Thanks for the reviews yesterday!
The chapter title is from Swinburne's "Félise."
Chapter Sixty: Wake and Find It SoRufus came back to himself suddenly. One moment he was learning a dozen new variations of Crucio under Lucius Malfoy's wand—he hadn't known the pain could be lifted and lowered like a flame, nor concentrated in one part of his body until he almost screamed for mercy—and the next he sprawled on the floor of his office, taking short, desperate breaths, the memory of phantom pain lifting like a miasma from his limbs. For long moments, he could only blink and touch his chest. His heart was laboring intensely, but it had not yet given up. Rufus would have hoped so. He would hate to think that a simple heart attack could kill him at any time in his life, especially now, when he was just hitting his stride as Minister.
Then he realized that it had been a spell, and it had ended, and that there were few wizards in the Ministry powerful enough to cast Capto Horrifer. On the other hand, that the spell had ended indicated that there might not be as much urgency in dealing with this as he had thought.
He sat up, deliberately not rushing, and headed over to Percy Weasley. The young man lay on his back, cheeks white as icing, and breathed frantically. Rufus yelled in his ear. That produced no results. Rufus nodded, and then slapped him hard across the face.
Percy started up with a gasp and a cry, narrowing missing hitting the Minister in the nose with his head. Then he leaned back and took deep gasps of air, and murmured, "What happened, sir?"
"Capto Horrifer." At Percy's blank look, Rufus rolled his eyes and elaborated. "A Dark spell that makes us relive the memories that terrified us most, but keeps on twisting and elaborating them until we don't know what's going to happen next. Some wizards go mad and commit suicide from the terror alone. It takes a lot of strength. Unless the wizard who cast this is right outside our door, the only ones who could have done this are You-Know-Who or Albus Dumbledore." He stood up, slowly, and grimaced as he felt how his bad leg ached. That wasn't a phantom pain. "I suggest, Weasley, that you brush up on your Dark spells as well as the laws and edicts."
Percy blushed, restoring some of the living color to his face, and Rufus heard him mutter something that sounded like, "The rules are important."
He'll never be an Auror until he loses that attitude. Rufus concealed a sigh. "So is surviving the curse coming at you," he snapped, and then stumped over and opened the office door.
Tonks leaned against the wall, her breath shallow but her eyes sane. She nodded at him. "Minister," she said. That was when Rufus noted the other signs. She was white around the lips, and her hair was pure white, like a unicorn. He knew the truth before she spoke it. "I—Dawlish is dead, sir. I've been up and down the hallway a little, to see if I could help anyone or find out who did this, and he was sprawled on the floor with his wand to his own temple."
Rufus grimaced. He wondered what memory a strong and self-assured Auror like Dawlish could have had to entice him to commit suicide, and then was glad he would never find out. "Thank you, Auror Tonks. Be on your guard, and pass the message to the others. I think, though, since the spell has stopped burning, that the crisis is past. Perhaps we'll find that there's been a successful Death Eater raid, or that the wizard who cast this is dead. That's the most likely reason for a Capto Horrifer to end." He entertained a pleasant fantasy, for a moment, of what would happen if You-Know-Who was dead, but then dismissed it. That was fantasy, and he had to live in reality.
Tonks nodded at him, and Rufus retreated to his office. He could trust Tonks to tell who needed to be told about the ending of the spell. In the meantime, the last thing the wizarding world needed its Minister to do was wander around the Ministry poking into every corner. If Rufus could be absolutely assured that the spell was at an end and his people were ready to see him, he'd do it, but he couldn't, and there had been cases of those newly released from a Capto Horrifer spell casting curses at whoever moved. He'd wait until he knew the extent of the danger.
In the meantime, he used this period to pause and recover. He sat down behind his desk and began sternly asking himself the Five Questions that Aurors come back after a battle in which they'd encountered a mind-twisting spell were always asked. He could hear Weasley droning them to himself, too, and was mildly impressed that he'd reached that phase in his training.
How do you know that this world is real?
By the feel of solid objects under his hands. That had always been Rufus's answer. He rapped his desk, and it gave back both a satisfying sound under his knuckles and a pressing bruise.
How do you know that what you saw was only a dream?
Rufus snorted wryly. Because I'm damn sure that Lucius Malfoy is working with Harry now. If he wasn't, if he were still running around in a Death Eater cloak and mask, Rufus would be on the hunt already.
How do you know that you are ready to return to the field?
Stupid question, that one, really, since Rufus did spend most of his time behind a desk now, but it could be adapted. He was ready to continue the work of the Ministry because he'd come out of the spell prepared, having recognized its nature, and sane, which was more than could be said for some people. Needs must, and he could.
How will you learn to recover from this spell?
The same way he always did, of course: distracting himself with paperwork, and talking to Grandmother Leonora's portrait about it. If there was a more sensible and rock-solid woman on the earth, Rufus didn't know about it.
Are you sure that you do not need a healer from St. Mungo's to aid you in your recovery?
After one disastrous experience that involved a powerful illusionist, two cats, and green goo, Rufus and the healers from St. Mungo's had made an agreement: they would only treat him for purely physical wounds, and he wouldn't hex them. The Five Questions had become Four Questions for him most of the time he was a field Auror. Rufus sighed and opened his eyes.
And then came the anger. Someone had cast the Capto Horrifer in the Ministry itself. If it was You-Know-Who, then Rufus was mostly angry at the ward-keepers who somehow hadn't managed to stop him from Apparating in and doing that. One expected that kind of mind-twisting spell from him, after all.
If it was Albus Dumbledore…
Rufus wasn't sure whom he was more angry at in that case, Dumbledore or himself. He had had indications that Hestia Jones had visited the man. He'd arranged for extra security on his cell in Tullianum, but obviously, he should have done more. Some other Order of the Phoenix member had probably found and freed him.
Of course, would Dumbledore cast a spell like this? Rufus found himself doubting that. Yes, the man was a child abuser, but it wasn't his kind of method. Even when he had his freedom and the means to choose any spell he liked, he'd still chosen a subtle compulsion spell that wouldn't automatically implicate him, that would have, if things had worked out in his favor, not even been noticeable as a spell. Capto Horrifer seemed too crude for him, and too direct.
He could only wait for news from below, he supposed.
Then Tonks flung open the door, took one excited step forward, somehow tripped on her robe, spun around twice, and slammed into his desk. Rufus leaped forward, first to catch her, and then, since he couldn't, to catch his inkwell before it could spill all over his paperwork. He shook his head when Tonks popped up immediately, not seeming fazed over her mishap.
"Sir! Sir, they said it was Dumbledore, and that he's dead, and that Harry Pot—I mean, Harry is on his way up!" Tonks was beaming, her hands working together. "They're saying that Harry killed him, sir!"
Rufus blinked, once, twice. Strong as Harry was, he'd known that Dumbledore was stronger, and he found himself wondering how Harry had managed this. Obviously, certain things had happened that he didn't know about yet.
"Send him in when he comes," he said, and then sat behind his desk and tried to look composed.
Draco noticed, even if Harry didn't. Harry was prone to ignoring things like that, and right now his green eyes looked shuttered, gazing inward. He was probably dealing with matters of life and death and morality and how this had happened and whether he had done the right thing in killing the former Headmaster, Draco knew.
Whereas Draco spent their journey to Scrimgeour's office noticing the things that were truly important. The deference in the glances that their escorts gave Harry, for example. The idiot would probably think it was fear, if he bothered to look at them at all, but these people had been in the hallway where Harry—and Draco, too—destroyed Dumbledore. They had seen what he was doing, seen the expression on his face, seen that he wasn't some Dark Lord exulting in the task but an executioner mourning the necessity while never letting the necessity turn him away. Harry hadn't turned these people, at least, into creeping, cringing toads the way he might have thought he had. He had inspired them. They knew what their freedom and sanity had cost, and they were grateful for it. Harry had the core of more allies here, or friends, or sycophants, depending on how he played his cards.
Of course, the git wouldn't play his cards. He'd assume they were afraid, or he would refuse to acknowledge thanks as something he deserved. Draco decided that he couldn't let that happen, not when Harry had put down such beautiful and fertile soil.
He dropped behind Harry a little, until he walked next to the young woman in the robes of an Auror trainee. She studied him thoughtfully. Draco realized that she'd probably recognized his features—if not as those of a Malfoy, certainly a pureblood—and he inclined his head in a suitably regal nod.
"You know what he did?" he whispered, nodding forward to Harry.
The woman nodded back, her bright eyes implying that she enjoyed the game, and knew why he was whispering.
"He had some help, of course," said Draco, anxious to establish that. "I came and rescued him. But once I freed him from the spell, he did what he did on his own. He defeated the man who'd imprisoned and mentally tortured everyone in the Ministry. And he won't see it that way. He'll see it as a killing. Could you help insure that that doesn't become the general cast of thought in the Ministry?"
The young woman nodded. "I could. It would fulfill the debt I owe him. I was about to kill myself when the spell split. And then I watched everything that happened. I know what he did. It's best not to confront him with it if he'd balk, perhaps, but just to have people ready and waiting if he does need them, hmmm?"
Draco nodded at her, impressed. "You're quick. I like that."
The woman smiled. "I was at his parents' trial. I've admired him since then. And now this, to owe him a debt personally, and to do something besides the endless drills they put us through in Auror training—it's heartening. I'll move slowly at first, because I mostly have connections and not outright power right now, but I'll do what I can to build him some allies here."
Draco beamed at her, and then drew in a few other people who had noticed they were talking. The rest continued staring worshipfully at Harry. That was all right, Draco thought. Those would be the dancers who did anything Harry wanted. There had to be some. He was setting the music to a dance that would benefit Harry, but with its participants knowing that sometimes their leader was self-deluded, and other times didn't even expect other people to acknowledge what he'd done.
It's not going behind his back, Draco defended himself against the slight sting of his conscience. It's being practical about the politics. That's what Harry has to learn: that you actually have to ask people to do things, not just assume they'll see what you believe in and fall into line. I'll teach him whenever he asks, and to do that, I need to have some examples ready.
And if he had the beginnings of his own dance, it wouldn't hurt, Draco had to admit. He was growing increasingly frustrated with the tone of his father's letters, and increasingly wary of the confrontation he knew was coming with Lucius. Having people who looked at him with admiration could help him practically, and help him with his self-confidence when he at last had no choice but to face the old dragon in his den.
Harry let out a grunt he hadn't known he was capable of when he stepped into the Minister's office and saw both Scrimgeour and Percy alive and well. Certainly, if Scrimgeour had died under Dumbledore's spell, then they would have heard the message before they got this far, but there was nothing like seeing it with his own eyes.
"Sir," he said, nodding to the Minister.
"Harry," said Scrimgeour. "Malfoy." His voice on Draco's last name had a distinctly cool tone, but he nodded to him, and pointed his wand, murmuring a modified Summoning Charm. Two chairs skidded out from the wall and into the center of the office. "Have a seat." He eyed the crowd of people who had followed them like ducklings and added, "The rest of you will have to wait outside."
Amid much grumbling, and pokes from Tonks's wand, they did so. Harry was glad when the office door shut and he was alone with only two people who stared at him avidly. The gazes on their way upstairs had been bad enough. Harry had met a few of them, and didn't know what they wanted. He was puzzled by the lack of horror behind their eyes, too. Dumbledore had died in a stomach-turning way. Didn't that matter to them? To any of them?
"Tell me what happened," said Scrimgeour.
Harry took a deep breath and began describing the incident from the time he'd first noticed the burning of Dark magic to the south. When he reached the falling of Hogwarts's wards, he interrupted himself to exclaim, "Sir! Shouldn't we reach the Headmistress, and ask her—"
"She contacted me, actually, a few minutes ago," said Scrimgeour with a faint smile, nodding to the fireplace in a corner of his office. "She said that she'd stabilized the wards for now. It rather looks as if they'll have to be renewed each morning—there's a structural weakness in them that she and the Deputy Headmaster can't pinpoint yet—but she can manage that."
Harry nodded, not reassured. Renewed each morning? Does that mean they'll weaken during the night? That is not good news.
"I told them about you," Scrimgeour added. "I'd received word from Tonks by then about what you'd done, though I want to hear the full story from you, of course. I think Professor Snape might have come through the flames to find you, but the Headmistress said she needed his help with the wards yet."
Harry sighed with relief. That's one confrontation postponed.
"You were about to tell me the rest of it?" Scrimgeour prompted.
Harry nodded, and took up his recitation again, scrimping on detail from the graveyard memory. He had to hand the narration over to Draco at that point, though, since he had no idea what had happened outside his head between the time he'd been caught and the time he'd awakened.
Draco lifted his head, all sleek pride and Slytherin cunning. "I have a bracelet that lets me know when Harry's in danger, sir," he said, displaying it. "I also have a family heirloom that let me make a wish to be transported to Harry's side. When I arrived, I found that, thanks to the heirloom's effects, I was immune to the Capto Horrifer spell." Scrimgeour looked as if he would have very much liked to interrupt, but Draco went on, irresistible as the sweep of Professor Snape's robes. "I entered Dumbledore's mind and possessed his body."
Harry blinked. He hadn't expected Draco to reveal that gift, not when they'd worked so hard to keep it secret, and Draco had refused, in the wake of Midwinter, to tell even his parents.
"You can do that?" Scrimgeour's voice was flat.
Draco inclined his head.
"And you did not let anyone know?"
"It's an important advantage in battle, sir." Draco raised his eyebrows. Harry had never heard his voice so perfectly composed. "I would not want word of it reaching Harry's enemies too soon. And since I intend to be at his side for each and every one of his battles, I'll be wielding it against those enemies. I trust you will understand the importance of that, and keep mum on the subject when we have left your office." Harry choked; Draco had just managed to compliment the Minister's discretion and insult his intelligence in the same sentence. "Should I have come to you the moment I learned about it and proclaimed it to the wizarding world? No, I think not. Harry has been training me. He trusts me to control his body." Draco gave Harry a look that Harry was rather embarrassed to let Scrimgeour see. "And if he trusts me, to do that and to stand at his back, I rather think you should."
Scrimgeour was silent for a long moment. Harry could see warring impulses in his face. One might have gone by the name of admiration for a good verbal duelist, and one looked as if it would prompt Scrimgeour to say damn Malfoys.
Instead, Scrimgeour just nodded, and then said, "I will not tell anyone now. If I find that it has been used to commit crimes, Mr. Malfoy, or interfere in the Ministry, you will find Aurors arresting you so fast your head will spin. Continue with your story."
Draco nodded. "I possessed Dumbledore, but he is—was—a Legilimens, and he knew how to fight back and defend his own mind. He struck at me, but I felt the attack coming. I possessed the magic that he was using to attack me."
"Is that even possible?" Harry asked in wonder. All their experiments so far had been with embodied possession. Harry had thought that Draco was strictly confined to the use of limbs, and, once freed from them, as he was in the passage between his mind and another person's, he would be disoriented.
"It is," said Draco. "Because I did it."
Harry looked at him, sitting polished and proud on the chair beside him, and had to sit on his own sudden impulse. One did not snog one's boyfriend in front of the Minister, no matter how tempting he was.
"All right," he said. "Go on."
"I imagined that Dumbledore's magic was a wand, and I was the magic passing through the core," Draco said casually. "A visualization that my father taught me." Scrimgeour frowned, and Harry realized that Draco had been watching for that, and had mentioned his father on purpose. Draco seemed satisfied with whatever he'd got out of the Minister, and went on. "Then I did the same thing to myself, and created a spell that would wake Harry up."
Harry had to interrupt again. "On the fly."
Draco looked at him, a faint half-smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "Yes."
"With nothing but will and need and magic."
"I rather thought I just said that," Draco retorted haughtily. Then he paused. "Perhaps I didn't, at that," he admitted. "But, yes. That's what I did."
Harry shook his head, half-helpless with admiration. Draco bowed and extended his hand, his way of giving the story back to Harry. Harry finished with what he'd done to Dumbledore, still sneaking glances at Draco every now and then. But he turned sober again when he had to face Scrimgeour and ask, "Does that mean I'm charged with murder, sir?"
Scrimgeour snorted. "Of course not."
Harry blinked. "But, sir—"
"You destroyed a wizard who was mentally torturing my people," Scrimgeour interrupted, "including, no doubt, members of the Wizengamot who were in the building. He killed some of them. I don't know the full casualty list yet, but it includes at least one distinguished Auror." Pain darted across Scrimgeour's face like a flash of lightning. "On top of this, he'd already been arrested for child abuse charges, and he would have had the charges added for the compulsion spell he used when he was tried, and he'd wronged your friend Peter Pettigrew, and from the way you describe the battle, he was doing his best to kill you then. We could convene the Wizengamot, I suppose, Harry, but you can tell me what verdict they would reach, and they would most likely regard it as a waste of their time."
"But I killed someone else," Harry said. "There has to be some recompense for that, doesn't there?"
"If you want to think of it that way," said Scrimgeour, "then Dumbledore's death was the recompense for the people he killed and sacrificed."
Harry nodded slowly. He could adapt to the idea, he supposed. It still felt odd, unnatural, a tight constriction on his skin, and he no more liked what he'd done to Dumbledore than he liked what he'd done to Greyback. But maybe, as long as he could do what was necessary and still keep his humanity, he wouldn't walk down the path Dumbledore had trod, justifying each death and pain as for the good of others.
I hope.
"Now," Scrimgeour said, drawing his attention again, "I'll pass the relevant aspects of the story onto my people." He gave Draco a glance. "I'll do it in such a way, Mr. Malfoy, that you are a hero and yet your possession abilities are not touched on. I'm sure that's the way you wanted it."
Sarcasm choked Scrimgeour's voice like ivy, but Draco merely bowed his head. "Thank you, sir," he said. "You've phrased it wonderfully."
Scrimgeour shook his head. "I'll also take care of arranging for the mental healing of my people," he said, turning back to Harry. "I've handled Capto Horrifer victims before, and been through the spell myself. It'll take some of them a while to heal, and some never will, and others, like Tonks, are already back to normal. I don't need your help here, Harry."
Harry blinked. "I—this feels rather as if you're shoving me away, sir," he said.
Scrimgeour laughed. "That's because I am, Harry. I want you to go home. You don't have to worry about murder charges. You've done your part in ending Dumbledore's magic, and the spell with it. You don't have to worry about the mental healing of all the people in the Ministry. You wouldn't be good at it, anyway, because you'd have to devote a lot of hours to just one person, and you'd also worry and fret over all the other people who were going unhealed in the meantime. It isn't your responsibility to get them back to normal. Go home."
Harry nodded, slowly, and stood up. Draco came to his side at once, and took his arm. "Tired?" he asked.
"A bit," Harry muttered, and then sighed. "Can we use your fireplace, sir?"
"Be my guests." Scrimgeour sat back in interest and watched as they cast the Floo powder into the flames and called for the Headmistress's office. Just before they stepped through the green fire, however, Scrimgeour called, "And Harry?"
Harry glanced over his shoulder. He was startled to see Scrimgeour completing a sweeping bow, the kind of gesture that pureblood wizards used to offer to the graves of fallen friends.
"Well fought," said Scrimgeour softly. "Thank you."
Harry nodded, throat tight in a new way, and stepped into the flames. He whirled through the Floo Network faster than he could remember going before—or maybe that was just his mingled anticipation and dread of their return—and barely stepped out of the way in time as Draco came surging through behind him. Draco snatched him around the waist again, not seeming to mind at all.
McGonagall rose from behind her desk to welcome them. Harry stared when he realized that two shadowy figures stood at her side, one a wizard and one a witch. The wizard smiled at them. The witch frowned, and fingered the silver clasp that held her long dark hair in place as if she were considering whether or not they still belonged in Hogwarts.
"Harry, Draco Malfoy," said McGonagall, stumbling just a little on Harry's lack of a last name, "may I introduce Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw? Or the specters of them, at least. They are bound to anchor-stones in Hogwarts, assisting the current Headmistress or Headmaster with her or his decisions. Currently, that's maintaining the wards." She grimaced. "I assume that Albus had something to do with them falling? It is like him."
Harry nodded, caught between bowing to the two Founders and answering the Headmistress's questions. He wound up making the gesture first, and then saying, "Yes, Madam. Dumbledore dropped the wards to keep you here and distract you, I think. He was attacking the Ministry with Capto Horrifer." McGonagall's face turned pale. "And—I'm sorry, Madam, but he's dead. Dumbledore, I mean. I drained his magic completely and killed him."
"Ah," said the shade of Rowena Ravenclaw. She had a voice as sharp as the beak of her House's eagle, and Harry winced, imagining what it must have been like for her students. Her dark eyes pierced him. "You are an absorbere, then. Interesting. I have not met a magic-swallower for some time."
"I am," said Harry. "I didn't know there was a name for it, though."
"There is a name for everything—" Rowena began, in the tones of someone who'd had to explain this before.
"Leave the boy be, Rowena." Godric laid a restraining hand on her arm, his eyes bright as he gazed at Harry. "He's been through a lot. Is what you said true, Harry? Is Albus really dead?"
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Godric sighed. "He should have died a long time ago, really, when he first started going bad. It's better to perish while one is still noble, because then the death means more." He sounded as if he were quoting. "And he wound the wards around himself," he added, in a completely different tone, one of disgust. "I can't believe he would do that. No Headmaster has ever been so careless with the school's safety."
"No Headmaster has ever believed he was right as implacably as that one," Rowena snapped back, wrapping her waterfall of dark hair around her hands. "I told you that when we first met him."
"And then you trusted him, Rowena. All three of us did." Godric grinned. "Besides, I think one Headmistress did think she was as right as he did." He shot Rowena a sly glance and waited.
The Ravenclaw Founder began to splutter. McGonagall interrupted to say, "I'll thank you for the full tale later, Harry, but for now the wards are secure and you look like you're about to collapse. Take care of him, Mr. Malfoy."
"I will, Headmistress."
Harry wondered in outrage when he'd acquired so many caretakers, but it was true that all his expended effort was rushing on him at last, and he wobbled as they stood on the moving staircase. Draco wrapped an arm around him. Harry yawned. "I think I'll be all right with a bit of sleep," he said.
Snape was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. Harry stared hard into his eyes, and encountered nothing there of the anger he'd expected.
"I believe that you would not have left under your own power, Harry," he said. "We've had discussions about that."
Harry swallowed. "That's true," he said.
Snape turned, glittering-eyed, on Draco. "Mr. Malfoy, on the other hand, has no excuse for not informing me of his whereabouts."
Draco gulped. Harry leaned on the wall, and grinned, and prepared to enjoy someone else getting scolded for adventures for once.
Odd. Very odd.
Falco perched on the roof of the Owlery, still in his sea eagle form, to contemplate all he'd learned. He preened his feathers, always a good mindless activity, while his mind made its lists.
He'd arrived at the Ministry quickly, of course, and felt the pressure of both Albus's magic and another's. That would be the Harry Potter Albus had told him about, Falco guessed; he was dimly aware that the shard of himself he'd left floating on the surface of his mind, a sentry against disasters, had received and answered letters from Albus a few times in the last few years. Most recently, it had given him advice on spreading his compulsion like a mist and ensnaring this Harry he was so worried about.
But Albus hadn't said the boy was anything like this.
Falco had watched, his eyes grown sharp enough to pierce stone when he wanted them to, as Harry fought Albus. He'd drained his magic with control and precision, something that made Falco think well of him. He hadn't hesitated when he went for the kill, which was also a good trait, in moderation. He appeared to ponder on the morality of his actions, if the pensive expression on his face was any indication. Also good, at least when one was young and not enough above the false moralities of the world to see them all for what they were.
Falco was not yet sure what to do about him. This Harry seemed to be a Lord-level wizard he and magic could live with, on the surface. He hadn't Declared for Dark or Light, and he seemed to have no intention of doing so.
But.
But.
Now that the sentry shard of his mind was reunited with the rest, Falco recalled what Albus had said about this Harry being vates. That was simply impossible. Falco himself had tried and failed to walk the vates path when he was younger, multiple times. And if he could not do it, not even when he was four hundred years old and had the necessary wisdom and experience if anyone did, then how could a child do so? No, he was probably breaking webs and freeing magical creatures without a thought of the consequences more than one or two decades in the future. He had to think longer than that, though. Many magical creatures lived for centuries, and some were immortal, and wizards themselves lived longer than Muggles.
Besides, Falco understood something about being vates that no other wizard or witch who had tried to walk that thorny path did. The vates must achieve what he did without violating even his own will. That was impossible, for when the vates grew impatient and wanted to achieve his goals at the expense of others, and held himself back from doing so, he would frustrate his will. The moment Falco had understood that, he had turned away from that impossible task and never looked back. It was enough work, Merlin knew, trying to balance magic and insure that it was safe from its own inherent self-destructive tendencies.
So. This Harry was a careless child, who just happened to be an absorbere, and sometimes capable of balance, and sometimes swinging wildly like an errant compass needle. Falco would continue to watch him, and judge him, and judge the efforts of the man who called himself Voldemort, and see where and when his own efforts to preserve the balance should fall. At the moment, he rather thought he would have to work against both sides, frustrating Voldemort's efforts at world domination and Harry's careless snapping of bonds that existed for a reason.
No one else understands as much about balance as I do, Falco thought in resignation, spreading his wings so that he could detour to the north and look at Voldemort's camp. And sometimes it grows lonely.