Thanks for the reviews on the last chapters!

This chapter is largely a transition one.

Chapter Forty-Nine: Ariadne's Web

Harry woke at a note of phoenix song. He sat up, pushing his hand sleepily at his eyes, trying to wake up faster than seemed to be happening. If Fawkes sang to him in the middle of the night, and not to put him to sleep, then it must be serious.

But the song wasn't coming from Fawkes, he found when he opened his eyes fully and saw the phoenix sitting on the far end of his bed. It soared from just above his left wrist, and a moment later Charles Rosier-Henlin's voice said, "Harry? Can you hear me?"

Harry bowed his head and suppressed a groan. Of course. The spell Charles had taught him to communicate over long distances, the spell that he and his allies had used in the Woodhouse attack! He could have used this to speak with Charles right away about Durmstrang, if only he had remembered it.

"Sir," he said. "What can I help you with?"

There was a pause, as if that wasn't the greeting Charles had expected, but he went on with no discernible change of tone. "I assume that you know about Durmstrang now."

"Yes, but almost nothing about it," said Harry honestly. It was the reason why he hadn't felt able to do anything about the other school as yet. A few subtle questions among students who had relatives at Durmstrang had produced shaking heads and blank looks. Harry couldn't plan an attack when he had no information.

"You could have spoken to me."

Harry felt his face burn. "Yes," he said. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

"Did you also forget that I use this spell to communicate with my sons?" Charles asked. "I know what has been happening inside Durmstrang."

"I did forget, but I would be grateful if you would tell me," said Harry, his mind springing into action. "What can I do? Is there a way of bringing down the lightning ward that they have the school surrounded with, or—"

"The answer, Harry, is nothing. We can do nothing. Right now."

The bitterness silenced Harry. He waited a moment until he was sure that nothing else would emerge from the air above his wrist, and then he asked cautiously, "Why? Is Voldemort Marking the students as Death Eaters?"

"That abomination, at least, is beyond his reach, unless he changes the magic of the Dark Mark," said Charles. "He cannot take anyone unwilling. It was a protection he devised during the First War so that he would know who was loyal to him. He didn't think that someone would turn traitor to him after they had the Mark, or take it for any other reason than serving him." His voice was vicious with satisfaction, before it went back to the dry tone that Harry thought meant he was extremely angry. "No, he is holding the children as hostages. I have received a polite little letter, informing me that I will not fight beside you anymore. Or else. Mr. Rhangnara has received a similar letter."

Harry's head was light, spinning. This happened, and I wasn't able to prevent it. This happened, and I let it happen. He crushed the guilt, because it would have prevented him from speaking. "I didn't know that Mr. Rhangnara's children were at Durmstrang," he said instead. He had assumed without thinking that they were schooled privately, since Thomas was obviously a wizard interested in books and learning.

"They are," said Charles. "And his daughter Charis has taken the Crucio—" There was a sudden silence, as if he hadn't meant to tell Harry that. He probably hadn't, Harry thought.

"How old is Charis?" Harry asked.

"Harry, I do not see—"

"How old?" Harry stared at the far wall. He could always speak to Thomas with this spell and ask him. He probably couldn't owl him, since Voldemort would be watching for some sign of communication between Harry and the allies who were being pressured to withdraw from him. And what had the owl to Charles yesterday cost his sons?

"Twelve," said Charles. "She is twelve."

Harry closed his eyes.

"And my son Owen took it, and he is sixteen," Charles went on, in a harsh rush, as if determined to get all the bad news out of the way at once. "Voldemort sent in Bellatrix Lestrange, Harry."

"Is he mad?" Harry murmured, then realized he knew the answer to that question. He changed it. "Does he really think that she'll be able to control her urge to curse all the children in sight?"

"Apparently so," said Charles, once again dryly. "Or perhaps not. Considering the spell he has used on the school, absolute loyalty may mean more to him than the actual good condition of the hostages."

"You still haven't told me what that spell is," Harry said, opening his eyes and frowning at nothing. "Or why it's impossible for me to go to Durmstrang with you and rip that lightning ward apart."

"Have you ever heard of Ariadne's Web?"

"I know who Ariadne was, of course," said Harry. "She let Theseus into the center of the Labyrinth to kill the Minotaur by giving him a clew of thread that would show him the way in and then the way out. But perhaps we're not speaking of the same one—"

"We are. Ariadne's Web is, according to wizarding legend, what Ariadne did to Theseus and all those in his palace after he deserted her. It binds everyone in a particular enclosed place from using magic against the caster. It's a strange spell. The web is absolutely impossible to break from inside it—there is no way that the students could take on Lestrange and win, no matter how many of them tried. But from the outside, in this case Durmstrang's walls, it seems to be linked to a single object that the caster carries. If we could make her put that object down, then we would have a chance of fighting her."

"Thus the lightning ward," Harry summarized. "But, sir, I do have the power to break a ward like that, and I am vates. Destroying webs is what I do." The very thought of Ariadne's Web was making him sick with the need to destroy it. "We could still go to Durmstrang and—"

"There exists another effect of Ariadne's Web," said Charles quietly. "The caster can will anyone in it to suffer pain or to die instantly. There is no stopping that, from either inside or outside, unless the web itself is broken. Lestrange has announced to the children that the minute she feels the wards fall, she will begin lashing out through the web, hurting anyone in sight."

Harry closed his eyes. "And certainly my allies' children would be among her first targets," he muttered.

"Precisely."

"So what can we do?" Harry whispered. He felt helpless—not necessarily against what had happened, but against the extent of Voldemort's cruelty. He had not thought to guard against a spell like this because he had not dreamed that it existed, much less that Voldemort would use it.

"Portkeys and Apparition no longer work onto school grounds," said Charles. "And the Floo Network to Durmstrang has been sealed off. But a Portkey into the school itself would work, to get us around the wards without having to drop them. They are, of course, only available to someone trusted. That means—"

"A Death Eater," Harry finished. "We need a Death Eater."

"Yes. I don't suppose you know one?" Charles's voice got dryer.

Harry's mind went at once to Evan Rosier, but he had to say, "No. Not one that I could trust to give me accurate information, or a Portkey that actually worked to take us to Durmstrang."

"I thought not. I am working, subtly, on contacts that I had in the First War, when I gave the Dark Lord monetary support. It will be a long, slow process, to get through to people who can help me disrupt his plans so thoroughly as this, and to convince them to take the risk in the first place. In the meantime, I've told my boys to keep their heads down, and avoid Lestrange's notice as much as possible. Rhangnara has passed the same message along to his children."

"And there is nothing else that can be done?" There has to be, Harry thought, but he realized that was probably his experience as vates talking. From the time he had learned of a web until the time he broke it, he had never encountered one he thought could not be broken—only the consequences of what might happen if he unraveled it too early. The idea that he would have to wait in silence and patience while people who had trusted their lives to him suffered was intolerable.

"Nothing, Harry," said Charles quietly. "I am sorry. I have spoken with my sons exhaustively. The spell is undoubtedly Ariadne's Web, and I have been through both my library and Rhangnara's, which is much more extensive. The web cannot be broken from the inside, and they have restricted all access thoroughly from the outside."

"I am sorry," Harry whispered. "So sorry, that following me has brought you into this." He shuddered at the thought of living in the same school with Bellatrix, never knowing when she might make you suffer pain or even death, instantaneously and at her whim.

"I knew something like this might happen," said Charles, sounding calmer than he had so far. "But they still should not have touched my children, and for that they will suffer." His voice was like dry ice. "I will not owl you, and neither will Mr. Rhangnara, now. We must be seen complying with the terms that the Dark Lord has dictated to us. But we will use this spell to speak to you, and if we find some other method to get around the Web and into the school, we will let you know at once."

"I don't suppose brooms would—"

"No. The lightning ward has the school surrounded, Mr. Pot—Harry. You would still have to try and drop the ward as you rode above Durmstrang, and Lestrange would know at once."

Harry gave a little snarl. He hated feeling helpless. But until he could think of a better solution, this one would have to do. Perhaps he could send an owl to Rosier, though he hadn't heard from the man in long enough for the silence to make him wary.

"Very well," he murmured. "Thank you for telling me."

"You are welcome."

Charles's voice ceased, and Harry was left to sit on his bed, in the dark. There was no chance of going back to sleep—and, he decided abruptly, he didn't want to sit on his bed in the dark either. He opened his curtains and peered cautiously at the other boys' beds. The sound of Draco's light snores came from beside him, accompanied by Blaise's slightly deeper ones, and Harry nodded. Though neither of them slept anything like as heavily as Connor, they were still in the phase of sleep where they were least likely to hear him if he crept out.

He wasn't sure where he was going as he went down the stairs and crossed the common room velvet-footed. Going outside the school to fly would be too dangerous. He only knew that he wanted to do something, since he couldn't do what he really wanted: fly to Durmstrang, take down the ward, and rescue everyone.

He stepped out into the dungeons, shut the door to the common room behind him, and leaned his head against the cool stone. He thought he could hear the sound of rushing water if he listened intently enough. That might only be in his head, but it comforted him nonetheless. He didn't know how long he stood there, letting his hand stroke the stone and trying to think of nothing at all.

"Harry. Is there a reason that you are filling your hair with slime and your palm with blood?"

Harry started and looked up. Snape stood not far behind him, his wand held out in front of him with a faint Lumos on the end of it and his eyebrows raised. Harry glanced down then, as a stinging pain in his hand made itself known, and realized that he'd ground his palm so hard into the stone that it had a gash on it. He grimaced.

"I had bad news," he said softly, then could have struck himself. He didn't want to talk about this with Snape.

Snape studied him intently, then said, "Come with me, Harry. We will not disturb Madam Pomfrey this time of night."

Harry knew he could have argued, could have resisted, but he really didn't want to go back to bed, the only other possible option. Anyone's company was to be preferred to his own right about then. He followed Snape to his private rooms—which slightly surprised Harry; he had thought they'd go to his offices—and took his seat on the couch near the fire. Snape ducked briefly towards the shelf along the wall where he kept his personal potions, then came back with two of them. Harry accepted one that smelled of a normal healing draught, but shook his head at the other. "I don't need to be calm," he said.

"Don't you?"

Harry squinted at Snape. He didn't sound the way he—well, should have sounded. He sounded interested, and as if he thought there was at least a reasonable chance that Harry might not need the Calming Draught. Harry would have expected Snape to force it down his throat, instead.

And that made Harry hesitate. It's my choice. He eyed the blue liquid, then sighed. Do I have a chance of getting back to sleep if I don't take this? No. Do I need the sleep? Yes.

He drank down the vial, and was briefly gratified to see Snape's eyes widen before the potion spread serenity across the surface of his mind. He sighed again and gave Snape back the empty vials, then leaned back and closed his eyes. The pain in his palm had already stopped, and Harry knew the wound would have closed.

"Do you wish to speak about what is troubling you?"

Snape's voice was low and careful. Harry listened, his senses sharpened now that he didn't have to worry about emotions clouding them, and found no trace of impatience. Snape wasn't trying to force him to do this any more than he had been trying to force him to take the Calming Draught. It was—unexpected.

And, given his free choice, Harry decided to answer. "It's Durmstrang," he murmured. "Charles just spoke to me and told me that I can't do anything about it. Bellatrix Lestrange is in the school, with Ariadne's Web on the children, and a ward around her that she'll know the instant I try to take down. Then she can hurt or kill the people I'm trying to save." He felt a wave of tension run through his muscles, despite the Calming Draught. "Why? Why can't I do anything?"

"Should you have been able to do something?" Snape asked.

Harry opened his eyes. "Of course I should have. What kind of question is that?"

"Why?"

"Because it's a strange question for you to ask, that's why."

He thought Snape smiled. "I did not mean what was strange about my question. I meant, why should you have been able to do something?"

"Oh." Harry frowned. "Because I'm the only wizard who stands a chance of matching Voldemort in power, now—unless we really want to free Dumbledore and ask him to pretty please help us." He snorted. "I should be able to do something about the ward and the Ariadne's Web."

"And did you know that the Dark Lord was going to do this?"

"No," said Harry reluctantly. He frowned at Snape. "You're going to make me see sense or something, aren't you?"

"If I can." Snape's face was neutral. "You seem to be feeling helpless, Harry, but there is no reason for that. You did not cause this."

"But I should have anticipated it." Harry moved restlessly; he couldn't tell if the Calming Draught was wearing off or if his emotions were simply too strong for the potion to contain them all. "I would have known immediately if I hadn't been paying so much attention to my own affairs, the trial. And then that weekend where I didn't look at letters! Paton's letter telling me about Durmstrang's silence came on Saturday. If I'd looked at it—"

"You would have known about your own helplessness earlier," Snape finished. "That is all."

"Maybe I could think of something," said Harry. "There has to be some way to get through the ward and the web."

"Sometimes, Harry, there is not," said Snape softly.

Harry frowned at him. "But you've always found a way. You've never been helpless in your life. It's one of the things I admire about you, you know." Something very odd flickered across Snape's face, but Harry didn't think he could identify it, so he didn't try. "You found a way out of just being a Death Eater, and you found a way out of serving Dumbledore when you saw he wasn't worth serving, and you found a way to rescue me when you shouldn't have been able to. You even found a way to get my parents punished." This time, he couldn't help the slight accusing tone to his voice. "When you should have just left things alone."

"Harry," said Snape, voice low, intense. "I was helpless in most of those situations, and took the only road open to me."

"But that's just the thing," said Harry, flinging up his hand. "There's no road open in this situation that I can see."

"And there was no road open in the situation with your parents that did not cost me something I held dear," said Snape. "Please understand that, Harry. I did not accuse them to hurt you. I did not accuse them to hurt James. The cost of accusing them was your good opinion of me. The cost of leaving them free was your soul."

"It wouldn't have been," Harry muttered, closing his eyes.

"It would," said Snape. "You would have driven yourself to death trying to rescue them, and it was impossible to rescue them. You saw that yourself at the trial." Abruptly, he drew in his breath, and was still. Then he murmured, "You must weigh the costs of acting against not acting at this juncture. What are the costs of not acting?"

"Lives, potentially," Harry whispered. "My own peace. The feeling that I've failed my allies."

"And if you act?"

"Lives, potentially," Harry had to answer again. "My allies' good opinion of me. The feeling that I've endangered the children at Durmstrang through my own actions, instead of just letting something happen to them."

"So it all swings on your own feelings," Snape said. "And are your own emotions enough reason to do something difficult and dangerous, something that might endanger the children inside Durmstrang because of you?"

Harry made a small sound of distress. He didn't think he could open his eyes. The Calming Draught was drowning his mind deep. But if he didn't deal with the problem now, then it would just overwhelm him when he woke up. "No," he whispered. "They can't be. They aren't. I just—I just wish there was something I could do."

"Research Ariadne's Web," said Snape. "Research wards. If you find something that might mean nothing to anyone else, something only possible for a wizard of your power, then you can launch yourself at it. Until then, there really is nothing else that you can do."

"Maybe not," said Harry. He felt himself lying back on the couch. Snape was beside him in a moment, with a soft swish of robes, arranging him so that he lay back and removing his glasses. Harry managed to peer at him blearily, though he didn't think he could focus his eyes. "Did you really do it because of that?"

Snape looked down at him. "Because of what?"

"You didn't accuse my parents because you hated James," Harry clarified. "You did it to save me."

Snape stiffened in surprise. Then he said, after a moment as full of life as a heartbeat, "Yes, I did."

"Oh." Harry closed his eyes. "Wasn't sure about that," he muttered. He felt a hand smooth over his forehead, lingering on his scar, but sleep was already claiming him, full of dreams that wouldn't eat him alive.

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry knew it was probably childish, but he kept his head bowed over his book. Ariadne's Web is sometimes considered to be a myth, the text told him, but it is most assuredly a real spell. There are myths about it that have hindered researchers into it for centuries, however. The most persistent of these is the idea that it can be cast only by a woman, as it was a witch's vengeance on a man who forsook her. This is not true, though it is true that the web is stronger when cast by a witch…

"Mr. Potter. Please."

The speaker had stepped around in front of him. Harry was vaguely surprised to see that it was a stranger—a rabbity wizard with what seemed to be a permanently apologetic look on his face, clutching a small sheaf of papers. He held out a hand when he saw Harry's stare, flushing.

"My name is Adam Proudfoot," he murmured. "I was Mr. Potter's—that is to say, your father's solicitor. I've come to see you and your brother about the settlement of the properties and the Potter inheritance."

Harry didn't take his hand. "Then you want to talk to my brother," he said, turning back to his book. "He's the one who inherited everything."

"Harry."

Harry looked over his shoulder reluctantly. Connor stood in the library entrance, frowning at him, and ignoring Madam Pince, who was giving them a glare of death for interrupting the silence.

"There are things we need to discuss," said Connor. "I want to make sure that you have some of the money, for example—"

"And I don't want it," Harry cut in.

"Mr. Potter—" twittered Mr. Proudfoot, who obviously didn't get it.

"Brother." Connor took a single step forward, his gaze stronger than Harry had seen it since that day in the courtroom. "I'll need an heir, and I don't have a chance of having one for a while yet. And I know things about the Potter properties that you don't. They want an heir. They want to know that they'll have somewhere to go if I die."

"They can talk to you?" Harry asked, startled. That wasn't something he'd heard about Lux Aeterna or the house at Godric's Hollow, though of course he'd known Lux Aeterna had its own personality.

"Not talk," said Connor, his forehead wrinkling. "It's more like they have a hunger, and my mind translates the hunger for me." He blinked, and his eyes focused on Harry again. "And I think you're the best choice for someone to be heir. You don't have to take the Potter name again, just take charge of the properties if I—if I die." His voice faltered on the word, at least; Harry would have been worried if his brother had gone stoic about his own death all of a sudden. "They'll accept you, since you have the blood connection."

"Well put, Mr. Potter, well put," said Mr. Proudfoot. When Harry looked at him again, he was cringing in front of Madam Pince's scowl. "Should we take this somewhere more private?" he asked.

Harry stood up with a sigh. "There are abandoned classrooms we can use," he said, and Mr. Proudfoot nodded gratefully. Harry waited until they were out of the library and safely sitting down behind dusty desks in one of the third-floor classrooms before he added, "I understand what you mean, Connor, but I don't want them. I don't want anything to do with the Potter name except your love and your friendship."

"You won't accept money even as a gift?" Connor asked, his voice wistful. "Mr. Proudfoot told me that all the Galleons in your personal vault have reverted to me. The commitment James made to give them to you couldn't hold up against the loss of his magic, because his magic was bound to his signature."

Harry nodded; he'd expected that. Many things changed when a pureblood wizard lost his magic. "I'm sure. Thank you, Connor, but they just have too many bad memories. I won't be tied to James and Lily by anything except memories now. That's the way I want it."

Connor sighed. Mr. Proudfoot said, "Ah, Mr. Pot—Harry, but your father did leave something in trust for you, something sealed with a spell that the loss of his magic did not disrupt. Because the object is sentient, it could agree to the transfer, and its agreement was recorded again when your father lost his magic."

"What is it?" Harry asked, though he had the feeling he already knew.

"The Maze," Connor said. "It belongs to you now, Harry."

Harry had the feeling that the Maze belonged to itself as much as anyone, so he nodded. "That, I'll accept," he said.

Connor's face brightened into a smug smile. "Does that mean that you'll visit Lux Aeterna sometimes?"

Harry couldn't help a smile of his own. "Yes, sometimes. I—" He paused abruptly, as something he'd learned in his visit to Silver-Mirror last weekend came back full force. "Connor," he asked, his voice gentle. "Would you permit me to tie the Potter properties to you personally, instead of to the earth, as they are now?"

Connor's face went blank with an obvious lack of comprehension. Mr. Proudfoot, though, gasped aloud. "Mr. Potter!" he scolded. "Er, Harry," he added, when Harry shot him a look. "That is a custom followed by Dark wizarding families! Linchpins are linked to the earth they stand on, enduring in a way that Dark properties never can. Surely you cannot want your brother to be sole heir to the Potter properties, and in such a way that he must designate a sole heir? You do not want to be the one responsible for changing the very nature of his inheritance, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," said Harry. "Linchpins are stakes in a web that ties the northern goblins down. I want to free them. I am vates." His gaze went back to Connor's face. "But he's the one who must make the decision."

Connor chewed his lip. Harry waited, fairly confident. He knew that, two years ago, Connor would have rejected this idea the moment he heard that it was used by Dark families. But they were not sitting in a room from two years ago, thank Merlin, and Connor knew now that Harry wouldn't agree to accept anything but the Maze. His face slowly hardened, and then he nodded once.

"I'll agree to that," he said.

"Mr. Potter!" Mr. Proudfoot was obviously scandalized all over again. "It would entail your signing numerous forms, and speaking aloud a sacred, binding oath seven days from now, and creating a will that says you surrender your linchpin—"

"Oh," Connor said, leaning forward like a lion leaping on a zebra, "so I would have to go through you, then? It isn't something Harry could do after all?"

The color drained gradually from Mr. Proudfoot's face. Harry found it wonderful to watch. The solicitor looked down at the table, hemmed, hawed, tapped his fingers for a moment, and then flung up his hands. "Yes, yes, it is," he said.

"Wonderful." Connor's face brightened. "Then start filing the papers at once. And since seven days from now will be Saturday again, I can swear the oath with no trouble. Oh, and bring copies of the papers so that Harry can see he owns the Maze now." He caught Harry's eye, and added, "I want you to have them."

"Fine," Harry muttered.

Mr. Proudfoot made various woeful noises, but Connor refused to listen. He suggested several alternate courses, but Connor refused to take them. He attempted to persuade them that James, not to mention their Potter ancestors, wouldn't have wanted it this way, but Connor stared at him, and Mr. Proudfoot flushed as slowly as he had paled, doubtless recalling that Connor had testified against his own father in front of the Wizengamot, and didn't give two figs for what James wanted.

Harry was grinning as he stood. He had to get back to studying Ariadne's Web, Merlin knew—five days of study so far hadn't revealed anything he could use—but at least there was this mild triumph, of knowing that one linchpin would be removed from the northern goblins' web. And it was two triumphs, if one counted Connor acting more like himself than a Potter heir.

Harry swore softly and bent over the book, a new one on the history of Greek witches in general, and the webs they might have woven to control the sirens and various other magical creatures. Another week had ground by, and he hadn't had any luck with the books specifically about Ariadne's Web. Perhaps some detail about the weaving of other nets would give him a hint, however.

So far, everything he'd discovered indicated that Charles was right: surround an Ariadne's Web with a powerful ward also linked to the caster of the Web, and there was absolutely no way to get inside without a Portkey. But Harry refused to accept that. He would find a way through it. At least Charles and Thomas so far hadn't contacted him to say that one of their children was dead or further hurt, and Harry was sure they would have done that if it'd happened.

Thunder screamed abruptly, and Harry blinked. He was studying in one of the classrooms on the fifth floor, and he'd forgotten the storm for a time. Now, he did pay attention to it, narrowing his eyes to stare out through the glass. He didn't envy Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, who were playing their Quidditch match today.

In fact, he didn't envy anyone who had to be outside at the moment. The storms had come every other day at first, but it had been raining steadily since Wednesday. Snape had renewed the water-proofing spells on the dungeons, to make absolutely sure that they wouldn't flood, and all Care of Magical Creatures classes were being held in the Great Hall. Harry had spoken to the Many through the small snake who still wrapped securely about his throat, but they reassured him that the creatures of the Forbidden Forest were doing well enough; they were much better able to cope with harsh weather than wizards, after all.

Harry shook his head. So many problems, and I still don't know what Voldemort is doing to cause this level of disturbance in the weather.

He started to turn back to his book when a flourish of wings passed in front of his face. Harry started, and then saw a familiar gull hovering outside the window, beating at the glass desperately.

Harry Vanished the glass, let the gull fly inside, and then restored the window. He stared down at the dripping bird as she landed on the floor, looking half-waterlogged, and shivered absently in the flood of cold air that had entered with her. "Did you want something, Honoria?" he asked dryly. "You could have walked up to the school as a human, you know."

Honoria transformed back. Harry suffered an unpleasant flashback for a moment—the position in which she lay on the floor wasn't that far from the one in which she'd sprawled just after taking the Severing Curse for him in the Woodhouse battle—but she got up almost at once, and cast a warming charm on herself. She gave him a haughty look. "I found it b-bracing." The chatter of her teeth ruined the effect somewhat, and her haughty look became sheepish. A moment later, her soaked hair and streaming face vanished behind the illusion of perfectly arranged features, and she took a chair across from him, proud as a queen.

Harry rolled his eyes. She probably made it worse flying around outside to make sure I wasn't watching the Quidditch game, and then roaming from window to window in search of me. Idiot. "Was there something you wanted to ask me in person, then?" he asked. He and most of his allies had been communicating using Charles's spell lately, since it was faster than either owl or firecall, and Harry was determined not to forget his advantages again.

"Yes," said Honoria. "Or rather, something that magic requires me to ask in person. I'm calling in my life debt that you owe me from the Woodhouse battle."

Harry blinked. "All right, then. What do you want?"

Honoria leaned forward. "You said that Augustus Starrise is joining the alliance?" Harry nodded, wondering if she had come to ask him to persuade Augustus out of it. Honoria didn't say that, though. "I want you to try and reconcile him and Tybalt."

Harry closed his eyes. He knew Augustus better now, from several letters they'd exchanged, and of course he knew what Tybalt was like. He wasn't looking forward to this. "What was the cause of their disagreement in the first place?" He couldn't recall either Augustus or Tybalt specifically mentioning it.

"Tybalt got joined to John," said Honoria. "And John's Muggleborn. Augustus thinks Muggleborns are good enough to protect and say you like, but not good enough to bring into the family."

Harry groaned. So I'm up against pureblood bigotry. Great.

"Don't think of it as a problem," said Honoria brightly. "Think of it as a grand opportunity. After all, you'd have to confront the prejudices that the pureblood families carry sometime, right? This is practice."

Harry nodded wearily and stood, carefully putting the book on Greek magic aside. He did feel the urge, for just a moment, to say that life wasn't fair, and to ask Honoria to make her life debt watching him wrestle dragons or something similar.

But, if he hadn't asked for these burdens when he decided to be a leader, he hadn't put himself in a position to refuse them, either. He opened his eyes and smiled at Honoria. "Let's contact them, then, and tell them we want to meet."