Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter!

And here is an intermission as long as a regular chapter. Bloody OC's.

Intermission: Four Wizards, Three Witches

The clash of skillets greeted Charles as he stepped through his fireplace with Owen beside him. He wasn't surprised. Medusa would have tried to cook while they were gone, because she had the odd idea—acquired from one of the thousands of books upstairs—that it was the duty of a pureblood wife to cook dinner for her husband when he went to a formal alliance meeting.

And then, of course, Michael, who despised his mother's cooking, would have crept into the kitchen and stolen one of her pans, so that she would be forced to leave it up to the house elves.

Charles held a finger to his lips, which Owen understood. He grinned, then followed silently behind his father as Charles went to the door of the kitchen and peered around the wall.

Michael and Medusa, sure enough, were dueling with their skillets while all around them agitated house elves tried to keep pots from boiling over and half a dozen different baking projects from burning. Michael laughed openly, his dark hair falling across his eyes as he leaped and dodged. He was identical to Owen, but, maybe because the weight of responsibility on him had been less, far merrier.

Charles had to smile as he looked at his wife. She would hate the reasons behind the expression, but there it was; it was the prerogative of spouses to hate each other sometimes. The woman who had been Medusa Bulstrode when he married her still had laugh lines around her mouth and worry lines around her eyes, though right now her heavy brown hair was far more tangled than it had been on their wedding day. She darted forward, swinging her skillet at her son's knees, and, as Michael dodged to block her, caught him a smart rap on the shoulder.

"Owww, Mum!" Michael complained, even as his arm went numb and he dropped his weapon.

Medusa danced in triumph, turning to say something sharp to him—doubtless about how he should respect his mother more—and then caught sight of Charles and Owen. In an instant, she'd handed her own skillet to an elf and advanced to kiss Charles on the cheek, trying hard to calm the flush on her face into something more demure. "Greetings, dear," she said. "I trust the meeting went well?"

Just this once, Charles didn't want her to put on the mask. He held her shoulders, kissed her until he heard his sons make gagging noises, and then shooed them away. Medusa watched him questioningly, the more so when he led her out of the kitchens. "The cake—" she started.

"Was going to burn anyway," Charles finished.

She crossed her arms and huffed at him.

Charles embraced her in silence, letting his head rest on her shoulder. Medusa went quite still for a moment, then stroked his hair. This was why they had the kind of marriage they did, Charles thought, relaxing from more than the touch. They complemented each other, and they did it very well. The moment he arrived home agitated, Medusa would know, and seek to calm him. And when her false worry gave way to the real thing, then he took her in his arms and rocked her until she could stand on her own.

"More real than you expected?" Medusa whispered, standing on her toes so she could speak directly into his ear.

And that was it, that was exactly it, though Charles hadn't known it until she said the words. "Yes," he said, his arms tightening fiercely around her. "Yes, it was."

Medusa didn't question him again, but stood and let him hold her, while Charles's mind sped intensely over everything he'd seen for the last few hours.

Oh, he'd agreed to the alliance with Narcissa Malfoy thinking he knew what it meant. He had no reason to be fond of the Dark Lord. He'd spent all the Rosier-Henlin money donated to his cause in the last war with a reckless lack of care, and he'd killed one of Charles's own nephews in a raid at the height of his power, when he regularly underestimated the readiness of the Aurors. Dumbledore wasn't attractive either, though, and any third way would have sounded like bell music to his ears.

And then had come the stories about Harry Potter being abused. Charles had blinked, but still thought he knew what it meant—that the alliance would just be a little harder, that was all, and the adults would guide the boy, use him more as a figurehead than anything else.

And then, today, he'd actually met Potter.

Such strength and such fragility, Charles thought, as Medusa guided him to a chair and sat him down in it, beginning to massage his shoulders. He'd seen the pallor and the dark circles beneath the boy's eyes, both indicating a lack of rest. He'd seen, in many ways, the fourteen-year-old wizard he'd expected. And Potter had made mistakes that he must not have known he was making, constant small missteps that would have been impossible if he knew more about the families and the backgrounds of his allies. He did need guidance and advice.

But the magic.

Charles had been near Albus Dumbledore only a few times—though one of those times had convinced him not to send Owen and Michael to Hogwarts—and the Dark Lord only once. He had forgotten, or perhaps just never known, the sheer intoxicating effect that power had when it was pouring off a Lord-level wizard, rotating around him in a visible aura. Charles's family saw such power as lightning, and he'd kept quiet throughout most of the meeting, not wanting to embarrass himself by revealing his distraction. Harry Potter in the midst of a lightning storm took some getting used to.

And he was an Occlumens! That, Narcissa Malfoy had not reported; Charles wondered if she had known. He hadn't followed up on Charles's admittedly feeble Legilimency. Perhaps he was too tired.

Perhaps he had no need to. The phoenix on his shoulder would attest to that, and so would the confident way he laid out his plans.

And so Charles was left following an ally who could apparently fall any moment, but promised utter glory and rewards if he succeeded.

This is so real, he thought, as he laid his head on his wife's shoulder again. So very real, and I wonder more than ever now what the Potters were thinking, to turn such power against them.

Mortimer Belville settled his cloak carefully around his shoulders before he strode into Belville Hall. Portraits of his ancestors, and not the living things, sat around the room, but they would like to see him looking his best.

Murmurs of appreciation followed him as he made his way through the room, and Mortimer inclined his head, looking neither to the right nor the left. It didn't do to take too much notice of portraits; it only encouraged them. For the matter, he could say the same thing about his parents and grandparents.

He found several letters from said distinguished oldsters waiting on the table when he arrived in his private study, accompanied by flustered owls. Mortimer rolled his eyes and levitated treats to them from a distance. He didn't want to chance getting feathers and pellets on his clothes.

He sipped his wine as he read through the letters at a leisurely pace. They were all the usual bothersome notes, offering to introduce him to this young witch or that slightly older wizard. A blood child or a magical heir, that was what the family wanted. Preferably several of them, and they wanted them right now.

Mortimer snorted and let his head fall against the back of his chair, flexing his fingers around the wineglass. Why did none of them ever realize that he wasn't interested, not yet? Of course he had every intention of doing his duty by Belville when it was time. But he was only thirty-five, and a pureblood wizard. He had decades left to live, unless he did something stupid first.

And the one thing I am not is stupid.

Lazily, he levitated the history of Merlin he'd been reading last night over to himself and scanned the pages, smiling as many of the names on them rang bells of recognition in his memory. Most wizards would not even know who one of these people were, let alone twenty. Not even most of his fellow Ravenclaws in Hogwarts would have known. Mortimer delicately licked his finger and turned the page, enjoying the smell of ink and wine and silence.

All of them think they can control me. Even Potter does. I saw that from the way he looked at me. He thinks me small, of no account, just a tool for his ends. Ha, I say, and ha again.

I control them, not the other way around. Intelligence always wins, and I am more intelligent than anyone there.

Cradled by his confidence in how bloody brilliant he was, Mortimer settled in for a long afternoon of reading.

Too cold here. Too lifeless. Too without the noise and the light and the warmth that Edward Burke was already coming to think of as a necessary component of his life, ever since little Narcissa Malfoy had shown up at his door with just the right combination of admiration and judicious flattery to get him to join this alliance she was setting up.

Edward liked being flattered, of course he did, but that didn't mean he was just going to give in to it. One didn't do that, especially someone who was a son of the illustrious Burke line and a rightful heir, if he'd only chosen to press the claim, of the Black family.

He had to be courted. He had to be won. And someone with ties to Minister Scrimgeour, of all people—wasn't that a blasted surprise, and just like a young wizard, all power and no sense?—would have to work harder than usual to win his support.

Edward stamped his foot and snapped his fingers irritably, so that the house elves would get into his bedroom and light the damned fire already. Honestly, sometimes he felt as though the disrespect which infested the outside world and made it an uncomfortable place for him to live had infested his own home. There was no other explanation as to why Tid couldn't have the fire in his bedroom already lit when he returned from an important meeting like this one.

He took his favorite chair, affecting to take no notice of Tid as the elf crept in and performed his duties. In reality, of course, he watched every movement, and noticed how long it took, and compared it to the quicker motions of the Malfoy house elves. More observant than most people thought him, that was Edward Burke all over.

And more able to look out for his own advantage, too.

Oh, he knew why Narcissa had approached him. She wanted the pressure of his family name, of one more Dark wizard making the alliance look attractive to other Dark wizards. He was a tool. He knew it.

Edward didn't mind. Or, well, he minded, but he knew better than to show he minded. He could wait. Slytherins were patient. Burkes were patient. Blacks were—well, not patient, but they could be ingenious.

He noticed everything. He'd noticed the way that Narcissa had seated him by the halfblood Pemberley girl, a subtle insult, when she knew that he couldn't abide Muggles or those polluted by their dirty blood. He'd noticed the way that most of the wizards around the table affected not to look at him. Intimidated, they were, by the thought of matching wits or stares with a scion of the Black and Burke lines.

He'd noticed when Potter didn't dare to make him stand up and bow like the others. He had the advantage there, no doubt about it.

And why shouldn't he? The Potter boy was halfblood, and everyone who was anyone knew that dirty blood clouded and dirtied the thoughts as much as it did one's ability to perform magic. Edward listened, and oh, Edward knew. He had heard the whispers. Unnatural, they said about his magic, and Edward was inclined to agree. No son of a Mudblood had any business having that much magic.

So, old Edward listened, and old Edward noticed, and old Edward knew. The Potter boy wasn't really anybody. He was a convenient puppet that the Malfoys had found. Most likely Lucius, the sly old crow. And they were manipulating him with just the right degree of incredulity. A fourteen-year-old wizard with Lord-level power, who put on a light show at Walpurgis? It sounded just ridiculous enough to be true. Merlin knew there were Dark wizards out there who would snatch at any chance that would get them clear of either Light wizards or Voldemort's power.

But such traps couldn't catch a wizard of Edward Burke's strength or discernment. He would watch a little longer, but he was already sure where his advantage lay with this alliance, and unless he uncovered something stunning about Potter, then he wouldn't hesitate to employ it.

A vates is a wizard poised between Dark and Light, one committed to freedom and unbinding. A vates is in an unusual position, because, while he must have enough power to declare himself a Lord, he must never do so. A Lord is committed to leadership, to ruling and governance, and may, of course, use compulsion for the ends of either the Dark or the Light. A vates must be committed to leadership only if it is the best course for those he would lead, and must never use compulsion at all. There has never been a vates in history who freed more than a few magical species, because of the difficulty of staying on this path…

Thomas Rhangnara pushed the book gently away from him, aware that excitement was making his hands, and thus the pages, vibrate. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, hooking his hands together behind his head, while fireworks burst in his mind.

That would be something, wouldn't it? Potter apparently embodies a philosophical problem come to life. I'm not sure I believe that he can tread this path, because no one ever has, but to see him tread it…

Thomas shot to his feet and paced around the library. At times like this, when he was so excited, he just couldn't sit still. He had been like this in the last days before he declared for Dark, too, because then the arguments were all starting to make sense, and rushing together in his head towards some magnificent conclusion. He almost felt the same way now, though of course it was different; now, he hadn't studied for several years to get to this same place.

But there was a wizard walking around in the world who might be a vates.

How exciting was that?

Thomas knew he couldn't stay in the library any longer. He had to share this with somebody. He burst out of the library, nearly knocking down his eldest daughter, Melissa, who had just emerged from her bedroom. She steadied herself with a little cry, but her face softened the moment she looked up at him. Thomas smiled back at her. His children all knew his expression when he'd just learned something new, and all of them were perfectly willing to listen to him, too. Thomas often felt blessed, but never more so than when Robert, or Melissa, or Rose, or Charis, or Albert, all showed that his thoughts were important to them.

"What is it, Daddy?" Melissa hooked her arm in his and turned him back towards the library.

Thomas began explaining what a vates was to her, and how Potter might become one. Melissa listened and made admiring noises until Priscilla opened the door to announce that she was back from the Ministry, and why hadn't Thomas made dinner yet?

But when she found him on his favorite chair, with Melissa on the stool at his feet, Priscilla simply rolled her eyes and kissed him on the brow and said, "Meeting go well, dear?"

Thomas leaned back and grinned happily at his Auror wife. "Very."

Priscilla kissed him again. "Good. Now, perhaps we can get something to eat? I'm very hungry. We chased a bastard today who went over five roofs in a row before we finally caught him."

Thomas stood up and stared to walk out of the library, but Melissa and Priscilla both made him, as always, leave the books where they were, instead of bringing them to the dinner table. Thomas had to be content with chattering to his wife and daughter—and the other children, who soon joined them—about why he felt the meeting had gone so well.

This is just so interesting. If nothing else, I am going to owe Potter for making my life so interesting.

Ignifer Apollonis straightened her back and held absolutely still. Her mother was the one who had firecalled her. That meant Artemis Apollonis could well and good state her business, or she could go away.

Her mother's face, highlighted in the flames, was the mirror image of her own, save that Ignifer was keeping her face inflexible, and Artemis was frowning. And she was starting the same speech she made every day, the one that made Ignifer grind her teeth. But it would have been cowardly to refuse to allow her mother to firecall her, and Ignifer was not a coward.

"All you have to do is kneel before your father and say you're sorry, that you apologize," said Artemis. "That's all, Ignifer. Sweet Minerva, I would not have accounted for anyone being so stubborn, let alone a sweet girl raised to honor and revere the Light and her parents."

It was word-for-word what she had said yesterday, and the day before, and the week before that, and so on and back for fifteen years. Ignifer gave the same answer she'd given yesterday, and the day before that, and the week before that, and so on and back for fifteen years. "The Dark, and not the Light, saved my life." She could feel, as if it were still present, the immense, fallen stone block pressing down on her chest, crushing the breath and the feeling and the life out of her. She could feel herself reaching out desperately with all the magic she was trained to use, and accomplishing nothing. She could hear the wind as the wild Dark, called in desperation, came to her and levitated the remains of the house she'd been in when the Death Eaters struck off her. "I promised that I would serve it if it did. And you always taught me to keep my promises."

Artemis flinched, the same way she always did. "You will never have children until your father calls the sterility curse back, Ignifer. And you know that he will only do that if you kneel before him and make submission and swear to return to the Light."

"Then he won't call it back," said Ignifer. "And he won't have grandchildren, either, nor any more magical heirs, since I am his. Goodbye, Mother."

Neither courage nor politeness forbade her willing the flames out of existence, and thus ending the connection. Ignifer had been friends with fire since the earliest days of her childhood; it was how her accidental magic had manifested, and still the easiest weapon for her to fling in battle. She turned her back on the hearth now and paced over to sit in her favorite chair under the far wall, the one Artemis had to look at when she peered through the Floo. Ignifer had decorated it the way it was on purpose, of course.

The wall was painted black wood, hung with gleaming shards of obsidian and ebony and jet, deep green or deep purple leaves charmed to stay fresh, and black roses and belladonna and other plants used in brewing potions that had nothing but an evil purpose. Ignifer put her head back and took in the sight and scent of them until she felt slightly calmer.

Then she took up the sword that hung low on the wall—dark wooden hilt, shining blade made of Damascus steel—and passed through the door behind the chair. She felt a brief, dizzying moment of flight, and then she landed in another place entirely, a place with high mountains in the background and shimmering heat in the air, warmer than Great Britain would ever get. Ignifer shook her hair behind her shoulders with a slight smile. There were advantages to charming a door in her home to act as a Portkey.

A small, copper-colored dragon thrust its head around the boulder in front of the door, and bared its venomous fangs at her. Ignifer grinned and lifted the sword. The Peruvian Vipertooth slithered towards her, head up and neck swaying back and forth.

There was no better exercise, Ignifer thought as she spun around in a circle and thrust the sword hard against the scales, knowing it would be deflected, than dueling for one's life with a dragon when one wanted to use the body and the mind to their utmost at the same time.

Circle. Duck. Roll as the fangs came stabbing down in the dirt behind her. The tail, watch the tail.

This Potter was intriguing, and the alliance did seem more interesting than Ignifer had assumed at first. She had no love for Voldemort, but then, she had no love for most of the Dark wizards her new Declaration had made her sister to, either. They watched her with distrust in their eyes, always. At least Narcissa had approached her with proper reverence for her classical education and her affinity with fire, both of which she admitted could be useful in making alliances and in giving battle.

Leap, duck, turn, now, circle now, and down, nearly stabbing it in the eye before the dragon jerked back with a pained squeal.

And if what the alliance seemed to promise her was the real thing—

A stunning blow as the tail caught her along the ribs, but she'd deserved that; she really hadn't been paying attention. Roll, drop to one knee, let the tail go overhead this time. It really was as easy as declining manus.

--then Ignifer could only welcome it. She had always known her place when she was of the Light, known who she belonged to and who her enemies were and who she could depend on. And since turning to the Dark, she'd been floundering, keeping her feet mostly by refusing to bend or break.

A second dragon coming now. Call fire, and her hands were flaring with it, and the dragons were hesitating to approach.

If she had siblings, friends, allies, even a Lord whom she would serve as if he were a Lord despite the title he refused, then she could belong again. She could stop being so lonely, stop encasing herself in rock that she knew would make her bleed to death in the end.

And there came a Dragon Keeper, waving his arms furiously at her. None of them had a sense of humor about dueling dragons for exercise, even though she never killed one of them. Time to go.

Ignifer pushed her hair out of her eyes as she landed back in her own house. She felt more relaxed, now, enough to let some of the impressions of Potter she'd formed without knowing it dance before her eyes.

He's encasing himself in rock, too, bleeding to death behind a mask of strength. Perhaps I can help him recover from that, as long as he's offering me a place at his side.

Honoria Pemberley stood in her entrance hall, hidden behind an illusion, and watched her father's eagle-owl vainly scan the room for her. It had been a while since she got good enough to fool owls, but it was still a new enough trick to delight her.

Of course, a giggle escaped her lips at last, and the owl fluttered over and deposited the letter in front of her, flying away without waiting to be paid. Honoria let that illusion fall, chucking all the while, and looked at the letter. She rolled her eyes when she recognized her mother's handwriting on the outside of it.

Her mother, Mary, was a Muggle, but she acted as proud as any pureblood wizard born to the bloodline, Honoria thought, while she created a line of small faces all sticking their tongues out at the letter. Above all, she was insistent that her daughter have blood children. No adopted magical heirs would do. She wanted grandchildren who were actually Pemberley by birth. And she had persuaded her husband, Honoria's father, to the same way of thinking.

Since Honoria liked women, this was somewhat of a problem.

Honoria knew what the letter would say. Honor of the family blah blah blah, blood children blah blah blah, not welcome home until you marry some nice young wizard blah blah blah. It wasn't worth opening it, not even for a laugh. Her mother was tiresomely regular.

Honoria cast the letter into the flames, and then, since she was there anyway, opened up the Floo Network and went to Tybalt's house. He came to her eagerly, almost before the house elf who received her could call him. He clasped her shoulders, gave her a ridiculously lascivious kiss on the cheek that his partner John always pretended to scowl and grumble at, and then stepped back and looked at her expectantly.

"How did the meeting with Harry go?" he asked.

"Oh, you call him Harry, now?" Honoria shook the soot from her cloak and hung it up on the rack near at hand, creating an illusion of another one around her shoulders. "Isn't he a bit young for you?"

Tybalt smacked her hand. "I'm very joined, thank you. I just want to know how he is."

"Bad," said Honoria simply, thinking of how the glamour that hid the boy's cut-off left hand had wavered even as she looked at it. "Like he's about to collapse. Did you know that he'd had his left hand cut off?"

Tybalt stared at her.

"I guess not," Honoria concluded.

"Sweet Merlin." Tybalt stepped back and sat down on one of the shallow divans near the fire, frowning broodingly. "And then the charges against his parents. He's not having a good month, I would guess."

"No, and it'll get worse before it gets better." Honoria sat down on the divan across from her friend. She had never forgotten, never would forget, that Tybalt had been the first to open his home to her after her own parents had thrown her out. She owed him the entire truth, even though she figured Potter probably wouldn't have wanted her to tell it. "And you know that I'm practiced at seeing through other kinds of illusions, too, not just the magical ones. He's on the edge of collapse, Tybalt. When he falls, it's going to be hard."

Tybalt frowned softly. "Do you still want to follow him?"

"Of course." Honoria snorted. "If nothing else, I got a letter from my mother warning me not to do it. That's reason enough to do so."

"It might be more serious than that, Honoria." Tybalt caught and held her eye. "Can you really tie yourself to someone who might, as you say, collapse in the midst of battle, and whom you can't joke or cajole out of doing that?"

"Of course," Honoria repeated. "I am committed to this, Tybalt. I signed my name. And having a reputation for breaking my word would keep me out of all the best parties."

Tybalt sighed and put his head in his hands. "I never know whether you're being serious or not."

"I'm both at once." Honoria stood and kissed his cheek. "Now, I've really got to go. I'm practicing my Animagus transformation."

Tybalt laughed at her. Most of her friends did, when she said that. They thought the idea of Honoria becoming an Animagus, achieving a transformation that lasted longer than her whim dictated, was a marvelous piece of fun.

Honoria smiled as she stepped into the flames again. She thought it was fun to watch them laugh. It was so much fun that she had no intention of telling them that she'd actually mastered the transformation two years ago. She made quite a fine sea-mew, if she did say so herself.

"Go to your room, Edith."

Edith ran away at once. She did not hesitate and question. Henrietta nodded as she made her way to the rune room. Edith knew what she had done wrong without prompting. She had shown hesitation and fear in front of Potter. She was mortified, as well she should be.

Henrietta arrived in the rune room, and shut its door carefully behind her. Her husband, Tertian Brown, would know better than to disturb her if he came home and found her here. With the door closed, the patterns drawn on the walls came together and formed one shimmering circle of power, which Henrietta could use to work some of her strongest magic.

She began with whips of light, calling them forth from her hands with nonverbal incantations and slicing through several feet of cloth, then of wood, then of stone, which the room provided when she asked for them. With each slice, her confidence returned, and the slight startlement she'd felt in Potter's presence slid away from her.

Oh, yes, the boy is powerful, she thought, as she began the Dark Arts curses that she always practiced to keep her hand in. They burst with far more force here than they would elsewhere, but Henrietta had hopes of at least doubling their strength outside the room. But what good is power without the will to use it?

She had sensed that weakness in Potter at once, with her usual talent for finding the one personality trait that would hamstring another witch or wizard. Potter was too soft-hearted. He had magic that made Henrietta's mouth water, but he believed too much in mercy, in kindness, in compassion, in leaving choices open to other people when he would do better to herd them along.

Even more devastating, at least for his own cause, he obviously expected the same mercy, kindness, compassion, and consideration from his allies.

Henrietta laughed aloud as she cast a curse that would have made part of the room's wall sway and buckle, if the runes hadn't held it up and filled in the stone between the patterns as fast as it disintegrated.

This was the kind of chance she'd been looking for for years. She would have done something about it earlier, but there hadn't been enough of a power vacuum in wizarding Britain for the last fourteen years. Albus Dumbledore had a lock on most wizards' devotion, and the Dark families were mostly scattered, bribing people in the Ministry for petty individual gains or clinging to their old alliances and pride and not looking beyond them.

Now came this tasty prize, an alliance organizing around someone who had only his magic to recommend him.

An abused child, a soft-hearted child, a child who knew nothing about the way the world worked.

Henrietta had only to gain control of him and of the alliance, and she would have the platform she needed to work her own will.

Exultant, excited, she spun and fired another curse at the far wall, then had to duck as it bounced back at her, reflected from a shield rune.

Oh, it would take some time, she knew that. She would need to understand his psychology better before she worked it so that it broke him. But he was close to shattering already, and the papers were full of clues to his past. Henrietta was confident that it wouldn't take her long to find something she could use.

She lifted her arms above her head and bowed, in homage to her own cleverness, then raised her head and smiled at her unseen prey.

Watch out, Potter. Henrietta Bulstrode is hunting you.