Chapter 2: Leaving
Little Whinging, Surrey
Lucy's sister lived on Wisteria Walk in a square brick house with frilly curtains in all of the windows and the required immaculate lawn. "If you think the outside is heinous, wait until we get inside," she whispered.
Harry didn't answer her; he was still hung up on his rebel image. Act cool. Act cool. She's looking for cool. Sexual. She just said 'sexual' like she was saying 'banana,' or…oh, no, don't think about bananas. Do NOT think about bananas…think about…oranges! NO! Harry glanced at Lucy's chest. Think about cold things, very cold things. Cold things that are neither penis-shaped nor breast-shaped. STOP THINKING ABOUT HER BREASTS!!! Think about frozen peas or something…
Lucy Wexler, completely oblivious to Harry's plight, invited him into the house before she forcibly slammed the front door and yelled, "Emily! I'm home! I have a visitor!" Her shout was immediately followed by the distant sound of a baby crying. A frazzled young woman came storming out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her hair – the same color as Lucy's – was more or less in a ponytail, but pieces of it were coming loose and the front of her t-shirt was covered in flour.
"Lucy, how many times do I have to tell you…" the woman's voice trailed off and she stopped abruptly. "Who's this?" The woman seemed to be asking Lucy the question, but she didn't stop glaring at Harry. He was suddenly reminded of a very young Aunt Petunia for some reason.
"Harry Potter," Lucy answered.
"Who?"
"The baby's crying, Em."
Harry could see Emily's mind working, trying to remember who he was, but the cries upstairs were getting more urgent. "That's because you woke him up, you childish little snot," she finally said, looking unaccountably frustrated.
Lucy's eyes widened. "Oh, no! I woke up the baby! God forbid!"
Lucy's sister threw the towel at her. "I don't care what bloody issues you're working out right now. It'll take me forever to get him back to sleep. Clean up the kitchen or you can go eat out of the neighbors' rubbish." She started storming up the stairs.
Once her sister was out of sight, Lucy giggled. "That'll keep her occupied for at least half an hour. Let's go to the back room. I have my stereo set up there." Lucy pushed open the door to the kitchen and tossed the dishtowel into the sink. "Don't worry," she assured him. "She knew when she said it that I'd never actually clean up the kitchen."
The back room was a sort of den, Harry supposed. All of the furniture seemed to match. There was a large, stiff-looking sofa with a floral pattern all in shades of blue. On the floor was an area rug made up of stripes – also blue – that seemed to match the colors of the sofa exactly. Curtains on the windows were made of the same floral fabric as the sofa and a collection of white wicker end tables were covered with candles that had never been used and carefully arranged decorator magazines.
"Isn't it terrible?" Lucy asked, looking disgusted. She kicked off her shoes in the middle of the rug and dragged a stereo out from underneath one of the end tables. "Emily and her husband decorated the entire thing out of some yuppie 'conform or die' magazine. She can't stand having my stereo in here, but it's the only place in the house where the music won't wake the baby."
"You don't seem to like the baby very much," Harry commented, a smile creeping onto his face. Lucy amused him. She just never seemed to pause for even a moment. She began flipping through CDs.
"The baby wakes me up every morning at six o'clock. The baby spits up on me and messes with my things. Screw the baby." She waved a CD at him. "Do you like the Sex Pistols?"
"Sex? Who? What?" Harry sputtered.
"The Sex Pistols. If you don't like them, I can put on something else."
"Sex…erm…I like them fine, thanks." He was blushing furiously.
Lucy shook her head at him, smiling. "You're so polite. I'd never believe you were in reform school." She put on the CD and a man began ranting incoherently to loud reverberating guitars and drums. "You can sit down if you want."
Harry glanced down at the sofa uncertainly. By the looks of it, he might very well be the first person to ever sit on it. Lucy was watching him expectantly, so he finally lowered himself gingerly. The sofa was, to say the least, not comfortable. That ceased to matter when Lucy sat down next do him, though. She sat down right next to him and put her head back, listening to the music.
"The Sex Pistols are one of my biggest musical influences," she said conversationally. "All of that fury." She closed her eyes a listened to the music for a few moments, and Harry fretted over whether or not he should try and kiss her.
Maybe I should just put my arm around her, he wondered. He started slowly moving his right arm. The loud music wasn't exactly setting a romantic mood.
"I don't play pure punk, though," Lucy continued. Harry quickly lowered his arm. "I've been going for punk-folk fusion. Keep the intensity of The Pistols, but play acoustic, you know?"
She opened her eyes and looked at him. "So…uh…that's what you want to do, is it? Play music?" Harry wished he knew what he was supposed to do with his hands.
"Not just any music, Harry. Great music. Once I get enough songs together, I'm running off to London to put thousands of pounds of fine education to waste." Harry had no idea what to say to that, so he just nodded. "We've been all wrapped up in my life for a while, haven't we?" she finally said. "Let's talk about you." She cocked her head to the side. "What did you do to get sent to reform school, if you don't mind me asking?"
Harry had momentarily forgotten about his bad-boy persona. Cool, you idiot, act cool. "Well, it was a combination of a lot of things," he answered. He was shocked by the smoothness of his voice. Where on earth had that come from? He'd never known before that he was quite this good an actor.
"Really?" Lucy seemed excited. "Like what?"
"Well, I was always getting into trouble in school, getting into fights and stuff." Well, that wasn't such a stretch, Harry figured. After all, he had gotten into plenty of trouble at Hogwarts, and he had had plenty of beatings courtesy of Dudley. A story soon began forming in Harry's head, and he kept talking. He'd never been a terribly good liar, and yet here he was, spinning one of the biggest whoppers in the history of mankind to impress a girl. Harry discovered that most of his Hogwarts experiences could be changed slightly to fit the situation.
"So from the beginning, this guy…uhhh…Tom …had it in for me. He's been trying to kill me…"
"Trying to kill you?" Lucy was both horrified and intrigued.
"Yeah. From the moment I arrived." Harry was starting to warm up to the story, and to his role. "We fought him at the end of my first year – my friends Ron and Hermi…uh…Herman and I – and I thought he would leave us alone after that. Well, I mean we didn't actually fight him, we fought one of his goons, Quirrell, but we, I mean I, killed him…"
Lucy's blue eyes were wide, mixed with fear and admiration. "You've killed somebody?" she whispered in awe.
"Well, I mean, it was self-defense and all, but…yeah, I guess so."
"Oh, Harry." Lucy swallowed and moved slightly closer to him. She placed a consoling hand on his arm, and Harry felt a bit bolder.
"So then second year…" He was off and running, making the Chamber of Secrets into a boiler room showdown, turning Quidditch into football, the basilisk into a gigantic seventeen-year-old yes man for Tom, Lupin into an alcoholic, Sirius into an ex-convict motorcycle buddy of his father's, and the Tri-Wizard Cup into an academic decathlon (for delinquents, of course); his parents had died in a car accident fleeing the police on trumped-up felony charges. Harry only faltered when he got to the part about Cedric Diggory.
"Tom just killed him? Just like that?"
"Actually, he had his friend Wormtail do it," Harry said flatly. His juvenile delinquent role had lost a bit its luster. He couldn't bring himself to look at Lucy, choosing instead to stare at his lap.
"Harry, that's terrible," she murmured. "How on earth can they let someone like this Tom person just walk around killing people? Did he get sent to prison?"
"No, he didn't. He got sent to…solitary confinement…" Does that really exist? He wasn't sure, but he doubted that Lucy would know the difference. "But this past year there ended up being a big fight between his side and our side."
Lucy had both her hands in front of her mouth. "What happened?" she asked, the question slightly muffled.
Harry couldn't bring himself to talk about Sirius. He'd played along with this whole charade because he thought it would be fun to be someone else, and here he was, back where he started. And yet it felt different somehow. Lucy didn't know anything about him or Voldemort or the wizarding world at all. To her, he wasn't The Boy Who Lived, he was just plain old Harry. A violent, criminal version of Harry, but Harry nonetheless.
He felt her hand rubbing his back, trying to comfort him. When he finally looked up at her, she had tears in her eyes and looked more beautiful than anything he'd ever seen. He was beginning to think he had a complex about crying girls. Maybe it had to do with his 'saving people thing.' Without thinking or planning, he suddenly found himself kissing her. After a moment, she was kissing him too, still rubbing his back.
It was somehow more natural than kissing Cho Chang; his arms went around her, his hands stroked her soft hair and he breathed in her scent, and all the time the kiss was getting deeper and her tongue was in his mouth and his tongue was in hers and it just kept going on and on.
Harry wasn't sure if he moved first or if Lucy did, but suddenly she was lying beneath him on the stupid floral patterned sofa and she was making soft moaning sounds as he kissed her cheek and her ear before moving to place a slow line of kisses down her neck. It was almost as if somebody were whispering directions in his ear, telling him what to do. Harry stroked one hand up the side of her torso, and he was just getting up the courage to touch one of her breasts when the song on the stereo ended and he heard footsteps approaching in the ensuing silence.
Lucy must have heard them, too, because she shoved him away and leapt to the other side of the couch. She smoothed her hair and plastered such a falsely innocent look on her face that Harry found himself laughing harder than he had in a long, long time as Lucy's sister walked into the room, brandishing the dish towel and glaring at them both.
"Lucy, I've just spent a half an hour getting the baby back to sleep and there isn't a chance in hell that dinner's going to be done on time. Send your friend home and help me." Emily spun on her heel and left the room without another word.
Harry and Lucy looked at each other, sharing a guilty smile.
"I guess you should go," she said finally, rising to turn off the stereo and shove it back underneath the end table.
Caught up in the heady new feelings flowing through him, Harry grabbed her as she turned around and kissed her hard and fast. He was pleased to see that her eyes looked faintly glazed as he drew away.
"Meet me tomorrow in the park at noon," he ordered, sending her what he hoped was a sizzling hot look before turning around and walking out of her house, feeling unaccountably like James Bond.
The Burrow
Ginny still found it amazing how much quieter the house was without Fred and George around. The Burrow seemed lonelier without the constant threat of explosions and spontaneous transfigurations. And next week Ron was leaving to help set up the twins' new joke shop, which meant it would be her alone with Mum and Dad. Just like it had been the whole year before she'd gone to Hogwarts.
She'd have their undivided attention. At all times. Until she wanted to throw herself out the window. Not that Ginny didn't love her parents; she truly did. But she also spent nine months a year without them around to tell her what to do and judge her every action and give her unsolicited advice constantly.
When she reached the table, everyone else was already there. Ron's knee was bouncing with anticipation as he eyed the food spread out before them. The minute her bottom touched the seat, his plate was full.
"Ron, I honestly think that your reflexes at the table surpass your reflexes as a Keeper," she commented mildly.
Ron must be growing up, because he actually waited until he swallowed before answering.
"I'm starving and you took your sweet time coming downstairs, didn't you?"
"Knock it off, both of you," Mrs. Weasley said irritably.
Ron froze. "Bit harsh tonight, aren't you, mum?"
Molly and Arthur exchanged a meaningful look. Then Arthur cleared his throat.
"Um, I've got some news for you both. Everyone will know by tomorrow, but I thought it best to clue you in beforehand."
"Is everybody okay?" Ginny asked anxiously.
"Of course, dear, it's nothing like that," her mother reassured her. "It's just that…" She sighed deeply. "Lucius Malfoy has been released from Azkaban."
"Released?! How could he be released?! He's guilty!" Ron looked appalled, and Ginny more or less shared his sentiments, though in all truth she could have guessed it was coming.
"He was under Imperius," Arthur said glumly.
"That's ridiculous," Ginny argued. "We all saw him in the Department of Mysteries, and he was having the time of his life. He laughed maniacally. People under Imperius don't laugh maniacally."
"No, they usually don't. But he wasn't under Imperius then," Molly said, her mouth twisting.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Ron asked, puzzled.
"It's an old trick," Arthur said, shaking his head. "Lucius Malfoy has plenty of connections within the Aurors and the Ministry as a whole. I imagine one of them performed the spell on him after he was arrested. Before any suspects are questioned and processed, they are tested to see if they're acting under the influence of mind-confounding curses. The test showed that Lucius was under Imperius. There's no way to tell how long somebody's been under the curse, so he was held for questioning and then released."
"Again," Molly said heavily.
"So that's how is, then? The Malfoys have enough connections that they can just do whatever they please?" Ron had gotten so worked up that he wasn't even actively eating any longer.
"Ron, they're rich and they're related to ninety percent of the people at the Ministry. Of course they can do whatever they please. They always have and they always will," Ginny said simply.
Arthur frowned. "When did you become so cynical?" He turned to his wife. "Molly, when did she become so cynical?"
"Merlin, Arthur, like I've any idea," her mother answered exasperatedly.
They all turned to study Ginny, who began to fidget uncomfortably. "What?" she asked peevishly. "It's true, isn't it?"
"Well, yes," her father qualified, "I suppose it's true, but…"
"But it's cynical of me to actually say it out loud?" Ginny asked.
Bored with the discussion, Ron turned his attention back to stuffing his face.
"I think we're getting a bit off-topic," Molly prompted her husband.
"Haven't we finished with the topic? Lucius Malfoy's out of prison and rich people always get away with things." Again, Ron had swallowed before speaking. Ginny felt an overwhelming urge to applaud.
"Well, actually there's more," their father began in the slow, ominous tone of voice he generally used when he was trying to get his wife to give them the bad news. He glanced at her, but she was apparently going to let him twist in the wind this time. "There have been a lot of rumblings about continued Death Eater activity, so-oo-ooo…" he drew out the last syllable, shooting his wife a slightly more desperate glance.
"So we're going to have extra wards put up around the house," Molly cut in briskly, shooting her husband a glare, "which is going to take a few weeks. In the meantime, we're leaving for Headquarters in the morning."
"Have fun," Ron said, his attention back on his food.
"All of us," Arthur said glumly. "You too."
"What? But I'm going to help Fred and George with the shop!" Ron protested.
"I'm afraid that's out of the question," Molly said repressively. "I know it's a disappointment, but your safety comes first."
"Oh, my safety," Ron replied sarcastically. "Fred and George don't have to go, do they?"
"Fred and George are adults," Mrs. Weasley responded, though the tone of her voice suggested that this was a difficult thing for her to say with a straight face.
"Well, what if I stay at Grimmauld Place and just go over to Diagon Alley during the day?"
"No."
Ron's face was slowly turning pink. "You just didn't want me to go at all, and now you're using the whole thing as an excuse to keep me locked up in that bloody mausoleum for the rest of the summer."
"Ron, that's not the reason we're doing this," Mr. Weasley assured him.
"Do you really expect me to believe that?"
"Ronald Weasley, if you think that we're honestly looking forward to spending the next few weeks in a dreary bastion of dark magic with a sullen, moping teenager…" Molly said in her best chewing-out voice. Her final words were so overused that even Mr. Weasley mouthed along.
"…then you've got another think coming!"
"Haven't we all?" Ginny mused.
"I'm sorry?" Her mother was surprised at being interrupted in the middle of a scolding.
"Got another think coming. I mean, as far as Ron's concerned, it's probably something like, 'Mmmm, potatoes,' but it's really a silly turn of phrase when it comes down to it, isn't it?"
There was a moment of silence, followed by Ron and Mr. Weasley subtly scooting their chairs away from the two women, anticipating the explosion.
It didn't come. Instead, Mrs. Weasley leaned across the table and wagged her finger in her daughter's face.
"I'll have you know that I was an intelligent and erudite human being until I had children. The nonsense that comes out of my mouth on occasion is entirely the result of a life spent trying to reason with toddlers." Ginny gulped, wanting more than anything to tear her gaze away from her mother and yet somehow unable to do so. Watching Mrs. Weasley in action was like driving by a particularly horrific traffic accident. You couldn't help but look.
"And someday," Molly continued, "you'll have children of your own and they'll push you to the limits of human endurance and you'll find yourself saying something that doesn't make one lick of sense, and you know what you'll be thinking when you say it?"
Ginny shook her head slightly.
"You'll be thinking 'Dear Merlin, I've turned into my mother.' It's inevitable," Mrs. Weasley finished, casually scooping a serving of peas onto her plate.
There was another long silence, broken only by Mr. Weasley dropping his fork onto the table with a loud clang. His eyes turned to his wife as he paled slightly, wishing he hadn't drawn attention to himself.
"I'm never having children," Ginny said fervently.
"I remember saying that once," Mr. Weasley sighed.
Mrs. Weasley snorted. "It must have been long before you developed your 'Let's Keep Going Until We Have a Girl' philosophy."
"Well I didn't know it would take so long," Mr. Weasley said defensively.
"Honestly!" Ron broke in. "We're right here, you know!"
"And we love you both very, very much," Mrs. Weasley said warmly, patting them both on the hand.
Ron peered at both of his parents thoughtfully before looking over at his sister. "I think I'm with you, Ginny," he said, stuffing a wad of meatloaf into his mouth. "Are Harry and Hermione coming to Headquarters, too?" Ron's manners had apparently worn out their welcome; he was back to talking with his mouth full.
"Isn't Hermione traveling?" Ginny asked, knowing that it was probably slightly pathetic for her to know so much about her brother's friends.
"Yeah, but Harry can come, can't he?"
"Harry's staying with his relatives for now," Mrs. Weasley said firmly. "That's how Dumbledore wants it."
"Well, can I at least borrow Errol to let him know what's going on?"
"Yes, you may, but then I want both of you to pack your belongings tonight, by which I mean before you go to bed. I will not have us rushing about in the morning trying to locate errant socks, and if one of you tells me after we get there that you've forgotten something, then I'll find something decidedly nasty for you to clean. And there is going to be a meeting of the Order tomorrow night and I don't want to see hide nor hair of either or you. Are we understood?"
"Yes, mum," Ron and Ginny said in unison, both knowing very well that no matter how much planning went into the move and how much packing they'd done the night before, the morning would nevertheless be spent rushing about and it was almost certain that one of them would forget something important. They also had some Extendable Ears left over that would need to be put to good use.
Fred and George may have left The Burrow, but their spirit remained.
Malfoy Manor
Thera came fully awake in an instant, which meant someone had Ennervated her. There was no long, slow climb into consciousness, no muddled head, no wondering why she had woken up on a nice, soft bed in the middle of a bed-chamber straight out of a gothic horror movie. There was none of that. Thera went from zero to scared shitless in less than a second.
She leapt off of the bed. Someone had been sitting in a chair in the corner of the room and they rose at the movement. In the limited light, she couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman, but it didn't really matter at this point. Thera had no intention of ending up like her mother and the loser. If this person was going to kill her, she was damn well going to take a few pieces of them with her.
Searching in vain for a weapon, Thera was also trying to move closer to the door as the person in the corner approached her, on the off chance that it was unlocked. Finally, a middle-aged wizard with long, flowing blonde hair stepped into the circle of light next to the bed. Instead of looking threatening or bloodthirsty, he looked amused. He didn't look amused in a way that was comforting.
"You may relax, my dear. I assure you that you are not in any immediate danger," he said in a snobby, cold, upper-crust voice.
Thera considered her options, including the fact that there was no way this sort of person left a prisoner's door unlocked, before putting on a show of relaxing. If he thought she was relaxed, he wouldn't expect her to…oh, say, suddenly grab the bedside lamp and bash him on the head.
"Who are you?" she asked carefully.
He didn't answer, instead choosing to give her a once-over, taking in her jeans and oversized Notre Dame sweatshirt. The look he gave her implied in no uncertain terms that she was found lacking. "Dear, dear, what has Reina been doing with you?" he asked in the same tone of voice.
Thera wasn't going to play this game. If she thought about her mother right now, he'd have her right where he wanted her, namely cowering at his feet. "Who are you?" she repeated.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Quite the conversationalist, aren't we?" He turned and swept across the room to the door, opening it with a dramatic flourish as his hair fell artfully around his shoulders. It hadn't been locked after all. Interesting.
"You're free to leave anytime you wish, of course," he offered, innocence practically oozing out of him. "It's not as if you're a prisoner here."
Yeah. Sure. Right. "Who are you?" she repeated yet again, in a tone suggesting that he might be having difficulty understanding the question.
He smiled thinly. "I am Lucius Malfoy, and I happen to be your closest living relative."
At that point Thera actually did relax. She knew plenty about Lucius Malfoy. He'd given the most damaging testimony against her mother years ago. He was one of the Death Eaters who had named names, serving up his friends and family and claiming to be under Imperius in order to save his own ass. Not that she judged him for this; after all, Reina would have done the same thing in a heartbeat if everybody she knew hadn't been arrested already.
Suffice it to say, Thera had a feeling that Lucius Malfoy was hardly the type to ruin one of his guestrooms by slicing up a teenager.
He'd order somebody else to do it. Probably in a dungeon.
"Pleased to meet you, Cousin Lucius," she replied evenly. He was definitely a cousin of some sort. His grandfather and my great-grandfather were brothers, so that would make him my fourth cousin? Thera's reasoning was interrupted when she saw his eyes flare with anger.
Lucius slowly approached until he was standing right in front of her, the flickering lamp creating somewhat disturbing shadows on his face. He towered over her, but then everybody towered over her. Thera had always detested being short. It was nearly impossible to establish superiority over someone who could stop any physical threat on your part by putting a hand on your head and holding you at arm's length.
"I suppose you're wondering why we didn't give you the same treatment as your traitorous mother?" he practically spat at her.
The ability to get under other people's skin is something that can't be learned; Thera had it naturally and in spades. She was surprised that it had taken such a short time for her to nudge Lucius over the line. "Traitors come in all shapes and sizes, don't they?"
His face screwed up into a mask of rage for the briefest of instants before slipping back into cold indifference. "She should have come when she was called," he hissed at her.
"Why? So you'd have a prize to give the Ministry if the Dark Lord runs into another nasty infant?" Thera hissed back, trying to force Lucius into showing his hand. If she was in Malfoy Manor and she was still alive, then he must have some sort of plan for her. Dear Cousin Lucius hadn't had her brought here – alive – out of the goodness of his heart. Thera was not going to let him toy with her.
As it was, her plan worked all too well. Lucius bared his teeth and slapped her. Really hard. She only barely managed to remain standing. And that would be a pyrrhic victory, she thought, rubbing her jaw.
"If you still wish to follow in her footsteps, that can be arranged." All surface efforts at hiding his anger had fallen by the wayside. Spittle flew out of his mouth when he spoke and a lock of his long, white-blonde hair hung haphazardly – yet still gracefully – across his face.
"But that won't happen, will it?" Thera fought to keep her voice calm and even. The unemotional one always had the upper hand, as Lucius should well know. "You have a reason for bringing me here, so tell me what it is."
And in the blink of an eye, his mask was back in place and Lucius tossed the errant strands of his hair behind his shoulders. "The Dark Lord felt that you deserved the opportunity of serving him, as your father once did. He thinks you may be," Lucius paused for effect, "useful."
There was something wrong with the logic in that, if it was true. Thera found it hard to believe that Voldemort would go out of his way to obtain a pitifully untrained fifteen-year-old as a new recruit. And frankly, if he was looking for some loyalty from her, then why would he send a couple of orthodontally-impaired followers to cut up her mother? Wouldn't it have been more intelligent to murder the daughter and kidnap the fully-trained former Death Eater?
Of course, reasoning it all out seemed to be fairly pointless, since turning down his offer was probably not an option.
"Useful how?" she asked warily.
Lucius simply smiled. "You'll see." And with that, he left the room, closing the door behind him. This time, Thera heard the distinct "click" of a dead bolt falling into place.
Still smiling, Lucius turned from the door and nearly ran into Severus Snape. Lucius started, but Snape didn't react at all.
"New toy?" the Professor asked disinterestedly.
"Why must you always sneak up on people?" Lucius snapped after getting his bearings back and smoothing his hair into place. "What are you doing up here, anyway?"
"He's here," Snape said evenly. "I thought you should know."
"Yes, he's expected," Lucius replied, turning to stride down the hallway. "He's here about the girl."
"So she's for him, then?" Snape asked, keeping pace. "I certainly hope you haven't been messing about with the Master's possessions, Lucius."
"Of course not. I merely woke her up and apprised her of the situation."
"Who is she?"
"Castelar's daughter."
Severus looked at him in surprise. "Really? Where was she been all this time? With Reina?"
"Yes. They found her in some hovel in Vancouver," Lucius said distastefully.
"How the mighty have fallen," Snape mused.
"Reina always did have horrendous taste," Lucius sighed. "They found her in bed with some Muggle. Nott said Flint made an utter mess of them both. Why are all of the new recruits so…enthusiastic?"
"They're young, I suppose. Eager to please, much like we once were."
"Hmph. Well, in any case, Reina is most certainly out of the picture now."
"Killed Muggle-style," Snape said, shaking his head. "I suppose she deserved it, in any case. But what could he possibly want with Castelar's daughter?"
"The point isn't why he wants her, it's that he wants her, and that we managed to obtain her for him," Lucius replied. "And I think we all agree it's about time something went right around here."
The Cardinal's Castle
Location Unknown
Fox didn't really have much to do until Dumbledore showed up, so she alternated between cleaning her already spotless sword collection, wandering around their chambers aimlessly and reenacting whatever kung-fu fight sequences she could remember from various Bruce Lee movies.
She liked the kung-fu movies because they let her get out nervous energy, and Fox had plenty of it. She had never met another Guardian before; the gloom-and-doom stories referenced by The Cardinal generally ended in the combined power becoming impossible to control and fire raining down from the heavens much in the classic style of Sodom and Gomorrah. On a subconscious level (or a superconscious one, depending on how you choose to look at it), each Guardian knew what every other one was up to, because it was necessary to work in tandem, all parts of the same machine.
Guardians only approached each other if something really big was going down, and even then, they weren't inclined to meet for tea.
Fox also wondered what to tell Amina and Gautham. Having lived with her for eight years, they knew that she wasn't normal, but their profession wasn't one that encouraged an inquisitive nature. Besides, the small number of people who even knew about The Guardians generally thought they were a myth.
Deep in thought, Fox was halfway through the final battle in Enter the Dragon when Amina put her foot down.
"You realize it's impossible to work with you grunting and making fake sound effects and thumping around in here," Amina said, throwing down the blueprints of Hogwarts, which she'd spread out on a large table.
Gautham looked up from his chair near the fireplace, where he'd been wading his way through a pile of documents and scribbling furiously. "Now, now, ladies, I don't want to see a catfight between you two. It wouldn't last long enough for me to enjoy it."
"Sorry," Fox apologized. "I'm just bored."
"Well, be bored quietly," Amina grumbled, turning back to the blueprints. "Polish your swords again or something."
"Fox polishing her swords isn't a quiet activity," Gautham pointed out. "She talks to them. She flatters them until they blush. I think she's trying to encourage the green one to propose to her."
Fox shrugged. "Swords need love, too."
"You need love, Fox. You desperately need to get laid," Amina commented, not looking up from her work.
"Well, she's not likely to if she insists that the silver rapier sulks if she doesn't let it sleep with her," Gautham returned.
"Some men get turned on by a woman who sleeps with her swords," Fox said lightly, wandering over to the wardrobe in which they had stowed their belongings. "However," Fox continued, opening the door and rifling around a bit, "the average woman would be frightened out of her mind to know that she has to move over and make room for this."
Fox turned around, holding a dirty, bedraggled stuffed tiger with a silly grin on its face and an eye missing.
Gautham paled noticeably. "You leave Baba out of this."
"Baba is damaging your sex life, Gautham," Amina agreed, her eyes back on the blueprints after shooting the tiger a disgusted glance. "A girl simply doesn't like to hear: 'I'm good-looking, I'm intelligent, I work for one of the most powerful men in the magical world, and by the way, would you mind sleeping on the other side? My smelly stuffed animal likes to be on the left.'"
"He doesn't smell," Gautham said, sounding offended.
"Yes, he does," Fox and Amina answered simultaneously.
At that point, there was a polite knock at the door. Fox tossed Baba back into the wardrobe and opened the door to admit one of The Cardinal's secretaries. All of them were young, beautiful women, dressed in gauzy red robes. This one was brunette and curvy in a way that shouldn't be humanly possible. Upon seeing who it was, Gautham sat up and smiled. One of his main goals in life was to talk one of these women into having sex with him. He had thus far been supremely unsuccessful in this pursuit.
"Albus Dumbledore has arrived," the woman purred. "He'd like to speak to you each individually. Who would like to go first?"
"Fox," Amina said flatly. Gautham simply grinned wider.
"Very well," the woman said, smiling. "Follow me, please."
Sighing, Fox followed the woman, who seemed to slink more than she actually walked, as if the whole point of the endeavor were not actually to reach a particular destination, but instead to melt the paint from the walls. Fox tried to ignore the panting male portraits disrupting their neighbors in their efforts to get a better view of the secretary's voluptuous rear end.
"She's my favorite one," sighed an elderly philosopher who had moments ago been reading by candlelight, making Fox suddenly wonder if there was a waiting list for portraits to get into The Cardinal's halls.
They proceeded down a series of corridors Fox had never seen before, filled with Japanese artwork and artifacts. A pair of geisha girls in one painting giggled and hid behind their fans as the two women walked by, but Fox got the distinct sensation that even they were admiring the servant's assets.
They must be getting close, because Fox's nerve endings were beginning to buzz, as if she were approaching a Muggle electrical source. The voice that guided her, warned her of danger and whispered people's thoughts to her seemed to have split in two, each talking over each other, causing a cacophony that made it difficult to concentrate.
"So, what's your name?" Fox asked, more to keep focused than out of any particular curiosity.
"Bertha," the woman answered, sending Fox a smoldering glance over her shoulder.
"Bertha?" Fox repeated. The embodiment of every teenage boy's wet dream is named Bertha?
"I was named after my grandmother," the woman informed her as she stopped in front of a random door. "He's inside. I'll be waiting here when you've finished."
"Thank you," Fox mumbled, the raw, energized feeling only growing as she opened the door and proceeded into a comfortably appointed study. Shelves of books rose up so high she couldn't see where they ended, and the room was filled with cozy sofas and recliners. A rug made from what appeared to be the hide of a black bear lay in front of a fireplace – thankfully without a fire, considering the season – and footstools and overstuffed pillows abounded. The windows looked out over a rolling countryside that had to be magical, considering that the windows in her chamber looked out over a dense forest.
Albus Dumbledore was standing at the far end of the room with his hands behind his back, rocking a bit on the balls of his feet as he surveyed the collection of books. He turned when she entered, and Fox felt a momentary surge in the power connecting them. It was exhilarating and overwhelming at the same time, as if one misstep by either of them could blow the roof off of the castle.
When his voice sounded in her head, however, it was gentle, flowing in the comforting rhythm of the ancient language of The Guardians.
So you are Fox. He smiled and clasped his hands to his chest. His eyes were blue like The Cardinal's, only clearer, and with a peculiar sort of twinkle in them.
And you are Dumbledore, she replied, feeling too edgy to smile.
Let's sit, shall we? He gestured to a pair of sofas nearby. Fox sat stiffly, still unnerved by the amount of power between them. It will take some getting used to, won't it? Dumbledore commented, settling himself across from her.
Is it going to be like this any time we're near each other?
Well, there are some steps we can take to make it a bit less…distracting.
Such as?
His blue eyes peered at her from over the top of his half-moon glasses. Why don't you relax, Fox? What is happening right now is what happens when two Guardians meet each other. Each of us has a great power, and it only grows exponentially when we join together. But you must remember that power blindly serves its master, for good or for evil. The two of us could obliterate the planet, or we could solve all of its problems. Both outcomes are equally likely, depending upon our motivations.
As it is in any situation.
He chucked. Precisely.
Fox tried very hard to concentrate on the matter at hand. So why did you want me to come to Hogwarts?
I wanted to restore your power. It took us a long time to realize that it needed to be this way. No offense to your position as the Guardian of War and Destruction, but your predecessors haven't exactly been very popular with the rest of us in the past. On the other hand, things have gotten decidedly out of control since Grindelwald passed some of the power on to Voldemort. Even the Muggles are beginning to notice. There is a distinct feeling among The Guardians that we have strayed dangerously far from the path.
You mean the path we're making up as we go along? Fox asked wryly.
Yes, that one. His eyes twinkled once more.
Fox didn't want to ask the question, but she felt she should. Are you sure this isn't simply a grudge against Grindelwald?
Me? Dumbledore looked innocent as a newborn babe. I am hardly one for grudges.
Perhaps. It's just that I wonder sometimes if too many of our decisions are dictated by politics.
Politics?
Fox turned her head away slightly, feeling a bit like a schoolchild interrupting class to correct the teacher. It is not our job to pity the mortals. It is our job to direct them and guide them.
Dumbledore looked smug, as if he'd been expecting this question all along. You mean to say that in the past, it has not been our job to pity them. But shall we remain so removed from their desires? We create the history, but once it has been created, it belongs to them, after all.
Fox stood. This is dangerous talk. It was one thing when we drew back into the shadows, when we removed ourselves from mortal worship. It is quite another thing to throw up our hands and create the utopia they want. You know as well as I do that it wouldn't last, and that the damage it did to them – entirely out of kindness and pity on our parts – would undo everything they've achieved.
Dumbledore rose to join her, placing a hand on her shoulder. I couldn't have put it better myself.
Fox gave up. The wars she wrought among the mortals were nothing compared to the wars raging within every individual Guardian mind. "Benesha flogo'mbast," she whispered aloud. It never ceases.
Of course not. If it ceased, we would, too.
So where does training Harry Potter fit in?
They sat once more, getting down to business. Grindelwald transferred his power in order to preserve some part of himself, so that his protégé could continue the work he began. He gave it freely, and because he did, it cannot be taken by force. If it is to be returned, it must also be given freely.
Grindelwald's work…the destruction of the Muggle world…but Voldemort only has a small portion of Grindelwald's power. How could he possibly continue in the footsteps of a Guardian?
I don't believe Voldemort could ever actually achieve his goal, even if he killed Harry Potter and became the single bearer of Grindelwald's transference. Dumbledore looked grim. But he could certainly do a great deal of damage.
Fox nodded. So Harry Potter must defeat Voldemort.
His blue eyes twinkled once more. You know as well as I do that that is the general consensus.
But The Cardinal… Fox faltered at saying his name in front of an outsider. In all her years in his service, Fox had never called The Cardinal anything but 'sir.' It seemed too casual to refer to him in front of Dumbledore this way, as if using his name should be accompanied by some sort of gesture, like the Catholics crossing themselves.
Snapping her concentration back, Fox continued. He didn't go into the details of how Harry Potter is to transfer the power back to me.
Dumbledore rose from the sofa, walking casually over to the bookshelf he had been studying when she entered.
There is nothing quite like the relationship between a master and an apprentice. His voice in her head sounded casual, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Bound by the relationship. Like Grindelwald and Voldemort. That's why you want me to teach him. The bond is the magic.
The bond is trust, and that is the magic. You will have to earn his trust, and that isn't exactly the easiest thing to do right now.
Fox shrugged. But he's my offspring in a way. He holds a portion of the power, and I hold the majority of it. The bond already exists.
The bond exists, but it was given to him unknowingly, and it is colored by death, fear and hatred. His experience with his power has rarely been positive. The only aspect worth developing is the trust bestowed upon Voldemort by Grindelwald.
So I need to appeal to the bond of trust, Fox thought glumly. Why do I get the feeling I'm going to be spending the next few months giving him advice about girls?
Dumbledore smiled and shrugged. Whatever works. And frankly, I wouldn't be averse to the idea of him learning how to…what is the phrase? "Kick a little ass?" he asked aloud, and in English.
Fox held in her laughter. "That I can certainly teach him," she answered in kind.
Dumbledore leaned back, looking businesslike once more. The transference itself involves little more than drawing a circle and saying a few words, but it is based upon some of the most fundamental magic known to us, the sort of magic that only Guardians can truly understand for what it is.
Trust. So that's why I no longer feel as if our combined power is about to make Chernobyl look like a kitchen fire?
The best solutions are the simplest ones.
So are you entirely sure that you want the Guardian of War back to full strength? Fox asked lightly.
Merlin, yes. All of these genocidal turf wars are getting tedious. We were impressed with the job you did on the destruction of communism, however. Very little bloodshed for a Guardian in your position.
Fox shrugged. It was a toppling tower; I merely gave it few nudges. And despite what the other Guardians think, I don't generally kill the mortals just for the fun of it.
I understand the necessity of war, so long as it is a war of necessity. We do hope to see some great things from you in the future. Destruction is long overdue in many ways.
Once my resources aren't quite as limited, I assure you that you'll like the plans I have in store.
The Institute for Ancient and Irrelevant Spells, Curses and Hexes
Near Muir Woods, California
It took Vivian a surprisingly long time to pack, considering she'd just moved into her current rooms when the divorce had come through all of four months ago. She'd gotten rid of most of the things she and David had collected over the years, not just out of spite, but also because quarters for single faculty members at the Institute were basically student rooms with a kitchen. Vivian wasn't entirely sure if it was taking so long because she was getting sentimental about leaving, or because she was dragging her feet as the idea of herself headlong into the middle of a war she'd already fought before.
Everything she touched seemed to evoke happy memories of her time here and depressing ones of her old life in Britain. Her diploma from the Institute – marking her transition from Apprentice to Master – made her remember the night of graduation, when their class had taken over the Main Hall, getting blitzed and lightly singed on Dragon's Breath Cocktails before storming the Dean's chamber and following the tradition of graduates by sealing her into her own closet with as many obscure locking and binding spells as they could imagine. The rumor at the Institute was that if it took the Dean less than twenty-four hours to get out, then the entire graduating class had their degrees revoked. Her class had come close to the record; it had taken the woman exactly six days, seventeen hours and forty-two minutes to escape.
Her old Auror badge was an entirely different matter. In any other circumstances, being an Auror would have been an honor, a privilege granted only to the few who managed to make it through the grueling training and testing process. When Vivian had graduated Hogwarts at the height of the war, incoming Aurors were taught disguises and the killing curse and tossed into the fray. Cannon fodder.
Only a handful of people from her recruiting class had lived to see the end of the war and those who did had very little stomach for what surviving had entailed. As much as she disliked the thing, Vivian had never been able to throw the badge away.
War, after all, is suited to the young. Not just the physical fighting, but the immediacy of it, the knowledge that you have to do what you want to do today, because there might not be a tomorrow. It's easy to look back from a stolid, boring, workaday adult life and romanticize that feeling. Vivian didn't want to do that. She didn't want to forget what it was really like.
Well, apparently I have forgotten, because I seem to be dumb enough to go back, Vivian sighed, putting her head in her hands.
"Oh, stop it," she admonished herself, tossing the stupid badge into an open box. "Magical contract, remember? Can't go back on your word, not even if you want to." Realizing the sun was coming up and she'd been at this all night, Vivian decided to simply take everything else in the room and shrink it, screw organization. She'd sort it all out when she finally got to Hogwarts.
Stupid to get all sentimental about this place, anyway. She was free and clear of any personal attachments, she'd fulfilled her required time as a resident Master. The only thing she had a justification for getting hung up about was David, and he was – to say the least – a lost cause. Odd that she'd only been with two men in her life. The first had been a werewolf; now the second one had gone off and become a vampire.
I should really come with a disclaimer.
And of course the whole Remus thing was going to be uncomfortable. Vivian wrapped up her shrunken belongings in a kerchief and stuffed them into her pocket, shuffling off to the kitchen to brew some coffee. After all, when one's marriage goes south, where better to drown your sorrows than with Mr. Convenient And Single Ex-Lover? If the light was low and he squinted really hard, she might still resemble herself at twenty-one.
Presuming that he was standing a good distance away.
Vivian picked out some eggs from the basket for breakfast. Perhaps if I suspended myself upside-down from the ceiling, everything would hang where it used to. That thought was immediately followed by a rather nasty image of herself in that exact position, unable to see Remus because her breasts were obscuring the view.
Oh, who was she kidding anyway? She was at least fifteen pounds heavier now than she was then. Scowling, Vivian replaced the eggs and got out a tub of yogurt instead. The coffee gurgling to announce that it was finished brewing set her off again.
I'm not going to have sex with Remus! What the hell am I thinking? I don't even want to have sex with Remus, I just want to have sex with someone I don't have to give directions to. Not to mention the fact that one of his best friends just died and the whole thing with us is so over and done with even the retelling has become a clichNow at the point of snarling, Vivian threw the yogurt back into the icebox, promptly realized that she was leaving and that the yogurt wasn't coming with her, threw it into the trash and removed a handful of eggs once more with such force that one of them exploded in her hand.
Forcibly calming herself, Vivian made an omelet, adding a whole handful of cheese and feeling almost liberated. By the time she'd finished eating, cleaned up and thrown out all of the food in the place, it had reached a decent enough hour for her to say goodbye to the Dean.
The halls were empty as she walked down to the Dean's office. Most off the staff had left on summer vacation; only a few of them had stayed behind to teach and do research. But Dean Winchell was in her office, bright and early as always, and answered Vivian's knock with a far too enthusiastic, "Come in!" Enthusiasm tended to be the overriding personality characteristic of Dean Winchell. It was one of the most annoyingly popular traits among all Americans in the workplace, so far as Vivian could discern.
"I'm just getting ready to leave, and I wanted to say goodbye and thanks," Vivian explained, hoping to avoid a long conversation.
"Oh, Professor Lynes, we'll miss you a great deal. I hope you know how much we've enjoyed having you here at the Institute," the Dean intoned sadly.
Faced with emotion she wasn't sure was sincere, Vivian could literally feel herself becoming more British. "Oh, ahem, yes, of course. I'll miss you all, too, I'm sure," she answered uncomfortably, willing the Dean not to hug her or do anything embarrassing.
Instead, the woman clucked and shook her head of gray curls. "I just want you to know that we wish you the best."
"Thank you, ma'am." There was a long pause. Vivian coughed. "Well, I'll be going then…" She backed out of the office slowly, trying to look forlorn. When she finally made it back to her own rooms, she let out a sigh of relief. The morning sun was rising over the ancient redwood forest and she allowed herself one last good look before taking some floo power out of the jar on the mantle, picking up her belongings and stepping into the fireplace.
"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London!" she cried, throwing down the powder.
Sorry for any confusion about the posting style and the summary. Unlike the story, the summary just gets written on the fly, without editing. So you can imagine what reading this would be like if it weren't for the betas, who I should probably send flowers to at this point.