Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!

This chapter was late because it's another long-ass one.

Chapter Seven: The Alliance of Sun and Shadow

Harry spoke with McGonagall via the communication spell Charles had taught all of them the moment he was out of the Ministry. The news of Loki's mate had prompted him to put his plans in motion sooner than he would have liked. When he had left Bones, and then Scrimgeour, he had envisioned having at least a month, until school began, to pull everyone together. Now, he knew that would be impossible, and it was especially important that he meet with the werewolves before the next full moon.

Hogwarts was the best place to do so, if the Headmistress would permit the wards to be lowered in the Forbidden Forest.

"Madam?" he asked, the moment the soft chorus of phoenix song above his wrist was answered with the Headmistress's voice.

"Harry!" He could hear more dismay than anything else in that voice. Harry smiled grimly, wondering if she were worried that he was back from the Sanctuary early or that he had walked straight into the center of a maelstrom.

"Madam," he repeated, and then went ahead with his request. "I am trying to create a formal alliance between wizards and magical creatures. I think it's needed, with what happened to the werewolves and to the Opallines—"

"The Opallines?"

"Acies came with fire," said Harry, narrowing his eyes to try to get certain images out of his head. "I would not be surprised if the Department started hunting her, too, or at least demanded that she be given over to them when she wakes. And of course the other magical creatures are always vulnerable. Umbridge was able to get laws passed against them very easily when she was head of the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures. I think this department is less sane than she was." He turned into the main point of the conversation then, afraid that McGonagall's questions would distract him again. "I need your permission to meet with as many magical creatures as possible, and as many of my allies as will come, in the Forbidden Forest. I'm issuing an invitation to the werewolves."

McGonagall's tense silence was answer enough.

"I know that you don't like them on school grounds," said Harry quietly. "But I give you my word that they will be safe for the duration of the meeting. If they try to attack Hogwarts, or anyone there, I will use my magic against them."

McGonagall's voice crept back like a kicked dog. "I am reluctant to grant permission even so, Mr.—Harry. You know that you cannot predict their actions, and after these killings, they will only be wilder and more irrational."

"Some of them will be," Harry said, thinking of Loki. Wilmot had emphasized twice more how nothing, not the threat of magical punishment to his pack nor offers of assistance, would keep Loki from taking vengeance. "But others have seen the danger now, I think. And it is not the day of the full moon. Their magic resistance and their strength will lessen each day until the dark of the moon. I would choose to set the meeting at the actual dark if I could, but that is too far away, and I must move now. Will you let me use the Forest?"

"If you must."

"Thank you, Madam," Harry said. "I intend to have the alliance meeting there on the fourth of August, two days from now." He started to cut the communication spell, but McGonagall spoke before he could.

"Why did you return early, Harry?"

"Acies came and burned the Opallines," Harry said simply. "I knew that if one thing had gone wrong in the outer world, then something else might have. I decided to return."

"Are you done healing?"

"As near as I could come in a month," said Harry, certain Draco was snickering, though he couldn't look over his shoulder to check. It was humiliating, to be standing in the middle of an alley covered with graffiti and talking to his Headmistress about his mental health. "I'm going to continue the process now that I'm back. I brought a Seer with me, though he's mostly for Snape." He supposed he could talk to her about that, too, though he didn't have time to answer every question. "I should warn you that Professor Snape is on the verge of snapping altogether, Madam. He often loses his temper with me and goes into magical rages. The Sanctuary began the work of destroying his mental walls, but he won't tell me what his dreams are about, and he won't tell me what made him so upset."

McGonagall sighed. "If he can gain control of himself, of course, he's welcome to come back and teach in the autumn. If not, then I will ask someone else. I do have another candidate who could teach Potions for at least a term, if I offered him enough."

"Thank you, Madam," said Harry, and this time he did let the spell fade. He reached out and took Draco's arm, drawing him nearer to prepare for a Side-Along Apparition. His mind worked busily. Wilmot had promised that he would send the invitation to Loki's pack, though he was doubtful about how many of them would come. Harry himself could visit the Forbidden Forest and inform the Many and the centaurs of the alliance meeting, assuming they wished to attend. He would send owls to his human allies whom he hadn't taught the communication spell to. He had no idea how to get in touch with Dobby, the only house elf who might have an interest. Harry supposed he was perfectly capable of finding out about the meeting on his own and attending.

"Harry!"

He jumped and looked at Draco. "What?" he asked.

"I've been trying to get your attention for two minutes." Draco shook his head, then leaned forward and stared into his face. "You realize Snape will go mad when he realizes that you're attending a meeting with werewolves at it? Specifically, the werewolves who coerced and threatened and tried to bite you?"

"That's why he's not going," Harry said.

He thought he heard Draco mutter something just before they vanished, something along the lines of, "This, I have to see."


Snape knew that Harry had disappeared while he was brewing healing potions for the Opallines. That was the only thing that kept him from running out of his lab and demanding explanations immediately. If it had been during the carriage ride, then he would have cursed Joseph by now.

As it was, the Seer was on the other side of the lab helping prepare and chop and sift the ingredients he needed.

Snape gave him yet another over-shoulder glance of wary disbelief. When Joseph had first slid into the room between the dead dragon's ribs which Paton Opalline had given Snape for a lab, Snape had whirled around, his wand up and an Unforgivable hovering behind his tongue.

Joseph had held out his hands and said, speaking slowly and clearly, "I don't know that much about potions, but I'm an expert at following directions. Let me. You need an extra pair of hands."

And, well, he was right. Snape did. It seemed that he was still capable of being rational on the subject of Potions, if nothing else. He moved his head sharply at another table, already set up with mortar, pestle, several knives, and beetle shells, flower petals, and other ingredients that needed to be of a certain consistency in order to work. "The flower petals into a dust," he directed. "The beetle shells to be pounded like sand."

And Joseph had nodded and set to work.

Nor had he once tried to speak while they were working. Snape had waited for it, certain it was coming, some gentle inquiry after his health or teasing comment about how similar their shared pasts must have been. Some of the best retorts he'd ever thought up waited impatiently for use.

Joseph said nothing. He passed Snape each ingredient as he finished with it; he knew a useful spell that curled around the fine dust like an invisible jar and wafted it across the distance between them. He never looked over except to be sure that the ingredient arrived at its destination. Then he went back to pounding, slicing, sifting, sanding, with a dedication that said he had won his patience and skill at the task with hard labor.

Snape grew more and more distracted himself, to the point where he almost substituted dragon scales for beetle shells, which would have ruined the potion entirely. He waited. Joseph said nothing.

Another packet of purple, lavender petals turned almost into a fog, floated over to him. Snape counted to three, then whipped around, ready to surprise an expression of pity on the Seer's face. Joseph was bent over his mortar and pestle, counting each beat with a soft voice.

Snape could not take it any more.

"Say what you came to say and be done with it!" he snarled.

Joseph finished the count before he responded—so much like something he would have done himself, in an ordinary mood and confronted with someone upset, that Snape's resentment soared to new heights. Then he looked calmly back at Snape. "Why do you assume that I came to say something and not help you prepare potions?" he asked.

"Because otherwise you would be talking to grief-stricken Opallines and easing their petty fears."

Joseph adopted a wistful smile. "No. The worst cases were all sung out of their dreams by the time I reached them. I spoke to a few grieving relatives who just needed to see that this wasn't the end of the world." He shrugged and turned back to the mortar and pestle. "That son of yours is remarkable."

"He is not my son." Snape made an ugly sound that he'd meant to be a laugh when he started it, and which now had no name. "Or had you missed my distinct lack of any kind of charm, either to attract a mate or pass on to a child?"

"Whatever you say."

Snape just barely kept himself from snapping, eyeing Joseph's back. Joseph was sweeping some beetle shells that weren't fine enough for him back to the knife now.

He had met someone like this once before, Snape finally realized, and it was not Sirius Black. It was Gray Grim, whose real name he had never known, a Death Eater and recruiter for the Dark Lord. He was like water; whatever someone else said, he knew the counter to it, and he would wear down logical arguments against joining the Dark Lord like water wearing down stone.

Snape himself had never argued against him, because he had had Lucius to convince him to join the Death Eaters, but he had seen him demolish opponent after opponent, without ever appearing to do so. And now it seemed that he had a Seer doing the same thing.

He turned, stiff-shouldered, back to his cauldron, and wondered whether this new discovery would make his life easier or harder.


Draco made sure to step out of the way when Harry landed with a sharp thump on the flagstones outside the Opalline home. He suspected that Harry would either go after Snape or to Paton Opalline immediately to demand ink and parchment and a quill. Draco would rather go along and watch than get in the middle of any conflicts that might result from those things.

As if watching is a problem, he thought, as his eyes traced the slight shimmering in the air around Harry. He's beautiful when he's angry. Well, and plenty of other times, too, but especially then.

Harry found Paton Opalline in a few moments; Draco was unsure if Harry had tracked him down or if the Opalline leader had felt Harry's magic approach and made himself easy to find. Harry's words were clipped as he explained softly about the meeting he wanted to hold. Paton nodded and made a few apparently sensible suggestions, which Harry accepted with short nods of his own. Draco strained to listen in, but heard little more than the names of some of Harry's allies and "werewolves."

His attention wandered, so he was the first one to see Snape enter the small antechamber where Harry and Paton were holding their discussion.

Just as he did, Harry shook his head and said, "No, I'm not sure the werewolves are safe, but I have to invite them anyway."

Loud enough to be heard.

Loud enough to make Snape's face darken.

Draco grinned—well, he could pretend that it was a frown later, if he really needed to spare Harry's feelings that much—and stepped out of the way.

"I see we have entered a regressive stage, Harry," Snape drawled to his back. "You said that you would not put yourself in danger any more without thinking, and now you have done so? How very unlike you, not to keep your promises."

Harry just turned around and glanced at Snape in distraction, exactly as if he'd been interrupted in the midst of something more important. And that's really the way he might think of it, Draco thought. Harry had to play politics right now. If Snape insisted on being inconvenient while that was happening, then he would get pushed aside until Harry was better able to deal with personal matters.

"I'm not putting myself in much danger now that it's not the full moon and I'm able to use my magic," Harry said. "One of the werewolves the Department killed was Loki's mate. Our contact in the Ministry told me that that means Loki's on the vengeance path. I don't know if I can talk him out of it, but possibly I can still soften this somehow, and keep it from all-out war between wizards and werewolves. Thus the alliance meeting."

"You should not go," said Snape. "It is dangerous."

Harry snorted. "I'm holding the meeting in the Forbidden Forest—choosing the ground. We're going to be surrounded by centaurs and Many snakes, and my human allies besides. Loki is the one who should be wary."

"You should not—"

"We discussed that already, how my life isn't fair and I shouldn't have had to bear the burdens I had to and on and on," said Harry, and turned away from Snape, his straight back and set shoulders dismissals if Draco had ever seen them. "I am going to. And if you don't want to be another of those unfair burdens piled on my shoulders, then don't interfere."

Snape's mouth snapped shut. Harry was already talking to Paton again, something about how whether any of the Opallines would be attending the meeting. He knew they had suffered loss in the wake of Acies's breath, and—

"Do not be silly," said Paton gently. "Our family will recover, and tomorrow will be the funeral for our dead. We must look to the living, and celebrate the dead, not mourn them overlong. I will come to the meeting, or Calibrid will. My children will be able to spare us by then."

Harry nodded. "Thank you. This is going to be different than the meeting that I held on the spring equinox. That was a chance to give people a good look at me, and let them decide if I'm worth following." He cocked his head, eyes narrowed. "This is to give those wizards and magical creatures who've already decided to follow me a chance to work together, and see what it really means to fight beside a vates."

"I understand," said Paton. "I assure you that neither my daughter nor I would have trouble with that. Calibrid is ready and willing to accept anyone who does not despise her, and I am the one who taught her." His smile flashed with open pride for a moment. Draco wondered what he would have to do to get Lucius to show that kind of pride in him in public.

"Thank you—"

Only then did Snape stalk out of the room. Draco hesitated, then followed him, catching up with him in the hallway. Snape whirled on him, then lowered his wand with a low curse of the non-magical kind.

"Why must he do this?" Snape whispered, all but snarling. "He knows I wish to help him, and yet he insults and dismisses me."

Draco blinked, honestly surprised. He thinks this is about Harry not having enough compassion? He studied Snape's slumped shoulders. "Because you're being a prat," he said at last. "Telling him nothing, but demanding his attention. He can't help you. He certainly can't force you to tell him what's bothering you. Or, rather, he won't. But the vast part of this is your own fault, sir."

Snape was giving him the snarling look of a wounded animal. Draco decided it might be for the best to back off now and let Harry figure out the best way to deal with his guardian later.

Then again, he thought as he ducked back into the room where Harry was still speaking with Paton, considering how irrational all the people taking care of Harry tend to be, Lucius as a father isn't too bad at all.


Lucius was sipping tea and reading yet another account of fools trying to discredit Harry in the Daily Prophet when phoenix song chimed above his wrist. He turned his attention to it after a good minute had passed and the person speaking to him had seen the folly of interrupting Lucius Malfoy at breakfast.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Lucius."

He raised his eyebrows. Harry's voice, but tempered and cooled, with a tone he had never heard in it before. If Harry had been a new-forged blade when he went to the Sanctuary, now he sounded like one ready for use.

"Harry," he said, his eyes straying to the paper again. The photograph on the front page was one taken almost two years ago, when Harry went up against dragons in the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament. He was riding a broom, dodging and swooping among the huge bodies, looking as if he had never known fear in his life. "What brings you back to us so soon?"

"News of trouble on the Isle of Man," said Harry. "And news of other troubles after that, once I arrived here. I am going to hold a meeting in the Forbidden Forest, in the same clearing where I met you for the Christmas celebration the year before last. I think it's time that humans and magical creatures should meet and discuss what our alliance and our revolution entails."

Lucius sat up straighter. Oh, he could not deny that he had not dreamed of this day since he had realized what Harry's power might mean, and that abandoning Voldemort was a feasible choice. But he had never imagined it would arrive so soon. Harry was not ready, that much was obvious from the way he handled himself, and then he'd retreated into a place full of Light wizards. Lucius had thought the boy would be even more Light when he came back, and would need a few encounters with reality to show him the fascination of politics.

"Revolution?" he questioned delicately.

"Our world can't stay the way it is," said Harry. His words reminded Lucius so strongly of a speech he'd heard the Dark Lord give more than once that shivers ran down his spine and through his Dark Mark. "It's going to slaughter many people on either side if it does." Well, the Dark Lord had referred only to purebloods, but he had said much the same thing. "I don't want that to happen. And I've realized that there are some hypocrisies in my behavior towards others that I want to correct. Will you agree to come with me and meet centaurs and werewolves face to face?"

Lucius smiled, toyed with the idea of telling Harry that working beside werewolves was less repulsive than the thought of working beside Mudbloods, and then decided to be diplomatic. "Yes, I will. And Narcissa will, as well."

"Narcissa will what?" his wife asked, coming into the kitchen. A house elf appeared and handed her a steaming cup of tea, which she immediately took and started sipping. Lucius admired the way her blonde hair coiled around her neck for a moment. Narcissa rarely appeared less than perfectly poised, but her early-morning relaxation was lovely in its own way.

"Tell her that she's welcome, of course," said Harry, and Narcissa's eyes widened.

"I will," said Lucius, and then said his farewells and gave the spell up. He leaned across the table to take his wife's hand, raising it to his lips. "Our vates has come back," he murmured into her fingers. "What do you say to meeting with centaurs and werewolves in the middle of a Forbidden Forest clearing, while Harry stands over us and tries to convince us all to get along?"

Narcissa gave him a very faint smile. "I say that I shall have to find an appropriate gown to wear."


Hawthorn could not deny that the sound of phoenix song above her wrist lifted up her heart. "Harry," she murmured, even before the voice of the other person could begin talking.

Silence met her, which concerned her until she realized it was the silence of shock. Hawthorn laughed softly, and that prompted Harry to speak.

"How did you realize it was me?"

"I had a dream," said Hawthorn, and wandered over to look out the window of the Garden. They'd had rainy and sunny bouts of weather alternating for the past few days, and the plants she had transferred into this small side bed were doing wonderfully. Her eyes lingered near a hawthorn bush growing protectively over a clump of dragonsbane and a set of small pansies. She was able to smile and feel an ache in her chest instead of simply feeling the ache. "A lot of dreams, the past few days. I dreamed that you would be returning."

"I never knew you were a Seer." Harry sounded half-confused, half-intrigued.

"I don't think I am." Hawthorn leaned her head on the windowsill. She knew she should be more worried. Whatever was urgent enough to summon Harry out of exile in the Sanctuary was probably just another obstacle to add to the fact that there was now a Department devoted to hunting werewolves, and a spell that could track werewolves in human form, and the serious attempts to discredit their vates. But she felt as though she were looking east and had just seen the first signs of sunrise. "I just expected that you would come back, and soon."

Harry audibly shook off the first traces of surprise. "Well, I could wish the circumstances of my return were happier."

"Tell me."

And Harry did. Hawthorn listened, and agreed that it was serious, but the hope went on living inside her. She agreed to attend the alliance meeting, of course, and then her wrist went silent, and left her to go on peering out the window at her plants.

An alliance meeting. One held only because the world is becoming so dangerous that Harry cannot afford to have those who follow him separated by ridiculous prejudices any longer.

But a meeting that addresses wounds that should have been healed long since, and breaches we need to repair. We cannot be divided against ourselves and yet endure. And our enemies could divide us, if they continue to pile on the fear talk against werewolves, and the Dark purebloods continue uninterrupted in our prejudice against Mudbloods.

She turned away from the window. This past month had been a time of retreat for her, of remembering her daughter and her husband and mourning what had been. We thought, and we rested.

Now we live.


Adalrico looked up from playing with his younger daughter. Marian was making a concentrated effort to grab hold of a jeweled bauble he dangled on a string for her, but he didn't think that was what had distracted him from her scrunched-up little face and whimpers of frustration.

Then he heard the sound again, and realized it was phoenix song coming from just above his left wrist. He picked up Marian, gave her the bauble to quiet her, and asked, "Hello?"

"Greetings, Adalrico."

He sat up straighter, even though there was no way Harry could see him. He was conscious of having something to prove to this man, at least in his own mind. Harry didn't know, of course, that Adalrico had wearied during the final days of the siege and wanted to use Darker magic on the Death Eaters than Harry would permit. Millicent had been the one to remind him of family duty, that the Bulstrodes were Harry's formal allies and ought never to betray him in such a way. Adalrico had thought about it often since then, and had been ashamed that it was his heir reprimanding him instead of the other way around.

"Harry," he murmured. "What is the matter?"

"Dragons, and werewolves, mostly," said Harry, his voice grim and wry. "But a dash of Ministry politics, and no doubt prophecy, as that seems to trouble me at every moment of my life. But for right now, an alliance meeting I want to hold in the Forbidden Forest tomorrow, with most of my allies, human and nonhuman, who agree to come. It will be in the clearing where you once met me for Christmas. Will you attend?"

Adalrico nodded, then remembered that the communication spell didn't convey gestures, only voices, and said, "Of course. Will Elfrida and my heir be welcome to attend?" Marian fussed and said, "Da!" as if she knew that meant leaving her with a friend of the family, and Adalrico jogged her on his knee to shush her. She could stay at home and be happy there. He was still wary about risking his younger daughter in public yet, especially since Starrise might have a grudge against him for killing first one of their favored daughters and then her twin brother this spring.

"Of course," Harry replied. "I am gathering everyone who will agree to come. And if someone won't—" Adalrico could hear the shrug in his voice. "I suspect that will reveal who isn't comfortable around magical creatures, and that in and of itself will tell me something about them."

Adalrico laughed. "Very well. What time will the meeting begin?"

"You'll want to arrive in the afternoon," said Harry, voice serious now. "I suspect that the centaurs will get there even earlier than that."

"Very well," Adalrico said, and cut the spell, and then scooped up Marian and went to tell Elfrida. His wife had recently got used to leaving their daughter alone long enough to go back to work in Gringotts. He didn't think she would object to leaving Marian with her sister, either.

Marian wriggled and fussed. "Da! Magic!" Now she was trying to grab his wand from his pocket.

"You're not old enough yet," Adalrico told her.


Henrietta looked up when the communication spell rang out. She knew it was the communication spell, despite the abundance of strange objects in her quarters. She'd spent enough time rustling around yesterday, poking and prodding and casting spells to be sure that none of the former occupant's possessions did anything odd. It was almost blinding to be surrounded by Gryffindor colors—this had been Minerva McGonagall's room for twenty years—but she supposed she'd get used to it.

"Hello?" she asked.

"Henrietta?"

Harry's voice. Henrietta told herself that it was not dignified for a Bulstrode to smile like her favorite person in the world had just walked into the room. The man had put her under Unbreakable Vows and smashed the last of her pride. Really, she was supposed to hate him.

But she didn't. Harry was legitimately stronger than she was, in more than just magic—the only person Henrietta had ever been able to say that about.

"Harry," she said. "What brings you back so early?"

"Alliance meeting in the Forbidden Forest tomorrow," said Harry. "I need you to attend, unless you're averse to magical creatures."

Henrietta smiled and glanced down at the pamphlet that lay on the desk, advertising the Augurey sanctuary Harry had had her give some money to fund and found. "Not anymore," she said.

"Good. Now, as you're approaching from the north, you'll notice a clearing not far away from the path. You should be able to see it clearly. Other people will be there already; I've asked Hawthorn and Adalrico to arrive early."

"Harry," she interrupted then, thinking she should correct a misconception, "I won't be approaching from the north. I'll be approaching from the south."

She heard the frown in his voice. "Why? You're flying?"

"No." Henrietta sat back and sprang her surprise. "Because I have a teaching post at Hogwarts now, so I'll just walk from there."

A long, stunned silence, and then Harry said, "But—what post did McGonagall hire you for?"

"Transfiguration," Henrietta said smugly, shaking her hair over her shoulders. "I've been studying it for months, thinking that she might need someone to help her with it this year. She did manage to jury-rig it last year, but I know a lot of people were unhappy with that, especially the parents of the students in the NEWT Transfiguration classes. I knew she could use an extra pair of hands."

"But your daughter—"

"Is no longer here," Henrietta pointed out smoothly. "You arranged for her to have private lesson with that tutor in France, remember?" She knew Edith had begged Harry to go to France almost the moment her mother came to the castle during the battle, technically keeping the word of her Vows by not seeing Edith face-to-face. And now she was gone, and Henrietta was free to be near her young Lord. Far too many assassination attempts had happened on Hogwarts's grounds. She was here to make sure they became a thing of the past.

"That's true," Harry murmured, sounding as if he were thinking deeply. "But you aren't teaching under your own name? I think Pharos Starrise would raise a stink about a Bulstrode professor."

"No. My name is Hilda Belluspersona." Henrietta lifted her head and examined herself in the mirror on the opposite wall. "You'd be surprised. I look much younger, and my eyes are blue now."

"And your name means beautiful disguise," Harry muttered. "And you still think someone won't figure it out?"

"None of us can help what our names are," Henrietta said mildly.

Harry sighed. "Coming from the south, then, you'll take the path on the way in, and you should look for a twisted tree. Or just wait for the centaurs. I was at Hogwarts this morning, to speak with their leader. They should find you and guide you in."

"Of course, Harry." Henrietta hummed happily under her breath as their communication spell finished.

Really, it's not the done thing for a Lord who treats his companions decently to go off at the shake of a Kneazle's tail, she thought, as she got up and once more examined her face in the mirror. I am so glad he's back.


Ignifer did not know what time it was, only that, after last night, it was far too early. She was never drinking butterbeer again. She buried her head under the pillows and ignored the chiming.

Then she heard someone say, "Hello, Harry."

Panicking, Ignifer sat up, and then groaned and grabbed her head as the light and noise outside her blanket cocoon assaulted her. She massaged her temples and moaned, all the while squinting frantically, to see if her vates was really going to see her in this state.

All she saw was Honoria sitting on the end of the bed, smirking at her wickedly as she spoke into her wrist. "An alliance meeting? Of course. And you don't need to speak to Ignifer, I'll tell her." A pause, during which Harry's voice emerged too low for Ignifer to hear, and Honoria said, "Oh, but it's no trouble, Harry, really. She's sitting no more than four feet away from me, after all."

Ignifer made a grab for her. Her head pounded so hard she not only lost her balance, but fell full-length to sprawl on the bed. Honoria leaped away and danced gleefully around the room.

"You ought to see her," she went on, unhelpfully, to Harry. "Her hair's all a tangle, and she looks as though someone slammed her across the face with a crowbar, and she looks so thoroughly shagged, you have no idea—"

Ignifer snarled, and flames curled around her. Honoria squeaked in mock fright before conjuring the illusion of a bucket of water to tip on Ignifer's head. She was good enough at tactile glamours that it really felt like ice water, damn her.

"Tomorrow in the Forbidden Forest, centaurs will guide us in," said Honoria. "Of course. I understand, Harry. Thank you!" She ended the communication spell as Ignifer called fire into her hand and tossed it forward in a miniature fireball. All of Ignifer's walls and most of the furniture were spelled to resist flame magic, after numerous almost-accidents, but Honoria wasn't. She changed into her sea-mew Animagus form instead, and cackled triumphantly as she soared above the ball.

Ignifer scowled as the other witch dived and turned around the room, laughing loudly enough to make her headache worse. She liked Honoria, really she did, and the sex was fantastic, but there were times she resented taking up with a master illusionist who was also a bloody Animagus with a ridiculous sense of humor, and this was one of those times.


Thomas Rhangnara was deeply concerned. In front of him sprawled several Daily Prophet articles from various days during the last month and a half. The later ones were more and more wildly fantastic, and reported events that contradicted the reports of the earlier ones, during which they'd said, accurately, that Harry mercy-killed children during the Battle of Hogwarts and lured Voldemort into a trap. The later ones stated that he'd murdered children, and that he hadn't lured Voldemort into a trap so much as done it to show off his skills.

Obviously, this was the result of a lack of proper research. Thomas was writing the Prophet's editors with the information that they would need to correct the problem and print a retraction. He was sure they would be grateful for the help.

His wrist sang. Thomas looked at it with awe. He always enjoyed the moments most before a new communication began, because it could be anyone on the other side. Perhaps Voldemort had even figured out a way to talk to them. "Hello?" he asked eagerly.

"Hello, Thomas."

Harry. Thomas barely managed to restrain a sigh of satisfaction. Now Harry was back in the world, and the Prophet would be even swifter to print the retraction. Of course they wouldn't want a wizard of Harry's power on their tails. And Thomas could tell Harry all about his news.

"Guess what's going to happen in a few weeks, Harry?" he asked eagerly.

"I don't know, Thomas." Harry sounded almost like Priscilla and his children, Thomas thought, willing to listen if a little puzzled. That was a good thing. That meant he didn't have to be afraid that he was using up the vates's valuable time by burbling along. If Harry was annoyed and needed to talk about something else, then surely he would ask Thomas to stop and let him get to the point.

"We're releasing the news about GUTOEKOM," said Thomas, and looked proudly at the other pile of paper on the end of his desk, which was corrected and uncorrected proofs for the report. "We were going to let it out earlier, of course, but we made a few new discoveries, and found a few mistakes we needed to correct. For example, did you know that the Dark Lord Fallen was Muggleborn?"

"What?" Harry asked in shock. "No, he wasn't. He was the bastard son of a pureblood family, and he hated Muggleborns, just like Voldemort does."

"I don't care what he said," Thomas said. "People lie about themselves, especially Dark Lords." He gave a little shrug. He had never seen the point of lying himself. Research proceeded more easily where truth was involved. "He was Muggleborn. He just tried to cover that up by proclaiming himself the son of an illustrious heritage. Of course, the pureblood family he said he came from, the Princes, denied it, but they were proud enough that they weren't going to admit to a bastard, so the denial was just what everyone expected from them."

"So that means that old myth about no Muggleborns being powerful enough to be Lords and Ladies really is a myth," Harry mused.

"Exactly!" Thomas beamed, glad he saw the importance. "And we've looked into more about how magic interacts with bloodline. There's fascinating evidence that how the mother feels about the child in her womb can affect how much magic they're born with. That would explain why so many pureblood children born after a husband cheated on his wife were Squibs. And of course almost any child that comes from a raped witch is a Squib. There's not enough evidence to say that this happens all the time yet, but it's one of those factors that Petrovitch identified, and which has borne fruit." He reached over and shuffled through some of the papers, looking for something else inspiring to tell Harry. "Oh! And of course there's Muggleborn or Muggle blood in most of the pureblood lines."

It sounded as if Harry had choked. "Do tell," he said faintly.

"Oh, yes," Thomas said, nodding rapidly. "The Blacks, in particular. When they interbred too closely, Squibs started being born. Then a few of the Black women sought out Muggle or Muggleborn lovers and had children they dearly wished wouldn't be Squibs—the power of a mother wishing, you know—and some of them weren't and regenerated the line. And that's to say nothing of what was going on in the Malfoy line." Harry definitely choked this time, but he sounded all right, so Thomas rambled on. 'There were a few generations where neither the men nor the women could stay in bed with their lawfully wedded spouses. And of course they hid things, but if they had a child, they usually brought it back into the family." Thomas chuckled, because he thought this was amusing. "There's a high chance that Abraxas Malfoy himself was the bastard child of his father and a Muggleborn woman, you know."

Harry sounded as if he were wheezing.

"I can't wait to publish this," Thomas ended happily. "People will have to listen, and stop being idiots. Now, what did you want to talk to me about?"

Harry gave him the directions for the alliance meeting, the time, and how to reach it. He sounded breathless as he did it. Thomas frowned. He didn't want their vates to get sick. "Try to get some rest and heal that cold you have, Harry," he advised him kindly. "Get your partner to rub your back."

"Right," Harry said faintly. "I'll do that."


Owen tapped his fingers idly against the side of his leg. Harry had just contacted him and asked if he and Michael would consider attending the alliance meeting in the Forbidden Forest. And of course Owen had said yes. He and Michael were both the sworn companions of their vates, and one did that kind of thing when one was a sworn companion.

It did mean that events were running faster and further than they had predicted when they thought Harry would be in the Sanctuary for two months. And Owen wondered if their mother was yet recovered enough from grief for their father for he and Michael to take up their duties of guarding and defending Harry again. There was no question that they would be attending Hogwarts in the autumn for their seventh and final year, but that was the autumn.

He looked across the room, where Medusa sat with Michael, playing a game of chess. Michael caught his eye and nodded very slightly, his way of saying that he thought their mother was fine.

Owen loved his brother, but he did not always trust his judgment. Owen was the one who had become head of the family when their father Charles died, and not only because he was their father's magical heir and had always been the more responsible, guiding and protecting his younger twin. Michael also had a tendency to get so wrapped up in arcane trivialities that he missed the larger picture. Owen hadn't been surprised at all when, as they sat under the Sorting Hat a few days after the Midsummer battle, the Hat had placed Michael firmly in Ravenclaw, while it had sent him to Slytherin.

And he thought that Michael had certain—personal—reasons for wanting to see Harry, and specifically Harry's partner Draco Malfoy, again that made him likely to rush.

Owen studied his mother's face. Medusa Rosier-Henlin, once Medusa Bulstrode, had aged since her husband's death, but now she looked like a queen instead of the young princess she had always appeared when their father was alive. She played with more quiet intensity than she had been used to showing when she danced around Michael with a skillet, but was that a bad thing? Owen thought not. And the way she laughed, if more subdued than before, was at least animated enough to count as laughter. And she no longer spent any days lying in bed, as she had at first.

Medusa turned her head then, and caught his gaze. Owen started to flush and duck his head, but Medusa held his gaze straight on, challenging him, and then sat back, indicating the chess game was done.

"I'll have you know, Owen Rosier-Henlin," she said, adopting the tone that always made Owen feel about five years old, "that I have been managing for myself far longer than you boys have been alive."

Owen nodded unwillingly. What little he knew about the Bulstrode family indicated they hadn't been—close.

"I can manage without you," said Medusa. "Your father wouldn't want me to shut myself up in a tomb, and I'm not going to." She looked sternly back and forth between them. "And you have a stronger allegiance than to me." Her gaze fell on Owen's left forearm, cut with the lightning bolt mark that marked his oath-vow to Harry. "Go and serve your vates, your Lord. I demand that of you, as your mother and as an older witch whom you respect." She stood.

"But what are you going to do, shut up here all day?" Owen had to ask. Medusa had been a witch whose life was wrapped up in her husband and children. It was hard to imagine her here alone.

"I didn't say I would stay shut up here," Medusa almost snapped. "And—" She hesitated a long moment, then shook her head. "At first I wasn't sure," she murmured. "And then I couldn't bear to mention it, because it seemed like so little compensation after such a crushing blow. And then I thought how horrible it was that your father wasn't alive to see this. But I'm recovered from that now. I have to go on." She drew her wand and tapped herself. "Coarguo!"

Owen blinked. He knew the spell—one often used at Durmstrang to dispel glamours and reveal the presence of dangerous spells in a room. He didn't know why his mother would be using it on herself.

The blue mist he was familiar with swirled around Medusa, and then stormed away, forming a shadow in the air. Owen squinted. There was his mother.

And there was a smaller shadow within hers, resting in her belly.

Owen turned and stared at her.

Medusa's smile was bitter. "I conceived not long before your father went to the Midsummer battle," she murmured. "And so long after we'd given up hope of having another child." She bowed her head. "But it doesn't matter that Charles won't be here to see her, because he won't, and I have to accept that. I'll be sure to tell her tales of her father, so that she will know he was brave, and would have loved her."

Michael was the first to hug their mother, which was appropriate, as he'd always been closer to her. Medusa hugged him, and then she began to shake, and then the tears came.

Owen stood and went over to them a moment later, hoping, fiercely, that the war would not claim his mother and his infant sister as sacrifices.


Harry arrived at the clearing in the Forbidden Forest with his magic held sternly under wraps and the taste of ashes in his mouth. He and Snape had had another argument over his coming here. It had started out with Snape trying to reason with him, which Harry supposed was a positive sign, and then degenerated into Snape ordering him not to go. Harry had answered that with the sneer it deserved.

I don't want more bad blood between us, damn it! he thought, running his hand over his scar. I don't want any bad blood at all. I want to be able to trust him, to rely on him, to help heal him. But if he won't do that right now, then he won't do that right now. At least it seems that Joseph is having something of an effect on him.

He pushed thoughts of Snape into the Occlumency pools and held out his arm to Draco. Draco grinned slightly and interwove his arm with Harry's. It had been his idea that Harry muffle his magic and go in like that, to see what the expressions on his allies' faces would be when he released it. Harry had wanted to oppose him, but it was a move that made tactical sense. There still might be wizards here—Harry was sure Lucius was one—who had remaining prejudices against the magical creatures, or who thought they might be able to control him. A sudden show of magic would set them off balance, and warn them that he was no one's pawn.

Not anymore.

He swept into the clearing with Draco, coming in beneath two trees with arched branches. The loose circle around the glade, wizards neatly arranged on one side, and magical creatures—including, Harry saw with relief, a shimmer that was probably Dobby—on the other, turned towards him.

Harry let the bindings on his magic go.


Lucius saw Harry, and felt his magic tighten a circle of buzzing pain around his head, and was suddenly carried back more than twenty years, to a much darker night than this. He was young, and looking to carve his own path in the world, and meeting the Dark Lord for the first time.

Voldemort had come in with his magic shielded, just as Harry had done, but even more anonymous in the sea of black cloaks and white masks. Then he had released it. And Lucius had understood in a moment why wizards could be unconsciously compelled to follow Lords and Ladies, even the ones who seemed destined to lose their wars.

The magic was life. It flowed everywhere, like dark water, and whispered of change and adoration of that change. It whispered of being in control, instead of helplessly swept along by traditions and Muggle-lovers. Lucius had been dazed, dazzled, awed. Not even Dumbledore was that strong, with that sense of sheer, vital springtime and renewal to his magic.

And the Dark Lord had been sane then. He wasn't exactly charismatic, but he didn't need to be. He was fascinating, which was better. Steeped in Dark magic, in old studies, in old secrets, he reeked of ancient knowledge, and he told the truth in a fervent voice, and his magic pulled at them all as the moon pulled at the tide.

The records said Death Eaters had followed Tom Riddle because he was a power-crazed madman, and they had been mad, too, and wanted to share in that power. Lucius knew some who had fit that description—Evan Rosier for the former, Bellatrix Black Lestrange for the second. But more of them yet had bowed their necks because of something impossible to explain unless one was close to Voldemort and had at least the potential of being loyal to him. They were his because they could sense that this was someone who could change the world as an earthquake would—a storm in a human being. And they could commune with that power as they never could with an ordinary storm.

Lucius had thought he was giving that up when he swore allegiance to Harry. He did not really regret it, not when Voldemort had returned as the mad thing he was. There were subtler pleasures to be had, like making a young Lord dance to his tune.

Now he felt it again.

Harry's magic was painful, but it commanded Lucius's attention like a blade against his throat. He was awake, for the first time in a decade. His nerves balanced on the edge of a knife. He breathed, and felt the breath sting in his lungs, and relished it. He knew he was in the presence of a leader ready to go to war.

That was what Harry was, no matter what he claimed.

Harry locked his gaze on Lucius's from across the clearing, and inclined his head. His green eyes were visible from that distance, thanks to the dark green robes that Draco had probably persuaded him to wear, and his hair was bound back from his forehead, as much as it could be, with a silver band that was probably another of Draco's touches. His scar slashed across his brow, vivid as any normal lightning bolt in the sky.

Lucius told himself that Malfoys did not fall to one knee for anyone born a Potter. But he gave a deeper bow than he ever had before.

And Harry accepted it without the flicker of an eye.

Lucius fought the urge to stamp a foot in delight, to cast a curse, to turn and kiss Narcissa. Things were beginning, things were beginning again, and he was in the middle of them.

And this time, his leader was not mad.

He could fall, though.

Lucius suddenly had a vested, personal interest, one that had nothing to do with Harry's importance to Draco or the future of his family, in stopping that from happening.


Ignifer blinked. If someone had told her, a year ago, that she would be appreciating the effect of Lord-level power washing over her, she would have told them they were mad. She did not appreciate being controlled, not since her father. She had endured sixteen years of exile from her family, and an infertility curse, rather than give in and do what he wanted.

But now she felt the potential to command lapping on her arms, curling around her throat, sniffing at her as if to assess what she could do and what part she could play in the war.

It was—not unpleasant.

Ignifer studied Harry with narrowed eyes. There is nothing that says he cannot make a wrong decision. There is nothing that says he cannot fall, or that he will be as good a leader in this as in anything else.

But belonging is nice.

A hand squeezed her own. Ignifer turned her head and saw Honoria beside her, eyes bright with mischief—and, more, understanding. Her illusions created a dog with Ignifer's yellow eyes on one shoulder, rolling over, showing its belly, and begging to be petted. Ignifer snorted and looked away in disdain.

She did let her hand squeeze back on Honoria's, though.


Henrietta swept the clearing with a proud glance. It was perfectly obvious to her what effect Harry's magic was having on all the people around her, and also perfectly obvious that some of those people had not been convinced, before, that following Harry was the best thing to do.

Idiots. Really. Did they think that a wizard capable of making me want to follow him was a weakling?

Perhaps not a weakling, she thought, taking in the complex expressions on so many faces, but certainly not this overwhelming presence he was now. They had sometimes seen a child, an abused one. They had sometimes seen one who risked his life for no real reason, particularly where Evan Rosier was concerned. And they had sometimes seen a hero, as on Midwinter, but not someone particularly human, particularly easy to relate to.

Here was someone who had settled into his magic, and would use it to defend himself if he had to.

And use it to defend others, too.

They understand now, Henrietta thought, as she watched Lucius dip his head in a deep bow and Laura Gloryflower nod slowly, as though seeing Harry was not her child to protect. It is better to be within his circle than without. He will not hesitate to protect them as fiercely as he protects himself.

And now, there is no doubt that he can do it.

Henrietta settled back, with her arms casually folded, and smiled, and smiled.


The first thing Harry noticed was that the werewolves weren't there yet. He had received a notice from Wilmot that they would be attending, but he had also told himself that he wasn't going to wait on Loki, and that was true. It was already early evening, the sun just beginning its western descent. He at once began his speech.

"I would like to make this a formal alliance," he said. "I would like to know that I can take everyone here into my trust and faith, and treat you all as confidants in the matter of my plans. Therefore, I am asking everyone here who has not actually sworn an oath to me to do so. And I will swear one back to you."

"The terms of the alliance?" That was John Smythe-Blyton, Tybalt Starrise's joined partner. Harry noticed that his eyes were slightly shadowed. Perhaps he thought the risks Tybalt had taken without any formal oath were already severe enough, without adding that binding into it.

"Welcome is one of the first and foremost principles." Harry shifted his weight. On Draco's advice, he'd prepared the speech, but it still felt false to use it. He wanted to speak his mind without caring what effect the words had, because if someone truly hated what he was saying, then why would they want to join the alliance anyway?

But he knew he had to be political, measured, diplomatic. He'd argued with Snape and had him stay behind because he was convinced that Snape couldn't be any of those things.

I don't want to sacrifice who I am by becoming political, though, he thought, lifting his head. And it would be so easy to do. I'll have to keep an eye on myself.

"We'll welcome those who use both Light and Dark magic." Harry looked at Thomas Rhangnara, then Laura Gloryflower. "Those who have committed crimes and sincerely repented." A glance at the former Death Eaters in the group. "Both humans and magical creatures." He let his gaze slide over to the centaurs. A large male Harry knew as Bone folded his arms and nodded, as though to signal his people's commitment to the alliance. "Muggleborns, and halfbloods, and purebloods, and Squibs." Calibrid Opalline—whom Harry suspected had in part attended because her father was intent on getting her to think about something beyond all the wounded and dead in the house—held her head back and smiled faintly when a few gazes turned to her. She didn't look as though she would back down if anyone tried to tell her off for being a Squib. Harry just hoped the rest had the same impression of her. "There's no place for prejudices here."

"And I suppose that you expect us to free all our house elves tomorrow?" That was Lucius, recovering from the shock he'd showed when Harry first entered the clearing, and returning to his usual bored, haughty tone.

"Of course not," Harry said. "I expect you to consider the possibility, to be open to arguing about it, rather than blindly dismissing the idea. What I want to make us different from those outside the alliance, other than our welcome, is our ability to think. That may restrict the first principle. I would not let someone into the alliance who seemed likely to hurt all the others already here." He could feel himself relaxing. Some of this was prepared, but some was in response to the questions of those around him. He preferred that, really, a dialogue rather than a monologue or a speech. "But we won't simply dismiss someone out of hand because she carries the werewolf curse or because he had a Muggle for a parent. There are plenty of sectors of wizarding society who do.

"If we look over recent wizarding history, it seems to me that our greatest sin is not thinking. Sometimes, as with the Ministry of late, we allow fear to control our actions. Other times, we're so concerned over status that we don't see that we're losing true power. And at still others, we've forgotten history, and we prefer to hide from it when reminded." He nodded at the centaurs, but he was thinking about the Grand Unified Theory as well, and the absolute chaos that Thomas's theory was going to cause when his group published it. Harry found that he was glad, chaos or not. It would at least force people to consider. Lucius was likely entirely ignorant of the possible Muggleborn heritage in his own family, and thus felt free to despise them without pause. Confronted with it, he could try to hide his head in the sand, but Harry wouldn't allow that, and he didn't think Draco and Narcissa would, either. "If you become part of this alliance, you are going to have to step away from that all-too-common strategy. You don't need to like everyone else in the alliance, but you need to fight beside them. You'll also need to examine your own actions, and their consequences. No blind vengeance-taking will be part of this, of course, but it's not the only part."

"And yet you still don't necessarily want us to free our house elves?" Adalrico sounded as if he were having a little trouble understanding the contradiction.

With a small smile, Harry shook his head. "No. Think, argue, debate, question. Those are what I want you to do. But you haven't sworn to help the house elves achieve freedom. I have."

He turned towards the shimmer that was Dobby. A pair of large golden eyes formed in the mist and looked out at him.

"I have sworn that," said Harry, "and it's time for me to stop living in the midst of hypocrisy. I am vates. I have cast my own cleaning charms for the past year, but I've still lived on house elf labor, eating food they prepared in Hogwarts. I am going to stop that now. I promise you, Dobby, and if any others of your kindred were free yet, I would promise them as well." He held up his hand, and the ring Draco had given him on Walpurgis Night flashed. "I will never live by house elf labor again. I am going to see what food is available in Hogsmeade, and have it sent by owl to the castle. And when I live somewhere else, I plan to do the same thing."

The people all around the circle were staring at him, except the Many, who made small hissing noises as they talked about their own important matters, and the centaurs, who stamped a few hooves gravely in approval. Dobby's golden eyes blinked.

"I have been waiting for that," he said at last, in a voice like eerie flute music.

Harry nodded. "Yes. It's to my discredit that I've waited so long. But it's sworn now." He turned to Lucius and Adalrico, though he spoke to the whole circle if they wanted to listen. "That is the kind of thing I would like to see happen everywhere. Not at once. I am not going to force anyone to free their house elves. But I will bargain where I can."

"Not everyone will be able to do what you do," Hawthorn told him. Her face was pale. Harry wondered if she had not anticipated his making such a large change in the way he lived his own life. "Some people can't afford it."

Harry nodded again. "I know that. That means that solution won't work for everyone. But I can afford it." The thought of the Black fortune, just lying around in its vaults and not being used for anything productive, bothered him. Rather like the way I now think about my magic, I suppose. "And I'm the one who has reason to swear that oath, and try to smooth out the contradictions in the life I lead."

"So," said Owen, sounding as if he were trying to bring them all back to the main point of the meeting. "Welcome and thinking. What else?"

"A willingness to rise," Harry said. "Against falsehood, against stupidity, against preconceptions. My first target is the Ministry and the way it treats werewolves, because I think it the most urgent cause right now. They are dying in the streets. I am going to be trying my hand at inventing a cure for lycanthropy." He had his dreams to thank for that, he thought. Sometimes his dreaming mind knew what he needed before he himself did. "I'll also offer my protection to any werewolf that wants it. And, of course, any werewolf who wants to can join the alliance, as long as he or she agrees to swearing to all the other principles."

"I am glad to hear you say that," said a voice from the opposite side of the clearing Harry had entered on.

Loki. Harry turned on one heel, magic up and ready to defend if necessary. But Loki simply appeared, walking at the head of a file of werewolves, many more than Harry had seen accompany him before. Harry narrowed his eyes, noticing his allies' tension as people kept piling up behind Loki. There were perhaps forty men and women there. In the back, Harry thought he'd caught a glimpse of Remus.

All of his pack?

He looked at Loki then, and the accusation he wanted to speak stuck in his throat. Loki's face had lost the calm, amused look it had worn most of the times Harry had seen him in the past. He appeared to have lost weight. His eyes were fiercely amber, burning as if the full moon had been yesterday instead of a few days ago, and hunger appeared to have sharpened his cheekbone and his fangs.

"What is the meaning of this, Loki?" Harry asked quietly.

"Did you mean what you said?" Loki asked, and the tone was sharp enough that Harry saw a few of his allies stir and reach for their wands. "The werewolves who agree to your principles can have your protection?"

"I meant it," Harry said, lifting his head. He wondered if Loki was going to challenge him in public, accuse him of not doing enough for his pack. If he did, then Harry was ready to meet that challenge.

But Loki only nodded, and then gestured. His pack flowed forward around him. More than one wand rose then, but no one fired a curse. Harry commended his allies on their self-control as the werewolves filled the clearing, the empty space between the side of the wizards and the side of the magical creatures. That was rather appropriate, now that Harry thought about it.

Loki tilted his head back and began to wail. That was the only way Harry could describe his howl. It was a sound of deep loss and grief, where every werewolf's howl he had heard before was wild and rage-filled. The pack threw their heads back, too, and responded in perfect time, their voices intermingling until Harry could hear one of his allies screaming, as if to drown out the noise.

It ceased in an instant, and Loki said, "It is enough. I signal from the path alone, and the pack takes another. It is done. Done, and done, and thrice done." His voice shook with power on those last words.

Cold, fierce white light filled the whole of the clearing—the light of the full moon, Harry thought. He started to gather his magic, just in case the werewolves had discovered a spell that allowed them to transform without the moon in the sky, but then he realized the light was occurring in thin streams only. It connected the werewolves in a shining web that bound them to Loki, to a flickering line on his hair that Harry thought looked like a crown.

Then the crown whipped from Loki's head towards him. Harry had time for a startled duck before it settled around his neck like a torque. The Many snake, coiled just under it, hissed at it.

"I give my pack into your protection, vates," Loki said. "They have suffered enough. Two dead, and one imprisoned, and that is enough. They are yours to defend, yours to keep."

"I cannot wear a web," Harry said. "I am vates."

Loki's face lit with a wistful smile. "Does every leader wear a web?" he countered. "No, vates. They are tied together because they are pack, and they look to you as alpha now. That is all. I simply chose to surrender my position to you rather than to some youngster looking to start a fight."

Harry swallowed. He wasn't sure this was much better. The light around his throat felt as cold as any actual band of metal, any bond. "And why would you do that?"

"The ways of an accepted pack are tied to debts and bonds," said Loki, lowering his head slightly. "But the greatest of the bonds is the mate-bond. I hunt for Gudrun. I shall visit each of her three killers on each of the three full moons upcoming. I shall make sure they do not look human when I am done." Fading sunlight flashed off his teeth.

"That will make things worse for your werewolves!" Harry took a step forward, barely noticing how the pack swayed in the wake of his anger. "Don't you care about that?"

"Gudrun is dead," said Loki, calmly, simply. "That puts an automatic limit to the number of things I care about. But feel free to tell anyone who asks that I am separated from my pack, vates. That is true. I am not fit for the responsibility of leading them when I am consumed with vengeance, and the path I walk now is only wide enough for one, not all of them. So I put them where they will be protected, and pursue my own path." He lifted a hand and folded three fingers down. "August, September, October. Those are the months I shall hunt. And then comes November, and comes the last debt to be paid. We share something with you wizards, you see, Harry." His teeth flashed in a mocking smile now. "Last time pays for all."

Harry would have reached out for him, tried to hold him still, convince him not to go, but Loki vanished, wrapped in magic that made him invisible to any senses. Harry reached out anyway. Now that Loki had given up his leadership, he ought not to be able to use pack magic anymore, if Harry understood the concept.

"Do not."

Harry looked down. A young woman with long, ragged dark hair was rising on her knees, putting out a hand towards him. She shook her head. "He invokes a willing sacrifice," she said. "He will pay for all in November, but until then, he cannot be stopped. He walks alone, and hunts alone, and you cannot sense him—more even than if he still had the pack magic."

Harry cursed under his breath, and reined in both the anger and his sloshing magic. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Camellia." She tilted her head to regard him, wary, one eye peering up through the strands of hair.

"Do you want to be here?" he asked. "Actually bound to me? I'm not even a werewolf."

"We aren't bound in the way you think we are," she told him. "We can disobey you, and certainly think our own thoughts. But we rely on you for protection, and in return, we will protect you. We will attack your enemies, and help your friends, and—" She hesitated for a long moment, as if it hurt to think in human terms, then finished. "And swear to be part of your alliance."

Harry nodded. "Very well, then." He looked up and around at his allies, human and centaur and Many snake and other. "If you consent to be a part of this alliance, which I am going to call the Alliance of Sun and Shadow because of the mingled Light and Dark nature of it, then I will ask you to speak these words. I won't use blood, because I know that blood oaths offend the principles of some of those here." Not to mention that there are old myths about what a werewolf's blood can do to non-werewolves.

He saw most of the people present nodding, or stamping their hooves. Harry translated the words into Parseltongue, and the hive tangled around each other in enthusiasm.

"You know that we will swear to the one who saved our children from being bound," they told him.

Harry nodded, and began to recite, trying to tell himself that the words did not sound pretentious, that this needed to be said.

"I swear to be part of the Alliance of Sun and Shadow until I can in good conscience be part of it no longer. I swear to hold loyalty and allegiance to my allies, no matter who they are, no matter how much magic they have, no matter what kind of magic they use." He heard Draco's voice from beside him, strong and clear and confident, and the centaurs' voices, a rumbling basso that shook the ground. "I swear to hold the space of my own mind sacred, to make decisions as best as I can based on thought instead of reaction, to test my own beliefs until they shatter or until they prove themselves solid. I swear not to let fear rule me. I swear to walk among interacting freedoms, to study the impact of my own free will on others', and to think of the consequences of my actions."

He wondered if anyone noticed that he'd chosen to base his oaths on the legendary virtues of the four Hogwarts Houses, or at least one for each House: Hufflepuff loyalty, Ravenclaw intelligence, Gryffindor courage, and Slytherin self-consideration. Draco was shooting him a sly smile that said he'd noticed, but, of course, Harry had talked over this oath with Draco beforehand.

A few of his allies blinked around in the wake of the oath, and one of the werewolves ventured, "I expected magic to bind us."

"This doesn't have the compulsion factor of an Unbreakable Vow," Harry told him. He was trying to avoid looking towards Remus. He just—couldn't deal with him right now. "I do expect you to keep it. If you betray the alliance to its enemies, I will drain your magic." He didn't add much force to the threat. The threat by itself should be enough. "If you feel that you can no longer follow its principles, I expect you to tell me and withdraw, not deceive me."

Some of his allies still blinked. Harry stifled an impatient sigh. Don't they understand? This has to be something they freely choose or not at all.

"The first strike is against the Ministry," he said. "I will call on you as I need you." He bowed his head. "Thank you for coming here tonight."

As the meeting began to break up, Harry turned to the werewolves. They were the largest problem. He knew where he would take them to shelter them—the Black houses, obedient only to him while Regulus was gone and guarded behind powerful wards. But, Merlin, another complication.

Seeing the hesitancy in their eyes, though, he reminded himself that he wasn't the only person affected here, and managed to offer them a smile of welcome.

"The first place I'll take you is called Cobley-by-the-Sea," he announced. "It's in Cornwall, on the coast of the Atlantic, and the cliffs above it are dramatic. If you'll picture gray cliffs in your head, falling sheerly to the sea…"

He could almost feel their attention centering on him as he spoke, testing his strength, learning how to regard him. There was the same sensation from many of the other eyes in the clearing. And, of course, there was Remus, and Loki running wild.

Harry could feel the challenges that would be coming.

He braced himself to meet them.