Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except plotlines, clans and their members, and Grey Tower along with any characters that you don't recognize.
Elemental Prophecies
Chapter Four: Paradise Lost
"Accuse not nature, she hath done her part;
Do thou but thine, and be not diffident
Of wisdom, she deserts thee not, if thou
Dismiss not her, when most thou needest her nigh,
By attributing overmuch to things
Less excellent, as thou thyself perceivest."
-John Milton, Paradise Lost
It expanded and contracted, sped up and slowed, broke and reformed millions of times in a matter of mere moments. It was a symphony of magic, weaved with a persevering intent and patience, the tapestry of purpose gradually coming into creation, becoming into being. Such was the power given to those who dwell on earthly planes, a bequest that hid the possibility of a deadly curse, the tool of the apex of the mind and the ultimate implement for the descent into madness. They accuse the goddess Pandora, the light of hope borne of the deepest darkness and the mysterious night, of bringing about the plagues of the world, releasing them from a box given to her by those who were created from the Almighty. While it was her responsibility to guard the seal, can one condemn the foolish curiosity ingrained within the psyche of all living things?
History is never exactly told as it happened. How can it be, when there are people involved? Mortals, particularly humans, are fickle things, which never cease to change during the passage. That rule, known as Althelion's Razor: No matter what, everything changes, and that rule will never change. For in every tale that is told, one must put a bit of themselves into the story, or else what else is it? It would merely be a flat imitation of a one-sided conversation and a conversation was meant for much more than just one. No there is much more than that. Opinions and judgments, subtle changes that the teller prefers over the actual truth, a piece of their sense of self – these are a few of the things that are inserted into the tangled web of history, which is no more than a long story that mortals themselves act out in their everyday lives that, like all stories, will eventually come to an end.
So did Pandora open the box? As much as it seems that she would, she did not. It was true that she was a flighty goddess that was easily tricked, something that her older brother Moros (the embodiment of cunning) never fails to demonstrate, but even those who lack gravity of mind can realize a great importance when they see it. In a time when men prevailed in society, the mistake of a woman causing the plights of man seemed logical and fitting. There was no mention of her thickheaded husband who was not meant to be her spouse calling her outside to tend to some minor problem, allowing for a malicious thief to infiltrate their luxurious home. It was the thief – a petty one who only desired only the shine of silver and gold – who opened that chest for the wealth he thought he would find, instead releasing the afflictions upon humanity. As such, Pandora was named the scapegoat. Never a mention of the thief, not a word about the husband calling her outside, and Prometheus – the Titan who brought the flame to man, who Pandora left the recesses of the dark realms for – was still chained to the mountains for his charity, his liver eaten by an eagle everyday, as the organ grew back every night. It was all that Pandora could do to try to amend things, releasing her magic, bringing hope to humanity and encouraging them to survive and live on.
History was like this. Truth was overrated.
Ron Weasley stood outside in the eastern courtyard, carefully standing out of view behind a group of thickly needled pine trees, the ground beneath his feet becoming hard with cold. His breath froze as it met the air as he blew on his hands to warm them and with his ruddy face could have given the impression that he was smoking or he just ate some particularly hot Pepper Imps. Other than his robes and uniform, he had nothing else, which he was beginning to regret. It was a cold day for October and he was freezing. And he wished to high heaven that he had listened to Hermione when he said he was going out for a walk to take his cloak.
Unfortunately, he would have to live with it. He was already out here and it would be past curfew if he went to Gryffindor Tower and back. And he didn't have the status to be out after the designated time. Sure, he had in the beginning of the year. McGonagall had come to him with the Prefect badge, asking him to shoulder the responsibility. Hermione had already gotten hers during the summer, so he knew that he wasn't meant to have the title. Harry was, but because he was not there – still missing and hopefully, still alive – he was the next choice. In the past, he would have been insulted at this, indignant that he was still the second one looked at. But this was different. He couldn't take it. He didn't deserve it and it wasn't meant for him. Therefore, it was turned down, despite the fact that Seamus did his job horribly. Instead, he did the only thing he could do: manage the Quidditch team. He felt that it was the least he could do. But it was hard, with almost the entire team leaving the next year. But he was trying.
He reached into his pocket, taking out a small pouch attached to his slacks by a strong chain. Pulling the clasps and string, he pulled out the crystal-like orb that contained the item he was now sworn to protect: the Feather of Death-Shadowed Wings. Professor Majere had mentioned nothing of it afterward, ignoring him in favor of the grueling work that had become part of the bane of his existence. Though, now that he thought about it, the strange professor was acting…strangely as of late, slightly distracted and…aggravated. Something must have happened that he did not know about.
Maybe it was the strange music. Hermione obviously hadn't heard it, or else she would have commented. He knew he wasn't the only one who had heard it; Professor Lupin had admitted that Sirius started raving about hearing a violin song when he himself hadn't heard a thing. Had Majere heard it, too? And what was it exactly? It was a weird melody that sent pleasant chills down his spine; a tune that he felt was older than himself or even the castle. There was a magic in it, but he couldn't quite place it or why it was slightly familiar. It had him stumped.
He shouldn't be worrying. Majere was just plain strange, for why would he have that strange wand? Or mutter those three names when looking at a book (the language he spied on the spine looked nothing like any language he had ever seen)? Those strange names…Solinari, Lunitari, and Nuitari. What French that Hermione had brought from her third year faded from his memory, but he could assume the first had to do with the sun or white light, the second with the moon. But what was the third?
But then again, when wasn't he about the mysteries that seemed to become part of his life? Though it all seemed to lead to one thing: Harry Potter. He just couldn't for the life of him figure out how the threads connected. And he couldn't ask Hermione. She was under enough stress as it was.
Whatever was going on, the Feather was reacting to something. It was emitting some kind of strange energy. It wasn't a bad one, at least that what he guessed. On the contrary, he surmised that it was more of a protective kind of magic. But why was it acting up this way. In the little more than a month since he had been given the item, it had never done this. And it practically burned a hole in his slacks when that song was played, though it quickly fell back to just a warm temperature. He was still concerned though.
Which was why, to his better judgment (and against his self-esteem), he was going to contact the only person he could actually discuss the item with. And, personally, he did not want to be near that said person/spirit/whatever.
"I thought we talked about this already," the terse and tough voice of Boudicca sounded in his head, the sourness evident in every single word the ancient Iceni queen uttered. "We weren't going to talk during the day since you haven't quite mastered answering back without talking aloud!"
It took a lot of self-control just not to insult her back. And he was making an attempt! But it's sort of hard to learn how to do that when you're distracted with a plethora of other things to attend to!
"I know," he muttered. "But I need to ask you something!"
"It had better be important!"
He rolled his eyes. Why couldn't he have been aligned with one of the others? They seemed much nicer…and more easy-going. "It is. The Feather is reacting to something. I don't know what though." Silence. Pure, complete silence answered him back. For a moment, he was pleased that he managed to shock Boudicca into shutting up. But then it occurred to him that it might not be a good thing if he wasn't answered quickly. "Hello?"
"Be on your guard and keep your sword with you all the time," was the tight reply. "Don't go anywhere without having it by your side, like those troublesome wands you wizards carry."
"Why? Do you know what's causing it?"
"It maybe a good thing, maybe a bad. Whatever you do, keep that item by you and give it to no one. There are certain…individuals…that can cause a reaction. But there are good ones and bad ones now, according to what I know of the lore. It's better to not hand it over at all than potentially give it to the enemy." A pause. "You know what this means, right boy?"
"No," he asked, perplexed. "What?"
"WORK ON YOUR SWORDSMANSHIP!" she yelled back, her voice ringing in his head (and ears). The response was so loud – and unexpected – that he yelled out in surprise and covered his ears. "AND USE WHAT I TAUGHT YOU FOR ONCE, NOT SWING IT AROUND LIKE IT'S SOME OVERSIZED CLUB! HUMAN BEINGS HAVE MOVED PAST THE STONE AGE LONG AGO, SO STOP ACTING LIKE A NEANDERTHAL!"
"I'm trying! And what's a neander-whatsits?!"
The corridor was empty of all individuals save for the four currently walking down it. The hallway was strange, outlandish, particularly to those who were born and raised on Earth. But to those who possessed memories of long ago, the décor was strikingly nostalgic. The walls of the passage were made out of a white metal, unknown to the Earth, smooth and stronger than steel. Thick glass, green colored and covered in golden symbols, made up the floor. The overhead lights were soft, not glaring and bright, just the right amount of shadowy dimness. Outside the window to the side hung the Earth, its northern polar ice cap stark against the blue of the ocean and the darkness of space. An aurora, blazing blue-green, seemed to cling to the sky like a hair ribbon flying in the breeze.
Each footstep making a rhythmical ringing, echoing on the glass, four individuals walked down this hallway. One strode confidently in front, while the other three stayed a step behind out of respect of rank. The one in front was Mathias Clarimorir, famous for founding and running the Trinity Organization. But to those that could see beyond that mortal façade, they would know that they were dealing with something far more dangerous than a mere young man. No, behind that smile and those cool hazel eyes was a soul older than most of the current citizens of the universe, a soul that was powerful and ancient.
The Trinity Organization was just a front. Most of those that worked for the company knew that, from the lowest assembly line worker to the upper echelons of the hierarchy. And they accepted it. Why not? A person working at Trinity was respected and paid well no matter how menial their responsibility. It was a dream for the common man: a chance to work with both the lowest of the low and the most intelligent of the intellectuals. Money was no object; you were insured adequate housing and education for your children, excellent options and insurance, as well as other perks. If you were in need of anymore training or if you were suffering a problem, Trinity would take care of it. But those in charge of the branches of Trinity had strange ways of choosing their employees. Why else would a wealthy valedictorian from Yale be passed up for an important position within the company for a bum off the street that just asked the branch president for a quarter?
It was simple, really. Those branch presidents weren't ordinary people. They were either awakened Harbingers or highly skilled magic users, usually those gifted with Chaos power. And these were people that could see that the valedictorian would not love what they were doing, while that bum – after some initial training – would come to enjoy going to work each day. Skill, though valued, was not what mattered. It was a deeper quality that bound together those of Trinity – a love of knowledge, a respect for life, and a will for balance in the world.
The Trinity Organization was just a façade for the revival of Nemesis, the ancient order that made up primarily of Harbingers and founded by the Dark Sovereign to ensure the balance of the universe and its peoples. And as it was countless ages ago, its former commander was once more in power. And though documentation claimed the head branch of Trinity offices was in New York City, it was not true – though Mathias Clarimorir claimed it was. Empire City, floating high above the Earth's sphere, was the true center of activity. And it was the ambition of every Trinity worker to have the opportunity to work there, or at least catch a glimpse of space fortress.
But if you were Mathias Clarimorir, Darius reborn, it was not only your base of operations, but also home.
Behind him were three of his former closest advisors. There had been quite a number of them before the Verdict, which sealed them, but now he was left with the few loyal. The previous chain of command had to be changed and adapted to suit the new conditions. His second-in-commands had deserted him. Adirenne flew off as the strangling remainders of the Harbingers were making their way to receive their verdict. He could remember her proud face contorted with wrathful pride, screaming that they had the right to rebel, and flying into the deepest parts of space with those that concurred following closely behind. Nephilus showed his true colors during the actual Verdict, in which he took off, scared of the Almighty's rage. He also lost three out of the Great Seven Generals, those Harbingers that lead the Seven Fleets to maintain balance throughout the cosmos. They too fled from their punishment.
In the new Nemesis, if all went well, there would be only four – new and better – fleets. These were still under construction and in the initial planning. And there was also the fact that new ideas and technology – as well as considerable time for thinking on the project – allowed for this progression from the old to the new. It was being accomplished quickly considering that only three of the four generals were present.
One was Miranda Blackthorne, the auburn-haired girl with the tendency to smile and laugh. Which was funny, considering the first time they had met was when he had broken up with one of her best friends and she confronted him about it. She was screaming at him senseless, while he was rubbing the cheek that she had slapped gingerly, his mind reeling at the fact that she was in front of him, she had the nerve to slap him, and he was completely justified in dumping Veronica if she liked the popcorn-guy at the movie theatre more than she liked him. It took a full three days for her to awaken, in which she apologized profusely…though she treated him to seeing that old movie Animal House despite his protests. Either way, he turned down the offer of popcorn. Such was the reincarnated Megami, the Midnight Harbinger, she who was called the 'Sage of Evening'. He sort of viewed her like the little sister he wished he had (not the snooty one he had in reality). She was the General of the Medea Fleet.
Beside her, light blue eyes intense and his face as unemotional as ever, was Hiroshi Takashi. They had met under…unusual circumstances. In fact, the young man had hijacked his limousine when he had been on his way to tour the Tokyo branch of Trinity. Apparently, he wanted 10.5 million dollars from Trinity in exchange for the life of Mathias Clarimorir. That's when everything went crazy – other people wanting their hands on one of the richest men in the world. The situation was reversed, Hiroshi ended up protecting him (not that it was really necessary). He played along and ended up being dropped off at a Hong Kong airport, unharmed and the only money losses amounting to about fifty dollars. A week later, Miranda showed up with 'Hiro' at her heels. He was the reincarnated Hiroshi (the fact that he ended up with the same name amused Miranda to no end), the Star Harbinger, also called the Veil's Slayer because he could easily pass through the imperfect portals to other realms that were scattered about. The Assassin Fleet was under his command.
As for the last…Darius smirked a bit at the memory. On the other side of Miranda was a tall imposing dark-skinned girl with black hair pulled back in many braids. Keisha Jennings was Los Angeles born and bred, though infamous around her neighborhood for being temperamental and violent. Thus, when he was having lunch in Beverly Hills, the maitre'd of the restaurant ended up with a black eye, a badly bruised stomach, and flying into a large and extravagant wedding cake meant for the group in the adjoining reception hall. Of course, when she confronted him saying that she was back and ready to 'kick some ass again', he was understandably confused. When she claimed that she was one of the Generals, he had considerable doubt. He said as such and nearly got knifed in the process, curses flung at him like missiles. It took a bit of time to accept (really, it did), but it was true. Falcifer, the Twilight Harbinger, the 'Dusk Blade' because of his abilities with knives, had been reincarnated as a girl. Thus, she was the General of the Crystales Fleet.
The other general, the one that was missing, went by the name of Nuitari. But that Harbinger had his own responsibilities to deal with, according to the Universe, and they were not to interfere in them…at least, not yet anyway. However, when he rejoined their ranks, his fleet would be ready and waiting.
The group reached the end of the hall, where a decorated door slid open, the two halves sliding into the wall with a small rush of air. Self-assured, he walked into the room, the three behind him following him.
Workers rushed to and fro around various terminals and stations. There were a number of humans here from Earth; they lived in the residential part of the station. It wasn't called Empire City for nothing. But there were others among them – from different planets and alien races. It was essential to establish ties between the planets and systems again, like they had before in the old Golden Age. For the moment, the concentration was in uniting the Milky Way-Andromeda galaxies first, before venturing outward once more. The shared technology and knowledge was astounding. According to a report from the Empire Medical team – composed of the best doctors and healers in both galaxies – projects to cure such dangerous diseases were progressing at a rapid pace as well as new kinds of treatment and theories.
And the computer programmers were having a ball. Especially the ones that were obsessed with aliens to begin with.
This was the nerve center of Empire City, the main control room. It was here that all areas of the Universe were being watched for any news or activity. Space rebellions, trade routes, space piracy, Maleficus activity, meteor clouds, anything and everything was reported here. Bypassing a few workers (the employees exchanged a few greetings, before going back to work), he led the others up to the top most seat. This was his station, where he would oversee all command and aspects of the new Nemesis.
"You called us here for what?" Megami asked. "All you've been telling me is to come – which I resent, by the way – and that you need to show us something." He repressed a laugh. He knew she hated when she wasn't let in on something.
Already anticipating Falcifer's impatience (when wasn't he…she. When wasn't she impatient? He had to get used to that), he was happy that he ordered that she bring no weaponry. "Yeah, what did you call us for? We've got a lead on some Maleficus in the Amazon region."
Hiroshi nodded silently. "Probably looking for a Judgment relic." He scowled. "It better not be mine. Those are the only things that can return us to our true forms."
"It's not about that," Darius interrupted. The search for the Relics of Judgment was already one of his top priorities. He wasn't ashamed to admit that his primary reason for finding them was to regain his wings and to fly again. If he were a betting man, he'd put all his money that all those awakened Harbingers that he had agreed with him. But for the moment, finding those that were unawakened and bringing them here to safety was essential. Preferably while they were still in a form. When the soul was separated, it was much harder to awake the Harbinger aspect as the mortal one complicated things. Maleficus were hunting them down and that wasn't something to be taken lightly.
It was unfortunate that they stuck out like crows among tropical birds. If one had the ability, they could immediately see a Harbinger. They would have black and gold mixed in with their regular aura. And if their soul were separated, unlike those of normal mortals, it would take the form of a golden star-like crystal. And Darius needed as many of his old friends back as possible, with or without the Relics of Judgment.
"We have a new weapon," he explained, noting the slight smirk beginning to grace Hiroshi's face. "Yes, you may recognize it. Do you remember the old Project Silver Feather?" They nodded to show that they did, thankfully staying silent for him to continue. "The plan was to have a sort of powerful weapon that could attack from both long-range and short-range distances with incredible accuracy as a solution if the problem was too far away for any one of the Fleets to deal with. We planned this weapon for Castle in the Sky." He sighed sadly, remembering the work on that base. They couldn't use it anymore now. "But now…"
"You've managed to create the weapon we planned," Megami interrupted breathlessly.
He pushed a button on the console, a translucent window popping up in front of them. It blinked for a moment before focusing. The label on the bottom read, Camera #001.
It showed a large room that was located at the topmost part of the sprawling Empire City. Workers were bustling to and fro, making adjustments, English and other languages mixing into one large mass of dialects. The main focus of the camera was giant, a silver contraption that dwarfed most skyscrapers. It was sleek and smooth, designed like that of a crossbow, two arms extending outward for better balance and aim. Where the arrow's shaft would be placed in a normal crossbow, there was a large clear tube that seemed to have different energies running through it, cackling and cracking as they reacted with each other.
"Generals," he proclaimed, "I give you the Meteor Storm Cannon."
Falcifer whistled in admiration while Megami gave him a large hug, spewing various accolades as she did so. Hiroshi took one look and smiled, which was an amazing thing for the usually stoic Harbinger. "Excellent," he claimed. "It's about time we got a large gun capable of mass amounts of destruction and chaos." There was a short pause before he asked, "Can I have one?"
It had taken an entire night and a half to convince the other leaders that she needed to go get her son back from the wizards that had kidnapped him. Under normal circumstances, there would be no question about it and certainly they wouldn't doubt her capacity as a leader. But this case was different. There was the fact that it was her son to begin with that was kidnapped, so her emotional attachment had to be considered. And then there was the primary reason as to why the other leaders had wavered. Night was found to originally be a wizard when he was treated at Grey Tower Sanctuary Hospital. For all they knew, Night could have other family and friends that were desperately searching for him. However, Night had been legally adopted by Zylle and was a member of a clan now, its future leader.
It had become a large debate of protecting those elementals that belonged to the clan against the right of the wizards to protect those wizards that had belonged to their society. Unprecedented in the history of Grey Tower, she had to make a firm case against letting the wizards take him back. It didn't matter if the wizards decided that they were in the right or taking in the light of the already tense relations between the two groups. Not to her.
In the end, she had Dr. Anastasius Diamante of the Kiri-Kaminari to thank for her victory. Annie had treated Night when she brought him in to the hospital, taking primary responsibility for his recovery. He argued that the boy had suffered severe physical abuse, gave examples of the various injuries and mistreatment, as well as the fact that Night had been comatose for three full days. There was even the possibility that Night didn't remember because he didn't want to, as a result of his trauma. Under her care, Annie claimed, Night had progressed rapidly, becoming emotionally and mentally healthy as well as recovering from his physical maladies. Should they send a child back to the nightmare they had rescued him from?
Thus, the leaders came to an agreement. A special task force of about twenty or so elementals (a few from each clan), led by Zylle herself, would go to rescue Night. That number would be enough so that if they had to fight, there was plenty of power, but it wasn't an army. The place most likely that Night had been taken was the wizarding school to the north. At this announcement, arrangements were made faster than ever. Every elemental knew of the reputation of that place. And if those that were just relatives of elementals, that carried the legacy but could not use it, underwent such torture; imagine what a full-fledged elemental would be going through? Nothing more than madness that was what!
Thus they were going to this…Hogwarts. Considering there was such a large group and they needed to get there quickly, they were going to travel by whirlwind. They would not go in one attempt, but several small jumps. About three should take them about fifteen miles outside the village of the wizards, where they would be close enough to the school without their magic going berserk. Even in the village, though they could use their powers, it would hurt them a bit. The person that was hopefully going to provide the most diplomacy here would by the Eikou-Taiyou leader, Holly McGonagall-Dorran. She had a witch sister that worked at the school, one that didn't know she was an elemental, but most likely would understand. It was this connection that Zylle was hoping for the most. A battle with the wizards was not something she wanted at the moment. It was the fate of a clan leader: politics and the clan's well-being.
And to tell the truth, Zylle was suspecting that these wizards that were keeping her son captive were allied with the said scum of the elementals. Why else would Phantom elementals be so close every time they jumped, attacking with the wizards? Was it anticipated? They had teamed up, the wizards hiding behind white masks and black cloaks. They shot their spells at them; the Phantoms just standing back like hungry vultures in sight of their prey.
But they were elementals. And elementals didn't go down easy. And when you have a force like nature behind you, then you're a person to be reckoned with. Possibly it had to do with what the Phantoms said about them. In a strange twist of irony, they claimed that Shining elementals were weak because they did not use Phantom crystals.
Yeah. Right.
Zylle moved easily through the trees that were pervaded the landscape, dodging curses to and fro, steadily getting closer to where the wizards were grouped together in a clearing. All around her, she could hear the others doing the same. Jumping into the air, she landed on a strong tree branch before making her way forward again. It was a known fact of wizards that any spell that had green light should be avoided at all costs. Sure, it could be harmless one for all they knew about such spells with wands, but it was better not to take a chance. Finally close enough, she summoned two wind swords and struck at the nearest wizard.
One of her swords sliced clean through the wand, the reaction between its magic and that of her own causing it to explode into pieces. Taking advantage of it, she sliced the wizard across the chest, causing him to fall back gasping, grabbing the front of his robes. Then, Zylle spun around and executed a forceful high kick to the neck of another wizard that tried attack her from behind. The others were joining her. She ducked as one of them shot a green spell at her, screaming frantically in a manic rage, "AVADA KEDAVRA!" It passed harmlessly over her head, striking a tree. That man was soon struck down but the bullet of a gun.
Though she was there for diplomatic reasons, there was no denying that Holly McGonagall-Dorran was deadly when given her favorite weapon: the gun.
Her eyes widened as she felt the energy around them pulsate. She used her wind magic to increase her speed, narrowly avoiding the geyser of lava that erupted into the air. Lifting her blades up, a shield formed around her protecting her from the spewing flame as well as from water attacks from the side. Pulling down the shield and moving as quickly as the wind itself, she took on the four Phantom elementals nearest to her. The first two were easy enough to take down with simple slashes and kicks. But the other two were a different matter.
She parried an attack from one's water axe when the other struck at her back with a short sword. Unable to do anything for the moment, she sent back a gust of wind behind her to repel the attacker. As the breezes flew back, they stung the new wound on her back. She felt a liquid feeling on the skin – blood. But nothing to worry about at the moment. It was most likely a shallow wound that just bled a lot, but wasn't that serious. And her life was much more important.
Fueling her attack with her anger, she threw off the first man's assault, dispelling the wind sword in her right hand as she did so. Then, as the burly Phantom elemental staggered back, she landed in a hard punch to the man's gut. Concentrating, she gave him the shock of his life: the equivalent of being hit with lightning. He fell to the ground quickly. Whirling around, she flung the wind sword in her left hand at the tree behind her. As it spun through the air at tremendous speed, she could hear the high-pitched wail of the wind.
It didn't hit the tree, but it hit its target.
The air shimmered for a moment, before it solidified into the second attacker. The blade had caught him deep in the chest. He wouldn't die, but he'd be in a lot of pain. With a wave of her hand, the sword imbedded in the Phantom vanished and he collapsed onto the drying grass with a light thump. Looking on with impassive eyes, she felt something jump onto her shoulder. The feral purring that soon vibrated through her body told her immediately that it was Shadow, probably waiting until the obstacles were out of the way before leading them again.
Whoever was doing this – manipulating the lives of her clan and her family – they were going to pay. Big time.
"Okay, Potter, let's try this again."
"First of all, it's Nuitari. Hawking, if you prefer to use my surname. And second, why don't you just give up already?"
"I don't care if you're the stinking Poobah of Wallapallooza. Just answer my questions!"
"I don't care that you don't care! I won't answer your questions and I doubt that if there is such a place as Wallapallooza, there would be a Poobah running things."
"Just shut up and respond!"
"I can't shut up and respond at the same time, respected professor."
This was the basic theme of what had been going on for about the past several hours: a conversation filled to the brim with argument, tension, and witty repartee. Night was seated at the desk in his affluent prison, leaning into the burgundy leather with his clenched fingers digging into its smooth surface in an attempt to quell his headache as well as from attacking the person interrogating him. His whole body was stiff with stress and repressed rage, green eyes narrowed in warning behind his silver rimmed glasses. In defiance of what the wizards seemed to want, he continued to wear the old green and silver scarf that Tom had given him. At the moment, it was wrapped around his neck casually. His Grey Tower uniform was packed away neatly in his backpack. He was going to make his move soon. In this place of robes, the outfit stuck out like a sore thumb. Instead, he settled for some of the clothing the wizards themselves had given him, though he had dispelled any charms that were present before donning them. For the most part, he looked decidedly muggle and ordinary: plain white trainers, dark blue jeans, black turtleneck, and an open forest green dress shirt over that. The mirror that served as his means to contact Tom hung from its silver chain, the silver dragon emblem looking out of place in the predominantly crimson and gold room.
But if there was one thing other than the fact that he was being utterly difficult that was pissing off one Professor Severus Snape, it was definitely the scarf. There was a brief exchange over this before – something about 'Potter' being the epitome of a non-Slytherin and stupidity. It probably didn't help when he added in, for the first of many times in this interrogation, that he was not Harry Potter.
Slytherin. Tom had told him about Hogwarts a bit, but not much. Though he couldn't blame the older man. If he had been put through the same experiences as Tom had in this place, he wouldn't want to talk about it either. For the most part, he knew that those who belonged to that group had to be dealt with carefully. Slytherin housed the cunning and the crafty, the place where you had to consider everything. Though there were ways to get around that…Tom himself said that he managed to gain most of Slytherin loyalty even before the demon took complete control. If you had a dream and there was something to be gained from it, there was promise. The only weakness he had heard in this 'admirable' house where morals were secondary and the means did not meet the ends was the topic of family and blood.
And here he was thoroughly incensing the Head of said house.
Was he feeling some feeling of accomplishment and pride at this fact? Of course, he was. But after awhile of being thrown question after question by this persistent greasy-haired man, he inclined to relinquish the pleasure of the situation in favor of annoyance. It had been three hours since this had begun and despite all signs of that cooperation was something that was too much to ask of the kidnapped elemental, the man still persevered. In a way, he was reminded a bit of Professor Coulter and how she inflicted a grilling worthy of the Spanish Inquisition when a lab assignment or homework paper had not been given in. But there were key differences.
One, Professor Coulter had class. A great deal of it.
Two, she liked him.
And Professor Severus Snape of Hogwarts clearly did not possess any class nor did he like him one bit. So, Night felt that he had the right to be difficult. And there was no denying that when he put his mind to it, he was good at it.
Severus Snape seemed to concur with that. The poor excuse of an educator (in his opinion, as apparently that weird headmaster was not 'all there', to put it mildly) was standing against the door, glaring at him down at him as if he were a piece of filth. The feeling was more or less mutual; Night would like nothing better than to break that hooked nose of his.
"You are Potter," the professor growled, infuriated. "It's a established fact now! And if proven magical identification doesn't confirm it, then your impudence and overall lack of reverence to anything important or of authority does! You were like this as a student and now you're worse as some arrogant so-called elemental!"
"I hate facts," Night began. Let's see how 'educated' this guy is. If there was one thing that Mr. Weatherby revered above everything in his history class, it was the memorization of quotes. According to him, while history was a genuine account of humanity and the world around them, there was nothing that truly helped understand a figure from either historical or literary sources than a quote. Of course, it was tedious as hell to actually keep all of them in line with who said them. "I always say the chief end of man is to form general propositions -- adding that no general proposition is worth a damn. (1)" Night settled for a smug look, noting the shocked, then calculating look that passed over his verbal opponent's face.
For a moment, there was quiet. Just when Night was beginning to think that he had finally unnerved the man, said annoyance replied. "Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored. (2)"
"I believe in general of the dualism between facts and the ideas of those facts in human heads, (3) " Night countered. "Henceforth, there are no facts, only interpretations. (4)"
"Nothing in the world is more frightful than ignorance in action, (5)" Snape snapped back. At his sides, Night noticed the professor's hands clenching and unclenching in anger, as if they longed to just grab his wand and curse him to oblivion. But that wasn't going to happen. He needed him to answer his questions, after all.
But he did have to admit that it was a clever comeback. He imperceptibly winced. Good one. "Never attribute to malice that which could adequately be explained by stupidity. (6)" Just for kicks, he added. "Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence. (7)"
It hit home. Oh, did it hit home!
"The world needs anger," was his reply when the older man finally regained some semblance of composure. "The world often continues to allow evil because it isn't angry enough. (8)"
He was surprised. For a moment, he thought he had one. "How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it? (9)" Silence. Maybe it was just harder for wizards to come up with good quotes from history, particularly muggle sources. It wasn't as if they were recorded – or as deep – as muggle ones were. "Silence is one of the hardest arguments to refute, (10)" Night prompted, trying to elicit some kind of response.
His response? It was, "You will tell me, Potter. Sooner or later, you will." That and the door slammed as the professor exited the room in a huff. The familiar clicking of locks followed after.
Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen. If all things when to plan, then he would be far away from here by tomorrow evening.
Zilch, zip, zero, nope, nada, nil, nix, nothing! What do these people want from me?!
He resisted the urge to just tear the sheets of parchments into tiny pieces out of frustration. Groaning in his aggravation, Night threw his hands up in the air and collapsed backwards onto the pillows of the bed. As he did so, other leaves of paper fluttered into the air, disturbed by his sudden movement, to fall slowly to the ground again. The red coverlet was littered with parchment, books, clothing, and other various paraphernalia, arranged in a slightly organized circle around him. A battered old trunk stood open, revealing what few contents were left inside of it, most of which consisted of a couple of smelly old socks that he would not even touch.
All this, including the socks (unfortunately), was supposedly his.
And he wanted no part of it. But it wasn't as if his opinion mattered much here anyway. The way they treated him was like that of a naïve and fragile child! They explained nothing to him as well as fully expected that he accept their decisions and conclusions without question!
It wasn't something he was used to…as far as back as his memories went anyway. Back home – at Grey Tower, his mind replied stubbornly – he was never treated like this. He was always given a chance to make a decision and add his own input. Certainly, his mother had put her foot down a number of times, but she never failed to explain to him why she had done it nor had she stopped him from saying what he thought. For most of the time, she had only his good interests at heart. This people claimed the same thing; but how could he know that, when he was given nothing to elucidate exactly why it was for his benefit. All they had done was lock him away, expecting him to take it lightly.
Mum…Now there was a person he was missing the most. When he had a lot on his mind, like now, he would go to her to just…vent. Even if she didn't completely understand – like why exactly it was important to learn algebra or that he couldn't get some cute girl he met in the hallway to notice him (that brief period of infatuation didn't last long…like she and Gran predicted it wouldn't) – he would go to her. Around now, she would probably be in her study, typing away at her computer, while Gran tried to distract her through various means extending to book readings to brownies. She would be smiling knowingly at him, probably pushing some of her black hair out of her face when it got loose from whatever style she had put it in. How many days has it been? Five? She was most definitely on her way by now. It was just a feeling that he had, instinctual. It was a fact and there was nothing that could convince him otherwise. He was surer that she was on her way than the wizards were that he was this Harry Potter. No, he knew for sure that she was coming for him. Was she delayed in some way? What if she was hurt? No, that wasn't possible. His mother was Zylle Hawking, Black Dragon of the Arashi-Tenku Dragons. He knew that she wouldn't give him up. Not without a fight and a whole lot of hell.
Besides, he wanted out of here as fast as possible. The headache was getting worse everyday, though it seemed to lessen when he played his violin. But he didn't want a temporary remedy, but a permanent one. The remedy that he had in mind constituted of being as far away from this cursed establishment as possible.
Whoever this Harry Potter was, he was one very complacent person. So much so, that it almost made him sick. How could this kid just take this sitting down? This was manipulation! Didn't this boy, who evidently looked quite a bit like himself, stand up against these people and said what he wanted in life? Had he no pride or self-possession? How could he let his life be run by everyone else?! The mere thought of the presumption made him want to destroy this prison until it wasn't even recognizable as a castle, just dust in the wind! If there was one thing that an elemental was taught, it was that confidence in one's self was essential not only to survive in the cruel world but also to show respect to the elements, that you were truly deserving of channeling that power.
It was disgusting how these people were taking such blatant advantage of someone.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed 4 o'clock. Packing the things away in that trunk – which he kicked for good measure, he gathered everything that was truly his and stashed them in his backpack. Definitely wanting to blend in, he managed to snitch one of the school uniforms when he was exiting the Hospital Wing after that busybody nurse was distracted for a moment. It was easy to sneak them out, hidden with another pile of clothes that they had given him – all of them, including the uniform, stinking of wizarding magic. They had belonged to some person (named Mal-something) who had been cursed by some hothead named Weasley and some girl named Granger, apparently for insulting their friend, whoever he was. They didn't see him as he left, the Headmaster throwing some kind of silvery cloak over him and silencing him with a charm. Said cloak, which did something to make him unnoticeable to the others in the room, also helped him in the theft. The clothes – consisting of a pair of black slacks, white shirt, tie, sweatervest and black robes – were thankfully sort of close to his size, just a couple of shades larger and the slacks a bit too long (he hated being short). The badge on the robes proclaimed him Slytherin.
Ironic.
But, seeing how wizards seemed to not notice a lot of things when they should, he was hoping they wouldn't notice that at first. Hopefully, when he had the chance, he could use a good disguise charm to further the ruse. But for the moment, he'd have to be himself.
Steeling himself for the inevitable pain, he concentrated his elemental magic, this time not of wind but of fire. Already, he could feel the air around him grow warm and heated. The same twisting feeling was happening again, but he tried to will the pain away to do this. As he felt that invisible knife cut his cheek, the fire engulfed the mahogany wardrobe in the corner (as a courtesy, which he personally felt they didn't deserve but his mother would probably demand, he removed all items from it before hand). The castle seemed to think better of trying to hack him into pieces like before, instead spreading the fire more quickly for him.
Perfect…
"HELP! FIRE! GET ME OUT OF HERE!"
As expected, two men in blue robes (Aurors, he guessed correctly) came rushing into the room. Watching the fire in horror, they immediately began casting water spells to put it out. It didn't take long for the small blaze to be extinguished. Sharing a look that clearly meant that they had to see Dumbledore, they both turned to look for the room's prisoner.
Nuitari Hawking (or Harry Potter) was not there. The room was empty. Both as one rushed to the door, the only exit, pulling and trying on the door handle to no avail. It was locked. The two men were locked in the prison with no way out. And the hostage had escaped.
"I don't know what to do!"
"Calm down, Sirius."
"How can I calm down when my godson is like a complete stranger to me?! You don't see the way he looks at me, as if I were some lowlife criminal that should go rot in hell! It's like when he thought I killed his parents!"
It was becoming an regrettable habit of Sirius Black to wear a hole through the carpet of the Headmaster's office by pacing away, ranting his thoughts. As on many occasions, the cause of this pertained to that of a specific young man with messy black hair and green eyes. The younger man strode to and fro across the room with almost frightening rapidity, his face lined with stress, sorrow, and utter confusion. Sirius' eyes drifted briefly to the blackened portion of the wall, where the portrait of Godric Gryffindor's wife, Phillandra Pheta, once hung. It was still a mystery as to how it burned, erupting in black flame, to one Albus Dumbledore. But it was a mere painting – and human beings for the moment were the priority of the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
It was certainly a disconcerting matter, though. They had back Harry…in the physical sense. But what exactly had those elementals done to him? Poppy claimed that the amnesia was largely magical in nature, though part of it was natural from the trauma Harry experienced prior to his disappearance. Though no matter how many spells they performed or potions they gave him, his memories still were trapped behind a proverbial wall. He had his theories, of course. Elemental magic and wizarding magic, when faced off against each other, seemed to repel each other. His old professors taught that magic of any kind was malleable – so surely a fusion of wizarding and elemental magic was possible? It had to be. Or else how could Harry be both? Well, it was a supposition. But that would go under the impression that Harry retained his knowledge of wizarding magic and as of yet, Harry hadn't showed even an ounce of it yet.
Then there was also the possibility that Harry was suppressing the past himself. The child had experienced a lot. It would be understandable that he would try to forget everything and be…normal, without the weight of the world on his shoulders. And it appeared that the elementals had offered that chance to him, adopting him as one of their own, most likely placing him in a family that would give him the love that he deserved. Albus noticed it with every movement the boy made, every witty crack he made at them. This Harry was much more open, more carefree, and much more confident in himself. Stronger, as well, and not just physically (as Poppy was quick to report). This Harry was a far shot away from the young man who sat shaking and pale last June, recounting the horrors that he had seen. Harry could just be grasping for what he never had by repressing the prior memories. Starting with a clean sleet.
There were so many unanswered questions. It made his head spin.
He turned contemplative blue eyes to the frazzled young man in front of him. He knew the look that was gracing Sirius' eyes – it was the manic one of a desperate man. And it was a desperation that he could understand completely. For months, Sirius had been looking for his godson, following every lead no matter how outrageous or far-fetched. Now he had him…but Harry didn't remember him. A horrible feeling truly and possibly one of the worst kinds in the world to experience: the rejection of a loved one.
The nightmare a few days ago opened some hopes that Harry did remember him in someway. The boy had instinctively reacted to Sirius. It was only until the next morning, when he had been waking up and Sirius called him 'Harry' that he had recoiled. Another argument ensued, which resulted in Harry being utterly apathetic to Sirius once more. Plainly put, they were back where they started…except worse. With each passing day, he noticed the increased tension and frustration in the child: he was itching to get out of Hogwarts and was clearly becoming more and more desperate.
Which, considering the circumstances, was not a good thing."That's it, I'm calling him!" His concentration was shattered with this outburst, attention drawn completely to Sirius now. The extreme anxiety was horrifically clear now, that look in his eyes reminiscent of when he had been on the run from the Ministry. "I know he's annoying and a pain, but he has the answers!"
Could he mean…but how? "Sirius, what are you –"
"I KNOW YOU'RE WATCHING! BE RESPONSIBLE AND BENEVOLENT FOR ONCE AND HELP ME!"
At the shout, the hairs on the back of his neck immediately began to rise in trepidation. The dark energy was palpable, cackling and cracking in the air in wrathful bolts, causing Fawkes to let out an alarmed shriek. However, unlike most dark magic, phoenix song did not have any effect at all in what was happening. It was all that he could do to just watch…and wait. Wait to see if the god of death would indeed come at the call.
Then it all abruptly stopped, the air shimmering for a second before the familiar figure of Thanatos appeared. Something…seems off… He couldn't put his finger on it, but this seemed to be the antithesis of what he remembered of the Grim Reaper. Dumbledore cast a subtle recognition charm, which came up unsuccessful. Perhaps they did not work on gods? But there was different this time.
He looked exactly as he had before – the same blue eyes, dark hair, and handsome face – Sirius' resemblance to him extremely striking. But he was wearing black robes this time, as well as a black cloak. His eyes were hard and lacking the lightheartedness he had witnessed last time, expression grave and serious. Arms were folded across his chest, as if he were demanding an explanation.
"Who are you?" he demanded, fixing Sirius with a piercing gaze. "And why did you summon me?"
Dumbledore blinked in bemusement. Was this a joke? Because if it was…
"DON'T YOU DARE!" the younger man yelled. "I'VE HAD THAT ENOUGH! TELL ME WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON BECAUSE I KNOW THAT YOU HAVE SOME IDEA ABOUT THIS WHOLE MESS!"
"No, I don't know who you are," the god returned coldly. "Watch your tongue and remember exactly who you are dealing with, mortal."
This left Sirius momentarily dumbfounded. "What is with you?" he whispered. "Do you all just like to see me suffer?" His answer was expectant silence, the remark shrugged off as if it were nothing. "I'm Sirius Black. Descendant, remember?"
"Sirius?" the god repeated skeptically. He frowned in thought before his eyes widened in apparent epiphany. "Black, like Nathaniel Black?" Sirius nodded mutely, now suspicious…and Dumbledore could vouch that he felt the same. The god, however, just sighed and ran a harried through his dark hair. "Figures. When you summoned me, did you by chance use any adjectives?"
Seeing that Sirius was not taking this…well (but who could blame the poor man), Dumbledore decided to step it. "I believe he used the words 'responsible' and 'benevolent'. But what does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything," was the deadpan reply. "When you summon a god, you have to be careful about wording. And the word 'responsible' is something that does not describe Thanatos." There was a moment of silence, largely of incomprehension, before the god decided to elaborate (and he was pretty annoyed about it). "I'm not Thanatos. Get it? You summoned the wrong god. Which is just wonderful. I have a full schedule!"
"Then who are you?" Sirius put out bluntly. "And why do you look exactly like him?"
The god shrugged. "We're twins, though I'm older by a few minutes. Hypnos, god of sleep." An eyebrow was raised as he perused over Sirius' appearance. "I should have figured you were my brother's descendant. Both of you are impatient and informal to a fault. And both of you like to keep me from my job! People need to sleep! Even those damned insomniacs…" Apparently, the twins are as different as night and day. There was an old Greek myth that sounded similar to this. The goddess of the night and the primeval god of darkness gave birth to a pair of sons, pale-faced and feared. Hypnos granted the gift of sleep, while…Thanatos…was the cruel one who brought death and plight. The tales did not put the apparently younger brother in a good light though; pardon the turn of the phrase. But death was hardly ever seen as a blessing anyway. The point was they were in myth. Could the ancient legends to be the key to understanding these beings pulling the strings behind the ways of the world?
"What's with Harry?" was the terse question from Sirius. "He doesn't remember me at all!"
Hypnos snorted. "Amnesia tends to do that." Sirius sputtered in indignation, while the god laughed at the younger man's expression. "You're justlike him." Judging from Sirius' face, he didn't take it was a compliment. "Anyway, I'm sure that my sister only has his best interests at heart. Interests that probably are better for him despite what you think. Family has to stick together, after all." Family…that would imply that Harry is also related to these gods…how many descendants are there? "Anyway, I must be going." The god paused for a moment, given the two of them a thoughtful glance. "You care about the child, do you?"
"Of course, we do," Dumbledore replied, wondering where this was going.
Hypnos sighed. "Well, I can see why Moros – older brother, hope you don't meet him – likes him so much. I'll help you out this once I suppose, but after this, you'll be lucky if I show. Because of you, most of the Pacific is now wide-awake…if you want the kid to stay with you: I suggest you go after him now. Cunning runs in the family. You should've expected that he would escape." With that declaration and a short bow, the god of sleep vanished.
Sirius was out the door even before the word, 'expected'.
He tore through the dungeons running, looking everywhere for a way out of the labyrinth corridors to the upper floors. It did not help that nearly all the hallways looked the same. All of them were made of the same kind of old gray stone, the torches lining the wall in the exact pattern, shadows identical in each passageway.His trainers smacked against the stone floor, his speed increased because of the wind magic that was present in his body, eyes searching every small nook and cranny. But it was a veritable maze and he certainly felt like the proverbial mouse caught in it.
Honestly, how did those wizards know how to get around this place? They could have been courteous and put up signs saying, oh, I don't know…EXIT! It was a royal pain in the arse and he was getting nowhere fast. And he needed to get out of here before they found him. Sure, he was safe for the moment. At most, he probably had a few hours before they noticed that he was gone. Night did not want to waste that precious time to be running around lost – he wanted to get out of here!
At the moment, his most dangerous adversaries here were the Headmaster, that Professor Snape, and then Sirius Black. He doubted that Black would hurt him, but he would certainly trap him here. As of the moment, he didn't know what to think of said kidnapper. One moment, he's threatening him, the next he's reassuring him about the nightmare. Of course, Night scowled at the memory, he was called 'Harry'. He was Nuitari Hawking, successor to the Black Dragon of the Arashi-Tenku, wind elemental, and he would be damned if he would be kept down like this. The wizards had their own problems to deal with. If he ever was part of this world, he was not any longer. They could keep their silly beliefs in Light and Dark, the importance of blood, and their wanton desire to control every single living thing around them. He was not to be manipulated or imprisoned like the rest of them were satisfied to be. He was an elemental and he had pride. There was no way he was going to give up his life in Grey Tower to be locked away like a fragile piece of porcelain treasure. And if the castle itself didn't kill him, then he would do the deed himself if he ran completely out of options.
However, at the moment, there were plenty of options to take.
Abruptly, he pulled himself to a halt. He thought he saw a door as he passed. His eyes narrowed, he stepped closer to the wall, running his hands lightly over the surface. He expected rough cold stone, but instead felt the smooth grain of wood beneath fingers. Continuing to inspect the wall, his hand finally came in contact with the metal door handle. Night grinned in triumph – illusions cast by wizards weren't hard to see through if you knew that it was not real. He twisted the knob and pushed in slightly, the door hinges squeaking slightly as he did so. A cautious eye was put to the small space. The room was empty.
The room was probably the living quarters of one of the professors. But it was sparsely furnished, clearly the taste that ran to someone of a rigid and practical nature. The scheme was largely black and gray, running from the armchairs to the desk in the corner, piled neatly with rolls of parchments. Investigating further, he found a few snake figures along with the badge of…a snake. Wonderful. I'm in Snape's room. Joy is certainly lacking in this man's life. There wasn't anything particularly of interest in here, just the usual…Snape things. Even the books in the cases against the wall were lacking in prominence, pertaining largely to Potions textbooks and spellbooks. Another door led to a small chamber, the walls lined with shelves. There were large bottles and boxes, meticulously labeled and cared for, containing various potions ingredients. He recognized a few of them from his own Chemistry class and Professor Coulter's home, though she didn't keep large eyes of Tamorinian newt where the guests could see them. His stomach turned slightly as the reptilian eye rotated in the pale yellow liquid of its jar, fixing him with its hot orange gaze…a gaze that was not living. In that storeroom, there was another door. Voices managed to go through the door and he recognized a familiar drawl. Snape. Repulsed slightly, he retreated back into the sitting room.
How am I going to do this?! Snape was right out there, probably with a group of students. He would need to sneak out of there, but how was he going to that?! First of all, there was Snape, who was probably keeping an eye on the entire classroom like a vindictive vulture. Then there were the students, who probably weren't paying much to the hook-nosed excuse for a teacher anyway. Which meant there were multiple possibilities for capture.
Angry, he barely restrained himself from smashing a dark blue glass vase into pieces. Though he wished he could've done that anyway, just to piss Snape off in general. As he paced in thought, his eyes wandered to a small book lying abandoned on the couch. It was open to the last page. In most cases, he wouldn't care much about it…except the last words on the page were…
Sekai – Kage Wolves.
Scowling slightly, he pocketed the small book. So that's how he knew about the elemental clans. And about the Sekai-Kage. How could anyone be so careless to leave this behind for wizards to find? Well, it was pointless now since Snape knew about it already, the old man most likely as well.
Slipping the wand out from underneath his sleeve, he cast a disguise spell on himself. The small mirror on the desk showed that the spell was successful. His scar disappeared and the streaks in his hair disappeared. The emerald eyes that he was apparently known for turned to a deep blue. Looking at himself, he grinned slightly. He looked like a younger version of Tom…though which much messier hair. But that wasn't his fault. It was…whichever of his parents had messy hair. It would only work for a short while though, so he'd have to be quick.
There was a sudden rush in the classroom. Rushing back to the storage room, he peeked through the door to the classroom. The students were getting ready to clean up…though they were horribly disorganized. Particularly a mousy kid that just spilt his potion on a boy with sandy hair beside him, which promptly started to burn through the latter's robes. Perfect, he thought as he saw a relatively annoyed Snape swoop – yes, swoop – down upon the pair. Taking his chance, Night slipped into the room and made to look as if he belonged there. It wasn't too hard: just look partially bored and partially relieved that class ended. He bypassed the lines that formed at the sinks. However, a sharp pain rang through his head when he did so.
There was a tall boy with red hair looking around the room as if something were wrong, before getting smacked sharply on the hand by a shorter girl with bushy hair who had a ladle. Almost like Bran and Trina, he thought wryly. Though it was evident that the girl in this pair was the smarter one, though probably not as much as a smart-alec as Night's best friend was. There was another familiar person who also seemed familiar, a boy with pale blonde hair and aristocratic features. But as soon as the boy opened his mouth, he realized that it was most likely nothing. It was the same boy that was cursed in the Hospital Wing – Mal…something.
He shook himself out of the observations. He only had a short amount of time and there was no point in spending on contemplating the dynamics of Professor Snape's potion classroom. Feigning casualness, Night made towards the exit, making sure to look utterly uninteresting and ordinary. Everything going to plan…
He opened the door to slip out when a finger, obviously tentative, tapped him on the shoulder. Night looked around, finding himself at the end of a curious gaze from the clumsy boy, who was currently holding several vials of his botched up potion. Longbottom, if Snape's tirade had been accurate. "Umm…" was the unsure statement, in which Night raised an eyebrow. This only made the boy even more nervous. "Snape didn't dismiss us yet…" Longbottom then stopped, his eyebrows furrowing in thought, before his eyes widened in shock. It was then that he noticed the aura of green…this kid had elemental magic…that meant he could probably…
Crap! His fears were confirmed with the smashing of glass (which no one immediately noticed) followed by a loud exclamation of "Harry?!" – which caught everyone's attention. Snape's black gaze immediately snapped onto him like a predator who caught sight of his prey. Damn it! The class as a whole went forward to him, but he was too quick. On the outside, he quickly shut the door and cast several locking charms on them, a few of them dark. Pleased when he heard frantic banging against the wood, as well as a number of curses from a certain greasy-haired git, he ran towards the stairs at the end of the hallway, which were the first ones that he had encountered that were a way up. As he did so, he felt the charm wear off and he hid the wand once more up his sleeve.
Finally on the main floor – the greater amount of light that nearly blinded him as he went up was a clue, he spied a large set of doors that virtually screamed 'EXIT'. Though he did feel that a sign still would have helped matters. Seeing no one else around and judging from the fact that he wasn't caught in a deluge of curious students from the dungeons, this was his time. Night took off at a sprint to the doors, a smile lighting his face at the prospect of freedom and fresh air…
…when out of nowhere, Sirius Black appeared right in front of him, effectively catching him in midrun. The light from the window caught the silver material of that strange cloak. He stumbled, but Sirius steadied him. Though his grip on him was tight. Of course, he struggled again and did manage to catch the man a good blow to the ribs, but it didn't seem to do any good. The sound of footsteps approaching made him look up…it was the Headmaster. Even more riled at this failure – I was so close, damn it! – and he did not need to see a kooky old man smiling benignly at him as if there was nothing wrong in the world. Because, by the Almighty, there was something seriously wrong!
Looking at Sirius, he could tell that Black was worried, though it was hard to tell with the expression of desperation and anger. Night cursed under his breath, which earned a reprimanding blue glare from Sirius. Is this guy's sole mission in life to stop me from reaching home?! It sure seemed like it. The Headmaster, standing out this time in sky blue robes embroidered with suns and moons, gave him a pat on the head. Which, of course, did not make Night feel better at all.
"Well done, my boy," Dumbledore said appreciatively, eliciting a surprised exclamation from Sirius. "An excellent escape attempt on your part. And I do believe that you have effectively enabled Professor Snape to spend more time with his favorite class, the 5th year Gryffindors and Slytherins." The Headmaster's eyes lingered briefly on the Hogwarts uniform, in particular, the Slytherin badge. "There's no need to worry," this time talking to Sirius. "I held back the end of classes so that we could make sure that no one else sees Harry. Though I'll have to think of something about Severus' class-"
"DUMBLEDORE!" A short woman with a distinctly unpleasant and vile face strode – or tried to, as Night wouldn't deem that was walking – over to them. She wore a pink cardigan over her robes, which did not help her looks at all, but rather enhanced the flaws. To his eye, Night saw her more as one hell of a misshapen toad that managed to get into a fight with…something…and managed to survive…unfortunately for the rest of all living organisms. In her pudgy hand, she was waving a limp rubber chicken like a weapon. Behind her were six blue robed men, two of them each keeping a tight hold on three very familiar people. Deciding to see the reaction of Sirius and Dumbledore, he could see that they both shared the same feeling of apprehension. But of what, he didn't know.
"I found these three trying to sneak onto the grounds. Elementals," the woman sniffed, giving the men a saccharine smile of approval. Mordecai gave a shrug, Trina sighed, and Bran started trying to imitate the woman's expressions – which earned him a hard smack over the head. Which resulted in the said wizard getting the wind knocked out of him with a well-placed elbow to the gut. "When they refused to identify themselves, we confiscated their wands. However," she brandished the rubber chicken in front of Dumbledore's long crooked nose, waving it as if it explained everything.
"They tried to sneak into Hogwarts and pass as wizards using rubber chickens as wands?" Dumbledore asked blithely. "Ingenious!"
"Thank you," Bran replied, which made Dumbledore smile at the redhead, further angering the woman.
Indeed, she seemed to swell with rage. "How can you act so unconcerned? Elementals are dangerous and volatile! It's been accepted as fact that they are destructive and maniacal," she shrilled. "And they're trying to get in here!"
Trina snorted. "Ms. Toad, said dangerous and volatile elementals are present here!"
"And let me guess?" Night inquired dryly. "The crap hit the fan?" They were probably here to rescue him. True, they may have been caught. But that meant that his mother was on her way and close. Though he was amused by the rubber chicken stunt.
"Oh, it did alright." Mordecai answered, rolling his eyes. "But hopefully, we'll get this cleaned up." He gave the woman a disdainful look. "However…"
Night nodded in understanding. "You don't think you'll get all of it?"
"We don't think," Trina hissed vehemently. "We know."
"Either way," Bran put in, "I'm burning something." He then pointed to the woman and remarked matter-of-factly, "And I think I know exactly what it will be."
There's chapter four. I hope you liked it. I wanted to have this out yesterday, but I've been having a lot of problems with my computer lately. It took forever just to format the chapter, much less have the computer run a program to begin with. Hopefully, it'll be fixed soon.
I know that you're probably wondering how the Phantom elemental managed to attack Hogsmeade and get so close to the school in Elemental Genesis with no problem, while Night's magic seems to be blocked. It isn't a mistake; it's meant to be that way. All I'm saying for the moment is that it has to do with the fact that there is a large difference between a Shining elemental and a Phantom elemental, not in the way of being on different sides of the ideal spectrum. In the same way, there is also a reason as to how Umbridge was aware that Bran, Trina, and Mordecai were elementals…but that's coming soon.
---Raven
QUOTE REFERENCES(1) Oscar Wendell Holmes, Jr. The Mind and Faith of Justice Holmes
(2) Aldous Huxley
(3) George Santayana, The Letters of George Santayana
(4) Friedrich Nietzsche
(5) Johann von Goethe
(6) Hanlon's Razor
(7) Robert Frost
(8) Bede Jarrett, The House of Gold
(9) Marcus Aurelius
(10) Josh Billings
To answer Arsenal's question:
You've certainly put up with me since the beginning. Therefore, I'm happily obliged to answer.
Pheta's painting did burn in response to Night's Aria, but it wasn't because of Night's elemental magic at all. Night's Aria came from Melania's family, therefore dark in nature. Pheta can't stand anything to do with the dark gods, but while she could deal with it if more or less in goddess and mortal form, a very old painting of herself as a mortal couldn't (her name on the frame was 'Phillandra Pheta Gryffindor', meaning that it was made when she was married to Gryffindor).
It did weaken its hold on the castle slightly, but not a lot. Night probably would have succumbed to it sooner if he hadn't played the song. He had also been playing other dark songs from Melania's family. These did protect him. But Pheta is a powerful goddess. It would take a lot more to completely break her hold on Hogwarts.