Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter!

Sorry this is so late; a power surge cost me an earlier version of this intermission and half a chapter. I'll definitely post the next chapter tonight, but since I have to rewrite it from scratch, it'll be later.

In the meantime, enjoy the Intermission!

Intermission: Raised in Light

Ignifer winced as her excitement from dueling the latest Vipertooth finally died down, and allowed her to feel the difference in the air between Peru and Britain. She ran a hand through her hair, tugging her head irritably back, and narrowed her eyes, trying to convince herself she was imagining it.

I am not.

There was something different about the air here. Britain always felt colder after being in South America, of course, but this wasn't that. In Peru, Ignifer had felt her head clear, and she had fallen into her old routine of sharp thoughts and quick movements. Coming back felt like stepping into a room of blankets. She felt something gently, inexorably steering her thoughts.

It was familiar. Ignifer knew she had felt it more than once. But she needed to track the sensation to a specific place, or the nagging familiarity would do her no good. Ignifer despised people who acted on faint and likely false memories, and caused irreparable damage to themselves and everyone around them. She closed her eyes, driving her mind back, whispering the old incantations that made images of flames spring up in her head and go diving into her brain, to locate specific memories. Her father would insist that those spells were only for the children of Light families, but Ignifer had not spontaneously lost the ability to use them when she Declared for Dark, nor even when he cursed her.

She walked through image after image of fire, letting the tongues of flame coil around and shape the sensation of control. Where had she sensed it? What spell did it originate from? How far did it extend? When had she felt before?

That last question was the key. Ignifer stepped out of one of the imagined hearths, and found herself in her bedroom, the neatly furnished one she'd had when she was a witch of eight. She knelt on her carpet, her eyes half-lidded and her breath passing in and out of her lungs at a regular rhythm.

Behind her stood her father, one hand resting on her shoulder and his eyes closed.

Ignifer tensed at the sight of him, but that was all she did. The days were long past when she had been unable to bear even the sight of his portrait without trying to smash it, and her strongest feeling towards him now was the same arrogant scorn he showed towards her. She watched as he bent down towards her ear—no, the ear of his still-obedient, still-young daughter—and whispered something. Ignifer stepped closer, attempting to hear what he was saying.

"Converto intellegentiam de Aurelius Gloryflower! Converto animadversionem ab intellegentia!"

Ignifer watched her younger self shudder, and then open her eyes and stare straight ahead. Her father knelt behind her, and turned her head around. Ignifer watched in silent fascination. This was not a memory she could consciously remember having, and she was not sure why. Surely it wasn't traumatic enough that her mind would have tried to lock it away?

She remembered Aurelius Gloryflower—once the head of that illustrious Light pureblooded line, he'd quarreled with her father over the Muggleborn issue in such stupid ways that even now, when she'd shed most of her family's prejudices, Ignifer couldn't help despising him. She had no idea why her father would have wanted to speak a spell to her containing his name.

"Ignifer," her father said in the memory.

Her younger self just looked at him.

"What do you feel about Aurelius Gloryflower?" her father asked.

"I don't like him," said the girl, and then shuddered, her face twisting violently. "I hate him," she whispered.

Her father nodded, and smiled, and rose to his feet. "That is right. You should hate him. He is an enemy of our family."

Ignifer's eyes widened as she took in her own expression. Had she ever really looked like that? She'd had no particular reason to do more than dislike Aurelius Gloryflower. But it seemed that at one point, she'd felt incredible, even passionate, loathing for him.

It's a result of that damned spell. He encouraged me in my hatred somehow. Ignifer opened her own eyes, not the eyes of her imagined self, and rose to her feet, frowning. That spell influences perception. It must exaggerate emotions, too. One small feeling becomes a much larger one.

More disturbing than all that, to Ignifer, was the fact that she hadn't remembered this until now. Her father had of course cast spells on her when she was younger, as many pureblood Light families did when preparing their children to endure the trials of the wizarding world, but he'd never seen a reason to hide that he was doing it. Why in the world had she forgotten this one?

Was he ashamed to admit that he needed the help, perhaps? Ignifer paced back and forth in her main room, slapping her wand into one palm. He liked convincing his family of his philosophy on his own. Maybe he didn't want me to know that he'd been reduced to using mental magic.

But he hadn't laid a Memory Charm on her, either. If he had, the simple incantations to amplify childhood memories wouldn't have managed to recover this one.

And then there was the feeling hanging in the air around her now. As though someone had cast the spell again, but with much greater reach and range, power and subtlety.

Ignifer narrowed her eyes. And it hasn't reached Peru, she thought, her conclusions flying to their targets like arrows. That's the reason the air in Britain feels differently than the air in Peru.

She wheeled and made for her owlery, where her owl, Athena, waited. She would send word and warning to her allies. She did not know who the focus of this particular spell was, but it was likely affecting all of them. And if Harry Potter was sincere in his promises of aid to her, then she had to be sincere back.

Potter. Ignifer shook her head. The newspaper stories concerning him filled her with regular doses of rage. She had to put them down and go for long walks each time she finished reading one, or to Peru for one of her duels. The thoughts of what he had endured made her want to draw her wand, go to the Ministry, and attempt to punish his parents and the former Headmaster of Hogwarts for their actions, when they weren't making her coldly satisfied that her decision to withdraw from Light wizards was the right one.

She never had gone to the Ministry—not yet. The irrationality of her emotions frightened her and made her ashamed. She would probably be arrested if she even attempted to harm the so-called helpless prisoners, and of course Potter himself would not be pleased.

She entered the owlery and extended her hand with a little whistle. Athena took off from her perch and landed on Ignifer's arm, nestling against her with an affectionate butt of her head.

Ignifer closed her eyes. She wondered if her mother would firecall her today, as she hadn't yet, but that was a foregone conclusion. Of course she would, and try to pretend that a decade and a half of forced loathing could be cured with Ignifer simply kneeling at her father's feet.

On the other hand, if Ignifer wasn't there to receive the firecall, then her mother might think she was a coward, and Ignifer would not endure insults that were not true. She should be back in her house to open the Floo, not playing with Athena, pleasant as she found the owl's company. She sent her back to her perch with a soft compliment and a treat from one of her robe pockets.

Then she hurried back towards the house, her spine stiff and her boots hitting the ground with clacking sounds. She sucked in a deep breath of clean air to brace herself for the upcoming argument, and then paused.

Didn't I think there was something strange about the air, a moment ago? And have a memory that was connected to the sensation?

Ignifer puzzled about it, then shrugged. Obviously, if the thought had slipped her mind so easily, it was nothing really important. She would endure her mother's firecall, and then perhaps she would owl Potter, and see how well he was holding up under the constant onslaught of newspaper articles, the poor boy.