the lighter and darker Jewels because it can be either.

When making the Offering to the Darkness, a person can descend a maximum of three ranks from his/her Birthright Jewel. For example: Birthright White could descend to Rose.

Note: The "Sc" in the names Scelt and Sceltie is pronounced "Sh".

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BLOOD HIERARCHY/CASTES

MALES

landen – non-Blood of any race

Blood male – a general term for all males of the Blood; also refers to any Blood male who doesn't wear Jewels

Warlord – a Jeweled male equal in status to a witch

Prince – a Jeweled male equal in status to a Priestess or a Healer

Warlord Prince – a dangerous, extremely aggressive Jeweled male; in status, lower than a Queen

FEMALES

landen – non-Blood of any race

Blood female – a general term for all females of the Blood; mostly refers to any Blood female who doesn't wear Jewels

witch – a Blood female who wears Jewels but isn't one of the other hierarchical levels; also refers to any Jeweled female

Healer – a witch who heals physical wounds and illnesses; equal in status to a Priestess and a Prince

Priestess – a witch who cares for altars, Sanctuaries, and Dark Altars; witnesses handfasts and marriages; performs offerings; equal in status to a Healer and a Prince

Black Widow – a witch who heals the mind; weaves the tangled webs of dreams and visions; is trained in illusions and poisons

Queen – a witch who rules the Blood; is considered to be the land's heart and the Blood's moral center; as such, she is the focal point of their society

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I) Freak

Large things start from small things. Like a snowball, no bigger than your palm, rolling down a hill, gathering more snow as it travels, to create a large boulder wider than your shoulders. Or a tiny pebble being dropped into a pond to create ever-growing ripples outward, effecting even far away bits of debris.

In our story, it all started with a song…

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Every Christmas and Easter the Dursley's went to their local church. This particular Easter, Petunia was in a frantic search for a babysitter to watch her nephew. Their regular sitter had recently moved away, and Mrs. Figg had gone to visit relatives. After calling all their neighbors to see if they could mind the boy and getting nowhere, Petunia gave up with a loud growl and slamming of a phone into its cradle. "We'll have to bring the freak, Vernon. Everyone is either going to church or visiting family."

Little Freak perked up in his cupboard as he listened intently. He would get to go to church? He had never been allowed inside before. Only good little boys and girls got to go inside. And no matter how hard he tried to be good, Freak never seemed to be good enough. He had to be content with staring transfixed at the exterior of the grand building and its beautiful stained-glass windows. But perhaps this year he had been good enough to go inside? Freak let out a tiny happy sound at the very thought.

Petunia jerked open the cupboard door and hauled Freak out into the hall as he blinked rapidly to adjust to the sudden brightness. She yanked his dirty over-sized shirt, tied around his waist with a length of rope, off quickly, mindless of any distress she may be causing to the tiny five-year-old. "Go wash up!" Freak reacted to the command with no hesitation. He knew better. He was halfway up the stairs when he heard her continue. "No hot water, Freak, or else!"

Freak knew The Rules and in excited short order - less than five minutes even - he came out of the shower clean and pink from cold. He dried off just as quickly and darted back down to his aunt for more instructions. Despite it all, his heart was light and happy at the thought of actually being able to go in the pretty church!

Petunia had a different set of clothes in her arms by this point and she proceeded to yank them onto the boy. Swift jerking movements straightened the articles, though did nothing to hide the many wrinkles. The clothes were still too big for him, but only slightly as she had gotten them from a neighbor who had a boy about the same size, and they were clean. She roughly tried to tame her nephew's wild ebony hair with no avail. Finally, she huffed out an exasperated groan, "It'll have to do." Then she went off to give her adored spoiled son a look-over, determined that Dudley would look so much better than her freak of a nephew.

Freak peered down at his clothes in awe. He had on a bright white button long sleeve shirt; the sleeves rolled up several times so that he could see his fingers. A shiny black belt held up the two sizes too big black slacks, the cuffs also turned up so that he wouldn't trip as he walked. The pants were still long enough to hide the fact that he wore no shoes. He had never looked so nice before! He hugged his middle in his happiness, shaking back and forth in place as he waited for more instructions.

He didn't have to wait long. Vernon came down the stairs, grabbed the boy roughly by the shoulders and shook him. "Listen to me, boy." He growled darkly. "Any funny business, any at all, and you will get double chores and you won't eat for a week! You won't speak to anyone! You are going to pretend that you don't exist! Do you hear me?!"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Freak answered meekly, his smile gone.

"Good! Now get in the car!" Vernon seemed incapable of doing anything but shout. He was always shouting everything he said to Freak, no matter what it was.

Freak didn't care though. He didn't remember a life that was any different. This was the way his uncle always spoke to him. The way his aunt always acted around him. He wondered what would happen when he was finally able to go to school. Were freaks allowed to go to school? Would the other children treat him like Dudley did? Would the other adults yell at Freak too? He didn't know.

He followed his uncle's instructions very carefully. He hadn't eaten today and was very hungry. He didn't want to go another week without food. So, he was silent and hunched his shoulders to make himself as small as possible while he followed his relatives up the church steps at a respectable distance where people wouldn't think he was with them. He took a seat at the far end of the very back row. He quite liked it, actually. It let him see all the colorful stained-glass windows, which he now could see were of people with wings.

The one closest to him was the prettiest. It was of a golden-haired lady who smiled down at those seated. The smile such that it seemed like she smiled just for Freak, making his heart lighten. The lady held a small boy's hand. A boy that looked a lot like Freak: short dark hair with marks on his arms and legs. Freak couldn't see the boy's eyes because the boy's face was turned toward the lady, but Freak imagined that the boy was laughing. How could the boy be doing anything else when such a pretty lady smiled at him? Seemed to actually care about the boy?

As Freak contemplated where the golden-haired lady was taking the boy, he heard music start to play. It was just as pretty as the lady! So, he listened closely to the words.

I was walkin' home from school on a cold winter day.

Took a shortcut through the woods and I lost my way.

It was getting' late, and I was scared, and alone.

Then a kind old man took my hand and led me home.

Mama couldn't see him, oh but he was standing there.

And I knew in my heart, he was the answer to my prayer.

Oh, I believe there are angels among us.

Sent down to us from somewhere up above.

They come to you and me, in our darkest hour.

To show us how to live. To teach us how to give.

To guide us with a light of love.

Freak's eyes were wide as he listened intently. The man singing said that anyone could get an angel! Not just good children, but anyone! That meant that he could have an angel!

They wear so many faces; show up in the strangest places.

And grace us with their mercies in our time of need.

Oh, I believe there are angels among us.

Sent down to us from somewhere up above.

They come to you and me, in our darkest hour.

To show us how to live. To teach us how to give.

To guide us with a light of love.

To guide us with a light of love.

Freak knew he had missed some of the middle bits, shocked at the idea that even freaks could have an angel. He didn't quite know what an angel was, but if they were anything like the pretty lady in the window, then they had to be wonderful! Would his angel treat him like Petunia treated Dudley? With hugs and kisses and tucking in at night? Oh, Freak hoped so.

The only bad part was the song said that he had to wait for 'his darkest hour' - whatever that meant - before his angel would show up. He supposed that made sense. With so many people in the world, angels were sure to be super busy helping all the normal people! That was okay, Freak decided with a firm nod, he could wait. He would wait…for however long he needed.

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That was the only time Freak ever got to go to church. He cherished the memory fiercely, often bringing it out at night when he was locked in his cupboard. He liked to remember the pretty golden-haired lady's smile as he drifted off to sleep. It was the only memory he had of someone smiling at him.

School hadn't been much different at all. Dudley told everyone that he was really Freak. So other children stayed away from him, ignoring him completely. Or the boys in Dudley's gang chased him around, hitting him whenever they were able to catch him. The teacher had called in Petunia and Vernon on the first day of kindergarten because he had insisted his name was 'Freak'. The teacher got really angry, though at first she didn't seem to be angry at him. That changed after her meeting with his aunt and uncle. Then the teacher, just like all the other adults, believed that he was a freak and treated him as such.

His punishment for not answering to 'Harry' was no bathing for two weeks. Freak learned the new Rules for School as quickly as he could to avoid any food-related consequences. Not bathing for so long ensured that any children who might have gone against Dudley and tried to be Freak's friend were too disgusted by the smell to even get close.

The only good thing about school was learning. After the first test when he had done better than Dudley, Freak gained a couple more scars to remind him to hide what he knew. Another School Rule. He made sure to know not only the right answers, but how much Dudley knew so that Freak would consistently score lower than his cousin at all times.

However, there was one place where Freak could escape Dudley and his gang. It was a magical land where anything could happen. The Library. Once Freak understood that as long as he was quiet and respectful of the books the minder wasn't irritated by him coming in at recess and lunch, Freak spent every moment outside the classroom in the library.

The first thing he read about was angels. Anything and everything he could get his hands on. It took him several painstaking months to read all the books on the subject. Since he was forbidden from taking notes, for that meant he was trying to do better than Dudley who never partook in such plebian things, Freak worked hard to memorize everything he could. Reading things over and over to make sure he didn't forget anything.

When Freak lay awake in his cupboard at night, he would think about what he had read. He noticed that while Christianity had a lot of stuff on angels, they weren't the only religion that had the beings. Angels were documented in all parts of the world, at lots of different points in history. Not all religions had angels though. So that meant, from what Freak could discern, that angels had to be real, but not all religions were real. Therefore, he would discount all the religious stuff, for it would be too difficult and take too much time to figure out which religion was the true one, and just focus on the angels.

Angels came in all sorts of shapes, wings, weapons, and duties. Freak soaked up them all. And with angels came demons. Freak reasoned that those two were like night and day. You couldn't have one without the other. He also noticed that demons were seen even more than angels! That had to mean that there were more demons. Which meant that the reason his angel hadn't come gotten him yet was because she was super busy! Because angels didn't just help people at their darkest hour, angels also fought demons.

Freak hoped that his angel eventually had time, when she was done fighting for a little while and all the non-freaks were taken care of, to come rescue him. That he would one day see that pretty lady's smile in reality instead of out of a window or in his memories.

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(Trigger warning: implied underage rape)

Freak came home from school one day to find his uncle pissing drunk. Freak listened and, hearing nothing in the rest of the house, remembered it was Petunia's Ladies Night Out. On those days, Dudley had permission to stay over at his best friend's Piers Polkiss', whose mother was usually too busy to go to the Ladies Night Out.

Which meant that Freak would be alone in the house with a drunk Vernon; something that had never happened before. Freak didn't remember any rules that would apply in this situation except for the usual one: obey. With that in mind, he went ahead and did his usual daily chores of weeding, vacuuming, mopping, dusting, and making dinner. The meal finished and served on the table, Freak hesitantly moved to his lightly snoozing relative. "Uncle Vernon? There's steak and eggs."

At the mention of food, the man darted awake with a snort. Bleary eyes took a couple of seconds to focus on his nephew. When they did, Freak trembled at the absolute rage he saw there.

"YOU! I almost got sacked because of you!" Vernon screamed. His meaty paw darted out to grab the boy and shook him so hard that Freak had a difficult time focusing since nothing seemed to hold still. "It's all your fault!" Another yell. The hand that wasn't holding Freak went to unbuckle the belt. Freak shook, knowing what was coming. It had happened before.

Freak held his breath as much as he could, choking back pain-filled cries. The beating seemed to go on forever, until he could no longer hold himself back. He began to scream. "Don't you dare boy! Shut your mouth!" Freak tried to obey, knowing it would only be worse if he didn't, but he had lost count of how many times he had been struck with the buckle-end. He could feel blood running down his back. Knew that his shirt was in tatters. "Shut UP! Or I'll give you something to scream about!" Freak's teeth clacked together as he used all his willpower to do as bid… It wasn't enough. Another three strokes and he once again began to scream. "That's it freak! I've had enough of you!"

When the belt ceased its assault, Freak collapsed onto the floor in relief, his torso laying in his own blood, which he knew he'd have to clean up later. It was over… Wait. What was Uncle doing? Freak felt Vernon position him back onto his knees, though his chest was left on the floor, and his pants were ripped off his body. The PAIN, as if he were being ripped in two, was enough that his mind could no longer handle it and he blacked out.

His eyes blinked open to the darkness of his cupboard. His body ached in places he didn't know were possible. His back was on fire, but nothing compared to his bum. There in the meager light filtering in from the slats, Freak silently cried. He had read lots of books. He knew what his uncle had done. Fat tears fell as he wrapped his arms around his knees.

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His heart screamed as never before, yelling wordlessly into the dark expanse of his mind, though no sound escaped his lips. Wasn't his angel supposed to save him? Would his angel even want to, now that his uncle had done…that?

Freak threw the thought out into the unworldly inky blackness that only his mind's eye had ever seen. He screamed as loudly as he could, putting all of the pain, shame, and sorrow into the sound that he could never voice aloud. He screamed for long moments, a seemingly unending noise of relentless agony. Finally, his mind quieted into a false calm where thought abandoned him.

It was in this drifting silence that he felt…something. Something in the black abyss that wasn't him. Someone maybe? Had his angel finally come? *Please. I know you're really busy with more important people…people who aren't freaks…but I've waited so long. Please?* his mind called into the darkness. He somehow sensed that the someone knew he was there, heard his heart-felt plea.

Long, long minutes and he was about to give up hope - that his angel was still too busy with normal people and killing demons - when suddenly, between one breath and the next, there was a lady right there in front of him! She was beautiful! Short white-gold hair crowned deep sapphire eyes staring at him, through him. She had a small white spiral horn in the middle of her forehead. Her only semblance of modesty a fuzzy white fur covered her nude form all the way down to two dainty hooves. Her blue-blue orbs roamed his body, seeing all his injuries, seeming to stare into him. Seeing things no one had ever bothered to look for before. Finally, they met his eyes again, a decision made. *Hello, little one.*

Freak felt tears pour down his cheeks in relief as his angel finally came for him. *Are you going to take me away now?*

*Would you like me to?* her voice was velvet-covered midnight, yet gentle. He nodded so fast and vigorously it pulled his barely-healing back. She gave him a soft smile and held out her hand, careful not to scratch him with the wickedly sharp black claws tipping her fingers. *Then I will take you to my home…* She used the back of one finger to brush a sweat-coated wisp of hair away from his forehead. *You do not ever have to return, if you do not desire. I promise.*

The little seven-year-old gazed at her adoringly. *Can I stay with you forever?*

Her smile grew wider as she began to guide them both back to her own realm. *Yes.*

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II) Missing

Mrs. Figg was concerned. She hadn't seen little Harry in almost a month. She usually saw him weeding the flower bed, since the boy, even at such a young age, seemed to love to garden. His seventh birthday was coming up. It was prime time for weeding, watering, and trimming the grass. Why hadn't she seen him?

Running her hands through the fur of one of her prized Kneazles, a habit gained from loving to hear them purr and it helped her think things through properly, she finally made a decision. Someone needed to check out where such an actively outdoor child could be. If he had been grounded for some bad behavior, then the punishment should have ended long before now. A month was too much time for anything a six-year-old could have possibly done!

Getting to her knees, she tossed green Floo powder into the fireplace and yelled precisely, "Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts!" She didn't like Flooing of any variety, much preferring owl-post, but this could be an emergency.

After all, little boys didn't just disappear for no reason!

"Arabella? To what do I owe the pleasure?" Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore's head asked congenially, eyes twinkling merrily even through the fire. Along with his job as Headmaster of Hogwarts for the last several decades, approaching on half a century, he also held the titles of Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot and Chief Warlock of the International Confederation of Wizards. With so many proverbial hats to wear, the art of politics was one he had perfected and honed his skill with each interaction until it had become a habit.

Mrs. Figg blushed slightly at what she interpreted to be genuine pleasure in the Headmaster's words and smile. She had always liked the man, even when she was younger, and some of her more esoteric fantasies involved him kissing her breathless before sweeping her off her feet and whisking her away to a comfortable bed for a night of heated lovemaking. They weren't that far away in age after all! It could happen; even if, for the moment, it still only occurred in her dreams.

However, she had a different message to send, and a very concerning one at that. So, she mentally shook off the reminder of her one-sided ruminations, and frowned. "Albus," she always addressed him as such, ever since she had officially graduated from the school and he gave her leave to do so; she hoped it would one day remind him that she was an adult and thus ready for any personal liaisons that he'd care to discuss. Or perhaps just grab her by her shoulders, push her against the nearest surface, and snog her senseless. "I'm worried about little Harry. I haven't seen him in almost a month."

Dumbledore's seemingly expressive eyes dimmed slightly at the news, pondering the implications. "Have you been over to ask about the boy?"

"No. The Dursley's don't like it when I pop by. I was hoping you could come check on him?" That it would give her a chance to admire the man's physical form, even covered up by robes, was not a factor of her request. At all. Of course not. Such would be considered improper.

Albus nodded slightly, "Arabella," she shivered a bit at the inflection he always put in her name, "I'm sure it's nothing." She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued speaking. "However, it'll be good exercise for me. Ease back and I'll step through."

She immediately pulled her head out of the fire, took one step to the left, and waited for the Headmaster to come through her fireplace. A shiver of eager anticipation went down her spine at the thought that the man would be in her house! In her living room!

With a small pulse of green flames, her desire was granted as the Supreme Mugwump appeared in the (outwardly) perfectly ordinary home of one Arabella Figg. He had on one of his everyday robes, a pale, pale blue with zooming golden dots dancing the polka, with a pointed wizard's hat to match perched atop his esteemed head. His long beard was hanging, making one wonder if it might ever grow long enough to tuck into a belt or possibly trip over. In short, he was the epitome of a walking, talking Dursley nightmare. With a twinkling smile and wink to Arabella—who was quite proud at her ability to control herself at such a wonderful man winking at her and pondering what such an action could possibly mean for her future, both immediate and long-term—the elderly, yet still spry, old man made his way out of the squib's home and across the street.

He didn't voice any objection to Arabella following him, however based on her previous words about the family he also wasn't surprised when she refrained from joining him. Thus he was alone when he gave a perfunctory knock on the door of Number 4 Privet Drive. He frowned slightly as he let his magic probe the blood wards surrounding the property and found them… Well, he wasn't quite sure how to phrase it. They were present; yet at the same time they were not nearly what they should have been.

So Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was not in the best of possible moods, thinking as he was about what could have caused the blood wards to feel as they did, when Vernon Dursley opened the door. The incredibly large man saw who was present, his face went a shade of puce that was almost impressive, before he abruptly slammed the door; again without greeting nor letting the Headmaster into his home.

The Chancellor of the ICW frowned slightly at the reaction, but he had dealt with difficult people many times before and the expression smoothed away almost instantly. Instead, he calmly pulled out his wand and knocked a second time. When all he received was a shout of "Go away you freak!" through the door, Albus flicked his wand and the door unlocked and opened seemingly on its own, allowing him to step over the threshold easily. Another flick and the door closed.

"Good evening, Mr. Dursley. Mrs. Dursley. I'm here to inquire about your nephew." Albus maintained his polite courtesy, even at the interesting shade of red-purple Vernon Dursley was working himself into.

"You need to leave now! Before I call the police!" Vernon shouted angrily, gesticulating with one imperious finger toward the door.

"Mr. Dursley, I'm sure the police don't need to be bothered for such a simple matter." The Supreme Mugwump had observed the knick-knacks on the coffee table, the pictures on the mantle, the seemingly random items strewn on a bookcase as soon as he'd entered and had drawn the correct conclusion about the couple's societal priorities. He looked up to Petunia, "After all, what would your neighbors think if the police were to take such an interest in your home?" It was a threat- though it certainly wouldn't have sound like one with his cheery tone and twinkling eyes-and the couple took it as such.

"Now don't you threaten me, you godless abomination!"

"There's no need for name calling, Mr. Dursley. I simply wish to speak with your nephew. Is that such an extraordinary request?"

Petunia finally found it within herself to speak. Her tone was tight and angry. "He's not here."

Dumbledore stiffened slightly. Anyone who knew the man well – few though there were- would have understood the warning in the normally energetic man's sudden change of posture. "I'm sure I misheard you. Old age, you know. Where is Harry Potter?"

"He's not here!" she yelled at him.

All pretense of being a kind old man vanished, leaving the man that had vanquished a Dark Lord. "What happened?" His voice was cold and hard, his eyes sharp like ice as he pierced the pair with his gaze alone.

"You people just drop him on our doorstep with only a letter and expect us to take care of the freak? Well, we did take care of him and damn ungrateful freak he was too! Now that he finally vanished, we were grateful your kind finally took him back!" She pointed to the door. "Now get out of my home! I won't stand for it! You freaks telling me how to run my home and probably putting ideas in my poor son's head. I won't stand it! Never again! Get OUT!"

Arabella Figg heard the soft 'pop' of displaced air as Dumbledore apparated into her living room. "Well?" she asked hopefully, hands tightening on the Kneazle in her lap, prompting a soft yowl and clawed protest.

Albus shook his head. "You were right, Arabella." The delighted shiver down her spine at her name was instantly overshadowed by cold horrific dread as he continued. "I'm afraid that Harry Potter is missing."

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III) Adoption

It took a single look. One glance to convince Saetan that his services as executioner would be needed. The bed almost engulfed the small frame held in a deep healing sleep. The daughter of his soul sat in a chair beside the boy, her melodious singing directing the healing web. The tiny body reminded Saetan of other small boys, his precious sons. Full of happy firey energy, yet both taken from him in the space of a month. Sons taken, beaten, brutalized, and enslaved at the age of seven. Sons he hadn't seen in almost 1700 years.

Now here was his daughter, his Queen, crooning to another small boy. A boy brutalized and beaten. This boy, Saetan could help. "Who is he, witch-child?"

Jaenelle Angelline looked up at her adopted father. A man who took care of a brutalized, beaten, and raped girl all those years ago. Now here was another child and she knew he would do it all again, willingly and without being asked. Instead, she knew another destiny for this little boy. "Just as I am the daughter of your soul…he is the son of mine."

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IV) What's in a Name?

Eyes that mirrored a deep Green Jewel blinked awake, confused. Those orbs looked around and lit upon the form of his daughter, only to stick there. Adoration joined confusion. "Lady?" the child asked, his voice a bare whisper of sound.

Jaenelle smiled at him and echoed her first words, "Hello, little one." A brilliant smile answered her and Saetan's heart lightened, knowing the boy was not yet broken beyond repair. "What's your name, little one?"

"Freak."

The temperature plummeted, ice frosting across the glass. "Who called you that, young one?" Saetan crooned gently.

Those eyes didn't understand the severity of the situation. Was not yet old enough for his caste to assert itself. To the boy, it was not a Warlord Prince asking, but an adult male. He didn't grasp the tone's meaning. "My aunt and uncle, sir."

"Papa," Jaenelle shook her head at him.

Saetan reined in his temper with a noticeable growl, "Your will is my life." He knew she would explain later. He hoped she would explain later. She was going to explain later!

Jaenelle turned back to the boy, "Did anyone ever call you a different name?"

"The teachers at school said my name was Harry." It was clear in the boy's tone that he hadn't believed the instructors, having gotten reinforcement at home of his original 'name'.

"Hmmm…" Jaenelle fluffed her hair as she thought. "You look more like a Hadrian to me."

Green eyes widened in shocked amazement, "I can have a real name?"

More ice crept along the window panes. This time, it was not Saetan's. However, Jaenelle's voice showed none of her cold rage. "Yes, little one. If you would like, you can have my last name of Angelline, or I'm certain my papa would let you use his surname of SaDiablo if you prefer. My…intended's last name of Sadi could also be yours. What would you like?"

Those eyes just got wider with every offering. His whisper, when it came, was worshipful, "I can have your name?"

Jaenelle's smile finally reached her eyes and the frost began to melt. "Yes, little one. You can have my name. What about for your new first name?"

The boy bit his lip as he thought. It was a hard decision! Yet, at the same time, easy. His angel had said Hadrian suited him, so Hadrian he would be. Though… He looked up at her, "Can the spelling of my name be more like yours and Papa Saetan's and Daddy Daemon's?"

Her smile widened and nodded encouragingly. "You're to be Haedrian Angelline then?"

His voice once again was reverent, "Oh, yes please."

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V) Lost History

The Keep. Ebon Askavi. The Black Mountain. The Lair of Witch. The Seat of the Blood in all the Realms. Containing all of the records for all the Realms. Usually, only historians or those seeking sanctuary came to the Keep. Its dark power repelled most.

To Jaenelle Angelline, it was home. She was Witch. Dreams made flesh. A living creation spun from hundreds of thousands of dreamers from dozens of races, Blood and kindred alike. She was Witch unlike any other before her (because there had been Witches before her; other living dreams spun from dreamers). She had been a wish of the land as much as she had been a dream of the peoples. She had been in the process of dreaming for tens of thousands of years.

Jaenelle knew all this. She was the daughter of Saetan's soul, destined to love his mirror, guarded by the brother. The fourth side, the center, of a Blood triangle over 50,000 years in the making.

She was also spun from dreams of Draca and Lorn, the creators of the Blood races. The kindred, all kindred, had dreamed so very fiercely and in a purer form than the humanoid races. Which is why in her true form, Jaenelle sported soft white-blonde fur, dainty hooves, a small unicorn horn in the middle of her forehead, and the claws of a cat.

Able to wield all the Jewels upon her Birthright Ceremony, along with 13 Black Jewels. She hadn't understood, at seven years of age, just how extraordinary…how different…she was from those around her. She had been able to travel the Realms with an ease that frightened even Saetan. To her eyes, given knowledge from dozens of races for tens of thousands of years, the realms were connected in ways others couldn't see. She could see connections they didn't comprehend. She'd understood the intricate dance of Protocol from her first breath and followed the Old Ways more closely than even Saetan knew.

As she had grown older, she had learned how…freakish…her view of the realms, of Craft, of Blood, made her seem to others. The consequences of her so-called 'sick' nature being 'treated' in Briarwood had been devastating to more than one Territory in the end. When little Haedrian had named himself Freak, all those memories spun back to her, igniting a fierce cold rage she had thought burned out long ago.

"Lady?" Draca asked quizzically. The prime Blood matriarch had been playing at being the Keep's Seneschal for time immemorial.

Jaenelle jerked her thoughts away from her own past. Now was not the time. "Draca, is…" she trailed off in her question.

The truth was that, when little Haedrian's scream into the Darkness had drawn her, she had always meant to ask the Seneschal this question. She had always felt another web beyond Hell—such a very long distance in comparison to Kaeleer's or Terrielle's webs she could barely feel their existence and nothing else, not even a feel for its health—but there had never been a call from it, so she had never felt the need to venture so far until Haedrian.

Now however, the occasion again reminded her of a long-thought question. For Jaenelle had the dreams of tens of thousands in creation, all of whom lived, or had lived, in the three Realms. Had the memories and wishes of hundreds of thousands of dreams. Yet she still felt at least one web beyond Hell… "Draca, has a Realm ever been…forgotten?" She couldn't think of a better word.

She felt as the dragon stiffened minutely, then gave a great heaving sigh of resignation. "More than one, Lady."

Jaenelle's eyes widened. More than one? "What…?"

Draca held up a hand to stop her. "Come. Thisss iss not a disscusssion to be had here," her sibilant voice said with a hard edge.

Usually, even Draca and Lorn deferred to Jaenelle's wisdom and edicts. In this, Jaenelle felt that this was not a topic she could move either dragon. So, she fell silent and followed the Seneschal.

In a chamber deep underneath the Black Mountain was a dragon so large that, if he had so wished, he could have easily chomped on ten men with one bite. Just Lorn's head was visible in the atrium, for that was the only part of him that would fit inside the large cave antechamber of the Dark Court.

His scales, as small as her palm to as large as her body itself, were iridescent. As if in a single scale could dwell any Jewel's strength or rank for male or female Blood. Which was true. The Jewels of the Blood in all Realms came from Lorn's scales. Jewels were the focus and reservoir of power for the Blood. Much Craft would be impossible without them.

"Sshe assksss of the Lossst Realmsss." Draca's voice hissed loudly through the darkness, echoing slightly.

Lorn opened his large eyes, as big as Jaenelle's head, and shifted to look at both women. His psychic scent telegraphed to Witch just how sad the statement made him. *We knew this day would come, my Queen.*

Draca bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement. In her movements, she had crossed the room to stand next to Lorn. A single motion placed her hand on his snout, which he nudged gently. The love of the couple was obvious, despite the millennia or the disparity in their physical forms. Jaenelle looked closer and noted that the gesture was also conciliatory. Comforting. Her eyes shifted to Draca and it was in that moment of vulnerability that Witch could finally see the intense pain Draca had been hiding. Mother Night! How long had the dragon been holding such agony? "Draca?" she asked with more than a hint of concern.

"It isss painful to remember," the Queen of all Blood intoned. After a brief pause, she said, "If one doesss not learn from the passst, one may live long enough to ssee mistakesss reoccur."

Jaenelle blinked.

*The Keep was created in part to hold the history of all the Blood races. To learn from past mistakes.* Lorn's deep voice explained.

The Keep was created…? What a phrase! Jaenelle knew of Draca and Lorn. They had been very intense dreamers…but whatever this was, a story long forgotten by all but two, it had been kept from even her.

Saetan SaDiablo was a Guardian, one of the living dead. He had seen over fifty thousand years. Geoffrey was also a Guardian, the Keep's historian/librarian, and was so old that even he had forgotten his age. (He'd actually said that he'd lost count several times, which was a bit mind-boggling if one thought about it long enough.) Yet Draca and Lorn were even older. They were already old when the dragon couple had founded Blood society and culture.

"How long?" Witch asked, settling herself on her Dark Throne to watch the couple.

*Far beyond counting. Not even Geoffrey was alive when these events began the first time.* Lorn began his tale. Draca was silent, letting him comfort her through the memories. Her pain. Her failure.

*You know the beginning of the story. The land needed caretakers. We dragons were dying out, myself and my Queen the only ones left. After weaving a tangled web, my Queen finally found a solution: dispensing our power to the lesser races. She shed her scales willingly as she flew through the sky one last time in every Realm, bestowing power upon all those that felt their touch.* Jaenelle nodded; she knew this part.

*Thus the Blood were created to be caretakers for the land.* Lorn continued, *In every Realm…of which there were five.*

Jaenelle sat a little straighter in her throne at the admission. She also heard Draca give a small moan of anguish. If the cave hadn't been designed to enhance and echo even the tiniest sound, Jaenelle doubted she would have heard.

*I have often wondered if, once, there were even more. So many things in Blood and Craft come in 13. That rule has been true for longer than even we have been alive. Thus only 5 Realms has always left me speculative.* The great dragon admitted thoughtfully. An absent idea long held in contemplation. *Terrielle. Kaeleer. Hell. Vhorm. Gian. Each with kindred races as well as humanoid that became Blood. Each with unique races found only within themselves. The same layout for each, layered upon each other.*

Jaenelle nodded again. To her eyes, the difference between Terrielle, Kaeleer, and Hell was as simple as one web of power on top of another. Which is how she 'jumped' so easily when she was younger and had yet to learn about the traditional method of travel. She was also one of very few capable of jumping from Terrielle to Hell anywhere.

*As time passed, Blood society developed with our guidance until we felt we could step back. We were confident they could continue without us. After all, how will a child fully develop wisdom under their parents' scrutiny?

*We were content to become a legend. Only interacting with the odd Blood male or female that stumbled upon us. Until we began to feel uneasy.* Lorn blinked at Jaenelle. *It had begun so slowly, gradually increasing in creeping steps, that we didn't realize what we felt until the cry cut off so abruptly, we knew it only in its absence. Until it had gone so far that it could no longer be fixed.* He fell silent. His psychic scent full of regret.

"The land had been ssscreaming," Draca said.

Witch's mouth dropped open for a moment before she closed it, closed her eyes at even the idea of such an atrocity. They'd had no reference point for understanding the sensation. It made a terrible logic that made her sick to her stomach. The Blood were created to guard and protect the land. And the land had been screaming…

Witch had always felt the land. Felt it in every Realm simultaneously (though the further away she was, the quieter her awareness). She knew, had always known, that Terrielle's land was aching under the strain of negligent Blood. For under Dorothea and Hekatah's guidance, the Blood in Terrielle had forgotten the Old Ways. Forgotten how to feel and care for the land. There were parts of Terrielle so drained that it made Witch weep in sadness, for she knew that it was too extensive for even she, the most powerful Blood Queen to ever live, to fix in a single lifetime. Kaeleer, where the Old Ways were still followed in every Territory, the land prospered and Witch felt hope that all was not lost.

Even still, in all her travels, Witch had never felt the land scream. She already knew she never wanted to experience such devastation…or what could cause it.

*We left immediately to investigate. It took several days to discover the events that led up to such…obliteration. So many days to find even a single survivor to glean what had occurred in our absence.* Lorn sighed. *Hekatah is not the first to have high ambitions and dark enough power to manipulate herself into a position to control others, even though it is not in a Priestess's nature to control or feel the land. The first…I will not speak her name.

*She was an Ebon-gray Healer and Black Widow. She rose fast and manipulated her way into key positions. Within a single generation, she had control of the entire Realm of Vhorm.

*As those that were able fled through the Gates to the nearest Realm, Gian, so too came the taint of her ideas and machinations. However, Gian was much like Kaeleer. It held fast to the Old Ways of the Blood and refused to bow to her power.* Such a heavy weighted silence.

"There wasss war," Draca picked up the story as Lorn seemed unwilling to continue.

War between the Realms? It was what had almost occurred over 50,000 years ago, back when Saetan had first become a Guardian. He had annihilated half the Terriellean army before it could reach Kaeleer. (A fact she didn't think he wanted her to know, thus she kept silent.) The other half had Andulvar and Saetan's sons, Mephis and Peyton, walk off the killing field as demon dead.

A war between the Realms was something Jaenelle had sworn would never occur if she could prevent it. She knew that her papa would step onto the killing field, as all her family would, but she also knew that not all of them would step off. The mere idea sent spikes of rage and terror down her spine. She would prevent a war between Terrielle and Kaeleer…at any cost, even her life…

Lorn jerked her out of her reaffirming oath, *The killing field didn't stay in one place and it didn't stop with the Blood or the Courts. The entire land was coated with the blood of the tainted and un-tainted alike. Such devastation! In the end, there were no survivors. Or rather, no Blood survivors. When the ruling Blood of Vhorm had been wiped out, the Gian Courts tried to take over and re-teach the values they prized. The landens, fearing more oppression, began to fight them. Another war began.*

Jaenelle was just listening at this point. She was hearing a mixture of events she had seen in some of the most distant-seeing tangled webs, but to a terrible outcome than she'd ever imagined.

*When we arrived, Vhorm was soaked in the blood of hundreds of thousands. The few that remained were scattered, having fled the field of battle. There were no Blood left. The land had been screaming and had only fallen silent when it had no more strength. That had been our initial unease. We realized too late. When we arrived, the land of Vhorm was depleted, desolate.

*Gian was better, but not by much. The land still held a few Blood. Enough to guide and protect what was left. However, they wanted nothing to do with any other Realm. No more trade or politics. They unanimously requested to be cut off completely from all other Realms.

*We agreed.* Lorn said simply. Jaenelle could sense the story was almost at an end. *We removed the knowledge of how to light the candles to open the Gates to either Gian or Vhorm. Both Realms became a legend that then faded from all memory or record. Not long afterward, we decided to build the Keep in every Realm. A stronghold of knowledge and history. A reservoir of power, should it ever again be needed.*

"Never again will we withdraw completely," Draca re-swore an age-unknown oath. Never again.

Jaenelle was silent as the story finished and she dwelt in her own thoughts. Then, "In which Realm was Haedrian born?"

*Based on how much power you used to reach him, Vhorm is most likely. It's the closest.*

There were more questions that came from the story, but Jaenelle thought she was done for now. She needed time to contemplate the implications of this hidden past. The air grew still, except for the slight wind created by Lorn's massive lungs, as she stared into the darkness around her, pondering what could—and should—be done.

+++++BJT+++++

Before she left the Keep, Jaenelle made sure the Haedrian Angelline was added to the Registry in every Realm. The adopted child of Jaenelle Angelline and Daemon Sadi. It was noted that his birth parents were deceased with no other living relatives.

A detail that would soon be true…

+++++BJT+++++

VI) Justice

Saetan lit the candles in the precise order, waited for the Gate to turn to mist, then stepped through. He drew a deep breath, noting that the land felt slightly odd; it wasn't drained, but it wasn't thriving either. But that was somewhat expected, given what Witch had explained of Vhorm's past. In deference to a long ago promise, he was only travelling to Vhorm for a single purpose before he would return to SaDiablo Hall and leave the Realm to its own devices. No politics or trade would transpire, as sworn.

Only justice.

The High Lord of Hell called the web Witch had designed, activating it with a drop of the Black and a vial of his new grandson's blood. Even going so far as to test it on herself, ensuring it would work over long distances. She explained it was like a lighthouse in the darkness, drawing him to a single point that she designated: Haedrian's blood relatives.

His smile would have terrified any who witnessed it, if any had been around to see. As it was, only birds chirped in the gloaming as he walked down a hill, caught the nearest web, and vanished.

When he arrived at him destination, which didn't take as long as he was anticipating, he was surprised at the cookie-cutter houses lined right upon themselves. Yards with barely enough space for a garden. Every house looking exactly like the one beside it. He sneered at the sight, but pushed the feeling away. Now was not the time.

He followed the web beacon to a house only one down on the right, with a large 4. Deactivating and vanishing the web, the Executioner knocked.

A tall, overly skinny woman with a face vaguely equine—he would not call it horse-shaped, as he had met many horses far more gentle and graceful than this disgusting individual—matched Haedrian's description of his blood aunt. "Can I help you?" Behind her, a male so incredibly large it was a wonder the chair had not broken beneath him.

The Executioner smile that terrifying smile, "Indeed, Dursley." Her knees went weak at that smile and she fell backward, desperately trying to crawl away. His Red ring flashed as he put up a shield around the house, preventing any escape or rescue. "I have come to dispense justice."

"W-w-we haven't done anything!" the whale stuttered, already having wet himself in terror.

"Nothing?" Saetan crooned. He watched the couple for several seconds, letting the pair feel his overwhelming power bear down on them—just as they had done to Haedrian—then walked a short distance to a small door under the staircase. Pulling it open, he peered down at the small pile of dirty, torn blankets. The smell of dirt, unwashed body, spoiled food… and blood.

A small collection of broken toys, pushed so far under the stairs that if he hadn't known to look, Saetan would have missed them; which had been the point. He vanished them, just in case Haedrian wanted to keep them, especially the well-loved brown-grey rabbit that had lost half its stuffing, two limbs, and an ear. "Nothing?" he crooned again.

"He was a freak! He didn't deserve anything!" the whale yelled in his defense.

The woman wasn't better, "Dropped on our doorstep like the trash he was. What were we supposed to do?"

"Stamped the freak out of him every chance we got!"

"I see," Saetan nodded. He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. They cringed back from him, hugging the wall at the sight of that smile. Their legs didn't have enough strength to support them, not that they could have gotten far. "How long was he in your care?" it was almost conversational.

"Five years, the miserable freak," the whale spat.

The Executioner, the High Lord of Hell, tilted his head. His smile so incredibly pleasant that it was sharper than glass. "So be it."

"What?"

The Red Jewel in his torc flashed as he set up the spells that both he, Jaenelle, and Lucifar had agreed upon were fitting justice. Black shields came up around the house in layers of complexity, weaving in and through each other until it would take Witch herself to tear them down. Webs activated, weaving their craft around the two Dursleys like extra layers of skin.

The Executioner finished his task, gazing upon the doomed landens. "You starved, beat, raped, and enslaved a child for five years. Every wound, every insult, every violation that you met upon him will be returned to you fivefold." His teeth glint, his smile was sharp, "You tortured him for five long years. It will take you five long years in which to die." He paused as he looked at them. They didn't understand yet the spells he'd weaved. "To my lasting misfortune, I will not see you again," the High Lord of Hell said before walking away.

+++++BJT+++++

A couple hours later, an overweight seven-year-old boy was found wandering down a road in a daze. He had no memory. When asked, he could only say his name was Freak, remembering nothing else. No one ever came to claim him. (Over a period of many years, the boy—who was adopted by a nice family six years after he'd been found—was able to lose weight under the enduring bullying of other foster children and the wandering eye of the caretakers. He studied hard, learned well that a library was a good hiding spot, and eventually became an advocate for foster-care reform, championing other misplaced and mistreated children.)

Dudley Dursley, Petunia Dursley, and Vernon Dursley vanished from all records.

Number Four Privet Drive, Little Winging, Surrey, was condemned within a week. The local community told anyone that would listen that it was haunted, as proven by the screams you could sometimes hear, if the wind blew just right. A dark, oppressive aura was so heavy that only the most strong-willed could approach the door. No one ever entered.

+++++BJT+++++

VII) Birthright

"Are you worried about today?" Marian asked gently.

"I don't care what Jewel he wears. None of us do. But we all know that it won't be as dark as the most of the family, and I don't want him to think himself as 'less'," Lucivar grumbled, reining in his terror of a son, Daemonar, with one arm. "Jaenelle knows—"

Marian laughed, "Of course Jaenelle knows."

"—but she won't say."

His wife patted him on the shoulder in a show of comfort, though her eyes were laughing at him, even if there was a serious set to her. "We have spent the last few months doing our best for that boy. He knows how much he's loved, even if he forgets every now and then." Her wings flexed in the sunlight as she contemplated him. "He isn't 'less'…and if it takes telling him that every day for the next decade until he believes it, then that's what we'll do." She took a breath, looking down at their rambunctious son with a maternal smile, then back up at her beloved husband. "He'll wear the Jewels he wears. No one can change it. As an uncle, and a father, it's your job to teach them how to live up to their own potential. Instead of trying to match up to someone else—including us."

Lucivar studied his wife, then drew her in for a deep kiss. "You are so much smarter than me."

She laughed, genuinely now, "And don't you forget it!" She pulled her son up into her arms as she noticed the first child coming out with his new Jewel. "Oh," she grinned warmly, "he's got a Rose."

The next child in line, a girl, went into the Sanctuary with her chosen witness while the boy stood beside his mother, who proceeded with the formal granting of paternity.

Another child went in, and another man was granted legal rights to the child he had made.

Saetan called in chairs for the women and children and a blanket for the younger children to sit on the ground and play without their mother's complaining about them getting dirty. A deck of cards came out as well, the older children beginning a game of hawks and hares. Andulvar called in a jug of water, while Mephis called in glasses, and Peyton began to go around with the proffered tray.

The entire SaDiablo and Yaslana families were here in support of little Haedrian. Andulvar, Marian, Lucivar, Prothvar, and Daemonar. Saetan, Mephis, and Peyton. Tersa, who was Daemon's mother. Surreal and Rainier. Jaenelle's dark power overhanging the Sanctuary so that the demon dead attending suffered no ill effects.

Surreal wandered over with a wineglass of yarbarah and shoved it into his hands. "He's at the end of the line," she groused. "We'll be here all day."

Saetan nodded, but it was with a resigned smile. After all, he'd been through this Ceremony five times with his own children as well as Andulvar's son, Prothvar. "She is the Lady, Witch, and he is her Kit. I am the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, as well as the High Lord of Hell. There was no possible way it would be a private Ceremony, even if the eaves were filled with droppers."

She snorted laughter, "As if you couldn't keep them out."

"Not for this," he intoned solemnly. "I didn't want Haedrian to think he was being hidden away."

Surreal sobered instantly, nodding her agreement. She looked over at the nervous boy who just that morning had been terrified of getting his clothes dirty, that the Priestess wouldn't let him in. It had been one of his bad attacks, one of those that only Jaenelle could calm. In almost a whisper, Surreal prompted, "Did you—?"

"The debt will be paid in full," he answered in the same tone, "in five years."

When understanding dawned, her smile was wickedly sharp, "Good."

He nodded to the Queens standing to the side, "Besides, if nothing else, as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, all the Province Queens would come to see the second half of the Ceremony for themselves."

After three hours—over a dozen children were going through their Birthright today—all the water, snacks, and yarbarah had been polished off. The children were whiny and restless, as were most of the adults, and Andulvar, Prothvar, and Lucivar looked ready to call in their bladed stick to slice through the onlookers, sick of the speculative glances and whispers.

Finally, it was little Haedrian's turn. Saetan held out his hand, palm side down, for Jaenelle to place her hand over his, standing on her left as she was the dominant power. They walked up to the Sanctuary, where the Priestess waited for them.

The Priestess looked at Haedrian, "Who will stand as your witness?"

They had talked about the Ceremony extensively until the boy was able to recite the steps from memory. But while they had all coached him on what to do at what time, none of them had told him which person to select.

It was a hard choice; seen as the first decision of a child's life. The first stepping-stone of maturity.

Little Haedrian looked between his grandfather and his mother, biting his lip, his eyes filled with a helpless desperation. However, it was his choice, and no one would choose for him. Finally, he came to a decision, and looked at Saetan.

Jaenelle smiled encouragingly. "Good choice," she whispered low enough that no one but the four of them heard her.

He smiled back, relieved that he hadn't made her angry. Instead, his grandfather took him by the hand and the pair followed the Priestess to the room where his Birthright strength would be acknowledged and made apparent by the Jewel that would be both warning and reservoir for the power he wielded.

Lucivar noticed his sister's change of mood, and asked, "Why didn't he pick you?" It was no secret that the boy worshiped the ground his mother walked upon.

Jaenelle's smile tinged with understanding and sadness as she watched her son and father disappear. "He didn't want me to be disappointed if he didn't get a Jewel." Couldn't stand the idea of being rejected, not that any of the family ever would, but Haedrian was still learning that their love and acceptance was unconditional.

+++++BJT+++++

Five tense minutes passed when little Haedrian held up his new uncut Blood Opal Jewel hesitantly. "It's not like yours or Mommy's," he said sadly. "It's white with only stripes of red." His eyes fixed on Saetan's thumb ring which held a chip of his own Birthright Red. "And Mommy told me Daddy Daemon's is Black too, like yours."

"Jewels only measure one kind of strength," Saetan intoned in his deep timbre. "The strength of your character means much more than the color of your Jewel." Ignoring his knees, he crouched down on one knee to look the boy more fully in the eye. "You have already been through more than most anyone you will ever meet, little Haedrian. The strength of your heart will match any Jewel."

Such was the strength of his tone, that conviction was transferred to the boy. So that, when they walked out of the Sanctuary, he held up his Blood Opal with hesitant pride, but pride nonetheless.

Jaenelle beemed at him, which also imbued him with strength as she came forward and Saetan took several steps backward. "Come here, Haedrian," she said kindly. Again, this was the second part of the Ceremony and they had coached him about what would happen.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and looked out at the crowd, but made sure that her eyes connected with none of those present. "I, Lady Jaenelle Angelline, acknowledge Prince Daemon Sadi as the father of Haedrian Angelline. I grant him all paternal rights from this day forward."

However, unlike with the other children, Daemon Sadi wasn't present to receive the gift. Haedrian took two steps forward. Saetan SaDiablo also took two steps forward. As the father's father, he would stand in for his son, until such time that Daemon joined them and could take over the role himself.

Saetan wondered how his mirror would react when he finally realized that he didn't just have a future wife waiting for him to get his ass in gear…but a son as well.

+++++BJT++HP++BJT+++++

+++++BJT++HP++BJT+++++

+++++BJT++HP++BJT+++++

VIII) Letters

(Five Years Later…)

Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall stared with barely concealed nervous anticipation as the automatic quill wrote the names and addresses of those students that would be attending the next school year. The quill went in year order, beginning with the seventh-year students. Thus, she had been anxiously waiting almost an hour for one particular letter as it ran through its enchantment. Though the content of each letter was dictated by the professor, headmaster, or deputy headmistress in her case, the envelope itself was generated by Hogwart's magic.

Finally, the names of each potential first year student and where they could be found began to be written. She watched, each passing second feeling like a small glimpse of eternity. One long-awaited letter demanded immediate attention. Being unable to get the automatic quill to write an address before the student was old enough to attend the school. It was a safety measure put into place centuries ago, which had made it impossible to track down one Harry Potter before the child was eleven.

There was a knock on her office door, and she gave a short, sharp, "Come in!"

Unsurprisingly, in walked the current headmaster, his eyes immediately finding the quill in front of her. "Minerva, I trust you are well."

"It will work, won't it Albus?" she asked quietly, needing the reassurance.

"Of course, Minerva. Harry's name has been on the books since his first bout of accidental magic. Just like all British magical children." He answered with a smile, but the observant could see a gleam of worry—years of failed tracking spells in the making—which relaxed as the automatic quill began to write one very special name. "See? What did I tell you?" However, as the quill kept penning the address, a frown began and deepened with each word.

Mr. Harry Potter

Third Largest Bedroom on the Left in the Family Wing

SaDiablo Hall

Dhemlan

Kaeleer

"Albus?" Minerva asked in dumbfounded confusion. She had never seen something even remotely like it; never heard of any city nor town called 'Dhemlan' nor country 'Kaeleer'. "What is this, Albus?" Though in her years of teaching she had seen a second form of address in a few, extremely isolated, cases, she had never seen the rest.

The silence was long enough she looked up at him from the envelope and was surprised at the equally puzzled expression she could see on his face. "I'm not sure. I've never heard of such a place." After holding the transfiguration instructor position for several decades, then becoming headmaster, and afterwards being elected the Supreme Mugwump (and later Chancellor) of the International Council of Wizards, he had heard of most locations around the world. These were a mystery. Neither were familiar, nor did either sound even vaguely recognized.

"Let's deliver it," he said abruptly. He motioned one of the school owls forward, spelling the creature with several locator charms one-handed as he held out the letter with the other. Only to be stymied as the owl just looked at the letter, looked back at him, back to the letter, back to him. At last the brown owl gave a very indignant hoot, shoved the envelope back with its beak, and picked up the next letter instead. "Well, that's interesting." Albus muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Minerva was gob smacked. Literally; her mouth was slightly open in surprise for a second before she spoke. "I've never seen an owl do that."

"Neither have I." His words shocked his deputy even more, if such was possible. Occasionally a student would have an accident and die before attending Hogwarts, but when that occurred the automatic quill skipped the student's name entirely and their name would be stricken through in the main ledger to indicate death.

Never had such a letter, fully addressed to a living student, been refused by an owl. Never in all the time he had been a professor or headmaster. Never in any historical accounts he could remember reading.

He thought for several long moments, wondering what he could do, when the twinkle came back into his eyes. "Fawkes!" he called out. With a flash of red-orange-yellow fire, a beautiful phoenix appeared in the air above his head, then glided down to his shoulder. Peering at him quizzically sideways, one of the most magically powerful creatures that existed, gave a short chirp as if asking him what he needed. "Would you deliver this letter please?" Albus asked gently. He knew it was odd, but it was the best idea he could come up with and his familiar had never disappointed him before.

The magical bird cocked its head in the opposite direction—rather like an owl could, Albus thought—before it looked at the letter still held in the Headmaster's hand. Another chirp as the phoenix took the envelope into its beak, shook out its wings, leaped into the air, and a flash of flames signaled its departure.

Albus mentally bemoaned the sad fact that there was no spell that could be laid upon a phoenix. Thus while Fawkes could—hopefully!—deliver the letter, he couldn't spell her with even a single locator charm as he had the owl. He had no other choice but to wait for his return and the greatly anticipated reply.

+++++BJT++HP++BJT+++++

Dhemlan - Kaeleer

That morning, before her husband rose for the day, an incredibly gifted Black Widow felt an urge to spin a tangled web of dreams and visions. She saw more than anyone else ever could. Her sapphire eyes drew together in a frown at the knowledge she gained and the questions that went unanswered. She fluffed her barely shoulder length blonde hair as she sat back and thought of what had already been and what may come.

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Jaenelle Angelline watched in proud amusement as her adopted son played Stalk and Pounce with one of the kitties. He had seen her play the game with Kaelas and Jaal when he was younger. The impression that it was an expected activity of an "angel's son" stuck with him until he quickly discovered how much fun it was and proceeded to volunteer for the task. Even bringing up the game himself regularly, goading the cats into the task more often than not.

As with all cats, the Arcerians were predators and playing prey games was essential to their ability to survive in the wild. Now that her son was older, he was playing the game with Kaelas' youngest son, Kaelaski. (Not to be confused with his older, bigger brother, KaeAskavi, who already had a human kit to look after.) The kitten wasn't quite fully grown yet, but the five-hundred-pound cat was working on it. Kaelas had finally stopped growing at the impressive weight of eight hundred pounds and still slept in Jaenelle's bed, even after she married. Just as Kaelaski now warmed little Haedrian's.

To Jaenelle, who had been playing Stalk and Pounce since she was seven years old, this was nothing new. That her son played the game gave her a great deal of pride, since she knew it wasn't considered normal by anyone who wasn't herself or kindred, the Blood that lived among the animal species. Even the rest of the family—other than her brother Lucivar, but Lucivar was always an exception to such societal rules—considered the game dangerous and an invitation for injuries.

Her current amusement was generated by watching her husband, who watched their son.

Looking at Daemon Sadi was never a hardship. His thick black hair was disheveled from his fingers running through it while he contemplated the scene of boy and cat bouncing and pouncing around the inner courtyard. His customary white silk shirt had the top two buttons undone, giving her a wonderfully teasing view of toned muscles in a lovely golden brown hue, as all of the long-lived races held. She caught a flash of his Red Birthright Jewel that hung on a gold chain around his neck every once in awhile, when he shifted his weight from one foot to another.

"He's getting better," Daemon commented softly to her, eyes still on the game. His deep, cultured voice always had a sexual edge that would make anyone's pulse race. Though Jaenelle was the only one in all the realms that would see pleasure instead of pain if he was provoked. The man was far too beautiful to be called handsome, and his temper was very typical of his caste.

Since he was one of only two men in the entire history of the Blood to wear a Black Jewel, he was as lethal as he was beautiful. And she loved every inch of him without measure or restraint. Jaenelle was fully aware of what Daemon was capable of if provoked—some others even lived to tell stories of such events, earning him the nickname 'Sadist'—yet she never hesitated. Why would she? Even at his worst, he would never harm her.

Sometimes it scared her how much she was in control of this deadly male. She knew that, if she asked, he would let her kill him if she told him it was necessary, and he'd never ask why. Lucivar, Daemon's Eyrian half-brother, was the same way. Some of the other boyos in the First Circle were too, but most of them would still ask why before laying down their lives.

However, as powerful as Daemon was, he also knew when it was smart to yield. Which is why the newly-married man had never voiced a complaint about the eight-hundred-pound Arcerian cat that slept in his wife's bed. It had only taken a flexing of those considerable claws to silence any objection. Perhaps a rumbling growl as well. Which is why he found his wife's and son's seeming enjoyment of the task of playing with creatures that could literally bite them in two without any trouble absolutely baffling. Even knowing already that there was no situation where any kindred, Arcerian or not, would ever knowingly harm Jaenelle or Haedrian, Daemon was still baffled. But he couldn't argue with the obvious enjoyment both wife and son took from the game, so he stood silent vigilance, lest a stray claw open anything larger than a scratch.

Jaenelle herself watched her husband more than the game, finding his watchful wariness hilarious. She grinned as she drank her morning coffee, hiding the smile behind the mug.

Her thoughts were jarred from their wanderings at the exhalation of a boy's shocked surprise. Her eyes jerked back to the garden and its occupants.

The white striped form of Kaelaski was standing in front of the eleven-year-old boy, fur fluffed menacingly as he showed his teeth in challenge to the newcomer. Haedrian had his twin knives—gifts from his Uncle Chaosti—in hand, body tense and ready. Daemon was three steps in front of her and one step to the right, giving her a clear view of the area, even while between the perceived threat and his wife. Daemon's frame was loose; though a casual observer would see his hands in his pockets, leaning backward, as a posture unsuited to fighting. While Daemon's style of fighting was very different to his brother's, who charged into fights with all the finesse of a dragon, it was no less deadly.

At the entrance to the garden was a bird that Jaenelle had never seen before. Her feathers were red, orange, and yellow in a pattern that reminded one of fire. Feathers near the ends of her tail and wings red, then shaded progressively lighter into a yellow-white at the lower chest, before returning to an orange-red in the area around her eyes and beak. Plumage drifting on the air currents like stray sparks adrift in smoke. Her eyes were a beautiful golden and in her clawed talon was…a letter?

"Mother?" Haedrian's hesitant voice called out. Jaenelle's heart still lurched slightly at the reminder; she had stopped being Mommy the year her son first attended school. Stating that only babies called their mother such. She missed it. Many things had changed that first year of school. But those memories were to be dwelled upon at another time.

Her feet took the few steps forward to come up even with Kaelaski, Daemon shadowed her perfectly without interfering. "Hello," she greeted gently both verbally and on a broad mental communication thread; kindred preferred using their own form of language unique to each species, but would use the communication threads with her, if no one else.

As expected, it wasn't a few moments before they all heard an unknown female timbre within all their minds. *Bright morning.* The bird alighted on the nearby fence, folding her wings regally. A slight incline of the head to indicate rank according to Protocol's intricate dance of who was dominant based on those present, caste, Jewel rank, and occasion.

"I am Lady Jaenelle Angelline," she prompted, simultaneously sending a mental image of her true form. Most kindred had a difficult time speaking with humans, who had such strange concepts, terminology, and customs.

*My current human calls me Fawkes, but once I was known as Crystun Gayl.* Mentally, Jaenelle translated the Old Tongue phrase that had been made into a name. 'Fierce Joy for All Children' had probably been named as most kindred; a Black Widow spinning a tangled web of dreams and visions upon her birth. Often those webs amounted to nothing but fog, but occasionally they resulted in a unique name that would describe or guide that kindred throughout their life. Kaelaski's own name was also Old Tongue and translated to 'white storm'. (Referring to a particular kind of maelstrom that could appear without notice, devastate a Territory, and vanish again leaving devastation in its wake.)

"Well met, Lady Crystun." Jaenelle smiled at the bird. "May I ask what species of kindred are you? I've never seen one of your kind before."

The bird puffed up its feathers slightly, looking even more majestic. *I am a phoenix, created to remember.* There were implications in all kindred communication that made translation difficult, even uncomfortable at times. When Crystun said 'to remember', the flashes that came across all of their minds were different events occurring across countless centuries. The scenes too fast to get more than vague impressions of courts, wars, and children. Many, many children, and along with the images of children came the intense feeling of protectiveness. Her name served her well. *My human sent me to find a chick.* She bobbed her head toward Haedrian and Kaelaski, nudging a letter, which had gone unnoticed until that moment, forward with one delicate claw.

"I'll take that," Daemon practically purred. He tilted it to show his wife the name and address. He slit the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper; handing both to his Queen after several probes with Craft confirmed it was safe.

Jaenelle read the pages, frowning lightly at the phrasing. Many questions were rolling through her mind. At the forefront were the spinning implications of the complete absence of all adherence to Protocol. First, they had sent the letter to Haedrian, when it should have been sent to Daemon. Nor did they acknowledge Haedrian's parents at all, instead addressing Haedrian personally as if they had already been introduced and been permitted thusly. Next, they didn't mention coming for a tour of this supposed school, nor give a date for such a tour if it had been pre-arranged (as with most schools); he was too young to go somewhere completely unknown alone. And who would send their child to an unknown place, school or not, without knowing any of those involved? No instructors were named, nor credentials given. No references.

All the unknown terminology was absolutely secondary to the complete lack of Protocol. Every Blood child from the time of their Birthright Ceremony to the Offering studied Protocol; most going so far as to constantly review it afterward to remain ready no matter the occasion. It was essential to every aspect of Blood society! Without Protocol, the Blood would have gone extinct thousands of years ago, since every slight would have been met with immediate, potentially lethal, consequences.

She flipped to the second page and frowned further. No mention of pricing, nor where to obtain the sometimes bizarre-sounding items. Though a spark of interest went through her at books and authors she didn't recognize. She knew Saetan would love them too, if he didn't already own them. (Though she doubted it, as she had exhausted the Hall's family library in her late teens.) She certainly inherited her father's bibliophile nature. She could also ask Geoffrey, the Keep's Historian/Librarian—a Guardian so old that even Saetan, himself fifty thousand years in age, was as a child in comparison.

When she finished reading, she passed the pages to her husband, who quickly scanned them. She looked at the kindred, "Lady Crystun, please have some refreshment while you wait." The bird dipped her head as Beale, the extremely efficient Red Jeweled butler of SaDiablo Hall brought out a tray with three bowls: water, fruit, and scraps of meat. Apparently with the entrance of an unknown species of kindred the Hall's cook had erred on the side of caution.

Jaenelle and Daemon spoke mind-to-mind on a private communication thread while their son looked between them with slight annoyance. The boy disliked being left out of a discussion. Daemon's mental tap brought a footman with a stationary lapdesk within minutes.

"Thank you, Holt." Daemon inclined his head to the man as he penned a short reply, folded the return, and used Craft to melt the wax to drip and seal the missive. Pressing the official SaDiablo seal into the still soft wax completed the letter. He then offered the lapdesk to his wife. "Beale, please inform Mrs. Beale that there may be two more joining us for dinner."

Though his tone was calm, something in Daemon's eyes must have alerted the other male to the possible danger. "Of course, Prince." The butler inclined his head and disappeared to tell the cook about the change of plans.

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Lady McGonagall,

As no owl is currently available to send this missive, I hope that you have no objections to phoenix delivery.

The individual you know as Harry Potter was adopted over five years ago.

Prince Haedrian Angelline will not be allowed to attend your school. The absence of Protocol in your letter does not lend towards a future relationship. Your lack of propriety by sending the missive directly to Prince Angelline is unacceptable. All future correspondence should be addressed to Daemon Sadi, the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.

Lastly, Lady Crystun Gayl, kindred phoenix, wishes to remind you she is female.

Lady Angelline

Dhemlan - Kaeleer

Minerva blinked as she set the letter to one side, perplexed at all the strange verbiage, to look at the second, which was amazingly even shorter than the first.

Lady McGonagall,

No.

Prince Sadi

Warlord Prince of Dhemlan - Kaeleer

Minerva's mouth tightened at the one-word reply. "Albus!" she called out. She looked at the phoenix, who was calmly regarding her with an almost queenly air. Minerva idly wondered if she was thinking in royal terms due to the recent correspondence (and subsequent salutations), or if there was something else present. However, as soon as the headmaster came through her fireplace, she pushed the thought to the side. There were more pressing matters to deal with. "What do you make of this?" she perfunctorily shoved the two letters into the man's hands.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts read them both before looking up at his phoenix with a twinkle in his eyes. "Lady Crystun?" he addressed, humor filling his words. Yet he paused with slight surprise at the immediate acknowledging regal incline of her head the phoenix gave him as if in answer.

"Warlord Prince? Protocol?" Minerva was very efficiently not-yelling in her annoyed confusion. "Who are these people, Albus? Why are they answering Harry's letter? Do you think they are the ones that adopted him?" she demanded. "Why didn't we hear about his adoption?"

A magical adoption was permanent and required the special parchment for magical contracts; not to mention legal representatives. Each magical adoption was recorded in several locations because of the different aspects of magical society that were affected by each adoption. Gringotts and the Ministry being the main affected due to legal status. Blood adoptions were even more significant, requiring intense, powerful magic. It required special dispensation from the Ministry because it was technically a ritual; all rituals were highly documented, as they were always far-reaching potential. Both good and bad potential as well.

Albus neatly sidestepped the questions, though internally he was also wondering the same thing. "As both are addressed to you, may I suggest you answer them?" His eyes twinkled at the emotion he saw in his deputy. He hadn't seen her this riled since the last time Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup. Though if she knew he was amused at her, instead of his normal general amusement at everything, he had no doubt she would hex him.

He looked at his—female—phoenix. "Are you tired from the travel?" A shake of a beak. "Then perhaps you could deliver Minerva's reply promptly?" A nod. Along with the distinct impression of the bird's own amusement at the exchange. Smug amusement even. What did a phoenix have to be smug about this situation? Oh well, a thought to ponder later.

"Oh no you don't, Albus! You're dealing with this! You are the politician, so you deal with replying to this…this…" the deputy headmistress didn't seem able to come up with a suitable word to describe what she was thinking. Instead, she proceeded to raid her secret stash of Ogden's Finest. Some upstarts downgrading her impeccable manners. Bad mouthing her school. The nerve!

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To Lady Angelline and Prince Sadi,

Allow me to introduce myself: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

I do apologize for any disrespect you may have taken from the previous letter. Hogwarts has been addressing entrance letters this way for over one thousand years and you are the first to remark on any perceived lack therein that I am aware.

I am afraid that I am rather confused by some of the terminology you used in your reply. It would be much easier to answer the many questions I'm sure each of us have generated in a more personal setting. As Headmaster of the school in which young Harry's parents attended, I am more than qualified and happy to answer any queries made concerning my proud establishment. There is no finer school in the world in which Harry could receive his own education.

Perhaps tomorrow in time for afternoon tea?

Albus Dumbledore

Order of Merlin, First Class

Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, ICW

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Lord Dumbledore,

Your presence is requested at SaDiablo Hall.

Prince Sadi

Warlord Prince of Dhemlan - Kaeleer

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"How intriguing," Albus commented as he finished the extremely short missive. Compared to the previous from the same mysterious Sadi, it was practically a novel, but still just as bare of any details or significance.

It did give him what he wanted though—invitation to meet these people that answered young Harry's letters. Harry's guardians perhaps? Still unknown since the boy had only been addressed in passing with no familial ties listed. It must have been overlooked, what with the apparent aversion this Sadi and Angelline had taken to the customary entrance letter.

To Lady Angelline and Prince Sadi,

Perhaps a more impersonal meeting location? I do apologize but I am as unfamiliar with the city of Dhemlan as I am unfamiliar with the country of Kaeleer. Madame Puddifoot's or the Hogshead in Hogsmeade Village are both delightful where one can find excellent fare.

Albus Dumbledore

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Lord Dumbledore,

Your presence is required at SaDiablo Hall.

Lady Crystun has graciously consented to stand as your escort.

Prince Sadi

Warlord Prince of Dhemlan - Kaeleer

"Guess that settles it then." Albus muttered to himself, getting to his feet and heading for the door. "I'll inform Minerva and Severus about tomorrow's plans."

Lady Crystun had been patiently waiting for her human to announce he was ready to go. However, when she heard his comment—definitely not what she had been expecting—the elegant bird hung her head. If she had been human, the term "facepalm" would have applied to her reaction. Instead, all she could do was trill in mournful frustration at her human's retreating back. Yes, she had acquiesced to escorting him—he was her human after all—but she didn't think he'd miss the rather commanding Protocol phrasing.

It wasn't as if it was subtle!

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Disclaimer: Basically, if you recognize it, it's not mine.

Edited: 11.11.2019

Wordcount: 14,300

I hope you enjoyed Part 01 of the rewrite!