Thanks for the reviews on the last few chapters!

Hang on to your hats, because this is where it gets complicated. I do plan to create a list of original characters in this story and post it in my LiveJournal; I'll put a link to it in my profile when I do. This is certainly proving to be much more, well, epic than I anticipated. But at least there is plenty of plot for stories 6 and 7!

Chapter Forty-Eight: Back Into the Raging World

Harry sighed as he sat in the Slytherin common room and stared down at the stack of letters the owls—and one large, proud, black-shouldered gull come from the Isle of Man—had delivered over the weekend. He had to deal with them now, since it was Monday morning, the end of his weekend of relaxation, and visions of letters piling up on his bed canopy and crushing him had plagued him last night. He reached for the ones he knew he was going to dislike most, the letters from Compton Belville and Adelina Burke, first.

A few minutes later, he was gaping at the letters, and wondering if they were some practical joke. But no, when he fetched his last letters from the Burkes and Belvilles and compared them to the writing on these, the hand was the same. Harry sat back on the couch, feeling almost nerveless.

It seemed that the trial had changed Compton Belville's mind about him rather decisively.

Dear Harry:

I will give no last name, as I have just heard that you renounced your last name. Congratulations on your victory in the trial. After what your parents did to you, it would have been a waste for them to die and escape punishment so easily, and if they were free, they would not have lasted long. I would have taken a hand in insuring that myself, were I not sure that many, many more who deserve to take vengeance for you would get there before I could.

Forgive me for having doubted you. I did think you were a child who could be easily approached and toyed with, that you knew nothing of the way the world really worked, because you did not use your magical power to gain what you wanted. I see now that you were playing with a subtler hand. Lords often do, and those of us who can only look at them in awe tend to miss those subtleties in our own envy.

I would like to offer you my family's help in your alliance, specifically your next battle with the Dark Lord. We are older wizards and witches, with the exception of Mortimer, but not without experience. We are willing to come and speak to the other members of your alliance whenever you wish us to come. I hope that you will not think my having seen sixty-seven years in this world puts me beyond the honor of helping you.

I am yours, my lord, whenever you wish to call me.

Compton Belville.

Adelina Burke's was almost the same, unctuous flattery and heaping praises, with the exception of the paragraph at the end.

I understand that you may feel you have no family now, Harry, since families are so valued in our world and you have rejected your last name, but I promise that one awaits you wherever you wish to seek it. Many families would be honored to have a son so powerful and decisive. I offer you the last name of Burke in the spirit of humility, should you ever wish to take it.

Adelina Burke.

Harry closed his eyes and shook his head. He supposed he should have anticipated this, really. There were some wizards who would think he was vulnerable without a blood family at his back—and who wouldn't accept that one brother the same age as himself counted as a blood family. He had magical power, and they would probably think that he had political power, after the way he'd swayed the Wizengamot, though Harry thought that was more just being a vates. He was young enough to make the question of legal guardianship appropriate, if not yet the question of marriage or joining. His parents were most definitely safely out of the way, as safe as they could be without death, and would not challenge the rejection of his surname. And…

Harry sighed. And my current legal guardian is a former Death Eater who was tried for use of an illegal potion within the last year. And he just killed Gilbert Rovenan. Not hard to stir up stories about him, even if they don't dare accuse him outright. And rumors are harder to fight than accusations.

He felt a slight stirring of unease, then, like a prickling of claws up his spine. Should he repair his relationship with Snape, just to show everyone who might come sniffing around him that he was attached to his current guardian enough to reject anyone who tried to substitute for him?

No. When I reconcile with Snape, it has to be genuine. I can't do it just because other wizards and witches can't take a hint. Harry shifted restlessly on the couch and stared at the letters in his hand again. Never mind that I don't intend to take another surname until I'm damn good and ready, since I can afford to be choosy, and maybe not even then. There was something appealing about remaining just "Harry" for the rest of his life, forcing everyone to address him by his name instead of some stupid and contrived title. He was morbidly curious about what was going to happen in his classes, particularly with teachers like McGonagall and Flitwick who liked to be formal with him in public.

In the end, it was easy to decide what to reply to Burke and Belville—a formal acceptance of their new offers of help, along with hints that he could not possibly consider any closer connection, either as an adopted son of the family or an adopted lord, than he had right now, since he was still caught up in the throes of grief from the trial. They would lap it up and respond annoyingly, but it was better than having them sniffing along a trail that might be truly bothersome. Harry sealed the letters with magic and laid them aside; he would have to take a trip up to the Owlery before he went to breakfast.

The next letter was the one the gull had brought. The gull had apparently stayed in the Owlery, screeching and irritating the owls to no end, and now, since it was probably magically linked to the letter, it came sliding in through the door of the Slytherin common room as it opened behind a yawning seventh-year just stumbling in to bed. The seventh-year eyed Harry, and then went on her way, shaking her head and muttering about idiot Lords who didn't get to bed at a decent time. The gull landed on Harry's knee and proceeded to look bright and helpful until Harry shooed it away so he could spread Paton Opalline's letter on his knee and read, whereupon it perched on the couch and looked bright and helpful for about three seconds, when it pecked him.

Harry shook his head—he thought he could see, now, why Honoria's Animagus form was a gull—and turned his attention to the letter.

Dear Harry:

First of all, my condolences and my congratulations on the trial. I cannot imagine that it comforted you much, if at all, to hear the sentences of your parents, but I will say that it is better than having them free. And your severing of ties with them is probably what will do you the most good, in the end. It will allow you to grow on your own, without the shadow of a poisonous tree looming over you.

Now, to business. I did promise you that the Opalline spy network is yours now, and that my relatives are spread out in many directions, over Europe as well as the British Isles. It is from Europe that my most urgent news comes.

Two of my cousins in Bulgaria report that Durmstrang has gone silent. No owls leave it, and the ones who try to approach it are turned away by what appears to be a lightning ward—a complicated Dark Arts spell that applies more force than necessary, and often kills. Parents who have tried to reach the school to inquire about their children cannot do so. Neither Apparition nor Portkeys work on school grounds, and no child has been seen outside for a week now.

I am not entirely sure of what this means, and neither are my cousins, but they have gathered rumors and passed them along to me in the absence of concrete information. The old Headmaster, Karkaroff, now a known Death Eater, recruited at the school last year. My cousins worry that his trainees may have taken over Durmstrang and are trying to use the other students as hostages or potential fighters for the Dark Lord. I am not entirely sure what I believe myself, but I thought you would wish to know of this as soon as possible.

Harry closed his eyes, imagining what Charles Rosier-Henlin must feel like at the moment. Both his sons attended Durmstrang.

Of course, does he know? Harry opened his eyes and looked at the two letters he had waiting after this one again. No, there was most definitely not a letter from Charles, and Harry couldn't imagine the man not appealing to him for help in a situation like this, even during the trial. If he didn't write his sons often, then he might not know about the silence, and of course an owl took a long time to fly from Britain to Durmstrang…

I'll write him this morning, Harry decided, and turned back to Paton's letter.

The Veela of Southern Europe are considering an alliance with you, two of my aunts living there have reported. However, you should not necessarily depend on them. Unless they are attacked directly—and the Dark Lord has not yet made an overture of either threat or good will to them—the Veela's Council requires a unanimous vote for such an alliance, and they have several hundred members. They will be bogged down in discussion and argument for a long time yet.

There have been several wizards seen approaching giant territory in the last little while. Most of them were killed, two fled, but one has not returned. My brother Gilander fears that this wizard remains in negotiation with the giants, and that he is perhaps a Death Eater. The Dark Lord, as we know from the example of the sirens, has the power to break a species' web, and I doubt that would be good news for any of us.

Several other wizarding communities, particularly in Russia and France, are growing interested in you, Harry. They are accustomed to some wariness regarding British Lords in the last half century, of course; they knew that Voldemort did not intend to restrict his reign to his native land, if once he conquered it. And now that Dumbledore is in prison, and the Dark Lord returned, and a young Lord-level wizard just revealed as the Boy-Who-Lived and the Dark Lord's mortal enemy without Declaring for the Light…their interest is natural, I think.

It is up to you what you wish to do about them. So far, not one of my cousins has reported a strong movement to offer assistance. They are mostly watching, cautious and curious, to see what will happen. Most of my cousins do not think they will join Voldemort; although the predominance of Light wizards in most international wizarding communities is not as pronounced as it is in Britain, they know what the consequences of serving him are. But they could serve as distractions if you try to dance with them when they insist on remaining neutral. You may be able to offer them profitable alliances, but I am not sure what will tempt them. Let me know if you do wish to initiate discussions with them, and I will pass the message on through my cousins.

Closer to home, several siren attacks have been reported. A school of them swam near the Isle and tried to attack our Muggles, but our wards repelled them. Two people have drowned in the Loch Ness in the last week, and the local wizards do not think it the work of their kelpie. There have also been several isolated deaths along the coastlines of both Britain and Ireland—easily attributable to carelessness in the water, but bearing the marks of siren attack.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling dizzy. He wondered if the sirens had broken free of Voldemort, or remained under his reign and were attacking on his orders. The pattern of random attacks might fit the attacks on the equinox, when Voldemort had simply wanted to take Muggles, without seeming to care about whom he captured.

He shook his head, opened his eyes, and went on reading.

Several of my British cousins, who have studied to relearn what they could of place and green magic, have reported unusual weather patterns in the places they have bound themselves to. Storms all over the Isles are growing fiercer. It has rained nonstop at my aunt Mawde's home for the past five days, breaking through all her weather wards. She is not sure what this means, but she has gathered the report and sent it along with the others.

Harry frowned slightly. I did think that for the same storm to extend from London to Scotland on Friday was unusual. It hadn't rained at Hogwarts on Saturday, but he did remember something about rain on Sunday, now that he thought of it, though he'd been too deeply involved in conversation with Draco to look outside.

He returned to Paton's letter.

My family has contacts among the London werewolves, and reports them agitated, for two reasons. One: the Ministry is apparently preparing to push tougher anti-werewolf laws, including one that would require all lycanthropes to spend the nights of the full moon in Ministry custody, perhaps in Tullianum. Second: there are rumors of you as vates spreading, and the werewolves disagree on what they should do about it. Their animal sides have no love of you as many other species seem to do.

This is the most important news my family has gathered. In return, I have a personal request to make. I invite you to join my family on the Isle for New Year's. I am aware that you will most likely spend Christmas in the care of your own loved ones, but I would like you to enjoy one celebration with the Opallines, and other than Christmas, this is the closest holiday.

That is not the only reason, of course. Calibrid, my daughter and heir, would like to meet you. Circumstances forbade her from attending the trial; she spent the past year traveling to learn the politics and customs of Europe, and now must remain bound to the Isle for a year to renew her acquaintance with it. As well, my son Doncan, similarly bound, looks forward to meeting with you. I think you will like him.

Please write back soon. I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours in the grace of the Light,

Paton Opalline.

Harry leaned back on the couch and stared at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. One thing was clear: There was no way that he could handle all this by himself, as much as he would have liked to.

He closed his eyes and drew up a parchment in his mind, carefully placing concerns on it.

It doesn't sound like I can do anything about the Veela as yet. Same thing with the storms, except keep an eye on them, and ask Paton to report anything else unusual about them to me. I don't have any idea about weather magic, and Merlin knows what would happen if I asked Trelawney to read the patterns to me.

The giants…damn. Send someone to negotiate with them? Who? Hagrid? I don't know if I have the right to ask that of him. Harry gnawed his lip, then decided, I don't have the right, no, but I can ask him, and see what he says about it.

The werewolves are a problem, especially since the only contact I might have among them is Wilmot, and I think a letter from me to him would probably raise a few eyebrows. I remember Remus mentioning that he knows some of them, though, a long time ago. I'll ask him if he'll serve as my delegate.

I have got to get in contact with whatever the closest wizarding community is to Durmstrang. I'll write to Charles, and I'll ask Paton to put me in touch with whichever one of his cousins can most help me there. For the others, I'll wait until they actually approach me. And if they're just interested in watching, I'll make sure I put on a bloody good show. Harry could feel himself grin briefly.

Now, the sirens. Stupid things. It does seem random so far, and I don't know how to predict where they'll strike next. Siren schools are the next subject of study for me, then. And I'll write Arabella Zabini. If anyone knows a way of counteracting musical threats, then she will.

Harry sat up, and began writing. He detailed all his decisions in his letter to Paton, including his decision to accept their New Year's invitation. The moment he finished and sealed that letter, the gull snatched it in its beak, gave a bright, piping cry, and flew towards the door of the Slytherin common room, again just as it opened to let someone else out to breakfast. Harry shook his head. They must have a magic of their own.

His letters to Charles and Arabella followed. Harry didn't see a way or a reason to dance around the problems delicately, so he told them the blunt truth. He was hungry by the time he finished writing, but he still had two more letters that had arrived during the weekend left. He reached for them gamely.

The first was, luckily, only a short note from Lucius.

Dear Harry:

Please be advised that the Dark Lord has a new Death Eater. Her name is Indigena Yaxley, of a family that values honor more than sense, and who is now serving because her nephew served my old Lord and betrayed him. She is incredibly good with plants, a powerful Dark witch, very clever, and determined to be neutral in the War until this occurred. Think of her as a sane and more dangerous Bellatrix. This means that you must be even more on your guard when you go to face our common enemy. Do not, I repeat do not, trust anyone you do not know who approaches you with an offer of alliance. We know that Indigena can disguise herself well enough to fool most wizards, though not how or what she looks like in the disguise.

We will have to find something else to call the Alliance, now that you have rejected your last name. Do think on it.

Lucius Malfoy.

Harry rolled his eyes, but penned a short note back, to say that he'd received the warning and was grateful for it. He remembered studying the family Yaxley, though not in depth; they hadn't participated in any wars of Dark and Light for nearly a century, preferring to stay in seclusion and study the Dark Arts. Vita desinit, decus permanit, ran their motto. Poetically translated, it meant Life ends, honor does not.

Harry could see why Indigena Yaxley would be a problem.

The last letter was from Augustus Starrise, a diplomatically worded note that suggested informing his fellow alliance members of his new allegiance as soon as possible. Harry had to agree with that. He didn't have the time or energy to write any more letters right now, though. His head was spinning with complications, and he had five letters to post.

He scooped up those five, and made for the Owlery, running over possible wordings for his appeals to Remus and Hagrid in his head. Remus would normally be happy to help him, he knew, but the secrets of his fellow werewolves weren't ones he had willingly revealed to Harry so far. And Harry had never had the close friendship with Hagrid that Connor had enjoyed.

More to the point, I'm not Dumbledore. And Hagrid had been loyal to Dumbledore.

Harry rubbed distractedly at his head, stopping only as he heard the crinkle of parchment and realized he would crush his post if the rubbing continued. Sometimes I wish I had never gone into politics, he thought, and decided to ignore all the factors in his life that would have made politics go after him.

Harry was so involved in plotting what he was going to do about Durmstrang—not only the Rosier-Henlin children were there, but Gregory Goyle, assuming that the rumors last year were true and his father had sent him to Durmstrang instead of letting him come back to Hogwarts—that he didn't notice the stares at first. Therefore, it was disconcerting to look up and find himself the focus of most of the eyes in the Great Hall.

Harry returned their gazes for a moment, then snorted. Of course. Most of them haven't seen me since the trial, with the way I buried myself away this weekend. This is the first public appearance I've made as the Boy-Who-Lived and Renounced His Name and Got His Parents Put In Prison.

He took his seat at the Slytherin table, ignoring the stares as best he could. It wasn't as though he didn't have other things to worry about. Among the other things, he'd discovered a storm raging when he went up to the Owlery, blasting, lashing rain descending on the stones so hard that Harry was reluctant to send the birds out until they hooted their readiness to fly at him. Such a storm wouldn't have made him do anything other than blink normally, but with storms all over the British Isles…

Could Voldemort be altering the weather patterns? I have no idea why, though. It would make it more inconvenient for his Death Eaters than anyone else, since they're the ones who have to meet outdoors more often.

Or perhaps the storms were actually incidental. Harry was sure he had read something once before about the weather changing as a result of powerful magic. But the magic would have to be so powerful that only a Lord could raise it.

He reached automatically for porridge, and a hand covered his. He glanced at Draco and raised his eyebrows.

"Have you forgotten the talk we had yesterday?" Draco asked.

Harry frowned. He had, actually. He'd told Draco most of what Vera had said, and Draco had insisted that he try sweeter and more savory things than porridge to, as Draco put it, "recover his sense of taste."

Harry still thought the whole thing immensely silly, the silliest of Vera's prescriptions to him. Yes, he could see the necessity of learning to accept himself as human; after the much-improved conversations he'd had with Draco on Saturday and Sunday, he was impatient to push himself some more on it. And yes, he could see the necessity of relearning the pleasures of touch and sleep. But why should caring about what he ate make such a difference?

He had made the mistake of telling Draco about it, though, so under his stern eyes, he was forced to load his plate with eggs, sausages, and a roll. Draco just barely approved the pumpkin juice, saying that he thought orange juice would be better, and refused to let Harry have any corn flakes.

"I don't need this level of fussing," Harry said under his breath as he took a bite of his eggs. He chewed them, then shrugged at Draco's stare. He didn't dislike them, exactly, but they had texture and salt, and that made him feel uncomfortable. He didn't see why he couldn't have porridge.

"Sometimes, you do," said Draco softly.

"You're not my mum," Harry pointed out. "Or my brother."

"I would say that I'm definitely not either of those things," said Draco, his eyes brightening, and Harry realized he shouldn't have given him the opening. "Considering what we were doing yesterday, I would be most disturbed to wake up and find myself related to you in any way."

Harry flushed and returned to his breakfast. If it would get Draco to stop reminding him of things better kept in private, then he'd eat the damn eggs.

"Potter."

Harry deliberately didn't turn around. The person behind him coughed and leaned forward to say, "Potter!" right into his ear.

"That's not my name anymore, Smith," Harry pointed out absently, biting into a sausage. He winced at the flavor. "Besides, since when are we on such formal terms? We're allies, I'd thought."

That was perhaps the only time that Harry remembered being able to render Zacharias Smith speechless. It didn't last very long. Zacharias coughed and tried again a moment later. "Harry," he said, and Harry was glad to put his fork down and turn around.

"Yes?"

Zacharias stood up haughtily straight, looking as if he refrained from rolling his eyes only because it was something no Smith would do. "I just want to ask you a few questions about what this means," he said, tapping the Daily Prophet article that Harry refused to look at.

"All right," Harry agreed.

"You're not the heir of your family?" Zacharias stared straight into his eyes.

"No." Harry rolled his head back on his neck and smiled at him. "Does that disappoint you?"

"A bit," Zacharias said. "You're elder son, correct? I thought the Potter inheritance would pass to you, with your father in his—current condition." Harry wondered if Light pureblood manners forbade referring to the loss of someone's magic. It wasn't a custom he'd ever heard of.

"I renounced my name before then," said Harry quietly. "It went to my brother because it had nowhere else to go."

"Ah." Zacharias hesitated a moment, as though he now regretted doing this in the middle of the Great Hall. Harry didn't. It would answer some questions so he wouldn't have to answer them multiple times over, and it kept him from having to eat. Draco couldn't complain, and had better not poke him with the fork that Harry could see him picking up from the corner of his eye.

Zacharias recovered himself, though, and said, with a smooth, cold, stern face, "What family name do you plan to adopt?"

Definitely glad that we did this here. Harry raised his voice for his answer. "I'm Harry for right now, and that's all I want to be. I'll never renounce my kinship with my brother, who's keeping his name, but I'm not accepting the Potter name again. Nor do I have any plans for adoption into any family, currently. And I like it that way." A slow turn of his head had him meeting multiple speculative eyes, and he sighed. I suppose that won't stop all the offers. Each of them is going to think they're the family that can persuade me otherwise, and they'll think me vulnerable without relatives until they tangle with me. At least it might be on the level of words, as this confrontation is, and not shouted hexes, which ought to improve my relationship with Ravenclaw.

"You don't know how glad we would be to take you," said Draco, quietly enough that Zacharias probably didn't even hear.

Harry turned his head and gripped his hand. "I know," he said quietly. "But I want to be just Harry right now."

Draco didn't answer, but squeezed his hand back, some of the sulky look fading from his face. And he put down the fork.

Zacharias seemed to be suitably impressed with this show of strength. He nodded. "Then I'll simply reswear my alliance to Harry the vates instead of Harry Potter," he said. "Will that be acceptable?"

"It will," said Harry, and his erstwhile ally left him. Harry hopefully cast a Tempus charm to check the minutes left in breakfast, and brightened when he saw there were only five minutes left before they had to leave anyway. He started to stand.

Draco clamped a hand on his arm. "Sit down," he breathed. "You didn't get enough to eat."

"I had all I want," said Harry.

Draco looked into his eyes, obviously asking him if he really wanted to have an argument this stupid in front of everyone.

Harry resignedly sat down and ate a few more sausages to make Draco happy, trying to ignore Millicent's snickering.

"Remus?"

Remus looked up, surprised. He had thought that Harry had Charms at this hour. "Is everything all right, Harry?" he asked, setting down the letter from Wilmot he'd been looking at. Wilmot had bragged about revealing himself to Harry. Remus wasn't sure that was the wisest thing to do—not because Harry would betray a secret like that, but because it might put Harry in an awkward position with the Minister. The situation was giving him a headache, and he was happy to focus on another problem. At least Harry didn't smell particularly distressed.

Harry grinned at him and leaned against the door. "Sure, Remus. But I can already do the Silencing Charms we're covering perfectly well, after all. And Professor Flitwick doesn't know what to call me. He finally settled on Mr. Harry, but he still doesn't like it." Harry chuckled. "So he said I could come see you."

Remus lifted his eyebrows. "And what do you need to see me about?"

Harry pulled a letter out of his pocket and levitated it over to him. Remus accepted it without thought, then shook his head a bit. Sometimes he found himself forgetting that Harry had ever had two hands, so well did he compensate with his magic. It was—well, disturbing. Remus wasn't sure why it should be disturbing, though, so he focused on the letter, blinking as a certain paragraph flashed green. Remus's eyes caught the words London werewolves, and he leaned close.

"I know about Wilmot," said Harry quietly as he read. "He revealed himself to me during the trial. And he said that he had contacts among the London werewolves. I'm afraid that owling him might reveal him, though. My post is going to be tracked if at all possible, and a random Auror writing me would set off bells I don't want ringing. Would you be willing to talk to the London werewolves for me?"

Remus took his time to raise his head. Old loyalties were tugging him in two directions now. At least he'd been to the Sanctuary, and was sure that he could handle the conflict now. In the old days, this might have tugged him apart.

On the one hand, Harry was the only member of his family, besides Connor, for whom Remus had any love left now. And he'd known Harry since he was a child, and he knew him now as vates. He couldn't see Harry doing something that would hurt the refugee packs on purpose.

On the other hand, some of the London refugees had specifically requested that no human know about them. They kept an eye on dealings in the wizarding and Muggle worlds that might affect them, of course, but as quietly as possible, mostly through werewolves like Remus who hadn't joined a pack. Even a vates wouldn't be welcome among them without a wolf snarling in his head. And they had helped Remus during the summers when he was a student in Hogwarts, and during the years between the time he left Hogwarts and the first fall of Voldemort, and again during the time before Connor and Harry came to school, giving him money, shelter, protection, when he couldn't hold a job. Betrayal would be a poor return for all they had done for him.

"What do you want me to say?" Remus asked, deciding to temporize. Harry, at least, unlike some humans, would understand if Remus refused to do this.

"That I'm going to try as hard as I can to make sure those anti-werewolf laws aren't passed." Harry's eyes flashed. For a moment, Remus was carried painfully back in time to his sixth year, when Lily's eyes had flashed like that at James. Then it was past, and he was looking at a boy more determined than Lily had ever been about anything. "It's time Scrimgeour and I talked about that. And that if someone wants Wolfsbane, they can approach me through you or Hawthorn or one of the Light werewolves I can safely communicate with. Delilah Gloryflower would probably be best, since her aunt is my ally, too."

Remus leaned back in his chair. "You'd just provide the Wolfsbane for free?"

Harry frowned at him. "Of course."

Remus pondered for a moment, then decided he had to reveal this, or some of his words wouldn't make any sense to Harry. "Some of them would actually prefer if you charged for it, Harry. Without a price, they're likely to think it's poison, or a trap."

Harry nodded slowly. "I can see that. But then some who need it might not get it."

Remus smiled in spite of himself. "Worry about the ones willing to approach you, first," he said.

"Then you'll pass the message along?" Harry's eyes widened, and he smiled brilliantly when Remus nodded. "Thank you. That's really all that I wanted them to know. If they want to tell me anything, I'd appreciate it, but it's up to them."

Did his training make him a diplomat, or did he just turn out that way? Remus asked himself, as he watched Harry slip out the door. This open-ended approach was the one that would work best with the London packs, many of whom were as wary of wizards as true wolves were of Muggles. It'd take a lot of circling and sniffing even so before they could bring themselves to trust Harry—well, except with Loki's pack, but Loki was something like a Weasley twin, and Remus wouldn't trust the immediate offer he would be sure to make.

And there was the chance, however small and distant and far in the future it might be, that this would someday lead to freedom from their wolves.

Remus's wolf snarled in his head, demanding blood. Remus grinned fiercely to spite it, and then rose to begin writing his letters.

Harry peered out a window on the fifth floor at the steadily falling rain, and felt his shoulders relax, despite the storm's unnaturalness. The day had gone well so far. No one had been stupid enough to approach him with offers of adoption—yet—Remus had agreed to contact the London werewolves, Hagrid had hesitated but said he'd think about talking to the giants, Draco had been satisfied with the sandwiches Harry had eaten at lunch, and Harry had finished writing the letters that would inform his allies of Augustus Starrise's new place among them. He couldn't help grinning as he imagined Lucius's reaction. Yes, Draco's father probably knew about Augustus already, but assuming he didn't…

"Harry. There you are."

Harry jumped, turning around as he did so. Acies Lestrange stood behind him, her hood over her face as it usually was outside class. Harry relaxed and inclined his head. "Professor Merryweather," he said, just in case someone was around to overhear them. "Did you need something?"

"I need to tell you something," said Acies. "I have known about it for several months, but you were not yet ready to hear it. Other songs have ridden your mind. Now you may hear this prophecy's music."

Harry felt his shoulders tense, most of his good mood vanishing. Not another fucking prophecy. "I suppose there's no chance that it doesn't concern me?" he asked.

Acies gave him just enough of a look from under her cloak to intimidate him, then began to half-sing, half-chant.

"Three on three the old one coils,
Three in its times, three in its choices,
It bears his rivals to silence and stillness,
And the wild Darkness laughs, and the Light rejoices.

"Two on two the storms that are coming,
Two for the day, and two for the year,
The storm of darkness when no moon will shine,
And the storm of light that will blaze most fiercely here.

"One on one all the prophecies bear down,
One is their center, and one is their heart,
And from my mouth comes no Divination again
Except those prophecies in which he has a part."

Harry blinked, his mind emptying for a moment, the way that it had when he finally heard the full prophecy that concerned him and Connor for the first time. Then he found his eyes turning to the rain outside the window first. It showed absolutely no signs of stopping, and the thunder screamed like something with its guts ripped out to make the point.

"Two on two the storms that are coming," he whispered.

"Yes." Acies moved up beside him, one hand touching his shoulder. Harry blinked and glanced at it. It was an ordinary hand, but for a moment, it had felt incredibly heavy, weighted and scaled, a dragon's talon. "I think these storms the prelude of them, though, rather than the storms that the prophecy means. But there is something I fear, something I fear very much. Did you know, vates, that on the night of the midwinter solstice, the moon will be dark?"

Harry closed his eyes. Shit. That's a prime day for one of Voldemort's attacks, and if the moon is dark and all influence of Light is banished… He didn't know for certain what Voldemort might do, but something strong enough to influence a prophecy wouldn't be pleasant.

"Thank you, Acies," he said. Then his mind leaped again, reciting the eighth line of the prophecy to him, and his eyes flared open. "And the storm of light is coming to Hogwarts?"

"So the prophecy says," said Acies calmly, stepping away from him. "Sybill Trelawney stood on the Astronomy Tower when she made it, and it sounds like a local reference, does it not?"

Harry nodded, his mind spinning rapidly, investigating several conclusions and disregarding most of them, pinpointing the one most likely.

A storm of darkness on Midwinter. A storm of light on Midsummer. And on Midsummer, it'll be a year since Voldemort's resurrection.

He took a deep breath, and expelled it again. A ringing had appeared in his head, but he didn't think it was anything to worry about. This was the kind of ringing that he usually got just before he confronted a worthy opponent, or did something that mattered to the war he'd been training for all his life.

"Thank you, Acies," he said, starting to move away, but paused when she remained where she was, staring out the window. "Are you well?" he asked gently.

"I hear the music," Acies whispered. "Dragons are called the Singers, I have told you that."

Harry nodded.

Acies turned her head to look at him, though again it was only a quick flash of wild eyes before she slid her hood back over her face. "I am still mostly human, Harry," she said. "But only mostly. The dragon in me hears the music and sings back to it. And every time I use the dragon, I yield more of the human. If I am ever close enough to the great songs, however, the songs of Dark and Light, I fear that I will not be able to help myself, and my dragon will come."

Harry hesitated, unsure what to say. Acies was staring out the window at the rain again.

"Is there anything I can do?" Harry asked at last. "As vates, I mean?"

"You cannot free me from freedom," Acies said gently. "Be on your way, Harry, and be well. Only remember me as human, when there is nothing human left of me."

Harry bowed his head, feeling no fear, only sadness and a great awe, and left her there, staring as the rain continued to fall and the thunder screamed its anger and its death.