This chapter introduces a bunch of new OC's at once. Sorry about that. Hopefully the intermission which follows, which is in their viewpoints, should make them clearer.
Chapter Five: Change As the Winds ChangeThis room was not one that Harry had seen before, or perhaps it only looked different with so many people crowded into it. Harry didn't have time to stare at the walls and figure that out. He was much too busy studying the people in the room with him, seated just far enough apart around a delicately carved wooden table to avoid crowding, and deciding whom he knew and whom he didn't.
Hawthorn Parkinson was sitting on the side nearest him, her head turned to study him with intense hazel eyes. Harry knew part of their ferocity came from the impending full moon, and perhaps another part from seeing Henrietta Bulstrode behind him, but he feared at least half came from those memories she would have read. He dipped his head and looked carefully away from her.
The foot of the table, including one empty chair they must have left for Henrietta, was a mass of unfamiliar wizards and witches. Harry made out two other women, one of them marked by a springing mass of red curls, and four men, all of them dark-haired and more or less calm. Next to one of the men sat a dark-haired boy, bolt upright and staring at Harry with undisguised fascination. A slender, pretty girl had a chair behind another of the wizards, and close by the empty one was a girl at least a few years younger than Harry, her hands clasped together and her eyes on the floor. Harry nodded once to all of them in a general introduction, knowing he would have to meet them individually in a few short moments, and turned his attention to the other side of the table.
Oddly, it was a gaze from that direction that nearly broke him. Oh, not Lucius Malfoy, and not Arabella Zabini's solemn look, and not Adalrico or Millicent. It was Elfrida Bulstrode, cradling a small shape on her arm that could only be her daughter Marian. Her eyes held a world of compassion that implored Harry to relax without making him feel as if she pitied him.
Harry looked quickly away. He didn't want to seem rude, but, on the other hand, the last thing the alliance could afford was to have him break down because he badly wanted to talk to Millicent's mother alone.
"I am very pleased to meet you," he said, lifting his chin. "My name is Harry Potter, as you will know by now, elder son of Lily and James Potter, elder brother of the Boy-Who-Lived."
"Son of a neglectful pureblood and abusive Muggleborn," said Henrietta, just loud enough that it was hard to tell who had heard, as she slid past him to resume her seat at the bottom of the table.
Harry had been prepared for her to say something like that, though—he had her measure now—and simply inclined his head, perhaps responding to her comment and perhaps not. "Some of you I know already," he said, and turned to smile at Hawthorn. "Mrs. Parkinson. I hope you have rested well in the wake of recent events?" He wasn't sure how many people here would know about the death of her husband Dragonsbane, and he wasn't about to expose it if she'd chosen to hide it.
"I have, Mr. Potter," said Hawthorn. She had long since started calling him by his first name, but that was in front of more trusted allies than these, Harry thought. Right now, she would not appear to weaken him by calling him anything familiar. "Thank you for asking."
Harry nodded, and then looked over at the Bulstrodes, deliberately meeting Adalrico's eyes and not Elfrida's. No one would think that strange. Elfrida was puellaris, devoted to the protection of her children, and deliberately supposed to appear timid and meek in public. Certainly the other allies would not expect her to take the lead in anything that happened today. "Mr. Bulstrode. I hope that I find you, your wife, and your heirs well?" It was no exposure to say that Marian was a magical heir, either; she must be, or she would not have been here.
"You do." Adalrico was staring searchingly at him, as if looking for weakness. Harry raised his chin. Search as you will, sir, you will not find it here. I am determined that I will not let you down.
"Good," said Harry, and moved on to Arabella Zabini. She had her hair done up in bells to prove that she was a Songstress—or so Harry assumed, since the bells were both larger and made of richer metal than he had seen her wear at Walpurgis Night or the Halloween meeting last year. "Mrs. Zabini. I was saddened to hear about the raid on your home. Are you any closer to catching the perpetrators?"
"I do believe that I know who they were." Arabella gave him a charming smile. She was a beautiful woman, though Harry wondered how anyone could be lovely enough to snare the seven husbands she'd poisoned. "And my vengeance will take them when I am ready. Thank you for asking, Mr. Potter."
Harry nodded at Lucius, and then turned to face the wizards and witches he did not know. "Sirs, madams," he said. "Mrs. Malfoy tells me that you are willing to ally with me. But I know only names on a list, and very little about who you are and what you stand for as yet. If you would introduce yourselves?"
He turned to the wizard sitting closest to Lucius, who stood up at once, with a faint smile on his face as he examined Harry. His hair, eyes, and skin were all dark enough to suggest some ancestry not entirely British, which Harry had confirmed as soon as he murmured, "Thomas Rhangnara." He glanced at the girl sitting behind his chair. "And this is my daughter and magical heir, Rose."
The girl curtsied. Harry cocked his head at Thomas, whom he knew was the descendant of an Indian wizard who'd fled to Britain more than a hundred years ago. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, I was unaware that your family claimed any particular allegiance to Light or Dark. What changed your mind?"
"I've spent most of my life trying to understand the difference between Light and Dark," said Thomas simply. He still hadn't stopped smiling, though his smile had a dreamy and more thoughtful edge to it now, as though he were thinking of something other than just the conversation in front of him. "And now I've finally decided that the Dark makes more sense." He turned his hands up in front of him, as though he were surrendering, but the glow in his eyes said that wasn't it. "Did you know that Merlin most probably united Dark and Light qualities within himself? And that no formal philosophy of the Light was formed until the middle of the thirteenth century, with no formal philosophy of the Dark coming until later? That—"
"Father," said Rose Rhangnara, laying a hand on her father's arm and giving Harry a look somewhere between embarrassed and apologetic. "I don't think that Mr. Potter wants to hear all about your studies. He has other people to meet, after all."
Thomas blinked, then smiled at his daughter, a more "present" smile than the other one he'd used. "You're right, of course, my dear. Sorry," he added to Harry, and then sat down.
Harry was breathing more easily than he'd expected as he turned to the next wizard in line. He thought he might like Thomas Rhangnara, though admittedly, the man might be the kind of distant philosopher who valued lives less than books, and that could cause problems.
This next wizard, from the white streaks in his dark hair, was older, enough that he evidently felt he could nod to Harry with a slightly condescending look on his face, and didn't need to rise. "Edward Burke," he declared, then paused as though to let Harry make the obvious connection. When Harry said nothing in the next moment, Burke prompted, "Grandson of Herbert Burke, who married Belvina Black."
Harry made a slight "ah" noise under his breath, even as Regulus sneered in his head. Of course he wants to claim some connection. The Burke family is hardly distinguished enough on its own to merit anyone's notice.
Who's being a proud pureblood now? Harry snapped back at him, and nodded slightly to Burke. "We're honored to have you, sir. You are Declared Dark, I take it, and eager to renew your participation in politics?" One thing he knew for certain was that Burke was no Death Eater. He didn't get the slight tingling buzz in his scar that he did when he focused on Adalrico, Hawthorn, or Lucius.
"Yes." Burke frowned at Harry a bit. "And I have been most unfairly ignored, I must say. I was an Auror until Scrimgeour sacked me for using a bit of Dark magic on a prisoner. And until young Narcissa remembered me, I thought I would end my days in isolation. Really, anyone who approaches me and has the benefit of my experience would be gaining an invaluable ally, but not many people in the last twenty years have realized that."
Very proud, Harry noted, in the corner of his brain where he remembered things like that. Handle him with care. "I shall remember that, sir, and I'm sure that we'll call on you for many things as the months go by," he said smoothly, and then faced the young witch who sat at Burke's side even as he nodded in satisfaction.
This witch grinned at him. She had golden curls favored with the slightest touch of red, and incisive blue eyes, and a lion pendant hanging around her neck. It wasn't until Harry concentrated on it that he realized the pendant was a glamour. It glittered as realistically as it should have, were it really made of silver, but it passed through the top of her shirt instead of bouncing off it as she stood and made him a little impromptu curtsey.
"My name is Honoria Pemberley," she said. "And because I think that you must be tired of pompous speeches already—it doesn't take much to get me tired of them, I know—I'll just tell you everything that you need to know about me in short bursts." She rattled the next words off, as an illusion of a crown came into being above her head and then melted away in shimmers of gold and silver that became dancing serpents on her shoulders. "Gryffindor when I was in Hogwarts. Half-blood; my mother is a Muggle." Burke gave her a startled look and edged an inch away from her, which Honoria ignored merrily, though one of her illusory snakes stuck its tongue out at him. "Experienced illusionist, as you can see. Declared Dark because someone told me once that no haflbloods were ever Dark, which is just stupid."
Harry stared hard at her. She caught his eye and flicked her own gaze towards his left hand. Yes, her face said, she knew, but she wouldn't tell anyone. Unless it would be more fun that way, maybe.
Harry nodded cautiously back. He wasn't sure how far he could trust her.
"Tybalt Starrise sends his regards, by the way," Honoria added. "He's one of my best friends."
That only increased Harry's unease. Tybalt Starrise was not the…steadiest wizard in the world. Still, this meant that Honoria had connections with both Light and Dark families. That could make her useful to the alliance in the future.
"Welcome, Madam Pemberley," he began.
"Call me Honoria, please," said Honoria, and flicked her hair over her shoulder, at the same moment as two small bears stood up on her shoulders to dance. "Madam Pemberley is my mother, and I wish her joy of the title."
There's a story there, I think, Harry mused, but nodded. "Welcome, Honoria. I hope you find plenty of entertainment here," he couldn't help adding.
She grinned at him and sat down again. Henrietta was next, but she only nodded coolly to the girl sitting behind her.
"Mr. Potter and I have already met," she said, managing to make it sound like a special privilege instead of something she had arranged. "But he has not met my daughter Edith, my magical heir. Edith, stand up and curtsey for Mr. Potter."
Her voice held the snap of someone expecting instant obedience, and Edith did indeed obey at once, trembling a little as she stood. Harry didn't think she could be more than thirteen, and he was certain that she must attend Durmstrang or Beauxbatons, since he'd never seen her at Hogwarts. Her eyes rose to his face, huge and wondering, and then slid away again as her mother commanded her back to her chair with a subtle pinch to her elbow.
Harry was already certain, as Henrietta Bulstrode sat down and focused on him, that he did not like her very much.
He moved past the awkward moment by looking at the thin and very neatly attired wizard next to Henrietta. He just bowed his head an inch, without bothering to stand up. His face had a cultivated bored expression. His eyes were green, Harry thought, or that shade of blue that could shift to green with the right light. His hair was dark and bound with a curling serpent of silver.
"Mortimer Belville," he said, and then paused, as though that should be enough for Harry to know who he was.
Harry simply nodded, not revealing his private thoughts. His mother had told him of the Belvilles, a mostly older family, with Mortimer their only heir. Mortimer was Snape's age, and had never married or joined. He seemed to like the thought of playing around and teasing his older relatives with the prospect of the family line not continuing until he was in his fifties or so.
He had also fled the country during Voldemort's War—no, during the First War, Harry supposed he must call it now. Taken no stand at all, and exhibited neither courage of conviction nor of principle. Harry supposed he could think of him as sensible, but he didn't think he could trust him to stand firm.
Well, needs must when the nundu comes prowling, he thought, and nodded to Mortimer. "Mr. Belville," he said. "I have heard much about you." He left Mortimer looking pleased, though Henrietta appeared an inch from laughter, and focused on the red-haired witch.
She stood and gave him a different bow than the others, her hands clasped in front of her as though cupping a bowl of water. "Ignifer Apollonis."
Harry knew that he blinked and stared, but he couldn't really help that, either. It wasn't every day that he met someone his mother had used to frighten him with childhood tales of—someone who had been reared Light, in one of the oldest and proudest pureblood families of Ireland, and then turned to the Dark when she was nearly twenty.
Ignifer's hair was red, her eyes golden, and her English very slightly accented with something that didn't sound like the usual Irish lilt. Harry supposed there was some truth to the idea that the Apollonis children were taught to speak Latin before any other language. She stood very straight when she recovered from the bow, and Harry could see no trace of any sense of humor in her face. He supposed she was another person he would have to handle carefully.
He thought for a moment, and found the greeting words that were used for a powerful, potentially unfriendly Dark witch met under unfamiliar circumstances. "May you have dark water and stones, my lady, to quench your thirst and test your strength."
The faintest of smiles crossed Ignifer's face, like sunlight in midwinter. "Thank you, Mr. Potter," she said, and then sat back down, evidently pleased that he took her as a Dark witch, without pausing to question her Light heritage. Harry doubted the impression would last long, though. Ignifer struck him as too inflexible for that.
"Mr. Potter."
Harry turned to look at the last wizard, the one with the boy behind him. He had dark hair and eyes that looked familiar, though Harry couldn't say why until the wizard rose, bowed, and said, "Charles Rosier-Henlin." He did look something like a saner Evan Rosier.
Charles straightened back up and locked eyes with Harry in an intense, testing gaze. Harry felt the brush of Legilimency, and bounced it off without thought, using a milder Occlumency shield than usual, just so that he wouldn't bruise his ally's mind. Charles blinked, but turned without explanation to introduce his son. "This is Owen, the elder of my twin boys and my magical heir. You wouldn't have met him. He's attended Durmstrang all his life."
Owen nodded to Harry. Harry thought he was a year older than himself, but he too obviously had to subdue awe. "Heard about what you did in the Triwizard Tournament," he murmured. "Wonderful, Potter." He looked away again the moment he could politely do so.
Harry hoped he hid a frown. He didn't want the kind of constant, subtle testing from his allies that Henrietta seemed prone to, but neither did he want cringing or fawning. Why they couldn't simply be equals, true allies, was beyond him. His own power was set off by his youth and the stories circulating about him right now.
"Welcome, sir," he told Charles. "And I hope to know your son better. Do you play Quidditch, Owen?"
That brought Owen's head up in startlement. "Beater," he said, without thinking about it, and then flushed. "You?"
"Seeker for Slytherin," said Harry, with an encouraging smile. "Though probably not half as good as Viktor Krum. I saw him at the Quidditch World Cup this past summer."
Owen relaxed a bit, and nodded. "And doesn't he know that he's good! I'm almost glad that he'll be gone this year, even though it'll make our trainers harder on us all, so that we can have another player as good as he was."
Harry clucked his tongue. "I know all about that," he said, thinking of the way Snape had encouraged him to play Quidditch, and win, against his will. These memories were distant enough that they didn't cause him as much pain. "Sometimes we forget it's supposed to be a team effort, I think, with all the focus on individual positions."
"Funny," Henrietta murmured, a touch of poison in her voice. "I hadn't thought that we came here to discuss Quidditch."
Owen flushed, and Charles snapped his head to the side to glare, but Harry was actually grateful that she'd interrupted there rather than elsewhere in the conversation. It made a graceful segue. "No," he said equably. "But we came here to discuss a team effort, Mrs. Bulstrode, I think."
He turned and took the chair at the head of the table, beside Narcissa, silently calling for Fawkes as he did so. The phoenix alighted on his shoulder with a croon a moment later, and Harry scratched his feathers, smiling as he noticed that Burke, Henrietta, and Mortimer had all jumped, but that Owen was staring at the phoenix in fascination, and Honoria in delight. A moment later, the illusions around Honoria began to swarm with red and gold flames just the same color as Fawkes's feathers. Fawkes squawked at her, and Honoria opened her mouth in a soundless laugh.
"We came here to discuss our alliance," said Harry, raising his brows and looking from face to face as he waited for an interruption. He found none ready and waiting, so he nodded. "We may as well do so."
It was getting harder and harder for Hawthorn to sit on her anger and worry.
Since she had read the memories Snape had sent her, she had wanted to kill something. The urge only grew worse as the full moon came nearer, and the wolf inside her joined its voice to hers, whispering, urging her on a quest for blood and raw flesh, preferably still screaming as it went down her throat.
Hawthorn wanted to rip apart Harry's parents for what they had done, and Headmaster Dumbledore for what he had done, and anyone who had had anything to do with the concealment of this, and she had believed that she knew what rage was when she felt this emotion.
But no, she hadn't. She didn't know what rage was until she watched Harry walk into the meeting room at Malfoy Manor and confront his new allies.
She could only stare and murmur a few inconsequential words when Harry greeted her. She was nearly sick with the scents of pain and exhaustion and panic swarming around him. Sometimes, having a werewolf's nose was a blessing, but not this time. She knew exactly how much Harry needed to rest, and it was distracting her during a very important time.
That wouldn't do.
By the time Harry had worked his way around the table to Honoria Pemberley, Hawthorn had got control of herself back, but that just meant she had more room to focus on Henrietta Bulstrode and snarl a bit. She didn't trust the woman. She wasn't sure why Narcissa had included her in her recruitment efforts, save that she was too powerful to be ignored.
Calm, Hawthorn ordered herself sharply. You're thinking and reacting as though Harry were your own son, instead of your leader. He needs your support now, not you snapping out of your chair because you're angry every time someone acts like the witch or wizard you know they are. That means that if Henrietta challenges his authority, you come up with plans to help deflect her challenges.
But it was hard, it was very hard, to watch Harry take his place and know how badly he needed help—and that he couldn't show any of that, lest someone should take advantage of it and use it to harm him.
Perhaps this is what was missing from my alliance with Voldemort. The thought darted unexpectedly into Hawthorn's head as the phoenix appeared on his shoulder and Harry began to speak. This feeling of actual protectiveness, love, comradeship. I know that we told Harry the wizards and witches who follow and protect someone with Lord-level power are supposed to be companions, not just the mindless lackeys Voldemort made the Death Eaters into, but I didn't know I would ever feel this so strongly.
She found some comfort in that idea, though it would have been easier without the wolf in her head snarling blood, kill, murder them, bite them…
Harry could see no better way to start than with honesty. There were some things that he would need to conceal, of course, but what he could tell, he should. That way, any of his new allies—he couldn't help flicking a glance at Henrietta—who were dissatisfied with the way he saw things could abandon him now, without claiming they'd been deceived and becoming traitors.
"First of all, just to clear up any misconceptions, I am not going to become a Dark Lord," he began. "I'm not going to Declare for either Dark or Light, and I'm not going to become a Lord. And I am fighting Voldemort." Most everybody still flinched at the name, save the people who had been Death Eaters. Harry noted that. He wouldn't want to use it too often, but as a weapon to throw people off balance, it could be useful. "If you do need to follow a Lord, or you entertain some hope of compromise with that madman, then you need to leave the alliance."
He paused. No one made for the door. Of course, these were Dark wizards and witches accustomed to seeking advantage wherever they could find it, with perhaps the exception of Ignifer. He was not going to flush them out so easily.
So he went for another tactic.
"I don't intend for my war against Voldemort to be reactive, either," he said quietly. "I will carry this on the offensive." He was getting stares even from his long-time allies for that declaration, Harry knew. He supposed it came from their knowledge of his past and their assuming he would be preoccupied in dealing with that. Well, they were wrong. He would not let the people who were so eager to make him a victim define him that way. "I have an advantage that will allow me to do that."
He waited a moment, wondering who would ask it.
"What is that advantage?"
Arabella Zabini. Interesting. Perhaps she does not trust me completely yet, despite what Narcissa told me yesterday about her allying herself more firmly with me. Harry chose his words very carefully. This was the most dangerous part of what he had to do, and if he became caught in an obvious lie, his allies would distrust him at best. "I have a—connection with one of the Death Eaters who has left the Dark Lord's ranks," he said. "Evan Rosier is his name."
Charles leaned forward sharply. "You cannot trust my cousin," he said. "He is completely mad."
"Mad, to be sure," Harry agreed, "but it is a riddling madness. He scatters clues in the letters he writes me, and he cannot stop writing me those letters. It's a sort of compulsion with him. He did warn me, outright, about what would happen in the graveyard where the Dark Lord resurrected himself, and even told me the nature of the magic he would use. I did not interpret another of his hints the right way, or I should have been forewarned."
"What good are clues that you can only know about later?" Henrietta Bulstrode asked, her voice a drawl, her eyes half-lidded. "Unless you bring the letters to your elders, of course, and have them interpret them for you."
Harry held onto his temper. It was easier than Henrietta seemed to assume it was, from the way she taunted him, and drew attention to something obvious—his age. She did not consider him a very formidable opponent yet.
Shall I disillusion her?
"He has left the Dark Lord entirely now," said Harry. "He turned in the graveyard, and tried to kill Bellatrix Lestrange. He didn't succeed—"
"Nor will he," said Narcissa. "Bellatrix is mine."
She wasn't making that declaration so much to him, Harry surmised, as to the rest of the wizards and witches. Glances flitted from face to face, and heads were bowed, and Harry simply nodded to Narcissa and continued in the middle of that glancing and thinking.
"He has sent me another letter since then. That one enabled me to prevent the death of Rufus Scrimgeour."
"That is something we really must settle, Potter." Burke, unsurprisingly, frowning at him. "Why are you on such good terms with the Minister? He's a Light wizard, and you know they're all treacherous bastards—"
"Who are, nonetheless, grateful to the people who help engineer their elections." Harry raised his eyebrows. Time to move a bit on the offensive, I think. "Or did you not read the papers last year, Mr. Burke? After Minister Fudge kidnapped me, Rufus Scrimgeour was one of those who supported me throughout Fudge's trial and the trial of my guardian. Scrimgeour knows that he owes a good deal of his success to the way I testified at the first trial. And if he has done me favors in return—well. They weren't necessarily favors that strict Light wizards would approve of." Harry shrugged his shoulders. "I don't think you'll have to worry about Scrimgeour. The newspapers would have told you that."
Honoria laughed outright at the expression on Burke's face. Ignifer, though, shifted, and drew Harry's eye to her before she spoke.
"And what about what the newspapers are saying now, Potter?" she challenged. "About your abuse by your parents, and Albus Dumbledore? Can we trust you to bear through all of that just as casually?"
At least she's direct, Harry thought, and reached deeply into the reserves of his will and strength, using them to paint an indifferent, almost bored expression on his face. The best thing he could do was to show that this didn't matter to him. In fact, it would be good practice for the dancing he intended to do around Madam Shiverwood and others who might question him. Show no marks, and it would frustrate anyone who looked for wounds.
"Of course," he said. "The timing is damn inconvenient. I could have wished my guardian would wait. I have a war to fight." He shrugged, while Ignifer stared hard at him, and met her gaze for gaze. "I consider myself a warrior first, as well as vates for the magical creatures," he said quietly. "But since he didn't wait, then I will handle it. I have a chance now, finally, to show everyone that I'm not just an appendage to my brother, the Boy-Who-Lived, and not just prone to occasional newsworthy events, either. The former Minister took me for a child last year. That was his mistake." He lifted his eyebrows and flicked a glance up the table. "I would hate to see anyone here make the same mistake."
Thomas Rhangnara nodded as if impressed. Arabella Zabini lowered her eyes, frowning thoughtfully. Edward Burke pursed his lips. Most of the others sat immobile and blank-faced.
Not Ignifer, of course.
"You're an abused child, Potter," she insisted. "You must be aware that most of the wizarding world will see you that way."
Harry forced himself to smile. He hoped that it wasn't too bright, wasn't too brittle, but he could only hold onto it and hope. It was beyond him right now to make absolutely sure that his smile was convincing, and he didn't know the minds of his new allies well enough yet to realize what would allay their doubts beyond another murmur.
"They'll see me that way," he said, his voice just above a breath. He could sound more confident like that, especially when he forced them to lean closer to hear him. "That doesn't mean I'm really that way, does it? Someone can think a diamond a piece of quartz all he likes, but that doesn't mean the diamond will shatter when he puts it under a compression spell."
Ignifer subsided, apparently satisfied. Adalrico Bulstrode immediately took up the thread of the same conversation, though, as if he wasn't.
"Potter," he said hesitantly, "you must know that we, at least, would follow you down much further than you have gone so far." He glanced at the rest of the table, and explained, "Potter saved my wife's life and power when she drained herself to make Marian her magical heir." He turned back, and Harry forced himself to meet that dark, burning gaze. It was harder than with any of the others, since he knew one of the flames behind that gaze was frantic concern. "But that means that you must be strong enough to lead. Are you truly that way?"
Harry curled his lip. I told you, look as hard as you can, and you will find no weakness in me. "I am, Mr. Bulstrode," he said, keeping his voice curt. "The war is the important thing to me, and the revolution I intend to introduce once I have enough consent from both wizards and magical creatures to make it a reality. The future, not the past. I have no intention of looking back until I must, and then I'll deal with the husks of my parents and the Headmaster, and go on."
He concentrated on Adalrico's face until he nodded, reluctantly, and then looked around the table again. "Does anyone else have anything to say?"
No one apparently did. Harry passed on to outlining the first of his plans against Voldemort.
"The Black estates are ours, thanks to an ally whom most of you will eventually meet—"
Hinting at me? Regulus mocked him. Refusing to talk about me outright? I'm hurt.
Shut it, you. "And I plan to use at least a few of them as bases in striking against Voldemort. The magical weapons within them will also prove useful, once we can train in them. I believe that we can even lure Voldemort into traps using the rumors of them. If he thinks that anything can harm him, he will want to capture or neutralize it. We must not underestimate the power of rumor…"
Hawthorn shook her head as Harry went on outlining his plans. They sounded good. Of course they did. The boy had obviously thought about this, and he did have some natural touch of leadership when he chose to apply himself. He led best when no one was reminding him that he led.
But she had seen the gazes that passed from eye to eye, even as Harry engaged in his staring contest with Adalrico, and she knew that not everyone was as convinced as he would like them to be. For that matter, Hawthorn herself did not think the trials were a mere inconvenience to him.
We are not following simply an abused child, she thought, as she studied Harry and compared his confident words to the scent of pain and turmoil flooding from him. But we are following a leader who will not allow himself to rest. I very much fear that he will run himself to death before he attends to his own wounds. Someone must make him face that truth.
I am not sure who could.
Hawthorn sighed, and returned to listening to her wolf. At least bloodthirsty thoughts of vengeance filled her with more cheer than the fact that Harry was bleeding and would not stop for bandages.