WARNING: References to rape and torture herein. Please skip this section if it's triggering for you.

Chapter Seventy-Four: The High Cost of Vengeance

Millicent sat in silence with her father. Adalrico had asked Elfrida to take Marian outside and walk with her for a little while, although still within the protective wards of their tent. There was no telling whether Starrise might not try to strike at his enemy's family before the duel. He'd have to use someone else to do it, but from what her father had said, Millicent thought that would be like him.

Adalrico had sent her mother outside five minutes ago, and still he hadn't said anything. Millicent did her best to remain still, holding her breath and willing her heart to beat more slowly. All the while, she wondered why she was so affected. She had not expected her father to die of old age. He could easily have perished in one of the battles that Harry wanted him to fight, or at the hand of a Death Eater assassin who would start taking out Harry's most valued allies. She should have expected something like this from around every corner, instead of feeling as if it had struck from overhead like a lightning bolt.

"Millicent."

At last, he's getting to it. Millicent sat up and fastened her eyes on her father's face. Adalrico said nothing else for a long moment, but his fingers were moving now, tapping on his legs while he gazed into their bonfire with a faint frown on his face. It was more movement than he'd shown since sending Elfrida and Marian out. Millicent waited, as patient as she could make herself.

"I want you to remember," said Adalrico, "our motto."

"Duramus," Millicent whispered. We endure. And the Bulstrodes did, lasting out the crises that diminished the power and fortune of many other pureblood families. They had never wanted to achieve the dizzy heights of ambition that the Malfoys aimed for. They wanted to remain alive and comfortable—rich, of course, and with people paying them respect, but without enemies staring them in the eye.

"If I die tomorrow," said Adalrico, "you will become the head of our family, Millicent. I want you to hold firm to our motto in public. No tears. I want your face to be as hard as stone."

Millicent nodded. "Do you have other instructions for me, father, in the event of your death?" she asked. Her tongue scarcely moved in her mouth, feeling as if it, in turn, were made of stone.

"You may accept the hand of Pierre Delacour," said Adalrico judiciously. "I have studied his family. Rich enough, and while they've interbred with both Muggles and Veela, they've not been obnoxious about it. They always come back to pureblood wizards and witches in the end. I give you my blessing for him."

Millicent nodded. "And for my mother and sister?" she whispered.

"Use some of our money to make sure Marian gets private tutoring." Adalrico made a large movement for the first time since he'd arrived back in the tent, bending down and lifting the goblet of wine that had sat beside his stool. "I don't want her attending Hogwarts, until and unless the school is actually better ten years from now. She'd be taught things there that a young magical heir shouldn't have to learn. I didn't think I had any choice with you, Millicent, or I would have sent you somewhere else, too." He met her eyes directly for a moment. "Will you forgive me?"

Millicent choked back the stupid, ridiculous, stupid tears that wanted to rise up her throat. "There's nothing to forgive," she whispered. "I'm glad I attend Hogwarts. How would we have met Harry and learned about him otherwise?"

Adalrico gave a faint smile. "I imagine we would still have heard of him from Mrs. Malfoy. She's a rather insistent dancer. But—well, I won't make you regret the way things have gone, daughter. I'm glad that you like your life the way it is." He put the goblet down again, and held out his hand to her. His skin briefly turned the color of quartz. "Will you clasp hands with me, daughter, for old times' sake?"

Millicent nodded. Her own skin turned transparent and glittering when she concentrated, and she moved her fist forward and through her father's. For a moment, she felt his flesh and muscle as if it were her own, the rush of foreign blood through her veins, the pulling of skin over unfamiliar tendons. From the look on her father's face, he was feeling the same thing.

"Based in stone," he whispered, "through the stone we commune, and like stone we endure. Duramus."

Millicent nodded again. She could say nothing without choking on tears that were unworthy of her, as a magical heir and the future head of the Bulstrode family in the event of her father's death. She sat tall and proud instead as Adalrico leaned forward and placed his shining fist on her brow.

"Call your mother in, please, Millicent," he said, leaning back on the stool. The light left his hand.

She rose to fetch Elfrida and Marian, and when that was done, she stood outside the tent and looked up at the stars for a long time.

"Uncle. You wanted to speak with me?"

Augustus looked up with a small, hard smile. He supposed he shouldn't take such joy in the fact that his possible death compelled his wild nephew to listen to him, but he wouldn't lie to himself the night before such a duel. Tybalt was only listening to him because Augustus might not be here to listen to tomorrow, and they both knew it.

"Yes." Augustus gestured for Tybalt to take a seat on the chair he'd Transfigured from a hump of grass, secretly pleased to see that his nephew really hadn't brought his Muggleborn partner. Tybalt wasn't entirely lost to family honor after all, then. That would make the things Augustus had to tell him easier. "I have something to tell you."

Tybalt sat down and stared up at him. Augustus stood still and stared back. He loved and treasured his nephew Pharos, his heir. He was the one who would carry on the Starrise family legacy, and he would do it with a grace that Augustus knew to be beyond him, himself.

That was why he would never say aloud that Tybalt was the one who more reminded him of his sister Alba. It was partly his face, of course, those wide eyes and that pale hair, but it was also in the gestures he made, his grip on his wand and his method of turning on one heel.

"I've found one of the murderers of your mother," said Augustus at last, when some moments had passed in silence. "I would have thought you'd be pleased."

Tybalt shook his head. "I did my mourning for Mother a long time ago," he said, his words impatient—always so impatient, Augustus thought, as though wizards did not have decades to achieve what they wanted to do. But then, he'd been impatient, too, to find the murderers and complete his justice quest. "I haven't let her death taint my life. And I never realized how deep the venom had run in you, Uncle, or I would have tried to purge it a long time ago."

Augustus snorted. "Would you have, now? I was under the impression that you did not care about this family, Tybalt, with the way that you can toss aside our traditions as if they were dandelion down."

"I don't care about it in the same way," said Tybalt, voice sharpening. "But yes, I do still care, Uncle. And above all, Mother is dead. Has been dead for years. She doesn't have any options anymore; she can't change. You're alive. You can change. And you've chosen to do something that will not only lose a vates I love and follow a large political advantage, but which will probably cost you your life."

"Are you sure about that?" Augustus touched his white staff, and heard his sister breathing words of love and praise into his ear. He'd heard them ever since she was able to point at Bulstrode. It was impossible to describe the contentment he felt. The gaping wound of his life had closed at last. "I am a trained duelist. Yes, Bulstrode's a fighter, but not trained in the way I am, or he'd wear the bells."

"He is a fighter," said Tybalt. "Not a duelist. I know where the advantage lies in battle, Uncle. I've seen battle now, in case you forgot." His eyes were large and dark, and Augustus realized that, yes, he had forgotten that Tybalt had fought a battle in the very valley where they stood now. "I wish you had not done this. I know that you have no choice but to follow through with it, now. But I wish you hadn't done it."

Augustus shook his head in wonder. Any anger he had felt burning had faded, by now. This was the last night he expected to spend alive, if he was honest. It would be good to go back to his sister, to see Alba again, to talk to her about her sons and the things that had happened when she was alive, those thirty years when he had really lived. Augustus didn't know what the afterlife would actually look like, but he knew what it would sound like. There would be conversations and conversations and conversations, endless talks. Alba had been with him to know the anecdotes he most wanted to tell her, but she would add her perspective to them, a perspective that Augustus had missed like a limb. Possibly Tybalt didn't understand that because he tended to think of her as Augustus's sister, not his twin. That made the difference.

This was his last night, and so he could ask the question that he had wanted to know the answer to since Tybalt had abandoned his family for a non-pureblood. "Why don't you feel more strongly about this, Tybalt? She is your mother."

Tybalt rose to his feet and began to pace back and forth. Augustus watched in silence. He wouldn't order him back to his chair, not when it seemed that Tybalt needed to be on his feet to give his answer.

"She's an encumbrance," said Tybalt at last. "Yes, she was my mother, but neither you nor Pharos ever treated her like that. You treated her like a Muggle saint—" Augustus frowned slightly, but let his comments on the appropriateness of Tybalt studying Muggle religions go "—like someone whose memory had to be watered in case it ever faded. And so I started resenting her. She wasn't someone I could just love and remember. She was someone I had to love. And it took away your time and love from me."

"That, at least, is not true," said Augustus, feeling his wonder deepen. "Pharos would not feel that way."

"That's because he did what you wanted," said Tybalt, raising his eyes to his uncle's face again. "How much of your love for him, Uncle, is the fact that he loved and fawned on the memory of Alba with you, and how much the fact that he's actually better-suited to lead our family?"

"I do not think you will ever understand, Tybalt." Augustus sighed. Well, I should have known the rift between us was too deep to be crossed or bridged. That's what I get for being optimistic. "As for something else you said, yes, you're right. I have already sent Pharos an owl telling him not to give the linchpin to Harry."

Tybalt jerked. "Why not?" he whispered.

"Can you ask?" Augustus raised his eyebrows. "He had a murderer in his company. If I die, then that murderer will still be alive, and I can't see Harry rejecting him. A torturer, a rapist—Harry had to have at least suspected he'd done those things, since he was a Death Eater, and he accepted him anyway." Augustus shook his head. "I knew it in the abstract, and now it has come home for me. It will come home even harder for Pharos, if I die. And if I live, then I shall think myself honor-bound to work against Harry. He won't deliver criminals to justice when he knows they're criminals, Tybalt. What do you think will happen if he finds more of them during this war? He won't punish them, either. Someone will have to."

Tybalt straightened as if under the weight of a heavy burden. "Why did you join the alliance in the first place, Uncle?"

Augustus cocked his head. "Because I thought I might find one of your mother's murderers here, or directions to him," he said. "And I have. And because I thought there was a slight chance that this was the right thing to do. I see it isn't, now. And Pharos sees the same thing."

"You'll try to break Harry's cause whether you live or die," Tybalt whispered.

"I believe I just said that."

Tybalt looked at him in silence for a long moment. Then he said, "Uncle, you've never taken me seriously since I was Sorted into Gryffindor. Something about foolish courage and rash behavior, I think you said in the first letter you sent me after it." Augustus nodded, remembering the letter as well as Tybalt did. "Well, I have my own ideals, no matter how wild you think I am. And in this alliance, I've found someone I actually want to follow. What makes you imagine that I'll permit this damage to him?"

Augustus laughed. "Tybalt, there is nothing you can do. I changed my will so that Pharos is my heir."

"Oh, I know that," said Tybalt, his eyes in shadow. "And you won't change the means of inheriting the linchpin."

"Of course not."

Tybalt nodded. "That's all I wanted to know." He turned away. "I would wish you a clear mind, but it's a useless wish," he added over his shoulder.

And those are the last words we'll ever exchange, Augustus thought in some sadness. But I know Tybalt. I was a fool to suspect anything different. And he's a fool to think I take him seriously. Your son has become a wild boy, Alba, a feckless, reckless child who never grew up. He may threaten me, but there's nothing he'll be able to do when matters come pounding down to the end. He wasn't made for the kind of politics that we play.

He turned away and went back to listening to the voice of his sister whispering thanks and congratulations and welcome to her world.

"Harry."

Harry rose to his feet in surprise. A man he hadn't expected to see until tomorrow, if then, was standing in the entrance to Snape's tent. Snape at once rose behind him, his wand out. He'd already become an expert at compensating for his weak right leg by letting his left take most of his weight, Harry noted absently.

"Mr. Bulstrode," he murmured, giving a shallow bow. "Is something the matter? Can I do something for you?" Given what he'd heard about the duel, and what Snape had told him after they came to sit in private, he knew there was no chance that Adalrico had come to tell him the duel was off.

"Actually, you can," said Adalrico. "There's a story I want to tell you. Or an explanation. Yes, call it that." He glanced at Snape. "I would prefer to do it alone, if you don't mind, Harry."

Harry nodded at Snape. Snape studied them with silent dark eyes, then said, "Remember Cardiff, Adalrico."

With those odd words, which Harry suspected must refer to something that had happened between them in their Death Eater days, Snape limped out of the tent. Harry wondered what he would do. Perhaps watch the moon and stars. Perhaps listen for the sound of a shout, or any other sign that Harry needed him. Harry didn't think he would eavesdrop. He trusted his guardian too much now to suspect that.

"Please, sit down," Harry said, Transfiguring one of their stools into a more comfortable, padded chair. Adalrico took it, moving slowly and stiffly. Harry eyed him anxiously as he sat back down. Adalrico noticed, and smiled.

"It's not a wound," he said. "I've just spent time talking to my wife and daughters, and that fills my mind enough to make my body heavy." He sighed and bent his dark eyes on the fire. Harry studied his face and said nothing. What was there to say? It was cruel that Adalrico had to fight this duel or lose his daughters' magical ability to a curse. It was cruel that he might die in the doing, even if he saved his daughters' magic.

And it was cruel, wasn't it, what he did to Alba Starrise? You notice that he didn't deny it.

With his head filled with such boiling thoughts about cruelty and crime and blame, it took Harry a moment to realize that Adalrico was speaking.

"There were five of us," Adalrico told the flames. "We'd captured her in a series of raids that the Dark Lord ordered us to make while he prepared for some grand strike. As it turned out, that strike was sending the Lestranges after the Longbottoms and going, himself, after you." He glanced up at Harry briefly. "We never expected him not to come back. I think he was building up to a celebration when he returned after destroying the latest threat to his power."

I do not want to hear this. But what does wanting have to do with it? Harry gave a shallow nod to show he was listening.

"We tortured Alba in ordinary ways, at first," said Adalrico distantly, no longer looking at Harry. "Pain curses and Crucio. She screamed, and then she went quiet and would no longer give us the satisfaction, which was opposite to the way most people went about it. I don't know if I remember her so well because she was the last person I ever did that to, or because she was unusual and beautiful like some white deer out of a story, but I can see her still: biting her lip, her eyes wide, her hair splayed around her head. When I met Tybalt Starrise, it gave me a shock. He looks like that most of the time."

Harry said nothing.

Adalrico half-lidded his eyes and took a deep breath. "Then we—one of the others put on a glamour of her brother, and raped her. She screamed then, just once, at the beginning of it, like something was breaking within her. Dolohov cast a spell to make her own hands join in, crawling up and down her body." Abruptly, his face darkened. "At least, I thought it was Dolohov. I know now that Dolohov died the year before, and it was Evan Rosier under a glamour of him. Which—explains a lot, really."

Harry said nothing. He tried not to think of a Light witch at Evan Rosier's mercy, and failed.

"I was the one who suggested that she ought to be made to rape someone herself," said Adalrico quietly, staring at his hands. "And I was the one who found a child who resembled her elder son."

Harry jerked to his feet. "Why are you telling me this?" he demanded. "Did you want me to ask you why you did it?"

"Actually, I did." Adalrico lifted his head. "This is the last lesson I can give you if I die tomorrow, Harry. The reasons I did it, and what happens in war—what is going to happen at least among the Dark Lord's servants, if not your own. Everything happened to me in a dark place. Nothing mattered anymore except what the Dark Lord said mattered. And it became imperative to believe that, because if we'd been wrong, the path behind us was littered with too much blood and flesh to justify what we'd done." He took another deep breath. "I had to think that way, when the Dark Lord fell and I emerged from the dark place. I would have committed suicide if not for Elfrida. I reconciled myself to living like a normal person again, and to the fact that that I'd done those things, but it took me seven years."

"And you think the same thing will happen now," said Harry. He found it hard to look at Adalrico. "I know that. Knew that. I listened to stories of the First War when I was still a child, Adalrico. I know atrocities happened, and I know they will now. If nothing else, Voldemort hates me too much not to try and hurt me."

"That's not exactly what I meant," said Adalrico carefully. "When the war ended, then the only way I could survive was to face what I'd done. But while it lasted, the only way I could survive was to breathe in the perfume of that poisoned garden and believe it fully. I believe that you'll die if you try to live in the war like you'd live in a normal time, Harry. You can't. War marks everyone's souls. War takes everyone's souls, at least while they're fighting it. Afterwards, that's the time for healing. Reconcile yourself to that, Harry, and you'll do better."

"It's not going to take mine," said Harry. He had not known that his voice could be that low, or that passionate. "I promise you, Adalrico. I promise you it never will. I will live through this."

"Of course you have to survive, Harry—"

"Not survive," said Harry, leaning forward so that he could see the other man's eyes. "Live. I'm not going to close myself off from the war. I'm not going to become a shell, or stop feeling. I'm going to walk through this with my eyes open. I'm going to take every loss personally. I'm going to let the war rip my soul to shreds all it wants, but never steal it."

Adalrico gave a convulsive movement. Then he said, "Then I have died knowing your cause will fail, Harry, and so has my instruction." His voice was hemlock-bitter.

"No," said Harry. "You'll die or live tomorrow knowing that I'm a different person than you are, Adalrico." He cocked his head, feeling his lips stretched in a smile that had nothing of humor in it. "But you have reminded me that I should make an important speech tomorrow. Thank you for that."

"Harry, you cannot mean this," said Adalrico. "You will kill my family if you try to fight like that."

Harry shook his head slowly. "No more surely than I would have if I became a copy of Voldemort, or shut myself down for the duration of the war and did not grieve for their deaths," he said. "I've had to learn the hard way that I can't influence everything, can't do everything. I'll do what I can to protect your family, Adalrico. On that, you have my word. I will do anything in my power—except become what you became."

"But that is how one fights a war, Harry." Adalrico blinked at him.

"That is how Voldemort fights a war," said Harry.

Adalrico stared at him for some time more, his eyes wide and troubled. Harry stared back. At last, Adalrico glanced away from him and rose to his feet, shaking his head.

"I don't know how you do that," he muttered. "I come here seeking peace on what could be the last night of my life, and you manage to make me feel unsettled, and troubled, and as if I want to stay alive to see the end of your mad plans."

Good. Then maybe you'll fight harder tomorrow, Harry thought. "Good night, Adalrico," was all he said aloud.

Adalrico departed. Snape came back in at once. "What did he want?" he demanded.

"To tell me about Alba Starrise," said Harry, and raised the flames a bit higher. He imagined he could see a writhing, screaming, raped woman if he looked at the fire long enough. He wondered for a moment if he should tell Augustus that Evan Rosier, at least, was still alive and free of Azkaban. Then he imagined Rosier's pleasure in destroying Augustus, and he knew exactly why Adalrico hadn't done it. He was trying to halt the vengeance here, to insure that it didn't slop over onto others. Harry doubted it was to protect Rosier. He was trying, as hard as it was to imagine, to protect Augustus, or, if he died, the Starrise heirs who might otherwise feel a compulsion to avenge their mother, and would only die.

And if that is not a sign that he has changed from the man he was, I don't know what is.

"Why must you be everyone's confessor?" Snape asked, his voice ragged.

Harry looked up at him in surprise. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I don't know why I didn't think that you'd be affected by the duel, too. Adalrico is your friend, isn't he? Or was."

"I was thinking of you," said Snape.

Harry blinked, then smiled. " I can bear it," he said, facing the fire again. "But I do have some things to say tomorrow."

The dawn came cold and clear, in a pearly gray sky. Harry stood at the entrance of Snape's tent and breathed in the nipping air. Adalrico and Augustus had apparently decided to duel at nine-o'clock, and it was eight now. That left him an hour to say what he wanted to say.

"This is not the wisest move," said Snape at his shoulder.

"So you've said," Harry murmured, not looking at him.

Snape grunted, and fell silent.

Harry began to walk in the direction of the stone table. He saw a few people glance at him curiously, but most didn't look until it was obvious where he was going. A lot of people were staring at him by the time he leaped onto the tabletop and turned to face them, once again casting the spell that would allow his voice to reach their ears without shouting.

"There will be a duel today," he began. "A duel to the death, between Augustus Starrise and Adalrico Bulstrode."

Muffled snorts came to him. Most people would already have known that, of course. Harry raised his eyebrows higher, in a reprimanding expression he'd learned from Snape, or perhaps from Draco; it was hard to remember. This was just the beginning, just the preface, to give them an idea of what he was talking about.

"It is a duel that I do not intend to stop or affect," said Harry. "It is beyond my reach for affecting. I do wish to make it clear that this is an example of the rituals I was speaking of on the first day of this meeting, the ones that enshrine vengeance at the cost of forgiveness, that say pride and honor are more important than life." He snorted, and knew the sound would carry on the spell's wind as readily as the words. "I don't agree," he added. "If Starrise had consulted me before he tried to call the duel on Mr. Bulstrode, I would have advised him not to do it."

"He killed my sister."

Harry had wondered how long it would take Augustus to show up. He turned towards him, and nodded.

"Or was one of those responsible for her death, at least," he said. "As I understand it, she committed suicide when she was rescued."

"And you think that makes him less responsible?" Augustus was in fine form today, every line of his face wrinkled in aristocratic disdain.

"Of course not," said Harry. "But she's dead, Mr. Starrise. And you've wasted your life on a hunt for her murderers that might not have borne any fruit. They could all have been dead, for what you knew. Or fighting beside Voldemort still, and someone else might have killed them." Or alive, and so mad that it is plain suicide for a Light wizard to go up against them. "Perhaps you would have faced them, and slain them, and never known it. It's sheer chance that you're facing one of them in a duel today. Forgive me, but I don't think that sheer chance is worth the loss of a life." He didn't have to pour contempt into his voice. It was already all there.

"You are lost to honor if you believe otherwise," Augustus breathed. He was staring at Harry as if seeing him for the first time.

"I already said that I considered some things more important than honor," said Harry, tossing his fringe out of his eyes and frowning at him. "And that's something everyone still in the alliance, or thinking about joining it, should know," he added, turning his eyes on those who watched him. "I don't think vengeance is an excuse. I don't care how many rituals justify it. As you've seen with this duel, I may sometimes be unable to do anything but despise it. But if I can affect its progression—if I hear that someone who fights with me plans to use torture as a means of vengeance, or a ritual, like this, that puts honor ahead of life—then I will cut that person out of the alliance at once."

"Is that not trampling on our free wills?" Lucius Malfoy said that, his eyes the color of the sky.

Harry smiled coolly at him. "Of course not. I won't kill anyone who does this, after all, or drain their magic. But I can and will make them politically powerless, unable to have a say in the formation of the wizarding world. For some people, Mr. Malfoy, that fate is worse than death." He held Lucius's eyes, and saw him get the point.

"How unlike a Lord, Harry," said Augustus, "to restrain himself when he might do more. Cut them out of the alliance? How prosaic and limited a punishment." His voice was relaxed, a contemptuous drawl.

"I am not a Lord," said Harry, speaking slowly and clearly. "Apparently, Mr. Starrise, you didn't understand that the first dozen times I told you, so here is a thirteenth. I want limits. I want checks and balances. I want the free wills of my allies to be unbounded—except where they step on the free wills of others. You've cleverly arranged matters so that I can't punish you for interfering with Mr. Bulstrode's free will. Where I can stop others from doing that, I will. All I can do in this situation is resent you terribly for wasting your life and potentially wasting another." He met Augustus's eyes and held them. "That is the difference between us."

"He tortured my sister," said Augustus. His face was dark now. "He raped her."

Made her rape someone else, actually, Harry thought. He nodded. "He did," he said. "And during the First War, the Aurors were granted permission to use the Unforgivable Curses, at least for a short time. Has anyone ever demanded justice for those innocent people who were tortured or compelled or killed in the process of searching out Death Eaters? Wouldn't they be laughed at if they tried? But they would have as much basis as you do for demanding justice for your sister."

"That was war," said Augustus. "As much force was used as was needed. But this—this was different. This was torture."

"And if an Auror used the Cruciatus Curse on an innocent person?" Harry widened his eyes. "That wasn't torture, Mr. Starrise? Explain the difference to me, please."

"You will never understand," said Augustus, appearing to swell, "because you are not of the Light."

Harry laughed. It was a sharp sound, and he saw it make people flinch like the crack of a whip. "Nor will I be," he said. "I am loyal to neither the principles of Dark nor of Light, because there are always times when that loyalty becomes slavish. I will choose from day to day, Mr. Starrise, and make sure that those choices march with my own principles. It's a considerably more frightening existence than a blind decision for Dark or Light, so I can see why not many wizards choose it. But it is what I am. Perhaps you should have questioned that more closely before you entered the alliance."

He met the eyes of the people in front of him, and saw stunned expressions on some faces, and understanding ones on others. Perhaps they finally understand now why I'm not a bloody fucking Lord.

He sprang from the tabletop and turned towards Augustus with a sarcastic bow. "I believe that you have a duel with Mr. Bulstrode in five minutes," he said. "Far be it from me to keep you from it."

Lucius tapped his wand against his hip as he watched Adalrico and Starrise move towards the center of the large clear space of grass where they would be dueling. His mind could step back from the drama of the fight to see how Harry's words applied to him, as it always could.

Harry had said he would tolerate no torture done in vengeance.

That meant he could never be allowed to find out what Lucius had done to Lily and James Potter, lest it meant that the Malfoys would not have their chance at political power. Harry might even break off the joining with Draco. Lucius was not entirely sure of that, how strong his love for Draco was in comparison to his principles, but it was a possibility.

Lucius had taken steps he thought were sufficient at the time to insure Harry would never find out. But his contacts at the Ministry had since informed him that Fiona Mallory, the Auror who'd taken the fall for his vengeance, had been sacked for her actions. She was living somewhere in London, doing Merlin knew what.

Perhaps it is time to make sure that one of those things is not confessing my part in the torment of Harry's parents.

Lucius nodded sharply before he turned to watch the duel. Something to attend to when this was done with, then.

Augustus shook off the last of his irritation as he walked to the center of the grass. Harry was right—at least, if he really believed the rubbish he had been spouting. He should not have joined the alliance. Harry was not the right leader for someone of Augustus Starrise's principles if he could not even see that of course vengeance in a situation like this was justice.

He turned to face Adalrico Bulstrode, who had walked out to stand opposite him. The air began to shimmer with the colors of gold and silver and bronze and iron, the four metals they had called upon to witness the duel. The shimmer spread out around them, forming a hazy, round wall of light. Neither of them would be able to cross that barrier until one of them was dead, and no one from outside could interfere. Augustus had called Bulstrode to a place beyond the reach of the wizarding world, and here it was.

Augustus took a deep breath. The air was sharp around him, the colors carving lines into his eyes and his brain. This was the end of life, the end of days, the end of the aching and the hurting.

Bulstrode stared at him, dark-eyed and dark-haired, heavy as the black stone that his ancestors had chosen as their sigil. Augustus wondered if his sister had seen him like that in her last moments on earth.

He felt an answering spark from his staff that seemed to say she had, though, Augustus thought, without the fear that showed in his eyes now.

He held his staff out in front of him, and bowed to his opponent. The duel's code said he had to. Bulstrode bowed stiffly back, clearly uncomfortable with the gestures of honor. Augustus smiled. He was no duelist. He was no duelist, and the morning around them was gray and green and brown with spring, and any moment now, Alba would be avenged.

Both of them knew the moment to begin. The wall of light told them, the morning told them, the tension between them—between executioner and criminal, Augustus thought, between Light wizard and Dark wizard—told them.

Bulstrode flicked his wand, and, of course, a Dark Arts defense spell came spilling out. "Defensor vindictae!"

Black mist filled the dueling ring, a fist opening in the middle of it. Augustus knew the fist would seize him and crush him if he wasn't careful. He also knew it would never have the chance to touch him.

"Finite Incantatem," he said, loudly and calmly, and the mist dissipated. He was already into his next spell, a step ahead of Bulstrode, who had thought he would have a moment more behind his Dark shield. Augustus heard his own voice incanting, and the stumbling words of his opponent.

"Aspectus ignis!"

"Ardesco!"

Augustus concentrated on the fire that Bulstrode had tried to light within him, and murmured Finite Incantatem over and over, drawing on the power that he'd stored in the staff. The fire went out, and he looked up, expecting to see Bulstrode stumbling. After all, the Fire Sight spell tended to do that, effectively blinding an opponent by making him see the heat that burned inside every object.

But Bulstrode had closed his eyes, and was fighting blind. He shouted the next spell with a note of triumph in his voice that Augustus didn't understand, unless it was delight in using the Darkest spell he could think of. "Cogo!"

The Compression Curse struck Augustus before he was ready—he had always underestimated how fast that one moved—and he felt pain crumpling his shoulders, shoving his spine into his buttocks, trying to make him bow his head so that it could crumple him. But they did not know Augustus Starrise, neither the original creator of this spell nor Adalrico Bulstrode. He would never bow his head. He bore up under it, and even cast a nonverbal Shield Charm to protect himself from the next spell, and only then reached out to the power in the staff again to end the curse.

Bulstrode was at work, too. The glow of Shield Charms moved around him when Augustus next looked, and a black spark he wasn't familiar with. Bulstrode thrust a fist forward with a wordless cry, and ebony fire galloped from his hand, heading straight for Augustus.

It ate through the Shield Charm as if it wasn't there, and struck his left hand, not the one that gripped the staff. Augustus looked down at the sudden lack of feeling. His arm had turned to stone from the fingers to the elbow.

There was a moment when he might have panicked. He forced the panic away. This is for Alba.

He threw himself sideways from the next rush of black fire, knowing it must be one of the Bulstrode magical gifts. Most Light families let others know what they could do, speaking in honesty, walking in the daylight. Dark families kept them secret so their enemies wouldn't know exactly what they might do in battle. Paranoid bastards.

And these are the kinds of people Harry would ally himself with. I was right. This alliance was wrong for me.

Dragging the stone limb, he concentrated on himself, and cast Exsurgo. Strength raced through him like a river in flood, like the Light in the ritual he'd used on Midwinter—and he didn't have to feel sorry about that, because they'd been doing it to battle the Dark, not to aid Harry—and gave him the ability to stand up straight and renew the Fire Sight spell. Bulstrode had just opened his eyes, but he slammed them shut again, with what Augustus thought was a little whimper.

Augustus knew he could still win. It was a matter of finding a Light spell that would eat through Bulstrode's strong shields and kill him. He knew the other man was stronger than he was, magically, but that didn't matter right now, when he was also blinded and reduced to relying on his family gifts to grant him an advantage.

Alba's voice whispered restlessly in his head. You can do it, brother. Remember the spell that you used when the Death Eaters tried to raid our house in the First War.

Augustus smiled. Yes, that would do.

"Lux aeterna!" he cried, throwing his hand and what he could move of his left arm wide, and pouring all his will down the staff, as if it were a river forced through a narrow course.

Light exploded around him, a burning sunrise, a killing radiance. He knew it would first blind Bulstrode and then hollow him out and then consume him with fire. It was fatal only to wizards who used Dark Arts, and Bulstrode had surely used enough of them to fall victim to it.

It is right that he die of the Light, Augustus thought, and opened his eyes, and watched eagerly. He could see through the radiance, though no one who used Dark Arts would be able to.

He saw the Light stalk towards Bulstrode. He saw him fall before it like a sacrifice on a pyre. Augustus opened his mouth to laugh.

And Bulstrode whispered back, "Obscuritas aeterna."

He should not have been able to remember the counterspell at such a time. He should not have been able to concentrate on it when he was blinded and in such a position that he could only react defensively, Augustus thought. But darkness rose around him, and spread forward, and met the Light in mid-flight. Darkness and Light coiled and whipped and became a black-and-gold maelstrom that it hurt Augustus to look upon. Then they faded and were gone.

Bulstrode unleashed another stream of the black fire, and Augustus's right leg was suddenly heavy and useless.

That was when he knew he was going to die.

Madness stirred in him. He could not die and allow Alba's murderer and rapist to go unpunished. He could bear death, he could bear how long his justice quest had taken him, but never that.

So he pulled his magic into himself—all of his magic, including that stored in his staff. He concentrated deep, and heard the voice of the tutor talking to him and Alba, telling them legends, telling them old stories. Perhaps the particular story that came to him did so because of the round table that Harry had constructed; he did not know. Perhaps it was his sister's inspiration. But, either way, it was perfect.

He dropped his shields. He left himself utterly vulnerable to that black fire. And before it came again, he whispered, "Ulcer regis piscatori!"

The spell wrenched itself out of him. Augustus could feel his insides convulsing as he gave up his being to the curse, his magic and his purpose in life. His sister was with him in that moment, moving with him, speaking the words she had been unable to speak in life because they had taken her wand from her before they began torturing her, of course they had.

Augustus knew the curse had flown and hit Bulstrode. He gave a deep sigh, contentment consuming him before the fire turned him into a stone statue. It was done. He had at least taken vengeance for Alba before his death, and Pharos would know what to do in his absence.

And then he was with Alba, and everything was well again.

Harry didn't at first realize what had happened to Adalrico, because he was busy staring at Augustus, turned to a bizarre mixed figure of stone and flesh. The black fire had hit his head, killing him, but his torso, his right arm, and his left leg were still alive. Harry gave a shudder and turned away. The duel had been swift, but still he felt the waste of life lying in his body like a stone limb of his own.

"Harry!"

He turned back swiftly. The barrier around Augustus and Adalrico had vanished with the ending of the duel, and Millicent was kneeling next to her father. It was her voice that had cried out, so angry and fearful and lost that Harry hadn't recognized it at first. He strode forward and knelt next to her.

"What is it?" he asked, and then saw the seeping wound on Adalrico's heel and heard his soft, pained breaths.

"I tried to heal it," said Millicent, her fingers closing around her wand and then letting it go again. "I did. But I can't. What is it? What curse is this, Harry? It's hurting him." She gazed up at him as if he could make everything better.

Harry swallowed. He couldn't make everything better, and this was one of those things. "I'm sorry, Millicent," he said softly. "It's the Fisher King Curse. It inflicts a wound that doesn't heal. The only person who can cure it is the person who cast it." He led her gaze to Augustus.

"But that—that doesn't make sense," Millicent whispered. "I mean, you're a Lord-level wizard. You should be able to reverse it."

Harry shook his head. "This is one of those times where pure power doesn't do anything," he said, and gently moved his hand over Adalrico's face, fearing him blinded. It was just the Fire Sight spell, though; the pain in his ankle was distracting him from ending it. Harry ended it, and nodded to Adalrico as his eyes flicked open. "It's like someone gone insane from the Cruciatus Curse, Millicent. I can't bring back Neville's parents, no matter how powerful I am. And I can't heal this. It doesn't kill, but it is part of the laws of magic that only the caster can reverse it. And I wasn't the caster. I'm sorry," he added, feeling the words inadequate in the face of Millicent's stare.

"He's right, daughter," Adalrico said, his voice exhausted. "In the end, he wanted to cost me some pain more than he wanted to live. I felt his shields drop when I attacked. He poured everything he had into this curse, knowing I would kill him a moment later." He pressed Harry's hand hard enough to hurt. "I do not blame you. Leave us for a moment, Harry. I have to speak to Millicent."

Harry nodded, and stood, backing away as Elfrida hurried up to her husband and daughter with Marian in her arms. "I'm glad you're alive, sir," he murmured.

"So am I," said Adalrico, in a voice that was already learning to beat back the pain. "I still have a chance to change."

Harry had to turn away then, partly from the truth of the words and partly so Elfrida could have some privacy as she knelt beside her husband and embraced him. He had to breathe in sharply several times, before he shook his head and met Draco and Snape's gazes with a tiny nod. He was all right.

He was even more confirmed in his prejudices against vengeance, though.

The cost is too high. Always too high. I'll do what I must to win the war and what I can to alleviate the pain of others, but vengeance is not something I can commit, not a wound I can inflict on my soul. No more. No longer.