Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter!
Yes, this chapter is early. That's because I have an inconvenient schedule tomorrow- er, today. Also, this is angsty.
Look quick, and you might catch a hint of Harry's future Animagus form.
The lines Rosier quotes in this chapter come from Swinburne's "Dolores."
Chapter Twenty-Three: Dancers In the Light
"You're still taking a risk."
Rufus stifled the impulse to snap at Kingsley as he settled the dueling bracelets into place about his wrists. "Yes, I know that very well," he said, rather than the insult he'd been thinking of. He was almost—almost—sure that Albus Dumbledore had approached Kingsley and inducted him into the Order of the Phoenix, rather than Kingsley seeking Dumbledore's approval. Nevertheless, he could not forget that one of his Aurors was working for a Light Lord who wanted nothing so much as to muck around in the Ministry. "But it's a risk I chose to take." He clasped the dueling collar into place and glanced at the younger wizard over his shoulder, waiting.
Kingsley flushed, though his skin was dark enough that it was hard to see. "I—yes, sir, I see that."
"Good," said Rufus mildly, and then closed his eyes to feel the buzz of the collar's magic surrounding him. This was nothing like those foul things Gorgon and Morologus had worn, and which it had nearly cost the Hounds' sanity to remove. This collar merely recorded that he had chosen to enter the dance of his own free will, and that he remained within its boundaries of his own free will. Despite the consequences for violating the ritual if the loser attempted to meddle in politics before the year's term was up, the heart of this was not about compulsion, a tool of the Dark, but choice. "Come, then."
He turned and swept out of his office, his wand riding light in his pocket, the bracelets and the collar equally light on his wrists and neck. He limped, as always, but that did not mock or mar his stride. Kingsley followed behind him, grumbling. Young Percy already waited in the dueling courtyard, a specially-equipped area on the first floor.
Rufus felt his Aurors' gazes trailing him as he walked between their desks, and heard many murmurs of, "Good luck, sir." He nodded back with bare tilts of his head, enjoying the smooth pyrite of the collar as it caught him up now and then. His Aurors knew that he was fighting a duel with Augustus Starrise, and some of what it meant. None of them knew of the vote of no confidence that Amelia intended to introduce into the Wizengamot today. She had decided to wait until after the duel, and nothing Rufus could say would sway her. He had shrugged and given in at last. She was still his superior.
But not now, Rufus thought, and intense delight surged through him. He was on his way into one of the oldest testing places of all, the dueling courtyard, and what occurred there was between him and his opponent. And he was going about it properly, with the bracelets and the collar and the knowledge of the spells he would use all close to him as his own skin.
Rufus Scrimgeour had declared himself for the Light when he was twelve years old. Many people had thought him mad, to declare so young, and when he was in Slytherin, not least.
Rufus had never regretted it. Not for a day. The Light was the best way of doing things, when it was used right. Or perhaps it was more correct to say that it contained the best way of doing things. Better to let people make their own choices, within boundaries that prevented them from trampling on other people's choices, and with absolute honesty, and in harmony if at all possible. Rufus had looked between Light and Dark that long-ago day, and chosen the path he thought would let him best accomplish all those things.
White trails of racing radiance began to coalesce behind his eyelids. He smiled. He kept his eyes shut, and the radiance shot ahead of him, leading him a smooth path so that he didn't trip or stumble.
All the wizards and witches he passed, going about the ordinary everyday business of the Ministry, fell silent when they saw him, and many bowed and stepped out of the way. Rufus could see that, though he still kept his eyes shut. A second kind of sight was blooming above the white trail, the Light showing him the way.
Those who worked and lived within the Light had to use their eyes, in more ways than one.
Rufus opened his at last when he climbed out of the lift and turned in the direction of the dueling courtyard. He could feel his opponent already waiting for him, hot as a summer breeze and as patient. Augustus Starrise had always been patient, at least since a certain night almost exactly thirteen years ago.
Rufus stepped through what looked like an ordinary door, Kingsley close behind him, and emerged into the courtyard. It could not have been outside, but it appeared to be so. Light filled it from wall to wall. Vines climbed those walls, which were made of closely-fitted white stone, and raised enormous blossoms, the shape of trumpets and near the size of them, to the sky. The blossoms themselves were golden, streaked with brighter, paler streaks that reminded Rufus of the colors he saw when he pressed his hand over his tightly-shut eyes. The grass was smooth and soft as a child's blanket, and a very deep shade, closer to purple than green.
Rufus ran his eyes over the garden before he turned to acknowledge Augustus. Yes, as he watched, starburst after starburst opened above the walls, and split into pairs of white birds, large as peacocks and having something of the phoenix about them, though they shed no heat. The birds perched on the walls and stared intently. One of every pair stared at him, and one at Augustus.
These were the ritual's witnesses, come to make sure the dance was performed perfectly. If one of the wizards participating in it did break his word not to meddle in politics for a year after he had lost the duel, then the birds would coalesce into one creature far greater and come at noon to tear one of his limbs off.
Rufus simply breathed for a time, nearly dazed and overwhelmed by the presence of Light magic, thick and pure and strong. He thought he would have needed more time to recover, but his exposure to young Harry had helped him overcome the swimming sensation that was usually the result of standing in the middle of so much power.
That, he thought as he finally turned to face his opponent and bow, and his exposure to a young man named Tom Riddle, three years ahead of him in Slytherin, who had radiated Lord-level power all the damn time, and had been a minor factor in Rufus's declaring himself for the Light.
Augustus bowed back, and then stood facing him, features calm and expressionless as iron. Rufus traced one hand over his arm, following the line of the scar the war wizard had given him the last time they dueled.
That had been right after the fall of Voldemort at the hands of Connor Potter, when Augustus had come seeking the name of the Auror who had been with his twin sister, Alba Starrise, on the night of her suicide, and failed to prevent that suicide.
Rufus kept his eyes on Augustus's face, but he saw, how he saw, other eyes, locked staring and dead above a protruding tongue and broken neck. Her golden hair had fanned out about her head, pale and perfect and lovely. Alba Starrise, last victim of Voldemort before he fell. He'd left her alone for three minutes while he went to fetch her a cup of tea, and she had managed to hang herself anyway.
Rufus knew he was lucky to have escaped with the scar alone. That had been because he was the Auror who failed Alba, not the one who had actually done—whatever it was the Death Eaters did to her. Augustus had never learned the names or identities of those Death Eaters, or he would not have hesitated, with the mood he was in after losing his twin, to call down the Caerimonia Inrevocabilis, the highest and sternest of the old Light justice rituals.
That particular ritual claimed the life of the one who invoked it, but it also claimed, without exception, the life or lives of the enemies he had called it against. Rufus had read of it. He had never seen it used.
He would have, that day.
Calm, patient, pale, Augustus Starrise waited for him to finish his inspection. Then he inclined his head.
"Old friend," he said. "Where are your witnesses?"
Rufus motioned back with his head, to Kingsley. "One behind me," he said, and heard the rustle as all the birds leaned forward intently. "Kingsley Shacklebolt is an Auror and a servant of a Light Lord." He felt Kingsley start, badly, and was glad that he had learned to keep a smile off his face. "Does he pass your inspection?"
"Rather well," said Augustus. "This is the first of my witnesses." He reached out a hand, and summoned forth a pale young man who had been standing in the shadow of the trumpet-shaped flowers. Bells tinkled softly in one braid of his hair as he moved. Augustus smiled sharply. "This is my nephew and heir, Pharos Starrise. Does he pass your inspection?"
Rufus studied Pharos, and had to admire Augustus's cunning. This was Alba's son; every line of his face proclaimed it. "Rather well," he admitted. "My second witness is Percy Weasley."
Percy had been huddling in a corner of the courtyard as if he hoped he wouldn't be noticed. Now, he shuffled forward, head lowered. He flinched when Augustus looked towards him.
"Percy is the acknowledged son of a Light pureblood family," Rufus said calmly. "Does he pass your inspection?"
Augustus nodded. "I know the Weasleys," he said. "I would not have expected to find one of them working under you, Rufus."
Rufus simply arched his brows and said nothing. Technically, Percy wasn't supposed to be working for him, but it would take several committed wizards working through a mountain of paperwork to figure that out. "Where is your second witness, Augustus?"
Augustus bared his teeth in a smile that made him look rather like Lucius Malfoy. Rufus amused himself by considering how both of them, Light wizard and Dark, would hate to be told that. "She is all around us," he said. "I dedicate this duel to my sister Alba, Rufus, whom I loved and whom you failed. She is with me today in our shared blood, in the blood of her son, Pharos, and in the Light that was her true and natural home."
Rufus narrowed his eyes before he could stop himself, and felt the bracelets jangle on his wrists as his weight shifted. Low blow, Augustus. I would have given my left arm to stop her, and you know it.
Augustus smiled genially. "The terms of the Sunset Accords are strict," he said, beginning his part of the ritual. The birds leaned forward even further. "If I lose, I must swear to withdraw all my support from Cornelius Fudge at once, and to refrain from the persecution of Dark wizards, for one year. If you lose, Rufus, you must swear to abstain from any politics, even ones in the office, and perform only your duties as Head of the Auror Office, for one year." He tossed his head, and made his long hair, thick with bells, ring. "Your last chance to back out, Rufus."
"I do not back away," said Rufus, giving the correct response. "In sunlight I swore this. In the Light I will finish it." He drew his wand.
Augustus made a low, eager sound, like a hound straining forward against the edge of a leash, and pulled out his own wand, made of some white wood that Rufus could not immediately identify. "It begins, then," he said.
"It does," said Rufus, and bowed. He felt Kingsley and Percy tensing behind him, and Pharos shifted a bit at his uncle's side. Augustus's eyes never moved from his. They were trained, confident, full of pride. He was the better dueler. The other three there—the other four, Rufus corrected himself—at least suspected it.
He and Augustus knew it.
That was why Rufus had chosen as he had. The bracelets around his wrists warmed, and then began to shed small sparkles of light. If Augustus had been looking, he would have seen and understood the message contained in those ornaments. They were not the small and flexible, nearly weightless, things that a dueler who expected to have to move fast would wear. They were heavy, made of polished platinum, and they shone like water touched by fire as Rufus gathered himself and they waited for the duel to begin.
Rufus would not use spells to incapacitate or wound. He was of the Light, and he would use a spell based on compassion and honesty. When he could, he preferred that definition of the Light. One might have to lie to get things done in the Ministry, but the truth was always better.
The birds on the walls lifted their wings and brought them down, in a rippling wave motion that traveled all around the garden.
Augustus whispered, "Diffindo."
The spell went for Rufus's wand hand. Of course it did. Rufus made no motion to defend himself as a long cut opened down the center of his palm, a thin line of blood that nevertheless hurt like blazes. He saw Augustus's eyes widen in surprise.
Then he looked at the bracelets, finally, as they began to shine too brightly to be ignored, and the widening of his eyes changed to one of comprehension.
It was too late, though. Rufus met his gaze, and smiled, and whispered, "Probo Memoriter Meus."
The blue web of the spell spun into existence, glowing and radiant. Rufus closed his eyes as it briefly lashed into place about his head, asking permission to extract the memory that he wanted to share. Rufus granted it his permission, and then the light darted away from him. He opened his eyes and watched, calmly, as it showed Augustus Starrise the vision he had to see.
All of them—and that would include the witnesses—were pulled directly into the memory, sharing Rufus's sensations and emotions as well as the mere sight.
"Might I please have a cup of tea?"
Rufus could feel his heart contract. Alba Starrise's eyes were horrified, near-broken, and she kept her head bowed, her golden hair falling around her face. He thought he might know what the Death Eaters had done to her, and if he was right—well. No one had ever said that someone need touch a witch to rape her.
"Of course, lady," he said, the instinctive courtesies of his childhood springing to his lips. He had taken her wand away; there was no way she could hurt herself, and this small, barren green room was cheerless enough without refusing her simple request. "I'll bring it immediately."
He left the room with a determined stride, wincing only a little as his bad leg made contact with the ground. Normally he would have sent one of the trainees and stayed with Alba himself, but they were all dealing with the aftermath of the Death Eaters' latest attack. Voldemort had been in a fine good mood tonight, Rufus thought sourly, almost as though he were preparing something special for the following nights.
They had done well, though. They'd rescued Alba, and several other witches and wizards who had been prisoners of the Death Eaters for days. Now the hard work could really begin: the healing of the memories that had made Alba Starrise's eyes look like that.
It was the work of three minutes for Rufus to find a cup, to heat the tea with a quickly murmured spell, and to return to the room.
And it had been the work of three minutes for Alba Starrise to string one of the banners congratulating some past Auror hero around her neck, tie one end to a ceiling beam and another around her neck, climb up on the low bed where she'd been sitting, and jump off.
Rufus knew that he didn't hear her neck break, but he thought he could hear it all the same, echoing and re-echoing in his ears like the sound of his own guilt, or the teacup shattering on the floor. He stared at her, and stared. It was long moments before one of the other Aurors found him and led him away, a few instants more before someone thought to sever the banner with a hex and levitate Alba's body gently to the ground.
Rufus had gone straight back out to hunt Death Eaters, gripped in the fury of his rage and his helplessness. When Voldemort fell before the Boy-Who-Lived the next night, he was not sure if he was relieved or not. Yes, the Dark Lord and his evil were gone from the world, but Rufus did not feel that justice for Alba Starrise was done.
He learned, slowly and painfully, over the next few years, that there was little justice one could do for the dead.
Rufus blinked his eyes and stepped back slightly as the memory came to an end. "Little justice for the dead," he whispered, so as to echo the thought aloud, and lifted his eyes back to Augustus Starrise's. "But much justice for the living. So long as someone is alive, and I can help, I will do justice by them."
The Light wizard stared at him, eyes wide and breath coming in heaves. The white birds on the walls were utterly still and silent.
"Diffindo," Augustus Starrise said again, but the spell was weak and almost without strength. Rufus bore the small cut across his hand, and spoke his second spell gently.
"Petrificus Totalus."
Augustus Starrise, still weak from seeing his beloved sister's death play out before him, in such a fashion that he could not doubt the wizard he had blamed for it felt his failure keen as a dagger to the heart, fell to the ground.
Rufus came forward and knelt down in front of Augustus, as the white birds raised their wings and then lowered them again. "I am sorry, Augustus, that I had to make you see that," he whispered. "But it is done now." He moved back into the words of the ritual. "Under the Light, by the Light, in the Light, may our dances be concluded. First step to you, Augustus Starrise, and last to me." He paused and released the spell, waiting for Augustus to give the token protest he still could at this stage, even if just with his eyes, but nothing happened. Rufus nodded. "You must refrain from supporting Cornelius Fudge and persecuting Dark wizards for a year, as you swore.
"Go in peace," he added, and turned away.
He had nearly reached the end of the garden when Augustus's voice whispered behind him, "Rufus."
"Yes?" Rufus turned. The heavy bracelets still shone, sunlight-like, on his wrists, and Augustus winced. Rufus shook his sleeves over them to dim them as much as possible. They had proclaimed his pure intentions, but the duel was over now and they might rest.
"Do you know who they were?" Augustus whispered. "Who the Death Eaters were that did that to my sister?"
Rufus closed his eyes. He has not learned after all, then. "No," he said quietly. "And I would not let you know their names even if I uncovered evidence of them, Augustus."
"What?" The Starrise wizard's voice was anguished. The bells in his hair clashed and jangled as he scrambled to his feet. "How can you say that? You felt pain when she died, I know you did—"
"Because," Rufus cut in, "you would kill them without a trial. I want to bring them to trial, if I can ever catch them." He pinned Augustus with a harsh gaze. "In such a way as leaves both them alive, to face justice, and you alive, to see it."
"But I could invoke—"
"It's been thirteen years, Augustus." Rufus made his voice as gentle as possible, but he thought some of his disgust got across anyway, from the way Augustus promptly shut his mouth. "Shouldn't you let her rest?"
He turned away before he heard anything else, and made his way out of the dueling courtyard, back towards the lift. The white birds were already gone, and the Light magic was fading, leaving him in the ordinary, complicated, mixed and muted world, once again.
Where I've won a duel, and Amelia will soon announce that the Wizengamot will consider a vote of no confidence against Fudge.
He still felt hollow, though, as if he had descended a mountain, and inside his head there was a roaring quiet.
"Harry? Come on, Harry."
Harry rolled his eyes and let Draco drag him away from the celebrating Slytherins by one hand. At least he'd waited until an hour into the party. That meant that the focus was now on who could balance the most empty butterbeer bottles on her head and not on the "Boy Who Saved Snape," as they insisted on calling him. He could leave with just a few disappointed looks from Millicent. And Pansy. Oh, and Blaise. And, well, a few of the fifth-years and sixth-years, too. Harry ducked his head.
Stop looking at me, he tried to shout at them silently, but just then there came a crash of breaking glass, and all focus went back where it should be. Harry let out a little sigh of relief and shut the door of the fourth-year boys' room behind them, then turned to look inquiringly at Draco.
Draco was already digging the potions book out of his trunk. He turned to face Harry, and his eyes were solemn.
"I decided to tell you more," he said. "You've been a really good help to me, Harry, and you haven't asked silly questions. You should get to know."
Harry bowed his head, feeling honored. "All right, Draco. What did you want to tell me?"
Draco bounced onto his bed and opened the potions book. At once, a tingling wave of magic flooded the room, and Harry saw the web on Draco's head swell and pulse like a spider eating flies. He squinted at it. Yes, the book caused the web, I'd swear it. And it probably didn't show up before now because Draco wasn't willingly telling me what he'd done. Now that he is, the book's magic is interacting with the web in some way.
I don't like that web. I really don't like it.
"See," Draco was saying, pointing to a recipe that Harry had to crawl onto the bed behind him to see, "this is the recipe that I wanted. It shows me how to call up an ancestor's ghost and become a magical heir of him or her, as long as our souls are in sympathy and I can inherit the magic." He beamed at Harry. "That means that Father would acknowledge me as a Malfoy magical heir, too."
Harry fought to keep from snarling at the page. He didn't like the book, either, now that he'd almost confirmed his suspicion that it had put the web on Draco. He was still sure that Snape couldn't have known what it did, though, because Snape wouldn't put webs on people. He'd known slavery too intimately. But he had a lot to answer for, just giving this book to Draco when he asked.
"Why is it so important that you be a magical heir?" Harry asked, reaching out to trace one line of the recipe with his finger. Now that he could see the full complexity of the thing, and what kind of research it would require, Draco's quickness in getting ready to brew the potion astonished him anew. Draco was not often that…dedicated. Intelligent, yes, passionate, yes, but not this driven.
The page trembled before his finger touched it, and seemed as if it might turn on its own. Harry jerked his hand back. Draco didn't seem to notice.
"Because, Harry," he said softly, his eyes downcast, "I have to be a magical heir to be considered for some of the best advantages in pureblood society. To be a business partner, for example, or to receive some gifts, or to participate in some rituals and meetings. Even the alliance meeting that we had, with you in the Ministry, which the Parkinsons and the Bulstrodes attended? I couldn't have attended that if someone really wanted to make a fuss about the rules. My father is just always saying that I'll manifest sympathy with his soul sometime soon, but I'm getting older, and I don't think I'm his magical heir." He lifted his eyes, and sought out Harry's. "Do you understand? This is—this is really important to me. I want to know that I'm not below anyone else. I want to know that I have the power to defend myself if someone attacks me, and to defend the people I care about. I know that you might not get it, because you're Lord-powerful and always have been, but I really, really want this." He bowed his head again, and all but huddled around the book. "This is the only chance I can think of."
"Draco," Harry whispered, and, tentatively, knowing that Draco might lash out at him again in the mood he was in, put his arms around him. It was easier than he expected, since he was sitting directly behind his friend. Draco turned his head sharply to the side, burrowing into Harry's chest. Harry tensed, then forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle.
It's all right that I can't spring to my feet and move about quickly, he reassured himself. Nothing's going to attack me here.
He concentrated on pouring strength and comfort down his arms to Draco, without using his magic. Draco kept silent, and so Harry ventured at last, "And you want to be equal to me."
"Yeah," Draco whispered. "That's why I'm really hoping that Julia Malfoy was a Lady, Harry. You shouldn't always be protecting me. I want to be able to protect you sometimes, too, you know?"
"Oh, Draco," said Harry, stung by the injustice of that comment. "You have protected me. Last year, when Connor was tearing me apart, and the year before that, when you went with me into the Chamber, and—"
"That's not enough," Draco said, with a stubborn tilt to his chin that Harry knew only too well. "I want to be able to at least match you, Harry. Picking up the pieces when you come back broken, or just blacking out in the Chamber and not seeing the whole fight—that's not enough anymore. I can be with you like that, but not stand with you. I really, really want to fight at your side."
Harry closed his eyes. Draco was right; he hadn't considered that angle of it. He'd seen only Draco's possessiveness, not the fact that Draco had this intense loyalty that could only be eased by the ability to protect someone else. And it was true that he didn't consider that much. Moving in the midst of his own magic, sheltered and cradled by it, he tended to forget that other wizards couldn't do everything he could, or he thought he could do it for them. But why shouldn't they have the ability, not only to make their own decisions, but to enact those decisions?
Harry opened one eye and looked at the pulsing black-silver compulsion again. I can think of one reason why.
But if the compulsion was attached to the damn book, and the damn potion recipe, it should go away when Draco finished the damn potion.
Harry nodded. "I'll help you all I can, Draco," he whispered. "We'll have that potion finished by Halloween, I promise."
Draco gave a sound that might have been a sigh or a sob or even a gasp of happy contentment, and turned fully to face Harry, though he didn't hug him; he kept his arms around the potions book. "Thank you, Harry," he whispered. "Oh, Merlin, I missed you."
Harry opened his mouth to question what that meant, then shut it again. They had been distant from each other—more distant than Draco knew, since there was a lot Harry hadn't been telling him.
Harry did want to be close again, if he could. The sudden rush of longing reminded him of the way he'd felt when he realized the path might be open to a closer relationship with Connor once more.
"I missed you, too," he said.
Draco beamed at him, and, miracle of miracles, for the rest of the evening, was willing to talk professional Quidditch and how dare Professor Flitwick assign so much homework, rather than the damn potion. Harry lay close by his side, and commented back to him, and watched the web twitch and squirm. It seemed to be aware of him now, and to try to avoid his gaze without abandoning its hold on Draco's head and shoulders.
I know what you are, Harry thought, and hoped it was loud enough to be heard. I'm going to tear you apart for messing with my best friend.
Harry dreamed.
He knew at once it was a dream, thanks to the odd darkness, and the sharp, clear sounds around him, and the fact that the floor was solid under his—
Feet?
Harry glanced rapidly down at himself, which didn't help, because it was dark. He could tell he was in a different body than the one he was used to, though, something mid-size and four-legged. Luckily, as he crept towards the flickering firelight and the low sound of voices, he walked silently, too.
He froze, bristling, at the edge of the firelight. He recognized one voice. High and cold, Voldemort's tones were impossible to forget.
"Everything is in place, Evan?"
"Yes, my Lord," said the Death Eater, sounding cheerful. "Your return to Britain is awaited with great interest by your loyal subjects, whose ranks are growing by the day. Fenrir Greyback is a—most useful tool."
Harry shifted to the side, trying to see. As if the movement had realigned his perception of the room, he realized abruptly that he was outdoors, and the thick darkness around him came from immense tree trunks. The firelight was burning in a clearing among the trees. Harry's nose twitched at the smells that assaulted it, but he didn't let himself become distracted from the people he could finally locate.
Voldemort's voice was coming from what looked like a tiny throne, cradled in the coils of an enormous snake. Nagini, Harry realized, and stayed quite still, just in case she sensed him.
Could she, though? Harry knew this was a dream, or perhaps a vision.
Harry couldn't see Voldemort himself, and did not try, now that he had seen Nagini. He watched Rosier instead, who stood in front of the throne, just recovering from a sweeping bow.
"And what of those who were once mine?" Voldemort asked, his voice deepening with displeasure. Harry felt his forehead begin to burn. "Those who were once loyal, but have now turned against me?"
"They remain turned, Lord," said Rosier, not looking all that sorry for it. "Alas."
"You displease me," said Voldemort. "Bellatrix!"
A shadow shifted to the side, and the woman Harry had last seen attacking Cho Chang came limping forward. Her right arm was still a ruin, but she held a wand in her left hand.
"Torture him," said Voldemort, sounding bored.
Bellatrix flicked her wand, and Rosier went down under Crucio. He writhed and struggled and gasped with the pain, of course. It took Harry a moment to identify the odd sound in the midst of the gasping, and when he did, he put his ears back.
Rosier was laughing.
"I have passed from the outermost portal," he said, somehow, around the convulsions, "to the shrine where a sin is a prayer. What care though the service be mortal?" He rolled over and lay there, smiling up at Bellatrix, resisting the pain that was clearly running through him. "O our Lady of Torture," he whispered, "what care?"
Bellatrix sneered at him. "You've gone mad, Evan," she said.
"Ah beautiful passionate body," Rosier said, his eyes lingering over her right arm, "that never has ached with a heart!"
Bellatrix glanced at the throne, and then stopped the spell with a jerk. Rosier lay where he was for a moment, trembling, then lifted a hand to wipe the flecks of foam from his lips. Harry did not know if he was relieved or not to see blood among the spittle. "But as sweet as the rind was the core is," he whispered. "We are fain of thee still, we are fain."
"I am sending you to negotiate with the giants, Evan," said Voldemort, sounding almost bored. "See that you do not fail me. They still think that I am their vates, and should listen to you most eagerly."
Rosier inclined his head to Voldemort and stood, recovering faster than Harry thought was normal. He smiled at Bellatrix. "My Lord. Our Lady of Pain," he said. "Until next time." He bowed and limped off into the woods.
"What now, my lord?" Bellatrix's voice was unhappy, resigned, and she sat down in front of the throne, Nagini shifting out of the way with a hiss of protest.
"Now," said Voldemort, "we wait on the sun." He laughed, a sound that Harry had no desire to hear, ever again. "And be glad that a certain troublesome one, bound by blood to you, who was interfering with me and niggling at me, has been laid to rest."
He started laughing again, and the pain in Harry's scar grew so overwhelming that he woke with a gasp.
He found himself still in Draco's bed, fallen asleep half-curled around his friend. He backed away, slowly, and Draco mumbled drowsily and rolled over, clutching the potions book. Harry swallowed, and put a hand to his forehead. It came away covered with blood, of course.
I will send a message to Narcissa, he decided, as he padded off towards the loo. This weekend, we must go to Grimmauld Place, and find Regulus, if we can.
"Will you take us with you?"
Harry jumped and looked down at a movement near his feet. The Many—or one snake of the Many; Harry suspected it was not the same one that had accompanied him so far, since that one had grown tired of the distance from its hive and gone back to the Forest—lifted its head and regarded him with bright eyes. Harry knelt so that it could slither up his arm. The small tongue flicked out and tasted the blood on his scar, a sensation that made Harry shiver.
"If you want to go," he whispered, and set about washing the blood off his forehead. His face was pale and solemn in the mirror, weary and streaked with fatigue and pain.
I could use some help, really. Voldemort coming back to Britain. And the giants! What do I do about them? And what is this nonsense he keeps babbling about the sun?
Harry fought the temptation to put his head against the wall and just keep it there for a while. Sometimes, he wondered why he should have to be the one to do this.
Because there is no one else, he told himself sternly, and straightened. Not yet, at least. Connor might be the prophesied defeater of Voldemort, but no one else is vates, and no one else receives warnings of the Dark Lord like you do.
Grow up, Harry. Stand firm. This is necessary, it always has been, and accepting help isn't the same thing as abandoning your duty.
Harry washed the blood off his scar, brushed his teeth, and went to bed.